Point Taken: Life's Lessons Learned

Lesson #54: Never let schooling interfere with your education.

2011-09-01T17:11:00.000-07:00

My middle son K started college a couple of weeks ago. His younger brother I started high school the same day.

When I woke up that first morning and stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee, K was already up, fully dressed and sitting at the kitchen table tapping his toes. "Hi mom, I made coffee," he said.

I stumbled out his bedroom as bleary-eyed as I was. "K woke me up at 5 a.m.," he said.

I knew K was excited. He and I had spent much of the previous week chittering about which classes he had waitlisted, which classes he really hoped he'd be added to, whether he chose the right major, whether he'd know anyone in his classes. He'd become frenetic by the last evening and I hoped his first day would release some of that energy. I was wrong: He came home with even more energy and tales from his day.

By contrast, I's response to his first day was, "It was cool."

K spent the afternoon and evening working out math problems for his first assignment of the semester. He struggled with one problem until I made him quit and have dinner with the family. After dinner, he went back to work.

On Day 2, K stumbled out of his room about the same time I did. We fought for shower rights (I won of course). K spent his afternoon free of classes and working on his math homework. That afternoon I got a call at work.

K: I'm going to fail!
Me: What are you talking about?
K: I can't figure this math stuff out! I'm going to fail! I should just quit! You need to get your money back.
Me: Knock it off. Skip the question that's giving you trouble and do another one.
K: But I'm going to fail!
Me: Have you been working on that one problem all day?
K: Yes. And last night too.
Me: Stop crying! I command you to stop doing your homework and go watch TV!

There was radio silence from K for about two hours, and later that afternoon he sent me a text that read: "I figured it out!"

I sighed and smiled. Until I remembered that I had forgotten to send in the check for his registration fees.

No worries. All's well now.

Lesson #53: It Gets Better

2011-08-21T18:37:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a four-room cabin in the middle of the woods in California's gold country. We had a wood-burning stove until the county condemned it. After that we heated our small home with newspaper stuffed into the walls through the holes that had been punched into them during fits of domestic violence and a small kerosene space heater. Our shower consisted of a green garden hose snaking through the bathroom window and a round area marked off by a black plastic trashbag hung from the ceiling by fish hooks. Cold showers meant something different to me than they do to my teenage sons.

I'm not kidding. About any of this.

And I'm writing this on the eve of my 35th birthday sipping rum and Acai juice in a fine hotel room two blocks from the White House in Washington DC. I'm here enjoying fine food, fine friends and lovely presentations by my colleagues in the university grant writing business. I'm 3000 miles from that life in the backwoods of the still-frontier foothills of the West. I'm millions of miles from the little girl who used to wait for the sun to rise so she could brush her hair in the side mirror of her daddy's pick-up truck. The only reflecting surface allowed in our home. (Long story.)

How I came here? Well, that's also another long story. It's not my first foray in the South -- and boy does it make me home sick for cicadas and real, old big magnolias, and old slate and brick buildings. But it is the first time in our nation's capital. And my first time "vacationing" alone.

When I was 21, living in a small house in a little cow-town called Waterford, shortly after I divorced my first husband and during my brief stint as a single, college-going mom of 3, a psychic gave me a reading. She told me that I would travel, far and wide. That eventually I'd travel and speak. I am not speaking yet. But I have been traveling. From California to South Carolina and back, to DC, who knows where next.

I'd love to speak. I have a lot to say, but I'm not sure what needs to be said, and to whom. I'm not sure what I should say. I'm not sure I should tell people I came from abject poverty, from the country, from base and humble beginnings. I try not to let it show. I learned to use a salad fork and a butter knife, to cross my legs and to point my pinky, to sit straight and to pay attention. I have learned to speak when spoken to. And I am learning to speak as if I'm proud of what I have to say.

So on the eve of my 35th birthday I salute the past, the home I came from, my travels and the future I am traveling toward. I have made education my career and passion, and I do wholeheartedly embrace and support the education of all, but most especially myself.

Lesson #52: If you don't want to do something, one excuse is as good as another.

2011-08-08T14:10:00.000-07:00

I bought my very own gym membership a couple of months ago. The gym by my house opened up a brand-fangled-new location near my workplace (in another city), so I canceled the membership by my house and started anew by my workplace, thinking, of course, that I would go more often that way.

We excuse our sloth under the pretext of difficulty. ~Marcus Fabius Quintilian

I did go, once, the week after I opened the account. It was a beautiful facility, pristine and shiny, no shoe marks on the floor or sweat stains on the equipment. All the equipment worked. I loved it.

Several excuses are always less convincing than one. ~Aldous Huxley, Point Counter Point

Then the excuses started.

1. I just had out-patient surgey and I'm not able to take a shower or submerged bath for a week.
2. My wound is still healing.
3. My wound has healed but I'm still sore and I can't wear a sports bra.
4. I have a head cold.
5. Husband is going out of town for work for a week, possibly longer, and I don't have long to say goodbye.
6. I have to be home in time to cover kids sporting events and classes.
7. I have to help K fill out his financial aid paperwork for college.
8. Someone has to make dinner.
9. Someone has to do the laundry.
10. It's too damn hot.
11. I have to work late tonight, and tomorrow night, and next week.
12. All I want is a beer.

He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else. ~Benjamin Franklin

Then I looked up all these great quotes on excuses, and realized, I'm not the only one who does such horrible things, or else there wouldn't be so many fabulous quotes about the activity! So, if you're looking for an excuse not to go to the gym (or some other thing you should be doing), you can pick one of mine, or make up your own. (Let me know in the comments section what you're favorite excuses are.)

Lesson #51: Sometimes you're the lion, Sometimes you're the mouse.

2011-07-11T10:15:00.000-07:00

Warning: The following post is fairly graphic and disgusting.

A couple of weeks ago, I had to have a lipoma removed from my back. Earlier in the month, my husband and I had tried a home remedy that lead to infection. The tumor was exactly underneath the strap of my bra, which created an extremely painful situation and required me to go to the doctor to "fix" what we had started.

At the doctor's office, I learned that a) a lipoma is a tumor that simply needs to be removed (as in, I can't just hydrogen peroxide my way out of it), and b) I should have come in to see the doctor a long time ago (as in 8 years ago when I first noticed the lump).

So a couple of weekends ago, before the 4th of July holiday, I had out-patient surgery. I was taped up, given an appointment to the after-hours clinic to have bandage changes every day, and sent on my way. The clinic suggested my husband come along so the nurses could show him how to change my bandages and that way we didn't need to drive the 3-hour round trip to the clinic every day.

My poor husband then spent every evening watching me down a few shots of whisky and whimper and cry for hours leading up to the bandage-changing. He would lay me down on the bed, remove the bandage and gauze packing, flush the wound with water, remove the remaining chunks of lipoma that would float to the top, then repack the wound, all while I screamed and bawled and bit a pillow. After the bandage-changing, Hubby would have himself a few shots of whisky.

We carried on like this for days.

Finally last Friday, I went back to the clinic. I decided that the clinic needed to deal with this wound from now on. I had serious concerns that the bandage-changing was ruining my marriage. Hubby was irritated with me, frustrated with the process, and had become a very reluctant nurse. I was irritated that Hubby had reneged on his former enthusiasm to help, though I secretly understood why, and I had run out of pain medication.

On Sunday, the clinic nurse informed me that she thought the wound had healed enough it no longer needed packing. I about jumped for joy.

Until I got home and saw Hubby sprawled out on the floor, close to weeping. He'd slipped a disc in his back while working out and was effectively crippled. He whimpered for me to help him.

I handed him my bottle of whisky and pain pills.

Lesson #50: Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

2011-05-25T15:51:00.000-07:00

Hubby and I spent The End of World in San Fransisco watching exuberant sign wavers and bullhorn shouters await with mounting disappointment the Rapture that came and went without even a whisper to let us know it happened.

About 6 p.m., around the time said Rapture was supposed to occur, Hubby and I were driving around purposefully lost near the Haight district looking for trouble. Something. Anything interesting. We had spent the day on the Embarcadero oggling what good money can buy (as if we had good money), and were ready for a stiff drink and front-row seats to watch our beloved state slide off into the ocean.

We parked in the first empty spot we found after an hour circling a 20-block radius of Haight-Ashbury, and walked the Haight sampling rum and cokes here and there. After a couple of hours and some hard-core window shopping (that place shuts down earlier than a podunk mountian town, I tell ya), and after coming to the conclusion that the world was not going to end but damn if San Fran doesn't LOVE to celebrate Morrissey's birthday -- as does our family by the way -- we decided to head back "home" to our weekend nest at the Embassy Suites.

The ES is one of my favorite places to stay for three reasons: free drinks for two hours in the evenings, free breakfast buffet with complementary omelet bar, and reasonably priced room service until 11 p.m. OK, four reasons: the indoor tropical atrium is pretty darn cool. The Burlingame ES wasn't the nicest I've stayed in, but it was a convenient place to stay so that we didn't have to make the two-hour drive back home.

Speaking of which, upon my return home, I truly surprised myself with how much I've aged in the past half-decade or so. I used to love running away to hotels and fancy restaurants. Now, I notice, I tend to spend my time on vacation thinking, "I could have made this drink stiffer at home," or "I would have put fresh basil and roasted the garlic in this pasta if I made it at home," or "my bed is so much bigger, softer, more comfortable at home," or "this indoor atrium and lagoon pool is just like the solarium and lagoon pool we have at home only with much less people."

I truly enjoyed what was a romantic end-of-the-world getaway with my husband last weekend.

But darn if I wasn't happy to head home at the end of it.

Lesson #49: Mom is an ogre.

2011-05-18T09:33:00.000-07:00

Lately, C has taken to sneaking into my room at night and crawling into bed with me. He steals a pillow, wiggles down deep in the sheets and pretends to go to sleep.

His mom, if she's still awake, will sometimes seek him out and make him go to his own bed. At first, I was an advocate for the child sleeping in his own room, but his despondant wails are just so sad, and his little face is just so cute, and so lately, I've been advocating for his escape from bedtime.

This means that we have become compatriots at sneaking around after lights out. C quietly steals into my room, gently shuts the door, slides into bed, and then wiggles all the way under the covers down to the foot of the bed. When Mama opens the door and asks, "Have you seen C? Is he in here with you?," I wink at her, point to the wiggling, giggling lump under the covers and say, "I haven't seen him. He must be in his own bed."

When the coast is clear C crawls back up to the surface and whispers, "Is she gone?"

"Yes," I say.

He waits for a noise, any noise, then throws the covers back over his head. "She's coming for me!"

"No," I say. "That's just the wind. Or the neighbor's cats."

Eventually we fall asleep.

