I imagine...

I did a lot of stream of consciousness writing in 2006 when I was trying to figure out what I wanted my new life to be like. I'm still trying to figure it out but I read this and realized that my ideal life is pretty much the same.

I imagine…

Loading up my car for a trip to camp… to sleep under the stars in the desert with no tent. To sleep by a campfire on the beach in Baja and wake up smelling smokey, to drive up the coast with all of the windows down.

I may be with someone – my kids, a friend,  a lover… it’s peaceful and I smile and we laugh… a lot. I imagine being free and happy with simple things – a simple kind of life. Independent and powerful and smart enough to make decisions and face challenges. To may by brain work through problems.

To have a job that I love but doesn’t suck the life from me. Where I can leave and not feel like I have to work weekends.

To me, happiness is peace. Friends drinking wine. Dancing until midnight. Laughing at stupid stuff. Waking up to fresh coffee.

I imagine hanging with my kids. Teaching them how to be smart people. Showing them new things – helping them experience fun activities that teach them about nature. Showing them that giving an old lady and her dog a ride to the bus stop is a lesson in random acts of kindness. That life really doesn’t revolve around Tamaguchi and Pokemon. That rain is beautiful. That they have everything. That they are strong and smart. How to solve problems. That its okay to cry. That its not okay to be meant to people. That there are thousands of things they can do to be happy. That crawling into bed with me on a Sunday morning is really okay. That I’ll always be there for them no matter what. That strong, smart and beautiful is a very powerful combination. That there is beauty in everyday things. That there is a lesson to be learned in every interaction. That there you should never ever give in – ever. That you should tell people what is beautiful about them at any time – not just special occasions. That you should never save your good clothes for special occasions. 

Dr. Mary Jane is in the House.

Last weekend I took the kids to the Adams Avenue Roots Festival to see some music. I met one of my friends at The Blind Lady Ale House – a kid-friendly pub. Seriously… it was like the Lord smiled down upon North Park. After a frosty, noon Hefeweisen accompanied by a juicy orange slice we cruised around, ate churros and roasted corn, listened to music and gawked at crappy silver jewelry.

But the day wasn’t complete until I had one of my little minions carry out a task in the name of social research. There in the middle of the street fair was a medical marijuana booth and I wondered an organization like that might handle precocious questions from kids and pre-teens who might be roaming about.

Being of curious mind, I had to find out for myself. So I shamelessly sacrificed one of my own in the name of science. I basically paid Wyatt a pack of gum to go up to the kind folks behind the table and say, “Hello. I’d like to inquire about medical marijuana.” They unceremoniously told him he had to come back when he was older. Wyatt politely thanked them, meandered his way back and promptly he hit me up for a buck to buy a pack of Hubba Bubba strawberry-flavored gum.

Packed Like a Van of Sardines

I was headed to Austin on a business trip on dark March morning. I parked at my usual garage where a white utility van shuttles sleepy business travelers to their terminal. I gave the driver my pack to stow in the back, then climbed in across the bench with my carryon and comfortably settled in with four other passengers. I considered for a moment how this situation would be different if I were in Asia but instead of going through the mental exercise, I sprawled out my legs, cracked my complementary copy of USA Today and let the thought escape. The shuttle made another stop to pick up a fifth – and that’s when one of the gentlemen behind me quipped, “Jeez! How many people care they gonna cram in here?!”

The number that immediately came to mind was two. That's when I whipped out my short, plastic stools with cartoon characters on them and mentally placed them around the van: between the driver and shotgun passenger, in the aisle… oh and there was easily enough room for another bench. I proceeded to waive passenger after passenger on, filling every crevice of this monstrous van putting couched passengers on mini stools, sitting on top of other peoples’ bags and up against each other. Benches that were designed to comfortably hold three people were now crammed with five – not counting backpack babies and small animals. By the time I was done I had managed to fit 21 adults, 2 infants and a piglet into my ridiculous-sized American EconoVan. I anticipated the angst and outrage that my fellow passenger would have expressed as I demanded his money. I smirked as I stuffed my pockets with imaginary dollars and waited for an undetermined and uncommunicated number of minutes before I felt like hopping in the driver's seat and whisking my pesky passengers away to their terminal.

Backpacking... sexified!

Who says backpacking can't be sexy?

I went on a backpack to the Anza Borrego Desert back in January it was beautiful. Ted was an older gentleman who was tasked with job of leading our group through the West Butte area. He seemed like an ordinary older Sierra Club chap but what caught my eye was his very subtle sense of hiking fashion that only the keenest of eyes and most childish of minds would laser in on: Ted's red fishnet belly shirt.

