F*** You, Rogers and Hammerstein!

When I told people I planned to spend Thanksgiving in Oklahoma, I generally received one of two single-word reactions. Either “Oklahoma?” expressed with a mixture of scorn and disbelief. Or my less-preferred response, namely, the person breaking out in a show tune, the title of which I don’t think it necessary to specify. Said song never failed to subsequently get stuck on repeat in my head. 

Besides spending a few days with Mom (always enjoyable and the whole point of the trip), I enthused myself about spending five days in a place to which I’d never had an inkling of desire to visit, by expecting it to at least be blogworthy. My experience in Oklahoma would prove to be so ass backwards, so different from either my upper Midwestern or island home, that it would make an amusing blog post. And in this regard, I’m sorry to say, I have few worthy anecdotes.

Perhaps my favorite observation was a useful reminder of the beauty of unfettered, childlike enthusiasm. On the short flight from Dallas to Tulsa, I was wholly entertained and touched by an endless conversation between three little kids sitting in the two rows ahead of me. These kids could not have been more excited to be flying to our destination. One little girl was especially vocal and surprisingly verbal for how young she looked.  She kept saying in a tiny squeak of a voice, “We’re going to Tulsa, Oklahoma! We’re going to Tulsa, Oklahoma!”

I told her mother that I’d never heard anyone so pumped about visiting Oklahoma. I must say that it pepped me up about the prospect of spending five days in a state I’d previously categorized as boring and stupid. (Which, I must admit is rather hypocritical of me, having always been supremely annoyed at this very same attitude towards Iowa.) When the flight landed, a pudgy-faced boy circa eight-years-old popped his head over the seat two rows in front of me to greet Lil Miss Chatty behind him.

“Hi!” he said, practically bursting with good cheer.

“Hi!” she said back. “You have a happy Thanksgiving, okay?”

“Thanks! I’m gonna have a happy Thanksgiving! You have a happy Thanksgiving too!” he responded with such a sincere and precious joyousness that I almost exploded from sheer delight. Interacting with children usually works for me as an effective form of psychological birth control, but these sweeties actually made me look forward to one day being a mother.

Kids have access to this vast reserve of enthusiasm from which adults seem to have lost touch. I remember the feeling. Well, it’s hard to conjure the exact sensation, but I know I've experienced it. As a child, looking so forward to the next day’s events that I could scarcely sleep. So rare is this feeling anymore, that when I catch a whisp of it...a glimmer of that pure excitement, I try to stay in that spot. Or follow it if it moves. It was, in part, this fleeting state of enthusiasm that I trailed to St. Thomas.

And I’ll tell ya this much, that feeling sure as hell ain’t gonna send my ass to Oklahoma. Don’t get me wrong, Tulsa seemed fine. While there, we managed to locate the only independent record store as well as a rare metaphysical/New Age shop: two Ashley-appreciated amenities. Tulsa really felt no different than the rural, middle-American cities of Des Moines and Omaha. And visiting was a good, if unnecessary, reminder of the types of places I never want to live. 

Another, perhaps more necessary, reminder came on Thanksgiving Day, which we spent at Mom’s man’s daughter’s house. She is a lovely woman about a year older than me. And she has a husband, a baby, and a very nice suburban home in one of those treeless neighborhoods where all the newly-built houses look exactly the same. In other words, she’s much further along in her life than I am.

But…BUT…this is what I walked away from a year and a half ago. A beautiful domesticated life. And being faced with what my future would have looked like if I’d stayed on that path, I’m glad I made the change. It was most definitely right for me. Since I wasn’t entirely sure about this when I visited the states six months ago, I appreciated the opportunity to confirm the wisdom of my actions.

More affirmations of being on the right path came during a tarot card reading. I like to get them every few months whenever I feel stuck or need some guidance. I’ve found readings to be exponentially more helpful than most therapy sessions I’ve attended (excluding the few I had with Julia before moving to STT). As soon as I walked in the room, Ms. Dreamkeeper told me I needed to deal with the paperwork I’d been procrastinating on. She was right. I’ve been putting off dealing with both the STT BMV and the MN DOT for weeks/months now. I needed that little kick in the ass.

We talked about many things, and I daresay, she was accurate on most. Tarot card readings usually work for me. I’ve taken friends with before, and they have later said, “That reading was shit,” which is disappointing since I usually find them so helpful. Perhaps because I go into them without skepticism. I’m always told that I’m easy to read for because I’m so open. I expect to be helped, and so I am. Usually far more than I’d be after months of expensive therapy.

