Officially Deflowered

The first time I thought I went on a real camping trip was when I sailed over to Catalina Island from L.A. with a reservation at Parson's Landing campgrounds. What made it "real" to me was that there was no shower and I had to lug my own two large bottles of Evian mineral water on my back like a one-humped Arabian camel in the desert. (This was before Nalgenes.) Luckily we were camping by the beach & the only other thing in my "pack" was a towel, a toothbrush & some sunscreens (SPF 55 for my face & 30 for my body), because not only was my school backpack too small for anything else, but we had to hike 7 miles to this secluded beach. It also helped that my camping companion was a 6'2" rock-climbing instructor with hands of David & body of god who carried everything else we needed.

Having to use the port-a-potty was totally roughing it for me, and I boasted about having gone real camping for years, until I moved to Utah. When I told the story about having gone to Catalina to camp out for two days without running water, people laughed. "Rachel, sleeping on the beach with a port-a-potty is not camping!" mocked my friends. So I was really excited about my road trip last summer when I heard we'd be camping out, and bought all my camping gear from Backcountry.com including a portable toilet seat which I was going to use over the hole. (I was told we'd be digging a hole in the ground for our nature's call.) But to my disappointment, every camp site had a shower and a toilet, and I never did get to have that real camping experience in the wilderness. Only thing real about the experience was that I was eaten alive by mosquitoes, and those vicious, carnivorous black flies took chunks of my skin and left it bleeding like bullet wounds from an assault rifle.

Then came an invitation for a real camping experience this weekend from my new camping buddies, the A-Team. Well, it was going to be car camping, but not to fear... no running water & no toilets. As we drove up to the Uintas, I couldn't believe I had never ventured east of Park City in the three (well, almost three) years I'd been here. The scenery was breathtaking. Huge reservoir (right in my backyard!), and green & purple trees covered the mountains like a soft mossy blanket on a slippery slope against the backdrop of crystal blue skies with puffy cumulus clouds... and I'd thought all of Utah was dried-out, red, and bare like an overcooked, tasteless lump of pork roast.

As soon as we turned off the paved road and hit the rocky terrain, I knew I was in for an adventure. I was being tossed in the truck like the dice in the pop-o-matic, die rolling bubble on that board game called Trouble I used to play as a kid; and at one point, our little red pickup was centrifuged, stuck on a rock with the other two cars nowhere in sight. By the time we finally made it up to our campsite, my ass hurt from squeezing it so tight for over an hour of rumble & tumble in the car, but it was all worth it. (Get your mind out of the gutter. Plus, that imagery only works if I were a gay man.) We had our little slice of heaven - a quiet, pristine lake all to ourselves surrounded by tall, majestic trees. (Okay, not majestic, but that sounds better than tall, skinny, half dead trees.)

We drank, we sang, told scary stories, and made curry over the fire in our dutch oven 'cause somebody forgot the fuel for the most awesome JETBOIL cooking system ever. (That was me.) We had too many bossy cooks, including me, and no knives to cut the half-rotten onion (that was me, also) & the potatoes. But we managed by using the 1-inch foil cutter that comes attached to the wine bottle opener (of course we'd remember the tool for the alcohol); and after about two hours of mayhem in our outdoor kitchen (very much like Hell's Kitchen if you've ever seen that show), we devoured the curry like a famished Ethiopian. In the end, we congratulated each other for the perfect meal and sat under the dazzling stars telling more ghost stories and bonding over the fire that kept us warm.

So short & sweet was the trip that I didn't need to dig a hole, but my bare bums did flash the trees a few times. Teeth didn't get brushed, no washing of the face, but did have a toasted bagel with cream cheese for breakfast. I was shocked to hear someone had brought a toaster at first & wondered who had sneaked a generator to our wilderness trip ruining my real camping experience, but I soon found out that all it was was a long handled metal box that closes at the end with hinges to put over the fire. Awesome! Too bad I didn't bring any eggs. Could've had the perfect egg-mitt bagel for breakfast.

