The Middle Seat Traveler - 21B

Traveling for the holidays is like a circus. It's when the rookie travelers (weird and creepy, geriatrics, foreign, for example) come out in droves and often times, are seated right next to you on your flight.

For some karmic reason, I was the lucky recipient of the middle seat on a flight from Phoenix to Minneapolis yesterday. When I approached the said seat, which from here on out will be known as Old Sparky, an odd looking man with a bowl cut was seated next to it already. Vibrant redt hair, middle aged, thin and with impeccable posture, I thought I had struck gold as he rose politely to let me in. He was very well manicured, with a spotless Eddie Bauer-esque jacket zipped all the way to his chin. And his pale chin was very pronounced. I labeled him either a male ballerina or some sort of equestrian, both of which I felt honored to be seated next to on this particular day.

Without saying anything to one another, Mr. Ballerina and I awaited the last piece to our Row 21 puzzle; the window seat was still open, and the plane doors were about to close. Inevitably, you're always hopeful that you'll end up without a full row, however unlikely the odds may be. And then just like that  - in walked our final puzzle piece - Missy Trailer Trash. Instead of the common "excuse me, that's my seat," without skipping a beat, ole girl climbed directly over Mr. Ballerina and then myself, and settled into her spot. Within seconds, milliseconds even, the stench drifted into my bubble. It was rancid. Part stale smoke (picture Virginia Slims and Jack Daniels in a house with no doors or windows...for a decade), part cheap perfume and part moth balls. I sat there, half panicked and half focused on my next move to escape the smell. And she couldn't sit still, pulling things out of her purse, applying makeup, taking pictures of the air (the AIR), each time wafting the smell back and forth into my bubble like a wave of death. I started breathing through my mouth, but it wasn't enough. It was time for the scarf barrier.  No shame, the smell was starting to take over.

The beverage cart started its way down the aisle and I focused my efforts away from Missy Trailer Trash and towards one of my favorite airplane games: predict the beverage order. I already had my two Row 21 fellows pegged. Mr. Ballerina would order a juice of some sort, maybe apple. Trashy Smokey Face would order a black coffee. Or perhaps even a Pepsi, only to realize the sodas are coke products, which she'd then refuse. The loud Minnesota man might order a sprite. The businessman who resembled Sean Connery across the way - a beer. And the Businesswoman two rows up will brave a Bloody Mary.

I hate to brag when I'm right, but let it be known I was 4 for 5 this time. Mr. Ballerina split an apple juice. The odor that had me discombobulated.

I actually managed to survive the two hour flight. As we touched down in Minneapolis, the woman exited the same way she entered, and even more, proceeded to climb back against the crowds seven rows to get her bag. I was never more relieved to see anybody go. A few beers, and a few hours later, I found myself in Columbus, Ohio. Land of the North Pole, SNOW and most importantly, the redheaded nephew who we call Marcus Deacon.  

Finally, let the holidays begin. Something tells me Marcus will be worth the trip.

Being "Ratted" Out

In the mere month that I've resided in The Estate At 822, the few cons of living in a 1914 home have reared their ugly heads - figuratively and unfortunately for my sanity -  literally.

Allow me to explain. About three weeks ago - just before my parents came to visit - I woke up to a Tuesday morning no different than any other day. And after hopping out of my clawed-shower, I made my way to the kitchen to get the coffee started. My gaze quickly shifted from the coffee I was spooning into the filter, to the small brown dropping that glimmered atop our white sink. "That's odd," I thought to myself. "I cleaned that sink before I went to sleep last night." I pulled the coffee maker back from the wall to fill the lid with chilled water, and to my horror, there lied a healthy pile of additional droppings. "Shit."

After the confirmation from my roommate that we did, in fact, appear to have a mouse "friend" in our house, I started to panic. The counters, cabinets and all flooring had to be sanitized, but more importantly, traps had to be set. And not just traps, but rat traps. I needed to get aggressive.

Two days passed, and one Friday morning I awoke to an upside down trap, and a thin, hostile tail waving in the breeze from underneath.Our first captor. Having seen it firsthand, it wasn't fulfilling, or even sad. It was horrific. This substantiated my suspicion about the droppings that I argued against my better judgement could have been large coffee grounds. And it also brought in the voices. Where there's one... there's a dozen behind them. Larger, and unequivocally more fierce and prone to come into my room and gouge my eyes out.

Two weeks passed, and no more captives were taken. I was moving freely between kitchen cabinets, and even boasting the tale of the only lone ranger in Arizona that I happened to be lucky enough to have had grace my presence.

That was until this week... when everything changed.

As I approached the front door, I saw a small something in the distance in the dead center of the kitchen floor. As I neared, it became clearer what I was looking at. A figure with its back to me, larger and dare I say darker, seated on its hind legs in the middle of our kitchen. The third step I took ignited fear in the bastard, and down it landed on all fours. As quick as you could yell "BOB SAGET," off the morsel darted under our stove. Naturally, off I darted back out the front door.

It took Itule about 30 minutes to give up the search, even after fully pulling the stove out of place, coming face to face with the guy and subsequently screaming for his life. We followed protocol, and dutifully placed a warzone of traps (including the sticky ones) throughout the kitchen. According to the rat exterminator, "The best thing to catch the vermon, is to stop them in their tracks... even if you have to hear them scream."

I didn't care. Whatever it takes to catch them - I'm willing to try.

Let the bloodbath begin.

A Little Pre Ho, Ho, Ho

The holidays always make me pensive. Not sure if it's the Christmas music, or the cooler weather (think, 65 degrees in Arizona), the ubiquity to drink and eat in excess, or just the sheer time away from the everyday grind. And although we're not there yet, I can already feel it coming on like a bad hangover, or a case of the impossible-to-rid hiccups. My mentality is merry, and with that, the need to build things (see displayed cabinets).

I'm in my new house now, and beginning to settle in each day. And as I start to peruse and plan for Christmas presents for those in my life that have made the cut this year (the list counts nearly 20 people, yeaaaaaahh), I also find myself slipping into that nostalgic holiday mind-set. As I said, I'm jolly, and I'm also more thankful than other times of the year - for an amazing family that loves me unconditionally; deep, lifelong friendships; James Taylor; a dead mouse; and really, for all the love and happiness that somehow inevitably surrounds my fortunate 25-year old self.

Here we go, holidays. Here we go Razorbacks (kiss it, LSU)! I'm excited for what you've got this year.

Goodbye PTC, Goodbye Biltmore

From the moment I laid eyes on it, I fell in love. And within hours, the ink was dry and it was all ours. It was all Neil and I could do to gather all of our belongings from our third story, 900 square foot apartment and into the new glistening, oyster-of-a-place downtown, as fast as humanly possible. It was a beauty. Allow me to be more specific; it was a goldmine of a discovery, at the exact right time and in the exact right place. I had the butterflies like in a new relationship or from a new pair of shoes. All I wanted to do was be with it, near it, get to know it better... and that's exactly what we did, leaving behind the Pinnacle Towne Center (PTC) like a bag of used diapers. Hello, downtown Phoenix!

It took me one solid week of unpacking and just exploring the nuances of my new love to realize - I hadn't given a proper goodbye to the old place. When I sat down to think about it, I was ashamed in myself. How could I move on so quickly, and not stop and recognize good old unit 349? Yes, it had its flaws (monster pigeons, creepy cats, a dryer that needed to be run three times per load), but scrolling through the list of changes that old pile of rocks saw me through, it only seemed fair. Off the cusp, the PTC endured and saw me through quite some shit:

Ahem...

- A newfound passion for Yahtzee (thank you, Focker). Many-a-night did I resist the urge for sleep for just one more round of "Yahtz" on the patio with Big Neil.
- The breaking into of Sam (also known as my car). One less air freshener later, the Neil Diamond CDs remained. That's just bad judgement.
- Heartbreak and Stalkers. Wasn't going to put this on the list, but let's be honest. It made the cut.
- My First Gray Hair(s). Grrrrr
- The befriending of a [neighbor] prostitute. Part Jamaican, part Puerto Rican, all lush. We loved ole girl.
- BECOMING AN AUNT. To a red-headed little guy, too. Words can't attempt to describe my love.
- The joining of not one, but two book clubs. Busy reader bee
- The first cavity. Which caused me to have a complete breakdown on the drive back from the dentist at which point I had grasped the severity of what had just happened WHICH led me to a speeding ticket, which leads me to...
- FIVE speeding tickets. And one shiny, running a red light ticket earning me one full day in defensive driving school with the other maniacs.
- Roller Derby. I don't know about you, but I'm rooting for Jenna Talls. Or, Nacho Girlfriend.
- Serving my civic duty. Six week murder trial leading to a hung jury, lots of life lessons and a new nickname - #9
- Mr. Itule - round two. Produce anyone? Keep "slangin' that produce," sugar.
- New job. With state government at that. Who would have thought I'd love it so much?
- The breaking of the metatarsal. Also known as possibly the worst six months ever. Third story apartment and 33 stairs each way = death. However, that experience took the first handicapped step in bridging the prejudist gap between myself and fat people. Whatever it takes.

