And then The Existentialist tried to speak poetically.

I just watched some raw video of a friend's son and his buddy playing an impromptu song in the front seat of a jeep. One on the guitar and singing, the other using the dash as drums. It's quite brilliant in its simplicity. Your heart swells because you can feel their struggle. Not to play music. That's the easy part. They are young. And everything is so difficult. Discovery of the self, talents, acceptance. And direction. New bodies to learn what to do with. To know what we can get through with… This life-thing is rough.

Being alive is tough. Our instincts and needs and fears all stored chaotically in a package of nerves and skin and bones…. all fighting to feel and breathe and survive. I see young people in their awkwardness, then look in the mirror at my own. It's cyclical, the growing pains. We're all the same, you see. Just in different packages. Just in different stages. Stages of growth. Stages of damage. And we really are all damaged in some way…or another. Because being alive is tough. I used to get mad at it. "It" referring to the living, the fight, the struggle. I mean, I never asked to be born. I didn't volunteer for it. We didn't draw straws. No one stood in line for it. We were just plucked from our wherevers, thrown bare-assed into the world by our whoevers and expected to figure it out however. Yeah. Whatever. I'm trying to believe we're the lucky ones, perhaps even chosen ones. But then I see how much more damage has been done... to others, just struggling like you and me, when all they really want is to just feel good, like you and me. How is that even ok, the extra damaged cells, nerves, limbs, and heads… It is not ok with me. This life is tough enough. It's rough. 

I have a scar on the side of my forehead above my temple, #2 of 4. I was about 6 and we were playing on a tractor. I fell off the seat and cracked my head open on the tow-hitch. A lot of blood, 5 stitches and a giant ice cream cone later and I was right back out there playing. Some will struggle harder, I know. But some of us never stop.

I like to ask people if they have scars on their skin, their bones...Their shell. I like to hear their stories. It really is just a giant battlefield out there, and we? Courageous warriors. 

Because Like Oxygen, Music is Necessary for Breathing.

A couple of months ago I went to see a band called Enter the Haggis with my best friend. It's an Irish band. Well, a Canadian band playing Irish music. I did this reluctantly mind you, because I had listened to their new music online and I was like, oy… so too tired for this one. But she was all, "You're going to have 13 cats and die alone if you don't go.." or something like that. And I was all, "Yikes, I don't even want 13 cats". I get it. She was trying to get me out of the house and away from The Monkey's for a night. So I went. And was glad I did. I have to say, the band was friggin' great. So much better live than recorded. I mean, their chemistry was amazing. They engage with the crowd, are funny, and just ridiculously talented. I realize this sounds like a band review for The Westword or The Independent, but there was so much layering to it musically, that one can't help but try to grasp it all as it's happening. The oldest dude played the harmonica, a clarinet, the bagpipes, and the flute. (um, hi. The. Bagpipes.) And then one of the lead singers played the electric guitar, fiddle and keyboards… the other lead singer played two different acoustic guitars and an electric guitar… The bass player was friggin' killer, and the drummer could shake the rattle-sounding thing and still keep drumming with his left hand while doing so. Lord almighty. There are reasons women love band members so much, I tell you what. And we all have our favorites too. I have a friend who loves bass players. Even blurted out she plays bass too, just for the opportunity to talk to one once. She doesn't actually play the bass… I have a friend who loves drummers so much the lead character in one of her books is one. My sister and I love lead singers. We always want the lead singer to be singing directly to us, and only us. I have had lead singers sing to me before. It is no joke. To be singled out in front of a crowd like that? Heaven. Nothing beats that shit. Actually, I'm partial to drummers too. The skill and coordination and rhythm alone can drive a girl crazy to watch. Especially because they usually take their shirt off at some point during the night. All of which creates quite a visual of what the drummer might be like in other, um, circumstances. But that's for a totally different kind of blog. *wink*

But the coolest thing about this band is that all their songs tell a story. And when I listen to music, it's the lyrics I pay most attention to first, then how the melody supports it. i guess it's because I can't articulate how I feel about stuff like life and the world around us. I mean, I can, you're reading it, but it's not as brief-but-powerful as a song is. I've written tons of poetry and prose, and when I'm into the groove of writing I can be descriptive, and sometimes even move a reader. But my words are nothing like the lyrics I have heard. I actually think people should have their own soundtracks on a daily basis. Like, for different points of the day, there's a song representing it in the background. And at some point, perhaps even some back up singers (she said… back-up singers, doo-whop doo-whop-she-bop) … And I think everyone has a song. Perhaps more than one, that kinda fits who they are. I always thought if I could have a song played at my funeral it would be "Guaranteed" by Eddie Vedder. I mean, Eddie Vedder is a poet to me. His lyrics are always thought-provoking, story-telling, and lately, just simply poetic. The lyrics to Guaranteed are more self-describing for him I think. Fairly simple. I identify with them. And of course it has a beautiful melody with an acoustic guitar to just make it a perfect little song. It's hard for me to tell people why I move around so much. Aside from the searching thing, it's just the "free" in me I guess, and this song is about just that.

Through the years I've asked the musicians I know, which comes first, the music or the lyrics. And the answer is usually both. Meaning, sometimes it's a guitar riff in the head that turns into the music/melody and the lyrics come after. Sometimes it's lyrics which can create their own melody for them. Sometimes it's both relatively at the same time. Makes sense to me. I have no idea what it takes to write music. That is SUCH an amazing gift and talent. I can't get my head around it to be honest. But I have written a lot of words. I've realized one of the reasons I identify with the Counting Crows so much is because my writing style is so very similar to the way Adam Duritz writes his lyrics. They're almost conversational at times. Or at least the older stuff was. 

So, tell me… What's your song? and why? What song would you want played at your funeral? I'm so totally interested in hearing. Music is so personal. I don't know a single person who doesn't love music. Or who doesn't use or need music. I listen to it when I work, paint, run and especially when I drive. I have to drive fairly far to work a few days a week, and then back to the beach every weekend, so I use that time to listen. I mean really listen. Sometimes I'll even hit replay to one song that I am particularly connecting with at that moment. One song for an hour or more, straight. This week's power-replay song was "Civilian" by Wye Oak. And today in particular it was "Disparate Youth" by Santigold. Sometimes you have to listen to a song like 80 times to get it out of your system. Until the next time you hear it, of course.

What was the first song you learned to sing? Mine was "Bobby McGee" written by Kris Kristofferson and Fred Foster, but most notoriously sung by Janis Joplin. I was probably four years old when my Mom taught me that song. It's been our song since. She paved the road for most of my musical tastes growing up and I'm so thankful for that. I remember one time when I was a teenager, my Mom and I were out shopping and we picked up a copy of Janis's greatest hits and played it when we got home in the living room. A bit loudly. And two minutes into it "Turn that shit off!" comes wafting from the other room from my Father. We turned it down and kept right on singing. 

