Mississippi Unplugged

Back home again, snug in my Denver home/office existence but I'm still stubbornly clinging to the serenity of the past week. I hadn't had a real vacation in so long, I'd forgotten its value – eagerly following the daily trail of fun and whimsy and NO WORK.

Nearly every morning, I was awoken by the sweet urgings of my three-year-old nephew, Robbie, who was sent down below – where they keep the edgier aunties – to get me on my feet. It often went something like this:

Robbie (softly): "Aunt Hedder, you got to wake up."
Me: "Zzzzmph? Heeeeeey. Zzzzzz. Heeeey, sweeepee, wazzup?"
Robbiereferring to my butterfly eye pillow): "They told me not to be ascared of your mask."
Me: "Howzat? Mmmmmgoodforyoupunkin. Zzzzzzzz."
Robbie: "Aunt Hedder. Your da last one."

And so on. By the end of the week, he got more forceful, pulling back covers, rocking my immense form and pulling me out of the sack by the appedages. Honestly, it was the sweetest alarm clock I've ever had and I'm missing it immensely.

Other highlights include:

Ripping it up on Friday night with my sisters, Julie and MaryAnn, at Mosaic, a tapas bar in downtown Ocean Springs with belly dancers, hot Latin men and yes, hookahs. So much dancing, drinking and enlightening those around us – include a batch of lovely Air Force cadets – to the joys of inhaling fruit-flavored smoke. Hard to believe we were in Mississippi.

Heading out for a day of fishing (or in my case, photographing) on the open waters of the Gulf. Captain Robert went way, way out and tied us up to a triple oil rig, a massive structure that awakened some bizarre longings in me. (I get that way around large amounts of steel – you should have seen me trying to contain myself touring a Navy ship. It wasn't the sailors, trust me.) Anyway, the Cap'n, his first mate, Ricky, and sister Julie put eight or so lines in the water. My brother pulled in a beautiful Red Fish which he was immensely proud of - see above. (It was, in fact, the only time my modest brother said: "Heather, take a picture of me!"

Sadly, the Fish Feds soon came along and made him throw it back. Seems we'd traveled so far from land that we ended up in Federal waters where the Reds are an illegal catch. (After Chef Paul Prudhomme had caused a sensation in the early 80s with his Blackened Red Fish, there was a feeding frenzy so now they are protected.) The Fed was actually quite nice about it as he could have easily confiscated the boat and fined Captain Robert $5,000. Still, when my brother asked politely if he could not fish at all in FedWaters the officer guessed, "Well, not unless you're the President or something … " which caused me to launch into a tirade, "Don't even get me started on that guy …. !" Julie quickly stepped in to calm me – a skill she picked up being married to Kris, a fellow patriot also known for political tirades. After we watched the Feds motor off and watch the silvery gleam of the fish float away, my brother mumbled, "Well, at least we got a photo of it" to which I replied, "Can we go back to the State of Mississippi now?"

Went through a box full of old family photos with my father. He would tell me who it was, where it was taken and guess at the year and I would scrawl this info on the back. "Well, I'll be damned, that's me with my first hunting rifle … And this here is your great-grandparents, Joe and Gertie Pease, probably in South Dakota … and look! Your grandmother as a young girl, just look at that bathing suit – ha!" Delightful but it also made me painfully aware that time keeps marching on, ready or not.

When I began to learn the guitar, I stated very clearly that my goal was to play well enough to impress drunk people; congratulations to me, I have reached that point. The first night, the Sisters and I got completely blotto and I broke the instrument. With drunk folks, two chords are all you really need, though I did have a special song I'd rehearsed. I played "Jambalaya" by Hank Williams in honor of MaryAnn, the fiery redhead who married my brother and brought this new Southern experience into my life. Although I really fucked it up, she didn't care. She started bawling and insisted on video taping the performance again. I'm hoping she was drunk enough to have left the lens cap on.

Drinking perfectly made-up high class cocktails created by Julie, the world's most skilled home bartender. I remember something with lemons, limes, ice, Cointreau, tequila all served in a chilled martini glass.

Getting my baggage 24 hours after my arrival, after it had enjoyed untold adventures in Nashville - Robbie became obsessed with this and would mention it randomly throughout the week. One conversation:

Robbie: "That man delivered your bag so you can change clothes."
Heather: "That's right! So now I don't have to wear Aunt Julie's underwear."
Robbie (sternly correcting me): "Girls don't wear underwear!"
Heather: "Um, really? Who you been hanging out with, Robbie?"
Robbie: "Girls wear panties."
Heather: "Ahhhhhhh … yes, of course."

The whole week led up to a day/evening at The Farm, yet another extension of the Clisby Empire out in the Mississippi woods. RMAC has enough acreage to hold a barn, a cooking shed and lots of toys with wheels – tractors, trucks and best of all, the coolest little dune buggy that goes over EVERYTHING. Robert had cleared enough trails – and sand pits for burning out – that there were plenty of places to rip around. They invited up some friends (who brought their ATVs) and we ate crawfish, drank beer, shot rifles, played horseshoes, barbecued sausage and just hung out. Later, we made a beautiful campfire and told ghost stories. The half-moon was gorgeous and I picked at my guitar. It was a beautiful, perfect night and I felt immensely grateful.

Vacation's over but that lucky feeling remains. Gotta find a way to keep it with me always.

Bloated Wednesday

I've learned a few things since my vacation began. Recovering from Fat Tuesday requires – at the very least – 10 hours of shut eye, several teeth brushings and a Diet Coke or two. (A full confession might also be in order, either to someone named "Father" or "Officer.") Beads, I've discovered, are the key to complete happiness, especially when thrown from decorated floats that cruise along the Mississippi Gulf Coast and caught with the free hand not clutching beer. These very same beads can also inflict pain if one is unprepared. My three-year-old nephew, Robbie, got beaned pretty good and went home with bead-shaped welts on his neck.

Hanging with the family crew this week for a much-needed unplug, I couldn't be happier, or drunker, if you want to be exact. I got very lucky with landing the tribe that I did – they are a funny, life-loving gang. My brother, Robert, and his wife, MaryAnn (collectively RMAC) are once again, hosting and being generous with food, booze, love and laughter. Despite airline delays and lost baggage, I didn't hold back on my first Fat Tuesday.

Also here for the revelry is my stepsister, Julie, a vivacious brunette (pictured above) who approaches life with the same lust and gratitude that's become the family trademark. She's an expert fisherwoman and the best non-professional bartender I know. This is Julie's first visit since The Wedding of RMAC in May 2002 and she had never met Robbie until now. The child is blessed with a number of aunties but Julie and I strive to be The Bad Influence Auntie Twins. So far, so good.

In the afternoon, we attended the Biloxi Mardi Gras parade and the town had a bit more celebrate this year. Though they had suffered a terrible, unimaginable blow from Katrina, nothing – and I mean, NOTHING – gets in the way of Mardi Gras. Empty cement foundations still support FEMA trailers where awe-inspiring mansions once stood but no one was thinking about that. Marching bands, silly hats, beads, booze and celebration – this is all that matters right now.

Later in the evening, we hopped over to catch the Gulfport parade. Shorter but equally fun with better quality stuff. I even managed to score a beautiful stuffed Mardi Gras jester doll. Beads, schmeads! I was done after that. Though there were cops and crowd control, we all marveled at how such a thing could never, ever happen in California. If it did, alcohol would not be allowed, there would be no parking and has-been celebrities would proliferate the scene. Ick.

Heading home in some amazingly dense traffic, we were forced to stop so my brother could take the longest roadside piss of his life. His eyes had turned yellow when our journey first began and he may have pushed his luck too far. Once the release came, the joy of relief nearly caused him to break into song. "Nothing personal, honey," he said to his wife, "but that may have been the best orgasm ever."

