Efficiencies

I'm starting to see a pattern in my life. I've gotten so impatient the last few years. I mean, everything has to be a shortcut or "efficient." I realized this as I was driving home tonight after work. I was cooking dinner for a friend, and had to meet at my house. I wasn't particularly in a rush though.

But strangely enough I'd roll up to the stop sign and barely pause, legally enough, but I realized that I was doing so to be more efficient. Or in my thoughts "efficient."

So I looked up the word. (Thank you dictionary.com)

1. Acting directly to produce an effect: an efficient cause.
2. 1. Acting or producing effectively with a minimum of waste, expense, or unnecessary effort.
   2. Exhibiting a high ratio of output to input.

Unnecessary effort huh? Who's judging what's unnecessary? For safety or even pure "pass your driver's test" reasons, I perhaps should do more than pause. I should fully stop, like the blue haired matrons who always end up in front of me.

And when someone beeps in impatience behind me, are they determining unnecessary effort? And why is effort so unnecessary? Why don't we just make the effort regardless of whether it's indeed necessary or unnecessary?

I pondered these questions today and in that unwitting and perhaps I'll change my lifestyle way. Living in Los Angeles may slow that learning curve; everyone here exhibits "efficiency." So does my corporate life. But I wonder if some of the best moments of my life are being lost in efficiency...

ISO Loving Campanion

I have finally given in to my destiny. I am about to embark on the adventure I knew was coming. I am starting my new life as "cat lady." As my love life has crumbled, my trust has been shattered, I have decided the only male worth having around is an adorable kitten. And I found him. (At least I hope they let me adopt it.)

Instead of elaborating on my recent downfall into depression, I'd rather talk about a new and bright future. Of hours of love and friendship. Of a destiny which was my own years ago, of which I am finally done denying.

I've lost my faith in human males towards non plutonic relationships. I've only seen a dark netherworld, where lies are truth. And truth is an unknown concept. And I'm so tired of the excuse "I didn't want to hurt your feelings." Bullshit I say.

You didn't want to hurt your own feelings. (Truth, but yet unacknowledged.)

But that is neither here nor there and the state of the union has changed. As if W has poisoned all of y'all.

But I digress (not unusual, just noticed).

I saw a sunset caress the ocean tonight. The crisp LosAngelian winter night lay chaste against a virgin sky. At least today it was. The air was breatheable, and in some places unusually so. Smog was but a myth and death was but a fleeting thought. As I drove in the startlingly bright sunshine, the future was bigger than it was just moments before.

My disappointment lies in wait though. Pondering the moment of pounce. Careful, not to be noticed in such clean thoughts. Eying its prey, only to crush my doomed heart and crack up the pieces, mulch them, into a fine powdered dust to be carried on a cold wintry breath.

I know it's there. It knows I know. And for now, we are in harmony.

The Naked Truth - Take One

The truth is always there, whether or not we choose to acknowledge it. And sometimes it feels smarter to run from it, to hide it, to close it up into the past where we think it can't hurt us anymore. The sad thing is, it isn't missing, hidden, or outrun; it's still lurking in our actions and our reactions.

I think I feel I need to premise my story because I'm afraid of the truth of it. But it's time this story is told, and so I will trudge on. I hope the readers that know me as reader to writer don't judge me too harshly; I also hope the readers who know me as family, friend, or enemy are careful of how they view the truth. For indeed, it is only my story, from my side. But it needs to be told.

As divorce becomes the family dinner table discussion in millions of homes nationwide, it is often easy to forget there are actual people on the front lines in these battles, as well as veterans nursing their mental wounds. Some of us are ghosts of who we were.

I don't know why the two sides of who I remember as my father, or as I commonly refer to as my sperm donation live-in, conflict, but they do. I was a YMCA Little Indian daughter and I remember a man who didn't really want to know me. As a straight A student, I was rarely questioned about school or friends or if I was just angry cuz I didn't get a Cabbage Patch Kid (tm) for my birthday, during the thirteen years the man stayed in my family. Our family looked ok from the outside, that is.

On the inside there was always arguing, anger, danger. Magic three foot holes in walls (or so they appeared to a nine year old), dog barking and then whining in as much fear as the human children (my younger sister and I) were in. And then I knew I had to be brave, no matter what. Because she was two years my junior and I was more afraid for her, because I knew I loved her the moment my mom brought her home to me. And even if those more recent years she started to annoy me by trying to be me, I knew I secretly loved that feeling too.

I remember one night when I heard my mom crying in the bathroom. And even though I knew there were two bathrooms, I chose to pull the "kid's gotta go pottie" routine to get my dad away from her. Or maybe he'd notice there were youngins around or maybe he'd put down the Budweiser, ignore the talking frogs for once in his damn life. It was our fault we were born in your twenties, a heinous reminder of maybe a perceived mistake on your part, you may have thought as you chugged it all down, even bent the can with your hand and tossed it's silver white glory into the recycling. Probably because you spent half your paycheck at the bar to gain friends who are only there when the drinks are on Jack.

