Ordinary Extraordinary

Preventing Assault

Kevin Apgar has launched his second Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign for Carly Milne's Sexography, and this time there's a twist:

April is National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month, and it’s a big month for the Rape and Incest National Network (RAINN). The organization’s goal is to raise enough money to be able to offer victims of sexual abuse, sexual assault and rape an online hotline offering counseling and assistance 24 hours a day, seven days a week. RAINN’s Chelsea Bowers, Kevin Apgar and Sexography author Carly Milne have banded together to launch a one-of-a-kind online fundraising event to help RAINN reach that goal.

So for the month of April, the blogosphere is going to talk about sex to raise money for RAINN. That's win-win, right?

All things considered, my sexual history is largely unremarkable. Certainly there were a few awkward experiences (Um, I don't think it's supposed to do that...) and a few things I wish I'd known earlier (You're married? Really? And when exactly were you planning on mentioning that?), but overall I've been lucky. I've never been raped, molested, abused, or attacked.

My friends have, though.

When I turned 14 or 15 and started to express an interest in boys and dating, my father taught me two things: How to break a man's arm with my shoulder, and how not to fight like a girl - to hit soft, vulnerable tissue as hard as I could with my elbows, knees, and heels. My father is not a violent man, but he is a realist. He was very clear that pleading words or logic would be wasted on an attacker and that the only appropriate response was to fight like a caged wolverine.

Unfortunately, he is absolutely right.

In the fall of my sophomore year of college, my friend S and I went to a party at the TKE house with a bunch of other friends. Being savvy young women, we had a pre-arranged system for staying safe at huge parties; we stuck together. Arrive together, leave together. No exceptions.

This particular party was completely insane; people were packed into the house like sardines and spilling out all over the front and back lawns. S had quickly met up with the guy she'd come to flirt with (a cute second string linebacker from her Calculus class) and dragged him to the middle of the madness to dance, so I stuck to the periphery of the party with a few other friends and kept an eye on S as much as I could.

About an hour later I looked up from a conversation with the guy on whom I had a crush and noticed that S and the linebacker were gone. After scanning the room and finding them absent, I excused myself from Cute Guy and set off to look for them. Since I went to college in the Dark Ages, before everyone had a cell phone, there was no choice but to work my way through the crowd and see if I could find them. I was none too pleased that I had to stop my flirting to go hunting, but it a deal's a deal: we stick together at parties, period.   

I did a lap through the house and started to get concerned when I couldn't find either of them - the party was big, but not THAT big. Thinking that S and the linebacker may have taken off to go get some food or perhaps more beer, I recruited a couple of other friends to keep searching the party while I went to see if her car was still parked on the street.

It was, and they were in it. The linebacker had S pinned to the front seat and she was pleading with him to let her go.

S, the tough-talking Brooklyn girl who used to joke that she kept her acrylic nails long so they'd be more effective weapons, was absolutely frozen in terror and very close to being in a lot of trouble.

I don't know what I yelled when I saw what was happening, but it was enough to startle the linebacker. Though truly, I think he was more startled when I yanked the passenger side door open and hauled him out of the car. We ended up in a scuffle on the ground and I was doing my level best to hit him anywhere that would really hurt. S finally found her voice and screamed for help, which brought Cute Guy and a few other friends running. I'd managed to get a few good shots in, but Cute Guy was nice enough to finish the job: he picked the linebacker up by the collar, punched him square in the jaw, and sent him sprawling on the sidewalk.

I don't know what happened after that, S and I collected ourselves and left quickly, but I do know that the linebacker gave me a WIDE berth every time he saw me on campus for the next 3 years.

Later, when I asked S why she hadn't gouged his eyes out with her nails, she said that she didn't want to hurt him, that he was just drunk - as if that were some kind of excuse for his behavior.

When my father stood in the kitchen and taught me how to fight, he taught me so much more than the physical skills. He taught me that an assault is a breech of civilized behavior and that it nullifies all rules of ladylike comportment, and most importantly he taught me that it was RIGHT and GOOD to defend myself, and that I had the strength and power to do so.

100 Things Worth Doing, Part V

Memories that I hope flash before my eyes at the end of my life; one hundred moments, numbers eighty-one through one hundred.

81. The stranger in the pristine white suit who pulled over to help me change a tire.
82. Beignets & chicory coffee at the Cafe du Monde.
83. The smell of citrus blossoms and night blooming jasmine carried through my kitchen on a breeze.
84. Kissing Apollo in the rain, in the time before it all went awry.
85. Strolling through the Farmer's Market laden with delicious fruits & vegetables and an armload of fresh flowers.
86. Being so excited to see that Santa hadn't forgotten me, even though I was in Mexico and not at my house.
87. The first month that I paid all of my expenses all by myself.
88. Oscar purring and licking my nose.
89. The electricity of a new lover's first touch.
90. Red-lining at the gym: punching and kicking the bag until exhausted and drenched in sweat.
91. Singing camp songs.
92. Riding a horse beside my father.
93. Winning the cup and taking a galloping victory lap around the ring.
94. The smell of my father's aftershave (4711) and my mother's perfume (L'air du Temps).
95. Late night conversations about life, the universe, and everything.
96. My mother in a sun hat at the Hoover Dam.
97. The smell of a canoe in the hot sun; chipping at the water to send a spray of cold, glittering droplets across the bow.
98. Watching my father play with the puppy in the backyard - at once, he was 12 years old again.
99. Rehearsal dinner: spaghetti, MGD, and Junior Mints.
100. The feeling of wonderful anticipation before a new job, a first date, the next adventure.

Also see: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV

Though I struggled with the first twenty, now I feel as though I could list 100 more. What flashes stand out from your memories?

As always, many thanks to Mighty Girl for the inspiration.

100 Things Worth Doing, Part IV

Memories that I hope flash before my eyes at the end of my life; one hundred moments, numbers sixty-one through eighty.

