Hmmmm…

Rather anti-climactic.

True, it’s not the first time in my life that something I thought was going to be a really big deal when it finally happened kinda wasn’t, but it’s still strange to realize I am totally done with the book (or as done as I’m going to bother being until a publisher wants me to change things) and yeah…it kind of feels the same as it did before I was actually totally done with the book.

That feeling, by the way, is vague anxiety mixed with a fair amount of expectation and high hopes and a dash of terror.

Or – as it has become more commonly known – same day, different shit.

At the same time, I have to wonder why it’s such a non-event?

Am I just emotionally blotto from everything I’ve been through the last few months?

Maybe that’s because I’ve already launched a plan to do the next one?

And sketched out all the chapters for said next one?

And rented a tiny Mexican casita on the southern Baja coast without a TV or any real distractions for the month of March in order to do that writing?

And so I know I’ll be right back in the maelstrom in no time at all?

Or maybe it’s because I still have to write the queries – TWO PARAGRAPHS to summarize a 136,000 word book that took me eight months. Sheesh!!! – and contact agents and get the whole thing going in the next couple weeks, and potentially that’s going to be its own massive learning curve summit.

Or maybe it’s the hour I spent battling the US Copyright office website trying to register the thing? It was singlehandedly the most ambiguous web-based experience of my life, and the apex of inefficiency and disorganization. If you’ve never had the pleasure, allow me: They somehow managed to create a user experience rich with confusion and bewilderment and “What? I mean, what?” bad instructions and and dozens of unnecessary and baffling steps. In short, it’s an electronic clusterf*ck

Anyway, no matter. There are no answers. From my perspective, the point of this pointless post was simply to say that it’s all the way done at long last, and I’m feeling no pain…nor much of anything for that matter.

Devoid of my own strength of feeling, I turn to the masters for encouragement:

If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

Henry David Thoreau

There’s so many options to waste time.

Her old nose was thicker, but with the new one, maybe a little bit. But not really. I don't know. I have no perspective.

Let me count the ways…

At the moment, there’s a stupid Facebook thing going around where you’re supposed to go to urbandictionary.com and do a search on your first name and then post it as your status.

There’s also one where you’re supposed to change your profile picture to your ‘celebrity doppleganger.’ but I don’t have one. Once in a blue moon someone says I look like Jennifer Aniston, but I don’t see it. She has a lot more chin than I do.

Anyway, normally I don’t do any of that stuff, and my status pulls from Twitter, but I decided to look it up just to see. And blow me down, if names were a beauty contest, I’m taking first prize.

I had no idea people were out there defining names on urbandictionary.com as if they were blanket truths (or words to be defined), but take a gander:

Vanessa

1. A moderately common name for an American female; pretty; hot; beautiful; perfect; cutest girl you’ll ever see; angel

2. As stated in other definitions of vanessa she is always known as being cute, and is the basic definition of perfection. she is the most beautiful girl in the world, and is perfect in every single way. people associated with the name vanessa are usually attracted to large wooden clocks.
vanessa is beautful and perfect

***What? Clocks? Large wooden clocks? What the hell does that mean? Does that mean people associated with me have the clock fetish or that I’m supposed to? (Must pay more attention to wooden clocks moving forward…)***

3. Means Butterfly in greek

***Actually, it doesn’t. In ancient Greek “psyche” was the word for butterfly, but now it’s petalou’da.***

When I was a little girl, people would always ask me if I was named after Vanessa Redgrave. I had no idea who Vanessa Redgrave was, but I would always say "Yes" because it seemed easier that way.

4. The hottest chick on EARTH, damnn you know that ANYONE named Vanessa is the hottest chick you will ever see. Anyone named Vanessa is hottest than the damn sun itself.

BOY1: yeah I’m hanging out with vanessa today.
BOY2: V-v-v-v-anessa..is her name?
BOY1: yeah dude why?
BOY2: SHES SOOO HOTT ISNT SHE?!?!
BOY1: NO SHIT BRO, NO SHIT..EVERY CHICK NAMED VANESSA IS HOTT.

5. A beautiful girl.
Loves music, hanging out with her friends, and eating.
Very friendly, sexy, and stylish.
The one best friend everyone wants.
The one girl every guy wants.
Shes tough so dont mess around with her.
Shes the most special girl in the world.

I want to meet my perfect Vanessa.

***This is uncanny. Has someone been following me around???***

6. Cute, beautiful, Visionary, Amazing, Neat, Amusing

Vanessa, You’re the only Vanessa in my world.

