More Stuff Found In the Move

This hot santa bracelet; which wears like a Wonder Woman cuff and has a bunch of wonder women hammered in silver. Me & Mary? We're tight; we have a connection. Anyway, I bought this from a museum shop about 7-8 years ago. I hadn't worn it in a long time, but I rocked it yesterday. I forgot that it makes the most pleasing clinking sounds. Makes me shake my hands around more than usual.

I found my letter jacket on which I did not sew my varsity basketball letter, and I found the sweatshirt that does have the letter sewn onto it. Our high school colors were royal blue and gold and I didn't want a big neon royal blue wool letter jacket. I wanted a navy jacket because I was all classy and shit in high school. Embroidered on the jacket is my name and a basketball in gold. But the sweatshirt, which IS royal blue, is bad-ass in a quirky way. My letter is sewn on the back (kinda tacky) but there are great, gold iron-on letters that spell "Hoopsterette"down the sleeve. My childhood nickname and jersey number are on the front. It's so bananas vintage now and since it still fits I'm rocking that soon too. I'd show you a picture, but I'm not revealing my childhood nickname up on the blog so you guys can be all, Hey Pookie -- I mean, if that was the name. Betsy still calls me the name, and it doesn't bother me at all coming from her. She's put in the history. My jersey number was 42, after James Worthy who was a rookie on the Lakers -- during The Magical Years -- my first year of high school, when I made the varsity squad. I even wore New Balance shoes just like Worthy no matter how much they felt like ski boots.

Look at these crazy cards I forgot I had. Flying on a fly? Happy Birthday?
I also found this poem that I used to keep in my wallet in my early twenties. I don't even know the author, but it used to touch me a lot. I think mainly because 15 years ago I had never seen writing like this before and I loved how brave it was. I can't tell if it's good by today's standards, but I dug it back in the day, and I'm extremely loyal to it.

doesn't it seem like forever

he fell and she fell and then they rolled
and they both broke their crowns and didn't
get up in the morning and didn't go to school
and she was making a child and he was studying
friction and their thesis was something to
smell all right and when they got their electric
bill it was so small that they couldn't even
use it to light the single candle and when
she slipped on the ice he nursed her hip with
his lips and it was he who ended up bruised
purple and she went down to the wire and
bought the whole goddamn grocery store and
fixed the food so that he couldn't eat it and he
only wanted to eat out and she was glad and
thankful and ran her hands down his
legs until they were polished and she had to
stop wearing underwear and he couldn't even
think of her ears without getting an erection
and when they held hands they were nothing but
bones from top to bottom and she just wanted
to suck all the marrow out and he was always
ready for that god was he always ready for that
so she began to wonder what she was good for
despite the fact that all he did was try to
invent new ways to show her what she was good
for yet she didn't like to believe because then
one day she might have to leave for something
then she wouldn't care and couldn't care and
wouldn't care about anything except the way his
thumb didn't quite reach and how they had to
stretch it and stretch it and stretch it out until
there was nothing but taffy between them until
there was nothing but sugar between them there
was nothing but honey that stuck them together
and his study of friction was over and he went on
to perpetual motion and she lost the baby and
cried and cried and he was there licking her
tears and catching them and counting them and
sticking pins through them and placing them in
brightly colored cardboard boxes with the
proper date and the proper label so that she
would remember so that they would
remember
so that they would remember

So, tomorrow we move. And it just clearly dawned on me that I will not have home internet for 2 weeks because that's when a DSL line "will open up in my area". WTF? In the manic throws of moving, this sounds doable, but the reality is that no home internet for 2 weeks is ridiculous and beyond my breaking point because I will be off those 2 weeks from work too. I suppose I'll just have to walk to our local library during the 2 weeks -- or rub sticks together to find a wireless connection.

self portrait tuesday

Here's this week's entry for the ol' Self Portrait Challenge June Pop Art Theme. I found this picture while packing up all my shit for The Move. (P.S. MOVING SUCKS SO HARD. I have quite possibly thrown out more than I'm keeping because children are crap magnets.) Anyway, this photo is from 1982, when I was 14. I'm posing in my Esa outfit with my sun & chlorine bleached buzz-banged hair atop my killer beach cruiser that my exstep grandparents generously bought me as a gift. As gorgeous as it was, riding this bike was like pedaling a armed tank. As you can see, I was at the top of my thrift-store shopping game during this era. This picture was taken in front of the apartments where I lived in Santa Monica during high school. And on Saturday, I will be moving just a few blocks from this building.

