Stop, Look & Listen

Very little of what I may talk about in this forum has any resonance at all, beyond the tip-typing of my keys, but today is different.

This has been a year of challenges and tragedies and perseverence and frustration the world over. The Tsunami, Hurricane Katrina, the Pakistani Earthquake. Our lives all colored by the shared national and international tragedies, as well as the personal ones. Those touched by cold fingers of cancer, those stricken by the ravages of AIDS, those subjected to the cruel indiscriminate whims of non-lethal but debilitating (if not degenerative) conditions such as fibromyalgia or rheumatoid arthritis.

The outpouring of generosity of spirit and resources in every one of these circumstances has been remarkable. And with the strength and force of such outpouring, it seems no surprise that people would begin to speculate about "donor fatigue." This concept seemingly centering on the idea that people are tired of giving, that they are tapped out. I counter that what people are tired of is the emotional drain of large-scale and immediate tragedy, the inevitable frustration that anything one does just doesn't seem to be enough to solve the entire problem, and the fear of what else might be around the corner. It has been a long year. In every way.

But we are all still standing. And that counts for something.

While I am still standing, I feel that I ought to outstretch my hand, to extend my grasp, and pull someone up. Just the thought of it actually makes me feel like I am more firmly balanced, standing here on my own two feet, than I have in a very long time.

There are a lot of worthy causes out there, and everyone needs help more than ever before. The national and international natural disasters still require all the assistance we can muster and health crises of every variety continue to need as much funding for research and treatment as can be channeled their direction, but I decided to take a slightly different approach in the charities I chose to give to this year.

Recently, someone sent me this, and it reminded me that while there are large scale crises in the world in every way, there are so many simple and every day needs of so many people that go unmet simply because they are ever-present and therefore do not set of a flurry of press coverage and turn people's attention to them. Yet these are problems that we can solve, all of us, collectively and individually, but most importantly, immediately. And the funds and efforts required to make a significant and immediate impact are often less than a weekly coffee bill with someone with a moderate-to-severe Starbucks addiction. Such changes can be made, and they can be done as stocking stuffers, as conscious abstinence from one high-brow night of cocktails, from saving all of your change from breaking larger size bills for a week.

So I picked a number of causes, both domestic and international, adult and child-oriented, large and small - but all of which address the basic issues of food, clothing and shelter in a real and significant way, all year round and for a lifetime.

America's Second Harvest: A.S.H. is the nation's largest charitable hunger-relief organization, with a network of more than 200 regional member food banks and food-rescue programs. Last year, the A.S.H. provided food assistance to more than 23 million low-income hungry people in the United States, including more than 9 million children and nearly 3 million seniors.

For every dollar that is donated to A.S.H., 16 meals are provided to those who are hungry. $50 buy 800 meals; $75 buys 1200 meals, and $100 buys 1600 meals. The synergistic effect is astounding.

Heifer International: Heifer International aims to end world hunger and bring self sufficiency to people in developing nations by providing them with necessary livestock which can feed them and bring them economic returns. For instance, $20 buys a flock (gaggle? group?) of chicks which, "Starting at six months, they can lay up to 200 eggs a year — a reliable source of protein for children who otherwise subsist mostly on starches. Extra eggs can be sold to pay for school, clothes and medicine. And in the vegetable garden, chickens peck at bugs and weeds, scratch up the soil and enrich it with droppings. Chicks are an elegant solution to improving a family's crops and their diet — and to the dilemma of what to give your socially aware friends this season. In Zimbabwe, Mrs. Ndagurwa is a leader in her women's agricultural club. She grows impressive vegetables in soil scratched up and fertilized by her Heifer chickens; their eggs add protein to her family's diet and generate cash to help market her produce."

For the more ambitious (with larger and more flexible wallets), you can buy a heifer or a water buffalo for $500, or a goat for $120. For those of us who like to think big, but whose wallets are small, a share of one of these larger scale livestock can be purchased for anywhere from $20 to $50.

Grameen Foundation USA: GFUSA provides funding, technology, technical assistance, training and information services to a network of 52 local microfinance** institutions (MFIs) in 22 countries. These partners then give very small loans and other financial services and support to the world’s poorest people to start very small businesses to pull themselves out of poverty. Thus far, this network has impacted an estimated 5.5 million lives in Asia, Africa, the Americas, and the Middle East.

More than 90 percent of the network’s clients are women because they have proven to be the most effective in fighting poverty.

** "Sometimes called “banking for the poor,” microfinance is an amazingly simple approach that has been proven to empower very poor people around the world to pull themselves out of poverty. Relying on their traditional skills and entrepreneurial instincts, very poor people, mostly women, use small loans (usually less than US$200), other financial services, and support from local organizations called microfinance institutions (MFIs) to start, establish, sustain, or expand very small, self-supporting businesses. A key to microfinance is the recycling of loan dollars. As each loan is repaid—usually within six months to a year—the money is recycled as another loan, thus multiplying the value of each dollar in defeating global poverty, and changing lives and communities."

Homes For Our Troops: HFOT assists injured service men and women (across all branches of the military) and their immediate families by raising donations of money, building materials and professional labor and coordinating the process of building a new home or adapting an existing home for handicapped accessibility. HFOT provides this service at little or no cost to the veteran.

The bravery and the selflessness of these soldiers' sacrifices must not be forgotten.

My Stuff Bags Foundation: MSBF works to address the physical and emotional needs of children who must be rescued from abuse and neglect, or displaced by natural disasters, and placed in crisis care, often with no personal belongings. Filled with items such as toiletries, toys, blankets and stuffed animals, My Stuff Bags provide comfort for children throughout America. In 2004, volunteers stuffed 87,000 bags that were sent to 900 centers.

MSBF's ultimate goal each year is to deliver a My Stuff Bag to every child that needs one.

These are causes which spoke to me. They are why my family is getting a waterbuffalo for xMas this year, that my friends are getting duffel bags and piping hot meals that they will never see for Festivus this year, why Starbucks is going to miss my presence as my latte money is better off being loaned and re-loaned out over and over, and why that new pair of shoes is going to be used for lumber instead.

If these causes resonated with you, I encourage you to give. If there is anything these researching these causes has shown me is that a very little goes a very long way. If you'd like to look for other causes that need your help, this site and this one are very useful in revealing to you what is out there and how exactly/effectively your donation is used.

If there is a cause that is near and dear to any of you that I did not mention here, please append it (and a link to its site) in the comments section below. The more attention all of these causes can get, the better.

Thanks for reading.

Eleven O'Clock And All Is Well...

It is startling how quickly time passes. My last significant post was weeks ago. I was startled by the distance of the date mostly given that I have actually been writing. I have been writing one single post, one single topic - over and over again. Somehow the tone is not quite right. It may be a case that it will never feel quite right, but right now I am continuing to fuss at choice adjectives and sentence structure, and to pick over and over at the details and the organization.

It is funny. I consider myself an open person. I discuss most anything both in this forum and in my daily life. If I am embarassed by anything it is only by my potential to be misunderstood, for not thinking through how some statement might offend someone or bother them in some way. I don't worry about people "knowing too much" about me. At least that is what I thought. But as I have set forth to write about the topic that has been consuming my creative energies for the last few weeks, I have rethought my position on how open I am - with everyone and with myself. It is a topic which I have often mentioned and promised to address in greater detail here at a later time. I realized that a year and a half after starting this forum, it was time. But my time and effort in addressing the topic have been divided nearly equally between worrying at the words and deliberately ignoring them. Usually when I write, I start, I ramble, I focus in, I am consumed, and I finish. Voila - the finished product. Sometimes this varies as I may start a topic, get pulled away, come back and dislike how I began, return to the beginning and then see the topic through to completion. But this, this has been different.

Looking back in order to look forward. It is a funny, funny thing.

Bonsai Trees and Belly Laughs

A moment of silence for Pat Morita, whose film presence was significant in my childhood and who will definitely be missed.

This analysis (re-posted in tribute to Mr. Morita) of the Karate Kid movies is quite possible one of the funniest things I have ever read - ever. Or at least to any child of the late 80's/early 90's.

For Lack of a Better Phrase: It is What it is

I am at an impasse. Or perhaps I am at a crossroads. It is so hard to tell. These days perspective seems to be in such short supply.

I have been silent lately. I wondered about it. Perhaps I had run out of things to say. Perhaps I had tired of weeping at the same old wall. Perhaps my light had, due to neglect, snuffed itself out. But I still wondered, and I worried and I searched. I found that the stirrings of words, a mish-mash of syllables, were still somewhere within. But as of late, I cannot bring them to the surface with any coherence. It is as though the mouth which holds my inner voice is filled with pebbles. Its' progeny hard. Clunky. Without natural rhythm. Falling - cast out - upon the ground. Destined to lie there. Shining. Smooth. Almost steely. Perhaps beautiful, however, more persuasively characterized as disjointed and immovable. Reflective of the character that bore it.

What stopped me dead in my tracks and made me a pouchy-cheeked mute? A few weeks ago, through the course of my self actualization, I decided to attempt to describe "my pain." This may not seem like something that is new, innovative or even particularly helpful, but I thought that in writing it, in giving it voice, I might finally be able to purge it from my life. The letters carrying it away in the blogosphere.

