Going, Going, Gone

I've moved! Find me here: www.justjoywriting.wordpress.com.

Change Is Inevitable

They say all good things must come to an end. I happen to believe that all good things deserve the chance to become even better things, which is why I'M MOVIING! Or at least my blog is.

Click this link

http://www.justjoywriting.wordpress.com/

to visit the new blog. Those of you who have signed on as followers here can still do so on the new blog as well (and please please do; it really means a lot to me). If you follow through Facebook, I'll be posting the link to the new blog there through my status updates. I have some new ideas for things I want to do, and I'm looking forward to seeing how things turn out.

Drive-Thru Confessional

As busy people with self-imposed hectic schedules, we love a good drive-thru. Using the drive-thru allows us the necessity of ordering, consuming, and cleaning up without ever having to park or exit the car. We don't even have to dress for the occasion. Get it and go; it's the American way. Thank you, McDonalds.

But during that brief moment of respite in which we allow ourselves some measure of nourishment (be it ever greasy, fried, or otherwise harmful to our overall health), I can't help wondering what kind of consideration we give to those whose voices float out to us garbled and mostly incoherent from the screen reading "Order Here."

Sure, we don't mind telling them which value meal or combo pack we're going to have for dinner. We don't mind telling them we want no onions or that we want to supersize it. But what happens after they take our order? What happens when we think they've gone? What kind of information are those disembodied voices privy to?

We always assume that as soon as they take our order they are gone, and we don't necessarily consciously make the connection between the voice in the box and the person at the window. Do they hear us berating other drive-thru patrons for ordering too much? Do they hear us venting about bad bosses, failed friendships, luke-warm marriages? Do they hear us discussing health problems or politics? Religion and the weather?

Do they ever hear things that make them want to spit in our order?

We take for granted that the drive-thru affords us some element of privacy. Our cars are safety zones, impenetrable despite our daily grind. We think our cars preclude us from interaction with what's outside them (maybe this is why people so diligently pick their noses while they drive, but that is a whole other blog). What we fail to think about is the implicit contract of communication that we enter into as soon as we respond to the question of whether we want fries with that. By inviting that voice into the vehicle, we are, whether we intend to or not, allowing that drive-thru worker into that particular moment of our lives. No wonder so many of them seem so disgruntled.

Anything I Can Do You Can Do Weirder

Privacy is not something guaranteed to us, but it once was a general consideration we liked to make for each other. The world was once a place in which we didn't know everything about everyone, and we didn't need to know everything about everyone. At what point this changed I couldn't begin to guess, but now it seems that the opposite is true: we don't just need to know everything about everyone, we feel entitled to know. And a big thanks to the various social networks, as well as reality tv networks like Bravo, for allowing us these all-too-familiar glimpses into each other's lives.

Don't get me wrong: I love reality shows (inasmuch as they are reality) and Facebook just as much as the next person. However, I am also one of those (few it seems) people who believe in censoring myself. My life is not what I would call fascinating enough to chronicle every bit of it for perusal via hourly status updates, and Facebook will never encapsulate who I really am. But I do indulge in the connectivity, and I have been known to watch a Real Housewives show or two. How could I help myself? Everyone else was doing it.

And although many reality television shows are innocuous (hardly bringing more than bad role models and media-driven substantiation of stereotypes to the table), it's shows like Hoarders and My Strange Addiction that seem to warrant a closer look at why we want to know what we want to know. What is the attraction? Why do we get sucked into these shows that chronicle people with psychological problems? Certainly there are people suffering from these afflictions who never make it onto tv. Do we care about those people? Do we even notice them in real life?

I can't help wondering if we aren't mesmerized by these shows because they make us feel better about ourselves. We see these people grappling with issues like eating couch cushions or collecting hair from shower drains, and it makes us feel a little bit better about our own idiosyncrasies. We see the hoarders or the messiest house in America, and it makes us not feel so guilty that the supper dishes are still soaking in the sink or that the dusting has been neglected for another week.

It's been suggested that in order to captivate an audience with the attention span of 140 characters, the action has to be extreme. There is no room for middle ground. We don't want to see shows about average people. We want to see the extreme versions of ourselves, what we would turn into if we just let go. Is this why we feel justified as spectators? Are we just trying to keep ourselves in check, or have we in our quest for never-ending connectivity convinced ourselves that this is entertainment?

Re-runs and Re-reads

Growing up my family used to watch the same movies over and over until we were so well versed that we no longer needed the actual film to enjoy the experience of watching it. We didn't branch out very frequently (to quote from our repertoire: "We don't normally go where we ain't already been."), but occasionally we would adopt something new. Sometimes we chose well; other times we'd revert to the standards. They made us laugh. They made us cringe. They were comfortable.

Books affect me the same way. Branching out is always fun, and trying new authors feels like living dangerously sometimes. But there are certain standards, certain stories, certain authors that remain constant. These books I've read over and over again, some of them so many times I can quote whole sections. The characters have become a part of my reality, so real to me that it's difficult to conceive of them the same way every time I open the pages. At some point, I reason, they should have learned from these mistakes. They should know as well as I what is going to happen in the next chapter because we've all been there before. Except we haven't. The characters never age, although my perception of their actions and my ability to relate to them does. I love them for who they are to me and what I feel like they could be if they were only given a few more pages. The possibilities are endless.

The scenery in these books and the action feels a bit like watching a familiar film. I know the cracks in the sidewalks and how the paint peels from the porch railing. I know on what side of the castle the moss grows because I've seen it in my mind so many times. It's just as real to me as anything I see on screen.

I look to the characters for consistency. People, real people, are slippery, and it's very easy to put trust in the wrong place. We don't want to think that we are the only ones who have our best interests at heart, but so often that seems to be the case. But the people in the books remain the same through every read. They don't stab the reader in the back. They don't modify their behavior to save themselves at the reader's expense. I always know where I stand with them, even if it's not where I want to be. I respect them for this. I always will. They have become a comfort zone, a place to land when I'm looking for something predictable, something with order, a welcome distraction when I feel like I'm losing control.

A Prompt Writing

It was a strange engagement. But she had her own reasons for wanting to go through with it. And so did he.

She waited for him at that bar on Third Street. A friend of a friend had referred him. She had been assured that he could get the job done. They'd never met before, but somehow she knew she'd know him when she saw him. The bar smelled of smoke and rain and made her feel claustrophobic, and if the flourescent light above the bar kept flickering, she'd lose her nerve.

"Another?" asked the ever-attentive bartender. He wasn't used to seeing women in his bar; he couldn't even remember the last time he'd served one. She was a newcomer to the place and as such was worthy of suspicion. Her appearance did nothing to bolster his confidence in her. Her wet hair was matted to her forehead, and her mascara had run just enough to make the dark circles under her eyes noticeable.

"No thanks," she said. "I'm drivin'." Eventually I will be anyway, she thought.

She took a long drag on a bummed cigarette. She'd picked a poor day to quit. She could quit tomorrow. All this would be over tomorrow. Today was a day for a smoke. She finished sipping the gin and tonic she'd ordered over an hour ago. She shouldn't even be here. She should have left half an hour ago. Where the hell was he? She didn't have all evening to wait. She did have a schedule to keep, places to be, things to do...

She was seething by the time the bell atop the door jingled.

Funny, she thought. Seems kinda outta place in a joint like this.

"Did someone call a tow truck?"

"It's about time you showed up," she sighed. "I've been waiting forever. My car won't start, and I have an engagement at a gallery in ten minutes. You know I'll never make it in time to give my opening speech, and even if I did I couldn't give it looking like this. Do you know what kind of important clients..."

"Will you be payin' with cash or credit?" he interuppted. "If it's credit, I'm gonna need to see some ID."

*This story is based on a prompt (at the top in bold) provided by the Writers Digest website circa January 28, 2011. I can't be serious all the time. : )

If the Cliché Fits...

I'm no advocate for stereotypes in general. Among other reasons, I find them to be suspicious and unreliable. But sometimes I can't help indulging, if only briefly, in some admission that there are some that are based in truth. Some, mind you, not all and not many.

Take, for example, Hal. Hal is travelling from Ohio. He is a middle-aged businessman who enjoys a good game of golf, particularly if the company is paying for it. He is tall, but he allows himself to hunch over, evidence of what might long ago have been some vague insecurity about his height. No signs of that insecurity now. Hal has made something of himself. He needs to prove himself to no one. The clubs in his bag are proof enough.

Today is the perfect day to head to the course. It's sunny, and there doesn't seem to be much wind. To hell with the golf shoes: Hal is on vacation. Flip-flops will suffice. He practices his swing a few times, all the while calling it a futile exercise; Hal's swing is top-notch. He wheels the golf cart to the first tee and lights his stogy. Oh yes, it's going to be a good game.

