On days when I need inspiration, I like to turn to my friend Mike. He's always there for me with a clever, powerful, and inspiring saying or quote. On days like today, when I am looking for a job and am having trouble finding one, I like to ask him for advise. Today he took me to get some coffee and said, "Stella, if you throw enough shit on the wall, something is bound to stick." I wrote down that statement and thought about it before I went to bed last night. Sometimes we just need inspiration to get us through the day.

What I Believe In
The healing potential of unconditional love, boundaries, hydrogen peroxide, the Muppets, the smell of clean laundry, the inherent goodness of Pete's Coffee, bright colors, the power of vision, that the greatest form of service from one human being to another is the capacity to look another human in the eye and see NO HUMAN FRAILTIES,...

What I Don't Believe In
Death, fear, vegetarianism (for me...for me, okay?), the belief that God is accessible only through a "spiritual practice," regrets, the existence of evil...

Who I Trust
My Persian Eyebrow Lady

Who I Don't Trust
People who teach classes on "creativity," or "breathing" in Los Angeles, "healers," my Persian Eyebrow Lady when she's telling me I need a facial (she also gives facials)...(there's more, trust me...)

What I Don't Understand
Why (some) people think humans are bad for eating animals, but tigers aren't bad for eating other animals...

Why coffee is bad for me...

When I said that "the greatest form of service from one human being to another (hmmm...I just noticed that already this sentence makes no sense...) is the capacity to look another human being in the eye and see NO HUMAN FRAILTIES..." I MEANT that when we look at people and see weakness we project that quality onto them and reinforce that part of them. But when we see them as strong, capable, forces of nature and are like "you don't need my help" or "get out of my face with your self-pity cuz you know you secretly rock," then we reinforce their strength and power. Because by and large (in my wealth of experience in the land of dysfunction) few humans give each other enough credit. And that's because we don't believe in ourselves. So, if you keep feeling sorry for your depressed grandmother, or alcoholic building manager, or whoever, you're holding them in that place, and keeping yourself down as well. So, THAT'S WHAT I MEANT (which is not to say that other forms of service don't help as well, but this is just MY OPINION of the greatest form of human service...)!

Just for today, I can shoot for greater clarity in my writing.

When I'm really depressed at work I like to read news clips about people I went to college with who are now "famous" and after a moment of dramatic faux self-pity I can usually see why I would be such a terrible famous person. Unlike my college friends who say incredibly appropriate inspiring things that prove their worth as model professionals in their field, I am wont to demistify the whole cheezy elevation of people onto quicksand pedestals by yapping away about my IBS or my thirty-somethin' menstrual flood (it's like a bad SNL sketch, really....see, I'm doing it already!) or the $3 shoes I bought at Thrifty while eating Rocky Road cone...or whatever it takes to gratify my perverse need to douse the world with my hyper-humanity.

The truth: I want to be an earthy inappropriate human being.

The facts: In this world, you have to have things like pinacles and "credits" so people can go ooh and aah enough times so they can shake their heads in condescension when you fall from grace like some Tennessee Williams character, or Winona Ryder (who was really just trying to make a point about the ridiculously over-priced crap they sell at Barney's) and then everyone can say to each other "See! she/he is really a screwed up human being - just like you and me!"

I already admit I'm screwed up like everyone in the world.

Just for today, I think I'm too human to be famous.

I don't like reading past entries of my blog because then I start to notice the typo orgy and the crimes of grammar I commit while in my frenzed I'm-So-Creative-I-Don't-Need-To-Actually-Make-Sense state. It's sort of the geek equivalent of taking shrooms and throwing paint on a canvas (except I consume large quantities of M&Ms and spew my frustrations...is it really that different?). Unlike those admirable Olympiads (is that even a word?...see, now is what I'm talkin' about...) I seem to go for the bronze (if that) when it comes to writing clear, grammatical sense-making blogs.

The truth is this: I'm not sure that's a bad thing.

The other truth: I'm a recovering English major. I went to college and had a lot of snooty TA's who wore black scarves (they weren't all snooty) and put a lot of red marks on my papers, and talked about their pretentious poetry books that made no sense at all to me, and told me that I am judgemental of the characters in the giant brick of an English novel about some prissy housemaid who wants to get it on with her master (get it on already!)!!!!

You see, out here in web-land, no one can mark up my blog (at least not in front of me). But I've heard something about how adulthood has something to do with not acting out....so maybe it's time to let up on the creative grammar.

Just for today, I can check for typos.

Last weekend I met with a woman who is willing to mentor me as a writer. She told me to write the truth for fifteen minutes a day. I tried to reason with her about the perils of truth telling.

