Barbie’s Dream House and the Secret Garden

Stepping out onto my own and being alone is something I have experienced many times before. I remember going to horse camp, studying overseas, moving into my first apartment, and now I am adding a new ‘kind’ of alone to my resume. This is welcomed warmly, knowing that being alone expands the realm of possibilities for self-discovery and improvement. Having never doubted the power of ‘solitude’ and the riches to be embraced, I think of it as starting your own secret garden that can satisfy you aesthetically, feed your appetite, and offer you a haven to stop and smell the roses in between trips in and out of the Eden gates.

I keep in mind that being alone is not a negative predicament, nor a punishment or condemnation; however, I understand why so many people fear it. Many people play with the lexical interchanging ‘alone’ with ‘lonely’, thus eliciting ‘abandonment’ and ‘expulsion’. This is something we acquire at an early age; growing up going to your room and sitting alone was a punishment; receiving multiple birthday party invitations meant you were accepted and popular; and no one likes to be the last one chosen for dodge ball. [Song lyrics one: “One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever see…”] Why? How do we know four or seven isn’t actually lonely? Myself, as a little girl, I remember playing the card game Old Maid, where the object of the game was to not be left with the lonely, sad and pathetic, old maid; what a message to young girls! I was tube fed as other girls, story book/fairytales all consisting of a princess/orphan/secretly-a-princess-but-thinks-she-is-an-orphan characters who get rescued by a prince/knight in shinning armor on a white horse/prince-that-rides-a-white-horse-but-does-not-go-into-battle, and then live happily ever after.

So many mothers with daughters are blind to this trend in children’s literature. They are too pre-occupied with them playing with Barbie because of her “whore-like” influence. I beg to differ, in Barbie’s defense, she is iconic, free-spirited, and the woman who can do everything—including, but not limited to—being a doctor, a chef, a veterinarian, an astronaut, even a soccer player—who cares if she has a lot of shoes. Barbie may seem materialistic, but I would almost argue it is instinctual for females to like shoes! From a feminist perspective, Barbie never really needed a man to take care of her. I personally never even wanted a Ken doll, but subsequently received one for Christmas one year, because my Grandma said it was ‘strange’ that my Malibu Barbie and Holiday Barbie were shacking up together in the Barbie Dream House. To the haters, I also feel compelled to add the fact that I never felt like I was supposed to have a 42-inch chest in proportion to an 18-inch waist—and never developed an eating disorder. All in all, I think she is a harmless piece of plastic that is fun to dress up and dye her hair pink…

Growing up thinking you’ll be saved by a knight in shinning armor (or in my case a Venture Capitalist in a shinning Aston Martin) creates a bubble of romantic illusions. Even adult literature and entertainment depicts being alone as a negative thing, and in turn most songs and films include themes of love with another individual. [Song lyrics two: “What’s love got to do with it, do with it?”] Our species is one that is evolutionally wired to bond with another individual. It is why we experience hormones (oxytocin, serotonin, monoamine, neurotransmitters, norepinephrine, dopamine) in our limbic systems. There are two stages in relationships: attraction and attachment. The hormones caused by ‘attraction’ (lust/limerance) create a platform for courtship, and from an evolutionist’s point of view, it is in hopes of reproduction, post-sexual maturation. After the initial attraction sets in, there is an appraisal of the potential mate, and then calculation through self-interest. George Bernard Shaw said, “Love consists of overestimating the difference between one woman and another.” The second stage being attachment provides feelings of stability, safety and protection, and again from an evolutionist’s point of view it is in hopes of pair-bonding and nesting.

I think there is also a sub-stage of detachment; the opportunity to be attracted to one another long enough to have sex (and possibly reproduce copying their genetic codes), and then move on to collect a constellation of mating partners with the mere goal of reproductive success and offspring. Interestingly enough the average marriage before divorce lasts four years—just enough time to raise an offspring, thus potentially re-marry and produce more offspring. As hominids we are programmed to biologically be attracted to another and want to feel attached, but does that mean love equates to sex? Some argue love is just a form of self-delusion derived from the media used to persuade lovers that sexual desires are transcendent and a product of fate. It is as if we are unconscious love puppets stringed up by of evolutionary puppet masters propelling our behaviors forward.

