tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3887861194888526142024-02-18T17:47:27.700-08:00Adventures in DCBedouin adventures in: the world, music, people, coffee, cuisine and delightSanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-5207455691748725722015-04-21T11:15:00.002-07:002015-04-21T11:15:57.799-07:00I have MovedSo this post is long overdue. To any fans who still read over here or were wondering if I fell off the face of the earth, I moved my blog over to a .com. So I am no longer adventuredame.blogspot, but instead you can find me and my adventure-lovin self at adventuredame.com. Also I am no longer in DC, but am ranglin my things for adventures out West. I will be relocating to Wyoming in three weeks time.<br />
<br />
I hope to see you over yonder. <br />
<br />
-Cassandra SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-38809493027594901302013-09-15T19:21:00.000-07:002013-09-15T19:21:58.283-07:00Holy Hatteras<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69EJgG0nDjzb6r2l4jeFRKCOcI5U3L_CsYPTV3l_hpj_8054AvluXZsIICVv41rd3oCOpGyYUjXy9-p8cTIKts1cUphVkjSkTKslEavTzmRwFbRHjL128RsSe1krRStpdXbaWPR3PjUUU/s1600/_DSC6158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69EJgG0nDjzb6r2l4jeFRKCOcI5U3L_CsYPTV3l_hpj_8054AvluXZsIICVv41rd3oCOpGyYUjXy9-p8cTIKts1cUphVkjSkTKslEavTzmRwFbRHjL128RsSe1krRStpdXbaWPR3PjUUU/s320/_DSC6158.jpg" /></a></div>If you know me, you know that I am obsessed with all things seaworthy, so it should come as a surprise to no one that a few weeks back when I spent lazy days seaside collecting seashells and trekking up old lighthouse steps, that I was in the throes of nirvana. I have had a few places in my lifetime truly dear to my heart, that somehow have anchored themselves deep in the recesses of my soul with no intention of ever getting carried away by the tide. Though I have traveled quite a bit thus far, I would say only two places have ever taken up permanent residence within me, as places that call back to me time and time again--troublesome sirens they are--and never really seem to leave my mind. Those two places are the upper peninsula of Michigan and New York City. Well, Hatteras Island now has the distinguished honor of joining these two places that constantly duke it out for my most loved and yearn to go back to's. <br />
<br />
How can I make you understand?<br />
<br />
Well for starters, upon driving down the narrow stretch of highway late at night surrounded by sand dunes rolling down to the Atlantic on one side and the Pamlico Sound on the other, smelling the fresh sea air wafting in DC's window and right back out mine, I discovered something else, the night sky. It was vast, black, glistening with more stars than I had ever seen, and untouched by even a speck of artificial light to detract from its splendor. It was a perfect arch of night sky meeting earth, or in this case sea, and it was just as God intended, stupefying. I don't know how else to describe it other than it took my breath away and my words, so I stuck my head full out the window, let my eyes roll upwards, beamed, basked, and offered up a humbled prayer to God in my mind, of simple<i> thank you's</i> and <i>you outdid yourself on this one, sir</i>. It took me awhile to duck my head back in, and even after doing so I still shook it in disbelief. How was a night sky ever so perfect and how could anyone sleep with that outside their windows?<br />
If my excitement was somewhat contained before, it now burst through the dam, unchecked and flooding everywhere. <br />
<br />
The next morning, I greeted the sound from the back porch, shallow water and reeds straight ahead and giant four story houses, painted in Jamaican brightness, standing on stilts to my left. I loved it. After breakfast we made the short walk from the beach enthusiast's condo (pictures of lighthouses and fisherman's poems a delightful touch, the furniture from 1979 could have used a can of white spray paint to shabby chic it up but I wasn't complaining) to the beach, which was out our door, across the street and over a sand dune. The beach went on and on in both directions with very few people taking up space on the sand. I loved it more. I dropped my things and wasted no time, sprinting into the ocean and this time as I had DC to be my shark bait, I let myself enjoy swimming out to my waist versus staying only ankle deep. <br />
<br />
Every day went a little like this:<br />
<br />
Wake up, coffee, breakfast, beach, swim, sit in a beach chair in the surf, try and read but ultimately get distracted by enticing sound of the surf and end up going back in to laugh like a five-year old as waves knock me down and I utilize my got on sale for $5 goggles that allowed me to keep an extra vigilant eye for sharks and scope out the ocean floor for shells and other exciting treasures. <br />
Lunch break at one of the many incredible local dives. Best part of the island, not a 7-Eleven, McDonald's, CVS, or any corporate chain of any kind in sight. Locals catching fish and bringing 'em in to be served up hot and scrumptious at the Hatterasman. Locals purveying coffee that <b>wasn't</b> Starbucks and <b>was</b> delicious at The Dancing Turtle. Locals making a lemon berry cake that finally made me break my anti-lemon bakery rule, umm, more than once, at Captain Beaner's. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbwsMAxHvaRxdI_RQVBPQDn2tsBSqnlyi03ix5_AUTPJcqGEz76mhR1IUxWZsG55iRC5NMul8oPFOFpD5lyFYf05ajT8Jqfjt-LVNJUIqKvEFezTDwwlTTne9zm9QoBGDjcn7_LDYBjJA/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbwsMAxHvaRxdI_RQVBPQDn2tsBSqnlyi03ix5_AUTPJcqGEz76mhR1IUxWZsG55iRC5NMul8oPFOFpD5lyFYf05ajT8Jqfjt-LVNJUIqKvEFezTDwwlTTne9zm9QoBGDjcn7_LDYBjJA/s320/download.jpg" /></a></div>Then it was back to the beach for more swimming, more of my trying to stay underwater for little schools of tropical-looking fish to stare me down while I stared them down, more seashell collecting and more of my sad attempts to read while ultimately just wanting to be lulled by the crash of waves meeting shore and then retracting back in a frothy sashay. <br />
Dinner in the condo, then trigger-happy behind the lens of my camera for sunset or an adventure.<br />
Bed.<br />
Repeat with added adventures like exploring the many shops on the island, kayaking, taking a ferry over to Ocracoke Island, touring the nearby lighthouses, with the added delicious bonus of a mere $8 and entering the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, climbing all 257 stairs, swirling up and up for an experience that I have been dying to have since my love affair with lighthouses began lord knows when.<br />
<br />
Now there were a few downsides. I know you probably weren't expecting that but I will be honest with you. I'll start first with the least troubling and work my way up.<br />
<br />
1. Because the island was so magical and enticing, (I saw dolphins one day when the sea was relatively calm, need I say more) I panicked nearly every day, because I knew every day was one day closer to going home and I was filled with a gut-wrenching dread that ultimately put a dreary raincloud on my living in the moment. My crazy fault? Of course. Why couldn't I just be present and enjoy it and not ruin it with worry? Well there was no doing! It was too delightful! I saw dolphins, storms roll in over the ocean, imagined I might see mermaids with my goggles, lighthouses, ate way too much lemon cake and drank cup after cup of hot and tasty flavored coffee with the likes of surfers! What else could I do but begin to dread going back to reality? Reality doesn't have dolphins. Reality isn't waking up on the ocean and swimming all day. Reality isn't lemon-berry cake for breakfast lunch and dinner! Oy but the panicky dread was a beast, but a small price to pay for Island life. <br />
<br />
2. Then there was the seaweed in the sound. So the sound side of the island is mostly two-feet deep, with some spots where it gets ominously deeper, but then there was the seaweed. In fact there were whole sea forests down there, branches sticking up, and green patches of swaying plant life! In my kayak I was prepared with not only water-shoes, but a life-jacket in case I should've tipped for some reason, God forbid in the seaweed. The water shoes would then prevent my feet from actually feeling the slime of the plants caressing me, and because even though the water was shallow, surely the seaweed would attack me should I fall in and maybe just maybe the life-jacket would save me. Yes, I said it, were I to flip, I just knew the seaweed would wrap me in its creepy, malevolent, waving arms of hideousness and take me down while I screamed like a deranged banshee. I have been certain of this fact my whole life: that if seaweed ever so much as brushed my calve, it would sense my deep fear, therefor attacking me by wrapping itself around me and taking me down into its murky lair. I am not alone in this fear, either. Ask my sister Kia, who is even more scared of seaweed than I. This caused my kayak trips, though very fun, as I love to kayak, to be laced with an air of paranoia and rushing so that when I paddled back into shore, I felt a huge relief that I made it back alive.<br />
<br />
3. There are ghosts. They come out at night and scurry about near the water's edge and up and over the dunes and it is horrifying. Well, they aren't so much ghosts as ghost crabs, but quite frankly after encountering a ghost crab I think I'd rather take my chances with an actual ghost. The first time I saw one, I was sitting on the beach at dusk talking to my dad on the phone with my camera around my neck, having just snapped several pictures. I saw this gigantic crab run up to the water in front of me and at first I was excited. I told my dad what I had just seen and told him to hold on while I tried to photograph Mr. Crab up close, but as I neared him, I saw him panic at the sight of me and run back to his hole and disappear. At this time I had noticed his almost transparent legs and the fact that he went back down into a hole I had seen before. On my way to the beach every day I noticed numerous holes everywhere but thought nothing of it. I had now realized they were crab dens and I was aghast. I looked around me and saw the eery crabs everywhere, most of them little ghost crab babies. I felt a tremor of instant heebs rush up my spine and no longer wanted a picture, I wanted outta there. I ran for the dune while dodging crab after crab. <br />
A few nights later, DC and I made the mistake of deciding to go on a romantic moonlit walk, I hesitantly asked what about the crabs? And he told me he thought they wouldn't be bad. I spotted a few as we made our way over the dune but tried to be brave as I dug my nails into the flesh of his arm, hugging closer and closer to his body. By the time we reached the water I wanted to simply be on DC's back and not have my feet anywhere near the sand, and still I saw the ghostly creatures running to and fro from the surf. <br />
"No. No. No. I can't do it! I want to go back! They are going to crawl up into my vagina!"<br />
DC immediately burst out laughing and said, "That's not the kind crabs that go into your vagina."<br />
"They could get up there somehow though! The baby ones. They are fast and shifty!"<br />
"Why would they want to go into your vagina?"<br />
"UM! Why wouldn't they?! Their home is already a dark, wet hole, my vagina is exactly where they would like to be!"<br />
DC laughed harder and said, "Wow, I love you. And that actually makes sense."<br />
He turned me around and we went back, as soon as I crossed back over the dune, I ran across the street, borderline convulsing over my fear of the ghost crabs while wondering if any of them had made a mad dash for my vajayjay. I slapped at my legs.<br />
<br />
I loved the island but the ghost crabs haunted me my entire visit and if I was paranoid about seaweed and sharks getting me, at least I could take the proper precautions, but there was no way to protect my lady parts so I avoided the beach from dawn to dusk everyday, except the one day I did brave it to see the sunrise and still met a few lingering crabs running about, but I daresay it was worth my irrational fear of ghost crabs in my vagina to see the suns rays lighting up the whole sky with pink and purple hues behind clouds nestled on the sea. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXVvBSioxSifrm-91lP2xHBk7DX19I9lQIremlQzdFAXgznB1zbc_ZijWxYx7ZzxDOHNVDfgHhoYlioHUXvV5NKRAgKvF13ltu1ErIphvHd3ldEOmAqieLb1Aw3VenUTWr4BT2JCsftve/s1600/_DSC6602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdXVvBSioxSifrm-91lP2xHBk7DX19I9lQIremlQzdFAXgznB1zbc_ZijWxYx7ZzxDOHNVDfgHhoYlioHUXvV5NKRAgKvF13ltu1ErIphvHd3ldEOmAqieLb1Aw3VenUTWr4BT2JCsftve/s320/_DSC6602.jpg" /></a></div>All in all other than my paranoia over seaweed attacks, shark attacks, ghost crab attacks, my daily dread over leaving, and a building resentment that my ancestors hadn't decided to be lighthouse keepers so that I could now own one, I would say Hatteras was the tops. Oh, was it ever the tops. Go and see for yourself. But don't crowd the beach as I prefer it uncrowded, don't tell anyone I sent you as I promised to keep Hatteras a secret, gem that it is and don't say I didn't warn you about the ghosts!<br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-32386315288678558542013-08-07T12:37:00.003-07:002013-08-07T12:37:46.532-07:00Boss-LadyI have had it. I really have. I don't want to work for anyone but me. I have actually known this since childhood, as I always envisioned myself in a screened in porch with lots of oversized furniture in whites and blues and a huge oak writers desk facing the sea, writing away whilst my children run amok in the backyard or forest as I am whimsical like that and hope my children are as much of tree-huggers as I was. I literally did hug trees as a child. I would sit in one in my yard with my arms lovingly embracing the trunk and pretend it was my boyfriend. Crazy? No, just wildly imaginative, thank you very much. Anyhow, in my fantasy I've already sold numerous New York Times Bestsellers and am penning another. My kids would come running into my creative space hollering and being kids and I would turn and look at them and say, "Mommy's working. This is mommy's writing space and writing time. You know this. Do you run and badger daddy in his working space? No you do not, so go play with frogs and build a fort and I will make you cookies when I am done."<br />
<br />
Gosh I am going to be the best mom. I am literally already so pleased with my handling of sternness, and love, yet complete embrace of my children's needs for adventure and cookies. Anyway. I digress. <br />
<br />
After getting a call about an interview today, only to realize it was one of those scammy companies that wants you to sell some unbeknownst product on commission, while pretending I am going to get to travel to the Bering Sea, I realized that I cannot work for The Man anymore. The job was a farce and I was prematurely wooed in with words of travel and growth opportunities, but the second I realized sales were involved--yuck, blech, vomit--all bets were off. <br />
For a moment I was genuinely disappointed though as the job had seemed so splendid initially. So I did my usual song and dance of wanting to flail myself on the floor and cry over my crushed hopes, or take a dramatic two and half hour bath, just to showcase my disdain for being a part of the working class, or nap. <br />
I huffed, flailed and produced about two tears for about two minutes, until I realized the effort wasn't worth it. Taking a bath, when admittedly I was already clean, seemed semi-pointless even for the relaxation and I realized the bathtub was in more of a need of cleaning than I was and that too seemed like far too much work just to make a statement. I opted for the nap. I laid down, but felt restless and not at all tired. Ten minutes later I was up and feeling vigilant. <br />
I would work for no one I vowed! Well for now, I am going to continue being a bartender 12-24 hours a week, because Sallie Mae is a persistent lil snatch, but in the meantime I am going to tirelessly pursue a career working for myself. It dawned on me while I was trying to force a nap on myself like a reticent two-year old hell-bent on continuing playtime that if I were going to work for myself I had to be my own boss. And what would my boss say to me about sleeping at 12:30 in the afternoon?<br />
<br />
"Get your keester out of bed and get to work! There is so much to be done! You don't have time to dilly-dally."<br />
<br />
And just like that I was out of bed. And working on a whole slew of projects I have been putting off. That included getting out of my pajamas and even putting a scarf in my hair. Admittedly I've gotten into a terrible habit of not putting on real clothes until I have to leave the house. So DC comes home at 5 and I am still sitting in a nightgown with crazy hair (unless I have to work that is, then of course I am in my magician's garb). Lord knows why that man loves me so much. <br />
The thing is I genuinely love accountability. I thrive on it, hence why it would stand to reason that I shouldn't be my own boss, because I like being accountable to someone. However, my complete restless and creative soul really doesn't mesh well at any job I've ever had. It has occurred to me that if I want to work somewhere that supports all my values and whims, yet fulfills and challenges me, I shouldn't keep tirelessly looking for jobs for someone else when I already know what I want, which is to work for one Ms. Cassandra Lee. I hear she's quite charming when after she's had her coffee and put on a bra. <br />
I want to then say to DC, "Honey, I have to go write about the Great Wall of China, see you later," and go. Or take my treasure trove of vintage, refurbished items and photography and sell them around the country at little fairs and boutiques. Or run a Dude Ranch/Bed and Breakfast. Or make jams and pickles and sell them from my farm. How much do goats run these days and is it true that farmers have to be up at the God forsaken hour of 6 A.M.? Or teach white-water rafting and yoga. Or open a bakery. But that's still up in the air as I don't know if I trust myself around sweets all day. <br />
So this is it folks, if I have never rose up in the hierarchy of any job I've ever had, it wasn't because I was unmotivated it was because I surely did not want to. But I want to if it involves, art, the outdoors, adventure, writing, photography or horses. I am telling you as I embark upon new business ventures because you should probably be a part of it. How you ask? By checking out my inventory of cool new crafts on my etsy page, for starters, as that's one thing I am doing for myself. <br />
<br />
https://www.etsy.com/shop/HenAndChicksPrints<br />
<br />
And if you don't want to support me there, fine by me, look and get ideas for your own crafts, or maybe you don't like crafts at all, in which case, I suggest you talk to my boyfriend about sports and get out of my hair.<br />
I kid, I kid. Just support me here instead, by reading or donating as I happily accept fundage to foot the bill writing about adventures like the Great Wall of China, well the adventures are a little more localized for now, but mark my words that will be written about one of these days. <br />
But, anyhow my new boss is a real slave-driver and she tells me I am just being verbose now and have to get back to work photographing and listing treasures for etsy and looking into the cost of goats and old victorian houses. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-61018683625403116172013-08-06T21:54:00.001-07:002013-08-06T21:55:57.112-07:00Not everyone has a DCI am not sure what to say other than I'm hungry. So hungry. For success, fulfillment, travel, chocolate croissants, an old wagoneer and surfboard, though the surfboard a little less now that Shark Week has been on religiously in our house all week. Oh and I am dieting, so basically every time I have seen food today, whether it's a food I like or not, I pined for it right fierce. Actually at one point I started drooling prematurely during a commercial and it turned out to be cat food. This is why I hate to diet, any time I restrict all I can think about is the fact that I am restricting and it drives me mad. But that's not the point of this post.<br />
I honestly don't really know what is, I just felt compelled to write and not hound DC. I have been in the throes of yet another existential crisis, almost all day and have been trying not to burden him with it. <br />
<br />
What's there to say? <br />
<br />
<i>Honey, I am deeply fulfilled by your love, yet somehow there is still a gaping abyss inside of me that yearns for a purpose that is more than pouring decaf coffee and making Bloody Mary's. That combined with feeling an acute sense of shame over the state of my checking account has left me positively drained. </i><br />
<br />
I'm just rotten aren't I? I've begun to think that's it. That I can't just happily accept my starving artist status and say I'm a bartender/writer and believe I am on my way. Instead today when I tried to pay for my gym membership and found the cost a little steeper than I imagined it to be, yes poor planner me, I promptly left the gym sans a workout as I could not pay, got in my car (correction my boyfriend's car) and wept, repeating to myself, <i>you're just a waitress. You are just a waitress.</i> <br />
<br />
Then I watched Steve Martin on Conan, playing his banjo, cracking jokes, being brilliant and I simply ached. Ached for all of it. I want to write music and then play it. I want to be in skits and plays. I want to walk the red carpet. I want to see the whole world and I want to tell everyone about it, while being superbly witty and sensational. I want to be grand and I always have. I am not ashamed to say so, either. <br />
<br />
I can't understand why I yearn for so much, though. I saw a commercial where this guy looked as if he were at some big bash in Mexico, there were a lot of colors, people, and a painted elephant. I didn't really get the gist of what the product was, probably beer, but I just thought, I want to be at a party with a painted elephant. <br />
<br />
It's not even that I don't appreciate the small beauty of what is, I truly can and do, it's just the what isn't feels so large that it swallows the what is. <br />
<br />
But here's a what is that was really wonderful. I found a sliver in my thumb today, one that I suspect I got days ago and didn't realize was a sliver until now. I panicked as I don't have my mom to take it out and I surely couldn't do it as I am a sissy and a half. <br />
<br />
I told DC and held up my thumb to show him. He promptly said, "I'll get it out." I would say I was stunned because I would never have the cojones to get a sliver out of his thumb. Nor would I offer to share my frosting off my cupcake, or give away my pickle spear that came with my meal, or any one of the things that DC easily and lovingly does for me without thought because he knows how happy it'll make me. So it came as no surprise that he again knew how much I would appreciate not having to remove my own sliver and took initiative. <br />
<br />
He couldn't get it out, as it was really down in there, but the gesture has been warming my heart all night. I mean truly, I am more impressed with this man and the fact that he was willing to stick a safety pin in my thumb, than I would be if he bought me a dozen long-stemmed roses and a Tiffany's necklace. I mean it. He is the tops. <br />
<br />
So I guess that's the point. I had to write this to understand that I may not be parading around with a painted elephant (today at least) but I have a man who loves me enough to share his pickles with me and do pre-op on my finger. And while people may have nice jobs and 401k's, not everyone has a DC. <br />
<br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-52211372662004149452013-07-31T13:12:00.000-07:002013-07-31T13:12:27.112-07:00Treasure Trove<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5eJD-kEoezT44qnIeIIEg2gmWGj0pm8jo7SNHp5SkhGSRqHfabh20KcTynlrVTTJBo1y_11lpqnsK_lMkoRJqG00MOG6WrOECc4w0BGGhB-9iOhjSefSwJpzL82qS2HfKfHfVCShX3eJS/s1600/books.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5eJD-kEoezT44qnIeIIEg2gmWGj0pm8jo7SNHp5SkhGSRqHfabh20KcTynlrVTTJBo1y_11lpqnsK_lMkoRJqG00MOG6WrOECc4w0BGGhB-9iOhjSefSwJpzL82qS2HfKfHfVCShX3eJS/s320/books.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I went for a walk in town today just to get out of the house and enjoy the fresh air. First stop was the thrift store that is literally a block from my apartment. It is a wonder that I don't go there everyday, but my self-control isn't great in thrift stores, so I try and limit my visits, especially since I recently made the executive decision to not start saving for retirement, nay, but to start saving for every trip I want to take ever, which is basically see the whole world. What this means is I can't fritter away money on books and home decor every other Tuesday anymore. <br />