At first I thought I might be trying to describe it for everyone else ("well, it is bigger than a breadbox, but smaller than a dog house... or in other words, approximately the size of my head") and to that end set upon a number of silly metaphors, including the oft-used, "this is like trying to describe the color blue to a blind man." It all felt disingenuous. The very use of the word "pain" seemed disingenuous. This "pain" I carry with me does not physically hurt, sear, stab, spindle or mutilate. It is not active enough to be "pain." It is not tangible enough to be "pain." My dear friend with fibromyalgia is one who really has pain. She has pain that has robbed her of so much time and experience. Her energy is sapped. The simplest tasks seemingly unending and unreachable. Even on good days, so much of the world seems to be closed off to her. When described this way, I see a commonality in our experiences, and immediately, the observation shames me. My own subconscious trying, through metaphor, to elevate and legitimize my inner failings as "pain." To the extent I am limited, it is my own making. The argument for the issues of brain chemistry and resonance of early nurturing (or lack thereof) can - and should - be made, but at the end of the day, as the saying goes, "the past is merely prologue." I have to live my life today, and it seems to me, that I should be able to surmount this dysfunctional relationship I have with myself.

I realize that the last year has been so hard because I have been giving up the fight. The metaphysical shortcomings I may have - organically-based and otherwise - will always be there. It won't matter how many HappyPills I take, how supportive others are around me, how little stress there is in my life, I will always have to fight for myself. I will have to be vigilant, to defend the position of the people and the things in my life that I love. To protect them against being swallowed up by the inner-angst.

In some ways, I think that, like the wily welter-weight, this requires that I keep moving. I have to keep myself moving towards a goal, however, small. Ironically, the movement keeps me grounded. The difference going forward, or rather, the difference now must be that I am moving closer to myself, to my true desires, rather than past them.

Direct discussion of all of my this, that and the other has always left me jumpy. Uncomfortable in the supreme. Better to riff on the eccentricities born of the "pain" and laugh all the way around the problem. Keep'em from finding out how much of a failure at the little things that you really are. Keep yourself from taking that long hard look, at last, in the right direction. It is a narcissism and and a blessing in and of itself, this "pain" of mine. Clearly, were my life tracked by true tragedy, loss, pain and difficulty, I wouldn't have nearly the time to dote and nurse my misery. I wouldn't have hours to mentally encircle it, to pace in ever deepening grooves around it. To discuss it ad uber-nauseum.

I am smart; but I use it to obsess and worry the outer edges of my life. My work can be emotionally taxing, but it keeps my hands soft and a silver spoon in my mouth (and designer shoes on my feet). So many work so much harder, for so much less. The good people who populate my life - related to me by blood and/or by inexplicable, indellible love - are a blessing to me, and they have their health, and the support and joy they bring are immeasurable; but I worry about losing my place in their lives. As though my presence is not substantial enough to leave an imprint - that I am merely a placemarker, to be filled by someone more substantial, more deserving. They all tell me differently; I will not be dissuaded from my draconian point of view. The shoe will always drop, I feel it.

In all of this time to think, this comfort to explore, that the circumstances (the blessings) of my life have afforded me, I have created the perfect portrait of myself. The reflection I wish I had. The one to which I will never measure up. And as the portrait gains in layers and complexity as the years go on, I have umwittingly continued to blur and distort the woman beneath. A not-very-subconscious effort to erase her. Or to never allow her to form.

And so it is that I am 28 years old, and the fatigue of my worry has made me feel older, and the narcissism and insecurity borne of my anxiety has often made me act far younger. But the real me, the person I am and who I need to learn to be, is actually just 28, she is smart, her two feet touch the ground, and she is always a scared little girl, but she does her best and she appreciates the bravery of her own efforts to never stop trying to be as good as she can, and no worse than she is - nothing more, nothing less.

Tales of a Sick Law(&Order)yer

I have been sick. In my world, this means, among other things, I become extremely grumpy and resentful of the spiteful germs that have infiltrated my body and made themselves at home. Early and often, I decry them. Without shame or remorse, I shout out rude things about their mothers. I make less than subtle insinuations about their dubious parentage. I question their moral fiber, their patriotism and their sanity. I hold them responsible for, among other things, the rise of gasoline prices, the lowering of American children's test scores and the continuing (mind boggling) popularity of Ashlee Simpson. After all these years, I should know better. All this kvetching serves one singular purpose: It pisses them off. And this time, I must have really stepped in it, as antibiotics were required for a toppling of the attempted coup d'etat.

In a feverish haze, I picked up the phone a few days ago and found my mother on the other line. Due to aforesaid feverish haze, I actually told her I was ill. As a further result of the feverish haze, I found myself readily agreeing to her coming to pick me up from my apartment to take me "home" so I could get better. While this does not sound like a Defcon 4 type scenario - chicken soup, or rather sopa de pollo (which is from a can, regardless of how you say it), tea and honey, and ready access to someone who can help you if you have fallen and can't get up cannot be all bad, right? - I usually try to avoid it. First, because of the previously discussed grumpiness on my part, and second, because the grumpiness compounded with the way illness makes my mother automatically begin to channel her inner Linus Pauling, can lead to a Level Orange state. My mother is a rigid believer in the healing properties of Vitamin C. Undoubtedly, the onset of any illness from the sniffles to a bad case of poison oak is greeted with a "Oh you haven't been taking your Vitamin C have you?" And the inevitable interrogation as to how much Vitamin C I have on-hand and how much I have ingested over the previous 45 day period. Side note: When I had mono in college, she sent me a bottle of Vitamin C every other day for six weeks. I had so many white tablets floating around my dorm room, it is shocking that no one suspected me of illicit dealings.

There were some minor scrapes this time around, but mostly they were headed off by my ultimate trip to the doctor and the antibiotic prescription.

Upshot is, I got to miss 3 days of work and lay around on the couch and watch TV (shamefully, one of my favorite leisure activities - between hiking Mount Everest and reading Kierkegaard, I swear) - but I didn't get to enjoy it. My mom kept asking if I wanted to get up and walk around. I think she was afraid I was going to get bed sores.

In any event, in logging all this convalescing-couch time (and consuming megadoses of Vitamin C), I think I may have watched too many Law & Order reruns. I know, I know. Believe me, it is more shocking for me to type it, than for you to read it. As every red blooded american should, I believe wholeheartedly in the palliative powers of the syndicated TV show in time of illness, the national treasure that is the one hour crime drama, and the right of Dick Wolf to dominate the airwaves at every hour of the day on every day of the week year after year. However, I really think that this week I may have crossed a threshold between recreational viewer to hardcore addict. By virtue of the matrix created by the collective broadcasting powers of NBC, TNT, USA, and BRAVO, cross-referenced with the content of the L&O, the original, L&O: Special Victims Unit, L&O: Criminal Intent, and the bonus cross-overs to the now defunct L&O: Trial by Jury and Homicide: Life of the Streets, I have determined that it is indeed possible to spend nearly every waking hour of your day (and some of the dozing, if not outright sleeping ones) watching some iteration of the L&O. After a while they all start to blend, literally: cross-over episodes.

A few things of which I took note during my L&O ultra-marathon:

* I think I know why Bobby Goren (detective from L&O: CI, played literally to the point of exhaustion - his and ours - by Vincent D'Onofrio) cannot get a date. Though popular media continually champions the rise of the lonely driven nerd as sex symbol (in the Gil Grissom type mold), I don't buy it. Not that the nerdy driven nerd doesn't hold a certain allure for me, but personal proclivities aside, I think Bobby Goren could get himself hitched as he has the tall self-supporting guy who can put together compound sentences with polysyllabic words thing going for him. Except for one thing: The latex gloves. The damn latex gloves. I can understand wearing them at a crime scene - forensics, forensics, forensics - but this man - regardless of whether he is wearing them - always has latex gloves on his person. Always pulling them out of his pocket to pick something up for further scrutiny. An effective approach when dealing with evidence? Perhaps. When socially dealing with women? Not so much. In the world of male-female relations, latex is appropriate in a very select number of situations and formats - the glove never being one of them. Of course all of this is irrelevant as L&O characters generally don't have personal lives - but during my feverish haze I felt free to free associate, so bear with me.

* Christopher Meloni (Det. Stabler on L&O: SVU). He plays Stabler in varying shades of simmering rage - and then occasionally (more often in more recent seasons, esp. since Stabler's wife left him) he actually lashes out and hits something or someone. Usually a locker or a corkboard or a wall, but occasionally a perp. Yes, I said perp. Forgive me. As I said, I have logged many, many, many hours of L&O as of late... I can't decide if this is because the character is written too simply or if Meloni has absolutely no range as an actor. Ultimately, I must confesss: I don't care. Why? Because he is pretty. So sue me. I am undyingly devoted to him. Oh Elliot, I wuv you! I am such a sucker for the big baby blues. (Did I mention that he - the character - is a former marine?)

* Serena Southerlyn (played by the automaton-like Elizabeth Rohm) who has the distinction of being the first (and likely the last) assistant ADA on the the original L&O that is not brunette. The failed blonde left the show last year in a stunning last minute reveal when, seconds after her dismissal, she poses the question: "Is this because I'm a lesbian?" It might have made for a compelling story line, (as opposed to inducing peals of laughter) if (1) the line had been delivered with more emotion than that of an oak tree, and (2) if it didn't look like Dick Wolfe was trying to shirk promises he made to the gay community about resolving the little matter of the absolute dearth of gay characters of any one of his (at the time) four shows. As media commentators noted, there had never been any indication whatsoever that Serena was gay, so the argument goes, Sr. Wolfe was trying to dodge the criticism by creating a gay character and then giving her all of 5 seconds of airtime once she was out. As I seemed to be getting a disproporationate amount of Serena Southerlyn-vintage L&O's, I thought about looking for indications that Serena was out prior to this big reveal and thereby defend Mr. Wolfe's honor and win a victory for diversity on TV, but I quickly was thwarted. She is just so painfully boring, I couldn't watch. I began taking to flipping over to the L&O:CI episode running opposite to avoid having to even see her on screen. Long story short: I miss Angie Harmon.