Last night, C was supposed to be sleeping in his own room, or with his own mother, whichever. I drifted off into a nice sleep and was suddenly wakened by C running into my room and slamming my door. He threw himself into my bed, stole one of my pillows, and layed there, looking at me.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I am sleeping with you," he answered.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because mom is an ogre," he answered.

Suddenly the door handle rattled and shook. Mom the Ogre was trying to get in. But C had locked the door.

"Did you lock your mother out?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered.

"Go unlock the door," I said. C didn't want to. I insisted, so he hopped out of bed, unlocked the door, then ran back to the safety of the sheets. The door was silent. Mom the Ogre had left us alone for the night.

"You can't lock your mom out," I said. "That's not nice."

"She will make me go to sleep," he said.

"I will make you go to sleep," I answered.

C promptly closed his eyes and pretended to snore.

Lesson #48: If your parents never had children, chances are... neither will you.

2011-05-16T15:42:00.000-07:00

Mothers day came and went this year with each of our children dropping by at some point or other during the week. Our wonderful children texted well wishes, brought hand-picked wildflowers and handmade cards and looked cute and child-like for a moment despite the fact that half of them are 6-feet-tall or taller.

This year, each one of them decided to gift us with heart attacks.

The oldest, G, checked in to let us know he had finished a four-page paper on the philosophy of the institute of religion for one of his college courses and was so proud of it, he wanted to bring it home for us to read. We listened to the news mouth agape. This was the child who, just three years ago, refused to finish high school and swore he'd never sit at a desk again. Now he's a full-time college student embroiled in his own education. Our Prodigal Scholar.

The next child, D, whom we've lately been worried about because he insisted on taking the year off after graduation and has had a difficult time finding work from the back seat of his car where he is living, came home bearing artwork (albeit questionable artwork) as a gift. Later that week he called to let us know he landed a job, would be moving into his own apartment within the month and no longer needed financial assistance to pay his car insurance. And by the way, he's making almost twice minimum wage.

Middle child, K, has always been our trouble maker. Like G, he rebels against authority, is argumentative and difficult to be around, yet so loveable and endearing when he is behaving. Despite his behavior issues, he is highly intellectual, and is testing out of high school this year and eagerly starting college in the fall. We only have three weeks left of school for him, but I still fully expect to get a last minute phone call, much like I did on the last day of school last year, letting me know that he has been banned from school grounds once again for insubordination, extortion or general mischief. To our great surprise and delight, he was the first of the children to call us Sunday morning to wish us a Happy Mother's Day. At 6 a.m. Because don't all middle-child mischief makers rise at the crack of dawn?

The youngest teen, IC, is our most forgetful and dreamy child. We thought no one could top D in the daydream department, but IC gives his older brother a run for his money. Teachers call him lazy, but I know better. It's not that IC doesn't listen to his teachers, so much as he sits there imagining his teachers are cloaked in dragon scales and breath fire, and he's just waiting for the day when he will don his cloak and raise his sword and vanquish those evil-doers who force him to do homework. The other day, IC followed Hubby around as Hubby picked a few roses from the garden and laid them on our pillows to suprise us ladies when we came home from work. IC asked him what he was doing, and Hubby answered, "When you grow up and you like a girl, you'll understand what I'm doing." We fully expected IC to forget the holiday, much like he tunes out birthdays and other important family events. In a twist of fate however, I came home on Friday before Mother's Day to a note in IC's handwriting that said, "Happy early Mother's Day Mom" and wilted but well-loved rose petals strewn about my bed.

Finally, the sweet, adorable baby of the family, C, who is a never-ending source of joy for us aging parents spent the first part of Mother's Day refusing to eat the wonderful breakfast his father made for his mother and me. When we adults banded together and told him he had to eat his eggs or go back to bed and start over, C, climbed down from his chair, harumphed down the hall beyond our sight, then screamed from the top of lungs, "Fuck you guys!" After we absorbed the shock of the three year old screaming obscenities at us (thank you older brothers), we burst out laughing. We weren't sure what else to do in the situation.

Lesson #47: Don't look back.

2011-04-20T17:29:00.000-07:00

I recently wrote this for a friend who is having a rough time and having some regrets. She wishes some things were different. She regrets decisions she made. I have done both, myself.

The difference between regrets and wishes is this:

Regrets are things that you would change if you could, but you can't.
Wishes are things that you would change if you could, but need help or motivation or resources to do so.

The problem with regrets is that they make you focus on things outside your control.
Wishes are better because they encourage you to look for resources to help you achieve things that you want or need.

Regrets are poisonous because they breed feelings of inadequacy and despair.
Wishes are inspirational because they encourage you to envision yourself in a better, happier atmosphere -- and visions can lead to realities with the right mix of encouragement, motivation and luck.

Don't regret. Don't look back. Don't think about what could have/should have been.

Instead, look ahead at what can be. Look at what you wish for. The past laid the groundwork for tomorrow. Don't regret anything you did in the past, because you really don't know what joy and wonder tomorrow holds -- and tomorrow couldn't come to be if yesterday's foundation wasn't laid (with all of yesterdays joys and sorrows).

Let yesterday's regrets fade away as you journey toward tomorrow's dreams-come-true.

Lesson #46: Remember, Chicken Little had a hard time making friends.

2011-04-13T09:53:00.000-07:00

So, D is having trouble making his car insurance payments. He has been living on his own for six months now, paying his own insurance (sort of) for three months, and has yet to find a real job.

He called me last night to ask for help making this month's insurance payment. I know it was hard to ask on his part. And as Mom, I was glad to help and glad he was calling, regardless of what it was for. I remember being 18 and on my own. I remember freaking out when the lights were turned off because I *forgot* to pay the electric bill. Life is hard when you're 18 and your head and your ass have switched places temporarily. But I survived it, my head returned to its original, upright position, and I slowly but surely became an adult.

Watching my oldest son figure it out on his own is making my arms itch. I want to help, but I have to be careful how much.

A snippet of our conversation last night went something like this:

D: I'm so frustrated. I hate this. I just want to get rid of my car.
Me: How will you ever find a job if you don't have a way to drive to it?
D: It doesn't matter anyway. The economy is about to collapse.
Me: No it's not. There are jobs out there. You just have to try harder to find them. You have to actually go to places of business and, like, fill out applications.
D: Japan's economy is collapsed. Ours is next. Why bother?
Me: Because our economy has not collapsed and won't collapse anytime in the near future. And besides, you will still need to eat and in order to eat you have to work. At something.
D: I'm just going to take out a loan.
Me: Um, isn't that why global economies are threatening to collapse in the first place?

Each conversation leads us one step closer to college. He wanted to take some time off of school after graduation, but I think he's realizing "the real world" ain't as much fun as he imagined it would be. Sandwiches aren't free. I know I was pretty sad when that realization hit me, way back when.

Lesson #45:Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are, I couldn't help it, It's all your fault

2011-03-25T10:24:00.000-07:00

On Sunday morning, I sat facing a large bay window in Ducey's watching snow fall on Bass Lake. Our waiter called it "The Pond" in reference to the dwindled water left over from the dam repairs that were going on just up-river. Boat docks were strewn haphazardly about the shore, waiting forlorn for the return of the deep and the docking of summer boats, disappearing slowly under mounting snow drifts. The snowline on the moutain across the lake lowered with each passing minute -- hour? -- and Hubby, Wife and I sipped champagne and enjoyed a fine brunch.

We were celebrating the one-year anniversary of our wedding and commitment ceremony. Hubby and I have been together for five years now, married for one, friends for more than 20. Wife and I have been friends since high school, and as part of our ceremony last year, promised to stay friends as long as we live.

I don't know if it was the snow, the feeling of being safe and warm while we watched a horrendous winter storm move in, or the fact that I was surrounded by people I love, who love me, but the feeling of grateful joy has lasted well beyond that annivesary celebration, well past the work week, well into the next weekend and it's still going strong.

I am one lucky gal to have so much friendship, to have people with which to share joys and sorrows and struggles and triumphs and life in general. My lake is full.

This is a picture of the proposal at Duceys - don't know how many years ago now.

Lesson #44: What the bleep do we know, really?

2011-03-09T13:00:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched the documentary The Quantum Activist about retired University of Oregon physicist Amit Goswami.

Admittedly I fell asleep before it finished. I've been working 12-hour days, so that's not surprising. And it's also not surprising considering I fell asleep the first time I tried to watch What the Bleep Do We Know.But I perservered and tried it a second time and loved it.

Though I only got halfway through Goswami's doc, I gathered enough information to realize I soon will be picking up one of Dr. Goswami's books. He is a renegade scientist who claims to have found the existence of god in science.

"You can call it God if you want, but you don’t have to," his Web site boasts."Quantum consciousness will do."

This really fascinated me, because while I have been agnostic for years, even going so far as to call myself atheist, I have wondered if quantum science would eventually "crack the god code." I suppose that could be because I was raised on the writings of Mary Baker Eddy, Shirley MacClaine, Ruth Montgomery, Edgar Cayce, and Richard Bach. These authors formed the foundation of my loosely held *spiritual* beliefs, and left in the dark recesses of my mind a nagging feeling that there may be something to the god theory whether I wanted to believe it or not.

As an adult I discovered T.C. Lethbridge, Michio Kaku, and Madam Blavatsky. Interestingly it all fit together. I learned that the '60s mantra that "it's all vibes man" was actually referring to new discoveries in quantum physics. Matter doesn't really exist. It's all particles that agitate each other through attraction and distraction, forming loose associations (waves/vibrations/"vibes man"), that create potential forms that we humans perceive as matter through a process that Goswami can explain far better than I can.

The key word there, though, is potential. As in, possibility. All matter is nothing more than waves of possibility.

That's why creative visualization works -- but only in certain ways (and Goswami has a very complicated but interesting explanation for this).

My fondest childhood memories are of my Great Grandma. I remember driving in her big, white station wagon. She let me sit in the front seat. I could barely see over the dashboard. We would go to the store and before we pulled into the parking lot, Great Grandma would say, "I know there is a parking space waiting for me." And there always was. Right up front near the entrance so Great Grandma didn't have to walk so far with her bad back and all.

She told me she was practicing Creative Visualization, something that was popular in the 1970s thanks in part to Richard Bach's books, Jonathon Livingston Seagull and Illusions. It worked for her.

She was also a Christian Scientist, and she would often recite: "There is no error in divine mind." As a young child I didn't understand what that meant. The only errors I'd ever seen were big red check marks on my schoolwork. It wasn't until I was much older that I realized that negativity, in all of its manifestations, including physical and psychic illness, is error. As a child, I envisioned Divine Mind to be the biggest brain ever made sitting inside the skull of a kindly old gentleman who sat on cloudtops watching the world spin beneath him.

But Divine Mind is simply another word for Goswami's "Quantum Consciousness." It is the split second choice that occurs when agitated molecules group in just such a way as to create something. It is the ability to choose how those molecules group or which direction the waves travel.

