Social Graces

As of late, I've been incredibly confused as to what it was I had been feeling.  I was silently and viciously attacked without my knowledge, and I refused to show anger over it.  For that I was accused of being a sociopath, to which anyone out there who has ever dared to read my blogs would know that to be incredibly false. Anyone who's ever known me in person would know that wasn't true.  I'm filled with deep emotions that I must try to control lest they control me.  I just know not to get angry over petty things because it doesn't do anyone any good.

I've learned a lot since moving to California in 2002.


1.  Nice towels are worth spending a few extra dollars on.
2.  People only want to know you if you can do something for them.
3.  A drive along the coast will cure just about anything.
4.  Traveling is worth every cent we can afford to spend on it.
5.  Life is lived outside of four walls and two rooms.
5.  Everything out here is measured in time, not miles.
6.  There's not a person in the world who won't lie to your face.


Social graces within the workplace dictate that names shall not be named.  I am personally guilty of that action, and for that action alone, I apologize.  I apologize to my boss.  I apologize to his wonderful wife. I apologize to those people I named. HOWEVER - what I told was true so I will not apologize for having said it.

As several people lately will attest to, when I have a problem with someone in particular, I go directly to them - not to everyone around them, people who know them, neighbors, roommates and total strangers.  Those would be the actions of a coward - someone who feels it's necessary to hide within the shadows.  I'm not a shadow dweller.

After posting a blog recently, I was accused of being extremely egotistical by someone who claimed to not know me and refused to put anything but "Anonymous" for their name.  To clear THAT one up, I never said that everyone in the world wanted to BE me.  What I said - if you can understand plain English please feel free to go back and read it again here... - was that I've known so few people who actually loved me.  People who claimed to love me were actually obsessive people.  I draw them to me like flies.  They don't realize they are obsessed with me, and perhaps they aren't at first, but that turns out to be the case.  Not every one of them want to BE me, but what I said was "People wanted to be with me, be like me, be around me or just BE me."  I stand by that.  Now - stop posting anonymously and your comments might actually be posted.  *wink*

Those who obsess over others usually do for those reasons - am I wrong?

So I'll leave you with these final thoughts on the matter before I get back to writing about my regular program of stories, travel adventures, upcoming excitement and joyful times...

Don't obsess over others.  It leads to no good.

When you break social graces, it's ok to apologize.

Any time I have a problem with someone, I go to them. If you don't hear it from me, I don't have a problem with you.

And finally - Life is too short to spend time with people who suck the happiness out of you.  They aren't worth the time, so why give it to them?  People, it's time to move on.

C-L-A-S-S

Something I've learned in all of my travels is that everyone has a story. From the little girl down the way that got exited over finding a penny on the floor in the milk aisle to the homeless man sitting on the bench outside. Sometimes all they need is a chance to be heard.

Colton sits outside every day of his life. He brings his wheelchair everywhere he goes. Every possession he owns often sits in the seat of that wheelchair when he isn't in it himself. His thick red beard shines in the sun over his rawhide, leathery skin. I don't think Colton owns shoes. Instead he dons dark blue corduroy slippers every time I see him. His smile is filled with rotting shards of teeth, but he lights up everything around him when he does smile. His blue green eyes are full of pain and misery, but also life, joy and adventures past.

"You wanna know the definition of class," he asked me today as I shared my standard greeting with him. His eyes instantly turned bloodshot and began to water. Fearful of what he would tell me, I couldn't help but be curious about his story. I've long been a believer that everyone had a story. Being a story teller myself, I was curious about his.

"Sure," I responded, almost reluctantly. The conversation we had before this was about suicide 1-800 callers. It had been a rather serious talk. Was the definition of class actually a touch of sarcasm?

"I'll tell you about class," he said, and smiled weakly. "If I can keep myself from crying." He wiped at his eyes as they were beginning to trickle down his face a bit like dew streaming from tall blades of grass. As they mingled with his beard, the color of the hair darkened to resemble that of a western sunset.

"My wife was an amazing woman," he said, as he wiped his eyes again. "I came home from work one day to find her waiting for me. She told me to get changed because we were going out. Let me tell you, Honey. Don't ever tell a man that you're going out and not tell him where you're going. It'll drive a man crazy. If you want to drive a man crazy, just do that to him, it works every time." He smiled, the shattered picket fence teeth glowing the color of a ripe papaya. I smiled back.

