The Adventures of Mr. Snowman

He was born on the day after Christmas 2010 around 11:30 in the morning. He quickly grew to about two feet, a toothy grin on his face as he jauntily tipped his hat to the ladies (or lady, as it were). I ran inside to get my camera and came back out to find him so bereft at my departure that he was threatening drastic action by sliding perilously close to the edge of my truck hood.

"Don't do it, you cad," I said, shoving him back closer to the windshield. "There's no need to be so dramatic."

I formulated a quick relocation plan to which he responded by spitting a tooth out at me and losing an eyeball. "Mr. Snowman..." I warned. I safely deposited him in the nearby flower bed and performed a hasty reattachment procedure to restore him to his former health. He thanked me by tipping his pie pan hat to me once more. I left him there to stand guard over the foot path in my absence. Poor guy... kind of a rough first day in the world.

My ensuing snow-capped adventures included a brisk walk through our Winter Wonderland during which I discovered that while my snowball making skills have greatly improved, my snowball throwing skills still leave something to be desired. After numerous failed attempts to hit trees, realty postings, and a stop sign, I realized that my chances of being able to hit the broad side of a barn were slim. One would think having survived DC's epic blizzard earlier in the year, I would have honed such skills, but alas, my aim remains disastrous. I guess we can't be good at everything, can we, Mr. Snowman?

MOVIE REVIEW: Take Two

Someone please tell me why I only got around to watching Ironman two nights ago? People kept telling me it was awesome, but for some reason, I would always shrug it off. It's even been in my Netflix Watch Instantly queue for months now, and it's only because they're threatening to make it unavailable at the end of the year that I got my tail in gear and pressed play.

It. Was. Great. Outside of the most recent Batman movies, this is the only movie I've seen based on a comic book that never went Cheez Whiz on me. Robert Downey Jr. was perfect as Tony Stark. He was his usual quippy, sardonic self, but that's part of what I love about him. In contrast, it was also one of my reasons for originally not wanting to see the movie because it was hard to picture him as a super hero, but I LOVED him as this one. I lost count of the number of times I laughed out loud, especially during the beta trials of his new suit. I could rewatch the part where he slams himself into the wall eleventy times. He got his butt kicked often and actually came away from it bloody and worse for the wear. I do not like superheroes who get hurt and then two seconds later, their wounds have disappeared and they don't even have super healing.

The writing, plot, and casting were all right on, although I found the chemistry between Downey and Paltrow slightly lacking. It felt more like a friendship then anything, and while I enjoyed their interactions, I'm glad it never became a major focus. I hate it when the love interest feels forced for the purpose of appealing to a female audience. I appreciated, too, that the major conflict in the film paralleled current events, thereby giving it more relevance. It made a not so subtle point about the situation in the Middle East; a point easier to swallow because there was a hero who could effectively solve the combative problems that the US has encountered throughout. It makes me wish there really WAS an Ironman.

All in all, a really fun ride from start to finish. Yet another movie that's moving RDJ up in my list of favorites. Keep 'em comin'.

BOOK REVIEW: Water for Elephants

I hadn’t even read a summary of this book when I first picked up Sara Gruen’s recent bestseller, Water for Elephants, a cast-off from a former roommate, so I had no idea what I was in for. Several chapters through and I was having to force myself to put it down and jerk myself out of the world of early twentieth century Big Tops so I could get other things accomplished. Through Gruen’s understated, descriptive style, I could smell the popcorn, taste the cotton candy, and hear the snorts of animals and shouts of working men across miles of worn canvas.

The story moves at the pace of the circus train on which it is set through the flashback narration of the book’s protagonist, Jacob Jankowski; who in present day finds himself threatening to waste away in a nursing home. Gruen’s stark portrayal of Jacob’s current environs contrasts nicely with the brilliance and uncertainty of his days with the circus. It’s humming florescent lights versus wide open sky and flashy sequins. The plot is twisted and gritty and the portrayal of bosses and workers raw and unapologetic. Every scene is sometimes glamourous, sometimes brutal, but often a heady mix of both. The black and red striped cover of the book called to me like a drug whenever I was in the same room.

Yet in addition to the lovely undercurrent of tension, what breathes life into this story more than anything is Gruen’s meticulous research and attention to detail. The book is peppered with bright anecdotes, all the more fantastic because most of them are based on actual occurrences, but nonetheless woven seamlessly into the existing framework. I am at risk of sounding clichéd by calling this book a tour de force, but just like the circus it describes, so it is. A true case of one man’s junk is another man’s treasure, I’m all the richer for having nabbed this one from the donation pile.

Attic Treasures

Note to the world: I am at this very moment learning how to play the Ukelele. My friend Audrey bequeathed me hers as she was leaving Hawaii, and I'm just now, 7 years later, sliding it out of it's purple Aloha floral printed case to let it see the light of day. Or the light of the fire since the sun has already gone down, and I'm once again running up my mother's gas bill by enjoying the Insta-Flame. Bygones. Side note, I don't believe my Go Go Gadget fingers were created to play the Ukelele because my thumb is already cramping up, and I can't for the life of me seem to put enough pressure on the 1st fret to play a clean B Flat Minor chord. Frustration squiggle! I also need to develop fingertip calluses pronto. All of that said, I do believe it is break time.

But Baby it's Cold in Here

It's late, the house is dark, and I came into the living room because I think it rather romantic to write by the glow of the fire and the Christmas lights. I am by no means a pyromaniac, but I LOVE fires; so long as they are in places where fires are supposed to be ie: fireplaces, wood burning stoves, etc. There's just something about the smell and the sound of wood crackling and popping, or in the case of my mom's house, the constant woosh of gas. It is rather convenient to turn a fire off and on as easily as turning on the light. PRESS. Instant ambience. However, my plans have been somewhat thwarted as the timer on the Christmas tree just went off, and if I'm not careful and hurry this up, the reindeer standing eerily at attention beside me and the mantel lights are going to wink into darkness as well. Then it will just be me and the fire which I sometimes want to crawl into for warmth.

I have to point out here that my mother keeps the temperature of her house hovering somewhere between 60 and 65 degrees during the winter. Which, to those of you who aren't accustomed to this, is freakin' cold. I sleep with a heating blanket left on all night, and I'm not a cold sleeper. My body often heats up like a little thermostat and I'm good to go, if not sweating bullets and having to kick off sheets. In this house, however, I find myself burrowing into my self-made little bear cave, trying to drown out the sounds of the infernal bonging desk clock on the other side of my wall. It chimes every fifteen minutes in varying degrees of length. Thankfully I'm usually asleep by the time midnight rolls around, otherwise I'd be launching my stuffed Rudolph through the sheetrock at it. Not exactly the job position he signed up for. And for the record, I sleep late here, not because I'm tired and lazy, but because I'm putting off the dreaded meeting with the chilly air as long as possible. The bathroom is really far away, and I don't have my ski coat nearby...

Holiday Hijinks

My mom just beat me in Scrabble. What the flip. And not by a few points either, but by like 50. Me, with the extensive vocabulary. She then proceeded to wave her little wooden tile holder in my face like a jerk. I need not mention (although clearly I already am) that she gained her victory by piggy backing on my own brilliant, lengthy words, but the malicious laughter and gloating was entirely unnecessary. I know I've always been a bit of a sore loser, but I was hoping that my age and experience would have remedied that. No such luck. I left the couch feeling vaguely dissatisfied and grumbling to myself while my parents snickered in the background. I did not appreciate the peanut gallery commentary.

In other news, we did family Christmas early for the first time in my entire life. The holidays look a little different this year for reasons not the least of which is my recent propensity to bounce around the planet like a ping pong ball in as short a time frame as I can manage. Other reasons include family circumstances which cannot be helped, but Christmas feels odd. I'm not sure Santa will be able to find me. I guess it's a good thing he doesn't exist. It appears to be a great year to start remembering why we celebrate in the first place. Trust God to shake up the snow globe when things get a bit too comfortable.

Dear Life, Please Start Making Sense

China - South Carolina - Mexico - Chicago - Austria - California - Germany - Hawaii - Budapest

This, ladies and gents, is what my Christmas card list looks like. I mean, I'm not gonna toot my own horn or anything, but that's kinda cool. Ok, so maybe I am (toot, toot!).  There are times that I love my international lifestyle.  Other times, it just exhausts me. I had a friend ask me Saturday night if I was finding what I was looking for in all of my traveling. The momentum of my forthcoming response slammed into a concrete retaining wall. I'm not entirely sure, but if memory serves, I stared at the cement floor for a beat. I shrugged my shoulders, gave my 'whatever' face and said, "Yeah, I don't really know what I'm looking for. I figure one of these days I'll just trip over it and be irritated for a second that I stubbed my toe." Then I laughed a little, somewhat awkwardly.

