Looking Back

The last day of the year, so I suppose it's appropriate that I put up one last post for 2011. For the most part, it has been a supremely shitty year. Filled with loneliness, doubt, fear, disappointment, and sadness. I have been encapsulated by a melancholy state that I cannot shake. Perhaps I should face the obvious and admit that I cannot sort all of the things going on in my life and in my head and in my heart alone. 2011 has been a solo journey, and I'm just not as good of a navigator as I thought I would be. So, what's next? Help me if I know.

I dislike the idea of New Year resolutions. It is just another avenue waiting for me to let myself down once again. So, I have not made any resolutions for quite some time. But I know that I desperately need to make some life changes that will assist in my mental, emotional, and physical wellbeing. Being placed on hormone replacement therapy earlier in the year has helped me a great deal, but part of me feels that it has only allowed me to see with greater clarity the fuckedupedness of my life, rather than experience it in the fog that I was in for the past several years. Yet despite all of this, I still hold on to hope. Hope that I will be able to commit to the betterment of myself. Hope that all of the energies I have invested in unrequited emotions will yield better results if I invest them in myself. It is so easy to put this into words, and yet so much more difficult to put them into actions. But such is the journey of life. I am exactly where I am suppose to be because all of the choices and decisions I have made in my life has led me here. Which is also to say, that the choices and decisions I make from this moment on will lead me to some other unknown place in the future. And as frightening as that may be, it is also very exciting. Because as much as there is a chance that things will continue to suck, there is an equal chance that they won't.

Good riddance 2011.

And 2012, let's get to know each other and start this relationship off slow.

Happy New Year to you all.

Canned Soup

I live alone right now. And just finished washing out a can that held the soup I intend on consuming momentarily. It always freaks me out a bit, because once you've lost a bit of your finger to a tin can, it's hard to open one without the reminder to be ginger with your actions. And it's canned soup. Cheap, low in calories and a definitive reminder that a lonely girl is alone. That on top of it's a big ole city that I live in. I can manage a decent life, but there are times when a girl needs to get her drink on. I'm not gonna say that I don't have friends nearby to grab a drink with (ok, that was a bit gratuitous, I have A friend), but on a Saturday night, after listening to the sounds of the city living life outside my window, a girl wants a drink. She want's to participate in life. But, there is no one there. I've been alone all week. Working on putting together a 3 hour lecture for a presentation on Monday at Azuza Pacific University. That in itself has been a trying task, and part of me is thankful that I've not been called up for work. My bank account is not so happy. But tonight, I finally completed the written portion. 15 pages. I like to write out my script, so that there is no faltering in my presentation. I'm anal like that. But I also wanted to celebrate. Yet I am alone. I've ventured to the corner store and purchased a wee bit of Jameson to cheer me on, but have found that it's just not living up to what I had hoped it would be in my mind. So, in a semi-drunken state, I privately replied to the one commenter on my "water wears away stone" post. I'm a bit of a hypocrite in that It may take me weeks to post a blog, yet I expect immediate response to my posting. It's pretty unrealistic, but that's what I expect, nonetheless. The odd thing is that the one person who has replied so far is a stranger. I worked a job with this individual for a couple days and know him only from a professional work experience. And he has been the only person to call me out and challenge me in the one thing I dared put myself out for. So, tonight, in my semi-drunken stupor, I accepted his challenge, and I'm pretty freaked the fuck out about it. I soooo wanna quit smoking, but I soooo don't wanna quit smoking. I love it as much as I hate it. But it's on. It is the fuck on. So, sometime, eventually, tonight, before I fall asleep or pass out, I will have my last cigarette. I will rue this post and rue the post before it and curse my ever having put out in the world this thing. But I put out in the world this thing for this very reason. And a silver lining is that my sister will, in January, turn the age that all women who smoke and take the pill know, will have to quit too. So though I'm several years ahead of her, I will at least know someone else shares my love, desire and abstinence from the thing we want so desperately.