It is indeed not my goal to belittle love and relationships; after a series of recent events I firmly believe in strong, instant connections, and find that it can be an extraordinarily, beautiful thing. Besides being able to fart in front of each other or wake up in the arms of someone coiled around you – it is a progressive project with fringe benefits physically, emotionally and mentally. Instead of using a relationship as a filler (verses being alone) I would like to think of a relationship with someone as an avenue to a higher level of being. Plato said, “Love is a plateau in the soul’s impassioned pursuit of the ideal good.”

In our society it is so easy to escape yourself – and perhaps that is what relationships and falling in love are – an escape. Many of us are overworked, lost in society, all but latched on by our social security numbers. Many of us retreat to bad relationships desperate to never be alone, and frankly, I do not know many people who have really been alone… Over-indulgence in romance and fairytales, and extreme efforts to always be in a relationship can be a dangerous, slippery slope. It can take responsibility off of one’s back and replace it with comfort and security, never allowing one to really know oneself. Is our childhood, culture and media, and evolutionary forces sufficient in explaining why we fear being alone? Are we truly better off in a relationship than on our own? I see it as a two tiered system; the people in your life can be very real, but real life is you… Hegel’s once said, “[in love] consciousness of a separate self disappears, and all distinction between the lovers is annulled.” We all need physical contact, mentors, supporters, friends and lovers. (Song lyrics three: “All you need is love.”)

I do hope to discover, improve—perhaps experience love, and ultimately continue my journey with seeds and hoe.

Survival of the Fittest

My father’s generation had three distinct choices in terms of growing up: 1.) working for the family by taking over the family farm or running the family business; 2.) military service; and 3.) continuing education/college. Having been plotting my life out since I was four-years-old, I have encountered a point where it is much more difficult to continue plotting with the beckoning opportunities a change in generation and societal attitudes welcomes.

On the cusp of college graduation, I am left to figure out what my best assets are, what commodities are readily available to me, and thus every time I apply those assets and invest my energy I am therefore exposing myself to risk. With so many opportunities and the fluctuation of markets I cannot predict the future, and an investment that appears to be a safe bet one day may turn out differently 10-20 years from now. Under normal circumstances, different aspects of life in general fluctuate in value, and there is no law or agency that will protect me. With that, there are many looming pressures to examine my future investments in life in aspects of life…

To know oneself is one thing, but it is not all encompassing. I cannot measure all of my proximities—the space that I take up—the air I demand—the closeness to death, and the hierarchical scale of desires and basics needs verses altruism and morality. I am simply a product of phenotypes and genetic codes, aged by the moon, who tells me when it’s time to sleep and when it’s time to dance. Even if I put my energy into something ‘secure’ such as something insured or interest-bearing, I am risking the possibility of earning more elsewhere, which makes career/academic choices, courtship, pair-bonding, and nesting so relevant! All risks are not equal, and I know I should limit some of my investment risks to what's comfortable for me, and ultimately, acknowledge certain elements of uncertainty in pursuit of larger returns and gains. The diversification and quality of my life portfolio greatly depends on my risk tolerance, which means welcoming new experiences that perhaps, cart me from my comfort zone. As one, who thrives off of the notion of challenge combined with new experiences, this can only be seen as a capital gain.

In terms of success, ‘chance’ is such a large factor, and each individual is so complex—thus making it difficult to accurately assess risk. My ‘Life Motto’ stands as, “Know yourself, research before you act, diversify your investments and life experiences, and make sure the investments meets your needs.” But, when you add happiness into the equation, you open a whole new can of worms. I need to know my real rate of return after selecting a career/continuing education path or mate, and asking myself truthfully, “What am I gaining?” I think this is why it is so important for me to have time to reflect, share Americanos and good conversation with good friends in hopes to develop an informal annual report system to track my progress.

