The Drought

I woke up to the thump of Melissa jumping onto the bed.

“It’s raining!” She exclaimed. Her voice felt like a ping against my tight, hung-over eardrums. I threw the covers over my head, hoping to escape back into sleep.

“Go away, Mel,” I grumbled.

It had not rained since Melissa was born. The night before, the sky had cracked open across the dry desert plains and unleashed a torrent six years in the making.

She tried to ply the blankets away from my face, all pink butterflies and adorable exuberance. I was too tired to play tug of war and soon Melissa was nuzzling my neck, her little body pressed up against my naked chest.

“It was raining last night,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“I was out with Steve.”

“With no clothes on?”

Melissa’s small hand pointed to my bare breasts. She giggled, her eyes coy. I sat up and pulled a T-shirt over my head.

“No,” I said, swatting her hand away.

“Where’s Steve now?”

“Home.”

Melissa came in close and lowered her voice.

“Did he sleep over?”

Steve had slept over. After watching the thunderstorm from the bluffs above town, drinking from a bottle of bourbon, we snuck into the house to have quick, uninspired sex. It had been months since I had felt anything other than boredom and pity for Steve.

I pushed her away gently.

“Mind your bees.”

She covered her face with her hands and squealed as she jumped on the bed again.

“Oh! You and Steve are going to get married and have babies!”

I pulled her down, quickly.

“Shh! Shut up, Mel. You’re going to get me in trouble!”

I pinned her small arms above her head and put my finger up to my lips.

“Shh...”

Melissa continued her giggling as I let her go.

“Can we go play in the puddles?”

“What about school?”

She shook her blond head.

“School flooded.”

“Well, what are you going to wear?”

She threw her bare feet in the air.

“These!”

“I don’t think so. Mel, if you ask Mom for some money, we’ll go to the store and get rainboots.”

Her large eyes widened even further.

---

Melissa stood by the door, a garbage bag princess. Her head stuck out of the bottom end of a black plastic sack. One of her pink Converse hightops lay untied. In her small fist she clasped a crumpled twenty dollar bill as Mom sat in front of the television, cigarette dangling from her fingertips.

“Ready?” I asked.

“Ready.”

She put the money in my hand and I put it in the pocket of my jeans. I went to the closet and pulled out a faded purple overcoat. Pessimistic, I slipped it over my arms but the coat refused to button over my chest, the sleeves three inches too short. I had not bought a coat since I was thirteen. I grabbed my mother’s moth-eaten beige duster instead.

“Don’t forget to use some of that money for cigarettes, I know you been stealing them, Laurie,” Mom muttered from the couch, eyes forever glued to the television.

“Better get me at least two packs, dunno how long this rain’s gonna last,” she said, pulling the lace curtain back.

The fresh air rushed to meet us as we stepped out the door, smelling of sage and ozone. Rain pour down in droves, desert browns and greens vibrant against the charcoal-colored sky.

I unfurled a ratty umbrella and held it over Melissa’s head. She held my free hand in hers. Sitting on the bus ride back home later, she would ask me if I loved Steve. I would tell her no, trying to explain in the simplest words possible that I didn’t stay with Steve because I loved him, but because he was better than nothing.

“Does Steve love you?” She would ask.

“Yeah, I think so,” I would reply.

Waiting under the thin metal-framed bus stop, I smoked a cigarette as Melissa stood by the curb, waiting. She ran back under the shelter as cars past, avoiding the water that splashed up in their wake. The pink of her shoes had turned dark and wet. When the bus pulled up to the curb, I put the money back in Melissa’s hand.

“Look sad, alright?”

The door pulled open and Melissa stood there, her hair a smattering of wet strings over her eyes. She held out the twenty, raindrops dripping from her cheeks like tears. The driver sighed at the sight of this little drowned rat and, looking down at the EXACT CHANGE ONLY sign, motioned for us to board. I waited until the door were closed and the bus was rolling to ask for two transfers.

The driver swatted me away.

---

“Melissa, smile.”

She had gazed up at me, eyes sullen above the candles of her birthday cake.

She did not smile.

The shutter of my camera had clicked and whirred, forever capturing the moment. The photo was now taped to my bathroom mirror and I’d stare at it every morning as I brushed my teeth. It had not been a happy birthday, but her sad face glowed in orange and pink, beautiful anyway.

“If you left, what would you do about Melissa?” Steve had asked the night before.

“I can’t leave.”

“Not even for me?”

