Finding Beauty in Unexpected Places

July 17, 2012 9:04 pmLeave a Comment

A week after I moved to Denver, I secured my first date in my new hometown.  I can’t claim charm or good looks for my colorful dating life during the winter of 2007 (well, perhaps a smidge of charm because I can be irresistible upon occasion), it’s because being new in town is an excellent ice breaker.  Sometimes when my dating life is a little slower than I wish it to be, I pretend to be lost and ask a handsome stranger for directions.  Sometimes I’m left alone on the street corner, other times I find myself, moments later, with a pint of beer in hand, sitting next to a tall, dark Denverite ever so willing to teach me about major intersections (that I already know well) and wax poetic on the city.

I believe in subterfuge when it’s delivered in the right spirit. :)

Anyway, my first date in Denver was at Mercury Cafe on the outskirts of downtown.  It’s a liberal gathering place for hippies, goths, and everything between.  I didn’t know this yet.

Finding a parking spot that night proved difficult, especially since parallel parking terrified me back then.  (For the record, I can now throw Eddie into any spot in six seconds or less.)  So, I decided to park in a lot several blocks from the restaurant.  Small town girl I was, the fact that the lot sat empty didn’t cause suspicion.  And, as dusk had only begun, nothing looked frightening.  Truthfully, I was too preoccupied with my lip gloss to take notice of something as unimportant as safety.

Six blocks up, lips perfectly pink, I entered Mercury Cafe.  Where dreadlocks greeted me at the door.

“Wow,” I said with awe.  “Your hair is gorgeous.”

She shook the dreads with pride.  “Wish my mom agreed with you, but yeah, I love ‘em.”

“I’ve never seen dreadlocks in real life before,” I confessed.

That night, as I sat waiting for my date, I saw many interesting things in real life for the first time.  Devil tattoos.  Ear plugs.  Hooks pierced into noses.  Homemade dresses constructed of chains and feathers.  Men wearing eyeliner.  Women in muscle tees. Mercury Cafe is like a breathing museum of subculture.

I saw, for the first time, beauty in the unconventional.  Beauty in the unselfconscious reflection of individuality on skin and in fabric.  Everyone there moved comfortably, too, hips swaying fluidly, shoulders back, knees unlocked.

When my date arrived, I was disappointed that my people watching had to end.

The date proved itself uncomfortable, though I’ll always remember my salmon with dill sauce, spiced chai, and lemon meringue.  Yum.  As frustrating as bad dates can be, there’s usually delicious food involved, and I’m always thankful for this.

Dinner and awkward conversation complete, we exited Mercury.  “Where did you park?” He asked.

I hooked a thumb left.  “Over there.”

“Well, I’m over here,” and he gestured the opposite direction.  “Nice meetin’ ya.”

“Yeah,” I agreed half-heartedly as we walked backwards away from each other.

I turned on my heel, already visualizing my pajamas and Chunky Money. “Hope I have a clean spoon,” I said to myself. A bowl would be unnecessary.

A block down, while fantasizing about a man named Ben, and another man named Jerry, I realized the sidewalk had turned exceptionally dark.  I looked up.  The street lights had been busted.  I looked down.  Shards of glass, from the bulbs that once were, sparkled on the concrete.  My steps, suddenly cautious, echoed against the brick buildings on either side of the street.  Buildings that – uh oh – had their windows barred.  My only company, as I gulped down a sudden rush of fear, was heavy shadows.

I swore to never wear lip gloss again.

I squeezed my clutch tightly beneath my arm.  Straightened my shoulders.  Forced myself to keep walking.

But when two men rounded the corner, gaining on me quickly, I froze.  Trouble vibrated around them.  The tall, bulky one wore a knit cap to top off a leather jacket.  The shorter one hunched beneath a hooded sweatshirt.  Hood up.

I knew that Chunky Monkey would never again touch my lips.  I was a goner.  Life lost.  Surely, they were my killers.  ‘Cause they looked like killers.

They circled me, eyes digesting every inch.

I began listing my life’s regrets.  I should’ve eaten more ice cream.  And a LOT more French fries.  I should’ve never tried running last summer – such meaningless torture that was.  Despite my regrets, I was relieved to be wearing my favorite dress.  At least I’d die in something silky.

The tall one spoke first.  “What’s we find here, hm?”

“We gots us a giiirlie-girl.”

As close as they were, I saw the city streets – grit and oil – smeared on their faces.  They were tough, and it showed.  I was terrified, and that showed, too.

“You’s about ready to piss yohrself,” The shorter one said.

Yeah, I kinda was.

Then, the taller one leaned down close.  I inhaled a quick breath, smelling the liquor from his mouth.  He leaned closer still…and kissed me gently on my cheek.

Then he chuckled.  A deep, friendly, low gut laugh.  He punched his shorter comrade in the shoulder, getting his attention.  Then he started snapping his fingers.  The shorter one snapped, too.  And, together, they – to my shock – began singing.  To me.  An impromptu blues number about a blonde girl crossing the wrong tracks.

Their voices, unrestrained, bounced against the hallowed buildings and the empty street.  The sound of them, melodic and unexpected, forced my held breath to release.  Was this really happening?

The shorter one pushed his hood back, revealing a face younger than I expected, and clasped my hand.  He twirled me ’round.  I dropped the clutch from beneath my arm, but barely noticed.  Because, while spinning to an acapella song being sung just for me, I was mesmerized. My tension shook itself free on the third twirl.

They finished.  I grinned.

The tall one picked up my discarded clutch.  “Now, what in the heehl are you doin’ down hehr?”

I told them about my parking space.  They ushered me safely back to the lot, all the while lecturing me about making better parking decisions.  A lecture I’ve never forgotten.

Driving home that night, I pictured the cafe.  The piercings and tattoos, the easy strides and comfortably worn skin.  Felt, again, that kiss to my cheek.  Beauty, I decided, could be an unexpected experience.  Like the sound of blues on the street, music meant to ease a girl’s fear.  Beauty, I decided, could be found – not exclusively in what is – but in how it’s presented.  Like mohawks worn without apology.

Yeah, to be yourself, whatever that means.  To accept yourself and everyone else. Even if unconventional or unexpected.  Without apology.  That’s ridiculously beautiful.

Suddenly I felt beautiful, too.  Lip gloss unnecessary.

Posted in UncategorizedTagged cause suspicion, charm, life, mercury cafe, small town girl, street

Chancing It & Smashing Regret

July 17, 2012 9:03 pmLeave a Comment

You can immediately gauge my happiness level by the state of my apartment.  Dishes lined in geometric form in the cupboard, towels folded hotel-style, dust-free baseboards, laundry immediately ironed, Lean Cuisines alphabetized in the freezer.  Yup, Sunny is stressed and miserable.

When no laundry is available for ironing because a string of gabardine and lacy unmentionables litter the hallway (begging for the washer), when spoons and bowls teeter in the sink, when the bathroom is cluttered with open makeup containers, and the towels…  Where did they disappear to?!

Disaster – ah, beautiful mess!  The very result of joy.

Well, recently my towels were MIA.  I’d been subsisting on toast because it can be eaten without dishes altogether.  Toast crumbs dotted my kitchen, my closet, and my bathroom.

There I was.  Toast in one hand, shimmying into clothes quickly.  Bite.  Munch.  Toast switched to other hand, mascara swiping one lash.  Two.  Bite.  Lip gloss.  Munch.  Shoes?  There they are!  Next to the door where they were kicked earlier.  First sneaker.  Lick fingers.  Second sneaker. Grab keys.

And off I went.

This has been my life recently.  Let me catch you up.

Just before Christmas, I got a new job.  Upon hearing the good news, I hung up my phone.  On wobbly legs, I snuck into the janitor’s closet – since I was at work – and leaned into the mop and bucket, swiping at happy tears.  I’d been given advance notice of a lay off, and finally – in the space of a two minute phone call – life was no longer on hold.

Drying my eyes, I returned to my desk.  I saw the view of the mountains from my cubicle, knowing I’d miss my window.  Chest suddenly tight, I heard my boss’s voice from her corner office, yelling at someone on the phone.  The grumpy lady I’d spent over four years being stressed by… she’d no longer be my boss.  Chest tighter still.  My friends Coco and A.W. would no longer be down the hall.  I gingerly lowered myself into my comfy, ergonomically designed Herman Miller chair.  That would no longer be mine.

Despite how much I’d been frustrated by the world of real estate, I wasn’t leaving this company by my own accord.  Having to leave hurt more than I’d expected.  Having to leave was more terrifying than I’d imagined.

My boss, done with her conversation, stomped to my desk.  She halted.  Shoved a pen behind an ear.  ”Why the hell are you crying?”

“Because I got the job.”

And she started crying, too.

Longest two working weeks ever.  Letting go was hard.  Saying good-bye painful.  Moving on, scary.

But I did it.  I’m now working for a non-profit that funds medical research.  I’m combining my fascination of the health care field with my accounting skills.  Three months later, though, I still struggle with nostalgia.  I needed this change, as difficult as it’s been, and it’s shown me how taking chances, and making changes, is necessary.  It’s lead me on a wild ride that I could’ve never predicted.

During the holidays, my new job reeked of quiet, and the loneliness was overwhelming.  I struggled with the loss of human contact, an unavoidable aspect of commercial real estate.  Each day, at my old job, I talked to at least fifty people.  Phone calls, meetings, the fire department.

I shared my loneliness with my friend Amy.  ”Maybe,” she said.  ”You need more people interaction in your personal life now.  Balance things out a bit.”

As always, she made an excellent point.  So, during a phone conversation with my friend Coco a few days later, I told her my plan.

“I’m going to a bar.”

“Oooooookay,” she waited for the punch line.

“I’m serious.”  Phone tucked between chin and shoulder, I put blush to the apples of my cheeks.  ”I’ve got bar clothes on and everything.”

Bar person, I’m not, but that Saturday, to the bar I arrived.  Alone.  Adrenaline pumping.  Oh, yeah, I thought, this is why I don’t bar hop anymore.  Walking through the doors of a bar makes goosebumps sizzle down my neck.  I feel completely gauche.  There I was, though, and I wasn’t about to waste my perfectly arranged cleavage by turning around.

Technically, it was a brewery, not a bar.  This meant no strobe lights – phew!  Just raucous conversation and welcoming bar stools.  I accepted one of the stool’s invitations.  Discomfort melted after I chatted the bartender, who gave me several free samples.  Stout.  Amber.

“This is pretty good,” I said of the honey wheat.

“Wanna try the IPA?”

This wasn’t the bartender’s question.  I glanced to the right, toward the voice – smooth like my honey ale, deep like the stout.

My eyes widened.  I squeezed my beer mug.  Breathe, Sunny, I told myself.

He pushed his beer toward me.  ”It’s bitter, but give it a try.”

I swallowed past a dry throat.  Where had he come from?