All this fascinates me because I have long known I have the ability to manifest dreams and desires in my own life. It's something that takes concentrated effort, and the manifestation of reality is something that involves disassociating myself from the concerns of physical reality (I am not looking for a Porsche, a million dollars or the perfect parking space). I associate with my ego, and the reality of my ego as a state of being, and I look for possibilities and ways to manifest goals and desires in the realm of the ego.

This creative manifestation has resulted in me achieving seemingly impossible career goals (relatively impossible if you look at the childhood I came from), creating a family and a marriage that makes me happy, and smaller things like changing the way I interact with the world or view my place in it.

For example, when I first went to college, I was so shy that my throat would close up if I tried to talk to strangers in the hallways. My face would grow red. I'd hide my embarrassment beneath long, unkempt hair and glare at people to keep from having to engage in conversation. I hated my shyness. So I envisioned what I wanted to be: a confident woman capable of striking up interesting conversations with complete strangers in any situation. Then I looked for examples of this state of being, and found them in the field of journalism. Watch Christiane Amanpour do her thing on CNN. That's what I'm talking about. I envisioned myself with such confidence, such poise, such ability. It took months and years of faking it until the mask started to fit.

Now I can hardly remember my former self.

It might sound crazy, but the example I just gave is not just mind-over-matter; it's not just me breaking out of my shell. I believe that it was a physical rearrangeing of key molecules that make up my ego, my self. I recreated myself by forcing those molecules to interact with each other in new -- potential, possible, creative -- ways.

And I believe Goswami when he says he has found god. Because if he did, then Great Grandma was right, there is no error in divine mind, and the future is limitless.

Who doesn't want to believe that?

Lesson #43: Easy Come, Easy Go

2011-02-27T17:13:00.000-08:00

This year I received a surprise tax refund. I made less than I expected last year, thanks to my brief interlude being self-employed, and was pleasantly surprised to receive tax money back (rather than owe the IRS).

I had the money in my account for 24 hours, and during that time, I wondered aloud what I should spend it on. New furniture? A small vacation? A new camera I have been coveting? I commented to my family that for the first time since I started filing taxes, I didn't need to spend my refund on car repairs.

Then my son, D, came to visit. He drove to my house. It's his first car, one that he scrimped and saved for, and it was the first time he drove it to my house.

Being temporarily financially endowed, I offered to buy him a new set of tires. He was excited by that, so we drove his car to Pep Boys. It died in the parking lot. Two days later, the repair costs and new tires came out to more than $1,000.

He drove away this afternoon, in a nice-running car with tires that actually grip the road rather than slip and slide, and a full tank of gas. I was happy to see him drive away in a safer car.

My bank account is empty again. But my heart is full.

Lesson #42: What happens in the cubicle, stays in the cubicle.

2011-02-14T12:43:00.000-08:00

I have worked in a number of offices with a variety of coworkers in different fields and even in different states of the union. No matter how different, there is one thing that every office has had in common:

Women who like to comment on what other women are having for lunch.

I would wager money that I could walk into any office anywhere in this country, peel an orange, and some woman is going to say, "I smell an orange! Someone has an orange!" I could microwave salmon, garlic pasta, or sausage spaghetti, and the result would be the same. Someone is going to hunt down "that smell."

What is a polite woman supposed to do in that situation?

Do I confess to being the barer of the smell?
Do I offer to share my meager left-overs?

I have never been good at small talk. And I'm not one of those women who finds it polite to comment on other people's private meals - particularly if they're hunkered down over a Tupperware container in their little cubicle or windowless office. It seems to me that leftovers for lunch are one of those things polite people shouldn't talk about -- like coworkers' salaries and what happens in the ladies room. For many years, I decided the easiest way to avoid this type of thing was to leave the office for lunch.

But I grew tired of being pirated out of my office by overactive nosey noses, so now I embrace the interaction. "Yes, that's my orange. It's a great orange! Do you want a slice?"

Lesson #41: Keep your eyes open when you ride the rollercoaster.

2011-02-08T10:01:00.000-08:00

My youngest biological son, I, turned 13 last year. He's the 5th of our brood of 6 kids to do so.

I know what's coming. Tears. Innapropriate giggling. Long showers. Squeaky speech. Red cheeks. Impulsive stomping and door slamming.

When my oldest, D, turned 13, I really didn't know what I was in for. The first time D wailed and weeped and rolled around on the living room floor extolling how much he HATED his teachers and his counselors and his principal and me and and his father, I was horrified. I tried to reason with him. I tried tough love. I tried soft love and hippy hugs. Finally, I sent him outside and told him to hit the punching bag until he stopped crying.

Then I realized that the D in my living room was not the same sweet little boy I held at my breast so many years before. He was a young man, with all the angst and agony afforded to young men who haven't yet found their inner Swartzenegger. I had to give him time to navigate the hormonal waters of early teen-hood. And in time he found his way.

While it happened, though, I went through my own five-step process of watching the boy-into-man evolution.

1. Shock: "What the hell is going on with D?"
2. Anger: "Quit acting like a baby on crack and go to your room until you can act like a normal human being!"
3. Bargaining: "If you'll quit weeping, I'll make you your favorite peanut butter and jelly with no crusts!"
4. Depression: "I miss my baby D!"
5. Acceptance: "OK, so how many years until college?"

Now that I've seen the process a few times, I can skip straight to Number 5. Only 5 more years until I goes to college. Really, that's not very long at all. I've decided I'm going to enjoy as much of it as I can, caterwauling, high water bills and all.

Lesson #40: Don't worry.

2011-01-25T13:15:00.000-08:00

We have a songbird in our house.

C -- the youngest of the Brady Bunch -- loves to sing. He knows all the words to:

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
Now I Know My ABCs
Bob Marley's Three Birds
House of Pain's Jump Around
Bloodhound Gang's Three Point One Four
and another song that K made up just for him when he plays with his train set.

Some of these songs aren't appropropriate for a little ears, I know.

But still, there is nothing more sweet than hearing a 3-year-old trill, "Every little thing's gonna be all right." Sometimes I need to hear that. For some reason, I can believe it when I hear it from an innocent babe.

Though I'd probably feel all right if I was chillin' in Jamaica, too.

Lesson #39: The Mouths of Babes are Filled with Truths

2011-01-13T11:48:00.000-08:00

Today is the one-year anniversary of the loss of our eldest child. The One We Lost is never far -- he keeps popping up in dreams (that end in my sobbing that I'll never see him again). He keeps appearing in my husband's eyes when he weeps all of a sudden (and to see a man you love suddenly start weeping is the strangest and most heart-wrenching of things). My sons talk about him and strive to emulate him. I haven't learned to say I have five children, because with him, I have six, and always will.

Yesterday, I spent the day cooking casseroles to take to my uncle and cousin's house. My aunt died that morning. After spending the day with them, and leaving them when I saw my uncle grow weary of being strong for his guests, I went home and cried myself to sleep. I couldn't get my aunt's beautiful, strong voice out of my head. I felt her bear hug wrap me in warmth. And I missed her, already.

There has been so much grief for my family lately. Our son, my husband's uncle and grandfather (the two men who glued the family togehter, a family that has since completely fallen apart), and now my aunt, all passing in the space of a year. My beloved aunt -- A woman who taught me to be proud of my name, who taught me I could be a strong woman, a career woman, a writing woman. Whose strength rests in me still.

With her passing, I became the matriarch of the family, the oldest living female on that side of the family. The oldest woman and the one who has to keep the stories of our heritage, passed down from my aunt to me. It hit me recently that it's my responsibility to teach our children and their children about the beautiful ones who passed away before they came, the ones who came before them. But I have been so heavily burdened with grief this past year, I wasn't sure I could rise to the challenge

A couple of days ago, one of the young ones showed me how it is to be done. C, the baby, loves to watch Harold and the Purple Crayon, a cartoon about a little boy who draws his reality using a magic purple crayon. Months ago, I let him borrow a necklace of mine that reminded him of the purple crayon. As one would expect in giving a three year old a necklace, he lost it. He felt bad about it too and said he was sorry. At Christmas, he picked out a giant pink pen, and his mama wrapped it up for him. He was so proud to give it to me. His mama said that he picked it out for me because he knows I like to write. I thanked him, put it away and forgot about it.

The other night, C and I were playing together in a rare moment alone. He found the pen and held it up to me. "Do you like the purple crayon I got you?" he asked.

"Oh yes," I answered. "Thank you for my purple crayon."

How could C -- he's only 3 -- remember all these months that he owed me a purple crayon? How could he know I needed one now, so badly, to draw myself a happy world to hide from the sadness I live in now?

It doesn't matter how. He knew.

C and I spent the evening drawing rainbows and waterfalls and zebras to ride in the air around us. He and I escaped some of our grief for the moment. C showed me the promise of youth again, in a time when I had forgotten it existed. Death robs us of promise. It robs us of joy and hope and those things that youth takes for granted.

That's really why youth is so filled with promise. Because the future has yet to be drawn. It's a blank palette, an empty canvas. The colors to work with are only vibrant and new, they aren't yet tainted with shadow.

But with a purple crayon in our hands, we can recreate whatever we want in a world that has been destroyed by grief.

Lesson #38: Don't bite off more than you can chew

2011-01-04T09:51:00.000-08:00

I started a new job last October writing grants for a university that's about an hour's commute from my home. I love the new job and was happy to land it.

But prior to taking the job, I had solicited my local newspaper to see if the editor was interested in letting me write for them, on staff or as a freelancer. I was feeling nostalgic for my days as a newspaper reporter, and my current job as a freelance grant writer was so, well, boring.

The editor pulled me in for an interview, both with him and the staff of the paper. I never heard back from him, despite a thank you letter and confirmation from the business office that they had all my paperwork in order. I figured, no harm done by asking, and chalked it up to good interviewing skills practice.

Two weeks after starting the university position, the editor called me and offered me a gig writing a bi-weekly column on "anything interesting that pertains to Merced County." Of course, I said yes.

I mean, 11-hour days working for a prestigous intellectual community in a high-stress, challenging position wasn't enough for me, right? What I really needed was to tack on a couple more hours a week of research, interviews and composition that would be published in my home town twice a month for 50,000 readers to chew and bitch about.

I've been writing more-than-full-time now -- both grants for the university and a column on raising kids in the county -- for almost three months. I've gotten my first hate mail (after five columns, which isn't a bad record). It's exhausting work.

But it's worth it. I'm finally making decent money (what I'm worth), hanging out with interesting people, and keeping my name in print. I'm a pretty lucky gal after all.

Lesson #37: What doesn't kill you makes you...

2010-12-21T13:24:00.000-08:00

One thing I learned in 2010 was to never say, "Enough is enough." Or, "I can't take anymore." Because for some incredibly amazingly horribly strange reason, I kept taking more.

