My Next Toyota Adventure
I want my next Toyota-sponsored adventure to be this:
Instead, they’re sending me to the Wanderlust Festival in Colorado, a conference of all things yoga and healthy-ish. Maybe they think I’m safer doing downward-facing dog than taking a high-powered Scion out for a slide. They’re probably right about that.
No, seriously – I’m excited about having a couple days in Colorado with yoga fanatics, though I expect they’ll spot me for a fraud right away. In preparation, I did 20 whole minutes of yoga yesterday. It felt good, especially that Corpse pose at the end. I’m really good at Corpse pose.
Disclosure: I am a member of the Toyota Women Influencers Network 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 Toyota or any of its brands.
My Next Toyota Adventure
I want my next Toyota-sponsored adventure to be this:
Instead, they’re sending me to the Wanderlust Festival in Colorado, a conference of all things yoga and healthy-ish. Maybe they think I’m safer doing downward-facing dog than taking a high-powered Scion out for a slide. They’re probably right about that.
No, seriously – I’m excited about having a couple days in Colorado with yoga fanatics, though I expect they’ll spot me for a fraud right away. In preparation, I did 20 whole minutes of yoga yesterday. It felt good, especially that Corpse pose at the end. I’m really good at Corpse pose.
Disclosure: I am a member of the Toyota Women Influencers Network 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 Toyota or any of its brands.
Pure Magic
Having a new camera has brought magic into my life. I recently bought a Canon Rebel EOS T3 with two lenses, one regular and one telephoto.
I feel so much more mentally healthy just having it in my hands. Everything has a new beauty.
From the sublime…
To the ridiculous.
It all looks different now. Moments sneak up on me and bring me delight.
I used to take the dog for long walks, but now, because of her weak legs, she can’t go very far. Now I take my camera out for long walks and take pictures of dogs that I meet.
This world is full of wonderful, amazing, precious sights. It’s funny that sometimes it takes a camera to appreciate them. It’s like clicking the shutter captures them so that I can bring them close and fold them into my heart like little love notes from the world, notes that I can open and marvel at again and again.
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.
*******
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.
