My Mother's House

After a trade show whirlwind in San Francisco, I escaped Wednesday evening to Long Beach, California - to my mother's house. It is the home I grew up in and I type this now from my childhood bedroom.

My mother's home is famous among many for its warm, homey atmosphere and its magical sway in making you want to eat and drink. The moment you walk in the door, you feel a sudden urge for meatloaf ... and perhaps a cocktail? The home is located in a tidy suburb along the Lakewood border. When I brought a boyfriend here, he'd commented, "It looks like something out of "Edward Scissorhands." (Obviously, he was referring to the 'hood where the Avon-selling Dianne Wiest character lived, not Vincent Price.) Another friend simply refers to my mother's house as "The Americana Museum" which sums it up nicely.

Mama Iva's place is the Safe House where all are welcome and fed. Friends of both mine and my brother's have lived here for months at a time and many a pal has eaten their way through the kitchen as my mother is famous for having endless amounts of food. Right now, she has 2.5 refrigerators and one giant freezer. We think it may be due to her NoDak childhood where a family could be snowed in for months at a time. The thing is, Mama Iva has been a Californian since her senior year in high school so we're not sure if that theory can explain the giant bags of Swedish meatballs and shrimp cocktail.

Quite simply, the home fully reflects my mother and the essence of who she is. She is, first and foremost, a mother but she is also a mother who is a woman who is an American who is from North Dakota. She likes food (cooking, serving, eating), she likes wine, she likes music and she likes to laugh. She is proud of her family's history and it shows in antiques and old family photographs. It also shows in her care of the 1953 jukebox that gave my dad a hernia when he was dragging it up to the second floor.

I'm especially pleased with the photo of Betsy, the old horse from her childhood that she rode to the one-room schoolhouse every day in NoDak - bareback, of course. Betsy would often flip her off when it was time and little Iva would pick herself up, brush herself off, tie up the old horse and begin the day's learning. That the horse is still beloved and remembered by my mother, well, I think it's pretty damn cool.

Gather 'round children: Before the Internet, little Robbie and Heather Clisby learned everything they needed from this set of Encyclopedia Britannica. Knowledge was more tangible before Wikipedia.

Closets contain magical secrets at Mama Iva's House. This one is the Games Closet which is upstairs, also known as The Party Room.

The contractors thought my mother was crazy when she requested a cutting board for the upstairs bathroom. "For cutting limes, of course!" she replied. Those of you who know me, is it all starting to make sense?

Picture books that sit on the antique piano belie our family's favored regions.

The Disco Ball in the den has always represented the apex of style here at Case de Mama Iva. It hovers above antiques, Sinatra CDs and furniture involving mechanical back massagers. This is the room that occasionally holds the large dance floor my mother had specially made. It takes two guys to bring it in from the garage and piece together. She usually sprinkles it with corn starch to keep her friends from slipping while they boogie down.

Behold, The Party Closet. I'm not making up these names. She'll say things to me like, "Can you grab a bottle of red out of the Party Closet?" She keeps all kinds of goodies here. Just this morning, she apologized for waking me as I sleep in the same room as said closet. "Sorry, Heather, I need to get some chips out of the Party Closet for the boys at work." There are also several Craft Closets left over from the 70s and a couple of Gift Closets too - both are dangerous to open.

My mother owns tons of great albums and she has been a quiet influence on my musical tastes over the years. It was she who opened me up to Billie Holiday, Sinatra and Les Paul, not to mention the joy of big bands. I've openly admitted that I plan on 'borrowing' at least one album per visit with only a vague intention of returning it. As I now enjoy mostly vinyl (another blog post entirely) these days, I feel it makes the most musical sense. Let's hope MI agrees.

As I mentioned, antiques galore decorate the place. Here are some shoes that belonged to my Grandma Myrtle (who was married to Wilbur - that's how White I am.) The shoes on the top were those she wore on her wedding day in NoDak.

This typewriter belonged to my Grandpa Wilbur and he LOVED it. He would type with his two index fingers and made labels, wrote letters and used it long before it became mainstream. It's strange but Wilbur had a specific typing style and family members might say, "Oh, Wilbur must've written that - you can tell by the typing." The tradition has been carried down as my mother prides herself on her secretarial skills. I used to play 'office' on this machine as a child and as an adult, was once clocked at 95 words per minute with zero errors. I owe it all this baby, right here.