As the holidays crept in on us, my family wondered how we would get through. We knew it was going to be hard, and we were going to feel the absence of The One We Lost acutely. First came Thanksgiving, then His birthday. As Christmas drew near we braced ourselves. One more major holiday and then in January, the anniversary of His death and then maybe ... light at the end of the tunnel of grief?

But while we were bracing, we lost another one. My husband's grandfather passed away. As we planned that funeral, Son #2 abruptly left our home and quit speaking to anyone in the family. We couldn't understand his strange departure at first, especially as the family sunk into grief over the latest loss. But I've come to understand that Son #2 is grieving, horribly, himself. A combination of surviviors guilt, unaddressed grief, another loss, and pressures from his young wife caused him to flee, likely in an attempt to run away from the harsh realities of life.

We held a memorial service for grandpa one day and I got a call the next day that a beloved aunt of mine had a stroke. I rushed to the hospital to sit with my cousin and uncle. I just wanted to be there. What else was there to do?

I came home that night -- last night -- emotionally exhausted, begging the universe to knock it off. Give us a break. Let us have a holiday from grief. Please.

This morning, as dawn broke on the winter solstice and the sun shone briefly over the mountains after days of cloudy obscurity, I felt a sense of happiness and joy that has been absent for a while. As our Earth turns, today marks the last of this year's encroaching night. From here on out -- for a few short months at least -- the sun will come back a little more each day. It will bring warmth, fresh life, and hope with it.

And that's something, at least.

Lesson #36: Never put off giving yourself a clean slate.

2010-11-22T09:46:00.000-08:00

I have had intentions of rearranging my bedroom furniture for six months -- maybe (probably) longer.

For one reason and then another I never got around to it. Over the summer I had plenty of time to do it, thanks to an extended bout of under-employment. Still, I never made the move. There was always eight hours a day worth of writing tasks, and job and client seeking to be done, a house to clean, dinner to make, homework help to dole out, and each day turned into another day until one day I had a 50-hour a week job to go to, a new freelance newspaper writing gig, and even less time to devote to home organizational projects.

Irony set in when I realized I was getting more done around the house now that I was working away from home than all those months I worked from home. Industry breeds industry it seems.

So, last weekend, I finally found the motivation to rearrange my bedroom furniture. I even created a Bagua diagram to feng shui the room. The new arrangement is beautiful, and the energy flow is invigorating. It may encourage me to -- insert shocking gasps here -- go through my ridiculously crowded closet. It would be much nicer on my self esteem to only have clothing that fits me in there.

Lesson #35: Beware werewolves

2010-11-18T09:50:00.000-08:00

Husband has told me numerous times that there is nothing scary about humans that turn into wolves. What would be scary is if wolves could become human. They would look like a human, walk and talk like a human, but you could never truly trust them because their motivations -- they're soul -- would never be human.

We watched the move Splice the other night. It wasn't a particularly good movie, but it was creepy because of the premise. The creature looks and acts human, but it's not.

We've been teaching our Olde English Bulldogge to speak. She can say her name, "hello," "outside," "weird," and "wrong." She speaks in a thick bullie accent, but nonetheless, if you were to hear her speak, it's obvious that she is mimicking the words we say. The fact that she says words like "weird" and "wrong" on command prove that she's mimicking us -- parrot-style -- as those are the words we use when we describe her speech, both to her and about her.

At first we thought her speaking was novel, funny. Until she started interrupting our conversations, interjecting her opinions, and speaking over us. Until we watched that movie Splice and realized that not all anthropomorphic traits are amusing, and are, in fact, rather creepy.

Lesson #34: Count Your Blessings

2010-11-18T09:04:00.001-08:00

In the years that I have let the blog slide (really, was it much of a blog to begin with?), I have:

earned a four-year degree
gotten married and changed my name
become a step-mother to a wonderful group of boys
watched my eldest son graduate from high school (he is the first in two generations in my family to have done so)
started two businesses, one of which is starting to really thrive
gotten a great job at a university (I love the atmosphere at universities!)
become a newspaper columnist on the side
and developed for myself a comfortable, though unusual lifestyle.

My children are growing up to be handsome men of which I'm proud. My oldest, D, is working for his uncle and just bought his first car. He still dreams of attending art school, but wants to do so without going into debt -- I wish I was that smart -- so he is saving up money. The other two, K and I, are still in school, still plugging away and keeping out of trouble (that's a blessing).

In January, my oldest stepson passed away. I can say all sorts of things here, about reeling, about devastation, about loss and other cliches but nothing can truly describe it. There are the the commonly accepted five stages of grief, and I accept that as a truth after this experience. I am in the supposedly final stage of acceptance, but I waver between accepting what happened and hiding from it in the depression stage. When it happened, the whole family slid down this murky bank of despair and we had to grow these amazing spiritual muscles to help pull each other out and back into the sunlight. It took months to climb out, and there are days when one or all of us slide back down. His birthday is coming up -- next week in fact -- and I have a real, physical fear of that day and what it will do to us. I am bracing. But keep in mind, I am just his step mother. I stand by and feel these feelings and wipe the tears off my cheeks. And I watch his father and his mother buckle under the weight of true loss, while I am powerless to take that loss away from them, while I am powerless to shoulder that burden so they don't have to, though I wish every day I had that power.

This was one reason why we had the wedding -- to have something light to share after sharing something so dark. We were married on the first day of Spring under an old oak tree at Husband's grandparents home. The tree had just begun to bud, and winter's storm clouds had been swept away by the spring sunshine. We celebrated under that sun, and publicly celebrated our family and friends and our commitment to one another, knowing how tenuous life is. Knowing how short spring and summer truly are. Knowing that winter comes again. And again. And that is life.

In May, my next oldest stepson, G, married a beautiful and intelligent girl, M, at the foot of a snowy mountain in the Sierras. They moved back home this fall. We used to make jokes about adult children living with their parents, but we are having a good time having the kids near us. We appreciate it more than we ever did before. We want them to stay.

So, in my blogging absence, I have learned to count my blessings. I have learned that blessings come and go. We rejoice when they come; we mourn when they go. And for some reason, we always forget that this is the cycle of life. I am rejoicing now, while I still can.

Lesson #33: The end of the road usually leads to the start of another

2009-07-21T12:40:00.000-07:00

I've been quiet on the blog for a while because I've been busy. Real busy.

I finished my degree -- I can now add Bachelor of Science to my list of accomplishments. I am tickled to say I have a BS degree in communication. How ironic is that?

The degree was 10 years in the making. By the end of it, by my capstone class, I was sick of sitting in my room writing papers on crap I didn't care about for teachers I would never really see again. It's not that I didn't enjoy school. I did. I was just ... so tired of schoolwork. I had senioritis, bad.

Though it was hard to think because my brain was in overtaxed mode from all that work, I did wonder what I'd do with myself once school was over. I have applied for grad school, but I'm rethinking that option. I want more than a month off from school work. I'd like a semester off, at least. It's silly, really, for me to wonder what I'd do with all my "free time," though, considering my new path has already been paved with to-do Post-It notes.

Last month, I started a new business that has done so well it began paying for itself after the first month. My partner, Wife, and I opened a children's consignment boutique. It was a good idea. Our town didn't have one -- until another one opened up across town two weeks after we opened our doors-- thank you Murphy's Law. Still, we've had customers pour in, and most of them tell us how happy they are that we're there and how cool our store is. I think, competition or no, we'll do just fine.

My next project is to develop a non-profit parent resource association with Wife and one other partner. The three of us thought long and hard about this, and the commitment it would require. None of us have time to do it really, so everything we do for the non-profit has to be done on stolen time and scrounged dimes and whatever passion we have in our hearts for it. Though Wife and I seem to be doing well in our new business, we both still kept our day jobs for security reasons and have no intention of quitting any time soon. Still, given those limitations, we couldn't help but notice the lack of support for families in our area, and once we realized the opportunity we have to turn our store in to a "community" hub by having a non-profit side, we jumped. Over the next few months we'll be developing a parent magazine for our area, as well as a community resource database and information exchange system, and finding and writing grants to fund these and other projects we have in mind. It's not like I am doing anything else at the moment, right?

Anyway, this explains my absence on this blog, and now that my degree is complete and I have all this "free time" again, I should be able to get back to blogging. Here's to positive thinking!

Lesson #32: Never think for a minute the monkeys are not running the ship.

2009-04-06T21:35:00.001-07:00

We watched Any Which Way But Loose the other night -- a cool classic that showcases not only how foxy Clint Eastwood was in his prime, but also how light and irreverent our society used to be before Reganomics and Clinton-era political correctness and George Bush's brow beating of American pride.

All that is beside the point. The point is, that orangutan was damn funny. And his name was Clyde.

We have a Clyde in our family, too. He's a little smaller than the red-haired beast in the movie, but he moves the same way, in that bowl-legged cowboy monkey swagger, throwing his hands up in the air and pumping them this way and that. He grins the same too, wide lipped and cheesy, eyes squinty and nose crinkled, a face throwing joy into the world.

And it occurred to me, as it has before when my own children were toddlers, how much children resemble monkeys.

I've been told that having a pet monkey is much like having a toddler. They must wear a diaper if you care at all for the cleanliness of your carpet, they get into everything, they throw food, they scream and chatter, they play practical jokes, they give you great big sloppy kisses and they communicate through gestures and exaggerated movements of their eyeballs. The only difference is monkeys never grow up.

I miss my little monkeys. They're big as apes now, strong, broad-backed and intimidating. But they'll still throw their arms around me and lift me off the ground in their great big bonobo hugs. It's one of the great joys of motherhood, watching the evolution of life as it occurs before you.

Disclaimer: Now I understand such a base comparison might offend some mothers who prefer to think their little ones are much too classy, refined and evolved to be compared to monkeys (I can hear the clamor now). Bottom line is, I come from a long line of bonobos, and I'm damn proud of it. It's too bad more of us weren't proud of our humble beginnings -- we'd all be much more forgiving of others.

Lesson #31: Never take beauty at face value.

2009-03-24T08:24:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, my mother was the epitome of beauty. Everyone talked about how beautiful she was. Her beauty was simple, and for a time it was appropriate. She was a hippy child: She wore her dark hair in two long braids and never wore makeup -- no mascara, no foundation or powder, no lipstick.

One of those funny-the-things-you-remember memories of my girlhood is my mom's bottle of Oil of Olay sitting on the bathroom sink. It sat there throughout all the years I grew up. In my head, that bottle was the secret to my mom's beauty. All of the other girls' moms wore makeup. By sixth grade most of my friends wore makeup. But people commented on how beautiful my mother was, and she needed none of the equipment or supplies the other mothers used, so I assumed her secret was that bottle of Oil of Olay.