* Mariska Hargitay (Det. Olivia Benson on L&O: SVU). Bad page-boy haircut adopted in second season. Kept hoping it would grow back. Still waiting. It has however gotten blonder. Not helpful.

* Richard Belzer (Det. John Munch) gets all the tender-moment reveals on L&O: SVU. This just seems odd.

* I would discuss the irony of Ice-T playing a cop (Det. Finn Tutuola on SVU), but as I refuse to ever agree with Omarosa on anything. I won't. And generally, and it could just be the massive quantities of Vitamin C coursing through my veins talking, but he really isn't half bad as an actor. Certainly not any worse that the previously discussed Roehm-y.

* Bradley Cooper was a guest star on a L&O: SVU/L&O: TBJ cross-over. Mmmm, nice. Very nice.

* I wonder why people are so comfortable just chattering away in those police interrogation rooms that always have those big mirrors in them. Doesn't everyone in the world know that the A.D.A. and the police chief are always standing behind them watching?

* In the first episode of L&O: Original where ADA Claire Kinkaid (played by Jill Hennessy) appears, she walks into Jack McCoy's office to have a work related conversation with him towards the end of the work day. Through the course of this conversation, he gets up, opens his door, stands sort of catty corner behind it, takes off his pants and changes into jeans. And no one ever says a thing! I know that, ultimately, a season or so later, they end up getting together as a couple, but jeez. First day on the job + Boss taking off his pants = Screams sexual harassment claim, or at least, an extremely awkward situation. Brings a whole new meaning to prosecutorial discretion.

* Sign #7934 of the coming apocalypse: L&O: The Dianne Wiest years. *Shudder*

* My marathon confirmed that every iteration of the series has had one character at one time or another say, when confronted with the fact that some witness, suspect or other party has given a false address, "Well, if that was the case, they would be living in the middle of the East River." Hands down, it is most charming when Lenny Briscoe says it. Question: This could just be the ignorance of a native Californian, but given the fairly straightforward grid system in which Manhattan is laid out, why is it that only the police seem to know which addresses could not possibly exist?

Okay. Enough. Time to go. Need to pick up my phone. I hear the L&O ringtone sounding.

Truth

Truth: Telling the truth. Being honest. Expressing what is real. All of these are bedrock principles of the moral person, or so I choose to believe. It occurs to me however, that much more than these being the immutable cornerstones of life, these concepts - truth, honesty, reality - are, more than anything aspirational goals.

My truth, is not necessarily your truth. My honesty, not necessarily your honesty. My reality, not necessarily yours.

And this dissonance has nothing to do with intent to deceive. It just is.

The philosopher scoffs at the relativist, but some things are simply that: relative.

My objection to the dissonance is not the intractable space between the reality of you and me, or the truth and honesty of our perceptions. My objection is this: I have a hard time discerning my own truth, being honest with myself, discovering my own reality. I hide behind a multitude of words and platitudes; snarky comments and paeans of popular culture and professional sports. I rant and I rave about my pain and my dissatisfactions, but I try to be artful about it, I attempt to be funny. Whether it is actually amusing or potentially heartbreaking or simply boring, I try to package my pain to please. I had long convinced myself that I did so in order to keep everyone else from finding out how freakish I was, to spare them the torrential nature of my pain, but I think I do it in order to spare myself from really looking at it.

This year I am truly sad that baseball season is over. Every year, I lament the passing of the season, but this year is different. It really upset me, and not in a sentimental way. More than any year before it, this year baseball had become a crutch for me - the daily ritual, the continuous event, that, even in its disappointments, brought me nothing but pleasure, because it was the one thing that reminded me that I am still capable of feeling. That a range of emotions are mine.

And now, as the Bart Giamatti quote goes, I am left to face the winter alone. And I am scared because now there is nothing but the pain, and all of the uncertainty, anxiety, anger and disappointment it brings with it.

My therapist tells me that I am adept at a witty, self-deprecating cynicism about my pain. She says it makes it hard to see what really hurts and what is profoundly moving to me, one way or the other, because there is always "a show" going on. I am nothing if not an excellent raconteuse of my pain. Sepaking with my hands, animated movements of the face, well-timed pauses and lilts the voice, so much of it is funny, if only because it is so ridiculous. My paper-machiere ventriloquist dummy of myself is adept at fooling people I don't know very well or whom I am only limited in my exposure to. Or so, I have always believed. People who know me better, and who spend more time with me, recognize some sort of scrambling of the signals. At least the effort towards, if not the achievement of, the artistry of storytelling. Once upon a time, a friend of mine recognized this as "obfuscation" and told me so. She of the wisdom of this observation, at a point down the road chose to set down the burden than was trying to see through this obfuscation, thus freeing herself of any commitment to me. I always thought I was being honest with my friends about my pain: I do talk about it, if only in the obfuscating manner. But, even more importantly (or so I thought), as the energy that goes into the act of obfuscating is just so demanding, and eventually the wellspring always runs dry (sooner and sooner it seems), eventually, I always cry. I weep. Weep inconsolable tears. And then I apologize, profusely, for the burdening, the lack of control, the ugliness of it all.

And I thought in the salt water of my tears there was truth. But they bring no illumination. They are further obfuscation. Indications of my lack of language for all that hurts me, for the profound disappointments I feel, for the control that eludes me, for the anger I am unable to express, for the frustration at feeling so powerless all the time. They may be honest, but they are not truth.

Even now, I don't know that I am using the words correctly: Truth, reality, honesty, pain, feeling. They all seem to be a further layer of misnomer. Close, but not quite right. Even now, I obfuscate to myself.

The big words, the cumbersome sentence structure. All tools of the obfuscations trade. I cannot seem to put them down.

Pain is a misnomer, because more than anything, I really do not feel anything. But I am not numb. I just feel very removed from myself.

Trying to describe how I feel - to everyone, to anyone, to myself - is like trying to describe the color of the sky to a man who has been blind his entire life. It can only be spoken is fragmented approximations.

I imagine the palette of human emotion running across a spectrum from happy to sad (with whatever choice adjectives you want to stick in between them). For nearly a year now, I have been stuck with half a palette, so to speak. I have moments of relief, brought on by time spent with good friends, ballgames, and the initial months of the Happy Pill. But it seems that, at best, these get me to the middle of the spectrum, past "eh" but not quite to "pleased." They do help me forget, granting me a moment of reprieve, and for that I am ever-grateful. A measure of relief from an internal battle that is constant and draining. Post-Happy Pill, I don't worry so much anymore, at least not so much that hyperventilation seems like a daily and routine option, but like the ending of baseball season, without my little worries mounting and accumulating and drawing away of my attention, I am left to face the winter of my discontent - alone. And it is here that I have been mired for the last four or five months.

In the meantime, I have now transferred my anxiety - obfuscating to myself, it seems - entirely to my arch-nemesis in life, my body. The extent to which I hate my body is described best only in saying that it is "to an extent indescribable." It fills entire days for me - an eternal cat and mouse game, round and round, of anger and shame directed at it. And the more this spiral turns and turns, the more I eat to relieve the weight of it all, the more exhausted I feel, the less inclined I am to exercise and the more I want to hide from the world. My corpulence is the signal to the world that I am out of control. These days, anyone who has seen more than one Lifetime movie or afternoon special, knows that eating disorders are tied to control issues. It is utterly cliche to say so, but it is true. The irony of course, apparent to everyone around me, and not lost on me, is that I didn't really feel any better when I was thin. Or so it seems. But there were differences. The physical weight I carry now pains me - in a literal sense. The extra flesh hurts. I feel bulgy and protuberant, as though I might pop at any moment. The other thing is the distortion makes it worse. I am not in any sense obese. I know this. I probably am not anything beyond mildly overweight. But every room I am in, every time I walk down the street, every person I watch on TV, I compare myself to, and I fall short. Or rather I fall fat. I feel like a neanderthal, linebacker, moose-like person. It was to my shock and horror that I found that I was larger than a couple of friends I have that are both in their second trimester of pregnancy. They are growing entire other human beings within their bodies, what is my excuse? I am so embarassed for myself. For how I look, for my instinct to hide. For the implicit narcissism of such action. I have only ever been told I was beautiful when I was thin. But it is not about having to be complimented or trying to be beautiful. It is about being accepted. When I am fat, I am ignored, if not disdained. When I am fat, I am unacceptable. I would say that I hate myself, my physical self, but hate is not a strong enough word either. And I know that this is wrong, that my body should be my temple. I know that if I were to become afflicted with a debilitating health condition, I would long for my body as it is now. But even armer with this knowledge (the implicit recognition of the blessing that is health), I still hate it. I have been involved in a blood feud with myself for so long that I am not sure I know how to stop.

I am lucky in this life as I know that I have been/am loved by numerous people, but I am unable to shake that haunting feeling that the space in people's hearts carved out for love for me is impermanent: that they will know who I am, who I really am, and they will walk away. That they will have more important people and things come along that would make better use of the space. That it was always a secondary space to begin with - a love of convenience. The truth is, however, even if I was ever someone primary love, their priority in life, I wouldn't know what to do with it. The attention, the responsibility would be too much. I have always been so used to receiving love in meted out increments (both in a familial and a romantic sense) that I would be drowned by direct affection I think. I fear it, yet I want nothing more.