I salute you, PTC apartment unit 349. You did us right.

The AC Joint Monstrosity

See that camel-esque bump on the tip top of my shoulder? Greeeeaaaat job on my part. One wouldn't normally think trying to shimmy a box down from the closet shelf would produce a separated AC joint, but one would also not traditionally expect to discover gray hair at 25, so apparently I'm breaking all kinds of fun norms. Seriously uncool on both accounts.

This separated AC joint is not conducive towards my week ahead in Vegas nor moving into our new home on Friday (details to follow!). And I know I have a high tolerance for pain, but when you can feel the joint grinding out of socket, and when trying to curl the beer to your mouth, it begins to spasm- nobody wins.

Sympathy/house-warming beer accepted; pale ale preferred.

The Small Victories

When I sit down and think about it, it's the mini-victories in my life - the ones that sometimes happen every day and take place in mere seconds - that have come to make up my proudest moments. Maybe I'm just overly competitive, or maybe - I'm not alone. I'm willing to bet the latter.

The other day, I had about half an hour to spare and found myself sifting through racks of discounted clothing at one of my favorite stores. It was one of those circular racks, and as I neared the end of my circumference, there was a woman going the opposite way and rapidly nearing me as she weeded through the apparrel. We both saw each other, and as we got closer and closer to colliding, the question presented itself - who's going to have to step back, and around whom? I stayed strong and increased my sifting speed. She took one look at me, and quickly folded. Small Victory.

Not surprisingly, a good amont of my mini-victories also revolve around driving. Sliding in just before the opposing car to snag the front-row parking spot is gratifying obviously, but also...weaving through traffic, finding the small holes that set you in front of the pack, and then catching the light just right to allow you to keep on your merry way, and leaving the others in the dust. Huge Victory.

The flipside of this scenario is NOT catching that light, and ending up waiting at the light with the others, nothing gained and all the shame in the world. The key is to not look up, unphased as if nothing devastating had just taken place.

And then, there's the victory of the race home. Picture two roomates departing from the same location, and selecting different routes home. The point in which you cross paths again on the journey and wind up visibly in front - triumphant. In fact, this specific scenario merits a victory fist pump out the window, which I generally adhere to.

As the photo technician at CVS lives by, "it's the little things in life, ma'am." I think yes.




 

All Roads Lead to the Montelucia

The past few weeks haven't left me with any large amount of spare time. That's actally terribly delicate. In a little under a month, I have shown face in Colorado, Arkansas, New Mexico, Virginia and several locations outside of the Phoenix metro area. And for an already overbooked dual book-clubber, newly healed runner, bridesmaid, and painfully overworked ad gal who NEEDS free time to clean, do laundry and keep in-touch with out of state pals - let me just say...this month has been trying. I'm still not sure how I got through it, but suffice it to say I'm alive.

Part of my sanity is in large part due to mani/pedis, eucalyptus steam rooms, rooftop pool access, margaritas and sweaty, naked old women with fake boobs. That's right - I spent my day yesterday at the Montelucia's Joya Spa, and it quite literally rejuvinated me back to life. Mr. Produce Itule gets MAD props for setting this up for not only me, but one of my girlfriends as well.

If you've got to go hard for a month, there might as well be some pampering at the end of the road. And on my photoradar ticket laden journey, my desert mirage in the far distance proved to be fabulous.

Things always find a way to work themselves out. :)

The Dreaming Underworld

A couple weeks ago, I had the most horrifying and demented nightmare of my entire life. So horifying, in fact, that when I was snapped out of my slumber, not only had I drenched the sheets AND mattress in sweat, but I was crying. Once morning hit, I was already showing the first symptoms of getting sick (despite just getting over strep the week prior), and my classic baby dinosaur had regained residence in my throat along with a headache from hell.

Which got me to thinking about real-life effects in our waking life produced by our dreams. A simple Google search on dreams affecting reality pulled up results on, "wet dreams affecting reality," and "turning your dreams into reality," both of which didn't help substantiate my case. So, without traveling too far into this dream vortex (I was feeling sick, afterall), I'm going to toss it out to the group: can your dreams produce real effects on your body? People say if you die in your dreams, then you die in real life. I'm not sure I buy that, but what I do believe, is that our minds can pull some crazy stunts and stop us in our tracks.

It's that realization of just how complex and powerful our own minds are that makes me crazy. In my years of analyzing dreams and learning everything I can get my hands on pertaining to dreams, I truly paralyzed myself here. And not only was I paralyzed, I was unnerved with the level of darkness and downright dementia in which my mind took me. Recounting the experience to myself, I'm also ashamed that I was able to (literally) dream up something so deranged.

With that, I'll say it's gonna take a bit of encouragement to actually share the dream details with you all, so I'm requesting an extension/Part 2.

Stay tuned...if you dare. Muhhhhhhhhhahaha.

Breakfast FAIL

Turns out...string cheese doesn't melt in scrambled eggs.

[Insert "you might be a redneck if..." joke here]

The Bell Boy Reunion of 2010: Delilah, Meningitis and the Return of the Southern Bell

Every Bell Boy Family Reunion on Beaver Lake is unique. And every year, it's very much the same. Some reunion traditions - they're hard to shake.

You can always count on five skinny-legged Bell Boys, hillybilly chin-ups and bottomless beer. You'll find bubba burgers, trout lines and hours of top choice family time coupled with the sweet background tunes of Delilah. You're guaranteed one "pull my finger" joke and some version of a Forrest Gump accent, (likely, "I'm not a very smart man") at one point or another. Complain about a sore neck (a potential case of meningitis according to me), and you'll have the karate chops of Suzie Bell coming down on you, showing you how a real sore neck feels. You'll also get a physician-directed script pictured above. And if you don't at least mention the Razorbacks in conversation somehow, you'll be sorry.

I was not sorry. The reunion was this, and more. This year, one difference for me personally, was the re-introduction of running. Labor Day marked the first date the doctor was allowing me to run again, post-broken metatarsal. I was determined to capitalize on this freedom, and after pushing myself to a near vomiting state, I proceeded to water ski, kayak and participate in hillbilly chin-ups. Let it be known that I am having trouble moving as I stand today. Let it also be known that my 88 year old grandfather did four times the chin-ups I was able to do, which if you want to get techincal, turned out to be only one.

On the plane ride home, a very chatty Gary asked me where I was coming from. When I replied, "Arkansas," he chuckled and asked if I knew any hillbillys. I tried to explain the difference between hillbilly and country, when he demanded an example. A bit taken back, I replied:

"A hillbilly is someone who duck-tapes their shoes when they are overworn. They balance beer on their defined beer belly. They swallow dip instead of spittin' and when their dogs go into heat, they diaper them with yarn and athletic socks.

"Someone who is country..." I continued, "...knows how to change their own oil and enjoys a good whiskey. They're also well accustomed to dodging deer, 'dilla, and possums."

He seemed satisfied with that answer. I leaned forward on my tray table and smiled. My family was very much a combination of both descriptions I had provided, and I was proud. Maybe it's not such a bad thing to be from the quirky town of Eureka Springs, Arkansas.  And maybe, I've been drinkin' the southern koolaid.

Another Bell Boy Reunion under my belt. And another reunion to remember, that's for certain.

Note: If you're like most people and have trouble deciphering the pictured script, it reads: Aleve - 1-2 twice daily with food. Heating Pad. Limit Pale Ale 3 daily MAX.

Pale to the Ale

It's a rare occasion that I spend the night alone these days. My roomate isn't one to travel a lot, and when he does leave the house for an evening out, it's not an all-night event. In fact, in the year and a half that I've lived with Neil, I've spent one weekend alone in the apartment. The quiet isn't something I'm accustomed to here, and it's certainly not something I'm comfortable with.

Last night, I came home from Sunday Funday festivities to find a pristinely clean apartment, a to-do list that was completely checked off, and a silence I wasn't sure what to do with. I tried to take advantage - blasted my chick music, cooked breakfast for dinner and settled in on my couch to some peaceful and much needed reading. I was overdue to finish "The Help" for a book club meeting that had already met last week.