"Do you want me to be assassinated?!"

"It's the price you pay for not being a fraud..."

I told her it could get worse. I could get fired from my job and expelled forever from office life where computers and, therefore, the Internet, and, therefore, my Blog, are a staple item, like corn or cotton.

But she had no sympathy.

We all know about folks like Martin Luther King Jr. and the late JC who said something that other people didn't like (like, all human life is equally worthy of love and respect...whatever!). And then there is my friend Mary who is a large African American women who goes around questioning why Black and Latino people all JUST HAPPEN to live in the same neighborhoods where falling down schools JUST HAPPEN to be wedged in between liquor stores, projects, and recycling plants. And she's had threats on her life (though, it might have been about something else)! And while I agree that some Truth Tellers may have irritating personalities (I'm sure JC was a big ole whiner)...reactions are far more extreme than they are towards irritating liars (Bush, etc.) Nobody likes it when you spake The Truth.

Just for today, I can tell the truth...cuz truth = power. Word.

The truth is that I am a hopelessly cynical person trapped in the body of a Pollyanna. I've been told that my voice sounds promising to people (like Polly), but I think it just sounds the opposite of an old bitter Italian men. My boyfriend in college was part Italian and so he would imitate old men a lot. Actually, come to think of it, I think he was an old man. Some people are born old. I am told that I seem young. But I think it's because I seem unsure of myself the way young people do, so I wouldn't take it as a compliment on my skin. But the point is that it doesn't matter what I seem like, I am dark. I say all these inspiring things at meetings, and I construct profound statements because I actually feel hopeless about the human race.

I wake up every morning in dread. I feel hopeless about getting up. The magnified sounds of garbage trucks reverberating in my alley are God's way of setting my alarm clock. I work next to a construction site where the piercing beepings of trucks backing up ring in my ear every morning. My work e-mail is like a study in clutter. Forget about my yahoo account. I've surrendered to the spam. It's like we lost the war to the robots and there's nothing more to do but spend our lives deleting e-mails about diabetes, etc.

Just for today, the truth is out...

Michael is a nice man who has worked at his job for 19 years. He has a passion for Native American jewelry, but there's certainly no security in that. His parents didn't have enough for retirement, so he has to think about them. If he were younger...then, perhaps he would think about leaving. But now, at the ripe old age of 48 there is really no sense in leaving a stable, secure job...sure, the coffee is bad, the work boring, and the general vibe uninspired...but the world is a scary place and there are no gurantees. Except for the stable job. That's a For Sure, No Brainer...he couldn't think of leaving. No. That would be stupid. The benefits. The sick leave. Please...

My acting teacher tends to drool over the students who have crying fits that turn into hyperventilating seizures and screaming matches in their scenes. It's not that it's not interesting to watch, it's just that the only time in my life I've seen people act like that is in movies about insane asylums and...in acting class. My family was more about the repressed emotion. To dramatize it I would have two actors on stage giving each other the silent treatment (a very "filled" pause with LOTS of "compression") for seven to ten years. It may not be good theater (more performance art), but it would be real...

Just for today, I can keep acting real.

My boyfriend and I decided to go on a nice innocent "little" bike ride this afternoon. Unfortunately, my boyfriend decided we should ride to the destination he goes to with his biking buddies, a place that just happens to be at a far corner of the galaxy...By the time we arrived to this destination, we were pretty much done biking. We relaxed and patted ourselves on the back for biking so far. There was just the small problem of getting back...Short of the humiliating experience of calling someone with an SUV or truck to pick us up, the only way we could think of was the ridiculous idea of biking back. At this point it was getting dark and cold and we no sooner began peddaling than thirty-mile an hour winds hit us like anti-gravity and made our traveling speed shrink to what felt like three miles per hour.

CUT TO: EXT. - BEACH BIKE PATH - NIGHT
A MAN AND WOMAN, DRESSED EACH IN A LIGHT SWEATER, BIKE IN THE BLACK OF NIGHT AGAINST A HOWLING WIND AND SAND STORM. BY THE EXPRESSION ON THE WOMAN'S FACE, IT IS CLEAR THAT SHE IS PEDALING AS HARD AS SHE CAN. HOWEVER, SHE SEEMS TO BE TRAVELING IN SLOW MOTION. HER TEETH CHATTER AND HER BROW IS FURROWED IN AN ANGRY EXPRESSION, AS IF SHE IS BLAMING HER BOYFRIEND FOR THIS AWFUL EXPERIENCE.

