, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Mira likes to flaunt her belly.

I believe it's called Soft Floral.

On Monday, a few hours into my work day, I became painfully aware that someone around me was wearing ghastly cheap perfume. Pungent, offensive, floral perfume. The kind that is found on the shelves at K-Mart. Not in the glass cases, just on the open shelves. That cheap.

I've nothing, in theory, against cheap perfume. There are gems to be found in that world. And let's face it, my own favored brand, while definitely a tiny bit expensive for me, is no Chanel No. 5. But this was, My Goodness, Just. So. Bad. As the day wore on, and the scent grew stronger, I began to wonder what could possibly be behind the decision made by one of my co-workers to suddenly sport something so... challenging. Perhaps in the store, lightly sprayed on the inside of her wrist, it had smelled better? Less like a combination of molasses, gardenias and alcohol? It started to burn my nose. I could actually feel the little hairs in there withering away to nothing, brought down to their follicles by a $11.99 spray.

I longed to complain out loud, longed to commiserate with someone near me. Surely I couldn't be the only one in such pain, both physical and emotional?! But of course, I could say nothing without offending the owner of the stench, and so I suffered in silence all day, growing ever more nauseated and befuddled with each passing hour.

Leaving the office that day was more of a relief than usual. As I stepped into the open air, I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd survived. I climbed into my car, and there, in the comfort of my own space, I realized that some of the stink had gotten on me. I could still smell it. I frantically started sniffing my jacket, my arms. Yes, it was on me! It was stuck on me! I raised the top of my tee shirt to my nose. It was on that, too! And... wait... it was REALLY on that. I smelled again. Man. Then something terrible occurred to me. I gingerly sniffed my armpit. Yeah. Um... that smell, THE smell... that would be my new deodorant.

ode to hormones

piano fingers, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

my insecurities come like clockwork. i can tell you just when they will hover and when they will lash. when they will politely decline to comment and when they will shriek so loudly that attempting to ignore them is pointless.

i know, long before it happens, when exactly i will cry upon reading someone else's sad blog entry, when i will shudder every time the phone rings at work. when i will interpret the things that are said to me in the worst possible way. when i will feel as if i can't fit into any of my clothing, when i will have hair that is an offense to humankind. when i will tell myself mean things that make me feel small.

this knowledge, hard won, is rendered meaningless in the face of Week Three of Four.

sweet

lollipop, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Time goes by so quickly.

This picture I took at the farmer's market a couple of weekends ago made me think of my sister, who used to love these huge lollipops (as well as huge jaw breakers) when she was little. She would lick them for a few minutes and then wrap them in tin foil until the next time she wanted them. Sometimes mom would give her some Tupperware to hold the half eaten jawbreaker, and it would roll around all sticky and spitty inside the plastic. Once on a trip to Florida to visit our grandparents, Corinn got a lolli that had Mickey Mouse on it and she was in heaven. The thing broke long before its time (and if I remember correctly I might have been partially responsible for its demise)and Corinn was devastated. We had to track another one down for her.

In a few weeks, C will be turning 21, and I am in disbelief.

Holly Wood

, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

When I was younger, in 8th or 9th grade, every week I would walk to the grocery store down the street from our house in Traverse City, and buy a pack of green Extra gum and People magazine with my allowance. My awareness of celebrities -- what they wear, who they love for the moment -- stretches back at least that far. I was always sort of fascinated by movie stars (the glamour and whatnot) and moving to Los Angeles, where the celebrities roam as free as is possible, hasn't really changed that. Five years later, I still love to pour over US Weekly, and I still blush when I see someone famous walking out of the bathroom at the movie theatre.

What's changed is that now some of these people are actually part of my social life. Through various circumstances, I find myself at their birthday parties, or at dinner with them, or simply at their place of business. This has brought an element to my life that is on one hand sort of cool, and on the other hand quite stressful.

Famous people, you see, are wee folk. Male, female, young, old, really famous or only sort of... they are, nearly universally, very short and very thin. In the men, I find this sort of cute and funny. I think it's amusing to know that women all over the country are being wooed from afar by men who are barely over five feet tall.

In the women, I find it to be downright intimidating. I'm a tall girl, and thin but not skinny. Petite girls have always terrified me. I feel like an oaf next them, as if I've suddenly become the most ginormous women in all the land. If these girls also happen to be beautiful and immaculately dressed and, oh, I don't know... FABULOUS SOCIAL BUTTERFLY MOVIE STARS then it gets a bit scary for me. I get shy and sweaty, and all at once I'm back in second grade when my feet grew too fast and my mom made me wear huge pink Converse All Stars and everyone called me Dumbo (nevermind that Dumbo had large ears, not large feet).

It's rather wretched, when this happens.

Before you go ahead with the comments about how I'm darling just the way I am (and aren't I, though?), I must add that you couldn't pay me to switch places with any of these girls. The other thing my fairly close proximity to these people affords me is the ability to see just how rather normal they really are, all physical beauty and riches aside. The vast majority of them are horribly insecure, and with good reason: In most cases, they will be tossed aside for being too old, too undertalented, too difficult, too addicted, too "last year" long before they are ready to be done with their careers. Their lives are riddled with bizarre pressures. The pressure to be microscopic in size and enormous in personality and talent. The pressure to always look ten years younger than they are. The pressure to wear a full face of make up when they drag the dumpster down to the curb, unless they want to be seen by all the world in their pale, puffy faced glory. And Lord help them if they want to have a normal romantic relationship!

So it's not about jealousy (although I wouldn't mind some Prada dresses and perfectly glossy hair) as much as it is about feeling a bit uncomfortable in my own skin when I'm around a certain type of person.

Hollywood breeds that, maybe even for The Stars Themselves.

In Bloom

, originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

This weekend I walked the majority of the places I went. Probably about 7 miles in all, maybe a bit more. It felt really good. I'm always surprised at how much is missed when driving in a car. There are so many things that must be experienced up close or will be lost altogether.

The roses in Los Angeles are amazing right now. It's possible to walk for block after block and smell nothing except their scent. Marvelous.

Enough said, but I'm going to say more.

it's a shame about..., originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

There's a deeply disturbing trend I've noticed in Los Angeles. Somewhere, and I prefer to pretend that these places reside deep in the dark bowels of the city where light and dictionaries dare not tread, there are multiple sign manufacturers who cannot spell, nor, in some cases, can they tell when a letter is backward or forward (I shall provide examples of the latter in a future post, as this is not an issue I will let die quietly).

I realize I live in a City of Diversity and yadda yadda. Doesn't matter. There's no excuse. It's one thing, as a sign seeker, to not know enough english to write down your requested message and spell it correctly. That I understand. I'm all for shop owners who don't speak english. They tend to just let you enjoy browsing in their stores in peace and quiet. It's an entirely different thing to be a sign maker and have not a clue in the whole wide world of how to spell "everything" or "beauty" or so, so many others, and to refuse to inquire about the spellings of such before plastering them on plasic or metal or wood or glass, and giving them to your poor, unsuspecting, peace and quiet loving clients, therefore condemning them to years of looking foolish.

WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?!

I think this has to be one of the highest forms of cruelty I've ever seen.

"The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago..."

If you are me, here is what you live for:

A Friday night, you are slightly tired, it's been a long week. You've got plenty of energy for making dinner though. Cheddar and bacon panini with a complicated chipotle relish that you've been making for a half hour. You're cutting an onion. It doesn't sting your eyes, but it does sting the skin around a tiny little crack in one of your cuticles.

In the living room, the boy and his roommate are playing the piano and the guitar, and then the bass and the guitar. They play songs you know the words to, songs you love the words to, but which you're perfectly willing to not hear the words to just now. The music is enough.

When you put the onions in with ketchup and the Worcestershire sauce, which are bubbling on the stove, it smells divine and your stomach growls. The boy takes a break from the piano to check on the dessert he's making while you're doing dinner. He puts his hand on your back and you remind him that it was when he first played one of those songs for you that you realized you loved him.

You remember when you were younger and imagined that being an adult would include exactly these things. Cooking late night dinners, someone playing good music, a glass of wine while you chop vegetables, bare feet on hardwood floors.

When he's back out at the piano, he plays the other song he played for you that night so long ago, maybe without even knowing what he's doing. You smile as you drop in the pinches of oregano and cinnamon, and the moment feels complete.

Sally Bishop

Running into something interesting with the book right now. My story has several shorter narratives woven into the larger one, and because these stories are meant to be able to practically stand on their own, they feature characters who don't appear in the primary story. The one I am working on right now centers on a rather complicated girl who, I discovered the other day, I do not like.

