Pretty much every conscious effort I have made to draft something funny, silly or lighthearted comes out having some profound meaning (or implied, at least, if I sort of miss the mark).  So here’s another go. And if you don’t think it funny, that’s ok, because you surely won’t think it profound.

Three things you probably don’t know about me:

1. My first waterskiing venture resulted in unplanned public skinny-dipping. Numerous failed attempts to get up on the skis, my legs are tired. Last try, I awkwardly jump out of the boat and graze the metal ladder ~ with my crotch. One piece bathing suit, slices neatly from left side of hoo-hoo to right, puddles around my neck as I, shy 18-year-old that I am, swim over to grab the handle like I think I’m gonna really do this. Stuck between a rope and a wet place, I have no choice but to admit to my boyfriend, his best friend, and his best friend’s girlfriend and parents, that I am, indeed, butt-naked in the water.
2. I missed the Grand Canyon. LA move 1996 started off on the northern route. After stopping to visit my friend in Grand Junction and realizing she wasn’t home (lesson: call first!) we proceeded to detour down through Colorado to new Arizona specifically to see the Grand Canyon. Fires on the North Rim resulted in a long but nightmarishly exciting drive around the Canyon as the flames, visible miles away in the dark wilderness night, seemed to be coming straight from hell. Next morning: Left Cliff Dwellers Lodge, drove to convenience store at intersection of two 2-lane highways, and bought lunch. Left convenience store, turned left. Drove. And drove. And drove. And hit Interstate 40. Are you kidding me? The Grand Canyon is now 50 miles behind us. I’ve never had the best sense of direction, or obviously, distance, either. But it was one of the best laughs of my life.
3. I have peed my pants on the streets of LA. Twice. Take one incredibly weak bladder and place it in a city that does not believe in public restrooms in its parks and it is a no-brain recipe for disaster. 2005. Boot camp class in Mandeville Canyon. Absolutely breathtaking views of the Pacific Ocean and LA. One of the reasons I love this city. But running and kicking ass on hills for over an hour leaves my bladder like an overfilled water balloon, and this is Brentwood and there are no … NO… restrooms or even fast food places located between that canyon and the 10. All the positive mental imagery in the world cannot stop that glass from appearing too full.  And the pain, oh my god, the pain. I almost made it but for that burning, cramping pain. I had a black sweatshirt in the car. One hand on the wheel, one shoving that sweatshirt under my toosh. The handle by then turned so tightly in the off position I thought my bladder had died altogether until . . . oh, thank you, thank you thank you. I cannot believe I am peeing on an LA freeway. Oh thank you thank you, thankyou thankyouhthankyouthankyou. Roommate: How was class? Me, running through to bathroom shower:  It was great! I peed my pants!

You would think I’d learn. But I drink coffee in the morning and water when I hike and flash forward 5 years, neither LA nor I has changed all that much. I do now know that Petco and Trader Joe’s have restrooms. Runyon Canyon, however, does not. Tennis courts, walking trails, water fountains. No porta-potty. I walked the dogs. I walked me. I realized I had done it again and there was no way I was gonna make it to Trader Joe’s or Petco or even The Beanery on Sunset. You cannot pee in the bushes at Runyon ~ the entire trail is comprised of hills and switchbacks so anyone at anytime has a clear 360 view. I mean, you could, but. . . . better to sit in your car and grab the thrift store fleece you bought as a snow coat for your dog on the way out here. Yes. I did. Again. Only this time, I wasn’t about to pee my pants, too, because I had errands to run and a long way to go home. Thankfully I was wearing a long shirt so I could cop a squat, so to speak, on the front seat and still smile pleasantly at the hikers and workmen passing by.

Anybody see a restroom down there?

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

It’s still very much my goal to be like my dear friend SuziCate and post a blog a day. So far, I’ve not done well with that.

Right now I’m blaming it on the fact that it’s all I can do to keep my head above water while getting settled into a new location. It seems like everything lately has been about navigating my way around town, learning who’s who, working to earn the living, and taking the dogs out for walks and to pee while keeping one vigilant eye on the ever-threatening evil coyotes.

Add to that an hour of yoga and walking a day ~ cuz that’s for the sanity and the gut ~ and you start to get the picture, and even those are rushed. There’s just been no good quality MeTime for sitting down and writing a blog. Because unfortunately I can’t yet pop them out and hit “publish” without at least a couple of hours of time invested. This is my heart and soul here, after all.

I’m trying to be kind to myself and not beat my own head with a stick for all the days I’ve missed and all the great ideas I’ve let slip away, ~ not to mention all the blogs I haven’t taken the time to read ~ but sometimes I feel like I’m running uphill against my own personal stopwatch and I can practically hear the seconds ticking away. Life . tick . Is . tick . Going . tick . By . tick . And .  tick . You . tick . Are . tick .  Missing . tick . It.

What suffers along with my good nature and my attitude tends to be the things I love most. Shooting pictures, writing, reading, meditating. Hell, just sitting on the back deck with a cup of coffee and a breeze. In sort, all the things that feed and fuel my soul. All the things that are creative. You may not think that plopping your butt on the patio is creative, but you’d be surprised at what runs through my head in those moments of downtime.

Creative energy. I need that. Like a fish needs water and a dog needs a bone, I need to have my hands and my being immersed in those creative juices. When they aren’t flowing, this baby withers.

Due to car space, very few books made the trip to LA with me. Most ended up going to friends or donated. So it took me by surprise this morning when my eye fell on a book I’d bought when I came to LA on vacation back in 2004. Jill Murphy Long’s Permission to Play is a beautiful little book full of reminders on why and how to make time for this essential part of any creative and happy life.

Random flipping of pages landed me in the chapter called Creative Expression and a cool little entry called The Top Ten List for Creating. I’m gonna start right now with number one, and see about working my way up. During a particularly whiny bitch episode a couple of days ago, someone pointed out to me that photography is like my therapy. Well, I miss my camera, and I miss my blog, and I am coming back.

The Top Ten List for Creating
10. Learn something new.
9. Perfect a skill.
8. Play in colors.
7. Experiment with textures.
6. Savor the five senses.
5. Be in a happy mood.
4. Alleviate stress.
3. Create with your hands.
2. Develop commitment.
1. Smile more!

*As a footnote, the coyotes honestly haven’t been that bad. I’ve yet to see them, though I’ve made a habit of sitting at the window at dawn and dusk and listening to them come out to hunt. Their howls and yelps are bone-chilling and other worldly, especially at 1am, and I’m afraid I’ve created my own version of the BoogeyMan. So I read about coyote totems, and this is what I found:

If coyote has come into your life perhaps it is time to loosen up and have some fun. While coyote stands for a lot more than just a trickster, sometimes humor and fun are necessary in life when under a great deal of stress. Coyote will teach you how to embrace your inner child and have fun again like you did when you were a child. He will teach you how important it is not to only have fun, but to be able to laugh at yourself in the process. Individuals with coyote as a totem are in for a very fun ride so hold on tight, go with the flow, and enjoy the adventure.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.