In this particular tarot reading, the most affirming bit came when I asked if writing this book about St. Thomas is what I’m supposed to be focusing on right now. The next card she flipped over contained one item: a book.

Thank you, Universe, for the clear communication! 


P.S. My mom looks great! She has a chic, post-chemo hair-cut and is now rocking an auburn color instead of the blonde highlights that she wore for so long. She is mom to four very sweet Yorkshire Terriers. Because they are ridiculously small, I refer to them as The Vermin. She spends much of her time herding this vermin. Two members of the pack are 9-week old puppies, Slug and Izzie. I chose Slug as my bed partner. His preference was to sleep in the crook of my neck, which I found not at all unpleasant.

Excuses, Excuses. More Ramblings. Part Two.

July 1- 16. A vehicle to despise. After moving into the studio, I started focusing on preparing to sell the Jimmy my mom left when fleeing for stateside medical care upon the discovery of breast cancer.

(Side note: I only moved in with Mr. T in the first place because Mom had to leave. I couldn’t afford our rent and wasn’t yet comfortable enough on the island to get my own place. Mr. T generously opened his home to me— a half-built, bachelor-pad dream house. Anyway, had to get that out because I don’t take living with someone lightly.)

The annoying thing about the Jimmy (whose name is Laverne) is that she's a stick shift, and I can’t drive a stick. Or at least it’s been quite some time since I learned. And the island probably isn’t the best place for me to brush up on my manual driving skills, what with its steep switchbacks and narrow thoroughfares. So, the “helper”, whom I will henceforth refer to as Señor Espina, was going to help me sell it, and in doing so, he would drive it for his personal use, which per our verbal agreement was responsible and not excessive. This worked out well for me because he could go deal with the mechanics and report back. I just had to make decisions and shell out cash (of which I had more than usual due to working my little white ass off) for the repairs. I kept him in cigs, beer, and food (in order of importance) in return for his assistance. I don’t know who was using who, but it was a mutually beneficial arrangement during the short time it lasted.

July 17. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid. The partnership was, indeed, a brief one. Three weeks, tops. Long enough for me to realize that my affinity for a café con leché skin tone has ended badly for me on more than one occasion. And that I should never trust a drunk who’s not in recovery. And that I need to learn to drive a stick shift as well as a vibrator. Fuck being dependent on others for something so simple.

So anyway, I’ll try to spare you the excessively dramatic details of what happened to Laverne. I actually think it’s worthy of reality TV drama. Not quite Jerry Springer, but dangerously close.

Señor Espina crashed her before noon on a Sunday, on the opposite end of the island from where he lives. Did he call to let me know what had happened? Of course not. Instead, he called his crack-smoking ex-girlfriend who doesn’t even have a car (or a job) to aid him. She did this by hitching a ride with a couple of crack-smoking, jobless friends of hers who somehow manage to possess a vehicle. This proved to me once and for all that Sr. Espina is a “living and breathing fuck-up” (thank you to The Wrestler for this fitting term) incapable of making a good decision.

In a strange instance of luck, this turn of events so excited the girlfriend that she couldn’t help but to maniacally leave four voicemails to inform me that Señor Espina had crashed my car and that I’m a “stupid little girl” for trusting him in the first place. All the while I’m in a volunteer organizational meeting for 7-7. While I'm exceedingly annoyed that Ms. Crazy was called in the first place, if she hadn't been involved, Laverne may well have landed in the impound lot. Then I would have ended up paying the nice tow truck driver a lot more than $375 because the near incoherent Señor didn't think it necessary to involve me, the acting owner of the vehicle. 

Dey say she total.

So now I have a wrecked vehicle that I can’t myself drive to a body shop, and I get to figure out how to get rid of her. In the meantime, Sr. Espina promised to pay me back, and we discussed the possibility of working out a deal for him to buy Laverne. We arranged for him to give me the money he owes for the tow truck when he got paid on the 1st of August.

August 3. You’re kidding, right? He didn’t show. I called. Turns out, he lost his wallet the previous evening. How did Señor lose his wallet, you ask? Why, he fell down the stairs, of course. Oh yes, this makes sense. So many people lose their wallets filled with hundreds of dollars of cash owed to someone else when they fall down the stairs. Only if you’re drunk from a case of Presidente on a St. Thomas Sunday, I guess. How are you enjoying your downward spiral, Señor?