When I started her story, I had no idea this would be the case. I knew she would be a bit prickly, and that her choices would be poor ones, but it wasn't until I got into the guts a bit that I realized I'm not at all fond of her. This is the first time this has happened to me. I've written other characters who weren't, overall, the most likeable folk, but I always liked them just fine. I have a soft spot for difficult personalities. So it took me a bit by surprise, my disdain for this nineteen year old and her brazen nature, her selfishness.

I thought for a moment that I should change her, warm her up a bit. She is, after all, the protagonist of her brief little tale, and it would make sense that she'd need to be likeable. But it was too late. By the time I realized what was going on, the character was already fully grown, already sitting at a table looking at a man she doesn't love, who disgusts her in fact, agreeing to marry him. There was no stopping her. So I, her creator, am writing her not how I intended her to be, but instead, just how she is.

And also traffic jams.

My life is too often centered around errant cat hair and ill-fitting pants.

Delightful Neglect

I've been letting some of my self-assigned tasks slide the past couple of weeks. I've only written about five pages instead of my usual ten, haven't been posting here nearly as much as usual, and have fallen behind in a lot of my reading. I can't even begin to tell you how okay with this I am.

I've spent months and months working very hard to get things in order for myself, and I'm really quite happy with the job I've done. Nothing is perfect, in any area, but I've made more progress than I thought I could, and I'm still moving in the right direction. I have no intention of backing up or even slowing down, but when I find moments where it feels good to take a deep breath and stand still for a moment, I'm going to do so. This weekend, during times when I would normally be writing, I instead took a long walk with my pretty new camera, then had a delicious brunch. I learned to play poker. I went to a baseball game (go Royals!)where I ate a perfect ketchup-drenched hotdog and got sunburn on my arms. I literally, dorkily, stopped to smell the roses that are blooming ridiculously all over Los Angeles.

This week, I will get my five pages done.

Things for a Happy Tuesday

The smell of a freshly peeled orange.

My new camera arriving, and the bubbling anticipation I feel while waiting to get my hands on it.

Walking past the landscape guys mowing the office lawn, thus being treated to one of my favorite scents (the grass, not the guys).

The soundtrack to Wicked.

Later we attempted to run through the field like Maria in The Sound Of Music.

Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Last weekend, A & H & I went to Death Valley to see wildflowers. We'd heard they were blooming in greater abundance than they had in 100 years, due to the unusual amount of rain we've been getting. I think each of us had a vision of what this might look like, and none of us thought it would be a bunch of people hunched over daisies with their cameras glued to their eyes as if they'd never seen such a flower in their lives. All three of us having been raised in areas where flowers are common, we weren't overly impressed with the yellow, almost weedish blossoms. Add that to the miserable "campground" situation (a gravel parking lot with sites literally two feet apart)and I think we were all a bit confused about what we'd just done to ourselves. But we've gotten pretty good, as a little trio, at making the best out of bizarre or annoying situations. There was a moment of near defeat as we stood on our rocky "campsite," which was across the street from a Chevron. We quietly ate our sandwiches while standing in the shade of the Jeep, absorbing the mess of it all. Then we decided to make an adventure of things, abandoned our site without knowing if we'd find a place to camp that night, and headed off for what was literally the road less traveled, a 47 mile dirt trail that ended up leading us to a proper place to camp in the middle of no where, just us and the mountains and the eager yellow flowers (my pants got covered with pollen). It wasn't until we were sitting in our little camp chairs, eating our hot dogs, breathing the fresh air that we could really look around and see where we were. It was pretty awesome. Desert and flowers and mountains covered in snow. California has taken my breath away so many times. It's been an enormous blessing, and something I didn't expect when I moved to Los Angeles.

That night, curled up in the tent, all I could hear was the breeze blowing in one window and out the other. That alone was worth the drive.

That and the learning how to properly pee in the wilderness.

Don't mess with Mister In-Between...

look
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Somewhere along the way, I got a reputation, both with myself and with some of the people in my life, of being a sort of pessimistic person. Not negative, exactly, or not fun to be around, but a bit Eeyorish.(Did you know "eeyorish" is an actual word now? Check the Oxford dictionary.) Certainly there were instances when I earned this. I hear I was a challenging child, and I KNOW I was a challenging teenager at times. (I have my own theories about this, but that is for another post. Or not.) But for some reason I've never really been able to fully embrace this supposed trait of mine. It's never quite felt like the truth.

It turns out that maybe there was a reason. Lately I've had the opportunity, in several different situations, to take a smattering of personality tests. Having nothing to lose, and always enjoying a chance to gain a little personal insight, I was completely honest when answering the questions. Every single one declared me to be, among other things, an optimistic person who looks on the bright side of life. Mind you, these were not tests from Cosmopolitan or Glamour, asking me what shade of lipstick I prefer or what my dream vacation would be, therefore deducing if I'm sunshine and roses or a dark gloomy rain cloud. These were tests that in some cases took me an hour to finish. So there's gotta be some merit. My first instinct was to think that clearly they must just be wrong, their methodology must be off, because otherwise they would see that I AM A GLASS HALF EMPTY GIRL FOR GOD'S SAKE!

Except they're right. They're just confirming something I've figured out about myself, slowly, over the past few years. It turns out that beneath the sometimes dark exterior, I'm more hopeful than what most people see. I just get shy, after all this time, all this eeyorishness, about admitting it.

Sharing the Wealth

ready
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

There's a really beautiful blog that I read every day that I wanted to share with you guys.(http://www.superherodesigns.com/journal/) Right now the writer, Andrea, has a post up with a few links to some of her favorite entries from the past year. "Lost and Found" is one that I've read a couple of times and it always really moves me.

I've been a bit slow with the writing, both here and on my own, for the past couple weeks. I think it's because I've been focusing elsewhere, trying to really enjoy spring, all that is going on with Sweet Monday, and getting all sorts of things in order. The hope for this week is that I can get some stuff planted in these flower pots that I see when I look out my window.

"Phase one, in which Doris..."

Last night April and I got our first order for a skirt through the website (everything up until now has been less "official")and I'm very excited about it. It's got me anxious to be able to sit down and do a bit of creating again, as it's been a few weeks since I've been able to do much of that, outside of my writing. I'm thinking of getting a mini silkscreen (a Gocco machine, I believe)to help with my card making. Will allow me to go much further than I've been able to with just paper, scissors and glue thus far.

The writing is going well. Dad liked the first fifty pages, but did any of us really expect that he wouldn't? He's obligated. But I appreciate the support nonetheless, and am moving forward. I think it's finally truly started to become a habit. I sit down every night and do a little bit, and if I don't it feels strange. This isn't to say that I'm not one vacation away from falling off the novel writing bandwagon, but so far, so good.

It's Spring in California and I feel happy.

It doesn't bode well...

for the new shoes I am wearing today that for the entire time I've had them on, I've been remembering how it felt to be in my pointe shoes.

The Greatest Rock Band in US History

I know that most of you who read this also read my dad's blog, but if you don't, you should check it out right now to weigh in on the debate/play off he's got going on...

www.burntends.blogspot.com

Of One's Own

Have you ever seen a photograph of someone you know well, someone you know better than you know anyone else, perhaps someone you know better than anyone else in their life knows them, and see in the picture something you don't recognize? If you have, you know what a curious moment it is, to realize that no matter what, there is in each of us something that can't be given to anyone else, or known by anyone else, that is ours alone. It's true of everyone we love, and it's true of ourselves.

It's because of this that I've always struggled with the whole notion of constantly trying to achieve "independence," of trying to be sure you hold some part of yourself back from the people close to you, so that you never feel too much in need of them. I agree with it in certain ways. It's entirely possible to become too wrapped up in someone else, to lose yourself in them to a degree that isn't healthy. But ultimately, there's no risk of becoming lost entirely. It's impossible. Even if we TRIED to become completely entwined with other people, we'd never succeed. There's too much that goes on at a level so deep that we can't even articulate it. So much of our lives are lived in our minds in ways that we don't think to express, or are unable to -- small things like the thoughts we have about the hangnail on our right ring finger to our deepest fears. All day long we think a myriad of things that are known only to us.

There's so much of life that has to be lived by one's self, whether we want to or not. So my deal is that I think if we find someone who wants to know as much about us as we can possibly give them, and if we also happen to want to know that much about them, shouldn't we try for it? Shouldn't we try our best to have someone know us so very well that they are startled when they see a glimpse of us that lets them know there's yet more to learn?

I read a wonderful book several years ago, The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. It's about a missionary family in the Belgian Congo in the 50s. Much of it has faded from memory, but the following passage (from the perspective of the wife/mother) has stuck with me, and probably always will:

"I married a man who could never love me, probably. It would have trespassed on his devotion to all mankind. I remained his wife because it was one thing I was able to do each day. My daughters would say: You see, Mother, you had no life of your own.

