yes. yes, they do. on some of the finest land in the country.

i've posted most (if not all) of these images before. i won't have new ones for you for a couple of weeks. we leave on wednesday for what will most likely be the last time we ever go. my munkle is very old. and there are only ten monks left at the monastery. one by one, they're leaving--either because the body fails them or they've chosen to live elsewhere. 

this one'll have to close. there's not enough to sustain it. i hate like hell this has to happen. soon, much too soon this beautiful land will be turned into another cookie-cutter neighborhood. hundreds and hundreds of cheap homes on teeny tiny lots. i can't bear to think of it.

so here. look on this glory with me a little while longer.

my cousins, my brother, my mother, me, the monk and another cousin.

my aunt's brother, my brothers, my cousins and my munkle's red truck.
i miss that thing. i miss those days.

songs that start with the letter i: a not-so-random sample

one. i alone. live. throwing copper.

two. i am. train's self-titled album.

three. i choose. the offspring. ixnay on the hombre.

four. i dare you to move. switchfoot. learning to breathe.

five. i do. abra moore. everything changed.

six. i don't believe in love. queensryche. operation mindcrime.

seven. i drove all night. cyndia lauper. the essential cyndi lauper.

eight. i got id. pearl jam. merkin ball.

nine. i miss you. blink-182's self-titled album.

ten. i will not take these things for granted. toad the wet sprocket. fear.

eleven. i won't let you go. snow patrol. divergent (original motion picture soundtrack).

twelve. i'll stand by you. the pretenders. last of the independents.

thirteen. if i can dream. elvis presley. memories: the '68 comeback special.

fourteen. if you're gone. matchbox twenty. mad season.

fifteen. (if you're wondering if i want you to) i want you to. weezer. raditude.

sixteen. in 'n' out. van halen. for unlawful carnal knowledge.

seventeen. in my place. coldplay. a rush of blood to the head.

eighteen. in the end. linkin park. hybrid theory.

nineteen. in this life. chantal kreviazuk. what if it all means something.

twenty. in your eyes. peter gabriel. so.

twenty-one. in your room. depeche mode. the singles 86>98.

twenty-two. innocence. the airborne toxic event's self-titled album.

twenty-three. invisible city. the wallflowers. bringing down the horse.

twenty-four. iris. goo goo dolls. dizzy up the girl.

twenty-five. is it any wonder. keane. under the iron sea.

fifty different reasons

six weeks or so ago, i wrote a post called fifty reasons to live. i reread it a lot, especially when i'm sad and lost and lonely and tired and... like today. today was not a good day. nothing happened to make it bad. nothing has to. that's why it's bad. because... nothing. i feel like a nothing. i've accomplished nothing. and i've no desire to do anything. i have more days like today than not. this is what depression looks like for me. fifty reasons to want it over. done. the end. this is the bullshit i battle in my brain on what seems to be a daily basis. the good news is, this time it was a helluva lot harder to come up with the fifty.

one. because they said you couldn't.
two. because they said you shouldn't.
three. because they said you wouldn't.
four. because you crawl into an empty bed. every. night. in your parents' house because you can't afford your own.
five. cupcakes. sure. because you need another five pounds on your ass. go ahead. eat.
six. you think you have friends. hahahah. no, you don't. how many of them actually give a shit about you? isn't that why you spend so much time at pappadeaux's? you're not writing. you've not written anything in weeks. you just sit there, running your mouth, wasting your money and annoying the servers.
seven. the scars. those doctors, they've made you so pretty.
eight. not that you were pretty in the beginning. and all you did was cry. all the damned time.
nine. yeah. daddy. you treat him like crap. and it's always take... take... take.
ten. and mama. you think your mother's a saint. and she is for putting up with you all these years. you're a spawn. a spore. you're nothing like her. you're no lady. you've no class. no grace. you're too selfish and bitchy and needy...