Lastly, if there was ever anything I wished I could do well, it would be to sing. I can carry a limited tune, but I mean, I wish I could really sing… I sing in the car all the time, and even tried singing Bobby McGee at karaoke once. It was an utter nightmare. Main reason being that I have a hard time with crowds and talking to people I don't know, so getting in front of them pushed me too far out of my comfort zone. Once I got up there, I wanted to die. So, I just did what every other self-respecting introvert would do in that situation. I turned my back to the crowd, shut my eyes and sang my heart out.

Home, By Definition, is Many a Thing

Noun.

1. the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.

2. an institution for people needing care or supervision.

Verb.

1. (of an animal) return by instinct to its territory after leaving it.

All valid. All true. I've mentioned the word "home" a few times since I've started my blog. It's a word that keeps resurfacing, usually in conjunction with mini-epiphanies that occur in my everyday. So the definition is slowly revealing itself to me. Or definitions, I should say. What is "home". Home is Where The Heart Is is cross-stitched and hung on people's walls. Motley Crue sang Home Sweet Home. "There's no place like home", Dorothy repeated, clicking her heels three times to get back there…click click click... Lots of cliches out there using the word "home", created by people who obviously know something that I don't, or haven't… until now. I'm not saying I know what it is, because I'm totally not there yet. But I'm getting closer.

When I finished graduate school, I needed to leave. I mean, actually leave the state of New York. I hated where I grew up. High School sucked. Bunch of horrible people with bad intention, who picked on whatever made them uncomfortable. I think I've mentioned in a previous entry how I was affected by it all. Yeah, it sucked all right. So when I had opportunities to leave for college, then leave the state after college, I totally took them. And I haven't been back since. Well, not so much to live anyway. Just for holidays, and an 8-month stretch when my Mom had major surgery. I had been living in Denver under the most awkward of arrangements at the time, so coming back for a bit while she healed made sense. But even then, my aversion for the place reappeared, and after 8 months I was off again. And searching. In hindsight, I shouldn't have left. But that's another entry, for another day.

What is it that we search for, anyway? Surely we can't know what we want when we're in our 20's. Can we? Or are we influenced by our surroundings? Our family members? When I was growing up, I remember my Dad would sit at the kitchen table and stare out the window for long periods of time, thinking about God knows what. I feel like that happened a lot in the winter time, and I now imagine the thought in his head was something like "fucking snow… more fucking snow". The look on his face so melancholic at times. Eventually, I would find myself thinking the same thing. Staring out the same window. But I never really understood that because I don't really hate snow. It's actually quite lovely. Most of the time.

So, I have been searching for a feeling, I guess. The feeling I'm convinced I would get if I happened upon my definition of home. And I think my definition of home is the feeling of belonging. Belonging somewhere. Belonging with, and to someone. And familiarity. Surrounding yourself with things that are familiar. Familiar, familia, famille…family. It's something that I have yet to find since I set out searching in 1993. I just haven't felt I belonged in any of the cities I've lived in… Ft. Lauderdale, Atlanta, Denver, Raleigh, Carolina Beach… All beautiful. And I love my friends who are dispersed throughout all of them. I've witnessed home and family and belonging… while with so many of them. Like my best friend's family who I've been lucky enough to spend time with every week for the past 6 months. I love this family as if it was my own. But it's not. I guess i just simply want my own.

You all know from my ramblings and blah blah blah-ging that I've started reevaluating my life. It is, after all, kinda the very definition of a mid-life crisis, which I am now fully floundering around in, by the way. And in the middle of all the reevaluating, I went to visit my family twice in the last four months. And both times, saw something new. Something I've never seen before, and that I can't exactly put my finger on, but it was beautiful. So, it has been slowly occurring to me that I actually might have a place that feels like "home". Where I kinda belong. Where things are familiar. And perhaps it's really been there all along, just waiting me me to figure it out. Isn't that funny? The very place I couldn't wait to leave. Who knew. Did I mention that I don't hate snow? It is rather lovely.

I wonder if it's because I have been gone for so long that I see it with new eyes. I mean, not just figuratively, but literally. So much has changed there. Or maybe it's because I'm on the verge of a friggin' break down and just want to shut down for awhile. Hide in my sister's room for a month. Just like that scene in St. Elmo's Fire where Jules locks herself in her room because she thinks she's a fuck-up and is having a meltdown. Then Billy comes in to talk her into coming out of the room. He tells her the story of St. Elmo's fire as he holds a lighter to a can of hairspray… Poof! …i don't know. For whatever the reason, I feel it deserves further consideration and exploration. And I shall give it just that. I'm tired. Tired of searching. I need a break. And a nap.

So, what do I do now? You know, I ask myself that daily. I have no idea. I just want to find where I belong. My home. The beach is so very beautiful. It's healing. And I am in love with it. But much like being in a love that isn't reciprocated, it can be a pretty lonely place. At any rate, I'm just waiting for some clarity. Or maybe a sign that will tell me which direction I should head in that will get me even closer.

Or, at the very least, a pair of very shiny, ruby slippers … click, click, click.

To be continued.





*Disclaimer: Image is not mine… and is not being used with ill intent or money…. it's just the only kind of ruby slippers I would ever wear.

It's Like Puberty... Only not.

It's interesting the way we all interpret what we see, what we read, what we hear so differently. There was a person at work who I swear to God, was hearing a completely different language when ever I spoke to her. I could tell her on a sunny day that the sky was blue and I liked her skirt, and she would hear that I was panicking yelling, "It's RAINING! It's RAINING!". And that her skirt was the most hideous in all the land. For the life of me, I couldn't understand. Still can't. Thank God she doesn't work there anymore. It's draining. Why is it that we see, read and hear so differently? It can't always be about tone and delivery, can it? I mean, people are quick to blame the person delivering, but isn't it possible that someone is simply hearing/reading/seeing something out of context depending on their own current mood and experience?

Since I've started writing this blog I'm gaining more readers. Which is so, so cool. But with that comes more analysis/interpretation. Now, I understand that a lot of my entries are obviously not written by Pollyanna Sunshine. I mean, it is about the beach and all, and the beach is a happy place. But it's written by a 44-year-old single woman who's having a mid-life crisis for crying out loud. I'm figuring my shit out. It's not going to be a ray of sunshine all the time. I'm like Grumpy Cat. Only not as furry. And I'm human.

The other day I had an old high school friend tell me how much he enjoys reading my entries (thank you for that, by the way) but that he wondered if I was ok. I was a little surprised by that. My first reaction was "Um, of course I'm ok". But I realized it's because he really doesn't know me as an adult. And reading some of these entries without knowing me, might come off as depressed or "not ok". I am ok. Really. 

