3 Weeks. And Then Some.

My Some Kind of Purgatory

2011-06-06T19:06:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on my grandmother's front porch. On the rusty, old glider where I whiled away countless hot, Southern evenings as a little girl. Sitting here brings back so many memories. Memories of a time when I had no worries. Memories of a time when my only concern was what my grandmother was cooking for dinner. I feel as if my grandmother should be sitting in the rocking chair across from me. Instead, sadness, loneliness and disorientation stare at me from the other side of the porch. Right now, it's 7:45. If my grandmother were here, we would have finished our dinner and washed our dishes over an hour ago. We would be sitting on the front porch drinking iced tea. Talking. Or reading our books. I can see, feel, hear and taste everything that we would be doing.

But my grandmother is not here. I am alone. I am not drinking her delicious, syrupy iced tea. I am drinking wine. I am drinking wine out of a "kinda wine glass". My grandmother did not much approve of alcohol. And she didn't own any fancy crystal stemware. But after an intense search shortly after I arrived here on Saturday night, I finally found a glass that somewhat resembles a wine glass. I feel guilty drinking alcohol in my grandmother's house. However, I do not feel guilty enough to not drink alcohol in my grandmother's house. After a day like today, a refreshing glass of chilled Pinot Grigio while sitting on my grandmother's old-fashioned front porch is extremely soothing to my soul.

The only thing that could be more soothing is to have someone with whom I could share this time and this space. Today, the loneliness crept in and enveloped me in a hot, dark and heavy blanket. Maybe it's because it is Monday. Maybe it is being in my grandmother's house without my grandmother being here with me. Maybe it is because my friends feel so far away right now. Maybe it's because I left Atlanta as I was falling for... (uh, nevermind that one). Maybe it was the splitting headache and nausea that plagued me all day. Maybe it was my ex's phone call today (he seems fine with being friends, but I am just not quite there yet. I try to pretend, but I'm not very good at hiding my true feelings).

Or maybe it's the curtains.

To be quite honest, I feel a bit like I am in purgatory. My old life is behind me. I have leased my house to a friend and her son. I have given away a lot of my possessions and put the ones that I simply could not part with into storage. The days of granite countertops, Wolf ranges and Viking hood vents are gone. I no longer desire any of those things, and I'm so fucking lying because I miss my Wolf range like a motherfucker!!! I'm looking forward to my future. And I'm trying to be content with my present. I now know my passions. I know what sustains me. I know what I need to do in order to follow my heart. But, for now (and it's really not THAT long, but I want everything NOW!! I SAID NOW, GODDAMIT!), I have to accept where I am. And I have to accept who I am. I have to accept my fears. and my envy. and my insecurities. and my loneliness. and my sadness. Because, as much as I would love to deny them, these things are all part of me.

and…
For now (in my some kind of purgatory), I will appreciate being in my grandmother's space. I will delight in sorting through the contents of her closets, cabinets and drawers. I will marvel at the beauty of her gardens. I will find joy sitting quietly on her front porch. And I will just try to be.

Marvels and discoveries:

Pretty turquoise drain. I think that's what years of Comet does to a drain. Yay, Comet, you make things pretty.

Pawpaw's garage. Many, many license plates (more than just these) are nailed to the walls.

And my mom said, "I cleaned out the bathroom, but I left some stuff in the medicine cabinet because it's retro and I know you like retro." Good call, mom. and please quit using the word, retro.

Retro blackhead remover.

A rose in my grandmother's rose garden.

Itty, bitty baby apples on my grandmother's apple tree. When i was little, my grandfather would hand me a baseball glove and a bucket. Then, he would climb the tree and toss the apples down to me.

More roses.

My grandmother loved green onions. She planted these before she became ill. They have (obviously) gone to seed and are now beautiful flowers.

Remembering My Grandmother

2011-04-15T14:26:00.001-07:00

There was no person on this earth like Lucy Bryant. Lucy Bryant was still able to dance the Charleston well into her tenth decade of life. She was able to grow the most beautiful vegetables and flowers in the hardest, seemingly most unproductive corners of the earth. She cooked delicious Southern dinners like nobody’s business. Lucy Bryant sewed the finest, most fashionable clothes for many generations of little girls’ Barbie dolls. Lucy Bryant could entertain a whole room of people with stories from any period of her life. Lucy Bryant was my grandmother. I called her Mammaw.

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of the summers that I spent with Mammaw and Pawpaw. Several weeks out of the summer, I would pack up my Barbies and my clothes, and head to Mammaw and Pawpaw’s house to stay while my parents went off on some exotic vacation. As my mom waved goodbye to me, I was a little sad, but I knew I had a week of hard work and play ahead of me. I had no time to be sad. There were apples to pick, freshly tilled gardens to trample upon, mud pies to make, button and ribbon jars to pilfer, dead Junebugs to collect, Barbie fashion shows to plan, and delicious meals to eat. An exotic vacation sounded nice, but a week in the summer with my grandparents was so much better.

Summer days with my grandparents were busy. Each morning, I would awake to garbled voices coming from my grandfather’s radio in the bathroom and the smell of sausage or bacon coming from the kitchen. I would spring out of bed and run into the kitchen to see what Mammaw was cooking for breakfast. My mom always told me, as she drove me to Mammaw’s house, “Now don’t ask Mammaw to cook your breakfast. If she asks, tell her that you are fine eating cereal.” But Mammaw never had to ask. And I never had to tell. Because we both loved to eat. The saltier, sweeter, creamier and more fattening the food, the better. While the sausage and bacon and eggs were cooking, Mammaw would make me a small cup of coffee with lots of milk and sugar. Then, she would smear copious amounts of butter on slices of her homemade Sourdough bread, wink at me, stick the slices of bread in the toaster oven and, finally, turn to me and say, “That’s going to be goooo-ooood.”

And it was good. Everything that she ever made was good.

After breakfast, Mammaw would clean the kitchen while Pawpaw read the newspaper and I watched cartoons. Then, the day really began. Some mornings, we would just hang around the house. I would play with my Barbies while Mammaw sewed or started cutting, slicing, chopping and dicing what would become our second hearty and delicious meal of the day. Other days, there were errands to run. If I remember correctly, Thursday was grocery day. Thursday was the day that we went to every single grocery store within a 5-mile radius of my grandparents’ house so that we could get the best deal on our food for the week. It was tiring, but it was fun. I never once asked Mammaw to buy me candy or store bought cookies. Because whatever she was going to make for me was bound to be a million times better than anything that you could buy at the store.

Friday was Pound Cake day. Every Friday, Mammaw made a pound cake. I would patiently wait at the kitchen table while her electric mixer blended the eggs, sugar, butter and flour into a smooth and creamy batter. Once the batter was transferred from the mixing bowl to her bundt pan, she would set the bowl and the spatula in the floor for me. I would jump down off of my chair, run over to the bowl, plop down on the floor and start licking the sweet, creamy batter from the shiny silver bowl. Several hours later, after the cake was baked and cooled, Mammaw would turn the cake out onto the flowered “pound cake plate” (as far as I know, that plate never held anything else besides the weekly pound cake). Once again, I was waiting patiently at the kitchen table and Pawpaw was standing nearby. We all knew what would happen next. Pawpaw would sneak up behind Mammaw and break off the heavenly, chewy bits that clung to the edges of the cake. Then Mammaw would say, “Now you go on and get outta here.” Whereupon, I would giggle as Pawpaw handed me half of the chewy bits of cake that he was able to collect before being shooed away. And then, since we both knew what was good for us, we would get out of Mammaw’s kitchen.

Afternoons were spent on the front or back porch. Mammaw and I would either read our books or tell each other stories. Eventually, one of us, if not both of us, would fall asleep. I would often wake up to find myself alone on the porch. I would groggily lift myself from wherever I was sleeping and stumble into the house where I would find Mammaw in the kitchen, busily preparing our dinner.

Mammaw’s dinners were the best. I have never had a dinner better than a dinner prepared by her. Most of the time, when my parents called from their exotic location, I would spend several long minutes telling them about every single thing that I had eaten at every single meal since they had seen me last. Cornbread, pinto beans, cabbage, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh green beans and tomatoes from the garden, country ham, chicken pie, country style steak, biscuits, fried flounder from Pawpaw’s last fishing expedition, strawberry shortcake, peach cobbler, popcorn while watching HeeHaw on TV, vanilla ice cream while watching the Laurence Welk Show… and on and on and on.

Lucy Bryant was a beautiful, engaging and inspiring woman. She has been the inspiration for many of the things that I truly love in my life. From a very early age, she fostered my love of flowers, plants and fresh foods. She inspired me to want to be a good cook. Her stories make me want to be a better writer so that I can bring joy to people as her stories have to so many others. Her honesty, freedom, sense of adventure, unwillingness to compromise her values, and her wicked sense of humor have encouraged me to be my authentic self.

I feel very blessed to have had such an amazing woman in my life for all of my 36 years. I feel even more blessed that this amazing woman was my grandmother.

Dear Kaya

2011-03-27T12:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Kaya,
I woke up this morning. Thinking of you. I fell back to sleep. Thinking of you. I eventually awoke, crawled out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make my morning coffee. As I approached the living room, I expected to hear the familiar "thump" of your tail as you realized that your mama was awake and headed in your direction. But I didn't hear the "thump". And your bed sat cold and empty by the fireplace.

I miss you, Kaya. I will miss you signally the end of my work day. I always knew that the work day was ending when you started bugging me for your walk. Around 4:30 every afternoon, you would start alerting me that “walk time” was fast approaching. You would whine, beg, plead, dance, walk away, march a loud, whiney lap around the house and return to my feet. And then do it all over again. Sometimes I would lose my patience and tell you that you had to wait. Most of the time, you were a good girl and would go sit on your bed and wait. Eventually, when I couldn’t take your sad face and dagger-shooting stare any longer, I would head to the bedroom to get my shoes. It was a mortal sin for me to stand up between 4:30 and 5pm without the intention of going to get my shoes (I learned that a long time ago). So, if your mama stood up from her desk after 4:30pm, you knew that you would be joyfully walking down Willow Lane in a matter of minutes.

Over the past few weeks, your afternoon walks were long. You often got tired on your walks and sat down. I sat down on the curb with you, rubbed your ears, waved at neighbors going home from work, and waited for you to regain your energy. Eventually, we would make it home. We would grab the mail and head inside to prepare your dinner.

You would hate me right now. You always hated it when I cried (my god, what a rough year and half you have had!). Friday, I was strong for you. I didn't want you to see me crying. As the doctor, pushed the deadly pink serum into your vein, I didn't cry. For you. I didn't cry until you were gone. Until the vet left the room. Then I cried. I cried a million salty tears into your golden brown fur. I cried until your papa said he didn't want to see you laying there anymore. He asked if I was ready to go. I said that I wanted to smell your ears one last time. I loved your ears. They were so soft and velvety. And they smelled like...well... they smelled like your ears! I lifted your ear and stuck my nose into the soft, pinky-white folds. And inhaled. Ah... Kaya ears! Your papa and I walked to the door. I turned and looked at you. I ran back to you and stuck my nose in your ear again. You were already gone, but your ear was still soft and warm.

As your papa and I got in the car, through tears, i said, "I have no one to run errands with me anymore." Through tears, he smiled.

You and I went everywhere together. I think that I will miss our weekly trips to the Farmer's Market the most. Each week, after my work day was over, your walk was finished and your dinner devoured, I would load you up, roll down the windows and we would head to the Farmer's Market. You sat in the car while I was inside picking out all of the wonderful things that we would eat throughout the next week. When I would return to the car, I would greet you through the open window, load up the car, return the cart, get in the car and then tell you all about the delicious food that I had just bought for us.

Liberté Greek Yogurt was one of your favorite things on our grocery list. It seems that you would always get excited when I grabbed a container of Greek yogurt from the refrigerator. You sat by me, vigilantly. Watching each spoonful as it disappeared into my mouth. When I was finished (I always left a good bit for you), I would hand the container to you. With one edge of the container securely in your mouth, you would delightfully run outside or to your bed so that you could enjoy your very own container of yogurt and the ecstasy of the sweet cream on your tongue (and nose).

You were always excited about almonds, too. It was one of our late afternoon snacks. I would eat two or three and then give you one. To be honest, I never really planned on sharing almonds with you (organic almonds are expensive), but I couldn’t open the almond jar without you hearing. I would try to quietly open the jar so that I wouldn’t have to share with you. But you heard every time and would come running into the kitchen where you would impatiently wait for a bite of whatever your mama was eating. Eventually, I quit trying to be sneaky about my almond snack time, and included you. That’s how it became a ritual of ours.

You don't know this, but i usually gave the ones that looked like rats had been gnawing on them to you. Certain things about the Farmer's Market made me nervous. In the past, I have arrived home from a Farmer’s Market shopping trip with containers of bug-ridden grains. Birds fly freely among the many rows of fruits and vegetables. I even spotted a cat (“A CAT!?! Where’s a cat?” you ask) in the wine section one time. So I, sometimes, was a little wary of the almonds whose skin was slightly scraped off in places. I knew you wouldn't mind. You ate cat shit for chrissake; eating an almond that could have been nibbled on by a rat was nothing to you.

Dear Kaya, what a rough week you had. Unexplained anemia, sudden seizures and then the dreaded gastric torsion. I hope you’re happy now. I hope you are with your bossy sister. I hope she’s licking your ears and you are moaning in ecstasy. I hope you have a big, nasty compost pile to pilfer for rotten heads of cabbage, blackened banana peels and slimy remnants of lettuce leaves. I hope you are peeing in a mountain lake. And sticking your head out of a car window. I hope you are dining on endless amounts of peanut butter, almonds, yogurt, chicken, and leftover cereal milk.

Thank you for being my friend for the past 11 years. You were a good one.
I miss you.
I love you, Kaya Boo Shnapple.

Relics

2011-03-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

While preparing for my move, I came across several boxes of letters and mementos that I have saved for the past 15-20 years. I've (somewhat) added to the boxes over the years with new mementos, but in all of these years, I've never revisited or explored the contents of the boxes. I've thought about several items that could possibly be among the contents of the boxes (specifically, my "Boys That I Have Kissed" list) and, maybe, performed brief, cursory searches. But no major excavations or explorations. Until this past weekend.

This past weekend, I didn't get dressed or leave my house. I made a decadent chocolate pie on Friday and subsisted on chocolate pie, coffee, red wine and leftovers from my neighbor all weekend. I pulled out the boxes of letters, dumped the relics of my past on my living room floor, drank lots of wine and took a rollicking trip down memory lane.

Interested in the Boys

This is a letter from my grandmother.

Apparently, judging from the postmark on the letter from my grandmother, 1997 was the year that I became interested in "the boys."

Shakespeare He Was Not

Here is some poetry from a poor lad who had a crush on me freshman year at Emory. I eventually went on a date with him. The poor lad (he's probably not poor now as he is a brain [or heart... one of those big, important organs] surgeon these days) dumped a glass of red wine all over his beige blazer (it was a designer blazer. he told me the designer, but I can't for the life of me remember) and was very upset about the mishap. Not because he was embarrassed, but because it was a designer blazer. blazer? sports coat! it was a designer sports coat! and it was beige!

There is a part of me that feels guilty for posting his heartfelt poetry for the world to see. But then there is the part of me that feels that I would be doing the world a great disservice by not sharing his heartfelt poetry. So here it is:
"Poem" 1:

"Poem" 2:
Never underestimate the power of the word, "Please"...
Him: Will you go out with me?
Me: No
Him: Will you go out with me?
Me: No
Him: Will you go out with me?
Me: No
Him: What about now? Will you go out with me?
Me: No
Him: Will you go out with me... please?
Me: Absolutely! (and wear your beige, designer blazer... please.)

Pete Had a Girlfriend

(phone number recorded on an Eats napkin)
We got a 6 pack of Molson Gold and watched The Empire Strikes Back on my twin size bed for our first date. I was in love. He introduced me to 2 of his friends the next day. I tried to hold his hand. That is when he told me that he had a girlfriend.

The Older Man

A letter from a friend.
She said that I was lucky.
He could afford to buy me dinner.
I was dating an older gentleman.
He was 31.

Love Letter Mad Lib

This is one of my favorite love letters. I guess he couldn't think of any other wonderful qualities to put in the blank.

Whenever I'm feeling low, I fill in the blank...

The Italian Stallion Landlord

And the award for most romantic last paragraph of a love letter goes to...

Your Kiss is on my List

I made this list of "boys that I have kissed" when I was in my early 20s (I swear). I've been looking for it for many years. I can't believe I found it.
My, my, my...look at all of the space that I have left to fill up.

oh wait, now look at all of the space that I have left. Thank you, Photoshop!

I could probably write quite a bit about each of these young men, but I won't. I'll write about Ben because Ben was a little famous. After his show in Atlanta, he ended up at my house. We talked. I was so happy to be telling the finer details of my life to a boy...
"And then when I was 10 years old, I think that I was almost kidnapped [giggle, giggle]... I got my period when I was 15 years old [giggle, giggle]... When I was 16 years old, I was selected to attend a summer program at the FBI Academy in Quantico [wait for him to express amazement]... When I graduate from college, I want to start a dog rescue group and save bunnies too! [giggle, giggle, giggle]"
After what must have felt like an eternity to him, Ben finally asked, "So, shall we make love, mate?"
Since, at that point in my life, I had not yet even rounded 3rd base, I politely declined and learned a valuable lesson:
Stay away from musicians.
Ok, I failed and continue to fail miserably at that so I narrowed the lesson down to:
Stay away from touring musicians who are only in your city for one night.

At that, I give myself an 'A'!

One Time... at Smart Kid Camp

The summer before 8th grade, my parents sent me to a camp for "smart" kids (booooring)... i don't think you really needed to be smart. I think your parents just needed to have money and the desire to feel that their kid was gifted.
I hated... hated... HATED... FUCKING HATED that fucking camp! I tried to run away multiple times. I would make it into the woods and get scared. or pick up a pay phone to call a cab and realize that I had no money. But I did have a huge crush on a fellow, smart camper kid named Jeremy.
Years later, my friend's roommate in college was from the same town as Jeremy. I tried to rekindle something with smart camper kid Jeremy, but nothing ever came of it.

Jeremy made this friendship bracelet for me in smart kid craft class

It's a bit sad that we don't do anything on paper anymore. We don't send a letter to a friend; we email them. We no longer write our phone number down on a grocery store receipt for a potential love interest. We recite the numbers while they enter it into their cell phone. I feel sorry for the people born a decade or more after me. They will, most likely, never be able to spend a weekend in their pajamas rereading letters and reliving random phone number exchanges from their past. tsk tsk.

*Don't let this little blog dissuade you from writing me a love letter (if you were planning one). I have a 15-20 year statute of limitations on love letters. I will respect your privacy for at least that long, i promise.

Random Relics

A Beautiful Entanglement

2011-02-08T06:28:00.000-08:00

Saturday night, I emailed my therapist asking for an "emergency appointment".

Sunday morning, my therapist replied with a list of her open appointments for the upcoming week. I took the first one on Monday morning.

Monday morning, I grabbed my dream journal, dashed off a check for $100 and headed to my therapist's office. Like the previous week (and the previous every other weeks for the past 3 years), I walked into her office, pulled the plastic chair out from the plastic table littered with various art supplies, and sat down with a loud sigh.

As she often does, my therapist gave me a curious (or maybe a knowing) smile and said "I'll light the candle for you." As she lit the candle, symbolizing the beginning of "my time", I could barely contain myself. I had to tell someone.

She lit the candle, blew out the match and leaned back in her chair. Before she could say, "So where are you?", i blurted out the reason for my emergency visit.

It felt good to talk out my mental wanderings. For 4 days, my thoughts had been ping-ponging around inside of my head. They had no means of escape through my voice. And no means of escape from my tight, clinging, determined grasp.

Maybe the visit to see my parents was ill-timed. At a time when i am desperately trying to disassociate myself from everything and everyone that I know, confronting the ultimate totems of my past was probably not the best idea.

I arrived at my parents house late Thursday night. For the 3 hour drive to their house, I drove through constant rain and constant anxiety attacks. I skipped over almost every song that came on my Ipod. I only turned the volume up and sang along to "The Swimming Song" and "My Sweet Annette." I held fast to the steering wheel and scarily peered through blurry vision until I pulled into my parents' driveway.

Their dogs ran up to meet me. The boxer jumped into the car and immediately started lapping up bits of Chick-fil-a French fries that had escaped on their journey from the bag to my mouth. I pulled the dog out of my car, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and headed towards my parent's house. I opened the door to their house and climbed the two flights of stairs to my childhood bedroom.

I opened the bedroom door, turned on the light and was greeted by an awesome sight. The bedroom floor was strewn with vintage beads, baubles, handkerchiefs, cigar boxes, antique cosmetic cases, crocheted this and silky that. My room smelled musty. My room smelled like an old lady. My room smelled like my grandmother. It was divine.

I dropped my backpack on the floor. Pushed the dogs out of the way. And immediately started playing. I opened the handkerchief box and inhaled the beautiful scent of 60 year old handkerchiefs. I opened cardboard jewelry boxes from long-departed department stores and marveled at their contents. I opened a bejeweled bottle of ladies face powder and recalled the smell and the softness of my grandmother's cheek.

I moved on to the enticing pile of necklaces. There had to be 20 to 30 necklaces. All in a tangled mess. Even though my head was heavy and my vision blurry, I commenced to untangling the splendor of my grandmother's past. And, thus, that of my own.

I picked up the pile and plopped it in my lap. I gently tugged on one strand of a sparkly, brown baubled necklace. It freed itself from the beautiful entanglement. For the next hour, I worked my way through the web. Picking, pulling, separating, coaxing. Until 24 necklaces lay neatly and independently on my bedroom floor.

I stood up and stared at them. I longed for that kind of order. I longed for the tangled mess that is currently "me" to be unraveled, deciphered and clear. Neatly laid out before me, I could see the parts of me that are "pretty" and attempt to repair the parts that aren't as "pretty". Or... maybe... just maybe... get rid of them completely.

Like my grandmother's necklaces, I am a tangled mess of pretty and not-so-pretty chains from my past. As each day, week, month passes, I feel different parts pull loose. As parts of myself are freed from the labyrinth, i feel relief. Most of the time, I eye the recently liberated, intricate piece; recall long lost memories and then decide that I have no attachment to that piece anymore. Occasionally, a sparkling piece pulls loose. I eye it from all angles. I smile inside. I feel protective as if it's just been appraised for a million dollars. And I decide that I like that part of myself.

I hang it around my neck. Sparkly, vibrant, uniquely tarnished, intricate, pretty, free. Me.

Dating, Snoring & the Middle-Aged Woman

2010-12-24T09:08:00.000-08:00

This morning, I awoke with a snort.
“Motherfucker!” I thought “I really do snore.” I had been told, recently, that I snore. But I refused to believe it. Or I chose to believe that there was a particular reason on that particular occasion (err… occasions) for my snoring. Like, I smoked before falling asleep. Or the air was too dry and caused my sinuses to swell. Or I had too much dairy that day. Really… anything. Anything to avoid facing the fact that as a middle-aged woman, I had started snoring.

I had dinner with my good friend, Shauna, this week. Shauna lives in Berlin, Germany. We have been talking fairly regularly via Skype ever since I took off on my 3 week cross-country journey last November. Shauna was actually the person who encouraged me to take the journey.

I remember calling her from a Starbucks parking lot last November. I had driven to Starbucks because my husband (at the time) was in the house and I needed privacy. I attached the web cam to the top of my computer and called Shauna. She answered, with her usual “Hiiiiiiiii” followed by her bright, contagious smile. I may have said, “Hi,” but I think that I just burst into tears and told her that I was going crazy. I told her that I didn’t think that I wanted to be married anymore and that I wanted to run away. That is when we came up with the plan for my 3 week solo cross country drive.

So much has happened since then. My husband and I separated. Then Shauna and her husband separated. My husband and I filed for divorce. Shauna and her husband filed for divorce. I developed a crush on a boy. Shauna developed a crush on a boy. I called Shauna crying and confused. Shauna called me crying and confused. I called Shauna happy… elated. Shauna called me happy… elated. I started dating. Shauna started dating. I talked about moving. Shauna talked about moving. We both began to dream. We both began to grow. We were both soon-to-be divorced women who were ready for adventure.

Until Tuesday night, I had not seen Shauna (in person) for almost 2 years. I was premenstrual and craving Mexican food. Shauna loves Mexican food and it’s a little hard to come by in Berlin. So we decided to go to a Mexican restaurant. Shauna drove us to Matador Mexican Cantina (the restaurant where Jonathan and I ate and cried after signing our divorce papers). We walked into a crowded room with Sublime blaring from all four corners. I spotted one open table in the back corner of the restaurant. We walked over and slid into a festively-lit booth. Shauna and I sat across a sticky, wobbly table from one another and then stared at each other for a brief second as if to say, “Sooooo… who’s going first?”

Shauna asked me about my weekend. And, with my face aglow (I’m sure), I told her. Then, she told me about her weekend. We giggled a lot. Like 2 teenage girls who had just been on their very first dates. Our voices rose and fell. Like 2 teenage girls telling heavily guarded secrets about their very first make-out session.

At one point, Shauna said, “Ohmygod, this is so trashy, but I….”
I quickly countered, “If you think that’s trashy, listen to what I did…”
Shauna’s big, beautiful eyes lit up. “Really? You did that?” she asked.
“Yea… I kinda did…” I mischievously grinned as I licked the coarse salt from the rim of my glass.

We sat in the booth for hours. In her typical fashion, Shauna nursed the same Budweiser the whole time we were there. And I killed two Texas margaritas. Our waiter (his name was Cody) fell in love with Shauna.
“He liiiiiiiiiikes you” I kidded Shauna.
“No, he likes you,” she replied.
“No, he complemented your shirt and thought that your food order was cute,” I said.
“But, he offered you counseling,” she replied.

It is true. By day, Cody works as a chaplain at Grady Memorial Hospital. Shauna and I briefly told him about our situations and our planned adventures. He muttered something about “Eat Pray Love” and then Shauna went on an adorable tirade about how fucking annoying Julia Roberts is. To which Cody agreed. But, I’m pretty sure that, at that point, Cody would have agreed with anything that Shauna said.

We talked to Cody for awhile. And, as he walked away, he looked at me and offered his counseling services. Damn, I must not hide my fuckedupness well at all.

Shauna and I finished our drinks and started wrapping up our conversation. And then I remembered something.
“Oh, I have a problem,” I said.
“What?” Shauna asked with a scared look on her face.
“Apparently, I snore,” I embarrassingly admitted. “[A man] told me that I was snoring really loudly and that I woke myself up snoring. Like this…” I imitated a person snoring and then made some overly dramatic snorting noises which I’m pretty sure were heard throughout the restaurant.
“You don’t look like a snorer” Shauna tried to reassure me.
“I know!” I agreed “I should not be snoring. Is this what middle aged dating is about? A man telling you that you snore?”
“Ah, man, that’s terrible, Allison. I’m sorry.” Shauna replied as she broke a chip and shoved it into her mouth.

