This season

It was seventeen years ago this holiday season that I learned that my Dad wasn't going to get better. In fact, he was dying.

It was earlier that year, in May, that he went in to the hospital for a brain tumor surgery. It was as successful as a brain tumor surgery could be.  He got better for a while and I was both blessed and lucky to be there for him when he was working through all the complications that came afterward. We had a lot of good times together then.

But come late October that year, he took a bad turn.  And in early November we all realized it wasn't just a turn; it was a turn for the worse.  I was blessed enough to have a job at the time and was able to take advantage of the Family Leave Act; my sister was brilliant enough to be able to take time off from her college studies where it wouldn't affect her to leave school for a while.  We both met up with Mom and Dad at home and drove from Milwaukee to Rochester, Minnesota to the Mayo Clinic to figure out what could be done, if anything.

There wasn't anything.

And I think Dad knew it.

He was very, very coherent on the trip up.  Mom drove with Dad in the passenger seat and I still remember to this day joking and laughing with them both.  My sister and I were in the back seat, playing music and talking about college life (me already graduated; her, a few years off) and ribbing each other like sisters do.  I think now that Dad liked that. Because he knew something then that we didn't know at the time.

He knew he wasn't coming back with us.  Not really.  He already knew that going to the Mayo Clinic was for his family's piece of mind and not his own.  And I know now, being as coherent as he was on our 6+ hour drive there, he just loved hearing his bride of 30+ years and daughters talking, laughing, taunting and fighting with each other on and off? Made him realize that if -- IF -- things didn't work out? Yeah. We'd have each other.

So we went there. And as soon as Daddy got into his hospital bed, it was pretty much over.  My sister and I called our brothers up and over too and we visited with Dad a little, forgetting it was actually a holiday for a minute. When Mom remembered we needed to eat (who was hungry?), and then realized it was actually Thanksgiving weekend? We all spent that Thanksgiving together, 1996 -- mama, my sister and my two brothers and I -- in a cafe across the street from the hospital, stepping through snow drifts and peeling off scarves and mittens, settling into fold-out chairs and looking at make-shift decorations on the walls.  The proprietors were so so nice; they knew the only people in their restaurant across the street from the hospital on Thanksgiving didn't really WANT to be there.  They gave us free dessert even.  I'm not sure if my family even remembers that. :)  It was horrible tasting pumpkin pie, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless.

And Dad's death sentence was delivered the next day.  There was nothing left we could do.

For the longest time after that, I've hated this season. I found out in the "most joyous season of the year"  that my Dad had "weeks to months to live" and then he passed away not months, but weeks later.  December 12, 1996.

So for the longest time, I hated this season. It is the season of joy and love and my Savior's birth, but it was hard for me for personal reasons. I hated Christmas music, hated celebrating. Couldn't put up a Christmas tree for years because it just made me so sad. Halfway between Thanksgiving and Christmas? The most thankful time of the year? I just couldn't feel it. I lost my Daddy. How is this a thankful season?! Screw you, world!

And then, it didn't get better. It just got...less bad.

I  met friends who helped me through it.  I had conversations with my Mom who made me understand that Dad would want me to think of all the good seasons we had together instead of the last one we couldn't.  I finally started listening to Christmas music again, thinking Dad would like that. I had friends who helped me realize that. I think that was Dad's doing from beyond. :)

And it took a while, but now I love the season again.  Because it's no longer the season I lost my Dad, but it almost feels like it's the time of year he's with me most.  Because when he actually did pass, that December 12, 1996, his entire family was around him, holding his hands, telling him it was OK to go and we would all take care of each other.  And we have.  And we do.

So I decorate again. I celebrate. Send cards and package up silly little gifts.  Because it's what Dad wants for me. And I rejoice in doing it and hope that I make him happy that I do.

And my hope is that I can, in my Dad's memory? Bring a little bit of joy to each of my friends now this season too. Whether it's sending a card, making a phone call, just having coffee together.  Because that's what it's all about, right? I think Dad's helping me to do this to this day. :)

Froggie

When I was in second grade, I had my first-ever surgery to remove a cyst from my wrist and for a second grader, that was really scary.  Stopping at the drugstore with momma after it,  I remember we noticed this little green stuffed frog there. It was nothing fancy or anything - it was just a simple stuffed thing: not very soft; didn't even have moveable parts; it just sat there on the shelf with the others.  But it was perfect.  And for her hurting little girl, momma could tell right away he should probably come home with us.

I LOVED that little frog.  I actually still have memories of that drugstore stop and where he was when we found him.  So he came home.  And I loved him. I carried him with me, slept with him and momma bandaged up his little wrist to match my mine. It brought me so much comfort, that silly sweet little thing.  (I'm hoping if I hunt real hard next time I'm home, I might find a photo with him. I vaguely have a vision of one somewhere.)

Fast forward many years to this month now.  Mom and I have been texting back and forth (since I'd been unable to talk) and she came across the little froggy face folks with iPhones have in their emoji.  She sent him to me asking "do remember little Froggie you had the first time you needed surgery?"  And, oh, it all came back.  And, oh, it brought tears to my eyes.  We reminisced as much as we could in text messaging about that time, my recovery, how that little frog had made me so happy and made my fear and pain seem so less.  And how I wished right then I still had that frog.  (And oh how I wish I had my Mom nearby!)

And so we fast forward once more to today.  I came home from work today to find a surprise package waiting for me from my momma.  And do you know what that wonderful amazing, beautiful woman had done?  She sent me a new frog.  :)

(I'm not ashamed to admit I'm kinda bawling my eyes out right now. In joy.)

Church

How do you define the word "church?"

Is it a building?  Does it have pews and an altar?  Perhaps stained glass images or a steeple?  Maybe a warm, big open space with folding chairs and coffee and a big stage for people who can come up and sing praise?

Or it synonymous with a faith for you?  Church means Roman Catholic, or Protestant, perhaps even found in the title of your faith, like in The Church of Latter Day Saints?

Perhaps you associate church with the people themselves. The church is your congregation, your neighbors, a fellowship instead of a structure of either physical or belief-based means.

Whether one of these meanings or another meaning entirely, the word itself can mean so many different things or many things at once.  And in this post I'm going to talk about what church means to me.

It means all of the above in certain ways to me.  When I go to church, I'm literally going to a building. When I think of church, it defines my faith, which is Christian. But most importantly, when I reflect, I find it really means my brothers and sisters there.  A family not by blood of body, but blood of humanity and common praise of belief.

I don't think of church as a particular faith.  I was raised Catholic and the fact that I don't define myself as "a Catholic" anymore does not mean I think that denomination is anything less.  I get questions sometimes as to what church I go to and the folks usually asking want to know if it's Lutheran or Baptist, perhaps Presbyterian? Which is it?

