Tokyo, Tennessee

We had the day to make our own. To savor the flavors Nashville had to offer our curious spirits. Without any specific activity in mind, I found myself googling "top 10 things to do in Nashville". Not exactly the stuff of Hunter S. Thompson adventures are made of, but oh well. It got the job done. I found the website for the Cheekwood Botannical Garden and Art Museum. The admission price was harmonious to our budget, and it boasted a sensational sculpture garden. With the weather behaving beautifully, we were convinced. So, with a GPS by our side, and pop-hits of the 90's pouring out of the car stereo-J and I were off. 

The Cheekwood Estate is basically the house that Maxwell Coffee built (mmm- good to the last drop). It's comprised of a sprawling mansion (in the Art-Deco tradition), a series of wooded trails, gardens, and an art gallery within the mansion. I must say, timing is everything. And we hit the nail on the head with this particular outing. The heavy sun warmed our backs, the whipping wind kept us moving, and the autumn leaves stunned our senses. It was perfect wandering weather, and perfect is hard to come by. We learned about southern hospitality, pineapples, and stetson hats. Perusing the 19th century artwork, we marveled at the days when people were built with a pinch more grit under their nails. Their rough and tumble existence never ceases to amaze me; it presents such a stark contrast to the pampered life of modernity I lead.  

But the highpoint of the day came while crunching through the fallen leaves of the Japanese garden. Trudging along, we turned a corner and- bam! We had unconsciously meandered into a lush bamboo forest! Who would have thought we could found a little piece of Asia, tucked away in the hills of Nashville!? This is why I love travel- it offers an endless supply of the unexpected. It's when I'm the naive traveler, that I'm able to experience things with slightly wider eyes. I can humbly let the universe unfold around me. 

Pardon the dust bunnies

I feel like my blog has developed cobwebs and dust bunnies in my absence. Frankly, I simply haven't felt very editorial or creative. Writing is funny; she has a mind of her own - and she certainly will not visit a stubborn or unreceptive mind. These last several weeks have found my brain extremely immovable and unyielding to the creative process (oh that mysterious and ever-unfolding creative process). However, I have undergone a much needed change of scenery in the last few days. My pal J and I, bid our dearest Ann Arbor adieu in the sleepy hours of last saturday morning. We planned this trip  with the sole intention of shimmying the cobwebs from our hair and the dust off our boots. We wanted to leave behind the routines and responsibilities of our day to day existence. Though Ann Arbor is a lovely motherland, it's always good to venture out and remember why we love her in the first place. Due to economic constraints, as well as a sense of adventure, we opted for the megabus mode of transportation. This option required a short stop-over in Chicago in order to catch another bus to Tennessee. We chose Tennessee as our final destination because my darling big brother resides in Nashville, and is always up for house-guests.

 After a fabulously fun, 24 hour stay in Chicago, we were headed for the honky tonk scene- good 'ole Nashville, Tennessee. Yee-haw! My brother Ry,  scooped us up from a Memphis bus stop (at an extremely uncivilized hour) and took home two very tired, and bus-weary girls. The next morning found us bouncing on a vacation bubble. The unfamiliar setting, the deviation from normal routine, and the balmy climate, had us riding a giddy train. I'm hoping for this to translate into a creative breakthrough... stay tuned...

Bigs and Littles

Kids and I have an interesting dynamic. Especially, older, more cognizant children; they don't know what to make of me at first. I seem unsure, timid, and slightly awkward. I don't rush children into accepting, or trusting, me right away- I like to give them plenty of time to bloom at a natural (their own) pace. Conversely, Babies and toddler-aged kids warm to me rather quickly. Fortunately, I can usually win them over within two to three hours (average estimate). I try to be gentle with their raw feelings, converse with them in a dignified manner (that doesn't insult anyone's intelligence), pick  my battles, and sternly uphold appropriate boundaries. Don't get me wrong- I also have my times of low energy, limited patience, and creative drought (who wants to play I Spy AGAIN?). But there seems to be an emotional and intuitive core that I'm able to tap into,  as needed.

Today, I was on babysitting duty from 8am to 3pm. A pal of mine referred the child's mother to me- one of the perks of working at a daycare is the ripe opportunity to earn some extra cash, via babysitting. Therefore, she was from a classroom I had rarely ever worked in, so I wasn't too familiar with the little one (female, age 6, we'll call her S). However, after a few rounds of memory game, puzzle piecing, and teeter-tottering; we were pals. We spent the day strolling through the shady woods around her house, talking about monarch butterflies, favorite things, and gender relations- "Girls are smart, and boys are strong, but dumb" said S. I tried my damnedest to give her a fresh perspective "Girls can be as strong as boys, and boys can be as smart as girls". But she wasn't having any of that- very set in her ways- I figured this was one of those battles best not  picked. We put daisies in our hair and treasures in the "purse" attached to her bicycle (a green guitar pick, two rocks, and smashed dandelion). At one point on our nature walk, we had to cut across a few backyards. Armed with the knowledge that briefly, and respectfully trespassing would not result in public flogging- I assured S that she was not going to get yelled at, or get in trouble.
"If anyone gets in trouble- it's me" I said.
"But what if they ask whose idea it was?" S inquired.
"It was my idea honey, we'll just always say it was my idea" I replied.
"So I wont get in trouble- you'll just say it was you? why?" S said.
"You will not get in trouble, I will. And I'm okay with that- because I'm a grown-up. Don't worry" I said.
She beamed up at me like I was superman, and I just said everything she needed to hear. She gave me the privilege of holding her hand for the rest of the afternoon.