Snoring.
Breasts that fall to my armpits when I lay on my back.
Wrinkles radiating like small rivers from the corners of my eyes.
Thighs dimpled by tiny subcutaneous pockets of fat.
Unresolved emotions from failed past loves.

None of these things did I experience the last time that I dated (13 years ago). All of these things… I experience now. They sound bad. I’m sure that, to a 25 year old, they sound depressing and threatening. But I wouldn’t change a thing. As a middle-aged “dater”, I feel more honest. More honest with myself and with the man. I feel more appreciative. I feel more powerful. I feel more understanding. I feel more compassion. I feel more passion.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the Buddha of Dating. Far from it. I have a lot of learning to do. A lot of living to do. And a lot of loving to do.

And, I’m going to enjoy ALL of it every step of the way... whether I’m snoring or not.

...That’s what ear plugs are for.

Picturing Divorce

2010-10-27T20:20:00.000-07:00

I had pictured this night so much differently. Tonight, Jonathan and i signed our divorce papers. i knew that i was ready. And i thought that he was ready. he had been standing me up for almost a month on signing the papers. I just wanted it done. He, obviously, was not quite as ready. It breaks my heart. It hurts to end a relationship with the person who has been my best friend for the past 13 years. But it is right. For both of us.

I need it for me. He needs it for him.
I need to grow. He needs to grow.
I need to be me. He needs to be him.
I can no longer live for someone else. i can no longer be responsible for someone else. i can no longer sacrifice my self for someone else. For a long time, my dreams have been pushed aside for the dreams of another. And i am no longer OK with that.

And i am no longer in love.

We were supposed to sign the papers yesterday. He never showed up. He called last night and said that he would do it today instead. He was supposed to be here around 10am. He finally arrived at 7:30pm. I was completely frustrated by the time that he got here. i had already called him once and he said that he was on his way. i waited an hour. and he still had not arrived. i started washing dishes. Neko Case sang along. The more that I thought about him not showing up, the more frustrated I became.

My hands covered with soap suds, I picked up the phone. I dialed his number. I stared out the window into the rainy street as I listened to the far off ringing of the phone. A car drove by. Another car drove by, slowed down, and pulled into my driveway. I hung up the phone. Kaya laid on the floor next to me. She heard the familiar whine of the car as it pulled into the driveway and she excitedly thumped her tail against the floor. I almost said, "your daddy's home!" like I had said so many times in the past, but the words got stuck in my throat.

The side door was open and jonathan walked into the house. Kaya was happy to see him. And he was happy to see her. All I could say was, "You're four hours late." (which was generous because he was 4 hours late from the 2nd time that he had given me for his arrival... he was actually 9 1/2 hours late from the original time). I was still washing dishes. After briefly petting kaya, he grabbed a dish towel and started drying dishes. I was so frustrated. Tears began to stream down my face. Neko Case still crooned in the background. i didn't say anything. i guess that jonathan looked over at me and saw that i was crying. all he said was "aw"... no other words were necessary.

I finished washing the dishes. and jonathan continued drying. he went to put a broiler pan away and opened 3 drawers (as i watched without saying anything) before he remembered that the broiler pan went in the tray cabinet. We have lived in this house for 11 years. The broiler pan has always been in the tray cabinet. Aggravated, he swung open the door to the tray cabinet, rattling the decorative measuring spoons hanging upon the cabinet's handle, shoved the tray into a slot and slammed the door shut...once again, rattling the ceramic measuring spoons so much that i feared that they might break.

with the dishes washed, dried and put away, i walked over to envelope that contained the divorce papers. i slid the papers out of the envelope and laid them on the kitchen counter.
"Here is the divorce paperwork" I said.
We both stared at the papers.
"what do we do?" he asked.
"i don't know. i guess we just sign them" i replied.
i grabbed a pen and signed one sheet. then i handed the pen to him and he signed his name next to mine. he handed the pen back to me and i signed another sheet. then i handed the pen to him and, again, he signed his name next to mine. he handed the pen back to me. it was like we were in a dream. and robotic. dramatic. At some point, i realized that i had many pens laying right next to us. We could each sign our names on all of the papers at the same time and be way less dramatic. So i picked up a pen and we signed the rest of the papers in silence.

We finished signing the papers and jonathan asked what would happen next. i said that i would take the papers to the lawyer tomorrow and that the divorce would be complete in a little more than 30 days. there was a brief moment of silence. it was awkward. and a little unreal. the only thing that i could think to say was, "so...you wanna go get mexican?"

We went to the Mexican restaurant that we have been going to for the past 5 years. The last time that we went there together was shortly after we separated. i remember breaking down in tears and crying, "but...[sniff sniff]...i wanted you to build me a compost bin." of all the things that one laments upon separating from the person whom they have been with for the past 13 years... i don't know... building a compost bin just doesn't seem like it should be the number 1 thing on the list. he said that he could still build me a compost bin. but we both knew that it would never happen.

tonight was another teary night at Matador Mexican Cantina. but this time it was jonathan who was crying. he was embarrassed by his tears. and it made me sad. a huge chapter in both of our lives was slamming shut. he told me about his 21 year old girlfriend. and i told him about the guy who had won my affection (i hope this doesn't violate my promise not to mention him in a blog). he seemed somewhat happy for me and said, "you deserve an awesome guy because you're an awesome girl. i just want you to be happy." i smiled at him... knowing that was probably the hardest thing that he had said to anyone in a long time.

When we got back to my house, Jonathan came in to use the bathroom. when he came out, he was still teary. we shared a long tearful hug. and then he left.

i leaned up against the kitchen counter. i listened to the rain falling outside interrupted only by the start of his car. i was exhausted. frustration and sadness had ruled my day. i had pictured this night so much differently. i had pictured us nonchalantly signing the papers. and joking our way through the process. i had pictured us going to eat Mexican food afterward and sharing a pitcher of margaritas to celebrate the occasion. oddly enough, i had pictured jubilance and laughter. i had pictured lightness.

i did not picture the tears. i did not picture the tension that sat heavy on our shoulders all night long. i did not picture seeing the hurt in a friend's eyes. i did not picture it like this. i did not picture it like this...at all.

Love List

2010-08-30T08:48:00.000-07:00

I spent most of this past weekend feeling sorry for myself. I was hungover, ashamed, sad, bored and felt useless. Saturday was the 6 year anniversary of my wedding. Saturday was also the day that I started reading the 30 page document on how to file for divorce in Dekalb County. I spent most of the day in bed. I discovered Blockbuster on Demand and downloaded movies that I felt like I could fall asleep to. (Unfortunately, I also discovered that I can stay wide awake through a perfectly terrible movie. A "good" movie, however, puts me to sleep faster than Tylenol PM.) I wore pajamas all day. I didn't shower. I ate breakfast in bed (I made banana pancakes for Kaya and me). I ate snacks in bed (popcorn with nutritional yeast). I ate dinner in bed (black beans and rice). I ate breakfast in bed again (Crispy Brown Rice cereal).

Sunday morning, I woke up with something stuck to my thigh. It was a black bean. I threw back the covers to discover that I had also slept with 1 rice krispie and 2 unpopped kernels of popcorn. It made me laugh. I mean, I was a bit disgusted, but it still made me laugh. I laughed! I was in a good mood! Finally! Sunday turned out to be a really good day. I guess it took a day of feeling like shit to realize all of the many things that I'm loving about my life right now. Here are just a few.

Newspaper and Coffee Mornings

Skype

It's not the ideal way to talk to my friend, Shauna. But it's certainly better than not talking at all.

My commute

I love my commute to work. It involves picking my ass off of the couch, picking my coffee cup off of the ottoman and walking 12 steps to my desk. There was a bit of a road block during this morning's commute. I had to step over a breakfasting dog.

Steal It by John Butler

Right now, I'm just liking John Butler. Especially this song.

A Clean, Lavender-scented, Resting Dog

I can't stop sniffing her head and her ears are so soft.

Repurposing Wedding Gifts

It was a cordial glass. I broke off the stem. And stuck it in a pot. Now it's a rooting vase.

Blooming Water Hyacinths

The bloom was perfect yesterday. slightly faded today. 'tis life...live everyday as if it is your last.

Girlifying My Bedroom with Memories of my Grandmother

My grandmother's hatpins.

Grandmother's brooches and beaded clutch.

Guilt as a Teacher

On Sunday, I finished reading another book (The Places that Scare You) by Pema Chodron. In it, she offers four methods for "developing the patience to stay open to what's happening." The third method is to "see difficulties/obstacles as teachers." After reading about this method, I realized that I acquired a new teacher this weekend. Her name is Guilt.

I'm not a big fan of guilt. But guilt seems to like hanging out with me. Especially on Saturday.

On Saturday, I felt extreme guilt and shame for getting drunk, by myself, and passing out by 10:30 on Friday night. It embarrasses me to admit that, but there, I did it. Saturday was rough. At times, I found myself wallowing in my guilt and sadness. At other times, I found myself trying to ignore and hide from the guilt and sadness.

Sunday morning, after finishing Pema Chodron's book, I realized that, even though I sometimes feel so burdened by guilt and shame, I should learn from them. I shouldn't try to push them away, or hide from them, or lessen their hold on me. I should sit with them and hear what they have to tell me.

So, after some light Sunday morning soul searching, I discovered that the main reason for my Friday night drink-a-thon is not because I'm an alcoholic. It's because I'm fucking bored. And I feel claustrophobic.

I've dreamed about moving/traveling for months. And I keep delaying my dreams. Mostly for monetary reasons. But, laziness and apathy have also crept in. As has uncertainty about my readiness. But, thanks to a long Saturday spent with my good friend and teacher, Guilt, I have realized that I am ready. I am ready to travel. I am ready to move. I am ready to learn. I am ready to love.

I am ready to live.

Go Ask the Ugly Girl

2010-08-18T06:06:00.000-07:00

I haven't been sleeping well for the past week. I'm tired. And I wake up tired. And I wake up constantly. And I usually cannot fall back to sleep.

This morning I woke up and was lying in bed. Thinking. I was thinking about the dream from which I awoke where my friend had his hair styled into a ridiculous pompadour. I was thinking about the lady arriving at 9am to pick up the last piece of furniture from my yard sale. I was thinking about the 3 huge garbage bags of business casual clothes that i would be taking to Goodwill later in the day. After which, I would be done. All of my unwanted shit would be out of my house!

And then I remembered my glasses. My eyeglasses from high school. I don't know why I saved them, but I did. They have been sitting on my kitchen counter for a week. My intention was to take them to an optometry office and toss them in a Lion's Club eyeglass donation bin. But I haven't done that yet.

One reason is because every time that I look at them, I laugh. The lenses are at least a quarter of an inch thick. I remember when I picked out the frames, the optometrist told me that my prescription was too strong. The lenses would be too thick for those frames. My prescription was simply not suitable for the dainty wire frames. I didn't care. I had him make the glasses anyway. Now...I see what he meant. Yikes.

I guess that the other reason that I have not yet parted with them is for sentimental reasons. I think that those glasses represent so much about the person that I am today.

I got my first pair of glasses in 1st grade. They were tiny and pink. I was proud of them. They made me a little different from the other kids, but looking back now, I don't think, at that point, that I ever cared. I got my second pair of glasses in 5th grade. They were tiny and pink. And had an image of Smurfette on each arm. Just so you know, I was not still a fan of the Smurfs in 5th grade. It was just that I was really tiny for my age. And my face was small. And the only glasses that fit me were made for younger kids. As soon as I got home from the optometrist's office, I ran to my mother's finger nail polish drawer, selected a color to match my frames, and delicately painted over Smurfette and her patronizing grin.

In 6th grade, I finally got contacts. But I was so irresponsible with cleaning them that I had constant eye infections and ended up wearing my glasses a lot anyway. I'm pretty sure that I wore the Smurfette glasses throughout my Middle School career.

Finally, the summer before I started high school, my mom drove me to Gastonia (they had a mall!) and we went to Lenscrafters and purchased my first "big girl" pair of glasses...the ones that the optometrist advised against.

This morning, as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, my thoughts went from my glasses to ridicule. I started thinking of all of the times that I was such a perfect target for derision from various teenage boys. I started thinking about a boy from high school, S (I won't write your full name, Shane). He was really mean to me. He constantly picked on me in 10th grade English class. When I thought about S, it made me smile because we're friends now. And I think he was just flirting with me anyway. We both wore Doc Martens.

But then my mind drifted to the boys who weren't flirting with me. The boys who were just plain mean. There was the boys in 10th grade who drew a picture of me and labeled everything that was wrong with me. "No tits. Four eyes. Skinny legs. Ugly shoes." They drew the picture and stuffed it in my locker. They also proudly signed their names at the bottom. Newton Craver, Robert Curtis, David Secrest...(I'll give you a pass, Joe Rempson, because I'm not sure whether you were in on that, and also, we held hands in 4th grade). To this day, whenever my mom mentions one of those fat, balding and boring (but I'm not bitter, I swear) guys, I crinkle up my nose in distaste or roll my eyes or make overly dramatic retching noises. Or, depending on how I'm feeling, I may do all three.

The worst occasion of ridicule from a boy, in my memory, happened in 9th grade. Despite being a little dorky, I was friends with the popular girls. It was a small town and popularity seemed to be directly proportional to your parents' wealth. So i was friends with all of the other upper middle class girls. But they would have been popular anyway. My friend, Leslie, was (still is) beautiful, outgoing and had gorgeous long, brown, wavy hair. Sasha was beautiful, outgoing and had gorgeous long, blond, straight hair. For some reason, the boys in 12th grade loved the girls in my grade. Except for me, of course.

So, one night, my friends and I went to a dance. At the "Teen Club". The popular 12th grade boys were there. They were boastfully standing in a huddle near the center of the room. My friends and I was sitting on folding chairs in a tight circle in the corner of the room. At some point, one of the 12th grade boys started talking to one of my friends. It was no big deal. They talked all of the time. They were friends. It seemed so easy. My friend wasn't nervous. Occasionally, her awesome, melodious laugh would spring from her mouth and her gorgeous, chocolate curls would fall in her face. The popular 12th grade boy was enthralled.

Later in the night, the popular 12th grade boys and the popular 9th grade girls started to dance. I, along with a few other girls, stayed seated. In the corner. In our rickety, cold, metal chairs. Although, I desperately wanted a popular 12th grade boy to ask me to dance, I refused to look in their direction. A few of them remained, talking, in the middle of the room. Loudly talking, boisturously laughing and taking up too much space...as arrogant boys tend to do.

At one point, I peeked out of the corner of my eye in the direction of the popular 12th grade boys' huddle. I noticed that they were all looking in my direction. And they all had deliciously evil grins on their faces. The tallest one broke away from the group and walked towards the Not-Quite-as-Popular 9th grade circle of girls. The 6 feet tall, lumbering beast approached me and asked me to dance. My face lit up and my heart started to race. I couldn't believe it! A 12th grade popular boy had asked me to dance! And to a slow song!

As we walked to the dance floor, I noticed the huddle of 12th grade popular boys. The huddle was moving. The huddle was vibrating. The huddle was....laughing. Hysterically. At that point, I realized that it was all a joke. He had been dared to ask me to dance..."Hey, dude, I dare you to go ask the ugly girl to dance." I endured the horrible slow dance for the entire slow song. I endured the awkardness of a 4 feet tall girl dancing with a 6 feet tall boy. And I endured the laughter. As soon as the song was over, I ran to the bathroom and cried. For a really long time.

I'm not sure if having "4 eyes" was the reason that boys picked on me so often in high school or if it was because I was an easy target. Or if it was because i was abnormally underdeveloped. Or if it was because that's just what boys and girls do. But it really affected me. It affected me negatively for many years. But, now, I so appreciate all of the ridicule. It helped make me who I am today. And I seriously wouldn't trade that for anything.

Fuck it, I'm keeping the glasses.

Moving. Stories.

2010-08-08T09:36:00.000-07:00

My progress at the start of the weekend
My spare bedroom has become a hoarder’s paradise. It’s actually really embarrassing. On numerous occasions over the past few months, I have walked to the threshold of this spare room. Stood in the doorway. And indiscriminately tossed unwanted, or unneeded, items into the room’s cluttered corners and random piles of junk. I don’t even go into the room anymore. I just stand in the doorway and toss.

I’m simplifying. Minimizing. And freeing myself of unnecessary possessions.

I’m also moving. I don’t know where yet. Several weeks ago, the uncertainty bothered me. Now it excites and enlivens me. I can (and will) move anywhere. When I see a Georgia O’Keefe painting, I’m moving to New Mexico. When I read an article about a group in Oakland that is working to build economic and environmental self-reliance, I’m moving to California. When I’m perusing an architectural design magazine and see a photo of a young girl practicing piano in her Utah living room with majestic mountains in the background, I’m moving to the Rockies. When I talk to my friend, Shauna, via Skype, I’m moving to Europe where we can be 2 mid-thirty year old, single women fervently exploring a foreign land.

When I sell my unwanted possessions and pack up my house, I will decide where I am moving. I may decide before then. I may not decide until I am in my car with my “essentials” – heading to…I know not where. But, I don’t need to make the decision yet. First things first. I am having a yard sale. Next weekend.

I have been dragging long buried items out of my spare bedroom all weekend. With each item, there is a story. I’ve held on to so many of these things for so many years. Mostly, so that I can hold on to the stories. But, it’s time. I will keep the sentiments in my head and heart, but I no longer have the need or the want for their physical representations . Here are some stories…

Yoyo’s by Connie

These were my mom’s shoes from the 70s’. These were my play shoes in the 80s’. The whole 80s’. Even when I was in eighth grade. While my eighth grade girl friends were going on dates and experiencing their first (or second or third or fourth, etc.) kisses, I was still playing dress up. And still playing with Barbies. And still playing “pretend.” Yes, I would get dressed up to go on dates, but they were pretend dates. And I was wearing my Yoyo’s by Connie. Riding my Huffy Cactus Rose bike through the woods to my pretend rendez-vous location with my pretend boyfriend. I still like these shoes, but I have Sasquatch feet. They no longer fit.

Fish

This was given to me by the first boy that I ever kissed. I was 18 years old. He was 23 years old. He had a pet snake. His own apartment. And smoked pot (gasp!). His name was Chris (I guess that it still is). We met at one of my brother’s house parties when my parents were out of town. I was cleaning up vomit. Vomit belonging to one of my brother’s friends.

The friend had eaten a Philly cheesesteak earlier in the night. Even though it wasn’t my party, I didn’t want my brother to get in trouble. So I was anxiously scrubbing up partially digested bits of tomato, bread and mystery meat from my mom’s carpet. Chris walked into the room and told me that I shouldn’t be cleaning up vomit. That I should make my brother do it. I immediately fell in love.

I’m pretty sure that he was the first guy, in my home town, who ever recognized me. He was awfully sweet. I believe that, at the time we were “dating”, I was infatuated with fish (one of my many fleeting interests). So he gave me this (you fill it with water, turn it on, and the fish swims around). A few weeks after receiving this gift, I left Shelby, NC to attend college in Atlanta, GA. A week after that, he called me to tell me that he just happened to be in Atlanta. It scared me. I hung up the phone and never talked to him again.

Belts from the 80s

There was a point in my life (the eighties) when I was really into fashion. Around this time, I also realized that periods of fashion are constantly being recycled. With that realization, I never got rid of clothes or shoes or accessories. I saved a lot of fashion-related stuff from the eighties. I guess I thought that I would be so fucking hip when the eighties were recycled in the distant future. Little did I know at the time that ,when the eighties made a comeback, I would not give a shit about fashion and would be completely disgusted by the resurgence. Byebye, eighties fashion. You sucked then. And you still suck.

Prozac and The Cure. I guess that the 80s' sucked more than I thought.

I just found it interesting that a book about Prozac is in the same box as a VHS tape of The Cure. Step One to decreasing your reliance on Prozac: Quit listening to The Cure.

National Geographic

I spent all of Sunday morning drinking coffee and reading 20 year old National Geographic articles. Northern California, Cuba, Endangered Animals, Saudi Arabia, Faulkner, Lewis Carroll...

Because Faulkner is one of my favorite authors. A new image for my inspiration board...

She's Crafty. I'm not. But I did construct a Vagina out of a zipper, a felt cherry and Buttons

When It Became Apparent That Beauty School Was No Longer an Option

OCD

A friend has recently accused me (on several different occasions) of being OCD. I am NOT OCD. I did have a brief period in my very early years (elementary school aged) where I would check 3 or 4 times to make sure that a light was turned out. But that was only because my father is a conservationist and stingy. He convinced me that if a light stayed on once I left a room, the whole house, including all of my precious toys, would go up in flames.

...It was not until I quit playing with toys that I overcame my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Last night, I had an amazing time creating and putting price tags on my unwanted clothes. I drank a lot of wine, smoked too much pot, listened to too-loud music, cut up pieces of scrap paper, printed bold numbers with black Sharpies, and, finally, taped beautifully crafted price tags to rusted wire hangers. For 2 hours on a Saturday night. It was awesome...but I'm not OCD.

1985 - The Year I Achieved Bible Excellence

Exile on Day Five. But Not Really.

2010-07-11T18:03:00.000-07:00

So....I'm back in Atlanta. For now. But I'm not planning on unpacking my bags.

I woke up this morning, feeling sad. i couldn't explain it. I felt like I was in good spirits yesterday. i ventured out on my own. I found a quaint farm stand on the side of the road. Learned about some of the local farmers. Bought local tomatoes and peaches. Went to an outside bar that overlooked the lake beach. Drank several beers. Got invited to another bar by the bartender at the first bar. I actually went. Can't say that I enjoyed it. But i actually went. It was a full day. A day of newness. I felt like I was on the emotional mend. So why did i wake up sad?

I sat on the deck at the lake house and read for awhile. Then, I decided that I didn't feel like being alone (and this...after all of my wonderful realizations,yesterday, involving dealing with the pain on my own...oh well, we all have setbacks). i called Jonathan. He didn't answer. i called him again. And left a message.

Jonathan had called me yesterday and asked if he could use the house for a recording session. So I knew he was going to be at my house today. He was captive. i wanted nothing more than to be around someone who loved and cared for me. And someone for whom I loved and cared. Immensely. And despite everything. I just wanted someone with whom i could talk. With whom i could be myself. With whom i didn't feel odd. And to whom, I could say...well...almost...anything.

I went for a hike and then a swim. And then Jonathan called. When i answered the phone, I broke into tears and told him that I thought i was depressed. He said that he understood. I told him that i was thinking about coming home and asked him if i would be in his way. He told me that I wouldn't.

So, I left the mountains. And, i took the long way home.

I arrived home to beautiful horn melodies flowing from my house. it's funny. i've never really been particularly happy about being subjected to horn lines played over and over. and over. again. but today? it is nice. it has grounded me. For a second. For now. Amidst all of the chaos, this...THIS...is familiar.

Right now, I'm sitting on my deck. Muffled horn lines, combined with my 3rd glass of pinot grigio and the effects of smoking half of a blunt, have brought a glimmer of joy back into my life. For now, I am fine.

Just thought you might want the update...

The cute lil farm stand that provided my dinner last night.

yum. tomatoes and peaches from the locals.

Going Home

2010-07-06T13:36:00.000-07:00

You will go home again when the world knocks you down - or when you fall down in full view of the world. But only for two or three weeks at a time. Your mother will pamper you and feed you your favorite meal of red beans and rice. You'll make a practice of going home so she can liberate you again - one of the greatest gifts, along with nurturing your courage, that she will give you.
Be courageous, but not foolhardy.

Walk proud as you are,
Maya
(From a letter that Maya Angelou wrote to her younger self)

I'm going "home" for awhile where the mother in me can take care of the child in me. I'm not going to a physical place called home (although I will be about an hours drive from my childhood home), I'm going to find the home within me. I lost myself for a second. I opened my heart and loved, but forgot to love myself.

Jonathan came over at 3am this morning (after repeated calls from me..."GET OFF THE STAGE!! I NEED TO TALK!!" just kidding...well, kind of). I told him about a recent relationship that had hurtfully ended and about my many fears and insecurities. He held me as I cried myself to sleep. Before I fell asleep, he told me that he would do anything to help me get "home" (including living in and taking care of my physical home while I was away. finding myself. mothering myself. loving myself.). he assured me that I am not crazy and that I am on the brink of doing wonderful things. With those kind words in mind, I fell asleep.

so, i'm leaving Atlanta. for a little while. maybe it will be the 2-3 weeks that Maya recommends. But maybe I will need more. And, maybe, I will need less. I've spent all day packing my necessities. Underwear, toothbrush, lots of books, music, vibrator (in case, i start feeling like a sexual being again), yoga mat and espresso maker. Later alligators :)

Sitting With Mountains

2010-07-03T00:35:00.000-07:00

early morning (3:32 to be exact). at the lakehouse. with the family. awakened by a text message. a text message that made me question all of this. all over again. and made me a little sad. not so much by the message. but by my reaction. i laid in bed. trying to match my breathing to the gentle snoring of my 101 year old grandmother sleeping in the bed next to me.

Being unsuccessful with my breathing exercises and growing increasingly aggravated by my sweet grandmother's irregular breathing, I decided to listen to music. I felt compelled to hear "where i stood" by missy higgins. i crawled out of bed and tiptoed upstairs to grab my ipod.

As my first foot landed on the top step, I saw the balding, silvery head of my father laying on the couch in the living room. Greater sadness hit. Because I knew why he couldn't sleep.

I quietly grabbed my ipod from the entertainment center and returned to my bed. i listened to "where i stood" several times until i realized that sleep was not going to come. At least, not anytime soon. I grabbed my blanket and pillow and quickly stole away to the deck. I shoved my ear buds into my ears and returned to missy higgins. one more time. and then the avett brothers. and band of horses. deer tick. coldplay. anything that would make me cry. get it out of me. so that i could return to sleep.

i finally switched off the music. and i listened to the early mountain morning. cicadas. gentle waves making gurgling sounds as they bounced off the dock. 2 voices in the distance. i stared at the stars. so close. shining brightly in the dark sky. and, i stared at the mountains that solidly stood before me.

last week, these were the mountains that returned me to my power. i stared and stared at them. hoping to feel the same surge through my body. but nothing came. i thought of loving someone who could not give me what i need. being loved by someone for whom i could not give them what they need. and i thought of my dad. laying on the couch in the room above me. feeling as though his body has let him down. scared. anxious. his surgery would be in 3 days.

i turned the music back on. tears filled my eyes where sleep did not. i turned the music back off. i turned my computer on. i turned my computer off. i laid down. and then i sat up. With mounting frustration, I sat still.

sometimes there is nothing that you can do. tonight. right now. the only thing that i can do is sit. sit and listen to the cicadas' loud but soothing chorus. sit and listen to the mountain water gently licking the earth. sit and look at the brilliant stars in the sky. and sit and stare at the mountains ahead. silently pleading for their strength.

