Taking it to the streets.

Do you all know I write a blog?

I guess if you are reading it here, you might have been here before.  I write about my life, as I see it (my blog, duh) and I don’t make any apologies for it.  Okay, to be fair, I apologized once for calling this one guy a pussy whipped pathetic loser.  I didn’t actually apologize for what I said about him, but for not having warned him that I was calling him a said pussy whipped pathetic loser in a public blog that as high as a dozen people (not any of his friends) might read.  That, and that although I did not actually use his name, I would not feel bad in divulging his name if someone asked (mostly so they could avoid him, I am sure).  He called me a whore right after that (awesome!) when he read a few of my other uncensored blog posts and thought we couldn’t be friends then because of the sexual nature of them (again, awesome!).  My regret was that I hadn’t come up with anything more colorful to call him than a pussy whipped pathetic loser, but I can learn from my mistakes.

So back to writing this blog.  You still reading?  Good, because I need readership.  Yes, perfectly self serving and possibly a little desperate, but today I would really like people to read this stuff. And what does that have to do with you, you ask?  Here goes:

1) Read this blog.  You are already here, so thank you!  I get a little obsessed about my numbers sometimes. Yes, there is a way to track this, and every blogger (okay, most bloggers) out there knows how many hits they got on a particular post at any given time.  I want this number to be higher.  So while you are reading it right now, I want you to also log on and read it from your hand-held device, your smart phone, your work computer, your boyfriend’s computer, your second cousin’s pet tarantula’s computer, and anywhere else you so desire.  See, each time you read it from a different device, I get a hit.  Hits are good in this case, and more (in this case) is what I am shooting for.

2) Follow this blog.  You already read it, so now click the little button in the right hand side that says “JOIN THIS SITE” and you get to be one of my fans.  I don’t know what actually happens after that, like if there is some “Follower Genie” that will send you emails telling you when I have once again posted something amazing for you to read, but you might as well have your little icon picture right there on my page.  Oh, and let me know if you have a blog.  I like to follow blogs.

3) Tell your friends.  You are enjoying reading and following the blog, so share the wealth.  You can have book club meetings about it even, all of you reading the blog, sharing with people what you gleaned from the amazing value it brought into you life, and how inspired you are to continue to read and grow.  I suggest you do this over a few (I suggest a half dozen) glasses of wine or pints of beers,  in a smoky dive bar, in a part of town you are not likely to be seen.  It is more fun that way.

4) Give me feedback.  No, I don’t really want you to point out spelling errors.  Or grammar errors.  Or suggest that I use too many non-sentences.  I know all that.  It is a style thing.  I am good with that part.  But, what do you want to read?  I have a gazillion stories about the woes of being a single mom with amazing kids and an idiot for an ex.  I could talk endlessly about surviving my mother. I could brag on my kids forever.  I can save you a little trouble here and say that I don’t post pictures because: a) selfies as a fad needs to go away, b) I want my kids to have a little tiny bit of privacy (I will use the pictures against them later at my discretion), c) If there are no pictures of me I have deniability in court, and d) you do not really need me up in your face with scary pics of myself in a too tight tank top, or some silly graphic that I pulled off bing.  But other than that, tell me what you DO want, and I will listen (as much as my creativity will allow).  And since you are now a fan (remember you are now FOLLOWING my blog, right?), you might as well have some semblance of ownership, no matter how false it actually is, and read what you like.

Feel free to go back and read older blogs.  I never actually read them myself, because honestly I was a huge mess back then.  If you do like to read expose-type blogs, reading from the first blog forward in time will give you the best picture of who I was, who I am, and where I am going.   It will also give me tons of hit-counts to my page views.  Win Win.

Are you still reading here?   Awesome, Thanks! Now go tell someone else, and feel free to share the link anywhere you want.  I won’t mind.

 

 

 

 

Willie Nelson meets Coco Channel

I am in the middle of planning my next road trip.

My auntie from Switzerland is here for a visit.  She is in her 60’s, and is my mother’s youngest sister.  She is everything I hope to be in my 60’s.  She wears outrageous jewelry. She paints her nails in amazing bright colors, usually with glitter. She dyes her hair blond with highlights. She wears blue mascara.  She carries these great big designer purses, and tends to buy new ones every few weeks out of boredom and true love.  She is single, doesn’t answer to anyone, and is sexy as hell.

