Let's See It

"So you got something you want to show me"

Today at the gym, the man with the staring problem was being especially annoying. I chose a treadmill in the empty row that gave me a good view of all the hanging flat screen TVs. Minutes later a woman came to the treadmill next to mine, where she walked at a snails pace. Her hair was wet, like she just showered, and combed it, and she was wearing jean cargo pants, with her keys dangling from her belt loop by a carabiner.

Right when I came into the gym, his eyes locked on mine like a fucking heat sinker. I nodded to him as I pulled my equivalent of the hotel do not disturb sign out of my purse, my headphones, and stuffed them in my ears.

As the woman next to me and I occupied the treadmill section he was at an arm machine facing us, continuing to stare, in a very rude manner.

My daughter stares at people in the changing room, and we've had talks about giving people privacy. She is very interested in naked people. An old Japanese woman swims every day, and after the kids do their pool time, we see this woman frequently in the locker room. Kiki is fixated on her. I tell Kiki, "Privacy please! Don't look at people as they are changing."

The woman always acts like she doesn't notice, which is difficult since a couple times I've looked over at Kiki after getting George dressed, and she has her hand over her eyes but opened her fingers in a v shape, so one eyeball is exposed, looking at the changing woman.

The last time we saw her, the woman dressed, and hobbled by on her cane. She stopped in front of Kiki, looked at her and said, "You are very interested in me, aren't you?"
Kiki looked down at the ground, and didn't say anything.

It didn't take the man long to make his way over to the treadmills, and of the empty row, he chose the one next to me. When the woman next to me finished her stroll. I tried sending her an ESP message,  "Please don't leave me next to him." because I had a feeling he was going to try and talk to me.
She didn't pick up on my mind message, and left.
My headphones remained in my ears as I wiped the machine down, and picked my purse up off the floor. As I turned, I heard him say something. I couldn't tell you what, maybe something about my distance, or perhaps about how I cleaned the machine, but I just chuckled and shouted "bye," to emphasize that I am listening to loud music, unaware of the world around me. I walked away, mildly ashamed. I didn't want to give him free laughs.

Last night, as I read to my kids the word chuckle came up, and I explained to them that this means to be amused, most of the time when laughing at your own joke. They thought that was funny.

By laughing with him, I contributed to his problem. I need to ovary-up, like the Japanese woman, and ask him, "What the fuck are you looking at?" It's not like I'm in fine form when I'm at the gym. I usually look like ass.

There's one woman there who I call Hot Mom because, just as you'd expect, she is super hot. Aside from her body, giant butt and tits, she has the necessary confidence. She usually power walks on the treadmill at a 45 degree angle, and then does squats in the middle of the gym, at this point I chuckle to myself because I think of Ned Flanders.

I wonder if creepy staring problem man would have the balls to go sniff around Hot Mom's crotch. Based on her disposition, I'm pretty sure she'd whoop his ass, so maybe he knows his audience. I look passive enough to dish out free laughs at his bizarrely inappropriate way to engage in conversation.

I can imagine the retaliation though, for me calling him on his shit. He'd say something, like don't flatter yourself sweetie, then spew an onslaught of insults at me. In order to protect myself from that type of self-esteem damage, I'll keep up my MO of completely oblivious with my music too loud to ever hear what he's saying.

I can already see how a conversation with him would play out. He'd blow out a bunch of gratuitous compliments, so I'd feel rude telling him to fuck off. His intentions are confusing though. His staring at me is forcing me to look at him. This entire charade is a way for him to make me acknowledge him, most likely as Man. The quickest way to squash this would be to appease by saying, "Ok, just show it to me. Pull it out so we can get this song and dance over with."

Then he'll pull it out, and hold it in his hands. And I'll say, "Well, that is exactly what I was expecting. You are such a Man." Then he'll be so pleased with himself he'll chuckle, and I'll get back to not being disturbed.

Avoiding A Strange Trip To Self Help

Sunday night I watched the Tony Robbins Netflix documentary called I Am Not Your Guru. The film was inspiring, and a good reminder to maintain high expectations and not fall victim to your personal story. Throughout the documentary we're shown "interventions" from members of his Destiny seminar. In an intervention, a person stands up and tells their story, then Tony gives them harsh questions so they deal with their issues head on.