Today's finds included some vintage treasures for my etsy shop, a scarf for my hair as I am growing it out and not loving the stage it's at, and a cotton old lady house robe complete with embroidered flowers because I legitimately have been needing one (the only robe I own is very thick fleece with a hood and I do so enjoy lounging in a robe for hours on end and not getting dressed until it is an utter necessity). All of this for $4.24 because turns out the robe was half off today, so, yeah I shouldn't be spending money, but c'mon. C'mon. What a steal. <br />
Then I made the mistake of popping into the beyond darling bookstore in town, Prospero's Books, which again I avoid like the plague as I mentioned before, books and home decor have a way of finding themselves in my hands against my better judgement. But you see, the bookstore was undergoing some construction for the past few months and now that the construction was complete, I felt I owed it to myself to see what had changed. I made a mental note not to let my eyes latch onto any one title or promising book, but to just walk through and do a general once-over, simply getting the feel and ambiance of the stacks and rows of old books. <br />
I was almost through the whole bookstore, having wove to the back and this way and that, making my way to the front when I saw what looked like a stand of cards. <br />
I love cards and just needed a quick peek. It wouldn't hurt to support this darling local bookman with a $3 card I thought. The cards turned out to be old Civil War postcards, which, while neat, I had no interest in the scary soldiers somber faces staring back at me from my fridge were I to purchase one. <br />
Then from the corner of my eye I spotted what looked like rare and old editions of childrens books. Uh-oh. I could feel myself being pulled as though on one of those people-movers at the airport. And suddenly, there I was oggling the display of antique, colorful, and beautiful books. Calmly, I thought, <i>it's okay</i>. <i>All this stuff looks really old so I am sure the prices are far beyond what I'd be willing to spend, so it's okay to just appreciate. </i><br />
I picked up a card, laid against cardboard and covered in protective plastic that had a silly poem on it. I turned over the card and it said 1918, $5.00 <br />
What?! <br />
<i>$5.00 for a clever poem from 1918? It's almost like I am making out like a bandit</i>, I thought. <i>Does this sweet old man know he is under-valuing his merchandise? This poem is almost a hundred years old. I have to buy it. I mean I just have to. <br />
</i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7txAY7HK_1iVcaB0cXIVUEFZzOmELgGZ9ZpFYnevD3UHYXQm1kn5WE9E3sAFwOZzR5W06bSDjwmSMlfCZwR0nPPwj1dutYXa12BIbaVIJrQ_17wy14aSz9llPcm_jFuGgN1CmUmpf-aFz/s1600/villains.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7txAY7HK_1iVcaB0cXIVUEFZzOmELgGZ9ZpFYnevD3UHYXQm1kn5WE9E3sAFwOZzR5W06bSDjwmSMlfCZwR0nPPwj1dutYXa12BIbaVIJrQ_17wy14aSz9llPcm_jFuGgN1CmUmpf-aFz/s320/villains.jpg" /></a><br />
I should've walked away at this point with my hundred-year old poem on villains, but of course I didn't. Now it was like I was drugged. I felt I had found some sort of mini miracle, with a $5.00 ancient poem, and I wanted to now know if I could find more. I picked up a miniature volume of Alice in Wonderland and opened the cover, feeling hopeful: $2. Oh my heavens! I stacked it on top of the poem and searched for more, even though a small voice inside was insistent that I didn't need a funny poem or Alice in Wonderland, I needed trips to Switzerland and the Badlands. <br />
But of course the artist voice was squelching the reasonable voice, with insistence that of course I needed a miniature copy of Alice in Wonderland as I wasn't even certain I owned a normal sized copy of this iconic book, so that was a done deal, and then the villain poem was witty and it was a poem and it survived a hundred years, so that was a given. Plus I could always sell it, as it was clearly worth more than $5, although already I could feel myself forming an attachment to this silly poem and picturing framing it and putting it in my future child's bedroom.<br />
I have a heinous attachment to things and not in the material way like I crave new Gucci bags and chandeliers, but in the way like I am an adventurer and am collecting my treasures, as every purchase I make I can tell you has some sort of story and significance to my life. Like this poem is a part of the human language and language speaks to me, or old trunks that I imagine survived the Titanic and now probably haunt my apartment with their lingering spirits, but it's totally worth it, as they are enriching my life and my home, because if I am not seafaring at the moment or in Italy at least my home looks as if I am. They are treasures, don't you see!<br />
Then I saw out of the corner of my eye on a bright red children's book covered in jungle animals, the name Kipling. My heart stopped. No. It couldn't be. I pulled the book all the way out and saw, sure enough, the book was penned by none other than Rudyard. <br />
His poetry is tattooed on my arm! Oh no. I could feel myself coveting this book something fierce. I had no idea he wrote children's books. I flipped open the cover to pray that it wasn't $45 or more. It was $6. Okay this was madness! Madness! How were all these treasure so cheap? Though they were now adding up to more than I wanted to spend today I could feel myself trying to rationalize to put something down, maybe Alice in Wonderland or the poem as I clearly couldn't give up Rudyard now. But my fingers wouldn't unlatch any of the finds, in fact the same pull I felt toward the case, I now felt toward the cash register, while the feeble attempts of my rational mind were drowned out with my need for classic literature at an unbeatable price. <br />
There was no stopping me. <br />
And the best part. The sweet old man behind the register investigated each piece with as much love and attention as I had, reading the poem aloud, and nodding his head like he got it. He told me he read Alice in Wonderland with his book club and what fun that was. Then he spotted Kipling and said, "ah, Kipling, yes." <br />
My stomach got nervous like all the prices were wrong and when he told me the total it would really be close to $100 instead of $13. No. All the prices were right.<br />
He asked if this was for a child's room. I sheepishly shook my head and said, "no, all for me." He smiled again like he completely understood.<br />
<br />
"You have good taste."<br />
<br />
I beamed. <i>I do, sir. I really know that I do</i>, I thought smugly, but extra pleased that he could see it too.<br />
<br />
I left the bookstore surmising that was almost $20 that could've been in my travel fund, but so happy with my finds that I couldn't be truly upset. Besides then I spotted his sign out front that I hadn't seen on my way in.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg79DomdV60jrkPliqLLv3xID5gvz46oLxg-gNHByE_p_HPz3iCtZ5u5uwtBbCB0o0XLWBmPkDE4IaPwzi132WmEvelXdFY2RLqwuXy9j0YTmEGHu6warFEg1tFeWXODcJ_MSfpyOTGX09P/s1600/mind.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg79DomdV60jrkPliqLLv3xID5gvz46oLxg-gNHByE_p_HPz3iCtZ5u5uwtBbCB0o0XLWBmPkDE4IaPwzi132WmEvelXdFY2RLqwuXy9j0YTmEGHu6warFEg1tFeWXODcJ_MSfpyOTGX09P/s320/mind.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I just purchased food for the mind and what could be more priceless than that? I dare say I haven't a clue. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-82520580111392086112013-07-25T16:33:00.000-07:002013-07-25T16:33:53.955-07:00Weird bumps, white wine, and Lena DunhamI went to Warrenton today to write in an undiscovered coffee shop, undiscovered by me that is. I love the town of Warrenton Virginia, as it is hilly, reminding me of the U.P. and quaint, like where I imagine Ben Franklin would live. Upon walking into Jimmie's Market, a dark, eclectic place with lush dark brown leather armchairs and a hodge-podge of art, the woman behind the counter said, <br />
<br />
"What happened to you?"<br />
"Excuse me?" I said.<br />
"What happened to you," she asked again sounding more insistent and slightly alarmed. I began to panic a little thinking my face had manifested some sort of hideous rash I didn't know about. <br />
"You're all red."<br />
Oh. I am always slightly flushed just from being alive.<br />
"It was probably from walking outside."<br />
"Ohh. You're really red."<br />
"Do you have a bathroom?" I asked.<br />
"Two. Take your pick."<br />
<br />
Ladies. Or Gents. I went into the ladies as it was open. <br />
<br />
In the bathroom mirror I checked to see how ferociously red I was. My cheeks were a perfect rosey hue against my creamy complexion. I thought it looked rather nice, not like the flaming wildabeast the store owner clearly thought I resembled. I rolled my eyes and made use of the loo. I then took out a small hand-held mirror to inspect my nether regions. No I am not a pervert and this is not something I often or ever do, but I recently discovered a small red bump down, ahem... there and my mind has been wreaking all kinds of havoc. Namely that a tick is lodged in my vajay-jay. I saw it on an episode of House once after this girl was dangerously close to death with seizures and the culprit happened to be a tick, tucked down in her lady bits causing some sort of allergy. Ever since I had a real life run-in with ticks in the deep woods of Michigan a few years back, I have been petrified of this very scenario. <br />
I went to the coffee shop with the intention of writing but after getting a Limeade instead of coffee, I couldn't stop myself from webmd-ing obsessively over my tiny bump/could be freckle or mole for all I know, to the point where once I started clicking on the picture portion of my research in webmd I was near hyperventilation and my writing trip was all but destroyed. <br />
I shakily left Jimmie's making a mental note to come back and appreciate it more at a later date, called a local gyno from my car and then drove home to get a bigger mirror and obsess over my bump. <br />
Despite being in the comfort of my home with a larger mirror and a flashlight I was no closer to diagnosing myself. The effort and obsession had grown rather taxing and I felt exhausted from the whole ordeal, deciding to leave it to the professionals and stop assuming I had cancer/was pregnant/riddled with disease. <br />
I went to DC's warehouse and painted some shelves to get my mind off of it. Although my mind got a little more frazzled when I asked DC his level of interest in backpacking Europe and he said 10% or "low to moderate." I asked because I was reading the 1,000 Places to See Before You Die book earlier today and marking the ones I've already seen, which is a handsome few I might add. <br />
Low to moderate, though DC? Low to moderate?! He said maybe if he were still in his 20's. But I am still in my twenties and something about backpacking, sleeping in hostels and maybe some European farmer's field, and then running out of money and having to work in said farmer's field just sounds magical to me. I think it's the struggle. I would do mostly anything, drugs and nefarious deeds aside, for a good story. <br />
So I came back home and per my usual distraught artist self didn't know what to do with myself but flop down in bed. I watched a program on the aerial view of Maine for a little bit, then found Lena Dunham's film, Tiny Furniture and began to watch that. I love Lena Dunham. Just the sight of her improves my mood. Then as soon as she opens her mouth I feel a kindred sisterhood that I'm aware of, but she isn't as she doesn't know me. Her quirky and offbeat wit, combined with her delightful awkwardness makes me feel less abnormal. <br />
I stopped watching, not because I was uninterested, but because all of a sudden I felt compelled to write. Well, and drink the white wine I forgot I had in the fridge. Normally I ignore my compulsions to write when it strikes me at an inopportune moment, instead making a note of what it was I wanted to write about, thinking I will do it later. More often than not, I don't end up writing my ingenious idea later. Not that writing about my vagina is stop-the-presses writing, but I wanted to be writing and so I am. <br />
DC challenged me to do 21 blogs in 21 days, to you know, make it a habit. I read somewhere that if you do something for 1,000 days you master it. So of course, being me, I can't just be happy with a 21 day challenge, now I want 1,000. <br />
<br />
So anyway, that's that. I might have a tick in my vagina, I'm drinking wine without having eaten dinner whilst sitting in my flashy orange workout tank-top that did not see a workout and wishing I were as driven and successful as Lena Dunham. That is my day. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-89582240520913928332013-07-24T10:04:00.001-07:002013-07-24T10:04:22.654-07:00The Eiffel Tower Cafe<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nHn4-MMyTCX4Xgvv5HwqS8dreTYsOFiPOE7StMNM3BN-esfHg38y4HOaSlZ0hG65-SRWxV-PKjI1E25QClFzalByZjmDSd-fKE10oBzQfeLIDVrMfu4L6A8Gkyzb4vTyStnsJxsxjHiX/s1600/cafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nHn4-MMyTCX4Xgvv5HwqS8dreTYsOFiPOE7StMNM3BN-esfHg38y4HOaSlZ0hG65-SRWxV-PKjI1E25QClFzalByZjmDSd-fKE10oBzQfeLIDVrMfu4L6A8Gkyzb4vTyStnsJxsxjHiX/s320/cafe.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Yesterday I ate blood sausage. <br />
<br />
Okay it wasn't blood sausage, but it looked like blood sausage, or what I imagine blood sausage would look like. I was at The Eiffel Tower Cafe in Leesburg, VA. I had been wanting to stop there simply for the name. A good name, like a good book title will get me everytime. I asked a local what she thought of the Eiffel Tower Cafe and her face lit up as she oozed compliments. It was a done deal. The cafe also boasted a quaint side patio with twinkly lights, (favorite, favorite, favorite) an abundance of plants and umbrella'd patio tables with flower-filled glass vases. It was warm enough outside for me to feel flushed but there was a breeze and the patio was shaded, so it seemed as if I could close my eyes and imagine I was actually in France.<br />
<br />
I perused the menu outside and saw the prices were a little on the steep end for my wallet, the $9-$17 range for the lunch menu, but everything was written in a fancy twirly script and sounded trés French indeed. I walked inside to investigate further. A small bespectacled woman with sprouting honey colored hair greeted me immediately and informed me that the kitchen closes for lunch at 2:30. It was two so I hesitated but she waved her hand insisting I had time. As I was still unsure I asked to see the menu again. I spotted a slew of awards on the restaurant by newspapers and magazines hanging to my left. That combined with the local's fervent recommendation of the place sealed the deal and I asked for a table on the patio. <br />
<br />
I felt I owed it to myself to go whole hog and get something particularly Frenchy. I ordered the Merquez Sausage. I of course butchered the name while ordering as I knew I would. If my sister Kia were with me she could've ordered it right, as she is a French snob. The server, the same small woman took my order, then brought me a bread basket and glass of water, saying bon appétit very convincingly. This is why I don't say it at the French-American restaurant I work at, because it will just sound false and contrived. I am not French. If I were to say bon appétit after placing food in front of someone I would feel somewhat inclined to dip into a graceful bow, and then roll my hand out, then saying <i>eat, eat, bellissimo! buéno sera!</i> and start kissing my fingertips. See, now I think I am mixing French with Italian and Spanish. I would be a disgrace to France. Hence why I don't say bon appétit at my restaurant, I simply say enjoy, then smile and walk away. <br />
<br />
I am trying a gluten-free lifestyle right now, but I was in faux France for the afternoon and speaking of being a disgrace to France, not eating a warm baguette when in front of you after hearing bon appétit seems the epitome of disgrace and disrespect. So I dug in, happily munching, watching the twinkly lights, feeling the breeze and that contentment I am always yearning for. Ah, bread, you make everything right. <br />
<br />
Then my sausage arrived. My waitress again said bon appétit, smiled and walked away. There were three sausages on my plate, long and slender, sitting in a brown sauce, accompanied by a fresh green salad and french fries. I took a bite and as soon as I looked closely spotting the red almost fleshy looking tightness of the sausage wedged into its casing, the words blood sausage kept flooding my brain. Those words truly do not belong together. <br />
The sausage was... interesting. Not bad. Just unlike any sausage I had tasted before. The sauce was delicious as were the salad and fries, but I realized maybe my palate wasn't quite extensive enough yet for authentic French sausage. I ate one and a half sausages to be fair and open-minded. <br />
I am a voyeur of fine cuisine and most certainly won't write off French fare, but maybe anything in the sausage or would-be blood sausage family is not for me. However, I will say this. I adored this little French Cafe. After leaving my money for the check on the table, I got up, took one more look around the patio and stepped under the arch toward the street. My waitress opened the door to the restaurant beaming and waving, <i>goodbye mademoiselle!</i><br />
The $17 for lunch was entirely worth it just to be called mademoiselle. And for a little piece of France, peace of mind and the joy of trying something new. Although next time, I am getting the smoked salmon and capers. <br />
<br />
http://www.eiffeltowercafe.com/index.htm<br />
<br />
I also found some wonderful information on the website about Madeleine, who I suspect was my waitress and how the restaurant is said to be haunted by a civil war soldier. If I wasn't already going to go back for the darling French ambiance and beautiful service, I would be back for this little tidbit. <br />
<br />
Recommendation: Highly SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-31971101599165129222013-07-23T09:59:00.000-07:002013-07-23T10:09:21.345-07:00Congratulations. You've lost your mind. I worry about everything. Constantly. Everything. If I find myself without a worry, I worry that I've stopped worrying and I rifle through my memory bank until I find something sufficient: lack of funds, no dream job, what if my relationship fails, those are all solid standbys and have served me well, so I ruminate on one of those for awhile to calm my worrying mind. <br />
I have this theory that if I worry enough, turn over a problem so many times in my mind, check it at every angle, I will air out the worry and it will go away. It doesn't. I just find new angles or unforeseen problems that had not occurred to me yet. So it is an endless cycle. <br />
I have been on such a worry whirlwind as of late that I have been giving myself full blown panic attacks, where I can't breathe properly, am prone to more tears more drop of the hat than usual, and can't make it through the night without something infinitesimal setting me off on a crazed spasm of the mind where insomnia then kicks in. <br />
To fully appreciate my crazy I have to offer full disclosure here. As a writer I owe it to myself to be honest, even if the honesty is ugly. I don't care much for ugly, mostly because I have a fixation on the beautiful. In fact I have such an obsession with the beautiful that I pride myself on it. I am smitten with aesthetics and constantly make proclamations about what I can or cannot do based on aesthetics.<br />
<br />
<i>I could never work in a tire store. Think of looking at grey walls and tires all day. Horrif!</i> I say everytime I enter a tire store. It's like I have to reiterate it in case I should be cursed and put in a lifelong position at a tire making factory.<br />
<i>I would borderline sell my soul for a screened in porch overlooking Lake Superior.</i> I think or voice this upon spotting my favorite house on Ridge St. in Marquette Michigan, high up on a bluff with swirly staircase included. I dream of walking up to that house, with enough money to knock on the door and say how much? And the owner would look befuddled and say, ma'am this house is not for sale. And I would again, arrogantly shake my head and say, no. How much? I saw it in a movie once so now I think it's possible. <br />
<i>I look like a lesbian magician in my waitressing uniform. In other words, I have to quit</i>, I told my best friend when I started my most recent loathsome waitressing job. She replied, <i>Why do you think I quit Family Video? They made me wear khakis. And tuck in my shirt. Which was a polo. </i> We just get each other. Some things in life are just unacceptable, people. Un.Ac.Ceptable.<br />
<br />
Back to my insomnia and confession. I fell asleep fairly easily last night, thank heavens, but then was woken up several times by my boyfriend's newest addiction: True Blood. I blame myself for getting him started, but by the third time that I woke up from the noise of his iPad, however, my patience was running as thin as the blood from the victims meeting their demise by vampire death. Except now I couldn't hear Bill Compton's deep timbre yelling for Sookie, I heard instead Steve Carell making jokes. The Office was on. DC cannot fall asleep without listening to The Office and this is a fact I have grown accustomed to, even need it myself on occasion to fall asleep. But this time, the noise was just a racket that wasn't soothing but a circus marching through my mind that was craving a break with sleep. I asked him to shut it off. Just like how I was starting to panic that I had been woken up too many times and insomnia and worry would set in, as I could already feel the sneaky rots creeping up to the bedroom door ready to pounce on my awakeness, I heard DC's voice sounding equally alarmed at shutting off his sleeping security blanket. He asked if he could finish the episode. <br />
My nerves started coming alive and wrestling about in agitation. And then worry walked through the door and sat down beside me with his sadistic smile, asking: <br />
<br />
<i>Can you really live with this?</i><br />
<i>Live with what</i>, I questioned, nervous.<br />
<i>Having to listen to The Office, every. single. night. For the rest of your life?<br />
Oh my gosh. That is a long time.<br />
It is a very long time. Dare I say is it worth it?<br />
Oh my gosh I have to break up with my boyfriend because he won't shut Steve Carell's mouth! </i><br />
<br />
Then I proceeded to worry about how awful that would be. Until my entirely kind boyfriend who knows me sensed my frustration and began to draw on my back. This has been working to put me to sleep since childhood with all the comfort and warmth of giving a fussy baby her bottle. I tried to fight the gesture as I was already in the throes of a worry festival, flags and streamers flying, but he knows me well and I began to immediately feel soothed, contentment coming back to me amidst the onslaught and I drifted back to sleep. <br />
Okay. Keep in mind this was my sleep-deprived, crazed and worried mind taking over last night. I told you. Ugly. <br />
So what do I do, but assume the worry is right and I am now a powerless prisoner to it and succomb all morning. I can feel myself drifting to the bottomless depths of it, when it occurs to me that I need to save myself. I really do. I need my best friend, Ash, but don't call as I assume she's at work. Fifteen minutes later, as if I summoned her with my mind, she calls me. I explain everything. My panic attacks and crying and crazed thoughts and meditating and wanting to run away and how I have forty-seven dollars on me and I thought I could make it to Nashville on a train maybe and how what if I get married and have babies and then can't go to the Redwood Forest or Nova Scotia whenever I feel like it? I purge and purge and purge. She listens and listens and listens. <br />
And then laughs. <br />
And proceeds to tell me I do this every time I get back from vacation. And that I am always searching for contentment or the new or adventuresome. <br />
<br />
"Is running away to the Redwood Forest going to make your problems go away?"<br />
"No."<br />
"And marriage isn't the end. Why can't you keep doing what you want when you're married?"<br />
"I don't know. I am just worrying."<br />
"Because worry is your best friend."<br />
<br />
It's true. I have let worry become my constant and favored companion. <br />
<br />
"Ash. I feel like I am losing my mind."<br />
"Congratulations! You've lost your mind! Now go write about it! Quit acting like you need constant adventure to be a good writer. You have a laptop. You have ten fingers. Fucking write. You could write in a padded cell. It is what you want to do. Writing is all you talk about. And when you don't do it, but instead stare at your walls in your apartment instead of getting it out, you project that worry about not writing onto other things, like your relationship. Get your head out of your ass and just write. Write about being insane. Because you are."<br />
<br />
I am insane. But all the best artists are. In fact my madcap mind already has jumped ahead to starting some sort of artist collaborative where we crazed artists can go to talk about how our minds work. And strum on guitars. And drink quality coffee and brews. And paint. Okay, that really could work.<br />