Approximately 20 minutes into my alone time, and the darkness hit. The clicking in Neil's bedroom had my ears perked up and my mind shifted from the civil rights era to the era of crazies and psychos that was right now. Was that one of those circular glass cutting machines that spies used to break windows quietly? Calm down, RB. It's his blinds rubbing up against each other when the fan hits them just right.

Back to the book; it was really getting good. POP from the kitchen. WHAT WAS THAT NOISE? I snapped my feet up from the floor in case rats came rushing out from the banging source. Silence. More clicking from Neil's bedroom. It's just the blinds. It's time to get some sleep, you maniac. It took a serious pep talk to get up from the couch, but a half hour later I was on my feet, sprinting into my bedroom.

I practically dove into my bed and the silence didn't let up. Booze, I need booze. I dashed into the kitchen to grab a glass of wine, bringing it back to bed with me. My sheets felt like silk and finally, it felt good to let myself collapse into the comfort of my own safe haven of a bed. Safety.

And silence. More silence.

What is that ominous shadow in my closet? I was carefully peeking over my covers, and there was something hook-like, swaying in my walk-in closet. Squinting my eyes closed, I commanded my mind to think of normal, peaceful things. Carebears. My Little Ponies. My outfit for work tomorrow. I had to wear red, cause we were taking a picture for the intern. The red team. I dozed off to sleep in a terror-striken state.

5:00am and I sprung up from a nightmare. My heart was pounding and I was sweating so intensely I was literally stuck to my sheets. Shadows circled my room, and the creeks from outside my room I was now certain were going to kill me. This is it. I could try and run, but the man under my bed will swipe my feet. I'll just hide under my sweat-drenched sheets. Praying for salvation from the nonexistant murderer in my third-story apartment, I drifted off again into a troubled slumber.

When I awoke the next morning, my head throbbed. It felt like I had gone on a familiar whiskey binge, but in the light of day, everything looked different. The robe that was my killer hung loosely on the hook, and my pathetic air conditioner clicked on and off in a losing battle against the Arizona heat. I was safe. I was alive.

What was it about the silence, the absence of another individual that had me convinced I was literally going to die? I can be a drama queen - sure - but the feeling of sincere danger I felt in my bones, that was real. And timely as all get out, I was recently considering the option of living alone. Well, that is simply unrealistic. I made it through one night, but who's to say I will be so lucky the next time?

There's nothing more terrifying than the silence. There's nothing more powerful than your own mind. Nothing that is, except massive amount of pale ale. I'm going to need to invest in a case of that stuff.

The Last Laugh?

I certainly think of myself as the type of person who likes to lighten most situations, and with that, when my presence fills a room, my laugh is not generally far behind. Some might add that on top of my louder than average demeanor, my laugh rarely takes the back seat. I laugh loudly. Sue me.

This week, my first full work week post-trial, I had three people separately approach me about their dreams. Not terribly unusual, as most people understand my interest in digging deeper into the meaning of the subconscious in our sleeping state. But what was odd, wasn't that I was a character in each of these individuals' dreams, but that the star of the dreams...was my laugh.

I'm trying to wrap my arms around this. Each person recounted their dream in which I was laughing at others. Let me elaborate:

In the first, I was hurling my exercise ball (which I use for my chair, so this is not a small ball) towards each coworker, and then walking through the office laughing, congratulating myself with each whack. The next dream, I was dissuading a friend from getting a tattoo, and then proceeded to cut off one of her pigtails with a set of raw scissors. That, I again found hilarious, and as she was forced to cut her other pigtail off, I threw my head back in a second roar of laughter. The final dream was brought to me from an intern in my office. She dreamt of the staff and myself in the lunch room. As this girl went to join us, she could hear my cackle of laughter floating into the foyer. Instead of coming and dining with us, she turned around and ate at her desk.

What does this laugh symbolize? And why is it such a seemingly cruel laugh? It seems I'm being viewed as some sort of a bully...but I can't help but wonder why...


As a disclaimer for my Possum Hunter followers: while the trial is done, the details of the case are not those that I find acceptable nor entertaining for this forum. My jury was hung...so the case will be retried in 90 days. When a conviction is made, I might oblige in more detail for the curious at heart, like myself. But until then, bear with me.

Where the Wild Things Are (For Ms Gloria Slakoff)

This phenominal children's picture book always made me wonder; Where is that land where all the wild things live? I've since discovered pockets of society - the underworld - that the wild things inhabit. And apparently -  they're also at the Maricopa County Courthouse. (And no, I'm not going to dole out juicy details about my case, so stay in your seat people.)
The wild thing I speak of, came to me this week in the form of a blind homeless man. I know it's not fair to satirize the handicapped, but since I'm still technically a member of the club, I'm giving myself a hall pass. And in this instance, there was no avoiding this scenario. It came to me.

It started when I was seated in the courthouse cafeteria trying to avoid my fellow jurors and any related family members. I heard the hollering right behind me. It wasn't angry or scary yelling, but rather a controlled, suave, trash-talking session. To my surprise and delight, the debating men I thought I heard - turned out to be a singular gentleman: blind, black and offering up a foul odor that was drifting nearer and nearer to my lunch. He sat alone at a table in the middle of the very corporate legal lunch hussle, unphased. With his best gangster lean, he proceeded - as smooth as jazz, and in a voice I can only associate with a true pimp - to shout and gesture insults. Each exclamation seemed less and less related to the one prior, but not less in fervor. Oh no.  He gestured like he was smoking a blunt, and between words, he produced a clicking noise...you know, the type that is reserved only for a sleezy wink, or even for throwing the guns.

With my back almost directly to this man, I leaned back and enjoyed the show:

"Sheeeeeiiiiiiiiiit. Is hot outside." - Fair enough.

"Buy me some'm good baaaaaby." - Hopeful, but unlikely.

"You want seix? No ma'am! I don't give a shit!" - Delusional, as nobody in their right mind would be asking for sex from this man.

"Get owwn outta her, girrrr." - Fair enough.

"I toad her, I'm 52; I'm not gon listen to yo cryin." - Again, appropriate.

"What happen to you? You prolly had about 15 yawds in the hood of my trunk!" - Wait, what? 15 yards of what? And why is it in the HOOD of your trunk?

"Let me tell you. How does he know Gary? Fuuuuuuuuuuck you. You. Can't. Get. NOTHIN'" - My mind drifts to the CFO of my past job, in which case, not very many people do indeed, know Gary.

"My Momma. My Baby. My lady. My Guuuuuuuurl." - Hmmmm.

"I tried to tell em, ya hear. But you know...motha fuckas...they just don't listen." - Touché, sir.

I think we can learn a lot from our fellow wild things. At the very least, we're guaranteed a chuckle, which is rightly what I received. Thank you, insane blind man. You bettered my lunch hour.

 Dedicated to my dearest Gloria Slakoff who, above all else, loves lunch... precisely when this "sighting" occurred.

Location, Location, Location

One of the biggest selling points about the apartment that Neil and I reside in is the location. It's in the middle of the city, with easy interstate access and our third story loft has premium views of Camelback Mountain.  But for us, certainly the most important characteristic of our residence, is what we are privy to witness of the other neighbors. I don't want to come off creepy - it's just that I'm so, so curious.

On one particularly steaming desert Saturday, we watched in delight as our dexterous neighbor launched his very own pigeon eradication effort. The ditry bastards liked to perch on his patio, and he had had enough. In the sweltering heat, he proceded to hammer and drill an intricate algorithm of cross strings across the entry-way of his small adobe patio. Hours later, he was pleased and took his tools inside to enjoy a celebratory beverage; he had conquered.

Pictured is one Grade A, top-choice, people-watching instance. If you look closely, you'll see a plump and unphased pigeon perched inside the said patio. I watched it happen. The little bastard landed on the edge, and simply side-stepped right inside as if he'd done it a hundred times.

I called Neil outside to enjoy the spectacle, and we sipped our icy beers awaiting the devastation to ensue.

We never did see the determined man emerge from his apartment that night. Likely, he saw the fruits of his toils resulting in nothing, which was just...too much to face. Especially when you have a captive audience...

And I can't help but notice the irony of the whole affair. Building unnecessary barriers just to have them literally, stepped over. Superabundant effots to keep something out, to witness its ease of access just seconds later. I write this knowing good and well the existence of karma. But before it strikes...I'll just enjoy the sights. It's something nice.

