A last minute vacation.

On Thursday night, four of us trekked up the coast several hours to set up our tents and lounge in the sand beside the ocean. Well, beside is being generous. We had to move our camp site back three times to avoid being washed out by the rising tides.

"That's what they call real beach-front property!" Most people called as they passed our site. I'll say we got that comment easily thirty five times over the weekend.

We arrived after midnight. Setting up camp proved to be a team building exercise we dominated. If there was a game show where contestants found a site and set up two giant tents entirely in the black of night with naught but a hazy pair of headlights to read the 20 year-old hand-written instructions, we would win the season finale. The next day, as the girls cocktailed and watched the boys did a giant trench around our site, we were complimented by a number of our neighbors who watched us assemble from the warmth of their RV windows. The jerks. Even still, knowing that we were being watched was a point of pride when they gushed about how fluid and happy our midnight arrival seemed from their point of view.

Camping on that particular stretch of beach is not as peaceful as you might imagine. Dune buggies, dirtbikes, and gas powered monster golf carts race past your nylon tent all through the night and at the first crack of dawn. The sky was gray with haze, and the sand gets in every nook and cranny you can dream up, but all of that added up to a hilarious weekend. Whiffle beer, frisbee, magazines, boozy bocce, naps, trench digging, screaming at passing ATV drivers to "give us a wheelie", coastal walks with the pooch, bonfires, special s'mores, and other sorted activities made for a killer weekend.

Seriously, I cannot think of the last vacation I took with friends that went off without a hitch like this one did.

Once the sand is completely out of my scalp, my puffy sodium body reduces, and the laundry is folded and put away, it will be gone. Then again, I never completely get my laundry folded and put away, so I suppose this trip will linger a bit longer.

Who's up for the next trip?

When would I ever eat my own face?

I'm 32 years old.

And you know what? I'm doing ok. See... I've been in a place lately where I can go either way. And I'm going to take the positive road uphill. I don't know why but for some reason it's easier to wallow in the shit life hands you. Why is that? Why is it easier to be more aware of the crap? Why does it take less effort to think "life shits on you, deal with it... it sucks but maybe at one point you'll see something shiny?" Why is that?

So even though I'm 32 and my dog is my #1 fan, I don't have to become the cliche that cartoonists depict. I can be something else. Something an ABC Family marketing genius intern comes up with.

I can have a smile on my face. I can walk out my door in the morning and think "What's going to happen today?"

It's so easy to walk out that door in the morning thinking "Eff, groundhog's day. Poop. I wish I had driven down to Tijuana to get prescription pills when the offer was good."

Here's the deal:
Someone* very very close to me just announced they have cancer.
I got dumped by the guy I thought for the past three years was my future.
And my dog, Mr. Rocky Balboa recently took up seizuring due to a some head trauma (an Evel Knievel move from my balcony to the ground, fifteen feet below.)

And it sucks. Bad.
I'm not going to lie, this is a sad time for the ol' M-vina. All signs point to major alcohol consumption and excessive VH1 viewing.

But I'm not going down that road. I'm not. Mr. Rocky Balboa is now on Phenobarbital, the sicky is going to be okay because they caught the stupic cancer so early and it's majorly treatable, and the dumping... well, yes, that sucks. But it's not the end of my story.

That's what I'm getting at here, I still have a lot of story left to write. I have one life, and I'm not kidding you I will eat my own face before I let this story be a tragedy. No way. If anything my life will be a comedy... not a dark comedy, not a slapstick, but at least not one that makes people depressed. I cannot have those college students forced to read a sad historical tell-tale of a wallowing Melissavina post-mortem. And I have the feeling my life story will be required reading, it's a secret fact about me.

So I am meditating. Yep, I've gone hippy on your asses. I'm meditating and diverting those nasty thoughts that make you dive right into the "bad place" where you let every shitty thing pile on top of you and sit right there, on your chest, suffocating you. I'm not doing it.

I breathe in and out, and I divert those sad thoughts that I love so much, and I walk out my door in the morning saying "You're my bitch, Day. Bring it." It worked a few days ago, and yesterday, and today. So I'll keep doing it, every day until this crap becomes a comedy. A nice rambling Woody Allen comedy.