Pureness: Madame George, peony petals and young love

2010-06-15T11:14:00.000-07:00

a story about Van Morrison's "Madame George", peony petals, and my 3rd boyfriend...actually, he was probably my 2nd boyfriend. 3rd boy i kissed. actually, i'm not sure how to classify him. A dirty, hippy boy who gave me a peony and cherished, hand-holding time with Madame George.

I worked at Baskin-Robbins. Spending countless hours shoving ice cream into waffle cones for bratty kids. He worked at Philly connection next door. Spending countless hours shoving cheap, indescernible meat around a hot, dirty grill. He took his smoke breaks at the Baskin-Robbins picnic tables. I had the hugest crush on him. My heart would flutter when I saw him take his position at the sticky, brown and pink tables. I, in all my innocence, would watch him smoke cigarettes while making Jamoca-Almond-Fudge milkshakes for kids freshly released from Druid Hills High School. I was a freshman at Emory University. He was whatever-grade-a-16-year-old-is-in at Decatur High school. After many months of longingly eyeing him from my post behind the ice cream counter, I was finally able to convince him to hang out with me.

The first time that we hung out, he took me to a motel room where his friends were partying. Upon arriving, I timidly followed him into a grungy room full of teenage testosterone and pot smoke. I had never smoked pot. I had never been to a motel party. I had probably never even been drunk. But I was excited by the illicitness of the situation. I was excited by my fear. And i was excited about the dirty, dreadlocked boy who was exposing my innocence to both.

My eyes scanned the room and fell on one of the full-sized beds. A pile of guns were nonchalantly resting on the disgusting bedspread of the seedy, Decatur motel. More fear swept across me. and so did enticement. guns. GUNS! a pile of them. on an unkept, dirty, pastel-flowered bedspread. i felt so bad. i felt so good. The guns. The pot. The beer. A room full of strange boys. A disgusting motel room. They all represented a major antithesis to my life...a sheltered girl from NC...being educated at Emory University...earning a little money dipping ice cream at Baskin Robbins...pure. sweet. and ready for so much more.

After the Decatur motel room incident, we would typically spend our time together in his dad's apartment. On the couch. Listening to Van Morrison. Astral Weeks, for the most part. There was a peony bush outside of the living room. One night, Elijah's dad suggested that he give me a peony from the heavily laden bush. Elijah's dad handed him a pair of scissors. Elijah cut the woody stem below the prettiest white peony. And gave the pure and delicate flower to me.

I saved the petals. I still have them. Just recently, I was cleaning out drawers, closets and countertops. Minimizing. Simplifying reminders of my past. And I came across the petals.

"Why am I even saving these?" i thought to myself. After all, they were 16 years old.

But they were special. They reminded me of being young again. When time was not an issue. Anything and everything could last forever. Holding hands with the one that you adored meant so much. Innocence reined over everything. And i had not yet been hurt.

The petals had been moved over 6 times. how could I possibly throw them out now?

The answer was simple. I couldn't. In my extreme spring cleaning, I got rid of sentimental items that i have been holding onto for years. My mom's shoes from the seventies...very cool, but let's face it, I'm never going to wear them. My grandmother's vintage scarves...beautiful, but a little too "Grease" for me. My dolls and tea sets from the seventies...handed off to my dear friend's daughter. So many things. But not the petals. The petals represent too much. I will hold on to them forever.

Veins

2010-03-23T06:05:00.000-07:00

It started with a butter bean. And another dinner cooked alone and consumed alone. It was a Spanish-style dish made with rice, tomatoes, peppers, shrimp, turmeric and butter beans. I eat alone a lot these days. Most days. Although I eat alone, I’m very rarely lonely. There have been several nights that I have realized that I’m making a dinner too delicious to be eaten alone and that I should share it with someone. Twice, I have made attempts to invite a friend over to enjoy my thoughtfully prepared dinner with me. Both times, my attempt to acquire a dinner companion was unsuccessful.

So, most afternoons around 4:30, I walk my dog. Then, I come home and do yoga for an hour. After yoga, I put my iPod on shuffle and pour myself a glass of wine. And then, for the next hour or two (sometimes more), I grate, chop, blend, grind, slice, measure, open, close, fill, drain, cook, drink, sing, dance. And, finally, I eat my dinner.

I sit at my kitchen island with a plate full of food in front of my face, a glass full of wine by my right hand and a dog full of want by my feet. I slowly eat my food. Rarely taking my eyes from my plate. Sometimes, I will glance down at the dog, pat her head, say something to her, or maybe give her some food. Sometimes, I will lift my eyes from my plate, take a break from eating, look around the kitchen and lose myself in my thoughts. Most times, I just really examine my food. I marvel at the aesthetic qualities of each morsel of food in front of my eyes and savor each and every bite of food that goes into my mouth.

Last night, as I finished my dinner, I stared at my plate. Only one butter bean, one shrimp and a few grains of rice remained on the dish. I rarely cook butter beans so I rarely get to appreciate their unique character. I scrutinized the lonely butter bean and became awed by the tiny, grey-blue veins that coursed across the thin, pale skin of the bean. Instead of shoveling it and its equally lonesome shrimp companion into my mouth, I jumped up and grabbed my camera. For 5 minutes, the butter bean and the shrimp were the stars of my photo shoot. The butter bean was the main subject; the shrimp was simply part of the supporting cast. I finally finished taking my photos. And, quickly, stabbed the butter bean and the shrimp with my fork and shoved them into my mouth.

For several hours after dinner, I thought about veins. For the most part, veins are not attractive. The round, wobbly veins that protrude from my 101-year-old grandmother’s gnarled hands are not pretty. Nor are the veins along my ankles that became tired and broken after long hours of wearing high heels while working in a clothing boutique over 10 years ago. The still evident needle marks on the inside of my elbows from the many trips to the hospital as a child and youth are embarrassing and evocative of a scary time. The newly broken veins on my face from my newly diagnosed skin condition make me feel helpless and marred. The congested veins and arteries of Atlanta that carry people in, out and through the city are angry and restless.

But, despite all of the ugliness that I see in veins, I know that they represent life. Although life is full of heartbreak and disappointments, I feel like, for the first time ever, I am close to fully living my life. Like a blood clot formed deep in the body, my zest for life was stuck somewhere deep inside. In some unknown recesses. Waiting to be broken up and released. Recently, I have built new friendships, made new discoveries and uncovered buried passions (for example, a renewed passion for cooking, a passion for a butter bean, and a passion for the butter bean’s unsightly, yet beguiling, veins). As my veins bring my blood back to my physical heart, my new passions and discoveries are finally bringing me back to my spiritual, essential heart. My true heart. The essence of my being. Me.

NOTE: Somewhere during the grating, chopping, blending, grinding, slicing, measuring, opening, closing, filling, draining, cooking, drinking, singing and dancing, I also smoked some pot. That probably had a pretty large influence on my fascination with the broken veins on my lonely butter bean.

Sexual Fantasy and the Powerful Man

2010-03-15T07:24:00.001-07:00

I just awoke from a sex dream. A sex dream co-starring John Locke from Lost (Hold on, let me look up his real name….Terry O’Quinn…hee hee…I just saw his photo. It was like seeing an ex-lover or something…anyway…). I’m not real sure why he made an appearance in my dream. I haven’t seen Lost since, maybe, Season 3. But, anyway, there I was on the floor. Having sex with John Locke. Yes, on the floor. I’ll tell you how it went down.

Apparently, I was really drunk. And I was in some swanky neighborhood with intimidating mansions that lined beautiful, hilly streets. It was dark outside. Everyone was asleep. Not me. I was stumbling around the hilly streets. At one point, I tripped, fell, and rolled for a quarter mile down one of the long, gradual hills. When I got to the bottom, giggling, I stood up and brushed myself off. I staggered around a bit, and, then, I looked up and noticed someone walking towards me. It was a man who was, obviously, out for exercise. Strapped to his foot was a tiny, wheeled contraption with a digital display that glowed a fiery red in the dark night.

“Hey” I yelled. “What’s that thing strapped to your foot?”
“It’s like a pedometer” He replied. “Do you want me to show you how to use it?”

With drunken elation, I told him that I would love to learn how to use the pedometer and that I had a place to go where he could show me. I, drunkenly, and he, athletically, walked up the hill. Together. With the, all of a sudden, anthropomorphic pedometer strolling between us.

We arrived at the house that my mother was renting. It seems like she was going through a midlife crises and had moved away from my father. Into a swanky house on the “right side” of town. I’m not sure why I was staying there with her, but John Locke and I headed up to my bedroom. At that point, I had no idea that there was anything sexual going on between us. I was merely interested in his pedometer. And, as far as I knew, John Locke was merely interested in showing me how to use his nifty pedometer.

John Locke unstrapped the pedometer from his foot and laid it on the corner of the bed. I, excitedly, got down on my knees to study the odd contraption. John Locke knelt down beside me. As he showed me the various settings, I noticed that he was getting closer and closer to me.
“Maybe he’s just having trouble reading the numbers…” I thought.
As he was showing me the humidity settings (because, you know, you walk differently when it’s humid), I looked over at him. For a split second, I thought, “Hmmm, I’ve never been with a bald, wrinkled man before.” And then, next thing I knew, we were toppled over onto the floor. Making out. Me and John Locke.

Just as he was sticking his dick in the mashed potatoes, I came to my senses and screeched, “Wait! We need a condom! Do you have one?” With an amused look on his face, he replied, “No, I don’t usually carry condoms with me when I go for my midnight walk.” Shit, that’s right. I told him to hold on. Maybe I could find one. After all, my mother was going through a mid-life crises. Maybe she had started fucking other men besides my father.

I raised myself off of John Locke’s penis, and dashed around the room, trying to find something to throw on so that I could search the house for a condom. I found an old prom dress hanging in the closet and decided that it would suffice for covering my nakedness in case I ran into my mom.
John Locke asked, “You don’t have a robe or something?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied as I dashed out the door.

I frantically searched the massive house for a condom. And came up empty handed. I must have searched for 30 minutes. Finally, I went back to my room. I, disappointedly, re-entered the room. Catching a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror, I saw a 35-year old, drunk, disheveled, sexually frustrated woman. In a prom dress. From the mirror, my gaze fell on the bed. There lay a bald, wrinkled old man. Asleep. With a limp dick. Next to him sat the pedometer.

So that was my dream. The thing that scares me is that this is not the first time that I have had a sex dream involving an old and/or not-very-virile-seeming man. I have also had sex dreams involving Rudolph Giuliani and…gulp…James Gandolfini.

I was explaining this phenomenon to a male friend, recently, and he pointed out that maybe I like to fantasize about powerful men. Hmmm… Bingo! What a relief! It is TOTALLY about their power. I am totally not into bald, wrinkled and/or overweight men. I mean, Giuliani was the mayor of New York. James Gandolfini’s character was a New Jersey mafia boss. And, well, John Locke is (as of Season 3) always in control on Lost.
So. There you have it. Old men with power.

Dear Allison’s subconscious, in the future, can I please have a sex dream involving a young, hot man? With a little bit of power on the side, please.

Grayton Beach: Pleasure and Pain (from my bicycle seat)

2010-03-10T04:47:00.000-08:00

Holy shit, my ass hurts. My little impromptu jaunt of a bike ride today turned into a not-so-much-of-a jaunt, 8 mile bike ride. That’s probably not many miles. And I consider myself physically fit. But riding a bike is not one of the activities that keeps me physically fit. The last time that I seriously road my bike was about 10 years ago. I was at a major intersection in downtown Decatur. A car spooked me. And I bit it. I skinned both hands, both knees and one elbow. I also ripped the shirt that I was wearing. Jonathan was half a mile away before he realized that his beautiful bride was writhing in pain on the sidewalk. Luckily, however, the person driving the car that spooked me pulled over to check on me. It was embarrassing. So I quit riding my bike. Fuck riding a bike in Atlanta.

But I’m so glad that I brought my bike to Grayton Beach. It feels amazing riding a bike. On a bike trail. At the beach. And you know? I really don’t remember my bicycle seat making me horny last time I rode it. What a perk to getting some exercise!! Yea, so anyway… I brought my laptop on my camping trip. But ONLY because I cannot write on paper. Thoughts only flow through the movement of my fingers. I mean, I have a journal and I write in it daily, but it’s kind of bullshit, high school journal style writing. Like…”I saw this really cute boy today. He was like a cross between Scott Baio and Corey Haim. I really like him. I think that we might get married.” Nah, it’s probably not that bad, but sometimes I’ll be writing in it and start thinking, “What the fuck am I writing??” And, just for the record, I NEVER, EVER, EVER thought that Scott Baio was hot. But, my point was that I’m at my campsite. Typing away on my laptop. I kind of feel like I’m cheating. Like, I should be roughing it a little more. Or something.

On my unintentional, 8 mile bike ride today, I passed a lot of really enticing restaurants. A cute, little Latin café. An exotic Thai restaurant. An Irish pizza place (yea, I’m not sure what’s up with that). I would love to pedal back over to one of those spots, but I’m not allowing myself to spend money (except for gas). I could treat myself to a celebratory “I GOT SOME WORK!” dinner. But, I’ve actually already treated myself to two celebratory dinners this weekend.

Last night, I went and ate sushi with my friend Tonya. God, it was so good. I haven’t had sushi in forever. And then Thursday night, while wearing my 11 year old, newly-fitting, Anthropologie dress, I went to a restaurant in Midtown (a block from the Fox Theatre). Sat at the bar. By myself. Ordered a martini. And ate dinner. By myself. It was kind of awesome. I typically HATE martini glasses. They make me cringe. But I ordered the drink and sassily sipped from the pretentious, pointless glass. I pretended to watch a Big 10 basketball game on the TV over the bar. Then I looked around at the other bar patrons. All men. All probably putting off going home to their wives and children. Bastards. I got an overpriced arugula salad. And then, breaking from my gluten-free diet, I ordered some bread.

As I was finishing my salad, an older man came and sat next to me at the bar. He said something to me…I don’t remember what, but he seemed like a nice ole chap so I offered him some of my bread. He asked me what I was doing. I told him that I was getting ready to go see my friends’ band playing at the Fox. And then, as luck would have it, he informed me that he was a musician. How ‘bout that? Is every person on this fucking planet a fucking musician? Then, he commenced to talking about guitars and music. All I could think was “Mother of god, can I please just have a tiny break from talking about music?” Maybe that’s why I have been hanging out with my lady friends lately. I have 2 lady friends who are musicians. But they can talk about other stuff. Anything. Fuck, I’ll talk about hair and makeup, fashion, fucking Heidi and Spencer. Whatever. Just give me a break from music, OK? Oooo, sorry about that rant. Anyway, I abruptly (and maybe rudely) told him that I had to leave. I introduced myself as I was taking my leave. His name was Don.

[Later that night at my Grayton Beach campsite]
Shit, it’s only 8pm…or 9pm. Not sure whether I’m on Eastern Standard Time or Central Time. And it really doesn’t matter. I’ll just go with the sun and the moon. It’s crazy when you try to synch yourself with the sun and moon. If I was at home, I would probably just be finishing dinner and then finding something to do to entertain myself. But when you are outside, without electricity, etc., it’s so much easier to live as we probably should live anyway. Going to bed when the sun goes down and waking with the morning light. Hmmm…I went to the beach to watch the sunset. Right before I left to bike down to the beach, some dudes pulled up at the campsite next to mine. I thought about walking over to their site to introduce myself. Mainly because they had a dog. On my way over, I saw that one of the guys had on those god-awful, jersey-type, long gym shorts that all of the Emory boys wear. I’m pretty sure that they are one of the grossest items of clothing that a man could wear (unless you are actually at the gym…and then, I guess, that they are OK). Based on that, and I wasn’t sure whether to let them in on the fact that I was camping alone, I decided not to introduce myself. Plus, the sun was setting pretty quickly.

I made it to the beach with my thermos of wine. As I walked onto the beach, I saw a bunch of couples. Being romantic. Mother fucker! Really? I took a deep breath and decided that I could deal with them. I would just plop down in the sand. Crack open my wine. And love myself (with a little help from my bike seat…oh, just kidding). The young, romantic couples made me nauseous. The older, romantic couples made me sad. Old couples always make me sad lately. But, anyway, once the sun set, the couples scattered. And I was all alone on the beach. With my wine. It was pretty cool.

Now, I’m typing. Drinking wine. Listening to my iPod. Watching my fire go out. Thinking about peeing in the bushes. Listening to some college kids raise hell. And eyeing my bicycle seat…”Hey, baby…whatchu doing tonight?”

An Ending. And a New Beginning. For a Dress.

2010-03-05T08:06:00.000-08:00

Here I go. I’ll attempt a deeply personal bit of writing to be posted on the web for unknown (to me) people to read. I haven’t written anything in awhile. Mostly because I have felt really blah for the past week. It started with an ending. An ending of a friendship.

See, I had a friend who said something really insensitive and hurtful to me last week. As soon as the words came out of this person’s mouth, I felt as though the wind had been knocked out of me. This person really hurt my feelings. For several days afterwards, I tried to figure out why this person had been so calloused towards me. I kept asking other friends (over and over), “I’m a good person. Right? I have a kind heart. Right? Why would someone want to hurt my feelings?” I know that sounds lame. People get their feelings hurt all the time. But, not me. It’s been a long time since anyone has hurt my feelings. But maybe that’s the chance that I took when I decided to let down my guard and open up to people. I let go of my fear of being hurt. And I became vulnerable. I did get hurt, but I have also embarked on a journey of building beautiful new friendships and strengthening several long standing friendships. So I suppose…if I am building new friendships and strengthening existing friendships, getting hurt by one person isn’t such a bad deal.

[Just so you know, I harbor no ill will to this person. In fact, I have a huge amount of compassion for him/her . I just need to feel nurtured by my relationships right now. And subjecting my current state of emotional fragility to someone who hurts me certainly does not nurture me.]

So, I’ve been feeling blah. I’m also on Week 3 of a detox diet. No wine, beer, gluten, sugar or dairy. It’s been pretty rough. I’ve also lost weight. All of my jean are sagging in the ass and barely hanging onto my hips. That kind of sucks, but on the bright side, I can finally fit into this amazing dress that I have been holding on to for 12 years even though my ability to comfortably wear it ended quite awhile ago.

I bought this dress from Anthropologie in 1999. It was my first ever Anthropologie purchase. Over the years, it increased its tight grip around my butt, hips and thighs. I eventually quit wearing it. But I kept the dress. I let it hang in my closet. The back of my closet. I suppose that I was keeping it for sentimental reasons. It was one of my first purchases after I got my first job. It was a stylish dress without being too trendy. After hanging in my closet for several years without even being acknowledged, I finally moved the dress into the attic. There it lingered with several impulsive thrift store purchases and quite a few unwanted, unneeded professional wear purchases.

Last week, as I was in the attic (tossing out rat poison…if you must know), I looked over at a wardrobe bag slumped over on the attic floor. And I thought of the dress. And then I thought of my detox diet and my sagging jeans. Maybe I could fit in the dress again! I finished throwing out the rat poison and excitedly ran over to the wardrobe bag. I unzipped it and pulled the 11 year old, Anthropologie dress out from my clothing retirement home. With the dress slung over my shoulder, I climbed down the attic ladder and started tearing off my clothes as soon as my feet hit the floor. I pulled the dress over my head and trepidatiously approached the mirror. I, first, looked into my eyes and then slowly let my gaze descend down towards my hips. To my amazement and pure joy, it fit. I straightened my stance. I lifted my chin and turned sideways to get the side view. There was no clinging. The dress fit! I yanked off my athletic socks, put on a sexier bra, pulled my hair back, and, again, looked in the mirror. This time with confidence and no apprehension at all. I smiled at myself in the mirror and ran into the living room to share the good news with my dog. I didn’t take the dress off for the rest of the night. I cooked Masaman curry in my dress. And I ate a candlelight dinner (by myself) in my dress. I danced around the kitchen in my dress. Then, I carefully removed it and hung it up in my closet. The front of my closet.

Everything I Learned About Pubic Hair, I Learned from 70s' Playboy Magazines

2010-02-24T13:02:00.001-08:00

Recently, I have become obsessed with body hair. Not really my own. But, I guess I’m just really interested in how other women view their body hair. I don’t know when or why, recently, in our culture, women have became obsessed with removing every last strand of hair on their bodies. And I don’t know when or why I became interested in discovering the origins, preferences and types of bodily hair removal. Nevertheless, I’m sure that hairy strips of wax make up a new landfill demographic. And, nevertheless, I’ve spent countless hours (well…maybe, minutes) researching the origins of the Brazilian bikini wax and the cultural preferences for pubic hair from the United States to France to Japan.

I’m embarrassed to admit that, recently, in addition to googling such things as “bikini wax styles” and even worse, “Asian pubic hair” (yikes!), almost every conversation that I’ve had with a female friend has involved an in depth discussion of body hair. I can think of 6 conversations to be exact. But in all fairness (to myself), I didn’t bring up all of these conversations. I initiated, maybe, 3 or 4 of them. Whether the conversations started on the topic of pubic hair or not, all 6 of them ended on the topic of pubic hair. And one even ended with me getting to see what a Laser Brazilian looks like (hey, person who shall remain nameless and who showed me your laser Brazilian. Thanks for sharing! :))

I first recall hearing about Brazilian Bikini waxes about 10 years ago. I was reading a Vogue magazine and there was an article about a waxing salon in New York that was famous for their Brazilian waxes. The article’s description of a “Brazilian” was somewhat elusive, but I gathered that all of the hair covering the pubic bone was removed during the waxing. It turns out that there is much, much more involved in a Brazilian, but I wasn’t really that interested in the particular waxing technique at the time so I didn’t care to research it further.

Since that time, it seems that Brazilian waxes have become extremely popular. I’m not really sure how that happened. Is it just a cultural phenomenon? I’m not sure, but I'm eager to find out. So, I had dinner with my good friend, B, last week, and, of course, I had to bring up the waxing issue. I asked her if she had ever had a Brazilian (she had), did it hurt (it did), was it all that special (it wasn’t), will she do it again (probably not). Then, we moved on to discussing Laser hair removal. She had experimented with it recently (not in her bikini area) and I told her about my other friend that had used it all over her body. We sat there for a second. I guess we were contemplating our body hair. And then I said, “You know, I don’t think that I would ever want to have a Laser Brazilian done. I mean that’s ALL of your pubic hair, and it's so permanent, and what if…” Before I could finish my sentence, B jumped in, “What if the 70s’ bush comes back in style??” We both broke into laughter, but then I started thinking, “Hmmm, exactly! Ahhh…the 70s’ bush.”

When I think of the 70s’ bush, I feel nostalgic (and I think of my mom….but that’s neither here nor there and, god, I hope she hasn’t discovered this blog yet). I feel nostalgic because everything that I learned about sex, I learned from the cartoons contained within issues of 1970s’ Playboy magazines. And everything that I learned about the female body, I learned from the beautiful women contained within issues of 1970s’ Playboy magazines.

My dad had a huge stack (probably 2 feet tall) of Playboy magazines in his study. Whenever my parents would leave the house, my brother and I would look at each other with a devilish gleam in our eyes and race to the stack of magazines. [I realize that it sounds really fucking weird that my brother and I looked at Playboy magazines together, but, I mean, we were probably 7 and 9 years old…and it was just naked women and cartoons. I certainly didn’t think that it was weird then; I just knew that we weren’t supposed to be looking at them. ] One of us would climb atop my dad’s office chair while the other one would wait below for the stack to be handed down. We would each get our own magazine to look at, and occasionally, share with the other one when we came across something of interest. “Hey, Todd, look at this woman’s nipples! They look like Sno-Caps!”

Anyway, I suppose that growing up in the 1970s’ and being an occasional peruser of Playboy magazines from that era has caused me to be not too hip to the appearance of a bald pussy. Also, I went through puberty so fucking late that I’ve probably been bald down there longer than not. Which reminds me…one time, my mom took me to a doctor (not the specialist in Charlotte who I mentioned in another blog) to see what was wrong with me (as far as my physical development was concerned). I remember laying naked on the examination table, and a youngish male doctor coming into the room. He looked at my non-existent breasts then he pushed his glasses up on his nose and leaned down over my pubic area. He passed his fingers over my “mound” (is that a technical term? It’s kind of a gross word. Anyway…) and proudly declared to my mom, “I think she has some pubic hair coming in!!” Mortified, I could only think, “Halla-fucking-luyah, motherfucker, you don’t think I’ve been turning sideways in the mirror to see if I’m sprouting breasts or examining my mound for pubic hair for the past 2 fucking years? I already knew that I’m sprouting pubic hair! You suck!”

So, why would I want to rip out every last piece of hair in my pubic region (and beyond) after I had yearned for pubic hair for so long during my early teenage years? I’m not sure. But, on Wednesday of last week, I made an appointment at WAX salon in Inman Park for a bikini wax. (I’m not sure whether or not I should interrupt here to mention that, even though I had never had a professional bikini wax, my shit was still tidy…hmmm…I might remove this later.)

I showed up for my appointment and the waxmatician (I don’t know what they’re called…I made that up) came out to get me. She led me into her room where, I must point out, the walls did not go to the ceiling. So everything that was said could clearly be heard from the waiting room. Once in the room, she told me to remove all of my clothing from the waist down and hop up on the table. So I took off my pants and underwear. Leaving on my hoodie and black and pink argyle socks, I climbed on the table. And sat there. How am I supposed to sit? Do I cross my legs? Sit Indian-style? Lay down on the table? There was a huge mirror facing me and I looked a little bit ridiculous and a large bit scared shitless.

The waxmatician walked into the room and told me to lay down and drop my legs off either sides of the table. Then, just as the doctor from my teenage years, she leaned over and started examining my pubic hair. “Wow, you don’t really have much hair at all!” she exclaimed, “are you sure that you don’t want to just do a Brazilian wax?” In my typical goofy-when-uncomfortable way, I started explaining my past relationship with 1970s’ Playboy magazines. After several minutes of me rambling on and on about the 70s’ bush, I looked up at her face. As confusion and maybe even a little horror washed over her face, I realized that my highly-skilled waxmatician was probably barely over 21 years old. She was probably going through puberty during the dawn of the Brazilian Bikini wax. She had no recollection of the 70’s bush. Or the somewhat natural beauty of the women who once appeared in the pages of Playboy magazine. She had matured in an era of fake eyes, fake lips, fake boobs, no body fat and no body hair.

Deciding to stick with the basics, I politely declined her suggestion to get a Brazilian wax. I also declined her “landing strip” suggestion. But, I must admit that even though I don’t like the look of Brazilian waxes, I also know that I cannot leave any area of current interest undiscovered. That being said, I have no doubt that I will be back at WAX salon in a few months. Nervously biting my lip. As my 21 year old waxmatician violently rips every last strand of hair from my pubic region. Then I’ll move on to a new obsession. A new “first”. Sky diving, maybe.

