Hug Your Siblings

I'm off to the beach tomorrow.  No, not for lesuire, but for a party.  A big party.  My sister is getting married in 9 days...yes, the countdown has begun.  In reality, the countdown started about 6 months ago.  But now we are in the single digits.  So, 6 of her nearest and dearest, her, and I are headed to Destin for 3 1/2 days of sun and girly ridiculousness.

My sister and I are six years apart, I'm older.  We have never had much in common.  She is a super-girl, I am a tomboy.  We don't have any friends in common.  Her friends are the type of girls I wouldn't hang with, they do their hair everyday and wear nice clothes.  They do not wear Converse.  I wonder if any of them could catch a frisbee?

Most of them are married or in long term, live-in relationships.  They have done things "right", whatever that means.  (Again with the quotes! AAGGHHH!  This blog seems to be bringing out the worst in me!)  I'm sure to be questioned as to why I'm not currently attached.  I'm sure to have to tell them I'm just super-picky, that I don't have a good picker, that I have yet to find someone who meets all my needs and doesn't do something that annoys the shit out of me.

My sister has asthma.  And she is blonde and fair-skinned.  I need to be sure she doesn't hang in smoke very long (yeah, that's gonna happen...I'm sure we'll be bar-hoppin'), and that she doesn't burn (um, aren't we going to the BEACH???).  But I'll do what I can.  After all, I am the oldest.

I have to admit, I'm a little nervous about the weekend.  I'm afraid I won't fit in.  I'm afraid they won't like me.  I'm afraid I'll make an ass of myself.  I have a pretty big, unpredictable mouth.  Especially when I'm nervous.

But here's the thing.  It doesn't matter.  I am the big sister.  I can be who I want and what I want.  I will be here forever because sisters are forever.  Sisters matter, no matter how much I wanted a brother, I love my sister with all my heart.  She is, in spite of all the crap I gave her growing up, she is my favorite person.

We will recite lines from Mary Poppins and Back to the Future, sing Monkees songs and confuse the hell out of everyone.  But it's what we do.  And we love it.  It's our thing.

I hope to find time to write while I'm there.  Maybe even blog.  But if not, I'll be back Monday and surely have tons of stories to tell and pictures to share!

Hug your siblings this weekend.  Remember, older or younger, they are who part of who you are today.

Going There, Doing That, and Getting the T-Shirt!

Apparently, I'm a hiker now. I mean, maybe. Maybe I'm a hiker now. But I am definitely an amateur photographer wanna be who takes outdoor pictures in the woods.

I have been hiking four times. All in the last month. I have been to Sweetwater State Park (with Tara), Amicalola Creek Interpretive Trail (with Olivia), Kennesaw Mountain (with Lisa, Tara, and Pam), and Raccoon Mountain (with Tara). In that order. And, Sunday, I'm going to Raven Cliff Falls (with Tara). So that will be five journeys into the wilderness in a month. Obsessive? Probably. But wait until you hear what I've done since this began. Then there will be no need for a question mark at the end of that word.

I have bought stuff. Hiking stuff. I've been to REI and I have purchased. What have I bought?

A hiking pack. I have this thing with bags. I need them. I love them. I buy bags like most girls buy purses. So this sort-a makes some kind of sense, for me at least. This bag is amazing, though. Osprey brand, it is gray and has a pocket for everything! And it's big enough for pretty much anything I could take with me, but small enough so I don't weigh it down with useless shit, as I tend to do. It is messenger-style with a waist strap, so it is easy on my back and my bum neck. That's good. I think it is even waterproof (but not sure)! One thing is for sure, 80% of it is made from recycled material. And that's good.

Hiking shoes. Probably smart, though after only a month? Well, yes. My tennis shoes, in all their gorgeousness and reliability, are not really meant for rocks and trails and mud. I'll clean them up and continue their intended purpose at the gym.  To my credit, I got these at DSW, they were about $75 cheaper than the exact ones at REI. So I'm happy with this.

Dry Sacs. These are amazing! The keep all your shit dry! When empty, they roll up all itsy-bitsy and can fit anywhere (for example, in my new pack)! Just shake it out, put the stuff in it I don't want to be harmed by the lake I could fall in as I dare-devil across rocks to get a picture or as we are standing in the wake of a waterfall, and YAY! dryness!

One thing that won't be in my handy-dandy dry sac is my new Rite-in-the-Rain journal. Waterproof! "WATERPROOF?  What?   Really?”, you say? Well, I don't really know. I'll let you know, though. I haven't yet had occasion to test it out. But the idea of it superseded the price tag on it and I had to have it!

