Listening to a Prophet

The first time I heard of Kahlil Gibran and The Prophet, I was eighteen years old. I was flirting with this boy, Tommy. Tommy Gibran was his name, although his birth name was Kahlil Gibran. My father read The Prophet, Tommy said, he read The Prophet and it changed his life. So he changed his name to Kahlil Gibran and named me, his son, the same. But I go by Tommy.

I nodded, and briefly wondered what The Prophet was about, that it could be so life-changing. And then I focused on Tommy again, and flirting. In hindsight, I wish I spent less time flirting--Tommy ended up being an AWFUL kisser--and more time grilling hiim on this Prophet thing. But then, I am not sure Tommy would have known much more about it. He was a punk, Tommy was, and I am fairly sure he was involved in some insurance scam.

Anyway. The Prophet.

I have encountered that author and that title more, now that I have entered my educated, librarian years. So I finally checked it out yesterday, and have begun to read it. I'm not sure what to expect; I think maybe on some level I am looking for some sort of life-altering experience. But I am older now, and I think with maturity comes a certain unflappability, a certain stability that prevents you from being easily swayed by persuasive arguments. Maybe common sense, experience, and maturity are what settle us, make us more sedate, less fired up. But I still want to be open to at least the possibility of life-altering experiences...let's see what The Prophet can do for me. It's got to be more life-altering than Tommy's kissing style!

Greetings to the New Year! It's Going to Be Fabulous!

As always, a day late and a dollar short. But better late than never.

Bring it on, 2008! I will MAKE you be an awesome year. I shall beat you into submitting to my goals, plans, ambitions, and wishes. Because I have a Plan. And yes, we all know that life is what happens when you make plans, but nevertheless...

I do have a few New Years' resolutions, sure, but I think that those are a little tricky. They are vague and nebulous, and can always be put off until by the end of the year, you're like, "well, shit, another year over, a new one just begun, no filled resolutions and I am a lame-o." So, I am thinking...New Month Resolutions! I am going to attempt to set goals for each month, kind of like an action plan. Plus, it means I get to make a list, and we all know that making a list is elixir and inspiration for the soul. At least for my twisted, neurotic soul. I think if I were told I were dying, my first reaction would be to make a list. But I am not dying, hurrah! although lists are still here, waiting to be made.

So! January resolutions.

1.) I am going to try to jog three times a week

2.) I am going to purchase a wall calendar, record important birthdays, and try to remember to send cards. (My mom's birthday is today--whoops!)

3.) I am going to cook at least one new meal a week. Bonus points for being heart-healthy.

4.) I am going to get a Palm Springs Library card and check out/read the following books: Change Your Home, Change Your Life and Making Peace With the Things In Your Life.

5.) I am going to write a personal vision statement.

6.) I am going to purchase a fabulous outfit for my January Literary Lunch Booktalk.

7.) I am going to check out and watch some Yoga videos from the library.

8.) I am going to have a cleaning plan for my home--every day, I will perform a few cleaning tasks.

(This one in particular is important. I am weird: I feel like I cannot do anything until I have the perfect setting, and let's face it, things at Chez Ghetto are rarely perfect. But it's ridiculous to try to hold off on life until everything is perfect. I know so many women, myself included, who do not want to learn anything because they want to be perfect at it right away. I am the same. And in particular, I feel like my surroundings need to be perfect. Bah. I want to be fabulous, but I don't want to be less than perfect at it, and so I put it off by saying "I can't do this or that because the house is a mess!" That's right, folks, I am putting off fabulousness because of dirty dishes. The least I can do is to make routine cleanliness a not-too-time-consuming habit, and let that be part of the fabulousness, but not the goal, and not the thing that prevents me from attaining it.

So, happy 2008! Let our cups overfloweth with fabulousness!

Weekend Discoveries

Never a dull moment in California-land, right? Yeah sure. Nevertheless, every now and then I do something pleasant, or diverting, or discover something new. So here's what happened this weekend:

Yesterday Arash and I went to the LA Car Show. Okay, so it was more his gig than mine, but I'm a good girlfriend and went along for the ride. And as a result, I discovered my true love:

Yeah. Whoda thunk it? Me? In love with a bmw? Well, let's look on the bright side. It will remain an unrequited love. I will remain faithful to Corollas, if only because they are far more befitting a librarian of my status.