Beating the Heart

2010-02-06T11:07:00.000-08:00

I tried the curry recipe again tonight. I first attempted it last week. With shrimp. Tonight I made it with tofu. It’s unnecessarily complicated. Damn Martha Stewart. Sure, I could have bought a bottle of curry paste and a can of coconut milk, dumped them in the pan and had dinner ready in 20 minutes. But, for some reason, maybe because it is my nature, I was determined to be complicated. For the curry powder, I toasted coriander and cumin seeds, combined them with turmeric, cinnamon and cayenne pepper and ground them in an old coffee grinder. Then, I had to make the lemongrass paste. Oh, the fucking lemongrass paste.

Last week, while making the lemongrass paste, I thought that I did everything that the recipe required. I peeled off all of the tough outer leaves and then pounded the shit out of the lemongrass. Then I cut it up, threw it in a pot with some shallots, garlic and water and boiled it for 10 minutes. It was supposed to be tender after all of that. It wasn’t. So I boiled it another 10 minutes. It still wasn’t tender. I burst into tears. Tears of utter frustration.

I, then, threw the mixture into my blender. I turned on the blender. The very welcome sound of stubborn pieces of lemongrass being sliced filled the air. One second later, satisfaction melted into disappointment as I listened to the blades of the blender cutting through nothingness. I removed the lid and noticed that the paste was plastered against the side of the pitcher. I pushed it down with a spatula and started the blender. Once again, satisfaction greeted me. But only for a second.

I continued this pattern of scraping down the sides of the blender and blending for several seconds until my frustration turned into anger. I started the blender and carefully slid the spatula down the side of the pitcher knocking the wall-flower paste back onto the dance floor. Tough strands of lemongrass flew into my face. Testing my reflexes, for the next 5 minutes, I choreographed a frantic dance with my spatula and blender. I slowly slid the spatula down towards the paste, nervously flicked the paste towards the blades and then quickly slammed the lid onto the pitcher. Many minutes (and tears) later, I had a somewhat useable lemongrass paste.

I tried the recipe again tonight. Typically, if a recipe does not turn out well, I will never revisit it. I throw it in the trash and move on with my life. But tonight, I was determined to make this one work. Maybe I just felt that there had to be one motherfucking thing in my life right now that I could make work. People cook with lemongrass all of the time. Dammit, I’ve even cooked with lemongrass before. This had to work. I had to make it right.

So I went to the farmer’s market this afternoon and bought a stalk of lemongrass. I came home and removed all of the outer leaves. There was essentially nothing left. Except the heart. I got out my meat pounder and beat the shit out of it. I beat the heart. It felt so good. Lemongrass was flying in my face and all over the kitchen. There was not much left on my cutting board by the time that I was finished. I repeated all of the steps from last week. After boiling the pounded bits of lemongrass for 10 minutes, I picked up a piece and placed it on my tongue. I held it there for a second. Praying that it wouldn’t be tough. I maneuvered it towards my back teeth and bit down. It was tough. Just as tough as the lemongrass from last week.

With mounting frustration, I threw the mixture into the blender. Several seconds after turning the blender on, my heart sank as I heard the all too familiar sound of the blades whirling through emptiness. I felt my cheek twitching and tears filling my eyes. I turned off the blender and sank to the floor. With my back against the kitchen island cabinets, I dropped my head to my knees and cried. I cried tears of anger. Tears of frustration. Sadness. Irritation. Confusion. I cursed the blender, the lemongrass, Martha Stewart and my silly resoluteness.

I sat on my kitchen floor and cried for another ten minutes. Then, I stood up and brushed myself off. I grabbed the spatula from the utensil drawer and commenced the lemongrass-spatula-blender dance. Except this time, I didn’t bother with the lid. I purposefully leaned over the pitcher as bits of lemongrass, shallots and garlic ricocheted into my face and hair. I delighted in the childish feeling of getting dirty and not giving a fuck.

I finally sat down to eat the curry. As I ate, from the bottom of my eyes, I could see pieces of lemongrass paste clinging to the end of my nose and the edges of my cheeks. The curry was good despite the fibrous bits of lemongrass that I had to continually fish out of my mouth. After I was done eating, I tossed the recipe into the recycling bin. Lemongrass paste be damned. I have more important things to focus on anyway...beating my own heart.

2009 Lesson #1

2010-02-02T15:12:00.000-08:00

Last week, I stumbled upon this web article, entitled “25 Lessons”, by Rory Freedman. It contained a list of 25 lessons that she learned in 2009. It was clever and relatable (for me, anyway). My friend, Andy, challenged me to make my own list. Just kidding. She didn’t challenge me. She just suggested that we both create our own lists. Her list popped up yesterday. It was clever and relatable. So, feeling the pressure (just kidding), I started thinking about my own “25 Lessons from 2009” list. Twenty-five. That’s a lot of lessons. I’m sure that I learned that many. Actually, I’m sure that I gained more than 25 bits of wisdom in 2009. But, so far, I have come up with one.

Lesson 1: Unconditional love from a furry friend is irreplaceable.

My furry friend died March 9, 2009. She had been sick since September 2008 (or, at least, that is when we discovered that she was sick). I tried everything in my power to keep her alive. For 12 weeks, I awoke at 6:00 in the morning in order to get her to the UGA Veterinary Teaching Hospital by 8 am for her weekly chemotherapy treatments. I would hang out in various Athens’ coffee shops, waiting for the call from the doctors, informing me whether the chemo from the previous week had worked or not. Most days, the calls carried bad news. Nothing was working. After 3 months, we decided to discontinue the chemotherapy.

While doing copious amounts of research on her disease, I discovered a holistic vet in Atlanta who I thought might be able to help. After the first visit to the holistic vet, we headed home with various herbs, tinctures and vitamins to try out on Mocha. We also headed home with recipes for dog food (the vet suggested that we start cooking Mocha’s meals using vegetables and meat). So the next day, I headed to the farmer’s market and purchased carrots, broccoli, cauliflower and 10 lbs of chicken to make her food. It was a pain in the ass making her food every day for many weeks. But I loved her, so it was worth it.

As February rolled into March, Jonathan and I knew that Mocha would not be with us much longer. She was bleeding all over the house and her glands in her neck had become so swollen that she could hardly breathe. The nights were rough. Mocha’s labored breathing would keep us awake at night. But during the days, she would sit in her usual spot, on the deck, with a smile on her face as she watched the world pass by.

Finally, on March 9th, 2009, Jonathan, Mocha, Kaya and I piled into the car and headed to the vet. On the way, we stopped at Wendy’s and bought Mocha a Junior Bacon Cheeseburger, an order of French fries and a Frosty. She thoroughly enjoyed it all. Especially the Frosty. When we arrived at the vet, we left Kaya in the car and solemnly walked Mocha into the vet’s office. Our vet had already gone home for the day so we left her with another vet. To be euthanized. We didn’t stay with her. It breaks my heart now to know that we weren’t there when she passed away. But, at the time, we thought that it was the right thing to do. As we walked away, never to see Mocha again, she desperately tried to get a grip on the slick linoleum floor in order to follow us to the car. It was a terrible last image to have of our precious dog. An image that constantly haunts me.

Two weeks ago, I reread all of my journal entries for 2009. It was part of my “process”. To see what I learned about myself in 2009. To see what I changed. What I didn’t change. What I still need to change. And what really doesn’t matter anymore. Two weeks ago, I was also depressed. As I approached the journal entries for March 9th, I knew that I couldn’t read anymore. I was already depressed. Did I really need to revisit the day that we took Mocha to the vet to be euthanized? So I put off the March 9th and 10th entries until several days ago when I was feeling stronger. Here is my entry from March 10th, 2009:

We put Mocha to sleep yesterday. I’m sad. She was my favorite dog ever. She was my best friend. Yesterday, before going to the vet, Mocha and I sat on the deck and shared edamame. It was her favorite food. I didn’t invite Kaya. I would squeeze the beans out of a pod. I would eat one and, then, I would give her one. After we were done, she happily walked with me to the compost pile to dispose of the pods.
I appreciate that her sickness has taught me so much about the fragility of life and the importance of each second. Each hand/paw shake. Each kiss. Each [can’t read the word]. Each laughter. Each tear.
I miss mocha. I miss her joy for life. I miss how she greeted everyone with love and acceptance. I wish that I could be more like that. I know that I learned so much from her. And I know that she came into my life soon after I told mom and dad that I thought getting a dog would make me happy. And she tried so hard. And she did. Make me happy.
I need to blow my nose.
I want to thank Mocha. For coming into my life when she did. For always being concerned when I cried. For laying next to the bathtub and keeping me company while I was in the shower. For happily greeting me every time I came home. For protecting me – physically and emotionally. For smiling. For barking at motorcycles. For bringing pecans in from the back yard for us to crack for her. For her bark. For her howl. For her head that smelled so good (except when she rolled in deer shit or a dead animal). For her innocence. For her zest for life. For her independence. For her inquisitiveness. For never listening (it was aggravating, but cute). For her love of snotty tissues. For making road trips fun and less lonely. For being her.
Thank you, Mocha.

It has been almost a year since Mocha died. I still think about her all the time. I’m sure that I learned way more than 25 things from her alone. But for now, 2009 Lesson #1: Unconditional love from a furry friend is irreplaceable.
RIP, Mocha “Woofy Pants” .

I See London, I See France, I Have No Clean Underpants

2010-01-27T12:18:00.000-08:00

I have an interview today. It is the first interview in several weeks to which I am actually planning on going. Two weeks ago, I just didn’t show up for one. No call. Nothing. Just didn’t show up. Last week, I cancelled an interview (with the same person whom my interview is with today) due to “car trouble.” I just wasn’t feeling it. You know, the whole depression thing. But, I think that I’m starting to emerge from the darkness. And I think that I’m ready to get this whole life thing back on track.

So, like a good, responsible adult, I’m going to a scheduled interview today. There’s only one problem. Unlike a good, responsible adult, I don’t have any clean underwear* to wear. I ran out of clean underwear about a week ago. I haven’t really left my house so I don’t need underwear anyway. But, the whole interview and no clean underwear scenario presents quite a problem. The way that I see it, I have 3 options. I can wear:

1. Dirty Underwear
I’m really not fond of dirty underwear. If I had any laying on my bedroom floor, I would be apt to wear them. But I don’t. All of my underwear is in the overflowing laundry basket. Buried under wet towels, cigarette smoke infused jeans, Jonathan’s work clothes and his stiff, dirty socks. I think that it is the dirty socks that bothers me the most. Underwear dampened from being buried underneath wet, musty towels is bad. But the very thought of the crotch of my underwear coming into contact with Jonathan’s socks makes my vagina itch. Moving on…
2. No Underwear
I am a huge fan of no underwear. Especially in the summertime. With long skirts. Honestly, I don’t really see the purpose of them. I meant to Google the purpose of underwear before I started writing this, but forgot…I’ll do it later. Typically, I would be fine without underwear; however, I just don’t feel like I would be able to conduct myself professionally during an interview without them. On to choice #3…
3. Impractical Underwear
The pair of Impractical Underwear is always the last pair of underwear in my underwear drawer. They are bubble-gum pink, mesh-y, and don’t have a bit of elastic in them (consequently, they always end up bunched up in my ass crack). Let me tell you how I acquired this most impractical, very pink, stupid pair of underwear.

So, when I got married, my awesome friend, Emily, threw a bachelorette party for me. It was a classy and festive gathering of many of my favorite girlfriends. Most came bearing beautiful, girly packages wrapped in the familiar hot pink and pale pink striped tissue paper from Victoria’s Secret. One gift after the other, I delicately unfolded tissue paper to reveal very pretty and very silky negligees. They were very sleek and sexy. But, I’m not really a silk kinda girl. And I’m really not a negligee kind of girl. And I’m definitely not a silky negligee kinda girl.

So, a few days later, I threw all of the sexy little numbers into a bag and headed out to the mall. I walked into Victoria’s Secret and plunked the big bag on the counter.
“I want to return these things that I got at my bachelorette party,” I told the saleslady.
“Do you want to exchange them for something else?” she asked.
“Umm, I don’t suppose that I could get some cash for them, could I?” I questioned her.
“Uh, no” she replied with disdain, “But I could help you find something that you might like better.”

I reluctantly agreed to let her show me some reasonable alternatives. I followed her around the store, muttering “no” and rolling my eyes every time she showed me something. Then, I looked over and saw the sleepwear section. It was full of soft, garishly plaid flannel pajamas and big, chunky sweatshirts.

“There!” I exclaimed, “I’ll get some of those!”
The girl looked at me.
“This is supposed to be for your honeymoon, right?” she asked
“Yea, but it’s cool. My boyfriend and I, we’ve lived together for 7 years. I’m sure that he’ll be cool with the flannel PJs” I replied.
But as soon as I said it, and saw the look on the saleslady’s face, I knew that I couldn’t take flannel PJs and chunky sweatshirts on my honeymoon. I thanked the saleslady for her help and told her that I would just look around on my own.

After inspecting some god awful, terribly uncomfortable-looking lingerie, I came across this army green, cotton….um…thing that was trimmed in soft, bubblegum pink lace. Army green and pink looked pretty cool together. Since it didn’t even cover my ass, I figured that it would be apropos for a honeymoon. I looked around and found a pair of bubblegum pink panties (those things are fucking panties…they are absolutely useless and lame…like the word “panty”) that kinda matched the bubblegum pink lace on the…um…thing.

So that’s how I acquired the pair of “Impractical Underwear.” I’ve had to wear them in a pinch before, but they’re hella uncomfortable. And the thought of wearing them to an interview seemed very unappealing. I knew that throughout the entire interview, I would be focused on somehow undetectably fidgeting just enough to work the ball of pink mesh out of my ass. And then, if I was not successful at fidgeting the mass out of my ass (seriously, my ass EATS that pair of underwear), then I would be really self-conscious when I stood up in my sleek and classy lil Banana Republic slacks.

In the end, I chose Option #3 – The Impractical Underwear. It seemed like the best option. But, I think that they made me say inappropriate things. For example, god, I can’t believe I said this, but at one point in the interview, I said, “Look, if you’re looking for a geek that totally enjoys sitting in a dark room, writing code and playing Dungeons and Dragons until 2 am, I’m not your person. I have a life.”

That’s what a bunch of pink mesh in my ass and high heel shoes does to me. I turn into an irrational, bitchy woman (more so than usual). Needless to say, I do not think that I got that job. After the interview, as I walked towards my car, I picked my underwear out of my ass, removed my bullshit high heel shoes and headed home to do some laundry.

*NOTE: I think that women are supposed to call underwear, “panties.” But, I, absolutely, cannot say that word without feeling a little bit of vomit fill my mouth. I’ve never been able to say that word. It bothers me. I remember, one time, at a slumber party, a bunch of girls were talking about panties. I thought that I would give it a try and say something about my panties. But as soon as I said the word “panty”, I felt terribly wrong and have not been able to say the word since.

The Bright Side of (My) Depression

2010-01-18T08:27:00.000-08:00

Before I start bemoaning my current state of existence, let me just say that I am, technically, NOT in a deep depression. I have been sad and confused for several weeks, therefore, for simplicity’s sake, I’m going to say that I am depressed. But not in a depression. Because, believe me, I’ve been in a depression. I’ve been doubled over on the floor. Curled up in the fetal position. Sobbing. Rocking back and forth. As if the rocking could somehow coax me into happiness. Yea, so I’m not quite there. With that being said, let us take a look at the bright side of my depression.

Appetite Suppression
A lot of people, when they are depressed, tend to overeat. I, thank god, am not one of those people. When I am depressed, I, uncharacteristically, find food very unappealing. Not that I need to lose weight, but…on the bright side, that little extra layer of fat on my belly??? It will be gone by next week. But, in actuality, there is probably not an extra layer of fat on my belly, but when you are raised by a body dysmorphic mother, there’s always some fat, somewhere, to be gotten rid of. And, thanks to my depression, I will be rid of all unnecessary body fat soon.

Congratulating myself
Everything is difficult when you are depressed. Everything. Answering the phone is a fucking chore. Taking a shower is next to impossible. So when I’m depressed, I try to look at everything as an accomplishment…
I just rolled out of bed and it is not yet noon. Way to go, A!
I just washed my hair and it’s only been a week. Yahoo!
I just followed a conversation…for 1 minute. I don’t remember the last 15 minutes of it, but I did get the first minute! Gold star for me!

Fully completing certain tasks...several times
For example, the other day, I had to pee. I went to the bathroom, unzipped my pants, sat down and peed. I wiped, stood up, flushed the toilet and washed my hands. After drying my hands, I looked at myself in the mirror. And then I asked my reflection, “What did I come in here for?” A few seconds later, I remembered that I had gone to the bathroom because I had to pee. So I unzipped my pants, sat down and peed. But only a few drops came out. “Oh, that’s right”, I thought “I’ve already done that.” So I wiped, stood up, flushed the toilet and washed my hands. Then I headed to the kitchen to rewash the clean dishes that were drying next to the sink.

Embracing "Just Being"
I’m kind of cheating on this one. Pema Chodron writes, “Be with what’s happening; don’t dissociate.” I feel like I’m getting pretty good at that. But I think it is because I don’t have the energy or the will to not be with what’s happening.

Several days ago, when I came home from an unsuccessful writing attempt at a coffee shop, I dropped my bags immediately inside the door and, very heavily, walked towards the couch. When I felt that I was in close proximity, I collapsed onto it. I reached for the dog blanket, and yanked it over my head. I laid there. Completely hidden from the world. In a cocoon. My breath filled the space with warmth. My breath also, unfortunately, accentuated the rank odor of my dog’s ass that permeated the blanket. It smelled terrible. Really. But I couldn’t move. I laid there for awhile. Numb.

And then I decided that I should take my mind off of my woes. I rolled over and stared at the objects on my coffee table. An unread Sunday edition of the New York Times (it was Thursday). Pema Chodron’s, as of late, unmoved book. Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramhansa Yognanda. Unopened mail. A neglected, dying plant. 2 beautiful books sent to me recently by my dear friend, Shauna. Unviewed, overdue DVDs from Blockbuster. Four remote controls.

All of these things stared back at me. There were so many potential distractions. I picked up the NY Times and tried to read a travel article. I felt like I had to masticate, swallow and fully digest every single word. Otherwise, I would have no idea what I was reading. Many minutes later, I finished the article. Thoroughly exhausted, I decided that I didn’t have the energy to read anymore. I picked up the TV remote and turned on the TV. I have not watched TV in months, but I thought that it might distract and entertain me. Judge Judy was on. I turned the TV off. I rolled over to face the back of the couch. I pulled the dirty dog blanket back over my head. And I just laid there. And then I cried.

I didn’t get hit by a MARTA bus
Yesterday, I turned in front of a bus in a moment of depressed recklessness. Fortunately, I did not get hit. I’m extremely happy about that now.

I pray
I rarely pray. Um, ok, I never pray. But, lately, I find myself saying “god” a lot. It’s so weird to hear that word come out of my brain. In a serious way. Like, in a really talking to god kinda way.

I was in the shower last night, washing my face, and all of a sudden, I heard myself say, “god, please help me through this.” As soon as I said it, I thought, “what the hell? Where did that come from? Who/What is god? And why am I all of a sudden asking for his/her/its help? Hello, god, it’s me, A., I know that you haven’t heard from me in 15 years or so, but could you do me a favor? Could you send me a little guidance? Just a little help. Nothing much. A nudge, if you will. Definitely help out the people who really need your help first. Definitely. But, if you have a little bit of time and energy left, I could really use your help…”

Every time that I catch myself sending a little prayer out into the universe (and to “god”), I freak myself out a little. It’s unfamiliar. The last time that I really remember praying is when I was in elementary school. My parents would drop me off at my grandmother’s house for the weekend. At night, she would tuck me into her soft, well-worn sheets, and then she would perch on the side of the bed to listen to my prayer.
“Dear God, Thank you for my mom and dad, Nana and granddad, and Mammaw and Pawpaw,” I would start out. My prayers always started exactly like that. I thanked god for all of my family members. Except my brother (Sorry, Todd). And then I would continue, “Thank you for dinner. It was good. Thank you for lunch and breakfast and my snacks. Thank you for food. Thank you for my dog. And, let me make a hundred on my spelling test next week. Please. Amen.”

My grandmother would always correct me. Supposedly, god found the word “please” offensive. The proper way to beg for a hundred on next week’s spelling test was to say, “god, let me make a hundred on my spelling test next week, if it be thy will.” By saying, “if it be thy will”, I was giving god the option of granting my request or not. No pressure, god.

I must say that, until just now…this very second, I had completely forgotten about the “if it be thy will” part of prayer. Maybe I’ll start throwing that in. For good measure. My new plea for help…I mean prayer … will definitely maybe conclude with “if it be thy will”. “God? Are you there? Please help me. Please, please, please help me. I need a little help, please. I just feel a little fucked up, god. Could you help me, please? If it be thy will. Amen.”

And, finally, in all seriousness…
Greater appreciation for joy and happiness, pain and suffering… life.
This is the absolute greatest result of having to go through a period of depression. I learn so much about myself. And the people around me. I feel connected to other people’s suffering. My heart breaks for people living with pain, people living in fear and people fighting desperation. For once, I’m not just going about my ordinary life, ignoring the things that should be important in my world. Depression puts the brakes on ignorance. Depression demands that you stop and open up to yourself and others. Depression wakes you up.

As much as I appreciate my depression for this reason and this reason alone, I feel terribly guilty about being depressed. I feel like a spoiled brat. I was talking to my friend, B, the other day, and I was like, “Fuck…there are all these people that would kill to have 8 phone calls a day with job offers…and I’m such a fucking shit that I can’t even answer their calls. And I don’t return their calls. And all these people in the world are truly suffering and look at everything that I have. What the fuck?” B’s response was, “Well, at least you feel guilty, that should totally help your depression…” Totally.

So those are a few things that make depression bearable. One more thing. Between me and you. If you see me out in public, please don’t approach me with concern in your eyes, touch my elbow, and ask me how I’m doing. I appreciate the concern for my mental health. I really do. But it’s not necessary. Instead, could you walk up to me, hit me on the shoulder, and say something like, “How’s it going, you ole miserable fuck? How’s the depression treating ya?” That way, I won’t feel guilty. I won’t feel like a total schmuck for being sad and confused. Because, I’m going to get through this thing. I am. If it be my will.

House Rules*

2010-01-08T12:24:00.000-08:00

*these rules don't apply to most people. but there are some people (who might be sitting on my couch right now) to whom they are applicable.

Don’t bother the dog.
If my dog doesn’t like you, well…she doesn’t like you. There is absolutely NOTHING that you can do to make her like you. Sure, you can hand her some bacon or a steak, and she will gladly accept it from you. But, as soon as she has consumed the bacon or steak, she will start growling at you again. So, basically, you just wasted a perfectly good steak. The more you try to win her love. The more she will hate you. Also, the more I will hate you. So, please, when I tell you to ignore the dog, even if you love challenges or were neglected as a child and just feel the need to make everyone love you, just ignore the fucking dog.

Don’t eat my leftovers unless I offer them to you.
Yes, I know that there is often some good looking leftovers in my refrigerator. It’s because I’m a pretty good cook. And the food is lovingly packaged up in my fridge because I enjoyed it the first go-round, and I plan on enjoying it again later. If I offer you some, I would love for you to eat some. Or, if it is molded, help yourself. But if not, keep your grubby hands off my food. Even if jonathan offers you my leftovers, I advise you not to eat them. In most cases…no, in all cases, he wasn’t the one who spent 3 hours making the homemade manicotti with homemade tomato sauce. So, it’s not really his to offer.

You can watch TV, but…
Turn the volume down.
You may not watch Jerry Springer, Cheaters, Maury Povich or any other show that involves a bunch of horribly ignorant people yelling at each other.
Do not talk to me about what you are watching. If I cared, I would be watching as well.

No you cannot use my computer.
But help yourself to Jonathan’s computer.

If I don’t respond to anything that you are saying, it means I don’t want to talk to you. Please quit talking to me.

If Jonathan was the one who invited you here, and he leaves. Maybe you should leave too.
(unless you’re James…you can stay…really none of these rules apply to you, James. I love your visits!)
When you started recounting a Law and Order episode to me, I decided that I didn’t like you. Since I don’t like you, I don’t want to hang out with you. Please leave.

Sitting with Sadness

2010-01-02T12:01:00.001-08:00

Each day, we're given many opportunities to open up or shut down. The most precious opportunity presents itself when we come to the place where we think that we can't handle whatever is happening. Basically, life has just nailed us...
You have no choice except to embrace what's happening or push it away.
-Pema Chodron

Pema Chodron is my saving grace right now. If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably be sitting here right now with beautiful red streams spewing from my wrists. Just kidding. But. I take Pema everywhere with me right now. She sits on the sink next to me while I shower. She rests on the kitchen counter while I wash dishes. She sleeps on the floor next to my bed. She runs errands with me. She is always in sight. She helps me feel normal. She helps me to not fear my emotions. And to stay with them even though they scare the shit out of me. Sadness is hard. Uncertainty is even harder. As is Shame. It’s so very difficult to sit with emotions when you don’t know how long they are going to be sitting with you. Am I going to still be feeling this way two weeks from now? It doesn’t matter. That is the point. According to her, I should just “be” with what’s happening.

So I started thinking about sitting with my “difficult” emotions. And then I started thinking about it too much. I first thought about Sadness. And sitting on the couch with him. What does he look like? First, I pictured an androgynous being with nothing identifiable about him/her. Just a sad mouth. And sad eyes. Sitting on the couch next to me. Saying nothing. Giving nothing. Taking nothing. It was aggravating. He/she was void of all personality. Except sadness. I didn’t like him/her. And his/her lack of any identifiable characteristics beyond sadness creeped me out a little.

I thought about another representation of Sadness. To sit on the couch with me. The first thing that popped in my jumbled brain was the sad bubble guy from the Zoloft commercials. I was just hanging out on my couch with the sad Zoloft bubble. Basically, there was an oval sitting next to me. He had no arms. No feet. He had a sad mouth and sad eyes, but he had no character. And he was a fucking oval. Sitting on my couch. That made me laugh. Oh shit, no, I’m supposed to be sitting with my sadness. And I had just ruined the moment. Or maybe laughter was part of the new moment. But sadness wasn’t the right emotion. It wasn’t the emotion that should have been sitting with me anyway.

Maybe, Uncertainty was more appropriate. I think that it is the underlying emotion. It might be the one that is responsible for bringing Sadness to the brunch. I don’t know. Uncertainty sucks because I’m, well, uncertain how long this Uncertainty is going to be hanging with me. So I started thinking about sitting with Uncertainty.

