Saving Your Life
I heard the song at the grocery store today and it made me grin like a fool, so I thought I’d re-post this from December 2009.
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Sometimes it is the smallest things. You’re beaten, you’re down, you’re alone, you don’t know where to go or what to do.
Then a door cracks open and out spills just a sliver of light and suddenly you can see and you just KNOW that you can reach over and jerk that sucker open and walk through that doorway, out of the darkness and into a new place, a place that is, at the very least, different from where you are.
I don’t know why songs are so often the thing that pops the door open. Something in music connects right up to Control Central right there in the middle without having to travel through the buzzing wiring in our brains. It just gets in there and does what it does and we end up laughing or sobbing or gasping or standing up and shaking parts that we didn’t even know we could shake anymore.
So there I was a while ago, driving around. I lived with someone who made it seem like he hated me and who was perpetually unhappy, both about my existence and about everything else in general. I had felt FAIL for so long that I couldn’t even imagine what WIN was anymore.
I was getting on the freeway, heading home, feeling like crap. And then “Jump” by Van Halen came on the classic rock station.
Could anything be more silly or ridiculous? It’s not great music. It’s not gonna be on anyone’s top 100 list. But that day, in that place, it GOT me.
Even though I was hearing it on the radio, the thousand times I had seen the video rushed back to life in my head and I was driving along seeing that nutty video play in my head and singing and laughing.
“Might as well jump.” Damn right.
Suddenly I knew to the marrow of my bones that I was going to be ok. No matter how much anyone tried to keep me down, I was going to get up, to jump, and the jump was NOT going to be off a building.
I was going to leap through life with goofy, goony joy, the same kind of crazy life force that caused Diamond Dave to put on that wack red net corset-y outfit and parade around the stage like a low-rent Mick Jagger with bigass hair, the same joy that kept Eddie smiling his little elf smile while wearing possibly the most unattractive yellow tiger-striped jacket ever made.
“Might as well jump.” From then on I had a little piece of that song in my head and Eddie’s sweet smile in my heart. On the outside, I put on my best blasé look in the face of overwhelming criticism and attempts to chop me down.
I just went through the motions and did what I had to do so I could put my escape plan into motion. But inside, I knew who I was. I was someone who could always jump.
I’m so thankful for that song. It gave me something, you know?
Tell me about something that saved you.
Number nine? Number nine?
The Beach House. Tacos, great coffee, and more
I eat at the Beach House a lot. If you come to visit Ventura, there’s a good chance I will take you there. We’ll sit on the pier, outdoors, eat tasty tacos with zippy avocado-tomatillo salsa and watch the waves. Life will be good.
I went there on Thursday night with my friend Nancy. Then today, on my way home from an afternoon class at church, I stopped in again.
I got my glass of wine (did I mention they have beer and wine?) and waited for my grilled pasilla pepper to be done.
“Number 29,” the girl called.
A minute later, she called again “Number 29.”
I sat there, sipping my chardonnay in a plastic cup and musing – seriously, I was musing – on the fact that every time I go to the Beach House, there is some stoned goofball who forgets to pick up his or her order.
“Twenty-nine.”
I checked my ticket again. My number was 55. Clearly, I had some waiting to do. Why didn’t this loser pick up his taco?
The girl came out from behind the counter and tossed a plate down in front of me. My order.
“Uh, I was calling for a few minutes,” she said.
“But…but my number is 55,” I said.
She smiled weakly and gave me a tiny “Yeah, right, stupid lady” sort of eye-roll.
I munched on my pepper and tortillas and wondered how the hell the order taker had gotten my order number so wrong. It’s hard to get good help these days, I thought.
Then I realized. I jammed my hand in my back pocket and found the little slip with 55 printed on it. And I checked my front pocket and found the slip that said 29.
I was wearing the same jeans that I had worn when I went there Thursday night, jeans that I didn’t bother to wash. I grabbed the two slips of paper and went up to the counter.
“See, see, I’m not crazy, I just came here the other night and got 55 and now I have 29, that explains everything, thank God I thought I was losing my mind,” I babbled.
I have a feeling she still thinks I’m crazy.