This morning, Julie and I awoke and took stock of the destruction. I'd eaten many bright colored things that I don't recall (just King Cake, hopefully) and the cocktails never stopped flowing. Worst of all, we'd stupidly smoked about eight million cigarettes.

"I sound like an old bar hag, Julie," I growled. "At least you sound sexy, like Jennifer Tilly or Demi Moore."

"No, no," she said. "I sound like the Friday Night Women Who Call For Vicodin." Julie's husband is a dentist (his name is Dr. Brain!) who occasionally receives random calls from desperate ladies who are loathe to face the weekend unmedicated. They beg and plead and play up one urgency or another but Dr. Brain is inpenetrable.

Still recovering, we behaved most of today and have just returned from a lovely bayou boat trip to The Shed for the most delicious BBQ dinner I've ever had. On the trip there, dusk was fading in to night and the water, smooth as glass, mirrored the trees exactly. We sped along, sipping our gin and tonics and looked forward to the pulled pork and potato salad. The trip home was a bit chilly but equally beautiful. A delicate sliver of moon lit up the sky and the Mullets – "The Happiest Fish in the World" – lept all around us. MAC, perched on the bow like a Viking queen, lit a safe path home with her industrial strength flashlight. I looked at my brother and he grinned, "This is my life!" A lucky man, indeed.

Tomorrow: New Orleans!

Also, three-year-olds are very quotable - who knew?:

"Now I don't stink anymore!" –Robbie, celebrating post diaper-change

"I have a gun!" – Robbie, pointing the American flag at me

Julie (singing on the boat): "I wanna be a cowboy, baby!"
Robbie (joining in, guessing at the chorus): "All night wong!"

Angels Do Exist - You Just Have To Make Them

Don't ever get the idea that my favorite underdog state, North Dakota, has no creative ambition. Please note that thousands of dedicated NoDak appendages flapped yesterday to break the record for the most snow angels ever made at one time.

They only had to break Michigan's record of 3,784 but more than 8,900 Dakotans, including a 99-year-old lady, gamely plopped their ass down in the cold snow for a chance to prove their collective angelic worth.

Ever on the defense of NoDak's dull reputation, Edna Arvidson, 84, of Bismark, pointed out, "People think there is nothing going on up here." Well, I think this chilly stunt should certainly put that perception on ice for awhile ...

Out of Office

Beep!

Hi! You've reach the voice mail of Heather. I'm not here right now because starting right this very second, I'm on vacation. You heard me. The quitting time whistle is blowing and I'm yabba-dabba doin'.

For the next week or so, I'm climbing out of the corporate salt mines and trading it all in for a much-needed Whiskey Dew/gumbo transfusion on the Mississippi bayou with the family tribe. I realize that my recreational plans may cause some inconvenience to your status meeting and derail a few deadlines so I promise to check messages sporadically, if I remember ... maybe.

However, if this is a bona-fide white collar emergency, dial 9-1-1 and tell them you got a coupon off the internet, so they need to make it there in five minutes or less or its free. Our lawyers will back you up.

If you do manage to reach me, I apologize in advance for my slurring. No, I'll be fine, I'll just be ... y'know, tired, that's all. Also, ignore the screaming in the background ... that'll just be a healthy batch of joyful children, I'm sure. Plus a few (ahem) other types. Should you attempt to conference me in, I will be busily engaged in one of three things - drinking, fishing, practicing guitar, drinking or laughing.

Hmmm, looks like my math skills took off early.

Well, it should be a quiet business period anyway. This week kicks off Chinese New Year, launches Carnaval and wraps up Mardi Gras. With me gone on top of that, the media might have to actually start reporting on the Anna Nicole Smith case that we haven't heard much about. As my primo, Mat, commented, this very evening: "Yes, when great powers - Brazil, China and Heather - close down, the global economy grinds to a halt."

Meantime, go ahead and set up something for us on Outlook and send along an agenda. I'll download the data and create some action items for us to brainstorm when I return to civilization.

Have a nice day!

Now, get me the fuck outta here ....

Beep!

I Get Lucky Sometimes

Once again, I'm in San Francisco and the morning's USA Today reminds me it is Valentine's Day. Some years, the occasion mocks me while other times, I celebrate. Sure, sure, we all agree this is just one big ad campaign designed to sell cards, candy and jewelry but there is no denying its impact. I mean, we've managed to forget that DeBeers, the diamond company, invented the engagement ring and now accept it as a standard tradition.

Truth is, this celebrated Love Day hasn't bothered me for years because I was lucky enough to enjoy three completely perfect V-Days in my life. Honestly, they were so expertly crafted and manfully executed that I cannot imagine them ever being topped. I am still running on the fumes of their success and plan to for years, no problem.

#1: I was 14 and in love with Ricky, center (#56) for the Lakewood Lancers football team. He'd been my buddy in pre-school and we were drawn together once again. His friend, Willie, fancied my pal, Diane, so it became a double date. Each boy had written a poem professing their undying dedication to us and taken it to some woman, who then wrote out each sonnet on fancy paper. They brought us candy, flowers and took us to a romantic double feature at the Paradise Theatre: "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" and "Scanners" – an entertainment bargain as tickets were 99 cents each. Looking back now, Diane and I realize that the boys were 'practicing' on us – this was their first V-Day effort and they were not about to get it wrong. Ricky and I eventually went to the 9^th grade prom together and then, the senior prom. Since he'd invested several years in our friendship and relationship, I made sure he was The First.

#2: In the late 90s, I moved to San Franciscoand soon fell in love with a darling man whom I nicknamed Tarzan. Several days prior, he pointed out that V-Day was nearly upon us. I wondered aloud if there was something I should do to prepare. His response: "You don't do anything. I'm the man, I do everything." How hot is that? VERY.

Tarzan showed up the morning of with red tulips, a gift poster from the Henry Miller Library in Big Sur and the makings for a scrumptious French Toast and champagne breakfast for me AND my roommate. He then told me to pack for the next two days and would not tell me where we were going. Heading south on Highway 1, we finally arrived at the Tickle Pink Inn, which sounds like a tacky place where the beds vibrate for small change but it was, in fact, a gorgeous B&B in Carmel-by-the-Sea overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

My jaw dropped upon seeing our plush room and with its amazing deck view. I believe I cried and said, "No one's ever done this for me before" to which he replied, "Well, they should have." We sat in front of the fireplace, drank wine and talked. There was a fancy dinner and some blissful lovemaking. The next day, we went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I felt like the Pink Princess of the Palace. Tarzan earned an awful lot of points with this effot and we remain good friends to this day.

#3: I was dating a wildly romantic fellow who had helped a friend move to New Orleans. He'd driven the U-Haul and was now staying in a 100-year-old mansion – friend of a friend and all that. I missed him terribly so I planned a trip to come visit, not consciously realizing the date – February 14^th. Always a dashing figure, he met me at Louis Armstrong Airport with red roses and wearing his usual long, dark coat and black derby. What a sight he was! So handsome – I couldn't believe he was waiting there for me.

We returned to the mansion where he cooked up a fine Louisiana meal – crab pastry, collard greens, and hush puppies – truly fabulous. We dined on the expansive porch and listened to the beads of Mardi gras revelers clink up and down the street. Later, we went to the Maple Leaf with the gang and caught a kick-ass brass/rock band that brought down the house. We danced and drank and generally celebrated life above ground in that decadent New Orleans way.

Eventually, we returned to the mansion where a number of us all made out together. I know, this doesn't sound romantic but he and I were in a very active sexual stage and exploring stuff together. It was HOT. When I boarded the plane on Sunday, I felt like the entire weekend was written all over my face and my naughty smirk was betraying me right and left. I saw a nun on the plane and kept my head down.

