How Not to be a Rockstar September 14, 2009

…  Jeff’s proposed title of the compelling bestseller he proposes I write. Not a bad idea, really, for a girl who spent a good 6 years pursuing a career in music, only to realize the pursuit had made her into something she was not. Into someone she did not envy or admire. And thus, she walked away from it all.

Not to say I was anywhere close to infamy. But those years did produce some pretty great stories of experiences both hysterical and terrible, both bittersweet and just plain bitter. SO maybe this is the new direction of my masters thesis… for the grad program I haven’t been accepted to yet…. because I’m still working on the application…. and because I can’t decided if it’s the right thing to do.

Which brings me to my next point.

Today is one of those thankfully rare days when, never mind all the a##-busting and name-taking you’ve been doing, you feel like you’re just not doing enough with your life. In fact, you can’t figure out what exactly you are doing, and why any of it hasn’t gotten you somewhere beyond serving shrimp teriyaki to college kids.

((Oh- great story – today, an elderly woman of questionable sanity walks in and tells the hostess that a friend recommended our sushi restaurant to her. For seafood. She is also allergic to shellfish. So when we settle on the seafood tempura, with only red snapper and salmon, I think it might just work out. I even bring her ketchup in lieu of cocktail sauce (Cocktail sauce. In an Asian restaurant. Seriously?). She looks pleased, but when I glance over a while later, she’s calling me over. “Honey… I’m sorry, but I just don’t taste any fee-ish in theya anywaya,” she says. She has eaten all the salmon, but the red snapper is there untouched. “I know it’s hard to see it with the batter, but these are the white fish,” I explain, pointing out all the fish she hasn’t eaten. “Well, I know forah fact they’s onions theya,” she says, pointing to the one white thing on her plate that, true, is not fish. Soon, I convince her to open up one of the “potatoes” so that she’ll see it is, in fact fish. She puts a small piece in her mouth. “Well that don’t taste like no fee-ish I evah had; try it,” she adds, actually offering me a piece of fish. I tell her that’s really okay, that I believe that she is unsatisfied with the fish and will see what I can do. I’m able to comp half of the price of her meal, tell her so, hand her the bill and get back to my other tables. Moments later, the hostess comes walks over and tells me the woman is at the front desk trying to get her bill decreased. I take a huge breath, trying to summon whatever patience I might have left. And to not drop my tray and run screaming for the hills. (Did I mention there is NO MANAGER ON DUTY??) Once again, I try to explain to her that we’ve already given her a huge discount on her meal. Somehow (and I’m a little foggy on the details here; I may have blacked out in order to save my head from exploding), I get her to pay 7 of the $7.51 she owed me. Victory? I’m still not sure.))

Clearly, my life is not glamorous.

But I don’t need it to be. The years in which I sought musical stardom (in one form or another) were some of my most exciting but undeniably my loneliest as well. I’ve traded it all in order to be true to myself, and was rewarded by meeting a most amazing partner. Together we traveled to a more happy latitude, and finally I live by the sea.

It’s like working on a puzzle, and your down to your last few missing pieces. But as soon as you find one that fits, you realize another has gone missing, and this continues until you feel like you’ll never get the damn thing together.

But if history repeats itself (and clearly it does) I know the feeling of being completely overwhelmed will only last so long, that tomorrow I’ll wake up with a renewed sense of purpose and optimism. Happens every time.

‘Til then I’m summoning my patience, not running for the hills.

One Year August 20, 2009

Before I get rolling on today’s topic, I’d like to report that I am no longer unemployed. It seems certain statements made in my last post, while laden with sarcasm, turned out to be strangely prophetic. I’d only been in Wilmington for one day when my cell phone rang with an unidentified Wilmington number. It had to be one of the 32 places I’d put in applications, and I knew that whatever job I was about to be offered, I would have to accept. Luckily for me, the voice on the other end of the line was the manager at a sushi place right down the street from our new apartment. With what probably seemed like excessive enthusiasm, I took the job, hung up and thanked my lucky stars someone had actually hired me.

I then got calls from 5 other restuarants, also offering me work.

So apparently there was never anything to worry about, but I’m happy to say that after a couple day’s training, I think sushi and I were meant to be.

