More Thoughts on Writing

As I continue my efforts to think about writing rather than actually doing it (lame!) I bought a Writer's Digest issue from Border's. It did contain some helpful information about sticking to projects and addressing the obstacles that every writer meets when they practice their art. A big one, for example, is the fear of sucking. But guess what? It's okay to be bad! It's okay to be cliche-ridden and trite! That's what the delete key is for, right?

Right. So here we go, kids. Damn the torpedoes, I'm going forward!

Does my head hurt?

I can't tell if it's fatigue or an actual headache. All I know is I'm feeling a bit achey and grumpy, and I just want to go home, read the rest of my Sin City books in my bath robe and sip on vanilla tea.

Okay, I have to talk about this writing thing. I just sent a newsletter out for my cake company, and a friend of mine commented about my writing style and how there must be a market somewhere for my "wry sense of humor". But like any creative pursuit, I think it's hard to be heard. Mainly I'm trying to focus on just creating, but I also know I've been putting this writing thing on the backburner for a long time. Yes, it's a lot of work with little satisfaction as far as appreciation from outside parties (meaning strangers, not your friends who are being nice) but I don't think I try too hard with it. When I do, something usually nice comes of it, but for the most part I keep telling myself I don't have time.

And why do I not have time? Are there not 24 hours in the day? Let's see - 8 hours for sleep, 8 hours for work = 16 hours. That's another 8 hours for social life and personal life. Oh, and brushing my teeth. Is it really that hard to make time for a little writing?

I guess it's heartening to know that people like my writing. I do enjoy making someone laugh. I think my other crime is that I think too much about it - more than actually doing it. Then again, inspiration comes so rarely, but I definitely am aware of it when it arrives. Uually I think I'll get to it later, but by then the mood is gone.

Alright, now I'm just rambling. I think my final conclusion is to make space in my life for putting together stories, songs, observations, etc. I'm certainly not getting any younger. Write, finish something, send it out. From my research, it seems like there's an audience for everything, so what the hell, right?

Okay, now my head definitely hurts!

Where Have I Been?

Alright, time to get back into this blogging business.

I have a good excuse though (okay, not really). I suddenly had to start a new job at a rather large company, and it's taken me about about 3 weeks to get my head around the whole idea. First of all, I hadn't planned on joining the team that was being transplanted from my old company to this new one. The CFO convinced me that I should probably pursue a position, due to the fact that they were going to probably lay me off once the team moved.

Make sense?

Nah. I didn't think so. Actually, none of this makes sense to me. The marketingspeak, the timesheets, the TPS reports - it's like I was sent to camp in some different part of the world where it's assumed I know the language. Honestly, I never knew what homesickness felt like until I got here. But the longing I felt wasn't for family, but for the friends I had at my former employment - people I'd worked with for years and had grown accustomed to seeing every day. They understood my jokes and they loved me, and I never doubted that they respected me as well.

Not to say they don't do that here. Everyone has been extremely nice and helpful. It's just that feeling of having to prove myself again, I think. I had an empire, and now I have a desk with a wall in front of it. Now they want me to go out to Boston for some Power Point training, and to meet the marketing team I'll be supporting. Yup. I'm climbin' the corporate ladder, alrighty.

My strategy remains the same: just be nice to people, and help where I can. I've believed for a long time now that it's more important to place more value on relationships and experiences than on becoming rich or influential. Is that so wrong?

Is it?

Here Goes Nuthin'

So my cake company website is up. Hooray for me!

I figure despite the current dark cloud over my head, I'm going to move forward with the things I've gotten myself into and not wallow in self-pity. Nope. Not at my age. Besides, I know the mood I'm in is mostly due to hormones, and what is there really about my life that is just cause for sadness? Just one of my turns coming on. A little saturation with Pink Floyd and I'll be good as new.

Anyway, got some nice feedback and congratulations on the site and the business, so I'm looking forward to seeing if orders start increasing. Hey, it's something to do. I always need the distraction, anyway.

Here's to Sugar's!

Mercury Blood

This is a memory of my first boyfriend:

8th grade is pretty much the entranceway to all things hormonaly exciting and confusing. Wouldn't you say? I mean, you're still awkward, either still wearing glasses or just beginning to really explore your identity. There's probably a few years yet until things normalize as much as they're going to (until one hits further uncertainties in their 20's, which is another matter altogether). You're experiencing things for the first time. Not huge things yet, but some pretty major things in the universe of an 8th grader.