Sure, I'm working on living in the Present and all that but days like today, it feels good to look back and rehash the red velvet efforts of such wonderful men. Though things didn't "work out" in the usual sense with a picture perfect wedding and a 50th anniversary party, I am still so grateful that we crossed paths. Roses die and candy gets eaten but I can survive an awfully long time on these frozen memories of Love.

From the Front Lines of Love

Once again, my engines are revved up and I'm back in the race - just in time for the big V-Day. I'm dating up a storm here in Denver which is both delightful and painful. Even the fish I throw back, I feel for. They are trying hard – sometimes too hard – in an effort to locate a suitable companion. Who can blame them? It's like one long game of musical chairs and I always seem to be at the bar getting a refill when the music stops. And so I remain standing.

First off, I can't say enough how GREAT it is to work with a level playing field here in Colorado. The C-Man Buffet offers a wide variety of worthy dudes to investigate. I'd recently corresponded with an editor at 5280, complimenting them on the recent Love Issue. She wrote back, offering good wishes on my journey:

"While the 'Menver' theory doesn't hold in terms of numbers, in terms of educated, fit available, non-25-year-old guys, it does. Hope you find it fertile ground here!"

Indeed. I've got two balls (technically, four, I guess) in the air at the moment so I must be giving off a whiff of something. One is a fellow I met just last Sunday at a superbowl party. Last night was our first date and already, he's planned how we will spend our lives together. At 6'5", he's a big dude and I like 'em big but I learned long ago that Big Men actually come in a variety of sizes.

Already, it's going a bit fast for me so I may have to put on the brakes and possibly, change my phone number. He married at 20, divorced last April and has already decided I will be the New Woman. He's thinking about buying a five-bedroom house in Estes Park – perhaps, he wondered aloud ON OUR FIRST DATE, I could live there with him? I'm confident he hasn't the faintest idea who he is dealing with nor is he terribly interested. If MonkMan taught me anything, it was to think twice before tossing aside my own life plans for some starry-eyed fool entranced by an idealized version of me.

Furthermore, he has a 14-year-old daughter which terrifies me to no end. That was me, you see, dealing with a father busily upgrading to a new wife model. Vexing and quite damaging to a young girl on the brink of womanhood, I can assure you. After Big Dude left my apartment, I suddenly burst into sobs, missing a love I left behind in San Francisco. (Every time I hear that fucking Tony Bennett song, I want to break a window.) The comfort of the familiar, the devil you know and so on.

Thankfully, there is another fellow on the horizon more my speed. Plus, his existence adheres to my new policy which is: "Proactive, not Reactive." In other words, instead of just liking whoever likes me, I must take a more involved approach and carefully scan for red flags instead of making bed spreads out of them. Pick them out, y'see, and for the love of all that is holy and righteous, pay attention! Most ladies do this naturally; I have to leave post-it notes.

I picked this fellow out in a bar some weeks ago. He looked around my age (very important) and had a handsome, open face. I began a conversation and it flowed quite easily, mostly on the all-important topic of music. He eventually earned big, big, big points for uttering the following sentences:

"Yeah, I heard about them on KCRW, there's a show called 'Morning Becomes Eclectic' have you heard of it?"

"I HATE Disney."

"I'm not really a morning person, I hate waking up."

"My family is confused about my life because I'm not married.'What exactly do you DO with your time?' they want to know."

"I play bass."

I then asked for his phone number on the spot, putting it immediately into my cell phone and eventually made the first call. This is unprecedented Heather behavior. Quite simply, I prefer to be pursued, not the other way around. This may explain why I also find male strippers very, very unsettling. "I am the sex object, not you! Now get down off that stage and rub my feet like a real man."

After our first date, he called me later to make sure I'd made it home safely and bid me good night. That's whatcha call class, people! He said he'd call the following week but didn't hear a peep until last night, when he called as I sat waiting for Bachelor #1 who was two hours late! Bachelor #2 had lost his phone (my number along with it), apologized all over the place and was quickly redeemed. He's got plans for us to check out some music or the new exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art.

In the words of my mother: We shall see.

Why I Blog

I blame St. Howard, who has challenged a few of us bloggers to explain ourselves. Apparently, he was already tackling this question himself but it naturally came up in conversation the other night at HDW's birthday festivus, pictured at left. His query today posed a simple: "Why blog?" Here is what I came up with:

Not Old Yet: A few summers back, our office had us a batch of brilliant interns – all girls – who gave a terrific presentation on a new trend called "blogs." At the time, this was still a fairly fresh medium for the generalized adult human and it was just barely starting to show up in the business world. One of the interns, Maria, was eventually hired and has since become my friend and young, plucky sidekick - the Gabrielle to my Xena, minus all the heavy lezbo tension. She assured me that setting up a blog was the easiest thing to do and all the cool kids were doing it. That was enough for me. So, on August 9, 2005, with the catchy headline, "Hear That? It's My Blog Cherry Popping!" ClizBiz was born. (When I recently lamented to Maria that I feel old and out-dated with modern technology, she said: "Yeah, but the blogging saves you." Whew!)

The Writing Gym: I quickly realized that the new toy could help me reverse a dangerous habit. I had recently written a cover story for the Santa Barbara Independent about Monty Roberts, "the horse whisperer", and it was excruciating to create. After years of corporate work, my prose taken on a horrible Velveeta texture with perky sentences and clipped, guarded descriptions; my own writing style had gone weak from lack of use. Used to being a hired hand for multi-national corporations, the Heather voice had become weak and distant. Zoinks! The blog became a place where I could just go and work out, "a place to bench press 10-lb. verbs or outrun dangling participles." What a delightful idea - writing for no one but myself without assignment or deadline, a playground of sorts. As I'd restated on my 100^th post on 1/17/06:

"This blog is more like throwing personal jewelry into a black ocean - not only do I never know if the trinkets will hit bottom, be swallowed by a fish or be discovered by some wayward explorer, it is actually not even the point. The goal is getting my fingers around something internal, articulating it as a thought and flinging it outward - letting it go whether the world cares or not."

Self-Challenge: As Howard's friend, Lorne, pointed out recently, the pressure to think of something relevant and/or witty to say can be self-defeating. Every writer wants to believe they offer a unique voice to the world and some days, I am one of those cursed warriors. Other days, it's all I can do not to fling my cell phone into a snow bank and suck my thumb in the corner. Like most bloggers, I've got a folder of great post ideas that are somewhat evergreen – bits and pieces I grab from the news. Occasionally, I force it out (and it shows) but most posts these days feel pretty dang natural. Some come roaring out of me like a post-feast belch, others start with a small seed, germinate, sprout, grow and bloom over several days after much pondering, looking up to the sky, stroking my long beard and so on.

Ego (Legacy): There is a distinct sensation that writing comes naturally to me and for this, I am grateful. (If I could sing well, I'd never shut up so just be glad I got the quieter of the gifts.) Still, it is hard to keep the ravenous ego monster at bay and I lose this battle often. I had recently gotten down on myself after a few posts where I received very little feedback. I tried not to take it personal ("Um, Heather, people have lives, you know?") but failed.

Furthermore, I also receive weekly reports telling me how many visitors, page views, etc. the site receives. Readership has been a healthy three-digit number for months but all of sudden, it was down to two. Could I blame the new version of Blogger? I sure as hell did! Truth be told, I was mad at myself for losing sight of the original point. Bad, bad, bad Heather. Writing for a specific audience reaction is not the goal here; self-editing is the enemy. I am now forbidden to read these reports.

Nevertheless, I moped for several days about this and finally got my blog groove back when a colleague told me that a quiet, mild-mannered fellow in our office had become a regular reader. I hardly know the guy and yet he found something entertaining. Why anyone - let alone an acquaintance - would choose my little world over The New York Times or YouTube at any given moment is amazing to me. I remain unquestionably thrilled by this and have been riding high ever since. Also, I think my family – who read only on occasion – may find these posts endlesslessly fascinating immediately following my death in a bizarre gardening accident.