He was a lanky fellow. Very flexible too (oddly enough). Oh, you know what? He was a question mark. Sitting on my couch wearing a black, felt derby hat and black, shiny Oxford shoes. He actually looked a little arrogant. Arrogant men are the worst. The smug slump of his body fit into my couch a little too perfectly. The curve of his torso nestled into the crease of my couch. His slender legs finished with absolute finality into his shoes. And rested on my floor. He was an asshole. You know what, Uncertainty? I don’t feel like sitting with you anymore. The look on your face, the way your question-mark body fits my couch, your hat, your shoes, your smugness. Get the fuck out of here.

I still had to sit with Shame.
[note: this is not what Pema is talking about when she says to sit with your emotions. You are not supposed to dissect each emotion from your crazy little brain and try to deal with it individually. You’re just supposed to be present. Fully feel your emotions. That’s what she means by sitting with them. I just didn’t want you, mysterious reader, to think that I am a big dumbass and totally misinterpreting her writings. I know what she means. But when I tried to “lean towards my discomfort”, this is what happened.]
Shame was harder. Shame was the most difficult. Especially because of who showed up when I tried to sit with Shame. It was me. As a little girl. Extremely timid. Wearing a cute little embroidered jumper. Perfect bangs cut out of perfect hair. Polished Mary Jane shoes with white socks trimmed in lace. And heart-breaking sadness written across her face. She looked as though she had just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. But much worse. “Little Girl Me” was so shamed that she couldn’t move. She stood in the doorway and didn’t even try to approach the couch. Because any step could be a misstep. It was better to just not move. Her eyes would not….could not…meet mine. I stared at her. And then Sadness returned. I was sitting on the couch with the “Sad Zoloft Bubble” staring at the disgraced “Little Girl Me.” Uncertainty was no longer there. Yes, I was pretty certain that I was sad and full of shame.

Sitting with all of my difficult emotions was a bit too much for me. This time, I pushed them all away. Told them to leave. I did make the effort. And it will get easier. Baby steps. I will continue to try to relax and meet all of my emotions. Whether they are difficult or not. Just not tonight. I called Jonathan. He was at a gig and getting ready to go on stage. I told him that there were some strange people sitting on my couch and I couldn’t be alone with them anymore. He came home and sat on the couch with me. Tonight, he was the only person who I wanted on my couch. Maybe tomorrow I can sit with the others.

More Pema Chodron:
Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.

Sticking with uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic - this is the spiritual path.

Lean toward the discomfort of life and see it clearly rather than protect yourself from it.

Awakeness is found in our pleasure and our pain, our confusion and our wisdom, available in each moment of our weird, unfathomable, ordinary everyday lives.

I Was a Teenage Cutter. But Only for a Day.

2009-12-28T06:32:00.000-08:00

Christmas is over. I survived. I took a lot of showers and sat on the toilet a lot. I wasn’t actually using the toilet; I was just sitting on it. Thinking. Or Reading. Hanging out in the bathroom seemed to be the only way that I could get a little uninterrupted time to myself. Over the course of 3 days, I probably took 15 showers. And I changed my clothes often. I would hear my dad coming towards my room (closed doors mean nothing in that household). He would say, “What are you doing, Allison?” I would always reply, “Getting dressed.” Because any other reply would be an absolute invitation to barge into my room.

Christmas with the racists wasn’t so bad either. I didn’t hear the “N-word.” No one really said much about my 3 week cross-country journey either. Actually, my 15-year old cousin kindly provided the perfect distraction. Supposedly, she was upset because she didn’t get a $450 cell phone that she had wanted for Christmas. Everyone was focused on her attitude and her behavior. At first, I thought, “Damn, she must be a major spoiled brat to be pitching that kind of fit over not receiving a gift.” But, later in the evening, I saw her crying. I knew that she wasn’t upset because she didn’t get a cell phone. I could feel her sadness. It hurts me to see young girls in pain. It’s the worst. It saddens me. Because I’ve been there.

Seeing my cousin’s pain reminded me of when I was twenty years old. Sad, adrift and confused. I lived in a carriage house apartment on 10th Street in Atlanta. Right across from Piedmont Park. It was a cool, little apartment. It was very much my apartment (lots of art, lots of books, drippy candles, slipcovers, billowy curtains, random postcards and photos plastered to the walls…ahh, I want a twenty year old’s apartment again…anyway…).

While living in that apartment, I had a brief experience with being a teenage cutter (I think that I was actually 20 years old…but close enough to being a teenager. I was a late bloomer). For those of you who don’t know, a “cutter” is someone who inflicts injury upon themselves by making cuts on their skin. I never knew that there was a name for it until, many years after my cutting experience, I saw an episode of Maury Povich on teenage “cutters”. God, I can’t imagine the amount of pain that would cause someone to do that to herself. Well, I guess that I can because I’ve done it. But it’s hard to imagine now. Feeling that desperate. And that angry. That your only outlet, the only way to express yourself, is to disfigure your own body with long, bloody gashes across your skin.

I remember the first (and only) time that I cut myself. I was eating dinner on my couch. I was upset for some reason. It was probably because I liked a boy and he didn’t feel the same way. That’s quite pathetic, I know. But I’m pretty sure that must have been the reason for my sadness. I was eating off of my “Made in China” (with lots of lead, I’m sure) plates that my mom had acquired for me. At some point… maybe after a choked down bite of food… I laid down my fork. And I sat there for a second. Holding my plate in my lap. Then, I lifted the blue-flowered plate and hurled it across the room towards the kitchen wall. It hit the wall and shattered all over my kitchen.

I sat there for a second. I stared at the food and ceramic fragments littering my kitchen floor. Then the tears came. And real anger. I got up and walked into the kitchen. I picked up the first lead-laden, made-in-china plate fragment that I saw, and commenced to slashing enormous gashes into my arm. It felt really good. In a way. I was cutting the top side of my arm. Not the underside. I was nowhere near my wrist. So I was not trying to commit suicide. Nor was I screaming out for help. Or whatever other reasons that are used to psychologize big, bloody cuts in a teenager’s skin. I was just angry. And that is what I did.

I never did anything like that again. And, it’s a little embarrassing to share that part of myself with the world. It was a long time ago. I realize that what I am now is what I have been in the past. So I must look at the past Allison with compassion and forgiveness. Besides…I think that I’ve learned a lot from that sad and confused 20 year old girl. And, although she seems somewhat like a stranger to me now, I think that I finally understand her.

Cheating Myself of the Moment

2009-12-23T21:35:00.000-08:00

So, I’ve been at my parents’ house for 15 minutes and have already been called “inconsiderate.” I keep giving Jonathan these looks like, “this is going to be a really long 2 days.” He keeps looking back at me while pushing up the corners of his mouth with 2 fingers. As if to say, “Smile!!” I know that I’m not in the proper state of mind for a family visit. Jonathan knows it. My therapist strongly advised me against visiting my parents this Christmas. But she also told me to try stay in the moment. Listen to myself. If I need to leave, forgive myself for not having the strength to deal with it right now. And leave.

When I arrived, I closed my eyes as I walked by the Christmas tree. I thought that I might be able to appreciate it for its beauty even though I have no Christmas spirit this year. But I decided that I didn’t want to see it tonight. Maybe I’ll look at it tomorrow. Tomorrow is a new day. And tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Ah, Christmas Eve in Shelby, NC. I’m quite dreading the Christmas eve church service at First Baptist Church of Shelby, NC tomorrow. I am trying to come up with a plan so that I can wear my earphones/iPod to the service. Maybe listen to Rilo Kiley. Or The Smiths...Jeff Buckley...Mason Jennings. Or, really, anything. Besides Silent Night. And Joy to the World.

I think that a turtleneck will be essential to my plan. I’m sure that my mom owns a turtleneck. I hate turtlenecks, but they can come in handy. Like when you have a hicky on your neck (I'm not speaking from experience, after all, my first kiss didn't occur until I was 18, and by that time, I was way too mature to allow any guy to put one of those big, ugly, middle-school-style fuckers on my neck) or need to drown out a Southern Baptist church service. I could put my ipod in my pants…ah, the warmth…and then run the earphone cords up through my shirt and out the turtleneck and plop the pods into my ears. I straightened my hair today (it’s a midlife crises thing) so I could totally wear my hair down and in my face without looking like a madwoman. And my hair would cover the pods. And everything would be beautiful. I could sit through the whole service with a genuine smile on my face.

Jonathan told me that I was being silly. We’ll see. If I can find a turtleneck, it’s on.

On the drive up to my parents’ house, I started thinking about how I would respond to the questions about what I was wearing. They would ask, “What the hell do you have on, Allison?” And, I would respond, “Um, it’s called a skirt.” Wait, no, that’s no good. Hmmm, how can I respond. Ah, well, maybe they won't comment on it anyway.

Of course, they commented on it. Every single member of my family (except for my mom. Who is evidently pissed at me because we didn’t get here in time for dinner so she went to bed. I actually do feel bad about that. But I didn’t know that she was cooking dinner). My dad asked if I was “wearing a tent.” My cousin just kind of looked me up and down and chuckled. My grandmother (but I forgive her because she’s almost 101 years old) asked me, “Well, Allison, what do you have on??” Admittedly, my outfit is a little strange. I’m wearing boots, 70s’-style tube socks (with the stripes at the top), a big, ugly pink skirt, a black shirt, a gray hoody, and a multicolored scarf. I felt like I needed layers. I’ve stripped off a lot of layers from myself recently. I just felt like I needed to add a few back on around my family. Extra protection for my fragile lil self, if you will.

I know that extra layers of clothes aren’t going to get me through this. They’re not going to get me through the next few days. And they’re not going to get me through any of the problems that I currently face. I just have to keep reminding myself to stay present. I have my moments. Where I’ll fire off a totally inane text message to someone because I temporarily lost sight of myself. Or I’ll get really upset and fearful about decisions that I am making. And I worry about the future. And I fret over the ramifications of current actions and reactions. But I just have to remember that I am on a path. As Pema Chodron writes (in “When Things Fall Apart”), “We all need to be reminded and encouraged to relax with whatever arises and bring whatever we encounter to the path.” Yes, I must remind myself of that every second of every day.

Hey, can I share with you some more of Pema Chodron’s wisdom from “When Things Fall Apart”? I have a notebook that I keep with me while I’m reading. And I write down important thoughts and messages that I read. I constantly pull the notebook out of my bag to read what I have recorded . Just to remind myself to stay grounded and to embrace whatever emotions that I encounter however scary they may seem. Here are a few bits of insight from the amazing Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron:

There is a great need for maitri (loving-kindness toward oneself), and for developing from that the awakening of a fearlessly compassionate attitude toward our own pain and that of others.

“Chaos should be regarded as extremely good news.” – Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche

Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth.

The most heartbreaking thing of all is how we cheat ourselves of the present moment.

The next time you encounter fear, consider yourself lucky.

Keep exploring and don’t bail out.

That’s all for now.
Well, me and my inconsiderate self are going to go search for a turtleneck now. ummm. Merry. Gulp. Christmas.

Day 22: Time to Go Home. And Put My Hands Down My Pants.

2009-12-16T11:39:00.000-08:00

Day 22. I couldn’t wait to get out of the motel where I stayed last night. It creeped me out. I was planning on sleeping later than usual, but some dickhead next to me (or maybe down the hall. The walls were really thin) had his/her TV volume turned up at 7am. Nice, motherfucker. So I laid there awhile and then got out of bed. I’ve never gotten dressed so quickly. I actually think that I might smell a little like a bum right now. A bum who just ate at an Indian restaurant (I ate at an Indian restaurant in Little Rock. And I’m basically still wearing the same clothes. Except for my socks. And underwear. I ran out of those. They’re not really a necessary item of clothing anyway).

As I was packing my car, I started singing “Time to Go Home” by Michael Franti. It’s really a song about war, but I was applying it to my situation. I got in my car. Plugged in GPS Lady Friend. Plugged in my iPod and hit shuffle. Damn, if, out of all the songs on my iPod, “Time to Go Home” wasn’t the first song played. I’m taking that as a sign. I’m going home today.

Right now, I’m sitting in a Memphis coffee shop. I looked it up on Yelp. It’s in a neighborhood called Cooper-Young. I think that it’s supposed to be “hip.” It’s like a scaled down version of East Atlanta. It’s just me and the guy who works here. And a another guy. They’re both musicians. And they’re talking about music stuff. Recording software, etc. Ahhh, I feel right at home.

This morning, my first thought (after “motherfucker! Turn your TV down!”) was…”hmmm, I just want to go home, sit on the couch and watch TV with my hands down my pants.” I know that sounds weird, but I know at least 2 other girls who watch TV with their hands down their pants so I’m not really ashamed to admit it. I once told my boss that I liked watching TV with my hands down my pants (hmmm, maybe that’s why I don’t have a job right now?). His reply was, “Really? My wife does that too!” It’s just comforting. I’m not doing anything. I just got my hands down my pants.

Sometimes, while watching TV with Jonathan, he’ll ask, “Whatcha doing over there?”
And I’ll answer, “Nothing. What do you mean?”
Then he’ll mimic the way that I’m sitting..
And I’ll reply, “You know I just like sitting like this.”
Then he’ll say, “Well, if you get tired of having your own hands in your pants, let me know.”

Yea. Looking forward to hands-down-my-pants-tv-watching.

And good coffee. And drinking wine out of a real glass. And not trying to type “S-T-A-R-[fuck! Where’s the “B”?]-U-C-K-S” into GPS Lady Friend while flying down an interstate at 80 miles per hour. And. Well. Just being home.

Day 21: Ice, Ice Baby.

2009-12-16T06:14:00.000-08:00

Day 21. Oklahoma.
I’m pretty sure that my mom would shit a brick if she saw the motel that I’m staying in right now. I couldn’t make it to Memphis. I think that I’m halfway between Little Rock, AR and Memphis, TN. I’m sick of motels. Although…the one I stayed in last night had a really nice bed.

I set my alarm, this morning, for 8:53 because breakfast ended at 9. I was sleeping so soundly. The bed was really comfortable. It felt a lot like my bed at home. Several times, I woke up and thought that I was at home, but then I realized that I wasn’t crammed into the upper right quadrant of the bed due to the fact that a 110lb dog was taking up both lower quadrants. I was able to lay straight. And stretch out. That was nice. It was hard to get out of bed at 8:53, but I threw on a hoodie over my PJs and made it to breakfast just in time.

I took my breakfast back to my room and logged on to the internet to check my email. I noticed that Jonathan was on Facebook, so I hit him up. I asked him if he had talked to Luther about the party that we are supposedly having on Friday (Luther and I have been having joint birthday parties for awhile. Except we skipped last year). He said that he had and that he and Luther had everything covered (mmm hmmm). I started asking questions. About food. Drinks. The cleanliness of the house. Etc. Then, he asked me why I was worrying about such things. I replied that, as I got closer and closer to home, my anxiety and everyday worries were returning. Then, he said something.

I asked, “Is that a line from a song?”
He replied, “Ice Ice Baby.”

I have no idea what the line meant. Or how it fit into the context of our brief Facebook chat conversation. But I thought it was awesome. And very endearing. It made me smile all day. My husband just quoted a Vanilla Ice song to me. So beautiful.

That did lift my spirits. So I finished my breakfast and checked the weather. -2 degrees with the wind chill factor. Yikes. I had planned to check out a state park near my motel. Just because… I thought that I should see something besides asphalt in Oklahoma. I was actually looking for grasslands. Aren’t there supposed to be grassland in Oklahoma? How do you Google that? I wanted grasslands. Without cows. I kind of wanted to recreate Andrew Wyeth’s painting, Christina’s World, for my Day 21 photo. But then I remembered that the painting is of a woman who is paralyzed. And that’s why she is laying in the field. So it probably wouldn’t be very funny for me to recreate that.

So, I decided to go to the Red Rock State Park. There were a lot of red rocks. They kind of just looked like walls of Georgia red clay. So I wasn’t that impressed. I took some photos, but it was so cold and I had to pee really badly. The bathrooms were closed. So I went next to a red rock and peed. On my shoe.

As I was leaving the park, I realized that it is called “Red Rock Canyon” state park. So maybe there is a “canyon” somewhere. And I missed it. Oh well, I’ll catch it next time. No. I won’t. I have no interest in going back there.

I left there, and drove through Hinton, OK towards I-40. I saw some cows on the side of the road. In a field. “Hmmmm,” I thought, “that seems like an appropriate backdrop for my Day 21 photo in Oklahoma.” So I pulled over. As soon as I got out of my car, all the cows (and there were a lot) turned and looked at me. I was like, “What the fuck? Carry on with your grass eating. I’m just taking a quick photo.” A few of them starting running away from me. Some of them ambled towards me. By the time that I sat up my camera. They were all behind me. Lined up. Staring at me menacingly. Or maybe they were staring at me curiously. Either way. It freaked me out. It would have made an awesome photo, but it was so cold that I just wanted to take the photo. I wish that I would have sucked it up (the cold) in order to attempt a cool photo. But I didn’t. I don’t know. Cows are kind of scary.

I’m thinking about going home tomorrow. Skipping Memphis. And Faulkner’s town. My favorite writer wouldn’t want me in his house anyway.

Tired. Very, very tired.

Day 19: Openness. And 2 days in Albuquerque is a real long time in Albuquerque.

2009-12-14T10:13:00.000-08:00

For the most part, I did not enjoy the events of today. I woke up early after only 5 hours of sleep. But I didn’t feel that I could fall back asleep. So I got out of bed and checked the weather in Taos. It was snowing pretty heavily there. Although, Taos was one of the places that I most wanted to see, I decided that I would skip it. See it later. Next journey. Even though I was somewhat certain that I had made the right decision, I was still really bummed. My friend, Joe, had told me about a beautiful ashram there. That had a really wonderful lunch on Sundays (and it was Sunday). He had told me about very spiritual moments that he had experienced there. I wanted that. Not that, just because he had spiritual experiences, I would to. But it just seems like a very spiritual place.

I decided that I would quickly check out Old Town Albuquerque (blech!) and then take the scenic route to Santa Fe. I loaded up my car, told GPS Lady Friend of my destination, situated the ole ipod, and then cranked the car. Poor lil baby had kind of a rough time getting started. “Hmmmm, maybe she’s just cold,” I thought. So I put her in reverse and then stepped on the gas. She hesitated. “Come on, baby, I’m not super excited about the drive home either, but we gotta do it,” I pleaded with her. So we headed towards the highway to check out Albuquerque. She wasn’t having it. She was accelerating so slowly. Something was wrong with her.

To be honest, neither one of us felt that well. We’re both beat. I look like I’ve aged 10 years in the past week. Darkness surrounds my eyes and I’m pretty sure that I have some new facial lines and gray hairs. I’m so tired that I’m seeing magenta spots. She’s had her foot punctured by a nail. She’s covered in snow residue. Popcorn, used tissues, empty coffee cups and random receipts litter her floor.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I told her “We don’t have to drive today. I’ll get you checked out.”
But, it’s Sunday. Nothing is open. I went back to the motel where I had stayed the previous night and got a room for one more night. I went online and made an appointment to take my car in to the BMW dealership at 8:40 the next morning.

I didn’t want to sit in my room all day so I decided to rent a car and head to Santa Fe. I got the car and set out to check out Sandia Crest in the Sandia Mountains on my way to Santa Fe. I was definitely not prepared for the cold or the snow or the ice in the mountains. I was wearing sneakers with no socks. I was actually wearing a tank top when I left Albuquerque, but luckily, I had several coats with me. As I ascended the mountain, I watched the temperature dip from 44 degrees to 25 degrees by the time that I reached the top. The ferocious winds made it feel close to 0 degrees, I’m sure. The snow came half way up my shins, but I was determined to make it to the lookout point. That was such a difficult walk. Because of the cold, the wind and my lack of socks. But I made it. Took some photos (I couldn’t take a Day 19 photo because my hands were frozen and the winds were too strong to set up a tripod) and then started my trip to Santa Fe.

I guess that I just wasn’t feeling it today. I didn’t really care about anything that I saw. I passed through a really, cute, artsy town, called Madrid. A part of me wanted to stop. The other part of me just wanted to get to Santa Fe so that I could say that I had been there and then, turn around, head back to my motel and go to sleep.

I mainly wanted to go to Santa Fe to visit the Georgia O’Keefe museum. But, as I pulled into the city, my blood sugar was dropping quickly and I had to eat. I stopped at a Mexican restaurant. I had researched Santa Fe restaurants on Yelp the previous night. Everyone raved about a place called Café Castro. Supposedly, it has the best Mexican food in Santa Fe (wow…I’m sorry, Santa Fe, y’all are really missing out). I got 2 vegetarian tamales with green chile. It was fair. By the time that I got to the Georgia O’Keefe museum, it was 4:30 and it closed at 5:00. Sadly, I decided that it would not be worth my money to only have 30 minutes in the museum. So I left Santa Fe.

Basically, I drove to Santa Fe. Ate an unmemorable lunch. Skidded around on some ice. And left. That made me sad, too.

So those were the events of the day. Like I said, the events were not enjoyable. Maybe even a little stressful. But, despite all of that, I had some great communications with people today.

This morning, as I was checking the weather in Taos, I realized that I had an email from my dad. The subject was “Hi There.” At first, it scared me. The subject of my dad’s emails are usually along the lines of “Rufus” (he’s the dog) or “Computer problem” or “Itinerary.” So what kind of communication would a “Hi There” email contain? It was beautiful and open. I don’t think my family is very open with each other. It’s just hard for us to talk. Or at least, it is for me. And to have my dad reach out to me and be really honest with me was amazing. I probably shouldn’t share the contents of his email, but it is part of my journey. So I will.

He started out saying that I may have noticed that he hadn’t called in several days. (I had. I was actually wondering what happened. did they see my blog? Are they mad at me?) He said that he thought that I was “bugged” by his calls. He then continued to say that he loved me and was very proud of me for going on this journey. And he wrote, “I guess I have been reliving something I always wanted to do through your trip. If I seem overbearing at times (think they call it helicopter parents now -- as in parents who hover over their kids), it is because of how much you mean to me.” He closed his email by writing, “So have fun! Love, Dad.”

His email made me happy and, also, a little ashamed. Why haven’t I had any compassion for them and their feelings though out this journey? I felt like I had to completely break off all communication and honesty with them in order to fully be free. But this realization is good. I think our relationship just hit a new level. Although I am still their daughter. I am now, also, a woman. A strong woman. A woman who can, hopefully, have a deeper, meaningful relationship with my family. Because they mean a lot to me.

In his email, my dad told me it would make my mom happy if I called her. So on the way to Santa Fe, I called her. She was very happy to hear my voice. We small-talked for a second and then she told me that she didn’t think that I had “something like this” in me. “What do you mean?” I asked her. But I knew what she meant. Because the last time that I saw her, I probably didn’t have “this” in me. Something just switched (Thank, God!) and all of a sudden, whether I had it in me or not, I was going to do it. She told me that she could “never” do this. And that she would be too scared. That makes me sad, but I guess we all traverse the path at different times. And different rates.

The next cool communication came when I returned to my Albuquerque motel room. I checked my email and discovered that a girl, who I have not seen or talked to (besides Facebook) in over 20 years, had emailed me. I hope she doesn’t mind that I’m mentioning this because I know that she is following my journey. And this is one of the first times that I am going to mention something in my blog about which I am embarrassed. This girl…hmmm…I will call her Jane, found me on Facebook right before the last presidential elections. I quickly realized that we had completely opposite political views. Her status updates would anger me a bit, but unlike other people whose political views differed from mine, I did not “hide” her. Something about her intrigued me. I appreciated her honesty. I would often be tempted to “hide” her (sorry, “Jane”, I’m just being honest. I do love you though. Sometimes, I just would get angry when I saw your updates.) And now I have discovered the reason that I never did. The email that I received from her today was touching. Short and simple. And very appreciated.

The reason that I’m embarrassed to share all that is because of how narrow-minded I was. Before my journey, I almost put her in the “Not able to see my links/status updates” category because I thought my bad language would offend her (because she is definitely more religious than I am). But then, I decided (out of respect for her and myself) that I would let her decide whether she was offended by my blog or not. And, thank goodness that I did. Otherwise, I would not have received her email. And discovered that despite our differences, we’re both learning a lot about ourselves, travelling down similar paths and ready to start living. Very cool.

I can’t tell you how many messages that I have received from my girl friends. Telling me that I inspire them. That means a lot. It’s not my purpose. But I know how good it feels to realize that someone else is experiencing similar emotions to your own. Feeling as though others are discovering things about themselves through my journey, inspires me. So, thank you.

Day 18: I think he is saying "Sham-on."

2009-12-12T22:58:00.000-08:00

Phoneix, AZ.
I don’t think that I slept at all last night. I went to bed feeling sad, claustrophobic, lonely and a little angry. I was also cold. The heater was making so much noise that I turned it off. The motel was gross and oppressive. There was a crusty white stain on the floor next to the bed. I couldn’t shut off my mind. Thoughts were racing through my head. I felt really anxious and was tempted to get out of bed, pack the car and start my drive to Atlanta.

After laying in bed for about 30 minutes (I think it was 3:30), I heard a man singing. I can’t even describe how eerie it sounded. It actually sounded like the devil…if he was a Texan (and, of course, the devil is a man). And a vagrant. I got up and turned on the light because I pictured the devil smugly sitting on the desk across from my bed. Singing. With crossed legs and a really arrogant, evil face. I was like, “What the fuck? Am I going crazy? What is this?” It would get loud. And then it would go away. And then start up again. I’m sure that I’m not conveying the creepiness of the situation. I briefly considered calling Jonathan, but I knew that he would be asleep since it was 5:30am in Atlanta. Besides how would he defend me against the evil Texan, Singing Satan from 2,000 miles away?

I sat up in bed and was thinking “Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh. What’s happening?” I looked around the room and my eyes fell on the clock radio. Hmmm. I crawled across the bed to inspect it and realized that it was on. Someone had sat the radio to go off at 3:30AM. The demonic singing was coming from the clock radio. I was relieved to discover that I was neither going crazy (to that degree, anyway) nor sharing a motel room with a singing Satan.

My alarm went off at 8am. I wanted to get up earlier than usual so that I could check out the places in Phoenix that one of my best friends, Shauna, had told me about. I was so tired. My eyes hurt. I rolled over and placed my feet on the crusty, white stain (accidentally). I got dressed and headed out. I went to Mama Java’s coffee shop first (where Shauna once worked). I killed a breakfast sandwich. I was ravenous from not really eating dinner the previous night. I started trying to write my Day 17 blog, but I couldn’t write. And then I got upset. I actually teared up on the Mama Java couch (LAME). That song by City and Colour came on my ipod. I gave up on writing and headed out to Papago Park because Shauna said that there were cool rocks there.

They were really cool. They looked fake. But they’re not. The weather was cloudy when I left Mama Java’s and when I got to the park, it was sunny. It was beautiful. So amazing. Why have I not experienced this before? I’m 35 years old (minus 6 days). And I’m just seeing the desert? That’s fucked up.

