Can You Call it a Rat Race When You're Chasing a Mouse?

Mickey Mouse that is.

I learned a lot about the All Star Game this year, getting to have it in my proverbial Southern California backyard. There's something fun about loving the city you live in, and loving baseball, and then watching the two come together in holy matrimony. And there's something special about knowing the best in baseball are all right there gathered in one place, with a town celebrating them from banners to fountains, to Mickey Mouses spread across 4 counties and all the cities that make them up. Like every All Star Game, (statue of liberties in New York, other monuments in other cities) the MLB adorned Mickeys were spread throughout, giving fans and tourists and girls who just like a good scavenger hunt the chance to explore new places, find delicious coffee ice cream, and put a lot of miles on their car.

There were 36 in all. 30 for the 30 teams. 1 for the American League. 1 for the National League. And 4 All Star Game themed 1,000 pound statues.

When the contest first originated, the locations were not disclosed. One would have to find it, tweet a photo, and become eligible to win a prize. I came upon the good fortune of others who found them, and put together a color coded, over analyzed list of my own. I won no prize, other than some photos, and quality time with the man I call mine.

I start via the nontraditional, with lessons. See when you agree to a scavenger hunt over 36 locations throughout southern California, one that should have for all practical purposes been spread through weeks, and you do so in 2 evenings after work and a Saturday afternoon, well you see, there are bound to be lessons. I start with the traditional, the number one.

Lesson one: My boyfriend and I, despite our ridiculously good looks and all attempts in opposition of this fact: are just like every other couple. We fight over directions.
Two: Two evenings and a Saturday afternoon, as I've alluded to by stating directly so, are inadequate amounts of time to drive over 500 miles in city traffic.
Three: My GPS was well worth the $70.00 and California sales tax, even though she was less than perfect and by the end we had moved to the mute mode.
Four: While you plan and make up lists and chart them on maps from north to south to closing times, and fill up on gas - when you get there, and you haven't charged your camera, it's all sort of a moot point.
Five: Signs indicating no touching, leaning, any contact really with the Mickey, are more like suggestions. Right?

I thought so.

But after $50 in gas, $60 in parking and toll fees and a bribe to a valet to watch the car while sprinting across a one way street, I saw them all. Oh I almost hit a seagull that flew in to my windshield, but he lived, so all is fine. Right?

I thought so.

Night one was dedicated to LA Mickeys. We started first in West Hollywood at a clothing store across from Pink's Hot Dogs because the website had it closing at 8:00. As it turns out we don't really know when it closed, because it certainly was not open when I broke most traffic laws to get there by 7:30. In any event besides some mocking by the neighboring business, we were able to photograph #1.

Moving east I had mapped 4 in and around Hollywood & Highland, including the Kansas City Royals at El Capitan. By the time we'd gotten there it had been removed days prior due to vandalism. Who hates the Kansas City Royals I asked? Kansas City Royals fans I was told.

We then moved farther east. Mind you we'd both worked all day, it's closing in on 10:00pm and we'd had our share of Hollywood crazies theorizing in a pizza parlor conspiracy theories. (I like a town that makes me look normal!) But we drove to downtown LA where we parked illegally at the Music Center and found the best Mickey of them all, the Dodger Mickey, went to Union Station and watched a movie being shot, and unsuccessfully attempted ESPN Zone at LA Live which had already closed. It was after 11:00, probably closer to midnight, when we drove from downtown LA to the Santa Monica pier, for the final one of night number one.

It made the most sense the following night to visit the ones around Disneyland - The Grove, The Stadium, The Convention Center, Hotels, City Hall, Downtown Disney, the like. Figuring most fans would be centered here, 13 were within reasonable driving, if not walking distance. I woke up with a "mickey" hangover the following morning, "no more mickeys!" I declared to my boyfriend, but we had to finish them Saturday before they were removed.

Saturday was a challenge. Even before starting our adventure, I'd driven 130 miles, with plans to drive to Bakersfield, CA the following day. One was put in Rancho Cucamonga, at Victoria Gardens, 60 miles roundtrip from Orange County, but it made the most logistical sense to hit it up first. The Nationals have Strasburg, and now Bryce Harper, and while I don't believe they deserved to be disrespected by President Obama and his White Sox hat as he threw the first pitch on opening day, I also do not believe they deserved their own Mickey a 60 mile roundtrip drive away. The Cubs was rightly placed at the Orange County zoo deep back in a Regional Park which had it not been for this whirlwind I doubt I ever would have discovered on my own. The next several were a fury of malls and promenades, a performing arts center, a trip up the coast, from Laguna to Fashion Island, to the Newport Sports Museum, and the Strand in Huntington Beach. It was rounding 10, and despite plans to take separate cars for logistical reasons I made the executive decision to knock out Long Beach, and the lone one left in LA at ESPN Zone LA Live. I secretly hated having to drive clear back to LA to one I'd previously been to, especially since it was the hated Yankees, but I was pitching a complete game here.

