Serendipitiy is Puttin' On the Ritz

  At the New Year every we reminisce of occurrences during the twelve months just passed.  Every year hold heart ache, triumph, and big events that affect our lives.  Sometimes it is little moments compounded as they replicate day after day that define the overall tone of the year for us.  We work long hours away from home to complete a never ending task list, raise a newly born child with endless diaper changing and feedings loving every new coo, our hearts break again fresh each day mourning the physical loss of a person who still lives within our memories, lose touch with friends, and reach out to grab the hand of new ones.  I am no different than anyone else in this regard.  As I reflected back on 2011 I found myself in moments with friends of old and new, surrounded by the love of my family, letting go of people who chose to no longer be a part of my life, choosing to let go of others, starting from the beginning to find my ground as I changed positions at work, sharing in tears of happiness with friend at weddings and births, and tears of sadness over death.  The most common theme however was that for the first time in an unbelievably long time I fought to find myself and stand on my own to the most complete me I knew how to be.  I scoffed at romance because it wasn’t what I needed, no in 2011 I was determined more than ever to understand who and what I was- and where I wanted that to take me.  In life we are handed perfect moments.  The ones just mentioned can be perfect moments, but I am referring to the everyday out of the way moments that aren’t planned, but somehow life comes together to deliver the most perfect experience possible.  They can be fleeting, like a Christmas toy that talks at just the correct moment, or they can last for hours.  This year I was graced with several evenings that could not have been imagined any better than they actually happened.  Impromptu shadow puppet shows complete with sound effects, dinner out with friends that lasted through the night until breakfast (a couple changes of venue were needed), and card games that go on for hours after you lose where the play is so many times because of the laughter. After they end we sit back and mull them over to think about how many nuances had to come together, just a tweak here on timing, a few inches of differences in physical placement, and they wouldn’t have held as much magic….those days have the ability to intrigue us and make us smile for the rest of our days.

   I spent my long vacation this year by myself, driving half way across the country, in a muscle car, and was sick as a dog.  It turned out to be amazingly fun, although I cut it short because I found what I needed to find and the illness had gotten to be too much to bear.  I was headed to Spring Green, WI…a town of no traffic lights, but an amazing bookstore!  It isn’t a hot spot for most vacations, and definitely not for driving that far across the country, but it holds Taliesin.  It is the home that Frank Lloyd Wright built for himself and Mamah Borthwick Cheney- if you don’t know the story it was a scandalous ordeal that ended in horrific tragedy.  From the moment I crossed the Wisconsin state line I felt at home.  It was basically a FLW tour as I stopped outside of Chicago in Oak Park to see the largest concentration of FLW homes standing.  Frank didn’t give me a little moment this time- those were all big ones for me.  There is something about the style of homes he builds that brings the most calming effect to me.  It is an understanding of the genius it took to design the home and the madness that consumed the man.  Everything he touched was done so with such haste that nothing was built to last; marriages, homes, commercial buildings.  He was constantly evolving his work and more so continuously forgetting his place among the rest of man.  In his mind he held a higher understanding of everything around him and no one could match that wisdom and insight.  His lack of concern and attention to the people in his life ultimately led to the death of seven people.  He was too far removed from general social queues to identify trouble on the horizon and retreated into his work.  If it wasn’t for the outside world recognizing how incredibly special his gift was and working tirelessly to preserve it and him, the world may never have known his name.  Of course, that is just my understanding of Frank- brilliant, amazingly gifted, completely captivating when he needed or wanted to be, so in tune with his natural surroundings, but still aloof to the humanity of his day.  I digress, as is easy to do on that subject.  Frank isn’t the center of the perfect moment that life served up on this trip.  That came from a little hilltop just outside of town.