So I left Papago Park. And headed towards Flagstaff. The previous night, I was very apprehensive about driving to Flagstaff because I knew that it was snowing there. But I did it anyway. The roads were clear and the snow was nice. I didn’t really get to spend much time in Flagstaff because I had a 5 hour drive ahead of me. I went to a local coffee shop. It was quaint. And packed. I ordered a veggie sandwich and a chai soy latte. I took my chai and sat down at the only seat. A barstool in the window. Facing the snowy street. I thumbed through the local independent newspaper and sipped on my yummy chai.

The table opened up next to me. I was going to move, but a man beat me to it. I finished looking at the newspaper and started thinking about what I should see/do in Flagstaff. I looked at the man next to me (the one who had snagged the table) and figured that I would see if he had any suggestions.

“Excuse me, “ I said.
“Yes?” he replied.
“Do you live in Flagstaff?” I said. To which he responded, “Yes.”
“Could you tell me something that I should definitely see while I’m here?” I continued.
To that he responded, “Oh...wow. you gotta come sit down over here. Tell me where you’re from and what you want to see.”

So I gathered up my coat, chai and ipod, and sat down at the table with him. His name was John (hi, john…I’m supposed to send him the link to my blog. Hmmm. It’s kind of weird writing about someone who might be reading this, but it’s part of my journey so I’m going to do it anyway). I guess his name IS John. I’m confused about what tense to use in this situation because I’m writing in past tense, but his name is still John. Oh, but I digress. Good wine, by the way.

My sandwich arrived, and shortly thereafter, John’s meal arrived. So I had lunch with a complete stranger. It was kind of cool. Just because I’m such a shy person. And the fact that I was able to sit down and have lunch with a complete stranger impresses me. I must say. He made some suggestions of things that I should see, but, by that time, I looked at my watch (not really, I looked at the clock on my cell phone) and it was 3:30. I still had 5 hours ahead of me and I have discovered that I don’t like traversing unknown highways in the dark. So I made a note of the places that John mentioned (because I will be back, Great West…I will), and bid John and Flagstaff farewell.

I arrived in Albuquerque around 9pm. That drive kind of sucked. I just looked at Google maps and realized that I gotta log some major hours/miles every day in order to get back to Atlanta by my birthday. I think that we’re supposed to be having a birthday party. [Man, this song grates my nerves…Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison…I’m listening to Pandora.] But I haven’t told anyone about it. I guess if people show up…cool. if not….cool. I know that I’m not making any fancy-shmancy appetizer shits this year. That’s just stressful. Funyuns and gummy worms. That will be the party food.

It’s totally out of the way. And I think that the roads will be treacherous. But I think that I’m going to go to Taos tomorrow. My friend told me to go there. And I’ve been doing everything that friends suggest. I think that I’ve mapped out the rest of the journey home. Lots of driving. But I am excited to take the newly stripped down version of Allison back to Atlanta. My home. For now.

Fish tacos from Day 17. i was so hungover...i felt like i was gonna barf all over my plate

Phoneix

Hey, shauna, does this bring back memories? The coffee and food were good. the chicks working there were cool. but there were some lame people in there. the cashier asked one chick if she wanted her coffee iced or hot. And the chick responeded, "tepid." I mean, come on...make your tepid coffee at home. but i liked the vibe of the place and the people working there.

Snow in Flagstaff

Snow. So exciting.

PS. About the title of this blog...I ,first, heard "Man in the Mirror" on my ipod as i headed into the Arizona desert (Day 8). it was awesome. i heard it again tonight. it's one of my journey theme songs.

Day 17: Ready to go home

2009-12-12T09:28:00.000-08:00

Day 17: Between San Diego and Phoenix. The mountains have a name, but I don't remember. Nor do I give a shit.
I don't know where I'm headed next. I just know that I'm ready to go home now. The end. Sorry. I have nothing.

Day 16: San Diego – Ohmygod, you, like, stepped on my Uggs.

2009-12-11T10:33:00.000-08:00

Day 16: Some ugly beach outside of Los Angeles
Day 16. I’m in a tapas restaurant in the Gaslamp District of San Diego. I texted my friend, Dwayne (see Day 14), who used to live in San Diego, to see if he had any restaurant recommendations. He recommended the Sevilla Café. So here I am. I typically hate tapas restaurants. I don’t like having to make multiple decisions. Nor do I like sharing my food. Nor do I like a small plate holding a small portion of food. To be honest, I have an acute aversion to tapas. And here I am. At a tapas restaurant. I’ll give it a go. Maybe since I don’t have to share with anyone, it won’t be too bad.

Oh. I’m writing on paper. Kinda weird.

The sangria is good. I could suck down 3 or 4 more or these. Maybe. But I’m not really staying in the nicest part of town. So I should probably stay on my toes.

When I was checking into the motel, I asked the front desk weirdo if the area was safe.
“Sure, “ he replied, “I’ll give you a map that shows where we are.”
He pulled out a map of downtown San Diego.
“We here,” (no, I didn’t leave out a verb…he did) he said, as he placed an “X” on the map. “You want to stay away from this area. Bad people here.” he said, as he drew a box around an area that is 2 blocks from where he placed the “X”.
“Oh, awesome” I thought. “I’m glad that bad San Diegoans know to stay in that block and not to venture 2 blocks over. Hmmm. I wonder if Atlanta could implement something like that?”

He handed me my room key and the map. Then he said, “From here to here”, placing one hand on top of his head and the other hand at chest level, “you remind me of Phoebe Cates. You personality. Do you know her?”
“Yes, I’ve seen Shag. Great movie” I replied sarcastically.
“Yes! Yes! It is” he replied, not sarcastically.
(actually, at one time, I really did like that movie)

I got to my room and discovered that the deadbolt didn’t work. I went back to Front Desk Weirdo and informed him of the situation. He told me that it was “by design” because of “something something something fire code.” What the fuck ever dude. I better not find your creepy ass in my room at 4:00 tomorrow morning.

I decided that I could live without the deadbolt. But then I discovered that neither the wireless internet nor the Ethernet worked. I can sacrifice safety, but an internet connection…I cannot do without. I went back to Front Desk Weirdo to tell him of the problem. He told me that I could use his office. Nevermind. I went back to the room and broke the internet router. It was already broken (as in, it didn’t work), but I pretty much broke it so that there is no chance in hell that it will ever work again. Nice, Allison. And I’m really not an angry or violent person. I was just hungry.

I just finished the tapas. It is better by myself, but it’s still not enough fucking food. Why do people like this overpriced, trendy bullshit? My piece of paper is full. And I got a show to go to. That sangria was bullshit, too. By the way.

(I do appreciate the recommendation, Dwayne. The food was good (I just didn’t get enough)..but, I did enjoy the atmosphere.)

[later]
Now I’m at the Brett Dennen/Grace Potter and the Nocturnals (who I completely missed) show at the House of Blues. I’m not feeling it. I’m writing on the back of my Sevilla Café receipt. This venue is even lamer than the Tabernacle. I don’t like big shows. Damn! Why am I in such a crappy mood? I really don’t want to stick around for this show, but I paid good money for it. (I have effectively blown through my “world is coming to an end” savings. Which is…I mean, was….a huge wad of cash that I had saved for when the evil people take down our electronic infrastructure.) hmm, I also don’t think that I’m quite ready to walk back by the “2 blocks from being bad” people to get back to my motel room. I should have known better than to come to this show, dammit. I love Brett Dennen’s music. But I hate big, commercial venues. Especially when they are housing a large amount of lame people (I know that is horrible to say, but, damn, it feels good. I think I have PMS).

I tried to talk myself out of my bad mood so that I could enjoy the show. But…to no avail. Now, I’m sitting in a corner. Writing. What a fucking dork. But fuck it! You know what? There’s a 7-11 next door. I’m going to go get a fo-ty (just kidding…maybe.) and go back to my room. If nothing else, I can use the fo-ty as a weapon against any bad San Diegoans who venture outside of their designated area.

[Later later]
I went next door to the 7-11. I basically paid about $10 per Brett Dennen song because I only stuck around for 3 – 4 songs. Yuck. Yuck. Yuck. What a disgusting venue. Anyway, I went to the 7-11 and found out that their beer sales cut off at 10pm. But, the cashier told me that I could walk a million blocks and go to a Ralph’s that was able to sell until midnight. “Is it a safe area?” I asked the fully tatted cashier. “Sure, “ he replied. So I set out for Ralph’s. It wasn’t too far of a walk. And I actually enjoyed it. Before I left Atlanta, I bought a book written for women travelling alone. It said that if you wanted to be less of a target for bad people that you should always walk confidently with your chin in the air. Let me tell you, my chin was so far up in the air that I was looking down my nose as I walked. I tried to check out my surroundings to gauge whether I was in a good area or a not-so-good area. I passed a Morgan Stanley building. “Hmmm, that seems pretty safe…in the day time.” Then I passed, a Nail salon. Hmmm…a little weird. Then I passed a chicken wing spot. Oh shit! This is a bad neighborhood. Ah, I kid. I kid.

Anyway, I made it to Ralph’s and couldn’t decide between wine or beer. So I bought both. I didn’t get a fo-ty. I got a twenty-two-y. but I coulda still knocked someone out with it if I needed to. Shit, I just forgot what I was going to say. This is my first time “buzzed blogging”. I feel that I’m allowed one time. After all, my journey home starts tomorrow. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I kind of don’t want to see Atlanta. I kind of hate Atlanta right now. But I’m not sure why. I think that I could probably make it interesting for me again, but…oh, shit, I forgot what I was going to say again. I’m sure it wasn’t important anyway.

Drinkin 'n Bloggin'. San Diego

Billowy. is that a word? dunno.

Wine or beer?

Day 14...i mean, 15....wait. what day is it?

2009-12-10T23:46:00.000-08:00

Check out my super-duper photoshopping skills.
It’s Day 16 and I just accidently spit a good amount of my latte on my computer screen. These straw things…still learning how they work. Anyway, I wasn’t going to do a Day 15 post. I wasn’t feeling it yesterday. And I wasn’t feeling it this morning. And then I decided that it would be lame to do a Day 15 post on Day 16. But then I went to this blechity-blech beach near Los Angeles, and decided that maybe I would do a Day 15 post.

Another reason that I didn’t want to do a Day 15 post was because my Day 15 photo didn’t turn out so well. After leaving Adriana’s place in Berkeley, I headed to Muir Woods. Even though, I don’t think that it was on the way to Los Angeles, and it was already late in the day, I decided that I would go anyway. It took for-fucking-ever to get there (but I did get to see San Quentin!) and then, maybe I wasn’t feeling it, but I didn’t really enjoy it that much. It was cold and damp. And it was a little too touristy for me. I mean, I understand why they have to build boardwalks to walk through the woods, but I prefer walking on the dirt. And being close to the trees (which were roped off). But, anyway, since I wasn’t feeling it, I decided to take my Day 15 photo next to a redwood then start my trek back to Los Angeles. So, I wrote the day’s number on my hands, took the photo, didn’t like the location, went deeper into the woods, waited for some slow, annoying tourists to leave my vicinity, took another photo, still didn’t like it, but said “fuck it, I’m over this.”

As I was walking out of the woods, all of a sudden, I was like “Motherfucker!!” because I realized that I had written 14 on my hands instead of 15. I was pretty bummed. But didn’t feel like recreating the photos so I headed to my car and told GPS Lady Friend to get me to Los Angeles. That bitch really pissed me off in San Francisco. All I wanted to do was to go from San Francisco to Los Angeles, but she took my through EVERY single neighborhood in San Francisco. I’m not joking. I would have been fine with it, but rush hour was fast approaching. I finally got on the road and headed towards Los Angeles.

I finally made it back to Matt and Joelle’s place in Los Angeles around 10:30.

And this is one of the only reasons that I’m writing a Day 15 entry…I had the best time with them…again. I feel like Matt is my brother or Joelle is my sister (but not both cause that would be weird since they are boyfriend and girlfriend and all). I hit the bottle of wine as soon as I arrived. They were getting ready to fold laundry in their bedroom, and Joelle told me I could join them…for conversation. So I plopped on their bed with my glass of wine and watched them fold clothes (nice “panties”, Matt). When they were done, they climbed onto the bed too (we were on the bed…not in it…because that would be weird), and we talked for a long while. About stuff. Life, relationships, money, personal growth, perceptions, etc. It was cool. Really cool. I think I learned a lot by just witnessing their relationship and openness with one another. Staying with Matt and Joelle was definitely meant to be part of this journey. Thanks, guys.

Day 14: Beginning to Live

2009-12-09T09:51:00.000-08:00

Day 14: Dwayne, me & Scott in San Francisco
What is it with me and California law enforcement?? So…my friend, Dwayne, picked me up at Adriana’s tonight to head into San Francisco and grab a few drinks. As I approached his car, I was thinking “Snif. Snif. Hmm. I smell herb.” I opened the car door and discovered the source. Driving down the road, Dwayne offered me some “Brain Eraser” (is that what it was called?). Several weeks earlier, I had experienced some California herb…and it wasn’t a particularly enjoyable experience so I took it easy. So, we were driving across the Bay Bridge and then I hear Dwayne say, “Oh….shit!” At the same time, I noticed blue lights in the side mirror and heard the occifer over his whatever-you-call-it…directing Dwayne where to pull over. And I was like, “um, dude, your car reeks of pot.” Dwayne was like, “oh shit, really? Roll down all the windows.” It’s really freezing cold here, but we rolled down the windows and pulled over. The occifer approached my side of the car and shined his flashlight in our faces. They really must not care about such things out here, or either his olfactory senses are on vacation because he didn’t say anything about the overpowering smell of herb wafting from the car.

Unfortunately, Dwayne did get a speeding ticket from an occifer who I’m pretty sure had crotch itch because he kept positioning his legs really oddly and doing weird stuff. It sucks that Dwayne got a ticket. But, I had an awesome time hanging out with Dwayne and Scott (a guy that I should know and he should know me, but neither one of us really remember whether we know each other or not) in San Francisco.

[Earlier that day...]

I walked through the Berkeley campus today. I thought that I would feel old and out of place. But I didn’t. Or maybe I didn’t care. As I rapidly approach my 35th birthday, age has become a really big issue for me lately. I’m a little ashamed to admit it. I want to accept my fine lines, gray hairs and aging hands, but most of the time, I can’t embrace the constant reminder that I’m aging. I realize that, from the moment that I was born, I have been aging, but the things that I gained (hair, teeth, muscle, breasts) were all good things. Now, it’s like I have reached the top and I’m starting the trek down. The things that I’m gaining (lines, gray hairs, etc) are a little less exciting. I don’t know why I’m complaining. It’s just…I see these things in the mirror. And as much as I am happy about the amount of confidence and groundedness that I have now compared to that in my twenties, it’s still hard to ignore the signs of aging staring back at me when I look in the mirror.

Maya Angelou has a collection of stories called “Wouldn’t Take Nothing For My Journey Now.” I feel that way. I’ve been through some rough periods. Nothing catastrophic. Never anything where my life or health was threatened. But, emotionally rough periods. Periods where I felt like I was losing control. Which is funny because when I finally decided to let go of control (like, umm…this journey), that is when things became clear. And I quit feeling fucked in the head. Through all the emotionally turbulent times that I have waded through, I feel like I have come out stronger, saner and wiser…on the other side. So I’m gonna look at it as a blessing. Because if I never would have had to face myself, my relationship with myself would still be shallow. And shallow relationships are not worth anyone’s time.

So, back to the age issue, I suppose that everyone goes through having to question life as they age. It seems like part of the natural progression of aging. And it’s a good thing to do. Just to check yourself. Make sure that what you are doing is the right thing for you. Make sure that you are heading down the right path. Make sure that your past decisions are still aligned with your present values. Make sure that you are living the life that you want to live. That’s what I’m doing. On this journey. I mean, I had been thinking about my life a lot lately, but then, one day, it just hit me that I really needed time with myself to sort things through. I also realized that I’ve never challenged my comfort level. Never faced my fears head on. I have a quote that is currently taped to my dashboard (as a reminder and for encouragement) that reads, “Only when I’m no longer afraid, do I begin to live.” I’ve been afraid my whole life…of everything, including myself. And, you know…I think that it is time that I start living.

I can’t say that I’ve come up with a whole lot of solutions on this journey, but I have gained a lot of clarity and respect for myself. And I have definitely faced some fears. I really feel like a completely different person than I was a year ago. I never would have done this a year ago. I never would have done a lot of things that I have done recently. I don’t know what switched, and why…but I’m glad that it did. Because I definitely wouldn’t take nothing for this journey now.

Sam on right. Adriana on left. of course, that was probably self-explanatory. Adriana is an amazing person. Cheerful, kind, outgoing, funny...and super duper brilliant. Thanks for letting me stay in the sorority house with you, Adriana. I had so much fun catching up with you.

Dog at San Francisco bar.

Day 14

Day 13: The Girl. The Beach.

2009-12-08T09:17:00.000-08:00

Day 13: Bad weather in the sleepy lil beach town of Cayucos

The weather actually cooperated today. it’s crazy…it was supposed to be raining from Los Angeles to San Francisco. I woke up to a rainy day in my Morro Bay motel room. Since the motel proprietress had asked me the previous night what time I wanted breakfast, and I had said nine, I dragged myself out of bed and put a sweatshirt on over my pajamas. I usually take my continental breakfast back to my room and eat in bed, but the proprietress was making conversation so I felt like I should hang out in the lobby and eat my breakfast. She advised me not to take Highway 1 (the scenic route) because the weather would be horrible and the roads were really curvy. I nodded and agreed to take her alternative route. Even though I knew that I was still going to take Highway 1.

The weather truly sucked for about 30 minutes. I stopped in Cayucos where it was raining lightly, and figured that location might be my only Day 13 photo op. It was freezing on the beach. But I took my gloomy photos, ran back to my car and kicked up the heat to high.

Highway 1 begins to get really scenic around San Simeon. As I approached San Simeon, all of a sudden the rain stopped, the clouds parted and the sky was bright blue. And there was sunshine! It was awesome and totally unexpected. What made everything even better is that my iPod was kicking ass with its selections (on shuffle). I didn’t have to skip any songs. And then it selected a perfect song. A song that I don’t think I’ve ever listened to. I listened to it, and was like, “Holy shit, that’s an awesome song.” And then I listened to it again. And again. It was beautiful. The sunshine and the mountains and the ocean and me and that song. The song is called “The Girl” by City and the Colour. I don’t know. It might not be for everyone, but the lyrics seem so relevant. Simple. But relevant. To me…probably not to you, but it’s still a cool song.

After that, my spirits were high. I had heard about a beach, called Pfeiffer Beach, in Big Sur. I thought that I had passed it so I pulled over at this tiny roadside gas station to inquire about its location. As I approached the building, I heard violin music, and then I saw an older man peek his head out of the window. I walked in, and the man who owned the gas station was playing the violin. He sat his violin down and smiled at me. He had so much soul in his eyes and his wrinkles seemed to tell stories. He was so intriguing. The image of him is still making me smile. I asked him where Pfeiffer Beach was located, and he walked outside with me to point me in the right direction. I joyfully walked back to my car (there really was something special about that old man) and headed to Pfeiffer Beach.

Until today, I had never been to a truly beautiful beach (tucked miles off of a main route) and been the only person there. It was such a spiritual experience. I had to take a single lane road for several miles to get to the beach. It felt a little eerie because no one was around, but when I got out of my car, walked down the rustic path, and saw the beach, I had another “Holy Shit!” moment. I will never, ever, never, ever, ever forget the beauty of that beach. The solitude. And the power of the waves that were crashing against the rocks.

And, also…until today, I had never set foot in a sorority house. I’ve always thought that they seem kind of scary. The girls, that is. A bunch of girls in one house…yikes. But my friend, Adriana (who I’m staying with) is the House Directors Assistant for the sorority (she gets free room and board). It’s pretty interesting…those silly lil sorority girls in their silly lil clothes. But it is a different and interesting place to stay. I like new experiences! And it is, especially, cool to see Adriana.

When I pulled up to her street, Adriana came out to meet me. As I was getting my stuff out of my car, I heard a hissing noise. “Do you hear that? Is it coming from my car?” I asked Adriana. “Yea, I think so. Is your tire supposed to be that low?” she replied. We got a flashlight, and discovered that I have a flat tire. I’m not too concerned. I’m actually very thankful that it happened here and not some other places (i.e. the stretch from Austin to El Paso or while at the beach in Big Sur with no cell phone reception and no people for miles). It does suck that those are brand new tires though. Oh well, I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

I thought that this was an appendage from a sea monster as I approached. It skeered me.

Me (dusa) on the PCH

Sleepy lil elephant seal. near san simeon.

that one elephant seal wanted some action. it was entertaining.

Most beautiful place ever

What's that? Oh, that would be a very beautiful beach. all to my self.

Day 12: Crying Califonia

2009-12-07T09:36:00.000-08:00

Day 12: Being sad at a lonely lil motel outside of San Luis Obispo

California is crying. Chilly-cold teardrops from the sky. Maybe that’s why today wasn’t too stellar. Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder. I fucking hate cold. And grey. And winter rain. The weather was so beautiful until yesterday. And then the weather became dismal. And so did my mood.

Nothing really happened today for me to report on. I woke up, sad, at Ray and TJ’s place. I dicked around on my computer for awhile. Tried to improve the cat’s mood. But, we were looking at each other like “what the fuck? We’re both in a crappy mood.” Then, my dad called and said that my mom “didn’t sleep all night” because I didn’t return their calls from the previous day (whoops…forgot to have my phone on me. PRECISELY the reason that I didn’t want to tell them about my journey).

I actually spent way too much time on the computer and didn’t end up leaving Los Angeles until 2pm. I drove down Topanga Canyon Road to Malibu where I hopped on the PCH. Met a nice, older, British (or something like that) gentleman at the Starbucks in Malibu who kept on wanting to know if I had written my “note” to Santa. And what I wanted for Christmas. Oh god.

I didn’t really enjoy the drive today. which sucks. Because I was really looking forward to it. I ate dinner at a Thai restaurant in San Luis Obispo. At one point, I felt a lump forming in my throat and the tears starting to come, but I sucked it up and didn’t cry into my curry.

Now, I’m just sitting in a really lonesome motel outside of San Luis Obispo. I’m having Javier Bardem fears. And my eyes hurt. And this music is depressing. But this wine is good. And I like the look of numbers on my hands.

Tomorrow , I’m headed to San Francisco, where I get to see my friend, Adriana, who I haven’t seen in 15 years. Adriana lived across the hall from me, freshman year at Emory. I was a big fucking mess that year, and she never failed to cheer me up. Hearing her laughter outside of my room always made me smile. And seeing her tomorrow will cheer me up. I just know it. (No pressure, AV.)

Happy, sad, excited, fearful, empowered, angry, lost…it’s all part of the journey. As Pema Chodron says, “Like all explorers, we are drawn to discover what’s waiting out there without knowing yet if we have the courage to face it.” True. True. Very true.

Day 11: Sadness and the Same Song

2009-12-06T10:07:00.000-08:00

Day 11: Ray and me at the Getty in Los Angeles

This morning, I woke up sad. I kind of felt like crying, but didn’t. Oh, shit, now that I’m mentioning it…I’m crying…not a big boo hoo. Small lil tears. Oh no, now they’re getting bigger and my bottom lip is sticking out. That’s never a good sign for what’s about to follow. Maybe it’s the song that I’m listening to. Maybe it was the dream that I was having before I awoke. Maybe it was the mournful cries coming from Lucci (Ray and TJ’s cat) in her cat palace. Or, maybe…it’s just part of my journey.

I think that I’m ready to be on the road again. I’ve been in LA for 3 days and I’ve had an awesome time hanging out with friends that I haven’t seen in years. But, I think I need some solitude again. And some road time. I’ve never really liked driving. Maybe because I’ve always known my path. And my destination. But, I have soooo enjoyed driving on this journey. The weather has been nice. And sunny. There’s just no feeling like driving down an unfamiliar road, headed nowhere, with the sunroof open and favorite songs blaring from the radio.

I find myself listening to the same songs over and over and over. I have been trying to be fair to all of my music and listen to my ipod on shuffle. But I think that today, as I head up the coast, I’ll listen to the songs that I want to hear. The songs that remind me of the time before I left on this journey. Songs from the weekend when I decided that this journey was necessary.

Oh, I’m supposed to be talking about Day 11. So I will tell you about my Day 11. I woke up at Matt and Joelle’s place. Shortly thereafter, Matt and his cheerful lil face walked into the room and said, “How does eggs, bacon, biscuits, coffee and orange juice sound?” Not gonna lie…that sounded amazing especially since I couldn’t really eat dinner the night before. Joelle and I went and got coffee, and when we returned, Matt had breakfast ready with the UNC/UK basketball game on the TV. We ate, and then Matt watched the game/yelled at the TV, Joelle made fun of him, and I worked on recounting the events from the previous day.

I left Matt and Joelle’s and headed back to Ray and TJ’s. Then we headed out to the Getty Museum. I had so much fun there. I think the bottle of wine that we got at the café upon arrival probably helped. Ray and I giggled our way through the museum. And we both got reprimanded by the Getty security/staff at separate times. When I got reprimanded, it was in a crowded room and the reprimander yelled across the room at me. It was a little embarrassing. I blushed for several seconds, but had a pretty quick recovery.

Ok, so everyone is right, the art isn’t that great at the Getty. Although I did really like a Gauguin and then some other random painting of a Spanish (or Russian?) princess. But the views of LA are really beautiful and the garden area is nice and they have some Simpsons trees that are pretty cool.

After leaving the Getty, we drove down Sunset Blvd and down Rodeo and then another street that is well-known (don’t remember what it’s called). Then, we went to an awesome, awesome, awesome sushi restaurant. The previous night, TJ had told me about it. He said that it was in a strip-type-mall, sandwiched between a pet store and a pet grooming place. Hmmm…skeptical, but if he says it’s good… wow! I’ve never had sushi like that. It was really, really good. Had a little beer. A little sake. And then headed back to Burbank. Saw some crazy, crazy Christmas decorations on these 2 houses (took a photo) then went to the grocery store where Ray asked me about my nuts and we both cracked up…hope we weren’t getting on your nerves, TJ. I’ve always enjoyed laughing with ray. He’s fun to giggle with.

So, now, I’m lying (or is it laying?) in bed. Listening to the same song over and over on my ipod. The cat is resting peacefully. I think I have to pee. And coffee would be good. I am starting Day 12.

Los Angeles

Getty Museum

Gauguin

At the Getty

Ray and TJ at the Getty. Awesome hosts! (I went to school with Ray from 2nd until 12th grade.) Thank y'all so much for driving me around LA, dinner at Proseccos and the yummy sushi place, and the wine, and the laughter, the laundry facilities and the bed!

Dog humping Santa's leg outside of the Sushi spot.

Crazy christmas decorations in Burbank

Day 10: Los Angeles

2009-12-05T11:24:00.000-08:00

Day 10: 5+5 = 10: Joelle and me at pinkberry

I worked an 8 hour day today. I haven’t worked an 8 hour day in a really long time. I sat in the same chair in a Burbank Starbucks for 8 hours. And I didn’t eat lunch (more on that later), but I did have a whole lot of caffeine. And I got a whole lot of work accomplished. I was pretty impressed with myself. And I’m pretty sure that I saw Jennifer Garner.