Steve ran his hand between my thighs. I pushed it away.

“No, Steve.”

“We could take her with us?”

“Where?” I guffawed.

“To Josh’s.”

“Josh who smokes pot and has sex with his girlfriend on the couch while his dog watches?”

“Hey, that’s not all he does.”

“She’s better off here.”

---

She wasn’t better off here, though. I gazed down at her while she dozed on the near-empty bus, hypnotized by the rhythm of the windshield wipers. She deserved what she might never get. An actually happy birthday, a father who stuck around or a mother who loved her anyway. She deserved what any of us might not ever get.

---

The florescent lights of the store weighed heavy on my hung-over eyes. Melissa grabbed onto my sleeve and squirmed, her energy restored as we walked down the cheap and dingy aisles. She gazed up at a long row of shoes, eyes wide in anticipation, and ran the length of the aisle and back, past loafers, orthopedic shoes, clogs and slippers.

“Where are the boots?”

“I don’t know. Wait here for a sec.”

I wandered back to the front of the store where I saw Brian.

“Do you guys sell rainboots?”

Brian looked up from the comics section of the paper with sleazy eyes. Hair greased to his head, the word MANAGER hung under his name tag.

“Nope. Wasn’t expecting no rain like this. Might want to try the sporting goods store on the other side of town.”

I followed his eyes down to where Melissa stood silently behind me. He smiled a greasy smile and she gripped the back of my beige duster, holding it up to her face.

“Sorry about that,” Brian said.

“That’s alright.”

I turned to leave, Melissa in tow, imagining Brian’s eyes lingering on my ass. I walked faster.

The sliding doors whooshed open and the crisp air filled our lungs again. Melissa coughed.

“Shit, the cigarettes.”

She looked up at me gravely.

“What about the puddles?”

“Sorry, Melissa. Wait for me here, okay? Don’t move.”

---

I reemerged from the store, two packs of cigarettes in my coat pocket. The rain had stopped and the sun, still obscured, made white marshmallow patches against the gray sky. The entire world felt soggy. Melissa was gone. I felt the panic rise up in my throat, running my eyes hectically across the expanse of empty parking lot.

“Melissa!?”

Her giggles filled the air and she jumped out from behind a nearby blue mailbox.

“C’mon, let’s jump in the puddles!” She squealed. Melissa went skipping through a miniature lake that had formed amongst the cars, her feet and legs soaking wet, rainboots completely unnecessary. Water kicked up at my face and it hit, cold and dirty.

“Hey!”

She screamed and ran as I chased her down the asphalt, the same where Steve and I would meet up with the other misfits, drinking and cruising on eternal balmy summer nights, teenage lust mixed with warm Coca-Cola.

Catching up with Melissa, I swung her wildly in the air and ran with her on my back to the sidewalk and the bus stop, both of us laughing.

The bus approached and as it did, a large pickup truck barreled past us and slowed. Steve. I held my middle finger up into the sky after him and as the bus rumbled up to the curb, I saw Steve make a U-turn towards us, laying on the horn.

We had exact change this time as we boarded the bus.

She's lost her head...

Friday's Miscellany

a. you know you've been driving too long when you wake up the next morning and your shoulders are literally red from muscle tension...sheesh!

b. real foods daily is a wonderful restaurant. we shared a walnut and lentil pate, which had the consistancy of hummus. i had something with tempeh and couscous and wilted greens and little corn coulettes, and i'm pretty sure yams were involved. plus a very good chocolate bundt cake with a cashew cream filling -- not a refined sugar to be found. excellent.

c. i slept with the windows open for the first time last night! l.a.'s spring/summer is finally here.

d. finally, yet certainly not least, go and buy this book.

Murphy's Law comes to Orange County

So right now Annelies is in Anaheim for the Natural Foods West Expo. We had originally planned to get together tonight (Thursday) to eat at Real Foods Daily. But she called yesterday (Wednesday) afternoon to say that if I wanted to, I should come down to Anaheim and we'd hang out anyway. Annelies and I met in college. Even though she lives in San Fransisco, I only get about a yearly dose of her. Sure I'll drive to Anaheim two nights in a row...

Now, you have to understand that Anaheim is about thirty miles away. Thirty miles in traffic. Thirty miles in Los Angeles rush hour traffic.

Cut to an hour-and-half after departure time, and I'm finally in the Land of Disney.

