Can someone please remind me how we’re all supposed to die this year? All I know is that, for the past, say, 6 years or so, I’ve experienced an impending sense of doom when hearing of the year “2012.”  I have a vague understanding that something catastrophic happens in December, it has something to do with Mayans and their calendar, and that we’re “all gonna die.” And then there was that John Cusack movie I refuse to see. Not because of John Cusack, but because I get images in my head, obsess over them, and then, as Mike Dooley says, “thoughts become things.” If we’re all dead by December, I squarely want that blame placed on someone other than myself.

I remember when we first brought my son home from the hospital in 2007. I was in that weepy postpartum stage. I had run out of things to cry about, the first being the fact that, one day, my son was going to have to experience middle school (I hope my niece, who is heading to middle school this fall isn’t reading this) because it’s absolutely the worst thing that ever happened to me and, you know, I’ve lost loved ones. With nothing more to cry about, I had to cry about the fact that my little boy would only be 5-years-old when…whatever terrible thing is supposed to happen in 2012…happens. But, hey, no middle school! Silver lining…I guess.

I know a Google search would take care of this, but really…is it an asteroid? A virus?

My stepmother, who is a talented hypnotherapist and knows all about things cosmic, told me a few years ago that the real issue of 2012 doesn’t actually describe the end of the world, but the end of time as we see it. As in, as I understood, the measurement of time. Expression of time. How time is spent. How time is valued.

Based on what I’ve experienced over the past 5 months or so, I’m going to go with this idea. Time and space being relative (thank you, Albert Einstein), it sounds like things are going to get dreamy. Recently, I’ve had several ‘real-life’ experiences that have been so dream-like, I’ve had to ask myself whether or not I was awake (and once I figured out that I was, I could barely stand the urgency of making sure I drank in and memorized every aspect of the moment). Additionally, my dreams have been so realistic that I’ve had to remind myself, once I’ve woken up, that they were just that, dreams. It seems like the line between dreams, whether sleeping or daydreaming, and reality is narrowing, or at least becoming more elastic.  It reminds me of the way I felt when I was a kid, like anything was possible. As if magic was all around me in the form of spirits and faeries, not just in Las Vegas in the form of Criss Angel and David Copperfield (with all due respect).

An abbreviated list of these moments includes:

The morning of my husband’s marathon, just as all the runners were getting ready to form at the start line, a breeze picked up and caused a huge Cottonwood to shed a blizzard of blossoms. My son asked how it could be snowing and sunny at the same time.

My son’s last day of preschool, my husband and I walked him from the park to see his new Elementary School. Church bells were ringing (on a Friday afternoon?).  It made no sense. But it was magic.

An ice cream truck just drove down our street…I heard the music first, then waited for the truck to go by.  As it passed, the driver somehow managed to make eye contact with me through the front window and smile. I bet he didn’t even know he was doing it, he was probably just smiling in this direction. It’s a sunny beautiful Sunday afternoon, people are out mowing their lawns, I can hear the radio playing from the porch next door. All was perfect, but I couldn’t run to get my son, or run out to meet the ice cream truck (due to my broken foot), and it felt like an opportunity lost, until I got that smile.

I admit, I may be giving weight to these moments that they do not necessarily, outwardly, deserve. But that’s pretty much what magic is, perception. And I’d rather live believing 2012 will bring more of these dream-like moments, as opposed to waiting for John Cusack to save me from a Typhoon or something.

Plus, how great would it be to feel like this all the time? Maybe once 2013 rolls around, everyone will notice it’s snowing blossoms, not just the 5-year-olds.

I have a friend who just climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro. My husband just ran his second marathon, shaving 6 minutes from his previous already speedy time, hitting the Finish Line at 3 hours, 31 minutes.  Not bad for a guy who’s turning 40 on Thursday. My eleven-year-old niece is 3 belts away from being a Black Belt.  I’m surrounded by physical accomplishment, grace and endurance.

As for me?  Apparently I can’t even manage the single step from the kitchen to the patio without fracturing my foot in two places.

But, it’s not all my fault.

Here’s the culprit.  The Mini-Tweet. Oh, sure. Cute, isn’t it? A seemingly innocent toy, abandoned, lying on the patio. In my mind, it wasn’t just lying there. It was lying in wait. Look at it, the knowing look in its eye that says, if you step on me, even in your sensible moccasins, you won’t crush me. Your foot will simply roll over me, twisting your ankle, until you hear a loud crack that, I assure you, will not be me.

The loud crack was, as it turned out, my 5th metatarsal.

It didn’t help that I was holding a tray of four squash starts that I was heading outside to plant. When I twisted my ankle, I also instinctively twisted my body in some bizarre pirouette that managed to save the squash plants but left me unable to walk or drive for the next 6 weeks.

