Perthpective

What's that old platitude, something like "you're not the best judge of your own work?"

The more I give over to my creative side, I keep learning that lesson over and over. I think I have a good eye for editing my own work, and of course I'm usually wrong.

I've also learned that the best way to really see something objectively is to give it time.

Time is the great mediator.

(wow, I'm chock full to brimming with platitudes today!)

Anyhow, I got to thinking about this recently while sorting through my iPhoto library. As an amateur photographer, I take *a lot* of photographs. This is the advice of my friend, mentor and teacher, Marty Springer, so I follow her advice.

But this means my iPhoto library fills up fast with fair to middling to downright awful shots. Since all of this dreck was slowing down my iMac, I decided to save the photos elsewhere and start again.

Oh, and also...my New Year's resolution is to get better about tagging all of my photos as I download them so I can search more quickly.

So in cleaning out my old photos, sifting through the pile, I came across the shot at the end of this post.

The Feline had climbed into the laundry basket that was lying on the ground, so I grabbed my camera and took a few snaps. I considered them throwaway photos. Less than throwaway. I downloaded them to my iMac and never looked back.

But something about this photo...it really works. It was taken probably two or more years ago when I was just learning my camera and had no idea about depth of field. And yet, the depth of field is what makes this photo interesting. It's not a perfect photo but it's also not bad. A little imperfect Photoshop adjustments and I'll be damned...not too bad at all.

Because not only with time comes perspective, but also...I can learn some lessons from three years ago me. The one just learning about photography. The one who just snapped and didn't think.

A careless shot can be magic.

I guess that's why my photography teacher tells us never to delete photos. "You never know" she says.

click photo if interested in seeing a larger size

Photo by Karen Fayeth and subject to Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.

An Oldie but a Goodie

This post first appeared on the blog in December 11, 2007. It's one of my all time favorite posts. Fixed a few broken links, made some minor edits and away we go! Everything is still very true. Happy Holidays!

Top ten things I miss about Christmas in New Mexico

1) Annual shopping trip to Old Town. A mom and me tradition. Every year I'd get to pick out an ornament that was mine. I now have all those ornaments in a Thom McAnn shoebox that, yes, Sunday night I opened and hung them all on my tree. They are like a history of my life. I remember buying most of them and it gives me a good sense of continuity to have them on my tree.

2) Luminarias. I always was the one to make them at my house. My mom would drive me to an empty lot to dig up two buckets worth of dirt and I'd fold bags, place candles and light them. It was my job and I loved every folded bag and every candle and every small emergency when the bag caught on fire in the wind. I miss real luminarias.

3) The Bugg House, which, sadly, is no more. My sister lived over on Prospect and we'd go for a Christmas Eve walk in the evening to take a look at the outstanding display of holiday spirit. When I wwent to Winrock Mall to shop, I'd always swing by the Bugg house to take a look. No one does lights like the Buggs did.

4) Neighbors bringing over a plate of fresh made tamales as a Christmas gift. When there are three generations of Hispanic women in a kitchen with some masa and some shredded pork, magic happens. Yum! I also miss that people would bring tamales to work in a cooler and sell them to coworkers. I was always good for a dozen or more.

5) A ristra makes a good Christmas gift. I've given. I've received. I love 'em. They'd become a moldy mess here…and that makes me sad.

6) Biscochitos. My love for these is well documented.

7) Sixty-five degrees and warm on Christmas Day. Growin up, I think one year there was actually snow on the ground for the 25th. But it was melted by the end of the day. Oh Fair New Mexico, how I love your weather.

8) Christmas Eve midnight Mass in Spanish with the overpowering scent of frankincense filling up the overly warm church. Pure torture for a small child, but oh how I'd belt out the carols… And when we came home we could pick one present and open it. Gah! The torture of picking just one!

9) New Mexico piñon, gappy, scrawny Christmas trees that cost $15 at the Flea Market and were cut from the top of a larger tree just that morning. Look, to my mind, it ain't a tree unless you are using low hanging ornaments to fill the obvious gaps. These fluffy overly full trees just ain't my bag. If you aren't turning the 'bad spot' to the wall, you paid too much for your tree.

10) Green chile stew for Christmas Eve dinner and posole for New Year's. My mouth waters. It's weep worthy. I can taste the nice soft potatoes in the stew, the chicken broth flavored just right…ouch! And posole to bring you luck with red chile and hunks of pork. Yeah……

*sigh* Now I'm homesick.

Which is not to say I don't have happy holidays where I live now...but sometimes I feel melancholy. And that's what the holidays are for, right?

Image via.

I Will Find My Way

The Velcro on my Rand McNally road atlas had been rendered useless. Tan carpet fuzz from the back of the Jeep embedded itself irrevocably into the hook side of the mechanism.

The map was considered a "just in case" for getting lost, which happens often. The atlas was purchased well before there was something called a Google to provide maps on something called the internet.

That road atlas was aspirational. I bought it hoping that maybe I could travel a lot of those blue lined roads over the course of my life.

But suddenly the road atlas had meaning. It was more than a "just in case," it was an essential tool.

The page for New Mexico was well worn, but the page for California was starting to show the dirt and grease of eager fingers tracing a path over and over again. A reduced scale journey west to my new home.

The compass rose became my bouquet, a present from the universe, welcoming me to my new life.

At a holiday cocktail party, the map became obsolete. A friend and professional truck driver wrote directions on the back of an envelope. "This is the faster way to go, you'll shave several miles off the trip," he told me.

He'd personally traveled those roads. Roads that were visible to me only as lines on a page in my mind.

He was the first of many milestones on my journey.

The tattered envelope with scrawled black pen, "I-40 west to Barstow" wasn't anywhere near as magical as the pages produced by Rand McNally, but it was more useful, more functional. I clung to that envelope because my life really did depend upon it.

And then, finally, it was time.

May 1997, just a few days before Memorial Day, I climbed up behind the wheel of my Jeep while my best friend strapped into the passenger seat and took possession of both the envelope and the Rand McNally.

