ARGH!

OK, so it's been almost a month since my last update, good intentions very much notwithstanding. (If they really do pave the road to hell, I'm in big trouble right now.)

Here's the 30-second summation of the past few weeks:

1) Went to Louisville to kick off my third semester in the MFA program.
2) Went to San Luis Obispo for Thanksgiving, where I learned how to ride a motorcycle, thanks to a patient lesson from my brother the pod person.
3) Sprained my ankle running the trail around the Rose Bowl—not badly enough to need crutches or anything, just enough to keep me from running for awhile. Grr.

In between and entwined with all of the above are the usual suspects for killing time in my life: piano practice, sleeping, writing, avoiding writing... you know the drill by now. (And if you don't, just browse through the archives.)

One thing I've been noticing lately is how much I really don't like winter. I know, I know... I live in California, what do I know about winter? Well, I may be a baby, but all I can say is, 65 degrees Fahrenheit is COLD. Yesterday I wore a turtleneck under a sweater under a fleece to work. Today I spent a fair amount of time when not actually proofreading hunched over my desk in a desperate approximation of the fetal position as a way to try to retain as much warmth as possible (which turned out to be not much).

Also, I hate that it gets dark at 5pm. Boo!

In short, I really really really miss summer. And I've said it before, but I'll say it again: I should have been a bear.

Run, Frogg, Run

So let's see, kind of a lot has happened since my last post. Let me explain... no, there is too much! Let me sum up:

Arrived on Saturday, October 20, in Oakland, and got picked up by M for lunch. After that, we went to SF MOMA with S, ostensibly to act cultured and high-brow, but really to give S a chance to make fun of modern art and amuse himself (and me) with frequent expressions of amazement that certain pieces of art could, in fact, be called art. (His favorite: a purely blank white canvas. That was definitely the winner of the "why is this in a museum" award, though a close runner-up would be the series of black squares in frames.)

While we were still meandering through the museum, the cowgirl arrived in the city, but she refused to join us at the price of $12.50 for a ticket that she would only benefit from for about an hour, since we had to get to Union Square to pick up our race packets. Instead she fell asleep on the lawn of Yerba Buena park/gardens, across the street from the MOMA. When we finally went out to meet her, I made the grave mistake of thinking that a homeless man (!) was her. Thankfully I saw the real her before I plopped down jovially on the grass and threw my arms around the man. Whew!

The rest of the day was all about picking up our packets, finding the friend's place where we were crashing for the night, carving pumpkins, and going to bed early so that we could be up before sunrise the next day, which was...

RACE DAY!

I slept in my race clothes because I didn't want to waste valuable sleeping time by having to get up to dress in the morning. This turned out to be not that good an idea, because my spandex capris got all stretched out. But at least I had those few precious extra minutes of sleep!

It was pretty cold waiting at the start line in Union Square, seeing as how the sun wasn't up and all. But once we got going, I could tell it would be a rare day in San Francisco; i.e., NOT FOGGY! Instead it was a truly gorgeous, clear day, not too hot but (eventually) not cold) — perfect for running. The race route wound along the Embarcadero, out to Chrissy Field, where we had excellent view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Then inland a bit, before heading down toward Baker Beach and into Golden Gate Park and back out again to finish.

I really enjoyed the run, and came across the finish line with a time of just under 2.5 hours. Woo-hoo! And I beat the cowgirl, but I think only because she got a blister early on and slowed to a walk after the first four miles (even so, she was only 40 minutes behind me).

So that was that. The next day, the cowgirl dropped me off at the BART station, where I caught the train to the airport and my plane... just in time to head back to a southern California that seemed to be going up in flames.

Craziness.

The next few days I spent staring out my window at work at a sky that was covered in smoke. My uncle and his family nearly had to evacuate; meanwhile my brother in San Diego was fine, except for the fact that he spent his day off trying to get CLOSER to the fires, which would indicate some possible mental-health issues... or else just the fact that he is a boy, I guess.

But anyway, thank God the fires are mostly contained now, and now here I am in the midst of packing for my next trip out to Louisville, where I will embark on my third semester in my creative writing program. I leave on Thursday, and if you don't know by now that I am waiting til the last minute to get everything done that I need to, you are clearly new to this blog.

(Of course, I suppose I could have spent the past hour catching up on all the reading I am behind on, etc., instead of blogging. Too bad I didn't think of that about an hour ago, huh. Oh well.)

Slow and Steady Finishes the Race...We Hope!

Well, the big day is nearly here... on Sunday I'll be running in the Nike Women's Half-Marathon in San Francisco! At least, I hope I'll be running. The other night I strained a muscle in my left leg. Then the following evening, I ran on it again, thinking that maybe the muscle just needed to be loosened up, and that it would be no big deal. This turned out to be a mistake.

Yes, I do make them occasionally. But don't tell anyone.

Anyway, the point being, I've spent most of last night and lots of time today icing my leg, and I'll probably have to wrap it when I do the actual race on Sunday, but I think I'll be OK. I was never trying to break any time records, so even if I have to walk some of it, I don't care. (That is kind of a lie.) I just want to finish. (That's true.)

By the way, my sister the cowgirl is going to join me on this little adventure. And she is going to try to run the race even though she hasn't trained at all. I'd give her a hard time about how unwise that is, but unfortunately, she is only planning to do exactly what I did do two years ago. So what can I say, except: "You go, cowgirl!" Who knows, she might even beat me. She's pretty tough. I guess it goes with the whole cowgirl territory.

Uh-oh, look at the time! It's after midnight... better hop off to bed before I turn into a princess! Er, wait, wrong fairytale. I mean I have to go to bed so I can wake up early enough to catch my morning flight to San Francisco!

Have a great weekend, and until I return... miss me, my darlings.

The Sweet Taste of Good Fortune...

... cookies. Mmmm!

Yes, I admit it. I am a sucker for fortune cookies. Seriously, I am. I love breaking them, and I love eating them. But most of all, I love the idea that a little piece of paper inside a crispy, crunchy, hollow micro-dessert could crack open doors of destiny heretofore unimagined.

For example, here was a delectable bit of prophecy from the other day: "Soon you will be sitting on top of the world." That sounds pretty good! Of course, at the moment, I'm still sitting in my little cube on a middle floor in a nondescript building in Los Angeles, but maybe "on top of the world" is metaphorical. Either way, I suppose I have something to look forward to. Woo-hoo! A little hope brings a lot of good to the soul.

Hey, that last sentence sounded like a fortune! Do I sense a new career opening ahead of me, as a fortune-cookie fortune writer? It would put my writing skills to work, that's for sure. Whether it would pay for the expensive writing degree that I'm currently working on is another matter. So let's turn to the fortune I got today, thanks to a co-worker who ordered Chinese for lunch and does not apparently share my love of these remarkable treats. Perhaps I'll find some wisdom to guide me:

"You will bring sunshine into someone's life."

Hmm. Not exactly explanatory of my future financial security. But hopefully this one is true...

Other times...

...I wonder what on earth gets into me (see last post).

Well, I am feeling much less pensive and wistful today. Perhaps it's because I had a good hearty laugh this morning as I listened to the news on NPR. And if you think there isn't much to laugh about on the news these days, you obviously didn't tune in to hear Bush's quotes on the current Turkey crisis (OK, maybe it isn't quite a crisis yet, but the phrase "Turkey crisis" is kind of cracking me up right now—makes me think of what you might call a Thanksgiving dinner prepared by yours truly, but that would definitely be a subject for another post).

Anyway, Bush's remarks were hysterical. Unfortunately, I cannot remember them verbatim, BUT... they included the word "diplomacy" (I'm laughing again) and a vaguely expressed desire that it should actually be utilized before rushing into rash action.

Oh, Bush... what a comedian. It is too, too bad he missed his calling.

Really.

Sometimes...

Sometimes the places I've traveled come back to haunt me.

Perhaps I shouldn't say "haunt", though. That implies a negative sensation, and I don't mean that at all. It's more like... being overtaken by a sudden conviction that I belong somewhere else. But where that is, I don't really know.

The other night, for example, as I was out jogging, I suddenly caught the scent of woodsmoke on the air (which is just starting to get the edge of a chill), and in that moment I was back in New Zealand, in the little town of Oxford where I lived about five years ago. I used to go for walks in the afternoon or early evenings; it was often cold and always quiet. As I thought of it, I felt a real pang, almost like homesickness. In my mind I could clearly see the line of trees that stand along a dirt road that branched off of one street. I loved walking between those trees. I remember the name of the road started with an "S", but it bothers me that I can't remember the rest.

Then there are times when I want to go somewhere—a certain restaurant maybe, or a store or a hiking spot—and I will realize with a sting of disappointment that the place I'm thinking of is in Berkeley (the Crepe Vine), or San Francisco (Golden Gate Park), Walnut Creek (Shell Ridge), or Christchurch (an AWESOME Thai restaurant), or Bangkok (um, LOTS of awesome Thai restaurants). Someplace that is miles and miles away, well beyond my LA horizon. It can be a little unsettling.

Sigh... Sometimes I just feel very far from home.

Life...It's Full of Suprises...

...some of which I could really do without.

Take this morning, just as an example. I got up thinking it would be a routine Saturday; nothing special. But of course that was before I went to leave for my piano lesson and nearly ran into a giant spider web, WITH the giant hairy spider in the middle of it. Which might not have been odd in and of itself, since spiders abound in my neck of suburbia. But it turned out to be pretty odd, because the spider web was not stretched out between a couple of trees, or from the porch railing to the roof, or anywhere else that might have made some sense. Instead, the spider web, with, let me remind you, the spider as well, was located inside my car, spread out across the driver side door. Which, again, might not have been odd — except the door had been closed all night, and so had the window.

