The wrong type of luck...

Ralph Lauren’s model Nacho Figueras can be spotted weekly, Madonna vacationed here last summer; there are stories of Prince Charles, presidents and movie stars. A whole gammet of influential people really. It’s invitation only when cameras and gossip columnists are permitted at 3667 120th Avenue South. The address belongs to the International Polo Club.

My naked toes sink into a thick carpet of Kentucky blue grass. I sit on a blanket far away from the grand stands, but the sounds of muscular bay and chestnut horses galloping at full speed on the acres of manicured fields reach me perfectly.

I don’t know that later tonight a handsome guy in his twenties will be driving home to celebrate his sister’s birthday. His name is Scott Wilson. Also tonight there is a much-anticipated fete where the polo elite are expected. These parties last until the wee hours, until the valet pulls around every last porsche. And then the polo players and girlfriends and grooms stagger home. My sister is one of those staggering home with juicy stories and sore feet from dancing.

Right now I’m watching the last chucker of a twenty-goal tournament. Wisps of afternoon cloud are nearly invisible against the sapphire sky. I observe the battle with fascination. Gripping reins in one hand and swinging a mallet with the other, each polo player wears a brightly-colored jersey. The player and his horse are both sweaty and determined; they also share an equal love for the game. They move together as a single weapon.

This is no child’s play… this is the sport of Kings.

Scott is a soon-to-be engineer. He is kind and responsible. Police regularly patrol Wellington, Florida. The quiet streets are lined with gated communities and horse farms. The Wilson’s live in a safe neighborhood.

100-yards from where I’m sitting I spot the magnificent stands overlooking the polo fields. There are champagne flutes smudged with pink lipstick, and caviar spit out on linen napkins. The women are in white capris and hold onto the elbows of men with salt and pepper hair, who are smoking cigars and standing in penny loafers. My sister is with my brother and father – they know all these people. I don’t ride horses like everyone else, I’m just a curious bystander really… The palm trees sway with the cool breeze. This utopia hinges on surreal.

At 1am Scott will pause at a stop sign at 120th Street and then his car will be violently hit by a drunk driver.His car will flip over and land in one of the canals that snake between the walkways and driveways. The metal and rubber will drown and his body will be found buckled in the front seat tomorrow morning, on his sisters’ birthday.

But for now I’m just a spectator, my legs are outstretched on the blanket and I'm massaging my calves with lotion. I'm wearing a hat and sipping on lemonade. I’m one of the thousands of people who have had great fun at the International Polo club. The place is at no fault, the people here are at no fault - it is still as enchanting as it has ever been. A mistake and inexplicable luck is all that happened...

I might be exploiting a story by delving into its emotions face first, but I don’t care… breathe its angst, digest its lessons. Lately shit has happened. Sad stuff that leaves you hungry for understanding. The stuff that leaves you strangled with despair and eager to believe that there is something greater than us, A God - watching our back. But with this shit? How could it be so? So then we succumb to Darwin, or something else who convinces us we control our existence. We operate as mammals; fretting about this damaged earth. Animalistic in logic and emotional with irrationality, we try not to kill each other and ourselves in the process. We try to better the planet, smile and locate laughter whenever the comedy channel can be found. Oh there is glorious stuff; the home runs, relaxing over a candle lit dinner, or playing golf on a Saturday morning. Or blowing candles out with your loved ones singing around you. I must to unearth something to learn from this wretched blog post, or the disturbing articles. Even if it's just one more designated driver, or cab ride home next Saturday night.

The man who hit Scott left that party a little early. He put his key in the ignition and sped out of the parking lot and with one run of a stop sign, he changed hundreds of lives. He is a wealthy staple in this tight-knit community– his face is familiar and welcomed around Wellington. He is a gregarious and generous fellow – he is a father. Many extending far beyond Scott’s family will be deeply affected by this split-second error, an intersection of lives... the irony. The scars from shame and frustration – a missing parent now in his children's childhood. Almost self-inflicted in a way. Those wounds are tragic, but they still scar. It is unnatural for a parent to lose a child... that pain never heals. To know your child should never have been stripped of a plentiful and rich future was, dozens of years too early. That has to hurt.

There were countless people who survived 9/11 by chance, they were supposed to be in those buildings. They had dentist appointments, or chose a different route to work … experienced a little mishap, one of those that make us run a little bit late, the annoyances we curse until we realize that teeth cleaning or that iota of stupidity is responsible for saving our life. But what about when there is no mishap and we’re led directly into our own demise? They don't call it bad luck for nothing. Can we navigate our way around misfortune, can we?

