Ding Dong, Beezlebub is Dead

I'm having a hard time thinking of something to write at the moment.

I think it is Osama's fault. He's everywhere and he's all I can think about.

I'm not sure why. It's all so remote. I heard they dumped his body in the sea. They honored his Islamic traditions, washed his body, wrapped him in a shroud, said a prayer. I wonder who attended his funeral. Who helped with the arrangements. What boatman guided the ship out among the swelling mounds of the sea to release him.

I know what it feels like when history is happening. The other night as we readied for bed, my husband's phone lit up and he ran for the stairs saying, "It's something that affects us all, well not 'us' personally, but people as a whole."

And as the television clicked on, I could see my favorite CNN crew was frantic, excited. Headlines are in ALL CAPS when things are IMPORTANT. Out in front of the White House, students from the nearby college and others, gathered to climb trees. I could see a couple cheerleaders in the crowd, doing some kind of clapping ditty. I wanted them to get off their friends' shoulders and sit down.

It was unnerving. Our president standing in front of the podium. The cameras were still and in a close-up. I know they wanted us to feel like we were personally being delivered a message: You are all safe now. You can relax. We got the boogey man. 

And it seems like people ate it up right? Even Rush Limbaugh praised my guy for his terrorist-hunting capabilities. I felt like a great bunch of Americans think this: The War on Terror is Over. (Isn't that weird to have a WAR on TERROR, feels like such a circle to me...WAR TERROR War Terror war terror, isn't it all the same, isn't War full of Terror?)

Yet, I guess that makes me happy that people feel like that though--that they want to end it. People need conclusions. If this death has provided the Symbolism we need to get out of Afghanistan then So Be It.

It's weird though, some Americans are acting like this is all they were waiting for all along. That now we can wipe our brow from worry and sleep at night because we have destroyed The Enemy. As if this death were the ultimate goal all along.

I'm not crying over this execution, don't get me wrong. September 11th was mass murder and the worst kind of evil. I can't shake the sick way I felt that morning as we watched the tiny black human-shaped shadows jump out of those windows when the towers fell.

However, the quick move to 'close this chapter' seems disingenuous to me. To me, it seems like a weakly transparent attempt to shirk accountability for what's happened over the past 10 years. Frankly, it feels childish. A bully on the playground who keeps declaring that he's "winning."

I don't know. I guess whatever it takes to put an end to this endless drama. I wish we could be classier about the whole thing. Less primitive. Less about chanting "USA! USA! USA!" in some creepy way from the treetops.

I want our people home. That's what I want. That would make me climb trees and shake down leaves and yelp into the air. I want to stop worrying about the endless friends and bloggers and people who have people who have sons and daughters "over there." The loved ones who keep missing people, losing people, losing lives. Because that's what war accomplishes: empty seats at the dinner table. That's the reality; that's the microcosm. The ideologies bring us there, but every time those ideas are shattered into sobbing broken hearts. War IS Terror.

I don't know.

I didn't need Osama dead to call an end to the 'War on Terror.' I hate that the whole thing has been 10 years thus far. It makes me sick to think that is all some Americans wanted was One Guy Dead. And now that they have stood over his dead body and spit into the sea as he drifted off, that they're ready to move on. That that's all it took for their battle cry of "We've Won!"

I can't help but wonder,
Have we? 

Hey There Change-y Pants

I love moving because it feels like you're moving...

You know, like life itself is propelling forward; the very substance of your surroundings morphs. Things are changing. Change is tangible.

I love change, maybe that's why I'd label myself a progressive. I always think things could be better. Even if they're good now, why not strive for Totally Awesome? Conservatism seems to hinge on the very notion that, hey everything's ok, leave it alone you big changer change-y pants. Why you always gotta reach for the sky, can't you be happy with What Is?

Why? Because most of the time, What Is is pretty good, but there's a few tweaks that will prolly make it better. And I Believe. We Should. Make It Better. Always.

