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. 

la la la la la.

Last night, at around ten thirty in the evening, I fulfilled a life-long dream. The previous sentence was a slight exaggeration. But only slight. Though I was not dreaming about performing karaoke in diapers, I did want to be a country singer at the age of five. I have also been practicing Bonnie Raitt's "Something to Talk About" in my car for a few years, in preparation for what took place on the stage. 

The evening began with free drinks and food at a masquerade sort of ball. I dug my heels out of my closet's back corner, wiped off the dust, and threw that dress on. You know the one. I was planning on using my imagination, as if I was walking into the scene of a movie. I tried, but to no avail. The heels and mask were not sharp enough to cut through the thick and cumbersome stuffiness of the other guests in attendance. What do girls do when all dressed up, stuck at a lame party? Karaoke. 

Lenny's is a dive. It's a hole in the wall located inside a Trade Winds Motel. The Bar Back was a feisty Korean woman, that both men and women envy, and fear. Cash is a regular and a pimp, which was mostly just really sad to me. I had been warned about the characters, which made me think that Lenny's would be just the place for my shiny black stilettos. It would also display with much class my sincere desire to perform. This trait pairs well with my excessive lack of talent, making karaoke an ideal Meredith activity.

As previously mentioned, I had been practicing my song for a number of years. Upon reaching the bar with the notebook holding the list of songs, my heart skipped a little in fear that they wouldn't have my tune. I may have actually squealed when I read it on the page. 

My name was on the list, next to song 98-02. I ran to my seat with excitement, still devoid of nervousness. 

After telling someone this story, they asked if I was drunk. The answer is a resounding no, and I was resoundingly sober. After thinking about the question, I began to realize the karaoke is often associated with drunkenness, and late nights. It starts to get crazy fun the longer the evening lasts, as the patrons have gotten a little more tipsy, and gutsy. The crowd has loosened up too, making it more of an interactive experience. 

I went up to the stage in the middle of a lull, and at the beginning of the evening . I gave my intro speech, tore the microphone from its stand, and sang my heart out, attempting high notes, key changes and all. My energizing and gut wrenching performance received a sea of blank stares from the bodies occupying seats in front of me. I was not phased. 

I grew last night. I fulfilled a goal, took a risk and friends, (thanks to Lenny) I have fallen in love. With karaoke. 

Future Song Suggestions?

a song for me, a story for her.

I have it in my head that I write better in the mornings. I do not know if this is true, but in case, I have decided to pretend that it's morning, and I am here sipping coffee on a coffee stained couch before the rest of the world has made it out for the day. Ryan Adam's Demolition album is playing in my ears, and this is appropriate for two reasons. One, it's a good morning album. The pace of a morning that belongs fully to me is slow, but not too slow. I don't want the music to put me back to sleep, but rather ease me into the day. Reason number two is a person, a friend. I am writing this post because of her, and I am listening to Ryan for the same reason. She was his fan first, and her love for his music is what prompted me to buy my first Ryan album. 

I moved to Tulsa in the winter of 2006. I grew up in the area, so it was near home, but my familiarity to the city was relegated to a four mile span of shopping, somewhere in the mess of seventy-first street. Though I had always been near Tulsa, I hadn't ever been a Tulsan. I began working for the wal-mart of coffee the following January, which brought into my life a few Tulsans, and from that, my very own residence in this city. 

I remember the first time I saw this friend, this fellow Tulsan, that I am writing about. I was the new girl working behind the bar, messy from coffee and a general sense of sadness left-over from the previous season of my life. She walked in wearing a beautiful white coat, her flawless complexion and sincere smile intimidating awkward and insecure me. She sat down gracefully at the seat reserved for her next to my boss. I wondered who she was, and had already decided that she was definitely too cool to befriend me.  

Funnily enough (a phrase she created), she was thinking something similar about my coolness (not to be confused with gracefulness), and our simultaneous intimidation of each other somehow canceled all of that nonsense out, enabling us to become the best of friends, kindred spirits, and all of the other phrases associated with this phenomenon. 

