favorites.

There were these two people that I happened to come upon. One was drinking coffee, and the other was making it.

Funny thing about life; we just never know. We can pray, fervently. We can hope, or expect the worst, but we just never know.

I had been gone for a short season and had returned to the same place a different person, sort of. Not different, as in not the same, but maybe just more.

So there was coffee, being drunk and made, and then there became friendship, and the sharing of lives.

There are some days, or some moments, when really, I think I know. It won't be this way, or that can't happen. I so easily forget the times things have. Happened, I mean.

So these two people, they are two of my favorites. Not in a color sort of way, like blue. Blue used to be my favorite. Now it's orange. They are my favorite in an unchanging sort of way, regardless of my favorite color.

One of my other favorites: the donut. The round fried pastries, sometimes filled and sometimes iced. They are delicious to me. These people I mentioned before invited me to share their delicious donuts this evening. When I got home, I painted my toe nails red, and thought of how I never expected these exceptional two to so fully invite me into their lives. I am reminded to be thankful for the not knowing.

hungry.

It has recently been brought to my attention that I might possibly, on some days in some temperatures, suffer from low self-esteem. If you fell out of your chair just then, dust yourself off, and sit right back down so you can finish reading this blog.

I also - this is going to blow your socks off too - think incessantly about things, until they have been thunk to their death, and driven deep into the ground to rest with those that have passed. By the time I am done thinking about them, even if the things I am thinking are shiny in the beginning, by the time they have made their cycle through my head, THE LUSTER IS GONE! Gone, I tell you. Gone.

So naturally, I have been thinking today about this notion that I mention was mentioned to me, the whole low self-esteem thing. Gross, right?

It's time to bring in another guest to the dinner table of low-self esteem and over thinking. The third course will be dancing. If you fell again, just get back into the chair. Unless you got out of it to dance. Then you can finish this post later, after you've finished dancing. Dancing is the dessert.

Anyway, back to wherever I was. The task in my life that seems to be the most gratifying as of late: dancing. I can be having the shittiest of shitty days, the kind I put down in the record book of my life. And then I will eat dinner, and maybe have an americano or a glass of wine. The day is still sucking at this point. Stick with me. After dinner I may take a nap, or read something online. This may be followed by conversation with friends. Day is still at a low point here, too. And then I will happen upon a place with a DJ, or in some cases, just a set of drums. And then, I will dance.

Sounds so cliche. I know. But think back to the dinner table. While I am dancing, low self-esteem is no where to be found. Nor is the over thinking course I documented earlier. At this point, when I finish the dancing and head back home, let's pretend I pass someone on their way to my car. This is a friendly person. They mean me no harm. They are your typical Oklahoma friendly, and so they smile and say something along the lines of, "how are you doing?" My answer, at this point, without any hesitation whatsoever, would be, "I am so fantastic! Thank you for asking!" Had he asked me a few hours sooner, he would have heard a different response. The dancing turns the horrible day upside down. I've almost no recollection that the day was even a bad one.

Let's wrap this up, shall we? Right. OK. So the most recent thought: Instead of purchasing a book out of the self-help section, instead of looking myself in the mirror and saying each morning, "I am good enough, I am smart enough, and doggone it, I am worth it", what if I tackle my low self-esteem with...dancing? Right. Seeing that typed there, now, I see that it sounds ridiculous. I think that's appropriate.

So new scenario. I am at work, where it's inappropriate to dance in front of customers. But, I'm feeling pretty down, and a cycle of unhealthy thoughts enters my head, such as "No one will ever be interested in me, I am a failure, I am a horrible driver and am incapable of taking responsibility for my life", etc. I step away for two seconds, go into the pink striped bathroom, and do a little dance to the music that's somewhere in my head. Then the music and the moves overshadow the negativity, overshadowing the low-self esteem. Before you know it, I may be healed by dancing.

It's just a thought.

new wardrobe.

I truly feel like I am growing out of this season of life. Literally, even physically. I feel like a child, whose toes have begun to just touch the tips of her shoes.... Inching toward thirty, it's like the reality that we grow older, and live with our choices, weighs much more heavily on me now than it did back when...when I wasn't inching toward thirty.

It was okay to piddle through things before. That shoe fit. But I don't feel like piddling anymore.

I gave my notice to the coffee shop a few weeks ago. That's the first part of my wardrobe that really started to feel like it shrank in the dryer. I faced the truth that it's not what I wanted to be doing, though I am thankful for the time I spent learning more about coffee, baking, and people and also, that I don't want to make my living from food, like I once suspected.

My current position fits for now; It's more like the act of taking the hem out of my pants. They are as long as they can be, still not quite long enough, thought they'll help me make it to the next pair. In my hemmed up pants, I will be serving delicious and expensive food, in hopes that the people I serve it to reward me for the attentiveness I give their dining experience.

And then, if it all goes as planned, I will hop on a plane in the summer. It is my hope that where I land, there will be much more room to grow.

for hire.

The following is what I do in my spare time, when it's the holiday's, and many of my friends have left town.

I highly recommend creating a fictitious resume. In those moments of boredom, make one of these, instead of privately stalking a practical stranger via facebook. The resume will have a more positive effect on your morale, and your inner creative spirit.

And though I sat down to do this as a joke to a friend, it was actually a fun writing exercise, which is why I decided to share it with you, dear readers.

Click on the image to be taken to it's readable size!

holiday bliss.

Hustle and bustle, Holiday rush, traffic and sales, red tag, hurry! Last minute gift ideas, we've sold out but we will have more in...check the back room, I thought it was on sale, I am sorry - it's the sweaters to the left that are on sale...sneaky sale price marking, clearly trying to fool your customers...red in the bank account...but enough gifts beneath the tree, no time left to rest...must begin the celebration, plan, pre-heat the oven, can I put the cookies in with the ham? Will they burn...ding dong, they're here...oh no! I'm not ready! The tree isn't decorated, and the ceramic elves have not been set out...here...give them some wine while they wait...careful! careful! Don't spill it! I just bought that white tablecloth! Hurry! Lift the plates! I must wash it right away! Just take the wine! I can't depend on anyone.

Last night my computer was not charging. I didn't like the prospect. I don't have many nice things. I don't spend much on toys. My computer is likely the nicest item I own, and may be worth more than my bumper car. When it's not working, I don't fall apart; I am unnerved. My work experience with Apple told me I needed an appointment, and the people I know working there now made me think that I could possibly get a little help on the sly, without an appointment, if I was kind enough. The latter was true.

I drove there at eight-forty-five in the evening, and I met a kind woman named Tammy. She located a kind fellow named Rob, and within ten or so minutes, I had a brand-new-from-the-box charger in my computer case, free of charge. My computer was on, charging, and I quickly went from unnerved to happy. While I was in the store, however, looking around, it was no longer my computer that was unnerving, but my accidental presence in the midst of all of the holiday madness.

I had worked in the midst of this madness, going against every grain of my being, for the past two holiday seasons; this had left me with so much disdain for this time of year. Being in "the holiday spirit" became a foreign concept to my retailed mind. And there I was, standing next to the couple thinking of purchasing macbook pros for their niece and nephew. The Mac specialist to my left asked them if they would rather go with the basic macbook option, as it was a little less expensive. Their response.."but isn't this one better?" "It's got more bells and whistles, yeah, but do they need more bells and whistles?" he responded. "Oh, they love the bells and whistles. Their six and eight."

Had I been holding my now working computer, I likely would have dropped it on the hard as hell concrete floor covering the apple store.

