part deux

and then...

he never called.

i know. i know. i am sorry to disappoint you as much as it was a disappointment to me but remember that little statement i revealed yesterday about not being honest with myself, well that plays a more important role than you anticipated.
the story i wove about meeting the musician that night was 100% fact, however, i did leave a few finer points out.
as soon as i had gotten home that night i had felt a remarkable sense of non-excitement over my brush with male attention.
why? why? why?

well... the exact tale i spun for you was exactly how i played it out in my mind and to my sister and closest friends. i met a musician! he wore glasses! he kissed me! what could be better? nothing with those facts.

but if i were honest with myself... and everyone else, i would have told you this:
that he didn't seem to have a stitch of humor in his lovely physique. okay... fine, so not everyone's funny.

that he made fun of a lot of people in our vicinity. people dancing(whom i thought were not only good but brave to dance on their own) older people who were out alone and blondes. and okay if you know me, you may know that i am not exactly keen on skinny, pretty blondes. they are my arch nemesis! why you ask? because they are everything i am not and they seem to have it so easy. it makes me batty.
but when mr. hip musician pointed out a s.p.b. and mocked her and said she looked stupid, i should've done a victory dance. two points for the curly haired plump brunette! but i didn't.
seems that if it's me and a man against the blondes or me and the blondes against a man, i am going to go with womankind. we girls have got to stick together!
in fact i was so repulsed by his blatant mockery of almost everyone around us that i didn't even want to get to know him better. i knew enough.
so why was i excited when he still asked me out? and disapointed when the jerk didn't call. because it still felt like a rejection. even if i knew myself well enough to know that he would've never been right for me at all.
oh yeah... and uh he may have been divorced and had a 15-year-old daughter. did i mention he was 37?
see what i mean?
i am not very honest with myself! and i have now realized why. because that would be admitting things that are unpleasant or unsavory and why confront that nonsense? well it's high time i do.
because i know myself. i know that divorcees with children as old as my teen sisters are major dealbreakers for me. i know that people who aren't very nice aren't for me. and i also know that without a doubt i still need the funny. i don't actually give two figs if you play for the bloody black eyed peas, if you can't see the humor in everyday life, and no not in making fun of blondes, then you just aren't my kind of fella.
so yes, i kissed another toad on my search for mr. right, but that's okay with me. like i said. this is only just the beginning.

if i were honest with myself

ah, limbo, such an odd place to be. well to be more accurate i am actually in anderson, south carolina, and before you get all wigged out that i am not capitalizing anything, it is not a ludicrous attempt to imitate e.e. cummings, though i do love the man, it's simply that the laptop i am working with here has a faulty caps lock key and i am just not used to the shift key enough to care to utilize it instead. so there, relax.
anyhow, i have had loads of time for introspection whilst on my extended stay in the south and i have come across a startling realization!
i am not very honest with myself. if i were i wouldn't have such a hard go of things. let me backtrack to the real story at hand here. the story that inevitably lead to this daunting discovery.
it was six days ago. a balmy night with a splash of rain that didn't do anything to diminish the heat and i was out with my aunt. out in the electric city.
i met a man. or rather he met me. he came over to talk to us and though i looked good, yep i looked real good. my thin frizzy hair was voluminous and coiffed. my feet snug in razor-sharp heels. my outfit, vintage and chic. but all that aside i still assumed the man was coming over to talk to my aunt. she's a looker, okay? in fact only yesterday a man told her she was a woman who could stop traffic. i burned with envy. i never stop traffic, i sulkily pouted in my mind. anyway. digression. back to the story.
but no, the man wanted to talk to me. hmm. i wasn't really interested at first if truth be told. though he had black rimmed glasses,(my fave and a borderline prerequisite) dimples and a military physique(or so my aunt pointed out, i stopped noticing after the glasses) i just didn't see the point.
but when i felt his smile on my face repeatedly i let down my guard and asked him what he did for a living to try and make polite conversation.
i am a musician, he said.
say no more, i thought. you had me at musician. but i was hooked now, so a barrage of questions left my lips with my excitement that i had met someone who gets it. who has a passion like i have a passion.
i find it very attractive that you're a writer, he commented after i found out he, unlike myself, actually makes money at his craft and can effectively play instrumentals.
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
he gets it!
then he complimented my appearance. i felt good. womanly, noticeably good.
he nervously asked for my number. he later walked me to my car(my aunt trailing a few feet behind). southern hospitality indeed. his name, that he shares with another musician, that i won't share here is perfect. so i said it. i said it was nice to meet him and i wished him all the best in his music career if i didn't see him again.
he shook his head.
i'll see you again, he said with certainty. then he kissed me.
i made sure it was only a peck, a mere flutter of lips to lips because i didn't want to be some girl he tongued in a parking lot. i beamed at him. i hoped that when he pulled me in for not one but two hugs that his cologne would seep into the fabric of my vest. it did.
he opened my car door and closed it. i drove home to the stream of chatter from my aunt in the passenger seat, repeating his name and his impressables like a chant.
and then...
well. i'll tell you, of course, but not right now. a little suspense never hurt anybody. besides this is only just the beginning.

