When I came back from Lake Tahoe after 6 measly days away, I went into immediate Car Shock by the sheer number of cars in Los Angeles. It's eat or be eaten out here. Cut off someone else, or be cut off. I decided that I'll allow people to cut me off, but only if I do it in a way that makes them feel bad about themselves. Classic manipulation. I don't Road Assholes to know what I think of their driving, rather I want them to have an epiphany and see their behavior for what it is by the mirror of my passive aggressive driving. I think there's a martial art that does this same thing.

Process By Which Drivers Realize They Are Assholes

1) Car #1 (me) speeds up to cross lane.
2) Car #2 in left lane speeds up.
3) Car #1 slows down and goes back to first lane, but keep tires barely in the other lane. Not enough to cause an accident, but enough for the driver to say, "Whoa, I almost hit that car. I must be an asshole."
4) Car #1 driver rolls down the window and says, "May you have an existential crisis at the next light that transforms you forever."

Just for today, I can celebrate passive aggressive road rage.

I can't go to yoga. Whatever satisfaction I got out of parastariyasanashamalamadingdong has gone the way of my threadbare lululemon yoga pants. In order to live in this Titanic-style economy I need something stronger. The musicians haven't stopped playing, but we are definitely not horizontal.

Ever since I joined the x-country team in high school, I understood why people run, swim, or bike long distances. Repetitive motion releases aggression. Sure, punching someone in the face would be a lot more immediate (and gratifying), but how would I tone my arms?

My knees rebelled against running, my ghetto-ass bike finally died (for now), so all I'm left with is a body of water and some competitive out of shape guys to try to keep up with. I would never have thought this, but there are serious rules to swimming in lanes. God help you if you disrupt someone's "rhythm." And when I say "someone" I mean me.

Yesterday, I found myself in the "fast" lane with a young out of shape guy who did not appreciate my passing him. He and I almost went to blows in the underwater world of passing lanes. However, I emerged from the pool a civilized woman once more (I think).

Just for today, I'm staying sane.

Joblessness, fear, freeways, writer's block, anxiety, crazy drivers, compulsive shopping, fear...it was time to leave the freeway pit and visit Super High Powered Aunt (aka, Rich Tahoe Aunt). Lake. Check. House on lake. Check. Boat. Check. Sun. Check. Firemen. Check. (We made them dinner for them). A place to crash. Check.

My father used to bring me to Tahoe every summer when I was a kid. For years I had no interest in Tahoe because it just reminded me of being ignored and long, endless hikes in tortuous heat. It reminded me of loneliness. And sun. And some fun, too.

But I realized that it's ridiculous to ignore a perfectly awesome vacation destination for a few lame ass memories.

Just for today, I'm so happy to get away.

While packing for her move my Mom has been attempting to unload all kinds of random family artifacts (i.e., crap) onto my life. My mother can attach an intensity of meaning to material objects that some reserve for religious worship. Yes, I smile when I drink out of the glass that was a jar in 1985, but tell me, what am I supposed to do with the Oscar the Grouch Cookie Jar? Her pant suit from 1992?

My bag of notes from junior high school, however, contains sacred text (as in words on paper). Though, I do agree they should be burned on the grounds of violating laws against Lethal Boringness. (And, yet, I can't throw them out). Albums, college papers, photographs...fine. But a part of me would be happy to wave a magic wand and disappear the hope chest complete with my high school journals (whose key I have conveniently lost).

Just for today, I don't know what to do with this stuff.

I've been interviewing for jobs with kids. Babies. Toddlers. People who were exiting a vagina while I was getting felt up to "Purple Rain" (or "Careless Whispers"). Not sure if it was at the EXACT same moment (that might seem an inappropriate conversation to have on a job interview), but suffice it to say they might have studied Films of the 80's in college.

They're just so positive....(get a grip). We have to dig to find where the economy landed and they're feeling all "the world is my oyster"-ish. I was never like that. I had a healthy bad 90's attitude (I think).

You couldn't pay me to be in my early thirties and, yet, I can not be alone in wishing that I, too, could live in blissful ignorance. What's the prize for "growing up?" Not a trophy, just a giant check next to the word "Reality."

Still, when you call someone "young," it's not exactly a compliment. At least I know which way is up.

Just for today, I'm glad to be old.

Beginning the process of becoming a salsa dancer (or a "salsera) is not unlike falling in love. In those first months Salsa, or rather "Salsa!" can do no wrong. Music, dancing, excitement, men...during the work week, no less. No, I didn't see "The Bachelor," boring work people. Yes, I was up till 2 on a weeknight. So what if I look like a meth addict from the neck up? My new legs make-up for the Dark Circles Under Eyes Tired Look.

If nobody else, "Salsa!" understood my needs and expectations (constant fun with no obligation or necessary maintenance). Salsa loved me unconditionally.

But like any relationship...things changed. Salsa soon became the flawed boyfriend who redeems in the sack. Not quite someone with whom I can share that New Yorker piece, but still fulfills the human need for connection. And then came the day when even that wasn't worth the application of eyeshadow. The Bitch Salsa Stage. If the music reeked of any commercial Marc Anthony flavor, or my partner wasn't a meticulous fellow "On 2" geek, and the floor wasn't made of eco-friendly bamboo, and free of any spike heel threats within at least ten feet of me (basically empty), I was one non-botoxed brow muscle from dancing with a scowl. Bitch Salsa didn't fly with many guys, but that was OK because they appeared to me to be off-beat, shoulder wrenching, attention-seeking flash mongers whose interest in any dancer was furthering their own hierarchy on the Salsa Food Chain. All the particulars of Salsa Culture that had once seemed charming or anecdotally funny, the Halloween-style get-tups, sweat sprinklers of spinning girls, spike-heel injuries, or guys that were stuck in salsa purgatory, suddenly, struck me as intolerable...I shot a humorless glances at the weirdos...holy shit who are these people? Salsa, once a fantasy world like Disneyland, contained all the reality of a junior high school dance. Injured back. Broken heart. Salsa Bitch Attitude. Must unplug from the Salsa Matrix.

I stopped going out.

And then things changed again. I had been dancing "On 2" for a few years, but it was only around this time of total "Fuck you Salsa!" disillusionment (the brink of divorce) actually, started to dance...to the music. Yes, I danced before, or thought I did. But I entered the environment, not the music. I didn't really hear the music the way a musician might. It wasn't until post-recession, post-acupucture, post-post, that it occurred to me to go out to dance...fucking dance, Salsa Bitch.. My vanity crushed, and my sequined mini-slutdress lost in my closet, that felt humbled to the sounds played by musicians who were following an ancient art.

Salsa still fulfills. More than ever. But it's more of a marriage where I give back with focused attention and respect. Looking less glittery, but feeling fuller. Salsa is family; life-giving, unwavering, and imperfect.

Just for today, I'm a Salsa Geek.