August 4-Present.  To sue or not to sue. I’m still deciding whether to take him to small claims court. Mom just wants me to sell Laverne as is to get rid of her. She's unwilling to put more money towards the problem and doesn’t think we’ll recover any money from Señor anyway since he seems to have a drunk and broke past. Now, I’m not litigious, aggressive, or vindictive, but I do feel I was taken for a ride. (After making my own, perhaps, bad decisions. At the time I thought I was getting things done to the best of my ability. Really I did.) I would rather put my spare time and energy toward creative endeavors than the people’s court. But once in awhile I get really pissed at the hard-earned money Mom and I have lost, as well as the fucking pain in the ass I have to deal with now. Opinions on what I should do, anyone?

Also, in the midst of all previously mentioned items (in list form for brevity's sake):

My year-old laptop died (for the 2nd time) and mysteriously started working again, albeit with a daily warning message about my disk being corrupted and the blue screen of death making a visit once a week or so. This shall be my last PC.

My iphone died twice (dropped it) and was fixed both times by local technicians, for which I am very grateful because, as previously hinted, I am addicted.

A nasty rash spread over my whole body, inducing a doctor’s visit. He diagnosed it as an allergic rash and gave me medication that got rid of it, but we couldn’t figure out what I might be allergic to. Luckily, it hasn’t returned. My boss says I'm allergic to island drama. Perhaps.

I have been working with 7-7 to help put on a black and white photography exhibit at the end of the month, and to launch a new and improved website, among other endeavors.

Hershey recovered from tick fever only to develop intestinal tapeworms that I was fortunate enough to discover in his poo. Another trip to the vet.

My landlord is referred to as “Slumlord Dave” by a drunk Chris-Farley-type customer at the Toad and Tart. And I am also asked if I know how many times he had sex on my bed when living in my apartment 14 years ago. No, sorry, I don’t. But it must have been frequent if you feel the need to inform me.

So, folks, this is why I haven’t had time to write. But after getting all this garbage out of my head, I think I’m ready to roll again.

Momentum achieved!

Thanks for listening.

Excuses, Excuses. A Rambling Post of Epic Proportions. In Two Parts.

Starting from a dead stop. It requires energy and motivation. A lot of energy and motivation. I know very well how difficult it is to overcome inertia. Physics was one of my least favorite subjects, but I do remember enough to know that this has something to do with Newton’s Three Laws of Motion, so it’s not like I’m imagining things.

I’m talking about my writing life here, folks.

Or I should say, what writing life? I moved to St. Thomas almost a year ago with the intention of writing more, to even create a writing lifestyle for myself. My current reality, however, is that I write as much as if not less than when I lived in Minnesota—ironic because I’m far more inspired by life in St. Thomas. My goal is to get to the point where a day without writing is as uncomfortable and rare as a day without eliminating waste.

I am growing stronger (hopefully wiser) and more peaceful. Life feels rich and blessed and mysterious. I have lots of ideas, but have lacked the creative space and focus to explore them. Other than my blog, which frequently goes on hiatus when life gets too busy, I haven’t actually been putting fingertips to keyboard. Unless we’re referring to texting on my iphone. That I have managed to spend a good amount of time doing.

Anyway, in the interest of bringing those who care up to speed on my St. Thomas adventure, and to present my excuses for not having blogged since mid-May, I’ve constructed a two-part timeline of my life since last posting a silly little piece on goats.

May 20-June 3. Visit Minnesota. I had the best intentions to write, but socializing with loved ones and preparing for Lissa and Michael’s beautiful wedding left no time for creative endeavors. More reflections on my first trip back to the motherland soon to come.

June 3-4. Return to St. Thomas. My (ex)boyfriend/landlord/roommate was (still is) obviously seeing someone else. Granted, we knew our relationship was over before I left and that I’d be looking for a new apartment. (As with most break-ups, I guarantee the reasons for this one vary widely, depending on the party you ask.) The thought of staying in his house with only one bed, one bath, no privacy, and a surplus of awkward, was pretty darn miserable to me. Mr. T was very careful to make it known that he was not kicking me out, however. And we mustn’t sully his nice guy image. It was my choice to leave, but really, why stay?

June 5-7. Move out. Luckily, I have very nice employers at R&J’s, and they were kind enough to let me and Hershey occupy their downstairs apartment until I found my own place. So I moved in over the course of a few days with all the spare energy I had outside of work. This would be move number four on the island. Move number six in the last 18 months.

June 10-20. Ain't no rest for the wicked. A few days after moving into my temporary pad, I started what for me was a near grueling work schedule. Both R&J were off island, and they entrusted me to oversee coffee shop operations during their absence. I didn’t mind this at all, in fact, I rather enjoyed the added responsibility and challenge. It did, however, require me to arrive downtown at 5:30am and I leave no earlier than 4pm for the next week or so. Now this in itself isn’t that bad, but Thursday through Sunday, I worked at the Toad and the Tart from 5pm-10:30pm. So I was tired. Hershey was lonely. When not working, I took care of the dog, drove, slept, showered, and ate. I didn't write.

June 10- present. More work and little play. I’ve continued working around 50 hr weeks. When I started at the Toad and Tart, I was only supposed to do two nights a week. But while in Minnesota, the other server quit. So, I’ve been obliged to work all four nights. Which has actually worked out because I’ve needed the money. There is an end in sight, however. A friend of our Grillmaster recently arrived on island. She has bartending experience and needs a job. Woo-hoo. Two nights a week at the pub will be perfect. More financial stability and more time to enjoy life on the island.

Now, if only the old Tart and St Thomas life don’t scare her away…

Too late. They already did. Since I started this blog post, she already informed me that she's leaving.

Guess I'll be at the T&T four nights a week for a little while longer...

June (in general). Responsibilities. During my stay at the R&J’s homestead, I used what little spare time and money I had to give both my car and my dog some overdue medical attention. My car received an oil change, two new tires, and new front brakes. Hershey got all his vaccinations, pills for tick fever and started back on Heartguard.

Don’t stop moving. I didn’t want to linger at R&J’s for longer than a month due to an independent nature and  feeling impatient to settle in my own place. I looked at a couple apartments and took the one that let me have Hershey. I’m not good at apartment searching, job searching, etc. I don’t like to spend time focusing on the search- especially when I’m really in need, which I realize doesn’t make any sense. I like to make a decision and move on. The problem with this attitude is that I often settle for the first thing I can live with instead of taking risks and holding out for something better.

With which head are you thinking? And perhaps unsurprisingly, part of the reason I was in such a hurry to get my own place is because the person helping with my car and promising to help with my mom’s vehicle was also helping my sad and neglected libido. This required both privacy and anonymity.

July 1. Large room with a view. So I rented this place with some really cute features like:

a vaulted ceiling with exposed rafters, and

a view of Magen's Bay.

But it also was dirty, termite-infested, the couch has a hole, and whoever painted seemed to get bored after one coat. But I could afford it, I liked the neighborhood, and the gregarious, off-island landlord let me keep Hershey. It’s hard to tell the difference between island funky and a dump. I would never live in an apartment like this in the states, but your standards change in St. Thomas. They become less American and more…I don’t know… third world tropical?

But I like to think of my new pad as bohemian.

To be continued...

Yay Technology.

Leaving my writing group was one of the biggest bummers about moving from Minnesota to St. Thomas. The four of us- Pock, Todd, Phil, and I- met in the fall of 2008 at the Loft Literary Center during a twelve week beginning memoir class. We ended up in a group together and enjoyed the experience so much that we decided to get together every few weeks to share writing. And it always ended up being a fun eating/drinking/conversation/therapy session too. Writing regularly and having a community with which to share and receive feedback has improved the quality of my life immensely during the past year.

Relationships in the group grew beyond merely sharing our writing. One of the group members graciously let me stay with him during the two month transition period between my old life and my new one. I cherish my time spent in his cozy brick duplex in South Minneapolis and will miss the many deep, meaningful, and sometimes downright goofy cigarette-smoking chats around the fireplace and on the front stoop with Neighbor Phil while collecting many an empty bottle of Blue Moon...

Anyway...

We decided that we would try and continue to meet after my move via Skype. On Wednesday night we had our premiere remote session. Since I get a strong enough 3G signal on my air card  in the bedroom, we intially drug the kitchen table in there and set up. But the signal wasn't strong enough to communicate very effectively. Our images pixelated and our voices warbled in and out. I experimented and found the signal much better on the porch outside the bedroom. So we pulled the table out there (thankfully October in St. Thomas brings lows in the upper 70's) and installed some portable, big boy construction lights so my comrades in Minneapolis could actually see me. And the reception was near perfect. After 30 minutes or so, it barely seemed like we were in separate places.

Notice dog's feet next to mine under table.

We read our pieces aloud, provided feedback, and caught up on personal lives during an almost three hour video Skype conversation. All with 2500 miles of land mass and ocean separating us. I love technology.

I always dreamed of a career in broadcasting...