I have to say, though, that two-second slice of conversation has had me moving through molasses ever since. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only person who thinks about life in such agonizing detail. It's as if I'm afraid one small, wrong decision is going to send me spiraling down into a dark abyss of unfulfillment. If I could describe my life in one word, it would be SIGH. Those four letters just about sum it up. I'm finding out there's a reason this is the road less traveled. Because it's freakin' hard! (whine, moan, complain). Alright, that's it, I'm done. I'm gonna go eat ice cream now and contemplate the color of the walls.

Best Month Ever? MARCH

Just found out I have the same birthday as Justin Bieber. How do I know this? Because the coolest person I know, JJ Lefors (she's making me type this), just bought his book First Step 2 Forever: My Story.

(We do not need to talk about how sad it is that this kid is not only just 16 years old, but in addition to having at least two multi-platinum albums out, has also managed to publish his first book. It's official, I'm a slacker.)

Bright Lights, Big City

I'm officially back in the old hood. Literally. Like only two blocks over. Except this time, only for less than two weeks. I drove here, just like normal, but I took the long way; stopping for two hours at Eddie Bauer (a $130 gift card was forced on me); doing circles around the Concord Mills Mall while eating my Chic-Fil-A chicken nuggets because I swear someone switched the I-85 arrows around just for kicks; spending a rather irate hour at a service station alternately cursing at/hitting/ripping off my interior dome light as regardless of how much WD-40 I sprayed into the door latches, it STILL would not turn off; almost being sideswiped by a semi doing 60 on I-95 just outside of Richmond (it took an entire day for my heartbeat to slow down to something resembling normal); and noticing upon my slow, rather bumpy arrival that the District has accomplished exactly nothing in the two months I've been gone to further the installation of the H Street trolley. Dixon almost reached a wheel around and slapped me for subjecting him once again to the horrors of H Street pavement. I'm sorry baby!! But I did thoroughly Rain-X all of your glass surfaces to a pearlescent, road trip ready, rain-resistant sheen! That has to count for something!

I'm at 'my' coffeehouse again, drinking tea, putting off being productive just like old times. It's like entering these city limits sucks every industrious tendency right out of me. Wait a minute... maybe I don't have any industrious tendencies to begin with. I foresee this being a problem. Shoot!

***THIS BLOG IS BEING TEMPORARILY INTERRUPTED DUE TO SELF-IMPOSED DEMANDS FOR FECUNDITY*** (and before you pull out your Impressed hats, I totally thesaurussed that word)

Bubble Gum Tutus

Does the recent royal engagement have any other 28-yr old girl wishing she were a princess? It's getting a bit ridiculous. I'd never even heard the name Kate Middleton until about a week ago, and in Germany no less, and now she's popping up everywhere, and I find myself running to the TV room the minute I hear her name. Although by all indications (we were born the same year, he's royalty, he's handsome, etc. etc.) I should have had posters of Prince William plastered all over my bedroom walls as a teenager, but I didn't. I'd occasionally read a story standing in line at the grocery store, but wasn't nearly as fascinated as half the world. I mourned the loss of his mother just like the rest of the planet, but more because I, too, was fifteen when it happened and couldn't imagine what he must have been feeling every time I saw his somber face grace another broadcast about Diana's death. The past decade, my finger has been as far off the pulse of British royalty as it could get, but now he's engaged, and I want to BE this girl. Not necessarily because she's marrying Prince William, I'm sure he's great, but she's gonna be a freakin' princess!! What does that feel like when one goes to sleep at night? It's every six year old girl's dream. It's why the girls' section of toy departments looks like a bubble gum colored tutu exploded and rained down tiara shrapnel.

In our late 20's, though, this dream takes on a much classier, elegant air and the tutus and tiaras are replaced with sleek designer dresses and Glamour and shiny expanses of floors just begging to be danced upon. This girl is taking up half a page of the Style section in the Charlotte paper and I am positively green with envy. I wanna be a princess! No fair! (cue protruding lower lip and foot stomp)

Lufthansa, where have you been all my life?

Let me just say, for the record, that I LOVE Lufthansa airlines. One, they give you booze for free. Not that I'm a huge boozer myself, but when the drink cart comes round and they're offering me red or white wine, champagne or beer at no extra charge, I am happy to oblige. After dinner, the stewardess even waived a bottle of Bailey's around to gauge interest. It's like the bottle was glowing and angelic voices were singing "Ahhhh!" I do love that stuff. If you're ever offering it for free, Yes ma'am, sign me up.

Two, they have Tillamook cheese slices with every meal. I enjoyed two delicious pieces, one with my glass of red, the other after a sleepless night sitting almost straight up one seat over from the funniest, most critical 80-yr old Czechoslovakian woman I've ever met. Her fingers were like sausages as they indignantly flipped magazine pages, she muttering her displeasure about the man in front of her practically sleeping in her lap the entire flight. And the whole plane heard about it.

Three, they brought around water and juice at least once an hour, regardless of the comatose state of the plane. Thank you sincerely, Lufthansa! I'm so glad to see that you're concerned about my possible dehydration. It's those small little touches that make all the difference. Airlines in America, please take note.

Please Record your Extended Absence Greeting

My apologies to my readers for my somewhat, but not really, lengthy absence. I simply cannot be bothered while in Europe. A huh huh huh (haughty laugh, hair flip).  That and the fact that I'm using a German keyboard which means the 'z' and the 'y' are switched so every several words I have to backspace because I have once again tzped something that makes no sense. However, for the faithful, I will copy a few back entries from my travel journal. Enjoz.

MINUTES THE FIRST
Still the coolest thing ever. Looking out the window of a ginormous aircraft as we ride the air pressure off the ground and the horizon line goes all wonky. It's almost a feeling of weightlessness, like if I took off my seatbelt, I'd go floating through the cabin; yet in the next minute, gravity pulls my lower back heavily into the seat. It's no wonder people need barf bags. I think my stomach just rolled back to the bathrooms.

The golden Lufthansa bird-like stick figure peeks off of everything, and the first language of every announcement is German. Not a problem, as I speak it, but what begins to frustrate me is not that my skills have gotten so rusty, but that they speak so damn softly! "I can't hear you!" I want to scream. I understand just fine, I just need an ear cone to pick up all of your super soft syllables. Why do people who don't speak English insist on whispering? Maybe that's why Americans sound like we're using bullhorns in comparison. Ahhh, that's it! Mystery solved. We're not the loudest people on the planet! Everyone else just speaks in secrets.

Boulder-ing, Colorado

I'm sitting here in the bright, almost blinding sun in downtown Boulder, it's a refreshing 48º outside, I'm drinking the most beautiful latte I've ever had (butter pecan, YUM), and listening to Korean pop through Itunes (yes, this is happening). Weekend recap: Friday night, I went indoor rock-climbing for the second time ever. The minute I walked in, I jerked my eyes up to the ridiculous heights of the ceiling and the numerous people spider-monkeying their way up the walls, climbing ropes dangling like Spanish moss. I gulped. This was so not my scene. Not that I'm not adventurous, but my upper body strength leaves something to be desired, and I could just imagine hanging haphazardly from one of the multi-colored handholds with my friend shouting at me, "Left foot, LEFT foot, no, your other left!" I don't know what it is about getting halfway up a climbing wall that makes me forget basic lateral directions. These are things I learned at two, for crying out loud. The index finger and thumb of the appropriate hand even form the first letter of one of them, just in case I do go blank, a hint that doesn't help when said fingers are curled in a tight grip.

That said, I didn't do too badly. I summited (spell check is telling me this isn't a word, but I beg to differ) two different challenges (novice of course) and was rewarded a triumphant slide down the yellow tube. During my ascent, there may or may not have been calls of "Move your right foot, right foot; You're bending your arms; Find a new place for your feet, hurry up or you're gonna get tired" but whatever, I did it. I fell off a few times, and in bouldering there is no climbing rope, so good thing I have sufficient experience falling off pointe shoes to know how not to snap my ankle. I just knew that would come in handy.

Cut to next morning. Holy mother. I peeled open my eyes and rolled over to which my body responded, "Why do you hate me?" I wasn't aware one used the forearm for much, but this turned out to be a gross misconception as it squealed in pain practically all day.  It is necessary for writing, slicing cheese, twisting caps off water bottles, lifting coffee mugs, and opening car doors to name a few. My legs and hindquarters were in similar disarray leaving me muttering ‘Ouch’ with every step down the stairs, so I soaked in the gym hot tub until my bones turned into noodles. Lesson learned? Jenn will not be scaling a rock face any time soon.