I realized it was all still happening...the excess, the rush and stress, the macbook pros being purchased for almost-toddlers.

This morning, however, when picking up my coffee, one of my favorite people in the world recounted the gift he made last night for his brother, and the help that one of his best friends offered him. He said it's the best Christmas present, in the world, for the year two-thousand-and-nine. I believe him.

It's my exit from the retail world, my homemade and undecorated Christmas tree, the gingerbread cookies we made and decorated on Saturday evening, and the homemade gifts being crafted as I type this, that have brought "the holiday spirit" back to my retail retired being.

continue stirring.

Sunday mornings are usually spent with my family, at the breakfast table eating pancakes and straining to listen to one of the stories that I have already heard my grandpa tell a dozen times. Though I have likely already heard it, I strain to listen because of the look on his face when he is recounting how funny it is. It's that genuine smile, or laugh, that I don't see as often, now that his body is failing him, and his memory; Since purpose is something he strains to find, I can at least strain to listen.

It's harder, though, when my grandma is talking, and he isn't aware, as his hearing has almost completely failed him. That's when he starts talking over her, and when she huffs, and when I scramble to figure out which grandparent to give my attention.

I haven't been able to follow through with this weekly ritual the past few weeks, as the new job I have beckons me on Sunday mornings. I know my grandparents miss my presence at the table, but I have to be away, to serve the well to do, the families that go out to eat their french toast, eggs benedict, omelets, etc. After work this past Sunday, in lieu of breakfast conversation, my mom and I had phone conversation instead. The subject of work came up, and money, and she questioned my hesitancy to take a job that would suck the life out of me. She didn't say it like that, but more like, "You and your brother are so against doing something you don't want to do, but sometimes I think that it would be worth it if you didn't have to worry so much about money". I think that may be exactly what she said.

So here I sit this morning, with $7.50 left on my person, until tomorrow, when I get paid. I am switching jobs because I have this hunch that I can make more money doing almost the exact same thing that I have been, only a little less work at a nicer place. But it's still not what I want to be doing. The decision to work where I am is not ripe with integrity. It's ripe with necessity. The answer I have formulated for my mother is this: I don't ever expect to love fully anything that I do. There will always be days that I don't want to go in to work, regardless of the occupation. Teachers love being teachers but hate grading papers. Business owners love running a business but hate calculating payroll, etc. It's the idealist in me that isn't pursuing a job I LOVE, as I can find things to enjoy about whatever job I have, but rather, a job that I can believe in. I just look forward to the day that begins with me, smiling, because the work that awaits me is worthwhile, and full of more meaning that making sure someone's water glass never goes below the half-full mark.

In the meantime, I will be here serving, and scrambling to figure out what it could be.

ginger and peppermint in my nostrils.

It a merry time of year. My neighbors have their trees and homes lit up. As of yesterday, it's officially cold, wintry weather. I actually drove over a patch of ice on my way to get coffee this morning. AND, the scent of ginger has begun to fill the air, as people scramble over one another on the candy isle in search of the perfect decorations for their made-from-scratch gingerbread houses!

Not.

I was just scrambling over myself on the candy isle, and it was my apartment (that's close in size to a gingerbread house), not the world's air, that smelled of ginger baking. Each time I sit down to complete the delightful task, I go back about a little scant of twenty years to elementary school, and the feeling I had when we stopped learning stuff and started craft time. I wasn't getting high on the glue, like my classmates. I was getting high on the experience. And the past few days, I have been getting high on peppermint lane.

Some of you may not have read my blog last year, so I will repost a picture of last year's gingerbread house creation, that took place in the kitchen and dining room of my dear friend Chris. This is a messy process, even when "I clean as I go", like my mom tells me. I was without a kitchen, so she let me make a mess of hers for a few days...that's her butt to the left of the gingerbread house beginnings.

I decided to veer away from multi-colored madness for this years creation, and instead go for a classy red and white theme like the candy-canes of my childhood. I made "the cottage on the corner of peppermint lane" for my grandmother. She is a professional volunteer, and one of her causes is the Domestic Abuse Shelter in Claremore. They have something called a "Festival of Trees" every year, and various people decorate and donate gingerbread houses, which are placed staggeringly atop a white table cloth, on display. Various other people walk around this festival thing, and bid on the confectionary creations.

supernova.

Walking down the sidewalk on a cement colored day, butterflies began to cluster in my stomach. I hadn't felt their flutter in quite some time, so their arrival caught me off guard. And then I welcomed them, and told the beautiful creatures to make themselves at home, because of what they were ushering in. A change.

I grabbed handle of the door I was about to open with a smile on my face, a twinge of nervousness, and then I jumped in. "This is where that goes and over here is where that is," they told me. "When you take this out sprinkle this on top, and when you're out of that go over there to get it"...

My station was a tiny square...a beverage square. Facing the ice and assorted sodas were the multi-colored bottles of alcohol; the coffee and it's silver king faced the door. Bodies were in and out, dancing around each other in efficiency and grace; no glasses were broken.

The previous night I had arrived at the venue for a show a few minutes early. The venue was a bar, people drinking, and talking, drinking more and talking louder. I was waiting for my friends to arrive on the hearth of the fireplace, out of sight from the rest of the crowd. I managed to blend in with the brick surface beneath me, and spend those few minutes of solitude observing the crowd dispersed outside of my personal space. I marveled at the fun time they all seemed to be having, and wondered how much of it was alcohol induced. I watched the tenders behind the bar do the same efficient graceful dance I mentioned above. I heard the fire cracking behind me, and I felt its warmth separating me from the cold that was separating me from the people...All to the words of Oasis,

Someday you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide
In a champagne supernova in the sky

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-cJauX_q6wI

This memorable moment solidified me as an outsider in this place, furthering the already looming desire to move, forward, elsewhere. Not because where I am is bad; but here, the want for doing the things I am doing has left me. What remains is a joyful outsider, eager to see what's outside, away from the crowd and the fireplace.

Standing in the beverage station the following day, today, were the sounds of the steam wand heating and foaming milk, the crash of metal to ice, filling up glasses, and then the words to the song that had filled my head the night before...I started to humm and then sing...

Someday you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide
In a champagne supernova in the sky

As the cork was being removed from the bubbly, and poured into a flute, joining the orange juice for a mimosa.

Cheers to change, however small it is. The small changes remind me just how much I enjoy the butterflies. Someday soon, you will find me somewhere else.

gift box.

I was thinking this morning about how easy it is to resent a season of life when I've tired of it, ignoring the fact that it's likely the specifics of my season that have helped shape me into the version of me that's so quick to be resentful. I began to reminisce, thinking back to the days of playing with dolls, and the day in particular when I decided I was probably too old to play with dolls anymore. I started to ignore the fun part...The imagination they helped cultivate or the fun they added while playing house with my cousin. I started to look at them from a different light, telling my friends I didn't play with dolls anymore, contemplating how to cut the ties. Eventually, I went all the way, putting them in a box and shoving it into the back of my closet. I threw the barbies in there with them, and I am pretty sure I just threw the card-board homemade baby-doll bed I had crafted strait into the trash can. And then, when I would go to the closet to get one of my more adult-like shirts from the closet that doubled as a doll graveyard, I would feel a twinge of guilt for tossing them so callously aside.

Dramatic, maybe. But it's the same kind of guilt I started to feel this morning when I felt that resentment toward the familiar lovely life I am living start to surface. It's the same life that was joyous not too long ago. Why am hating in it so quickly, and early, in the morning? Why am I rushing myself out of it before it's time for it to end?

