Story of My Life

My Forearm Goes National

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 19:14:00 +0000

Oh yeah it does. Story of my life.

Perspective

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 17:00:00 +0000

Awaits you here.

I Misplaced My Words

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 02:41:00 +0000

"Know something, Sugar? Stories only happen to people who can tell them"
Allan Gurganus

So when did I become someone who couldn't? Where lurks my former knack for relating the absurd, the mundane, or the simple encounters of life to my 'this could only happen to me' sense of self?

I went to a meeting at the White House last week (fine, fine – the Eisenhower Executive Office Building). I had every intention of writing about it, similar to the prose-ESP I feel before going into many experiences I've then written about. But in the hours and days following my occupation of the most famous home (or the building next door…whatever) in DC, I had zero impetus to give words to the experience.

I thought that I would be able to. In anticipation of the meeting, I planned on using the White House (or, EEOB) bathroom and stealing anything that wasn't affixed to the countertop or walls, or wouldn't fit in my purse (or down my pants). Just before the 3:00 pm meeting, I waited for the White House Liaison to the Jewish Community (younger than me) - the other half of my meeting - in a room where walls were adorned (tainted) with photos of President Bush. President Bush exiting Air Force One. President Bush in a pick-up truck with his dog. President Bush mid stupid sentences, standing behind a podium.

It wouldn't have been far-fetched to think that after returning my bar-code ID tag and exiting the highly secure residence, I'd start writing the post (with aforementioned writing blocks) in my pocket-sized pink-n-brown floral notepad (which matches my stu-stu-studio) that I always carry with me, jotting down ideas and opening lines on the metro ride home. More than thinking it possible, I hoped that I would be able to memorialize my immersion in government, as my musings here are dwindling in frequency with no conscious effort on the part of the muser (me, me, and me). I don't know why my muse is running dry. Is this writer's block? Is it me no longer needing a blog-shaped outlet? Well, my 14 ½ readers, I can't focus in on the root of the trend of blank pages.

Maybe the would-be muse failed to reach fruition because I didn't get to go to the bathroom and, more importantly, steal a souvenir. I'm just not sure - Story of my life.

Just Call Me Handy

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 01:15:00 +0000

When your world seems dull and you feel like everyone is having more fun than you are, try hand modeling. It revved up my confidence. It made me feel needed. It sent my heart beating a little faster than usual. It caused me to wake up the next morning with a stiff shoulder. Case in point -

When I asked the wine and food author/critic (whose entire body got to remain in the frame) about his opinion of DC’s food scene, I desperately tried to channel the message, “Take me with you. Perhaps I, too, can dine for free. Let me be your wingman.”

After the photo shoot, I tasted the wine with my modeling hand. I noted that it tasted like juice. “Can I smell it?” asked the wine connoisseur. Watch expertise in action -

Later in the day, I requested him as a friend on Facebook. Then I felt slightly desperate. Story of my life.

My Happy Stchick

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 18:04:00 +0000

I exited Whole Foods with my usual supply of variety foods from the ready food case (because I can’t cook), and saw some activity on the sidewalk in front of the store. A table hosting chocolate covered strawberries, iced coffee, and popcorn for sale, and then a grill off to the side.

Corn on the cob roasted on the grill. I walked past the grill, admired the veggies taking residency upon it, and then continued toward the end of the street. And then turned back. I like corn. Corn on a stick? Love it.

Back at the grill, I pulled out a dollar (bargainnnnn) and said, “One please.” I noticed the chef (in my eyes he was) painting the corn with some kind of sauce.

“What kind of sauce is that?”

“Coconut cream.”

And then I thought, what a wonderful world.

I walked blissfully to the metro with a corn on the cob on a stick in my hand and a yoga mat slung on my right shoulder – story of my life.

No Big Red Heart for NY Transportation

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 02:39:00 +0000

Needing a taxi from Mid-town to Brooklyn, I told the first taxi driver who stopped that I had the address and the cross-street. He asked if I knew how to get there?

“No.”

Out the taxi I go. Story of my life.

Needing a taxi from Mid-town to Brooklyn, I told the second taxi driver who stopped that I had the address and the cross-street. He asked if I knew how to get there?

I learned my lesson the first time, so standing on the sidewalk, I told the driver through the passenger window, “No.”

On the sidewalk I remained.

Needing a taxi from Mid-town to Brooklyn, I told the third taxi driver who stopped that I had the address and the cross-street. He asked if I knew how to get there?