My first summer in Tulsa was beautiful. I had began to come out of the sadness that was still following me around in January, and so much of this growth came because of the beautiful people that were beginning to fill my days. Many of my evenings were spent in her kitchen, consuming delicious food, or her patio, consuming delightful wine. Conversation was easy, and silence was comfortable. 

I remember a conversation from the beginning of our friendship. We were sitting outside at the cafe where we worked, having just finished up yoga, sipping iced beverages in the sunshine. We talked about what we wanted to do, and the creativity we had in common. She was about to marry the love of her life, and trying to finish up her degree. We began to talk about what a surprise Tulsa was to the both of us, and how much we actually really enjoyed it. I asked her if she thought she would move, and she said if she did, it would likely be because of her future husbands' future residency. I asked when that would be as, even then, I didn't want to imagine being in Tulsa without her. She said two years, I breathed out, and sighed on the inside. "Surely I will be gone by then", I thought to myself. Surely not. 

I spent the summer of 2008 in Asia, leaving her to peruse through the brutal Oklahoma humidity without me. I missed the people in my life while I was there, but most of my emotional capacity was spent figuring out the foreign ways of the culture around me. There wasn't anything around to remind me of anything in particular. I was being cushioned by change (perhaps this is one of the reasons I like it so much). I didn't question my friendship with her while I was away, but I didn't fully appreciate it either. 

When I returned to Tulsa summer was inching towards fall, and I was inching away from most of the things around me. I wasn't quite ready to leave traveling behind, and not quite ready  to return to this place. My confusion and inner angst that followed me home were, this time, cushioned by the familiar. I was glad to see my friend. I was thankful for her care, thankful to be in her presence and for understanding way, though I still didn't fully appreciate her. 

This spring marked the two years that couldn't keep from passing, the two years we had talked about over iced beverages. She graduated, and so did her (now) husband. He applied for residencies, and she prepared to move wherever is was that he matched. Texas got him and consequently, her, which gave me yet another reason to dislike the Lonestar State. I helped her move her belongings into a U-Haul truck, thinking more about the post moving margaritas that were going to be consumed than her upcoming and inevitable absence from my summer. While loading their things, her husband grabbed her bicycle to roll up the ramp, intending to lean it alongside his. She stopped him, and let him know that her bike stays. He looked at her with confusion, and she met his glance and informed him, "I am leaving it with Meredith to use. Her bike got stolen and she rides it to work. I ride mine once a year." He (I think somewhat objectionably) obliged. After the margaritas, I stuffed the bike in my trunk, gave her a hug, and made my way home. She left for Texas the following morning. 

Last week I received an email from Itunes, informing me that this very dear friend Chris had gifted an album to me; Tom Petty's album Wildflowers. She had told me before that the song reminded her of me, though I wasn't familiar with the tune. I downloaded my gift and synched it onto my ipod. 

After listening to the song, not only did I feel honored, that someone would hear such beautiful, full of life lyrics and think of me, but I also felt cared for. And this is something that this friend of mine can't help but do. She is a caregiver, by nature. This is one of the reason's her husband fell in love with her, and one of the reasons, I now know, I didn't fully appreciate her. There were evenings during our first summer as friends when I was liking someone that wasn't liking me back. I would call her, broke, sad and confused. She would sit me at her kitchen bar and listen while she cooked something comforting especially for me. Just being in her presence would put me at ease, and looking back on that now, so much of that was because of her caring nature. When I moved out of my house with no where to move into last Christmas, she insisted I stay with her. When I told her my bike was stolen, she insisted I take hers. 

I write this because she is so deserving of praise, and because here in Tulsa, in the summertime, I miss her. I understand what she felt last year when I left, and though it's late in coming, I am without her, and fully appreciating her. 

risk, and the color orange.

Lately, love and all of its potential glory has been pushing against the force of my hands, like magnet against magnet. My coffee stained hands are always trying to push hope and possibility into the locked chest. 