Ants Marching

There's something that I'm in the middle of trying to accomplish. Without giving too many details, in this particular endeavor, I feel like David going up against Goliath. This is the biggest challenge I've ever come up against when trying to do something I've set my mind to do. Granted, I've only been at this for a few days, but yesterday ended with me being incredibly frustrated, a state I tried to alleviate by plopping my bum down on a curb and calling the two people who might have cared to listen to me moan and complain. As the phones on the other end were ringing to no avail, I noticed an ant moving a grit across the asphalt. Well, it probably wasn't a grit considering this is Colorado, but it looked like a grit, so in this story, a grit it will remain.

So there's this ant, carrying a grit that's three times his size, and he's just booking it across what to him is probably very mountainous terrain. For a moment, I felt like this ant. All of the sudden, the ant hit a deep indention, and the grit fell in with him still gripping it, thereby causing him to be head first with his numerous legs flailing in the air. I laughed out loud, despite the fact that everything was happening on a microscopic scale. I'm not sure how long it was, but the ant was upside down on his grit for quite a while. I kept cheering for him, telling him he just needed to crawl around a little more and find the asphalt with his feet again. I wondered how long I would flail upside down on a grit before giving up and jumping off. Which the ant did eventually. But then he came back to it, grabbed it with his ant-y pincers, and continued on his way. I could imagine him saying, "You will not win, Grit! You will come with me!" I hope I am similarly able to conquer my own grit. It is no small thing to emulate the diligence of an ant, and I feel we could all learn a little something.

Free Hugs

Maybe we should all do this a little more and connect with each other just because we're human.

An International Car Lot

I am convinced that everyone drives Subarus here. It's funny that everywhere I visit, there is a specific vehicle more prolific than all others. Here in Boulder, it's the Subaru. In Germany, it was the BMW sedan, and if not the sedan, than the Z3 or Z4 sports coupe, but bearing the blue and white circular hood ornament nonetheless. Of course, according to my host father, BMWs in Germany were the everyman's car. The affluent drove Porsches. He would know. He owned a Carrera.

In the DC hood, it was the Escalade (plenty of backseat for a variety of drugs), and downtown it was the Lexus (ample trunk space for all the taxpayers' dollars). In South Carolina, it was a Toyota or Ford (sold with gun rack), and in Mexico it was the Volkswagen bug. Apparently in the US, the old version of the VW Bug was recalled due to some safety concerns. Mexico must not have Federal Motor Vehicle Safety Standards as the 80s version bug was parked on practically every corner and shabby driveway. They even occasionally hacksawed the roof off in do-it-yourself convertible style. Based on how many people took one look at my torn up leg after my accident and seemed to know exactly what happened, the lack of safety regulations doesn't surprise me.

So in fitting with custom, I, too, am driving a Subaru. There is no bike rack on top, there is a baby seat in the back and a Jesus fish on the bumper, but other than that, I fit right in. My defensive driving skills may be a little bit more aggressive due to years of city driving (freakin' A, would you just GO already?), but I may just mellow out with the rest of the Coloradans if I'm not careful. Then again, a little more mellow may not be a bad thing.

Eggboo

There's a restaurant here called Eggboo. The sign states that it is Thai and Sushi, and in that context, I suppose the name makes sense. However, I can't help but envision some woman in the Projects frying up breakfast and hollering out to her man, "Come get yo' egg, boo!" Not exactly what the owners of this particular establishment had in mind, I'm sure, but regardless of the clarification below the name and the accompanying Asian flare smiley face (The eyes look like this ><. No really, they do.), I'm still picturing Shanequa and her eggs. I guess it's a product of living on the edge of the DC ghetto for too long.

Jane Austen and the Rockies

I took a walk yesterday through the fields across from the neighborhood where I'm staying. I felt a bit like Elizabeth Bennett. They didn't really do much in those days, aside from read a lot of books, sit prettily around the house, and go for long walks through the English meadows. I've always been a bit jealous of being able to take a walk through all of that space and air, but while Boulder is much more brown than England in summer, the Bennetts never had the cornflower blue sky and the Rockies at which to look, and I was able to get in a similar walk after all. There was still a lot of time left over after walking the fields and breathing in the sunshine, but that's what I have tea for. Of which I have been drinking copious amounts.

Someone told me that it is sunny here 300 days out of the year. I could definitely get used to this. Even when it snows, she said. Sunny and blue skies. I need to get my tail out on those mountains soon. Every time I look at them, they seem to ask me to come play. I don't know if Lizzie Bennett would ever have gone running all over some mountains, but I like to think that if given the chance, she would. She never struck me as being very conventional.

Just. Breathe.

The immense blue of the sky reached down into my chest and expanded there, no matter that the size of my ribcage is akin to a grain of sand in comparison. The highway stretched on, up, and over the land as we traversed the length of it on our way from the airport. The mountains hung like a back drop in the distance, unreal in their flatness, sunlight cascading down through the clouds in beatific streams. From my first step into the airport, I felt like I could breathe easier. Everything is cleaner here, the atmosphere everywhere more crisp. I can almost reach out and touch the air, it is so present in front of me.

I chase the sunlight to the edge of the yard, soaking it up like a sponge, thankful for the darkness of my jeans warming up like a heating blanket. The grass is lush, shiny and cool on my bare feet; the water from the tap liquid silk in my throat. The hours given to me here are frightening at times in their multitude, but it is no easy feat to learn the art of being. I read somewhere recently that more can be learned in a moment of silence than all the noise in the world could ever teach.

"Hey McFly!!"

Going to my high school reunion was like stepping into Michael J. Fox’s Delorian and blazing a trail back in time. I’m not on Facebook, so I’ve heard hide nor hair of most of these people since we walked across that rather shaky stage and took our diplomas, but some things never change. My friend Adam’s greeting upon my entrance was, “Hey, you’re not dead!” and a few other utterances throughout the evening served to prove that he’s just as charming and obnoxious as ever. Except now also the father of three. 

There was the cheerleader/Homecoming Queen/Miss GHS coming up to hug me like we were good friends back then (we weren’t); the brashy redhead who was my on again/off again friend, the only girl I’ve ever met who’s just as willful and sarcastic and stubborn as me (she still is); and the rest of the rather popular eight who besides different hairstyles and slightly better fashion sense hadn’t changed much. We even sang our football team’s fight song, and after doing choo-choo arms in a conga line around the room to the Train song, I had to double check the date on my phone. Arriving back to the soft, sleeping darkness of my parents’ house, the lamp in my room left on like years before, I almost looked in my bookbag for unfinished homework. (I hope Mark will be in class on Monday!!!) 

My friend Jessica told me I looked totally different. I told her I just straightened my hair. Maybe it's because I've lived lifetimes since then. Or maybe it's because they finally got to see me dance.

Road Trip 6 - Oldest City in America

St. Augustine teeters on the edge of the Floridian coast and the Atlantic Ocean like a stepchild left behind by father Europe. It holds tenuously to the mainland by a recently rebuilt bridge, modeled to look like the original with sentineled lampposts piercing the blue sky. The streets wind gently around Flagler College: a magnificent old world hotel still boasting columns of dark oak and a shiny entryway tiled with the cocoa browns, burnt oranges, and rusty reds of the early Spanish settlers.

The gardens are immaculately groomed; reds and purples and yellows bursting from behind neatly trimmed box hedges while the glossy palm trees babysit the downtown area, placating the steaming sidewalks outside of luxurious art galleries. Although the town itself is rather humble beyond its Spanish architecture, I imagine the older rich come here to vacation and acquire rare pieces they simply must have on display in their homes. For the more middle class are the alleys built to be tourist traps: chinky shops, the oldest house and oldest school room, the festival where everyone dresses like a pirate - not that there's anything wrong with that. I can imagine grown men wearing eye patches galavanting along the stone walls of the old fort, shooting off imaginary cannons over the port, looking out for a splash and a hit. To each their own, I suppose. I, for one, am quite enamored of the place.

Road Trip 5 - YUM

Caught this guy in a crab trap and had him for dinner, and as far as crab goes, he was delicious. Although turns out that I don't really like crab meat solo, so it is very possible this guy died for nothing, but he sure was pretty to look at.

We let him have a little stroll around the driveway before icing him. We figured it was the least we could do. 

Road Trip 4 - Oh Savannah, Don't You Cry For Me

Savannah creeps up on you slowly. You can be out in the middle of nowhere-ville Georgia tidal country, and half an hour down a two-lane highway later, big houses and Spanish moss are flanking the car doors on either side. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil made this city famous, and one can see why. One block in and you're practically walking on the pages themselves, descriptive words flying around at every turn. From the antiqued green fountains anchoring every square to the Southern mansions holding down the perimeters, this city drips old world Southern charm. Throw in the Savannah river, a brick walk along side, some quaint tourist trap shops and seafood restaurants, and the image is complete. Sprinkled with the occasional Jimmy Buffet cover artist of course.

