Saturday, June 29, 2013

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.








Saturday, June 22, 2013

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.  :-)

Friday, June 21, 2013

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.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

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.

Friday, March 22, 2013

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.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

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.

Monday, March 11, 2013

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. :)