"Remember the Admonition"

When I broke the news to my friend Carson, she was beside herself with a joy, voracity and curiosity I've never encountered before. In her thick Southern drawl, she told me she "couldn't have been happier for me if I announced I was getting married." And oddly, she's being 100% sincere.

The exciting news? I've been selected to serve as a juror on a six-week trial. As you might expect, I'm not allowed to discuss anything beyond that. Somehow that hasn't stopped coworkers, friends and family from making it their personal duty to pry any information from me possible. My boss actually tasked the entire marketing team to expulse as much information from me as physically possible. But somehow, I've managed to provide zero information to the animals. Every day as court lets out, the judge tells us to "remember the admonition." And I most certainly will. It's a once in a lifetime experience, and I will make damn sure I do it right.

One thing I will say, is that it's been an interesting journey thus far. At the end of all of this - I look forward to sharing all the juicy details. Stay tuned.

ILYR

It's true. And since it's Father's Day, I thought I'd specifically talk about my daddy.

If I'm an oxymoron, then I guess I know where I got it. Dan Bell...

...People Magazine's "Sexiest Man Alive" who walks around the house (sometimes even venturing into public) with no shirt, and grungy knee-high gym socks.

 ...A brilliant and respected doctor who is still very much stumped by technology. "I had them send the email to danbell@xyz.com, and then I realized it was danbell@Wxyz.com. I reckon that's close enough."

...A hardworking, man's man who can appreciate the subleties of good wine. Well, that of Yellow Tail at least.

...An Arkansas legend for leading a life of selfless charity who simply doesn't take things all that seriously:

"Daddy, my head hurts and I think my throat is swollen."
"Honey, clean your room and don't talk back to your mother."

Or need I bring up the time that he diagnosed the dog with "Er-lick-ulosis"- a disease contracted from licking too many things?

...A southern man by day - fashionista and phone gossipper by night. The resemblance is uncanny. Like father - like daughter.

My hero, and my biggest, baldest fan - I am every bit the person I am today because of him. Happy Father's Day, papita. I Love You, Rebekah (ILYR)

"See ya, rat"

I'm standing on my two feet here; no, not figuratively (I just said that to one of my girlfriends, and she congratulated me, thinking I was standing firm and not budging on an issue). No, literally, I'M STANDING ON MY TWO FEET HERE.

Today was my dreaded orthopedic doctor appointment (marking three months exactly of endless ridicule, constant explaining to strangers and friends how it was broken , putrid odors and not to mention -  immobility). And to my surprise and extreme delight, the wonderful, wise and whimsical, Dr. Wisler informed me that my stubborn metatarsal bone had healed at a rapid rate over the past month (45% healed compared to 0% only a month ago), and that if I felt comfortable, I could discontinue the use of the boot, and start wearing flats. 

I nearly kissed the man. I nearly married him.

He leaned towards me, "Not heels, Rebekah. FLATS," furrowing his brow so I could grasp the severity.
FINE BY ME.

Walking out of there, I felt so special, and so happy. I would be willing to bet I was as happy, or happier than many girls on their wedding day. It was MY day, and I had really arrived.

Buh bye and peace out, boot. Hope I won't be seeing you around.

A "Walk" to Remember

It all started when I changed planes in Houston. My right eye started to twitch and by the time I was nearing my gate, I was rubbing it vigorously and smearing mascara all over my face. This must be my body's reaction to Texas, I thought.  

Touching down in Ohio, the swelling lessened almost instantly, proving my theory correct. However, the real meat of the matter lied ahead of me: An entire week of nothing but pastors, prayers, benedictions and religion - the sort of elephant in the room for my life these days. (Which reminds me that the circus is coming to town next month, but I digress.)

Sunday morning service in Columbus started okay. I sat in the back in a rocking chair with my rock star redheaded nephew Marcus, and the pastor charged ahead on “resisting temptation.” Engaged, I related it to my life dutifully and thought of the last time I resisted that 5^th drink. He continued with more force, asking the congregation to recall “the last time we resisted from a spiteful comment to another individual." I queued up a time last week that I kept my scoff entirely to myself when I saw a stranger in a matching track suit.  The pastor drove it home, "Circumcised or uncircumcised hearts, ladies and gentlemen. Which is it going to be?" Uhmmm...is he really using “circumcised” in his sermon to make his point?? Did I just…yes, I did - the words “uncircumcised”are in 40 font on a PowerPoint slide. Ok. I'm now entirely unfocused on the message. I'm now thinking of the process of circumcision, how bad it must hurt, and about the fact that my brother wasn’t circumcised until he was eight. Then I looked at Marcus who, at three months of age, had just undergone that very procedure. Ouch.

  

After the circumcision message, the clan piled into three cars and headed to upstate Ohio – where we would spend the entirety of the week - to celebrate the commissioning of my sister, the pastor. Religion was rolling up its sleeves for the week, and really getting to work on me.

I sat in the backseat with Marcus; I was almost schizophrenic, taking pictures of him each second. I’d film, then put the phone away, and right as it’d reach my pocket, he’d do something even cuter than before and I’d yank it back out for more footage of spit bubbles or precious smirks.

Two hours later, we found ourselves in a new world – a town called Lakeside, Ohio. Visualize for a moment, the community from Dirty Dancing. Now add the perfect suburbia of Edward Scissor Hands. Top it off with the neighbors from Pleasantville and The Truman Show. What you’ve arrived upon, is the picturesque town of Lakeside, a gated Methodist community on the shores of Lake Erie.  What you have also arrived upon, is the most perfect and wonderful town for running, jogging, biking or anything impossible with a broken foot. I felt pieces of my heart start to chunk off as we drove in. It’s okay, I have Marcus. He’s inhumanly cute. Who needs running?

Residents and guests of Lakeside fill their days on one of the many shuffleboard courts, mini golf courses, or lounging at the pier in their Sperry’s. Sometimes, they head to the one street in town offering ice cream, coffee shops and a mini movie theatre. Everyone rides their bikes (and they actually have perfect bells on them used to greet other Methodists), and golf carts outnumber cars by a long shot. If you’re lucky, you might just come upon some of that pure innocence that is so rare in today’s world – and approach a hand-crafted, dance party invitation on the community bulletin board (Pictured). Adorable.

The house we rented was on Peach Street and quite aged, but steps away from Lake Erie. “The microwave was about as powerful as a Christmas light, no…a night light,” my dad joked to himself. That wasn’t the only thing that was dated, but we made it work.

Early in the week, my brother in law, my father and I went to Cedar Point, an amusement park on the other side of the lake that is renowned for its top notch rollercoasters. In fact, one of them boasts to be the fastest in the world. My dad went along mostly to be a good sport, and his mood ranged from curiosity and excitement in the car, to utter terror and anger as we stood at the base of “Millenium Force.” This ride was lovingly deemed “that blue son of a bitch that I’m not getting on,” as my dad stood assertively below the ride. A brief one hour wait later, dad and I conquered the blue SOB, and with an air of accomplishment, we marched out of that park just as it started to rain. WIN.  

The actual commissioning service – the entire reason we came to Ohio - was held the following evening. Three hours in, with no air conditioning and a sweaty boot, I had almost had it with the Holy Spirit. The sermon was on “giving out of poverty” and coincidentally, this message fell right before the offering. Right as I started to nod off into a bootless abyss, they called the candidates up for commissioning. I saw my sister, the one who used to pull my arm literally out of socket and call me a brat, walking to the stage in this auditorium in front of over 2,000 clergy members and lay people. She knelt, and the bishop of both the Methodist and Lutheran church in Western Ohio placed their hands on her bowed head. “April Blaine, I commission you to be a faithful servant leader among the people, to lead the church in service, to proclaim the Word of God, and to equip others for ministry, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Yeah, that’s some job description. And as she walked across the stage and back towards her seat, towards her loving husband, and towards her new and very serious mission in this world, I couldn’t help but get a little worked up. It seems everyone is taking more serious and grown up steps lately (between engagements, new babies, career steps), and while I’m certainly no exception, I find myself still handicapped and still struggling to walk on my own.

It made me think. Of all the messages, conversations and sermons I have sat through, the one common thread is that nobody has it right yet. We may never have it all figured out. If this week taught me anything, it’s that walking, or arriving at our destination or getting in that line and conquering that “blue son of a bitch,” isn’t out of reach, and that the only thing we can really do – is keep on trying…one clicking step at a time.

