Category: life

A rare bit of clarity from a cluttered mind

Ok, fine. I have New Year’s Resolutions. Sure I do. Doesn’t everyone?

I won’t list ’em out…I’d rather accomplish them and then gloat.

Don’t deny me the gloat.

Or, you know, fail miserably in solitude.

Anyhow. Since the first of the month, I’ve been working on a goal, slowly but surely.

Things are improving.

But I’ve made a rookie mistake.

Oh yes.

I got on the scale. A lot. I mean several times a day.

You know, there are some people in this world that are already in the groove of their personal health, and they tell me “well I weigh myself once a day and that gives me an idea of how to plan the day.”

Yeah. Good fer you.

I am not one of those people. I tend to, uh, well, a bit of OCD.

If once is good then eleventy kabillion is better, right? Right?

I mean once after you pee, after you shower, when you take a sip of water, when you sneeze, after blowing your nose, before dinner, after dinner, in the middle of the night when you are pacing the floor wondering why you are such a nutcase.

Trouble is, if you spend all your time looking at just the numbers and the results (how they fall short of goal), you are missing the most important part of the process.

(This may be why my last boss grew weary of me…she being ALL about the numbers.)

So yesterday, I weighed myself and I was pissed off. I mean, I’d weighed the day before and it was a yay! And then today it was a boo. One day? How can I go from yay to boo in ONE FRAPPING DAY?

Because you can. The body is funny that way. Especially the female body. Today is good, tomorrow is bloat, next day who knows.

So as I was fuming…my mind clicked in and my mouth took over, without my permission.

I shouted at myself:

GET OFF THE SCALE AND GET ON THE TREADMILL!

And I realized that has to be my new philosophy.

No more weighing. Screw that. I need to simply eat a little better and exercise a little more and when I feel good just…you know…allow myself feel good without ruining it.

And when I feel poorly, try to figure out how to feel good again.

And leave that g’damn scale in the closet.

I’m telling you, get off the scale, get on the treadmill has deeper meaning than just my expanding waistline.

It’s a new way of life.

How about get off refreshing my Esty page and get on some crafting?

How about get off the internets and get on some writing?

How about get off wishing and get on to doing?

And I’ve now redlined and revised every single one of my New Year’s Resolutions.

Get off the scale, get on the treadmill.

Meaning…Karen, stop dithering and start doing!

And *then* you get to gloat.

I will SO do the superior dance (for those who remember Dana Carvey’s character, the Church Lady) when I make all of my 2010 goals.

Verbal-Foo Skillz…I has them

: cue the wavy lines and smoke :

Yes, we’re in the wayback machine, set to “semi-wayback”

Lo, these many years ago when I’d first moved to California, I started dating a guy who was (and is) a musician.

A blues musician, which means he played a lot of dark and, well let’s go with “gritty,” bars in the San Francisco and greater Bay Area.

So, being young and a fairly naïve rube from New Mexico, I used to get all dressed up in cute clothes and impossibly high heels, then head out, by myself, to these bars and clubs to see if I could get the musician to notice me.

So being a young, naïve girl all gussied up to go out, it stands to reason that I used to get hit on by the other patrons of the bars I attended.

A lot.

I mean, *a lot*.

Not because I’m exceptionally pretty, though I’m not a mud fence either. But mainly because I was a girl. Alone. In a bar.

Sort of a siren call for the drunk and lonely.

I have pretty much heard every pickup line in the book. And some from books that no one has written and never should.

Oh yes, I’ve heard ’em all…twice.

When I was feeling convivial, I’d play with the drunk, slurring sportos like a cat plays with a dying mouse. I’d bat them around a little bit before slamming down the paw.

If I wasn’t feeling convivial, I’d get out my acid tongue, a genetic gift from a rather acerbic aunt in my family tree, and burn them on the spot.

One of my favorites is still a late night when all the lights had come up in the bar. The guy I was dating was through working and before he began packing up his stuff, he came over to hang out with me for a minute.

Some very drunk fellow, sensing that the lights were up, began scrambling around to find a warm body, ANY body, to take home.

And of course, since I’m the freak magnet (it’s true, been observed by many a friend and even a family member or two), the slobbering drunk made a beeline for me.

His opening gamble was something slurred and incoherent. Honestly, I don’t remember what he said. I do remember his glassy eyed look as he slurred out something and waggled his eyebrows at me.

Weary with a night of fending off such fellows, I looked him square in the eye and asked, loudly, “Are you hitting on me?”

He slurred in return…”um…well, yes. Is it working?”

I replied, “Let me get this straight…you are hitting on me. And *that’s* your opening line? That’s the best you can do?”

Not to be deterred, he nodded and asked again, “It is working?”

“No,” I said very caustically, “And have you met my boyfriend?” who had been standing next to me the whole time.

Thankfully the very large and take-no-prisoners bartender then placed a beefy hand roughly on the drunk’s shoulder and shouted, “Get out!”

I relate all of this to place a context on the story that follows. So that you understand that, basically, I have learned how to handle myself.

However…

I stopped going to those sorts of clubs and bars a very, very long time ago. And I don’t miss them, honestly. Well, I miss the amazing music that the San Francisco blues musicians pump out, because there is some amazing untapped talent in that City.

But the clubs…I don’t miss them.

Which means, in my now suburban lifestyle, I don’t really get hit on like that anymore.

And you’d think my skills in handling the weirdos might have slipped.

Turns out, I still got it.

