It's Not You, It's Me

One month ago, I arrived in New York; and ever since that first moment when my feet hit the long stretch of concrete, my mind has been a complete mess of muddled mush.

Imagine the fastest, highest, wildest roller coaster ride you've ever been on in your life.  The world around you flashes by in an instant.  Strands of hair whip you across your face, whether it's your own hair or the person sitting next to you.  You have no idea what has possessed you to stand in line for what feels like an eternity, only to get whipped in the face, jerked from side to side and nearly losing your lunch.  

You step off the roller coaster and have absolutely no recollection of what you saw as you were being hurled through the air along the winding track, but you are fairly certain it was amazing because it felt amazing.  My friends, that is the only way I know how to describe the past four weeks of my life in New York City. 

Each day has been a surprise, an exercise, a conflict, a challenge, an enlightenment.  

I have felt happy, intimidated, courageous, lonely, afflicted, creative, tired, observant and every now and then: defeated.  

Every moment has demanded some measure of concentration: even if only to close my eyes and try to let go of the events of the given day.  In this city, while working full time at a new job and still living out of two suitcases, even the seemingly simple and natural act of sleeping requires a concentrated effort.  

My writing had been set aside these past few weeks, as I opted to take in what I saw, rather than share it with the world as I had been this past summer.  

The lack of stability and familiarity has burdened my thoughts and mind in such a way that is difficult to articulate.  And as I sat on the shore of the East River along Brooklyn's busy borough, I wondered; Am I happy?

And much like the meager attempt to enjoy the view from a speeding roller coaster, I began to see happiness in a similarly blurred and mysterious way.  I had ventured out of Manhattan in an effort to see the sunset; something that is very difficult to do in an otherwise completely vertical city. And as I sat there gazing across the river, I began to laugh a little as the sun sank behind the entire island of Manhattan, still blocked by the skyscrapers that line the entire radius of the city.

It was funny, because in that moment, I realized how much effort it is going to take to survive here.

Am I happy here?  Was I really ever happy anywhere?

For short stints of time, yes, I felt happy.  Skipping around from place to place trying to outrun, outsmart, outmaneuver myself.  But time and time again, the void followed.

And now, as I sit at my computer and finally bring myself back to my writing, I realize that the void is not where I reside, but rather what has always been residing within me.

It is terrifying to finally understand that I need to face my fears, and hopefully believe in myself enough to follow my dreams.

New York City is only the backdrop of this story I have decided to share with you.  And I will tell you this much; it is a character all its own.

Today:

Peach Bellini

Fresh Peach puree
Glass of Prosecco

Writer Interrupted

At last; a chance to write from "home."  Isn't it funny how some routines are so important to our overall sense of happiness and well-being? Even a simple routine as waking up, brewing coffee and blogging? 

It hasn't exactly been the easiest task; wandering around from one end of the city to another looking for a place to write.  Most coffee houses are packed with fellow writers or simply a dozen or so people with little battery life.  The outlets are a hot commodity to come by; as almost every person wants to charge... something. 

I would attempt to write from my Mini i-Pad from a crowded Starbucks or other local spot offering free wifi.  But unfortunately, that is not always the most ideal environment.  And I have yet to find my own little writers corner... my spot.  Furthermore, I am always in between appointments or am off to the grocery store, catching a train, fiddling with my new work materials or simply lying down to catch some much needed zzzzzzzzzzs. 

So today, I finally feel comfortable enough to brew coffee and write from the apartment I am sharing for the month.  It's quiet this morning and I don't have to go into work until 8 p.m. tonight. 

You see, I was in in a terrible funk the past two days; unable to find a place or a good time to write.  I am just the type of person who really enjoys a certain amount of structure.  So when I knew I had pretty much the entire day to myself before heading into the city to work, I jumped at the opportunity to write: still in my pajamas and sipping pumpkin spiced coffee from Trader Joe's market.  

In some ways, I can't believe I have only been in New York a week.  I've been training at a new serving job and reconnecting with friends who live here.  Almost every moment has been filled in some way, even if only by the long walks I would take around Central Park.  

I realized something just before falling asleep last night; constant creativity produces more creativity.  It isn't something that dries up.  Creativity is rather like a muscle that only gets stronger the more it is flexed and exercised.  And so, I must continue my creative pursuits.  As steady as ever, I must nurture creativity as best as I possibly can.  

This is such a creative place.  And everywhere I look I am surrounded by the people who are actually "making it."  

If only that were me.  Another bottle of Champagne please... 

This is all part of serving the bigger picture though. And from the bottom of my heart, I wish to get there one day: sitting at the table rather than standing before it.  

But for now, I am on my way to writing a new chapter; a new story.  

This past week of moving and getting a job has most certainly interrupted the steady flow of creativity that I suppose I had, in some ways, taken for granted.  Let's just say I was a writer interrupted.  

But I believe that now, more than ever, is the time to protect and serve creativity as best as I can; establishing a sense of structure in an otherwise volatile but thrilling moment in time.  

Today:

Gin Rickey

1 1/2 oz Gin

1/2 oz Lime Juice

Splash of Soda

On the Rocks in a Highball Glass

Get Serious...

Sometimes in life, you just have to get real.  Get serious.  It is part of the growing process; knowing when to put away certain fanciful dreams or unrealistic aspirations... right?  

Isn't that why it's called reality?

Well, lately I am struggling to grasp this entire philosophy.  I am in a process of juggling "reality" with my desire to pursue a (hopefully successful) career in the Arts.  

Yesterday, I sat around for a long time, thinking about this whole business of writing.  I have been engrossed in this medium for a very long time and most recently, developed some regularity with it.  But then someone said I ought to really write, you know, seriously.  

This left me almost short of breath as the word "seriously" washed over me.  Am I not taking my writing seriously... or rather, myself seriously? 