Toyota Semester 2
The view in Hermosa Beach. Not so bad.
Goon Squad Sarah and I were sitting on the couch of a really gorgeous Hermosa Beach hotel, thinking about blogging.
We go way back. We met at the second BlogHer, the infamous one in 2006 in San Jose where the air conditioning didn’t work in the conference rooms, where there were about four sponsors, and where all kinds of lifetime friendships were formed while sitting around the swimming pool.
Sarah in San Jose. Oh my gosh, she looks like such a baby!
We talked about how things have changed. How at that BlogHer, there were very few people who had had books published, and those books were from before they started blogging. About how the outside world hadn’t discovered blogging yet.
Of course all of that has busted open. Now we go to bookstores and see many, many books by people we know. Having a friend appear on the Today Show or in the New York Times is cool, but far from novel.
I never bothered to watch the movie 127 Hours, because self-amputation isn’t on the list of things I want to see with my own eyes, but my friend CC relayed the main message to me, a message I think applies to all of us all the time.
The rock-trapped guy realizes that everything he has ever done in his life, every decision he has made, has brought him to this situation.
Who knew that when we first signed up for Blogspot and hit publish for the first time that we would do it over and over and over again? Or that Sarah and I would not just meet in San Jose, but also in Chicago, Washington DC, New York and San Diego?
Now we had Toyota bringing us to a beautiful spot in Southern California, letting us drive their pretty new cars, having their executives speak to us, and asking our opinions – all because we hit publish over and over and over.
Sarah on the beach. As a former Floridian, she says the water is too dang cold.
It’s semester 2 of TWIN, the Toyota Women Influencers Network. I’m happy that I’m along for the ride, and happy to meet cool new TWIN members like Elena (CiaoMom), Glennia (with whom I have been tweeting forever, but had never met), and Kate (The Guavalicious Life).
Every decision in my life so far has brought me to this point. To a gorgeous beach on a glorious day with a good friend. To friendship, to intimacy across the miles, to sharing our lives through the highs and lows. And I’m happy to be here.
*****
Just a reminder that 100 Cars for Good is still going on. They’ve given away dozens of cars to non-profit groups so far, with many more to go.
I love love love that the voting for each organization is just for one day, so you don’t get endless reminders from friends and supporters to “go vote ONE MORE TIME!” Nope. You vote once, on one day, and then immediately find out if your organization got a car or $1000. Pretty cool.
Disclosure: I was selected for participation in the TWIN community through a program with Clever Girls Collective. I did not receive any compensation for writing this post, or payment in exchange for participating. The opinions expressed herein are mine, and do not reflect the views of the Toyota.
Last Night I Dreamed I Went to Manderley Again
Remember that movie “Rebecca”? If not, I’ll give you a brief recap, complete with spoilers, so watch out.
A never-named young woman, who is in Europe as the companion to a rich old woman, meets and marries a rich older guy. He takes her home to Manderley, his estate.
Thanks to her own insecurities and to a verrry creepy housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers (shown in photo above), the woman comes to believe that her husband will never get over the death of his beautiful, talented, intelligent wife, Rebecca.
Much hand-wringing and self-doubt ensue. At the end, it is revealed that the lovely Rebecca was not a great lady, but was instead a wanton adulteress who had a bunch of other rotten stuff going on as well.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. Mrs. Danvers, the evil housekeeper (whom I suspect of having a little lesbian thing for Rebecca) is that Bad Voice in our heads, the 3 a.m. voice, the “you’ll never be good enough” voice. That voice has evidence against us. Some of it comes not only from inside our sick brains, but also from the evidence we collect from others – mean little comments, doubting teachers, parents seeking to protect or, in the worst cases, to destroy.
How persuasive she is! We can’t tear ourselves away as she whispers in our ear. We believe what she says because she is only reinforcing what we already believe deep down, no matter how hard we try to deny it.
So even though we already have enough stuff to make us happy – in this case, the rich, kind husband, the estate, the cashmere twin set – we are still plagued by that voice.
We can’t see that we’re fine, that no one is lurking in the wings to show us up. We can’t see what is right in front of us, instead relying on faulty whispers and accusations. The truth is that the thing that makes us doubt ourselves, like Rebecca, is already dead and wasn’t that great when it was alive.
