Arkansas Times

Monday, June 22, 2009 - 10:29:45

Meeting the Man of My Dreams...

Last Wednesday, my buddy Jeff hooked me up with tickets to see “The Who’s Tommy” at the Arkansas Repertory Theatre. He said, “I really think you’ll enjoy it. Great cast, high energy, good music.” What he failed to mention was the probable loss of concentration due to the overwhelming attraction to the lead character, Brian Hissong, who portrays the adult Tommy.
 
My friends, Ryan and Amanda, and I take our seats pre-show. I take a moment to scan the program and my eyes are immediately drawn to the profile of Brian. I whisper to Amanda while pointing at his photo, “This guy is hot. H-O-T, hot. Just a good picture?” Amanda had seen the show the week before. She leans over and says, “You have no idea. You’re gonna have trouble focusing on the show because he is so freaking perfect. He looks a little bit like Steven (my neighbor whom I’ve mentioned in previous blogs,) but… just wait, you’ll see.” The cast of “Tommy” is attractive in general, so I turn to Amanda and ask, “Is that him?” She chuckles and says, “Uh no. You won’t have to ask. Trust me, you’ll know.” She was right.
 Brian Hissong.

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Friday, June 12, 2009 - 17:03:35

Show Me the Money.

You’re walking down the street and you see a person drop a $50 dollar bill on the ground. What do you do? Notify the person? Watch as they walk away and then scoop up the cash?
 
OK, now you’re entering a business and you see a $50 dollar bill by a bush. What do you do? Report the money to the business manager? Pocket the money?
 
Both scenarios have recently been present for two of my friends. In the first case, my friend pocketed the money rather than notifying the stranger. This bothered me as I am certain I would have done the opposite. In the second case, my friend reported the money to the business manager. Again, I would have made a new home for the money in pocket of my favorite overpriced jeans.
 
Is this a test of human decency? A reflection of our greed? Does karma play a factor?
 
I consider the friend who pocketed the stranger’s cash to be decent and trustworthy. The same rings true for the friend who reported the money. I know I would’ve walked away with heavy shoulders and a cloud of guilt if I had taken the stranger's money. I would have manifested how the person would have missed the money. Did they have children? Can they barely pay for groceries? Was that fifty dollar bill supposed to last them for a week? On the other hand, this feeling would be absent if I were to take the stray money by the bush. Is it due to the lack of visual in not seeing the money fall to the ground…from a real person?
 
Typically, we remember the money we find versus the money we earn. I recall finding a twenty on the ground in the Memphis mall when I was a child. I promptly picked up the money and immediately purchased a cassette tape (yes, a cassette tape.) It was as though the money was burning a literal hole in my pocket. We also tend to remember the money lost. I once lost a significant amount of cash in a bar years ago. To this day, I wonder how it was spent, though I suspect it was spent right away on shots and Red Bull and vodka’s (Grey Goose versus the cheap stuff  ‘cause you know, it’s “free” money.)
 
I’d be interested in the population’s response to the above scenarios.

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Thursday, June 04, 2009 - 14:47:46

Public Restroom Stall Selection

Years ago, my good friend Jeff posed the following question to several while soliciting response in efforts to compile a statistical report:
 
“When using a public restroom, which stall do you typically select and why?”
 
So, I thieved his idea and presented this question to several.  The responses were hysterical while often inspiring new conversation.
 
I received 35 responses (26 female, 9 male.) Nine selected the first stall. Eleven selected middle stalls. Twelve selected the last stall. Three listed variables which prevented their selection to fit neatly into the first, middle, or last stall category. And on to the “why” portion of the show…
 

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Monday, May 11, 2009 - 13:49:01

If Wishes Were Kisses...We'd All Have Mono

Last Monday evening, my friend January and I joined my buddy Ryan and two of his buddies at a local Mexican restaurant in honor of Cinco de Mayo. Ryan has recently relocated back to Little Rock from Los Angeles, so the gathering was also in honor of his return. When presenting Ryan with 20 questions surrounding his return, I asked if he was working yet. This question reminded me of Ryan knowing my boss. Ryan noted “Small world,” while further stating, “his wife walked in on my first kiss. I was twelve years old and already terrified and then I get busted.” Ryan dove further into the story, noting another person, John, who was ironically my first kiss. I said, “No way!! John was my first kiss! I was eleven, nearly twelve!” Most of us found the story quite comical, however, one of Ryan’s friends was taken aback, “Eleven? Twelve? Who is kissing at eleven and twelve!?” I bit my tongue while January chimed in, “seems like a pretty normal age. I was 14.” Ryan’s other less appalled friend chimed in with, “Well I am 25 and I have a ten year old so I’ll let you deduct accordingly.” Priceless. I was disgusted by the very obvious disgust the one friend showed over adolescent kisses.