Moving along, though… I was flipping through Facebook this afternoon when I came across a little artifact that had been sitting on my profile for precisely one year. It was a Graffiti note that I’d drawn -  painstakingly, nervously. So nervously in fact that, as I recall, this final draft was actually a third or fourth attempt.

I’m not an artist.

I draw stick figures and smiley faces. I have no perception of proportion, no hand-eye coordination. But I’d decided to draw this particular invitation, thinking it fitting because it was the recipient’s fault that I had the program at all.

I was a Myspace girl. He was a Facebook boy.

We’d met at a photography studio I was managing. He was a lowly intern, and although I found him intriguing, I put up a wall of professionalism and ignored him mercilessly. But at the end of his internship, I was about to leave my position at the studio as well. All of the employees met one night for one last bash, and he and I were the last two standing along with my boss and his girlfriend – who got into a fistfight. There was a cut eye (hers) and broken nose (his) involved, and the intern and I were dragged into the argument. After an hour or so of high drama, both the boss and his girlfriend left the scene separately, and the intern and I turned to each other in bewilderment.

We sat at a patio table, unclear of what exactly had just happened. “I’m glad you were here,” I said, just as the proverbial ugly lights cast their glare out onto the patio, and the barback began stacking the chairs around us. “Can I give you a ride home?” I asked, and he did not decline.

On the way to my car, we passed a playground. “Swing?” he asked.

“What?” I turned to catch his meaning, but he was already up and over the fence.

“Coming?” he offered a hand over the low fence to help me over, and I, without a thought, followed. The intern lead me to the swingset, where twin swings swayed in the warm night breeze. And there we sat, occasionally rocking back and forth, and talked about everything and nothing at all. For how long, I don’t know, because it’s times like these when time means nothing.

I did eventually arrive home at 5:30 in the morning. My alarm would blare in an hour to wake me up to go work at the outdoor market in downtown Columbus. That evening, I would sit, a little delirious from lack of sleep, and devise a way- a meaningful, clever way- to ask the intern on a date. Not because I was a particularly bold girl, or dated often, or liked making the first move, but because I was relentlessly aware that I could not let this particular guy pass me by. Hence the nervous rendering of the Facebook graffiti.

The point is, there were at least a half a million times while I formed lines and shaded with my mouse with that little art program (never quite to my satisfaction) that I found myself second guessing and playing the “what if” game, questioning whether what I was up to was completely silly and would be viewed by its recipient as, well, lame. For one of the first times in my life, however, it occurred to me that what I was doing was being myself. I found my little plan both amusing and thoughtful. So, if some guy found it otherwise, well, he wouldn’t exactly be prepared for the girl behind it. Having decided then that I had nothing to lose,  I clicked the “send” button, and off my graffiti went.

As you’ve probably surmised, the answer was a resounding “Yes.” Jeff and I met at a favorite cafe to share a bottle of wine. And the rest, as they say, is history.

I did, however, make him ask for the second date.

~a

Red Hot American Summer July 13, 2009

All right, all right.

I’m forced to give in here and admit that the London post is going to take much longer than expected to pull together, and I’d feel like a bad friend, daughter and blogger if I left the slate blank for much longer without so much as a word to indicate I’m still alive, kicking and screaming at the top of my lungs a la John Mayer (anyone else captivated by the irony that he sings that line in falsetto – and that he still has a career?)

I’m writing to you now from Davidson, North Carolina, no longer an Ohioan, no longer 9 to 5-ing it, no longer sure of the future, and bizarrely at peace with all of this.

And assuredly having the best summer of my adult life.

Probably because it so closely resembles the summers of my childhood. Yes, we’re fixing up a house and I do wait the occasional table. But somehow I’ve been granted this incredible situation in which I (for a couple of months, anyway) have less cares and more free time, in which I ride bikes, go swimming, get enough sleep, go for ice cream, go to the movies, take late-night walks, take road trips, take naps. I was finally able to visit Evil Twin,  who’s now a mere three hours away, and not only did we go out on the town dressed to the nines and drank a few pints, we STOLE A DOG. Yep, this dog had run away from its home too many times and when it nearly got hit by a car, its family officially lost ownership rights. Now she’s Moose’s new big sis.

