*

Spent the week in search of beauty. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, I found any number of things to marvel at, to ooh and aah over, to let my eyes follow through the world. And then, in the pursuit of beauty, I found laughter instead. Namely in the  antics of a funny boy and funny-eyed pup.

Not such a bad trade if you ask me.

*

*

Far and fast, s.

*

Beast: The castle is your home now, so you can go anywhere you like, except the West Wing.

Belle: What’s in the West Wing?

Beast: IT’S FORBIDEN! GRRR!

~Beauty and the Beast

(Five-minute poem. It’s been a while — I forgot how much I enjoyed doing these! Picture is an old one from Scotland, since I don’t have any Texas butterfly pix.)

**

November Doesn’t Mean Winter

Far and fast, s.

Shadow in the grass, pre-sunset.

*

What do dogs think about when they think about beauty? For surely this can’t be a human-only concept.

*

So, I posted yesterday about beauty. About how difficult it is for me to find beauty in the cities. Realizing that even in my post where I said I was determined to “find beauty,” all of the things I mentioned were natural things: dogs, butterflies, sunlight.

Why can some people look at concrete and steel and glass and store fronts and find them gorgeous, while others cannot? I suppose that is an age-old question, the same one that people have asked about women and art and men and animals for centuries. Why does one guy lust after blonde hair and blue eyes, while another wants only red heads? How is it possible for some authors to break my heart with the beauty of their words and for others to leave me cold?

But honestly, those questions are just a segue of my over-active brain. What I really wanted to talk about was one of the comments from yesterday’s post. Shawn said:

Beauty in your surroundings is important to mental health – or so I believe. There are few good reasons to spend your time someplace that isn’t impressive and/or inspiring. What if we take the economics principal of opportunity cost and apply it to beauty? The day you spend straining to find beauty in the Texas suburbs, could it have instead been spent surrounded by meaningful surroundings elsewhere? Are you paying a deprivation cost by taking the time to try and milk some fabricated beauty out of taupe houses? You have a finite supply of days, is tomorrow best spent wondering if that dog poop really does look like Delta Burke? Or maybe it is best spent in the presence of genuine beauty?

And I spent the rest of the day wandering around with his intelligent questions and thoughtful comments in my head. Coming from the beauty of Scotland, why am I trying to find something that lifts my heart in Texas? Why not just escape back to somewhere that’s inherently beautiful, a place that doesn’t require any work?

I didn’t find any true answers in my musings, but I found a couple of thoughts (most likely not coherent thoughts, but there you go. It’s early, and it’s Saturday.):

• Perhaps there is something to be said about beauty that is too easy, too perfect. I found this experience to be true while driving through the national parks of Utah. The first gorgeous red mountain took my breath away. The second too. But by the fifth or twelve beautiful hill, I could no longer see the beauty in them. They had become commonplace. When places overwhelm us with their beauty–the grand canyon, for example, or a woman who’s been cut and sculpted and made-up into perfection–then it’s hard to see it for what it is. It’s also a little like being smashed in the head with the Mona Lisa. “Here! Have perfect beauty!” and all you can do is try to take a few steps back in order to see things clearly.
• What is the value of beauty that must be discovered? Does it add to the beauty when you come upon a hidden waterfall totally by accident? Does it detract from the beauty when you drive four hours to see the waterfall that’s in the brochure only to find that it’s surrounded by parking lots and people and bathrooms?
• How does it benefit us as humans to change our perspectives? If we hate classical music and take a class to try and learn to love it, are we wasting our time? Are we gaining anything?
• Is running from ugly to beauty akin to running from conservatism to liberalism? Let me explain that one: When Bush was running for re-election, a lot of my friends kept saying, “If he gets elected, I’m leaving the country.” Which is a fine choice, I think, but one that isn’t for me. If I believe in democracy, but don’t believe in the outcome, what am I saying by making the choice to go away? Is that following my beliefs, or running from my non-beliefs? Could I have made a difference if I stayed?
• Is beauty available only to those who can afford it? And should it be this way?

But perhaps the thing I’m most interested in discovering is this: What is it about class and money and privilege that makes us feel we have the right to beauty? (Note on the class/privilege thing before I continue: I’m not rich. My family is not rich. I’ve never been rich. And I’m a writer — thus, I will likely NEVER be rich. I am middle class, all the way. And poor middle class at that. But I do choose how I spend my money, and instead of children and a house and a car and clothes, I choose travel and experiences.).