The first intervention is a petite young woman who wants to get her eating under control. When the "problem" came out of her mouth I thought, this poor idiot is in front of the greatest motivational coach and she wants to talk about how she has problems eating, life must be good if this is the extent her issues. At this point, I was apprehensive the film would really be worth my hour and fifty minutes, but minutes later I saw it was a setup to demonstrate people distracting themselves from their inner turmoil with nonsense. Tony, being the non-guru, identified it as a stupid problem she  cooked up to avoid dealing with the real issue. After two questions he finds out her dad is a prick with a drug problem. Then he told her to call her dad, and thank him for being that way because it made her who she is. Let go of any anger, and replace it with gratitude.
An intervention that follows, I think, really takes the reigns of the film because her story is more powerful than the damn seminar. Dawn says she was born into the Children of God cult in Brazil, and brought everyone to tears describing her traumatic upbringing, and that now she is left trying to help her depressed family, and all she wants to do is kill herself because she has been unsuccessful in finding a model for love. Tony assured her through the massive crowd that she is loved, and that love does exist. In addition to support, she was given a career and $100,000 from other participants.

That night I laid in bed, and thought about her, and what she went through. I tried not to. I couldn't calm my mind. It is so terrible to think about the magnitude of evil in this world. I read a Sonia Sotomayor interview, and she said this was the reason she had to stop working as a public defender,  living a life where she has to stare into a deep well of evil is too burdensome. I was hollowed out after reading that. It is something people don't like to think about. This truth is the greatest flaw in Idealism which neglects to acknowledge the darkness in a balanced universe.

Last night I finished reading an autobiography by a psychic paramedic, Journey Into Grace, an interesting story of a woman who was brought up by a terribly abusive mother and fell into a wealth of personal problems, but overcame it all and harnessed a power she developed at the age of 7. The book maps out her traumatic adolescence, wayward youth, finding her path and ends describing her practice as a psychic healer. Although I had a hard time visualizing the "color grids" she explains when working on people, it was captivating. She talks about interfacing with evil entities, and how combating them only brings on more combat, and so what has to be done is acknowledge their existence and ask what their intention is. She repeats, "I see you," to the entity, so it feels loved rather than hated, and then through her healing powers, draws on energy sources that clear out the evil through love. This reminds me of the Martin Luther King quote, "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that."
In the book, her psychic stories sound other worldly, which I suppose they are. For example, she explains being in another dimension, talking to a hissing black serpent whose taken space in a woman's body, a woman who is sleeping on a table in the other realm, visible far below. The stories sound so crazy, they just have to be true.

Like the author of Journey Into Grace, Tony Robbins had an abusive childhood. I wasn't as extreme, I don't think she would have made it out alive if she weren't always on high alert. Tony says he has no anger towards his mother, in fact he thanks her for all the abuse and neglect, because it made him into the man he is today.

I went to yoga this morning, and felt such a release of tension. Maybe it's because of the full moon. I  recently finished a huge goal of mine, and although there is still tending and follow through needed, I'm ready to take on a new project. I have so many ideas, and I struggle with choosing one thing and focusing on that, rather than having ten things going that I'm unable to fully dedicate myself to. I'm excited to be at a point where I can start up something new, but I just don't know which project to choose.
In shavasana I spoke to myself about what I want to do next. I have a short list of three things; writing projects that will likely take a year or so each. I was able to say, ok, what should I do next? And I told myself to write out what I'm grateful for, but not the obvious things that I'm grateful for; the love of my family, the love I give and receive, feeling challenged creatively and acting on these ideas, having money, health and happiness, but writing down the things I don't talk about. I don't feel like I hold onto anger, but I never give any attention to skeletons in my closet. Its sort of like I ignore them, trying to push them into my subconscious. I need to write them out, Thankful for all the dark shit because it allows me feel so much light. I'm able to feel love because I know there are spaces in this world without it.