I learned my lesson the second time, so I told the driver matter-of-factly, “Yes.” In the taxi I went.

Once we made it across the bridge, he asked me which way to go.

“Roll down your window and ask that guy on the sidewalk.”

Thirsty?

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 20:50:00 +0000

For another story of my life? Read this.

Baby Rumors (Mine)

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 20:07:00 +0000

Rumor 1: I went to inhale my favorite muffin last week, the oat bran edible wonder at Firehook Bakery. I enjoyed parts of it solo, parts of it dipped in ice coffee, all while reading my monthly alumni magazine (and getting it wet).

As I was getting up from the table to leave, one of the (male) cashiers said, “So did you have a girl or a boy?”

I heard him perfectly, so I said, “Whattt??”

“Oh, I guess I thought you were someone else…I’m sorry.” (said with an Oops… look on his face)

Not as sorry as I am for just having a carb-o-licious muffin. Story of my life. And he is someone who flirts with me (not tooting my horn – swear – if you could see him you’d understand) every time I frequent the shop (say once a week).

That day, I apparently looked post-natal. Yippie.

Rumor 2: I went to the dentist this morning. The hygienist said I was due to have the bite-wing X-rays. Ok, fine (rob me unnecessarily). As she held up the X-ray protection smock to lay over me (they can do the x-ray in the chair at this fancy-fancy place), she said, “Now is there any chance that you could be pregnant?”

“No,” I said aloud, “you f’ing bitch,” added internally.

This day, I apparently looked like I could be with child (or was overly sensitive to a routine question).

Looming misfortune of my life: Pregnancy rumors and I haven’t even kissed someone in X#*!@ months.

Olive Oil Clogged My Muse

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 20:06:00 +0000

But now I'm back from the land of tzadiki and feeling thinky (and hungry for the taste of Opa!).

Grape leaves for breakfast and other insights of an alumnus. Muse on.

Air Kisses with Salman Rushdie

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 17:31:00 +0000

Normally when authors come to speak where I work, I get a photo with them cheek-to-cheek. But when authors have formally had a fatwa (religious edict calling for someone to be killed) aimed at them, I like to keep a bit of a distance. Salman Rushdie, I thought you were great; please don’t take it personally.

Thoughts on my new hair color??

Oh Deer

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 03:01:00 +0000

I was walking back to Jackie-land (my stu-stu studio) at around 9:30 pm on Sunday night in DC – when all of DC is tucked away in apartments and condos most likely larger than mine. I’m only a five minute walk from the metro, but much of the sidewalk I tread to get home is lined with bushes on one side.

Bushes can be scary at night, especially if you’re a woman.

I walked passed one guy who seemed sketchy, after which I was slightly on edge and hypersensitive to sounds around me.

Just before my apartment building, there’s a mini-forest that leads into Rock Creek Park. This is cute during daylight hours but freaks me out at night.

As I’m walking past said forest, I hear a rustling in the trees. So, like any good potential victim, I stop (instead of continuing to walk at a brisk pace) and try to see the cause of the noise.

Deer.

Three of them. (Well, maybe two, but it was dark and I was scared).

Deer, just steps away from Connecticut Ave. in the middle of a major city. Yowsa.

The deer and I made eye contact. Their antlers were huge, so I pondered if I was staring at reindeer.

Then, fear found me and concern, too, that the deer would want to eat me. So, I ran as fast as I could to the front doors of my apartment building to the tune of a, “Please don’t eat me. Were those reindeer?? Please don’t eat me. Please.” internal chant.

I’m a yogi. I chant.

Then I called my mom to tell her that I thought I could have been eaten by deer. Story of my life. She told me she had to run to the supermarket before it closed because she was dying for a Hershey bar. Story of her life.

I Found My Hair Twin

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 14:31:00 +0000

Here she is. Now if only I had her waistline.

And nose. Story of my life.

I Sniffed Elie Wiesel’s Coat

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Wed, 28 May 2008 15:16:00 +0000

Elie Wiesel - Holocaust survivor, Nobel Laureate, author of 40 books, professor, and political activist – spoke last night at the synagogue where I work. I was responsible for coordinating the event – yowsa.

After schmoozing at a pre-reception with big donors, Mr. Wiesel headed to the green room (my shared office). Mr. Wiesel asked that I track down his coat (somewhere in the building) and have it ready for when the program ended so he could leave right away (he made a wind sound, like, “phhhzzooop,” to convey the speed at which he wanted to exit). He had a flight to catch; I get it.