Let me back up a moment and say that sometime between the time I talked to Annelies in the afternoon and when I arrived in Anaheim, something happened to her phone to where neither one of us could hear each other. So, I had no idea where in Anaheim Annelies was. I thought perhaps at first that it was my phone, but no, I managed to sucessfully call Elizabeth, Levon and my mom.

So it's 7:30, and Annelies and I are playing silent phone tag. I go to the hotel she stay at last year, "no ma'am, there's no one registered here by that name." I go to the 7-11 next door and bought a phone card and called her from a pay phone, thinking that perhaps dialing from a land line would be better, to no avail. I sent text messages, received nothing back. I start to get frustrated, really frustrated. I begin to think that driving to Anaheim was a bad idea. I finally go home at 8:30, feeling totally defeated.

At about 10:00, my phone rings, and it's Katy. Katy went to college with Annelies and I and now also lives in San Fransisco. Katy says "Annelies and I are online, and she said I needed to call you." She's also laughing, a lot (Katy, I love that laugh...). She gives me Annelies's hotel number and so after about four hours of unsuccessfully connecting, we finally connect. Ironically, and albeit, rather frustratingly, Annelies managed to get her cell phone working while speaking to me through her hotel phone. All she had to do was turn her phone off and pull the battery out momentarily.

Yargh!!

Okay, so it wasn't funny last night, but I can laugh at it now. Later, recalling the story to Michelle, I was like "I'm still trying to find the lesson in this. I went all the way to Orange County, I want a lesson!" But maybe there isn't one, and that's okay.

Annelies and I are trying again tonight. Tasty vegan food will be ours. Stay tuned...

The Terror

Frankie. Watch out, he only looks cute and innocent.

Oh yeah...

If you don't use things, you lose them. How many times have I heard that? How many times have I told myself this without paying any attention? But it's true indeed -- whether writing or prayer or exercise or a host of other things. I recently have found myself saying "I'd really LIKE to get back to these," not the usual "I NEED to get back to these." And get back to them I am -- without the cosmic invitation that I wait for so often. I think the word "GO" is about the only invitation that's needed...there's another word for that, I just heard it recently...criminy! I can't think of what it is right now (Sean, if you're reading this, what were we talking about last night?).

You get my drift...

How to Go Home in Five Easy Pieces

1. If it looks like an award-winning writer/director, and it smells like an award-winning writer/director...
On my way to Portland on Friday night, I found myself sharing a row with Todd Haynes. What he was doing in coach, I'm not sure, but there he was -- nose-deep in a script, taking notes and listening to copious amounts of Bobby Dylan on his iPod. It took me awhile to realize it was him, and by the time I did, I felt it would have been a little obtuse to lean over the empty seat between us and say "you know, I loved Velvet Goldmine. What was it like to work with Eddie Izzard?"

2. Complementary colors are the ones directly across from each other on the color wheel.
The primary reason for going home this weekend was to help Mom pick out color schemes for a new bathroom. When I arrived, she was thinking maroon. She now has her heart set on a Spanish-themed blue and orange scheme. We spent hours wandering around Lowe's, looking a paint chips, slate tiles, sinks, toilets, faucets. It's coming together.

3. Cats are excellent deconstructors.
Mom's furry little beast, Frankie, tried to tear my camera to shreds when I took photos of him. He managed to take off the mechanism that closes over the lens when the camera is powered down. It was one of those instances where I would have handed my camera over to Dad to fix, but I was on my own. I managed to piece it back together, but not before cursing the small devil cat, who sat by, idly watching and probably laughing if he could.

4. McCarthyism = bad idea.
I watched Good Night, and Good Luck on Saturday night. Whoa! What a sophisticated piece of work that was. The rich black and white shades and the even richer jazz soundtrack provided a lush, beautiful movie-watching experience. If only more films could be as simply told and cleanly executed as 'Good Luck.'

5. The p's have it in Portland...
Along with Powell's, political protestors, and patiently waiting for brunch at the Doug Fir, where the computer glitched and ate our order, as opposed to us eating our order. Mom and I had ventured into the large(r) city to meet up with my brother's childhood best friend Mike Lewis and his fiancee Melissa. You can check out Mike's band, the Very Foundation, here. It was a highlight of my weekend to visit with Mike. When we were young, he was like another brother to me -- one that I actually got along with (I love Erik, we just haven't always been the best of friends). And he's still the same friendly, smiley, outgoing chap he always was. So Mike, if you read this -- thanks for the time!