*Sorry, can't say who until they decide to tell everyone.

Oh Hitler...

As with all things popular, I am discovering this late.
My family didn't have call waiting until the new millennium.
We rented a VCR for years until laser disk came out and we felt the pressure to keep up.
And I didn't get those Doc Martin mary janes that I wanted after seeing Reality Bites until college.

But I'm finding this now and I'm silly with giggles. I love my Wii Fit. I've been using it like an idiot lately. Hula Hooping is the shiznit, man. I can totally see where he's coming from on this.

A true story about my dog. (But mostly about my catastrophic imagination.)

I thought my dog was going to die tonight... again. There was one time where he very nearly died. Poor Mr. Rocky Balboa had some issues that had me worried good. But tonight he was all moody. Like a girl. I took him across the street for my neighbors, Cory and Tommy's, son's first birthday. See, the kid loves this dog. He really gets a kick out of Rocky's little wiggly body.

Everything was great. Rocky was Roomba-ing the place while little Nolan dug into his very helth-conscious whole-wheat, bannana, blueberry, tapioca cake. We took pictures, there were gifts, it was a regular baby riot. And suddenly Rocky was not hoovering. He wasn't scuttling around in the kitchen or lapping up someone's beer. I ran out the door to hunt: street, regular poopin' spot, other dog's house, front door... nowhere! Right then I heard my name. They had found him and he was in the apartment with the baby and the falling food, and the beer... but he was hiding. He was under their bed.

Now, I don't know how comfortable you are with your neighbors, I mean come on, they're not friends you get to know organically. They're people you got stuck with only because of some real estate. So I mean, I love my neighbors, they've become great friends, but it's not like I spend much time rooting around in their stuff. So here I was, Rocky was hiding under their bed. I had to get down on my belly in their bedroom and try to lure him out. I was sprawled out on the floor of my adult neighbor's bedroom. I'd be freaked if my neighbor was on the floor rooting around under my bed. You know?

So with a handful of cheerios I tried to coax him out.
No dice.

Let me explain something here, Mr. Rocky Balboa is a food motivated being. His sun rises and sets on kibble. He's so close to actual seizure when I'm pouring his food into his bowl that I have seriously considered doggy psychology. So for him to refuze Cheerios is a shock.

"He must be dying." I think to myself. I am sure of it.

My neighbor bounced on the bed, trying to scare Rocky out to me. I was certain that blood was about to start pouring out of his ears. Nothing worked.

"Can I borrow your golf club?" They have a big bed and I have short arms.

As I cadjoled him with the 9 iron, he merely stepped over it. He looked around slowly as Tommy rolled around on the bed, clapping his hands and hitting the mattress. Nothing. I began to focus on the small black thing under their bed... it's a puddle of blood he coughed up before I found him. He's going to die.

Carefully I used the golf club to tap the black spot. Not liquid. I pulled it over to me and sighed to realize it was just a broken plastic hanger piece.

Eventually after a few good jumps from Tommy he moved over close enough for me to get a finger under his collar to drag him out. He clung to me. I sat for a few minutes and watched Nolan open his gifts, but I had to take Rocky home. What was wrong with him? Did he eat an Advil on the ground in the bathroom? Does he have Bordatella? How do dogs get Bordatella? What is Bordatella?

Once we got in the door he perked right up. I followed him to the kitchen where he turned, barked once, sat down, and looked at the Milk Bones on the counter. That little effer was just jonesin' for a treat! He was depressed that he peed outside and we went straight across the street without his reward. He was sulking! Holding a grudge! That little rat.

So I'm totally pissed at him right now for making me all nervous. He never hides. I mean, that's cat behavior. He's the life of the party! Seriously, that dog of mine is usually pretty social. So he crossed a line and I'm mad. Totally not talking to him right now.

Wait. Strike that, reverse it.