The beard.  I noticed it first.  Mountain-man Colorado beard, perfectly cropped to hug the strong outline of his chin, silver specks glinting along his jaw.  Eyes blue.  Hair dark.  He grinned at me while I stared at him, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in the most charming way.

I straightened my shoulders. “‘Sure, I’ll try it.”

While sipping, I stared into his eyes.  He stared into mine.  Gulp.  Five minutes later – miraculously – our stools were closer.  Ten minutes later, an IPA for me, another for him.  Fifteen minutes, all personal space disappeared.  Thirty minutes, he made me laugh, and I tipped into him.  He reached out to steady me, but not before my nose grazed his beard.  It tickled.  The spiciness of his aftershave tickled, too.  We talked about everything and nothing.  His work as an engineer.  My philosophy on why it’s important to name your electronics.

When one of the bartenders began to play the fiddle, it seemed perfectly natural to dance with the Bearded Engineer.  After the beer was gone, the dancing done, and the stools stacked upside down on all of tables, it was easy to hop next to him on his tailgate – in the middle of the empty parking lot – while the fresh air cleared our minds.

“Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow?”  The Beard asked.

“No,” I answered without hesitation.

“Why not?”

“Several reasons.”

“I’m listening.”

“First, I’ve told you way too much about my personal life, which is the unfortunate result of having more than two beers,” I said.  ”Second, it’s incredibly embarrassing to meet someone in the light of day after you’ve told them, in great detail, all of your eccentricities.”

“That it?”

“No.”  I bit my lower lip.  Shifted closer to him until we were only two breaths apart.  “It’s also because I’m gonna kiss you.”

He moved the one breath, I moved the other.  It was an innocent meeting of lips.  When they parted reluctantly, he whispered, voice husky, “How’s this a problem?”

“Because I don’t normally kiss strangers in a parking lot.”  I hopped off the tailgate.  ”I’ve given you a terrible and inaccurate impression of myself.”

“I promise not to remember,” he said.  ”I’m not looking for anything serious.  I just want to have fun.  With you.  So, have breakfast with me tomorrow.”

Usually I’d walk away.  To heck with him, I’d say. I want serious.  No fun.  But serious hasn’t been working all that well.  Wouldn’t fun be….fun?

Under this rationalization, I met The Beard for breakfast the next morning.  Over a couple of weeks, we did, indeed, have fun.  We danced at heated Cuban bars.  We soaked in his hot tub under the Colorado stars.  We spent an entire Saturday watching a Rambo marathon (long story about that) while eating nachos and hot wings, chugging beer whenever Rambo said more than three words at a time.  Who says you’re too old for drinking games?

Dating The Beard wasn’t something I’d normally do.  He wasn’t a sure thing.  What is?  He was trouble, it’s true.  A small heartbreak.  But hearts are built to break.  Race.  Open.

Life is one big chance, broken into little chunks of uncertainty.  If nothing is certain, why not take more chances?  Take the chances that use our hearts for what they were built for?  Breaking, healing, loving.

I’ve realized that change and chance aren’t very different.  To change is to take a chance.  To take a chance, you often have to change.

My new job, for example, has nurtured change.  Because I don’t work until 9 am, I now wake up earlier.  Sometimes I brew coffee and burrow under my quilt next to the fireplace.  Other times I order a latte at my favorite cafe, listening to the world waking against the sound of steam and clinking cups.  Having the day begin at a leisurely pace is a change I appreciate, and as life has settled a bit, I’m even spending mornings writing the manuscript I’d abandoned last summer.  Finishing a manuscript is definitely creating chance.

My new job, great opportunity that it is, also weighs heavily on me.  It’s no longer the quiet office from December.  The work load could fill a moving truck.  Not only do I manage the accounting, I haul around odd things like 26 cases of Coke (that topple onto my innocent feet) and 50 pound boxes of buttons and tee shirts.  I’m starting to show more bruises than pale Scandinavian skin.  Taking this job was a chance, one I sometimes question.  Although difficult, I’m learning a whole new kind of business that will allow me to take another chance (job) in the future.  Good or bad, I’m moving in a direction that feels right.

It’s true, some chances are called “mistakes” and bring regret.  There’s no way to avoid mistakes.  Even, sometimes, the ones you’ve made several times before.  Being alive means doing things imperfectly.  You’ll say the wrong words.  You’ll do the wrong thing.  You’ll move to the wrong city, date the wrong person, take the wrong job, extend a benefit of the doubt too many times.  Isn’t it awesome, though, to be making mistakes, living life, and taking chances?  And recovering from those mistakes, appreciating what you have, finding new motivation to do better and feel better - because mistakes are an incredible motivator, aren’t they?

Going back to The Beard.  Our relationship, short-lived as it was, revolved around booze.  Vodka tonics.  Jameson on the rocks.  Winter Warlock stout.  Tanqueray and lime.  In my long years of dating - too long, it seems – I should’ve known better.  A lot better.  After each date we had, ridiculously hungover, I’d wonder why. Why was I doing this?  I knew my values weren’t being honored, but he was The Beard.  A much stronger personality, and I allowed myself to be overpowered.  Dating him became un-fun.

Whenever I think things can’t get worse, I’m proven wrong.  Take my last night with The Beard.

“Coco,” I whispered into my cell phone.  ”It’s Sunny.”

“Why are you whispering?” My friend asked.

“Because I’m hiding in the pantry.”

“You know, nothing you say shocks me anymore,” she said.  ”Whose pantry are you hiding in?  And why are you hiding?”

“The Beard is having phone sex in his bathroom.”

“Um,” she paused.  ”I need a moment for that to register.”

“I’m hiding in the pantry because I can hear everything he’s doing, and I don’t want him to hear me.”

“I’m gonna guess that he’s not having phone sex with you, then?”

“No, it’s some girl he’s been texting all day. I gotta say, he’s not really good at phone sex, which is oddly satisfying to me.”

“Why aren’t you in your car driving a hundred miles away?”

“Because my purse is locked in his truck.  It’s a long story.  We were only supposed to pick something up quick, but he’s been in the bathroom for forty-five minutes.”

“Wow.”  She paused again.  ”You really don’t believe in living a boring life, do you?”
“Yes!” I protested.  ”I’d love a boring life!”
The pantry door opened.  The Beard peered in.  ”What are you doing?”
I hid the phone behind my back.  I picked up the closest object on the shelf, glanced at it quickly.  ”Cream of mushroom.  Good stuff.”
He lifted a brow.  Shrugged a shoulder.  ”Are you ready to go?”
We’d planned to grab drinks downtown.  I swallowed. I wasn’t ready to go anywhere with him.  Ever again.  ”Sure.”
Reluctantly, with heavy feet, I followed him to his truck.  Hopped into the seat.  Grabbed my purse and clutched it to my chest.
“I’m thinking martinis tonight,” he said, sending a quick text – to his recent phone partner, no doubt – with a grin.
I stared ahead, thinking what I’d like to do with his martini.  I don’t know why I drove downtown with him, instead of running away when my car keys were in hand.  But I did.  When we entered the martini bar, though, I turned to him and said, words rushed and panicked, “I can’t date you anymore!”
Then I ran like hell onto the street.
Around the corner, a block down, I spotted the most beautiful vision – a golden yellow taxi parked at the corner of Arapahoe and 16th.
“Taxi!” I screamed, gaining on it as quickly as my legs would move.  Thank God I wear sneakers :) .  “Taxi!” I screamed again, not bothering to slow down, letting the car door stop me with a thud.  I yanked it open and dropped myself inside.
Enter the Colonel.  The man in the opposite seat.  ”You run pretty fast.”
I scowled at him.  ”Look here, this may technically be your taxi, but I’m not budging.”
“Wouldn’t hear of it,” he assured me.  ”I’m headed to the Tech Center.”
I turned my attention out the window.  ”That’ll work.”  Wrong direction, but surely I could bribe Coco to pick me up.
“You ready?” The cabby asked, giving us a wary look over his shoulder.
“Yes,” the Colonel answered.
The car swayed down the narrow streets, merged onto the Interstate.  Maybe it was the swaying, or my long-standing exhaustion, or the fact that I’d been hiding in a pantry an hour earlier, but without warning, I started to cry.  Not girly tears, either.  I think I snorted once.  Or twice.
The Colonel turned sideways in his seat.  ”You okay?”
I swiped my face with the backs of my hands.  I looked over into his face.  A kind face.  Also a worried face, for which I couldn’t blame him.  He probably thought I was nuts.
“It’s a crazy life, you know?” I said without expecting an answer.  ”I followed my dream of moving to Colorado, and it amazes me.  Colorado amazes me.  Being in the mountains and wearing my sneakers, it makes me so happy.  For the first time I have friends.  I have a life here.  But still, every time I think I’m getting ahead,” I started crying again.  ”I think I’m just about to make it, really get somewhere, and then I need a root canal, then the brakes go out in my car, and then I lose my job.  And I miss my old job.  My new job is exhausting.”  I tried to stop the tears but they had their own agenda.  ”I’m just tired.  Tired of vodka tonics and dates with people who have phone sex in the bathroom.”
He half-smiled, but without mockery.  “I think I need to buy you a cappuccino,” he said.  And we wound up talking until 4 am, becoming inseparable from that morning.
The Colonel gave me a love affair.  Interlocking fingers.  Knees.  Elbows.  Lips.  Skin.  Shallow breaths.  No breath at all.  Saturday nights of Breaking Bad episodes and Xbox.  Sunday morning drives into the mountains, up muddy roads while listening to Mraz.  Feeding the deer from his back porch.  Making banana cream pie, eating it for dinner.  Sleeping until noon.  Not sleeping at all.
Before we knew it, his trip to California arrived.  Early that morning, before he left, I leaned over him and traced the outline of his jaw.  Traced the shadows of his tattoos, needled long ago, now half-removed.  Telling a story that I wanted to hear.  Traced the scar on his chest, a night surely he remembered and I wondered about.  ”I’m afraid that you’ll go to California and I’ll never hear from you again.”
“It’s only five days,” he reminded me.  ”And we’ll keep in touch.”
Day one, no word.  Day two, no word.  I didn’t want to bother him, so I didn’t call, either.  Day three, no word.  Day four, I assume we aren’t dating anymore.  Day five, I gave into my fear.  The Colonel was gone.
The Beard, et. al., they were lessons learned.  They were evenings that glittered, sure, but fizzled.  They each represent pieces taken from me.  Pieces I’ve had to work at getting back.  But the Colonel, he was like Kansas.  Endless blue sky, slow sunsets, outstretched roads.  His beauty, as my friend Coco would say, lay in the minutiae.  Like when I’d get nervous around him, he’d let me clutch both of his hands, and he always squeezed back.  “I gotcha,” those squeezes said.
The hundred moments we shared – the minutiae - will remain private, but will replay endlessly in my memory - they’re why my heart is breaking now.  And, most especially, these moments are what gave me one of my greatest regrets.
See, the Colonel hadn’t forgotten me, but there were misunderstandings, hurt feelings.  No ugly parting, just text messages gone politely awry.  I told him our personalities were too different and that we shouldn’t see each other any more.  We haven’t seen or spoken to each other in two weeks, since he left for California.
This past Sunday, I cried – yeah, with the unattractive snorting again.  “Oh, God,” I lamented to my empty apartment.  “What have I done?”
In the midst of this affair, that’s when my towels went missing. Toast crumbs decorated the carpet.  Work was still tiring, sure, but something wonderful waited for me at the end of each day, so every hour ticked by excitedly.  I missed that chaos.  I missed the feel of our hands clutching together.  Missed his energy, the way he took two steps at a time up the stairs.  Wished to be in his kitchen once again, washing dishes and pans, him stepping behind me and wrapping both arms around my stomach, nudging my head to the side with his head before sliding a languorous kiss from earlobe to collarbone.  The dishes never got very clean.
Why had I ended something so wonderful?  Why had I not just called him in California once to say, “Hi!”  Who cares if I bothered him?  We were dating, for heaven’s sake!  By definition, I was supposed to bother him.  I didn’t call because of uncertainty.  Nervousness.  I’m not gonna be all needy and vulnerable, I told myself.  That’s not my style.  It makes much more sense, obviously, to hide and run away.  I wasn’t willing to take a chance.
That Sunday, after my snorting cry session, I did take a chance.  I sent him a message (admittedly not a particularly confrontational or daring chance as far as chances go).
 I don’t have any reason to think that you’d want to talk to me or hear from me, but I can’t stop thinking about you.  I’m sending you this message because life isn’t about the chances you don’t take, it’s about the chances you do take, even knowing you might fail.  I keep remembering our last weekend together and ….
For the record, I was completely sober while writing my lengthy note to him.  I hit send, heart beating faster than the first time he kissed me.  Hands shaky.  Tears welling up.  Then I had a much needed drink :) .
Two hours, no answer.  Six hours.  Twenty-four hours.
I called Coco.  “Hello?  Coco?  Is my phone working?”
“Yes, so please stop yelling into it.”
“The Colonel didn’t write back.”
In typical Coco fashion, she didn’t see this as a big deal.  “Then camp out on his doorstep until he lets you in.”
“But, but…”  I considered it very seriously.  “Isn’t that a little much?  What if I get arrested for stalking?”
“You get one call from jail.  Just let me know how much your bail is,” she said.  “Anyway, who cares?  Do what you feel is the right thing to do.  Call him until he answers.  Sit at his door.  If you really want another chance, you’re gonna have to do something.  Look,” she took a breath.  “If you get there and he sees you in the driveway and starts throwing rocks at your head, then I’d say you’re outta luck.  Until then, you’ve got options.  It’s your choice whether you use them.”
I swallowed.  “Rocks at my head?”
“Or, you know, some variation of violence.”
I didn’t find that particularly encouraging.
Later that night, I sat cross-legged on the floor.  I stared at the Colonel’s name on my phone, finger poised on the call button.  I’m not good on the phone, especially in these situations, and my nerves buzzed painfully.  I hit the button.  Pulled the phone close to my ear.  Ring.  Buzz.  Ring.  Buzz.
The click of voicemail.  His voice came to me for the first time in two weeks.  It shot down my spine, settled into the pit of my stomach.  I remembered how much I loved the sound of his voice, especially late at night when all his words were slower and deeper.
I left no message.
Phone still glued to hand, I slipped onto my balcony.  The night air cooled my heated cheeks.  A long, quiet while passed.
Then, somewhere between cursing my stupidity and then cursing his stupidity, because both of us could’ve handled things better, I realized there was nothing left for me to worry over.  I’m human and made a mistake.  I apologized and lay myself bare.  I wrote to him.  I called him.  I did what I could, took a chance in saying that I was wrong and that I was sorry, and for this reason I could no longer wallow in self-pity and regret.  (Wallowing in heartbreak, however, was and is still acceptable.)  On my balcony this past Monday night, I accepted my humanity and released my regret.
Since then, I’ve thought about how to prevent myself from feeling regret ever again.  Because it’s mighty unpleasant.  I don’t believe all regret can be circumvented, but I’ve decided there is a cure.  To say you’re sorry.  To admit you’re wrong.  To see where you are at any given moment, without judgment, and change course as necessary.
There’s another cure still – an even better one.  To lay yourself bare from the beginning.  To admit your weaknesses.  To share your feelings the moment they’re hurt.  To say what you want, what you need – without apology.
This morning I awoke to perfectly dusted baseboards.  Freshly ironed clothes.  Bathroom grout gleaming.  I miss the toast crumbs.  But, from now on, I won’t be missing another chance.  Even knowing I might fail.
Posted in UncategorizedTagged car, face, happy tears, lean cuisines, phone, wobbly legs

