If I were an Entrepreneur. . .

First, like any good story writer, I must give you the background story:

The East coast of the US and various areas in the middle parts of America are a full month into being pummeled by the throes of Father Winter's frigid wrath. What this can translate into, for the uninitiated, is sub-zero (that's Fahrenheit) temperatures, white-out driving conditions, and half-inch-thick ice covering everything from cars door locks to telephone wires to red-ripe fruit still hanging on to branch-tips with the tenacity of a small and vicious dog's clinging to an unwanted visitor's trouser cuff. Unfortunately, the powers that be do not cancel the world and it's incessant needs during such treacherous outdoor conditions. They can't really, for in certain parts of this vast and complicated country, such heinous weather lasts for months at a time, and allowing people to use the truly valid excuse of completely unsafe driving conditions as a reason to stay home from work could hypothetically ground all productivity, and even worse - all consumption - to a definitive halt. Yikes. How very un-American.

To battle this need for continued rat racing and good consuming, areas that are accustomed to such intense (and deplorable) weather conditions have management techniques in place. Plow trucks, salt trucks and sand trucks are among the most commonly used methods to battle the icy conditions that cause countless vehicle pile-ups and excruciatingly long commutes for those rueful rats racing to and fro all the livelong day. But there's one massive problem with those problem solvers. And that is. . .if the temperature drops much below freezing, (that's 32 degrees Fahrenheit), they are completely useless. That's right. When ice is falling from the sky, pummeling everything in sight, rendering electricity outages across miles of cityscape and leading to many an old-lady breaking her hip, those salt trucks are no good. No good at all.

So, what to do? What to do? Well, several cities have proposed an interesting new solution in recent years. That being. . .beet juice. You heard me right. Plain-old sticky-sweet sugar-beet juice. Reports would have you believe that it works like a god-sent miracle, melting even the thickest of ice off streets and highways with a quickness not seen since the senior Earnhardt dominated the NASCAR scene. So why isn't it used all over the frozen land? Why do massive swaths of American landscape remain locked under fractions of inches of treacherous solid water while the salt trucks sit idly in their service vehicle parking lots? Because beet juice is a little bit stinky, a tad bit sticky, and worst of all. . . a deep, dark, staining red.

People can't stand that the juice dyes the tires of their cars. And the sidewalks of their streets. And the soles of their shoes. It's red, it's vegetable juice, and it goes nowhere very very slowly. So this is where my entrepreneurial spirit (which I didn't previously know I had) bucks up and gets very excited. I have the perfect solution ,and it will make me scads of money (uhmm, and I'll be helping lots of people be safe and stuff which is really good, too. cough).

Have you ever read the series of children's books written by James Howe? If you haven't, I highly suggest you get on that, and quick. At any rate, the stories are all very cheeky and pseudo-scary, and center around a strange little rabbit named Bunnicula. The vampire rabbit. With clever titles like, "The Celery Stalks at Midnight," Howe details the antics of this juice-sucking vampiro-bunny as he hops from garden to garden, depriving the root vegetables in each row of their distinct colors and striking fear into the hearts of every subterranean tuber.

Well, if you don't see the obvious connection here than you're apparently not quite awake. This is what makes this idea so deliciously brilliant. First step is, I procure some nice fertile, open land and plant some beet seeds. Next, I hunt down Bunnicula (he's not hard to find when one follows the country's only trail of colorless rutabaga) and win him over with my personality, cheesy jokes, and stockpile of veggie juice. He'll be as juiced up as an alcoholic at an Irish-Catholic Christmas party. Then, I breed him to create a whole army of vampire bunnies. I will name them things like Incubunnyus and Lehoppystat, and we will all be friends. I will keep them sated with bulk v8 supplies procured from CostCo as I hatch part three of the plan: tend those beets on my beet farm and start weaning the fanged little furry fiends off their myriad juices and get their juice-lust honed in on the money-pot. . .sweet, sweet beet juice.