------------

My brother is moving here to San Diego, did I tell you that? In a matter of weeks, my younger brother, who now resides in Minnesota with our mother, will be setting up shop in our hilly town, living in a nice corner room in our house for an indeterminent amount of time. I can't tell you how ecstatic that makes me.

I feel so removed. I feel so cut off, limbs like arms beyond my reach. I miss my family. I miss the life that will never be: me baby-sitting my niece on warm Saturday afternoons--her arms reaching for me as I enter through doors. The me that would pick out paint colors for the nursery with my mother. The me that would help my sis with summer garage sales. I mourn for all that.

But one memory I won't cry for now is the me that sees my son reach out for his uncle on any given Wednesday. The me that drinks cold beers with my brother at the table on a Saturday night, while he whips me at another game of cards. The me that knows I'm not completely alone here.

I think that my brother will stay a very long time here in this cool coastal town. And I think we will too. That makes me happy. These roots extend like arms around our hearts.

Oh for the Love of Health

I'm trying hard not to think about things like what silly people say about health care reform. That's about as deep as I can go there without screaming. Don't you know? What are they so afraid of?

Wait. I want to tear my face off. When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. Such as 1 + 1 = 2. (I have to start there with people.) I have to tell them that you shouldn't cross the street on a red light. Because it's as basic as that to me. What don't you get?

When I have to fight so hard to explain things that make perfect sense to me. In my (our) America. I want to lay down my guns when I see you screaming, "I don't want you to save me!" I want to stop fighting, because I think, in the long run, who gives a good goddamn? If you don't care about you, then why should I care about you?

When I see how many people aren't listening. When I see how many people are misinterpreting. When I see how many people are full of fear. When I see how many people are armed with propaganda and lies and untruths. When I see how many people are o.k. with that. Those closed fists. Those closed hearts. I think to myself: America is screwed. Oh my god, we are so screwed...

I don't want to fight for 1+1=2; it shouldn't be so hard. Sure, it passed. For that, I'm grateful. But what happens now? When 1+1=2 is open for debate?

I think then about my children. Where will we go? To protect. From you and you and you there too.

Oh America. You have it so good in so many ways. Why are you so dead-set on f**king it up?

Because I Can

I'm just going to talk politics. Because I can. And I'm not going to care what you think. But I am.

I'm so sick of all this chatter. All of these talking heads have got me so far down that I can't think straight. Did it always used to be like this? All of these opinions swirling about?

What I like about the digital age is that we're all so much closer. My gawd, what did we do before google, right? What we know about the rest of the wider world is so much more now. It's so quick, so NOW. We can see suffering. We can hear it thubbing through our digital bones. Into our hearts. Hopefully. O, do i ever hope we hear it...

(Again). I like that we can hear each other. Look at us all here. Making friends on the screen, reaching our words into living rooms across the globe. We care. We're here. Reading with voyeuristic mania and good intentions.

But what I don't like--what I hate is--all wrapped up in the same gift. All this togetherness makes my head spin. All the noise! Sometimes, I really don't think everybody should have a platform to speak from. Sometimes I think CNN should not really try to listen to all sides. Sometimes I don't think we should try to understand where the serial killer is coming from. Or Republicans for that matter.

When thoughts and ideas are just plain messed up, I don't think we should be all listen-y with one another, even if it means we're muting half of the population. Sheer size doesn't warrant credibility.

The conservatives are breeding like crazed lunatics--if you do the math--progressives (known for their 1.5 children and charming homes) will be overrun in two decades, Tops. So let's enjoy our last run without "trying to understand each other," huh?

I hate that everyone picks away at Obama. Dems included. Who on God's green earth do you think is going to do any better? It took a long line of very poor decisions to steer our gassy country into the shitter. And most of them stem from our own individual hearts (not mine, of course, i'm an angel).

All that collective crap just trickled up to Bush. But then, luck would have it, we noticed the horrid smell, and our hearts manifested a good guy instead. Hip hop hurray for us.

Now let's sit the fuck down and let true integrity guide us. For Once.

I just can't stand listening to all the nuts in the peanut gallery.