What was the reason, if there could even be a reason? For now I'll watch the polo ponies knowing that nothing bad could ever happen in this chunk of peaceful, manicured land - the people around me, who live in these homes are responsible and nice. Here I believe, I'm far from violence.

At 1am the streets will still be empty of cars – restaurants will be closed and it will be too early for people to leave the nightclubs. Only stars and barely a sliver of moon, will leave the night pitch black. How will it be that the only two cars deserted on this road manage to find each other?

I was in bed during the car crash, but if the drunk driver would have left five minutes earlier, it might not have been Scott. Someone else was on the same road five minutes earlier... the person killed could have been my little sister.

The phone rang too early

... for it to be good news.

Crawling out of bed about to face a day, which I’m fully aware will be comprised of phone calls and emails, conversations with family members with whom I haven’t spoken to in years, repeating the sad details, planning the services. And then the long silences shared with my immediate family, holding hands, an empty tissue box, unsure what to say or mumble, because words cannot sew, or tape or glue together the void… facing a day like this is hard. Don't worry.... this entry will get happier...

People say losing grandparents happens, and it does, all my friends
have – but the hard part isn’t my loss, yes, I am grieving, but it’s
watching my mom lose her mom. My grandmother was in her seventies, she
was in pillates class a month ago, she was traveling to New York, and
she was sassy and full of life. She was too young to leave us – too
young even for the US Consensus, but for her the time was right.

There were too many obscure occurrences in the last 48 hours to
believe that her frail body couldn’t take any more IVs, or that she
quit fighting. Her body never gave up, but around 4am her spirit let
go.

People say, “She is in a better place, she isn’t hurting anymore…”
These statements are all true. Death is the predictable part of life,
right? The event we can count on, but can never prepare for. My mom
left Houston only two days ago, after being told that my grandmother
was on the road to recovery – there was scientific proof we were
allowed to hope. Enough so to give my mom permission to fly to Denver
only for a few days. She arrived home late at night, the next morning,
well this morning, she had an appointment scheduled, a day of laundry
and catching up and then she was scheduled to fly back to Houston to
root her mother on while she did physical therapy, to drive her to
doctor’s visits, to help her heal.

My grandmother had many visitors yesterday; she was lively, telling
stories and joking with the nurses; she convinced everyone she felt
well. She spoke on the phone with each of her children. She ate French
toast. For the first time in weeks she didn’t take anything for the
pain. We were convinced that she wasn’t suffering. Nobody thought
anything different than she was getting healthier. My grandfather
received a phone call around 2am. He drove to the hospital and he sat
next to her for two hours. She told him she loved him and then she
promised him she knew how much he loved her. And then she stopped
breathing.

When I heard the shaky voice over the telephone receiver this morning,
my first reaction was; when is the next test? What is the next
procedure? The new prognosis? But when I pressed the “End” button; I
realized there are no more nexts. Death is game over.

My mother has always said, “The day I lose my mother will be the
saddest day in my life. I don’t know how I will get through it.”

But as I type this, my mother is upstairs and sleeping. We chuckle
because she drives the same as her mom and pokes around in her
nightgown, she makes the same facial expressions and she loves us more
than anything – she is her mother’s daughter. My mom is curled up with
her head in my father’s lap. He loves her so very much. How can we
ever be sad when there is so much love? My brother and sister and I
have taken turns scratching her back and bringing her tea and kissing
her forehead.

Today is now over. Tomorrow there will be flowers and more phone calls
and funeral arrangements. There will be cleaning of closets and
heirlooms to divvy amongst the cousins. And then there will be
photographs to organize and photographs to frame and then we will have
choices.

Why her? I wonder… I’m a person who refuses to accept something
without attaching wisdom - a lesson, a skill, some takeaway to store
and tuck in my back pocket for later use. The phrase, “sunk cost”
doesn’t exist in my vernacular. Experiences and situations and
hardships must have meaning – I seek value. And even with all the
horror in our world, I have trouble understanding why my grandmother
had to leave us, so soon, too soon.

You see....My grandmother was at peace. She had closure – she was the
strongest and that's why she had to go first. Like most matriarchs who
keep traditions alive, who don't forget birthdays and the names of
boyfriends, she scolded us and she spoiled us - but she always
accepted us. When we think of her we're flooded with a desire to make
things right, tomorrow we can say “I love you” to all the people who
can pick up their phone.

She was more than a mother and a wife, she was also a philanthropist,
an only child, a Houstonian - she has friends from every walk and
every chapter of life - from the opera to the ballet, from bookclubs
and the Hillcountry, all the way down to the Christian halfway home.
Her family always came first – she came through with flying colors -
she was cheering - attending graduations, dances, weekends away - she
tended to us when we were sick and she threw the parties when it was
an occasion to celebrate. And although her calendar was abundant of
new acquaintances and old friends, overflowing with big trips,
organizations and charities; her life was still very simple.