I-40 was a road I knew. Straight. West. No worries. Grants passed by quickly. Then before we knew it, there was Gallup.

Then the Arizona border.

My tires made a noise as they passed over, and I cried. I didn't just cross this border casually. It meant something. It was a new frontier.

The entire State of Arizona lay ahead. Since Arizona was familiar, it eased me in. We settled into the miles while listening to Tom Jones and George Strait. We listened to everything I had in that Jeep and then tried to find decent radio stations.

Six hours. That's how long it takes to traverse the State of Arizona.

Then my tires made another small sound and another border was crossed.

I was in California. I didn't cry this time. Simply renewed my resolve and kept driving.

That was thirteen years ago, but it could be yesterday for how fresh it remains in my mind.

May I never lose my resolve. May I never lose my desire. May I never lose my ability to read a good old fashioned road map.

All it takes is a map, a little guidance from someone who bothers to care, and a step in the right direction and you can find your way.

If only someone could draw a map to help me navigate the more difficult emotional roads in my life. Those are uncharted.

I am both mapmaker and traveler and the journey never ends.

But the compass rose is still just as beautiful.

Photograph by Karin Lindstrom and used royalty free from stock.xchng

This week's Theme Thursday is map.

Revised Sentiments

Since I'm still in that obnoxious happy Holiday mood, I've been listening to my own mix tape of fave Christmas tunes in my car to and from work.

I don't play them much at home. Not sure The Good Man would go for piping all my insane Xmas cheer into the house.

Aaaaanyhow, this morning I was listening to the George Strait song, "Christmastime in Texas" and the line "it might look just like a summer day" which, of course, made me think of Christmas in New Mexico. I think there was snow on Christmas just once when I was growing up, and that was all melted off by noon.

Christmas in New Mexico was more like sixty-five degrees and shorts and a tshirt to play with my new toys outside.

I've always loved all the standard Christmas tunes, but hey, to a New Mexico kid, they don't really apply.

So I decided to tinker with some of the classics to give them more of a New Mexico vibe.

Here just a few, feel free to add your own!

______

"Up on a Housetop"

Up on a rooftop, stick stick stick, tar paper roof laid on too thick

"Walking in a Winter Wonderland"

Walking in a surprisingly summerlike wonderland

"Silent Night"

Silent night, holy HELL my neighbor's yard decorations are bright

"White Christmas"

I'm dreaming of a red or green Christmas. Green please, with a fried egg on top. Pass the tamales. (whoops, lost the natural rhythm of the song there....thoughts of Christmas tamales will do that to me)

"Let it Snow"

Oh the weather outside is windy, and the weeds are very tumbly, and since we've no place to go, let it blow, let it blow, let it blow

"The Christmas Song"

Calf's nuts roasting on an open fire, branding iron nipping at your flanks
(yeah, ok, so winter isn't exactly branding season, but go with me here!)

"Jingle Bells"

Paper bags, paper bags, burning in my yard

"Frosty the Snowman"

Nobby the mud tires, on a very four wheel truck,
with a four on the floor and a headache rack,
and two headlights made out of halogen

__________

Ah, mud tires and a headache rack. Now that's what Christmas means to me.

Your Definition and My Definition Differ Greatly

So every once in a while, I'll read something in the daily news that grabs my attention.

Occasionally, something really makes my eyes open wide.

And then every once in a while, I'll read something that makes my eyes open wide, leap out of my head, fall down on the floor and roll around a while.

The following headline in yesterday's news had just this effect on me.

El Paso named safest US city

Uhhh.

Errr.

"...El Paso has taken the top spot for having the lowest crime rate among cities of more than 500,000 population in the annual rankings by CQ Press, a publishing firm based in Washington, D.C."

So, yeah, I'm gonna guess that those people at CQ Press haven't paid a personal visit to El Paso lately.

Look, I'm not going to bag on El Paso. It is the birth place of my best friend, and that itself recommends it highly.

It's also the birthplace of Sam Donaldson and Gene Roddenbury. So ok. Some decent talent comes from the town that Texas forgot.

Having spent a lot of time in El Paso, I could use a lot of adjectives to describe the city. I'm not sure that the word "safe" would burble up to the top ten.

I'll be fair here. I'll even take out the obvious concerns about El Paso sharing a border with arguably the most dangerous city in Mexico.

In the past year, approximately 50,000 additional troops were located to Fort Bliss, an army installation in El Paso. Those 50,000 include both returning troops and soldiers left after bases closed in other states. That 50,000 is soldiers only. Add in spouses, kids, other family and the number of new residents rises.

Then add in the high number of people who are fleeing the violence in Juarez and the numbers climb even higher.

Put it together and you'll find a city bursting at the seams. You can feel it when you visit, the town is growing so fast that infrastructure is having a hard time keeping pace.

That means busy police, fire and emt forces are being overextended during a period of economic downturn and government cost cutting. Sure, all of the new city residents will pay taxes into the economy which will help shore up infrastructure, but that kind of growth takes time.

And then let's talk about the ongoing immigration flow through a border town like El Paso. My best friend's folks live within visual distance of the border highway's Zaragoza bridge. They have bars on their windows. In their some forty years of living there, they've found desperate illegals hiding in their yard. Neighbors have been robbed. Violence occurs (but isn't often reported). I've been sitting in the back yard and heard shots fired.

El Paso is a fine town with a rich history. There is a lot to offer the residents who live in that city. Reasonable real estate costs. The Franklin Mountains are beautiful. UTEP is a fine university. Great weather. Even lots of job opportunities. It may even be a relatively safe city. But safest in the US? I have to question that assertion.

Evidently, I'm not the only one.

Some Call El Paso's Safest City Ranking 'Bogus'

Weeee Represent the Lollipop Guild

I'm what they call a robust gal. Hardy. Big boned. The word "petite" doesn't apply to any of the assets I embody. I'm broad of shoulder and sturdy in the hips and thanks to a mom who told me to stand up straight, I own every one of my five feet and almost eight inches.