So I dressed myself, with spunk, and climbed onto the bike I love to ride to the place I always go. I decided to put the resentment in the box instead, and chose Ingrid Michaelson on my miniature musical device to play a day dream kind of tune in my ears. My hands got cold, which made me a little happy; it's the kind of cold that wakes me up and makes me feel a little more alive, and ends before it gets too painful.

I opened my computer to read about black Friday, while watching the patrons in the coffee shop mill around to the sound of Ingrid, and I smiled at what I was watching...The young woman walking as if the isle is a cat walk and the little girls, not yet aware of why a woman would be walking that way, spilling hot chocolate on the table next to me. I smiled, also, at how quickly I forget to be thankful for the seasons that NEEDED to end, and have. I abhor the frenzy of Black Friday, and I think that I am also morally opposed to it. I have worked this lifeless holiday the past two years, at retail establishments, where the shoppers arrive really early in the morning to score a good deal! I read a columnist asking an economist to explain some of the appeal, and he likened it to a sporting event. It's not. Even. Near. The. Same. Category.

I will be spending this Friday with my family, resentment free, THANKFUL to not be on my feet helping people buy things.

through the smoke, wave goodbye.

It should come as no surprise to you, dear readers, that I have been somewhat disillusioned lately in my line of work.

I've been making coffee for nearly three years. Though my practice has increased in integrity since the days of automation and the three minute wait, the integrity amongst those filing in to partake remains sparse.

There is an excessive amount of care that goes into each bag of beans we pour into the grinder, whether it be for drip brew or espresso. EXCESSIVE. Their is so much knowledge out there to be absorbed about everything in life; coffee is no exception. The hope is that the more people know, the more they will appreciate. The catch: there is not enough time for the kind of knowledge whose sole motivation is appreciation. Caffeine is the drug, sugar too. So what's the request? Hazelnut syrup in my coffee, please.

There are those that truly appreciate. Adam comes in the mornings for espresso, and he sips it, savors it, from its ceramic home. He wouldn't dare ask for it to-go. A regular used to drink sugar-free hazelnut lattes. I would make them, and each time, post first sip, he would ask me to add more syrup. One day he asked for less syrup, I nearly dropped the sugar-free-sugar laden cup, and he has since made the switch to just plain lattes. He even has an occasional macchiato - a double shot of espresso "marked" by a skosh of steamed half and half.

But these customers are the exception, I explained to a friend earlier this week, leading me to believe that coffee is a thankless profession.

I received a call today from a local restaurant where I have applied to be a part-time server. Perhaps there will be more appreciation in a different service atmosphere, I thought to myself, prompting me to search for serving positions.

Who am I kidding? I have since decided that it's not coffee that is thankless, but the service industry in general. Its the product of a decision to make your living by serving people; there is no control in your sample. Uneducated, unappreciative, spoiled, lazy, rude, friendly, selfish, depressed. This is what you open yourself up to when you invite the public into your work day.

I smoked a cigarette a few weeks ago. That's right. I tried it. Not because I have any desire to become a smoker, ever. I don't understand why anyone would want to pick up the habit. I am not a fan of things that would inhibit my love for running, or squeeze every extra penny out of my already tiny stash, or increase my chances of dying a painful, lung murdering death. But I know a lot of people that smoke, on occasion, free from addiction, so the circumstances surrounding my first cigarette experience were not those highlighting the above cons. I didn't like it. The practice remains a mystery to me. It will now only be a story that I will tell, or remember to friends..."remember that time I smoked a cigarette...?"

And that's what I would like my time in the service industry to mirror. I would like it to, someday soon, be a story I will tell, or remember to friends..."remember that time that I made my living by serving people food and drink...?"

well said.

I have quoted a line of wisdom quite a few times this week. It came from someone that said it to someone else, that then said it to me.

It relates to what I have been musing lately on here about dissatisfaction and confusion, etc bla bla bla. These thoughts make for a foggy, cloudy, rainy greeting to any new day, as there's nothing, really, that can remedy the situation immediately. So I wake, think about the bleakness of my immediate reality, and then I sigh one of those loud attention attaining sighs. Catch: There's no one around when I sigh; I am sighing into the unknown, which makes me sigh once more.

So back to the quote, words that give me strength. She had returned from a life altering trip abroad, where she came in contact with the worlds unknown...Unicorns, wizzards, and gypsies, and tales of the fountain of youth. Not really, literally. That's just what her stories felt like to me, the receiver. After her travels, she went back home, to the job she had already left, and the city that knows her more thoroughly than most other places on the globe. She sat across from a friend, musing about the very things I have been musing about on here. Her friend looked at her with love and said something to the effect of this: "dear friend. There is nothing wrong with you being here now, in this place, with the people you know and love. But if you are here at this time next year, doing the same thing, I will kill you".

And that's what I have been telling myself, after she told it to me. "There's nothing wrong with you being there, Meredith, living in your little apartment, making coffee or serving food, and just enjoying your people. But if you are there, doing the same thing at this time next year, I will kill you".

cleansing.

I wish I was a bath person. Right now, when I have had a bizarrely painful day, and I am sitting on my couch all alone, a bath is seemingly just what I need. But I am more of a shower person.

I woke this morning, in the eeeeeeaaaaaarly hours, with a foreign feeling in my body: back pain. Ew.

I went back to sleep, thinking I could sleep it off.

I woke again, this time in the early hours, and the pain was still there.

Back pain has always been an old wives tale to me. I remember when I was little and people would complain of head aches or heart burn, and I was left utterly confused and equally skeptical. This is how I have continued to be with this thing - this incredible pain - all these adults around me complain about. I thought maybe a good portion of the paid resided in their minds, until this morning.

I attempted to work, to no avail, and ended up, at around eight-thirty this morning, lying on the part of my body that was producing the pain. I was there for nearly eight hours, and during that time, replaced all of my skepticism with sympathy.

While on the couch - surrounded by the dark of the day and staring at the ceiling - I thought a lot about what I wrote about in the last post - this ambitious life I sometimes think I want to lead. Then I thought about pain, took it further to chronic pain, and got stuck on the part that we have no control over. I didn't intentionally do something to my body to keep it from working. But it wasn't working. And when our bodies fail us, it becomes even more difficult to keep up with even basic things, like doing dishes or tying our shoe laces.

This makes the issue of taking care of myself about more than just myself.

Off to shower.

wallflower.

I am not a student.

I have been thinking a lot about school lately; I marvel at my friends and acquaintances that have attained multiple degrees - regular people with normal hobbies and senses of humor, who found the gumption and focus to complete law school, medical school, or have their doctorate in this or that or something or the other.

It's not that I was a bad student. I take that back. It's not that I made bad grades. I didn't. But I was a bad student. I had bad study habits. I rarely read for class. I crammed for tests. And I never actually understood why I was doing it all anyway.

I am thinking of this because I am back at that place again. You know? The one where you question every decision you are making, the biggest question being why you can't actually make much of a decision as all.

I watched Bobby on Sunday, my lazy day. Well, most of my days have an element of laziness to them. Sunday is just privileged enough to carry a designation. Back to Bobby.

As described by IMBD:

"Tuesday, June 4, 1968: the California presidential primary. As day breaks Robert Kennedy arrives at the Ambassador Hotel; he'll campaign, then speak to supporters at midnight. To capture the texture of the late 1960s, we see vignettes at the hotel: a couple marries so he can avoid Vietnam, kitchen staff discuss race and baseball, a man cheats on his wife, another is fired for racism, a retired hotel doorman plays chess in the lobby with an old friend, a campaign strategist's wife needs a pair of black shoes, two campaign staff trip on LSD, a lounge singer is on the downhill slide. Through it all, we see and hear RFK calling for a better society and a better nation."

