100 Things To Do Before I Die.

                       

I love wagons. Station wagons, hay wagons, but most especially bandwagons. And the "100 Things to Do Before I Die" wagon? Possibly my most favorite of all. Here it is, in all its glory, the ultimate list. I have been salivating all over myself in anticipation of this, which has made it a messy three days. 

I'm cheating a little because I've already done a few of the things on the list, but I figure, everyone needs a head start, right?

Give me a hard time in the comments, if you like. Peanut gallery. You know who you are.

100 Things

1. See the Northern Lights
2. Dance at a Honky-Tonk.

3. Have a mushroom species named after me. Preferably not one that grows on poop.

                                    


4. Make street art.
5. Organize an event for a cause I'm passionate about. Like dangling prepositions.
6. Visit India.
7. Live my life according to my role models: Auntie Mame and Mary Poppins

.
8. Get to the top of an indoor climbing wall.
9. Start a perfume blog.
10. Always look for the good, the funny, and the kind.
11. Two words: Simultaneous. Orgasm.
12. Grow our own vegetables.
13. Bake cookies for a neighbor.
14. Buy a home.
15. Visit the Galapagos Islands.

16. Swim with some dolphins. (Isn't this a requirement of ALL life lists?)
17. Make a souffle.
18. Complete my midwife training.
19. Train trip across America.
20. Have a million dollars in the bank.
21. Go see Willie Nelson live in concert. (Note: I would totally hit that. In a second.)

22. Visit Madagascar.
23. Inspire a painting.
24. Get a Ph.D.
25. Learn how to prune.
26. See Bonnie Raitt live in concert.
27. Bike or hike around the perimeter of Ireland.

28. Have a year-long spending hiatus.
29. Pose for an arty nude photograph by a professional photographer.
30. Try stand-up comedy.
31. Get published in 100 magazines.
32. Record my grandparents talking about their families, historical events, etc.
33. Was the age Christ died. I'd like to live past 33.
34. Give someone away in a wedding ceremony.
35. Be able to do 5 real push-ups.
36. Crochet an afghan.
37. Inspire a poem.
38. Finish my silk quilt.
39. Read all the books I already own.
40. Write 1000 fragrance reviews.
41. Learn to ride a horse. Maybe not this one.

42. Publish (at least) 5 books.
43. Learn to ride a motorcycle.
44. Take a photograph every day for a year.
45. Read all of Italo Calvino.
46. Develop a consistent yoga practice.
47. Make living with gratitude a reflex.
48. Smile at more people on the street.
49. Wander in a field full of fireflies.
50. Be smashingly interesting.
51. Become really, truly fluent in Russian.
52. Learn to juggle.
53. Memorize 100 poems.
54. Go on a road trip with no particular destination.

55. Send something to Postsecret.
56. Sew myself a beautiful dress.
57. Have a mad tea party.
58. Host Thanksgiving dinner for anyone who wants to come.
59. Make 1000 paper cranes.
60. Inspire a song.
61. Visit all 50 states.
62. Take a creative photobooth picture every year on my birthday.
63. Learn to play pool like a hustler.

64. Make a red velvet cake.
65. Get a lap dance.
66. Take a dance class with Ilya.
67. Sneak into 4 movies in one day.
68. Visit Grasse and walk around in Chanel's jasmine and rose fields.
69. Have a custom perfume made.
70. See the desert in bloom.
71. Get it on in some library stacks a la Atonement.

72. Go on a mushroom hunt at least once a year.
73. Own a Jaguar. Pretty sure these are the sexiest cars ever made.
74. Donate my hair to Locks of Love.
75. Look for ecstacy and transcendence.
76. Never be afraid of success.
77. Work at a Texas birthing center.
78. Teach Creative Writing at a major university for a year.
79. Draw one self portrait every year.
80. Have 15 minutes of fame.
81. Grow zinnias from seed in memory of my grandmother.