Henry Ford had a plantation here that is simply beautiful and sizably ostentatious, and I was told that Juliet Gordon Low's house was a teensy bit scandalous due to her having placed her garden in the front yard. Everyone knows that when you work in the garden, menfolk can see your wrists, and that's just a bit too risqué. I can't find supporting information anywhere on the internet however, so that could be either accurate or inaccurate history. Bygones. At the very least, it's an interesting tidbit.

Road Trip 3 - Tackiest Place on Earth

A road trip down I-95 South in the Carolinas isn't a road trip without a stop at South of the Border - truly the tackiest place on Earth. I hear from my Mom's and from Jenilee's childhood recollections that this place used to be a wonderland of color, yummy oh-so-bad-for-you food, and millions of kids' gotta-have-this trinkets that are the bane of every parent's existence. South of the Border hasn't changed that much, but viewing it as an adult is a bit like seeing through a glamour that's cracked and peeling around the edges. Oh don't worry... the garish colors still abound on every fiberglass surface the eye can see, the unhealthy food is sold daily in any one of Pedro's various restaurants, and the kitchy brick-a-brack with which people still somehow manage to litter their houses dangles from every nook and cranny on both sides of the highway.

For $2.90, you TOO can own your very own Pedro!

You can also purchase more than enough salt-peter products to effectively blow up a front yard on a redneck holiday, and last but not least, please pet the Fruit Stripes zebras on your way back to the car. Be careful. Turns out they're not bolted down, and people must have run out of space on the cinderblock bathroom walls because they have Sharpied some not so nice things on their chests. Oh Carolina - practically another country even without a successful secession. 

Road Trip 2 - Woops, My B

No sitting in the corner for misbehavers in Williamsburg, VA. Sucks to be colonial. 

Road Trip 1 - Dear DC Metro Area, Please Learn How to Drive

I tend to say one of several things when I’m frustrated with certain tedium. One: “I’m gonna poke my eyeballs out with a stick” accompanied by matching hand gestures. Two: “That makes me want to slam my head against a wall.” Three: “I’m gonna start clawing at the WALLS!!” Being stuck in traffic on southbound 95 headed out of DC on Friday morning made me want to simultaneously do all three. Add to this seismic stomach cramps, a misbehaving nerve ending in my right leg provoked by repeated brake-gas-brake motions, and American drivers’ absolute inability to efficiently merge, and our road trip was NOT off to a good start. We made it to Williamsburg in a record five hours; a trip that normally takes three. Welcome to... Awesome Town.

Video of the Day

More apt than I can say right now.

In The Age

Sometimes I wish I had been born in the age of the great artists and poets. It seems that there was a time when creativity flowed much more freely than it does now. Men sculpted and painted, wrote sonnets and built cathedrals.  In many ways, the amount of beauty in men's creations seems diminished. Things have been reduced to various layers of binary code and javascript.  My mother told me the other day that they've stopped teaching cursive writing in schools. Another thing of beauty discarded. We're slowly losing the art in things.

I went to the Smithsonian's West Gallery yesterday, hiding where the sculptures are because the tourists tend to shy away from them. Everyone wants to see pretty acrylics spread across canvas, but figures in bronze and marble they can usually do without. I like them though. They're silently beautiful, and in the quiet of the galleries, they play their own kind of music. I saw a piece by Auguste Rodin called "Evil Spirits:" a white marble statue of a seated woman, bent over with her elbows on her knees. Two human-like figures clung to either side of her. None of them showed their faces, but one had the woman's hair wrapped around its head in a shackle made of tresses. It hit a bit close to home. In the age of great artists and poets, they were able to mold predicaments of the soul into shapes of marble and onto stretches of linen. If only we still did.

What the heck am I doing here?

I have come to Sidamo, my favorite coffee house on the Hill; usually an oasis of calm at which I can tend to be fairly productive. Yet I walk in on this rather ordinary Monday, and it is packed with people. There are four new mothers surrounding the coffee roaster lovingly rubbing their infants' backs like beatific madonnas. Every now and then, one of them emits a grating scream. One of the infants, not one of the mothers. There are people standing around waiting on their lunch orders, and for a minute, one girl's purse is practically in what I'm guessing is my iced vanilla latte. I ordered my usual iced vanilla coffee but was given this already milky, slightly bubbly concoction, that, although delicious, isn't quite what I had in mind. I have yet to dive in to my white paper bag for my croissant (I ordered it for here), and I'm really hoping it has the bacon and cheese that I requested.

After lucking out yesterday, catching every yellow light between Lincoln Park and Union Station and snagging a pretty sweet parking spot just down on 2nd Street, jumping the metro train 2.5 seconds before it closed its doors, making it to Chinatown with T minus 20 minutes before show time to jump across the street to California Tortilla, grab a burrito, make it back across to the theatre to buy my ticket, pick out seats, run back and stand in the concession line to pick up my free small Cherry Coke, and STILL make it back in time for the previews, today has been a bit disappointing already. And it's barely past noon. I woke up in a funk, which is never good, because there isn't much other place for the day to go. As opposed to making me hopeful for the future, watching Eat Pray Love last night left me with a decidedly unsettled feeling in my stomach. Afterwards, my two friends happily reminisced about all of their travels and suggested possibly renting a group villa in Italy, etc. etc. I remained silent. I felt a panic that has carried over into this new day, and I fear I'm about to start once again making decisions out of desperation. I'm going to cheat on DC again and soon. I can feel it.

Velvet Nights

My now good friend, JJ Lefors (sunshine in human form), and I took a stroll last night to the Washington Monument. We parked her little on-loan blue Yaris on Madison or Jefferson or Abraham or some other presidentially named street running the length of the Mall. We had pulled up with the radio blaring and startled an old Indian man and his wife sitting on a park bench; who, rather than making out, which would have been somewhat gross but would also have had a cuteness factor, were instead sitting facing two different directions, not even touching, which couldn't have been good for their relationship. Immediately upon disembarkation, we heard the lilting old timey strains of "It Had to Be You" drifting out from the loud speakers at the American History museum. I stopped dead still in the middle of the street. The doors had long since been locked, and the inside swam in darkness, but outside, over concrete still very warm from the day's intense rays and humidity, played this classic forties' tune that immediately had me wishing for a USO ball and sleek hair rolls. I had no other choice but to slip off my flip flops and dance. No one was around, and I don't think I would have cared much if they were. The Indian man was still draped over the back of the bench, looking in our direction and must have thought it strange that I was jumping up on the border walls, step-touching the length of them in time to the music.

It's moments like these when I fall in love with this city again. DC and I are very tenuous lovers. I get dissatisfied and am frequently unfaithful, flitting off to try out other places, sights and sounds, but in return, DC retorts that it never made me any promises. Eventually, it comes around and woos me again, making me want to stay just a little bit longer. I can't make a commitment, but it's fun for now, and as long as it keeps up the surprises and spontaneity, I think I can linger and see if we can't work out our issues. Don't worry baby, I say. I'll still get dressed up for you, kick off my heels and walk barefoot on your streets. I may leave again soon, but you're still the one I come back to for now. That will have to be enough. Just don't forget to keep bringing me flowers and evenings of velvet. 

Hurrah! Beginnings (v.g.)

Have just finished reading Bridget Jones's Diary and am resolved to write post in similar fashion.

 ? lbs (way too long since weighed self), ? calories (also unknown as never count them), 0 cigarettes (gross), number of times checked phone for missed calls 3 (v.g.)

Have made mistake of telling numerous friends of ambition to be writer. Now, whenever encountered by said friends am asked how writing is progressing to which am forced to respond, "Is not" thereby leading to half hour of ensuing guilt. Am officially self manufactured mess of epic proportions. Need to learn, for first time in life, how to make goals/plan and follow such. Regretting absence of plan-making course in university as would have been v. helpful. However, did graduate with honors and high marks for all the good it's doing now. Am resolved, nevertheless, to begin construction on aforementioned plan today, proposed length of which is four months. Realize is not very long term, but must start somewhere and Rome was not built in day. Have high hopes for endeavor and will start as soon as finished consuming Everything bagel and traversing internet.

Right. Won't be long now.

