Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

God is crying

Okay, I have to admit that even though I’m an atheist, I always kind of liked the visual image of god crying when it rains. But I think it has more to do with the fact that I love the rain.

One thing about me that many people don’t understand is that I live in Southern California and I love the rain. Not only this, but I actually moved out of Oregon partially because it rained too much, but I still maintain that I love the rain. Yes, Oregon, there is such thing as too much of a good thing.

I happened to live in Oregon during the rainy season (November through April). It rained every day except for the one week that it snowed and the one day in April that the sun decided to stop partying down under and finally pay us a visit.

That much rain is too much for me. But I would be very happy living somewhere where it rained anywhere from 40-70% of the time. I know 70% sounds like a lot, but to me it sounds perfect. I think I love the rain so much because it reminds me of being a child and being forced to stay inside where I could write, draw, and watch movies for hours.

I remember a time when I was nine years old and it had been raining for days. My sisters were fed up with it. They wanted to go outside and play.

“So, go outside and play then,” I said to them.

“Oh, yeah right, and get our clothes all wet,” my older sister replied.

“Then don’t go outside in your clothes,” I said.

“You can’t go outside naked,” my little sister said with a giggle. “Everyone will see your cuckoo.”

“I’ll go outside in my bikini right now,” I replied.

“No, you won’t,” my older sister said in her best “I double-dare you” voice.

I slapped on my black and white striped bikini, ran outside,  and began doing cartwheels in the pouring rain while my sisters laughed at me from the doorway.

To this day, I get giddy when it rains. I love to curl up with a book or pen and paper and visit far off places where anything is possible. So for me, whenever it rains, it doesn’t feel sad like god is crying. To me it feels more like a rich uncle just showed up at my door and handed me a stack of cash and the keys to his Infinite Probability Drive.


Read Full Post »

Gen-X or Ex-Lax?

How is it you wake up one day and you’re 33 years old?

Actually… It’s not like that. It’s more like, you’ve been waking up like this every day of your life, only some days you think about your age and other days (most days) you’re too busy to give a flying fuck. You don’t wake up one day, look in the mirror, and think, “who the hell is this saggy bag of rust standing before me?”

It doesn’t happen that way. Age creeps up on you.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to imply that 33 is an advanced age, but it’s certainly not 22, or even 27.

About a month before I turned four, my mom celebrated her 29th anniversary of being alive. I remember sitting on the carpet next to my mom as she lay on the floor at the foot of the stairs. She was obviously distraught about something.

“What’s wrong?” I asked in a concerned munchkin voice.

“I’m turning 29 years old today,” my mother replied with a sigh. “Next year, I’ll be 30. I’ll be old.”

“Mommy, you’re not old.”

My mother stared at the ceiling, trying to maintain her composure as she pulled me into a tight hug.

To this day, I’m not certain why my mom was so upset about nearing 30. I can only speculate that it had something to do with her own vanity and my father’s wandering eye. It’s funny how such a small, forgettable encounter can shape you. Seeing my mother so terrified of something that was 100% inevitable, molded some of my feelings about age.

Age should be a badge of honor in the animal kingdom. You’ve survived all the millions of possible deaths that could have possibly been inflicted upon you. You didn’t get brain cancer. You weren’t hit by a train. You haven’t been eaten alive by a polar bear.

So many deadly possibilities… and you’ve escaped them all.

The moment you were born, chances are there was someone looking out for you; making sure you had everything you needed to thrive. Then you struck out on your own for the first time when you were 18 or 22, or whatever age you were. And you went through a rough spot. Maybe you went through 14 months of surviving on ramen and cigarettes. All this, and you managed not to kill yourself or anyone else while driving drunk.

Then you hit your mid- to late-twenties and you find yourself a mate and a mortgage. You’re gaining weight and your spouse and your boss are driving you nuts. You hit your early thirties and you wonder what you’re suffering through all this for. Is this nuclear family and this fancy house really worth it? Somehow, you manage to make it through this “mid-life crisis” with your sanity mostly intact  and without putting a bullet in your head.

Then you hit your forties and… Well, to be honest, I don’t know what the fuck happens when you hit your forties, but I do know that all along the way you’re constantly being brainwashed into thinking old age is something to fear.

Old age is not frightening, considering the alternative is death. So wear your badge of honor (or bag of wrinkles) proudly. Next time someone asks for your age, tell them the truth, unflinchingly. Embrace your saggy skin (if you can actually wrap your arms around your fat lump of a body) and slick your scraggly gray hairs into a faux-hawk. You’ve earned it. You didn’t die–again.

Read Full Post »