So while hanging out with her and my mom (her sister, remember) we started talking about things we are doing with our lives.  My auntie is vacationing.  She is retried and vacationing all the time.  She is in the USA now, staying here is California, for the next few months.  Her return date to Switzerland is unclear at the moment because 1) She doesn’t have to be anywhere, so what’s the rush, 2) She might want to stop in Italy on the way home, because June would be a great time to lay out and work her tan and Italy has great beaches, and 3) The men in Switzerland are “so boring” in her opinion, that a fun American man might just make her rethink the length of her trip. 

When I told her about our recent DC trip, she wanted to go.  Like pack her bags, and go, as in “see you in a week or so, bye.” And she laughed about how I could do that, and that I was lucky to be doing it so young (I don’t think of 47 as young, but whatever) so I should.  My mom had stayed silent for most of this time, and my usual skepticism about my mom’s motives started to rear its ugly head.  In my head, she was angry that we would be so frivolous with our money.  In my head, she was worried that we were not focusing our lives in the proper fashion towards knowledge and stability.  In my head, she had judged my (and my auntie’s) choices as not as noble as the ones she made in her conservative, frill-free life.

She surprised both of us by telling me that I should go everywhere while I can.  She said don’t worry about money, because no one dies regretting that they are not debt free, but they do regret not doing more when they could.  She said she wished she had followed through with HER plans to travel and see things, and regretted that she no longer felt like she had the choice to go places.  She seemed sad that she had missed out.

This real bonding moment did not escape me.  I knew, immediately, that my mom was vulnerable, and that I had the choice to make it worse with blame and rhetoric, or I could embrace the time and empathize by acknowledging and understanding, and by asking her what she would wish for me to do differently. 

The answer was amazing.  She told me about the 6 times (yes, 6) she and my dad drove across the southwest desert, and how they never stopped at the Grand Canyon.  She always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, but she said there was never time, and they were always in a rush to get from one military duty station to the next.  My dad, it seems, is not a very good sightseer (I knew this), and was impatient to get to places (I knew this, too) and she loved him, and understood giving in to his comfort more than her desire to explore. 

We went on to talk about the details of the last few trips I had taken with my kids, and about how something clicked in my head that I missed this as a kid, and would have loved to have shared that with her.  How I wanted my kids to know that I was taking all my time to be with them, and that money, in the end, was not as important as standing in the edge of something bigger that you, and marveling in the awesomeness of seeing it and touching it.  I told her about the things I DID love growing up on the few adventures we took together.  The mini mugs of hot chocolate.  The red wagon.  The silver dollar pancakes and the milk through the swirly straws. The rocks we painted one summer that she still uses as a door stop. 

In that short conversation, I absolved her of the guilt she felt, and let her know that I had zero regrets about my childhood, or any expectation for her to have done it differently.  I had food and clean clothes, a nice bed and a roof over my head.  I don’t remember going places, but home was always there.  I wasn’t hoping for her to be different, I just wanted ME to be different.  I wanted to see things, and be places, and meet people, and accidentally have amazing adventures and stories because I was not afraid to go. I was not judging her as fearful, just fighting my own demons, trying always to have what I was doing be enough. 

Did it mean I was running away from traditional 1950’s stability? Did it mean I was rejecting my mother’s choices and ideals? No, I don’t think so.  I think it means somewhere along the way, maybe because of some things she taught me, I learned (actually, re-learned) that nothing lasts and you better find things you love NOW because you may never have the time to do them again.  Debt and time? Oh well.  Those things will take care of themselves whether or not I worry about them.

I told my mom and my auntie what our next road trip plan was. And then I asked my mom if she wanted to come to the Grand Canyon with us.  My auntie, in her perfect-little-hipster-sister way, tried to convince my mom that she should go, and love it.  Heck, forget that, they should go right now, and screw me and my kids, we were still young and could go anytime.  Oh my god we laughed.  My mom still said no, but was really happy to pull out a map and tell me where she HAD been on the cross county drives, and how she remembered the roads, and all about the places to avoid because of heat and scorpions. (Scorpions? Yeah, I wrote that shit down).  She said it took her a while when my kids and I first started doing these road trip to understand why they were important, and even longer to understand her own emotions about what she missed, and to forgive herself for not doing it, and not hold it against me for going now.  It was a good evening.