This week's New Yorker has an article by Ariel Levy about Ayahuasca, the hallucinogen that is sweeping the nation by storm. Unlike most drugs, where teens are the target audience, this is a drug taken by adults on a quest to better themselves. Tim Ferris says he takes the hallucinogen frequently, even though the first time he took it he experienced two hours of the worst pain imaginable, having seizures that left rug burn on his face, because after the experience he felt like he let go of all the anger he'd been holding onto.
It sounds preposterous that people would want to take this drug, even with the execptation of a lightened soul because the effects when under the influence are horrific; barfing, hellish visions, and pain. Levy does take the drug, but her trip is not described in detail. Were told after she barfs she feels a calming, but nothing about visions or life guidance.

I have absolutely no desire to take this drug in order to confront my subconscious, and attain greater inner peace. I did mushrooms too much in my youth. I had the habit of laughing so hard I peed my pants. While on a freaking mind trip, acknowledging, you're a grown ass woman who just laughed so hard at a dancing mole on someone's face that you peed yourself. Great job, Alicia!
Aside from not being able to control my laughter (and bladder), I spend the entire time battling my thoughts, worried sick people can read my mind, trying to not think bad things in the case that they can read my mind. That command, do not think bad thoughts, only makes me think bad thoughts. After a couple experiences where I felt powerless in my own mind, I decided it's not worth it for me.

I think the subconscious exists for a reason. There is a place where things are sent because life functions much better without having them swimming around in our thoughts, let sleeping dogs lie. Drudging up the sludge will create silt in a calm, yet shallow, mind. It seems that the trend in taking Ayahuasca is in line with the the psychic's beliefs as well as Robbins; let go of anger by acknowledging it's existence. Allow the mind to be deep, even if it's swirling with murky water.

Since I can't risk laughing till I pee my pants, or relax when I'm told to relax, I have to stick to writing lists while in reality (or whatever we'll call present time) and hope for the same type of release one gets from Ayahuasca. After I feel a lightening, and a clear direction for my next project, I can spread the word, there is no need to torment yourself with hallucinogens, just make a list! It sounds so simple. Then I will know what I want to begin next. I think it is fantastic a femme thriller I've thought up, like the movie Deceived starring Goldie Hawn. Oh, that movie is so good. When I was ten years old, I used to watch that movie, peeking over the back of the couch. This is why I can't take a trip into my subconscious, I don't know what could be in there. My trip could end up being John Heard chasing me around an abandoned loft and I have to kill him with the rickety old elevator, but only get to use one eye, lurking in a shadow, to see. What a strange thrip that would be.

Stress Relief

Yesterday I had the flu. It wasn't a head-in-the-toilet-and-fever type of flu but my joints were aching and my body temperature swung from freezing to sweltering every ten minutes. My body has been in mayhem since Saturday when I woke up with a cold sore itching my lip. That was the day of my brother's wedding, so my sister and I went on a Valtrex mission in Salt Lake City so I could stop the cold sore from getting any bigger. After an hour at CVS, I got my medication and started taking high doses a couple times a day before the lip sore started to eat my face.
I told my grandma the next day at lunch, "I have no stress, I don't know why I got a cold sore!"
As I told her this, George ran around us like a tasmanian devil, and occasionally I'd frantically chase him down before he ran into the valet parking lane. She looked at me like You're delusional.

We returned to Sacramento, and the flu picked through my husband and me. The kids probably had it first, and we didn't notice because the fever was low grade and the only obvious ailment has been congestion. This flu is best described as being severely hungover, and anyone knows, pairing a severe hangover with parenting is a fast way to bring on sobriety.
My husband had the flu first. I didn't really believe him, so I glared at him as I frequently passed the bedroom, watching him lay in bed while I played with the kids. The next morning he was cured, and flew to Las Vegas for work, and I thought I was coming down with a terminal illness. I always like to advocate being married to someone who travels a lot for work. It's the perfect prescription to any marriage, time apart. But as I lay on the couch wishing I could go take a nap, I thought, well having a partner who is gone a third of the month does have a drawback, someone to take over parenting duties when on death's doorstep.

The day we left Salt Lake we spent some time in my parents' hotel room. My dad tickled George till he peed his pants, and then they watched a movie. I told my parents how I feel a lot better now that I quit drinking, but I think I need a weekend a year where I meet my sister in an undisclosed location, so we can party down. Then I'll return home and suffer through a hungover-parenting day, and swear off booze for 365 days. My dad said, "That's a terrible idea." and my mom said, "Can I come?"