If talking about my manic thoughts with my best lady makes me happy then what does writing about it do? It soothes my restless and rattled soul. So here I am writing. Sure I drove forty-five minutes to a posh coffeeshop full of hipsters to do it, my own artist collaborative for the time being, but I needed to get out of the house and feel free. And no I don't need Nashville or the Redwood Forest today. I just needed my words. And of course my best friend. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-73355486048407556592013-07-19T09:18:00.000-07:002013-07-19T13:48:22.431-07:00I am who I amI ate homemade peanut butter cookies this morning for breakfast, one after another until I could feel cookies in my esophagus. There were about 9 on the plate. Now there are two and a half. I couldn't finish the half. I haven't exercised such little self restraint in a long while. Honestly I don't feel that guilty. I should I guess. But I don't.<br />
<br />
I have been craving Xanax something fierce.<br />
<br />
For the past week I've been obsessively cleaning and organizing my house in order to avoid my art. The house is now polished like the top of the Chrysler Building, but no adventure blogs have been written and my book is nowhere near done. But DC has clean underwear and hasn't had to do the dishes in days. I even pulled his inside-out socks the right way before cleaning them. I don't know why inside-out socks gross me out so badly, but just picturing sweaty feet rotting in hot shoes all day and then pulling them off from the top of your ankle downward, so that you trap all the dirt and smells inside makes my skin crawl. I started washing DC's socks in the inside-out ball to make a point about how I would not stick my hands in that cavern of filth, but the socks were coming out of the wash crunchy and then I was throwing them out. I told him he had to undo the ball himself and he did for a time, but now they are back to inside-out balls. I made myself undo all of them yesterday for the laundry. If that is not true love, I don't know what is. <br />
<br />
I have also been catching up on True Blood as a way to avoid my art and because the show is tops. But the violence combined with my overactive imagination has gotten to me. I was shaving my legs on the side of the tub yesterday with my bathroom door open, when I thought I heard someone in the living room. I assumed it was DC so I kept shaving. He didn't come in or call my name, so I got nervous, quietly stood up, shut the bathroom door, locked it, stepped into the shower and as I washed my hair kept picturing a vampire ripping open the shower curtain and my eyes flying open in horror like they do on the show right before I am fanged. I practiced my best blood curdling screams. I told this to DC later. <br />
<br />
"You practiced blood-curdling screams?" he asked, eyebrows raised.<br />
"Well in my head of course." Honestly I thought that went without saying.<br />
<br />
I feel tremendously lost lately and it makes me want to run away. In fact I took DC's car last night without telling him and just drove around for awhile at dusk, purposefully getting lost on back roads. When I came home, he called me on it. <br />
<br />
"You were running away weren't you?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Yes you were."<br />
"Okay fine. But just a little. I came back."<br />
"Why did you want to run away?"<br />
"I always want to run away when I don't know what to do with my life." <br />
<br />
We proceeded to talk about why I do it, and DC asked if I wanted tough love. I said no thank you. He gave it to me anyway which infuriated me, so I told him I was done with the conversation, turned away and cried. He came over and kissed my cheeks, my tears and my mouth. I kept my lips and eyes shut tightly, but didn't push away his lips. He went to the office for a bit and came home. He asked if I hated him. <br />
<br />
"No. But you're not my favorite person right now."<br />
<br />
He nodded and said he was sorry, looking genuinely contrite and went to bed. I came in an hour later and he reached for me and held me very tight to him. So tight, I got hot and felt sort of smothered but couldn't let go because it felt like love. A lot of it. <br />
<br />
That's why I came back from running away. Well, and I had his car. If I were serious about running away I would have taken the train and a stick with a bandana filled with my most prized possessions. <br />
Who am I kidding? I could never have done the stick pouch thing, only carrying a postcard from my mother and an old lighter from John Wayne. I would pack four suitcases and overly flowing bags and then when I really am homeless like I was in New York City for a time, carting all those bags through the rain-soaked streets of Brooklyn would seem quite stupid and thoughtless and the weary traveler with the stick pouch makes all the sense in the world. Alas I am who I am. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-24294620067165490302013-06-10T12:27:00.000-07:002013-06-10T19:14:43.868-07:00Chincoteague: A love story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nYNqYYAsN7RZKR3D6wtm0ner859YO6ali9U28e4JbHSdYqz9g3dykH85r7vhAZeJMfZ1Lz6GKIv7qUkbeWYJnTR3icBXu0LMACjjghYPyUofP8oNxshFY3Bc4XF0oOUhfCD_ghsRxekx/s1600/_DSC4820.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nYNqYYAsN7RZKR3D6wtm0ner859YO6ali9U28e4JbHSdYqz9g3dykH85r7vhAZeJMfZ1Lz6GKIv7qUkbeWYJnTR3icBXu0LMACjjghYPyUofP8oNxshFY3Bc4XF0oOUhfCD_ghsRxekx/s320/_DSC4820.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Day 1:<br />
<br />
When my boyfriend mentioned to me, many months ago that there was an island in Virginia that touted roaming, wild ponies, I became fixated and knew I had to go. The wild horses of Rodanthe are well known and now even more popularized by Nicholas Sparks, but wild ponies in Virginia, the very place I was currently residing? Seemed like fate to me! I have loved horses since before I even knew how to speak. I have pictures as a wee babe, leaning out of my mothers arms to feed a neighboring horse an apple. It's always been love, between us, horses and I that is. The island is named, Chincoteague and it is off the coast of Virginia, right smack on the great big Atlantic. I drove five hours down from D.C. to reach the ponies and the coast. Upon crossing over a marshland onto the small stretch of island that is Chincoteague, my heart was thrumming with delight. Who am I kidding, my heart had been thrumming with delight since I had woken up at six a.m. that morning, a half hour before my alarm even went off, but upon reaching the island, now that was nirvana. <br />
<i>Is that a pony? </i> I narrowed my eyes looking off into dense marshy waters. I saw a brown shape, quite large actually, as I quickly darted my eyes from the road to marshy waters trying to make it out, it seemed rather boxy and maybe more the size of a smallish vessel, not a smallish pony.<br />
Oh no, that looks like a lobster trap of sorts. <br />
Clearly, I was getting ahead of myself. <br />
Upon checking into my hotel, appropriately named the Refuge Inn, near the back of the island, closer to the ponies and having ponies of their own grazing near the parking lot, I was all but rushing to drop my bags in my, it must be noted, beautiful sea-like room and make haste to where the ponies were on the adjacent island of, Assateague. I bought a day-pass for eight dollars and drove on in. No more than a few minutes later and I saw another marshy area on both sides of the paved drive where cars were pulled over. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I expected to see some cranes, really, as it seemed quite happenstance to just pull into the park and bam, see ponies, but that is exactly what happened. <br />
I was near hyperventilation here, turning this way and that, wanting to point and screech, <br />
<i>"Ponies! Wild ponies! Ponies, I say! Are you seeing this?"</i><br />
But I felt I shouldn't do that with strangers, so I just did it inside my head, as well as clapped. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbAHkgffvrlw_dT-bvmQ6eoVQReORFYTENNKL1UGGw62GuQAhwNPGVZMGFcap6T-UhLb9ktm87YeawwEaaOLJJBh6NLWpUJ1K70Pe1rE4dPrm9cq3UN7jFYHh7nIoFFWpADz24ztOaVkV/s1600/_DSC4699.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbAHkgffvrlw_dT-bvmQ6eoVQReORFYTENNKL1UGGw62GuQAhwNPGVZMGFcap6T-UhLb9ktm87YeawwEaaOLJJBh6NLWpUJ1K70Pe1rE4dPrm9cq3UN7jFYHh7nIoFFWpADz24ztOaVkV/s320/_DSC4699.jpg" /></a><br />
After driving around the island, pulling off many a time to take pictures of wild life and the surrounding beauty of the island, and dipping my feet in the ocean for a bit in complete bliss, I decided to go explore town, buy some sunblock and plan out my itinerary a bit. My boyfriend would be so proud. Really if he only knew how much of a planner I was while I am on location like that. I say on location, one because it sounds tremendously cool, and two because I really was in Chincoteague for work if you'll believe it. Work of my own doing. If Conde Nast won't send me to write about new places, then I will send myself, silly gooses. So that is what I did. I called up a local hotel, asked for the owner, and inquired what she could tell me about the island, because I wanted to write about it. Not only was she incredibly helpful but when I arrived there was a packet of welcoming information with my name on it. I had never felt more like a writer. And I truly understood why Hemingway chose to live near and write about the sea, as nothing was more fruitful for my creativity than the sound of the sea and the turquoise sea ambiance of my room. My room even smelled like the sea! And cologne, actually, but not like someones crummy leftover cologne, but a lingering deliberate smell. Like a sexy merman might smell. Heavens, but I loved it! Every moment that I wasn't adventuring I spent writing in my seascape room, with red wooden chairs on the little patio outside and overstuffed crisp white bungalow chairs inside. Sheer, bloody perfection if you ask me.<br />
After driving through town and spotting many a quaint sea item for sale: seashells, minnows, duck decoys with just a rinky-dink rusted box for you to leave cash in exchange for your item, pure honor system, I began to see that this town wasn't just the sea and wild ponies. This town had a whole other kind of allure and magic all its own. I pulled over and parked in town to get out and walk around. I peeked in Neptune's bookstore and Sundial Books, two of the most magnificent bookstores I have happened upon and I adore bookstores. Neptune's was a combination of mermaids and the sea, very Hemingway-esque, while Sundial's was two stories, open, airy and sunny with loads of chairs and even window seats to sit, read, or look out on the water. I honestly, could have moved in it was so perfect. I told the owner that her bookstore was exactly what all bookstores should strive to be. Upon seeing that this town had not one, but two sensational bookstores, on top of ponies and seashells for sale, I pretty much wanted to call DC and tell him I wasn't coming back. In fact, I did. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DukwgUUuESGZ5QJ6u1_K3hYiJ1avLxxbIi9lA2wCOMK4STVlZc8h7XPT0IpWqGrMp2X0Uan72cdUPbjwPZWzj51Av5qlxmVeKKJvF5MUk1aiaDhVwPMXQCSio_nMqagy6CgEdxZ2bLej/s1600/_DSC4753.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DukwgUUuESGZ5QJ6u1_K3hYiJ1avLxxbIi9lA2wCOMK4STVlZc8h7XPT0IpWqGrMp2X0Uan72cdUPbjwPZWzj51Av5qlxmVeKKJvF5MUk1aiaDhVwPMXQCSio_nMqagy6CgEdxZ2bLej/s320/_DSC4753.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqXdU_Klulfi4ax1VmKsIUDDLUR1P1_iTv-JsfQCDXjRmjq_gT8amcecNwyWvtlubmS7-gsXIUrgrXc8cZOa6IRLeEnYOIfOaQqcjO8N3NBFwcioWZuujLlhJuZE5FjUNT8mV1Weu0z-c/s1600/_DSC4781.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqXdU_Klulfi4ax1VmKsIUDDLUR1P1_iTv-JsfQCDXjRmjq_gT8amcecNwyWvtlubmS7-gsXIUrgrXc8cZOa6IRLeEnYOIfOaQqcjO8N3NBFwcioWZuujLlhJuZE5FjUNT8mV1Weu0z-c/s320/_DSC4781.jpg" /></a><br />
"Oh honey, I love it! It's everything I dreamed! There are lobster fisherman and the sea and the library is the cutest little clapboard white building I have ever seen and it's the library! You know how much I love cute libraries! I want to move here! So, yeah I'm not coming back."<br />
"Yes you are. You have my car."<br />
Such. A. Killjoy. <br />
After finding that every building that housed books was a dream, I started to feel hungry and went looking for seafood. I pulled into a bright multi-colored building that had nets and buoys dangling from the exterior. I couldn't see the sign but it looked like a fish shack to me. There were two men and a woman sitting outside the entrance talking as I walked up. I glanced at the sign and saw that it said Chincoteague Treasures. Oh yes. I asked the man sitting closest to the door if they were still open, he pointed to the open sign and said yes, with a chuckle. I smiled and walked in. If the bookstores in Chincoteague were what bookstores were meant to be, then this treasure store was made just for me. It was overflowing in complete disarray with ropes from ships, bird sculptures, record players, driftwood, buoys, lanterns, old traffic lights, moose antlers--moose antlers! I immediately went to find the lady who had followed me in to ask her the price. She told me the antlers weren't for sale and I was crushed but a little relieved. They would have easily been $500 and I probably would have sold a kidney quick to buy them. I wanted desparately to take a picture of the overflowing sea treasure madness but there were signs that said not to take pictures of the merchandise. I at least needed a picture of the outside of the building because it was equally intriguing. I asked the woman if that would be all right, because I was working on a travel writing piece on the island and she perked up and said, <br />
"You're writing a novel about Chincoteague!"<br />
"No. No. Not a novel. I just have a travel blog. I mean, I am writing a novel, but not about the island." She beamed and went out to ask her husband.<br />
"Can she take pictures? She's writing a novel about Chincoteague!"<br />
I interjected, "I am not writing a novel, just an article."<br />
The man said, "So you want to promote my store, eh? You take pictures then. Of my store, me, my wife." He smiled. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWUPi2Xzjza5-S_mkNXAWhRLrtuGP9YDHSJc3qnPoCwAB75UTN03m_E9gvCBsK3DsUdFnMIRSSzA8zS5N0_iLmJou_FKowPY7mdqMJBsHgOmvrXSPkOZ5O28pfG2Uzswbi68x9eaOakZM/s1600/_DSC4811.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWUPi2Xzjza5-S_mkNXAWhRLrtuGP9YDHSJc3qnPoCwAB75UTN03m_E9gvCBsK3DsUdFnMIRSSzA8zS5N0_iLmJou_FKowPY7mdqMJBsHgOmvrXSPkOZ5O28pfG2Uzswbi68x9eaOakZM/s320/_DSC4811.jpg" /></a><br />
His wife waved her hands at the prospect of being photographed but the man looked genuinely interested in me now. He introduced himself as Harry and his wife as Maria. He was not a small man and he had a grey beard and matching hair, but right away something about him seemed kind and inviting, like he had stories to tell and somehow magnetized I felt compelled to stay and listen. I flurried around photographing the shop at all angles while I felt him eyeing my camera. Once satisfied that I had gotten every angle, Harry motioned for me to come try his wife's homemade pear preserves. Maria brought me out a little dish with spoon, a glass of water and a chair at Harry's insistence. <br />
"Sit, sit. Try the preserves!" He commanded in a congenial tone.<br />
I sat and began to eat, feeling very excited, like something good was about to ensue with Harry and Maria here at this unusual treasure trove in Chincoteague. I couldn't have been more right. While I nibbled on my preserves, good though they were, eating straight jam was a little tough for me without some sort of bread or cracker, but I didn't want to be rude so I ate spoonful after spoonful. Harry asked me about photography and then told me about his business. He pointed out the strawberries he had just bought sitting on a bench near me and talked about a fish tank he bought from a sea captain for $8,900, the only one ever made. Maria came out and asked if I would like some coffee. I nodded a profuse yes and smiled as I wasn't going anywhere. I didn't want to and I got the sense Harry just wanted to visit. <br />
So we visited. I found out both Harry and Maria were Greek. Ah-ha. That explained the beautiful lilts to their voices. I asked Harry about this and he told me he moved from Sparta, Greece to Connecticut when he was sixteen years old. Now I wanted to know everything about Harry! He told me about how he would share his food with the homeless or the alcoholics of Chincoteague, sometimes offering them a beer as well. My heart warmed to him immensely. <br />
Then Harry asked if I would like a glass of cognac. Yes. Yes, I would. He yelled for Maria. "I want her to try the cognac. Bring it out here so she can try it." I saw Maria's eyebrows go up in surprise, but he insisted she bring me some. She dutifully went, gathered three small plastic shot glasses with stems and poured us each a hefty amount. Maria and Harry raised their glasses in a salute and I raised mine to meet theirs. <br />
"To good health and good fortune," Maria said.<br />
"And to you settling down," Harry piped in. I laughed and cheers'd. It was an expensive seven star Greek Cognac, Harry pointed out and it tasted as such, smooth and delicious, but burned a fiery trail down my innards. Now Harry asked if I were twenty-three. I said, twenty-seven. He nodded and said that was the perfect time to settle down. I got quite a kick out of him wanting me to settle down. I hadn't even mentioned DC yet when he asked how long I'd been with my boy. I said 8 months. He nodded and offered to give me some advice on marriage. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDRRndINmEfiOq1B8uIB2zryaD-HOywPon_dxGe3zChLWujJEMNxwGLZqxs5VmHoAf7ur-res7mAplgwoUqa8eK8WYUeoAHTdJY5A1iOtfCOz4EUTHtfFaG3yrySxadjz3vwo1BLZgr9d8/s1600/_DSC4800.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDRRndINmEfiOq1B8uIB2zryaD-HOywPon_dxGe3zChLWujJEMNxwGLZqxs5VmHoAf7ur-res7mAplgwoUqa8eK8WYUeoAHTdJY5A1iOtfCOz4EUTHtfFaG3yrySxadjz3vwo1BLZgr9d8/s320/_DSC4800.jpg" /></a><br />
I was giddy. Just giddy. This man was kindly and reminded me of my late grandpa Rajala who also loved to visit. I wanted his advice. I wanted it greatly. <br />
This is what he told me:<br />
<br />
"Don't be jealous of one another. There is no room for jealousy in marriage, neither you, nor him." I nodded, intently wanting to take notes but not wanting to ruin the moment. "Also. Don't worry about what you're bringing home. If you make $500 a week and he makes $800, don't you pay this and he pays that. You put it together. You share. You are a family and you share and you take care of one another. And it's not important what you make. Don't worry about that. Worry about what you save. I made $12 today and I spent $7 on strawberries. Do you know what I'm saving? $5. And you be faithful to one another! Oh, today you've got the husband going out to the bar and then the wife is doing it. No. You be faithful and loyal to each other! And say he has a bad day and he comes home and is telling you about his boss riding him and this and that and you think I don't want to hear all this, well, why do you suppose God gave you two ears?" he asked me.<br />
"So you could listen twice as much?" I offered.<br />
"No. So it can go in one ear and out the other. Just listen to what he has to say and don't let it bother you. And he'll do the same for you. In one ear, out the other."<br />
At this point an elderly couple looking to be about 75 came into the shop. Harry greeted them kindly. They didn't stay long so when they walked past us again, he asked how long they'd been on their honeymoon. The man paused looking at Harry, confused. <br />
"We're not on our honeymoon."<br />
"Sure you are. How long have you been married?"<br />
"Twenty-eight years," the man replied.<br />
"Well I have been married for forty-three," Harry answered. "I have been on a forty-three year honeymoon." And I loved him. <br />
At this point he yelled for Maria again and told her to bring us some pizza. I laughed to myself wanting to insist that he didn't need to do that, but there seemed to be no point. Harry didn't seem like a person you could argue with. I stayed and ate my delicious pizza, visited some more, including with a friendly older woman who seemed to have all the qualities of a very loving hippy. Harry insisted I photograph her as well and I did. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcI6xsg4ZzgbAxR8xDHEMrQO1Os-boHp1mx5QIGLLRtAp5PoMWyml8zpGzacwPA_tbs45suwLMnAZZgPxAchyphenhyphenN2q1WsljU8f-J5v9m8Byhb_rZ-KSdr9MPj5Hu9wtnUR_-8FI9gXB3pCGd/s1600/_DSC4825.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcI6xsg4ZzgbAxR8xDHEMrQO1Os-boHp1mx5QIGLLRtAp5PoMWyml8zpGzacwPA_tbs45suwLMnAZZgPxAchyphenhyphenN2q1WsljU8f-J5v9m8Byhb_rZ-KSdr9MPj5Hu9wtnUR_-8FI9gXB3pCGd/s320/_DSC4825.jpg" /></a><br />
She was silly and delightful and had more patience than anybody I've come across in my lifetime. Anytime she tried to haggle with Harry on some piece from his shop and he wouldn't budge where I couldn't see a reason not to budge, she smiled like it made no difference and was completely and utterly kind to him. Not that I could imagine being unkind to Harry, but there was something about her that was so full of grace, much more so than the average lovely individual. It was astounding to me, the kindness and love radiating from her, and Harry and Maria. Honestly, I felt changed from meeting all three of them. Eventually the conversation died down and the hippy left and Harry still insisted on entertaining me, showing me an African mandolin made out of a melon and strumming on it while waiting for another picture to be taken of him. I did. It was getting late and I knew I still had loads on the island to see so I thanked Harry and Maria profusely for all their kindness and wisdom and said I had to be going. <br />
"You come back tomorrow and see me," Harry said.<br />
"I will do my best."<br />
"Well, you are welcome here anytime," he smiled. Maria nodded and told me what a beautiful girl I was, while Harry reminded me to settle down. I beamed, feeling warm from the entire interchange, the cognac and the hot sea air. I waved goodbye and lazily made my way back to my steaming car. <br />
<br />
Day Two:<br />
<br />
I wanted to bike everywhere! I had wheels and I would not be reigned in! The Refuge Inn has a very handy bike shanty with bikes available for rental and I picked one up the night before to cruise around at sunset. Immediately I was reminded of, who else, but Hemingway and a quote I once read from him:<br />
<br />
"It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them. Thus you remember them as they actually are, while in a motor car only a high hill impresses you, and you have no such accurate remembrance of country you have driven through as you gain by riding a bicycle." <br />
<br />
I didn't know why I hadn't bicycled around every place I'd ever been before, because darn it all if Ernest wasn't right! It was the way to see the world! And straightaway after my waffle, banana and coffee from the complimentary breakfast, I hopped back on my bike with that exact intention. I wanted to explore the whole of the island of Assateague, the island that housed the wild ponies. I wanted to see all the hidden trails, more animals and birds, the lighthouse and of course, be one with the ocean. How could I not? I happily pedaled in and out of every trail I spotted, feeling very connected to Mother Nature, very present and blissful, pausing on my bike to photograph trees, or marshland. There were rabbits, a deer darted out right in front of me, snowy egrets, and ample pony poop which should have excited me that the wild ponies were so near, but of course my frantic mind played a worse-case scenario of me coming upon a wild pony herd on my bicycle and the ponies immediately becoming suspicious of me and trampling me while I screamed, No, ponies, no! I came upon a mystery shack that was in the ocean resting precariously on wooden stilts, that looked long forgotten about. I felt like I was on Treasure Island and had just discovered something precious and wonderful that no one else knew was there. I think it was being alone that was having this affect on me. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2eQKOStKa8pHxlOBNP9F_YldlS1zXbWOLq4IkT_8WI0RrJprHCGWxpPbWD5_gv7MRqZcrchDlnzmeh5Ak-lo7XOu8Hr2TJpGbE6m5FJCbRNmrRzi-tRMkU2ZacNdiecQ6UD296gyMkcP1/s1600/_DSC4909.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2eQKOStKa8pHxlOBNP9F_YldlS1zXbWOLq4IkT_8WI0RrJprHCGWxpPbWD5_gv7MRqZcrchDlnzmeh5Ak-lo7XOu8Hr2TJpGbE6m5FJCbRNmrRzi-tRMkU2ZacNdiecQ6UD296gyMkcP1/s320/_DSC4909.jpg" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtCA2IeJvK_WqCWgrN3Pe65wFfhDass27H7pfzIp0O98qgTnWhqwtLF1IcA7UIpDA5QrGhEOw3u-uawBzGnOEvZJyTdMz-kMZOMX10OfzeBUxg8V-lOr0XdmDFKwob5W46QhvyUdp2zuh/s1600/_DSC4900.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtCA2IeJvK_WqCWgrN3Pe65wFfhDass27H7pfzIp0O98qgTnWhqwtLF1IcA7UIpDA5QrGhEOw3u-uawBzGnOEvZJyTdMz-kMZOMX10OfzeBUxg8V-lOr0XdmDFKwob5W46QhvyUdp2zuh/s320/_DSC4900.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZ17e0cqsQtkfFAkKeLmGZ-gJy77Sa3s6QXuIEpgoYSjStxmoQw4vvtiyO0pHPxW5V9r6WA2oNsvpIoYP4mbTBZeU9hPyAuyK5IA_lHJYGUTIlHkGaGKC8WiP7KerIAbwBWzvjQ2FZvP4/s1600/_DSC4899.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZ17e0cqsQtkfFAkKeLmGZ-gJy77Sa3s6QXuIEpgoYSjStxmoQw4vvtiyO0pHPxW5V9r6WA2oNsvpIoYP4mbTBZeU9hPyAuyK5IA_lHJYGUTIlHkGaGKC8WiP7KerIAbwBWzvjQ2FZvP4/s320/_DSC4899.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Then I biked around the island to the beach. I walked up to the ocean after locking up my bike, snapped a few photos and then quickly disrobed down to bathing suit and made my way to the water's edge. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmp7T-VqRX0FAxIFP0rPdu4ZMRyF2sZW8eObXcMVynDeNUezJoL96bIeKH8OM3dYbfiTa19wFtpV09e5d8-teetfyRMN-c5MAO-uuI_K_bo8EnE_FlLvWeku3Oob4IwjZmc-r101y-m1bT/s1600/_DSC4929.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmp7T-VqRX0FAxIFP0rPdu4ZMRyF2sZW8eObXcMVynDeNUezJoL96bIeKH8OM3dYbfiTa19wFtpV09e5d8-teetfyRMN-c5MAO-uuI_K_bo8EnE_FlLvWeku3Oob4IwjZmc-r101y-m1bT/s320/_DSC4929.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdD2LFDmm-4aeaN5H8-m5ahG-w9uXkjXUkXsalkgb50NsyTRPPYA2ZpuSyZiyIcoUiDnxS4xdBeltgW_q1xROs6E15vvxW3mJrNekbeWA4Z6iGzdsE9TGQ7kzS8Hapw1RxeawqvgHBWzyx/s1600/_DSC4937.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdD2LFDmm-4aeaN5H8-m5ahG-w9uXkjXUkXsalkgb50NsyTRPPYA2ZpuSyZiyIcoUiDnxS4xdBeltgW_q1xROs6E15vvxW3mJrNekbeWA4Z6iGzdsE9TGQ7kzS8Hapw1RxeawqvgHBWzyx/s320/_DSC4937.jpg" /></a><br />