  I attended a play in an outside amphitheater at the top of a hill.  The American Players Theatre has a stage set far back in the woods, outside, and uncovered.  Before the show people bring picnics and sit on blankets or a few tables provided at the bottom of the hill, and you mingle drinking wine and enjoying a rather relaxed atmosphere.  From the moment I got out of the car in that grassy field, I knew there was something special about the evening.  I was alone, of course as the trip was meant to be, but I was dressed in a long silver summer dress with a white shawl around my shoulders.  Hair, make-up, nails, and jewelry were done to the nines just as if I was walking into a Broadway performance.  As I pulled my picnic basket from the trunk a couple passing complimented the car and how far I had traveled, and surmised I was in for an adventure and there would be a bottle of wine in my basket. (They were right!)  I ate and drank with several people exchanging stories of life and adventure. Then I climbed the hill over the stone and sawdust path sheltered by the overreaching trees.  At the top was a most beautiful amphitheater, with the stage set for Blithe Spirit.  The usher showed me my seat- and I took napkins from my small basket dried it and sat down. It was July, and the summer air was heavy with the dampness that remained from the short storm that had passed an hour or more before.  As I continued drinking my wine there were only a few seats empty in the entire place, and one just happened to be next to me.  How odd I thought, when I had purchased my ticket I had picked a single available seat by its lonesome in the row, maybe the lone person coming wasn’t as up for the entire experience as I was.  Then it happened…a couple showed up.  Their tickets and my ticket were compared by the same friendly usher, and she apologized but she had told me where to sit incorrectly.  My seat was closer (yeah!) but the kicker was a few rows up the seats stretched across the entire audience, and my actual seat was in the middle of the last row to do so.  To make matters worse I would be the last one to sit in the row.  CRAP! I hate that find your seat shuffle down a row.  What to do…well I walked to the back of my seat and asked the gentleman that would be sitting next to me if he would mind putting my basket on the floor in front of my seat.  As it turns out he was a good sport that was there as a third wheel with his friends.  He looked at me in my dress and simply asked, “Are you really going to climb over the seat in such a beautiful dress?”  I didn’t respond, but grabbed his hand for support, hiked my dress above my knees, and threw one leg over the back of the chair and place my foot on the seat and brought my other leg over and stood.  “Well done!”  Did I mention that most people were already in their seats and this was a small amphitheater?  Apparently I had made a spectacle of myself and I was still standing on my seat as my new friend moved my picnic basket.  As I towered above everyone around me the crowd broke out into applause in my general area.  It was then I took the time to take in this stranger I had wrangled into my shenanigans. He stood above 6ft but not my much, dressed in jeans and a long sleeved red 3 button shirt, the top button unbuttoned, his eyes were deep brown, his skin the slightest hint of brown from the summer sun, a good solid smile not too Hollywood, long strong clean shaven face, and he was broad through the shoulders with a very square build, and his body muscular but not bulky.  His hand had smooth calluses and was cool to the touch.  He isn’t the kind of guy that would turn your head on the street, but the life behind his smile would make him stand out in an intimate crowd.  He was everyday good looking, which can mean trouble or complete and utter enjoyment.   Chuckling and still in good form, after moving my basket my new friend offered me both of his hands and yelled quite loudly “What light from yonder window breaks?”  I giggled and thanked him as the nearby crowd ended its applause with a rolling chuckle of their own.  Once my feet were on the ground I took a small head bow to them and to my cohort, and he gave one in return.  As I was offering my gratitude with that little bow, “I’m such a dork” was screaming through my head, and when he bowed in return “Oh my God! He is too!” was the echo within.  We exchanged smiles and took our seats.  I offered him the other glass in my basket and poured him some wine.  Until the play started we chatted about the beauty around us and general conversation of why we were there.  He admitted he wasn’t a theater buff, and that the only reason he knew that one line of Shakespeare was from his high school English class, but instead his friends were trying to offer him some “culture.”  Of course his understanding was his friend’s girlfriend was making him come, and he got thrown under the bus in the commotion. The sun had been set for a few minutes and they dimmed the artificial lights, and the players took the stage.  Everyone, including us, sat in silence watching the darkening evening intensify the scenes on stage.  As Elvira made her entrance through the audience draped from head to toe in a beautiful purple Grecian style dress, the crowd awed and Mother Nature helped out just enough with a cool summer breeze in her passing.  My friend leaned in and asked, “Do you think they planned that?” and I responded with, “They are very crafty on this mountain.”  We gave a small chuckle and went back to our entertainment.

                The play continued with laughter over how dramatic Ruth was over Elvira’s presence, and how well Edith was being played- who knew you could make running funny?!?!  At various moments throughout the show we shared comments on the performances, and pointed out set pieces that we thought the other would miss. He smelled clean, no cologne or musky skin from the summer, but fresh from the shower.  As the play came to an end and Elvira and Ruth were left to haunt the house alone the crowd stood in a thunderous ovation.  I realized how perfect the evening had been, and how the house lights could change all that.  The flood lights came on, but they were soft and just enough light to find your way out.  He asked if I would leave the way I came, but I felt everyone had been entertained enough for one evening.  As we exited the row he chatted with his friends and thanked them for dragging him along.  They asked me general conversation about where I was from yada yada yada, and my partner in escapades filled them in on my solo journey across the country.  I thanked him for his knightly valor and chivalrous behavior of helping me into my seat.  He responding in kind, “My pleasure, thanks for the opportunity to help a pretty girl this evening and taking the strain from my third wheel status.”  Everyone knows the look that I caught in his eyes, it is the look of interest, intrigue, and a general curiosity.  I’m sure mine were a reflection of that same gaze.  His friends had mentioned heading somewhere specific after the show, but I of course didn’t recognize the name and didn’t offer a comment since I hadn’t really been and invitation.    Before anyone could say anything else, I said my “nice to meet you and thanks again” and started walking from the trio.  My feet hit the pebble and sawdust path that was lined with pine colored sticks supporting white patio party lights down either side and I heard in a familiar voice, “She’s off for another grand adventure and to break more hearts.”  I turned my head and smiled just in time to see the same wide smile returned with a full palmed goodbye, I turned forward and I was back on my path.  This time the path in front of me down the wooded hill was well traveled, but it ended in a grass field where I would find the Camaro parked waiting to take me wherever it was next that I wished to go.  As I fired the engine I smiled in my lonesome because without any planning or prying from me life had given me the perfect evening of intrigue.  I could have stayed and chatted, I could have given him my number, I could have followed and joined them for drinks…and the night could have been even better than it already had been, or it could have soured the entire event.  I’m not greedy, I’ll take my little moments and smile at what they could have been, but be truly happy for what they were.   