I've only just begun writing again on a regular basis, but lately I have been wondering if I should I apply all this creative energy to a more serious pursuit: like maybe a screenplay or novel.  

But then, I go into a really negative zone and begin to feel (dare I even utter the word) blocked.  And then the blockage seems to creep into the other free flowing creative outlets, spreading a foggy haze.  

And it makes me feel frightfully inadequate. 

So that is where I am at tonight; feeling a little blocked, a little foggy and seriously concerned that nothing will amount from any of this.  

I suspect we all have days like this; and today is just one of those days for me.  

Hopefully, I will snap out of it soon and get back to my regular old self; you remember the one, full of positivity, witty anecdotes and metaphors galore??? Yup, that's the one.  

Seriously... that's about as serious a writer I am gonna get tonight.  

Today:

1 oz Malibu

Splash of Pineapple Juice

The Greatest of These is Love

For a very long time, I have been engrossed in a constant dialogue with the Divine.  It is a very personal conversation we've shared all these years, so I would rather not attempt to quantify what this exchange has meant to me.  What would be the point of that anyhow? As I said, it's a rather private conversation.

I am not someone who has the desire to set out to change other people (for the most part anyway). Ask my ex-boyfriends and they may argue otherwise. And perhaps that says more about me than I would like. Oh well... I guess I can live with that if the shoe fits (me).

What I mean is this: I cannot pretend to understand what life is like in your shoes.  And I would certainly hope that you would extend to me a similar offering.

But what I have come to understand with relative certainty is that the most Supreme force in existence is love.  From where I stand, it is love that is the ultimate trump card.

From love stems the most bountiful and gracious elements of our beings (and furthermore, beyond our beings). From a place of love we may also be so humbled to encounter true compassion, forgiveness, honesty, awakening and surrender. The rest are just the details.

I suppose I am moved to write about love tonight, because from where I sit, I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by so much of it: my family.

Last week, a very good friend of mine suffered a great loss in his family.  And when I went about completing the mundane tasks of my daily life, I couldn't help but notice the sinking feeling I had on my shoulders that hovered about me like a heavy winter jacket.  There was a sadness looming in the air that I couldn't shake.  But what I came to realize over the ensuing days, was the undeniable fact that I was not alone in this feeling... far from it.  All of the friends who know and love this person, felt a weight of sorrow for the experience he is facing.

There was a collective feeling of loss that we felt for our friend.  Though we may not know the loss in the same way as he who had directly suffered it, that did not prevent us from feeling the gravity of it all and carrying it around with us too. Why?  Because we love our friend.  We love him so much that we are profoundly affected by what happens to him whether it is good or bad.

Now imagine that you love your country, your heritage, or even better: our planet... What collective state of mourning, of joy, and unity, would we feel if we could all relate to one another under such a common thread of pure goodness?  I imagine that the effects would be quite profound.

I guess I am coming from that insane and innocent idea that we should all really, really, really, really try to get along.  And that in the end, bitterness, resentment and hostility only serve to corrupt our own inherent goodness and spiritual growth.

I'm on a tangent here; I seek to promote and become a great advocate for true, honest, forgiving, relentless, tireless, simple, sweet, compassionate and unwavering love.    

Because there is no greater human emotion than this in my humble opinion.

Love comes in many forms.  And love is tested in arguably many more forms. But what we do when we are given such a tremendous offering of the heart speaks volumes to our own spiritual journey with the Divine, as well as within ourselves.

To my parents, I have to offer all my gratitude, for showing me a very real and unvarnished path to love and in love.  Theirs is a love story that I have no doubt Shakespeare himself would've envied the chance to have committed to the page for future generations to romanticize, memorize and repeat.

And even better... they have passed on to me an appreciation for such a love.

Whether it is a love of your family, your friend, a country or even better yet, a neighbor, my sincerest hope is that we may all experience love in its most real form.

You know, I'm just a simple person.  I have hopes, dreams and aspirations.  I am not afraid of working hard.  But what I truly wish with all my heart for my time here on Earth, and for yours too no matter who you are, is to have experienced ample and honest love in this life.

Like I said before; the rest are just the details.

Wishing you all lots of love, wherever you may be. And know that you are never alone.

Today:

Cuba Libre
1 oz Rum 
Splash of Coca Cola
On the Rocks!
Garnish with a lime wedge!!

Another Man's Treasure

All week long I have been dreading the task of going to the Social Security Administration.  Can you blame me?  It has been my own personal experience that any government run institution is a royal pain in the ass; long lines, unruly and impatient children and an either boiling hot or freezing cold climate.  Almost sounds like a dreaded trip to the Verizon Wireless store eh? 

Well anyway.... I finally mustered up the strength to tackle this errand head on today.  Having been fully caffeinated and determined to accomplish this task, I set out armed an ready for a long and unpleasant afternoon.  

When I walked into the local Social Security office I was surprised.  It wasn't nearly as treacherous as I had anticipated.  In fact, I was only one of three people waiting in line. Thank you God.  

"Number twenty-one please, " the man from behind the window called.  That's my number!!! 

After answering a few basic questions, the man looked down at the paperwork and sighed.  I must have looked concerned because he almost immediately explained his long winded exhale.  He looked at my former address and revealed how much he absolutely loved Nashville, TN.  

Before I knew it, we were engulfed in a conversation that reminded me of my own affection for my former residence.  He asked me why I would leave such an amazing city; what had brought me here, and if I ever thought of going back.  

And over the following few seconds, my entire Nashville experience flashed before my eyes.  I thought of my apartment, my favorite hangouts, my wonderful friends and even a few unforgettable memories.  I swallowed hard and cleared my throat as I suddenly remembered where I was: in a government office about a week and a half away from heading off to New York City.  

