Stress Decompress

I am learning that I don't always handle stress well. I thought I was okay. Then work turned into a chaotic mess. And when it got even more busy and dramatic, I just powered though. But as a result, I fell asleep at 7 pm every workday the last couple of weeks, which is when I got home last night after an hour of traffic.

It was pitch dark when I got home. I couldn't find my keys, so rang the bell. Which everyone ignored, so I eventually found my keys and opened the door. I stuffed a piece of banana bread in my mouth then went upstairs.

I streamed reruns of West Wing, which always soothes me. Then fell asleep. It's now 2 am and I am wide awake. I miss Chewbacca. His loss, and Frodo's a couple of years back, is really impacting my mental health and ability to deal. 

Yet I know, I just can't just sleep my stress away. My puppies, Merry and Pippen, are arriving in a month and I know that will help but until then, what should I do? I have to clear my mind.

My plan is to decompress. Take a walk when I get home tonight, breathe, light a candle, say a little mantra that I can't control it all, and then write. Write. And write some more. 

The Key

Yesterday, I did a keynote at CSUSB. I'd done speeches, closing arguments, performances, and workshops, but I had never done a keynote. It took me weeks to write it. Not that the writing took weeks because I've always been a relatively quick scribe. What took so long was thinking about it and figuring out the structure, and themes. 

What I realized after reading keynotes, commencement speeches and how to musings, was that every keynote needs a theme and the tone is conversational. This conference was about Latinas rising up. So the theme was built in already, but I wanted to tweak it. I wanted to talk about what is a Latina? And how do we dream big and shutter out the sabotaging voices, both internal and external. 

I used to often struggle, although may not have shown it, with imposter syndrome, and I still do occasionally. It's probably because I am consistently trying to get outside my comfort zone and to challenge myself. Recently, I was in a story showcase at the Colony Theater. I was completely out of my element with this LA centric cast that had some great storytellers. I felt intimidated and off kilter at first. Then, quickly, I made some connections and felt comfortable. 

In the end, I think life is about making connections. And to get to speak to a group of academically focused Latinas at CSUSB was a gift. 

Here is an excerpt from the introduction to my keynote if you're interested: 

Excerpt keynote CSUSB 11-15-24 Latinas Rising Conference:

"I started out in junior college after dropping out of Chaffey high school 5 credits short in 1989.


And I tell you this so you understand, that I see you. I remember begging for rides to school, because I never had a working car. I remember choosing between class and that extra waitressing shift to pay my rent. I spent all my years until 30 years of age in survival mode. 


I remember those years well. I still feel that blue collar ness in my soul, my mom was a waitress and my dad a trucker, so it's ingrained in me. I am an inland empire girl.


But let's get to the keynote.


I have to say that at times, I ask myself, how do I get myself into these situations?


As a rule, I usually say yes to things so when a fellow writing friend suggested she put me in the hat for this speech, I, of course, said yes. Then I stressed. 


What will I say? Why do they want to hear from me? But that's the saboteur voice in my head. The voice that says I'm an imposter. Don't listen to that voice will be my first piece of advice. 


Because that voice is wrong. Plus, if I think about it, I have a lot to say  and having something to say is half the game in life. The other half is saying it, so here I am."

Mad world

It has been a mad world recently. First, the election and then my work life was very chaotic. It's always chaotic but this was more than usual. Then, I had a funeral to attend for my mother in law's best friend. She was 96.

I think it's the unknown that scares me. The what if? 

I have recently realized what's important. It's not work, or even creative pursuits, but my family. It is really all there is. 

At the funeral on Tuesday, we did the rosary refrain that's part of the Catholic tradition at a memorial mass. At times, they last hours and hours. This rosary was only an hour but I found it so comforting to say the prayers over and over like a chant, rosary in hand.

I am not a per se religious person, and consider myself more spiritual, but I have always loved the community and comfort church can bring, and when I made my confirmation at 36 in San Francisco, that was why.

Family is like that too. Whatever your family is. And for me, it's my husband, the moms and my sisters. When my dogs arrive, they will expand that family. They're coming in December and I can't wait to see their furry faces.

It's what I need right now I think. It's what I yearn for. I need comfort. I need joy. I need to know who loves me and who really cares and who will be there in these mad times. I need the certainty of knowing who will check in on me and fight for me and be present for me. Always. 

Journey to Houston inspired by Alice Walker's Journey to Nine Miles

Since my teens, I have always loved punk and post punk music. As a teenager, I wanted to be Siouxsie Sioux of Siouxsie & the Banshees. Siouxsie was already well established as a goth punk princess goddess by the time I hit my teenage years. 

Her seminal album, "Nocturne", came out in 1983, the year I turned twelve, and contained such classics in the goth cannon as "Spellbound" and "Happy House" and Robert Smith from The Cure on guitar (and he would go on to do great things, hello, the album "Disintegration").

If you've never heard her music, think of a psychedelic rock meets punk. Siouxsie has a beautiful voice and a captivating stage presence and basically created the punk girl look with her preference for patent leather and thick kohl lined eyes.

In 1988, when I was sixteen, Siouxsie came out with her "Peepshow" album, a mix of psychedelic punk poppy tunes with Siouxsie's wailing voice, and synthesizers. My best friend Tracy and I loved the "Peepshow" album. We would sing along to the song "Peek A Boo", "Golly Jeepers where'd you get those weepers?"

We dressed like Siouxsie in high school, mimicking her short pleated skirts and high boots past the knee with a black knit vest over a white punk rock tee. We lined our eyes so thick that the eyeliner would take days to come off, drawing on a Cleopatra like cat eye before that was "cool".

Another band I loved to distraction were The Smiths. Their first self titled album is the soundtrack to my teens. The lead singer Morrissey is now a controversial figure due to some of his political views, but he joins a large punk and post punk crowd including John Lyndon of the Sex Pistols and Exene Cervanka of X in that regard, so I just go for the music and I still love him so.

Morrisey's lyrics and music saved my life. I mean that seriously, as I was quite depressed in high school, all my childhood chaos had caught up with me. Quite simply, his music (and his own struggles with melancholy) showed me that life could go on. 

Plus Morrissey's pompadour, and his rockabilly post punk look just slays me. I've always been a sucker for a gorgeous man with a huge head of hair.

In fact, when my husband Adrian walked up to me and asked me to dance at a dark wave club some thirty moons ago, I initially turned him down without looking up, then gasped when I caught a side view of him as he was turning away. My first thought was that he looked like Morrissey. I ran after him, grabbed his arm and said yes. To quote Joyce's character of Molly Bloom from Ulysses, "yes I said yes I will Yes."

I remember when the Smiths' magnum opus album "The Queen is Dead" came out. My parents would (as usual) be fighting and I would blast the record to drown it all out. I was in my sophomore year of high school and that record was everything to me. I had two copies of the vinyl because I played the first one so much that it was scratched beyond repair. My favorite song on that album is "There is a Light That Never Goes Out". It's me and my husband's "first dance" song that we learned a tango to (although we later cancelled the huge costly wedding and eloped). The words are every dark witchy poo girl's love song, "and if a double decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die." 

That song became the anthem for my life, as it's about love enduring despite everything (in Morrissey's case a sadly unrequited one but in mine, happily, the opposite) but to me, it's also about the love and light that one has to nurture in one's own self. I never give up. I'm always striving to do better and be better, or at least I like to think so. I always tell myself, this is not your last act, keep going. And  growing. 

This weekend, we flew to Houston to see Morrissey take the stage on Halloween. It was a helluva day. The flight is usually three hours direct from California. This took seven. We had to circle overhead due to a storm and then fly to Corpus Christi to refuel and wait out the storm. Then I soon realized the truth of the saying that you get what you pay for when I went with an easy rent discount rental car company. We waited an hour for the shuttle to a barn like structure miles from the airport. Then we faced an hour of traffic to Houston downtown to check into our Airbnb. By that time it was 6 pm. We had left Ontario, California at 6 am. But that's when our Halloween turned from tragic to epic. 

Our musician friend Jeff (who lives across the street from where we were staying) had ordered barbecue for us and a bunch of his friends (who were all very attractive women). After scarfing down some brisket and downing beers, we got in a limo to take us to the music hall auditorium. We sang along to The Smiths and Morrissey (who has a huge solo catalogue) the whole way there. Clearly we were with our people. 

In our front row seats, we were astonished to see people standing in front of our seats. I was my usual lawyer like loud mouthed self and so eventually a man and I got into a shouting match. My husband is the most gentle person, but when this man got in my face, my husband jumped in the middle and pushed the man back. I almost shrieked in astonishment. I've never seen my husband that upset. The guy walked away as my husband is 6'4 and has filled out in his fifties (much like Morrissey as they both used to be gangly). I will never forget how protective Adrian was of me in that moment. 

The concert was beautiful. Morrissey crooned. I danced and sang along and even wept at one point and although I've seen him about 20 times live by now, it was just as exhilarating as the first time I saw Morrissey when he fronted the Smiths in the late 1980s. 

I think that is the power of music for me. It makes me feel young again. It brings back the memory of being sixteen when my life was full of possibilities.

And now at fifty-three, and still loving Morrissey and being head over heels and still married to the same man I met at twenty, I have come to know one thing. There is a light that never goes out. Truly. 