It seems so absurd to me that I cannot solve the problems in my head.

Questions Were Asked and Full Discussion Ensued

I have started about 20 (read: 6) different posts since I last made myself known in this forum. Each one has absolutely nothing in common with the other except for two,okay, three things: None of them manage to develop past paragraph two, the quality of the writing is, to be kind, not fit for human consumption, and, lastly, each and every one of them opens with a grand pronouncement about how, to the relief of many (and the chagrin of few) I will not be writing about baseball as the season has (sadly) come to a close.

Grand pronouncement, yes. Truth, no.

Baseball season is indeed over, but even though there are no innings being logged on diamonds from the Bay to the Bronx; there are games still being played. What I forgot is the most important axiom of all: Baseball is a game of boys, and that such truism is not limited to those personnel on the field of play. The off-season is when the true children come out to play, and they don't play fair. No sirreee. Welcome to the wild and unpredictable world which mixes the volatile characteristics of narcissism, insurmountable insecurity, and wads of cash. Prostititution ring you say? No - welcome to the world of the baseball owner.

I could riff and rip on baseball owners till the cows came home (if I didn't think that such it might incite some PETA member to come to my office and throw a tofu pie on me or something for so callously using a statement that clearly hurts displaced cows feeling. Happy cows are NOT in California!) - for instance the mess the McCourts have made in L.A. (so they have no manager and no GM, they lost 91 games, their star pitcher is disgruntled, another one left his wife for a member of the local media, yet another is dating Alyssa Milano, and they have a psychotic player named after a board game. But they have renewed Tommy Lasorda's consulting/license to be a sycophant contract and they hired a new PR person. So yeah, good luck with that) or the continuing disaster that is The Boss and The Tampa Cabal (Does anyone wonder why Brian Cashman has not been seen smiling for years now? They say he has wrested control back; Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it) - but as I began at the beginning of this very, very, very long sentence, I am not here to rip on the owners, not really. After all, what more could be said: their acts of sand-kicking, hair pulling and gum spitting clearly speak for themselves.

I am here to talk about one thing, or rather, one person: Theo. Not he of the Huxtable fame, but he of the Wunderkind Formerly Known As The Red Sox General Manager fame. For the less baseball inclined out there, this might be where this post actually gets interesting/bordering on relevant: Theo actually has more than one name. He is Theo Epstein, a Yale graduate + J.D., who at the tender age of 28 (then the youngest ever) became the general manager (which is the guy who runs day to day operation - e.g. makes trades, negotiates contracts etc. - basically does what everyone does in their fantasy leagues, but for real, so he gets paid for it) for the Red Sox (who, annoying as they may be, either for having been so dour and put upon all these years or for buying into their own hype after 2004's World Series Victory and/or appearing on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, are still a storied franchise nonetheless).

This is a dream job in its own right. That the Red Sox were Theo's childhood team of choice (of destiny?) makes the opportunity even more amazing. The fact that in year 2, he pulled off what had not been done in 86 years and which most people had dismissed as ever being able to see in their lifetimes - The Red Sox Win The World Series! (Sign #598 of the coming of the Apocalypse?) - makes it no less than fan-fucking-tastic.

You are a 30 year old guy (good looking - for the most part, I do think so, but ESPN's man-crush on him is pretty funny too), you have a kick-ass job, you have just achieved the impossible at an impossible time at an impossible age, and what do you do? You go right back to work. We can debate whether you did a good job in going back (The Renteria signing - oooh) but the fact is, you just went back to doing your job. No self promotion. No hanging out with rock stars and being pictured dancing on table tops with Paris or doing shots with L.Lo. Just nothing but Theo. Plain and simple. Kind and straighforward. As always.

The word actually came to me today as I watched his remarks about leaving the Red Sox. He is classy. A rarity to be sure.

I always assumed that 31 year olds were all grown up and therefore self assuming and humble and kind. But now that I get closer to the age and spend my time with nothing but such folks, I find that there do tend to be a lot of exceptions. More than I would have expected. Then again, I expected to have it all together by now. Ummm, yeah, good luck with that.

But back to what I was saying: Theo. This was the year that his contract was up. There were negotiations, it appeared the deal was (nearly) sealed. And then it was clear - ownership's insecurities and narcissism and self-importance strewn throughout the media accounts: Backbiting. Snowjob. Undercutting. Disrespect.

And so what did he do?

He walked away. From it all. From everything. The swarm of accounts that followed this shocking news have varied, but for the most part, see-sawing between the speculation that he had a breach of trust, a falling out, with one of the team's owners, his mentor of sorts and the notion that Theo had "issues" that he needed to resolve. (Quote from Peter Gammons, who I was sorely disappointed to see this from: "Lucchino was willing to pay Epstein $4.5 million over the next three years, but Theo had a number of issues -- some, admittedly, with the spin-doctoring that pervades elements of the organization -- that caused him to make what another general manager called "a life, value-based decision, which never is all bad." .... Theo is extremely intense. His working hours were legendary, and he brooded over decisions. But what drove him to distraction might not bother someone else, ...") Either perspective was couched in utter disbelief: How could he just walk away? The job was perfect. It was his. He was revered by the fanbase as a god. The players all liked him. He would have been making a cool million five each year for doing this job of dreams. But he walked.

Why they whir and wonder? Over petty disagreements? Over fatigue? Because he is not strong enough to be a "good little soldier" and deal with office politics? Because he is a fool?

They may never know. In his press conference today, he was clear to place no blame on anyone.

He may never say, but I get it.

Epstein said he and the Red Sox' hierarchy had "turned the microscope" on themselves and had "excruciatingly honest" discussions. He said those conversations yielded results that proved he needed to leave.

"A lot of things happened during the end of the negotiation that caused me to think more closely about the situation, think about myself, think about the organization and whether it was the right fit," said Epstein, who made a reported $350,000 last season and was one of the lowest-paid executives in the major leagues. "In the end, I decided the right thing to do was move on."

....

"I never really foresaw the day when I'd leave the Red Sox organization," Epstein said. "But, sometimes, choices in life aren't easy. Sometimes, you have to take the difficult path because it's the right path. That's what I believe I did."

Those are choice quotes excerpted from a NYT piece on the matter titled: "Epstein Explains, But He Doesn't Tell All."

They may remain befuddled, but I get it.

At the end of the day, what do you do when it hurts more than it helps? You walk away. You must, to protect that which is most important. You.

Babyboomers are left shaking their heads. You keep going, you keep muddling through. You internalize, you rationalize, you do what they expect you to do.

But I get it.

Even in the most perfect situation - the ideal, the dream job - there are difficulties. Indeed, the bad should be taken with the good. But in a dream job, or any job for that matter, if the bad strips you of the good, if, as in this case, it appears that it robs you of that which is most precious (be it a love of the game or the joy of accomplishment), then it is no good. Dream or not. The price is to high. The pay is too low. The long term blurry - a Hobbesian choice of pay-off versus damage.

I get it.

No matter how lucky they say you are, or how talented they don't, or what they expect, or what they require: At some point you must walk away. And it doesn't make you crazy. And it doesn't make you weak. And it doesn't make you foolish. And, it doesn't make you scared.

It simply makes you.

Run, Theo, run.

If You Build It, He Will Come....

"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring."

-- Rogers Hornsby

(111 days till pitchers and catchers report.)

All I Ever Needed To Know In Life I Learned From 3 White Boys From Brooklyn

"You've Got To Fight For Your Right To Parrrrrrrtaaaay....."
"Now Here's A Little Story I've Got To Tell...."
"It's Sabotage..."

Everyone has their favorite. "License to Ill" and "Paul's Boutique" changed my life. In a retro-move, in attendance at a Beastie Boys concert last year, Mike D said something I took as truly prophetic (or as prophetic as one can seem when running around a stage as a 40 year old man yet still going by the moniker of "Boy"):

LIFE IS NOT A PARTY, IT'S A FUCKING PAGEANT.

I am not entirely sure what this actually means, but I like the sound of it. Apart from my fondness for the gratuitous use of the ever-ultra-utilitarian word "fuck," I like the idea of the fun, control, amusement, and a certain devil-may-care whimsical philosophy it implicitly ascribed to life. Or maybe I just like the idea of quoting Mike D, who when I had last seen the 'Boys in concert ten years prior had been far too busy lighting a bong on stage to spout proverbial wisdom, as my life guru. Beats citing Dr. Phil I s'pose.

In any event, I like the statement/anthem/mantra that is: LIFE IS NOT A PARTY, IT'S A FUCKING PAGEANT.

And in an attempt to pull myself up by my proverbial bootstraps and not let too much more in life pass me by, I am going to attempt to adopt it. It's my pageant, I get to wear the crown. Nothing like a bling filled tiara to make a girl feel better.

Anyway, no promises about overnight improvement. Right now these are just nice, well ordered words that I have arranged in a convenient pattern hopefully approximating a positive personal roadmap to point myself in the direction of "better." But I am going to try. Harder.