I suddenly felt a sinking feeling that I had no idea if I would ever have a real reason to go back to Nashville.  Of course I have about a hundred great reasons to visit.  But the thought of actually moving back there one day, washed over me in complete bewilderment.  

I looked up at the man on the opposite side of the counter and gave him the most honest answer I could think of on the fly; "I would have to have a really good reason."

This guy was enamored with and determined to move to the very city I had just departed.  And I couldn't help but hope the best for him.  See, I loved Nashville. I still do.  Perhaps I always will. 

Nashville is the kind of city you can simply exist within without having too much pressure or strain. It is a simpler kind of life.  There is plenty of the world's greatest entertainment, delicious food and some genuinely nice folks.  It is the kind of city that doesn't require much from its inhabitants.  And to be perfectly honest, that was precisely my angst. 

I am not ready to sit idle in a city that allows me to do so with relative ease.  

Perhaps one day, when I am tired of meeting the demands of the world, I will go running back to the South just as fast as my feet can carry me. And living there, I will feel very little push and stress from the rat race.  That isn't such a bad picture; sitting on the front porch in my later years, sipping on a sweet tea.  

But the conversation did refresh my memory of all that I loved about Tennessee.  And oddly enough, the brief exchange between two complete strangers is exactly why Nashville is such a treasure; it brings out the neighborliness in people... even government officials.  

Today was the first pleasant and dare I say, painless, experience I have ever had while at a government run institution.  It was even more pleasant than a trip to the dentist, which is shocking because I pretty much hate having metal tools anywhere near my tonsils. 

It just goes to show that one man's past, just may be another man's treasure.  It is comforting to know that there are always more people lined up eagerly to experience things I have held so dear.  And maybe, one day, I will go back there and have another go 'round of Southern Hospitality.  

In the meantime, I am hungry.  And I think a Big Apple a day is just the medicine I've needed for a long time.  Well that, and a social security card.  

When I turned around, there was suddenly a very long line behind me.  And I couldn't help but smile as I walked out the door,  having accomplished more than what I bargained for in record time. 

Today:

Mint Julep

2 1/2 oz Bourbon

4-5 Mint Sprigs

1/2 oz Simple Syrup

Muddle Mint and Syrup in a collins glass and then

fill the glass with Bourbon.  Stir with crushed ice. 

 

  

  

 

Left Foot Faith

Late last night, I stayed awake for a long time pondering the nature of faith.  And what I realized nearly moments before drifting off to sleep, is that faith is probably the best gift anyone can ever give to another person.  

To have true faith in someone is an extremely selfless act.  It is basically a show of support that may require more on your part to stand by, than the abilities of the other.  You aren't expecting an outcome. You aren't requiring any preliminary action.  You simply offer a show of support in your unwavering belief.  

Faith in its truest form is infectious and utterly philanthropic.  

I am so fortunate to have experienced this selfless show of faith.  And knowing that there is someone out there who believes in what I say and what I do, or will do, is a gift that I won't ever forget as long as I live.  

Why should anyone have faith in me anymore? Do they see something that I cannot?  Why should anyone believe me?? Why should anyone believe in me?

I guess those are the questions that often come to mind when seeking out support from family or friends.  While I surely haven't intended sell myself short, there have been many occasions where I simply followed my heart and found myself at a wrong turn, a stop sign and a dead end.  It was a frustrating experience to have proved myself wrong from time to time.  But the funny thing is, it was faith that moved me to those decisions.  So was my faith faulty??

The problem is, with the type of faith I was accustomed to giving, I had always hoped for some end result for my own personal gain. But I sadly did not know that going into the faithful transaction.  It was always when the dust settled and I felt a sinking disappointment in my stomach for being let down that I realized that the faith I had given, wasn't wholly free.  Like standing balanced on your right foot instead of your left; you have enough faith that your left foot can hold you up, but you have more faith that your right foot will simply handle the job with greater ease and efficiency.  

The faith I had given, was like a 'right foot' show of faith. This show of support and belief had strings tied closely to my heart and upon the crumbling of the outcome, were therefore were tugged, yanked and ultimately untied.  And when I felt let down, there was an emptiness beyond repair.  

But when I realized last night the true wonder of unwavering faith, I was so filled up inside with gratitude that I could hardly sit still.  What a gift I have been given!  Time to put my left foot forward for a change... and have a little faith. 

There are no strings attached as far as I can see.  It is given so freely. 

I can only aspire to achieve whatever hope a person has afforded me; and honor the show of selfless faith through my actions and experiences in life. 

Perhaps I can also learn to stand on my left foot a little more often, strengthening the balance of the entire being: mind, body and spirit.  And maybe, someday, I can be strong enough to offer someone else that kind of faith and unwavering belief.  Not for any personal gain, but simply as a means of lending a hand, or even a foot if need be.  

It is a challenge these days, to find anything or anyone who may seem worthy of our faith.  We may find ourselves hurt when the lucky recipient of our belief chooses a different way, or worse, fails to believe in themselves at all.  

What a wonderful world it could be, if we push ourselves toward the selfless extension of faith.  Even if it is merely faith in ourselves, faith in a friend, or faith in having faith...  

What if we could simply believe in our own inherent worth and talents, without the pressure of a defined or expected return?  

After experiencing this selfless act of faith, I am determined to cultivate more to spread it all around. It is infectious...

See, that's the greatest thing about truly believing in someone no matter what; you never know how it will affect possibly a hundred thousand more people, all because you planted to seed inside of just one.  

Today:

Vodka Sonic

1 oz Vodka

Equal parts Soda and Tonic

Rocks with a lime wedge

 

Muscle Memory

You know what is so funny?  I went a very long time without writing.  I think it was maybe the year after I graduated from college that I simply checked out creatively.  