(Quick) Changes I’ve Made Since Getting Laid-Off

July 17, 2012 9:01 pmLeave a Comment

Action may not always bring happiness; but there is no happiness without action.  Benjamin Disraeli

I’m the kind of person who doesn’t feel (at all) guilty about eating bon-bons while soaking in the tub, literary posh in one hand and Chianti in the other.  Laziness, in my opinion, is required for a life worth living.  But the day I was laid-off was not an appropriate time for bubbles and chocolate.  Despite the four-month warning I’d been given, despite how emotionally drained I was, and despite having no idea what my Plan of Action would be, I made immediate changes to my finances.  And to habits that require money.

Although my lifestyle and priorities are different from yours, I wanted to share these changes anyway.  And if you have ideas for living on the cheap, don’t hesitate in sharing them with me!  I’m determined to become Madam Sunny ~ Master of living elegantly & happily on barely any moolah.

1.  I put Netflix on hold.  This was tough because I have an emotional attachment to my queue list, but instead of canceling it outright, I used their option of placing my account “on hold”, which can be done for a maximum of 3 months.

2.  I visited my barista and told her she wouldn’t be seeing me for a while.  I love my barista.  Her personality is a better wake-up device than espresso.  I stopped by and let her know that I wasn’t abandoning her, but wouldn’t be around as often.  I’ve since cut out fancy coffees during the week.  I’ve found an excellent substitute (Sunny can live without fancy coffee, but not without any coffee!) for my summertime iced coffees.  I use a Melitta single-serve coffee maker  – it’s RED, which further sweetens the setup.  It sits on top of my 16 ounce mug, which I fill half-way with double-strength coffee.  I allow it to sit for 5-10 minutes as the heat blows off, and then fill the rest of the cup with ice.  Perfecto!

3.  I reset my A/C and purchased a box fax.  I love A/C.  It’s one of those luxuries that I consider a necessity.  My tolerance for heat has lessened after my years in Florida, but even so I increased the temperature in my apartment and purchased a box fan for $10.  I’m still chillin’, just at a lower cost.

4. I researched good wines under $8. The soon-to-be unemployed need the luxury of intoxication. I’ve got a list of wines under $8 that are reportedly decent.  I’ve already found an ally in Barefoot’s $6 red zin.

5. I made a list of extremely cheap eats to make at home. Since I don’t cook, it’s not a complicated list. On it I have different forms of the peanut butter sandwich, pita pizzas, chips & salsa.

6. I electronically bookmarked the weekly ad for my grocery store, so I can plan ahead on how I’m going to feed myself with only a little bit o’ money.

7. I filled out an application for refinancing my car at the credit union, where the rates are cheaper.  Hopefully it’ll save me on my monthly car payment.

8. I paid the remaining balance on my car insurance. There wasn’t a large amount left and paying it now saved me $15 in transaction fees that are normally added in with the smaller monthly payments.

9. I needed an oil change for Eddie. I found an online coupon at the dealership that reduces the cost to less than the Quickie Lube.

10.  I listed my digital camera, hiking gear, and a few other valuables on eBay.  Although not entirely necessary at this point, I feel better liquidating stuff sooner rather than later.  And it’s not as awful as it sounds.  I have a 8 MP digital camera in my Android phone, and I still have the ability to go hiking.  Life hasn’t lost its meaning, just some of its accessories ;) .

11.  Using yelp.com, I created a list of cafes that are located within 5 miles of my apartment.  I can drink my Saturday & Sunday cappuccinos while using free Wi-Fi, but burn less gas (a.k.a. money) doing so.  I tend to drive around like a gypsy (perhaps my worst remaining complication to my otherwise minimalist existence) and need to chop down my gas expenditures.

12.  I created a list of cheaper living arrangements if I should need to move before my lease is over, either because it’s too expensive for my next income level or too far a commute.  I can break my lease for the tune of $1,500 + 30 days’ notice.  It’s impossible to know which will be better - to stay or to go – but I’ve already got some ideas ready.  There are roommate and sublet options listed on craigslist and inexpensive studios downtown.

As a minimalist these past three years, I’d already simplified my finances.  No cable TV or Internet.  No gym membership.  No contracts that require sweating over, except my apartment lease.  When I sat down with my monthly budget, I wasn’t nearly as overwhelmed as I expected.  No difficult phone calls to make or panic buttons to press.  For now I’m doing all that I can do.  I’m cutting back and changing my expectations.  I’m having fun, too, as I learn to blend frugality with contentment.

Posted in UncategorizedTagged Action, car, fancy coffees, ounce mug, single serve coffee maker, wasn

Becoming a Rebel Again

July 17, 2012 9:00 pmLeave a Comment

I lost my job last week.

Every list that I’ve made, budget I’ve designed, plan I’ve looked forward to, is now obsolete.

With the economy unwilling to forgive since 2008, and me working in commercial real estate, I’d been prepared for a job loss.  But not prepared for it last week.  I’ve fantasized about quitting my job at least once every day.  Once before lunch.  Once after lunch.  But imagining a voluntary runaway is different from being told your job is no longer needed.

Before it’s assumed that I set fire to something or mooned the CFO (things I’ve imagined, but refrained from), my job – along with everyone else’s job in my department – is being erased because the large company I work for is cutting off its real estate arm.  Our portfolio of buildings is up for grabs.  With great luck, if it can be called that, I’ve been given a four-month notice because selling commercial properties is a complicated process and I’ll be needed to see it through.  So, I have four months to prepare whatever path is ahead of me.  I’ll be given a small severance and letters of recommendation.  Well, only if I don’t set fire to anything in the meanwhile.  :)

I was given the afternoon off to absorb the news.

The sun was bright.  The sky blue.  The temperature 95 degrees.  I crawled into Eddie, shivering despite the summer heat.  I slipped on my sunglasses.  I backed out of the parking spot that I’ve occupied for the past four years.  I rolled down the windows, breathing in hot dry Colorado air, and wondered if I’d ever feel warm again.  I reached the stop light and grabbed my phone.  But there was no one to call.

For the first time in four years, I yearned for my dad.  We haven’t spoken since the day I left Florida, for mutual reasons.  I couldn’t call him and ask for his advice.  All of my friends were either working, or not the kind of person you call and say, “How ya doin’?  Just lost my job, wanna get loaded?”

