Dee said, “I want to live a small life.” Coming from someone who’s been around the world living large, it was a surprising statement. I think she meant she was ready for simplicity: no traffic, no unnecessary bills, no drama. I remember saying in response, “Not me. I’m not ready for that.” But walking around the back yard of my parent’s house this morning, our conversation came back to me, the way my conversations with Dee often do.What’s wrong with a small life? After living a huge (and dangerous and foolish and drunken) life for so long, simplicity is kind of captivating. And pristine. And safe.

Yes, I’m in Motor City…

I think I should talk about the fact there was a wounded black bear on the grounds of my condo yesterday. Shall I remind you I live on the ocean in Jacksonville Beach?  He hunkered down in the bushes near the walkway to the beach, until the animal control people drugged him and took him away. I’m in Flint, so I missed the hoopla, but it got me thinking.Here I am, so proud of getting my shit together. Putting my proverbial ducks in a row. I’m sober. I’m reconnecting with my long estranged mother. I’m taking better care of myself and planning for my future. I may even be starting to be a bit cocky – things are under control after all…

The bear is a symbol, my friends.

No matter how hard I try to anticipate the future and plan for life’s exigencies, shit just happens that cannot be preordained.

Picture me and Fiona on one of our early morning beach walks, the sun is just coming up on a pleasant new day. We look out to sea, smile to ourselves about how organized our lives have become and step onto the boardwalk for a long, self-satisfied, seaside stroll.

AND GET MAULED BY A BLACK BEAR.

P.S. My mom’s in the hospital, it took me like an hour to find a Starbucks this morning to get on line and I’m scared to move the blog till I get back to Jacksonville. So If I’m not trampled by a rogue herd of  Javelinas we’ll keep everything EXACTLY as is till I get home…

Now I shall have to kill you. You know too much… but after a week of changing things up “round here” and communicating with technical types, I don’t even remember what password goes to what account. They’re scribbled on scrap paper and linked with arrows like some madwoman’s algebraic formula…

I’m on my way to Flint, Michigan this morning. I feel like that’s enough to say on the subject. Except that I’m going to a High School reunion (It’s like a super-Target reunion: ten years of classes and so huge I may not be able to find ANYONE in the throng).

And I’m seeing my mother after a five year estrangement. She worries I may start drinking again if I go to the festivities, but I figure if I haven’t tied one on at the prospect of playing prodigal daughter (or buying a ticket to Flint), I should be okay boogying with Carman High School’s finest.

The blog is moving to WordPress tomorrow. It will look very much the same (no flashing lights, music or dancing boys) and can be reached on my Facebook page,  @MarilynSpiller on Twitter,  or at www.wakinguptheghost.com if we lose you along the way. Bare with me, It will take me a few days to get the hang of things and we may go dark tomorrow.

They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.
Andy Warhol

I am a deeply superficial person.
Andy Warhol

Words to live by.And I’m rethinking the dancing boys… Steve? Jayson? Hi. Innovation Group?

I decided to sell a few things on EBay. For someone with my particular learning differences, ineptitude and intolerance for detail, this is a really bad idea.* The EBay buying/selling template is BUSY, and there is a confusing array of options. Small, colorful icons of items for sale (I don’t want) seem to pop up randomly like ducks in a shooting gallery. In fact, the whole website has a carnival, straw market, do-or-die atmosphere that makes me sweat like the SATs.First I tried to sell a $2,000 designer purse I had “gently” used.  I put it in the auction with a fail-secure duration of 7 days. I didn’t notice you’re supposed to add in the cost for shipping. The purse sold for $700 and before I sent it to the buyer, I bought high gloss, scuff-guard SHOE POLISH and tried to make the matte black item “like new”.  Then I mailed it for $42. I received this note from the buyer upon receipt:Hey there, I got the bag and I would like to return it. I don’t know for sure what was put on the bag, it looks like some kind of leather paint or black polish. It wasn’t noted in the listing and it really devalues the bag, the whole body of the bag is sticky because of the substance, and when you look at an angle you can clearly see that something was applied to the bag because it is not even at all. It is also peeling off around the bottom trim. I am really disappointed because I was so excited to get this bag, I have been looking for one forever. What is your return address?So – she needs a synonym for “bag”, right? And I think after ten days, I spent like $80.00 to NOT sell a purse and when it comes back to me I’ll have to spend more money to have the shoe polish removed. Not to mention, there is a slight-of-hand series of  PayPal transactions and EBay’s commission to remedy. PayPal and EBay are like dealing with Oz – quietly powerful behind a curtain of impenetrable voice mail… I decided to redeem myself to EBay, by selling the mismatched Eames chair I’ve had sitting around for many years. Clearly I didn’t learn my lesson with the previous transaction because I forgot to factor in the cost of shipping again. I spent several hours on Friday with the chair in my back seat like an unwelcome guest, trying to find someone who would ship it to Idaho for less than the amount of the bid. I gave up, refunded the money and this is the response I got from the buyer:Why did you refund the money without telling me first?, you could take the chair apart, it’s just a few bolts, what a bad seller you are, people like you should not be allowed to mess up with other people, bad badWhat, is he E. E. Cummings?My account allows me to sell up to 50 items per month. Think of the havoc…

*My ex-husband used to say (in his bustling British accent), “If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right!” He usually said that in reference to some half-assed attempt on my part to complete a complicated task. In those days, by the time he was disgusted enough to say it, I was usually in the bag and had ceased to care about the project at hand.