My 8th grade English course was called SAGE (not sure what exactly it stood for - maybe Student Association for Good English? Smart-Ass Gang of Encryptors?) but we were told it was a special class for gifted English students. I think basically we could all read and write above the average student at our high school, which was astoundingly populated by people who couldn't put a paragraph together even if their pack of Marlboro Lights depended on it. But there we were, all exceptional in our own way, and I observed the social dynamics of the room on a daily basis.

One person caught my fancy. And I don't know how exactly it happened, but we hooked up.

We had some things in common. He was an oddball, an alien amongst humankind it seemed. I would later write a poem about him called "Mercury Blood", my reflections on his personality. As for myself, I was nerdy in my own way. We were both into music, playing guitar, Beatles and rock and roll. However, I don't think he was quite ready for what I was ready to explore, seeing as boys are generally behind girls in certain matters. Despite that, we were together for a whole three months. We mostly rode our bikes to a local park where we could be alone, and mostly I let him do the talking. He was so much smarter than me - I was enthralled by his intelligence. I also recall exposing some personal areas of my life to him, as if he could help me or offer some kind of advice, but being just a somewhat egotistical 14-year-old punk, I don't believe he was really listening as much as he was waiting to tell me about himself again. There wasn't much else for us to do, seeing as I was forbidden to go to the movies with him by my parents. Apparently, I was too young to do such things. Perhaps they were afraid he would lead me to new vices, like holding hands or something equally naughty.

Despite my parents vigilance, it was the first time I was held by a boy. Nothing too adventurous, but still new and breathtaking at the time. We would stand with our arms around each other, sometimes quite tightly. I would breathe in the musky sweat smell of his boyness, the smell of sun on skin. Moments, years, eons would pass. We wouldn't talk. I didn't dare interrupt this precious time between us, so sweet and pure as the breeze that blew over our fevered skin. The nearness of him was nerve wracking. It was so novel to feel someone that close to me, and to know they wanted me close to them as well. It was bliss.

But again, I sensed he wanted more from me and just didn't know how to get it. I certainly didn't know how to tell him - I wasn't really that experienced myself at the time.
Pretty soon, there were petty disagreements and less phone calls. He actually got pretty cruel to me in the end, which I figured was his 8th grade way of saying he wasn't interested any more. So I moved on. But now that I'm older, I wonder if it's because I couldn't show him what he wanted to know. He eventually hooked up with a known trampy burn-out chick who probably had not hesitated to show him the delights he was curious about. Perhaps upon reflection 22 years later, I now realize the reasons behind his insensitive behavior towards me.

It did take me about 3 years to get over him. I felt like I should have had some enduring importance in his life being his first girlfriend, but he moved on and my mind still lingered on what could have been between us. Just your typical teenage melodrama, I suppose. But one moment sticks out in my mind. At the end of a particularly enjoyable day, we were about to part ways. We were both straddling our bikes, just about to pedal off to our homes when I was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion for him. Having never made sense of such feelings, I blurted out "I love you". He surprised me by saying, "I love you, too".

I'd never said that to anyone before. Someday I should ask him if he was as moved by that day as I was, though I fear he probably won't remember it. It was so long ago, after all. What does surprise me, however, is that we've managed to always not be too far away from each other. We've remained friends until our adult lives, and he ended up living in the same city. Presently he, his wife, two dogs and one cat live within walking distance from my house.

Perhaps I did make a lasting impression on him after all.

Don't Let's Start

The year so far is feeling quite odd. I think a pillow book list is in order. So:

Things That Make Me Forget I'm an Adult With Annoying Responsibilities
1. Reading ilustrated novels by Grant Morrison
2. Shawn of the Dead
3. Passing out after scarfing down pizza and spaghetti
4. Someone laughing at an obscure movie reference I make
5. Playing softball in a foot of snow with a bunch of people I just met

Hey, it's a start....