So till I think of more original things to write about, I think I may take on the oft-done, cyber-space cliche, but sometimes interesting if done right concept of 100 THINGS ABOUT ME (likely broken out into a number of segments). Let's see if I have enough information to actually say 100 different things about myself:

(100) I had wanted to be a lawyer since I was in the fourth grade when I first saw an episode of L.A. Law. My lawyerly life has in no way resembled L.A. Law - as my life has involved a lot less sex, a lot less time in the court room, and a lot more paper. This (well, except for the sex part - which we do not discuss for fear, actually, rather for certainty, that one of us would assuredly burst into flames) has long disappointed my mother to no end.

(99) I have wanted to stop being a lawyer for the last 4 years.

(98) I have been a lawyer for a total 4 years.

(97) My mother says that I may go on to do other things in life, but regardless, I will always be a lawyer.

(96) I hate it when she says that.

(95) She is right. (I hate that too.)

(94) I should stop listening to my mother, as this is the woman who, when I came home from college at the tender age of 19, sat me down and very quietly and very sweetly told me it would be okay if I used a sperm bank when I decided to have kids. This was the beginning of an on-going semi-schizoprenic no-confidence vote/"by any means necessary" campaign for grandchildren directed solely at me.

(93) The irony of the fact that my mom has openly discussed and encouraged me becoming an sBanker, when we cannot openly discuss the act of having sex for any reason is not lost on me. Indecent acts with a turkey baster she is apparently okay with, but ravaging by an actual man not so much.

(92) Additional irony: Throughout the BAMN Campaign with (against?) me, my mom has on varying occasions handed my siblings condoms.

(91) I am knowledgeable about most every sport (except hockey), and enjoy nearly all of them (though I still don't buy NASCAR is a real sport, see #90 below, as I have lived in CA and sat in traffic far too long in my life to tolerate watching cars drive around in a circle for hours) but (as is obvious to anyone who speaks with me for more than 2 minutes) I love baseball. Love, nothing less. Love, like I love my family and my friends. Love, like rockets and daisies and blue birds singing love. Fall down, carzy, truly madly deeply love. Baseball breaks my heart and always, always makes me happy.

(90) I believe that what separates "sport" from "hobby" and/or "gentleman's endeavor" is one thing: Sweat. So using this highly technical criteria, baseball, football, basketball, hockey, these are all sports. Bowling, fishing, NASCAR not so much. Now, there are a lot of grey area leisure activities (most of which are featured on ESPN2): Woodchopping, World's Strongest Man (which I can never seem to turn away from - I love it when they pull the RR cars etc), and Golf. Yes, the last one will be controversial. I know. Bring it. I'm ready.

(89) I lived across the hall from a major league assistant GM in college. Well, he wasn't an assistant GM then, but he was very nice nonetheless. I was not an assistant GM, either then or now, though I am now just as old as the youngest GM.

(89) As much as I love sports generally, I have never participated in a team sport. Well, I had one ill-fated JV season of cross-country, but that's not really a team sport per se.

(88) No team sports because no coordination. During said season of cross country, fell repeatedly - bleeding, scarring. My knees are still a fright. Walking down the street last year, fell once - bleeding, scarring. The scar under my chin from the stitches is still a fright.

(89) Things I did when I was a kid that I have long forgotten: I was a girl scout (but always so bad at selling cookies, though very good at eating them); I used to take riding lessons (couldn't walk down the street without falling on my face, but wrangling a 2000 lb animal over an obstacle course of jumps, apparently not a problem); I was on Romper Room twice (even at the tender age of 4 my genius was evident: Miss Nancy asked us to balance baskets on our heads, we all managed it - but I was really good, bobbing and weaving and running around without it falling off - of couse, it might have been more challenging had I not been wearing the bowl open-side down on my head. Fantastic!); I gave up hot dogs in the 4th grade (in an unfortunate confluence of events made the day that we studied the Donner Party the same day I found a seed in my hot dog on Hot Dog day); I was in chorus/drama for years (it took me that long to discover that loud does not necessarily mean in-tune, and "drama queen" isn't quite the same thing as gifted thespian.)

(88) I have been on The Oprah Winfrey Show, The Jenny Jones Show, and The Jerry Springer Show - as an audience member, asking a question, not as a guest. Really.

(87) I tried out for a reality show a couple years ago. 3 guesses as to which one. Okay: Dream Job on ESPN. Didn't make it, but it was fun. Worth the 3 hours of waiting around, just to say I did it. My regret: I missed the Pedro/Zim throw down because of it though.

(86) I love nearly every vegetable - even the beleaguered brussel sprout - but I just can't tolerate beets. Can't even look at them. Ick.

(85) The only thing worse than beets? Mayonnaise. The most vile food product on the face of the earth.

(84) I was in love with my boy-best friend - he of the one blue and one brown eye, both with those long, long lashes - from the day I met him when I was the tender age of 10 till I was 21. Sweet, pure, devoted and unrequited love. I still love him to this day, and, surprising as it may be, he loves me too. But neither of us loves the other "that way." And it is lovely. And it is better. Though sometimes, in the quiet moments, I do miss loving him that way - I was so much more innocent then.

(83) Ultimately a graduate of the Naval Academy, he may be the reason for my military, er, pattern. (You say "fetish", I say "doing my part for the war effort"...)

(82) My favorite book: 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

(81) I started Don Quixote (by Cervantes) in the 5th grade. I still haven't finished it. And I don't even have the excuse of having tried to read it in spanish.

(80) Officially, I am bilingual. At least that is how it translates to paper. In real life, my mother speaks to me in spanish and I respond in english. I can respond in spanish, but it is slow and halting and I hate the way my accent sounds. I can't get past having to think my thoughts and english and then needing to translate them into spanish, thus slowing the whole process down. My vocabulary in english is also, just a bit, larger. So yes, I guess when I say my mother and I don't speak the same language, it's true. We actually don't. Though to be fair, that has never been the issue though. It wasn't till I was 16 that I even realized she did it. Her accent gets thicker when my friends are around. I could never figure out why, and then when I was 16 it dawned on me: It is because she speaks in english when they are around so that they don't feel left out of the conversation. Hence the thicker accent. Ah ha...

(79) My dad doesn't speak a word of spanish - even after nearly 30 years of marriage to my mother. She is unconcerned about speaking in spanish around him. And he is apparently unconcerned about trying to understand. He claims to be proficient in his own kind of pidgin' spanish - he simply adds "-ito" and "-ita" to every word. "Can you hand me the remote cotnrol-ito?" "Did you shut off the light-ita?" And so on and so forth...

(78) I love men who can speak spanish, or french, or some other foreign language; however, not so attracted to european men (as seems to be a preference of a lot of my college girlfriends who are all dating or married to Brits). Not sure why. Maybe I just don't identify with Madonna and Gwyneth due to my inherent non-blondness?

(77) I am a nervous flier. But I fly all the time. Or I used to. Take-offs are the hardest; landings not such a big deal. Turbulence: The worst. Ever. [Eerily, this seems to be my general approach to life as well]

(76) I grew up in CA, so I grew up thinking that "So how's the weather?" was code for boring conversation. My 7 year stint on the East Coast and in the Midwest, taught me how wrong I was. One can legitimately have an engrossing 45 minute conversation on the weather. The best job in the world is weather person in CA. Weather-people in CA get the weather report wrong half the time (that is being generous) and no one cares. No one pays attention. Everyone expects them to be wrong. Were that to happen on the East Coast or in Chicago, that person would be out of a job. There would be riots in the street. It is a life and death matter. Here, it's just an "eh, I guess I should have worn a cardigan, oh well" thing. My seven years ruined me though, I still compulsively watch (and believe) the weather report. Damnit.

(75) I miss the Fall. And when I say that to people out here, no one knows what I am talking about.

Okay... 25 is enough for today - for all involved. Am toddling off to bed. More another day.

Odds, Even More Odds & Ends

I have been a neglectful (is that a word?) correspondent as of late. I have no adequate excuse, and I am not sure that this post will even begin to make up for my having been so remiss as of late.

Some random thoughts:

* The Rally Monkey is Dead, Long Live The Ralley Monkey: M. Scioscia has cried his last crocodile tear; F. Rod (as I refuse to call him K. Rod, as that is not his name) has made his last monkey face and ridiculous gesticulation at the sky, Chone Figgins has had his last situation this year where announcers acknowledged his sadly misspelled name as "Shawn" as opposed to "Chone" as it is spelled; the L.A. Times will go back to acknowledging the true L.A. team (the Dodgers, NL West member as they may be).... Congrats White Sox! Though, I think I may have to root NL, if the Astros manage to follow through. I am not sure why. Maybe it is b/c each member of the team has enough facial hair that they all look alike and I feel I must root along with the most fraternal bond. Maybe it is because they have never been to the biggest dance of all. Maybe it is just the "Field of Dreams" factor (as apparently R. Clemens' mom uttered "Shoeless Joe Jackson" 3 separate times on her deathbed... it is destiny, what can I say?). Or maybe it is because I have such a twisted obsession w/ Brad Lidge. Dunno, not sure. Will have to reassess, reconvene and reassert after the season, I think. Till then, just doing my best to revel in the buoyancy of Oct baseball, even when I have no real emotional stake in the participants at this point.

* AJ Pyrzienski: What a fantastic hero/villain - it couldn't have been scripted any better! (NOTE: He looks very much like a doughy Bill Murray, yes?)

* TomKat: I have been silent as to the TomKitten, and for this I profusely apologize. In my absence however, Mallory of Media Gadfly has captured the moment better than I ever could, check it out. One note, not funny and/or amusing, just true - I have now entirely forgotten when I thought Tom Cruise was hot. This belief rounded out the foundation of most of my adolescence and yet, I can't even imagine even vaguely believeing it to be true. At least not now. My how things change. Hope that sperm donor of KH's was short, or else there will be lots of 'splaining to do to the general public once the baby is (silently! ha!) birthed.

