California License Plate

I've lost count of how many times people have asked me why I still have my CA license plates on my car. I usually just say it's because the tags haven't expired yet;  I'd rather wait until they do to change everything, including my driver's license. The truth of the matter is I'm very attached to my CA plates. Honestly, I believe the these plates are my excuse to be an aggressive or otherwise bad driver. My theory is, even if I piss someone off to the point that they'd want to shoot me, they won't, because they'd see the plates and say,  "Californians are just rude and that we don't know any better." I also think that people behind me are less apt to follow closely because they don't always know what I may do...(Hence the picture on the left...) If you hug my butt, you'd better believe I'll go slower. If you're acting like a cactus-ass and start weaving in and out of traffic, oh yeah, I'm the chick blocking you in. There are two things you never do on the road:  One: Cut off a guy in a Mercedes talking on his cell phone, and Two: Piss off a Californian behind the wheel. Moral of the story: I keep my CA plates because their my excuse for bad behavior...there I said it!

Silicone Heart

Ok, Ok! So she'll die looking more like the Crypt Keeper...

It is nothing more than infatuation, I know this now. Everyone tells me that I'm up to my ears in a one-sided relationship, but do I believe their rather convincing and dramatic pleas for my retribution and sanity, No...I ignore their wisdom and insight in exchange for my temporary high and blind love. Love for "living in the moment." Love for the scene. Love for the pace, for the flow. Love for the expectancy of it's inhabitants. Love for the never-resting nights and the ever-running days. I hate to love the constantly exhausting plethora of attractive features and amenities offered. I hate lying awake at night, wondering if yesterday's hard work will be enough for the demands of tomorrow. The overdose of my anxiety and anticipation of the unknown here leaves me scarred and tired. I mustn't let the others see my bloodshot eyes; I have to make them think this place which preys on everyone and everything has accepted me, for me, because I'm different and special. They mustn't see how I long for the acceptance and validity of this place's addictive and enthralling sensuality and mystery. This place satisfies and provides more than adequate access to venues for my shoe addiction, but at what cost? This place wines and dines me, but still, where's the love? I find now it's harder to breathe; not just on account of the smog and pollution that seizes the silicone heart of this place, but for the constant call to be "civilized" and "enlightened" in my "Stepford" SELF. Every creature's relentless pursuit of success here is more important than the "pursuit of happiness." They all think they're a big deal, the next big thing...Does that give the nobodies a right to treat all the other nobodies like crap? Well, apparently, as long as you have money to burn, you can do and be anyone. Here, you can die looking like Catherine Zeta-Jones, when you were really born looking like the crypt keeper. Awe, the wonders and blessings of being a Californian!

Toxic Tongues

I remember as a little girl watching old western films with my dad. I idolised men like John Wayne and Gregory Peck for their foundation character and their willingness to die honoring their word. I strongly believe that this breed of men is slowly rotting away into the fabric of our imaginations. Soon they will be nothing more than a distant memory, or just a tall-tale mocked. Through the combination and progression of time, carelessness and "for the sake of advancement," the importance of our words have depreciated. Didn't we learn anything from "The Boy Who Cried Wolf?" You know, the kid who falsely cried for help from his fellow herdsman. When he really needed assistance, the memory of his laughing and mockery at their willingness to assist, kept the herdsman from his side when he was in desperate need of their help. We've traded true security for comfort. We've traded truth and honor for excuses and the "art of being tolerant." And that word, "tolerant..." makes me want to barf. Words use to be a declaration and mirror of one's soul; now-a-days we have to "read into" things and prepare for the worst. And if we're too trusting and take things at face value, we're stupid and should have known better. I've come to the conclusion that in this day and age, our words and promises are like mailers - cheap and disposable. Every once in a while there will be one worth keeping; of course if it's free or non-sacrificial. Isn't that sad...Looks to me like the world needs one of two things. One, to be taken over the knee of God and have a good hard spanking, or two, wake up from the promiscuous thought of phenomenal dimension, that we're all entitled to change our minds at the drop of a hat at everyone else's convenience. Or, we could cut the bull crap, and actually start to mean what we say. My hand's raised for the spanking people!

Every Day Happenstances (Good Morning!)

I hit the snooze button about 5 times before I decide if I wait any longer, I'll be late. I peek out the sliding glass door at the top of the small bistro table on our balcony to see what the weather has in store for the day. Huff...Thought so! I guide myself by the light seeping through the vertical blinds from the apartments behind us. They never turn off that stupid light. Aww well. I just about trip over the duvet that's fallen to the ground through our tossing and turning all night long. I was wondering why I was so cold last night. Maybe that's why I was dreaming I was in the arctic with only my bathrobe on. I'm glad I caught myself before running into the monster of a TV we have in the bedroom. I was a firm believer in the "TV's Ruin the Romance" statement, until I married a man who believed firmly in the "TV equals Romance" bit, so I compromised. I crack the bedroom door and brace myself for the sudden pounce and bound into the room from Abraham Lincoln, our cat, not the President. After recovering from this near death experience, I chase Mr. Lincoln, which further encourages his wit and rebellion. I finally surrender the exhausting task of "find the kitty under the bed." Of course I couldn't tell the difference between a cat and all the bunched together crap underneath my bed anyway. What was I thinking? That was a waste of my precious time.  I make my way down the hallway to the bathroom. I always manage to turn on the brightest light in the bathroom, blinding myself temporarily before I can find the switch to change the light source. Dang! I thought I left my morning face wash out last night, just so I wouldn't have to crouch under the sink to find everything but my morning face wash. I guess it's another game of hide and seek. I turn the water to hot, and while I wait for what seems like forever for it to warm up I decide I have enough time to relieve myself. Dag-nabit, out of toilet paper. Then of course I try to remember if I was the one to take the last of it, assuring myself that I wouldn't be so irresponsible. Moving on... The water is finally a good temperature to wash my face without sending my body into shock. Pat face dry, rub in lotion, brush teeth, clean ears, turn on flat iron and curling iron. Phew...done in under 10 minutes. Thank goodness! Don't judge, that's a world record for some. I walk out of the bathroom and turn toward my bedroom. There's Mr. Lincoln, right in the middle of the walkway, trying to dodge me as I dodge him. And who should lose their balance but me, the master. You'd think after having to do this for the last several months, I'd get the picture...he's trying to kill me. After totally embarrassing myself, I find my way back to the bedroom and get out my makeup, all 50 bags of it. Or so it seems like somedays. I usually sit in front of our wardrobe mirror and apply my makeup. This is not the best position to be in first thing in the morning; I've found myself falling asleep easily. I spend the next half hour trying to keep the cat off my lap while I try to creativaly reinvent cosmetic history. Not always so successful when 15% of my focus is actually on applying my face. Have to wash all that makeup off my hands now. Time to do the do. Straight or curly? Wait! What am I wearing again? Did I even remember to pick out my clothes last night? How about instead of standing here trying to figure it out, I go back to my closet and find out. Oh! Now I remember, black, black and black...how could I forget, I wear that color every day. While I'm standing here, I might as well get dressed, then do my hair. What time is it? Ok, I have 15 mintues. I can do this. I slip on my outfit and run to the bathroom, quickly flat iron my hair, spray some fake shine over the top of my head, unplug the irons, grab my purse and run downstairs. Feed the cat, down a cup of cold coffee, grab a yogurt and my lunch and head for the door. I always pause before opening the door. "Did I forget anything?" But even though I ask myself this question just before leaving, I always manage to forget something...important.

To be Continued---