My auntie, being ever the sexy travel goddess, decided to make it her mission to bring me and my kids to Switzerland and started making plans.  Seems I am going the summer of 2016, and staying in her summer house.  My mom says it’s nice and we will enjoy it, but I needed to promise to take my kids to Vienna as well.  She said there is a train that I will love, and that the kids shouldn’t miss.  She said, given the right set of circumstances, she might come with us, assuming, she said, she was not at the Grand Canyon. All I could do was smile.

 

Chasing snakes.

I flat out lied to my ex today.

I know. I have been complaining about him forever. Trying to move past all the dislike and creepiness I feel in his presence. Put my best foot forward and remember I love my children. But today, that high road wasn’t anywhere with in my reach. No map to get there. No GPS to even locate it.

So, I lied.

The lie might seem small, in the reality of the world. No one will die. No one will be disappointed or have their life ruined by a terrible secret. It is completely on me. Complete avoidance because I can’t believe him capable of any request being anything but manipulation.

The lie? That I was already in town, did not want my children brought to my house by a third party because I was already on my way, and that no, I did not want to have dinner with him (and presumably his wife, and his mother since they will be there) because I already had plans, thanks anyway.

The truth? I didn’t want to be in his presence for any amount of time that would require more conversation than “Where are the backpacks?” and “Baseball is at 2pm.” I didn’t want it with him. I didn’t want it from his mother. I definitely didn’t want it from his wife. I was completely okay with it meaning I did not have an extra hour with my kids if it meant I did not have to endure that. I am just not that strong.

For the record, today, in my past life, would have been Corned Beef and Cabbage Dinner Day. I don’t particularly like corned beef and cabbage. Actually, unless the corned beef is cold served on rye with horseradish, I don’t like it at all. Boiled potatoes and soggy cabbage rate even lower.

But each year, for the 11 years of the days before St Patrick’s Day that my ex and I were together, this day was special. It was the day he cooked. It was the day the pot boiled all day. It was the day family and friends came over and ate the crap boiled tradition with us. It was as day he stayed sober until right before everyone arrived, and then got drunk fast, on Irish-type coffee in mock ethnic participation of some sort. There is not a drop of Irish in either one of us, so it is actually pretty funny.

I know from his first ex wife that the boiled dinner at this time of year was a tradition for them, too. I don’t know if their tradition turned into the same melancholy drunkfest mine always did with him after everyone went home, but for me, it was just one more on the list on the many evenings spent like that.

Until the invitation arrived, I hadn’t remembered it at all. I have not had that dinner in four years, and I don’t remember ever missing it. So as the invite via text message dinged my phone, the entire history of the ritual came flooding back. It hit me in the back of the head like a two-by-four. Why would he invite me? What was the game? Was there even a chance this invite was legit, and not some way to throw me? Could he not have remembered any of the terrible stuff? And just be having crap boiled dinner? And thought, since I was picking up the kids anyway, to throw me an invite to be polite?

So I lied.

I don’t have any desire to be in the middle of my old world. I left it. I don’t want to go back. I don’t like boiled cabbage and potatoes, and I hated each and every one of those dinners and did them over and over again anyway. I think I was insane. I am not insane anymore. I don’t ever want to be again.

So this lie was for me. So that I could write this all down in the time I could have been eating corned beef. This lie, to do something for myself, and not give any other explanation, is so much better than the lie I told myself for so long that everything was fine in that smelly, boiling pot I called home. I am good with it, because maybe it wasn’t a lie after all. I mean, I did have plans after all. I just didn’t know it when I said no.

Stairs

I have been writing, “working” on short stories, works of fiction that buzz through my head, full of really cool characters and great back stories. I know these guys intimately. They live in my dreams, haunt my days, talk to me like schizophrenic voices in my head, and manage to stay ever so slightly out of reach as I try to put on paper their very nature, as if taunting me to define them. Defining is the problem. There is a small part of me that doesn’t want them defined. What would happen if I managed to capture their essence in words, and let it flow across the paper in beautifully structured sentences that reach the muses’ ears with delight ? What if with that , the characters had voices and bodies and realities of their own to live, defying the logic of fiction at all? Becoming real for everyone, and not just for me.