So now, I've officially gone real camping. I'm no longer the camping virgin. But am I ready for a 3-day Fourth of July backpacking trip, meaning no cars? Hmm... does anyone know a tall, muscly dude who'd be willing to carry the extra stuff that won't fit in my pack like my tent, sleeping bag, stove, and food?

My Farming Fantasy

Ever since my road trip last summer, I've been daydreaming about living on a farm. After spending a few days on a 3-acre organic farm in Ithaca owned by Miles' best friend, and now my friends Aaron & his wife, Megan, I had a new mission in life: to find me a farm boy & to live on a farm since it would be too hard to do on my own. It was awesome to watch Aaron and his family work the land & to live off the land. (Well, kinda...Megan is a PhD student at Cornell & gets a stipend... but not a whole lot.) Our meals consisted of everything they were growing & we even had duck eggs for breakfast. It was amazing.

So for a while I researched small farms all over the country and was even thinking about moving to Oregon, specifically Corvallis, where there's a strong Agricultural Science Department at the State University & quaint farms all around. When Aaron & Megan came to SLC in January with their farm grown strawberry jam, I knew we had met for a reason. They were my catalyst for living the life of my childhood dreams, just as I had imagined when I was small watching Little House on the Prairie in the house my parents bought because I begged and begged. (It had a huge vegetable garden in the back and a half-pipe on the side for skateboarding... Sadly, both were taken out & grass put in b/c the garden went to sh*ts since none of us were farmers & too many boys came over distracting me from my studies.)

Reading Animals, Vegetables, Miracles by Barbara Kingsolver also fueled my desire; and the fact that she wrote this book while working on the farm made it even more enticing since my other childhood dream was writing a book on an old typewriter in a barn. But when the snow finally melted and I started working the land (the little patch of dirt in my backyard I set aside for my veggie garden) I realized I was in over my head. There was all this crap that took over my nice dirt area, which I subsequently found out was weed- not the kind I would've liked but the kind you have to dig out from the ground & chuck into the trash bin. So as you might recall from my earlier post, It's not who you are...but what you see, I had to bring in help from California. (No, not the Mexicans, gees... The Koreans.)

When the weeds were gone and my landscaper put in a nice, fresh new top layer of dirt called mulch, I was ready to start my little farm which was going to be a practicing ground for my real future farm out on the West Coast. The only problem was that it had been over twenty years since I'd touched dirt, and I had no idea where to begin. But not to fear. I knew a few Utah farmers who owned their own backyard farm and enlisted their help. Of course they were all busy with their own spring planting, but one was willing to lend a hand. We, meaning Shane, put up some trellises for my climbing veggies, and planted tomatoes, yellow squash, eggplant, red & green peppers, corn, watermelon, basil, rosemary, strawberries, parsley, and other cool stuff I can't remember.

I was going to be part of the new growing sector in America, the Back-to-the-Land, Slow Cookers, who not only back local foods, but grow their own organic stuff. I was ecstatic, and with my state of the art irrigation drip line, all I had to do was look forward to the gathering season when all my fruits & vegetables would be ready for my tummy.

Then as I attempted to be my own gardener mowing the lawn once every week or so (since my whining didn't bring anyone over to help), I noticed this white flaky stuff that landed all over my yard, including my little patch of farm. I ignored it thinking they were just flower petals from the neighboring trees and because they actually looked quite pretty like snowflakes on the ground. I also noticed that nothing much was happening to my newly planted crops, except for the diseased parsley that had fried in the sun. Why else would it just keel over and die since it was getting the same water & sun the other crops were getting. Then a week or two passed & I started to notice these little sprouts sprouting all over the yard, including my organic vegetable patch. I don't remember planting any bean sprouts, I thought. Then Gaby & her mom came to visit one day and told me the bad news. They were not bean sprouts but baby trees from that white flakes that fell.

