Journalistic integrity.

I have a confession to make. I suck at journaling. I have always wanted to journal, and have always marveled at those who do so consistently, but it has never caught on with me. My bookcase contains about 10 journals of all shapes and sizes that have about a month's worth of writing in them usually starting on January 1 (did I mention that I suck at New Year's resolutions too?). It's not that writing down my thoughts at the end of the day is time consuming or oppressive, it's just that I, well, don't think my life is interesting enough to keep writing about. Sure, I could write about where I ate for lunch that day or a new wine that I tried or whatever, but will I really care about those things 20 years from now when I look back and read them? Plus, what if I become famous someday and long after I pass away, they find my lost diaries and want to publish them until they realize that the general public does not want to read "Today I ate asparagus and it made my pee smell." Then people will laugh at me and realize that I wasn't really as talented as they thought I was and didn't deserve to be famous after all. And I just don't want to put my two adopted African children through that.

That being said, I made a vow to myself to journal every day of my trip to the mountains, mostly because I had some mental shit that I had to work out and I thought that writing my thoughts out on paper might help me work through it. I did not count, however, on my mom bringing about 15 different bottles of wine and letting the sweet elixir flow like the nectar of the gods. And since I did most of my writing at night, the entries turned into something a little more entertaining than feelings, analyzing, emotions and other worthlessness. Highlights below.

.. ..

Day One
Woke up late (awesome). Did some yoga a la DVD to become one with my inner zen. Apparently my inner zen is just as cynical as my outer zen because the woman on the DVD just might be the most annoying person ever. I try to concentrate on my breathing but the bags under her eyes are distracting. I am so fucking zen right now. Ohmmmm.

Gym. Old people on treadmills. Classic episodes of "American Gladiators" on the TV. Sweet! Old person switches the TV to Fox News. Shit. Crazy rich old people with all of their money and conservative fake news. Shower time!

Craft fair. Man, people sure do make a lot of crap and call it "art." Among the paintings of bears and deer and some pottery that looks like someone pooped it out, I find a necklace that is actually pretty cool and pretty cheap. Score! One of these days I am going to cut branches off trees, paint them different colors, glue them on a canvas, slap a $100 price tag on it and go to a craft fair and sell the shit. I could clean up.

Nighttime. Pre-dinner cocktails with mom on the porch. We talk…and talk…and talk. We process some stuff from my childhood and from her marriage to my dad, which include details about gross stuff and I throw up a little in my mouth. But then I wash it down with pinot grigio. Cut to two hours later. We are drunk and have totally forgotten to cook dinner. Oops. We agree to go the new restaurant down the street that has beer, which is remarkable only because it used to be a dry county until this year. Score one for the drunks! I like when my mom drinks because she laughs at her own jokes and cusses. Through our conversations I know that she is completely in every way my mother. And I am definitely her daughter.

.. ..

Day Two

Breakfast. Yoga. Shopping in nearby town of Highlands. I find a store that has half-priced Lucky Brand Jeans but not my size, which convinces me that the mountain gods hate me. I return to the condo defeated.

Time to hike! I want to hike by myself to clear the cobwebs from my mind and find clarity at the top of a mountain. Four miles of straight uphill later – with an amazing view of the valley I solve problems, make commitments, find my smile and come to a place that is familiar and warm. It's nice. After about an hour, I make my way back down the mountain. Suddenly I feel like someone has just stabbed me in my heel. I look down and swat off a very large, ugly bug. The pain shoots up my leg and I immediately think I am going to die on this mountain. I start hobbling down the trail, going quickly because I don't know how much longer I will have until I faint and hit my head on a rock. "I will die on this mountain," I think to myself. Dramatic? Perhaps. Possible? Maybe. It happens. My ankle swells up like Kirstie Alley on a post-Jenny Craig bender. Before I know it, I make it to the bottom. I have lived to hike another day. When I get back to the condo, I prop my foot up and pour myself a glass of wine and raise my glass. To the bug that bit me and made me realize how precious life is – I hope he died a slow painful death choking on my blood. Cheers!

.. ..

Day Three
Dad and Jeff arrived today. We go hiking at Whiteside Mountain. We split up – mom and I go up the uphill part, and the pussies, I mean the boys, go up the more gradual trail. We cross at the top. Mom and I make it to the bottom where Jeff is waiting. No sign of dad. We wait. And wait. I wonder if dad got bit by the same kind of bug I did yesterday and has fainted for real. He finally makes it down. It's wine-thirty, bitches! Let's go!

.. ..

Day Four
(blank)

.. ..

Day Five
(blank)

.. ..

Day Six
(blank)

.. ..

Day Seven
Shit. Old dog, new tricks. Better make room on the bookshelf.