They have no idea. One has ONLY a life of one's own.

I've seen things they'll never know about. I saw a family of weaver birds work together for months on a nest that became such a monstrous lump of sticks and progeny and nonsense that finally it brought their whole tree thundering down. I didn't speak of it to my husband or children, not ever. So you see. I have my own story..."

Fortifying Deep Conditioner for Dry, Unmanageable Hair

I feel the need to write, but have nothing all that meaningful to say. I wish I did. But things aren't coming to me in neat and tidy metaphors right now, or at least not ones that I'm enjoying all that much. I'm trying to be brutally honest with myself right now about what I want, what I am looking for. I had the tiniest snippet of something come my direction this weekend that I chose not to pursue. At first I felt bad about it because who am I to be picky right now? And then I realized, who am I NOT to be picky right now? I MUST be picky right now. I no longer have the luxury of not. I've gotten smarter some how, or at least less tolerant of red flags. That can be tiring though. I'm tired.

There are few things...

more gravely disappointing than believing you've chosen a donut with cream filling when in fact you have not.

A Smattering

This morning I had a huge piece of cake for breakfast. White frosting. A lot of it.

My head has been spinning ever since.

I finished my latest chapter yesterday, so now I am ready to polish it a bit and then send it to my dad. Will be strange to have eyes other than mine on it.

Researching Argentinian restaurants to have dinner at before going to see "Evita" on Saturday night, and coming up fairly short as far as a place that is not TOO pricey, but is pricey ENOUGH.

Discussing with A. that everything feels slightly off this week.

Discussing with M. that we've both got a good opportunity right now to use our clean relationship slates to our advantage.

Last night I walked up to Larchmont for some exercise and promptly bought myself an ice cream cone. Chocolate peanut butter. Loved every last bite. And every first bite, too.

On The Street Where I Live

apartment envy
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

I live in my favorite neighborhood in Los Angeles. When I moved there, I didn't know that would end up being the case. Picking my apartment had less to do with where it WAS than where it WASN'T (namely, not the bum infested street I lived on previously, nor the somewhat snobby beach communities to the west). I was happy to simply be moving someplace safer and a bit sweeter, but which still had the feel of LA's east side that I love so much. It was in between my two sets of friends who happen to live on polar ends of Melrose. Those were the reasons I picked my building. (Oh, and it was cheap.)

The reasons I've continued to pick my building, month after month, when I could actually afford to move elsewhere, is that I've come to love my street and those that surround it. There are plenty of towering, substantial trees that remind me of home. There are bushes of flowers everywhere, and the whole neighborhood always smells either of those, or of a fire rising through a chimney (possibly my favorite smell in the world). I can walk to things (the grocery, many restaurants, a farmer's market on Sundays, flower shops), almost as if I lived in a real city.

The absolute best thing is that there are certain parts of my street in particular where, when I walk by, I feel completely transported, as if I were in another place entirely. There is a very European feel to many of the buildings near mine (except for the palm trees), and if I stand in front of them, peering upward, I feel worlds away from the Hollywood sign that I can see in the north, and the smog that covers it.

apartment envy

Hands On

mine
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

I'm not very good at embroidering. This pillow case is the best thing I've done in the several months since I picked up the hobby. (And I didn't even bother with the "yours" version since Lord knows when I will ever need a "yours" anything.) Most of the time, I end up getting the string in a million knots or the stitches are terribly uneven. But I like doing it anyway. I've figured out that I like almost anything where I'm creating something that didn't exist before. I like getting my hands dirty with things. Clay, paint, soil, wood, scissors, newsprint, paper, film, fabric... bring it on. Discovering this has surprised me because it doesn't really go with the rest of my personality. It would make much more sense for me to like doing things that are less concrete. So it's interesting to me that I need this. I'm trying to foster it as much as I can these days because for a while after college I didn't do nearly enough of any of that stuff, and I always felt like something essential was missing. It took me a while to figure out that even though I was up to my neck in the film industry, I missed the actual production work, the moving of the lights and splicing of the film and what not. It hadn't even occurred to me that that was what I had enjoyed about school. I'd thought it was all about the stories.

Happy, Healthy Monsters

orange
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Boredom is dangerous.

This week at work has flown by. I've been training my new cubemate (Who is actually close to my age! Imagine that.) and doing some research on grad schools as well as stuff for Sweet Monday. So for once I haven't had too much time during the day to think about the grand scheme of my life, but have instead been consumed with practical issues, which I much prefer, at least right now.

Once I get home, however, it's a somewhat different story. I've too much time on my hands. There's no reason why I should -- I have two sets of cards to make that need to be mailed out by Monday and another chapter of the book to write. But boredom is a stubborn thing, and it can set in at any time. The result is a wandering mind and a tendency to over ponder. Not a good thing for a girl who already ponders enough for both herself and the next several dozen people.

(I took pictures of these flowers last weekend. They grow in front of the building next to mine, and I like them because none of them are too close together. They have very long stems and they grow in opposite directions from one another. A rather independent lot, these ones.)

Wouldn't It Be Loverly...

I've learned just now that the My Fair Lady album is fine greeting card making music.


"Someone's head resting on my knee..."

GimmeGimmeGimme

I've noticed something really embarrassing these past couple of weeks. I've become completely addicted to internet communication. Not a casual little habit, but a full on addiction. I'm talking checking my email while I walk to my car in the mornings. I'm talking about checking it via my phone from bed last night at about 12:30, as if there were ANY CHANCE AT ALL that someone had emailed me since I'd last checked it at midnight. I'm talking checking it (as well as my blog comments, my flickr comments and my IM) no fewer than ten thousand times in between example A and example B. The obvious reason for this new burst of dependence is that I'm isolated in a lot of other ways these days. I'm not friends with the people I work with, and I live by myself, so the majority of my days and evenings are not spent actually WITH any of the people who are important to me. This electronic stuff is all I have.

I suspect, though, that it runs a tiny bit deeper than that. I think that part of what I'm wanting from the emails or the comments or the IMs is to know that someone's thinking of me, that I'm on someone's radar. I feel sort of invisible lately without scraps of acknowledgement throughout my day. I know that this is sort of faulty reasoning as there are people who I think about literally every day and am never in touch with. I guess there's always some possibility that someone feels the same way about me. But still, the addiction lives.

The truth is that I've always been a bit of a correspondence fiend. I remember many days during summer breaks when I would literally wait on the front porch for the mail man to arrive so I could see if someone had sent me a letter (and I still get little butterflies in my stomach every day when I check my mail box, as if that day might be the one when I get some special piece of mail). I was the little girl who signed up for pen pals across the world and had friendships that were sustained entirely through letters (never have been a big phone talker, feel more comfortable writing things out). I passed notes in class as if the world depended on it (hey! it might have!), to the point where I once had a teacher take a note away from me and keep it (the horror!). So it's not really surprising that I've embraced all these new ways to communicate. They're fun. But they also mean that there are just that many fewer excuses to not hear from someone. I know that from my cell phone alone, I can call (duh), email, IM and text message. There are no longer any excuses (except for maybe camping in Big Sur, where I get no reception) for me to not be able to reach someone, and vice versa. So when hours (okay, sometimes even MINUTES) go by without something from someone, I find myself feeling offended. That's where I feel lame. I shouldn't need to constantly be in touch with people. It's kinda weird of me. The good thing is that I know it's temporary. There will be a time when I will think it's funny that I spent so many hours composing or waiting for electronic messages. And I also know that if I were to go camping for a week or on vacation or anything else of that sort, I would happily forget all about what email messages I might be missing. It wouldn't even cross my mind.

So maybe it's not an addiction after all. Or even some psychological craving. Maybe it's mostly just boredom.

You'd be wrong.

window
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Wouldn't you think by looking at this picture that there's something interesting going on in Mira's head?

It's strange about soap scum, don't you think?

There's a very good chance this is only interesting to me.

I didn't make my writing goal this past week. Close, but not quite. I really had to push myself this weekend just to get a decent amount done, which has got me thinking about when it's best to force the writing, and when it's in the best interest of the story to just let it rest for a couple of days if I'm not feeling up to the task. I've decided that I'll probably just have to deal with that situation on a case by case basis. There was a time a few weeks ago when I didn't feel like writing at all, but I could tell that it was just me being lazy so I wrote anyway, and ended up liking the stuff that I put down during that time. But this weekend, the result was just ugly, stilted writing. I almost wish I'd just given myself the week to think about the other things that were filling my mind and not bothered with my little quota. But it's a fine line. If I hadn't made myself write at all, I probably would have felt guilty, and then I'd be writing this post about that. Who knows. I don't feel like writing tonight, either, but I must finish the current chapter I've got going, as well as the next, before the end of the week. We shall see.