So instead, I have been tackling the stair right in from of me, ignoring the voices, letting them stew in their own reluctance to show themselves, and just moving forward with what I can.

Always moving forward. Tiny little steps at a time.

My son has me worried, because he is an amazingly bright kid who is simply shutting down when it comes to language arts and social studies. It is not because he can’t do it; he is still testing way above level in all the things they test you on. He just doesn’t care. I can’t even find fault in his logic behind the not caring, because, in a weird way, I totally agree with him. He says that understanding what happened in the past hasn’t really helped the present much. We keep making the same mistakes, even though we know the outcome of having made the mistakes before. He thinks if we never learned that lesson from our forefathers, maybe would should just stop listening to them. And writing about them? Um. Why? The history doesn’t change, and in his world, the present is hard enough to deal with without having to pay for other people’s crap that they got wrong. He should not have to have someone else decide what is important to him. This is a constant theme, about if things already aren’t fair in life, why bother caring about a bunch of dead people and how they were an influence. In his head, the entire history of California fits in one 370-page book, and, if he were to count actual individuals, there are only maybe 100 listed. One hundred. That’s it. One hundred important people in a 1000 years of history. What the hell chance does a ten year old who can’t even get his dad’s attention have of making any difference? So, he avoids it, and does math instead. Math doesn’t change. Math is a constant. Math solves problems. Math makes no judgments. Math explains the Universe. And his universe is spinning, math is his stationary point to focus on.

This confounds me, and saddens me at the same time. Here I am trying to eliminate absolutes and think in terms of freedom and creativity, and all my son wants is structure and routine. Something tangible and real. That ever elusive quality of something just outside of your grasp. We want what we want to be real. We want what we want when we want it. We want our worlds to show up solidly and keep us from floating away. We want the same thing. Just to tackle the stair in front of us, move forward with what we can.

So I am stepping back and trying to understand my own personal history, and history in general, and trying to understand why the recording of it on paper is important. I am also slowing down enough to help my son understand that stability does not mean things never change. That learning how to be in the world does not mean you never move forward, but that it might just mean you choose a different path. And moving forward means the step right in front of us. Me, maybe it means letting the characters just be there for a while until they tell me their stories. Him, maybe it means telling his own story while still knowing he has a rock that is stationary. Maybe it means I write his story and let us both enjoy that facets of creativity that may bring. Maybe it means I need to embrace his never-changing chaos so he can understand my fluid stability. Both are overwhelming if you feel like you are spinning all alone.

The stair right in front of me. It’s not that big if I only look right here. And it has some really amazing characters already willing to talk.

Are you done with that fantasy? Because I have a casserole to bake.

I have been thinking about two articles I read yesterday. Combined, they make a whole lot of sense.

The first, one about potential in a partner, came from match.com (yes, I read this shit, sue me). Partner potential, is just that, potential. It is not fact. It is not even real hope. It is just what humans do when trying to see the good in people they somehow became attracted to. That cute guy who may made eye contact while getting his change at the grocery store? Potential. The guy in the office with the bad haircut, but thoughtful blue eyes? Potential. The hot dad with the wedding ring tan line and obnoxious daughter in your son’s class? Potential.

Since I spend way too much time reading into things, my first thought was “I never do this!” Who am I kidding? I do this all the time. I spend much of the time in my own head inventing the future I want to have with men I have never even talked to, much less dated. (Creativity is sometimes a burden I have to carry. The same thing that makes it so I can write this blog is also what makes it so I have complex fantasies about the FedEx guy. It has its perks.) But it also makes me more susceptible to having real life people that have zero potential become fixations. I ignore red flags. I confuse lust with love. I ascribe positive characteristics that just aren’t there. I read texts and emails as if they are personal love notes full of desire. There is no way a guy can win at this, and be a real person. But that’s okay. Each of these things can be contributed to the potential I see in the object of my attraction to be the man of my dreams..

Well, dream on, because here is the topic of the second article (the one I think I wanna start living by): Unless you can close the deal, potential is shit.