61. Spending a day sprawled on a blanket in the park, reading.
62. Deja-vu in the tepidarium at Bath.
63. Laughing until my sides hurt and tears are rolling down my cheeks.
64. Firing a gun for the first time.
65. Blueberries picked on a mountain top.
66. Skinny-dipping.
67. Walking into a theater in the afternoon and not leaving again until the next morning.
68. Sitting in front of the fire in the den to dry my hair.
69. The mysterious boy who gave me a lemon in lieu of his phone number.
70. Driving, singing along at the top of our lungs.
71. Spoons on our noses at dinner at the ranch.
72. Countless late-night meals, all of us jammed into vinyl booths laughing and sharing food.
73. Jellyfish on the dock at Xtina's parent's house "down the shore."
74. Packing all my stuffed animals into suitcases for their "vacation" when we needed the spare bed.
75. Teaching swim classes at the local YWCA.
76. Purposely letting ourselves "get lost" in Rome so that we could get away from the stupid, loud tour group.
77. Having to hide from a group of enthusiastic Greek sailors on leave in Athens.
78. Picnicking by a waterfall after a long, tiring hike.
79. The dizzy feeling you get when you can see miles of blue or starry sky uninterrupted.
80. A movie-quality kiss at Union Station.

Also see: Part I, Part II, Part III

Many thanks to Mighty Girl for the inspiration.

100 Things Worth Doing, Part III

Memories that I hope flash before my eyes at the end of my life; one hundred moments, numbers forty-one through sixty.

41. Christmas Tree decorating parties.
42. Person of Adventure trips.
43. Mid-afternoon naps in the summertime, ceiling fan gently rippling fresh, crisp sheets.
44. Collecting fireflies in jars with Emily & Paige.
45. The first day of college.
46. Driving around back alleys at midnight with Fusspot, trying to find a dumpster for the scenic trash.
47. Building the Musee set, high on paint fumes and strung out on Mountain Dew.
48. Talking about WNA on the NBC morning news.
49. Trying to call a show that had gone so far awry that I just closed my book and gave up on the cues.
50. Demz's tattoo, locked inside a Hollywood tattoo parlor at 2am.
51. Pansies from my father every Easter.
52. Loud music, a heaving dancefloor, and a gorgeous stranger.
53. Spring break in Santa Barbara.
54. Venice beach at sunrise.
55. Capri.
56. The distinctive smell of a rugby tournament: freshly mown grass, sports cream, and clean sweat.
57. Being tucked into the papazan chair when I had chicken pox.
58. Getting pulled over in Utah, both of us trying not to laugh at the adolescent looking patrolman.
59. Bypassing the line at the Standard.
60. Sprawled on the bed at the Beverly Hilton, sharing a bottle of wine.

Also see: Part I, Part II

Many thanks to Mighty Girl for the inspiration.

100 Things Worth Doing, Part II

Memories that I hope flash before my eyes at the end of my life; one hundred moments, numbers twenty-one through forty.

21. My first breakfast at the King's Road Cafe.
22. Sitting in the sun on the hill where I met The Fireman.
23. Riding a camel.
24. Paddling hell-for-leather into the wind across a vast, cold lake.
25. Lounging in a bathtub that had a view of the entire Hong Kong harbor.
26. Halloween in New York with Pip.
27. New Orleans.
28. Playing solitaire inside on a rainy day in Bermuda.
29. The first time I put on a pair of boxing gloves.
30. Making the Bûche de Noël by myself for the first time.
31. Thanksgiving. The smell of food cooking, the sound of friends laughing, the taste of dry white wine.
32. Jumping on the hotel bed.
33. Rauri's going away party.
34. Bare.
35. Swing dancing at the Derby & the Coconut Club.
36. "I'll make you a cherry pie..."
37. Rolling down the hill behind the tennis courts, trying to stop before the dirt road.
38. Finally being old enough / cool enough to go to The Ridge after dark.
39. Losing a muffler in Massachusetts
40. Seeing myself in a tabloid.

Also see: Part I

Many thanks to Mighty Girl for the inspiration.

100 Things Worth Doing, Part I

Memories that I hope flash before my eyes at the end of my life; one hundred moments, numbers one through twenty.

1. "Uncle" Bruce teaching me to tie my shoelaces.
2. Balloons floating on the surface of the pool at the house in Mexico on New Year's Day.
3. Slurpees with Claire after my high school graduation.
4. Spending a week in London on foot and mostly alone.
5. Yards of margaritas by the Luxor pool for my birthday.
6. Bargaining for rugs in Morrocco.
7. Slipping through the woods without flashlights to prank the boys at Testing Camp.
8. My first kiss.
9. Firebug & I driving back from Kawanhee along pitch-black roads in rural Maine.
10. Fireworks on the beach with Alex.
11. The monkeys on Gibraltar.
12. Being in the shop with my father, taking old clocks apart while he worked or puttered.
13. Nutcracker weekends.
14. The six of us standing together for the first time at my cousin's wedding in Las Vegas.
15. Meeting my cousins for the first time, 7 years apart.
16. Napping on the beach in Hawaii
17. The Northern Lights.
18. Playing a neighborhood-wide game of hide & seek that lasted most of a Saturday.
19. Playing Sorry with my parents on Sunday evenings during football season.
20. Facing Chief in the ring for the first time and feeling a rush of adrenaline as he put in his mouthguard.

Many thanks to Mighty Girl for the inpiration.

2007, a retrospective

Holy crap, where did December go? I thought November flew by but damn - I completely missed December! One minute I'm packing to head back east and now I'm in Seattle, packing to head back to L.A. again.

On second thought, where on earth did 2007 go? I swear it was just March.

Ah well, the end of the year can mean only one thing - it's time once again for my favorite 40 questions about 2007!

Never Forget

2006, a retrospective

My favorite 40 questions about the past year...

Wednesday is Meme Day

Today's meme goodness comes courtesy of Kapgar.