Now, here's the thing. I am crazy over the sea. I have a clipper ship tattooed on my arm. My entire bedroom is a salute to water, ships, and lighthouses. On countless occasions in my life I have proclaimed that the sea was calling to me and I must go! However, with that being said, I am slightly scared to swim in the ocean. Which really rankles me as I am a free-spirited and bold adventurer; I can't have limitations! See, I grew up in Michigan surrounded by the Great Lakes. These lakes are vast, deep and ocean-like in their own right as they go for miles upon miles with no opposite shoreline in sight, however they are crystal clear and when I swim in them, I can be as far out as my neck and still see my feet. This is a fact I have always taken great comfort in as I don't care for seaweed, murky waters, or the possibility of unknown sea creatures grazing my feet while I swim. I am slightly embarrassed to admit that more often than not, I have worn water shoes well into adulthood while swimming in a lake where I couldn't see the bottom because my nerves just can't handle the unknown. Ask my boyfriend about how well I reacted the other day to a cicada landing on my shoulder and you will understand how I feel about a slimey fish grazing my foot in some murky depths.<br />
The ocean combines my nervousness over murky unsettled waters and stories I have heard about shark attacks and jelly-fish incidents involving a sting in shallow water and then having to pee on yourself. So being my dramatic self, before I even set one toe in the salty water I already was convinced I spotted a fin darting in a zig-zag pattern in the distance. My heart stopped and then picked up, accompanied by the soundtrack to Jaws immediately playing in my head. I squinted my eyes and looked closely. On second thought it kind of seemed more like a duck than the fin of a shark but I was still leery. Then I spotted a man fishing straight from shore, nearby with large fishing poles that were wedged into the sand for support. Oh dear lord! What could he catch with those? I inched away from him and closer to the gaggle of children running and dive-bombing the waves. That seemed the best place to swim, by the brave five-year olds. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj381wNGwHY5FzRU0vHxMHTVqCIWaeSe6ATBSpHQErWIZpWJMixsTqvfVlQ1COEyGUMZ1HjLRW_y42aLnTGkD6aNNAo_cwxvFjV56sVi4KpV42xiB2u4MgIBNMHMLgXrdE1zyO-uR4mgwUg/s1600/_DSC4927.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj381wNGwHY5FzRU0vHxMHTVqCIWaeSe6ATBSpHQErWIZpWJMixsTqvfVlQ1COEyGUMZ1HjLRW_y42aLnTGkD6aNNAo_cwxvFjV56sVi4KpV42xiB2u4MgIBNMHMLgXrdE1zyO-uR4mgwUg/s320/_DSC4927.jpg" /></a><br />
I waded in, little bit by little bit until I was up to about mid-calve. That was fine, I thought, because the waves were gigantic that day and when they swooped in and hit me, it got me wet all the way up to my neck. I don't count it as a swimming experience unless I dunk, so I was gearing myself up to move out a little deeper and submerge but I was so nervous anytime so much as an errant piece of sand grazed my foot and I mistook it for an eel or piranha--wait, mental catalog are there piranhas in the ocean? Nope, I think that's the Amazon my mind supplied. Okay, so it was probably an eel, then but like that's better--I would shimmy all the way back to ankle depth in the water until my nerves weren't requiring a Xanax and then make my way back into the waves. I glanced over to my left where the young girls were playing. They were up to their chests and neck in the waves, much further out than me. Okay, that's a little embarrassing. Who were these advanced swimmers making me look bad? <br />
Then I realized that all four little girls were moving forward in the surf in a line while holding hands. Oh that's the way to do it girls, a buddy system! That way if one of you goes down by shark, the rest of you can see it coming and scatter. Brilliant. I wanted to go over and see about getting in on their ingenious hand-holding system, but I felt the watching mother might mistake me for a pervert. I already had my explanation ready. <br />
<br />
<i>It's okay, ma'am. I am the oldest of ten. I am really good with kids. </i><br />
<br />
Nope. Still wouldn't work. I would surely look like a creep. Well, drats, I thought, they really are able to have much more fun in the ocean when they've got back-up like that, but whatever, I guess I just had to get as brave as a seven year old and push forward, with or without hand holding. After many tries of going forward until I was up to my thighs, then feeling something touch my foot (it was sand every time, being pulled up by the strong waves) I got skittish still convinced I was about to be attacked and featured on CNN in a pool of my own pee or blood and back-tracked to the shallow shore. But I did eventually just start face-planting into the waves so I could consider it a dunk in the ocean and could then proudly proclaim I swam in the ocean on a Thursday afternoon while everyone else I knew was being a slave to the man. Ha. Ha. Ha. <br />
After my ocean swimming debut was official I proudly walked out of the sea and back up to my mound of clothes and put them back on nonchalantly. I didn't leave without first collecting seashells and listening to the waves hit the shore. There is nothing in this world so beautiful as the sound of waves crashing onto land. Well, that and when babies coo. Or my parents laugh. Those are my top favorite sounds. <br />
I was mesmerized and then had to stop and place what the sound reminded me of. The salty waves racing up to shore, gaining momentum and then collapsing on themselves at the shoreline, made a fizzing sound, like the opening of a shook up bottle of pop, then when the waves slipped back to the sea, I watched the bubbles dissolving from a white foam, to a luminous sparkle as they scurried and dissipated on their way back to where they came from. <br />
I very begrudgingly left the sea. As soon as I was out of it, though I missed it. I went back in one more time, and my nerves no stronger for having just spent a half an hour frolicking came right back and I turned around and went back to shore. I didn't bring a towel, but I figured the wind could dry me on the bike ride back to the hotel. I stopped at the lighthouse on the island and photographed it. <br />
By the time I cruised into the parking lot of my hotel I was sweaty again from the several hours long bike ride and felt like there was a bucket of sand left over from the ocean, waiting to fall out of my bathing suit the moment I stepped off my bike. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxDhuyoJSoNd5iFRCAw1_Ri1YhfI1DsiyS2LB0n3vSuPTxZFALhL4ZfJoZbj6dsYci2ftsbxQMyKCzQa9ZYc4ML89HMshTLcDyXgcnVAULh_M9W4ImN9Nd3gCBp05nwLdtvanHh3mdKjY/s1600/_DSC4713.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRxDhuyoJSoNd5iFRCAw1_Ri1YhfI1DsiyS2LB0n3vSuPTxZFALhL4ZfJoZbj6dsYci2ftsbxQMyKCzQa9ZYc4ML89HMshTLcDyXgcnVAULh_M9W4ImN9Nd3gCBp05nwLdtvanHh3mdKjY/s320/_DSC4713.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I realized something while biking through the forests of Assateague, the streaming sunshine, smelling the sea air and feeling as free as those wild ponies, that there was a reason I despised closed spaces of any kind, as well as always finding horses so relatable, almost on a primal level, not just love but understanding. I am not someone who can be reigned in. There is a reason I find it hard to work any job for more than a year because I start to feel trapped and corralled and like I need to break free. <br />
No waitressing, or cashier job has ever been able to hold me for too long because in the deepest recesses of my soul, I know I am meant to be out exploring the world, writing about it, introducing myself to every creature, ponies and wise old Greek men, alike. I felt a deep connection to Chincoteague, this island that is known for the wild ponies, but made a sincere impression on me in the way of kindness and goodness. <br />
Not a single person who helped me made me feel like it was just because I was a tourist and might spend money. One man who was mowing the lawn at a shop in town offered to put my bike in the back while I shopped, then brought it back out for me when I was done. Others riding their bikes through town smiled and waved. Seeing the tin boxes to put money in for seashells on the side of the road all speaks to a kind of honesty and good intention you don't see much of anymore, or at least I haven't in a long while. This trip wasn't just good for me as a writer, to feel empowered and full of purpose, seeing and exploring a new place, then writing about it, it reached me on a very intimate human level and I felt incredible for having met Chincoteague in all its splendor. It so moved me that upon returning home, and not smelling the freshness of the sea and surrounding marshland and feeling enveloped in a sort of warm inviting community, I simply cried myself to sleep. I yearned for more. <br />
<br />
I offer a sincere wish that you put Chincoteague Island, on your list of places to visit in life. Stop in and see Harry, admire the ponies and their wild freedom, take a moment to feel like Hemingway, bicycling included, and just be present. Present enough to notice every single sound the sea makes, flicker of the wind through your hair, and innate kindness of strangers. I say, it will be more than worth it. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP-L_X9E_4b1588i9XQIijvlM1T1BoIqeJ2egQe9XlkijwJnG8-3JYZt-qGO0tHlplFFfQHs0g-caa22q7FkEzgYlZnkWhOpsv_K0_hA4WzTjk3CRayM9HgqZAj6LbTWJd9KevQF4hvqLc/s1600/_DSC4870.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP-L_X9E_4b1588i9XQIijvlM1T1BoIqeJ2egQe9XlkijwJnG8-3JYZt-qGO0tHlplFFfQHs0g-caa22q7FkEzgYlZnkWhOpsv_K0_hA4WzTjk3CRayM9HgqZAj6LbTWJd9KevQF4hvqLc/s320/_DSC4870.jpg" /></a><br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-65462637361346341722013-06-02T16:06:00.000-07:002013-06-02T16:07:31.724-07:00To Smother or Not to SmotherI am reading Augusten Burroughs right now and I forgot how much I love that hilariously inappropriate gay man. In all his wit and candor he has reminded me that a writer writes best when they don't hold back. So here goes nothin.<br />
<br />
I was talking to DC last night about writing, my life, existential crisis', the usual and he brought up to me that on numerous occasions he tells me to write and wouldn't it be nice if I actually listened to him and wrote? Furthermore, he also pointed out that it would be good for us to <i>sometimes</i>, (and this is where he started talking very delicately and carefully as if wisely and diligently avoiding bombs in Minesweeper) have time apart, as in independently, then he did make the treacherous mistake of pointing out that at times I can be... and this is where he mis-stepped and hit a mine, "smothering." In his defense, he was trying to avoid the usage of the word smothering by saying, "not smothering, but..." and then searching for a synonym to smothering that isn't as harsh, but I had already stopped listening at smothering. It was beyond my control; I blinked for a moment waiting for my highly sensitive emotions to catch up with my brain that was scrambling to register the onslaught of horror at the word smother. <br />
<br />
<i>Red Alert</i>, the fiery independent portion of my mind was screeching.<i> How did this happen? Smothering? Were you not paying attention,</i> she accused the side of my brain that has been in a lovesick delirium, while the lovesick side was waving her hands in a frantic I don't know how this happened gesture because she has been tripping on dopamine for some time and it feels out of her control. <br />
<br />
While growing up in a big family and sharing beds with my siblings and drawing on backs to fall asleep has prepared me for a life of sharing that I greatly enjoy, my life in the dating realm included ample rejection and boyfriend-less years making me rather adept at going it alone, seeing movies by myself, opting for solo museum dates and wine tastings because I enjoy those excursions and, bonus, my own company. I still pride myself on being able to go on road trips by myself, or venturing out with nothing but my thoughts, music and God. Also I think I am kind of the cat's fucking meow when it comes to girlfriend duties. <br />
<br />
So it was rather alarming to find that I might be getting a little too comfy in the world of cohabitation with my boyfriend. Sure I fall in love with the kid more every day and am real keen on the place we're in of complete comfort and understanding. We get each other's little quirks and habits and we work, but was I getting too codependent? Apparently, as when I left for work yesterday I pouted that I was twenty minutes early and DC just couldn't wait to be rid of me. I don't know why I did it. I mean, sure I wanted to keep garage-sale-ing with him and not spend my Saturday serving wine instead of drinking it, but I think it was a whole mixture of things. <br />
<br />
We are in the best place with with our love. That place I couldn't wait for. Where I don't worry if my hair doesn't get washed everyday or if I am doused in perfume, lotion or wearing fifteen coats of mascara. Where I tell him I am not shaving my legs that day, mmm, or the next and he surprisingly still wants to touch them. Where nights like Friday when we laid in bed and massaged each others feet and then dozed off while reading our own separate novels--too darling and perfect for words. At least in my mind. It also means, however, that the new fresh, beginning period of dating where DC sought after me relentlessly and couldn't get enough of me and upon seeing me had this raw passion of needing to kiss me long and good, like in an old black and white flick has passed. <br />
<br />
I cling to wanting him to still be crazed with longing for me because there are still times when I look at him, like this morning and my land! I am bowled over. See, he is the cutest lil babe when he wakes up, his hair is mussed and he walks into the living room looking slightly dazed and almost like a kid. I can't stand it! I want to tackle him and kiss his face off and then I worry, because, um it's me and that's what I do, that maybe that feeling has worn off for him, but not for me, hence why I pull little antics like having a fit before I go into work. <br />
<br />
So naturally after the smother comment and my brain going into hysteric meltdown mode, the passivity began. I refused to cuddle him last night because I didn't want to "smother" him. He cuddled me anyway. Then this morning after hearing his sweet sleep murmurs and seeing his messy hair after waking, I wanted to throw myself at him, but then remembered the word smother and tried to keep it cool and disinterested. I kissed him maybe three times instead of devouring him like I wanted to. Then, normally Sundays, my favorite day, I like to spend the day doing something pleasant like driving the countryside or eating pancakes with none other than my favorite, sir. I opted to go to the coffee shop and write without him. Oh and about him. Perks of dating a writer, baby. He commented that I didn't mind going and doing my own thing today? I answered that I wanted time alone. <br />
<br />
"I know what you're doing," he said.<br />
<br />
I pretended not to hear. Then on my drive to the coffee shop I contemplated all the ways I could stick it to him. I would be so non-smothering, so occupied and driven to my old independent ways that he would altogether ache and yearn for the days of my wanting too much cuddle time! Until I realized, I was being slightly insane and needed confirmation on whether I was justified or not. I relayed my conundrum to my best friend, Ash. She saw my side and understood, however, told me not to go too far in my Anti-Smothering Movement, because then we'd both lose. She also knows me really well because she gave me this sound advice:<br />
<br />
"Now don't just drive around listening to the Lumineers, staring out a rain spattered windshield and crying." <br />
<br />
Okay, so I would scratch my melodramatic drive into the mountains and stop plotting to get back at DC with my extreme passive-aggressiveness. Except it was easier said than done. Every time I would calmly think, he's right, it's fine for us to have our own separate interests, I would become incensed over the fact that he used the word smother in the first place and I already did loads of adventures on my own, not to mention working two jobs that oftentimes overlapped with his work schedule. When did I have time to smother, I fumed? <br />
<br />
And though I got myself back round to the notion of letting the whole, to smother or not to smother issue rest, when I walked in the door after my independent time at the coffee shop to see that DC wasn't yet dressed for his niece's baptism I was a little surprised. It was 1 and we were going to leave at 1:20 according to DC's planning timetable. I asked him if he was going to get ready and he seemed nonchalant like he had all the time in the world. Odd. Then after getting ready and coming out of the bedroom at 1:17 he <i>casually</i> sat back on the couch, while I was already up and waiting in the dining room. Okay, now I was suspicious.<br />
<br />
"I thought we had to leave," I said.<br />
"Yeah we've got time. We don't have to be early." Ohhh, now I saw what he was up to. DC has never been casual about being late or early. For not being early to him is being late. <br />
"Um, what are you doing? Are you trying to prove some sort of point?"<br />
"Were you trying to prove a point earlier?"<br />
<br />
I didn't answer because I am a bad liar so why bother? He seemed satisfied that he made a point as well (though the point being that he can be less rigid about time was kind of a funny one to me) and jumped off the couch and said, "no really, we should get going though, we don't know how traffic will be."<br />
<br />
"And he's back," I quipped, knowing all too well DC couldn't be casual about being late if his life depended on it. <br />
<br />
Honestly, after leaving the coffee shop I had really good intentions to stop being coy and planning ways to act like this whole smothering affair had rolled right off me, but every time I looked at him and imagined at what point I had supposedly smothered him, I got back to being angry. <br />
<br />
To quote Mr. Augusten Burroughs here,<br />
<br />
"I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions." <br />
<br />
I am flawed. Besides being highly over-sensitive, something that serves me well in the empathy department, but not so well when it comes to even a whiff of criticism, I also happen to have a huge problem with being passive. Am I working on it? Yes. My intention to be better is there. Just like my intention not to smother my boyfriend is now there. Truly it's a good thing I leave for vacation in two weeks. While I don't think my irritation over this will last into tomorrow, for I am a lover not a fighter, (I had a camo shirt that proclaimed as much, that I proudly wore in high school) the three week hiatus away from my boyfriend will be a built in Anti-Smother Movement all on its own and he will rue the day he used the word smother, whilst counting down until I am nuzzling his beard again. <br />
<br />
No, but seriously, my boyfriend is probably a mad genius and did all this as reverse psychology to get me to write. In which case, kudos, honey, kudos. What a brilliant ruse. For with the word smother, I am getting back at my boyfriend by... feverishly writing. Yeah, look out undercover ops, this girl plays dirty. <br />
<br />
Now if you will excuse me I think I need to go photograph the rain or attempt to learn guitar on my out-of-tune five string guitar to prove to myself that I don't need to be oozing relationship romance every second and there is more than a morsel of independence still in me. Or it's just to stick it to DC. I kid, I kid, of course it's just to stick it to DC. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-84957053677520207652013-05-22T10:31:00.000-07:002013-05-26T20:24:40.212-07:00Oh ocean! Where art thou?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KYpwiYVOBJficlYctf4LRNoQY65vO9V5SlPRmF82TNm5KqPS2jnxDdw2VebMzCOAIzweHHQSkkOgarzSv0LpyMsibIDUpemdQFCp1_5aqFYEAGE51AKDNMW_F38T2vpiVyHSgDDF9ubZ/s1600/_DSC4488.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KYpwiYVOBJficlYctf4LRNoQY65vO9V5SlPRmF82TNm5KqPS2jnxDdw2VebMzCOAIzweHHQSkkOgarzSv0LpyMsibIDUpemdQFCp1_5aqFYEAGE51AKDNMW_F38T2vpiVyHSgDDF9ubZ/s320/_DSC4488.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Last Thursday I went searching for the ocean. Now don't be confused, the ocean isn't hard to find or that far away, but I haven't seen it since landing in Virginia and I was jonesing the sea something fierce. As much as I wanted to simply type "ocean" into my GPS and be off, sadly technology isn't that advanced yet, so I had to do a small amount of planning. I know, I know, planning is not my favorite word and definitely more my boyfriend's department, but alas even with my more than keen navigational skills I only had one day off to locate the sea, and couldn't wing it and run away for days. Well winging it is always something I do, and before I'd even left that day, apparently I started getting that maniacal look in my eyes as DC specifically said, <br />
<br />
"You can't run away."<br />
<br />
Such a stick in the mud that one. I kid, I kid. He filled up the gas tank for me and didn't altogether lose his mind when he checked in on me later in the afternoon for me to ask,<br />
<br />
"How much do you love me?"<br />
"Ummmm... Where are you?"<br />
"You love me a lot right?"<br />
"Yes."<br />
"Okay then, I may be almost to North Carolina. Oops."<br />
<br />
But I am getting ahead of myself. I had the knowledge that the ocean was roughly two and a half hours away so that was how far I intended to drive, <i>roughly</i>, give or take four additional hours for lollygagging. All I had to do was find someplace enticing that was on the ocean and type that place into the GPS. It should also be noted that I have gotten really wise with utilizing the GPS for this sort of thing. When I want to go somewhere with no exact coordinates, I always locate a town with a promising name and stats, in this case it was Smithfield, VA and then type in Main St. or Church Street, address 100 or 1. So 100 Church St. or 1 Main St. Works every time in getting me right into the quaint downtown and then I use my bloodhound skills to sniff out the good stuff, A.K.A on this adventure, the sea. <br />
With my coordinates mapped out and my beach bag packed with sweet potato chips, pistachios and a bathing suit of course because once I thought of the sea, I also thought of submerging in the salty water and frolicking about, I was on the open road chirpy as a new baby bird. <br />
After a bit I spotted a Waffle House in timing with me needing a bathroom break and decided to check something off the list of Things I've Always Wanted to Try. I whipped into a parking spot, went right up to the high topped bar with red swivel stools inside, plunked down with my camera and ordered a single waffle and side of bacon, $5.60. When I took out my camera to start documenting my very first, sitting at a bar of a Southern Waffle House experience, a passing middle aged waitress saw my camera snapping away and proclaimed,<br />
<br />
"Are we going to be famous?!"<br />
I laughed and answered,<br />
"Well, you will be featured on my travel blog."<br />
She gave the other servers an excited glance and then they all not so discreetly stayed in a lot of my shots. I didn't mind, I felt sort of famous for making them feel famous. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZjYkr7I01k9mmfmRPZ1aDz6RflWWEdfWRYTlWh17hXDZzgelgMbDGm6X05LPOEPIh3YhKLr9pDN2xo1KE57eOG0lTedi2hVFWKUhkn4B3Ta5MhyphenhyphensPyhwnKfAfKD3yiQvtDjivo7mK1FY/s1600/_DSC4442.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZjYkr7I01k9mmfmRPZ1aDz6RflWWEdfWRYTlWh17hXDZzgelgMbDGm6X05LPOEPIh3YhKLr9pDN2xo1KE57eOG0lTedi2hVFWKUhkn4B3Ta5MhyphenhyphensPyhwnKfAfKD3yiQvtDjivo7mK1FY/s320/_DSC4442.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