I’m going to start calling the Bad Voice “Mrs. Danvers.” Maybe that will make it shut up.
A Dog Story in Photos
Meet Ryker and Lyla. Ryker is older. Lyla is a barely-grown puppy at heart.
They are best pals.
But Lyla likes to cause trouble.
Big dog trouble.
Ryker has to respond!
He doesn’t bother to get up, though. That would be TOO much.
These dogs are fierce!
But it’s over as soon as it started. All is well in dogland. Now, what’s to eat?
Marketing Genius
I had a moderate Pop Chips addiction. I know they taste like salty packing foam peanuts, but they’re LOW CALORIE.
Well, not really low calorie, as I would often eat the 3.5 serving package all at once, so that sort of negates the effect. I tried and tried not to buy them, but I gave in to their crispy lure all too often.
But they solved that for me. Have you seen this awful commercial?
1:38 minutes of unfunny badness. I never would have known about it, but Anil Dash started talking about how it was racist (because of the “brownface”) over on Twitter.
Yeah, the brownface is pathetic and stereotyping, but what got me was the “Darl” Lagerfeld clone and his dog. About 1:13 in, Darl lets his chihuahua lick a Pop Chip and then he eats it.
I have a dog and she sometimes eats my food, but I do not then try to eat it too. I have seen her hygiene routine, and believe me, you do not want your mouth where her mouth has been.
That did it for me. Now I pass Pop Chips by and leave them on the shelf, muttering “Dog Saliva!” to myself as I flee.
Thank you, Pop Chips, for this helpful ad. Quoth the Raven: nevermore.
Adventures of Suebob, Girl Reporter
Arlington National Cemetery
(First published May 2006)
On weekends I change from a mild-mannered cubicle dweller into an ace newspaper reporter, which is my true identity. I do not have a cape, but I have 7 pens, a steno pad and a slightly expired press pass that never fails to get me a good parking spot.
Most staff writers would like Saturdays off, instead of going out and cover goofy stuff like parades and food festivals, so it is left to intrepid freelancers or “stringers” like me to fill in the gaps.
I reported on Memorial Day today and was determined not to make the rookie mistake of getting a blistering sunburn at the event. I slathered myself in sunscreen, stuffed 400 kleenexes into my purse (allergies are kicking my butt), grabbed my notepad and took off.
The event was easy to cover, a piece of cake. Except for the fact that it was hot, and I guess I was sweating, because sunscreen got in my eyes.
I was already a little runny from my allergies and being outside standing in a field of grass, but then the terrible, knife-sharp began pain in my eyes, and I started crying. Not a little dab-at-the-corner-of-your-eyes crying, either. Full on tears, lots of them, pouring freely down my face, unstoppable.
Some people mistook my weeping for overwhelming emotion at the sacrifice of our service members and nodded approvingly in my direction. For one moment I was seen as a super patriot, not as a despised member of the America-hating, peacemongering, liberal elite media!
I interviewed one woman who turned out to be a nutcase. This happens every so often as a reporter. You walk up to enough strangers and start asking them questions and some of them are bound to be off their tree.
She took a look at me crying and decided I needed prayer. She called her friends to gather around and did a laying on of hands and beseeched the Lord on my behalf. I thanked her kindly, because she was right. At that point nothing short of a miracle could have helped me.
I peered at the program through my tears. We were only on the Civil War and we still had both World Wars, Korea, Vietnam and Iraq to get through. I was okay until the bagpiper came out and then I knew it was time for me to hit the road. A girl can only stand so much suffering in one day.
Anyway, I survived. A day in the sun, commemorating our fallen appropriately, and a couple dollars in the bank. But next time, I’m getting the sweatproof sunscreen.
What a Girl Wants
I have always loved the beauty of pool balls. They are so strongly pigmented, so shiny. I’m a terrible pool player, but something about the pretty, pretty pool balls captivated me.
So when I spotted one at the bottom of a mesh ball bin at the thrift store today, I plunged in to get it. I had to remove soccer balls, semi-deflated footballs, faded basketballs, all manner of scuffed and filthy sports balls that stood in the way of my pretty.
