lucky ducks

Does valium really work? Really really? I mean seriously. I need to know.

I fly somewhat frequently and every time: panic attacks. I become a shell of nerves and jagged postures until the plane safely lands which it always does but still. It's irrational. I know it's irrational. I tell myself it's irrational. And yet? If you saw me on a flight I'd look like a rubber band stretched to its very limit, just awful and sickening. As for never trying out sedatives for flights, I don't know. I always thought I could think my way out of this phobia. Controlled breathing, reminding myself about air pockets and how airplanes don't just fall to the earth if engines fail, bringing books and magazines to divert my energy but still.

I guess valium it is, then.

The one positive thing about this phobia is that when I land safely and start walking on solid ground the world seems unbelievably sublime and everyone is this endlessly interesting creature that deserves so much happiness and it's like double rainbow all the way but with every object and person I encounter. I become a walking Beatles record circa the release of Magical Mystery Tour but also circa Abbey Road because Here Comes the Sun is basically radiating off of my pores I could cry I'm so happy. It feels like how second chances feel like, so maybe that's why I don't take sedatives because it feels amazing to somehow get that rare, beautiful second chance feeling even when I don't deserve it. Hmm.

Anyway.

I flew back on the 4th of July which seems kinda nerve racking by itself without flying phobia added to the mix. The September 11th attacks were chosen on that day because of some historical date* so I figured July 4th might be sort of perfect for the t-word-ists to hijack a you know what and I can't even think about it too much even now because it worries me, thanks a lot media hyper-coverage of all things terrorist related :( Anyhow, when my mom was buying the ticket for me and I told her that I might be too superstitious to fly on the 4th of July she told me, "Look, terrorists have their own set of problems and they don't have time to bother you, ok? Do you want the early or late flight?" hahahahaha. Moms always say the exactly right thing to comfort you.

*I don't know if this is actually true and not willing to trudge through the wordy 9-11 wikipedia page to find out if it's true. ok? I heard it from someone who now works for the DOD and seemed somewhat reliable at the time (although as a side note even though he was reliable and responsible, fuck, he was also a jerk asshole but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought maybe he'd grow out of it. Turns out, jerk asshole in high school usually translates to jerk asshole in adulthood). READ ON, MAN!

Claire hosted game night in her parents' backyard which is now bananas insanely beautiful. A new deck and pots of pink bougainvillea and strings of sparkly lights. It's like sitting in the prom scenes from a high school movie except in place of implausibly mature dialogue for 30-something actors playing teens we have age-appropriate loud debates and mild insults, quickly whispered secrets and inside jokes that would take years to unravel.

The desert breeze in that neighborhood smells like juniper and hot asphalt and occasionally like that acrid tension of incoming thunderstorms, whatever that smells like, like anticipation of wet drops on dry sand and red dirt and sandstone? I guess it's more of a feeling. It is just a wonderful feeling that I've never felt anywhere else but New Mexico. It makes this atheist very, very happy.

I thought all boys knew this, but apparently not: boobs look way different from a girl's perspective than from a guy slash onlookers perspective. I kinda blew Marc's mind when I showed him that it looks way better from above your tits than from the front (that's not all I blew, omg gross sorry yikes). Although boobs just look good from any angle and I've never seen a rack that I didn't like and want to stare at. There, that's my love letter to boobs of all size and shape.

Too cute!

Sometimes I get blogger's block (like writer's block but without hope for a finished product) and didn't really know why it happened or how to fix it dot dot dot but I've sort of realized that it's because I'm pretty undirectional with this G la fille blog and there's no real M.O. or theme and sometimes it's a personal diary or documenting life like every movement and then sometimes it's talking directly to one person (Marc or a friend who reads it or Jay who never does) and sometimes it's a slobby mess of things that inspire me and I think blogs can't really exist without a theme. Anyway, bla bla bla right?

complete lack of control

Good news and bad news! The library sale put me in a pretty good mood. I parallel parked like a pro, ran into a friendquaintance (the guitarist for the build which definitely counts as small town celebrity sighting) and purchased an Asimov book I've never heard of before which all resulted in general good moodiness.

And now I'm sort of totally ruined (at least for the next 15 minutes until I can calm myself down or at the very least internalize my humiliation which will eventually lead to some sort of heart disease in the future I am sure) because I slipped on a wet strawberry in front of all those nerds reading the onion at this coffee house. Great. Thanks for helping me up, NO ONE. Thanks for staring while I lay spread eagle on the floor with a mashed strawberry stuck to my flip flop, EVERYONE. I'm boycotting humankind today. Bah.

Maybe I will take photos of my library sale treasures later today. I only got 8 or 9 books, no magazines and no tapes or records. There was a general theme of women studies in my purchases this month and obviously I bought a paperback biography of Willie Nelson called WILLIE!

You'd think that this would be on the wall of every humdrum college dorm wall along with the animal house poster, einstein sticking out his tongue, einstein riding a bike, kramer portrait, and bob marley and/or che guevera nonsense but it's not.

That picture makes me feel somewhat better. Fucking coffee house yuppies. Here's to the rest of my day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Excited I guess whatever

T'salready Saturday mid-morning and I'm not ready to tear up the city dot dot dot sigh sad face emoticon! I've got pretty rocking plans until Marc finishes up shul at noon (library sale and then sitting at a coffee house and spying on self-conscious nerds reading the onion while I blog about underwear styles and my new fashion philosophy) but my motivation is not currently with me so I feel like I am stuck to this bed like a dinosaur slowly sinking into a tar pit 250 million years ago.

What do I do?

Listen to girl music? Drink another coffee? Wear new clothes?

I'll listen to this while getting dressed.

oh kay, I'll fight the tar pit and get going. See you at the coffee shop.

it started out so tiny and cute

This post is dedicated to the gigantic weed growing in between the crack on Marc's and my porch. I remember looking at it when it was about the size of a twinkie and thinking how cute it looked.

It's basically a small tree now. The backyard has several more large leafy weeds grouped together so obviously I am going to place small houses and matchbox cars on the ground and make a monster movie featuring Baby and Chompers. Moshe wouldn't participate because of his stance on anti-violence.

I am back in Albuquerque i.e. back to a place with consistent internet connection i.e. blog updates bla bla. And currently, I am sitting 14 feet away from a large group of attractive skateboarders and long board deebags who are lighting leftover fireworks in our front yard. Next door neighbor Leo is having a bbq and somehow I just don't feel like socializing. TTYS :)