Since that revelation, I've been dreading my backyard. In my excitement over living on a farm, I had glossed over Megan's complaint about having to weed all the time. I thought all I had to do was plant, water, and voila! Beautiful fruits & vegetables in the fall and late summer. Every night I'd go to sleep promising to weed the following morning before it got too hot. But no, I'd find excuses after excuses not to. I had gone underground. I started to hate the little patch of farm I started and even tried to get the Californians to come back, but my mother said, "We're not spending $500 to fly out there to weed your yard again. Sorry hon, but your father and I are going to Cancun." I always knew I was adopted! So much for the unconditional, parental love & support. I cursed my parents and I cursed Little House on the Prairie.

After hiding out & only venturing out as far as my deck for the last few weeks, I finally made myself pull out the sprouts Monday morning under the shade of my farmer's hat since I had nothing to do & was deathly bored. (I had burnt myself out entertaining way too much last week in my excitement of having the summer off.) And this morning, I went to get some cages for my tomatoes & bought some more herbs so I could start a boxed herb garden on my deck so I don't have to walk all the way out to the farm for the little basil and cilantro I seem to need on a daily basis. (Never knew how lazy I was until this stupid Back-to-the-Land fantasy began...)

Well, what d'ya know... my little patch of farm has grown in the last few days since I pulled out the weeds and cut back some of the branches from my neighbor's tree. My corn plant has grown tall (and that Miles told me it would never work!), my tomato plants are tremendous, I already have some cute little serrano peppers growing, and everything else looks robust and healthy. I could feel myself grinning ear to ear, and for a second, thought about that beautiful farm in Oregon... Not.

As much as I adore seeing my veggies grow, I've realized, I'm not a farmer. And as much as I love the idea of living on a farm, writing my memoir sitting on a hayloft in my beautiful, rundown red barn, and having mind-blowing sex with a tanned, lean, farm boy/husband, I think I've come to terms with the fact that I much rather shop local foods than grow local foods. So much for the city girl living & working on a farm.

At Home

Just got back from having a lovely brunch at the Park Cafe right by Liberty Park. What a beautiful summer day in Salt Lake City, my home. Yes, my home. Never in my dreams would I have imagined calling SLC my home, but somehow it's become just that. When I was restless & planning to leave the city a few months back, a friend said, "You know, many come here and never leave. It's a hard place to leave." To which I replied that it's in my nature to move & I'll be leaving soon. Plus, I'm a Californian and my stay here is temporary. I only came because of my ex. But as I sat across from my friend today, I realized I may just stay here forever.

As I look back on the week having entertained most of my friends on my deck, I realize how lucky I am to have met such amazing people. I adore them all. Every one of them fill me up, and I've felt more peace here than any other place I've lived. Maybe that Brigham Young guy really knew what he was talking about when he said, "This is the place!"

Even with friends, who are all fairly new friends between a few months & a few years, I'm amazed at how quickly I've become close to all of them & love having them in my life. They've become my new family in a town where I didn't know anyone, and now I understand what Tekoa meant when she said she could never leave this city because of all our friends. And that also explains why Lauren keeps coming back wanting to leave NYC for good.

I'm in love with the sweet Utahns who call cauliflower, caulaflower, and mountain, moun'un.

Becoming My Mother

So I was kinda bummed that I had no travel plans this summer, and was very jealous that Hasen, Phil, and Matt were taking off to Puerto Rico. Almost thought about tagging along to have a fling with a hot Latin man while the boys were off making googly eyes at half-naked Latinas; but I'm so glad I didn't. (Last time I decided to have a summer fling, couldn't get rid of the guy for 5 years even though I tried to break it off as soon as summer ended.) But that's not why I'm glad I didn't follow my future Latin lover. It's because I'm having so much fun just being here. I'm so tickled to death at the fact that I can get up whenever I want & do whatever I feel like that I can't even get myself to buy my ticket to San Francisco as I promised my friends.

However, it's crazy how time flies by. Summer officially started for me Monday with school being out, and already the week's almost over. Okay, it's only Wednesday, so half over...but I can already feel it slipping by. I remember as a kid how the days seemed endless... but why is it the older I get, the days seem to get shorter & shorter? My mom told me once that life goes at the speed of your age. She said I should enjoy it now because when I get to be her age, the day's over as soon as you wake up & have breakfast.