The best part of moving is stumbling across old photos and funny old crap. Like this picture I found of Mina at about a year old. She is trying to hypnotize you with her gorgeous black eyes and her butternut squash goatee.

And this one of Maya at two years old already handling the rock like a toddling Dwayne Wade.
YEA! Look, I found the funny photobooth pictures of Mina that I thought I had lost. It had slipped behind my desk. How funny is this? She got to pick her own hairdo's including some blonde dreadlocked ponytails at the bottom there.



Then I found this: When I went to Paris this was one of my favorite souvenirs. You push the bottom and the Tour Eiffel gets all flaccid.



Then I found some of the photos I took in Paris. It seems I only took them of graffiti. The Arc de Triumph? The Mona Lisa? Naw -- how 'bout photos of some great doors with interesting spray paint to really capture a vacation? Here are only 2 of many, many.
Lavendar paint on centuries-old grey stone? Genius.

Tales of the SM Move - Bustin Out My Higher Power

**UPDATE BELOW**

Procuring a place to live has been a bitch. Before we found our perfect SM apartment, two others had fallen out. The first because the owner decided to jerk the place out from under us and give it to his daughter and the second because another couple put in their application nanoseconds before us. And now the place that I thought was solid -- the place on the perfect street next to the perfect schools and stores and ficus trees and cracked sidewalks -- has contracted a bullshit glitch.

The lady that I call Landlady is actually a long-time tenant (and attorney) that helps out the owners of the building who are apparently one thousand years old. Landlady has been spectacular in accommodating us and making sure we get this apartment. She has been the liaison between us and Ancient Owners. I met Mrs. Ancient Owner last Saturday. She is a German lady with greasy hair and fucked teeth especially the fronts, but she has the face of a sixty year old yet the mind of her real age, around a thousand years old. She was spacey and loving and once she saw the girls, it was a wrap. She took our deposit and welcomed us to the neighborhood. As Landlady was drawing up the lease this week, Mr. Ancient Owner realized we had two pugs and he decided if dogs were going to reside in his precious apartment, the rent would have to be raised $300 more a month, way beyond our budget. This was expressed to me by a mortified Landlady this morning, 10 days before we are supposed to move. My apartment now is aclutter with boxes; in complete disarray, and the Nazi Corporate Apartments where we currently live will charge us every minute we even think of staying past our move-out date. They are, in fact, chomping at the bit for us to get the hell out so they can j-iz-ack the rent much higher for the next fool that wants to live in the unbending, unfriendly franchised complex.

When Landlady told me the news this morning, my innards flattened and slithered out of me not unlike a Dali "still." I was nauseated and I could only think to put my forehead on my desk as Landlady blurted apologizes and suggestions over the phone including one about waiting until the 15th of July for another apartment in the building where the rent might be cheaper. She also stated that Mr. Ancient was now questioning if we had enough combined income and he was concerned because Husband had just started a new job. Completely dejected and scrambling to think of other places to live, I decided to counter Mr. Ancient Pig with an offer that only raised my rent $100 but extended my lease. I decided I wouldn't give up on this place without a good fight. And a little begging.

I told you before that my instincts are shot to hell. They are dead-line about almost everything. I used to rely heavily on My Gut and lately a twinge of instinct ends up being only indigestion. I had to make adjustments when I realized this. Meaning, I decided that I had to go with the flow of the universe's tide instead. If I could not rely on myself then I'd have to ride along on the What-Was-Meant-To Be train. I do love this concept in principle because it takes an auto-pilot faith to practice it which is comforting, relaxing in ways. But I honestly believe there's only so long you can make decisions -- or have them made for you -- in this way. Like, what's up, Universe? I have 10 days to move and You're fucking with me? Not funny. So, my instincts are failing me, and the Universe is telling me to get off my ass and make my own decisions. This apartment situation initially left me feeling so powerless this morning, so down. Until I decided to make another adjustment.

