Leaving you here

Early morning, bittersweet.  After a little over a year, today is my last day in Santa Barbara.  At least this time.  I'm sitting here, having my coffee and thinking back, all that has happened since I've been here, the one step forward, two steps back, turning things over in my mind and trying to make what turned into a rather painful ending into an exciting and welcoming beginning. Sometimes that can take a lot of twisting and turning.

So, I'm pretty much packed.  Of course there are lots of loose ends to take care of today.  Like, go by Peet's Coffee and buy some of my favorite Chai Tea.  I know Portland has great tea and tea houses, the Tao of Tea being one of my favorites, but I just need to have one tin of Peet's with me.  Sorting and deciding which things will stay in the long term storage unit, which to take with me in the limited space I will have and adding to the Goodwill bag, moving is never fun.  You would think by now I wouldn't have much left to sort out, but like all good humans, I continue to accumulate.

It's raining here today in Santa Barbara.  That's actually a good sign.  I remember when I lived in Hawaii right after I graduated from high school.  The day I was leaving Honolulu to come back to California, it poured rain.  The locals told me that when it rains on the day you are leaving, the island is crying for you, sad to see you go.   I think the same story applies here.  I'm gonna miss you too, Santa Barbara.  You've given me a lot.  More fun in the 80's than I've ever had in my life, the birthplace of my beautiful daughter, breathtaking scenery that always stay with me, and like San Francisco, I will leave you part of my heart.

Let it Bleed

I'm back.  After taking several months to write my first "real" book, it is now finally sitting in the hand's of the editor with a planned March 1st release date.  It was hard letting it go.  It was like the first day of school, when your little five year old marches off to her kindergarten class and you drive all the way home in tears.  How did the time go so fast, when did she get so grown up? The book felt like it would never be done, and it kinda snuck up on me, when it announced it was going off to get it's own apartment.

Ernest Hemingway said,"There's nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."  In my case, a keyboard.  And he was right, although we were definitely not writing like Hemingway, still, at times it was a bloody mess.

It's been an interesting year, intense, frustrating and exciting.  I've never worked so hard, spent so many hours and sleepless nights consumed with something.  When I compare writing a book to having a child, I am not exaggerating.  I gave my soul to this writing project and my heart to my writing partner, and at the end of it, little was left of me except for my mind.  To ponder all that had happened, all that I had gained and all that I had lost. Writing isn't simply putting words down on paper, it is sharing words that are little pieces of ourselves, little droplets of our emotions, wet and raw with feeling.

The book is done but I'm told it is like a pregnancy.  The easy part.  Now I have to raise the thing! But, with that said, my blog is going to continue, from a different place and a different mind set.  I am moving on, leaving Santa Barbara, where I've been for a little over a year now, and settling up in the great Pacific Northwest, Portland, Oregon.

My Coffee Shop Diary, was originally started to document the first year of my once planned move to that same city, where I was to open a coffee shop.  Well, if you've been a reader of this blog from the beginning, you know that never happened.  Now the blog is coming full circle, it will now continue from where it was once intended to start, and start all over again.  This time it will be documenting my move to a new city and all of the surprises, excitement and challenges that are there waiting for me.

There isn't any plan to purchase my own coffee house in the near future, but there are many in Portland, and I am sure I will find one that makes me feel at home, where I can grab a latte,  plug in, and let it bleed.

“When I can't sleep I count the buckles on my straightjacket.” ― Cathie Linz, Bad Girls Don't

I don't sleep through the night.  Now I know I'm not alone here.  I haven't met anyone lately that sleeps through the night.  I've blamed it on many things; from getting older, too much alcohol, bad food choices, menopause, and of course, a mind that never stops. It used to be that you would wake at 2:00 a.m., restless, flopping around like Raggedy Ann, or Andy, you choose, unable to get back to sleep so you would just lay there in your half waking hell, waiting impatiently for the first ray of the rising sun so that you could call it a night and rise with it.

Now in our recently cultivated 24 hour "open-open" world, where it seems that, just like New York City, nobody ever sleeps, I can now wake in the middle of the night, open up my resting laptop and check Facebook, where I'm sure people are anxiously awaiting my comments, my likes, my photos and Instagrams.   Checking FB, I see a couple of posts by friends, 2 hours ago, 43 minutes ago, 16 minutes ago.  Wow, they are up too?  Wow, he was up at 3:00 a.m.?  Does the whole world have insomnia ~ afraid we might miss something if we drift off for too long?  I don't know about you, but it is nothing if not exhausting to be expected to perform at this pace. 

