Your Answer; Never, Sometimes, Often, Always

Many of you have been wondering, writing emails (then for some reason not sending them) but the answer is yes, I continue to struggle with my calling, my passion, my Best Life as grand Master Oprah calls it, or at least something that doesn't I don't know, annoy me. I'm not totally self involved, I know I'm not hunting for a boar for my dinner (imagine the weight loss, No Carbs!) or a child slave wondering if God exists. I realize I have real problems. Between episodes of Jersey Shore I ask myself the tough questions, "What is your Passion?!", "What Energy Are You Projecting?!", "Why Did You Stop Tap Dancing?!", "Why Does Your Body Reject What Is Commonly Referred To As Work?!".


Thankfully, Oprah magazine offers me advice and quizzes on discovering my Best Self, on a monthly basis. My studies take place on the toilet, with no pen I strengthen my power of visualization, circling or check marking from a pencil made of air: a.), b.), c.) and sometimes d.). It's hard because nobody's watching, so there's a great temptation to cheat. The results achieved by a mathematical process known as addition, reveal the quintacential me. Not the Bollywood celebrity I imagine myself to be. Not a hypoglycemic, retired chemical plant worker who tinkers in his workshop. Not Patti Lupone (original star of Evita, who's best known by non-theatre goers as the mother on the television series, Life Goes On). Not a cat wrangler. Rather a reflection of a secret me. In this reflection I'm left handed. That's something I cling to, with my right hand.

Ultimately, if I followed the path laid out by these multiple choice selections, I would live in a monostery, helping the needy, mending my burlap caftan (embellishing it perhaps or maybe just a strong red lip) staring at a bug on a leaf for three days. I mean that's pretty ridiculous. I'm way too tall to be a monk.

Anyway, in addition to everything else I've got on my plate (if you can believe it), I've been thinking of my Nana lately. Her Marlboro Lights in the pocket of her house coat, a tiny remote control in the other, her feet scuffing the carpet of her tiny living room. Wait, I just realized why I've been thinking of her so much. That's me! Exchange Johnnie Carson for Jersey Shore and it's incredibly eerie! If I want to speak to my dead grandmother I have to stay up late and ask her questions during commercials. Her apparition appears disinterested and asks me to make her
some Salada tea and toast. I assume it's like a meditation on the godliness of daily activities or something?
I don't have all the answers but I do ask the big questions.
Fact: It's best to brush up on Medieval speak as most of the answers are in like Chaucerian English.
Example: Methinks this whiney wench's mouth shall maketh a fine shoe horn for me swines hoove.

It's Electric

Tinted vans, rusty nails and most social situations. These are some of the fears that I've inherited. The fear that resonates most with me is a fear of all things electric. When taking a bath for the first twenty years of my life, I kept a close on the hair dryer and curling iron sure that they wanted me dead.
Electric means toasters, lightening, plugs and wires but also things like fireworks. Another fear that is closely linked with the electric concern is the fear of losing an eye. I believe the origin of this fear is my fathers poor eyesight. He often speaks about how he would have died had he lived in ancient times due to his near blindness. The idea is that he would have been left for dead in a cave while superior sighted humans left to discover the wheel or that he would not be able to see through a dense forest while tigers chased him.

In modern times, my father exchanged tigers for toaster plugs and 4th of July sparklers and combined that with exploding eyeball phobia. Still, when I was young neighborhood teens like fat Louie and the evil drug dealer David Parrish (oh the horror, he was from a single parent home, another fear) gathered on the street right in front of our house and lit an impressive 4th of July show on Glenbrook Ave. We watched from over 100 feet away as my father wrapped his hands tightly around our wrists. All it took, he said, was one faulty M80 and when Louie bent over to light it, that M80 would rip through his eye socket. Louie would be blinded immediately. No need to call an ambulance. The show's over. Happy Fourth of July!

Critics Corner

One of my favorite activities in Kansas City (besides going to the WWI memorial almost daily) is pointing out the cultural differences between Kansas City and the east coast. Though it's tiresome for my loved ones, it keeps me alert and prevents early onset Alzheimer's.
An example from last night: I attended a going away party on a warm but breezy summer evening in a magical Swiss Family Robinson house. Young and old gathered to wish the great Frank & Sarah farewell and good luck on their journey to NYC. There was couscous, vegetables, salads and in the corner, a bucket full of pulled pork. Michael and I made tiny sandwiches and walked around with loose meat falling where it may. This would not have occurred back east.

In The Year 2010

Nobody told me Kansas City summers were like Haitian heat waves. Each day for the past 2 or 3 weeks I step outside and my bodily functions reverse themselves. It's like that theory where all life is created by infinite spirals and mine chokes, vomits a little and starts chugging backwards. Historically, genetically, I should be dancing around Stonehenge wearing layers of Druid priestess garb (likely something functional and breathable, a raw linen or Irish cotton) on a rainy somewhat cool Solstice eve. Instead, I'm unable to complete full sentences or walk in a straight line, it's like being drunk but without any of the joy and only the following days depression. Luckily, there isn't a proper public transportation system in Kansas City so I hop in my car, hold the door open for a few seconds to release some of the swamp heat and immediately turn on the A.C (which after sitting in the lot for 10 hrs is like sticking your face in the oven while your broiling some moldy ribs. I really need to change the air filter).
Anyways it seems some of the locals discovered a way to beat the heat and avoid the sweaty butt, inner thigh rash, dripping t-shirt hazards of walking in these conditions. Their chosen system of transport is.....
The SEGWAY.
Kansas Citians ride around in these things like it's totally normal. Cops use Segways to control their "wild" midwestern public. It's like the Terminator over here or RoboCop. I want to keep one near my desk at work and use it when I need to get up to file some paperwork. Are there toilets on these things? Kitchenettes? Do they have sleeping chambers? It is like living in Tron over here and nobody else seem to notice. It's making me insane.