I've decided I'm going to get this apartment by magic. Seriously. I am going to will Mr. Ancient Owner with my magical, powerful mind to cut out the horseshit and draw up a lease exactly as my counter offer states. I’m taking matters into my own hands. And Landlady is going to call me tomorrow saying, It’s all fine and come in Saturday for the signing. This is not my gut instinct, nor am I sure what the Universe thinks of this because apparently She went on summer vacation. But I'm swirling up my own magic to make this all happen. And I believe this 100%. Now, swirl up your own inner powers and make it happen with me. Then, go and make happen all the things that you really, really want because your magic has been sparked.

I'll tell you what happens tomorrow.

***************

Well, thanks to our collective magical minds, Mr. Ancient inexplicably (wink, wink) softened, had a moment of clarity and drew up a lease the $100 more and no extended lease. We sign it tomorrow, but he has already signed. Landlady was a true champion and the Magic was genius. Thank you so much. I believe 100% that you guys helped.

self portrait tuesday

¡Viva Blogger!

Other awesome Pop Rock Star Self Portraiture aqui.

Tales of the SM Move - A Touch of Taekwondo

Obviously a big part of The Move has been finding a mo' betta Taekwondo studio. The timing of this is actually perfect because the girls' current studio is not all gung ho about competing in tournaments, believe it or not. The only reason Maya competes and qualified for the J.O.'s was because Husband researched tournaments and got her in the mix. At events, we longingly look at other schools seeming all unified with matching warm ups embroidered with their names. After her qualification, we told the director of Maya’s studio, Master P, about our fundraising plans and we asked if we could put up a board at the school with the announcement and a plea to buy bracelets. And he said, "We don't really do that here." Which made me want to punch him in the head. However, he IS still a fifth degree black belt and I didn't need to awaken the beast, if you know what I'm saying. But I thought, You don't do that kind of stuff here? Support? Encouragement? Phhoooo, I was infuriated. But I do look at her time with Master P as a great start, and I am sincerely thankful for him and the studio.

We started researching L.A. TKD schools about six weeks ago. We looked online and we asked around. The first studio that piqued our interested was one run by a Brazilian husband and wife master team. Cool. They looked super tournament-motivated and it looked like they were churning out champions. We visited the studio on our first exploratory excursion to SM. Getting to this Brazilian studio, from where we wanted to live, took five billion hours because we decided to cut across town at five o'clock. (P.S. the traffic in L.A. is not a fable. This is hands-down going to be one of the suckiest draw backs to our new adventure.) We finally arrived at the studio located in a strip mall, and we found that this TKD school, that teaches 75% of its classes to children, was immediately next door to a shop called A Touch of Romance. Now, this place wasn't trying to present itself as a straight out porn shop though you just KNOW a place like this has a choice Back Room. The storefront displayed -- besides yummy body oils in cinnamon and coconut! -- a lovely, frilly lingerie set that may or may not have been crotchless. My shock did not allow me to look too hard at the plastic mannequin’s vaginal area. Husband gave me a look that said, "Why are you trying to throw our children into the depths of hell or at the very least test their TKD skills against seedy porn-loitering characters?" The studio could've been the best in L.A., but funk that. We turned on our heels and grappled traffic back.

The second studio we saw, which was located very conveniently near where we wanted to live, was brand new. It looked like Maya & Mina would quite possibly be the first students. The third studio looked fun and kid-friendly -- no porn shops to be seen -- but when I asked the director if they encouraged competition he rattled on for five minutes about how they only focus on character building. Then he concluded, "But we could get her ready for tournaments if that's what she wants, sure." This place was basically a gymboree that gave out different color belts.