The pit-stop put me back by about a half hour, but the waffle was scrumptious and totally worth checking off my list. I got back in the car and felt the seas fingers beckoning to me. <br />
After two hours of highway driving, however, I was starting to get way antsy and I sort of wanted a shortcut or better scenery at that point. Lucky for me I exited from the highway and was soon on back country roads. This area of Virginia looked nothing like the Virginia I was familiar with. <br />
Not only were there no rolling hills or horses anywhere, but it had a distinct Old South feel. I spotted run-down red gas stations with rusted Coca-Cola machines out front, several dilapidated houses with chipped white paint, and then I started to see signs for plantations. I got excited and turned abruptly to go see the Shirley Plantation which as it turns out is Virginia's oldest Plantation. Talk about a find!<br />
But soon after leaving Shirley I did begin to wonder how far down the coast I was exactly. Then I saw a sign for Williamsburg and noting that I was near the James River began to put two and two together. <br />
So I pulled over and bought a map opening it up to find, that yes my suspicions were correct. I had sort of thought I was just going straight over to the ocean. Instead I went way down and over and then down some more. Oh. Hi, North Carolina, you're an awful lot closer than I realized. Ah well I was already almost to my destination, so I kept going.<br />
Upon reaching Smithfield and driving through the promised darling streets of the downtown I hardly noticed as I was fixated on the water. It was nearly ninety degrees outside and even with the air blasting in the car I felt a strong need to submerge and de-sweat.<br />
But. Here is where my lack of planning sometimes gets me in trouble. The town of Smithfield did say it was coastal and true enough it is on the James River which does in fact reach the sea, but as always my crazed imaginative mind believed I would just drive up to a sand dune, park and run gaily into the water like the scene in the Notebook where Rachel McAdams chases the seagulls. <br />
I drove to the water. But it wasn't the ocean and there were no dunes, just some tall reeds and a pretty posh looking row of brick buildings that seemed to be high-end condos or a country club. I circled around trying to find somewhere that I could dive in the water, but it looked kind of deep and murky and I got frustrated. This is not what I signed on for! I looked at my map now more determined than ever to swim in the ocean at all costs. I had been in the car since 9:30 in the morning. It was now 2:30 in the afternoon. I spotted Newport News on the map and recognized the name and it seemed Newport was closer to the ocean. So I whipped through Smithfield, the town I had been jonesing to see all day and opted for Newport. <br />
This is when my boyfriend called. Refer to the earlier conversation. When I told him I was going to Newport News because I needed to see the ocean, he said,<br />
<br />
"I don't think it's the kind of town you're imagining it is."<br />
"A cute sea town? It has to be. I've heard of it. And it's by the ocean and the name sounds like it would be."<br />
"Okay, then go."<br />
"But I feel like you don't want me to."<br />
"You've already made up your mind to go, so go and see for yourself."<br />
<br />
I did. And he was right. It was not the sea-scape town I expected. It seemed a lil rough around the edges and I didn't spot one bright blue and white awning boasting seafood or a beach with a lighthouse. Now I was pissed. I called my mom as I did a big loop around Newport trying to find the darn ocean. I spotted one beach near a power plant that was also by the highway and debated going for a dip there but once I have high expectations it's hard for me to lower them. I ranted to my mother that this is why DC planned all the time, to prevent these kind mishaps and I can't believe I had been driving for five hours and had only seen a river and hadn't tasted any lobster yet! Let it be known, though that the James River had been exciting me all day, water of any kind is still my favorite and I do so love to be near it as nature is never wasted on me. I was just a smidge disappointed. When you go looking for the ocean and only find a river it's a little like Galileo looking for the sun and finding a firefly. Fireflies are great sure, but they're no blazing star. <br />
My mother who is beyond wise and has more patience for me than anyone I know, researched local seafood gems with me on the phone and calmed me down, reiterating that the trip could still be salvaged. <br />
I ended up back in Smithfield and at a restaurant my mom approved of, which means it was going to be really tops because my mom doesn't trifle when it comes to finding the best local hotspots.<br />
It was called Smithfield Station and it was on the water. Sure it wasn't the right water, but I enjoyed the view of sailboats as I ate my fresh crab quiche and fruit. My stomach was happy. I was happy. <br />
I finished off my trip with a walk around Windsor Castle Park. A boardwalk over marshy river water in the muggy heat was the perfect calming agent after my near hysterics about the trip being an almost bust. Of course it wasn't a bust. This is what I love and hate about myself simultaneously: my antics. They prove to be quite fun and quite infuriating almost all the time; but my life isn't dull I'll tell you that much. <br />
When I got home my boyfriend pointed out that I could've gotten to the ocean and the kind ocean I'd envisioned to boot, a lot sooner and with a lot less hassle. True enough. And I knew that for next time, but I wouldn't have discovered that I love the town of Smithfield, VA and can't wait to go back and try the famous Ringo's Donuts, that Shirley Plantation and Bacon's Castle are incredible architectural gems indeed and that Northern Virginia is the farthest South I will ever live. <br />
It's all about perspective folks. And that is why no adventure is a wasted adventure. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoA96bE8gQn4lxevq-Pl6rv4l6FAzOakhRXNkOv6UtZxD9sBrsM3f7b-Jm6lQ79o0RlXNzJlYN2keeXnle9sekGJgg8QwaSDCCHE349yTPbHZrpq_rQcxUOmebR4PzF1gprZ3cv2EXMHiC/s1600/_DSC4454.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoA96bE8gQn4lxevq-Pl6rv4l6FAzOakhRXNkOv6UtZxD9sBrsM3f7b-Jm6lQ79o0RlXNzJlYN2keeXnle9sekGJgg8QwaSDCCHE349yTPbHZrpq_rQcxUOmebR4PzF1gprZ3cv2EXMHiC/s320/_DSC4454.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrrVq1pzhKqUuJ_PcWb528DnQqgznnPbOKkX-0jJKQOPE-SEElXBi8aAQrLmNcASoJuBBAaZX_UjRe77rcGMFHiok2_Bc3NWDDeAlW8us0fQVcArE76SbQI4bl85qC_Rdg3FcAzDAoZHd/s1600/_DSC4456.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrrVq1pzhKqUuJ_PcWb528DnQqgznnPbOKkX-0jJKQOPE-SEElXBi8aAQrLmNcASoJuBBAaZX_UjRe77rcGMFHiok2_Bc3NWDDeAlW8us0fQVcArE76SbQI4bl85qC_Rdg3FcAzDAoZHd/s320/_DSC4456.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2dmEpHF-stUhrmdJthzCTrJgr0NdkPWP55xsMRLOMrAA9mLqFR_RMb3EHYgc0jQ37OrgQNUw-2Q1u0fTrxMqUsgWxshlmvF6QDOnBW5IcaoXGaVWOZKNI3U-XZI-wuauJt02gqTUK2zOU/s1600/_DSC4457.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2dmEpHF-stUhrmdJthzCTrJgr0NdkPWP55xsMRLOMrAA9mLqFR_RMb3EHYgc0jQ37OrgQNUw-2Q1u0fTrxMqUsgWxshlmvF6QDOnBW5IcaoXGaVWOZKNI3U-XZI-wuauJt02gqTUK2zOU/s320/_DSC4457.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhImXJFMRUXxslXRCiVvZ51yA3Fpf5MvXMglVDd1PPS3kctZduFlqwElV-MwAzIJdGzs-gq1N2jobmfFHm6jko1liK-C6R0jVVP0BZ8dRoTKpQNIRM56rvMItkqdTnGRWCSI9T0yt4kFGya/s1600/_DSC4466.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhImXJFMRUXxslXRCiVvZ51yA3Fpf5MvXMglVDd1PPS3kctZduFlqwElV-MwAzIJdGzs-gq1N2jobmfFHm6jko1liK-C6R0jVVP0BZ8dRoTKpQNIRM56rvMItkqdTnGRWCSI9T0yt4kFGya/s320/_DSC4466.jpg" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5LcHBgqtJ_TBGSHmK-2m7a2-N781LEC4_IQvgdp2VUaMY_muYM3v7qYxvMUFr49dt1uaOrn7ak4sz_di7ABtm2Z7PAxmBrzSz36BXo2GXTx8yeH6A5A-3zyfdks2F2x_97nIu_eAheXps/s1600/_DSC4476.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5LcHBgqtJ_TBGSHmK-2m7a2-N781LEC4_IQvgdp2VUaMY_muYM3v7qYxvMUFr49dt1uaOrn7ak4sz_di7ABtm2Z7PAxmBrzSz36BXo2GXTx8yeH6A5A-3zyfdks2F2x_97nIu_eAheXps/s320/_DSC4476.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL6WM7cBPEpYxAGyxaU5nvlobzYTIGBQAe_AMLiHPZSTAtSV4RRZkiZM8yJcODbvQWsZUay59P17n_QRiO1rIDk9td7oL0pqOT3u0Z8WGfENqLHFsN_xahsZk7azZ_IbNMtpd9PPxiYg38/s1600/_DSC4477.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL6WM7cBPEpYxAGyxaU5nvlobzYTIGBQAe_AMLiHPZSTAtSV4RRZkiZM8yJcODbvQWsZUay59P17n_QRiO1rIDk9td7oL0pqOT3u0Z8WGfENqLHFsN_xahsZk7azZ_IbNMtpd9PPxiYg38/s320/_DSC4477.jpg" /></a><br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-40795276580623987142013-05-18T06:52:00.000-07:002013-05-18T07:02:18.522-07:00The case of the dad pantsAs a young lass traversing the awkward halls of middle school I not only felt the heinousness that accompanies this wretched stage of life, but I also had the benefit of being chunky. Double whammy. It didn't matter what I wore in middle school, everything somehow looked terrible and was accompanied with a nice bout of teasing. Apparently I didn't start wearing a bra soon enough and got teased in the locker room. Told you I was ready, mom. I didn't start wearing deodorant soon enough and got teased in English. Told you again, mom. Yes my mom literally said I was too young for deodorant. I wasn't too young according to the boys who pointed out my sweating problem. Thank you for that one, dad. <br />
At any rate middle school was the pits, pun intended. Being chunky came with a whole slew of problems besides not looking good in anything and sweating a great deal, I never could seem to find jeans that fit. And when I did, I somehow had gotten a lil chunkier and the jeans produced a sort of inner tube affect with my stomach, not cute, and then I refused to wear them anymore or go up another size. It was my way of showing those jeans who was boss. Until high school when my aunt pointed out I had such a sporty style. Um, I wasn't sporty by choice, I was "sporty" because that meant a lot of elastic waist bands. Now I get to be a hippy because that means a lot of dresses and leggings, which, yes still have elastic waist bands. Oh, elastic, I will always be true to you. <br />
Anyhow, so one day, I was rummaging in our basement that doubles as a laundry room for our family of about 8 people at this time, tearing through the heaps of clothes that belong from everyone ranging from dad to littlest sibling, trying to find something to wear to school that day. One of the lights was burnt out and it was still dark outside due to the fact that I had to be up at the crack of dawn for middle school, another huge point against that time in my life. I spotted a pair of jeans that looked a little bigger than mine. I instantly became hopeful. Maybe this was a mystery pair of perfect jeans sent from the heavens to fit my growing pudgy frame and make my life a little less tease-worthy at school? I quickly slipped them on and realized that yes, yes they fit! With room to spare. I had never had that happen before. They did seem a little baggy in the crotch region but I disregarded this on my high of having a pair of jeans slide up over my hips, first try with no sucking or squeezing in my gut. <br />
I ran up the stairs, threw on a sweatshirt and into my dad's waiting car to get dropped off at school. Now let me also point out, that my family is not like most families when it comes to waking up rituals. If my boyfriend comes to stay for the weekend and sleeps on the couch, come 9am on a Saturday morning, it is still as quiet as a Monks workspace in the whole downstairs as every child and adult is still snug in bed. We really like our sleep in my family. This is to say that when I ran out the door, the house was still relatively dark as I gave myself no extra time for frivolous things like eating breakfast or doing my hair in middle school, or high school, um and most of college. Gosh, I wonder why I got teased. <br />
So can you imagine what happened when I got to school and walked into those brightly lit fluorescent hallways? Well I strutted my stuff for a few steps feeling that today would be a tease-free day as I wasn't wearing floods (pants that were too high, I'd made that mistake before too) I had the appropriate amount of deodorant on and was indeed locked into a bra. It should be smooth sailing I thought bordering on cocky, thinking I looked so good in jeans.<br />
I looked down again to take it all in, me in my sweet jean clad body, with no overflow of stomach pooch, when I suddenly realized something terrible, the reason for the too large crotch area that I had disregarded earlier, the reason these jeans were a little baggy, these weren't mystery miracle jeans given to me by God, these jeans were my dads! <br />
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no, I thought as I ran to the bathroom to inspect in a full length mirror. The horror only intensified in there. Yes. They were clearly mens pants. They weren't particularly stylish. My dad is stylish for the record, but his job is to drive trucks, so he doesn't glam up for that. They were baggy, shapeless, saggy-crotch man jeans that horror of all horrors actually fit me! I was chubby enough to comfortably wear my father's jeans to school. In the sixth grade. Granted they looked hideous and did nothing for me, but they didn't fall off. I required no belt!<br />
And here's the thing, my memory of this stops there. In the girls bathroom. I don't know if I was teased so mercilessly that my mind has blocked out the memory entirely or if God offered me a free pass because he clearly wasn't offering up free jeans, and the kids looked the other way that day. <br />
Either way the shame of realizing I not only wore my fathers pants to school one day in the sixth grade but that they actually fit me well enough to wear them to school has stayed with me for life. <br />
Let this be a cautionary tale for all young girls who suffer relentlessly through middle school. Know that middle school will never improve, sorry it is a prerequisite for life to endure the drudgery that is sixth grade, you'll be better for it, but also know that at least you probably have enough sense and understanding of fashion not to wear your dads pants to school. <br />
<br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-62008474153796971952013-05-15T07:28:00.001-07:002013-05-15T07:35:40.559-07:00Reader's ChoiceBecause I have some of the most wonderful and faithful readers I wanted to do a couple fun things in the next few days to show you guys how much I value your support and continued excitement over my words. But I am going to need your help. Today's blog is going to be picked by you! Here are your wildly riveting choices:<br />
<br />
-That time in middle school that I wore man's pants on accident<br />
<br />
-True tales of my sordid dating past<br />
<br />
-My honest to goodness feelings about my body, health, fitness, this one will probably be feel good, as I had to throw one of those in the mix<br />
<br />
-My input on health care reform, the tax act and foreign policy. I kid. I am sorry, but I would never. I don't even know if there's such a thing as the tax act, I just threw together political sounding phrases that gave me the shudders after popping into my mind. <br />
<br />
Okay you get three choices folks, besides being keen on the number three, why overwhelm you? And honestly I have been working two jobs and my life has been slightly exhausting lately, where my feet ache when I stumble in the door after bar-tending and doing wine tastings for 12 hours and I pass out at 9:30 p.m. only to then sleep until 9 the next morning, so adventures have been limited. But don't fret, little doves, don't worry, I have adventures a-coming. <br />
<br />
So. Cast your vote here in my comments section, which I will be religiously checking all day on my phone, because it's my day off and I love obsessing over my blog. Or you can vote on Facebook, because I will shamelessly promote my blog over there too. And if only one of you votes all day, well guess what? You win! And if none of you vote, then I have overestimated how much you all like me and I will surprise you and pick one myself. <br />
<br />
Please vote by 5pm so as to give me a solid two hours writing time. I know, I know, that seems excessive, but my words must be fashioned ever so magically and I am a perfectionist. Nothing but the best for my readers!<br />
<br />
Now cast your ballot! SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-25471299628012184102013-05-06T18:30:00.001-07:002013-05-07T07:08:53.437-07:00You're my lobster!I don't know what threshold it is that DC and I have crossed, but lately, something is different. I have loved the kid for some time and have vocalized as much, but that tends to be easy for me, the falling in love part. In fact after only about two months of dating I already felt so strongly about him and nervous for feeling so strongly, because I had just felt a similar way about the last guy and that was a bust, that I ended up telling DC I loved him first, uh like this:<br />
<br />
I was being slightly hysterical about him not calling me enough, yes I will admit I am a girl who has ample supply of crazy on hand at any given time, and slightly exasperated he asked me what was really wrong and I blurted out,<br />
"I fucking love you, you idiot!" And then got incredibly nervous that I just did something bad. I broke a cardinal rule of dating. I said it first, (I always say it first for the record, so I don't know why this time surprised me) and after way too short a time of dating. I started to sniffle as he started to laugh.<br />
"Well I fucking love you too, you idiot!" he said back sounding downright gleeful. I had already preemptively started to cry, assuming he was going to get awkward and tell me how great of a friend I was, because numerous men, including my ex-boyfriend had all reacted very poorly to hearing those lovely words. <br />
He asked me when I knew I loved him and I said the words had been wanting to come out here and there when he did things like croon Christmas carols to me when I was feeling blue, but all of a sudden at that exact moment I couldn't hold it in any longer. I asked him when he knew he loved me and he told me since July (well before we'd started dating), but that he had been falling in love with me since he saw me on The Biggest Loser. Now I know you can't run this test on everybody but if a guy falls in love with you when you are 239 pounds, openly vulnerable and at your worst/most exposed then I would say he is worth keeping around. <br />
Now, I have easily claimed love for at least five out of seven crushes/relationships. And I don't think I cheapen the word love, each man made me feel those keen emotions of love and I won't take back feeling a genuinely true affection for these fellas, even if they weren't the fellas for me. <br />
You see, I have been a romantic sap since probably exiting the womb, as I can remember as far back as kindergarten asking myself if my crush had the potential makings of a great future husband. Seriously, I remember it well. Kyle, that 5-year-old crush of mine had a way for including me at recess, his mother liked me (she helped in the classroom sometimes), always a bonus and he sure had a way of creating excellent Play-Doh Pizza--creativity and a love of pizza--he was a winner in my book. And from there I only got more hopeful and excited with each passing year about what different boys brought to their relationships with me. They loved the outdoors, they made me laugh, they went to the same church as me, they wrote poetry, they were kind, tall, dark, handsome, thought I was beautiful, kissed like a dream, you know, all those top-notch ingredients to make the perfect boyfriend. <br />
And I built these findings up, a veritable mental check-list I have been adding to ever since. <br />
*He adores my family and friends- Check<br />
*He is fun to be around- Check<br />
*He showers regularly- Didn't realize I needed a check for that, but I do now thanks to what my best friend refers to as a certain simpleton I dated in college. I won't say more as my dating history is hilarious at best and needs further divulging, ah but for a later date. <br />
But then there are things that never occurred to me to look for or even want and that's where DC enters. It's funny because when my best friend met and married her husband he was nothing like what she had always said she was looking for or typically dated. He wasn't anything like the Wisconsin country boys she was drawn to and fantasized about riding tractors with, I kid Ash, I had to. Instead the man she married liked thrift clothing, didn't watch NASCAR and hated country music. In fact when I first saw his picture, I about fell over. My country-worshiping best friend who made fun of me for listening to Edward Sharpe was not only dating what I thought looked suspiciously like a hipster, but then was telling me how great this Edward Sharpe song was that her new boyfriend had her listen to. You have got to be kidding me. Would wonders never cease?<br />
The point here is, DC surprised me in much the same way. I thought, I am going to end up with some hippy adventurer who just loves the band Phoenix and can't wait to go to Burning Man with me. Ashley warned me it might not end up the way I thought it would. She couldn't have been more right. Besides the fact that DC's go-to music is classic 80's, he is so far from hippy it hurts me. Honestly if I didn't remind the kid to recycle every day, he would undo all the good progress I make!<br />
When after dating him for about three months, I decided to ask DC his thoughts on Burning Man, (an art event and temporary community based on radical self expression and self-reliance in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada) he looked put-off and confused, replying,<br />
"Wouldn't you have more fun doing that with Savannah?" Savannah is my ultra-hippy sister. I was outraged! I mean, of course I would have more fun at Burning Man with Savannah! They probably invented Burning Man with Savannah in mind. But I was distressed that my boyfriend didn't want to go to Burning Man with me! We are a couple. Couples share experiences! He explained that the thought of a bunch of people trading stuff in the desert and smoking pot didn't sound like his idea of fun.<br />
<br />
"But I don't want the drugs! I just want the artist experience," I explained. Maybe that would help him understand. He retaliated with,<br />
"Well how much fun would you have at a high school basketball game?"<br />
Now it was my turn to look disgusted.<br />
"Why would I go to a high school basketball game?" I asked. Seriously. I was very confused. Why would anyone who is not in high school or doesn't have a high school aged child or know a high school kid go to a high school basketball game? I quite frankly couldn't think of much worse ways to spend my precious time. <br />
"Exactly," he said his eyes lighting up like he had more than made his point. I was astounded. He felt about Burning Man the way I felt about sports. It couldn't be! I love hippy gatherings! He loves sports! Oh no, I thought, we're doomed. So began months of testing this theory. Because I am un-trusting of our love or his commitment to me? No. Because I am a neurotic worrier. Thanks a lot, Mom. <br />
<br />
Instances are as follows:<br />
"Do you like poetry?"<br />
"Yes, why do you ask," he turned, scanning my face and instantly was on to me. "Is this a test?"<br />
"No! Don't be ridiculous. Can't I just ask you if you like poetry and if you like having it read to you?"<br />
He smiled because he knows me really well. Of course it was a test. I am constantly testing him! Ever since the Burning Man conversation I haven't been able to stop ruminating over our differences.<br />
<br />
Or how bout this one:<br />
"Do you want to join the Peace Corps?" <br />
"Umm, what all does it entail?"<br />
"Going and helping a third-world country. Like building homes or teaching English as a second language. It's a two-year commitment and you get paid next to nothing."<br />
"I don't know. Don't we need help over here too?"<br />
"That's AmeriCorps."<br />
"Oh. Yeah I don't know that I would want to join the Peace Corps."<br />
Interesting, I noted. <br />
<br />
And this:<br />
"I must see live music. It is not just a like or a hobby; this is a part of my life that is very important to me."<br />
"All right."<br />
"Like you and sports."<br />
"Okay, so we'll go see live music then."<br />
Passed. <br />
<br />
So when a couple of weeks ago we got in a nice doozy of a fight over a lot of silly nonsense really, I got exasperated and decided to dip my toes in the water of a big test. I got fed up and pointed out that we seem to have the same fight over and over again, which involves his propensity to plan and stick to a plan, and my propensity to want to muck up the plan with my spontaneity and free-spiritedness. I thought oh boy, he is just a planner that is who he is. And it's not that I am anti-planning, I actually get a small thrill planning <i>certain</i> things, but then for the most part, I just like to wing it. I really do. It gives me anxiety most times and I crave Xanax like a weary desert traveler craves water, but I am a masochist and it is how I operate/live. Is it necessary? Probably not. Could I change this about myself? Probably not. <br />