Upon her mother's arrival, we shared a heartfelt hug- at which time, she clung to the ends of my hair, inhaled the seemingly heavenly aroma, and proclaimed "It smells like coconut, I just love it". It melted my heart and weakened my knees. I drove away on that wonderful cloud that only an adoring child can put you on. When I spend time with kids I can correct the embarrassments of my own childhood, I can hug when others screeched, and I can listen when others lectured. I screw up (like so many before me), but I try to understand. I strive to ascend and be the bigger person so that the littles can feel the freedom to be little - leave the big problems to me; you just love, live, and learn....for now anyway!

Oz-fest 2011

I love the Wizard of Oz. Something about it causes my mind to hush, my jaw to relax, and my whole body to unclench. It also has the amazing ability to bring my emotions to a rolling boil. I blubber like a small child, with diaper rash. I can't help it- before the good witch even makes her first appearance, I find my eyes heavy with dew. Upon my most recent viewing (last night), I realized what I find so compelling about this film. It isn't the story (which is a pretty basic arch that has been told in thousands of various incarnations), it isn't the dialogue (trite at best), and it most certainly isn't the visual appeal (chintzy set design, and a lot of not-so-special effects).

It's Judy Garland, plain and simple. Although, plain and simple are two adjectives that could never be attributed to the late great Ms. Garland. She was breathtaking in her beauty, and her complexity. It's hard to fathom how such emotional depth could be captured within the miniscule window of narrative film. But the crafty bitch gets me every time. It's only with that sad twinkle in her eye, and a thick drawl in her voice, that the land beyond the rainbow becomes a very real place. It catches me in my throat; that sad girl with longing in her eyes. I believe, that almost every young lady (with a pulse, and a soul that is) has longed- for someone,
some thing, or some place; very far away. A state of being that is more whole, where we are better. Where life, is simply better. Things will make sense, somewhere over that rainbow. Bills will get paid, fingernails will not be chewed, and anxiety melts like lemon drops. So hats off to you Ms. Garland...AND your bitchin' pair of ruby, red kicks !

Isn't It A-Peeling?

Some days are beautiful. Annnnd some days smell like hot garbage. Fortunately, today was the former. It was merciful, because yesterday- was most certainly the latter variety. It reeked of overwhelming emotions, difficult conversations, and unpalatable thoughts. Today, however, was lovely. Work flowed smoothly;  a delicious balance of affectionate babies, and entertaining banter with coworkers. I also got the pleasure of having lunch with my mom. There is something so warm and quaint about having your mother pick you up from work and take you to lunch- it's even better as an adult than it was as a kid. Hearing my boss compliment my work ethic to the very person responsible for teaching me how to work- was a glowing moment for me. It's also that surreal sensation that comes when worlds collide. In the past, I have successfully (or not so successfully), kept my life severely compartmentalized. It was a familiar way to live for me. But, I have learned, that in order for others to REALLY know you- they must know all shades; the good, the bad, and the ugly humanity. Hence, the lines of my life are blurring more and more by the day. Which is good, but it's new, and slightly jarring. And though it may cause some momentary anxiety (mostly the loss of control and perceived organization), it does make me feel much less alone in my skin. Anyway, seeing my mother at my workplace was strange and fun. She got to meet all the little one's I chatter endlessly about.

After work, I decided to revel in the fabulous weather Michigan decided to bestow upon it's residents (she is a fickle lady; one prone to ridiculous mood swings). I grabbed one of the books I'm working through and headed to the nearest Starbucks (p.s. - the salted caramel mochas are every bit as insane as one would hope). At a flimsy, cafe table- I floated happily in the pink light of the setting sun. I found myself thinking about my last beautiful day. It was Saturday, a very sunny Saturday...

My friend J had an extra ticket to the University of Michigan vs. Eastern game, and I was open to giving spectator sports another shot. My father has tried, on many occasions, to teach me the game of football. He is an avid/ obsessive sports fan (especially for the champions of the west *cough* GO BLUE). Sadly, I always grew frustrated with my lack of understanding, and his lack of patience. Therefore, I was attending the game quite blindly. I love learning new things, and I'm stubborn. I'll beat my head against that table if that's the only way to understand its molecular structure. So it goes.
Between my boyfriend M, and my pal J, I was outfitted for success. M provided me with the proper attire-a tee shirt emblazoned with the home team logo (*cough* GO BLUE). J accessorized my ensemble with a delightful face-sticker in the shape of the infamous, Michigan M. I was like a kindergartner whose parents wanted me to have a damn fine first day of school. I felt very loved, if not slightly pitiful.

We parked a decent distance from the stadium, which was perfect. The weather was picturesque. The clouds looked computer generated in their perfection. Upon entering the big house, I just stood and gaped. Its size was astounding. Places like that never seem as giant from the outside as they do within. After picking my jaw off the floor, the game passed in a fun flurry of fight songs and camaraderie- the student section is the place to sit for the restless and rowdy! I loved it. J is such a wonderfully gentle teacher and guide- I actually was able to absorb. I learned the very basics at least. Which is an accomplishment after 23 years of scratching my head. And I must say, I nailed the Victor's Valiant.

After the game we decided to take a walking tour of Ann Arbor- literally. We walked from the stadium to the downtown area. We soaked in the eclectic platter that is State street. We meandered the shady sidewalks of the diag. We got our grub on at BTB Cantina. Each setting flashed by amidst the music of the city and, the comfort of lively conversation. We ended our evening at the Oktoberfest that had overtaken Main Street. After several rounds of delightful brew and polka dancing, I felt thoroughly stimulated. Practically percolating with the joy of being.

Sadly, the day after, I found myself sunburned (in addition to being whimsically, branded thanks to my face-sticker) and exhausted. The day after THAT, was one helluva a hot, garbage day. My face was peeling, and nothing seemed to be working in my favor. But today, I sat comfortably with the realization that ya win some, and ya lose some. Some days buzz your bones in the best way. While others, are spent picking at the burnt remains of your face. So it goes.