My waking life has sort of reduced itself to a small smattering of good friends and then of course, my FB page, which houses my 100+ friends.  (Yes, I am aware, that is a VERY low number of friends!)  A few nights ago I woke again around 4:00 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep.  Pulled my computer over onto the bed and entered my screen name. The world had continued on while I had been resting.  News from around the world.  AOL, Yahoo, BBC, I took a quick scan at all the latest.   Hmmm, Obama got the crap kicked out him by Romney in the debate, and now they are saying it may be a game changer, Tommy Lee has at least 50 tattoos, McDonald's is making big changes to the coffee menu and Roseanne is tweeting about Portlandia.  Okay, I needed to know all that.  Then to FB.  A couple of posts from friends that live on the other coast or on another continent, and then I wait.  Like a kid on Christmas morning, waiting for his parents to get up out of bed and get this party started.  I wait to see who is up, what starts to scroll on the side page, "Come on" I want to scream, "get up!"

Mornings used to be my cherished time alone.  A good 2 or so hours of gentle waking, drinking coffee, sitting and thinking about my day ahead.  No one would call until at least 8:00 ~ no distractions.  But now I am like some journalist for CNN or Tweeters Daily, I need to know immediately what is going on.  It's like I might miss something if I don't "connect" immediately upon rubbing the sleep from my eyes.    

My boyfriend has an iPhone (as does most everyone else that I know) and during the night it will beep, it will buzz, it will chime, with notifications that someone has sent a text, an email, a voice message or has posted something on Facebook.  And heaven forbid if any of us want to wait till morning to find out that we missed that Cathy or John "Liked" Bill Maher's link at 2:27 a.m. ~ craziness, yes, absolutely nuts.

Could it be that we are always on because we never feel like we've accomplished enough?  That we have unfinished business.  Answering emails at 1:57 am, watching an episode of Modern Family from your Hulu queue because you couldn't watch it on Wednesday night?  I realize this is the way of the world now, and to some degree you have to participate.  Sink or swim.  But I'm feeling like I just want to do the doggy paddle for awhile, float on a raft with my shades and a Mai Tai, or sit on the side of the pool with just my feet submerged.  I need some sleep!

Shredded

I was a lucky kid.  I didn't have too many chores, mainly I believe, because my Mom was not only very kind, but I think she preferred getting things done in a timely manner and to a standard that was acceptable to her.  It would take me hours just to wash the dinner dishes and I could see that my lackadaisicalness would cause her some anxiety.  On most of my dish washing occasions, she would politely offer to "finish up" for me, and I of course, would happily oblige.  She couldn't relax until these things were done and frankly, I was just way too slow at accomplishing these tasks.

I would be assigned fairly simple chores, like setting the table for dinner for instance.  I mean really, how much time could that take someone?  And what could you really do wrong, put the utensils on the wrong side of the plate, drop a glass on the way from the cabinet to the table?  Luckily we didn't have too many of these mishaps.

But there were a couple of chores that I always hated, and yes, I am using the word "hated" ~ they were anything to do with making a salad (there is something about washing and drying lettuce that doesn't agree with me) or the most dreaded of all chores, and the one thing I couldn't stand to hear my mother say, was, "honey, could you shred the cheese?"  The Jaws theme song starts right now.

I would hear those words and my insides would start to tremble, a coating of fear washed over my entire being.  The Grater?  I don't remember letting on how scared I truly was.  Oh, that sharp, bladed instrument, designed to shred and make bleed anything that entered it's line of fire, any knuckle that got in it's way.   It was like being asked to make some sort of human sacrifice. You knew for sure that it was going to happen.   Like when a Chinese daughter would cut a piece of their own flesh, mix it with tea or soup, and then give it to her sick mother to drink as a symbol of total sacrifice, love and respect.  It was a lot like that.  I knew in my heart that I would soon be shedding blood, giving more of myself than I wanted to, but not for my mother's health, instead, it was in the name of "dinner" ~ enchiladas or lasagna.

On those nights when our dinner menu consisted of a "cheese" entree, I would usually excuse myself before the grater made it's way out of the cabinet, feigning a need to use the bathroom.  I would stay in there for 30 minutes or so, or at least until I thought the coast was clear and that my mother had gone ahead and done all the prep work herself.  That would leave me to just finish up, placing the napkins on the table or the salt and pepper.  Wow, I was really a big help!

