adventure

Tossing the Rulebook

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I’ve always played by the rules. I’ve always done what I’m supposed to do in the order in which I am supposed to do it. College… Work… More work… And continued work. But in a couple of weeks I am going to embark on a journey I never thought I would.

With no job waiting in the wings, I gave notice yesterday at my current place of employment. YIKES! That’s right folks. In this crazy, unpredictable world, shaky political climate and moody economy… I am packing up my house and heading south (only about 140 miles south) to start a brand new life and adventure with the man I love. And I couldn’t be more thrilled!

I am not leaving just any old garden-variety job and home behind. Which is why, perhaps, this leap into unchartered waters feels so foreign to me. The current job is a good one that came complete with a decent title, five zany suite mates/co-workers, a nice office and interesting work.

The home—100 years old, cozy, loaded with character and decorated just the way I want it—sits right across the street from my childhood home, my beloved parents, my “little sister” (their golden retriever) and a mere two blocks away from my big sister and seven nieces and nephews.

But as with everything… there is a trade off.

What I am gaining in the deal is a partner and a friend with whom to share the rest of my life. And I could just stop right there as it is more than a fair trade to spend forever with my best friend. But there also is a new home, which I am told I can decorate any way that I choose. Though we’ll see about that… He didn’t seem super thrilled when I actually told him how I felt about the lamps in his living room. And a “job” that will allow me to play Little Betty Homemaker (at least until I find one with a real paycheck).

The new “career” in and of its self should be pretty interesting since I know I have mentioned before that I tend to be a bit domestically and culinarily-challenged. I figure now is as good a time as any to learn… Provided I don’t burn the house down by leaving a stray oven mitt on a burner or something random like that. (It’s been known to happen.)

Of course, if nothing else… the transition should provide some fairly good fodder for this platform here. I’m sure they’ll be some interesting stories about my Glamour mags taking over the stacks and stacks of Sports Illustrated currently perched on the back of the toilet. Or baskets, candles and picture frames replacing biographies of Howard Stern, “Shoeless” Joe Jackson and Ernest Hemingway. (OK, Hemingway can stay… but the other stuff just might be gettin’ bumped by Pottery Barn.)

There’s bound to be an adjustment period to the Lifetime channel being on by default when he flicks on the tube looking to watch Sports Center. Sometimes there’s nothing quite like a poorly-scripted, horribly-portrayed, exaggerated, cheesy, over-the-top tale of a woman scorned… even if it IS Bowl Week (which by the way, lasts for THREE weeks… NOT ONE as the name suggests).

In any event, I hope you’ll stay tuned while the adventure unfolds and I try something I’ve never tried before by taking a great big step right off my “map” … into the glorious unknown.

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Anyone Else Hear That Buzzing Sound?

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I’ve been a little swamped lately so I hope you’ll forgive me for posting something I wrote a few summers ago when I first moved into my “new-to-me-but-very-old” house and discovered I had roommates… of the buzzing, stinging variety. Yep… yellowjacket wasps. And I am DEATHLY afriad of bees or bugs for that matter… especially ones that fly. And buzz. And sting. So, although I feel too busy to breathe right now—or at least fearful of forgetting HOW to breathe—I’d rather post SOMETHING than nothing… so I reached into the archives for this one. My hope is that you will find it as entertaining as I did horrifying… Enjoy. Oh and maybe grab your fly swatter.

Just so you’re aware, and I hope you NEVER have to find out… here is what it’s like to share your home with yellow jacket wasps…

For almost 2 weeks now, every morning, I do the “Walk of Shame” in my pajamas. At day-break, bra-less and with pillow-marks and wild hair, I scurry over to MY house from my parents’ house. I do everything at my house, except SLEEP there. The thought of one of those “creatures-from-depths-of-hell” (as I have grown fond of calling them) crawling on my pillow in the middle of the night creeps the shit out of me! What if I roll over on it, and it stings my cheek, or worse… I accidentally swallow it!?! I shudder even as I type this. I can only imagine what the neighbors must think though… a 34-year-old woman who has her own home, STILL sleeps at mommy and daddy’s every night?!? Talk about having “issues”…

Once inside the enemy’s territory, I sneak around my OWN house, tip-toeing like a cat burglar, with my WMD’s (a fly-swatter and a can of Mega-Freeze hairspray) close at hand. I enter rooms as though arriving at my own previously-anticipated surprise party… You know, because I want to surprise the surprisers that are hiding and laying in wait.