Hazy days

It's a hazy day. The sky is grey with smog and it was in the nineties yesterday. It's fall but it doesn't feel like it. 

I get up early, then fall back asleep. I went to a Halloween party Friday night and wrenched my back doing the time warp dance.

Sometimes, I feel as if life is getting away from me. Time is passing me by. Time, time, time. 

So I am writing. Trying not to recall that it's the first Halloween without a dog for 16 years. No costumes to photograph for them. No punk rock shih tzu posts. But I do have my puppies coming in December.

So where do I go from here? It's 2024, I'm 53 years old and I'm feeling a bit lost. But I'll get found.  I will.  

5 am musings

It's 5 am. This is my magic time. I love to write at this time. I wake up, make an espresso and get to work. 

My brain sometimes works faster than my pen. I try to catch my thoughts. But I can't always capture it all. 

I used to write with Chewbacca right by my side. He would lay next to me. And now that he's not here, it's different.

In my writing class for my MFA, I wrote a piece, and so I will share that today. So here is an excerpt: 

We rush inside. They let us into her room. Jackie and Roberta are on their way. 

My mom's face is swollen and turning black and blue. Her whole forehead is cut open and her mouth is bleeding. Her nose is flat.  I think she broke it. 

She looks so tiny. Like a little bird who fell out of a nest.

"Mom, what happened?" She looks at me. Her voice warbles. "I tripped after you left and went face first into my oven. I'm sorry to be a mess."

"Mom, I'm just glad you're okay. They have to check you for a concussion. They say, after that you can go home and you can spend a couple of days with me."

"Or with me," Annie says. 

My mom looks at us. "Thank you girls."

Don't Worry Baby

I feel like I'm in crisis mode constantly. I'm always worrying about something. I have a lot of angst, and I know a lot of it is job related. My job is anxiety inducing by nature. It's a lot of stress.

What would make me happy I wonder? What if I could be anything? What would I choose to do with the rest of my life?

I need to think about that and sit with it. I don't want to lack direction. I want to know where I'm going. But I need a compass. 

In a month, I'll be giving a keynote to a group of Latina college students at CSUSB. It's an honor and a privilege. But what am I going to say? I need to think about how to frame my narrative in a way that illustrates that there's actually no need to worry. I've done okay. More than okay. I just need to remember that.

Maybe my life would be easier if I stopped growing and challenging myself. But that's something I cannot do. I have to be me. And I know I have to use these wings that I was given to reach high in the sky. I need to soar baby. No need to worry just fly. 

Dream the impossible

Change is on the horizon. I can feel it. Something big is coming and I am ready. 

I've had dreams for a long time. Big dreams. Some might say unrealistic dreams even. Dreams of the impossible. I've been chasing and tilting at windmills. My pen of a sword in the air. 

But somehow, I've always known that maybe, just maybe, my crazy dreams could come true. 

Maybe it was my mom teaching me to read at three that made me realize that I could do anything. My writing is something I've worked at and worked at for two decades almost. It hasn't been easy. At first, I didn't know if I could write. I put pen to paper and those first stories, they wobbled a bit. But eventually I found my voice and now it's like riding a bicycle. It feels natural. I put my feet to the pedals and I go. I just go for a ride. 

Performing was the same way. It took a while, but I learned to take my nervousness and turn it into excitement, turning my anxious energy into fuel. Now I just get up on stage and let go.

There's a lot of fear with wanting my dreams, the huge ones. What if it doesn't happen? Well what if? If so, then I still have a great life. I've found a beautiful garden of friends. I have my family. I'll always have that. 

But if I don't go where the universe leads me, despite my terror at being let down, I'll never know. And I know somehow, that this is meant to be. I feel it in my bones friends. The vibrations are real. 

So wish me luck.  

Awake

So I am awake. It's 2:30 am. The tapping on the keys of my phone brings me comfort. My phone's blue light is like a candle guiding me. Into my subconscious.

I am in a weird place. I feel unmoored. Lost. As if I'm drifting in the ocean barely holding on to a piece of driftwood. 

My husband was so sweet after Chewbacca passed, even though I know he was hurting too, telling me gently that I can't fall into a deep depression. I'm trying not to. Really I am. 

I went to work and I managed.  I thought I would be out for weeks when Chewbacca passed, but life and work moves on. I had way too many cases on to stay home. But it's not bad. I had a victory in court. My client and his mom were happy. 

After court, I didn't break down. I made small talk. My friend put flowers on my desk. I sat in my car at lunch and listened to the podcast I recorded of me interviewing my friend whose book just came out. I need to have the podcast edited. I have so much to do this weekend. But no energy. 

I am numb and don't feel much of anything to be honest

I go downstairs so Adrian can sleep. I've already woken him up with my tapping on keys and he's super sensitive to blue light. 

I miss my dog. I so miss my dog. I look at Chewbacca's empty bed and I breathe in deep. My tears come out slowly, one at a time. I'm keeping it together. I think. 

I think of Chewbacca's face right before he left me. He looked at me. Golden eyes. He even wagged his tail. And then he put his head on his paws and went to sleep. I whispered to him, "I'll miss you so." And I do.

Duckie

This one is just for you my blog friends and dedicated to my shih tzu Chewbacca. 

Duckie

You didn't quack

You barked

And you followed

I was "duck mommy"

Your golden eyes

watching my every move

But now the house echoes. 

Damn I miss you so 

And even though I know 

It wasn't fair to make you stay 

This loneliness abides, it abides

Without my Duckie 

A shih tzu named Chewbacca

 I had to let Chewbacca go this morning. He's over the rainbow bridge, and here's something I wrote for him in my MFA class. Sleep my darling. 

A love letter to my shih tzu 

He sleeps next to me on the futon downstairs. It's been months since he was diagnosed with heart failure and chronic bronchitis/COPD for dogs. Just so you know, this caramel colored shih tzu is the closest thing to a child I have.

Don't roll your eyes (you "non dog people"). You see, Chewbacca is sixteen years old and he and his recently (by "recently" I mean a year and a half ago as I'm still grieving) deceased shih tzu brother Frodo saved me when I couldn't have kids. 

I remember sitting with Frodo and Chewbacca and weeping after a horrible miscarriage. We had decided not to try in vitro again. Tears ran down my face and hiccuping my tears, I patted their heads and snuggled them close to me. They lifted up their faces looking at me with their soulful eyes asking in their doggie way if I was okay.

I watch Chewbacca breathe. His tongue lolls out of his mouth. His breathing is heavy. He's struggling. With the fires in California last week, it's been rough. Plus he has little eyesight and is going deaf. Sometimes, I peer into his eyes and I know he can't see me very well, but he can sense me and he licks my nose. My husband calls Chewbacca my duck because he follows me around and is very codependent. He sits at my feet when I work from home. 

I never thought I would revolve my life around my dog but I do. If we go away without him, I get a dog sitter. He's been certified as a therapy animal but traveling is hard on him. 

On the futon, he moans in his sleep. He breathes again, this time rougher. It's scary ragged this breath.

I think of how Woolf writes of life that "It is of lying half asleep, half awake, in bed . . . It is of hearing the waves breaking, one, two, one, two, and sending a splash of water over the beach; and then breaking, one, two, one, two, behind a yellow blind." (Sketch of the Past, 64)

I feel the waves breaking in my mind. One, two, one, two. I watch Chewbacca breathe, in and out. His chest rises and falls. He jerks awake and paws at me to get off the futon. It's midnight. I have court in the morning. 

I take him outside, then in. He cries. He pants. He paces. He might have doggie dementia. The nighttime kind called sundowners. Or perhaps, Chewbacca is just wrestling with his own mortality. I love him so. I wonder if I will really ever be able to let him go?

I'm going to have to let him go soon I know this, but I'm trying to get just a little more time with this creature whom I adore so deeply. I read a book by the late great writer Caroline Knapp about the bond between dogs and humans and she said that with our dogs, we secrete the same hormones that we do with babies and children. (See Pack of Two: The Intricate Bond Between People and Dogs (1998))

I pick Chewbacca up. I sing to him. I kiss his nose. I cradle him gently. I whisper "coo coo" in his ear as I rock him to sleep. Right before I nod off, I think to myself that I hope that there are dogs in my heaven. There has to be right? God couldn't be so cruel as to deny us our dogs.  

I cross myself and go to sleep. If only for a few hours until Chewbacca awakes again. 

504 am

I often title my blogs after what time it is when I start writing. Writing has become such an ingrained part of my life. It's like breathing for me or wait, maybe more like drinking water. I know I should do it more because when I do, I feel amazing.

Most people know that I started writing seriously when my dad died. I had to get the stories out. But I had actually started writing poetry when I was a corporate lawyer. I would stare out my law offices' high rise window, one looking out at the Houston skyline, filled with skyscrapers and twinkling lights, and write. I still have many of those pieces. They're not perfect but they capture something. 

Here's one and the theme is interesting, especially after now being a public defender for years and years.

Habeas This Corpus by JEM

I want to be free. 

Not sitting in a small room a mere 

drone at her keyboard typing briefs 

which are anything but brief. 

I wanted to make a difference, but

instead I have created myself my very own 

custom made cell included are pretty framed 

diplomas on the wall. What Hell! 