We managed to somehow make it to the first tee at the same time and were thus paired with Hal for the eighteen-hole duration. Throughout the game, we learn nothing of Hal's personal life. Is he married? Does he have children? Grandchildren? What kind of business is he in? All we know is what we see.

Somehow my mind wanders to every image I've ever conjured of the traveling businessman making the most of his time on the golf course, but all I can see is Hal. I've seen him on television sitcoms all my life. He's in movies and books. He's in commercials. Hal is that guy. In my mind's eye, Hal has a modest home in the suburbs. He has modest cars and a modest wife. Occasionally he knocks back one too many beers at the July 4 barbecue, but since that's only once a year, it's no big thing. Hal has a 401K with his company, and he's hoping to hold onto the job for just a few more years when he can (finally) retire. He has children who should be finished with college by now and almost are. When they're finished, he and the missus will look further into buying that vacation home. Whether Hal has any of these things is irrelevant. This is what my media experience has taught me about guys like Hal.

If I thought this stereotype was dangerous, I would never have allotted the situation so much attention. But Hal's situation has me thinking: where do the stereotypes come from? Would Hal be offended if he knew I thought of him this way? Would he be amused? Does his life follow this outline at all? Without really realizing what I was doing, I created a tidy life story for Hal, and in reality I know nothing about him. Why do I do this? Is it wrong? How do I stop?

*Disclaimer: I don't manufacture life stories for everyone I meet. I think poor Hal was simply typecast based on a fleeting moment of boredom. Forgive me if this was wrong.

Life Notes

Growing up I never liked the idea of PE in school. Don't get me wrong; I see nothing wrong with being healthy and active. But something about being forced to change clothes with other people and then being made to sweat with them hit a sour note with me. Forced merriment has never been my thing. Which is why, so often, I would have my mother write notes excusing me from PE.

At the time I thought it was clever. I knew for certain that my mother genuinely thought I didn't need to do PE because of a headache, a cough, a hurt ankle, you name it. If all the things that got me out of PE had actually happened to me, I would say it was a near miracle I made it out of grade school. I realize now that she knew the whole time. Kudos to mom for writing the notes anyway.

The impulse to "sit out" doesn't seem to leave us just because we get older. Sure, there is no longer someone making us change clothes in front of other people in rooms where only a fool would walk around barefoot. But we still get the urge to cry injury every now and then just for the sake of catching our breath. Wouldn't it be great if we could get a parent's note for a day of life?

I imagine it would say something like, "Dear , Please excuse from life today. She has a headache. Signed, A Parent." At this point we now have free license to sit back and watch as everyone else continues to run laps. Round and round the gym they go while we sit back and cool it on the bleachers. It would be a temporary reprieve, as almost all gym notes were. But it would allow us to sit and gain perspective on things so that when we do rejoin our peers the next day we will realize that what we are doing (in most cases) is in fact running around in circles.

The problem here is that all good things will come to an end, and while most of us would use the privilege of the life note responsibly, there would be those that would take advantage and ruin it for everyone else. At some point life itself would start limiting excuses to doctors' notes. At that point (I don't know about you), I would rather run the laps.

Is Nothing Sacred?

They say there's nothing new under the sun. But they say a lot of things, some true and some not so true. (What do they know? Who are they anyway?) Perhaps, though, they're onto something.

In a world in which we have so many avenues to communicate with each other in order to generate new ideas, where have all the original thoughts gone?

Several decades ago American muscle cars prowled the streets as guys of all ages panted after them. But all good things must come to an end, and so the muscle car slipped into our collective memory, a rusting piece of nostalgia. Until recently, that's where it stayed. Apparently now is the time for resurgence of these particular cultural relics, albeit remodeled shadows of what they were before. Never mind their sounds, emissions, or the fact that they've now morphed into semi-family-friendly cars; we have managed to clumsily resurrect that which was probably best left untouched and untarnished. Where are they with a good cliche when you need them?

We do this with movies (Footloose), cartoons (Scooby Doo), and songs (for an example, select any newer pop song containing a remix of an early 90s hit in the background). We also do it with written ideas.

Writers are inspired by other writers, and we begin to generate what we perceive to be original thought. That's until we consult the original only to find that we have, in fact, produced a copy, a retelling of another author's thoughts. And who knows: maybe that author copied another author ad infinitum. As writers we walk a thin line between original thought and cheap imitation. We create fascinating dialogue via social networking and coffee house conversations, yet somehow we don't conceive anything new independently. Just when we think we're onto something, we find that someone else has beat us to the punch. Am I saying there is no original thought going on? No. Do I believe that there are original people generating original ideas? Of course. But I also believe that somewhere along the way we get lazy, and it becomes easier to "create" that which has already been created.

Is nothing sacred anymore? Can we not seek inspiration from others in art, music, writing, design, and entertainment without churning out mediocre counterfeits of our own? They also say history repeats itself. A dangerous thought, this. Creativity beware.

Good Luck

As a kid I had an eye for four-leaf clovers. I never had to hunt for them as other people did. It fascinated my mother, and I never lost the knack for it. Every time I come home, I find one.

Until now.

Every time I think I've spotted the elusive clover, it turns out to be a dud (no offense to the run-of-the-mill three-leaf clover). My best efforts are now thwarted by my own excitement and anticipation. Then it occured to me: what if they're all gone? What if we've picked them all?

We all know that when the clover is plucked, it dies. Maybe not immediately, but the end is certainly inevitable. We have no evidence (at least I don't) that another necessarily grows back in its place. Maybe that's the problem with the world today: we've picked all the good luck already, and there's nothing growing back in its place.

With that in mind, if and when I stumble upon another lucky clover, I will leave it firmly attached to its roots. I will marvel over it briefly, smiling and thinking to myself, "Oh yeah, I've still got it."

The Green Contradiction

Every Friday morning the recycling collection truck rolls through the neighborhood. I watch as it mechanically and methodically picks up the cans of people's good intentions and empties them into its belly. I can only do this for so long, though. At one point, it gets too far away, and the back of the truck is no longer visible through the thick cloud of emissions pouring from the exhaust.

It's That Time of Year

It's amazing what a little rain can do. Walking out the door this morning it finally feels like summer. The air is thick with moisture craving somewhere to go, and the breeze is just swift enough to keep it from being sticky. Days like today make me remember why I love summertime.

I leave the house expecting to smell sunscreen, and there is the inevitable smell of cheap plastic floatation devices to be used at the pool. These smells, coupled with the smell of fresh cut grass and gasoline or charcoal and burned hotdogs, are timeless, as are the sounds of sprinklers watering ever-parched backyards and the lawnmowers being used to cut them or the twinkle of lightning bugs as they try to evade capture at dusk. I know them; my parents know them. The kids down the street from me know them. Some things just never get old.

Summer mornings are my favorites. The day holds so much possibility. On cool summer mornings when the dew is still on the grass, the world is mine. I can do anything or nothing, and the air seems charged with anticipation. Generally by mid-day that sense of optimism has given way to that sun-tired feeling that unfailingly accompanies high temperatures. But at least I had it, and at least I know I'll have it again the next day.

Whether I actually smell the smells or see the sights is irrelevant. I never really think about how etched into my memory they are until this day comes every year, and their possibility is enough for me. Today, for me, summer has actually begun.

Things I've Learned While...

In the mountains on a weekend getaway:

Upon venturing into the mountains in an attempt to escape the desert, a number of things became brutally obvious...

1. Altitude sickness is a very real thing. It is inescapable unless you are completely accustomed to the terrain. It has the ability to make a person feel hungover without the benefit of having been drunk the night before. Staying hydrated will help, but the only thing that will alleviate the pain is evacuating the elevation.

2. Yellowjackets can harmonize. Sure, they buzz around being nothing but nosy. But in case you miss them, they will suspend themselves in front of your face and recruit some of their friends. If you still fail to notice, they will sync the sound of their buzzing in a last-stitch effort to grab your attention. And if at that point you have still failed to notice, well, benadryl will probably be in order.

3. All manner of wildlife (deer, coyotes, squirrels, woodpeckers, etc.) coexists on a golf course in the mountains. They are not afraid of you. At all.

4. When you're planning a relaxing weekend getaway in a remote mountain location, it is probably a good idea to ensure that your reservations do not fall on the same weekend as the annual Ruff Riders bike rally.

5. You should also avoid scheduling the same getaway when Bret Michaels is in town.

6. If it happens that you inadvertently make your reservations when both Bret Michaels and the Ruff Riders are in town, park yourself in a well-lit area, and watch the crowd. It's an interesting one and will keep you thoroughly entertained for an indefinite period of time. Just don't let them catch you looking.

