Not this kind of sign.

Nonetheless and as I’ve mentioned, the last few weeks I have felt kind of panicked. In the simplest of terms, it’s a feeling of “WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!!” and it’s a really lame and anxiety-causing sensation, especially because there’s no clear answer. On certain terms, I could argue with the Voice of Urgency that I’m doing the best I can – I’m working on a new book (thinking and planning more than writing at the moment, but that will come), I’m living my life, I’m thinking deep thoughts, I have clever ideas at least once a week, I’m mostly in a good mood, I use very few aerosol products anymore, and, by and large, I’m not hurting anybody (as far as I know). On the other hand – and recognizing that the Voice of Urgency comes from my head and, thus, is me in some fashion – I completely agree with it. Somehow, in ways I can’t quite pinpoint, I am wasting time and, by extension, my life.

Ouch.

That hurts.

That more than hurts. That f*cking sucks.

And then enter – stage right – the bounce.

Not this kind either. If this kind is even real. I'm not sure. Somehow I doubt it.

I have long had (and recently had reinforced) the feeling that if I just keep pushing and writing and working that I will eventually hit upon the idea and the plot and the “it”, and then the magical, mystical force that makes stuff turn out happily ever after will kick in and things will go my way forevermore. Just as suddenly, all the work I’ve done up to that point will become useful and relevant, if not sought after. I like this idea. I am buoyed by the hope that I have the talent and the tenacity, all I need is the bright idea and a little bit of star alignment.

This is probably why I was overly excited when my two – count ‘em, not just one but two – fortune cookie fortunes the other day were so optimistic. The first read “Don’t give up. The best is yet to come!” Not too shabby. If fortune cookies were guarantees, this beats the hell out of “You find beauty in ordinary things, do not lose this ability” or “Don’t forget, you are always on our minds.” That second one freaked me out. What? Who? Who’s “our”? A collective hive mind or all of your minds individually? And who are you again? And when you’re thinking about me, do you think good things or wish me well or are you have subtle urges to do me bodily harm? In other words, is this a benign threat of some kind? Seriously, who’s “our”?

I'm trying, I'm trying. The signs are harder to recognize - let alone know - than one might presume.

But not the other night. Those predictions were all good. That night I got two fortuitous predictions: “Don’t give up. The best is yet to come!” and “Your dearest wish will come true within the month!” Sweet.

True, there were only a few days eft in the month, and my dearest wish didn’t quite come to obvious fruition during that time, but maybe the seeds were sown? Or maybe they meant 30 days more than the literal month-end? I’m willing to keep an open mind and a hopeful heart. You never know, I suppose.

Meanwhile, if the fortunes weren’t enough, get this: I found a pearl in an oyster I was eating! I did. A Washington state Sunset Beach oyster grown in the Hood Canal. That has to be some kind of  omen of impending amazing luck, right?

Right???

Well, I say so anyway, and in trying to prove it, I came across the following statistics:

• The odds of finding a pearl in an oyster are 10,000 to 1
• Odds of getting a hole in one: 5,000 to 1
• Odds of an American speaking Cherokee: 15,000 to 1
• Odds of being struck by lightning: 576,000 to 1
• Odds of being murdered: 18,000 to 1
• Odds of getting away with murder: 2 to 1
• Odds of being considered possessed by Satan: 7,000 to 1
• Odds of being on plane with a drunken pilot: 117 to 1
• Odds of writing a New York Times best seller: 220 to 1
• Odds of becoming a pro athlete: 22,000 to 1
• Odds of finding a four-leaf clover on first try: 10,000 to 1
• Odds of winning an Academy Award: 11,500 to 1
• Chance that Earth will experience a catastrophic collision with an asteroid in the next 100 years: 1 in 5,000
• Chance of dying in such a collision: 1 in 20,000

I don't think this is real either. If it were, wouldn't they just ask for dollar bills and small bottles of liquor?

So there you have it: I am almost as likely to win an Academy Award or could be considered possessed by Satan one and a half times before I’d find a matching, misshapen pearl in another oyster, and I’d have better luck hitting TWO holes in one as the same occurring. Thus, I rest my case. I think the math makes it plain: this is a harbinger of imminent good fortune if ever there was.