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Thursday, April 30, 2009 - 18:59:37

What Happens in Chicago...

Tomorrow afternoon, I will be flying to Chicago on work related business. I haven’t been to Chicago since February of 2008. The detail below was written over a year ago, with recent edits.
 
In November of 2007, the formation of an unexpected friendship began. I have serviced a particular account at work for the last several years. In this time, friendships have spawned from professional relationships. One day I must have been feeling particularly feisty because normal work email exchanges of:
 
Self: Please review this proof.
Customer: Looks good. Carry on.
Self: Will do.
 
Turned into:
 
Self: Please review this proof.
Jeremy: Looks good. Carry on.
Self: My wayward son?
Jeremy: There'll be peace when…
 
And you see where this is going. This solitary email opened the door to a conversation of music—one of which led to discussion of guitar and our favorite songs… and movies… and then… myspace. OneRepublic served as a huge icebreaker we both purchased this album within days of each other. Several days and evenings of innocent emails of this nature eventually led to feeling comfortable enough to share our phone numbers. And my phone bill has never been the same…

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Wednesday, April 15, 2009 - 18:12:56

They would do it for you...

I made a mistake last Sunday. I received fair warning. I was told, in explicit detail, to avoid watching the movie, Marley & Me. My love for animals is no secret and this movie stung a bit. Okay, stung a lot. Few movies have saddened me to the point of tears.  Castaway, Pay it Forward, Patch Adams, Forrest Gump, Life is Beautiful and My Life as a House are among the few. You can be warned, you can be fully aware of the ending, but you cannot escape the waterfall of tears if you chose to make the same mistake.
 
My dog Rusty has been a huge part of my life, a giant part of my family, since I was nineteen. I’ve loved and cared for him a long time. He’s nearly entirely blind due to his cataracts, he moves much slower, and his once reddish hair has begun to gray. I know he, like every living thing, will not live forever. I know this fact, and yet, I cannot bear the thought. Marley & Me forced me to the future and I felt immediate heartbreak. I still do.  I sat between Steven (who had already watched it once, glutton) and Audrey while crying, no sobbing, to the point of embarrassment. I cried until I was out tears. I cried enough to leave proof of crying, in the form of swollen and puffy circles under my eyes the next morning.
 
I have trouble watching the ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLachlan, I struggle inside the Arkansas Humane Society, and I get a little weepy on kickball Sunday’s because the Little Rock Animal Shelter can be seen when I drive into Interstate Park. Clearly, others share my opinion. Larry Betz, Founder of the Little Rock Kickball Association, and better known to fellow kickballers as “Poo”  started the LRKA in memorial of friends he lost. The LRKA is one part fun and one part charity. This spring, our charity event benefits the animals. We (each LRKA team) will be donating food, toys, treats, flea treatment, bedding, etc. to the needy dogs, cats, puppies and kittens at the Little Rock Animal Shelter. All items will be taken to Interstate Park this Sunday, April 19th. If you would like to reach out and help, but can’t bring yourself to walk through the door of the shelter like myself, I encourage you to come by this Sunday. Poo will be at the park between noon and 7pm. You can’t miss him. He cruises around via golf cart. Otherwise, monetary or aforementioned donations can be mailed to:
 
LRKA
c/o Larry Betz
1904 Berry Place Drive
Conway, Arkansas 72032
 
Each donation offers more time to an animal. More time to be adopted. Time is priceless.
 
Additionally, Scotty Adams, a kickballers for 10+ seasons, has organized “Craws for Paws,” benefitting the Humane Society for Pulaski County. The event will be held on Friday, April 24th in the Rivermarket Paviliion from 7pm until midnight. Tickets can be purchased for $25 in advance or for $30 at the door. One ticket gets you unlimited crawfish, fixins, unlimited beer, live music, and a great time shared by other animal lovers, for a great cause.  For tickets:
 
501.690.6909 for more information.
 