Smells

I have an extremely responsive sense of smell. I can walk into any room and pick up on even the slightest of unsavory odors. Recently, I walked into my boyfriend's apartment and proclaimed "It reeks of old yogurt in this place!" And it did. I sniffed around for awhile, before I chalked it up to my overly sensitive nostrils. I tend to have nasty odor paranoia; unpleasant smells stay in my system, so I project them upon environments that aren't appropriate. On the flip side, I can also thoroughly enjoy pleasant smells on a level of nirvana-like pleasure. Every human I have ever loved can be summarized by their olfactory cocktail.


For instance, the faintest whiff of lilacs immediately takes me to my childhood backyard. My mother's lilac bushes- only blooming for that magical week in mid-June-causing the house to brim with aromatic waves of floral glory. Heavenly! Sadly, they wilted quickly and emitted a sickly perfume....ah well! My eldest brother, Sean, will always be the odor of sweat, marijuana, and Tommy Hilfiger cologne. Ryan, our proverbial middle child, carries the heavy fragrance of mildewy-basement, fabric softener, and aftershave. 


My boyfriend Matt; he has a distinct fragrance. He wafts a beautiful combination of vanilla, soap, and fresh rain. My grandma Hussey conjures the distinct smell of pink. I know that sounds silly, but she smelled of pink! Like a mixture of flowers and laundry detergent that howled pink in my young mind. 


Smells have a strong impact on my emotions. It not only applies to the smell that clings to those I love, but also to the smells THEY love. If they fancy a particular food; you best be sure that I will hold that trace of culinary inclination within my heart; in the deepest bowels of my emotional reservoir. 

Breaking and Entering

I locked myself out of my own home today. This has probably happened to me at least 22 times in my life. On this occasion I had reached my destination before I realized, not only had I left my keys on the couch, but my purse (and all its crucial contents) as well. I agonized for a moment, as we all do, with a few profanities and a shrug of the shoulders. Eh, well, I have gotten used to this sort of thing as a regular occurrence in my daily life- I tend to move too quickly, which causes me to gloss over the finer details (like ya know, KEYS and DRIVERS LICENSES). Anyway, I shook it off and headed back to the homestead. I also had the welfare of my brother/roommate's dog to think of. My brother had left for Chicago early that morning, and I was put in charge of keeping our beloved pooch thriving and happy, hence being locked out for the weekend was really not an option.

When I arrived, I performed the classic pipe-dream; I hoped the backdoor was open. It wasn't. I HAD remembered to lock it before leaving- it's wonderful how my vigilant/responsible impulses come and go that way! But, as I mentioned before, I have been locked out a lot in my life. I have become an expert at looking for passive entries. I meandered to the side yard and spotted our living room window- bingo! It looked hopeful. I trudged through the wet (it was raining-of course) shrubbery and groped the window ledge for confirmation that it was, in fact, unlocked. It was, and after wrestling with it for a good two and a half minutes it flew up (the house is somewhat old- so the windows open- but they whine about it). Once the window gave in, it was a cake walk. I used the hose hook as leverage and lumbered into our living room. Granted, it wasn't my most flattering/graceful moment, but I still felt proud of my problem solving abilities. Meanwhile, our dog, Mick, was losing his shit at the sight of me. Not only was he simply happy to see me, but I kind of felt that he was also amused at the show he just got free admission to. I crawled in like a clumsy, spider monkey and landed with an awkward thud against the hardwood floors.

The whole experience just reminded me of childhood- which is perhaps, why I felt no real stress about it.   My brother's were the keeper of the keys in our house. Unfortunately, my brother's are just (if not slightly more) forgetful than I am. Obviously, I spent some time on our front porch, waiting. Sometimes, as a child, I felt like a bulk of my time was spent waiting. Waiting for someone to pick me up, waiting for someone to come home (occasionally- with the key), waiting for a call, waiting for an acceptance letter, waiting to leave, waiting to go, etc. As an adult, I love that I can take charge. I almost never have to wait. I can take action instead- and it usually works! Even if I had not been able to bust through that window, I could have driven to my boyfriend's workplace and ask him for the copy I gave him- ta da! Entry! Open Sesame!

Wilson

Last fall, after a frustrating string of interviews and dead-ends, my stint of unemployment ended and I was hired in at a daycare center. Though I had babysat as an adolescent, I had never really taken care of "baby" babies. The children I watched were generally off of bottles and swaddlers. Hence, my anxiety skyrocketed when I was handed a tiny infant WHILE being interviewed. Her name was Claire, and she is a true spitfire. Claire's now in the toddler classroom and not so tiny, but still very much a spitfire. I think I will always hold a soft spot for Claire- she was the real interviewer that day. She squirmed and squawked as I awkwardly hugged her to my chest, and cooed her using my gentlest tone; clearly, she was determined to put me through the ringer, make sure I could cut the mustard, yadda yadda. Meanwhile, I thought "I would either love it here or hate it." Luckily, I managed to jump through every necessary hoop and land the gig. I have been an assistant teacher ever since, and miraculously, I happen to love it.

In mid-December, the mother of a two year-old named Charlotte, came in with her brand new bean in tow. A little, shapeless, dumpling named Wilson. I peered over into his car-seat and saw a shrunken potato, slumbering soundly. To be honest, I did not find anything particularly cute about him upon my first viewing, but I fawned and fussed as if he were the Gerber baby. I didn't think much of this brief interaction until 7 or 8 weeks later- when he was enrolled into the infant room. The infant room just happens to be one of the several classrooms I frequent. My job description includes the term "floater", which is exactly how it sounds- I float. I move between classrooms and maintain order while the lead teacher goes on break, or leaves for the day.