It was harsh. It said that being nice, seeing people as nice, acting nice in all situations is bullshit. It gets you nothing. Potential means that you *may* get good results, but unless you *are* getting good results, you have done NOTHING. Wow, what a kick in the head. I mean, I am a nice person (when I am not acting like a bitch). I do nice things. I keep a nice house and have nice kids. I am also fucking delusional, but I like my happy little world. People know me here.

So the two articles related because I tend to think of men I am attracted to as “nice” but since they are not “closing the deal”, nice means jack. I think of myself as nice, but unless I am nice AND can help a guy with yard work, balance his checkbook, play nice with his former in-laws, and can deal with football play-offs without losing my shit, nice just got me nothing. Yeah, beautiful girls will get a guy to take her home, but if she can’t stand his socks on the floor when he is tired, that might be an issue later on down the road.

As for nice men? Flirt with me in the grocery store? Okay, that was fun, but since you didn’t ask how to contact me to flirt again your “potential” meter was high, but your “close” meter was broken. Guy that danced with me and bought me drinks, but left with someone else? Same thing. It doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself. Getting a cute guy to buy you drinks while out dancing is awesome. What it does mean is that right there is where it needs to stop, at least in my head. Accepting that is hard, me being a single woman who actually enjoys sex, and wants monogamy. But the flip side of that is that if I only see potential, and I waste tons of my time, and maybe some of theirs, creating a universe in which no one could possibly live happily.

Wanna live happily? Good, me too. That is a damn nice thought, but what do you bring to the table that makes that happen? I am not saying I need to have a bikini ready body and an ever ready sex drive, while always having good beverages and baseball stats memorized. But I should be offering something more than “nice”. It also means that I need to stop believing that just because a guy has a penis and I have a vagina, we are a perfect match. Long term, more than that is necessary. Close the deal, be the guy I want to be with so I can be the girl you want to be with. Putting it into practice will be harder, but starting with making my own potential into someone I would want to date is a good step. Letting go of the fantasies might take some work. Except for the ones about Peirce Brosnan and Liam Hemsworth, I am keeping those. They have potential, right?

It is harder than it looks.

These are my short stories. I had them published in a 101-word contest that happens annually. Writing a complete short story within the confines on 101 words is challenging, especially to someone like me who likes to write and write and write, expaining things over and over and over, forever and ever and ever (got it?). Every time I have remembered to enter, I have been fortunate to have at least one story published. In 1999 I won the contest. In 2009 and 2011 I had all three that were entered (three is the limit) published. Here they are. Read. Enjoy. Share.

Listed by year
Then the link to the published site.
Then the title and each story

1999:
Link to 1999 Story

Memories
She remembered the way he tasted. Salty. Warm. Of coffee and brandy and toothpaste and cigarettes. She remembered his coal-black hair falling in his eyes. Short and slightly curled above the ears. She knew his eyes. The color of new jeans just washed and damp. Damp, the way his hands were as they touched her face and shoulders and neck and breasts and stomach and back, and between her legs. She remembered every moment. Every detail. Every movement. She remembered. She knew him. Even as she identified him as number three in the rape suspect line-up.

__________

2005:
Link to the 2005 Story

Poetic Justice
A friend of 20-plus years borrowed $500 two years ago Halloween. Having never known her to be a welsher, it was an easy check to write. Until today, I thought she was dead. Turns out she is living in Pismo Beach, and hosting her own Web site and beach blog on self-help and financial independence. She always wanted to be a writer. I guess she writes fiction. She has a link on her site to paralegal services. I wonder if I should use them to sue her. I wonder if she remembers how she spent the money.

__________

2009:
Link to the 2009 Stories

Freeze Frame
The last painting hung, as always, on the south wall, corridor 6, gallery 17. The curators removing exhibits took down other paintings, placed them in sleeves, then crates. What remained, proving the painting had not been alone, were faint square and rectangular scuffs that ringed the room. It was as it always had been; paintings coming, going, enhancing the last painting’s beauty by their meager presence. The last painting’s perspective never changed. It only saw the north wall, the velvet stanchions, the admirers. It longed to be stolen, taken to a home in some no-extradition country, just to change the view.

