I exploded a snack pack of carrots and ranch dressing all over my car today. It happened just after I burst into an orgy of tears. It was a moment in time when I thought that, surely, there is no God. It was then that my cell phone rang. As I struggled to drive, cry, and find my cell phone, I kept coming across clumps of ranch dressing all over; on the steering wheel, my phone, pants, dash board (there was quite a bit of ranch dressing stuffed into that snack pack.) I think for a minute I forgot I was driving. My mom was on the line and as I tried to talk to her through my ranch dressing tears she kept saying, "Pull over! Pull over!" As I wiped ranch dressing off my face I kept telling her, "I'm almost there!" (which was a total lie). How I did not get into an accident is proof that there must be some kind of God.

I told the story to my friend Nancy and she told me about the time her diet Pepsi fell on the floor in her husband's office and got punctured, prompting it to turn into a Pepsi sprinkler system on hyper-drive. There are still Pepsi dots on the ceiling.

Just for today, I accept and embrace the joy and discomfort of humanity.

My friend gave me a book called "Why Men Love Bitches." I haven't read it yet, but I already can't wait to read the sequel, "Why Men Love Bi-otches." If it doesn't exist, I'm going to have to write it myself. I mean being a bitch is cool and all, but if I'm really honest with myself, I know the glory comes from being a full-on in-your-face "bi-otch." Ever since I saw that word scrawled on the bathroom wall in the fourth grade (...and then a hundred times thereafter as I hustled through a very creative public school system), I have been on search for my inner-bi-otch. It's not just men, either, everyone loves a bi-otch. She's just not going to stand around and let you get away with anything. She keeps you centered. She's a force to be reckoned with. She's like Jesus or Ghandi, but dresses a bit sharper .

Just for today, I am in touch with my inner-bi-otch.

I was going to blog earlier and then I turned on the television and heard the song "Born to Handjive" and thought, "when my childhood beckons I must heed the call." Yes, the movie, "Grease," in all it's cheezy glory occupied the last hour of my life (and boy do I still get a high off "We Go Together.")

Anyway, I am recovering from my break-up by burying myself in self-help books and technical labels that reduce human relationships into neat little packages with bows on top. (Is anything good for you anymore? I guess watching Grease can't hurt anybody. No, wait, that's my TV addiction!) Am I a co-addict? A co-dependent? A co-avoidance-addict-co-dependent-enabler/addict? I don't know. But it is sure keeping me busy. One things for certian...and that is that I have not read every self-help book known to man...yet.

Just for today, I prefer the movie "Grease" over self-help books.

I just put my sister on a plane and drove home through a waterfall of tears. I probably won't see her again until she has completed a semester of college in New York and has been transformed into Cool New York College Student. I have this fear that sometime in the next few years she's going to take a long look at me and for the first time in her young life think, "she's not nearly as cool as I thought she was when I was six...boy, what was I thinking?!" And that's when she's going to know that the big sister she grew up worshipping and trying to dress like is really a big geek who reads self-help books cuz she really needs them. In reality, she probably realized this long ago.

Just for today, I love my little sister.

HBO and Itunes are my new best friends. They are always there for me when I need some support and they don't mind if I call too late. I was wide awake last night trying to find something to keep me company while I became one with the night willys. I tried watching some weird documentary about prostitutes who think they're empowered, when I came across the film (and it is a film) Bull Durham. I ate up this 80's soul food like a starving woman at the Costco sausage sample station. Crash Davis is an aging baseball player with the dubious honor of hitting the most home runs in the minor leagues, and Annie Savory is a parishioner in the church of baseball and a woman terrified of any relationship where her sexuality isn't a card she can wield at any time during her seasonal relationships with the latest young rookie. Both are a little romantic, a little bitter and have been cosmically elected to groom the simple Nuke LaLoosh, both mentally and spiritually, to become the next Big League star. Both have essentially knocked out of the game of life, but are desperately hanging onto scraps of their ego; Crash to baseball, and Annie to her feminine wiles. Through Nuke they see the emptiness of their paradigms and are finally able to let of the idea that such a thing as winners or losers even exist.

At 2:00 in the morning I turned off the TV and realized that my whole life is before me if only I can let go of any of my ideas of what it's supposed to be. As long as I'm healthy, I've arrived. No relationship, career, accolade, or purse (I really need a new purse), can give me that feeling if I don't believe it.

Just for today, I am grateful for my cable (actually, I just realized that I ONLY have HBO...will call tomorrow).

Let go and let God. I'm a human being, not a human doing. Live and let live. Whenever I point a finger, there are three pointing back at me (or something like that). Wherever I go...there I am. The mind is a dangerous neighborhood, don't go in there alone. I'm part of the solution, not the problem. We are as sick as our secrets. Life flowly. More will be revealed.

Just for today, I can regurgitate recovery slogans.

I hate to sound like such a cliche, but gay men do make such great boyfriends. They get where I'm coming from, but they're like...male. One good gay boyfriend, a therapist, and HBO...what more do I need?