When I think of all this stuff in the middle of the night, like now for example (it's 4:16 am) I'm not exactly listening to show tunes and smiling to myself. Because that would just be weird. Not the show tunes part, because who doesn't like a show tune, but the smiling part. I don't usually sit around smiling to myself in the middle of the night. I cannot stress enough, daily, as in every DAY, that just because I'm not smiling, doesn't mean I'm not happy. It means I'm thoughtful. Or reflective. Or just. Not. Smiling. Same goes for my writing. I'm thinking and reflecting and my fingers are delivering the news, and if they could smile while pounding away at the keys perhaps they would. What would that look like anyway? HI! how are you? I am doing GREAT! SUCH a lovely night out there! The problem with that is if you do know me, and I started using exclamation points and large letters and even saying smiley things, it might come across as sarcastic and insincere. It's just not who I am. Am I capable of lovely, loving, soft, caring and heart-felt, happy writing? Absolutely. Of course. And I do when I'm writing TO someone or when I feel like gushing. But I don't do it often publicly anymore and I'll tell you why. It's private to me. And showing that kind of deeper emotion is personal. It's really intimate in my opinion. More intimate than talking about a creative block or my introversion. When I was younger I was teased for showing too much emotion. Dramatic, I was called even. Ridiculed by my peers for displaying such happiness and sadness and everything in-between. Kinda sucked. I do show those things amidst people I'm close to or am comfortable with. But I also find myself settling into a kind of stoicism as I continue to age, and when I write. And that might be what's coming through. I dunno.  I'm a friggin' 44-year old single woman who's having a mid-life crisis. I can't be held accountable for some of the things I do. haha

Anyway, I just wanted to take a moment to assure the masses that I'm just fine. We'll all go through it eventually, if we haven't already, the mid-life thing. Perhaps you won't even recognize it (or didn't) perhaps it won't be as painful (or it was). Or perhaps reading my crap will change the way you'll go through yours when it happens, (or make you remember and embrace yours when it did)? I want you to know it is totally ok to laugh at my awkward and clumsy moments. I mean, this whole stage I'm going through is the adult version of puberty. It's a growth spurt. One. Big. Long. Tantrum. I don't fit in my own skin and am clumsy in this new shell I'm in. And I still think like a 16-, 22- and 35-year-old respectively, depending on the situation I'm in. Some of what I say should be respected and taken seriously. But, most of it should really be taken lightly as it's just the musings of a 44-year-old kid at the beach, metamorphosing into God knows what.

It's all good. I promise.

Finding Your Person.

"Wuvvv…. twue wuvvv, will follow youuu... foweverrrrr…"

I tried to insert the sound bite in there, but I don't know how to. If you've seen the movie, you know what it is.

I just finished watching The Princess Bride, for the gazillionth time. In case you haven't seen it (and I recommend you do) it's about the "True Love" that exists between Westley and Buttercup. And I always have to question when finished, is there really such a thing? Or is it just for story books.

Love is a touchy subject for me. I've spent the majority of my adult life not really believing in it, outside of the love I have for my family and friends. I grew up in a generation where Mother's promised their little girls they would meet their prince charming, and live happily ever after. I too, have heard a variation when I was a little girl. I know now it was most likely to protect us from the reality that might come later. Because after high school it was "you'll meet someone in college"… and then after college it was "you'll meet someone at work like I did"… and now it's just "stop being so picky". Here I am at 44, single and a "never-been-er" (as I've explained in Birth of The Beach Chronicles). Which is what's triggering the question now: such a thing? or story books. 

Buttercup: "I fear I'll never see you again…"

Westly: "Of course you will."

BC: "What if something happens to you?"

W: "Hear this now…I will always come for you."

PBC: "But how can you be sure?"

W: "This is true love. Think this happens everyday?"

Maybe story books. Don't get me wrong, I've been in love before. Thought I was, an embarrassing number of times, too. And oh, how awful the broken hearts were when I was young, even with the "I-thought-I-loved" ones. Just ask my girlfriends who've had to witness them. We lost at least 3 phones during our sophomore year in college because of broken hearted [ego] tantrums. Right out the window. Literally. But as I got older I think I just realized love isn't something that just happens every day. I believe it's quite rare. So, there might not actually be a "prince" coming my way any time soon. At least not by my Mom's standards as they were when I was little. Then again, maybe there is.

I'm not sure how I feel about that to be honest. I live very strictly to the rule that I'd rather be alone for the right reasons, than with someone for the wrong reasons. And if that qualifies me as picky, then so be it. I know that's hard for people who care about me to understand sometimes. I remember when my beautiful Aunt passed away. She actually had a pretty heartbreaking life. So, she loved her daily martinis. She earned them. Unfortunately they, and smoking caught up with her and heart disease ensued, then heart surgery. Then afterwards, a stroke from which she never recovered. Man, I loved that woman fiercely. I miss her and her laugh. She had the greatest laugh. I was living in Atlanta when I found out she had the stroke, and I quite literally jumped in my car and drove down to Tampa. Six and a half hours was all I needed. I was a few hours too late. By the time I got there she was in a coma. My Dad went in with me to talk to her with the hope that she would hear me tell her I loved her. As a side note I've never been really good at telling people that. As an adult anyway. He was my rock that day. But as we told her how much we loved her, he put his arm around me and told me I shouldn't be so selective. I think he even said something like, "You'll never find someone who isn't an asshole at least once in awhile…" haha… I got it. He doesn't want me to end up like she did. Meaning, sad and alone. I can't promise I won't be alone, but I can promise there will be a martini or 2 in my future *wink* … Joking aside, I understand the concern, really I do. And it truly was a lovely moment between my Dad and I. But I'm holding out.  

I'm sure my definition of "true love" (if it is "such a thing") is going to sound unrealistic, but it's mine so don't judge. And I'm not so unrealistic as to think it would come without issues, or won't require hard work, or it won't face hardship. It does. And will. I know this. So here it goes: I define it as constant. And unconditional. It has really long legs that can stride across long distances. And chemistry. Man, it has chemistry. You look at the person and are utterly "gaga" (as I like to call it) over them, and not just physically. You can turn around and 30 years have gone by, yet you still love like the very first day you realized you did. And because of that longevity, even the worst of shit can't break it. As if the roots are so firmly established that regardless of the storm, they/you will still be standing when it's over. And maybe, just maybe, you genuinely don't want to be with anyone else, ever again. I know, I know, you're all shaking your heads with an "Oh, Wendy… bless your heart…" But I don't care. I'm sticking with it. I've felt it. I've seen it. I'm not dreaming of a prince. I'm waiting for my person. He'll show up. Asshole-moments, issues, hard work, hardships and all.

If I had to give a number to the times I believe I have felt real love (at varying degrees mind you) I'd say 4 maybe 5 times. And if I have felt some level of love 4 to 5 times in my life, I would say one of them was "true love". Maybe two, but I'm pushing it with the second one. And if I dig through the idealism and the memories and crap that kept me hanging on white-knuckled to those two, the hope for another chance, or what ever it is that we can't let go of when it's gone, I can narrow it down even further to say I really only felt that for one of them. One. Still do today. And I always will. Perhaps that's why I've been so "picky".

