$1300

The bf asked me what kind of ring I would like.
Well, he didn't come out and ask over quesadillas, or anything.  It was yet another prodding convo about the institution of marriage, the A, B, and C's of the entire endeavor ... and he busted out with, "I don't even know what kind of ring you would like."
Um, what kind of ring?  Are you fucking kidding me?
The ever matrimony-phobic, perpetually hot-into his 50's single bachelor is asking me what kind of ring I want?
Um, the kind that's from you ... pretty please?!
Two years of protesting and this is what he's stumped on?
Jesus!  I mean, I'm stylishly particular ... I know right away what's me and what's not, so the whole ring thing, really isn't THE issue!
So, we decided on looking.
Well, after a mutual agreement on the following pre-requisites: no diamonds, recycled gold, and a budget of "around" $1000, I set off on my mission.
I scoured the internet .. a path I may have once found cold and random ... but now find alluringly possible amid a sea of mall-bound chains ... for all things alternative and non-traditional in the world of engagement rings and wedding bands.  Yes, I Googled it.
And to my surprise, in the midst of the cheese and the typical and the glaringly obvious, I found a ring; a sweet, tender, hand made ring, that spoke to me in pixels.  It wasn't what I had in mind ... just like the love of my life; but it was ... Me. (For those of you paying attention, I'm already using the past tense for a reason). It was a ring I would wear ...  regardless.
See, I wear one ring: always.  It's a sterling silver heart Tiffany ring my mom and dad bought me in Hawaii.  It has all the hallmarks of posh and I never take it off.  It doesn't get in the way of my life ... unless I'm playing tennis, which is never these days.  It's understated, and only tarnishes when I soak in too many hot tubs. (Christ, what a snob!)
Other than that, for "fashion", I wear a sterling silver ring with a Smokey Quartz stone on my left 2nd finger (what's that finger called?) and a spirally, sterling silver ring on my right 2nd finger ... a gift from my best friend who sells Silpada.
I wear Target $2.50 studs in my ears and no necklaces and my nose ring is the original piercing.
That's the extent of my "fine" jewelry.
So, when I found "the ring", the first thing I saw was the price: $1300 ... $300 over the "ballpark".  But here are the specs: it's recycled white gold - a plus. It's hand made, from a lovely woman in the east ... a phone call away -- huge!  The gemstone is a sapphire!  Now, for those of you who don't know, sapphires were the engagement stone of your grandmothers and great-grandmothers.  It's only in our lifetime has the diamond craze instilled itself in our minds.  Sapphires are just as durable, and ...  some argue, more rare than diamonds.
But, I HATE dark blue sapphires ... I think their blah.  This ring ... MY ring ... has a pale stone; one that looks like the water I want to be in, the water I will be in.   It's a light blue, without being pale, it's deep without darkness, sky-like, without clouds.
Anyway, I uttered the words, "I think I found a ring that I really like" ...
Then, a lot of jumbled words came out (before the price) ... alluding to the fact that diamonds were more expensive, how recycled gold was the way to go, how regardless of that, the price of gold is through the roof ... blah, blah, blah ...
Yeah; nothing would override the price. I said the words: thirteen hundred dollars .. and that's when I heard the truth.
The bf is of the belief that that is a waste of money.  He cannot understand why someone (me?) would want to waste that kind of money on something they are, "... just going to wear on their finger?".

Is he right?

December 25th ... it's just another day.

Sometimes I'm slow.  I realized today, that one of the losses involved ... felt ... with not having children ... is  memories.  I just heard an editorial on NPR from a husband and father talking about decorating the family Christmas tree .... how various ornaments symbolize years of children's ages.  He talked about how when his kids are grown and on their own, he and his wife will have the clothespin Rudolph ornament his daughter made  to remember the times when their kids were young ... brightly awaiting Santa's arrival ... all pj's and stockings.
Hmmmm ... nice.  His memories even smell like cinnamon.
Here are some of my Christmas memories I will look back on:
-Working -- because I've either always worked in the service industry or in the news.
-Tree?  Really?  Oh, you mean, single gals like Sandra Bullock or Meg Ryan living in urban sprawl, forking over $60 for a 5 foot tree that their 105 pound frames can barely maneuver down the street to their walk-up?  Cut to her slowly place baubles and tinsel onto the lonely pine while she stares forlornly into space; lonely, lost, too skinny ... in her early 30's wondering when Prince Claus will save her and deliver into suburban Illinois holiday bliss?  No, never done that. (Yes, I've seen every John Hughes film, RIP).
-Spending Christmas with the families of the men I'm currently dating, wondering if this Christmas will look like the rest of my Christmases.  And the answer so far, is  no.
-My awesome parents ... always understanding that Christmas doesn't have to be celebrated on December 25th because I usually have to work on that day.  Besides, my step-father is Jewish and my mom isn't even Christian.
-My Dad disappearing on me when I was 13 and never having another Christmas with him.