Anyway, it was another hectic day in the baby room; bottles to warm, diapers to freshen, solids to prepare, etc. We had 10 infants enrolled at the time, and it seemed as though each one were hellbent on screaming themselves into oblivion. All, except Wilson. He spent half the morning slumped in the swing, sleeping, with a mysterious little smile on his face. While all the other babies had their volume dials turned to 11 ("these go to eleven..." - what can I say, I love Christopher Guest), Wilson was content and patient in his swing state. He actually had to be woken up for his feedings. Somehow, I never got to be the one to feed him until the very end of the day. His 5:30 feeding rolled around, and as luck would have it, I was the only teacher not occupied with another task. When I hunkered down with the half-conscious, little ball of a boy, I was met with the most pleasant surprise. His eyes- actually open for a change. Two bright blue orbs, shiny and sweet. They widened at the sight of another new person in his daycare life. Little did he or I know, the romance had begun. From the minute those round, innocent peepers fixed on me I was head over heels.

Over the next several months, my little pal brightened many exasperating days for me.  While strapping on my blue, paper shoe-booties (a sanitation rule so as not to track gunk into the room, lest a curious baby decide it was a culinary delight), Wilson's smile would radiate out the front door and put a skip in my step as I entered. Many mornings I would find myself getting lost in thought, only to have Wilson snap me into the here and now. He went through an exploratory phase with my shoelaces- untying them when my attention was elsewhere. And let me tell you, tripping over one's converse certainly has a jolting effect. I would stumble in befuddlement, look down, and meet the gleeful gaze of my little blueberry boy. This trick always sent him into a giggle fit of knee-weakening adorableness. It also served as a humbling reminder to Ms. Danielle not to take herself too seriously. Which is one of my favorite aspects about working with children; they require you to exist in the present-no excuses, no anxious head-trips, and no restless daydreaming will be tolerated. In addition to keeping me in the moment, Wilson also kept himself extremely focused on the business of growing up. He breezed past eating solids in the blink of an eye. Which made me very happy; mixing together gelatinous contents of tiny jars with powdery bland cereal into a sickly green paste, was not exactly appetizing. I always felt  I owed little Wilson an apology as I strapped on his bib in preparation for an undoubtedly disappointing dining experience. He had a lust for life, and food that just could not be satiated by pre-packaged goop. He would finish each feeding, covered in slop and hungry for something different, more exotic....and just plain more!

One of my favorite moments with Wilson came when he was finally able to eat real food. Particularly, swedish meatball day. Ahhhh, meatball day- it's tucked away so vividly and warmly in my mind. I trudged into the baby room with very little umph in my step- I had been having a lot of trouble sleeping, and it was starting to show. My lackluster mood was lifted at the sight of the school menu- today was meatball day, and my buddy Wilson was about to become a meat-baller. And boy was I right. That kid went to town. He made a mockery of those meatballs- there was nothing left within 20 minutes. The sight of his greasy, satisfied face- completely devoid of self-consciousness and doubt, as he took down the entire plate was nothing short of inspirational. Later that evening, when the weight of my world -and all it's irrational anxieties had caused my shoulders to slope, I discovered a constellation of gravy splotches on my sock. I giggled- even in absentia, Wilson was still instructing me to lighten up. I kept the sock. Wilson is now getting ready to move onto the next classroom. Sadly, this means we will be seeing much less of each other. But whenever Wilson and I share eye contact- I can see that glint in his eyes, and he certainly can see it in mine. He will forever be my blueberry boy, and I will forever be his magical, goddess and bringer of meatballs.

Growing

My nephew Jackson started his first day of kindergarten today. I'm in serious danger of sounding like a blithering cliche, but it seems like only an hour ago that my stepsister brought Jack over to my house for the first time. He was a tiny little  bundle of flesh; a vague and fussy being that I wasn't sure how to interact with. I was terrified of holding him the wrong way and breaking him in some permanent sort of way.

Five years have passed since that curious November night, and so much has changed. He is going to "real" school now, and I comfortably interact with infants on a daily basis. I feel that we have both come into our own (so to speak). He has developed into a verbally sophisticated, and devilishly clever child. He  possesses an irresistible combination of rough and tumble boyishness, and snarky confidence. He manages to carry an exuberance for life and experience that could melt any jaded soul. But beware, this boy is sharp. He seems to absorb and imitate adult conversation and innuendo like a specialized little sponge. He also has that rare and wonderful appreciation for the outdoors; he's a nature boy (as the Talking Heads would say). One day he carried a sprightly grasshopper to his mother's open (and unassuming) palm. He informed her with absolute certainty "This grasshopper is so handsome, just like me." Needless to say, much revelatory laughter ensued. I have no doubt that he will charm the cardigan sweater off of any schoolteacher who might stand in his way.

My own personal progress has been quite the contrast. Jackson has grown-up, I have grown down. In the last two years I have learned the importance of play. I have learned the crucial need for absolute silliness; the need to make funny faces in the mirror- just to make yourself laugh. Blowing bubbles for the hell-of-it. Singing loudly to music, even if you don't know the lyrics. Crying when you feel sad. Dancing when you need to express yourself in all of your awkward glory. The joy of existence. As simple as it might seem, this joy was absolutely lost on me for a very long time. I can't exactly explain why, but in my younger years, I seemed to consider myself a serious person-with very serious motivations in life. While this might be the makings of an extremely impressive person- one bound for glory and success, in my case, it was a recipe for disastrous depression. I moped- hardcore-for years. I found the lifelong task of somberness to be a considerable burden. As you can see, I wouldn't exactly be a good fit to care for small children. However, last year I began working at a daycare center. This vocational shift aided greatly to my Dorian Gray-esque experience. Working with babies has slowed me down, taught me patience, and displayed my glaring blind spots. Their need for love and affection cuts me to the proverbial quick. It's so simple and basic- they smile at the sight of me. It blows my mind- the idea of being so emotionally dependent on others! I have developed such a neurotic, numb shell that I forget the sensation of raw living. I consider it a privilege and a gift to be able to nurture, play, and adore the babies I get to work with. They bring me back to the core of human reality.

Rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to many hardships...