* Orlando Bloom: He looks like a woman - he is not sexy! 'Nuff said.

* Huston Street: Love him. Just had my attention turned to his "Hot 10" pic in ESPN,mag. OMG. Desperately wishing I was 6 years younger. Yummy....

* Non-Baseball Fans To Whom Many of The Above References Mean Nothing: You are missing out on a fulfilling sport, poetry in motion, action that bespeaks the intractable beliefs of the soul. Or if nothing else, a whole lot of eye candy. Either way, there is a hole in your consciousness you are unaware of. If you want a tutorial on America's Pastime, I am more than happy to help...

* While There May Be No Crying In Bsaeball, There Is Crying In Law Firms: There has been much made as of late in number of major publications about women crying in the workplace: some say good (a revolution of the new millenium); some say bad (it betrays instability, weakness, and a general air of being pathetic). My take: Fuck'em. I have cried in my office more times than I can count. I have teared up, welled up, silently sobbed in front of the powers that be in my life, more than I care to mention. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it. Was a fact of life. And so, much like the unavoidable spring rains, the tears came, And they went. And I am still here. And I would do it again. The job sucks. It is stressful. It is distressing. It is tiring. I had to cry. Apparently, they haven't, even in the face of a discharge of saltwater, seen fit to fire me yet. And so it goes. I do not know of any other woman who is working who had *not* cried in the workplace. It is just the way it is. And I resent any article that tries to make any of these fine women feel less than for feeling the way they feel or acting the way they must act.

* And the other stuff: I have had a hard time writing lately because I have been in a position where I am not feeling a lot one way or the other. Not in a pleasantly numb way, but rather in a "I can't muster the energy to get fired up about this one way or another" way. Inside of me somewhere, I am hopeful that a smart, funny, interesting, not painful to be around person lurks, but for the past year, that person has not readily made themselves available. And as such, in the quiet moments, I begin to doubt that she exists, and thus all that is left is a bundle of nerves and a disconcertingly negative outlook on life. Nothing anyone of decent values wants to be around. And I worry that I will never be normal, that I will never approximate normal, and that the rest of my life will me marked by the pain that it is to be broken, irrevocably. How does this person contribute to a life where it is of the utmost importance to be sensitive and to be on one's best behavior? The answer: She doesn't. The favor she does is to be as low profile and unobtrusive as possible.

Excuse Me, Do I Know You?

I sent an e-mail to friend - my roommate from college actually - recently, trying to explain myself. Needless to say it was a lengthy missive; sprawling, rambling and disjointed (much like the author herself). At best a middling effort as Sysephian-task.

It did however engender a very sweet response, which I won't post here (as I don't have the permission of the author and it is so full of personalized references it wouldn't be of much interest to anyone outside of our circle of two anyway). This thoughtful reply was punctuated with a quote, as has been, over the last decade that I have known her, the way of the reply's author. She is always collecting quotes and including them in her communications on an "as necessary" basis. This situation was both no exception and apparently "as necessary."

The quote is, as follows:

"Your worth and mine lie within ourselves. It is infinite and it is reliable. It is the only thing in this world that is truly so...Wherever you are, whenever you need me, I will be there to remind you to look toward the light; not mine, but your own. You have more power, strength, character, integrity and beauty both inside and out than you realize."

Not too terrible. It is the kind of modern-day-self-actualizing-reworking of Eleanor Rooseveltian sensibilities-type of quote that was appropos to the situation and which the reply's author favors.

But what struck me more was the reality of the line of the reply which followed:

"You wrote that to me seven years ago on August 29, 1998."

And the more sage advice which followed that:

"READ IT OUT LOUD."

Did I ever really believe such things? I must have. I never would have written it otherwise. I certainly would not have included myself in the mix without some purpose. My worth is within? It is infinite? It is reliable? Well, it is definitely cheesy. The ramblings of mad-twenty year old, a fresh faced novice to the world.

But still, I am left wondering. Did I actually believe at one time that I actually had worth? And that it was the most valuable possession I had? Really?

It just seems so inconceivable. But there seems to be so much certainty, so much conviction in those words.

If it was true, could it be so again?

Could it ever be said out loud?

Red Alert

We interrupt this spiral of angst, self pity, and general kvetching about my Thursday to bring you the following late breaking (only because I missed it by about 40 days... oh and did you know that we now know who Deep Throat is?) update:

Has anyone seen this man?




Or more importantly has anyone seen this woman?

I don't know how I possibly missed it, but she is ba-a-ack…. Yes, indeed, I am talking about MissAlyssa (if you say it three times fast, it sounds like a bad skin condition. "This summer heat is really making my MissAlyssa act up…" And apparently it is...) has emerged like clockwork for her yearly feeding upon soft, squishy, defenseless late-20's major league prey. Almost a year to the day when she ensnared her last helpless prey -- Barry Zito, and left him not-quite right till after the All-Star break this year -- and nearly 2 years since she devoured her first victim -- Carl Pavano, who was so debilitated (they say it was shoulder tendinitis, be we know the truth)he has retreated to DL perchance never to return again -- she has struck again.

Her latest victim, er, boyfriend: Brad Penny, pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers, whom she has apparently been feeding upon, er, dating, since August 26, 2005.

My god, hasn't there been enough carnage?

Can't something be done?

Someone has got to stop the madness.

But how? The danger is so great; her powers are so strong.

I am left shaking my head, partially in bewilderment; but mostly in fear. When she has had her fill with the hapless Mr. Penny and moved on to fresher meat, who might be next? My beloved Huston Street? The utterly lickable Mark Mulder?

It is hair-raising.

And so, as a means of comfort, more than anything else, I embark on the only defensive measure I can muster: Deductive reasoning. Maybe if we can ascribe a method to her madness we can save her next victim from certain disaster.

Where to start?

The obvious:

She likes pitchers: Pavano, Zito and Penny all falling in this category. Particularly favored dexterity is not an issue: Pavano and Penny being righties, Barry being a southpaw. But can we be sure that she is only limiting herself to number 1 on the field of play? Is she perhaps a closet fan of battery mates? Do we need to warn Brian McCann to travel under an assumed name and wear the catcher's mask after hours as well, simply as means of protection? Hmmm, interesting.... but perhaps not...

Further, it appears she targets those who are just old enough to remember the tail end of original run Who's the Boss when she was at the height of her "Kiss of the Spiderwoman" like powers, and who are yet old enough to avoid her having to explain herself to the authorities. So it seems the 26 to 28 year old age group are what she considers "ripe for the pickin.'" So it appears that both the aforementioned Mr. McCann, as well as the beloved Huston, and (at the opposite end of the spectrum, the never mentioned, aged and always mullet-evocative) Randy Johnson are quite safe. For now.

She also likes them tall: 6'4" or above (at least as listed on ESPN, so that makes them at least 6"0'): Pavano (6'5"); Zito (6'4"); Penny (6'4"). So we can cross Huddy off of the list it seems.

Likewise, I have determined that with this latest addition of Mr. Penny to her list of conquests, Mulder is safe, if only because filthy-on diamond-nails-lights out-gutsy pitching performance (for her to foil with her evil feminine wiles) is apparently not a prerequisite for attracting her attentions. Prior to meeting MissAlyssa, Mr. Pavano, had moments of brilliance and a good enough season to warrant a fat Yankees contract (though given the signing of Jaret Wright at the same time, that may not be saying much). Likewise, Mr. Zito, though plagued by troubles in the couple of years following (some of which are attributable to his sensitive nature and his thinking too much, but most of the fault which lies with his being subject to the Curse of Milano), is a former Cy Young winner (though this may not be saying much either if Sideshow Bartolo wins the trophy this year). Mr. Penny, on the other hand, is a .500 pitcher whose career can most generously be said to be characterized by reliably middling performances sometimes punctuated by flashes of mediocrity.

The less obvious:

While one may have posited at one point that maybe she had a thing for Italian pitchers (Srs. Pavano and Zito), Mr. Penny, a poster child for, well, all things not european, of Broken Arrow, OK origins, appears to break this pattern. Perhaps, she is moving on to people who hale from the same hometown as ANTM runner's ups? Maybe this is MissAlyssa's desperate bid to get some face time with Kahlen, runner up to ANTM 4 so she can find out what Tyra is "really like."

Another theory may be that perhaps Zito was an anomaly, and that in fact she just has a thing for Marlins pitchers - present and/or former (Pavano and Penny). Do we need to get the word out to the D-Train to be on the look out? Not quite so fast.

Maybe it is an even subtler, more insidious connection: A six degrees of Paul DePodesta link. Zito was signed by the A's when DePodesta was the Assistant GM there, largely on the strength of DePosdesta's recommendation. Penny, was similarly brought over from the Marlins and last year signed to an extension by whom, Paul DePodesta (now GM for the Dodgers). Ah, but once again, it is a theory that leaves one mugging victim unaccounted for.