Then, there is the teddy bear that my brother and I had as children. It is the only possession that we get competitive about. "Hey, my teddy bear!" he will say. "No, that's MINE!" I will counter. My mother will sigh and inform us that it was simply passed along and to just move on since it's now hers and hey, how about a glass of wine?

It's good to be home.

My Double Life

My existence is a bit manic as it involves straddling two worlds - my old life in San Francisco and my spanking new life in Denver. As my client insists I show my face in the Bay Area at least once a month, I'm never given a chance to fully miss my fabulous former hometown. I welcome the opportunity to keep in touch but there are moments of confusion so profound that I find myself forgetting where I live.

This afternoon, I had to call my pal, Gins, to ask an important question: "Where do I live? I have a faint memory of moving somewhere, does that ring a bell?"

She reminded me of my Colorado address, the garden, my new friends and the little cat waiting for me to come home. "Okay, yeah, that's what I thought. Just checking," I said.

I've spent the last few days staying at my old apartment (now my cousin's place) and enjoyed a fabulous night on the town (saw Sinead O'Connor at the Davies Symphony Hall) with my former beau. I'm now sitting the in the same office I sat in for years and suddenly, it feels like nothing has changed.

This is good and bad, depending on the day, but it's mostly just plain creepy.

Never Underestimate a Dead Tree

When my family visits North Dakota, we always stay at the same place, The Forestwood Inn in Walhalla. We've seen it through many incarnations and owners and it's now the best it has ever been - a new convenience store/movie rental place now attached, free continental breakfasts (with faux Fruit Loops!) and a sweet, welcoming staff. This year, we gifted homemade desserts and homegrown tomatoes to the ladies and they were even nicer.

In front of the motel on the same lot, is the Walhalla Inn, a local restaurant and bar - the only type of that combo in town. There is a gravel dirt parking lot between the two buildings and we always seem to be there on Bingo Night. (Tip: Aoid the sad little salad bar and just order a big-ass steak; that's really what they do best.)

Alongside the inn, facing the town, are three wood sculptures, each carved from a single tree. One is definitely Teddy Roosevelt and another is, I believe, General Custer. The third is a Native American; I'm not sure if he a specific person or a representative. I should find this out next time. My gosh, I don't even know who carved them or how old they are! It just seems like they've always been there and I've only come to appreciate them the last decade or so.

Many years of below-freezing temperatures and hot, muggy summers have weathered their faces into something quite God-like. I have photographed them numerous times; always, I feel drawn in. This year, first time with digital SLR, I shot them again in my usual routine way.

I always ponder the irony of these beautiful works of art planted right next to an ugly square air conditioner. Or heater. Or whatever the hell it is. The contrast of something that represents nature, spirits and our nation's colorful history next to a cold hard example of our modern comfy lifestyle - I never seem to get enough of it.

So, when I got a chance this month, I trotted over and took the usual shots. Even though the wood carvings were chained up, I'm always amazed that they are basically left alone - never any graffiti or carved initials. Teddy and Custer are always together and the Kaw-Liga character was always off on his own, sulking, it seemed.

This time, as I was taking shots of the Indian, I felt an unmistakable tug. There was something in his eyes that I didn't see in the other two - Teddy looked past me, Custer, right through me. This guy was looking me straight in the eye. Peering through the viewfinder one time, I nearly jumped.

I don't know why but I felt a wave of emotion that came from out of nowhere, something deep and horribly sad. My eyes teared up and my camera got a bit wet, so I put the camera down, to collect myself. I just kept looking deeper into the Indian's eyes and suddenly, it felt like a two-way street. Tears were streaming down my cheeks and then, I saw it: the same track of tears falling down the Indian's face.

I just sat there, dumbfounded, and held his woeful gaze. At some point, I mumbled aloud, "I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry."

Then, I wiped my face, checked the perimeters for witnesses and took my shot. Shaken, I packed up my gear and headed back to the Forestwood, but not before stumbling over his chains.

Today's Lessons

Imagine that I came home today and a Ward Cleaver character asked me the inevitable, "So, what'd you learn today, kitten?" Here's what I'd say:

"Thanks for asking. Here are three fun facts I picked up today while swimming around in the world:

You can FedEx horses.