If there is one thing my parents have bestowed upon me it is the notion that, “I belong to me.” I have a closet full of different women, and MAC tools I use to paint a different face for whatever endeavor that presents itself, therefore making any situation my own. As a female, I find myself with dueling roles. In terms of sexual dimorphism, we are not that different compared with other species, but the fact that females can reproduce can be looked at a large difference in itself. The mere fact that females are the sex with the ability to be certain about maternity, puts them at risk for males dominating them with power through insecurities, their immunity in terms of reproduction, and a lack of opportunity to engage in both hunter and gatherer roles. Males and females thus have different sets of consequences and risk factors. I won’t go on a feminist tirade and depict the implications of the Glass Ceiling theories, but I know that I need to compose a set of assets and a portfolio of experiences, initially, before I am open for the market. Our group as primates is somewhat unique in terms of the lengthy process of courtship, perhaps there is a reason for this, whether Darwinian selected for or not. In our society, it is difficult to preserve the ‘fruit of fertility’ as a circumstance that makes our sex ‘special’ and significant to the continuation of mankind on a personal and individual level when it can hinder one to such a degree. I am not masking myself as Lady Macbeth calling upon the spirits to unsex me to carry out male dominated attributes and endeavors, but acknowledging the inequalities in consequences and risks between males and females, and any advantage or disadvantage one has at the starting blocks at the beginning of the race of life seems relevant—If not essential for success and dare I say, survive of the fittest.

Pair bonding in itself, does not always seem to adhere to Darwinian theory in my opinion. It offers tax breaks and what, stability for raising offspring, and an obscenely tall white cake? I think our rates of divorce and promiscuity create their own arguments… But as a species and society that embraces a replication of the ‘American Dream’ of the house with the white picket fence in the suburbs with two kids, a dog in the yard, and a Ford in the driveway I again feel conflicted. Sharing your life experiences, building a joint account or portfolio, and making copies of your combined genetic copies is all fine and dandy, but as humans our lengthy childhood, sexual maturation, and courtship processes allows for important growth and development to occur…

All in all, the logistical helix of changing generations and societal attitudes; chance, happiness, and morality; sexual differences in risks and consequences; and diverse portfolios and investments draws a rough draft sketch of who we are and who we will thus become.

The Science of Transition: Hg 80

Mercury comes in elemental, organic and inorganic forms, and each form possesses different qualities and purposes relative to man. It defies all of its fellow brothers with its ability to turn metals into gold and produce something valuable.

To my great dismay, the science of molding oneself is far more complex than evolving from a liquid to a solid. After celebrating another gain closer to the true cusp of womanhood (or death, depending on how you look at it) my head and heart collaborated to make a significant alteration in my life. I find it rather ironic how the celebratory process of becoming legal meshed so tightly with my internal alterations. Both were slightly easier to swallow thanks to my man of honor, perhaps he won’t serve the position the title often implies regarding holy matrimony, but he will always be my man of honor. My celebrations were well celebrated with friends driving two or three hours to visit and several broken champagne glasses...

In light of change, I recently took the Myers-Briggs personality inventory, which resulted in a change in my personality type (from three years ago when I initially took it) in one of the four categories from a “feeler” to a “thinker.” It seems fitting and I take pleasure knowing some elements can remain stable while others can simultaneously change… During daylight I sit and think about the past year riding loosely in a roller coaster, throwing my head back and laughing without thinking. When night falls, I think of the repetition of the last year and the cycles of daily events going around and around like a carousel. There are times I feel like an aged woman. Like used goods—an orange, moldy and shelved. But I clutch onto a dream I had where one scraps off the mold, peels back the skin revealing the white veins that still bleed a bittersweet taste…and then…watches me glow a bright orange. I woke up with crocodile tears…

And then there are the lingering moments in between white skies and cosmic ceilings when my forefinger graces the flesh of my neck checking my pulse in autopilot mode, and I fancy an image of myself running and running…feet pawing at the ground and collecting soil in the crevasses of the skin pads. Running and running into a landscape of eternal horizon, my transformation illuminating.