Technically, the church I attend is Methodist.  I'm not sure if I'm doing the church a service or not when I also explain rather quickly, "but it's not like a real Methodist church."  I don't know why I even say that when I do.  I'm not sure what a REAL Methodist church is even.  I've studied different religions throughout the years, starting in college and then on my own since; some are obviously very different; others too close to really tell apart sometimes. And so I guess, for me, I just don't want to be defined as a denomination. Too many people have hang ups about one denomination or another -- perhaps legitimately based on experience with one -- and so I'd much rather just say I'm Christian. And I guess I apologetically explain "it's not like a real Methodist church" just in case others might have had a bad experience in one.

When I moved to Atlanta over 15 years ago, I tried to find a church (in all the meanings above) that felt like home for me.  I tried a few of the faith in which I was raised; attended others with friends who happily brought me along.  But along the way, I found much sadness.  A preacher in a pulpit mentioning "Ellen Degenerate", for example, at about the time Ellen DeGeneres came out admitting she was lesbian.  Needless to say, I never went back there again.  I was saddened enough to worry about finding any "church" that I could feel at home in, one that was loving, Christian, accepting and open to all.  I understand that some people have different beliefs on orientation than I do, but I found it really disheartening that a person of authority in a congregation would use those kinds of words to speak about other human beings. If God is love, how are those loving words?

When I moved to Midtown a few years ago, I decided it was time to try again and the first thing I looked for was the community aspect of one. It had to be Christian for me, but then it also had to be nearby.  I wanted one I could walk to, participate in; one that was part of my physical community as well as my spiritual one and one that wouldn't be an excuse not to attend Sunday morning if I happened to be low on gas that week to get there.  ;-)  So I did what made sense: Googled my address and churches around it.  I was willing to accept that the first one I found might not be "The One" (oh gosh! I'm dating my churches?) but there was only one way to find out...and that was to start.

So two blocks west and two blocks south sat St. Mark's.  Gave it a try, assuming the next weekend I'd try the other that was four blocks south and one block east if it didn't feel right.  But to my joy, even surprise, it did.  It didn't feel perfect day one...but it spoke to me enough to go back again.  (And then again. And again.)

Was it because I was welcomed so warmly? Felt the familiarity of a church with the physical makeup of my childhood one?  Perhaps that helped.  But it was more than that when I came here.

For here, at this church, as I sat in my pew and looked around the congregation, I realized that the definition of church as a community was here.  There were families of all types -- mom and dad with kids, mom and mom with kids. Man and man without (yet! but trying!) and even single folks like me.  And, yes, it is true that St. Mark's is in a traditionally gay neighborhood of Atlanta, but it became recognizable easily and quickly that the fact that the physical church is there didn't change the meaning here.  I honestly felt that this building and this group of people could be physically lifted up and replanted anywhere and still have that same acceptance and that same sense of community no matter where it took root again.

So I went back.  And back again.  Invited friends to join me and some did.  Found out another friend of mine had been a member for years and, on checking in on Foursquare, realized another five friends have also attended too. A friend visited me from out of state and after days of playing tourist, went to worship with me and felt just as happy and accepted as a visitor as I did my first day.  So I wasn't alone in feeling this way.  This truly was a home. A family.  A building, yes.  But a true church too.

Today, the sermon/homily touched on this past week's Transgender Day of Remembrance and how if we're all one body in Christianity, all parts mean nothing less than the individual parts that make us whole.  Minister Kim started the sermon with an unnecessary apology, explaining it was meant to be not a lecture or lesson but perhaps, hopefully, an opening to further discussion on the differences in people and how the biggest gift of selflessness and love we could show is acceptance of others even if we don't understand or don't associate with them.  An insert in the church program contained a beautiful song on one side and a list of gender terminology on the other, just to educate folks if they didn't know the difference.  And, yes. Cisgender folks (people whose gender identity matches their biological gender) like myself were also listed and celebrated as well.  There was no agenda here but love.

If you are one who truly feels anything other than man + woman love is wrong?  I'm not here to change your mind.  If you don't understand how people can love someone of their own gender, associate with a gender other than the one which you were born or even feel ambiguous at all, I'm not here to change your mind on that either.  I guess I'd just hope, as my friends who are reading this, that you might change your approach to others that might not be like you if someone can touch your heart to suggest you can.  Don't use ugly words or hateful terms. Feel them if you must -- just don't put them out there.  I'm not asking you to change your beliefs; I'm asking more that you don't push your beliefs on others just as I'm not trying to push mine on you.  Deep down? Sure. I hope that folks who decide not to put it out there might eventually change their minds too on who they feel are brothers and sisters in Christ.  But baby steps. Baby steps. :)

In a song we sang today, lyrics contained  "for everyone born, a place at the table...For woman and man...for young and for old...for gay and for straight...transgender and queer...a place at the table.  And God will delight when we are creators of justice and joy, compassion and peace."

Because, honestly? Whether we're searching for a church -- be it a building, a faith or a family? Isn't that what we all want? Justice, joy, companion and peace?

May your days, my friends, be as blessed as mine was this morning. And if at any time you want to join me in my family, my church here? I would be honored to have you with me.

The Five

Right around my 40th birthday I wrote a blog of the 40 things I would tell my younger self had I the chance to in an alternate universe or one with a TARDIS.  (that can be found here: http://thedixiecheesehtml.blogspot.com/2011_08_01_archive) I'm kinda amazed that it's actually been two years now since then. It actually makes me smile a little for some unknown reason. Maybe because I'm still alive to write again and refer back to it. ;-)

Alas, this birthday last month is not one of those "Big Ones."  I can't do a blog of the "42 things I would tell my younger self" afterall.  Who celebrates 42 afterall?

Oh.

I grin writing that, tongue in cheek, because I am a Science Fiction geek and 42? Bring it. Bring a towel when you do, please.

I'm not going to do 42 things here because I think my 40 captured most not too long ago. That, and I'm too lazy to do 42 new things now.  So I will do the five I've learned in that time. And here they are.

1.) How you appear physically? Matters not at all.

Be healthy for you. Eat well, exercise. Whatever. But that damn size in that pair of jeans matters not. I'm surrounded by people daily who comment on who lost weight, who gained weight, who needs to do one or the other. But it's not in the gym; it's not with a personal trainer That I would understand. But it happens at work, for pete's sake.

I had a superior at work tell me the other day she noticed another colleague was losing weight. Okay. Lovely. Tell her if you think she might be complimented by it. But it's *at work*. At work, it shouldn't matter what you weigh, how you look, if you're losing or gaining or whatever.  I found it insulting in a way and actually explained to her that it doesn't matter to me one way or another what size anyone is as long as they can do their job.  And I'm actually kind of disgusted that people look at each other in a workplace that way. By the look on her face, I think she was surprised by my response. She should have been.

I told a friend this weekend this: if someone judges me because they think I might need to lose a few pounds? If I'm happy, successful, independent and caring and loving and someone who will be your dear friend or dear partner? And the only reason you don't want to meet me or date me or take me seriously is because I have an extra 10 or 100 pounds on me? Whatever. It's not MY problem: it's yours.