7. Smart, Funny, Charming, Caring, Responsible, Beautiful, Gorgeous Eyes that would be so easy to get lost in, yet you would never care, so lost yet held there so happy so content, and a smile that lights up a room and makes your heart pound. A rare combination, someone beautiful inside as well as outside.

Vanessa is an amazing person.

***On second thought, all this is a bit much. I’m starting to get creeped out. Why on earth have so many people written these wackadoo “definitions” for the name Vanessa? Weren’t the first five more than enough?***

8. Invented by Jonathan Swift as a nickname for his lady friend Esther Vanhougan.

That is pretty cute.

9. The most amazing types of people. Always makes a best friend and never lets you down. Loves green tea and tea tree and has the most amazing lime coconut cookies Super pretty and loves Simba Shares an interest in Disney movies with Avonlee. The most amazing type of person in the world and everyone who knows a Vanessa is very lucky <3

***Simba like The Lion King? Obviously this one was written by a ten-year old. But it’s still spot-on in many ways…***

Just so you don’t think it’s all about me (although it mostly is), here’s the definition for my very best friend.

Dozer

1. Marijuana, Weed, Herb, Mary Jane, Reefer, Grass, Dope, Green, Green Wood.

Smoking marijuana tends to get some people sleepy, in other words some people “doze” off.

-That dozer we smoked knocked me out

-Yall niggas think I’m trippin cuz I’m on dat dozer -Master P

He is a serious dope.

I had no idea.

2. A person who toils mindlessly at the same mundane endeavors as their forefathers without ever seeking to alter their course or advance their processes in anyway. (from HBO’s Fraggle Rock, Dozers perpetually built and rebuilt structures for the Fraggles to devour)

The dozers can’t seem to grasp the idea because it wasn’t listed in the manual.

Tee hee. It’s funny because it’s true. And it explains the random girl in the street who once gushed on about Fraggle Rock. We didn’t have HBO when I was a kid.

3. A Bulldozer

In other news, I’ve become obsessed with VH1’s Celebrity Rehab Season Three (and those of you watching know what I’m talking about – Dennis Rodman! Heidi Fleiss and Tom Sizemore AND they used to be in love and she got him on meth and he ultimately betrayed her!!! Mackenzie Phillips!!!!!), and when I was told that Leif Garrett (who I had to Google to figure out who that was. Whatever. Before my time.) was arrested for heroin possession, my very first thought was, ‘Yay! He can go on the next Celebrity Rehab!”

EXHIBIT A: Dennis Rodman.

I also have a huge crush on Dr. Drew. I don’t even have addiction problems, but I would like to check into the Pasadena Recovery Center and tell Dr. Drew all my sad stories and have him affirm that he is witnessing my pain right now and make it all better.

But I digress…

What I wanted to say is that I discovered you can watch complete episodes of Celebrity Rehab on VH1’s website and there was a still shot of Dennis Rodman on the screen, and I had a sudden epiphany: Dennis Rodman looks exactly like Mrs. Potato Head.

Seriously, give him a little red purse and slap a daisy on his wrist, and it’s doppleganger time.

EXHIBIT B: Mrs. Potato Head. (The defense rests.)

Dennis, if you’re out there and you have a Facebook account, feel free to update your profile picture accordingly.

So about ten years ago I joined a gym and part of the introductory package was that they insisted on weighing and measuring you and helping you define a ‘plan.’ Probably they were just trying to sell sessions with a trainer, but I wasn’t sophisticated enough at the time to realize that.

Madonna should really eat a cheeseburger or something.

Anyway, I was already a runner and regularly did yoga and pilates videos, so I fared pretty well in my little fitness exam.

Or at least I thought so.

At the end of the exam, the young idiot doing the evaluation shows me a little card where he’s written my weight and BMI. It was some useless record that they apparently stuck in a file somewhere. He points out a couple blank areas in the official archival log and asks me, “So what’s your goal?”

Seeing as I came in at the low end of the weight and body fat ranges for my height, and I was already  in good shape, I told him that my goal was to stay the same.

“That’s not a goal.”

“Yes it is.”

“No. Staying the same is not a goal.”

“For me it is.”

“You need to give me a real goal. That’s not a goal.”

“Well, what are you suggesting? That my goal should be to be underweight? Mistaken for an Olsen twin? Hospitalized for anorexia?”

The Bodies exhibit...or a malnourished, over-exercised celebrity? Who knows anymore.