I chose screenwriting for film and television as my major, and from that moment on, I was in a seemingly endless cycle of writing and rewriting.  While I loved the process very much indeed, I'll admit that I struggled with the most simple aspect of storytelling: what to write about.  

Some of my classmates made this look so easy.  I envied their ability to concoct wild stories of rescue or political satire.  I would read over their work, look up at them, then back to the page and think; Where the hell did that come from??

I have always had a very natural ease with writing. Whether a poem, an essay, a short story, a screenplay or even something in iambic pentameter, the words have made their way to page without much thought or mental editing.  

But when I sat down to write a screenplay for the first time, I was absolutely stuck.  Instead of just writing one scene, I would get caught up in how that scene would somehow affect the entire script and as a result, I would just sit there in bewilderment at the blank screen. 

Another problem I encountered with screenwriting was chopping out entire chunks of descriptive pros.   You have to switch off that part of your brain that desperately wants to dazzle the reader with delicate and beautiful sentences.  In fact, my professor would often tell us that screenplays should have mostly white on the page.  

So, with that in mind, I began strength training this muscle that I hadn't even known existed before.  It was an exercise in setting up meaningful and effective dialogue.  Writing for a visual medium, means that all those pretty little descriptive pros are actually replaced by everything you see on camera: courtesy of the cinematographer,  the actors and director.  

So when I graduated college, I felt numbed by the process of the rewrite.  Not only is writing challenging enough when you are having to consider its future offspring of film and television, but the aspect of a seemingly endless cycle of rewriting is enough to make any writer want to crawl into a hole and hibernate for about five years.  And so naturally, that is precisely what I did. 

Well, seven years to be exact.  I guess I needed to live a little and gather up some new material.   

And now, all these years later, sitting down to write is so natural it is almost scary.  It is like a muscle memory.  Without much thought at all, I sit down with my laptop and write.  Before I am even half-way through my first cup of coffee, I am more than half-way finished with my daily writing exercise.  

But I have to admit that I am still mesmerized by these writers who sit down and tell an entire story.  That is where I fear that I am a little... stuck. 

The past seven or eight years have provided me with a treasury of new material.  And that may be the very reason I began writing again a few months ago.  I had to put into words some of the harsh lessons I have learned.  And as I often do with most everything in life, I frequently opt to put a comical spin on it.  

But telling an entire story is something entirely different.  It is much more daunting than my daily challenge of writing something new just as soon as I wake up.  A novel? A screenplay? A plot? A theme? A hook? Red Herring? Chapters?? Act 1... Act 2... Act 3... Eh, I don't know...

I may not be ready to sit down for that quite yet, but I do feel that each and every day I write... I am sneaking up on the story that is just sitting up on top of my dusty shelf of a brain, just waiting to be told.

Until then, we'll just have to wait and see what happens next. 

Today:

Hemingway Special

2 oz White Rum

1/4 oz Maraschino liqueur

1 oz Grapefruit Juice

1/2 of a fresh squeezed lime

  

 

Sensory Under-load

The silence is deafening.  Have you ever experienced that kind of definitive quiet?  When I first arrived in Michigan three and a half months ago, I recall those first few nights as being a tough transition.  Everything about living in the woods is different.  It was a nice change from the little suburban life that had become too familiar to me in Franklin, Tn. 

I guess I am just the kind of person who needs to shake things up every few years.  Perhaps it is part of what stimulates my creativity and zest for life.  

So, after five years of living in Music City, USA, I came here to Traverse City for a short season of outdoorsy adventures, a slew of festivals and plenty of fresh air.  

I also took a summer job at a popular restaurant in town that boasts one of the best on the water dining experiences.  Since that seasonal job had come to an end as of two weeks ago, I have found myself a little more perplexed by the audible silence that insulates this entire property.  

When the wind blows at night, I welcome the clasping, chatter of the tree branches.  It is as if we are new neighbors, and they have thrown me a house warming party.  How thoughtful. 

Two days ago, I drove up the long and narrow stretch of road that leads to our gate.  At the entrance were three deer.  There was a mama deer and her two spotted twins. It was the sweetest sight.  A few days before that, a family of wild turkeys gathered in the front yard.  They weren't very much interested in sticking around though.  They were just passing through. 

As much as I love being outdoors and taking in all the serene nature that is around me each and every day, I can't help but feel a little... uhh, brainless these days.  La dee daa... there's a deer.  Tweedle dee dee, a turkey passing by.  Hmmm... I'd better get that turtle to cross the road.  Oh, wow, I had no idea Bluejays sounded like that!  Doot doo doot, time for bed....

And round and round I go.  Two weeks of pure wilderness, with the occasional night out on the town, has me going a bit stir crazy.  In fact, my lack of real life human interaction has me a bit short of emotional or intellectual stimuli.  

I sit quietly to myself and stare blankly for an unmeasurable amount of time.  I think of things like: trees, nachos, getting back in shape, and even, an ex-boyfriend or two.  Huh, I guess I have been single now for a year... Oh look, a field of bunny rabbits. 

When you live in the forest, the various woodland creatures are your main source of entertainment.  I have given each of them, a troubled backstory.  Bambi's long lost half sister who got knocked up after running away from home when her step mom was shot by hunters long ago.  And Bambi?? Well, he never visits anymore...  Thumper has sixteen children to provide for and they are all plotting against him in hopes to take over everything he has worked so hard for.  Not familiar with Bambi or Thumper?? Well, I'm sorry... but don't worry, my version is far more entertaining. 

Yes folks, I hate to break it to you but these are the kinds of thoughts a writer endures while unemployed and living in the wilderness of northern Michigan.  

I am about to force myself back into society, as I have come to the sad realization of my current state of sensory under-load.  