Once their thirst for the thick red nectar is insatiable, and their fangs drip and glisten in the moonlight with their desire for a fresh kill, I will release my army of vampire bunnies into the rows of juicy beets. I won't watch the carnage; my cruelty only goes so far. But once they have had their way with the heart-shaped roots, I will reap what I have sewn; I will harvest the red-juice-depleted vegetables, and press them for their remaining sweet nectar. This red-free beet juice will descend like a savior on the winter-embattled citizens of the land, bringing them freedom and traction and paths to productivity/consumption they never before imagined during the coldest of seasons.

And that is my plan. And I know it's ridiculous. And I don't care :)

The Life Lessons of a Squished Bee

I recently witnessed a magical moment. It all started at a burrito shop a shoeless hippie's throw from where the sand meets the water meets the sky. The California burrito sitting in front of me oozed with something frightening looking, very unhealthy, and ungodly delicious. Neon signs begged passer-by to stop into the tattoo shop above where I sat- one of perhaps only twelve tattoo parlors on the four-block stretch of the Ocean Beach street.

Newport street is replete with one-stop tourist havens filled with a whole lot of crap that nobody needs, filthy-cozy dive bars, sweatshop-supplied clothing stores, incense-burning "water pipe" glass stores, and surfboard and bicycle rental shops. As I contemplated my burrito, many locals (also known as Obecians), ambled past barefoot and toting long-boards (street and water versions), smoking cigarettes, or played hacky- sack and handmade drums by the stone wall separating sidewalk from beach. The locals are generally indistinguishable from the transient masses who migrate to San Diego in search of a warmer, better, hipper place in which to carry on their various degrees of chosen or forced nomadic lifestyles and destitution. I dig it in OB because the people watching is ripe, and I could pass a few happy lifetimes sitting back and inventing lives for all those randoms who pass across my view. And the drum beats are nice.


The vast majority of people found in OB are clad in the most casual of clothes, from swimsuits to jeans and t-shirts. Girls don't get all squeezed in and slutted up to go to the bars here. That's what PB is for. OB is the pinnacle of laid-back beach life. It is what it is and it is chill. To the max. Brah.

As I'm sitting trying to figure out how to eat my uber-sloppy burrito, a very well-dressed Mexican family of three walked up to the shop's window to order dinner. The sun was long gone at this point, having dropped dramatically below the horizon several hours earlier. The father was standing in the threshold of the tiny shop, gathering napkins and hot sauce containers for their meal. As an unabashed watcher of all people, I was checking out this handsome man, so wonderfully out of place in his clean navy suit and tie, little slick-haired toddler and red-dressed-and lipsticked wife in tow, awaiting their napkins and food at one of the outdoor picnic tables.

As I was taking in the image of this man and his super-shine shoes, I noticed a fuzzy little bee begin to laboriously make it's way up the heel of his fancy shoe. In the best Spanish I could muster (thank god I remembered the word for bee), I tapped him on the arm and said (I think), "excuse me, there is a bee on your shoe." He looked at me for a moment longer than my comfort zone would have it, then looked down cool as a cucumber and very gently brushed the bee off his shoe, and went to join his family. For reasons I can't explain I almost blushed; I felt as though I had done something wrong, revealed some personal weakness or moral failing to him.

Back to my burrito, which was slowly diminishing. A while later the man's little boy was up and about, burning off some steam while his parents ate. He eventually happened upon the same little bee his father had so gently handled, which had since moved a couple of feet out onto the stone patio, still within harms way of the giant feet making their ways to-and-fro. After contemplating the tiny, flightless, winter-dulled creature for about a minute, the little boy picked up his foot and decidedly gave the bee a good stomp.


His dad was by his side, it seemed, before his foot had even reached the ground. Taking his wrist firmly and pulling him away with a light jerk of his arm, he offered a very firm and repeated, "no! no, no, no!" The little boy was deposited on the bench next to his mother.