I live this way knowing that, just like summer break, the bells will soon be ringing, calling me back to a more regimented lifestyle in which there are rules and responsibilities. We’ll be taking another day trip to Wilmington to scout the campus area for apartments. J and I came to an agreement that  our safety and well-being are probably more important than being able to walk to the farmer’s market. And then there’s also an impending job hunt looming over my head.

But right now I’m going outside to catch some lightning bugs.

And the rest can wait.

~a

Oh, and, P.S.  Something completely unrelated, but nonetheless hysterical:

The Everything Update June 8, 2009

As questions abound as to my whereabouts, activities and general existence, and as my head’s still too deeply buried under the pile of everything-that’s-happened-in-the-past-week, I thought I’d take this rare quiet moment to let everyone know that A) J and I have made it safely to Davidson, B) we’ve spent the majority of our time here preparing his former childhood home for sale, dividing its contents in order to get them to a number of different final destinations, and C) I do generally still exist.

Not only do I exist, but my existence has so greatly improved in the last week that it pains me a little that I had to leave so much behind to feel this great. My body prefers the climate, my mind prefers the pace and both prefer the work. Sadly, the work isn’t permanent, and there’s the task of securing some kind of job looming ahead.

Nevertheless, it’s been a much-needed change. The absence of Gabe (who, by the way, we heard from HART, has quickly adapted and is getting to run and likes the company of his fellow canine roomies) sometimes tugs at my heartstrings, but has also left a blanket of calm over my day-to-day. Not sitting behind a desk for 8 hours a day makes me endlessly happy – even if it means finding myself in the back of a garage closet,  forearms draped with cobwebs, trying to convince a house mouse that he should probably find better digs than inside the camping equipment I’m trying to remove. And then there’s the big change of scene – I went from living across the street from a funeral home to having a family of deer dining at the treeline in my back yard.

In a couple of months we’ll be in Wilmington, and our lives will inevitably change again, but for now I dig the quiet life. And anyway, before the next move there’s the trip to London, J’s family beach vacation and my cousin’s wedding in Atlanta (right, so it’s possible my idea of the “quiet life” is a little warped).

We did get to take a day trip down to check out Wilmington (J had never been and chose UNCW for grad school site unseen). Evil twin drove down from Raleigh to join us, as she had once lived there and we hoped she could serve as tour guide. (She is, by the way, doing quite well, despite rooming in a house with a reckless, young, drama-prone lesbian couple). Turns out she only actually lived in Wilmington for 6 months and couldn’t even remember where her house had been, so she made a horrible tour guide, but great company. The three of us terrorized the historic downtown area for a while (offended an entire rooftop bar crowd, contemplated crashing not one, but two wedding receptions and discovered a piece of purple lingerie strewn across a historical statue that I swear we didn’t put there but were inclined to photograph nonetheless) and waded in the surf (read: got our clothes soaked because we weren’t paying attention to the size of the waves) and ate sundaes at Wrightsville beach that were called something unfortunate like Peanut Logs.

So let it be known that I have no complaints about my current existence and will be sure to write something more substantial and topical when things settle.

Which may be around Christmas time.

~a

All Good Things… May 18, 2009

Question: If a moving van leaves Columbus, Ohio at 8am on May 31st, and the moving couple departs from the same location at 9:45am (running late due to animals, long goodbyes and several “final” sweeps of the house), how long will it take said couple to question whether or not they’re making the right decision?

Answer: Approx. -17 days.

That’s right, it really hit us last Friday – the questioning of our sanity, that is. J and I were sitting on the front porch at a friend’s house, celebrating someone’s birthday with a cookout and good conversation on a beautiful spring evening. A warm breeze tousled our hair; we ate strawberries and cream and sipped gin and tonic and laughed. A lot.

I looked at J.

J looked at me.

And the look said something like:

“Dude. Wtf?”

It was the pained expression of how-can-we-leave-all-this-behind? I mean, what were we thinking when we decided to chuck the city we’ve both come to love and defend?? (Actually, I think we were thinking how much we loathe only getting to have real lives 6 months out of the year due to Ohio’s atrocious winters. And we’d just been to Miami in March, which will make anyone want to go beach bum). So, okay – we had our reasons. But that doesn’t make it any easier, now that the Dark Ages of winter have subsided, to let go of some of the more positive relationships we’ve established here.