I found his coat and carried it to the room through which he would be leaving. In that little room I had a moment where I thought, “Oh my God. This is Elie Wiesel’s coat.” The man who recently went to Auschwitz with Oprah. I wonder if he wore this coat with Oprah. What should I do?

I sniffed it – no smell.

I held it up to get a good look – nice coat. Burberry. The name Elisha Wiesel (a Yiddish variation?) was embroidered on a petite label, sewn just above the tag on the inside of the coat.
Should I try it on? No, no.

I placed it gently on a chair and resumed rational behavior.

Just before he went on stage, I asked Mr. Wiesel if he would mind autographing something for the synagogue. He didn’t mind the autograph, just the fact that I mispronounced his name. He corrected my stress on the “W” by saying, “VEE-zull.”

I meet an icon and the strongest memory I’ll have is of him correcting my speech. Story of my life.

I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. VEE-zull.”

He said, “Hmmp, VY-zull?” as if he wasn’t even sure if it was pronounced VEE-zull or VY-zull. What was certain was that the letter “W” should not be pronounced in the way an American, native English speaker (like me) would intuitively say it.

On his way out, I handed Mr. Wiesel his coat – no “thank you” offered (yes, I expect everyone to be gracious) – and didn’t utter a word or a “W.”

Brazen Breakup Prose

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Tue, 27 May 2008 16:23:00 +0000

I've been busy writing this and this, so I haven't had much time to chronicle the absuridty of my life. I'll be better; I promise.

So as not to leave you holding your breath (right...), my sister decided to borrow my bike (that I never use) and ride it - in our apartment building - along the carpeted hallways - at 11:55 pm on Sunday night. We're bad. We're so, so bad.

A Week in the Story of My Life

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Fri, 23 May 2008 15:53:00 +0000

Monday: Hosted an event at work for an author/environmental activist who gave up riding in cars for 22 years in favor of walking and also took a vow of silence for 17 years. Being a walker myself, I asked him which shoe he most preferred. He gave me a long answer.

Tuesday: I went to the press-only sneak preview of a new exhibit at the National Gallery of Art. I am not a member of the press. My badge read, "PRESS."

Wednesday: Attended a networking breakfast at The Caucus Room. I left feeling like I was a super delegate.

That same evening I went to a reception in the Capitol, where I felt certain that, indeed, I was a super delegate.

Thursday: Over dinner, my friend told me that she got a $15,000 bonus. The check was in her purse. I told her that I got a $2,000 bonus at my last review. She paid for dinner.

Friday: I berated my co-worker for tapping his fingers on his desk. Thoughts of a corner office with a door and deadbolt abound.

My Words Are Like a Gypsie

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Fri, 16 May 2008 14:20:00 +0000

They keep on moving. Check out my post on Brazen Careerist.

Warning: The post does not include the words, "Story of my life." I know, it's rough, but there's a time and a place for everything.

Words Travel

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Thu, 15 May 2008 01:30:00 +0000

Mine do, at least. Check out my first post for the website about a superhero whose domain is love or the lack thereof (appropriate for me). If you come across any interesting articles or news about love/dating/relationships/smooch-material, do pass on. Story of my life musings to come soon.

Why These Men Will Never See Me Naked

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Thu, 08 May 2008 02:37:00 +0000

I’m a firm believer that misdirected attention is a strong current that pulls my chances of ever finding a loving relationship out of Cupid’s reach. The following vignettes are true instances of men – whom I would never bring home to Mom and Dad - showing me unwanted attention. All occurred within a span of one (1!) week, just to drive home the point that I surely must have assaulted someone in another life to have such tainted love karma.

● Leaving the grocery store, a homeless man standing outside the exit asked me for money. Rain + hands full of groceries + concern for safety as a 5’2” woman pulling her wallet out at night = motivation to just keep walking.

“Can’t I even get a hug?” he shouted after me. I grimaced in his direction, provoking him to call out obscenities about my body. Glorious.

● A garbage truck drove by me as I was walking to work and the man hanging off the back blew kisses at me. Right, like I would ever go for someone who didn’t wear their seat belt.

● The student teacher assisting in yoga class checked me out as I rolled out my mat. Throughout class he gave new meaning to the term “hands-on assists,” introducing his hands to my hips, upper thighs, and the outer edges of my ears (weird).

When I was in Paschimothanasana, he squatted behind me - placing a foot to the outside of each tush cheek – and pressed his belly (Buddha-esque) against my back, pushing forward to ease me further into the pose and apparently accomplish his own ulterior motive. Gross.