So bring it on, lucky stars: unload a giant truck of the best and make my dearest dreams come true.

I’m ready already.

New hair

Putting aside the general terror associated with any server related  change (due mostly to an extensive prior history of things hitting the fan or looking like sh*t or ceasing to function altogether after said ‘upgrades’), what really has me baffled (and a bit alarmed) is that the intended date and time for this project is Friday, June 4th at 8pm.

Ummm….

June 4th like 13 weeks ago?

That June 4th?
Or are they giving me notice nine months in advance?

And do they really expect that I’ll remember this in nine days let alone nine months?
And is June 4th even on a Friday in 2001?

(No. No it is not.)
And why is my dog licking the keyboard?

And is dog saliva safe for a keyboard?

So do they mean to say they’re doing this upgrade tonight?

Same new hair, different background

Or that they already did it?

And can I have any faith that things will look as they should in the morning?

And do I really need this added stress?

(No. No, I do not.)

And am I going to do anything further than post this whiney blog and hope for the best and maybe avoid looking at my own site until at least Sunday for fear that I will find an epic disaster that I have pretty much no idea how to fix?

Probably not.

Black is too...black. I think it kind of washes me out.

There was a time I would not change my hair: it was all one length and very long and had been that way forever and the mere thought of cutting even a few inches was distressing. I would have dreams that someone took a chunk out of my hair and wake up stressed out and agitated.

In hindsight, it was probably a lot more drab and boring than I ever realized, and I probably could have been an extra on Big Love…as one of The Prophet’s followers living on the compound. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t in Crystal Gale or Cousin It territory, but it was still bad.

So we’ve established I had very long hair and was emotionally attached to it. Enter a major break-up. I remember standing in my kitchen and Lisa Bonet was on Behind the Music or some such thing talking about her break-up with Lenny Kravitz. And there was some story about how he came to see her at her recording studio somewhere in the Caribbean a few years later, and they were cool the way you (hopefully) are a few years later, and during the course of events he asked her to cut his trademark long hair. She said he stated, “You hold a lot of energy in your hair.”

I know it’s Lenny Kravitz and taking life advice from Lenny Kravitz is maybe not advisable the way it would be from the Dalai Lama or Gandhi, but neither one of them had very good hair. Moreover, I kind of couldn’t help it: I knew exactly what Lenny was talking about.

Excellent spy hair.

I also thought about how 98% of the atoms in our bodies are replaced in one year’s time, and somehow this collided in a significant emotional cyclone, which ultimately resulted in me marching into the salon and having my hair cut super short. Short like for the first time since I was a baby.

And it was pretty cute, but it turns it grows faster than most people’s, and I only liked it the first couple weeks after the haircut. After that, it started to get shaggy and weird and strange little curls, and I couldn’t handle it and grew it out again.

In other words, been there done that on the super short, but I have a haircut coming up in a few days, and I’m thinking of yet another change. I think we’re looking at dark brown and maybe an angled bob.

I have no idea what this endless restlessness and need for change is all about, but I suppose it’s better than drug addiction or becoming a mercenary. Actually, I think I might make a fine soldier of fortune if it weren’t for the whole armed conflict part. Admittedly, with the proper mix of Jack Daniels and love-gone-bad-fueled rage, I could give Courtney Love a run for her money, but I prefer not to work myself into such a lather on a regular basis.

Maybe if they had some kind of spy work where there was travel and intrigue and wigs and vinyl, but no actual danger or potential prosecution for treason? Pretty much sounds like the TV show Alias, and I probably missed my window to star in it.

This is a terribly cheap wig.

I suppose it’s just as well: I don’t really like Ben Affleck anyway.

The evil demonic boss lady looked something like this, only not as pretty. And with smaller boobs.

Anywho, I suspect you’re going to think I’m making this up, but I swear it’s the absolute truth: I’m starting to wonder if perhaps the blog is some kind of supernatural gravitational field. Admittedly, that sounds kind of stupid, but if you’ve seen The Matrix (and if you haven’t, go rent it now, assuming you’re not still in your primitive state and know how to rent stuff. Moreover, while I’m giving you advice, let me add: don’t bother with the sequel and the third one.) To restate, in Matrix terms, maybe this proposition makes more sense than you’re giving me credit for?

