Bradbury Air.

When a Ray Bradburyesque wind blows, it usually means one thing to most people. To me, it means something entirely different. I should tell you what it means to me, I suppose. That's probably why you're reading. Some part of me would like to make you guess. Does it mean strange things are afoot, or love is in the air, or someone's heart feels like a wet sneaker that has been put in the dryer? Maybe all three. Maybe none. Maybe I can't tell anymore.

Yesterday, walking down a familiar sidewalk, I felt the first signs of a Fall that I've hoped for. The summer has been anything but a vacation for me, though that's what most are callin' it...from their points of view. For me, it's been an introspective time during which I'm supposed to be the most extroverted self of my year. I wish I would have taken notes while I was livin' it. But that's just it. Livin' doesn't leave a lot of room for note taking, even if you know shorthand.

Decisions seem to be something that are inescapable, but what if you don't trust part of your brain like you once did? Worrying that choices placed before me somehow held a promise of something that seemed like gold, but might be more like fairy dust. Though, neither seem to be bad when you look right at them both. And that's the truth of it.

God Hates Protesters

If you have a few minutes, you might enjoy this site as much as I did.

Here Comes Your Man

While I love seeing Joseph Gordon Levitt pretend he doesn't really know how to sing in this clip, I'd like to focus more on the message of the song by the Pixies (a band I love, though I've never attempted the haircut).

Exterior Shot--Chain Restaurant (because two people who never frequent chains find themselves in a suburb). Two tall, distinguished, passionate artists walk into the joint to get lunch. 

Pan to: Close up of seating hostess. She watches couple approach, she sizes up the two of them, she's immediately attracted to the male. 

Hostess: Welcome to this awesome Chain Restaurant. We are so glad to have you here. Please follow me."

Batting eyelashes, quick look up and down his body, and back to his eyes again.

"Wow, sir, you're really, really tall. That must be so nice for you to be so tall. How tall are you, Sir."

Man: 6' 4"

Hostess: My, my, my. So tall.

Woman: Yes, isn't he? I'm tall too. We really love being tall.

Hostess: not wanting to acknowledge woman exists, but glancing over and saying with disinterest, "Oh? how tall are you?"

Woman: 6 foot. It's such a great height. I'm really fond of it.

Hostess: Well, must be so nice for you to have found a tall, strong man. Hold on to your man, you're pretty lucky to be with him.

Man and Woman debate inwardly whether or not to point out everything wrong with what this woman just said, but decide to not launch a verbal tired on the naive, young seating hostess at a chain restaurant in California who believes that a woman must "hold on to a man" and is worth more if she has one. Instead, they just smile and nod.

Man: Ouch. Did you see what she just did to you?

Woman: Yep. Apparently, I'm the lucky one. I'm the one who needed a man. I'm the one who better not let you go, or it will be my loss. That's a Lifetime movie waiting to be made yet again.

Note to reader. This man is NOT my man. He never has been and never will be. He is, however, a dear friend, and one who thinks similarly to myself.

Man: Yes, see, how come I couldn't have been the lucky one? How come I couldn't have been told not to let you go? Or how nice it must be to be with someone who is as tall as you are?

Note to reader: We love this man. He is one of our dearest friends. His ability to even talk about this with me is one of the reasons why.

End Scene (for now, but this happens on more than one occasion. It also happens that every woman that has ever seated this man and myself at a restaurant has practically slipped him her phone number. It doesn't matter if we're holding hands or making out between our sushi, they still do it. Dear Women--wtf?)


It's an interesting thing to notice, in my life, that I am never quite seen as fully complete, adult, fulfilled, and utterly blissed out on joy if I do not have a man in my life. This is a reality that many of the women around me adopt. This is a reality that I refuse to adopt. This is a reality that I want to eradicate from the deepest marrow of my bones. This happens and I wish it didn't. It really, really gets old. /Rant.

My Writing Brain

I used to be a writer. It's gone away. Only elementary words come into my mind. Thoughts composed solely of facebook status updates that people push a little button to "like".

Here are the last ten thoughts I had that I posted to facebook:

1. The screen of my mac gets dirty so fast....#firstworldproblems
2. I kind of like ninjas now.
3. Walking into Hollister makes me feel like an old, pale giant.
4. Spending all day with a 4 year old is like a roller coaster ride for my ovaries.
5. I literally have an ache in my heart when I think about the fact that I cannot time travel...#nerdysadness
6. I'm in California and freezing. What's up with that! P.S. my cousin is with me.
7. Decide what to be and go be it.
8. Avett Brothers in a few short hours. Hello Sunday Evening.
9. Bad Teacher
10. If only my life were more like theater camp.

That's all I got. And some of these aren't even original thoughts. They are thoughts that others have thought that I thought after them.

I don't know what this means for my soul, but the outlook isn't good. My soul is screaming for a metaphor salad right about now.

Thanks Mom!!

Going to San Francisco a few weeks ago was a good thing. I went for a conference on eating disorders as mine has been rearing it's ugly head again the last year. After the conference, I went with two lovely young women I met to the Mission District where we were all going to attempt to eat dinner together without being weird about our eating issues. It's always a good time to laugh at yourself in the process.