But then came the greatest of all inventions, rating right up there with the  GPS, the iPhone, dishwashers and microwaves.  Pre-shredded cheese!  Who ever it was that thought up the idea of pre-shredded cheese was absolutely brilliant.  Now helping prepare dinner doesn't have to cause panic attacks in young people everywhere, just rip open the bag of shredded cheese, pour the bagged salad into a bowl, and viola, Bob's your uncle.

Out Loud

One day there was a man lost at sea, holding on to only a life preserver, and he kept praying to God to help him, to save him in his time of need! Well, a helicopter came by, and dropped a basket down into the water, but the man called to them "I am waiting on GOD to come down and save me! Thanks anyways!" ...next came a boat that threw out a life raft, and the man said the same thing to the Captain of THAT boat...he was waiting for God himself to come down and save him... The man finally drowned When he got to heaven, he asked God "Why did you forsake me? Why did you let me drown?" God replied "For cryin out loud I sent you a helicopter with a basket, a boat and a life raft! What ELSE were you waiting FOR?

Remember this story about the fisherman stranded at sea waiting to be rescued?

I had been waiting for some kind of sign, some form of rescue. And now when I look back, I realize heaven or hell had sent me many of them. They just weren't the signs I wanted to see.  In life, we get so caught up in the drama, the gossip, the noise, that we sometimes don't see "signs" as "signs" - or at least not signs that are intended to target us, our very own personal email from the heavens.  And if we do recognize them as a some kind of sign, how do we know for sure how to read each sign, which signs mean stop, which mean use caution, which mean "make a quick U-turn"?

After I had been in my serious live-in relationship for over a year, little lies, little betrayals began to surface (not on their own of course, that was with me doing hard labor digging). They were not full on red lights, more like the school bus yellow caution lights, causing me to slow down but not completely step on the brakes. I just trusted that there was no oncoming traffic, and if there was, I was hoping that the injuries I incurred would be limited to soft tissue.

Then in mid-June of 2011, with what I thought was the ultimate betrayal by my sweetheart of the last five years, my sister in law said to me, "Be thankful this happened. This is a major sign. If you had any doubts and were considering patching up the tears in this relationship, think again. This happened for a reason" And she was right. But as right as she was, I was still wearing a heart in denial, hoping she was a little bit wrong.

A couple of months went by, the signs became mere road bumps in the highway of life, barely visible in my rear view mirror. But then another huge rock slide was just around the bend, a sign that could not be ignored, one that I would crash head on into. A betrayal so big that if I was to ignore this sign I should be committed ~ either to a mental institution, because there would be no doubt that I was insane, or even possibly prison, because it would be criminal to let someone get away with this "crime".   I would have been nothing less than an accomplice.

So back and forth, in my head, what to do, what do do. I needed to get out, get out of my house, out of my town, out of my own head. Do I move away from my life of the past 2 decades? Do I pack it all up and call it a day,  a good 21 year run?  Hard to leave a place that you have considered home for so long, the longest I've ever lived anywhere, to go off to a place full of uncertainty. I hate to admit it, but I don't have the fearlessness I did in my younger years. I was always known as the one that would try just about anything, move across country, without a job or a second thought. And everyone who knew me would say, "Oh well, that's Kim."

So one night I was praying. Yes, me praying. To anyone that might hear. To the angels, to the stars, to God.  Please give me some kind of sign. I need to know where to go, what to do. Please light the way, present me with some sort of opportunity, something to move on for. And then it hit me, as if the sign I had received in June wasn't enough. I was hit  the following September with a sign that flattened me like the road kill of  a mac truck.  It was like, "here ya go, stupid".  What in the hell did I want?  Obviously more than a sign, I wanted someone to come and read them for me and then take the necessary action.  I basically just wanted to go into a comatose state and let someone else decipher all of these messages.

But life doesn't work that way.  We are the masters of own house, the keeper of the keys.  And whether we like it or not, the work that needs to be done, needs to be done by us.  So, if you are having trouble reading any of the messages you are receiving, not sure exactly what the "sign" is saying,  enlist the help of one of your very literate friends (or sisters work great as well) to come over and read them for you.  Out loud.

