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I had a little mini panic attack yesterday because it occurred to me that my car registration expires in either March or April, but I couldn’t remember which one. If March, then I’ve been driving around on borrowed time. A frickin’ parking ticket in this city starts at $60. I can’t imagine what an expired registration ticket costs. So as soon as I got home I raced to my desk, dug through the “Important, Don’t Lose this Shit” pile and pulled out my shiny new registration sticker. I breathed a sigh of relief – April. I also silently called myself a dumbass because it occurred to me that I could have simply looked at the back plate of my car instead of stressing until I got home. Live and learn . . . and stop calling yourself a dumbass, dumbass. Damnit!

Sophistry Quote

Now I know what you’re thinking. If I already had the sticker, why hadn’t I put it on my car already? Well that’s simple. I paid for my registration back in February, when I got my tax refund, but it doesn’t expire until April. Therefore, by putting the new sticker on in February I would be cheating myself out of two months that I paid for on my old sticker. What kind of sense does that make?!? Truth be told it raised my hackles a bit when I put the new sticker on there today with 20 days left on the old sticker. But since the rest of my month is really busy I was afraid that I’d forget and I figured that losing 20 days on my old sticker was cheaper than a ticket in May for expired registration.

Yes, I am well aware that this line of reasoning is absolutely asinine. If I truly followed this thinking to the letter I wouldn’t pay for my new registration until the end of April. However, I am waaaaaay too type A for that. In fact I’m pretty sure I’d be in a permanent flop sweat waiting for the new sticker to get in at the end of the month if I tried. So I pay for it in February which makes my head happy, and I put it on the car in April to stick it to the man! Okay that’s totally not sticking it to the man in any sense whatsoever, but it’s as close as I’m willing to get in this particular instance as I’m really not overly fond of parting with my money unnecessarily.

Unless of course it involves getting out of paying for parking. I can’t stand paying for parking. I will show up places 30 minutes early so that I have time to drive through every nearby neighborhood on the off chance that I can find free parking. I have boycotted places simply because there is no free parking anywhere nearby. I blame this on growing up in a tiny, backwater mountain town where a parking lot with painted spaces was considered fancy, and the only reason you had to pay for parking was if you ran over somebody’s beer and had to go buy them a new one. Therefore, I would rather spend $5 at CVS on random junk/food to get my parking validated instead of paying $3 for parking.

parking

Again, I am well aware that this line of reasoning is absolutely asinine and true, that is more expensive, but it’s the principal of the thing! I would rather pay more for something tangible, than pay less for the privilege of having my car take up space for twenty minutes. Think about it. Paying for parking is essentially paying for the privilege of your car taking up space. That is asinine! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go drive around for ten minutes trying to find another two-hour free parking spot.

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For all those that know me, I’m sure you’re surprised that this hasn’t come up before. Well the wait is over, because here it is: a blog about poop. So if that is the sort of thing that upsets your delicate sensibilities – my sister – I suggest that you skip over this post and read some of the poetry below. I promise, they are poop free. For all the rest, forge on my friends.

Cat on Toilet

I just finished a cleanse (or a flush, or a detox, or whatever you crazy kids are calling it now a days). I didn’t do this to lose weight, or because it’s a great fad or anything like that.  I did it, because after being on and off again sick for four months a malaise seemed to have settled over my body and I felt like I was just full of gunk that would not, could not go away. Therefore, flush it out! I’ve never done this before because I have three diseases/disorders of the digestive track. So to say that I have a sensitive tummy is the understatement of the year! So I tend to avoid anything and everything that puts undo stress on my already precarious digestive system. But I was at the end of my rope and was willing to try anything to lift this fog that I had been living under so I threw caution to the wind and gave it a try.

For the first few days I thought that I was going to die! Holy crap did I feel horrible! It was like I had a little mini flu that I’d given to myself. I didn’t feel better, I felt much, MUCH worse. But the instructions said that that might happen, so lord knows why, I kept going. Probably because I was too weak and delirious to do anything else. Then on about the fourth day, something magical happened. I took the biggest dump that I have ever taken in my entire life. It was epic. It was more satisfying than some of the sex that I’ve had – which seriously calls into question some of my life choices, but that’s a conundrum for another day. After that, I felt better and finished out the cleanse . . . and did lots more pooping.