Unwed, yet wooed.

Two weeks ago I packed my suitcase and said farewell to inhibitions and logic. Two days ago I said farewell to Greece. The last two weeks I was one part of “A” couple of girls abroad. We were so embarrassingly young, embarrassingly American. And yet, it was very empowering and refreshing to feel caught between the “ages.” This was my first trip abroad without an academic program telling me where to eat and sleep. I flew 11 hours to navigate myself through metros, airports and train stations. During the beginning of my trip, while visiting a museum of archeology and religious art I was looking at a painting of a female saint. A Greek man came up to me and looked at me and then the painting and said “You are no saint, but a goddess, but indeed not a goddess of grace.” I spent the rest of the trip trying to figure out what he meant by that…
By day I saw all the sites, did all the tours, and by night forgot about sleep and wore dark eye make up. One day our eyes would eat all the Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Dior, and Gucci one could take, the next our mouths would taste different salts of the sea near the commercial port with the large ships and the petit bateaus. Our first night after being tired from our flight and getting lost we found a hostel my friend had chosen and booked. I had never stayed in a hostel, but my friend swore it would be okay. Exhausted and crabby I went up to our room and to my surprise there were four other people in the room! There was no toilet paper, sheets, towels, and barely had running water. It looked like a prison. My friend and I walked out immediately—we got about 2 blocks and saw windows of pink colored plush couches, beautiful light fixtures and a loaded bar. The next thing I knew we were checking in and I was drowning in a bathtub of bubbles with a small grin on my face.
Our last night in Greece we wanted to go dancing and so between glasses of cheap room service wine and beer from a newspaper stand we made up our night time faces. Unfortunately, the metro stopped at midnight and so we decided since we had to leave at 5 AM to catch our flight we would go to a local pub. The small amount of wine already flowing in my veins and the lip gloss on my lips was not going to waste! To our dismay all we found was an all-night McDonalds, and despite honestly considering ordering a number 1 and calling it a night—there was the dim blue luminosity, lighting up a dark and damp alley. The blue light was traced back to a small bar—sketchy, yes. Did we follow the blue light, yes. The bar owner, an old man with an apron said to us “You American girls like Greek music?” We said: “Oh yeah, sure…” We were welcomed in with native eyes of curiosity. Since it was near the end of our trip we were low on cash and decided on a humble glass of wine. I excused myself to the bathroom and when I returned there was a beautiful bottle of red wine on our table. I was like “Umm, where did this come from?” The bar owner had came over and said it was sent to us from a man in a three-piece suit across the bar, a very wealthy man in the shipping industry of Athens. He invited us over to sit at his table with his executives and my friend said to me “Well we can’t say no? So we went, were wined and dined, fed exotic fruits with cinnamon sprinkled on top. The music consisted of a band of drums, guitar strings and a female vocalist; the dancing consisted of holding hands in a circle, scuffing the floor with the soles of our shoes and people throwing carnations creating a garden on the dance floor. It was a much better experience than a normal bump and grind club with bad techno music. At one point in the night, I stopped and noticed I had been smiling the entire time. I took the whole night piece by piece, glass of wine after glass of wine. By the end of the night the wealthy ship man was hitting on my friend and a younger man was motioning me to the door as means of an escape. I grabbed my purse and my friend and said “Thank you,” and “good bye.” The wealthy man followed us out and tried to take my friend home, but the younger man fought with him and helped us into his car. We drove around for an hour lost. I was worried that the young man was trying to get us lost on purpose; I was trying desperately to sober up; I was trying to hail down cabs who ignored me or told me they wouldn’t take us; I was trying to be strong. At one point I saw an English man and begged him to help me, but he flat out said he wouldn’t help us! I was near tears, feeling defeated thinking I was super woman. My friend had gotten sick in the back seat of the young man’s car and had put up with so much that when we finally found our hotel I trusted him to help me carry her upstairs. When we got up to our room she was fighting me (drunk) and I threw her clothes off and into the shower. I washed her clothes and got her ready for bed all the while there was a strange German man in our hotel room… He tried making moves and I threw him out abruptly! The rest of the night I sat near my friend’s bedside to make sure she was okay. An hour later I was rushing around the hotel room trying to pack both of our things and get to the airport. She was still drunk and confused at what I was doing and why I was hurrying. That was the last straw. I yelled “BECAUSE WE NEED TO GO, GET YOUR ASS GOING, NOW!”
So that was that, Greece was a fading memory and I was flying above the clouds back to Paris. I spent the remainder of the trip alone. I walked and shopped alone down the Champs Elysess and got a hotel for the night. I watched some CNN and wrote in my journal. I went down to the lobby and enjoyed an expensive dinner and read Le Monde. I didn’t sleep, but fancied the idea of it possibly being romantic spending the night alone in Paris.
During my six different flights I met some interesting people. I met a sales representative from Ryder. We talked for an hour about logistics, operations management, supply chains and the advancing technology in distribution companies. I got his card. I also met a woman, maybe 20 years older, who had also gone on a trip with one of her girlfriends. She was bringing a jar of French mustard home for her husband and gifts for her 7 year-old niece. I was bringing home a recollection of sinful nights full of spilled wine and smeared lipstick—I was no saint. I was bringing home future day-dreams about marble ceilings and arches, fresh exotic fruits, and visits to the Acropolis and the Parthenon—goddess-like indeed.

