I once read that when I am ill I can talk to the part of the body suffering from the ailment and see what it wants. After many rounds of antibiotics and a series of home remedies (vinegar, alka seltzer, asparagus juice...yum!), I have decided to have a heart to heart with my bladder and see what this year-long bladder infection (impressive, I know)is trying to tell me.

Dear Bladder:

I get the point. I know I have abused you with coffee, sugar, and alcohol and now you want some attention. So talk to me. (Below is the dialogue that ensued...)

Bladder: You are not a victim, Stella!

Me: Whoa! Hey! I wasn't expecting that...I'm open to hearing your truth and all, but you don't have to yell.

Bladder: Stop giving your power away!

Me: Uh...excuse me, but FYI, I have a therapist. Just because I'm giving you a voice, doesn't mean you can get all bossy on me.

Bladder: You must slay the dragon.

Me: Now you're going Yoda on me. We clearly have different communication styles, so let me try to break this down. Are you saying that I don't prioritize my health?

Bladder: Worry not on what is not important. Think more of what is in your heart.

Me: Are you saying that I stress out too much about issues that aren't nearly as important as my health and happiness? Let's shoot for plain English.

Bladder: Fine, if you want to be boring. You are not listening to the wisdom of your body because you spend far too much energy worrying about things that haven't happened and may never happen.

Me: I hear you, Bladder. And I value and respect your words. Thank you for speaking your truth to me in plain English.

Bladder: Welcome.

Just for today, I can listen to my bladder's truth.

(P.S. I can't wait to see what kind of Google Ads come up when the spiders scan this blog.)

Get ready, Los Angeles! My dad's coming to town. I know you got freeways to jam and all, but fun with a capital F is almost here!

My father is more fun than I know what to do with. My ideas of fun seem to fall flat like week old stale tortilla chips in the face of his full enchilada combo of F.U.N (with plenty of guacamole...remember, the lime juice is the key ingrediant in guac). For a man over 60, he possesses a monumental amount of energy. In one day we could easily go to Universal Studios AND Disneyland AND still have time for a bike ride along the strand, movie, and dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant (Alejo's). Fortunately, I've taken a lot of naps lately and am about to meditate.

Just for today, I look forward to my father's visit.

I have bluritis again (i.e., a condition or state of the eyes and brain caused by continuous exposure to a computer screen). This time I can't blame my job. It's really just me and my "choice" to live on my computer. I'm going to take a day off from any work involving a computer...except for right now, that is.

And now.

I may be going through withdrawl.

Just for today, I can take care of my bluritis.

I walked out of the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf without paying for my de-caf sugar-free soy mocha. I know what you're thinking. What's the point of a de-caf sugar-free soy mocha? Why don't I just mix Equal into some hot coco and call it a day? Well, the point is that it just doesn't taste the same unless some guy or girl frets over it for about ten minute and you shell out $3.85. Oh, wait, did I mention I didn't pay for it? Well, I think the appropriate explanation is that they forgot to charge me and I was in such a foul mood that I couldn't muster up my inner-girl scout to do anything. I think I had spent her on the cop who pulled me over for making an illegal U-turn. Thanks to her and my innate fear of the police he brought it down to "neglect to read signs"(which is supposedly not going to affect my insurance), and chose to give me a "warning" on the fact that I wasn't wearing a seat belt.

The point is...it was kind of a sucky day. The best part of it was walking of the C & B without paying. Not because I saved money (because I gave it to the folks in the Debtor's Anonymous meeting, who could REALLY use it), but because it reminded me of being 13 when such acts were appropriate (that is, if you were a rebellious girl who wore Wet n' Wild lipstick in great excess). I could have worked for the CIA. I was SO GOOD at lifting small objects (like Wet n' Wild make-up) on the sly.

I didn't purposely steal my expensive coffee drink. I just didn't pay for it.

Just for today, I'm an outlaw.

After weeks of staring at my dwindling bank-account and doing my best to be grateful for things like the sun, gravity, and a healthy bladder, I have been presented with a sudden flurry of income producing opportunities (Halleluah!). Not that I'm no longer grateful for the sun, but it's nice to feel like a normal (i.e., gainfully employed) person again. In the past four months since I left my painfully secure (i.e., stagnating) job, I've 1) lived like a recent college grad (someone who stares into restaurants and thinks "who are those people?" 2) nearly completed my screenplay of "Stella's Search for Sanity" 3) contemplated left-overs in the refrigerator for unusually long periods of time 4) lost five pounds 5) cried like a five-year-old in front of my computer.