Checklist Meme: Just bold the things you have accomplished in your life.
Seems a bit of an odd collection of things, but I'm game...

1. Bought everyone in the bar a drink
2. Swam with wild dolphins
3. Climbed a mountain
4. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
5. Been inside the Great Pyramid - Not yet, but soon.

Cycle of Life

In the last year or so I have been to five weddings, lost two friends, and welcomed the addition of three newborns to my friends lives. Tomorrow, I will attend the funeral of the third of my friends to pass away.

Fight on, Curtis.

When the body sinks into death, the essence of man is revealed.
Man is a knot, a web, a mesh into which relationships are tied.
Only those relationships matter. The body is an old crock that nobody will miss.
- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Who put the Cycle of Life on fast forward?

The pictures above are some of my favorites of Curtis, though they are almost ten years old. They capture the essence of him that I remember so well... his joy, his mischeviousness, and his love for USC (especially the Spirit of Troy). I was not surprised to hear that he fought his brief but savage battle with brain cancer noblely, and that he lost that battle with dignity and grace.

Curtis and I spent a lot of time together during and after college... cheering at football games, dancing (damn that man could lead you around a ballroom like nobody's business), performing at renaissance faires. Curtis was one of the first friends I made at USC and he is stamped indelibly on some of my happiest memories of college.

He was one of the kindest and most chivalrous men I've ever met, a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. I remember how shy he could be in social situations, and how that shyness melted away when you put him anywhere near a dance floor. I remember how he blushed when we teased him good-naturedly about his beloved Hawaiian shirts, or when the girls flirted shamelessly with him. I remember the sound of his laugh, and the look of awed delight on his face the year that we threw him a surprise birthday party.

We drifted naturally apart a few years ago... he got married and started a family and I was working a zillion hours a week at multiple jobs. We traded sporadic emails and ran into each other occasionally, but that was the extent of our contact.

I remember thinking about six months ago that I should find some time to visit with him, his wife, and their new son. That time will have to wait until we cross paths again, after the next turn of the Wheel.

Death itself does not frighten or sadden me, but my heart breaks for the loss of him. For the loss of his spark, his joy, his indefatigable spirit and faith in humanity. For the loss of his time with his son, who will never truly know his Father.

There are too few people like Curtis in the world, we can't afford to lose them so early.

Until we meet again, my friend... rest in peace.

The Plot

or, Why I spent a week and a half lying through my teeth

Forget what you learned in kindergarten... sometimes, it's perfectly acceptable to tell one or two (or forty-six) lies to someone close to you.

Last Tuesday, I had an Idea. It was the kind of idea that was so outlandish, so grand in its scale, that I immediately dismissed it.

But the Idea refused to be silenced.

The Apocalypse of Rauri

Saturday morning dawned cloudy and unusually cold for Southern California (particularly in March). As the day progressed cold rains moved in, turning to snow in the mountains above Pasadena and into drifts of hail on the 210 freeway. Standing in my front yard at 11am, I could see my breath.

Wait. Hail and snow in Southern California? In March? Clearly a sign of the coming apocalypse.

It was, after all, Rauri's wedding day.

Since my original date for the wedding was out of the picture, I traded up and took Adri instead! She is officially the best wedding date ever, even though her camera hates me.

After a surprisingly quick trek down to Orange County (rain, hail, and other acts of God not withstanding), we arrived early for the ceremony. It was nice to have some time to chat with the groom, as well as with Roach (who was looking particularly dapper in his groomsman's tux) and his girl, and with some friends that I hadn't seen in years.

Weddings are always a peculiar juxtaposition of once upon a time and ever after... I feel simultanously thrust into my past as I catch up with long-lost friends and catapulted into my future as I watch the people I love take a giant step into their tomorrow.

Since Rauri is an officer in the Army, he and his bride were entitled to a formal military wedding; it was wonderful. Rauri looked dashing in his dress uniform, flanked by starched cadets and tuxedoed groomsmen, and his bride looked stunning as she met him at the altar. As the daughter of a Naval officer, I love the tradition of these rare weddings. I may have been the only one who was moved by the sword arch when the couple exited the chapel!

The reception was lovely (I have four words: chocolate fountain and open bar), though there seemed to be some problems with the lighting (flourescents = very bad idea). Much food, booze, and chocolate was consumed, I made Death dance, and those of us who know Rauri best managed to refrain from telling any stories that might cause his new wife to rethink her choice of husband. All in all, a fine way to spend a Saturday.

1 down, four to go.

Happy New Year

A long December and there’s reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last.
-Counting Crows, A Long December

Best wishes for a happy and healthy 2006!

2005, a retrospective

40 questions about 2005...

Memory Lane

Whilst unpacking boxes last night, I discovered a collection of old journals that I thought I'd lost: the ones I kept during my first three years of college. Unable to resist visiting with my decade-younger self, I curled up on my bed to read through them.

If you ever question whether you're growing and changing as a person, re-read an old journal or two. Though I recognize the girl reflected in the pages, I'm most assuredly a different person now. More confident, more settled, less afraid. (And I can finally spell "eventually.")

Almost the entirety of one journal was devoted to the first year and a half that Apollo and I were getting to know each other; ten years later and it seems that everything and nothing have changed. I smiled as I read the accounts of meeting him, of all the sweet things he said to me, and of our first kiss. I cringed as I read through some horrific things Apollo went through and the powerlessness I felt to help or comfort him. I shook my head as I read through my confusion and pain the first time he disappeared.

At points I wanted to yell through the pages to my 19 year old self Trust yourself! Your instincts are right! It will work out, just not for several years yet. Ah, hindsight.

It was nice to revisit the beginning, though... to see the first few tentative steps of the journey. I was glad to realize that the sound of his voice and the curve of his smile still make my heart skip a beat, just like they did on that very first day.