In some ways I feel so much wiser for having experienced this weekend, but more than anything life's ironic sense of humor has not been lost on me.

Which Came First: The Book or The Reader?

For the last couple of weeks, I've been trying to figure out what happened to my inclination to write. I feel like a part of me has checked out and taken my inspiration with it. Wherever it went, I hope it's having fun. I'm expecting a postcard any day.

Then I started thinking about my reading habits over the past few weeks, and it hit me. Like a ton of bricks.

I've always believed that there is a direct correlation between what I read and what I write; one is all but completely dependent on the other. I am not alone in this belief. In his book On Writing, Stephen King suggests, "If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time or the tools to write." I wholeheartedly concur.

Without even thinking about it, I glean ideas from what I read. Books, articles, the backs of cereal boxes all prompt me to ask questions. I don't mean to suggest that I get personally introspective because of what I read on the back of my box of Special K. But I think that when I read more, I am more perceptive. The world becomes clearer and more ambiguous at the same time. I find myself questioning more frequently that which is presented to me as fact. I get curious.

With that said, school is officially finished, and I have all the time in the world to read what I want. So here's to a summer full of good wine, good books, and good writing! I hope.

Some Things Just HaveTo Be Said

Disclaimer: While I don't normally like to get too personal in these ramblings, sometimes there's no other way to say what needs to be said. Permit me to be personal, if only this one time.

Nearly ten years ago when the planes hit the towers on September 11, I was changing the letters on the school marquee to announce the coffee house being sponsored by the drama department at my high school. I watched in confusion as the details unfolded, and I wondered what application these events would have to my own life. I cried for the families at the time not only because of the tremendous loss they suffered, but because I knew that the road they faced was a dark and unpleasant one. And one they would have to travel alone. No matter how patriotic I became or how many American flag t-shirts I purchased I would never be able to fill the void created for those families on that day. My hands were tied, and there is nothing I hate more than being powerless.

Over the next few years I watched as our nation activated its military in a way with which I was completely unfamiliar. And while it all seemed vaguely real (I had heard of people in my hometown deploying or a friend's cousin's cousin's nephew being sent overseas), it still didn't seem real that it was happening in my lifetime. My life progressed regardless of what was happening across the globe, and I never felt much connection to what was going on. I graduated from high school and moved to college, and the world kept turning for me. But one day things changed, and the whole concept of September 11 and the War on Terror wore a new face.

I fell in love with a man in a uniform, and I knew that things would never again be as easy for me as they had been. When we got married, I knew deployment was a reality I would have to face with him, and so I bound my heart to his and watched as he prepared himself the best way he knew how. We spent a year apart, and although it was stressful and difficult, painful and uncomfortable, I still consider that a small sacrifice. I know men and women who have watched their spouses deploy three, four, more times than they care to think about. A year seems pretty small in comparison to what they've given. But they keep going, spouses and soldiers alike.

It's been awhile since I've heard the name Osama bin Laden. For awhile it seemed like people had put him in the backs of their minds. Sure, his name pops up on September 11 as we commemorate those who died and those who go on living without them. But what about the other 364 days of the year? Army life became the mission of my family, whether that was before, during, or after a deployment. The reason for deployment seemed lost for awhile.

Now that the spearhead of the attacks has been effectively eliminated, I am reminded once again of what all this is for. I am reminded of the way I felt that September morning; I am reminded of how I felt watching my husband go off to war. And I am reminded of how much my life changed between the two events.

The road may not be any less difficult for those who lost someone that day. It may not be any less difficult for those who lost mothers or fathers, sons or daughters, sisters or brothers, husbands or wives on foreign soil over the past few years. But somehow I feel like I understand it a little better. And it is my hope that these families will derive a new sense of hope, a new sense of pride from the news we have today, knowing that it isn't all for nothing. Knowing that we will never forget.

Bless our troops, and bless this country. I am proud to be an American.

A Confession

When I started this blog I called it a commitment to myself. It was supposed to be something I meticulously maintained, a public expression of myself and what I like to do.

But I'm starting to realize that there are some things about myself that are inescapable. For example, I have an inability to be consistently prolific. There times in my life when I write everyday, sometimes twice a day. I write everything that pops into my head for better or for worse. Then there are times like now. These are the times when trying to write something worth reading (who am I kidding, something worth writing) seems utterly and painfully impossible. Putting my fingers to the keyboard becomes an arduous task, one that fails to bring joy in the way to which I am accustomed.

My writing life moves in cycles. They come and go without warning. I never know for sure what to expect until I sit down at the computer and find my fingers repelled by the keys. It is at that point that I know my writing is finished for awhile.

These phases never last. That is my comfort. I know that any day now I will sit down and be compelled to write. At that point I will again be able to (hopefully) entertain you with random meanderings of thought. Until then, bear with me as I wait out this cycle.

Hippity, Hoppity

Every year around this time the world goes pastel. Or at least supermarkets and drugstores across America do. We begin to see a predominance of jelly beans, and the chocolate bunnies look as though they are plotting a mutiny. That plastic grass that we use to fill children's Easter baskets seems to show up in places we would least expect it. The Easter bunny, for all intents and purposes, is unavoidable. This has me contemplating Easter eats. Every holiday has its nasty token candy. Halloween has those peanut butter (at least I think they're peanut butter) candies wrapped simply in orange or black wax paper. Valentine's Day has those little heart-shaped candies (that seem to be made from chalk) bearing sayings significantly sweeter than the candies on which they are written. And Easter has the non-descript semi-egg-shaped (or is it a jelly bean appearance they're going for?) that are supposed to be filled with cream. Or maybe it's a marshmallow filling. You know the ones. They come in cellophane wrappers, and I'm pretty sure they have no name. We hide them when we run out of brightly colored plastic eggs filled with the good candy, and we hope children don't realize just how much they have been cheated. Every year, even as an adult with no children, I find myself in possession of one of these candies. And every year I find myself hopeful that the recipe is finally right. By all appearances these candies should be delicious. They have the promising pastel color, the ergonomic shape (perfect for stuffing one's face), the suggestion of a socially acceptable sugar overload. With a "here's hoping" I take a bite, and I have yet to be satisfied with the result. I can't say that I have ever tasted plastic, I mean really tasted it, but I'm wondering if that is in fact what is used to manufacture the so-called candy coating. The "creamy" (or "marshmallowy") inside flakes into pieces, leaving an unidentifiable aftertaste and the fear that perhaps what I've just eaten is not, in fact, approved by the FDA. Perhaps there was a time when these candies were fresh. Perhaps there was a time when the only health hazard they presented was that of their sugar content. That time is not now. That time is probably not in the past decade. My hope for this Easter is that children everywhere will be allowed to stick to the chocolate bunnies and jelly beans that, in comparison with these unnamable concoctions, seem harmless enough.

A Danger Zone

In the realm of shopping experience, nothing beats a good department store. Macy's is my favorite. There's something about a department store that screams elegance and sophistication. Except when it screams danger. Most department store experiences are the same, if not similar. We walk in the doors to the smell of clothing dye and perfume spritzes and the leather of the shoes and handbags, all mingling with each other to create that distinct department store aroma. We make our way to the center of the store where the jewelry and cosmetics are located and where the floors are made of shiny white tiles that seem to glitter in under the track lighting. Oh yes. I can hold my own in a Macy's. But some department stores are different. These are what we would call the high end shopping experiences (Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue). There's something about these particular stores that is unsettling. Perhaps it's the smell of the leather handbags that cost more than most people's monthly mortgage. Perhaps it's the dye in the $200 t-shirt hanging on the sale rack. Perhaps it's the expensive perfume worn by the shoppers, who are positively dripping with huge gaudy jewelry that we know cost a fortune. There is an intense potential for danger in the form of overpriced jeans or the "free" gift with purchase, a sense that a person could easily lose track of actual value because of the allure of the store and its merchandise. Whatever the case, it is safe to say that these shopping venues offer a different kind of retail experience, one filled with lust after things we can't afford and a sense of apprehension as we quickly make our exit out of fear that we will have to pay for the privilege of browsing. These trips never prove fruitful; I leave the store feeling as though I've stolen the experience itself. I do, however, have a new appreciation for my own shopping habits. Bring on the Macy's and the Dillards!

Would You Like That Nose Job for Here or to Go?

This city is full of incompatible ideas, business combinations that just don't compute. Take, for example, the strip mall containing both a burrito vendor and a cosmetic surgery facility. I suppose to some logic this seems reasonable. Stop in for a burrito, have a tummy tuck, and be on your way. Personally, I like my guacamole with nachos, not face lifts.