So back into writing again. I just sent the following personal essay to a writer friend of mine in Kalamazoo (who I used to work with - he was laid off just before Christmas). We thought we'd keep each other going and somewhat disciplined. Kinda like making each other go to aerobics class, I suppose. Anyway, here it is:

BEAUTY Salaysay 12/05/05
Another wintry Michigan morning, traffic slowing to a crawl as I drive closer to downtown. I’m on Woodward, the road that goes from ghetto to glamorous all in the span of 15 miles. Right now I’m in ghetto. Snow falls fat and lazy, big flakes taking their sweet time as they descend to the cracked, uneven side walks, covering abandoned cars with a white blanket of anonymity.
I sigh; the same sigh from the morning before, and the morning before that. I turn up my radio and the music becomes a soundtrack for the movie outside my car. Then, like a camera, I pan right and focus on a solitary figure walking my direction.
She is high-heel booted, tightly jeaned, hands shoved casually inside her denim jacket. But it’s the sweat jacket underneath that holds my attention - what’s in it is pretty much outside saying hello to winter and all of Woodward. Her zipper is pulled down to her belly button, and two ample, voluptuous chocolate globes are out enjoying the stroll. And they’re gorgeous. Positively mystifying, actually. Almost completely exposed, just enough to render you speechless as you watch the giddy snowflakes land onto their round mocha brown softness. Just about perfect, they defy gravity as they defy propriety, insolent and proud in their nakedness.
Wow, I thought. This should disgust me in some way, or shock me. But it didn’t, and the reason followed: This is beauty.
This beauty didn’t give a damn about who was looking at her and what people were thinking. Head held high, her closely cropped afro a shock of burnt orange, she conveyed contentment with her current place in the world. She was going to be who she truly was, at that moment and in that place. Such strength, I thought. So that’s what it’s about. I also found myself wondering . . . do I walk like that? How many women in Western society do, as we endure the constant assault of unrealistic images of physical perfection we are expected to emulate?
I kept looking at her generous figure while traffic crept. I thought there would be jeering and catcalls (or at least business inquiries), but there weren’t. It seemed we were all mesmerized, and perhaps as one mind agreed she didn’t deserve such treatment - only silent acknowledgement of her queenly demeanor. I watched until she passed out of my sight and continued on to my destination, wondering if I could ever carry myself in that way.
I recall this experience on days when I’m looking at myself in the mirror, wondering how much longer I have until it all falls apart without warning. Alas, at 36 I fear the worst is soon approaching, and I tend to have many of these moments. But it helps to remember that in one instance of clarity, I simplified that eternally confounding thing we call beauty: It’s there for me whenever I damned well want it to be. Walk like I got it, and everything else will follow.

Addicted to my To Do list

You know, it's like I start panicking when my to-do list isn't jam packed with a current list of small accomplishments to make. When I don't have three cakes to bake, two rehearsals, aerobics, office birthdays and a husband to feed, it feels like there's something wrong.

I lack the ability to relax, that's what I think. I'm great at working up a good ball of anxiety, but can't seem to enjoy serenity when it's offered. Strange. Perhaps something to work on in 2005?

The only thing that came to mind as an outrageous goal for the new year was to make a scene. By that I mean I intend to do something completely uncharacteristic of me and openly display my displeasure towards a deserving party. Should be great fun for anyone there to observe it. The trouble is, I'm so laid back about everything I don't think it would actually happen. That sort of behavior is for people with anger management issues or sociopathic tendencies. (Hmm..more goals for 2005? Oh, so many to choose from suddenly! Perhaps I do need to have more sociopathic tendencies.)

Okay, I think this entry reflects just how boring today is, though I know my life isn't. There'll be changes alright, and I should enjoy this calm before the coming storm. Bring it on!

Razzenfrazzen

I'm completely useless today. I'm so overwhelmed with restlessness and the need to find something new that I'm quite unable to focus on my work or find any importance to it. What I'd really like to do is be sitting somewhere with a decent laptop, writing a series of amusing anecdotes to be published in weekly papers or some such and being paid for it. That's my mood right now.

Just keep moving, I know. It pays the bills and I'm not the only one in the world unhappy with my job. Join the rest of modern society, right? I'm just a pawn today. A minor player in a game that will go on without me whether I'm participating or not.

Well, this entry is quite the downer, isn't it? I'm just ranting. Sometimes you just have to say what's on your mind to get it out of your system. Or maybe do the unspeakable and take a chance to change things. That's really what I need to do, I think.

Okay, now we're getting in the realm of private journal, and that's not what I wanted to cover in this blog, though I think my current frustration is something most people are able to relate to. But enough for now. I need to write something for this current publication out here called Strut, which is dedicated to women's aspirations and well-being. I know I got something they'd like somewhere in this crazed noggin of mine...