Maybe quirkiness is the answer. Zito is well characterized as a "flake," or rather "a sensitive soul who is continually hurt by his characterization as a 'flake' in the media." I love Barry, don't get me wrong, but I have never actually seen him described as a flake, I have only seen that latter more lengthy and flattering usage/description of the term in connection with him. Ah Barry and the media: You say media whore, I say friendly and accessible. Either way, he also openly describes himself as an avid yoga and meditation enthusiast, and a big fan of Jon Mayer's (whom he apparently invokes quite frequently in his performances with his sister's band The Sally Zito Project). Not that there is anything wrong with any of these things, there isn't. It is simply, unusual, to find such characteristics in a big league pitcher. (Then again, I was surprised to find out that Dontrelle Willis watches Troy before every start he makes. I don't know if I was more shocked to learn that anyone has seen that movie multiple times, or that anyone has seen it at all). Penny, of course, quirky claim to fame is having dared (read: coerced) a Florida Marlins batboy into drinking a whole gallon of milk at one sitting, which resulted in the batboy throwing up and the Marlins suspending him. Worked out okay: He got to make a Letterman appearance. No word on if Penny ever paid up on the $500 he owed the kid. Well, I am not sure if that whole incident qualifies as quirky, but it is definitely classy, with a capital "C". Pavano, however, appears to be the missing link here too. No word on any quirks or unusual habits from the Pavano camp. Then again, if George Steinbrenner were my boss, then I guess low-profile would be my modus operandi as well.

The Shallow:

So maybe she is just into hot MLB pitchers. Other than what spending time in her "good graces" does to their pitching performance, I can't fault her for that. However, this theory doesn't fly either. Say what you will about Pavano and Zito - they can both tend to be very Monet, and Zito himself will cop early and often, on national TV no less, to having "child bearing hips" - but they are at least decent looking guys and on good days, they can be head turning. Penny is ... well, it can be put one of three ways: The kinder way - That picture appended to the beginning of this post was, in fact, the best picture I could find of Penny; The less kind way: He is a dead ringer for Abraham Benrubi ("Jerry" from ER); The "Oooh, CLC is such a bitch" way: Damn, he is uuuug-leee!!

Eureka, I've got it!!!

Given all of the above, perhaps we can interest her in a position player of indeterminate species upon whom she may feel free to unleash her curse? He digs curses.

Brain Droppings

Yes, I blatantly stole the title for this posting from George Carlin (isn't that the case with most good material floating around anyway?)

I don't know that I have any structure or particular theme in mind. Today I just write, because I need to.

More and more lately, I keep getting the feeling that everything and everyone around me is continually changing, but that I am the one and only entity/occupant of this world who always remains the same. It isn't by personal choice or inimical design, and I do not believe it is out of any kind of necessity. Perhaps, it might be due to laziness, or a bad case of the inertias, but regardless, it just is.

People move, they get pets, they change jobs, they move in with significant others, they procreate, they get married (none of those things necessarily in that given order). They do all of these things. In short, the have (and keep having) life events for which there are actual commemorative Hallmark cards, socially mandated rules of decorum, and time-honored occasions for having a party or some other sort of celebration. Me? I have none of it. Okay, I do age, and there are cards for that, so I can't say my life is totally devoid of support for the fine papers and stationery industry, but beyond that, the wrapping paper-invitation-champage flute evidence that I exist is rather sparse.

Not much occasion for a "Wow, you are still at a job you find soul crushing after 4 years" party, and, I have to tell you, the last time I attempted a "Damn, you are still alone" cocktail hour, it just did not go well. Everyone forgot to bring food for my (future) twelve cats, and I got three Netflix memberships, 1 bathrobe and a copy of "101 Places for Fine Dining for 1" as gifts. (NOTE: Had this actually happened, it would definitely top last year's birthday where I actually did receive 3 different copies of "He's Just Not That Into You" - wow. Subtle.) I do think that a "Still crazy (and neurotic) after all these years" reunion get-away weekend might have some kitschy appeal, but I am holding on to that one for a period of time down the road where I am truly desperate for a crepe paper and party hats life-affirming moment.

For now, massive celebration of me is not only unwarranted, it is really not necessary. It isn't something I crave or desire. At least not in the same way that I have at other junctures in my life. I am currently focusing on daily achievement of aspirational normalcy. Simple woman, simple needs. Deep breaths. You know, the beyond basics.

But I just find myself trying to push down this little nagging worry in the back of my head about being left behind. The more people around me change, the stranger and more anomalous a figure in their life I feel that I become. Like some odd visitor to this planet of contentment and normalcy, whose snarkiness and spinsterhood is considered charmingly eccentric if only because it is just so odd and unfathomable with the way the world should work.

Hi, CLC, I wanted to tell you about [fill in important life event here]. What is up with you?

Oh well, same old, same old. Work, blah, blah. Shoes, blah, blah. Baseball, yadda, yadda. Well, I guess I did take a vacation recently.

You did? Really!? Where did you go?

Well, I took a 2 week vacation and, well, I didn't go anywhere. I just sort of hung around and decompressed.

Really? You just hung around for 2 weeks? That is so... ummm... unusual. Is there anything else going on with you? (*Said with pleading look in eyes that just screams, "Dear God, please let her have something half-way interesting and not unendingly freakish to say, that doesn't make me want to stab myself in the eye with a fork just to make sure that I am still alive"*)

As for moving, I moved about 6 blocks away from where I was before, and, no, I am still not living alone. The person I am living with is someone near and dear to my heart, he is...

Oh my god! You?! Are!? Living with someone?! Unbelievable! Fantastic! This is so great! I knew it would finally happen for you... someday....

Umm, yeah, thanks. Actually, I am living with my brother. The one who just graduated. Yeah... so...

Oh, that is... lovely. Well, it will be good for security.

Yes, it appears I may in fact not only not be changing, I may in fact be regressing to former states of being (as I am in fact living with my brother now... Lord help me).

In fairness, neither the above conversation nor even a rough approximation of such a conversation has ever happened, nor do I believe it actually would. It is simply a demonstrative, in my drama queen fashion, of how prosaic my little life often feels to me.

Being leap-frogged in the life event arena is okay by me, and in fact it is an absolutely wonderful thing, because it means happy things for the amazing people who populate my life and who clearly deserve these things and ever so much more (and really, what can be better than wonderful things happening to wonderful people. Proves there is justice and fairness in the world). This all provides me the opportunity to run along behind and learn and be supportive and (hopefully) useful, and to at least try to, in some way, repay all of the undeserved kindnesses bestowed on me. But what scares me, and which I never say out loud (at least never in any kind of serious tone) or in my head to myself, is this:

I do want those normal, forward moving, fun changes for myself too. Someday. I do. Really. The analogous (and much more insidious) nagging worry to the one about being left behind, is the worry that I am not capable of catching up.

Ever.

And that might really be what is at the heart of all of this.

Maybe I won't change.

Ever.

And I will always feel weird and on the outside.

Always.

That the cards don't hold those normal, forward moving, fun changes for me.

Ever.

And if that is the way it is, then that is the way it will be. And I will deal with it. And my life can still be good. I suppose. But the thought of it. It is horrifying.

All I have ever wanted for myself is a clean, well-lighted, warm, happy corner of the world that I can call my own. But I have always envisioned this rather generalized description to be filled with certain people. Not just me. And it may yet work out that it will be filled with those certain people, but, the truth is, that now I must plan and move forward with a picture of that corner of the world in mind and the only person I can count on being in it is me. The time for indulging my incredible neediness is over. I really do rely so much on the people around me and in my life, and I am going to have to learn to stand on my own two feet. Alone. I am going to have to find a way, for the first time in my life, to find some kind of solace and comfort in myself, because at the end of the day, that is the only person I have (and who should/is obligated/must) to take care of me.

You would too if it happened to you...

It made me cry.

I didn't see one highlight. I didn't hear one play by play. I didn't even read a follow up article. All I saw was an ESPN headline....

ANGELS CLINCH IN 4 -3 VICTORY; KNOCK A'S OUT OF PLAY OFF CONTENTION.

And, sap that I am, a big fat tear rolled down my face.

I knew it was coming. I knew it would happen. And yet it hurt. It hurts. Like a son-of-a-bitch.

It doesn't just sting. It sears.

They weren't even supposed to be in contention this year. I was such a malcontent, I joined the boo-bird wagon early and often this season prior to the All-Star break. And yet... here I sit, bawling like a baby.

Why?

Because they *are* my team. From childhood to forever more. They are my team. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. They are my team.

They are the A's. They break my heart... for so many years running. They are my team. They belong to me.

They never quite make it. They are experts of living on the cusp. They are my team.

My love, as much as it may burn me, is unconditional.

They are my team.

I love them.

And so I sit, waiting for next year.

I love good baseball, as much as the next, so the post season will pique my imagination if nothing else because they are all damn good ballgames, but in then end, it is just about the count down... till pitchers and catchers report. Till Rich Harden can throw the heat again. Till Barry Zito can make that sweet curve dance for all of us. Till I can always hope that I will be there to see J. Kendall finally go yard again. Till then...

I will miss them. I will love them. They will be back...

Another year.

*Sniff*

Damn, I love this game.

CORRECTION

Per a certain investment banker/obsessive-compulsive Excel user, whom I absolutely adore, I have not in fact been alive for 10, 220 days, as, well, I have forgotten to include those ever so pesky leap years. As such, it turns out, I have erroneously omitted a week in the tally of my life, and thus am in fact 10, 227 days old.

As said iBanker has known me longer than most, and has experienced (endured?) this extra week of my existence, I figured it was only fair to make it known.

(He's just jealous, because, at the end of the day, I am still younger than he is. :))

And on the 10, 220th day, she went to the DMV

28 years on the planet, as of today. Not entirely sure how I feel about it.