I compulsively throw open doors, blinds and curtains as if this element of surprise gives ME the upper hand against AN INSECT THAT FLIES!! I thoroughly shake out my clothes before getting dressed, I closely examine shoes and slippers before placing my foot inside—lest I squash one of them and my foot swells and it looks like I have elephantitus or some such disfiguring disease. I gingerly lift towels, rags and laundry with my thumb and fore finger in case one of the demon-spawn is hiding there. I’ve learned to RELY on the mirrors to tell me if one is sneaking up on me from behind. I suspect NOWHERE is safe, and I trust nothing.

However, I AM beginning to wonder if I am going about this ALL wrong. Perhaps the yellowjackets and I should maybe consider a less harsh solution like… couples therapy? I mean, me and the hive, could just sit down in a neutral setting, where there is no judgement or preconceived notions about “good” and “bad” and everyone is equal and we can air our grievances in a calm and cool manner. My sister once talked a raccoon into leaving her garage after several weeks, by simply speaking rationally to him, maintaining eye contact, and then leaving the door up that night when she went to bed. Soooo… anything’s possible.

Maybe I should just open up the phone book and find a family therapist who specializes in “unique” problems. I mean, OK… so MAYBE poisoning them with Aqua Net isn’t the right way to go after all, maybe it is a tad harsh. I’m not perfect. Perhaps we just need to learn to live in harmony with one another. You know, respect each other’s space. Bee considerate… and by all means, COMMUNICATE.

OK, it’s settled, I have the yellow pages, and I’m looking for therapists… I think I’ll start with the B’s…

Laminating Sarah

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Like a lioness waiting in the tall grass for her prey, I swear they could smell the fear. I walked through the door and 10 pairs of eyes stared up at me from their seats. How bad can this be? I thought to myself. They look harmless enough.

Sitting there quietly around a circular table playing with Play-Doh, the 10, two and three year olds seemed content and well behaved. I’m not sure what I expected… I think something resembling pure pandemonium, but much to my surprise, they were sitting still. I spoke with one of the other teachers. She gave me some instructions on what worked and what didn’t. She told me some ways in which to prevent all hell from breaking loose—which I really appreciated. And then, she closed the door behind her and headed toward the sanctuary.

OK. I’m alone with 10 kiddlets. TEN. That’s… A LOT. I take a deep breath. And I am alone with them for over an hour. An even deeper breath. Exhale. “Hi kids! My name is Joanna and we are going to have some fun! We’re gonna play, listen to some music, then hear a bible story, and play some more! Doesn’t that sound like fun!?!” They’re just blinking at me. WHY are they just BLINKING at me? Isn’t anyone excited?

Frantically, I rummage through the papers I’ve been given. I am supposed to tell these little ones the story of Abraham and Sarah. “Who wants to hear a bible story?” I say with as much excitement as I can muster while thrusting my hand up into the air, hoping desperately that they’ll catch my enthusiasm and do the same. More blinking. Not a single hand goes in the air. OK, now I’m positive they can sense my terror.

Let me just take a moment here to interject that I am not very good with kids. I don’t have kids. I don’t watch other people’s kids. I’m never around kids, save for nieces and nephews. And they don’t count because they have to love you no matter what… that or you can usually just buy their affection with candy & video games and stuff. So when I was asked to teach the 2s and 3s class during the church service every 3rd Sunday of the month and actually agreed to it… I really had no idea what I was in for. OK… back to the story…

“So NO ONE wants to hear a bible story!?” I try for a second time to get them excited about this. However, one by one I watch the children get up from the table and just… wander off. Where are they going? I ask myself. What are they doing? I am dumbfounded at the fact that they are TOTALLY IGNORING me. Initially I try gathering them back to the table but soon realize that this, like herding cats, is a totally useless endeavor.

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY! I hear one girl whine from a far corner of the room. She is pulling blocks off of the shelves. Another child starts putting plastic grapes on a toy plate and waddles over to a… MICROWAVE? Surely it isn’t plugged in. Surely it is there for preparing snacks or food during the regular school week. Surely he can’t reach… Oh @#$%! It IS real, it IS plugged in and he CAN reach it because he is now microwaving plastic grapes!

