Nice Girls In Coffee Shops

When I was seventeen...

2019-10-19T18:32:00.000-07:00

When I was seventeen, I had a vision of what I wanted to do with my life. The vision was clear, but there wasn't a lot of substance to it, and no definition for how to get there.

I was eating dinner in a restaurant in Walla Walla, Washington with my parents. I had just received a rating of "1" on a solo competition for music (I am a flutist), and I was on cloud nine. We ate at a restaurant which I don't think is there anymore, called Jacobi's. Jacobi's was located in an old train depot in downtown Walla Walla, and the walls were brick. The building was old, but very trendy and very busy.

In high school, my favorite class was English. I was reading the beat poets, listening to The Doors, imagining my life as a hippie (even though it was the late '80s). I fell in love with this little restaurant, Jacobi's.

I pictured that when I grew up, I would own and operate a book store. I would host poetry readings (complete with stand-up bass, snapping fingers, and a general haze of cigarette smoke wafting over the entire room). At that time, espresso was not yet a big thing where I lived, but I still envisioned a coffee shop feel to the whole thing.

The vision was so real that even now, at the age of 47, I can still remember exactly what I saw. The most important part of my vision was the fact that the walls were brick. I don't know why that was so very important, but it was.

Side note - for some reason I keep thinking I am 48, and then as soon as I realize I am 47, I feel like I gained a year of my life back. I guess I'm glad it keeps happening, because I am continually feeling younger than I just thought I was.

Anyways, I eventually graduated from high school and panicked at the last minute before I went to college, therefore NOT going when I was supposed to. I got married. I had three little kids. I got divorced. I had what I thought was a decent job, and then when I was in an interview for a promotion, they asked me what I wanted from my career. I told the truth that I wanted to own a bookstore - and I didn't get the promotion (they actually cited this as one of the reasons I didn't get the promotion). I continued to think about the bookstore.

A couple of opportunities came up:

1. I interviewed for a position as floor manager at Hastings. It paid $10/hour when I was making just over that. I don't remember, honestly, if I turned it down or if I didn't get offered the job. I just remember that it didn't happen.

2. I submitted an entry to one of those contests where you write a 200-word essay in order to win a bookstore, along with a $50 entry fee. I worked on that submission for WEEKS and scrimped to come up with the entry fee. Ultimately, they didn't get enough entries and returned the money. I have no idea how I would have done. But I still wanted to do it.

3. My sister and I quit our jobs and opened a coffee shop/deli inside the local courthouse. It wasn't a bookstore by any means, but the opportunity was there at the time. We were there for two years. It was a lot of work. A LOT of work. It was hard, and it failed. It was fun, and I learned a lot, but I also left with my tail between my legs. I almost lost my house and I'm lucky I didn't owe more money than I did by the time it was done. It was rough on my relationship with my sister, and it was a very humbling experience.

When I left, I went straight into a new job that was almost a sanctuary from what I was doing. It was a corporate job, albeit as an administrative assistant, and it paid a lot more money than I was making at the café - anything would have been more, but this was also more than my previous job. My plan was to pull myself out of debt and then try to re-envision the bookstore.

Within two years or so of taking that job, I decided to go to college. I pursued a double major in Journalism and Communications. I graduated, at the age of 40, in 2012. By then I'd been promoted, and set aside the bookstore dream. I was enjoying my job. Plus, my kids were all in high school by then, and the money and stability were definitely comfortable enough not to think too far outside the box.

It's now 2019. I've been promoted several more times. I'm not in management, but I am working in an industry which is rapidly changing and I'm an expert in my field and known state-wide. I have a 401K and a retirement plan. I have a nice house which is in constant need of repair. I drive a nice car which is too expensive and all of my kids are out of the house. I am happily remarried.

What's wrong with all of that, you ask?

I'm closing in on 50 and I'm not doing what I want with my life. I can never quite shake this imposter syndrome feeling I have every day. I wake up and have to give myself a pep talk every morning. I know I sound like a whiner right now which is why I've been hesitating to write this. My husband and I talk about the bookstore all the time, but mostly when we've been drinking wine and dreaming.

The thing is, this dream has been with me since I was seventeen. I've done nothing to really make it happen. I don't want to throw away my current career, but I also don't want to wait until I'm 65 to do this thing. I don't think it's good to wait until it's "safe" to follow your dreams.

I'm not quitting my job tomorrow, or anything like that. In fact, I'm going to keep going to work and work on the projects I have going on right now. But I'm also going to research the market, write a business plan, and take a left turn on the road. I'm going to try to rein in some of the spending I do that goes along with my current salary, and work towards that dream that came from my seventeen year old self.

Seventeen year olds are loud, and bossy, and mine won't stop talking to me.

Art or something like it

2019-01-06T21:12:00.003-08:00

Although I work in a highly technical field, I do get a lot of opportunities for creativity in my job. However, I am consistently toning it down, paring back my words and trying to keep it as succinct as possible in my daily work.

Growing up, I was encouraged to be artistic, but I was also extremely shy and fairly insecure. I thought outside the box, but was always afraid to show it off. It took me years (and years and years) to overcome this, and I still struggle with it at times. I also am self-deprecating and seem to want to tear myself down before others can. I think it's a self-preservation tool; if I can tell you I suck before you can tell me I suck, then I win. I want you to know, before you tell me, that I can do better. I imagine this is an annoying trait.

Anyways, one thing that I do know that I'm good at is my music. I don't do it enough, but I do still play. I also know that I'm a pretty decent writer. Once again, I don't do it enough, but I still do it. I also did not know until I was somewhere in my 30s that my singing voice was pretty good. Not great, and I still don't always know when I'm flat, but I had it in my head most of my life that I couldn't sing, that it wasn't my thing. I don't think that was it at all, it's just that I was super shy and felt that singing meant that all eyes (and ears) were on you. I don't know why I didn't think that being a musician was that, but I just didn't want to try to sing in public.

As for "art", I really didn't think I could do it. I never tried. I have an eye for it, I think. I know what I like, and what is appealing to me. I understand that the appreciation of art is different for everyone. I just didn't think I was that creative. I didn't think I could draw. I didn't think I could paint. I didn't even try. I had a friend (my best friend growing up) who was extremely talented, and I think that I thought if I couldn't do "that", I couldn't be an artist.

I took art for one semester in high school. I got a decent grade, but that's because I turned in my work. Because art is subjective, there really isn't a way for the teacher to grade you on your talent, but rather that you turned in your work and did what was required for the class. I think this is what I told myself, at least, but I also think it's true. What I'm certain of now, is that I probably did have some sort of talent, and at least an eye for what I think art is.

Anyways, there is one thing about me that conflicts with artistry - I am impatient. I don't want to take the time to learn techniques, and to fail and then do it right the second time. I get frustrated when what was in my head didn't turn out the way I wanted, and then I think I don't have the time to re-do it to make it right. I just want it to be right, but it's not. I spend a lot of time looking at examples, and thinking "Yes, that's what I want to do", but then not taking the time to learn how to do it.

So, in the end I spend my entire weekend thinking I am making art, but then when it's done I feel like I should get a kindergarten graduation certificate. One thing I am learning is that it isn't done, and won't be done for quite some time. I think most of these have more work left in them, but I am learning. I hope that in time I will look back at these and feel like I am light years ahead of where I am today, but I'm enjoying myself. More importantly, I am starting to feel like I have a little bit of talent in an area I thought was off-limits to myself.

The process of going through the magazines and the books, and even choosing the magazines and the books, is very calming to me. I like looking for specific colors, stories in magazines that say what I want (even if you can't see the story in the final work), colors, images, and pieces of a larger picture. I am starting to experiment with paint and different textures, and find the cutting to be really relaxing. I am enjoying this and while I think I am a long way from calling myself an artist, I love the fact that it lets me be alone with my thoughts for the better part of a day.

I made this bird for my sister for Christmas. I glued the fabric down before I made sure I had it placed on the canvas correctly. I made my husband go get me a twig from the back yard for his perch, and then I yanked off a piece of the tree to make his leaves. I'm fairly certain the tree part is going to fall of this piece within the next week or so. I do like the lights behind it.

I like this bird, and my daughter really liked it.

This one was interesting because I used a black background for it, which made some really interesting shadow work. I think there is more to be done, but I really like the shading.

This is one of the first ones I did. I really like the image at the bottom, but I have no idea what it has to do with the two women. There is still work to do here.

This one was one a white canvas background. Not really a story, but it's just going to be some art for my laundry room.

I think there is a little bit of a theme on this one. Also art for my laundry room.

This one still has some work. The sail boat does not look at all like I envisioned it when I started. This one is far from done.

I actually really like this one, but I think the birds need more depth. There is a lot more work required in this one, perhaps a song.

There's a sewing machine hidden in here somewhere.

2019: A "To-Do" list

2019-01-01T15:15:00.004-08:00

As I think forward for 2019, I am reminded that many people say they hate resolutions. I hate them too, but I also like making plans and dreaming about the future and what I would like to do different with my life. The newest day of the year always seems like a good day to do this.

I saw one of those "about me" posts from my memories on Facebook this week, and the post asked what my favorite day of the year is - I said New Year's Day. I imagine I said this because a long time ago, my girlfriends and I used to get together on New Year's Day, drink wine, watch movies & play Scrabble, and talk about what we wanted from the future. I loved those days.

Today, I have spent the majority of the day alone. My house is fairly clean, although I should be putting the Christmas tree away. I did some laundry, and I've been reading and writing throughout the day, and thinking about what I want from the year to come.

I've come up with the following. I guess you could call it a list of resolutions, and that would be alright. Most people's "to-do" list for the next year starts with their health.

Speaking of health

I quit smoking about two years ago, after a bout with skin cancer. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, and it was. I know that some would argue that I didn't technically quit smoking, because I started using a vape pen at that time (for some reason I can't quite admit that I "vape"). It's less expensive than smoking, doesn't make my clothes and hair stink, and I lost the nagging chest cough overnight. I do still want a cigarette, and I've had a drag off someone else's and immediately regretted it. In fact, I regretted it even more the next day when I had a headache and a day long sore throat. So, I know I won't return to smoking but I would like to wean myself off these little pretend cigarettes. That's not really my resolution though. Since I quit smoking, I have gained a LOT of weight.

I need to be more active. Last year I purchased a gym membership from a really cheesy gym. It's very inexpensive and it seems like the "Walmart" of fitness clubs. It's so inexpensive that you can afford not to go and still keep up the membership. I need to either use that membership or pick up exercise somewhere else. I have a nice bike and two dogs who LOVE to go for walks. So, I definitely need to get off my butt and start caring about my weight. I was very thin for most of my life (bordering on anorexic) and just took for granted that I would always be that size. Not so. Eating better and cutting back on the Coors Light would probably help a lot also. I can't keep wasting my money on that gym and have nothing to show for it.

Speaking of money

I work hard and am compensated well for what I do. With that said, I am still not used to this, and tend to always feel like I am going to run out of money. I need to change my mindset and really wrap my head around when bills are due and budget for the things that need to be done around our house. I need to be disciplined and start saying "no" about things. I'm not a psychiatrist or anything but I sometimes feel like I shorted my family and myself for such a long time that I feel like I need to spend money that I didn't used to have. That sounds like I'm blaming someone other than myself and I'm not - I just need to get this figured out so that I'm not always feeling like I'm two steps away from being broke all the time.

Speaking of saying No

I started volunteering for things outside of work a couple of years ago and have found myself overwhelmed with commitments to the point that I'm starting to resent people and causes that I like. I have to stop myself from volunteering my time (and Mark's) and take it easy for a while. In fact, a few weeks ago I applied for a position on a board of a national organization. The candidate night is next week and I'm supposed to be preparing a statement. It would be good for my resume, but I found myself dreading the meeting. I think I am going to withdraw my name from the candidate list because I just can't take any more on and be effective at what I do need to do. So, my basic resolution is to slowly wean myself down to just 2-3 volunteer commitments (or less) and not take on any more this year. Besides, when I have too much to do, I don't spend time on my creative endeavors.

Speaking of creativity

I find myself getting jealous of people who have their work published, are being featured in art shows, playing paid gigs, or generally spend their free time being creative. I've had this blog for over ten years and last year removed everything and decided to start over. I realized that I know a lot of people who link to their writing and find myself annoyed that I don't do this myself. I can't get upset with anyone else when I have the resources, the time, and the talent to do the same. I plan to spend the next year honing my creative talents, playing music, sewing, creating more, and writing my novel, Lucille: 1883-1967. I have started writing it, and find myself stopping more than starting when it comes to this piece. I've been researching for this book for almost five years. No more. I will be posting here when I am particularly fond of anything I do, because otherwise the only place it will live is my laundry room.

Speaking of the laundry room

I only have a few hours left of this day to spend reading, writing, or making a mess of my art space, so I am going to shut this down for a while and go make something new!

New Year's Eve 2018

2018-12-31T18:51:00.001-08:00

It's New Year's Eve and I am reflecting on life, like one tends to do on New Year's Eve. I spent the past two months or so converting old home movies (VHS) to a digital format so that all of us could watch them, not just those of us so blessed to have an old VCR lying around the house.

These old home movies were filmed between 1992 and 2002, but most of them were taken between 1994 and 1996, when the two oldest of my parents' grandchildren were babies (my nephew who is now 24, and my daughter who is 23). Of course, there were several more kids to come, but this is the period of time we had the old style camera. This was before digital cameras, smart-phones, and a world where everything has a video associated with it.

The sad thing is that there were some legitimately interesting videos of my siblings and me when we were younger, some of one of our brothers who passed away way too young. Of course, we didn't know then what we know now, and the video camera got picked up to tape over when a baby was doing something exciting, like possibly the first time they ate bananas.

Nonetheless, there were a lot of amazing moments captured on film.

1. I saw that my sister and I were actually pretty attentive to our little babies and while I think I thought we were pretty good when we were young, it's nice to look back now, twenty-some years later and see that we actually were headed in the right direction.

2. The kids were loved - not just by their little mommies, but by everyone in their lives. Their grandparents, aunts and uncles, and even family friends, found them fascinating. Everyone delighted in them, and it truly shows in the adults they have become.

3. My family is funny; we possibly border on hilarious. We all have a keen sense of humor, and the videos are funny because it shows that we were always this funny. It also shows times when we thought we were funnier than we actually were, but everyone has to start somewhere.

4. It's tempting to eliminate videos that include people that aren't in your life anymore on purpose. You know, those friends you've parted ways with, or ex-spouses or ex-partners that you may be embarrassed to have in a video your new spouse is watching. However, those are the days of our lives also. That person was in our life for a reason, and to not watch just because they are in it would be to miss the amazing other things that were also there. And dare I say, we're too old to let that kind of stuff bother us anymore anyways, and I think our new spouses are also.

5. There were so many times in the home movies where one or the other of us wasn't there for some reason. It was so touching to see that in those cases, our names were still brought up - I head a lot of "Say Hi to Aunt Jenni", or "Man, Jenni's gonna be sad she missed this", or "I wish Jenni was here". And it wasn't just me, it was all of us.

6. It's tempting to gloss over the boring moments. We can't take for granted that any "mundane" moment might be the last time it happens. Save the boring videos, you'll want them one day.

7. I'm sure there are more videos in the bottom of boxes, drawers, anywhere. I hope we find more!

Does that make me crazy? Possibly.

2015-04-17T16:45:00.001-07:00

I heard a song today that took me right back to a time in my life I'd almost forgotten about.

You know those songs, the ones that aren't necessarily your favorite songs, but when you hear them you can remember everything about that point in time: the smells, the sights, the sounds, the way you felt. It was interesting to go there again, because even though I have memories of that time in my life, they don't normally hit me like this song did, today.

It was a popular, top-40 song. I actually don't usually like popular, top-40 songs, but I liked this one. I'd made it the ring tone for my cell phone, in fact. It was funny because it was always on the radio, and whenever it would come on, I'd try to answer my phone.

It's not really coincidental that I heard it today. Mark and I were on a road trip this weekend, and we'd been listening to the old country station on my satellite radio all weekend and just wanted some variety. He pulled out my CD case, which contains mostly CDs that either I have burned or that other people have burned for me. Some of them are good, some of them are ok, and some I never listen to. They are all in there because they don't have any other home. I guess, in a way, that the case is sort of my "rejects" pile. I can honestly say that I probably haven't pulled out that CD case in a couple of years.

First, we listened to Hayes Carll's "Trouble in Mind". I downloaded it from iTunes a few years ago and listened to it a LOT at first but hadn't for a while. Mark likes Hayes Carll a lot so we listened to that one first. When it was almost over, I was glancing over as he was flipping the pages of the CD case and saw titles such as "Jenni's Favorites", "Jenni's Love Songs", "Songs Jenni wants to sing", and then I remembered one I hadn't heard in a while. "Find 'Jenni Jenni'", I said. You can see that I am incredibly clever when it comes to naming CDs.

He asked what was on it. I told him that I thought I'd burned it when I had the cafe. He said, "Well, I already went past one called, "Cafe". "No, this one's different. I used to play this particular one in the morning when I was opening. I would play that one in the afternoon when I was closing."

So, he put it in. By this point we were only about 20 minutes from home so I didn't get to hear much. Johnny & June, some Cake, and that was it.

Today, as I was driving to work, I turned it back on again. First song on the cue: Kris Kristofferson. No suprise, I've always loved Casey's Last Ride. Next song, I skipped because I just didn't care for it that much. I think I put a lot of songs on there that I thought my customers might like.

Then I heard it...

I remember when, I remember I remember when I lost my mind

And I started to remember when I lost my mind. I remembered when I was working ten hours a day at a job I wanted too badly to love, and I wasn't making any money. I was in a bad fight with my ex husband with the kids, one in which his mother got involved, and I was stressed beyond words. I couldn't sleep, I wasn't eating, and I was burning the candle at both ends, trying to run away from my stress by falling in love with a man who wasn't right for me. And then another one. And I know, I had better things to spend my energy on, but I was still wanting too bad for everything to just fall into place. And it wasn't time yet. But I didn't know that then.

There was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space

It's funny how hard it is in the moment, and then you look back and you find comfort there. There are some days when I really, truly, miss the cafe. I miss the people, my customers, and how much I laughed then. I don't miss how stressful it was, but life moves on and I still have a lot of stress. I feel much more in control of myself now, but I do have a fondness for the memory. Usually, I snap myself out of it as soon as I am reminded of the cafe days, but today I lingered longer.

And when you're out there without care
Yeah, I was out of touch
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much

I was definitely out of touch. My family can attest to that. My kids probably can too. But I knew, I knew I had to do it. Sometimes I think I didn't know enough, about the business world, about the economy, about my own limitations. But there are other days, when I realize that I had to do it, in order to leave where I was at previously. I learned a lot there. If I could go back and do it again, I might. I might not. But when I was done, I knew more than I ever wanted to about people, about myself, about life.

Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Possibly

Am I crazy to have fondness for a time in my life where I almost bankrupted myself? Where I was humiliated in front of the entire town on the front page of the paper when the whole thing went down? I don't know. Possibly.

And I hope that you are Having the time of your life But think twice That's my only advice

By this part in the song, I was talking to my self five years ago.I think I did have the time of my life.

Come on now, who do you
Who do you, who do you, who do you think you are?
Ha ha ha, bless your soul
You really think you're in control?

Yeah, I did back then. I realize now that I never was, but who am I to tell me that?

Well, I think you're crazy
I think you're crazy I think you're crazy
Just like me

Well, of course I'm just like me.

My heroes had the heart
To live their lives out on a limb
And all I remember Is thinking,
I want to be like them

Yeah, I always did think that. My parents - they lived their lives out on a limb, running two restaurants, raising five kids, robbing Peter to pay Paul. And I thought I could do it. I thought I could live without health insurance and a paycheck. Wrong. But I did it, and I found that I needed an actual job. Then I realized there was a point in their lives too, where they decided that they couldn't hang on by a thread any longer and wanted a bit of stability.

Ever since I was little
Ever since I was little It looked like fun
And it's no coincidence I've come
And I can die when I'm done

But maybe I'm crazy
Maybe you're crazy
Maybe we're crazy
Probably

He's a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction.

2011-05-06T09:06:00.001-07:00

Whenever I try to explain who he is to people, they know who I’m talking about right off the bat. If you lived in this town, you’d know who he is also. You can’t miss him. He is a walking cartoon, a caricature of himself.

He’s six-foot-four inches tall, with bright orange hair. It has gotten a little less bright as he’s aged, but it’s still classified as orange. He’s skinny – at six foot four, he probably weighs no more than 140 pounds. He also looks much older than he is. His hard living has caught up with him to the point that his forty-five year old body often tricks people into thinking he’s near sixty.

He only wears black. Black Levi’s 501 jeans, black Chuck Taylor Converse high tops. Black long sleeved button down shirt, and black leather jacket. Sometimes, he wears a black trench coat instead of his leather jacket. Either way, if there’s a hole in his jacket, I can guarantee he’s closed that hole with duct tape in the liner. Top that all of with a black fedora, and he’s ready to walk out the door. There is only one time when he isn’t dressed all in black, and that is when he’s fishing. When he’s fishing, he wears blue Levi’s 501 jeans, cut off at the knee, and a white “wife-beater” tank top.

He likes Jack Daniel’s Whiskey better than anyone or anything. If it’s after three o’clock in the afternoon and you see him, chances are that he’s already had an airline bottle or two that he picked up from the liquor store, so that he could have a swig after his coffee. Speaking of coffee, his favorite coffee is a twelve ounce unflavored latte with about ten sugar packets in it. After he gets his coffee, he walks to the liquor store and buys his two airline bottles of Jack Daniel’s. Next to the liquor store is the smoke shop, where he gets his Marlboro Reds at a discount. He likes it there because they also give him a free lighter.

He drives a 1988 Dodge Caravan with leopard-print seat covers. The doors don’t lock and there are no back seats. He bought it for $500 (which was likely an entire months’ pay) and the seats weren’t there. It’s just as well, because he needs the extra room to haul his amplifiers and microphone stands and whatever else it takes to make someone a true troubadour. Unfortunately, the “Amstervan” won’t take him from here to Seattle, and sometimes he likes to get away. In that case, he takes the Greyhound.

He plays a red guitar. He used to play an orange guitar until he smashed it. I don’t recall the story about how he broke it. It might have been when he was mad at a bartender for cutting him off, or he might have broke it when he fell down after getting cut off the same night. Either way, it was broken beyond repair and he had to buy a new one in a hurry, and the red one was the best one he could afford that week.

He also plays a harmonica, quite well. When I met him, his harmonica holder had a broken spring. It was held together with duct tape. His birthday was coming, so I called the music store and bought and paid for it over the telephone. We were going to meet for coffee later that day, so I asked him if he could pick something up at the music store for me. They handed him the bag and he called me and I told him it was for him. You’d have thought I gave him a hundred dollar bill for his birthday, when in fact I spent $15.00 on a cheap piece of metal.

His musical influences are Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, John Prine, Woody Guthrie, Tom Waits, and Johnny Cash. He makes his living playing music. He goes about this by hosting open-mike nights. He hosts two permanent shows a week, and picks up gigs on the weekends. Sometimes his gigs are solo shows, sometimes with the full band. I am in that band. I sing with him, sometimes I play my flute (although he has told his friends that they are to shoot him in the back of the head if he ever puts a flutist in the band), and I sometimes play the tambourine, albeit badly.

He’s a very patient fisherman, and he doesn’t drink while fishing. He won’t let anyone else that he’s fishing with drink either. He has a favorite fishing spot, about thirty miles east of here. The spot has to be hiked to and then you have to wade up the river for about a mile. He loves fishing and the last time he went, he found his new favorite fishing rod – one that someone else had given to the river. He’s relentless and won’t leave until he's caught the right one.

I say he loves whiskey more than anyone or anything, but that’s probably not true. He loves his mom, and she loves him. Talking to her makes me love him more. It helps to keep my soft spot open for him. Talking to her reminds me of the moment I met him, more than six years ago, and the friendship he offered me. Not many people understand it, but in some ways he reminds me of my dad. I love him still and he will always be the strongest influence on me. These influences are not only on my writing and on my music, but on my quest to understand people and to be a kind and loving person who truly enjoys my friendships.

Yes, my friend has put me through Hell on several occasions. He has yelled at me, he has said he loves me in the same sentence that he says he hates me. He has called me in tears asking if I will come get him and give him some coffee and a warm bed (not mine, mind you, but my couch instead). Yet, when I have been broken, when I have been hurting, he has been there. He has offered to loan me money on tight weeks when I know he’d rather spend it on Jack, and he has become my fishing partner. I have learned more about music than I ever thought I would. We have spent countless lonely Christmases together when my children were with their father that year, and we have watched each other endure endless heartaches and elations. I have cut him off from my life and then missed the alternate joy he also brings to me. My children love him, my dog hates him. He introduced me to one of my very best friends, who has since decided that she doesn’t have the patience for him. He introduced me to many of the people that are in my life today, including my boyfriend. His mom is a very special person to me, and I have helped him get music jobs. My dad adores him, and the last time they were both here, they stayed up until three o’clock in the morning singing John Prine and Bob Dylan and playing their guitars.

At the end of the one night a week we all get together to play music, each of us in our friends group has to determine who “has him” for the night. It hasn’t been my turn for a couple weeks, but I still look forward to when it is (most of the time). On his best night, he is the best friend a person could have. On his worst night, I turn off the lights and close the door and ignore him.

He has been my friend, one of my best friends, for over six years. I have stopped fighting it and have learned when to hold him close and when to hold him at arm’s length. I have learned countless other useful things from him, like how to project my voice and which songs I just can’t do, and how to fish without a worm. I will defend him when necessary and agree when what is said is true.

We have talked until three o’clock in the morning about God and love and children and loneliness and beauty and music and hatred and dying until we were both so tired we couldn’t talk about anything else. Nonetheless, I can’t think of one time that we have had a conversation that we’ve run out of things to talk about, even on the nights when I just had to hang up on him.

Some people may call me an enabler; some may call me a saint. In the end, I just think I’m doing what a good friend would, because he is my friend.

Inspiration, indignation

2011-02-22T17:46:00.000-08:00

I just finished another class. This last one was "American Literature - 1865 to Present". Because I am pursuing a double major, I only had room for 3 electives. I chose Spanish I, Spanish II, and this one. The Spanish I & II classes aren't scheduled yet, so this was my one elective between my general education classes and my actual degree classes. I was really looking forward to this one.

Unfortunately, it happened at a bad time. A time when I was busy, and burnt out. I did all of the reading, and I loved the reading. I got to read Steinbeck, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Amy Tan, and Allen Ginsberg, and Jack Kerouac, and everyone I love, really.

I was able to choose between about five different topics for my final essay. I chose to write on the Beat Generation and the impact they had or didn't have on American Literature and society.

I dove into it. I started researching weeks ago, I watched the movie, "Howl", I started reading a biography on Kerouac. I bought Howl and other poems. I read so much on the beat poets that I dreamt about them. I was reminded of my own teenage years, when I started reading them and loved them and wanted to surround myself with people like them. I was moved to write poetry this weekend. I was loving this class. I stayed away from my friends and family this weekend in order to finish my research.

The only thing I didn't do...

was start my essay until 9:00 last night.

My eyes were hurting so badly from reading and being on the computer all day, and I was beat (no pun intended). I couldn't focus. I have no idea if my paper was good or bad because this is the way I edit: I check for mispelled words and I hit "send". That's what I do every time. And then, I stress for a week about the grade. I have NEVER received a poor grade on my writing. EVER. I always get some sort of comment from the instructor that my writing is unique, and different, and enjoyable. I don't know why. I've always had people say that but I don't know what it is about it that is unique and different and enjoyable.

The problem is that for this class, I missed some (and by some I mean too many) deadlines and this grade is really, really important. It is 30% of the class. I know I shouldn't worry too much. I know that the feeling I have today is the same exact feeling I have every time I turn in a paper. I doubt myself. I question my writing abilities. I worry that I am not a good writer. Because my degrees are in Communications and Journalism, I doubt that I am pursuing the right career for me.

By 2:00 this morning, I hated Jack Kerouac. I hated Allen Ginsberg. I hated Carl Solomon and I especially hated William S. Burroughs. I hated my instructor and myself and all of the people that I've been blowing my school off for in the last few weeks. I started wondering if life was meaningless and if there was no hope for happiness. I hated my dog and my cat and my job and everyone I've ever fallen in love with.

And then I went to bed. And I woke up and went to work. And I will wait for approximately two weeks to find out if I just screwed myself out of $1116 and added another five weeks to my schooling.

And I realized that the fact that I spent the day wondering if life is meaningless probably means that I will pass this class.

them

2011-02-21T14:25:00.000-08:00

Long ago she met them,

But they were gone and dead then

They spoke to her

they listened to her

They read to her

they sang to her

they made love to her

She longed to hear them

to feel them

to taste them

To be high with them

to make love in return to them

But they were gone

She didn’t know where to find them

She looked for them

She looked in her high school

She looked at the football games, at the dances, at the pool halls

They were everywhere, they were nowhere

They were wearing leather jackets

Driving motorcycles, smoking pot

They didn’t love her

They were in coffee houses and they said fuck too much and too often and too loudly

She married them

She divorced them

She had their children

But she was wrong

It wasn’t them

She kept looking for them

She forgot about them

On purpose, and angrily

She decided they were full of shit and there was no them

She abandoned them

She loved another

And became angry when he wasn’t them

She ran away again

Going nowhere

She found them

But it wasn’t them

Just someone who looked like them

And felt like them

And breathed like them

And spoke like them

And said fuck too often and too loudly

And restlessly went away again

And she kept looking

And she found them

In bars and cars and motorcycles and tattoo parlors

And she found them

In jazz clubs and coffee houses and strip clubs and sleeping on their mothers’ couches

And she found them

And they hurt her

Because they were angry and she wasn’t them

And they lashed out and treated her badly

And treated her well

And made her a part of them

And she walked away from them

And then she found them

Dying and lonely and angry and homeless

All at once beautiful and black inside

And lovely and poetic and broken and had a reason to be them

Drunk and stoned and singing a song like them

And took care of them

And listened to them

and gave to them

and exalted them

and sang for them, and read to them

And sweetly made love to them

And she lost them

And she cried for them

And she loved them

And still never telling them

That she was them

And they were gone

Because it was never them

And it was always them

And there will be more of them

YOU

2011-02-21T09:29:00.000-08:00

As I sit here in my room smoking

I'm thinking of you

You when you were small and abandoned

You when you were young and beautiful

Everything in front of you

You didn't know where you were going

What you wanted

You wanted everything and nothing

You thought that love was everything

and found that love was nothing

You have now aged

and still you have everything

still you have nothing

Still you are abandoned

Still you are beautiful

I've been thinking of you all day
As I sit here in my room smoking
You had ideals
You had dreams
Where did they go?

They weren't strong enough
Your convictions were weak
yet enlightened

You looked to others to be the rebel
You let them do the work for you
You admired them
Because you couldn't do it
You loved them
But they didn't love you

You took the easy road then
You chose the path of conventionality
Never satisfied
Always hungry for more
Always leaving
Never going anywhere

As I sit here in my room, smoking
I wonder where you are
I wonder who you are
and I wonder when
and if
you will speak to me again

Questions

2010-12-02T18:42:00.000-08:00

I've been messing with this blog since I got home from work, and realized that the subtitle is "Daily Questions from Someone Who Thinks She Should Have It Figured Out By Now...

Well, I haven't asked any questions now, have I?

I should. I should be asking some good, hard questions. I will ask them now. And then, maybe I will think to post a question everyday, and then maybe someone will answer them for me.

Is there anyone else (and I know the answer is YES) who thinks they should feel like a grown-up by now?

I look at other people my age, and think, "Do they accidentally pay their electric bill twice in one day when they barely had enough money to pay it once?"

I think, "Do they really pay as much as I do for a flipping phone?"

Do their kids come home from school and sleep until dinnertime?

Do they do the dishes more than once a week?

Do they take down an above ground pool every fall?

Do they make their bed in the morning? Do they have dog hair all over their favorite jacket? Do they actually return movies on time? Do they only remember to pay the garbage bill when their garbage cans get repossessed? Do they get knocked offline every fifteen minutes? Do they pay $60 a month for internet? Do they adore their dad? Do they have over 100 first cousins? Do they remember to put the clothes in the dryer or do they have to rewash their laundry twice every time too?

These are only some of the questions I have. Someone should answer them for me.

Stupid Girl

2010-11-08T20:01:00.001-08:00

Stupid Girl, January 2003

Meet my Stupid Girl.

She lives in my house. She's a slob who loves coffee and poetry.

I've been trying to keep her away from you but she's dying to meet you.

She loves you, but I've been trying to tell her to be quiet because she's so damn insecure that we both know
she'll scare you away.

She wants to get in her piece of crap car and drive 200 miles to see you so you can tell her she's beautiful even though she won't believe you anyways.

Stupid girl thinks you're the last man on earth who will ever love her, and she'll think you do even if you don't tell her. She'll think you're fated to meet her even though you're the third guy she's felt that way about in the last six months.

She's stupid and she wants to stay that way.

Meet my Smart Woman.

She knows you're full of shit. She knows you could care less what her favorite song is. She knows that you have no use for karma or fate or love but only sex and you're no different than her ex-husband, only better looking and bettter dressed. She knows that she wants it and so do you and it will happen and it has nothing to do with the stars or God or the way she looks tonight (although she knows she looks good because Stupid Girl dressed her). Smart Woman could care less.

Smart Woman wants to tell you to jump in the river but Stupid Girl is hoping you'll call. Or maybe that other guy will. She doesn't care. She's stupid.

Smart Woman wants to live the rest of her life not needing you or any other man. She just wants to raise her kids and pay her bills and go to work.