Fewer jobs in rural areas means more young people enlist in the military. As a result, these families suffer more casualties per capita than the rest of the country.

In ancient Ireland, a king's subjects ritually demonstrated their submission by sucking on the ruler's nipples.

So, um, what's for dinner?"

The Family Legacy

It's a long story but here's the short version: My grandfather, Wilbur Paton, collected enough old stuff and buildings illustrating North Dakota pioneer life to create a museum called "Paton's Isle of Memories." Since his passing in 1976, my family has lain awake many a night wondering what to do with his passion project located in the northeast corner of North Dakota - not a high traffic area.

Bit by bit, the collection has finally found a home.

It began a few years ago, when we donated the crown jewel of the museum to the Pembina County Historical Society which installed it on their grounds at the Icelandic State Park. It was the homestead house that my great-grandfather, Adam Currie Paton, built for his family in 1882. As an old-timer pointed out to me, it was widely-known the first saw-cut house in the region (so cutting edge!) and, more importantly, it was where my grandfather was born. Here it is being lifted on its foundation - a delicate process which takes hours. I must have chewed off all my nails watching this while my mother stood nearby, fretting.

After days of inching the antique building up and over, it finally hit the road, the drivers careful to choose routes with no telephone wires. My family fell in hot pursuit; it was a surreal feeling to follow your grandfather's house along a country road. "Pleeeeeeease don't tip over," was all I could think. Built in 1882 and filled with ancient furniture, I could only hold my breath those long 16 miles to help the house reach its final destination.

Eventually, Grandpa's house reached its final resting place, the Icelandic State Park. For the last few years, the Pembina County Historical Society has carefully inventoried every single item in the house (including the hay beds, chamber pots and clothing from the late 1800s) while cleaning and repainting the building. This year, we revisited and it was such a joy to see it set up for public viewing. A placard had been placed on the front of the house, giving credit where it is due, especially to my mother, who was clearly pleased with the progress.

When the house was initially moved, it was a sad day for my family - the end of my grandfather's dream. The house had been nestled between an antique church, the one-room schoolhouse (attended by my grandfather, grandmother, mother and many others) and a quonset hut that included a music room, blacksmith shop, barber shop, country store, kitchen and machinery collection. With the house heading down the road, my mother stood where the house had been and cried, "It looks like a missing tooth." It was an emotional trip.

This visit brought more closure for us, in more ways than one. While we were at the state park, we noticed a young family visiting the grounds. The young mother of two approached us and I immediately introduced my mother, by now a local celebrity.

"Yes, they told me who you were," she said, "I just wanted to thank you for sharing your family's history so we can all enjoy it." I couldn't remember the last time I'd witnessed such a poignant moment.

My Mom just smiled, her face happy with relief. She did good.

To be continued ...

I'm Back

After several days on the open road, I am reluctant to reconnect with the 'real' world. (I'm only forced to do so because I have over 300 photos that must be downloaded, labeled, tagged and, in many cases, deleted.)

Being in places where the population is small and the sky is big, the world feels different. Slower, of course, but also more connected. With room to think, you ponder silence and how rare it is. Beyond the wind, a distant 'moo' and the hum of a nearby tractor, the High Plains are dead still.

You see a way of life that is slowly dying and an agriculture industry that has long gone corporate. You see grain elevators and forgotten churches, one-room schoolhouses and a variety of roadkill. You see the two-fingered wave that locals automatically give to another passing car. You see boarded up businesses, hay bales and lots of cows.

Funny but even though there is no one around, you always get the sense that eyes are on you. Small towns have that feeling that whatever you do, someone will witness it and by lunch, everyone in town knows you wore your pink shoes to pump gas. I remember feeling this way in Africa. Sure, it looked like no one was out there but as soon as we stopped, people would seemingly come out of the grass.

I dug it. Seems like the perfect mix of solitude and community. Then again, I imagine it's even better when you're just passing through ...

Deep in Dakota - Please Hold

Joy of joys, I am posting from North Dakota, my favorite underdog state. I hit the road last Saturday - me, some snacks and a ton of CDs. MAN, was it a beautiful drive. I always get terribly emotional about my country when I drive across it. Going through Nebraska while listening to "Mercy" by Mary Gauthier and I just started sobbing. Made me realize there's a ton of love behind all my political rage.