Lilac Wine

I was reminded of a small but moving event in my past this morning as I drove in to work. It was Lilac Wine by Nina Simone that triggered the memory, and it was simply this: I was at the home of a couple (now no longer together) visiting the woman, and we were going through a bottle of red wine and I suppose conversing and laughing about womanly things. It might have been winter or late fall - the best time for red wine, I think, and it seems that I had gotten there late afternoon. There was still light in the sky when I arrived, but as we talked the room kept getting darker as the sun fell lower on the horizon. For some reason we didn't bother with lights, but lit a large red candle and placed it in the middle of the dining room table.

Eventually, her man came home (who, incidentally, is my husband's best friend) and so it was the three of us around the table, the dancing candlelight illuminating our faces as the conversation turned to more racier topics. In the background, we had been listening to Nina Simone, which was more in the background until the moment Lilac Wine came on. The mournful opening piano chord instantly changed the mood, and three of us became quiet as the song began. It seemed wrong to speak during this beautiful, achingly sad piece, so we contented ourselves with picking the cooled red wax drippings off the side of the candle. We did this throughout the whole tune, and together we silently experienced every ebb and flow as Nina sang about the grief of longing. I was hugely drunk by then, and I recall it being a very intense feeling of contentedness amongst friends.

Since then, the couple have broken up and I've only seen the woman once since she moved out. We had lunch a while back, and though it was nice, I found that we really didn't have much to talk about. The man is currently suffering serious financial troubles and barely making a living as a musician. Whenever I cross his path it's difficult to get past his bleak outlook on life and reach the person I used to share booze and clever banter with. I no longer have anything in common with either of them, and that long-ago evening of red wine was probably the last beautiful moment I shared with them as a couple.

We all change and move apart like continents in the ocean. You can only hold on so long to a perfect moment until it drops like a pearl into dark waters, and all you're left with is the memory of its lustre and how lovely it was to look upon. I guess the lesson here is to hold on tight, lest the years loosen your grip and something precious is gone forever.

Zzzzz...

I am endlessly, incurably tired. Constantly. Sure, I have a quick jolt of energy after my first cup of caffeine, but that's about it. After that, my energy deteriorates like a Hershey bar left on the hot sidewalk of life. By 3:30 I'm just a shapeless, shiftless and thoroughly unmotivated glob of unfinished sentences, sputtering and struggling thoughts that would ultimately prefer to just lie down and nap rather than reach their full glory.

Such is my day. Nonetheless, I look at the above paragraph and realize there is hope for me yet. Hopefully when I find it I'll be alert enough to know it's there, and then I can go back to sleep happy.

Another opportunity

Well, I seem to be in demand for the moment. Got a call from a guitar player I work with regularly and he wanted to know if I'd be interested in an occasional paying gig with a vocalist he's currently playing for. I told him I didn't know how heavy my schedule would be with Slumber Party, but I would definitely be interested in hearing the material and being available for him when I could. He was cool with that, so maybe I'll be doing yet another thing this year.
Apparently she's this amazing singer, so I'm kind of intrigued. I'd also like to play with him outside of the venue we're usually in (Christian church in Troy) as he's one of my favorite guitarists that I've worked with. Funny as hell, too.

Meanwhile, work continues to be poopy. That's as much eloquence as I can muster to describe it. It helps to look at my car as a reminder that working is not such a bad idea if one wishes to drive and eat, and perhaps buy a new frock now and again.

And the sun is shining. Can't beat that. It's the simple things in the end, right?

Must We Rock?

I thought I'd write before work crap got all my attention, and also since my boss failed to call in from New York for our 9:30 office update. Gosh, that makes me feel so important when he does that. Eh, whatever.

Anyway, the gig. I thought it went well, despite the messy sound we were getting on stage. However, we all managed to hold it together and got through the set with hardly any errors (some endings weren't as tight as we would have liked) and I got through the songs that I felt I might have trouble with. All in all, I feel pretty satisfied with our performance, and know where improvements are needed.

I think I'm going to stick with this group for a while. I really like the people and the music is fun to play - I thought I would miss aggressive lead guitar playing, but I really don't. I actually find myself getting lost in our exquisite back-up vocals (made me forget the end of one tune) and it's enough that the drummer is super solid and manages a few interesting fills here and there, rather than the usual cock-swinging bravado I put up with. It's good music, pure and simple.