GOD DOESN'T REPLY. THIS IS NORMAL. SHE GETS BACK ON HER BIKE AND TRUDGES ALONG AS IF LIFE IS A BIG PAIN IN THE ASS

While this excursion was nothing short of a taste of hell, I was extremelygrateful to have a warm home to come back to.

Just for today, I accept the hells of my own creation.

I had lunch with some friends from college who I hadn't seen in a while and some other people who I guess we could call "acquaintances" from the days when I brushed gortex jacket with those of ruling class (who happened to attend the same gothic towers of the college we all attended). By the end of the lunch I had to seriously wonder if these people think about anything other than real estate and babies, or if those are the unspoken parameters of conversation when a Bush is in office. You would never know that wars were being fought, or that we all went to college and actually learned to think. I think maybe I've spent so long hanging out on the fringes of the "artsy" crowd (a polite eupehmism for educated and poor), that I no longer know how to connect with the ruling class which I was never a part of (but always thought I wanted to be). Not that I ever "connected" the way I do with people who, like me, blurt out their innermost thoughts and feelings as if every interaction is a therapy session (it's gotten a little bit more under control since I hit 30). But it seems like in the old days, when people wanted to chat about...I don't know, the "crazy housing market" or what not, I could nod my head like it was all very serious and earth shattering. But at the lunch I just wanted to say, "Am I supposed to give a crap that you have a bigger backyard for the Mexican nanny to chase after your kids? Is there something wrong with public parks?! What I really want to know is how you treat the Mexican nanny..."

Needless to say, that would have created weirdness galore. I'm just grateful that my children won't grow into overscheduled neurotic zealots who need three educational therapists to take the standardized tests to get into the right kindergarten.

Just for today, I am grateful to not fit in.

If you have ever gone to Disneyland and spent any time at all in Fantasyland (a place ostensibly for children) with any degree of consciousness, you just can't tell me that it's not the most terrifying place one earth. Like many "children's" literature and entertainment, it's filled with allusions to the horrors of adult life: alcoholism, broken families, and abandonment.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
This ride's story is, I'm convinced, about drunk driving (which may or may not have been the intention of "The Wind in the Willows" writer Kenneth Grahame, but who cares...). The ride takes one through Mr. Toad's chaotic path (in his car) almost crashing into his friends Rat and Mole, into a bar SERVING BEER (this ride is for 2-year-olds), into court where he is sentenced (with perhaps the the rodent equivalent of a DUI), back out in the world at which point he drives into a moving train, dies, and winds up in HELL. In this Catholic HELL, we meet the Devil and lots of scary demons. Thanks Disneyland for further traumatizing me with your Christian visions of the afterlife. Children of alcoholic parents will know where dad is going to end up!

Snow White's Scary Adventure
We see little of Snow White here as most of the ride takes us through the journey of her evil step-mother who was so traumatized by our youth-oriented beauty culture that she stepped over the line of sanity by deciding to take the matter into her own hands with murder. The poor woman never got the help she needed (had she, perhaps she would have become a feminist and kept Snow White from becoming a bored houseprincess). The ride abruptly ends just after Snow White eats the apple (before the Prince and everyone shows up) and when the Dwarves are chasing after the evil queen. At this weird juncture, the little car drives out to the light of day with a storybook that says "...and they lived happily ever after..." Did they run out of money? Or does Disneyland just like traumatizing kids by taking out the happy ending?

In my day of traveling to and fro rides like the Haunted Mansion, the ole Matterhorn, and Pirates of the Carribean (which we went on twice because the first time our boat was filled with Japanese men flashing away...I couldn't look at a single skeleton without a red dot floating around), I must say Snow White's Scary Adventure and Mr. Toad's Wild Ride most touched my fear bone. At 32, I have to ask myself why?

When I was four I came to Disneyland for the first time and was terrified by the Pirates of the Carribean and the Haunted Mansion. I feared that maybe people went into these places and never came back (I actually thought the people coming out of the rides were clones of some kind...where I got this from I don't know, "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" maybe?).

The chill is still there. And maybe I should give Disneyland some credit, after all it's hard to find a good horror film these days. The attractions are given so much detail and care that these worlds really do transport me to the fear and mysticism of my childhood fantasy life. You don't get that at Magic Mountain.

Just for today, I respect the magic and horror of Disneyland.

