Today I took part in a fast to ensure longevity for my husband. My friend who is from India told me I had to fast and could only eat after I saw the moon, presented it with water, and prayed for my husband’s well-being. I decided that I would go ahead and take part. I surprised my husband at the end of the day telling him what I had been doing, and then when it came time to see the moon it was no where to be found! I looked it up and the moon was in the northern-most position for the entire year and would not be rising until after 9:30pm. My husband, when I told him I needed to find the moon so that I could eat, didn’t scoff, or chide, or make me feel ridiculous, he insisted with genuine positivity that he would drive us around until we found a spot where we could see the moon. I love him. I would moon-fast everyday if it meant he would stay in good health.



Frolicking bears in Pasadena (From KTLA site)

Bears frolicked in a Pasadena house pool recently. SO cute. So very cute, with their fuzzy faces. And huge sharp teeth. And claws. Don’t forget their claws. So cute. Right. And scary. I am afraid of bears. Really afraid. Because they look like this to me:


Bears can run thirty miles an hour and break the back of a full grown deer with one swipe of it’s paw. I’m not saying I don’t like bears. I’m just saying I have a healthy respect for them; and for me their cute fuzzy veneer does not detract from the fact that essentially, if the mood strikes them, bears equate people to tether balls.

Badminton? It’s serious.

So yesterday morning I was reading (skimming) Yahoo news about the 2012 Olympics and the Badminton Scandal. I am solely paraphrasing but essentially there were eight badminton players from various countries who have been accused of throwing their games. In reading about this incident I was reminded of an experience from high school. I have never been an athletic person, I also border on the verge of having no pigment what-so-ever, so whenever I had the chance to play an inside sport I took it. The opportunity presented itself when my glamorous friend who hated having to re-do her hair discovered badminton was available in the air-conditioned, comfortable gym. I had high hopes that we would all enjoy leisurely, friendly games of badminton and get graded for something I didn’t have to suffer through an allergy attack to do.

Any and all hopes of this idea were dashed in my first encounter with…we will call him Richard to protect the identity of the jackass. Actually, let’s shorten that to Dick. Dick and his girlfriend…I want to call her Putrinda or Bitchette or something…how about Dorkminda? So Dick and Dorkminda were apparently the king and queen of badminton. If you could imagine one of those Romance novels with the handsome couple staring at each other passionately and then change the people in the picture to a pair of gawky, bad-skinned, frizzy-haired sophomores with no real self-awareness you have an idea of what Dick and Dorkminda looked like. They only deigned to speak condescendingly to any of us that had to play against them. Dorkminda even announced to everyone that she was tired of all the jealousy from the other girls in class. And who could blame her? Don’t most people wish they looked like they had billy goats in their gene pool and the personality of a narcissistic chicken?

In the badminton finals for class (yup, there were semi-finals and finals) the best and worst players had to play each other, which was Dick and me. I absolutely astounded him when I was able to return his signature slam serve (there was divine intervention I’m sure of it) But in the last seconds of our game I realized as I nearly beat him that this game was all he had.  While Dorkminda screamed fervently from the side-lines as Dick’s single cheerleader, a thought occurred to me: I didn’t care about winning this game. I had never been into sports because physically I was a hair away from being in a constant asthmatic state, so I had replaced sports with things like art and writing. Dick was desperate, losing to the worst player in class (the world really) meant he was worse than that. His self-worth literally hinged on badminton. So I lost.

Dick was triumphant, Dorkminda rushed the court like Elizabeth Shue in the end scene of the original Karate Kid. As I watched Dick strut (he really actually strutted) off the badminton court while Dorkminda preened over him, I thought: I guess we all have our thing, regardless if anyone else understands it. I couldn’t take this thing away from Dick no matter how ridiculously pointless it seemed to me, or how incredibly annoying he and Dorkminda were, because we are all Dicks and Dorkmindas in one way or another. But hopefully not so blisteringly annoying.