The only thing I guess I wasn't prepared for was the scene at Magic Stick. The other bands were, for the most part, unfriendly (or shy maybe) and people just got super stupid towards the end of the night. There were some drunk fools in the dressing room helping themselves to our snacks and beverages (which actually were for the headliners, I think) and one particularly useless human being who thought it would be cool to spray beer all over the room. Seeing as there were three of them and one of me, I went to try and get security or something, which I was told was pretty much non-existant. Oh, well. The band leader took care of it in the end, and I saw the guy later on the floor in front of the stairs, looking absolutely pathetic. I would have kicked him down the steps except for the fact we had to move equipment and we might have tripped over him.

I thought about it all the next day and decided that the rock scene never really changes; people just dress differently from generation to generation. Damn, I felt old and maybe just a little out of place, but hey - a gig is a gig, and I'll readjust. I do feel I should get a new journal to document this experience. I feel strongly that things will get interesting.

Just Rambling

Last night I skipped aerobics class to stay home and work on my cake business and practice music. It seems like I have way too much going on - but I think that makes me happy. It makes the times when things slow down much more precious and enjoyable.

Good thing I went over all the songs last night for Slumber Party, too. I had been so busy the last few days that I kinda fell off my practice schedule and suffered terribly during rehearsal Monday evening as I floundered through some sections. But that gave me the push to work again. The songs aren't that difficult, so there's no excuse to not know them by the middle of next week. We have a gig on the 20th, after all - I'd best be prepared!

Then I was reminded by the pile of lyrics and cassettes on the corner of my table that I need to work on my recording project as well, and finish some songs I've started. I know none of it is crucial to the turning of the world on its axis, but I promised myself this year I would keep writing and not let that part of my life wither away again. And with that thought in mind, it's hard not to think about the time I wasted in the last few years with negative things - but I think I can chalk all of it up as character-building and inspiration for a better life. No sense dwelling on the past, right?

So much to do!

John

You know, I honestly don't know that much about John. I met him in the last creative writing class I took, and at first I thought "Oh, just some retiree who wants to make the most of the time on his hands. How quaint." But as the weeks passed and we we were all sharing our writings and thoughts and critiques, it became very clear that John was not an ordinary man.

First of all, he's a Federal judge appointed during the Clinton administration. He still is a judge, and works downtown where I am welcome to visit him at any time. I think he's in his late 70's, has a very halting eloquence when he speaks, and has indicated during class discussions that he's had quite the wild history, particularly during the 1960's during the White Panther era. It's hard to imagine when you look at him. He just looks like someone's grandfather who's had a white collar job most of his career and enjoys playing with model trains in his old age. He's a large man, mostly white hair, and has an utterly charming humor about him. I always enjoyed talking to him, or just letting him speak about things he's done or witnessed.

I may have a chance to get to know John better in the next few months. I ran into the instructor for that class during aerobics, and she had told me they had started a writer's workshop at her house - totally informal and away from CCS. John comes and shares his fascinating memories and experiences from the 60's via his short stories and poems, not really ever concluding anything but capturing his audience nonetheless. She tells me she has been up to his cottage to stay with him and his wife, and she saw photos of when he was younger. Apparently, he was quite handsome in his day, so the hints of his being a rogue in his day aren't too far-fetched. I will probably start going to these workshops also, which will help discipline me with my writing again.

I think he still longs for those days of rampant wanton behavior. Perhaps he regrets settling down, or perhaps, like the rest of us, there was nothing to do but accept age as it came and embrace the other things life had to offer: his marriage, children, grandchildren, etc. Nothing lasts forever, but you can certainly be grateful life offers a variety of experiences at any age.

Sure...I say that now..

So here it is

Broken promises.  Oh, yes.  You say you'll never join an all female band ever again, and then one day you find yourself with an opportunity involving one, and you just say why the hell not.

I'm going to believe this is going to be different this time.  For one thing, it's so low-key that I'm not even sure I'm officially accepted, but I think it depends on me and if I keep coming back.  I plan on it - it's a very unusual project,  at least for me, and I think I can offer a lot to the sound.

I guess this means I'm about to enter the indie/garage rock world as well, which is where this project would fit into.  It's nice to just show up and learn songs right now, and just be a part of something that doesn't completely depend on you for decisions.  And I won't have to book anything, and I get to sing as well.  Should be interesting and fun and ultimately gratifying.  What the hell, I'll be playing, right?