Stealing away

Waking up an hour before my alarm, I nestled myself deeper in my covers this morning. Gray and gloomy outside, oh I wished I was a cat, able to linger in a slow morning of dreams and sweet sleep.

Alas, here I am, at my desk. I did dream last night -- it involved throwing food at Mel Gibson, but it was all in good fun.

Syncronicity

Is more than the name of a Police album.

My writing class is over, but the fun, it seems, is just beginning. I've recently been invited to help form an informal writers' critique group comprised of several of my former classmates. The cream of the crop, you might say. Dunno what we're going to be doing exactly, and to wit, we're not even going to be getting together until the end of April.

But color me excited!

Why do I mention syncronicity here? Well, before I was approached, I was thinking of doing the approaching myself, but when my classmate emailed me, he mentioned that he was going to also be asking the two other writers who I was considering approaching.

Cue Twilight Zone music.

I know great minds typically think alike, but this was just a little spooky, and by that I mean, spooky in a good way, like in an "it was meant to be" kind of way.

So onward, good writing soldiers, onward.

Spare Change

Paul needed a quarter. After driving circuits around the same three square block radius for twenty minutes, his pride too high to pay for a parking lot, he hit the jackpot with a spot in the prime real-estate of a business-front parking meter.

He checked his watch, five minutes to spare before his interview. Then he checked his pockets, to no avail.

“I planned for every contingency, but where the hell is my change?”

Paul patted his pockets in turn, first his shirt, then pants, front and back, and his jacket. Nothing. He repeated his pattern, still nothing. He leaned forward, and gripped the steering wheel, laying his forehead upon it. He prayed to God for change like it was manna from heaven, half expecting the sky to cloud over and open up, a torrent of nickels and pennies showering down from above, denting cars.

The parking meter shone in the bright sun, God remaining silent. Paul's wallet was empty.

He flung the glove compartment open, ripping out maps, car registration, old Prince cassettes, a musty pine tree air freshener. He listened for the sound of change to ricochet off the dashboard. Silence.

He reached in between the deep recesses of the driver’s seat, pulling out the detritus of fast food -- napkins, chewed drinking straws, petrified french fries. His eyes widened at the feel of something small and cold. A furry penny. He hurled it across the car, clinking against the passenger-side window.

Hands met pockets again. Shirt, pants front and back, finally jacket. Nervous.

Paul got out of his car and walked to the next meter over, hoping that it was blinking, that this day was miraculously exempt, somehow.

One hour and two minutes remained.

Paul searched the grungy sidewalk. He gasped as he saw glint of sunshine upon something. He swooped in and picked a quarter up off the ground, only to find the face of Queen Elizabeth staring back at him. Canadian. He dropped the coin into the meter slot, nothing to lose. The quarter clanked to the bottom of the meter, the display remaining at zero.

He grasped the meter and howled in frustration, his knees nearly bent to the ground, prostrate.

“I know, I’ll beg.”

His eyes scanned the street. The only other human on the street was a homeless man on the corner, pushing one overflowing shopping cart and pulling another.

“Surely he’s got a quarter,” Paul said to himself.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he replied.

“Watch me.”

Paul ran over to the man, nearly stopping him in his tracks. One of his eyes was clouded over, course stubble covered his cheeks and neck.

“Hey man,” Paul said, walking backwards. He reached out his hand to the man, who kept pushing and pulling his carts further along.

“Hey man, you have a quarter I could spare?”

The homeless man stopped walking and glared at Paul.

“Say what?”

“Man, I got a job interview, and I don’t have any change, and I just need a quarter. Compassion man, C'mon, you know what that is.”

Paul pointed to his car down the block. The homeless man looked him up and down, the sheen of Paul’s best suit shining in the sun.

“What’s your name, man?”

“Paul.”

“Paul?” The man rummaged on top of one of his carts and pulled off a cardboard sign that read “HOMELESS, PLEASE HELP,” handing it to him.

“Well Paul, here’s your compassion, man. Good luck.”

Paul watched the man march down the sidewalk, mouth agape. He began walking back to his car.

“Compassion,” he scoffed. He threw the sign to the ground, stomping down on it several times. He picked it up and tried to tear through it, throwing it down again and kicking it. He looked back towards the homeless man who now stood a block away, giving Paul a middle finger salute.

“Fuck your compassion!” Paul screamed.

Paul could see this job slipping through his fingers, already ten minutes late. He pictured the jar of spare change in his bathroom, legions of nickels and dimes waiting for active duty. He pictured the Hawaiian anniversary vacation he’d already promised his wife, the golf clubs, the new cars. All gone because he failed to find a mere five cents.