Day 133 - Moms, Anniversaries, and DMVs

1. Moms

Sometimes, I miss my mom so much that it hurts. Such is the case today.

But I'm also very very grateful. I just spent five blissful days with her, whooping it up here in sunny San Diego.

My mom is one of my best friends. I feel blessed that I mean that.

Like tourists, we traversed this town. From art fair to botanical garden. From the open green hills to the loud downtown.

At the risk of sounding like I work for the San Diego tourism department, I must say, I'm so in love with this city.

Per usual, we also tackled a home project. Couldn't resist spray-painting my old wicker furniture. We opened the garage and surrounded the chair, the end table, the chest of drawers. From ratty tan to chocolate brown, we transformed my bedroom stuff, all nice and new. Brick orange cushion for completion.

My mom has the ability to unwind me. Sometimes I get so tight. So serious. She just can grab the end of that string, and skip off into the sunshine. When it's all said and done, I'm new again. Unraveled. Disheveled. Smiling. Remembering to let go...

Of course I also have the habit of taking it too far. Ravished for the younger and freer me, I probably maybe perhaps smoked a few cigs while she visited. I probably maybe perhaps drank coffee, soda, and rum. And better yet, I think I probably maybe perhaps needed all that.

Let's face it. Stress management has never been one of my strong suits. Too-shay.

I miss you mom. I wish we lived in the same city.

2. Anniversaries

I'm going to brag here. I just can't help it.

Dave and I celebrated our six-month wedding anniversary over the weekend. With my mom in town and his mom and step dad also stopping in for the weekend, the morning of our anniversary, we quickly shared some lovely sentiments and a heart-felt spoken "Happy Anniversary" to each other before crawling out of bed. He went off to sail with his family. Mom and I, off to the gardens. (That all sounded so bourgeoisie) I didn't think anything of it, I figured we'd celebrate after our guests departed.

Later that evening, he came smiling up the stairs with a fist full of pink and white balloons, one of which, in red lettering said "Happy Anniversary." His other hand? A bouquet of lilies. His mother and step dad followed close behind him, with a smooth rectangle of tiramisu cake. What a guy. What a guy.

I love getting love in all the girly, cliche ways that hipper girls might renounce. Flowers are pretty. Balloons are awesome. And cake is divine. I have a theory that girls who claim to not like these things are actually insecure. They think YOU don't like these things. So they claim the same.

Or they saw a movie somewhere where the quirky protagonist girl said something witty to her potential mate like, "Why would you buy me flowers? It's a waste of money for something that just wilts and dies all over my kitchen table."

Which was really just the screenwriter's lazy way of using character development. The underlying message of the dialogue was meant to communicate this: This girl is so different and unique than all the other girls this guy has ever met. And the guy is supposed to know he's met someone real special and that perhaps his whole life might be changed from here on out.

So some poor girl out in the audience thinks to herself, hmmm...maybe if I don't like flowers than I'll be unique and special and someone will love me just like this guy loves Amanda Peet.

But sadly, the results are simply this: These girls miss out on one of the oldest and simplest forms of male to female courtship. Here's a flower. It means I love you. I'm not much of a talker. But I got you this pretty thing. Because I want to give you things. Because you're pretty. And I like you. And I want to continue touching your boobs.

We're so smitten with this display of affection that we let them. As well we should.

In a more advanced form of male to female courtship, Dave handed me two tickets to the dance tour of "So You Think You Can Dance" in downtown San Diego in November. Row Five. Center Stage.

WHAT??!!! (Can you hear me jumping up and down and screaming at the top of my lungs like Mary Murphy?!) This male to female show of affection says: I love you so much that I went out and did for you (for us) what might make you love me till we die.

Add to that, that my mom witnessed our anniversary exchange. Which means, Dave earns mad brownie points. Which means, I'm all the more ecstatic. Because I'm petty and I love it when things look good. Kidding. Kind of. Let's face it, everybody wants their parents to adore their chosen life partner. Life isn't as fun without that key element.