2. English Huntsman cheese: Thank you, Trader Joe's! It's a combination of Gloucester (I'm pretty sure it's pronounced "Gloster" but that's pretty irrelevant seeing as how it won't remain in my fridge long enough to matter) and Stilton. Now, normally Stilton's too strong, even for me. Its smell alone (back when I used to be able to smell) reminds me of some of very nasty things rotting in the fridge (and in my fridge, there's no shortage of that), but in this cheese, the Stilton was just perfect. Strong enough to announce that it IS a blue cheese, dammit, but not strong enough to remind me of dead things.

3. The movie Marie Antoinette. Now that I am a working woman, I am more able to catch up with many books and movies, and this is one of them that I have been meaning to watch for a while. It looked--and felt--a little anachronistic at first, but the movie managed to retain enough "vintage" feel to it to remain the kind of lush historical drama that I dig.

Well, the weekend is still going on...let' see what fun and exciting things I might come across tomorrow.

Over and out.

8 Things

Here are the rules of engagement: Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 4 people and posts their blog names, then hopes they notice they have been tagged and continue this chain ad nauseum. I got tagged by one of my Library Ladies, SneakyPanda/Librarisaurus Rex, like, 4 freaking months ago, but because I am a half-hearted blogger, it took me this long to notice and respond. Dur.

1. I am completely and utterly careless when it comes to certain things: pencils and pens, lip balm, and nail files. I lose them all the time, and I have no idea why. I guess the only acceptable explanation is that it's the absent-minded facet of my genius character. Or something.

2. Several people have noted this: when I am talking on the phone, I pace, or (more disturbingly) if I am sitting on the bed, I rock back and forth. I'd love to say I am autistic, but god knows I've got very little genius-savant talent. And I am pretty sure I just pissed off a whole gaggle of autism-advocates with that ridculously ignorant generalization.

3. I talk in my sleep, a lot. I've held entire conversations, and can get very forceful if I think the person in my dreams is not listening. My personal favorite declaration: "We took the crooked staircase to Ankle Island!" Sure--just keep on walking, there.

4. I get really, really annoyed with people who park their vehicles in an askew manner.

5. I don't know how to ride a bike.

6. About 3-5 times a week, I dream about tornadoes. I am fairly certain this is how I am going to die.

7. One of my long-cherished dreams is to one day have a playroom filled with toys from my childhood. Thank god for ebay.
8. I keep a WRITTEN list of questions I am going to ask the Higher Power (if there is such a thing) when I die. So far, there's only a couple of questions:

-What happened to the Princes in the Tower?

-Who the HELL was Jack the Ripper?

Alright, I tag...Brittany, Laurie (not sure she still reads this), my sister Sarah, and Florida Jen. Get to it, ladies!

Back on the Air

"I've never really ever found a place that I called home,

I've never stuck around quite long enough to make it..."
Right now, I really don't have the energy to explain my absence. Anyway, there's not really that good of an explanation. Maybe I've just been lazy. I certainly have been avoiding my apartment, which has gone from Chez Ghetto to Chez Furnace in the presence of western exposure and in the absence of central air.

Maybe at some point I will reflect on my various doings of the past half year, but today isn't that day. Why? Because today is Sunday. And Sunday is the day for melancholic, rambling posts that don't really go anywhere but leave you, dear reader, plenty depressed.

Various circumstances (by and large GOOD circumstances) have led me to lately contemplate attempting to find an apartment in the desert. I'm not moving anywhere just yet, but I certainly am gathering information. And in this information-gathering process, I fell in love. I guess you could call it an unrequited love, as I am pretty damned sure I don't share a future with the object of my affection. But I am nonetheless completely, 100%, head-over-heels in love (okay, obsessed).

It's an apartment, a ridiculously undersized, overpriced apartment. The appeal? Hardwood floors, a fireplace, french doors, casement windows, central air, washer and dryer, a huge back porch, cats are allowed. It's got more character than me after I've pounded five shots of goldschlagger. But it's just too much, and I know it. But still I pine.