Just then his phone rang. Paul scrambled to answer it.

“Hello? Mona, holy shit! I can’t find any change! I feel like I’m going crazy, what the hell?! I just need a quarter, why is this so hard!?” He kicked the meter twice swiftly.

“Paul calm down.” He began to relax as he listened to Mona’s voice, reassuring.

“Why don’t you go to that market that’s around the corner?”

“What market?”

“The one owned by the Vietnamese couple, remember? Remember the time we visited your grandmother who lives around there and the kids went and bought popsicles? Just tell them what’s going on, certainly they’ll help you.”

“Honey, you’re a life saver. I can’t live without you!” Paul made kissing sounds into the phone. “I love you, I’ll call you later!”

With a renewed sense of hope, Paul sauntered into the market, a bell above the door ‘dinged’ his arrival. Rows and rows of dusty, near-expired products lined the desolate shelves. He sullied his way to the counter, where an aging Vietnamese man sat behind a thick wall of safety glass. Paul leaned against the counter, looked up at the security camera and smiled.

“Sir,” he said loudly, partly due to the glass, partly due to the language barrier. “Sir, I’m sorry to be such and inconvenience, but I’m parked around the corner, and I need to feed the meter.”

He was met with a blank stare. Paul started to gesticulate in a kind of spastic sign language.

“The meter?” He thumbed in the direction of the street. The old man nodded.

“Yeah,” Paul nodded as well, chuckling. “I need a quarter, would you give me a quarter?” Paul pointed to his chest.

The Vietnamese man smiled and laughed.

“Quarter!”

Beads of sweat started forming at Paul’s hairline.

“Okay, look,” Paul frantically reached for a packet of gum. “I’ll just buy something. Cashback, you know cashback?” He pulled a plastic card out of his wallet.

“Cash only!” The cashier said loudly.

“What?”

“Cash only!” The man repeated, pointing to a scrap of cardboard wedged between the glass and its metal frame, ‘CASH ONLY’ scrawled in red Sharpie marker. “Cash only, no card.”

“No, no. I just need to buy something. I just need a quarter, can somebody give me a fucking quarter?”

Paul began to beat on the glass in frustration. The old man’s wife came out from the back, shouting in shrill Vietnamese to her husband.

“We call police, get out!” The man yelled at Paul.

Paul’s anger boiled over. He lifted a wire rack full of apartment hunting guides and threw it against the glass, reams of paper scattering across the floor, the security glass rattling but not breaking. The Vietnamese couple ran to the back of the store.

“You want me to loose my job? What’s wrong with you, I just need a quarter!” Paul screamed.

The doorbell ‘dinged’ again, sending a hush over the store. A man stood by the door, ensconced in a dark blue suit. He stared at Paul, whose tie was askew, hair a mess.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Hey man,” Paul looked around at the destruction his anger had wrought. “I’m just looking for some change.” He smiled sheepishly, his breath calming. “Hey, you don’t have a quarter I could borrow, do you? I’m late for this job interview down the street and I just need a little help...”

“What’s your name?”

“Paul Cunningham.”

“Paul Cunningham, nice to meet you.” The man extended his hand out to Paul, who shook it heartily. “Tom Cooper, Arrow and Associates.”

Paul’s face fell. He dropped Tom’s hand.

“Sorry to have missed you in that interview, Paul. Good luck with that quarter.”

Tom turned and walked out of the market, leaving Paul amidst a hurricane of paper. Tears started to well in his eyes, sirens in the background, coming closer.

Breakfast of Champions

Shredded Oats from Trader Joes. I cannot stop looking at that small strand of hair in the middle of the picture.

new words

There are two words that I'd like to try and integrate into the vernacular. Would you care to help me?

The first is "assholery." Used much like "tomfoolery," in denotes acts or actions that could be attributed to one who is an asshole. Proper usage would go something like this...

Person #1: "Did you hear that Martin made out with another girl in front of his girlfriend?"
Person #2: "Man, what assholery."


The second word is "the stingies" (technically two words), which means someone who is acting like a tightwad. For instance...

Person #1: "What's up with Brandon, he won't even let me eat his ramen noodles. What are they, like twenty five cents each?"
Person #2: "Sounds like he's got a case of the stingies."
Person #1: "That's sheer assholery!"