I was just sitting at the bar with my favorite barista who has been out of the country for the past week reading a newspaper article about love. One of his customers made his way to the bar and was seeing his friend for the first time since returning. Customer's face lit up because, though it had only been seven days, customer missed his friend. Barista's face could see customer's joy, and met it with a smile. I had just been privy to a moment, a sincere exchange between two people. 

I am not a good matchmaker, like in the movies. I don't like pressuring people to do things. I don't like meddling. I like watching life happen and seeing goodness unfold in front of me that hasn't been tainted by my sway. But I have also noticed that forwardness doesn't come easily to a lot of people, including myself, and insecurity is always battling the part of us that's willing to take that risk, trying to convince us that we have too much to lose. But when someone takes a risk, and others get to see something real between two people, hope reemerges. This is why I am becoming an advocate for risk.

To me, the mutual attraction factor seems to be the most difficult. There have been some middle aged truck drivers interested in me, for sure. But I haven't wanted to go there. And there have been a plethora of men that have peaked my interest, but for whatever reason, I failed to effectively peak theirs. Perhaps it was my loud laugh, or (as a college classmate told me) my tendency to make things really awkward. Or maybe it was simply their own fear. Whatever the reason, nothing. 

Seeing two people out there that maybe, just maybe, are interested in each other, brings to surface that hope that's been hanging out in the chest. Seeing neither of them do a thing pushes it right back down. Since I am pushing it down most days anyway, outside help isn't welcome. Seeing someone take a risk to get to know someone else, even if it isn't me, is very welcome. It's helpful. And for that, I will get involved, if just a little. I will meddle, if it means helping someone see that they are great, and that risk is worth it. And this involvement, this speech I seem to be spouting at others on a regular basis, has been shifting something on my insides as well.

I walked into the same coffee shop a few days ago. It was hot hot hot outside, and I didn't want to turn on my AC. I was hoping for my corner table. Odds were in my favor, as there was only one customer and one barista occupying the cafe. Alas, my table was occupied by the lone customer, who happened to be a beautiful dark haired bearded man with a ring free left hand. Oh man. 

We both stayed until close. I definitely checked him out as he made his way to the counter, and bathroom, and then back to his corner seat. He was probably aware. We both left at the same time. I made it outside without my wallet or my keys, as I was a little distracted. He got onto his orange motorcycle. I watched. He was definitely aware. I retrieved my keys, made my way to my car, which happened to be right passed him, smiled and exclaimed that I liked the way he looked, sort of.  The words that came from my mouth were "I like the orange," but I am pretty sure he heard what I meant. 

patio.

My bench is resting on a rectangular slice of concrete. The rectangular slice of concrete is acting as my faux patio. I say faux because neither the bench nor the concrete belong to me. In the meaningful sense, they belong to someone who knew Caroline Cook. The bench is dedicated to her memory. In the realistic sense, the entire bench patio package probably belongs to the City of Tulsa's Parks and Recreation Department. 

My elbow is resting on an arm of wood, and my back is leaning against a bronze colored plaque, etched with the previously noted dedication, bearing the name of Miss Cooke, who must have meant a lot to someone, somewhere. My bench rests beneath a tree that acts as my faux canopy. The branches hang low. My head grazes the dangling leaves as I walk toward the trunk, but once I am under their protection, I can stand upright, as if the leaves are the nylon of nature's umbrella, the branches are the stretching metal, and the trunk an adjustable handle. My benches' position beneath the tree is, simply, right. 

I sit here in appreciation. I have no patio of my own. I am thankful for my home, but I do not belong anywhere outside of it. My front yard is someone else's backyard, and like the bench belongs to Tulsa, everything I live in belongs to the people that own my front back yard. My appreciation for Tulsa's patio extends to Caroline, for being the kind of woman that merits such an idyllic bench, placed in a fantastical location, under an umbrella tree overlooking a garden of roses, all in her memory.