82. Buy something from Bottega Venatta. I love everything they make.
83. When in doubt, stand still.
84. Laugh so hard I cry.
85. Throw a pot on a potter's wheel.
86. Spend more time looking at the sky.
87. Write a wildly successful self-help book.
88. Listen to my body more carefully.
89. Make it to Ilya's and my 50th anniversary.
90. Read all of Tolstoy's novels.
91. Be the best dancer in the room. Even if I'm alone.
92. Be loud, be proud, accept my lot as the cat lady.

93. Have 2 kids? Have any?
94. Buy an incredibly comfortable mattress.
95. Know when to be extravagant and when to be humble.
96. Get 1000 visitors to my blog in one day. (Record so far: 100.)
97. Look under the hood of my car and know what's wrong. Or right. Positive thinking!
98. Open a press/magazine to support short-shorts and prose poetry.
99. Love my life.
100. Always be adding to this list.

And then I boiled it, peeled it, cut it into chunks, and made him eat it.

It'd be even sweeter if Ilya weren't so terrifying-looking, wouldn't it be? The man needs a shave and a haircut, pronto. Luckily he's in Slovenia now, which I imagine is something like Siberia, which I imagine as being full of big, bearded lumberjacks. So Ilya should fit right in. If they let him check that chainsaw, that is.

On the Subject of Babies

The first argument Ilya and I ever had was about what our children's names were to be. He proclaimed (this is three weeks into our relationship, mind you) that his first son would be named Victor after his father, and his first daughter Natalia after his grandmother. It was as if he expected the hand of God to come down and pat him on the head, he was so proud of himself. I was taken aback, but chocked it up to some kind of Russian Jewish tradition I knew nothing of, that the father named his children before even going to the trouble of securing a handy fertile woman. So I told him he was a moron and we sort of forgot about it.

Which pretty much sums up my feeling about kids in general. Can we just forget about it? Lalalala I can't hear you. I'm 26 years old, Ilya and I have been together nearly 10 years, we own a home, he has a good job, and we're both all over this country like a pack of dogs on a three legged cat. We are writers. We are selfish. We need three hours a day holed up in our respective offices with no disturbances to mentally masturbate, producing maybe 10 words, maybe 1000. We go to bookstores for fun. I'm turning into the kind of woman who sneers at noisy kids in the restaurant.

But funny things sometimes happen. A 5-year-old with a mohawk made me giggle by standing on his head. A picture of a newborn made me feel a little empty in the womb region. I simply refuse to plant over our back lawn despite the drought because I see an undefined but rather tall toddler stumbling all over it laughing insanely as his father chases him. A little girl picks up a Queen Elizabeth doll in the bookstore and turns to her mother, saying "Look, mama. A queen." With a kind of reverence I have never, ever heard.

There isn't any time. Lately I've felt more desperate than ever before, watching it slip away. Where are my books? My degrees? Where's my career? Ilya continues to be successful, and I could not be more proud. I love my life, I'm proud of my accomplishments, but damn if I don't feel jealous sometimes. Just on the verge, on the cusp of finally succeeding, of beginning something wonderful with my life, how can I slow down for 18 years to bring a child into the world?

Even if I would be a MILF. Cause I totally would be, you know.

I Done Bought Me a House!

Now, don't judge a book by its cover. Slap a fresh coat of paint on that sucker and we're good to go! The interior is just a matter of clearing out the pigeon shit and the possum babies, though we're thinking we might just adopt them for pets. Would keep the coon dogs good and exercised, and they're getting a little draggy with all this city living, if you know what I'm saying.

The kitchen has indoor plumbing, y'all! We just need to buy some pipes cause the scavengers already been through here for all the copper in the place. T'ain't no snakes in the tolet (it is an outhouse, y'all! So cute with that little crescent moon and everything! It's like my own little house, behind the big house!), I know cause I just dangled one of them possum babies down there to check and nothing came raring up. So I'll pee easier tonight. I've named the spiders Octopussy, Heptopussy, Sextopussy (that's my favorite!), Quintopussy, Quartopussy, Triptopussy, Duopussy, and Monopussy. They've all got eight eyes and most of 'em got eight legs.