But that's exactly it! I am enjoying my days so much, it's gone before I know it. If I had nothing to do, I bet it would drag on, like if I had to sit behind a cubical all day. But doing all the stuff I've been wanting to do, which I didn't get to do because I had to work, is making my summer speed by way too fast. Life's so unfair!!!

Anyway, I realized today what a cool setup my mom's had all her adult life being married to my dad. While the poor guy went to work every day slaving over people's nasty mouths, she basically had a summer vacation that's never ended. I never realized, having traveled every summer, how nice it is to just get up every morning & not have a schedule or be anywhere in particular. I mean, I could never understand women like my mother. I thought how boring their lives must be, nothing to do but have lunch with their boring friends, play golf, & waste their life away at the mall. No ambition in life, hanging at the mercy of their spouse's income, rotting away under all their Gucci & Pradas until death finally knocks on their door. But it dawned on me this afternoon that my mother's life was flying by not because of her age, but because she's having so much fun.

She used to always say, "Rachel, why can't you be more like me!?" Meaning, why wasn't I dating doctors and lawyers instead of losers who didn't have jobs. And I'd reply, "Because I'm not a gold digger. Plus they're talented & passionate, and I want to support their work! I don't care about money & I'd rather be the breadwinner than be stuck with a money hungry a-hole!" (Not that my father is... but he's an exception to the successful career minded men.)

Not that I've changed my mind about being with a talented, passionate man, but having a summer vacation that never ends sounds fantastic right now. For example, yesterday, April & Nancy came over for lunch. Most of you know how much I adore cooking for my friends. But this was even more special because I didn't have to rush. I got to stroll over to Whole Foods with my shopping bag after I woke up & had made myself a wonderful breakfast. I decided on an Italian theme, so I bought a melon, prosciutto, grapes for the cheese, fresh greens they were putting out, fresh summer fruits, etc...I felt like I was in Europe and I had not even left Sugarhouse.

We had a fabulous meal with oven-fresh, thin crusted Italian pizza, prosciutto wrapped melon for antipasto, fresh green salad with all sorts of goodies like blueberries, and I had espresso ice cream for dessert. Nancy read my charts afterwards, and I have to say, I had one of the most delicious afternoons I've ever had. It was bella, bella, bella! I even had a siesta after they left, and then went to yoga to relax even more. Finished the day with a great movie & another fantastic meal. (Indian, from scratch.)

Today, April called me up while I was prepping to sew curtains for my sleeping area (so I can sleep in without being woken up by the bright sun) & we went to Gateway to have lunch & go underwear shopping. When I finally made it home, I got an email from the ladies in my book group inviting me over even though I had not gone in months. So I went & had a lovely evening drinking pinot noir & discussing the book I hadn't read about the good life in the 20's (the Gatsby Era) when friends got together every week to eat, drink, and be merry.

Don't think I'm gonna start hanging out at hospitals looking for my future sugar-daddy, (I much enjoy being a sugar-mama more at this point) but I'm definitely going to continue enjoying my mom's life, even if it's just for this summer, and see if I change my mind about the men, or rather, boys I like when it's all over.

I'm going to have lunch with friends I can muster up (so far I have two lined up...that's you, April & Louisa...need three more), read, play music, paint, sew, write, meditate, garden, walk, bike, and have friends over for dinner so I can finally make some of the recipes I've wanted to all year long. And if I could get Hasen to write plays, how fabulous would it be to put on plays on my deck like the English did during the summer months in the country? Or maybe I could find a projector somewhere & have movie nights in my backyard!

Pick a night or a day of the week, and I'll make us a fabulous meal. (And if you find out you weren't part of my summer dining group, too bad. That's what you get for never reading my blog.)

Nightmares

People seem to have cool nightmares...you know, like being abducted by aliens or being attacked by a shark or being chased by monsters or something neat like that. Not me, though. I mean I've had dreams where I wake up in sweats, but it's never been cool like that. I can’t remember what kind of nightmares I had when I was very young, but as far as I can remember, my dumb nightmares have always been about schools.