Anyway, "Happy Anniversary" to the the love of my life. For the seven years before our wedding day and to the 70 years after--my love continues to thicken and grow in my heart. It digs deeper; it gets more complicated; it gets more light than ever.

3. DMVs

Went to the DMV today to finally get my California driver's license.

At the first counter, the guy said, "I like your name. Darcy. That's nice."

Me (smiling): Thanks.

DMV employee: Have you ever seen the TV series "Pride and Prejudice"?

Me (replying in my head): You mean, 'Have I read the classic piece of epic romantic literature written by none other than Jane Austen?'

Me (actually said): The character Mr. Darcy?

DMV employee: Yes, that's it! Mr. Darcy. That's who I thought of when I heard your name. Very English sounding. I love it.

At the second counter, the woman said, "You and I share the same middle name."

Me (smiling): Oh, your middle name is "Jo"?! Are you from the Midwest?

2nd DMV employee: My parents are.

Me: Well that explains it.

We share a laugh.

By the end of our time together, she had complimented my ability to take a good thumb print and also said "Pretty picture!" after snapping my new driver's license shot.

O.k. so my trip to the DMV was lovely. What the hell? Did I just walk into some kind of DMV twilight zone? Where the most upbeat and supportive employees uplifted residents all day long? Next time I go they'll be distributing champagne and cookies at the buffet table. Knock on wood.

While the customer service was friendly, I have to say California government lags lags lags. First off, my written driver's test was actually written. What? Written. Like pencil and test sheet. And when I was done, I watched my fave employee with the middle name Jo grade it by hand. By hand. What kind of backwards shit is that? Don't they know that most states have these electronic things, they're called computers, that not only save paper but also increase efficiency?

And to boot, they said, "Your license will arrive in the mail in a few weeks." What? Um, in Arizona and Minnesota AND in po-dunk North Dakota (circa early nineties), you get, hold your breath, the darn thing printed off right there. Weird. Why is CA so behind?

To further this point, the other day I got pulled over by a stoic motorcyle cop. Why? Um, I was also interested to find out. Apparently it was for talking on my cellphone while driving. Without a hands-free device. Apparently that's a law they enforce here. I thought they were kidding. And when he handed me the ticket, he said I could call a number and pay, but I would have to "wait a month or so, so that they can get the ticket in the system." Hmm... it's no wonder Cali has budget problems.

Which brings me to my last point. Which is quite far down here, so I'm hoping some of you have dropped off before getting here, so you'll miss one of my few Republican-like confessions.

Now, most of you know that I'm a Democrat through and through. I tend to agree with and therefore vote blue, the majority of the time. But I have to say, one negative thing, I've noticed since living in this dark blue state (the first one in my life, Arizona and North Dakota are blood red), is that (begin redneck twang here and kick dirt with cowboy boots), "There sures are lots of laws here. Lots of big bureacracy, red tape. I don't know if I like the gubernent' deciding all my bizness." Sometimes a point is a point.

Day 82 - Dictators Rule

Every year we convene for our annual McGaugler vacation, we arrive fresh-faced and gleeful. We hug and kiss cheeks. Each of us throw our bags into some room down the hall, eager to ask the usual barrage of questions--How was the flight or drive? Job? House? Kids? In the beginning, we're all bendy and flexible for each other...

But soon enough, we settle right back into our usual roles. I take on the role of instigator, inciting heated arguments due to my lack of patience with group democracy. My sister, she's a frustrated mothering type. My brother, he's a snarky mediator. My stepsister is simply vocally annoyed by the whole thing. And my stepbrother is the 'keep me out of it' guy.

Add to that my father, whose the poster dad for "tough love" (i.e. "don't expect any kind of break just cause you're my kid"). Then, my stepmother, the opposite of my father, overreaching her attentiveness i.e. "do you need anything, what about this or this or that?!" Lastly, throw in a couple of moody teenagers, a beautiful baby, and some half-terrified spouses. THEN, it's a party.

We must all sense the impending boom because most of the adults, minus the recovering alcoholics, grab beers as soon as their suitcases hit the floor. We cross our fingers that our impulses aren't a sign of our own future recovery. But Fuggetaboutit. We swig.