Language Barriers and a Common Ground

Two weeks ago, on Christmas day we embarked on a trip to Europe and Africa. We spent a good chunk of our time in Barcelona and Madrid, despite the fact that neither of us spoke Spanish. We had bought a phrase book that we soon lost on the plane before we even arrived to Spain. We played pictionary and “guess what I am doing”, and I was thankful my mad skills were so mad because of all those tournaments of druken shirades. There was a bombing in Madrid at the airport and two people were missing. We had to e-mail home that we were alright, because heaven knows our parents would think those two people had to be us.

The best part for me, was visiting northern Africa. A.S. was uneasy in spite of the political and social tensions of the country and their attitudes towards the U.S. Many people there were very polite and helpful, almost too generous as if they expected something for their gratitude. I was reading the menu at a restaurant and this man came up to me and said, “You hungry, here I take you to my uncle, he cook you couscous.” Some were not so friendly, but that’s quite alright because we expected it. I got lost one day and asked a man in French for directions: “Excuse me sir, can you please tell me how to get to the coliseum?” “Fuck you!” he said. “Okay, um…would it be fastest to go back to the main boulevard or stick on the back streets?” “Fuck you!” “Okay great, thank you, you have been very helpful.”

We ended up taking buses everywhere in Spain. During the longer bus rides I tried to get comfortable twisting and manipulating my body into positions the holy book of Kama Sutra’s never seen. Most of the time feeling defeated I sat crossed-legged having my upper leg taking turns crushing the bottom one, creating highways and interstates of varicose veins. This one night, there was a family on the bus and it was either their first time on a bus or they were recovering from a vicious concoction of the flu and SARS. They had five children that we gave cookies and water bottles to, and smiled and playing hide-and-go-seek with. At about 2 AM, the wife started vomiting and then the next thing we knew, there was a chain reaction with the entire family becoming the new Von Tramp family joining in and creating a musical of barf. I tried to go to sleep and force myself entrance into a dream of the beaches of Port Vell and iced teas laced with acid. I must admit, the bus ride through Spain was amazing. Driving though the mountains and desert-like terrain, whispering in the dark while the rest amongst us slept—and vomited profusely… Yes, amazing.