Young Innocence, Old Guilt
“Mom, can I tell you a joke?” “Sure, honey.” “Why did the barbeque cross the road?” “I don’t know, why?” “To get to the CHICKEN!” I laughed again, thinking it was just as funny this time. My sweet 4 year old crawled up on my lap. “Mom, when is dad getting here?” It was Wednesday night, 30 minutes past the scheduled pick up time. “I don’t know, babe.” I did know. It was why I’d left. He called at 7:30, after bedtime. I’m sure he would explain. “Hello.” I could smell the brandy before the first word was said.

Family Style
My ex-husband’s mother, and her charming, but unrealistic spouse invited me, and her grandchildren, to spend Christmas Eve at their house. Having spent every holiday there, being offered punch and English toffee, for the past 10 years, you might think I would have been delighted at the prospect. But here, in the sanctity of the house my children and I rented alone in May, away from alcohol-induced tirades, and words seething with cruelty and humiliation, we have a new tradition. It’s called happiness. I have been told they are inviting everyone, including the new fiancé. I’ve heard she likes punch.

__________

2011:
Link to the 2011 Stories

The Closet

For my eighth birthday, my mom bought me a new pair of purple Converse All-Stars. My old shoes were worn, and too small. I put the old shoes in the trash. I found them today, in boxes in her closet, with one-hundred-fifty other pairs. I’d moved out when I was eighteen, escaping, leaving behind everything I was now sorting, plus twenty-five years more. The 42-year-old in me wondered how my mother’s hoarding had gotten so bad. The eight-year-old in me touched every pair on the shelf, searching for the purple birthday shoes.


The Loss

The week before had been joyous, until the ultrasound showed that the baby’s heart had stopped beating. She’d been unable to call him from the doctor’s office, she had said, shaking, and the nurse had called instead. He remained calm. Two days and a stillbirth later, she had taken her few packed possessions and left the hospital. “I’m going. I can’t come home until the bedroom is an office again.” It had come down to a choice between flying elephants and pastel crayon scribbles. Sitting on stacked paint cans in what would have eventually been the nursery, his emotions overwhelmed him.


The List

Her current partner, a sweet man with sparkly green eyes, knew a thing or two about sex, but lacked a little in the erotica department. A future “erotic memoir” entrant, but only just. She wanted the tingly feeling on the surface of her skin, just because the object of her longings was in the room. Tingling not from touch, but from knowing. Desire. Warmth deep at the core, that a person knew you, even if you never met. She wrote his name down as the last on the list, sighed, and then added the next number and left the line blank.


__________

2012:
Link to the 2012 Stories

About Face

I knew you didn’t expect me to go. Not after all this time. As you sat there. Staring. I knew I wouldn’t save you. Couldn’t save you. You didn’t want to be saved. Not really. And I had long since thought saving you was beyond my ability. It was true. I could only save one life. The life would be mine. If I could get it right. I knew the bottle in my hand would be mourned. Not by me. So I spilled the amber liquid. Purposefully. On the sidewalk. And I, for the first time in years, walked away. Sober.


By a Hair

She’d cut her hair “flapper” short, dyed it fuchsia, when the vomiting first started, grateful no one had to hold back her hair over the toilet. She’d shaved it completely when the tufts left after chemo reminded her of a neglected Chia-pet, and kept it that way, alternately choosing to wear a Santa hat or bunny ears as the season dictated. Her reward, on the last day of her life, was a little girl of 7, also baldly fighting cancer, using her head as a canvas with colorful body-paint crayons as the pair laughed, sitting by the koi pond.


__________

2013:
Link to the 2013 Story

Ground Up
It wasn’t enough, that casual piece of affection, given daily in the form of a perfect foam heart on top of his latte. Maybe “enough” would have been an extra stamp on his frequent drink card, or a free mini-scone. But having given all that at one time or another, it still wasn’t enough for him to read her badge correctly. So when he spoke while taking his change, “Jordy” came out as “Judy” and her whole world fell apart. In the reality of completely unreturned love, Jordy quit her job, went home, and smashed all of her coffee mugs.

A single tight screw.

Every year since the New Year’s Day I was 17, I have touched my feet to the sand of a beach. I landed at various beaches on the California coast, no matter the weather, no matter the company. It is a required ritual.

There are rules for this beach excursion.

1) I MUST touch the water. It can be with my hand. It should be with my toes. One year, as I fell while running toward the surf, it was with my face. This was not pretty, and I don’t recommend it, but it counted, and as I sulked back to my car for a towel that year, I knew I would not have to go near the surf again right away, rule one accomplished.