We were getting madly discouraged. Until we checked out this old-school store front about fifteen minutes from SM. We walked in to observe a class, and the angels KI-YA'ed. Husband and I instantly knew this would be our new TKD home. It was big and sweaty and reeked of hard work and focus. It is run by a Grand Master which means he can kick your ass with his will alone. He walked out and I found myself averting my eyes and stuttering. He was about 150 years old and wore a sleeveless shirt to show off his rock-hard and ancient guns. He was like, "Oh yea, this is the place for them." We said, "Yes, Grand Master Mr. Sir Opulent Bad Ass -- what should we call you?" Master C, in the place to be, y’all.

Sweet Home, Saann-ta Monica

In two weeks, my husband, my daughters and I are moving to Santa Monica. YYAAAAA! I'm going home, yo.

This was The Thing that Husband did not want me to blog about. To most, a move may not seem like a big secret, but Husband was superstitious until all the details were solid. I respect that; I even kinda buy into it. But god, I would have rather emotionally blahblahblah all up in the blog about it all. Recapping now about all the shit we've been through in the last six weeks since we made the decision is anticlimactic. It's like I don't have the energy any more now that things are golden and all set.

Transitioning four lives to a place that's an hour away without taking off any work or without missing our regular activities was not easy. It has been high pressure and Husband and I have been impressive. We are tremendous under this kind of pressure, especially as a team. While many couples would fight and get on each others nerves during stressful, action-packed times, we hunker down and do our best in such situations. In the last six weeks, we have nailed down good jobs (he has an excited new one and I convinced my current one to let me work from home and commute),we researched and hand picked the best schools, scoped out markets and local shops; we found activities for the girls and ourselves, and we chose an exact neighborhood where we wanted to live. Because we were uncompromising about where to live -- a four square block area-- finding a place caused us the most stress and dragged out a little more than was comfortable. I found the baby mass in my breast during this housing limbo and I sat at my desk those two days before my doctor's appointment unsuccessfully trying to quell the pin pong ball of anxiety that bounced around furiously in my chest and head. With only 2 weeks left in our lease here, we just nailed down our apartment only yesterday. But it's perfect. The patience and stubbornness paid off.

The stress has calmed and the excitement has kicking into high gear. I'm trying not to think about the fact that we will move only a few days before we leave for the Junior Olympics in Atlanta. Oh well, Husband and I will handle that well too I'm sure. The last time we moved, the people that said they'd help us flaked out at the last moment and Husband and I moved IT ALL ourselves including getting our refrigerator up to our second-floor apartment. I'm so excited about getting to Santa Monica, in two weeks you can strap the fridge to my back and I'll run it up the 405 freeway on foot.

No more gag order. I'll keep you posted.

The Baby Mass

About 38 hours ago, I felt a pebble-sized mass deep inside my arm pit on the side of my right breast. I felt it and felt it and fingered it. Every thirty seconds of my shower, I reached to feel it again, unsure if I had really felt something. My first instinct, was to pretend that I did not feel anything. A younger version of myself would have done that, would not have said anything. My second instinct was to not tell anyone but get it checked out. How dumb would that have been; to wait until A Situation was too dire to be corrected? I can't think of anything more egregious to do to my family.

I am not the person I once was. I do not encapsulate myself anymore in an air-tight iron shell when I'm scared or when I fear things will go terribly wrong. I actually did not know that entirely about myself until I got to work yesterday morning and IM'ed Husband. I had not planned on telling him, but when we started messaging, I knew I needed him. I knew he would help me. We had been typing back and forth, like we do every morning, and he was talking about his new, great job that he'll start soon. We often interweave three or four subjects together via IM and I slipped in that I was a little worried about The Baby Mass I had found on the side of my breast. He typed, You found what? I typed, It's probably nothing. I have my period, my boobs are swollen. He said, You check that out now. Today. I said, Ok. And then I asked him if he was nervous about his new job. He said, I don't give a shit about this job right now.