That’s when I deduced that cleanse/flush/detox all mean “poop until your insides are on the outside” in Latin. Trust me on this, I looked it up.* I mean seriously, this is definitely the part of cleanses that they DO NOT advertise about. I can understand why, but a little warning would have been nice! Or at least the advice to stick Tolstoy’s War and Peace in the bathroom. I’m pretty sure I could have busted through that tome.

The one thing that I can’t quite wrap my head around though, is that people do these all of the time. I know someone who “cleanses” twice a year. Good grief! Don’t get me wrong, I felt better afterwards and the fog has cleared, but that is not something that I want to do again anytime soon. So here is the question to all of my “cleanse” friends – Is this really what cleansing is all about, and if so why do you like it so much? Maybe you all appreciate a good poop more than I do.

 

*Definitely didn’t look it up.

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With a screaming shriek she prances scantily clothed among the dark bone chilling mounds of white

Gleefully she sprays armfuls of the tiny crystals into the thick foreboding night
Intoxicated with joy she collapses to the hardened ground emitting a truly orgasmic melody issuing forth from the very depths of her soul
No more starving and pining by the phone
No more analyzing every word, every gesture, every silence for meaning that was never there
A rebirth has occurred that has both set her free and imprisoned her for eternity
She is complete without him

She can never be complete with him

Snowy Night

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. . . or the innocent things that you do that actually make their life harder. For the past couple of years I have worked in close proximity to someone who is blind. Having grown up with a disabled mother in a wheelchair I am sensitive to the fact that many people with disabilities would prefer to go through life being seen as a person, not as a disability. I want to say all, but as I have not spoken to all and do not deign to speak for them unduly, I will stick with many. I personally  have very strict dietary restrictions, and while I definitely appreciate it when restaurants take note of this and take special care to make sure that my food is prepared correctly, I HATE it when a restaurant makes a huge deal about it. I’ve actually had servers make such a big deal by bringing the manager and chef over that it not only absorbed the attention of my table, but the entire restaurant. Then for the rest of the meal both the server and manager checked back in with me multiple times, stopping the conversation of my table every time they did, at one point even moving a bread basket to the other side of the table so it wasn’t too close. I was no longer a person, I was my allergies. Not cool. I doubt very seriously that this pet peeve is singular to me, and unlike others the only way that people know of my shortcomings is if I tell them. By keeping my mouth shut I can pass as any other person, you know the ones that can go to a buffet without breaking out in a cold sweat because of the possibility of cross contamination.

I don’t know why, but lately this has been at the forefront of my thoughts. So I decided to share some of my observations about people’s innocent, yet ridiculous behaviors around a blind person.

1.      Verbally introducing yourself than taking a step to the right or left. I know that I’ve done this myself. You’re still entering a room and there’s someone behind you, so you introduce yourself and then move aside for the person behind you. This is all fine and dandy unless the person you’re meeting is blind. They have to rely on the sound of your voice to find you, so if you speak and then move they will approach empty space with their hand out to shake yours. Which brings me to . . .
2.      Leaving them hanging when they go to shake your hand but are off by a bit. WTF?!? I have actually seen people get embarrassed by this . . . the person who can see! I don’t get why this is embarrassing. Take their hand and shake it. Trust me when I say it’s not the first time they’ve missed and it won’t be the last. It’s only a big deal if you make it one.
3.      Opening the door for them, but only part way. Unless you enjoy other people’s pain, open the door all the way! They can’t see how far it’s open, so chances are they will walk right into the door instead of the narrow opening that you left for them.
4.      Unless they’ve asked you to, don’t open a jar of lotion or container of food before handing it to them. Let them open it so that they know which end needs to be up. It will save a lot of spills.
5.      Setting things down on the floor or in a walkway and then walking away from it, even if only for a minute. I’ve tripped over unexpected things on the floor and I have full use of my eyes. Murphy’s Law – if you leave something there for a minute, that will be the exact minute that the person will walk down the hall.
6.      Serving them a hot beverage with the handle at an awkward angle to them. Okay, as long as they know it’s there, this one they can figure out without a problem. It’s just nicer to set it up so they don’t have to grope around a scalding hot mug around to get to the handle.
7.      Assuming that they want your help and grabbing on to them to show them the right direction. I will never understand this one. Are you helping them, or taking them hostage? Never assume that they need the help. If they ask for it, let THEM take your arm or shoulder.