Animals love unconditionally. They offer forgiveness without question. They sense our happiness, our sadness. If I could rescue every animal on death row, every animal in an abusive situation, every animal in need of a home…
 
…I WOULD.
 

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Monday, April 13, 2009 - 14:17:44

The Psycho Shower Story.

Last Thursday evening, I stayed up ridiculously late with Steven. It isn’t uncommon for us to stay up watching movies or talking as we are both nocturnal, however, this particular night, we were awake later, or earlier, depending on how you want to look at it, than normal. Steven mentioned coming by Friday morning to insure I would be awake on time. I assured him it was unnecessary but he insisted. When we’ve stayed up far too late in the past, he’s made mention of this same gesture, though he has never followed through so I assumed this case would be the same.
 
I live with my sister Audrey, nearly 21 years old and my friend Kelly, ten years Audrey’s senior. The three of us have varied schedules. Audrey works during the evening, while Kelly leaves an hour before I awake. I make mention of this because Kelly and I make concerted effort not to rouse Audrey from slumber in the am hours. While I am able to sleep through considerable noise, Audrey is awakened by the slightest of sound.
 
I awoke Friday morning, groggy and tired after only a handful of hours of sleep. I entered my shower, as I do every morning, half asleep. My bathroom is attached to my bedroom and when both the bedroom and bathroom doors are shut, little can be heard on the other side of the doors. While rinsing the shampoo from my hair, I open my eyes to discover the 6 foot tall silhouette of a man through the frosted glass shower door. Initially paralyzed, I released a blood curdling, guttural yell which even alarmed and frightened Steven, the man behind the blurry shadow. Startled and exhausted, Steven stated through laughter, “I told you I was going to wake you up. Wow! Your scream scared me! Who else could it have been?! You had to have known it was me!” Obviously, I did not upon initially discovering the creepy “Norman Bates” like figure in my bathroom. I still owe him one for the near heart attack.
 
Oddly, Audrey did not hear a thing. I am not sure which is more unnerving, the incident itself or Audrey’s oblivion. She normally hears a pin drop, a feather fall, but she didn’t hear the sound of my voice at its highest pitch. Eek.
 
I can recall times in the past when I showered with one eye open, periodically pulling back the shower curtain to confirm I was the only one present. Perhaps my psyche has been tainted by too many scary movies, or maybe I opted to weigh on the side of caution. More perplexing, the “Psycho” shower scene has never been thought of in my current residence. I attribute this to the absence of a shower curtain. This is further proof worry and fear are often needless, but I’ll probably still lock my bathroom door. As a child, I always wondered if Jaws was going to appear in the swimming pool (I really did,) so perhaps I should also swim with my eyes open. I can just see Steven, swimming in the pool, shark fin atop his head. Duh-nah-duh-nah-duh-nah...Gosh, I'm probably giving him ideas. Maybe I should tell him I'm afraid of the Cinderella story. A girl can never have too many glass slippers.
I'm not sure who is more frightening in this photo...

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Thursday, April 09, 2009 - 18:44:18

Be a Fountain, Not a Drain

My mother once said, “Be a fountain, not a drain,” a phrase surely quoted before her though I cannot state by whom. She forgot to elaborate on what you should put out there. What you give flows like a circular stream, eventually it will find you again. I believe in karma and fully feel we get back what we give. I find there is truth to the principle “mind over matter.” If you expect the worst, the worst will often greet you and vice versa.
 
I’m not a bowl of cherries and sunshine. And sure, I have my bad days, but I don’t sauté in the bad with great frequency or regularity. I think there is a difference between being and thinking positively versus having a cheerful demeanor at all times. It’s easy to dwell in the negative. There will always be full moons with the capability to incite fights, but a full moon is not present every evening. Everyone can think of others who have it better, others who have it worse. Anyone can conjure old childhood memories or that which inspires anger, fear, sadness, bitterness. All of which is neither unique or worthy of reveling in to a point where present or future happiness is prevented. Those incapable of embracing the good, blessings, the ability to bite their tongue generally will receive limited sympathy from me. As a result, I find I surround myself with others who share this opinion.