Under-stimulated.  Underwhelmed... And under the influence of the day in and day out bleakness of the deafening quiet.  

I guess there is only so much peace and quiet I can take.  

I know that I am in for a harsh change in the coming weeks.  When I arrive in New York City on October 1st, I will probably long for the days when I had a quiet night's rest, and for that matter, my own room/bed.  But such is life. 

I guess that is how it goes.  Everything looks better or maybe just clearer in hindsight.  Sometimes I feel that this stage of my life, we will call it 'the early years,' is some kind of calm preparation before being catapulted into whatever it is that I will one day... do.  

I imagine that all this stillness is like the calm before the storm.  You think?  

Well who knows.  It's not like the past ten years have been all that calm or uneventful.  Quite the contrary.  But I suppose it just goes to show that there is just a certain amount of chaotic energy that I crave in order to feel stimulated creatively.  When I don't have it, I feel the need to invent it; unfairly characterizing the poor turkeys as mafia gangsters whether they want it or not...  Boredom for me, is no bueno. 

Alas... I write.  

Michigan (for an extended period of time) may be a bit of a sensory under-load.  While New York City no doubt, promises to be the complete opposite.  Who needs to invent crazy backstories for the woodland creatures, when the crazies that roam the streets of NYC are vying to tell you all about their actual past lives??

Obviously, I am currently suffering from an acute case of cabin fever.  On that note, I think it's time to go into town today, if only to remind myself what the muffled consistency of traffic sounds like.  

Yes, I think that is exactly what the doctor ordered.  

Today:

Bambi's Iced Tea

1 oz Vodka

1 oz Sweet and Sour Mix

Equal parts Coca Cola and Sprite

On the rocks, in a highball glass. 

(Un)Limited Time Offer

Okay... it is time to divulge some seriously embarrassing personal information.  I've considered long and hard whether or not to tell you this, but today I woke up and thought that after two months of reading my blog every day... You've EARNED this juicy bite-sized morsel of autobiography.  Don't worry, you can thank me later.  

Once upon a time, I used to be a Vampire Slayer, a Warrior Princess and a Crime Scene Detective.  (See... I told you it was pretty juicy).  That's right ladies and gentlemen, I am a certified badass.  Or at least, I used to be.

I am pretty sure it was around the fourth or fifth grade when I took up secret training in the backyard of my childhood home.  I understood the risk of ever being found out, so I would pack up some snacks in a backpack and a few good pieces of wood and I'd set out on my own for a couple hours.

Since Vampires were actually a little scarce in my neck of the woods, I practiced my spear throwing at an old, dried up Christmas tree that was out by our horse barn.

I would practice doing flips and kicks while trowing these spears hard into the tree (aka "vampire").  When it occurred to me one day that vampires didn't seem to be as big a threat as my fellow man, I turned in my cross and wooden spears for a horse and a sword and deemed myself a warrior princess.  It seemed to be a natural progression for a slayer like me, and I rather enjoyed my newly regal warrior status.

I would take off on horseback and gallop up the side of the mountain just looking for a villager to rescue.  I spent a long winter scouring the valley for a battle or a villain, but never really found one.  And after months and months of this exhausting search and rescue effort, I decided to retire my sword.

Hmmm what role shall I play now??? 

There was a rather famous person on trial for murder at the time, and so I thought it best to try my hand at investigation.  I was already a skilled tracker and was not afraid of vampires, so how bad could a little detective work be??

I donned a white robe, I mean, a "lab coat" and went to work on the case.  It was a tireless effort of checking under the microscope and examining all the evidence.  And after all my efforts, and the glove didn't fit the suspect, well then I figured I ought to turn in my lab coat for my homework anyway.  After all, I was going to be in the seventh grade soon, and I knew my crime fighting days were numbered...

Or were they??

By the time I was twelve years old, I was already a skilled rider, spear thrower, and investigator; why should I give up on all these remarkable skills??

I suppose I just assumed that the days of make believe were a luxury I couldn't afford in the years ahead.  And in a way, I was sort of right.

To me, playing my hand at the imaginary mellow dramas of the 90s was just not a practical pursuit later on in life.  It was as if playing these various roles had a limited time offer.  

I almost believed that nonsense to be true; that I would someday have to give up on the thing I loved the most... storytelling.  Until one day, when I looked at myself in the mirror and made a decision.  I decided that if I had the discipline to practice my hand at all these roles each and every day after school, perhaps I could also be disciplined enough to never give up on my imagination.

I was correct that in some ways, life as a storyteller was a luxury I couldn't afford. That is, if I wanted everything that my peers could afford.  Classmates and friends have accumulated many things that I would surely enjoy: a house, a brand new car, a consistent paycheck.  Sure, those things would be nice.

But the day that I looked in the mirror and could still see myself as a warrior, a slayer and a street smart investigator, what I really saw was an Unlimited Time Offer.

And I made a decision to do what I love, no matter the cost.

Sure, sometimes I feel kind of like a loser.  To be perfectly honest, life as a storyteller isn't the most glamorous when compared to say, an Architect, Engineer, Doctor or Real Estate Tycoon.  But when I am faced with a severe care of "the flunkies", as I have dubbed it years ago, I can't help but remember the girl who felt like an indestructible BADASS circa 1995.

And it is the very spark I need to keep the fire ignited.

It is a choice.  I could either DO what I love or I could have the things I enjoy.  And what I have come to grips with is that as long as my imagination remains intact and I have the simple company of a few friends and readers... I actually have everything I need at this point in time.  And I am happy enough with that.

When you are passionate about something, well I believe that passion is to be honored.  Because passion and ability are God given gifts, not limited time offers.

So, if I have to imagine myself as the warrior, a servant, or the brave and fearless explorer... well then guess what; that is exactly what I shall do in order to press on and honor the Unlimited Offer of unlimited imagination.  