I had to stand in the back row for class photos. I long ago gave over to the knowledge that with these thighs, corduroy was not an option.

Back in college, I danced with short cowboys and took many a brim of a cowboy hat to the bridge of my nose.

After I moved to California, I wore flat shoes for years because I dated a guy not much taller than me. He once cooed over a friend who is teeny tiny, "you're like a little doll!" he gushed. I never felt more elephantine than I did at that moment.

This is the hand I've got to play, dealt by my genetics. Honestly, I've become more sanguine about it over the years.

This brings us to the events of yesterday. I'd been invited to a status update meeting with a VP from my company and the CEO of a large multinational corporation.

In the morning, I dug around in my closet and put together a pretty nice outfit. A meeting like this is big doings, so I knew I had to up my game.

I got dressed and put on my favorite pair of three inch heels. The outfit looked great. Before leaving the house, I asked The Good Man if I was committing a work faux pas.

See...my boss is about 5'9" on a good day, and his boss is maybe 5'6" if the wind is right and he's on the uphill side of an incline.

Is it bad form to tower over the people who pay my paycheck? The Good Man considered the question and decided the outfit worked, and thus all would be ok.

Off I went to work feeling pretty good. The meeting time rolled around and I stepped into the conference room. As I was the only woman in a roomful of nine men, they all rose and walked over to greet me.

Ok, so flatfooted I'm 5'8" and now wearing three inch heels I'm 5'11"

There was only one person in the room who was taller than me. Just one. The rest of these #$%^ing Lilliputians scrambled around somewhere about my kneecaps.

*sigh*

At the end of the day, I was very glad to go home, kick off my tall shoes, stand on tippy toes, and kiss my 6'2" husband.

Because that's the best way to navigate through a day chock full of Oopma Loompa-ish men.

(I might also add that I was only one of two Americans in the room. We had a gent from Hong Kong, a Dutchman, an Aussie, a Swede, a Scotsman, a Russian, an Irishman, a Spaniard, an American from Phoenix...and me.)

Time Has A Funny Way...

There is an episode of Futurama (oh god, I'm going to quote Futurama) called "How Hermes Requisitioned His Groove Back." It happens to be my favorite Futurama episode ever.

The episode is an homage to the bureaucrat, which appeals to me in a weird and sadistic way. At one point, the head bureaucrat is inspecting the locker of Fry, the show's ne'er do well.

The bureaucrat extracts a baseball cap from Fry's locker, and says, "Why is there yogurt in this hat?"

Fry replies, "I can explain. See it used to be milk, and...well, time makes fools of us all!"

This quote, "time makes fools of us all" has become a fave with The Good Man and me. Oft quoted and certainly true, time does make fools of us all.

And here's what's got me thinking this way...

After being sick both in October and for the first two weeks of November, I have been unable to shake a powerful and chronic cough. The gasping, almost retching, cannot-catch-my-breath sort of cough.

After being commanded by both The Good Man and my coworkers, on Friday I went to see a doctor. She was convinced I had Whooping Cough until she noted on my chart that I'd had a tetanus shot earlier this year. These days a Whooping Cough booster comes along with a tetanus shot.

So, after ruling out Whooping Cough and giving my non-stop cough a good listen, my doctor has determined that I have developed "hypersensitive airways."

In laymen's terms this means I now have asthma. I've never had asthma a day in my life, but evidently you can develop this problem at any time. It's not expected to become a permanent condition, and with medication, I should be able to recover.

My medication takes the form of an inhaler used four times a day, a regimen I'm not enjoying in the least, but I'm sticking to quite adamantly.

You see, this health issue comes with a heavy load of baggage. Like back the truck up, get a U-Haul, step aside, "damn that's a lot of baggage" sort of heavy.

Almost six years ago, my father passed away from complications of pulmonary fibrosis. It is believed he obtained this condition from the inhalation of beryllium in the course of his career at Sandia Labs.

In the years before he passed away, I watched my father struggle to simply breathe. Just bringing enough oxygen to his scarred and battered lungs was a battle. It was heartrending.

I thought then, "your breath is nothing to take for granted." But then time moved on. I went on about the matters of living my life. The lesson became less important.

This year when I got a winter cold, I got the resulting cough but I ignored it. I coughed my way through it and it went away, mostly.

Then I got sick again and it went right to my chest and set up home.

Right now, typing this, I breathe with a wheeze. I'm able to get air into my lungs, but it's hard to breathe deep without dissolving into a coughing fit.

What my father had was a disease of the lungs. What I have is a temporary inflammation of my airways. It's not the same, I know. But right now I kind of feel like time has made a fool of me.

I know better. Perhaps the lesson needed to be learned again.

Professor Time comes with a reminder: Breathing is nothing to take for granted.

Photo by Maria Herrera and provided royalty free from stock.xchng.

The Power of a Good PR Rep

Here in the Halloween season, it's hard not to have one's mind turn to thoughts of monsters.

Goolish, creepy, scary monsters.

We all have the cast of characters from our childhood (or even adulthood) that can still send a chill down the ol' spine.

For me, it's La Llorona. Just saying her name aloud creeps me out.

But didja ever stop and think a bit about the positive characters in our folklore that are more than a little creepy?

Maybe our beloved heroes are really the biggest monsters.

Think about it.

Let me give you an example, without the positive PR spin.

Kids, guess what!? There is this lady, see? She's something called a fairy and that means she's pretty tiny and probably has wings on her back.

Do you know what this lady likes (and by like I mean is obsessed with)?

Your teeth.

Yes, she loves little kids teeth SO much she will even pay for them!

Be careful when you go to sleep at night because this wacked out winged lady is going to break into your house and steal your teeth! Sure, she might leave you a quarter or for lucky kids, a dollar.

Keep your mouth closed while you sleep, kids! She may steal the rest right out of your maw while you sleep!

Or, try this one on:

How does Santa Claus look to a kid growing up in Brazil?