blind person
8.        Talking louder – unless they’re also partially deaf, this just makes you sound like an idiot.Talking louder doesn’t help anything. Enunciating clearly does since they don’t have the benefit of seeing your lips form the words, but good diction and volume have nothing to do with one another.
9.    Rearranging the furniture – again, unless you really enjoy other people’s pain, don’t rearrange a blind person’s furniture! Even by an inch or two! If it’s a space that they are in a lot, they have the lay out memorized and know exactly how many steps they need to go in which directions to get where ever they need to be. If you absolutely must move some of the furniture, tell them you’re doing it and then put it back exactly where you found it when you’re done. You would think that this is a no-brainer . . . it’s not.
10.    Treating them like a child/feeling sorry for them/babying them because they are blind. I’m guessing that you don’t like it when people do this to you. Being blind is simply part of this person’s reality, and hopefully they have found ways to keep living and functioning like normal. Your pity and condescension are not needed or appreciated. I’ve never actually had a blind person or someone with a disability tell me this, but it’s a personal pet peeve of mine.  I hated it when people would do this to my mother and then turn to me and treat me like an adult. From the look that she would get in her eyes, she hated it too. Again, I’m guessing that this one isn’t singular to me.

Okay, so these really aren’t ways to mess with a blind person, but it did get you to read the post!

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I got into this great conversation with one of my neighbors last night about pseudonyms and the internet. It cracks me up, I have lived everywhere from a tiny bush village at the mouth of the Yukon River to the booming metropolis of Los Angeles. Yet it is here in Los Angeles that I have the most interaction with my neighbors. I stumbled upon this great little apartment complex that has a central courtyard, where neighbors actually hang out and chat with one another. We know each other by name and say good morning. We know whose kids belong to who and the day that Zoey ninja-ed her way out the door and made a freedom run across the courtyard, someone grabbed her without a second thought and brought her back. It’s a community and it’s great. Any who, I went over to my neighbor’s to buy a clutch purse – they’re awesome, you can get them here! – and we wound up chatting for almost two hours.

Pen Name

One of the topics that we delved into was having an internet presence. She does everything under a brand name and I do everything under my real name. Which to be completely honest, can be a little odd. If I do a google search of my name it isn’t until the third or fourth page that links start showing up that aren’t related to me in some way. Between my weekly theater reviews (and the quotes that get pulled out of those), my monthly Heroine of History articles, my blog posts, poetry, social media presence, videos and published book I am all over the internet. Don’t get me wrong, that is exactly what I was going for, but on say, a first date it’s a little awkward. I went out on a date where, judging by how much he knew about me, the guy had probably spent hours looking through my online presence. I hadn’t googled him at all, because I prefer to learn about someone from them if I have the opportunity. Therefore, he showed up with a, “I already know a ton about you so this feels like a third or fourth date,” while I showed up with a, “You seem like a cool guy, this will be a fun first date,” attitude. Needless to say, it didn’t turn out well. I don’t know about anyone else, but I prefer to save in-depth talk about my dead mother until well into the relationship. Awkward!

Mask Girl

Yet at the same time, I obviously have no qualms with writing a blog about the subject and if someone comments on that blog I don’t find it odd in the least. There is something so surreal about the internet. It is at once anonymous and personal. You can share parts of yourself openly and get feedback and reassurance that you’re not alone. There are people out there that understand and have gone through similar. Sometimes it’s the person behind the user id providing me comfort and sometimes it’s the other way around. In a sense it’s no less of a community than what exists at my apartment complex, it just exists in the ether and can be carried around with me wherever I go. I guess choosing to use my real name instead of a pen name blurs the boundaries and gives me an identifiable anonymity . . .

. . . that just made my brain hurt . . . I need more coffee . . .

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I’ve been helping out a friend by rewriting some marketing materials for her book that is about to release. On the last go round, she questioned one of my word choices – miscreant – wondering if the “dumber crowd” will understand . . .