Bald Man - OUT

I've lived with my madman of a roomate, ole boy Neil, for over one year. Like me, Neil takes comfort in his routine, but unlike me, this usually consists of spending a whole lot of time at home. Yesterday, for the very first time, a very nervous Neil took off to Mexico, my custom travel checklist in hand. And for the first time since I moved in early last year, I find myself alone in the apartment. What does one do with this free time?? It's as if I've been raising a child for years, and for the first time, I have a weekend to do whatever I want.  

I'm so unacquainted with the silence, the absence of a steady tv buzz, of breakfast in bed and just, the presence of another individual in small quarters - that it feels like a new adventure, almost like traveleing abroad alone for the first time. So far this morning, I've found a few ways to navigate through this unfamiliarity:

9:45am -  Springing out of bed, limping across the room towards my leg brace and once intact, dancing around in my oversized boy underwear. We all know the scene from Charlie's Angels.

10:00am - Blasting of KT Tunstall, The Cranberries and Annie Lenox 

10:15am - Consumption of almost an entire pot of coffee. I...forgot...I...was...only...making...for...one!!!

10:17am - Perhaps a product of the above liquid consumption, I've now taken to cleaning everything in sight. No lampshades, window sills, clock radios or carpet stains have been spared. 

The adventures of Reb & Reb will surely ensue. Stay tuned.

Deafening Silence

Somebody told me recently that I was an oxymoron.

Clearly I know the definition of this overused "smart" word, but examining the true meaning of the term made me think. Oxymoron, by definition according to dictionary.com is said to be: "A rhetorical figure in which incongruous or contradictory terms are combined, as in a deafening silence and a mournful optimist." And in briefly recounting the past week of my life...I'm beginning to worry.

Last weekend, my Saturday took me from the luxurious waters of The Phoenician Resort - one of the two five star resorts in Arizona - to a roller derby match at 19th Avenue and Van Buren. For those of you that don't know, this is a prostitute laden area of Phoenix.

The crowd that rallied together to see the women compete was stupefying: from innocent-looking soccer moms, to grunge rocker chicks, to gay men, to the mentally challenged and disabled (I, of course, fall into this final category). There must have been 2-3,000. For ROLLER DERBY. But despite the diversity, everyone seemed to be there for the same reason: to see some carnage.

And blissful carnage did we see. With contendors that go by the likes of "Jenna Talls," "Mary Lou Bodomy," "The Midnight Choker," and my personal favorite, "Nacho Girlfriend," - what would you expect? Elbows, rollerskating over flesh and violent expulsion from the ring. Oh happy incongruous day. And happy contradictory weekend.

During the work weeks, I find myself no less oxymoronic: part smiling account executive, part serial killer investigator. Or part handicap, part "Knockout" champ. Part "I like to have my car door opened for me" and part one-of-the-guys. Part put together, and part broken. Part Neil Diamond, part Ja Rule.
This weekend proved to be no different in the manner of Miss Oxymoron. A Friday night of intense, shit-talking Yahtzee on my patio, and Saturday morning and afternoon at the zoo learning to catch and protect the desert tortouise species with the Arizona Game & Fish Department and then wandering around for hours cursing the obese and ice-cream-stained-face species.

I'll take it to the people. Oxymoron, or just moron?

Happy Mother's Day

Ahem...

...Neil Diamond,
...Deliliah and Easy Listening,
...Running,
...OCD Cleaning Habits,
...Coffee with Creamer,
...Hard Headed & Stubborn,
...Michael Bolton and
...Independence

And the list keeps getting longer.

Thank you, mama.

A Dreamer Indeed

Recounting the confines of my resting mind. Coming right at you from last night's slumber:

The Crash:

Entering through the back door of an unfamiliar advertising agency, my coworker and I searched for a guy named Tim. We weaved through the office, pausing only momentarily for him to pull me into what would be his new office. He was so proud of it, and ran his hands boastfully along the mahogany desk. The office was spacious, clean and very corporate. It was exactly what he wanted.

But something didn't fit.

We left the same way we came - through the back door. We got into his car, and as he fired up the engine and put it in drive, we started rolling backwards. I yelled at him, "I told you not to park here; it's too steep!"

I had warned him, but he didn't listen.

Faster and faster, we shot down this mountain backwards and I close my eyes. I acknowledge that we're going to crash, and I close my eyes and brace myself.

Lying in a pool of my own blood and unsure of how mangled I might be, I looked around, waiting to move or crawl out. I didn't know how extensive the damage was, and I didn't want to know.

Sky driving:

I was trying to leave my sister's house, and the wind was blowing crazy hard. I sat in my tiny electric car in her driveway, and each time I tried to pull out, the wind would blow harder, pushing my car into the other cars in the driveway. I was powerless.

When I finally pulled away, I was weaving through teensy streets, around sharp corners and switchback-like hills. I came upon a bridge made of wood slats, and it shot straight up. Shifting down, I inched upward, struggling to reach the top. Once I crested the peak, I found myself thousands of feet in the sky. The road was partially supported by narrow metal tracks and partially supported by absolutely nothing. I kept driving, terrified as I approached each part of the road without support. And as I sped forward, I could see the whole city glimmering ahead of me. The bridge bent and curved, taking me past the city's attractions and skyscrapers. The whole view of Columbus presented itself in front of me and around each turn, I could see into family's windows and into their lives.

All I could think, was what a truly great, and amazing city it really was.

Guac Off

Let the coworkers shake in their boots...the guac off begins at 4:30!

WTF, RB

It's not very often, but there are instances in my life that even I surprise myself. This is most definitely one of those times.

I came upon a little gem in one of my work notebooks as I was reorganizing my office today. This journal is only utilized for note-taking during business meetings and conferences. And furthermore, this work of art was sketched on a blank page located in the back of my notebook. I can't even begin to imagine why, or more importantly, WHAT I was drawing.

Could it be...

...a pregnant woman?
...a woman stirring a large bowl?
...a woman in a clown suit?
...part madwoman, part duck?
...a shelf booty?
...a woman who swallowed a toilet seat?

And stepping aside from the large protrusion in the picture, why are her eyes scary lightening bolts? Why does she appear to have scoliosis of the spine? Where are her hands and feet? WHY IS SHE SMIRKING LIKE A RAPIST?

Suggestions are welcomed. In the meantime, I need to get a handle on my psychosis.

The Underbelly

I guess there were some pros to having the cast. And, having just had the morsel removed via cast saw, I felt it necessary to send it off in proper fashion. Note: I have since replaced the cast with a much larger, softer and air-compressionable brace. While it is removable, the below still applies:

• Your money is no good here. When making my way through the array of dirty homeless beggars I encounter on a daily basis (at gas stations, while walking to my office, even grocery shopping), it became clear that the cast, in fact, serves as a powerful diversion factor. Once a prime target for street beggars,  my journeys these days are solicitation-free, presumably due to the homeless assumption that I have enough problems. They're right.
• The sisterhood of the traveling boot. It should be known that women pass judgement upon each other more than any other species. I have gotten used to the "skinny bitch" looks I receive, just as oft as I emanate the "big-boobed bitch" looks right back. The cast, however, has produced a miraculous phenomenon. The looks have now produced a "you go girl," and "we're in this together" sentiment that I wholly favor.
• Can I get that for you? Not surprisingly, any complaints, concerns and struggles can be trumped by the broken foot. This also comes in handy when items are dropped on the floor, documents are needed from the printer or beers are needed from the bar. A single glance downward towards the injury has shown to generate a plethora of favors.

A few (eight, ughhhh) more weeks in this brace, and I should be home free. To the land of the RUNNING, heel-wearing, and dirty-look receiving of the women of Phoenix.

Current research obsessions: alligators, crocodiles, killer bee escape strategies and serial killers. Go figure. 

25: When Being An Aunt Becomes Reality

This weekend, I traveled the 1,876-sum miles to Columbus, Ohio to meet my sister's first child - Mr. Marcus Deacon Blaine. Six-weeks old and swaddled in a white blanket in his bouncy seat, the first time I set eyes on him and his full mane of red hair, I felt a wave of love. I instantly knew we were going to be good friends.

The first time I actually held him, however, I was a nervous wreck. That next morning, April passed him along to me nonchalantly so she could shower, and as he squirmed in my inexperienced arms, all I could think was, "Don't drop the baby; Do NOT drop the baby. Do. Not. Drop. This. Baby." I was mildly panicked.

This led me to clumsily lay him down on a pillow in between my knees, at which point he stopped flailing, and slowly averted his gaze upward until he settled on me. We both looked at each other with curiosity and wonder. After a several minutes like this, I found myself choking back tears as I said to him, "Hi Marcus. I'm your Aunt Rebekah. It's so nice to finally meet you."