Cue Twilight Zone music.

I am hoping that this bizaare incident is not a harbinger (I love that word) of... well, of anything that would involve more spiders. Because I hate them. Spiders, I mean, not harbingers. Wait, hang on a sec...

OK, I'm back. I just had to look up "harbinger" and make sure it meant what I thought it did. Thankfully, it does.

So yeah, the day got off to a weird start, but I'm an optimist. Instead of seeing the car as being half-invaded, I see it as being... um, I don't know, half-free of any more spiders?

Hmm, that doesn't seem to be as optimistic as I would have liked. Oh well, I tried. For once.

So anyway, I'd like to say there's a moral to this story, but I can't think what it might be. If you think of one, let me know. In the meantime, have a great weekend!

Speaking of Stuff

Well, I'm in the home stretch of my second semester in the MFA program, and I am more than ready to cross the finish line and be done with it. Though I won't get much of a breather—round #3 starts up November 2. That means that in less than a month I'll be hopping on a plane back to Louisville and heading into my last year of the program. Yeeha.

Speaking of finish lines, I'll be heading up to San Francisco in a couple of weeks for the Nike Women's Half Marathon. I can't believe I'm about to say what I'm about to say, but here goes—I am looking forward to it. Yes! I have actually started to enjoy running. Which is pretty ironic, seeing as how when I was in high school, I could barely do a quarter mile lap without feeling like I was going to faint. As for a whole mile... forget it. Death almost seemed preferable.

So I'm somewhat bemused by this strange person I have become, who runs several times a week (on purpose!!) and who on Saturday logged somewhere between 9 and 11 miles before 10am. I am a little worried that maybe I've gone insane, but then I think, who cares... I fit into a size 2 pair of jeans!

In other words, I may be crazy, but at least I look good. Hmmm. Priorities, priorities!

Speaking of priorities, mine are a little messed up right now (I mean aside from my sanity vs. vanity issue). See, I'm supposed to be revising some short stories I've written for my last writing packet of the semester. I should be intently and single-mindedly focused on that task. Instead, I am writing this oh-so-informative blog while chatting with a friend online, drinking tea, eating chocolate, and thinking about all kinds of things, like the fact that this post is actually pretty lame, and I wonder why I'm not as funny as I used to be on this blog, except maybe it's just me who thought I was funny and the real truth is that I was, and am, the exact OPPOSITE of funny, which could explain a lot of things, like why I'm still single for example, but whoa let's not go down that road, instead let's remind myself that I have to take my car in to get it smogged before Wednesday because Wednesday my registration is due and why oh why did I wait til the last minute to get that done, well of course it's because I wait til the last minute for EVERYthing, which I would not be surprised to learn is probably yet another reason I'm still single, dang it there's that ROAD again, argh,Ineedmoresleep...

*deep breath*

Speaking of sleep, I think I'm going to go get some now. Apparently I need it. Goodnight!

Call Off the Search Party...

Yes, I know. I am a terrible person. Or at least, a terrible blogger. Here I am, back from Colorado for more than a week, and I still haven't updated my files with the story of that amazingly fun adventure. Many apologies to my oh-so-patient readers (or reader, as the case may very well be by now).

Well, my memory ain't what it used to be — I did, after all, turn 32 this year — but let's see if I can recall some of the highlights:

1) The uneventful plane ride to Denver. "Uneventful" and "plane ride" are words that go well together, I always say. However, just before I disembarked the aircraft, I unaccountably and shockingly found myself giving my phone number to a man who runs a sort of Hooters-on-wheels hot-dog vending business. This was not really eventful, but it was kind of unfortunate. Just don't even ask.

2) Watching the Macguyver family (with whom I was camping) build an entire kitchen out of trees that they cut down in the forest. With the chainsaw they just happened to bring. Along with drills, nails and an axe. Did I mention that the kitchen featured a pot rack, a spice rack, and a working burner? Well, now I have. Here's a pic:



But, you say, I don't see any burner. Allow me:



Speaking of the kitchen, I should add that we ate very well on this trip. Shrimp fettucine alfredo and grilled salmon were just two of the extraordinary culinary delights we sampled during our exile from civilization. Yeah, roughing it is sure tough...

4) Our location was in itself a pretty huge highlight. Check it out:



Not bad, eh? Or how about this:



And last but not least:



Yep, that's yours truly (see, I do exist!) enjoying the rare feeling of being very small in a very vast, beautiful space. Los Angeles does not afford many opportunties to feel like this, believe me.

3) Seeing a bear and her cub while on a hike by myself in the hills near our campsite. This could have been slightly less of a highlight, if the bears had been closer. Or hungrier. As it was, they were close enough (about 20 yards). Thankfully, they were also running in the opposite direction from me. Whew! Later, when I got back down the trail, I saw the skeletal remains of some large animal; namely, its spinal cord and several broken ribs. Not really the sort of thing you want to see when you've left a couple of bears behind you... yikes!

4) Exploring the roads and trails on four-wheelers. Look:



I actually learned to drive one of these things, but only after I crashed into a tree. That was partly my friend M's fault though. When he was going over the mechanics of riding the ATV, he neglected to mention one important detail: the location of the brakes. Oh well. At least I was going reeeeaaaaalllly slow at the time.

5) Watching "The Others" on the laptop that M brought (!). Nothing like watching a semi-scary movie at night while camping out in the woods with miles between you and the nearest anything. ("Anything" being a rustic bed-and-breakfast at a hot springs, about half an hour's drive away.)

6) Racing a pronghorn on the ATV (and no, that time I wasn't driving).

7) Playing basketball in the pool at the aforementioned bed-and-breakfast. Yes, I said in the pool. This made the game interesting, to say the least. Oh and did I mention that the water (heated by the aforementioned hot springs) was about 95 degrees Fahrenheit? Talk about a workout. Also, for the record, my team lost. Boo.

Hey by the way, aren't you proud of me for taking pictures? Well, guess what... you shouldn't be. I didn't take a single one; all of these I stole off of my friends' website, where they posted pics they had taken. Their loss is your gain. Or something.

So, there you have it. Good times, good food, good friends. And here I am, looking forward to the next time:

Vacation Time!

Off to Colorado for a few days of camping in the Great Outdoors. At least, I hope it's great. I know it'll definitely be outdoors.

I am having last-minute packing remorse, wondering if I've packed too much of this, too little of that, none of something else... can't think about it now, have a flight to catch. Oh well! C'est la vie and all that!

Maybe I'll post some pictures when I get back. If I take any, that is. I'm notoriously bad at taking pictures when I go anyplace. I think the last time I took any pictures was in Honduras over a year ago. My life for the most part is unrecorded by photography/video. Which in today's digitally enhanced, YouTube-saturated world probably means that I don't technically exist. Hmmm. Something to ponder while I'm gone—along with how much you'll miss me, of course.

Kisses from the (phantom) frogg princess...

A Little Salt Goes A Long Way

And a LOT of salt goes ALL the way—to the slammer, baby.

(Note to Dunkin Donuts employees: Watch the powdered sugar, guys. YOU MIGHT BE NEXT!)

Seriously though, couldn't they find someone else to arrest in Georgia? Like, I don't know... maybe a criminal?

Bleah

I'm sad. I found out today one of my favorite co-workers is leaving for a position in another company. And even though I knew it was coming, I'm still not happy about it. Well, I'm happy for her, of course. But not for me.

Also, and not that this is at all in the same league as the above, but I think I swallowed a bug while I was running tonight. Yuck.

Finally, I can't seem to focus on my writing tonight. I have two new stories in the works, and I was all excited about them—until I sat down to work on them. To my disappointment, the stories refused to write themselves. Grrr.

I think I need to call it a day.

Winner of the Frogg's "Totally Lame Excuse for a Research Project" Award

Talk about a waste of time— and research money.

Still Hoppin'

In spite of what are no doubt the hopes and best wishes of the Neptune Society (see previous post), I continue to live and breathe. At least, I think so. Actually the nine-mile jog I did this morning has left me feeling a little unsure about my mortal status, and the current heat wave isn't exactly helping. I started my run at just before 7am, and by the time I finished at 8:30ish, it was already inching toward 80 degrees.

All of which to say, I may not be an actual zombie, but I bet I could play one pretty convincingly on TV right about now.

On another note, I was thinking the other day about all this global warming stuff, and I started wondering what happened to cause it the first time, back when the earth was covered in ice, during a time called (appropriately, if not creatively) the Ice Age. I mean, where did all the ice go? I'm guessing, through a series of lightning-fast intellectual processes far too advanced to explain here, that it melted, but my question is: how? Were the wooly mammoths using hair spray with dangerous fluorocarbons? Or were the other creatures driving cars and eating up fossil fuels (when they weren't falling into pools of them, getting stuck, and then dying for the benefit of future paleontologists who would eventually study their tarpitted remains)?

Inquiring minds want to know.

An Offer To Die For

So two nights ago I was going through my mail and found an offer from a company called the Neptune Society, for a chance to win (drum roll please)... a free pre-paid cremation. Yes, you read that correctly; I said CREMATION. Not $1 million. Not a brand-new car. No, I get an offer to win a means of disposing of my mortal remains. As you can imagine, I am thrilled to be so subtly reminded of my inevitable—and apparently imminent—demise by thoughtful direct marketers. Woo-hoo.

Oh and here's my fav quote from the letter: "Cremation just makes sense." Doesn't it though?

You know, this was really the icing on the cake of weird mailings that I've been receiving lately, such as offers for discounts on hearing aids (which I emphatically do NOT need), or offers for estate planning services that would presumably necessitate me having an estate in the first place (which I emphatically do NOT have).