Felt shrub chickens appropriate

The Cereal Bowl

I ventured out to Cleveland Park yesterday to my favorite movie theater, The Uptown, and was shocked to discover the Starbucks that had once been two doors down was no longer in residence. Gasp and horror! That is how I had proposed to pass my pre-movie hour! I am not a big Starbucks fan. I find their coffee mediocre at best and am only occasionally impressed with the atmosphere; however, when I am expecting them to be there and a weird, alienish establishment called The Cereal Bowl appears to have abducted them and invaded the space, I cannot hide my disappointment. This new entity is nothing short of bizarre, and their business premise is centered around, you guessed it, selling bowls of cereal. I have to give them props for originality, but I'm pretty sure there is a reason this hasn't been done before. We're talking about stuff that costs $3 a box and is usually the "I don't have time to fix anything else or even toast a bagel so I guess I'm having cereal" home breakfast option. Crappy American chain hotels give it away in multi-colored abundance to guests during a ridiculously tiny window of time in the mornings so they can claim continental breakfast status. Europe called. They said, rather snootily, the reason it is called 'continental' is because it is breakfast served on The Continent (as in not North America) with lovely Brie, fresh meats and breads, incredible just-processed-from-the-cow yogurt, coffee like rich, smooth velvet on your tongue, and fruit grown off the tree out back. Cereal isn't continental breakfast, it's a lazy way to shovel calories in one's mouth in order to start the day.

The Cereal Bowl offers several variations on the cereal suicide with options like Fruity Pebbles®, Lucky Charms®, Grape Nuts®, Cinnamon Toast Crunch®, and the ever notorious Cookie Crisp®. All the favorites, but for $3.75 a bowl, I'll skip down to the grocery store and buy my own box, thanks. There are also optional ice cream sundae type toppings, but that still doesn't justify the extra dollar dollar bills yo for the experience. I don't need to meet my friends over a bowl of cereal. If I did, I'd have a slumber party. It is good to know, however, that if I'm disappointed by the previous choices, I can opt to spend too much money on Quaker® oatmeal or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Really? Three cheers for capitalism and burgeoning enterprise, but this is one idea that maybe should have been killed on the drawing board. Next thing you know, there will be a Spaghetti From a Box next door and a Soup Out of the Can down the street. Some things are just better left as items on a pantry shelf.

It's Too Darn Hot

I have heard a rather nasty rumor that it is supposed to get up to 102 degrees today. I'm not sure I understand that statement. I walked out of my house last night at 10pm on a quest to buy a frozen pizza (quest unsuccessful), and it was still 92. The sun had been down for a good hour and a half, and, as my co-worker at the box office so adequately said, "it felt like the outside was breathing on you. It's disgusting." I agree. I usually adjust to heat pretty well, but this is a bit much. It makes me laugh that the heat makes the front page of the Washington Post and various national news shows, and people that live in Arizona are complaining that they live in triple digit heat constantly throughout the summer and it never makes the news, thereby reducing all of us that live on the Eastern seaboard to pansies. I beg to differ. My response to these asinine comments is twofold: One, temperatures in Arizona drop to somewhere in the pleasant mid-70s if not lower once the sun drops. Two, you don't know jack about triple digit heat plus 85+ percent humidity. Here's a home experiment to try: take a woolen blanket, soak it in water that's been heated in your coffee pot, wrap it around you, then go outside in midday when the sun is at its peak and all the mercury in the thermometers is bursting at the seams, proceed to walk around trying to breathe, and then talk to me about a heat wave. The powers that be (I guess this is the weather service?) have issued warnings to people that essentially say, "It's really hot outside. Don't be stupid. Drink water and and try not to pass out." I am happy to oblige.

On the Menu

Dinner last night:
Vanilla La Yogurt - hurriedly gulped down between emptying trash cans, cleaning porta filters, wiping espresso grounds from top of espresso machine (how they're STILL managing to congregate on top, I have no idea), and looking at large, pink, viscous mass in mop bucket, shrugging my shoulders and walking away

Can of Coke - obtained as one of my free drinks at the Fringe Baldachino Gypsy Bar Tent. Still had to get my wrist stamped with red spider web to gain entry, but maybe it could just look like a rad tattoo.

Salad - should have been Caesar, but although we normally have every salad dressing known to man in our fridge, the Caesar had disappeared, and I was stuck with Italian. I added extra croutons to make up for my disappointment.

Tasty De-Lite - purchased at Aldi in Greenwood. It was $0.99 for a box of about 15 which makes me assume that someone dredged a land fill in order to come up with the contents explaining why the list of ingredients is filled with numerous unpronounceables. I didn't care, instead choosing to focus on the chocolate and cream filled aspect. It was delicious.

Glass of Orange Juice - thinking, for some unknown reason, this would go well with aforementioned Tasty De-Lite. It didn't.

Half glass of milk - in order to correct previous mistake

All in all, pretty darn healthy, I think. I do what I can.

As if I Needed Verification

Further proof of my blanket generalization in previous post:

Me: "Hi, it's me again, do you have the 58-3S battery in stock?"
Wal-Mart: "No, dat's da one we don' have."
"If I ordered it, how long would it take to come in?"
"Oh we don't orda batteries. Dey just come when dey come."
"Well when are they getting in then?"
"I don't know, dey come in on the inventory truck. It comes on a differnt day e'ery week."
"What day is it coming in this week?"
"I don't know, I just came in off vacation."
"Okay, well thank you."
"Uh-huh."

Another conversation, this time with the good ole Wal-Mart employees of the south.

Wal-mart: "This is Sportin' Goods."
Me: "Hi, I'm calling about a car battery? I need to know what type of battery would go into my truck."
"I'm sorry ma'am, cud you say that agin?"
"I'm calling about a car battery? I need to know what type would go in a 98 Ford Ranger."
"Whuddya mean, what tipe a battery?"
"There. Are. Different. Types. Of. Batteries. For. Different. Models. Of. Cars. I need to know which type goes into a 98 Ford Ranger."
"Well, alrite. Hole on jest a minit."

Really?

Not Even With Jumper Cables

My truck's battery died on Saturday. Died beyond any kind of natural or supernatural resuscitation. Not even if there were such a thing as Zombie Batteries that came crawling out of car engines foaming corrosive acid at the mouth and looking to eat other batteries for breakfast is it coming back. Ever. Which means, of course, that I have to replace it, and what would normally be a simple task if one lived in a smallish town has turned into a little mini-fiasco here in the city. One, practically every friend I have that owns a car decided to spend this weekend out of the city or working on a Sunday. Two, while I do try to have some grace regarding people in general, this experience has only served to prove that Wal-Mart employees are morons. First of all, when I called to find out how much their car batteries cost, they told me the automotive department was closed. "There's no one else that could tell me how much they are?" "No one that I know of." Oh really? Apparently Wally World has ceased to perform routine price checks. It's clearly too much to ask that someone walk back there and look at a sticker on a rack. My apologies.

Second, I found a friend with a vehicle and the willingness to take me by a Wal-Mart on the way to an event, only to find about 5 types of actual batteries for sale on a rack that should have housed about 30.
"Excuse me, I need a new battery, but you don't seem to have very many in stock."
"You noticed that huh? Well if we have your kind then it doesn't matter does it?"
"You don't."
"Oh."

When asked if they would call the Capital Plaza Wal-Mart to check their inventory, the man told me that they didn't do that there, that I'd have to go up to Customer Service. So that's not a phone sitting by your register? Silly me, I saw the 1-9 keypad by the banana shaped ear piece and got confused. He was, however, so generous as to tell me that I could just drive right on over to Sears and not only would they probably have the battery I needed, but they would install it right there for no extra cost. In my battery quest, I have lost count of how many times someone has uttered this to me. Well that's fantastic guys. I'm not sure what you don't understand about the fact that my battery is DEAD, but it's good to know that if I could Star Trek teleport my incapacitated truck to your location, that you would be happy to change out my battery free of charge. Next time, I'll try to make sure it spits out its last breath in your parking lot. As for tomorrow, I'm just praying for progress.

"Hot Town, Summer in the City"

It's July in DC, which, almost any year, equates with oppressive heat. I've chosen to walk the 16 blocks to and from my current gig at the Capital Fringe Festival box office, and while the sun packed all of its rays away behind thick layers of gray clouds for the first two days, and said clouds decided to dump eighty tons of water on us at once on Tuesday evening thereby leaving the temperature in the 70s for the following morning, I opened my front door today on a heat that forced me to adjust my breathing. At the onset, it felt like the air wasn't even moving, and walking on sidewalks meant being blasted every so often with exhaust fumes impossibly hotter than the air I was wading through. Walking anywhere in the summer takes about fifteen minutes of acclimation before one can even begin to feel the slight breeze playing hide and seek in the tree leaves. I saw a bum in brown sweats and white socks sprawled out on his blanket, a chunk of wiry black hair sticking straight up from his head making him look like a giant, sweating Buckwheat.

