Today, my friend Professional Writer came by Coffee Shop Land and we talked about the Biological Clock Panic. I told her that even though it's totally appropriate, I don't have the energy for a BCP at this juncture. She, however, is exploring options such as freezing her eggs, having a child with her Fabulous Gay Couple Friends, or adopting. Good thing I have friends like her to do all the research that I don't have the energy to do.

Just for today, I can talk to my friend about my biological clock.

Last night during the Academy Awards Show I noticed that when the montage of Best Actress recipients played that, as the decades progressed through the late 90's and 00's, the displays of emotion became more histrionic and over the top. In the late 70's, 80's 90's recipients like Jane Fonda, Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, Jodie Foster, Kathy Bates, Marlene Matlin, Holly Hunter appeared to be poised, surprised, kind of dignified, thoughtful, and, sometimes, political...now it's like a therapy session gone bad after a poorly prescribed cocktail of meds. In the late 90's and 00's you got Nicole Kidman, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Halle Berry having an emotional meltdown and, then, Marion Cotillard last night...what's going on? Like their designer dresses, the displays of emotion have to be memorable and top of the line. What's so unglamorous about a simple thank you...works for the Cohen Brothers...

Ok, so I'll admit to my fantasy of receiving an award in a storm of humble tears...but that was years ago when I still thought that things like fame mattered...

It kind of made me glad that dream has never come true before I was able to (sort of) mature.

Just for today, I'm glad I've never been nominated (which would be impossible).

Last night, I went out for drinks and tapas with an old I Don't Know What To Call Him. He's actually the brother of an old flame, but I dated him, too. Yes, I know how slutty (among other things) it looks. Strangely, I'm still friends with both guys. Years ago I bought my couch (and lots of other furniture) from brother #1, and then proceeded to date him for over a year (I have since learned that such furniture relationships are not uncommon). Later, when things didn't work out, he set me up with his brother (#2). (This history is not something I want to tatooe on my forehead, but I will blog about it because not even my own reputation is sacred when it comes to material...too bad I don't have a hobby like raw food cooking to keep me from ransacking my personal life.) It's probably to the credit of both of them that I liked them enough to a) date them and b) remain friends with both of them.

I, on the other hand, have always been way too much of a control freak to allow relationships to go through changes and iterations, and so am not one to stay in contact with old boyfriends. But due to their good nature and other mysterious reasons, I have a familial relationship with these guys that betrays my pattern of casting out old boyfriends like a pair of stretched out jeans. Like my couch (which, 6 years later, still looks brand new), bookcase, and bed (purchased from brother #1), and a few other home furnishing items (purchased from brother #2 who also sells furniture), they seem to occupy a permanent place in my life. It sort of validates my theory that certain people are meant to be in our lives, and try as we may, we could no sooner could get rid of them than we can remove our own limbs (please pardon this Stephen King-ish analogy).

As a recovering control freak, it's really different (for lack of a better world), to just kind of let relationships be what they are and not judge them.

Just for today, I can hang out with an old friend.

The days are flying by (could have something to do with the fact that I wake up at 11:00).

I've been working really hard on my book proposal, and it's sucked out some of my blogging juice.

Reading "Into Thin Air," a book about psycho mountain climbers (not to judge or anything), has got me thinking about the western culture of accomplishment. Is it sheer ego that makes Man or Woman (why do I sound like I'm talking about cave men?) conquer nature, build skyscrapers or plaster their soul via a blog onto cyberspace? Or is there something endemic to human nature that propels us to challenge ourselves?

Not working a Real Job, writing everyday, living in a constant state of uncertainty (which, to be honest, seems to have been the case for my entire adult life) I feel as if I'm functioning at the high altitudes of Life. I'm climbing the proverbial mountain of Creative Aspirations (is this an annoying metaphor?), and while I can feel exhilarated by my efforts, I'm also disoriented, lonely, and a little scared. If my blood pressure isn't increasing, my finances surely aren't. It's a situation that tests the limits of my patience, faith, and determination.