I hope all of the people I love, like, don't like, and don't know get to spend some time with those they love in the next couple of days ... that's my holiday wish.

Enjoy the Silence

Here is a sentence I never thought I'd write: I just spent 2 days at a Buddhist Monastery. But, I did ... and I meant to. It's not like it was a Turkish prison ... it was earned bliss. My sig and I found a Zen monastery that offers Introductory retreats to dorky, over-educated, bored-with-ski-passes white folk like us; who are longing for something different, simple ... real. Actually, we've been studying Tibetan Buddhism for the last year and a half and wanted to know what Zen was all about. I found out. And it's beautiful.We arrived on a Friday afternoon, received our room assignments, and promptly attended orientation. We were given the down and dirty on respect within the monastic community (after all, we were living in their world) and an itinerary; which was strictly followed. A tour of the magical grounds ensued, followed by our first meal as a monk... which required utter silence. Now, eating in silence is something that I'm used to, after living alone for so many years, but eating without the company of bad cable is quite another thing. 99 cent udon from Trader Joe's takes on higher decadence with the soundtrack to A&E's "Intervention" in the background. Once I got over my nervousness from the first dinner, I was in love with the meal service. Each item is passed from person to person, with hands clasped in a prayer shape with each pass, thanking for giving, and thanking for receiving; until everyone has taken their share. Once everyone has their soup, bread and pear, we lift our abundant plates skyward, in a symbolic offering to eht Buddha, and eat. We all wait until everyone is done, and then, clear our plates. It is then asked that some of us help clean up in the massive kitchen, doing dishes, cleaning stoves, and washing sinks.From there, we were introduced to the Meditation Hall, where we set up our "stoops" for meditation. This was where we chose our cushion, mat, bench, and/or chair, of choice. Personally, I'd like to meditation on a feather bed in heaven with a box of Oreo's and a flatscreen TV, but that option wasn't available. In Zen, we meditate facing a wall. We were given screens to stare at and I chose a mat and padded bench as my mode of torture. We then submitted to a 20 minute meditation ... and were subsequentl asked to keep a Noble Silence until lights out at 9pm. At 5:30am, a satanic individual rang a large brass bell violently up and down the hall; signifying morning. We had half an hour to make our way to Meditation Hall, where we assumed our positions, and sat for 20 minutes, did 5 minutes of walking meditation, and sat for another 20 minutes. I'm not gonna lie: it was tough. I've been meditating, and working on developing some semblance of a "practice", but contemplating stillness at 6 in the morning was like Buddhism Boot Camp Gone Wild! And I have to admit, I masochistically loved it!The rest of the retreat continued with a similar routine of mealtime, work, dharma talks, ceremony, and meditation. I had the fortune of whispering to my sweetie and holding his hand between events, but the weekend was mostly spent apart, and in silence.It's amazing how much does not need to be said. And it's amazing how little we need to live. The Zen Monks were kind, warm, giving, and knowledgeable. They invited us-- complete strangers; into their homes and showered us with respect and grace. I did my best to keep the wash of the retreat over me once we got home. It's been difficult ... work being the biggest test. I can't help but keep thinking about my shaved headed, new teachers and friends, and am constantly dreaming about when I can go back ... and dip into their stillness.

I'm Baaaaack!!!!

I used to write a blog. Now I'm just a person who used to write a blog. It's been a while, but my feeling is that "updates" are overrated, writing for writing's sake is just bad writing, and blogging just to look diligent and "connected" is contrived. And, let's face it, no one's life is that interesting. Even Kim Kardashian had to have a $20 million wedding to look interesting.

So, I got a job. Glare at a computer for 10 hours a day and sit on my soon-to-be cellulite ass for 2 hours a day commuting to said job. I get home, raid the fridge like a 15 year old bulimic. catch up with the sig-other for about an hour, scrape the day's makeup off my face, collapse into bed, take half a pill, "read" about a page and surrender.

I have to be at work at 7am. I live in Reno and work in Truckee. Here are the bad things about that:

-Getting dressed by the light of your cell phone so you don't wake up the house; SUX.

-Leaving the warmest, most cozy body on the planet without saying goodbye for the day; SUX.

-Sharing I-80 with nothing but semis and NHP SUX.

-It's so dark and early and cold, even my dog blows me off that early.

-Any chance of getting my meditation done in the morning is SHOT because my mind is still trying to grasp the fact that it's supposed to be awake.

Here are the most awesome things about that:

-Chasing the Moon west, telling it goodnight, and wishing I could wrap my arms around its glowing, guiding self; ROX.

-The heater in my car works; that ROX.

-Listening to miraculous teachings on my IPod, thanks to the same miraculous technology that I simultaneous curse, I have to admit; ROX.