There was no one to go home to.  No one to call.

I’ve never felt so lonely.

Eddie and I drove without a destination except away.  With the windows down, air whipping in and out, hands shaky on the wheel, I didn’t head to the mountains like I usually do when I need a drive.  Instead I found myself on Hwy 83 where the two lane road is surrounded by red barns and dairy cows.  Where there’s flat pasture and cranky old pick-ups.  Tractors mowing lawns.  It’s a landscape reminiscent of my hometown in Wisconsin.  I sought the familiarity of it.

I parked on the side of the road, next to the black-and-white cows, and cut the engine.  I climbed onto the hood of my car so I could see the countryside clearly.  Grass shuffled against the breeze and it sounded sweet.

Then I cried.  Quiet, polite tears.

I didn’t cry because I’d miss my job.  I’d been wanting to leave it anyway.  I didn’t cry because there weren’t options ahead.  But I didn’t know, and still don’t know, how this will affect my expensive apartment.  Or my plans for the nursing program.  Or my wine habit.  All of the progress I’ve made since moving to Denver  – would it all disappear?

Looking across to one of the peeling barns in the distance, I thought back to when I was a Midwestern kid.  The whole world a land of opportunity, to be bent and shaped as I saw fit.  I remembered all the trouble I was back then.  Being escorted home by the sheriff for trespassing.  Cheating on my calculus exams.  Skipping school.  Smoking in the bathroom.  Racing stolen four-wheelers through the backwoods of northern Wisconsin (we returned them eventually).  Sneaking into bars at seventeen by flirting with the bartenders.

There were, of course, consequences to these things.  I was a bad kid, a troubled kid, and paid the price for it.  Detention, being shunned by the “good” kids, treated unfairly by teachers, and my dad avoided me at all costs.

There are some good memories, too.  Fishing on the Peshtigo River.  Swimming at the YMCA every morning before school, ears submerged in chlorinated water, the vibrating silence and movement of my limbs providing peace when it existed nowhere else.  Sledding in Meadowbrook Park.  Camping every weekend at Potawatomi State Park in Door County, lounging barefooted in canvas chairs next to a campfire.

The good.  The bad.  Back in the Midwest, when I was a rebel child, life wasn’t divided by these things.  Because every time I got knocked down, deservedly or not, I always popped right back up.  There was endless energy within.  Invincibility.  And naiveté, of course, which isn’t always a terrible thing.

That’s why I cried on the side of Hwy 83.  I wanted to pop back up, but after so much heart break and struggle - some of which I’ve created enthusiastically and stupidly on my own, some of which a result of circumstance, some of which have brought hidden gifts, but have hurt just the same  - I no longer possessed endless energy.  I’d never felt so tired as I did that afternoon, sitting on top of my car in the middle of nowhere.

I held up well through the rest of that week.  Until Friday afternoon.

While driving along a deserted country road, this time Hwy 105, a police officer pulled me over for doing 62 mph in a 50 mph zone.  I sat, completely dejected, waiting while he wrote my $162 speeding ticket.  Was this really happening to me?  Getting laid off and being slapped with a ticket… within the space of three days?

He ripped off my copy from his little metal clipboard and said, “Now drive safe, you hear?”  Implying that  I wasn’t a safe driver, despite never having been in an accident and never having been pulled over for speeding.  (Okay, once before in Florida I was caught speeding, but it’s required to speed on I-95.)

I seriously considered backing him over with my car, but despite the sense of satisfaction it would’ve given, I’m too sensitive to be thrown in the slammer.  I allowed him, then, to drive away in a dust cloud of self-righteousness.

When he was gone, I stumbled out of my car, steadying myself against Eddie’s strong outline… and threw up in the ditch.  Exhaustion and stress had taken me over.

I slid to the gravel road, slumped against the car tire, hung my head between my knees.

I’m not sure how long I stayed that way, but when the roaring of a motorcycle slowed, sputtered, and stopped a dozen feet from me, reality came back.

The driver kicked the stand and dismounted.  He had the look of a serial killer.  Or a joyrider.  Who could predict?

His booted feet thudded toward me.  If he pulled a Smith & Wesson from beneath his untucked tee-shirt, which looked possible, it was of little concern.  Just kill me and get it over with, I thought.

He eased close enough to talk, but allowed a comfortable distance to remain.  He scratched the heavy whiskers darkening his chin.  He looked left to the mountains, then right to the open field.

“Well, now,” he drew out, words dripping out like honey, his tone very unlike his dangerous appearance.  “Seems like you’re lost or in some kinda trouble.”

He was obviously Texan.  His accent belonged from nowhere else.

“Trouble,” I told him.

“Mm hm,” he murmured, hooking thumbs into back pockets and rocking on his heels.  “Trouble’s a damn unfortunate circumstance.”

“You betcha,” I said, obviously a relocated Midwesterner.  No one says “you betcha” unless you’re from smack dab in the middle of the U.S.A.  :)

He pushed back his red bandana, giving me a thorough look-over from atop his Aviator sunglasses.  I took him in fully, too.  Mid-thirties.  Sunburned.  Barb wire tattoos circling very large biceps.  Wranglers a bit too tight, but he had nothing to be ashamed of.

“What kinda trouble?”  He asked.

I scrunched up my nose.  Should I tell him the truth?  “I just got a $162 speeding ticket.”

He whistled through his teeth with what could’ve been appreciation.  “Those pigs,” he said, referring to policemen.  “Sonsa bitches, all of ‘em.”

The left side of my mouth lifted, understanding the sentiment.  “And I got laid-off on Tuesday.”

“Damn, lil’ mama.”  He gave a kick to the dusty road to show sympathy.  “Luck ain’t on your side.”

I sighed heavily.  “I thought about vehicular homicide.  For the cop, I mean.”

“I woulda helped burn the body.”

He said it so seriously, but I knew he was joking.  I laughed.

He laughed, too, muscled shoulders moving up and down.  “You know what I do when I’m down and out?”

I was afraid to know the answer, but he supplied it anyway.

“I take a long ride on Miss Harley over there,” he gestured to his bike.  It was a Super Glide.  My mouth watered slightly.  “And all my worries go’on an’ disappear.”

He stepped forward, right in front of me, and held out a hand.  “Take a ride with me, darlin’?”

I hesitated.  Really, though, what did I have to lose?  And it was a Super Glide.  You can’t simply say “no” to it.  “It’s been a while since I’ve ridden on a motorcycle.”

He grinned, suddenly looking quite sexy.  “The only thing you gotta remember,” he said, words like honey again.  “Is hold on tight.”

I lifted a brow.

“Real tight.”

I smiled.  And I took his hand.

I climbed onto the back of his Harley, feeling a tinge of excitement.  Feeling, just a little bit, like a kid again.  I scooted close so that my thighs hugged his and wrapped my arms around his middle.

“Tighter,” he said.

I obliged.

We blazed forward.  He took the corners fast and we dipped low into the road.  My stomach lurched and I buried my forehead between his shoulder blades.  Connected to this mysterious man, the heat and steel of him dangerous yet comforting, I wasn’t lonely anymore.  My troubles flew away, as promised.  There was nothing except hanging on tight and leaning into the curves.  The scenery zipped by, colors flashing, and I saw, once again, that the world is a beautiful place.  Soon I tilted my head back, way back, until the fire of afternoon burned my face.

On the back of that rumbling beast of a bike, I became a rebel again.

When the ride was over and he idled next to my car, where we’d left it, I hopped off.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling light and breathless.  And happy.

He winked at me.  “Pleasure’s mine.”  He revved the engine and nodded to my car.  “Drive it like it’s stolen, baby.”

“Shiny side up,” I returned.

Back behind my own (four) wheels, I shook out my knotted hair and examined my sunburn in the rear view mirror.  The face that looked back, lobster-like as it was, had strength and resilience once again.  I refused to let any “sonsa bitches” ruin my day.  Or any lay-off ruin my life.  At any moment, after all, you can fly away on a Harley and escape your troubles long enough to get some perspective.

I’m renewing the Midwestern rebel kid inside of me.  Not be the girl who always got detention, but be the girl who always pops back up.

Go ‘head, do your worst to bring me down.  Throw every obstacle in my way.  Throw me heartbreak.  Throw me uncertainty.  Throw me pain.  And disappointment.  Loneliness.  Hunger.  Fear.

I’ll catch it all willingly.  And keep it close to my hopes.  My dreams.  My desires.  My fantasies of vacationing in Bali ;) .

Nothing will fuel my run toward succeeding faster than being told success is impossible.  Or having everything taken away.  Or being told “no” too many times.

Because, after all, a rebel loves a challenge.

Posted in UncategorizedTagged car, colorado air, commercial real estate, distance, letters of recommendation, trouble

Share Your Enthusiasm (and Never Underestimate Your Influence on People)

July 17, 2012 8:53 pmLeave a Comment

If you were to meet me in person, you’d quickly discover that I’m a chatty sort who adores conversation.  If you think I’m long-winded while writing, you ain’t seen (or heard) nuttin’.  I love to discuss everything!

I’m the kind of person you avoid at the water cooler because you’ve got better things to do than suffer my inability to shut-up, but I’m undeniably valuable at the corporate Christmas party because I prevent awkward silences.  When a new co-worker stops by my cubicle for the first time, I introduce myself as a verbal Venus Flytrap, but assure them that they’re allowed to escape me whenever they like.  (Since I sit alone at the end of the hall, my only company a cranky boss and a Philodendron, I get pretty lonely down there :( .  So, when a wonderful person visits me, I want to keep them prisoner for as long as possible.)

Such is the case with MM, one my favorite prisoners – I mean, co-workers.  Poor MM.  But she visits my cubicle even without a work related purpose, which makes me think she sorta likes me.  She and I talk about lots of things.  My colorful dating life, her children’s shenanigans, movies, and the meaning of life.  Work, after all, isn’t so much about work.  It’s about dissecting our life’s happenings in extreme detail thirty-five out of forty hours per week.  When I decided to enter the nursing program, then, she was one of the first people I told.

I was taken aback when she got super excited on my behalf and said that she, too, had always wanted to be a nurse and had started the nursing program years earlier.

“What happened?” I asked.  “Why didn’t you finish?”

She shrugged.  “After I finished my prerequisites, we moved for my husband’s job.  The timing was awful, that’s all.”

Every day thereafter MM and I shared thoughts on the health care field – how vast it is, how interesting… how gross, but in the good way.  Sharing our thoughts was fun, especially for me.  MM’s eyes light up as she talks about nursing.  The only thing I love more than wine and chocolate is seeing my prisoners – I mean, my friends – happy.

One day I said, “Why don’t you go back and finish?  Obviously nursing is something that still interests you, and I’d take you for my nurse any ol’ day.”

She pursed her lips and thought for a moment.  “I dunno.”

Grabbing one of my purple Post-its, I scribbled down my academic advisor’s name.  “Give this guy a call to see what it’d take to finish.  What would it hurt?”