So, I've been without cell phone or Internet until just a few minutes ago. I've taken a shitload of gorgeous photos - editing is gonna be hard.

I'm now hanging out with my brother in a motel, watching "Gunsmoke" and eating cheese and crackers. I spent the afternoon making friends with six horses. They looked tough but I came bearing carrots and that was that. Once I gave one a head rub, they all wanted one. JOY.

Produce Extravaganza

Kath came over tonight to exchange a giant bag of apples - compliments of her neighbor - with a giant bag of tomatoes (and one pepper) from the ClizBiz Garden of Miracles. I tried to pawn off this giant freakish tomato but she was too scared.

So am I, quite frankly. Reminds of the first time I saw a ridiculously oversized man-rod:

"Uh, wow, that's great. Congratulations, seriously, but what exactly am I supposed to do with that? I mean, I'm happy to sit here and worship it, no problem. As far as it actually going into my mouth, I just don't see it happening."

I feel a tad like Dr. Frankenstein here. Perhaps my mulch doesn't know its own strength. Was it the hovering? The swearing? Perhaps my grunting, "Fuckers!" at the weeds accidentally transferred some powers into the the dirt, the worms and the roots. Oops. Just more evidence that I need to clean up my act.



This is one Tomato. ONE. There are about 10 coming right along behind, except they are BIGGER. Oh, Lord, help me! What have I done?!? Why was I so power hungry? They must be stopped! Why-o-why did I not have seven children so they could help me eat it?!? I'm always skipping the useful stuff in life.

Ah, geez. Might as well give it a shot ...

Beauty in Filth and Other Observations

Who knew that cleaning the bathroom sink could produce such a lovely study in water design?

Please no cracks about my personal hygiene. I'm a modern miracle of a woman - I work hard and play hard. Sometimes things happen but I eventually clean them up. Blogging one minute, Netflixing the next - I'm telling you, I might as well be making my own lard-based soap and churning butter. My filth is hard-earned and I'll not have it mocked.

See here, I'm practically a housedress-with-apron-wearing farmer's wife with the produce I've been harvesting lately:

And no, the 'My garden!' photos will not end until a certain Mr. Jack Frost shows up mid-October and kills everything.

Now then, if you've read this far, you deserve a treat. My pals, Jen and Maria, visited this past weekend from San Francisco. As usual, a good time was had by all.

Jen is a woman made entirely of muscle who eats five desserts per sitting and is an avid student of contortionism. She'll say things like, "My Mongolian says that I should ... " I mean, really, shouldn't everyone have a Mongolian? Jen is pictured at left, sniffing the hell out of a pine tree branch while picking out my Xmas tree last December. I can assure you, her joy is intense and her cackle, quite real.

So, when she began to pack for the trip home Sunday evening, I couldn't help but notice her adorable tiny bra. Just for shits and giggles, I put my Gigantor Tit Sling above it and called it high entertainment. We shat, we giggled, we marveled at our physical differences.

And really, isn't that what friendship is all about?

Waiting for Autumn

The ClizBiz Cinematic Debut!

Me and EE, We're Tight

So, there I was, at a swinging party at the Children's Museum on Chicago's Navy Pier when, lo, there was Elizabeth Edwards, fresh from her onstage interview with my BlogHer bosslady, Lisa Stone. Whatever your politics, there was really no way not to be impressed with the wife of presidential candidate, John Edwards. Mind you, this was a tough crowd, cyber-snobs, every single last one of us.

I loved Lisa's first question after all the greetings, pleasantries and thanks-for-comings: "So, um, why are you here?" EE was taken aback and when she began to speak, it quickly became clear that - GASP! - she was one of us.

Evidently, EE knew her tech stuff and had been an early adapter in the mid-90s. She discussed how the online community helped her deal with her grief after the sudden death of her son, Wade. She developed online relationships that continue to this day, most with people she has never met. She blogs, when time permits, on her husband's campaign site and keeps her RSS feeds fully stocked. Oh yeah, then there's the whole raising-three-children-while-fighting-cancer thing.