Fantasy: My dream job has always been newspaper columnist, a job I actually held for brief time. I wrote about food and restaurants for my hometown paper but ultimately, I resist sticking to one topic. I mean, I hate Dick Cheney with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns 24/7 but I only get the urge to mention once in awhile, otherwise, it's boring. I could never be a political columnist for this reason. I get distracted too easily …oh, look! A butterfly ….

Community: Strangely, this last one only just now occurred to me. When I got dumped on my ass upon arrival in Denver, I was so, so alone. The blog was my only outlet and ultimately, it became the major conduit for most of my Denver social life. Not only have I met the coolest people (all stemming from the amazing Kath) but it has become a ready-made support network that I never expected. Words of encouragement, topics for discussion and some damn funny writing - all to be shared - makes me feel like I am a part of something. The first time I met HDW, I believe I may have kissed her because a) she actually is really, really HOT and b) because after reading her wickedly funny posts, I'd already decided we would be friends. The topic was not up for debate. Same thing with Howard. (In fact, I feel compelled to post this photo of my two fellow bloggers, who are hilarious in person as well. Photo credit: The Amazing Kath.)

... and just like that, another long-winded post is born!

Out With the New, In With the Old

Yesterday brought two significant shifts in my home entertainment world. First, Dave, a super sweet cable guy that reeked of pot and cigarettes, dropped by to take away my cable box. My new 2007 'Let's Get Heather into Adulthood' budget plan means I've got to live leaner and let the networks, YouTube and Netflix fill the Comedy Central gap.

Dave was awash in guilt for arriving beyond the designated 1-3 p.m. window. I assured him it made no difference to me, working at home and all. He was so relieved I didn't yell at him and demand his boss's name, that he hung around to make sure all my VCR-DVD-life support wires were still functioning. He then noted that he was conveniently "fresh out of" a key piece of equipment, a 'blocker' which does exactly what it sounds like. "So, like, you'll still get the same channels but only be paying for basic," he said. "They won't notice unless they do a random check. Sign here, please."

Suh-weet!

The next lovely man-angel who came to my door was a studly UPS driver – is there any other kind? He brought my father's Xmas/Birthday present – an Epson Heritage Music System. It's one of those old time-y looking stereos that unites all music playing capabilities of my pre-iPod lifetime minus the beloved 8-track – CDs, cassettes, radio and, best of all, records. Remember those?

Last night, I set it up and dove into my long-neglected stack of albums, trying to decide which one to play for the ceremonial first spin. Perhaps Tijuana Brass? It was the soundtrack of my childhood, after all. Maybe the Slim Whitman album I purchased years ago but actually have yet to hear? Sex Pistols? Led Zep? Duran Duran? Holy shit … Shaun Cassidy???? Looking back can be fucking scary.

After a few embarrassing flips through the dusty collection, I came upon The One, the album that rightfully deserved to kick off a new era of phonographing fun: "Cheap Trick at Budokan." During my twelfth summer, this album was played so many times, over and over and over again - I was quite surprised to find it still in one piece. This may have even been the point in history when the phrase "ad nauseum" was born.

In 1978, I faced some unwelcome changes in my life. For one thing, my parents were getting a divorce. Though my word-weary pal, Allison, assured me that this would translate into a lot of guilt gifts and trips to amusement parks, I was not comforted. My Dad moved out and my world shattered.

This news arrived about the same time that my body hit puberty like a brick wall. I tried to ignore the B-cup boobs that arrived nearly overnight, even tried to ace bandage those babies, to no avail. My 5^th grade teacher, Mrs. Merrill, finally sent a note home to my mother: "Buy this girl a bra." There were only two other girls my age in school who had breasts – Amazonian bullies named Janelle and Cheryl who heartily slapped me on the back and took joy in snapping my new bra strap on crowded playgrounds. Good times.

Of course, with this new body acreage came acne. Oh yeah, that was AWESOME. Overall, I felt like a bullhorn abruptly came down from the clouds – or perhaps, up from the oozy tar pits of hell – and flatly announced: "(Ahem.) Attention! Attention! Heather Clisby: Your childhood is now OVER." There was no gentle easing into Womanhood for me – it came on like a bucket of ice water. (I'm mindfully sparing you the menstruation aspect to this story, gentle readers and Fang.)

So, to cheer me up, Dad and I and packed up his new mid-life crisis toy, a Jaguar XJ6, and we hit the road. He was headed to his 20-year high school reunion in Minnesota and would drop me off for a month at his sister's Iowa farm. It was an unforgettable trip – I read to Dad from a trivia book I found (Do you know that only 27 percent of women can whistle?) and my right arm became beautifully bronzed. I had a blast with the cousins – 'walking' the beans, feeding the hogs, chasing the chickens, having dinner for lunch and 'supper' for dinner. However, I also spent a large portion of my visit in their basement, reading "Amityville Horror" – which scared the bejesus out of me (and I didn't have a lot to begin with) - and listening my new Cheap Trick album.

Keep in mind, kids, that entertainment used to require some dedication, some focus and the willingness to get up off the couch, time after time, and move the needle back to the beginning. I took great joy in this – something comforting and Buddhist-y in the repetition of the act. By the end of the summer, my six-year-old cousin, Ryan, (who grew up to become my San Francisco roommate) was even singing, "Surrender" – only it came out "Suwwender!" because he had an adorable lisp.

All these comforting memories came flooding back last night as I put the needle down once again and heard lead singer Robin Zander declare, "I want YOU .. to want ME" which I always thought was a fair request. Against my better judgment, however, my heart had been drawn to the cigarette-dangling, spectacled drummer, Bun E. Carlos, mainly for his obvious defiance of what a 'rock star' should look like. Seriously, he looked like he could be the band's sloppy but lovable accountant or maybe sell insurance. The other two, Robin and Tom, were predictably man-pretty, which never really works for me. Okay, maybe sometimes.

Hearing the first roar of all those screaming Japanese school girls … Zip! Those 29 years sure flew by! I finally made peace with my boobs, my acne has been replaced by wrinkles and my Christmas holidays are finally spent with BOTH parents at the same time, in the same room – a major familial advance that began just three years ago. This time, however, I had the power of the Internet … (Insert trumpets blaring here.)

I was quite pleased to discover that none of my beloved CT boys had overdosed but were, in fact, thriving. Bun E. had quit smoking (!) and looked happy, despite never receiving my love directly. Rick Nielsen remains quite relevant, having written the theme song to 'That 70s Show' and 'The Colbert Report.' The band still releases albums, appear on Howard Stern, get referenced on 'The Simpsons' and they even gave a free concert in New Jersey last fall. They also founded their own record company, Cheap Trick Unlimited. Says Nielsen, "Running our own label has been a lot of fun. One day Bun E. gets to be President and one day I get to play President."

Glad to hear some of us never quite grow up.

The Long Road Home

For as long as I can remember, organized religion and I have not gotten along. Sadly, it has often presented itself to me wrapped in judgment, hypocrisy, hatred, intolerance and a long list of rules that tell me I'm dirty, wrong and need to learn obedience to a deity that seems to have lost interest in the fate of mankind. This, I could never swallow.

At the same time, I envied (and continue to) folks that possess a strong faith in a higher being that will take care of everything. 'Seems very handy,' I always think, 'I'd sure like to think Someone is in charge so I can relax a little.' Therefore, every decade or so, I embark on a personal spiritual quest and poke around, ask questions, read books, talk to churchy folks I admire and generally double check to see if I missed something. My aim is always to score an invitation to this party that my own (dis)beliefs have shut me out of.

As for my own religious upbringing, it was wonderfully generic. As a family, we occasionally attended Lakewood Village Community Church, which is technically Christian but in a sort of all-inclusive way. I don't remember any ideas placed in my head about other religions being wrong, just different. Still, the Clisby Clan wasn't there all that often, as most of our Sundays were spent on motorcycles or ripping around in dune buggies, getting mud in our teeth.