Two huge red flags began waving through my head like Enjolras on the barricade had gotten a hold of them. The first red flag was a biggie, the second was a pet peeve. So I asked her about the first and kept the second to myself. I asked her, “Who’s your demographic?” I realized that we had never had this conversation. From what I know of her book, I had come up with my own idea of her audience, which did not include the “dumber crowd.” So if she was indeed marketing to that group, then everything we had done needed to be reworked, not just that word. Her response to demographic could best be described as vague and all-encompassing. In other words, she had no idea. Needless to say, she has some homework to do before we pick back up.

LES MIZ

As for the second red flag, you all get to hear me rant about that. It drives me absolutely bonkers when writers, or anyone for that matter, play down to the lowest common denominator. That’s one of the problems with our society today. We’re so busy making sure everybody understands and fits in that we’re creating a bunch of lazy, half literate complaisants that think seriously is spelled srsly.

My children’s book, which is geared toward pre-k kids is written at a middle school grade level, and guess what? Kids love it, and I have yet to hear a complaint from parents that it’s too difficult. Why? Because kids like learning new things … especially when they rhyme. I won’t dumb down my writing for kids and I won’t do it for adults.

You wanna know why I have such a big vocabulary? Because when I hear or see a word that I don’t know I look it up and learn it. That simple! I know that people get embarrassed and feel stupid when they don’t know a word. However, not knowing the meaning of a word does not make you stupid, and if the person using that word treats you like you are if you ask them for a definition, then that’s on them. Quite frankly they’re probably treating you like that because they don’t really know the definition themselves, are using the word anyway, and you called them out on it, which they find embarrassing.

Admitting that you don’t know something does not make you stupid, nor should you be embarrassed by that. I refuse to dumb down my vocab or my writing so that others can feel like we’re on the same level. If you don’t understand what I’m saying, then we’re not on the same level. Just like I’m not on the same level as people using words or talking about concepts that I don’t know. NOT EVERYONE IS ON THE SAME LEVEL, AND JUST BECAUSE WE’RE NOT ON THE SAME LEVEL DOESN’T MEAN THAT I THINK YOU’RE STUPID!!! Become an active participant in your own education and maybe challenge yourself once in a while. I ask people to explain things all the time. I’m sure it gets really obnoxious because I don’t stop asking questions until I understand. Here’s the magical part, I never feel stupid when I’m asking these questions. I feel stupid when I go along pretending that I know something when in fact I don’t and then get caught.

Stupid is as stupid does, and I have definitely had my fair share of stupid moments. I will not apologize for my vocabulary or the things that I have taken the time to learn and I will not slow down so that you can keep up. I will answer questions til the cows come home and I will learn with you, but I will not slow down. I have often been called an elitist because of this attitude. Well, if that makes me an elitist then I guess I’m an elitist.

Stepping off soap box now.

soapbox

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As many of you probably already know, unless you live under a rock, an earthquake hit Los Angeles early Monday morning. This is not the first earthquake that I have ever been in. However, it is the first earthquake that I have:

1. Not slept through – my sister still gives me shit about the one I slept through in Alaska – and

2. Realized that it was an earthquake before it was over instead of just assuming that I had the shakes from too much coffee.

Therefore, I felt that it warranted a post. Especially since I seem to have my earthquake reaction all wrong. During the quake I called my dogs to me and they snuggled under my arms and stopped barking.  I guess they figured that if I wasn’t upset they could calm down. Which my number one question for them is, why doesn’t that work in normal life? They will bark and howl their fool heads off regardless of what my demeanor is or whether their under my arm on any other day, but by God during an earthquake they are monkey-see, monkey-do! Maybe the next time they start barking I’ll pick them up and shake them really hard . . . well, that’s probably not the best idea . . .

At any rate, during the quake I was totally calm.  Then after I looked around my room.  A couple of things had fallen over or fallen off their perches, but other than that, no damage. My roommate poked her head in my door and once we had ascertained that nobody had been crushed by a falling object, we both went back to bed. Yes I went back to bed, and yes I was able to fall asleep. Really my only hindrance to sleep was that Bubba was still a little skittish and wouldn’t lay down until I grabbed him in a bear hug and made him lay down with me. Then he fell asleep too. No muss, no fuss, 4.4 is not that big of a quake.