water wears away stone

That's the tattoo I have on my forearm. It was meant as a daily reminder that with perseverance, I could accomplish most anything. Funny thing is that the tattoo is less than a year old and it has already become ornamental arm adornment that exists on the periphery. I rarely notice it, unless it is an aesthetic thing with a particular shirt or blouse I am wearing. Even rarer still, is me reading the words and contemplating its meaning. A permanent faulty reminder, and another thing to add to the growing list of Donna disappointing Donna. Le sigh... In my early twenties, I became a vegetarian, for about 5 years. Land animals. Yes, I was one of those vegetarians who would occasionally eat fish, but still felt haughty in my vegetarianism. I would like to say that my decision to become a vegetarian was for ethical reasons. That it was the socially moral thing for me to do. That factory farming was/is a horrible practice and I would not support that industry. That watching the episode of Faces of Death, where they slaughter the cow, had turned me away from eating meat ever again. But that's not the case. I mean, I grew up in Tennessee, and still lived there. Steak is good! Bacon is good! Chicken, well I've never been a fan of chicken, so I was more than fine not eating that. But a medium rare t-bone steak, meatloaf, pork chops, country smoked sausage, anything cooked in lard!! Mmmm hmmm. So tasty. Anyway, I was at my granny's house with my dad when on the news came a report about ranchers killing bison. Apparently the bison were protected as long as they were in Yellowstone National Park. Once they grazed off park grounds, ranchers would kill the bison to protect their cattle. Hundreds of these bison were slaughtered, for venturing off an invisible land border as they grazed for food. Well, I was appalled by this and stated it with my out loud voice. And it was at this point my father asked if I liked to eat meat, "Don't you like hamburgers? Don't you like steak?" To which I replied, "Of course I do." My father retorted, "Well then, quit your bitching or do something about it." "I will," I said. And I did. I gave up meat right there on the spot and lasted for 5 years. But I gave up meat, because my father called me out. It felt so much like a dare, and I being a stubborn fool, embraced that challenge and wanted to show my dad that I could do something about it. And I surprisingly discovered that I had an incredible amount of will power and perseverance to not eat meat in a "What the hell do you mean you don't eat meat?" (imagine that being said in thick, southern twang) kinda world. I did eventually go back to meat, but mostly for health reasons. I wasn't a healthy vegetarian, and there just wasn't a lot of support for that way of life in the early 90s in Tennessee. Currently, I tend toward a vegetarian diet, though the taco truck below my apartment makes it difficult with their damn asada and carnita tacos wafting through my window...

So I was reflecting on this time, and wondering where the hell that stubborn, foolhardy girl had gone. I had so much will power at one point and time in my life. I felt like I was a force to be reckoned with. But now, now I feel like a shell. No ghost, just a shell. And I disappoint myself almost daily with my lack of willpower. I know that if I don't quit smoking I will die. From cancer, or more likely a blood clot formed in my lungs. I have tried to stop smoking for longer than I care to remember, and still I somehow find myself going back for another drag, that in all reality, doesn't taste very good. I understand the scary as hell health risks, I've guilted myself, I've patched it up, I've nicotine gummed it up, I've cold turkeyed it and they all work for a while. You see, it's not the stopping. I can stop for days or even weeks. It's the starting again that I can't quit. So maybe I need a good challenge. An I dare you. For someone to call me out. So I can finally quit bitching and do something about it.

Thirty days hath September...

It's a shame it has taken me so long to put something up since my last post. This is due in part on intentionality and in part on poor time management and in part on sheer exhaustion. I have been fortunate enough to be employed all month, save 5 days off dispersed in there, which weren't really days off because those are the days you catch up on real life stuff. I am a tired, albeit grateful, girl. I haven't been this physically active on the job for a while. 12-14 hour days moving around, often lifting and moving items from one place to another, or cutting endless reams of paper, or bouncing around in a truck picking up set pieces fighting the desire to be lulled asleep by the rocking passenger seat, or lighting candles, so many candles, and keeping those pillows fluffed just right (the secret is a karate chop, and being half-asian, I perfected it in half-time). These long days have enabled me escape the confines of my small apartment hovel and free my mind a bit from the anxiety inducing thoughts that generally fill my head. It has also provided the emolument I needed to keep me away from the unemployment line, with a little extra so that I can take a short trip in October. One that is long overdue. All of this working has made me pay attention to my body and how it has adjusted to the sudden burst of activity. All and all, I feel pretty damn good about myself and how I have been able to manage all month. I didn't throw my back out and my legs and arms are looking a wee more toned. I was able to manage it all month long. But that's the catch, I'm at the point that if I had to trudge through another month, I'd be a complete wreck. At least I think I would. I just feel like age is creeping up on me and as much as I want to have the energy and stamina to kick it with the twenty-somethings I work with, I just don't have it in me. Or I don't have as much of it in me as I once did. And I have pretty mixed feelings about that. Particularly since September is my birth month.