2.) It's okay not to be friends with exes. And actually not talk well about them.

Whether you have an ex-spouse, an ex-lover, or an ex-friend? Oh! The whole philosophy of having to be the "nice guy" (or gal in this case) and not saying anything negative about that person (lest you be perceived as bitter) is bullshit.  Sometimes, those ex-spouses, ex-lovers and ex-friends deserve that label. If you were truly fucked over, there is nothing wrong with being upset, saying it, and even warning others about that person.

I don't know if it's that label ("bitter ex") that makes us think that we can't voice the truth when we get hurt. We should be okay with that. It's life. People disappoint and hurt us. Admitting you're hurt and disappointed does not make you bitter: it makes you human. When people make you feel bad about it, it's denying what happened, how you're feeling, and hinders your healing.  Some people you meet really might not be good people. It's not wrong to say that out loud.

And if people think you're bitter? Fuck 'em. You're 42. You don't care about their opinion anymore afterall. ;-)

3.) People born into your family do not have to be your friends.  Oh, it took me long to realize this. People always say "blood is thicker than water" but if that blood comes from a stone? It's not worth it. It's okay not to love your blood relations as much as your friend relations. Birthright does not make a relationship.

4.) Never live with someone you're dating.

People say to "test drive" it -- see if you can live together before you make it official. Whether getting married, have a civil union (grrr! hate that term. Everyone, no matter gender, race, religion, whatever! should be able to marry if they wish!), or whatever you want to call it.  But in my opinion, test drives are for cars, not for human beings.  I'm so not willing to be "test drived", and so neither should the partner in my life be.  If someone wants to "see how it will work" before committing, he or she is a coward. It's way too easy to break up if you're just shacking up. If you love someone enough to want to live with them? Make it official. If you're still figuring it out? Figure it out. But don't live with someone until you do.

5.) Don't forget the people who count.

We all have obligations. With friends, with family, with children, with work. The people who count? Are the ones who we often don't recognize. The ones who come up to you and thank you for random things at work when you thought you were just doing your job. The sibling who picked up your child at daycare because you couldn't get there in time. The friend who didn't think twice when you locked your keys in your car and had to drive you back home to get your spare. It's so very often that we forget who IS there for want of others who aren't there. Re-evaluate who is in your life. It's about quality, not quantity.

And that's it for now. :-) Until next time....

Why is the positive person in your life your dumping ground?

I'm a positive girl.  Go figure, right? If you're reading this you're probably my friend as opposed to someone who actually thought there was a cheese product out there called Dixie Cheese and found me randomly because you hoped it was smoked over hardwoods made in the backwoods of Georgia.

You probably know me on Facebook or Twitter.  We're friends on Instagram or a colleague I trust enough to know my inner ramblings and dreams of being a real writer someday.  So you know I'm a "what you see is what you get" kinda girl.  I don't fake my happiness. It's just who I am. Glass half full or glass half empty?

My answer is that the glass is always full -- halfway with the liquid in it and the other half with the air I breathe.

I had someone tell me once I was trite in my writing and opinions because he thought it was all fake until he realized it really wasn't and I was actually real and apologized.  (That, honestly, was the worst insult I've ever received until I realized I didn't really give two poops about his opinion anyway.)  But, yeah.  I am that happy. I am that positive. I'd like to think I'd have a very blue aura if I believed in that shit. Anyway....

It brings me to this dilemma: people dump on me. All. The. Time. And most of the time it doesn't bother me at all. If I'm in a good place and you're not, that's what friends are for, right? To hear your problems, be a sounding board, help you look at things from another perspective or just to be there as a comforting ear.  And I love that I can do that for friends. I do. But sometimes I wonder if those of us who are the "glass always full" types sometimes are the ones of whose advantages are often taken.

(that was an awkward sentance, right? didn't want to end in a preposition. onward!)

Because lately, I'm feeling it.  I walk into every day with a smile, my head held high, feeling good.  And then a friend or two will tell me their (legitimate) problems and it sinks me a little, knowing they're so sad. So I want to help. I want to do something! Take them out, talk on the phone, do something to get them out of their funk. Whatever I can do.  But what's happening instead is that they dump....and then go away.  Tell me their problems and then say they want to be alone. Or don't want to talk about it.  Or whatever.

I get that. I really, really do.  In a way.

But. 

But then I don't get why you would tell someone who is over-the-moon enjoying life your issues and then just go away!  If you're my friend, I take that to heart and I'm actually brought down a notch or two over what you said because I want to make you feel better and pump you up. Get you out of that funk; share my love of life. I walk into every day happy but when a friend says she's hurting, it hurts me too. So I sink a bit...hoping I'll rise again in helping with her problems. That's the point in having a positive friend, right?

And if you don't want that positive friend to help you? Why put it on them?

On me?

Are you wanting me to be just as miserable as you?

I'm starting to -- no. Not starting. I realize completely that it's now becoming unfair.  These people who do this to me feel so much better just for "venting" and can sleep at night because they got it out.  They vented and released their stress. Good on them! Sleep soundly then!  I am truly happy they can.

But because I love them, when they do that to me? I can't.  I worry over what I'm told. I pray. I try to figure out ways to make them feel better because that's what I want to do: I want everyone to approach every day the way I do. Your situation may suck. But there's always a solution.   I truly believe that.

So, back to the scenario. My friend got it out -- but put it on me. I can't help but feel that (s)he put it out there for someone else to absorb. Maybe it should be a compliment that they think I CAN absorb that so (s)he didn't have to deal so much...but it's not. It's not a compliment because I feel I'm a vessel now. A dumping ground.

Why is the positive person in your life your dumping ground?

Because, surprise! That positive person also has issues of his or her own to deal with.

We may be happy. We may be teachers and friends and colleagues and strangers with smiles on our faces and a true "glass is full" attitude.  But we still don't deserve to be your dumping ground.

The three songs that should be played at my funeral.

Lord willing, it won't happen anytime soon. But when it does (because there are only three certain things in life, right?), it will. And a friend challenged me a couple days ago to come up with three songs I could put to paper (or, er, what passes as "paper" in internet blogs these days) so the ones I left would know how to define me and what to play at my wake.

A bit ago (wow! two years ago even: just looked it up - did I really write that in 2011?! I thought I did it more recently than that!) I posted about songs that have certain memories for me.  Whether it was the one playing when I got my first real kiss, the one I heard repeatedly on my Confirmation retreat or for any other time. If you love music, there are certain songs that will always stick in your head because of who you were, where you were at the time, right?l

Yeah, this entry is not about that.

This one is entirely self-serving --but, as I said, a friend challenged me to find three songs that I would consider "my theme songs." Not because of memories or situations, but more about who I AM.

I don't find it morbid at all, by the way.  If you've ever lost a loved one -- a parent, a child, a sibling, a spouse -- it's not morbid. It's just reality. So my mom and I have even talked about what would happen if I got run over by  a bus tomorrow.  We live almost a thousand miles apart. She knows my life and family and friends are here even if at the same time my heart is up there with her.