A student at the school where my boyfriend works as a counselor was shot and killed last week. It was a random shooting and it happened in front of his two younger sisters. There wasn't so much of a peep out of the media about it, while the news of Teri Shiavo's death made it's way down my and everyone else's throat. While I feel for her family's pain, how is a white woman's vegetative life more valuable than a young living functioning black male's? How was she more innocent? It's times like these when I have to compress the monstrosity of the media into the voice of an annoying loud guy screaming on his cell phone at Starbuck's about the problems with his SUV. If I didn't have the ability to dissassociate (a skill developed in my childhood), I'd likely go live on a leper colony in South America (Che Guevara style).

All I can do is write a blog full of sound and fury, and quietly ask White America why it insists on just plain ignoring the violence, poverty, and pain of black urban youths. I'm not asking anyone to absolve anyone of their responsibility, I'm just saying, when young men and women who aren't white or rich get shot, could the press amount to more than a tiny story on the back page? Could someone just talk about it a little more?

Just for today, I'm sick of the media.

Tonight I told my student to take her fifth grade standardized test and shove it up America's pompous keep-up-with-the-workaholic-Jonses-who-have-no-family-life-because-mom-and-dad-are-always-working ass. This made some light shine in her eye. While her mother agreed that tests are just a bunch of silly sillies, we both (madre and I) had to make some case for why she should give a gosh darn about it. The only reason we could think of is that doing well on standardized tests means that you've somehow conquered the challenge set forth by The Man. But she wasn't buying. What else was I supposed to say? Welcome to the real world, Kiddo. Ten years from now you'll thank your lucky stars that you knew how to fill in the right bubbles...The truth is that thinking inside the box does help in some situations. Unless you're REALLY rich and successful it's tough to be a healthy eccentric in this land cuz most people want to hang with the normies...

Just for today, I am so freakin' cynical.

I just came back from visiting the high school where my boyfriend works as a school counselor. I love high school kids. They are so real. Their hearts haven't been calcified by bad relationships and SUV entrapments on the 405.

I connected with one girl who likes horror and Goth music by telling her that the last time I went to my father's house I was greeted with a life-size sculpture of him made out of wood. When I share this with adults they look at me and say, "Good for him!" Only a high school girl can connect with the comedy of parent-weirdness. I'm not opposed to the idea that I haven't grown out of my own teen angst....

Just for today, I can love my inner-teen.

'Kay, so I'm talking about porn here. Before I start...just FYI, I have never given much thought about porn except for that it's skanky and degrades women, but there are many things I consider "not good for me" that aren't going anywhere (Krispy Kream donuts, loud people, crack..to name a few) anytime soon.

So this weekend I was surfing through some blog sites and I stumbled across an upscale porn site (i.e., images created with some artistic integrity with models who looked capable of healthy relationships) and for a moment, I thought, perhaps not all porn is skanky creepiness. So, I decided to see what all the fuss is about, but soon found that my first instincts were correct. Yes, 99% of porn is, indeed, skanky creepiness. However, the entire venture did make me wonder if it's not the porn that's the problem, but the people involved. I might be interested in watching good-looking, successful, happy people having erotic sex. However, for whatever reason those people do not, generally speaking, work in the porn industry. The majority of the people that I've seen appear to be in highly desperate circumstances and like they aren't taking very good care of themselves (to say the least). Do I want to help them find a better job, process their emotional baggage, and pursue loving relationships? Yes. Do I want to watch them have sex? No.

The whole experience made me feel so yucky, I had to go wash my car (which was also looking a little dirty).

Just for today, I can have an open mind.

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.

I know I make a lot of them. But this time I mean it. I'm making a commitment to bore you, my audience (Hi Mom!), each and every day, by writing in my blog every day for one month. Yes, this is a promise I am making and I give you permission to berate me publicly if I fail to live up to it. My entry may not be extensive. It could be one word...like, say, "Mad" or "Sad" (you get the picture). But the point is, I'm showing up to report to the world something about my life or emotional/spiritual state and thereby make am making a commitment to myself.

'Nuff said.

Just for today, I can make commitments.

"What's wrong?"

"Just stressed out...I need to have a kid, write a book, put up a cabinet in my bathroom...some major projects.

"I'm not going to give you advice...but (blah, blah, blah...insert advice that doesn't help me)..."

"You just told me you weren't going to give me advice and then you give me advice!"

"I know...I can't help it. My archetype is 'wounded healer.'"

Wounded healer...who are you, and why do you look just like my dad?

I didn't grow up hearing my father talk about 'archetypes.' This is Dad 3.0. Evolved New Age Dad. It's very impressive how he's embraced the concept of self-reflection. Except, as my friend Jared says, he's still running some old applications. I never know what is going to come out of his mouth. One minute he's giving me non-advice, and the next he's channelling Deepak.

Just for today, I can try to talk about my crisis with my dad.