My mom came over later that day to, among many other things she took care of for me and will probably be taking care of for me for said 6 weeks, plant my squash.  They are doing great.  Flourishing, in fact, as my foot swells to the size of a smallish pumpkin and, color-wise, looks like the feet that peek out from under the white blankets in all those mortuary scenes on CSI. She asked my husband in hushed tones if the accident had ‘anything to do with alcohol.’ I wish! That would be a better story, and give some explanation to my inexplicable clumsiness. Not to mention the fact that ‘comfortably numb’ would have been a far preferable state at the time to ‘painfully aware.’

One silver-lining (and I tell you, I am searching desperately for them…they have to be there somewhere) was meeting EMT Charles who, while wrapping my foot at the ER, told me incredible, delightful and disgusting tales from the ER to distract me from the pain. He recently began posting some of these in blog form, so others can be similarly delighted and disgusted (and at times, moved). Check them out.

So, this will be the summer of figuring out what I’m good for when I can’t do all the things I normally do. My mom will drive my son to his piano lessons.  My husband will mow the lawn. I’ve already had to use the Little Rascal at Trader Joe’s, which was simultaneously fun and embarrassing (I was disappointed in the ‘horn,’ which turned out to be a tiny double-beep that sounded less threatening than a text message alert). I can’t really ask anyone to paint the commissions I have. I think I’ll have to channel my favorite artist to manage that one:

At the urging of my ‘turn the other cheek’ husband, I deleted the litigious letter I initially wrote in a pain-filled Vicodin haze, threatening to sue the makers of Mini-Tweet for haphazardly selling these adorable accidents-waiting-to-happen without including the following warning on the packaging:

Do not leave Mini-Tweet abandoned on the patio.  Mini-Tweet will take you down. Especially if you are a clumsy, spacey writer and/or artist.

When I was in high school, I was too cool for spirit assemblies.  I attended one, and when our 5′ 2″ principal Dr. Doggett started running around the gym with our 6′ tall assistant principal Mr. Jeffries riding him piggyback, I decided I would skip the mandatory assemblies and head to Winchell’s instead to spend my 45 minutes smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee with my similarly too-cool boyfriend.  Well, I don’t smoke anymore and, with age, I’ve realized Dr. Doggett’s feat was fairly impressive, so these days I embrace spirit more readily. Also, these days, spirit is not mandatory. In fact, my emerging unabashed (read: geeky) spirit for the city I moved to 6 years ago has come as a bit of a surprise.

I have become a Tacomaphile.

The fascination began with the first phone book that showed up on our doorstep; emblazoned across the front cover in raised golden letters was the phrase “The City of Destiny.”  How epic!  Had I landed in a town that matched me in my predisposition to exaggeration?  So it seemed!

After a few months, I was blending in quite nicely, walking Pacific Avenue with my son in his stroller with all the other moms in sweats (and other interesting characters who spend their days walking along Pacific Avenue for various reasons). Budget had been a consideration not only in our move from Seattle to Tacoma, but in the neighborhood in which we settled. We found a sweet post-modern style house for what was a bargain back then and would be considered highway robbery now.  We loved the house and did little to no research on the neighborhood, relying mainly on its ‘vibe.’ Our instincts were good – we quickly got to know every business within a half mile, because everything we needed was within a half mile! The Safeway, the library, the veterinarian, the bank, the preschool Ellis would eventually attend, and even the Walgreens with whom we are now in a Hatfield and McCoy style feud. I love our ‘hood. The woman behind the counter at the Cost Less pharmacy/U.S. Postal Service annex where Ellis buys a Tootsie Pop everyday after school even special orders his favorite flavor and sets them aside for him (the flavor, by the way, is pomegranate).

My love has blossomed further since I’ve been writing for The Weekly Volcano.  As an Arts and Features writer for the weekly, I’ve had the blessed opportunity to meet a handful of the people that make Tacoma a true gem, all of whom are working hard to dash Tacoma’s bad rep to the rocks and actually let it be known that Tacoma is hip.  A mantra I hear repeated time and again by these talented people, all busy setting up concerts, building arts and merchant networks, designing Tacoma pride logos, etc., is “We want people to know that Tacoma is its own destination.”   Is that a more pragmatic echo of Tacoma as the City of Destiny? Tacoma seems to be the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow – a hidden treasure that no one knows how to find. Indeed, before I moved here, I only knew Tacoma as a concrete dome and a bad smell on my way between Seattle and Portland.

I don’t smell the Tacoma aroma anymore.  I know it’s there.  I see it on the faces of out-of-town guests who come to visit.  I’ve become accustomed to the waft of the paper mill, it seems.  Just as I’ve become accustomed to Tacoma’s car shows,  the Dia De Los Muertos festival at the Tacoma Art Museum, the multiple Farmer’s Markets, the cashiers in my neighborhood who have known my son since he was an infant, the looming volcano in my backyard, the biggest Trader Joe’s I’ve ever been to (with the friendliest, least snooty, employees of any Trader Joe’s in history), the Harmon and its offspring, Wright Park with its elaborate and, unbelievably, free-to-all spray playground, Rainiers games at Cheney Stadium, complete with fireworks on Friday nights, the ONLY pay-as-you-will children’s museum in the country (and it’s a good one), the most beautiful Zoo I’ve ever been to, and the only Zoo I’ve ever been to that boasts sharks…the why-I-love-it-so-much list goes on and on.

