Monday, September 24, 2007

This post is, like, 5 years out of date...

Why I hate "The Bachelor":

1) Women willingly putting themselves in the position to be mocked.
2) There is virtually NO ethnic diversity, and when there is, the guy still goes for the blonds or "white" brunettes. It just screams to society that in America, the picture perfect marriage is never multi-racial.
3) This guy gets to make out with EVERYONE - he's got all the choice in the world, while these women have only one - and yet they ALL fall head over heels for him. I don't get it - you show up and suddenly you're in love?
4) Whereas in real life, when you make yourself vulnerable it sometimes leads to finding the right person, on The Bachelor, it just means a lot of viewers get to laugh at you, and the beeyatch on your right can sweep in and make her move.

I'm sure this is surprising given my history with AYMW (notice the new website), but I'd like to plead my case. At least with AYMW women (and one man and one couple!) had one-on-one time with Allan. Further, I think the vast majority of us didn't go into it thinking we were going to find our soul mate - it was for fun! I get taking a chance on finding love in an unconventional way (it seems to have worked for Allan and heck, I'm dating a guy who lives in France), but I don't like that being on a reality t.v. show now dictates to beautiful and intelligent (well, a few of them appear to be intelligent) women that if a hot, wealthy guy is standing in front of you, he's destined to be your soul mate. I know that's what we all dream for - but I guess any woman who hasn't learned by now that love is just not that simple deserves whatever grief The Bachelor gives her.


Tuesday, September 18, 2007


The bad news: a crashed hard drive and countless lost photos and documents (in short, my history as recorded by me...)

The good news:

I suppose everything has a silver lining. Or in this case a lovely brushed silver finish.


Monday, September 10, 2007

This Blog'in Life

I find it funny that I started this blog to keep my close (but locationally distant) friends in touch with my forays into the dating world after breaking my ties as a serial monogamist once and for all. Now, though a few dear friends still check in (hi Lia! Hi Eric! Hi Cat!), the people that most frequently pop up in my comment section are virtual strangers. I love that the basis of these relationships is this space where I share sometimes random/funny/deep thoughts and experiences - and the trade off sites where all of you do the same (up the random/funny/deep!). Anyway, lately I've been excited that a few of these friendships have started to transcend our blogs. I just got off the phone with Sarah who kindly offered to give me some insight into the field of Interior Design (I'm hoping to take some intro courses soon in my never-ending attempts to find a creative outlet and create my dream job). Also, in early October, just after I move to Berkeley, James will be dropping by during his whirlwind tour of California to visit friends. He will be the first official blog-friend that I meet in real life - fun! And Peter has become much more than a faithful reader and kick-ass writer - he's now an on-call editor when I need one (if you're ever tasked with creating a non-traditional cover letter, he's your man) and sharer of maximum-awesome music.

I continue to love each of you who read and share your thoughts as I wander through this blog'in life. I haven't been the best reader these days (am picking up though) but if any of you are ever in Cali - don't hesitate to look me up!


Saturday, September 08, 2007

the missing piece

As summer draws to a close I am forced to face facts: this hasn't been the best of times for me. I haven't been able to put my finger on it since I've been home, but there have just been too many mood swings, too many mornings when getting out of bed has had the same appeal as licking the drain after a garbage man's shower. My parents and boyfriend have taken the brunt of it - whether dealing with my moods or accepting once again that I just don't have the emotional energy to actively participate in the phone calls that keep us sane. During my time away from home the moods have lifted. I had a blast with friends in Portland (that post never did make it up but perhaps the pictures will eventually) and Southern California, and with the Frenchman in Alabama last week. Each time I return though I'm caught off guard at how quickly the dark hole of an unidentifiable oppressor seeps back in.

Tonight I figured it out, and while I wish I could say it was due to my own soul searching and insight, it was more the result of listening to one of my cousins bring me up to date on some recent events in her life. In the process of dealing with the sort of craziness that is only born of love and family, she's had to revisit some aspects of her past that she's never laid to rest. During this process (being guided by a therapist) she was asked to identify her "safe place." Listening to her story I realized that my anger and anxiety this summer is a direct result of having lost my own safe place.

My grandparents house is on the edge of a field and sits beneath the watchful eye of Jack's Peak. There has always been a magic to this house, whether it was the smell of rose pedals as we crushed them with the ancient mortal and pestal that Grandpa had dug up, or the feel of the orange shag rug beneath our feet as my cousins and I danced to "Sunrise, Sunset," played by invisible hands on the electric organ. The walls have absorbed decades of family songs, and bear the faintest traces of generations being lulled to sleep next to a crackling fire in the living room. For as long as I can remember I credited the family this house fostered as the greatest blessing in my life. I saw how special my grandparents legacy was, how with a quick stroke of an e minor chord, we'd all chime in on Grandpa's favorite song. I have always known that not everyone has been lucky enough to know or appreciate this magic.

When my parents decided to move into my grandparents house (at that point vacant for 11 years since their deaths) I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, we were leaving another home I'd loved, on the other, I would now come home to the place I'd always identified as home in my heart. My relationship with this house revolved around the core understanding that no matter where you go, you have a place to come home to where you can regain a sense of peace. I think I've needed that more than ever coming back from South Africa, and I just haven't found it. The memories are feeling more and more like exagerated assumptions and the ties I thought this house represented appear fragmented. It's too confusing and painful to explain in depth, but perhaps recognizing this loss is the first step in overcoming the powerful sadness that has accompanied all of the daily blessings this summer that I have not been able to focus my energies on. For in times of sadness, the blessings never go away. They're there, almost taunting you to get the hell out of your clouds and back into the reality of your life. If only you knew how to make that reality feel more like home and the safe place it used to represent.


Thursday, September 06, 2007

To Zen, or not to Zen?

Living at home has its perks. Take, for instance, the variety of reading materials I am offered each time I use the restroom. My mom has a little basket filled with magazines and quirky books (most at least three years old) right next to the toilet. Included in the selection are a special (collectors!) edition of People Magazine's "30 Years of Seeing Stars," The World's Shortest Stories (55 words each) and an assortment of Country Living magazines and Carmel Visitor guides.

Each time I get back from a trip I find a new addition in the basket (thank God, because I've pretty much made my way through everything else, and 3-year old Country Interior schemes can only hold my attention for so long). This week it was "The Little Zen Companion" which I have been enjoying for its wisdom, and sometimes, oddity. Because while I can get behind "When you meet a master swordsman, show him your sword. When you meet a man who is not a poet, do not show him your poem," by Lin-Chi, I'm just not sure what to make of this, "so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens." Really? Does so much depend on said wheel barrow? This bit of zen mastery comes to us from William Carlos Williams - not your typical zen master from the sound of it (I could tell you more, but his Wiki entry is just too long to be bothered with).

"I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry." - John Cage