I refuse to throw up.

picture-4.png There should be a picture here of me holding an Emmy, crying tears of joy even. Not because I won one (yet) but because this past Wednesday, my Hippy Wednesday Ladies Creativity Writers Group had a special edition at the resort-like Malibu home of one of our illustrious ladies. It was an Emotional Farewell Fiesta to one of our favorite members before she ups and moves to Boulder, CO where I have promised to someday take her on a Mork & Mindy driving tour. To get off my own track for a second, let me describe the group and how it works lest you deem my name for it unfair. A group of ladies gather together every Wednesday from 11-2 (fully clothed) at our fearless leader’s home that she used to have to share but now gets all to her own. We do not bring writing for critique but instead, someone volunteers each week to lead us through a “creativity exercise.” This can and has been anything this person can devise. There are no rules. And shoes are not required. But, before we do this, we meditate. Together. Then we get creative. Then we go around The Circle one-by-one and read our creation to the group aloud. And then, we “manifest.” Together. One time this ended in a “laying of the hands” where in order to reach a member, spiritually, we all gathered around her and laid a hand on her. To those of you who know me from New York, welcome to my new world. I have met many a writer who would rather take the math portion of the SAT again than do this, and at one time, that might’ve been me– but I do love this crazy group and am quite thankful to be a part of it. So, this past Wednesday instead of doin’ what I just described in vivid detail, we had a party and, behind the gate, in the house, near the tons and tons of food stuffs that were specially prepared to meet my complex set of dietary needs, were a handful of Emmys. I promised myself that I would take a picture of me, holding that sucker, that I would even break my No More Tears Policy and work some up to make it look real. It was going to be funny to have! And also inspiring to have in a “The Secret” style way! And then I fucking forgot. I walked out of there, with that horrible nagging feeling that I was forgetting something because I was forgetting something. And it didn’t hit me till very very late the next evening, somewhere in-between crawling from my bed to the bathroom and collapsing on the tile floor with my pants around my ankles. Turns out at least four of us were “touched” that day (fifth pending confirmation)…but by something poisonous we put in our mouths. And that nagging feeling I had was really just my intestinal battle lines being drawn.

ed. note: Tally of Women Down now stands at eight. and why god why does Pedialyte taste like Jolly Rancher Sauce?picture-3.png

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