It’s the few negative ones I’ve established, however, that are helping to ease that blow.

Like the guy at UDF who insists on being weird about my ice cream order every bloody time I go in there? Him I can do without. (If he’s not giving me 12 scoops of ice cream, he’s doubling my Deep Freeze into a melty tower of ice cream doom). And the parking lot attendant I walk past every day who finally put his head out the car window and screamed, “Hey pretty girl, what’s your name?” perhaps not thinking that if I took this poorly (which I did), we’d have to have a nice, awkward moment EVERY MORNING that I have to walk by his car.

And then there’s the literal relationships: the ex I won’t have to run into because we’ll no longer live down the street from each other. I cannot WAIT to live in a place where I don’t have to hear all about his g.d. band and to not have to tell people that, no, I do not in fact enjoy his music and, no, I would not like to go see him play at the local bar, and, yes, he DOES sound like a blatant rip off of Bob Dylan and/or Bruce Springsteen (depending on the song), and, yes, I have noticed that every song sounds like the last and, oh yes, he does really seem to like himself. (These conversations are admittedly somewhat enjoyable as they round the corner and become full-on Haterade toasts)

Finally, there are a few that I can’t even mention due to the expanding readership of this blog. You just never know, and I’m not in the clear yet. Lame People I Can Do Without – you probably know who you are, anyway.

Despite all of these, for the first time since I’ve started serial relocating, the mass of “Things I will Miss” is formidable. So much so that when J gave me that look, and I returned it, I really did have to think hard about what we’re on the verge of doing.

And yet….

I came out on the other end of all that contemplation still ready to pack my bags. Because this time, we’re doing it together. And this time, we’re going to do things the way we want to: create friendships that can be our own and not remnants of previous relationships; control our house (i.e. without the t.v.-as-background noise philosophy and as though Mr. Clean was our bald-headed third roomie – which could make a really awesome sitcom, come to think if it); fill our bedroom with playpen balls because we’re grown-ups now and it’s our turn to decide what that means!!! (Thank you, xkcd).

I’ve done one helluva job as a loner for the majority of my life, and I can’t speak for J (actually, I can; he’s lived with girlfriends before and is admittedly terrified of ruining everything…), but I’m hell bent on learning to live with someone else. I want a partner this time around. I’ve done Independence! and I’m tired of doing it all alone. Now that I know I’m capable of surviving without anyone, I want to do more than just survive.

And I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather take that ride with.

~a

In the event you have no idea to what I was referring...

The Ballad of Evil Twin May 8, 2009

Let us begin with a little clarification: Evil Twin is neither evil nor my twin.

I would say she is merely my sister, but that’s not entirely true either. Evil Twin has been everything from my sworn enemy to my best friend. She is my partner in crime, my creative cohort and, if we’re being honest here (and why not?), a source of both inspiration and frustration.

Our history begins in a hospital waiting room. E.T. (ha!) has come to see her new little sister for the first time. She is 3 years old and small for her age, dwarfed by the chair she sits in. Someone, perhaps mom herself, places a bundle of blankets and pink, wrinkled baby into E.T.’s arms. Someone has a camera on hand to capture the moment, and here is what the evidence shows: E.T. with her elbow on the armrest of the chair, leaning her face on the palm of her hand, eyes rolled upward to the camera, brow furrowed, mouth pouty, barely holding the screaming, red-faced baby in her lap.

That snapshot is a pretty accurate portrayal of our first 16 years together. Me: trying, and perpetually failing, to gain her approval. Her: trying, perpetually to be left alone. There were moments of triumph for me during those years – times when her guard would drop just long enough for her to allow me to tag along on a shopping trip or evening at the coffee shop – but these were few and far between.

Flash forward to E.T. leaving home for college: Everything changed. I’m not entirely sure what occurred here. Perhaps I had finally done enough growing up that she and I had something to talk about? Perhaps the first move (we’d made many as military brats) without us awoke a new appreciation for her family? Your guess is as good as mine. The certainty here is that we quickly became allies and haven’t budged as such since.