And she did.  As I write this, her credits are being transferred and she starts the nursing program this fall.  My enthusiasm for school rubbed off positively!  How exciting to know I can influence people in ways that don’t require bail money.  (Just kidding, that rarely happens anymore ;) .)

Speaking of work, I recently dealt with a broken circuit breaker in our building and I hired an electrician to come save us.  Mr. Electric’s handsome smile, a welcome surprise, made me wish I’d prepared accordingly with fresh lip gloss.

After showing him the electrical panel, I rushed into the bathroom armed with my toothbrush.  As I’d eaten Italian for lunch, I brushed with gusto, hoping to transform my breath from garlicky to minty.  In case Mr. Electric, once I’d dutifully signed his work order, decided to haul off and kiss me.  Stranger things have happened.  I’m sure of it.

A new co-worker of mine entered the bathroom in the middle of my scrubbing and joined me at the sink.  “Wow,” she said.  “Your dentist would be really proud of you.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” I answered, toothpaste mumbling my words.  “This is my vain attempt to scrub the garlic off my breath because there’s a good-looking electrician down the hall.”

She raised a brow.  “Where down the hall exactly?”

I grinned with co-conspiracy.  “Accounting’s conference room, left of the projector.”

Minutes later, after I’d returned to my desk and was fluffing my hair, she rushed to my cubicle, breathless and pink-cheeked.  “I think he’s related to Bradley Cooper.”

“I was leaning toward Wentworth Miller, but I can see it your way.”

As we continued chatting, utilizing the female talent of bouncing from one topic to another one that’s completely unrelated, we discovered a mutual love of coconut.  Before our conversation ended, we made a coconut coffee date for next week.  A new friend!  One I made because I’d shared a slice of girly behavior with a stranger.

Last week I had dinner with my friend Becky.  We were burning our tongues off with inferno-rated buffalo wings while swigging 90 Shilling Ale.  After our second beer, I told her about the stories I’m writing.  I shared my dilemma of Manuscript #1 versus Manuscript #2, mainly the troublesome plot issues of the former.   Normally, I don’t talk about writing.  Before a few months ago, I’d never told anyone about my dream of finishing a book.  Lately, though, I’ve been sharing this part of myself more easily.  It’s proven beneficial.

“I can’t describe how excited I am about finishing a novel,” I told her.  “And I really want to finish the first manuscript, but the problem with the plot is ruining everything.  Oh, Becky, I don’t know what to do!”

“How ’bout flag the waiter?”  She fanned her tongue.  “I need more sour cream before my mouth bursts into flames.”

“I meant about my manuscript.”

“I know, but I can’t problem solve if my entire head is sweating!”

So, I did as instructed.  After licking sour cream from our forks, she knitted her brow and suddenly said, “How about if you …..”

And, within the space of one sentence, she solved my manuscript’s plot.  Thank goodness I shared my enthusiasm for Manuscript #1 with her, otherwise I’d still be wallowing

I can’t write about enthusiasm without mentioning my friend A.W., who’s having a baby.  A baby!  I’ve seen his little baby bottom in an ultrasound.  I’ve felt the flutter in her stomach as he kicked, my hand experiencing life at its very beginning.  I’ve been able to pick out baby clothes with her, an event that requires long-term smiling.  As I watch A.W. become even more beautiful in pregnancy, her belly growing daily, and hearing all of the prep work she and her husband are doing (and, boy, is there a lot of it), I’m infected by her enthusiasm.  I’m reminded of how awesome life is.

The power of enthusiasm should never be underestimated.  Get excited and share your excitement.  Whether it’s about a project you’re working on, a dream you have, or a blue-eyed electrician.  Enthusiasm is contagious.  When you share it, you shine more brightly and the people around you shine, too.

Speak up, dear shy friends!  And tell me – and everyone else – what you’re excited about.  Who knows what problems it’ll solve?  What friends it’ll bring?  What happiness it’ll give someone?  Or how simply sharing your enthusiasm will keep it alive. Continue Reading →

Posted in UncategorizedTagged awkward silences, hall, health care field, person, venus flytrap, work

When Multi-Tasking is a Good Thing

July 17, 2012 8:51 pmLeave a Comment

As a minimalist, die-hard such as I am, I firmly believe in the beauty of focus.  A focus on one thing, squeezing every delicious moment from the experience.  Or if it’s a dreaded work task, focusing hard so that it’s over and done with as quickly as possible.

It was with great gusto, then, that I laser beamed all effort into the manuscript I intend to finish this summer.

I set my stage perfectly.

“Laptop?” Check.  “Lucky earrings?”  Check.  ”Booze?”  Of course!  Since it was before noon during this particular checklist, at my side was coffee… smothered in Bailey’s.

What more could an aspiring writer require?  Exactly!  So I rectified my lack of music by popping in ear buds.  How can you drink Bailey’s and not listen to Ella Fitzgerald?

I often write at a bohemian cafe downtown, a cozy little spot where everyone sports dreadlocks and calls you “dear sister” or “fellow brother”.  It’s really not as creepy as it sounds, but it does require an open mind :) .  The first 50 pages of my manuscript were constructed on its sidewalk patio.  And it was there, too, that my fingers stopped their ratta-tat-tatting on my keyboard.

“Uh oh,” I whispered to myself, leaning slowly away from my laptop.  “I’m stuck.”

The story’s details weren’t matching up, its plot becoming less and less plausible with each page.  Because I was in public during this revelation, I couldn’t cry about it.  Tears or not, my heart ached with overwhelm.  How could my manuscript be so disrespectful?

A week passed that I didn’t touch my story.  It had spurned me and I’m stubborn about such behavior.  Especially from stories and characters I’ve extended such excellent good will towards.  After being spurned, or feeling in any other way morose, I yearn for the mountains.  So last week Eddie (my car) and I drove ourselves into the Rockies.  During the drive, mind wandering, hair tangling up with the wind, a miraculous event occurred.

The entire plot of my manuscript fell from the sky and dropped, like magic, into my brain.

With a gasp, I yanked the wheel and pulled Eddie off the road.  His tires screeched.  Dust blew up.  “Pen! Pen!”  I chanted with excitement.  “Need pen!”  As the dust settled, my foot still heavy on the brake pedal, I scribbled words and names and places.  I drew arrows here and there.  I chewed my lower lip as it spread wide into a grin.  And when I was done, I shifted into park.  I twisted the stereo dial and sent Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” pouring out the windows.  I hopped out and danced around my car.  “Yippee!”  I shouted.  And when Steppenwolf was done, and my dance was over, I slumped against the bumper.

“Now,” I said to myself.  “If I could figure out the plot to the manuscript I’m actually writing, that’d be great.”

See, the plot that had dropped magically from the sky pertained to a story I’d started, but never finished, a year ago.  Though I should’ve been focusing on Manuscript #1, I became obsessed by Manuscript #2.  That afternoon, instead of heading further into the mountains, I swung around and raced to the nearest cafe.  I scribbled for hours, consuming enough cappuccino that I switched to Type C blood.  My scribbling produced the best outline of my entire life.  I still can’t believe how marvelous it is.  (This isn’t to say that it’ll wind up being marvelous once finished, but it’s marvelous in its present state.)

I’m guilty of cheating on Manuscript #1, having found solace in the arms of my new story.  I did miss my characters from M#1, though, and yearned for them as if they were flesh-and-blood.

An interesting thing has happened in the midst of rolling around with M#2.  Solutions for the plot of M#1 have started coming around.

As the theory goes, when you stop thinking so hard, or stop thinking altogether, answers will reveal themselves.  On their own timeline, unfortunately, which is never as fast as I’d like it.  I know this theory to be true, and I’ve also come to believe that working on two (or more) of the same kind of projects helps them both flow.  There’s less pressure with two related projects, but the same skills and thought patterns are being practiced and mastered.

Writing, for example, becomes less intimidating to me when I’m constantly crafting words in a variety of different ways.  Emails, blog posts, poetry, Manuscript #1, Manuscript #2.  My pen becomes my cohort and playmate.

Working on two pieces of music, almost simultaneously, has helped me while playing the flute.  I’ve played since the age of seven.  While mastering a solo piece, a challenge worthy of excitement and fear, I constantly switched from my seemingly impossible solo to silly show tunes that I’d known for years.  Listening to me play back then, I sounded like a crazy musician who couldn’t make up her mind between Bach or Webber.  Keeping the flute to my lips was all that mattered.  While forcing my fingers to squeeze and release the open-holed keys, switching from the familiar to the foreign every couple of minutes, I eased my hesitancy and awkwardness.

Rather than abandon a pursuit completely, halting mental and physical momentum, just switch pieces for a while.  Set up a new canvas.  Sing a different song.  Bake a tried-and-true cake.  Hike an easier trail.  Switch to something easier, finding confidence in the familiar.  Or start something new, allowing your brain to air out.

This isn’t an invitation to start projects and never finish them.  This is a way to circumvent an obstacle (usually a tired brain!) and move forward.  Even my two manuscripts will require a choice.  Which comes first?  The light-hearted adventure?  Or the heavy character-driven dramedy?  Whichever one I choose, and it’s proving to be a hard choice, they’ll both be part of my writing journey this summer.

Another way I’ve been multi-tasking, in a good way, is by visiting new cafes throughout Denver, Boulder, and Colorado Springs.  I drew up an extensive list of cafes and bistros to try over the next several months.  My purpose of cafe hopping is to have something to look forward to every week.  It also gets me out of my comfort zone, has saved me money (sitting in a cafe is remarkably cheap), and encourages my writing habit.  By securing one bistro table and an overflowing mug of caffeine, I’m accomplishing four things at once.  Nowthat’s multi-tasking at its finest.

Posted in UncategorizedTagged bohemian cafe, Laptop, manuscript, pen, popping in ear, sidewalk patio

Accomplish a Dream this Summer of 2011

July 17, 2012 8:49 pmLeave a Comment

I met a man six months ago and instantly fell in love.  Well, I sort of met him.

I spend an unnatural amount of time in bookstores.  Reading a book, while being surrounded by books – vanilla latte steaming to the right, biscotti stacked to the left - is the exact environment I hope heaven to be.  Considering my sins, however, I’m willing to settle for an exceptionally toasty library and a pot of Folgers.  Sinning requires flexibility in your after-death expectations.

During a Saturday afternoon at Barnes & Noble, I was sipping my vanilla frothiness while reading about Bill the Vampire à la Charlaine Harris.  Then I glanced up and saw him.

His faded tee-shirt advertised Bolder Boulder 2009.  His jeans, once dark, were worn at the knees.  His dark hair was slightly disheveled, like he’d been driving with the windows down.  There was a rough 5 o’clock shadow on his chin.  His eyes were framed by crinkles, indicating a smiley nature.  He wore sneakers, one shoelace broken.  As he slid into an overstuffed chair, he sighed and grinned, clearly content to be in a bookstore on a lazy Saturday.

In other words, he was Sunny’s version of the male pin-up.