I was brought into this world on September 11, thirty-something years ago. My birthday was one of the 5 days I had off and thought about posting on that day, but felt overly inundated with 9-11 coverage and crying over the personal and heartfelt stories NPR was featuring all freaking morning that I just went into birthday/9-11 denial mode and shut down. I would treat it like any other day (as much as one can in between the phone calls and family skype video chats). How can I celebrate A) getting older, especially when it coincides with B) The Day That Will Live In Infamy? But I will share my two poignant 9-11 life stories. Being a September child, I started school young, which meant I was the youngest in all my classes. Everyone else would turn 13, 16, 18, etc. before me. I was in my freshman year of college when I turned 18. I had an amazing boyfriend at the time and I was driving to his house to pick him up and we were going to my granny's house for my birthday dinner with the family. He was late arriving from work, and missed the dinner altogether. I went to granny's and had supper and went back to his house to wait for him to return (his parents were in Florida at the time). I stayed there for four days in his house, with his two miniature poodles staring at the front door waiting for him to walk in. He never did. He died the night of my birthday from internal injuries suffered from a motorcycle accident. That was one of the most devastating experiences of my life and changed the course I had chosen for myself. It is the reason I am an artist and not some other "practical" career choice. His early death gave me the courage to pursue my interests and not for purely financial reasons, but for because this is what I want to do with the rest of my life reasons. I will always be grateful for that and have immense love for Kevin Bruce Pugh.

Ten years later, I have another amazing boyfriend (whom I would eventually propose to and marry). Again, I am at his house, though this time we are in Florida (graduate students at USF working on our MFA in visual art). The alarm goes off and it is set to some radio station that is in total chaos, so we push snooze, and figure it is some sort of shock-jock radio schtick. Alarm goes off again and I remember hearing high pitched voices, almost in a panic. Third snooze alarm goes off and I decide to get out of bed and get coffee brewing. I sit on the couch and turn on the TV, and watch in real time the second plane crash into the World Trade Center. Mouth agape. Heart racing. It's not my birthday anymore. It's some other sombre day. And one that has filled me with a multitude of mixed and often contradictory emotions and has deeply skewed my beliefs in human nature. It has changed the course of how we as Americans have lived these past ten years. And looking back at the me I once was and the me I am now, much has changed. I am not the artist I wanted to be, nor am I perhaps the artist I once was. But I still long to be that person, and I believe I still have the courage and fortitude to see my way through.

Farewell September.

Meow

Meow. Mer. Meeowww! I'm a Pussy. Let me start with today was a suck ass day. Totally. Suck. Ass. My lovely, lovely granny called me yesterday to tell me that she put birthday money in our account yesterday. Now when I say our account, I mean our account. My Granny account. This is the very first banking account I ever opened. The one my granny signed onto when I was in high school and took my first ever economics class and decided I wanted to have all the rights and privileges that came with opening a checking account. READ: I wanna go shopping and write some checks byotches! So, when I was 16, my granny went to Sovern Bank and opened me up a checking account. It has since been Nations Bank and is now called Bank of America. My granny has had her lil ole name on my account for more years than I am willing to admit. READ: I ain't telling you byotches my age yet! It was my main bank account until I got marrieds (yes, plural) and I kept it, because some sage advice was given that a woman should always have a separate checking account. So I kept it. It is now referred to as the granny account, because nowadays any funds that are deposited are put there by The Granny. The account is now used for emergency funds or a girl needs to get a lil something special shopping spree. My birthday is coming up, so I thought it was sweet that she filled it early. Not only with birthday funds, but catch this ya'll, with back to school shopping money too. She added a lil extra to compensate for the fact that she takes all the grandkids back to school shopping. Now, I've been out of school for a while. This includes teaching. So I think its so extraordinarily special that my granny still treats all her grandkids the same and still includes me in her thought process when it comes to spending the same amount on everybody. So. So. Sweet. Sigh... Anyway, today I got myself together to do a little a girl needs to buy herself something special shopping spree. And it was a big, ole FAIL. Fail. Fail. Fail. No cute stuff. No great sales. No nothing but traffic congestion and construction. Suck ass boo. Then I had to go to the dentist.