Now flash WAY forward to 2:28pm, Friday, May 8, 2009. Evil Twin is currently on her way to Columbus (likely somewhere in West Virginia). Just her and Moose (Gabe’s little quasi Chihuahua cuz). She is strong, fierce, independent. She is recently separated.

Yes, Evil Twin feels as though she’s awoken from a blurry dream, many years long. Rather than crumble along with her marriage, though, she’s done something quite the opposite.

I don’t know what set the snowball rolling exactly; I could take an educated guess. I got a call from her one evening, and the rest was history. Within weeks she had asked for a separation (with inevitable divorce, as her husband’s behavior has only served to put any doubts to rest), found friends to stay with, then a room to sublet. Those first few nights I spoke with her, she was terrified and having difficulty imagining life without her husband. Well I knew she could. The whole family did. I mean, this is the girl who, during a high school trip to England, took a train from London to Ipswich BY HERSELF, then trekked across the moors on foot to reach the tiny hamlet and sturdy old home where my father had lived for a year as a child. But her state of mind was a testament to the power of influence from someone you think you love and you think loves you.

In the past couple of weeks, she’s been involved in volunteer work, taken an interest in Super 8 film and started a personal blog. She’s nurturing the few friends that were hers and hers alone (most had been mutual, if not just her husband’s), imagining up plans and inviting people along. She’s offered to be assistant director for a local production of Cabaret.

In short: Evil Twin is back.

I’m finally seeing the girl who planned to move to overseas with me (even if we never did it…), the girl who jumped in a car to drive to Canada with me because we had a couple of days to kill, the girl who had always imagined something greater for herself than becoming a housewife and hockey mom. Here is the girl who’s acceptance I always wanted and finally have (no kidding – the night she invited me out with her and bought me my first Milky Way Latte, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven). In truth, we’ve accepted each other, flaws and all, and have found we make quite the team.

Part of me, I think, has been waiting for this version of her to emerge (there have been temporary glimpses over the years, some of my favorite memories) as long as I’ve known her. It’s just a bit mind blowing to finally see her standing, in full color in my living room. She glows.

Yes, it’s painfully beautiful to see the real Evil Twin step forward. There are many things I’ve hoped for; and many times I’ve been heartbreakingly disappointed. So when something like this, something I’ve hoped for perhaps since I lay writhing in my sister’s lap 28 years ago, actually comes to fruition? Have you ever been so happy it hurts your chest a little? And you risk short-circuiting your keyboard with your stupid happy tears?

Well, you get the idea then.

~a

Brought to You by the Letter ‘S’ April 23, 2009

Today’s subject:

Simplification.

I have to call it a subject and not a lesson, because anyone who knows me realizes I’m the LAST person to espouse on the wonders of a simple life. No, I’m the girl who’s dug herself into one of the most complicated situations you can imagine:

-I live with a musician/friend and her boyfriend in a little house that, until yesterday, has been under construction since the day I moved in (and I knew it would be this way going into it, but somehow thought that band saws running at odd hours and having to plug the microwave in on the couch would be okay??)

-I inherited a dog. Not just ANY dog, mind you. A little powerhouse jack russell with anxiety issues and a Napoleon complex. Thus, serious, continual training ensued.

-I work an 8-5 job that involves little of what I love to do (i.e. being creative, writing, editing, interacting with people), and leaves me with even less time to pursue those things outside of work.

-And still… I managed to get into some extracurricular activities. Namely the musical, which, as we near the show dates, takes up increasing chunks of my post-work time so that my days go something like this: Up at 7, at work around 8, use lunch break to run errands and take Gabe out, actually eat lunch at work, leave work at 5, go home and feed Gabe and take him out, grab something that resembles dinner, get to rehearsal by 6, rehearse until 10, home by 10:15, tend to Gabe, in bed by 11 (or 12). Repeat. 4 days in a row.

-Granted, I only live a couple of miles from J, but we still live in separate house, which means packing night bags, running home before work in the morning to let Gabe out, constantly shuttling between the two locations and perpetually leaving things at his house. (My forgetfulness rivals that of someone fifty years my senior).

-I move, on average, once a year. This does not help the situation any. Being in and out of boxes and in and out of spaces, the constant address changes, the job switching (if the move is out of town), the process of moving itself. And yet, I love a change of scene. I start to itch when I’ve remained still for too long in one place. (Masochism?)