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Thursday, April 02, 2009 - 11:24:28

Riding in Cars with Boys

As a young girl, I would fanaticize of romantic getaways, travel, with a male partner. I vividly recall inventing an entire excursion in my thoughts prior to sleep. If an actual date was planned, each detail would play inside my head like a movie. Often times, I would grow so consumed with anticipation, I would look forward to the evening time, the time in which I was able to design the future date while marking through another calendar date. Of course, anticipation breeds expectation. Sometimes the actual date would prove to be less spectacular than imagined. As an adult, “real” life moves at a much faster pace and somewhere along the line, I began neglecting my imagination all together. Still, the anticipation remains.
 
In early March, Steven invited me to go to Orange Beach with him and another couple. Elated, I accepted. Within hours, he called to “Indian-give” his offer while replacing it with a better invitation, “I can’t go to Orange Beach due to prior obligation, but now I am thinking about the beach and I’d like to go at a different time. You?” I said, “Sure. When and with whom (like I cared?)” Then he made my day, “Three weeks? Just us?” The following day, we reserved a condo in Destin, Florida.
 
The anticipation immediately kicked in. The notion of the beach, him, a week without work, the beach, him entered and the countdown began. Steven and I had lunch together the day before we planned on leaving and I said, “I wish we were leaving tonight instead.” He agreed and so, we decided to leave later that evening.
With Steven. Taken on the balcony outside our condo.

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Wednesday, March 11, 2009 - 12:30:26

Refrigerators.

One of my favorite authors, Wally Lamb, wrote a beautiful forward in his latest novel (his first in 10 years,) “The Hour I First Believed.” Written in the dedication, for his mother, now deceased, Lamb makes several references to her refrigerator. He states, “ …it was the outside of Ma’s fridge that best spoke of who she was. The front and sides were papered with greeting cards, holy pictures, and photos, old and new, curling and faded, of all the people she knew and loved.” This immediately sparked memories of my grandma Grace’s refrigerator, routing me to my own fridge, which now houses one of my grandmother’s old magnets, a butterfly.
 
You can infer a lot about a person based on the outside of their refrigerator. Mine is plastered with pictures of friends, family, invitations, quotes, and magnets. It is a shrine to those I love. I’m just not a “comic strip” kind of girl. One of my best friends, Kate, once had a Robert Frost quote taped to her freezer that read, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” I love this quote. Maybe it’s still there, buried beneath the abundance of pictures. Maybe she took it down and replaced it with a new phrase.
 
I collect magnets from various places, though not necessarily places I’ve been. Friends, family, and co-workers often scoop up a magnet when they’re on vacation and it’s a neat reminder, knowing a small souvenir traveled hundreds or thousands of miles. I keep a great deal of my magnet collection on a file cabinet at work and it is often an icebreaker for conversation when folks stop by my desk.  One prominent question, “Did you realize the Texas magnet is upside down?” The Texas magnet, a gift from Wes and Kristie, remains intentionally upside down in a “Where’s Waldo” fashion, and yet, it is always discovered.

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Monday, February 23, 2009 - 18:06:05

One Night Stand

Evenings ago, my neighbor Steven and I assisted my sister Audrey with studying. She had created flash cards enabling her to memorize definitions for her health class. One particular definition, “coitus interruptous,” spawned a conversation which eventually led us to the topic of one night stands. The three of us shared identical opinions of one night stands in the three of us are not designed to have random sexual partners. Where our opinions were quite varied surrounded the actual definition of a “one night stand.”   
 
I believe a “one night stand” consists of sex with a person one barely knows. Maybe “barely” isn’t the right word. To future define my opinion, a relationship, be it intimate or otherwise, is not sought or continued. Steven feels a “one night stand” consists of having sexual relations with a person only once, regardless of how well a person does or does not know the other person involved. Audrey’s belief teeters somewhere between the two variances. 

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Monday, February 16, 2009 - 18:32:55

Intuition

As a woman, I’ve been both blessed and cursed with intuition. It seems some men possess this sense as well, but most women have this internal and innate compass. Often ignored by some, the feeling is tuned out or toned down. When intuition surfaces for me, it’s far too present and paralyzing to ignore. Have you ever had the feeling of something being “wrong?” It hovers and becomes quite physical. I feel it stretch my skin with each shallow, shaky breath. I know something is amiss even though I can’t explain it. In my twenty-eight years, I’ve never been wrong. It reaches deeper than knowing the next song bound to play on the radio. It’s as though I have a small peephole into unknown but I can’t see what lingers peripherally.
 