Of course it would start out as a great time, but I'd probably end up getting arrested for pissing behind a dumpster, or even worse, someone would record me trying to fuck an aspen tree, and that shit would go viral. Then I'd get a cold sore.

If I can't get Valtrex, I could buy a mask

The Vegetarian Pendulum

I'm chasing my best running time. Even after incorporating sprinting, I still can't beat it. Today I managed my third best time. My best time was achieved last spring when I was in the height of IPA abuse and averaging 6 hours of sleep a night, so I'm at a loss as to how I scrounged up the energy to roadrunner through my neighborhood.

Monday I met my husband for lunch at Indian buffet. I hadn't eaten Indian buffet in ages, and it was nice to be in a restaurant with just as many vegetarian options as meat. I'm not vegetarian, although I probably should be because when I chew food and start thinking about the meat, and how it got to be in my mouth, well, my mouth fills up with saliva and my throat closes.

I only really like to eat hamburgers and hotdogs. Someone once told me these are the most common meats vegetarians eat when they decide to get back on meat because they don't resemble flesh. It seems stewed meats, like curries, would be desirable too since they don't really resemble body parts, and this is the case, if I were cooking it myself, but I find budget all-you-can-eat buffets too questionable in their quality of meat to dig in with gusto.

My husband asked, "Are you going to try the goat?"and I looked at him like do you know me at all, shook my head, and piled a second scoop of curry broccoli. Goat is something I can't get on board with because all I can think of is their psychotic looking eyeballs. Lambs have the same daemon eyes, so I pass on lamb too.

We ordered take out last week and Kiki took a piece of the lamb kebab. She kept asking questions,
"How do they get the fur off the lamb?" "Why is this lamb brown" "Would we turn brown if we were cooked." That is a very good question, I've wondered myself. Is human flesh red meat or white meat. I'm too scared Googling it could come back and haunt me. I'd get put on a watch list or it'd be brought up at any trail I might be a part of.

You see Alicia did commit the crime because she once Googled how to cook human flesh.
But I was only curious, I don't even like to eat meat! I'm innocent, dammit!!

Maybe were like chicken, and we have a bit of both. Anyways, she went on asking about the lamb, and I remained bipartisan on her meat questions, so she can figure it out for herself, and I didn't say, "Kiki, people don't talk about how the animal was slaughtered while they're eating it because it reminds them of the animal being alive, and possibly living in inhumane conditions, and with industrial farming and slaughtering, the images are so horrific it can be soul crushing.

I answered her questions, swallowing my last bite of chicken, and deciding pita and hummus would be enough for the night. I then ate a stack of pita that looked like a Denny's LumberJack breakfast as we talked some more about food, steering our conversation toward hummus and garbanzo beans.

After Indian buffet, I dropped my husband back off at work, went to the gym and ran four miles. Surprising to me, since I expected the two plates of food to slow me down, and that I'd spend the time power walking while watching the TV screens. It must have been the carbs, rice and bread covered in all the different sauces.
The IPA carbs last spring were probably what gave me the added juice for my best run time. After I finally decide to just be vegetarian, and spare myself the questionable meal times, I'll probably be ingesting carbs like I work a farm all day, putting me right where I want to be to beat this Best Time. It's haunting me, like sheep's eyes.

Tough, Like A Camel's Toe

A real tough guy

Way to go Fu Yuanhui for dropping the news that flow came to town the day before diving into the pool for the Olympics 100m. Periods never seem to fit nicely into people's schedules, putting a damper on tropical vacations, a really unfortunate pin in consummation, and depleting pro-athletes of stored energy.

The couple days at the start are often exhausting, and it takes its tool in other ways than physical strength. And I'm not talking run-of-the-mill PMS mood swings, what I refer to as my time of clarity, but I mean mind rattling anxiety. The day before I submitted summer grades, I was plagued by a student's ridiculous email after poor attendance and failing the final, that "we could work something out" so she could pass and fulfill her scholarship requirements to keep playing her beloved sport. I knew the email was like a cut and paste con game from an African Prince looking to quadruple my money, but I felt so troubled by the exchange that I wasn't able to think of much else. When my anxiety was peaking, and I began to think maybe I can't deal with some personalities in this teaching game, my period came, and with that so did peace of mind that this student didn't pass the class because she chose not to.