But finally I got to the bottom, and I was richly rewarded – not only was one pool ball down there, but many. Not a whole set, which is actually better, because then I could work them down on price. I offered $5 to the puzzled cashier, who had no item on her price list that covered this eventuality.
$5 lighter and much much happier, I am the proud owner.
2 Girls, 2 Days, 4 States
Friday, May 18, 8 pm
Me: The eclipse is this weekend
CC: We should go see it
Me: Haha, yeah, right
CC: Seriously. Why not?
Me: We’d have to drive for like 6 hours to get there
CC: Are you doing anything else?
Which is how CC and I ended up going to Nevada on Saturday. We had a route planned out scrawled on a Post-It to get to Las Vegas. We followed it almost perfectly, except for me missing an exit and taking an impromptu trip through Arvin and Tehachapi.
The detour only added about, oh, an hour to our journey, but looking on the bright side (as we tend to do) we got some excellent paletas (Mexican ice cream pops) at the gas station in Arvin. Do not ask me where Arvin is, because I’m not sure I could ever find it again even in the unlikely event that I would have a reason to try.
CC, prepared for adventure
Thanks to our friends at Trip Advisor, we found clean, comfortable budget lodgings in Las Vegas at the Super 8. Not anywhere close to the real Strip, but that’s ok by me.
I recommended the Super 8, mostly for the neighbors, which include both the Little White Chapel and, directly in view of the motel lobby, the incredibly busy Elvis Wedding Chapel, which specializes in costumed theme weddings. There was a long line out front of people wearing togas and witch hats and what-have-you, all waiting to get hitched.
I dunno if Michael Jordan and Joan Collins are the best ambassadors for matrimonial bliss. Only in Las Vegas do you find a “Wedding Chapel District.”
As we were checking in, the desk clerk shared stories of weddings she has seen from her unique perch behind the counter. Like the guy who went and bought massive amounts of alcohol and got drunk in the parking lot while his bride got made up and dressed. He then proceeded to puke on the bride’s dress – who married him anyway.
“I told her not to do it, but she did it,” said the clerk. “They don’t listen, then they’re back the next day.”
The “back the next day” part refers to getting a divorce, the site for which conveniently located on the same property. Ah, the sanctity of marriage is alive and well in Sin City.
Poetry reading on the patio, Art+Bistro
Because we are complete party freaks, during our time in glittering, crazy Vegas, we went to the Arts District for a nice bistro paella dinner (complete with poetry reading and live music); we went to church; we went to Chinatown for dim sum and to the 99 Ranch Asian market – but we never set foot in a casino.
We got out of control with a crisp glass of Yeawood Sauvignon Blanc. It was a party in my mouth.
We also did not order beautiful girls sent to our room in 10 minutes, though many people tried to convince us to do so.
I did almost get thrown out of get asked to stop taking photos by a polite young man in 99 Ranch Market, but that’s about as Hunter S. Thompson-esque as things got. It’s a mild, mild life.
Paletas, Asian style – mung bean jelly flavor.
On Sunday, we headed out to the full eclipse zone, which was in a band beginning about 55 miles outside of Vegas on Hwy 15. The area surrounding Las Vegas is the kind of landscape where you aren’t surprised that they did nuclear tests, because if you had to put a nuclear test somewhere, that is exactly where you would put it, too. It is so dry and desolate and empty that you’d look around and think “Well, a 50 megaton explosion can’t hurt THIS!” (Sorry, Nevadans. I’m sure you love your state. But wow. There really is an excessive amount of desert out there).
There is no town 55 miles outside of Vegas, so we headed some more miles out to the nearest town, Mesquite. The town was boring and hot. How boring and hot? We went to a big community park that had zero other people there (in the middle of a weekend Saturday) AND it had artificial turf because it was too stinking hot for real grass.
We looked at each other and drove another 45 miles to St. George, Utah, where we knew an eclipse event was taking place.
This is as fun as it gets in Mequite.
We were laughing all the way at how nutty we were, driving 8 hours to see an eclipse. But onward we spun, only vaguely realizing how screwed we were going to be when it came time to drive home later that night.