So, December 25th is the dead of summer to you. You're wearing shorts and tank tops and hoping for a break in the heat.

On that one special night, some fat Nordic man in a snowsuit (you gotta be crazy to wear a snow suit in summer!) is going to show up, break into your house, and leave you toys. All your favorite toys.

Wait? How does Kris The Fat Man know exactly what toys you wanted?

Because he sees you when you are sleeping. He knows when you are awake.

The fat Nordic man is a stalker, kids. Can you say stalker?

I suggest you take out a restraining order now.

Ok, are you starting to see what I'm saying here?

Wanna try one more?

There is this rabbit, see? And in April, as a way to celebrate Spring, the rabbit will come to your house and leave you eggs.

But kids, you learned in your science class that a rabbit is something called a mammal, and mammals don't lay eggs!

Whoops! Where does this strange bunny get all these eggs and why does he hide them?

And...bunnies don’t have opposable thumbs, so how is he getting these eggs dyed in bright colors?

And why is he trying to lure all the little kids outside with promises of jellybeans and chocolate? Didn't your parents tell you not to take candy from strangers?

What kid of sick, twisted, walks on two feet kind of rabbit is this?

Though in this horror story, the kids get the final revenge.

They are presented with a chocolate effigy of the offending monster and are encouraged to bite the head off.

So wait a minute.

Maybe that means....just maybe...we are all the monster.

Hmmm..........

He Spoke to Me

Do you have any idea how powerful it was when I read the following poem, written by Shel Silverstein as part of his book "Where the Sidewalk Ends?"

Listen to the mustn'ts, child.
Listen to the don'ts.
Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts.
Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me...
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.

I don't know how old I was, ten or twelve maybe? But to have an adult, especially such a surly looking adult, say something like that to me!

Whoa!

This past weekend, I pulled "Where the Sidewalk Ends" off my shelf and gave it a new read. It had been years. Maybe even decades.

And that poem, it still stopped me in my tracks.

I just finished a biography of Shel Silverstein called "A Boy Named Shel" that I found, of all places, at the Dollar Store.

I'm not going to lie to ya, the biography is not the greatest writing I've ever encountered. In fact, it's pretty bad, worthy of the venue in which it was purchased. That said it did give me some (hopefully true) insight into the life of the very prolific writer, cartoonist, songwriter and playwright.

I learned from this biography that Silverstein's mind was constantly in motion, constantly creating without restrictions.

I only know of a few creative people in my life that are *constantly* channeling The Muse. One of them might even be related to me.

I'm pretty creative and am usually chock full of ideas, but I also go through extended periods of time of writer's or crafter's block. Perhaps for me, these are quiet periods that are essential to my own creative process, because as frustrating is to be creatively constipated, I usually come through it stronger.

I have learned that The Muse will return if I just relax and let her go. She always comes back.

It's funny, sometimes seeing art or meeting a creative person will touch off a creative spark inside of me, thus breaking through the blockades. Through the words of his poems, Shel Silverstein did that for me this weekend. I started a new art project and I did photography and I felt the creatives begin to whisper in my ear, which always gives me such satisfaction.

I understand that Silverstein was a mentor to many of his friends. He would push them to create more, to push the bounds of their art and to be better artists.

Silverstein died in 1999, but his words remain powerful. They speak to me as loudly today as they did when I was young.

Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.

Photo From BigHeartDesign.com

Growing Into My Opinions

A knot of anxiety, excitement and trepidation tangled up in my gut as I approached the table and handed my driver's license to the severe looking woman with a ruler in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

I was a trembling 19 year old, and it was time to vote in my first presidential election. She would be the first poll worker I'd encounter in my young life, but not the last.

I'd been raised in a very conservative home and since dear ol' dad was a staunch Republican, he had let me know pretty clear who he thought should be the choice. But mostly he was just very clear that I should vote.

On polling day, I knew I had the right to make my own choices, so I thought a lot about both candidates and what they promised. With my mind made up, nervous but ready, I went into the polling booth and cast my vote.

There was a very satisfying tactile response from the voting machine. Click, click, click, then yank the lever. The curtains pop open like a low budget talent show, aaaaand you're done.

I've voted in every presidential election since my first in 1988. My choices have ranged over the years from conservative to liberal, up down, back and forth, east and west. I always vote after doing some research and doing a gut check to see what I think is right.

My choices have not always been the victor or even popular, but that's ok. My vote was cast.

Over the years, I didn't usually vote in the minor elections or even the mid-terms, but since moving to California, I've been better about that. I've voted in almost all the elections that have passed through, including the elections where there wasn't much to vote about.

And so here in mid-October, it's time to start thinking about voting again. November 2nd looms large on the horizon.

For the State of California, this is a big election. We choose a new governor from two really poor choices (I don't want to vote for either one, but I guess I'll have to pick). This is also a big election for the country as many Congressional seats are up for election.

Even if you think your vote doesn't matter, please, I'm asking you nicely, get out and vote.

Many candidates and pundits are not only expecting that people won't vote, in some cases, they are counting on the fact that certain demographics won't vote.

Prove 'em wrong. Vote anyway. Vote just because you can. Vote because it's the one of the few times you feel like you get to make your voice heard.

I'm not here to lobby one side against the other.

I'm not here to back any candidate.

I'm not here to back any party's agenda...

I'm just saying...vote, ok?

As a final thought...

A few years ago I signed up to vote by mail. It makes things very easy, and I'm more likely to cast my vote in any given election because of this simple process.

But sometimes I do miss that nervous knot I still get in my gut when walking into a polling place. It's so official, almost ceremonial. There is a reverence for voting that you can only get at an official polling place.

The word knot is the subject of this week's Theme Thursday

I've Lost My Marbles!

Woooo!

There they are! In my hand!

Oooh how I love marbles. I was in a Diddams party store today and I generally revert to about ten years old when I get in that store.

Sensory overload!

It was the bin of marbles that really did me in. That's grade school, baybee! We used to have mad marble competitions on the playground.

Damnit, I sucked at sports but I was GOOD at marbles.