Every moment she spent, she spent well. Every person with whom she
spoke, felt heard. A little woman of 5'2'' made so many hundreds of
people feel loved.

In a few days the extended family will fly in from around the country
for her funeral and we will grieve. We will witness everyone at his or
her most vulnerable place. Men will cry and the children will wear
dresses and suits and won’t understand the eulogies until years down
the road when they will hear stories about the grandmother they cannot
remember. Her death has left a hole in our family and the only way we
can fill it; is by loving each other. We will have to take it upon
ourselves to organize family reunions; remind cousins of birthdays.

She took great joy in gift giving - it was a way for her to show
people she knew them, their needs, how she could communicate - and
the gift she left us with is time. There is enough time to love harder
than ever before and let go of the things that hold us down – that
waste our moments – that prevent us from relishing and experiencing
and enjoying the very stuff that life is made of – each other.

People keep saying that although my grandmother has passed, one day
we’ll join her in heaven. And while I believe that is true and that
will bring comfort to most; heaven still seems so very far away.

This morning, after the phone call and before I crawled out of bed, I
closed my eyes and prayed. I took a deep breath and felt her presence
protecting me, helping me navigate the future; I envisioned her
laughing and heard her telling me the sweetest things that put a song
in my heart. Now, whenever I miss her... I close my eyes and she is
with me. And that will last forever.

NAKED WARS

The impetuous process we call “Dating”

The game between man and woman dates back to our homo sapient era, when our ancestors were apes and bonobos. The ape is a violent and aggressive mammal – and the bonobo is the more physically affectionate. And somewhere several hundred thousands of years ago, the two species collided and thus born was the mutt: Aka: the modern day human. And what are we? Well, we’re a beautiful blend of violence and passion.

The brain games men and women heave on each other- trick and confuse the other with, are as important as they are entertaining. Call you tomorrow? Text me when? Touch me now! Oh wait I didn't mean that….. Oh my god, that’s my favorite author, entrée, pet peeve, fetish, color, and dog too!

The identical games we swear we’ll refuse to partake in, claim we'll abandon and dismiss, staking our vulnerability and independence, still rule our systematic (dare I say efficient) process. This is the brutal tri-dimensional brain game that we, as heterosexuals, seeking soul-mates succombed to.... And It's a cruel version of monopoly turned twister that Webster has defined as dating.

What is dating? Well, it can be titillating, or a lackluster filtering method to rid of the opposite gender who have failed to meet our perquisites. Yet, we still partake with the hope we'll find someone, and to possibly fill a photo album? Or dare I say, someone with whom to one day pro-actively procreate? Thus we aspire through this century-old archaic activity, sacrificing Saturday nights to unearth our westernized ideology, fantasy – aka: future of a perfect family. The man or the woman who will fit the bill (resume) will grace us with 2.7 perfectly engineered children. Whose combo of us and them produce genetics of genius, so the child will concurrently kick ass in soccer, spelling bees, and eventually attend Ivy-Leagues. Right? I don't have kids, so I could be totally wrong.

But before the birthday parties, where children bash piñatas and TV remote controls need parental control, a man and woman had to win, or in some case – they both had to lose. But however you want to phrase the copasetic agreement… there had to be a mutual “Gimme”.

This feat of finding "the one" is far more fierce and exhausting than any kind of sports playoff you can fathom – and I hate to admit, but your return on investment might not be as rewording as shorting a pitiful stock, hitting jackpot in Vegas, dominating fantasy football, or getting a Gucci purse at Saks for 80% off. No this is not only a game against the opposite gender, but it’s against yourself. A deceptive version of the tango, the perfect syncopation where drama is equally important as the irrational, and the only thing we can do....

is make sure we don’t send the last text, say the wrong thing, or pose the wrong question, and mostly not come across as totally not right

So in a culture when non-failing professionals making an above-poverty income boast individuality on a pedestal of power, what’s a single gal to do?

HAVE FUN!

Blond with a Shotgun! OY

While the weather remains a reliable seventy degrees in Texas this time of year, its inhabitants (I'm a native) can’t locate sushi or savvy with a ten-foot pole and a shotgun. That is why I absolutely LOVE this state. It's authentic, American, southern folk who aren't afraid to tell it like it is, and open doors for the women.

I was acting a bit barmy this morning as the snow wouldn’t shut up. Even though I’m tightly wrapped in cashmere I’d prefer to be sunburned and wasting away in margarita Ville, than tripping through Rocky Mountain slush. But then there is skiing this weekend….

