I love the universe

Just when I start to feel like a big misunderstand dork; the universe sends me an email (no lie!) to make me feel better. See below...


Most people quickly forget car types, brand names, and whether or not you could throw a Frisbee, Jennifer, but forever remember the broadly smiling, animal talking, tree hugging eccentrics they befriended.

Go for the latter.

Putting the "U" in Unforgettable,
    The Universe


Happy Friday.x

Christmas in Prague

I was somewhere in Eastern Europe the day my childhood pet, an untrained, completely out of control Dalmatian named Ringer died. Ringer was my humble yet attention-starved servant from the day she arrived unexpectedly when I was thirteen and remained my charge until I moved on to greener pastures (or faster lanes) in my early twenties.

It was Christmas and bitterly cold as you would imagine Eastern Europe to be this time of year. I was homesick and the phone call home cost a lot (even with the advantageous exchange rate) but no price was too high for me. I was sure it would make me feel better to speak to someone back home. I longed for familiarity in the form of fuzzy navels served in plastic red cups and mashed potatoes made with condensed milk; but the bad news was blunt with the completely opposite effect.

So, I spent the rest of that Christmas day with a friend in an expat bar drinking Czech beer, playing pool and getting high with three Dutch guys who did not speak much English while It's a Wonderful Life played on all the small TVs in the back drop. It was the first (not last) time that I felt I may have ventured too far away from home to ever truly go back.

Call me Ishmael and other reasons I love reading

I started a new book today. First line: "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."

I can sit with my coffee obsessing about a sentence like this for days, and, well, I guess I will.

I am in awe of the way the greats such as Proust, Dickens, Joyce, Chekov, Fitzgerald, Bronte and, of course, my beloved Hemingway could arrange only a few words that disrupted societies, created world-changing outcries of emotions and, on a smaller scale, send a lonely aspiring writer into a spiral of daydreams that linger indefinitely...all this decades after their graves have grown cold.

My Friend's City

Chicago will forever remind me of you. I can still see your eyes lighting up like a child as the city backdrop seemed to embrace you when you proclaimed, "Welcome to my city!" (with an emphasis on the my!)

America was not your birthplace and, truth be told, Chicago could more accurately be deemed my city considering I grew up only a short drive from the place; nonetheless I was totally convinced. As you walked your awkward walk down the sidewalks, leading the way to all your favorite spots and then made yourself at home ordering expensive bottles of white wine at upscale restaurants for lunch, it felt to me as if this truly was a city that belonged only to you.

We followed your lead through the sculpture park by the pier and sat with coffees, people and dog watching by the lake with the locals. In the evenings, we enjoyed Gallo al Vino on the Italian side of town and the three of us were comrades and partners in crime. In Chicago and out, we had a surrogate family feeling toward each other. We were the best of friends.

It's been years since an icy road in a far away place took you away from your wife and friends. Today I was thinking of Chicago which always makes me think of you. I know I am not the only one.

Nelly, I am Heathcliff — he's always, always in my mind — not as a pleasure,
any more than I am always a pleasure to myself —
but as my own being...

Freedom's Just Another Word

In the light of the day the attraction lost more and more of its luster as they grew further apart. In hindsight, it should have been apparent that the feeling was mutual but it had been a long week.

The air began to grow heavy as they walked. Heavy in the way that only takes place in the deep south in late summer when a storm is on its way. They walked aimlessly through the Quarter peering in the windows of voodoo shops and gazing at knick-knack stands. As the thunder began, the sky simultaneously opened up.

The nearest place for cover was a tiny bar with a battered sign above the door that read The Huddle Inn. They burst inside not dry enough to say they just missed the storm. The tiny room (estimated capacity 20 or less) was filled with locals that stared at the two young, wet outsiders.

A seat at the bar seemed the obvious place to gravitate. He ordered two beers that neither of them were sure they could stomach. It had, after all, been a long week. Surprisingly, or maybe not, the cold draft beer was just what they needed to clear the air. As they ordered their second round, the connection between them returned. Maybe it was because they had an us-against-them feeling in the tiny bar or maybe the incredible forces of nature outside drew them closer to each other the way storms can do or maybe it was the alcohol taking hold of their delusions; but for any reason or perhaps all, the inexplicable undercurrent that kept them coming back ran through their veins once again.

She walked away from him without saying where she was going. He watched always a little on edge, wondering what she might do next. She moved toward a small jukebox, trying to look unaffected by the eyes upon her but he knew better. As she stood leaning over the jukebox, he admired her long legs and a felt a twinge of jealousy as her skirt hiked up showing all the regulars a hint of what was still his but not for long. Every eye was definitely now on her; surely that was her goal.

As soon as the quarter fell in, Janice's voice came out like a vibration to his soul. She walked back to him never losing his gaze. They danced in the center of the room, slow and off beat; two young, awkward, rain-soaked bodies swaying to the sounds of Me and Bobby McGee. Time seemed to stand still. After the rain let up, they headed to the airport to catch their flight.

Things were never the same after that trip. New Orleans is a powerful place; it can often change everything. Shortly after returning home she broke off their relationship for vague reasons that became clear months later. But that day after that week filled with experiences that the two of them will surely never forget, time stood still and freedom did not seem to matter.

someday again

Someday again we'll run free
We'll sit by the fire, drinking wine and sing off key as they play guitar
I will travel with you and make a fight over things that don't matter
You will laugh and make a plan when things go wrong
You'll call me those nonsensical names like petal and peanut and find a sense of awe in my creative talents
I will wait while you ride motorcycles up big hills
We'll be the life of the party and everyone will love our dumb jokes
Everyday we'll have a plan for saying goodbye to the sun
Someday again we'll run free
While we will wait desperately for the day they return to us for a fleeting visit.