(told you i was boring today.)

lower case

proof of god
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

feel the need to counteract the gloom of the last post. it's been a pretty day here. i dropped off a roll of film at the camera shop, and even though i'm not expecting much from it (had to shoot most of the pictures with a flash, which i hate) it will be fun to pick it up on mondayaftertwo. browsed around king's road bead shop for an hour. it's not my favorite bead place in los angeles as the men who run it are a bit creepy, but they have the prettiest stuff. i couldn't stop staring at the jade beads. they had them in a million different colors that looked good enough to eat and would make splendid earrings. managed to leave having only bought what i need to fix something of mine that i broke a few weeks ago. will go back and buy something for fun at another time. ate two chocolate chip cookies from the batch that my mom sent me. her cookies are still my favorite and i hadn't had any in a long time. found a tiny love note from my high school boyfriend that i'd tucked between the pages of my dictionary years and years ago. that's had me smiling for hours.

Gee, I wonder why it is that I never have to fight to use the washer & dryer on a Friday night.

My cousin just finished her student teaching and was writing about it on her blog, asking if it meant that she had to be an adult now. I told her no; I've been done with college for almost six years now, and I still don't feel like a "real" adult. I suspect this has to do, at least in part, with the fact that I don't feel settled the way I imagined I would once I was "grown up." There have been very few times, if any, over the past six years when I have felt any sense of true peace of mind. There's always been some big change just around the bend, some big decision demanding to be made. Many times I haven't minded this. I actually rather like change. Something to keep me on my toes, keep my mind sharp. But other times it's mind NUMBING and just plain tedious. I'm in one of those times. Very tired of thinking about what comes next, and yet I MUST figure out what that next thing will be because I'm in no way feeling peaceful about where I'm at right now.

I'm fearful that I will get replies from my family members who read this post politely informing me that this IS what being an adult is all about -- the constant choicemaking and shifting around and whatnot. Based on what I know of adulthood thus far, I am suspecting this might be the case. But I hope that someone offers me some hope that it is possible to reach a point where there's a feeling of contentment on at least most of the important levels. Not sure I can handle feeling this upheaved indefinitely.

It doesn't help, I suppose, that I feel rather alone in all of this right now. Major life changes feel like less of an adventure when I've no one to turn to and say: We can do this. It might turn out to be amazing. Off we go.

15,000

Getting the words out has been a struggle this week. I think it's because I'm rapidly approaching my first big landmark (fifty pages) on this little novel writing excursion. I'm giving my dad the pages to read when I reach that point, and I'm nervous about that. I've become fully convinced in the last few days that my writing is rather crap. I recently finished reading a book (not the one mentioned in my last post) that, despite having made the NY Times Notable list, was full of cliches and boring plot points (what few plot points there were) and even though it was about a potentially very moving topic, it left me totally cold. I worry about this with my own stories. I tend to write about serious, emotional things, but my word choices can distance the reader, I think. Not entirely sure what to do about this because my style seems to be pretty well established by this point, but it's something I'd like to work on regardless.

A nice thought, anyway.

A novel I finished reading recently starts out like this:

We are each the love of someone's life.

The book does a great job of weaving this theme throughout the story, and it's something I've been thinking a lot about.

I have no idea whether or not I believe it's true. But I hope it is.

Peculiar Milestones

This weekend April and I received our first hate letter. It was from someone who is out of his/her mind with anger that we're not charging more for our wedding photography services. Apparently, it's not acceptable that we're only charging enough to cover our basic costs, even though we've only done one wedding so far and are just trying to build our portfolio. In fact, that we are doing so is threatening to bring down the entire wedding photography industry! We've only been in business two months and we're already destroying the livelihood of thousands of photographers across the land! I, for one, am deeply impressed that we've managed to amass such power in such little time. Hooray for us!

In the hours after receiving the letter, I composed a rather brilliant, biting reply in my head that I intended to post here (since the author of the letter politely declined to include his/her name, and didn't even disclose his/her gender, leading A & I to spend several amusing hours trying to figure out whether we should be laughing at a man or a woman, which for some reason seemed relevant), but have since decided that while I won't pretend I'm never willing to stoop to low levels, this is not worth it. This person doesn't know what they're talking about. It's kind of that simple. OF COURSE we would like to charge more money. OF COURSE we'd like to draw in the caliber of clients who are willing to pay several thousand dollars for their wedding images. And we hope to get there in the next year or so. But right now, we can't justify asking people to pay us huge amounts of money when we're still just infants in this industry. I don't think we should have to make apologies for that, and I'm not going to. Bring on the hate letters, darlings!

The thing that gets me, though, is that there are SO many people/issues that deserve to be protested. I could list hundreds off the top of my head. It's strange to me that someone would waste her time (time she obviously has because no one is hiring her to shoot their wedding) writing a nasty letter to two nice girls (can't you tell how nice we are by looking at our site?!) who are just trying to start up a little business. We're utterly harmless. But oh, the venom this person spat.

Happily, we are looking at this as nothing more than something fun to add to our scrap book, a little milestone that makes us feel a bit more like a real business.

P.S. To the person who wrote the letter, you might want to direct your next one at the teachers who were supposed to have taught you grammar. I recommend starting with early elementary and working your way up.

A Long December

Much more often than I will usually admit, I'm still subjected to tricks my memory plays on me, and a certain song or a certain city block will do me in entirely.

It's been raining here for going on a million days now, everything is constantly damp, and most of the time this is okay with me, some how.

And then other times...

... I think maybe I do remember the things I've forgotten, but can't tell if what has suddenly popped into my head is some lost little bit returning to me, or just my recalling something I once read. And so not wanting to inadvertently plagiarize, I let it slip past again.

Thunder

doesn't sound the same in Los Angeles as it does other places. It sounds like fake movie thunder, two foley artists shaking a big piece of tin back and forth. It sort of bugs me that they can't get the sound right. Luckily they don't bother trying very often.

I'm going to listen to my thunderstorm cd while I fall asleep to drown out the sound of the real, less satisfying storm going on outside my window right now.

Turn

When I left for work this morning, the sun was shining. It was warm, for 6:45AM. I'm wearing a skirt and was comfortable. No wind, no clouds. It stayed that way most of the morning. Leaving to grab lunch just now, I stepped outside into gusty winds (can never quite get used to the sight of palm trees blowing furiously in the wind), gray skies, cold. I love it when this happens. There's something about weather changing on a dime (not overnight, not over the course of several hours, but going from one sort of day to another in a matter of minutes) that gives me goosebumps. It might just be that I love a good story, and every good story has a precise moment when things turn. Even though the true shift is inevitably a gradual one, there's always a moment of change. Or maybe (although lately, when this has happened, it has not been to my benefit) I just like the idea that a day can turn out completely differently than you'd imagined it would.

The chapter I am working on right now is giving me a really hard time. What do you do when something needs to be told and you can't figure out how to tell it?

I even forgot what I wanted to call this post. And it was something good.

I'm amazed how there seems to be absolutely no idea, no perfect sentence, no brilliant wisp of words so profound that I cannot immediately forget it if I don't write it down. I was given a digital voice recorder for my birthday last year. I thought I would use it primarily in the car, where I often write in my head and feel helpless letting the words fall away as I drive. But it's ended up being used most in the middle of the night when I'm lying in the dark, nearly asleep, my brain a jumble of thoughts that half belong to the dreams I'm about to have. I've figured out how to turn it on with no lights, babble out whatever I'm thinking, and turn it back off, all without fully waking myself up. But there are some nights, and many, many days, where I fail altogether in writing down the ideas I have, and I get distraught when I think about all the little things I've lost that way. Last night, for example, my mind was gushing with things to write about -- for this blog, for the book, for ANOTHER book -- and I was giddy just thinking about it all. So giddy that I couldn't be swept away from the giddiness for even one moment so as to record ANY of it. Surely this time, I thought, I will remember stuff. How could a few hours sleep erase these particular things? Never mind that I've believed this same thing countless times before. This time I knew I would remember every word, and would therefore greet the following morning with more creative gusto than anyone had before. Ever.

The single thing I remember today is that one of the things I wanted to write about was forgetting things I wanted to write about.

Luckily (I guess?), the very nature of my creative amnesia makes it difficult to mourn too deeply for what I've forgotten. That's how far gone the words can be within minutes of my having thought of them; There's not even a tiny hint left to remind me of how good they could have been.

right over there

He's hunched over his food. A hamburger, it looks like. And fries. He's pouring himself ketchup. Good boy. He doesn't watch the bottle while he does it. He's reading. A thick book. You can't see what it is. Probably something you've not read, haven't even heard of. Watch him run his hand over the top of his baseball hat, worn and blue and loved more than most things he will leave an impression on over time without realizing he has. He's biting his finger nail, the side of it, the same way you do, the same way you are right now, and were two minutes ago. This time of day does that to you, and apparently you're not alone. His hair is some blond variation of brown, and it sticks out from under the hat in a clever way that makes you think of a boy named Hans from high school, who you had a crush on for years. Hans had red hair and was not very smart, but it's amazing what being left handed and carelessly sweet will make up for. You once ran into him after college, thousands of miles from anywhere he should have been, and he recognized you instantly. You soared. Look at him turn the pages, never raising his face, so you'll not know if he has kind eyes or if he bites his lip when he takes in words. You'll just know the bridge of his nose.