But a side of me is still maintaining a cynical, jaded outlook and keeps waiting for a phone call saying they've decided to go with someone else who "fits" better or something like that, and I'll be off on my search again.  I suppose that's the realistic way of looking at things.  In the meantime, I'm going to learn the bass line for "Love Will Tear Us Apart" by Joy Division and come up with parts for the original songs.  None of them are particularly hard, but the arrangements are good so that's really all I'm looking for right now.   I'll just go ahead and learn stuff to get ahead (have to learn music for a paying gig also) which should keep me nice and distracted.

Another plus is that it appears I can relate to everyone in the band - they're all nice and nerd girls like me.  Hooray!  Nerd grrrls rule!  Well, time to go home.  Hope that satisfied everyone's curiosity that reads this blog.  :  )

'Til next time!

As I suspected

Yes, I knew I would falter with my mostly regular act of blogging. Well, no harm done - my afternoon freed up and I'm free to write a little.

Thought I'd have one more regular entry before going back into the character studies. There's been some recent developments in my musical pursuits, some of which are very exciting to me right now. First of all, it turns out my bass/percussionist project will probably not happen for medical reasons (or possibly just lack of real interest on the part of the percussionist). That's alright. One just keeps up the search.

So - on a whim, I jammed with my husband, whom I swore never to play with again, and for some reason it worked. Apparently enough time has passed that the usual obstacles between us didn't rear their heads, and we created something quite cool between us. It was nice playing with a good drummer again, that's for sure. We decided to work on a bass/drums thing which should be low-key, fun and not detrimental to our marriage. : )
The music will be completely up to me, so it should be interesting to see what I can come up with.

But now it's time to head home for the day, so I have to end my ramblings mid-stream. Next blog: Another Broken Promise. Suspenseful, is it not?

Character Sketch #2: Son of the Hippy Trinket Maker

Oh, you know those kids. The ones with the smart aleck replies and the wiser than their years look about them. This kid was different, though - instead of using his advanced intelligence to annoy his family and friends, he used his blossoming intellect for profit. He knew how to work the room of his dad's hippy gift shop with the finesse of a seasoned car salesman and I found him very interesting to observe.

"All of this jewelry is hand-made, you know," he mentioned casually as I touched the delicate hemp braiding of a choker that had caught my eye.

"Is it," I replied. "I wouldn't have guessed."

My hint of sarcasm was not lost to him, but he continued the conversation nonetheless and asked me if I was local or visiting. I answered his questions as I glanced over the other knick knacks, ignoring his comment that my top was interesting but the print was "too busy for him." Then he wandered over to another customer. I listened to him charm an older lady out of eight dollars and marvelled at his powers of retail know-how.


He had sun-dusted blonde hair which his parents probably cut when it got too long, and he definitely had the relaxed island attitude about him, though oddly paired with a street savvy appropriate for the Hawaiian lifestyle. I think he was about nine or ten, and he sported a worn satchel that crossed his chest and rested on his left hip. Very hippy chic. I could imagine him at a Grateful Dead concert, his parents dancing on the lawn while their kid fended for himself amongst the crowd. No doubt, he'd be just fine in that environment.

The most surprising thing about him was when I purchased the hemp choker I had been looking at, saying that I liked it for the pendant. It was a silver marijuana leaf, and he said he sold a lot of them. You know, California being so close and all.

"You like that pendant?" I remembered him saying.

"Yeah, I do," I replied, admiring the fine detail of the leaves.

"You want some?" he followed with quickly. I couldn't believe what I thought he was suggesting. I didn't know how to respond to a 9 year old kid asking me if I wanted to buy illegal substances from him.

"Um..." I faltered, trying to be non-chalant, "let me check if there is a definite interest. I'll get back with you."

He gave me a non-commital nod. I quickly made my purchase and walked back to the hotel to make my report.

"I don't know if he was really saying what I think he was saying," I told my husband. "Yet what else could he have meant? It was just so weird!"

"Well, go back there and get some!" His eyes were glowing with the promise of Maui Wowee, almost within his stoner grasp. "Just ask how much for a sample."

I looked at him with faint disgust. What once was an upstanding, fairly well-mannered professional man in his mid-40's was suddenly tranformed into some high school pothead, giddy with the anticipation of scoring some tasty herbage. I sighed, and told him I'd give it a shot though the thought of it made me extremely nervous.

