Why My Day Sucks

1) Wake up after 5 hours of sleep to hear a ladder being hoisted onto my window and two workmen looking right at me. Scraping paint; spend an extra 30 minutes trying to calm (ie, drug) the cat with alternating applications of catnip and Rescue Remedy.

2) Stinky passengers between Duboce and Civic Center -- shouldn't a bathing requirement be enacted on MUNI?

3) Finally acquire a seat and rest my head against the window to steal a few minutes of extra slumber. Jostled awake by Crazy Ranting Woman who tells me that "I'm on the wrong highway...white people are going to lose the war." More bemused than pissed to bite her head off for disrupting my shut eye.

4) Stomach is killing me -- peptic acid is eating me alive.

Maya Angelou's Wisdom

ON THE PULSE OF MORNING
Maya Angelou


A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning

Recited at the inauguration of William Jefferson Clinton, that beautiful January morning in 1993. We were so full of hope at the promise of the new day and regime.

We Democrats finally have the power to take back our country. Let's hope we don't blow it.

My Goodbye Present from LA

My car got tagged this week. A going away present from the SilverLake 13.

Apparently, the gang bangers decided that my "ride" needing "pimping." How considerate and thoughtful. They really shouldn't have though. Does that mean they want a piece of me? Have I been initiated?

Fortunately they only tagged my windows, not the panels. You would have seen the looks I got driving my wacked out ride to the Home Depot for a can of graffiti-off. Or the reaction from the cashier. "Such a pretty girl..why do you do graffiti? Why you run with gangs?" "No, I had to explain, I need to clean it off." That's just how we roll in S-town....

Worth Getting Out of Bed For

Trader Joe's Strawberry O's
Cheerios with chunks of strawberry yogurt goodness. Mornings were made for this.

It's Getting Old, and So Am I

I just returned from my dermatologist's office, a fancy-schmancy oasis on Wilshire Boulevard where they offer Botox and laser wrinkle removal. (Before you jump to conclusions, I was undergoing a most unglamorous procedure of getting my moles checked). Going to my doctor's office is almost a treat. Her staff are friendly and professional, and they are clearly trying to cultivate a spa atmosphere complete with glossy magazines and complimentary mineral water. So enjoyable is my time in the waiting room, they have to peel me from my chair. (It doesn't help that I'm usually having something icky done, like having a mole cut out or burned off my forehead.)

My gripe involves a trend that is growing more disturbing by the day. Each of her staff members, from the scheduler to the nurse, calls me "hon," "kiddo" or "sweetie". It's not done in a patronizing way, they are quite sincere. The thing is, I'm probably older than half of these well-intended, yet misguided women. Do they really think I'm in college? Don't they see my charts stating I was born in the early 70s? Unless they can't do the math, which clearly, albeit painfully states I'm 35. I want to say, "Look I'm paying with my own credit card. I'm using my own health insurance which is provided by my grown-up job."

I briefly attributed it to the way I dress, but in a town that so desperately covets youth, even the grannies shop at Forever 21. Compared to these exhibitionists, I might as well be a Victorian.

When I was 21 and looked 16 everyone told me I'd appreciate it when I got older. I know, I should be so lucky. To be terminally cute, ha ha. Well let me tell you something. Cute does not age well. Cute is cute at 21, less endearing at 35, and downright ridiculous at 40. Even if 40 is the new 30, it ain't the new 15. Not just yet anyway.

Gym Euphoria

I'm not a gym rat, I swear. Believe you me, it takes all I can to drag my sorry butt to work out, and I treat it like a trip to the dentist in that I bring everything I can to possibly distract myself: ipod, books, magazines -- heck I'd bring food if I could. But somewhere after 30 minutes on the torture device known as the elliptical, the endorphins kick in. Delirious from exhaustion, I go into the "zone" and an amazing sense of clarity emerges. My creativity reaches new heights as I come up with new book ideas, inventions, philosophies of life. Dripping with sweat, I shed my insecurities, apathy, and limitations, and metamorphisize into a new, actualized being. On my drive back, I vow to implement my new ideas and change my life as soon as I get home. Of course, once I set foot in the door, the couch beckons...

Schadenfreude

Admit it. Everyone derives a bit of satisfaction from the misfortunes of the rich and famous. I'd like to say I'm bigger than that, but sadly I'm no different. In my case, it's the story of Kaavya Viswanathan, the disgraced 19-year-old Harvard student who admitted to plagarizing passages of her book "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life." Or now it should be titled "How Overachieving Teenager Got into Harvard, Landed a six-figure Book Deal, and Got Herself Subsequently Ostracized from the Literary Community." Initially her book publisher stood by her story of the deed being "unconscious and unintentional." Now things are looking a bit dim for Ms. Viswanathan. Today, Little, Brown announced they were pulling her books from all carriers. Needless to say, her second of her 2-book deal is now in jeopardy and DreamWorks has ixnayed its optioning of the film rights.

My fascination deviates between pleasure in her pain and sincere pity. After all, she is surrounded by pressure on all sides -- her parents, school, and the media goldfish bowl. It's uncertain whether she'll return to Harvard. She has undoubtedly pushed herself hard for her achievements. But for whose ambitions? It was her parents who hired a $30,000 coach to strategize Ivy League admission. The same coach who referred Viswanathan to her book agent.

Maybe I'm a bit pissy because on my family's annual income, which was little more than the cost of Ms Viswanathan's "consultant", I didn't get a fancy coach or expensive college prep education. (Bring out the violins...) I'm a product of California public schools for better or worse. My parents scrimped and saved so that I wouldn't be saddled with student loans after graduating from the University of California, freeing me up to take the first minimum-wage, entry-level publishing job I could find. Maybe I'm pissy because my last submission to "Jane" magazine was rejected. (They did send a nice letter though.)

Don't get me wrong. Life is good. My path of medical writing has been lucrative and afforded me a comfortable standard of living. I'm no longer in debt. We eat out regularly. Of course, I give into flights of fancy about landing that book deal that will take me out of the rat race, and give me my first house.

But right now I'm going to bed.

A Bit of Calcutta in SilverLake

So yesterday around 4 we hear a gush of water emitting from below the deck of our bungalow. "Oh the gardeners must be out," I muse. Jeremy looks out the window to investigate. He sticks it back in. "Jeeezus, there's raw seewage flowing down the steps [we live next to this here public walkway: ]."

Mmm, desentery delight. Something is backed up in the drainage system, causing a leak in the septic system. Yay! Fun times for a Saturday night. Three hours and four LA city workers later, we can turn our water back on. Remind me to stock up on bottled water. Not even Britta can filter that.

A Cat in Waiting

Poor Kali. She's a bit, er, backed up at the moment. I mean, how much does that suck? She can't exactly add a little fiber to her diet or take ex-lax. Oatmeal and coffee works wonders for me, but its effects on the feline gastrointestinal tract are unknown. Anyways, she has to wait for mommy (me) to get a clue when I notice she's been in her box for a long time or when she'll ask me for the New Yorker.

Unfortunately, she doesn't make things easy. Kali's penchant for being finicky is off the charts, even in catland. So she'll totally know if I try and pull a fast one, like add metamucil to her food. And forget about pumpkin -- a tried and true remedy. Finally, her preference for dry food over tender vittles isn't helping anyone.

So the people at the holistic petstore suggested flax seed oil. Since she hates pills, it's something I easily smear on her paw and have her lick it off. I'll let you know if that works. No doubt, you're on the edge of your seat

Return from Exile

Geez, has it been 4 whole months? Not much has happened since my last post. No trips to write about. So you'll just be subjected to my musings. Read at your own risk.