I watch things like this, and I am reminded that the world consists of more than just myself; There is more to a good day than self fulfillment, and the hope that everything will go my way. I think of these things, and I know I should be doing more with the other six days of my week, the ones that carry no official designation.

I have talked about settling before. This is different than that. I think it's important for humanity to, in a sense, refrain from making life directing decisions based on social expectation. The answer to the question, "what do you do?" needs not an impressive, expensive or well-educated answer. Just an honest one.

And when I ask myself, "Meredith, what do you do?" I don't really like the honest answer that I give as a reply, not because of social expectation or a need to be impressive, but because I know I am capable to contributing more fully to the kind of world that the late senator hoped for.

When I get to these points of dissatisfaction that demand change, my mind lingers toward the school I talked about earlier...Furthering my education EVEN more. Though it makes sense on a few levels, the image I get in my head is me, in the form of a skinny and soaking wet cat, swimming forcefully upstream, going against my natural strengths - like jumping out of trees onto land - and instead, fighting a forceful current in a foreign environment.

Last night on the radio, while driving to pick up my pad thai that would likely make my day more ideal, I heard a seventeen year-old Texas girl talk about the two years she spent selling her body for money, between fifteen and the age she is now. I had to get out of the car to eat my food at the part of the story where she had to pull the razor from beneath her tongue to cut the man that had began to hit her. "I cut him and then ran out of the room," she said, as I turned off my car's engine, went into my well heated apartment, read articles online, and ate my dinner.

To quote the lyrics of the blue eyed Jacob Dylan:

I seen the sun comin' up at the funeral at dawn
The long broken arm of human law
Now it always seemed such a waste
She always had a pretty face
So I wondered how she hung around this place

Hey, come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than
In the middle

Something is just a little off when I think of the whole of my life, and how I occupy my time. The poor girl I talked about above...There are so many people, so many systems, so many life promises, failing her.

I had a customer the other day tell me that I am probably not giving myself enough credit, because it's a blessing for her to come down every morning from her hotel room in the five-star Mayo and see a friendly smile on my face. Woopty doo. I am offering a friendly smile to a group of somewhat wealthy attorneys, who are currently defending Tyson foods and the lawsuit against their chicken's waste that runs into Oklahoma's fresh water. I don't want to fool myself into thinking that this gives my life meaning. I gain no comfort from my friendly attitude offered to the privileged, with the image of the desperate girl in the back of my head, smoking pot and popping ecstasy tablets to get herself through her first night on the job.

Must find a way out of the comfortable middle.

godspeed.

I can't imagine anyone caring whether or not I type something and then post it on here. My thoughts and my life seem so inconsequential and monotonous to me. This is why I can take SUCH a sabbatical from here, and not be phased.

Lately, I have felt mostly like a dish girl, a sandwich maker, a table cleaner, a mediocre friend, a lazy daughter, nap taker, and a not-enough-money maker. This kind of permeating attitude, that seems to have come along with the barrenness of autumn's almost end, is not this kind of mindset that produces the motivation to write, for me, much of anything.

It is the kind of attitude that necessitates change, if a person doesn't want to remain in a disgusting rut for too long.

I am supposed to be looking for new opportunities today. The thought of that is stomach churning and vomit inducing, so I am writing about doing it, instead of doing it. I am also doodling, in my notebook, that's sitting to the left of my black macbook. It's pages are currently adorned with some really beautiful and interesting unnecessary flowers, thanks to my inability to take care of the necessary.

your neighborhood grocercoffeeshopchemist.

It all started with the woman who asked me exactly how much coffee to use for the 100 cup pot she is using for an event. I have never seen this pot. She has never seen this pot. Neither of us know how many ounces it makes, or uses. That's like walking into a bakery and asking the woman making muffins how many eggs to use for the muffin recipe you have at home. You don't know anything about the recipe, but since she's a baker, she must know how many eggs you will need. Right? I tried to be patient and kind. I ended up grinding a bag of coffee and counting out, in front of her, exactly how many tablespoons of ground coffee one of our bags makes. 60. That's how it started. The day, I mean.

Now I am breaking over oatmeal, because if I didn't take a break, I thought I may explode, spewing the contents of my intestines all over the lady that asked if our oatmeal is instant. Yes. It's instant. It wasn't the question that took me to the edge, but the bit of huff she gave, after I gave the answer she wasn't looking for. The huff was followed by the sentence "this is a difficult decision", which was accompanied by an annoyed stance, as she eyed all of our unhealthy options that didn't fit into her lifestyle.

GO TO THE GROCERY STORE.

HAVE AN APPLE BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE.

OR BETTER YET, MAKE YOURSELF A BOWL OF WHOLE GRAINED UNREFINED ROLLED OATS, AND THEN EAT AN APPLE.

WE ARE NOT A HEALTH FOOD STORE.

I apologize that many of my posts lately have been the utterly annoying people I am forced to help live their lives each day. It's just making me realize, along with expose on my personality - and the moods that accompany it - given to me by my boss' husband, that perhaps customer service is not where I belong.

plans.

When I arrived this morning, I had the feeling in the pit of me that I didn't want to be here. I get that way sometimes. I wanted to flee. Where could I go? I sat for a minute and thought. Then I realized that it likely wasn't the place I wanted to flee. I decided to concoct a - make Meredith want to stay put plan - and it began with reminding myself of the obvious, and reminding myself of the things that I, quite honestly, love.

1. I am sitting in the corner.

2. There is a massive, sunshine-filled window to my right.

3. There are massive trees outside, within my scope, turning all shades of autumn.

4. I have delicious coffee, something that's generally soothing to me, at my disposal.

5. I am not completely-moneyless.

5. I had planned on trying something different this morning before coming (getting a press pot), and since I like change, this plan made before leaving my house = a plus for my situation.

6. You can pour a press pot of coffee at your leisure, which means you can pour a little, and then drink all that's in your cup before it gets cold. I don't like drinking cold coffee and I get pretty disappointed when the coffee waiting to be finished in my white ceramic cup drops degrees before I finish it. This leisurely pour = a plus for my situation.

7. I have the time to sit and write about this unsettling lack of contentment.

Part two of my plan: choose music. Sometimes, walking into a place and feeling like you want to flee could come from the music playing on the speakers. It could be going against whatever subconscious feelings are going on inside of you. So choosing my own music, I thought, would likely help put me at ease. I chose Fionn Regan. He is soothing, without being too cliche. Some of his lyrics are unsettling. A good fit, I thought.

And lastly, damn it. There are some things I just can't change during the course of this morning, before I have to go into work at two. I can't get one of the friends that I am missing onto a plane, so that they can be sitting across from me, in the next few hours. It's unlikely that I will find companionship, or love, before the morning ends; romantic love and reciprocated interest will still be, to me, a social phenomenon by the time the sun sets. My debt will not disappear before work, either, and it's unlikely that today's tips will reach the double digits.

But.

It's a most beautiful day outside, and since I am about to leave this corner of discontentment, I will be able to ride my bicycle in it's midst for nearly two more hours. My coffee was delicious. Fionn helped. I am not in hunger, or poverty, or without love in my life. Even in the midst of discontentment, it's possible to feel full.

golden and delicious.