Recently, while on a road trip with my boyfriend Matt, I found myself reminiscing about my old man. I suppose I should explain, my father and I are not on speaking terms at the moment. We tend to go through cycles of not-speaking every few years. It is usually the result of us being hurtful to one another...or non-commmunicative. My Dad and I have similar reactions to betrayal/hurt- we retreat. We retreat with a quickness, and we stay there solidly and stubbornly for quite some time. Then, our hearts begin to ache, and our resolve (thankfully) weakens. Anyway, my resolve is currently weakening. My emotional shell is thinning by the minute. I miss my Dad. There is something mysterious about the open road that frees my mind and opens my heart a little bit. Maybe it's the transitory sensation, but I find that my eyes water more readily and my feelings gain clarity. So on this particular drive, I caught myself composing a conversational love note to my father. Well, so it goes....

My father has a work ethic that could bend steel. It's true. The show "Dirtiest jobs" is like a visual representation of my Dad's resume. He has pursued back breaking labor to the fullest. He was a roofer, a car-hauler, and candlestick maker ...(well-okay, not the last one, but you get the idea).  The man didn't shy away from humble, sysphus-esque positions. He came home each day with the heavy smell of carbon paper and gasoline. I loved it. If there was a perfume that could perhaps capture those two scents, and maybe infuse it with something slightly feminine- like lilac- I'd be SOLD. I used to hold my nose to his pinstriped, collared work-shirts, and just inhale the aromatic cocktail that was my Dad. He also would spritz himself in jovan musk, for special occasions- of course. Which only added another element to my paternal, olfactory experience. It must also be noted, that I was a tried and true Daddy's girl for the first 6 years of existence. I would follow him to hell and back; not wanting to miss a moment of fun and spontaneity. I was the apple of Daddy's eye. When he spoke to me, it was as if I were his equal. He never underestimated my awareness or intelligence...regardless of their immaturity. He was an excellent partner in crime for a kid. He indulged my imagination with gusto. Dad's world was enchanting; full of sand-palaces, playdough civilizations, elegant tea-parties, frog-catching, and chalk masterpieces.  As I wistfully told Matt- "I thought he hung the moon".

In addition to delightfully trotting through my father's world of whimsy, he also taught me the grave importance of hard work. Pure and simple. He believed in the dignity of hard work. He always told me "I don't care if you work at McDonalds, just as long as your working with integrity". In my Dad's eyes, nothing was more despicable than an unemployed, able-bodied individual.

My very first, formal job was at a local pizza joint. With my brothers. The manager was a friend of theirs. Need I say more?  They put me through the crucible on that first day. I fled to my father's house after my shift, in tears.

"I hate it. I'm quitting tomorrow. Everyone hates me, and I feel stupid" I cried in angst.
"No you're not. It was your first day- what did you expect? It's work for a reason. You go back tomorrow and swallow your pre-madonna pride. Follow orders, and learn. As fast as you can."

This is the part where his hard-ass facade falters and he offers me a hanky from his back pocket.

"But they're all yelling at me, and I feel like I just get in the way. I didn't know what to do" I whined.
He laughed in disgusted amusement.
"Well, yeah. That was your first day. Welcome to the world dear. You go back with thicker skin, but my daughter is not giving up so easily. You have seen worse"

I sat for a moment, considering his position and attitude. He was right. Work is a challenge- it challenges the body and the ego. If one cannot accept this challenge, than they belong to a softer section of people- one that was unacceptable for me to join.

With snot running down my wrists and a newfound sense of fortitude I croaked
"I need to get tougher I guess."

He nodded.

On one of our first dates, Matt described me as being "rough, tough, hard to bluff, and used to many hardships". I scoffed; I feel that I have grown quite wimpy at this point in my life- gone soft I suppose! But I think, if Matt is correct- this thick skin is brought to you by my brothers, and, of course, my old man.

Nail Polish

This afternoon I purchased my very first bottle of nail polish. Ever. Now of course, I have had my nails painted in the past. My mother was always big into manicures and pedicures. However, I have never actively purchased, or applied, nail polish of my own volition before today. Upon perusing the overwhelming amount of brands and hues, I decided upon Essie brand- in two shades- "vermillion" orange, and "trophy wife" teal. That is one thing i have always appreciated about nail polish- the color names. I'm a sucker for a snappy name. Something enticingly sensual and slightly humorous....like "cherry poppin' red" (my own creation).

It was odd, as soon as I had the vermillion in my possession, I felt immediately compelled to paint! It was a half hour before I was scheduled to work, and I spent it crouched in my ford focus, carefully lacquering my mangled nails in day glow orange. I was surprisingly successful with the painstaking chore of utilizing my left hand to paint the right. I went to work with fresh and dangerously tacky fingernails. To my surprise, the effect was huge.

It goes back to that old cliche "it's all about the little things..." , because I felt like a million bucks. It was a small act of grooming and frivolity that paid off ten fold. I showed them off at every opportunity. I must have looked like Vanna White all day- waving my hands with proud femininity. And to think- all those years I swung so wide of such detailed attention to aesthetics- and I could have felt so giddy and pretty!

Thoughts on Food and Food for Thought

Food fascinates me. I don't cook, I barely grocery shop (my cart always tends to reflect the unsophisticated palate of a 70 year recluse-with Attention Deficit Disorder), and these eyes have never studied a recipe that didn't involve a microwave in some incremental way. However, I love to talk about food. I suppose the most  fascinating thing  about food, to me, is how people feel towards - and the manner in which they treat it. When I am at the beginning stages of any friendship, I pay close attention to their eating habits. They can speak volumes about a person.