[My answer: do whatever you want with my cold dead body, but with the life insurance I have, pay my bills, buy yourself some cute new shoes and then throw a big party for my friends. Kegs and kegs of beer. Oh, and boxes of wine of course!]

So if people are having some drinks (in red solo cups, of course) and just celebrating my life?  Where I'm hopefully looking down on them (or haunting them -- you know who you are!) these are the three songs I'd ask y'all to play.

Billy Joel's "She's Always a Woman"  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zkfkJCyqCBc
[note: he's also from my Mom's hometown area too!]

She Daisy's "I Will" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9MxKFMP_08

And good ol' Blue Eyes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6E2hYDIFDIU 

If you are reading this and I DO get run over by a bus tomorrow? Please let my mama know. She doesn't have internet access to read this afterall. ;-) 

The Joy of Hashing

 The Joy of Hashing.

As in the Hash House Harriers type of hashing.

Nine out of ten of you reading this understand what I meant already by "hashing." Assuming I have more than ten readers (and I don't), I can't explain it better than Wikipedia does. It's a running/walking group that likes to drink and be social.  I'll send y'all there now.

I'll wait.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hash_House_Harriers

Take your time.

It's a lot to take in.

I'll wait.

You ready?

On the most simplest level? It's a group of people who have a commonality. Just like you do with your friends.  Some do it with photography. Or travel. Or scrapbooking. You name it.  Gardening.  Shopping. Artwork.  You find a common place with amazing folks who have the same hobbies. And that's what we do here. We do it with a bit of exercise and then with some cold frosty beverages at the end. Ceremony and personal jokes even.

Hashing started in Malaysia back at the turn of the century and now exists in every state, every country in the world.  It's just a means to get out and run (or walk), meet new people and have some fun.

(but you know that already. you checked out the link, right?)

Today I was reminded how fun it actually is.

I started hashing in September of 2002. A friend had heard about it from a colleague of his and said to me: "Hey! It's a great way to meet people, have a little fun."  I was skeptical, but I went.  Did a 3 mile run (er, walk) that day and hurt for three days after.  But the people I met there were so nice, so kind and so inviting that I decided to keep going back even when he didn't.

So now it's 11 years later and I've been a part of the "hash" on and off all those years. Some years I did it weekly.  I traveled to hashes.  I hosted them. Did camping trips.  You name it.

And then I stopped. 

Whether it was work, or a boyfriend at the time or any other reason, I stopped.  Went back now and again, then stopped now and again too.

 But the nice thing about those people you meet there? That are so nice and so kind and inviting? They become your real friends. Whether you see them every week or once a year or so. They never stop being that.

So when a newer hasher friend of mine asked me a couple of weeks ago to help her lay the trail today, I jumped on it.  A little nervously, I admit. I hadn't laid a trail in a year and hadn't been to one since then.  But one of the biggest reasons I wanted to do it with her has nothing to do with hashing at all really.

People say that after you get out of high school or college, it's hard to make friends: it's hard to get out of your social circle you already have or the people you know at work.  I knew the hash kinda debunks that theory though. We have all types there.  And it occurred to me that this woman I had met a few times only and who asked me to do this with her? Was not in my "typical" social circle. Not in my work environment.  And for Pete's Sake, she's a MICHIGAN girl (the Badger in me shudders even writing that). But we somehow connected because of the hash.

So we volunteered to lay trail today. A damn fine trail, I'd say.  Long, yes.  But well-marked and with treats and fun. And having done this for over 10 years now and haven't been out for a while? I was tickled beyond belief to see who all came out to it.  Was it because they recognized my name on it? Nah... I'm not that conceited. I think most folks came because it was in their neighborhood. Or needed some exercise. Or whatever.  But no matter why they came, it made me happy they did and re-realize why I love this group so much.

Because it's group you can go years without seeing and when you do again they give  you a big hug.  Often invite you to another outing even.  Ask how your job or kids are doing.  Exclaim (as it happened to me today) "wow! your hair got long!"  And as silly as that seems, it's a familiarity that makes you feel comfortable: the woman who said it knew me when I wore my hair really short.  She knew me then and still knows me now. And that makes you feel part of a community in a way.

And the Hash House Harriers does that. Once a hasher, always a hasher.  The only thing I can compare it to for non-hashers are for

folks who are in sororities or fraternities.  But that's done in college. And this is done in "real life" so to speak. And today when I went out to the hash again and I saw folks I hadn't seen in ages and met others for the first time? I felt part of something bigger than ME. And that's a very wonderful thing indeed.
 

Bedtime is Movie Time for me

I can sympathize but not empathize with those who have insomnia.

I'm one of those English girls who knows the difference between the words. Sympathize means you have my sympathy and support but I've never been there myself. Empathizing means I actually truly understand on that level because I've been there.

And I haven't.

Thank God, the gods, the world, mother nature or whatever that I aven't.
I can fall asleep on a dime.  And dance circles on it even.

When I go off to bed each night I do it with a smile. I never have a problem falling asleep. I can do it in a car. On a plane. Comfortably on a friend's couch I had never been on before.  In a meeting even (shhh! don't tell my boss!). Or in the subway, the bus, the cab. Name it: I can fall asleep anywhere.

Sleep does not elude me. She's actually my friend.

Because I wake up from her with a smile on my face.

--------------------

So I actually crawl into my big comfy bed every night knowing that I will A) fall asleep in about 10 minutes tops and B) have a free movie waiting for me.

Because my dreams are movies. I may not remember them when the alarm clock goes off.
 Guess I'm lucky in that. Thinking about it? I'm surprised I ever get out of bed.

Text Conversation with Mama After a Surprise Gift

I got home from work yesterday to see a package down the hall, leaning up against the mailboxes in my place.  Since I rarely if ever buy things these days and didn't recall a moment (probably drunk) when I purchased something online, I didn't think it was for me. But I still had to check my mail, so I walked toward the boxes, assuming there were only bills there for me, but still mega-focused on that darn package, hoping beyond reason that ooh! A package might actually be for me anyway.

As I stepped closer and closer, I saw big Sharpie marker writing on the front and thought: hey! I recognize that handwriting. Wishful thinking at that point, for sure.  But when I finally got up to it, I saw that it WAS actually addressed to me! I was right! It was Mama's handwriting afterall.  (I KNEW IT!)

It came with a card that said:  "Hi Stacy! Found this and with you in mind I thought I would send it out-- while we are having extremely hot summer days! Hope you like it - Something cool to lounge about with after showering or at the poolside.  Misplaced receipt but you shouldn't have any problems returning it if you don't like it -- or for the fit or color, etc. Enjoy your summer -- as we are surely are up here -- once the rains and thunderstorms subside. Thankfully No Tornadoes. Love Mom"

Of course, I had to try it on right away. And, bless her heart, as always? Somehow at 1000 miles away she always manages to pick out better things for me than I do myself! Absolutely adorable.  And so I told her so, and our text messages (Mom's a textin' fool!) were thus:

Me: (sending pic) I love it!!! And it looks adorable, thank you! What a lovely surprise.