But love is really friggin' difficult, man. Which is why it's so rare. Too easy to give up on apparently if we look at divorce or infidelity statistics. I look at all the couples on the beach and wonder what their fate is. I have to say, I think the worst of it is not being able to be with the person you love. Whether it's because they are no longer alive, or they're over seas, or they're just simply unavailable or don't love you back. It happens. A lot. We can't help who we love though, you know? It's painful. And confusing. I guess the reality is that some things don't always end up the way we want them to. See? Story books. 

For anyone reading this, if you have found your person, I mean really found your person, I would really like to hear about it, genuinely. Tell me your story in the comments below. And hold on tight. Tell them you love them often. Be kind to each other. It's rare. And this life is short.

So what do I believe. Story books? or such a thing. Who the ef knows. Half of you reading this will read it as I'm cynical. The other half will read it as I'm a hopeless romantic, especially based on comments I've made in previous posts. Time will tell. What I do know is that this was a horribly mushy tangent I just went off on, wasn't it? Guess I must be softening. The Princess Bride will do that to you… So I'll just leave you with the following quote from it (with a slight modification):

"I do not envy you the headache you will have when you finish reading this entry. But in the meantime, rest well and dream of large women…"

*Smile*

What Did One Monkey Say to the Other?

A lot, apparently.

I currently have Deer-in-the-Headlights Syndrome. Again. And when that happens, I can't write, I can't paint and I can't really say much, if put on the spot. I stare longingly at my ginormous jar of bottle caps, waiting for them to tell me where they belong…. in a painting? a table top? speak louder my little colorful ones. I can't hear you. I even periodically walk into the closet that holds all of my art supplies, thinking something in there will wave wildly for my attention. I mean, I'm not kidding. I go in there at least a couple of times a day. Nothing. It's a block. An effing giant creative block by it's most annoying definition. 

I never remember how I snap out of it either. Sometimes it's a matter of just forcing myself to do something creative and it becomes a trigger for something bigger. Sometimes it's a cause, like a charity event, that I always enthusiastically sign up for block or not, and end up not completing until the last minute, and hating it. Actually, the hating it thing also happens when I try to force a painting, just to trigger something bigger. Reminds of this thing I found about a year ago, while researching art on Pintrest (for inspiration, ironically enough). It's from a creative person named Natalya Lobanova. You might even recognize it, or have seen something similar. I call her a "creative person" because well, she is, but also I don't know how to describe what she does. This is what it is/says... And I totally get it:

Her blog is really interesting. It's a tumblr account and it's happy2bsad.tumblr.com. I completely recommend you check her out. She has some cool things to show you. 

So getting back to the block, I'm sure you're all aware of the Meeting of the Monkeys that happens every night. (I've mentioned it on Facebook quite a bit.) If you aren't, it's how I refer to my insomnia. When I was living in Denver, I had a Native American massage therapist refer to the noise in your head that keeps you awake (hence the insomnia) as "Monkey Talk". For me, it occurs between 2 and 5am, most of the time. Sometimes it happens before I even try to fall asleep. Like tonight. Which I think is totally rude of them. Anyway, I'm realizing THEY are the block. They are the friggin block. They're the ones with the headlights into which I am staring blindly right now. And it's because they won't shut up. It happens when they have too much to say and can't sort through it calmly enough to articulate any of it. I picture them creating their own little pyramid wall blocking the view like water-skiing monkeys in formation. You know, like standing on each other's shoulders and shit. Crazy little bastards. All their talk about cancer and botched surgeries and shitty jobs and how helpless they feel that they can't heal the people they love, much less be with any of them to try.… Fucking monkeys. Just breathe already. Take a break. Shut up for 5 minutes, for crying out loud. You might hear/see things a little clearer. Sigh.

All of that said, I'm really sorry for this non-entry today. There's just too many of them this week for me to sort through the things I want to discuss. But they did remind me that new blogs need new entries semi-regularly so that people will keep reading. And I do so hope you keep reading. The ever elusive "they" say that it's always darkest before the dawn, so there's hope for a clearing soon. It's pretty damn dark in here right now, that's for sure.

Stay tuned. Thoughts on home. Thoughts on love. Coming soon. 

A Glimpse of a Person.

I'm awkward. Really. Frigging. Awkward. 

In my own skin, and around people. And it's odd, I know. 

But I stand behind that awkwardness because it makes me who I am.

I'm clumsy. Oh, so very clumsy.

I trip over shit that doesn't exist and I talk too much when I'm nervous. 

But so what. So did Bridget Jones.

and I stand behind it because it makes people laugh. Makes me laugh even. 

And laughter can inspire creativity. 

I paint.

I write. 

and I can play Yankee Doodle on the guitar. Sort of. 

And although I may not be a genius at any of it, 

and can offend others with the content, 

I stand behind my creativity because it's moving me forward.

I'm a doer. Everything is possible. 

And I'm passionate. When I feel something I do so intensely. Like love.

For better or for worse.

And I stand behind all of it because

The awkwardness, 

The lack of grace, 

The creativity and intensity… 

All indicate that I am alive, and surviving. 

Like everyone else, I'm just living life.

Perhaps even successfully.

That's my response to those who question who I am. Or question the "why's" of me. Why I say stupid things when I'm nervous. Why I apologize all the time (I even apologize to chairs when I run into them). Why I'm hard on myself. Why I don't own a toaster or a microwave (you would not believe how often this is questioned).

But then I think, why should I explain myself? I mean, those kind of things are just a part of stuff. Side affects. 

I realize the above doesn't explain why I don't have a toaster or a microwave. But it should give you an idea of who I am. 

Inspiration is a Fickle Bitch.

I finally made it back to the beach after spending a work-related week in Raleigh. So good to be home. It's funny how different the two worlds are, the city and the beach; people-wise, temperature-wise, and more importantly, inspiration-wise. What drives me to write or create is very different in both places. The beach is inspirational as it is, but when I'm here, I think it's because I spend my time here alone. I love being alone at the beach. It's allowing me the time to sort through all the shit that I had piled up and stashed away over the past 6 years. The shit that makes up me. I've neglected me a lot, compromised a lot, and forgotten even more. Some of it is good and will be celebrated through writing or painting for sure, but more so, I think there's some bad stuff in there that will require some embracing before I put pen or gift card to paper/board (oh yeah, I tend to paint with old gift cards and my fingers most of the time haha). When in Raleigh, I end up just wandering too far, and spending too much time, in my head, without creating a thing. It's not exactly healthy. Inspiration knows that, so she waits for me here. I so want to be a painter or writer who can create in any place I happen to be, no matter what's going on. All in due time. For now, I need to be where I can find inspiration because apparently she doesn't like to travel.

And Inspiration is a fickle bitch, man. She comes and goes even at the beach as quickly as I can jump in a car and declare I'm moving again. I keep my eyes and ears open for a trigger when I'm not in my own home. And I started voice-recording my thoughts when I'm not near my computer so as not to forget them by the time I am. Have I mentioned lately how horrible my memory is? 