Dad returned to the bee as son sat looking more than a little chagrined next to his mother, who seemed to have missed the whole thing. The dad crouched down, pulling up his fancy-pant legs to get down low enough, and tenderly scooped the still-alive (but visibly injured) bee into his hand. He then walked over to a shrub bordering the patio and set the bee oh-so-carefully on a broad leaf. His son watched every inch of the process with eyes and mouth as wide as the sky.

Once the little bee was safely in place, Dad came over and grabbed his son by the wrist again, more gently this time, and lead him over to where he had placed the bee. There he crouched with his little son, explaining to him in low tones about the sanctity of life, and respect for life, and love for creatures, and responsibility, and what it means to be really big and to be gentle and kind to something very small. He spent a long time talking to his son, asking him questions and ensuring that he understood how important it all was. The dad then took the bee off of the leaf and held it out on his outstretched palm for his son to look at, to point out the damaged wing and to explain that the bee would no longer be able to fly, to gather pollen, to go home to his family or hive. He replaced the bee and patted his son on the head as he stood up, saying very clearly, "te amo."

This scene almost brought me to tears. I don't know that I've ever before witnessed such a beautiful example of being a good human, a gentle man, and most importantly, a great father. In a world in which people so often disregard the little things that are so important in the long run, and set poor examples for the young humans in their lives with their harsh actions and immature choices, here was a man taking the time to explain to this precious little person of his the importance of respecting a tiny little bee. Pure Magic.

Breakfast in bed and it's raining on Turkey day.

right now i am overwhelmed with gratitude for the abundance of good in my life. as i sit here snuggled up in bed with a down quilt on my lap, hot tea and oatmeal steaming beside me, and a small slice of pumpkin pie waiting patiently for me, i feel tingles through the tips of my fingers and toes from something called love. this gratitude is so thick i can sink my teeth into it, savoring the soft texture of it as it slides down my throat to soothe my very soul.

i didn't fly home for thanksgiving this year. or last year. or the year before that. every year since i have been living in san diego i decide to stay out of pure angst over braving the airport during the most heinous of all traveling weekends. i do so knowing that i am trading a warm house filled with dozens of family members and enough food to feed a small yet very hungry army, for the quiet and peace and simplicity of a thanksgiving alone. two years ago i spent the holiday in tents and canoes in the black river canyon, soaking in hot springs under an inky night sky. last year it was me and a few friends stuffing ourselves silly with wine and the full feast that we prepared for ourselves. this year, it's different yet again.

it's just me and franco here in san diego. all my friends have left for family or friends in the far reaches of the country. we're going to a local deli that serves the traditional feast all day long and then we're going to hunker down and watch football and holiday movies beneath blankets and a shroud of food-coma happiness. i am grateful for the peace and quiet of today, and for the knowledge that my family is safe and happy and healthy, and for the love of an incredible man to buouy me throughout my days. franco just called me into the living room to gaze upon the rainbow spreading beneath the clouds across the canyon valley. it's not a site often seen here in the desert; i'm happy to accept it as a special gift and a reminder of the good in life.

Keeping Pace with myself

My artistic outlets have been taking a backseat to the rigors of graduate study lately. Instead of relaxing with my journal and my thoughts or taking off on my bicycle to find photo opportunities, I've been holed up in the lab or at my kitchen table with articles spread out around me, my head in my hands, and a thesis defense date looming increasingly large on my horizon.

But I refuse to let it take complete control, and in defiance of the stress of it all, I have found mini-moments and outlets through which I am able to wrest a modicum of control over my life. For instance, Franco and I are taking a once-weekly salsa dance class. He is loving it as much as I am and grabs me whenever we are together with a free moment to practice our new moves. Having his enthusiasm right alongside mine is a treasured gift, and I relish the stolen times we find to share in our new-found hobby. We have both been long-time lovers of all kinds of dance, but taking a class with a partner is a new experience for us both.

His support has been immeasurable. We are both so incredibly busy with teaching and internshipping and studying and writing and trying to keep our heads above water but we still manage to find time for each-other, if only across the table studying together. We just took a one-night trip into the mountains this past weekend, and it turns out that the fresh air and fall colors and stunning scenery was exactly what we both needed to get the energy to plow through yet another week of relentless obligation.