Recently, a friend of mine (we'll call her A) met me at Whole Foods for lunch and a little conversational catch-up. We perused the offbeat aisles and diverse cuisine in non-committal loops. This occurs upon EVERY visit to Whole Foods that I make. Generally speaking, decisions are tough for me ANYWAY. The smaller (and more insignificant), they tend to be - the more painstaking the decision-making process becomes. Such crucial choices lay before me.....shall I risk further indecisive panic and brave the salad bar? Puss-out and go for the safe pizza/sandwich counter? Befuddle my senses with reading the prepared food labels? Decadently graze the hot entree selection? The problem is that every option appears desirable when you're stomach is empty and your eyes are wide.

As we meandered (to the chagrin of the patient and earnest produce workers), A talked about her recent efforts to eat more healthfully. She has been struggling to lose weight for almost two years now, to no avail. Unfortunately, I have found, that with some female friendships- many truths are better left under that emotional rock in the corner. Best not to lift it and get your hands all grimey and slimey. If this were not the case, I would have pointed out to A that she doesn't actually overeat; overeating is not the issue here. She eats a reasonable amount of food- hell, she probably eats less than I do! It is my opinion, that her weight issues lie in the TYPE of foods she deems appropriate to eat- which is almost nothing.  A is extremely finicky. She is what I snarkily refer to as the "Boxed potato breed". She is the type of person that doesn't feel completely at ease with her food unless it is mass produced, deep fried, accompanied with ketchup, served in cellophane, or in nugget form. She essentially has the same culinary inclinations as the baby boomer generation. It must be sanitized and loaded with saturated fat for her to take two glances at it. And forget about sea dwelling proteins entirely- this girl won't come anywhere NEAR fish. She hates anything unfamiliar or even slightly exotic. However, with some friends, punches must be pulled. So I ignore her dietary narrow-mindedness; opting to listen, and gently encourage instead. I nod sympathetically as she rails against vegetable stew with a cruel prejudice that makes me want to grab the nearest asparagus and whisper words of reassurance. I keep my opinions safely tucked behind my eyes while she furrows her brow at a container of stuffed grape leaves, which I happen to love.

Because, unlike A, I will try anything once. The more unrecognizable the better. The more ingredients the merrier. Tabouli is colorful, fresh, and absolutely fantastic. Majadarra rice is starchy divinity. And I've never actually met a fruit or vegetable that I didn't like, or learn to love (with certain ones- it's all in the preparation). I delight in foods of color, character, and unique flavor combination- ones that taste of their country, and culture. I  call it the " Anthony Bourdain school of thought". Don't get me wrong, I also have a petulant four year old living deep within my soul that  snacks on graham crackers, and considers fluffer-nutter sandwiches to be mouthwatering (almost beyond comparison). Basically, I'm all over the place. It may seem snotty, but I'm always slightly disappointed when someone I respect lacks an adventurous spirit with their edibles. I mean, as my mother used to say "it's not gonna kill ya, and you never have to eat it again if you don't like it." Simple words that continue to evade many, seemingly mature individuals.

Anyway, at some point I began  eying the sushi section. I'm madly in love with sushi. Gun to my head- if I  could only eat one food for the rest of my life- it would be sushi. With its delicate loveliness, orderly presentation, and wholesome nutritive properties.....it had me at konnichiwa! While scanning the rows of pretty pink sashimi, A walked up beside me and shrieked in horror "IS THAT RAW MEAT!?"
Now, there are too many things wrong with the substance of this statement to even dissect it. Because, in that moment it happened to be the volume at which she screeched that I found appalling. Everyone standing within a three foot radius became well informed of her opinion. I was mortified. I glanced at the sushi chefs  apologetically. They continued to pleat their seaweed wraps in quiet dignity. I instantly began questioning my relationship with this particular friend. Her IQ just plummeted right before my eyes. That may seem like a cold and elitist assessment, but hey- just being honest here!

I need people in my life who can dare to dabble with their taste buds. I need people who can sit across from me at a Korean restaurant, gleefully spooning mysterious piles of goodness onto their plate without the faintest idea what lay before them. This attitude transcends the dinner plate. It's indicative of one's viewpoint in life. Rolling with the punches- and coming back for seconds- is what I want my life to be about. With an open mind and an open mouth (insert obvious sex joke here), I want to savor the sights and sounds with an equally daring companion by my side. Sure, it's risky- sure, it might taste like rotten dust bunnies, and you may regret that heaping bite you took- but so what!? It's my goading immaturity that compels me to leap without ALWAYS looking. But I am what I am- you can take a bite, or you can shriek in the prepared foods section of the grocery store. A word to the whiny, fussy, persnickety set-if the idea of eating an unknown kabob on the streets of Munich  at 4am doesn't appeal to you- don't call us- we'll call you ;)

Always Try to do Better

Everyone, at any given time, is a work in progress. Like art, science, literature, etc.... nothing, and no one, is ever completely finished- only caught in adaptation. Captured for a brief moment by some version of truth. A photograph, a theory, an idea, seizing a moment- amidst a spectrum of processing. I love and hate this simultaneously- as I suppose, we all do. It implies that reality is messy, undesigned, but also (ta da- here's where the magic is)....changeable!  We can grow. We can learn. We can do better. We are not hampered by what has come before- it's only our own stubborn consciousness that holds us back. It pigeonholes us to the idea of who we were, but has a more difficult time accepting what we are in the malleable moments that comprise the bulk of existence.

When asked what her spiritual beliefs are, my mother responds "always try to be good". And while these are pretty sturdy words, I prefer to replace "be good" with "do better". Good is too complicated of an idea to completely nail down in such a phrase. Good automatically conjures Bad and then it's all just shades of gray (she throws up her hands in swaying exasperation). It also has a lot of religious, semi-judgemental overtones in my opinion. However, the word better is simple and relatable. We all know what better is; we can feel it in our bones. It's a term that aligns harmoniously with the process of existing; a word devoid of the implied stagnation that "good" and "bad" carry (like philosophical dead-ends).  When one tries to do better, they are acknowledging the past, without letting it shade one's current or future behavior. It's the acceptance that mistakes were made, but that efforts are focused upon higher ground. It's Sisyphus, pushing that boulder, every moment of everyday. Beautifully bleak, and a perfectly fitting allegory for humanity's constant struggle towards better- whether it MATTERS or not.