Before I end this mini-entry announcing my return, I must say the highlight of the trip to The Rals was the always fascinating Girl's Weekend. And when I say "girl's weekend" I don't mean shopping for shiny clothes and drinking piña coladas and painting our toenails a matching color, while listening to the Backstreet Boys or some crap. We'd rather gouge our own eyes out. Ours is more like a "dude's weekend", when we get to have them. By "ours" I mean just my best friend and me. There is a LOT of beer drinking, fried food-eating, ass-scratching and watching movies of naked chicks, er, well in our case it was naked dudes. And by way of the movie Magic Mike. There was quite a bit of rewinding, replaying and lewd, suggestive commentary going on. You can bet I found them inspiring. I have no idea what time we even made it to bed. Yeah, we totally tore it up. 

Ok, we didn't really tear anything up. We watched Magic Mike during the day. And, we were kind of asleep by 11 that night. After cleaning up the kitchen and recycling the beer cans. Maybe it wasn't exactly like a dude's weekend... Whatever. Let us have our thing, man... We're not hurtin' anyone. haha

So, on that note, I say here's to inspiration where ever you can find it.  ; )

"I" Before "E": The Real Story.

And an explanation for some cryptic Facebooking this past week.

In a previous entry I wrote about something I had to do that I was dreading. Yeah. That "something" is now over with. I can friggin' breathe again. It wasn't as painful as I feared it to be, but it's also something I hope to not do again in the future. At least not under the same circumstances. Trolley Pubs without motors are not for the out-of-shape or faint of heart. They are wretched vehicles. haha But seriously, the main reason being I just don't like to be around people I don't know very well, or doing activities I have no interest in, and doing them in public places I'd rather not be. But I adapted. Sounds high-maintenance, I know. It isn't. It's just the way my brain works. Let me explain.

Recently I took the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test for work. They use it so that they have a better understanding of how to approach and include each employee successfully, in any given situation. No really, they do… at least the intent is there. Which I might find to be a good thing, if and when it happens. The problem is they give the test to prospective employees… as in, you haven't been hired yet when you take this test. I find this flawed. I mean, if you feel your potential job is dependent on it, and who wouldn't, there will be people who will not answer honestly, but rather in a way they think the company might want them to. I would think it might happen a lot, actually. I, for one, totally did this. Now anyone who knows me, knows that I am a stickler for honesty. I've had too much experience with people who aren't into the whole truth-telling thing, so I am making a conscious effort to be upfront and honest with who I am, what I say and how I live. It's probably very annoying to some, but I don't care. It's about doing the right thing. All of that said, I came clean and confessed to my evil dishonest test-taking ways. I even admitted why. And in my quest to practice what I preach, I retook the test. The outcome was very different than the original. So when the team heard my new results, and after working with me since May, the general response was "well THAT explains it".

I'm not for or against this test. I do think if it is taken honestly, then it can be very telling. And if the results are taken without judgement, then it can be very effective. And it might perhaps, even explain a person's behavior better, as in my case. I'm tired of beating myself up over something I don't know how to explain. I usually just refer to myself as "awkward". When I first took the test it said I was an Extrovert. Well, this might seem possible... I can talk a lot, and I like to hang with friends out among the masses at times. And while taking it the first time I really wanted to be extroverted. But the retest tells the truth. I know how to engage in conversation socially when I'm comfortable. I go out with friends to bars and baseball games, etc., like anyone else... however, when I do, the place is chosen carefully. The bigger the place and amount of people can play a GIANT role in how soon I leave. Even when I entertain in higher numbers in my own home, I spend most of the time in the kitchen. I really don't like answering questions. And I often go so far as to cancel or turn down plans, because I really just enjoy being at home. And alone. These are just a few examples, mind you. It really goes much deeper than that. This is just not the right place to get into it. I'm an Introvert. And I am learning to embrace it. It's sadly viewed so negatively and it shouldn't be. When people first hear it their initial reaction is to apologize, as in "oh, jeeze, I'm sorry... But you have a lot of GOOD qualities too!" or "I think all introverts are just crazy…" (that came from a co-worker a few days ago). The reality is that we just approach situations, projects, public interaction and the like, differently. What moves us forward and what we enjoy doing are just different. Where an Extrovert gains his or her energy from other people and social experiences, basically things outside the self, Introverts gain their energy internally by experiences that stimulate their mental life. Simply put, E's focus on their outer world, I's focus on their inner world. And if I've ever appeared to be focusing on my outer world, I assure you it was either an effort to try to fit in, or a means of necessary adaptation. Or, perhaps it was simply Extrovert-Envy.

I feel compelled to mention that the test is made up of really short and annoying questions where you choose between two words or phrases… 

Are you more a) fair-minded or b) kind-hearted. 

Does staying late at a party a) energize you or b) drain you. 

Do you prefer to work on a project that is a) scheduled with a deadline or b) casual and open-ended. 

These aren't verbatim, by the way, but close enough. Some questions aren't as clear-cut as that and are often times very frustrating because they are so similar in meaning or context. There was a question I was adamant about circling BOTH answers for:

Do you find you are more a) unwavering or b) devoted. 

This one pissed me off. I am both. I know the definition of both. And firmly believe one drives the other. I feel that one can be devoted enough to something that they will stand unwavering on it. But I digress.

This is how 75% of this test goes. And it feels like a mind-fuck to be honest, pardon the expression. And can be very stressful unless you completely understand that there isn't a wrong or right answer to these questions. So, I'm pretty sure you'd be more likely to feel less stress, take it honestly, and understand its use if you were to take it AFTER you were hired. Right? 

There's no judgement in the outcome. Or at least there shouldn't be. Because at the end of the day, there are amazing strengths to both camps. And one camp isn't crazier than the other… In fact, I think a business made up of 100% Extroverts, or of Introverts, would totally tank immediately. There's a balance in life. To everything. And this is no exception. One simply needs the other to be successful. I recommend storing that away for any time you catch yourself judging a co-worker's personality or behavior that's a bit different than your own. Things aren't always as they seem. I'm not high-maintenance. I'm just different. Just because I'm not smiling, doesn't mean there's something wrong. And if I should decide to stay home, it doesn't mean I am depressed.

If you ever have the opportunity to take this test, take it seriously. If you have already, I'd be interested in knowing what you all are. At the very least, take the time to read the differences between. Here's a good place to start, which includes at the bottom of the article a great TED Talk video on introverts, if you're interested:

The Science of What Makes an Introvert and an Extrovert

Perhaps it will give you a better understanding of who I am, and how it's possible that I can write this blog about the random ramblings in my head, and still be considered introverted.

My beautiful cousin once posted the following article from 2003 on Facebook. He's a nurse. And a smartie. And I read it every so often to remind myself I'm all right.