Seriously, if I met the love of my life, I wouldn't give a shit. But relegated to the single life, all I can do is climb mountains. Besides, I'm beginning to wonder if what I want in a relationship only exists in John Hughes 80's movies..(very embarrassing).

(Giant sigh).

Just for today, I can climb mountains.

It's hard to live with uncertainty...

I was up till 2:00 am reading "Into Thin Air," (by John Krakauer) a book about a bunch of people (crazies) who tried to climb Mount Everest on one bad day when many of them died...then I got depressed and went to sleep.

I have also been thinking about a focus group I once observed because I was working as a notetaker. It was composed of women who owned "luxury handbags," that is purses that cost ten grand or more. Some of these women had more than a $100,000 worth of bags in their closets. I sat behind the one way window with the marketing gurus who observed them like zoo animals.

I don't know what's more insane, climbing to altitudes that will decay your body, or investing a fortune in purses that look just like the downtown knock-offs.

I guess it helps me think about these people when I'm unemployed and unsure what's going to happen next in my vida loca...(my Latina self coming out).

Just for today, I'm feeling on the edge.

...pretty fucking soon (what's up with all this swearing?).

I've been thinking about hitting 40 minus 4 in counting (that would be 36 for those of us subtractionally challenged), and that it could be time to begin the legendary Biological Clock Panic. I would normally be up for any new reason to dive right into a depression/shame spiral/up-at-4:00 am-panic attack, but I just don't have the bandwidth (corporate term) for any more obsessions right now. Well, I probably do, but I want them to be fun obsessions, like cute guys, chocolate Haagen-Dasz, and new boots...not the end of my genetic line or possible birth defects (though, I don't actually buy the hype about increased rate of birth defects after 35...).

Bottom line: I just don't have the energy for a BCP at this juncture.

So, I'm going to have to wait till I'm 38 to have my freak out. Hopefully, by then I'll be in a relationship and it'll actually be somewhat appropriate. Right now I'm all booked up with my quest to go on one good promising date. And there's nothing like the discussion of procreation and increased chances of birth defects to kill a romantic evening...

Yesterday, I said hello to guy I've known for a while who is kind of hot ("kind of hot"?...see, I can't even commit to an adjective). He said hello and mumbled something about chocolate, but I didn't quite hear what he was saying because someone else was talking. It took until today for me to realize that he was telling me that I had chocolate on my face. Because I did.

See what I mean? I've got to learn to keep my face clean before I can even consider bringing a child into this world...(and keeping her/his/it's face clean).

Just for today, I can contemplate my impending birthday.

Do I sound cynical?

That's just because I'm tired. I had really bad insomnia two nights ago and after one hour of sleep I woke up to the sound of drilling at 8:00 am. When do people drill outside of my apartment? Apparently, only when I've had one fucking hour of sleep. I woke up thinking that God clearly hates me.

So, lo and behold, it's Valentine's Day and another perfect opportunity to feel depressed and victimized by the ungenerous forces of the universe.

However, in truth, I'm not really bothered by it and am looking forward to seeing There Will Be Blood (because blood is red and it is Valentine's Day) with a friend, and celebrating this Free From Assholes Day (yes, I am cynical). I've spent most of the day rehashing my previous relationships with my friend in Coffee Shop Land. Probably not healthy, but certainly fun.

Just for today, I can celebrate Free From Assholes Day!

Last night, the salsa club was insanely crowded. For those of you not privy to this experience, it's like dancing in an elevator sized sauna at the aerobic speed of a basketball game during a fast break (sorry, but that's the best I can do). Like a roller coaster ride at a theme park with questionable security measures, it's both fun and scary. Much more so for the girl (or "lady") who, if she's doesn't have a trustworthy partner, could get thrown into God knows who or what...it's amazing that there aren't more injuries (though, my friend did show up with a black eye from over the weekend...).