Oh the exotic trips that leave me with glossy photographs tucked away in messy corners around my apartment. This was a quick jaunt to the panhandle to eat BBQ, shoot skeet, write three articles, and figure out a strategy to have the magazine outsmart the recession, oh yeah, and relax!

Upon arriving at the Austin airport, greeted by hundreds of professional Frisbee throwers, I mean players; the smell of Schlotzsky's hits my olfactory senses and SHE IS DOWN. Nibbling on my delectable sandwich I mosey over to the Hertz rental car counter to pick up my keys and find my designated vehicle.

Did I check the weather before departing? No, that would require planning. Myers Briggs has argued that my “creative and free-spirited personality” wouldn’t reach its pure potential with directions, or so I convince my lazy self.

“There was a hail storm and the hail was the size of golf balls, no, more like baseballs, and well MAM, there just aren’t any cars left for you.” This woman suffering from a 1980s hairspray commercial croaked. Her accent a dwarfed cross between drawl and monotone.

With every rental car company completely bereft of automobiles I began to panic. What was I to do? It wasn’t although I’ve never been stranded in Brazil with a one-eyed man, who "got" (operative word: got) squatters in the rain forest for a living. (Yes, yes I had.) Or in Nice, abandoned with my second cousin thrice removed (and we have bets on if she is adopted) who is boy-crazed as she is crazy. But this was different. I had to get out of the airport, and a cab sure as heck wasn't going to drive me three hours through the Texas hill country.

With no antidote other than courage, I put on that thinking cap (world series Boston redsox pink hat) and calmly walked to the ACE rental car counter. It was a lone counter with a pathetic sign barely hanging onto the wall. A man in his late thirties either half asleep or all-the-way bored stared at me, waiting for me to say something profound.

“Do you have any cars.” I plea.

“Yes.”

“Huh? No you don’t, really, seriously?” I shout with jubilant excitement.

“Yes we do lady.” A face hollow of expression smirked.

As he handed me the keys and I rushed out into the humidity I spotted my friend for the next four days… do you know those Euro cars that look like toy cars that got dissected and only the front end survived? It was the newest Suzuki, a lawn mower on steroids. And that was the start to an unpredictable weekend.

ANACONDA IN BRAZIL

I was seventeen and spent the summer before my senior year visiting my uncle (ex-marine, fought in Kuwait) in Xingu Brazil. His wife Kika’s father has a large cattle ranch he took over… long story short they have American investors visit them for chunks of time, buy the land to preserve rain forest. On this particular day we’re on a rafting trip with a bunch of businessmen, who instead of wives/daughters all bring their 20-22 year-old sons, who all happened to be SAE’s at UT. Okay, to my chagrin- they were that rugged cute, (rugged as spoiled twenty-two year old guys can be), but riddled with egotistical obnoxiousness! So suddenly my summer with extended-family-fun was hijacked by mascara applications and avoiding subjects about anything that didn’t make me cool/terribly desirable by frat boy standards. Damn cowboy boots do it every time.

We’re on this excruciatingly long rafting trip and I had the speedo my aunt offered to load or my cute (zebra print) bikini, and although my SUPER conservative aunt/uncle mildly suggested the ugly suit, I wore the bikini (duh). Three rafts. 1) Aunt (her Brazilian brother- gay) eight-year-old cousin Ella, six-year-old cousin Roberto and myself 2) My uncle, two of the dads and two of the sons. 3) Two of the dads and the other two sons.

It's early afternoon, we're halfway down the river, and well... let's just say there is not an "accessible" powder room. Since my aunt is Brazilian which automatically qualifies her as wilderness expert, she says we’re nearing a shallow end, and we can pull over quickly so I can hop out… I quickly jump out of the boat, swim over by the shallow area ready to find cover behind some brush so none of the boys/men/uncle will see me, plus they are still a few minutes behind us.

The rapid is too quick and around the corner I hear the men and their beer and suddenly my uncle sees me in the water. He doesn’t know that I’m desperately trying to hide myself, and he assumes the boat has capsized (which is ridiculous because my cousins and aunt and half-uncle are pulled by the side of the river waiting for me). He paddles his raft toward me standing behind the brush in thigh-high feet deep water, and then yells, “Auna GET IN THE BOAT NOW!” At this point I cant paddle over there - because of well, obvious reasons.

He screams again (this is a man who has spent two weeks in a 10 x10 x10 hole in the desert) AUNA THERE IS AN ANACONDA UNDER THE BANK OF THE RIVER. SHE IS MOVING. GET IN THIS BOAT NOW.

So I tug on my bikini, shaking as I swim over to his boat – knowing full well there is a twenty-foot water snake yards away from me. All three rafts are watching this entire scene unfold – my aunt holding my cousins, the smaller raft with both the guys and their dads. And then my uncle who is so furious, his facial veins are pulsating, all because my small bladder happens to coincide with a location of an evil angry river snake, not exactly my fault. He grabs my arms and pulls me up into the raft. My body is convulsing, so much so, I don’t notice that my swimsuit is twisted and I've made an utter fool of myself, simply because I don't like the way speedos look.

CHAMPAGNE FOR THE HOMELESS... it's a screwy world...

Exposed skin, matte with dirt, the debris from unending days without a shower, thin hair framing sunken dark eyes, eyes that have witnessed a world I cannot begin to fathom.

Not more than 23. But limp shoulders suggest weathered years far more challenging than her young body deserves.

Walking down the 16th street en route to the magazine, in a hurried pace. Cell phone glued to my ear with my Burberry bag swung over my Marc Jacobs jacket I reek of shallow, and rounding the corner I almost drop my blackberry. Normally greeted with the older men grinning and drunk with crooked teeth and shopping carts spilling with garbage mixed with sleeping bags. My morning has taken an unanticipated turn, encountering this woman who stripped of her ripped clothing would be mistaken as one of my own.

With no dog-eared cardboard scrawled with a pitiful message, she wasn’t begging for money, but curled up against the cold brick. Already stopped, it was too late to walk back around the corner, and pretend to whistle my way around her. Barking bullshit moments prior into my cell, every item carved into my brain, stressing my afternoon out dissipated when our eyes locked.

It wasn’t envy, it wasn’t jealousy, not a strained glare making me squirm with guilt, but her gaze was a simple, curiosity.

This awkward exchange transpired in seconds. Unsure if I should dig through my wallet for whatever cash I had, or if I should quicken my pace past her, I quietly said hello.

She said, hello. And similar to two strangers riding on an elevator, whose lives cross too quickly to care, she intercepted my day in a way I cannot shake. Her gaze shifted back to her feet, which were neatly tucked under her tattered jacket.

Our shared moment was over and I continued to walk toward my office. My warm and decorated office, overflowing with excitement and creative energy, and designer bags, a place where we plan extravagant parties with the intention to rid the world of homelessness.

My gut now emptied of stress was empty with empathy. Not pity, nor distraught with the burden of trying to figure out how to save one girl, instead of Starbucks my afternoon was interrupted with sadness. A reality I’ve easily avoided. But I couldn’t anymore, a woman close to my own age, whose existence is juxtapose to my privileged life, cold and hungry huddled on the pavement ten yards outside of my office right now, and somehow be okay with it.

Ex-Boyfriends are User-Friendly

I have this strange habit… whenever there has been potential for a new, blossoming relationship, and I realize that I'm only half-in... The guy isn't perfect and I'm now frustrated with humanity. I phone my ex-boyfriend. Not for advice, or to be reassured that my alluring and quality characteristics will stop any guy dead in his tracks… I’d slip into the city for a long weekend, comforted by his familiarity. Convincing me, “No Auna, you’re not insane.” Joking afterward, “but you should come with a cautionary warning.” And then I would laugh, now confident and strong, feeling acceptance by someone who already knows how I look naked, how I kiss and how I spoon. And after a plentiful night of rehydration I would return to foreign territory of the dating world, where I"m inherently awkward and it takes months to comfortable letting go - feeling nourished… knowing if another guy screwed me over, instead of moving forward… I could always go back.

Why bother making memories with someone you know down the road isn’t going to be around to remember those memories with?

For the experience? Enjoy the succulent temporal, live for the moment that now, has already passed. Those one-in-a-life experiences that razzle and dazzle your innards, jam-packing your suitcases, hitch-hiking across Europe only to catch the 2am titty show in Beijing.

I'm a bit tipsy in California and it's amazing what the brain can rummage up when all you have is a friend, lap top, suitcase and a bottle of vino to amuse you.....

Do it for the stories you can tell. But the bigger question is: Who the hell wants to listen?

The rambunctious and insane acts we do for the sophomoric single-syllable mind-game. Possibly born out of boredom, but truly spurred from too many bland starbucks meetings where ogling at your watch doesn’t seem to get the point across THAT YOU DON’T GIVE A DAMN.

And when the blind dates and the forgotten business cards grow old it’s so easy to resort to our exes. Do we think that another “roll in de hay” will cement the issues that once kept church bells from ringing, or rekindle the bond incapable of being unearthed at the dinner table, only found once tangled in the bed sheets? (It’s amazing how much easier it is to find conversation while making out, rather than rehashing politics over steak tar-tar). I honestly wish the enchanting weekends could have rekindled the happiness I see in our pictures, but every time I waved goodbye… I felt a little bit sadder that we’d not made it as an “us”. But rather two individuals just trying to get by.

And so while there are only a few sips left of my red wine … and after I shall retire for the evening. Tonight is a first when I haven’t a conclusion, simply a question. Are we afraid? Or tired? It’s so easy to trust what we know “almost worked” rather than perspire and selflessly try at the new relationship, which still has a small chance to actually work out.

There is something so cozy about nostalgia… it grows with us and absorbs the situations and mistakes that no longer define. The memories you no longer associate yourself with, but without them you don’t know how you made it out alive.

If I could have one more night with the guy who swallowed my heart several years ago, and only gave some of it back… I might. And while he is the closest to perfect I have yet to encounter, there is a reason we didn’t make it and a reason why I’d leave our bittersweet dialogue left on the phone.

I have to believe there is the right one out there... a guy who will want the rest.

Before All Else, Be Armed - Machiavelli

I wish I could find something funny about this whimpering economy. Sheltered in my make-believe American utopia where I routinely admit to relishing labels on my totes and the cost of haircuts that could feed a family for a week in Uganda, I can’t comprehend the value of a dollar in the eyes of a peso.

Summers in Brazil and discovery videos from Africa don’t penetrate my bubble of health insurance and paved roads, in which I innocuously reside.

And when a person is stripped of their job, their survival, in a messed-up way, someone’s job is how the world evaluates their worth, their contribution to society. And suddenly it’s obsolete, and then it is too late to turnaround.

Craiglist classifieds are overflowing with stellar resumes and still 50,000 Americans are wandering aimlessly around our democratic streets curious who is going to cover their mortgage. What happened to job security? Is there such a thing, and is it appropriate for such a concept to exist in a laissez-fair economy.

There is no such thing as a real promise- because who can actually predict what the future will heave at us? I love how America uses good faith as collateral… just in case government bonds go to hell. But think: In every aspect of our lives…. Marriage could end in divorce, a road trip could end in a car wreck, and botox could get boxed. Without any type of guarantee in life how the hell are we supposed to protect ourselves?

We can’t.

All we can do is try to protect each other.

Jesus wrote a blank check, One I haven't cashed yet.... - Cake

Is there something you’d like to change about yourself? Throw an unhealthy addiction or detrimental habit, like French fries or procrastination to the wind? With the assumption that the garbage man will discard the nasty buggers with last year’s rubbish and you can move forward, stripped of any error. Or then, there is the category of change focused on “improvement” … where the newly purchased Nikes will lure you onto the treadmill, or your calendar will somehow create space to clean out your closet, the projects and image renovations on your “to do” list for the last ten years, will somehow magically get done? (I've had three bags full of goodwill clothes sitting in my car for weeks!)

The above mentioned without doubt can happen, whether it be a life coach, heart surgeon, or fashion trend, eventually the burdens on our mental check list will either become unimportant, we’ll survive around the gook or we’ll get fed up with our fat that we'll unconsciously eat less. But these things are trivial in comparison to the changes that make me curious… the change in how we perceive the world. How might we respond when someone a poses a question to which we haven’t had the courage to answer, even to ourselves. To swallow pride and ask for help, or advice, and then execute, without knowing how to calculate the risk. To acknowledge the chips in our shoulders, sandblasted by an old flame, which resulted in us being jaded, fickle and flawed? Knowing whether or not, if someone dedicated enough could ever heal those invisible wounds.

What about the endearing silly qualities that differentiate us, asking for an insane dinner order, an inability to parallel park, arriving a few minutes late (or too early), do they add dimensions of color to our already-matching complexions, or are they just annoying nuances that need to be shed. After being told that "everyone is special" 7-year-old Dash Parr from the movie The Incredibles replied, "Which is another way of saying no one is special. "

What would happen if we forgave? What would happen if we abandoned doubt on the curb and pressed onward unafraid? Never hesitating for a moment about the “what ifs”, the mistakes, the imperfections that humanize us? The things we say, and more importantly the things we choose to leave unsaid, what would happen if we let it all go? If we let fear go?

The fear of Christmas without our parents, turning into a homeless waste on the side of the road, being diagnosed with cancer, and god forbid the most debilitating phobia of them all… being happy. That maybe, the little pieces of life we envy from the couple still smitten walking their dog in Wash Park, the great-grandmother about to have her 100th birthday, the culinary wizard/marathon runner/soccer mom who is still hot, hell, Bill Gates, those little pieces are waiting around the bend. Maybe the daydreams that haunt us at 3am while slaving away, trying to make it.... might turn into tomorrow?

It’s frustrating to imagine that we don’t have control over our reactions entirely… Yes, the majority of our life we can scheme, strategize and plot each speculative detail. But we cannot anticipate who will waltz into our life, unassuming and unaware that they will have the capacity to change our course. Our internal compass, convincing us we're headed north, but calling it "north" is pretending there is no fate. Every person who crosses our path leaves something in our wake. Whether it a funny joke, a totaled car, the flu, a new friend, or your “other”… tomorrow is unwarranted. How do we change how we’ll react if we don’t have a clue exactly who it is that will run into us?

Lately the ability, no, actually the desire to change has been a subject up for debate. Should we change who we are? Should we be blindly accepted for who we are? I don’t think we should ever sacrifice or apologize for what we love about ourselves, but should we try to embrace the things which people love about us? Even if who we are is a mixture and combo of our backgrounds, blood type, books that have bled into our soul, a leftover of every person who has walked into our life and we have loved deeply....and the people with whom we allowed to love us and they chose to walk out.

There isn’t an answer to change. At sharp turns we’ll overcompensate, and at tough decisions we’ll underestimate, by default and preparedness, we’ll unconsciously self-correct and adjust, eventually becoming who we already are. And while a friend, or co-worker, or random stranger at a party, or that “other” can be so perfect at the start… the authenticity will start to surface, and the funny flaws somehow manifest into rational, quirky traits, and they’ve just whittled their way into our hearts. How does one probe without being offensive, or act without due diligence. How do we let hurtful words slide off our back without catching the chip on our shoulder? How do we not over analyze the warm and fuzzy thoughts articulated to us over text message, or while sipping steaming chai?

Next week I'll scribe about sex or drugs or something equally frisky. I promise.

Until then....I’m starting to realize the words that are supposed to tie a relationship into a perfect bow aren’t simple, black or white, or definable. Sometimes the prettiest bows require four hands, a YouTube video and a southern drawl. Recently, when someone isn't making sense to me, I try to see where it is they're coming from, and maybe where it is they want to go. I'm not hard of hearing, or eager for the world to chant kumbaya, I'm just a girl who is sometimes misunderstood, but more than that wants to understand.

STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR. Aka: Involuntary Confinement with a Broken Blackberry

A temporary ride in a small square cubicle…

Objective: Vertical Transportation.
Obstacle: Polite requiem/bad weather jokes.
My advice: Make sure you hit the powder room before climbing on board.

Around ten pm an elevator decided to stop between the 18th and 19th floor of my building, with me as its lucky passenger. Fortunately (unlike most of my jaunts in elevators) I was well equipped. Expecting company the next day and far too lazy to stop by a liquor store I had purchased a bottle of vino in Earl’s (conveniently corked) not an hour earlier. So while my friends were waiting downstairs at Earl's for me to grab a sweater… The elevator chose to take a breather.

The car sort of vibrated a bit and then a hefty CLUNK. Not shaking, not like an earthquake, but enough for a girl who is phobic of getting stuck in an elevator, crashing to my own demise (pitch black in a box – always think worst case scenario) to get scared. I begin searching the box for an alarm… a search button of sorts.

Before pulling my blackberry out to call 911… an omnipresent husky voice asked, “Are you okay?”

Bewildered....I examine myself. Search the ceiling for cameras and respond with a whimper, “Yes, but I’m a bit afraid.”

Terrified, and irritated that my friends will all be taking shots soon and I’ll just be trying to entertain myself with no book, or lap top or boyfriend, or even a freaking stranger! While my building is the safest, soundest and most bulletproof structure west of the Mississippi I felt like Karma was catching up with me. The only proof I could rummage up after being told to “press certain buttons, hold tight, be patient, all is good, we’ve called the fire department” was, “I am the least patient person in the universe (notoriously late) and so this is what God had to do to me.”

I stretched my calves and uncorked my bottle of cab, and starting fishing for sympathy texts from every poor soul in my address book. Damn, it’d be funny to pull together stories of people that got stuck in elevators, imagine the conversations?

The little bar on my blackberry was blinking with exhaustion, and soon I realized the only conversation I’d be enjoying was the one with myself (and the occasional few words with the technician trying to get me free from the locked jaws of this stupid freight elevator- padded walls included)…. Woops, did I leave that part out?

So my mind wondered past my To Do lists…. Fretted a bit about tomorrow, but when I realized I had nothing other than me to keep myself company (As a guilty extrovert - I was screwed)… I allowed my thoughts to lollygag and linger, rehashing happy memories, replaying the euphoric hours happening just days before ...... again and again.

When you're so caught up in the present, tangled in incredible conversation, the type where the words someone is saying, are so captivating you don't want to stop listening, but just thirsty for more... that's when you know you're living. Lately I'd enjoyed many an exchange so titillating... I appreciated my time locked nineteen stories above the Mile High City to step back. I carefully sorted through the layers of laughter and serious discussions, and pure curiosity to figure out what exactly about those particular conversations was so powerful.

Sometimes I get so busy loving/scheduling/analyzing life... I forget I can derive joy from a memory every time I pause long enough to relive it...

Then arrive the succulent memories, the funny ones, the comical anecdotes that rip sanity from your innards leaving your stomach aching with raw… so tender and so exhilarated…

You’re alive.

I chortled like a drunk idiot to the chilly air (I was nursing the red wine slowly… in fear of being discovered by firefighters intoxicated, but much more terrified of the possibility I’d have to tinkle and well…. Enough Said!) and when sitting up was no longer fun. I scooted my rear end up to the wall, extending my legs upward, so I appeared to be a massive L shape…getting my jacket and jeans and hair dirty, and relishing the unanticipated silence.

Until a knock on the door and five fire fighters appeared above me, ladder in tow, ready to save me from my adventure in solitary confinement. I was a bit sad to wave goodbye to my little box, the same box I’d venture into the next morning or evening.. the same box that carries me from my home and back. But now the box had more of me in it… memories, ideas, internal dialogue, the personal thoughts that make you smile…
Had I not pushed that button on that Saturday night, never would have come to fruition.


Sometimes when you’re all alone and you don’t have a choice, but to sit there and let your brain go where it may… are the moments worth holding onto.

Conclusion: Never enter an elevator without an extra cellphone battery and a bottle of booze.

Who needs Prozac when you've got Oprah?

There is something so fabulously sobering about Oprah. I haven't necessarily given the ol' benefit of the doubt to afternoon-diva-psychologist-ceo.... She is like Mother Teresa only a Democrat, wears Jimmy Choos and throws fetes with people like Elton John. I was undergoing a massive pity party around 3am last night and Conan was over, and there you go the only thing on besides acutane infomercials is Oprah.

Thinking she had maybe some author on (the only bonus from her show I figure)... There she is... grinning ear-to-ear discussing what life is like from down under… and not with Dr. Oz (her sidekick). Her guest was a 3-foot-midgit; she was a 26-year-old brunette that was born, just like really small. And she was spunky and sassy and witty as hell! I thought… well who needs Prozac when Oprah can send you on a spellbound guilt trip riddled with gratefulness. Stupefied on the edge of my duvet... that this woman could be so pumped up about life it was my responsibility (as someone born of ordinary height) to save the world.

How would children ever learn to walk if they were afraid to fall?

Randomness Extracted from 2007....

"How would children ever learn to walk if they were afraid to fall? A bearded man orchestrating jovial arms through a brown tweed jacket; coos at who I'm assuming to be his grandchild. Clutching the two-year-old inside the fluffy pink dress, blond curls topped with a bow, squeals in delight as her grandpa picked her up and swung her into the air, never letting her go. Unconsciously safe within her grandfather’s grasp, the child laughed freely into the sky. The two unaware, through the crowds outside of FAO Swartz , I'm sitting next to my crutches, and my eyes are watching them.

When in life do we begin to hold on? When do we start looking for railing by the staircases? Once we’ve balanced our choices on the assurance and stability of the ground, are we disabled from unfolding our arms and trying to fly? Are we constantly eyeballing underneath us, into our future in search for a net? Find some inflatable cushion to pad our fall, so gravity doesn’t throw us against the floor too hard, physical pain teases mental sanity, but it’s temporary, and easy to forgo. The mental stuff… that stays locked in our memory forever.

My laptop teeter-tots on my left leg as I pound my thoughts into Microsoft Word, the movements of the laptop shake and stir with the hesitation and hurry as each letter, like each pigment, creates a word, like pigments makeup a picture. The process of remembering feels similar to fingernails on a snare drum, a lone beat, penetrating silence, echoed with a rattlesnake voice that erects goose bumps. The single tap on the snare ignites sound, and although it fills the air with a single octave, the sound is empty of rhythm. Without the base, the cymbal, and the lyrics, the beat of the snare rips through time momentarily, only to remind us how alone a sound can feel. The single snap of a snare can shatter a daze, but it cannot rummage inside of our hearts without the help of another sound, the resonance of two hits you differently.

Sometimes silence is far more deafening than noise.

The vision of the child dissipates into the autumn foliage as I slowly crutch away from the crowded sidewalk. I'm invisible to the street venders and New York businessmen briskly scurrying through their day. Only aware of themselves, they are tending to the necessary tools of cell phones and watches, reminding those of importance to quicken their cadence against the New York Tar."