By the time that I finally drug myself out of bed I had to rush to make it to work on time, where I was met by an onslaught of social media about people freaking out about the earthquake. Freaking out and doom and gloom about “The Big One!” I didn’t get it, we live right along a major fault line. Aren’t earthquakes sort of expected? Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t sit around gleefully waiting for an earthquake to strike, but I guess I figure there are better things to get freaked out about than an earthquake that didn’t even cause any damage. Or so I thought until I got home from work to discover that the big brick planter in our courtyard now looks like this:

IMG_20140317_184611_734

Crazy right! Then I went upstairs and really took a look around my apartment. In addition to the couple of things that I knew had fallen, every picture hanging on the wall was now crooked. One of them had fallen off completely and was lodged behind the bookshelf which is quite a feat since there isn’t enough room between the book case and wall for it to fit. Which means that the bookcase was rocked out from the wall far enough for the picture to slip through. How cool is that?!?! That’s when I really started to look around and discovered that everything on my desk had shifted almost half a foot. Look!

IMG_20140318_234958_947

Yes, I know, I’m a horrible housekeeper. I have better things to do than dust, and quite frankly if it weren’t for my bad housekeeping we wouldn’t have this shot! And yes, I have dusted since then, so all of you in the peanut gallery can keep your comments to yourself. The point is that I am so in awe of Mother Nature right now. She is a certifiable bad ass!  Beyond bad ass!  It’s like she sits on her throne – does Mother Nature have a throne? I’d have a throne if I were her. Were gonna go with throne. – and laughs at all of our pathetic attempts to prove that we humans are greater than our surroundings.  Can outwit and humanize the natural world around us. So every now and again, she throws down something like this just to prove that she’s actually the one in charge. Now that I think about it, she kind of reminds me of my sister. How every now and then she’ll knock me to the ground and pound on me a bit just to remind me that even though I’m half a foot taller now, she’s still the big sister. It blows my mind and humbles me. She is so amazing. Mother Nature I mean, not my sister. Well my sister’s pretty amazing too . . . and has a mean shoulder throw.

http://www.murphyillustration.com/

http://www.murphyillustration.com/

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I come to you and lose myself in your arms’ strong embrace.

Causing my inexperienced heart to quicken its pace.

The walls enclosing me collapse and I am exposed, fractured and aching.

Frightened I meet your gaze, feeling my resolve breaking.

Holding my breath, knowing what’s to follow I brace for your reproach.

But you hold me firm; you are not scared or repulsed.

Instead your fingers slowly investigate and your lips caress each scar,

Amazed by the beauty of someone who’s come so far.

You are the one I was afraid to wish for, the balm of Gilead, the salve to my soul,

I come to you broken; yet you see me as whole.

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When I was in college, the first time around, I took a women’s lit class.  Cause that’s what you do as a young woman studying at a Liberal Arts school!  For the most part I found my classmates, who were English majors not theater like me, wholly pretentious, elitist and out of touch with any sort of reality that I was familiar with.  Yes, I realize the irony of me calling someone pretentious and elitist, but that should give you an idea of the attitudes of these girls!  I would have completely hated the class, had it not been for the professor.  She was amazing, and secretly I think she felt the same way about most of the class.  Whenever they would go off pontificating about something completely ridiculous she would always look to me to wave the bullshit flag. Which I was more than happy to do, and whenever I would voice my opposition she was right there to back me up as the entire class would lash out at me.  She made it safe to disagree, to step away from the majority and think on your own. Lorna was a great professor!

A-Room-of-One-s-Own-Woolf-Virginia-9780156787338

However, I will always remember her as the person who  introduced me to Virginia Woolf, specifically A Room of One’s Own.  I LOVE Woolf’s writing and sitting down with A Room of One’s Own I felt like she was speaking directly to me with every sentence she wrote.  I don’t usually write in books, but this one I had to.  It was a compulsion, a need.  I had to engage, lay down my thoughts next to hers; make it a dialogue instead of a monologue.  Underline the sentences that spoke to my soul and block out the passages that gave my heart reason to sing.  All I wanted in this world was a room of my own and a desk to sit at for hours.  I read it cover to cover in one sitting, and then I read it again.  At the time I was studying to be an actress, so I don’t think I quite comprehended why it spoke to me so completely.  Now that I’ve hung up my character shoes and lost myself to pen and paper it makes perfect sense.