As a teen I came to love heavy eyeliner and mascara, but as an adult, I am a makeup minimalist. From my grandmother I learned to always carry a tube of lipstick in my purse -- to her, the tube is necessary to refresh the face of a lovely lady. To me, it reminds me that I'm a woman and I haul around all the crap a woman should haul around in her bag. Of course, since I never remember to wear lipstick, I've managed to haul around the same tube for the last decade or so.

And because my mother did it, I bought a bottle of Olay and put it on my bathroom counter. I used it religiously, believing that the moisturizer was helping my face to keep a youthful glow and a beautiful countenance, just like my mother's.

My mom came to visit me a few months ago. At one point she disappeared, and after a while I found her giggling in my bathroom. She was holding the bottle of Olay. "Do you use this?" she asked.

I nodded. "Sure. I use it because it's what you used."

She gave me a quizzical look. "Me? I would never buy something bourgeois like this! I was laughing at the fact that you would."

"Yeah, huh!" I countered. "You always had a bottle of Olay in the bathroom! I distinctly remember that!"

Mom giggled harder. "Oh that!" she said. "That was a free bottle they sent me in the mail. I never used it. That's why it sat there!"

I was tempted to toss that bottle of Olay after that. But something compelled me to keep it. All these years I thought the secret to my mother's beauty was in that bottle, and if I would just use it, I might be beautiful too. It was tough to learn that bottle was empty, a shell of beauty, but really, it's quite funny if you think about it. The secret was in the bottle after all: Like hers, my bottle now sits on the counter unused, a reminder that I don't need expensive creams and fragrances and formulas to be beautiful. I am my mother's daughter, after all.

Lesson #30: Beware of usurpers in bulldogs' clothing

2009-03-11T13:23:00.000-07:00

Husband acquired a new puppy last November. Squambolina (don't ask), is a quirky, intelligent Olde English Bulldogge, a squat little gargoyle with a remarkably advanced sense of humor. She talks like a human: If you aren't paying attention, she'll yell at you. If you don't give her what she wants, she'll whine or cry like a dolphin. And if everyone else in the room is talking, she'll start gabbing with the rest of us.

Her smarts are what get me. She knows how hard she can play with each of us -- she's delicate with the toddler, a little rougher with Son#3, and she doesn't play with me hardly at all. She knows my lap is only allowed on special occasions (I'm just not an animal person, unfortunately).

She also knows she's Husband's dog. She sleeps at the foot of his bed. She follows him around from the moment he walks in the door. And she watches how Wife and I treat him, and remarkably tries to mimic us. Case in point: A few days ago, Husband complained about his aching feet. He was sitting in his recliner with his legs up, Squambo on his lap. I was standing over him, and in a rare moment of compassion on my part, I reached down and started massaging his feet (Husband will say or do just about anything to get someone to rub his feet -- doesn't matter who you are, either). I was allowed to do this for about 10 seconds before Squambo laid her 40 pounds of squatty dogness on the foot of the chair, pushing Husband's feet out of my reach. Then she started licking and petting his feet, herself. "Looks like Squambo showed me who gets to rub your feet," I said, and we laughed at her brazenness.

A couple nights later, Husband was laying on the floor and wrestling with the toddler. Baby Frog kept tilting Daddy's head back with his hand and planting big wet kisses on his face. After Baby Frog moved away, Squambo came over, tilted Husband's head back with her paw and licked his face. It was cute, of course, if not a little creepy at how quickly she learned the behavior just by watching the toddler do it a few times.

Yesterday, we realized that Squambo isn't just an innocent puppy dog with quick learning skills and territory issues with Husband. She's a gen-u-wine usurper. A couple of days ago, Wife became upset when she realized she had lost her wedding ring. At some point during the day, it had slipped off her finger. She spent a few hours searching for it, and went to bed dejected.

The next day, as Wife and I were getting ready for work, I heard yelling in their bedroom and rushed to see what had happened. Husband and Wife were laughing, yelling, almost in tears, and there sat Squambo on the bed, looking as smug as any mistress. "What happened?" I asked breathlessly.

Wife showed me her wedding ring.

"Where'd you find it?" I asked?

"On squambo's toe!" Hubby exclaimed.

At some point, our innocent, precious little bulldog found Wife's ring, and managed to fit it onto one of her toes. It was somewhat scuffed -- from being walked around on by the dog, we assume. We have no idea how long she'd had it, how long she'd been wearing it, or even how she got it on her foot.

What we do know is that we need to watch out for that little hussie. Who knows what she'll do next!?!

PS. The picture is not Squambo, but it looks remarkably a lot like her! I pulled the pic off of a "dogs for sale" site here.

Lesson #29: If you haven't found something strange during the day, it hasn't been much of a day. (John Wheeler)

2009-02-27T08:21:00.000-08:00

Driving to work this morning I saw a parade of six Geek Squad Bugs heading toward some unknown destination.

This doesn't seem like a very big deal, except that it got me to thinking philosophically as I sat at a light on my normal route to my 9-to-5 job, something that honestly rarely ever happens anymore. I take this route every day: It winds through the little bit of pretty that exists in the city in which I live; I like this route better than any other, because I can watch the seasons turn in the colors of the leaves of the trees that line the street and in the blooming of the flowers in people's yards. I usually think about what my nine work hours will bring me, what tasks need to be done, what fires I will need to put out that day. I think about my home life and my children and who needs what medical appointment or chauffeuring service or shopping trip. I think about school and what assignments are due, what applications are still waiting to be filled out, what professor requires massaging.

But these aren't thoughts, they're task lists guiding the everyday grind that is my life. I mentally prepare my task list for the day and week ahead on my way to a workaday job that, unfortunately, has become burdensome and, well, normal.

So, when I saw that line of black and white Geek Squad cars, unlike any string of vehicles I have seen in a while, sitting at the intersection ahead of me, I smiled. And it got me to thinking.

Philosophically.

I started thinking about patterns. We, humans, create patterns for ourselves. It's a sort of comfort mechanism, in that we recognize patterns and naturally gravitate toward them. I think this is why so many people are content to dedicate their lives and souls to 9-to-5 jobs. Those jobs allow us to wake up at the same time every morning, complete our morning preparation ritual (our patterned morning behavior), drive to work along the same route every day (or on one of two or three patterned routes we have established), work tasks all day that are the same tasks we've completed many times before in the same way, drive home along our same route, and complete our evening "wind-down" rituals, whatever those may be. Without variation, or with very minor variation, this is the way very many of us in America live. By a set and reliable pattern.

The thing is, we don't notice this pattern when we're caught up in it. It's just what we do. We wake up, go to work, come home, and that's that. But that's the nature of patterns.

Once we are familiar with a pattern, it's hard to notice it, or more importantly, the individual bits and pieces that make up the pattern, until and unless something breaks the pattern. Think about it. Imagine a herd of zebras in the savanna. How can you tell one zebra from another? If you stare at them long enough, they all blend into one striped, black and white pattern. Until you introduce an anomaly into the mix. Throw a solid golden lioness into the middle of that black and white herd, and suddenly the pattern becomes a flurry of individual zebras fleeing for their lives.

So, it was good for me to see the parade of Geek Squad cars. Though it might seem anticlimactic after all this philosophizing, that small anomaly on my way to work reminded me to take a look at the pattern of my life. It inspired me to consider whether I still find the pattern of my life beautiful or interesting.

Those answers I'll leave for another blog. But let's just say, I liked the change.

Lesson #28: Stop to take a whif, even if it's not your favorite flower

2009-02-18T11:31:00.000-08:00

Merced is an often overlooked and underrated small city in the middle of the Central Valley, sometimes called "the other California." We're known for high crime rates, excessive gang violence, and some of the most overpriced housing and the highest unemployment rates in the country.

But there are things to love about this town. It's an hour's drive from arguably the most beautiful high country in the world. It has a colorful history dating back to the gold rush. The courthouse is one of the oldest historical buildings in the state. Majestic King palms line the streets of a quaint downtown where I hope to open a boutique this year. And the newest research university in the world opened its doors here a couple of years ago, which has flooded the area with much-needed intellectual stimulation and economic hope.

And today, Merced hosted the starting ceremony of the fourth leg of the AMGEN Tour of California, featuring Lance Armstrong. The racers circled our downtown twice this morning before heading down Bear Creek Drive (I live a couple blocks off this road), and up Highway 140, through my old hometown of Mariposa in the foothills, and on through the mountains and back down into the valley to end a little east of Fresno in a town called Clovis.

Normally, bicycle racing doesn't interest me. I ride a bike myself, and I know who Lance Armstrong is (who doesn't?), but other than that, I don't really follow the sport. Still, I was compelled to watch the race this morning since the street in front of my office is completely blocked off to traffic due to this race. So, at about a quarter to 11, I followed the crowd a couple blocks down the street to where the festivities were.

And I snapped a couple of pictures. The bikers whizzed by so quickly, there was no way to catch Armstrong on camera -- though, to be honest, I didn't care to pick him out of the crowd of racers anyway. On a bike, he's just another man racing a bunch of other men on bikes. As of this morning, he wasn't even winning the race. :) That didn't stop the crowd from cheering wildly when his name was announced on the loud speakers, though.

Participating in the event was more interesting than I thought it would be. Crowds have a vibe that you don't feel anywhere else. Excitement is palpable when there are thousands of people sharing it. When you get to feel that thrill and share something special with so many people, who cares what the event is anyway?

Lesson #27: Next stop, Life. Don't blink or you'll miss it.

2009-02-11T08:21:00.000-08:00

My youngest son had his first wrestling tournament last night; it was his first competition of any sort ever, which is somewhat strange considering he has been training in martial arts for three years. Husband and Brother in Law attended, along with Baby Frog. Frog, who has recently learned to wave bye-bye and high five, gave Son one of his new high fives before the match. Son seemed pumped and ready to go.

There were a few team members who went before him, and by few, I mean about 20. So we sat through an hour of matches, wondering when Son's turn would come, watching his poor Huskies team get slammed and pinned again and again and again.

When it was Son's turn -- finally -- on the mat, we all stood up and moved to the side of the room to get a better view. I pulled out the camera phone and snapped a quick picture. I almost hate taking pictures anymore because in the time it takes to snap one, you've missed what was going on. And that's exactly what happened here. In the time it took me to flip open the phone, press the button, and flip the phone closed, Son had been taken down, rolled onto his back and pinned.

It didn't seem to matter to him, though. He jumped up and got in the ready stance, anxious for more. Sadly, the ref shook his head and shooed him off the mat.

So, he got pinned in the first round. But that's all right. It was his first competition, like I said, his first time competing, his first time getting worked up and locking fists with his team before the big fight. He was amped when he came off the mat. His eyes were burning with leashed spirit, spirit that never got a chance to go anywhere.

That's all right though. That spirit will have a chance to unleash next time.

Um, about the pic, I was going to re-focus and zoom for another one, but I didn't have time. That old saying about blinking and missing things? Take it from me. It's true.