Narcoleptic Tendencies

                It is common knowledge among my friends that I am a tiny bit narcoleptic. This isn’t to say that I will be walking down the street, and be in full out REM mid stride, but rather I may start a sentence and you will have to wait until I wake up to hear the end of it.  This comes from the fact that I live my life balls out.  I work hard, I play hard, and I usually jam pack my schedule with so much stuff to get done that high doses of crack or meth couldn’t give me enough energy to get it all accomplished.  Maybe it isn’t narcolepsy so much as just sheer exhaustion-whatever you want to call it I go quite often until I drop.  I fall asleep working so often that I have become accustomed to deleting full pages of one continuous letter from documents.  Three pages of the letter "a" looks completely unprofessional.  This brings up a few interesting “side effects” to life.  The first is that I won’t go to sleep around people that I don’t trust.  That is just foolishness.  How people sleep on planes when they travel alone is beyond my comprehension.  We will cover that later.  The second is that I don’t realize I am falling asleep or what has gone on around me until someone tells me after I have woken up.  That isn’t the most comfortable feeling, and why I place a large emphasis on that first sleeping condition.  The third and last is that I LOVE to travel, which is why I mentioned the plane issues previously.  This post isn’t really about one incident in particular, but rather a collection of moments standing on that corner of life making memories.

                I was in college, I was studying for a career in the medical field and carrying 21 hours of class,  I had 12 clinic hours a week, I worked part-time ranging 24-32 hours a week, and I usually keep a pretty full social calendar.  My entire life I have been living this way, but it was at this time that my friends decided I had narcoleptic tendencies.  I had been in clinic that morning, class in the afternoon, worked after school, and needed to study for a big test the next day.  The guy I was dating at the time had asked me to come over to his mother’s house that evening to hang out after I had gotten off of work- which I did.  I took my books and was fully prepared to be extra studious.  His mother gave me something to eat and brewed me a pot of coffee because she knew I was tired, but that I had to study…which was incredibly thoughtful of her.  We sat in the office, she was watching TV, he was on the computer, and I had nested myself on the end of the couch with my books and paper preparing for a full on study session.  We chatted here and there as I drank my coffee, and I quoted things I was studying about the human body.  It was shaping up to be a productive evening, and they were both night owls, so I knew I wasn’t keeping them awake.  Here is where it gets tricky.  I am not naturally a night owl type of person, but I believe at this time I had been up for close to two days…which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence.  I didn’t even feel it coming, but as I was told later, I began talking about something interesting I had read and was setting my coffee cup on the bookcase beside me, and in mid-sentence as soon as the cup was resting on the shelf I was out.  I have no recollection of the event, only to be woken up later by the guy to tell me to go to bed and everyone giggling that I didn’t last past one cup of coffee.  At that point, they decided I had some type of issue.

                Fast forward a few months, or maybe even a year.  Same guy, but my duration of wakedom (yeah, I made it up, get over it) was right around 72 hours.  We had dinner with friends and he was staying with me that night, but he forgot something at his office.  He was driving home after dinner, but we had to stop on the way home and he was just going to run in and grab whatever it was while I waited in the car.  The next thing I know is that he is getting back in the car, and it is close to 35 minutes later and he said, “I can’t believe that just happened, and I hope it didn’t scare you.”  Let us pause right here for a moment.  I had just caught a “cat nap” after being continuously awake for 3 days.  Please understand I was not firing on all cylinders as soon as I was awakened.  It took a couple minutes to sink in of where I was, who was talking to me, and then actually processing everything that just happened.  When I put it all together I had been alone and asleep in a convertible next to train tracks in a otherwise sketchy part of town, and now this guy is telling me that he hopes I wasn’t scared.  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!?!?!?! (WTF for all non-phonetic alphabet speakers) Why should have I been scared, and if there was something to be scared of, why are you just now, 35 minutes later checking on me!?!?!?!?  This really drives home the entire issue I have about falling asleep around people that I don’t trust- or apparently alone.  To get the full picture we parked directly across from the front door of the office, which is precisely a two lane street width from the front door, and based of the information I received, I was asleep in the time it took him to walk from the car to the front door and open it.  As the story was relayed to me (insert Mission Impossible theme music in your head now as you continue reading) this guy goes into his office…which is a security and fire alarm installation office, so you know they have some of their own product installed.  He puts his key in the front door and hears the beeping on the security system.  He now has 30 seconds to type in the code on the key pad…which is a 4 digit code…dun dun dun.  Only he can’t remember it.  I mentioned this was a security installation facility right? Sirens and horns of all sorts are blaring everywhere; the security company is calling him on the phone, it is auto dialing the police, and I am snoozin’ away a street width from the entire apocalyptic nightmare.  He is telling the security people the code he has entered, but apparently he was giving them a 5 digit number instead of the 4 digit number.  A few days previously, without his knowledge, the building had actually been broken into, so the police suspect the same type of thing going on.  I can’t remember if the police actually showed up with sirens and lights, I want to say yes, but I wasn’t a witness to it all, but I do vaguely remember some sort of police interaction as it was told to me.  I think they tried to call, but he was on the phone with the security people and they couldn’t get through, and the police station is just a few blocks from the office, so logically I believe they would showed up.  The security company gets the sirens quiet, and he gets whatever he had left (after his mess it should have been the freakin’ holy grail he was after, but I think it was pasta salad from a holiday party), handles the police, and he comes back to the car, and I wake up when he opens the door.  After he realizes that I was asleep- he is astounded that I slept through the entire thing and begins to laugh his ass off.  As he proceeds to tell me how James Bond he is not, I immediately put a note in my head that I once again I must really watch where I fall asleep.