I hate going to the dentist. READ: I fucking hate going to the mutherfucking dentist byotches!! I'm not quite sure when my sheer and utter terrifying fear of the dentist began, but I always tell people, I had a bad experience as a child. That is a lie. I don't ever remember being afraid of the dentist as a child. Good ole Dr. Carpeneter. I heard as an adult he was an alcoholic and a gambler, but that never made any difference to me as a kid. I had a mouthful of cavities, and he filled them up just right. I think my fear began when I got my wisdom teeth pulled. Well, my bottom two wisdom teeth at 22. Worst experience ever. Had a baseball sized lump in my jaw that lasted over a week. No pain medicine, just pain. Blech. Consequently, I didn't return to to the dentist for about ten years. Mostly due to the fact that I didn't have dental insurance, once I grew too old to be on my father's policy. Bad Idea folks. One shouldn't wait ten years, because the news is never good when you go back. I knew that pain in my tooth (or teeth) that I had endured for seven or so years (which caused me to chew food on the left side of my mouth and drink lukewarm fluids- why do you think I like a whisky neat) was probably a good indication something was wrong. That and my top two wisdom teeth had come through, well at least halfway through. Let's just say I understood why kids cry so much when they're teething, and I had been teething for years. So when I was finally able to go back to the dentist, fully insured, I discovered that I had cracked some teeth from grinding my teeth too hard during my sleep. This made since to me and was a bit of a relief to understand why my teeth were hurting so much. Verdict- pull the wisdoms, two crowns and a root canal.  I won't go into too many details, except this one. The root canal was the the most horrible experience ever. Not only did I have three Novocain shots in my mouth, but during the procedure I still felt pain. So much that tears were running down my face, so the doctor gave me a shot right in the root nerve. Apparently, I had a "sensitive" nerve (duh). It certainly made a lasting impression on me, particularly since I opted for gas. Which brings me to today. In LA, my dentist has decided that all of the fillings good ole Dr. Carpenter had given me were loose or defective in some way, so I have had the fortunate opportunity to have all of my fillings replaced (that and another discovered cracked tooth- I do wear an expensive mouth guard BTW). My last appointment, we discovered my nerves were still "sensitive" so to speak, which required an additional numbing shot. One that I reminded him of today, when I went in for the final filling replacement (he is keeping an "eye" on the cracked tooth right now, so delaying the crown on the one tooth I felt really needed attention and the only one that really gives any sort of discomfort). Whadda you know. Shot one, he starts drilling and I jump. Shot two, he resumes drilling, and I jump. He asks if he can keep going and I reply just finish this. Then the tears of pain start leaking from my eyeballs and my quite freaked out dentist decides to give me one more shot. Finally after three shots of Novocain in my mouth and dried leaky eyeballs, he manages to re-fill my teeth. I am shaking with nerves and my fear of the dentist has increased tenfold. That on top of the fact that he does not provide the so necessary gas I need to chill the fuck out. Final verdict- We'll keep an eye on the cracked tooth. WTF! Fuck my cracked tooth. I'm pussy McPussy. I waited ten years for the first crown, I may well last another. Next time knock me the fuck out. There are not enough recreational drugs in this world that will make this dread any better. Shit, shit, shit. I wait for January or so for the next round. For now, I'm waiting for Fat Albert's friend Mush Mouth to exit my body. READ: three shots of Novocain fucks a byotch up byotches!!

Sigh

Well blech. It's been a while since I've posted and there are so many things I want to say, but feel inept to say them. Why? I don't rightly know, to use southern twang, which doesn't sound as good in written word as it does in my out loud voice. I suppose one major reason is that it's that time. Aunt Flo is visiting and I'm not right. Not normal. At. All. Uggh. This takes some explaining. I learned several months ago that I'm going through premature menopause. Or rather Early Ovarian Failure. This was totally and utterly devastating news to me. Now, I've always prided myself in the fact that all my life I've very publicly stated that I never wanted to have any biological children of my own. This is for various reasons, and one that requires a dedicated post, which is not this one. But I have always said, children terrified me, and I felt the world was too populated, so if I decided to have a child, it would be a readymade. That term makes sense to artfolk, and is not intended to be taken in a light manner. I still stand by that statement. However, when one receives information that your body is incapable of procreating, it is devastating. Regardless of one's beliefs. Because at one moment, it is a choice and in another moment, there is no choice at all. I cannot lie and say that I have never wanted to experience the gift of life growing inside of me and bring forth a child that I could corrupt in my image. I just never felt I was in the right place in life to give another being the type of life it deserved to be introduced to. On top of my belief that there are so many other children that exist in this world that are so deserving of good, stable homes that it was too selfish for me to contribute to the overpopulation of this earth and not take care of those that already exist. Anyways, I'm getting off point. This week, I started my period...