But the best thing about it is all we've got to do is hook the mobile home up to the tractor and tow it on out here! Moving's no trouble y'all, I don't know what all the bitching and moaning is about!

Come on down-- we got a guest room and everthang!

Climbing the Walls

I am afraid of heights. This is fairly well established to anyone who knows me well. Walking on sidewalks looking down at the curb can make me kind of dizzy. I have to close my eyes when I go up on tiptoe. Don't get me started on getting in and out of Hummers. (Because I am this eco-obnoxious, may I just state that I have never, in my life, gotten in or out of a Hummer?) Okay.

What is the most logical form of exercise for such a one, may I ask? Obviously, rockclimbing. Or wall-climbing. But you know, anything that gets you sixty or so feet off the ground, dangling from a dubious purple string and a carabiner between your legs. But for some strange reason, I have always wanted to do it. And on Tuesday (and again today!) I did. 
Injuries sustained. (Yes, they hardly exist, but the one on my elbow hurts like a BITCH!!)

I can't begin to describe how proud I am of myself for this. When it comes to physical fitness, I usually lack a little in the way of... motivation? Confidence? Reflexes? Going on a treadmill was enough to make me sweat (I mean, not in the... you understand). Why? Because I might look like I didn't know what I was doing. And let me tell you, being the only one on a climbing wall in the middle of a gym screaming your fool head off is not the way to deflect attention. But I don't care. Because it was really fun, felt like I was doing something (unlike the treadmill) and allowed me to overcome a fear. Or at least, ignore it for a little while. I think I may have to sleep on the floor tonight, though-- the bed seems a little altitudinous for me today.

PS-- I must also note that it was Friday the 13th! That must account for the elbow bruise.

Who says there's no "Porn" in Inspiration?

So, as most of you know (if indeed there's anyone out there at all), I'm writing a book called "Stories are the Dreams of Lesser Gods." Yes, it's a long title. Yes, it's actually a sentence. Okay. Thanks for the input. 

What I love about this manuscript, which is a collection of short pieces that are loosely connected, is that I can write about anything I want-- usually some sort of metamorphosized human being-- a boy with one wing, a man who becomes music, an inventor who only invents things that have already been invented, etcetera. There's a lot of freedom, and when I get bored, I can start a new piece or go edit an old one. Sort of ideal. 

Most of my inspiration, such as it is, seems to come from misreading things. This had always been an irritation before-- I frequently mix up the end words of two lines from a book. So for instance, "The man in black walked down the dark street/ Hoping that no one would be playing stairway to heaven" might be read as "The man in black walked down the dark heaven" (Totally pulled this out of my ass, by the way.) 

Another way I end up wanting to write a piece is when I hear a line that I like. My friend Jericho Brown and I were discussing church recently, and I was imitating the people who sing or pray with one hand in the air. Jericho Brown made some comment about "One Handed Praisers" and I knew right then that'd be a title. 

But the purpose of this post was my most recent piece, inspired by... porn. And most specifically, the legal message that comes before porn, reassuring us all that everyone's over the age of 18-- I saw the lines "Keeper of Records" and had to stop the porn and turn on MS Word. 

Gee. Thanks Porn.

Woohoo!

 Just got news that I was accepted at Brown for their MFA program in Fiction... with a $33,000 scholarship! I called Ilya to inform him, and after some mutual celebration and back-patting, he let me know that he'd flinched two rejection letters from the mail before I could see them-- Iowa and Michigan. Good thing he told me now-- I'm still floating on air!

I'm trying not to think about all this implies, though-- I love San Diego (contrary to my expectations)-- I have such great friends here, a beautiful apartment, three kitties I adore, and oh, yes, what's his name? That big guy who always leaves such a mess in the bathroom? Right. That one. On the other side, Brown is just the best program for me, writing wise. It's experimental, I've heard it's incredibly supportive, and, well, they want me. And who doesn't find that sexy?