He looked like a camping-and-hiking kinda guy.  Unafraid of hooking a worm or drinking Fat Tire.  But he also had a polite demeanor as indicated by the elegant crossing of his legs, avoiding the more common feet-on-table lounging position, and I felt confident that he wasn’t the type to burp in public or order drinks on a first date with the word “sex” in it.  Then his hands cracked open the book in his lap, and I finally noticed the title.  It was a cookbook on Italian cuisine.

I looked away, checking to make sure drool wasn’t dripping down my chin.  “Sunny,” I told myself.  “Get a grip!”  To calm the erratic beating of my heart, I convinced myself that he probably had two-inch toe nails and didn’t brush his teeth.  Determined to ignore him, I went back to my book, stealing a glance only occasionally because is was beyond my self-control not to.

When I went to order another latte, I had to pass Mr. Cookbook’s chair.  The little old lady sitting next to him glanced up at me.  “Do you work here?” She asked, catching me off guard.

“Um, no,” I said.  “Is everything okay?”

“Well, I was hoping someone could help me.  I can’t walk around too good, but I’d love to read a book while I’m waiting for my granddaughter.”

I started to say that I’d find her a book, no problem, but Mr. Cookbook beat me to it.  “I’ll find you a book,” he said in the happiest voice I’d ever heard.  He looked up at me and winked.  The wink said, “Don’t worry, I got this.”

“What kind of book do you want?” He asked.

The little old lady thought hard for a moment.  “Penguins,” she said with a firm nod.  “I’ve always loved penguins.”

Several minutes later, latte refilled, I made the trek back to my chair.  And there was Mr. Cookbook, who’d returned with sixteen books on penguins.  He patiently listened to her stories about Antarctica, which I also listened to via eavesdropping.  He occasionally revealed the little dimple in his left cheek when he smiled at her.

And that’s when I fell in love.  That happy spirit.  That patience.  That broken shoelace.

Now, months later, I sometimes wake up at 3 AM in a cold sweat, Mr. Italian Cookbook having haunted by dreams.  “Stupid, stupid Sunny,” I mutter.  “Why didn’t you ask him out?”

Or at least said hello?

Or… Anything!

He may have been married, even though he wasn’t wearing a ring.  He may have flatly said no.  But at least I would’ve tried.  And I’d get better sleep.

As crazy, anti-feminist, and girly as it may sound, I dream of finding a Mr. Cookbook.  There are undoubtedly many benefits of the single life – and I enjoy all of them.  I’m definitely happier today - as an independent, strong, ridiculously content single woman – than I ever was while dating Mr. Wrong.  Still, if I could wish it so, I’d find Mr. Cookbook (or a good carbon copy) and force him to spend many marinara drenched evenings with me.  I’d love to, well, fall in love.

Unfortunately there are some dreams beyond our control.  Mr. Cookbook’s reappearance.  Winning the lottery.  Having a good hair day.  But there are even more dreams that are completely within our power.

This summer I don’t have any college classes.  It’s my first “free” summer in three years.  I can do whatever the heck I want after punching out my 40 hours.  Having this much irresponsibility to embrace is delightfully overwhelming.  I’ve gone a little crazy the past several weeks since the spring semester ended.  I’ve read 32 books, watched 26 movies, drank ___ bottles of wine (nope, not admitting to the actual number), and lost dozens of hours of sleep.  As wonderful as it’s been, I can’t keep up this schedule anymore.  It’s more exhausting than school!

More importantly, I want to accomplish a dream this summer, and put movies – even books (!) – aside for the next three months.  I don’t want to accomplish just “a dream”.  Instead I want to accomplish this dream of mine that won’t go away, despite how good I’ve gotten at ignoring it.  The kind of dream that creates a painful physical yearning.  So I’m going for it.  Mostly because I hate pain.  :)

This summer I’m going to write and finish a novel.  A witty super-fantastic novel, of course.

Nothing haunts you more than your lifelong dream once you’ve really pushed it away.  After choosing the nursing program, and finding myself committed to two years of biology (along with two years of simulated/real vomit, which is terrifying in and of itself for me) I thought about my dream of writing.  I feel like becoming a nurse is a form of cheating on my One True Love.  If I could allow myself to be completely impractical, I’d write books all day.  There’s no question.  I have no intention of quitting school, or giving up nursing, but on the same hand, I can no longer endure the internal struggle about my writing life (or lack thereof).

“Writing is such a terrible, slim-chanced, ridiculous pursuit!” I tell myself constantly.  “I’ll start dreaming about publication, which will never happen, and after my dreams are dashed, I’ll be more miserable than before.  Really, then, what’s the point?”

My conscience, who sounds (oddly enough) like Gerard Depardieu, interrupts my silent rants.  “Ohv courze eet’s sleme-chahnce eef you dohn’t trry!”

“But I have tried!”

“Noht vary heard, you idioht!”

Gerard’s right, as usual.

For the next three months I don’t have to worry about the nursing program.  I don’t have to cheat behind my pen’s back.  I’ve decided to give it all I got and finish a manuscript.  I want to look back at the Summer of 2011 as “The Summer I Accomplished My Dream”.  And because I don’t want to listen to Gerard Depardieu anymore.  He’s mean to me.

Sure, there’s little chance of getting published, but that’s not the accomplishment I’m concentrating on.  I’m focused on simply finishing a novel.  I’ll stress out over the next steps later.

I know that you, too, have missed opportunities.  Regrets.  Wished-I-Wouldas.  I-Wish-I-Couldas.  Uh oh –watch out! - here comes Gerard.  “You idioht!”  Yeah, that’s right, he’s talking to you this time.  Focus on a dream this summer.  A dream within your control and a dream that’s important to you.  Create a summer that one day you’ll look back at and say, “The Summer of 2011 is when I did it!”  

You’ll probably be shocked to learn that I’m a bit eccentric.  I decided I wanted to really really really focus on a Summer of Writing.  I want to embrace the “focus” concept to the fullest extent.  I encourage you to do the same.  So here are some things I did over Memorial Day weekend to prepare myself for being extremely lazy (on the practical side of life) so I can be extremely productive (on the writing/impractical side of life):

1.  I stocked up for 3 months.  This is an anti-minimalist thing to do, if you’re the die-hard radical type such as myself.  I’m actually a bit shocked at my behavior because my kitchen cupboards actually have food in them.  I filled my cupboards with three months’ worth of my personally loved staples: whole-grain pasta, marinara sauce, olives, dark chocolate, peanut butter (LOTS of peanut butter), pesto, granola, and – yup – wine (LOTS of wine).  The only grocery shopping I’ll have to do will be for fruits, vegetables, and yogurt.  Time saver and, considering my impulsive nature around the olive bar, a money saver, too.

I also stocked up on 3 months’ worth of non-food items like shampoo, cleaning supplies, sunblock, etc. to prevent any trips to Target.  It’s amazing how easily that store steals an entire day from me.  A thief dressed in a red bulls eye.  I blame it on the beautiful clearance shelves.

2. I’m encouraging my writing habit by combining three loves - writing, photography, eating, blogging.  I’m in the process of setting up a new blog, which I’m really excited about.  When it’s ready for visitors, I’ll send you an invite and hope that you’ll stop by.  I’ve decided to write reviews for restaurants, bistros, cafes, etc. throughout Colorado.  I’ll be forced to lounge on a patio, sip something spicy, munch something sweet, while transporting myself into the mystery and mayhem that I create for my characters.  It’ll be an excellent way to enjoy the summer WHILE accomplishing my dream.

3.  I canceled my Internet connection.  No falling prey to hours of Hulu this summer.  But, oh, I’ll miss you.  Terribly.

4.  I updated my Netflix account down to 1-DVD-At-A-Time.  I was at 2 DVDs until this past weekend.  This way I can still enjoy a movie, but it’ll be more thoughtful and as a reward to a Writing Day Well Done.

5.  I’ve rearranged my apartment to support writing.  My dining table is now a writing desk.  I did an extremely thorough minimizing session to clear all distractions.  All that remains is what’s required for writing.  And eating.  And taking the occasional nap.

Whether it’s skydiving or learning Italian, painting or starting a business, pick a dream.  Redesign as much of your life as possible to put your focus on it.  Then give it your best shot.  And, for heaven’s sake, have a good time while you’re at it!  No frowning.  If I see any frowning, I’ll force you to drink a piña colada with me.  

It’s so easy to let a summer drift by.  Every September I look back and wonder where the “dog days” disappeared to.  They only disappeared because I wasn’t paying attention.  Even if your dream is simply to enjoy – to a ridiculously high level – every day of this summer, do that.  Splash in warm rain showers.  Go fishing, even when you think there’s no time.  Play hooky from work and go ride rollercoasters and eat cotton candy.  Drag a bag of books to the river – put your feet in – and melt into the afternoon with each flip of the page.

…. Or just say hello to a beautiful stranger at Barnes & Noble.

Posted in UncategorizedTagged clock shadow, exact environment, toe nails

Learn to Look at Yourself Differently

July 17, 2012 8:43 pmLeave a Comment

This past winter I sampled my first calamari.  The kind where the octopus had been pregnant and her babies were included with the marinara.  Yes, this is considered gourmet.  No, I can’t explain why.  I remember looking down into that bowl of ringlets and dead squid babies, involuntarily curling my upper lip, and proclaiming very firmly, “Ain’t no way I’m eatin’ that.”

As is usual after a few too many glasses of Cabernet, I soon found myself doing what I said I wouldn’t.  ”Wow,” I said, licking spicy marinara from my lips and picking up another forkful of ringlets.  “I never thought I’d be a calamari lover!”

And, much to my surprise, I am.

I’m a mix of many eccentric things.  I’m addicted to Tabasco, fascinated by prison documentaries, and adverse to furniture.  The younger version of myself never would’ve guessed that I’d cover all food groups with Tabasco - disgusting!  I never would’ve guessed that I’d stay up until 2 AM (for more than a week straight) watching National Geographic’s Lockdown series - boring!  To imagine an apartment without furniture, well, that would’ve never crossed my mind.

There are many more things of the non-eccentric variety that make up my life, too.  Things that I could never have predicted as becoming important.  Photography, Swedish modern design, baked brie, Netflix, Smartwool socks (they’re truly amazing).  Some things have come to me naturally, like taking pictures while hiking, and they follow a sensical pattern.  Capturing photos of the Rockies is surely an understandable hobby to fall for since I adore the mountains and hike often.

Sometimes, though, the things that make up who you are don’t make sense.  They’re separated from what you normally do, how you normally behave, or in some way break the patterns/habits/routines that you’ve established for yourself.

I’m a firm believer in boring routines.  I love the predictable!  Well, at least to some degree.  I love having my barista call me by name because I see her almost every morning.  I appreciate knowing the quietest corners of the library, my favorite spot in Denver for brunch (it’s Snooze, by the way).  These things don’t arrive – favorites and people who know you by name – if you don’t have some sort of consistency.