When I was in college, I had nightmares about being late for finals. Come to think of it, that dream continued even after I graduated for several years…you know, the one where you wake up thinking, "Sh*t, not again!” to realized it’s Sunday and it’s the middle of summer.

Well, I guess for me it was worse because I did miss a final my freshman year. You would think I was a straight "A" student being a teacher and all (and because all Asians are smart); but back in college, I never went to class. (Okay, not never, but rarely.) The lectures were held in buildings a block from the beach in La Jolla (that’s San Diego for those of you unfamiliar with the city) and in the rare occasions I did decide to go to class, I’d have a bikini on underneath my clothes just in case the sun came out.

I was an Economics major back in school, (have no idea, why) and most of my classes were held in buildings across the street from the secret path that led you down to the famous Black’s Beach -- the nudist beach, also the best surfing spot in La Jolla-- where all the cool surfers hung out. I know what you dirty-minded people are thinking, but no, not to watch the naked boys, (only old, fat people got naked) but to watch my friends surf. So except for the cute, nerdy boys I’d befriend for notes, I really didn’t know many people in my classes. (Didn’t help that there were about 500 students in those freshmen classes...)

Anyway, the day before my math final, I spent the day at the beach & went to a late night movie with these cool, older surfer boys I used to hang with who weren’t in school. Because I’d already taken Calculus in high school, didn’t really worry too much about my final; and so the following morning, I had my usual bowl of cereal, biked over to the lecture hall, and strolled into my class finding a seat next to one of those brainiacs with coke bottle glasses. I was a little early, so I looked at all the faces, or should I say, the backs of heads of all the people I’d been missing out on the entire quarter. (UC schools are on a quarter system, not semester.) Man, everyone looks so intense! Look at them all studying their notes...they need to chil-lax.

“So, you never took calculus in high school, huh?” I asked the boy next to me engrossed in his notes.
“Yeah, I did. Why?”
“Just wondering why you are studying so hard. Isn’t this all a review for you?”
The boy stared at me through the coke bottle lenses like I was crazy.
“What are you talking about? This is nothing like calculus. It’s the hardest math I’ve ever had to take in my entire life!”

I saw heads turning from the seats in front of me, and as I looked into their faces, my stomach sank & the heat shot up to my face.
“Is this Math 10A?” I asked in panic.
They all laughed, “No, it’s 193B, Actuarial Mathematics!”
Actuarial Mathematics!? What the h*ll is that!?

I ran out of there, my face flushed, frantically flipping through the schedule of finals. I was in the right lecture hall. Sh*t! Where is everyone!? I knew no one looked familiar & looked really smart, but I thought I didn’t recognized them because I never went to class. I looked at the schedule again, and grabbed a guy walking in. “What day is today?” “Thursday,” he replied.

I looked down at the page to see Math 10B Tu 11:30-12:30.
Unbelievable...I was two days late. (Did I mention I was coerced into joining a sorority in college? This totally was a typical, air-headed sorority move!) And that’s only the beginning of my finals mishaps in college, which I won't get into today.

Well, for the first time in weeks it seems, I didn’t drink last night. Came back from the Opera (Don Giovanni-- an excellent show) quite early around 10:30 or so & made a few phone calls trying to get rid of some food I didn’t want to waste (without any luck) and went to sleep around 11:30.

The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Miss Lee? It’s the office. It’s 9 o’clock, and we were just wondering where you were. Did you call for a sub?”

I turned my head, looked at my alarm clock & it flashed, 9:02! I jumped out of bed with the phone still in my hand, “OMG Maggie! My alarm didn’t go off! I just woke up! Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t! Sorry…I’ll be there in 15 minutes!” and with that, my adult nightmare of being late for school became a reality today.

It's not who you are...it's what you see.

A few weeks ago, Hasen told me a funny story about taking a bunch of Japanese girls on a week long river trip. (When is his story ever not funny, right? ) Anyway, he said on the final day of the trip, the girls wanted a picture with the guides. So one by one they sat on his lap for a souvenir photo shoot. Well, one of them turned to him & asked, "Which one are you?" He told her he was Hasen, and the girl giggled and said "So sorry. You all look the same. Can't tell you guys apart," with that cute Japanese accent.