When we first arrived in Morocco, we skipped taking a taxi and dragged our suitcases up and down the hills of morocco. The wheels of my suitcase colleting wet mud and leaves, and were so steep I swear one could pop a knee cap. This scared me and I was almost tempted to ride my suitcase down the hill. Weee! We chose a decent looking hotel and when paying for our stay the hotel manager said our bill cost 560. After almost having a heart attack, we realized it only came out to about $50 U.S. Each hotel we went to had two toilets, I was jealous wishing we had a system like that at home. Andrew swore the second toilet was not for washing/douching, but for washing your hands, feet and face. He usually refers me to a “told-you-so” or a “know-it-all” so I made an executive decision not to say anything. The public restrooms consisted of a hole in the cement. I squatted with nothing to hold on to but my knees. I stood there with my knees shaking, wondering where the waste went after it descending into the great hole. After a turd launch, there was no thup, thup. How deep was this hole? I got up with my pants around my ankles waddling closer to the hole, positioning myself to listen closer, but nothing! And now, at home I am so glad to be here with my toilet where I can sit back comfortably, creating a red ring on my bum and pleasantly listening to the thup, thup. The smartest thing I did was port a roll of toilet paper with me everywhere I went. A.S. criticized me saying it was silly and inconvenient to carry around, but he’d see. I could picture him squatting over the cement hole with the fear of brown crusty butt cheeks. With his head in his hands he’d cry out “Why?” “Why wasn’t I as clever as Angie, oh God why?!” I’d show him…

The highlight of the trip was seeing the Mediterranean Sea from two different perspectives (Barcelona, Morocco). One day, I sat at the beach, and a kid playing with a Chinese star (with sharp blades) continued to throw it where I was sitting—several times it dropped into the sand barely missing me. I wanted to say something, but what? My Arabic wasn’t that refined as to say: “Pardon me boy, great throw, but could you please not throw it at me. I’m afraid it will plunge the skin of my throat and split my thorax, and I don’t know where the nearest hospital is and the last guy I asked for directions from could only say “fuck you” in English, and I really don’t think that will help." "I’m afraid your Chinese star, although very nice, will be lodged in my throat and blood will squirt everywhere and I don’t want to leave a bad impression on the residents, or leave a trail for hungry wolves to hunt me down and rip and shred my delicate bone structure. Thank you and have a nice day.” It can be difficult to come to terms with different languages and customs, and I admit there were times of frustration and confusion. On the last day of our trip an old man came out of a market grinning ear to ear. We both waited at the street corner waiting to cross onto another. I said “hello” in French and he simply stood there staring at me smiling, revealing many teeth that were missing and many that had seen better days. I attempted to say “hello” in Arabic, and again he kept starring and grinning. He then turned to me and revealed a bottle of J&B from his bag from the market. “Oh,” I said, nodding my head in acknowledgment, “Well, you have a good time now.” The old man nodded confidently in acknowledgment. I left Africa thinking of how relieved I was that this man and I could come to terms and find a common ground.

“Time: Do not squander it. This is the stuff life is made out of.”

Four AM. I feel bad for my dogs whose tired eyes heavy and groggy, watch me race around the apartment frantically packing up boxes, putting toothpaste into old nail holes in the walls, and adding extra coats of masking tape to a boxes of stem ware. I feel sorrow for A.S. trying to coil himself in linen; trying to hold onto a nights worth of slow and heavy breathing, eyes sealed and mind closed off from the current mania and insomnia I am experiencing. The culprit of my lack of sleep is anticipation for the move and a laundry list of things to do that has culminated the past few days. Tonight, err, this morning to justify another sleepless night, err morning I felt like “falling asleep” was as it inadvertently implies “falling” into a trap- a trap that consists of a series of spirals of nothingness. I am not sure how much I am accomplishing sitting here writing this, but I am coaxing myself into the thought of venturing into a voyeuristic sleepy land and dreaming of daffodils and sugarplums.