Age has always a rather surreal issue for me. I have always been two to three years younger than my peer group, and, as such, am used to being the baby. At certain points this was a point of ridicule - "Dude, you can't drive till you are senior!" - and burden - "Oh, this means we will be hauling your ass around till you are a senior" - at others it was a point of exasperation and annoyance - "You mean you won't be old enough to go into a bar before graduation?" - and even embarassment - "This is law school orientation, why don't you ever go out? You are how old? What?"

Most recently it has become a more of a novelty, mostly, but still somehow a point of contention, at least for those around me who are more sensitive about growing older.

When I turned 26, it meant very little to me, other than the fact that it was my lucky number, so I thought it would definitely be a good year. But I do recall getting several comments to the effect of "Heh, heh, now you are too old to be on an MTV reality show." Or maybe it was every reality show? It was definitely American Idol.

Well, guess no one will be seeing video taped footage of my drunken exploits or my fabulous song stylings of Britney Redux anytime soon. The world weeps, I know.

The jokes were lighthearted and in good fun, and they seemed to make people feel better, so I didn't mind, because my age has never bothered me. I never felt I was old. At least not temporally.

Inside, I am about 872, but that has always been the case. Always will be. It is like some insane math calculation that I can never shake:

9/26/77 x Type-A (little bit neurotic + rather anxious + insatiable internal perfectionist-a) = 872 years old (internally)

28 feels odd to me for a number of reasons.

First, in all of the turmoil of this year, I had pretty much forgotten how old I was and have actively had to think about it when people ask. Point of fact, even with taking a moment to ponder the answer to this seemingly simple question, I have still been coming up with the wrong answer for months (getting older is not helping my feeble mathematicall skills to be sure). I have been telling people I was 28 for the better part of six months. Forthright, yes, but not true. Well, not till today.

Second, indifferent as I am (and continue to be) towards my age, I have the distinct feeling that this ticking of the sundial of my life is going to mark the end of my grace period of indifference. Being a stone's throw away from thirty, the questions that people have bitten their tongues about (more or less) for the last couple years (when will she ever get married? when will she have another date? when will she have children? when will she successfully be able to maintain the health and wellbeing of a houseplant?) will now be asked - fast, furious and frequently. I still believe I have plenty of time, and reject the use of the word "spinster" for any age, but I do confess to a certain amount of apprehension to growing inquiries from the peanut gallery of my life. I am crazy enough about so many other issues - both real and wholly imagined - in my life, that worrying about failing to meet certain life-milestones by certain timeframes is not one I need to add to the list.

Third, so the day is on a Monday this year. Kind of a bummer because it isn't much a celebration day, but not too terrible this year, due to my wholehearted ambivalence and not-exactly feeling up to being feted in any way. However, in calculating the day, it made me realize that the big 30 is going to fall on a Wednesday. Well, that's just not right. I intend to have an uber-celebration of 30, if only to recognize that I made it to that age without any lasting physical damage to myself due to clutziness, and a Wednesday fete just won't do. Will have to figure someway around the whole matter. Have two years to plan.

Fourth, my driver's license has expired as of today, and after 3 renewals via mail, the state has seen it fit to make me come in to renew my license for a fourth time. So, in celebration of my special day, I will be schlepping out to the DMV. Is it masochism? Is it a sub-conscious need to test the development of my patience to this point in my life? Don't know, but there are certainly at least 72 things I can think of that I would rather be doing with my Monday morning (date of birth or not).

And so the day lays before me. I can't even begin to see what it has in store. If nothing else, the trip to the DMV promises to make it colorful...

Let it not be said that I do not know how to have a good time.

As goes Andy Roddick...

Much like Andy Roddick, I think I have lost my mojo. Or at least what little 'jo (if not mo') that I had (assuming both Mr. Roddick and I had any 'jo to speak of. His being questionable, mine being, well, enigmatic). Unfortunately, unlike Mr. Roddick, I do not have the consolation of #1 ranked arm-candy or starring in a series of Lexus commercials where I say absolutely nothing but get to drive a phat car (despite all of my professional ineptitude) to console me and ease my frustrations.

I have sat down to write several times over the last couple of weeks and found myself with nothing to say. Or rather, just not feeling very inspired by what I am willing to say. As thrilling as my exposition on furniture the other day was, (so sorry!) well, it certainly leaves a lot to be desired. (You can only imagine what holding an actual conversation with me is like these days...) Sure I have the occasional burning questions that come to mind, including:

- why was the entire press corps so surprised when Barry Bonds came out against further steroid inquiries by Congress? Duh! Or maybe it was just Pedro Gomez who simply has that perpetual look of surprise and fear, surpassed only by the apparent vacuousness behind it, to him, much like GWB in any press conference where they use poly-syllabic words. (Side note: Apparently he has made a point of noting that he needs to drop about 25 pounds this off-season "for the sake of his knee" - at least Barry's PR flacks have learned from Giam-bonehead's "I gave up fast food" mistakes and have cut any shrinkage speculation off at the pass)

- Or why MLB and every one of its teams insists on selling their own variations of these? Or perhaps more astoundingly, why people actually insist on wearing them? [NOTE: I was going to link to a picture of someone, anyone, wearing one of these crimes against fashion, but apparently, even those that sport these monstrosities are savvy enough to shy away from the camera. Apparently, pink ball cap wearing chicks are strictly videotape; no still shots. How...vivid.] Now Ladies, I understand if you aren't a fan and know nothing about the national pastime protocol of "keeping in real" so to speak, but, this still does little if nothing to relieve you of your crimes against fashion (if not humanity) by wearing a pink ballcap. I mean come on, though I s'pose it may be a clever means of subliminally channeling the look of an areola, and thereby being a clever ruse for getting yourself up on the Jumbotron and getting some attention, you can't really think it looks good?

- Then again, people keep insisting that Paris Hilton is beautiful, as evinced by her recent Vanity Fair cover. Really? It seems only Valentino, Mallory and I have any sense in the matter.

- Why would you want one of these things? Perhaps to frighten off vermin? What do you want to bet he has at least a bakers' dozen of these stashed in various places around his "Crib"?

Okay, so the snark is out in full effect. Is it hormonal? Am I just dark, twisted and evil and given up pretending otherwise? Have I become a moral reprobate? (Well, okay, not that, but I just wanted to use the term "moral reprobate" - it has a crisp, cut to the chase sound to it...)

So what is my deal?

Not entirely sure. Who knew you could get writer's block when you only write about topics that fall under the general header of "nothing in particular"? I always did like to be a trail-blazer...

Put Your Hands Up And Back Away From The Catalogue

The present is bringing me no inspiration at this moment - at least not of the kind which will result in anything worth reading. So please indulge me as my mind wanders.

Am back at work. Am on an organic food kick. Just bought my first piece of Pottery Barn furniture ever: An armoire for my bedroom, in order to hide the illicit love affair I am having with my television and new DVR. Exposure of electronics in the bedroom apparently flouts the conventions of feng shui and throws off one's chi or chakras, or something like that. Sounds dirty. Or maybe it doesn't sound dirty enough. Food for thought for another day.

Feng Shui? Chi? Chakras? Organic? Pottery Barn? Yes, I have just used all of those phrases in a sentence - twice, apparently. It is not that I have become an overnight believer in every religion and remotely defined school of thought (I do successfully pass a Scientology Center every day on my way to work and I have yet to feel tempted to walk in and take the free personality test - which by the way, what other answer to that test can there be but 'You are cray-zee!' - so there is that small victory), I just figure I can't discount anything, as I can use all the help I can get. However, lately, there is one devotional sect to which I think I have become a follower against my better judgment, and I am not sure I will be able to extricate myself. Indeed, I was perfectly happy to worship at the feet of the gods of haute couture and paparazzi-elan, but, apparently, I have abandoned that tried and true religion, and instead sold my soul to the domestic-yuppie devil for a couple of pieces of distressed-chic bedroom pieces, a leaning desk/shelf unit, and some pastel leather couches (they look better than they sound, or so I tell myself).

The horror.

I have in all of this discovered, however, exactly what the impetus is that seems to drive everyone in the world - but me - to join themselves together in holy matrimony - euphemistically, we could call it the "registry", more realistically we could call it "flatware and other necessary household items", however, more precisely we would call it "free shit from Crate and Barrel, Pottery Barn, Resotration Hardware and any other places you would never in your right mind shop for yourself because they sell things like 'wall sconces' that you see and think you have to have, but upon purchasing wouldn't have the faintest idea what to do with it."

Independent woman that I am, I have wandered into these stores, one after the other, bound and determined not to let them get the better of me. I am strong, I tell myself. I will buy what I feel like buying, my knees shaking. I will buy only what I need, my inner voice quivers. I will not succumb to some outlandish desire for a valance or a cheese tray shaped like a giant mouse trap, beads of sweat dripping down my forehead.

Oh, but how the mighty have fallen....

It is true. I admit it. I lust in my heart for silky leather club chairs, italian stitched frette sheets, Riedel wine glasses, leather wrapped desk chairs, glass topped dining tables, bamboo place settings.

It is so wrong, but it feels so right.

So many colors, so many shams, so many coordinated scented candles - so little time...

But even my lust has its limits, as in this case, it is inextricably linked to the parameters set in stone by my bank account. And so, I have become even more of "that girl" - not the "come see my new furniture" girl, but the "oh look at what I just found in my tattered, dog eared catalogue" girl.

It is quite sad really.