Something that has been an unexpected factor for me recently is my almost-obsession with the upcoming election. I find myself feeling very personally involved in the daily goings-on and developments of the partisan emotions and increasingly rancourous tone of so many of my country mates. I find it to be both a hopeful and extremely troubling time in my life as I look at how debate and willingness to listen has devolved into name calling and a continuance of the policies of fear and hatred coming into the forefrount of the national dialogue (if one can call it that). I wonder if my level of stress will fall dramatically on Nov. 5th or if this is just the beginning of my political awakening and if it is a path I will continue to follow as I find it harder and harder to play the apathetic role and pretend that my voice does not matter. The only reality that I can bear is to start to believe that my voice has to matter, and that I have to act on that assumption with conviction and bravery. We shall see.

Fall is here in San Diego, which translates into slightly cooler evenings and a sparse smattering of colored trees where they have been transplanted from more variable climes. I am awash in the sense of nostalgia that always grips me at this time of the year, and wonder once again: where oh where has the time all gone away to? It's hard to keep track of the changing times of the earth when I can hardly manage to keep up with myself. . .

Pride and Prejudice

This weekend marked the thirty-third annual Gay Pride Festival and Parade here in San Diego. Both the parade participants and casual revelers, as well as innocent bystanders, joined in the festivities to remind the world that gays deserve the same rights as others and that people should be left free to live their unique lifestyle, void of judgement or hate. Gay pride is also a symbol of solidarity and an opportunity for people to express the vivid (and fun-loving!) personalities which reflect the diverse gay communities throughout the world.

Along with that celebration of gay diversity and freedom comes a sense of love and solidarity among all walks of people, gay, asexual, bisexual, straight, other. . . the collective feelings filling the streets of the Hillcrest neighborhood this weekend were of happiness and pride and dancing and love. Their was an outpouring of community support in the way of floats, ranging from local plumbing companies (yes, I see the irony there) to a car driven by three ordained members of a local Catholic church. They are perhaps the only three openly supportive members of the entire religion, but at least it's a start. I was surprised and happy to see a lot of religious organizations out to lend their support, including one float on which a couple got married right in the middle of the parade!


I had an incredible time joining in the fray. There were costumes and dancers and performers in the street, and happy, sunburnt and slightly drunk people crowding the sidewalks and restaurant patios. The crowd was a diverse as San Diego gets, with many many families in attendance and for sure everyone who had a dog brought him along. There were quite a few dogs dressed up in Pride gear, outfitted with rainbow scarves and leashes and hats; rainbows adorned human heads and clothing and faces as far as the eye could see. It seemed that day as though everyone was just a little bit gay, and damn proud of it. At least in the sense that we were all there in support of the general concept of acceptance and love and allowing people the freedom to live the way they wants

Unfortunately, it was apparent that not everyone felt the same way I did about the festive gathering, as evidenced by these hateful (and not very intelligent or attractive) people:
(By my count, I match about five of the items on his list, so I should probably find myself a handbasket for the trip).

I really have no clue whatsoever how this could possibly be rationalized, but I couldn't get back there to ask the man to explain his sign or to have a conversation or exchange of ideas, because all the hate-mongers were well-protected behind the yellow police line and about five mounted officers. There was no conversation going on; it was a one-siding outpouring of fear rhetoric and thoughtless scripture quoting. The phrase popped into my mind: "Hell hath no fury like a latent homosexual." I got a kick out of how seriously these people seemed to take themselves, but was and still am also frightened by what such vile ignorance means, as well. It's saddening that in the face of so much joy and love and solidarity there are those among us who feel compelled to bastardize and interpret beautiful stories and lessons of acceptance to supposedly justify their fear and hate. I love the irony that they all got to sniff California-sun-warmed horse shit wafting towards them all day long. An apt metaphor for their actions and hateful words. Fortunately those around didn't pay them much attention and those who did just shouted love into their faces. Five bitter and fearful men against an entire city of joyful revelers. Can't bring this party down, no no.