But you can’t judge until I lay it on you. So here goes: about five and a half years ago I left a job and a team of employees to take a more independent position at a company that wasn’t run by Nazis. Or so I thought. Aren’t they all – at the end of the day – run by Nazis? The new company maybe wasn’t quite as Nazi-ish as the one I left, more like Stalinist, but I did end up with a horrible, she-devil bitch of a boss – hateful shrew ***grumbles to self at mere memory*** – who was wildly insecure and not afraid to use it as a weapon. Let’s just say she took the passive out of passive aggressive.

Seriously.

She was a f*cking nightmare. Case in point, she hired one other woman who actually ended up doing time in a psychiatric ward after just a couple months on the job. Swear on my life. And I still know this woman – and owe her a email. Sorry, L, if you’re reading this. I just reminded myself that I heard from you about a month ago and didn’t get back to you yet. I will! Soon! Promise! And not just promises, promises… Anyway, I know the person driven off the edge by that evil witch boss, and she’s a good people and not otherwise unstable or prone to institutionalization.

This reminds me of a company sales convention I was once forced to attend. Except ours was held at a Hilton.

Wow. Pardon me while I experience some PTSD. That lady really was incredibly out of control. So much so, that I went to HR and her boss and eventually even her peers and a number of failed recourses to try to get her removed from management. It did eventually happen, but I was long gone by then. Maybe someday I’ll write a post for you about the labyrinth of maneuvers I used to employ to avoid the Satanista and her ruthless mind games. Sufficed to say, I am the Houdini of politely avoiding trouble.

Anyway, at the time I left said position at the bank to go and slave under the Princess of Darkness, I had about a dozen people working for me directly or indirectly. I still communicate with some of them, but as life goes, a few got lost in the shuffle along the way. Cut to last week and the following (paraphrased a little to protect the innocent) in my inbox:

Hey Vanessa! I really love your site and blogs. You truly have a knack for this stuff, but that doesn’t surprise me. I stumbled on your site while searching for the meaning of life on my iPad . I hope you keep it up because it’s a really good read. I left XXX by mutual agreement long ago. I can be honest now- I hated that job and I hated being there. There was a little hope when you left because you were a little visionary, but they didn’t appreciate you.

There you go. The big answer you've been waiting for.

Yes. It’s true. Someone I used to know.

Randomly found me again.

Via the blog.
While searching the internet for “the meaning of life.”

Wha…???

What???

Seriously, what???

The kicker is, this isn’t the first time someone has told me they’ve found the blog by searching “what is the meaning of life,” although this is the first time I’d known the person beforehand (so at least they were adequately forewarned that I have no such answers. I’m willing to take a guess, but that’s not really the same thing as knowing. Really. It’s not.)

Back to the point: WE’VE RECONNECTED BECAUSE SHE WAS SEARCHING THE WEB FOR ‘WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE’ AND FOUND MY BLOG.

He has kind of a Papa Hemingway vibe going on here.

Does that not blow your mind?

It blows mine.

Obviously there’s some strange force at work here, although the truly important part of the enigma – the “why” – eludes me. However, I guess some things just can’t be intellectually understood. So whether it’s simple coincidence (yeah, right) or synchronicity or something more, I’ll take it.

In fact, if the universe sees fit to send me some more mind-blowing coincidences or even just a mix tape with “Every Breath You Take” on it and maybe some Jay-Z, I’m game.

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science.”  -Albert Einstein

There are a shocking number of people who have done original paintings based on "What Dreams May Come." Odd.

Oh freaking no.

I sat there with a drunken chain-drinking-six-Coors Lights stranger asleep on my right shoulder and my now-ex crashed out on my left, while I was engrossed in a series of heart-wrenching and emotionally overwhelming flicks appearing on the giant screen before me: What Dreams May Come, One True Thing, and Stepmom.

In short, I bawled my goddamned eyes out for ten hours while simultaneously flipping out over the surreal reality that I was in a small metallic vehicle with 300-odd people who were all asleep while suspended in the air and what kind of magic makes this tin can fly anyway????

I’m kind of like the non-native primitive cast member in The Gods Must Be Crazy. I’m easily mystified. And seriously though, the gods must be crazy.