"Anyway, I told her that I needed to know where we were goin' because I didn't know what to wear. She told me to dress nice 'cause she was takin' me some place nice. I got dressed and we left. She still wouldn't tell me where we were goin'.

"She took me to a really nice restaurant. From our table we could see the cliffs and the ocean and the waves crashing. It was really nice. I'll never forget it. We both ordered Strawberry Margaritas. We sat there for a long time just talkin'. God, I loved her. She was so beautiful.

"You know how Margaritas separate when they've been sitting for a while? The ice starts to float at the top and the liquid all goes to the bottom? Everyone stirs their Margarita with the straws, right? So I started to stir my Margarita. I heard something in the glass go 'clink' and I asked what the Hell it was. She looked just as surprised as I did.

"I cussed a bit under my breath and told her to flag down the waiter if she could. I tried to fish out the piece of glass from my drink by working at it with the straw I had. I thought it must be a piece of a beer bottle, because whatever it was, it was a darker color and I couldn't see much of it. The Margarita was really thick.

"Do you know what it was," he paused, looking up at me. His eyes glistened with fresh tears. My heart could only guess, but I allowed him to tell me.

"What was it," I asked.

"A wedding ring." His face crinkled into a painful grimace. "It was a damned wedding ring." He sobbed once. "That's class for you. C-L-A-S-S." He spelled the individual letters out, his voice breaking on the second S. My heart went out to him. Against my better judgement, I asked the question I was dying to know.

"What happened to her, Colton?"

"She killed herself."

It's the first time in many years I was so moved by the story of a homeless man that I did something for him. When I went inside to purchase my case of bottled water, I bought him some soup and gave him one of the bottles from my case. As I walked back outside and handed him the gifts, he smiled at me once more. His eyes were dry, his heart had healed and he was the same Colton I had known from before.

"You're a sweetheart," he said to me, his picket fence teeth showing broadly. "Thanks, Honey." I said goodbye and walked back to my car. As I drove away, I waved to Colton. He shouted after me, "I love you Honey," and laughed.

Everyone out there has a story to tell.... all we need to do is listen. Sometimes it can change the whole world for someone else.

Why I Write

oday I was astounded that I had more than 50 views on my blog before lunchtime. I set forth a goal, telling everyone that if I had over 100 views on my blog in a single day, I would post two more today as a treat. Well, we accomplished that by 10:54pm, with 107 views. By midnight, I estimate somewhere around 130 views, clearly a hundred more than an average day. For all the hard work and effort that went into this, I've decided to write two blogs AFTER this one. Perhaps by the end of this one you will understand why.

I was told in a private tweet earlier today by a first time reader of my blog that I was a very interesting woman. When I asked what it was that made me so interesting, the response was "it's interesting reading someone's story and like that, you're putting it all out there." It started my thinking process. I wondered for a flash of an instant why it is I write and "put it all out there" for everyone to see.

I have some friends who believe I should do video blogs. I've thought about it, but I hesitate only because I know that writing permits me the time to think carefully about my words, how they form and how they paint a picture. It affords me the opportunity to be far more descriptive than I would be on camera. Yes, I have a presence on camera - and maybe one of these days I'll do a video reading, but just to tell a story on a video, I find I say the typical space fillers far too often. I can't get through three sentences without using "um" or "ahh" a couple of times.

But why would I need to choose between writing and video blogging? What is so important that I want to tell the world?

When people tell us that we should live like we mean it, spend what we have, because we can't take it with us - they're right. We don't take our homes or money or cars with us when we die. Ladies don't take their shoes or handbags. Men don't take their fishing boats or entertainment systems. We don't even take our names with us. They're handed on to other children. I'm certainly not the only Amanda I've ever known.

In the end, our stories are the only things we take with us. If they aren't shared with others, what good has it done us to survive the trials and tribulations we must endure throughout our lifetimes? Is there a possibility that others can learn from the lessons we've had to figure out the hard way?

I guess in a way it's a selfish reason I have for writing. I don't want the stories I have to die with me when my time on Earth is done. Then again, it's completely unselfish. I've known several people I can name off hand who say my stories and determination have inspired them to strive for a better life. One time someone contacted me on Myspace to tell me that something I had written had changed their mind on the fatal mistake of committing suicide. Another long time friend confessed to me that they had been trapped in a horrible relationship with someone they no longer loved but didn't have the strength to get out of it for fear of not ever finding something better. That person has since moved on and seems happier than ever with their decisions. It's always a struggle starting over, but it's all worth it for the chance to be happy in life. He found that guidance through me somehow - through my stories.