Mom: Glad you like it! I could visualize you wearing it. You're welcome!

Me: Tried it on for Hilary and she said, and I quote, "your Mom has amazing style! My Mom would never do that!"

Mom: Well thank her for me! I guess when you have it, you HAVE IT! Haven't lost it...YET. lol XOXOXO

[editor's note: yep. Mom does the whole "lol" thing. She knows it means "laugh out loud" but she likes to say it actually means "lots of love."  Aww. Love that.]

Me: Wish you would have passed that gene onto me! You dress me better than I do myself!

Mom: What can I say! I'm the last of 12...& with 6 sisters older...my brother sized it up...MaryJo's dad [my Godmother], said I had to teach my older sisters...style & how to dress..hairdos, etc. 
P.S. Notice not only a good color on you, but stripes going the right way. Elongating you. You probably look 5'6" wearing it. Haha!

[And here, I giggled. Mom's tall. Dad was too. Sister is tall. My brothers are both 6' or taller. Not me. I'm 5'3-3/4"...yep, I claim that 3/4!]

Me (pretending indignance): Hey! I like being short, thankyouverymuch! Notice you didn't pass THAT gene onto me either, Amazon?

Did I mention this woman -- this amazing woman who sends amazing random gifts and texts messages oh-so-naturally  is *71 years old?!*  And those texts were word for word.

Yeah. I have an amazing Mama.

My nemesis, my hair: conquered!

I always wanted to be a girl with a swingy ponytail. You know: the kind on those women you see running and it swings back and forth behind their heads as if they really were independent tails with movement all their own?  I was always jealous of that.

Growing up, I always had short hair. My Mom says that it's because my hair was so thick and tangled easily so I would scream and cry whenever she tried to comb out my hair. So she always kept it short to avoid the drama.  Granted, she did give me some cute styles. But I didn't have the little ponytails or braids that Julie or Kristin did in the neighborhood.  I wanted those.   And Mom was very fond of the home permanents back then too (it was the 70s afterall) and every other year I had a head of not only short hair, but short messy curls of hair. One of the stories she likes to tell me is that once when I was young and in Philadelphia with some relatives a stranger mentioned I looked like a little Shirley Temple. Apparently he even asked me if I could sing and dance or something like her.  I don't have a memory of this.  I had no idea who Shirley Temple was but I'm sure if I did remember that, I would have felt a kindred with her, sure that she must have wanted to have long ponytails too instead of the mess we apparently shared.

As I grew older and Mom was no longer making my hair style decisions, I was in the unfortunate timeline of being a high school girl in the Midwest in the 80s.  When it took almost a full quarter can of Aqua Net each day to maintain one's winged-out and banged-up hair each morning, nothing was going to swing and bounce.  I had the high-teased claw of a bang and weird wingy-things sprayed to an inch of their fabricated lives around my ears (to show off the 5 different pierced earrings I wore each day, of course - three in the right and two in the left).  And though I tried to grow it,  it all still never got longer than about shoulder length.  How could it with all that teasing and breaking and chemicals afterall?

By my Junior year in high school, some of my friends started abandoning that (now) crazy look for something more natural.  Kelly cut hers into a cute soft little cut, Vani was the first to grow out her bangs for an all-one-length look I coveted, and Laura had that thick long hair that actually *moved* behind her on her shoulders even if her bangs rivaled mine some days.

Looking back now, it's entirely too amazing how much my hair defined me and how much it affected my self-esteem.  I sent away for those crackass useless solutions found in the back of catalogs that promised longer, stronger hair if you only combed this liquid into it daily.  And I did, religiously, to no avail.  Remembering the texture of that solution now, I'm pretty sure it was just scented water or something. I also tried deep conditioning masks on my hair and wondered why they weren't working when I was still continuing to tease the crap out of it all with the White Rain and hairdryer on the hottest setting each morning.  It was unfair.  If only Mom would have let me have long hair when I was younger, I would have never gotten to this place!  I'd have that long, bouncy tail by now!

When I got to college it changed a little, but I still never had that hair.  Thankfully, the Midwest caught up with the rest of the country by then and the age of the big teased hair went away with the 80s hair bands that inspired and glorified it.   But to get over all the damage I'd previously done to my poor head, my hair was cut off  and growing out.  I could barely make little pigtails, let alone the swingy pony I wanted.  The ones that Jenna and Jody and Ona had?  Unfair.  Who knew a ponytail was so difficult anyway?

The irony came by the end of college: I finally managed to grow my hair long and healthy again, but it *hurt* to do anything with it.  It was so full and thick --something I know is not a curse, but sure felt like it; still does to this day sometimes-- that I'd break barrettes putting them in and if I wore a rubber band, it would have to be at the base of my neck because if  I did it up high, my head would start to ache in about 20 minutes.  And ponies at the base of your neck? Totally don't bounce and swing.  I was beginning to think I was destined to be doomed forever.

When I became a "real" adult with a "real" job, I then fell back into Mom's philosophy that adult, working women didn't have long hair, so I cut it all off again on her advice. Regretting it, I spent years growing it back.  Fortunately for me this time (as opposed to back in the 80s), there were visions of many successful professional women with long hair too and I began to realize it was OK to have long hair even after you were a schoolchild (even if Mom did ask me, every time I came to visit, "when are you going to cut your hair?"). I had cute cuts. I rocked "The Rachel" just as well as she did; had other women tell me they loved my styles over the years.  But I still never got to have my swingy ponytail.  I daresay I went overboard at times trying to make up for it. I had just as many horribly messy styles as I did good ones.  Sometimes I still think that a woman my age probably should not have hair as long as I do, but I still can't bear to cut it because I know I'm still compensating somehow.  Today it's longer than I've probably ever had it in my life (and I'm going to bet right now Mom will absolutely hate it when she sees it again!) but I just can't bear to cut it.

This past Tuesday it was storming quite badly so I decided to hit the gym instead of walking around the park as my usual plan is on Tuesdays.  Thankfully I've gotten into a healthy pattern of having a well-packed gym bag in my car should this ever happen.  I hit the locker room, tied my hair up high for a change (we have better rubber bands and barrettes that don't break now for girls with thicker hair than back then) and grabbed me a treadmill with one of those little TV screens on it. I tuned that into the news that I watched on closed caption while I listened to my iTunes with my headphones and just started walking my heart out at a crazy fast speed.  And I couldn't have been more surprised or filled with more glee when the TV screen faded to black between commercials and I saw a darkened reflection of myself on there:  my ponytail on the back of my head? Was swinging away, back and forth behind my head as if it really was an independent tail with a life of its own.

I'm her now! Finally, I'm THAT girl with that swingy, healthy bouncy tail: the one I always wanted to be.  It's entirely irrational how happy that makes me. And most likely means one thing.