But as with all things, there’s a caveat to an overabundance of predictability.  Being too consistent and following a routine that’s too strict prevents you from unearthing something new.  Not just a new restaurant or a new hiking trail.  A new part of yourself.  A part of yourself that you’ve never seen before.

I recently went through a tough time these past several months.  Not because my psych class this semester gave me a doozie of a headache (and has now made me wonder if I, too, have a personality disorder since I talk to myself excessively).  My tough time was of the, “Where do I go from here?” variety.  What do I do with the education I’ve been working so hard on these past two years?  I had to either turn left or right, so to speak, no longer able to choose safe prerequisites.

I always believed that I’d chase an English degree. I always assumed I’d work at 5280 (a Denver magazine) or something of the like, make enough money for an extensive wine collection, take an awesome vacation every year, and live happily ever after.  Oh, and hopefully fall in love with a man who drives a dusty Chevy, owns a plethora of camping equipment, cooks eggs Benedict on Sunday, and can change a flat tire.  Piece-a-cake.  Simple, right?

Despite my lack of furniture and owning less than 100 Things, life is never as simple as I try to make it :) .

Very, very, very surprisingly, I don’t want to be an English major.  I loved every moment of my literature classes and will never be the same since Hemingway.  After taking two English Composition classes, I’m a more critical thinker and reader and can write about complicated subjects.  But I don’t love the field like I expected to.  I’m not drawn to the work that an English degree would provide.  Instead, I was craving something that I couldn’t name, and when I finally figured it out, I was shocked.  What I wanted was something I’d never before considered.  Never ever identified with.

After much reflection, and a lot of self-doubt, I decided to enter the College of Nursing.

“You? A nurse?“  I know, whoda thunk.  ”You know there’s, like, biology and blood and guts involved, right?”

Yup.  I sure do.  I’ll need to learn a lot of stuff that I have no previous experience with.  I’ll need to learn organic chemistry, anatomy, physiology, human nutrition (which is all about wine and cheese, I’m sure), the complicated world of pharmacology, and how to properly administer an enema.  (I’ll be honest, not looking forward to the enema part, but at least I’m moving from my current “peon” status of the business world to “poop-on” status of the health care world :) I consider this an improvement.)  I did my homework.  I met with my academic advisor.  I signed on the dotted line and have radically shifted directions.  And, yup, I’m scared.  I’m also extremely excited.  It will require dedication and many cappuccinos.  I’m committed to giving this everything I’ve got.

I could go on (and on) about why I want to be a nurse, and how I came to this decision, but what I’m really trying to convey right now is that no one – least of all myself – would ever have put the words “Sunny” and “nurse” into the same sentence, unless it went something like this:  “Sunny is in need of a nurse.”

Despite many great experiences over the past four years, I’ll confess that – until two years ago – I’d never seen myself as particularly worthwhile.  I come from a family where criticism was much more prevalent than encouragement.  I never saw myself as capable.  I never looked at myself as smart.  Good at starting things, perhaps, but never finishing them.  I never considered myself brave, responsible, organized, or even much of a good person.  How could I?  I’d done very little that would’ve revealed these qualities.  Until the age of twenty-six, I shifted between doing what was expected - unspeakably miserable -  and rebelling.  Though I did rebel with a lot of gusto, and for that I suppose I revealed some sort of capability ;) .

After moving to Denver, I saw myself as someone who had moved cross-country, found her home against the mountains, and was proud of that accomplishment.  But she’d never go farther than that one defiant act of breaking away and finding independence.  I saw myself as a person who watched life from the sidelines, celebrating everyone else’s happiness, but never believing that I could join the game.

When I returned to college two years ago, I remember buying my first textbook on campus.  I think I sprained something hauling that 30 pound book to my car.  I remember reading that first chapter, stuffed with complicated words.  I remember having to read every page two or three times before anything sunk in.  I never told anyone how difficult that first class really was for me.  It was frustrating and I’d get sick to my stomach thinking that I’d fail. Then I’d have proof that I really wasn’t smart, after all.  Or worthwhile.  Or capable.  Or responsible.  Or any of the other things I very much wanted to be.  But I didn’t fail.  I got an A.  The second class I took was a little bit easier, the third easier still.  Textbook speech began to make sense.  MPA writing formats became second nature.  Not because I have super powers, it’s because I gave it everything I had.

Then a funny thing happened somewhere between my third and fourth classes.  I saw myself as astudent.  I excelled in subjects I’d never done well in before.  I saw myself as capable.  Smarter than I realized, though certainly no genius (who needs that kinda pressure anyway!).  And absolutely worthwhile.  I learned how to look at myself differently.  Not because of the good grades I received, but because of what I began to see in myself through the process.  I proved myself capable by giving all of my effort.  Iproved myself responsible because I got everything done when it needed to get done.  I made a promise to myself that every class I started, I would finish- no excuses.  I kept that promise.  I built trust and confidence inside of myself, one class at a time.

That’s how I know I can be a nurse, despite any previous aversion to science.  It’s because I know I can conquer a challenge.  It’s because I want it badly enough to work hard for it.  I want the blood, the guts, and the chance to help people.  I can be a nurse because I learned that I can… well, learn.  I can learn the biology and anatomy and chemistry.  Not without difficulty or without struggle, but life isn’t about coasting through things.  It’s not about watching from the sidelines.  It’s not about exerting the least amount of effort.  It’s about committing to something that’s important to you, even while knowing you’ll have to work hard to accomplish it.  It’s about uncovering what you don’t know about yourself (yet) and having the courage to be that person.  Even if it doesn’t fit into your routine.  Even it if doesn’t make sense.

I don’t believe that college, or any other *one* thing is the ticket to seeing yourself differently and/or revolutionizing your life.  College was just how I began to look at myself differently.  Consider, though, all of the possibilities that will give you a new perspective of yourself.  Volunteering.  Tutoring.  Finishing a class - a cooking class, a martial arts class.  Running a marathon.  Reading about a subject you think you can’t understand.  Try something new, something foreign, and enjoy the experience.  Just choose something – anything!  Start it, put all of your effort into it, complete it.  You’ll soon meet an unexpected stranger inside of you.

You can even start with something easy, like eating squid babies.  Who knows?  You, too, could be a calamari lover.  :)

Posted in UncategorizedTagged baked brie, lot, name, nurse, prison documentaries, smartwool socks

Start EVERY Day Like It’s Already Perfect

July 17, 2012 8:42 pmLeave a Comment

Every morning you can catch me – mid-yawn – picking up a caramel latte at the cafe inside of my neighborhood grocery store.  It’s a great way to start the day for several reasons:  it meets my requirement for caffeine, my barista gets a kick out of my extremely bad jokes-of-the-day, and it allows me to pick up peanut butter if I run out the night before.

Yesterday I delivered my joke-of-the-day, relished that first creamy sip of caffeine… and tried to talk myself out of a Boston cream donut.  To no avail.

“Ooh,” I sighed, inching closer to the beautiful display of unhealthy breakfast items.  “They have chocolate-coconut donuts today.”  Since coconut donuts make a rare appearance in the bakery, it only made sense to grab two.  Plus the Boston cream.  It was, after all, a Monday.

While walking out of the bakery, bag of delicious sugary breakfast treats clutched gleefully, I heard one baker greet the other, “Hey, how’s it goin’?”

“Oh, you know,” he replied, stacking baguettes.  “Another day in paradise.”

The way he said it, and the roll of his eyes, made it clear that he didn’t consider himself anywhere nearparadise.  Hearing his sad sarcasm made ME sad.  Thank goodness for the coconut donuts, they always lift my mood, and yesterday was no exception.  I felt badly about not finishing all three of them, but some things aren’t meant to be accomplished.  The baker wouldn’t leave my thoughts, though, and I wondered how awful life could be when you’re surrounded by baguettes and donuts for eight hours.  To me that IS the definition of paradise.

I can understand that not everyone appreciates carbohydrates as I do, but what I can’t understand is how – at 6:45 am – it’s already expected that the day will be horrible enough to deserve an eye roll.  Cinnamon roll, yes.  Eye roll, not so much.  :)

Anything can happen on ANY day.  That’s the beauty of life.  The unexpectedness.  The surprise.  What if we started each day like it was already perfect?  Like it already held something wonderful.  Like it would be perfect simply because you already thought of it as perfect.

I will never forget my favorite hike in Golden, Colorado.  It was October and the aspens were so yellow that it was painful looking at them.  There I was, three miles into a five-mile hike…. and then it began to rain.  Water pounded against the back of my neck, rolling beneath my jacket and down my spine, and I shivered against the way it tickled.  And it was cold – so cold.

“Stupid Sunny,” I chastised myself.  “It’s called The Weather Channel and you shouldn’t be afraid of checking it!”

If I had checked, I would’ve missed the intimate tickling of rain.  I would’ve missed my introduction to the most satisfying love affair of all time -Me and Mud.  Lots of mud.  Everywhere on me.  I’ve never laughed so hard.  Or been that drenched.  That dirty.  That overwhelmed with beautiful unexpectedness.  I was freezing, but also embraced by the smell and the sound of a Colorado storm.  I was mud-covered, but felt cleansed.

I remember, too, being on one of the worst dates of my life (and I hope for many more terrible dates, they’re actually quite fun).  We were at this fabulous dessert bar called, simply, dBar.  This particular night my date had indulged in way too much Jim Barry Shiraz.  I appreciated his enthusiasm for red wine, but the entertaining monologue that it produced was more suited for situations not in public.  Or around children.  Or women.

“Yes, that is, indeed, an interesting story about Vegas,” I assured him when he paused for breath.  “But since drugs and prostitution aren’t really legal here in Denver, it may be best to lower your voice a bit.”

All I could think about while perched on my bar stool, listening to Mr. Vegas’s inappropriate stories, was, “I curled my hair for this?”

Embarrassed and miserable, I dreamt of happier things.  Like bubble baths and nunneries.  And when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, a dapper gent strolled from the kitchen, and without hesitation, walked to my dejected spot at the bar.  “The moment you walked in, I said to myself,” he paused to give me a look that said he understood my current pain.  “She looks like a port kinda girl.”

I sat a little straighter.  “I do?”

“Well, aren’t you?” He asked.

“That depends,” I said hesitantly.

“On?”

“Whether or not I like port.”

He gasped with mock despair.  “You’ve never tried port?”

I shook my head.

“Then one 20-year on its way.”  He sized me up.  “For you, a tawny.”

“I don’t know what that means, but if it’s a come-on,” I warned him with a good-natured grin, giving a little nod to my drunken date.  “I’m not easily amused right now.”

And while I sipped on a 20-year tawny port, smooth like silk and sweet like maple syrup, this dapper man from the kitchen – my hero that night – told me all about apple tarte tatins while he peeled Granny Smiths across from me.  We discussed chocolate frosting and cheesecakes (it is, after all, a dessert bar).  And – suddenly – it hit me.  This man, who’d saved me from an embarrassing evening (my date had since disappeared into the bathroom to hug the porcelain god), was Keegan Gerhard.  The Food Network guy.  Yeah, that’s right, one of the top 10 pastry chefs in the nation.  He happens to own Denver’s dBar.