So what did I do?<br />
<br />
This:<br />
"If we really can't agree on this (<i>this</i> being planning vs. not planning) all the time, then maybe we shouldn't be dating!"<br />
DC sort of looked like I threw cold water in his face. He quietly came up to me, eyebrows raised and said sternly, <br />
"Don't say that."<br />
I don't know what I expected but it wasn't that. I thought maybe he'd agree with me or the fight would get worse. I was prepared for it. Instead it got better and I got calmer. In fact it prompted the biggest epiphany of our relationship to date. After as we sat silently in the car together, still determined to seek out our Sunday adventure, I thought of one of my favorite romantic movie quotes in regards to love:<br />
<br />
"I would rather fight with you than make love with anyone else." <br />
<br />
I asked myself, is it okay that probability suggests DC and I will continue to have a fight over planning/not planning, early/on-time, winging it/not winging it for the course of every year that we continue to be together as he likes to be extremely early, he likes to plan the day, he likes to know what's going on, and I shrug my shoulders, I say we will figure it out, I think it's okay if we sleep a little longer or take a different route. And immediately and forcefully my mind said <i>it's okay</i>. If it really continues to be a fight, then it's a fight I don't mind having. A good argument never bothered me anyway. I contemplated being a lawyer briefly in the 8th grade after doing a mock trial over slavery. I, of course was on the side of good, obviously, I'm ever the vigilante. <br />
Is there a point to all these interwoven tales? Yes. My epiphany in my relationship and the world of love. I always thought love meant all those checkpoints on all my lists adding up; and when the list was full of all the best things it would equal love and mean that I'd found the one. But checking qualities and virtues off a list is only part of it. Yes my have-to's like, he must love God and my family are non-negotiables but what's more is DC is someone I could weather lifes storms with. And that's what hit me in the car last Sunday after our fight. I don't want anybody else. And if it comes with fighting (squabbling is probably a more appropriate word) then I'm up for it. Because I feel that no matter what, I will fight with him and for him. And I know he has never been in short supply of fighting for me. And finally after years of falling in love easily and with a range of different men, I have finally found that this love feels significantly deeper, truer and a lot more permanent. It feels like a foundation for building a life and DC is the one I want to spend every single day of that life with.<br />
But here we are currently. I am trying to write this blog about how much I love the man and I have my writing groove going, which means I listen to my awesome mellow writing jams and cannot be bothered. He came out of the bedroom to be near me on the couch, which I love, and watch sports, which I don't love, but they are on mute, so we're fine. Until the middle of Gregory Alan Isakov's, The Stable Song and he all of a sudden has to turn up hockey to hear a play and wants to fist pump with me. I mean, I am trying to wrap up loving, poetic thoughts and musings on love here and he just has to <i>hear</i> a play he just <i>saw</i>.<br />
<br />
"You're making it really hard for me to write about how much I love you right now with you annoying me so much."<br />
"Do you want me to go watch this at my office?"<br />
"No."<br />
"You love me."<br />
"I should've written this blog yesterday when I liked you more."<br />
<br />
And I finally have the perfect conclusion to this post. Love isn't perfect. That right there. That is love. SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-71866275729829502402013-04-24T12:01:00.001-07:002013-04-29T18:47:25.130-07:00The life for meI am turning thirty soon and it has been unnerving me quite a bit. Okay, fine, to be fair I am turning twenty-seven in a month, but that's <i>close</i> to thirty you can't deny. Like every year of my life, however, when the day of my birth rolls around, I am downright jubilant and geared up for my usual princess theatrics. I have never felt dread about getting one year older, until this year. Sure, I am still reminding every one who will listen that my birthday is near, because I never waste a celebration, but I have been feeling more and more ominous about the number twenty-seven and how it reeks of being thirty's neighbor. <br />
It is really no secret that a lot of people freak out about turning thirty because it seems like grown-up time and maybe we just don't want to grow up or have to start pretending we're more grown up and have our act together when in truth we don't. <br />
All these feelings though about getting older and all the ideas I have had for myself since childhood, grandiose ideas of an incredibly worldly life seem to be pressing down on me and I ask myself constantly if I am where I want to be by twenty-seven and I freak out and answer no because I am ultra hard on myself. <br />
It's not that I don't have great things and haven't done great things, heck by my childhood standards, I would count myself pretty darn fulfilled to have lived in New York City, made it onto a TV show, finally lost a lot of weight, ran a marathon and be in an adult functioning relationship with a man and happen to live near the mountains. So yeah. What the heck is my problem? Well, this picture about summed it up today.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKh9c-b5TP6vQzi6ZIFIIDZtZ9nFKLkmGtZt7NqezDg_If8Ko2NTMiInroGTgRP8oJZW-3Nv24A5Dp4Uf3cfNCBxg9YDOxtLLWslndz1qSWnYHox82nzzhIMo2PtgS15oX5oje_gklB1I/s1600/tumblr_mlrjttPjyK1rqpa8po1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKh9c-b5TP6vQzi6ZIFIIDZtZ9nFKLkmGtZt7NqezDg_If8Ko2NTMiInroGTgRP8oJZW-3Nv24A5Dp4Uf3cfNCBxg9YDOxtLLWslndz1qSWnYHox82nzzhIMo2PtgS15oX5oje_gklB1I/s320/tumblr_mlrjttPjyK1rqpa8po1_500.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
That is it. Right there. That's why I hate the looming number twenty-seven and why I am feeling that all the other big things that are profound accomplishments don't add up because that one huge thing that I have also dreamt about since the fourth grade, being a writer, in the world of accomplished writers, not just the starving artist kind doesn't feel fulfilled yet. I don't feel like an adult in that respect. Sure I pursue writing in my free time, sure I talk about it incessantly, sure I bemoan that National Geographic doesn't beg me to come work for them, but to make money to pay pesky bills, I still waitress, or cashier, or scrub floors, or toilets and honestly it kills me a little more each day. <br />
And when I clicked the picture on my tumblr it brought me to a link with tons of great quotes that made me feel a lot less bad about how many hysterical downright rotten fits I have had lately to anyone who will listen. Like this one:<br />
<br />
"Your life is too short and too valuable to fritter away in work.<br />
If you don’t get out now, you may end up like the frog that is placed in a pot of fresh water on the stove. As the temperature is gradually increased, the frog feels restless and uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to jump out. Without being aware that a chance is taking place, he is gradually lulled into unconsciousness.<br />
Much the same thing happens when you take a person and put him in a job which he does not like. He gets irritable in his groove. His duties soon become a monotonous routine that slowly dulls his senses. As I walk into offices, through factories and stores, I often find myself looking into the expressionless faces of people going through mechanical motions. They are people whose minds are stunned and slowly dying."<br />
-Lewis Hyde<br />
<br />
I felt this exact way in my last job and I feel it now in my new one, from retail to restaurants, I don't feel fulfilled but it pays the bills and I panic so I do it. I noted though, much like the brilliant Mr. Hyde suggested, that yesterday while in the grocery store buying milk, I tried to make eye contact with the cashier, possibly to smile at him or start a conversation, but he never once looked up from scanning groceries. Instead he seemed completely robotic and out of it. That look on his face reminded me of exactly what I have been feeling lately and what I aim to spend my life avoiding. Which brings me to another amazing quote:<br />
<br />
"The greatest satisfaction you can obtain from life is your pleasure in producing, in your own individual way, something of value to your fellowmen. That is creative living! When we consider that each of us has only one life to live, isn’t it rather tragic to find men and women, with brains capable of comprehending the stars and the planets, talking about the weather; men and women, with hands capable of creating works of art, using those hands only for routine tasks; men and women, capable of independent thought, using their minds as a bowling-alley for popular ideas; men and women, capable of greatness, wallowing in mediocrity; men and women, capable of self-expression, slowly dying a mental death while they babble the confused monotone of the mob? For you, life can be a succession of glorious adventures. Or it can be a monotonous bore. Take your choice!"<br />
-Neil Gaiman<br />
<br />
And this:<br />
<br />
“Without work, all life goes rotten, but when work is soulless, life stifles and dies.” <br />
-Albert Camus<br />
<br />
I could go on and on with the incredible quotes I found in my reading but I think my point is made. That exact feeling that Hyde, Gaiman and Camus talk about is the exact panicked soul-sucking feeling I have been having of late, in regards to my birthday, my profession or lack thereof and defining my own adulthood. <br />
Until I realized this: I am limiting my own belief. That twenty-seven is practically thirty and thirty means it's all over folks. I can't succeed; I've missed the boat; it's too late. That's what I have been believing. Yep, I'm an idiot. <br />
Some people are wild successes at their art at twenty-two, like Taylor Swift and I commend her, but lots of people have not gotten it figured out at twenty-two or twenty-seven or even thirty seven. <br />
J.K. Rowling, the richest female author to ever bloody live, didn't get Harry Potter published until she was in her thirties and this was after publishers continued to reject one of the most imaginative books ever written for an entire year! Rejecting J.K. Freaking Rowling?! Unfathomable.<br />
So yeah, I should stop measuring my success by my age for starters and also maybe grow a pair like J.K. and send my manuscript to more publishers. Yes I have sent it two people in the writing world: an agent that was recommended to me who never responded back and one editor in New York who actually had the good grace to look it over, respond to me quite kindly and suggest what needed working on. It was a clear no but still, I put myself out there! <br />
All this ranting is really just me working out in my mind this reoccurring immense overload of feeling I have been having about what I desperately yearn to do and what I am forced to do in the meantime to make money (anything in the customer service world) which feels like the scene in Hocus Pocus when the witches suck the soul out of the children and they slowly fade color and start to droop. <br />
In working all this out today in my crazed and passion fueled mind, I studied up a lot on J.K. Rowling. Before she wrote Harry Potter she said that rock bottom became a solid foundation on which she rebuilt her life.<br />
<br />
“Failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than I was and began diverting all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me.”<br />
<br />
Thanks J.K. I needed that. As waitressing in a Faux French restaurant, saying Bonjour, then rattling off toast varieties while I dream of ripping off the noose (okay tie) I am forced to wear, does make me feel like a failure and so does having mountains of debt. But, the powerful thing about doing something I absolutely want no part of doing anymore, is that it makes my one purpose that nags at me incessantly, scream louder and longer in my ears, that a life filling salt and pepper shakers with my hands that were made for writing, is no life for me at all.<br />
So in hopes of changing that, yeah I want to blog more, I need to finish my book, but also my very wise friend Sophia said something equally profound to me on her visit here recently. <br />
<br />
"Quit saying you will write for free. Put a value on it." <br />
<br />
She meant in regards to my desperate attempts to get any magazine or newspaper to consider me, even as an intern, but she was right. I have lost the value on my writing and in some small way would like to try and get it back. So if you notice that I have put a donations button at the bottom of my blog it is for that very reason. My writing is worth something to me and one day I aim to see it packaged in a book, on a shelf, with a price-tag, but in the meantime, of course I adore readers who want to celebrate my work with or without paying. But if you so choose to <i>donate</i>, (key word being donate, my blog will always be free) to my blog as supporting my hopes of joining the paid writers out there, then not only can you consider it my birthday present and celebration of not only twenty-seven being stupendous, but all the way up to thirty and every year beyond, also know that I thank you ever so graciously for continuing to come back time and again and read my words. For they do mean something to me and I am delighted if they mean something to you. <br />
<br />
**And to read both of the incredibly moving articles that I quoted from in full detail, here are the links:<br />
http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/12/14/how-to-avoid-work/<br />
http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2013/04/23/how-to-find-fulfilling-work-roman-krznaric/SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-63883079684841849762013-04-17T21:02:00.002-07:002013-04-18T10:22:12.116-07:00Scaredy Baby <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3IpRJf3oOfmBfXDL6OTpPYhrXfoMXl6H_q6tj9cM-3hwN2lLSTx-8G8C-bn1CHJ875apcmQ5yMfbVseYvxUecBFLphoDpYuDHdbXWk_5lxvlMTBP7Qcn950BUKkrtvCwhlJOijRdaYwB/s1600/RFETD00Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3IpRJf3oOfmBfXDL6OTpPYhrXfoMXl6H_q6tj9cM-3hwN2lLSTx-8G8C-bn1CHJ875apcmQ5yMfbVseYvxUecBFLphoDpYuDHdbXWk_5lxvlMTBP7Qcn950BUKkrtvCwhlJOijRdaYwB/s320/RFETD00Z.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi275vqzQR2GlXrloCVDG4Dzs6LXZvkpjlqQPvaIGLQW3AvOsvefUArGQ0eIiFR1yHJBMdNkLUOHu0pBtgNeBybf1Y2oND5b9nLDN9gllpzNZIv9KBcuwCCXNkzr2cpLYzEwjyxBIciCJM/s1600/Lucile-Ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi275vqzQR2GlXrloCVDG4Dzs6LXZvkpjlqQPvaIGLQW3AvOsvefUArGQ0eIiFR1yHJBMdNkLUOHu0pBtgNeBybf1Y2oND5b9nLDN9gllpzNZIv9KBcuwCCXNkzr2cpLYzEwjyxBIciCJM/s320/Lucile-Ball.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpGu-E09ZWY1DUWgblpgrYWqHlyK62AqFZPKTNPEKCdmR2L6Be1_4SFBTRtUOD14ZNkQv4KXmYezLy6E260nnzazg1S_6Kcvp00P2gS0HCSTh4zQH3idnHuw__mXp39tDEk9bcdAjvokRc/s1600/141667-lucille-ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpGu-E09ZWY1DUWgblpgrYWqHlyK62AqFZPKTNPEKCdmR2L6Be1_4SFBTRtUOD14ZNkQv4KXmYezLy6E260nnzazg1S_6Kcvp00P2gS0HCSTh4zQH3idnHuw__mXp39tDEk9bcdAjvokRc/s320/141667-lucille-ball.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRa97ks4nlbWkBuKRBt3CULagQG-twnl3RthgoRNsoZTWgK7CvSU8isE1WPgc77-Nzxs05Br9BschXsO6WY2qv9qiZZVcXBPXYv4AjSlMYKLWXOECh7aqyGJGGU2OM0nbUfJ4tjagrLR7K/s1600/lucille+ball+glamour.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRa97ks4nlbWkBuKRBt3CULagQG-twnl3RthgoRNsoZTWgK7CvSU8isE1WPgc77-Nzxs05Br9BschXsO6WY2qv9qiZZVcXBPXYv4AjSlMYKLWXOECh7aqyGJGGU2OM0nbUfJ4tjagrLR7K/s320/lucille+ball+glamour.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
After watching one too many episodes of Monsters and Mysteries in America and sufficiently scaring myself out of my wits--yes I am a huge wuss and that show and all its grade D reenactments has the power to render me nervy and skittish. Yeah the Devils Highway and Native American curses are not to be trifled with, people, no joke!--I immediately had to put on an episode of I Love Lucy that DC ever so kindly recorded for me on DVR. <br />
<br />
Watching I Love Lucy has not only been my favorite TV show since childhood, but my go to when I am scared, that and singing <i>Jesus loves me</i>, like I did last night when I had a wretched nightmare and DC was not much help as I clutched his hair while he tried to shush me back to sleep like I was a lil five-year-old and my ghost dream wasn't earth-shattering at 3A.M. or something, when everyone knows 3A.M. is so the worst time of night to wake up, it's in all the horror movies, but whatever. I wanted all the lights on and of course I Love Lucy. I didn't ask for either, but he put on The Office which worked in a bind. <br />
In college my rotten, scary-movie-pushing best friend, Ashley made me watch Pet Sematary before I was ready, (I would've never been ready for the record) causing me to sleep in my living room for nights on end with all the lights on and I Love Lucy blasting in the background. Nothing wretched can happen when Lucy is getting into hijinks, irritating Ricky and crying, wahhhhhhhhh to get her way. <br />
And it was no different this time when instantly my first reaction to any kind of being scared, besides getting Lucy on, is to lift my feet from the floor and tuck them underneath me assuming that there's obviously something lurking under the couch now that I am aware I'm scared. See this is exactly why you shouldn't watch creepy stuff as a child because it comes back to haunt you the rest of your life, literally! Or I really am a giant five-year-old and normal adults stop being scared about something grabbing their feet at around sixteen. But hey, I have never claimed to be a normal adult and I take pride in that fact. <br />
Anyway, this huge digression into how big of a scaredy wuss I am is to say, that I think I realized something watching Lucy flail herself about, rip at her hair and wine to Ricky for a part in his show: That all these years I have been chalking up my love of theatrical drama, exaggerations of all outlandish sorts, and grandiose proclamations as a product of my DNA. But I am beginning to suspect it may have started as a mirroring of my favorite redhead, watching her and idolizing her as a young girl, then well into adulthood. Heck, I want to name my first born daughter after her and have wanted that since I was about seven, so... I think it's safe to say I'm fond of the hilarious lil minx. <br />
<br />
Either way though, whether it truly is in my DNA to love making a statement with lots of broad gestures and theatrics, or it is because I secretly, or not so secretly want to make just as much of an impact on the world as Lucy did, the comedic genius that she was, I still can't help but salute her time and time again, as my comfort, a recollection of childhood, and taker-awayer of all things frightening. <br />
<br />
Oh Lucy, I just hope one day to be even a fraction as brilliant as you. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-84170187845244860022013-04-16T10:15:00.001-07:002013-04-16T12:58:38.871-07:00Harper's, Hemingway's & Redheads<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6DVMZRd-NN9QRbH_PDKURtmEW7heRmWtrSk2SKcULrw_dgSUrS4egzbG42cCNvvvrszmpJo5TbnmBRCF7orh0o3ste3RFiOTb8HQksTLaoq9B7NdVwWUmYifU6bWVhQ68Htr4KxWHUmN/s1600/bob.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6DVMZRd-NN9QRbH_PDKURtmEW7heRmWtrSk2SKcULrw_dgSUrS4egzbG42cCNvvvrszmpJo5TbnmBRCF7orh0o3ste3RFiOTb8HQksTLaoq9B7NdVwWUmYifU6bWVhQ68Htr4KxWHUmN/s320/bob.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
It is the biggest conundrum of my life, my lack of belief in myself. I am at war with this one thing, this one festering wound gaping on the inside of my very being, at least 23 hours out of any given day. I don't know psychologically what it is about me wanting to sabotage myself at every turn, or stand in my own way, but I am a master at it. I've given myself ample practice after all, as I think I've believed the worst in myself since I was about six years old. <br />
<br />
I have been giving a lot of thought lately about how to combat this hideousness that is self-doubt and complete disbelief and the answer seems so simple: maintain positivity, have faith, and stop rocking in the corner in fear and step into the murky, ominous waters of uncertainty--which is going after what I really want with the potential to fail--don't like that business--and let myself succumb to what will or will not be. So simple, sure. A piece of cake really, that I want to eat, speaking of cake, in my corner, while avoiding having to face big things. It's so much calmer in the corner with cake, though isn't it? Why ruffle the waters?<br />
<br />
Because in actuality I fucking hate the corner I've put myself in (Dirty Dancing reference that I didn't mean to create, but roll with me here) and I abhor not being Pioneer Woman yet! Which is a blogger, writer, photographer, horse owning, cook book writing, TV show goddess and I loathe and love her at the same. damn. time. Ugh, why are all the best woman redheads? Ahem, my other hero, Lucille Ball, duh. Hmm, maybe that's it, I should go red again, and I have been fighting red for so long... gosh why did I never make that connection... Okay, I digress.<br />
<br />
So my boyfriend and I got in quite a few little (okay and big) tiffs yesterday on this very issue, the issue of my disbelief that is. It was all me, projecting onto him, my own runaround with myself, my feeling that I am lacking and being scared, so on, so forth. Then when he confronted me, I ever so gracefully attacked like a caged and prodded wild thing. Claws officially out, baby.<br />
<br />
Whenever DC says something I don't want to hear, literally my first response is to get away from him. If we are sitting on the couch and I am leaning on him, I lift my head and move to the other side of the couch. If I am standing in the kitchen and he's in the living room, I turn around or walk out of the room. If we are in bed and he has his arm around me, I try and squirm out from under him and get to the farthest reaches of the bed with my head turned. <br />
<br />
I think that if I get myself far enough away and curled into enough of a ball he will sense I am not responding well and stop. He doesn't. It's crazy but when he pushes me, so far out of my comfort zone that I don't want to be near him, I want to plug my ears and scream at him to stop, I want to cry and I do, I am so mad, so combative, yet I respect him so much (after the fact, admittedly, in the moment I kinda can't stand him, sorry honey) for saying what I won't deign to let others say to me. Almost all of my tactics work on other people, if my mom is pushing me and I don't want to be pushed, crying seems to work, if my best friend is, I can easily agree with her and say I know, I know, and placate her enough that I am understanding and moved to action (which sometimes I am and sometimes I am not) but usually she doesn't go for the jugular. <br />
<br />
Last night DC went for the jugular and I was so stinking, irrationally mad. I thought I will show you, you rotten pusher! I will write my novel and it is going to rival Augusten Burroughs, Chelsea Handler and your precious J.K. Rowling! How dare you! How dare you push me to the brink of my own belief and then let me fall! Well, by golly, it worked! He is a sneaky lil shit, as I have told him that nothing works wonders like someone not believing in me. Again, psychologically I don't know what that says about me. And for the record, none of his pointed questions even insinuated disbelief, they were just ugly truthful questions that were very hard for me to evade, like, "What do you seriously want to be?" I purposefully answered artist because I knew he was hitting close to home and if I said writer he would ask me when the last time I wrote was. Oh I was so onto him, but still, he is no amateur either, so he dealt quickly and efficiently with my sidestep and still got himself back around to the question I didn't want to be voiced, "How much writing have you gotten done since moving here? You talk about when you sell your novel, but it's always a distant whimsical thing? When are you going to do it?" <br />
<br />
And boom, dismantled. He has hit my Achilles heel and I am done. And at this point I have tried, very unsuccessfully I might add to get as far away from him as possible. But he's onto my game and is holding fast. If he had let go, I would have fled. Honestly I was contemplating stealing his keys and making a mad dash for the mountains, that's how much I did not want to have that conversation with him, or anyone. Heck I purposefully avoid having that very conversation with myself 99% of the time, until even I have become a pro at hiding in the wooded depths of my own soul. I am a very tricky beast, that's for sure. <br />