If there’s anything I’m learning here in Texas, it’s humility. The things, beliefs and slogans that I’ve taken for granted my whole life, things like: recycle, take back your cans, buy organic produce, shop local, embrace public transportation, the city is obligated to provide sidewalks and green spaces and public art and recycling programs, walk where you can, don’t over-purchase, be active and healthy, buy your beliefs, go to the farmer’s market — these things just don’t exist here.

At first, I was angry about that, livid. “How can you not have a recycling program?!” I called the city. I ranted. I asked every grocery store I went into if they offered bag recycling, or can recycling and was met with a million nos. I was mad if the bus was late. I couldn’t believe there weren’t any parks within walking distance, or that the only grocery store nearby was WalMart, or that the farmer’s market wasn’t on the bus line. I couldn’t understand how they could have a city that didn’t have these things.

Now, don’t get me wrong — I’ve traveled a lot outside the U.S. and I know that we are lucky here. I never, ever expect those things when I’m not in the States. But IN the States? Oh yes.

And then I had to take a step back from it all and realize that in so many ways, I was acting like a spoiled brat who can’t get her green candy bar. I was basically throwing myself on the ground and wailing, beating my fists. The city and the people in it kept saying the truth — “Mommy can’t afford to buy you a candy bar right now, sweetie,” — but I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to be pissed off and self-righteous about all the things that the city was supposed to have.

Finally, I had to get myself off the floor, dust my shirt off and reconsider my expectations and my beliefs. What does it mean to live in a place where the priorities are not the future but the now? Where families don’t ask, “What can we do to save the world today?” but “What can we do to feed ourselves?” And who says my beliefs about food and the world and health are correct, just because they’re mine? I never considered myself to be closed-minded, and yet my arrival here in Texas proved that I was exactly that.

How does this tie into beauty? I’m still not exactly sure yet. But I think it’s something about being humbled, about learning how to see the world in a way that isn’t privileged, about finding beauty instead of being slapped in the head with it.

Sure, I’d love to be back in Scotland right now, walking along the ocean. Or in Portland, wandering through a city park lined with trees. Or at my parent’s farm in upstate New York, listening to the whinny of horses and the laughter of my siblings.

but I’m learning something here, in the midst of all this ugliness. I’m not sure what it is yet. More and more I think it has something to do with beauty. Perhaps that I’m not as beautiful inside as I’d like to think I am, and that it’s not as ugly outside as I’ve come to believe.

Far and fast, s.

*

“I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful.” ~Friedrich Nietzsche quotes

Light through the windows nearing sunset.

*

I would like to blame my recent absence from here on writing. And in many ways, I could. I have been writing and writing and writing. Fiction. Poems. Books. Articles. Essays. Anything and everything, trying to get things submitted, accepted, published and most of all, paid for. World traveling isn’t all that expensive, but living is. Or it can be. And there’s something in me that, in despite my creative-heart, is A. a workaholic and B. a pragmatist and C. a realist. (Wait, are B and C the same thing? I can’t remember…)

Still, the real reason I haven’t been blogging is because I’m stuck. Not writer’s block. But beauty block.

I’m still in Texas, which means I am surrounded by concrete, WalMart, parking lots, streets, garbage containers, garbage. I know, I know — cities are beautiful, they’re amazing, they have gorgeous architecture and pretty people. Some photographers and writers make their career out of cities, they shoot and write nothing but.

But. But. But.

I am not one of those people, I don’t think. I have a hard time finding beauty in the cities sometimes. And especially in the outer cities, the in-between spaces that live between downtown and country. I know it’s here, but I’ve forgotten how to find it.

So, my goal this week? Take the camera out with me. Remember how to look. See what’s beautiful about the space that I’m in now.

Like how the dog lifts her nose into the wind on a sunny morning. And how the light’s fingers play with the curtains in the late afternoon. The art painted on the sides of buses. Fire ants glowing red against their dark hills. And how monarchs can surprise you by fluttering across your path at any given moment…

Far and fast, s.

*

“Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.”  ~Confucius

]]> http://chptr37.wordpress.com/2009/11/13/pg-178-beauty-is-as/feed/ 3 SG IMG_6261 http://chptr37.wordpress.com/2009/11/04/pg-177-ghost-change/ http://chptr37.wordpress.com/2009/11/04/pg-177-ghost-change/#comments Wed, 04 Nov 2009 17:30:01 +0000 SG http://chptr37.wordpress.com/?p=1946 ]]>

GhostGirl walking GhostDog through the very real night.