                Since you fully understand the depth of which I can sleep when I take one of these “spells”, you can see why I don’t like falling asleep around people I don’t trust.  In fact, the first time I spend the night with someone new…take that for what you will…I always make sure they fall asleep first.  Not just asleep, but a good hard sound sleep.  I actually prefer that there was alcohol involved in the evening so that I know I am not going to get axe murdered in my sleep.  You may laugh, but I had a run in with an axe murdering cat one time…that is another post to come later.  This becomes really a hindrance in my life because I travel so often.  Previously I talked about my trip to Vegas for my 30^th birthday (which rocked in all forms and fashions!!).  We spent 5 days in Vegas, if you have ever been to Vegas, then you know we slept for maybe an entire 8 hours over the course of those 5 days.  We were catching the red-eye back on Sunday night, and I went on call for the hospital on Monday morning at 8am.  Yeah- I know- genius move on the planning.  We are flying back 5 hours in the dark, post rock style life, and I have a necessity to have rest because I will be responsible for a whole lot of shit in roughly 9 hours.  So I HAVE to sleep on the plane.  To fight this fear of, hell I don’t really know what it is, Mindalou sat in the aisle seat, and was nice enough to let me go to sleep first on the plane so I felt “protected.”  Really???  Like I didn’t know as soon as I was out she was passing out too, but in some kind of Freudian mind trick it worked and was able to sleep on the plane.  We had a layover in Atlanta for an hour, and once again I caught a little snooze because she waited until I was out before she went to sleep.  That is right, I actually slept in a public airport and I survived.  Upon waking, all I could think was that was the damn dumbest shit I had ever done.  There was a guy in a business suit staring at me while he was scarfing down a Cinnabon.  Creepy!  He probably carried an axe in his briefcase…and somehow he snuck it through security, in my mind that is what he used to slice his Cinnabon.  He may have been staring because I was still covered in glitter, my make-up from the night we had left to catch the plane was smeared across my face, and I was wearing 4 inch heels, dress, and wrapped in a pea coat sleeping in the airport, but in my mind he was contriving ways to chop me into bits in one of the many public restrooms.  I might have trust issues, but you can damn sure count on me never getting chopped into little bits!

                Since most of these instances I have discovered my own form of Holy Water, it is called 5 Hour Energy.  I love that stuff!!!  I can’t do high caffeine drinks that mix berries and jet fuel or whatever it is, but 5 Hour Energy has become a staple in my pantry.  If you mix it up with a Mountain Dew in there every few hours, and find somewhere safe to take a 20 minute power nap, you can go for days!!  I recently pulled 47 hours on 2 of the 5 Hour Energies, 1 Mountain Dew, and a 20 minute power nap at my house, with the security system on, Louisville slugger by my bed, and a phone in my hand!  I don’t take any chances even when I’m by myself.

A Smurfing We Will Go

Introspection can be a beautiful thing.  That is for the people around the person actually conducting the dive into their psyche.  To watch someone become completely lost in themselves is highly entertaining, and yes sometimes painful.  However, when you personally go roaming around in your dark and buried conscious it can be incredibly scary.  Stanley Kubrick would have taken one look at some of those places within my mind and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”  While there is something to be said for besting the master, he isn’t exactly the guru I am pleased with knocking off of the mountain.  My mind never stops.  Do you know what I am saying?  I’m referring to those moments when you become so enraptured by the near psychotic crap going on in your head, that hours later you find the milk in the cupboard and the peanut butter in the fridge.  At the time that misplacement occurred you were planning your reaction to nuclear holocaust-  How you would survive when nothing else could even breathe the air.  Okay maybe that one was just me, but you get the idea.

The bad thing about it is I don’t have the good sense to keep strange thought patterns to myself.  No, I share those with the people closest to me.  Somewhere in that moment of losing all good sense of the everyday I realize I need a reality check.   Here is where I pick up the phone and call someone I know won’t judge me, or if they do, at least not do it to my face, and will snap me back into the important things of life like remembering to put paper towels on my grocery list for the next day.  The problem lies in the choice of human barometer.  I choose my friends based on their open minds, nonjudgmental personalities, and their creativity.  These traits don’t always lend themselves to “good stable hold on reality.”  More often than not, they join in on the conversation and philosophies that would make Plato roll over in his grave.

A couple of years ago, after a Jerry Springer style break-up from a long term relationship, I quite frankly lost my mind.  It happens to everyone at some point, and my number was up.  It was the most embarrassing thing of my life, not the break-up, but becoming the human who seemed as though their brain was made of oatmeal.  How people survived that and still remained my friends I will never know.  In those moments when life decisions are made for you, and you just have to accept what happens, I become the most stubborn person in the world.  In an effort to logically explain emotion ( I know the retardedness of that statement overwhelms me as well ) I wiped the slate clean and questioned everything from religion to what was my favorite breakfast cereal.  People often turn to God when they feel helpless, which I always (and still do in some respects) found absolutely ridiculous.  To me it is like praying for a win in a sporting event- God has better things to do.  The worst part was I spent years searching for my religion, and was quite comfortable with my research.   It was in the aftermath of my life changing that I realized I had never really applied it to my life.   Somewhere in the midst of trying to figure out if I believed in destiny (I told you…oatmeal) or personal creation, I decided that the Smurfs were pretty well balanced.  This is where we add raisins to my hot cereal cerebral activity.