What I've come to realize is this: 1) living like a recent college-grad at 33 is humbling AND youthenizing (I'm making up words here...see how young I feel) 2) I don't care what anyone says, writing and working-full time DO NOT make for high-volume production 3) left-overs are scary to look at and sometimes to eat, too 4) earning good money is officially more important than lookin' sexy (if you're going to organize your life around shallow principles, you may as well be clear about your priorities...and when I say "you" I mean "I"), and 5) just because I feel like a 5-year-old sometimes doesn't mean I have to earn like one.

In the last four months I have had many wonderful people support me through some very challenging times. People who reminded me that "It will all work out because it always does" and who helped me feel much more than a job or a bank account. In a society where people are identified and labeled by what they do, I'm so grateful to have these people in my life.

Just for today, I'm grateful for the sun, the people in my life, and how far I've come.

I was looking for a phone number while stuck in traffic. I realized it was on my computer and so I opened my computer to find it. While on the computer, I saw that I had a wireless connection and thought, "maybe I should check my e-mail..." And then the light turned green and I realized, I have a problem. It's not an addiction to e-mail, so much as doing anything else that I can while driving: make-up, cell-phone, process feelings, balance checkbook...

It just seems like such a waste of time to JUST drive.

Just for today, I'm a road hazard.

I haven't been writing in my blog very much lately because I'm afraid of what's going to come out. For instance, I have no idea what I was talking about in the last entry. As you can see (if you want to), it was written in a flurry of incoherence.

ANYWAY...
I "study" yoga with this really cool yoga teacher who I will call Lola (I can't imagine a yoga teacher named Lola, so it's a perfect pseudonym...apologies if your name happens to be Lola and you teach yoga). ANYWAY (again), "Lola" is the epitome of cool. For a while I thought she had to be putting on an act, because nobody with highlights THAT blond and toes THAT well manicured, and yoga outfits that match THAT perfectly, could really mean it when she talked about "taking off the masks we wea." (FYI: her class is sort of a yoga/self-esteem workshop/buddhist temple). But after three months, I'm starting to believe that she's truly a yoga warrior. And I think it's because, unlike many people who speak "self-help," she seems to actually believe her own words. Now, she's my guru. My high-lighted, manicured, guru. I feel like I'm in high school and she's the cool swim team star who never gets rattled by the odd guys who breathe too loudly. Whenever I'm confronted with some life problem, I think how would "Lola" handle this? Most likely she would say "go back to the breathe" and then rattle off a bunch of Indian words that are probably grossly mispronounced (she's not perfect, just very cool). For some reason, when I start talking about my "vinyasa" and "pranha," it sounds like I'm making fun of it.

Just for today, I'm studying to be a cool yoga person.

After years of reading annoying books written by self-righteous people about how to demolish negative beliefs with cheery affirmations, I have decided to a) burn all those books and b) to simply abstain from the sort of running inner-commentary that criticizes my body, self, etc..in other words My Inner Critic (who I like to call Martha). Forget affirmations, they're like bad commercials in my head. I've decided I'm just going to have an empty brain. I'm boring. Who cares. It's better than having Dennis Miller rants in my head about every unfortunate thing to happen to life, from greying hair (which is very, very sad) to governments that insidiously try to silence journalists by blaming them for creating Anti-Americanism abroad (yeah, like it's NEWSWEEK'S fault that the whole world hates America...can you tell I'm in a bad mood?)

Anyway, this past weekend my inner-child suddenly decided that she absolutely HAD to re-paint the window sill because my window sill was chipped and looking highly unattractive. And it seemed like if I fixed that little thing in my life, other problems wouldn't look so bad. So, I went to the hardware store and bought some oil based paint, forgetthing that that's the kind that gets all over everything and is hard to clean up. In the proces of getting paint all over my body and my apartment, I somehow got it on my dishes. And now my dishes are poisoned and I'm convinced that my Inner-Critic is punishing me for refraining from it's negative diatribe with OIL BASED PAINT (I just need to blame something for the fact that I decided to start painting at 8:00 PM on Saturday right before I was going out...why? Because my inner-critic is trying to hurt me!).