I got a bag of apples for free last week. They went, presumably, from a tree to the man that picked them to a friend, and then, to me. I got em at the farmer's market near my house. That sounds so trendy. I wasn't going to go. Perhaps that makes "the farmer's market near my house" sound less trendy. I didn't feel like walking over there, and at that, walking over there alone. There's something about farmer's markets that unnerve me. I know it's me supporting local, but I hate walking past a booth of veggies that this person put time and sweat and labor into, and not purchasing any. If I was a farmer, my produce would be personal. I would be proud of it. I would want others to be proud of it, too. So I am reacting to the kind of farmer I would be. That's the unnerving part. But then my friends came, which meant I wouldn't not be buying anything alone, and the "farmer's market near my house" sounded much more appealing.

What does a girl do with a bag of free farmer's market apples? Make an apple plum pie, of course!

The apple is on the right, and the plum on the left. I bought the plums at the grocery store. They probably came from Mexico. So it's not really a trendy, environmentally conscious pie, either.

solo-vino.

There is a place here I like to go. It's close to my house, within walking distance, and it houses many bottles of wine. Relaxing is its atmosphere, deep and vibrant burgundy are its walls, and at ease am I when sitting on one of the full of character antique couches, or outside, under the sun or stars, sipping a glass of wine.

Last Sunday evening, this delightful place is where I wanted to be. I was not in the mood to be at home alone. Some evenings that's fine, and lovely. This past Sunday, it wouldn't have been. Wanting to be at the delightful establishment was somewhat of an issue, because I had no one to go along. I have felt this feeling before. This desire to go there, with no friends available, and I have always just given up on the idea, and settled for Pei Wei take-out or a rented flick.

I started to wonder why I had an aversion to going alone. I go all kinds of places alone; Movies, out to eat, to coffee shops, thrift stores, department stores, farmers' markets, grocery stores. Some of these places, I am in and out, but others, I linger and stay. I started to imagine myself within those bright burgundy walls, with a book, sipping wine, and I liked the image enough to wade through the abnormal anxiety and just do it.

I hopped on my bicycle, with my wallet and my book, and began my journey. On the short trip there, I began to think about how similar I was probably looking to the stereotypical lonely old man. You know, the one who goes places, by himself, and sips whiskey or beer, and stares.

At that point, my journey became as much an experiment as a journey, and we all know how much I love experiments. I was going to see, as much as I could, what it would feel like to fill the weathered boots of this world's lonesome character. I arrived and ordered my glass, and thought of the phantom following me, and imagined him staring at the wall, regretful of all of the women that have left him, his children he never knew, the friends that have grown tired of him, and for all of the decisions, selfish decisions, that paved the way for his solitary misery, amplified with each sip. Perhaps he had never loved himself enough to let others love him too.

The funny difference about the old lonely man and myself is that I have been under the impression that my life's decisions haven't been inherently selfish, and as I sat there and stared at the candle flicker, and sipped sipped sipped on my Ben Marco Malbec, I was, quite honestly, puzzled at why I was watching it flicker alone.

And that made me wonder if the old man, the one that stared instead at walls, was puzzled by the same thing.

take your dairy and shove it.

The is a man that lives or works at the Mayo. He came in last week and ordered breakfast, after asking many questions. He was well dressed. Charcoal slacks. A nice sweater. He asked what is in the oatmeal. I answered. Milk was not in the answer. I began to make the oatmeal he ordered. He stared at me, with vulcher-esque eyes, and waited for me to misstep one of the oatmeal making steps. In the middle of the process, the stare was accompanied by a request.

"Could you put some milk in there?" he said.

"What kind of milk?" I responded.

"What kind do you have?" he asked.

Attempting to conceal the annoyed tone of voice that is trying to make its way out, I answer, "soy. whole milk. non-fat. half and half." And then I just stared at him, and waited for him to make his decision.

"Non-fat."

He came in again, just a minute or two ago. I am on my break, so I wasn't forced to offer him service, which is a good thing, because today, my customer-service-ometer is broken.

— example: When the lady that ordered her husbands drink let me know that...

"at starbucks, he gets a small black and white mocha in a medium cup and they top it off with coffee and whip cream..."

I just looked at her befuzzled, and said, "so you want me to put coffee in a latte?"

"No. A black and white mocha", she says. "And they top it off with coffee."

I decided she just like saying the phrase "top it off", gave up, and made the desperate concoction, minus the whip cream, because we are out. —

Back to breakfast man:

Derek was helping him. He asked what comes on the breakfast sandwich. Derek answered, "egg, ham and cheese, and it comes on a croissant." This is the same answer I gave the man last week, when he asked me, and both Derek and I spoke in English when answering him.

He ordered it.

Derek began to make his breakfast sandwich. He stared, hovering over the counter, with the same vulcher-esque eyes he used with me. He shifted when Derek retrieved something from the refrigerator. He moved positions when Derek walked to the grill. He stared. As Derek began to add the cheese to the breakfast sandwich that Derek had, just a few moments before, explained comes with cheese, the control-freak-well-dressed-indecisive-insanely-annoying-customer-of-a-man, says, "I don't want cheese". "Okay", Derek says kindly, "but we have brie and swiss if you'd rather have that..."

"I will have swiss".

visuals.

I wrote a few paragraphs about my inability to commit.

Then, I posted the paragraphs on my blog by hitting the orange "publish post" button.

An hour and a half later, I deleted it. When it asked me if I was sure I wanted to delete it, I answered yes.

shrimp/mate-less.

I just ordered food to go. I called ahead, I will ride my bike to pick it up, and then I will eat it.

I talked to a kind lady on the phone. She seemed busy, but not rude. I told her my order, and then she repeated it back to me..."Pad Thai, No Shrimp...anything else?" When she asked me the "anything else", in my head I heard her say, "Pad Thai, No Shrimp...do you live life alone, eat alone, order take-out alone?"

A take-out conversation with a complete stranger sets the table for a heavy meal.

less white space.

Thank you all, each of you faithful readers out there, for not pointing out the big gray elephant hanging around my blog. And that’s all there is to say about dumbo. If you are confused, job well done on my part. If you get it, you can likely see inside of my head, and that’s quite a fearful thought.

I am not in the mood to be writing this. I am not in the mood to be writing anything. But that’s the point of why I set the near impossible feat of blogging every day, because sometimes I don’t feel like doing the things that bring me the most joy and satisfaction. This moment is the moment when goal mentality kicks in, and pushes mood mentality into the street to get ran over, in the early morning hours, by a “waste management” truck.

I can’t understand why, on exquisitely beautiful days like today, when I have worked and finished by three and the sun is shining shyly outside, that dragging the positive out of any situation seems like a practically impossible feat.

I think I am going to quarantine myself inside my 600 square feet of space and maybe drink some water, until I am forced to step into the limitless unknown for food.

oops.

No regrets? A lie.

regrets of the week:

Taking the ponytail holder out of my hair while riding, causing me to lose control of my bike and crash into Melinda. I had named my bicycle "Bruiser" earlier that day. I meant it for me, but Bruiser does not discriminate.

Ordering the chocolate Martini instead of wine. Mistake.

Wearing a tank-top to work today. I mistakingly assumed it would be warm. It's really fall, and sitting outside was unnecessarily uncomfortable.

Eating too much Indian food and feeling so uncomfortably full that I am not sure I will be able to fall asleep.

I've still got two days to add to the list.

space.

Jobs are funny. That's what they usually are to me. I haven't been inspired yet by the alternative of a career, and change is a joy to me, so I flutter between various non-committal means of making a little extra money. Its not wasted fluttering. There is always learning involved, and that learning is the constant that hangs out with the barista side of me, the other constant.