I remember winning a very big and very pretty shooting marble from a bully of a boy. He was SO ticked off at me.

What did I do? I giggled, dropped the marble in my pocket, and walked away.

That's how I roll (pun TOTALLY intended!).

Ain't nothing better than a big bin of marbles.

Unless, of course, it's a big bin of rubber chickens!

(All photos taken with my iPhone)

I've Become That Grownup

Last month when I visited New Mexico and stayed with my best friend, I made it a point to spend time visiting one-on-one with each of my two goddaughters.

They are ten and eight now, fully formed people, and their challenges go well beyond walking and eating and sleeping. The so-called "real world" has decided to come roost in their lives, and it is extraordinarily hard for me to adapt as quickly as they have.

My oldest goddaughter is incredibly intelligent and incredibly obstinate too (*coff*herfather*coff*). Her problem is that she is so smart and world savvy that she's knows when someone is pulling a fast one or isn't acting in the smartest way.

But she's only ten going on eleven, so her powers to right the wrongs of this world are slim. So far, anyway.

She told me about how her new teacher this year is teaching the students a new approach to spelling. "I know how to spell, this is so dumb!"

And her teacher is making the students learn long division. By last year she had long division down cold. "Why do I have to do this all again!? It's such a waste of time!"

You know what? She's right. She's absolutely right.

So what do I do as the adult she's looking to for advice?

Do I do the usual grown up thing and tell her that the grown ups are right and she should just mind what they say?

Because I can't do that.

Do I tell her fight?! Fight to the end for justice!

No, that's not good guidance either.

So I dug deep into my own experiences and came up with just this:

"Pick your battles."

It was advice that was handed to me in my first year of work. Like my goddaughter, I was willing to take on every challenge, rail against the inefficiencies of the bureaucracy, fight the good fight for every injustice.

The mentor assigned to me, a very easy-going sort of fellow who was revered by the leadership of that company was the first to sit me down and tell me this lesson.

Pick your battles.

Figure out the fights that one, you think you can win and two are worth putting all the energy into. If it meets both criteria, then go for it.

And fight for the ones you can't win if it really, really matters. But remember you can't fight them all if you want to win any.

So I found myself sitting in the cooling evening breeze in the backyard of a Las Cruces home, imparting this same knowledge to a ten year old.

"Do you honestly expect the teacher is going to look at you and say, 'wow, you are right, I was teaching it wrong. Let's do it your way!'"

Her eyes went wide and she shook her head.

"So what are you trying to get to? What do you expect?"

She wants to be challenged. Ah, ok. There's something we can work with.

I told my girl that life is going to be pretty tough if every day is spent digging in her heels.

And so all of that best answers the question posed by the idea generator today:

"If you could pass on a piece of advice that meant a lot to you when you received it, what would it be?"

Pick your battles.

I might be qualified to impart that wisdom from my position in the long and deep trenches I carry behind me, heels worn down to the nub.

The Tradition of One Thousand Paper Cranes

Are you familiar with the Japanese tradition of folding one thousand origami paper cranes?

From Wikipedia:

"An ancient Japanese legend promises that anyone who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by a crane, such as long life or recovery from illness or injury. In Asia, it is commonly said that folding 1000 paper origami cranes makes a person's wish come true."

I have always been enchanted by this tradition, and many years ago when the daughter of a friend was to be married, I even helped participate in the tradition by helping the bride fold a thousand cranes before her wedding day.

It is an act of diligence, of repetition, of bringing yourself and your heart to each crane.

I was reminded of this tradition today, as I contemplated the creation of this, my one thousandth post here at Oh Fair New Mexico.

Each post is, to me, like a beautiful origami crane, my own work of art constructed from the folds of my brain, the diligence of my psyche, and the creativity of my Muse.

The posts vary widely in topic and scope. I started out as a homesick New Mexican looking to assuage my guilt by talking about home. Three years later, it still holds that space for me, but it's also grown well beyond, helping me to find my voice and my writing style.

I'm grateful to each and every reader who stops by and gives me their eyeballs for a few minutes. Especially those readers who have been here long enough to remember that The Good Man used to be The Cute Boy.

When I started this blog back in 2007, I hoped I'd be able to make it last for a year. I've well exceeded that goal.

So today, as I finish folding my one thousandth crane, I string them all together and let them take flight upon the wind. I've cast my cranes to the fates and I send them all out with the best of me on the wing.

Tomorrow, I'll sit in front of a blank Word document and start again, folding the first crane in the next series of one thousand.

May we all make a beautiful wish that comes true.

Mine already did.

Time Marches On

I remember the day I met him.

The year was 1989.

One of my friends had her eye on a boy who was part of a new Agriculture-based fraternity trying to get established at New Mexico State University.

Since he was in charge of getting new members to pledge, my friend had volunteered herself...and me, to work their rush party. It was held on a Sunday afternoon in one of the meeting rooms at the Pan Am Center.

We were there to pour fruit punch into paper cups and socialize with the prospective pledges.

My friend demanded I come with her, and so I did. I poured punch, I spoke to a few of the guys I already knew from the Ag College, and I felt uncomfortable.

Then I had this moment where I could feel someone looking at me, so I turned to look back. Over in the corner, behind a couple other fellows, was this boy.

He was the sort of quintessential cowboy you might find on the front of a western novel.

His eyes met mine for a moment, then flicked away.

Those eyes, a color somewhere between blue and black and gray. The color of a late afternoon storm on a hot August day in New Mexico.

He wore his hat low, and he looked at me again from under the brim, eyes in shadow.

My heart stopped, then skipped eight or ten beats.

I looked away and had to will myself not to stare. He still looked at me.

One of those "moments" passed between us.

A little while later, my friend dragged me around the room. I was her wingman as she made chirrupy conversation with all who would listen. Without warning, I found myself face to face with those smoky eyes.

"Karen, this is Michael**," my friend said, by way of introduction.

"Hi!" I said, fixing him with my most winning smile.