Check it out, this bird has flown*

There's something in the air in Hollywood
The sun is shinin' like you knew it would
You're ridin' in your car in Hollywood
You got the top down and it feels so good

Everybody comes to Hollywood
They wanna make it in the neighborhood
They like the smell of it in Hollywood
How could it hurt you when it looks so good?

Seven and a half years ago, I fled the student housing surrounding USC (and my crazy roommates) in favor of a one bedroom apartment in Hollywood.

My building was on the 7400 block of Hollywood Boulevard and I felt so fucking cool. I lived on Hollywood Boulevard! The shine of driving down Sunset every day quickly wore off as did the novelty of running into celebrities at the grocery store, but then I started to discover the more hidden side of Hollywood... hiking trails not nearly so abused as the popular Runyon Canyon, dive bars full of down-to-earth people discussing everything but "The Industry" over cheap beers, the hole-in-the-wall dry cleaner where all the stars get their clothes tailored and the ancient Asian woman behind the counter remembers every customer's name (famous or not). A local bagel place where the woman behind the counter knows my usual, the cashier at Ralp

I've managed to nestle myself into a community in the most unlikely of places.

Lately, though, my beloved Hollywood has begun to wear on me. The traffic seems worse, the neighbors seem younger & crazier, and the helicopters seem louder and more frequent. I think it's time to move out of the fray and enjoy the madness from afar.

---
*Lyrics from Madonna's Hollywood

Nawlins

In honor of the victims and refugees of Katrina (or perhaps just to counteract all of the gruesome footage being broadcast from New Orleans lately), I've posted a photo album from my last trip to New Orleans.

Ago, Part 4 of 4

1 year ago I...

Ago, Part 3 of 4

3 years ago I...

Ago, Part 2 of 4

5 years ago I...

Ago, Part 1 of 4

The What were you doing 10 years ago? 5 years ago? 3 years ago? 1 year ago? meme is floating around again. Since I've been in a bit of a reflective mood lately, I thought I'd take a stab at it.

10 years ago I...

Best. Birthday. Ever.

August 3rd is a peculiar day. Though I try to act casually about it and behave as though it's no different than any other day, secretly my birthday is incredibly important to me. Every year I wake up with bated breath, hoping for wonderful and unexpected things.

Yesterday was full of wonder.

First... a desk festooned with banners, balloons, and confetti. Phone calls, cards, text messages, emails, and comments full of cheer and well wishes. Lunching with friends & co-workers at my favourite local restaurant until we were replete with sushi and sake.

Then... a gorgeous and unexpected delivery of flowers and balloons from a beautiful man. Cupcakes baked for me by my boss and served with champagne flutes full of milk.

Later... 3 couples laughing, sharing food and conversation across a candlelit table. Pomegranate cosmos. S'mores. An army of plastic animals.

Finally... a warm summer night. The glow of love and friendship. Collapsing at last into bed, encircled by arms that will never let me go again.

Music

Whilst sorting through my book collection this evening, I uncovered my ancient copy of Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy his writing, how deeply some of his poems speak to me.

Music
Music oft seizes me and sweeps me like a sea
toward where my star shines pale,
With mists for ceiling, or through an immensity
of ether I set sail...
My breast flung forward and my lungs swollen
like white canvas, windswept I scale
The backs of heaping waves over which
gentle night has wound a darkling veil.

So all the passions of a vessel suffering
rise in me; the brave blast
Of winds, and storms in their convulsive movements,
swing me, cradled on the vast
Abyss... At other times, dead calms, like mirrors
there, reflecting my despair...

(I think that I learned my overwhelming fondness for ellipses from him, too. *g*)

The Treasure Chest

Relationships are like treasure chests, Daughter, and every day you put something in them. Some days it might be just a tarnished penny while on others it might be a wonderful glittering jewel, but you put something in every single day. The contents of that chest belong to the two of you alone and no one else knows what's inside, but you know and you can sit together and sift through all the treasures you've collected, remember the signifigance of them, and marvel at your riches. -My Father, during a phone conversation last night

My parents relationship is the (extremely high) standard to which I hold my own romantic relationships. They have been married thirty seven and a half years and they are still just as mad for each other as they were when they were dating. It is not uncommon for my father to bring home a small gift for my mother just because he was thinking of her, or for my parents to dance in the kitchen in their pajamas, or for my mother to blush and giggle when my father says something complimentary. They are partners in every sense of the word and they have built a life and raised a family based on love, respect, and a complete refusal to face the world in any way but together.

As I've gotten older, I've learned just how rare and precious my parents relationship is. I've also learned more about the environments in which my parents were raised and I can safely say that for my parents to get married, maintain a blissfully healthy relationship and raise a well-adjusted child is nothing short of a miracle. They are living proof that you can overcome any manner of bullshit, toxic environments, or abuse if you can steel your will to do so. In many ways my parents are my ultimate heroes.

* * * Last night, my Father's wisdom helped me clarify the things I need in a relationship versus the things that I want. The things I need are non-negotiable and cannot be compromised; the things I want are just... fluff.

I want grand gestures and the epic romantic scenes of poetry, but I need someone who will fill that treasure chest with me every single day and who will cherish every single thing we put inside.

10 Things

10 Things I've Done That Most People Probably Haven't:
(meme stolen from countless sources)

01) Spent a week canoeing the Allagash River in Maine.
02) Ridden a camel in Morocco.
03) Changed a tire on a monster truck.
04) Shared a bottle of PowerAde with Mike Metzger.
05) Hidden in a ditch in Malibu Canyon for three hours to operate fire pots & smoke machines for a Harry Shearer film.
06) Distressed 200 sandwiches for a banquet scene in that same film.
07) Appeared in a national tabloid (I was identified as "unknown woman").
08) Driven cross-country 7 times.
09) Gotten into a fist fight and won.
10) Stripped & refinished all the wood in my house.