“OK, Jeffrey, we aren’t going to PLAY with the microwave. That isn’t safe.” I hear myself say as I take him by the shoulders, remove the plastic grapes from the appliance (thank God they aren’t on fire) and redirect his attention elsewhere.

Mercifully, my sister enters the room then. She is in charge of the church nursery, plus is raising 7 children of her own, so any advice I can get from her at this point would be welcome and appreciated.
“How’s it going?” she asks. “Ummm… good… ummm… (my eyes are darting around the room peeled for inevitable disaster) they… uh… don’t seem to want to listen to me…” My voice trails off as I take MORE things away from Jeffrey who seems to only be interested in contraband.

My sister recommends that I try counting down from 10 minutes to Bible Story Time. Let them know that in 10 minutes we are going to put the toys away, come back to the table and listen to a story, and then go to 5 minutes, 3 minutes, etc. until it is time. This, she says, prepares them for what is to come and therefore it doesn’t become a big “issue” when it’s time for the story. I don’t see how that is going to work any better, but I’ve got nothing to lose. Meanwhile, she offers to bring down some snacks for the kids to have later. And she leaves.

I do the countdown thing, announcing every few minutes how much time we have left just as she suggested. I have no idea if it is working, but we’ll find out. I also turn on some music hoping it will calm me down and lighten the mood.

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY! I hear the same girl cry out from a different corner of the room. What do these kids have rockets on their butts? How are they moving around so quickly without my noticing?

I WANNA HEAR A BIBLE STORY! Another girl yells out. What a sweet little angel. 



“6 minutes! In 6 minutes we’re going to pick up our toys and listen to a bible story!” I announce again. By now, my teenage nephew has joined me… much to my relief. My sister, sensing my panic, has sent in reinforcements! God Bless her!! It is another set of eyes, ears and hands to help me corral these little ones for story time.

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY! She cries out again from the toy kitchen.

I WANNA HEAR A BIBLE STORY! My precious little angel answers back.


“4 minutes! In 4 minutes we’re going to pick up our toys and listen to a bible story!” I announce again. My nephew informs me that it has been much longer than 2 minutes since the last time I reminded them of the countdown. “What does it matter Cameron… they don’t know the difference! Just so long as the number keeps getting smaller!” I hissed at him through a plastic smile. And Cameron just shrugs while helping 2 little guys make baseballs out of Play-Doh.

“Nuh-uh!” A boy says to me… “I know it’s been longer than that!” And I think to myself: Since when does a 3 year old know how to SUBTRACT!?!

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY! She cries out from inside of a bookshelf.

I WANNA HEAR A BIBLE STORY! My darling, adorable, peaceful angel answers back.

Since the one little boy is onto my “fudging the numbers” with the countdown thing, I point to my watch and say: “When the BIG hand is on the 12, we’re going to pick up our toys and listen to a bible story!” And he comes over and grabs my wrist, examining my watch to see just how long it is going to be.

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY. She says a little quieter now while standing right beside me.

I WANNA HEAR A BIBLE STORY! My giving-me-hope-and-keeping-me-sane angel answers back.

“OK! It’s time! Cleanup, cleanup everybody do your share…” I sing the song as I gather up Play-Doh and blocks and plastic food. Cameron makes quick work of the cleanup too and surprisingly the children are joining in! It’s working!!! “Time to come sit down at the table now everybody! We’re going to hear a story about Abraham and his wife Sarah!” I practically sing as the children are miraculously doing what I’ve asked! The countdown worked!! It actually worked! And even my little Bible-Story-Protestor is magically seated at the table. I turn off the music.

I’ve been given a packet of materials for story time which includes the story (of course), some worksheets and several large, paper cut-outs of the biblical characters and their props in order to “act out” the story for them with visual aids. I begin telling the story by showing Abraham first. I talk about Abraham and then give him to one of the children to hold. I figure this will keep them interested if they get to interact with the teaching tools rather than just sitting there empty-handed. 



They seem to like holding the paper characters and they even raise their hands to be the next child to receive one to hold. However, they won’t simply HOLD the paper cut-outs like I’ve shown them. Instead, as I work my way through the telling of the story, I see that Abraham is standing on his head, the shepherds and their sheep have gone missing and Sarah is crumpled into a ball. So much for that idea.