So yeah, seems like 32 is the new 80, folks. Hope you're not older than I am, or you might just as well be a ghost.

OK, I'm off to bed. But before I go, allow me to extend my sincere congratulations to Ruth Sims, who was the July 2007 winner of the pre-paid cremation offer. You go, girl! Have fun with that.

Finally!

Hey everyone! Look, I'm still alive! Barely perhaps—or so it feels like today—but here I am anyway.

Contrary to popular (i.e., one person's) belief, I have neither been incarcerated nor locked up in a convent for the past however long it's been since my last post. I have, however, been a) working, b) writing (or avoiding it, which takes even MORE energy than the actual writing), c) running (gotta get in shape for the Nike Women's Half-Marathon!), d) trying to have some semblance of something that might approach the rudiments of a social life.

Needless to say, I'm exhausted.

Speaking of writing, I am now just past the halfway point of my second semester. Hard to believe how fast it's going. If I were a better, less completely frazzled writer, I'd come up with some metaphor for the speed with which the seasons are flying by, but I can't. Two nights of last-minute panic putting together a packet of writing that went out this morning have sapped every last drop of creativity that I had, and I have nothing left to give. Sorry. You will have to make up your own metaphor this time.

And please don't ask me what a metaphor is, or I will throw my beloved copy of The Elements of Style at you. (In addition to being tired, I am also cranky. In case you couldn't tell.)

On the plus side of life, today is Friday. That means tomorrow is Saturday. And since I sent off my writing packet today, that means I can actually *gasp* enjoy the weekend.

Wow. Now I have to think of something fun to do, I guess. Hmm, that could take some work.

D'oh! Work does not equal fun, so that means I've ruined my weekend in advance, before it's even happened. I am a talented girl, aren't I?

I really, really, really need more sleep...

I'm Still Here

Dear FOG (fans of gracky)

I know its been ages since I last wrote. I hope you’ll forgive me for not writing sooner, because I've had heaps of good intentions to do so and something’s got to be said about good intentions besides the fact that the road to hell is paved with them. Isn't it the thought that counts? Well, I've been thinking a lot about writing you, so I hope that serves to vindicate me just a little.

How are you? I’m doing all right. Life has been as busy as I can make it, so I don’t have time anymore to think too much, the way I usually do. It’s nice for a change.

My days have fallen into a predictable routine: wake up between 6:00-6:30am, go for a walk or jog, eat breakfast, get dressed, then hop in the car and drive to work while half-listening to NPR. Then after work, go for another walk or jog, before heading either home or to a coffeeshop where I will, in theory, spend some time writing short stories. In actual fact, I spend a great deal of time avoiding writing. Sometimes I’ll manage to squeeze a bit of piano practice into the day. Eventually I will get tired and go to bed, looking forward—if that’s the right term—to getting up the next morning and doing it all over again.

By the way, if you didn’t know, or forgot, I am a full-time proofreader for a direct marketing agency, which is all kinds of excitement, as you can no doubt imagine. If I had a dollar for every time someone said, “Wow, that is one job I could never do,” I’d be—well, not rich, but I could afford a venti latte at Starbucks for once. Seriously, though, I wonder sometimes what people mean by saying that. Are they saying they could never do it because they think it is so mind-numbingly boring? Or because they can’t spell? I don’t know. Maybe they mean both. As for my own thoughts about it, well, it’s an OK job. I don’t mind it usually, but the past couple weeks have been draining. Too many projects all at once. I never thought I’d come to hate reading, but that’s how I’ve felt lately.

Of course, that’s a problem because I’m just getting into the thick of my second semester in a Master of Fine Arts creative writing program, and naturally I have to do a lot of reading for that. At the moment, I am busily reading just about anything except what I put on my reading list--like Flannery O'Connor's Mystery & Manners and The Habit of Being, or the latest issue of Ploughshares. I would say I'm avoiding my "real" reading because I have a bad case of senioritis, but I’m not a senior, so there goes that theory. I know what it is really—summeritis. I find it hard to focus on work when the sun is out and the days are warm.

And by the way, if I had a dollar for every time I read an article about how MFA programs are no good and are ruining literature, I might not have had to take out student loans for another set of high-priced, non-lucrative letters to go after my name. Oh well.

Hey, guess what—we had another fire today. I saw it from my cubicle, which looks north toward the mountains. I forgot what the mountains are called. Anyway, I happened to look out the window (thank God my cube is next to a window!) and saw a plume of smoke rising behind the ridge of the nearest mountains. Not again, I thought. We just had those Griffith Park fires a couple months ago. Thankfully, they got this one under control and extinguished pretty quickly. I never even saw anything about it on the news, so I guess it didn’t do too much damage.

In other news, I’m still planning on doing the Nike half-marathon in San Francisco in October. I’ve been jogging several times a week, and can now go twice around the Rose Bowl (six miles) without too much trouble. So I think I’ll do better this year than I did the first time I attempted the half-marathon, which was in 2005. That was a fun, but awfully painful, experience.

Well, I have to go. I promise it won’t be too long before I write again. Til then, be as good as you can, and miss me, my darlings.

Kisses from the frogg princess

Post-Dramatic July 4th Syndrome

There's nothing like coming in to work the day after a mid-week holiday. There are many things that might be better, though. Like not having to come in to work, for example. Or maybe Otter Pops.

Does anyone else remember Otter Pops, by the way? I used to love them. For me and my (many) siblings, they were synonymous with summer, which in turn was synonymous with afternoons spent jumping in and out of our pool. My favorite Otter Pop was Poncho Punch, until it was Sir Isaac Lime. Mmmmm, lime!

Hmm, something tells me I'm digressing. Although in order to digress, I suppose I would have had to have an actual main topic, and I'm not sure I have that. So I guess I'm NOT digressing, which is weird. I mean, because usually I do.

See, this type of post is exactly what happens when you come to work the day after a mid-week holiday! Ugh.

Well, the work is piling up this morning, so I'd better get to it. Before I go, I'll leave you with an important question to ponder, one which was asked of me the other day by a coffeeshop barista as he took my order, and which I continue to turn over and over in my mind:

If a pirate and a ninja were to get in a fight, who would win? And why? (Actually the barista didn't ask why; that's my little addition.)

So debate amongst yourselves. And happy post-Fourth of July!

A Thoroughly Useless Update

Where are the days going???? I can't believe it's July already. Well, actually I can because it's like a million degrees out—or it was earlier today when I went for my evening jog, which turned into an afternoon jog because I got off work early and decided to do my jog early. Does that sentence make any sense at all? I might be delirious from the million degrees and whatnot. Anyway, it's hard to think clearly when it's hot enough to make you break a sweat just from typing.

I do love summer though. Love it love it love it.

In other news, I wish I had some other news. Like a fun, interesting story to tell. But my life, though busy, has not been what you'd call "super-exciting" lately. I'm thinking of starting a new series here at the frogg files, called "The Summer Vacation I Wish I Was Having" because I can imagine there's a lot of fun stuff I could be doing, if only a) I didn't have a job; b) wasn't doing a master's program; c) had oodles of spending money; d) um, that pretty much covers it.

So, look for that series sometime in the upcoming weeks, unless of course I don't get around to it, because of being a) too busy; b) too hot; c) too lazy; d) some combination of all of the above. In which case you'll just have to make do with my normal, uninformative ramblings. Something like this post, in fact.

Til next time, here's wishing everyone a safe and happy fourth of July!

Pity The Mac Specialists At Apple Stores Today

There are many things I do not understand in life. But I really do not understand this.

Snack Attack

Well, the building did not burn to the ground yesterday, so I'm guessing everything is OK. I never did find out exactly what caused the rumor to start. I think that someone in our company had been (ironically) on a smoke break outside and saw a fire truck pull up to the curb, and drew his own conclusions. Oh, and someone else told me that they had heard running feet in the fire escape stairwell. That's about all I was able to ascertain about yesterday's possible fire. Mind you, that was still third-hand "information." Anyway, here I am again, back in the cube and not cindered. Cool.

In other (far more intriguing) news, a co-worker forwarded me an article today with the entitled "Japan's all-star speed eater suffers professional injury." If you're like me, you're probably wondering, "What sort of professional injury could a speed eater suffer?" I'm so glad you asked, because now I can say, "Just click it."

Haha, get it? It's like "Just do it", only instead of "do" you say "click" and... oh never mind. It wasn't that funny.

So anyway, I'm not going to say much about the article, but I do want to point out that the concept of eating as a competitive sport is very weird. I mean honestly, how do you "train" for it? Do you just stuff your face as much as possible every day? Or do you alternate speed training (how much you can eat in a certain time frame) with endurance training (how much you can eat, period)? Either way, my response is "gah."

Speaking of eating, I'm feeling a bit peckish at the moment, if by "peckish" you mean "STARVING." What to eat, what to eat... I can't make up my mind. But one thing I do know: the phrase "53 hot dogs" will NOT be a part of my decision-making process. Gross.

Rumor Has It

There's a rumor making the rounds of my office that the 14th floor of our building is on fire. But no one seems inclined to do anything about it, which leads me to suspect that a) this rumor is not true, or b) we will all be burned up because of our determined nonchalance.

I really hope the answer is "a" because here I am, still sitting in my cube, not being evacuated from a supposedly burning building.

In other news, I went for a jog this morning along the horse trails in my town, and ran smack into a huge spider web. Is there any better way to start the morning than with the possibility that a black widow or a brown recluse or some other equally horrible arachnid has gotten stuck in your hair? Well, in my opinion, NOT running into the spider web would have been one of those better ways. But maybe that's just me.