Two days ago, I visited a good friend of mine who had a double mastectomy a week ago. She is a tough woman in her early 40's with a beautiful face and suburbia style. She is loud and funny, and she trained herself early to speak poorly of herself. I do not allow that kind of talk around me and she appreciates that. As we visited, she explained that when she found her lump, she kicked into gear. Her mentality was: There is something bad in me and I'm going to get it out; everything will be fine and that's that. She looked no different on Sunday than any other day I had seen her. She hid her drains under her button-down tailored blue oxford. I told her that with a flat chest she looks like she has the body of an athlete. She showed me her scars, and she rattled off all that she has learned and researched. She asked me about raw foods. I told her that I believe food is medicinal. She is going to buy a juicer and asked me if I would show her how to use it. Her four year old daughter came out to the porch where we sat and asked for snacks, and I saw her husband in the shadows of the kitchen looking tired. She said, If I have to have chemo, then so be it. If lose my hair, so what. Maybe I can get a big boob job out of the whole deal. I said, It still sucks that you have to go through this. She said, without the pretense, Yeah.

After I IM'd Husband, I called Dr. K who is a casual Indian woman with a You-Don't-Know-Suffering! bedside manner. If you complain or share a concern, she looks at you from over her glasses, and I always imagine her saying in her thick accent, "Are you famished? Do you have leprosy? Then stop your bitching." This quality in her comforts me. This type of doctoring works for me. After my appointment was set, 34 hours after I had discovered the mass, I imagined her saying, "Is your boob falling off? Of course you have no cancer, Idiot. Out of my office!" Then I imagined seeing her show true concern for the first time. I worried more than before.

Last night and today, I tried to pretend that The Baby Mass did not bother me. I channeled my energy into The Thing That Husband Won't Let Me Blog About, and I honestly at times couldn't understand why I was so stressed about The Thing. Every stall in The Thing caused severe aggravation and stress that I couldn't seem to relieve. So, to get away from stressing about The Thing, I thought about The Baby Mass. I had no break from myself.

I did not feel gung ho about taking care of this if it turned out to be something. I did not feel strong and positive like my friend does. I felt mad. I felt inconvenienced. I did not want to stop the forward motion of my life for a health concern. I was very angry at myself for not starting a mostly raw diet before. Aren't I the picture of health? Then I was angry about how our poor Earth is so fucking toxic that it's now common for women in their thirties and forties to address cancer frequently. Why hadn't I eaten organically longer? Why did I smoke for 5 years, ever, at all?

My mother had fibrous breasts. I remember as a kid that she had to have a couple operations to remove benign lumps. I had to stay with other people for extended periods during those times. I thought about that. Maybe I had inherited fibrous breasts. But wouldn't I have felt something before age 39?

At 4 o'clock today, I sat in Dr. K's office with a front-opening paper gown and stared at the posters on the wall. I had passed a pharmaceutical rep on the way into the room who almost rolled her travel case full of drugs over my toes. I gagged on her perfume. I thought of the evils of her job and how she was only a pawn in a smart, navy skirt suit. I did not want to be on what she was selling. The posters in the office gave me paranoia. Does my foot look like a diabetic foot? Oh my god, will I have to go through this shit later in life? But what mainly filled my mind sitting on the exam bed staring at the Colon Cancer poster was that I decided I would live and heal and die by the power of natural foods and holistic methods. I am not taking any gut-rot medicine. I wondered if I would be brave enough to treat cancer holistically. When really faced with that possibility, I felt an inch tall. The medical world would tell me a quick death was certain. God, one must really be brave to stick to off-path desires.

Dr. K came in. As she asked me questions, I stared at an interesting gold necklace she wore. The pendant was four coins stuck together in the shape of a diamond. Each coin had a design that I couldn't see clearly because the gold glared from the window's light. I laid down and she examined me gently. She looked at me from over her glasses and said, "You have a very swollen gland. You're fine." I nervously blurted that I had just visited a friend who had a double mastectomy. She said, "It is easy to imagine such things after seeing that," which was rather tender for her. And that was it. I speed dressed and fled the building. I raced walked to my car. The relief I was looking for in the previous 34 hours of intense tension had come. I texted Husband, and then I cried for the first time in two years. I cried because my instincts are so shot that I felt completely in the dark about which way the ax would fall. In the car, I tried to think of how I could live my life better. I dunno. I feel I'm doing a pretty good job. I tried to think about what I was spiritual. I believe in the connection to and the power of Nature. I'm true to that. But the only thing I worship is Husband, Maya and Mina. When the chips felt like they were tumbling, they were all that mattered. I suppose this is obvious, but my sensitivity to this fact, there in the car outside Dr. K's office, was heightened and deepened a thousand fold. And for this I cried and cried.