During the Q&A, one woman got up and announced that she did not like EE's husband, would never vote for him and was a staunch Republican, however, she did have a question: "Are your blog posts reviewed by the campaign staff before they are posted?"

"No, not at all," said EE. "My assistant, Tracey, looks it over to fix any misspellings but changes not one word of content. That's it."

"Wow, that's great," said Conservative Girl and quickly sat down.

So, when I spotted the wee-but-mighty EE at the party, I spent quite some time angling for position, jockeying with her many admirers. Me, being the Photography CE of BlogHer, I was naturally prepared for a photo opp.

Except that I wasn't. Not at all. My battery was dead and my card was full. I whined about it aloud and a sweet angel named Melissa Masello heard my plea. "I can take a picture for you, if you want," she offered. She sent it today, full of apologies for the blurriness but I dig how it reflects the madness of the hour. I also especially like how it is better than no photo at all.

My first impression upon meeting EE was how 'open' her face is. She very much gives off a strong whiff of "Yup. This is me. I'm short, I could lose a few and I've got wrinkles so there ya go." In a word, she's BEAUTIFUL.

Because of this, I'm almost fine with how I appear in this photo. But Jeezus, could my tits be any bigger? Seriously, those moneymakers could feed the world. Oh, and I love the belly hanging out. That's in-your-face sexy, that's what that is. I'm not kidding. Look it up.

Post-photo, we talked briefly and I thanked her for coming to the BlogHer Conference, "Thanks for stopping in to our little world."

"Hey!" she said, defiantly. "It's my world too!" I stood corrected.

Then, an elbow shoved me aside. 'Undoubtedly the Next Admirer demanding her EE time,' I thought, then turned and caught the profile of Conservative Girl.

'D' for Done

I've had it. No more. That's it.

I'm a pretty mellow chick these days but I am FUCKING DONE with ill-informed nitwits sending me their jingoistic flag-waving bullshit make-yourself-feel-better "Support Our Troops" emails!

Seriously. I can no longer sit back and just roll my eyes and delete them. This country keeps lying to itself about a war based on lies and I simply can't stand it. As disturbing as it is to hear delusion from political mouths or read about it in opinion polls, some line gets crossed when it comes into my personal inbox - it's like shitting on my porch.

Most of these doozies come from people much older than me and I have not expressed my true rage out of respect for my elders. However, about 10 minutes ago, we reached a tipping point.

Nevermore will I sit by quietly and read these exaggerated iconic bedtime stories that still cling to a WWII-era idea of war. DONE. Every single one is now going to get a personally written response and it certainly won't take long for my address to be removed from certain lists. Who knows? It might even get me on some lists. It might even spark a debate, which would be dandy.

What burns my guts about this isn't the idea that myself and the senders disagree so completely, that is to be expected. Its that assumption that I would receive these with a smile that pisses me off. Um, hi? Have we even met? Holy crap.

So, here's the email that just lit the wick of this flaming rocket rant. It alludes to the photo above (cue sweeping Americana music here):

This statue currently stands outside the Iraqi palace,now home to the 4th Infantry division. It will eventually be shipped home and put in the memorial museum in Fort Hood , TX

"The statue was created by an Iraqi artist named Kalat, who for years was forced by Saddam Hussein to make the many hundreds of bronze busts of Saddam that dotted Baghdad. Kalat was so grateful for the Americans liberation of his country;he melted 3 of the heads of the fallen Saddam and made the statue as a memorial to the American soldiers and their fallen warriors.

Kalat worked on this memorial night and day for several months. To the left of the kneeling soldier is a small Iraqi girl giving the soldier comfort as he mourns the loss of his comrade in arms. Do you know why we don't hear about this in the news? Because it is heart warming and praise worthy.The media avoids it because it does not have the shock effect. But we can do something about it. We can pass this along to as many people as we can in honor of all our brave military who are making a difference. And please pass this on!"

Oh, I'll pass it on alright.

So, I then did some digging and ended up sending this response:

"I did actually see this story, in the Dallas Morning News. The statue was not the artist's idea - Kalat was commissioned by the U.S. Army, specifically Command Sgt. Maj. Charles Fuss who came up the idea to melt down the Saddam heads for materials. As for being "grateful", Kalat's uncle was killed by an American rocket attack and he believes the war is about oil. He definitely is not a fan of the U.S.