I decided that, yes, I was happy to have curled my hair that night.  You never know when you’re going to meet a famous pastry chef.  :)

Best worst date of my life.

There are mornings when I don’t want to unroll from my toasty quilt.  Mornings when I’m unenthusiastic about facing the world.  It’s on these days that I only have to do one thing – slip on my Dorothy shoes.  They’re bright red ballet flats.  I click my heels three times before leaving my closet.  “Not in Kansas anymore,” I say.  Something about those shoes make my steps lighter.  Every day that I wear my Dorothy shoes is a great day.  Do the shoes have magical powers?  Or do I greet the day with happy expectation, and simply make it so?

Start every day like it’s already perfect.  Like there’s going to be a wonderful surprise somewhere within it.  Curl your hair.  Don’t check the weather.  Click your heels.  ’Cause, Toto, there could be a twister brewing any moment.

And, in case of a feeling-miserable emergency, eat donuts :) .

Posted in UncategorizedTagged chocolate coconut, jokes of the day, life, neighborhood grocery store, port, roll

Return of The Stiletto (Or How Your Ego Will Get You Every Time)

July 17, 2012 8:39 pmLeave a Comment

I’ve always been a romantic.  It was with great excitement, then, that I leaned closer to my date, after he leaned closer to me, our dinner table the only thing between us.  He was about to say something and I wanted to hear every word.

“Yes?” I encouraged, eyes wide, breath catching.  Surely he’d say something wonderful.  I was ready to be swept off my feet.

“Sunny,” he began. “In the short time we’ve been dating, you’ve broken all of my deal breakers.”

I jerked back.  Since I’m pretty straight-laced, with a few exceptions naturally, I was surprised.  “Oh?”

Before he could elaborate, our server came to take our drink order.

“A Chianti,” I told her without hesitation.  “Stat.”

“And,” the server said courteously, head turning toward my date.  “For you, sir?”

“Well, doll,” he said, sending her a suggestive wink, drawing out each word that came next.  “I’ll have a long slow comfortable screw up against a wall.”

I gasped.  If my momma, a woman from South Carolina, could’ve heard these words, she would’ve boxed his ears.

“A what, sir?”  The server asked, confusion and embarrassment twisting her face.

And, unfortunately, he repeated his request.

This is a legitimate drink, I found out, but not one I’d ever consider ordering on a fourth date.  I should’ve left then and there, but hindsight is, as they say, 20/20.  When this wasn’t available, he settled for a brandy sour.

After a few swigs of Chianti had settled into my blood stream, I dared to question him.  “What are these deal breakers, exactly?”

“First of all,” he began.  “You drink too much.”

“If you’d like me better without a glass of wine in hand, perhaps you should invite me somewhere other than a bar?”

He brushed this aside.  “You’re just not my type, generally speaking.”

I raised both eyebrows.  “Oh?”

“You dance way too suggestively,” he elaborated.  “You smile too much.  You’re obviously a wild child.  You say the weirdest things.  I don’t get you.  You’re just…strange.”

My eyes lowered.  I clenched my hands together.  I’m five feet and six inches tall, but at that moment I felt only one inch.  I wanted nothing more than to escape our private booth, running to the safety of the parking lot.

“But,” he said. “You’re interesting.  I’m willing to take a chance on you.”

I’m embarrassed to admit that I sat there for an hour, conversing as well as possible, while he elaborated on all of the things he didn’t like about me, but why he’d give me a “shot” anyway.  When our drinks were dry and our dinner was eaten, I even kissed him after he walked me to my car.  He expected that kiss, despite how he’d made me feel, and I didn’t know what else to do.  That night, I was a traitor to myself.

Driving home, I cried until my lungs hurt, until I couldn’t breathe.  Until my eyes felt like sand paper.  I entered my apartment, unclasping the necklace and earrings I’d painfully chosen.  Scrubbed my face of the carefully applied mascara.  Slipped out of the pretty ballet flats.  Unfolded myself from the fancy clothes.  I crawled into bed, broken.  I cried until I fell asleep.

All I could think about that night, and the next day, were the words he’d said, and the words that he didn’t say, but were abundantly clear:  “You’re not good enough, but I’ll slum it for a while, because you’re interesting.”

I’m not perfect.  I’m the most imperfect person you’ll ever meet.  I am a wild child, if that means I’m unconventional.  I’m eccentric.  I do smile too much, I blame it on my Midwestern background.  I dance in downtown Denver like I dance in my kitchen – like no one’s watching.

This was Mr. Convertible.  Two years ago.  And the next day I sent him an eloquently worded email saying I thought it was best we not date anymore.

The same Mr. Convertible who convinced me to tour a corn maze with him last October.  The same Mr. Convertible I’ve been dating since that corn maze, which I wrote of recently.

Yup, Sunny definitely IS interesting AND an idiot :) .

There’s nothing wrong with giving someone a chance.  Forgiving the wrong words.  Understanding a different point of view.  I won’t ever argue with being compassionate.  You have to ask yourself, however, where your compassion ends and your ego begins.  Because while dating Mr. Convertible, I was only trying to prove myself good enough.  For my ego.

Enter the stiletto.  The very essence of my ego.

Christmas day arrived and I went to Mr. Convertible’s house for a holiday dinner.  It had been several years since I’d spent Christmas with anyone, so I was pretty excited.  It was here that I met – well, we’ll call her Ms. Glitter – and I sat next to her during that dinner.

“Wow,” I commented to Ms. Glitter.  “That’s some amazing body glitter!”

“Yeah,” she said, running a fake nail along her cleavage.  “I’m all about the bling.”  She glanced at my sneakers with disdain.

“Yeah,” I said, giving a nonchalant laugh.  “I’m all about broken shoelaces.”

Several weeks later, Mr. Convertible admitted that he’d dated her.  She was an ex-girlfriend.  And I’d sat next to her at Christmas dinner at his house.

No problem, I said to myself.  I could handle that.  I’m supposed to be progressive.  A little – as I always like to think of myself – eccentric and liberal.  I met her again at another of Mr. Convertible’s parties - me again in sneakers, her again in glitter.  She made it clear that she was competing for Mr. Convertible’s attention.  She rubbed her cleavage in his nose.  She made fun of me.  She made me feel one inch tall, just like Mr. Convertible himself had years before.  Mr. Convertible, however, did nothing but soak up the attention.  I drove home that night, picking up a habit I’d quit years ago  – biting my nails until they bled.

When I knew she’d be at Mr. Convertible’s dinner party the next weekend, I arrived early so I could have two glasses of wine before the party started.  I was nervous.

Earlier that morning, I looked at myself in the mirror.  I saw the freckles on my nose, from the hikes I’ve taken in the Colorado sun.  I stared at the fleece in my closet.  The broken shoelaces gracing my shoes.

“How will I compete with Ms. Glitter?” I asked myself, knowing there was no competition.  I was sunshine and sneakers.  She was glitter and cleavage.  Lots of cleavage.  Lots and LOTS of cleavage.

I did only what I knew how to do.  I went to Macy’s.  I  bought the tightest push-up bra I could find.   The band around my rib cage pinched, I could barely breathe, but I was filled with a momentary surge of confidence. Then, I wandered around the shoe department… And there they were…

Six-inch stilettos.  Bright red.  Fake diamonds encrusted along the side.

I beckoned the salesman.  “Size eight.”

I slipped them on, spine curving into that familiar arch.  Toes slipping into the position they’d unhappily lived for many years.  Suddenly, the Sunny I never wanted to be again appeared.  I looked at myself in the mirror.  I gave a nod of satisfaction.

The salesman winked at me, reminding me of the wink Mr. Convertible gave our server two years earlier.  A good sign, I figured.

Ms. Glitter I’d never be, but Seductive Sunny I could reinvent.  Superficial Sunny.  Controlled Sunny.  The Sunny who never smiled.  The Sunny who never danced like no one’s watching, shaking her hips around her kitchen and in downtown Denver.  Gone was the Sunny who loves her mountains, who loves herself when breathless from running up a trail with aspens, who laughs when tripping over her broken shoelaces.  Who relishes reading books in her empty apartment.  Who’s returned to college, takes refuge in the library, and wants only what’s simple and authentic.

I painted red upon my lips.  I pulled a silk camisole atop tight jeans.  I bought a bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz-Grenache.  Of which I drank two glasses of at Mr. Convertible’s house before anyone else arrived, ready to compete, but needing liquid courage.  All the while feeling sick inside.  A traitor once again.

What was there to compete for?   A man whose deal breakers I’d broken two years earlier?  A man who’d told me, in convoluted terms, that I wasn’t good enough?  A man who was never worth my tears?

With my red lips and perfectly chosen ensemble, I was brilliant.  I was as bright and as fake as the diamonds on my stilettos.  I laughed, tipping my head back, running my fingers slowly down my throat.  I told funny jokes.  I shook the curls I’d put into my hair, flirtatious and seductive, completely charming.  Mr. Convertible was impressed.  He liked Superficial Sunny.  But what Ms. Glitter – or Mr. Convertible, for that matter – will never know is that, despite shining that night, I lost.

If my momma, from South Carolina, could’ve seen me that night, she would’ve boxed my ears.  I would’ve deserved it.

I lost myself.  I lost everything I’d worked so hard for- in the space of one evening.

Driving home that night, I again cried all the way home.  Not because of Mr. Convertible.  Not because of Ms. Glitter.  Because of me.  Because of my ego.

This story isn’t about gender.  It isn’t specifically about dating.  It’s about putting your ego aside and standing up for yourself.  Which is something I didn’t do.

You can drive away from a bad date, crying until you’re completely spent, and, the next morning, be lifted by the knowledge that you’re still You.  Beautifully you.  An absolutely gorgeous person, unique to any other being that anyone will ever know.

You can roll your eyes at the person who wants to compete with you, or the person who makes you feel less because you don’t glitter as they do.  You can walk away and know that you glitter more brilliantly because you’re You.  Absolutely perfect with your imperfections and your genuineness.

It’s not easy.  Here I am, a spunky crazy person who lives with two pieces of furniture.  I’ve embraced minimalism and simplicity… and I fell.  I scraped my knees on true complexity.  The complexity of losing yourself.  But I can tell you, from experience, that the only people worth complexity are those who love you for your broken shoelaces.  That love you for the quirks and craziness that make you You.  Go ahead, complicate your life – with the nervousness, the butterflies, the biting of your nails – but only for the people who like the amazing person you already are.

Your ego will want to play the games that others want you to play.  Remember, always, that you have a choice.  You can simply say, “No, thanks.”

For the record, the shoes are on eBay.  And Mr. Convertible is now driving solo.  :)

Posted in UncategorizedTagged deal breakers, dinner, ego, glass of wine, night, swigs