2) I MUST make a wish. This is not a New Year’s Day rule; this is a beach rule, but since I am at the beach, I have to do it today, too. I will write my wish in the sand with my finger, or an old piece of driftwood, or a baseball bat I happen to be carrying (story for another time), close enough to the surf that within a few waves, the written message will be washed out with the tide. I will watch until this happens, so I practice patience. I never waste my wish on something I can’t have, like immediate world peace, or a million dollars from the sky. Those will be flat-out ignored by the universe, and since I only get one wish per beach visit with no take-backs, I should put them to good use.

I do wish for something outside of myself that I need a little help with. The Universe listens to those. A little help with my monthly expenses (in whatever form that it comes in), a man who is nice to me (also, in whatever form it comes in), satisfaction at work (whatever form, can you see the theme?) are all good things to ask for. Peace in my life, happiness for my kids, a bikini that makes my tits and ass look good, are all good choices. As an aside, since I get one of these wishes EVERY time I go to the beach, I try to make a habit of it. Go on my way home from work every Thursday, or on the full moon, or on the slack tide. Just do it. And I don’t get to think that driving to the beach and sitting in my car counts. I mean, watching the sunset is nice and all, but I need to make a wish in the sand. And I don’t go all Scrooge and not walk the extra 25 feet because I am lazy.

3) On New Year’s Day I MUST bring something along with me that I need to part with, or something that symbolizes something I need to part with. I will be throwing it into the water, and not getting it back, so I need to be realistic. This can be something easy to get rid of, like a love letter from a guy who broke my heart in April but I haven’t been able to burn, ripped into tiny pieces. Or, it can be something difficult to get rid of, like a wedding cake topper (also a story for another time). If symbolically I just need to transfer my thoughts to a piece of paper (or a rock) so I can throw it in and have it actually go away with the surf (while not having people look at me like I am crazy to throw “X” in) (like a wedding cake top), without some other unfortunate soul finding it, that works, too. I would NOT throw in my ex’s grandmother’s engagement ring. I would sell that shit. But a picture of the ring, taken as I box it up to send to the buyer, is perfect.

I think creatively here. I have thrown in a penny from a particular year to represent getting rid of financial dependence. I have thrown in a piece of tissue paper that represented frailty (Yeah, dumping that frail shit is fine!). One year, I threw in a bisque ceramic lovebirds-sitting-on-a-heart figurine that looked remarkable like something you would see at a wedding. (Cliff over China Cove. It arced perfectly. It sorta bounced on the rocks twice before shattering and hitting the crashing surf. The sound it made was musical, boing, boing, ching-crash, sploosh. It was awesome!) I don’t think I need to tell you what that represented.

This year I threw in a sheet metal screw that had been sticking out of my dining room ceiling since I purchased the house three years ago. I am thinking it represented procrastination and moving towards having my house (and my life) in a not-so-fixer-up state.

4) I MUST go. No excuses. Raining? Bring an umbrella or a trash bag. (I keep this in my car, just in case) Windy? I have seen Wizard of Oz. And it will NEVER get that bad in California. And I am not afraid of houses or red shoes. Boyfriend wants to watch football? Perfect, I am probably throwing in one of his torn t-shirts or crap DVDs anyway. Living a little ways from the beach? I have 24 hours here, start driving. I went to the beach one year when they actually had a high-surf advisory and the beach was “closed”, having driven three hours from Sacramento. So, um, yeah, whatever. Go. If I can take my 13-day old newborn to the beach in a Moby, I figure any other time should be cake.


I have taken my kids with me since they were born. They have touched the sand and, since now old enough to understand their eclectic mom’s ritual, have also thrown in items and made wishes. My son, remembering being sick on candy right before Christmas, threw in peppermint TicTacs, hoping for no illness this year. My daughter, ever the indecisive, could not pick something and finally settled for a rock, and made a wish to be better at making decisions.

I like that they get this ritual, and have decided to join me, because this year I actually gave them the opt-out option. I also like that I have a ritual at all that I have never skipped as an adult, because sometimes, in my head, it made all the difference in setting my tone for the year.

Remember the screw and the procrastination wish? That I posted this in one day might mean it is working already.