There have been some disasters. The days of Starbucks and Apple simultaneously were horrendous. Had I not had the thrill of new friendship with the thrilling Houston and Odwalla superfood drinks, I may not have made it out of those sixty hour work weeks, sane.

I tried Big Al's, a deli sort of health food establishment frequented by business patrons on their lunch break. I lasted a day.

I forgot my disdain and hatred for retail holiday madness, probably while resting on the other side of the ocean, and so dove back in, in the form of William Sonoma during the Christmas of 2008. I have a distaste for materialistic excess and the tendency to purchase things one doesn't need and will never, ever use just because it's "cute". I do not hate others for loving it, or doing it. I just don't like taking part. I had to drag my heels across the threshold of the oversized gold trimmed glass doors gating the overpriced and overestimated sanctuary of todays' kitchen divas and culinary artists. I am responsible, but my responsibility has its limits, and I didn't think I could continue with life if forced to finish out my seasonal commitment. I didn't work there in January, like planned, but instead made a case for baking: I was going to make the muffins and cupcakes, rather then selling the tins.

This second job took place at Great Harvest, the home of fresh milled flour, rising breads, and grain filled sweets. I was the sweets girl. The title was much more romantic than the position. I loved the baking part...the mixing, stirring and adding of eggs, but the setup was failed. I arrived around five-thirty some mornings, baked quickly, only to rush to the barista job by seven A.M. The scones somehow attained a soul, and had to be given more care and attention than most humans I am acquainted with. I was arriving at 5:30 every morning, so that they could be out of the oven by seven, and friends, this just wouldn't do.

I was living at my late great grandmother's house during the Great Harvest season. It was full and empty at the same time. It's walls were filled with years and years of history, a lifetime's accumulation, and also, me. I occupied a corner, and going home, to sleep in my corner, was quite lonely. The early mornings meant early nights of rest, void of people, which made me feel more like what a bear may feel like during hibernation. I knew I couldn't continue this simply for the sake of the scones; I didn't care enough to give them more attention than I gave to myself. I put in my notice, during the month of my birthday, and celebrated the decision to try my absolute darndest to not take a second job that takes life and, um, freshness out of me.

I write this today, after passing beneath a flock of fluttering birds on Bruiser, my bicycle, which carried me to perch here at Dwelling Spaces, my current second job, which also happens to be the freshest of them all. Throughout the course of today's afternoon I have been looking around to see signs of life outside the open door, to make sure what's happening is really actually happening. Tonia always reminded me of the father in Sabrina, who mentioned his motivation for employment...a job that allows him time to read. That's what I thought about at eleven, the time of day I arrived, when I sat my book down on the counter that is placed conveniently in front of my perch. I have watched people through the massive windows in front of me, read, sold a few gems made by local artists, chatted with friends and customers, felt the breeze coming through the open door, and marveled at the random bout of rain that came down on this otherwise sunny day. Mostly, though, I have just sat in thankfulness for where I currently find myself. I am also thankful for the duds, the positions of frustration and stress I previously held, because they led me to lessons that led me to the anti-dud stress free space I am currently dwelling.

the color purple.

Laying here on my bed, trying to think of what to type. Nothing is coming to mind.

Except.

Pause.

Except for the man that crossed the street in front of my vehicle, as if there wasn't a moving automobile driving toward him. It wasn't so much his brazen behavior that caught my eye, but rather his brazen choice of clothing. Said man was considerably overweight. It wasn't an overall obesity. More of a belly that had consumed a few too many beers. It stuck out, and it was the belly part of the man that my car almost hit. He was wearing a purple tank top, with an unbuttoned shirt blowing in the fall breeze, exposing the skin his tank top wasn't covering. Because of the belly, his take top was stretched out farther than normal, which caused the arm holes to actually become man boob holes. This part of his body was exposed to the fall sun, tagging alongside the fall breeze.

I looked away, and drove on, thinking to myself..."what is the point? Of clothing? Why did he choose that? Is the point not to cover?"

Not all the time. But uncovered things are usually intentional. A low neckline. Shorts. Sleeveless shirts. I wondered if he had looked in the mirror that morning and thought to himself, yes, I feel like exposing my man boobs today. Come to me purple tank top. We will tackle this fall day together.

To do list:

purchase a purple tank top.

ill-fitting cliches.

I ran this morning, first thing. I am not in the habit of doing this. But coming down 21st street with the sun rising in my face reminded me of why it's worth it. The worm flopping around on the sidewalk before I reached the pinnacle of the sun almost made me quit the run prematurely.

I was trolling along, listening to Neon Bible, when the freaky worm caught my eye. I wouldn't have looked down had it not been for the seizure he appeared to be having. My eye went from his quickly curving body to the worm graveyard I happened to be running on. HOLY CRAP!

I ran faster.

The down of the hill, encouraging a faster stride and catching the sun in just the right place for such a memorable morning experience, also caught all of the dead worm bodies washed down by angle and rain.

I made it out, un-wormed. I was talking to a friend yesterday whose mother is trudging through the excruciating pain of cancer. We joked about all of those sayings we always hate saying. They are the cliches that my freshman english comp teacher redundantly scolded us for using in our papers. "Cliches" she called them. "Just take it one day at a time." "Cancer sucks." My friend used to hate them. Now they are the story of her life.

I was thinking of choosing "ignorance is bliss" to go along with my morning worm experience. However, had I been ignorant of the worms beneath my Nike Plus running shoes, I would have had nothing to write this morning.

How about, "the early bird gets the worm"?

different fits.

I struggled with direction in college. It's not new to me, in case you've wondered. I was blessed with a dear roommate that became a dear friend. She was a pre-med major. I was undeclared. We lived together our freshman year. In the evenings, she usually studied while I was out, with friends, afraid that if I left or went to sleep, I would miss something. I would tip toe in late, and climb to the top bunk, trying ever so gracefully to not wake her up. In between classes, she had her biology book open, reading. I had my eyes closed, napping.

It wasn't just the sleep itself I craved. It was the shedding of the real life clothes and sandwiching myself in between a soft sinking surface and a blanket that conformed to my shape, instead of fighting it. It was the moment of complete ease and comfort, followed by rest.

I thought of the above scenario because of a comment a friend of hers' made to me once. He looked at our friendship and living situation from afar, and said to me, "Meredith. You two are very different. You seem to be much more interested in the social aspect of college and she is much more into the academic side." This was not an amazing observation. It's something anyone looking could have discovered. But it was him, giving voice to the situation, that made to stop and look at myself.

Why wasn't I worried about school, and furthering myself? Why wasn't I hitting the books, and seeing friends as a reward as opposed to a priority? I was in college. I was paying an enormous amount of money to gain an education, wasn't I?

No. Actually, I wasn't. I was paying an enormous amount of money for a wonderful life experience.

And this is what I have realized: I place much more value on the experience than I do the outcome. When I tell someone that I have a degree in graphic design, it holds much more weight for them than it does for me. "Why aren't you using it?" they ask. Using what, I think to myself. "Oh, the degree." The answer is because I didn't really go to college for a degree. I went for an experience. I have one, but it was such a minor aspect of my college experience.

After graduating, I remember the frantic feeling I got when someone would ask what I was going to "do". I worried because I realized that most people expect me to do something. There was an expectation for build; high school, college, degree, job pertaining to degree.

When asked the "do" question, my answer was always the place I was going to move, rather than the job I would find. My answer was about what I would experience, and had nothing to do with the outcome of attaining a degree.