It doesn't get much juicier than that! 

Ok, now you can thank me... For you see, I am a fool for you; my friends on the other side of the page, the screen, and theater seats.  And to be honest, I don't see that offer expiring any time soon.


Today:

Vampire Slayer

1 oz Peach Schnapps 
1 oz Vodka
1 oz Grenadine
Fill with Orange Juice
Layered over Rocks! 

Driven

They're baaaaaack... back to school that is.  It's official: the school year has begun.  Time to reroute trips to the grocery store to avoid school zones and schedule every errand around peak school bus and minivan carpooling hours.  Crosswalks, slow zones and never ending bus routes may drive you to insanity, or in the very least, remind you of the days when it was you, walking to and from the bus stop.

As for me, I was spared from riding the big yellow school bus.  My means of transportation evolved in three stages: K- 8th my mom drove me, 9th grade I rode with my brother who was a senior, and from my sophomore year of high school, through my senior year of college, I drove myself.

Those mornings driving to school with my mom were some of the best memories I have from my childhood.  My mom has a way of making even the most mundane task extra special.  If we had an extra ten minutes to spare, we would go through a drive-thru and get breakfast.  Those mornings are intertwined with my entire academic experience.  It made me a happier kid and it undoubtedly showed.  Showing up on time with a hot breakfast was a pretty great way to go to school. I was the envy of all the kids in my grade because it was no secret that I in fact, had the coolest mom in school. They were the good old days.

Then... came high school.

Halfway through my freshman year of high school I was called into the principal's office.  When I sat down in the chair opposite to him, I could tell I was in big trouble but I wasn't exactly sure why.  "You've been late 17 times so far this year.  You're suspended."  Suspended?? But I don't have a driver's license yet!! It's my brother!! He is suffering from an acute case of Senior-itis!

I had to explain to the principal that I was at the mercy of my older brother who was rapidly approaching graduation.  Every morning, I would carpool with him and would wait patiently as he color coordinated his shoe laces to match his jacket and hat.  As an owner of a clothing store and yes, also a high school senior, my brother was quite particular about his fashion statement... every single day. 

And to his logic, as long as we were already running late, we might as well go through the drive-thru and get breakfast. What's another fifteen minutes?? Late, was late.

I never did get suspended.  I actually think the principal was even a little sympathetic to my case.  He let me go with a warning and a detention slip.

After that first year of high school, I finally drove myself to school for the rest of my academic career. And although I was driven to succeed and to be on time, I never forgot those mornings where I was not behind the wheel.

They were the best mornings ever.  Perhaps it was a relief in some way, to be at the mercy of whoever it was behind the wheel; sitting in the passenger seat, without a care in the world, along for the ride.

When I was in the driver's seat, I realized something both exciting and a little sad: those carefree days as a passenger were behind me. My course, destination, ETA and means to get wherever I want to be was and is entirely up to me; the driver.  It was a realization that changed the way I looked at the road ahead.

And... I've been rather driven ever since.

In retrospect, I kind of wish I hadn't been in such a hurry to take the wheel.  But isn't that typical?  When we are young and dependent, we long for the day when we can take the wheel.  And when we grow up, we look back and think; Wow, I had it pretty good.  

Perhaps that is why our parents and teachers always warned us kids to not be in such a rush to grow up; because once you are, you'll never again have the luxury of letting others drive you everywhere you want or need to go.  

If you want to get to where you're going as a grown-up... you'd better be punctual, have a good sense of direction and above all else: be driven.  

Because if you can't get to where you're going, you won't have anyone else to blame.  For once you're in the driver's seat, it's entirely up to you to take the wheel and hopefully arrive safe and sound.

I just hope all these kids today know how good they've got it! Life is a journey, so you'd better enjoy the ride whether you are in the passenger seat or behind the wheel.  Slow down... It goes by so fast!    

Today:

Tijuana Taxi 

2 oz Gold Tequila
1 oz Blue Curacao
1 oz Tropical Schnapps

On the rocks in a highball glass
Splash of Sprite!

 

Opposing Forces

I've just spent the past five minutes reading an article published by Northwestern University about how a battery works.  You know, the kind that power that pink Energizer Bunny who rolls along, beating his little drum.  We know that the battery charges the Energizer Bunny; but what is charging the battery?

While I knew full well that a battery possesses two opposing forces, a positive end (+) and a negative one (-), I did not however, entirely understand how the opposite ends serve to charge the entire body and produce energy.  It is quite interesting... if you've had at least two cups of coffee before reading.

The article was extremely informative; going on to explain that there are in fact, three sides to a battery. The obvious (+) and (-) sides make up the two opposite ends of the battery of course, while the the third side is actually the middle.  I won't begin to articulate the painstaking process of how a battery works. You're welcome... 

If you ever do want to find out for yourself, I trust that there are far more informative articles online than the one I am writing here.  However, the gist of it actually serves to make a point that I would like to expound upon that promises to be a tad more entertaining than a Science Guy's explanation...

Basically, a battery is powered by the positive and negative thing-a-ma-jiggers that interact within the cell and are trapped in the middle.  That's about as scientific as I can get at 9:30 a.m., pre second cup of coffee.

What got me on this unusual subject you ask?? Well, it has a little something to do with the past two weeks. You see, yesterday I was informed that my perspective in life as shared in my blog,  appears to have taken a somewhat negative turn as of late.  While undoubtedly entertaining, the last week of blog posts have most certainly observed the world around me through less than rosy colored glasses.

So... what gives?  My dad seemed to find the shift of perspective rather amusing; suggesting that I become more and more like him every day.  Hmmmm...  

I thought about that statement all day yesterday.  Was he right? 