All weekend, I've been thinking about it. And when I came home on this lonely Sunday, as I began to clean my slum home, I was still thinking about it. And to cheer myself up, I decided that the proper medicine lay in the archives of Crazy Aunt Purl. If anyone could cheer me up, it would be her. And then I started thinking about her, in her cozy little valley home that she has hated for a while...and how she finally decided that now was the right time--in fact the only time--to start living her life and making her rented space into a home. And that got me thinking about my own circumstances--how it seems like I have never stayed in once place for more than a year for a very long time, and why the hell do I keep picking up sticks and going elsewhere? I am never satisfied, I am always looking for a better place. Always picturing myself being happier, more creative and productive, at the next place, not the current abode.
And that got me to the point where I had a Purl-esque revelation. I'm never going to find the one perfect place with lots of character that will inspire me to lead that ideal life. All the hardwood floors and french doors just won't do it. It's going to have to come from me, I am going to have to have the balls and initiative and energy and discipline enough to do it, regardless of where I live. So I need to just latch on to whatever common sense is lurking right now and make sure I don't go completely stupid and lock myself into a place that I can't afford, just to chase the rainbow of the perfect life that is waiting with the perfect place.

There is no perfect. There is just now, and good enough with improvements always being made. I'm going to still look for a place, and eventually move there. I will settle for the basis--central air, and please god a w/d hookup. Maybe a balcony. But I won't pay out the nose for a perfection that just won't come.

Sunday Sighs

When I was little, I didn't like Sundays. I would spend all weekend with my beloved grandparents, and then on Sunday evenings, they would drive me back home to my mother's. My during-the-week home. There was nothing wrong with it, really, I just didn't fit in there. And I was miserable every Sunday night. My poor mother must have been very hurt, every time mopey me would come home, hug my grandmother good-bye, and slump off to my room.

Now, years later, I am not sure all that much has changed. I like Sundays because they are my days off. But one of two things invariably ends up happening: I end up spending the day with one of my girlfriends or the boyfriend, or else I am at home all day, doing various chores. And there's nothing wrong with either of those scenarios, it's just...there's no happy medium. Either I am out having a nice time, and not getting anything done, or I am at home, getting stuff done and feeling a little lonely.

This Sunday, it's me, at home, cleaning, working on my "Vision Board", trying to dodge the cats. And I am feeling a little empty, a little lonely. I think it's because, back in Indiana with Michael and Florida with John, I got in the habit of viewing Sunday as "Couple's Day." One of the few times I would have to spend with my significant other, and yeah, we'd have to do pain-in-the-ass chores--laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping--but it was still fun and pleasant because I would be doing with the partner, and it would feel like there was a point to it.

And now...big adjustment. No laundry facilities. And just me. And yes, I know there is still a point to it--I am not a completely useless female that cannot stand to be alone--but it's just not the same.

Introducing Melissa, Librarian to the Stars

I am back in the game! I have been annoying a lot of people with my complete and total neglect of this here website. So, here goes. I will try to throw in some relevant stuff, and not make it one complete "here's what's going on in my life" kinda deals.

The setting: my living room at Chez Ghetto, late afternoon. It's a cloudy, warm spring day outside. There's a lot of birds tweeting, and the neighborhood rooster is crowing. (It's surreal). Sunnydale gets seasons, more than I expected of SoCal, and as a result, there's a lot of trees and bushes and flowers blooming. My cat Austen is asleep on top of the couch, and judging by his twitching paws and occasional grunts, he is dreaming.

What do cats dream about? And do they understand what is happening? I mean, do they know to distinguish their sleeping dreams from their waking realities? Humans understand the concept of sleep, and its necessity, and that the images we see in our brains while we are asleep, we understand as dreams. But do cats grasp that concept? I'm not articulating this very well.

Recently, some of the folks in my life have started talking about The Secret. Now, all of my librarian friends out there, you may have gotten some requests for this book/DVD. There haven't been any reviews for it in the publications we read, but it's getting hugely popular, and it's been pictured in PW a couple of times on the bestseller list.

What's the secret? That's not for me to tell. I am deeply ambivalent about the whole thing--it's completely new-agey self-help--but with an essentially positive message. In a word, it's the New Age variation of "God helps those who help themselves" or "with faith you can move mountains"...and the implication being, if that damned mountain doesn't budge, you must not have believed hard enough.

Hrmph.

But I am all about positive thinking, and projecting what I want "out there". So slowly, I am implementing the Secret, we will see what comes of this in the days, weeks, and months ahead.

And what else? I have to write a couple of rejection letters at work. Hurrah for administrative experience!