Suffer the Night

It's hard at the end of the day
I need some distraction
Oh beautiful release
Memory seeps from my veins
Let me be empty
And weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight
-Sarah McLachlan, Angel

At night, my thoughts turn invariably to Apollo. The darkest hours of the night have always belonged to us; the irony is not lost on me.

On nights like this when I am not only alone but also lonely, the memories twinkle from my subconcious like so many stars against the darkened sky. Conversations in the deserted parking lot of the music annex at midnight... the intoxicating scent of him as his arms enveloped me... standing in my tiny kitchen eating cheerios and honey at 3am illuminated only by the light from the stove hood... soft, tentative first kisses that I had to stand on my tiptoes to receive... being woken from a sound sleep by a call for pancakes before sunrise... lying in bed a tangle of linens and limbs... his lips against the base of my neck and his voice a soft growl... endless phone conversations.

I can remember every scent, every taste, every scrape of rough fabric and glide of smooth skin, every sound. These things are etched so deeply into my soul I that I ache every time I think of them. I long for the timbre of his voice, the spark of his smile, the reassuring weight of him in bed beside me.

A part of my soul is terribly, terribly empty without him.

There has been scant conversation since I tried to say goodbye and it has been largely frustrating. We want the same things: a home, a family, each other... but we seem to be completely incapable of finding a way to achieve them.

I don't understand why this is so goddamned hard. It seems to me that two people as deeply connected as we are should be able to figure it out.

There are many things about this situation that mystify me and I am trying to reconcile myself to the fact that I might never understand.

Until then, I suffer the night and hope that it gets easier with time.

Voices trapped in yearning
Memories trapped in time
The night is my companion
And solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here,
and not be satisfied?
-Sarah McLachlan Possession

Burning Off

When I first moved to Los Angeles, the climate in late summer / early fall absolutely baffled me. Weather is fairly dependable on the East Coast... what you find in the morning upon waking is generally what you will encounter for the rest of the day. (Except in Maine. The weather is decidedly undependable in Maine.) Not so in Los Angeles where the marine layer makes the days start out gray and cold before burning off to reveal warm sun and blue skies. My first autumn in Southern California was a lesson in the fine art of layering - a constant struggle to wear the right combinations of clothing to be comfortable all day.

The change of seasons combined with the recent return of Apollo has caused me to spend a lot of time reflecting on my first few months in Southern California. I have been living here for 9 years - a full third of my life.

I am so different now than I was when I arrived.

In August of 1995, I was 18 years old and so ready for the next phase of my life that as soon as I'd dropped the last box on the floor of my dorm room, I hugged my parents and ran back upstairs to get started on the new me. I had to call them later in the day to make sure that, in my haste, I had remembered to say "goodbye." The world suddenly seemed so open, so different than the dark and confining world of high school. I wanted to try everything, do everything, learn everything, know everybody.

I was an idea of myself as an adult... an outline waiting to be filled in with the rich colors and textures of life experience.

At 27 years old, the outline has changed many times... portions erased and re-drawn, textures and colors added in carelessly overlapping strokes... but I have finally become myself. I have learned that being an adult is not a static destination but a life-long journey. Some part of me, the very core of me has vulcanized since my first day at college. Now new experiences add to the complexity and beauty of the outline rather than changing it entirely. I have found myself and remain myself in the face of challenges, changes, triumphs, and defeats.

The heavy gray clouds of adolescent morning have burned off, leaving me to bask in the rays of a warm and inviting day.

What I've done for love

Where my friends & family are concerned, I am apt to throw both reason and logic out the window when they are in need. Consequently, I have found myself in some very unusual situations on their behalf.

During the last Winter Olympics, I found myself watching the apartment (and paying the bills) of someone I'd only known a few months - full access to his checking account and everything.

On more than one night many years ago, I found myself eating cheerios and honey in my kitchen at 3am with someone who needed comfort.

A few years ago, I found myself parked precariously next to a freeway onramp at midnight, moving a girlfriend out of her house while her former boyfriend chucked stereo equipment and stuffed animals at us.

While in college, I found myself punching a fraternity brother who was antagonizing a drunk friend of mine as I was trying to help him back to his dorm room.

Once, I found myself dressed in full zombie make-up crashing through an old barn with five or ten other friends (who were also in full zombie make-up) to help a friend complete his first film.

Several months ago, I found myself practically inside Boy 2's refrigerator as I attempted to scrub it clean of the years of muck that his new roommate had let accumulate.

While dating one of my serious boyfriends, I found myself driving my jetta up the Grapevine during a snowstorm in order to help him through his first funeral.

Two years ago, I flew and then drove to the middle of Vermont to attend the wedding of two of my dearest friends.

I have often found myself gaining permanent guardianship of animals that I was watching "for just a bit".

Today, I find myself trying to bake a roulette wheel cake for the casino-themed baby shower that I am attending tomorrow.

Of course.

Summer Snapshots

Summer has always been my favorite season. As an adult it just means fantastic weather and the occasional long weekend, but when I was young(er) summer meant three glorious months away from school and, most importantly, summer camp.

Camp Arcadia was my salvation. Whereas school was a dark hole of ostracism and unhappiness, Arcadia was light and laughter and fun - I belonged there. So many good things came from my years spent as a camper and counselor at Arcadia: an unquenchable desire to bravely explore the world around me, a reverence for the untamed outdoors, my best friend. Yes, Firebug and I were assigned to the same cabin (Southfield West!) seventeen years ago and we have been best friends since!

I called Firebug earlier as I was driving home for work, feeling nostalgic for our days at Arcadia and desperately wanting to be eleven again if only for a day. She absolutely understood what I was feeling and we had one of those half-spoken conversations that make other people wonder if you've lost your mind completely.