My first spiritual adventure took place when I was 19 or so. I was taking a World Religion class in college with great enthusiasm, sitting front and center, hand always raised in earnest. The semester-long assignment was tailor-made for me: Visit as many houses of worship as possible and write an essay about each one. I went to chapels, monasteries, cathedrals and synagogues, technically "on assignment" but secretly hoping one would spark something inside me, something I could hold on to and believe in.

Nothing. Though I did get an 'A' in the class, I've been chasing this elusive spiritual spark ever since. Now with religion playing a lead role in bloody world politics, the concept drives me away even further. (Don't even bring up the long-accepted pedophilia within the Catholic Church unless you want to see this blog actually FROTH and burn up your computer monitor with rage.)

I have never been able to pray. I always felt ridiculous because I am basically talking to myself. Again, I like the concept, aiming your loving thoughts and healing energy toward the well-being of others, but I could just never get past the sense that no one is listening. This was until last February, when my friend, Fran, got promoted and now works in The Front Office as God's go-to man. (Technically, this means he had to leave Earth but some big jobs demand relocation.) Anyway, now I talk to Fran and I know he's listening. Especially since I firmly believe he was behind my move to Colorado in the first place - he just used MonkMan as a tool, which, ironically, he is.

Since my arrival, I have made a number of friends who seek a similar peace. Though the New Age-y stuff doesn't really jive with me (a crystal is a pretty rock, people! That's it!) I do appreciate both the complexity and simplicity of learning from other's similar quest.

My friend, Neal, for example is a self-described "seeker of truth" and for him, the path is laid with numbers and symbols. At one party after another, Neal tries to engage me in his latest discovery in quantum physics and I try to follow as long as possible until my own modest brain (which is more hard-wired for tracking movie trivia and celebrity meltdowns) can no longer keep up. Last night, fast and furious as always, Neal was showing me geometric diagrams and lists that point to similarity in all the major world religions and how it was leading him to study the major philosophers of each. I asked him if he had a favorite. Looking up from a book, he smiled broadly and, for once, spoke slowly, "Jesus."

So, this morning, I did something I have not done in years. I willingly took my body and its encased hungry soul into a house of worship. Please note: I was not sporting a bridesmaid dress, nor was I earning a grade and there were no dead bodies involved. No one knew and I was not expected; no pressure but from within.

A few months ago, I had felt that urge rise in me again and went religion shopping online via Wikipedia. 'Hmmm, I heard Quakers are nice. I think there was something about them on "Six Feet Under" once. I eat their oatmeal every morning so that's a good start, right?'

All info looked great to me until I got to their 'Testimony of Simplicity' which espouses a practice of "plainness" in their dress and outward appearance as well as in their speech. Um, so what am I supposed to do with my stash of glitter eye make-up and my extensive feather boa collection? And am I supposed to stop swearing and speaking my mind? Are those cracker Quakers kwazy??? Next!

Eventually, I found Unitarian Universalism which basically is a bunch of folks who feel strongly about building a spiritual community and encouraging intellectual discourse but without all the fire and brimstone. "Theologically liberal" was one description. Sounded like there might be room in there for me.

I had been meaning to test out the First Universalist Church of Denver for months but when I saw this week's sermon, "Paying Attention: The Gift of Listening" I knew the time had come. Listening is a pet topic of mine and feel it has become a lost art - our ears are either jammed with cell phones or plugged up with iPods, not to mention all the media noise. I once proposed a seminar on the topic to a grassroots touchy-feely kum-ba-ya type organization in San Francisco and it was originally accepted but later cancelled for lack of space. (Note to self: I need to resurrect this.)

This Sunday, I felt a tingle of something. Maybe it was because immediately upon arrival I purchased two small quotation books, Oscar Wilde and Abraham Lincoln, from their impressive bookstore. Maybe it was the warm welcome I received from so many people who noticed I was new and alone. Maybe it was the essay I saw tacked to a wall, "The Dangers of Becoming Sheeple." Then again, it may have been the sanctuary itself, which did not present images of death, violence and ghosts, as I feel so many do. The only symbol was a candle with a circle around it.

I think the moment I knew I would return to this place was when the Reverend Kirk approached the podium and began his sermon on listening: "It was that great philosopher, Rodney Dangerfield, who once said: 'In my family, we were so poor, we couldn't even pay attention …'" He went on to quote Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. and a few other wise folks, some of whom happened to be children. I enjoyed it tremendously.

Yes, indeed, this just might work.

Sex on the Prairie

A recent news bit reminded me that in my beloved state of North Dakota, it remains illegal to move in with your beau or beau-ette or maybe even have sex with your roommate. I learned this a few months ago when a similar law was challenged in North Carolina. The media then listed all the states that still have this outdated law on the books (Florida, Michigan, Mississippi, North Carolina, Virginia and West Virginia have similar laws) and there it was, NoDak.

I couldn't believe that the state the gave us the world's finest senator, Byron Dorgan, could be so backwards. (When Al Franken was asked on 'The Daily Show' which Democratic senators had actual balls, his response was, "Byron Dorgan and umm ….ummm, hmmm, let me think…. ")

(Mind you, I've never actually lived with any man I have been sleeping with so it does not affect me personally. I came very close one time - packed up my stuff, gave notice to the landlord - but when push came to shove, it didn't happen. Honestly, I have somewhat avoided it due to the fact that I own a truck, meaning people ask me to help them move. More times than I can count, I have witnessed the horrible tension of a co-habitation gone horribly wrong. Somehow, in my mind, I got the idea that if I am going to share a bathroom with a man, I want a shiny ring, a big party and a title change, at best. As always, this mindset has nothing to do with morality, which I carry in low supply.)

Another sharp state senator, Tracy Potter, a freshman Democrat from Bismarck, is asking the state legislature get a grip already and repeal the law. Mind you, this isn't the first attempt – similar efforts have been rejected three times since 1990. In typical NoDak fashion, Potter made a folksy attempt a common sense when discussing the matter with the Senate Judiciary Committee:

"Mark Twain expressed a simple view of people's personal relationships with government ... that I think government should adopt. That is, I don't care what you do, as long as you don't scare the horses."

Of course, the law doesn't seem to have stopped all those horny non-committal farmers. Census data indicate at least 23,000 of the state's 642,000 residents are living together as opposite-sex partners. "If we mean to enforce this law, we'll need a $10 billion prison," Potter said.

No word yet on what's to be done about homosexual cows.

Steamy and Springy

In my ongoing efforts to explore my beautiful new state, I took off last Friday afternoon for my first official ski trip. There were about 80 of us from Up The Creek, and we basically took over Steamboat Springs.

The drive was spectacular heading up - a bright sunny day, snow-capped everything and zero traffic. I made it in three hours flat and must've said out loud more than once, "Holy shit. I live here!" I recalled saying the same thing over and over when I'd moved to San Francisco - nice to feel that awestruck again.

I was immediately 'adopted' by two lovely ladies, Annie and Sally, who babysat me on the slopes in shifts. I needed it, that's for sure. Though I may have been one of the group's youngest members (and the only one I could find that had no divorces or kids) I was also the slowest. These folks are hard core. Still, I managed not to 'officially' fall (butt never actually touched the ground, thankyouverymuch) though I made some exquisite and rather complicated near-splats. On Saturday's last run, I followed the gang like a dumb puppy and suddenly found myself on a steep, icy run quietly shitting my pants. The run was called "Heavenly Days" but it felt more like a hellish nightmare.

I spotted a telltale red jacket with the soothing symbol of ski patrol, the square Swiss Army cross logo on the back, and nervously whimpered, "Um, hi. Yeah, um, excuse me ... um could you just, yeah, sort of ... be, y'know, nearby, for just a little bit?"