Convinced of my obsessiveness yet?  Well, I also bought a t-shirt from Raccoon Mountain last weekend.  It says "Chattanooga Survivor" on the back.  I don't know why I thought that was so funny.  But I still think it's funny, so it was a good purchase.  I hope to have it in the budget to buy more silly t-shirts as the journeys continue.

...“I made it through the wilderness...somehow I made it through...” keeps running through my head. I can't help it...

So all this. Four, soon to be five trips into the woods. But here's the thing. I don't even really know if I like hiking yet. How crazy is that!

Here's what I like about hiking. I like taking pictures. I like looking at the wonder of nature. I like to exercise. I like to see different things, things that are not cluster homes and mcmansions and strip malls. I like hanging out with a friend and talking the day away. I like going to places I would never go otherwise, small towns and back roads. I appreciate that we have not once eaten at a chain restaurant while on these excursions, except for the mandatory stop at Starbucks before exiting the suburbs.

Here is what I do not like about hiking: I do not like that I have lived here for nearly twenty years and had no idea that all this beauty and life was around me. I feel like my eyes have been snapped open. I'm serious – in nearly TWENTY YEARS I had no idea that hundreds of destinations of beauty were within an hour, maybe two tops, of my front door.

In spite of my indecisiveness, I plan to continue. In fact, Tara and I are signing up for the Canyon Climbers Club. Once we complete the four specified trails, they will give us a t-shirt! (I love t-shirts!) And we have an on-going list of hikes we want to go on, a list that seems to grow every day.

I'm looking for books about hiking, too. I'm a beginner and a reader and an English major. That means I must read. MUST READ. One of my character traits is that I must know everything about everything, especially if I am participating in said thing.

I am particularly interested in hiking in Georgia, Tennessee, and North Carolina. Maybe Alabama, too, if it is close enough to home. Day hikes only – I am not a camper! If you have any suggestions on books that have been helpful for you, please send the names this way. If the books are available used (as in not super-new, a year or two – maybe five? - years old), and I could get a stack for a reasonable price, all the better!  Or, if you have hiked anywhere you think I should check out, please send out the name.

I will probably be writing a good bit about hiking in the coming posts. Other than my sister's bachelorette party in Florida next weekend and her wedding the weekend after, that's how I'm spending my free time. Please feel free to leave your experience (if you have any), concerns, well-wishes, funny stories, encouraging words, or criticisms of my new hobby below. I am sure I will benefit from each one!

Sheer Fucking Pride and Stupidity

“I wanted to be a writer, that's all. I wanted to write about it all. Everything that happens in a moment. The way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread. All our feelings, yours and mine. The history of it, who we once were. Everything in the world. Everything all mixed up, like it's all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter what you start with it ends up being so much less. Sheer fucking pride and stupidity.”

~Richard Brown, character in The Hours by Michael Cunningham

This is my goal. Well, up until the line “And I failed...”

I want to be a writer. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was thirteen years old. Good god, has it really been twenty years? Wow. Sometimes, I just don’t know where the time goes...

I found out that I could write by accident. But I loved it immediately. I found out that this crazy imagination and my ability to store everything could turn into something amazing if I put it in sentences and applied the rules of grammar. When my humor seeped through my pen, it was magical. When I put that pen against the paper, I felt a freedom I had never known.

Why did it take so long? Why didn’t I know this before I was thirteen? Mainly because I spent the first years of my little life riding my bike and playing on the playground and climbing trees. I love the outdoors. I was too busy to sit down and concentrate on a thought. I lived in a small town and I didn’t ever have to be home after school. I played.

When we moved to a larger town, that kind of stopped. I still played sports, but the freedom and bike rides and tree climbing had to stop. So I became a home-body. Then, in seventh grade, I had an English teacher that blew my mind. She taught us parts of speech and grammar and writing. I totally got it! Though I already knew about the parts of speech (I can still name all 23 helping verbs), there was something about her style made it really interesting. And she liked my writing.  I found it effortless, which in my young mind meant I wasn’t really trying. She pulled me aside and told me that one does not equal the other. It is, in fact, the exact opposite. Effortless equals gift.

I began to try this thing out.

Was I a poet? Sort-of.  But not really.

Was I a non-fiction writer? No.

Could I make up crazy funny stories? Yes.

Could I write if you tell me what to write and how long to make it and exactly what it is supposed to be about? Only well enough to get the grade.

Does writing soothe me? Most definitely.

Does writing excite the hell out me?  Oh yeah!

I began trying to write like the writers that inspired me. I thought I could be the next Virginia Woolf (minus the drowning in the lake part). I have been reading since I was three, so I had vast material to go on. I thought maybe I had a little Shel Silverstein in me, crossed with some Judy Blume.