eleven. films. that's all you ever wanna do. watch movies. you'd spend the rest of your pathetic life in bed, watching movies. because you're too afraid to live. you'll never write a story so good someone will feel compelled to show it on a screen.
twelve. there's those things your peers... those people who can manage to make friends and live good lives... they said things like this: you should go kill yourself because the world would be better off without you in it. you should've listened.
thirteen. poetry? everything you write is crap. no one's ever gonna wanna read it. your poems are too prosaic. remember? your creative writing professor told you that.
fourteen. star wars sheets. what? are you twelve? geek.
fifteen. pappadeaux's. amy's right, you know. they're only nice to you because they have to be.
sixteen. literature. if you're not watching a movie, you're reading a book. because being stuck in your life is such a hell. and the only way you know to escape it is to get lost in some stupid story.
seventeen. you're taking up valuable air and space, and there are more important people who need it.
eighteen. minn was only nice to you because she felt sorry for you.
nineteen. shazam...
twenty. and bambam... they're getting older. wiser. they won't love you quite so easily when they see who you really are. you'll hurt them.

twenty-one. you quit smoking? why the hell did you bother with that? you want a short life, right? doesn't quitting just make it last longer?
two. your teachers... how many of them hated teaching you? i bet it was a lot.
three. stupid.
four. ugly.
five. worthless.
six. like school did you any good anyway. all that money your grandmother and great aunt left you, so you could have a fine education. and you squandered it.
seven. you're so fat. it's so disgusting. lazy bitch.
eight. and your teeth. gross.
nine. your face, though. that's the worst. no amount of make-up will make that thing pretty. it won't matter how many times you stare in the mirror and how many different ways. that glass is gonna show the same cross-eyed, freckled, scarred shit.
thirty. everything bugs you. remember? your brother's friend the other day started rattling off a list. he only stopped because you interrupted him.

thirty-one. every night... just so you can sleep, you've gotta pop some pills. there's so much ugliness in you the only way you can silence it is to drug it. how sad.
two. and then there're the things you'd overheard: i'm only nice to her because she gives me gum.
three. you like giving things to people don't you? makes you feel better about yourself? they're just things. and you're trying to buy affection. just like when you were a kid.
four. phineas. how many cars is that now? six cars you've wrecked. and you love that car? sure looks it, what with all the scrapes on the exterior, the gashes in the seat, the patches in the carpet... yeah. you love that car. i can tell.
five. your own brother doesn't even wanna spend time with you. but that's okay. you don't much wanna spend time with him, either.
six. you're too much like a boy. don't even know how to be a girl, do you?
seven. but that's okay. the boys don't want to get their hands on you anymore. not that they ever really did. you were just convenient. and lonely. and easy. or so they thought.
eight. but you can't even do that right, can you? so eager to play. til you get to a certain point. and then you balk. and walk. every time.
nine. when's the last time you did something good--really good--for anyone?
forty. you talk too much. no one wants to hear the words coming out of your mouth. no one cares.

forty-one. you've been at that job of yours for almost four years. how many people have been hired and promoted since then? some of those gals got promoted to management in six months' time. and look at you. still struggling. how long do you think they're gonna let you do that? move up, or move out, jenny. pretty soon, it's gonna be out.
two. and look at you. you've never held a job for more than four years. ever. that's pretty pathetic.
three. no one wants you here. not really.
four. god knows your parents would be better off. they could actually enjoy retirement instead of having to support their stupid, lazy daughter.
five. no one will ever wanna marry you because you're too ugly, and no one wants to wake up next to something that ugly every morning.
six. laughter. really? have you forgotten how often, how loudly and how gleefully they laughed at you?
seven. no one gives a shit about any stories you have to tell.
eight. if you die? because you call this living? they've already won, silly girl. they won a long time ago.
nine. your brother can't because he was weak. you're just like him. in all the wrong ways.
fifty. that promise? you signed a piece of paper twenty years ago. that doctor who made you sign it? he's probably forgotten all about you. so many will...

so... there. i took my benadryl. i'll brush my teeth and crawl in bed, and read or watch a movie until i can't stay awake anymore. and to counter all this ugliness, there's number fourteen from that happier list:

at the end of the day, you get to crawl into your supremely comfortable bed dressed in its star wars sheets and sleep knowing that you made it one more day. that you hung in there. that even if you hadn't accomplished anything else in your day, you did that. and that was enough.

yeah. star wars sheets. return of the jedi to be exact. and they are badass. i love them.

love is a mix tape

why i wanted to read it: this thing's been in the line of books atop my desk, guarding the windowsill for YEARS. i bought it because one of the gals who worked the music department at the bookstore for which i once was employed... she'd said she loved it. and i liked her tastes, so i bought it. and i maybe read a chapter of it. but then i put it down, never to return.

