WOW! Today was such a stressful and fretful day. I came home from work last night to find my little fatty’s ear had swollen with some kind of huge cyst or abscess. I took her to the vet this morning and had to worry all day.

I finally spoke to the vet, who diagnosed an aural hematoma. He couldn’t explain why she got it; She had no signs of former ear infection, which often is found to be the trigger. Ultimately, it will cost me nearly a thousand dollars. Oy! *sigh*



While I was on the phone with the vet, I got a call from an unknown number. I returned the call immediately upon hanging up to learn that the nurse from my dermatologist’s office had gone home already, having closed the office early that day.

Sure enough, she’d left a voicemail. But here’s the thing: I had a little bad patch of skin removed from my hand 2 weeks ago. The doctor didn’t think it was anything to worry about. Neither did I. Just figured, at midlife, it’s time to start that maintenance. He said he’d call if there was any cause for concern, not expecting there would be.

I clarified, “Okay, so you’re sending this to the lab and when I don’t hear from you, I don’t need to call panicking, ‘I had this thing biopsied and I never heard back…'”

“No. We’ll call you if it’s anything to be concerned about.” So this chick leaves me a message at the end of her day and leaves me to worry ALL NIGHT LONG about what the hell she was calling to tell me.

So then I reframe it. “Okay, Christie. It’s an opportunity¬†to practice patience. You don’t have a choice, so just be.” I took a breath. “Anyway, it’s nothing. It’s probably something clerical or stupid, in which case it’s an opportunity to prepare to treat the caller with respect when you finally reach her, even though she created unnecessary worry for you.” (It’s not administrative. Otherwise, an administrative person would have called.)

In any case, it is what it is and I get to sit in the not knowing all night. Okay. I called my mom. We ended up having a lovely conversation. We’ve been speaking more and more the last couple of months. It’s been nice.Today, especially so.


I picked up my little fat kitty cat from the vet, and as I sat waiting for the cab I noticed the door of the pet hospital: “Hours: Mon.-Sat. 7-7, 7-7, 7-7, 7-7, 7-7, 7-7.”

Oh my goodness! It’s 7-7!

Oh my god! It’s Christine’s birthday! She was apprehended and questioned by the police, on her birthday, for the physical assault that occurred two days prior as I tried to escape last year. I was happy they were located and hauled in at all, but especially that it happened on her birthday. I knew there were no consequences beyond that. I’m sure the whole inconvenience took no more than an hour. All I wanted was for her to know that she did not get away with it.

I know who you are. What you did was wrong, and you know it, too.attack Christine loved that her birthday was 7.7.72. The reason for my visit last year was to celebrate our friendship one last time before finally phasing her out. She didn’t know my plan. I intended to celebrate her with one last round of blind drunkenness, and move on. You can’t get wasted enough to enjoy her company anymore, and I just wasn’t going to feel guilty about it any longer.

We were party girls together, Chrissy Squared. We were disgusting, the most obnoxious 20-somethings and beyond. She grew up in Salt Lake, but never lived here since I met her. She visited, often, and we had friends in common.

Of course, I saw the changes over real time, but I could keep up. I’m a drinker. Everyone has a friend you have to be drunk to enjoy anymore, so I joined her when she was in town. When I drink, I’m all in, still, and I’m perfectly aware of how obnoxious I am. Together, we were obscene. We had so much fun!

She’s not obnoxious now. She’s deranged. Violent, incoherent, out of control.

She harangued me for years to join her abroad. At last I agreed, knowing I’d be drunk around the clock, and then finished with her. With love. The end of a season. Good-bye, dear friend, now lost in alcoholism that took a different turn from mine.

My intentions were good, but I’m not in control either. I shouldn’t have gone.

I wanted a cute pic, but this was all she'd give me.

I wanted a cute pic, but this was all she’d give me.

I’m so grateful to be home and healing, continuing to learn. My family is getting better, stronger. My new boundaries are protecting me. I still feel a lot of pain and sorrow for the difficulty we experience(d) as a profoundly ill family, especially as I watch the trauma become more disruptive for one of my dear brothers. I think he’ll have a lifelong journey with Depression and anger, and so far I don’t have a lot of confidence that he’ll even look at it as something to recover from and live with.