I wanted my writing to be relatable. But, at thirteen, how do you know what relatable is? I knew I related to Judy Blume books more than The Babysitter’s Club, but only now I know it is not because I wanted freckles, and I certainly did not want boobs!. (For the record, it is because Ms. Blume wrote about real life, all wrapped up in a funny little bow.)

I continued to read. I would spend hours in Barnes & Noble, searching for the perfect next read, or maybe two. I am notorious for reading three, sometimes four, books at once. I can’t stop reading, and if I don’t have the book I started with me, I’ll just pick up another one. (And I’m not very organized in the morning, so that happens a lot!)

Somewhere along the line, I picked up The Hours by Michael Cunningham. Wow. That book turned me around. It gave Mrs. Dalloway an amazing life – a human life, across three time periods. It nudged me read Virginia Woolf’s books again, and fall in love with her all over again. It brought pen to paper, seeing things around me again, as I had not seen them – from the writer’s perspective – in many, many years.

As I related to Richard, a famous writer though totally dissatisfied with where life had plopped him down, I began to feel. When the movie came out, I rushed to the theater and came out rejuvenated. I wrote like crazy for a long time.

But then I majored in English in college, thinking it would only reinforce me. Not so much. I became discouraged by the necessity and the rules and the lack of freedom.

So I stopped.

Completely.

Writing was no longer fun, it was for a grade.

I graduated eight months ago. I’ve been doing this blog for about a month. I really wanted to start writing again. I really began to miss it. And so far, it gives me the high I remember.

Why do I tell you this? All day Friday, this quote was in my head. I watched the clock, counting down the minutes until quitting time so I could write about wanting to be a writer. Sometimes a thought comes to me, and I have to write it on my wrist to remember it. (I usually don’t write on my hand because I am obsessive about washing my hands.) This one required no wrist-notes. I knew it. I knew that I wanted to tell you about how I came to write. I knew I wanted to share with you how one little paragraph in a great big book and a movie that changed my life.  I wrote it as soon as work was over Friday.  This is the first chance I've had to type it in.

I guess I am a writer in cycles. I am happy to be back in the circle of writing again. My life is tons better during the days and weeks and months when I am actively pursuing this. I have an outlook on life that can encompass life from many perspectives. I see life differently when I’m writing, because little things inspire me. I want to write about the big things, yes. But also the little things – “…This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread.…”

Thank you for indulging me in my quest.

Officially. Out. Of the box.

Never again. I am never going outside my little box again. Never.

Did I mention NEVER?

Remember a few blogs ago, when I said I wanted to clean out my ipod and make room for some new/different tunes? Well that's never going to happen again. From now on, I'll just spend the money and buy a new iPod when the one I have is full. Steve Jobs, you now officially have my soul. I guess you need it, as you sold yours a long time ago...

Let me back up.

This morning, I innocently plugged in my laptop to charge it, preparing for my out-of-box-stepping at lunch. Then, I plugged in the USB for my iPod. Then, a little box shows up (as it always does when I plug in my iPod) “Scan Device or Continue without Scanning”.

So, yeah, you guessed it. I hit the wrong one.

My iPod FORMATTED.

ERASED.

EVERYTHING.

My life is over.

Okay. Not really.

But it felt that way when I clicked on the first playlist to delete and it was empty. Here's the thing. I don't buy my music from iTunes. I get it elsewhere. I don't buy my music from iTunes because I refuse to give my entire soul to Steve Jobs. So, there is no emailing iTunes and saying, “Um, please send me my library because well, apparently, I'm a dumbass.”

So it's back to the drawing board. I still have some music on my hard drive. Thankfully, I am so obsessed with The Beatles that I will never delete them. That's a lot. And I have the entire collection of Simon & Garfunkel, and Paul Simon. I have a couple other random albums stored on my computer. Then, there are my CDs. Unfortunately, there isn't much to do with them, as I haven't bought a CD in over five years. So now, I must go elsewhere.

Mission accomplished, I suppose. I told you that I wanted to clean out my ears and get a fresh start. I did just that. Step out of my box? Check. Big mistake? Double Check.

So, for the next few evenings. I'll be crying over my computer trying desperately to find the music that I was not going to delete. And, though I will not be purchasing them from iTunes, I will utilize the “Genius” function to see it there are any fun titles based on what I have inserted on my newly-empty iPod. Maybe this could be fun!

Later. When it's done. That's when it will be fun.