Filthy carpeting and flourescent lighting

I'm finding it hard to believe that my tenure at "clinic" is nearing it's finish. Sooner than I know it, I will be taking all the skills I've learned in that alternate-reality of a second home and attempt to apply them in that "real world" I keep hearing about.

What I refer to as "clinic" is the Communications Clinic of my University. As a first-year Masters student heading for a degree as a speech pathologist, I spend the vast majority of my time either at the clinic or preparing for my time at clinic. Clinic comprises a total-immersion approach to training us 38 would-bes in the multitudinous and extremely variable populations of people to whom we could or will attend to once we are graduated and certified.

Clinic has tested me. Tested all of us, I believe. It is a scant percentage of our credit load, but requires energy and ambition, hard-work and ingenuity on a regular basis. I have reached unprecedented lows and highs of pride as a direct result of the demands put to me from my clinical schedule. In the short period of nine-plus months, I have learned how to assess, diagnose, and treat the speech and language aspects of individuals ranging in age from infant to geriatric with countless different disorder types ranging from traumatic brain injury, to stroke, Parkinson's Disease, fetal alcohol syndrome, Autism, nerve damage, dyslexia, language impairments, to name but a few.

When I realized this was the path I wanted to pursue, I truly had no idea how much we were expected to know and how different the paths open before me would be. I could take this degree and work with infant children and their families on developmental issues; I could work at a hospital teaching post- coma patients how to swallow and eat again. I could work in a rehab facility teaching folks with brain-injuries how to read, and reason, and be appropriate again. I could work in a school with a caseload as wide as the sea and children with disorders as varied as snowflakes. It seems there is no end to the variety and choice and opportunity for learning something new every day along the way.

Grad school has kicked my butt just a bit, and clinic is where the hardest hours have been spent. Learning how to trust yourself enough to feel confident and competent with someone else's happiness and success at your nascent fingertips is not the simplest of journeys. This experience has humbled and encouraged me. I feel ready for the real world but look back and can easily see a time when I was not. I still have the sense that I have learned enough to only get me through the tip of that proverbial iceberg, but I also know that this is something I need to continue to grow and learn and feel the heft of my efforts. Challenge is a necessary factor in life if you expect yourself to grow outward and upward.

It's ironic to me that the place where I have learned so much, and faced so many internal personal battles, is as ugly as our clinic. Outdated and slated to be replaced this very fall (right after I am finished with it, of course), the clinic carpets are stained beyond belief, its white walls ridden with marks of unknown origin, and its lights garish in all their florescent glory. More than often, though, I find myself not noticing this. Not noticing and thinking more about the people who have aided me in my crazy trip through these past few semesters. My classmates and supervisors and above all my clients. Patient and supportive and challenging me at every turn, this world has changed me. Indelibly.

The Goodness of the Universe

After living in San Diego for almost two years, I finally made it down to Black's Beach for one of the infamous full moon parties on the longest day of the year. Except for two small problems: (1) the folks who organized this particular party neglected to check the lunar schedule regarding when, in fact, the moon would be full and (2), they also forgot to double check that it really was the summer solstice. They were a few days off on both counts and although the night was beautiful and well worth a sundown beer and bonfire, it was not quite the naked drum-beating hippie mass of lunar-love I was expecting. We ten and our one modest bonfire were the only things on the beach once the sun-worshippers disappeared along with their celestial idol.

Franco and I weren't quite as young or as energetic as the recent college graduates we hiked down the cliff-side to meet, so as they skipped and twirled along down the beach, he and I kept the pace to a saunter, holding hands in that sunset-on-the-beach idyllic way and letting go for brief moments to share a thought or tell a story. The subject of the safety of our things way back yonder came up, and I made the comment that I believe in the goodness of the Universe and that I knew our things would be just fine where they were. Despite the fact that I have had things stolen from me, and had people I trusted betray my loyalties, I still proceed on the concept of karmic retribution and know that the world needs all the positivity and loveliness it can get. I do my best to put it out there; do my part to balance that dark with glorious shining light. I figure it's the least I can do. We walked further away as the the ocean and the sun melted into one another, and turned back as the mist descended all around us. The other members of our group were but tiny frolicking silhouettes far in the thickening dusk. We two turned back through the creepy-strange sand bugs and lapping waves towards our things and our food.