Think of before, bartending, slinging hash. 

There was some beauty in that. 

I went to school for years 

to sit in this office and dream 

Of freedom.

330 again and again

So I'm up. It's 330 am. Again. 

Chewbacca had been doing okay until the fires which have really exacerbated his breathing issues So the last few nights have been very difficult to say the least. 

Yesterday, I had court and a big motion due. Chewbacca had kept me up all night. I slept a couple of hours max and when I left for work, he was doing better and was dozing quietly. As I walked out the door, I looked at him and said, "Now you fall asleep?" He didn't answer except with a snore. 

I made it through the court and work day on a combination of caffeine and determination. I even finished my motion and put it together for filing (my paralegal will file it today) a little after 5 pm. It came out pretty good, on a complex issue, probably because I was just so focused on getting it finished. It was as if whatever gas was left in my tank kicked in and I got it done. 

But I came home from work, a bit after 6 pm due to traffic, and I was bone tired. I was so exhausted that I almost started crying with relief when I crawled into bed snuggling under my Laura Ashley comforter. Okay I did tear up a little. And yes, Chewbacca was whining but I didn't care. I just said, "I'm sorry buddy, but I gotta sleep." 

I slept until 3 am. Now I'm up again with Chewbacca but at least I feel human again. I can do this. It's hard, but he needs me. Right now, as I was writing this, Chewbacca perked his head up and gave me a nuzzle on my cheek. 

I know he can't talk but I can write and I'm sure he knows I'm here for him. Yes, he's just a dog, but damn I love this little caramel colored shih tzu. We will get through the night and the sun will rise. As it always does. He just started snoring so I'm going back to bed on my futon downstairs so I'm here if he needs me. Night. Thanks for listening. 

The muse

Today, I have an event with a Latina writer named Julia Amante. We are talking about writing stories with a cultural Latina perspective. And reading aloud. It's being moderated by a writer/journalist named Minerva Canto who is also president of the Inlandia Institute. 

Lately, I'm moving toward less "reading" and more performance. I will try only to use my notes when I need to. It is stressful to try this out, but I think it's more me. I've always revised my stories when reading them aloud. And I like to challenge myself. 

And tonight I plan on trying to "perform" my story about my sad attempt at making flour tortillas. Last night, I practiced. I stumbled a bit because I've never read the story aloud. It was first performed on a radio show read by a voice actress. So it's not easy. I cut out 5 minutes to get it within time. 

You never know where a story will end up. Some of my stories end up in newspapers or literary journals or anthologies or perhaps, in a future book. Some end up here. But all of my stories start with an idea. A memory. An inkling where I think to myself, I should write about that. That's the beauty of memoir. It's taking your true life and turning it into art.

For some, making tortillas very badly can just be an event they'd rather forget. But for me, it's literary inspiration. It says something about who I am. And who I want to be. So I will continue to write on.

Crying

Chewbacca cried all night. At some point, I yelled "go to bed" in a frustrated loud voice from the futon. 

This is all bringing back the last week of my dad's life. My dad wouldn't cry, but my dad would see strange things, he called them "passers by". 

Later, I found out that when your organs are shutting down, the toxins can cause delusions. At one point, my dad saw his daughter Barbara (who passed away when I was in high school) by his side. 

I like to think that my dad's vision of his departed daughter's image was not a delusion but instead, that maybe she was helping my dad transition. 

It's 4 am and Chewie is wheezing in his sleep. I need to wake him up to give him his medicine which helps with the wheezing, but I don't want to wake him up. He's snoring and I want to pick him up and cuddle him. There's not much time left. I know this.

So even though I am so tired. And so exhausted. And not my best self, I know there is a beauty to this time. I know I will miss even this. And just like my father, who I would give anything to see alive for even a moment, I also know it will break me apart when Chewie is gone. Into pieces. 

Another

So I'm sitting here. In the bathroom. Waiting for the steam to do its work on Chewbacca's lungs. He woke up hacking. At 445 am. It was so loud that it echoed in the house and woke me up. 

I'd snuck upstairs last night to sleep when he started snoring. I got a good six hours, maybe seven. He sits on the rug looking at me with his big brown eyes then walks to the bathroom door as if to say, open it I'm done.  

He looks at me again. I shake my head knowing he can't see me or much of anything anymore. "Lay down Chewbacca", I plead. He lies down and lays his head on his paws and sighs. 

The room fills with steam. I breathe in deeply. He's stopped coughing. I'm buying a nebulizer today. I have to make sure he sleeps with it. His meds really aren't working anymore and he hates taking them although I force him to by placing them in caramel or sometimes chicken. 

Chewbacca moves to the tile at my feel. He hasn't coughed since the steam filled the room. I know the end is near but I'm just trying to get him some more good times. His quality of life means everything to me. Chewbacca has been my devoted companion for 16 years. Frodo lasted fifteen years and the end was quick. But I miss him so desperately at times. 

Chewbacca has fallen asleep. He breathes in deeply no coughing. I remind myself that times like these are everything. It may seem taxing to get up and do this, but really (except for the fact I left my espresso at the machine this morning) it's not. It just is. We just are.

So I take another deep breath. And another. 

Don't Ask

I'm asking myself, why can't I focus on my next book project? And basically, I've realized, that I'm a sleep deprived and aching back mess. 

You see, for the last months, my shih tzu Chewbacca and I have a week work routine. It's very dysfunctional. He starts meowing (yeah I know he's a dog but he's so whiney lately that he sounds like a cat) about 11 pm. Now by that time, I've usually been asleep for two hours. And hubby is snoring. 

So I get up. I carry Chewbaca downstairs because he is very sight lacking, and kiss his face. Then I put him down and pull out the futon and put on West Wing or Succession or Gilmore Girls on the TV. Then we go back and fourth for a couple hours. Chewbaca barks, whines in his cat like way and usually eats and then he goes outside at some point. This is pretty much every night from 11 pm to 1 am. 

Of course, around 3 am, I pad by him quietly and sneak upstairs and try to sleep for a few more hours. Then I have to get up and get to work! It's so hard. But I am kinda used to it.

Plus, Chewbacca is definitely not himself. He is perpetually mad at me for making him take his meds. He does not feel well. He needs a groom but the last few times triggered attacks so I'm holding off. It's like taking care of a very surly, very small and furry baby, but he's a dog. He's also my everything. I love him so. So will carry on. 

Writing life

Many don't know how hard a writer's life is. The majority of writing is in seclusion. All alone. You and your computer. 

Yes, there are workshops, and writing groups, and events. But to really focus, a writer needs to sit their damn butt in the chair and write their stories, poems, plays, and/or essays.

I have a hard time with the seclusion of writing. Working full-time, it's hard to find the time and I'm also a very social person by nature. I'm sure you all know that I'd much rather be at a concert in Vegas or at a bar, then writing. Plus, I have a husband that I spend a lot of time with. Then there's my dog. And my new exercise swimming regime which is definitely a necessity. These are not excuses, just observations. 

When I do write, it's everything. I know this. Yet, I still can't believe I wrote my two books. I also know it was kismet. Finding the time was definitely due to Covid. I didn't go anywhere for months. So every early morning and weekend, I wrote. And wrote. Then wrote some more.

I keep saying that once I retire, I'll focus one hundred percent on my writing. And I mean it. I really do. 

But I also need to focus now. Because now is all there is. It's a writer's life for me. Let me say it again. It's a writer's life for me. 

Enough

Yesterday at work, we took a short break and had some tea. It was a nice little social. Everyone chatted about cases. It was just a bunch of woman lawyers (almost everyone on our floor in mental health law is female) communing with one another over tea and scones and my friend's evil yummy cinnamon rolls (I had only a tiny bite of one).

It made me remember why I love community. It's healing. It's fortifying and inspiring and it's why I write. Everything is so confusing and contentious right now. From politics to the economy and inflation to the carceral system I work within. It's all so stressful. But community helps. It really does. 

It's 4 am. I'm thinking about my mother who just fell but is doing okay. My dog who is struggling health wise and of course, about all my clients who are suffering. My empathy is a good thing but it makes it hard to let it all go.

There are days I no longer want the stress of my work. I won a big battle yesterday for my program, but another is looming in the distance. It never stops. The briefs. The argument. 

The work is getting harder as I get older. But sometimes, I have to be content with what I can do as one person working in a broken system. Yesterday, I got an elderly, transient man services and housing through the county (county mental health did the hard work) and a dismissal of his multiple misdemeanors. 

Sometimes, that has to be enough. 

Breaking glass

I have a story about my job called "breaking glass". Now I have another. This one about my mom.

It's been a helluva week. We went to the San Diego Zoo with my sister Roberta who was down from Kansas City. Then we hung out in Palm Springs at my twin sisters' house. Then my mom fell.

Her face hit her glass oven door. My mom says she tripped. Funny thing is, I had just dropped her off and walked her upstairs. Then, I went to the store with Adrian. When we got home, Adrian said, "I have a missed call from your mom." I looked at my phone and saw at least ten missed calls and a text from my mom, "Fell. Ambulance here. Going to Kaiser."

Life can change in an instant. An ordinary instant as Joan Didion would say. 