And with that I'd had them all. I had a brief, "what do I do now with my life moment," which I dealt with by asking Jeff "what do I do now with my life." You don't think I think things and not say them do you? But we shared a Mike's Hard Lemonade and a quarter of it drank, passed out full and proud of ourselves.

I wish I'd had more time to actually get to see the places they were placed, having been the point and all, but would spending several leisurely days visiting promenades and museums sound like me? Yeah not so much.

Now take everything I've just said and imagine it now in the reverse (because I loaded them all backwards).












































Location Listing Found Here: http://mlb.mlb.com/mlb/events/all_star/y2010/index.jsp?content=disney

Kitten Impossible

Sure my cats were trying to kill me a few years back, my friend, thinking this clearly was not the case and instead hilarious (they were I'm sure of it!) - made this video. Madi, may you rest in peace, but I knew your true intentions. Your evil, evil intentions.

I went through a year long phase, just recently culminating in a very sub par movie, a phase entitled: "I hate every movie I see." Be it rentals, at $1, be it movie theatre new releases. I hated them all equally. Even when oscar worthy movies came and went, I hated them. I secretly feared I was fully engaged in this 30 year old thing, and just starting to turn my noise up at everything. I've generally been pretty agreeable, so I liked not this strange phase. I stuck with the $1, because, well if you're gonna hate things, it's best to do it on the cheap. My local theatre is a spectacle. I don't know how it's even standing, but it's cheap as all, and at $5, I can afford to probably hate a movie and mad dog talking teenagers. But with $5, you're getting, $5. You're getting sticky floors, and that wonderful moldy smell. Somewhere in this year long hatred of every movie I saw, I started to enjoy this $5 sticky fungus theatre. It became endearing to my LA hardcore run down I've seen everything roots. I finally saw a movie about a month ago, that I'll declare was subpar, so I'm out of my hated phase, which is nice. I've been seeing a lot of subpar entertainment lately - entertainment I wouldn't dare declare I'd spend $20 on. Slap a 3D sticker on the outside or not. Now with New York theatres, some of them charging $20 a showing, well I think I will stick to half liking most of what I see at $5 at my local sticky fungus theatre.

Happy Friday.

A Silent Covenant with the Youth

I've had theft on the mind. I've had it on the mind for the past 2 weeks, 2 weeks that only just concluded in my car being broken in to. So it feels, as rather frustrating as it is, appropriate. It feels appropriate that I had been contemplating purchasing a car GPS, and had I, that too, would have been taken. It feels as though God, even while sorting through things that make little sense to me, gives me very visual representations, giving me just what I need when I need it.

I've heard words like unfair and nonsensical and theft in the last 2 weeks, and those were words associated with two CSUN students from the greek community, I too partook in and still participate in as an alumni advisor - and the loss of their lives in a very tragic, publicly reported car accident. I knew them not personally, no more than through friends of friends, but their loss was for me, striking and remarkably sad.

And the theft of young life, is the topic of this writing.

Loss of any life, at any time, unexpected for those left, or expected for those that leave, is our hardest humbling humanly challenge to overcome. But young life, is both unexpected, and thievery. More than numbers in newspapers, their ages weren't my focus until their memorial last Monday. Until that point, in trying to understand what had happened, my thoughts turned first to how the students whom I advise were handling it, and quickly after, and I'm shamed to say, selfishly.

They looked like girls I know.
Because they are girls I know.
They are every girl I know.
They are me.

See because we all, in great strides to embrace youth, and living every day like it could be your last, take chances. Some safe chances. Some unsafe chances. We've gotten in a car and not worn a seat belt. And drove while on the phone in a hurry faster than the speed limit. Drove while pre-occupied and perhaps after drinking. And as taboo as it may be to say it, I have done those things. I have done those things , but being able to say so means I acknowledge responsibility for it. But in taking of young lives, I shift between anger for making those same careless decisions, and to God for breaking a silent covenant with the youth to err and be forgiven. To mend broken bones, broken homes. To be given second chances.