Caring for Your Introvert

I'm just happy to learn my awkwardness finally has a name : )

One Chick's Junk May Just Be... Well, Junk.

But mine will always be treasure, to me.

I find the things we choose to hold onto rather interesting. Like, not figuratively hold on to. I mean literally. As in letters or pictures and such. I dug out this old, black, no-longer-able-to-be-zipped portfolio in which I keep a bulging amount of crap, to find an image of an old friend from high school. Not sure what my criteria was/is for hanging on to all of it. I mean, what's in that awkward pouch is just a mass of selected randomness spanning over 15+ years. How it all made the cut and why I have been carrying it with me across country and back, is beyond me.

I know you're wondering what's in there. Ok, maybe you're not. Quite honestly none of it is very interesting. It all means something to me for sure, but it really is just random crap. There's some (really bad) poetry from HS and college, and pictures and cards… and letters. I have hand-written letters. They're from my ex-boyfriend, senior year, in high school. When we graduated, he went into the Marines, I went to art school, we called it quits a month into the semester. He wrote to me during his whole experience in boot camp, even long after we had broken things off. I have a lot of his first "expert" medals he earned, too. I cherish all of it very much. Once when I was living in Atlanta, I was at the The Pub reading (because you all now know that's what I do) and ended up in a long conversation with a veteran. He suggested I donate the letters and medals to this particular museum that features such things from the Gulf War. That "they should be contributed as a part of history and show a side to war that some just don't get to see", he said. But I just can't do it. They're so personal. And I was honored he chose me to be the one to listen to his struggles with boot camp. To see him through the worst days of his life. It was often heartbreaking, but strangely beautiful to read. Letter-writing is such a beautiful, and lost art. Sometimes when I'm awake in the middle of the night, I type letters to someone. It's not the same, I realize, but I don't have any intention on ever sending these. 

Two other things struck me as I was digging through. Both are pieces of writing. One is sad and story-ish. The other a playful, rhyme-y sing-songy poem. Both are a little cheesy, the sad one a little dramatic, but that's to be expected from a late-blooming 20-something-year-old. The story actually made me cry when I read it. Isn't that funny? After all these years. It's a bit silly and predictable, but it's about a relationship I had in my senior year of college that continued on and off afterward… and was the reason I moved to Denver in 1995. It's actually more about realizing it wasn't a good fit after all was said and done. Which has always made me sad. A bit tumultuous the relationship was at times, but more often than not, it was pretty amazing. It's a shame that never worked out. Some things just aren't meant to be I suppose. The piece is called My Train. And it's about a journey.

The other thing I mentioned, the sing-songy poem, is a little clumsy but I think it's fun. And totally still relevant. I'm going to share it with you, but you cannot make fun of it. I was quite a little free-spirited dreamer back then. Shit. Who am I kidding. Still am. So it is a little silly… was meant to be playful, not win a Pulitzer. *wink*

I don't want to grow up.

or

Down for that matter.

I want to be free and

Play games —

MARRY the Mad Hatter!

I wanna pick wild flowers

and eat them at will.

Not Geritol or Vitamin B

or any old man pill.

Nope.

Not I, or me,

not even myself.

I don't want to grow old

and sit on my shelf

with the other old toys

no longer alive.

It's the leaves and the playgrounds

I want to revive —

Jump in the piles,

Swing from a tree.

Build huge blanket forts

(the Queen I would be!)

I want to chase butterflies,

make wreaths for my hair.

From daisies + dandelions, grass

I don't care!

The world is so colorful through
the eyes of a child.

The air is much cleaner, the heart

is so wild.

Maybe I'll move to the land of lost boys.

Or build me a fix-it shop in the land

of unwanted toys.

It seems such a better place to be.

You and I, myself and me.

Maybe I'll grow up —

or

Down for that matter.

But I'll STILL be free

to play games AND

marry the Mad Hatter.

Because the air is still clean,

My heart is still wild.

The world is so colorful

Through the eyes 

of a child.

So, why on earth did I choose these particular things to save? Well, why does anybody? Anything from my Mom and Dad I save, like cards. I love the stuff my mom writes in cards. I save all of them. And I have a few things from my Dad… he doesn't write more than a sentence when he mails a package or signs a card. I keep them anyway, because he has such lovely handwriting, and because he uses the word "Luv" instead of "love". And I kinda really luv that. I actually have a 10x10 Smartbox unit in Atlanta with some furniture, all of my photographs, and a very large box of more random crap. When I finally get it moved up here, it's going to be like Christmas.

Intro to the "Off Day": The Moon and the Mean Reds

When I was a kid, I always kept my bed in front of the window. I still do, actually. And the reason for this was so that whenever the moon was strong in the sky and would shine in through the blinds, the light would shine on my face while I slept. I would often sleep at the end of my bed, just to accommodate the light. It's 3:42 am. My room in Raleigh has a giant picture window at the head of the bed that fits the entire width, so tonight the moonlight is just pouring in.... and it's almost full. In another day or so it should be magnificent to sleep in. Kinda feels like the universe knew I needed the extra comfort and kept the skies clear. It's going to be another Off Day for sure.

Some days, like yesterday, I have what I call Off Days. I remember while growing up, it was a term I would use with my Dad. Whenever he was having a bad day or wasn't feeling well after a health issue, I would ask how he was feeling, and he would say he was having an "Off Day". It was a better way of describing a shitty day, I guess. Because a shitty day implies there was a reason for it to be shitty. An Off Day doesn't really have a reason at all. They're actually a lot like Holly Golightly's "Mean Reds", in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Not like the blues mind you. "… The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of…" So yeah, yesterday was like that. And I could probably explain why. But not very well. So I won't.

And then there's this event I have to take part in this week that I am just dreading. I'm not very good at large social outings. At least not for very long periods of time. In public. With people I can't connect with. It's what an introvert dreads the most. And with this event I have to endure an entire 8 hours of socialization with 12 people younger than me. Half or more of them, are half my age. I don't know why the age thing bothers me so much. I'm just really struggling with it more now than I ever have before. I think the reason why is because when I turned 30, people told me I would love my 30's. "Best years of your life!" they said. And they were absolutely right. Best years of my life so far, hands down. I didn't mind my 20's. Lots of fun, lots of heartache, lots of growing up to do… but I wouldn't do them again. Then I turned 40. People told me the same thing about my 40's. They would be the best. And they were absolutely wrong. Worst year's of my life so far, hands down. I had to, after all, say goodbye to my 30's, and enter into another dimension where gravity is just as jacked as the temperature of my body when I sleep. 

So, here I am at 44, and so far all I can see is that my boobs are longer, I don't know how to dress, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. It really started a couple of years ago, after my first official girl's weekend in LA, to which afterward I had two *very* dramatic melt-downs after seeing pictures of myself posted of Facebook. Holy shiz-balls do I really look like that now? It's really unnerving when you feel 30 in your head, but walk past your reflection in a posh Santa Monica Promenade storefront window and see a Frumpy (with a capital F!) 40-something looking back at you. Holy shiz-balls is right. Needless to say, I've since lost some weight, feel a TON healthier and do look a little better in windows, thank God… But I just can't seem to figure out what to DO with myself. It's Limbo. The gray area. The Mean Reds.