He came with me when I returned to the shop the next day, and I made my move. I wanted to get this unpleasant business done as quickly as possible. I approached the boy, and after some awkward attempts at conversation I attempted to subtly hint that I was ready for a purchase.

"So. That pendant we were discussing yesterday."

He was quiet, and didn't seem to know what I was talking about. I tried again, with less finesse.

"How much would that pendant be? Say, if someone wanted a taste?"

Again, I was met with a blank look, and finally it dawned on him what I was getting at.

"I have no idea where you could find any of that!" He seemed genuinely disturbed by my inquiries. I was embarrassed myself, and announced that it seemed there had been a misunderstanding. He agreed, and abruptly stopped talking to me altogether and went to help yet another elderly woman whom he was probably going to wheedle some cash out of. Bewildered and not unduly horrified by what I had just attempted, I went to my husband who was sitting under a tree.

"We've had a misunderstanding," I explained with a shrug. Neither of us could figure out what just happened, and we theorized that perhaps my husband's presence nearby had freaked the kid out. Nonetheless, he was clearly disappointed, but I managed to make his pout disappear by purchasing a Mexican caramel coconut confection at the nearby farmer's market. It wasn't Maui Wowee, but it did the trick for the moment.

But I wonder about that boy and what will become of him. I thought he'll either be the greatest sales guy in the world or perhaps a character actor, or maybe just another incredibly strange person that one chances upon when vacationing far from home. Who knows what decisions he'll make as he grows up and realizes just how smart he is and how much he can do with that knowledge.

CS #1: Not a Delicate Flower Was She

The name of this woman eludes me, but I want to say it was Lily, or Rosa, some beautiful and delicate flower name that completely contradicted the true nature of her undelightful personality. I think I 'll call her Hortensia for now.

Hortensia was of Cuban descent - a robust woman built like a tank who carried herself like a general from Castro's elite army. At a glance, one could tell who truly ran the post production studio where she spent her days helping run the business owned by her son (whom I shall refer to as The Mama's Boy). She was a tough old lady, ripe with tradition and probably a little mad with power. I wouldn't be surprised if she knew how to operate a side arm - she certainly knew how to maneuver a can of hairspray. There was never a strand out of place and her bracelets hung on her thick wrists like bells on a cat, ever warning us of the clear and present danger she represented.

She was always there before me and the other girl who worked there arrived, ever vigilante of our arriving late. It would have given her another excuse to despise us. She would glide out of the back office, respectable shoes and off color nylons perfectly complimenting her rayon flowered office dress, glance at the clock and give us a "good morning" that was neither heartfelt or remotely friendly. More like "You have escaped my wrath for the moment, but the day is still young" sort of look. We would go hang our coats and pray for lunchtime to come quickly.

I knew she was unhappy person, though. On a very uncomfortable car ride to pick up lunch for some clients, she confessed to me her humble beginnings, her arranged marriage and the things she had to endure coming to America with a man she neither loved or admired. I listened with sympathy, and thought that perhaps after this bonding experience she might treat me differently and actually like me. This never happened. Shortly after, I discovered an ad in the paper in the employment section advertising my position, prompting me to quit with absolutely no notice. I knew it had been her decision, and regardless of my rapport with the clients and the various musicians I was on friendly terms with, The Mama's Boy didn't have the testicles to stand up to his mother, and so planned to let me go at some point.

And that was the last I saw of Hortensia. I know I should try and think of something good I saw in her, but it's truly difficult. Her misery was impenetrable, and she saturated the studio with her absolute need to control. But I suppose despite all of that, she wasn't a terrible person. As I said, she was just unhappy, and unhappiness can be a destructive thing in anyone's life.

Character Study Cometh

Last night I ran into my former creative writing instructor from last year quite unexpectedly. She showed up at my punk aerobics class, and we had a nice chat - she told me she still meets informally with one of the students from the class I was in, and I was welcome to workshop with them when I was ready. This got me thinking that I need to get back into writing again. I always did well in those classes, so I'm pretty confident I can return to that particular creative excercise.

So, to get things rolling, I thought I would do a series of character studies - basically a description or related story of people I have met that left a lasting impression on me in some way. The next entry will be the first of what I hope will be an engaging series of blog entries that I can also use as reference material in the future.

More to come!