The light turns green and you go.

My Darling Mom

On Friday at work, I was having a mad craving for this stuff that when I was growing up was called Dog Chow. It's basically Chex covered with chocolate, peanut butter and powered sugar, and it's really good, even if it lacks any sort of sophistication. I hadn't thought about it in years, but suddenly I couldn't get it out of my mind. When I got home that afternoon, there was a package from my mom. Inside, in addition to some conversation hearts and a little Valentine, was a huge bag of... Dog Chow! Okay, so it was a slightly different version made with white chocolate and more ingredients than just Chex, but it's the same concept. Mom read my mind before I even had the thought!

Here is her version. I highly recommend it if you're having a need for something hugely sweet and delightfully portable (I brought my bag to work today).

WHITE CHOCOLATE PARTY MIX

10 oz bag of mini pretzels
5 cups of Cherrios
5 cups of Corn Chex
2 cups of dry roasted peanuts
1 lb of plain m&ms
24 oz of white chocolate chips
3 tablespoons oil

Mix first 5 ingredients in a big bowl. Melt chips and oil in microwave 2 1/2 minutes, then stir and melt another 20 seconds. Pour over dry ingredients. Spread on wax paper and let cool. Break apart and store in airtight container.

I bought my own dang flowers...

Buying My Own Dang Flowers
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

... Tomorrow being that special flowery day and all.

And here's where I would say that I don't even wish I had a Valentine, but that would just send everyone who knows me, including myself, into ridiculous peels of laughter.

Things for a Happy Saturday

* Finally making the chili I planned to make on Wednesday
* Adding lots of jalapenos to it
* Red Bicyclette merlot - the writing on the back of the bottle alone makes it worth the price
* Finishing The Confessions of Max Tivoli by Andrew Sean Greer, one of the best love stories I've ever read
* Having a fun talk with mom about cameras - can't wait to get my hands on that D70

Thanks for the effort, Fake SUV Guy.

Whenever I see someone crying in her car, which admittedly isn't often, I always make up a huge story about what might be causing the tears, thus entertaining myself for the remainder of my journey. And having been a frequent car weeper myself, I've often wondered what other people think when they see someone crying while driving. Last night I was on my way home, it was late, traffic was particularly awful, and my blood sugar was low. So I was doing this thing I do when I'm stressed where I rub my forehead as if shedding myself of a few eyebrow hairs might be just what I need. And right then a guy in a huge black Lexus SUV thing (although something that is a Lexus cannot really be a "sports utility" anything) shouted at me "Don't cry! It will be all right!" I burst out laughing because it figures that a time I'm NOT crying is when someone would chose to comment.

My version of Prince Charming...

will go to the LA flower district early in the morning to pick out flowers for me.

He will also definitely, happily, thankfully not be too charming.

Or, for that matter, anything even close to prince-like.

Things for a Happy Wednesday

* New episodes of LOST and ALIAS tonight
* The little white paper sleeve thing that you put a cookie in when you buy it from the bakery
* Finding out that you'll be getting enough back on your tax return to buy a new camera, providing you don't have another freak car incident the way you have the last two Februaries (knock, knock)
* The perfectly chewy cookie inside the white paper sleeve thing
* Pretty red skirts that flare when spinning
* Chili for dinner so that you can pretend it's winter even though it's sunny and 70 outside
* Thinking about the underappreciated instrument that is the xylophone
* Reading an awesome post (www.burntends.blogspot.com) that reminds you from whom you get your need to write

Solitaire

I have no problem spending time by myself. I'm not bothered by going to a movie alone, I often take myself out for breakfast on Sunday mornings, and given the choice between spending a Saturday night alone in my apartment or being with people who I don't totally adore, I'll almost always choose to stay in. I've always been comfortable in my own company.

Being alone in the larger sense, however, is a different story. I'm utterly awful at dealing with loneliness. It completely paralyzes me, but so do the things that might alleviate the problem. At heart I am profoundly introverted. For most of my life, I've had only a few close friends at any given time. Right now I could count the number of people with whom I feel deeply comfortable on one hand, even if I were to experience horrible frostbite that caused me to lose a couple of fingers. Yes, there is always a larger group of people with whom I enjoy spending time, and who always know, more or less, what is going on in my life, and I theirs. But I'd never call them up and ask if they want to see a movie with me. My shyness would keep me from even considering it.

For the most part, this has worked out okay for me. Whenever I've been far away from those few close people, there were always roommates and co-workers and boyfriends (who themselves would eventually be counted among the close) around to fill in the gaps and fend off the loneliness. I very rarely felt like I was somehow lacking socially, and so I've been able to make it to 26 without having to push myself too terribly far outside of my little world.

Now I suddenly find myself single, living alone, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, really struggling to figure out how to not be lonely in such an all consuming way. I've canceled dinners that would have been fun, I've spent a couple festive holidays at home rather than face a bit of awkwardness to join other people in what they were doing, I've skipped parties... anything that would have caused me to put my toe over the line o' comfort has been avoided at nearly any cost. I simply haven't wanted to make myself feel any more vulnerable than I already do. My awesome friend M, who is one of the very close few, but who lives across the country, has been trying to help me brainstorm ways to get out of this rut. By now she's nearly ready to kill me, I'm certain, because every good suggestion she's given me has sent me further down my little foxhole. Eventually I'll have to come up. I'm shy, not reclusive. But it's going to take some bit of courage that I haven't found yet.

Starting to come to terms...

with the fact that I just can't wear yellow. Certain shades are somewhat acceptable (I've a buttercup colored tee shirt that's not too offensive), but the shade I really love, a bright Canary yellow, the color I would use to draw the sun when I was younger, simply doesn't look good on me. It makes me appear jaundiced and frightful. This is hard for me to accept, especially considering I've been holding on to a dream of someday walking around Paris in a fabulous yellow jacket (The rest of the city will be in black & white, as will I. The only color will be my jacket.), and I guess I'll have to let that one go.

I'm not giving up my yellow umbrella, however. So on rainy days folks will just have to deal with the color bouncing off my white skin, blinding them all silly.

If I could make this title have sound, that would be best.

Given the choice of seeing a brilliant movie scene (for example, the moment in ALMOST FAMOUS when Patrick Fugit thinks he's introducing Kate Hudson and Billy Crudup for the first time, and Kate gets tears in her eyes when she shakes Billy's hand), reading a brilliant passage in a book (see last post), or hearing a brilliant piece of music (There's a particular part of a song called "Halfway" by the Actual Tigers that springs to mind -- out of this world piano -- but I am probably the only person who knows what I'm talking about in that specific case. Wish I could attach the clip of music here.), which would you choose?

It's incredibly hard for me to decide an order because every time I've been really moved by any one of these things, I can't imagine, right that second, how any other medium could be as effective as what I'm experiencing. But if I were forced to pick (and I'd be very curious to know what kind of scenario would involve me being FORCED to do such a thing), it would probably be music, then something written, then something from a movie. If I was going just by how many times one type of thing has made me emotional, it would be written stuff, hands down, no question. But whenever I get all worked up about something I've read, I always know exactly what emotion has been evoked. It's very clear to me. Music, on the other hand, quite often has the ability to do something that very few other things can (and right now I can't think of anything at all, but am enjoying trying) which is cause a pure swell of undefined emotion. I dig that.

Anyway. Weigh in, if you'd like.

Reading The English Patient for the oh-so-many-th time for inspiration...

"Some people you just had to embrace, in some way or another, had to bite into the muscle, to remain sane in their company. You needed to grab their hair and clutch it like a drowner so they would pull you into their midst. Otherwise they, walking casually down the street towards you, almost about to wave, would leap over a wall and be gone for months."

My Photography Site

London Car
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

The photography site is done!

www.sweet-monday.com/photography.htm

Finally

After a months long dry spell, I've found some music to love.

Fully recommend Damien Rice's O and the In Good Company soundtrack.

Good music to write by, which is what I'm doing right now. Nearing 10,000 words, which will earn me a huge ice cream cone.