I'll probably cut it all off soon.  :-)

The Power of Journaling: Me + 20 years

Whenever I'm walking, and that's often lately, I compose blogs in my head.  I know exactly what I want to write and almost exactly how I want to write it.  But when I get home, I don't sit down quickly enough to do it and then, somehow, I just never do.  I get distracted. Log into work. Flip on the TV or sit down to pay my bills.  We all know how that happens.

I was just talking with my friend Sara about this tonight. Being of about the same age, we have memories, both mental and physical, of the years we kept journals or diaries or "blogs on paper" - whatever you want to call them.  The same age is important in that when we did it, it was before the age of the internet and the 140 character limit or the quick Facebook mind dump where we actually took pen to paper and really WROTE. I absolutely adore that I have those old journals now: so much that I should just pick up one and do it again. But I never do. And I get angry with myself that I don't.

For years as I moved from apartment to apartment, those journals lived with most of my other belongings in a storage unit.  It wasn't until I moved to my place now, when I got to dump that unit and have all my personal things around me again, did I rediscover them. And I realized that I hadn't opened a single one of them for 20 years.

Imagine my glee then, when I decided to sit down and page through them just a bit ago:  written journals from years gone by. I recognize my own handwriting, of course: that actually hasn't changed much (that fact amuses me a bit, actually).  And I recognize the young woman who wrote them....sort of.  I can see myself in her, but then, also not. I can read of her joy and her pain and her confusion, her fun with friends, her confusion over family, her heartache over early lost loves; but it's hard to believe that was me in a way.  I don't feel the emotions that young (er) woman did then.  I often want to shake her and say: what are you thinking, girl? Or: it gets so much better than that. You deserve more than that! Or: yeah. That's your first of a line of heartbreaks, honey.  Some will be easier; some will be worse.  I want to tell her she has no clue what she's talking about most of the time.  Or: ohhh just wait, child. Your life is going to go places you haven't even dreamed about yet.  But, obviously, I can't tell HER anything, so I just kept reading.

And then I opened up to this entry; dated January 24, 1993:

"Wow. This is kind of strange. Knowing that someone will someday be reading these entries. Maybe not so strange as much as awkward...or unusual.  I do have an audience in mind when I write, which I guess is weird for a personal journal. Usually I guess it's just myself + 20 years."

Myself + 20 years. 1993 was just that! How did this girl -- this me -- who was so naive and young and green -- somehow come right out and write something that was so dead on true like that?  Trust me: it gave me chills. I checked the calendar quite a few times before I let it register the truth on me that yep: she wrote that 20 years ago and I read it for the first time since she/I did, exactly 20 years later. 

I mean, honestly? How cool is that?

I actually really don't want to go back and tell that old young me those things I mentioned earlier.  That girl would never have understood them (and what 20-year-old listens to a 40-something anyway?). And I certainly don't want to go back and BE her again.  But what I do want  is to recapture that spirit and joy she/I had in just picking up a pen and putting words on paper -- however mundane they may seem at the time -- because it IS apparent now that they really can mean something later. Somehow she knew that then and I forgot it along the way when she and I decided to stop keeping journals.  Huh. Imagine that.  Sometimes you really CAN learn from the younger generation.

And how crazy more to learn from "the younger generation" that was actually your own self.

Going to start doing this again.  It's past time to start this again. :)  And, almost serendipitously, I just realized I actually have a completely blank paper journal among the full ones on my shelf.  (It apparently lived, saddened, amongst its full brethren in that storage unit, too.)  And the very first entry will naturally have to be how I hope I'm lucky enough to have an audience in mind as I write.

Me plus another 20 years.


*journals pictured actual journals  :)  The asparagus one is the blank one. Why a journal with *asparagus* on it appealed to me in the day is beyond me.  But she must have known something; it makes me grin now.

Traditions

Oh! Oh, how I giggled today when I checked my mail.

Let me step back a second.

Traditions.

Traditions with friends and loved ones and family and colleagues and, shoot, even your pets if you want them? Are the things that keep us human, keep us silly, keep us alive and happy no matter what you may be going through at the time.

My big little brother (and I call him that because he's three years younger than me but 7 inches taller) and I somehow started a tradition or two many many moons ago; going on over 15 years now.  And over 15 years, people go through a lot of things, right?  Moves and jobs and loves and break-ups. Financial strains and unexpected pleasures.  If you had told me growing up that my little brother (not bigger than me then) would keep up these traditions with me 15 years running? I would have laughed.  But we somehow have.

And so now I laugh -- as I did today checking my mail -- because we ARE still doing it.

We have two. Two silly traditions.  The first of which is that we never send an appropriate card for the occasion. It's your birthday? You may get an Easter card.  For Christmas? A sympathy one. Break up from a love? Oh yeah. That's when you get a Halloween card.  You get the point.

But the second is what we do on our birthdays. Steven lives in Phoenix; I'm in Atlanta. We can't get much further apart in the same country if we tried.  So what we do every birthday is send each other scratch-off lottery tickets from our own state in a non-birthday card (gotta be sympathy or new year's or something, right?) with the understanding that if either one of us scratches it and gets a win-fall, we use the funds to visit each other.

It hasn't happened yet.  Oh, but it will. We may both be in our 70s when it does, but I'm confident that if we've been doing it this long, we'll still be doing it then. God willing.

So his birthday was 9 days ago and I sent him the obligatory "Mazel Tov! Congratulations on your Bar Mitzvah!" card complete with 5 scratch off lottery tickets from the great state of Georgia.  And, in the appropriate response? He mailed back to me the two that actually just said "FREE TICKET" on them. He can't cash them there afterall.  So, yep. My gift to him was a gift back to me when he sent them because it meant my giggles and joy in going to the mailbox and finding a letter from him today.

And who knows? I might turn them in for those tickets and win my ticket out to see him.  Or I might get $5 that goes to sending tickets back to him to keep the cycle going.  Or there might be nothing.  Nothing until I get my "Happy Thanksgiving!" card on my birthday with $5 of scratch-off tickets from the great state of Arizona for my birthday 3 months from now.

Oh yeah.

Traditions with friends and loved ones and family and colleagues and, shoot, even your pets if you want them? Are the things that keep us human, keep us silly, keep us alive and happy no matter what you may be going through at the time.

And I'm still giggling.  

And, honestly? Blessed too.

Adventures in Laudromatting

I try to make the best out of everything and I was tested by that today when I realized I just really, really could not put laundry off any longer.

Laundry for most is just a minor inconvenience.  Up until two years ago, it was the same for me.  You pop it in the washer and go about your business.  It buzzes and you switch it to the dryer.  Big deal.  You can be cooking dinner, sitting on the couch watching this week's Walking Dead from the DVR, even getting ready for a night on the town.

But not when you don't have a washer and dryer in your home.