<br />
The thing about me is I can't be babied. Do I love it when I am babied? A lil bit. On adult things that I loathe doing, like my taxes--<i>Mommmmm, fix it!</i> Or the five year old in me that probably will never go away--getting ADD in a museum after an hour looking at old bones and tugging on DC'S shirtsleeve, <i>I can't look at any more, I want an ice cream cone!</i><br />
<br />
But really for the most part I love when people expect more of me and push me to rise to the occasion, for they are seeing something I am not recognizing in myself and that is I am a heck of a lot tougher than I give myself credit for. That's why Bob Harper and I got on so well; sure he absolutely pumped me up about my strengths and believed in me, but certainly as the sun rises in the East would he pulverize me in a workout, not tolerating a wuss out on on myself for one second and I honestly appreciated that. <br />
<br />
Moral of the story, here, as livid as I was last night being challenged on my dreams and belief system, accompanied by all my histrionics and evasion maneuvers, now in the fresh light of day, I can deeply appreciate that DC would not back down just because I cried, pulled away, sulked for awhile and refused to answer certain questions, because look what it accomplished! Here I am writing. And as furious as I was for being made to so boldly introspect what I was doing, I have an even greater fury today to prove to not only DC but myself that if a writer is what I claim to be, then maybe I shouldn't talk about writing anymore, maybe I should just do it. Which leads me to my main man Ernest and this quote I have on the side of a writing box my mom gave me for Christmas one year:<br />
<br />
The writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.<br />
-Hemingway<br />
<br />
So I would like to salute the Harper's, Hemingway's and daring redheads of this world for doing bold and wondrous things and making me want to stand among your ranks. And for the record, DC was my Harper last night. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-41510299964887885932013-04-03T08:33:00.001-07:002013-04-03T10:33:48.810-07:00And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfq7d0C1rYuhEImi6whPJAlBDKDS9OBsI5l9pVxDOk4MgfjfUerifFfgNWXW44auUXjf3WU7oKi93gnXAWxHom-H3IYnFJzNO1Cwn-3C8QfnObOL1wssxESZCRgacpb9wYRVgNUJSoNskD/s1600/e1586e0b93c4a559bc605509adcfa166.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfq7d0C1rYuhEImi6whPJAlBDKDS9OBsI5l9pVxDOk4MgfjfUerifFfgNWXW44auUXjf3WU7oKi93gnXAWxHom-H3IYnFJzNO1Cwn-3C8QfnObOL1wssxESZCRgacpb9wYRVgNUJSoNskD/s320/e1586e0b93c4a559bc605509adcfa166.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Today is my sixth-month anniversary with this real important fella. Besides noting the enormity as a nice solid milestone in any relationship, it's also the first time I have made it to said milestone with any man and, honestly it feels more exciting than my birthday. And if you know me at all, you know I still love celebrating my birthday as much as a five year old with a handful of tickets at Chuck E. Cheese, after two slices of pizza and a mouthful of cake, yeah that kind of fervor. In short, it's a big freaking deal. <br />
<br />
Our story is a unique one and could probably fill a novel at this point, and no I won't do that to you, yet, anyway, but I do want to tell you a little about him. The thing about DC, as you may have heard me refer to him, his real name is Ryan, but I rarely call him that, unless I am talking about him to his mother or trying to get his attention rapidly in Ikea, is that he is the best man I have ever known and I have been lucky enough to know a lot of pretty great men: My dad, brothers, grandfathers, uncles, of course among those ranks, and even male friends, but none like him, and none who have ever loved me and ever so patiently shown me their love over and over again when I don't deserve it or don't believe it. In fact that is how our whole relationship began, with his patient persistence in showing me his love. <br />
<br />
He saw me on The Biggest Loser and got quite taken with me and my snappy gumption, charm and unbelievable wit (okay snappy gumption, charm and unbelievable wit are my words not his, but that's the gist) and reached out to me. What ensued was a nine-month friendship and courting in which I repeatedly shot him down and put the kibosh on his advances, while pursuing someone else that I was in love with but who didn't love me in quite the same way. I can be a real stubborn arse when I want to be. It's one of my helpful and not so helpful traits, depending on the situation. I will say in this situation it was helpful, because by the time October rolled around I began to see a lot of instances adding up where DC went to every effort to make me happy and take care of me, while I was choosing to stay alone and heartbroken. <br />
<br />
Did DC send me a Target gift card when I was wretchedly sick in New York, couldn't afford a cup of OJ, must less medicine, having all of two pennies in my account? Yep, he did that.<br />
Did he bail me and my sister out of a very scary situation in Brooklyn when I was losing my mind with anxiety and far from home and again, penniless? He sure did.<br />
Did he answer the phone at 1 a.m. when I was going through my worst insomniac period of my life, just so I could cry about another guy? The answer is yes. <br />
Did he forgive me and still want to be with me when after a week of finally dating after 9 months of pursuit I broke up with him, because I still wasn't sure I was over my last love? Not only did he forgive me, still cheer me on in my crazy life endeavors at the time like saying I was joining the Navy or going on a six-month pilgrimage, but he still wished me the best and was kind to me. He's insane right? By golly, I wouldn't have been kind to me! I would have plotted my demise, swore off my fickle nonsense til the end of time, and probably hired a witch doctor to put a curse on my head. You get the point. At this juncture is when I began to see that yeah, maybe he was insane for still liking me or even giving a flying fig what became of me, but I too was insane for pushing him away at every possible turn when all he had tried to do for nine months was love me. <br />
<br />
I had my grand epiphany and took the break-up back. Did he tell me to take a hike, punish me, or tell me I missed my opportunity? Of course you know the answer to that. And a week later he spontaneously drove up from Virginia to take me on a week long road trip/official first date to New York to pack up my things and then take me to Niagara Falls because I casually mentioned I had always wanted to go there. It was about seven hours out of the way. <br />
<br />
Now before you pull out your barf bag, with all the romantic goo and go fine, you wretch, you got one of the good ones, good for you, also know this:<br />
<br />
He swears like a bloody sailor and when I mention this he combats it with,<br />
"Aren't you the one who wants to be dating a sea captain?"<br />
"Um I didn't say those words exactly... I like their dapper hats and beards, but ease your roll with the F-bombs. I am a lady!" Psh, no I'm not, but still, I like saying so. <br />
"You said you wanted to be dating a lobster-man. Lobster-men probably talk like this."<br />
Fine, so I've started a swear jar for him that I never keep up with.<br />
<br />
He also thinks he's ruler of the road and every other driver out there is an idiot and comments on this every time we're in the car ever, setting my teeth on edge. <br />
He likes sports a great deal more than I do and listens to sports talk radio in the morning, yuck. But to be fair, that's the only time he doesn't let me monopolize the radio. <br />
He can be such a square and has a real fear of trespassing, so weird, and likes to plan and plot and account for things all. the. livelong. day and be absurdly early everywhere, including to my 6:35 yoga class, in which we arrive at 5:45 just so I can scowl at him because heaven forbid I do an extra workout before my workout. <br />
He has an obscene collection of Tiger Woods-y polos. Okay, fine! I know that doesn't matter much, but he looks so much hotter in flannel. It's just a fact, but whatever. <br />
He is an extreme know-it-all and beats me constantly at games of all sorts and well, I don't enjoy either of those things much.<br />
<br />
But at the end of the day, when I am my utter worst, when I am in a tizzy over not going on a walk with him, when I cry over something little, when I get mad that his plotting, planning ways have rushed me or off-set my hippie balance, he again, doesn't get mad or tell me I am being ridiculous or roll his eyes at me. I can count on two fingers the times he has even gotten slightly stern with me and both times I was dumbfounded into speechlessness and then he apologized if he hurt my feelings. It's me, my feelings get hurt if someone looks at me wrong, so why is he apologizing? Because he just accepts me. I can be my absolute craziest self and never feel judged, contrarily I feel more accepted and sure of his love. <br />
<br />
I read this quote and thought it was so well put:<br />
<br />
Love is the result of appreciating another's goodness. <br />
<br />
I know DC somehow appreciates all of my goodness, despite my constant histrionics and flair for drama and yes, despite his road rage and meticulousness I appreciate his goodness, because he is not in short supply. <br />
<br />
And I write all this, simply to try in some small way to show him how much I appreciate him, his love and his role in my life not only for the past six months, but the nine before that.<br />
<br />
I love you, my darling. <br />
<br />
Here's to six more, then six more after that... Happy anniversary. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenRfWVTaLj3jFX0-qEcpxpTgv-xir9uwwZUh5Wq3d1MJ2shx3b3-5R_B359TW4nbgCnYLpBp0R6lwU0bUBz5ZB5oRkEOp6EAnzs5FjlP-KPqwd-Xi51GzjMW92oSMM18qUvpowaPZdVEl/s1600/746_10100217940213267_1788766958_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhenRfWVTaLj3jFX0-qEcpxpTgv-xir9uwwZUh5Wq3d1MJ2shx3b3-5R_B359TW4nbgCnYLpBp0R6lwU0bUBz5ZB5oRkEOp6EAnzs5FjlP-KPqwd-Xi51GzjMW92oSMM18qUvpowaPZdVEl/s320/746_10100217940213267_1788766958_n.jpg" /></a>SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-77427768412074103282013-03-12T12:43:00.000-07:002013-03-12T13:39:06.852-07:00CrybabyI cry a pretty healthy amount. Okay, I cry a lot. And no, not because I am a crybaby. Well, at least I don't think I'm the annoying sniveling kind. Real crybabies love the attention their crying brings, whereas almost 100% of the time I try to hide my crying, even amongst my own family, as it makes me wildly uncomfortable. Honestly, a sincere amount of somethings and nothings can move me to tears, as my soul is somewhat like an active volcano; something's always cooking down there, waiting to rise up and start firing in every direction. <br />
I cry at certain dog commercials, or the kind where old people profess their love to one another, I cry over mountains and almost every time I have to leave the U.P., I cry over poetry, or particularly gruesome workouts that somehow shred me to my soul (thanks Bob Harper and EJ Dockery) and recently I cried over this quote:<br />
<br />
"Believe with all your heart that you will do what you were made to do."<br />
--Orison Swett Marden<br />
<br />
I cannot tell you how many versions of these same words I have heard over the years, and I want to say that most times it has affected me in much the same way, but maybe it's because I really feel on the cusp of some sort of life change leading me in the direction that I deeply yearn to go that this was a beautiful sign, a reassurance that I am not crazy in truly believing I am destined for the sort of epic adventures and artistic grandeur that I long for on a never-ending, non-stop loop. <br />
<br />
I watched this show about a week ago called Frozen Planet, about wolves hunting Bison, killer whales hunting seals, sea lions hunting penguins, and while each time I felt real torn up inside over the poor animal being ran down or massacred, I was more struck by the images of the Arctic and Antarctic and wondering about the people who were filming this and how they got that job? Then I got to thinking about National Geographic, the Discovery Channel and the Travel Channel and all those jobs. And how freaking bad I want to be those people. <br />
<br />
I really don't know how many other ways there are to say that I want to see the whole world, other than saying I want to see the whole world! Except Ohio, I can live without Ohio, and as far as I'm concerned have seen all I'll ever need to see of Ohio. Okay, I will admit I have spotted a few, an admitted few nice barns or something in Ohio whilst driving through on my way somewhere better, but being from Michigan, the greatest state without a doubt, I cannot possibly pledge any allegiance to Ohio on sheer principle alone. <br />
But I digress, per usual. <br />
<br />
Besides crying over that quote, I just minutes ago finished a book my mom sent me called the War of Art, by Steven Pressfield and sobbed pretty much incessantly during the final few pages. Big globs of mascara wreaked havoc down my cheeks as his profound words set up camp and settled in for a nice long winter inside my mind, alerting me to an undeniable truth: I was born to be a writer, a curator of beautiful words, and if at all possible, wisdom. That is what I was put on this earth to do, yet I have been living in a state of ignorance. Not that I have doubted this truth, but I have doubted myself and that has been enough to de-rail me time and time again. <br />
<br />
Spoiler, this is the last page of the book, that I read three times in a row and burst into new tears, each consecutive time. It won't ruin the book for you, on the contrary I think you will find you might want to read it more. <br />
<br />
The Artist's Life<br />
<br />
Are you a born writer? Were you put on earth to be a painter, a scientist, an apostle of peace? In the end the question can only be answered by action.<br />
Do it or don’t do it.<br />
It may help to think of it this way. If you were meant to cure cancer or write a symphony or crack cold fusion and you don’t do it, you not only hurt yourself, even destroy yourself. You hurt your children. You hurt me. You hurt the planet.<br />
You shame the angels who watch over you and you spite the Almighty, who created you and only you with your unique gifts, for the sole purpose of nudging the human race one millimeter farther along its path back to God.<br />
Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It’s a gift to the world and every being in it. Don’t cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you’ve got.<br />
<br />
Fucking beautiful. And yes, some things, in my humble opinion deserve a solid F-bomb for good measure, just like some things deserve to be cried over. I personally will continue to use the F word on <i>occasion</i> for punch (though I am consciously trying to be more of a lady and limit its use) and I will continue to cry when my soul is moved, which is somewhere around every other day. <br />
<br />
Oh and do yourself a favor and read this book. Life. Changing. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-51024094787219423042013-03-05T11:34:00.000-08:002013-03-05T13:18:46.466-08:00It's Baking Time!So, I have yet to do this in a blog, not because I haven't wanted to, but because, well, I simply haven't. But no more! It's time for a fun food blog! And for those of you expecting some rigid broccoli dish because I was on the Biggest Loser, wrong-o! For starters I do my very best to eat healthy and still retain a lot of the good food ideas I learned from my time at the ranch, but I have always liked to expand my knowledge in the realm of food and health and continue to do so, regardless of one set of rules on how to eat. Furthermore, I love to bake and that can be very difficult for me as I love to then eat my bakery. And well bakery is definitely no apple with a side of tofu. It's delicious sugary goodness. But according to this new book I read, it's not all bad: <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9f7W5MqCHpYQXT5RAM9HxOdS2Xkk99G_piuTQtAQ_QKoJBsGXXU38HZLvmq12VOwOCvhEgSLiUnireH1SYrkpwOma-3yxW4MN7jzvvPUKyiVD7_nelKu2hD9RPbQv1UNcRD9iu9j812s/s1600/food+rules.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9f7W5MqCHpYQXT5RAM9HxOdS2Xkk99G_piuTQtAQ_QKoJBsGXXU38HZLvmq12VOwOCvhEgSLiUnireH1SYrkpwOma-3yxW4MN7jzvvPUKyiVD7_nelKu2hD9RPbQv1UNcRD9iu9j812s/s320/food+rules.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
You can follow some pretty basic rules about food and do quite well for yourself. The author even referenced the French (I do so want to be more like the French in this way!) and how they eat pastries, drink wine, have some of the most decadent meals around, yet are slimmer, healthier, and live longer than most Americans. Read the book or study the French like I have been to find out why. They're quite riveting. <br />
<br />
I tried out this rule this week:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Zsg7oFBvm2SkE2adSmM6BPJ9JIbgx3EeKevI78HqIRBE5r8NL_X04VzPgWCbiBMD3EvlLSy3cHlC18NrSK75KBc-bFwjHwX_nJVdTliHomN3okQrnjod4kegIU4_QFA3KWNFRxSPUhJo/s1600/bakery.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Zsg7oFBvm2SkE2adSmM6BPJ9JIbgx3EeKevI78HqIRBE5r8NL_X04VzPgWCbiBMD3EvlLSy3cHlC18NrSK75KBc-bFwjHwX_nJVdTliHomN3okQrnjod4kegIU4_QFA3KWNFRxSPUhJo/s320/bakery.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
And while, if you know me I adore baking so I can't take it on fully, as the author suggests most people wouldn't want to bake very often, so it's okay when you do, but I myself find it incredibly therapeutic and fulfilling, so I could bake daily. But that didn't stop me from wanting to try a scrumptious new something and decidedly not feel bad about it, or that I can only ever nosh on fruit for dessert. Bologna! The point the author makes in this book is that desserts are meant to be had and enjoyed, people! If you aren't bogging down your body with a whole slew of unneeded preservatives and unrecognizables (like in some store-bought, boxed, cream-filled bon bon) and if you have it in moderation of course. So here is my yummy little treat, including my few fun tips for making you feel even less guilty about having it.<br />
<br />
First off I wanted to try and make shortbread cookies, which I have never attempted before. I have grown rather fond of them as an adult, though I never was as a child, because duh, where the heck is the chocolate? Well, I remedied that fact here. <br />
<br />
First I found this recipe on the foodnetwork:<br />
<br />
CLASSIC SHORTBREAD COOKIES<br />
IN 6 INGREDIENTS (I love simple, though I can appreciate hard, that's what she said, no time!)<br />
<br />
Ingredients<br />
<br />
2 cups all-purpose flour <br />
1/2 teaspoon salt<br />
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons powdered sugar<br />
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract<br />
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature, cut into chunks<br />
1 teaspoon water<br />
<br />
Directions<br />
<br />
Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.<br />
<br />
I mixed the butter, vanilla and water first, then added the dry ingredients. It called for a food proccessor. Blah, I did it by hand. You don't need that fancy pants gadget. Then place the dough on a sheet of plastic wrap and roll into a log, about 2 1/2 inches in diameter and 5 inches long. Tightly twist each end of the wrap in opposite directions. Chill the dough in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes.<br />
<br />
Slice the log into 1/3-inch thick disks. Arrange on nonstick cookie sheet. Bake until the edges are just light brown, about 12 minutes, you may need to rotate the pan halfway through.<br />
<br />
--You can store the dough in an airtight container for up to a week or freeze uncooked log for up to a month.<br />
<br />
First tip- Make less!<br />
I made a half batch which filled up one cookie sheet perfectly, so I was not bombarded with zillions of tempting cookies. <br />
<br />
Second tip- Share! <br />
I shared with my boyfriend, obviously, and also gave away a baggie of cookies to the cable repair man today. Sharing helps limit your calories and guilt. And it makes you feel like a lovely lady. Or man, there can be man baker/sharers. <br />
<br />
Third tip- Just let yourself enjoy the stinkin cookie!<br />
The plain shortbread cookie just wasn't cutting it and I wanted a little more pizzazz. So I made my own chocolate topping, the don't feel bad version too, so that... I didn't feel bad!<br />
<br />
Chocolate topping: <br />
<br />
2 squares Godiva 85% extra dark chocolate<br />
1 packet Truvia<br />
2 TBSP (ish) of Unsweetened Almond Milk<br />
<br />
Microwave for about a minute while stirring occasionally. Top cookies, or dip halfway. Results:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EU_5TkrwcYq-RLOtHya-GIILGhncZSgXXL7KasdAUTTgUX2Azby9Gy3_shwYrnL88NnWSnVkoPSMiG1Qunvq2A45cNzx2BfXQP1gbdPlIlhrNlFClLSWK51GKugm1gHikllN67rCwYk1/s1600/cookies.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EU_5TkrwcYq-RLOtHya-GIILGhncZSgXXL7KasdAUTTgUX2Azby9Gy3_shwYrnL88NnWSnVkoPSMiG1Qunvq2A45cNzx2BfXQP1gbdPlIlhrNlFClLSWK51GKugm1gHikllN67rCwYk1/s320/cookies.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Pure un-guilty Frenchy decadence. <br />
<br />
And look there are only three cookies left and I am saving them for DC. Not too shab. <br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-77139692444505670942013-03-04T17:08:00.000-08:002013-03-04T18:33:06.368-08:00Music Monday: Jason Masi<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZNVR1CD7Xfn-1FgcNe0rxBNC0vRcQWey9fToRfcVw2eErFGYNiWqqz49AEacuheylpt6GyJwZZY5HITMTl67XDC31Qwwg4ywEIltWpNaNU896mNGoIW99JQpM1dA7zATA7aLfnHJUFB8/s1600/JM.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZNVR1CD7Xfn-1FgcNe0rxBNC0vRcQWey9fToRfcVw2eErFGYNiWqqz49AEacuheylpt6GyJwZZY5HITMTl67XDC31Qwwg4ywEIltWpNaNU896mNGoIW99JQpM1dA7zATA7aLfnHJUFB8/s320/JM.jpg" /></a>. <br />
<br />
I am very pleased to announce I have brought you another very talented musician that I happened upon here in Virginia. As you should well know, I crave good music like I crave chocolate and that is to say I would gladly have it injected into my veins. So without further ado, let's get on with today's artist: Jason Masi.<br />
<br />
A bit of background first, I do love to set the stage: I was having a glass of wine one Friday evening with my boyfriend at this simply posh winery--The Winery at Bull Run if anyone's interested, I highly recommend it and not just because it houses barrels of wine--that I discovered nearby and we specifically were in attendance because I had gotten wind of live music every Friday. We walked in to see Jason Masi already strumming on his guitar, smiling and crooning. When he walked over to our table a little later to ask us if there was anything he could play because we looked like people who appreciated music, I knew I liked him. When he did the best cover of <i>Cecilia</i> by Simon and Garfunkel that I have heard to date, I liked him even more. And when he played some wonderfully soul-stirring originals, I knew I had to interview him. <br />
<br />
For Jason, music started as a hobby in middle school. His older brother played in several bands, while his time was occupied with sports. By high school, he had become considerably more interested in music, starting to play in garage bands and getting obsessed with it, he said. He called himself a little bit of a late bloomer in music, while still focusing on sports on the side, but by college his obsession reached its peak. Jason focused on writing music, playing the guitar and got a group together called Jubeus, a band he played with for six years. Currently he is a solo singer/songwriter, and that's where I happened upon him.<br />
<br />
Here are some of the questions I had for Jason<br />
<br />
AD: Do you play any other instruments besides guitar?<br />
JM: I think a lot of singer songwriters have another instrument that they fiddle with. It's good to challenge your brain with a different instrument. I write a little on keys and on guitar. <br />
<br />
AD: How do you come up with your songs?<br />
JM: I’m kind of ADD when it comes to listening to music, and I’m like that with my writing too... I try to write as much as possible, some comes out in a couple minutes, or weeks, or months at a time. The way I come up with writing stuff is sitting down with my instrument. It's kind of a primitive process; it's really just making noise, then I do the same thing with my voice, then I try to make sense of it, kind of like a puzzle, and if I’m lucky it kind of falls into place. When you do it hundreds of times that process becomes less painstaking, then when you get to the end, part of the reward is having something you can show to people. Everybody has a focus they keep coming back to, they come back to what they’re all about. What I write about it is keeping it simple, balancing your life, your passion and your needs. <br />
<br />
<i>We don’t necessarily need to have a lot of things, sometimes we just have enough and that’s okay.</i><br />
<br />