Sugar Cookies

Sunday Flowers
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

Had a good night of baking yesterday(Or at least of putting cookie dough onto cookie sheets and placing them in the big hot thing that makes them brown.), and realized afterward with some amount of dismay that I'd been burning my sugar cookie candles while the actual sugar cookies were in the oven, therefore making it impossible to tell if my apartment smelled good thanks to Pillsbury or Illuminations. Hmpf.

On the subject of fake things, the color of these flowers I photographed on Sunday makes them look like they're not real. I think they've had work done.

Multiple Personality Disorder

Flower Outside Hungarian Restaurant
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

The Hungarian restaurant next to my apartment is a moody place.

Every morning I walk by it on the way to my car. Some days, the place smells of homemade bread straight from the oven. I'll take several deep breaths while passing because that is one of my favorite scents in the world, and smelling it on my own street corner makes me feel like I'm some place much more wholesome and interesting than Melrose & Vine. It's a great way to start the day, especially when the scent of bread mingles with the scent of the bright yellow roses that grow along the wall of the restaurant. When that happens, I'm able to ignore the fact that the building housing this restaurant is a complete eyesore.

On other days, the place smells so strongly of garbage that it makes my eyes sting. What's alarming is that as far as I can tell, the bread smell and the rotten trash smell come from the exact same part of the restaurant. There's a little gate through which you can see into part of the restaurant that isn't quite indoors, or quite outdoors. On the good days, there are racks of bread loaves. On the bad days, heaps of filth.

I suspect that this may have something to do with their questionable health department rating which fluctuates on a nearly monthly basis between a borderline acceptable "B" and a downright scary "C," and also explains why there are sometimes throngs of people in the place, but more often no one at all.

Last night I noticed that they'd cut down all the roses from the wall (not the bushes, just the pretty flowers), and I was glad I took this picture of one last weekend.

Moody indeed.

The Puzzle

I am friends with this really great couple, D & R, who've been dating for almost as long as I've lived in Los Angeles. They are two of the best people I know, enormously easy to be around and just generally good souls. Over New Year's, D proposed to R in Hawaii during a thunderstorm. Cuteness, excitment and glowing ensued, and they set a date in 2006 to be married.

Last week, R found out that her dad has cancer, and not a form that will go away with any ease. My first thought upon hearing this, after immediately feeling incredibly sad for her and her family, was that it's entirely unfair that her engagement bliss should be interupted by something so horrible that it can't be overlooked. There's no way that her father will not be at the forefront of her mind during what should be a purely happy time.

And then it occurred to me that we're not ever promised purely happy times. I once read an interview with Julia Roberts where she said that she feels as if, right now, she's in the "harbor of her life." If we're so blessed as to have a time like that, a little cove of calm and perfection, even for a brief time, it's to be truly appreciated because even then, in what seems like a sheltered moment, we're still vulnerable to what life can bring.

Realizing this, and thinking about it over the last several days, has been liberating to me on some level. I've spent so much of the past three months thinking that if only my love life were in proper order, everything would be perfect. I've a well paying job, amazing friends, a healthy, loving family, a cozy apartment, and a new little business that is already doing wonderfully even though it's not quite officially open! Yet I've been in such deep pain over the loss of my relationship that despite my gratitude for all these other things I've got, I've been utterly incapable of accepting my life as being full just as it is. It feels like something is missing, and something IS missing, but if it weren't, I wouldn't be guaranteed that the other things I value would be there as well.

The sense of completion, of fullness, has to come from something other than having the pieces of The Puzzle together all at once. The Puzzle is too fragile, too shifting, too fickle to be relied upon that way. You can search under all the couch cushions for the piece you're lacking, only to find upon returning with it that another one got lost while you were out looking.

Of course, I still wish I had my missing piece. But I will find my missing peace without it.

In Los Angeles, it can smell like Spring in January.

Little Houses
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

It wasn't as relaxing a weekend as I'd hoped for, but I have a feeling that will be the case for a while. I spent much of Saturday and a bit of Sunday painting these little shelves to sell on the site. We think they'd be great for growing a little herb garden. I kept one for myself and can't decide which color to paint it. While I enjoy the actual painting well enough, my favorite part is picking out the colors (endless options!), opening the can, and swirling the paint around with the stir stick. I love that something can be totally transformed for only $14 a quart.

We officially booked our second wedding this weekend. (Well, nearly officially. Money's not in the bank yet.) I'm hugely excited about this as it feels even more "real" then the last one. We're charging enough that we won't have to eat any of the cost ourselves, we've got plenty of time to prepare, and we've got all the fancy stuff in line like a contract and a holding fee and such. Schmancy.

(I just read that last paragraph and realized it sounds as if I'd booked my OWN second wedding. Hee.)

Deep Breath

It's Friday, and I've not written one word of the book this week. That is going to make for a challenging weekend. In fact, I may not finish my pages at all. For some reason, I'm ok with this. It hasn't been an easy week. On Sunday, I got the stuff clobbered out of me and have been trying to recover emotionally from that, work has been hectic, and both of these things have left me feeling absolutely exhausted by the time I get home each night. So I'm going easy on myself, just for a bit.

I have a lot to get done this weekend: April and I are just tiny tweaks away from having the site ready to launch, but the tweaking will require some grunt work that I've been putting off. I also really, really want to take some time to just wander around and take some pictures. I've been dealing so much lately with pictures I've already taken (getting prints made, scanning them in for the website, etc.) that I've not had time to take any new ones, and I'm missing it. I've literally been dreaming about cameras. I've got my eye on a digital SLR that I want oh-so-badly. April & I want to switch over to shooting the weddings digitally, and this camera (the Nikon D70) would be perfect for that. It takes lovely pictures, and I know I could do wonders with it, but for now it has to just stay in my dreams. I'll make do with the trusty Nikons I already have for the wedding/portrait stuff, and my little bitty digital for playing around. Los Angeles has no shortage of cool things to photograph, which I think is really true of any place, and I plan to schedule time this weekend to take advantage of what's out there.

Big Tiny Things

HRW
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

When I'd been home for a few days after spending time with my family over Christmas, I discovered inside my huge clunky blue sneakers, a tiny (oh-so tiny, smaller than a pinky fingernail tiny) pink shoe. I think it's a Polly Pocket shoe, and was probably put into my much bigger shoe by the little munchkin peeking out from under that red blanket. When I found it, after walking around all day with my foot slightly uncomfortable and not knowing why (does that make me a princess?), I couldn't stop smiling, which is the effect my little sister often has on me. I keep the pink shoe next to my computer at home. It's practically invisible in its smallness, but it always manages to boost my day even so.

Fra-GEE-lay

This week has been a set back for me, on several levels, with this whole break up thing. The result is that I'm hyper-sensitive, and downright fragile. Yesterday, the fact that it was a beautiful day, that the sun was shining, that the air was warm, felt like a personal insult. Just the day before, I'd spent the morning having a bagel at my favorite bagel place and typing away while absolutely relishing the sunshine. A few hours can change a lot. And just now, I stubbed my toe while opening the refridgerator, something that happens so often that I usually barely wince anymore. This time, I was fighting off wild tears, not because of the pain, but because it seemed like even my reflexes couldn't be on my side. All of this is ridiculous, I know. And I also know (or I hear, anyway) that it will pass. But right now I feel not just breakable, but already splintered.

7000 Words

This writing thing is a strange little bugger. The last few weeks, I've done most of my pages during down time at work. I do believe that the quality of the writing suffers a little bit because of this, as I'm more uptight at work. It's not the most inspiring place to get creative stuff done, but doing so has been a good exercise in discipline for me, and has helped keep me on track with my weekly goal.

Still, it's sort of baffling to me how sometimes it takes me all day to eek out even a single page. I'll stare at the screen for hours trying to come up with one sentence (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE JUST ONE SENTENCE!), and when I do, it's crap, and I want to punch myself. And then so on and so on for each additional sentence until somehow a page has begrudgingly appeared. On other days, today being one of them, I'll have finished a page before lunch, and actually like most of what I've written, at least enough to not want to inflict bodily harm upon myself.

What causes a good writing day and what causes a bad one seems not to have to do with my mood, my hunger level, or whether or not I've washed my hair in the morning. It seems to be dependent on absolutely nothing, really, which is why the bafflization occurs. I shouldn't be surprised about this, since really it's not the only thing in my life that comes and goes for no reason whatsoever (my darling depression being the other), and I've gotten over my curiosity about that. I guess I just need to treat this the same way: be happy for the easy days, and grateful for what the hard days teach me.

What Helped Me Today

"Praise God for all that's holy, cold and dark. Praise him for all we lose, for all the river of the years bears off. Praise him for stillness in the wake of pain. Praise him for emptiness... The secret that we share I cannot tell in full. But this much I will tell. What's lost is nothing to what's found."