Something I want to mention here that I have observed over the years is that young children who have been exposed to church and Sunday school have 2 standard answers that they will give NO MATTER WHAT THE QUESTION IS. They are (in this order): “God” and “Jesus.” Every time. No matter the question. So if I ask them: “Kids, what does it mean to make a promise?” The answer will always be: God! And when I hesitate and say: “Noooo… try again…” Then the answer will be: “Jesus!” And they seem NOT to answer with anything else until they get a bit older.

Of course this case is no exception. Every question I asked them during the story, the answers they gave were always: God and Jesus. And that, folks, concludes the question and answer portion of our time together. After what has seemed like an hour (though I know by my watch it has only been 10 minutes) I reach the end of the story. I think we are all relieved. I pass out the worksheets and TRY to help them fill them out. I figure I have GOT to send these kids home with something to show for their time spent in here. We haul out the crayons and no sooner do I attempt to tackle the first illustrated question… I notice that they have ALL scribbled ALL OVER THEIR PAPERS.

It’s time for potty-breaks and snacks.

Potty-breaks and snack time go over rather smoothly save for the boy who is “helping” pass out the animal crackers by giving everyone else 3 a piece while stuffing 6 more into his mouth each time. That and there was the little girl who wanted so badly to be helpful by giving everyone a paper towel for their crackers… that she eventually pulled ALL of the paper towels out of the dispenser and onto the floor one at a time.

So with one crumpled Sarah… a paper-towel, crayon, worksheet and Play-Doh scrap strewn floor… A boy running around with a death-grip on the animal cracker box… A table covered in crayon marks and cookie crumbs… And three kids arguing over a plate of microwaved plastic grapes… The first parents arrive to retrieve their children. I have no idea what the expression on my face must have been, but it could not have been one of a confident, competent and comfortable child-care provider.

And as each parent left with their child in hand, one by one they asked me: “So how did it go? How was <insert name of child here> today?” their anxious faces desperately searching mine for the truth. And straightening my sweater, I answered each parent by replying: “Oh. It went just great. <said child> was such a good little helper and a good little listener. They played nicely with the others and they picked up their toys when I asked.” In other words… I totally lied. Yeah. I broke one of the commandments. BUT, the relieved parents then smiled and happily walked out the door with their children.

And it was then that I thought to myself: You know… actually… it went just great. The kids were pretty good little helpers and good little listeners (for a few minutes anyway). They played nicely with each other and they picked up their toys when I asked. And a month from now, when I do this again… I probably won’t change a single thing… except for maybe laminating Sarah.

Unrecognizable

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I look in the mirror and do not know her.
This woman starring back at me. Who is she?
Where did all those lines come from?
Features completely foreign…
I search for explanation.

Answers swimming  in a sea of silver…
Revelations in the reflection…
Facts and figures float just beneath the surface…
of the glass.

Between the lines there is a story.
Some of the parts are good. Some of them are sad.
Some of them are silly. And a few of them are mad.
All of them are worthy
of being written down…
to be always recorded
before I’m all curled up and brown.

Where once there was a twinkle…
now emptiness prevails.
It wasn’t always like this…
but the colors now are pale.

Out of Touch

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Last night I was perfectly content sitting on my couch and NOT multitasking. I was doing one thing and one thing only. Watching Seinfeld re-runs. I was not on the phone or the laptop Facebooking, Twittering or blogging. I was just sitting there—like a tree stump dressed in grey sweatpants and a weathered In & Out Burger t-shirt—and it was glorious.

It was at this point that I saw a commercial for the newest ipad. The commercial showed a woman about my age, in the Apple store, looking at the shiny new gadget the salesman had just presented to her. She cautiously grasped the ipad like it was the Holy Grail and the moment it was in her hands, she was immediately transported to all of these exotic locales.

She traveled to remote sun-washed beaches, gourmet, five-star restaurants, rockin’ night clubs, casinos and both National and International landmarks. And all the while, she never looked up from that damn ipad. Apple’s selling point being that this device can go with you wherever, whenever and you can stay connected.

WTF?!?! Helloooo!!! You're in P-A-R-A-D-I-S-E. LOOK AROUND!!!

I’m sorry, am I the only one who has the desire to visit remote and exotic sun-washed beaches, gourmet, five-star restaurants, rockin’ night clubs, casinos and both National and International landmarks for the sole purposes of getting away from AND staying OUT of touch with the world? I mean, there’s a reason that the freakin’ screen savers and wallpapers on these things have pictures of Fiji and Mt. Kilimanjaro on them. Duh.