Lesson #26: Birds of a feather flock together

2009-02-05T08:34:00.000-08:00

I watched the Sex Pistols documentary, The Filth and the Fury, last night. As I sang along to almost every song -- except the indecipherable parts, of course, I've never figured those words out -- I remembered how I used to love being a punker chic.

I never dyed my hair, though I did cut it short. It was too curly for spikes so it just looked like a failed attempt to mimic Ronald McDonald's style. But I was a combat boot and short skirts kinda girl as a teen. And I did love thick, dark, messy eyeliner.

I was attracted to punk because of the anarchist message, the idea that you could be whoever you wanted, do whatever you wanted, despite the millions of messages we received each day through social pressures and mass media about what we should be like, what we should look like, what we should do in order to be "normal." Punk taught us that in reality there is no such thing as normal.

That is, until punk became normal.

At one point in the movie, Johnny Rotten sneers at the "rich kids" who started coming to his shows and says something like, "They started dressing alike, and we knew that was the end of punk." And sure enough, there were the clips of show-goers all gussied up in their spiked leather jackets and ripped jeans and safety pin collages.

I have made this same observation, though I attributed it to modern music. (I should have known Johnny Rotten thought of it first.) My kids listen to horrorcore, rap and punk, and when asked, will tell you it's because the music is anti-establishment, anti-normal, anti-group think. They say they like being "different" than the crowd. Then they will don their hatchetman necklaces and requisite Psychopathic Records clothing and Chucks so that other people on the street can be sure to recognize that they are a "Juggalo" too.

Some people fear that the Juggalos are a new gang. Well, they said that about punk, too, back in the '70s. The media called the Sex Pistols a new "cult." But those people who miscategorize kids who listen to unsavory music as cult members or gang members fail to understand. The kids are looking for a way to express their dissatisfaction with the adults in power. And since they feel powerless to make change on their own, the only way they can gain power is to do so through numbers. So they join a group, that in their minds, expresses and represents anti-power.

When you're young, you often fail to identify irony. And that's why my kids roll their eyes when I laugh at their silly clown get-ups and tell them to pull their pants up.

I wonder if they would laugh at me if I were to pick them up from school wearing combat boots and my face smeared with eyeliner with Johnny Rotten screaming, "Mommy! I'm not an animal!" or "I am an anti-Christ! I am an anarchist!" through my Chevy's speakers.

Lesson #25: Embrace your inner Irish.

2009-01-25T16:02:00.001-08:00

Up until two weeks ago, I'd never heard the term "get your Irish up." I saw it in a movie and now that I've forgotten the punchline, I'll just say the line was used as a euphemism for an erection. Since then, I've heard it twice in its original connotation -- as a euphemism for feeling aggressively boisterous.

Well, this particular post is about neither of those things.

This particular post is a shout out to Mickeys fine malt liquor. It is a tradition in our house to have fried chicken and malt liquor on the third Monday of January. We continued the tradition last Monday. And since Mickeys is cheap and it's sold in the mini-mart around the corner, Mickeys and my house have become fairly well acquainted as of late.

You'd think that a nice girl like me wouldn't stoop to befriending such a base Irishman. But personally, I think Mickeys has a bad rap. He's actually quite a riot.

Lesson #24: Keep on truckin' even if every other car seems to be slowing you down

2009-01-21T08:22:00.000-08:00

I am in the process of developing a business plan. My current task is to create a budget and profit and loss projections. Seems simple enough. Except that I'm waiting on someone else to run a few numbers for me, and ... I'm ... still ... waiting.

I gave them this assignment three weeks ago with a deadline of two weeks ago. I pushed the deadline up for them by a week since it seemed they weren't going to put the joint down and get me the numbers I needed. Now, I have a hard deadline of tomorrow by 3 p.m., and it looks like I'm going to have to do the financial research myself.

In the big picture, it's no big deal. If you want a thing, you've got to work for it.

I think this is my first real test. Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to be the one who carries all the business details on my back alone?

Reflecting on those questions, the answer becomes clear. It's a good idea. It'll work. It'll make money. And I want to do it.

I simply need to remember that I can't rely on anyone else to do it for me. That's not such a bad lesson after all.

Lesson #23: Regret is what I regret the most

2009-01-20T08:22:00.000-08:00

I have done plenty of things one should regret. I forgive myself those things, because one, I don't believe in living a life of regret, and two, I try daily to be conscious of wrong doing and to make up for things I do wrong when I know I've done them.

Unfortunately this is a modern mindset of mine. When I was younger, I blundered through life, breaking hearts and not paying attention. Most days, I try not to think what this has cost me.

This weekend I spent time with my best friend, a man I've known forever, someone I love dearly. When I was 14, I counted red sports cars as a game. I told myself when I reached 50 cars, the next boy I saw would be my true love. This man was the one I saw. He was my true love.

I didn't believe it. We were family friends, we'd basically grown up together, he was older than me and he annoyed me and intimidated me more than anything. By the time I was 20, I'd warmed up to him. We had a brief moment of "what ifs" between us then -- he was between relationships, and I was looking for a way out of the one I had. We entertained the thought that he and I might make it, that we might be lovers and friends and not ruin either. But I didn't trust it could happen. I was still young, still intimidated by the verocity of my emotions, by my distrust that I could ever be happy, by my distrust in myself to do anything right.

And so, the greatest mistake of my life was to break his heart and walk away.

The consequences of that one decision have weighed heavily on me for so many years. It changed my life, set me on a course that propelled me into the far reaches of the cold hard nothingness of empty loneliness, it affected my children in more ways than I can write here, it destroyed my chance of ever having a "normal" relationship with anyone ever again. My heart collapses into itself whenever I think about it.

We remained friends throughout the years. He periodically came into my life, just when I would settle down and start to grow comfortable with whatever compromise I had recently made, and he would shake things up. He would show me what an illusion my current happiness was because he wasn't there with me.

I spoke to him about all this, this weekend. And he told me he did that on purpose, that he thought of me throughout all those years, that he wanted me to regret sending him away and periodically popped up just to remind me what I'd given up.

Though we are best friends now, and this is usually ancient history for us now that we've forged a new relationship that works well for us, the knowledge that I spent so many years miserable because of that one mistake makes me almost sick to think about. Usually I turn off all thoughts of my disappointing past and try to only look toward the future, one I can shape with more forethought and conscientiousness. One that involves no heartbreak for myself or anyone I love.

If only I'd been so thoughtful and so brave all those years ago ...

Lesson #22: Know the right terminology!

2009-01-13T09:11:00.001-08:00

This list was taken from an anonymous forwarded email. I post it here for its anthropological value. Enjoy.

NINE WORDS WOMEN USE

(1) Fine: This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up.

(2) Five Minutes: If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.

(3) Nothing: This is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in fine.

(4) Go Ahead: This is a dare, not permission. Don't Do It!

(5) Loud Sigh: This is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing. (Refer back to # 3 for the meaning of nothing.)

(6) That's Okay: This is one of the most dangerous statements a women can make to a man. That's okay means she wants to think long and hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.

(7) Thanks: A woman is thanking you, do not question, or faint. Just say you're welcome. (I want to add in a clause here - This is true, unless she says 'Thanks a lot' - that is PURE sarcasm and she is not thanking you at all. DO NOT say 'you're welcome’. That will bring on a 'whatever').

(8) Whatever: Is a woman's way of saying F-- YOU!

(9) Don't worry about it, I got it: Another dangerous statement, meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking 'What's wrong?' For the woman's response refer to # 3.

Lesson #21: Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons

2009-01-09T16:35:00.000-08:00

My office phone rings.

Caller ID: HOME

Me: Hello?

My 11-year-old son: Hello. Can I please speak to Steve?

Me: Steve? My boss?

Son: Yes.

Me: Why do you want to talk to Steve?

Son: Because I want to ask him if he has any work for me.

Me: Work? You want to work for my boss?

Son: Yeah. I want to earn some money.

Me: You want a job? You mean like how you stacked wood for our neighbor and she gave you money?

Son: Yeah. So, can I talk to Steve?

Me: No, Steve's not here, but I'll talk to him for you on Monday. You know you could do some chores and I'll pay you. Like, you could vacuum and pick up the dog poop in the yard.

Son: Can I go ask the neighbors if they have any work for me?

Me: No, I don't think you should be out there banging on neighbors' doors alone.

Son: Well, I got to earn some money. I'm broke.

Me: Well, how about you do some chores. I'll pay you a dollar a chore.

Son: Isn't there any other way I can earn some money besides doing chores?

Me: No.

Son: Well, then can I have a raise?

Lesson #20: McDonald's will make you fat

2009-01-08T08:29:00.000-08:00

This week my office started a Biggest Loser contest.

I could say it wasn't my idea, and at the inception, it wasn't, but I just happened to have experience in this sort of thing. My two bosses happened to be talking about needing to lose weight and I happened to hear them and I happened to butt in and say, "Hey, we should have a Biggest Loser contest!"

I got the idea from a cool little paper I used to write for. Three years ago we had an eerily similar contest there, about which I wrote a little blog. It was great fun. I lost around 12 pounds in the contest as I recall.

So, in my new office, we set up the rules in the same vein as the last contest. We weigh in during staff meetings. We track each other's progress (gains and losses) on a white board in a public room. We try to undermine one another with mockery and temptation (one of my bosses' birthday cake sits mostly uneaten in the fridge as I write this).

Weight.

I can't believe I'm blogging about this again!

Three years ago, I weighed 172 in January, the most I'd ever weighed and the same weight I'd clocked in the hospital before I gave birth to one of my sons. After the contest I was down to around 160, and a stressful divorce and move cross country with the kids helped me to pare down some more. I took a summer off and spent two or three hours a day at the gym, until I reached my lowest weight -- 145 -- around December of that year. Though that might still sound heavy to some people, at 145 I wear a size 6, have cleavers for cheek bones and look sickly. 150 is actually my ideal weight.

A year and a half ago I began a full-time load to finish my undergrad degree, and in that time I have put on 25 pounds. You tack on the fact that I adopted an unnatural love of cheap and easy fast food and it's no wonder I am not my blithe self anymore.

It is truly unfortunate. I literally worked my ass off to lose that weight. I turn my back for one second and it all comes piling back on.

So, it's a Biggest Loser contest for me once again. I didn't win the money pot last time, and I might not win again, but it certainly helped get me started.

So here's to another good beginning.

Lesson #18: If the scenery is depressing, keep your eyes on the road

2009-01-07T14:48:00.000-08:00

I've struggled with cyclical depression since I was young. I have found the best way to pull myself out of a depressed state is to smile. Then smile again. And again. And if someone talks to me, to smile back and giggle. Then find a way to laugh.

And before you know it, the depression is lifted.

Unfortunately it usually takes a few days ... ahem ... sometimes, a couple of weeks ... to remember this simple trick.