Truth be told, I probably wasn’t that rude with him. Or rude at all. I think I was humorously annoyed more than anything. Nonetheless, I do recall that I blew off my ‘free training’ session as I henceforth deemed him too much of a jackass to waste another half an hour with. On the other hand, if I had stuck with Mr. That Is Not A Goal, perhaps I’d have Linda Hamilton T2 biceps now? Or the scary skinny arms of Madonna? Or the emaciated body of Victoria Beckham?

Who knows? Who cares?

Anywho, my point was more that some of my “goals” or “resolutions” for 2010 would probably be deemed ‘not goals’ by that guy in the sense that I already do them, but to me, they’re still resolutions. It’s hard work being me, so I say ‘maintain’ IS a goal. Prove that it isn’t.

With that stated, here they are:

1. Work out every day

2. Meditate daily

3. Find an agent and get my book published

4. Write and edit another book

5. Sell house and move out of Washington

6. Practice guitar weekly

7. Be grateful

8. Explore India for six or eight weeks

J. Lo is not scary skinny, but she does look a bit...intense. Just some wholesome, family-friendly entertainment!

9. Go to a yoga class weekly

10. Find a way to make some money with the blog

11. Read books more, watch TV less

12. Trust my instincts

13. Teach Dozer to roll over, take a bow, play dead, whisper, and smile. This may be the hardest thing on this list, as it involves someone else.

14. Teach orphans or do other volunteer work in Tanzania for a few weeks (and maybe take a stab at Kilimanjaro while I’m there.)

15. Make money! (By any means necessary…including a return to my old career if it comes down to it.)

This has got to be the worst gift of all.

Ten lords a-leaping?
What the hell do you do with that?

What does it even mean?

Is that like Cirque du Soleil tickets or something?

This is not Dozer, but it could be.

Actually, and this just occurs to me now, it could be the most harrowing ‘gift’ of all: Wokini’s Lord Dozer a-leaping and a-clawing and a-bruising the crapola out of your thighs.

Once in a while I’ll have a wallop of a bruise on my legs. And butt. And stomach. And arm.

And the well-intentioned massage therapist/chiropractor/concerned friend who sees it will invariably question what kind of tragedy has befallen me or dark secret I’m keeping or just give me a sad and knowing look.

And that’s when it’s time to admit the hard truth: I am in a domestic violence situation with my dog.

It’s true.

This makes me laugh. And feel better about my own counter surfing menace. I was looking for images of Malamutes leaping in the air, but this is even better.

When I get home after a two hour or (god help me) two week or (god help us all) two month absence, the Alaskan Malamute official registered with the American Kennel Club as “Wokini’s Lord Dozer” goes fucking nuts and leaps and pirouettes and surges and vaults and ricochets off the soft substance formerly known as my flesh, leaving deep gashes of joy.

Thus, I’ll be frank and say that the combination of the words ‘leap’ and ‘Lord’ leaves me a bit shaky and wanting for shin guards and other protective gear.

And slightly dreading tonight’s late-night arrival back home.

I can almost feel the bruise starting to form…

Well it’s pretty clear what this is.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love took me to see The Rockettes.

That has to be it, right?

If not that, it’s a strip club.

I guess it depends on the kind of guy you’ve snagged: “Metrosexual, hair’s-breath-away-from-being-gay, Broadway-loving fancy pants” or “100% straight, man’s man, red-blooded dirt bag.”

If anything in between, there will probably not be nine ladies of any kind dancing.

If the former, well…I just hope the Rockettes’ high kick exceeds his.

If the latter, it’s more like, “On the ninth day of Christmas, my douche bag boyfriend gave himself a gift and decided to pawn it off like something for me.”

I hate that. If you ask me, lingerie is the same exact thing. Lingerie is not a gift for me.

I have no desire – let alone need – to spend twenty minutes fastening 200 small hooks on the back of a bustier or figuring out how to clip thigh-highs onto a merry-widow. And don’t even get me started on the whole thigh-high modesty management thing, including but not limited to:

• Downward slippage
• Coming unhookedness
• Proper skirt length so as to prevent exposure to others not involved in the purchasing of related enjoyment of said thigh-high hosiery.
• Leg crossing absolutes – DO NOT, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, etc.

In other words, men, what your women want is pretty much anything but lingerie. Clothes, perfume, jewelry, sushi, books, DVDs, candies, gift cards, champagne and oysters, blank checks, cash…we’ll take it.

You can buy lingerie, but don’t go confusing it as a gift for her.

Same goes for the nine ladies dancing.

Any questions?

Good?

Good.