To make matters worse, there was a piece of hard wood paneling that had come off the floor. Since that was the only clear space on the dance floor, a few of my partners had me dancing over that. After one slightly unsteady dance over broken wood (with an awesome dancer), Salsa Guru pointed to that area and said, "That's where the good dancers dance."

Salsa dancers are not unlike extreme sports enthusiasts in that there is a sort of pride taken in being able to dance under any and all conditions. In a way, it speaks to the ethos of salsa culture in which dancing takes precedence over any extenuating, possibly dire circumstances. Like the musicians onboard the sinking Titanic, if the world were crashing down in some apocalyptic catastrophe, salseros would still find someway to keep dancing. You could call it the anti-depressant of hyper people, or a music-inspired muscle of resilience, a refusal to cave into cynicism or negativity. It's both positive, and a little crazy.

On most nights, embarking on most aspects of salsa dancing is an act of faith (spinning, dipping, etc.) for me. Even with great dancers, there are no guarantees that you'll end up intact at the end of the song...but, like any avid extremists, it feels like a small price to pay in the big picture of my life.

Just for today, I can keep dancing.

Didn't sleep much last night. I was up at 4:00 am worrying about every aspect of my life (as if that's ever helped me before).

Should I continue writing or take a full-time job that leaves me too psychically drained to write at the end of the day? Or is staring at my computer blankly for hours on end an adequate use of my time and modest savings? (Not always the case, but certainly last week...).

What's up with this loner life? Is my anxious awaiting of the Sex and City movie a sign that something (or a few things) are clearly missing from my life?

Why aren't I dating more? Do I need to see a witch doctor to cast a spell to prevent irregularly employed middle-aged men from approaching me in coffee shops?

And so on...

Finally, I fell asleep and had a dream filled with the characters from "Weeds" and a guy I had a crush on in high school (sigh).

Just for today, I can survive my insomnia.

Part of my therapy is a "mirroring process" (therapy speak) of my emotional state (this helps "contain" me so I don't unload my life story to strangers in a coffee shop...at least not everyday). I would say my therapist hits the mark of accuracy about 80% of the time. However, there are times when she'll say something that will make me wonder if, perhaps, she is indeed out of her tree and just a really good actress (there's no way to know unless I hire a detective who gets actual photos of her smoking out with transvestites who she pays for ritual abuse...can you imagine? It might be worth it just for the material...).

The other day we were discussing dating (have I mentioned that I think it's stupid?) and she imparted her belief that I'm searching for "emotional intimacy." Hmmm.... From dating? Isn't that a little heavy handed? Emotional intimacy during the early dating phase seems more like a giant red flag. One fun date. That's all I'm asking for (and, apparently, it's too much...).

She "got" me once I explained myself in detail, but still...what if she is whacked?

Just for today, I can question my therapist's sanity.

I went to a high school that towed the unusual line between the lower and upper middle class. I also went to a junior high that was just plain ghetto (the police were there every day). I always wanted to live in a big house and come from an affluent family, but such was not the case during my childhood. However, eventually, I discovered that in my city it was considered cool by the mostly white private school kids to attend public school parties, hang out with public school kids, and, within that group, the black kids.

I know I'm going out on a limb here, but my feeling about the attraction to Obama by the "white youths" demographic is that there may be some of this phenomenon at play. His popularity with this group doesn't strike me as a color-blind endorsement, rather color is part of the appeal. Supporting a black man for president or leadership, could very well be fueled by that self-congratulatory "I'm cool with black people" energy (sort of like adding a hand woven Peruvian scarf to your designer wardrobe) that I saw "when I was young."

A friend once called it the "new face of racism" and I have yet to hear this syndrome (for lack of a better word) articulated by any of the talking heads (at least not on my cable-less TV). It's beautifully and sarcastically expressed on this site, Black People Love Us. (I'm taking poetic license in assuming that the reverse statement, "We Love Black People" is assumed). In other words, and I hate to keep using this Shakespearian quote, (though, really, he did find the perfect words for all forms of self-denial), but like the Black People Love Us syndrome, the energy around him does reek a little of "my lady doth protest too much..." (yes, I know I'm cynical).