Feel free to work these terms into your everyday conversations. Use properly and liberally.

Flickr's making my tummy ache, or "just say no."

I've overdosed on Flickr. You know when you get that sweet tooth craving, so you binge on a ton of sugar and afterwards you feel rotten? Well, Flickr has made me sick. It started out innocently enough. A beautiful website, full of little rabbit holes to fall into, one evocative photo after another. So easy to click and click and click, oohing and ahhing at the beautiful images splashing across the computer monitor. But sometimes too much of a good thing can be exactly that -- too much. I've started feeling ill when I search that site now, physically ill. But then I can't stop -- earlier today, I kid you not, I had another browser tab open to Flickr. Talk about doing what I want not to do!

This is a great example of my lack of self control, seriously.

Oh...the internet is not my friend sometimes...

The Anatomy of a Saturday

The Plan was to take a photo an hour, every hour this past Saturday. Yes, I know it is now Monday, and where have I been -- well, busy for one and then too tired when not busy to post these, until now...

8:14am -- here's me hitting the snooze button.


9:29am -- I finally got out of bed and headed down to my favorite coffee shop in Culver City -- the unfortunately named Synergy Cafe. What they're synergizing, I've yet to find out, but they're the only place in town that makes a mochaccino, and if you go often enough, they start to know you and give you free drinks. This man here in the photo comes every once in awhile with a postal service crate full of compact discs and sets about cataloging them in some way. I think the little girl is probably his grand daughter.


10:22am -- this is the creepy, dusty bathroom window at Synergy.


11:26am -- I'm deep in the middle of work. I spent some time that morning doing classmate critiques, reading, and working on another short story -- this one about a man in desperate need of change for his parking meter.


12:08pm -- on line at the bank. Banks are a strange place to take photos, everyone there is so guarded, clutching their deposit slips tightly to their chests. I had to take this one incognito.


1:23pm -- traveling through the two blocks of Fairfax Avenue known as Little Ethiopia. Here I'm on my way to the Smiths' house, taking them a futon mattress to sleep on in their last two weeks in Los Angeles since all their furniture is in a large moving truck, probably somewhere in South Dakota by now.


2:08pm -- they're really leaving.


3:33pm -- the small metropolis of beauty and hygiene products on mine and Michelle's bathroom shelf.


4:25pm -- a few of which were utilized to accomplish this look. Roommate Elizabeth invited me to her parents' house this evening for a fancy dress dinner they host every couple of years.


5:24pm -- en route to Orange County. Powerlines somewhere over Compton, California.


6:42pm -- here is Collette, Elizabeth's sister-in-law, looking over the dinner menu.


7:18pm -- the pear and spinach salad. One of approximately eight courses we were treated to over the course of the evening. My hat goes off to the Martins, they're quite gracious hosts who really know how to entertain their guests. The food was amazing.


8:26pm -- and the conversation was good, too. Here's Eliz chatting with her brother Gene, who's sitting to my left.


9:03pm -- the aquarium was the most peaceful thing happening. Apparently one of these little things was pregnant, but I couldn't find it.


10:32pm -- finally on the way home -- here are the lights of downtown Los Angeles from a distance. I was up for another hour or so after this photo was taken. Alas, I lasted longer than my camera battery.



I did get others to participate in this venture as well. Check out Katy's here and here. And you cand find the beginnings of T's here.

Lentent things

I forgot to set my alarm last night. Thank goodness for roommate Clee, whose bustling around our room woke me up this morning. I was up late last night making cupcakes, of all things. Peanut butter filled chocolate cupcakes to be exact. I'm not exactly a baking virtuouso, so peanut butter creme was literally flying through the air, splattering well, everything. I finished them finally after a three-hour epic adventure, and they're now sitting at my feet in my office, filling the room with the scent of sugar. I made them to share with my smallgroup/book study tonight, and have refrained from eating them, with exception of the "test cake." This refusal to delve into the pot of chocolatey-peanutbuttery goodness is on account of my giving up refined sugars for Lent. Lent isn't something I typically observe, but my friend Corey is giving up all manner of things, and so I'm joining him out if kinship. One thing I am not giving up is the pursuit of photographic endeavors. Yesterday, someone at my company was selling her scanner for a mere $75. Paltry! Eliz and I split the cost and I swooped in and picked that puppy up fast-fast. So, watch this space for some old school 35mm photography.

I'm also going home over St. Patrick's Day weekend.

March Showers

And ode to the rain in Los Angeles.