The Trouble With Vacations

After the brief sojourn often referred to as spring break, I find myself simultaneously refreshed and puzzled with regards to vacation behavior. Why do we forgo our everyday sense of decorum in the name of getting away? What is it about going on vacation that makes people abandon themselves?

We vacate our lives to get away from ourselves. We go away to exotic locations and do things that our every-day selves would never conceive of doing. And we think this is good for us. But the act of vacationing is deceiving. It is replete with inherent problems that we either pretend to overlook or blatantly ignore in the process of going outside our normal selves. For example:

Problem #1: The Spending

What happens to our relationship with our wallet when we go on vacation? Somewhere between the outlet mall and the tiki bar we decide that less is more when it comes to discretion. We buy things we don't need simply because we would never buy them when we're home. That shirt that we'll only wear once? When we are back to our normal lives and back to our normal level of sanity we realize that that shirt will hang pitifully in the back of the closet, a constant reminder of the temporary insanity we experienced all in the name vacating. Those "cute" capris with the anchors embroidered on them? They somehow seem out of place in a city that contains absolutely no recreational water features. And yet we continue to spend money on these things, if only to convince ourselves that we do have the innate capability of being someone other than who we are every other day of our lives.

Problem #2: The Return to Reality

What happens when we return to reality, sunburned, exhausted, and broke? The reconciliation of the fabulous vacation we've just had with our ordinary existence is not only time consuming; it is an emotionally painful experience. We realize that not everyday can be fabulous like a vacation, but we find ourselves wondering why. Why can't we live everyday with the kind of reckless abandon we seem to conjure from within while we are away? These thoughts run through our minds when we are cleaning out the shower drain or patching the hole the dog scratched into the wall. When we are taking out the garbage or sorting the laundry. To pretend that getting back to normal feels anything less than a disappointment would be a blatant lie. And by the time we have managed to assimilate our vacation experience into our memory, it's time for another vacation again.

Any Town, USA

Apparently there are certain criteria a place must meet before it can call itself a town. One of these is the strip mall. Every town has them, and we often think of them as a blight on the community, the physical embodiment of capitalist ideals. Anything is possible in a strip mall.

Anchored on one end by a Subway and on the other by one of many cell phone carriers (generally Sprint or Cricket), the strip mall has made a reputation for itself, superseding even that of Wal-Mart. While we openly criticize the monster chain store for all but decimating small business, we seem to view the strip mall as a necessary evil. Where else can we drop off our dry-cleaning, pick up lunch, and figure out why our voicemail box has been reset without having to leave our cars more than once?

The number of strip malls a town may have is directly proportionate to its population. It's sort of like seats in the Senate: one strip mall for every X number of people. In ritzier parts of town, they may be camouflaged behind a brick exterior, but a strip mall is a strip mall. And there is something to be said for the honesty of letting the aluminum siding speak for itself.

Here, There, and Everywhere

Admittedly, I haven't seen that much of the world. Various family members in various cities, while earning me vague familiarity with those cities, have hardly earned stamps in my passport. I can claim brief interludes in their airports, but our acquaintance is only passing, a temporary sojourn. This is reality. I am not well-traveled.

So why do I feel like I am? Why do I feel like I know cities and their problems when I've never been to them?

People often claim familiarity with places based on the books they read. If you read enough books about a certain place, you begin to feel like you know it just as well as the people who call it home. Reading about these places creates the illusion of a connection, and we claim that illusion for better or for worse.

This isn't necessarily a problem. Except that it is. It's no secret that reality is often disappointing. When we go to these wonderful places with our high expectations and lofty ideals, we are, in a way, setting ourselves up for great disappointment. Cities are often dirtier in person than they are in our imaginations. Imagine that. And being in a remote location away from the "hustle and bustle of it all" can sometimes seem lonely instead of restorative.

The grass is always greener on the other side, so the saying goes. Perhaps this is why the place always seems to more appealing when presented in black and white on the pages of a book.

Day In and Day Out

People often speak of routine in terms of monotony. Routine is boring. The daily grind. It's too predictable. There's no spontaneity. I am a creature of routine.

Every morning I do the same things. I get up, have coffee, read the news. I check the DVR for shows that I might have missed because I go to bed at the same time every night. I know exactly where I'll be and what I'll be doing at almost any time of day. I like the control. Having a routine gives me the ability to live my life on my terms. I authorize any and all changes to my standard operating procedure. Except when I don't.

Funny how routine just sort of happens. I didn't make a conscious effort to plan out exactly what my days were going to be like. Routine is what happens when we are trying to figure out what to do with our daily lives. We slip into patterns of behavior that feel comfortable to us, and they become our norm without our realizing it. We don't start to notice until we feel that we've been living the same day over and over again. But if that day is by all measures a good day, why do we feel like we're doing something wrong? Where did the stigma come from?

Control. I hate to be out of it. Life takes so much of it away that I sometimes feel remiss in not reclaiming it when and where I can, even if it's just deciding when to have coffee or read the news or catch up on old television shows.

There's Just Something About a Pencil

I carry a notebook with me everywhere. It's a habit I adopted long ago that I just can't seem to break. The things I write in these books often don't make sense. No matter how hard I try I will never remember when I saw the turkey in the tree. Even more difficult will be trying to remember why I wondered if that turkey liked jazz. Maybe I was listening to jazz and sitting on the patio. Maybe I wasn't. Maybe there was no turkey at all; maybe it was just a mindless ramble.

Every now and then that happens. I am struck by a thought that seems so counterintuitive, so random that it has to be put down on paper. My favorite books to revisit are the ones that are written in pencil. A pencil is so much more forgiving than an ink pen. With ink, you cross out the mistakes you make, but they are still there. And their powerful glare still reminds me of a failed attempt at something every time I see them. A pencil allows for change. A pencil lets you change your mind when you decide that what you've written is not at all what you meant to say. The sharpening of a pencil indicates progress.

In some ways the writing I've done with a pencil reminds me more of my actual life than any other writing I've ever done. So many changes. So many times I've said things only to realize that they only made sense to me. Sometimes I feel like I'm constantly explaining myself only to re-explain myself a few brief moments later. A pencil allows for mistakes. And corrections.

After looking at old notebooks, I can't help being struck by how many things have changed since they were written, and the thought occurs to me: maybe there is nothing in life permanent enough to be written in ink.

Enjoy Your Flight

There is a certain level of trust that we expect and uphold when we board a plane. We expect that some one of the group will know what to do if we are caught choking on our peanuts. We expect that the lady in seat twenty-three A will do her very best to silence the screaming child that accompanies her. And we expect everyone on board to maintain a firm grasp on their sanity for the duration of the flight. It's paradoxical thinking. We don't expect these same behaviors of these same people when we're on the ground; in fact, more often than not we expect the exact opposite.

So why is it that just because we board the aircraft to a common destination, we expect everyone to suspend whatever moral code to which they adhere and adopt the code of the friendly skies?

We don't expect other drivers to stop and help us if we have a flat tire. We expect them to blow right by us as we frantically and frustratedly dial AAA. Why do we expect instant courtesy and respect on airplanes?

somethin too consider

we right different from what we talk this much i no to bee true, i've even saw it with my own to eyes. in this age of text messaging instant messaging and emailing we always are in such a hurry that it becomes two timely to apply the rules are grade school teachers tried so fervently to instill in us. butt what does that suggest of us what is it about our lives that make them so complicating that we ca'nt construct our writin proper?

HAPPY NATIONAL GRAMMAR DAY!

In the spirit of what has quickly become my favorite (technically) unofficial holiday, I've decided to remind myself of why I do what I do. I take consolation in the difficulty of composing that first paragraph. It took nearly thirty minutes, and it was a profoundly difficult undertaking. The final question, however, is perfectly legit and concerning. Why can we no longer be bothered with proper writing? What happened to the formally composed letter? What happened to the ability to write a draft then a second draft and finally a third? I don't want to get carried away and blame the total dissolution of concern for the mechanics of language on the word processor, but there is something disconcerting about a word processing program that thinks it's smarter than I am.

I find it disheartening that so many people seem to lack the fundamentals of English grammar. Are schools not teaching it anymore? Why have we forgotten why it's important to actually write the word you instead of typing the letter u? And why have we started using commas as breath marks, as opposed to their intended purposes?

We used to tell children to mind their ps and qs. We always make sure we dot every i and cross every t. Is it too much to ask that we put the comma in front of the coordinating conjunction? Has the task of properly placing a preposition become so arduous we can't even bother ourselves to do it anymore?

This post is full of questions to which I will probably never have answers. Maybe I'm one of the few remaining grammarians who think these things are important. Maybe grammar is a dying art. Or maybe not. (Yes, that would be me making full and glorious use of the sentence-fragment-for-emphasis rule.)