The monthly cycle for most women is a natural habitual occurrence with the expected hormonal responses. I, on the other hand, am still trying to figure it all out. I say this because at the peak of my menopause, I had not had a cycle for four months. Meaning that if I had not started taking synthetic hormones, I would have ceased menses all together. So part of me feels like my period is a slap in the face. A subtle reminder that it takes impregnated horse urine (the essential ingredient in hormone replacement therapy and particularly Prempro, which I am on) for me to regulate.  I also feel as though the remaining eggs in my ovaries are giving their last hurrah every time I synthetically menstruate. That with all of the regular symptoms of PMS. Basically, IT SUCKS BALLS!! So I am apathetic for a week. All of my goals and good intentions go straight out the door and I pretty much embrace the "Fuck It" attitude for an entire week. This is not good. Not good at all. It's pretty much a suck fest in my apartment. I work for weeks to motivate myself, exercise, seek daylight, only to have Synthetic Aunt Flo stop by and fuck it all up. I'm bloated beyond all belief, lazy and couldn't give a shit.  WTF!? On the other hand, there are only a couple more days (please, for the love of any of the gods!), so I feel the tides (no pun intended) are a turning.

Anywhoo, expect posts about the shit ton of jobs I've applied to, my general anxiety about life in LA and how bad it sucks to be poor! I'm not a religious person per say, but I do believe that this too will pass. So next time...

One of Many Futures

Irony. Such a postmodern concept, to imbue one's work with ironic, wry critical commentary. It's sort of a tired thing nowadays, yet I feel that artists of my generation can't help themselves. It is an especially tiresome thing, for me to recognize the irony in my own life. Such a sad, sad thing to behold.

For example... When I lived in Iowa, I felt trapped by the smallness of it all. I felt like there was a quality of life I wanted for myself that wasn't available to me there. I needed more commotion in my life. To have access to multiple venues providing "good" visual art (whatever that may mean). In my mind, I needed more theater and performance ("good" of course), more non-profit artist run spaces, bars with bartenders that knew how to make a drink (I'd given my world for a proper Manhattan). A simple coffee shop with good coffee. And my god, what does a girl gotta do for a taco truck around here! More than anything, I suppose I wanted something to do to fill my time. I was restless and cooped up in a too big house surrounded by cornfields for miles. I didn't realize at the time, that my body was going through some major physical/emotional/mental changes, as my estrogen levels were slowly being depleted (that will be an entirely new post). I just knew that the following event triggered my obsessive need/desire to escape Iowa and move to Los Angeles. I worked at Grinnell College as an Art Technician for about 15 hours a week, which left me plenty of time to sit alone at home. Ideally I'd be making art, but have been at an impasse for some time. There were stretches of time where I would not even get out of my bath robe for days. But this one morning, I was feeling chipper. Perhaps it was a good song on the radio. I don't know. I just knew I was getting out of the house today to run an errand. So I find a cute outfit that I hadn't worn in a while. Nice shoes with heels that aren't too high. And make-up. Not too heavy, it was daytime after all, but I looked good. Spritz of perfume and earrings and I was ready to go. It wasn't until I was pushing the shopping cart down the kitchen accessories aisle that it dawned on me. I spent all morning getting gussied up to shop at Wal-Mart. Fucking Wal-Mart. I started crying right there in the middle of the store. The highlight of my day was Wal-Mart!? And I hate Wal-Mart (again, entirely different post). But somehow, it became the thing I got dolled up for. And the reason I had to leave Iowa (at that moment, at least). But where is the irony in this story Donna? Let me tell you. I have lived in Los Angeles for almost 10 months. I have access to "good" art, theater, coffee shops, bars, taco trucks. It is all around me, I can hear it out my window calling to me. And yet... And yet I stay cooped up in my too small studio apartment. I am either afraid of losing my street parking space or too poor to afford a good Manhattan cocktail. I still spend days in my bath robe, if I am not working. And for a while, my weekly visit to the chiropractor became the thing I got gussied up for. I've lost something, some part of myself these past several years and the thing I have in its place is sheer, utter fear. I am afraid of everything. But most of all, I think I am afraid of what my future holds if I remain on this course. I see that future occasionally walking the halls of my apartment building. In the shape of a man who lives on the same floor.

