Saving Graces

By mid-afternoon on Friday I was barely hanging onto my religion from having to deal with the box.

If you are unaware of boxville's mayor, please see the previous post.  

Having waxed on so poetically as to how I was going to hold it together and refrain from ripping a new hole, I held myself to it whilst cursing myself all the way but couldn't help fearing the buzzkill of it all would linger like a dark cloud over the weekend. 

Once the clock struck 3 it seemed only fair to let my employees go home a little early after a tough week. Seeing as I'm my only employee it was even more delightful. With oodles of free time and Cinco de Mayo on the horizon, I took it to the streets to scour antique shops in questionable neighborhoods I had only heard about in rap songs. 

I was in full-scale 'cannot be in my office for one more second or I will lose it' mode, as evidenced by this photo:

Here we've got some blur, some positive thinking as manifested on the shirt (fake it til you make it), 

a fringe bag for protection, the magic shoes and a whack pose for good measure. 

Once inside I left all those worries behind upon spotting the above. GOLD CATS. 

Not to be mistaken for the golden calf.

And, um, yeah.  New roommate. 

I could go on but I'll stop here. I mean how could I even top it? Not possible.

Before I knew it, it was time to head home aka back to the work space.  The one downfall of working at home is it's hard to leave a less than stellar day behind, so let's just say I was not in the mood. Once there I dialed everyone and their mother to see who wanted chips and salsa so I could, you know, continue running away from home.  What? No one?? 

Around that time I began feeling sorry for myself until I turned on The Young and the Restless and realized Victor Newman has waaaaaaaaay fewer friends than me.  *Bright side.* Suddenly my phone buzzed with an email from Claire. Claire who is from the Bay area and has been a blog friend for the past two years even though we've never met face to face. Claire was in my neighborhood, on a girls trip and on her way to none other than The Corner with a bunch of other bloggers + friend? VICTORY IS OURS.

See what I mean about fake it 'til you make it?  Examine the evidence:

The incomparable Claire! 

After all these years I guess I could have hauled out a comb? 

We've got peeps from SF, the UK and Canada all right here. Loves it!

It was by far the best way to kick off a weekend that turned out to be incredibly fun-filled and crazy. A special thanks to Micaela, Marianne, Claire, Ezgi (doesn't blog, but should do stand up comedy) and Faiza for peeling by for dinner and drinks. Can't wait to see you again!

HELLO IN THERE!

As of late you will more often than not find me like this.

Okay maybe not exactly like this given the red denim of it all, but pretty close to it. Chris snapped this iPhone one a couple weekends ago on a dreary Saturday when I was deep in thought over a frustrating situation. The kind I'd like to splash hot tea on. You know how those go. Or maybe I'm a sole splasher?

Dealing with people who are in the box is tough.

In the box is a scary place to be. Having a pretty narrow view, primarily out of fear, but then exercising that narrow view from a place of authority in order to try and suck others--especially those living their lives with a degree of freedom--into that box because misery loves company. If you are someone who is a free spirit then you know how your liberty disturbs people in the box.

It makes them angry.

They want to choke you with your red pants.

By not giving in to their power trips and fear tactics, you continually disprove their theory that life inside the box is where it's at and life outside the box is for 'those wingnuts'. It's scary for them. In truth, you scare them. Because the truth is, deep inside, they already hate that damn box anyway. THEY WANT OUT!

I'm dealing with a resident of boxville. Mostly I'd like to throttle this person, but now that I'm ahem of a certain age I would also like to help in, what I believe may be, the beginning of this person's journey out of boxdom. Change begins with discomfort. Instead of flipping the bird and strolling off (which may end up happening anyway), I'm trying to accept what may be my role as an agent of change.

Truth? I don't feel like it.

I'd rather wave my freedom flag and march off into the sunset. I may or may not holler over my shoulder, 'Enjoy your box!'. It would all depend on how self-righteous I was feeling that day. That last part is why I'm trying to change. Everyone deserves a hand up. And maybe there's something I need to see about myself in all this, too.

I think about it a lot. How am I conducting myself in the face of negativity? How am I safeguarding myself against feelings of bitterness? How am I fairly holding this person accountable without taking my feelings of 'WTF is wrong with you?!' out on them. It's a fine line I tell ya.

I might need another pair of colored jeans for this one. Or at least a fringe bag.

With the Wind at My Back and a Picket Sign in My Face

Last week I landed a pair of Vanessa Mooney's aztec moccasins at a sample sale and be damned if almost all my dreams nearly did come true.

Six months of internet searches where I jumped around from one foot to the next until 

they were all sold out culminated in a magnificent reunion.

I hugged them, I leapt in the air, I made a special space for them in my closet.

Yesterday I dressed up like somebody's mom and took them on their maiden voyage for a lunch date.

Overcome with glee I busted out some sort of homage to Danielsan--the one, the only, Karate Kid.

It was a moment.

But the best was yet to come.

This morning I got up, clicked my friggin heels together and prepared to go pick up the last size 6 in the bootie style. It's like the aztec moccasin fairies have been all up in my business this week. Bless them.

On my way out of town I noticed a significant amount of police activity. As in about 20 motorbike ones, 2 of those big vans, several police cars...and a chopper? Good thing I'm getting out of here, I thought to myself. 

Well hold that thought, Carrie. As I got into downtown LA many of the streets were blocked off.  Thinking it was construction, I maneuvered available one ways until I began to notice row upon row of police bikes lining the sidewalks for blocks. And I mean BLOCKS. LAPD is that big? It became apparent, once I turned down the ABBA Dancing Queen disco party in my car, that I was in the middle of an epic sh*tstorm of some sort.  Choppers everywhere, so close their sound was thundering in my chest.  Documentarians with cameras and those dustmop microphones strewn all over the streets. Police, more police, and food trucks? What? 

Don't these people know I need my shoes? They're the last pair!!

Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I caught a SEA OF PICKETERS headed my way.  Screeching into the nearest parking lot I bolted out of my car as a nice parking attendant hollered, 'Where you headed lady? It's not so safe for you down here right now.  I charge you two dollar and you hurry back or you might not be able to get out. Why these people do this? It's not like the government is going to change immigration policy anyway..." as I rounded the corner and wound up marching amongst those picketers in the greatest irony of all.  I'm an immigrant almost through the Naturalization process--something these people so desperately want for themselves--to belong, to make this country their legal home.

You know sometimes you set out to do one thing and, even though that thing (that you love and are so grateful to have) may get accomplished, you end up encountering something else that gives you a fresh perspective. I daresay the right perspective, at least for me.

It was a helluva day. 

And the shoes? I made it to them safely and wish I would have hung around to observe a bit more. I think today was an important day for me somehow.  As far as the shoes go, someday I'll tell them about the time I got swept up in an immigration protest, just to bring them home.