Have you ever dreamt of a lover cheating only to awake angry? I’ve been fuming freaking mad over a fictitious event. Where does the imagination conjure up such heartache? Does it stem from one’s own guilty action? Can it be blamed on watching “Desperate Housewives” (which I don’t watch) prior to entering sleep? I don’t consider this as true intuitiveness, though I believe it is similar enough to mention. Do men have dreams of this nature? Even more bizarre is when reality mirrors the dream. This isn’t good for the psyche. It leaves me pointing a finger (and you know which one) every time, regardless of whether or not it really happened. It's been a long while since I've had a dream of this nature, then again...

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Wednesday, January 28, 2009 - 18:42:15

What's Your Sign?

Last Friday, I ventured to Tunica with Ben in efforts to celebrate his sister Caroline’s 22nd birthday. I’m quite superstitious so I placed too many bets on “lucky” seven’s and wound up donating to the state of Mississippi.  The beer definitely isn’t “free.” Too quote Ben, “Free? I’d say your Heineken’s we’re about $30 per beer.” Ben broke even. I always thought breaking even was an urban legend. Black Jack replaced our sleep (and my common sense,) so we opted to stay the following night in Memphis as this where Ben’s sister, Caroline, lives.

 

After napping the majority of the afternoon, Ben, Caroline, Ben C. (Caroline’s boyfriend ,) and I decided to roam Beale Street in the frigid weather. Ben C. was visiting from Europe and had never been to Beale. One cannot visit Memphis and not walk within “ten feet off of Beale.” We arrive at Silky O’Sullivan’s where Ben orders a diver. A diver is one gallon of well, everything. Remember when bars were smoky and full of drunks? Well now they’re just full of drunks. Silky’s has an outside heated bar area for those of us with the bad smoking habit. I would smoke outside in the snow, naked. It’s that addictive. I’m the only smoker in the entourage, so I head outside alone.

 

Smoke break #1. While it’s cold, the bar line is also non-existent, so I order a drink while outside. Seating is limited inside the bar, so I also take this moment as an opportunity to sit down. I sit on the last stool at the far left of the bar as it appears to be the seat furthest removed from the other smokers. As I light a cigarette, a guy approximately my age sits to my right. Question one, “Are you from around here?” Without making eye contact, I state, “No.” In five minutes I learn where this stranger is from, where he lived before that, who he works for, where he traveled the previous week, etc. I generally have a friend with me in a situation of this nature, so the following is very foreign to me. In other words, I do not frequent bars alone. Dude says, “Why are you alone? Surely you’re not alone? Are you with a man?” All is stated as one long, run-on question. I tell him, “I am not alone. I am with non-smokers. I am here with a man.” He says, “Nice to meet you,” and vanishes accordingly. I make no mention of this upon returning inside.

Ben, Caroline, and Ben C. in Memphis, TN

 

The Diver.

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Wednesday, January 14, 2009 - 18:55:31

Chasing Pavements

In the madness of my constant overthinking, I discovered something precious. There is nothing more divine than “easy silence.” In the past, I would take long walks which later turned into long runs. The desire was initially sparked as I wanted to get in better shape. The first few weeks were gruesome. I would have to give myself a daily pep talk to encourage my feet to move, one foot in front of the other. As a short-legged, smoker, with shin splints,  I had array of excuses. In my second month of forced motivation, something changed. Endorphins kicked in and I began to look forward, actually crave, my afternoons of “exercise.” One mile turned into three, then four, then five and I was addicted. I refused to walk with friends. I refused to join a gym. This was my time of the day, entirely mine. Eventually, I learned of why this was such a refuge for me. It was the only portion of the day where my brain would become free of thought. No obsession. No analyzing. No worry. No stress. In this absence of thought, I found peace.
 
As aforementioned in a previous blog, the tornado in April of ’08 destroyed my home. What I failed to note was the tornado also robbed me of neighborhood walking and running. Before, I lived in a neighborhood where I felt safe. Often times, I would run when day light was no longer and even amid  the darkness, I never felt afraid. Also, it was beautiful. The trees canopied the streets and each road presented new hills, new homes, new scenery. I took this for granted, as we often do. I can’t run on a treadmill. I want to feel the pavement. I want to really sense the distance. My life is full of running in place, so I refuse to do so in the literal sense. I now live in an apartment, and though I like my new space, I miss my old street. As the old adage states, “if you don’t use it, you’ll lose it.” Since the running has halted, the desire has as well. I no longer remember the feeling as well as I should. I attempted to run (treadmill style) and grew obsessed with the calories I burned, my average “pace,” the time I’d spent running (I’m lying, I was walking) on the damn thing and the freaking time remaining before my time was “up.” I tried a few more times, hopeful of the change awaiting me, but only grew more bitter and decided to eat some cheese dip instead. Or was it ice cream? Or was it cheese dip and ice cream? Point is, treadmills are the devil!