Speaking of jogging in the morning, I have been doing it on a fairly regular basis now over the past month, and there is one main thing that I have learned from the experience: you can train your body to wake up early in the morning, but that will not make you a morning person. Trust me.

Is It Time To Go Home Yet?

And the answer to that question, so very unfortunately, is "no." Still have an hour to kill at the office. Shall I use a machete or a rope?

Ha. But seriously, isn't that a funny phrase, "an hour to kill"? Where did it come from, the idea of killing time? If someone else would care to Google it and find out, that would be great. I'm too lazy.

In other news, I just got handed another project to proof, so I better stop blogging and start working. Boo.

TGIF

I have found a new love... it's called the pumpernickel bagel from Noah's. Mmmmm!

OK, I know. It's sad that my new love has to be a bagel. But hey, when the pickings are slim, what can you do.

In other news, my first writing packet deadline for the semester is coming up next week. Let me tell you, June 30 never loomed as ominously as it does right now. And it's pretty tough for any day in June in Southern California to achieve ominousness, seeing as how they are usually so bright and warm and sunny and all, but June 30 has done it, thanks to the fact that my procrastination skills have been in full force ever since I got back from Louisville.

Wow, that was a really long sentence.

Speaking of procrastination, I have some down time at work right now, so technically I could be catching up on my reading, or getting further along on the short story I started the other day. I could, but then I would not be procrastinating. Nor would I be writing this blog. So not only would the frogg files not be updated with the sort of important information that this post obviously contains, but I would also call my whole nature into question, because if I did not procrastinate, who on earth would I be? The implications are just staggering. Oh, what a quandarous life I lead, caught between dilemmas of duty and identity!

And if you think that sounds more profound than it actually is, congratulations! You are correct!

Sorry, my day got off to a weird start. Let's just say it included a can of Coca-Cola exploding, and I haven't quite recovered. That's the only explanation I can think of for the preceding paragraphs.

In other other news, I'm really glad it's Friday.

Yet Another Reason Why The Frogg Is Still Single

There are no doubt many effective ways to ask a woman out. The following example is not one of them.

So I was out walking yesterday evening around the Rose Bowl when a man jogged past me, going in the same direction. As he went by, he turned toward me and seemed to be trying to make eye contact, but it was hard to tell because he was wearing dark glasses, so I ignored him and pretended to be absorbed with my iPod settings. (Since my iPod is a shuffle with no display, this was probably not very convincing.)

Anyway, the guy ran a little way ahead of me, but then he stopped and turned around. He walked backward a few steps, still apparently looking in my direction, and by now he was starting to register fairly high on the Creep-O-Meter. Thankfully there are always lots of people walking/jogging/pushing strollers around the Rose Bowl, so I wasn't too worried but I was definitely getting flustered. I stared at my iPod and hit the volume up and down. He waited til I was beside him and then I saw his lips move. He was obviously trying to talk to me. Dang.

I sighed mentally and took out my headphones. A strange conversation, reproduced below almost verbatim, ensued:

"Can I walk with you?" he asked.

"Why?" I asked.

"How old are you?" (Yes, that really was his answer to my question!)

"Too old." (I meant to say, too old for you, but like I said, I was flustered.)

"Nuh-uh."

"Yes."

"Really, how old are you?"

"That's none of your business."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Wow." Pause. "You look really young, lady."

And then he jogged away. The end.

Now, I'll give him full marks for bravery, as Prince Humperdink put it so eloquently once upon a time. But if I may make a suggestion to guys out there who want to ask a woman out that they have never met before: an introduction is a nice way to start. Especially if you have creeped her out by unabashed staring for several seconds.

Actually, it's a good idea to avoid the unabashed staring. Unless you're, say, Brad Pitt. (Hey, nobody said life was fair.)

Also, the question "How old are you?" is probably not the best pickup line in the world. Although I still haven't decided if it's worse than "Hey, do you play soccer? You have really strong legs", which is another one I've heard (and hated).

So, anyone else have a fun/weird/silly pickup line story? Feel free to share!

And Now For A Little Illlumination

Last Saturday evening, I went to Huntington Beach with a friend to check out the Red Bull Illume art installation just below the pier. It's a difficult exhibit to describe, and I am feeling lazy, so I hope you'll click on the link to see what I am talking about.

What impressed me most about the installation was the fact that people stood in line to see it, because it was set up on the sand and anyone who wanted to NOT stand in line could just mosey along as if they were about to go down to the water and then look at the exhibit instead. I mean, it's not like the exhibit was small—it's a Stone Henge-like setup of giant black monoliths containing illuminated enlarged photos of various athletes in various sports-related poses.

Whoa, I think I just described it. Oops. Sorry if you already went to the website to check it out!

Anyway, my friend and I did not want to create enemies down in the HB, so we patiently waited in line like everyone else to file in an orderly fashion past the monoliths. Well, she waited patiently. I only pretended to be patient, but in fact I really wasn't at all. I was pretty much the exact opposite, because there was a stiff breeze down on the beach and I was freezing, which always puts a drain on my patience resources. Moreover, I knew it was my own fault that I was freezing, because my friend had kindly offered me one of her sweatshirts but I, in my vanity, did not want to entirely cover up the new, cute shirt I was wearing and so had opted to go with my light, zip-up fleece... which I then zipped up all the way to my chin because I was so cold, thereby effectively hiding the new, cute shirt I was wearing. So not only was I impatient, I was also cranky because I was annoyed at myself for being silly.

And yes, I know I'm pathetic. Feel free to not inform me of that fact in the comments section of this blog.

Another thing that amused me about the exhibit was that, in spite of the generosity of Red Bull in handing out well-made brochures that featured representations of all the photos in the exhibit, people insisted on stopping the line so they could take pictures of those same photos. I didn't understand this at all. At one point my pretense of patience wore thin and I said to my friend, "Do they not realize the pictures are already printed in the book, so if they have the book, they have the pictures?"

"Oh, I'm sure they do," she said.

"Then why," I said in a voice that I was trying to keep from raising, "are they STOPPING ALL THE TIME TO TAKE PICTURES OF PICTURES THEY ALREADY HAVE?"

She shrugged. "It's part of the experience."

Maybe. But that didn't stop me from nearly blowing up when, at one particularly impressive photo, the entire group of people in front of us—who all seemed to know each other—halted and whipped out their digital cameras and camera-containing cell phones to take a picture of it. All I could think was, "Have you guys not heard of EMAIL? Do you ALL need to take a picture of the SAME THING?"

People, as Echo and the Bunnymen so succinctly put it once upon a time, are strange. (And please, please, please do not ask me who Echo and the Bunnymen are. For one thing, there's Google. For another, I just turned 32 and would greatly appreciate it if you would not make me feel older than I already do. Thanks!)

So anyway, if you are in Huntington Beach or heading down there sometime soon, check out Red Bull Illume. And here are a few tips to make your experience more enjoyable:

1) Go after sunset; it's not illuminated before then so it won't be very interesting. Black monoliths usually aren't.

2) Parking in HB sucks more often than not; just go for one of the lots. The one we parked in was about a block from the pier, and would accept validations from various places. (Of course, they were all places we didn't go to—the damage for several hours was about $10.)

3) Dress warmly.

4) Do NOT kill people who hold up the line so they can take pictures of the pictures that are on display as well as printed in the little books that Red Bull gives them FOR FREE.

5) Eat dinner first, so you don't end up starving while waiting in the line, like we did. There are plenty of restaurants around that area. If you do want to eat later, lots of them will still be open. We went to the Aloha Grill around 10:30pm, which has some great grub (try the teriyaki vegetables or the pulled pork) at great prices ($6-15 most entrees), and it's within walking distance of the pier. (However, I think they stopped serving entrees at 11pm.)

6) No, I am not being paid to endorse either Red Bull or Aloha Grill. I wish.

7) Wait, sorry. That last one wasn't a tip.

SIze Matters

Yesterday I went to buy some jeans. It was the first time in months that I'd done any clothes shopping. And I should explain that in the space of those months, I lost some weight, so when I went into the clothing store, I realized I had no idea what size I was anymore. I did know that my former "skinny" jeans--the jeans I used to wear when I didn't feel like sitting down or breathing--had gotten too big for me. But that was hardly enough information to go on in figuring out my new size. So in an attempt to save a little trying-on time, I asked a salesperson what size he thought I might be. He looked me up and down (guys, do NOT attempt this if you are not a clothing salesperson!) and said off-handedly, "I'd say a 2 or a 0."

I burst into incredulous laughter. "What?! No. Come on."

"Well, our sizes do tend to run a little big..."

"Yeah, but still," I said, and picked up a pair of pants in a size 4. Even those, I thought, would probably be too small.

But they weren't. Just the opposite, in fact.

So, to make a long story short, I bought my first pair of size 2 jeans yesterday. I am still kind of reeling from the shock. It's a pleasant sort of reeling, though. I mean, it's certainly better than reeling to something like "a piano fell out of the sky onto my car and smashed it to smithereens in a freak accident." You know?

PS For any readers of the male persuasion who are wondering what on earth a size 2 is, let me explain: No one knows. The methodology behind the sizing of women's clothing is a mystery on a par with quantum physics, and trying to figure it out is like trying to find the bottom of a black hole--impossible. See, a size 2 pair of jeans at the Gap might not be a size 2 at Ann Taylor or Express. Maybe it will be a size 4. Or a 6. Or maybe it will be a letter, like S. Be assured that the one thing it will NOT be is a logical reference to waist and inseam measurements. Because that would make way too much sense.

Frogg's Best First Sentence In A News Story Ever Award

If there is an opening line in a journalistic piece that beats the one in this amazing article, I'm not sure I even want to know. Because really, I love this one sooooooooooo much.

