I reckon there’s a whole different view and probably a lot more fun back there.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

I was driving out to California alone with my two dogs.

I wanted something visible that said independent, tough, courageous, strong.

Kick Ass.

So I threw the sticker in my back window and never gave it another thought.

Occasionally someone would ask me about it and I’d explain why it was there.

Then, on my last day in Cali, my very dear friend told me a funny story.

We’d met when I looked at the cottage she had for rent, eventually choosing something else.

Her tenants, next door to where I would have lived, were minimalists.

I was endeared to them immediately.

Free spirits and travelers, not encumbered with the weight of society’s convention.

Things and bills and ideas and such.

But I always thought it odd that they would seem to avoid me when we saw each other at Von’s.

And I figured it must be my own imagination and self-confidence.

Turns out they were wary of me.

“You can tell a lot about a person by the car they drive.”

Can you, really, now?

I spent over an hour in the Washington National Cathedral on Saturday.

I even sat and said a prayer for some spirit friends.

If you saw me, you probably would have assumed I am a Christian.

Until you saw me get in my truck.

If, that is, you make assumptions based on things like that.

And now I can’t help but wonder, when I chose that bumper sticker . . .

did I?

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

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.

Back in Virginia Beach, Daisy had a habit of sitting on the her end table and looking out the window.  She’d watch the birds, the squirrels and the neighbors come and go, but mostly she’d sit at her perch and wait for me.

Daisy knows that when I tell her something, I mean it. So when I tell her that I’m leaving, but I’ll be back, she knows I’m true to my word.

She knows she can trust me.

Sure, she’s just a dog, but it’s important to me that my dogs, as well as my friends, know where they stand with me. If I say I’m going to do something, I will do it. If I find I can’t do it, I will tell you.

Why? Because the bottom line is this ~ I’ve learned I have to live in a way that allows me to look in the mirror at myself and like who I see.

Each step I take through life lands me squarely where I place my feet. If my legs are shaky and my footing is weak, then I can’t stand rooted within myself and I surely won’t give much grounding to you.

Better that I tell you I’m slipping than to leave you sitting in the window, waiting. Old dog or old friend, it’s all the same.

So when I hold out my hand to you, or make a promise to you, and I tell you that you can trust me, you can.

The question is, can you trust yourself?

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

Girl, I need your help!

I pet a vicious dog . . . and it turned and bit me. I want an apology!

I drove my car through flood waters . . . and it up and sank! I want an apology!

I drank a bottle of wine . . . and I got a HANGOVER! I want an APOLOGY!

I beat my head up against the wall! And it got bruised! I want an apology!

I slept with a married man and he didn’t leave his wife for me  . . .

I want an apology!

I left my good sense at the door and it went home without me. I want an apology.

I played with fire . . . and, uh-huh! I got burned!

I want an apology.

Call me girlfriend ~ we can get on TV!

(For ya’ll that don’t live in LA, you may not understand. Here is something for you!)

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.