I'm drinking a glass of wine. I've done nothing so far tonight which is the goal, right? (See previous post.) Well, not entirely true, I swiffer wet jetted my kitchen. That's something. And I ate dinner while reading our town paper. I guess that's something too. But what am I supposed to be doing? I mean what is it to really do nothing? Sit and stare? Who does that?! I'm not turning on the TV that's for darned sure. So let's call that a victory. Honestly, a glass of wine and an episode of Intervention, that's really relaxing at its finest. But I'm not going to do it. I'm going to keep my brain working.

So I guess when you look at things at a different angle, I'm not trying to have solitude; I'm trying to engage in my life. Rather than distracting myself with my girlfriends, booze, Gray's anatomy I can work on my little projects. Finish that painting, keep up with my book club reading, give Rocky Balboa this year's bath, sort my dirty clothes out of the pile of clean clothes; launder them; fold and put them away! Eureka!

Geez, you wouldn't think that would be such a discipline. I guess I could consider that the solitude, am I confusing solitude with peace of mind? Perhaps. I'm not doing nothing, I'm doing something. Writing, sewing, scrubbing the grout, that's really something Waaaaay better than tuning out and watching god-knows-what on ABC or NBC or HGTV until it's so late that I'm already mentally checking things of tomorow morning's to-do list. Let's just say on those morning's I'm not offering Melissavina's finest. And shit man, there were days when I used to actually flat iron my hair before work. What happened to those days? Crap, man. I'm a freaking sloth!

So yeah, no TV for me tonight.
I'm going to get a thing or two done.

You've got mail

Dear Blog Reader,

How are you? Have you been missing me? Things are good over here, lots of things are changing. Sometimes I'm rolling with every punch, and sometimes I'll forget that I'm supposed to just take it, so I'll get in a good kick to the groin. That never goes well. Generally speaking though, and I think you can tell that this is pretty general, things are swell.

To be honest, I've been getting up later than I should because I've also been going to sleep later than I should. Also I've been smoking like it's good for me, and walking. I've found that when I'm walking I can actually hear the quiet that I cover up when I'm still. I should really walk more. See, I'm never really still, quiet and stillness freak me out. I need a plan, a distraction, something going on all the time. That's part of the reason for all this transition. I'm becoming comfortable with something that is really unnatural for me. Stillness.
One day at a time.
No plans.
No stress or frustration.
Live in the now, man.

On the upside, I've been listening to some really great music, cutting up and enjoying lots of really tasty veggies and fruit, hastening my television consumption, and tightening my budget. It's pretty nice. Of course it's really easy to find something to do when you're supposed to be still.

How do hermits maintain? I'm not sure. J.D. Salinger was a total recluse and he cranked out some really good shit. Ironically it's some of the easiest literature to relate to, but he was always alone and preferred it that way. Emily Dickinson was another one who hid from everyone, and we love her poetry. I guess, no matter what you've got going on or not going on, you can always busy yourself with something.

Anyhow, I'm really diving into this whole solitude kick but it's taking me some time to get used to it. Well, maybe not so much diving in; I'm in to my ankles. Let's face it, I'll never be a hermit or a recluse. I don't aspire to that. My neighbor has that market cornered and she doesn't make it look too glamorous. Really, I just want to experience solitude without panic bubbling over.

I'm not trying to be anyone else, I'm really just trying to be me. Who knows what I'll find in here, but it's not too bad so far. I'm pretty happy anyway, things are good and I'm lucky. I just can't shut up or stop moving for very long and I know that's not really a virtue.

Anyway Blog reader. I've rambled on about myself in non specifics long enough. I hope things are going well for you. Say hi to your mother for me.

~m

What to watch on Wednesday

Hey team!
It's late but not too late, it's still Wednesday!
I bring you the video of the week, brought to me by my pal Sarah.

I love the dad in this video because he thought "I need to get out my camera right now." And then he put it on Youtube. Which is hilarious. Poor kid, he's going to be embarassed about this at some point in his life, but if he got a sense of humor from his pops I have the feeling he'll be fine. Or he'll be one of those "wake and bake" sort of dudes who works at a used bookstore and lives in an upstairs apartment of an elderly lady's house.

Either way...