These are our lives we are taking for granted. They were meant to be lived and enjoyed. They were meant to be filled with experiences and memories that will last forever. How waisted is the life spent in misery!!

I have learned through times of being abused, abandoned, kidnapped, loved, adored and honored, never to take a single moment for granted. I have stories to share with anyone who will listen - and you proved to me yesterday that not only are you listening, but you're sharing! There could be few gifts in this world greater than the gift of being appreciated for my words of adventure, wisdom, stupidity and silliness. It's a great accomplishment to me when someone tells me that my stories have inspired them, or that they look forward to my next installment.

So, I guess that's why I write.

I write because people appreciate it.

I write because it helps me to cope with issues.

I write because it helps others to cope with drama.

I write because YOU enjoy it.

I write because you tell me it inspires you.

I write because of you.

Thank you - each of you - for caring enough to come back day after day.

This blog, and indeed all of my blogs, are for you.

.

Diary of a Shoe

When my mother was a child, her family was too poor to afford shoes. In the summer, all three kids would run around in the fields with bare feet. They had shoes for school, but mostly didn't worry about it. When my Grandmother did buy shoes because one of the three had outgrown theirs, she would hide them for a while in the closet. When finally she pulled them out for her kid to wear, my Grandfather would ask where the shoes had come from, knowing full well they couldn't afford a new pair of shoes. She would always answer with what she thought was the most honest answer she could give him safely.

"Oh, we've had these for a while now," though she failed to mention that they had remained in a box, in the closet, under a pile of blankets and photographs.

Shoes have been a valuable asset since their invention. The oldest found were from about 10,000 years ago, but were probably worn long before that. They were first evolved to protect the many tiny bones in the human foot, which has more bones in it than any other part of the body. It's progression eventually brought varied examples of shoes for different terrains and climates. Until the past few decades, shoes were NOT worn by most of the world, though. Shoes were always expensive, as they were for my Grandmother when my Mom was a child. With mass production, the prices dropped and more areas around the world could finally afford shoes. Still, many people nomadic and otherwise, still do not wear shoes.

What is the first thing most people do when they come home from work at night? For me, it's the removal of my shoes. My toes have been cramped up all day and they want to curl and twist, gliding over the carpet, cracking gently at the bends. They stretch and strain, glad to be free of the confined spaces and slide as easily as silk as I guide them over the coffee table before me. But the shoes I wear every day are not my favorite shoes. The ones I'm wearing would have to be my favorites.

Often I find that my "most favorite" of a select item isn't one that I've recently purchased or found or discovered, but the one with the most history. It's that way with T-shirts and that comfy pair of jeans that always fits just right. It's that way with a watch I know I can depend on, a piece of jewelry I can always find, a picture I keep in my wallet that someone wrote their name on. It's that way with shoes too.

My favorites are not a pair of sleek black heels, though I have two pairs I like very much. They're not sneakers or jogging shoes. They're not boots made of suede, or red pumps, or even open toed sling backs. They're not clogs or flip flops, they're not sandals or heels or loafers.

My most favorite shoes is a pair of shearling sheep skin moccasins with a large tear in the left, a big spot of bright blue paint dried on the right. They're dirty and old, and the rubber bottoms are all but falling off. I take these shoes on an airplane with me and change into them when the plane takes off, usually with a couple of odd looks in my direction by the person closest to me. They're also very warm and cozy, but NONE of those are the reason I love these shoes so much. And yet - all of them are.

In 2005 I sat on a window sill in Redondo Beach, watching the dolphins playing in the surf. My legs straddled the window sill. One of my brand new slippers fell off of a foot and landed on the stairs below. I got down from my perch, wandered to the door, and went to fetch my shoe. What resulted was an hour conversation with a neighbor I hadn't seen in a long time, starting out by him asking me why I was coming down the stairs without a shoe.



In 2006 I sat in my bedroom in Gardena on the Skype service, talking to someone more than 5,000 miles away. Though the person I was talking to had no idea, I was completely naked except the tan fuzzy slippers I so dearly loved. They kept my feet warm when everything around me was cold, dark and lonely. In that way, the slippers reminded me of the voice on the other end of the Skype service. That voice made me feel warm when nothing else could.