I’ve been thinking about Woolf this week.  Not because I’ve picked it up to reread, but because I finally cleaned off my desk.  It sounds stupid, but trust me it was a daunting task!  So this week I’ve been writing tucked away in my corner with my little lamp on, instead of kicked back on the couch with a computer on my lap and a puggle on each side.  It is truly astounding the difference that this has made.  That desk, that corner has only ever been used for writing, so sitting there has a purpose.  The simple act of scooting the chair in triggers a mechanism in my brain to start thinking in prose.  To become characters and allow their stories to unfold before me.  It feels right, because it is right.  No distractions, no excuses I’m there to write.  I haven’t quite gotten to a room of my own, but for now I’ll settle for a corner of my own.

Clear

Tammera - http://www.redbubble.com/people/tammera

A Room of One’s Own – Tammera – http://www.redbubble.com/people/tammera

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While checking out at Target, the checker called me young lady. The person in question, calling me young lady, was at least ten years my junior.  It took me so by surprise that it was a moment before I had comprehended what he had said.  I started to doubt what I had heard until he said it again.  This young man in his early twenties, at the oldest, had just called ME young lady.  What the hell? Now I’ve been called young lady many a time in my life and never once batted an eyelash at the term because it was said by my father, or people in his general age range.  In comparison I am a young lady to them, so the moniker makes sense.  But what in the heck is this kid doing calling me that.  I didn’t know if I should be offended or laugh at him.  I almost gave him a piece of mind, to let him know that it’s not appropriate to call a woman who is obviously older than you, a young lady, but I stopped myself.  At the time I didn’t know why I was stopping myself, but a big red flag was waving in the back of my mind warning me to keep my mouth shut, so I said thank you, took my bag and left.

It wasn’t until I had reached my car, and had gone over what I would have said to him, that I realized the cause of the red flag.  While I didn’t want him to call me young lady, what did I want him to call me?  Ma’am, hell no!  I’m not married, I have no kids and at the end of the month I’ll be celebrating my 32nd birthday by going to see the new Muppet Movie.  I am not a ma’am!  But how does he know any of that? Okay he could guess age, but the rest he’s clueless.  So how about Miss?  That works for me . . . but I’ve seen women get upset, flash a big rock and proclaim that they are a Mrs., not a Miss. Ms?  That’s just awkward and weird.  Honey or sweetie?  Nope.  Unless of course you’re a sweet little old grandmother in which case go for it! Chick or Babe? Not. Even. Going. There. That’s a whole other blog post.

Whambam

So what is a safe bet?  Here’s the thing, I can’t come up with one.  I can’t come up with a single name that you can use for a woman that is universal.  I don’t think it exists!  Help me out if it does, because I can’t think of a single thing.  Guys are easy.  You can call every single guy that walks up, Sir and be good to go.  This kid at the express lane probably thought that it was flattering to call me young lady, pointing out my youth, etc.  The fact that I found it pandering and patronizing probably puts me at odds with the score of Los Angeleno women that he has dealt with heretofore.  Who knows?  Or maybe all of the women before me had the exact same thought that I did, but none of them said anything because of the exact same reason that I hadn’t.  None of us had a better alternative for him, and what’s the point of correcting one “wrong” when all you can give is another “wrong?”

I guess the better question is why does this problem even exist in the first place?  Why are women so sensitive about what we are called? Especially ma’am!  Ma’am is almost like a bad word or an insult to most women, but if you look at its definition it’s actually a far cry from being an insult.  Ma’am is a shortened version of madam and is used as a title of respect, especially when addressing female royalty. Royalty people!

princesscrown

Thousands of women are going around getting insulted because people are showing them respect and addressing them as royalty.  What?  That makes no sense what so ever!  Other than our modern day connotation, the actual moniker of ma’am has nothing to do with age, it’s to do with respect, rank and authority.  And really what’s so bad about getting older?  If I could go back to my twenties, but retain the knowledge that I have now, I would do it in a heartbeat.  But if going back to my twenties meant that I would also have to go back to only what I knew in my twenties . . . no thanks.  I’ll stay exactly where I am thank you very much!  I’ve learned a lot of lessons since then and earned each and every one of my years. So when somebody calls me ma’am, I should take that as a sign of respect, not an insult.  Need to work on that.