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Wednesday, January 07, 2009 - 16:29:07

It's Not You, It's Me.

“It’s not you, it’s me.” Five little bitty words feel like the weight of a million. Five words creating a passive blow off, the generic way to let someone down with ease. It’s worse than “can we still be friends?” because at least this is honest.
 
The few times I’ve suggested it was me rather than him, I stated this in efforts to avoid bruised feelings. It felt more appropriate rather than saying, “Hey, I really don’t know what it is, but I know you’re not the one.” It’s hard to argue with this age old excuse. Being the receiver of this message inserts doubt in myself. Am I not thin enough? Pretty enough? Smart, kind, funny, fun enough? It plants the seed of insecurity because it is vague and well, a lie. Insecurity could be avoided if “you’re not the one” replaced the “it’s not you, it’s me.” Please, shoot me straight. I prefer brutal honesty over a sugar-coated copout. The truth may sting, but eventual truth always hurts more. Vagueness creates insanity. It forces smart women to make allowances rather than owning up to the cold hard truth of “he’s just not that into you.” We (I am guilty of it) think of reasons why the feeling isn’t mutual: he’s scared, he’s been hurt, he’s busy, whatever. When it’s real, you jump in despite the fear, the hurt, the agenda, the whatever.

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Thursday, December 18, 2008 - 13:51:38

Venus vs. Mars

The following is not based on scientific research or accredited study, but rather, it is based on mere observation. Generally, when reading or discussing the basic differences between men and women, the topic tends to lean towards our communication patterns or our innate desire to nurture or protect. I am prone to notice the smaller details, the less significant differences. I will be speaking in generalities, noting little quirks I’ve noticed between my male and female friends, co-workers, and family.
 
First, men are commonly known to be visual creatures. Knowing this, one would believe men would have a broad variance of favorite colors. Oddly enough, most men select one of three colors as their favorite: blue, green, or red. In that order. To test this theory, I asked several male co-workers to define their favorite color. Predictably, nine times out of ten, the answer received was “blue.” Interestingly, more than half would respond with, “Blue. But I also like green.” Ask your husband, boyfriend, father, brother, friend, or co-worker and you’ll be amazed of how often you receive this common response. On the other hand, women are more likely to spout out a billion different colors, “Lavender, yellow, or aqua.” And even more interesting, when women select blue or green as their favorite color, a more descriptive term proceeds the “blue” or “green.” For example, women like “sky blue,” or “kelly green.” Personally, my favorite colors are red, aqua, and electric blue.
 
Another difference can be found in how we dream. Often times, men do not recall their dreams. When they do, they relay of dreaming in black and white, in third person. Women are more likely to dream in vivid color, first person. Women are also more apt to recall extensive detail. It is common for me to recall dreams. I am a rare breed as I often have lucid dreams. As a lucid dreamer, I am able to manipulate the outcome of my dreams. I also dream in Technicolor, and 99.9% of the time, I dream “through my own eyes.” In fact, I can only recall one instance of dreaming in third person, a foreign and bizarre concept. Another item to ponder, is the way in which we dream genetic? My mother and I share similar dreaming patterns. I’ve asked my father of his dreams and he responded with, “I don’t dream much, but when I do, they are strange, detailed, vivid.” Me too, on both accounts. I’ve heard most dreams are quite short. I struggle with this concept as mine are often long, detailed, movies inside my head. Then again, I typically enter another world when sleeping. I’ve been told I appear to be dead when I am asleep. My pulse has been checked, my breathing questioned. I slip into coma-like state and it is difficult to rouse me from slumber. I sleep through alarms (yes, plural,) tornado sirens, phone calls, and thunderstorms. Sleep (and dreams) are precious to me.