Bright Eyes "First Day Of My Life"

The Break Up

With words typically reserved for ending a short-lived, romantic endeavor, my father broke up with me. I was ten years old. I’ve never forgotten his exact quote, “I think it would be better for everyone if we didn’t see each other anymore.”

Perhaps he expounded by saying things like, “it’s not you, it’s me,” or “I only think of you as a friend,” or “it was fun while it lasted.” I don’t recall any of those statements, but I will never forget the aforementioned rejection.

My stepmother, Bobby, a diminutive for Roberta, rode with him to the break-up meeting. They drove the quintessential 1970’s vehicle (this did not take place in that decade), a station wagon with wood paneling on the sides. The inside was always in a state of perfect squalor. It was their weekend to pick my older sister and me up for a visitation that , truth be told none of us looked forward to.

Bobby and my father had been married for about 2 years. They did not invite us to their wedding; a fact which did not offend me as much at the time as one might think. At my age, I did not know anything about proper etiquette. After the wedding, we began spending weekends at Bobby’s trailer in Illinois instead of at my dad’s apartment in Missouri, near where I grew up. It was a long drive and the trailer living conditions were disturbing even to a shell-shocked kid like me who knew nothing about etiquette.

We typically went to their house every other weekend, alternating holidays and one god-awful month during the summer. I say this typically happened because every so often there would be some kind of scheduling conflict which would erupt into screaming and cursing matches, ultimately ending with police officers at our door and late night trips to my grandmother’s house to hide away.

Bobby made me feel uneasy. She always reeked of cigarettes and I got the impression that she did not bathe often. Her hair was greasy and her clothes were never stylish like I considered my mother’s to be. Sometimes she would be extremely affectionate to me; which was awkward because we didn’t have that kind of relationship at all. To add to the discomfort, I never knew when her “nice” mood would sour and transform into loud and often violent exchanges with my father because she believed that he “favored” my sister and me over her six children from her previous marriage. Yes, I said six.

Eventually, they moved back to Missouri and into a "normal" house. I preferred the house to the trailer for all the obvious reasons. The trailer park was filled scary and strange people and space was an issue with six children, two adults and the occasional two visitors added to the mix. The house, however, was no picnic. There was always dirty laundry and toys piled as high as the eye could see in the kids’ bedrooms and the bathrooms were filthy. I often waited the whole weekend to get home to shower.

On this occasion, they arrived on an early Friday evening to pick us up after a particularly hairy confrontation had transpired between the ex’s regarding where we were to spend our Easter Holiday. Although it was my dad’s holiday, my sister and I expressed preference to spend our time off school at my mom’s brother’s house with a favorite cousin. When negotiations between estranged mother and father started; the arguments without fail soon ensued. The uncle lived six hours away and after the phone was slammed down on its receiver one final time, we went anyway.

On that spring evening, Dad arrived right on time to retrieve us for our bi-monthly weekend. My sister and I, poorly equipped to handle this awkward situation, got into his car and acted as if nothing had transpired during the Easter holiday. There was extreme tension in the car as we drove to the park across the street from my house. Strangely, we did not immediately question this maneuver and demand to know what why we weren’t on the road to their house for our weekend visit. Like small robots we got out of the car and sat on a bench nearest to the parking lot. Bobby and my father faced us in a unified-front sort of way. That’s when they broke it to us gently. I don’t recall either of us saying anything. Perhaps we were stunned. I, personally, know that I felt something near to relief and shortly afterward, guilt about that feeling.

I wish my memory was sharper to recall how a ten year old girl got out of her father’s car after hearing this news and walked back into her house to explain the “break up” scenario to her mother. Unfortunately, the only thing I can remember is my mother telling me that, “perhaps this is for the best.” I never saw my father again.

Smart Guys

I’ve always hated having a boyfriend that was smarter than me. Yes, it was appreciated that he turned me on to the New Yorker Magazine and the stolen moment that took place in the back of the university library after reading the obscure award-winning lesbian short story will forever be hard to replicate; but at most times it was simply tedious. I was the literary, intellectual type of my family and a near genius amongst my jockey, slacker friends; so it was not comfortable for someone to be stealing my geeky thunder.

Again, I have to admit I enjoyed how the non-punk trench coat and the four syllable words even made me seem normal and main stream (no small task) and I’ll be eternally grateful for the introduction to and start of my obsession with all things Norman Mailer; however, I was never able to shake the feeling that it was only a matter of moments before I would be exposed as the average thinker that I truly am (in comparison at least).

The times when I caught the subtle eye roll from his pseudo-diplomat European friends were when I truly knew I was out of my league. Oops, sorry was I being “so American” again? I wanted to implode each time the history lesson regarding the author of the gothic novel I was reading began and could not suffer through another political discussion that was over my head and left me googling things that I did not understand. He didn’t even like sports.

Going through college with someone like this was infuriating. I studied diligently while he planned picnics for us at the park with white wine and feta cheese, shopped for Burberry scarves (for himself), emailed elaborately creative notes to his contacts spread out around the world and read short story collections. He did better on the exams.

All was confirmed the time that I found his journal laying out in his dorm. This one was actually written in, not lying empty, out for show like mine. I could go no further in the relationship when I, without permission of course, read about the depth of the love that his friend at Rutgers shared with his girlfriend who was studying at the Sorbonne and how it was just so much more long term than what he shared with me. I was a mere sub par intellectual pit stop on the way to a successful career and expensive yet minimalist abode in Northern California or Brussels or somewhere equally as elite with a woman who would be a much better mental match for him. No, he didn’t write the last part but I am sure it was implied.