As you can see, life is not exactly streamlined. I’ve been taking a long, hard look at things lately and have realized that changes need to be made or my sanity will pay the price. J apparently must have realized this as well, because one of my birthday gifts from him this year was a subscription to Real Simple magazine. I’ve read this publication from time to time, and for someone who lives in mass chaos, I sure do have a fetish for organization and simplification that Real Simple seems to satisfy. The problem is, until now, I’ve been doping on the doctrine without actually living it.

Suddenly, however, the idea of simplification has become a new mantra. Granted, it will take some time before I can jump on the wagon, but at least I’ve started chasing it. While it will involve not one, but TWO moves, J and I will finally be consolidating our resources and living under one roof. Our aim is to rent a house where we’ll be the only tenants, thus taking control of our living situation. I’ve just started a profile on a money management website to conquer my spending and credit card debt. I’m working towards a job that either involves my talents more earnestly or offers me enough free time to pursue writing and other creative work on the side. Also, in the new place, we’ll be able to control use of space and organization. We’re both interested in growing herbs and vegetables and learning to cook at home more.

And that’s just for starters. I never believed it whole-heartedly before, but they may have been on to something with the “Gift to be Simple” thing, because with increased simplicity comes increased serenity. It’s not to say we shouldn’t be driven in our pursuits, which sometimes can be stressful, but we do need to choose our battles wisely and streamline everything else.

That’s where I’m at. The chaos will necessarily continue until the summer, but at least I have a light at the end of the tunnel.

And Real Simple in the meantime.

~a

(Need more inspriation to get simple? Check out this story: http://lifestyle.msn.com/your-life/bigger-picture/articleoprah.aspx?cp-documentid=19216974&gt1=32001. Yes it’s from Oprah’s magazine; whatever. I feel better having read it.)

I Am Not Nice April 17, 2009

I’ve been doing a little experiment this week: I’ve decided to speak my mind.

You see, it seems I’ve focused so heavily on empathy and tact, both of which I value highly, that these qualities are now backfiring, and the following has becomes true: the greater my empathy, tact and, well,  likability, the more I end up a doormat. A grumpy, angry (and often sleep-deprived) doormat.

The difficulty I’m encountering in my newly rekindled efforts to just tell people how I really feel? Instead of feeling empowered or confident or respectably opinionated, I may come off as a huge (for lack of a better word) b#tch.

Perhaps this is because I set one precedent and am trying to turn on a dime; my sudden honesty and opposition is such a departure from the confluence people expect from me that it comes as an unpleasant surprise.

EXHIBIT A: When, after it had been happening for a month, I finally asked my roommate’s boyfriend (who now lives with us) if he could end his mandolin practicing by midnight on work nights, he seemed shocked. Not only as if it had never occurred to him that plucking away at 3am in the bedroom right above mine might be problematic, but also as if I’d slapped him on the wrist along with my request. And now he acts weird around me. But I feel INFINITELY better and can finally sleep through the night.

Or (also likely), I’m having a little too much fun with this excuse to tell it like it is…

EXHIBIT B: I’ve been a member of Facebook for a while now and have noticed that there’s a certain type of friend who feels the need to use their status box to perpetually update us on their extensive and amazing exercise routines (“rode my bike 10 miles, ran uphill for another 5, pilates for a cool-down…. ready to start my day!!).  Usually I grumble to myself over this kind of public gloating; I workout, too, but I don’t feel the need to validate myself (and make others feel like lesser people) by broadcasting my routines.

Not today.

When one of these updates popped onto my homepage, I replied with a status that informed the offenders (without mentioning names) that from now on I would be hiding updates from people who felt the need to do this. Shortly thereafter, I got a comment from one of the main offenders saying this was, “Kind of harsh.”

So was it?

Am I just getting carried away with this honesty thing? Are there some things that, no matter how stongly you feel about them, should just be kept to yourself? There must be some fine line between trampling and being trampled upon. It’s possible that I got caught up enjoying the sudden freedom from the shackles of nice-ness and overshot that line. So – apologies to any victims; most experiments need refining, and this apparently is no exception.

But is hasn’t all been Wicked Witch of the West this week.