I won't go into the details, that's for a longer story and a different day, but my mom is okay aside from a broken nose, a few gashes and stitches and two black eyes. We are really lucky. She could have broken her neck. 

I suppose my point is that you never know what can happen. You can be sitting in the sun relaxing, with your eyes closed, and a house can drop on you. A tornado can hit. Your world can be turned upside down and go all topsy turvey. 

None of the bullshit matters. It's just there to distract us. So seize the day and live your dreams. Chase your rainbows. Live life as if there is no tomorrow. Today is all we have. This moment. Now. 

That's all. Talk to you later. 

4 am, again

It's 4 am. I'm thinking about my life. I've done some amazing things. Maybe because I'm on a health kick, I've been reevaluating where I am in life. I'm 52, childless, and a government worker. And I'm also 52, an author with two books, a lawyer who enjoys helping people as a deputy public defender and a creative who has a loving husband and a dog, both of whom she loves to distraction. 

Why am I up? I can't sleep. I'm downstairs because Chewbacca has nighttime howling issues. Is it sundowners, impacted by his old age? He still looks like a puppy but is over a hundred in dog years. I try not to get irritated with him even though he's impacting my sleep. Seriously impacting it.

This is life. Life at fifty. Life in the year of 2024. Post Covid, and hopefully post Trump presidency forever. I bring up Covid because it taught me to put better boundaries with work. It taught me I could put my books into the world. It taught me to love being at home. It taught me to value myself and it taught me to be who I am. There's a power in owning who you are. There's only one you. One me.

I gotta get some sleep but before I do. Just remember that life is short, precious and beautiful. It's flipping beautiful.

What is going on?

 It's 7:15 am. The sun is shining through the blinds. Slats of light break through the window. I wonder if the birds are chirping. 

I feel at peace. I had a nice day off yesterday and decompressed and disconnected from work. 

Writing is my love. I know this now. I like being a public defender. I enjoy working with the clients, and helping them, but it's no longer how I define myself.

The art of narrative live storytelling is what I am interested in right now. I'm working on a piece which I'll perform without notes for a podcast I'll be on. It's challenging. To do it live without notes is terrifying so I'm glad it's recorded. 

But ultimately, I hope to get to the point where I can perform truthfully and organically without notes. I'm working the ideas out in my mind for a one woman show. It has to be something new. Yet also a mix of something old. Something borrowed. And always something blue. (Blue meaning sad, not blue meaning risqué.)

So that's what's going on. I'm still going to be doing my podcast, although less often. And I'm working on a YA novel. But this idea of a one woman show is something that is calling me. And I will answer the call.

The latter

 I'm feeling quite contrary. Wanting to just try something different. To give my art my all. And take a chance.

But I'm a pragmatic person, truly I am. Idealistic in thought but practical in action. Perhaps that will be my undoing? 

I wasn't always this way you see. I used to just jump. From job to job. Place to place. Then I found a suburban existence. I got almost everything I yearned for as a kid. Nice house. Comfort. Love. A reliable paycheck. Almost I say, because still, there is something missing, just outta reach. 

I wonder if my dad was here, what he would say. Would he say, just be happy with what you got? Or would he say, go for your dream. Dreams are all we got to keep us going... 

I think the latter. 

The Beatles

I am listening to the Beatles while I drink my coffee before leaving for work. We saw a tribute band called The Fab 4 the other day and I danced the whole way through the concert. I sang along until I got hoarse. 

I've always been a John Lennon kind of gal. My twin sister loves Paul McCartney. I remember playing John's best of solo CD until it was wore out when I was in college at UCR. John's voice has always gotten me. It's soothing. It's inspiring.  His vocal cracks and wryness can make one weep, 

The Beatles song "I'm So Tired" has always been one of my favorites. It was written by John during a period of insomnia.  It especially resonates with me today. 

"I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink."

I am up, but so exhausted. Chewie had me up at 3 am coughing. I came downstairs and slept fitfully on the futon, wondering what the point of life is. 

Is it this rat race? The hamster wheel? Spinning. Going nowhere fast. Or is it about creating something that will last the ages? About making something that will resonate? About loving and living and listening to some fucking music that makes you tap your feet and smile? Maybe it's all about writing my ass off. Until the pen drops from sheer fatigue. Maybe that's it. 

Hell yeah it is.

The Fourth of July

Hey baby

It's the Fourth of July

As X sang

Go outside

Watch the sky

But it's too hot 

The heat stifling me 

The sun baking me

Instead I sit inside

Not doing what I should do

No writing 

Watching West Wing reruns

Like I said it's too hot

I go to bed at seven 

After drinking Benadryl 

Am I depressed?

I used to love watching lights 

Shoot into the sky

Nope I'm just older

And want to sleep

On the Fourth of July

The towel

I am at the pool writing this. I need to get all of this crap out of my head. I tossed and turned all night. I was sad. Then mad, and then sad again. Hence, the sleeplessness. Yesterday was not a good day at work. I'm frustrated with the system I work within and its participants.

By the participants, I don't mean the clients I have as a deputy public defender. I mean the system itself and those who serve within it.

I'm keeping it vague because I have to. I'm not here to call anyone out. I am here to say this system is broke and it needs fixing. This adversarial carceral system is messed up. It reminds me daily that I don't use the word justice system for a reason. 

All of this is just sitting in my head. My thoughts twirled all night. Why do things work like this? Do they have to? There has to be a way to change all of this. Isn't there? 

Perhaps, just perhaps, I have been doing this work far too long. I'm sour. My face is puckered daily by frustration. I want to do more to make a difference and can't. I am stymied. Stagnant. 

I remind myself, it is not about me. I've always known this. I work within a machine and my clients suffer within it. But then I think, right before I dive into the pool, when do you throw in the towel?

Laps

I'm in at my community pool doing laps, well really I just finished and I'm in the jacuzzi writing this. Swimming is such a zen activity for me. It always makes me wonder, is life just at its core about putting ourselves in the water and swimming, one stroke at a time? I think so.

I remember my swim coach in high school, Nora. Our pool was always freezing. It was never heated and if we'd dare to complain, she'd glare at us. We would do hundreds of laps during practice. She'd blow her whistle. Come on! Faster! I'd come home starving and would fight my sisters for the last pork chop.

My favorite was always the team relays where I either swam backstroke or freestyle. I was on the junior varsity team and was better at sprinting than at long distance. I loved the fifty meter and the one hundred. I always lost my breath in the longer distances. 

When I think back to high school, swimming kept me on track during my freshman and sophomore year. When I quit the team, school started to go downhill and by senior year, well, as you know by now, that year was a disaster.

Yet, still, those years of competitive swimming taught me a lesson I  use in my life to this day. That lesson is that it's all about putting yourself out there and getting somewhere, even if it's only to the other side of the pool. 

Get up and go

I have decided that I need to start working on a one woman show. It's something I've always dreamed of and after performing one of my many stories at the Colony Theater on Sunday, I thought, I gotta do this. Now. 

Then the universe conspired to help. Just with putting forward the intention, some pieces fell into place. After one email to a contact, I already have a LA theater venue for a one night performance. That's a start. It's not a "run" but it's a start. That can be my first show. Then I was sent a great referral for a one person show class. It's a workshop for an evening a week for 6 weeks. They help you build a show. You have to interview so I already sent them an email. It's not cheap but it's not expensive and I have savings from my grant I was awarded that I can use. I tell myself, this is an investment in myself. 

It's all so exciting and new. I have to buy a picture projector carousel because I want that old school feeling in my show. The click click. And I need to start collating my pictures. Oh and there's the music and I need to find a musician to accompany me (hint hint if anyone is interested). 

That's where we are. Let's see where we go! 

Multi-hyphenated and a dream catcher

The other day, someone referred to me as a multi-hyphenate. I had never heard the term. I had to look it up. Was it because of my last name being Mantz-Pelaez? But I looked it up and it turns out that it means a creative who does many things well. 

What a compliment, I thought. That person really "sees" all I do. Podcasting, writing, performing, and curating. Not to mention my day job as a deputy public defender. I don't know if I do it all that well, but I try.

When I think of where I want to be in the next few years, I know this. I want to be a creative full-time. Yes, I know it's difficult to monetize, almost impossible. But impossibilities have always been my forte.

How do I get there is the question? I decide to read my moon cards. They tell me that my dreams need a practical plan. Ain't that the truth! 

Dreams are great and all, and it's definitely necessary to visualize and imagine. I know one thing for sure, all dream catching requires a pragmatic approach and a to do list. And lots of hard work. So here we go . . . 

Saying yes (again)

This Sunday I am in a performance called Manecdotes. It's all the way in Burbank. I live in San Bernardino so it's a two hour drive minimum. There's also an evening rehearsal mid-week. Ask me, why do I do this to myself? The answer is, I don't know. 

I suppose I decided to do this again, the perform in LA thing, on a whim. I've lately sworn off driving to LA due to my nighttime driving issues and my overactive bladder. I've pulled over way too many times to pee at a McDonald's or an AM PM just praying I would make it. 

But the Colony Theater that I'm performing at is lovely, the producer/director is easy to work with and the cast of writers reading their short, true stories about fathers and fatherhood is incredible. When I got the call, I just said yes!