Though perhaps that is the final irony here… The place in which we’ve arrived on the evolutionary ladder of man vs. technology… If you’re toiling at your desk… you dream of Fiji or of standing in the shadow of Kilimanjaro. But if you’re actually IN Fiji or standing in the shadow of Kilimanjaro… you want to be at the office?!

I don’t know about you, but if I had the time and resources to travel to far-flung corners of the globe and visit the types of exclusive destinations that this chick was inhabiting in the ipad commercial… I would take that flat, wireless, super-sleek, state-of-the-art, hi-speed, touch-screen piece of crap capable of keeping me “connected” 24/7… and fling it as far as it would go.

10 Reasons Why Its Funner To Be a Kid at the Zoo

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For an animal lover and avid people-watcher, a visit to the zoo never gets old, no matter your age. However at times I find it far more entertaining to watch the children at the zoo, rather than the animals…

For example: I once witnessed a little girl throw an AMAZING tantrum (screaming, wailing, arms flailing… the whole bit) all the way from the Northern Trek down to the African Savanna… and no one even blinked. I have to say, I envied her a little. I mean, let’s be honest people… sometimes it WOULD be nice for it to be OK if you had a total and complete MELT-DOWN like that in front of everyone. No questions asked.

But this little red-faced, siren-sounding, tantrum-throwing child-coming-down-from-an-extreme-sugar-high not only entertained me, she inspired me. My envy of her led me to think of some other reasons why it is WAY better to be a kid at the zoo than it is to be an adult. So here goes…

1. You get to be chauffeured around everywhere in a plush, shaded stroller or fun little red wagon.

2. You can dress up like the animals and people think it’s cute. No one thinks it is “weird” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “wacky” or “deranged.”

3. Everyone moves out of YOUR way so that you can have the best view of the monkeys throwing poo at one another.

4. You will not be made fun of or teased for spilling ketchup and mustard down the front of your shirt and walking around all day sportin’ a stain on your chest.

5. When you talk to the animals no one thinks it is “strange” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “questionable” or “sad.”

6. It’s totally acceptable and not “dirty” to ask questions like: “What is that kangaroo doing to that OTHER kangaroo?”

7. No one yells: “Hey!” or “Get down from there!” or “You’re too heavy!” or “You’ll break it!” if you climb up and sit on the railing to get a better look at the tortoises.

8. If you make random animal noises while standing in line for the bathroom or concessions no one thinks it is “odd” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “curious” or “psycho.”

9. You can be covered in cotton-candy, having the bestest, stickiest, finger-lickingest time of your life and no one looks at you funny. You do NOT have to carry your cotton-candy home in a concealed plastic bag and secretly devour it at 10 p.m. on the couch in your living room, sitting next to your cat while watching re-runs of Seinfeld… with the blinds drawn.

10. And finally… as previously mentioned… You can throw an elephant-sized fit whenever, wherever and whyever you want to and no one thinks it is “scary” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “immature” or “narcissistic.”

No Trespassing or “Dueling Banjos”

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My dad tells me I watch way too many movies. And maybe he is right about that. Plus, I also have a pretty active imagination… But seriously, it did feel like a scene straight out of “Deliverance” at times. The woods were thick in every direction, the roads narrow and winding and the hillsides were extremely steep. Several of the houses and driveways were completely overgrown with weeds, and even though I was only a few miles from town… it felt remote enough that I was fairly certain no one would ever hear me scream.

<cue “Dueling Banjos”>

At one point I passed a boy driving a 4-wheeler, dressed in so much camouflage I almost didn’t see him. He had at least 2 cross-bows with him and as our paths crossed, he just GLARED at me. Come to think of it, everyone that I passed glared at me. Maybe because they knew I didn’t belong. A girl dressed in church clothes and heels, driving a silver Pontiac with the sunroof open and the radio cranked to Billy Joel, doesn’t exactly BLEND in with camo, ammo, tractors, 4-wheel-drive pick-up trucks and 3-legged dogs with one eye named “Lucky.”

But I was on a mission. There’s probably only one, maybe two weeks left of bright sunshine and glorious, leafy, green trees before everything drops to the ground, surrendering to winter. Full of determination and with the camera in tow, I headed out to the country. I was driving on some back roads to find the most beautiful photo ops. And the whole taking-my-life-into-my-own-hands-thing aside… I did manage to get some beautiful shots!