There was also an instance the other night when I was upset with J and decided to be open and honest about my disappointment.

EXHIBIT C: I don’t have a lot of experience being angry at J, and he’s difficult to stay mad at, so in the past I’ve let a lot of little things go. But I know from experience that this behavior can be dangerous – often leading to an explosion of “little thing” shrapnel down the road. In this instance, I chose to tell him exactly how his actions had affected me, without yelling or throwing blame around. And, by god, he understood. As he explained back to me exactly how I was feeling, I heard that he understood. He couldn’t take back what had happened that evening, but his comprehension of where I was coming from remedied the situation for me completely.

As you can see, this experiment’s had some mixed results. So – apologies to any victims; most experiments need refining, and this apparently is no exception. I’m working on it, with the idea that everyone will benefit when I get it right.

~a

The Great Escape (Concluded…) April 9, 2009

Let’s wrap this sucker up, shall we?

Having crashed at last around 5 in the morning, we slept a large portion of Sunday morning away. Realizing upon our awakening that a Miami day was melting away before our eyes, we sprang into action to hit up the beach. R stayed home to relax and get some work done, but J and I were soon suited up and out the door.

Zee boardwalk... Home to walkers, joggers and guys trying to sell you crickets made of banana leaves. (Takes all kinds, no?)

Hell bent on finding perfection this time around, we hailed a cab and took it down to 40-something St. where we’d found that great public beach access and the start of the boardwalk. Following along the boardwalk, we had our pick of hotel-kept beaches. Coming to a slightly less crowded stretch, we hobbled over to a little beach shack where they were renting chairs, umbrellas and cabanas. A chalkboard sign listed the cost of rent for each: All day rental- Chairs – $15 for two, Umbrellas – $15, Cabanas – $20, Beds – $50.

Beds?

I looked over, and, indeed, there were two full-sized platform beds with big, blue cushions. Seriously? Does anyone think this is a good idea? Do you KNOW what those cushions must be like? The amount of microbe colonies – no, CIVILIZATIONS that probably thrive within?

“We’ll take a cabana, please,” I told the shirtless guy at the counter.

“That’s it? How ’bout a couple of chairs?” he pushed, jovially enough.

“I don’t need chairs,” I turned him down, equally friendly.

“How ’bout chairs and cabana for $25?” he said.

I looked again at the sign. Hmph. It was a good deal.

I started to pass my credit card over the table. “$20 if you give me cash,” he offered. Shady? Yes. But it meant free beach chairs, and we were able to scrounge up the $20 in cash, and before we knew it, another employee was carrying our chairs over to a great spot on the beach and dragging the cabana over to shade them. I was pleased with the deal.

The water here was much clearer, and a shallow sandbar created warmer, calmer waters to swim in. A middle-aged hippy-type had approached us earlier on the boardwalk and, among other things, told us that we had great karma and that we could restore our chakras by dipping ourselves under the water together 11 times (she also said this would improve our love life, which is when things got a little strange). But we figured it couldn’t hurt, so, warmed by an unhindered sun, we ventured out into the crystal blue waters. The waves rose steadily to our middles, then soon we found the elevation rising and we were only knee-high in water. Sandbar found. We knelt down in the water, waited for a wave to pass, grabbed on to each other and dunked ourselves sloppily 11 times, laughing and snorting water the entire time.

I don’t know about my chakras, but our spirits at least were sky high when we eventually emerged on the beach again.

When the sun finally began its descent, we decided to seek out a happy hour at one of the bars along the boardwalk. The sound of reggae led us to what turned out to be a Carrabba’s (I still don’t believe this was actually a part of the national chain of Italian restaurants – it was an outdoor patio/tiki bar with live Jamaican music). (See my review on Yelp: http://www.yelp.com/biz/carrabbas-italian-grill-miami-beach) Two sangria’s a piece later, we teetered out and began to walk home. Emboldened by the alcohol and revitalized by the bar food (more later on the restorative powers of homemade kettle chips smothered in blue cheese…) we decided to walk the beach the entire way home.

Three words: Happy. Hour. Sangria. (Two more: Double. Fisting.)

