Clarabell was everyone's favorite. She was coined, early on, as the pretty one - the one with golden, carefree curls, apple green eyes, and a pleasant disposition. I, her nemesis, had unruly hair, too many freckles, and a weak chin.
"If you wrap a towel around their heads you can't tell them apart," Mom would say.
"Is that so," said most everyone else.
Clarabell was fifteen months older and in her own words, she was the boss of me. She got to stay up 30 minutes later, she was the first to ride the big yellow school bus, and the one who got everything new.
And she got Davy, she always got Davy. And I got Micky. They were the best part of the Monkees. The Monkees were bigger than Elvis and better than Lassie. And we were just sisters. And I was little and she was big. They were the reason we raced each other every Saturday morning, down the slippery staircase, through the pantry, to the trophy piece of our living-room - an Admiral, wood console, black and white TV.
I was convinced that, if it weren’t for her, I’d have everything I ever wanted. I’d have the sunny side of our bedroom. Davy’s picture would hang right above MY bed. Davy’s face would be the first thing I’d see every morning and the last thing I’d see before I turned out the lights.
And why does the yellow brick road have to dangle from MY side of the ceiling? A limp, long, caution strip of double-sided sticky tape, weighted in misguided flies. I can no longer lie on my bed, stretch my legs up high and point my toes or I’ll touch it. And I never sleep without my bedspread pulled way up, over my head, because I know, someday, one of those flies will come unstuck, and land right between my eyes.
When people ask me why I make the cross-country journey to Burning Man year after year, I tell them it is intensely therapeutic. And then I watch them laugh.
But it’s true you know, unless you’re one of those wayward frat boys or misguided hippie chicks.
“Is everyone naked?” they’ll ask me.
In reality, this freedom of expression is very limited. It’s the shirt cockers and cock socks that turn me off. Either commit to clothes or not but don’t stop at just a sock on your cock or a shirt that balloons around your belly and stops at the top of your pubic mop.
“Is everybody high?” they’ll ask me.
Well yes, of course we’re all high. Why else would we be here? But people get high off of different things. Creative expression gets me high and it’s in your face, 24/7. You cannot escape it.
“Is everyone having sex?” they’ll ask me.
Sweltering heat and the absence of free flowing water isn’t an ideal situation, so I suspect some are holding back.
“What do you get at Burning Man?” they’ll probe, as if the price of admission includes something.
“What you get at Burning Man,” I tell them, “is entirely up to you.”
I like to arrive with a purpose—purge the sediment that currently clogs my default world and replenish it with joyfulness. It is everywhere here.
One year, my sludge was the lingering sting of rejection.
By my own limited vision, the source of this rejection was Mike—a man I randomly met on the playa and then camped with for the next four years. During our playa playtime, he fed me a great deal of attention. He was smart and powerful in his default world but here, he was a toy for me to play with.
Mike didn’t expect sex. He was happy chasing after someone who didn’t complain about the elements, looked comfortable riding a bike and could dance wildly from dusk till dawn.
Call me crazy but hearing,…Continue
photo courtesy of universal mind power
My neighbor is in the early stages of alzheimer's, or is it dementia? I can't remember. Regardless, losing my mind is one of my fears. That and becoming lactose intolerant and diabetic, and being forced to give up wine and cheese.
In an effort to strengthen my mind, I signed up for Lumosity. Each day I do a series of small, nonthreatening games (I hate games) that work my IQ, memory, cognitive control, concentration, critical thinking and reasoning skills.
Some games I am pretty good at. Others, I suck at. Either way, I feel good about spending 7 to 10 minutes a day strengthening my brain. Next on my list: quads, ass, arms, and abs.
Yesterday, as I entered the lobby of my doctor's office building, 15 minutes late for my appointment, from the corner of my eye I noticed a stack of pennies sitting on top of a thermostat. At the end of my exam I mentioned this to the good doctor, mainly because I was curious if there was some sort of scientific reasoning behind it. Does the copper in the pennies help regulate the temperature?
My doctor confessed that he never notice the pennies or, for that matter, the thermostat. He asked me what the temperature was set at and to my surprise, I knew. It was set to the far right, above 80 degrees.
"How many pennies are on the thermostat?" asked my doctor.
"Eight," I guessed.
On my way out, I stopped and counted the pennies. There were indeed eight pennies stacked one on top of each other and the thermostat registered 69 degrees but was set as high as it could…Continue
I read the label on my chic, overpriced raincoat today. It says, "DRY CLEAN ONLY." Why would a raincoat need to be dry cleaned? THAT is ridiculous.
I've owned the damn thing for over a year and I notice the label on the same day that the local dry cleaners misplaced six of my husbands best, Brooks Brothers shirts. I spent 20 minutes watching a revolving rack of crisp, button-down cotton shirts dressed in wisps of plastic, whimsically swirl round, and round, and round--one after the other, after the other, after the other... It was maddening.
John, the owner of the dry cleaners, thinks my husband misplaced them. That is not only improbable, it's impossible. My husband, a devout creature of habit, drops the same number of shirts off every Saturday. He neatly places his six, soiled shirts on hangers and lines them up according to their huge.
Yes, it's true, if these were my shirts--typically deposited balled and inside out--misplacing them would not only be probable it would be logical. But this is my polar opposite, the ying to my yang--a man who folds his soiled dinner napkin and his dirty socks--this guy knows where and when he drops off his shirts.
Unfortunately, John doesn't stamp your last name on the inside collar of your shirts. The cleaner around the corner does. That's where I met my second husband. His family owned the store. I stopped going there after our divorce. Who could blame me. I didn't want to air my dirty laundry in from of the x-inlaws.
True story (so bizarre I must preference it by saying true story) ...
The x-inlaws, dry cleaning store would annually clean out their basement and discard any clothes…Continue
"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen."
~ Elisabeth Kubler-Ross