Hello Whiteness, My Old Friend

Alcohol has it's place, of this there is no doubt.  But of course it can be argued that the perils of drinking far outweigh those fun and light moments when we get to wear the lampshade hat, speak louder and out of line more than we should, and in general do things that we conveniently get to blame on something other than ourselves.  Besides the obviously horrible things associated with drinking too much, there are also the not quite as harmful effects the we can suffer.  Some of those being, drunk dialing, intoxicated texting, and my own recent bout with tipsy self-tanning.  Case in point, see photo below.  Notice the lovely lines of demarcation near the bottom of my foot, once only associated with bad applications of liquid foundation.

Ugh!

I'm not a fan of tanning.  I have avoided getting much sun exposure for about the past 30 years.  When I think of basking in the sun, like I did when I was younger, it makes me cringe.  I see it the same way a chicken probably sees being in a roasting pan set on 350 degrees.  Pure torture.  Why would I do that to myself?  

But every so often I must admit, that a little bit of bronzing on the skin can look quite appealing, giving it that healthy looking glow.  Recently I received a couple sample packets of a self-tanning cloth in my Birchbox shipment.  I put them aside, figuring I would never use them, and would give them to my daughter.  Then I remembered, my daughter likes to wear her skin in a whiter shade of pale.  She goes for the Geisha look.  

Isn't she lovely ~ When she was little I called her "Hatsumomo"

So a couple of nights ago, after partaking in a delicious vodka grapefruit (you must try the Trader Joe's Ruby Red Grapefruit Juice if you haven't), I decided for some reason that it would be the perfect time to try and apply the tanning cloth, I think it was mainly because my newly pink polished toenails were crying out for a little color to complement them.  

The cloth seemed easy enough to apply, just rub along the foot, up the leg, making sure to apply a bit less around the knee and ankle.  There, beautiful.  In the morning I knew I would wake to freshly sun kissed skin and I could slip on my Cinderella summer sandals.  But what I got instead was a solid week of wearing long pants and boots, because frankly, I looked ridiculous.

So another lesson learned.  Or at least I hope it took.  You think I would have learned that one by now, but as I've mentioned before, sometimes it just takes me a little longer.  But what I did learn was this, I am what I am.  Leave well enough alone.  And you know what, there's something to be said for white skin ~ if that's what you come with, wear it, and wear it well, it is just another shade of beautiful!

My feet are looking damn good

It's a Dog eat Kim Shoe World

Another one bites the dust. Like mosquitos love my skin, dogs love my shoes. My sister tried to tell me that it was because I buy good quality shoes, with exceptional leather. I thought that could very well be the case until I came home yesterday to find my one and only pair of flip-flops shredded in the front yard, rendered strapless, and they are not good leather, not even bad leather. You have to understand, I am a boot girl,  I don't wear flip-flops. This was a big deal for me that I even owned one pair that I could occasionally wear and feel halfway decent in. They were a gift from my friend, Virginia, years ago. Yes, years ago. When I find something I really like, I don't part ways with it easily.

straps no more

Through the years, the amount of shoes I have lost at the mouths of dogs is endless. A pair of brand new UGG boots on Christmas morning that were apparently just the right size for our Bernese Mountain Dog; the most loved and coveted pair of shoes that I brought back from Italy, which I guess my Westie got confused with a rawhide chip; my last year's adorable summer sandals that my sister's Golden took a liking to and now yesterday, I came home to find this same Golden decided my flip-flops would make a great addition to his already endless supply of chew toys!

To chew or not to chew, that is the question. Well, how is a dog to know the answer? That is asking a lot. There is a lot of confusion in the life of a dog. We let them chew some things, dig some places, and sleep on certain pieces of furniture, so how are they really to know? I mean, dogs are smart, but I think we might be expecting a lot. And to them, we must appear rather passive-aggressive most of the time.  Yes, no, yes, no.  Living with dogs is no different than living with a toddler.  You have to watch them constantly, keep the closet door closed, and keep things off the floor. It's a lot of work keeping up with a dog. 

The good news is that I called Virginia with my sad story. I told her how upset I was at this loss, having had them for so many years, and being that they were a gift from her.  After telling me "I'd kill that &@#% dog" she said, "well, I have two pairs, one turquoise, and one orange. I'll give one of them to you." I felt a wave of relief run through my body. All was not lost! "I'll give you the orange ones," she said.  Yes, yes, orange is good. Panting. Good Dog.

So once again, all is well that ends well.  I'm getting a new pair of flip-flops, the same kind, almost the same color.  And Bennie, well all I can say, is that Bennie and I both have really good taste in shoes. 

Bennie

*Please, no calls or complaints to your local animal shelter or PETA ~ Virginia's bark is much worse than her bite.