I will say, I am excited to have three new bands on my iPod. Kelly has given me Vampire Weekend. (You may remember them from my post about the Oxford Comma song.) That song was the only one by them I had, and only because it was about the Oxford Comma. But, I now have two of their albums on my iPod and am excited to hear more from them. Then, there is Marva Wright, a blues singer from Louisiana. I found her through my friend Pam, and this woman can sing the blues like crazy! There's a feeling of being in a smoky bar, maybe in the 50s or 60s, when she is singing. I believe she will bring delight to many of my journeys.  And then there's Lady Antebellum.  Amazing.  Guitar riffs and vocals that will blow your mind.  Thanks, Ric, for the suggestion.  Thanks, all of you, for your expansion of my being.

On that note, if any of you have any suggestions, please send them onward. I am looking to fill my life with my old standards, and find some new ones.   With your comments, I promise to try to find your suggestions and give it a listen.

So much for not ever getting out of my box again.  I think maybe this could be an interesting new path. 
So here's to new beginnings. New journeys.

Dating 101...or How NOT to get a second date with me

So I recently went on a "date".  Many of you who know me know that I do not use "quotes" often.  (I especially hate them, except when they are there for actual "quotes" as in, something someone said. And I extra-especially hate “finger quotes”. But this post isn't about my grammar-superstar status. We'll talk about that another time.) But I use “quotes” here because, well, I'm trying to convince you that though it was technically a date, I would hope I never have a date like that again.
So, back to my evening of, um, my evening of...
I don't even know where to begin here. So I'll just make a list of key pointers, in the event that potential future daters read this and want a leg up in my book.

1. Do NOT tell me about your sword collection. It is not a good way to start off. It does not impress the ladies. It would be better to ask me to join your D&D squad or whatever D&D groups are called. At least that is fictional violence.  I do not like violence.  Of any kind.  Even if it is hanging on the wall.  Or is a collection.  (It seems to me that the word collection should have been in quotes.)
Estimated time of second date: The year 2063.  (I'll be 87, and probably won't remember you have them.)

2. Do NOT tell me that you believe animals were meant to be outside. We live in the city.
Oh, and don't try to explain to me about farm animals, farm dogs, and small town dogs. Don't tell me about living in that life, I'm from a town of 300 people in Nebraska. I get it. I don't need your expertise. I have my own. 
We live in the city. Dogs, cats, pets do NOT belong outside here. Oh, on this note, do NOT tell me that you are a cat person. Date. Over.
Estimated time till second date: The year 2064.  (I'll be 88 and incapable of taking myself to the bathroom, much less a dog.)

3. Do NOT ask me if I have/want kids on the first date. And when I tell you no, I do not have them, do NOT answer “That's impressive.” Based on that statement, these are my questions for you (in no particular order):

* Is it impressive because I am know this about myself and do not care what people think about it?

* Is it impressive that I have a brain that knows how to accomplish what I want (i.e. no kids)?

* Is it impressive that I am this old and have yet to succumb to the tick of some inner-time-bomb-type noise that is in all women, except, apparently, me?
No, none of these points are impressive.  They are facts.  They are the way responsible women who do NOT want kids avoid such a fate. 

And when I tell you I do not want them, do NOT answer “I want a lot of kids.”  Estimated time till second date: The year 2065.  (I'll be 89 and probably incapable of child-bearing.  Therefore, no longer an issue.)


4. Do NOT be an adult and not have a driver's license. I am not a chauffeur or a soccer mom. I will not be dragging your ass around.
Estimated time till second date: The year 2066.  (I'll hit the big 9-0 that year, and probably be too blind to drive.  We'll hire that nice teenager down the street to drive us to the pharmacy and to various doctor appointments, and say embarrassing things to him, such as, "When I was your age, car backseats were bigger and easier to make out in!")

These are just pointers, of course. If you'll excuse me, I must go home and peacefully protest, let the inside dog out, and count my birth control as I praise Jesus for the freedom of being an independent woman in the 21st Century.

Epic Prolouge

I wanted to post this.  Though it is kind of cheating.  It isn't what is going on right now, but something I wrote a few years ago.  It was an essay for an assignment.  But it is about my pen.  My Papermate Flexigrip Medium Blue pen. 

The assignment was write about something you lost.  While my classmates were writing about people dying and other traumatic events, I wrote about the discontinuation of my pen.  Because I'm sappy like that.  Or maybe because I'm sarcastic like that. 

Whatever.  The title of this sad story is Do I Need To Go To Rehab?

I love this pen. My Papermate Flexi-grip blue medium – I cannot live without it. I love the way it writes – like butta. In my hand, it is like inspiration between my fingers.

The only pen I will use. My life is complete with it in my hand, there is nothing else I need. This pen is my OCD. My hand's OCD.