I had friends over for dinner on Saturday. I love entertaining. I love the experience of people, collectively, in the kitchen...Talking, chopping, listening, drinking. I like looking up at a space that's usually empty or inhabited by only me, and instead seeing color, hearing laughter and conversation, looking forward to the shared experience of a meal. This is what I want to do.

After dinner, we sat down to watch Darjeeling Limited. I was looking forward to the colors in the movie, and also, Adrien Brody. Liz needed a footrest, to make her movie experience more enjoyable. Quite ironically and appropriately, my otherwise useless brown leather graphic design portfolio case, turned on its side, was just the fit.

pewey.

Do you know what kills a dew filled fall morning? The smell of trash truck exhaust wafting through my open windows, beckoning me to begin my day.

People: USE LESS STUFF!

dark time.

I have a confession to make. I enjoy looking into the windows of other people's lives. My friend, whom I will not name for protective purposes, helped me to admit this. It's like watching a silent film, that's even more interesting because it's not made up. You know that behind that wall is an actual room, as opposed to the back of a set.

I live in a neighborhood that is ideal for this pastime. The houses are grandiose, built during the roaring twenties. A lot of Tulsa's wealth has come down from liquid gold, the natural resource that nowadays will start wars. Back then, Okies were getting rich, either directly from the ground, or indirectly, by making money from men who were making money in oil (after reading this previous sentence, I realized it's still applicable today, but that's not the point). The point is that back then they built backyard garages (where I live) behind beautiful homes with many stories, many balconies, and many big windows, perfect for spying into during the night.

They built these homes side by side, down long wide streets with trees lining the middle. These trees are planted in grass covered dirt and, appropriately, encircled with concrete curb. Like I said, I was riding my bike at night, distracted by the lives of others, too distracted to look out for pieces of concrete growing from the pavement. Priorities.

It was an incredible autumn evening. There was a chill in the air, and an eery sort of quiet. So, when I came a house where people were walking about, it makes sense that the man's voice I heard would carry so easily through the neighborhood. I heard it, followed by the laughter of others, and I immediately changed directions. I was drawn toward it, in hopes that I wouldn't just be looking at houses, but maybe I would get a glimpse of life too! This distracted excitement redirected my bike, strait toward the house, and strait toward the curb unseen.

CRASH! BANG! ERK!

I dragged myself up from under my bike, dusted the grass from my jeans, and attempted to ride on...Away from the house and the voice that indirectly caused this massive bruise currently adorning the area of my leg, just below the knee. My stubborn bike was, well, stubborn. Though my tires were point away from the house, the seat of my bike was pointing toward it. I rode on, with a crooked seat and clicking chain.

And I laugh, wondering how many things in life I pass by, distracted by those things that amount to be just that. Distractions. I think I am ever in need of a little more curb.

at ease in the uneasy.

Outside, the sky is a soft gray. At first it looks colorless, until you catch a glimpse of the outline of the green green trees. Then the soft blues greet you, subtly. This is, to me, a most beautiful day. There are no storm clouds, but the smell and the cool keep you from gaining assurance in your dryness. At any moment, you could become a sponge, dripping with wet from the water that surprised you from the sky. This, to me, is a most beautiful thought.

I tried to explain to a friend once that I find comfort in the unpredictable. I remember being in Korea, in a shopping spot alone with no cellular telephone or knowledge of the Korean language. No one knew I was there, and I had no tangible way of contacting any of those people unaware of my whereabouts. It was eery, a bit, but mostly comforting. The feeling of aloneness in a foreign place makes me feel more connected to all of the people inhabiting this great big world. It reminds me that, at times, we all feel a little alone. It's not always sunshine and cookie dough. This is true, to me, and reality brings me comfort.

Unpredictability is what makes life a little scary. It also makes life a little more fun. Yesterday, when I entered the men's restroom at work to clean the nasty toilets, I didn't know I would be greeted with someone else's poop. I have cleaned the restrooms many times, poop free. But yesterday, I found myself wiping someone else's fecal matter off of the porcelain white stool. This does not fit into the unpredictably fun category, but rather, the unpredictably scary. But last week, during a shift when I didn't have to clean the toilets, I offered two men touring with Britney Spears a ride to the place we were both going. We spent the afternoon together, and by the end of the day, I had befriended a professional photographer to the stars, a stunt man from Manchester, a hula hoop girl that used to be a part of the circus, and an of age knife thrower and flip connoisseur. I was also, ironically, gifted tickets to their ring leader's performance, which means I spent last Tuesday evening watching my new friends do their act on stage, while Britney Spear's lip synched her new music to her fans surrounding me. This would be the unpredictably fun.

It's still blue-gray outside. The sun, unpredictably, broke open the gray throughout the course of me typing this, but has since gone back in. Here in the midst of unpredictable skies, I am looking forward to the unknown of today.

more or less, hopefully more.

I've been thinking about thinking too much about what other people think. I remember in college, I was crippled by this very natural human tendency. My major was one that required feedback and criticisms from classmates and professors. This was supposed to make us more confident?

I have been thinking about this in context of writing, lately, too. This is something I actually enjoy. This is something I would really like to get better at. Blogging is an outlet, and a means for improvement. A stepping stone. But when I think about posting something, or how something will be received, I cower a bit. I spend more time in between posts not writing.

And so back to the part of what other people think. At this juncture, to allow myself to write, write some more, and after that, write again, I will have to try and let go a little of this "very natural human tendency". Because to improve, I must write more. It may be bad material. It may not make sense in the end. It may not come together. But there will hopefully be more words on the page than when I started, and less time not writing in between posts.

debilitating waiting.

I try not to be in too big of a hurry most of the time. I don't like rushing, and I don't like making other people feel rushed either. I am comfortable waiting for them to arrive, knowing they are more comfortable not feeling rushed. 

I was sitting in my parked car the other evening, scarfing down a post-run subway sandwich. Someone was meeting me, and we were going to go somewhere else. I was struck by the joy was was experiencing in that moment of limbo, crunching on the veggies, periodically glancing in my rearview when I heard a car turning the corner, and looking ahead in case she drove up from the other direction. I realized that I actually enjoy waiting on people to arrive. It's a childlike joy, like the the joy of knowing dessert will come if you clean your plate. It is much easier to make it through the brussel sprouts when you know you have three layer chocolate chocolate cake waiting on you when they are gone. My time in the car was kind of like the brussel sprouts, tolerable and at moments exciting because of those little bitty bursts of joy each time I heard a car at the stop sign behind me. The sweetness was the knowledge of my friends impending arrival.

The waiting that sucks is the kind that lets you know, often, that there's no guarantee. 

rain.

The rain is hitting the concrete hard outside, and I am just hoping for a rain respite somewhere between two and two-thirty today, so I can make it hope on my bicycle without a soaked butt. 

I was awake for an hour and a half in the middle of the eeeeearly morning hours, tossing and turning, and well, not sleeping. I think it may have been because of the bottle of wine split over conversational therapy with an irreplaceable friend. A worthy cause. 

I hope that wherever you are, if it isn't raining, that there is something in your present moment making you as happy as this rain is presently making me.

a sunrise.

This place I am sitting, the place I am choosing to get away, is abuzz with people choosing the opposite. I am mellow. The barista is mellow. I am drinking chamomile tea to help this state along. The rest of these people are drinking coffee and espresso and big trains, getting hyped up on human connection, caffeine and sugar. 

I am listening to Radical Face. They are singing the lyrics “Welcome Home” so loudly in my ear that they are making me happy to be sitting here with all of these careless strangers. It’s because I feel at ease in their words. I feel peace at the thought of a “home” existing. It’s a fleeting peace, the kind that I am not sure really exists. It leaves when a friend moves away too soon, when falseness floats to the surface, when a song ends. 