I'm still waiting back to hear from a few places... Irvine, which is probably still my first choice, because it's A- Close, and B- one of the best programs out there. It's a little more traditional in style, so it's probably not the BEST fit, but it'd mean a lot less logistical problems and probably a little less heartache, too. I'm also waiting for Johns Hopkins, which has a fantastic program, and University of Virginia, which is up there too. But I'm kinda thinking that unless JH and UVA include two houseboys and a happy ending, I'm going to go with Brown if Irvine rejects me.

Oh, I'm all a-flutter. Hope you all are having wonderous good days!

10 Things that make me Happy

1. This print of a polaroid by the lovely Spaniard Urizen Freaza. I bought it from Etsy, a brilliant place to pick up art on the cheap.  Ilya absolutely hates it, but it makes me absurdly happy-- of course, as I'll be posting other works that I've bought, it will become clear that anything with additional wings makes me absurdly happy.

2.Did you know, that when you open a Breathe-Rite strip (ie those snore strips) in the dark, their adhesive makes blue crackly light? This has brought me the first real jolt of unexpected joy in a long time. Not to mention it cuts down on A Certain Famous Poet's less than lyrical night-time sound effects.

3. Scented candles. This has been a life-long obsession, but some weird hoarding instinct has always prevented me from actually BURNING them, until the last six months or so. I credit my friend Chrissy's lesson in ambiance-- which basically consisted of plonking a bunch of candle holders down and lighting a match. God bless her.

3.. Self-help books. These are less the "I'm Okay, You're Okay" sort (incidentally, my father's Most Life-Changing Book, which should come as no surprise to those who know him. Or me.), but rather, the "how-to-live-life" sort. For example, I just picked up (at no small cost) Colin Cowie Chic: A Guide to Life as it Should Be, a book in a faux-alligator cover, which presents such titillating tidbits as "Lighter colored cigars usually taste milder than darker ones, though there are exceptions." I find this kind of advice comes in rather handy at the most bizarre moments.

4. In general, I consider myself pretty much the opposite of vain. But I keep growing out my hair, which is higher-maintenance than the rest of me put together. Honest. In the time it takes to comb, wash, and condition my hair, I can shower, shave, eat breakfast, learn to paint in encaustic, and find the cure to eczema. Why don't I cut it? Cause it makes me happy. When I'm not combing it, or washing it. Or not washing it. Or bitching about it...

5. Organizing my clothes by color. Even if they're on the floor.

6. Shelfari.com  There is a longer post to come on all the reasons I love it so, but moving books from "Books I'm Reading" to "Books I've Read" once I've finished them is almost as satisfying as reading them in the first place.

7. Hershey's Dark Chocolate Brownie Mix, WITH walnuts, people. One of my prouder moments in becoming an adult is realizing that baked goods without nuts are like... like... Othello without Desdemona? Why is that coming to me now?

8. Whole classes devoted to reading one author. Although this can be a really exhausting proposition, it's always been the most profound and wonderful experience at the same time. I'm taking a whole class on Faulkner right now. I'd always meant to read Faulkner-- I love the Southern Gothic aesthetic, and two of my favorite authors are Flannery O'Conner and Eudora Welty, both Southerners writing around the same time Faulkner did. So it was Time. And it's been a really fantastic, if devastating, experience-- as Faulkner is a really fantastic, if devastating, writer. 

The last class I remember taking with such a focus was my "Plato" class in high school, with the crankiest professor on earth. He could pull his lower lip a full six inches away from his face-- it was horribly fascinating. He assigned a one-page summary of each of Plato's dialogues, and I turned each one in, written in 2 point font. He read them all with a magnifying glass, commented on every one, and gave me a Classics prize at the end of the semester. I still dislike Platonic philosophy, but at least I can talk about why. 

9. Mock orange in bloom. It's possibly the world's most perfect scent.

10. This blog's 12 day anniversary! It's small steps, people. Small steps.