Everything was there when we arrived to our unburnt wood, snacks and backpacks. The Universe delivered on my promise.

After a few hours of lounging in the flickering firelight with the sand fleas and drunken grads, Franco and I decided to take our fading Mag light and head back up the steep cliff path to my waiting vehicle. The moon was a whisper of an idea on the far side of the heavens and the only light to be seen the whole world around us was the diminishing fire we'd just left.

As we approached the trail head, I noticed the barely distinguishable outline of a small and skinny human form leaning against a solitary fence post. I called out to the form to help dispel the initial thought that this person was there to do us some sort of harm. I held the flashlight up so that Franco could see what I was seeing, and I told him I thought this guy needed some help (keep in mind, communicating for Franco and I, with our hands full of sandy beach goods and pitch blackness surrounding and only one crappy flashlight for illumination was an interesting challenge to surmount at this hour).

Turns out the poor guy was on the beach for his first time and had lost his friends once darkness descended a full two hours before. I was amazed that he was able to find the path's entrance on the obscured cliff face considering the following: (1) it really was black as a panther's paw and (2) this dude was WASTED. Alcohol fumes rising from his pores in a fine mist. Falling over every three steps. Wasted.

We of course offered to walk the guy up the narrow, unlit, sheer-drop off cliff path, and for the most part I literally held on to his backpack or shirt to make sure he didn't fall off and plunge to his death. He repeated "thank you thank you" like a mantra and did not resist this almost-babying kind of treatment: he knew he needed it. Twice during our ascent I truly believe that he would have been a goner had I or Franco not been physically holding on to him. It was a nerve-wracking hike.

Well, as things often lead into one-another, I ended up driving our new friend home as I did not feel right leaving him alone in the near-abandoned dirt lot to fend for himself. Luckily for us he lived within five miles of my house, and I knew exactly where it was. He was telling me as I approached his house that he wanted me to wait for a minute once he went inside; he had something he wanted to give me.

I dropped him off. He went inside. He came back out.

He was holding something in his hands and he told me that he wanted to give me this gift as a sign that, (his exact words) there "truly is goodness in the Universe," and that thanks to us his belief in it was renewed afresh that night. Then he handed me a beautiful raw crystal and said that he received it in thanks for a random good deed he had done, and now it was mine to keep or give away as I saw fit.

My little moral: do good. Be good. Put it out there and spread the light. There is always someone who will need you more than you know and you never know when they're gonna show up in your life.

Tinkering in the yard

I haven't lived in a house with a garden to play in since I moved out of my parents house. My mom used to "make us" help her in the garden, but I never really saw it as a chore. I loved getting my hands dirty, reshaping the mounts of dirt to hold new colors and life. My favorite part was watching something I helped plant grow big and healthy, and then eat it! My mom grows all kinds of things. Me, I grow plants. House plants. I have slowly learned how to really take care of my leafy "pets" over the years, as apparently I am not blessed with the green thumb of my mother which allows her to grow the most amazingly prolific plants. A neighbor once brought over an aloe plant that she had almost killed. When next I took notice of the plant, green aloe fronds were dripping over the edge in self-proclaimed virility. The plant was massive! I asked my mom her secret and she said she just put it under her antique Singer sewing machine and ignored it. "Too much attention, that's what kills plants," she told me. But I remember her talking to her plants, and there was always music on in the house. Maybe that was the magical element keeping her leaves so green.

I name my plants. I talk to them and assure them they are loved. I haven't killed one in years. When I pot baby plants from a spider or philodendron, I encourage the new parent to give a name (I'm more than willing to help pick a name: Franco's first plant was PJ, the first pawned-off progeny of my beloved Phil(odendron)). Who said puns were dead? Who??