On a personal level, this phrase has fortified me through some discouraging times. Through unpaid bills, failed relationships, broken friendships, abandoned projects, huge errors in judgement (involving a bottle of saki and some long island iced tea), and worst of all (for me)- the crushing remorse of harsh words said, and true words unsaid. So, I bid my past a cheerful goodnight, and fuck you. I'm ready for tomorrow; I'm ready to do better.

Flowers

My older brother Ryan moved to tennessee a few years ago for a career opportunity. He took a chance, and it paid off. And although he has experienced career/financial success, he still can't seem to shake a wicked bout of homesickness. As a member of his immediate family, I can say that we have made valiant efforts to visit as much as we can.

Unfortunately, during a trip down there this past March, my Mother's dog was hit by a car. We heard the news only a few hours after our arrival in good 'ole Nashville, Tennessee. Poor Yogi was a young boy. He was a healthy dog of only two years in age. And he just happened to inhabit a particularly sweet and sacred spot in my mother's heart. Needless to say, the trip sharply took a sombre tone. The next afternoon, we (my mom and I) decided that we needed to soak up some vitamin D pronto! So, we bought some sandwiches, gathered our art supplies, and headed for the nearest public park that Ryan knew of (despite the years he has spent in Nashville he has remained stubborn, and refused to accept that this is home- so he has yet to master  the local landscape).
When we arrived, we settled upon a rocky (but adequately comfortable)  area beside the modest, man-made lake that proved to be the main attraction of the park.  My mom was sad, and it seared through me like a butter knife that had been recently microwaved (unintentionally/accidentally). She talked about her puppy, whose life had been cut short for no apparent reason. She talked about her childlike disappointment at the very notion of having pets. "It's part of the deal, I guess. You just have to expect to lose them. It's not fair." she said.
It's hard for me to relate to a sentiment like that.
It may seem cold, and emotionally detached, but I have always understood that unspoken agreement with pets. You will outlive them- if you're lucky. Hence, you can't expect a happy ending to the relationship. You will see them perish. Whether it is a premature death or not, you will see them perish (again-if you're lucky). But, my mother and I are very different creatures. I too loved Yogi, but more importantly- her pain resonates intensely with me. I can feel what she feels. Mother and daughter relationships are a bitch that way ;)
So, I wrote this poem for her (and her love of flowers)......
I consider these words to be the flower upon poor Yogi's grave:

Flowers for Prince Yogi Schwarma: 

Daff-o-dills,
Bring cheap thrills,
Roses just turn up their nose.

Violets bleed;
Carnations concede,
to each flimsy breeze that blows.

Daisies delight
with petals of white,
lilies sing so lovely and lilt.

Orchids romance,
a tropical dance,
One wonders- oh why must they wilt?

The answer you see,
I said to the tree.
Their grace is a flicker of time.

Each lilac's perfume,
to waft through my room,
hits my heart, with a soulful chyme.

xoxo

An Ode to Lady Pandora

It's Saturday night, and only one truth presents itself to me in bold and blatant nudity. Pandora Radio and I have one of the most lopsidedly, generous relationships that I have ever been privileged enough to be involved in. She gives so much and demands so little. Really, who doesn't want to be asked to thumb their opinion on things? Thumbs up for kick-ass, awesomesauce jams by Spoon; thumbs down for buzz kill, weep-fests by Iron and Wine (Yes. I know. I shall have every prose writing , intellectual girl- complete with hipster spectacles- at my throat). It's like getting to be Lester Bangs for about 36 seconds. Pandora has been like a lovely geisha that visits my bedroom each night , introducing me to the most charming and adorable friends. Feeling frisky for The Blow, waxing rhapsodical to Matt and Kim, hanging my head for Haiti with Arcade Fire; memories made possible only by dear Pandora. Its a beautiful dinner party, one that allows me complete control over the guest list. Actually, I suppose it is more akin to speed dating- if some snippet of a song/conversation strikes my ears in discord- click! snap! On to the next.... (with a sweeping hand gesture- for dramatic effect, of course.)

Recently, due to a lowered immunity to stress and a heightened sense of social anxiety, I have taken a specific fancy to this song by Field Music. It seems to encapsulate many of the conflicts I wrestle daily:

Alternating Current

He's seen to understanding what you do
He's seen to watching everywhere you move
He can hear when you're fooling
He can see sparks are overflowing
He knows you without you even knowing

To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you

He's got a log of all your conversations
He analyses every word in case you
For any chance you're trying to give a signal
And like to sing a song out your window
Or when all the lights out in a discotheque

To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you

It's strange to think we're all just faces
(It's strange to think we're all just faces)
It's just a case of switching on to you
(It's just a case of switching on to you)
It's just a case of switching on

To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you

I blame it on the diagrams that should show you
How to wire me up correctly

To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you

To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you

To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you

To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you

To positive and negative
(To 40 volts turning me, AC turning me on)
It's great when you're round when I can't see you

(AC turning me on)
I can't see you


PS- Thank you Pandora, for finding my feelings better than I can.
xoxo

Oh Me Oh My, Each Tree I Cry

This is a silly poem, written at an uncivilized hour, in reaction to a ridiculous notion. It was recently suggested that my brother and I cut down a tree in our backyard to allow for a satellite dish to be installed. Obviously, I was less than amused....

Oh, woe is-me,
for every tree,
that was cutdown for me.
For I wish they could see,
the infinite glee,
their paper brings me.
But, alas just maybe,
they'd read and decree-
   SUCH RAMBLING WORDS,
                 -SUCH NEUROTIC DEBRIS!!!