I looked up and saw this really pretty girl standing in line for coffee. And I was thinking, “wow, she’s really pretty.” And then I was like, “Wait! That’s Jennifer Garner!” But, I looked around and no one else really had the “Wait! That’s Jennifer Garner!” look on their face, so I just figured that it was a lookalike. But I kept staring at her anyway. I really don’t give much of a shit about celebrities, but it’s still cool to see one.

I got back to Ray and TJ’s around 7, and Ray (big Jennifer Garner fan) informed me that Jennifer Garner loves Starbucks. So I’m sticking by my story…I saw Jennifer Garner at Starbucks.

So, anyway, I left Ray and TJ’s and headed to North Hollywood. My friends’ band was rehearsing there.
[side note: Back in 1996 (I think), my friend, Lucy’s, boyfriend at the time was the stage manager for the 99X stage at Music Midtown in Atlanta. So, we got to hang out backstage…which was super exciting because we were silly, lil 21 year old girls and there were, like, cool, 90s’ alternative bands hanging out backstage (the only ones that I can remember now are The Toadies, Poe, Lisa Loeb…and Gren). Gren. I had never heard of them at the time, but they were playing the 99X stage and they were backstage. And, I think, that they were kind of flirting with us. I think that they might have even done some pre-school flirting and thrown some shit at us (not real shit, but like paper or something). We, all, eventually started talking and decided that we would go see Kool and the Gang (I think) at another stage. On the way to that stage, the crowd started getting thick. And I started having an anxiety attack. Broke off from the group. And walked home.

Several months later, I was in Nashville, TN, and Gren was playing there. So I went to the show, and reunited with the cool, 90s’ Alternative rockstars (oh, yea, they had a video on MTV…back when MTV played videos). Over the years, we’ve stayed in touch via myspace/facebook/etc. Ok, I think that the side note portion is done now…]

So, Brett (the cool 90s’ Alternative band singer) saw on this here travel blog that I was going to be in LA on Friday night and told me that they were going to be rehearsing from 8 – 10 and that I should stop by. He might have been joking (about me stopping by), I don’t know. But, I was like “Ok, that will be cool.” He gave me the address (along with the wrong street number); I told GPS Lady Friend and she guided me to N. Hollywood. It was a little sketchy. And there was no 1426 Varna Street. But I parked on the side of the dark and sketchy (I looked for another word to use here so I wouldn’t have to use “sketchy” again, and thanks for your suggestions, Matt and Joelle, but nothing seemed to really describe it as good as “sketchy”) street. I got out of my car and looked up and down the street. Then I heard music coming from the building in front of me and headed in that direction.

I wondered around the parking lot because I couldn’t quite figure out the location of the building’s entrance. Some guys in the parking lot asked me if I was lost. “What gave you that idea?” I replied. And then, Possum (the drummer) appeared in the parking lot. I followed him to the rehearsal spot where Marcus (bass) and Brett (cool 90’s Alternative band singer…and guitarist) were gearing up for their practice. Brett handed me a beer which was cool at the time, but I had not eaten all day and it probably wasn’t the kindest thing to do to my stomach. I watched several songs which was cool, but also weird because I haven’t heard those songs or seen those guys in, I don’t know…a while. Then I started thinking about my car. Sitting on the dark, lonely, SKETCHY street with all of my favorite material possessions in plain view. I downed my beer and said, “OK, guys, I gotta go!”

And…Brett emailed me today and said “Wow, that was kind of weird, wasn't it?” Yes, yes, it was. I think I’m constantly surrounded by a halo of “weirdness”, but most of the time, I feel that it’s just me…thinking too much about situations. Therefore, I find it awesome that he pointed out the awkwardness of the situation. No one else probably gets it….maybe my side note didn’t contain enough information. Is it “weird” that I’m putting this in a blog? Yes. But, you know what, it’s not like y’all don’t know what I’m talking about (er, maybe you don’t)…so fuck it.

Alright, I then headed to Glendale to hang out with Matt and Joelle. Matt and Jonathan played in Mandorico together. I called Matt as I pulled up to their place, and told him that he had to come out and parallel park my car (he only hit the curb twice and then tried to say my car was “long”…um, ok, Matt). I unloaded my favorite material possessions in their apartment and then we headed to Los Feliz for dinner. My stomach was fucked though and I couldn’t eat much. After dinner, I had my first Pinkberry (yogurt) experience and then they took me on a car tour of Hollywood (I think). I saw that one famous building and then that other one and then that one were someone did something, etc. Then we went down Mulholland Drive and headed home.

Matt and Joelle are awesome. I’ve always thought that Matt was cool, but his girlfriend (who I had never met before), Joelle, is so very cool. She’s a dancer, and we were talking… and she had to scratch her leg, but she didn’t bend down to scratch it like most people. She lifted her leg up to her head to scratch it. Like, she could stand up straight and gnaw on her shin bone if she wanted to. That made a big impression on me.

But, anyway, they were the most amazing hosts and I immediately felt comfortable with them. Matt, you have an awesome girlfriend. And you make a pretty good “boyfriend”, too. (quote/unquote)
Thanks for the dinner, and the pinkberry and the tour and the bed and breakfast and the entertaining UNC/UK basketball game action. I’ll see y’all on my way back through!

my cool, 90s' Alternative Rock band friends...ok, i'll quit saying that. makes me feel old

Brett

Possum

Marcus

hee hee

Day 9: Fall Down. Go Boom.

2009-12-04T11:45:00.000-08:00

Day 9: At Cabrillo National Park
I think I’m gonna take a break from the whole blogging thing today. Not sure that I’m feeling it. I started trying to write something, but it sounded like I was trying to be deep. But here’s the basic summary of what I was trying to say…

When I sat out on this journey, I was really hoping to gain a little strength, understanding and serenity. I also wanted answers…solutions to life’s little problems, if you will. I envisioned having moments of extreme clarity while sitting on a California cliff, or in the Arizona desert or under a Louisiana Oak. But that’s not really how things happened. I’ve had most of my “moments” while driving down lonesome highways. I had, probably, my biggest moment of insight at the Tucson Airport La Quinta Inn. I was reorganizing my bag and, all of a sudden, I felt calm, and I realized that I was OK with letting things just BE. Including myself.

Oh, see, there I go again. I was going to tell about my day. It’s basically a “minutes” account of my day. Nothing exciting.

I woke up in my cute little motel room at 9am to the incessant beeping sound of a backing-up truck. It would not go away. It would stop for a minute and then start again. I was getting pissed because I envisioned an asshole truck driver outside my motel putting his car in reverse for 200 (really slow) feet, and then going forward, putting it in reverse, and then forward, etc. It sucked because I had gone to bed around 3am the night before. And then they started doing construction outside of my room. So, fuck it, I got out of bed. And it was a really comfortable one. That bed, it was.

I got dressed (guess I didn’t need to say that) and walked up the street to a coffee shop so that I could figure out what I was going to do today. I figured out that I would walk out on the OB pier (that’s the Ocean Beach pier for you people that aren’t down with the lingo), then try to walk to Sunset Cliffs, then walk to Dog Beach to see puppy dogs frolicking on the beach. After that I would check out the Cabrillo National Park.

I walked out on the pier. Got a crazy fisherman to take a photo of me. Another fisherman tried to talk Atlanta Falcons football with me. I just stared at him with a very blank expression. Then I walked back. There are a lot of bums and dirty people at Ocean Beach. Like, literally…dirty. I sooo wanted to walk up to some dirty lil young man, spit on my finger and see if I could write something on his cheek. Layers of dirt. And the ocean is right there. There’s no excuse to be dirty.

<--my jeans after falling down and going boom.
From the OB pier, I started walking up to Sunset cliffs. There is no beach to walk on. You’re walking on rocks and an occasional walkway. Now, I think that I remember reading that the rocks could get very slick and that one should exercise caution on her walk to Sunset Cliffs. But, at the time, I didn’t really remember that essential lil nugget of information. So I was walking along. Camera in hand. Just passed a fairly large group of bums/skateboarders. And then…Bam! Both feet slipped out from under me and I fell. Bashing one knee, one hip, one hand and one brand new camera against the rock. The bums/skateboarders looooooved it! But, after they got done yelling and laughing, they were kind enough to ask me if I was ok.

At that point, I decided against the walk to Sunset Cliffs and turned around and walked to Dog Beach. There weren’t many dogs out. So that was a bit of a letdown. And it made me miss my puppy dog. I walked back to the pier, got my car and drove to Sunset Cliffs and then the Cabrillo National Park. (I highly recommend going there. Cool tidal pools. And awesome views. Really beautiful)

From there, I headed out towards La Jolla (because “Explosion-in-my-pocket” Jack and his friend recommended that I check it out). It was cold and windy there. Pretty. Rich. Beautiful sunset.

Then it was 5pm and, being the silly girl that I am, decided that it was the perfect time to head to Los Angeles. I arrived 3 hours later and was kind of a nervous wreck…but I rolled up to my friends’ (Ray and TJ) place and, thank god, they had waited for me to eat dinner. They took me to a lovely little Italian restaurant where we had a nice bottle of wine, and I had some yummy Linguine Misto Mare. Then we went back to their place, had more wine and talked about all their friends that they don’t like (hee hee. I’m just kidding, guys. I only wrote that because y’all were concerned about what I was going to say about you in my blog).

Oh, look, I did do a blog entry.

Cabrillo National Park, San Diego, CA

Zen-ness

Trail to Tidal pools

uh. sun on water.

La Jolla, CA

Day 8: Border Patrol Checkpoints for Dummies

2009-12-03T11:29:00.000-08:00

Overexposed in the Sonoran Desert
I find people/places/things that I dreamed about as a kid to be intimidating as an adult. I’m not sure why. And California is one of those places. Oh, wait…you wanna know why I find California intimidating? Let me tell you…

I left Tucson, today, around 2:30. Driving along on I-8, through Arizona, I came to my first Border Patrol Checkpoint. I knew nothing about these things. The line was moving pretty quickly and when I got up to the stop sign, the border patrol person was waving everyone through. Several hours later (still in Arizona), I came to another checkpoint. Same thing. The bored border patrol lady was lazily waving all cars through. I started thinking, “hmmm…what is the point of these things because they’re not really checking anyone out.” But, anyway, I had these Border Patrol Checkpoint things down.

And then I hit my first California Border Patrol Checkpoint. I looked over and realized that I was at the Mexican border. Humpf. Whatever. The line was moving much slower. As I approached the border patrol person (from here on out, I’m just going to call them the BPP because I don’t know what they are supposed to be called), he stuck his hand out for me to stop which kind of caught me off guard.

BPP: Good evening. Can you tell me your citizenship?
Me: [My brain seems to fart at the most inopportune times. I mean…really…I can’t think of my citizenship? And then I was like, “do I say American or do I say United States?”]
Uhhhh…United States [I think that American was the proper answer, but whatever]
BPP: Where are you coming from?
Me: Atlanta
BPP: Where are you headed to?
Me: [Come on, dude, you want to pull up a chair and have a cup of tea? What’s with all the questions?]
San Diego.
BPP: Well, (then he leans into my car for some reason) you probably have another 2 hours depending on how fast you drive.
Me: [I already knew that because I have a GPS lady friend. Don’t need no BPP telling me that.]
Ok. Great. Thanks!
BPP: Have a good evening.

Whew. That was weird, I thought.
I know all you worldly (nation-ly) people are reading this and are like, “oh, come on, Allison. Those things are so common. No need to stress over it…blah blah blah.” But it was new for me.

When I was about an hour away from San Diego, all of a sudden, I was in these crazy mountains and it was dark. And scary. I was a little confused because a friend had told me that once I got into California, I wouldn’t have to drive through anymore mountains (ugh, you were wrong, person, but I won’t call you out on my blog). Once again, I was white knuckling the steering wheel. Seriously…18 wheelers were passing me.

And then I see a sign for another Border Patrol Checkpoint. There wasn’t much traffic…there were actually only two cars in front of me. As I approached the BPP, there was another BPP standing next to my car with a German Shepherd. He started circling my car and then I saw him nod at the other BPP. I was thinking, “Oh cool, I don’t have to stop for the BPP. I just got the go ahead.” But she made me stop for her anyway…

BPP: Good evening.
Me: Good evening.
BPP: Ma’am, we need to take a few minutes of your time.
Me: [Oh. Sure. I know the drill. American. Atlanta. And San Diego. Thank you. Have a nice night.]
Ok
BPP: I need for you to pull over where that stop sign is.
Me: Ummm...ok.

So I pulled over and two more BPPs pull themselves away from the heater and approach my car.

BPP: In what country do you have citizenship?
Me: United States
BPP: Where are you coming from?
Me: [Well…you know, I went to Gulf Shores, AL first. Then Natchez, MS. Then New Orleans. Then Houston. Then Austin. Then Assfuck, TX. Then El Paso. Then Tucson…]
Atlanta
BPP: In what city were you born?
Me: Shelby,NC..
BPP: Do you mind if we search your car?
Me: [Bam! He didn’t beat around the bush. I was enjoying our casual little conversation before that]
Um. No.
BPP: Do you mind if the dog gets in your car?
Me: I guess not.
BPP: Ma’am, I need a “yes” or a “no.”
Me: No. I don’t mind.
BPP: Ok, you can get out and go stand by the heater.

So I get out.

BPP #2 (with German Shepherd): Do you have any marijuana or cocaine in the car?
Me: [god, I hope there’s not any marijuana stashed somewhere in there]
No…and then I chuckled. I’m not sure whether it was a nervous giggle or just a “what the fuck? Why you guys being so serious” laugh.

I go stand by the heaters.

BPP #3: What do you do for a living?
Me: Software Developer
BPP #3: Where are you traveling to?
Me: [Ohhhh, I don’t know]
San Diego
BPP#3: Why are you traveling there?
Me: [Well, you see, I just woke up one day and was like , “fuck! I’m going to be 35 in a few weeks. I haven’t even pursued a lot of my dreams. Well, I guess it’s sort of a midlife crises. A few weeks ago, I just decided that I would drive across country. See, it’s been a rough year. But, I’m on the upswing. I feel really good. I feel like I’m opening up. I feel like the real me is finally coming through. Should I continue?]
To see friends.

I look over and this fucking dog is all up in my car. I had my camera out. My iPod out. My GPS out. Food out. Basically, the car was a disaster. And that fucker was stepping all over everything.

BPP #4: Do you have a dog?
Me: Yes
BPP #4: That’s probably what she smells.
Me: [ARE YOU SHITTING ME? You’re making me stand out here in the freezing cold, on the side of the highway, and go through all this because you can’t train that dog to tell the difference between the scent of cocaine and my dog’s anal gland? Now that is fucked up.]

Finally, I got the all clear and was on my way.

Now, finally… I’m at Ocean Beach in San Diego. My little motel is on the beach and it’s pretty cute. My friend that told me that there weren’t any more mountains once I hit California, redeemed himself by telling me about a club in Ocean Beach called Winston’s. I went online to see who was playing there. And, lo and behold, it’s Charlie Hunter, and the club is only one block from my motel. I had some yummy fish tacos for dinner and now I NEED a beer or two to wash the tacos and the day down.

Tucson, AZ

Greetings from Tucson...for my friend Jesse. who doesn't want to see me while I'm in LA...just kidding :)

Lunch at the punk-rock coffee shop. Maybe the dog smelled the leftovers in my car?

The best coffee shop "cream and sugar station" ever!

Ocean Beach, San Diego, CA

Where I ate my dinner. where bums and drunks accosted me (outside seating only).

My cute lil motel in Ocean Beach

Outside of my hotel room

Charlie Hunter at Winston's

So i met these people at the show. I was talking to one of the guys and this is how the conversation went:

Jack (that was his name): I would offer you…[I couldn’t hear what he said here], but I just exploded in my pocket.
Me: Come again? (totally wrong choice of words)
Jack: I would offer you a pot cookie, but it just exploded in my pocket.

Oh, of course, that’s what I thought you said...
But, cool show. nice people.

Day 7: El Paso, TX/Tucson, AZ: Ohmygod, this is fucking awesome!!

2009-12-02T10:56:00.000-08:00

Day 7: Freezing my ass off in El Paso, TX
I saw lots of pretty snow today. and lots of asphalt. Froze my ass off. Pretty sunset behind Arizona mountains. Met KISS’s roadies. (There was a long line in the gas station off of i-10. I figured that the guy behind me was with a band because they all got off a tour bus. So I asked him what band he was with and he said that they were KISS’s roadies. “Ahh,” was my only response and then turned back around and waited, uncomfortably, for my turn with the cashier.)

But before that I had several epiphanous moments while on the road today. First, between Van Horn, TX and El Paso. I called my therapist. Just to check in, tell her that I had told my parents about my journey and, basically, just let her know that this was one of the best decisions that I have ever made. I don’t remember what I said first, but after I was done, she said, “Wow, Allison. Your voice sounds really strong.” I replied, “You know what? I feel strong.” Not just the “hey, look at me, I’m driving across country by myself” strong, but I feel an incredible amount of inner strength right now. It’s an awesome feeling. And a feeling that I don’t experience very often.

After I left El Paso, I headed towards Tucson. Halfway to Tucson, a friend called me. We had a really cool conversation, and by the time that we hung up, the sun was descending behind the Arizona mountains (Are they called mountains? Or just big fucking rocks? I don’t know. and maybe I wasn’t in Arizona. Maybe I was in New Mexico. But it really doesn’t matter..) The sunset was so beautiful. It looked like those colored sand things that they sell at beach gift shops. It made me super happy. I looked behind me and realized that there was a full moon. It looked so big, so bright and so close. All of a sudden, everything just felt right. So I screamed, “OHMYGOD, THIS IS FUCKING AWESOME!!” And then, shortly thereafter, I met KISS’s roadies.

I rolled into Tucson around 7:45. The motel that my GPS lady friend had sent me to was out by the airport so I figured that I would head downtown to see if I could find something else. I drove around for awhile trying to figure out exactly where Tucson’s downtown was located. Yep, I probably drove around for an hour. I was hungry, tired and pissy. And then, I was like fuck it, grabbed GPS lady (by her neck…and strangled her…no, just kidding) and hit the Points-of-Interest --> Food --> Pizza button. The first option was something like “Brooklyn’s [something something] Pizza”. So I selected it and headed towards 6th street.

Fucking GPS lady friend redeemed herself. As I turned on 6th street, I saw lots of tattoo shops. Ah, I finally felt at home…This was the “cool” section of town. I parked my car. Well, I tried to park it, but they have this “back in only parking” which I couldn’t seem to get right, but I found a place off the street that I could just pull into. Which reminds me. Does anyone want to volunteer to teach me how to parallel park when I return to Atlanta? I swear that I didn’t have to know how to do that to get my driver’s license in NC. I think they just made sure that we could drive on dirt roads, do 3-point turns, and outrun the occasional mad bull...yes, I have had to outrun a pissed off bull...I think he was trying to make whoopie with my exhaust pipe or something.

Tomorrow, I’m gonna check out the city. Check out the Sonoran Desert. Then head to Dog Beach so I can frolic with dogs on the sandy shores near San Diego.

El Paso snow

More El Paso snow

I was hungry in El Paso. So I figured that I would swing into Starbucks and ask someone there where I should eat. Two men were walking across the parking lot so I stopped them and asked them where I should eat. One of the men (the one with full-on braces with pink and green rubberbands) suggested this place, Crave, up the street. Then he kindly offered to give me a ride there. I declined.

Tuna ceviche at Crave in El Paso. It was awesome. So was the coconut lemongrass soup with macadamia nuts and cilantro and hot sauce. mmmm. shit! i just realized that i haven't even eaten any Mexican food yet.

You know that you're a genius when you have to look down at your fingers to realize that you're not holding up the right number of em.

Day 6: Austin & the Great Texan Winter Storm

2009-11-30T21:06:00.000-08:00

Bamboo-zled by the weather. Austin Botanical Gardens.

OK, THAT…That drive was the most harrowing drive EVER. In my entire life. My knuckles are still white and my hands are still gripping an invincible steering wheel. This is how today went down:

Last night, I stayed with some friends of a friend in Austin. They were super nice. Finally got to eat some Thai food, smoke a little herb, had a little wine and then went to bed. I actually slept really well for one of the first times on this trip. I set out from Tara and Ramon’s house around 9am. Tara had printed out a map of Austin for me and circled places that I should check out. As I was pulling out of their street, my dad called.

Dad: Where are you?
Me: In Austin.
Dad: Uhhh…you probably already saw this on the news but there is supposed to be a big winter storm hitting somewhere in the Southwest.
Me: Oh, Dad, please…I’m in Texas. There’s nothing to worry about. They’re probably talking about Northern New Mexico or Arizona or something.
Dad: Oh, OK, I didn’t hear where they were calling for it, but I just thought I’d let you know.
Me: Uh, thanks dad. I’ll be ok. Love you. Bye.

And then, I, seriously did not give the Texan Winter Storm another thought. I drove around Austin for awhile. I did some work at a Starbucks. Went to the Austin Botanical Garden. Went to H.E.B. (I guess it’s an Austin grocery store chain) where the cashier boy flattered me by saying that the date on my ID couldn’t possibly be accurate…which was cool because I had just seen a gray hair in my rear view mirror before I walked in the store. But, anyway, I went to the grocery store to get provisions for the long drive across Texas that everyone had warned me about. I got 2 things of soup, a gallon of water, San Pelligrino, a bottle of wine and a bottle opener.

Thank you, HEB. For everything.
Around 2:30, I set out from Austin… and then my iPod started crapping out. I figured that it was the FM Transmitter so, since I was passing a Best Buy, I swung in and got another FM Transmitter with charging capabilities (I should have bought stock in Best Buy before this trip). So I had my tunes and my essentials (water and wine), and was ready to head towards Tucson.

My GPS lady friend had me taking crazy back roads for 2 hours until I hit I-10. At one point, I got a little freaked out and pulled over to make sure that she knew what she was talking about. I drove past some crazy ranches and saw some crazy animals. Lots of goats and some other things with horns and then some other things with fur and some other things with feathers. And I’m pretty damn sure that I saw 2 camels. They weren’t llamas….they were fucking camels. Standing by a random road in Texas.

So I saw a gas station as I approached I-10. I figured that I better gas up because there would probably not be another gas station for several hours (I was right). So I gassed up and hit I-10. It was nice at first. The 80mph speed limit and few cars on the road was nice. And then, it got lonely pretty quick. And then it got dark. And then I started having anxiety issues. I started trying to call different friends to tell them that I was scared. But cellular reception was spotty at best. Mostly it was nonexistent.

I finally made it to Fort Stockton. The first exit with gas-food-lodging. I gassed up again and decided that I could make it to Van Horn, TX because it was only 7:15 and Van Horn was only about an hour and a half away. I went inside to pee and when I exited the building, I saw that it was raining. I listened to it and looked at it, and thought, “Is that sleet?” And then, I laughed at myself and said, “Silly girl, you’re in Texas. It doesn’t sleet here.” So I got back in my car, back on I-10 and headed for Van Horn. I started getting anxious again because it was really “raining” by this point. (It soooo was not rain, but I thought that it couldn’t be sleet and I figured that since “everything is bigger in Texas”, maybe their raindrops are too). I was totally white knuckling it. Then, all of a sudden, my car gave a warning beep. It scared the shit out of me. All the blood ran out of my face. I knew that I was getting ready to break down on this lonely highway. In the dark. Miles away from anything. With no cellular reception. Then I realized that it was the “Hey driver, it’s 37 degrees outside “ beep. I need to research why my car does that. That is such a random temperature for which to beep.

Wow, 37 degrees. That’s pretty cold for Texas, huh? 30 minutes later I look down and it’s 34 degrees.

[I know that I’m not properly conveying how absolutely terrifying this was. Just imagine that you’re a girl. And you have some…eh…mild anxiety issues. And it’s dark and you’re in a desolate area and it’s sleeting…]

Anyway, 15 minutes later, I look down and it’s 32 degrees. I look ahead and see some blinking lights. As I approach the lights, I realize that it is a sign that is warning, “Use extreme caution. Very Icy roads ahead.” Motherfucker!! Are you shitting me? Icy roads? At that point, I turned up my ipod really loud. It was ziggy marley. I should have totally gone to Jamaica instead. Dammit.

Around 9:00pm, I got to Van Horn. I was thinking, “Man, that was the worst drive ever. Fuck the Motel 6. I’m gonna do it up in style. I’m staying at the Holiday inn Express!” The walk from my car to the motel entrance was the coldest that I’ve been in awhile. I got the 3rd to last room in the place. As I was heading away from the front desk, I asked the front desk lady, “so…is this weather normal for this time of year?” She replied, “No, a cold front and winter storm are moving through..”

Ah, yes, the Winter Storm. I think my dad might have mentioned something about that this morning. Oh well, makes things all that more memorable. I just hope that I’m not stuck here tomorrow. I wanted to go to the Guadaloupe mountains and the White Sands National Monument.

Now, I’m in the hotel room. And, lemme tell you, that bottle of wine that I bought in Austin??? Best purchase ever! Sitting here…in my room…yappy dog yapping next door….drinking some wine out of a plastic cup…eating cold, leftover Thai food (because apparently $90/night at a motel in Assfuck, TX isn’t enough to warrant getting a microwave in your room). But the wine is right on time. Fuckin’ Texas Winter Storm...geesh...

I, personally, prefer just plain old male ferns to macho ferns.

For my friend, Luther...Greetings from Austin!

Big Texan Snow. And there's a drunk ho outside my room.

Day 5: Ugly

2009-11-30T08:53:00.000-08:00

Eating my oatmeal in the Best Western parking lot along I-10, Texas

The coolest thing about traveling by yourself is that you can, pretty much, do whatever you want. Whenever you want. No matter how absurd. Without anyone questioning you. For example, as I pulled into San Antonio today, my eyes were assaulted by one of the ugliest buildings that I think I have ever seen. I can’t even describe it. The traffic light stopped me in front of it and I was like, “wow…that’s a really fucking ugly building.”

The light turned green and I followed the signs to the Riverwalk. I found a parking spot and, first, strolled over to the Riverwalk. From above (at street level), I thought it was awesome. But when I walked down to it, I felt like I was at a dirty theme park. Or maybe….like I was at Underground Atlanta. It was full of tourists and overpriced, characterless restaurants. I felt weird there. A little.

So I walked to the Alamo. When I walked up to it, even though there were signs everywhere declaring that “THIS IS THE ALAMO!”, I was like, “um, ok, where’s the fucking Alamo? Oh, THAT is the Alamo? Hmmm.” So, once again, I get the historical significance of the Alamo and blah blah blah. But, I was expecting so much more. But at least I got a picture of it. With me standing in front of it. So I can say, “Hey, look! It’s me in front of the Alamo!”