It's normally all fine and dandy until the family meeting. Every year we circle around the living room floor and, according to my father's rule book on how to run a meeting based on we-have-no-idea, we discuss/vote/change/keep any and all aspects of our week-long beach side event.

There's so many differing opinions in even this small of group that I often wonder how Congress gets anything passed at all. I sigh and understand the slow uphill groan of bureaucracy. It's times like these I think, despite popular opinion, dictatorship ain't half-bad. The fact of the matter is: Most people don't know what's good for em'. Case in point: George W. Bush got elected. Twice. (Well at least once; that first election is debatable...)

Now our gathering is, of course, much more evolved than the half-wits who elected W., but still, I lose patience for our slow decision-making process of majority rules. (Note: my family and democracy-lovers in general just gasped and threw tomatoes at me. Whatev. I ain't taking it back!) See how I am? An instigator.

Anyhoos, besides everything, one of the major things we discuss is our family day. What San Diego attraction will we descend upon this year? We vote and much to most people's delight, it's a day at Balboa Park!

Stay tuned...

Day 81 - The End of Something

As I type, the voices of my family lull and crest in the next room. I hear chatter and laughter. I'm pretty sure there's games. I had all these ideas for things to tell you. About the cake for my brother. Or the way Nova lights up a room, like the star she is.

I was going to tell you about the new beachhouse, and how the plates in the cupboards remind me of my grandmothers. How they jolt me back to the smell of the lake cabin and my young cousins in the Minnesota summer air, light as the sun's rays.

I was going to tell you...and I will...

Later.

For today, I'm thinking hard about Ted Kennedy. This month, Death rules the media. As one larger-than-life figure falls after another. It's Jackson or Fawcett or Cronkite, one headline trumps another. We march to the cemetary together, waiting for Larry King to interview friends/family/collegues. We tire of the talking heads and retire to bed. And so it is...

Icon after icon, I barely blink.

But Kennedy, Mr. Ted Kennedy, this one gets me good. Of all the eulogies, it's his--"the lion of the Senate"-- I record. It's his I watch, and my body pumps blood into my heart until it aches. The whole thing feels bigger than me. Than any of us.

Grainy black and white images static-cling to the screen as the 1960's-era voice of a young and handsome Ted Kennedy floats into the room from a CNN broadcast. As the pictures move and Kennedy moves through them, soft-spoken and compassionate, the time period itself mesmerizes me.

The music rises to the occasion as a tragic war and the struggle for civil rights shreds the nation. Our hearts break and break. The scars are everywhere, like gravesites scored in the ground. Bob Dylan thumps his hollow guitar. Janis screams at us.

In 1963, Ted loses his brother. In 1968, Ted loses another brother. His voice breaks while speaking to the crowd at Bobby's funeral; his body hunches and a wave of hurt bends his back as he tries to compose himself at the pulpit. Words of hope. He gives.

Making meaning out of memory, he focused almost completely on the causes him and his brothers championed: civil rights, an end to war, the poor, the sick, the hungry. He embodied the words of Emma Lazarus's poem etched on the Statue of Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside your golden door!"

Forgiving him his personal failures, his career in the U.S. Senate spanned almost five decades and soared in its accomplishments. He spoke and acted compassionately. His handprints mark the page of nearly every important bill on civil rights, disability rights, and education. A world without Ted Kennedy would be a very different world.

The poetry of his passing doesn't elude me. We live in a charged time right now. The time we live in will be a time frequently replayed in the future--much like the 60's, a time of change. With different players. Different causes. If you pay attention, you'll notice--the energy and the intensity of right now is palpable. I believe this time period will mesmerize my unborn granddaughter.

It's different now than it was back then, it's true. But there's mirrors all over, peeking into a similar time. It seems to me, if I drew out lines and conclusions, that Ted Kennedy's passing was timed like a metronome.

Kennedy helped usher in the Civil Rights Act in 1964, a bill that delineated such basic rights for black people in America as to where they were "allowed" to eat and drink. Now, the year of his death, Americans voted into the highest office, the first black president. And with him, the compassion and genius of his message--we will speak honestly and with empathy in mind. We're going to do our best. It's been so long, the soul sighs to hear it. Kennedy probably did too.

I think I glimpsed a tiny little bit of what his life must have been made of while I worked during the 2008 election. I worked harder on that campaign than any job in my life. The energy in those offices was euphoric and endless. Thick and raw. We fight, I thought to myself, with our nails and our tears.

Sadly, we're polarized as a nation as never before. Change rumbles in the distance. And now too. It's storming out. Only time and perspective can show us the overview.

For now, I know, it is the end of something. Something I can't quite put my finger on it. The world is left with her yearning. We'll claw to build bridges as other men tear them down. We'll wake up next to our beloveds, as others carry their beloveds to rest. As a country, our fallen icons etch their songs and their ideas into our collective subconscious.

And the beat goes on...

Day 46 - The 'Phoenicians"

This week zipped by. Dave in Vegas for work. I in Cali working. After the high of last weekend's trip to Phoenix, I felt light and happy. I missed my husband, but this potential dark hole beamed brightly, as I still glowed.

With him back on Thursday, we ceremonially prepared for our weekend guests--mopping floors and wiping mirrors, washing sheets and folding towels. These two Phoenicians, a smart and funny engaged couple, are two of our favorite newest friends.

I met them almost a year ago, in August, as the campaign in Arizona reached an early full sprint to November. Her and I both organized field offices for the democratic party. As a newbie, I was sent to her office to learn the ropes. I respected her immediately. Her large, light-filled office felt like good karma. Brightly-colored Obama posters and other local politican's posters covered the walls. She seemed organized and thoughtful.

During intense campaigns, friendships progress as if on speed. The days run upwards of 12 to 15 hours, and days off do not exist. Not until election day. While I eventually branched into running my own office, by November 4th the respect was mutual and a friendship was formed.

It's always such a joy to meet new friends. It often seems like at any given point in life, you've reached some kind of capacity. Like, 'oh I have five great friends, I guess that's it.' Never conceiving of more. But unfailingly, it always seems like every year or two, you meet someone new that you click with. A welcome surprise.

You shuffle around your life a bit. You make room for them. Cultivating a friendship takes time and patience. You start to tentatively water your new friendships with love.

Some of them never make it. They wither and die quietly, before bloom. Some burst open quickly--full of promise--only to faint just as quickly to the ground, like a sigh. Some, despite your best intentions and care, are unbloomable--you don't understand their needs or they don't understand yours. Some friendships you shouldn't be wasting your water on anyway...they suck up all your energy without ever providing beauty or peace.

But then there's those, that for some reason, all the conditions are right--season, light, and space. And when the flower starts to open, petal by petal, you squeal with delight. It's delicate arms stretched open to the sun.

You shuffle around your life a bit. You make room for them.

Needless to say, my friend and her fiance were an absolute blast. Both smart, interesting, driven, creative, easy-going, funny, and compassionate (well of course they get along so well with Dave and I ;-))! It's also obvious that they truly love and respect one another.

Anyhoo, the ultra-abridged version of the Fri-Sun weekend fun is as follows: talk and sleep, talk and eat, talk and beach.

Lastly, Three Random Quotes from the weekend without contextual explanation...
1. "While breeding children for the future success of the democratic party remains at the top of my list, we're having just two kids.
2. "No one would wear that shirt if they weren't a black Republican.
3. "Let's go watch babies read."

Day 31 - Politik

I apologize in advance to my dyed-in-the-wool Republican readers and friends. But knowing me, you knew this would happen. So seriously, just stop reading right here. I'm going to speak freely. You might not like it. And p.s. I still love you, I just don't love what you do.

Sooo, I thought when I moved to California I'd be free from these pointless "discussions" with conservatives. You see, I'm from North Dakota, a state that runs pure blood red year after election year. I've heard earfuls of thinly-veiled racist twang from the good ol' boys who like to hunt and fish; the ones that damn sure don't want any free-lovin' lazy liberals to get their hands on their hard-earned tax dollars. No sirree. And stay away from their guns or they'll shoot ya.