Just for today, I can protect myself from my Inner Critic.

I went to my friend Char's house last night and ate pizza and chatted up an endless stream of mindlessly delicious fare. She's the kind of friend you can say things to like, "Brad Pitt is hot" and still feel like an integrated human being with depth and everything. Topics ranged from how lavender and lime-green will eventually be dated colors for the interiors, to how well Jennifer Aniston is aging. I came away feeling like my soul had been oxygenated and that my mindless, chatty media-bludgeoned self had been seen and fully accepted.

That's what real friends are for.

Just for today, I have real friends.

I'm haunted. Really. I bought it at a used CD store in November in a moment of extreme self-acceptance. I have always felt some shame for my less than cutting-edge music taste. I can probably pin that one on the two years I had of the French horn. Forget about how I sounded, I had to carry that thing around. That, my tupperware lunchbox, and my backpack probably equaled about eighty pounds. The weight of fourth and fifth grade deafend me to cool music...

Anyway, I was going to include "If You Leave" on a compilation of my favorite cheeze ball songs for my sister when I found it missing. It makes me sad because I loved that movie so much. Whether he knew it or not, John Hughes created rays of light that shot through the morbid thoughts of my teen years. It all began in the sixth grade when my best friend and I "worked" as traffic guards to earn free movie passes (though I didn't need any movie passes to tell cars when to stop and go). Once a month on Saturday afternoons we went to the movie theater and watched John Hughes' latest creation; Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Foot Loose (not a John Hughes film), all of 'em. These were defining moments in our 12-, 13- 14-year-old lives. Molly Ringwald felt like an intimate acquantaince, an older sister that we worshiped. She wasn't some archetypal Gwyneth or ???, but neither were we. She had her own natural spirit thing going on. She was so real. Who has that now?

I loved "Pretty in Pink" because Molly Ringwald played a girl from the other side of the tracks. She drove through rich neighborhoods and gawked at nice homes and dreamed of a different life. She failed to value herself and her creativity, but she didn't give up. I remember my friend calling me after seeing it (I can't remember why I didn't go) and told me that the ending was "bullshit" because Mollly ended up with the rich popular dude. We were both outraged and cynical, but not deterred from the fluttering of our hopeful hearts for rich popular dudes

In a world that felt frightening and heartless, John Hughes was a ray of hope, albeit a ray of very "white" hope (more on my all-black basketball team later)...He understood the feeling of wanting so badly to be different than who you are. And he made those fantasies come true. But what I remember is the feeling of hope around that time.

With that said, where is my godamn CD (does my boyfriend have it?)

According to just about every self-help book (as according to this self-help junkie), the mind doesn't understand the negative. The words "No," "Not," "Don't," fail to exist for the imagination. So now I'm really just projecting an emotional breakdown onto 3:00 PM this afternoon (although, since I am seeing my therapist today, it could be well-timed...)

While we were standing in the Trader Joe's line last night my boyfriend asked me if I was going to call him crying on Monday (today). Last week went a little like this: blog, write screen-play, make phone calls for job search, look at bank account balance, and then cry like a five-year-old (busy day). As they say, I'm in a "process" (actually, nobody says this but me...). I am "processing" feelings. I have "stuff come up" (my boyfriend says this). I am being "triggered." And my triggers are triggering triggers down the long spiraling road to the birth place of shame, fear and abandonment (uh...do I have too much time on my hands?)

For those of you who wandered onto this site looking for a guacamole recipe or info on 80's music (let me never say a bad word about Madonna) let me make a promise to you. I will stay positive today...I will not submit to the triggers...or I will feel peace.

Just for today, I feel peaceful.

I have heard that if you send love to parts of your body that are ill, you will heal faster. I just spent the last hour in bed telling my bladder affirmations so that it will heal from its 54th infection. I've been saying things like, "You are a unique and beautiful bladder" and "You are strong and function well."

It's all my fault because I'm not supposed to drink caffeine, but like any addict I have ignored this advice, hoping against hope that somehow I'm not doing ill to my body. How foolish of me. Oh, bladder, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!