In Lieu of Photobooth Friday . . .

. . .I present the KICKASS video that Husband spliced together of Maya's Junior Olympic qualifying tournament. We were baffled by how to actually put this on the blog until I saw this Dropshots site used over at Heather's place.

During the forms part of the video, Maya is on the left. During the sparring portion of our program, she is the fighter farthest away, facing the viewer. I love how when Maya gets in a good flurry of kicks, we are cheering so hard that the camera gets off center. I get choked up everytime I watch this.


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The Box

I have a little grey lockbox that I keep in the garage. It holds ancient, half-finished journals, letters from a friend of mine who went to jail because he's an idiot and letters from old boyfriends. I never lock the lockbox. And while Husband was cleaning out the garage this weekend he made a big deal about finding the key to This Box and why don't I just keep it locked already? I thought, "Oh. . ." He said, "The last time I read something in there I was upset for weeks." Which made me laugh but I realized this weekend how much he really hates The Box.

I personally think The Box is filled with embarrassments and documented growing pains. I don't want to throw it out because I'm certain I'll regret it. I once had a crazy jealous boyfriend who in a fit threw out a bag of old pictures he had found. I did not take that well at all. At all.

I read through some of journals in The Box this morning which I haven't done in a lot of years. I came to the conclusion -- and I've held this theory in a private recess of my brain for years -- that I wasn't smart until I was thirty years old. I really think this is true. Ok, I was smart in a instinctual, survival-mode kind of way, and maybe when I was a child, I was brilliant. But by the time I was twenty, I was dumb. I floundered in stupidity for about ten years. My journals confirm this. It kinda cracks me up that Husband would be upset by what the 20 something year old me would write, though NOBODY likes to read about the past lovers of one's spouse. . .

When Husband and I first moved in together, he received a letter from a girl he kinda dated for a minute back in New York. She was a swedish model -- A SWEDISH MODEL, YO -- and he just stashed the letter (he says absentmindedly) in his sock drawer. Before he moved to California and while we were dating bicoastally, he showed me a picture of her because a.) Men are dumb and b.) I think he was so proud of himself that he could land a girl like that. What was I supposed to say, Yea she's hot, man, good for you. That's awesome. You're a stud. I was more like, Are you kidding me right now? What's she got that I don't besides white hair and blue eyes and fucking dimples? Is this what you really want in a girl? And on and on . . .yo, he started it. So, he got this letter from fucking Inga or whatever after we'd moved in together -- and after I'd seen her stupid picture -- and the letter's all about some night they had with a group of people in a limo. In flowery stupid writing it said " . . .thanks for the great time in the limo . . ." which used to infuriate me; caused my eyes to roll to the back of my head. And this letter just sat in his sock drawer like I was a blind person who did his laundry and had to ignore the letter everytime I put away his folded underwear. Ggrrr. So, finally I said in a tone that had built up over ten laundry cycles and that took him totally by storm, "What's with the fucking letter, huh?" And he says in perfect man-ese: "What letter?" "THIS LETTER FROM YOUR FUCKING SWEDISH GIRLFRIEND THAT YOU HAVE TO PARADE AROUND BECAUSE YOU THINK BETTER OF YOURSELF BECAUSE YOU LANDED SOME HOT BLONDE-HAIR BLUE-EYED BBBBBIIIIITTTTTCCCCHHHHHH. THAT LETTER!" He was like, "Holy shit, loca, I'll throw the letter away. I didn't realize it was in there." "BULLSHIT. AND WHAT ABOUT THESE GREAT TIMES YOU HAD IN THE LIMO GODDAMNIT??" With a straight face he says, "What great times in the limo?" And I seriously almost crammed the crumpled (from my grip) and rolled-up letter into his ear.