Thanks, as always, to the supernatural powers of the internet for instantly providing images a lot like my dreams.

So anyway, I guess that was a feeble attempt at explaining the title – or more likely, just some free association about the title – but either way you’re going to have to hear about one of my dreams again: last night I dreamt that I was living in a simple wooden house with several other people. We shared a large bedroom, but my stuff – some clothes and my laptop – occupied one corner. One morning I was sitting downstairs in the kitchen and found myself musing about how nice the fire felt…until I realized the fire was under the house and had burned up through a giant hole now in the floor. Before we could really react, the fire had spread and melted the roof trusses, which caused the house to fold in on itself. It was distressing, but it seemed that we could still live there while repairs were done.

In the dream, the house was in Bermuda, but from all appearances it was actually in Scandinavia or the North Pole – all shades of blue and snow-capped peaks and shooting stars. I was walking one night and turned back and the landscape – and mountains in the distance – were all different shades of cobalt and midnight and sapphire and azure, and above us were hundreds of shooting stars, almost like rain, pouring down into the huge lake to my left. It was so spectacular that I was speechless, and tried to take photos to capture the incredible magic of the moment.

Minus the wolf this is pretty accurate. And the giant moon reminds me of a different dream but that's neither here nor there.

Back at the house, things had gone from bad to worse. It had split into three sections and the outer two were in the process of falling off. While in the upstairs bedroom, I could see that my laptop was running…and sitting on a desk in a portion of the cabin that was going to collapse soon. I knew I needed to rescue it and salvage any writing on it. I crept onto the fragile surface of the collapsing portion, and grabbed the computer just in time for the entire structure to cave in. Miraculously – probably because it was a dream – the computer and I were just fine.

Renovation plans were still in order for the house, and I was looking forward to things returning to normal. However, I was dismayed when a few minutes later I was watching a man tell police how much he had loved his wife and how saddened he had been at her death…by fire. And then I realized he was talking about me.

I suppose the awareness that you’re no longer part of the dream because you’re dead is enough to wake a person up, and so I did.

The end.

Katie Price’s new novel Paradise set to top book charts

Katie Price is set to go straight to the top of the Sunday Times Bestseller list this week, with her new novel Paradise.

The former glamour model’s fifth novel, the final instalment in her Angel trilogy, will go straight in at number one for hardback fiction, outselling the number two book by two copies to one, her publisher, Random House, said.

Price, who chooses the plots for her books, penned by ghostwriter Rebecca Farnworth, said: “I think it’s brilliant that it’s number one. It just goes to show people that when I really put my mind to something it makes number one and it’s brilliant and I’m absolutely over the moon.”

A spokeswoman for Random House said: “Katie Price is one of the top novelists in the country and all of her books have gone straight to number one when they’ve been published, and Paradise is no exception to that.

“We’ve just heard that Paradise is going to be number one in The Sunday Times Bestseller List this coming weekend, and that’s all before today’s signing and her book tour which is around seaside towns.”

As I waited there hoping he’d come back, (but realizing I didn’t see him anywhere), I imagine I tried to figure out what I’d do if I really was stranded on my own. As the tears began to fall, a homeless man came up to me. He was an older black guy in typically ragged clothing; skinny and shaky and shifty-eyed.

“How are you tonight, darling?” he asked me, probably hoping to bum a few bucks.

I thought of a few different answers to the question, and then decided to go with the truth. In a choked-up voice I told him, “I’m not doing that well, actually.”

He opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped. Considering me for a second, his eyes softened, and he said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

And the craziest thing is that he said it with real sincerity and as though he were truly concerned for my well-being. His voice had a gentle kindness, the way a concerned friend’s might. Feeling like a world-class basket case lately and unsure of which direction to go as a mounting feeling of “this is your LIFE, dammit. Your LIFE” grips me nearly daily, I’ve thought about that homeless guy more than once in recent weeks.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I kind of do.

Blueberry. Admittedly, one shouldn't pick favorites when nannying, but there. I said it.