*

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about finances, about living and traveling on next-to-no money, and what that means for a life. I’ve never believed that money bought happiness, or even ease of living. Of course, there’s such a thing is a middle ground. If you have NO money, then some money can buy you many things, including ease of living and possibly happiness. Too much, and it seems to bring with it a whole slew of issues all its own.

Right now, I’m much nearer to the no-money side at the moment than the too-much money side. This is partly the economy, partly the big changes that have happened in my life over the last year or two, and partly my own choice to pursue my life as a creative creature instead of one who continues to do a money job.

What changes, when you don’t have the money you used to? A lot, I suppose. I don’t have anything to my name, really, except for what matters most. My computer. My phone. A camera. A backpack. Some basic, travel-anywhere, semi-flattering clothes. A good suitcase. Excellent shoes (all bought, of course, when I did have money. So if there’s ever a claim for quality over quantity, this might be it, considering I’m still using and wearing all of the things I purchased at least a year ago.). The biggest thing I miss? Buying books. Ack.

Now, my finances are minimal. I don’t have a car. I don’t have a house. I don’t have a credit card bill. I don’t have much else that costs me money.

How minimal are my finances you ask? This minimal:

I buy groceries and house supplies for myself and whoever is hosting me at the moment: About $400/month.

I’m taking the bus wherever I need to go: About $60/month.

I am addicted to coffee, and I work best at a coffeeshop, thus coffee/”office rental” space: About $100/month

I pay for a gym membership at the moment, because I think prevention is the best medicine and I write and live and eat better when I work out: $30/month.

That means my spending budget is, give or take, about $600 a month. (Note: This doesn’t take into account the other stuff, like the occasional hair cut, business expenses, travel plans/flights, entertainment, etc. Those are sporadic these days, few and far between, but they still happen, they’re just not monthly. But spread them out and they probably become about $200/month.)

Which brings my total spending to around $800 per month.

Is this a lot? I have no idea, truly. And I’m sure it all depends on who you are comparing yourself to. But it’s what I can do right now. Sure, I could cut out the gym and the coffee, but I’ve done that before and I find that both of those are important to my well-being and my writing, and thus are well worth the financial cost.

How else am I saving money?

• Hulu, which has brought me Flash Forward, CougarVille, and various other things to watch, all for free.
• Ted, which offers free lectures from great minds around the world.
• Pandora Radio. Free music is good.
• I use the free internet at Starbucks while I’m there (and mooch from kind friends if they let me)
• Couch-sitting and house sitting.
• Walking and bussing.
• Asking, “Do I really need or want that? I mean, really?”
• Remembering what I really love that is free: Walking, reading, gaming, writing, laughing.

Granted, the nomadic lifestyle is not for everyone. Obviously, it can’t be. After all, who would I stay with if all of my friends were nomads? And I know I can’t do it forever. At some point, I’m going to start craving my own space, a car, something to care for besides the laptop (house plant? cat? pet rock?). When that happens, I’ll have to decide how to live, how to move forward, whether I want to continue to pursue the creative writing in the hope of sustaining myself financially or whether I want to return to the world of freelance writing.

But for now, here I am. Floating along. Remember that scene in the movie, “Ghost,” where he learns how to move things and he slides the coin along the door (I think that’s what he does; it’s been a long while since I’ve seen it.)? Well, that’s how I feel right now. I’m moving like a ghost through the world. Touching little. Barely tangible. Seeing how few waves I can make. Seeing how far off the grid I can get without losing myself totally.

It’s a unique experience, one that I’m glad to be having, glad it’s my choice and my decision. Glad to be ghostly. For a little while longer, at least.

Far and fast, s.

*

“An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.” ~Charles Dickens

*

So, the poll is officially closed!

And the winners are:

• Northampton, Mass.
• Asheville, NC
• Ithaca, NY

Of course, as I was talking to my dad during the poll, I quizzed him.

“Did you vote for Ithaca?” This is the town I grew up in, and where my parents still live.

“Noooooo…” he says in that voice which really means “yes.” I can’t imagine where I got that from.

“Really?”

“Really. I didn’t. Your mom did though.”

I believed him. After all, this is what children do, yes? Believe their parents when they tell them something. Silly me.

Because about five seconds later, he mentions something about how it only let him vote once. Why am I not surprised?

“Uh-huh,” I said. “I did that specifically because of you.”

So, my parents stuffed the ballot box. It’s true.

*

A friend of mine recently asked, “Are you really going to let someone else decide where you live?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Is that insane?”