Just for today, I love my bladder.

It's one thing to go grocery shopping when you're hungry, but it's another thing altogether when you're inner-child is feeling deprived. Everything I bought at Trader Joe's was either fried or baked (I didn't know you could fry spinach, but apparently you can can), and now I'm in an apartment filled with food I can't eat. I mean, I've been eating it, but it's having its requisite effects on my thighs. Did I actually think I could let carrot muffins just sit and hang out in my refrigerator like old cheese?

My denail continues to baffle me.

Just for today, I will lovingly attend to my inner-child so that she doesn't go psycho.

I've always been very ashamed of my feet. And when the pedicure is getting old and chipped, they could easily be cast in a horror movie as the Neglected Feet of some dead person...So after the umpteenth yoga classes where I stared at my hideous feet from Downward Dog, I decided it was time to get a pedicure.

I picked out a light shade of pink and sat down to soak my feet. When my pedicurist began taking the polish off my feet, she laughed and said something to the other pedicurist. As usual, I was positive that they were taking advantage of the fact that Vietnamese is not a language taught in American schools to jest to each other about my hideous feet. My knowledge of Asian languages is so limited that they could have been talking about Roe v. Wade, but I was certain that they were saying:

"Well, Vo, you certainly have got your work cut out for you there!"

"Oh, this is nothing. Remember that hippy who hadn't worn shoes for a year?! That was bad! Although, this is pretty close..."

Interestingly, the woman sitting next to me hadn't shaved her legs in about a month. Apparently, well manicured hands and feet are higher up on the beauty standard hierarchy of priorities. For me, well groomed eyebrows take precedence over a pedicure or manicure. For another, botox might take precedence over basic hygiene. To each, their own.

At one point, one of the pedicurists started speaking in English about a man she had seen that morning who walked as if he were dancing a Fosse number. She imitated his walk and we all laughed...That is, except for Unshaven Legs, who stared at the wall and occasionally jotted things down in her notebook. I guess life is very serious when you get pedicures and don't shave your legs. "Let Vietnamese pedicurists laugh at the absurdity of life...not me...I am busy writing about spirituality and relationships (I know she was writing about those things because I peeked at her notebook)." I got out my notebook and wrote a note for this blog about the woman writing in her notebook. (I think writers are allowed to be nosy about others who carry notebooks...but the truth is, I didn't see that much. Maybe she was writing about her gloriously shaven legs?)

It was fun hanging out at the nail salon, until someone decided to choose their cell phone ringer and all quiet was brought to an end. Then it was times for my nails to be dry.

Just for today, my feet look presentable.

I went to a few parties this weekend, which was a good thing. I was starting to worry about just how interesting all of the stuff that comes out of the vacuum cleaner trap seems to me. I guess what some judgmental people would call "Having No Life," I like to think of as "Intense Being with Myself." Anyway, as much as I like where I live and as much as my boyfriend and I try our damndest to communicate our real selves to each other (though this weekend when I said something deep and profound - can't remember what just now - he responded with "because you're very sexy!" And then I got annoyed...not that I don't like being called sexy, but he just doesn't listen!!), there comes a time when I need to venture out into larger social circles.

I attended a house-warming party where I got to see how the other half lives (the other half being homeowners in West LA). Now, I'm as tired as the next renter of people rattling on about how the value of their house has gone up $100,000 in the last ten minutes. WE KNOW THAT YOU ARE MAKING MONEY ON YOUR HOUSE! Now could you please show some compassion for those of us not wise or rich enough to buy back in April???! Aside the obligatory "That Crazy Housing Market" conversation, I had a good time catching up with my friend in her beautiful backyard.

The second party I went to was a dinner work party. The margaritas were excellent, the conversation was fun and real, and the food great. The only misgiving came when I saw the red meat. Not being a big steak eater, I haven't had red meat in a long time and, in the past, rare has always meant "somewhat cooked" to me. So when I saw the raw hunks of animal flesh next to the grilled veges, I thought that there must have been some confusion and the chef just happened to lay out the uncooked meat. The bright red hide sat there and seemingly mocked any vegetarians who happened to pass.

Overall I had a great weekend and "feel blessed" (I'm trying on this expression).

Just for today, I have a social life.