Speaking of Mary Poppins, what the hell is up with that Nanny McPhee business? Admittedly, I know nothing about it/her minus what I saw on a 60-second ad spot for (what is apparently) the second movie, but does she look like a Mary Poppins’ wretched half-sister – the one who was raised in a dank, dark basement with a chain around her neck – or is that me? Yikes. So much for “You must be kind, you must be witty; very sweet and fairly pretty.” Today’s children are getting seriously ripped off.

Back to my own cat nannying, I’m a little slow at dishing out the stinky slop they call breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I keep squirting the one with water to force him out from under the bed and ram pills down his little pink throat, but hey, I’m just doing my job. At any rate, seeing as this is my life for another week, let me introduce you to the crew.

Charlotte. The oldest and mostly sweet, but if you touch her back she hisses at you. Weird.

Although the smallest, Charlotte is the senior cat of the bunch. You may recall her in a Poodle Cut last time (shaved body, big head, and moon boots), but things have grown back nicely.

Jack hates me. I have to give him pills twice a day, and he’s more or less decided I’m Satan. Jack is the youngest and apparently likes men. I don’t know about that, but – as previously mentioned – he freaking hates me.

Blueberry, “The Bad One” is my favorite. He is a bad seed, but he cracks me up. He was rescued and has some screwed up teeth, but I think it gives him a snarly “You talkin’ to me?” look that suits him just fine.

Otherwise, minus shedding EVERYWHERE and some inappropriate crapping (Not cool, Blueberry. Not cool.) things have been mellow. And mellow is good, although a little bit boring. I’ll see if I can’t conjure up some  interesting content for you in the next few days, but don’t hold your breath. At the same time, if you play your cards right, I can all but guarantee some more XXX beach porn in your future. Get the aloe ready…

Jack Frost. As you can see in his glare, he pretty much hates me.

From what I can piece together, it’s a two-day holiday (four-day weekend) celebrating the ability to camp wherever the hell you want, public drunkenness, and – not to be redundant, but – cricket. Most businesses were closed, the grocery store was open very limited hours, and there are tents pitched EVERYWHERE. Still.

Tents on the beach? Check.

Tents on the shoulder of the road? Check.

Tents on the airport runway? Probably.

And these people aren’t just camping. They’ve basically moved. They’ve got grills and generators and clothes lines and transistor radios and living room furniture. They bring their own blow-up fun houses and kiddie swimming pools, and I could be wrong, but I think I saw a BowFlex. Total Clampett chaos.

Moreover, I went to the beach Thursday, and it was packed – like Jersey Shore packed. Wall-to-wall people drinking booze out of those long bong-like cups they have in Vegas and generally reinforcing my ‘all alone in paradise and a little bit lonely about it, but still not lonely enough to want to befriend any of these drunk jerks’ mindset. It’s a complicated mindset, but all too real.

I will mention that – to my amusement – it rained cats and dogs and horses and ponies the first two nights of matchup/cupmatch, and it wasn’t completely dry last night, either. Now if there’s one thing that doesn’t go with camping, it’s torrential rain. Did I ever tell you about the time I camped out in New Orleans (bad part of town. Trailer park lawn. Mardi Gras. Don’t ask.) and woke up with my sleeping mat floating on about eight inches of water inside my tent? That was one of my top five most seriously screwed up mornings, which – considering the trouble I regularly get myself into – is saying something. I could live to be 150, and I will never forget that trip.

I suspect neither will the Matchcup/Cupmatch/Cupcake Rain Rave 2010 attendees, who no doubt had an opportunity to check out the waterproofing on their tents and test their odds of being struck by lightning. There have probably been drier (and more enjoyable) years, but at least it’s almost over.

Onward and upward…

They have to be housebroken, trained, fed, played with, and – depending upon breed – they can poop as much as a horse.

At the same time, let’s say you have a ramshackle shed and broken-down car situation that needs to be fenced in and posted as dangerous? It would be so convenient to have a guard dog when those circumstances crop up, wouldn’t it? But again, all that work…

Enter your local watch dog artiste, who can paint for you any number of Rottweilers, Pit Bulls, German Shepherds, and Doberman Pinschers in a variety of aggressive postures! It’s all the upside of a guard dog, and none of the hassle!

Personally, I found the orange low-rider more intimidating than the painted-on Rottie.

Rottweilers don't frighten you? How about heavily peeling-off-the-fence Pit Bulls?