When I was satisfied that I had gotten all of the best pictures I could without my family having to send out a search party, I headed for home. On my way home I spotted these full, verdant trees along the edge of some water and knew that I HAD to get a shot of this. But I couldn’t just stop on the road because any on-coming traffic would not be able to see me. So I looked around for a place to park the car and walk to the right spot in which to shoot the picture. I noticed a little white house that looked harmless enough, and conveniently there was a place to park at the edge of the property, without blocking the driveway. It was technically on their property, and there was a “NO TRESPASSING” sign posted right beside where I parked… But I really didn’t think they would mind. Plus, I’d be so quick about it that they might never even know I was there.

I took my photos and began walking back to the car and was about to climb in when this dog comes out of nowhere and charges toward me barking wildly. Here we go. This is it. I’m in trouble. Either they’ve called the police, who will be here in no time to arrest me for trespassing, or I’m gonna end up in these people’s freezer. I cringe as the dog gets closer… prepared for the mauling I was sure was imminent. My mind flashing forward to the battery of rabies shots I was going to receive if I survived.

Just as the dog reaches me, I see the owner. It’s an older lady, but not the just-got-back-from-church-and-baking-a-pie kind of older lady. No this lady was dressed in jeans and flannel and I honestly couldn’t get a read on her or her dog right away. Instead of fleeing (I’d never outrun the dog) I decided to face my fate head on. I said hello to her and the dog magically dropped to a seated position at my feet. Whew! Rabies crisis averted. She said hello but was definitely not there to make small talk. She’d come to check out the trespasser who’d had the nerve to park on her property. I could tell by the way she was looking at me that she was sizing me up (probably determining whether or not they had room for me in the fridge). And I also noticed that she walked with a bit of a limp. Oh for crying out loud! This was SO a scene from a movie: Nice, innocent girl slaughtered by old, limping, flannel-clad woman in Backwoods House of Horrors.

I introduced myself and explained what I was doing, figuring it sounded decent enough. I mean it wasn’t as if I was out there mutilating squirrels and other small woodland creatures… I was taking nature pictures. What could be more harmless than that? She asked if the photos were “just for me” and I said that they were. I explained how I grew up near there and had been away for years and was still quite taken with the beauty of this time of year. It was then that she said: “I have some lovely trees in my backyard, if you would like to see them. You’re welcome to photograph those.”

Sure, sure… I thought… this was her ploy to lure to me deeper onto her property, and once I was out of public sight in her “backyard,” the real nightmare would begin. But I knew that the polite thing to do was to follow her. After all, I DID trespass and now she was asking me to see her backyard… the least I could do was indulge her. Although I WAS certain that her husband or son would be waiting for me behind the house with a chainsaw.

As I followed her and her dog, I grew a bit more nervous when I noticed that we would have to walk through a little corridor between the house and the shed. The passageway was draped with a tarp and had only slits in the front and back in order to pass in and out. Oh yeah… I’m definitely a goner. However, when I tentatively pulled back the edge of the tarp and peered inside, I saw that the enclosed space was not full of bloody limbs from previous victims… but fresh, garden-grown produce!! All sizes and colors of zucchini and tomatoes with prices marked on them. She was not a homicidal maniac! This woman was just a produce-peddler! For the second time in 5 minutes relief washed over me. I was not going to meet with some horrible demise in the backyard of this sweet old woman’s home.

The view of the woods from her backyard was gorgeous, and she told me how she’s been sitting at her breakfast table every day watching the leaves transform. Her and her dog… Millie. Harmless little Millie… the sweet attack dog who was now licking my hands while I stroked her fur. I took some photographs of the view AND the fresh veggies and talked with her a little while before getting back in the car and driving away. She told me I was welcome to come back anytime to visit or photograph her property. I could park my car on her land and take as many pictures as I’d like. I waved good-bye to both her and Millie as I drove toward civilization.

Perhaps I do watch too many movies… but real life or fiction… you still never know how the story is going to end. Luckily, this one ended happily-ever-after.

<banjo music fades>

What I Know So Far

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That life picks up speed the older you get.

That no matter your real age… you’ll always be 18… in your mind.

That my parents and teachers were totally telling the truth. About most things anyway.

That I will fall down.

That I will get back up again.

That second chances are extremely rare, so if you get one… seize it.

That opportunity is not something to be questioned, but something to be grasped firmly with both hands.