As I mentioned their ages were simply numbers. Even references to upcoming graduations didn't strike metaphoric harmonic chords to the point of emotion. But the memorial speakers were something else. They, through streaming tears and sadness, shared stories of their friends and sisters' lives, lives that I had to journey very far back to even identify with. Because as they spoke of their sorority big sister, and bedazzling fraternal plaques, fraternity date parties and formals in the desert, I realized how much I'd grown since those days. My sorority friends are something entirely different to me now. Where so if someone asked me to speak of my big sister, I'd probably spend the afternoon writing an essay about 5 ways I love her, but the plaque I made for her wouldn't make the list. And in those moments, where I selfishly identified, and then didn't identify, I realized just how short their lives were cut. I realized a deeper level of sadness in those speakers that wouldn't even be realized until years from now when this comes as a passing painful memory of that thing that happened in college.

We are humbled in death, as in making sense of why we live. Why my mistakes were forgiven, and theirs asked of their very existence. But in being angry with God, I still get to be blessed, that in getting another day to live, I get another day to understand that awe empowered covenant. To express in the way I'm the most comfortable, and familiar, the written word, that this experience of loss is both awful, and full of awe.

Perfectly Normal

Despite my parents original prenatal great expectations of me, I turned out very average. Even among the things I'd note I'm good at, in a global sense, I'm still just average at those things. We've all got a purpose and I'll live the rest of the time I've got sorting that out. But great - great is for the bees, bees and Dickens novels.

I think there's some sort of genetic predisposition of parents that their kids must be the best. And that's rather unfortunate. Unfortunate only because my mom just looked so miserable at that soccer field watching me averagely play soccer. And it had to have been such a disappointment to her when I proclaimed there was just too much running involved.

I think when I'm a parent, I'll be better at just managing my expectations. And wish my kid was fun and spirited and well adjusted, over being supremely awesome at any one thing.

Even being drafted to a major league baseball team probably carries the argument of some sort of greatness, most live in a AA team in the outskirts of major cities, and never smell the beer and dogs of a major league summer. So when Dallas Braden, as you may now know him from his Sports Illustrated cover, and late night talk show circuit, was drafted 24th in 2004 by the A's, great wasn't a word we'd associate with him or his career, or his mark on baseball.

And when we saw him lash out at Alex Rodriguez weeks ago for running across a mount, human, more than great, was how we'd describe him.

So as of Sunday, if anyone knew Dallas Braden, a very human, very average pitcher he was. But then maybe that's why we enjoy sports. Because one day you wake up average, and one night you go to sleep part of baseball history.

Dallas Braden pitched just the 19th perfect game in the history of the game, and American League or National League, north west south or east, whatever divides you, an impressive accomplishment like that has no choice but to get a big nod of awesomeness.

My favorite thing about this story is while he's something of legend in the sport, he's something of perfection, normal he'll probably remain,

"My ugly mug slapped on a magazine on newsstands all across America is scary for some readers," Braden said, "but it's pretty cool for me."

While the closest I will get to a pitchers mound is good seats, and I'll still always insist there's just too much running in soccer, perhaps my parents still have a chance to see me be great at something.

Trash Flowers

My imagination doesn’t just get the best of me; it is the best part of me.

I had a very typical mother’s day, splitting time, the meals and candy, cards and nice gestures. My mother insisted I donate to charity instead of gifting her this year, and I chose the Tennessee flood as my worthy charity.

I spent the afternoon in Newport Beach and took an autoferry to Balboa Island. I braved the wind, and enjoyed a burger and malt on the pier. At days end as I held my breath past the beach bathroom I saw a bit of plastic poking out of the public trashcan. Blame it on the crowd, a crowd full of the homeless and those in use of metal detectors, I reached my hand right in that trash can and pulled out – lilies. They were beautiful lilies, baby lilies, not yet to maturation or in bloom. I did a mental review of the 5 second rule, and be it mother’s day, lots of other mother sort of advice. Don’t pick that up. Look both ways. Don’t drive so fast. Cross your legs. Say your pleases and thank yous. I couldn’t recall a rule about retrieving perfectly lovely flowers from a trash can.

In the 4th grade my frog died. We had gone to Circuit City to get our family a new refrigerator, and when I arrived home, on the bookcase in the living room, stretched as far as a desert mile, was my frog. We learned in the days to follow that this particular genre of frogs needed to be fed live food, and my cheap bloodworms didn’t satisfy his hearty appetite. I’d killed him. If was too young to have murder on my hands, but I also too young to understand the frog burial process.

“Rebecca, we will need to dispose of it.”

These 8 words sent me in to a fury few save Naomi Campbell could replicate.

We agreed until I calmed down we’d keep it in a Ziploc bag in the garage refrigerator (remember we’d gotten a new one now!).

Every other day my mother would bring up that damn frog. And every time she would send me in to a panicked state. I have to imagine there was a point my Mom figured she’d have to send me off to college, when the time came, with Ziploc in hand. Or down the aisle to meet my groom, ziploc in tow.