Total and complete silence on the other end of the phone.

So apparently that’s a yes.

*

My plan?

I don’t have one.

You shouldn’t be surprised by this.

Okay, okay, I have the beginning of a plan. But it’s all contingent on work and money and how well I can genuflect and beg my friends to let me continue being a tick crashing on their couches. The thought is that once the winter weather leaves the eastern hemisphere (*cough cough hack hack* sometime in July! *cough hack*) — no, really, I’m thinking early next year, I’ll travel eastward, check out the top three cities and make a decision.

In the meantime, I’ve got some plans to bounce around. See some more of the glorious US.

Yes, this really is insane, isn’t it?

*

I started the post with my dad, and I want to end with my dad, even though this bit doesn’t have anything at all to do with travel.

Actually, it has everything to do with travel.

My dad is my hero. You may have figured this out already, just by the way I talk about him. But he really and truly is. He raised me as a single dad (until my fantabulous stepmom came along), he taught me to go after what I wanted (which he probably has regretted doing every single day since I turned 15), he lent me many of his values and loves, and he’s always, always, always been there for me, without question or guilt or judgment (okay, probably he’s had all of those things but he’s kept them to himself, which is really sweet of him and probably required more self-control than I could ever imagine). In the end, he convinced me I could do absolutely anything I wanted to if I put my mind to it (I’m sure he’s come to regret this as well!), whether it be playing on the boy’s soccer team in high school, joining the volunteer fire department, making my living as a writer or traveling the world in the most unconventional way possible.

Happy (belated) birthday, Daddio. You’re not old. Yet. But I’m sure doing my best to make you feel like you are, aren’t I?

Far and fast (and with big-big love), s.

**

Two little girls, on their way home from Sunday school, were solemnly discussing the lesson. “Do you believe there is a devil?” asked one. “No,” said the other promptly.  “It’s like Santa Claus:  it’s your father.” ~Ladies’ Home Journal, quoted in 2,715 One-Line Quotations for Speakers, Writers & Raconteurs by Edward F. Murphy

Rain comes to Texas. Fast and furious and big. Just like everything else here.

*

[There should be an image of a car here. But since I keep forgetting my camera while I'm out walking, and since I'm posting this at eleven at night, I am not about to go out and try to capture a photo. So pretend there is a photo here of the coolest, hottest, most awesomest car you've ever seen.]

*

[Also: Note to parents, siblings, grandparents and other family members who might be perusing Chapter 37. You might want to skip today's post. I get a little -*cough*- anal in my rants].

*

For a while now I’ve been meaning to write about a phenomena that I’m experiencing here in Ft. Worth that I have to admit, I have never, ever experienced before. Okay, maybe once or twice, but it was a very, very long time ago and I’ve either blocked it out of my memory banks or it was all swept away by the fourth wave of feminism.

What is this thing, you ask?

It is the odd (and oddly enlightening) experience of being yelled at out of car windows. I thought this kind of mating ritual and/or conversational tactic went the way of the dodo bird long ago, but apparently it is alive and well in some parts of the world. I have yet to take a walk, be it four blocks or four miles, where someone has not uttered something out their window on their way by at a hundred miles an hour.

So far, the more memorable yells have included:

1. “Hot! Hot! Hot!” (Yes, it was about 97 degrees, and I was sweating profusely as I toted my ginormous backpack around, but the guy didn’t really need to remind me).
2. “Hey! Cut your hair, ya hippie!!” (Yelled at my male friend, whose hair is far above his shoulders).
3. “Woo-woo, girlie!” (Yelled, surprisingly enough, by a girl).
4. “Hey baby. You look tired” (Which either he intended to follow up with “That’s ’cause you been runnin’ through my mind all night” or else I really did look tired. I’m not sure which one would have been the worse pick up line).
5. Ballsack!!! (Yeah, I don’t know about that one either. I’m pretty sure I look like a girl, even in jeans and a t-shirt.)

And then tonight, the capper. While I was waiting for the light to change in the crosswalk, this young man (ooh, how old I feel writing that!) pulled up, stopped his car and yelled, “Hey! Can I fuck you?” Now, if I was thinking more clearly (and/or expecting such a question, which I probably should have been by this point), I could have come up with any number of not-so-smart responses, including:

1. I don’t know. Can you?
2. I think you mean to ask, “Hey! May I fuck you?” And since you don’t know the difference and I’m an anal writer, no, you may not.
3. No, but you can go fuck yourself.
4. Sure. I cost $2000 an hour. The cost doubles if you don’t give me an orgasm.
5. Sure. If I can fuck you (ideally, at which point, I would have been able to pull a twelve-inch long dildo out of my backpack and wiggled it at him. I really should get one of those and start carrying it around just for that purpose).