But things are good.

My angels greet me now and then through numbers, and I don’t care if believing that makes me nutty. ūüôā Sometimes it’s just a little nod, a hello, but I’ve never got one like SEVEN sets of SEVEN in a row! What a reminder to take stock and express gratitude.¬†Thank you, angels!7 of heartsWow. I got a new follower moments after publishing this post. I checked out her site and right there on the front page was a post called¬†A Copper Penny In Your Eyes.

Pennies became one of the first symbols of angel communication for me. I asked my Grandpa [after his passing] to send pennies, and he did! I was practically knocked out by pennies from heaven, there were so many the first five years or so. It’s less frequent now, and less personal. I don’t feel his energy, exactly, every time. It’s just a smiley face each time I see one now, but after the connection I felt this afternoon, I can’t help but find it to be a confirmation of the day I had and the feelings it inspired.

All is well. “Cuddle doon, me bairney,” Grandpa used to say. It’s a Scottish poem.
pennies and quarterThe author of the poem I found today used pennies to represent the low regard shown by a false friend. Nevertheless, my meaning for pennies remains untarnished and the poem itself is quite profound and well-written, about honoring oneself and drawing on courage to stand tall in the truth of who you are. (A timely nod after my reminder of Spain today, and confirmation that I did well to leave my own false friend.)

Fatty’s surgery is slated for SEVEN SEVENteen at SEVEN a.m.
I don’t make this stuff up.
(For those of you keeping track, that SEVENteen SEVENS in a row.)


“The repeating Angel Number 7 indicates for you to keep up the great work you‚Äôve been doing of late. Your angels are telling you that you are on the right life path and that¬†you will find that things of a positive nature will flow freely for you. ¬†Your job is to maintain your momentum and enthusiasm, with the highest outcomes for all in focus.

Angel Number 777 is a positive sign and means that you should expect miracles to occur in your life.”

I love this site by Joanne Sacred Scribes. I don’t remember when I first found it, but I just love it! 77777777777777777!¬†http://sacredscribesangelnumbers.blogspot.com/

THE YEAR OF THE ANSWER IS WORKING! 42! (7×6, like the wall of the vet clinic. ūüôā )
Mid-life is kind and difficult and funny and strange and wonderful and MIRACULOUS!

Inspired Costuming



Phil and I went to San Francisco¬†and I came home inspired! We attended their Burning Man Decompression. Decompression is where the good people who revel in the desert get together post-burn to bond and party, to share stories from the “playa,” as it’s called. Or Black Rock City, the fifth largest city in Nevada for the week of our festival. Salt Lake City’s Utah Decompression¬†was the following weekend, last weekend. You follow.

I made my entire outfit – vest, hat, bustle – in a day and a half. Then I put it on and walked out the door. Just like that! I even bedazzled a cool fedora for Phil. We were super sexy and cute. I even stitched the leafy “feathers” that adorn my shoulder shrug and chapeau!

photos courtesty Rudy van Bree

Brazilian pilot, not Phil. ūüôā

The Changing Face of Wanderlust

I’m considering that this¬†bout of melancholy could be close to a midlife crisis. I find that as interesting as I do startling. I¬†mourn the loss of wide-eyed hope, and fear myself becoming a bitter, dashed old spinster… but better that than a bitter, dashed old house frau. Not that I think little of homemakers;¬†Rather, I think so much that I resent the carelessness with which so many enter into that bargain.¬†I always¬†wanted¬†a baby, but I knew¬†I wanted my¬†time first so that I’d have¬†nothing to work out¬†on, through, or because of my precious children. I knew I’d be older than the cultural Morm (ha!). I hoped to be more available to my kids¬†than our mom could be to us. So many people in this area start families¬†with so little forethought and imagination that they wonder why they feel empty and unfulfilled later in life, and then they judge my wild abandon as “fleeting” pleasure, not true¬†and lasting joy. The grass is always greener, as they say. Sanctimonious bastards, I say (hee).