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Wednesday, December 10, 2008 - 19:05:33

Big, Easy Flight

The holiday season can inspire a great deal of wonderful, however, it also induces stress for many. I was among the many last December, a time which proved to be particularly trying for me. People often enter our lives for unexplainable reasons. They enter through the cracks in the window regardless of the barrier we place in front of the door. I’ve heard we are most self-centered when in a depressive state. As a mostly happy person, I struggled doubly in that pervasive sadness. In the midst of the sadness and chaos, I befriended a man named Chris. It was an easy friendship. I didn’t feel judged, critiqued or speculated.

On December 29th, Chris journeyed to New Orleans with his brother and his brother’s then-girlfriend. Chris contacted me mid-afternoon to inquire of how my weekend was going. I remember it well. 2pm and I was in bed watching “Forensic Files,” which was a common occurrence, more than likely fueling the destruction of my happiness. Negativity breeds negativity. He said, “You should get out of town. Join us here this evening.” I’m sure my response was mere laughter, but Chris insisted. He called to check on flight times, while I continued watching television, convinced I’d remain in this position until I was forced to move. Chris called moments later to alert me I was leaving (on a jet plane) in two hours.

 

Chris and me in the French Quarter.  The background gives an illusion of wings. We were unaware of the background effect at the time.

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Monday, November 24, 2008 - 20:31:41

Killing the Fairytale.

A while ago, a good friend asked, "You're so normal, why are you single?" For me, a resounding question recently asked by yet another friend. It's a question I can't answer because my abnormalities stare back at me. The last few times I've let my guard down and thought I'd found something special and real, I later discovered it was a facade leaving me empty handed and heartbroken. A part of me died, but I don't really miss that wide-eyed girl.

Never really feeling means never really hurting. And yet, how does one truly disconnect emotionally? Do we shut out the surface love for fear it could expand and eventually cause pain? Or, does one jump in, cannonball-style, despite the risk of probable hurt? What is the right route? For me, it's sitting on edge with occasional dips in the shallow end.

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Monday, November 17, 2008 - 17:50:55

Almost InFamous

Several years ago, an ex-boyfriend, Justin #1, would regularly get together with my best friend, Wes and his friend, Micah to play music. Occasionally, I would assist with harmonies and writing, but was never fully part of the group as I didn’t play an instrument. When my relationship with Justin #1 ended, his ties to Wes and Micah ended as well due to their connection to me. A couple of years later, Micah and I decided to give the music thing a shot as we both had identical musical preferences. We began writing several of our own songs, but the predominance of our focus surrounded cover tunes. We selected our favorite songs while working on new ways to make them our “own.”
 
Months later, I met Scott through a mutual friend. Through email exchanges, we discovered our musical preferences paralleled. I invited him to join Micah and me to practice one evening and the rest is history.  Our greatest struggle surrounded selecting our band name. I liked “The Pass a Fist,” a play on words for “The Pacifists,” which obviously have opposing meanings. This was immediately shot down. I always joked with Scott, telling him all the girls would come see us just to see him. Micah jokingly said, “Yeah. Like the poster in Almost Famous. You’ll be in focus and Lauryn and I will be blurs in the background.” Scott retorted with, “Hmm. Haven’t seen it, but we’d be more like Almost Infamous.” And it stuck. We roll our eyes when asked of our name now, however it was too late to rename our trio.
 
 
The original crew.
From L to R: Micah, me, and Scott

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Friday, November 07, 2008 - 17:50:14

Over Served.

Last July, my friends and I gathered at a local restaurant to celebrate my birthday. We reserved two large tables which unfortunately, separated the group. Early in the evening, I noticed one of our servers and thought he was attractive. It was nearly impossible to miss him as he stood almost seven feet tall. Retreating back to my junior high school self, I sent a couple of texts messages to a few girls at the opposite table, encouraging them to inquire if he was single. He, Jonathan, was. I asked them to prod him for his evening plans, asking him to join us later if able. Yes, I was pimping myself out via text message. Classy, I know.
 
Once we finish dinner, our crowd disperses. The other server approaches me and requests my number to give to Jonathan. I oblige. As we exit the restaurant, I introduce myself to him. I felt like an Oompa Loompa despite wearing unusually high heels. In this moment, I also learn he is left-handed with puppy-dog eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for eyes with a quality of sadness.

 

Jonathan and me in July of '08.

Yes, he really is a foot and eight inches taller than me.

 

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