and then last night i decided to do this little challenge, and so i piled all the books i've bought but not read on my bed and made my list. for twenty-five points, i'm to read a biography, autobiography or memoir. and so i chose this.

what i liked: tonight, i feel like my whole body is made out of memories. i'm a mix tape, a cassette that's been rewound so many times you can hear the fingerprints smudged on the tape... i now get scared of forgetting anything about renee, even the tiniest detail, even the bands on this tape i can't stand--if she touched them, i want to hear her fingerprints (p. 12).

i was totally clueless about social interaction, and completely scared of girls. all i knew was that music was going to make girls fall in love with me.

so i approached my beatmaster duties with the same reverence i brought to my sundays as an altar boy serving mass. i approached my stereo sanctuary and genuflected. i lifted each vinyl wafer to the heavens. i unveiled the cassette ostentorium: "take this, all of you, and rock. this is the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. it will be shed for you, and for all who rock, so that rock may be worshiped and glorified" (pp. 29-30).

if i had my way, the story would end here. renee was always braver. she always wanted to know what happened next (p. 86).

the months leading up to the wedding had been a pageant of highly entertaining (for me) and traumatic (for her) dreams, which she confessed with shame every morning. they all had the same plot: renee trysts with a boy from her past, he begs her to run away with him, she thinks about it, and then she decides instead to move on to her future with me... my favorite was the volleyball player from roanoke. the last time she booty-called him, he said he was busy--he didn't want to miss the farewell episode of magnum, p.i. years after the fact, renee was still fuming. i wanted to shake his hand (pp. 87-88).

it's a pop cliche that the ideal band partnership is between the guy who lives it and the guy who writes songs about it... one is voice, celebrity, performance; the other is music (p. 137)

i knew i would have to relearn how to listen to music, and that some of the music we'd loved together i'd never be able to hear again (p. 149).

i loved the scene in the killers when ava walks up to the piano in her black dress and sings her little torch song: "the more i know of love, the less i know it/ the more i give to love, the more i owe it." ava gardner didn't lie (p. 156).

i had no voice to talk with because she was my whole language. without her to talk to, there was nothing to say... now, we had a whole different language to learn, a new grammar of loss to conjugate: i lose, you lose, we lose; i have lost, you have lost, we have lost. words i said out loud, every day, many times a day, for years and years--suddenly they were dust in my mouth (pp. 156-7).

the way i pictured it, all this grief would be like a winter night when you're standing outside. you'll warm up once you get used to the cold. except after you've been out there a while, you feel the warmth draining out of you, and you realize the opposite is happening... you get weaker the longer you endure it (p. 173).

some nights i would drive up route 29 to the all-night wal-mart. i'd push a cart around with some paper towels inside to look like a real shopper, just to spy on married people. i just wanted to be near them, to listen to them argue... people fight over some dumb shit when they think there aren't any widowers eavesdropping. and they never think there are any widowers eavedropping... i was so hungry for the company. i was scared i would be caught, that my wedding ring would be put under a scanner and exposed as a fraud, a widower trying to pass as a husband (pp. 173-174).

when my friends and family would ask how i was doing, i stalled or stuttered or lied. sometimes i could feel the glaciers shifting inside me, and i hoped they were melting, but they were just making themselves more comfortable (p. 178).

ralph waldo emerson knew the score: "i grieve that grief can teach me nothing" (pp. 189-90).

i marked a lot of other pages that weren't quite as poetic, but i enjoyed the sentiments expressed nonetheless. and i liked looking at these mix tapes of his and renee's and remembering the music.

what sucked: the author's a contributing editor at rolling stone. so there's some pretentiousness. i don't always agree with his definition of good music. there's a whole chapter dedicated to nirvana, which was a good band, sure, but i've never seen kurt cobain as a god. and sheffield so very clearly does (though i can understand and appreciate the comparisons he makes in some instances). and i don't always like the way he writes. it could've stood to be thirty pages or so shorter. maybe. the beauty of the above passages sometimes gets lost in the rest of it.

having said that: it's a good story. maybe i like mr. sheffield a little better for having read it. 

an author survey found at the back of a book (with some modifications)

where i was born: texas city.

where i live: the woodlands.

current weather conditions: seventy-two degrees. clear sky. no rain in the past twenty-four hours.

opinion of the current weather conditions: it's nice out. in another month i won't be able to say that. and we could use some rain. i mean, we just got some the other day. but we could use some more.

first real book i remember reading: that wasn't assigned by my teachers? and i'm guessing romance novels don't count as real books. the silence of the lambs by thomas harris.

last book i read before writing this: thirteen little blue envelopes by maureen johnson (i filched this here survey from the back of said book).

books read in the swedish language: uh... none.

where i write: pappadeaux's seafood house in shenandoah. at the bar, on the service end, near the to-go stand and the budweiser tap. not that i drink budweiser.

what i use: tops docket gold writing tablets--letter-sized, legal ruled, canary paper. tul retractable gel pens--seven millimeter, medium point, blue ink. or, occasionally, my laptop, an apple macbook pro, which is, the geniuses would probably say, limping along on an outdated version of os x and an intel core two duo processor. i've tried updating it, by the way; it keeps failing, and i'm too lazy to take it in.

how many beverages i have while i work: a lot.

current beverage count: i don't count.

do any elements of let it be [title changed to make it relevant to this here picky post] come from your own life experience? let's take isabel since she's the main gal in this story. yes. and no. the little things... she's fairly antisocial, incredibly anxious, moody, brash, a little tomboyish... a lot of personality traits are similar, and so the way she handles things, the way she responds to questions and whatnot, is similar to how i would. but the circumstances of her life are VERY different. so the little things... i use some of those because that's how you make a story feel real. you write what you know. but i also make a lot of them up. and whatever i've borrowed from my own life ALWAYS gets distorted somehow to make it more hers than mine. the origin of the story, the path it takes? that's all her.

what's the first thing you put in your suitcase before a trip? an aggie sweatshirt.

why did you decide to read a story about a girl who travels through europe? because i've traveled through europe, though not nearly as much as i would like. and i miss it.

have you been to all the places [england, scotland, italy, france, the netherlands, denmark and greece (and hopefully i've gotten them all)] in thirteen little blue envelopes? nope.

did let it be change at all as you wrote it? yes. it got a LOT better as i got better at telling the story. i CRINGE when i read old copies of the manuscript, especially ones from my twenties (i keep thinking i've set fire to them all, and then i'll find one hiding out in my desk or closet or something). and no. the premise of the thing is the same. the stories that will come after it, though, they've changed quite a bit. in writing this particular tale, in getting to know the minor characters better, i've seen their stories' premises change drastically.

what's your favorite travel destination and why? london, england. because it's magnificent. i love the architecture, the history, the tube system. the life. it's fantastic. i'd live there if i could. but only in the summer.

so there is that. and now that i have finished reading this particular novel, i'm happy to pass it on to someone else. if you'd like a little light reading, let me know. 

the actors... and the writers....

last night, while watching that awkward moment, i lay in bed (lie? i NEVER can remember... and i just looked that shit up the other day) skimming my bloglovin feed (which, i'll admit, girls, i'm SO bad about doing that... but i'll get better. i swear). sarah at venus trapped in mars wrote a post about how hard it is to make friends. she titled it dear match.com and implored them to develop a platform that made making friends just a little bit easier.

i thought of my friend katy who moved to tennessee not so long ago, a place she's longed to be... she loves the countryside there. LOVES it. and was so excited to go. and then she got there, and she's having a rough time making new friends. she's got two LITTLE boys who command much of her time. but she's lonely, i think. and she's shy, like me. and sensitive, too, like me.

i thought of katy. and i thought of myself, because sometimes that's what i do. and i left a comment about how hard it was for me to make friends. the first two decades of my life, i didn't speak that much.

when the secret life of walter mitty came out--i'd read the book in eighth grade english, i think, and it didn't really leave much of an impression. in fact, i thought it kind of ridiculous. but this movie... i identified quite a bit with walter.

he's either not seen. or he's the butt of the joke. and so he sort of shuts himself off, escapes into his imagination. and no one, no one takes the time to appreciate his talents. or so he thinks.

a LONG time ago, one of my facebook statuses was something about not all of us are supposed to be standing on a stage playing a part. that some of us are supposed to be sitting in a corner booth in some bar, writing the script.

now i don't presume to think i'm THAT talented. but... i am talented in that way...

this is why i love that movie. everyone reveres the photographer's work. and the photographer is in awe of one man's ability to treat that work well.

it's easy to forget this. that you don't have to impress hordes of people. that just because you don't doesn't mean you don't matter.

and the things i like the best about walter mitty... the man has one hell of an imagination... and he's a good person. a really good guy. and yeah. i know. it's just a movie. but there're people like walter mitty all around us.

dear kevin spacey, these didn't suck

yesterday, cbs sunday morning aired a really good interview with kevin spacey. in it, he said: every now and then, i remember, i would read things where people said my career was over and that, you know, i'd run away from hollywood. but i'll tell you this: i don't think i could've picked a better decade to go run a theater than the decade we just had in terms of what i missed.

today, i scoured imdb's lists of the most popular films released from two thousand three to thirteen. and i made a list of my own. twenty-five films that merit some attention.

incendies

lone survivor

memoirs of a geisha

cinderella man

seabiscuit

the help

the lord of the rings: the return of the king

star trek

pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl

the last samurai

the way way back

people like us

five hundred days of summer

serenity

the painted veil

love actually

the notebook

the secret life of walter mitty

crazy, stupid, love

mr. magorium's wonder emporium

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

gangster squad

about time

dedication
the devil wears prada

and... the twenty-five best films of the eighties

star wars: episode v-the empire strikes back

full metal jacket

steel magnolias

the color purple

dead poets society

die hard

the princess bride

when harry met sally

the breakfast club

top gun

lethal weapon

ferris bueller's day off

dirty dancing

fast times at ridgemont high

turner and hooch

terms of endearment

labyrinth

the terminator

parenthood

field of dreams

big

can't buy me love

sixteen candles

young guns

real genius

rolling stone's list is here. 

what's your list look like?

my texan-aussie friend erin made up a list, too. go check it out!

because the readers of rolling stone are generally incompetent: the 25 best films of the 90s

saving private ryan

schindler's list

silence of the lambs

sleepers
donnie brasco

philadelphia

shawshank redemption

se7en

fight club

a time to kill

apollo thirteen

a few good men
tombstone

heat

robin hood: prince of thieves

fried green tomatoes

for love of the game

good will hunting

twelve monkeys

the usual suspects
murder in the first

my cousin vinny

boondock saints

playing by heart
one fine day

click here for rolling stone's list. if you must.
what's your list look like?

my texan-aussie friend erin made up a list, too. go check it out!

fifty reasons to live

one. because they said you couldn't. 

two. because they said you wouldn't.
three. because they said you shouldn't.
four. because you wake up in the morning. there must be a reason for that, even if it's something so small as to smile at a stranger. because maybe that small smile is the lone bright spot in someone's incredibly dark day. and your smile... it's amazing. remember?
five. cupcakes.
six. because you have friends. you do.
seven. there's music. everywhere. and it's beautiful.
eight. and flowers. the bluebonnets. the roses. and ranunculus. daisies in the sun. magnolias in the trees.
nine. daddy.
ten. mama.

eleven. films. the ones that make you laugh. the ones that make you cry. the ones that make you want to tell a story. the ones that manage to do all three things at once. like steel magnolias. you would've missed that, had you given in all those years ago. you would've missed its perfection.
twelve. aggie football.
thirteen. poetry.
fourteen. at the end of the day, you get to crawl into your supremely comfortable bed dressed in its star wars sheets and sleep knowing that you made it one more day. that you hung in there. that even if you hadn't accomplished anything else in your day, you did that. and that was enough.
fifteen. pappadeaux's.
sixteen. literature. think of all the characters you've yet to meet.
seventeen. it's glorious outside. one last lovely glimpse of the spring...
eighteen. minn. she would want you to. can't you hear her in your head? jenny griffin...
nineteen. shazam.
twenty. bambam. those two... they need you.

twenty-one. you quit smoking. there's a reason for that.
two. your teachers... your professors... they saw good in you when you couldn't see it in yourself. they saw you.
three. disneyland. or world. either one will do. well, no. world. universal studios. harry potter. a person needs to see that place.
four. utah.
five. colorado.
six. england. london, specifically, but... really, the whole country's kind of magnificent.
seven. germany.
eight. ireland. you've not been there. and you know... there's that branch of the tree. on your father's mother's side.
nine. austria. you've not been there, either. and you know... there's that branch of the tree. on your mother's mother's side.
thirty. greece. you've not been there, either. and EVERYONE needs to see that.

thirty-one. coca-cola. yeah. i said it. a soft drink. a damned fine soft drink.
two. speaking of teachers... there's those ones who never taught you, but they know you (mostly because of your father, sure, but also because when you see them, it shows in your face how much you love them)... they ask about you. you. not your brothers, but you. even though you never had the privilege of learning from them. they ask about you because they love you.
three. you haven't gotten whitten her chocolate-covered coffee beans yet. or kaitlyn's yankee candle. or brenda's gift card... or whomever else out there in need of some kindness and generosity. you haven't shown everyone the love. and they could use some.
four. phineas still has about fifty thousand miles him. oh, the places you could go...
five. shakira hasn't won the voice yet. not that she's gonna win it this year... but it could happen... someday.
six. chicken spaghetti.
seven. calvin and hobbes.
eight. blueberry muffins.
nine. settlers of catan.
forty. scrabble.

forty-one. bookstores.
two. movie theaters.
three. house of blues.
four. macaroni and cheese.
five. halibut. with the piccata sauce--the crab meat and the lemons and the capers.
six. laughter.
seven. you've stories to tell. you do.
eight. because if you die, then they win. don't let that happen.
nine. because your brother can't.
fifty. because you promised someone you would. you promised.

these are my reasons. but you out there... if you're struggling, feel free to borrow them.

songs that start with the letter y: a not-so-random sample

one. yard of muscle. middlefinger's three martini lunch.

two. yawny at the apocalypse. andrew bird's armchair apocrypha.

three. yellow. coldplay's parachutes.

four. yellow ledbetter. pearl jam's rearview mirror.

five. yesterday. staind's fourteen shades of gray.

six. you and me. lifehouse's self-titled album.

seven. you are loved (don't give up). josh groban's awake.

eight. you are the best thing. ray lamontagne's gossip in the grain.

nine. you cause as much sorrow. sinead o'connor's i do not want what i haven't got.

ten. you could be mine. guns n' roses' use your illusion ii.

eleven. you don't have to be afraid. kaki king's until we felt red.

twelve. you don't know me. michael buble's it's time.

thirteen. you found me. the fray's self-titled album.

fourteen. you give me something. james morrison's undiscovered.

fifteen. you look so fine. garbage's version two.

sixteen. you picked me. a fine frenzy's one cell in the sea.

seventeen. you really got me. van halen's self-titled album.

eighteen. you told a lie. camera obscura's my maudlin career.

nineteen. you're not one of them. john ottman's superman returns soundtrack.

twenty. you're still here. faith hill's cry.

twenty-one. young folks. peter bjorn and john's writer's block.

twenty-two. your hands are cold. jean-yves thibaudet's pride and prejudice soundtrack.

twenty-three. your time has come. audioslave's out of exile.

twenty-four. your winter. sister hazel's fortress.

twenty-five. the youth. mgmt's oracular spectacular.

u is for utah

the view of huntsville, utah from halfway up the mountain.

t minutes ten weeks to departure. because yes, yes i'm counting. it's getting hot here.

t is for try, try, try...

so this evening, while working on the character bios for reese and seth, i was polling the servers and bar staff for suggestions (because the way it works for me is that i'll grill people for things like biggest regret or college majors and the like, and when someone says something that makes sense, i run with it. it's like i recognize it. like i knew it before it was said, but couldn't say it... or something). and i can get pretty loud. and i won't care that i'm loud, really, because to be honest, i have two decibels: meek and boisterous. and i was happy. so i was boisterous. and oblivious to how that happiness might have made other patrons unhappy. no. not oblivious. i didn't care. and i should've.

the booth behind me was crowded with a number of overweight, poorly-dressed african american women of varying ages.

i'd been polling the servers about their biggest fears. one of them had mentioned the camel spider. i was unfamiliar with such a critter. so i googled it. and one of the pictures i saw was quite disgusting. and i could not help but shriek when i saw it.

i was in the middle of turning my laptop so that the server could see what i'd found when i heard one of the women at my back exclaim, what is wrong with that girl?

now, i've never been any good at standing up for myself. ever. but for some reason, i found the courage to turn my attention to these ladies. i glared at them and said, really. and then i turned back around.

and i could hear them muttering amongst themselves. i let it go for a minute or two. but i really wasn't in the mood for it. so i turned back around and said, maybe yall should wait until you've left the restaurant to talk about me behind my back.