As it was, I did what I usually do when I’m startled, taken aback, or otherwise completely shell-shocked and I said… absolutely nothing… and merely stared at him with an expression that was both quizzical and slightly pissed off.  To which he replied, “Great!” as though I’d just given him the two thumbs up and started pulling down my pants right there in the crosswalk.

Now, why this phenomena here and nowhere else that I’ve lived in the last, oh, thirty-seven years? In Portland, one would be seriously frowned on by feminists, humanists, greenies (you’re driving a car, after all — that’s bad enough; yelling out the window is just asking for it), bikers, the mayor, most dogs, stray cats, your grandmother and your grandfather, the toddler whose mother is pushing him in her racing stroller while she runs her tenth mile of the day, and everyone else you might come across. Not to mention, there are so many people walking on the sidewalk in a place like Portland that no one would have a clue who you were yelling at. It would be like that old SNL skit. “Who you callin’ a hottie? Me?” “Him?” “Oh, me?” “No, him?” “Her?”

I chalk the lean-out-the-window-and-yell culture up to any number of possible reasons:

1. The feminist/humanist/”Talk to her like a human being if you want to have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting her into bed” movements have not yet hit this part of Texas. Thus, your options for dating are Craig’s list, The People of Walmart, or dogging your head out the car window and wagging your tongue at the rare walking human being, rabid raccoon, or wind-blown piece of trash.
2. No one walks here. Thus, anyone who deems to get out of their ginormous truck and attempt to stroll down the sidewalk/lack of sidewalk concoction that makes up most of the walking routes must get yelled at. How else do you show that you are uncomfortable by this person’s bizarre choices?
3. There is some secret service that I don’t know about yet, which allows you to electronically look up the license plate of any car whizzing by you at break-neck speed and get their cell phone number, at which point you can call them up and have the following conversation. “Hey, do you drive a 1978 rust-colored Camaro?” “Actually, it’s black. That’s just a little rust coming up on it.” “Oh. Well, did you drive on Hulen Road earlier and yell “Baby, I wanna’ do you!” at a blond chick with a big backpack?” “Hell yeah. That was me.” “Oh great, so nice to meet you. -giggle- Wanna’ take me out?” “Hell yeah. I’ll drive by you on Hulen again and yell out my home address and you come here and we’ll get it on.” “Sounds great! I can’t wait! I’ll be listening for your yell! -giggle-.”
4. [Please insert your answer here because I'm out of ideas. Completely.]

Now, I don’t want to sound all “too cool for school” and act like I’m not flattered by all this attention. Because, I mean, really, whose panties wouldn’t get all in a knot at the sound of someone yelling “Ballsack!” at them. I  know, I know, I prefer that wonderful old-fashioned and completely yellable “Scrotum!” myself, but “Ballsack!” is a very close second.

When I started this post, I had a way to end it. Some kind of uplifting “good yell out the window” story, but I got so caught up in writing about my future dating prospects that I forgot it. But let’s just say this: Next time I have a car, I’m going to try my hand at this new “speed dating.” I’ve already got my pickup line ready. I’m just going to lean out my window and yell, “Ooh, baby! Want to help me get rid of this new car smell?” Which, I’m sure will sound just as hot, sultry and irresistible at seventy miles an hour as I want it to. Or maybe I’ll just stick with the always-understandable and multi-lingual “Ballsack!”

Far and fast, s.

*

“In less enlightened times, the best way to impress women was to own a hot car. But women wised up and realized it was better to buy their own hot cars so they wouldn’t have to ride around with jerks.” ~Scott Adams

Why is it that things which are bad for you must always look so damn good? Here, homemade pizza has just enough cheesy, meaty, doughy badness to make you drool — and clog an artery. I ate some anyway.

*

One of the movies that I never watched — even though friends kept telling me that I should, even though I knew I would enjoy it in that appalled and horrified way that is the proper reaction to most good documentaries, even though I was interested in the subject — was Super Size Me. I’d describe it, but something tells me that the majority of the world has already seen it and is on to pondering other things, like Obama’s new Peace Prize and their strawberry cow on Farmville (and, oh gods, can you tell I’m back in the U.S., with access from everything from the Internet and Netflix to the New York Times and Rolling Stone?).