--From LISTENING TO YOUR LIFE by Frederick Buechner

stutter...stutter...cackle

Why is it that President Bush always laughs when talking about hugely serious things, like the issues in Iraq? I'm pretty sure he's the only one who thinks this stuff is funny.

Is it some sort of bizarre speech impediment?

Here Comes A Metaphor!

There is this toy my cat Mira loves which recently has taken to getting stuck, painfully I imagine, in between her teeth. Each time she plays with it, she does so with such abandon and fresh, happy Attack Cat glee that it's as if it's the very first time she's ever seen this bouncy wire with cardboard tied to the end (no, I did not fashion it myself. It's called "The Cat Dancer," and it has to be the very least sophisticated cat toy ever invented. But oh the wonders it inspires!). And each time, she is similarly surprised (as am I, frankly, although that is a whole other issue) when the wire gets jammed between her teeth and she can't get it out for uncomfortable minute upon uncomfortable minute. Although we play with this thing almost every day, she can never remember that it can end up hurting her if she's not careful. Or else she can't comprehend why The Dancer would hurt her again, when look how much fun it is, bouncing! bouncing! in the air!

Granted, I should probably not give her this toy. But Mira weighs 17 pounds and might drop over dead if she doesn't get exercise, and this is the only toy she has even the most remote interest in. So she and I both keep going on with it, full of blissful denial.

Relief

If you haven't already done so, Amazon.com makes it very, very easy to make a donation to Red Cross right now. I encourage you to give just a tiny bit more then you think you can part with. That's usually the right amount.

Buttons
Originally uploaded by sweetmondaygirl.

The wedding photography site is almost done. I'm terribly excited about this, although I will be more excited about it when it gets us another wedding to shoot!

"At the end of the day you get nothing for nothing..."

I'm starting to make a New Year's tradition of seeing great theatre. Last beginning of January, I was in London watching Anything Goes, and this weekend April and I went to see Les Miserables at the Pantages theatre, which, although extremely ornate in an ornatey sort of way, is a rather spectacular place to see a show. I had just gotten used to the fact that most theatres are not the grand visions that I'd always imagined they would be when I was a little girl who thought of little else besides musicals and Broadway and Little Orphan Annie. Some of the best theatre I've seen has been in smallish venues that are worn in to the point of almost being shabby. I've gotten used to not expecting much from the theatre itself and placing more emphasis on the performance, which I guess is how it should be. But it was nice to go to a show somewhere so bold and assuming for once. It's too bad that we saw the last performance of the run, because I'd have loved to encourage everyone in LA to see this particular show. It blows my mind how many tremendously talented people there are out there. Everyone in the cast was incredible. Made me wish I'd pursued theater as originally planned, just so that I could be around that more often.

On a side note, I had escargot for the first time on Saturday. It burnt my tongue and I had to spit it out -- in the most ladylike way possible, of course. Luckily I was not alone, as April was spitting at the same moment. Eventually we managed to eat those two buggers along with several of their garlicky friends. However, if given the choice between snails and banana creme pie, may I politely suggest you go with the pie.

If I weren't so loyal in other areas of my life, this could be highly metaphorical.

I've been noticing lately that I have a bad habit of not appreciating or accepting when I've found a good product. Rather then just being happy that I've found the perfect night creme that makes my skin incredibly smooth, I continue to buy other, often more pricey cremes every once in a while, in case there happens to be some level beyond incredibly smooth. There's not. There are, however, incredibly greasy, incredibly watery, incredibly stinky lotions out there. Why I feel the need to spend my time and money on looking for some better version of something already splendid, I have no idea, especially since there many, many things for which I've found no miracle product. I haven't, for example, found the perfect blush, or a red lipstick that doesn't turn orange on my lips. Do I spend my money searching for these things? Not usually. Usually I buy yet another shiny, slightly colored lip gloss, even though I already have a perfect shiny, slightly colored lip gloss.

Perhaps there's some deep psychological reason behind this, but probably not. It's most likely just my own stupity and uncanny ability to squandor money. So here's to Nivea Renewal Night Creme, Jergin's Skin Smoothing Lotion, Olay Complete Daily Moisturizer, Aveeno Skin Relief Body Wash, Clean & Clear Daily Pore Cleanser, Maybelline Great Lash Mascara in Blackest Black and Keihl's Lip Balm in hue no. 30G. I love you even if I don't always show it. God bless ya.

True Loves

Tonight while cleaning out all the stuff I've shoved under my bed over the past year, I found my favorite photograph of myself with my old boyfriend. Not G, but one a couple before him, the boy I was with during college and for a year and a half afterward. The picture was taken the day I graduated from college. I was sitting in the football stadium with the other members of my class, none of whom I knew since I was graduating before all my other film school friends. Todd snuck up into the stands to surprise me, and we had the guy sitting behind us take our picture. In it we both look purely, simply happy, and deeply at peace, which is something we rarely were. I remember showing it to my step mom after it was developed, and she told me that she thought Todd looked really proud of me, and when I look at the picture, it makes me smile to be able to see that. I'm so grateful that I have that picture, some little bit of proof of something. The fact that Todd is still in my life is greater proof of that something, whatever exactly that something is. He is someone I know without a doubt I can count on to care about me. Even when I am wicked to him, even when I ignored him for months on end because I was in love with someone else, even when I'm dreadfully dull, I know that he's there, and he'll never not want me in his life. When we were dating, he used to tell me that he worried that if we ever broke up, he would lose my friendship, and I cruelly assured him that he most definitely would, so he'd better not break up with me. I'm so glad I wasn't able to keep my word on that. There are very few (in fact, truly only a few, as in three) people in my life who I can be completely honest with about my feelings and my state of mind, who I know I won't scare away or repulse when I admit that I'm having a hard time. When I tell him things, when I show him my vulnerable, aching side, he doesn't judge me. He formed his opinion of me long, long ago and he's never changed his mind or decided I was no longer worthwhile. This isn't to say that our friendship is perfect, because it's actually quite flawed in many ways. But the relationships that I've tried to make perfect have fallen out of my life, and this one has remained. I can hardly think of anything better then having something like that.

For once!

We are having a true, honest-to-God thunderstorm right now. Mira and Max are going absolutely crazy because they've totally forgotten what thunder sounds like in the past 4 years. I practically have, too!

I wish it weren't already 5:00PM so that I could curl up and take a nap, which short of sitting on a porch swing with someone you love, is the best way to enjoy a storm. Instead, I will make some tea and turn the lights low and just listen, for the few minutes that it lasts.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

I've been thinking a lot this holiday season about that particular song lyric, and how it seems to sum up all that I most want in life, and all that I'm finding difficult to achieve right now. It's not that I don't have moments of feeling comfortable and joyful, but they've been in short supply as of late, and so the search continues.

The thing is that in many ways, I *do* have a comfortable life. I have a cute apartment with lots of soft pillows and good smelling candles, and I take a hot bath every night with sweet pea scented bubbles. For Christmas my mom got me a crock pot and a panini press, so I've now more ways then ever to make yummy, warm food to have with a glass of red wine. I have two cats who love to cuddle, and a heater that is noisy but effective. Physically, there is no reason for me to feel any discomfort whatsoever, really. But there's a hole, and I feel it, and it does in fact cause me to feel uncomforted in some really important way.

As for joy, until fairly recently in my life (within the last couple years), I hadn't really figured out how to truly experience or embrace it at all. I wasn't sure I even had the right tools with which to feel purely happy. I am very, very blessed to have learned I was wrong about that. But true joy, the kind that brings tears to your eyes and makes your skin tingle, is so rare. I haven't felt it for a while, and I miss it tremendously. Now that I know it's possible, it's hard to be without it. It turns out that a lot of the things that bring me deep comfort are also the things that bring me the biggest joy, and it's my greatest wish for myself, and for others, that those things come around once again to the places where they are lacking.

And then there are other days...

Writing this week was significantly harder then last. Every word seemed to be a struggle, and when I was finally able to get something on the page, it all seemed trite, boring and out of place. I'm at the point where my characters' first impressions are there, and I need to now plunge into the deeper development of them. This is always where things get tricky for me, and when that is added to just a general lack of good ideas (which seemed to be the deal this week), it makes coming up with even five pages rather difficult. I don't know it was because I was so focused on website stuff this week, or if it's due to the holidays coming up and all that brings with it, or if was simply my hormones messing with me (which they are doing a lot of right now), but there were several times this week when I found myself staring at the screen, on the brink of tears.

Morgan says that I should go easier on myself, not have so many goals to meet each week, or at least not be angry with myself if for one reason or another I'm not able to meet them. I had to explain to her that right now, these little goals for myself are all I've got. My love life is in shambles (the debris of which I'm constantly having to climb over) and my career is severly off track from where I imagined it would be at this point. The things that are holding me together right now are my five pages a week and my almost completed website. If I can't at least live up to my expectations in those areas, I'm not quite sure what I will do with myself.