St. George from the Water District Building
The county water district in St. George (which was blessedly red-rocky and gorgeous after the Nevada wasteland) had opened its doors to eclipse-watchers. The water district building is located on the side of a ridge, with ample second- and third-floor balconies. Hundreds of people showed up.
There were a couple astronomers with big telescopes, getting their geek on and showing us the view. One apologized because all the sun had to offer prior to the eclipse was sunspots, which still seemed pretty exciting to me. US Park rangers were on hand to explain the nature bits.
They were showing space films and had exhibits up – all well-organized, as is the rest of the state. Leave it to Mormons to organize stuff. There’s a reason their state symbol is the industrious honey bee.
We took replacement arc welding glass, which we shared with others to see the eclipse progress.
Everyone was in festive mood. The eclipse itself took about an hour, maybe more. First, you could just see a tiny nibble out of the sun, then a crescent that grew bigger and bigger. We were glad we took welding glass to look through, because there was no way to see what was going on by glancing at the sun. I don’t know if you have noticed, but that thing is bright.
Our eclipse-watching compatriots
We pulled out of St. George about 7:30 Utah time (6:30 Los Angeles), saying goodbye to our newfound friends. I drove for a couple hours to Primm, where we switched drivers. CC lasted about 45 minutes until she began to yawn every few minutes. I knew I’d have to take the wheel back.
We could have stopped and spent the night somewhere, but I had work the next day and I didn’t want to be late for a stupid reason like taking too long from coming back from an eclipse viewing. At a certain point, I decided to just gut it out. Midnight, 12:30, 2 a.m….the road wove on an on, just us, a few other psychos and a whole lotta trucks. My eyes grew heavy. My legs ached, public radio droned on and on.
I almost gave up a couple hours from home, but I bit my tongue to keep myself awake and drove on with a buzzy head. At 3:15 a.m., we finally pulled up at CCs house and by 3:30, I was at my home and in the shower, washing the road grit off so I could sleep for 3 hours or so before getting up for work.
Totally nutso. Totally fun. Would do it again in…another 11 years or so, which is good, because that’s when the next eclipse will be here.
Purple for Lupus Awareness
Lupus is horrible. My dear friend Erin has been battling it for the past few years. She has gone through round after round of long treatments with drugs that seem to have as many side effects as curative properties. The good news is that it seems the drugs are starting to do some good.
She talked about wearing purple for Lupus Awareness Day, but I wasn’t sure what an impact that would make. So I decided to turn my blog purple with these photos, and point you to the Lupus Foundation of America if you have questions or want to make a donation.
From their website:
Lupus is a chronic, autoimmune disease that can damage any part of the body (skin, joints, and/or organs inside the body). Chronic means that the signs and symptoms tend to last longer than six weeks and often for many years. In lupus, something goes wrong with your immune system, which is the part of the body that fights off viruses, bacteria, and germs (“foreign invaders,” like the flu). Normally our immune system produces proteins called antibodies that protect the body from these invaders. Autoimmune means your immune system cannot tell the difference between these foreign invaders and your body’s healthy tissues (“auto” means “self”) and creates autoantibodies that attack and destroy healthy tissue. These autoantibodies cause inflammation, pain, and damage in various parts of the body.
And as Erin said, in one heartbreaking post:
My body needs relief, badly. I’m begging my doctor for relief today, and am begging the universe for a break. We’ve taken more than we can handle, and while reinforcements come soon, it’s not soon enough. My brother doesn’t need to be changing my sheets and trying to carry me into an ER all in a span of a few weeks. My husband deserves to train for his race. The kids deserve a Mom that can be present mind, body, and soul…not in bed hoping to lift her head off the pillow.
I don’t think that is too much to ask.
So here are some purple things for her. It’s the least I can do.
Banana flower (those little yellow things will become bananas)
My grandmother died many years ago, but her peony still blooms!
Santa Cruz Island Lupines
Kohlrabi, a delicious little vegetable.
Purple comes in all different shades, and Lupus comes in all different forms, too. Here’s hoping for an eventual cure for Erin and for all those with lupus.
Suebob's Red Stapler 