And that's how we met. Marcus and Rebekah - the Dynamic Duo.

Over the course of the weekend, I was delighted to uncover the similar traits he and I possess: his frequent hiccups, oversized bobbly head, sloppy eating habits and impressive kicking abilities (Although the latter has not yet resulted in a broken metatarsal for him, I did warn of the ramifications of being too confident with your feet while carrying tacos. I showed him my cast, and he seemed clear on this lesson). I also quickly learned that Mr. Marcus despises wearing pants. All of this led me to deduce that his future could hold either a profession in kicking for an SEC football team (ahem, the Razorbacks), or could bring him to showbiz...the showbiz of Chippendales. I'm certain my sister wasn't fond of my conclusions, but I am also certain, that Marcus will soon unveil other personality traits that might bring him to additional professions that I have not yet stumbled upon.

25: So far - not too shabby. I managed to NOT drop Marcus the entire weekend.

Score.

Oh...

...and when your car shows this temperature...casts suck then too.

Casts - They're Assholes: Part Duex

Nine days until D-Day - the day I get this fiberglass morsel removed from my leg - which some might consider a short amount of time. I, however, think of it as nine additional days (216 hours, 12,960 minutes, 777,600 seconds...you get the idea) of non-exercise, hobble-legging, continued ridicule, plastic bag showers and an array of mini research projects I throw myself into these days. 

Casts continue to be assholes, continued:

* Casts are attention whores. The acceptance of others to inquire, gawk and even allow their children to touch - IT'S NOT OKAY! Consider this an extension of my leg; do I go staring at others' legs, even rubbing them when they might look a little especially unique, bumpy or discolored? No. No way. Not now, not never. That glorious day that the "Oh dear, what happened to your leg?"  exclamations acoss parking lots or "So, was it your ankle or your foot?" snarls over my shoulder stop, is the day I'm a happy chickadee.

* Casts are dog magnets. An extension of the first post, but I will note that an array of dogs continue to approach the cast, and when I'm not fully alert, proceed to get a number of good licks INTO my cast, all over my toes, and often up the top of my foot a bit. Also notable is that my office allows dogs, so this incident will more than likely continue for the remainder of my nine-day imprisonment.

* Casts tear up your nice sheets.

* Casts create a "swagger." I've been informed that when wearing outfits that conceal the cast (pants, long dresses, etc), bystanders see my limpy walk as a strut, or a "swagger," if you will. And when you look at it like that, it's an overly-exaggerated "I love myself and you should too" style-walk. I've since, began to wear items that make my cast much more overt.

* Casts aren't allowed in the pool or hottub.

* Casts give you very unsexy tan lines.

Not surprisingly, my misplaced energy once reserved for running, has been spent on mini-research obsessions. Currently, I'm learning about elderly prostitutes, "furries" and re-learning the history of the KKK. Posts will inevitably ensue.

the underworld. an introduction to hoarders

I was surprised as I greeted my Schwan's guy this week to find him jittery and uncomfortable. He blurted out, upon no prodding on my part whatsoever, that he had just come from "a hoarder stop."

"Whore??" I asked, in disbelief that my Schwan's guy would say whore to me.

"H-O-A-R-D-E-R," he spelled out and then repeated himself, turning to me, "hoarder." He was almost desperate looking.

Turns out, this lady hoarder is a regular on the Shwan's purchasing chain, but was new to our particular Shwan's guy Chad's route. He explained to me that, in an effort to be nice, he offered to carry the $300 dollars worth of frozen food into this woman's house. She was, afterall, "old and carrying an oxygen bag to breathe."

Well, that bag wasn't there for decoration. When Chad stepped inside, he was greeted by piles of garbage, magazines and rotted junk. He made his way through the landfill and into the kitchen. When he opened her freezer to unload the food, roaches and beetles came screaming out. This is a FREEZER! Can you imagine what was living under the rest of the mild temperatured items?

I can't. And I don't want to.

I've since learned that this woman, along with a projected 2 million other Americans, suffers from compulsive hoarding disorder. This disorder causes people to hang onto any and all items - often until it consumes their living spaces and in some cases, actually kills them. In my obsessive research on hoarders, I actually found a story of a man in England that died of dehydration in his home after becoming lost in his own maze of rubbish.  This hoarding stuff is serious, guys.

And I can only imagine that my sweet Shwan's man isn't looking forward to his Thursdays any longer, even though he gets to come to our fun and dog-loving agency. Hoarders - yet another member of my so-called underworld (A population of people who walk amongst us every day but in their spare time partake in activities that are creepy, deranged and often downright demented. Frequently, the underworld groups I'm uncovering perform such rituals that I only see appropriate for carnivals and freak shows. I'm steadily becoming aware of these groups most commonly from my crude roomate Neil, but also infrequently, from an everyday activity such as Shwan's food delivery. As a relatively sheltered girl from the South, it's staggering how common these additional underworld groups are popping up everywhere). This is starting to get scary.

Casts - They're for the Birds

Daily activities in which having a cast is humiliating, inconvenient and utterly dehumanizing - Part Une:

* Showering - Just when I thought the shapely fiberglass shell that covers my leg and foot was grotesque, the act of showering reared its ugly head. Cardinal rule #1 in castdom - thou shalt not get it wet. So, an OCD certified process of wrapping it with trash bags, rubberbanding it, and roping drop-cloths has become my morning ritual. From there, I try and avoid the mirror; the image of myself naked with that plastic-wrapped appendage is just brutal. And once in the shower, that plastic creation pokes right out of the curtain while my incredible balance enables me to soap up. Pretty much every step of this process brings me to tears.

* Walking - Due to the two-inch elevation the cast and "cast shoe" provides, an elevated right shoe is necessary as to avoid the uneven hobble often displayed by dwarfs and humpbacks. Thus, I was forced to purchase...[insert dramatic music]...the platform flipflop - in my mind only worn by the trashy and Playboy Bunny population. Putting my worst foot forward seems to be the forecast.

* Sitting - Dogs in the office are all good and well...until you're sitting at your desk minding your own business and you glance down to find the Jack Russell/Chihuahua named Roxy rapidly licking the toes protruding from your cast. Let me repeat the first cardinal rule of castdom - thou shalt not get it wet. This dog slobber... will remain until the morsel is removed.

* Running - Oh wait, I can't run. The weight gain has already taken hold of my stomach. The already horizontal slant of the bellybutton is only becoming more apparent by the day.

Part deux to follow...

Las Vegas - Fifth Time is a Charm

My sparkling and indulgent neighbor - Las Vegas - never fails to shock, surprise, satisfy and subsequently, exhaust me.

And each time I go, I bring home just a few pieces of Vegas. Each one, making me fairly thrilled that I don't reside in the city of sin. A few worth noting:

The Taxi Drivers

From a young gentleman who had a hip replacement to a man who was not the least shy with us about his past wife who was a Russian spy turned prostitute to a dirty talking Kenya man who could not pronounce "testosterone" - they were all freaks.

The Cheesy Shows

Not that somebody forced me to attend the Chippendales show, but nonetheless...I mean, UF!

Picture a room full of large, middle aged and geriatric women in a dark, seedy showroom rooting & drooling over near-naked steroid enhanced men, doing synchronized dances, kicks and self-groping in a variety of scenarios they've decided make up the female's sexual fantasy (fireman suit, police, cowboy, construction workers, you name it)...FOR AN HOUR. Add $24 drinks and VIOLA!

My advice: Save yourself the money..and dignity.

The Prevalence of the Pretzel Rolls

Vegas sure does love the trendy pretzel roll. And, some might see this as a pro (ahem...Michelle), but others prefer their standard bread, chips and other side dishes.

I won't be TOO negative, however. Positives include nightly performances of Circ du Soleil, delicious restaurants, phenominal accomodations, a pool of men eager to buy you beverages at any time, scharffenberger champagne and the ability to be completely anonymous or outrageous. You can be whomever you wish.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right? Well, not entirely in my case. Meaaaaaaaah.

My Mom is a Fob

Yet another source of humor and excitement to get me through the desert days...

http://mymomisafob.com/

"Shall We Dance?"

We were seated in the movie theare and the credits started to roll.

"Dance with me," he said, smiling.

"Here? Ok..." I responded unsure and unenthusiastically.