Anyway. The moon has moved a little further across the sky and the light from my laptop is interfering with it's valuable light… so I shall bathe in it's beauty and brace myself for the rest of the day that is to come. 

G'nite folks...

The Wind and the Crazy

This is why I love the internet. I've been talking to myself out loud quite a bit lately like a crazy person. I find I do that when I catch myself being clumsy or forgetful, but lately I have been telling things out loud, into the wind… as if when I do, it will get to the person i'm talking to some how. Sounds silly, I know. But i'm right-brained, a hopeless romantic (shhh do NOT tell anyone that. I have a reputation to protect) and yeah, I might be a crazy person. I've just been on a wind kick these days, it seems. A little obsessed with it actually. Trying to figure out how to paint a picture of it. It feels different here at the beach. It leaves an ever so slight salt residue where it lands. I realize it whenever I put my sunglasses back on. So, every time the wind blows it's like tiny little sea kisses to your skin. I don't know why I find that so lovely, but I do. Yep. Crazy person. Ok, so the reason I love the internet is because I wanted to see what would come up if I typed in "tell it to the wind" or " I say it in the wind" hoping to find some poetry or a song or something. What I did find when I typed "tell it to the wind"  is a beautiful mini-movie that someone created. It's really lovely. Check it out...

(click the title below)

Tell it to the Wind

Crazy or not, think about it next the time you're outside…. telling stuff to the wind. It's fairly therapeutic.

Or perhaps you might want to listen a little closer.

On Single Life, Ah-ha's and Magnetic Friction

(original entry written July 4th, 2013, 3:15am)

So, I have these little "a-ha moments", epiphanies if you will, almost daily now. Most I can't remember by the end of the day to write down. The important ones stick with me. At least until the next one happens, as my memory is total shit anymore... But you know what I'm talking about, the moment when something suddenly make sense… like when you first realize where a phrase comes from… "We have to make a pit stop on the way back" was one I never thought twice about. Until I moved to NC in 1997 where car racing is a family past time and discussed at Sunday dinner. Yes, I am saying that I didn't make the connection between racing and the phrase until adulthood, even when my parents had been saying it my whole life. I didn't grow up with racing. I hate car racing. How would I have known what a pit was, let alone that they stopped there to refuel or change tires during a race? I was living with my other best friend at the time. I remember how hard she laughed at that, and told me I should probably never admit that to anyone. haha

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I have these little moments where some things are just making sense to me now. What the word "home" means. What not to do when it comes to relationships like stay in one when your insides are telling you you're done. Or that no matter how hard you try, the opposite side of two magnets will never come together no matter how hard you force it. 

Last week an ex-boyfriend from my first NC days in the 90's helped me move some bigger stuff into my apartment. Now, I totally didn't realize the issue I was going to have with moving stuff as a single girl, until I actually needed a truck. I mean, I had a big, strong handsome Ford Bronco in my life for the past 4 years… Oh how we take such things for granted. I actually kinda miss that thing… Anyway, this Ex graciously helped me by using his truck to pull a U-haul trailer behind it. Before I continue, to be fair we had seen each other once when I first moved back to NC and was staying in Raleigh. We went to a derby party, had fun, and quite honestly it was as if 14 years hadn't gone by at all. So, naturally when he helped me move, we started to reminisce on the good and bad parts of our history together. And the good parts suggested perhaps we could rekindle, because we were 85% really good together. But the bad parts dictated the outcome. I realized I just couldn't. For many reasons. But if not the main reason, then certainly the most important reason is that we just don't know how to disagree. And I guess I don't know how to tell him that. It's interesting to me though. You kinda have to know how to talk through things if you don't agree on a subject. Right? For example, if we both see a red flower, and he is telling me it's blue, when it is truly red, he should be able to listen to the reasons why it is red, and I should be able to articulate those reasons. He won't, and I don't, so we can't. And it causes instant friction. Like that weird friction from the same side of two magnets (remember what that felt like in science class? Totally cool.) Actually not so cool when it's between two people. But it's going to be fine. We make really good friends. We just can't go back to something that can't be resolved. And it would need to be, but since we can't even agree on what color flowers are, that would be fairly impossible. Or, we'd have to start fresh, and I'm not interested in doing so. My insides are telling me I'm done. And I'm really, really sorry about that.

On a lighter note…  The longer I live here it appears that I am actually *very* popular with the men here. Like the 65 and Older Club men. *Sigh*. I'm too old for, and invisible to the young ones, and WAY not interested in the 65AOC. No offense to the older gentlemen though. I admire their tenacity. For now I'm so very ok with all of it, to be honest. 

The Beach Chronicles: on food, drink and Bags

(original entry written 6/27/2013)

It has been a little over a week since I last updated, I know. But I was in NY for my niece's graduation. As a step outside of The Beach Chronicles, I'll be brief about the visit… in the light of some troubling and sad news, the power of family and love can't be beaten down. Sure there were moments of crazy as life events usually cause, but the power that is love squanders all chances of crazy winning. We are "strong like bull" as my Grandma Harriet used to say. And YAYYYYY!! Congrats Jess! back to TBC…

Historically whenever I move to a new place I tend to head out for a bite and a cocktail by myself. Some may think this is a little wacky but it's just what I do. Part of the reason is to try to get to know the bartenders and locals. Part of it is that I just get a little bored cooped up in the apartment. Part is painter's block. Which I am currently fully engulfed in, by the way. Ok, most of it is because of painter's block. Anyway, my favorite is the Shuckin' Shack. All fresh seafood, perfect for my pescetarian lifestyle. Now, as a side note, I don't wear shorts. Like ever. I wear long, light skirts with tank tops instead. I'm learning what is best accommodating to the humidity and wind, so one particular day I decided to head to The Shack and wore a wrap-around skirt. (One I can finally fit in again, yeehaw!). All I can say is beach wind plus wrap skirt equals the most stressful two-block walk on the planet. I guess the point of this entry is to admit I drink alone in public for terrible reasons, and to advise the ladies to choose skirts they wear wisely, if they choose to live at the beach. And as a little public service announcement on the greatness that is the Shack, hahaa… You can check them out here. 

Other food-related discoveries, since I'm kind of on that subject, is I'm discovering humidity tortures pretzels and chips. And beer tastes better at the beach with seafood than it does in the mountains with meat. And that I don't have to change any recipes according to sea level anymore. I haven't done a lot of cooking since I've been back as I am single now, but it's significantly easier and fresher at the beach. Lots of local veggie markets/organic farmers and fresh, amazing seafood in abundance. And chowda'… say it. Chowda'… My favorite being from Havana's. They win the local chowder competitions and call theirs Charlie's Chowder. Best I've ever had, I'm convinced. They're on the pricier side of seafood restaurants for dinner at the beach, but they do have good lunches and two sets of corn hole games in their yard. In fact, now that I think about it, most restaurants here have sets of Bags in their outdoor patio areas. I couldn't be more stoked about this most awesome discovery. Cold beer, fresh seafood and adult bean bag tossing. Works for me for sure.