My point is that I understand how he's feeling about The Box. And I kinda pulled his routine when he asked me about it this weekend. I was like, I forgot The Box was in the garage which is true though not entirely because if I saw The Box, I'd be like oh yeah, there's The Box. So technically I had forgotten about it. Then he said, "I don't want to read all about that shit . . ." Now, he and I don't front and say things like "Why are you going through my shit and reading my private things!" because we know that if things are not hidden well, it's fair game though there has been no dramatic fair game in a long time. I said, "What shit?" I haven't read what's in The Box in a long, long time, and though I sincerely couldn't remember what he was talking about specifically, I do know there is some shit in there. I took The Box away from the house this morning.

The best part of the journals from The Box is that I documented some crazy sleeping dreams that reveal a subconscious smart side even if it wasn't obvious in my twenties. Wild dreams where I lounged by African river banks and basked naked on rocks in the river and witnessed trees made of peacock feathers. There was also a detailed entry right after the 1992 Landers Earthquake that was 7.3 in magnitude and was followed five minutes later by a 7.6 aftershock. At the time I lived alone in a restored building from the 1930's near downtown LA. From my sixth floor apartment, I felt the building shake so violently it felt like it was made of plywood. The thunder-rattle of the building was terrifying. I rushed to the window as the quake wound down --dawn was just breaking -- and I watched power lines snap off poles in tremendous sparks, like they were being cracked like a whip. And I was petrified then of Suffering; any suffering that people endure in the wake of disaster or by the hand of others. When the aftershock hit, I curled up into a ball near my bed and prayed. All I wondered was if I played a role in anyone's suffering. I was sorry if I had. I wouldn't do it anymore.

The rest of The Box is pretty much shit; mainly relationship whining and lamenting and kicking myself. And boring, tedious introspection. Ug.

I laugh off Husband's agitation about the contents of The Box because my husband is absolute perfection to me. Nothing in those journals matter. My Dumb Decade was only a sloughing of stupidity to get ready for him, so I wouldn't fuck anything up with us. I don't even question how I got so lucky anymore. I just gulp him up, arresting any iota of sabotage. I'm like, Thanks God, and with a quick wave, I'm off running with the golden egg. I'll drop kick That Box back to the past, next to the swedish letter, if he said the word.

self portrait tuesday

I'm DIGGIN' the new theme over at Self Portrait Challenge Which I Still Do On Tuesdays. June is Pop Art Self Portrait Month. Awesome.

The Next Shot Caller

We all know Maya is a superstar, and it's true, but don't take your eye off of this one. Mina is my next baller, shot caller. This one displays a bit more natural talent and sheer tenacity than Maya, and that gives me goosebumps. She doesn't necessarily have the work-hard gene that Maya has -- yet -- but when it all comes together, can you imagine this bad-ass sister team?

In basketball, Mina has picked up nuances of the game that takes some kids years to figure out, sometimes forever. She can see passing lanes and she can cut those off defensively already. She can fast break and is smart enough to pass to an open person if she's guarded too heavily. Her dribbling skills are really impressive at seven.

In Taekwondo -- though everything is still all fun and games -- she has a natural sparring ability that surpasses Maya's at that age. Sometimes during home fights when they clown around rigorously, Mina gets this look in her eye that genuinely causes Maya to back up. But if things get too out of hand, Maya will push kick Mina across a room. Believe that. But that kind of thing only makes Mina tougher.

I love this picture. This was from her first tournament and I love that she's staring this guy down and that he looks nervous. She's ice, man!

She's medalist too!

Portrait of a Seven Year Old Athlete:

P.S. I had the raddest Photobooth Friday with the funniest picture of Mina, but GODDAMNIT I cannot find it. It is temporarily lost in the sea of school papers --how many more tree-killing PTA flyers can they send me for christ's sake -- and all the other overflowing crap that I can't seem to toss or tidy fast enough. Or I tossed and tidied so much that I lost some good stuff along the way too. Damn me.