Luckily, I finished my pages a couple hours ago (with half a day to spare!) and actually felt good about the final few paragraphs, which will hopefully put me in a good position to start back up again on the 27th (taking next week off to celebrate Christmas as properly as possible). Baby steps.

If you must read one, I recommend "Writing Down The Bones"

I have no idea where bursts of creativity or inspiration come from, nor does anyone else, at least not specifically, or else there would be no need for hundreds upon hundreds of books about how to well, um, write books (or whatever other artistic thing one endeavors to do). But wherever it comes from, I've got a little patch of it this week and I'm rather happy about that. I think it's primarily due to the fact that I'm starting to get some real stuff DONE and it's creating the desire to want to do more. Hmmm... weird de ja vu... did I already write about this? Anyway. I've put myself on a very strict schedule for working on my book ("working on my book" is the absolute cheesiest thing in the world to say. Well, besides "working on my screenplay." Ick.). I'm giving myself a weekly page minimum just like I used to have in college, which was the last time I wrote with any true regularity (besides during Lent this year), and it seems to be working well. I've tried other methods in the past such as writing for a certain length of time each day or a certain word count, but nothing stuck. My schedule and emotional whims are too unpredictable to force myself to writeeverydaywithoutfailorImustnotreallywanttobeawriter. With this new thing, if I miss a day I just have to make up for it by Sunday night. And so far, with that in mind, I've NOT missed a day. The website is also coming along really nicely, and working on it sort of feels like my "job," but in a good way (have come to associate anything that seems like a "job" to be bad over the past several years). I love, love, love working on it and thinking about it. It serves as a good distraction from the other things that have camped out in my brain recently (they've not gone anywhere, but they take naps more frequently when I've got stuff to concentrate on). It's nice to feel good busy. I've so longed to have that feeling again. It's been ages. Years. It's come at a really extraordinarily high price, and for that I feel quite sad. I guess I'd like to think that one thing didn't cause the other, that I could be on this track even if I didn't just recently have my heart stomped upon, but who knows. One does what one must, I suppose, and if you're lucky, you find some small silver lining while doing it.

"The kissing couple is next."

For most of this year, I have been without a soundtrack. Normally, I almost always have a cd that I am in love with, that I keep constantly playing in my car, and have pangs of longing for during the hours when I can't be driving around listening to it. I will listen to the same cd for month after month after yes, another month before finally retiring it with a respectful sigh to the cd shelf. In the past these albums have ranged from movie scores to the Beatles, but most often they are someone's well written, highly-singable musings on love (if either brilliant lyrics or singalongablity are lacking, the time I can stand to keep it as the featured pick shoots way, way down). I find myself in need of something that fits this bill, but everything I've tried lately has come up short. I don't know if I've become too quick to boredom, or if singers have just gotten lazy. But I guess that a great deal of the value is in the discovery, so I will keep looking...

Butterscotch

I did something unexpected yesterday. After having spent most of my life loving my hair color, and being told by every hair stylist I ever went to that I should never dye it, I went ahead and did just that. Over the past year or so (it might have been much longer then that, or much shorter, but my ability to perceive these kinds of things seems to not exist), my once very uniquely colored hair had become very dull, and I had failed to notice it. Like so many other things in my life, my perspective is skewed. The things I thought I had all in line, all on track, have gone completely awry, and other things I thought I'd never get a handle on are starting to slip into place. I'm bewildered. So I decided to change my hair. The most difficult thing about doing it was that I knew I would be saying goodbye forever to the hair I grew up with, the hair my dad loved to call "butterscotch." Even though it hadn't been butterscotch for quite some time, it was sad to officially let it go (it's more "coke with cherry syrup" now, by the way). Odd how hard it can be to give up something you don't even have any more. But I am trying.

Caramel Apple Cider

I'm drinking my tea early tonight because I have to be up at a more extreme time than usual tomorrow so that I can make my hair look pretty. Unfortunately, I'm realizing that not all teas are created equal. While this sleep tea was the only kind of tea I drank for years (having not been all that in to tea until recently, and drinking it only for the sake of helping with my insomnia), I have suddenly become a bit adverse to it now that I've been drinking my very lovely English Breakfast tea (purchased London) in the morning. Must find caffeine free version of like quality.

On the surface, this was a productive day for me. We're making great strides with our website, and it's starting to look real. I'm pretty excited about this. And after work, I started back doing something I haven't done for a long while but plan to do more often, which is bring my computer to the coffee shop so that I can write without the distraction of internet for a couple hours each day. I have always sort of thought people who did that were dorky (and not good dorky), and were just trying to look all writerly. But I've come to understand why a place like that can be condusive to creativity. I got more done in my time there today then I have in the past several weeks at home. Besides, it's fun to watch people go in and out (famous people count for today: 4), and make up stories about how they've spent their day. The guy sitting next to me was writing furiously in a college ruled notebook. I didn't want to be rude and stare at what he was putting down, but I noticed an awful lot of "I"s, so perhaps a journal, or an angry letter to someone. He kept sighing as if the words were taking a lot out of him. I know the feeling.

Green Bean Casserole

So it appears I survived my first major holiday alone. Not just "without family" alone or "single" alone (have done those many times before), but rather actually alone. "Sitting with cats eating a bologna sandwich instead of turkey" alone. It wasn't quite as bad as I feared it might be, although I can't say it was splendid, either, because obviously it wasn't. It's just that, at least in this case, it turned out that a holiday alone made for a similar feeling as every other day alone lately. I guess it's being with people one wants to be with that makes a holiday a special day, and without those people it's rather normal, only with fewer stores open. Good Lord, that sounds corny.

Have been battling loneliness today, though. It's my 5th straight day in a row without seeing a single person who I know, and it's starting to wear on me. There are so many things I am missing these days, and they seem to creep up on me the most when I am by myself. Today while cleaning I found the itinerary for the trip I was supposed to have taken this week, and I sobbed for 5 minutes as if someone had cut a toe off. I recovered pretty quickly, but it's small things like that which can do me in.

I keep meaning to write a more upbeat post since overall things have been going pretty well, at least in all the practical ways, and I want it to be reflected that I'm not curled in the fetal position on my bathroom floor or some such thing. But it seems that what has been true most of my life remains true now, which is that I really feel most inspired to write something when I'm struggling.

Oil of Olay

Tomorrow I turn 26, and tonight I used my first wrinkle cream. It smells like old woman, and I felt a bit sad as I smeared its pinkness on my face and neck (musn't forget the neck!). 26 has been a significant age in my mind for years. It was the age by which I expected myself to have accomplished a whole range of things, and most of them are still far beyond my reach. So I don't anticipate tomorrow being a particularly special day. I will spend it working for 9 hours with people I barely know, and then I will come home to my empty apartment and have a half pint of Ben & Jerry's frozen yogurt as my cake. I will listen to nice voicemails from my parents and my Grandpa and Grandma which will make me teary, and I will feel like I need the wrinkle cream.

But last year I had a nearly perfect birthday. In fact, it may actually have been completely perfect. I was camping with Gym, April and Hosea in Big Sur. In the middle of the night, I got out of the tent to go to the bathroom and looked up through the Redwoods at the sky. It was filled with more stars then I thought existed. I woke Gym up and made him come out and look at them with me. It was one of the fullest moments of my life. That was how I turned 25. So I will gladly take this lonely birthday as the price for having been given that one.

Today

Today is my dad's birthday. My dad is the only one besides me who reads these posts, so... Happy Birthday Dad!

Two Jars of Pickles and No One to Share Them With

I've got a bit of melancholy today. The boy left for Philadelphia this morning to work on a movie for the next four months. I'm ridiculously proud of him, but already feeling some lonliness. It's his fault for being so much fun to spend time with.

I'm planning, however, to channel any blueness that comes up into my writing. I've been so happy with my personal life for the past year that I've not been able to muster much of the angst that my stories seem to require. This should help with that, probably more then I want it to. We went to see this girl play at a bar the other night, and both she and the girl who played before her were really awesome writers/musicians. It got my wheels turning. There's a lot I want to put out there, and there's no reason I shouldn't be kicking ass creatively right now. I've no excuses, which is sort of scary for me. I love it.

And then again...

Finally have internet again. I'm terribly excited about this. Embarrassingly so. Right now I am sitting on my floor at my makeshift desk, which is about 1 foot high. It was supposed to be much taller, but as usual it didn't go as planned.

Last night I had one of the most fabulous dinners of my life and I have been thinking about it all day. It wasn't just the food, of course. It was everything -- the atmosphere, the boy, my flip-flopped feet in a fancy restaurant.

But dang, was that Godiva cake amazing.