He nodded and touched the brim of his black hat with his hand.

Oh swoon.

"How are you?" I asked, trying to get something going.

"All right," he replied in a way that I think Louis L'Amour might describe as "laconic."

That was the extent of our first meeting. My pal quickly dragged me off. Michael was not the boy she had in her cross hairs, so we went across the room to chase that one down.

As it turned out, Michael was friends with a lot of people I knew, so over the years, I'd come to know him a bit more.

He always wore extraordinarily pressed shirts and jeans.

He wore a straw hat in summer, a black Stetson the rest of the year.

He always wore a carefully groomed handlebar mustache (or as they called it in the 70's, a "Fu Manchu").

He'd grown up on the family farm...pecans, cotton, green chiles.

He was studying biology with plans to become a veterinarian.

He always spoke in that slow quiet manner, and rarely had much to say.

Because of this, it became wickedly easy to tease him. He'd always have a comeback, something smart and funny, spoken in that slow, quiet manner.

I had a wild, unabashed crush on Michael.

Of course, the feeling wasn't mutual. We did manage to become decent friends.

This past Thursday afternoon, after laying my friend to rest, I sat outside at a folding table in La Union, New Mexico. We were gathered there to have a reception in memory of our friend.

I sat with my best friend and we visited with a buddy of ours from way back.

A shadow passed over the ray of sun to my side, and a chair across the table from me was pulled out.

Michael himself sat down.

He looked at me with that same intensity, and said in that slow quiet way, "Now that looks like trouble."

"Hey Michael," I said and he smiled.

Those intense eyes looked at me from behind the lenses of his corrective glasses. When he smiled, crow's feet crinkled at the corners. The dark hair of his handlebar mustache showed gray.

I sat back and looked at him. He looked at me.

I struggled for something to say, trying to get something going.

Something that might sum up the past fifteen years or so it's been since we were last in the same place at the same time.

Something meaningful.

"Goddamn you have a lot of gray hair. What the hell happened?" I said.

"I had that put in," he replied, smoothing back the hair at his temples. "It makes me look distinguished."

He had that familiar wry look in his eye and I laughed.

My heart skipped a couple beats then found its footing.

"I'm glad I'm not as old as you," I said. Then I inquired about his wife and kids.

I don't suppose I have a crush on Michael anymore, but behind all the attributes that have taxed my forty-something year old friends (and me), he hasn't changed a bit.

**Names have been changed to protect the innocent

Ow! *Slap*

And here we are at Friday, the end of another week.

An unusual week on my part, but happy to see Friday nonetheless.

Much to process from my day yesterday seeing old friends, burying a dear friend and reminiscing.

But for today, I'm here to talk about a feature of our Fair New Mexico that I really, really don't miss.

Mosquitos.

Now, where I live, I'm sure such creatures exist. It's just that I've not seen 'em.

I'm ok with not seeing them. Pinche insects.

I arrived Wednesday evening at my friend's home out in the boonies north of Las Cruces, and noticed water standing in all the pecan groves and cotton fields.

"I see everyone is irrigating," I mention.

Nope, they tell me. Rain. Three inches arrived the day before I did.

Which leaves standing water.

Perfect habitat for *slap* mosquitos.

I sat for maybe eight minutes outside at a table with a citronella candle on it. My arms. Fine. My ankles? Ten bites on the left, eight on the right.

Mosquitos in the house, too!

As I slept, I got zapped on the earlobe. The earlobe! The one place I forgot to apply repellent.

Gah!

And I won't mention a spot rather close to an unmentionable place where I was also ruthlessly attacked. Twice!

Hate 'em. Always hated them. Sure, I grew up with bug bites up and down my legs, and it was a fact of life. But living without them sure has been pretty durn nice.

I don't miss them. At all.

I'm not usually a fan of chemicals in the air, but even I cheered when the neighbors called the city to have the spraying truck come out. It helped, but didn't eliminate all the little buggars.

*scratch* This Benedryl lotion I'm using isn't helping one bit.

In other, happier, news I've been experimenting with night photography because the light noise at my friend's place is minimal. You can see the ding dang milky way out here!

If I get anything decent, I'll gladly share the results here.

As for now, onward to the weekend.

There Is This Man I Know...

It would be wrong to call him a cowboy. That implies something he's not.

He is, in fact, a farmer. Chile, corn, cotton, alfalfa. He fretted the drought and smiled at rainy skies.

Except that time it rained so hard it washed away the seeds he'd just planted. That night, he fretted while the rain fell.

That's unusual for a farmer.

He has a smile that could light up a room, the sky, the world.

He has the mind of a trickster, and his wry sense of humor is what drew me in.

Back then, he was a tall, slim drink of water.

His chest bore a long scar, a remnant from open heart surgery in childhood. It fixed a congenital problem. For a while, anyway.

That surgery colored his whole world. He was told he might not live past the age of twenty.

But he did. He lived. Oh, he was alive.

He took me out to dinner. We each ordered steaks at the truckstop diner in Vado, New Mexico.

It was far more romantic than it sounds.

He took me fishing and let me use his brand new rod and reel. I managed to irretrievably knot up the fishing line. He didn't even get mad.

Because he is a gentleman.

He took me for long rides down bumpy dirt roads. I sat next to him in the cab of his pickup, holding on tight, grinning.

He has a confidence that is older than his years.

He and I had some fun then parted ways amiably. I still call him my friend. More than a friend. A dear friend. "One of us" from a loosely knit group of kids who made a family while running around Las Cruces, growing up and getting educated.

I haven't seen him in years, but over the years I'd ask after him and sometimes he'd ask after me, too.

He's got an amazing wife and three sons and the weight of responsibility for his family's farm. A responsibility he stood up to each and every day.

Last week, he had surgery. That ol' heart problem was giving him trouble again.

The surgery went well, but he got an infection at the hospital that he couldn't quite fight off.

Sunday morning, my friend, my family, someone who showed me how to live passed away.

He was just 40.

I can't stop being angry. It's not fair. No one ever said life was going to be fair, but I don’t care. It's not fair.