Many great things have happened to me due to my predilection for agreeing to things on a whim. My job as a public defender was offered to me after a second interview and without thinking of the financial hit, I said yes. I gave up my big firm paycheck without even thinking about it. It was one of the best decisions of my life. I also said yes to a reading at Beyond Baroque that my friend liz put together years back and her publisher was the one who published my full-length memoir. And when Covid hit and an online poetry class was offered by a poet I loved, I said yes and signed up and the poems I wrote in class eventually led to my hybrid chapbook about public defense and punk rock. 

So saying yes is good. It usually leads to something. You never know who will be in an audience, especially in Burbank. Let's see what happens. I'll just make sure not to drink too much coffee or Diet Coke.

For now

I'm posting two days in a row. Blame the weather. Blame my sleep patterns which are fucked after taking care of a sick shih tzu for a month (who is now much better, thanks for asking). Blame the espresso. 

I'm reading some manuscripts for a contest I'm judging. People ask why I do this in the little bit of free time that I have. And no, I'm not getting paid to do it. It's mainly because I love it. I love to read. I love to imagine an unknown writer of Latinx descent getting a book contract. I love helping out a nonprofit that I admire. 

Plus, it's fun. It's inspiring to read these authors' books, and see the result of their blood, sweat and tears. Less than a decade ago, I was in their shoes. Sure, I'd published stories in a few journals, and did readings. I workshopped pieces. I did summer writing retreats. But it never entirely felt real until I held my first book in my hands. And then my second. Then I knew I was a writer for real but also that I'd been one all along. 

Sometimes, it feels like it happened by magic, but then other times, I look back and think, shit, you made that happen with years and years of hard work. You not only manifested it, but you created it. Like a sculptor. You made your life happen. 

What did you expect to happen except exactly what did?

So when I read these manuscripts, I really read them. I love their effort. Their talent. Their shimmering brilliance on the page. The judging part is hard, but I can already tell that I'll know when I know. 

So for now, I'll just keep on reading. 

Time Time Time

Time. I feel like it's getting away from me.

It's as if time is moving so fast that I cannot catch it. Is this what they mean by life moving fast? I just did some research about time. They say that perception changes as you age, especially with repetition. A physicist recently hypothesized that with age, one's brain slows down in its processing and recording. It's as if we're all in our own Groundhog Day movie and our brain just lumps it all together.

The solution to this would seem to be change. My body is craving change. Something exciting and new as they used to sing in the Love Boat theme song. How do I get that? What do I need to change? 

My first thought would be to change my routine. Work has become routine like. Prep for my three days of court on my two office days. I like the routine of that however, and need to prep to maintain my courtroom demeanor. Last week, I had a funeral on Tuesday so was very stressed in court on Wednesday as I wasn't as over prepared as usual. So that won't change.

Maybe I need a vacation. A long vacation. But then there's the shih tzu factor. We can't really travel with a fifteen year old shih tzu who is on multiple medications, unless we take him with us. So that's not really possible. 

What about my weekends? That is hard. If I change too much, I end up exhausted. I have a performance in Burbank's Colony theater coming up and it's freaking me out because it's on a Sunday night. And I have to drive out for a rehearsal on an evening work night. So that's enough change there.

Maybe the trick is to try and make your brain capture moments. To be present. My husband suggested turning off our phones and the television. That could help. Maybe as a memoirist, and with this blog, I'm already recording it so maybe this whose entire question has already been answered.

That said, I'll end with a Bowie lyric. A funny one from his song titled "Time". The entire song is filled with witty bits of poetry, but I like this one, "Oh, well, I look at my watch, it says nine twenty-five/And I think "Oh God, I'm still alive.""

Dear Mama

My mom really freaked me out last week. I almost lost it. I was at work and got a call late in the afternoon from an unknown number. I let it go to voicemail, but they called back so I answered." This is Go Go Grandma. Is your mom Judy with you? She missed 3 rides."

My mom was missing. She had an appointment at Kaiser. That much I knew. But I thought she said it was in the morning. Or maybe she said the afternoon. Where was she? I started calling her phone. I called ten times. No answer. I texted. Face timed her over and over. Nothing.

I imagined the worst scenarios. Mom had fallen and couldn't get up. She had been robbed or kidnapped. Or at worse, she was dead in her apartment and never caught the Uber. Or maybe she was just at the doctor's. Maybe her phone died and not her. This is what my psychologist years back had taught me to do when anxiety took hold. Don't just think fatalistically.

I called my little sister Annie. She is a hygienist, but she called me back on a break. She said what I had been thinking, my mom never misses an appointment. Ever. Why had my mom missed 3 Uber rides? And why wouldn't she answer her damn phone? 

Annie sent her daughter Sophie to my mom's apartment complex. I finished what I could at work and started driving to Kaiser. Then ping. I'm driving. I ask Siri to read the text. 

"I'm fine. Mad at Go Go Grandma. Walking home from Kaiser. Mom."

I said back, "Text Mom."

"Mom, what the hell? It's miles. Did you bring your walker! You're walking miles? Stay there. I'll come get you Call me."

Ping. 

I asked Siri to read the text.

"Almost home. Mad. Don't want to talk. Yes, walked home. On walker."

"Text Mom, Mom what the fuck. I'm coming over."

When I got to her apartment, my mom had her legs elevated. She had walked the mile and a half home. And she had walked miles at Kaiser trying to find the Uber according to her pedometer.

All in all, it was an anticlimactic ending. I went and got her a chicken bowl. And that's the story about my dear mama. 

A new jem

This weekend, I finally attended punk rock bowling in Vegas. It's a yearly music festival that features bowling in the morning and a huge musical festival every afternoon and evening. We had never been to the festival, so when I was invited by my punker friends to read at a bookstore called Avantpop Books that same weekend in Vegas, I jumped on it.

It was such a wonderful decision to say yes to the reading and music festival (we passed on the bowling) because it turned out that Billy Bragg, a famous punk singer, social justice activist, and writer who was also headlining the music fest, agreed to be part of our reading. His music was a huge part of my high school years, especially the song "A New England".

How could this all happen you ask? It's the magic of my buddy James Tracy sending an email to one of his music idols who happened to have a new book to market, a rock history nonfiction book called "Roots, Radicals and Rockers: How Skiffle Changed the World".  Bragg talked about it at length and the crowd was transfixed. 

My reading went well. It felt like kismet. To be on stage with my dear friend and punkera icon Michelle Cruz Gonzáles and with my idol Billy Bragg, along with the most amazing writers James Tracy, Mike Dunn, Jason Lamb and Paul Prescott, was so flipping epic. To see my husband in the audience, who I rarely let come to my readings because I'll cry (and the one time I stumbled on my words was when I caught his eye) was beautiful and fitting. When Billy Bragg whispered a sweet compliment in my ear after my reading, one I'll never forget, I hugged Billy tightly. It was the culmination of everything. 

And it feels like a brand new day.

Life part 2

There used to be a popular board game called Life. In some ways it was similar to Monopoly, but the goal was not just asset wealth, but getting one's life together by going to school, getting a job, and having a family. I used to play this game religiously as a kid. I tend to get obsessed with things and their wheel made a lil click click when it spun which I loved. 

In some ways, I suppose the game of Life was a form of indoctrination. It taught that the way to have a life was to do things in the right order. To make good and sensible choices. But maybe they're wrong. Maybe a life is whatever you make of it. Maybe there is no recipe or right or wrong way.

In fact, maybe the path to a perfect life is actually subverting the norm and choosing your own unique path and way.

I've been thinking about this a lot. About how I've followed a traditional path in some ways. It definitely didn't start out that way. It took me years and years to get through college after taking my GED. I waitressed my way through school, lived on my own and was very independent. But once I finally transferred to UCR, I was pretty traditional. Two years to get my bachelors, three years at USC Law, then six years in big law firm litigation. Now I have fifteen years in at the public defender, a government job. I got married to my long time boyfriend. We've been together forever. And even though we couldn't have kids, we have a nice stable life. 

So where do I go now is the question? Where is life leading me? Should I follow that perfect, but ordinary and narrow path? Or should I find my own way? Should I? Dare I?

I've been praying to the universe to show me the way. Hoping for change and that something big will happen. Wishing for a door to open and a light to turn on. I think to myself that maybe, just maybe, the sun will shine bright on me. In this game called Life. 

What do you want?

What do you want is a question that I keep asking myself. I'm getting older you see. My face lines are deepening. My back spasms are worsening. My anxiety is increasing then decreasing depending on the time of day and my dog's health. What you see is my public persona and everything seems hunky dory I know, but here, I tell the truth. 

Also decreasing with age, is my ability to handle bullshit. Right now, that ability is zero. I just don't see the point of being political. I'm just me. Look, I am friendly, creative, personable, empathetic and hopefully kind. But I'm also impatient and can get frustrated by others' unwillingness to pitch in. 

What I am saying here is that maybe I've reached my wits' end. I really don't want to answer to anyone but myself any longer. Yet, I've also worked very hard to be financially stable so in the end, pragmatism may win out.

But I also know that you can't grow without change. You have to take a risk to really see rewards. I know that I have the ability to do more. To see my work adapted to the stage and screen. I can see it in my mind's eye. 

And that is what I really want. 