I’ve had¬†desperate yearnings lately to get out! Get in the car and drive! I’m so in love with Salt Lake that even considering leaving this beautiful place makes me miss¬†my¬†city¬†on the daily to-and-fro. I look at her with a pensive, oppressive longing, as though she were already gone. I don’t even own a car, yet I find myself thinking, “F*** it. I’m getting a $2,000 beauty, AAA, and¬†hitting the open road!” “I don’t care anymore!”

I had¬†a strange flight of fancy. What if I got an apartment in Pocatello? I could get some job or another like I always do, and BANK every month on the cheap, cheap rent. It’s entirely likely¬†that I would see my busy,¬†far-flung friends more often if I came to town once a month, say. People always get together when out-of-town¬†friends¬†visit. I’d actually see my people more! And then my flight of fancy scared me. A buzz came into my chest and I¬†felt the whisper, “Daily walks with Grandma.”

Suddenly, I saw myself spending the next 5 years in the garden with my 87-year-old grandmother. I would remember how to live simply, with dirt under my nails. I would grow flowers and urns of herbs.¬†I’d make my homemade walnut, basil¬†pesto and pork roast for us and whomever of my aunts, uncles and cousins that stopped by. We would talk. We would not. Grandma’s a healthy,¬†active, spry¬†87, but she is 87. Can I imagine her in her 90s? Do I have 5 years? My god, I must have NOW with my grandmother.

Am I moving to Pocatello, Idaho? Good lord, I would never have imagined such a thing. When she dies, I will take my savings and travel, travel, travel, or buy a little homebase for a garden, and travel, travel, travel. I need to see my Grandma. It’s time to buy a car. Even if I don’t move, I will drive¬†up often to make dinner together. I need to see my Grandma.

The Dream Delivered

I feel so out of touch! I lost my internet connection, i.e. the unsecured network I’m snaking off of for free, so finally I got my ass down to the library to reconnect with the blogosphere. I very quickly came to love this form of processing my emotions, so it’s nice to be back.

So Dreamboat from Rhode Island showed up for our date, after all, and it was, well, dreamy. We saw each other, oh, 5 or 6 times before he left. He showered¬†me with such playful, giddy,¬†delicious, passionate attention, I was over the moon. He was completely cool with me not wanting to have sex with him. You never know if a stranger meets a cute girl and thinks, “Well, hell, if there’s a chance I’m getting laid I’ll spend my time here.” I made it clear that a week’s borrowed dalliance was not the circumstance I seek for that level of intimacy, and we proceeded to explore my beautiful city with gallery strolls,¬†leisurely hikes, fine meals, casual snacks, and days and nights of endless sighs and kisses. He had a subtle, teasing sense of humor and I cannot say enough how thoroughly delightful it was to get to know him.

In fact, it¬†hurt my heart a little to let him go. In fact, I actually cried. Who knows what else was stirring? You know how that is. “What is going on?” I¬†found myself wondering.¬†“I’m nowhere near PMS.” But cry I did, just a little, and it felt fine. By darn, I think I fell a little in love with a dreamy boy from Rhode Island and, oh my goodness, am I glad I met him! Bless my strange, enchanted¬†luck for our chance encounter and my friendly smile, but, oh!¬†I miss his dreamy eyes. (Also, he’s impossibly handsome and it’s ridiculous how perfectly built and sexy he is. *groan*)

Rhode Island, I called him, was just the inspiration I needed to believe again that everything I wish for in partnership can be mine. I want love! Passionate, exciting, curious, playful, intelligent, inquisitive, tender, teasing, giggling, hungry, voracious, deep, abiding love. 

So I’m definitely buying a car in June. If neither of us has a romance in Fall, I’m driving out to see the New England colors, and¬†Maine (lighthouses!), VERMONT (I’ve always dreamed of seeing Vermont!),¬†at long last New York, and a boy I call Rhode Island.

Wow! What A Ride!

Marko and I were nearly consumed by the Pacific Ocean in April 2010 in Puerta Vallarta, Mexico. We were spat out of her watery bosom gasping, sputtering, bloody, bruised, laughing, amazed, ALIVE! We later found a stylish coffee shop and gathered our fractured senses over strawberry/mango smoothies and turkey/avocado sandwiches. We noticed the artwork on our table and laughed out loud, reading: 

Wow! What a Ride!                                     Puerta Vallarta 2010