School Lunches

A creative and vibrant pal of mine recently slipped me Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird. It has rekindled my fiery love for writing. Sadly, writing and I have been in the throes of a cold, and distant stand-off for quite a few years. Needless to say my renewed infatuation has me somewhat starry-eyed and sparkling. One of my habitual problems with writing is the sheer possibility of it. I am overwhelmed by a blank page, and the infinite choices/opportunities it presents. It paralyzes me. My ideas inflate too quickly to successfully capture them on paper- they are cancerous in nature. They grow exponentially, and unmitigated, at too alarming a rate to have proper grounding or foundation. Which is why I halt, stupefied, and slightly offended by my pen and pad. However, upon a recent sitting with Ms. Lamott, I was reminded of the importance of short assignments. Taking smaller bites, one step at a time, "bird by bird". She suggests the subject of one's childhood school lunches to get your creative juices flowing. So I began with this nostalgia sweetened assignment. So it goes....

By the time I had dipped a toe into high school I had given up on school lunches- in a conventional sense anyhow. School lunches had provided me with about the same amount of psychological stability as anything else in my up to that point- which was slim to none. At the risk of being a badly broken record, it was the inconsistency that turned me cold. Mom was typically too frantic and busy to agonize too much over ziplock baggies and lays potato chips (a definite staple when she WAS able to pack an actual brown bag lunch for me- but they were almost always completely/semi-smashed). I felt that when she did pack my lunch it tended to be depressingly generic and hurried. Teachers looked at me somewhat pityingly; the lunch looked lazy. But what they didn't see was my mother- a woman who never stopped moving/working/providing/rushing/nurturing/loving. She often attempted far too many things at one time.  School lunches were low on the totem pole.  Similar to laundry duty, my mother expected me to pack my own lunch. It was around those emotionally-laden, foggy years that followed my parents divorce. A time when our entire domestic structure was redefined and redistricted. A time when my mother had to learn to make ends meet for three children. But I'm dancing around the main point; my mom's lunches consisted of a mushy peanut butter and jelly sandwich (my jelly always soaked the bread, giving it an unsavory blood-clotted look), greasy lays potato chips, and baby carrots coated in that weird white fuzziness that usually signaled too much time had been spent rolling around in the vegetable crisper. Needless to say, dipping sauces and beverages were omitted. A majority of my lunch period was spent glaring in resentment at the kids with juice boxes and fruit snacks. Their lunches looked so tidy and perfectly portioned. I glared at each pampered bite taken, as they bashfully read the napkin note that was invariably tucked inside like a parental fortune cookie. Ironically, when I was left to assembling my own brown bag lunch- they looked eerily identical to my mother's. They had that same  hasty haphazard quality I was accustomed to; they were given about as much care and attention as one gives to plunging a toilet.

Oddly enough, when my father packed my lunch it was a different tale entirely. He was always good at things like that- those minor, seemingly insignificant duties that you would assume an alcoholic of his severity would completely overlook. However, he took school lunches seriously. Very seriously. For a brief time in Middle School when I lived primarily with him (extremely brief- 6th grade I believe, and only for a few months), he packed the most quirky , eccentric, and personality-fitting lunches I have ever seen. Always with a sandwich on rye bread (sometimes marble rye- if he was feeling fancy). It was the perfect choice. I loved rye bread- seeds and all! Unlike mom, Dad packed things he knew I would actually eat. I think he respected my stubborn streak; well, I DID get it from him after all.....
A liverwurst spread could always be found between my slices of bread. Ohhhh the liverwurst! That  suspicious, pink spread with a smell so distinct it could wake you from the soundest of slumbers. Other children wrinkled their noses, looking on with morbid curiosity. Also included, was a mini sized tuper-ware container filled to the brim with green olives so salty they dry your eye sockets at the mere sight of them. A can of pepsi to cleanse my palate, and a snack cake of some decadent sort rounded out my menu quite nicely. I loved my fathers lunches. I basked in the waspy disgust of my peers. I savored each pungent bite of rye/liverwurst, sucked every red pimento with a misfit's flamboyance, and opened each can of pepsi with a boisterous CRACK. I felt loved. I felt looked after. I felt cared for. So, thank you daddy- I'll always split my sandwiches with you.

Please Bring Breadcrumbs.

Always be prepared- the Boy Scouts certainly had their finger on the button when they adopted that little nugget of wisdom. In fact, few moments bring as much personal satisfaction as being well-equipped for the ever twisting conditions of daily life. It's with a triumphant, (and slightly smug), air that we pull an umbrella from our oversized purse - just in time for the first drops of rain to splash against the pavement. We proudly stroll through the rain unscathed and arid, amongst the hordes of sad saps who have fallen victim to poor planning. 
Flashlights, breath mints, pocket knives, bobby pins, chap stick, band aids, pencil erasers, tweezers, sanitizers, scissors, etc.- these tools all carry the imperious glow of an efficient scout-leader. I have spent a great deal of my young life scurrying against the clock in preparation; the curse of procrastination claims another victim in me! However, as an adult (sort of), I have developed my own practical bag of tricks- a veritable arsenal of useful gadgetry to help me get through my waking hours. You need to clip a hangnail? I've got the clippers my friend. Hungry? There's a packet of string cheese in my side-pocket with your name on it! Hands feeling a little dry? No worries pal, I carry lotion at all times. You get the point.... 
Although I still have a worrisome amount of blind spots (I almost always forget to pack a lunch, bring bug spray, or charge my cell phone), I'm trying. So, in the spirit of preparedness, and the off-chance that anyone is reading this blog (weird word- by the way),  I want to warn you - bring your breadcrumbs. This will be a pointless blog- one consisting solely of the 23 year old meandering mind trails  that threaten my sanity. So hang in there, be patient, and leave those breadcrumbs to guide you- these trails cannot be mapped (trust me, I've tried).