Just for today, I embrace the single life.

From the looks of the parking lot, Costco is the place to be on the weekend. I imagined there had to be a party going on in on the cereal aisle, but I just stopped in to pick up my pictures so I couldn't check it out (but I heard the h'ourdeurves were fantastic). Everything at Costco is very BIG and supersized. I can't really shop there because my apartment is too small and where would I put a case of pretzels? Large quantities don't go with my spartan lifestyle. I did take some time to order some frozen yogurt from the food stand in front where I got enough froyo to feed a small family for $1.35. I didn't have anyone to share it with so I threw it out. I just can't consume like an average American anymore. Fortunately, I don't think the economy is going to be hurt by my underconsumption.

Just for today, I can shop at Trader Joe's.

I feel bad for my therapist. Here she is trained to treat normal dysfunction and she has to deal with the aggressive scrutiny of my inner-Tony Soprano. I guess I was just tired of the same old routine. I come in and talk about me and then she talks about me and eventually I get quiet and make a joke because I'm tired of it ALWAYS being about ME and my "ISSUES." Anyway, while we were on the subject of my "defenses," I unsubtly alluded to the idea that maybe she also has "issues." And, if such is a the case, how could she be a credible healer in certain areas? Well, by the looks of it, this did not fly well. She maintained a professional exterior and all, but I could tell she was PISSED. She had the look I get when the kids I babysit burp and blow it in your face for the third time and it's just not funny anymore.

Now before I go any further I just want to say that therapy rocks and that most people could benefit from someone willing to mirror back their psychodrama. If it weren't for my therapist I wouldn't be speaking to my father or setting boundaries with the people I love. However, there comes a time in every therapized person's life when he/she looks squarely at his/hers therapist's pedicured feet and finely coordinated skirt and linen top and thinks, "Who is this person? And does she go home every night and slog back a martini and give her husband the silent treatment? And, if so, WHY AM I LISTENING TO HER?!"

Perhaps I sholdn't share such thoughts with my therapist, but, if so, what am I supposed to talk about? The weather? There's only so much more I can say about my childhood, relationships, and my fear of facial hair.

Just for today, I feel for my shrink.

I'm enjoying my meta-vacation today by not getting out of bed. I arrived in Lake Tahoe two days ago and yesterday I went running, boating, swimming in the lake, and bike riding. Such meta-vacationing (if you understsand what I mean by this, please inform) has been pretty tiring. But, as you can see, it's insanely beautiful here. The scenery cuts into my self-absorbtion like a knife. I'm staying with my Cool Rich Aunt. Not only does she have a big house and two boats on the lake, but her self-help library rivals mine and I can talk about every nuance of my recovering life without her ever giving me a skeptical look and saying things like, "Don't think so much." We're kindred spirits, minus the wise investments and substantial equity (unfortunately, I think I'm missing the entreprenurial gene...but I do have a blog that earned me $.27 last quarter).

Counting both sides of the family I have six aunts and no blood uncles (that sounds weird...not related to me). All of these women have given me something or modeled some way of being a woman in the world. This particular aunt has done things like helicopter ski in virgin territory and make a killing in real estate, all while maintaing her feminity. While none of my aunts fits any stereotype (and I repeat...ANY stereotype), I am grateful to this particular one for really showing me how to embrace my own life.

Just for today, I am grateful for my Cool Rich Aunt.

I'm in Lake Tahoe taking a desperately needed break. It feels like I've been driving for an eternity, listening to the sound of silence or The Rolling Stones, depending on what thoughts are passing through my mind. There's nothing like driving Interstate 5 to make a person take stock of life, if only because there's absolutely nothing to look at on this stretch of freeway. I'm convinced that there's a patch of freeway on I5 that begs for silence because every time I drive through there (where? not sure...somewhere after the cows) I turn off all music and simply absorb the utter lack of scenery that pervades this part of central California. By the time I'm just about to reach 580 I'm usually in some kind of driving coma with the mantra "...almost at 580..." running through my brain like a trucker's affirmation. Anyway, needless to say, I did arrive to my mom's house and am now in Lake Tahoe.

Just for today, I can be on vacation.

I decompressed from my therapy session by strolling the lovely fluorescent aisles of the newly renovated Targae (actually, it's called Target). I have to say, this is a cool store. You can drink a frapuccino (not that I'm drinking coffee...at least, not yet Mr. Urologist) AND buy eye-liner (actually, I spent $40 on make-up, but that's a different blog) AND a strainer for your weird teas made out of flowers that will "cool" your kidneys (and when I say you, I mean me). For a moment, I almost got lost, but then a nice man wearing a red shirt found me in a forest of indoor plants and took me back to civiliazation. It's that freaking big! I really could go nuts among the kitchen supplies and I won't even go near the bath section because before I know it I'll walk out with seven different sizes of lotion dispensers. Anyway, I went to buy a few things and I ended spending over an hour examing the fabulous items available at affordable prices for all Americans to consume. It was quite a pleasant evening.

Just for today, I can enjoy Target.