Now, I can't bitch too much about this because when I took my apartment, I knew this would be the case.  I actually *owned* a washer and dryer before I moved here and ended up giving them to my dear friends who helped move me in.  (If you saw my place, you know why that's a really big deal.  It was a bitch to move into -- they deserved more than a washer and dryer.  Which is why they got a futon too.) :-)  I had to decide whether the conveniences of living here was worth that annoyance.

Very cheap rent.  No security deposit or lease. All utilities included except electricity. Extremely responsive landlords who not only come immediately when you mention a minor annoyance like a dripping faucet, but look around and replace all your burned out light bulbs at their own expense while they're there.  In the heart of the city.  Walking distance to pretty much anywhere I want to go (including a couple laundromats) and off-street parking for the car that sits every weekend because I don't have to drive it anywhere.   So not having laundry? Small price to pay.

Though sometimes it gets annoying as hell anyway. 

So I tell myself those things above.  That all those benefits far outweigh the fact that I might have to schlep a basket or two to my car before work in the morning so I can stop at the laundromat on the way home. Because, let's face it: when you're home, you're home.  Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.  Sometimes I need a new reason or two to appreciate that going to the laundromat is really not such a big deal and I should just deal with it.

It still, in all my years, never ceases to amaze me that when I put something like that out into the universe, it responds in a way that makes me get over my annoyance and actually enjoy the experience.

In the past couple months, after begrudgingly making time to do this necessity, a few things gradually became clear.

1)  When I'm at home, I don't do some the things I truly love because there's always something else I "need to do."  Whether it's scrubbing the toilet or stripping the bedclothes or a number of any other household tasks that call out to me to be serviced instead of just curling up on the couch for a night with my book or writing a letter to a friend.  Going to the laundromat actually gives me that time! I can actually kick back for an hour and lose myself in a story or conversation without the guilt that I should be mopping the kitchen floor instead.

It reminds me of my first year out of college when I lived in Milwaukee, didn't own a car and had to take the bus to my job (as an Estee Lauder counter manager at a mall -- but oh, that's a story for another day!).  I actually treasured riding the bus for the very reason that I could just curl up against the window and read my book.  I guess I made the best out of that situation way back then too.

2) I've become part of the neighborhood.  Where I live, most of the apartments are actually old houses turned into multi-living units as opposed to big apartment conglomerates that have the facilities on site.  It also means a lot of the folks who live here live in their own homes on the streets too.   I can count a few times now when a neighbor was walking down the street past the laundromat I was in (curled up on a comfy chair, reading my book of course), recognized my car and so popped in, bought me a Coke from the vending machine (actually a Cheerwine --Southerners know what this is) and just shot the shit for a while.  That can't happen when you're sitting on your own couch waiting for the buzz, right?

3) I actually CAN multi-task even away from home. I have two laundromats I frequent. The choice du jour usually depends on its location.  One I go to just to chill.  The other is next door to a grocery store, my gym, bars and eateries. There have been times where I've browsed stores in the wash cycle, then actually did my grocery shopping after popping it into the dryer.  Come back just in time to empty and fold my clothes and all errands are done at the same time.  Granted, I can only do the grocery thing in the colder months (can't be letting the moose track ice cream melt in the trunk while I fold afterall), but the gym part works out perfectly.

4) I meet new people and have great conversations.  About a month or so ago, I had the pleasure of chatting with a few different folks on the same night.  We were all there doing the necessary chore and making the best of it.  I talked with a lovely woman named Amy who lived down the block from the laundromat: turned out we were going to the same festival at the city park (a few blocks walking-distance for both of us) so we shared stories of the last time we went to the event.  A gentleman there overheard us and told us he was actually a guitarist in a band who would be performing there.  Turns out we had both heard of his band before so our twosome became a threesome.  An older gentleman, sitting off to the side and working on his laptop most of the evening, approached us later as he was leaving with his now-clean basket of wears [sic] and mentioned he enjoyed overhearing our conversation and laughter, especially since he had been the first there, knew we were all strangers initially, and enjoyed just overhearing it all happen.

In a world where people can easily talk to strangers behind a computer screen or phone, there's something special about actually being able to do it in person. I daresay it's even becoming a skill.

So when I schlepped my clothing basket to the car before work this morning and I remembered it was there halfway through the day and almost dreaded having to actually do that task before finally being able to be home?  I fortunately remembered these actual blessings that came with the inconvenience.  And so I didn't mind it at all.

And now I'm writing this down, lest I ever complain again and need a reminder: you can always try to make the best out of everything, Stacy. Because when you approach it that way? It more often than not actually becomes a very amazing thing.

A Little Pain, a Big Lesson

I am in a ridiculous amount of pain.

I nearly sliced my entire right index finger's knuckle off last night when a glass I was washing broke in my hand and a sharp, curved piece jammed itself deep into my hand.  Thankfully, it lodged against some muscle or tissue or something instead of going straight through.  When I finally got it stop bleeding, I was left with a half-circle gash around the top end of my knuckle, a cut deeper than any I've experienced in many years, and being as it was right on the bend, it kept breaking open and bleeding and clotting back up and breaking open and bleeding and, well, you get the picture.

I'd actually SHOW you the picture but I don't think you'd want to see it.

Eventually I managed to bandage it up and hoped my overnight sleep would give it that enough motionless time to seal back up for good.  It did.  What I hadn't counted on this morning though was the excruciating pain and numbness: the excruciating pain of two flaps of skin stretched to their almost-ripping point to try to seal up a gash in their fabric and the tingly numbness that now exists in half of that hand...until I do something stupid like try to use it.   Which I have been doing all morning.

As I'm right-handed, what were once the simplest tasks are now ridiculous. 

Shampooing my hair took 4x as long with just one hand.  I'm pretty sure there's still soap in the back.  Holding a hairdryer was out of the question completely.  The hard boiled eggs I made yesterday for this morning's breakfast?  Still in the fridge: no way can I peel them.  Driving to work was interesting. I didn't even have the ability to turn the key in my ignition:  had to reach across and do it with my left hand (same with the parking break release) -- which is terribly awkward and feels like you're doing something bad to your ignition switch.  And even now, so used to typing a billion words a minute two-hand typing, I'm at a loss with my right hand.  I'm still typing all well and good with the left and hunting and pecking with my ring finger on my right (it's the first on that hand that's not completely numb).  And let's not even go into how long it takes to use the bathroom today, okay?

And that's just the little things.

Because then I realized: wow. These ARE the little things.  Little inconveniences I have to put up with now...and for a temporary amount of time even (or so I hope!).  I've never broken a bone or anything so I really haven't ever been in a situation like this much, even temporarily.  And, Lordy, it is frustrating!  And I'm not making light of my frustrations.  This sucks and I have a right to be frustrated.  But it's also got me to thinking about others.  What about those folks who not-so-temporarilly have to adjust?  Our hundreds of military personnel coming home from war missing limbs or dexterity in them?  People of poor tragic accidents like that of Aimee Copeland, who lost both hands completely to flesh-eating bacteria?  How do they do it?  Or even folks with debilitating conditions, extreme arthritis or joint pain they've had so long they cannot remember their last pain-free day?  How do these folks do it?