The city leaves its mark on me in the summer. It either draws sweat out of me slowly like a sponge or quickly brings tiny rivulets sliding down my temples and the back of my neck. It paints the bottoms of my feet black, punishing me for daring to wear flip flops on its hard sidewalks. I wash these momentos off in the shower, watching a kaleidescope of cityscapes and streets swirl down the drain at my feet. As I stand there, I realize the sun, like a soft, masked bandit, has stolen my energy; the theft unapparent until dusk falls, and I realize something's missing. I enjoy this kind of tired. My bones sink into the mattress, and I sleep deep, hard, and oblivious. It's been a day of knowing. And tomorrow it begins again.

Hipps Family, here we come!

I'm off to the eleventieth annual Hipps Family reunion! Let the weird bonding of blood ties begin. Click above for previous descriptions of familial lunacy.

The Way We Were

I have been sprinting down memory lane here in my hometown. Something about being in my adolescent bedroom with sporadic memorabilia peeking out from the bookshelves and constantly driving past my high school on my way to pretty much anywhere sparked a flourish of re-discovering some things I had forgotten. I spent one night reading through my high school yearbooks. According to these living epitaphs in brightly colored ink, I'm supposed to be on Broadway by now, and one classmate signed that he was going to call me so I could dance at his bachelor's party. Clearly, that isn't the road I took, although I may still retain some skillz. (wink wink, smiley face)

I came across some old journals as well. I like to think I've always been pretty mature about certain things. I never wrote stupid things like "I love (insert crush here)" on my notebooks. I was ashamed to discover that while I may not have written it on my notebooks, similar phrases are all up in my angsty writings from ages 13 - 15. "My feelings for Derek are stronger than ever. I'm convinced he's the one for me." Two entries later - "I hate guys!!! They're so stupid!!! I finally got up the nerve to ask Derek to take Nicole and me to Dairy Queen and he said he didn't feel like it. Well guess what? I don't feel like liking your stupid self anymore!!!" Like I said, epitome of maturity. The good days read something like this- "What's up self?!? Today was Wednesday which means it was soooo cool!!! Derek took me to Donalds where they go hunting and it was really cool! We did this thing at church and it was cool!! I'm really tired now so I have to go, but tomorrow is going to be really cool!!!! I can't wait!!!" Apparently I also had quite the dependency on voluminous punctuation.

To recap -
Bad Day = Crush not taking me for ice cream. >: (
Good Day = Things being really cool!!! : )
Ahhh. The simple life.

I wrapped up my memory lane excursion by going to the Hickory Point Exxon to buy a hot dog special (one hot dog all the way - mustard, chili, onions - a pack of chips and 16 oz drink for a whopping $1.81. 1980 called. They want their prices back.) I drove to my church parking lot to eat it, reminiscing about the time I ran my '89 Chevrolet Caprice over a bush and into a light pole there while swatting at a spider. (I had thought it was a bee! I preferred totaling my ride to swelling up like a fat kid.) Good times. I think the bush there is still growing crooked. As a campground attendant in Nashville once said, "Cute, but rough on things aren't ya?" Well, I do like to leave my mark.

I Saved the Goat!

One of several hilarious conversations while hanging out with my friends from college. 

Justin - "Hey Jenn, so what happened to your leg? I didn't hear the story but I saw you keep looking at it."
Joseph - "She was herding goats in Serbia and stepped on a land mine."
Justin - "Sweet!"

Later embellished to:

"You were herding goats in Serbia while on a moped. One of the goats fell down a cliff, and when you went to save it, your whip tangled up in the wheels thereby flipping the vehicle, but saving the goat in the process. The moped fell on you, but you saved the goat!"

Done. I'll take "The Real Story Behind What Happened to Jenn's Leg" for $600, Alex.

Low Country

I took a loooong, self-imposed drive through South Carolina back country today on my way to visit some friends down by the coast, and I have to say, back highways are a lost treasure. I even used an actual map! You remember those? The large multifarious things that have squiggly multi-colored lines and terrestrial illustrations all over and yards of paper that take a 101 class in order to properly re-fold? I did, however and as usual, forget my camera so my awesome yet wasted idea to document my journey and all the small podunk gas stations and fruit stands along the way had to be abondoned. Sigh. Driving used to be a journey, and now, we just hop on interstates, put our brains on auto-pilot and tune out the rest of the world. Today, I wanted to see the cows, dang it! I wanted to actually drive under the shade of trees instead of admiring them from a distance and beyond ugly silver guard rails. To boot, my truck even achieved immensely better gas mileage. I think Dixon's trying to tell me that he's from the country and he likes it that way. Okay, I get it! You're sick of miles of mind-numbing interstate boasting sporadic yellow arches and strategically placed tiny green mile markers. Or is it me that's sick of those? Same difference at this point. We're mind melding, my truck and I. He even sings to me when I'm having a bad day. Methinks this is a relationship that has some serious lasting potential. Even if he is a Ford. Low country, here we come.

They Say You Can Never Go Home

One would think, with so much time on my hands, I could be writing reams worth of words. This, however, is not the case. I simply don't have much to write about. The only thing that comes to mind is the state of my hometown and its rapidly increasing levels of change. My home church and high school, both within a half mile from my parents' house, now look like weird modern versions of research facilities. My church, the place largely responsible for the foundations of my faith, seems to exist in another time. What it is presently holds next to no familiarity for me. Even the pull of Sunday mornings aren't enough to incite any sort of directional movement. I still know some names, but the people aren't the same. There are many faces from my past who are simply no longer there, having progressed through the Christian bubble to pastor their own churches with their quaint families mail ordered from the Christian Universities catalog. There was a time when Christianity was dangerous. Now, here, it just seems rote.

The county library, once one of my favorite places to go, also has a new building. The lovely dark stacks and slightly musty smell of old books will soon be replaced with the scent of carpet glue and filtered air. Things like this make me sad, because soon, my only witness to the way this town used to look will be my memories. Everywhere I spent my childhood has a new facade, a new location, or has been bull-dozed in favor of some other replacement. These are the bricks of someone else's childhood now, someone born in this century, raised on technology and mail you can never touch. Life is entirely different here than it once was. This is a rather obvious fact, and yet despite my need for change, there are times when I vehemently wish to deny it.

Pain and the Wonder Plant

Let me tell you, friends, a moped accident is the gift of pain that just keeps on giving. I spent my last few days in Mexico STILL on the couch, wondering what on God's green earth I could take/smear on my scabs to make them stop hurting, for the love. My plane trip home was nothing less than an evil to be endured, and I lost count of the number of complete strangers that looked at me and said "What happened?!?" If they didn't say anything, their expressions that silently said "Oooh" were enough. Yes, thanks, it is very painful, no, I don't need a wheelchair to my gate, yes, I have learned my lesson and won't wear shorts and flip flops next time. My stewardess on the flight out of Mazatlán took one look at me as I was boarding and said, "You fell off your moped didn't you?" What?? How often does this kind of thing happen?

Now I'm healing in the great state of South Carolina, where the temperature is literally that of the surface of the sun. It's like someone constantly following me around with a hair dryer, and I can get no relief from jumping in the pool although my leg is healing up nicely, thanks to aloe, the wonder plant. I snap off a thick, fleshy leaf and rub plant snot all over my knee once every couple of hours, and to my utter amazement, I can almost see my skin regenerating itself. Every few hours I also take a nap. Reproducing skin can be an exhausting task.

Aiiii Muchacha!

It was bound to happen. Today began mostly like any other day, the difference being that on my way to the shop this morning, I took a turn too sharply and fell over, the moped falling on top of me ensuring that my skin got well acquainted with some Mexican asphalt. A myriad of other random, painful things have happened to people here so I'm guessing it was just about my turn. Let me tell ya, my leg has never hurt as badly in my life, and I'm sure parts of my epidermis from my knee cap, calf, ankle, and elbow are still lying mixed up in some gravelly dirt on that particular road. What happened next was a mixture of me crying, saying ow, hoping someone would come to pull the moped off of my leg, and being lifted by my armpits into a standing position by a couple of weathered looking older Mexican men that had been working at the site across the street. Thank God for the kindness of strangers. Its a testament to my vanity that my first thought coming off the pavement was "Crap, that's gonna leave a scar."