I have long-battled my self esteem demons, and I no longer let that thought control my own. I know I am not a mistake regardless of anyone's opinion. So what if my mother was 17 and my stupid 20 year old dear old dad wasn't ready to settle down. You didn't care about your education enough to drop the blue collar; you chose to be daddy's boy and work the family construction business. None of these decisions were my fault. These were your choices.

And now I know that you sit in a city somewhere near Downer's Grove, Illinois wondering what the two offspring you begot are up to. (It also wasn't my fault you opted for a vasectomy -- but thank GOD it happened.) You want to share my victories and yet never wanted to comfort me from my failures. You were ashamed of who you were and took that out on us. You bought into a new wife to trade out the old wife plus kids. And yes that does hurt deep down. I can still love myself, but can you love yourself?

You think that after ten years you can instant message someone "I love you" and hope it sticks. That was obviously a mistake, even I am not so naive. My anger has poured out and thinned, and even the bitterness has crusted away. I feel sorry for a man who's only blood on earth may not see him til he's brittle, and cold, lying still, a painted smile etched and sewn against a backdrop of "Amazing Grace." The only pain you can know is how you never took responsibility for anything. How can you have lived your life with just excuses to show for? I admit my failures.

I can say I fell in love with the wrong boy and nearly wrecked my education doing it. I can say I've trusted too easily, trusted not enough, and still make it through. But above all this, I can say I'm sorry. No excuses, just sorry.

You may be "recovering" from your alcoholism now, but do you ever think of making some truce with the casualties you created in your war against yourself? That maybe the little girl who wanted her mother to not come out of the bathroom looking red white and blue -- who didn't want her sister to have nightmares as scary as her own -- maybe she tried so hard to love you, but it just doesn't work anymore.

My own issues lay in my inability to trust properly. And I know it came from then. I don't blame you anymore. You were stupid and 21, 22, 23, 24, 25 --who cares --. I don't have kids at 29 for a reason. I don't trust myself with starting a family, because I don't want to screw up some small person's life. I'd like to have an altruistic love. I am not perfect, and I have a lot to learn. I guess I can admit that. And say I'm sorry.

I'm sorry you grew up privilaged and have never known the shame of a homeless shelter.
I'm sorry that you medicated your pain with Bud Lite or Jose or the good ole Captain Morgan, and a drug habit to boot. And I'm sorry that you had the perfect family and never knew it. You had the perfect life and couldn't accept it. I'm sorry you can't love yourself, and live every day trying to. But most of all I'm sorry that should your grandchildren ever be born (God willing) that you won't get to grasp their little fingers and tell them stories of how their momma was when she was younger -- because you never wanted to know her or to love her.

I accept that.

The Biggest Loser and Other Sordid Tales

I've been watching "The Biggest Loser" because for some masochistic reason, I like to watch other people losing weight as I'm sitting on the couch munching on something that they're gonna say has way too many calories. I have 20 pounds that keep coming back from vacation, and I'm working out a little more crazily to see if I can get rid of them for good. (Burying them alive isn't entirely out of the question.)


I also have websites to develop and next week was my deadline. Unfortunately, between the Coldplay concert and the extra responsibilities at work, I'm finding it difficult to turn my computer on and just do something about it. I'm even finding excuses to avoid blogging, which I love.

I've been thinking about Maverick and what happened and that maybe I was forcing fate by pushing so hard to get what I wanted, without even stopping to think about what he wanted. I guess it's not regret, just silent wonder. And I'm certainly tired enough that I'm not thinking clearly.

The days are melting into months already. I feel like 2006 is zooming by and there's not much time left.

Last night I got really reminiscent due to the Fiona Apple opening act. That song "Criminal" brought me down college memory lane. My SA, Amber -- well I love her last name but won't publish it in case I get in trouble -- and my ex Ty-Rin and a whole lot of drama, coming soon to a theater near you. Anyway, there were definitely some tears coating my eyes and maybe it's just that I don't even know that person I was. I feel like I let life and love and the lack of pursuit of happiness to take over. A whirlwind of loss of time, and now I'm so much more confident and different. I think I know what I want to some degree.

Back then, I hardly knew who I was and how could I know how to pursue happiness when I didn't even know what happiness looked like. I thought happiness was short and dark, and "handsome." Dear God KNOWS the definition of handsome has been kicked up several notches. And I peer at the Savon prints and wonder what the hell was I thinking?! I can do sooo much better than that. And why was I even worrying about doing better.

And to my loyal readers who check in every once in awhile. I give you grand kudos to this writer who pretends to be blocked but is more about not being caught telling the truth.

Thank you.