I see this move and this approaching school year as a new beginning- a new battalion of endeavors to add to a check list, daily calendar or journal. All too often, I hear friends, family, deans, advisors and professors who all swear on their mothers that the years go by faster and faster. I wonder if we just get older and our minds become less attentive to time itself, or if we simply, unconsciously force our minds to focus on the next thing and the next and the next... Perhaps for college students and other young adults time remains the epitome of our lives. Personally, I have always been at battle with time and the very way it can control you. Just the way it can creep up on you- “Oh my god I’m late! Oh shit, I’ll lose my spot in line at Starbucks/I’ll have to face traffic/I won’t get my Nobel Peace Prize/I’ll never get married/ I’ll be a fat and miserable cat lady forever!” Very tricky… I tell myself to refrain from panic at this repetitive inquisition and take things one-step-at-a-time. However, I think the notion of “one-step-at-a-time” is a little difficult to comprehend given the fast-paced, high-tech, generational regime in which we currently co-habituate.

There are times (other than sleepless nights and mornings) where I dread anticipation or even excitement for something because of the fear of disappointment. I picture the matter in my brain veering aimlessly between a jilted lover and a happily-ever-after. I used to do this with dates. Fifteen minutes before my “could-be” or “could-not-be” night-in-shining-armor arrived I would get a little anxious. I wouldn’t want to get too excited incase my date turned out to have an ego, a mullet, a girlfriend, two girlfriends, bad breath, a big mole on his forehead, a dome forehead, a lisp, a lazy eye, etc. But…maybe I had seen one to many fairytales, because I’d still insist on wearing my new stilettos and hands down: thong verses panties. J Maybe, some things are worth becoming excited for despite disappointment in the end. I try to think that sometimes the “chances” are so brilliant that accepting the possible disappointment- is still a trophy. A trophy you can gladly take with open arms and walk away with a grin on your face. I mean who cares what happens, you cannot control time, but you can still wear the panties…err, thong, which ever you prefer.

Disco Moon

I woke up this morning with a slight hang over- head spinning, black dots in the corner of my eyes along with a few black mascara clumps, a faint buzzing in my left ear, and a vile smell emerging from my mouth. I was very pleased indeed. You see I haven't had a stitch of alcohol or been out to a party in ages, but last night B.H., A.S. and I went out and essentially got plastered. I got to wear a bold shade of lipstick and some knee high cat-woman-esque boots. I drank and danced (sometimes in the middle of the dace floor by myself chasing the reflections of the disco ball, giving out free hugs and kisses on the cheeks, speaking 10 decibels louder than needed, and saying over and over "Oh my gosh, we should so hang out!" "Oh my gosh, we should so hang out!" Then around two AM we left the party and I let my head hang out in the toilet for awhile occasionally taking it out for air while vowing "Never again!" (Sigh) Yes, yes, it was all very grand... The whole day was great actually, I slept in, worked out, went to the beach with B.H., and then went out to eat at Chino Latino. I clearly remember sitting at a small table outside watching people pass and sipping my lemon water saying out loud: "It's moments like these that make me so thankful to be alive." Then I giggled and made fun of myself for sounding corny and took a bite of a chicken leg.

I signed a lease for a new condo in Saint Paul's historic neighborhood. I am so excited! I have been looking for about six months and right when I saw this place I knew I had to have it. I saw myself on the three-season porch painting. I saw myself burning a pizza in the oven in the kitchen. I pictured myself applying mascara with a hand mirror sitting on the edge of the bathtub. The best part is I get to bring my four boys with to live with me (A.S., Oliver, Otis, and Oscar.) We have been collecting antiques from garage sales and Craigslist and fixing them up. Every week it's like we have a new project because one of us found some free french doors or a wooden table on the side of the road aside a dumpster. Even small bursts of creativity or art electrifies me and makes me a whole new person from whomever I was the moment preceding.

I woke up from a nap and took a walk outside barefoot. I took small, careful and yet firm steps- careful as to also be aware of the small pebbles and dirt on the ground, and firm with platform flat feet as to acknowledge the direction of my steps. The dim light of a sun having stayed up past its bed time and a still evident stream of folk shuffle made me gain a sense of being alive and like I am really here on earth. And now a new moon resides telling me a new day will soon ensue and for the time being to dance in the realm of dreams.