One pen left in the box. It's time to get some more. Drive to the office supply store. Get more, maybe two boxes this time. There are none on the shelf. Ask a sales associate when the next shipment comes in. Wait, what did you say? They don't make them anymore? Wait, what did you say? They have been discontinued????????

Back in the car, driving home, I do not know what to do. My head is spinning. My hand hurts. Withdrawl. Is that what I'm experiencing? Cold sweats and vomit are coming soon, I can feel it.

Get online. Get on the Papermate website. No Flexi-grip blue mediums available. Oh my god. I will never write again.

Go back to the office supply store. Need pen. Need to find a pen. Need some methadone to get me through. I need some food. I need to write. Hold every pen in the store. Feel it. Write something. They all suck. I hate them all. I'm still starving. I still need a pen.

BIC Atlantis blue medium. Clicky pen. You will do. You're no flexi-grip, but you're not a Rollerball, and that's good. You're smooth. Not butta, but maybe apple-butter. You're not perfect, but I'll get the hang of you. You feel like you could inspire. You will have to do.

Until Papermate comes to their senses.

 
OK, here is the good news, Papermate did come to their senses.  They make my pen again!  No more BIC clicky shit pens for me!  And, of course, I have bought them in bulk amounts in case the famine comes again.

Soul Revival

I thought I would try something different. Break out of my little box. I thought I could not be controlling and just let fate take over.

Apparently, I still need some work.

I put my ipod on shuffle.

The first few songs were great. They were songs I hadn’t heard in a while. There were some songs I hear all the time that I really enjoy. This is going to be fun!

Then, a song my ex put on busted through my speakers. Flip.

Chapter 14 of a book. Flip.

A slow song. Flip.

A good song! Ahhhhh…

A song I really wasn’t interested in today. Shit.

Here is what I learned. I have a lot of shit on my ipod. A lot. Of shit. It’s time to do some housecleaning. Ear-cleaning? After all, it is dangerously close to its 30 gigabyte limit. I could make room for new stuff, or rather (since new is not so much my thing), some different stuff.

I am a little crazy about music, which may explain why my ipod is so full of, well, you know what. When I hear a song that I like, I must find out who sings it. Then I must listen to the entire album that song is on. That is how I decide if I truly like the song. A song is a chapter to me. The album is the book.

And, like many books I have read, I read other books by the same author. Likewise, I find as many albums by the same musician and listen to them. In order, just like I read chapters from a book. I feel there is a progression in music. One album relates and grows from the one previous. It is amazing to feel and hear and be inspired by the growth of the artist, to see how far they have come since their last release, the transitions, the risks taken.

Having said all this, there are two randomized playlists on my ipod. One, I am totally getting rid of. It is a mix of hip-hop, rap, and other loud beatbox music that I used to work out to, but no longer do. (Joan Jett has taken that job.) It is just obnoxious at this point in my life. While it was fun to hear some of it in my travels, I am never going to listen to it enough to justify the space it is taking up.

The other playlist is random rock songs. They are like that one line in the Shakespeare play that you love, that totally works in your life, but the idea of reading the whole play to get to that line makes you want to jump off the tallest building you can find. I’m keeping that playlist.

I did, however, find some gems I hadn’t heard in quite a while. How about these apples?

“Coat of Many Colors” by Dolly Parton (This still brings tears to my eyes.)

“Randy Scouse Git” by The Monkees (Why don’t you be like me?)

“Oxford Comma” by Vampire Weekend (For the record, I give a fuck about an oxford comma!)

“The Lemon Song” by Led Zeppelin (Squeeze my lemon…)

“Wish I Was a Kellogg’s Cornflake” by Simon and Garfunkel (I'm a citizen for boysenberry jam fan!)

“She Believes in Me” by Kenny Rogers (Don’t laugh. I’m from Nebraska for christ’s sake!)

"Meet Me in the Dark" by Melissa Etheridge (Anything by Melissa is good for me. And makes me want to give my BFF a big hug.)

And, possibly the biggest treat of the day was hearing “All I Wanna Do” by Sheryl Crow. There are too many good memories attached to that song to even start.)

So, even through the sigh, flip, sigh, flip, I had some goodness. My mind was flooded with happiness and my soul was revived.

I went on a hike today with the woman whom I have been referring to in this blog as “my long-lost dear friend”. I am no longer referring to her as that. It was like no time had passed at all. We talked all day and enjoyed the beauty around us. It was amazing, my heart is filled with gratitude that life is a circle and love conquers time and space. I am privileged enough to experience it all. Long-lost no more! She is now just my dear friend, Olivia. There is less than an hour between us now, not an entire country! And I couldn’t be happier to have her back!