One helluva walk later, we arrived back at R’s building as the sun began to set. It was time to hit up the showers and prepare for dinner. We’d been craving sushi since we arrived (recall the utter disappointment of Iron Sushi, which was supposed to sate us until we could get the real deal) and now had our sites set on Sushi Samba, one of the trendy see-and-be-seen spots on Lincoln Road.

In hindsight, I’m not really sure how J and I were still standing at this point, much less walking, talking and ready to hit the town. My guess is some kind of vacation hormone which acts much like adrenaline, but with less fight-or-flight and more photography. We didn’t arrive on the Lincoln Rd. strip until 10:00 or so, but the patios were packed with diners still and the wait for a table at Samba had us headed inside to fend for ourselves at the bar for a good forty minutes. (Btw, that girl made THEE best mojitos we had the entire week – and the most expensive, go figure…)

Sushi Samba: Killer sushi, Nazi Hostesses

Turns out the wait was well worth it. After a few appetizers, our badass little server, (Rebecca? Rachel? Shite, I thought I’d remember) delivered a huge plate of some of the best and most innovative sushi I’ve ever tasted. Finally, the sushi monster that dwells perpetually in my stomach was quelled (although, it’s been so long now that I swear I’ve heard it grumbling again…).  As we were polishing off the last of the rolls, just when we thought life couldn’t get any better…. it. did.

Aforementioned Killer Sushi (Currently causing me to drool on my office desk...)

Because THAT’S when Amazing Adam sauntered over to our table. At first, we all thought this was some lowlife with a deck of cards who was going to harass us until we paid him off to do some trick and leave us alone. Oh, no no no no no… Amazing Adam is no hack, my friends. In less than a minute, he’d intrigued me into fishing $10 out of my purse to see his full routine, and it was worth EVERY PENNY. I was floored by the way he could move the cards, even before he started in with the tricks. He performed right next to our table, all three of us watching him from different angles, and none of us caught a single flaw the entire time. It was like watching a magician back when you were a kid and still believed in such things.

Still in an Amazing Adam haze, we paid our bill and strolled down Lincoln to finish the night at Segafredo, which was now in its nighttime mode, all house music and hipsters. The perfect ending to what was my favorite day of the entire trip.

Not that the last day wasn’t memorable, mind you. Monday we ventured inland to Coconut Grove. Which I loved. Suffice it to say if I ever moved to the Miami area, this is where I would live (you know, if we throw all practicality to the wind). Here I finally got my first taste of the legendary cafe con leche (strong coffee pulled with sugar and mixed with just a bit of milk, topped with froth) which was everything I’d hoped it would be and more. Who knew the latte could be that infinitely improved upon? The Grove is also home to three (count ‘em) French bistros, but I can say confidently that we chose the best of them when we stopped into Le Bouchon du Grove (again with the Yelp: http://www.yelp.com/biz/le-bouchon-du-grove-miami).

R and his crock o' mussels @ Le Bouchon du Grove

Our plan after that was to pay the $1.50 toll and drive out to Key Biscayne, however (long story short) we took a wrong turn out of the Rest Stop of Confusion and found ourselves headed back out of the tollway with no escape (read: no u-turns anywhere, WTF?). So it was back to South Beach for one more sunset by the pool and then dinner by R (Surf n’ Turf a la George Forman, and quite tasty).

And that, mes amis, was that. Not much time the next day for anything but gathering our belongings (now scattered about R’s apartment) and getting to the airport. (However, there was time for one last hurrah in D.C. We had a three hour layover in which we took a train a couple stops out, met some of J’s freinds for lunch and St.Patty’s Day drinks, and got back just in time to run through the terminal and catch our flight home… becuase, you know, we didn’t really get enough excitment in Florida.)

So, what now? Stay tuned and I’ll fill you in on the little bit of info we got upon our return that will change our lives very shortly.

~a

R's cat Charlie - We sorta had this love/hate thing going by day 6. (Before that it was mostly a hate/hate thing)

Childhood…. Revisited March 27, 2009

Falls under the category of Stop the Presses, Oh My Effing G:

My hands-down favorite childhood story (more than 20 years later) has been made into a film. And thirty second of trailer tells me I’ve already fallen head-over for it. Serious badassery coming to theaters October, 2009. Who’s comin’ with me?!?!

~a

P.S. Love the choice of Arcade Fire for the background music!