Two weeks after starting is the yin to the yang, balancing out for the wear of PMS, and there is a two or three day stretch where I'm the finest form of myself. Again, this is not just physically, although it's likely the day supermodels book their photo shoots, but mentally, and it projects as a powerful confidence. So when I'm walking around in the world, I feel like I'm a lady in a commercial everyone stops to look at as she goes by and the background music plays Oh Baby She's Got It. At least in my head that's how it plays out, and that's all I see, so that's all that matters!

This is the day I call Egg-Droppin Day, and it would be exceptional if I could put every important meeting of my life on this day of the cycle. I'd always be considered a great match/candidate/performer/all-around-go-getter/personality-plus/people-person/queen-bee.

I watched the movie Weather Man a hundred years ago, and I didn't remember anything about the story except for one teeny bit, but that teeny bit is tattooed on my brain because I think it's the most delightful line in a movie. Nick Cage's daughter is being teased at school for having a camel's toe, and when her grandfather talks to her about it she was oblivious to being bullied for her pants being crammed too far up her vag, rather she thought her classmates were complimenting her for being tough, like a camel's toe. I sort of adopted the line as a personal slogan. When I like to brag about being a bad ass, I casually say, "It's cus I'm tough, like a camel's toe," in an Italian accent. I drop the mic, and strut out of the room like Danny Zuko.

I start my fall term this Saturday. Happily, I'm not running into Fu's luck for my first day. I'm going to be in top form on the second week of the term, and that's my chance to really capture the crowd. In the past I talked about how I like to drag it up for class, and dress to unimpress as a way to maintain a wall between my students, but I've decided I'm going to quit dressing like I got lost in men's wear at Salvation Army and just be myself. Germaine Greer might think of my dressing like a butch mad scientist as a defense mechanism, a way to draw myself out of the gaze, so I can be taken seriously rather than mind fucked, and I would most likely agree with her.

My sister gave me a bunch of clothes when I was leaving Philly. She was going to give me some really nice shit, but I told her to keep it because I can't wear them to work. I laughed my ass off after she gave me an all-knowing nod and said, "Oh, the too pretty problem." A problem anyone faces who gets all dressed up, and then walks into a grocery store and feels like everyone is staring at her, and unless it's Egg-Droppin time of the cycle I am not equipped with the confidence for that kind of attention.

I know that clothing doesn't matter because attractiveness really does radiate from within, but when people initially see me and I look like a brain dead valley girl, then I have a bit of an upward battle with trying to make them take me seriously as I explain to them that I don't fall for email schemes where a semester of absences and failed exams can be fixed by completing a packet of miscellaneous handouts the last week of class. I'd be inundated with them.

This is all perception though, and it isn't really tough to think about what people think about me. But then again, how else does one become a tough guy without making people think she's tough and therefore caring what people think. Holy crap, where am I going with this? Goodnight, from a Camel's toe, a reluctantly pretty one.

It Is What It Is

The beginning of our two hours at a museum (with a lunch break in between)

I've heard this saying a lot lately, "It is what it it." Usually I hear it after someone describes a sad state of affairs or being, and then in an expression of acceptance of the undesirable they utter, "It is what it is." Even though it's not meant to be sad, but rather, bleak optimism.
I heard it from my mom a couple times last week, my sister this week, and even the lady who sat next to me on the plane when I flew to Philadelphia for the beginning of our family vacation.
We kicked off our trip by eating a Philly Cheesesteak at 1:00am after getting picked up at the airport. A decision that took four Evolution Green Juices to get me right again. After a couple days in Philly we went to New York City and spent two nights which I realized is hardly enough time to give my relatives a hug before having to leave town, so next time, we'll make it a week.
New York is the best. I'm not sure my kids would agree since they acted like they were lost in the Sahara, desperately seeking shelter and air conditioning, minutes after we'd start on our ten mile days.
Compared to their cousins, who everyday walk five miles on the Highline, obediently holding the sides of their baby sister's stroller, admiring the greenery and tourists without a peep of indignation, my kids looked like a couple of softies.
I see why no one is fat in New York, fucking walk your ass off all day. Waiting in a 30 minute line at Starbucks, something that would cause toe tapping annoyance elsewhere, is actually relaxing.