Me: Do you know what we'd be doing right now if we were eleven? Rehearsing Antics & Horribles!
She: Oh, do you remember how we used to have every root of that hill memorized so that we could run down it and it felt so good?
Me: I remember you falling down the steps of Senior 1 on that rainy day.
She: Was that me? All I remember is pain...
Me: And the 3am drives back from Kawanhee. We should have been dead in the woods so many times by now.
She: Oh god, the Ridge.
Me: I remember the first time we went, feeling like I wasn't old enough to be there yet.
She: And I had that one wine cooler.
Me: Do you remember the mudpie song?
She: It made no sense. Damnit, somebody is riding my bumper and I need to switch lanes...
Me: Just throw your wilderness paddle at him.
She: Wilderness paddle!! And basic paddle. Not so basic...
Us: *sigh* I want to be eleven again

Now as I write this, I'm looking at a snapshot taken of the two of us at the Final Banquet one of the last years that we were campers. I think we must be 13 or 14, our noses are sunburned and our hair is tangled with highlights from a summer spent in the sun. Our Sunday shirts are stained with a summer's worth of hot fudge and barbecue sauce, but we don't notice. Looking at this picture I can still hear the din of the dining room, remember the texture of the dishes, smell the scent of pine on the air, and my mind is flooded with flashes of memory... snapshots of summer.

...the first night alone at summer camp. I wasn't scared or homesick, but nost of the girls in my cabin were. I just layed in my bunk looking out at the meadow and wishing that the summer would never end.

...the first freezing cold swim in the lake every summer. The first year that I was a counselor, the water was so cold that when I dove in to take my lifeguarding test, I started to hyperventilate.

...Sunday morning assemblies in the Pine Grove. We would all sit outside, sorted by age and cabin, and listen to the lulling voices of the camp directors. Louise would always read a story at the end (Sacajawea or Durer's Praying Hands) - that was my favorite part.

...wilderness trips. 5 days canoeing Lake Umbagog, 7 days paddling the Allagash river, a week at JMG testing camp.

...my first kiss, stolen along the side of the dining hall at Camp O-at-ka (a boy's camp nearby) moments before all my friends came around the corner to pile into the vans.

...celebrating my birthday at camp with a banner and a silly hat and running a lap around the dining hall while everyone sang and cheered.

...rolling down the hill from the tennis courts and trying to stop before you hit the gravel road.

...lying in our bunks, whispering late into the night and trying not to be overheard by the counselor on Night Duty.

...getting certified as a lifeguard and as a Junior Maine Guide.

...the Fourth of July bonfire down by the lake. The whole camp huddled around the fire singing songs and waving cold sparklers in the air.

...singing. Sining at assembly, during meals, at every campfire and camp function. So much joyful mostly-on-key singing.

...lazy Wednesday afternoons where we could walk or canoe into town to buy a snack, or not.

...writing letters. Getting letters.

...Rest Hour.

...splitting my first log of wood, starting my first campfire all by myself, sharpening my own Buck knife.

...real Maine days.

...taking the Champion seat in the annual horseshow and getting my name engraved on the trophy.

...Parent Camper Weekend.

...toasted marshmallows, spaghetti, gorp.

...playing capture the flag on the lower field until it was too dark to see.

...rainy days so cold that we were bundled into jeans, sweaters AND turtlenecks.

...closing candlelight ceremony where everyone in the camp set a small candle adrift on the lake on a little wooden boat. It was quite a rush to see if you could find your boat the next year.

...driving away from the gates of Arcadia after my last summer as a counselor, knowing that I probably wouldn't return until I was bringing my own daughters for their first summers.

Ah, how I miss those summers.

Revenge Against the Red Tags

The garbage men in my parents' town are very fastidious; they will only haul away certain items. If they think that your trashcans contain illegal items, they will leave a nasty red tag on the handle of the can and not haul it away until the items have been removed. The most illicit item on their list? Construction waste.

When I was a child, I had a rabbit (Bonnie-Bob by name, but that's a story for a different post) who lived in a luxury hutch. The cage was five feet long and almost three feet deep, it required a lot of cedar chips every week.

Cedar chips look suspiciously like construction waste to the untrained eye.

After the first week that the grabage men refused to take away our trash becuase of the "construction waste", my father called the town to explain about my rabbit and his cedar chips. The manager at the Department of Sanitation assured my father that he would explain the situation to our garbage men and that they would take away the trash with no further problems. We got periodic red tags on our trash cans until the day Bonnie-Bob's sucessor died - in a ridiculous exercise in smuggling and intrigue, my father was reduced to trying to hide the cedar chips under other trash or in sealed bags.

The red tags were a source of frustration and annoyance... until my father got his revenge. Over the course of 9 months, he managed to throw out an entire car body in the curbside trash cans without getting one red tag.

We had an old Pontiac whose enginge was good but whose body was beyond repair. After lifting the engine out, we didn't know what to do with the leftover body. With a mischevious gleam in his eye, my father got out his Sawz-All and his polaroid (for documentation purposes, of course) and went to work. He sprinkled a few pieces in amongst the trash every week and took pictures as the remains of the car got smaller and smaller until finally, the entire car had been hauled away by the garbage men.

Now whenever my father finds a red tag on his trashcans, he just laughs.

48, 49 & 50

When I was younger, my father and I took periodic "Person of Adventure" trips. Sometimes we'd just take off for an afternoon, sometimes it was all weekend. We'd drive around and sing along to the radio, eat breakfast at truckstops (the only acceptable place to eat eggs with ketchup on them), and explore new places.

Given how similar my father and I are, I'm sure my mother was glad of the few quiet hours to herself.

One Friday afternoon when I was in the 5th grade, my father picked me up from school and told me that we were going on a Person of Adventure trip - all the way across the country! One of my father's life goals was to visit all 50 states and at the time he'd only been to 47. The only three left were Oregon, Washington, and Idaho so we were going to fly to Oregon that night, spend the weekend driving through those last three states, and then fly home on Sunday.

I was thrilled!