"Sure!" he said and skied promptly up next to me with a decisive WHOOSH! It was then I noticed the man was on just one ski. My savior's other leg was a wooden peg leg, just like a friggin' pirate, I shit you not. I may have even said, "Oh Christ, that's comforting" before I snowplowed down the icy mountainside with a batch of my patient new friends below, watching my every wide-eyed scrape.

I managed to survive which made the whiskey and the hot tub later that evening just that much sweeter. The next day's snowfall brought fresh champagne powder - like floating around on a cloud. I didn't want to leave but the ol' legs felt similar to cooked noodles. Taking the gondola down was nothing like going up. Again, I nearly shat myself while trying to make polite conversation with a fellow skier. That sudden view from above and the sense of falling down rattled me a bit but I played it off, cuz I'm really cool like that.

The drive home was less than idyllic but at least, I gaged it correctly. My estimation that with active snow and ice on the road combined with Sunday ski traffic would result in five hours of my life was dead on. Once again, I was scared shitless. It may have been the one time that my ignorance served me well. With heightened awareness of my snow driving inexperience combined with my lack of co-pilot (I tried to recruit one, I really, really did) my senses were so heightened, I was like a friggin' ninja. I barely batted a eyelash as I passed one crunched SUV and rolled Honda after another and tried to breathe.

I think it was Eleanor Roosevelt who once said, "Do something every day that scares you." Yeah, so I think I may have stocked up this weekend - I should be good for awhile.

I May Be Peer-Orphaned But The Tingly Nipple Cream Helps

All I know is, I left for HDH's Sex Toy party on Saturday around 4 p.m. and I didn't arrive home until the following day at 2 p.m. I am only just now emerging out of three-day weekend fog and coming to grips with reality.

As for my fave sex toy of choice, it was something that resembled a throbbing silver bullet. It had five speeds and I'm pretty sure we had a connection. I didn't want to give it up although I did manage to 'accidentally' sit on it a few times. Sadly, my inner accountant would not let me make such a purchase - this is exactly the kind of frivolous expenditure that keeps me in 'tenant' status. Still, such items make perfect sense now that 51% of American women today are living without a spouse. Mercy! That's a lot of batteries.

{Also, I gotta report here and now that HDH's fish tank is indeed MIGHTY. Though a table full of rotating cocks and electronic tongues served as the centerpiece, the ten-foot-wide seascape certainly held its own. If any ya'll get the chance to see it, make sure you get the behind-the scenes tour as well. Impressive. I'm not surprised their neighbors think they are growing pot.}

After the toy party, I went to the Ogden to see My Morning Jacket. There were bunch of us there celebrating Carley's birthday. I had a good time but felt incredibly old. Don't get me wrong, concerts are great but I have been to so many (I used to write about them for a living) throughout my lifetime that there are very few musical acts I get excited about anymore. Unless there is some Dylan/Waits/Young/Cohen/Springsteen thing happening, I'd rather skip it. Like I said, Me=Ancient. Still, I did manage to stay up until 4:00 a.m. babbling incoherently and dancing around in my socks - that should count for something, right?

In the haze of the concert, it dawned on me that I am at that weird middle point in life that presents certain social challenges. I recently joined a ski group (am heading to Steamboat Springs with them this weekend) that is made up mostly of folks in their late 40s up to early 60s. Nice folks and certainly very active but culturally, I have already run in to some problems. For example, I recently made a reference to "SouthPark" and they didn't know what I was talking about. We're in Colorado, fer Chrissakes. Ugh.

On the other end of the scale, my Denver friends are primarily in their late 20s or early 30s. The same thing that makes this easier - I have been there - makes it a challenge - I have ALREADY been there. Only lately have I started to notice that I may not live forever and, therefore, should make a retirement plan that does not involve eating cat food. My mindset has shifted; the things that used to excited me now lead to boredom. Good lord, have I become practical??? This may be some kind of skin-shedding thing - the death of a former self, perhaps. The first ring of this mortal coil. For the most part, I'm against it but at the same time, it feels awfully natural and God knows I'm way too lazy to fight it. I just wish AARP would quit sending me shit. My token response when people say, "You don't look that old!" is "Immaturity: It's good for the skin." I stand by this philosophy but ... um, I'd rather sit.

Truth is, most folks my age (41) have a very different lifestyle from me. They are mostly married and busy raising young children. Or maybe they are just married and only do things with other couples. Perhaps they are hiding at malls, churches and AA meetings? Support groups, divorce courts and playdates? Either way, I can't seem to find them.

On an unrelated note - has anyone else noticed that James Brown's probate lawyer is Strom Thurmond, Jr.? Does this seem weird to anyone or just me? Just asking.

The Office

I write today's post from the heart of Silicon Valley, if such a thing really exists. It's mostly brains here, not many other body parts are represented, other than maybe eyeballs and lightening-fast thumbs.

Once a month, the Client has me hang out in their offices for some mandatory face-time. While they are one of the world's major technology companies, they haven't lost sight of the fact that tangible reality and physical proximity – until further notice – still go a long way in the business world. Though thousands of emails may be exchanged over the years, never underestimate the power of putting a face to a name.

After working from home for the past seven months, it feels odd to be confined to a cubicle under fluorescent lights once again; it is the Hell I've already escaped. Trying to find the elevator bank or the restrooms is mind-boggling when everything looks the same – one block of grey squares after another, bordered by endless hallway grids. Walkways and avenues are helpfully labeled "G5" or "B2" like a vast parking lot, a helpful tool to orientate the occasional lost worker bee.

I always have the same thought when I come to this part of the world, "This place is overwhelmingly sexless." This is not to say that people here do not engage in fornication but it sure doesn't feel like a priority. All the men wear blue button-down shirts and Dockers and have got Tomorrow's Meeting on their minds. A line of Victoria Secret models could saunter past and they might never look up from their Blackberry or disengage from their cell phone.

Silicon Valley is the Land of Distraction. Unless something can be viewed on a screen, it does not warrant attention. Basically, it is the exact opposite of New York City, which makes me feel like the sexiest woman who ever walked on cement. Not so here. Frankly, there are few things in this world that can crush my libido faster than an office park.

Blech.

The Year of Living - Part 4

Continued from Part 3 - a page taken from my travel journal during the Big Trip:

AMSTERDAM, HOLLAND 3:13 p.m., 11/5/94

I managed to get pretty wasted in that First Class seat - love those hot towels! The Frenchman and I cleaned our faces with them - so bourgeois.

I lost track of Robin but Carol and I exchanged addresses, hugs and wishes of good luck. Her parents live in Washington so maybe one day we'll meet again.

After being reunited with my luggage, a fellow 56er named Nancy was kind enough to let me use her hotel room in Amsterdam to take a well-needed shower. Absolute heaven.

After saying my goodbyes to Nancy, Bill and Dave, I strapped on The Monster Pack and attempted to explore the city carrying some 40-50 lbs. on my back. Right! I ran in to my friends from Idaho again and they convinced me to put it in a locker at the train station. Much better.

I've decided that I love this city - again. The Dutch are so precise and posess great style. Watching them on their bicycles always amazes me - it's like a part of their bodies. They sing outloud, eat, hold conversations and run through the shopping list all from their bike seat. Small children sit on the handlebars with their parents riding and no one seems concerned about these babies falling off.

In a fancy mall housed in a building out of Red Square, several stores reveal that the American West is the fashion look. There is even a Marlboro clothing store. I think about the Dutch imitating the American look and I cringe with a strange reluctant pride.

We should be imitating them but bikes would never catch on in L.A. - we worship the automobile for its speed and independence. Shame.

Um, there are trees in the Amersterdam airport ... with real birds in them. Birds just flying around inside the terminal, very weird. No one seems the slightest bit concerned about it. Still, I wonder what it is doing for the birds self esteem, watching all those big planes take off. Also, doesn't anyone get pooped on? I must sleep here tonight and will try not to think about it. I just hoped the chirping awakens me in time for my flight tomorrow morning.

