Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

They are everywhere. The spectres of relationships. These ghosts of boyfriends past.

I would say "I can't swing a dead cat without hitting someone I once dated" - except I just hate that expression. What kind of freak coined that phrase?

However unfortunate the phrase, the experience is even worse. And not because these men are mean, hideous or otherwise unacceptable social specimens, but almost entirely because they make me reflect on my life. And there are days when I'm simply not prepared to do that.

So instead - I lift my glass to these men. I drink a toast. (Okay, fine - a giant glass of wine, whatever). And I think - each of these apparitions has made my own soul stronger.

For that, I forgive their trespasses in my memory and okay, my favorite hangouts.

I relinquish my inner-Scrooge and instead favor Tiny Tim on this one.

It's not morbid (well, not entirely)

Truth is - I like cemetaries. Okay, fine - sue me. I don't get the "scary" or "creepy" thing. Cemetaries neither scare me nor creep me. Now digitally animated movie characters - that's an entirely different thing, but we'll speak of that later. (Shut it, RK)

Cemetaries offer an infinate amount of peace - the kind you just don't get unless, well, you're dead. 'Cause really, you think a bunch of dead people have the inclination to give you a hard time? That's what work is for.

Anyway, I guess my point is - there is an other-worldly grace to be found amongst the marble, stone and granite garden. There are stories waiting to be imagined. There are stories that will never be known. And if I am aware of anything - it is that life is fleeting. Not always short, but hardly ever cherished to the level it ought.

I know that life is a gift, not a promise. And maybe that's all cemetaries are for me - a reminder to breath, blink, smile, laugh, dance and dream. Well, that and to cut back on the salt and butter

Precious Metals

This is one of those song lyrics that sticks with you. Or it stuck with me, at least.

"She's becoming gold."

I feel that way. Don't get crazy, I don't feel gold or anything quite so pricey - but I feel my value increase daily.

There is sweat and toil that goes into mining gold. It isn't easy. It isn't even always lucrative. But you dig. You dig deep every day. And it isn't one day hitting the jackpot - it's day after day of searching, hoping, believing...and then magic.

Life IS a mystery and the answers may never unfold. But through living the very questions (thank you Rilke) - each of us is becoming gold.

Art is Everywhere

I am a fortunate person. Sometimes when faced with frizzy hair, cellulite and life at the Cube Farm, it's hard to remember how fortunate I really am.

Spent a few hours with some girlfriends tonight and that will lighten the load of any woman. Okay, fine, we topped off 4 bottles of wine, but still - even un-tipsy, these are felines I'm willing to spend my free time with.

Anyway - art. It is in the silly stories shared. It is in a quick "we have a secret" wink. It is in the intelligence of flip-flops. And sometimes we have friends who have an entirely artful way they look at life. I have many of those friends. This is one.

The point? Art is everywhere. Even in the loud chaos and incoherent chatter. Especially then.

A Kick-ass Writer

I tell you, there are some writers who just speak to me. It's like a foreign language that only some understand. Anne Lamont is one of those writers for me.

Aside from the fact that she constructs a beautiful sentence - she's funny as hell.

I'm partial to Bird by Bird and Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith.

That's the kind of kick-ass writer I hope to be one day.

60 Minutes ticking and other things I dread

It all started when I was in school. Sundays were days spent finishing up homework and science projects and it was all brought to the pinnacle by the sinister ticking of the 60 Minutes stopwatch.

Was there ever a more stomach-dropping sound than that stopwatch? The splendor of Dukes of Hazard and The Love Boat were a distant memory in the tick-tick-tick-tick (times infinity) of that second hand. And it all meant one thing - the weekend was over. Turn in your Fun Passes at the door and settle in for another week of monotonous lesson plans and poorly-written teen drama. (I like my teen drama well-scripted: ala Dawson's Creek or Buffy the Vampire Slayer - real teen angst is ugly and not equipped with snarky, funny and smart banter. Bummer)

Anyway, even in the absence of Algebra II homework and my OCD-ish ability to avoid network TV on Sundays - I'm still left with the Phantom Stopwatch. It's like people who lose a finger or a leg and they still imagine its presence. No matter how old I get, Sunday nights just suck. They suck up one side and down the other. They suck my big fat toe. (Okay, maybe my maturity level is the same, 'cause "suck my big toe" is about as adolescent as I like to go.)

So, what am I getting at? I dunno. Abolishment of Sundays? Death to all stopwatches? Kicking Andy Rooney in the ding ding? None of them seem particularly likely (or fair), so I guess this - maybe a mental realignment. Nobody likes a hater and I'm definitely a Sunday hater.

So let me begin with a meditative mantra: Love your life. Even Sundays.

Afterall, what has Sunday ever done to me?

Self Portrait

Okay, so if the world were black and white, reversed out, backwards and distorted by shadow - this is what I might look like.