Sun

So yesterday was a rough day at work. Yet it was exhilarating too. But it was exhausting and by that I mean, come home at 6:30 pm and take advil and go straight to bed exhausting. I fought and won a couple of big issues, yes, but that wasn't what was tiring. What made me some damn fatigued at the end of the day was all of the energy it took from me. It drained me like a vampire. I felt like I gave at least 5 pints of my blood.

I had more difficult (and patience requiring) cases in one day than I've had in years. It was a perfect storm of events. But the good news is, I wasn't alone. I had so much help and so many offers of help. It was nice. 

At the end of my work day, which just kept on going and going, I swear the universe wouldn't let me leave the office, I sighed. I thought, I still got it. Now I just need to replenish my energies because tomorrow is a new day. I can continue to fight the good fight. And win. 

By the way, every morning, I think, here comes the sun.

Today today today

Last post was a little dark. I have been in a bit of a funk. I was perseverating on everything. I miss my dad, I can't have kids, my dog is sick, work is overwhelming and school is too much. All the negativity was just hanging over me like my very own dark cloud. My moods would change from happy to irritated in a second.

But then, I just started laughing. Humor really is the very best medicine. I laughed when I got stuck in traffic, and when I lost my phone, then my keys, for what felt like the fiftieth time, and I even chuckled when I hit my car door on my garage at work. 

When you're in your fifties, I think it's easy to get down. To let the day to day drag you under the sea. It's important to remember to break through the waves and breathe. And breathe again. I saw my great nephew on Sunday and was reminded that youth is also a panacea to getting older, and watching him run around a playground reminded me to remember that a little kid is still inside each of us. 

I guess what I'm saying is that life can change in an instant. I know this. So I just need to appreciate the now, and the today. That might even be my mantra this week. When I get stressed out, I'll say it under my breath three times and click my heels: today, today, today. 

Dusty grave

It's a dusty grave

Too dusty of a grave

A dusty grave

I have my flowers 

Not gladiolus no lilies 

You were a simple man

Carnations and daisies 

A sunflower in the middle

For good measure

Kneeling in the dirt 

A salty tear

Lands in the grit 

I say "hi dad"

I miss you

I sure do

Words don't suffice 

They sure don't 

You'd be 88 today

You said I'd miss you

And I sure do 

All I see is glare

The sun shining 

so bright it hurts 

On your dusty grave 

Panic on the streets

I'm writing this blog post in the car driving back from Vegas. Well, I'm not driving, Adrian is, but as Iggy wrote, I am the passenger.

We took the moms with us and we had a great time. Yet, I know I am not always my best self what with the dog and the moms, it's a lot at times. At breakfast, Chewie started barking uncontrollably which is odd for him. Then, all of a sudden, I got tingles and felt light headed like I was gonna pass out. I realized, I was having a panic attack.

I'm not asking for sympathy here, or even empathy, because look, I know I overwhelm myself with school, work, my writing, and the podcast along with everything else I'm responsible for. 

I suppose I could take it easy and I wouldn't be spending the next three evenings writing a term paper on Hamlet and an insanity defense for school. I could spend my weekends organizing the house or laying by the pool or going to the beach instead of traveling to LA for writing events. Instead of working on my podcast, I could relax. But look, that's not me. 

So tingles or no tingles, I'm just gonna keep on going. I love it you see. It makes me happy to do all these things. I'll just take a deep breath and another and another until the tingles subside.

To thine own self be true

Hamlet has given us many notable quotes and one of them especially resonates with me today as I write this. The quote I'm referencing is from Polonius' monologue (Act 1 Scene 3) where he is giving advice to his son Laertes and states, "To thine own self be true." The reason it sits with me is because it's so applicable to one's creativity. 

Years back, I tried to place a story about my affinity and history for fast food with a foodie magazine. I had a great contact (the editor was a former teacher of mine) and thought it was a sure thing. The editor loved the essay. But then an assistant editor was assigned to work with me on it and all of a sudden, we were going back and fourth for weeks. Eventually I realized that the piece didn't sound like me after rounds and rounds of edits. So, I pulled it. 

It was disappointing. Back then, I only had a few publication credits and it was a big deal. But ultimately, I knew I'd made the right call because the story was such a part of me. It wasn't just about food. It was a story about my family, and my generation, along with my history, and my hometown and culture. 

More than a few years later, after leaving the essay in a drawer, I pulled it out and submitted the same piece to a food writing based radio show and podcast that I adored called The Dirty Spoon. They accepted the story which I had retitled as "Fast Food Memories" (you can find it here:  http://www.dirty-spoon.com/fast-food-memories/) almost immediately. 

Amazingly, they pretty much took it as it was and left it untouched except for a few minor edits. They hired an actress to read it and it went live on their radio show and then it was archived on their podcast. The two hosts also did a fantastic introduction where they talked about their own obsessions with fast food. 

What that experience taught me was to trust my voice and to always listen to my instincts. It made me realize how important it is to trust one's gut when you know a story is good. I knew it was a strong piece you see. I knew it.

It also taught me that not everyone will get my writing but many will, or at least some people will. And that's enough for me.  

Friday

Yes, it's Friday night. 645 pm. I'm in the bathtub. You know you're getting old when you start hanging out at 5 pm and you're done by 6 pm. I'm just so tired. 

It was a hectic week. Work was ridiculously busy and I had a very important evidentiary hearing. I can't really chat about it here, but it was key to the program I run. And I had to call a witness so it was important. 

But then I think, let it go. Work that is. The hearing went fine, great even. I suppose I'm just realizing how much the stress gets to me. It really impacts my health and wellness.

But stress is also just part of life regardless. Yet, I think if I didn't have people's freedom in my hands, I might be able to sleep. For now, I'll just continue to do what I do. I'll keep on fighting the good fight. And I'll breathe today, deep breaths in and out, and thank God it's Friday.

Talking with myself

Even though I get the numbers, and know people are reading my rants, it's weird because I still feel as if I am talking to myself. But I suppose if I was talking to myself live, and not on the page, people might worry. But I talk to my dog all the time, and even do his voice to answer myself back, so be afraid, be very afraid. 

Saturday was a joy filled day. I did an event at the Upland Library with the band Refrigerator. I can't describe their music well. It's too eclectic and defies genre. But they're frigging rad. I love the lead singer Allen's voice and their lyrics about the Inland Empire intersect nicely with my stories. Plus the rest of the band, Dennis (guitar), Mark (guitar), Daniel (stand up bass) and Chris (drums) just inspire me so. 

I met the band through Mark (of Pelekenesis) and Dennis (of Shrimper Records) who together own Bamboo Dart Press, who published my first book. They're both fabulous writers, and musicians, and they made my book dream true. I can't tell you how indebted to them I am. 

So Saturday defied my expectations. I always kick myself the day of an event. It's a lot at times. A lot of pressure. Why do I make my life hard and stress myself out? Why don't I just take it easy and play Yahtzee all day? I know the answer already, it's not in my nature. So I was there. The band was there. The plan was to have the band play a song, and then another song, then I would read a story, and then a couple more songs, then I would read another story, and so on. 

It was so amazing. The guys' songs were beautiful. They lingered in the air. Then I would read. It was pretty seamless. Then at the end, the band surprised me with a version of one of my social protest/justice poems in song form! I really can't capture it. I was just so overwhelmed with happiness. 

Joy is a hard thing to capture in words. Yet, I can say that when the band sang, I knew every word and sang along in my head. I was singing inside. My whole body was humming along. 

And when they played their song Colton, their words almost made me cry. Because who writes about Colton but us? Who else really and truly writes about and sees us Inland Empire grown up now but once latch key carrying kids from the 1970s and 1980s? 

We do. We write about it. Yes we do. 

"We can paint this town damn gray
We can count the ghosts on parade
We can hold our hands in the dark
Outside of Colton
Outside of Colton
Drunk and forgotten"

From Refrigerator's song Colton

Saying yes

I say yes to a lot of stuff. It's definitely harder for me (being a people pleaser) to say no but I'm learning because sometimes you have to. You have to learn to say no, so that when you do say yes, it's meaningful and intentional. You have to make the opportunities count. 

But saying yes brings the most blessings. It does. It can bring struggles and challenges, but usually the "yes" creates amazing experiences that you will never forget. And the "yes" will lead to more opportunities. Doors will open that you thought were locked. You had knocked on them for so very long. And then, the doors swing open as if by magic.

When I said yes to my vodcast all those years ago, it was on a whim. My friend from childhood, who was a radio show host, was starting a vodcast company and was looking for talent. She thought I might be able to do it. So I said yes. I tried. And guess what? I found a talent I never knew I had for performing and interviewing. Turns out, I'm kind of a theater kid. I was almost 49 when I realized this! How had I not discovered this? I always knew I was a ham, just ask my husband. He says it's my world and we're all just living in it. Truth. 

Then my MFA. It wasn't easy to decide to take it on while working full-time, but I decided to turn down my brick and mortar funded offer (which would require me to quit my job and lose my pension) and I found an online, very part time program at University of New Orleans that worked for me. So I said yes, but only to what was practical for me at the time. I'm a pragmatist at my core. Ask anyone. Even in practicing law, I'm always thinking, how do I get what I want for my client in the most pragmatic way? In theory, and in my writing, I am an idealist but in practice, I'm a realist. 