New World Order

Since I turned 13, my New Year's Resolution has always been to lose 10-20 pounds. It's gone on so long, it's no longer noted on paper - the empty promise just runs on auto-pilot. Not this year! This is the year I get my shit together because there's nothing I long for more than my very, very own Pile of Shit.

Ducks in a row, eggs in a basket, target in sight - whatever you want to call it. It's the much-avoided Adulthood 101 era but this is long overdue. I feel like my branch of the Clisby Empire needs to begin production fairly soon or I will lose my membership card. Today marked the first of many sobering meetings to come with my accountant and it looks like change is afoot. (Mind you, my friend is not an official accountant but she kicks mucho a$ just the same. She said once, "My tombstone will read: "Here lies Andrea. She encouraged many a friend plan for a healthy retirement.")

So, after a year's worth of documenting every single thing I spent, it appears I've been having a grand old time. Evidently, most of my money goes right in to airline gas tanks; my travel budget is through the roof! Looks like I'll need to stay home more ... as soon as I get back from Mardi Gras in February. Oh, wait, right after SXSW in March, I mean. Of course, there is Chick Cabin Weekend VIIII in May ... Shit, this is going to be hard.

Okay, the cable has got to go. Parting with Jon and Colbert is painful but I'll have to catch up with those guys online. Alas, guitar lessons may have to be suspended - might have to be self-taught for awhile. After all, I've got the instrument, tons of sheet music and a good callous or two. Don't the best of 'em originally have more time than money? Anyway, the goal there has never been high - I've always said I just want to be good enough to impress a small cluster of drunk people.

Bottom line - all the stuff I ultimately want - a house, a horse, a kid, various barnyard orphans - must all be financed somehow. Unless I marry rich (if I find a blind one), score the powerball or blackmail Bill Cosby, these dreams will not come true. What I really need is a benefit concert.

What if I got WHAM! reunited just special and called it "Keep Heather Airborne Tour?" I could get Milli or Vanilli (whichever one is left) to MC (or just pretend to) and have Tiffany and Debbie Gibson engage in mud wrestling! I'm just trying to think on a budget here ...

Hey, what time is it?

Crazy mind stuff lately. I'm reading this book right now called, "The Power of Now" by Somebody Smart. It talks about how much of people's regret, anxiety and other emotional pain is caused by our concept of time.

I know. I had to er,… light up just to get my head around it. I couldn't possibly provide an adequate explanation of the theory but I will say, this new perspective certainly has presented a new door of some interest.

Think about it. Step outside yourself and observe – what are the thoughts that run through your mind all day? Pretend it is a CNN headline ticker tape and stand back. How often do we think about what he said last night? Or have anxiety about what might happen with her tomorrow? 'What was that funny look from the boss today? Am I in trouble? I hope the dentist is nice to me tomorrow.'

That is why the truly beautiful moments are in the present – admiring a striking sunset, laughing at a store clerk's joke, enjoying a warm shower or savoring a juicy cheeseburger. This is when all else is forgotten and there is only the immediate present. There is peace because the internal chatter is momentarily quieted and literally shoved aside, albeit briefly.

That's why when the Now demands to be heard, such as in scary or life-threatening situations, details become so vivid and seemingly occur in slow-motion. When I tumbled down a flight of stairs last September and dislocated my elbow and ripped all the muscles and tendons off the bone, I ceased to worry about that morning's meeting or contemplate my lunch date the next day. I was too busy screeching bloody murder and experiencing the sensation of searing pain. Nothing else, just that.

It was scary as fucking hell, no one should have to hear such sounds come out of their own body. I'm talking primitive stuff here, folks. I was finally saved by a neighbor two flights up who said later: "I thought for sure it was my wife. I didn't think anyone could be as loud as her." (We called her The Sneezing Lady.)

Anyway, the book's author, I think his name is Eckhart Tolle, points out that this is precisely the sensation that drives adventurists and risk-takers. If you are scaling an ice wall with no ropes, jumping out of planes or surfing Maverick's, there's not a lot of time to fret about your neighbor's snide remark or that you dread attending an upcoming wedding, there is only Now. This requires extreme focus, which why these folks are such bad asses.

The question is, what to do with this newfound Present? It's truly the only moment you ever have. The past is gone and the future is only made up of bits of Nows. This is probably why when we imagine something in our minds (the face of a radio personality - the outcome of a relationship, the effect on the entire human race if we lose ten pounds – it rarely matches what we imagine it to be. One of the great philosophers of the day, My Dear Friend Lisa, said to me once when I asked her what marriage was like: "It is harder than I thought it would be and it's better than I thought it would be." The reality of the present always wipes out the future.

I've probably lost all readers at this point but what I'm trying to convey is that this new way of thinking has made me acutely aware of this very second. I feel myself at various points throughout the day, suddenly noticing that I am in a moment. In the center of that awareness point, I'm able to step outside myself take note of the present situation; it's like a fresh set of lenses or a front row seat behind home plate. The various colors on my royal blue desk become brighter and outside my window, the University of Denver's landmark golden spire glistens against the Rocky Mountain range that runs just behind it, its granite dusted white with snow. I could be on a conference call or writing an email but it is just long enough of a moment to recharge me. I'm telling you, my life suddenly looks like one big friggin' miracle.

I'm not sure where this is all headed but I do feel some relaxation in my anxiety about the future. I've already worked on letting go of the past. In fact when I got the license plate for my truck, Jack, the only letters were 'NPG' and I immediately decided they stood for No-Past Girl. I mean, what's the point in dragging shit around? I'm too lazy for that. It's like when I left all my cold weather gear in some hostel cupboard in Fiji after my arrival from New Zealand.

Admittedly, I'm rambling but I'm about due for it. Bottom line, I am pretty dang happy about my life these days. Not sure what it is but the more peaceful moments I take, the more I realize they are endless to be taken. It's really just up to me.

Five Things You Probably Never Knew About Me

As requested by (Denver) Kath:

My favorite show is 'America's Funniest Home Videos': Let me be clear - I accept the current version only, with host Tom Bergeron, not the Bob Saget era, which is insufferable. Not only is this the very first reality show, it is the only one still worth watching. Furthermore, I believe very strongly that if countries could exchange these videos - showing the idiocy of all humans, not just Americans - we could solve some major political problems and global misunderstandings with a few silly puppies and accidental groin hits. How much could we hate Osama if we watch him fall off a porch swing into a wedding cake? In exchange, we could send any of the Dick Cheney Goes Hunting series and then we could finally bring our boys home.

I eat Everything: I'm quite serious. I cannot think of a food I do not like. When I was a baby, my parents were amazed, especially in contrast to my brother's picky eating habits, "I don't like my food touching!" At one point, my father pointed out that my lack of food preference may work out for the Clisby bottom line: "Just feed her dirt, she won't notice." This is also the same quality that made my friends and family shake their heads in wonder when I landed a job as a restaurant reviewer.

I have no tattoos: I considered a globe image on my ankle to commemorate my travels but I put it off for so long (I am afraid of needles, another fun fact) that my blank-canvas of a body eventually become a retro item.

Like HDW, I am adopted: At 10 days old, my old name, Virginia Wallace, was retired as I was brought into the Clisby Clan. Talk about incredible luck. This was my one big break from the Universe.

I make the World's Best Egg Burritos: It's true. I'm not lying. Ask anyone. Year and years of practice have brought me to the top of my game. Furthermore, I'm especially adept at creating them with seemingly bare cupboards. It's not just about rolling up an egg in a tortilla, my friends, it's about love, commitment and my special ingredient, Ring of Fire.