For my part I am trying to rid the world of its lack of concern for all things grammatical one student at a time. I firmly believe that being able to express your opinions and thoughts articulately on a page is a valuable skill in every arena of life. And as long as there are those of us who still believe in the importance of communicating in complete sentences, grammar will continue to wield power over the written word.

Happily Ever After...The End

The accomplishment of finishing a book is something to be savored. Finally turning the last page of a thousand-page novel somehow seems like a much greater feat than adding another book to the shelf. But what happens now?

What happens to the people, the places, the problems we were so intrinsically bound to for however many pages? Do they disappear? Do we secretly harbor them in our imaginations, sustaining them for as long as they continue to entertain us? Or do we let them dwindle with the cracking of the next book cover? And does this make us fickle readers?

Admittedly, it is sometimes easier for me to jump right into the next novel or short story without taking that contemplative moment after finishing my current literary endeavor. Not everything I read enthralls me to the point of not being able to move on from it. The residual feelings are just not that sticky. This doesn't necessarily make me a fickle reader, per se, but it does suggest a certain complacence about the characters I've just spent three hundred or so pages trying to get to know. Isn't there something realistic about that interaction?

Then there are those books that leave me bored and dissatisfied with all that come after them. The places become real to me; the characters are people I've known all my life. These are the ones with the ability to hold my imagination hostage. It becomes impossible to extricate myself from the literary reality I crave and the literal reality I live. After completing books of this caliber, I acknowledge a sense of guilt at moving on too quickly. There is a certain period of reverence that generally follows a completion like this.

Does moving on make me fickle? Of course not. It has to be done if I'm ever to make progress. But there is something discomforting, something unsettling about the attempt to move forward too quickly. Dare I suggest that it might be something akin to committing literary infidelity?

A good book should be allowed to incubate until its full meaning comes to you. A good book deserves a certain amount of respect for its accomplishment in its reader, whatever accomplishment that may be. It deserves the chance to completely evolve in our minds so that when we finally say "The End," we can mean it.

Gizmos, Gadets, and Widgets...and Their Clothes

Sometimes I feel like I am amassing my own personal arsenal of technology. I have a device for everything. I have my netbook, which is perfect for taking with me when I'm on-the-go. It almost entirely eliminates the need for any kind of journal, paper, or pen. I have my NookColor, which is great for providing reading selection when I'm out-and-about. And I have my iPhone to fill the gaps in between. Funny, though, that I rarely use my phone for actually making phone calls.

While I have come to rely on these devices more than I care to admit, I am not so blinded by their importance that I can't admit to getting (dare I say it?) bored with them sometimes. There is no inherent flaw in the devices themselves. They do nothing to provoke these feelings of ennui (ok, maybe the iPhone does occasionally). It's the constant evolution of technology that plagues me. There is always some later, greater version available than the one in my possession.

In an age when a cell phone is a smartphone, and a smartphone is a handheld computer, in the age of Xooms and Galaxies and iPads, how are we supposed to content ourselves with what we have, instead of lusting after its usurper?

Buying a new case for an old widget is like giving said widget a face-lift. It doesn't change the nature of the device. It doesn't increase its operating capacity. It doesn't update the software. And it doesn't turn an iPhone into an iPad. But it does change the way I look at the gizmo. It changes the way I want to interact with it.

Some people see these cases as mere elements of protection. They serve no other function than protecting the device from meeting an untimely end. But for those of us who oftentimes see our gizmos as accessories (I'm still enthralled with my newest MK cell phone case), the case takes on a whole new level of significance. It becomes more than a precautionary measure, but it doesn't change the identity of the device or its user. A case is simply a way to mollify our desire to maintain what we already have. This doesn't mean that updates become unmerited; there will come a time when my netbook will expire, and I will have the opportunity to once again experience the thrill of possessing a new piece of technology. But in dressing up our gizmos, gadgets, and widgets, we can extend their desirability and our tolerance of always being one step behind.

The Bed Linen Conspiracy

I am of the school of thought that suggests that our bed linens are out to get us. Before you judge, hear this:

There is no returning a set of sheets once you've taken them out of the zippy pouch in which they come. There may be nothing inherently wrong with the sheets; it may have been a purchaser error. You may have bought the wrong color, or you may have mistook a full set for a queen set. Whether this is the case or not is completely irrelevant. Once you've sprung the sheets from their confinement in the zippy pouch, they are yours. Congratulations.

If you've made this unfortunate mistake, my condolences and better luck next time.

With the sheets liberated it becomes our job to figure out what to do with them. The obvious answer is to make the bed, but if it seems to easy to be true, it probably is. We begin the arduous task of attempting to make the bed only to find that the fitted sheet is just the tiniest bit too small. We can adequately cover three of the four corners of the bed, but that last one is a doozy.

In frustration, we decide to put the set away for another day; there really wasn't anything wrong with the old sheets. So we begin the process of folding the sheets. Herein lies another problem.

Not only is the fitted sheet too small, but there is no good way to fold a fitted sheet. It's virtually impossible to fold the fitted sheet into the same compact square shape we can so easily fold the flat sheet into. Another source of frustration.

Based on the fact that the bed has remained essentially unchanged in shape for the past bajillion years, we can only assume that we will continue to suffer from these linen-induced afflictions. We have no other choice but to bite our tongues, deal with it, and just shove the whole mess under the bed (or in the closet, or in the chest of drawers...) until we are ready to brave the attempt again. I suppose that's what people have been doing for years now. It's one of those things that we have to deal with, and for most of us it never occurred to us to like it or hate it. So I am saying what I know a lot of you are thinking (whether you will admit it or not): I think my bed linens, specifically in the form of all fitted sheets, have a personal vendetta against me.

If you are one of those chosen few who can fold a fitted sheet and who knows how to make that same sheet fit the entire bed without riding up its corner, good for you. I don't want to hear from you. : )

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles...or Buses or Boats

It's no secret that the cost of air travel is increasing at what most of us would agree is an alarming rate. The cost of the tickets themselves are skyrocketing. It costs a small fortune to check a bag. And we all run the risk of becoming all too familiar with the TSA employ and his metal detecting wand. These developments have me thinking: is there another alternative to air travel that is perhaps newer, fresher, and less invasive?

There was a time in this country when people relied solely on the ability of the railroad to carry them to their farthest continental destinations. When they left the country, they traveled by boat (unless, of course, they were going to Canada). Could it be that the airlines themselves will force us back into this mode of transportation? And if they do, are we going to like it anymore than we like what we currently have?

There are efforts being made to revive the rail industry, and I am intrigued by the possibility of its comeback. There is something about the idea of rail travel that makes me nostalgic. I feel more connected with that previous generation. There is something old-fashioned and romantic about the idea of traveling by train.

I'm sure that train travel is just as riddled with potential problems and hiccups as air travel; safety is always a concern, no matter your mode of transportation. And it is entirely possible that the only reason the idea of traveling this way make me feel nostalgic is because I have never experienced locomotive foibles. Perhaps that's what is most intriguing. Maybe the only reason I am enchanted with the idea is because I don't know what a headache it really is. The possibility is the thing. I'm always curious about what I don't know.

The Peter Pan Problem

Disclaimer: I am not opposed to the occasional carefree superhappyfun day. But I am a firm believer that there is a time and a place for everything.

Generally I am not a fan of adults who behave like children all day every day. Fun is one thing; prolonged adolescence is something entirely different. Isn't it hard enough to experience it once? I hear my inner monologue incessantly complaining when I encounter those people who still think it's good fun to bounce the bouncy balls all over Wal-Mart or draw obscene pictures on the walls in the bathroom or play paper football while waiting for their food to be delivered to their table at a restaurant. Before I can stop myself, I hear the groan of exasperation escape as I say to whoever is closest, "Seriously? You haven't matured beyond all that?"

Then I snap out of it and realize that I am taking myself far too seriously.

I remember what it was like to be unencumbered by the baggage that inevitably comes with adulthood. Filled with nostalgia I contemplate what it was like when my biggest concern was which Barbie I should ask for at Christmas or what would happen if a classmate stole the pencil bearing my name from my desk. At the time, they seemed like monumental problems. Now they seem like idyllic scenarios that couldn't possibly exist.

There is a time and a place for everything, but I think a lot of us take the boundaries a little too far. Why is it that there always seems to be more time and more places for serious, adult things that only serve to bring us down? Wouldn't life be a lot more engaging if we created more time and places for the fun stuff?

There are some things about adulthood that have their perks. I can stay up as late as I want to, and if I want to have ice cream for dinner, there's no one to tell me not to. But at the end of the day I have to think about what time the alarm will sound the next morning, and the sugar in the ice cream makes it difficult to sleep. The bills don't pay themselves, and the house could use a good cleaning.

Maybe perpetual childhood isn't the answer; after all, when we're kids all we want to do is grow up, so we pretend to be older versions of ourselves. But I can't help thinking we could all do with a little more fun and a little less doom-and-gloom.

P.S. While I see the value of a good bouncy ball and I do think paper football is a good way to kill time, I do not condone obscene pictures on bathroom walls. : )

A Green Thumb Gone Bad

Every year around this time I find myself inspired to grow something. I spend at least three weekends at the nursery trying to decide which flowers to put where and what my color scheme should be. I get ahead of myself, buying potting soil and containers, and I imagine what it would be like to have a real garden in a real backyard someday. Now I actually have a backyard, and I still feel that itch. But I'm doing something I don't normally do: I am ignoring it to the utmost extent.

Because, you see, every year I invest not just my time and money but myself in growing things and having pretty flowers. But every year my efforts are thwarted by something.

In Memphis, it was the neighbors upstairs who thought it would be a good idea to dump their bleachy mop water from the balcony on the third floor. In doing so they effectively killed the flowers I had growing in the hanging boxes on my railing. One morning they were bright flowers bobbing in the wind; the next morning they were dried shrivelled twigs. I brought them back once or twice, but there's only so many times you can defy bleach, especially if you're a petunia.

Now we live in a desert, an environment conducive to growing nothing but succulents. Well, almost nothing; the rattle snakes seem to do pretty well here too. Last year I made the attempt. I bought my annual tomato plant and my flowers and potting soil. I bought fertilizer and gloves. I even made an attempt at growing beans from seeds. I wish I could say that my efforts amounted to a hill of beans, but that would be entirely too generous a way of putting it. In all honesty my efforts amounted to nothing but sunburn, sore muscles, and an outrageous water bill. The flowers died. The vegetables never had a chance. I found myself watering three times a day, and even that wasn't enough. When the first great wind storm blew through, the whole enterprise seemed to blow through with it. Again, I made the attempt to bring the flowers back; I even replaced them once. Ok, twice. But each time I was a little more disappointed than the last.

This year I can't handle it. I can't stand the thought of having my botanical efforts mocked by Mother Nature and everything else. Maybe someday I'll become the gardener I have attempted to be. I will have flower beds instead of flower pots, and my biggest concern will be making sure there are no lizards hiding under the leaves of the Lamb's Ear. For now I will have to appease my green thumb by buying flowers at the grocery store. In my experience, they last longer, and they thrive in almost any indoor environment.

That's My Bag, Baby!

Some women like shoes. Others prefer jewelry. I happen to be a bag lady. I prefer a new handbag to almost any other item of fashion.

Over the years, my affinity for handbags has, both admittedly and somewhat ashamedly, become more expensive, but I continue to search for the holy grail. Every time I get a new one I feel like I have found The Bag, the only one I will ever want. That is until next season's collection arrives on the shelves, and I find myself lusting after some newer, better version of what I already have.

So you can imagine my surprise this season when finding the perfect bag proved to be a futile effort. Apparently the bag I got for winter is the bag I've been searching for all along. This has me wondering: what happens when you find the perfect version of whatever it is you're searching for?

Perfection is supposed to be unattainable, and those of us who manage to find some version of it often find it maddening. I'm sure I will get another bag (probably sooner than I'd like to admit). But for now I am content with what I have, and I have to say the feeling is a bit unsettling.

Fashion Week officially ends tomorrow, and I promise that all posting dealing with aspects of fashion will cease. I don't think about it that much, and as I said before, I should probably leave it to those who are more adept and cutting edge than I. Once the new collections are on the racks, I solemnly promise to return to the rambling thoughts that normally pervade my page.

Identity Crisis of the Sole

Generally I like to leave the fashion blogging to my friend Bekah, who is much more adept at handling it than I am. But since it's fashion week, I am finding myself both inspired and confounded.

I find myself overwhelmed by certain aspects of fashion. I am particularly perplexed by certain types of footwear, specifically those shoes that seem to be involved in a sort of identity crisis. These are the shoes that are trying desperately to appear as though they are something other than what they really are.

For example, I find it interesting and oddly disheartening that Coach makes a sneaker. These shoes have all the looks of an average athletic shoe. They have laces and rubber soles, and they are very obviously not to be worn with anything aside from, perhaps, a velour hoody and matching pants. They have a white rubber topped toe, which I can only assume is a nod to their Converse predecessors.

But these sad little shoes cannot be worn for any sort of sporty purpose. They have no arch support; they have no support for the ankles. There's no cushioned bounce if you attempt to run in them. A shoe with an identity crisis.

Similarly, I find myself equally annoyed at newer trends in orthopedic footwear. I see these shoes in stores like The Walking Company, and all I can ever seem to do is shake my head and walk away. I understand that there is a need for orthopedic footwear; a girl has to do what a girl has to do. However, current stylings make use of patent leather and suede. They have bows and clever silhouettes. The unsuccessful nature of this shoe stems from its sole. While patent leather can cover a multitude of footwear faus paux, it's very difficult to camouflage the non-existent heel or the heel that is so clunky the shoe looks like a work boot or the toe that is abnormally rounded. Another shoe with an identity crisis.

I would be lying if I said I didn't own shoes that fall into both categories. Again, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. I have nothing against shoes suffering from this affliction. In fact, I think it's rather liberating in a way. Our shoes suffer from the same (very human) conundrums that their wearers often struggle with.

A Silly Note...

Feelings change. This we know for a fact. And we don't always get to feel how we want to. Another fact. I would argue that every person has at least one favorite way to feel. Obviously the goal is to be happy, but I want my favorite feelings to go farther than that.

Personally I like to feel splendiferous and fantabulous. Not only are these positive feelings, but the words themselves inspire positivity in others (I dare you to say them out loud wherever you are right now.). Either they enjoy the words themselves, or they feel the same way I do. Or they are relieved because they think they've finally met someone who's crazier than they are, which also leads to a positive reaction. I'll take that.

I don't think this is necessarily something everyone thinks about. For some people it's enough to just be happy. But I feel like life is about more than that. And sometimes happy doesn't even begin to cover it.

Why Here?

I didn't choose to live here. And if I had the chance to choose, I probably wouldn't choose this place. I have no particular averison to El Paso, but it's not my ideal home. There are other places in this country that I would much rather be. This has me thinking: why do we settle where we do?

I know for most people it has to do with proximity: proximity to home, proximity to family, proximity to the only worlds we know. But for others who don't limit themselves, what is the motivation to choose one place over another?

In truth most of us could live anywhere in the country (or outside of it for that matter) that we wanted. What makes one choice better than another? What makes that man choose the house in the country surrounded by hills where the nearest neighbor is not really near at all? What makes that family choose that little spot in the desert where there is nothing visible except the road leading away?

Some things I understand. I know why people choose to live in New York City. I know why they like LA. What I don't understand is why we gravitate towards these out-of-the-way places that don't make sense. Why would someone choose to live in the desert where there is no anything: phone, cell phone, Internet, cable etc.? The same could be said of the hill country. Some places seem like they would be more miserable than anything else. So why do we keep ourselves trapped there?

I know there are a lot of rhetorical questions here, and I'm not sure I'm really even looking for answers. I don't know that any explanation will adequately explain why we choose to limit ourselves when it comes to a homestead.

Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again." What if you didn't want to?

It's Counterintuitive...

Snow on the desert is something to see. It doesn't belong there. It doesn't blend with anything. And it seems such a shame to get it dirty that way.

It does brighten things up a bit. Everything is so brown and dead and lifeless in winter, especially in places that are brown, dead, and seemingly lifeless all the time. At least that's how it seems. But when snow falls on a desert, we are able to realize that it is fuller of life than we might like to think.

There are tracks all over the place, and none of them look the same. Some of them are coming toward the road, but most are moving away from it. I wonder if the animals who made them arrived at civilization and decided it was a mistake. I can't say I blame them.

Aside from the occasional animal wanderer, there is nothing in the desert to disturb the sparkling white blanket that was dumped there by a weather system that seemed to have lost its sense of direction. It remains pristine until the sun finally realizes that it has a job to do and melts it away.

Snow is nice; they wouldn't call it a winter wonderland if it wasn't. But it just doesn't belong in a desert.

Sitting in Judgement...of Me

I hold myself to standards that, thankfully, I do not apply to anyone else. At least when I let myself down, I'm the only one I can be angry with.

Why do we expect so much from ourselves and so little from others?

In the recent crisis that has afflicted El Paso and completely crippled the city, I find myself wondering how it came to be that I find myself questioning whether I should pick up the slack for others in the city who don't feel the need to obey restrictions on water and other utilities. It throws into sharp perspective how self-centered and entitled I can be sometimes.

I am bothered by the fact that we are being told to consume as little water as possible (to the point of not bathing ourselves). I don't like that I am paying for bottled water when I have a perfectly fine filter in the refrigerator. I don't like that there is an eminent possibility that we may, as a city, run out of water.

Then I remember that I have a warm home to sleep in. I have a nice, soft bed to crawl into at night. I have food to eat and clean clothes to wear. My pipes didn't burst, and my ceiling didn't cave in. I have a car to take me where I need to go to acquire the things that will make this whole experience easier. And don't these things count for something?

Realizing this question has led me to ponder myself as a person and whether or not I am as good and decent as I like to think I am. This is no attempt to garner self-worth from external sources of validation. I'm just wondering when it is going to be enough. Will I ever be happy with what I have? The very fact that I have to ask this question of myself is painfully telling. I know what the answer should be. I know what I would like for my answer to be. I also know what my reality has become, and I am ashamed.

Funnily enough, I don't hold other people to the same standards. You can want what you want when you want it and get it and go on wanting as much as you like, and I think no less of people who live that way. I almost expect it of everyone else, and I wonder if they expect the same thing of me. The difference is that there comes a moment when I stop and chastise myself for thinking and behaving the way I do. Then I continue doing what I've always done. I wonder how many of us think these things and never say anything about them. We just go on living the way we want to fulfill what we believe to be everyone else's expectations.

Is this how life really is? Is this how it's going to be?

I'm Having a White Nightmare

Bing Crosby dreamt of a white Christmas. I must admit that I'm guilty of this myself. Snow on Christmas completes the holiday. It's that elusive seasonal element that makes the day (which is normally pretty awesome to begin with) seem complete.

Snow is beautiful. When it's freshly fallen, it looks clean and soft. It muffles the noises that might otherwise become distractions to us. It makes things quiet. I have always thought snow was beautiful.

But what about after Christmas?

After traveling through the wintry weather, I understand why some people abhor the stuff. While it may seem innocent (and it's color might deceive us into thinking that it is), snow is nothing but a white nightmare (in some parts of the world, white is the color associated with insanity). It's nice enough when you are at home with electricity and heat and water. Then I suppose it's possible that snow might be enjoyable. But if you're stranded on an interstate or your electricity and heat are rendered useless by the weather or if you live in a place that is completely incapable of handling such weather-related extremities, the snow becomes unbearably oppressive.

I admit that I haven't seen as much of it as some people have this winter. And I am the first to admit that those are people of whom I am not jealous. But I don't think I would lament of not seeing this white affliction again any time soon. Luckily, I have the entire summer to recoup my appreciation for winter weather.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-From "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
by Robert Frost

Refried Reality

I live in a place where it is impossible to find diet ginger ale at the neighborhood Wal-Mart. But you can purchase refried beans in a sqeezable pouch from two different aisle end-caps.

Lamentations on the State of Shopping Carts

Putting a blinker on a car was a brilliant idea. Truly a stroke of genius to include a flashing light indicating which direction a driver was going to turn. I fervently believe this same concept should apply to shopping carts.

Shopping carts should in fact be equipped with their own blinkers. This would eliminate that awkward moment when trying to determine which cart is going to go down which side of the grocery aisle. Instead of looking at the other cart driver with that sorry-about-this-whole-ridiculous-cart-situation look, we could flip a switch, and the other driver could react accordingly.

I have visions of a well-ordered grocery store with no emergency clean-ups in aisle four. I have visions of store patrons smiling as they happily collect their eggs and milk without incident. It could all be reality with the shopping cart blinker.

In a perfect world.

The reality is that people don't use the blinkers on their cars. In fact, I am inclined to think that people think a blinker is an option. You have to request it special; otherwise they don't put one in there. I am quite certain that people's inability to use a cart blinker would far surpass their inability to use one in an automobile, but I can dare to dream, and I am ever hopeful.

Notes from a Coffee Shop 2

Apparently this is going to become a recurring thing.

A coffee shop is rife with potential subjects. The people, the smells, and the noise all conspire to make wonderful topics for writing. But there is a certain sense of etiquette that I once thought everyone was aware of. Apparently not.

Going to the coffee shop during the week is one thing; there aren't very many people, and they mostly keep to themselves. On the weekend, however, the coffee shop becomes a free-for-all. It's every man, woman, and child for himself (or herself). I can hold my own in this kind of crowd. But I refuse to be rude.

I refuse to be a lone patron who occupies a table meant for six. I find myself judging the people who occupy a booth just because they are waiting for a bigger table to open up. Isn't there supposed to be a certain sense of decorum with which people conduct themselves in places like this? Isn't there some unspoken code that prevents minor injustices like these from happening?

If there aren't, perhaps there should be. Maybe I'll start a one-woman coffee shop revolution. I will be a vigilante of all fine java establishments. I will police the seating areas, making sure all tables are occupied by the appropriate number of patrons. I will make sure that people don't monopolize the drink station thus prohibiting the rest of us from doing the same.

Or I'll just sit and sip my coffee while I watch all of these things taking place, and I will complain to anyone who will listen (or read) before I gather my things and go home.

Notes from a Coffee Shop

It's funny how the line forms at the coffee shop. None of us are entirely sure where to stand since the line doesn't really seem to have a beginning or an end. So we make a decision, and we decide to stand behind THAT guy. Why do we assume that he knows so much better where to stand than we do? We wait patiently (and sometimes impatiently) for our turn at the register, and by the time we get there most of us have forgotten why we wanted coffee in the first place. The barista takes our order, and we once again find ourselves in a sort of bean-inspired limbo, waiting to retrieve the drink we know we want but don't know why.

Does anyone ever order just plain coffee at the coffee shop anymore? Do they even serve it there?

Behind Screen Number One Is...Another Screen

My world is made of screens. At least that's what it feels like most of the time. As I struggle to find the words to write what I want to write, I stare blankly at the computer screen. That is until I conjure the right words; then I'm actively staring at the screen.

When I'm not staring at the computer screen, I am staring at the screen on my Nook, hoping to glean some inspiration (or technique or something) from the electronic pages written by people more successful than I.

Every now and then I take a break from reading to check my phone. Another screen. The constant scrolling on mobile social networking sites is enough to give me motion sickness. And when that happens...

I turn on the television to alleviate the stress on my eyes.

I've tried reading real books, something that still comes more naturally than picking up the Nook. But the necessity of wearing reading glasses compels me to put the book down again. Every now and then I try to remember a time when my life was less reliant on screen technology, but the reminiscence simply doesn't come. I can't help wondering if I am the only one who is bothered at this revelation.

I'm disconcerted by the thought that everywhere I turn there's something to stare at, not something or someone to engage with. I want to be actively involved with my occupation; I don't want to be a passive bystander anymore. I want to be a necessary component of how I spend my mornings and evenings.

I'm not sure what the solution to this problem is, if indeed it is a problem. It may be that screens are a necessary part of this increasingly technological world in which I have insinuated myself. If that's the case, then I will simply have to accept reality for what it is and figure out a way to embrace it. Whatever the case I think for now my eyes need a bit of a break from this computer. Perhaps I'll try reading for a bit...

Dream Residue

A dream is an elusive thing. Except when it's not. There are some dreams that come racing back to memory the moment they are recalled. But there are others that remain on the periphery, standing close enough in our minds for us to recall that they existed but far enough away for us not to be able to recall anything about them. These dreams leave behind a residue, a suggestion, and they color the lens through which we view the rest of the day.

It is the intangible, indefinable feeling that all the cogs and wheels that make the mind work are not functioning in unison, that all our levels of self are not aligning properly. It is the mental equivalent of trying to put together a puzzle with too few pieces. In general, the puzzle is complete; we know what it's supposed to be. But there is still something missing, something important. And the only way to dismiss it is to fall asleep again.


I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
From "A Dream Within a Dream"
~Edgar Allan Poe

"Monday, Monday/Can't trust that day"

The Mamas and The Papas were the first, I believe, to suggest that Monday is an untrustworthy day. I happen to be in complete agreement. It's not that I have a personal grudge to bear against Monday, but Mondays are slippery. They begin and end before I have a chance to get completely involved. It's like they're trying to get themselves over with.

Most of us are only too happy to see a Monday pass. It means the week is really underway, and the weekend is one day closer to its arrival. I happen to enjoy Mondays when I can get a firm grasp on one. They are a chance at a fresh start, a chance to be more together than I was last week. More often than not, though, Monday becomes the blur that gets the week started. It doesn't really seem like the beginning of anything. It's just a day of preparation for the rest of the week. Maybe The Mamas and The Papas were right on two counts; sometimes it just turns out that way.

I'm on Base!