Kalat did this for money, as he did willingly for Hussein, because he needs to take care of his family. Period."

I mean it. I've had it. Knock it off.

Best Compliment Ever

It's as if my vegetable plants once wore bikini tops, it's "Garden Gone Wild."

The neighbors and building workmen all 'ooh' and 'aaah', knowing how I've hovered over it and pounced on every weed's first evil green breath. Today, my landlord, Amy, relayed a conversation that made my day.

She hired a Mexican dude to help with landscaping project and he brought along his two sons, aged around 7-10, who pitched in to help. To my delight, they were greatly impressed with the ClizBiz Produce Project.

"Wow! Whose garden is that?" they asked.
"That belongs to the lady upstairs," said Amy.
"Really? Is she a Mexican?"

I'd seen the boys later, hovering around the Plot, discussing. I went down and gave them some bounty - a big ass zuke and a yellow-necked squash. They were totally adorable and gracious beyond their years. I'm completely digging this Summer Santa thing.

Let's review:

Garden: Day One - Planted June 2-3, this summer.

Week Ten - August 12

What I imagined as a peaceful produce plot has become an unruly playground of botanical politics. The zucchini, as previously mentioned, are hyper productive but not terribly accurate. They're like the kid who turns in extra credit but still gets it all wrong. These things are as big as my arm and a ridiculously bright yellow. Still, they taste dee-lish and the intent is there so that's all that matters. Beauty is on the inside and all that.

Then there are the two tomato plants that have 'issues.' The Brandywine is the bully of the plot - knocking down other plants, snatching their water and sun rays like nerd lunch money. I cut his ass back on Sunday, BIG TIME.

Then there is his brother, Best Boy, who is equally stocky but favors the dramatic arts - feigning weakness is his specialty. He is always 'fainting' on other plants, trying to get attention, accidentally 'leaning' on the zukes for emotional support. 'Oooooh, it's just soooo hooooootttt,' and he collapses, pulling on the errant stoic roots of the chocolate mint. The other plants just roll their eyes and try to lean away from the day's faint path. I tied his whiny ass to the fence tonight, otherwise, it's off to military school.

The third tomato plant,Bush Early Girl, doesn't bother anyone; it just sits in the corner, coloring in the lines and eating everything on its plate, no more and no less.

The orange and yellow peppers are Twin Snobs. They are openly revolted by their unfortunate proximity to all the 'common' plants and would prefer having their own space. Perhaps a rooftop garden in Manhattan, dahling? A yacht on the French Riveria? Sweetie, even the changing room at Prada would suffice.

Eggplant is all-too-aware of the antics and silly plot pressures and tries desperately to escape. Eggplant longs for a quieter and funkier habitat, like maybe a monastery in Harlem or a library in Peru. Eggplant is Deep Purple, baby.

The yellow-necked squash suffers from an identity crisis ever since the zukes took on their signature color. The neckers are confused, slow to ripen and terribly insecure - even their crook curve looks half-assed. Neckers need a new stylist/therapist/publicist, just for starters.

The Basil Bush is the most popular girl in the square. She's lush green, with delicate flower buds and a sweet smell. She plays well with others and does not mingle with unseemly types who smell of weed. BB is well-groomed, loved and adored - the Disney-heroine of the Plot.

The two mint plants, chocolate and grocery-store mint, are so stealthy and well-behaved it makes me nervous, like they are plotting something. They smile real nice and everything seems in order but I don't quite trust them. I smell mutiny.

Oh! I always forget about poor lil' Rosemary. She's completely shaded by Brandywine but she charges on ahead, doing her thing, albeit sidewise. Gotta love Rosemary, she's a survivor with no complaints.

And yes, I do need to get out more. Why do you ask? Then again, as hobbies go, I suppose it could be worse.

Just Breathing

Aaaaaaah.

After years of fantasizing, I finally experienced a yoga retreat this weekend. My visit to Shoshoni was way overdue. Me needed some serious bendy time.

I hadn't realize that Shoshoni is a working ashram, a Hindu hangout where "sages live in peace and tranquility amidst nature." Basically, ancient wisdoms, buncha trees and a whole lotta incense.