My kin folk

At 25, living with my parents again almost seemed like a death sentence. And at first, I treated it as such. I was prone to histrionics, bouts of bossing at my family who is large and chaotic and who were irritating me and unbalancing my need for complete control. Something that is close to a Mission Impossible in my house.
But over the course of the summer, the strangest thing has been unfolding. I have slowly re-acclimated to sleeping in my old room with my teenage sisters on either side, feet by my face and someone's leg strewn across my middle.
Each night when I stare at the neon glow-in-the-dark stars that I gummied to my ceiling as a child, I am awash with a comfort which is unparalleled to anything else in this world. I can hear our dog Ruby, rustling about downstairs, trying to sneak onto the couch, because we're all in bed.
I used to dread being the last to fall asleep growing up. It unsettled me in a house full of people to be immersed in such silence. Now, it is not only welcome from the boisterous day, but a reminder that I am about to drift into sleep, surrounded by all my favorite people.
I have gotten the pleasure of drawing on my siblings backs again, my sure-fire way to soothe anyone into sleep. My sisters and I have been thrifting-a passion which every single girl in our family shares. Squealing with delight when we spot an old-fashioned breakfast tray at the consignment shop down the road for only $2.00. We get it. We get each other.
There is also something sacred about having a bad day and confiding in your fifteen-year-old sister, just to get it off your chest, and because you cry, she cries. No one but a sister will cry with you, over absolutely nothing or absolutely something. My sisters and I can look across the room after a commercial, both misty-eyed and know that it struck the exact same chord within both of us.
My seventeen-year-old sister, the lanky thing that she is, jumping on my back and out of the blue telling me she loves me.
Talking photography with my mom all day long.
Having my dad plop an article about an accomplished writer in my lap and beam that I should read it, it could be me next.
My brother calling me from Arizona every few days to tell me he's having fun and he can't wait to show me pictures.
My teenage brother looking over at me to roll his eyes at the reality TV shows my sisters are glued to. I roll mine back.
It is almost borderline detrimental to me how much I enjoy spending time with my family now that I am over my initial resistance of relinquishing some of my independence. Sure they still drive me slightly to the brink, when my ten-year-old brother is teasing my little sisters and my mom is telling them to knock it off and the teens are complaining they're bored and my other sister saunters in with 12 pairs of gorgeous new shoes and I want to deck her for not knowing what bills are yet and running out of the adult toothpaste and having to use the kids all-natural strawberry flavor that literally tastes like brushing your teeth with warm fruit yogurt, even then, I can't help but think, you crazy fools, all of you, I love you!
At least right now I am full of love. I am sure in an hour when I have ordered the kiddies to clean up their lunch mess and they yell at me that I'm not the mom, I will wax a different kind of poetic. But right now, nah, they're just... actually there is quite a bit of lunch mess that I didn't make.
Excuse me while I go be bossy.