● On the metro home after my invasive yoga class, an Irish man leaned over to me and said, (read in your best Irish accent) “You have a striking resemblance to that woman in the poster o’r there.” Oh, you mean the woman who’s twice my age with crows feet, a side part (and a barrette to boot), and is endorsing asthma medication for her five year old son? Why thank you. Story of my life.

Obladi Oblada.

My Single Commotion

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Sat, 03 May 2008 03:51:00 +0000

I was feeling a little bored at work recently – more so because I was tired and felt like I was useless in my lethargic state, less so because of my job (which I really like).

So I did what anyone else would do; I went on Facebook. I noticed that my profile seemed a little more robust than those of my friends, compelling me to delete some Jackie-facts. I removed the notation about my being single because I'm always single; it's a given, basically.

Well, this caused a bit of a stir, in the form of three people almost immediately contacting me – two from across the ocean (how I love me a European) – all male, one gay (story of my life).

Why such an interest? I wish I knew.

One inquiry came from the live-in beau of my co-worker, another from a gay best friend who wouldn't have me (I might have suggested it), and the third interest in my status change was from someone with whom I shared a memorable embrace on a small island off the Dalmatian Coast of Croatia in the wee hours of the night. Ok, so maybe it's a good thing that he cared.

And then when I was checking in this afternoon for the Avon walk for breast cancer that I'm doing over the weekend, the song with the dominant lyric, "Been around the world and I, I, I…I can't find my baby," was playing.

It occurred to me that this is my theme song. I'm well-traveled – 17 countries have my footprint (18 in June…Opa!) – and I have not a baby to show for it.

He Has Returneth to Moi

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 12:59:00 +0000

I don’t know what I’m trying to accomplish with that title, but nonetheless, onward with my senseless revelation of all things that should remain unspoken (or un-typed).

My favorite yoga teacher went to India for two weeks, and it took a toll on me. He’s someone who likely doesn’t know the affect he has on people (me). When not providing the gentlest, hands-on guidance during a yoga practice, he’s a clinical social worker, my basis for feeling like I’ve had a cathartic therapy session after a class with him.

I know you can’t state an affirmation of the future, but dare I affirm that for the rest of my life, he’ll be the yoga teacher that all others are compared to.

I was there - perched on my hot pink yoga mat - for his first post-India class. He smiled and said hello, making me blushing – gay men just have that affect on me. Story of my life.

And as I watched him roll out his mat, light a candle, and set up his iPod, I had this strong desire to wrap myself around his lower leg the way a little kid does when a parent leaves for work/somewhere the kid can’t go.

What would have been so bad if he led class with me affixed to his calf?

Did I mention that I had a dream about him during his sabbatical? I told him after class, following my “I’m so glad you’re back” utterance of yogic love. He said that I was channeling him. Boy was I.

Like I’ve said before, love someone the best way you know how, even if it is an unconventional relationship – the outcome can leave you seeing beauty in a place you never would have looked for it, not to mention a bearer of toned quads.

Nail Polish & Postage, An Unlikely Treasure

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 11:32:00 +0000

I got a “polish change” in the Old Post Office Pavilion during my lunch hour. It’s the more cost effective alternative to a manicure, and you avoid the risk of dirty instruments and trimmed cuticles that grow back thicker.

Getting my nails painted is a far cry from the hair removal activities I used to do on my lunch hour at my former, dreaded job.

I didn’t know that my walk (in search of fresh air and quick culture) to the Old Post Office Pavilion would result in my returning to work with prettified nails, but then again, you never know when a new opportunity is around the corner (or in a historic post office).

I hadn’t been to the Old Post Office Pavilion since my 5th grade class trip, when we visited the landmark for lunch (or was it dinner?). It seemed smaller than I remembered, but I guess I was smaller back then, too. But not by much, because I’m still pretty small. Smaller than I am pretty? A constant internal debate. Story of my life.

But the prettiness of my nails after my modern day visit to the Old Post Office Pavilion? No question. Gorgeous.

So how did I get my nails done at the Old Post Office Pavilion? There was a sign outside for Connie’s Nails, and I thought, “How many people are going into the Old Post Office Pavilion for beauty treatments?”

My hunch was right on. Jennie (not Connie) took me right away, and complimented me on the new hue of my hair. In addition to the nail salon, there are several mall-food-court’esque eateries and touristy souvenir shops in the Old Post Office Pavilion.

I didn’t notice if there is a functioning post office in the Old Post Office Pavilion. Who cares? Not I, so long as Connie and Jennie stay put.