Then, what about events? I say yes to those too. My friend asked me to perform with his epic band at a library. Yes, it made me anxious. My knees were knocking just to imagine such a scary event where I would be on display and what if I couldn't perform up to the level I needed to? But then, I said frack it! Why not try? And then I prepared and prepared and I consulted and listened to their set list and put my reading list together and thought, okay, this will work!

There's more to talk about, but I think I will leave those thoughts and experiences for a second blog. But for now, I would urge you to say yes!

Desert music daze

Yesterday, we headed out to Joshua Tree to see Gary Numan at Pappy and Harriet's. But before the show, we decided to try out La Copine in Yucca Valley. We had heard people rave. We had read the magazine articles. Plus, I had a hard to get reservation. But first, I made Adrian stop at a vinyl and clothing antique store, where I found a leopard vintage caftan (swoon!) on sale and little copper and silver pot hanging earrings.

We got to La Copine and the first thing I noticed was the asthetic. It had a very cool vibe. And yes, it was very Joshua Tree in the amount of hipsters with multiple tables of boho attired groups of twenty somethings. Sun glass wearing, fringed hair with fringe jackets and cowboy boots (I am being a bit of a hypocrite wearing suede fringe boots myself). A lot of beards. A lot of faux fur (again, I brought a black and white striped faux fur, so I fit in just fine, but I added some edge with black pants and a replacements tee which I got two compliments on). 

The food and service were impeccable. I had a champagne cocktail with bitters and sugar and the steak skewer with papas with green onions. For desert, we shared a fig panna cotta that (for me as a salty perferring person) had the perfect smattering of salt. 

We checked into our hotel, which was next door to Pappy's and Harriet's. It's a little frontier hotel like place that's now hideously expensive, but worth the convenience. Plus, there's no TV, just a backgammon and checkers set and a small fridge. We got the "Annie Oakley" (every room is named after an old time Western star) and brought take out Mexican food to the room while listening to the industrial sounds of the opening band Front Line Assembly. 

We walked over to the concert and Gary Numan went on almost immediately. It was so loud I had to put my fingers in my ears. To save my hearing, I moved from the front of the stage to the back. The energy was infectious and the music was hard and industrial all the way and Gary did not disappoint. I rocked out and sipped a beer. We left before the show ended up and sipped a drink on the porch while the band played the last few songs. 

When I woke up, I listened to the birds chirping outside and grabbed a coffee from the canteen. Then I wrote this blog. 

Something writing this way comes

Today is Friday and I'm on my second espresso waiting for my black dress to dry for court. It's been a hectic work week. Yesterday was super hectic, so much so that I ate the delicious dinner my husband made and went straight to bed when I got home last night.

Tomorrow night, we are seeing Gary Numan perform in Joshua Tree/Pioneertown. It's gonna be cold so I will wear jeans with thermals under and my faux fur coat and gloves!

Life goes by so fast in your fifties. It speeds by like I'm in a race car. I barely have time to catch my breath. What with work, my writing/performing and my podcast and school, I'm always busy with something. Always working or planning. But my goal this weekend is to be present and relax. 

The question is, when I will find time to write my next book? It's there. Percolating. I can feel it. 

Yes, I have a few short chapters but they need to be drawn out. I need time. It's not that I don't write. I write every day.  I write this blog and for class and an essay here and there, but a long form project is different. It requires concerted effort and concentrations of time. It requires just sitting there at your writing desk until it comes. 

So hopefully soon, something writing this way will come. I will ask the universe to help me. To push me and make me push myself into that chair, to sit my butt down and just write.

Mantz girl

I'm rewatching the Gilmore Girls for the umpteenth time. It's relaxing to me. Like eating comfort food, it makes me feel peaceful. I like to listen to it in the background as I do my homework after a long day of work.

Yesterday, I spent my Easter writing an annotated bibliography for my Shakespeare class. I had no idea how much work it was. I had the research, but doing the citations and summarizing the ten articles I had pulled basically took me all day. I also watched Macbeth, directed by Joel Coen starring Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand. It is such a striking film. The witches are part human and part bird and are eerie, creepy creatures portrayed as triplets speaking in a Gollum like voice. The movie is in black and white and the film is stark and the asthetic is bare, but it emotes. It moves. It's powerful. 

The quest for "power" is not something I've ever been interested in. I certainly never contemplated summoning the spirits as Lady Macbeth does. But what really resonated with me is how femininity is portrayed in Macbeth. Why are the soothsaying three weird witch sisters so terrifying? Is it femaleness turned on its head? The idea of a premonition is one that I do believe in. But I also believe that to open those portals is a dangerous thing to engage in. 

Knowing what is to come would be helpful, but it's not needed and can be a curse not a blessing. The beauty of life may be in the unknowing.  

Instead, I tell myself to be patient. I don't need to know the future. All is well. Plus, I just want to be happy and sit here with Chewbacca surrounding myself with light. Tonight, I will burn my white candles and dance and sing and as Joni Mitchell herself warbled, "put some flowers round my room". 

With the Gilmore Girls in the background (of course).

Be still the heart

We just had a huge scare. My shih tzu Chewbacca, who is a spoiled 15 year old fur monster, started not feeling well last week. He has a very severe heart condition so we thought that was the issue. He was shivering and had a fever. I slept with him downstairs on the futon and cuddled him. Chewie whimpered in his sleep. 

After two days, I decided I have to take him in. His vet recently moved his practice to Santa Monica but he is in Glendora on Tuesdays. Because I couldn't reach him, I decided to try the emergency vet. 

Adrian drove me to the emergency. Chewie shivered and cried little yelps the whole way. When we got there, I advised them of his heart condition and they said his breathing was labored and they were going to get the oxygen tent ready. I said okay and put down a hefty deposit. Then they said they needed X-Rays and were going to an IV of Lasix to treat his heart.

The "beginning" estimate was a thousand dollars and they said they were going to keep him there over night and I could come back later. Something told me to leave. I just didn't feel right leaving him there. Plus, Adrian had said he thought it was an infection. Despite their warnings, I went with my gut  and checked Chewie out against their advice. Basically, I ran out of there with Chewie in my arms after paying their hefty exam fee.

The next morning, I took him to see his long time vet. It turns out, Adrian was right. It was an infection, a severe urinary tract one. After taking the liquid antibiotics, Chewbacca apparently perked up immediately. It was as if he had escaped death's door. My vet allowed to do a drop off before work And when I picked him up, I knew he was going to be okay.

So be still my heart, Chewbacca lives on. It's a happy ending to this story my friends. 

If you want to help support this blog and my podcast, which is all self funded, buy me a coffee here: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/jemmantz4

Asleep

Life is poignant. Things are going good and then of course, a hiccup. Chewbacca is struggling health wise again and I am struggling emotionally. Where do I go from here? How do I know when to let him go? I'm selfish I admit. I love him very much.  

But I don't want Chewie to be in pain or watch him suffer. He's fifteen years old. He's been spoiled, snuggled and loved beyond measure his whole life. I'm happy we have had him this long. He adds a lot of joy to my life. When I come home and see his fluffy face and his tongue hanging out, and he runs up to me, it makes me happy no matter how bad my day's been. 

They say dogs teach us how to grieve because their life spans are shorter than ours. Losing Frodo was hard, but I know losing Chewbacca will be unbearably harder. It will be like losing a piece of myself. But I just hope I'm strong enough to make the right decision when it's time. 

I have to take Chewie to the groomer today and should get him up. He looks so peaceful as he snores and I don't want to wake up him yet. So I pat his head, kiss his little brown nose and watch him sleep. 

Epiphany epiphanies

So I'm having some epiphanies. Work has been a little overwhelming of late and I've realized a few things. I'm basically a happy person. I love writing, reading, and helping people. Plus, I'm a natural scholar and I'm enthusiastic. 

I met with my professor for my Shakespeare class at lunch a few days ago to talk about my final paper, and she was so encouraging and kind. She told me I was a joy to have in class and she loved my perspective on law and literature. She encouraged me to continue writing about law and literature. 

The interaction was so markedly different than what I am used to as a lawyer. It made me realize that I'm a bit stunted and don't always feel encouraged to be me. And look, I'm a tough girl, I am. I don't need someone to hold my hand or give me positive affirmations but sometimes I just wish I was appreciated for everything and all I am. And that people saw me. 

But you can't make that happen. Another epiphany. I can't control how others see me. People see me through their own lens which can be distorted by their own biases and perceptions. As Ru Paul says, what others think of me is none of my business. So I've realized that I just need to do me. As my friend told me recently, "do you boo." 

So I shall. 

The light

I met with my advisor last night for my MFA creative nonfiction program at the University of New Orleans. Finally, I can see the finish line. It's been a long road. After all these years, I finally have an anticipated graduation date. I have been going very part time for almost 4 years and it looks like I will graduate in Fall 2025. That's a year and a half away, but I started this process so long ago. It feels like eons, so to realize that graduation can happen in the foreseeable future, well it is a big relief. After having my surgeries a few years ago, I thought if I don't finish and graduate, that's okay too. 

This graduation date assumes that I will take a class this summer and do my thesis hours (for my play adaption of my memoir if they allow it). I also have to stay on track next year. But I am gonna graduate, hopefully with my 4.0 GPA intact. 