I guess I always believed what people say: you just do. If you have to, you just find a way.  And although I understand that, I don't think I even realized how difficult that actually IS until today.  The simplest, everyday tasks are a struggle for me today.  What if I had to accomplish something BIG?  And what if this wasn't just a temporary inconvenience?

Yeah, I don't think I'll be taking the little things like being able to brush my own teeth or push an elevator button for granted again.

Drop a dime in the Jukebox and Let It Play.

Tonight on my drive home from work in cold, rainy Atlanta traffic, I was able to keep sane by the music I could play on my radio.  Because my car is still fairly new and SiriusXM has real competition now from companies like Pandora and other free streaming sources, I still have an extended offer through them that probably would have ended a year ago if not for all that.  So I flipped around on their offerings.

I do use their service: it's coming into the car afterall.  But with my local morning station (that I actually like!), my iPod jack and CD player, it's not necessarily a...er, necessity.  I usually flip back and forth with a push of a dashboard button and when it's not on a talk radio or  a sports station, it's on an 80s channel. Sometimes 90s. Sometimes more recent mixes.  But every now and again I drop back to my love of the old 70s songs: some America singing about a California highway and deserts with their lives underground. Or S&G telling me we're all our own island.  But I haven't done that recently until today.

Today, in the crazy Atlanta rain and traffic and trying to find peace, I had to skip the happy slappy 80s. Angst of the 90s was so not an option either. So I ventured back and realized though I missKodachrome (I'm pretty sure I was the last class in my high school they actually taught us how to develop our own 33mm film), I already knew how to leave my lover in more than 50 ways. Skip the 70s for once, too. I went back one more click on the dial to the 60s.

And there I got engrossed in Turtles. And California Dream[ed]. But that's not the point of this blog. In listening to these songs, I started thinking about what it would be like to own a bar in a college town.  To have lived in that town, established a good life and business there and because of it, have seen many generations of college students come through, stay for a few years and then leave again. What must that be like?

I remember the first time I found some of my favorite "classic groups" back in my formative years in college.  Pink Floyd. Grateful Dead. Old school Nitty Gritty Dirt Band recording "Mr. Bo Jangles" in 1970.  The soundtrack to the movie "1969." Any and every song written in the 60s or on an early 70s Eagles' album. I felt like I was so cool, so unique, not the typical girl who listened to The Smashing Pumpkins or Nirvana or whatever was coming out at the time.  Of course I listened to those too: I just didn't play them on the jukebox.  Because I was the girl who didn't do that.  I thought I was cool, right?

No.  Gosh no! :-)

Because those proprietors had seen it before, time after time. And will. Time after time.

They see students like me come in, come back out (rarely any intention of staying forever. At least not at my school), always being the constant but with their clientele feeling they're unique and special and being the firsts to experience things that they had already seen generations experience before me and my friends.  In my day, "Come on Eileen" was new. Today, it's on the jukebox for the kids there now to feel they're being cool to know it!  Just like I did when I would push a button on the machine to play "Fishing in the Dark" or "December 1963 (Oh What a Night!)".

I wonder how it is for those local establishments sometimes.  To see the same crowd for a couple of years, knowing they're going to move on somewhere else and another crowd will take that place.  Is it sad for them? To see these generations come in, grow up, move on? Or does it make them smile instead, confident in their own selves and their own lives and giggling at us behind closed doors perhaps?

Before today, I never really thought about it: the difference between being a local in a college town or being a short-time member. I went there knowing I would leave. How does it feel for folks who are there, always there, see all that and probably --most likely--are happy they aren't their clientele and actually know who they are?  And know that some of those punks coming in and out in a handful of years know absolutely nothing about Real Life like they did....and we thought we did?

But still treated us well. Dang, we were obnoxious.  Looking back? We really were.

It kind of makes me want to move to a small town, po-dunk college town and open a bar, it does.  And send all the establishments I frequented when I was a silly college girl a Thank You Card for putting up with me and my friends when we were there. :)

Never forget to check under the cart.

I think tonight was the first time ever in my life that I actually got everything from the grocery store I went in to get.

Oh, yeah. Of course I got those other things too.  The "Manager's Special" Agnus pound of beef marked down to $2.45 if I could use it or freeze it before two days from now (it's in the freezer). And that bottle of ALL laundry detergent that was marked down to $3.99 and someone blessedly left a $1 off coupon next to it, expiring today.  I mean, come on. How could I not?

But I went in with a list.  A list I wrote out when I got to work today a half hour before I was supposed to be there. I wrote it, folded it, put it in my back pocket so I would not forget anything.

Yep. Forgot that it was in my back pocket.

But I remembered the toothpaste.  And the butter.  And the tampons (sorry, men. it is what it is).  And I got back home, carried all those horribly flimsy plastic bags from my trunk to my home no less than three trips (the only downfall of living "upstairs") and emptied them, actually looking for The Thing I forgot.

I always forget something.

But I didn't today.

Hmmm.

The other thing that occurred to me as I was taking those tiny messed up little stairs from my car to my apartment was: wow. I have food.

Silly, right?

But it actually occurred to me: Wow. I actually had the ability to go out and get food today.  And I had a vehicle that enabled me to do it.  And a home of my own I could bring it all into even!  Woah. With appliances and electricity that makes it all possible. And I was happy about all those "little" things.

I don't think it's wrong that we get jealous now and again about others we know.  They might have privileges or job benefits or a better car or prettier shoes or a more supportive family or lots of money in their savings accounts.  I think it's okay to feel a twinge of jealousy about something you don't have.

But only if you recognize what you DO have.

Do I have matching furniture? No.  But I have comfortable pieces a friend gifted me with.  Do I own my home? Nope.  But I love coming home to where I live every day and it's a place that's warm, comfortable and mine.  Do I drive a fancy car? Heck no. But it's reliable, affordable (American made yo!) and enables me to go to my job, to visit my friends, and most of all? Gives me an escape if I need it.  I can nap in it during my lunch hour (and I have!), I can loan it to a friend (absolutely I have!) and get me from Point A to B when a loved one needs me.

Can I go on fancy vacations? Nope. But can I go on memorable ones? Yep.  Can I afford fancy restaurant outings on the weekends? Nope.  But do I have clean water and healthy food and can mix up something for friends to eat or drink who can come by? Yes. Am I wearing the latest fashions? Heck no. Because that's not important anymore. Oh, it was back in the day (and another story for another day).  But now I think my friends are just happy I'm clothed, no matter what I'm in. ;-)

So when I went to the store today; the first time I ever went and didn't forget one thing I "needed" on that list in my back pocket?  I'm kinda actually thinking right now I didn't remember -- or forget -- because there is nothing more I need right now that isn't already here.

And that's a verra, verra fine feeling indeed.  :-)