Stupid Girl keeps getting sick and smoking and wrecking her car and needing sympathy and crying and saying, "I just wish I had a man to rub my neck and tell me I'm pretty".

Smart Woman is getting really tired of Stupid Girl and her friends.

Nice Girls in Coffee Shops

2010-11-08T19:34:00.000-08:00

Okay, this is how this all started. SEVERAL years ago, and by several, I think I mean about twenty-two, I wanted a coffee shop. I had this dream that when I was an adult, I would own and run a coffee shop. I would visit with my customers, and we would talk endlessly about all kinds of hilarious, massively intelligent, deeply philosophical and highly poignant topics. I knew what this coffee shop was going to look like, going to feel like, and who I would be within that coffee shop.

Life didn't quite work out the way I had dreamed, back when I was seventeen. Wow, that first sentence seems like it could almost be the words to my next song, doesn't it? Unfortunately, in order to have a next song that would mean I had to have a last song. I have yet to write a song. Actually, I've written a lot. I've just never put any of it to music. Nonetheless, all of the books full of all of the songs I've written are sitting right here next to me, right now.

But back to the coffee shop. My coffee shop was going to have brick lined walls and lots of dark wood, and on at least one wall there was going to be nothing but floor to ceiling book shelves with books by people like Steinbeck and Hemingway and lots of poetry. It would be a smoking facility, so that people could smoke cigarettes and cigars and pipes and whatever else they wanted to smoke (it's my fantasy). There would be couches and mood lighting and comfortable club chairs and totally hip music (like Bob Dylan and John Prine and Cowboy Junkies and Lucinda Williams) and ONLY extremely cool, intelligent people would be there. In the evenings I would have open-mike for accoustic musicians and beatniks and my customers would wear all black and never be anything but amazingly deep.

I would have lived upstairs from this coffee shop, in a loft decorated with nothing but mid-century modern items. I thought I would have some sort of extremely intelligent dog (or not) and I would never want to leave my coffee utopia. Downstairs from my home, I would find all of my super cool extremely intelligent friends, and there we would discuss all of the amazingly wonderful reasons we were alive.

Reality (here is where you would hear some kind of extremely sad or angry music - you could take your pick from any of the artists I named above already).

Reality was fine. It wasn't extremely bad, it wasn't extremely good. The other dream I had took over - the one where I wanted to be a mom. The one I chose over the single life, the one where I didn't go to college and started working a job that I liked at the time and then it became a career. I never left my hometown. I married young and had three beautiful children right away. The marriage didn't work out. I struggled to support my children and get along with my exhusband. I had a mortgage, house payments, and a dog. A car that broke down regularly, and a social life to uphold.

After I got divorced, I dreamt a little more about my coffee shop. Unfortunately, there was and is still a part of me that wanted to be loved. At that time, I wasn't too discerning about who I should receive my affection from. I chose the wrong man - again. Not that I've ever really been that great about choosing the right man. I'm sure they all have been good men to some extent, but this one didn't work out. Thank God it was apparent early enough. Sadly, it wasn't earlier than the wedding date. Nonethless, I married him, and we were divorced before we were married a year.

Then, there came a chance for the coffee shop. It wasn't the one in my dreams, but it was still a coffee shop.

The building was new. I didn't live upstairs from it. And espresso machines are so loud that it's really hard to carry on a conversation about anything, let alone philosophy. It was only open during the day, and I never had live music there. I tried to play Bob Dylan all the time but my customer base wasn't that crazy about it and neither was BMI. I took out a loan in order to pay my bills and ended up almost losing my house over the whole deal. I also got behind in my rent and found that it is really stressful to go into business with family, especially when you yourself have absolutely no business sense (I'm totally talking about myself here).

However, I did meet some interesting people. I felt like I got to follow my dream (albeit a little altered). It didn't work out. The bills were due. I got a better job. My sister and I recovered. Financially, I'm still recovering, but eventually I will get there.

In the process I learned a few things. One, a person can not live on coffee alone. You need to eat AND sleep in order to have enough energy to make it through the day. Two, if you open a coffee shop inside a courthouse, you're going to have to deal with crack heads, there's just no way around it. Three, life goes on and money troubles come and go. Some days you have it, some days you don't. Oh well. Four, there is no such things as coffee that is too strong. Five, if you have children, you need health insurance.

I am a nice girl. I'm an extremely nice girl. I make poor choices, consistently. I love my kids, and I want to get somewhere with my life. I love (as in can't live without) strong coffee. I need intelligent people in my life, and I don't really care how crazy they are. My vision of loveliness is strong coffee in the morning with someone who is incredibly intelligent, discussing how beautiful I am. What else could I want?

In reality, I want everything I stated above, still. Someday I'll have something somewhat like that. It might not be a coffee shop, but I will still smell coffee when I walk into the door of whatever place makes me feel like it's home. I will be surrounded by highly intelligent people listening to Bob Dylan and discussing things that matter to them. Someday...