It was fodder in the purest sense. Sadly, my smart-ass comments went suppressed and therefore unappreciated. The only thing I could do was snicker to myself, cracking witty, sophomoric jokes under my breath. There was no one with whom I could share my 12-year old sense of humor or at minimum exchange saucer-eyes coupled with my sphincteresque I'm-trying-not-to-laugh mouth.

So I'm attaching a picture so you can fully appreciate the story and in hopes that it inspires some childish thoughts of your own.

TV Dinner by Lisa Gonzalez (circa 1988)

This is a story I wrote a really long time ago when I was bored in a small office.

He sat back in the tattered armchair. Thinking. His old fork poked listlessly at the turkey in gravy TV dinner that sat balanced on his bulbous beer-belly. Smoke hovered stagnantly over his balding head. The television buzzed with static and conversation — Ozzie and Harriet were just wondering where Ricky was.

He kept blaming it on her...how SHE had made him this way. He knew deep down that he had let her get to him. What comes next? Twilight Zone or the Honeymooners? He hoped that it was Twilight Zone. He liked the way that Rod Serling could smoke a cigarette and look cool. He took a long drag of the Lucky Strike and grimaced as the smoke burned his eyes. He could never look cool smoking. Maybe it was because he was just never very cool. Cool people never ate TV Dinners.

The phone rang. He could have answered it in one ring, but he didn’t want it to look like he was waiting for her to call and let it ring another two and a half times. He picked up the phone and tried sound like he was in the middle of something very important. It was hard to do in the middle of a TV dinner and the Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. He belched and could taste a cross between Lucky lager and half frozen corn backed up in his throat and swallowed it anyway. Just like everything else. He picked up the phone, but no one would answer. There was definitely someone there because he could hear John Cougar dinging about a chili-dog. He remembered how she hated John Cougar and was sure it wasn’t her on the other end of the phone. She wasn’t the type to play those games, but he secretly wished that she was.

He hung up and wondered which nightclub she might be at tonight. He wondered if she asked other men for a cigarette the same way she had asked him the first time they met. He never smoked before he met her, but she was the reason he started. She was the reason for a lot of things. She, with her long painted fingernails and sticky red lipstick. She never really cared about him. He wondered why. Maybe it was because he never really cared about himself. She could see through him like Saran-Wrap on a bowl of leftovers. And now, that’s all he was. Left over. He knew deep down that she would never call. She didn’t like leftovers. She didn’t like TV dinners either.

Death demands.

There are days when I feel invincible. But I know that someday I will meet my demise and God forbid that it will come before my 90^th year. But if in fact I do kick the bucket I have a list of demands. If they are not met, I swear I will haunt your ass until you make it right.

1. You are forbidden to display an “In Loving Memory of Lisa Gonzalez 1964 – xxxx” vinyl sticker on the back of a car window. My mom has been apprised of this. Debbie is responsible for enforcement.
2. I don’t really need a tombstone, but some kind of graffitiesque memorial marker would be kind of cool – like maybe if someone scratched “Lisa Gonzalez kicks ass!” in some new concrete in the Gaslamp or "LG is MILFY" tagged the underside of a bridge in the Barrio that’d totally rock. Yes, Buchanan... tatoos are totally appropriate - as long as they are prison-style. 
3. You have to sing Freebird and light real Bic lighters. I hate that song – but I would totally laugh at the triteness. "Lord knoooowws I can't chaaaannnggee...."
4. Take all the good organs and give them to someone worthy. And I know exactly who should get my liver. I won't mention any names but I think you know who you are...
5. Cremate the leftovers. Put my ashes in a box and call it a day. No fancy urn. Because you’re gonna have to dump ‘em out eventually. (see #6)
6. You can’t scatter my ashes right away. You have to take them out for a drink on my birthday. This responsibility goes to Sheila because I know she’ll totally do it.
7. Hmmm.... what to do... what to do... I can't decide what should be done with my cremains. Here are a few ideas...

• Make a gem. There are companies that will turn my ashes into an overpriced diamond after which you can have it mounted in a ring or pendant setting. What a morbid, yet elegant and timeless reminder of everything I ever wasn't!
• Make an ocean reef. Mixed with concrete I can truly sleep with the fishes. If you want, you can add your hand print or graffiti message before the reef is lowered into the ocean. (See Demand #2)
• Make fireworks. Enjoy your own personal sky show starring yours truly! Family and friends can look on in excitement and wonder as my ashes are shot into the air via fireworks and thereby scattered into the ocean. I think going out in an explosive wad of glory is the most appropriate choice by far. BANG! BANG! BABY!