That the difficult choice and the right choice are usually the same thing.

That reality and expectation never look the same.

That sometimes sadness does not have a name.

That if you aren’t paying close attention, you might miss something wonderful simply because it didn’t arrive in the package you were looking for.

That it is better to be single than to wish you were.

That there is no statute of limitations on finding Mr. Right.

That certain people will never be worthy of my time or energy.

That I can never regret something I did NOT say.

That worrying myself sick about it won’t fix it.

That “laugh lines” are only “charming” if they are on someone else’s face.

That the ones already on my face… are here to stay. And they plan on bringing friends.

That life will NOT look like it does in the brochure.

That that isn’t always a bad thing.

That “normal” is overrated.

That anything can happen to anyone, anywhere at anytime.

That I shouldn’t be so shocked when trouble finds me.

That I shouldn’t be equally as shocked when goodness finds me.

Please, dear readers, leave a comment and add to this list. I’d love to know what all of YOU know so far… Thanks for reading.

Paper Treasures

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I adore bookstores. Being a lover of language, I’m not sure if this is the due to the rush that I get from literally being surrounded by words… ensconced in words. Or perhaps I can blame it on the sheer excitement I feel being in the presence of so many lofty thoughts, ideas and stories.

And I have a particular affinity for used bookstores. You know, the kind of stores that are bursting at the seams with so many books that there are racks and bins of them spilling out onto the sidewalk, beckoning you like paper sirens to come hither and have a look a around.

If you’re someone like me, you’re almost immediately drawn in by the countless titles that call out to you from the various makeshift shelves that are haphazardly strewn outside. You begin your treasure hunt there, wondering what little literary gem might be buried beneath the stacks of trashy romance novels with paintings of exotic women in various stages of undress on the covers. Perhaps you find one—a shiny jewel that you simply cannot fathom how anyone else could have missed—and you tuck it under your arm.

With your curiosity piqued and your wallet burning, you venture inside. Instantly you are reminded of your grandmother’s basement, as a heavy aroma of dust, glue, aged leather and ancient paper envelops you. Stretched out in front of you are endless rows of leather and fabric-bound tales waiting to be discovered by just the right person. You see… each used book already has a new owner… they’ve simply not yet been introduced.

As you meander through the narrow aisles, head tilted to one side so as to read the inverted titles, your eyes pour over both familiar and unfamiliar names. So many books! It is incredible the shear volume of words that must exist under this one roof! A person could flop themselves down in a quiet corner for hours and travel to foreign lands, soaring through time and space to witness pivotal moments throughout history and experience wild and wonderful adventures all along the way! In the small span of an afternoon one could experience love and loss, danger and deception, death and dying, murder and mayhem, treachery and treason.

But as you navigate the passageways between the shelves of bargain masterpieces, you become aware of the presence of something far more valuable than the written works themselves. These books have stories all their own. I’m not talking about the words typed on the pages inside… but rather the silent stories of their previous owners. Over time, clues about them have begun to emerge on the covers, the spines, the margins and even in between the pages.

For instance, I once picked up a book entitled The Art of Pessimism and opened the front cover to find the following inscription: “1989 – To my dear friend Patricia, this needs no explanation! Love, Anne” I chuckled to myself at the inside joke that these two friends must have shared. And this was just one book on one shelf  of one store that I randomly picked up one day. That same day, a copy of Seven Short Works of Modern Fiction (which I later purchased) had a small stack of index cards stuffed inside which came fluttering out when I picked it up. Apparently, they were someone’s study notes on the different themes of each novel.

It seems that names, dates, doodles, coffee rings, notes, inscriptions, dedications, even rips, folds and tears are present everywhere you look. To me, these parcels of paper, words, ink and glue cease being books and instead become tangible evidence of people’s lives. I consider the shelves they once sat upon, the hands that once held onto them, the eyes that once scanned these pages, the souls who were once drawn into the story. The bags and briefcases they traveled in. I wonder where they have been and what was going on in the world at that specific time? How many different people posessed this very book before it landed in my hands now? Oh, but if these pages could talk! What secrets would they reveal?

I realize that anyone can go to a museum of Natural History and see valuable icons and rare relics of previous cultures and lives lived. And perhaps you think it’s silly for me to consider such things about plain, old, used books. Either that, or you may think I just have too much time on my hands. But I actually think it is because they are so ordinary, so unremarkable in their existence that they are of such unique value! These used books… These hand-me-down narratives… These second and third-time-around stories… They carry with them the indelible marks of everyday humanity.