I'm not good at grief. I've lost a father. I lost my best friend from high school. I lost a grandmother who was very integral to my life.

You'd think all the practice would make me better at this.

I'm not good at this.

Sometimes it's just easier to be angry.

It's an acceptable stage of grief.

I Left My Heart....

Wait. Where did I leave my heart?

If you are a Twitter type of person and you follow my tweets, you may have gotten some of-the-moment tweeting about what I'm about to describe.

There was an "incident" upon my departure from New Mexico about three weeks ago. I've tried to brush it off, but I find I cannot. I'm rather shaken to my core.

The executive summary is this: I got my heart broke by an eight year old girl.

And I may never recover properly.

I flew out to New Mexico for one of the annual "Chick's Trips" that my best friend and I love to put together.

I came in on a Thursday afternoon and my friend picked me up at the airport. Earlier that day, her husband had taken their two daughters, my goddaughters, on a camping trip. He was out spotting elk for an upcoming hunt His girls are avid outdoors women, so they are able to help.

Fabulous. That meant some one-on-one girl time with my best friend in the world.

There was cussing. There was discussing. There was a trip to the Ruidoso Downs.

Big fun!

We all got back my friend's house in Las Cruces on Sunday afternoon. I had to fly out Monday.

So Sunday evening I got to have some quality time with my little girls (who are not so little anymore).

I had a chance to chat with the older of the two, she's ten, and has had some troubles with another girl at school. I wanted to make sure that going into fifth grade, she was holding up ok.

I got to sit next to the younger of the two, she's eight, at dinner.

The next morning, the eight year old asked me to go on a walk with her out to look at her flowers in her yard. I told her I would be happy to.

As time will do, it went all slippery and got away from us. Nina Karen didn't get her walk in with the younger goddaughter.

This all came to a head at the El Paso airport. We arrived a bit early and my kids wanted to come inside the airport to see me off.

Without delay, my younger goddaughter began insisting to her mom that she needed to come with me on the plane.

Her mom told her that she couldn't come with me.

"But why!?!?" was the inevitable reply.

What followed was a long and persistent debate between mom and child about, logically, why she couldn't just get on the plane and come home with me.

Then the tears began in earnest. My younger goddaughter began sobbing.

And that's when the truth started pouring out....

"You and Nina Karen always go off somewhere and we never get to go!"

Early on, my friend laid down some age requirements for chick's trips. Plus, sometimes Mama just needs a break.

"We always have to go with dad and you get to go have fun!"

Which isn't very nice to the dad who is lots of fun. But he's a boy and boy fun is different.

"Nina Karen always comes out here and we never get to go to California."

Well, sure. Since I don't have little ones, and I get awful homesick, I do tend to fly that way a bit more often.

"Other than her name, I don't even know Nina Karen!"

Ok, that one hurt. That's so not true, and she later apologized for having said it. But in that moment, she broke my heart.

She wasn't done by a long shot.

I held my baby girl in my arms as she cried and cried, her tiny body racked with sobs. Of course, I started crying too. Then her mom was bawling. And her big sister was crying from the get go.

Four weepy girls all clutched together at the El Paso Airport.

I apologized to my girl and through tears she said she forgave me.

After a while, her sobs began to slow down. Then, time went and got us again. The long hand moved too quickly on the clock face, and it was time for me to leave.

I had to go home. But which home? My California home because The Good Man waited for me there. He is my heart.

But that little crying girl is also my heart.

I've never felt so torn between two places in all my life. It literally felt like being ripped in two.

I cried all the way through the security line, and the TSA man shooed me along.

Then I cried all the way through the terminal.

I used my phone to call my husband to tell him what happened, and started sobbing even harder.

With every tear, my heart broke a little bit more. Ground glass under a bootheel.

I'm not sure yet how I'm going to try to make this right.

My best friend is working on a road trip out here, maybe, to cut costs and make it easier for them all to come out here to California.

I'm working over in my mind a plan to go back to New Mexico. But when? Our weekends are booked through Labor Day.

I just know that I am as heartbroke today as I was three weeks ago.

The Hispanic culture embraces a concept called "Comadres". Co-Mothers. Best friends are like mothers to each others children.

I don't have kids of my own, but actually, I do. Those two girls are as dear to me as if I'd birthed them from my own body. I feel their pain, I revel in their joy. I would sacrifice for them with nary a thought.

Nina Karen has got to make things right.

I'll tell you this, I'll never again miss the chance to take a walk with my girls just to look at the flowers.

"Las Comadres," a painting by Juana Alicia.

The Great Dr. Pepper Incident

One of the perks of my new gig is that they make a large selection of soft drinks available for free to employees.

Now, this would be nice, except....

Several years ago, I gave up all soft drinks, both regular and diet.

They're just not good fer the ol' rig, ya know? Bad stuff, lots of chemicals, extra calories and such.

So except for a splash of ginger ale now and again to float a shot of Maker's Mark, I don't drink sodas.

But I have to say, free is pretty tempting, right?

I noted in the cooler, there were some chilled to perfection Dr. Peppers looking at me like the last puppy in the pet store.

When I was a kid, I adored Dr. Pepper. To me, it was nectar of the gods.

So yesterday, day two of the new job, I decided to cave and have myself a free Dr. Pepper.

Well.

Yuck.

I mean, p'tooie, bleah, barf, YUCK!

I took two sips and poured the rest out.

It didn't taste good. I'm sure some of that is due to the fact I just don't drink sodas anymore.

But you know what? I think A LOT of my reaction was that stuff from my childhood just doesn't taste the same or even good anymore.

Over this past weekend, I tried a Little Debbie Star Crunch.

That also tasted not at all like I'd wanted it to.

You know what I blame?

Corn syrup.

Ok, this isn't going to be a rant about corn syrup and how bad it is for you. It could be, but it isn't.

I’m just going to say this. Good ol' fashioned delicious cane sugar and corn syrup are NOT the same thing. The taste, the texture, the consistency, NOT THE SAME.