I was a little bit disappointed by the Riverwalk and the Alamo, and I started thinking, “hmmm, what can I do now? hmmm…I guess I could eat. Maybe get a margarita…hmmm….Ah yes, the ugly building. I want to go stand before the ugly building and admire it’s sheer ugliness.!” So I started walking towards the highway. And I walked. Finally, I caught a glimpse of the ugly building and got a spring in my step. I turned the corner and, 2 blocks away, stood the ugliest building ever. It was beautiful! I stared at it for the whole 2 blocks as I approached it. I got near it and couldn’t take me eyes off of it. It was so ugly that I loved it. For its ugliness. I felt weird staring, longingly, at an ugly building so I snapped a quick picture and headed back towards the tourist section.

Now, how many travel companions would have been willing to walk and walk and walk just so I could admire a really ugly building up close and personal? Not many, I’m sure.

cue chorus of angels...

Day 4 (Part 2): Firsts

2009-11-29T07:59:00.000-08:00

i had my first cry today. It wasn't a cry of sadness...or desperation...or hurt. it was more like a cry of "I'm tired. and hungry. and what the fuck am I doing?" I knew that cry would come at some point on my journey. And i also knew that it would happen in Texas. I just wanted to plan it better. I didn't want to be circling (at least 5 times) the same Houston city block when it happened. I knew that it would happen in Texas because it's the first state to which I've never been. And, although it's technically still the Southeast, it doesn't really feel like it.

I also had my first argument with my GPS lady friend. I actually yelled at her, "shut the fuck up, you stupid cunt, you're the one that got me in this mess in the first place!" i rarely use the word "cunt" so I'm not sure where that came from, but, damn, it felt so good. i might have to start using that word more often. I mean, I've read Susan Faludi...i know that it is a terrible word to use, but, fuck it, i think that i've found a new favorite word...But, I feel really bad, yelling at my GPS lady friend and all. We had been so cordial to each other up until this point. She would say, "At the next light, turn right." And I would cheerfully reply, "I can do that!" Or she would say, "in 0.1 miles, take ramp on right." then i would tell her how awesome she is and take the ramp on the right. I would sometimes kid her about the way she pronounced things but overall we had a pretty good relationship. And then we travelled to Houston together. Where it all fell apart. I'm still pretty pissed at her total lack of competence in Houston, but tomorrow is a new day...maybe she was just tired and frustrated like me...i'll give her another shot.

Another first. I felt lonely for the first time. I started craving Thai food around Lake Charles, LA. I figured that I could make it to Houston, get a motel room, shower and find some soul warming Thai food. None of that happened. I got to Houston, rode around the same city block for about 1 hour (the homeless men on the corner started waving at me), couldn't find a room (in my price range) and ended up at a fucking California Pizza Kitchen for dinner.

Before I left town, one of my girl friends told me, "I remember the first time that I went and ate in a restaurant, by myself...without a book...i felt sooo 'Sex in the City'." Now, you men probably don't understand this, but for some reason, it's a big deal for a lot of women to go eat in a nice restaurant alone. I'm pretty sure that there are books on the issue. So I thought about what she said as i was sitting in my 2-person booth in a Houston California Pizza Kitchen (which looked more like a Denny's). The chicks from Sex in the City wouldn't be caught dead in that place. I was really too hungry and too pissed to feel all empowered and womanly and shit. I had tear stains on my cheeks. And I hadn't showered for 48 hours. I had actually been wearing the same clothes for 48 hours. I was even wearing dirty underwear. Well, it wasn't dirty. it just wasn't fresh. no, that sounds bad too. used? recycled? i didn't even turn them inside out on Day 2.

I'm discovering that my creative juices don't flow in motel rooms. Or at least, motel rooms that are hanging off the side of interstate highways. This blog entry sucks, i know. i think i just feel all tired and scattered from 12 hours on the road. I woke up in New Orleans and figured that I would get my coffee at Cafe du Monde. I drove by it and realized that i wasn't feeling very Cafe du Mondey. Besides, I've done it before and don't necessarily need to do it again. So I drove to another coffee shop that Andrew told me about on Magazine Street called Rue de la Course. I parked up the street and walked around a little. It was a cool area. kind of a cross between Little 5 Points and Buckhead (huh?). I know that sounds weird, but there was a Design Within Reach across from the coffee shop...and that is soooooo, like, upscale and shit.

I drank my soy latte, ate my zucchini bread and checked out the men. Don't worry, Jonathan, I wasn't checking em out, checking em out. I was just noticing that a lot of them have really deep, gravely voices. And they sound and kind of look like Harry Connick, Jr. except for the guy that looked like Sean Penn. he looked like Sean Penn.

I talked to my buddy, Luther, on the phone for awhile and then decided that I wasn't feeling New Orleans anymore. I've been there twice and still haven't felt the love that everyone else seems to feel. Maybe it's the smell of cajun food wafting through the air. I can eat Cajun, but I don't particularly like it. It falls right behind a capers and peanut butter in the "foods that I don't particularly enjoy" category.

So I left New Orleans and headed to Vacherie, LA. There is an old plantation there that has some incredible, 200 year old trees. I don't know what the plantation is about...who lived there...etc. (I'll probably Google it later), I just wanted to see the trees. There was a $15 ticket price to tour the grounds and the house. I approached the young man (you know you're getting old when you start referring to boys in their early 20s as "young men") and said, "ummmm...i don't want to tour the house. i just want to see the trees. Do i have to pay?" He paused for a moment and was like, "oh, ok, that's fine. you can go ahead." Fuck yea!! I didn't have to paaaaaay. i didn't have to paaaaay. Hey all you suckas, i didn't have to paaaay! Anyway, the trees were FUCKING awesome!!! there is this row of oaks lining this long-ass walkway and not one has ever succumbed to disease? How is that possible? I probably just jinxed the trees, but I mean, if just one of those trees keeled over, the visual impact would be completely lost....forever.

I left Vacherie and headed down this really awesome country road. The sun was shining, I had my sunroof open...it was just me, the road, the sugar cane and a little Bob Dylan. Oh my god, that felt soooo good. And then i got on I-10. That's when things started going downhill. Pretty much, as soon as i got on the Interstate, traffic stopped. for 2 hours. until i got to baton rouge. it really sucked. i was bored. i started going through my phone. trying to find people to call. Scrolling through my contact list, i came to "Mom and Dad." hmmm...mom and dad...the people to whom i have been lying about my trip for the past 5 days....

Mom: What are you doing?
Me: Driving.
Mom: To where?
Me: The store. (it wasn't a lie. i did go to a store...later...much later)
Mom: How was Thanksgiving dinner?
Me: It was good.
Mom: What did you have?
Me: Oh, you know, Thanksgiving food.

Several days earlier, Jonathan had chastised me for lying to my parents. Although i wanted to continue lying, my mom seemed to think that I was depressed (because I told her that I didn't want to celebrate Christmas this year), and she was calling me every day. The lies would just get thicker and thicker, and I've always been honest with them, so I hit the "Send" button. Telling my over-protective parents that i was driving across country by myself went better than expected. My dad did say, "But you're my only daughter!" as if I am definitely going to be killed on this trip. But, all in all, it went ok.

Sorry this is so long...i'll try to edit.

Rayne, LA

So, anyway, I finally ended up in Houston. couldn't find a room. or thai food. and left the city around 10:30pm driving towards Austin. But I actually missed the Austin exit. So I drove towards San Antonio...by default. I found a Best Western on the side of the interstate (halfway between Houston and San Antonio), checked in around midnight, finally took a shower and now i'm going to sleep. g'night.

Day 4 (Part 1): New Orleans - Bra On? Bra Off? Bra On? Bra Off?

2009-11-28T06:43:00.000-08:00

Wow. I’m up pretty early. It’s 7:45 now, but I think that I’ve been awake forever. My first “sleeping on someone’s couch that I don’t know” experience. The couch was super comfy, and Andrew (the couch’s owner) was super nice. But it’s just hard for me to not feel like I’m imposing. I feel all weird and shit, ya know?

I didn’t go out on the town (New Orleans) last night. I fucked around on my computer and then turned out the light and crawled into couch. I laid there FOREVER debating on whether to remove my bra or not. See…I have no problem making life changing decisions (telling a boss to fuck off, leaving my husband/everyday life for 3 weeks to drive across country, etc), but simple decisions, such as what to eat…coffee or tea…whether to remove my bra or not, just weigh me down.

I felt like since I was in a guy’s house…who I don’t really know…sleeping on his couch…that I should probably just leave the bra on. I was just thinking that since I’m wearing a tank top and stuff, you never know when things will get twisted up and, next thing you know, your nipple is peeking out of your armhole.

I don’t see how women sleep in bras. Just recently, I had a friend recommend that I sleep in a bra to slow the effects of time/gravity. That sounds good and all because, believe me, I can see the effects of gravity. But, I’m not sure that sleeping with a bungee cord around my ribcage is really worth it. I’ve never really had PERKY!! (read in a really high voice…staccato) breasts, but I guess that I once had PERKY (read slowly with a deeper voice) breasts. [Yes, this is all still stuff that was going through my mind at midnight…on the couch]. I didn’t even sprout breasts until after I graduated from high school. I looked like a 12 year old girl all through high school (my parents even took me to some kind of specialist doctor in Charlotte to see if I had a “problem”), and then, all of a sudden, the summer before college, it was like “Bam!” and God said to me, “Allison, you’ve suffered long enough. You handled the ridicule from all those dickheads in your class really well. As a reward, here…take these breasts.”

So I had breasts. But I wasn’t really comfortable with them. I would actually purchase “minimizer bras” to make them look smaller. Not that they were big, but when you go from nothing to something, and that “something” is on your chest, it’s a pretty big deal. So I bought old-lady-with- big-breasts bras to make my boobs look smaller (I also wore “too small” shoes to make my feet look smaller…but I digress). Finally, after what seemed like 20 minutes of internal debate on whether to remove my bra or not, I said “fuck it” and took that thing off. And was able to sleep…no, I wasn’t…but it wasn’t because I was wearing my bra.

Day 3: Big, grassy mound of grass

2009-11-27T19:54:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning to a bell chiming across the street from my hotel. it's awesome; it chimes every hour on the hour. it was 8am. I think that I'm finally on the upswing from my cold so I decided to do some hotel room yoga. Before I left town, I checked out a bunch of yoga DVDs from the library and copied them to my hard drive (shhh...). One of them was Michael Franti's Power to the Peaceful (or something like that) yoga DVD. I was skeptical, but I figured that I would give it a shot. I put a towel down on the pretty nasty hotel room floor and commenced my Michael Franti yoga session. The first portion of the DVD was Pranayama (breathing). As Michael Franti told me to "take a deep breath and then slooooowly exhale", I decided that there was no fucking way that I was going to be able to breathe and do yoga with Michael gently whispering in my ear...my thoughts would definitely be on something else. But, alas, when the DVD switched to the asana (postures) portion, the female yoga teacher took over. so, it wasn't half bad and, now, I feel all peaceful and flexible and shit.

I found a coffee shop, the Natchez Coffee Company, up the street from my hotel. I noticed that my jeans were barely hanging off my hips. I've been vegan the past few days...actually, I've been pretty close to fasting. Jeans barely hanging on to my hips is not good because I didn't bring a belt...I don't even own a belt. So I got a big, hot Orange Cranberry muffin and a big, hot Soy Latte…biiiiiig breakfast.

I wandered around Natchez for awhile. If you haven't figured it out, I'm completely in love with that town. The buildings are so old and unique. There's activity, but you can still stand in the middle of the street to take a quick photo. I probably could have stayed there another night, but there were hairs of all shapes, sizes and colors in my hotel shower so I decided that I should just move on.

Natchez, Mississippi:

Before leaving Natchez, I drove 10 miles up the Natchez Trace Parkway to check out the Emerald Mound. It was cool, I guess. I get the significance and blah blah blah. but it's just a hill of grass. I can't even take a picture of that.

[Later that day]
Ok, now I'm in New Orleans. my feet are cold again. I'm in an "1870-something" house. it's kinda chilly. fortunately, I brought all of my favorite knee socks. I can wear them all. Anyway, I'm staying with one of Jonathan's musician friends. I had never met him before tonight which is really hard for a socially awkward weirdo like me. But he's really nice and letting me sleep on his couch even though his family is in town for Thanksgiving. He also had lots of tasty Thanksgiving leftovers so I got to actually eat a yummy Thanksgiving meal.

Driving in New Orleans is a little scarier than the places that I have been so far. I thought that, living in Atlanta, I could handle any driving situation...not so. I just kept pleading with people to be kind to me because "I'm an outsider." I think most people probably get it. By the time that I got to where I was meeting Andrew, streams of sweat were pouring down the back of my neck…and in true Allison-style, my face was beet red. Lovely.

Day 2 (Part 2): The Most Beautifullest

2009-11-27T09:15:00.000-08:00

Lonely road from Alabama to Mississippi. me,
lloyd's rocksteady revue and T.I.

My iPod’s battery died today as a crossed the Alabama/Mississippi state line. I still had 5 hours left before I reached my destination. Evidently, Christian and country music are really popular around here. I rummaged around in the glove box for something…anything…to listen to. There were probably about 20 Lloyd’s Rocksteady Revue cds…May 8th Live Show, May 8th Live Show – Edit, May 8th Live Show – Edit 2, August 10th Show, August 10th Live Show – Updated Vocals, etc. So I popped the first one in. Fine. Popped the second one in. And the third. And the fourth. Then I found a mixed CD that I had made for some reason or another…a very random mix. So I’m listening to it and hear the words:

Late night sex so wet you’re so tight
I’ll gas up the jet for you tonight
Baby you can go where ever you like…

What the fuck? That’s the worst soul searching, journey across the country music ever. T.I., I learned a valuable lesson today…Charge my iPod every night so that I don’t ever have to listen to you again. Gross.

Anyway, I left Gulf Shores and drove through Fairhope, Alabama (near Mobile, I think). It was a cute town. Looks like it’s kinda new and has a lot of money in it. Very Southern Living like. Not really my cup ‘o tea.

From there I headed to Laurel, MS because my awesome friend, Nancy, recommended it. As I got near Laurel, I stopped at a convenience store and got some hot water to make my Thanksgiving dinner. It’s gonna sound weird, but I put a ginger teabag, veggie broth powder and dried shitakes in the hot water and let it soak until I got into Laurel.

What an awesome recommendation, Nancy. Not because anything was super special about it, but it was the eeriest town that I’ve ever been to. Maybe because it was thanksgiving. Maybe it was all the vacant buildings. Or maybe it was the two separate shops that had their windows stuffed with ugly pageant dresses. I don’t know, but it was really eerie.
I told my GPS to find me a park where I could eat my Thanksgiving dinner. I went to one and it was boring. So I went to another and it was pretty boring too, but, fuck it…I had to eat. So I found a picnic table under a really huge tree and started to eat my ginger tea/veggie soup/shitake concoction. I was also taking photos. Then, this group of 4 boys walked up to me and were questioning me about my camera…”Do you work for the press?” “What are you taking pictures of?” “Are you artsy?” And then the youngest one said, “Well, I don’t know why they want you to be taking pictures of trees and stuff, you the most beautifullest thing I ever done see. You should be taking pictures of yourself” Damn! 9 year old kid has some mad skills. Even though I was awfully flattered that a 9 year old kid thought that I was beautiful, I kind of shooed them away with a friendly, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

They walked across the street to a convenience store, but then realized that it was closed for Thanksgiving. So they headed back towards the basketball courts. I felt bad for dismissing them so quickly earlier. I mean, they’re just kids. Pre-teen horny bastard kids, but…I mean, they’re just kids. So, as they passed, I asked them if they wanted me to take their picture. I’m not a photographer. Most of my photos are blurry, but they didn’t have to know that. And they were super excited to have their pictures taken. And then the oldest one requested to have his picture taken alone. And then the youngest one…the one who thought that I was “most beautifullest”…asked to take my photo, but then he got concerned that he would break my camera and decided not to take the photo.

Laurel, Mississippi:

By that time, it was getting dusky, and I had decided that I, definitely, did not want to spend the night in this town. I felt like I had been there before…in a dream. And the town was vacant as fuck. And I felt like people were looking at me funny. So I got in my car, punched Natchez, MS into the GPS, and hit the road again.

Natchez, Mississippi:

view from my hotel room - Mississippi River

view from my hotel room

I got a Thanksgiving Dinner after all.
It had been sitting on a buffet since noon.
and was really quite nasty, but I was totally
grateful for it, i swear.

gaudiness in the lobby.
chair reminds me of the cowardly lion...
for some reason...

really old school elevator in the hotel

Day 2 (Part 1): Giving Thanks

2009-11-27T08:58:00.000-08:00

It’s day 2. It’s also thanksgiving. I can’t think of many better spots to spend thanksgiving day. I’m on a beach in Alabama. Hardly anyone is out here. It’s me and the birds and an occasional family that walks by talking about what they are getting ready to feast upon. I’m so glad that I’m not cooking this year. And that no one is cooking for me. I probably won’t even eat that much. I have some apples, almonds, granola bars, oatmeal. oh, and I have some veggie broth, dried shitake mushrooms, ginger root and garlic. Sounds like a nice feast. I’ll probably have to get some hot water at a convenience store or something but that shouldn’t be a problem.

Last night, I stayed in a hotel not far from the beach. I left a tip for the motel maid this morning (yahoo…I get a big fucking gold star because I’m a good person…just kidding). I’ve never done that before. but it is thanksgiving. I figure that it’s not just about giving thanks, but also just giving. I sure as fuck wouldn’t want to clean up other people’s shit stains from the toilet. Anyway, I’m at the beach now and I’m in the shade so I can see my computer screen. It’s really, really chilly in the shade, but I felt compelled to write and words flow so much better through my fingertips than through a pen. Or my mouth, for that matter. Maybe. I don’t know.

Thanksgiving reading material

Since it’s thanksgiving maybe I should take a moment to express some gratitude. It’s really something that I should do every day, but I guess that I get caught up in life and myself and forget about all the things that I have to be thankful for…
I’m thankful:
that I can experience the beauty of the sea and the blue sky today
for my parents…even though I don’t think they raised me to think for myself, somehow I got some gene or something that I allowed me to do it. They’ve been really supportive, in their own way. They always gave me everything that I have asked for and more. I feel bad for lying the them about this journey that I’m on, but it’s for their own good. And probably mine, too.
for jonathan…the most understanding, kind and caring person in the world...he's my best friend.
For all of my long time friends who have been so supportive lately. I love you guys and appreciate how much you have listened to me and really supported me over the past few weeks.
For my new friends. I’ve never been the best at solidifying relationships. I like certain people and feel like they like me, but I just never seem to be able to take the leap to build the friendship. There are several people who have come into my life over the past year or two that have really made a difference in my life. And that’s special.
For my socks. That are in my car and that I’m going to put on as soon as I finish this because my feet are freezing.
For my new GPS unit. Those things rock.
For the strength to do what I am currently doing.
For the people that offer me companionship and possibly lodging on this journey
For all the people who are trying to do the right thing and make a difference in the world.
And, of course, all of the things that I take for granted every second of every day…food, water, shelter, eyesight, toes (I’m sure that they’re good for something besides being made fun of), etc. etc.

I’m really fucking cold. I gotta put on my socks and get in the sunshine.

Day 1: Slightly Sick and Very Uneventful...this is actually a boring post.

2009-11-26T18:49:00.000-08:00

Day 1 (that's what the 1 finger stands for): Packed up and ready to go

My first day on the road (Wednesday) was a little rough. I woke up on Tuesday with a bad cold. I thought about waiting until I felt better to set out on my journey, but also felt a sense of urgency about getting this thing off the ground. I left my house around 2pm.
The traffic was terrible trying to get out of Atlanta. It took so long that I had to stop in Peachtree City (which is probably only 20 miles outside of the city) to pee.
So I arrived in Gulf Shores Alabama around 7:30 (Central time?) and found a room at a motel. I felt like total shit, but found a grocery store and bought some spicy Thai soup, a gallon of water and some orange juice. I went back to my room, ate, took a shower, and went to bed. But I don’t think sleep ever really came...
I don’t really feel like chronicling my first day on the road. Therefore, I won’t.

Night 1: eating my spicy Thai soup in the deserted La Quinta Inn in Gulf Shores, Alabama

My arsenal...dried shitakes, garlic and ginger. Defeating the cold...

Hey, look...here's me at the Alamo...

2009-11-23T05:50:00.000-08:00

I can't sleep. again. I went to bed at 1:30 and woke up at 5:30. I laid there for an hour thinking about how I'm going to get beheaded by a crazy old man on this trip (and other random thoughts), and then I finally got out of bed. I take my car in to be checked out in several hours. I'm looking forward to the doughnut. the dealership has a coffee bar. with doughnuts. I've never gotten one before, but I've certainly stared at them for awhile. today....fuck it...I'm getting a doughnut.

Last night, I broke it to my in-laws that I wasn't going to be here for Thanksgiving. I really wasn't worried about it because they are pretty cool and have enough mental problems in their family that this would seem like a cakewalk. But, I don't know, it didn't really go quite as well as I planned. I really do feel like such a shit. I was supposed to be hosting/cooking Thanksgiving dinner. I'm not sure whether my mother-in-law is not happy because, now, she is responsible for cooking for her family. or because she thinks I'm crazy. Or both.
When my father-in-law gave me a goodbye hug, he said, "well, we probably won't be seeing you again..." Ha Ha...that's real funny. No. Not really. This was after the dinner conversation about my birthday where he said, "Oh, you're a Sagittarius? that explains it..."
"What does that mean?" I questioned.
"Well, I'm a Capricorn and we don't like Sagittarius."
In my whining voice (that I seem to be employing a lot lately), I said, "but I have a really good friend who is a Capricorn..." Nothing. Just a weird smile.

I guess it doesn't matter. not sure why I care so much whether people like me or not. I mean, really, if you like yourself, does it matter if anyone else does? And, besides, out of all the people in the world, there's gotta be a least one person who would like you.

Enough of that drivel. I guess, at some point, when I get out of Atlanta and a little out of my head, this blog might turn into an actual travel blog. Like...I'll be like, "hey look...here's me at the Alamo [insert photo]. I went to the Alamo museum today. It was neat. They had a snack bar. I got a soda. It cost 2 dollars..." But for now, I have so much shit to do. I leave tomorrow and haven't done a whole lot besides getting the music right. I've been frantically going through my ipod, removing shit that doesn't seem relevant and replacing it with songs that do. I love you, Beastie Boys, but, for now, you gotta go....So, hopefully, I'll get the car and music straight, and then I can try packing my bag. I started packing last night. I have this pair of red, high heeled, bitch shoes. I bought them at a weak moment, I suppose. I don't know whether they are cute. or slutty. or a little bit of both. I've never worn them. They're not really "me". But, for some reason, last night, I reached for them to take on my trip. I think that I was semiconscious because, why the fuck, would I want to take THOSE shoes on THIS trip? Now that I think about it, maybe I will take them. Not, necessarily, to wear, but just as a symbol of empowerment. That's right, bitch...I got these high heeled shoes. they're red. they could hurt you if I kicked you. I'm sexy. I'm confident. I know what I want. I know how to get it. I would totally break a rib if I tried to wear them...but I got them, bitch.

mmm, doughnut...

before the trip. can i still write? could i ever write?

2009-11-20T10:31:00.000-08:00

oh fuck. i'm so tired. no sleep right now...well, 5 hours. i'm going to have perma-bags under my eyes soon. at least, i'm not hungover. ugh. yuck drinks. how am i not hungover? let's see, let's start out with a glass of red wine, hmm...now i'll have a beer. wow, that tropical beverage with the naked man straw that costs $11 sounds good...i'll have one of those. but before that, let me do this kool-aidy shot. ok, now i'll take a mai tai. now i'm at a lesbian bar and this chick wants to
kill me. her and her girlfriend keep saying shit to me and then wiped something on me. that's not cool...anyway, i'll take another beer. and then, i'll do this shot. what is it? oh fuck, it doesn't matter. go next door, i'll take another beer. oh and another shot...with whipped cream on top of it. now, let me spill my guts to 3 people i don't even know.

jonathan made me chamomile tea. it was 5:30am. i think that i took a shower and fell into bed.

woke up with kaya licking her paws next to my head. how did she get there? it's only 10am, but i have a lot to do. i made a list of things that i need to do, but it's kind of short. i guess it's better that i'm not being well-prepared. goes against my grain. my list:

cancel virginia appt.
car
tripod
camera
pepper spray
faulkner
car

Virginia is my therapist. i'm pissed at her now.
have to make sure my car works...and get a tripod...and make sure that i don't forget my camera.
and maybe invest in some pepper spray. in case i break down on the side of the road and Javier Bardem appears. walking up to me on some deserted highway in the desert..ha, deserted highway in the desert. makes sense.

where is faulkner's musuem? he wrote one of my all time favorite books, As I Lay Dying. had such an amazing impact on me in 11th grade. ok, i just found out. oxford, mississippi. so i can cross it off the list, i guess.
car is on there twice. can cross it off. wow, i really don't have that much to do.

am i really prepared to blog about this trip? i'm on a roll with spilling my guts so i guess that i can keep it up. i haven't written in so long. my writing sucks. it's all scattered and i'll write something and then think, "does that sound like i'm trying to be deep? because i definitely don't want to sound like i'm trying to be deep. if i am deep, well, i supposed that's cool. i just don't want to seem like i'm trying." and my words are about 4 letters long, not concise and use ellipsis too much. you don't have to finish thoughts when you use ellipsis. it's kind of like when you're talking to someone and you're really expressing yourself. being animated. waving your hands around. and then you look down...or away. and bite your lip or something. i do that a lot.

i used to write a lot. 11th grade. 12th grade. when i got up in front of an auditorium full of Southern, christian, conservative parents and read a story that i wrote about abortion and suicide. i didn't invite my parents to that event. i wrote a lot in 11th and 12th grade because i was a miserable fuck. and everything was about "fuck you, fuck you, fuck you...oh, and fuck you" i scribbled lyrics by the Cure all over my notebooks when i wasn't copying my US History book word for word in a notebook. i saved those notebooks. 3 fucking 3-subject spiral notebooks of the history of the United States transcribed by allison. no fucking wonder i got a 5 on the US History AP exam. and got the US History award at the awards ceremony. and got some Daughters of the American Revolution award and had to go to some butter mint/ ginger ale punch luncheon of a bunch of old ladies and talk about what the south means to me. or something like that.

i wrote as a freshman and sophomore in college too. as a religion and english double major. religion inspired me. english classes killed me. i still have my religion writings too. i'm gonna find them. they might make good reading material on the road. i know that i'll be like, "what the fuck is this shit?" and probably burn it in a campfire. lots of poems about love. didn't even know what it was...just that i wanted it.

i guess i should work now. probably won't have a job when i get back. 4 days to go.

early, "oh god, i'm soooo depressed" writings...definitely good for the campfire: