He comes down the stairs wearing sweatpants and an undersized longsleeve tee. He stands for a minute, struggling with the doggy gate before entering the room, bundling himself in a sleeping bag, and sitting down on the floor. He lets out a series of heavy sighs, shaking his head up and down slowly.
Neither of us are much in the mood for talking. So we take turns staring at each other while the other stares into the carpet. We begin a silent tango of head nods and shrugs, wide concerned eyes. After a few minutes, I set down my computer next to me casually pressing the volume of my itunes creep up one level and clear my throat.
"We should make a fort."
"Are you serious?" His head snaps towards me. I can tell he's not only wondering if I'm serious, but how this discovery would be accepted by his sleeping girlfriend. His expression reads; She's actually crazy. She's actually batshit crazy.
A sentiment, I feel, that is at this point deserved.
It be better to say that this was a distraction designed to get his mind off of the heavy family news, and the current turbulence of his relationship with the woman upstairs behind the closed bedroom door. And sure, partially it is. But really, it's not. The couch is L shaped and has huge cushions on it, each complete with velcro strips along the back. Given their presence and the contributions brought down to make my "bed" (sheet, sleeping bag, oversized blanket, two camping pillows, and four decorative smaller pillows) we could create a masterpiece that might actually be able to battle the Bubble Fort of '95.
I stand up and start tossing the cushions his direction. For a few moments I can tell his mind is not on the weight of the day and I feel as though I may have redeemed myself, if only for five minutes.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Tyler, TX
1). The first band I witnessed on St.Patrick's Day.
The bassist was wearing a TC hat. In between songs the lead singer grabbed the mic and said, "Once again we're so and so from Minneapolis..."
2). After seeing this guy , I'm trying to wipe the smile from my face. I'm analyzing the faces of folks walking by themselves in attempts to remind myself of how faces are supposed to be positioned without appearing creepy. Top candidates around me are clearly on a mission, practicing for the runway, or pissed. I settle for mission, my task: Poster show.
I walk in to the convention center and am immediately called over to a table of two gentlemen sitting behind beards and a small table in front of a wall plastered in thirty or so screen printed poster designs. They question me about the bag I'm carrying, and then dodge small talk to really get down to their intrigue (Is that seriously Lincoln? Have you read that Vampire Hunter book yet!?) They hand me their card as I start to head towards the next table. They're from Minneapolis.
3). I'm walking back from the poster show towards one my usual coffee stops. The barista exchanges a glance of familiarity and starts in on my beverage while we yell our small talk over the band that's playing. It's a two piece. Drummer and a guitarist who is mastering preprogrammed sound waves through his feet. They're good. They finish their set and ask to the audience to, "Please support other Minneapolis bands. They fucking rule, and one of them is playing up next."
I'm starting to feel like this is a set up. Someone is fucking with me.
4). Impromptu hair cut. Needed to happen. The woman wielding the scissors is from- you guessed it, Minneapolis. Should have seen it coming. I'm starting to wonder if the spell of seeing Bill Murray left me in a Groundhog Day daze.
5). I'm walking briskly away from the hair salon in a daze of product scents and exhaustion. There's a guy standing in the grass that lies in between the sidewalk and the street, watching a band playing on the patio of the burrito place I'm heading towards. I smile as I nod as I pass and he calls out Hey, in a tone that is almost accusatory. I turn back over my shoulder and he pulls up his shirt sleeve exposing a duplicate tattoo of what's on my forearm. I turn back and appreciate it and we make small talk about our native Minneapolis. I check for secret cameras in the bushes as I continue on my way towards burritos.
I'm convinced it's all the damn Minnesotans traveling to one place that's responsible for the current state of Texas weather. It's getting cold. There's snow in the forecast.
The bassist was wearing a TC hat. In between songs the lead singer grabbed the mic and said, "Once again we're so and so from Minneapolis..."
2). After seeing this guy , I'm trying to wipe the smile from my face. I'm analyzing the faces of folks walking by themselves in attempts to remind myself of how faces are supposed to be positioned without appearing creepy. Top candidates around me are clearly on a mission, practicing for the runway, or pissed. I settle for mission, my task: Poster show.
I walk in to the convention center and am immediately called over to a table of two gentlemen sitting behind beards and a small table in front of a wall plastered in thirty or so screen printed poster designs. They question me about the bag I'm carrying, and then dodge small talk to really get down to their intrigue (Is that seriously Lincoln? Have you read that Vampire Hunter book yet!?) They hand me their card as I start to head towards the next table. They're from Minneapolis.
3). I'm walking back from the poster show towards one my usual coffee stops. The barista exchanges a glance of familiarity and starts in on my beverage while we yell our small talk over the band that's playing. It's a two piece. Drummer and a guitarist who is mastering preprogrammed sound waves through his feet. They're good. They finish their set and ask to the audience to, "Please support other Minneapolis bands. They fucking rule, and one of them is playing up next."
I'm starting to feel like this is a set up. Someone is fucking with me.
4). Impromptu hair cut. Needed to happen. The woman wielding the scissors is from- you guessed it, Minneapolis. Should have seen it coming. I'm starting to wonder if the spell of seeing Bill Murray left me in a Groundhog Day daze.
5). I'm walking briskly away from the hair salon in a daze of product scents and exhaustion. There's a guy standing in the grass that lies in between the sidewalk and the street, watching a band playing on the patio of the burrito place I'm heading towards. I smile as I nod as I pass and he calls out Hey, in a tone that is almost accusatory. I turn back over my shoulder and he pulls up his shirt sleeve exposing a duplicate tattoo of what's on my forearm. I turn back and appreciate it and we make small talk about our native Minneapolis. I check for secret cameras in the bushes as I continue on my way towards burritos.
I'm convinced it's all the damn Minnesotans traveling to one place that's responsible for the current state of Texas weather. It's getting cold. There's snow in the forecast.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Austin, TX
It's 9 pm. We head out on bikes, weaving in and out of crowds of SXSW folks. It's like living Pacman, but with more monsters and no direct route. So Asteroids. Our bullets being strong eye contact in attempts to silently warn oncommers that- no, we have no intention of moving, so they'd best step aside.
We exchange glances from our positions in the crowd periodically, making sure the other hasn't been decked by a celebratory St.Patrick's Day drunkard. This in no time, triggers a race under the 35 bridge towards the calmer streets on the East side. We both win in that we weren't taken out by a cab or LA hipster waiting for the next big thing.
We exchange glances from our positions in the crowd periodically, making sure the other hasn't been decked by a celebratory St.Patrick's Day drunkard. This in no time, triggers a race under the 35 bridge towards the calmer streets on the East side. We both win in that we weren't taken out by a cab or LA hipster waiting for the next big thing.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Ridgeland, Mississippi
6 AM: Alarm sounds.. Bib's on. Jersey on. Jeans on. Sweatshirt on. This is the fastest I've moved at this time in a while. Mainly it's in attempts to find food to eat before prepping four bikes and meeting a shop owner. I have forty minutes. Off to a good start.
7 AM: A Subaru with a Rocky Mounts roof rack passed me on the freeway. The driver was waving his ass off with a big ole grin- a wave that transitioned from out of a window to in front of his rear view mirror while trying to make eye contact. I don't get a good enough look to determine if it is the shop owner or photographer I'm supposed to be meeting with, but I wave politely and smile. I end up following his route for a while until I need to take a left into the shop parking lot. We end up side by side at a red light. He stares straight ahead. The woman in the seat next to him is laughing. OK.
9:15ish: Two woman are standing at the side of the bike path. Judging from the lack of hills in either direction, I'm guessing it's not because they're tired. I excuse myself from the woman I'm teaching proper shifting to, stand up out of the saddle and pedal as fast as I will all day (20 mph, weaaak) to meet up with them. Mechanical. Given I've been the mechanic, I'm immediately apologetic as I start looking over the bike. A stick cracks behind me. The small talk amongst the group stops and all heads snap to look over my shoulder. "Nature tour, eh? What is it?" I'm glad for any sort of distraction from their stare. "Probably just a crocodile." I leap forward scrambling with the sudden interaction of my road cleats struggling to find traction on the pavement. They all laugh. A tail flicks. Waves in the swamp lead out towards the dense woods.
11 AM: My phone vibrates. I'm standing on the edge of the bike path, kicking leaves, staring into the grass. Three days on tour and zero strip clubs, what a waste. It ignites a short but necessary laugh. I've lost my car key. I've now searched a four mile span two times. Four miles of 25. The path is an out and back rail to trail and each section of it looks exactly the same to me. There are no defining trees, houses or turns. It is all exactly the same brownish swamp on both sides. So, no despite being asked seven different times, I don't remember where I stopped to adjust a derailleur. I've begun prepping myself for being stranded in Mandeville until after the weekend while the two gentlemen kind enough to join my search party remain dedicated to finding the needle in the haystack, a single key. And yes, if you must know, that is my only key. Because last week I got locked out of my van for the first time ever and removed my spare from it's safe keeping. I then promptly left it in my hotel room, checked out and left the state. Awesome.
1 PM: I can't taste this panini. The crust is tearing apart the roof of my mouth like Capt'n Crunch. All I can think about is that damn cereal.
4:15 PM: Gas station bathroom. Between my greasy hair from this morning's ride, my fading mascara and bright pink cheeks on top of my pale skin, I look like a failed attempt harajuku girl. I feel disgusting. With my tongue running over the tiny cuts from Cap'n panini this afternoon, my face keeps settling into an expression similar to eating room temperature soft French cheese. A motion sensing air freshener triggers on the wall and shoots directly into my mouth. I feel so hot right now.
5:45 PM: Muppet's Schindler's List. Miss Piggy's choice. Schindler's List: In space. I'm listening to the Ricky Gervais podcast on "The Arts."
6:00 PM: Just passed a bill board of a woman crying on one side of a couch, and on the other a man sitting with his head in his hands. Across the top it says DIVORCE? Across the bottom it says $550. That's it. There's no other billboard for miles. Is this some new marketing technique? Or is there a slit in the pole holding up the sign, like those "Go ahead, we trust you" parking lots?
7:18 PM: Hotel room phone rings. It goes up an hour. Tonight. Keisha, the attendant at the front desk is my favorite person in Mississippi.
7 AM: A Subaru with a Rocky Mounts roof rack passed me on the freeway. The driver was waving his ass off with a big ole grin- a wave that transitioned from out of a window to in front of his rear view mirror while trying to make eye contact. I don't get a good enough look to determine if it is the shop owner or photographer I'm supposed to be meeting with, but I wave politely and smile. I end up following his route for a while until I need to take a left into the shop parking lot. We end up side by side at a red light. He stares straight ahead. The woman in the seat next to him is laughing. OK.
9:15ish: Two woman are standing at the side of the bike path. Judging from the lack of hills in either direction, I'm guessing it's not because they're tired. I excuse myself from the woman I'm teaching proper shifting to, stand up out of the saddle and pedal as fast as I will all day (20 mph, weaaak) to meet up with them. Mechanical. Given I've been the mechanic, I'm immediately apologetic as I start looking over the bike. A stick cracks behind me. The small talk amongst the group stops and all heads snap to look over my shoulder. "Nature tour, eh? What is it?" I'm glad for any sort of distraction from their stare. "Probably just a crocodile." I leap forward scrambling with the sudden interaction of my road cleats struggling to find traction on the pavement. They all laugh. A tail flicks. Waves in the swamp lead out towards the dense woods.
11 AM: My phone vibrates. I'm standing on the edge of the bike path, kicking leaves, staring into the grass. Three days on tour and zero strip clubs, what a waste. It ignites a short but necessary laugh. I've lost my car key. I've now searched a four mile span two times. Four miles of 25. The path is an out and back rail to trail and each section of it looks exactly the same to me. There are no defining trees, houses or turns. It is all exactly the same brownish swamp on both sides. So, no despite being asked seven different times, I don't remember where I stopped to adjust a derailleur. I've begun prepping myself for being stranded in Mandeville until after the weekend while the two gentlemen kind enough to join my search party remain dedicated to finding the needle in the haystack, a single key. And yes, if you must know, that is my only key. Because last week I got locked out of my van for the first time ever and removed my spare from it's safe keeping. I then promptly left it in my hotel room, checked out and left the state. Awesome.
1 PM: I can't taste this panini. The crust is tearing apart the roof of my mouth like Capt'n Crunch. All I can think about is that damn cereal.
4:15 PM: Gas station bathroom. Between my greasy hair from this morning's ride, my fading mascara and bright pink cheeks on top of my pale skin, I look like a failed attempt harajuku girl. I feel disgusting. With my tongue running over the tiny cuts from Cap'n panini this afternoon, my face keeps settling into an expression similar to eating room temperature soft French cheese. A motion sensing air freshener triggers on the wall and shoots directly into my mouth. I feel so hot right now.
5:45 PM: Muppet's Schindler's List. Miss Piggy's choice. Schindler's List: In space. I'm listening to the Ricky Gervais podcast on "The Arts."
6:00 PM: Just passed a bill board of a woman crying on one side of a couch, and on the other a man sitting with his head in his hands. Across the top it says DIVORCE? Across the bottom it says $550. That's it. There's no other billboard for miles. Is this some new marketing technique? Or is there a slit in the pole holding up the sign, like those "Go ahead, we trust you" parking lots?
7:18 PM: Hotel room phone rings. It goes up an hour. Tonight. Keisha, the attendant at the front desk is my favorite person in Mississippi.
Friday, March 12, 2010
New Orleans, LA
Lately I've been taking notes in haiku.
This is what I had for today- it seems best not to expand.
Bo'n & Rais', he says
You won believe wit yo ayes
watta for jus miles
He has wet his pants
in talking about the flood;
five foot high waters.
We stand, side by side-
As looking at a cornfield,
But instead, rubble.
He keeps sipping wine
His speach slurring real poorly
Pants wet and heavy.
Usta be nice, ma'am,
Usta be real nice roun hea'
All this trouble naw.
But them Saints, ya hea?
It's all about ta change nah.
Yes suh, it sho is.
This is what I had for today- it seems best not to expand.
Bo'n & Rais', he says
You won believe wit yo ayes
watta for jus miles
He has wet his pants
in talking about the flood;
five foot high waters.
We stand, side by side-
As looking at a cornfield,
But instead, rubble.
He keeps sipping wine
His speach slurring real poorly
Pants wet and heavy.
Usta be nice, ma'am,
Usta be real nice roun hea'
All this trouble naw.
But them Saints, ya hea?
It's all about ta change nah.
Yes suh, it sho is.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Little Rock, AR
I've been running lately. And since we're going to reveal that, I might as well admit that I've been lifting weights as well. I know this sort of statement will only result in a barrage of judgement and teasing. Well, bring it. Facts are facts. 15 pound weights, this girl. It happens.
Having doubled up a run with an upper body workout yesterday, I'm feeling a bit stiff today and ready to be sat down in a car with no reason to move for the next 8 hours as I make my way to Baton Rouge. But first, breakfast. Yes, I'm growing wearing of continental breakfasts. Despite how chipper the host at check-in sounded regarding the waffle machine, it's long lost it's flair. Now, when the obnoxiously loud timer going off signaling a crisp golden brown, it only makes me question why I am still sitting in a lobby when I could be, and likely should be, headed somewhere else.
Other than a older grandson visiting, there isn't much excitement at breakfast this morning. The pair of them making small talk over their hard boiled eggs make for poor people watching. Most of the business folk head out before the 8:30 last call and today's version of a hotel is more set up as studio apartments, which in itself encourages you to sit on your couch in your underwear rather than pretend to class up a bit before making your way downstairs. I finish the standard wheat squares and yogurt, transfer my coffee into a paper cup and make my way to the elevator.
The warm coffee relaxing some tight muscles, my arms dart away from both sides of my body and a powerful yawn escapes me right as the door closes. Power stretch. Each limb moving as far away from my torso as possible, my mind wanders as my muscles tighten and relax. Right before the door is secured a hand darts between it and the elevator frame, opening the door back up and revealing my power stance. The visiting Grandson. If I had been in an 80's power band on stage in front of a crowd, I'm sure the pose wouldn't have looked so strange. Since I was merely in an elevator, humming Kansas and stretching away- I looked like an idiot. He kindly hid his smile as he glanced away so that as his eyes popped out of his head they wouldn't smack me in the face. He stepped into the elevator.
Silence.
The elevator rumbles as it approaches the third floor, shaking. The doors remain closed, despite the arrival bell chiming. We exchange slightly concerned glances.
"Don't worry, if we end up dying in here my final farewell note will not include you dancing in an elevator."
I pause looking at him.
"I wasn't dancing..."
"Sure, just humming- what, Carry on my Wayward Son doing jumping jacks?"
"-Hey now! Stretching... And yes, yes it was."
The doors open. He laughs. I hang my head and exit.
"Good luck finding another elevator partner who can move, and shake, like thiissssss."
The door closes. His laughter disappears as he reaches the next floor.
Having doubled up a run with an upper body workout yesterday, I'm feeling a bit stiff today and ready to be sat down in a car with no reason to move for the next 8 hours as I make my way to Baton Rouge. But first, breakfast. Yes, I'm growing wearing of continental breakfasts. Despite how chipper the host at check-in sounded regarding the waffle machine, it's long lost it's flair. Now, when the obnoxiously loud timer going off signaling a crisp golden brown, it only makes me question why I am still sitting in a lobby when I could be, and likely should be, headed somewhere else.
Other than a older grandson visiting, there isn't much excitement at breakfast this morning. The pair of them making small talk over their hard boiled eggs make for poor people watching. Most of the business folk head out before the 8:30 last call and today's version of a hotel is more set up as studio apartments, which in itself encourages you to sit on your couch in your underwear rather than pretend to class up a bit before making your way downstairs. I finish the standard wheat squares and yogurt, transfer my coffee into a paper cup and make my way to the elevator.
The warm coffee relaxing some tight muscles, my arms dart away from both sides of my body and a powerful yawn escapes me right as the door closes. Power stretch. Each limb moving as far away from my torso as possible, my mind wanders as my muscles tighten and relax. Right before the door is secured a hand darts between it and the elevator frame, opening the door back up and revealing my power stance. The visiting Grandson. If I had been in an 80's power band on stage in front of a crowd, I'm sure the pose wouldn't have looked so strange. Since I was merely in an elevator, humming Kansas and stretching away- I looked like an idiot. He kindly hid his smile as he glanced away so that as his eyes popped out of his head they wouldn't smack me in the face. He stepped into the elevator.
Silence.
The elevator rumbles as it approaches the third floor, shaking. The doors remain closed, despite the arrival bell chiming. We exchange slightly concerned glances.
"Don't worry, if we end up dying in here my final farewell note will not include you dancing in an elevator."
I pause looking at him.
"I wasn't dancing..."
"Sure, just humming- what, Carry on my Wayward Son doing jumping jacks?"
"-Hey now! Stretching... And yes, yes it was."
The doors open. He laughs. I hang my head and exit.
"Good luck finding another elevator partner who can move, and shake, like thiissssss."
The door closes. His laughter disappears as he reaches the next floor.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Jonesboro, AR
I don't think I could live here, and I'm not truly considering it, but I dare say a part of me melted a bit in Arkansas. There's a charm.
I spoke at an event today designed to get women out of their houses and active. This means all types of backgrounds and bodies. All sorts of ability levels. Some, barely able to walk around the outdoor track one time, others pushing themselves to jog in two minute intervals completing four laps. Individual goals and meltdowns. Track suits, sweatpants, over sized t-shirts, two hundred women of all thanking me on their way out with dahlin', chayld, sweedhaar as they passed through the chain link fence past the buzzing overhead field light back to their cars.
They've seen the plates on the van and are thanking me for bringing the warm weather from California. I can't for the life of me bring myself to tell a 65 year old women wearing a moo-moo and running shoes that I'm from Minnesota.
I spoke at an event today designed to get women out of their houses and active. This means all types of backgrounds and bodies. All sorts of ability levels. Some, barely able to walk around the outdoor track one time, others pushing themselves to jog in two minute intervals completing four laps. Individual goals and meltdowns. Track suits, sweatpants, over sized t-shirts, two hundred women of all thanking me on their way out with dahlin', chayld, sweedhaar as they passed through the chain link fence past the buzzing overhead field light back to their cars.
They've seen the plates on the van and are thanking me for bringing the warm weather from California. I can't for the life of me bring myself to tell a 65 year old women wearing a moo-moo and running shoes that I'm from Minnesota.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