There are two days a week that I have to move my vehicle for a period of time for street sweeping. One day, I noticed this gentleman moving his car from one side of the street to the other. He has an older red mercedes, and was meticulous about parking it right up to the curb. I watched from my car as it took him nearly 15 minutes to park it just so. He would hop out of the car, look at the curb, hop back in and make adjustments. And they were minor. Not even inches, but he finally got it in the position he wanted. I noticed him more and more throughout my time in the apartment complex and realized that he lived in the same building and on the same floor. He is a handsome gentleman, reminiscent of a well kept grandfather you would see in older movies. There is an emigrant history you can read on his face, Greek perhaps. Hair that may be a tad too colored to keep away the grays and just pushing combover stage. And he is always immaculately dressed. I have never seen him without a button down jacket with black trousers and always wearing an ascot. He wears this to the grocery store. He wears this to move his car. He wears this to check his mail. And that's when I noticed a pattern. The timeliness of his actions. Mail is checked precisely the moment the postmaster has delivered it. The car is moved from one side of the street to the other the moment the three hours has expired. Habitually. And I understood. He is a lonely man. One that still has pride in his appearance, but has little more to do with his time than wait. Wait for some ritualistic aspect of life to occur so he has a purpose. So he can check his mail, or move his car. So he can get gussied up to shop at Ralphs for his weekly groceries. He is me. A reflection of me in years to come. Prideful, lonely, and without purpose, excepting for the mailman. This is what I fear. More I fear that my inaction to take control of my life will allow myself to become complacent in living an unfulfilled existence. That my recent fear of every single thing will destroy me. That I will not be strong enough to save myself, and I will be too far gone in gussing myself up for the mundane minutiae of life, that I miss out on it all together.

Runyon Canyon

I finally washed my car today. This is a pretty big feat, especially since I took it to a coin-operated, self-service car wash. There are apparently only like three of these type of car washes in all of LA, as the city seems to be dominated by $10+up hand wash car washes. I just wanted to chuck a few quarters in and squirt my own car off with the wand. That seemed like an impossible task, but after polling some friends and an extensive yelp review search, I pulled my car into the car wash I've always known was there (1 of the 3), but was afraid to pull into. I don't exactly know why, but I was intimidated by this location and desperately wanted to find an alternative place. I would have driven way out of my way too, If I could have found one. But today, I decided fuck it. And I went, and it wasn't horrible at all. It worked fine and I was able to satiate the sadist in me that seems to enjoy the game of seeing if I can actually go through all the cycles before the timer runs out.

And as easy as it was to let this act be my big feat of the day, I decided to one-up myself. It was just 11:30am after all. A smidge early to call it in for the day. Plus I have been feeling better now that the effects of the tetanus/whooping booster had finally worn off. So I decided to go for a hike in Runyon Canyon. I only know about this spot because my sweet, sweet granny mailed me a newspaper clipping from her local paper about the free yoga and hollywood stars that hike in the hills. I get tickled, because she doesn't have internet, and it seems so random the articles she will mail me at times, but if her local paper ever mentions anything that references LA, she's clipped it and put a stamp on it. Anyway, back to RC. Now I enjoy hiking. At least I think I enjoy hiking. I tell people that I do (like let them believe I'm all hard-core hiker chick), because it just seems like an activity I'd enjoy. In reality, I've probably only been hiking like three times ever in my life (if you don't count trasping the woods in Tennessee with my sister when we were younger) and each time I totally forgot to bring water. They were short hikes. I wanted today to be different. Which inevitably it would be, because for starters, I would be alone. Other than water and good shoes, I really had no clue what to bring or wear. Nor was I completely sure (still not) how long this hike would be. The only information I found stated that the three trails were a little over a mile each in total distance, but does that mean total from where I start to the end of the trail on the other side of the canyon or round trip? I dunno. I just grab the basics (hoodie, water, phone, headphones, ID, enough cash for fare) and hop on the metro for Hollywood and Highland. It's really a short walk from the subway to the Fuller St. entrance to Runyon Canyon, but I was definitely huffing and puffing by the time I got to the gate. I actually thought, "Well that's pretty good. I could just call it a day." But I didn't. And I didn't because my doctor has informed me that I need to do weight bearing exercise, as I have pretty significant bone loss in my hips. So a hiking I will go.