While my dad is not exactly Darth Vader, and I sure as hell don't resemble Luke Skywalker, it would seem that I have in fact turned to the dark side. Que the music: dum dum dum dum da daaa dum dum, doot doot do doo doot too doodle doot...  If you aren't familiar with that haunting score than you are forbidden from reading any further and are instructed to go watch Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back immediately.

Okay, the truth is, I may have had an unhealthy dose of (-) charges overloading my circuit these days.  But in all fairness, I was not blind to that phenomenon.  I could sense it too.  And that is when I decided  that it was time to put in my two weeks notice and take a break from life behind the bar.  My default mode is rather positive.  Honestly!

Look back to the posts in early July and you will read super charged (+) positivity.  Life Un-Stuck is a great example of my lightened up, enlightened point of view.

I definitely do not want to turn to the dark side.  And I would argue that a battery needs both opposing forces (+) and (-) to produce a charge within.

I believe that my positivity is simply re-charging as a result of the (-) negative ions floating around me on a regular basis.  The opposing forces of positive and negative perspectives actually serve each other in the long run.

This battery of mine is simply regenerating power, thank you very much! 

Do not fear.  I am certain that life with continue to shift between these two opposing forces for the rest of my days.  I am also certain that I will do my best to hopefully stay charged within my third side: the middle ground.

Until then, just enjoy the ride.  If not super (+) positive, it will be at the very least,
(-) entertaining!

Enjoy this Labor Day weekend and MAY THE FORCE BE WITH YOU!!!!! 

Always-


Today:

Jedi Mind Trick

1 oz Dark Rum
1 oz Amaretto Almond Liqueur
1 oz Kahlua ® Coffee Liqueur
1 oz Bailey's ® Irish Cream
3 scoops Ice Cream

2 Cherries

Combine all contents (except cherries) in a blender until smooth. Pour into a mug and garnish with cherries.

For this and other recipes Click here!

Cents and Sensibility

The other day I came across something I hadn't ever seen before: a 1943 Wheat Penny.  As I plucked it out from the pile of loose change jingling around in the bottom of my purse, my fingertips glided across the worn face of old "honest Abe." The coin itself has seen better days, but remains in fair condition.  Just by looking at it, you probably wouldn't guess that it is seventy years old, except for a few worn edges and the exposed base metal.

I did a little research because I am, without a doubt, a bit of a romantic when it comes to antiquities.  What I discovered surprised me a little.  1943 Wheat Pennies were minted with a different base metal than the traditional copper pennies created the previous and following years; they are unique.  Even more curious, is that some of these pennies minted in 1943 were accidentally minted in copper rather than the base metal originally intended; these are extremely unique.  

In the same excavation of my oversized purse, I found a few more wheat pennies that sparked my curiosity: 1944, 1941, 1952 and even a well worn penny from 1911.  Unbelievable.  

Now, I am well aware of my giant nerd status and I am pretty sure, upon reading this post today, you will be too.  Perhaps it isn't a big deal to find wheat pennies.  I wouldn't really know because I am quite an amateur coin collector.  In fact, I am hardly a coin collector at all.  But, I would say I know a lucky penny when I see one.  To me, the 1943 wheat penny is the golden ticket.  

You see, that was not the only unique face of American sense minted in 1943. It was also the year a true American ambassador was born: my father, my hero. 

These two particularly uncommon sojourners are worth more than words could ever possibly express.  How does one measure something or someone's worth?  How can you possibly begin the tedious process of examining the quality, the origin, the circulation, the condition and place a set value accordingly?? 

Like I said, I am quite a novice when it comes to the business of antiquities.  I do however have a keen awareness of value and rarity.  And in 1943, I can assure you, the two most rare faces of American values, were minted.  And today, I am fortunate enough to be in close proximately to both.  

Perhaps you'll just have to take my word for it.  But I believe that in time, both of these 1943 treasures will be spoken about for decades more to come. And I will have been the lucky benefactor. 

Seventy years may be a long time for a wheat penny to circulate from person to place, but is not even close to enough time to measure its inherent value.  And to my dad, I say the same is true... 

1943 was a good year.   

Happy Birthday Dad.  The value of one cent and a whole wealth of common sense is what you've instilled in me: cents and sensibility.  I can't even begin to know what all to give back to you.  But here's an idea... How about a 1943 penny for your thoughts?? 

I think that would be a good place to start...

Today:

Amaretto Sour

1 oz Amaretto 

Splash of Sour mix

Serve on the rocks!

  

Rocky Horror

If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone quote Rocky upon discovering my name, I probably wouldn't be a millionaire, but I would certainly have a whole truck load full of cents.  "Yo, Adriane, " is a phrase that I have encountered on a regular basis, in a hundred different affectations and a few dozen badly slurred impersonations, every year since I was eight years old.  In fact, it is a rare month that passes without having had been the butt of the old Rocky joke at least once.

And working behind a bar increases those statistics by an enormous measure.  The joke, if you can even call it that, is so worn out by now that I can hardly manage to muster up my own tired/clever response.  "Oh yeah, good one."  "Hey, now you'll never ever forget me."  "I haven't heard that one all day."  "No really, I've just never heard that before."  

When in reality, all I'm actually thinking is: You're a moron, please go away and damn you Sylvester Stallone. 

As a film geek myself, I suppose it is only fitting to have my name associated with a three time Oscar winning film. In that respect, I guess it's not so bad.  

I was born in the summer of 1983, in the midst of the Rocky mega-saga.  The film had already achieved huge box office sales and an entire cabinet of awards and nominations.  It was truly a smash hit (pun intended). 

Given the timeline of my own much anticipated debut, alongside that of the Rocky saga, many people assumed that my name was inspired by the fighting champion's main squeeze, Adrian.  In fact, the assumptions are alive and well today, some thirty years later. 