Funny, right? Because most Anglos think all Asians look the same. Well, let me tell you something. It really has nothing to do with being Asian or Caucasian. It's not about what you are, but rather, what you see. Or more like what you're used to seeing. I know this from my own personal experience, having lived in an Asian dominant culture as well as an Anglo dominant culture.

I too remember the days when I thought all Anglos looked the same. That was back in elementary school when my parents brought me to the States from South Korea. I remember going home complaining to my mom that the teacher was making me sit next to a boy & he was going to be my buddy for the whole week. (This of course was when I thought all boys had cooties. You know, before they grew facial fuzz, had b.o. & the cracking voice to help me distinguish their gender, before I thought they were hot...go figure.) So poor Sally was dubbed a boy in my virgin eyes (this also was before I could distinguish the boys' names from the girls'), and I spent the first few months of school totally frustrated because everyone looked the same. But eventually, my eyes finally adapted to the Anglo features, and Sally the boy and I became fast friends.

Fast forward a few decades to Salt Lake City, Utah, late April of 2008. I've been here two and a half years, and I have to say, after having lived in cities like Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York, it was a bit of a culture shock to step off the airplane to see so many blond, blue-eyed white folks. (It's a myth that the Californian surfers are blonds. All the stereotypical California blonds live in Utah.) In fact, it is rare that I go to an event here and run into a fellow Asian or any other "people of color" for that matter. I'm like the token minority friend my friends have here; and seriously, I even forget that I'm Asian sometimes except when I see one staring back at me in the mirror while brushing my teeth. I basically live amongst the whites, and actually don't even think about race or any of that stuff except when my friend Jared says, "Oh look, our Chinese friend has arrived," in his endearing way.

So what's the point of this long-winded background story?

Last Monday, my parents came to visit from LA. My aunt was picking them up from the airport on her way down from Layton. I wasn't expecting them for another hour or so, and was doing the dishes when a car drove up my driveway. I looked out the window to see three short Chinese people getting out of the car. What are these Chinese doing in my driveway? I'm thinking as I turn off the water and walk over to my front door. There are no Asians in my neighborhood!

Well, what d'ya know...the Chinese walking up the stairs to my door were no Chinese at all! They were my parents who flew all the way from California to weed my yard because their daughter (who thought they were just some random Asians walking up to the wrong house) never learned to do yard work. But for reals... I bet you anything, if you went and lived in China for a year or two, you'd all come back thinking all your relatives looked the same.

(And don't judge. Grew up in LA, for Pete's sake. No one works in their yard. That's what gardeners are for...)

American Express

It's not everyday that I rave about a credit card company. Matter of fact, I hate that credit cards make it so easy for people to spend money they don't have. Their ads make it seem as though we should all be striving to live the lifestyle portrayed in them; and unfortunately, too many of us grow up with this strange feeling of entitlement to things we can't afford.

I remember being baffled by parents who come to parent/teacher conferences telling me why they have not been able to work with Johnny at home. We've been unemployed for months, and we're struggling to make ends meet, and just don't have the time or the wherewithal to help Johnny with his school work. This is all the while Johnny comes to school wearing a brand new outfit every day of the week.

I also remember going to the Projects in Brooklyn to tutor struggling kids. Projects, for those of you unfamiliar with the concept, are public housing provided by the government to help families who are impoverished- basically, subsidized housing for the poor. I was always amazed at all the toys they had. I'm talking big screen TV, state of the art stereo system, all the new video games, and over the top, sort of in- your-face, flashy items displayed all around the house.

It's easy to say it's not the credit card, but rather, the people who misuse it. But when you are inundated with images all of your life which promote happiness via spending and acquiring, can you blame any one of us for wanting & purchasing things we can't afford? I mean, I remember credit card companies hounding me to give me cards I should have never gotten. They enticed me with miles for flights...what a great idea! The more I buy, the more miles I get, and closer to that European trip I've always wanted to take. What a concept! They're brilliant! And off I went to Europe at age twenty-one. What, you've never been to Europe? But everyone goes right after college, don't they???