We decided to try an amazing Vegan (a lot of people with food issues of undereating/denial/binge/purge tend to go Vegan because it takes away a lot of triggers and we like the added emphasis on health) Mexican place called Gracias Madre (which, of course, is an homage to Mother Earth, but we liked to just call it "Thanks Mom!")

(photo taken from neoncolorwaves)

May I suggest starting out with the VERY fresh, delightful, amazing guacamole?! Served with warm corn tortillas that were blessed by the Gods?

Sip the most incredible Horchata of your life while you're doing it.

Finish off with the Enchiladas con Mole (spicy mole enchiladas topped with mushrooms and cashew cheese, served with sauteed greens and beans).

This is how good real food can be. It was one of the most amazing meals of my life, but also because I let myself mentally enjoy it too, with really good company.

Thoughts Upon the Hunt: Part I

A Side Note of Inspiration: I've been trying to think like a man lately. Yep.

Some History: When you grow up as a smart little girl into an intelligent and semi-sophisticated (my hair isn't always in order) older woman, there is something about the male species that you might never want to admit you know. You might try really hard to believe that some men are capable of not being typical. That some men, due to breeding and education and a really great mother figure in their lives, somehow lack (or evolved) away from the gene where they size up your looks the minute they see you. 

A Fact: Men are hunters.

A Second Fact: Men are very very very very very visual.

Some Explanation: When a man is a hunter, I see it in two ways.

Way 1) Mostly they are going to hunt with their eyes before they ever decide to hunt with their brains. This has been a hard concept for me to grasp in my life, but I think I'm finally at a place of embracing it. I'm finally at a place where if I'm the object of desire, then it might not be such a bad thing. Did you hear me feminist world? Ahem, being an object of desire might not be such a bad thing (thanks to Patty B over at MMP for helping me voice this).

Way 2) Hunting is all about winning or losing. And men like to win. And they want to win even if they don't want you. More on this in Part 2.

The Realities of Conclusion: These thoughts on the hunt stemmed from a conversation I had with a smart, caring, intelligent, funny man who has been my dear friend for a long time. We've been friends with benefits some times and other times we've just been friends. He knows me well. He knows I have a brain and a graduate degree from a top university. He knows I care about feeding poor children and helping the homeless. He listens to me when I rant about being misunderstood by some one. He laughs with me during a good movie. He's been there for me emotionally and physically when I've wanted the one or the other. Knowing that he sees me as a valuable human being makes it ok for him to finally admit that sometimes he sees me purely as an object of desire. And he added to this that it might be safe to tell me that he just plain likes it when I dress like a slut. And, that most men like it when women dress like sluts. 

I have never dressed like a slut before. Well, not often. I've alway been pretty modest because even a V neck shirt can make my lush, brainy breasts look provocative. 

Moving On: This was hard for me to hear because I fear that dressing like a slut will give people the wrong opinion of me, but I also relish the idea of dressing like a slut and taking my sexual power to a very new and higher level. To be able to be the object of desire, know it, own it, even if it's only for the man that sits and watches the news with me. 

What are your thoughts on dressing like a slut? Or looking at girls who are dressed like sluts. Or am I saying the word "slut" so many times that you are now uncomfortable (like I sort of am.)

If I'm Wrong, Please Don't Tell Me

Recently, I entered into conversation with a religious zealot (at least he seemed to be to me, he was probably just an average religious person). I did not mean to. These days, I'd much rather talk about the weather. But we were traveling together, and I didn't know how to stop the onslaught of questions that came from being seatbelted next to someone for the next three hours.

I am usually good with religious zealots. I'd like to think I could take Michele Bachmann on like any quick-witted high school student and have her eating out of my agnostic hand with gratitude. I'd like to think that I could invite over the fundamentalists who predict various days and months for the long-awaited Rapture and woo them with my logic and creme brulée until they start donating to Planned Parenthood, just like me.

But, after the three hours with this religious zealot, I felt as if I might reclaim Mormonism just so my head could stop exploding. He wanted to know why I left. My reasons of patriarchy, racism, lack of human rights/equality, historical cover-ups and fuck-ups, feeling like shit in the Temple, not really believing in polygamy, Prop 8, not really believing in much of an afterlife (which caused him to shake his head at me in hopelessness and sadness at my current state of beliefs), and a slew of other problems didn't seem to be enough.

This wasn't his first time maneuvering around this kind of discourse. He craftily counteracted most of what I had to say--hitting on sore spots and soft spots alike. So much so that any faltering ex-Mormon might feel motivation to immediately find their nearest Bishop--repent, and get on with procreating. I kept trying to explain my point of view. I kept trying to explain the way I felt. I kept trying to tell him I was happy with my decision. None of these worked or satisfied him--but only angered him.

It was a surprise attack from a source I hadn't anticipated. And, it was a battle I thought I could win. I keep learning the lesson that some people just aren't worth the energy, but I think I'm finally getting it.

From now on, I'm going to adopt the mantra of my dear friend Nubian, who, before sharing her opinion with me casually says,  "If I'm wrong, please don't tell me."