I had a nickname from K-12 that spared me from the Rocky ridicule most of the time.  My brothers, having been only a few years older than me, couldn't say the name "Adriane" when I was born, so instead, they settled on "Dede."  And then it began, round one of the epic boxing match of my life: the Dede vs. Adriane showdown. Ding! Ding! Round one! Fight!

So, wait, what's her name? Which one do I call her? Which do you prefer? 

Though I'm not entirely sure how it happened, around my junior year of college, people began addressing me by my formal name, Adriane.  And in social settings, when introductions were exchanged, I decided to give my childhood nickname a rest, and dust off my actual given name. 

It was after all, my dad who'd chosen the name to commemorate and honor his hometown of Adrian, Michigan.  As shocking or disappointing as it may be, I will clarify that I was not named after the Rocky saga.  Not even a little bit. 

By the time I was born, my dad had already circled the globe, having visited over forty countries.  And of all the places that left a lasting impression, it was his small hometown in southern Michigan.  I am named after a place, not a late 70's boxing flick.  

It's been a good seven years since I decided to own up to my given name.  While I have deep rooted affection for both names, Dede and Adriane, I have to say that I've grown into the latter.  It's not that I've grown out of my childhood nickname per se, rather that I've grown accustomed to both.  I find it endearing that half of my best friends and brothers still call me Dede, while the other half of my best friends, business contacts, professors and my father of course, refuse to call me by any other name than that which is imprinted upon my driver's license and diplomas.  

I have come to appreciate both names for very different reasons.  And I have also learned that whichever name you decide to address me by says a little something more about you than it does me.  It speaks to how you see me and what type of history we've shared or hope to share.   

No matter how it is spelt, across the board, Adriane means "dark and rich."  I'm not exactly sure how relevant the meaning is to my overall character, but it sure does sound intriguing.  

I doubt the Rocky horror name game will ever cease to exist.  I am fairly certain the bad Stallone impersonations will forever be entangled with my life.  Perhaps I need to work up a new, more punchy response.  Or perhaps, appropriately so, my response is as tired as the punch line. 

Alas, I do like my name.  It's strong, dark, and rich, and is associated with an idyllic place.  It is part of my family's history, and my father's legacy.   

Hello, I'm Adriane.  That's my name, don't wear it out. 

Today:

Rocky's Dilemma

1 1/2 oz Vodka

1/2 oz Grand Marnier 

Stir and strain into a martini glass. 

Photo origin Wikipedia.org 

3-2-1- Time Bomb

As most of you probably know by now, Fridays for me are more like Mondays for you.  It's a mad rush to accomplish everything I need to do come Friday morning, before heading off to work an extra long shift behind the bar.  On Fridays and Saturdays I open an hour earlier, forcing me to wake up, moderately function, write a blog post and suck down nearly an entire pot of coffee in record time.

It's a hustle.  The alarm goes off and almost instantaneously, the countdown begins.  Gotta get up! OH NO, IT'S FRIDAY. Yuck! As the clock ticks relentlessly, I roll out of bed, stagger to the coffee pot, fire up a few brain cells and sit down to write. 

Write about what?? Oh gosh, who knows?? The truth is, ideas pop into my head just as soon as I wake up.  They are spontaneous little bursts of wonder and analysis that I surrender to each and every day; all the while, keeping one watchful eye on that damn ticking clock.  

3-2-1 FRIDAY

I must admit that lately, I have been unable to silence the little voice inside my head that is counting down the weeks, days, hours and minutes to liftoff.  Only two more Weekends to serve at this job before... Oh I don't know, whatever else is next! 

Decisions, Decisions... I've had it in my heart and mind to go to New York come fall, and as the slightest hint of the changing season casts a rosy hue to the very tips of the maples, I am reminded of one thing: the ever oppressive passing of time.  I look at the date on the calendar, and then to the hour this Friday morning and I sigh: Yes, I do believe it's almost time...

And for as much awareness that I possess of the passing time, I do however, attempt to live for the present moment and enjoy the here and now.  

Is there any way to get my hands on a little more time in a given day?  When looking back to generations past,  didn't they just seem to have more time?  Great authors, painters, philosophers and homemakers alike, created masterful works within a seemingly small measure of time.  Yet, the daily allowance for time remains the same.  So what gives? 

I woke up today and thought: two hours to write, respond to some pressing emails and phone calls if I have time, thirty minutes to get ready for work, thirty minutes to drive to work, and wait... Don't forget to eat lunch today! And then, as if the shot was fired high into the air, I was off and the race began.

I'm trying desperately to accomplish everything I need to do each day, but sadly, am finding less time to eat, sleep, drink and be merry.  On more than one occasion, I have been known to not have enough time to eat a proper meal before work.  And that my friends, is not a good thing.  

Is our ability to maximize our time each day directly correlated to measuring (with skilled precision) each and every waking moment between rest and waking? Or is it possible to strike a balance and lose track of time, without also suffering the loss of productivity?

Shall I continue to sprint out the gate each morning as fast as humanly possible? Or, is it wiser instead to pace it out and take the long view? I wonder...  

All I know is that the hyper awareness of the unforgiving passing of time and the process of distributing it according to each task, is utterly exhausting.  

Why not just stop or slow down you might ask?  Well, I guess it's like this: for as much as I aspire to achieve in my life, I fear that there just isn't enough time.  It's the ultimate time bomb...

Time to create, time to enjoy, time to share, time to earn a dollar, time to move forward.  It's about that time...  And so with that, the countdown continues. 

Today:

Irish Car Bomb

1/2 shot Bailey's Irish Cream

1/2 shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey

Drop the shot into a pint of Guinness 

And lose track of time completely...

Photo credit: physicscentral.com

Times Square.

Wishing it wasn't time to go to work...