I'm not saying that Obama isn't inspiring, or hopeful, and that many American voters aren't mobilized by a message for change. I just don't necessarily view his popularity as some sort of sign that racism has taken a back-seat. Neither do I view Hilary's ascension as proof that the glass ceiling is shattered (she's taken a lifetime of hits for the team)....sexism and racism have just taken a more insidious form (and I can't help but want to point it out).

Just for today, I can speak my truth about election 08.

I had an appointment at Kaiser today, having been relegated to this ghetto insurance plan due to my high Cobra payment. In reality, the experience wasn't "ghetto," and even if it was, I trust any doctors willing to work with the "Peoples" to my former antibiotic-pushing Republican doctor.

Speaking of health care, I've been wanting to endorse the most groundbreaking American woman of the 21st century, but fear the wrath of people who get squirmey and hysterical whenever there is the slightest hint of the possibility of a human being with breasts "leading" the free world (if that's what you want to call it...). If you ask me (and nobody is, but that never stops me) if Hilary secretly underwent a sex-change operation and came back under the code name of Clint or Hal, she'd probably be hailed a Kennedy-like saint. Short of physical Guam torture, I can't imagine a more brutal initiation process (I would rather be a fraternity pledge at a southern state school). I have nothing against Obama, I just can't imagine him jumping into the fray and getting all bloody and dirty. He's like the student body president in junior high that everyone liked, but you wouldn't expect to defend his home boys in that hallway fight (I went to a violent junior high school, so that's just what comes to mind). I'm not naiive and idealistic (I was born in the 72...Nixon was in office). I like my mafia gangsters twisted and sociopathic, and I like my politicians cunning, calculating, and tough. I don't see why a woman politician should be any different than every politican...

And, lastly, it makes perfect sense that the first woman to run for the highest office would have a husband who already had the gig as she could never be accused of emasculating him (God forbid).

Just for today, for what it's worth, I endorse Hilary Clinton for the democratic nomination.

I'm in the Coffee Shop, land of laptops and people who can't work in their homes (like me). I understand that cafe's have historically been places of great social interaction in Europe, but doubt they were filled with people staring at their typewriters and notebooks. Occasionally, I am privileged to eavesdrop on an Internet Date, but those get boring pretty quickly (no surprise for this jaded sister). Looking around at everyone busily typing away, I wonder sometimes if in 1,000 years we will be born with laptops attached to our bodies (my gene pool will surely have the Mac strand...). Mastering the social etiquette of being a regular in a wireless coffee shop has been tricky, a delicate balance between exchanging sincere pleasantries, and maintaining a an appropriate avoidance of all prolonged conversations on such topics as chiropractic work (especially after Adjustment 08), Heath Ledger, or Election 08.

Between the issues with my back and other strange health conditions which shall remain nameless (if you really want to know, ask me in person), this was a tough week. [I did, however, enjoy a great dinner with my father and brother (after the earth shattering Adjustment).]

I was telling Soul Sister Writer Friend about all of my petty little health woes (none of them are life or death) and she told me that according to a yoga teacher this week was difficult for many people due to a hole in the Kundilini.

"Like, the solar system? Like a Venus is in retrograde kind of thing?"

"No, just a hole in the energy."

"What energy?"

"The energy field. Something like that..."

I'm really not a stickler for facts and figures, but still...I going to need a little bit more information to drink this brand of kool-aid. I find it interesting how you take rationale educated people and set them in Los Angeles and suddenly they the idea of adopting the mysterious logic of an Indonesian medicine woman is all-too palatable (I will take the Medicine Woman over the yoga teacher teacher). Something tells me that the facts got diluted somewhere...

Hole or no hole, I'm glad the week is over.

Just for today, I can blame energy holes for my health woes.