It had to happen eventually...

I knew one day I would have to pontificate about my thoughts on a particular subject that I have not mentioned in all 5 years (give or take) that I have had this blog. But now, since it is almost over, I feel the need (after about 1/3 of a bottle of wine) to express to you my feelings about something very dear to me.

LOST.

Yes friends. That show that everyone either loves (if they watch it) or hates to hear about (if they do not watch it). I am not going to try to theorize or anything (which reminds me--I have to remember to write down my personal guess as to which theory will unfold during the season finale before Sunday, per my watching-buddies' request. Yikes! Don't forget! And yes I am that nerdy), I just want to explore my intense feelings for this mind-blowing piece of American Entertainment.

When my fiance brought home the netflix of episode 1, season 1, I was mildly annoyed. I had been hearing about this show for like 2 seasons and I just did not get it (was not enlightened yet, as I will call it now). He watched it alone due to my indifference. He promptly told me I needed to watch it. That I would effing love it (or something to that effect). I decided to give it a shot.

The first episode was so intense I think I almost threw up. I have never been so moved by a television show before. Listen, I want to be straight right off the bat here--I DO NOT get "into" TV shows. During the 6 years I was in college, I think I saw a hand-full of episodes of TV shows. I never had or wanted cable TV, I was constantly reading at coffee shops or in school. No need for mindless devotion to my weekly "show" or whatever. So I had no concept of what is it to actually care about a plot line, let alone a whole TV show. This was something different. And it terrified me.

Adam and I, along with our close friend Jon, plowed through season 1 and 2, maybe even 3. I know at least 2 New Year's Days off were spent, in their entirety, watching episode after episode in our pajamas. We only broke the cycle to go get greasy take out food and bring it back so we could continue getting our fix. I remember distinctly, after 12 straight hours of LOST viewing, rolling around on the couch, saying "It's like my crack, man. I can't get enough!" And I meant it.

Maybe it was the mystery of it all. I am, by nature, an extremely curious person. I want to know everything about everything and everyone. I ask a lot of questions. I analyze till I am blue in the face. But with LOST, I got to know nothing. Oh sure, treats were thrown at me, but ultimately, I was constantly in a state of panic and analysis about what everything meant. It was glorious.

So as I mentioned before, I have not been an avid television watcher since probably 8th grade. Even now, I watch a minimal amount of TV. LOST accounts for about 45% of my viewing time, I would say. As a result of this being typical for me, I have never really gotten attached to a show before. This is all new to me. I used to laugh at my sister or my aunt, who would tape their favorite shows and not answer their phones because "my show is on.."  I thought it was absurd. Now?

I get it.

I totally get it.

LOST is MY SHOW. I care. I watch. I sit through stupid commercials. I read up online about it. I formulate theories. I LOVE THE SHIT OUT OF THIS SHOW. Yeah man. All caps. You heard me.

I treat the show like it is a separate entity. It's so weird. Never have I had this sort of attachment to a freaking television show. And it is now coming to an end. This weekend, Sunday to be exact, LOST will air the series finale. We have all known this day is coming since around circa 2007. But to have it actually be right around the corner is really surreal to me.

I mean, now that I finally gave in to my obsession with the show, it is time to say goodbye. I have invested a good 4-5 years of time, energy, and mind-power to this show and all its many facets. As Boyz to Men once said, "It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday." It's true. LOST is like my homey I must tip my 40oz to.

I am not sure how I will react. I am pretty sure I will cry, since I already cry every time someone even breaks a finger nail in that show. But in terms of how I will fill the void the finale will leave in my life? Who knows. I will probably just go back to watching less TV. Which is a good thing, overall.

The thing about LOST is...it is a show about people who make sense. You got to see why they are the way they are, then see them act differently, or in line with themselves, depending on the situation. And isn't that how it really is in real life? People are lonely, looking for something, have daddy issues, can't get over something. It is all universal to us all. And they act out accordingly. Or overcome their tendencies. Seeing that is hard. But exquisitely beautiful.

I guess if I had to try to put it into words...as LOST comes to an end, I realize I did fall for this show. I loved hard, fiercely, and with such a devotion that would never waiver. And I must remember, as I am a bawling baby on the couch during the finale this Sunday...

It is better to have loved and LOST than to have never loved at all.

The big -1

Yesterday, it was officially one year exactly until my wedding. We celebrated by going to a friend's birthday gathering and drinking copious amounts of margaritas. It was nice to be out and the weather was great for once and we rode bikes in a group back to our neighborhood and it was just like summer nights I remember from years past. The city was buzzing with people spilling out of various bars and restaurants, the night air was warmish, and  spirits were high. It is nights like this that I am reminded how lucky I am to be here, right now, at this particular time in my life. Knowing that things will be changing pretty significantly in the next year or so, I feel the need to embrace each moment like last night and hold it close. Snuggle it, even.

Here are some big changes coming round the bend:

I will be a married woman (I guess I call myself woman now) in exactly 364 days.
My fiance will be going back to school soon. Which means less time to spend together. Also less time to plan for our wedding.
Our best friend (my fiance's best friend of 10 years and now by proxy and because I love him, one of my best friends as well) is leaving Chicago to go to grad school at Harvard! (Yes he is very smart.) Which means a very big hole in our hearts after this summer.
Possibly we will be forced to move out of our lovely apartment if our landlord can find a buyer this summer.

There are other changes hopefully coming as well that will remain private for now. All in all, as a wise man named Bob once said, "times, they are a-changin'."

I know change is good, and I fully get that cognitively. However I tend to be the type of girl who understands things mentally yet still has very strong emotional responses to it all. That is why my mother always said I was "sensitive." A nice way of noting my emotionality...i.e. I cry. A lot. I am sure I will be just fine until all the changes start happening one by one. And then I will lose it here and there and be a blubbering mess for a day or two until the emotion has been drained out through the tears. It is fine. I can deal with it. It is a good thing that at 30 years old I finally know myself enough to realize how I might react and then prepare for it appropriately. So this will be the summer of lasts and firsts. Bring on the kleenex.

Hair Despair

Well I just realized that this will be my 102nd blog post. Boy howdy, that seems like a lot! When you think about how long I have had this little corner it does not seem that surprising I guess. But it is a little exciting. For me. And that is all that matters, when you really break it down. So HOORAY for me. And a big squishy thank you to you for reading all this silly drivel I like to share.

ANYWAY....

On to more important topics. Like my new haircut. Yeah I said it. My new haircut will be the subject of my 102nd blog post. Riveting, truly. But this is not just about my haircut. It is about every haircut I have ever had. It is about how awful one person can actually be at doing her own hair.