We use the term base for so many things: home base, he stole a base, his baser instincts, based on, I'm on base. When we were kids we played hide and seek; our object was to outwit our friends and make it back to the designated safe zone. The base. It was the one place our opponents could not touch us. We were safe. You can't touch me; I'm on base!

As an adult I find that I am always searching for a place to touch down, a place to call my own. My island. Base. It's the place I go for consolation when life seems to be too much. It's the place I go to become untouchable, if only for a brief moment. I collect myself here. I read here; I write here. I think beautiful and terrible thoughts. I pause here. From here I decide my next move.

I'm not the only one.

Over time our bases may change; the places where we once sought refuge are no longer the primary places we go for comfort and consolation. The places we never expected to feel untouchable become our havens. But the need for some personal spot of refuge, a safe zone, never changes.

For the Record

The Morgan Library and Museum in New York opened an exhibit on Friday called "The Diary: Three Centuries of Private Lives." On display visitors have the privilege of studying the pages of journals and diaries that belonged to authors like John Steinbeck and Nathaniel Hawthorne. It sounds fascinating. But it got me to thinking:

Why do we write things down? Why do we chronicle our lives? And when we do, are we true to who we really are?

I have been a journalist from the very tender age of ten. My first diary had Spottie Dottie (a Hello Kitty character) on the front. It was also kept under lock and key. There was something about being able to decide for myself which secrets to share with everyone and which ones to keep to myself. When I put them down on paper, they feel more real.

In her essay "On Keeping a Notebook," Joan Didion writes: "The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself...So the point of my keeping a notebook has never been, nor is it now, to have an accurate factual record of what I have been doing or thinking." We don't write things down for other people, and we don't write things down in an effort to preserve our past experiences. We write things down so that we can remember them the way we think they ought to be. If Didion is correct (and I believe she is), these writings are never intentionally useful to anyone but the person who writes them. This is only logical since our lives are most useful to our own selves.

I suppose the stakes are different for famous people who are in danger of having their private thoughts put on display in some library years after their demise. Understandably, they would feel compelled to censor themselves to promote the image they worked so diligently (or maybe not so much) to create. But it has been my experience as a normal person with a normal life and normal thoughts that censoring yourself in your writing is best left undone. Otherwise you revisit the writings later, and you have no knowledge whatsoever of the person you find there. That person is an enigma, a fictional creation that provides no bearing on where you've come from or what you've been through.

My writings to myself are much more frank and straightforward than they have ever been before. There are no self-imposed limitations or restrictions on what I am allowed to say to myself, and there are no omissions in the interest of future readers. If you seek to know me through my writing, you will know the truest, most honest version of me. If I can't recognize myself in my own experiences years from now, what was the purpose of writing them down at all?

Rainbow Not-So-Brite

A few nights ago, I discovered that the Rainbow Brite cartoons are available on InstantNetflix. My initial response was that of great excitement. But then I realized that every time I revisit the cartoons and movies I loved so much as a child I am disillusioned. I find them to be annoying and trite, and I always feel compelled to call my mother and apologize for watching them so much.

How is it that we can love something so much as children only to find that, as adults, that object of our affection is in fact loathsome?

It reminds me of reading a Roald Dahl book (or watching one of the movies based on his books). As a child, I loved his writing. I loved the characters, and I loved the stories, although I could never have told you why. As an adult, though, I revisit these stories, and I realize why my mother always thought Willy Wonka was a creepy guy. I find it fascinating that things always look different through the eyes of an adult. I find it even more fascinating that there is no way to return to the vision we had then.

I have been burned too many times before. Pippy Longstocking. Shera Princess of Power. They have all proved to be less than the amazing entertainment I thought they were. So while I am enthusiastic that Rainbow Brite is available to me, I am inclined to do what I haven't done and leave her memory in tact. To destroy one of the last bastions of childhood memory would almost be like emotional masochism. I don't think I'm ready for that.

Anything I Can Do I Can Do Better...x2

There are those of us who can only do one thing at a time. We do that thing to the utmost of our ability, and then we move on to the next task on the list. Then there are those of us who feel like the only way to be productive is to do a minimum of two things at once (and that's on a slow day). We go about life simultaneously (so we think) getting things done. We are taking care of business times two. Or three. Or four. It all depends on how daring you want to be. But in the process of undertaking the role of WonderWoman (or SuperMan, whatever the case may be) are we really accomplishing what we think we are?

Is it better to accomplish a lot of things in a mediocre way, or should we focus on fully and accurately completing fewer tasks on the list?

I waver. Sometimes I feel like the only way to get done what needs to get done is to multitask. There are household chores and responsibilities that have to be done simultaneously to keep our lives in working order. Then there are days when I feel like the only logical thing to do is to expend all my energies making sure that a few things get done just as they should be with no corners cut and no shortcuts taken.

I blame graduate school. It would have been virtually impossible to complete graduate school without the gift of multitasking. No one can read that many books one at a time and write that many papers one at a time in the time frame of a semester. If you can, I want to know your secrets. Actually, I'm not sure that blame is the right word. I think graduate school is responsible for honing an innate skill.

I'm sure there are people who would suggest that championing the ways of a multitasker is wrong. But I am equally as certain that there are multitaskers who would claim that there are not enough hours in the day to accomplish things the old fashioned way. I suppose in cases like this the only thing to do is to decide for yourself, leaving all matter of scientific data in the dust.

Now excuse me. I have to finish the breakfast I'm cooking while I research data on how to save the world from itself while I pay the bills while I answer the phone...

Blue Skies Smilin' at Me?

Greetings from the afternoon! I promise not to make this a habit.

Every year around this time I find myself wishing away the months until warm weather arrives. With Christmas finished and the new year begun there really seems to be no point to the cold anymore.

In mid-December, the cold is expected and, dare I say it, welcome because it is the harbinger of the holidays. We want to hear about Frosty the Snowman and chestnuts roasting on open fires. Christmas comes and goes, and we arrive at the new year with a sense of hopeful anticipation and burgeoning potential. We countdown the seconds and throw our confetti while we snuggle in our warm coats against the current winter weather.

But then what?

When the celebrations are complete and normalcy has resumed, why does it need to be cold? I would contend that cold weather serves no purpose after New Year's Day. The only thing to be expected of cold weather in January is a nuisance. For those of us lucky enough to live in milder climates, cold weather abates rather abruptly, and we are all the better for it. Bring on the blue skies! I have a new blue sundress waiting to make its debut...

Saturday Morning Treats

Saturday morning is the only morning that I allow myself to read The New York Times in its entirety. Well, maybe not in it's entirety, but I allow myself to read the sections that I don't touch during the week.

Waiting until the weekend to catch up on technology news, book news, and fashion and style news turns a mundane task like reading the paper into a treat. I curl up in bed with a cup of coffee and the paper, and I stay until I'm finished reading. And because I have a whole week's worth of news to catch up on, I am forced to ease into the weekend.

My Saturday morning ritual changes the pace for the weekend. And aren't weekends supposed to be about slowing down and catching a breath after a busy week?

Time to Pay Up...

As counterintuitive as it may seem, the first and the fifteenth are my favorite days of the month because I finally get to sit down and pay the bills. Although today is not the fifteenth, it's close enough, and I am able to complete the chore that most people find daunting and depressing.

I'm uncertain as to why people feel this way about paying the bills. These are the days of the month when I can finally make sure that everyone who wants money from us has what they require. Everything that comes after today is gravy. At least until we get to the thirtieth. Then I start fretting again, wondering if there is someone I have forgotten.

For today, though, I feel like I know exactly what money is mine and what belongs to someone else. The fun can finally begin!

Cathedral

Cathedral is my favorite word. It's such a fun word to say. There are so many different sounds involved in making the word a success.

Good morning!

A first post is a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. It's the problem of the blank page; there are so many possibilities, and it's difficult to start exploring one without erring on the side of being pretentious. Since that is the very opposite of my goal here, I feel it prudent to move on from this subject and onto the purpose of this blog.

My morning routine consists of making coffee and then sitting down to peruse a variety of news outlets. Most mornings I find something that sticks with me for the rest of the day (or at least until the coffee mug is empty). It's not always something important; in fact, most of the time it's something so insignificant I wonder if I'm the only one who caught it. When I happen upon these bits of news, I often want a place to further explore them, and while Facebook is perfect for small inquiry, the space of a status update is rather limiting.

I will also incorporate information from the Twitter accounts I follow. More often than not, I find more thought-provoking stuff there anyway since people seem to be totally uninhibited when they log on to social networking sites. And as a student of literature and a journalism major, I must warn you: I have a great affinity for words, and I like to use a lot of them. So I apologize in advance for being excessively verbose.

Now, without further ado...