Again, I have not a clue where I'm going or what type of trail I'm looking for or to stay on, I just hope that there are enough folks that I can follow and figure it out. So of course I get lost-ish. Somehow I end up in RC's very own Spiral Jetty. Cute, but not the hike I was looking for. I finally find the dirt trail with a sign that indicates this is the direction to go for the view of the Hollywood sign and Observatory and head that way. The sign also mentioned something about it being steep, rattlesnakes, and one should be in good physical health. No problem. It was literally two minutes into this hike that I begin wondering WTF I was thinking. The getting lost bit and finding the Spiral Jetty and just the walk there counts as exercise. I could turn back and feel good about myself (not). But then I catch my breath and decide I could at least make it to the first overlook. And I do. And I'm gasping. Holy Shit. I could turn back now for sure and feel no shame (not). But then I catch my breath again and think, "If grandma here can huff it up this mountain with her dog, then I can." So I start the slow, dusty walk up this stupid incline that just keeps on inclining. Oh. My. God. My legs burn so much right now and two zaftig ladies just jogged by me. JOGGED! Like was two stepping up this beast. Son-of-a-bitch! So I talk myself out of walking back down again and keep on stepping. Surely to god there was an apex on this mother. And there was. And this was the view.

Not too shabby. And on the return down the canyon there was an easier paved path and it was quite enjoyable. From the research I've done on hiking Runyon Canyon, it seems like the consensus is that it's a weak trail for hard-core hikers and many seasoned trekkers prefer something more challenging and with fewer Hollywood Hypes canvasing the joint. Well, they can kiss my ass. Now I'm not totally out of shape, but for me, this was HARD. Like, I'm gonna quit this bitch and ain't never coming back, hard. But I didn't quit. Because it was kinda fun too. And I want to eventually be able to two-step it up that beast with ease. And maybe even take the third "really hard and dangerous" trail. But for now I just really want to like it enough so I keep doing it, because I really like hiking (at least I still do in my head) and being outdoors and I need to work on keeping my hips healthy and building bone mass.

It's Official!

It's official. At least in my head it became official today. I suppose it's technically been official for a month or so. But today, I put California tags on my car. Today, I am an Angelino. And this sort of totally freaks the hell out of me. For reals. The. Hell. Out. Of. Me.

You see, The City of Angels hasn't quite embraced me as one of hers just yet, and I fear I may have declared myself a resident, before LA has fully vetted me.

Why do I feel that way? Well I've had a bitch of a time since arriving here this past November. A brief recap in relative order, of some of the topics you should expect in future posts... van was broken into, cockroaches from hell, the complete breakdown of my marriage*, lump in my breast, BEDBUGS, sweet! a herniated disk, van+sideswiped=no driver mirror, early ovarian failure (otherwise known as menopause), rear ended by hit and run driver, and just found out I have another cracked tooth from grinding my teeth too hard. Joy.

So it's relatively easy to comprehend why I am a skeptical ass skeptic and totally, utterly freaked the hell out. Is my LA initiation over or is there more to come? Cause I'm in it now. Got my license. Got my tags. Got my apartment in K-town (yes, I am such a poser). There is no undoing this for a while, so PLEASE Los Angeles, take it easy on me. You've thrown a lot my way in a short time. Lemme just work my way through this and show you I can handle the LA game. I just gotta get my groove back. And I'm working on that, one blog at a time...

* read Caveat post from earlier today

Caveat

This is necessary. I confess that I will not be divulging too intimately in my personal relationship, and when I do bring it up I will attempt to be general, vague(ish) and to the point. I feel that since there is another individual involved, I am not privy to disclose certain information. They have a right to privacy and I do not intend to trample upon that. Besides, it is a tenuous and complicated slippery slope that we currently tread, and for some unbeknownst reason we manage to keep upright. Go figure...I guess I'd just rather be ready to throw eggs than have to wipe them off my face!