"Bags" is another word for the beanbag toss game called Corn Hole... the focus of all Denver parties... SO happy to discover it's loved here as well.

Learn it. Play it. LOVE IT.

The Good, the Bad, and the Skort

(original entry written on 6/16/2013, 3:13 am)

So, my second day of Introductions brought a few revelations and a delicious dozen of fat oysters. My first revelation was that no matter how much you want to believe people are inherently good, and perhaps most of us are, we're all capable of crappy moments. My mover guy told me before he moved my stuff from Denver, that storing these two pieces would not cost me anything extra. Today I paid him $100 for half the storage and for driving to the beach to deliver. Then the cherry was that his kid, and when i say kid I mean 10-year old boy, broke the leg of my desk, which Mover Guy tried to blame on the desk as having faulty screws. I should mention he initially wanted $125 from me. The $25 was his reimbursement of letting a child help him when I offered a gazillion times. So yeah, great start to day two. 

Another revelation was about towels. There are reasons people say to always wash towels before the use of a brand new one. "Well, DUH" you're saying. I know. I had originally thought it was because it's new and a thousand people might have touched it, or that it's not soft yet, or something that's either germy or causes discomfort. It never occurred to me there would be a million tiny little orange and yellow fuzzies in my hair and about to be incorporated into my Coppertone. *sigh and a shrug*…. Meh. So I look like Animal from The Muppets for a day or two. He was totally the coolest.

ma-na-ma-na do do de-do-do...

The third revelation has to do with my on-going struggles with being in my 40's and how they are affecting me physically. Like how you wake up one morning and look in the mirror and are like holy shit, gravity sucks. I recently bought something to swim in, forced by the hand of my best friend's community pool and by her, as she's going from rack to rack, grabbing tops and bottoms of all styles. I settled for a cyan-blue and white tie-dye-ish, racer-backed tankini top and a board skirt in black. What's a board skirt? It's like board shorts only a mini skirt.

Ok, a board SKORT. Whatever. It appeases the tom-boy in me, covers shit, and isn't a bikini.

So, today I put on the swim ensem', and decided to walk the beach in front of a bazillion people to test these new little issues. This is where the third revelation comes in. Now taking a step back into history for a sec, 20 years ago my other best friend and I lived at the beach in Florida where a jaunt down the beach in our bathing suits usually resulted in either plans that night at The Edge, or at the least, the token cat-calling. You know, from the morons who truly believe crass phrases and pick-up lines would actually make a girl say, "ohhh yes, I would LOVE to do that with you/to you/please" (eye-rolling)… Fast-forward back to today, I realized I am now officially in The Invisible Stage. It's true. It DOES exist. And I have mixed emotions about it. It's not that the 20-30-somethings on the beach would be appalled by what they would see if they looked. It's that they don't have any interest in looking. On the one hand I feel almost offended. Then I fear I might just look like some haggard cougar prowling the beach… Then I'm relieved to realize I don't have to suck everything in anymore as I pass by a hottie little lifeguard because they AREN'T LOOKING. See? Mixed. But I prefer that last reaction. It's very liberating to not HAVE to be concerned with how I look in a bathing skort. But the 30-year old girl [ego] who still lives in my head is still hurt by not being "checked out" by beach lovelies.

*wink*.

The Beach Chronicles: The introduction.

(Original entry written: 6/15/2013, 2:30am)

An interesting life change...  At 43 I ended a relationship of 6 years at 2012's end, got laid off from my job which was even more heartbreaking, so this girl gave all her shit away and moved out of Denver in April 2013, to the beach. More specifically, I moved to Carolina Beach, NC into a small cottage apartment building named Blue Skies.

On 6/14 I moved out of my best friend's house where I spent a month and a half prior to the beach move. I moved away from brushing my teeth with Little Man, who is 7. Moved away from pre-pre-teen, gorgeous and sassy Freya, who is 10 going on 18. And, I moved from away from my amazing best friend: my opposite, my balance. She doesn't even know how amazing she really is to tell you the truth. So 6/14 was kind of a weird day.

That day in June I was introduced to a completely different way of life. But briefly. Too much "normal" got in the way. Move Fatigue. Moving Guy-waiting. So we haven't *really* been able to get initially acquainted, The Beach and me. 

So who I met, and what I've learned thus far:

1) 1 grumpy, cigarette-smoking, photographer neighbor

2) 2 really friendly neighbors, opposite in gender and in age, same enthusiasm (it's kinda funny)

3) Waves in the night might just be the answer to my insomnia.

4) I cannot escape the word Ma'am in the south. Not even at the beach.

5) without electricity coolers really do RULE the school

and 

6) i can't remember what 6 is. It's 2:46 am. 

Tomorrow has to be another normal day but I will introduce myself to the Shuckin' Shack at some point. For now it's just me and a VERY empty apartment.

Birth of The Beach Chronicles

My biggest fear of starting a blog was that it would become too much of an online diary, and that I might say too much, not enough, or that I'd end up offending someone I know in the process. But since I've found myself at a crossroads, and perhaps the beginning of a (whisper) *mid-life crisis*… I decided I wouldn't worry about it. At least for the time being.

The next hurdle [procrastination] came when deciding what the content of the blog would actually be about. Originally I wanted to just go through the often times VERY amusing and stressful day-to-day of a single 44-year old, who has never been married and never had children. One might think this is an easy way of life, but one may want to rethink that opinion. It is often times frustrating, humiliating and hilarious, and unfortunately, comes with accusation, questions and ridicule. Yes, ridicule. But then I lost my job in Denver, had a melt down, packed my car, and fled back to the east coast, to where I now reside on the beach in North Carolina. It's amazing. And number one on that list-thing that we all make as we age. Which makes me wonder why the Universe would just hand over my Number One so easily and freely.  Am I going to croak in the next 5 years? Will I need to move again in less? Why can't I just see it as a temporary little gift, that is simply meant to allow me to heal? But I digress… Like I said… a crossroads.

It was then I decided to combine the two: My terribly awkward person, and lifestyle as a 40-something "never-been-er" and my experiences of being such while living on the beach. Thus, The Beach Chronicles happened.  

Hopefully some of you will read and be amused or enlightened. And I hope for anyone who feels the need to comment will do so with a shared experience or in an encouraging way. It's a hell of a crossroads. And by crossroads I mean 5-Points. So please refrain from posting negative or offensive comments, as they will be deleted. 

The Beach Chronicles will hopefully grow into a place for me to share my stories, my paintings, and of course, all things beach...

Na zdrowie!