Yeah, I learned my lesson early in my adult life. When my teacher's salary could barely make the minimum payment on my credit card bills and I saw the balance skyrocketing with the crazy interest rates, I knew I was in trouble. It wasn't just me, though. My friends were all going through it, but that didn't help me sleep any better at nights. Finally as I was drowning in debt, I did the unthinkable and asked my parents to bail me out. It was humiliating, embarrassing, and I felt like a loser. I blamed the damn government for not paying teachers enough, but subsequently realized it was my own fault for living the lifestyle of the MTV's Real World cast.

So why am I promoting a credit card company today? Because I just got off the phone with a nice lady at American Express who gave me a credit of $23.89 plus tax for the case of Coronas that fell out of my trunk & shattered all over my driveway. They call it the Buyer's Protection Plan: Eligible purchases made entirely with the Card are protected against theft or accidental damage for 90 days from the date of purchase-at no additional charge. Coverage is good for up to $1,000 per occurrence and $50,000 per Cardmember account per year.

Consumables, like beer, isn't covered, but the lady was sympathetic about the beer situation & happily gave me the credit. If I could've, I would've gone through the phone line to give her a kiss! (I was on my land line.) I said, "I love you! I love American Express! You guys are awesome!" and she laughed. I know... I'm sure American Express has done some sh*tty things like Wal-Mart; but today, they're far down on my sh*t list of big bad corporations. Plus, the great thing about AMEX is that you have to pay off your balance each month so you know not to spend more than you can afford. Hmmm... I wonder if they'd give me some money for promoting them on my blog. I should give them a call...

The Renaissance Woman

Someone called me a "Renaissance Woman" last week. I laughed because in the Renaissance times a Renaissance Woman was supposed to marry well, be loyal to her husband and give birth to boys. She obviously doesn't know me very well & forgets I'm not from Utah.

I think what she meant to say was that I was a Renaissance Man, who unlike the woman, had to be well-educated, or excel in a wide variety of subjects. (It's a prerequisite for being a first grade teacher these days.) I guess in old Italy (around the 1400's) some dude named Leon Battista Alberti said a man can do all things if he will. It basically considered man the center of the universe, limitless in his capacities for development, and led to the notion that men should try to embrace all knowledge and develop their own capacities as fully as possible.

Well, I call it dabbling; or if I had a therapist, he'd probably call it a scheme, an ego driven attention getter, a means to get noticed, especially by my mom who favored or should I say favors my brother. (Yes, sibling rivalry & jealousy, still at this age...pathetic, I know.)

But seriously, I tend to dabble...quite well according to my fans. Unfortunately though, I quite often get bored with it because I obsess over it. I met a guy who climbs, so I bought my gear & climbed walls for a year. I had a photographer friend, so I got a range-finder and took pictures for months. I knew a great artist in San Francisco, so I started painting & making art for a year or two. I met poets in New York, so I wrote poems and recited them in public. (The list goes on...) Most recently, about a year ago, I met a friend who plays music & writes songs, so I bought a guitar & started making up songs. I've subsequently surrounded myself with musicians and even created a Myspace page so I could have my music up in cyberspace.

Well, just last week, I met a blogger...my first ever. I was intrigued, read his stuff (quite good, and really funny), and found that I had met two other bloggers all within a week. Interesting, I thought... Then I remembered what that French-Jewish clairvoyant said to me before I left NYC. "You're with the wrong man. He's a child. You'll not meet your soul mate until you start writing." This, of course, was a deduction on her part after she looked at my hands. She probably thought I like to write after she noticed the bump on my middle finger from never having learned to hold a pencil correctly. (I press way too hard & have a fat callous that never goes away even though the only writing I do these days is sign my name on the credit card receipts. Hmm, that could explain the 115,000 miles on my Delta card.)

So, since it's been over a year since I dumped the "man child" & have yet to meet anyone, perhaps it's time I start writing. So here I go...the modern Renaissance Woman, dabbling again so I can become the Renaissance Woman of the Renaissance times.