Where Do I Start?

Sometimes I experience intense moments of motivation and clarity. Unfortunately, these moments are often fueled by Mr. Jack Daniels. And so it was, the night I launched this blog, and even more so when I posted on Facebook that I had a blog. WTF was I thinking?! Oh yeah, I was feeling confident and reminded myself that I had been thinking about starting a blog for quite some time (years actually). And after reading my cousin Dani's adventures on http://wheredidyougetthatcheerio.blogspot.com/, I figured what the heck. I could do this and Jack helped nudge me along. Well, I put the breaks on that puppy the next morning. A voice in my unaddled brain kept asking, WTF were you thinking?! And did you really post that this site was about TMI in your life? And I did. Clear as day on my FB profile page. The name of the blog, a link to the blog and comments from friends claiming they look forward to reading the blog.

Oh Boy.

I froze up for a couple days. I've never really been afraid to give too much information about what I thought about. That is probably one of my greatest strengths and weaknesses– My ability to let words spew forth from my mouth (oftentimes, before my brain had a chance to register what I was saying) to form the very opinionated Donna-ness (or -dom or -ism) I felt needed to exist in this world. But somehow things have changed. Ever so slightly, I hope, but a changing I have been going through. Now, I am anxious, almost fearful of what TMI about my life is, and do I really begin to share all of this? A lot of what I've been going through recently is deeply personal. Oh who am I kidding, I suppose it's entirely personal (deeply or otherwise), as it relates to me mentally, emotionally and physically. So, I've been debating. Do I follow through on this blog thing or bail? Do I edit myself substantially, or just let it out? Because it's a frightening notion for me to be perfectly honest about my thoughts and my experiences at this time in my life. Although, I think I'm more afraid of the significance of not sharing, because that would mean that a part of me which has changed, can't change back. And I do not want that.

I definitely do not want that.

So, I suppose I'm a blogger.  I'll be putting it out there bit by bit for your greedy eyes to consume. And eventually you all will know what my changing changes are, along with my unchanged unchanges. With pictures. Because this site looks nekkid ass nekkid. We'll see if I can't change that too.

PS- Happy Birthday Mom <3

Glutton For Punishment

Well shit. If I'm anything, I'm a glutton for punishment. Purely of my own making. Now, I'll get into the making of my particular life in rather great detail in future posts, but let's reflect on the right now. What am I doing, other than procrastinating... I'm listing to my "Depressing Ass Shit" playlist on iTunes. Helpful? Not so much. But I appreciate being able to sing word for word (and out of tune) all of the words to the uplifting  songs of Coldplay (The Scientist, Fix You), Block Party (This Modern Love), Cold War Kids (Louder Than Ever), The Airborne Toxic Event (Sometime Around Midnight), The Killers (Mr. Brightside)... You get the drift. Bottle of wine– empty. Pack of smokes– half empty. My self worth– I heard it being deposited in the dumpster below my apartment seven minutes ago. Sigh. Why do I do this to myself? I suppose because there is something comforting in the familiar routine of bringing a down self downer. I mean, I know all the words, alright! That's something. Now ask me in a non-semi-drunken state who sings Mr. Brightside, and you've got the "deer in the headlight" gaze coming at 'cha. But wanna get me to sing every word to Mr. Brightside... Play it right after Damien Rice's The Blowers Daughter, and I'll sing every note in perfect(esque) pitch. Just ask. I'll send you the YouTube link.

Bottoms Up and Cheers!

Well that was easy...

Hello Blog world! It was all too easy to join this beleaguered and perhaps dated e-verse. But here I am, nonetheless. True to life, and one shakey step behind, I begin to document the trials of my not-so-extraordinary-life. Humpf. Sound original doesn't it? Well you just wait. Soon you'll be inundated with the goings on of a thirty something Half-Korean Redneck (Kimchee and Grits- get it?), transplant to Los Angeles and the EFFED UP recent-ish past and hopeful (hopefully) future of my existence. Excited? Me neither. But keep reading. Perhaps you'll chuckle, or cry, or both. We all need to embrace the lived experiences of, well, life. Good. Bad. Ugly and whatnot.

So, here it goes...