I drive, I work; fear, sleep, long for sleep, love, yet long for love, seek, save, spend, question. I'm here, now.

I don't know

I don't know how to do this, you guys. (I sound like Butters from South Park: "Come on, ... you guys"). I miss writing so much. I got a job, a real job ... after getting FIRED from Channel 4. I spent almost a year looking for full time work...found it: in Truckee. I clock in at 7am, so I get up at 5, leave at 6... ok, that's a lie ... I get up around 5:15 because my make-up regime is getting less and less. In April, it was foundation, concealer, powder, 3 different eye shadoes, mascara, eyebrows, blush and maybe a bronzer ... if I was feeling particularly Twilight-ish. Now, it's: lucky-if-i-take-a-shower ... tinted moisturizer (kill 2 birds with ...) mascara ... and a slash of lip gloss. I WORK IN TRUCKEE!! Land of George Michael "Wake Me Up Before You Hetero-Go-Go" beards, flip flops, the daring non-suck-and socked-away tummy of a jean wearin', bagel eatin', twenty-something blond who is so hot, you'd kick yourself for holding out for a size 2 ...!
The point is, I, like many of you, literally stare at 2 flat screen monitors(some have 3--have u noticed? One monitor is not enough these days.) for about 11 hours a day. Then, I drive another hour, thru the winding canyons, into Reno's summer CONSTRUCTION ... and on into Sparks, where my love resides...
Yes, sparking up his PC just to stare at yet ANOTHER computer screen is the last thing I'd like to do when I get home after being gone for 13 hours. Personally, I'd rather have my cervix scraped. I really don't find that all too uncomfortable.
But I miss writing. I really do.
K

Runaway Horse

I think I almost died yesterday. Not in that melodramatic car-cut-me-off-on-the-freeway almost died kind of way, but in the if-events-had gone just one other way, I could have been either really badly injured, or worse.

I started riding horses again about a year ago after my parents bought one. I grew up riding, got pretty decent when I was about 12, then abandoned it for other hobbies. My parents, on the other hand, have always been obsessed with them, and now have their horses on their own property. They just saddle up, and ride through the sagebrush right from their own front door. Since the weather has improved and ski season is over, I've been trekking out to their house to ride. I ride my mom's horse, Jackie, and my mom rides my dad's horse, Blackwell. My mom has had Jackie for about a year and a half now I've been acquainted with her many quirks. She's a typical mare; full of back leg bucks and unannounced spooks. My mom is an excellent rider and has taught me how to navigate the many moods of her grey, 8 year old bitchy bitch. I've had a few tests on her back, but never been really scared; or been close to falling off. My dad's horse is the same age as Jackie, but their size difference is the equivalent of driving a Hummer versus a Mini Cooper. I don't know much about my dad's horse, but like my mom, my dad is an excellent rider, with loads of experience in the saddle.