PS Thank you to Aunt B for her wishful birthday present to me (see comments in previous post). And the good news is, I am still taking presents, if anyone else would like to give.

It's My Birthday and I'll Cry If I Want To!

Thankfully, I don't want to, because quite honestly, it's been pretty good so far, even though I am one step further away from 30 and another step closer to 40. Oh well!

But I am having such a lovely day today--started with a 6-mile jog/walk in the morning, then got to work to find birthday decorations in my cube (if by "decorations" you mean a "happy birthday" sign and an explosion of "confetti" from the bottom of a three-hole puncher). Then I proceeded to have one of the busiest days I've had so far at work, with projects coming non-stop until lunchtime (happy birthday to me!), at which point my colleagues pitched in for a lunch of Thai food from down the street, and we all ate outside on the grass in front of the building. Also, one of my co-workers baked me her famous cake that I can't remember the name of now, but it is delicious and I am enjoying a piece right now with my afternoon tea!

How I love birthdays! They are so much better than the alternative, I always say.

But you know what else I love? Presents! So now tell me... if you could get me anything at all for my birthday, if money/time/whatever were absolutely no object, what would you get me? Don't be shy. I want presents!!!!

While you are thinking about it, here are some random facts for your reading pleasure, all about June 12.

A few people who share my illustrious birthday:

Anne Frank
Ally Sheedy
George H.W. Bush (!!)
A boy I had a crush on in when I was in 9th grade

Today is Diary Day (in honor of Anne Frank), National Peanut Butter Cookie Day (in honor of whoever loves peanut butter cookies, I guess), Open a Window Day (don't even say it), and Magic Day. Oh, and in Brazil, it is Boyfriend/Girlfriend Day. (How ironic, since I am neither a girlfriend nor do I have a boyfriend.)

Other random trivia (found here: On this day in 2004, my buddy-in-birthdays George Bush, Sr., celebrated his 80th birthday by jumping out of a plane. In 1989, Ben Jonson admitted to using steroids in the Olympics. In 1981, Raiders of the Lost Ark premiered. In 1982, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel performed in Rotterdam. In 1965, the Rolling Stones released "Satisfaction." (Yes, more irony!) In 1923, Harry Houdini freed himself from a straitjacket while suspended upside down, 40 feet (12 m) above ground in New York City. In 1812, Napoleon invaded Russia.

If you find any other bits of random trivia about June 12, let me know. I love trivia almost as much as presents.

Pssst!

Guess who has a birthday tomorrow!

Forgive Me, Readers, For I Have Sinned

It's been a lot of days since my last blog post.

Louisville went by in a blur. I had a great time meeting old friends and making new ones, and I can't believe it's been less than a week since I've been back; it already seems ages ago.

Highlights/Random Bits of Information:

1) One of the best veggie burgers I've ever had was at Bluegrass Brewing Company on Fourth Street. Not that I am a connoisseur of veggie burgers, but I've had more than a few different kinds in my life, and as I say, this was one of the best. If you are a vegetarian in Louisville, you could do a lot worse than this burger.

2) But you could also do better if you want something a little more exotic, by crossing the street to Safier, an excellent Mediterranean dive. They really know how to make falafel at this place, and their Turkish coffee is delicious too.

3) Aside from good food, Louisville also has fireflies. I am jealous. We don't have fireflies in California, and I've always felt it was a shame. I love the little lightning bugs.

4) A highlight: the director of my writing program complimented me on one of my short stories. which she had happened to read. As you can imagine, this was pleasant.

5) Another highlight: the Gallery Hop last Friday night. Apparently, once a month Louisville's art galleries are open and free to the public in the evenings, and you can take the trolley for free too, up and down the street to the different galleries. I like trollies. A friend and I took the trolley down to Main (or was it Market?) and wandered around. I loved it. A special treat was hearing some incredible live music at the Kentucky Center--the musician's name was Teneia Sanders, and oh, her voice! The last song we listened to nearly made me cry, but in a good way.

Well, there was lots more, but I am getting tired and think I'll turn in. I'm sorry it took me so long to update my poor, sadly neglected blog. Thanks for being patient!

Til next time, which will hopefully not be too far away...

Arrival: Louisville

Well, I've arrived in Louisville, the 16th largest city in the world (as a billboard in the airport proudly proclaims) after two uneventful flights. Woo-hoo!

I took a taxi to my bluegrass digs, an experience which became a crash course in why honesty is not always the best policy. Remind me that, in future, it will save me a lot of trouble if I just don't make small talk with cab drivers, particularly if they are Middle Eastern/North African. And if I disregard your sage advice and talk to them anyway, remind me that when they ask the inevitable question (i.e., "Are you married?") the answer is always YES. Yes yes yes! Because if it isn't I will proceed to be peppered with the other inevitable questions, to wit, "Why not?" and "How long are you staying here? One day? Two days?" and "If you want someone to take you around Louisville, I will take you."

(And before you all yell at me about how prejudiced and bigoted I am, let me point you to my profile where you will see that I am of Middle Eastern descent. So keep your galabeyah on, OK?)

Anyway.

The weather in Louisville today is better than it's been in California for the past couple weeks. Go figure.

My Ol' Kentucky Home

OK, so it's not home exactly. But anyway, I'm off to Louisville tomorrow night, to start my second semester in my creative writing program. Which means, of course, that I am currently in the throes of last-minute-packing panic. Argh!

Hopefully I'll get a chance to update the blog while I'm away, but if not, see you after June 3! Be good, and as always... miss me, my darlings!

Kisses from the frogg princess...

Weekend Tasting

This past weekend I high-tailed it out of Dodge (i.e., Los Angeles) and headed north to the Paso Robles Wine Festival in, um, Paso Robles. My brother the Pod Person has a friend who owns a winery called Vihuela, and his friend needed volunteers to assist in his booth at the festival. Which means I was conscripted into being, of all things, a "booth bunny" of sorts. I know, I know... my feminist nature could hardly bear the shame. (But I placated her with plenty of wine, so it's all good.)

The festival was on Saturday, and many more wineries than I care to count were represented. People were friendly and fun, and it's a different atmosphere from the formality and old-schoolishness of Napa, though I love visiting the wine country up there, too. The Central Coasters, however, were as laid-back as you could get. I was worried that, since I was pouring wine for visitors to our booth, I'd be expected to actually know something about wine, and be able to use words like "tannic structure" with a certain degree of knowledge. Thankfully, this was not at all the case. People came up with their glasses, said, "What do YOU like?" and I'd say, "This one," pour it, and everyone would be happy. It was great!

And in case you are wondering, the one I liked was a playful red called Concierto de Rojo, a blend of Syrah, Merlot, and Petit Verdot. A light, fruity wine that avoids being sweet; full-bodied with a nice little kick at the finish... a casual wine that's good anytime. Try it chilled, too—very refreshing!

Hmm, that last paragraph almost made it sound like I know something about wine. But don't let me fool you, because if I learned anything this weekend, it was how to fake like I do!

OK, back to the festival. Some highlights... trying out a "Tobintini" at the Tobin James booth (that would be their sparkling wine mixed with a wine called Liquid Love—how could that NOT be good?!), discovering a flavorful temperanillo by Silver Horse, a drunk guy who wanted to know if my friend and I would be waiting for him and his buddy in their motel room that night (how romantic!), getting to wear really cool-looking T-shirts as our "uniform", being told I was really good at applying temporary tattoos (who knew that that was one of my many talents?), seeing a minor celebrity (I actually didn't recognize him because I don't watch television, especially reality television, but according to my ecstatic friends it was one of The Bachelors of TV's "The Bachelor" fame, a certain young Mr Firestone), and getting a really bad headache at the end of the day (oh wait, that was not a highlight—my mistake!).

Side note: I think I broke a record just now for how many parenthetical phrases I could fit into a single sentence. Woo-hoo! I will now proceed to give myself a Frogg Award for Parenthetical Excellence. You may applaud at will.

Thank you, thank you. *bows*

OK, now back to our regularly scheduled post:

On Saturday, I helped out at the party hosted by Vihuela at their vineyard, where they had a BBQ, wine tasting, and a fun live band called Incendio. My various jobs consisted of selling tickets for the band and BBQ (which I discovered that I'd been doing wrong after I'd been at it for an hour or so), directing parking in the parking lot (which I let one of the other volunteers handle so that I wouldn't have to break a sweat by actually moving around), and schmoozing with visitors and refilling their glasses (which I handled flawlessly).

Taken altogether, the whole experience was characterized by warm, sun-infused weather, an unpretentious attitude, and an accessible ambiance that concluded in a lingering, smooth finish. An excellent weekend, with a remarkably balanced tannic structure.

Or something like that.

PS I wasn't kidding about Vihuela's Concierto—really a fun wine. I happily recommend it to everyone. Oh, and also the 2003 Syrah.

A Tangled Problem

Will someone please explain to me how it is possible that headphones, which are completely free from knots and nicely wrapped around my iPod to keep them from getting tangled, somehow magically get knots in them and are all tangled when I go to unrwrap them again later? Argh!

I've noticed the same thing happens to jewelry. I put away a necklace in my jewelry box, and the next time I take it out, about 10 other pieces of jewelry come with it, all snagged by the chain. The necklace might not even have been TOUCHING those items when I first put it in, but that doesn't seem to matter to the Law of Strange Attractions. Even more perplexing, there is an 80% chance that the necklace will have at least one knot in it, even if it had NO knots to begin with. What sort of world do we live in where this can happen??

It's a mystery of the universe on a par with why socks, when they go through the laundry, only lose one of a pair. I mean, if they are going to get lost, can't the whole pair just disappear together? Why does just one sock have to stay behind to cause confusion and consternation? I ask you.