Don't bring around the cloud to rain on my parade

People just don't appreciate starving artists like they used to. It truly is a darn shame too, because we are a sensational bunch.
Okay, let me explain, for those of you who are not up-to-date on my shiftless drifting and artful pursuits.
I chose to sidle on home this summer to curb expenses for my impending move to NYC. I chose to give up a perfectly respectable job with benefits, the whole bit, to get a move on my moving parade. No shame in that right? Artists do it all the time. Madonna moved to NY with $35 buckeroos in her pocket and a whole lotta gumption.
So why I get so much grief for, oh golly shucks wanting to kickstart my everlasting dream of being a writer in the big city is a mystery the likes of which I'd like to challenge any gumshoe worth his salt to get to the bottom of.
There have been a few instances of aforementioned grief-giving taking place this summer, of which I will not elaborate on, except the most recent, which took place tonight.
I was partaking of some lovely fresh air, live music, and photographing of classic cars when I was stopped by an old acquaintance. This particular person is someone who every time I run into her, which is every time I'm home, somehow manages to insult me. But in that pleasantly backwards way. You know the way I'm talking about. Anyway, she asks me what I've been up to. I sum up. Wisconsin. Home. New York City. Soon. Real soon.
She questions what I am going to do in NY. I explain. Hopefully, get an internship. Work three jobs to pay rent. And oh, pursue that silly little thing involving my degree in English... A.K.A Fulfill Lifelong Dream. Exciting, no? No. Apparently not.
She proceeds to laugh with her mouth, not with her eyes and tells me that should I ever decide to... get ready for it, direct quote headed your way... "settle down and get a real job," I could work where she works. Which is in the medical field. This is all I will say.
Because I am not sinister, or a biter, I control my throbbing rage and calmly reply that she can look for my book in Barnes and Noble one day and attend one of book signings, should I ever be in this area again. She laughs gaily, like she's entertaining the idea of a child becoming Superman.
"I hope so!" she says with a complete lack of sincerity. I resist the urge to scream. And instead coo that it was soo nice running into her, but I must get going and fiddle with my little photography hobby.
To say she ruined my night would be outlandish. You can't ruin live music mixed with a camera as my mom said. And besides, a perfectly gorgeous stranger called me beautiful as my mother photographed me trying not to be photographed.
Anyway, to quote the song, because the song says it best:

Don't tell me not to fly, I simply got to
If someone takes a spill, it's me and not you
Who told you you're allowed to rain on my parade

Sung with much gusto if I might add.

You had it all wrong, Ariel

I like to believe that in another life I was once a mermaid, for I have a deep affinity for the water. I like to splash and I like to frolic. I like to imagine underground caverns and castles. I like the idea of communicating with dolphins. Or even scuttle. And I especially like being weightless.
A few weeks back I spent a dollar on a pair of goggles. It was one of the finest dollars I have ever spent. Looking at the icy blue depths of Lake Superior is as close as I've ever gotten to my mermaid roots and I couldn't get enough of my new underwater vision. This isn't to say I haven't ever used goggles before. No, don't be silly, of course I have. But not in Lake Superior. Not in one of the most pristine bodies of water on this planet.
I swam deeper than I've ever gone before and farther than I normally would've ventured because I could see the way. And not only was the way clear, but terribly fascinating.
I saw rocks in the shape of steps descending 7 feet below to the sandy bottom and ominous black trenches and even what I thought was some sort of treasure but upon closer inspection was indeed just a sock.
One of the most riveting things I discovered, however, was if I laid on my back and looked up out of the water at the sun... well, to sum up, Ariel you red-headed fool, Prince Eric wasn't worth it!
The sea is a splendor and to view the sun rippling in sparkling clear water, a yellow, bobbing orb of light as you float along, detecting patches of turquoise to your left and to your right, while trying to steady yourself below the surface in order to hold onto the moment when you realize that there are some things in life so exquisite... that they are worth holding your breath for.