So there I was…down on Fremont street in Las Vegas with my trusty camera and the goal to shoot many of the restored old Vegas signs that the Neon Museum installed in the area.

It was about 10:00 in the morning, so that was probably my first mistake. Second, I was alone. Third, I was behind the camera and really in creative head.

All of this mixed together meant the moths came dashing over to knock themselves against my flame…so to speak.

At 10:00 in the morning, the tourists aren’t really out, so it was me and the, ahem, locals.

I got a lot of “heeey…wanna take *my* picture?”

Um, no.

“Heeey, what’s *your* name?” (my least fave opening line, btw)

But the best interaction went like this….

“Hey! Hey? HEY!?!?”

And so I finally turned to see who was bellowing at me.

“You are a big girl! I saw you walking by and I said to myself, I said, you know, big girls need loving too…”

Yep. That was his opening line. He called me fat and then decided I was so lonely cuz I’m such a big girl that I needed his, what would it be…pity? Charity? Selfless giving?

I said, “Uh huh.”

“Say baby, what’s your name?” he said, turning on ALL the charm.

“Lucy,” I replied (using my Nom de Bebida) followed by, “And my husband’s name is David.”

My suitor then sharply spun on one heel and walked away.

The rest of the morning was not just photography, but a continual improv show in which I was the only performer.

I was Lucy, I was a photography student at UNLV, my teacher had given me the assignment to shoot the signs, and ONLY the signs (in answer to the continual request to “take my picture!”), I was a local, I lived with an aunt and uncle, I’d been living here for a while, no I don’t have any spare change and by god I have a husband and don’t need your affections.

It was exhausting.

The final straw was the guy smoking a spliff who came up carrying a Wal-Mart plastic bag which he held out to me. “Wanna buy a Coach purse?” he offered.

And with that, I was done. I caught a cab back to my hotel and stayed inside the rest of the day.

I still got it, but mostly, I just don’t want to have to use it anymore.

There’s No Place Like Home, There’s No Place Like Home

Man oh man, yesterday at gate B20 at McCarran airport, I was clanking my ruby slippers together so hard the sparkles fell off.

No worries, nothing a little love from a glue gun can’t fix.

I love to travel, I always have. Ok, I’m not some big international world traveler, I’ll admit. I’m mainly a domestic flight gal, but still, I manage to travel maybe three to four times a year, usually for fun to see friends and family.

The adventure is always worth the price of admission. Even going to somewhere I know well, it gives me a chance to break out of my routine, get out of my head, and be different.

The best road trips are when I feel like I’m a different person by the time I come back home…meaning, I’ve grown or learned more about myself along the way.

My recent travel was one of those sorts of trips. I won’t share all the ins and outs and what-have-yous about the epiphany I had in front of a quarter slot machine at the Four Queens casino, but suffice to say, there was one…and it was good.

Sometimes getting out of my non-thinking monotonous routine and into “hey, where am I staying and where are my bags and where am I going to have something to eat?” is entirely exhausting.

And my god air travel wears me slick. Could people *be* any ruder when flying?

By the time we made our way to our happy little casa last night, I was beat. I mean, so tired, I was damn near catatonic.

But as Annie says in Bull Durham, “Total exhaustion can be spiritually fabulous.”

So as tired as I was, as happy as I was to sink into my bed and let the sandman have his way with me, at 4:30 this morning, my eyes were open and the brain was rolling.

Ideas. Lots of them. Flowing like, well, coins from a slot machine after hitting double-double-double on the payline.

At first I fought it. Rolled over and begged for sleep to come back.

Then I thought…why? How often am I blessed with a fire hose blast from The Muse? Why pinch off the ideas? Hell no, let ’em flow.

So since 4:30 this morning, I’ve been cranking away at the iMac. I mean CRANKING the whole time. And damn if I didn’t get a LOT accomplished (not the least of which was cropping and uploading my new profile photo…take a gander to the left and you’ll find it.)

So now, some four hours later, my eyes are burning, I’m a little shaky, and I may need a nap today. But mostly, I’m happy.

While travel is fun, and for this old musty brain, might just be essential, at the end of the day, there really is no place like home.

A few views of old Vegas

So finally I’m back on a plane headed westward to San Francisco which means home and my cranky Feline (who has been wreaking havoc in my mom-in-law’s home).

The trip to Vegas was a good one. The Good Man’s business was conducted, we ate some great food and even took in a Penn & Teller show at the Rio.

But as with every trip I take to Vegas, I’m done. Yup. She wears me weary and it’s time to get back to the place and get to where I can live normally without the ching-ching of a slot machine as my background music.

I did get a chance while visiting to take a look at the old Vegas that I remember (and sometimes yearn for).

While the Neon Museum’s boneyard is closed for construction, they do have a few beautifully restored signs installed down on Fremont street that you can visit.

Here are a few photos I took on my trip. I haven’t sorted out all 350 photos I shot, but these are a couple of my faves so far. (click image to see full size)

Vegas Vic, an icon of early Las Vegas history when he was the image often used by the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce.

This comes from high atop the Nevada Hotel Sign.

The orginal lamp from the Aladdin Hotel and Casino. I remember this one well. It was like seeing an old friend.

And finally, the Hacienda horse and rider from the original Hacienda Hotel and Casino. I also remember this one. It’s been beautifully redone!

There may be more to come as I sift through what I got.

For now, I’m ready to be home.

Oh, and as a final thought…how cool am I? I’m blogging from thirty thousand feet in the air. WiFi on airplanes, what a cool concept! (Go Virgin America!)