Our story begins circa 1987 or so. About the time I entered the 3rd grade. My mother had never done more with my limp, stringy locks than put them in a simple ponytail or if she was feeling really adventurous...two of them. I am pretty sure she is the one who passed on to me the "lack-of-skill-at-girly-things" gene that stops me from having a fashion sense, being able to wear high heels for more than an hour at a time, applying makeup properly, and of course--styling my own hair. (She also passed on her kindness, compassion, strength and ingenuity. So I made out like a bandit nonetheless.)

Around this time--3rd grade or so--young children begin to actually notice their differences and celebrate them...as cruelly as possible. So I think my mother had the best intentions when she dragged me into a salon to get my rat's nest of a mop combed out and see what we could do with it. I am sure she did not want to give those kids a reason to tease me any more then they were already planning to. My knotted greasy mess of hair certainly would not help the situation. She decided to go with what everyone at the time was doing (hey, it was the 80s after all). She got me a perm.

Now, the perm was super cute when leaving the salon. It made my fine, flat hair kinky and full, gave me the volume women dream of, and seemed relatively easy to manage--just spray and scrunch and go! However, the perm completely fell out of my hair within weeks and I was back to straight and flat once again. My mother was determined to get the perm to take. She must have taken me back to that salon every few months for at least a year. Same thing always happened--perm took hours to create, then took only hours to disappear. It was pretty amazing.

Eventually my mother grew tired of attempting to force my hair to be something it wasn't. I think it was at that point that we both just sort of gave up. I played sports and tended to keep my hair in tight ponytails anyway, or there was that great side ponytail phase everyone was into that suited me just fine through the late 80s and early 90s. It was all good. Except that I looked like a real tool through most of my formative years. But then again--who doesn't? Right? Riiiiight?

Fast forward to my later college years. I stumbled upon an amazing BFF who was not only fabulous and fun as hell, but he was also really good at hair! I could not believe my luck! If he was not cutting and dying my hair, he was experimenting and styling it so that I would look like a normal, dare I say pretty girl, all dolled up and looking good all the time. It was great! Remembering those days right now, I can honestly say with confidence that those were some of the best-looking days of my life thus far. Wow. I think I almost shed a tear. Why did I ever move away from that man?

Fast forward again, say...7 years. I am now 30 years old. I have not had my BFF stylist around in 7 years and it shows. I wander from stylist to stylist, hoping someone will finally understand my hair and help me figure out how to make it look nice on my own. Oh sure, there have been some who came close. There are always those who gave me what we both thought was the perfect cut . But once I left the salon, once my hair's fate rested in my fumbling hands...well, you know how that ends. You see, the stylist has that gene. That thing inside most women that tells them innately how to braid hair or use a curl brush properly. Me? I do not have it. AT ALL. And so I leave the salon feeling like a million bucks, go out that night and get tons of compliments, feel awesome about my hair future, and then BAM. I wake up in the morning and it's just me and the hair. On our own. Battling the war we have been fighting for years. And it gets ugly, let me assure you. With no stylist to tame it, my hair becomes a beast and refuses to do what I saw it do the day before. It is like the sad clown at the circus being left alone in the lion cage with only a squirty-flower on his lapel to assist him.

So here I am today, about 6 days into a new haircut. The first day, of course, I absolutely loved it. The shape was great, the layers made sense, I went with sweepy side bangs again (against my better judgement) and they actually looked damn cute! I was impressed. The stylist was my 4th or 5th since living in Chicago, and I was happy because she took notes and spent time listening to my hair woes. She even showed me some different ways to work with my hair and gently urge it to do what I wanted. I felt armed with new knowledge and a new sense of determination to make my hair my bitch (so to speak). And of course, the next morning, I practiced all her tricks and I took extra time to style it and I used the stupid product she convinced me to buy that was supposed to help me make this happen. But nothing changed. I am still a certifiable hair-idiot.

This makes me very sad. It does. Because I know hair is a very important part of the image you present to the world. It can make a pretty girl uglier or a plain girl stunning. It can compliment your outfit or confuse the hell out of people. It is sometimes all someone has to go on to recognize you in a crowd. So it better be an extension of you, if possible.

For me, this is just not possible...yet. I am still hoping that one day the right cut or the right length or the right products will come along and help me make up for my missing hair gene. I will figure out how to style my own hair in a way that is pleasing and looks like I meant to look good that day. People will comment on it and tell me I have never looked better. And it won't be because of the stylist's work. It will be because of me.

Trip down New-Age memory lane...

***I just updated this post because I realized that my old myspace blog story was totally cut off in posting and I somehow missed it! Ack! (Obviously the TV watching and being lazy got to me that day and made my brain dumb. Damn you picture box!) So here is the corrected version, this time not missing the last few words of every sentence. Sorry about that!

Happy Saturday!
So I was reminded by someone today that myspace.com still exists somehow. I often forget that, even though for a time myspace.com was a very significant part of my life. I go back on occasion just to see if anything interesting is going on (there's not) and to look at a few old pictures I still have on my profile.

Today, I checked out my old blog over there. Myspace gave everyone the option for a blog on their profile and I wrote a few things on mine at one point. I forgot all about that and it was fun to re-read some thoughts from that time period.

One thing I wrote in particular was about my experience going into a sensory deprivation tank. I enjoyed writing about it because it was just such a weird adventure and I loved it. I highly recommend it to anyone even remotely interested in doing it. It will really blow your mind.

So in celebration of the past and myspace.com's slow demise, and because I am being lazy this weekend and would rather sit around in my underwear watching TV instead of trying to explore a new topic, here is an old post about what sensory deprivation did for me.

So...........

I went to a place in Chicago called Space-Time-Tanks after I worked clinic at school. A friend from class had told me about it and I have always wanted to try the sensory deprivation experience, so she and I and her boyfriend all met up and went together. We walked in and the place reeked of pachuli insense. There were super old red velvet couches whose frames were made of mirrors. And a fish tank. And a guy at the desk who looked a little like a tame David Bowie from Labyrith. It was awesome already!

Sort-of-Bowie asked that we take our shoes off. Then after letting us get settled and read some of the new agey books on display in the lobby, he asked if we were ready to float. We were ready as one could be when one is going into something completely new and foreign to oneself. So we nodded and followed him into the hallway. He took us into a small room with a stand up shower and a huge container in it. He showed us how everything worked, and I stayed in that room to begin my experience.

First, you shower off completely. Then you lift open a door that is reminiscent of the outdoor cellar door at Dorothy's farm in The Wizard of Oz. Inside that door is a large square container with 10 inches of water and 800 pounds of Epsom salts dissolved in it.  The salts are not only very good for relaxing muscles (I learned that in school) but it also makes your body float effortlessly in the water. So you put in some ear plugs to avoid getting water in your ears, you make sure you dont rub your eyes or the salt will burn like a mother, and you close the door and are plunged into complete and utter darkness.

In the tank, you lose sight, sound and touch. You are weightless and can't hear anything but your own heartbeat, breath, and occasionally eyelashes when you blink. You cannot tell if you are awake or alseep. You cannot feel your limbs. You get to spend an hour in nothingness. And it was so blissful.

At first, I saw so many colors as my eyes, so used to be stimulated all day long, fired off the last remnants of colors and shapes. I watched these colors sort of melt and shimmer until they faded to the pitch black that I was actually seeing. Then my heartbeat and blinking became so loud and rythmic, and I lost myself in it. My mind chatter took a long time, but eventually faded away a bit too. It was like that inner critic that we all have moved about 10 paces away from my ear--I could still hear her, but just barely over the sound of my own breathing.

My body was not there anymore. I felt none of it. Every now and then, I wiggled a toe or finger to make sure I was still real. And then I would be comforted to know I was still truly there. It was so good to let go and not have to pay attention to this shell I am in all the time--my own skin. My mind no longer had to deal with my body. I was free to wander in my head.  

I fell asleep once--and when I woke my body jerked and splashed around. Then I looked up at the ceiling and saw images in black and white--they were almost like comic book images, but in motion. It was really intense because I was not trying to see anything, it was just appearing before my eyes that were wide open. I relished in this uncontrolled story line unfolding above me until it too faded away slowly.

I was amazed at my breathing. Deep, repetitive inhale-exhales that came from a place I rarely breath from in my daily life. I thought maybe I was experiencing being awake while breathing like we do while sleeping. Because truly, after a while I could not tell if I was awake or asleep. I began to think of my breath as sounding like a hot-air balloon, and was immediately thrown into a very vivid childhood memory of the Hot Air Balloon Races in Fresno. My mother would wake me up at 6am just to go sit on the backyard grass still moist with early morning dew, and she and I and sometimes Dad would watch the balloons pass over our house. Sometimes they were so low we could say hello to the people controlling them. It was a wild memory that made me really happy and it was so clear I felt like I was back there still, shivering in my pajamas on the back porch, my mom in her robe, and my Dad in his slippers.

So that all came from my deep breathing. A precious moment I remember like it was yesterday. As it faded, much like everything in the experience, I thought to myself, "Don't forget how beautiful that was."

Eventually I lost track of myself and my mind and was just floating freely and enjoying the new sensations. This bliss was finally interupted by a gentle rapping on my "chamber door" so to speak. I had been instructed to knock back, so I did, to signal I was aware my time was up.

I slowly came out of my dreamstate and opened the door. The lights were now deep red in the room, and I took a long hot shower in that light. Then I slowly put my clothes back on (difficult, as I was a bit uncoordinated after my weightlessness) and walked out of there feeling like I had slept for hours without really sleeping.

Now, 4 hours later, I am so sleepy and dreamy that I can barely write all this. But I wanted to try and put it into words while it was still fresh in my head.

I reccommend this to anyone who needs a break from reality for a little while. Anyone who needs to let go or brainstorm on a creative thought or figure out their life or the meaning of that life. It was pure non-existence, and I am all the better for getting the chance to experience that phenomena.

The Root of the Matter

While getting the second half of a root canal procedure today, I was contemplating whether or not I could die by  drowning in my own saliva.

There I was in the endodontist's chair, bright lights pointing at my face, a pair of protective goggles over my eyes and a dental dam pulled taut over my gaping wide mouth (at last I understand the non-sex-ed reason for a dental dam! Eureka!). I knew the spit was starting to pool at the place where my mouth becomes my throat, and swallowing occasionally was not taking care of business for me. My mouth had been open so long that my lower jaw was trembling uncontrollably. Suddenly I was very aware of how calmly I had been using only my nostrils to breathe during the procedure. I imagined what would happen if I were to panic due to the large and growing pool of saliva down in there. To stop breathing easily and start "getting real" (if I may quote the Real World MTV). This made me stop for a second and almost panic. But then I realized all that would do is cause unnecessary drama and possibly mess up my endodontist's steady hand. And who wants that to happen when he is deep up in your tooth with some sharp, scrape-y instrument? Not this girl. I managed to continue breathing evenly until he finished the job. The saliva pool was just getting big enough for small frogs to dive into when the dental dam was removed and his assistant went to town with the suction tube. Gone was my fear of drowning in my own juices. Hooray for science.

Now I am left fat-lipped and ready to park it on the couch and watch some Netflix. Whose with me?

It's Complicated

Karaoke and I have a very deep, very lengthy love/hate relationship.

The thing that seems to be the link that flips my feeling from hate to love is alcohol.

Basically, I am generally adverse to going out specifically for Karaoke. I don't consider it "my thing." However, if a ton of people I know are heading out to do some Karaoke, I will give in and just go, and just swear to myself that I will not be singing that night. The whole first hour I am there, I will groan as friends start filling out the song slips, roll my eyes when someone expresses glee that they have such-and-such song, and generally act like I am way too above all this Karaoke nonsense.

Then inevitably I will realize, after about 3 beers and 5 hilarious performances by friends and strangers, that I DO like Karaoke, and I am damn good at it too! My guard drops and my hand reaches for that pen. Suddenly, it's on.

The weird thing is, usually, if I let myself give in, I end up having a BLAST. I am a pretty good singer and a well trained actress. I know what the people want to see. I have a few great performance songs up my sleeve that I can bust out. I will be there till last call, hooting and hollering for every performer, running up to dance along with them, clapping till my hands are raw, and loving every minute of it.

In a week or two, I will forget all about how fun it was that night, and the next time someone's like "Let's go to Karaoke tonight!" I am right back in denial again, rolling my eyes in disgust and looking for a better plan for the evening. It's ridiculous.

Back in my early college years, I hung out with a couple of people who were quite serious about Karaoke. I figure I must have been dragged along to the Karaoke bar almost every weekend for at least a year. (Okay maybe not dragged...but I did not have many friends at that time so it was either watch TV alone on a Friday night or go to the damn singing bar...so guess which I chose, being the social butterfly that I am?)

We would go there and my friends, who were musical theatre majors with dazzling voices, would put in like TEN slips of paper with songs written on them. They would be up there every 4th song, giving it their all. Oh and they were pitch perfect too, but often the songs were kinda boring. Like "The Rose" by Bette Midler. I mean, for someone who wants to show off, its a great way to flaunt your range, I guess. But who feels like hearing that one on a Friday night at a bar? Instant downer.

I would slink in the corner with my vodka tonic, slightly embarrassed to be affiliated with the hard-core singers of the night. Eventually after the vodka kicked in, I stopped caring as much and slipped in a song of my own. Usually something silly that was more of a statement than a song choice. Think "Bust-a-Move" or "Summertime Girls" by LFO. (Yeah, that one was a big hit, I'll tell you what.)

I think during that time I was starting to feel like one of those people (you know, the ones who go to every Karaoke night in the city, the regulars who always sing that same song and look a little too into it?) and that made me feel uncomfortable. When the DJ knew our names by heart, I could not take it anymore. Luckily, I finally started making more friends and I stopped going.

Later, when we would stumble upon Karaoke happening at a bar and it was later in my college career, the new friends I hung out with would get excited--not to sing, but to play a little game my buddy B coined "Scare-aoke." You try to find the worst song in the book, and you sign your friend up to sing it. Then they have no idea that they are singing (or what they are singing) until his or her name is called. It's pretty great. As long as you are fairly intoxicated. And you sort of know the lyrics.

Nowadays, with a fiance who thinks Karaoke is the bees knees (seriously he loves it, and is really good, especially with songs by Ray Charles--we threw him a birthday party at Lincoln Karaoke and it was a night that will go down in history as the best Karaoke night ever), I continue to struggle with my initial "ugh" feeling when Karaoke is mentioned. I still don't want to seek it out as a weekend activity. Yet I know deep down, once I have a drink or two, it will become a fun way to spend the evening for sure. So for now, I am just working on being more open to the suggestion than I used to be. So far, so good. Just ask the good people at Mullen's last Thursday night.

Shred Update

Well I have moved on to level 2 and it sucks even more than the first. Jillian still tortures me and tells me she literally wants me to feel "like you're going to die." Thanks Jillian.

And her two lackeys on either side that are exercising along with me are more annoying than they were in the first level. Their perfect abs glint in the harsh florescent lights of the workout studio. They "glisten" instead of sweat. And their long, toned legs reach their supple bouncing breasts as they do the "high knee" running in place during the cardio circuit. All the while their smiles are so frozen that after a while I swear it looks more like sneering.

Anyway enough about the hate. I have to make an honest confession. I have not been shredding every day. I started out strong. I did! I think I did it every day for about 10-12 days. But then I went to California to welcome my new niece into the world...and then I came back and the sun was so bright and warm that I thought it tragic to stay indoors for my workout when I could be running outside (Jillian-free)! So I have been alternating between what I consider "running" (jogging and walking for about 30 minutes) and a few days of the shred each week.

The result?

I somehow weigh more than I did when I started. (And my pants are tight too, so don't give me that "muscle weighs more than fat" business.) What the heck?

I try, people. I really try. I would say at this point in my life, I am more active than most. I ride my bike to work at least twice a week if not more. I shred a few times a week. I run a few times a week. Otherwise I walk everywhere I go in Chicago. So what is the problem, body?

Oh yeah...it's all that beer and chocolate I consume on a regular basis.

Open Letter to the Lady Bug I Almost Swallowed

Dear Ms Lady,

So how did you get into my water bottle anyway? I mean, I am pretty sure you came out of the tiny nub that opens and closes, and there isn't a whole lot of room in there. Did you hop on while I was biking, perhaps? Or were you somehow in the water machine at work and just fell right in and swam your way up to the sucker-part of my water bottle lid? Either way, pretty impressive work, my friend. Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible would be impressed.

Anyway, so when you were poured into my mouth with a mighty suck from my lips, did you think you were going to die? I would have. I am assuming it was pretty dark and warm and terrifying there. I know I almost crunched down on you in confusion. Did you feel my hesitation as I realized that something foreign had come out of my water bottle?

When I spit you out in the sink, I must say I was pretty shocked to see you. I thought perhaps you were a peanut skin or a gross piece of food that made it's way into my water bottle somehow. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that you would be a living creature. Especially one I happen to find cute. Usually.

Well, we both know how it all ended. I gagged, shuddered, half-yelped and told everyone at work about our shared moment.  Then, realizing that you had been strong enough to live through the whole retched experience, I decided to scoop you up and let you go outside. You refused to fly so I tossed you off my hand and you landed with a tiny thud on the concrete. I ran back inside, still a little grossed out.

I hope you were able to get your wits about you and figure out how to move on with your tiny little life. I am still a little shaken but moving on just fine with mine.

Sincerely,
LR

PS you better be a sign of good luck, you bitch.

Wordpressed

Due to a number of people expressing their satisfaction with wordpress.com, I thought perhaps I should look into possibly switching where I poo out these thoughts of mine. Maybe it is time to change the liter, eh? 

I mean, I have been here for four or five years already. And really, the site is pretty rudimentary. (I hope some blogspot police don't read this and can me somehow because of that statement! Ack!) There are only a few backgrounds and everything is very simplified, which I do like. But sometimes, it is nice to have fun options. Bells and whistles and such.

On top of that, I have been having trouble actually tracking who even reads this stuff and I recently added some sort of counter thingy to see if it would help. But since I am so awesomely lame at technology sometimes, I can't seem to figure out how to read it properly. Plus the company just sort of emails me randomly with a statement of how many hits I got, but there does not seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. It has been a little frustrating. 

So about a week ago, I ventured on to wordpress.com. I was instantly intrigued. It all looked so easy! And so many options were at your fingertips instantly. It immediately asked me what I wanted to have for a blog name and of course I chose to continue the old Winnie the Pooh word-play that is poopoocorner. And they had it! Suddenly I had set up a blog over there! It was great. I felt excited, like I was on the brink of a huge turning point in my blog life (did I really just write that? Why does that sound so moronic?). 

Then came the time when I started clicking around on all these options. Widgets. Extras. Backgrounds. Places to sign up for free fonts. Places to add your favorite blogs. Places to organize comments and archives and all kinds of other crap I had not really thought about. And when I tried to go to these options and implement them, it became very apparent that I did not understand all the jargon or what I was really doing. I mean I could not even find the place to start writing! It was pathetic. 

I don't think this is necessarily wordpress.com's fault, by any means. They are awesome and I have seen some real snazzy blogs come out of there. Truthfully I am a bit envious of the quality of their blog format. It is me. I am the one who is hesitant in this relationship.

I just don't think I am ready for that much extra stuff. I wish I was, I really do. But I will take my one-push publishing option at blogspot over the insanity that is the wordpress dashboard any day. I suppose if I had the proper assistance from someone who rocked at wordpress blogging and could navigate me around the site, that would really help. But currently, I am alone on this mission. 

As a result of all this exploration, I now have dominion over poopoocorner over at wordpress. Currently, there is nothing there but some generic thing wordpress puts up initially for you. One day I hope to switch over and somehow archive a link to this blog over there. Or maybe figure out how to move it all over there in one big chunk. 

In the meantime, I am staying put. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. 

Elevator Observation

Why do people press the up/down button even though it has obviously already been pressed? The button lights up once pressed, which clearly alerts potential elevator riders that yes, the car is coming soon. There is no need to press the button again. The elevator will get there when it gets there.

Yet there are some people who seem to think it will somehow make the car come faster if they walk up to the already lit button and press it. Again. Or maybe even press it two or three times in rapid succession, just in case.

It is such a weird phenomena that I witness every day at my place of employment. We are on the 46th floor of a 48 story building, so elevator riding is part of my daily commute. Of all the dumb elevator maneuvers people pull (and there are many, as we all know), this one astounds me the most. It's bordering on OCD behavior, or perhaps control-freakishness. Someone already pressed the button. There are lots of people waiting already. And some guy (or girl, though I see that less often for some reason. Trust issues, guys?) walks right up with authority and hits that button like he just saved all our lives. Like we were waiting here in the lobby for NO REASON whatsoever, just hoping someone would come hit the button and summon our only mode of transportation. Thank you sir! You saved us all from a life of standing aimlessly in a lobby area, unsure of our future and what our purpose is. Thank God you showed up and pressed that lighted button, or who knows what could have happened?

It's ridiculous. Also mildly hilarious.
I just needed to point this out.
I am done now.

I go right there

The cute little designer cake shop at the corner of my street is no more. Last night, a raging fire swept through the upstairs apartment and the entire roof caved in and the whole building was basically totaled. After stepping off the bus today I walked over to check out the scene. Police had barricaded the entrance which was wide open. The old door to the apartment upstairs was sideways on the ground in front of the building. Front windows were blown out and all you could see was black inside. There were still a few darling little cakes on display, though they were a bit warped and dark with soot.

It has been almost exactly 10 years since the fire in my first apartment in San Francisco. I was a wide-eyed 19 year old sophomore who never thought something like that could happen to me. But it did and it was devastating. If it had not happened, I would probably still be in SF now. It is weird to think about that. One of  the main things that drew me to Chicago was how similar to SF it was. I felt the city vibe I was craving without having to go back there to the memories of living out of bags in motels and climbing the stairs in our soot-filled home to salvage whatever was not tossed out the front bay window by the firefighters.

Now, it is easy to think back and realize that I would not be where I am now if not for that fateful day I drove up behind the fire engines to watch the flames engulf my world. I am pretty sure that is a good thing. I love my life in Chicago and would never have met the awesome people in my life now if not for that fire. And I would have never known my fiance. We had to meet in the middle of the country since we are both from opposite ends of it. I am glad for all the changes in my life that fire spawned, as difficult and emotionally taxing as that time in my life was.

The weird thing is, no matter how much time has passed since that day, I can still go right back there. To the very moment. When I peered into the cake shop's windows, when I sniffed the ashy air on my block (that smell never goes away, trust me), when I read the article about the sisters who own it and saw the photo of their faces uncontrollably contorting in anguish, I was transported right back there. Right to the moment I saw the engines cruising up my street. It never seems to go away--that feeling of loss and violation that comes with having a traumatizing event like that.

It makes me want to hug those sisters. It makes me want to trudge into their poor little shop and help them salvage what they can. To give them advice about Simple Green and how it's the only thing that seemed to help get the campfire smell off of furniture and belongings. To tell them it's going to be okay eventually.

Recently, I was told that an old college friend of mine committed suicide. He was a fixture of that old apartment before it burned and also a strong presence in my life at that time. He was a creative and wacky guy with whom I had shared many an adventure. Since he was over at our place quite a bit, one of the possible causes of the fire was even pinned on him--a roommate claimed he had farted so terribly that a candle was lit to save all in the vicinity. And it is possible that the candle was never blown out when everyone left the house that day. They could not remember if it was or not. We will never truly know if that was what happened. But I always liked that theory best.

I could not go to the funeral for my friend, and I was sorry to miss it. I suppose, for me, he represented a lot of the craziness of life at that time in San Francisco. The manic energy, sleeping wherever we could find a place to lay our heads, staying up all night on the street to get concert tickets, going to wild parties and all the experimentation that goes along with attending college in an extremely urban environment. He was always up for anything and he could convince me that this might be the last time I ever get to do something so I better go all in. I am just realizing that all my truly great adventures at SFSU involved him in some way. I really hope he continued to live his life like that until the end.

I guess it was just really weird to hear about my friend's passing and see the damage this horrible fire caused all in the same week. It completely transported my mind back to a time I rarely think about these days. Yet that time in my life, that short two years I spent in SF, could possibly be the most formative years of my life to date. I cherish them dearly and even though I went through a lot, they made me the kooky and adventurous yet very responsible woman I am today. And the people with whom I shared that time--well lets just say I will never forget them as long as I live. Each one of them had a hand in making my time there magical before the fire and trauma dragged me back home and off to another world in Southern California.

With that in mind, RIP Carson. And thank you.

The Dress Mess

There was a time when I thought perhaps this story would go a very different way. However, in retrospect, how could I have ever really thought it would work? Some things are just too good to be true. A lesson I was taught a few times this week in other ways besides the one I am about to explain. I am once again reminded that if things appear to good to be true then they probably are. Mothers and advisors and wise people all over the world use this neat little saying all the time so it must be spot on. And in this case, it certainly was.

I occasionally peruse this online site called ideeli.com. It is basically a free membership based online designer warehouse. You can find lots of pretty terrific deals on nice clothes. You might see a $1000 coat on sale for $300. Or you might find a cute top that was $100 now priced at $25.

Or you might see something that looks like the perfect casual beach wedding dress marked down to $39. And you just might have a credit at the site which would make this dress $14. And you might just freak out and buy it on impulse.

So there I was, finding myself staring at what appeared to be a lovely simple cotton dress on the site. Upon closer inspection, everything still looked great. Well, as great as an online picture of a dress could look. I deliberated only for a moment and went for the dress in white. For $14, who the hell cares if it sucks? I can just use it as something else. A cool beach cover up. A light dress for summer. Whatever works.

To my dismay, the white one had sold out in my hesitation moment. No matter, though. There was one in "cream" that seemed almost identical. I clicked the "buy" icon.

Now I must confess that I have bought one other dress on this site and it was slightly less lovely than I anticipated. Not awful, but just...not what it looked like in the picture. When I put it on, it also fit a little weird. And this is precisely why I don't go around buying stuff off online shopping sites. Shopping and making clothes look right on my body is such an ordeal in real life. I don't know why my brain was insisting that in "online world", everything would just look right on me. But my brain managed to override the truth I knew in my heart. And I bought the dress.

And now I had bought another. Knowing what I already knew. But this time it was possibly my future wedding dress. The thought that this $14 piece of magic just might work thrilled me to the core. I was giddy with excitement. My coworkers I told were floored. They viewed the dress and thought I had a shot at getting lucky and having it be awesome. I secretly did too--more than I realized at the time. I emailed pictures to a few close friends and family. I told the story of the cheapest wedding dress in history and how if it worked I would be elated but that I knew it was a total crap shoot and who cares because it was $14!

Everyone was so supportive happy for me and I was lost in the fun anticipation of seeing if it really was possible to spend the equivalent of 3 beers at my local pub for a wedding dress and still have it be beautiful.

Well, the answer is no. No it is not possible.

The dress arrived today. This after I had already had a stressful and disappointing day. I think my fiance thought it would cheer me up to finally get to see this dress I had been anxiously awaiting all week. So he was sweet and went out of his way to stop by his other work building (where I had it delivered) on the way home and grab it for me.

When I saw the tiny box in his hand, I was confused. This should have been my first clue.
"Why is it so small?" I asked.
"Yeah I thought that was kind of weird too," he said.
The box was the size of a hardback novel sent from Amazon.com. Not exactly the type of packaging you would expect for a dress.
I ran to the guest room to hide from Adam and tear the package open. Inside I found a small lump wrapped in tissue. Unraveling that revealed a thin, dingy yellowish piece of clothing made of the T-shirt material corporations use for their company shirts when they buy them in bulk. You know the kind--cheap cotton that is sort of stiff and mildly irritating to the skin. I shook it out and held it up to me.

It looked like a beach cover up.

Just as I had suspected all along.

Only I hadn't really suspected. Oh sure, I talked a big game about how if it ended up not being what I thought, I could use this thing for something else. Beach cover up was definitely one of the things mentioned. But that tiny little hopeful spark in my heart was secretly saying "It will be great! It will knock your socks off! Get ready!" all the while. I tried so hard not to get too excited about it, and ended up convinced that it would be perfect for me.

I think I do this a lot in life. Or at least it seems like that right now. A few personal things have gone down lately that have left me hugely let down and I have only myself and my uncontrollable closet optimism to blame. I just keep finding myself believing so strongly in something, only to be let down by the reality of the situation.

Perhaps it is years of Catholic School where we were taught to believe in such amazing stories, no questions asked. Just believing--strongly, wholly, and honestly. Waiting for the second coming or something along those lines to happen. That blind, unwaivering faith somehow translated itself to me convincing myself that while something might just be a flop, it could also be the most amazing thing ever. And between the two options, the  amazing always wins out in my heart.

I wonder if that is why I could not handle all the rejection of auditioning day in and day out when I was more active in the Theatre world--my little heart could not take it. Getting passionate and excited about a role and convinced this was the one, only to be super bummed when it did not work out. You are supposed to be strong and tough but somehow I was always a mess after being rejected. I could not help it. As my mother says, I am just "sensitive" and always have been.

Nowadays I bounce back from my disappointments relatively quickly. Maybe a day or two of feeling mopey and then I am back in the saddle. So I am confident that all will be merry again once I let go of the expectations I managed to create this week about how things would turn out.

With this dress fiasco, it might take a few extra sighs of discontent. But that is nothing compared to the discontent my wedding budget will feel.

On the bright side, I bet my sweet cover up dress will be the envy of all the people on that beach Mexico.

To infinity and beyond!

Spring is finally here, I can feel it! (In my mind and not so much when I am still huddled up in my down jacket)
No but seriously folks. It came officially on Sunday!
And with it has come fresh flowers, sunshine, a little bit of SNOW, and a feeling of change and excitement in the air. 


Last week, I had lots of fun adventures after a good 3 months of hibernating with only my new zip up blanket, The Wire, and my fiance to keep me warm. While this was great for sharpening my TV watching attention span, it has been killer on my personal drive and ability to branch out, so to speak. 


But in the last few weeks, I have gotten out more than I probably did all winter long. The man and I decided to make an effort to be more supportive of our creative cohorts and we saw THREE different shows in the span of like 10 days! We were quite proud of ourselves and feel that we lived up to the urban hipness we strive to achieve by living in Chicago and being...well...urban and hip (we think). So that was great and inspiring and fun too. I highly recommend Chicago people stuck in the 80s like myself go see The Breakfast Club, the Musical. Worth it. I bet it will be on Broadway (or at least Off-Broadway) in no time. It has been selling out constantly so get tickets in advance! The other shows are all closed by now so that is the only one I will praise so as not to disappoint anyone.


I also had some fun new developments in my personal life:


I originally wrote about one of the exciting new developments pretty candidly, then realized that this is, after all, the internets. A "series of tubes" to tranfer information to the masses. And while I am guessing my tiny universe of readers is small, who knows who might be reading, ya know? And so, seeing as how that whole thing is still pending an official outcome, lets just leave it at this--I had a nice phone call. More on that later!


In other news, I finally have an update on my BFD! All my nervousness about it was unnecessary! How appropriate an acronym for my Blind Friend Date, because it truly wasn't a BFD (ie big f***ing deal). It was actually just fine. Our time was fun, easy and interesting. Nothing like a job interview, or even like a real blind date, where there might be awkward lulls or uncomfortable staring contests across the table. I was sad she does not watch LOST but happy that she was up to snuff with celebrity gossip. I could not share her affinity for Survivor (still!) but we both got excited talking about all things wedding-related (I am engaged, she got married not too long ago.) She shared her story of being from NY and I shared mine about the trek from California. We both had a lot to contribute to the conversation and it was really enjoyable. I like that in this situation, none of the blind date disappointed feelings of oh, he/she does not like that too? He/she does not know that old show?come into play. Instead it's Oh, I never saw that show. Maybe I should check it out, or Hmmm what a fun thing she does that I know nothing about. How interesting! So that is the cool thing about going on a friend date with someone you don't know. It is more fun to explore someone when you aren't worried about having enough in common to make it work for the long haul. You are just looking for someone with whom you can gab over coffee or check out the new movie. No need for the "must have" lists we use for romantic endeavors.

Anyway so our time together was short (it was a school night) but sweet and I look forward to hanging out again soon. I promised myself I would not let our connection go the way of the Dodo bird like I have with so many other acquaintances in the past. I will make an effort. Because as this little experiment has proved, it is good and beneficial and even fulfilling to step outside the comfort zone and put yourself out there.

All in all, this whole Spring thing is really giving me a boost to my engines and a desire to strive for what is new and adventurous and even scary. All this in the hopes that opportunities will come my way as a result of my fearlessness and up-for-anything attitude. Here's hoping.

Case of Nerves

I haven't really written much about this but I am going on a Blind Friend Date tonight. That's right. A blind date with a twist--she is a woman with whom I hope to strike up a friendship. Long story short, I read an article she wrote about making friends as you get older and finding that special someone that is local. We all have good friends in the towns we have moved out of or from grade school or college or whatever, but how many of us find that person locally you can call any time to gab or share news or go out on the town for a drink? I identified with her take on this issue and realized she was in Chicago. A few clicks on the ole web led me to her website bio and I simply took a chance and emailed her an invitation to go on a friend date and see if we gel. She accepted and tonight is the night we meet up.

I have been talking about my lack of "go-to" women in my life for a while now. Chicago has graced me with many diverse types of people with which to hang out. And some are better than close acquaintances for sure. However I have not felt particularly connected with anyone the way I did/do with my old best friends from my past. I don't have that feeling that I could call at any time and not feel like I was imposing, or if I needed to have a quick drink, she would know I did not mean an all night affair and she would  take time out of her busy schedule to have one with me and lend me her ear for an hour, no questions asked. I know it takes time for that to develop. But without making time, how do we cultivate these types of relationships?

There is also the element of just being at the same place mentally/emotionally that I seem to lack with most people. I am 30, about to be married, and still soul searching for some more meaning in life and my career. I like to philosophize but also like talking about stupid celeb gossip. I am not very girlie and  not good at small talk. Seems simple for someone like me to connect with people that are like-minded. But it has proven harder than I thought.

Currently, I have been indulging in a new fun plan with one of my dearest (and farthest away) friends--to have a phone date complete with webcams and beers to help chase away the feeling that we are too far away to be close anymore. It has been a great addition to my life and I cherish the time spent gabbing and laughing like we used to. It has numbed the sometimes devastating feeling that I won't ever have that sort of friendship again.

But tonight...

Tonight I make the attempt to meet a complete stranger and see if we hit it off in that way you do when it's "right" between two people. And I am pretty nervous. Like "job interview" nervous. Which is totally silly. Because who cares if we hit it off? There are millions of people in Chicago who could potentially "get" me the way best friends do.

I just don't get the chance to try for that connection too often. And my blind date friend seems like a very nice person I would like to know. And I have no idea what I will say or what we will talk about. So it is a little nerve-wracking, you know? What if she decides we don't have a spark? And what if I think we do? That would be awkward. All I can do is be myself and know there is a mutual camaraderie in the fact that we are even brave enough to do this. And maybe that will be enough to spark hours (if not months, years, lifetimes) of conversation and goodwill between us.

I will keep you posted on how it all pans out, good or bad.

SHREDDED

Folks, I am in the process of shredding. But what does it mean to shred? To be shredded? The act of shredding itself is a puzzling thing. Sometimes one shreds...but feels as though he or she is not fully reaching his or her shredding capacity. And sometimes all one truly needs to feel complete is a good shred.

The above image is my living nightmare. Yet also my salvation from myself.

Jillian and I have been spending time together for the last week. Specifically, twenty long minutes a day that seem like hours. She yells at me to do this and do that. She tells me not to quit and that when it starts to hurt  I should hold on even longer and push myself.

I hate her.

I hate her and her perfect abs and arms. I hate her man-voice and her controlling orders barked at me from inside my television. I even hate her perfect hair that never gets wet with sweat while she works out along with me.

And yet, much like the angst-y teen who hates her mother with a passion, I am secretly so eternally grateful for her presence in my life.

Jillian pushes me through her insanely difficult DVD with the unrelenting urgency of a Drill Sargent, while still managing to make me feel loved and supported through the whole awful ordeal. Why the hell else would I keep coming back for more each day despite my wobbly arms hanging lifeless and weak at my sides from the day before? She tells me if I do this every day for 20 minutes, I will be beautiful. And something about her approach makes me believe her. Something earnest in her voice convinces me she is right and she knows my inner darkness and wants to take me to the light. If that happens to entail kicking my ass with pretend-jump roping and reverse sit-ups, so be it.

I don't think I have lost any weight yet. And I still can't do any of the exercises without wanting to die (even though she claims I should feel stronger and have more stamina at this point in my "shred"). But there is a peace and calm determination growing in me and I can honestly say I owe it all to Jillian. I don't push myself like this at the gym. And I don't stick with DVDs of people way more buff than me telling me how to exercise. But for some reason, Jillian has me all turned around and feeling optimistic.

It is only day five. Perhaps we should chat again at say...day 25. I will make it that far. I know I will. Jillian believes in me. I can't let her down.

Oh those young whippersnappers, I tell you what...

Today when I got the buzz on my Blackberry alerting me to the fact that Corey Haim had passed on to that little child-star cloud in the sky, I was a little disappointed. Once I mentally ticked off all the movies he was in and suddenly realized that he had played the title character in the movie Lucas, I was almost brought to tears.

Lucas, people. Lucas. The possible birthplace of the SLOW CLAP. The epitome of underdog movies where the nerd comes out on top (albeit awkwardly in this case). The movie with that cute little red-haired what's-her-name in it. The film where Leukoplakia (cancer of the mouth) was first (and last) used as a high school insult!

This movie touched me pretty deeply as a kid. Maybe it was because I too was a bit of a loner at times, hanging out and looking at bugs like Lucas. Or maybe I wanted to be the red-haired girl. Which would definitely explain why I kept dying my hair red for most of my young adult life. Whatever the reason, this was one of those films I would always pause on when channel surfing on a Saturday afternoon and enjoy for at least a moment or two.

So back to Corey. Poor, poor addicted Corey. He died this morning of a drug overdose. And at work, us late-twenties, early-thirties people bonded over the tragedy of our old teen idol's passing. We reminisced  about which posters we had, which of the Coreys we crushed on (Haim or Feldman), how License to Drive blew our young minds.

At last, the youngsters (under 25 set) in the cubes next to us could not stand it any longer.

"Who is Corey Haim?" they asked in genuine confusion.

We were shocked. And appalled. And apparently, very very old. We offered movie titles and explanations of the era of "The Coreys," but the youngsters' faces were still vacant. They had no idea who he was! Which I guess should not be that surprising. But it was nonetheless.

Finally, in an effort to seek out a way to convey to them just how much this affected our generation, I wracked my brain for a comparable situation.

"You know that kid that was on Tool Time--no, that's not it, I mean on Home Improvement? Jonathan-Taylor-something?"

"You mean JTT?"

"Yeah, yeah! JTT or whatever. Well, Corey Haim was sort of the JTT of our time, in all the teen mags and stuff. And it would be like finding out JTT died."

A huge explosion of recognition, finally. A light bulb moment, of sorts.

"Oooohh. I totally get it now. Wow. WOW. That is really sad!"

You're welcome, Corey Haim. Now we can both rest in peace.

Meditation on Massage

I have tried to meditate numerous times in my life.

There was the time when I got inspired by my voice and movement classes for theatre majors in college and started trying to re-create the guided meditations I loved so much during class. The problem was, once it was just my own inner voice guiding me, that inner voice liked to fall asleep instead of take me to my special cloud or whatever.

Then there was the time a few years later when I was going through what I like to refer to as my "Blue Period" after college. In a panic to find some happy place inside me while living in LA and working for a gutless celebrity gossip TV network, I thought meditation might get me through this rough patch. Maybe I would even find out what the next step should be on this bumpy little life path of mine. I would go to the closest beach and sit for hours, willing myself to be one with the earth and the sand crabs and the waves crashing in my ears. Picturing myself inside a tiny conch shell and breathing deep did nothing to send me to the deep recesses of myself.

Then I entered massage school, the epitomy of "New Age-y" and I was once again being guided through meditations almost weekly. And even though I seemed to still have a knack for passing out halfway through the Chakras, I came out of class feeling clear and relaxed and sure that meditation was the key to my personal well being. So I tried once again to bring myself there alone at home, picturing the red balloon attached to my coccyx at the root Chakra and hoping it expanded like my instructor had told me it would.

Nothing.

I tried a podcast of "meditation for beginners" made by some hot-sounding Australian man. His voice did little but turn me on and make me want to unleash my inner self in a different way. I do remember that one of the sessions from the Aussie had me staring at a candle flame and I did manage to feel affected and started tearing up. But that could have been because my eyes were burning from staring at a damn flame for so long. I think I saw the residual dot of light in my field of vision for the next 3 days.

I still have hopes that I will learn transcendental meditation David Lynch style, but I am not even close to ready for that at the rate I am going.

So imagine my surprise when it dawned on me recently that sometimes during massage sessions, I go somewhere far away in my brain and find a calm, peaceful inner space that allows me to quiet all the noise and just be. The repetition of the motions, the rocking of my body as I dance around a client and try to keep my hands attune to their body and what it tells me it needs...all this seems to encourage my mind to open up and expand and flow with ideas and feelings and higher realizations galore. It is magical, really. I wonder if perhaps I have found a small window to the world of meditation I have been trying to find for so long.

All I know is that I can go through a million thoughts and ideas during a massage and come out of it feeling a peace I rarely get a chance to experience after staring at a dumb candle flame.

Perhaps it has become my version of meditation. And maybe we can all find each of our own versions of meditation. You may like to rock in your bed and bang your head against the wall to come to a place of peace. He may find that listening to the hum of a washer/dryer soothes him enough to quiet the voice of the world around him. Maybe it is a particular piece of music. Or staring at the most beautiful piece of art you have ever laid eyes on. Or you could be lucky enough to be able to guide yourself through a meditation that brings you to that special cloud.

What is your thing? Do you even realize it brings you there? If you aren't sure, keep searching for it. Maybe it will fall into your lap unexpectedly like mine did.

It's another ridiculously cold night in Chicago and I have managed to do very little as a result. I made an attempt to organize my tax info (cue horror music) and poked around online until a few minutes turned into hours. Oh and I made pizza and ate about a trillion Girl Scout cookies. And now I am watching some women's skiing at the Olympics on TV. Well I guess when you actually put it on paper, I have done a lot! Pat on the back for me.

One thing in which I became quite engrossed was a blog I have been obsessed with for quite some time. I believe I stumbled upon it the first time back in 2006 when I began temping as a receptionist at a boring consulting firm in the Loop. In fact I think that is also when I began this blog. I am sure I must have been inspired by her. And I still am today. I wish I knew how to do those cool "links" when you make it so people click on the word and it takes them to a site or whatever but I am not that tech savy yet. So I will just tell you to google "city wendy" sometime and be prepared to enjoy reading about a complete stranger. It changed the way I think about writing.

Wendy writes a few times a week there and her thoughts are always fun to read and very easy to relate to. She is quirky and awkward and sassy and blunt. She admits her faults and examines herself and her choices in life. And I eat that shit up with a spoon.

I find myself intrigued and inspired to write my own perspectives. They do not always come out as interesting as I think they will (case in point), but I keep trying nonetheless. That is more than I used to do. For me, even these small blurbs are a means to get my voice out there creatively and challenge myself to do something scary that I happen to love. Thanks to Wendy, a stranger who I feel like I have known for years, I keep at it.

Blogging is strange and I struggle to decide what to write about or how to say everything. And once I get going, there is no guarentee that I will end up where I thought I would. I tend to meander though the concepts, my tangents becoming like snakes veering off into the bushes and disappearing. I embrace it all. I accept that is me and my brain and I take solace in the knowledge that eventually, if I keep at it, my writing will become more clear and my thoughts will take shape in a more cohesive and reader-friendly way.

I can't wait till that time comes.

Till then, we will have to make do with my ramblings.

Night fooding

I like the quiet of the grocery store at night. The soft hum of the florescent lights can be heard over the quiet muzak wafting over the isles. Also heard is the groan of the wheels on my rusty cart each time I start back up again after a brief stop to deliberate over which orange juice to go with.

People are scarce and it is peaceful. I move as if walking through marmalade--slow motion inching through each isle, careful not to miss any of the usuals. And sometimes, picking up a non-usual item just to spice up the week. Perhaps it is a new type of cracker or a pasta we have not tried before. Black olives or artichokes, even. It keeps it interesting. 

I try to always grab wine since it never stays long at my house. I like my chedder sharp. My lean cuisine choice would be the lazagna. Mostly because I would never have the patience to make lazagna myself and everyone needs a little taste of that every now and then. I will always manage to sneak in a piece of chocolate to get me through a particularly tough work week. This week, it was Cadbury Eggs. Dang you, Easter! (Fist shaking)

This late in the night the lines are short and easy. I cannot load the food onto the conveyor belt fast enough to keep up with the constant blip of the scanner. Someone packs my new belongings into my cart and I feel quite accomplished. 

I scoot the cart out into the night to find it snowing. The parking lot is so empty and silent that I can almost hear the tiny flakes hitting the ground with a microscopic thud. Snow collects on my bags and my eyelashes as I pack the card and climb in with my loot.

Late night grocery shopping is truly the only way to do it. I highly recommend it to you all.

A letter from my nostrils

Dear L,

WHY DO YOU HATE US??????

We are sore and crusty and ache like hell and it's all your fault.

You should have listened to all those Puffs commercials.

It DOES make a difference.

Yours forever,

Lefty and Righty