and one of them said, no, we'll do it right here.

i waited a moment. was going to ignore them. but i'm not good at that. so i got up, shoved past them and went outside to sit on the one of the benches. i was gonna wait until they'd left to go back inside. and then i thought, that's cowardly, and i'd rather have a drink. so i went back inside. and they were still there.

one of the bartenders told me after the women left that one of them had taken out her pepper spray and pointed it in my direction.

all because sometimes boisterous tips over into obnoxious. because, on a rare occasion, i'd raised my voice.

of course, these women went straight to one of the managers before they'd left to complain about their experience.

there are times when i'm at pappadeaux's that i feel a majority of the staff there tolerates me. but on this occasion, the manager came to me after addressing those women's concerns to make sure i was alright. she said that she thought i was pretty cool. or something. and she'd seemed proud of me for standing up. the bartenders did what they knew to do, too, to cheer me up.

i was pretty quiet after that.

some people think i'm this really nice chick, that i give so generously. the only i reason i work so hard to be giving is because i keep thinking if i give enough, i'll be better for it in the end. and at first, when i thought that, i wondered just how giving i needed to be. and then it occurred to me that those people at that restaurant, the staff there, they had my back. maybe not in the moment, because i'm sure there're limits to what they can do (though the manager said that if i'd come to her the moment the incident began she would've handled it), but after... they kept me from crumpling. and that's a pretty good return.

so tomorrow... i will try to be better. to be more deserving of their compassion for me.

q is for questions from a couple of friends

one. standard order when out to dinner: chicken flautas, chicken fried steak, mezzaluna pasta, cheeseburger, turkey sandwich, philly cheesesteak salad... i gravitate toward the most fattening item on the menu.

two. how do you like your steak? i don't, really, unless it's chicken fried. or pepper steak with bell peppers. but if it's regular steak, medium well with ketchup.

three. how do you want to spend your next birthday? that's gonna be forty-two. i'd really rather not think too much about that, except to say i forgot to ask off for that day this year and won't make that mistake again. i'd just want a good day. nothing extravagant or exemplary. just contentment. peaceful. easy. 

four. least favorite household chore: laundry. there's piles of it. always and forever. PILES.

five. movie you could watch over and over again: star trek. the one from five years ago. i've watched it at least fifty times, and i never get sick of it.

courtesy of kate at another clean slate

six. if you could go on vacation anywhere (you haven't already been) where would you want to go and with whom (can be fictional character); money is no object? ireland. a few years ago, i went to europe with my cousins. we had this tour guide named kate. i'd want to go with her. she was very good at her job.

seven. what does your ideal writing retreat look like? a couple of years ago, i discovered a writing retreat put on by the sun magazine. i kind of want to go to that. 

eight. what writing rituals do you have? i cop a squat at pappadeaux's bar, near the to-go stand. i play on the computer for a bit, chat with the staff. and then i plug in, open up itunes and word and get to work. if i stall, i'll unplug for a bit, chat with the staff some more, surf the net... rinse... repeat. this is pretty much how i spend every day. one of these days, i'll get paid to do it... assuming i can ever convince anyone in the industry that what i do is of value.

 

nine. scariest thing you've ever done: for my twenty-fifth birthday, my parents bought me a carribbean cruise. it left out of new orleans, made a pitstop in tampa bay and then headed for grand cayman. while in tampa bay and because i was, at the time, addicted to mountain dew and the ship did not supply its patrons with that particular beverage, i disembarked and went on a quest to find a gas station so i could buy a twelve pack. only it was sunday in tampa. early. and there weren't a lot of gas stations nearby, and none were open. so i walked. and walked. and being the gullible gal i am, i allowed a poorly-dressed, stinky, too-smiley, scrawny, bad-toothed african american male to escort me to what he'd said was a nearby gas station. but after walking for about ten blocks (because yes, it usually takes me a while to get a clue) into an increasingly ghetto neighborhood, i finally realized that perhaps this good samaritan wasn't so good, and i managed to excuse myself. i headed back to the boat, to the convenience store a block or so away from the ship and waited for it to open so i could get my fix. that night, i'd dreamt some dudes had injected heroin into my veins. 

ten. what do you spend way too much money on but just can't help it? movies. i watch a LOT of movies.

courtesy of tina at life is good.