Then I moved to Arizona, where a whole nother brand of Republicans paints the desert red. They're the mock intellectual religious zealots--the Mormons, Evangelicals, Jehovah's. They view their ballot not as a choice between two candidates, but rather as a decision between God and eternal damnation. These mostly college-educated suburbanites LOVE to patiently have "discussions" with you with their completely unresearched information that was hand-fed to them straight out of the pastor's mouth.

This conversation is a complete and utter waste of time (trust me, I've had it more times than I can count). They've got eternal life on their side remember? They surely won't listen to your devilish Democrat ways (or your facts for that matter), I mean seriously, their pastor warned them about you.

And I'm not saying I have anything against their religious choices. In fact, most of them are better because of it. And some are just downright the loveliest people I've ever met. But I just don't see why Religious and Republican are so intertwined. It's antithetical.

Anyway, so I finally live in a blue state through and through--my first time EVER living in a Democrat state--and here I am, today, having another one of this circular conversations. Ugh.

And let's be clear: I am not anti "Republicans," per se. That's just semantics. I don't care what you call it. The bottom line for me is: I really just do not understand, for the life of me, no matter how many times I try to think it through, given the overwhelming concrete evidence--I don't get why anyone would vote for George W. Bush (especially the second time) and/or for the McCain-Palin ticket last year.

I just have to believe that you don't read the news. Or you confuse facts with opinions. Most of all, I believe you have a willful aversion to the truth.

So in either cases, my point is, I don't want to "play nice" and try to understand where you're coming from. I've tried and tried and tried, and I can't for the life of me wrap my head around that type of belief system. It's like smashing my head into a brick wall. Over and over again.

It just leaves me flabbergasted and sad. So after this discussion today, I've decided to try to never go there again with my red friends and colleagues. Not in North Dakota, or Arizona, and now California.

They're obviously dead-set against enlightenment ;-). And that's their problem.

Day Three - Pizza Rolls and Sunshine

I got meese a job! And proceeded to drink a bottle of wine--happy and go-lucky, jabbering on the phone. I haven't work worked since the campaign, three months of blissful 80-100 hour work weeks. Never worked so hard, yet minded so little. The tragedy of the last eight years under Bush and Dick rendered me heart-broken. And callous. Compelled to act. Thank god for the outcome.

Before that, I was writing for she-devils and warlords at a glossy magazine. Pained me every day just driving to work, then listen to the click-clack-clack of heels, the screaming nothing of blahblahblah. It was a blessing when I got economically-faulted "laid off," a gynormous relief not to belong.

To get what I thought I wanted all along--a job there--peeled open my eyes. This is it? This is what I wanted all these years of writing/writing/writing in my living room for thismagazine here and thatmagazine there, holding titles (while suffocating) to beef my resume so I could finally land something worthwhile down the line--something practical, something for my future, my almighty career?

At the end, awarded with misery and despair. Now my badges of honor. A source of pride that give me pure and unquestionable knowledge: I don't want that life. I gotta back up. Think again. Or don't think. Don't worry about what it looks like from the outside, if people deem me "successful" or not. Forget your "future," what's silent and beautiful "right now"? Feed your soul.

And so, this new job...it's part-time. But it gives me the giggles, I'm so happy. I'm back to selling art supplies and framing pictures. Remniscient of something I did in college, and loved it. No desk. Surrounded by color. Conversations with artists. Discount supplies for my own work. A part-time gig of not-so-early hours that still allows me the time (and energy) to work on words and art. The real creative kind, the little lovelies I love. The ones I have shoved in the back of my journals and sketchbooks, under the category: unsellable therefore useless.

So Day Three is full of sunshine. One goal down, already feeling a bit transformed and liberated. Letting go of that belief system that caused me to act as if my job was the whole of it. Maybe this is a form of enlightment (I'm reaching here). But this checked goal is definitely the background color for the next year. I believe it's yellow.