Death is hard to accept.

Two weeks to the day, the day of the big refrigerator purchase, and of the untimely murder, my Mom tried yet again. This time she had a plan.

“Rebecca do you know what dispose means?”

I hadn’t. For 2 weeks every time she spoke that word, I imagined my little friend, frog legs being chopped up in our kitchen disposal, cutting in a continual circular sort of way.

“It just means throw away. Do you think we can throw away the frog today?”

Oh, when you put it that way, sure. Why didn’t you just come out and say that?

I’m not going to pretend like being my mom is the easiest job in the world. But then again I’ve never seen a mug that says that. “Motherhood: The Easiest Job in the World”. It wasn't easy when one of my first words was "damnit" and my mom learned of this as I yelled it repeatedly from our front porch trying to put together a puzzle. Or when I brought home a failed test in the 2nd grade for her to sign, and instead signed it myself in the biggest 2nd grader handwriting you ever saw, and returned it to my teacher. Or when my mother explained the birds and the bees to me in junior high, and not believing her theory on how all that works, asked for further proof from the library.

As I stood at the trash can, and I rewinded and flash forwarded 30 years of lessons and the difficulties of parenting me, I couldn’t recall anything wrong with snarking perfectly lovely flowers from a trash can, either through linguistic misunderstanding or otherwise.

I stood and held those flowers and my mind journeyed through a dramatic scenario that would have landed those flowers in a public trash can on a California beach. My embarkment to the car surely by minutes missed, what was probably a very public display of anger, yelling, hands being thrown and tossed about every which way. See being a mother, and being a daughter, or being a mother, and being a son, is never an easy relationship, and in no way is this the first time you have heard these words. My mom on a cocktail of Valium and Oxycontin (post surgery) enjoyed her day. But through the haziness of narcotics she will acknowledge it’s a bumpy road, and it’s also alright to say so.

So I took those flowers, in essence because no one was looking, and not recalling my lessons to the contrary - and left them that evening at my boyfriend’s family’s home. They had seen their origins and leaving them there was more convenient than lugging them everywhere I would be from that night until today.

This morning I got a text that read, “I just wanted you to know your trash flowers look great!”

I laughed – you know, because that’s funny. But also because I find my trash flowers symbolic of the beauty and the source of love flowers come from, and how that love can be so difficult to express, and to understand, and communicate.

So my wish for the universe is to whomever those flowers came from, and whoever they were meant for, shall you realize the depth and breadth of love the connects mother to daughter and sons to their mother.

Oh yeah, and thank you for my flowers.

Cat Heaven

It's been 2 1/2 weeks now since I lost Madi. She was my cat. My pint size kitten like cat. And just as anyone who has experienced loss, grief, losing a pet, will tell you, it gets easier. On day zero I laid horizontal on my couch and silently sobbed until I was dry. By the next day I had to return to work and on brief occasions, I had to sneak away to be sorrowful. Day two was better, and then came the weekend, where a passion for life and the warm nature of spring all but settled my woes and brought some joy, and distractions to my everyday. Come day seven and eight, eleven and twelve, the reminders faded away, and the flowers were cleaned from the coffee table. I was back in a routine, safely insulated in an almost cocoon like feeling of being able to remember her without being sorrowful. The cat that remained would search the house, and on one occasion I am sure I caught her crying. I tended more to her, and to other love in my life, and it did, as I started this paragraph describing, become easier.

I am not a things person. With $200 in my pocket I'd rather have a memory than a thing. A trip tubing down a river outside Austin, Texas than a plasma television. My apartment smells lovely, but it's simple, filled with a lot more remembrances of things I've done, and people I love, than it is expensive things. But I am a girl, in more ways than an affinity for lip gloss and couture footwear, and on everyday, and twice on Tuesdays, I round the stairs of my second story apartment and hope, hope to dear God there is a present waiting for me in front of my doorstep. It is a ridiculous wish. Why who am I to deserve a gift, on any given day, and more importantly more so on Tuesdays. But I do, and it is, and so it will.

So perhaps it was a will to the universe to send me a gift. Perhaps it was a God knowing I was moving on, afraid to do so for fear of forgetting her - when I arrived home Sunday, after a weekend away, with a box for me.

I was holding an overnight bag, and my purse, two days of mail, and it was awfully warm and stuffy, but I was bound and determined to open the box before I walked inside.

A book, from my friend Lisa, "Cat Heaven," with a card "a bedtime story for you and Sophie."

I think she'd probably be very upset to know it made me cry, but it did, so don't tell her. Ok? But it also was just what I needed. Two and a half weeks out, moving on, needing to know that she's alright, and remembering her is a sweet memory.