I'm going to travel to New Orleans (with hubby) to walk in my cap and gown because this degree is really all for me. Just for me. It isn't practical like my USC Law degree. It is my dream, and I just keep thinking, New Orleans baby. Of all places. It seems fitting. 

Having a MFA won't make me a writer because this I know, I'm already one. Yet, I'm over the moon. I can see it happening. I am almost there. 

Busy bee

You know I'm busy when I'm not blogging. Usually, I'm super consistent but sometimes work and life gets in the way.

I do a lot. I know this. I have pulled back. I'm saying no much more often. I'm thinking about what brings me bliss. And I'm starting to have some epiphanies. They're not fully formed yet but they're there. I talked to a class of high school kids recently and it made me happy. Seeing their bright, and shiny faces, it made me remember. When they all raised their hands to ask questions, I got choked up. 

When I was a kid, life was not always easy going, but at least in many ways, I was free. Free to read, free to explore and free to think. But of course, all I really wanted was to get older. And when we get older, life is just a series of tasks and decisions. And I'm kind of sick of it.

It would be easy to be super responsible and stay for my finances sake. And by the time I'm free, I'll be too old to enjoy my free time. Or I could make some tough decisions. Downgrade. And just jump.

I'm not really ready yet, but I'm close. I'm at the end of the diving board looking at the water, hands in the air. I keep thinking, just do it. My students loans are paid off, my car is all mine, pink slip and all and I'm really just working to pay for my expenses and health care. 

Maybe I'm crazy. Or maybe just maybe, I'm thinking clearly for the first time in a long time. 

Writing time

It's 4:47 am when I start writing this. I've been a tad obsessed with time lately. I feel as if time is moving fast. They say as you get older, and I might have even mentioned this before, that time moves fast because there's less of it left in your life. Meaning, we are all crouching our way towards death, minute by minute, hour by hour. Despite this, I plan on living my life to the fullest in the time I have left. 

Yesterday, however, time moved kind of slow. We watched television, Adrian cooked, and I cuddled Chewbacca who is having a good week. There was no task list or running around. I sat on the couch and chilled out. I even left my homework because of the Monday holiday. 

We're reading Othello in my Shakespeare class. Othello is an example of letting a toxic person, namely Iago in the case of Othello, into your brain and life and the damage and havoc it can cause. Desdemona and Othello could have been happy but for Iago. I know it's only a play, a contrived construct and story, but what I find most interesting in my recent study of Shakespeare is the psychological issues in all of his plays. 

If I can take anything away from it, I would say trust yourself, trust those you love, and most of all, trust the happiness life brings. It is too easy to always be looking for the next shoe to fall, or focusing on the latest catastrophe, as opposed to looking at one's own life and what one has.

The rain just started to fall. I put the phone down to take a break from writing for a few and when I picked it back up, the sky was pouring out buckets of water. That's how time works you see. Everything changes in the moments that pass. 

Make believe

There is a lot of make believe in life. Pretending is part of life. We all play roles. We must. Punk rock girl Juanita, the writer aka JEM, is not who I am at work. At work, I'm a different person. Not really me I'm realizing. And that's because I can't be me there. I'm a version of me for work. And that's okay. I've reconciled myself to that. 

Yet, even outside of work, it's a struggle to be me sometimes. It's probably because I don't always know who I am or who I want to be. I'm 52 people and I'm still struggling to find myself. 

On the page, things are different. Thank goodness. The words flow. I'm here. I'm me. I'm open. I'm honest. I try to be true and kind. I have a mean side. I have a dark side. I am ambitious and crave recognition and accolades more than I ever want to admit.

Truth be told, the real me is still that little girl squinting at the chalkboard in class, waving her hand, aching to be called on.  

AWP Kansas City: the magic

I like to pretend I have it all together. I'm organized. I'm strong. I'm efficient. I'm motivated. But I'm also anxious and very bad with directions and get frustrated easily. 

When I drove into Kansas City for a writing conference, from my sister's house in Raymore who we were staying with, I couldn't find the Convention Center. I drove in circles. My navigation kept telling me I had arrived. I thought, okay one of these big buildings has to be it. So I parked at the Lowe's hotel downtown so at least I would know where my car was parked. I looked across the street. Was that it? I asked the universe for help and kissed my black and silver Bowie bolt necklace. 

I decided to find someone for directions. A man walked by. He was white, good looking, had a beard and was carrying a tote bag so he was obviously a writer. He was nice but abrupt and just pointed across the street at a door. I went across the street and pulled at the door but it was locked. Then I saw another person, a young Indian man, walking right where I had been. I yelled across the lanes of street, "Hey, are you a writer?" 

He yelled back, "What?" I screamed back, "Where's AWP?" 

He held up a hand then ran across the street. He had a kind face and once he was close, he told me his name was Kiran Bhat and that he was a writer. He told me he was on his way to AWP too and had been by yesterday to find it and that he was happy to help guide me. We talked and walked. 

It turns out that I had been trying to open a door on the wrong side of the convention center. He had a panel at nine as well, one about using innovative ways to get writing out in the world for people of color. He told me he was serializing his novel on a site with a paywall. I told him he had to come on my podcast and gave him a card. He was so sweet and walked me all the way to registration. 

That's why sometimes even one's struggles can lead to gold and a chance encounter with another writing soul. I may have been lost but I asked the universe for help and found my way there along with a new writing friend. 

330 am

It's 330 am and I can't sleep. I often get a topsy turvy stomach when I plan to travel and today is no exception. We are getting on a plane this morning to Kansas City and I just hope I settle down. 

At least I fell asleep early, around 8 pm, or was it 7? It's hard not to fall asleep early when you've been going since 5 am. 

When I was a kid, fifty-two seemed so far away. Eons. Yet, here I am. I don't feel my age most days, except when I try to get my overpacked Eiffel Tower patterned suitcase down the stairs and wreck my back. My mom's menthol rub helped. 

Age is a number is something people say. But it's also a signifier. It denotes what generation you're from. I'm Gen X of course, and it also denotes how much life you've lived and have left to live. 

In some ways, I wish I'd known how much I would yearn for my youth when I was older. My younger years were spent trying to get where I am and yes I am glad I'm here. I've done quite a lot, but I wish I'd appreciated my twenties and thirties more. I feel like all I did was rush around working at this or that. Trying to get here or there or everywhere.

Now that I'm in my fifties, I have some space and stability to really think about what I want out of the next decades to come. I suppose what I want most is to just be happy and content and most of all, well. 

By well I mean physically. It's time to focus on that too. It's easy to just sit and write all weekend, and read, you know how much I adore a good book, but I need to move. The chips and dips (some people eat bon bons but I prefer a salty chip and a creamy onion dill dip) are delicious but only in moderation. So my goal this next six months is to find a happy medium where I work, read, sit and move. Move it sister! It's time. You may not have all the time in the world to get there, but you have now. 

5 am again and AWP

It's 5 am. The rain is pounding the roof. Hard and fast, like a rock song. The beating of the drops has a nice rat a tat tat rhythm. 

Chewie snores in unison with the sound of the raindrops. I am leaving for Kansas City tomorrow so I'm hoping it stops soon.

On Thursday and Saturday, I am reading, signing and presenting at a conference in Kansas City called AWP. It is the largest writer's conference in the United States and it happens yearly. 

AWP takes place in a different city every year. I first went years back when it was in Los Angeles. Since then, I've been to AWPs in Florida, San Antonio and Seattle. I even did a reading in Oregon virtually. 

I'm lucky I suppose. I usually get on a panel discussion or a reading at the conference. I always like to pitch at least one myself and my own panels have been accepted twice now and I've appeared in other people's lineups both on site and off site. This year, I'm so honored to read and present with some amazing writers and people. It's a dream come true.

I've been rejected of course. We all have. But I just keep on trucking. I try to never let the "nays" get me down because they're just a way to eventually get a yes. 

The best year was Florida, when I appeared on a reading about witches. I met a woman there who has since become a close friend. That's the magic of AWP. You meet the coolest people, and they're all writers. Another year, in San Antonio, my friend Samuel and I were in line to get in and we met a well known writer who asked us to be in her panel, on site for Samuel and off site for me. 

Last year, in Seattle, hubby came along. He was a good sport because I had pledged to work the Inlandia table and had a number of commitments at AWP, both on site and off. I tried to balance it all but it was difficult. Yet, I'm glad he went. He met a few of my writer friends he didn't know and we hung out after hours with a few he did know. I had kept my writing world compartmentalized from the rest of my life and it was nice to merge my worlds into one universe.

This year, because AWP is in Kansas City, my focus is split between the conference and visiting my big sister Roberta who lives right outside Kansas City. I'm looking forward to spending time with Roberta and her family. We're both getting older and it's so important to make the time for one another. I'm happy to say that Adrian is coming along. So my priority is the family time.  

I've learned in the last few years that love and family is what matters. It's what sustains me. (Plus, it's material for the next memoir or essay percolating in my brain.)

The writing accolades and experiences are nice, yes they are, but it's also important to live in the moment. As a memoir writer, being present can be hard. It's too easy to live in your memories rather than creating new ones. 

This year, I'll be reading, presenting and signing, but I'll also be living life to the fullest, making those memories that matter most of all.