Now Jacob Dylan is singing tunes in my ears, with lines including “days of old”, “magnificent floating” and going “into the mystic”. I don’t know what the mystic is, but right now, it feels so much more real to me than home. 

And now, quite appropriately, Augustana is encouraging me to go to Boston.

splattered.

An evening not too long ago, I was standing on a polished and waxed white linoleum floor, near an array or colors in the form of cosmetics. I stood there at midnight twirling a bottle of bright orange fingernail polish between my unpolished fingers. To picture this color, picture the sun at its brightest spot of the day, or the vests worn by road worked to avert being hit by a vehicle speeding down the highway. 

There was a People Magazine staring at me, providing me with more information into the life of a stranger than I should have been privy. Perhaps this added to an already present sense of nervousness, amplified by an unnatural glow emitting from the floor. 

One, twirl; two, twirl; three, slipping from my grasp; four, yikes! dropping!; five, dropping still!; six, crash. Seven: Neon orange fingernail polish spilled and splattered all over the glossy shiny reflecting revolting linoleum floor. Eight: Me, feeling like such a clumsy and careless fool.

Thankfully, the lady working, who didn't really have the time to deal with my clumsy and careless mess, was so very kind and gracious. She assured me it was no trouble, calming my angst with the ease of a seasoned kindergarten teacher. In the midst of the disaster, the two of us looked up at a woman running back in, searching for a phone and yelling something about a "crash at the intersection" and "911".

It's a dangerous and confusing intersection. There are four lanes, and also signs cautioning no left turn. All of the entrances to all of the businesses around the intersection are extremely awkward to access. And at midnight that evening, someone crashed into someone else. I don't know the specifics of the crash, but in the moment when I was feeling like such a fool, I realized that my crashing bottle of bright orange polish paled in comparison. A little splatter of orange isn't such a big deal when thinking about life. I thanked the lady for her kindness, and carefully drove myself home. 

why I don't love walgreens.

I spent my evening rearranging my living room slash bedroom and also, purchasing necessities. Soap, shampoo, toilet paper, etc. This is a very difficult task for me. I have been without shampoo for over a week. I haven't had the gumption. It is not because I am lazy. Well, not entirely. I think it's because the trip becomes about so much more than shampoo, toilet paper and nail polish remover. Choices are necessary, and I am not equipped with enough information. Do I spend more on Shampoo because it's in the designer shampoo bottle and claims to make my hair shine enough to inspire romance, or do I even need shampoo? Tonight I was faced with the light bulb's moral dilemma. Do I purchase the energy efficient bulb that's also twice as much and toxic if broken? Or do I purchase the cheaper soft white bulb that threatens to sink the state of Florida each time I switch on the light? I am in need of a calculator each time I face the little Charmin guy, as I must not simply trust the advertisers' claims of two-ply double roll goodness. I have to see how many feet each roll actually is, divide the square feet and the ply by the price, and then decide. I would not sleep well it I discovered I had been swindled by the toilet paper industry of America.

The whole exercise leads to emotional exhaustion. I usually have some color of eye-make-up amongst my purchases that I, in no way, need. Because of this, and the "necessities", I also have spent what I make in a day, in a painful and agonizing forty-five minutes. 

When I returned home, to the coziness of my living room's new arrangement, I took the time to put things away. The silver bar in my bathroom became un-bare. I placed my pretty red bottles of shampoo (that happened to be buy one get one free) in my shower, and looked forward to my hair smelling clean once again. I twisted my light bulbs into their appropriate places. From that came more light. I am reminded while typing this that pushing through those unenjoyable tasks almost always leads to something sorta worth it. Tonight, it's the joy of having toilet paper within reach.

In other (exciting!) news, my fortune this evening cautioned me to not be surprised by the emergence of undiscovered talents. What could they be?!

exposed.

One of my favorite classes in college, because of my professor, was Christian Life. Some of my classmates were annoyed at its lack of structure, or open-ended nature. Those were the parts of it I loved. I was challenged to move outside of routine and legalism in my approach to God, and this was an invaluable lesson. On the first day of class, we were instructed to gather in a circle, and share with our classmates our name, and also one characteristic that is true about us, that also starts with the first letter of our first name. In case we are strangers, my first name begins with an M. I chose the word messy. My roommates throughout the years, who have tended toward the type A uber-organized side of the human spectrum, can vouch for this. I didn't let my messiness move to their side of the room, but it did, on most days, fully inhabit mine. 

I think about that game still. I think because I tend to abhor circle centered activities aimed at getting to know complete strangers, but due to my love for language and words, this particular one made it to the positive pile of "getting to know you games".  So here is round two. 

Throughout my life, my friend modesty grew to know both messy and Meredith really well. When changing in my messy room, I kept my clothes on. Do not ask me how this is possible. I do not know. I am reminded of one of the classic Arrested Development characters and his "never nude" syndrome. I wore high necks and long shorts and sometimes sweatshirts in the summer. I had an inaccurate and insecure view of my own appearance, and this tragedy fed the modest beast within. I had a deep hatred for summer, as I could not layer or wear a coat or a scarf. I also hated this time of year because the majority of the population chose to take off the comfort off clothing, and get naked in front of strangers and friends, covering only the necessary parts with some insane and quite alien-like stretch sort of material.

It's possible that I came out of my mother's womb wearing a one-piece. I have not asked her, and she hasn't mentioned it, but if she did, I would nod, and say, "oh, yeah". Once I popped out, in between screams and first breaths, I likely reached over to the nurses station and wrapped the burp rag awaiting my arrival around my waist. 

As I grew up, and matured and changed, this part of me did not. Post college, and instead of Seattle (a rainy, less bathing suit friendly patch of Earth) I moved to Florida, a state that's practically circled by coastline and henceforth beach. I still remember my agonizing first beach trip there as a resident, and I can still feel and summon those feelings of anxiousness and insecurity. I have since moved back to land, and have been asked if I went to the beach a lot while I was there, or if I miss living by the ocean. I usually cite the fact that I don't miss the beach near as much as I missed the changing seasons, and that I would have gone more often if it was a little closer to where I lived. I knew when I was there that I didn't want to be missing such wondrous creation that I would not always be so close to simply because of insecurity and extreme modesty. But that's exactly what happened. 

Last summer's stint in South Korea kept me out of a bathing suit, and also out of a place of insecurity. If I was going to make it through the experience, I would have to choose confidence. Because of that, I came back to the Oklahoma landscape with much more of that confidence stuff than I had left with, and because of the soul searching that comes along with being alone in a foreign place, I also came back with a stronger sense of self.

For the first time in my life, while riding my bike to work in a sleeveless shirt in the middle of 105 degree heat, I realized that I was really enjoying the summer. And because of a conversation I had with friends that, too, broke free from the unhealthy and extreme side of modesty, I knew I couldn't, as a self-proclaimed risk taker, go back to the safety and security of a one piece. As Liz so eloquently put it, "the only people that wear one pieces, Meredith, are babies and old women". 

I walked on to the beach this summer, the same beach I walked on as a resident, with more ease than ever. I wanted to spend my time there, in the sunshine with the sound of the waves, because it's life giving, and the insecurity that used to overwhelm me was no longer an issue. And as I lounged on my chair in my very first ever two piece, surprised by my lack of concern for the enormity of the situation, I realized the confidence to cover less of myself physically was coming from the desire to cover less of myself in life.