Point. I’ll get back to it eventually. Or, rather right about now. So I saw that YouTube has started doing movies, and when I realized that Super Size Me was one of their movie options (along with, oddly enough, Cutter, which I actually could not stop watching. I have no idea why, considering it’s a movie about… uh…. mowing the lawn ala Best In Show.), I decided I would watch it. (Also, another note: I just opened up YouTube to get the link for Cutter, and what should be across the top, but a banner ad for Wendy’s Fast Food. Go figure.).

Yes, I am the Queen of Segues today. You may call me Queenie.

Back to what’s bad for me. Fast food is, apparently, very bad for me. I knew this already and have mostly boycotted fast food places ever since my first semester of college, when I wrote a paper on how McDonald’s was killing the rainforest (raising cheap cows + cutting down trees for grazing land = buh buh rainforest. yes, this was the whole extent of my paper. What do you want? I wrote it at two in the morning.). Not walking is bad for me. I knew this too.

But the movie got me thinking about what else I do that’s bad for me. How would it affect me if I gave them all up for a month? (Because I’m not about to imbibe in them solely for a month). And, it got me thinking about education and fault, since much of the movie asks: Whose fault is it that we’re fat? Ours? Our parents? The companies? Can you sue a company for offering something that you want? Can you sue them if they target toward children? I mean, really, Facebook is making me fat. Don’t I get some kind of monetary compensation here?

But in truth, I’m a smart, educated, aware person. And yet, I do things that are bad for me. Things that I KNOW are bad for me. My fault? I have to say, “Hell yes!” If I have all the facts and I do something anyway, then I am the only one that can be held responsible (Okay, not the only one, but I do think that most of the onus falls directly into my lap — or my stomach, as the case may be).

My list of things that I know are bad for me, but which I do anyway:

• Sitting on my butt for a job. I love writing, but I was a much healthier creature when I was tending bar. Okay, maybe not healthier — second-hand smoke – odd hours – strangers grabbing my ass + all the walking I was doing = high stress levels + bad lungs + really great legs.
• Guilt. See the rest of this list.
• Internet surfing. What a gloriously bad waste of precious time.
• Caffeine. I love my coffee and the occasional glass of diet soda (ack! ack! chemicals).
• Dairy. I gave up dairy once, to see if it would help my rosacea. It did, but it also made me an insane person, the kind who would call friends up and say, “Hi! I would kill you for a cookie! Or ice cream! Oh my god, I would kill the whole world for a lick of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream!”
• Dairy+. Ever notice how dairy goes best with things that are bad for you? Sour cream on nachos. Cheese on pizza. Ice cream on, well, anything and everything.
• Meat. Oh my god, I love me some meat. Especially, dare I say it?, pork. Mmm… pork. (Notice I started this blog at 5 pm, and you’re not seeing it until now? That’s because in the act of writing pork, I remembered that there was said pork in the fridge, marinated in Jack Daniel’s sauce, and I went off to cook it and eat it. And now my fingers are sticky on the keys and my teeth are full of whiskey-flavored meat.)

Things I’ve given up that were bad for me:

• Smoking. And breathing second-hand smoke.
• Most drinking.
• Stress. How can you give up stress, you ask? Well, obviously, you can’t. But I’m working on making my life as stress-free as possible. As one of my favorite people says, “Is it a little rock or a big rock in the rock-filled jar of life? Because you only get to stress if it’s a big rock.” (Only she says it much more articulately that I just did.).
• Venomous people. They are gone, buh buh. Just like Micky Dee’s rainforests.
• Watching TV. See: Internet.

Now, on to the important list. The things I do right now, at this very moment, day-to-day that are good for me:

• Morning cocktail: multi-vitamin + good bacteria + cranberry pills.
• Orgasms. Oh, yes, these are so so so very good for you. Trust me. I’m not a doctor, but I play one on the Internet.
• Walking for pleasure.
• Writing. It’s good for me. I can’t explain it.
• Floss.
• Fruit and veggies. Nom nom nom.
• Talk to friends, really really talk to friends and tell them that I care about them. Hokey? Yes. Good for me (and for them)? Hellz yes.

And you? What do you do that’s good, bad or ugly? Surely I can’t be the only one who’s beating up my body and mind, even though I know better.

Far and fast, s.

*

“I think the saturated fats are cutting off the blood flow to his penis.” ~Morgan Spurlock’s girlfriend, as quoted in Super Size Me.

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