In 2007 my slippers were lost in a box during a move. I couldn't find them for months, and when I finally did I nearly wept for joy. I had been ruining all of my socks, running around on wooden floors with no shoes on! Not to mention, the cat was still a baby and loved to attack anything that moved. The leather slippers would be much harder to get through with those needle teeth. Somehow he still managed to get his teeth into one and tear a hole in the left foot, though.



In 2008 I painted my kitchen cabinets a beautiful bright blue color. My cat, then a year older, got into the paint and tracked it all over the house. I hollered and yelled, raising quite a fuss of screaming and scaring the poor bugger. He took off into my bedroom, little blue paw prints trailing behind him. When I discovered his hiding place, he had shoved his head into the toe of my slipper like an Ostrich hiding his head in the sand. There was that one little blue paw of his resting on the side of my right slipper. At first I was upset, but then I laughed. For as long as I kept the magical slippers, there would be an existing memory of my silly cat with his nose hiding in a shoe. As I reached down to pick him up, the shoe lifted into the air with his body. He started flailing about, slinging droplets of blue paint around in the closet, all over my high heels, all over me... His head was stuck! When I got the shoe off of his head, he curled up in my arms for the first time in months and didn't move for an hour. I was his savior.




In July of 2009 when my uhaul was u-haul-ed away, I was sleeping in a hotel room in my slippers and trackies (sweats) warm and comfortable, safe and sound with my little cat in my arms. I didn't realize then that they would be one of the only things in the world I would own the next morning other than my memories. But, there I was at that precise moment in time, wearing my slippers.




Here it is 2010, and I'm wearing the same shoes that fell in Redondo, that warmed me in Gardena, got painted in San Pedro, were cat-attacked, and kept me safe in Vegas. When I looked down at my shoes tonight only moments ago, I thought to myself "If only my shoes could talk"... They would tell much better stories than I could ever begin to imagine.

I'll cherish everything and everyone I have. I'll take the good with the bad, the blue paint drops and worn, frayed edges. In the end, it only shows that they've been well loved and had a good life, like the lines around the eyes of an aged woman, or the creases in the forehead of the Grandfather watching the grandchildren play in the park.

I learned last summer never to take anything for granted - it could all be gone tomorrow. I still have my cat, and I still have my slippers. I still have my love and my hope and my dreams. I'll never take ANY of them for granted.

No, not even my favorite shoes.

First Entry

Tonight, after watching Julie and Julia on Netflix, I finally decided to do something I've thought about for a very long time. I finally signed up for my very own blog.

Years ago I began writing and blogging in my Myspace account. I had so much information on there that when I went to find an old entry that I dearly loved, it no longer existed. I had put so much stuff on that blog that the older entries were swept away without my knowledge.

So here I sit in my living room floor, finally deciding to start an OFFICIAL blog.

Part of me wonders how this project will fare. I've made a few attempts at this sort of thing, but for some reason the only one I was ever able to complete from start to finish was an 850 page hand written book titled "For My Family" that was stolen last July as well as everything else in my uHaul. That's a story for another day...

So - my first entry will be a reply to a question I received in my Flickr mail from "Deb and Mike" (http://www.flickr.com/photos/48285538@N03/)

I saw your CD of "Ol' yellow eyes".

Is it really expensive now? I got mine at a mall in Kansas a bunch of years ago. I even kept the receipt for no real reason other than it was/is fun.

His voice wasn't bad.

I was at a party with lots of geeks (we were supposed to wear pocket protectors) and I showed up dressed decently and got a lot of "Geeze, you call yourself a geek?" comments. To which I simply puled that CD out of my pocket. I had a few folks bow down to it. We laughed and laughed and I refused to take it out of the case for fear it'd get damaged. :)

My response was just this....

Actually - I found it in a record shop called Amoeba in downtown Los Angeles. They told me they didn't have any left. I refused to take that as an answer and continued looking. Suddenly I spotted it staring me in the face from a locked glass case. When I saw the $80 price tag I nearly swallowed my tongue! Still, I took a deep breath, looked at the sales girl, and told her "I'll take it." It was well worth the investment.

I'll probably have one of his songs played at my wedding. At least one. And I'm not even engaged. I wonder what the fiancee will think of that...