I'm sorry. I'm in a weird mood. "June gloom" in May does it to me... grrrr.

Skinned Knees and Rose Bushes

We have a set of wide wooden steps winding up from one side of our house to the back hill, like a sort of boardwalk. I was standing on that boardwalk this morning, contemplating our rose bushes. Specifically, I was annoyed that someone (who?!) had cut off the one single yellow rose that had been growing amongst all the pink ones. I had noticed it the other day, still tightly budded, and was looking forward to seeing it bloom. Then today, it was gone.

I have a suspicion it was one of the gardeners. All I can say is, he better be giving it to his mother tomorrow.

As I started to come back to the house, the first plank of the wooden step completely gave way, and I fell flat on my face in a way that I haven't since I was, oh, about 5. I am sure it looked quite amusing, but I didn't laugh til much much later. Instead, the whole thing just added the fuel of suffering to the spark of my annoyance about the yellow rose.

Thankfully, however, the sun was out and soon put me in a good mood again. I always feel calmer in sunlight, for some reason. Also, though I skinned my knees, it turned out that I sustained no other injuries. Whew!

(Wow. I am nearly 32 years old, and I skinned my knees! How funny is that?)

My Summer Vacation: The Kalalau Trail

Well, well. I have returned, alive I might add, from my Great Backpacking Adventure on Kauai. The alive part could very well have been called into question by various sections of the Kalalau Trail (such as Mile 7, Mile 8, and Mile 9), but thankfully was not. So here I am.

I've actually been back since April 30, but my ego had a heart attack when I checked my blog and saw one whole message in the comment section of my last post, thus prompting me to wonder if perhaps my "legions of readers" are not so legion as I would hope. Either that, or I am not as missed as I like to believe.

Ouch.

(A second comment appeared a few days after my return, for which I personally was profoundly grateful, but my ego was still in shock and therefore took little notice. Oh well.)

Anyway, it's taken awhile for my ego to get back on its feet, which ought to explain why I have not updated my blog. I've also been busy. If you are not satisfied by my explanation, that's truly unfortunate and I sympathize. Feel free to make up one that you like better; I won't mind. After all, I am not satisfied by lots of things, so I know how it feels.

I am happy to report, however, that I was more than satisfied by the beauty of Kauai and the challenge of the Kalalau Trail. Even more satisfactory, I did not get any blisters on my feet! (Although a couple toenails did come loose and will doubtless fall off soon—big surprise.)

Instead, I got lots of cuts and scratches on my arms and legs. I am not sure what the $10/night permit fees are going toward, but I can say with a fair amount of confidence that they are not going toward anything that might resemble "maintenance" along the trail. Most of the plants were wildly overgrown, and we bemoaned our lack of machetes on an occasion or two. Or three. Or, well, kind of a lot of occasions, really.

We started the trail on Tuesday, April 24. We parked our car at a campground about a mile from the trailhead (all the advice we got included the words: "Do not park your car at the trailhead" so we didn't) and set out for the campground at Mile 2. We figured we'd sort of ease ourselves into the hike that way. Unfortunately, "ease" was not really a good word to describe the uphill climb fraught with mud, mud, and more mud. There was some downhill, too, but that's no fun when the ground is super-slippery. We made it to Mile 2, however, without incident and set up camp next to a guy who very kindly offered us wine from a box. (I could only wonder how much extra weight THAT added to his pack.)

The next day, we set out early, knowing that we had a lot of ground to cover between Mile 2 and Mile 11—specifically, nine miles. (See, I CAN do math!) We'd been going for about an hour when a man caught up to us. He asked if we were going on to the end, and we said yes. He said he was heading there, too, but that his toe was sprained so he would have to go slow. He then said goodbye, and disappeared rather speedily, which made me wonder if he knew what the word "slow" actually means in English. Because last I checked, it sure didn't mean "speedily."

Somewhere along the way to our destination, we also met a couple hiking out. "Don't be afraid of the one-eyed man at the end," they said, apropos of nothing in particular. "He's really very sweet." "OK," we said, while I mentally gave that short conversation a Frogg Award for Most Unexpected Sentence Ever.

We had a few river crossings, which were fun, if by "fun" you mean "really annoying." I hurt my toe during one of these, and also lost my walking stick, which made me sad. But our wine-toting friend from our first night of camping fared a little worse than we did—he actually fell in one of the rivers, pack and all. And yes, the box of wine got wet.

But the rivers were nothing. What concerned me most about doing this trail before we even left was an infamous stretch known ominously on various blogs as Mile 7. According to these accounts, Mile 7 winds along the side of a cliff with a whole lot of nothing at all between you and some nice pretty rocks at the bottom—sharp rocks getting pounded by big ocean waves. Well, it turns out that, for once, the Internet was in possession of some frighteningly accurate information. Mile 7 looks exactly how I'd heard it described and oh, so much more. The entire mile is fully exposed, with plenty of loose rock and not so much of a trail, just to keep things interesting; oh, and there is no brush or vegetation to keep you from seeing all the (terribly long) way down to the sea below. No doubt it looks very rugged and picturesque from any one of the dozen or so helicopters we'd see passing overhead on flightseeing tours. From our vantage point, though, it just looked scary. Or rather, I should say that was the vantage point of two of us. The other one of us (and it wasn't me) wasn't frightened at all, but thought Mile 7 was "cool." (On the other hand, her hip and her feet were causing her a lot of pain, which might have been playing tricks on her sanity.)

I would also like to point out that people told us this worst part of the trail would last "about 10 minutes." They must have meant "10 minutes as measured in a wormhole or parallel universe" because those were the longest 10 minutes of my life. Also, as I hinted at the beginning of this blog, it turned out that Mile 7 was not the only mile with exposed, cliff-walking sections. Not hardly! Mile 8 and Mile 9 kept up the tradition. In fact, I thought THEY were the worst part of the trail.

I am not the best pray-er in the world (more's the pity), but I got pretty good at it that day.

But we made it to the end without incident (unless you count me stumbling to the ground and nearly falling off the edge of a cliff as an "incident"), and here's where we had one of my personal all-time favorite moments on the trail. We had nearly reached our destination—the beautiful beach of Kalalau—and met a guy pulling a large branch along the trail in front of us. He invited us to a bonfire that night at "Aloha Central" as he called it, and said they'd be roasting goat to eat. Yum! Too bad we'd seen the most adorable baby goat with its mother earlier that day on the trail. Also too bad that I've read Lord of the Flies. We did not join in the goat-eating that night.

At this point I should explain that there are people who live in the Kalalau Valley, some for months, a few for years, and Mr. Goat Killer was one of these. They are known simply as "the hippies." I don't know if they are real hippies, or if they even call themselves that, but that's what everyone else called them. The few we met seemed nice. Weird, perhaps, but still nice.

Oh, and remember our "slow" friend who passed us on the trail? He joined us for dinner on our first night at the beach, and we learned that he had arrived at the beach at about 1 or 2 in the afternoon, whereas we—who had gotten a head start to begin with, since we began that morning from Mile 2 and he had started at the trail head—arrived at about 6 in the evening. And we didn't even have any sprained toes! (Although between the three of us we had: a sprained ankle, a sore hip, blisters, and a bruised toenail.)

We spent two nights at the beach, and let me tell you, it was worth all the aches and pains (and there were plenty of those). To say it was paradise sounds cliche, but really, that's what it was like. Sharp-ridged verdant cliffs rising in the background, a long stretch of golden sand, turquoise-blue water... it was gorgeous. We also saw two of the most beautiful rainbows I've ever seen in my life, right there in that valley—we even saw the end of one of the rainbows, coming down just behind our tent. (I didn't see a pot of gold, but that's OK. I doubt any of us would have wanted the extra weight in our packs anyway.)

There was a waterfall at one end of the beach, where we bathed and filled up our water bottles. And in the interests of having some useful information in this blog post, I should tell you that the water along the trail has to be treated, because it can contain a bacteria called something that begins with an "L" and ends in "osis" and which I never succeeded in pronouncing correctly. I should also tell you that the hippies don't bother treating the water from the waterfall, and they seem to be OK. Physically, at any rate.

Another tourist tip: if you are not a fan of seeing men walk around buck-naked, you might want to steer clear of Kalalau Beach.

Speaking of which, and in case you were wondering, the one-eyed man really was very sweet, if not always entirely clothed.

We started hiking out on Friday afternoon (April 27) and spent one night at Mile 8 (which is a lovely campsite high on the mountainside, with a spectacular view of the sea). We finished the trek on Saturday, April 28, just in time to lie on another beach (the one at the trail head) before heading to dinner in the charming town of Hanalei (where I had the most delicious pint of Gordon Biersch Marzen that I've ever tasted, along with some less memorable, but not at all unpalatable, food).

The rest of our vacation passed in a blur of lying on yet another beach, and shopping. One last highlight: eating breakfast on Sunday at our hotel while at the table right next to us was... Pierce Brosnan. Yes! I'm absolutely convinced it was him, in spite of the fact that he was wearing Crocs.

If it wasn't, I'll eat a goat.

Hopping, Skipping, Jumping Away From Winter!

It is supposed to be spring, right? Which in California usually translates to "early summer." And "early summer" usually translates to 75-80 degree days, clear blue skies, and light clothing.

Well, today I am dressed in jeans, sheepskin boots, a long-sleeved shirt, a fleece jacket and a beanie.

This is not the Southern California I know and love.

Happily, I will be getting a taste of warmer (if not dryer) weather soon—tomorrow I head to Kauai for The Great Backpacking Adventure! I am very excited and looking forward to having a whole new set of "what not to do while backpacking/camping" experiences to add to my collection. Woo-hoo!

