I just finished reading Shopgirl by Steve Martin (yes, that Steve Martin), a novel full of depressingly poignant moments that all-too-effectively echo scenes from my own life. There's a bizarre comfort in realizing that it isn't just you, but that solace is fleeting when it's followed by the grim realization that you're part of a rather unfortunate trend. Maybe I should stop reading books like this, but I'm convinced that the authors have some wisdom to impart, just as you, dear reader, might come here looking for Answers, and if so, boy are you misled. Like most people, I have no real credentials in this area, and what's worse is, I've never even hosted Saturday Night Live.

In my own search for answers, another clearing period has commenced in my little Queendom. My life is a tattered, ill-kempt jumble, well-reflected in the microcosm of my apartment (disaster) and the mini-microcosm of my car (disaster on wheels). There are little pockets of weird organization here and there, like my closet, where I've sorted my clothes by color, because...well, just because. Alas, a color-coded wardrobe does not a well-collected woman make. If it did, I'd have had it all figured out back when I was still sporting Garaminals.

The other day I was discussing with my friend Dan the soul-clarifying properties of the ocean, how while standing on the shore and absorbing the vast wonder beyond, all the trivia of life falls away and is replaced with a feeling that you've clicked gracefully into place with the Universe. At least, that's the effect it has on me, and I could sure use a good brain washing like that to clear some of this mental garbage away.

Incidentally, my California Dreamin' is currently being reinforced by the glaze of ice that is covering the surface of Des Moines, prompting one of those location-specific "Why I am I here?" moments. And the answer is the same as always: because the people that I love are here.....damn them all and their cherished, endearing ways...