Chinese Take-Out for One

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I used to eat lunch in my car. Just about everyday. Most days I’d either take something from home or order fast food from a drive-thru window. Occasionally I would sit in a restaurant and eat by myself, but there is a bit of that good old “feeling like a loser” element at play when dining alone and in public. I’m NOT a total loser… I DO have a few friends, and naturally there were days I would have lunch with one or more of them. But the vast majority of the time I found myself flying solo and therefore it seemed much more comfortable to dine in my ride. I don’t eat in the car much anymore. And perhaps the story I am about to tell you is the reason why. I would like to share with you—a cautionary tale perhaps—about why it is not a good idea to eat Chinese take-out alone in your car on a rainy day.

It was a damp and dreary day. And I felt like having something a little different. I was in the mood for something warm and substantial and maybe even a little spicy… and yes, I am still talking about food.

The previous Monday I had stopped at Subway for lunch and I noticed a Chinese restaurant next door and so on this day I thought: Hmmm… that might just do for it for me today… it’s warm and substantial and if I place my order right… it could be spicy too! To borrow a line from Elaine on Seinfeld… eating the Chinese food in my car would be quote: “better than eatin’ it alone in the restaurant like some LOSER!” So I took it to go and planned on enjoying it in the park. I could not, however, predict the avalanche of problems this would pose on a cold, rainy day.

#1. I forgot how much “stuff” there is too carry with Chinese food. The bag (that must remain level at all times), my bottle of water, the napkins, the utensils, the soy sauce, the fortune cookie… So I had to figure out a way to juggle all those things PLUS my purse, my keys and my umbrella. Luckily I carry a big purse, so I managed to dump the water bottle, napkins, utensils, soy sauce packets and cookie into my purse. But I still had in my hands, the purse, the bag of food (that must remain level at all times), the car keys and the umbrella… which I was hoping to somehow manage to OPEN before venturing outside into the torrential downpour. When I finally got everything situated (or so I thought), I had such a terrible grip on the umbrella that when I pushed the button to pop it up… it flew open, poking me directly in the eye!

<insert expletive here>

#2 So with my one good eye, in the torrential downpour, I found my way to the car and folded myself inside, purse, food, keys and demonic umbrella included and drove to my favorite park. Once settled I began assembling my meal. As everyone knows, soy sauce packets are hard to open… Even harder with a plastic shell of hot food teetering on your lap in the cramped driver’s seat of a car. So, naturally, upon opening the first packet of sauce… it squirted all over my favorite light blue sweater.

<insert another expletive here>

By the way… does anyone have any tips about how to remove soy-sauce stains from finely-knit sweater material? If so… please let me know.

#3 With one good eye and a soy-sauce-stained sweater, I began to eat my food. After a bit, I received a text message from my friend Jodi wanting to know if I’d like to have lunch with her sometime next week. Of course I would! Anything would be better than eating in the car… all one-eyed and soy-stained… ALONE! But as I attempted to reply to her message… my phone slipped from my grasp and landed… right smack-dab in the middle of my General Tso’s spicy chicken.

<insert yet another stronger expletive here>

#4 With one good eye, a soy-sauce-stained sweater and a General-Tso’s-and-rice-covered cell phone I began damage control. Since the chinsey napkins didn’t seem to be doing the trick, I desperately and ashamedly resorted to licking my phone in order to clean it off before the food was able to congeal and gunk up the phone for good. Oh… and I prayed to God that no one was parked beside me to see me licking my phone!

#5 So there I was, making out with my mobile phone, with one good eye and a soy-sauce-stained sweater when I realized that ALL of the windows in the car were fogging up from the hot food. For the second time in as many minutes I found myself praying to God that NO ONE had pulled into the lot beside me and happened to notice the windows all fogged up… just me and my LG. I wondered if there were any new city ordinances against such behavior like Public Indecency with a Cellular Device.

So this my friends, is why it isn’t necessarily a good idea to eat Chinese food—ALONE IN YOUR CAR—on a rainy day. You really are better off eating it alone in the restaurant like some loser… because trust me… you cannot possibly look like MORE of a loser than a one-eyed, soy-sauce-stained-sweater-sporting, window-fogging, cell-phone-licker.