Red in the Face

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 03:08:00 +0000

Why? Because I’m so angry.

Why? Because my hair isn’t red.

I went to the salon to dye my hair, but the end result is anything but red. I feel like I took 10 steps back in the hair game.

Why? Because I’ve been bringing this picture of what I believe to be my soulmate hair color (in the red family) to the last three hair appointments, and each time the stylist (who is very talented) tells me that we have to reduce the blonde and move toward brown before we go toward red.

Fine. She’s considered the expert in dying hair red in DC.

So, we’ve been going to light browns with reddish undertones and some blonde highlights for contrast, and today was the day when we were supposed to make me a redhead. She seemed hesitant when she looked at the photo I brought, and like an artist who refuses to budge even though you are a customer paying LOTS of money (Correct. No one put a gun to my head.), she said that she would do something more subtle, but in the direction of what I wanted.

Ha!

I write to you now as someone with light brown hair with blonde highlights. That’s so mainstream. And I am anything but mainstream.

I’m weird.

That’s why I wanted to go red. Redheads are mysterious and awkward, qualities I think I embody.

I can’t fill the shoes of a blonde; I just don’t have that much fun.

Jackie-fun, yes. But not blonde-fun. That would involve dates (more frequent than annually) and drinking (things other than San Pellegrino).

And I’m not this shallow of a person (I’m really not), even though I’m refusing to let go of the anger I feel about my non-red hair. It’s just that when you have the taste of ‘what’s next?’ always lingering on your tongue, sometimes the only things it seems you can control are tangible ones, like the clothes you wear, the food you eat, and the yoga mat you use (I have two options).

I also got my period the morning of the hair color debacle, and that leaves me severely emotional and feeling like ‘whatever is next’ could only suck. A lot. So my outlook on life (and I guess my hair) nosedives.

My reliably annoying sister also called me in the middle of my hair appointment to check on progress. The salon is on the first floor of the building where she works, so she wanted me to go upstairs and show her the finished product when I was done – which she communicated to me by text message earlier in the day.

Apparently she thinks I need double reinforcement.

Apparently she doesn’t get that for me, haircuts are like massages and movies – I don’t want to be spoken to in the middle of my respite of relaxation from regular life.

I left the salon, called my mom and started to cry, and made no climbs in altitude to see my sister. I walked toward my yoga studio, mat slung on my shoulder in a brown yoga bag with hot pink polka dots to boot – to match the hot pink yoga mat inside.

While on the phone with my mom, my sister called me and I hit “Ignore.” So she called my mom to say that she just went into the salon and they said I had just left. I should meet her at the metro.

Do you see what I’m dealing with? Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that my sister is now also my neighbor. She moved into my building this past weekend. My sister is basically a walking anxiety attack, which doesn’t mesh well with the Zen pace of life I try to lead.

She’s calling as I write this. Story of my life.

If she knocks on my door, I’ll flip my lid.

Come On, Baby, Light My Cherry

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 02:22:00 +0000

Blossom, that is. Tis’ the two-week season when cherry blossoms grace DC and residents and tourists (uninformed metro riders) go berserk for the little flowers embellishing the Tidal Basin and surrounding monuments.

Me and my date for all seasons went on an evening lantern tour (8:00 – 10:00 pm) to see the little (and big) blossoms at the tail end of their revered reign. Approaching the check-in tent, lady date said that she heard every person on the tour gets their own lantern.

This made me glow. Growing up in Florida and only knowing vacation through the lens of Disney World, the prospect of having my very own lantern lit the feeling of magic inside me, a feeling usually only evoked when a Disney character waves to me (like there’s no mistaking it – it’s me they’re greeting) during a parade.

We arrived to a huge crowd of 90 people that had to be split into two separate groups. Don’t worry, lady date and I weren’t separated. Sadly, there were only 20 lanterns to go around, and I wasn’t bestowed with a happy-prop. Story of my life. I know.

A ranger from the US Parks & Recreation department led the tour. Ranger Rose (fitting name for the occasion, huh?) stopped along the way to share historical anecdotes (he had majored in history) and allow people to ask stupid questions (yeah, there is such a thing. I bore witness. Repeatedly.) that made the tour last an additional 20 minutes. On a school night, nonetheless.

My one question for the evening: How often do people fall into the Tidal Basin? A railing is missing from a long section of the basin and, as an unskilled swimmer, I was concerned and curious about their established rescue plan (there isn’t one).