I think that’s how art should be, it can take all of the elements of what you listen to and create something that’s kind of cohesive; that’s what’s really impressive. <br />
<br />
AD: What artists inspire you?<br />
JM: Most recently I’ve been inspired by older soulful musicians: the Wizards, Marvin Gaye, Van Morrison, a lot of eclectic artists, Paul Simon, Sam Cooke, Will Hoge, Bob Schneider, Ben Harper, those types of artists I kind of aspire to be, they aren’t restricted by some major label telling them what they need to create. <br />
<br />
AD: What are some of your favorite songs, either you've written or you love to perform?<br />
JM: Balance & Pull, Life is Wonderful, The Power of a Woman... I have some go-to songs, that I just love, like, Golden Sun; it’s a very sexy song, but I cant play it everywhere for obvious reasons, but I’m a lover I’m not gonna hold that back. My songs are like my children, you’re supposed to love them all the same, but you love them all for different reasons. <br />
<br />
AD: What do you hope to accomplish with your music?<br />
JM: I’m really happy to be able to play music as a full time artist, that’s an accomplishment in itself. I would like to maybe write songs for TV shows and movies, get the music out to a greater, wider audience. I’ve got many, many records in the making, I look forward to growing and getting inspired by other music that comes out. It also kind of measures different periods in my life, during those years that I wrote those songs. At the end, if I look back on my life, whether its tomorrow or at 105, I am proud having these records that map out what I’ve done and accomplished; creating measures of where I’ve been in my life is very rewarding. I've dedicated myself to music for better or for worse. It's all about the music and being able to create something. <br />
<br />
AD: Let's talk adventure, (duh!) What has been your biggest adventure to date?<br />
JM: My biggest adventure to date... I was in Costa Rica with my wife, my biggest jump into an adventure. I was camping through Costa Rica and our tour guide suggested zip lining. I’m not super scared of heights, but I am kind of a wimp. I’ve never experienced being upside down like that on a rope, I felt like I was going to fall out of my harness, but I thought to myself, I’m having a really good time, being flipped upside down and flying through the jungle... When you’re scared of something and you just jump and go ahead and do it... that's really liberating. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBTWYRrhGweC1Y8KCChrfBRS9f0iKSv8uYfWvzKP9KImb2aU25VFhSKV2ufg3Y52Ot1LY6RFWp4Iw3ZeIFbRM9jfrXH0xVFkTWrnYfVKdMFt3Y-Wv1mlqTFfwBKNJhBiqMpg_NNXA-k2f/s1600/upside+down+in+costa+rica.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBTWYRrhGweC1Y8KCChrfBRS9f0iKSv8uYfWvzKP9KImb2aU25VFhSKV2ufg3Y52Ot1LY6RFWp4Iw3ZeIFbRM9jfrXH0xVFkTWrnYfVKdMFt3Y-Wv1mlqTFfwBKNJhBiqMpg_NNXA-k2f/s320/upside+down+in+costa+rica.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
AD: And of course, one of my favorite questions to ask artists I admire: What advice do you have for those pursuing the arts?<br />
JM: Learn about the business you’re getting into and try to find where you fit in. A lot of kids growing up want to be an artist and only look at one aspect of it, but there might be a lot of other avenues to thrive in or fit their personality better. You need to look for your meaning and figure out what it is you want to do. Don’t restrict your dreams to one aspect of artistic vision, keep an open mind about what your skills and talents are to fill the gaps in the artistic world. <br />
<br />
Well that about wraps it, folks. Do yourself a solid and check out Jason on iTunes, Facebook: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/jasonmasimusic">www.facebook.com/jasonmasimusic</a>, his website <a href="http://www.jasonmasi.com">www.jasonmasi.com</a>, pandora: <a href="/http://www.pandora.com/jason-masi">http://www.pandora.com/jason-masi</a>. I don't care where, just check him out. <br />
<br />
My recommendations: <br />
Happy<br />
Ease your worried mind<br />
Windy Road<br />
<br />
And honestly, Jason was such a fun guy to interview and had amazing insight! So Jason, thank you! It was an absolute pleasure getting a larger glimpse into your art and I look forward to seeing you perform again!<br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-62456813410164501032013-02-27T20:44:00.002-08:002013-03-01T08:29:57.662-08:00Sri Lanka and Baby Impossibles<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBnj9CnSpu32jzqTsOF5_EmbAQpaDDPnr78Y4PEM6g72iWgTgix5_2oL5JSIFbRlL_YPDSdXeJVG74K60DqY-jnCKa6DWpn4WXsvKVA2GtVdgEOR-_iUpIIEznwDSZ-2pTvzCUKkccxYFz/s1600/sri-lanka.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBnj9CnSpu32jzqTsOF5_EmbAQpaDDPnr78Y4PEM6g72iWgTgix5_2oL5JSIFbRlL_YPDSdXeJVG74K60DqY-jnCKa6DWpn4WXsvKVA2GtVdgEOR-_iUpIIEznwDSZ-2pTvzCUKkccxYFz/s320/sri-lanka.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I was in a coffee shop I am fond of today, when I heard the owner chatting with a customer. He asked the man why he hadn't seen him in awhile. The customer replied that he'd been in Sri Lanka.<br />
<br />
"Oh Sri Lanka, of course, that's where you are when you're not here," the owner replied with a laugh. <br />
<br />
I had to will myself not to turn full on green with envy. Sri Lanka. Sri. Lanka. Sri freaking Lanka, I kept repeating in my head. Who is just off in Sri Lanka from their usual daily life in Virginia? Well this man, obviously, and his usual daily life is apparently very fascinating. Besides not turning green, I also had to refrain from approaching the man and asking what he did for a living that allowed a trip to Sri Lanka. I don't know that it has ever even occurred to me to want to go to Sri Lanka, but the name itself sounds like I should've given it considerable thought long before today, furthermore now that it has become obvious that people go there, for honestly, who knows what, I feel I need to be one of those people. <br />
<br />
I was already having a highly contemplative day before this. I had the day off from work--yes I work now, hardly worth a mention as it brings me no personal joy, but I do have a pittance of a paycheck coming in--and I was helping DC at his job, saving plants, admiring the mountains whilst driving along, no big, when I realized the sky was down-right radiant. The sun was splayed in that prism-light sort of way and the clouds were scattered everywhere, while the shades of blue from the bottom of the sky to the top were enough to make a Crayola box weep. In short, it was God. And well, being me, I just felt so bowled over by the sheer beauty and enormity of all of it, God, beauty, being a part of it, but somehow longing for more, to blend in with the beauty, that I started to silently cry behind my sunglasses. And then not so silently sob. When DC realized, he of course was concerned but I just explained that there was a profound ache sweeping over me and there was nothing to be done but cry. He held my hand and let me. <br />
<br />
Then he let me drop him back off at work and take his car to go and explore my artistic endeavors. I have been obsessed with this town a little out of the way behind marvelous billowing hills and vineyards before even moving here, and I wanted to go there. If there is anything for me in a mood I can't quite understand, it's always best to be with nature. And write. <br />
<br />
So it was sitting in one of those perfect oversized coffeehouse chairs, the big worn brown leather kind with a quaint throw pillow and sipping on a Coca-Cola in an old-fashioned glass bottle with a straw--it called to me more than the coffee once I got there--that I overheard the men talking about Sri Lanka, and that same thrumming that had been inside me all day intensified. I didn't get much more work done as I sipped on my Coke, before I packed up my things to leave, and tried to discreetly check out the Sri Lanka man. He looked about sixty with white hair and matching beard, and was dressed like Sherlock Holmes. Psh, why did he get to go to Sri Lanka, he obviously is an old fashioned British detective, what business does he have in Sri Lanka? Well... I guess if he were a Sherlock Holmes type, it could be quite feasible that he'd have business in a mysterious land like Sri Lanka, so fine! Fine, he probably earned it! <br />
<br />
As I drove back home on the winding roads, noting that the sky was getting bluer, the mountains blacker and the fields looked like cracked honey, it hit me that going to Sri Lanka felt like an impossible thing. And as soon as I thought the word impossible, my brain did a serious mental slamming of the breaks. I don't believe in impossible. I just don't. Honestly, I get near it sometimes, I poke at the word with a stick, but if I get too close to taste it, I back away as if burned. The word doesn't sit well with me. <br />
<br />
I realized that I have been losing a lot of faith in myself lately, feeling like all of my big dreams seem very far off again and somewhere in the impossibility category. But see, there has been a time before in my life when all seemed lost and dare I say it, in the impossible realm, so back then I had to baby step it. When I wanted to run my first 5k and that seemed near impossible, I did things like tell myself if I could run half a mile, just to that mailbox off in the distance, that I could make it New York City one day. Not only did I make it to the mailbox and run the 5K, I made it to New York City, and then went on to run a marathon but it was simply by first believing a very itsy bitsy baby impossible. <br />
<br />
I used to do this all the time. Just tackled the baby impossibles and then the grand daddy impossibles like making the tv show The Biggest Loser didn't seem quite as hard, because I had had practice believing a lot of little impossible things and then once I'd done a very large impossible, honestly nothing in this whole grand world felt out of my reach. But somewhere along the way, what with falling down, faltering, losing a little faith, I have stopped even tackling the baby impossibles. Until today that is. Until I heard an old man talking about Sri Lanka and all of a sudden wanted it so bad that it made me nervous enough to have doubts about where my life is going and think unthinkable thoughts, like the word impossible, jarring me back to a time when just running a half mile was the biggest impossible on my horizon. <br />
<br />
Which brings me to one of my favorite quotes of all time:<br />
<br />
Alice laughed: "There's no use trying," she said; "one can't believe impossible things."<br />
"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."<br />
-Alice in Wonderland.<br />
<br />
The moral of today's story: I need to get back in practice of believing impossible things, starting with the baby impossibles and working my way up to Sri Lanka. Because mark my words, now that it's in my mind, it's most certainly on my list and I don't buy into impossible. And Sherlock Holmes isn't the only one in on the world exploration game. No sir. SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-47479286119906451512013-02-11T14:21:00.000-08:002013-02-11T14:21:10.495-08:00Where the good adventurers go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRN9gGkGDW-3Us076bwRnJlBdhdCKOAxKXRy2ft8BFqhBtgtD4rCc1m2peCN9JQ4ZUqToke2fOkBO7H9ADWtw53tjm7KHQXcMdNZSBX0vAvr15RIpYUGmBXLZv0PsgTNcZGzo7fQRmuNfK/s1600/fields.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRN9gGkGDW-3Us076bwRnJlBdhdCKOAxKXRy2ft8BFqhBtgtD4rCc1m2peCN9JQ4ZUqToke2fOkBO7H9ADWtw53tjm7KHQXcMdNZSBX0vAvr15RIpYUGmBXLZv0PsgTNcZGzo7fQRmuNfK/s320/fields.jpg" /></a></div>I talk a big game about adventure. I mean it's part of my blog name, so yeah kinda one of my favorite things ever in life, period. So last Thursday I not so subtly at all asked my boyfriend if he was just going to be doing office work the next day or running around DC being a posh salesman. He replied that he would be in the office. You know that scene in the Grinch when he gets overwhelming glee at the idea of stealing Christmas and his smile slowly curves up his face? That is precisely what my smile did. <br />
<br />
"Soooo, can I drive you into work then tomorrow and have your car for the day?" I asked. <br />
<br />
"Sure," he said. <br />
<br />
Adventure! Adventure! Adventure-tiiiiiiiiime! My inner self sang, shaking her hips and arms from side to side in a wholly unattractive super shimmy. But it was on. A date with me and the open road. Immediately every outlandish possibility entered my mind. Could I make it to the ocean and back in one work day? Hmmm, probably, if I didn't hit traffic and/or get car-sick which seems to happen every time I get in a car these days. Hmmm, okay, best to get all the irrational ideas out of the way first. That always works best. Though I have really been jonesing the sea, but maybe that trip would require more planning--ugh, one of my least favorite words, and my boyfriend's very favorite words. In fact I think he definitely gets his jollies being a Planner McGee. <br />
<br />
Anyway, so then I opened up maps of Virginia on Google and just looked for towns with enticing names. Obviously, that's a great method. I am nothing if not scientific and methodical. I became transfixed with the town Rappahannock. That name is amazing for starters, sounds slightly native and like it more than likely translates to adventure. And I am certain I'd heard of it, which seemed promising, but then I settled that I shouldn't even have a plan at all. I could find a cute town, river, or the mountains which I could clearly see from my window, just with my innate sense of direction and thirst for adventure. I am like a bloodhound in that way. <br />
<br />
Friday came and I dropped DC off at his office and drove back home to get ready as I wasn't yet, why mince words, I am not a morning gal and I kept sleeping til the last possible second and then grumpily and begrudgingly got out of bed to drive DC to work, (I know, I know, why would I do that when I wanted the car and an adventure day in the first place, but you know what, I am an enigma. I don't even pretend to get me; I am shrouded in unbelievably infinite mystery, complexities... Okay that was excessive, I apologize) so was not about to adventure in his sweatpants and sweatshirt that I had thrown on in my haste. <br />
<br />
After deciding to be nice and drop off a lunch for my incredibly thoughtful sir, for letting me commandeer his car, I couldn't get out of his office and on the road fast enough. He asked me what I was doing and I vaguely shrugged and ran for the door. <br />
<br />
"Why are you being so mysterious? What are you doing? You're running out of here without even kissing me." <br />
<br />
Oh right. I ran back, quickly laid one on him, smiled my Grinch-y, finger tapping, I have plans smile and said, "Nothing. Gotta go!"<br />
<br />
And then I was off! <br />
<br />
It struck me when I was driving DC into work earlier that if instead of going left toward his office, if I went straight, toward the mountains, I could just run smack dab into them. At least that is what I fancied in my mind, that I would just drive right up to the base of one and look up and whoa, how do you do mountain friend? That is what I was envisioning as I headed toward the dark blue horizontal zig-zags in the distance, with my packed baggy of PB&J crackers and a water bottle. <br />
<br />
I drove straight for awhile happily staring at the mountains ahead and blasting my folksy jams. But then I came to a blinking light and what seemed to be a darling town to my left. I should turn, I thought. Good adventurers always go with their instincts. Who knows what could be in this fetching lil town? Turns out nothing of note, but no matter, I was officially getting lost heading toward mountains, fields, and woods. Oh and getting lost on purpose. The best way. I have serious navigational skills, so I was not worried about ending up anywhere unsavory. <br />
<br />
I lost sight of the mountains and began winding further into what looked like farm country. But honestly it was lovely. I happened upon this house the size of a castle, but that was shaped like two silo's. Riveting! I kept trying to get closer but every road near it said, No Trespassing. Seriously, what are people so worried about? If you're going to build a house that is clearly an architectural gem, you should expect Lookie Lou's. I totally would've inched further down the road anyway and then pretended to be lost if I got caught if I weren't in DC's car, on top of hearing his voice in the back of my mind being all stern and rule-follow-y, questioning what kind trouble I was about to embark upon. Honestly, Dece, I'm not a criminal, simply curious. There is nothing wrong with healthy curiosity. In fact, I was strongly encouraged as a journalism student to cultivate my curiosity. So by heeding DC's imaginary warnings, I was actually stifling my journalistic instincts, but fine! So be it, I will turn around and miss an opportunity to see a barn castle up close.<br />
<br />
I kept going, getting giddy seeing rolling hills with cows grazing, abandoned houses--one of my favorite things to ogle, a white horse that I was certain in the passing light could've passed as a unicorn. In fact I may have squinted my eyes as I got closer to be sure it wasn't a unicorn. You really never know. If I had a unicorn I most certainly would hide it in plain sight. It's actually quite brilliant. <br />
<br />
Then I started to realize I hadn't come upon the mountains yet as I had sort of planned on. I was just getting deeper into the woods. And it was a grey, dreary sort of day and I was passing a lot of overgrown cemeteries. As I was winding through a road that seemed to be in the middle of a swamp, my mind latched onto a memory I had of reading about some haunted road in Virginia where a woman disappeared. Instantly I was convinced I was on said road. I did feel a ghostly presence come to think of it. I got about another mile down and saw another abandoned house and immediately did a U-ie. I just can't be on a haunted adventure alone, I freaked out! Honestly, where are the mountains, why are there so many graveyards out here? Are all the houses abandoned? As I started back the way I came I drove slowly past one of the empty houses, overgrown with weeds, and a dilapidated, rusted blue ford in the back. I swore I saw a lady in an old tattered cream dress leaning against the door of the back barn, I panicked, hit the gas, tires squealing on the corner of the road.<br />
<br />
<i>I have to get outta here</i>! Now I was legitimately over-worked and convinced I was most certainly on the haunted road and the ghosts were evidently rampant! By the time I got home I had imagined myself into all sorts of tizzies and had to find out if I had indeed stumbled upon a haunted area of Virginia. <br />
<br />
No. No I wasn't even close. Well okay, still, that was a spooky adventure nonetheless. How titillating. Then I thought I heard a thump in my bedroom. Keep in mind, it was mid-day at this point, but no matter. I looked around slowly, prickles dashing up my spine, and then high-tailed it outta there to go get DC. I grabbed a Valentine's cookie on my way out though. To soothe my rattled nerves. <br />
<br />
Good grief. I just never can prepare for the type of adventures I will have, truly. Who knew I'd go searching for the mountains and find a silo shaped castle, would-be unicorn, and ghostly phenomena instead? <br />
<br />
Nope, there's no preparing for that. SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-388786119488852614.post-12034566405049311112013-02-07T17:40:00.002-08:002013-02-07T20:22:06.225-08:00Happy Frenching<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27v4gEZY0ER3TwJ11EyQbPwyAIFxNMmWcCqt2nSBIpbZoGRCuEHSVhiaxEqeRSlfb2ZGglqAAFE9Co0-JqJ9-ROS8yn8SSefpYs7CJ8jv4-Gr4FoJi2Ecduxwca4gAyONdu_9IUmiInby/s1600/coco-chanel1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27v4gEZY0ER3TwJ11EyQbPwyAIFxNMmWcCqt2nSBIpbZoGRCuEHSVhiaxEqeRSlfb2ZGglqAAFE9Co0-JqJ9-ROS8yn8SSefpYs7CJ8jv4-Gr4FoJi2Ecduxwca4gAyONdu_9IUmiInby/s320/coco-chanel1.jpg" /></a></div>I say that I want to be a lot of things. This is true. I also want to see a lot and experience a great deal. <br />
<br />
To name a few:<br />
<br />
Labor on a lobsterboat<br />
Live in Paris<br />
Wade through cranberry fields, and sunflower fields<br />
Experience the wild west<br />
Work on a dude ranch<br />
Hear Native American drummers<br />
Photograph Italy... and well the whole darn world<br />
Ride the Trans-Siberian Railroad<br />
Be a part of the Iditarod<br />
Hike the Appalachian Trail<br />
Be boundless, aimless, and footloose and fancy-free<br />
See every one of our National parks<br />
Write about and hob-nob with greats: artists, musicians, poets<br />
<br />
And that is a meager few, a toe dip in the ocean of experience I long to have. I also want to dabble in death-defying acts: white-water raft, skydive, get lost in the wilderness and have to fend off a bear with my hand-whittled shiv. Okay, fine, I am just kidding on that last one. I am all talk and would surely be mutilated in one-on-one combat with any animal, including a raccoon. I am a serious pansy and yeah a lot of the time still have to wear water-shoes in less than clear lake water as I am convinced either a leach will get me or a Freshwater Pike (yeah I know what Freshwater Pike are, I grew up on the Great Lakes) will shred me from the ankle down, or God forbid a strand of seaweed should graze my inner thigh, it's all over, man. <br />
<br />
So the other day when I decided I wanted to live more like a French-woman, (in the cultivated way not the armpit hair neglect way just to be clear) this was not even in the least bit alarming to my ever-changing sensibilities. I was drawing myself a bubble bath (I know drawing a bubble bath sounds so 18th century erotic, but it paints a picture okay) mid-day as a nice reward for re-introducing myself to the running world, when I fancied I wanted a glass of wine. I somehow felt that I needed justification for having a glass of wine around three in the afternoon though. Bubble baths with several lit candles, yeah that's totally commonplace for my afternoon ritual now, so that was A-okay, just the wine needed a lil background check. I quickly racked my brain for sophisticated mid-day drinkers and immidiately came up with the French. Duh. Of course the French drink during the day! And they are the epitome of class and culture. <br />
<br />
I literally googled, <i>How to be like a French woman</i>, hoping this would surely say they soaked in bubble baths and drank a nice red, (not the $10.00 variety I'm sure, but I do have a budget here) while contemplating life. I read a lot of interesting facts about mimicking the ever-refined French lady and after a couple of varied searches, including, <i>so the French drink during the day right? right?!</i> I did find that yes, the French have a glass of wine, no problem, in the afternoon. I happily poured myself a small glass feeling extra decadent and rule-breaky. Americans. Ha! The French know how to live! <br />
<br />
But upon settling into my bath, gazing upon the flickering candle light and taking my first sip of vino, I realized I actually wasn't in the mood to drink wine. At 3 p.m. it just didn't taste as good. How weird. Okay, fine. So I'll pour it back in the bottle, I thought, it was worth a shot. But I can still take on some of the other French tips, of course, now that I did all that research. So after my bath, I decided to put on a black lacey slip and a fancy dress and then do my hair and make-up and just waltz around the house appreciating art more and taking in the breath of life, French women are like that, it said so on various reputable searches. I really felt I needed a bowl of cherries to eat lazily, but I didn't have any, so I made a mental note to get those next time I was out as they were instrumental in my being more like a French woman.<br />
<br />
But after trying on several dresses and making pouts with my lips that were supposed to look like I wasn't trying to pout, I grew a bit tired of the effort and went to unwind in front of the TV, a little un-French but I was just taking a break. But after a few minutes I began to squirm in my dress. Gosh, were dresses always this uncomfortable, or was it just the slip? I hadn't even gotten to my hair or make-up yet so I was a bit concerned that I wasn't going to be able to live like Coco Chanel at all! I went back into my bedroom just to glance at different dress options. Then maybe, I sort of ended up in leggings, a sports bra, and a t-shirt and abandoned all hopes of a twenties-style hair-do and thick black eyelashes. <br />
<br />
Being French is so overrated, I concluded. Except I really still want that bowl of cherries and I think I could totally pull off living in Paris as I have a lot of fetching hats that most certainly say Frenchie! Okay, so maybe I will start smaller next time and practice holding cigarettes delicately whilst sitting at outdoor cafes and scoffing at people who don't know all the fancy cheese brands. Yes, yes I will start there.<br />
SanjraDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00112119271924905290noreply@blogger.com2