We stood up as if to leave, and I paused for a moment to oblige his request. For under a minute, we swayed back and forth in the dark theatre. I'll admit, it was a half-assed display of dancing; It really was. It may have looked more like a long and unstable hug than a dance, actually. But, it showed him I tried while keeping me close enough to my comfort zone. I didn't want to embarrass myself. People don't dance in theatres. It's just odd.

And after we were done dancing and walking out, I realized something surprising - I was glad I had just danced with him. Really glad.

I'm questioning whether this will continue - this, "I am uncomfortable but will meet you half way and then find out it was a good thing" occurance.

If it does, I just hope it's half way I'm going, and not further. But I'm not so sure...

Just what I need, a new obsession...

http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/

The Mile High City...

On a whim, Imraan and I decided to journey out of town for our Friday evening. We found ourselves in a town about an hour north of Phoenix called Jerome: once called the "Wickedest Town of the West," population of 400 and mostly with artsy residents that seem a bit too happy. It's perched on top of Verde Valley and from 5,200 feet, looks down on every city for more than 50 miles. In many ways, it reminds me of Eureka. If Jerome were a person, it'd be the tiny artsy girl in class that's a bit out of touch with reality and often terribly unstylish, but beautiful.

A first timer to a bed and breakfast stay, I will admit my expectations were far, far exceeded. Our hostess, Andrea, was a middle-aged blonde cheerleader-type woman with a petite build, an enormous personality and very weathered skin. When you ask her how she's doing, she'll tell you she's, "pretty darn near perfect." She was like a pixie. She killed me, she really did.

Her magnificent home, nestled into the hillside of one of the highest points in town, sits full of antiques, family photos, books for all interests, town news clippings, a fat cat and booze. Each restaurant recommendation we received from Andrea was prefaced with the place's spread of liquor first. So for me, it was just perfection. Ultimately we chose a place called "Grapes."

Come to think of it, Jerome was pretty close to perfection. I mean, the local hippies were just a smidge too bushy-tailed. I found myself not entirely sure I wasn't getting one pulled over on. I'm still not sure.

In the end, I left Jerome with:

-1 pair black vintage heels
-Newfound affinity towards bed and breakfasts
-4 old postcards for the collection
and a broader horizon of the people just an hour up the road from my sunny metropolis.

Imraan left with:

-The legend of his film in the city streets (rather, the city of Jerome was left with this)
-1 potential friend who owns a house in New Orleans
-1 juvenile delinquent photographer contact
and 1 vintage bow tie.

The Tail of the Mangy Cat...

...was what caught my eye this Saturday.

I was leaving my apartment early this morning to meet my friends for a run...and just as the complex gates opened to release me to the streets, I saw it. I did one of those moves where you extend your neck forward and lurch over your steering wheel to get a better look. As I neared, it appeared to be a monkey. And it was limping. For a split second, I thought of calling the zoo to alert them of a missing inmate.

And then, the gates opened more and I inched closer to the black moving monkey-like ball of mange. I was so totally absorbed that at this point, my window was down and my head was cocked out the window. And as this thing slowly gimped by, I scrambled for my iPhone to get a picture. Just as I held the phone out the window to hit "capture," the thing slowly turned over its right shoulder to make eyes with me. I froze.

It was a cat. It wasn't a monkey. Its ears were wet and cemented to its head. Its tail was bereft of fur, and as if it was made of wire, bent in an almost 90 degree angle and moved with the morning breeze. For almost a second as we looked into each other's eyes, I was given access into the soul of this particular mangy cat. And then, it turned around almost ashamed and in a simultaneous been-there-done-that, "I know I'm a freak" move, kept limping its way down the road.

I sat for nearly 60 seconds with my arm extended, phone still in hand out the window in position for evidence of what was going to be the prodigious, "I saw an escaped monkey" story. And my heart truly began to ache. (I understand how an outsider (anyone but me) might think this is the most bizarre tale of empathy. But there was something about this particular mangy cat...) I can't help but think that this was once a masterpiece created by the same God I was created from. As is each masterpiece, the creator is proud and hopeful of his work. For that split second, I understood and felt all the pain this creature was going through. I was literally stopped in my tracks, unable to move or look away.

I suppose the same goes for humans; we often make poor choices, and sometimes, end up in a place where we are quite literally gimping along and looking for the smallest scrap to live off of. But what I can't wrap my brain around, is that that can be anyone's destiny.

I thought about this encounter for the better part of my Saturday and realized that this mangy cat might have gotten to me in a way no human conversation has reached me in a long, long time. Now, does that mean I want to take this cat in and milk him back to life? Hell no. I won't touch that cat. But I will say, that stupid cat may have touched me in a way I didn't even realize was needed and certainly provided ample food for thought, pun un-intended.

Thank you, mangy cat.

Weekly Google Autofill

Ways to...

...get kicked out of Walmart
...make money
...say i love you
...save money
...make money fast
...get pregnant
...induce labor
...tie a scarf
...make extra money
...wear a scarf

The most notable of this autofill to me, is the first item. Ways to get kicked out of Walmart? Why would that be the most frequently searched term? And the scarf obsession...trust me, I get it. I have the obsession. But really, people...either you have it or you don't. Get with the program.

Never cease to be amazed.

Interestingly enough, if you change the search just slightly to "Ways in which" you get...

...hiv is transmitted
...people learn
...the body excretes waste
...waves travel
...we can increase water supplies
...american society is stratified
...cells use energy
...slaves resisted slavery
...synaptic transmission ceases
...viruses are transmitted

I mean, wow. The minor deviation in search terms to cater to a slightly more intelligent way of thinking and... the result is nearly transposed.

Curious, this Google autofill. My fixation is hardly satisfied.

Words With Friends...

...is taking over my life.

I want only to play it all day long on my beautiful white iPhone with my beautiful white friends. Well, maybe not just my white friends. They just seem to be the only ones playing with me now.

The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

Today's church service told a message of a wolf in sheep's clothing. It's the biblical fable that teaches Christians to look beyond what the eye see, and to understand that there are people in our lives that will be wolves masked as sheep. The message was, on a surface-level synopsis, teaching us to beware of deception.

I was saddened to realize that there was a particular wolf in sheep's clothing in my life. Someone who puts on a shiny smile, helps those that can't help themself at night, spouts bible verses and sings passionately in church, but that is really quite the different person underneath the exterior. Beneath the perfectly groomed mane, there's harsh judgement, hidden motives and seemingly false caring. There are phone calls for the sake of calling, but no listening ears on the receiving end.

I can only hope that my wolf in sheep's clothing will one day evolve a true sheep.

It's All Coming Back To Me

In my efforts to work on my long-term memory, I've stumbled upon one particular area in my cobwebbed memory that took me back over 10 years, to Ms. Kilker's classroom in Arkansas. We were required to memorize this poem for the 8th grade English final. I can even remember where I was standing when I recited this verbatim for the A. And quite the beauty it still is:

If, by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

So...

It's 15 degrees in Ohio, and my fingers are too cold to type.

Sunday's Stream of Consciousness

-I never did see the "John" emerge from the prostitute's house. I ended up passing out.

-Today represents the 69th birthday of an American Great and large influence in my life - Mr. Neil Leslie Diamond.

-Turns out Google does block some autofill items that are curious and concerning (one of which, "Islam is" yet "Christianity is" brings up results...some not so pleasant either).

-I got the new iPhone 3gs. Woot!

-I ran into the Pakistani man who I frequenly battle against for Uggs at Last Chance this morning. He had a broken arm in a cast (likely from his aggressive shopping habits), but still darted and ducked across the store in search of those Australian moneymakers. Unfortunately, the inventory was simply not there today, and both me and Paki Man left empty handed. The eye contact we made before ducking into our respective cars said we'd meet again soon. Same battlefield, same objective. Uggs.

-Imraan comes home Sunday (well, he arrives back in New Orleans, but back in the States no less). I can't sit still thinking about it.

-Heading to Ohio on Friday for April's baby shower. The high is 18. FFFFFFFF!

-My first 401K is finally set up. I'm officially an adult.

-My afternoon run today was fast and furious. I think the 1/2 marathon chip that is still visible on my shoelace makes me run faster.

I anxiously await Desperate Housewives and Brothers and Sisters this lovely Sunday evening. And my bottle of dry Rose. :)

the underworld. one step at a time

I find myself writing on my patio (which is not uncommon) at nearly 1:00am... and I'm in the pitch black. My neighbor, who Neil and I have suspected is a prostitute for quite some time, has stumbled up the stairwell across from me, and I have since turned off all my lights in hopes she won't invite herself over. She always tries to share a glass of wine with me. But, I'm confident - on this night in particular - that she won't try and invade my space, as she had an older man in tote as she ascended the stairwell with to her apartment.