I managed to understand and speak enough Spanish in between my incredibly shallow breathing (it's rather hard to get a mental grasp on anything when every other thought is "PAIN!!!") to have the guys drive me home. Arriving, however, was a small comfort because I knew the cleaning up process followed, and if I thought the soap and rinsing and the dabbing with a wet towel was painful, it was a pinprick compared to the iodine treatment Ryan, our resident lifeguard/EMT,  put on my leg next. Holy mother of everything good and holy. I was white knuckling the counter top like it was a lifeline and sucking air between my teeth as if I knew no other way to breathe. Ryan tells me I'm doing good just before he says, "There's still some dirt in there. You're gonna need to scrub that out." I'm sorry, what? You want me to scrub who? My mind reeling in protest, I grabbed the towel from him and proceeded to rub what felt like tiny razor blades over bleeding flesh, whimpering and crying the whole way. Wait, I mean, I growled and bit down on a piece of bark and took it like a MAN. (lies, all lies)

This story ends with me laid up on the couch, knee propped on a pillow, leg sporting numerous bags of ice. None of my invalidity stopped me from hobbling myself and all my oozy wounds to the tienda on the corner to get a glass Coke, which garnered an "Aiiii, muchacha!" from the woman mopping the floor, but despite the dull, stinging ache of my scrapes and the occasional burst of sharp pain from any number of them, I'm rather enjoying my day on the couch watching movies. I'm not in any hurry to do this again any time soon, and I'm currently of the opinion that mopeds are of the devil, but now I have a story to tell and another refreshing Coca-Cola. There's gotta be a commercial in that somewhere.

Imps

The children are so beautiful here. There are a few rag tag urchins that run up and down the sidewalk by the shop, clothes dirty from the dust and deep brown eyes gleaming with mischief as they grab another handful of our free candy. The girls have loose, dark tendrils framing faces that will be nothing less than stunning in a few years' time. The boys' hair sticks straight up, springing thick and soft from their foreheads, a playful exclamation point to their gap-toothed grins and warm, innocent eyes.  As gorgeous as they are, they can be little imps, leaving messes in our play area and on our tables. It doesn't stop me from wishing I had the genes to produce one of my own.

I lost myself downtown yesterday in El Centro, stumbling upon the huge indoor market entirely by accident. That place is nothing but color and noise and smell. At one end is the meat market that boasts the bloodiest, most unappetizing flesh clinging to bone that I've ever seen. Every time I caught even the faintest whiff, I threw up a little bit in my mouth. People were everywhere, carrying babies around like purses. The school kids stood out in their collared shirts or plaid, pleated skirts; no longer urchins stealing candy, but young Mexican dolls causing obvious distress to the unfortunate groups of teenage boys. They sipped nonchalantly from white, styrofoam cups with straws while the guys fidgeted and wondered how to talk to them. The best they seemed to come up with were playful hits to the arm for lack of anything clever to say. I feel like things haven't changed much despite age or country borders.

Same Difference

The more I travel, the more I notice the normality of places.  I realize now that a place is only exotic for about two weeks. After that, my eyes become accustomed to my surroundings and everything that was once so new and strange is suddenly familiar. Everywhere's normal is different, but there's still a distinct pattern of life and action that reveals itself once one's stay becomes more lengthy.  People wake up, they work, they walk around, they live and die, they give birth and take their kids to school and dance lessons and soccer camp, they eat, they drink coffee or beer, they watch sports and laugh with their friends. It's just life. And it happens everywhere, just with a bit of a different backdrop. Some places it's harder, but there's still a routine, a way of things. Some places are hot, some are cold, but people still love and cry and get angry and forgive - all over the planet

Here in Mazatlán, their skin is dark, their hair is black, and they drive around in old pick-up trucks of various shades, usually three or four others piled in the back. They run taco stands from the corner of every fourth block and make the best quesadillas con carne asada anywhere on the planet. They wake up early to hammer nails and make concrete in little piles on the street or to stock produce in small dark frutarias. They make taxis out of covered golf carts called Pulmonias. They ride their bikes and walk their dogs and slide their rollerblades the length of the Malecón at sunset and dress up in bright high heels to buy a cup of coffee and a piece of cake once dusk drops lightly onto the waves. When the moon rises full, it's a rich glowing orange in the inky black sky, yellow lights all over the city winking at it from down below. We speed through them in a car, windows down as we chase Spanish graffitti and hand painted signs that populate the streetsides. Every so often, our ears catch a Doppler effect of jarring Mexican radio; horns and lyrics too fast to a tempo that can barely keep up. Ésta es vida, loud and beautiful, salty and hot.

Picture Post

Hacienda church

Sunset from our roof

Hacienda horse

Watch out, or the crabs will steal your water bottles.

 

Hacienda Peacock

 

Sunset from the Malecón

Overheard Surfer Convo

Cast of Characters:

Sammy - 19, blond, tan, goofy grin, very thin mustache, great little surfer
Eric - 22, lots of brown curly hair, blue eyes, somewhat tan, one of the best snowboarders in the world; however, self-admittedly rather sucks at surfing
Ryan - 27, curly reddish brown hair, the only person I've ever met with more freckles than me, tan (or maybe it's just one big freckle), blue eyes, rad surfer
Matt - 30, blond hair, blue eyes, super tan, looks like he walked right off the cover of I'm a Surfer from California magazine, also really good surfer
Kayle (temporary surfer adoptee) - 29, dark hair, hazel eyes, very slender build, preternaturally tan after 5 minutes in the sun, sucks at surfing which is probably why he doesn't

Random Quotes:
"Hoa, did you see him get worked? He totally just got worked!" - Sammy
------------------
"We thought you may have gotten Banditoed." - Kayle
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"I got urchined in the foot. I just went and urchined myself." - Matt

Actual fragments of conversation:
Eric - "You guys are totally soakin' up some heavy rays. Did you block it up at all?"
Matt - "Nah dude. I didn't block anything up."
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Ryan - "You guys want anything?"
Matt - "Yeah, maybe like a yogurt?"
Kayle - "Ten thousand dollars."
Matt - "Ahh man, I wish I could take mine back now."
Ryan - "I'll fulfill both of your wishes... just not right now."
Matt (to Kayle) - "You wanna share? I'll give you some of my yogurt if you give me some of your ten thousand dollars."
Kayle - "Sure."
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Matt - "We should try your electric shock therapy on my urchins. I bet they'd get so pissed, they'd just start flying out... I mean, I don't know. I think that's how urchins work."
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Sammy - "I'm gonna sit here for exactly 3 more minutes, then I'm gonna shower..."
Matt - "Whoa dude. That's unorthodox!"
Sammy - "...and then I'm gonna put on some underwear..."
Eric - "No way."
Sammy - "... and some shorts."
Eric - "Hoa dude, I don't have shorts or underwear!"
Matt - "I don't have underwear either. Guess I'll just have to wear your underwear."

DISCLAIMER: To be fair to their intelligence, most of this was in jest.  These guys have good hearts, great stories, and a propensity for getting up before sunrise that's astounding.

Friday

Parts of this day I've loved, other parts I've hated. One of my new favorite things is driving to the shop early in the morning on the scooter. It isn't a motorcycle, but I like to pretend it is and that I'm not flying down the road looking like I'm seated at a kitchen table. With my black helmet, sunglasses, black jacket (because despite the 90º heat at 10am, the mornings are still cool and damp enough to give me goosebumps at 45 miles an hour), I like to think my dismount looks like something out of a Harley commercial, my hair flowing in the breeze as I whip off my helmet and shake my head back. However, it doesn't quite translate as I trip over the floorboard, knock the mirrors out of whack trying to set it up on its kickstand, and need five minutes just to unhook my chin strap. It makes me thankful that my co-worker Dennys is busy spraying down the sidewalk so I can fumble about without an audience. Ehh... I've still got a few weeks to perfect my dismount.

The other parts of the day in which the Mexicans coming in are speaking Spanish at a decibel level entirely too low for me to even begin to understand and my first attempt at making a yogurt parfait is almost a complete failure are the parts I hated. I won't even start on the cash register system of "oh put that on my tab" for people who have already spoken with the owners. Everything in me screams, "But that's so disorganized!?!" and I have to mentally check myself to keep from twitching like I've got Turret's. "The numbers, the numbers!! How is this all going to add up?" Just. Breathe. Dennys smiles at me and says, "Hoa, you stressed Jenn?" to which I respond with one of my famous looks before returning to frantically scrawling figures on a notepad trying to wrap my brain around what just happened. Navigation is tricky here, but thankfully, I have a coconut raspberry white mocha frappe to ease away the confusion.  Nothing like deliciously blended sugar and espresso to muddle any concern over things that make no sense.

Coke Drinking Wedding Crasher

There's a tienda (read: store) on the corner of our street that sells glass bottled Coke. If you bring back the bottle from last time, the new one costs only 5 pesos, roughly about 40 cents. They're refrigerated, made in Mexico, and full of a half litre of lovely, chilled carbonated goodness. I had originally decided to give up soda while in Mexico; then about five days ago, Nick told me about this sweet deal and in a matter of about 2.5 seconds, my resolve was gone. This doesn't say much for my resolve I realize, but I like to think myself easily adaptable to different places.