Yesterday was the perfect day for a little ride. It was in the 60's, partly cloudy, and that infamous Reno wind hadn't cropped up yet. My mom and I headed out. We rode in a line on a single track through the hills; Blackwell in front, and Jackie on his rear, occasionally nipping him on the butt for some sisterly payback. We came down one hill, trotted side by side along a dirt road, and crossed the single lane highway to a grassy meadow tucked down under the trees. As we arced our way down to the lush terrain, Jackie picked up her step. We were heading in the direction of home ... and she knew it. The walk wasn't fast enough for her, so she picked up her pace into a slow trot. When I tried to slow her back down to a walk, she stuck her giant dinosaur head into the air and shook it from side to side as if to say, "No, no, no!" At that point, my mom offered we swap horses. Blackwell was in a mellow mood and Jackie was getting her bitch on, so figuring my mom could better handle her the rest of the way home, I said sure. I got onto Blackwell feeling as though I had just taken the elevator up to the second floor. It was like getting out of a low-rider and climbing into a Dodge Ram. With my mom now on Jackie, they took the lead into the meadow, which had a long distance of tall grass and flat earth laid out in front of us. We were flanked by a gradual hill of tall sagebrush on either side. My mom asked me if I'd like to trot Blackwell and, taking on my newly adopted attitude of "why not?", said sure. We started to trot and I immediately felt ... off. His trot was so much bigger and off-balancing to me ... compared to Jackie. My reins felt loose, my rhythm was not right, and I couldn't slow him down enough to stay right behind Jackie, which my mom had told me to do. I said I needed to stop and recollect myself. My mom said we'd try it again, but if he gets going too fast, to turn him to the right, straight into the sagebrush, which will slow him down and ultimately force him to stop. With those instructions, we decided to try again. My mom and Jackie took off, and immediately, Blackwell wanted to bolt. I had recently been taught to take a horse into a circle if they are getting too amped up and just want to jam. So, I thought I'd give that a try. I took him into a little, small circle ... felt confident about our slow pace, and headed him toward Jackie. But when he saw his sister, all bets were off. His immense body literally lurched from almost a stand still to a full-on gallop. His back flattened underneath me and I felt his mouth clench down on the bit like a pit bull with a chew toy. I tried what few tools I have to slow him down with the reins and my body positioning, but the unwanted gallop put a pit in my stomach and each stride felt like a loop-dy-loop on a roller coaster. I pulled my right rein out to try to send us into the sagebrush, but he wasn't interested. My tiny pull to the right only forced his head to go right and his body to continue straight. I finally got his massive body to take a right, 90 degree turn into the sagebrush. He thundered uphill, slashing through the tall brush like the TRex in Jurassic Park ... crashing through the giant rain forest. Blackwell's speed only increased, his hind end thrusting us quickly towards a barbed wire fence. It was at this point that he started bucking ... compressing and extending his spine ... rounding and arching the two ends of his body. I bounced hard to the left ... his head whipping high and hitting my forehead. I thought that would be it ... I saw the deep ground and thought, "this is gonna hurt" ... but somehow my balance stuck, and my weight shifted to the right again. I was still in the saddle. In the next seconds, either I finally did something right to grind Blackwell to a rough halt, or he was done .... bored now, having ridded himself of 8 year old angst. We were both breathing hard, standing sideways on the hill, less than 10 feet away from the fence. My mom and Jackie appeared instantly at our side. I thought about crying, but decided to be tough. I was shaking, my legs violently trembling as I stood up in the stirrups to dismount. We traded horses and I settled into Jackie's low back, feeling light and scattered. The moment gone ... the surreal glitch that had taken me from conscious, everyday life, to instant terror and the present moment of thought that this was how I was going to die. The quiet continuance of life fell upon me like a hushed turning page. "Oh", I thought, "I'm still here, my body is here, my heart is beating and I get to keep going ... seeing, breathing, moving, living." We slowly walked home. As we un-tacked the horses, I hugged my mom; held her tight ... kissed Jackie and Blackwell on their noses. "Thank you", I said, "Thank you for keeping me safe."

Happy Live-In Girlfriend/Dog Owner Day?

I hate Mother's Day. This is a new thing for me. Yes, it was a week and half ago, but I was just asked today how Mother's Day was, so it came swirling back into my head. My whole life I never thought one way or the other about Mother's Day. I always buy my mom a card, and if we lived close to each other, we'd joke around about going out to brunch because we both hate brunch. A menu featuring both breakfast sausage with waffles and a patty melt is just wrong. And don't even say the words "Brunch Buffet". Just the thought of oxygenated hollandaise sauce makes me throw up a little in my mouth. So, whatever, that was Mother's Day.

But it hit me this year. A girl at my new job wished me Happy Mother's Day when I was leaving on Friday (pretty much everyone there is a mom) ... I knee-jerked a blurt: "I'm not a mom!" Because just saying a simple "thank you" and leaving it at that wasn't right. If I did, I felt like I was deceitfully attempting to "pass" as a parent ... like I was posing as a member of an elusive club I didn't belong to. And then there's the people who know me and say Happy Mother's Day ... and I do the usual not-a-mom thing and they say, "Well, you're a mom to Pearl!" (Pearl is my 9 year old cattle dog.) And just so all of you real mothers know: I would never, ever liken dog ownership to being the mother of an actual homosapien who catapulted out of my kookoo after 9 months of parasitically sucking the ever-giving life out of me. It's like when a cat owner tries to draw similar parallels with a dog owner -- don't go there ... it's just not the same. Cat's don't need you, they do their business in a box, and you could come home after a 4 day camping trip and the cat wouldn't have even known you were gone. Trust me, I've done it.

But despite various attempts to allow me to sneak under the Mother's Day fence, the truth is, I'll never have a Mother's Day. And, I realized, I'll never get a Mother's Day card. Not even the 99 cent ones in Spanish that I buy for my step-sister at WalMart. As I was picking out a card for my mom this year, I saw all of the cards that were "From Husband", "For the Expecting", or "For The New Mom". Why don't you just kill me now, because what I was really looking for was: "For The 40-Something Selfish Slogging Late-Bloomer With Scrambled Eggs", or "From The Boyfriend Who Refuses To Procreate, But Loves You Anyway" ... or maybe "From Your Utterly Pissed Off Mother Who Will Never Be a Grandmother"! They don't make those.

So, to celebrate this day, my boyfriend and I made dinner for our mothers (the fathers could eat, too!) and the cards and toasts went around the table, all of us concurring as to how wonderful they are ... and they are. And it was nice and not about me. I wanted to feel hurt and left out and jealous and poor me ... but this day was about them, and they earned it.