We had a wonderful weekend driving our rental car through the mountains, doing little dances on the side of the road when we crossed a state line and calling my mother in glee when we found the next pay phone. Naturally, we also ate logs of eggs and hashbrowns with ketchup. We got home late Sunday night and I was exhausted, but I dutifully went to school Monday morning where my first class was French.

Mme. Sutton always started our Monday morning class by asking everyone what they'd done over the weekend. Our answers were usually pretty standard: Je suis allé au cinéma, je suis allé au mail, j'ai fait mes devoirs.

Then, of course, she got to me:

Et qu'avez-vous fait ce week-end Amanda?
J'ai volé à Portland, ai conduit par Oregon, Washington et Idaho avec mon père et ai puis volé la nuit passée à la maison.
Amanda, there's aucune raison de se trouver. Qu'avez-vous fait ce week-end?
Non, vraiment, c'est la vérité.

She and I went back and forth for several minutes (in French, I might add) until she finally sent me to the principle's office and told me not to return to her classroom until I was willing to tell the truth.

Fortunately, the principal was a friend of my family's and was not at all surprised by my story. She simply picked up the phone and called my mother:

Hello Deborah, it's Martha. Did Roger take Amanda to Portalnd this weekend, drive through three states and then fly home last night? (pause. laughter) Yes, that's what I thought. I'll take her back to class then. Have a good day.

The principle then marched me back down the hall to Mme. Sutton's class and made her apologize to me in front of the whole class.

For that brief moment, I was a hero to 11 year-olds everywhere.

Adventures in Lunch

A few months ago, during lunch:

I just want you to know that we were talking about you.

I blinked at the cashier in surprise and then looked over my shoulder in that classic "Who, me?" gesture before looking back at her.

You were? About me?

I had been sitting a few feet away from one of the cashier stands, having lunch with a colleague, when I noticed an inordinate amount of whispering and gesturing from two of the cashiers. Every time I loooked up at them I caught one of their eyes, but they quickly looked away. The duo broke apart when I walked past them to refill my drink and I'd forgotten all about it by the time I got up to the cashier... until she mentioned it.

Um, ok, why were you talking about me?

I had a hundred scathing responses ready on the tip of my tongue; I was fully prepared to launch a crippling counter attack against whatever hurtful, ignorant or misguided thing she was about to say.

She looked down awkwardly. I was ready to strike.

Well, you just have such a stunningly pretty face. You don't even need to wear make-up and you're gorgeous. My friend noticed you first; he just couldn't believe how beautiful you are. So, we were talking about that.

Oh. Well... now who feels awkward?

Wow. Well, thank you very much. I'm flattered.

The cashier just smiled as she handed me my change.

You're welcome. Have a nice day.

I wished her the same and walked thoughtfully back to my table. Why was I so sure that she was going to say something cruel? Why am I still so surprised that a perfect stranger was willing to give me such a lovely compliment?

My socially traumatic adolescence is far behind me and I am proud of the fact that I have built a life for myself full of people who love me, accept me, even lust after me. I have not been subject to daily verbal abuse and degradation by my peers in almost a decade, and yet still those defensive behaviors persist. Some part of me is always tensed in the face of new and unfamiliar people, coiled tightly like a viper waiting to strike. Oftentimes I don't even notice the tension until I have released a pent-up breath or relaxed the muscles in a clenched fist.

I wonder, then, how long it takes for my subconcious instincts to catch up with the rest of my life?

Why I Hate the "Church" of Scientology

One evening between Thanksgiving and Chritmas of 2001, I got a phone call that changed my life. This is what I wrote at the time in response to that phone call.

One of my best friends (now ex-friend?) called me his Enemy. The whole world shifted. I was momentarily devoid of the ability to react.

Then I began to cry... those ugly, gut-wrenching barking sobs that accompany only the most acute emotional pain. The cats paced around the spot where I was curled on the floor, meowing softly and looking alternately at each other and at me. They didn't know how to help, so they curled up next to me (the same two cats who can't be within 3 feet of each other without a wrestling match) and tried to purr my sadness away.

I cried for at least an hour. I cried until my voice was hoarse and my eyes were nearly swollen shut. I cried until I was calm enough to try to make sense of the words: Our lives now travel down different paths and I see anyone who is against Scientology as my enemy. Enemy: Adversary. Slanderer. Traitor. Criminal. Villain. Someone who was once an extension of me, one of my closest friends, sees me as a target of hatred. How do I even begin to understand that?

I am not a supporter of the Church of Scientology. I have read "Dianetics" and I have read several papers and articles, both for and against Scientology. It all just sounds false to me. L. Ron Hubbard wrote pulp science fiction before he decided that he could solve the problems of our society and I think that his writings read like cheap sci-fi novels. BUT, I am a supporter of Drew. When he attributed his being clean, sober & responsible to what he'd learned during his auditing sessions, I was happy for him. As I tried to explain to Drew time and time again, I can support him without supporting his church.

Evidently the Church of Scientology disagrees; because I do not actively support the church, I have become the Enemy. I, who supported him when he was too weak to support himself. I, who spent holidays with his family as easily as I would spend them with my own. I, who have laughed with him, cried with him, adventured with him and slept safely beside him. I am the Enemy. Those words cut me so deeply that it almost numbed me. I was literally breathless with pain and confusion.

I have known for many months that Drew and I are on different paths. It happens, it is the natural course of growing and maturing. People ebb and flow in and out of each other's lives. I didn't try to change it, I simply assumed that we would travel alone for awhile and reunite when the time was right. When we were chatting tonight, I knew that we had reached that last crossroads. He was talking about moving to Salt Lake City and how much he was looking forward to his new life. I said: I just hope you find what you're looking for Drew, I'll miss having you in my life. He knew as well as I did that this would be one of our last conversations for awhile, so he could have left it at that. He could have told me that he had loved as a friend once, wished me good luck on my path and just left it at that. But he didn't. There was a point to be made, one last push to get me on the Scientology bandwagon. I pushed back, as I always have when he mentions my studying Scientology, and he became cruel. I think that's what stunned me. Drew and I have five and a half years of friendship behind us and those years have not always been rosy. We've been mean and we've been petty. But we have never been cruel.