Lately one of my roommates, who is usually one of my emotional rocks, the one who taught me how to chortle, has become morosely depressed. At first, I spent days catering to his whims and needs, alternating play between clown and nurse, in an attempt to cheer him up.

The end result?

He's still depressed.
He's not talking to me.
I got mad.
Now I'm depressed.

Luckily, this all happened in the space of the last 24 hours and I've recognized it early enough to start smiling ... now.

And again.

One more time.

Ah, better.

Lesson #17: Symbology only works if everyone agrees on the symbol

2008-12-16T12:35:00.000-08:00

Following a lazy stream of Internet links from one site to another this morning, I found myself on The Weekly Standard web site where this week’s cover showed a 19th century line drawing of a riotous crowd, and the headline read, “The Unwisdom of Crowds.” The image made me shiver. Last night I dreamed I was at the brunt of a roiled crowd’s animosity; it certainly was not a pleasant dream.

In my nightmare, as often occurs, my rational mind tried to reason through the animosity, to find a solution to the issues that arose for my subconscious character trapped by that dissenting crowd. Part of the dream involved me leading a “sensitivity training” in an attempt to educate my adversaries to drop their prejudices against me. My feeble voice was useless against the roar of the crowd until a bullhorn found its way into my hands. I used metaphors and storytelling to try to get the people to relate to me. I used symbology – a very successful tactic for organized religion to control crowds – by introducing a “talking stick” in an unsuccessful effort to keep speakers from talking over one another (and me). I used force by screaming at the top of my lungs as the crowd milled away from me, drawn by someone else’s false cry that lunch was ready.

In the end, they still hated me. Their source of prejudice? I was in San Diego (ironically, where the head office of my employer is located), and my coworkers wouldn’t take me seriously because I was from Merced. Everybody hates Merced.

So, what does it mean, this dream and these images of crowds mocking me for my geographical origination? Is Merced symbolic of my self-image? Were the coworkers in the dream symbolic of my impossibly high standards and the frustration they cause?

Or was it just a dream?

Lesson 16: If the Roller Coaster Makes You Dizzy, Get Off of It or Get Used to It

2007-02-21T10:26:00.000-08:00

I am nowhere near where I thought I'd be at 30.

I am nowhere near where I thought I'd be last year.

I am nowhere near where I thought I'd be.

And I don't know if I'd call the journey I took to get here fun.

But it has been one hell of a ride.

Lesson 15: If Ever You Get Lost, Remember, You Will Always Know Where You're Going If Only You Remember Where You Came From

2007-01-25T09:12:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, I used to crawl up onto the roof above my bedroom, drape a blanket on the scratchy shale and lay down to look at the stars.

I'd sleep there, dreaming of constellations and quasars.

I developed a love for astronomy from my dad. Every once in a while he'd pull out his old telescope and set it up in the front yard. "Come here, Heidi," he'd say, "And look at the moon." I loved those nites - I'd see strange worlds and beautiful vistas through that little glass.

Other days, he'd load us kids up in his beat up old Ford and drive us up to a wide-open slope on the back-side of a mountain near the local airport. We'd clamber out of the cab and Mom would set up a picnic area, and us little ones would scamper off to explore the hillside while Dad assembled a kite and carefully set it loose in the heavens.

He was always big on freedom. Freedom was one of those words in our household that resonated like Jesus and America permeates other homes. It was a living, breathing creature, a religion to my father. Us kids were given freedom - freedom to choose, freedom to make our own mistakes, freedom to explore and test our world. And Dad told us that the one thing that can never be taken from us - after everything else has passed away - is the freedom we carry in hearts.

Today I'm heading out. I haven't seen my dad in almost 10 years. He's been locked away in a hot Arizona prison for most of that time. I'll pull into that prison town tomorrow morning. And I get to do something that most kids never do. I get to return to a father who gave his kids all he had to give the one thing that means the most to him - his freedom.

Lesson 14: If Wishes Were Fishes, Monkeys Would Drive

2006-11-10T15:22:00.000-08:00

So I 've been pretty insecure lately. Worried.

Worried that I can't or won't keep my new job. Worried that my roommates are going to kick me out. Worried that this shitty rumor that's going around my hometown about me is going to ruin my reputation. Worried that I'll never be a published author. Worried that I'm blowing it somehow.

And it hit me today. I really don't have anything to worry about. I am loved and wanted and needed by the people I love and want and need, and the rest of them can go to hell.

Worrying -- which is simply another aspect of wanting what you haven't got -- is such a waste of time.

Taking what you want, making what you have into what you want ... that's the key. I got overwhelmed for a minute by all the big changes in my life. But only for a minute.

That's simply because I forgot what I truly am:

A godless bonobo with a party hat on.

Anyone wanna play?

Lesson 13: Beware the Demon Tequila

2006-10-30T11:46:00.000-08:00

Everyone has their tequila story. Mine begins with me and a boyfriend sitting on the livingroom floor in front of the fireplace with a cutting board, some limes and a bottle of Jose Cuervo between us, and ends with me waking up still sitting upright on the livingroom floor with an empty bottle, some lime rinds and one last, undrunk shot between us.

That was years ago. I don't drink tequila all that often because of that night. Sure, I love a margarita now and then. But two or three maggies and I'm done.

So why I can't remember any of this when someone breaks out a bottle and asks "Wanna do some shots?", I have no idea.

Because, like the dumb ass that I am, I inevitably will respond with: "Sure! What can it hurt?"

What it comes down to is that I hate being left out of the fun. I'll participate in just about anything at any time, even if it comes close to killing me. That's not necessarily a winning trait.

I guess what I'm saying is: Don't be surprised if someday you read about my demise on the annual Darwin awards list.

Lesson 12: Money Can't Buy Me Love

2006-10-26T09:48:00.000-07:00

When I think about the times I was truly happy, they're often associated with times I was subjected to abject poverty.

That's not to say that I love being poor. Stuffing bags of rice and oatmeal and jars of honey into a baby stroller and walking out of the supermarket so my kids could eat wasn't necessarily fun. Exciting, sure, but not fun.

I've had to steal to survive. But I've also lived on the other end of the financial spectrum. I've broken in a new car. I've been approved for a mortgage. I've squirreled money away in a 401K.

But oddly, living a middle-class lifestyle didn't make me happy. And it should have. I struggled and fought hard to climb the social strata. I spent years buried in text books pursuing a degree I thought for sure would give me the edge I needed to be financially successful.

And here I am, years later, looking back at the things that have made me happy, and it's not the money or the status or the lifestyle that did it.

It's the people.

When I have money, I'm usually working a 10-hour day to get it. I sit alone in my car commuting. I sit alone in my cubicle staring at a silent computer screen. I keep commuting and sitting each day because each hour brings just a little more cash to the bank.

But what I really yearn for is relationships. When you're poor, relationships are all you've got.

I never stole alone. I went with my equally destitute sister-in-law, my best friend, my brother. We ate meagerly together. We commiserated together. We made the best of our situation together.

Without money to pay for cable, buy gas for the car or go out to eat, I spent time with my family. I spent time reading with my sons, acting out stories in impromptu living room plays, listening to music or family musicians play guitar and piano, hiking, tending a garden ... living with others.

There's no time for that in a world governed by 9-to-5 calendars, long commutes and papers to push. There's no time for people. There's no time for love.

So I'm calling one of my best friends tonight on the way home. And I'm telling my roommates how much I appreciate them when I get home. And I'm curling up in bed with my youngest son and reading him to sleep tonight.

Sure, it's nice to have money in the bank to cover the bills. But when you really need help, people are worth a lot more than a savings account.

Lesson 11: Never Take the Little Things for Granted

2006-10-19T10:35:00.000-07:00

It's easy to forget that there are things that make life so much nicer until and unless you are forced to go without them.

For me, those things are simple. "To Do" notepads for my cubicle. Taco truck tacos. Pizza made with real provolone. Curbs and gutters and street lamps.

And toilet seat covers.

One of the first things I noticed when I crossed the Mississippi was the lack of toilet seat covers in public restrooms. I may not care for the flat, brown, smog-ridden state that is California.

But I do love the fact that every public restroom has toilet seat covers.

Lesson 10: If the Box Fits, Quit Bitching About It

2006-10-13T12:04:00.000-07:00

I’m back in a cubicle again – after a few years of believing I’d never crawl back into the corporate clutch. Yet here I am typing away at business jargon completely amazed at myself for being so flexible and selling out so easily. Yeah, I'm copywriting and editing for a living, so I'm happy, but damn, I never thought I'd be staring at four cubicle walls again.

It’s funny the things an empty bank account will make you do.

Lesson 9: Wherever You Go, There You Are

2006-10-05T10:04:00.000-07:00

I went back to the ranch a couple of weeks ago.

I lived there once, ten years ago, as a hippy, part of a commune of hippies who attempted to grow their own food and make a living off the land. It never worked out that way (too many weeds, if you know what I mean).

It was a tough time for me. I was pregnant with my youngest son, and had no idea where my life was heading. But I grew close to the other hippies in the commune and I learned many lessons then: How to throw rune stones; How to live without electricity; How to cook falafel; How to load a bowl; How to separate recyclable plastics by grade; How to grow long leg hair.

When I left, I left that life behind. I started eating meat again. I quit smoking. I divorced my hippy husband and went back to college. I tried to forget my life there. It was painful to live there, and just as painful to leave.

So a couple of weeks ago, when I went back to visit, I prepared myself. I took reinforcements. I took a case of beer (to soften the blow). I took a hardened heart.

It was exactly as I remembered it. My ex-husband and his brother were still there, sitting underneath a big oak tree near the field where they were still attempting to grow vegetables and make a living off the land (now the deer are interrupting their plans, though). Nothing had changed.

Nothing, but me. I'm a writer now, not just a dreamer. I'm a college graduate (well, sort of), with a career and a closet full of suits and heels.

But more than that, I am a woman grown, with a son in high school and a five-year plan (that changes as the seasons change, but we don't need to talk about that right now). And I'm happy.

Finally. Happy. To live in the moment. To be where I am, doing what I am doing. Living. Changing. Thriving.

The ranch is beautiful. It will always be. But the world is so much wider than that place. And I am so grateful to have left the ranch, to have seen some small part of the world.

Lesson 8: You Will Never Feel the Thrill of the Crest if You Never Climb the Mountain

2006-08-24T08:16:00.000-07:00

I've been talking about doing this for months. I told my old coworkers I wanted to do it. I told my friends and family here in California I wanted to do it. I researched it. I trained for it. I went to the gym every day for two months to whip my ass in shape to do it.

I wanted to climb a mountain for my 30th birthday.

And then I got sick. I rolled around in bed -- miserable -- for days. The landmark day crept closer. By Monday I was feeling better. So on Tuesday -- my birthday -- I hopped on the back of my friend's motorcycle and we headed up into the mountains.