Regardless, Smurf walked around completely unselfconscious because they just wore pants with shoes already built in, and a hat.  They each had a purpose and knew what it was.  Spending your day in little mushroom houses seemed pretty cool.   Their life was filled with “smurfing this” or “smurfing that.”  Picking Smurfberries and singing seemed to take up the remainder of their time.  The only negative parts of life were running from Gargomel and Azreal.  Their nemeses were real.  However, none of them ever were actually eaten.  The question came to my mind, “Did the Smurfs have a god?”  It was quickly followed by, “Why would they need one?”  All of their basic questions of purpose were fulfilled by their names, and they had a living guru. So, was Papa Smurf kind of like their bodhisattva? I had confused myself in the religious undertones that I had completely made up about the Smurfs.  This whole line of thought was somehow to clear my mind.  Instead I was getting buried deeper in the webs of magic mushroom houses, the “why was there only one girl?” question, and did Gargomel and Azreal ever get anything to eat.  Poor nutrition would definitely explain the whole one tooth thing Gargomel had going on.  To clear the confusion and bring myself out of the Smurfberry haze I phoned a friend.  I was already displaying bad judgment because I had been in the dark hanging upside down off of my loveseat contemplating the aspect of Smurf heaven for creatures that never seemed to die.  I had concluded thus far that the fumes from the mushrooms kept them high all the time, and that is why they had a Baker Smurf.  I was sure that I couldn’t pull myself away from the “Tra la la la la la” and that my friend would ask what the hell was wrong with me and tell me to snap out of it.  Isn’t that what you would do for a friend in need?

Instead we had a forty minute conversation about how perhaps the Smurfs were communists, or some kind of cult and Papa Smurf had plans of making them drink purple Kool Aid in Jimmy Jones fashion.  Then a funny thing happened.  My friend asked me if I had ever snorted Tang.  For the first time in the entire evening I realized I was sane.  She went on to tell me how she had snorted Tang when she was young.  At which point I asked if she had to go to rehab, and if people knew she was using again because her nostrils were stained orange.  She called me a bitch, we laughed, and I was brought back to reality.  The next day when the fog had cleared, it came to me like an epiphany.  Too much introspection is a bad thing.  You end up lost in a world that you can’t escape, and can drag people down with you.  Granted mine was a cartoon world where little blue things were happy all the time, but still had I told my therapist at the time I’m sure he would have fitted me for a new white jacket with shiny buckles.  Beyond that, I concluded that Smurfs were a blue form of a squirrel and a godless community because they had no reason for guidance- they had it figured out when they got their name of what they were going to do in life.  The entire “there’s only one girl thing” still doesn’t make sense, but maybe that is the definition of insanity.  If you figure out why there was only one girl Smurf you might as well get ready to slice off an ear or something.

A Shopping We Will Go

Why was WalMart invented? Damn you Sam Walton!  That was cruel because he is dead, but seriously WalMart is the panicle of the detriment of our society.  There is a website illustrating the strange people you can see there that were once reserved for remote compounds and travelling circus attractions.  Have I mentioned previously I am not always politically correct?  The one stop convenience draws me in, and unbelievable depreciation of my IQ causes me to get in and get out like I am on some kind of undercover mission.  The entire time hoping no one sees me, my activity could not be traced, and I make it out alive.  I’m pretty sure training for the CIA includes a trip to WalMart undetected.  That being said I tend to avoid the place like the plague, or in a male’s case the CLAP.

If proper research is conducted I’m sure the first WalMart in existence was built on the corner of Trauma St. and Intrigue Blvd.  In fact the welcoming sign that is etched into the Statue of Liberty should be above the electronic sliding glass doors, or at least the first nine words.

"Give us your poor, your tired, your huddled masses”

Now, not that I think these words that I type are read by anyone of importance, I should say that it isn’t so much WalMart’s fault for the image I am about to paint.  This is strictly my opinion and should not be taken in to account for any decision you make in your life, or where you choose to shop.  I am under the impression that as an adult you can read and understand humor and opinions, then draw your own conclusions and make your own decisions.  With that let us look upon my scarred psyche from this weekend’s shopping experience.

The mission was to locate and obtain the following items from the enemy compound without being detected inside the perimeter within twenty minutes:  hairspray, milk, eggs, imitation crab, and fresh produce.  My first instinct that things were not going to go as planned was that I had forgotten a hat to help conceal my identity, although I am never far from a pair of sunglasses.  I braved the treacherous wild of the numbered aisles just the same.  Long sleeves are a must, so that you can cover the palms of your hands that are pushing the cart that some unsuspecting toddler has just chewed while their mother painstakingly shopped and talked on her cell phone the entire time.  I used to use the cell phone conversation as a distraction while completing such missions, but it became a hassle when the conversation caused me to miss parts of the necessary items on my list and I would have to return to the gates of Hell or go without the item.  Now, I have decided shopping in WalMart was more of a ninja progression through the store, and ninjas don’t use cell phones. My hands were covered by my sleeves, my standard cart with the one funky wheel was obtained, and I was off….still hatless, but the shades stay on until I have time to make sure I don’t recognize anyone in the produce area.  Plums, lettuce, celery, snap peas, green beans, radishes (don’t judge), and yams cost me about 5 minutes.   Imitation crab was twenty seconds, the milk and eggs were about forty counting travel time to the back forty acres of the compound, then I was headed to the “Health and Beauty” area.  Two minutes later I had my hairspray and was up front looking for a check out.  Now, this is where we get into trouble.  While I do not condone profiling it is essential when choosing the correct checkout line.  One of those do as I say, not as I do kind of things.

Your cashier should be a young girl who looks pissed off at the world.  You know the kind with heavy eyeliner and the permanent frown on her face.  She is as unenchanted with working there as you are about being there.  This promises she won’t make small talk about the items you are buying.  If you pick a peppy young girl, she will most likely be talking to the other cashiers and giggling a lot.  An older person will want to be friendly and polite, which is a nice gesture, but in this setting completely unnecessary.  Chatter can ruin a mission in a heartbeat.  I was a little over eight minutes in, and I wanted out fast.  As per their usual operational habits there weren’t nearly enough check outs open to accommodate the people trying to escape as there needed to be.  If you stay longer, you may purchase more.  It is all rigged.  If you take children, the longer you spend in the checkout, the more likely they are to want the gimmicky crap items placed so vicariously at their eye level, and we won’t even mention the candy.  To my dismay no young pissed off girls were working the lines, and the only express lanes were the self checkout lines, which I REFUSE to use.  If I wanted to work for WalMart I would fill out an application. I have gone through late at night to avoid the crowds to find the only thing open were the self checkouts.  It was at the moment in life I made my stand and left my full cart at the front of the store.  Now, if they wanted to offer a discount for me scanning and bagging my own items, then we might be in business, but they don’t so some stock person got to find out what a single girl would have purchased at 2am.

I avoided the lines with multiple carts, and found one that the cart was empty, all items on the conveyer belt and the girl was standing quietly at the checkout, so I got in that line.  This is where my mission hit EPIC fail.  A little extra ten seconds of some condemned profiling would have shown why this was a bad choice.  Here is the thing, all races have different customs.  I don’t care what color or ethnicity you are, there are things that have been handed down from generation to generation that you continue because it is a part of your heritage.  These are not bad things, they are just often different than other people’s customs.  For instance, in my family, “How the Hell are you?” is an acceptable form of “Hello.”  This would not fly in a Jewish or Catholic family.  The girl, who was about my age, was of Mexican descent.  In this culture the emphasis on family involvement is much greater than mine.  Had I looked closer, I would have seen what I am guessing was her aging father, her sister, and her son.  However, she was shopping for her entire family and “checked out” six times.  Yes, six times she gave the cashier money and received change.  And people think profiling is bad.  Now, I am not usually a nonjudgmental person. I have friends of all races and creeds, help the old and young alike any various situations, will discuss various religions, philosophies, and politics without holding someone’s opinion against their character.  However, my mission had failed, and I had time to watch the scene completely unfold.  This young woman was leaning on a 12 pack of Quilted Northern toilet tissues, eagerly watching the total keep displaying on the monitor.  I quickly realized she was questioning the purchase of the item based on price, and at some point she would have to make a choice if the TP stayed at WalMart or went home with her.  I was eager to find out what made the cut above the TP.  Mascara cleared, and then came the eye liner, it cleared…it was at that moment she handed the TP to the cashier to put back.  My mother would have beaten my ass for choosing makeup over a clean hiny! OMG! I was shocked, and here is why.  She was dressed in acceptable WalMart attire;  chucks with no socks, leggings, a t-shirt that barely covered her rump, a hoodie, disheveled hair partly pulled up, and no make-up.  The lack of even a trace of make-up is what threw me that it was the eye paint that had pushed her over financial edge.  I just can’t even make the obvious jokes because it pains me so.  Feel free to add lib at your leisure at this part of the story.

This is why I think WalMart has contributed to the downfall of our society.  I have heard it said so many times before, “we are just going to WalMart” when responding to a question of someone’s attire.  Yes, it is WalMart, in public that is frequented by people who don’t want to see at your worst.  We, as the public, appreciate when people wash themselves, comb their hair, put on clean clothes, and brush their teeth.  Soap is incredibly inexpensive, and you don’t have to have designer clothes, but at least have clothes that aren’t covered in stains or so full of holes that the slightest wind could tear them to shreds.  No wonder Prozac is being delivered in vending machines, everyone feels like crap because the WalMart scene has lowered the standards so much that we don’t think we have to perform any actions before entering into a public establishment.  I walked in behind a guy one time that had obviously shit himself recently, but he thought it might be too much effort to change his pants.  Or maybe he was going to buy pants…I’m not sure.  I am a bleeding heart liberal in most cases, but in this one self respect area the bitch from within drags out the soapbox and screams to the top of her lungs, “Take a damn shower! Buy a bar of soap and go to the river, but please stop making it a traumatic event for people to buy their frozen vegetables!”

The Valley and The Dolls

Every instance of sheer genius is followed soon after by a moment of complete idiocy.  I believe this is by design to keep up humble, and always planted with our feet firmly in reality.  Perhaps I should say these are the moments that make up my life.  One moment I need to wear a helmet and lick a window, the next, “Why yes, I do believe I deserve the Noble Prize.”  Now, before everyone gets hot and bothered regarding the helmet wearing, window licking comment…let us remember I am not always politically correct.  Nor do I think any less of those with actual handicaps.  In fact, I am actually quite in awe of them.  In every moment of their lives they face adversity to “normal” situations and find a way of dealing with them.   I have all parts working most of the time, and end up often wanting to curl up in a ball and hide from the world.  That being said, everyone deals with something even if it isn’t obvious.  So get off my back, get on the short bus with me and the rest of my friends, and remember that your favorite color should always be clear with sparkles.

Now- where were we, oh yeah my moment of genius, how could I forget?  Wednesdays seem to be the day of the week most of these moments can be found, keeping that in mind most of my adventures happen on the weekend.  The entire employment option affords me the luxury of the life I enjoy, but limits the days of the week I can be spontaneous.  A few years ago my friend Jack and I set out on one such adventure.  Jack is a girl, and she is tougher than you, has more balls than most men I know, and definitely more determination than anyone I know.  She decided to join me for a visit at my parents’ home, and from there we would partake in some of the splendor that befalls the West Virginia Mountains.  Near the Virginia and West Virginia border is an area known as Canaan Valley.  Within the valley and surrounding area you will find areas that separate it from all other sites of the state.  Our adventure was to happen there.

Since it is my parents’ home it is safe to assume I had seen most of the natural occurrences in the area, but it had been a while.  We moved to that area when I was twelve, and before that we lived in the middle of the state, followed by several years in a real West Virginia holler.  It is true I am a cliché.  A coal miner’s daughter from up in the holler is where my roots can be found.  Those stories are for another time.  At the time of the quest Jack and I set out on I was around 19.  Between 12 and 19 the nature I sought was not of the woods, twigs, and berries variety.  Teenage girls have many more interesting things to investigate than mountain tops.  It is safe to say I was around 13 that last time I had been to Blackwater Falls.  Regardless I was 19 and knew everything so it didn’t matter that we weren’t quite sure what we were doing or where we going. I remembered there were signs, and eventually we would find our way. 

We had made it the drive to Seneca, and we wanted to tour both Smoke Hole and Seneca Caverns that day.  As well as take in Blackwater.  We got to the fork in the road, facing Seneca Rocks ( a very jagged rock formation separating WV and VA) and I knew Smoke Hole was to the left and Seneca Rocks to the right.  This was my genius moment of the day, I had remembered without having to stop and ask for directions.  We arrived at Smoke Hole Caverns, paid for our tour and started our journey with the folksy story provided by the tour guide.  Since it has been quite a while since I had been there, the caverns weren’t as impressive as they once were.  If fact, in the Upside Down Wishing Well, my bust had increased enough in size that two stalagmites were almost added to the wall on my way out.  To which Jack blurted out “Big Big, Big Big Titties!” in true Duce Bigalow fashion.  The laughing she caused was not making my case for escape from the Upside Down Wishing Well any easier.   The tone for the rest of the tour had been set, and the phallic shaped rocks provided much entertainment for young hormonal women.   After the tour we visited the gift shop where we found candies from our childhood like railroad sticks and crystal sugar suckers.  As young girls do, we squealed with excitement and made a quick purchase, then were off to Seneca Caverns.

These caverns are a straight through walk of about a mile.  Just like before, there were large dildo shaped rock projectiles and huge organ pipe shaped rocks on the walls. After the hike back to the gift shop we panned for gold.  We had had enough of the underground and headed for Blackwater Falls.  In all truth I had no idea how to get to Blackwater Falls.  Being  19 years old and knowing it all still, I was not dissuaded and much to the credit of the WV (which is really pronounced dub V for anyone living here ) tourist bureau they had placed signs.  So we found the very large waterfall in the middle of the forest without to many problems.  Here is where things start to get a little risky.  To get down to the falls there is a very nice wooden walkway with a blue million steps.  All along this very nice walkway there are signs that say “Do Not Leave the Walkway.”  Since there are a blue million of these steps we must have seen this post at least a dozen times.  Jack is a year older than me, and even though I was 19 and knew everything, she was 20 and knew everything plus one.  The final landing of walkway is close enough to the falls that you can feel the mist rising from the turbulent water.  That was not close enough for Jack, so she left the walkway.  We were both in college, so neither was illiterate.  In fact neither of us was really an adrenaline junkie, nor did we break the law.  Well, maybe the underage drinking one, but that doesn’t count when you are in college.  I stayed behind to capture on film her entire adventure from the walkway to the falls.  At this point I don’t even know if there was a plan once she got there, but she was over the railing and heading for the water.

A tricky thing about water is that it makes for the production of some type of scum or algae to grown on rock.  In turn it makes that covered surface slick, and the hillside on which Jack was making her decent is covered with rocks.  She went far enough to twist her ankle, and then stopped.  Now, here was Jack half way down the hill to the falls, and we were at the bottom of the blue million steps of the very nice walkway that she left.  There was no way I could get to her and carry her out.  She was going to have to tough it out.  Much to her credit (and lack of major injury) she did.  I told you, this girl is tough.   Rumor has it that she returned to Blackwater at a later date, but I never asked if she conquered her original goal.  She had just turned her ankle enough to cause some pain, and she walked it off like a good country girl would do.  Ascending the, what seems endless amount of steps in the woods took a little longer, but we made it and decided our day was not ready to end.  I asked if she wanted to see Dolly Sods.   Jack of course was up for it.

Although I had been to several parts of the area, I had never seen Dolly Sods.  I have now seen enough of Dolly Sods to know it is a little odd, and not on my top ten places to revisit.  As you drive up the mountain you can see how primitive the area truly is.  The wind is so fierce on the mountain that limbs only grown on one side of the trees.   Right above Bore’s Nest we decided to hike in the woods.  This would be my moment of idiocy.  It is around 4:00pm at this time.  Of course two girls not prepared for hiking whom have been drinking soda all day and munching on sun flower seeds really should set out for a hike into the woods at 4:00pm.  To our credit there was a sign that said Bear something Lookout, so we thought it couldn’t be too far into woods, and we wanted to see the entire hillside of trees with limbs only on one side.  There was a walking path, how bad could it be?

For a while the path was gravel covered and we made good time.  After the gravel ended the roots of the trees lining the path were coming up through the ground, and the occasional “Ouch” and “Dammit” could be heard from either of us.  After about  another30 minutes the path just ended.  We were not at a look out, and there were trees and very tall underbrush directly in front of us.  A group consultation was needed to determine was the next course of action should be.

Jack:  Where did the path go?

Me:  I don’t know, but you would think there would be a sign (I am guessing because the tourist bureau hadn’t let us down thus far)

Jack:  Can you see anything that looks like a path, or where a path has been?

Me:   No but we can’t be much further, we have come a pretty long way.  Maybe the lookout is just beyond the underbrush and they haven’t cleared it yet this year.

Jack:  Do you want to keep going?

Me:  Sure, we can just turn back if we don’t find it in a little while.

So we continued through the underbrush, like some pioneer women staking claim on a piece of ground with a great view of lopsided trees.   Neither of us said anything of importance for a while, there was a lot of bitching about briars and such.  We continued for another 30 minutes or so, but we had found no look out and no reforming of a path.   It was time for another consultation.

Jack:  What do you want to do?

Me:  I wanted to see this damn lookout, but it seems to be false advertising.  Do you think we started out the wrong path?

Jack:  I don’t know, it only looked like there was one path to take.  Do you want to head back?

Me:  (After looking back into woods and realizing with the tree cover it was starting to get pretty shaded) Yeah it is probably a good idea.

We turned around and headed back to the car.  Now, we entered an area with no path, and the idea was to just keep walking straight so that when we turned around we would just have to walk straight back to the car.  All of this sounded simple enough to the person who knew it all, and the person who knew it all plus one.  It was summer, it was hot, and it had been a long day.  We were smart enough to grab a bottle of water when leaving the car, and of course our treats from Smoke Hole Caverns were in our pockets.   It should have only taken us about 30 minutes to find the path again, but it was longer and the woods were getting darker.  Both of us were starting to get a little stressed, and I was exhausted.  Spending the summer working the desk of a hotel had not left me in the best condition to be hiking in the mountains of WV.  We stopped for a moment to try and get our bearings, and it hit us that we may not make it back to the actual path before nightfall.  We were hungry, as food had been our next stop after seeing Dolly Sods and we unwrapped our crystal sugar suckers.  I casually looked and Jack and said, “Don’t eat it all at once, it may be the last food we see for three days.”  Apparently in my mind there is a predetermined amount of time equaling three days that someone will have to endure if they do get lost in the wilderness.   Jack just laughed, and then put us back into motion on our journey.

We fought the underbrush, but mostly the darkness in the trees and about twenty minutes later found the actual man made path by the lovely tourist bureau.  This would be one of those times there is a big fuck you sent out into the ether.  At that point we picked up the pace.  This was not the best plan of action since it had gotten darker and the roots of the trees became invisible hands reaching up to grab your toes in stride.  One root in particular had gotten us both on the way in, and got us both again on the way out.  Jack was out pacing me by at least ten steps.  This girl walked everywhere she went in those days and walking with her was like trying to run an easy ten with Flo Jo.    I would laugh and say, “Just save yourself.”  To which she would reply, “You have the keys!”  We would laugh and giggle trying not to be scared.  In actuality at the time, I think each of us was worried about crossing paths with a bore or a bear, any animal at that point in the darkness would have freaked us out.  Chipmunks had become lethal!  Finally after about 40 more minutes we could see a break in the darkness.  The head of the path was in front of us, and a huge sigh of relief came from both of us.  Never in my life was I so excited to see my crappy little white Chevy Cavalier!  As we broke through the tree line it was like two different worlds.  Without the canopy overhead it was bright enough that we still have time to add more adventure to our day.  We got in the car and found something to drink as fast as we could.  Then laughter ensued at how scared we almost were, and how dramatic it had been to even think we may be stuck in the woods all night long.  It was close to 7:00pm and we needed off of the mountain.  More importantly I needed to find a phone to call my parents and let them know we were alive because we originally thought we would be home by 6:00pm.  No problem there was sure to be a pay phone in the town just near the bottom of the mountain.

We were safe in the car headed back to civilization and laughing the entire way down the road.  That is until we were on Backbone Mountain.  The road is a series of small straight stretches followed with “S” curves.  My little car didn’t enjoy going down the mountain.  As the brakes were getting hot their stopping ability seemed to become zero efficient.  It was okay in the straight stretches until they ended in a curve, so I would put my foot to the floor on the brake pedal and gear down.  I drove an automatic, and was pretty sure the transmission was going to come out before we made it to the bottom.  This seemed to be working until we got behind a dump truck of some kind.  In a straight stretch we went around him, and he was not happy and blew his horn to let us know.  Jack yelled, “Sorry buddy, no brakes!” although I am not sure he heard or cared at that point.  Somehow we made it down the mountain without going over the side or in the ditch, but we did use all the real estate that we could.

Once in town, and I use the word town loosely here, we found the one and only pay phone is Davis, or Thomas- frankly I don’t know which is which.  My Mama was not happy that we were not home, nor was she even the littlest bit impressed with our story of wilderness survival or the impending death we faced on Backbone.  Instead we were instructed to be home, and if we had been home at a better hour none of this would have happened!  “Yes Mom” is all I could utter.  Did she forget who she was talking to, I mean between the two of us WE knew everything times two plus one!  We had crystal sugar suckers , we were a force to be reckoned with!