He called me an Enemy, and closed nearly six years of friendship by saying this: I hope life continues to treat you well....like your accident this morning (Ed: I had gotten into a fender bender outside my apartment that morning). Reactive minds are great aren't they?

The man who spoke these words is not the Drew that I was proud to call my friend. He is someone else, some shadow of that man. In my heart, there will always be a special place reserved for the shy boy in the USC tie who sat next to me Freshman year. I will remember our first trip to Leavey library, the day that we moved into our apartment, and Thanksgiving of 1999 (which we spent at his mother's house in Nevada). I will treasure the memory of a smile, a burst of laughter, a hug. Hopefully I will be able to pull together enough of those good moments to fill the yawning blackness of this one.

Grocery Empowerment

This was originally published on my website on April 3, 2000

I just had one of the most bizarre/humiliating/empowering experiences of my life... at the grocery store.

At first I thought it was me. I thought that perhaps I'd accidentally tripped and fallen into the Twilight Zone, or stumbled into the supermarket on "Insult a Stranger" day.

Then I decided that someone must have pinned a "Help! I'm fat and I can't get thin!" sign on my back as a late April Fool's joke. (Joke being on them, of course, since I think I'm pretty damn hot just the way I am thankyouverymuch)

But, there was no sign to be found anywhere on my person. And so I was left to wonder what, exactly, is up with the Universe!

Those of you who know me (or have seen my pictures here, for that matter) know that I am not a size 6. Or 12. Or 14. What I *am* is perfectly comfortable with myself. I wear v-neck shirts and plunging necklaces, I wear skirts with slits well up my thigh, I dye my hair, I voice my opinions, I walk with my shoulders back and my head up. In short, I live my life out loud and make no apologies therefore.

Now, I suppose one could argue that by living my life without shame or excuse I'm inviting "helpful" comments. I don't agree with that argument... but I suppose I can see those who think that way. But nothing can justify the following 4 conversations (all in the same day!):

As I 'm looking over the ice cream selection, trying to decide between Coffee and Chocolate....
Random Woman #1: ::taps me on the shoulder:: The Lean Cuisine and Weight Watchers are over there... ::gesturing across the aisle::
Me: Thanks, but I find that hot fudge sauce doesn't go particularly well on Lean Cuisine.
Random Woman #1: ::walks away huffily::
Random Guy #1: ::taps me on the shoulder:: She's a bitch, *I* don't think you need Lean Cuisine.
Me: Uh... thanks.

Later, as I'm picking through the produce section, looking for a decent head of Romaine...
Random Woman #2: ::next to me, looking at celery:: Do you think that whole negative-calorie thing is true with celery ::turning to look at me:: Oh, nevermind, I guess you wouldn't know.
Me: ::rooted to the spot, hardly believing she actually *said* that::

Yet later, in the dairy section...
Me: ::picking up essentials like cottage cheese, milk, & butter::
Random Woman #3: I find that butter adds so many calories to my diet ::looking pointedly at my hips, and then my face:: Don't you?
Me: No, I think it's the loaf of bread that I eat under my butter every night before bed.
Random Guy #2: ::snickering nearby as Random Woman #3 stalks off:: Well said. And for the record, I like what butter has done for your figure.
Me: Uuuhh... thank you. (I evidently wasted all of my eloquence on snappy comebacks..)

And at the checkout line (when I thought I was home free)...
Me: ::unloading groceries onto the belt, wondering what's up with the Universe::
Random Woman #4: ::voice dripping with sarcasm:: My my, you must have quite a large family at home to warrant all those groceries.
Me: Well, all of my personalities have different tastes... it's quite difficult to cook for all of them.
Random Woman #4: ::staring at me as though I've grown antennae before hastily switching into another checkout line::

Now, I have grown used to isolated incidents like this... they happen every so often. But *was* I wearing a sign today?

Well, sign or no, it was an oddly empowering experience - insults and all. Aside from being floored that people actually *said* these things,and being very self-concious at the exact moment, I found that I wasn't really bothered. Wierded out, yes. Waiting for the candid camera crew or the rift in time/space, yes. But particularly upset? Surprisingly, no.

Screw 'em if they don't like me. I don't exist for the amusement of anyone other than myself (and my parents, who find it really funny how similar I am now to how they were when they were my age) and I certainly don't need their approval to lead a fulfilled life.

Are these women so threatened that they feel the need to lash out? Does my exisiting happily as myself somehow cheapen all the money and effort that they've spent to achieve the "societal norm"? I don't know. All I know is that if their goal was to make me feel ashamed of myself, they did just the opposite.

Childhood Friends

That's me on the right and Jared on the left

For the first thirteen years of my life, I lived next door to the S. family. Mr. and Mrs. S. had two children, a boy who was a year older than me, and a girl who was a year younger. The boy, Jared by name, was one of my closest friends in early childhood and a complete hazard to my health and my innocence.

Jared taught me how to throw batteries at trees so they would explode (before batteries were made “safe” from such abuse) and how to drop tissues full of flour on passing cars from the safety of a sturdy pine branch. He taught me how to wrestle, how to find the best hiding places for Hide & Go Seek, and how to play doctor in his attic without getting caught.

When I was four, he flicked sand into my eye while we were playing in the sandbox resulting in serious abrasions on my left cornea. I had to wear a patch for weeks … long before Pirates of the Caribbean made pirate accessories cool.

When I was five, Jared and I got to laughing so hard while sitting on his bed that we shook the nightstand, which in turn shook the lamp on the nightstand, which eventually fell over and seared a third degree burn on my chin. Though it has faded over the years, I still bear the scar from that night.

Jared was also, much to my parents’ chagrin, the one who taught me how to curse. One of my father’s favorite stories is of me coming home aft