WHAT???????????

I know I've always assumed she was a prostitue, but WHAT? This woman has been to my apartment and I've heard most of her life story. Is she really a prostitute? I think so now. And, I think it's affecting me the most, because I didn't really think this was the case with her. I knew she was a bit trshy, yeah. But, come on. I'm shocked.

And stunned. And paralyzed. I'm a girl from the South, and I've never seen prostitution first-hand.

I'm just waiting for him to emerge, really. I can't even leave this black hole, or even think about the crazy things I have lying ahead of me in the next month in general...because this is so unreal. Will he emerge shamed, or will he come out smiling?

I must see it out...

Geography 101 on "The Patio"

Neil and I decided to have a geography evening on the patio. And boy did we make a night of it.

First up, was to name all the 50 US state capitals. I will admit, it wasn't the pretiest of sights.

Second up, was to simply name as many countries in the world we could spout off together. Of the 195 or so in existence, we were able to spout off a little over 100.

Depressing. And yet, enlightening. Refusing to be the neighborhood idiot, I've since downloaded a US state capitol rap, as well as started researching some countries that I knew next to nothing about. Currently, I'm on Belgrade, Serbia.

It's amazing the rollercoasters the patio continues to take us on. The Patio, please seat yourself.

A Dreamer Indeed

As I wind down from my walk/run in today's 1/2 marathon, and as I sip my third savory Sam Adams, (hey, I need to replenish carbs), I find my mind ambling into the past week's dream history.

Dream 1:

I'm on a trip with friends, and as we're about to depart, I decide I need to go see this somebody quickly. Somehow, it's an immediate and urgent need.

I find myself racing through the front doors of a restricted labratory. The attendant asks who I'm here to see, and I tell her. She asks if I am here to pick up something from him. I pause - realize that I am, in fact, not here to pick up anything from him - and then inform her that, yes, that's precisely why I'm here.

Once inside the lab, I'm looking for this person while trying to fit into the environment. Everything is white and it's a maze of closed doors and sanitation. I'm sneaking around, in a way, as I know my entry to this location is essentially trespassing. I round the corner, and hear the man before I even see him. It's a hissing noise, and it's coming from the small grey rat on his shoulder. It's him. This is somehow, the guy I'm here to see. And as I come into his eyesight, he keeps walking and pays no specific attention to me at all. I'm crushed.

Dream 2:

I'm moving into a new house with two of my friends, who, in the dream are unidentified and faceless, but they have the feeling of old, great friends. I'm excited about moving into this place and am exploring the new amenities the house offers. It's not a new house, but I like it. After some preliminary inspection, I decide that I would like to take the living room as my living quarters. The living room has no walls, and no privacy, but I want it anyway. In the dream, I want to be totally open.

As the girls and I are unpacking our belongings, I look around the living room (my new room) and I notice the walls. They're intricately painted, almost like a Van Gough painting. Each wall is a different and unique masterpiece. It's very odd for living room walls, but yet exquisite and beautiful. And then, just like that, I want to paint over them. I want a more "normal" living room. And I start to paint over the walls with brown and taupe wall paint.

Dream 3:

I'm in the back seat of a car and I'm holding a little boy. He's young and he's perched on my lap, burying his head into my chest. I hold him and even today in my waking life, I feel a strong love and almost maternal protecting urge for this child.

Dream 4:

I'm sitting at a board-room style table with several members of my family. I announce that I've been taking dance classes and as soon as it's out of my mouth, the announcement from around the table begins. My brother is also taking dance lessons - in hip hop. My mother is taking lessons in ballroom dance. My father is taking a country western class.

And I'm irritated and annoyed that they've all copied me.


Have the dreams taken a life of their own or am I on to something?

Google: The American Reflection?

I've found a new leisure activity (like I ought to have another one) that is both pointless and fabulously telling of the American (and maybe the worldwide) society of Internet users. I think this may become a series.

It's called... Google.

I am actually well aware that it's been around for a while, but what has NOT been around for a while, is the feature in the search bar that auto-completes your searches. When one types in a question, the Google search bar will auto-correct your search with what has been the most frequently seeked out. This, I've found, can be a surprising, merry and eventful proclamation of our society. Let me provide a thrilling example:

If I were to type, "How do I get..." the below would currently pop up, in order of most frequenly googled:

...a passport
...my sister to sleep with me
...you alone lyrics
...a new social security card
...you alone
...a copy of my birth certificate
...rid of fruit flies
...farmville cash
...pregnant
...to dalaran

Now, I am proud of the first search, "How do I get a passport?" Valid. Ok.

But, the second most popular search of "How do I get my sister to sleep with me" is beyond perturbing. As is, "How do I get to Dalaran" which I learned after some shameful research, is in direct relation to an uber crazy and elite role-playing game called World of Warcraft. That's just peculiar in its own...

However, now that I'm totally jilted, I'm also equally intriqued (as is the usual), and I find myself typing other questions and phrases into Google to see what others are searching. Unfortunately, I find myself more troubled by the next search. As I type, "Why is," the below pops up in the auto-fill search bar:

...the sky blue
...my poop green (HOLY COW - WHAT???)
...Ellen not on American Idol
...it called Black Friday
...a raven like a writing desk
...yawning contagious
...my computer so slow
...pepto bismol pink
...the world going to end in 2010

I've spent much of my night trying to understand the searches of my fellow Googlers, and also trying to distinguish what makes for an educated, and a lesser-educated search. One thing I've found, is that by searching "what do U" instead of spelling out the word, makes quite the difference.

I'm interested in finding out where this obsession takes me...

2010 - Let the grey hairs roll

Is it too much to ask to not turn grey before 25??

I found my first grey hair this week. I made Neil pull it out immediately.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

A Decade Older, Quite the Wiser

It seems, now that it's 2010 - a new decade - that a reflection on the past 10 years of my simple life is in order. This should be interesting, shouldn't it?

2000 - Freshman in HS. Church lock-ins and Veritas. The year my brother graduated HS. Awkward physical transitions and craving independence. Family visit to South America. Funky nail polish. A passion for my Spanigh heritage found. Kanakuk camps. Fuzzy Navals.

2001 - My first car, the red eclipse. 911 attack. First cell phone. Getting my hardship. Forest Hill and Czech boy parties. Off campus lunch wars. Napster. Mr. Remenar. Stalkers and restraining orders. Prom. Media club.

2002 - Down under bowl cheerleading in Australia where I met two of my closest pals I still call my dear friends today. Senora Koester. DUIs and MIPs. Community service at the police station. Beginning of my senior year in HS. Struggle for independence and devastating heartache trying to get there.

2003 - Cheerleading. End of my last year in HS. The lake. Betrayal from your closest friends. Senior slave day as a donkey. First year of college at U of A. Parties. The dorms and Focker and my pink dorm room in Humphreys, where another round of precious friends who still bless my life today appeared. Drunk girl. Frat parties.

2004 - South Padre Island at Spring Break. Jon Champagne and JRs. 703 N Meadowlands Drive. Block parties. The summer. Fort Smith. Cleaning my brother's house for payment in beer.

2005 - Farzad. Finals and adderall. Crosswords. Grubs. Entering junior year of college and planning for study abroad. Roomate struggles. Stormy, the red-headed neighbor kid.

2006 - Barcelona, Spain and a refined passion for Spanish culture! First internship (SVI). Turning 21. Coffee. Traveling across Europe and finally coming into my independence. Andy. Shiny new car. Imraan. Falling unexpectedly in love.

2007 - College grad with a double major! Phoenix, Arizona! Kate. Unpaid internship and retirement city living. Wine bar waitressing. Feeling torn with long distance relationships. Near-loss of my left index finger. David Sedaris.

2008 - Experiencing the tragic passing of a dear friend's father and pondering my own mortality. Coming into my own in a new city. Coffee. First apartment in my new city and first paid job in the tourism industry. Executive committee meetings. New friends and Las Vegas.

2009 - First half marathon. Panama trip to discover more family and heritage. First cavity. New job in advertising! Diet coke. ECHO clinic. Michael Jackson's death. Waivering with men and juggling too many options. Daddy's 60th birthday. Itching to get out and explore. Aunt-to-be.

When you look back at it all, it's staggering how much has changed in only 10 years. I do take into account that these are 10 years that inevitably, a good deal of change has to occur. But, it makes me excited for what's to come not only in 2010, but in the next decade. 2010 and beyond. Bring it.