Anyway, I'll be unable to update the blog from the island, so have a great week and miss me, my darlings.

(If you like, leave me a message. Tell me how you're week is going, what's on your mind, what kind of cereal is your all-time favorite. I like to hear your thoughts.)

Until next time, kisses from the frogg princess...

Light

Late this evening, while driving home from church, I looked up into a black sky. I saw a single bright white star, and far below it, near the horizon, a dark, heavy moon swallowed entirely by shadow—except for one knife-like sliver of bright white light.

Oh, my heart! After the staggeringly horrific events of this week, I am full of tears and questions, anger and doubts. The world seems so dark, and God... oh He seems so far away. Is he even there?

Sometimes I don't know. But tonight, for a brief time, I believe I saw a glimmer of hope in the heavens.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. — John 1:5

Brrrr

I am not sure what's gone wrong with April. Normally, this month is balmy and pleasant and warm in Southern California. But it seems like an April from somewhere else entirely—Colorado perhaps?—has come to pay a visit instead.

I want my California April back!

Cold tonight. I had to turn on the heater. I am still not warm enough.

Last night was cold, too. And around 4am, I was awakened by thunder. Then, hard rain. Lightning flashes lit the room a few times. I was glad in a way that I was awake to hear the sound of the storm. But I was tired today.

The Imus Problem

I have purposely refrained from discussing the whole Don Imus flap, for various reasons ("everyone already IS discussing it" not being the least of those reasons). However, I read an interesting commentary on CNN today, which highlighted a part of the controversy that seemed to me to be getting overlooked:

Imus might be spark for debate on sexism

While I appreciated what Roland Martin said, and was glad he said he pointed out the sexist angle in more than a passing reference, I was not entirely satisfied with his editorial. Because somewhere in the middle of it, he says, "So many people tried to make this a race issue. But for me, that wasn't the primary point. I never wavered from the attack as one of a sexist. It didn't matter that he was trying to be funny. He insulted a group of women who are already accomplished."

That argument prompted me to write him the following email (edited here):

Mr Martin,

I just wanted to extend my gratitude to you for calling attention to the sexist nature of Imus' remarks. As a woman, I was actually flabbergasted that the producer of Imus' show did not share in Imus' drubbing; after all, he used the word "ho's" first! Where was the outrage over that? Where were the cries of disgust that women in general, regardless of race, can be referred to by such a disgusting, derogatory word even aside from the racial adjective?

Your column certainly went further than any I've read so far in pointing to the existence of a problem that goes beyond race, and for that I thank you. However, I am puzzled when you say, "he [Imus] insulted a group of women who were already accomplished." Is that really the problem? If they were not so accomplished, would it have been OK to insult them? (I am sure you didn't mean that, but that's the unfortunate interpretation left open by your statement.)

The bottom line is that it is not appropriate to call women "ho's", regardless of their accomplishments. I may not be a CEO, a star athlete, or a high-ranking politician—but such language still hurts me. It is not a term of endearment in any way; it is so degrading. Sexism pervades our culture, it's true, but the language, the language... oh, why can't we hate it more than we do? I wish the word "ho's" had gotten the same amount of media attention as "nappy-headed." As far as I'm concerned, whatever Imus suffered, his producer should have been suffering right along with him.

[rest deleted]


So there you have it. My take on the Imus controversy, in a nutshell.

Having said all that, I don't know if I think Imus should have been fired. I mean, if a man is paid to be a "shock jock," it's a little hypocritical for his bosses to fire him when he's doing such a good job of it. Now they want to be seen as principled and all. Well, where were those wonderful principles of theirs throughout his entire career?

All six, or maybe even seven, of them were in the "amount" section of his paychecks, that's where.

Let's face it. The problem isn't really that Imus and his producer said what they did; it's that people listen to him in the first place. There is money to be made with his kind of shtick, or he wouldn't have lasted as long as he did.

Where the carrion lies, the vultures will gather, after all.

There is a solution, of course. It's called, "Don't listen." Is that going to stop racism or sexism? No. But it might go a long way toward shaking things up in corporate empires that make money off of offensive material, if they suddenly found they were NOT making money off of it.

Well. It's a nice idea, but I am not naive enough to think that we will see it happen any time soon. Such a paradigm shift in the marketplace would have to start with a paradigm shift deep inside a place much closer to home.

Our selves.

Ha?

Well, I never thought I'd be quoting from D.H. Lawrence in anything like a positive light, but while reading Lady Chatterley's Lover today, I had to laugh at this short passage because really, how true is it:

The world is supposed to be full of possibilities, but they narrow down to pretty few in most personal experience. There’s lots of good fish in the sea . . . maybe . . . but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you’re not mackerel or herring yourself you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea.

Believe me, it's even more depressing when you're a frogg...

Apropos of Nothing In Particular

Last week I finished reading The Ladies' No. 1 Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith, and Amsterdam by Ian McEwan.

Then I went to the library today and checked out a book of short stories by Saul Bellow, The Cadence of Grass (how I love that title!) by Thomas McGuane, and The Transit of Venus by Shirley Hazzard (which I tried to check out once before, but forgot the author and accidentally picked out The Birth of Venus instead—QUITE a different book). I also bought a used copy of The English Patient for $1.

Of course, none of the above books bear the slightest resemblance to Ulysses by James Joyce, or Abundance: a Novel of Marie Antoinette—a fact which I mention only because I am supposed to be reading both of them in preparation for the spring residency of my writing program.

Oh, speaking of Ulysses: I used to think that Ulysses was a book that people read just to say they'd read it, so they could sound superior. I also thought that if anyone said they actually liked it, they were lying, so that they could sound superior. Somewhere along the line, I stubbornly purposed in my heart never to read Ulysses, so that I could (I suppose) sound superior by virtue of my non-comformity to the rest of the crowd. You can imagine that I was a little annoyed when the book got assigned.

But a strange thing happened when I began reading it. I found myself... well... liking it.

Oh well. As they say: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Or in this case, if you can't be superior over them, be superior with them... over other people.

Thought of the Day

I'm back from the Rose Bowl, where a revolutionary idea occurred to me:

Maybe I should take up swimming.

Here I Am

Well, I am happy to report that I did not perish in the flames the other day! My office is still standing (yay?), and Warner Bros. survived as well (I know all you WB fans were concerned about your favorite characters and shows). The Hollywood Hills are a bit the worse for wear and are going to have some bald spots for awhile, but otherwise I don't think there was any other damage.

In other news, I am coming up on the final deadline—next Thursday, yikes!—for the first semester of my writing program. Then I am done til the end of May! Although I still have assignments to read that will keep me somewhat busy, but hopefully not as insanely busy as I've been lately. I desperately need a breather.

All right, time for breakfast, and then off to the Rose Bowl for some more getting-in-shape-prior-to-backpacking-in-Kauai fun! Woo-hoo!!

It's Hot Today...

... and I am not talking about the weather!

Although, the weather is quite pleasantly warm.

No, I am talking about the fact that the Griffith Park/Hollywood hills less than five miles from my office are on fire. Like, HUGELY on fire.

I was out walking for lunch with a co-worker, when we noticed the smoke going up on the other side of the mountain. The smoke got worse, and soon I could see ash falling here and there, while the light took on a peculiar reddish cast as the smoke got in front of the sun. I'm back in the office now, and my hair still smells like smoke.

When we got back to work, everyone was in the corner office, which has a great view right over the Warner Bros. backlot... all the way to the hills, which, as I said, are on fire. Smoke is billowing in biblical proportions!

Here are some pics, courtesy of a co-worker. These were taken from the corner office about 45 minutes ago (it's still going pretty strong):








Also check out the LA Times website or NBC 4. Right now there is live video coverage.

Further bulletins as events warrant! So far, I'm safe... I think!

I Kill Me Sometimes

The haunting specter of my soon-to-be backpacking adventure has been looming over me, in a Casper-the-friendly-Ghost kind of way, gently reminding me that I really should start exercising now (as in, immediately), or I'll be sorry later (as in, next month when I am trudging and gasping my way along the trail in Kauai and kicking myself for not getting into shape when I had the chance).

Hmmm, maybe I should call him Casper the friendly Coach.

Anyway, I must have been under the spirit's influence this past weekend when I made the decision to walk not once, but TWICE around the Rose Bowl, because that was sheer insanity. A single lap around the Rose Bowl is three miles, so two laps are (hang on, let the English major get out her calculator)... SIX whole miles!

Naturally, things went wrong.

The first lap went fine, and that was actually the beginning of my trouble. See, if it had been miserable, I'd have quit before I started the second lap, and thus saved myself the suffering that awaited me. But no. I was lulled into a false sense of "Oh, this isn't so bad" by the fact that it wasn't so bad. And I embarked on round two.

I hadn't gone far when my left foot began to hurt.

Specifically, it felt as though I had a hangnail, or a sharp pebble, sticking into my toes. I'd stop every now and then to shake my foot and readjust my shoe, but the pain wouldn't go away. For those of you wondering why I didn't take off my shoe to better assess the situation, well, there's a perfectly good answer to your question, and it goes like this: I am lazy.

Are you satisfied? Then I'll continue.

So I was still a fair distance away from the car, when I had to stop again. This time, when I looked down at my feet, I noticed something weird about my right shoe. Keep in mind that my right foot was not the one in pain. I saw a red stain on the material close to the front of the shoe.

That's odd, I thought. I don't remember my shoe having red trim... wait a second.

Agh! It was BLOOD!!!

I straightened up and looked around. I was at least 3/4 of a mile from the car. Great, I thought. My foot is bleeding enough to actually soak through my sock all the way to my shoe, and I have to keep on walking. Perfect.