I blame corn syrup, which is in EVERYTHING these days, for the fact that none of the foods and beverages that I so loved in my youth taste like they should.

One could argue that as I have aged, my taste buds have changed, and there is some validity to that.

But that doesn't let pesky corn syrup off the hook.

Nope.

Then, just to add insult to injury, after I took two drinks of a Dr. Pepper and threw it out, I had heartburn for the rest of the day.

It just ain't right.

Life Imitating Art

So things are going to have to change up a bit here on the ol' blog.

Ya see...I started a new job today.

After ten successful months of consulting work and being my own boss, I agreed to be owned by a corporation once again.

It's a good job and a good company and this morning, nervous and anxious I burst out the gate, excited and ready to run.

This after I spent my last five days having a blast in New Mexico with my best friend in the whole world and two other good pals. Since my girlfriends are all teachers, this was a last hurrah for them, too.

A chance for us to act like kids before it became time to act like grownups.

Among other things, we hit the town of Ruidoso, NM and painted it red.

For my non-New Mexico readers, Ruidoso is known for, in this order:

1) Horse racing
2) Skiing
3) A preponderance of Texans

This weekend, the horses were fast, skiing non-existent and the place was crawling with Texans. An almost $900,000 purse for race number nine, the Rainbow Futurity, brought them out in droves.

I didn't manage to take home any of that fast flowing cash, by the by.

After the races, some dancing got done. There might have been some "adult beverages." Lots of cussing and discussing was also accomplished.

Yesterday, worn down with that good kind of tired, I came home to get ready to go to work. I had to pull the work clothes, dust off the cobwebs and act like a professional.

As time marches on, my idyllic weekend in New Mexico will be like a distant memory.

How long before I'm running as fast as I can, falling ever more behind, quirted into submission?

This being a grownup thing is a big load of horse hockey.

Life Imitating Art and associated images by Karen Fayeth are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

When you point a finger...

How does that old saying go? When you point a finger at someone, there are three pointing back at you?

Something like that.

Was pulling the virtual slot machine lever on a blog idea generator, and the topic came up, "Write a letter to someone you need to forgive."

Well geez. Make it easy, why don'tcha?

So I thought to myself, "Who do I have to forgive?" and an image came immediately to mind.

You see, there seems to be something I can't get over. It's childish and stupid, but for some reason I'm hanging on to this.

In considering how I'd write a letter to forgive, I realized...it's not the other person I need to forgive. It's me. I have to forgive myself for being such an assh*le sometimes.

Here's the background:

It's Saturday night, at the Gipsy Kings concert, sitting in the second row with my husband, excited for the show to start.

As showtime is close, in walks a gorgeous woman with dark hair, red lips, long toned legs clad in tiny white shorts, her top half in a tiny halter-top. She's also wearing a radiant smile.

She's beautiful. And she sits right in front of us.

Fine. Oh just...fine.

I look at her and I want to hate her. No. I look at her and I want to be her. On the outside, anyway.

The show starts and she and the guy she is with are drinking, they are laughing, they are having fun. She gets up to dance and catches the eye of the entire audience, the band, the roadies, the ushers, everyone.

She's beautiful and she has rhythm and she lacks self-consciousness and she dances well. We can't help but watch her.

I want to stop envying her, but I can't. And all those ugly things that women think about each other I'm thinking in my mind.

As the show goes on, I stop looking at the woman and I get into the show. As I described yesterday, it was an amazing musical experience.

Toward the end of the show, I start to notice the lady in front of me again.

Everything she's been drinking all night has started to catch up to her. She's got her eyes laser set on one member of the band and she's doing all she can to get and keep his attention.

She's trying to dance just for him, but she's so drunk, she's wobbling on her high heels.

She shakes her medically enhanced boobs for the singer, and one pops out of her halter-top. Her boyfriend stuffs it back in and speaks sharply into her ear. He's not happy.

She's so drunk, she doesn't care.

She keeps trying to dance in a sexy way for the guy in the band, but now it's become sad. She's stumbling around and sloppy drunk.

And I feel a little haughty. A little Dana Carvey as Church Lady high and mighty.

When the show ends and the band members are taking bows, she rushes up to the stage and summons the man she's been vigorously trying to get the attention of all night, much to the dismay of her boyfriend.

He comes over to shake her hand and she tugs at him hard, almost pulling him off the stage. When he's in range, she plants a sloppy kiss on his lips. The band man isn't happy. The boyfriend isn't happy. The lady throws her hands up in the air like a referee signaling a touchdown.

Now I'm embarrassed for her. In that haughty way I have.

The lady's boyfriend says some words to her, trying to keep his cool. She's so drunk, nothing is sinking in, so he grabs her hand and drags her away. He has to help her up the stairs out of the venue.

As we leave, we see them sitting on a low wall talking. Well, he's talking. She's trying not to pass out.

The Good Man and I go out to our car and we sit there waiting for the parking lot to empty out a bit. When we find a gap in the flow of cars, The Good Man turns on the car and hits the headlights. In the spotlight, we see the couple again. She's now slipped-over-the-line drunk, unable to walk. Her high heels are off and she can hardly stand.

The suffering boyfriend now picks her up like a sack of flour, under his arm, and carries her drunk dead weight to their car.

I feel sorry for the man. And the lady.

And I feel smug.

As we drive home, for some reason all I can talk about is the lady and her boyfriend, and I don't know why.

Why does this bother me? Why can't I stop obsessing??

And so here's the forgiveness part:

Dear Karen,

On the night of July 10, you, as they say in the vernacular, showed your ass.

Just because someone is physically attractive does not mean they are a better person than you...and just because they show they are human does not mean you are better than them.

It just means we're all human.

How about you forgive yourself for all the things you think you should be and aren't, and all the things you think you are but shouldn’t be?

How about just being ok being you?

Betcha it might make your days go a whole lot easier.

I forgive you. Now you forgive you too.

Go get 'em, tiger.

Love,

You