I also crashed my first wedding, yay! It was held at a hacienda out in the middle of some Mexican desert complete with horses, sheep, and free roaming peacocks. There seems to be a trend here of allowing one's exotic pets to have their run of certain property. I'm not complaining, but when a peacock decides to take flight right over your head, it is NOT a comforting feeling. Their loud, eerie squawks are also a bit disconcerting. Anytime anyone clapped for anything at the reception, they decided to join in and add their two cents from high atop the hacienda's brick chimney. I never knew they were such fans of weddings. In addition to peacock calls being seared into my brain, I also came away with authentic red maracas, a crépe paper flower, and a new hankering for Mexican tortilla soup. Throw a bit of gooey, melty white cheese in that mess, and I could eat it every day for breakfast. YUM.

Go Moto

I've been flying around this city for the last couple of days on the back of mopeds. Or on the front of mopeds which can tend to be a bit more disastrous. Lisa plopped a helmet on my head the day before last that was about 5 sizes too big with no strap, and every time I hit a speed bump (and those things kept coming out of nowhere!), the thing would bounce around precariously, often leaving me with only one eye out of which to see. Eventually we hit a street more bumpy than the others, and it flew right off, clattering loudly on the cobblestones behind me while several curious locals looked on and tried to hide their smiles. Yes, I realize I'm a lunatic gringa who has no idea what she's doing cruising these back streets on a moped. All I do know is that when I went back to pick up my helmet, it had completely disappeared, everyone pretending as if they had no idea why I was circling their houses. Lisa and Justin returned with similar results. Conspiracy...

Life is lived in technicolor here. The houses are the deepest shades of every rainbow: bright oceanic blues, golden sunset yellows, light coffee with cream browns, fruit peel oranges, and lime greens. Even the table cloths at the beach restaurants are in stark brilliant contrast to the khaki sand beneath them. Walking through older parts of town, I sometimes feel like I'm in someone's framed photograph that's hanging on a wall back in a tame apartment. For now, though, I'm here, breathing salty ocean, squishing sand between my toes, and speeding off into the sunset on a blue and white moped. Only now I've got a helmet that fits.

Iguana lo

I found myself in a staring contest today with an orange iguana that was about the size of my leg. The hotel that houses the pool we visited apparently just lets them cruise the grounds at their leisure, and I flipped over onto my stomach to his tilted head and hazel eye giving me the once over. Having forgotten a bit of my 6th grade Earth Science, I had to ask Lisa, "He's harmless, right?" before I could completely relax while his orange-y spikes and freakishly long back middle toes were undulating across the concrete towards my chair. I only had one more question before I would let my appendages dangle in front of his Jurassic Park-like face: "Umm, and what do they eat? Like insects and stuff, right?" I was clearly showing off my intelligence in these glowing moments of brilliance, but if you had a small dinosaur-type creature invading your personal space, you'd do a little fact checking of your own.

He then proceeded to saunter over to my board shorts lying crumpled in a heap and lick them. I ignored Lisa's "Mmm, tastes like American" comment while I quickly tried to think of what I was going to do if he walked off with them in his mouth. Did I want to get in a tug of war with a giant iguana? Let me think about that one... NO. Luckily, some other hotel patron distracted him with the cherry from her drink, and once his rotating eye caught a glimpse, he spent the next little bit attempting to get a hold of it with his absence of teeth. Which made me smile. And want to pet it, spikes and all. Iguanas and blowfish - I'm already loving this Mexican menagerie.

JennO and the Blow Fish

I've arrived! I spent my first day in Mexico going to the beach, meeting a gazillion new people, walking around with a dead blow fish (yes, that actually happened), and going to a Mexican birthday party with loud music and plates full of corn chips, marshmallows, and what I'm convinced were edible packing peanuts. Once dipped in what I think was barbeque sauce, they weren't too bad. The marshmallows still don't really make any sense to me. It didn't stop me from eating all of them, but still...

I'm staying in a house full of people that are here for the couple that owns the coffee shop's son's wedding. (Did you follow all of that?) It feels a bit like Real World Mazatlán except times 10. Everyone's a surfer and beautifully tanned which makes me stand out like printer paper among pieces of cardboard. They have California surfer speak and say things like "Chilax" and "Just kick it." I'm having Hawaii flashbacks like mad except it's safer here to swallow a mouthful of ocean than drink from a cup that still has a drop of tap water lingering on it. I still brush my teeth in it though. If I'm going to get amoebas, I might as well scrub them all over my teeth.

I love this so far. I jumped in the ocean yesterday and almost did my excited dance at the taste of salt on my tongue. I'm officially fully embracing the curly, frizzy hair and constant state of sandy. Bring it on.

It Begins.

So the trip begins. I have to first comment on the absolute miniscule size of the Greenville/Spartanburg airport in SC. Not only did the 250 foot stretch of unloading area make me laugh (I turned to my brother and said “You’re kidding me. This is it?”), but in place of actual newstands or built in restaurants, there was only half a wall of vending machine type refrigeration shelves selling everything from small pashmina scarves to a 20 oz Coke for the bargain price of $2.73. It’s nice to know that even in the undeveloped country of South Carolina you can still get scalped buying a Coke at the airport. Now there’s the comfort of flying to which I’m accustomed.

I did get stopped at security (forgot to take off my Burkha, woops!), but mainly because my backpack was so heavy that I could have been smuggling a small child from Haiti. For everyone’s safety, my bag was examined, and when no small child was found, I was given the go ahead to proceed to Gate A6 where I was met with 16 waiting room seats arranged around weird metal cylinders that airports tend to pass off as coffee tables. Except, wait, there’s no Starbucks here so what the heck am I supposed to set on it? The other people on my flight appear to all be older than me by at least 25 years save one small Indian girl and a bleached blond teenager chewing gum and reading what I’m betting is Twilight.

Boarding announcement, yay. Time to get this show on the road. Ahh, the joys of traveling. It’s good to be back.

untitled

Let me just take this moment to say that this time next week I will be in Mexico. Holy goodness. Let me also take this moment to say that although I feel I have done nothing overly strenuous with my brain in the last several days, I nonetheless feel like my brain is currently the equivalent of one of those short, old, squatty green cars in which the driver has to constantly grip the steering wheel and shove their torso forward to get the car to advance while it sputters and coughs and gasps for life. In other words, I have actually experienced this week what most people consider a standard amount of time spent at work. 38 hours. 38 hours in which Satan and all his minions decided to circle and poke and prod and essentially wreak havoc on our coffeehouse, destroying my recently established mental sanity and blowing it to smithereens. It's time for a new list:

Why I Don't Do 40 Hour Work Weeks

1. Our register software went through an update, which means approximately 2 things improved and 8 things de-proved. Apparently, this is pretty standard. Really, Comcash?
2. Comcash Tech Support's favorite thing to do is to put people on hold. For 5 hours. Thankfully, another staff member experienced this, but even just hearing about it made me want to punch the phone in the face. 
3. The power on 1/8,765th of DC's grid went out for 7 hours on Friday leaving us espresso-less, computer-less, and without the ability to see the dirt on the dishes we were washing. 
4. We had a very ingenious Friday night event take place in the dark. Even the bathrooms were without power. For the ladies, I can see making that work. Fellas? I don't even want to know how that went down.  
5. When the power came back, a light blew downstairs along with a very vital fuse in our espresso machine which left us, once again, espresso-less. (For all of you non-coffee drinkers out there, this meant we essentially could not offer half of our menu)
6. One person made the snide comment that "Things go wrong here a lot" at which point I desperately wanted to retort, "Yes ma'am, which is something we clearly are big fans of ourselves. If you're annoyed, I suggest you call Pepco and complain to them about not being able to have your hot vanilla chai as we obviously suggested they blow half our power out and they seemed to think it a stellar idea." 
7. I tripped over the stupid black mat behind the counter. About 85 times. 
8. My co-worker spilled iced coffee on my pants. 
9. I spilled iced coffee on my pants. 
10. When reaching for the broom, I somehow managed to turn the faucet on full force thereby spraying water all over God and creation and the entire back wall of the kitchen. 
11. I wondered what slushy Freezer drink would feel like between my toes and proceeded to find out by dumping part of the contents of the blender onto said appendages.
12. The attractive, yet smarmy waiter across the street whistled at me while I was putting up tables. Again.  If he calls me "darlin'" one more time...

SIGH. Ok. I'm done with my diatribe. Turns out I find venting via type rather cathartic. Now to pack, to bed, and back to the joys of service tomorrow. Vive Mexico indeed.