But what really annoyed me was the fact that my bleeding foot didn't even hurt. The other, completely NOT bleeding foot, however, was getting more painful by the second. Talk about typical.

Finally, I made it back to the car, where I took off my headphones in preparation for opening the car door, sitting down, and taking off my bloody shoe... at which point I discovered that my necklace, in utter defiance of every known law of physics, had succeeded in entangling itself with the wire of my headphones. I actually had to take the necklace off in order to get free of the headphones, and that's when I saw that the necklace had a knot in it.

How it got a knot in it when it was around my neck the entire time is beyond even my admittedly astounding mental powers, so you probably shouldn't even bother trying to figure it out.

Anyway, I spent the next few minutes muttering to myself and trying to sort out the necklace from the headphones, all the while wondering how horrible my foot would look when I took off my shoe. I was not pleased at having to delay my investigation due to my stupid necklace (or my talented necklace, depending on your point of view).

Finally, finally, I was ready to examine my foot. I pulled off the shoe and sock, and just as I had suspected—remember, formidable mental powers!—there was a lot of blood.

What I failed to find was the gaping hole in my foot that would have accounted for the amount of blood.

Instead I found a small—one might even say, tiny—cut on the side of my second toe, a cut which was made by my third toe's nail. A cut that was barely visible once I'd wiped the blood away. Talk about adding insult to injury.

Or, talk about anti-climactic. Take your pick.

As I drove home, I thought that my Rose Bowl experience does not bode well for my backpacking adventure. However, it didn't exactly surprise me; after all, it was pretty much in line with my past backpacking experiences, which have been fraught with ill-fitting shoes, sore legs, horrendous blisters, bruised toenails (three) that eventually fell off, and tears.

*sigh*

All right, Casper, what can I say... Just bring it on.

News Flash! I Might Have Been Wrong

And believe me, you won't hear me say THAT very often.

Anyway, I was re-reading my Starbucks rant of a couple days ago, when I realized something... "alto" in Spanish actually does mean "tall." I had thought it meant "stop" because it shows up on stop signs. I mean, that seemed a logical assumption to make, considering. But I doublechecked with the oracle (i.e., my handy-dandy translation widget), and "stop" in Spanish is apparently "parada." Which I guess was too long to fit on a stop sign.

I am so confused right now.

If there are any Spanish speakers out there (and I don't mean people who took tres years in high school and then forgot everything they learned, like me), I hope you'll help me sort out this mystery. But if not, I don't really care. I still think Starbucks should use just one language for their cup sizes. It would make my life so much less perplexing, and the less perplexed I am, the better off we'll all be.

Also, I think Starbucks shouldn't waste time patting themselves on their supposedly environment-loving back for using recycled-content cups, and then not putting actual recycling cans (instead of just trash cans) in their stores.

Language Lessons

Today has been just absolutely fraught with gloom from start to finish. So much for California sunshine.

In other news, I am once again at one of the local Starbucks—there are, naturally, more than one—where tonight I am sipping on a small ('scuse me, I mean tall) cup of liquid dirt. Why do I come here? Why?

The mysteries of the universe never stop abounding.

Speaking of which, why is Starbucks' method of naming the sizes of their cups so weird? My "tall" cup is not tall. In fact, it looks pretty much the opposite of tall to me, which, translated, would be "short." And if they are going to label the other two sizes with frou-frou Italian names (what, is English not good enough for a company based in the last-I-checked-English-speaking Pacific Northwest?), why can't "tall" also be in Italian? Why did "tall" get the short end of the naming stick?

Let's investigate, shall we? After all, I have nothing else to do tonight. (In this context, "nothing to do" translates into "I have an enormous amount of homework hanging over my head about which I am in fervent denial.")

First things first: It seems to me we've got to figure out what the Italian word is for "tall." Does anyone know what "tall" in Italian is? Hang on a sec, I'll just consult my handy-dandy translation widget...

*hold music of your choice plays here*

The word in Italian for "tall" is "Alto." Well, that seems harmless enough. Not catchy, exactly. Still, it could be worse.

But now let's think about this. If memory serves me correctly, "alto" in Spanish means "stop." Probably more people in the States know Spanish than Italian—at least, I'm sure that's the case in my state. So that would be funny if they had a cup size that basically suggested to a fair amount of customers that maybe you should not be drinking whatever beverage you were planning to fill it with. I can see why Starbucks went with the plain old English "tall."

That still doesn't explain why they couldn't use the same language (i.e., English) for all of their cups.

I feel like asking one of the baristas (translation: "Starbucks workers"), but the line has gotten long and I doubt they would welcome my investigative probing. So I'll just mull the problem over in my mind as I sip conscientiously on my cup of coffee-that-wishes-it-were-a-rich-soil-compound (translation: Cafe Verona).

NB: In Italian, "Verona" means "Verona." In English, however, "Verona" means "the location of many tragic deaths according to a playwright who may or may not really have been named Shakespeare and who had a penchant for littering theatre stages with dead bodies at the end of most of his third acts." Just in case you were wondering.

Life... It Just Keeps Going, And Going...

Not that I'm complaining about that, of course. I much prefer it to the alternative.

Anyway, the point being, lots going on in the frogg's life. First and most excitingly, it's official... I am going to Kauai next month! Woo-hoo!!

Today, in the spirit of getting into shape for the backpacking adventure that will be the primary feature of my Hawaiian vacation, I went for a walk in the hills behind my house. I did not carry a pack. Still, I was out of breath faster than you could say... well, anything really. (I personally wouldn't have bothered to try, because I needed all the oxygen I could get.)

Now, the trail I walked this morning is not terribly strenuous. The Na Pali Cliffs backpacking trail in Kauai, on the other hand, is rated something like a 9 on the Sierra Club's scale of difficulty. I'd like to think that the scale is between 1 and 1000, with 1000 being "pretty darn difficult" and 9 therefore being "less work than the hills behind my house!" but I have a feeling I'm not that lucky.

I am a little nervous now.

In other news, I am almost finished my first semester in the creative writing program. I'll have about a month off, and then it's back to the bluegrass state for 10 fun-filled days of writing, talking about writing, listening to other people talking about writing, listening to people read their writing, and amidst all that, trying to find time to sneak some piano practice on the incredibly out-of-tune piano I discovered in one of the campus buildings last time.

Oh, and speaking of piano, I am finally ready to start on the third movement of Beethoven's everlasting 6th sonata. I mean hey, it's only been what, almost a year that I've been working on it?! Sheesh. The first movement is nearly memorized, the second is not but I have it's four pages well in hand, no worries... and the third is going to be "so fun!" as my teacher said yesterday. "You'll love it!" I looked at the page rather grimly when she said that. It didn't look fun. It looked hard. And, on the recording that I have of Rudolf Serkin performing it, it sounds even harder.

Sigh... may as well start it today, I suppose.

Right after I recover from my walking exertions by sitting in the sun and doing nothing for awhile. Priorities, priorities...

Seek Justice

On Saturday night, I attended the International Justice Mission's Benefit Dinner in Los Angeles. I have not been able to stop thinking about it since. I am not the sort of person to jump without reservation on a "cause bandwagon" but I am going to unabashedly plug IJM today, because I absolutely believe in the importance—and necessity—of the work in which they are engaged.

To put it as simply as possible. IJM is an organization that fights to free people from slavery. (And for those of you who think slavery ended with the Civil War in the United States, I have some bad news: it didn't.) In the non-profit organization's own words, "International Justice Mission is a human rights agency that rescues victims of violence, sexual exploitation, slavery, and oppression."

I think we can all agree that's a good cause, right?

But IJM does not stop only at rescuing people. As I learned from the presentation on Saturday night, they also seek justice on behalf of victims. That means bringing charges against the victims' oppressors whenever possible, to hold them accountable for their crimes.

That determination to make sure perpetrators receive just punishment is one of the reasons I decided to support this group. Another reason is the fact that many of those who are rescued by IJM are young girls and women who have been sold or kidnapped into the worst kind of slavery imaginable: sexual slavery. I read an article not too long ago on CNN, about a 6-year-old girl named Srey sold by her family into a brothel. Look at this quote:

"Passed from man to man, often drugged to make her compliant, Srey was a commodity at the heart of a massive, multimillion-dollar sex industry in Phnom Penh, Cambodia."

Believe me when I say that Srey does not represent a horrible exception to the rule in places like Cambodia, Thailand, and many other countries. I saw first-hand on my travels in Thailand several years ago the prevalence of the sex trade. In Pattaya, for example, where I stayed for several days, there is no red-light "district"—unless by "district" you mean "pretty much the whole city."

Abuses like slavery and sexual exploitation of any kind should not be tolerated, but when helpless children are the victims... there is nothing more reprehensible. This has to stop. Period.

I know the problem seems overwhelming. But Sharon Cohn, one of the speakers at the Benefit Dinner and Senior VP of Interventions for IJM, pointed out that even if we help just one person at a time, the cumulative effect can make for a lasting change. As more people are brought to justice for their crimes, as laws are upheld and applied more consistently, others will perhaps think twice before committing the same sins. And the bottom line is, if it's not profitable, people will stop doing it.

I hope you'll consider supporting the International Justice Mission. If you want to know more about what they do, go to their Web site and read some of their case stories. They also have a page where you can find links to articles written about them in the news media. To find out how they allocate funds, check out their standing as a charitable organization at give.org or review their financial information here.

Thanks for listening.

Note: Opinions, etc., expressed above are mine alone. International Justice Mission should not be held responsible for any of them. Also, they did not ask me to ask you for your support. That was my idea. If you don't give anything, it's not like I'll hate you or stop being your friend. Just think about it, OK? That's all I'm really asking.