We didn't have any intention of climbing anything. I was only recently recovering, still a little weak, so we decided just to ride and see where we ended up. We stopped every hour or so to grab a beer at some small-town bar or other along the way. We picked establishments with history -- This is one where we bought beer at 6 a.m. the day after an especially memorable three-day New Years' party ten years ago; This is the one his ex-wife started a fight in the parking lot while he was still dancing on the dance floor and my ex-husband left me there to find my way home ; This is the one where the effeminate male bartender wouldn't stop commenting on my friend's "sexy" build and served me liquor even when I couldn't produce an ID just because I was with him (I love gay men).

We made it up to the high country around noon, found a little meadow with a rolling brook amid a thick spattering of Douglas Firs, and stopped. I took off my shoes, hiked up my pants, crossed the stream and tripped up a hill on the other side, barefoot. It's the sort of thing I used to do, when I was a little girl. My brother and I would run around the foothills with no shoes on, imagine we were kings and queens and build fairy forts in the woods. It had been years since I thought of that. I found a tall rock with flat top and pulled myself onto it. Then I lay back and watched the clouds slip by.

Later, we climbed higher up the mountain road on the motorcycle until we found a 2,000-foot granite dome popping out of the side of the mountain. "This is it," my friend said, as he pulled the bike off the road and immediately dumped it in the soft dirt on the shoulder. The bike landed on top of me (somehow he had the foresight to leap off the bike before it hit). I was stunned, but laughing. The dirt was so soft that my leg sank into it -- if it hadn't been soft, I probably would have crushed my leg.

We parked the bike and looked up at the dome. The base of it was a mix of granite boulders and some low, spiky growth -- some plant I couldn't identify. We picked out a trail and started up the dome, scrambling over the rock and pulling ourselves up hand over foot through the brush that grew in the cracks.

By the time we reached the top we were both out of breath and a little dizzy as we surveyed the scenery. The Sierras stretched out, undulating in its grandeur, in every direction.

We were on top of the world.

I did it. I climbed the mountain. Sure, I fell on my ass more than once doing it (once on the way back down I fell backwards, we weren't using ropes like the dumasses we are, and I thought for sure, "This is it. I'm dead," but I landed on my ass in a pile of brambles, thank god).

I did what I set out to do. I'm still alive. And I'll hold that memory forever.

And I'm ready to climb the next mountain. I sure as hell am not waiting another 30 years to do it, either.

Lesson 7: Happiness is a Journey, Not a Destination and Sometimes It's a Long-Ass Road

2006-08-13T10:03:00.001-07:00

So I quit this job that I had for, like, four days. It was my dream job in a cute little town in the mountains, writing for the community daily.

But I wasn't happy.

My car broke the second day on the job and I was forking out $25 a day to drive a rental car an hour and a half up the hill from where I'm living now to the office, and I was miserable.

It was a nice drive. I'd leave at 6 a.m. and watch the sun rise over the mountain range -- the sun's rays casting orange spikes over the peaks -- the sky changing from midnight blue to gray to azure.

But I need more than a beautiful sunrise. I need hope. And I felt hopeless after four days on the job in a little hick town that shut down at 9 p.m.

So I quit and created chaos. The ridiculous thing is that I'm so happy to be freefalling again. Who knows where I'm headed now. My options are now severely limited -- there are no other newspapers within driving distance that I want to work at -- but to me, all that means is that my future is limitless. No more community newspapers. I'm headed for something new -- a destination unknown.

And that's fine by me. I am an adventurer at heart, after all.

Lesson 6: You Can Take the Girl Out of the Mountains, But You Can't Take the Mountains Out of the Girl

2006-08-01T18:52:00.000-07:00

It's strange to come home. Strange to be climbing the golden, rolling California hills in my little Protege, watching the golden oaks slip by and the mazanita creep up the hillside. Sliding higher until the ponderosas take over and the scent of bear clover wafts through the open window.

I packed a bottle of red wine and a blanket and took my little, silver touring car four-wheeling a couple of weeks ago. I bumped down an old logging road past the last of the late-spring lupin and tumbled granite -- high up on the side of a mountain where I could look out over the undulating pine-covered range and breathe real, fresh air and just -- be. Sure there's scratches all over my new car's doors from the overgrowth along the trail's edge, but it was worth it.

A few days ago I tagged along with a friend to a little mountain town where they hold a world-famous annual frog-jumping contest. We visited some friends of his and drank a few beers. And it hit me. I haven't climbed an oak tree in at least 10 years.

So I stripped off my sandles, saddled my skirt up around my thighs and mobbed the first tree I found with a crotch low enough for me to hop into. My friend said I couldn't do it. Thirty feet up, I looked down at him and asked if he still thought I wasn't strong enough.

Don't ever come between a mountain girl and her oak tree.

Lesson 5: Old Habits Die Hard, and Beating Them to Death Doesn't Always Guarantee Their Demise

2006-07-07T09:18:00.000-07:00

So I'm living with my two best friends now. Just like the old days. Just like in college when we had that special "smoking" room out in the garage and my brother was crashing on my couch after they released him from jail in Montana and he rode Amtrak all the way to California and we built that obscene magazine picture montage on the wall and my landlord kept eyeing me suspiciously because he knew that something wasn't quite right about our living situation but he couldn't quite figure out what that was.

We don't have a smoking room anymore, and my brother is now a happily settled 25 year old living with his beautiful wife and three kids in Arizona. But here I am, chasing 30, and living in my best friends' spare room as she heads off to her job working for a state agency a county over and he heads off to the gym to widen and thicken his already gargantuan shoulders and talk shop to the other body builder/cage fighters.

And I sit here at home (when I'm not at the gym with him), sipping coffee and outlining my busy day (knowing I may only knock off one or two things on my growing to-do list despite my best intentions) wondering what the hell I did with my life to end up here. I'm not 18 anymore and this behavior is ridiculous.

But sometimes it's good to move in retrograde and let the future come up behind you as you ponder your past. I think it makes for a more well-rounded personality. Or so I keep telling myself.

Lesson 4: Reality Is Tough, So Be Sure to Train Hard Before It Hits You

2006-06-20T13:05:00.000-07:00

People sometimes look at me funny when I tell them I used to train to be a kickboxer (muay thai, if you must know). Of course, this was 15 years ago, back before reality hit and I got married and had kids and discovered that most dreams fail to materialize.

I'm in the worst shape of my life now. Having trained in professional dojos and sweat-soaked gyms, atop bloody wrestling mats and in the musty garages of backyard si-fus, I should know better than to let myself go the way that I have. But for years there hasn't been anything threatening me to get in shape. No upcoming fight or even a sparring match to look forward to. And so my fitness suffered.

I'm talking more than just physical fitness here, folks. When you're subjected to years upon years of complacency, your brain grows soft from a lack of challenge, a lack of adversity. I've overloaded myself in adversity in the last few weeks and it's showing. My brain aches from an influx of new experiences and stress, my muscles are screaming from overuse.

But it feels good. I'd forgotten how good.

And so, I'm thinking it might be time to start training again. Good thing I'm back home, where my old dojo (and my old trainer) happen to be. Funny how life leads you in circles sometimes, isn't it?

Lesson 3: Shave Your Legs Before You Stay at a Motel 6

2006-06-15T12:16:00.000-07:00

Sure they leave their light on for you, and they probably still have a room available even when all the other inns are full. But their freestanding stall shower is a bitch to maneuver around in, especially when you have a sharp object like a shaving razor in your hand and you’re standing on one leg trying to find a perch for the other leg.

Any yoga or ballet experience you might have comes in handy here.

Lesson 2: Everything Is Always About Sex

2006-06-15T12:14:00.000-07:00

When traveling cross-country with pre-pubescent and pubescent boys, the conversation inevitably digresses into discussions about why most sexually transmitted diseases have funny names, the female anatomy and nocturnal emissions. Ignore this if you can, or use it as an opportunity to offer a little sex education if you have the stomach for it.

Subset A to Lesson 2

Burps and farts are also prevalent during road trips with boys. Be sure to bring some sort of spray to mask the odor. Perfume is not a good idea as spraying lots of it in an attempt to cover up the odor from the emissions of a 13-year-old boy who just ate a whole pizza can result in fits of gagging and sneezing.

Subset B to Lesson 2

Head slaps are common on long trips with boys. They often originate from the child in the backseat and leave lumps on the head of the child in the front seat. If the child in the front seat screams like a goat every time someone touches him, be sure to place him in the backseat for the duration of the trip.

Use bribes to alleviate the problem, if you must. A point system in which points are taken off for bad behavior and dessert is rewarded at the end of the day to any child with points remaining works well, too. But this could also be considered a bribe (and results in hyper children in the car at the end of the day).

If bribing children pricks at your conscious, be prepared to leave your parental guilt at your town of origin and pick it up again at your final destination. God will forgive you.

Lesson 1: For Every Ending There is an Equal and Opposite Beginning

2006-06-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

As I begin this blog, I prepare to leave my home, my family and everything I have known for the last three years to begin a new life on another coast.

Sure, this isn't the first time I've done this: I moved to the East Coast three years ago from California -- but recognizing a pattern in my behavior brings to mind a lesson. The first lesson I ever learned. A lesson I'm still learning.

Endings in my life are always abrupt and devastating. This current bout includes more than one ending, in fact. My second marriage is ending as we speak. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but it's certainly a struggle.

I am quitting a job I like a lot in a gamble to make a life I'll love.

And I'm dragging my three kids cross country, whether they like it or not, from their home in South Carolina back to my native California where the familiar and the unknown await us.

But I realized something -- just today in fact as I stood outside my beloved southern brick home and watched a Carolina thunderstorm roll in, face upturned to the turbulent sky, thunder broiling through a darkened heaven, thick drops richoteting off my face and pummeling the green canopy around the yard. I never feel more alive than I do during a thunderstorm, with the Carolina pines whipping overhead and frogs crooning in the shrubbery underfoot. Life is in the spark, the bright lightning, the growling thunder. It scares the hell out of me, to stand underneath that ethereal battle, beneath the flailing limbs of white oaks and crepe myrtles, which in good weather are rooted so strong it takes a machine to yank them out of the ground. The lesson to learn from a storm is that a strong one can upturn a centuries-old oak. Storms bring change, bring new life and set fire to the old. They wreak havoc and set fire engine sirens to roaring. They can roil a calm sea, but they can also set birds to singing and children to dancing.

This move of mine is a storm of my own making, and I recognize this. But I also see the life in it, despite the death of my current way of living. I don't know what I'll see on the other side, what job I'll get or house I'll live in. I don't know whether I'll bounce when I hit land or crash and burn and like lightning striking a tall, overgrown pine.

But if I do catch fire, at least I'll know all the clutter of my old underbrush will be cleared away. The view after the storm is always the clearest, after all.