Some people opted to not finish the tour so they passed off their lanterns. ¾ of the way through the tour, I was lantern rich with two vessels of illumination. One died quickly, but the other could rival Kennedy’s eternal flame.

The lanterns made me giddy, and my lady date did a terrific job at capturing my feelings of jubilation.

All photo credits, the severely talented Allison Kirsch.

For inquiring minds, Ranger Rose is 6’4” tall – “without the boots.”

Thanks, Jackie.

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 00:30:00 +0000

I went to Barnes & Noble in search of a card for my friend’s 25th birthday (thank God she’s seeing that milestone first).

I was explaining the term “quarter-life crisis” to my grandpa en route to the store. I told him I’d been feeling the effects of anxiousness, confusion, hypertension (have I really?), a sense of urgency, and [insert other desperate sounding side effect] since my early 20s, so maybe the reverse of typical quarter-life feelings would be my destiny on the day I turn 25 (August 9). Fingers, arms, and legs crossed. Picture it.

“I think you’ve been dealing with that since you were born.”

Thanks, Poppa.

As for my friend (buddies since pre-school), she has quarter-life feelings, too, but she’s found her way to grad school (oh how I wish I could revive my lunch pail) and is one-half of a loving relationship (as for me, that’ll be the day).

Anyway, I approached the check-out counter and a guy with a masculine appearance spoke to me in a tone that didn’t match his scruffy exterior. His subdued, calming voice breathed an inquiry about my status as a Barnes & Noble rewards club member. I said that I wasn’t a card carrying member and, much to my surprise, he didn’t try to recruit me to his side of the register.

I struggled with my wallet to retrieve $3.12 (For paper! Just paper and a message my writing could rival. “Why not make your own card,” you ask? Because I don’t have the time or the energy at present time, but I do have the supplies.)

The manly cashier handed me a bag with the card inside (wasteful in an environmental sense?) and said, “Thanks, Jackie.”

The “God?” in the beginning of Madonna’s Like a Prayer found its rhythm in my head.

Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like home

I paused for a few seconds and then asked how he knew my name.

“It’s on your license.”

Just like a prayer, your voice can take me there
Just like a muse to me, you are a mystery
Just like a dream, you are not what you seem
Just like a prayer, no choice your voice can take me there

And then – in the way that I always want to know how things work – I questioned if he saw my license when I was fumbling with my wallet.

“Yeah,” he said with a smile.

But my license says, “Jacqueline.”

How did he know I go by “Jackie,” I wondered pronouncedly, (a state of mind that often leaves my lips ajar/not a pretty expression). Story of my life.

I walked away smiling to myself (and maybe to passersby?), amused with the simple exchange that made me feel so alive.

Caught Between a Sheepdog and My Moral Conscience

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 02:48:00 +0000

As I was leaving Firehook Bakery with a soy au lait in hand, I pulled open the door and in walked a sheepdog (rather, everything but the sheepdog’s hind legs). The sheepdog’s leash was tied to a bench just outside the place that has the best oat bran muffin in town (and no longer seems to charge extra for soy milk - score).

“Uh ohhh,” I thought to myself.

I hadn’t taken a sip of my awakening potion yet and, therefore, my reflexes were reminiscent of molasses.

I stood there between the sheepdog and the door, feeling paralyzed. I started to let the door inch toward closing, but the sheepdog didn’t budge. Story of my life.

Now I’m also a little scared of big dogs, so I didn’t want to pull on his leash or nudge his hairy frame with my own hand. So, I just stood there with my right hand preventing the door from closing on the sheepdog’s neck and my soy au lait in my left hand, beckoning me to drink its contents.

The layout of the bakery is a long hallway, with the counter on one side and tables for two on the other side. In the midst of my sheepdog predicament, it was as if everyone at their tables (those patrons facing my direction) leaned slightly in toward the walkway so they could see what was happening in the doorway – namely, a sheepdog making me look like a complete idiot.

The patrons looked at me and the pooch, then leaned back in to their edibles and beverages (all of which I hoped were poisoned because they didn’t help me).

If I just let the door go, it would have pinned the sheepdog between the door and the door frame right at the sheepdog’s neck, and I believe I would have been stoned.

Finally, a woman at a table nearby said, “I’m going to help this poor woman.”

Wait a second…I’m a woman? And the beat goes on.

She very confidently put her hand under the sheepdog’s head – near his upper torso and lower neck – and pushed him outside, making a “shhh shhh shhh shhh” noise. I quickly let go of the door and headed down Connecticut Ave., back to my apartment in time for my monthly women’s writing group.