I checked in with a young man named Oliver and informed him that my garden had produced frightfully large vegetables - could I donate to the kitchen? He recommended I give it to one of the deities first and then they'd take it; I was suspicious. I'd have to get to know them first, I said, I don't give my prize veggies to just any old deity that comes along. Oliver seemed perplexed as I clung protectively to my monster zuke. A girl's got to have standards when it comes to her soul and her garden - seems everyone wants a piece these days.

I picked out a soft camping spot on the edge of the property and settled in. I always feel so damn autonomous when I get my little blue tent popped up and dump out all the dead bugs from the last excursion. I'd arrived just in time for the 7 p.m. dinner (all meals vegetarian, natch), followed by a session on aromatherapy. Stuffed with tofu, we sat around in a circle, passing tiny bottles filled with magical scents.

With the smell of peppermint clinging to one nostril and cedar essence to the other, I headed to my tent in total darkness - I stupidly left my headlamp in the gol'dern truck. And then, very helpful and completely deadly flashes with lightening showed me the way. Headlamp? We don't need no stinkin' headlamps! (I do have a real fear I'm going to be struck and the last thing I'll hear will be "ZOT!" Could be a pretty cool death, as deaths go.)

It rained all night - I just love that sound. I couldn't help but think about the women I'd met at dinner who brought along her rain-sound machine that she needed for slumber. Did she still use it if it was actually raining? (She told me later that the machine and the real rain on the tin roof were competing all night long. FREAK.)

At some point, I realized that there would be chanting, lots of it, starting early at Dawn's butt crack, 5:30 a.m. Amazingly, I managed to become conscious enough to don a skirt (required for temple) and experience the Guru Gita chanting. It went on and on and on and on. I listened, I dozed, I may have even cried. It's exhausting but the vibration of it kinda grew on me.

Swamis were everywhere. They are easily spotted because they dress entirely in orange - the international Swami color, evidently. When one Swami led a yoga class, he wore shiny orange shorts. Yo, Swami gangsta!

This much I've learned: I suck at meditation. My brain is too full of trivia, too concerned with meaningless minutiae and concerns/regrets about the future/past. When I was supposed to be empty-brained, instead I wondered, "Has William Shatner seen 'Galaxy Quest?' If so, does he find it particularly hilarious? I'd love to watch it with him ... "

And when I was supposed to be focusing on my existence in the world, my role as a giver of love and instigator of peace, I may have been contemplating the state of Michael Richards career: Does he sit home watching old 'Seinfeld' episodes, munching on medication, waiting for the public to forget? Or maybe, "Can we create a national campaign to have Brittany neutered? Would that be too weird? I mean, they're always saying, 'Think of the children' so ... "

Such are the weighty thoughts that occupy my mind.

As always, I met a ton of fabulous, funny, strong women and have to come to grips to the fact that I am a magnet for them but not so much for the men-folk. (Although I did receive a mysterious phone call on the way up the mountain. Some fellow I had given my number to ... NINE MONTHS AGO. Says he'd lost the card and then just found it when his suit came back from the cleaners. "When can I see you?" he said with some urgency, "When is the soonest we can get together?" I felt compelled to point out that since there was a nine-month lapse in our communication that he had no right to be impatient and to just settle down. Humph. We shall see.)

In addition to sneaking in some very freeing guitar picking, I went on some gorgeous hikes, my favorite being the brief but intense 'Meditation Path.' Call me crazy, but I felt something there. It could have been an ant on my ankle but it felt bigger. I sat on a rock overlooking the pine-covered valley and wrote for hours. The gist of my scribblings have something to do with focusing the second half of my life (assuming I live to 82) to helping others who have not been as lucky as I. Then again, I'm pretty self-centered so we'll see how that goes.

But if there is one thing I learned overall, the most in-depth truth uncovered by the magical place called Shoshoni, it is this: Tofu makes me fart.

Early Stages of Convention Fever

Okay, so it's a year away but I'm not the only one who has the symptoms of early onset political convention fever. As I tell everyone who will listen - and some who don't want to - "Next summer, the Democratic Convention is going to be in Denver and HEAR THIS: Somebody with boobs, somebody black, SOMEBODY is getting something they never got before and and History is going to be made ... right ... here."

I've got some evil plans to score a press pass and nose my way into some bizarre situations ...

Hi, I'm a Moron!

And I've got video proof!