A few weeks ago I noticed that my car (also affectionately known as the Rav) was running a little rougher and/or louder than normal. But I didn’t really think much of it mostly because I don’t have the means to do anything about it at the moment. Then one day this week as I was driving to teach English 300 at Cosumnes River College, a car passed me, and the person in the passenger seat was pointing toward the Rav’s rear. Again, I didn’t really think much of it because there wasn’t any way to confirm that this person was actually gesturing at the Rav and me. But regardless, when I got to campus, I peeked at the Rav’s back end, and what do you know? The muffler pipe is broken. Nice.

And so I have been driving around with a broken muffler for, oh, probably about three weeks now. And I have continued to drive around with the Rav in this condition since, as mentioned above, I don’t have the means to do a darn thing about it. Wouldn’t you know it, though, it took three weeks of this equipment malfunction before anyone bothered to point it out – I mean really, how often does one have reason to look under the rear of one’s vehicle? It’s the age-old dilemma of, who would be a real friend and tell me when I had a piece of spinach from lunch stuck in my teeth and who would be too coward to say anything and let me walk around like a moron, unwittingly introducing myself to the love of my life. Hypothetically speaking, of course. What is wrong with humanity? (Well, a lot. But we won’t go there. At least not right now.)

All this to say that today, a small piece of my faith in humanity has been restored. Because you see today, not one, not two, but three kind people took the time to ask if I knew that the Rav’s muffler was broken. And who do you think these kind folks were? Men. Yes, men, it seems, are prone to notice such things about an automobile’s anatomy. But sadly these men were not my fantasy hero, Superman; not my knight-in-shining-armor; and not my prince charming on a white horse. No, no. They were all indeed very observant men, who also happened to be at least the same age as my Gramps.

Ironically, it will be difficult to find the words to describe how simply amazing Saturday, February 2 was. There are no words, really. The evening was nearly perfect, and I couldn’t have planned it any better – which says a lot for the self-proclaimed anal-retentive planner that I am.

I say nearly perfect for there were several key people missing from the evening whose presence would have made it just so, namely my brother.

But regardless, the best thing is that those who came genuinely wanted to be there – and I cannot say enough to express how truly grateful and touched I am. And now for a recap…

If you haven’t checked out the awesomely funky Bows & Arrows on L Street, go. Now. Say hello to Olivia and Trisha for me. These two women are some of the coolest chicks I know – they pretty much let me do whatever the heck I wanted for my party, and everyone had a fabulous time celebrating, listening to great music, eating great food, drinking great wine, hearing literary readings and shopping, of course. (Oh, and, Olivia asked me if I’d be willing/interested in organizing a regular reading of sorts at the store on a quarterly basis. So stay tuned for info on the Wine and Words Reading Series.)

This great music that I speak of was provided by my good friend Ryan on guitar and vocals. Toward the end of the evening, he was even joined on the mic by his wife, Samantha. Several of my guests asked if and when Ryan will be recording a CD…Ryan?

This great food that I speak of was the workings of my talented little sis, Kendra. She single-handedly worked up a menu, made the food and delivered everything to the store. It’s seriously is like having a personal caterer, only better.

This great wine that I speak of was none other than the local Boeger variety, thanks to winemaker Justin Boeger. I’m still a little bit in shock that Justin was actually there, serving wine. One little tidbit that I failed to mention at the event is that Boeger Winery is the first post-prohibition winery in El Dorado County. And the wine is just plain good.

The literary readings I speak of were courtesy of two of my writing compatriots from my creative writing program at CSUS, Marie and Bridget, and, yes, yours truly. In short, personally, I have never had the kind of reaction to my writing as I did that night, and again, there are no words to express how overwhelmed I still am by the positive response.

Woman in progress writing the journey.

What is your six-word memoir?

Maybe it’s because I just finished my M.A. in English with an emphasis in creative writing that I got a little defensive after reading this. Or maybe it’s that I’m holed up in my apartment on account of a foot injury, with nothing better to do than email, surf the Web, catch up on blogs that I haven’t had time to read for weeks, update my own blog, chat online and watch educating/inspiring video clips.

Regardless, here is my rebuttal to the afore-linked link:

1. It’s not a job requirement, but it sure does help in the employment department. I find it a little ironic that in the post previous to the one linked above, Michelle Goodman wrote something to the effect of how a lot of freelance writers “do part-time jobs, corporate work, teaching work, contract work, and other money-in-the-bank gigs,” and also have “other pursuits outside journalism.” When it comes to the teaching work mentioned here, virtually every kind of teaching job does require a higher degree of some kind – even if it’s not technically a master’s degree, anything below the college level does require a credential, which can be considered grad school. And for the record, this newbie freelancer has a part-time gig as an assistant professor of English at two of the community colleges in Sacramento, which does require an M.A.
2. Everything relevant I learned in my grad program you couldn’t learn in one class. Basically, for the purposes of English and literature and writing, there’s no other time in life – especially not in undergrad – where I will have the chance to study such a specialized subject matter in such depth. One of my lit classes was a British drama course wherein we studied Stoppard and Aykbourn exclusively. I had never been so thrilled with theater in my life, and I subsequently took a solo trip to NYC to see five performances of an eight-play series by Aykbourn performed by his original British cast. That, I can easily say, would never have happened had I not been in grad school. Oh, and, I was also inspired to write a play.
3. All of the connections I’ve made over the years on the job were only enhanced by the connections that I added to my network because of my grad program. Two things here: first off, I was mentored one-on-one while writing a memoir for my creative project by a published author. I don’t know many other writers who have the privilege of a personal cheerleader and coach who has already been through the toils that is the writing process. In addition to that, I had the chance to actually meet and personally speak with not one, but two authors whose books I studied in my program. That’s pretty rad. (Yes, I said rad. It is a severely underrated word and I’m campaigning to bring it back. Everything else ‘80s seems to be back in style, so why not?) Second off, I now have a strong community of writing peers (key word, peers) with whom I share my work and with whom I have a reciprocal relationship of giving and receiving feedback. No doubt this can happen without going to grad school, but I would argue that it’s probably a helluva lot harder and it’s likely that the writing community would not be as tightly knit as those of us who have bonded over the common grad school experience.
4. “It’s a dang expensive way to avoid working.” I couldn’t agree more. Which is why, with the exception of my final semester, I worked full-time for the bulk of my program and took classes part-time. That’s right, I worked in my field as a magazine editor gaining that invaluable on-the-job experience while going to school. I went to grad school and got paid to learn the publishing industry. And do you know what it taught me? To self publish, which I’m about to do here pretty quick. You might say that I “found myself.”

Why not challenge an ottoman to a wrestling match? OR, why not get attacked by an ottoman?
Why not inadvertently invite 6-plus firefighter/paramedics into the apartment?
Why not take a ride in the ambulance known as Medic 01?
Why not accept ottoman repellent offered by Tony, paramedic of said Medic 01?
Why not trust two paramedics, the aforementioned Tony and his partner-in-crime Lance, who speak to each other in Spanish and sometimes Japanese (when Lance cheats, so says Tony) for comic relief and claim to be a stand-up-comedy team that can’t get a gig?
Why not laugh at Tony’s ottoman jokes?
Why not laugh, period?
Why not blog about the silliness of it all?

Since when did text messaging become an acceptable form of communication? It used to be taboo to break-up over the phone. Now we’re saying the same about text messaging (at least I am) and demanding the courtesy of a phone call or, worse, an email.

For the record, there is a time and a place for the phenomenon that is texting. Apologizing is not one of them. In fact, some things in life are just not appropriate situations for sending me a text message:

1. Coming out. Exactly how am I supposed to respond to a text message that says, “My family has known for a while now, so I wanted to let you know that I’m a lesbian.”?
2. Announcing the desire to move out of town. Absolutely needs to be a conversation. And, no, texting does not constitute a conversation, which involves at least two people actually speaking to each other.
3. Apologizing after an f-up. Texting in this situation is, for all intents and purposes, a copout. Just don’t do it. Get some balls, pick up the phone and apologize like a man — no, like a woman.
4. Flaking out, blowing off or altogether backing out of plans for no good reason. See number 3 above.
5. Breaking up. As much as I eschew the Carrie Bradshaw persona, it’s actually rather apropos to quote a “Sex and the City” episode at this juncture. Ever see the post-it episode? Yeah, breaking up via text is essentially the same as the all-too-famous, “Berger broke up with me on a post-it!” Again, see number 3.

I don’t love football. But I love my dad. And today Dad’s beloved New York Giants kicked butt in Super Bowl XLII. I can honestly say that I’ve never had so much fun watching football, and seriously, what more could you ask for than a TD with 35 seconds left on the clock? Oh, maybe multiple sacks on the revered Tom Brady would be a nice bonus. (I stopped counting after three.)

The day was a victory in more ways than one. Last night I hosted a culminating event to celebrate finishing my master’s degree and entering a new phase of life (more on that to come, after some much-needed rest), and Dad was able to be there when at first he had been scheduled to work. That he was able to make it, I think, made me realize how important it was to me that he be there — and he told me afterward how much he enjoyed the evening. To have shared the evening with him and to know that he appreciated it was a touch down. To follow that up by sharing the experience of the Giants’ win with him was nothing short of a winning field goal.

Revolution Wines, that is. A few weeks ago, I went out with two of my girlfriends who also happen to be fellow Writers in Progress: Bridget and Marie. Bridget, who has lived in Sacramento for almost two years, had yet to be out on the town so I took her to my default night out: drinks and karaoke at Hamburger Patties (formerly, and always in my heart as, Hamburger Mary’s) and dancing at Faces – the only place for girls to dance without fear of being groped by men.

But I digress. This is after all the Wine About It category, so back to the wine. Before going out, Bridget and I decided we should have some wine so that we didn’t have to buy drinks while we were out (novel concept, huh?). So we popped in to my favorite wine bar/wine shop 58 Degrees & Holding Co. As a huge proponent of local wine, I promptly looked for an El Dorado or Amador County label. As a huge proponent of not spending too much money, I also was looking for something in the $10-15 range.

What a delight when I stumbled upon a bottle of Revolution Wines’ 2005 Zinfandel for $13. I had heard about this urban winery, but had yet to try their wine so it certainly was a serendipitous discovery. Upon taking the bottle up to the counter, I asked the friendly wine steward (whose name I am sorry to say I forget) if he had tried the wine, and if it was any good. His response was, “It’s decent for 21st and P.” (Twenty-first and P being the location of the winery.)

I’m happy to report that I couldn’t agree more, and that I plan to visit Revolution Wines’ tasting room at some point in the very near future. So check back for more on Revolution Wines.