This is our first true "family vacation" since the kids were born and aside from the nonstop complaints about walking, there hasn't been chaotic meltdowns that cause my head to explode in public, where I end the day cleaning my brains off the wall, ashamed for loosing my cool. Things are only getting better from here, next year perhaps we can venture to the Italian coast, and the year after, Mount Fuji. I will shed tears of joy when we can roam though a museum spending four straight hours admiring the halls.

Tomorrow is our last day on the East Coast and were heading to Lancaster to gawk at the Amish.  My sister, who has taken us on a culinary expedition of the city, says we should save ourselves for Amish butter as well as their version of root beer, birch beer. We've eaten everything in Philadelphia with four or more stars on Yelp, and tonight I am so uncomfortably full, falling asleep seems like it might be a difficult task. I did a bad job "saving myself" for fresh churned butter.

Ten years ago a trip like this, Philly to NYC, would have ended with me on an airplane hungover with a bag of souvenirs I bought after spending those "museum hours" at a beer garden chain smoking and glowing in conviviality. I'd have read three mystery novels, slept in till noon everyday and made 17 new Facebook friends I would look at in my timeline ten years later and think, Who the hell is that dude. Instead, I'm leaving with a more sophisticated palate, further enlightened to the added health benefits of living in a walkable city, and I was able to squeeze in two hours at a museum, with a lunch break in between and four trips to the bathroom.

So family vacations get me closer to my goal of meaningful museum visits because were committed to doing cultural activities rather than self indulgent. Its for the better, and even if it isn't, it is what it is.

My Diamond Straps Are Pinching

Today I'm packing a suitcase with 14 days worth of clothes for me and the two little ones. George only has four pairs of shorts he will even consider wearing, where an elastic waistband is a must, and Kingsley has enough clothes for a couple four year olds.
I remember when she was a baby and I complained that I wasn't able to buy her clothes because we received so many clothes as gifts. I know. The audacity.
She was the first grandchild out of 11 kids, so when everyone heard she was coming they did what most excited people do, they went shopping.
When my little sister had her daughter, and I gave her Kiki's baby clothes, four enormous moving boxes, she was in shock as she pulled out clothes still with tags on them. We received much more clothes than she could even wear.
So I felt I didn't get the opportunity to represent my personal style with my kid because we were given all her clothes. Now that she's not the only grandkid, we've started buying her clothes, and I realized how stupid it was to complain about all the free clothes we got.
I also figured out that even if my kid let me project my fashion sense onto her, it would lack flair since I am too committed to the K.I.S.S. principle and her entire wardrobe would be $5 H&M little girls sundresses.
She starts school in the fall, and we bought her school uniforms last night. She became so excited in the store, she threw the biggest baby fit I'd seen her throw in a year, while trying to take her pants off because "it was too hot for pants" so she could put on the new school dress.

I've been thinking about how were going to handle this cross country flight, especially with George because he is a juggernaut and 6 hours in a seat will have its challenges. Luckily there is TV, and I bought fruit snacks, a fuck ton of fruit snacks, and not even the organic kind. Straight baby crack I can use during a moment of hysteria.
We are going to Philadelphia to see my sister, and then to Manhattan to see my brother, and ride the fish carousel. It's going to be so much fun. So complaining about George maybe acting like a monster is not necessary. It's like when someone complains how they have to pick up their house before the cleaning lady shows up, so the woman doesn't need to tiptoe over their dirty chonies before she scrubs the doodoo out of their potty.

It's an adventure, and on a micro level there will be some ups and downs, but on a macro level its heading in a positive direction, so it's all good, and I'll try not to complain as the diamond straps on my sandals are pinching, or when George does George on an airplane. Maybe there is a German word for complaints from the ebbs and flows of an awesome upswing, like how the humidity in the Caribbean makes my hair look like The Predators, or when I'm up three or four times a night taking kids to the bathroom. These are such great problems to have, they shouldn't even be considered problems.

George's insistence on elastic waistband pants reflects his positive outlook. He always wants to be prepared when life throws him a feast to get fat on, or fruit snacks.