I have grand plans to build a little tarp shelter on the balcony and grow herbs and tomatoes and peppers, but I have some waitin' to do. . .I don't really have regular access to that space as of yet. Point of all this. . .I miss gardening and playing with dirt and smelling that perfect smell of organic matter and worm breath, released when your hands get at least wrist deep in the earth.

I used to landscape every summer so I got my fix that way. I didn't seem to matter that I toiled all day in other people's gardens. In fact, I feel fortunate because I'm pretty damn sure I'll never be able to afford gardens and yards like some of those people have!

So today, Franco and I dug in. He moved to this great place on a canyon with a backyard and some rose bushes and other random plants gone to seed. (Puns are not dead). We dug holes and filled pots and carefully moved miscreant plants from one place to another. It was a lovely day in the shadow-slanted sunshine. Getting our hands in the dirt, thinking about what we can plant that we can watch grow together, and harvest to give us nourishment. Heh. Metaphorical.

On the note of growth and nourishment, Happy Father's Day to my Dad, who has played such an enormous role in my own. I love you.

May gray takes a break

I think it's ironic that my first post on here carried a negative tone, seeing that I am usually an extremely positive person, to such an extent that I'm sure it annoys many of the more cynical people out there. We all have our days I suppose.

I am feeling light and hopeful, and happy that Obama is the nominee for the Democratic party at long last. It's difficult to see any kind of good coming out of this country's government after the debacle of the past eight years, but one can only hope for what beauty may appear on the horizon after the worst of storms. My mom always offered this tidbit of wisdom when my hope was lost: "It's always darkest before the dawn." If things get darker from this point on, God help us.

Summer school is under way, and WOW am I not cut out for it! My internal clock runs something along the lines of, "Wheee! It's May. . .time to turn of the brain, celebrate another birthday, and go play in the sun!" This time around, things will be different. I am accustomed to having the choice of just taking off and doing the fly-by-pants-seat thing when the mood strikes me. Now my choices are limited to: do I want to start working on this project right now, or tomorrow afternoon once I'm done with a full day at the clinic. Sigh. I have noone to blame but myself :)

It's gorgeous out today, and seeing as I don't have much work to do. . .yet. . .I am going to go soak it it. Happy Thursday!

Birthday. Why not bornday?

If I had as crappy of a birthday as I had today when I was 16, 18, 22. . .I probably would have rolled up in a sad little soggy ball of tears and self-pity and waited for the masses to bestow upon me their most heartfelt sympathies that my perfect day wasn't glittering in shining gold; that the princess of the hour (that would have been me) had to deal with the real world and life on that day just like any other day, poor thing.

Alas, the adult (cough cough) version of me realizes that the world did not conspire to ruin my day because it's the day of my birth. I accept that the millions of tiny things that went wrong from the moment I woke up actually have zero connection to the occurrence today of the anniversary of my new presence here on earth. None of it is related, and because I know that, I know also how small and insignificant this day is, and therefore how truly small and insignificant I am. Sigh.

But I am not here to whine and complain, I promise. I'm here to say that I didn't let it take over. I not letting the fact that I didn't get to eat pie for breakfast crumple all hopes of a beautiful day. Or the awful fight I had with my friend spell grief and doom for the rest of the day. Because today, my friends, I am one year, or one day, or one moment wiser, depending on how you look at it. My newest lesson is that today truly is like any other day, and that just like any other day I embrace what it can teach me and send it on its way.

I do not feel 28 years old, nor 28 years young. I feel both wisdom beyond my years and a youthful innocence and exuberance that won't be squelched. I know I am both mature and womanly and yet very very childish. Another year tacked on and I still am not quite sure what I want to be when I grow up. I am still struggling with who I am and where I want to go. I am still a child of this earth, wondering if I'm doing things right. Funny how the same questions are in my mind today as on any other day. They're just attached to a new number.