Neither love nor beauty can exist without imperfection, of course.  As I was recently gushing about Tacoma to a young lady I was interviewing for a story, she pointed out that while Tacoma has a lot of community support for creative expression, there can be an issue with what she called the ‘Prima Donna syndrome.’  Some artists who get big in Tacoma end up leaving it behind believing, often erroneously, that they’ll have similar success in bigger markets.  On the flip side of that coin, a Tacoma musician I interviewed for a different story pointed out that Tacoma’s secondary market has its own value being…just that.  There is a benefit to being a big fish in a little pond; he noted that as a succesful musician in Tacoma, he can have it all.  He gets to play rock star, has a built-in fan base, and also gets to have a family and a 9-5 job in the arts, bringing it all full circle.

So maybe those Prima Donnas should just stick around?

When I moved to Tacoma, the ultimate dream was to eventually sell a script that would allow me to move back to LA. But this future screenwriting Prima Donna might re-think that scenario. Flights to LA from SeaTac aren’t prohibitively expensive, especially for a successful screenwriter.  And can you get any more Prima Donna-ey than flying in to Los Angeles for an early afternoon meeting?  I’ll let you know.

For now, I’m enjoying the following:

Chad and Ellis at Cheney Stadium watching the Rainiers.

Dahlias, my favorite, from the 56th Street Farmers Market.  $5.

A car show on South Tacoma Way, with local music and grilled corn on the cob.

A feed factory with which I’m inexplicably fascinated.

And all the interesting architecture and summertime colors…

There are certain things that I find funny that my son doesn’t question. Stockings, for one, hung by the chimney with care. Stockings. They’re basically socks. Socks that hang in our living room from the day after Thanksgiving through December. Why? Then again, why should he question them? They’ve been there as long as he can remember, and on Christmas morning they’re filled with presents and candy. Is there really a need to ask questions?

When I was a kid, we didn’t have hooks for our stockings, so the stockings would, come Christmas morning, be displayed by the chimney with care. Lined up diagonally across the flagstone of our 1970′s hearth, fat with goodies like Tinkerbell perfume, Chapstick, little paper envelopes of Cinnamon-flavored toothpicks, Choose Your Own adventure paperbacks, candy and, always, a pad of paper and a pen to diligently record what everyone had given us so we could write our thank-you notes. Our house had a staircase that wrapped around the chimney, and there was sort of an overlook above the fireplace over which one could peek down into the living room. I still remember descending my bunk bed bright and early every December 25th, crawling silently along the shag carpeting and rising just far enough above the edge to see whether or not the stockings were full.

What a feeling to find that they were.  I KNEW I’d been good!

These days, my husband and I don’t do regular gifts for each other. We pick one gift for the family (seeing it written out like that makes me feel so practical and parental)–but we still fill each other’s stockings. Truth be told, we get a little out of control with the stocking filling. We’re not just talking travel toothpastes, bath bombs and fun-sized Snickers, people. I’ve tucked many an airplane-sized spirit in his stocking (about four can fit in the toe alone) along with DVDs, CDs…he’s wrapped thoughtful books, gorgeous earrings, and…okay…airplane-sized spirits in mine. It’s fun to have the challenge of boundaries. Whatever fits in the sock goes.

Ellis still gets showered, stocking and otherwise. He’s very questioning these days; I will be surprised if he doesn’t ask me, this Christmas morning of 2011, now that he’s almost five, why the hell his presents come in a sock.

With that in mind, I’ve done a little research:

I’ve found the most popular story to be that of a ‘kindly nobleman’ who, while raising his three daughters by himself, lost all his money through bad investments and useless inventions. When it came time for the daughters to marry, the family was distraught because they had no money for the dowries they needed.

The devastated daughters, not wanting to make their father feel bad, went about their business. One night, as any other, they washed their clothes and hung their socks by the fireplace. In passing, St. Nicholas noticed the dark cloud that hung over the household and was inspired to help. He flung a few bags of gold from his pack down their chimney. The gold landed in the stockings, and the next morning the daughters woke to find enough money for all three to marry. In their socks!

And that’s how Jesus was born!

Wait a minute…

Ellis knows both sides of the Christmas story, loves Jingle Bells and Silent Night alike. Loves his nativity scene and his stocking. Interestingly, the explanation above mentions nothing about Christmas, other than the fact that it was St. Nicholas who tossed the gold down the chimney.

As long as Ellis understands the joy of giving as well as the joy of receiving, I’ll be satisfied that he’s getting the message of the holidays, both secular and religious. And I think he does grasp that concept, because he gave me his last red Skittle the other day. “For all the nice things you do,” he said.

Me: Sniff!

Below, Uncle Erik, my brother and Ellis’ godfather, delighting in the tradition of the Christmas morning stocking. I’m quite certain he wished St. Nick had dropped a bag of gold in there as well.