Party at the 'Port

Last night, RMAC (that's my brother and his wife, collectively) and I went to a party in Gulfport that sure didn't look like much from the outside. Behind an abandoned storefront, boarded up and apparently forgotten, we found one swinging scene. A jam band, not formal enough to have a name, played their hearts out below posters of Herman Munster, John Wayne, Jesus and the Rebel Flag. My brother, Robert, immediately placed a cold Budweiser in my hand as I leaned against the foosball table and took in the scene. Nearby, on a long table covered with a plastic gingham tablecloth, I eyed a pot of homemade beans.

A tall fellow named Rick told me the place used to be a feed store when he was a kid. "Yeah, my parents used to send me down here to pick up chicken feed and now here we are," he said, "whooping it up." Behind him, I noted a weathered white wooden beam that stood in the center of the room. In rough black ink, someone had scrawled down the side, "Thank you our Lord and Savior, General Lee."

I met tons of folks, including Dean, a shy man who loved the music but lost all color in his face when I suggested he take to the dance floor. "I .. I .. can't dance, there's no way I would ever do that," he said. To Dean, this was a certain social death he could not bear. Then there was Kelly, who gave healthy, solid snorts with each burst of laughter. She was easy to locate at all times. I also met Lisa and Andy, a darling couple, who were notably impressed I had made it here from Denver.

At some point, I grabbed my sistah-in-law, MaryAnn, and swung her around the dance floor. We were both wildly drunk and by this time, I was a few other things as well. Talking Heads, Elvis Costello, Rolling Stones – awesome cover bands who know their shit can never be appreciated enough. I led, of course, bad habit of mine. We were squealing like little girls and after the song ended, the audience - arranged along several living room-esque couches - clapped wildly.

Sure don't miss a nightlife with long lines, cover charges and velvet ropes. I'll take Southern abandoned storefronts any day.

Christmas in the Deep South

Down on the bayou, once again, for the holidays. Lil' bit o'duck gumbo, some hush puppies, collard greens, fried okra and wash it down with a big fat dose of the blues. Best of all, my kindred are here and there is not a snow drift in sight. (Kinda miss it … until I heard another storm is headed in tomorrow.)

Last year, the Mississippi Gulf Coast experienced a tough Christmas post-Katrina. Antebellum mansions flattened, bridal gowns stuck in trees and casinos on the beach in a mangled heap. All this devastation was set against a grim brown background, with every blade of grass and leaf blown away. This year, there is more hope. Piles and piles of debris and ruined vehicles have been carried away and rebuilding is underway. At the very least, new street signs are up, which provide an uncanny sense of civilization to once bustling seaside towns.

Today, my sister-in-law, MaryAnn, and I cruised what used to be a proud downtown in Pass Christian, we came upon trailers marked "City Hall," and "Hancock Bank" and "Public Library." Of course, there is also, Pirate's Cove, the local bar trailer. Surveying the scene, it struck me that when rebuilding a town, we start with the basics: banks, books, bureaucracy and booze.

All this surveying made us thirsty so we picked up a six pack, a pack of cigarettes and two of the tiniest brown paper sacks I have ever seen. These were provided so that we could continue our drive while still enjoying liquid refreshment. Love that Southern service!

We hopped a car ferry Bay St. Louis and watched the Gulf sunset burn a line along the horizon. Approaching the still-charming town, I recognized a beachside church I had photographed years earlier, Our Lady of the Gulf, and was relieved to see it still standing proudly.

Once ashore, we explored the gutted Fire Dog Saloon, recently filled with sand for a Jimmy Buffett music video featuring a song about hurricanes … in Florida. Then, we headed home but not before stopping in at the lone gift shop open. Turns out, it was also connected to an elaborate grid of art galleries, many pieces of which focused on the surviving the storm. It was impossible to escape but people are moving forward – what else can they do?

Meanwhile, I worry about my new home town, whether it is prepared to handle another two feet of snow and all the headaches that will bring. Lucky for us, it will eventually melt.

Snowbound!

Yesterday's blizzard has mellowed but the two feet of snow has disrupted life here in Colorado. We made national headlines - even NPR squeezed us in between a dead Turkmenistan president and Baghdad's suicide bomb o' the day. I received worrisome calls this morning from all over the country, mostly warm places – friends worried about how a lone California woman will fare in her first Rocky Mountain winter.

Honestly, I couldn't be more thrilled. This is precisely the stark lifestyle difference I was looking for. Mind you, it was great growing up in Southern California but there was something very 'Groundhog Day' about it, weather-wise. It was basically 75 degrees all the time – small variations on the same damn day throughout the year. It used to feel quite wrong going to the beach in December, though I did it anyway. Christmas lights in palm trees? Not the same effect. (Xmas in Australia, in the middle of their broiling hot summer, has to be particularly annoying.)

Years later, I (with the help of famed grumpster, Tamburlaine) finally put my finger on my own irritation with this bland weather menu. The perpetual Sunny Day was an implicit forced happiness that often didn't jibe with my moods. There was an unspoken sentiment, "Hey! It's sunny outside! Go on and get happy!" Holy fuck. It used to drive me nuts. My parents – Dad from South Dakota and Mom from North Dakota – did not understand this and probably thought us ungrateful, I'm sure. Thankfully, my brother is the same as I. He now lives in Mississippi and cannot get enough lightning and thunderstorms to make up for the past without.

San Francisco was a big improvement in weather variety. I used to love watching the fog roll in over my city at the end of the day like a big misty blanket. There was no pressure to be joyful-on-command. I could be moody and arty if I so desired, or I could be bliss-ridden, but at least it would be my own choice.

When I heard that Gov. Owens had declared a State of Emergency today, I was shocked. Honestly, I thought this was normal, exactly the scenario I'd pictured. No State of Emergency I've ever experienced was this beautiful. Mostly involving earthquake devastation or race riots, I'm used to crumbled freeways or intersection violence, not something that looks like an idyllic Christmas card.

It is quite amazing to be in a major metropolitan city that is entirely shut down (minus the city-hosted sledding parties.) There is that feeling of abrupt self-sufficiency with a lovely tinge of anarchy. I felt this during the LA riots and my brother felt it even more intensely post-Katrina. He and his wife took a boat out on the bayou the day after the storm and could hardly believe their eyes and, of course, their ears: complete devastation and total silence. Though we worried about them, they did just fine. "You know I love that urban survival shit," my brother assured me.

Of course, my snowbound giddiness is lessened by the knowledge that 5,000 of my fellow Coloradans are stuck at Denver International Airport (DIA) and that the National Guard is there now, delivering blankets and diapers. I mean, it's one thing to have your flight cancelled or endure a long layover but jeezus, that situation has to be some special kind of Hell. (I fly out on Sunday so we shall soon see how far out this flight disruption goes.)

In yesterday's Denver Post, a reporter observed that nobody was on the streets, except for one tourist couple from Fresno, California. Unfazed by the blizzard, they were out shopping. After watching many a Broncos game on TV, they'd decided to visit Denver for their 10-year wedding anniversary and had no regrets. "We thought it was like this all the time," they said. They were having a blast, which I understood completely. Of course, here's the part where I reiterate my work-at-home status. Not dealing with a commute will surely keep my Snow Love alive and I'll admit, I am feeling great affection for my employer today.

Back in my S. Milwaukee Cave in Washington Park, I live right up against I-25 (sounds so ghetto but it's really quite nice) and am used to seeing traffic go by. At the moment, there is not a soul on the interstate and no cars on the street. Best of all, the snow provides a padded acoustic effect resulting in the softest silence. It is incredibly peaceful. The only sounds in my neighborhood are the snow shovels scraping down sidewalks.

At some point today, I will layer myself up and trudge outside. I will take a little walk, nothing too ambitious, just a block or so. If you see me, by all means, make some Hot Toddies. I'll be the one with the giant grin on her face, intensely happy on my own terms.