...That's What She Said

As many of you know, this past weekend was my semi-annual trek to Atlanta, GA to see the band closest to my heart live in concert. I fell in love with R.E.M. at age 13 when the music video for "Everybody Hurts" played on MTV and stirred my heart with such power that I dropped to my knees in tears. It was in that moment that music began to move me. Several years later, I woke up before sunrise on a Saturday morning to get in line early with a friend at the Peaches record store in Deland. Unbeknownst to my stepmother, I purchased my very first concert ticket that day. I spent the next two months dropping not-so-subtle hints around the house about how I wouldn't need anything for my birthday if I could just go see R.E.M. live and how that was the one thing that would make this 17 year old girl happier than anything else in the entire universe. After a daily dose of that, my step mom gave in and agreed to let me go as long as I promised not to stay out past 11:30 on a school night, and of course if tickets were still available. Never sharing my secret that I'd secured my ticket well in advance, I drove to Orlando with three friends, one of which was nice enough to stuff my camera down his pants. Arriving home at 2:00 a.m. got me grounded for a couple of months, but it didn't phase me one bit. Every night of solitude in my room, I put my headphones on my ears, closed my eyes and relived what I deemed the best night of my life up to that point.

Much like my first R.E.M. show back in 1995, Saturday night's show was worth every minute of the seven hour drive up to Georgia and every sleepy second on the long drive home last night. It was worth the gridlock traffic we hit between Macon and Atlanta. It was worth the mediocre salad we ate for dinner that ultimately made us late for the show, missing Modest Mouse who was opening. It was worth the construction on the interstate through downtown Atlanta. It was worth the over-priced ticket to the Georgia Aquarium on Sunday. It was worth all the southern people with no sense of consideration or direction that bumped and bounced into us at the marine exhibits. It was worth the animals constantly relocating to the opposite sides of their habitats each time Jason was about to take a photograph of them. It was worth the $150 in gas. It made each tiny annoyance and even the one significant let down appear as only the tiniest blip on the radar of my happiness... and this time it wasn't just thanks to Michael Stipe.

When arriving to our seats shortly after 8:30, Jason and I assumed that we had missed the first opening band, The National, and were waiting for Modest Mouse to come on stage. The skies were clear and the sun still shown down on the shoulders of the crowd in the outdoor amphitheater. The night had yet to begin and we chatted with one another about what we thought the set lists might be. Jason commented that he was still in awe that he would be watching two of the guitarists that had strongly influenced him growing up (Peter Buck and Johnny Marr) on the same stage in the same night. The sun began to sink below the horizon, the stage lights flashed and a roar of cheers emitted from the surrounding fans. The musicians walked across the stage and took their places. With terror in my gut, I turned to Jason. "That's R.E.M.," I said. He didn't speak. We were both in shock. We re-checked our ticket stubs. The doors had opened much earlier then I'd thought I'd read in my email confirmation weeks before. My heart sank and the first song they played became a blur in my memory. I wanted a time machine so badly that it hurt. I wanted Jason to see two of his real life guitar heroes that night, not just one. Seeing the distress on my face, Jason hugged me and reassured me that everything was ok. Over the applause at the end of the first song, I told Jason that we'd try to get tickets for the Orlando show that Modest Mouse was headlining this Tuesday. He nodded in agreement and encouraged me to pay attention to the stage. It was after all, my favorite band of all time. A few songs later, I was able to put aside my disappointment and take in what a truly great set list I was witnessing. They weren't just there to promote their new album... no, this was the mother of all homecoming shows. They played songs off all their old albums from Murmur to New Adventures in Hi-Fi. I used Jason's phone to call Amy during "Driver 8" and let her listen in. Nearly an hour later, I asked for his phone to call Ames again when they played "The One I Love," but we'll get back to that in a minute. All in all, it was the best show since my life altering first one back in high school. For the encore, they played three songs... then before moving onto the fourth, Johnny Marr took the stage... and played both "Fall on Me" and "Man on the Moon" side by side with Peter Buck. Jason's smile illuminated the night and I was filled with gratitude. It was the perfect end to a perfect performance.

Now, let me back up just a bit to change the focus of my little recap. As the first few notes of "The One I Love" reached my ears, I tapped Jason and motioned for him to give me his cell phone. He reached his hand first in one pocket and then the other. He fumbled around for what felt like an eternity and I thought that by the time he found it, the song would be over and I'd miss my chance to leave a portion of it on my friend's voice mail. He motioned as though the phone was missing and started to look on the ground. Lovely. He'd dropped his phone somewhere and it had probably been trampled by now. I sighed and turned my attention back toward the stage. As he got down on the ground to continue feeling in the dark for his missing Motorolla, he bumped me. I turned back toward him... and there I saw him on one bended knee with an open ring box extended toward me. He had completely caught me by surprise. I pulled him up into an embrace as he sang the lyrics, "this one goes out to the one I love". The people in the rows behind us cheered and clapped as we kissed. Two girls congratulated me as I wiped tears from my eyes and one guy high-fived Jason as he cheered, "Whooo-hoo, I'm getting married!" He slipped the ring on my finger and hugged me as I continued to wipe joyful tears from my eyes for the duration of one of the closest things R.E.M. has to a love song (not counting "At My Most Beautiful" which isn't something they're partial to playing live). I've heard a lot of sweet proposal stories in which guys hide rings in food, under a shell or take their girlfriend to a romantic spot where they might have shared a memorable moment. I always thought these things were sweet, but I've also always had a feeling that the right one would know just the right time and place to propose to a somewhat odd girl like myself. Given how much this band has meant to me over the course of my life and the fact that music is one of the first things that drew Jason and I together... I can honestly say that I could have never dreamed of anything more perfect.

He knows me... and he gets me... this seals the deal.

Monday morning at 5:45 a.m. an alarm goes off in a dark bedroom in Daytona Beach. At 6:00 a.m., a girl brushing her teeth with one eye partially opened ponders the existence of morning people and worries about their mental stability. She buckles her seat belt and releases the parking brake at 6:45 a.m. and then parks in her designated space of the downtown Orlando parking garage at 7:47 a.m. Having been on the road just long enough to listen to one kick-butt album in its entirety, she decides that maybe there's something to the whole early morning thing. It certainly was nice to not have to rush out of the door 10 minutes before needing to be at her desk at 8:00 and having to run up the stairs in a race with the time clock. As lunch time approaches, she retrieves the brown paper bag that her boyfriend had packed for her the night before. Inside she discovers a lunch far superior to anything ever sent with her to school during her childhood. Smiling, she happily munches on all the healthy treats such as carrot sticks, an apple, pretzels and sandwich on yummy oatmeal bread and saves the cookies for her 3:00 p.m. "Goulet Attack" break. Seated back in her car at 5:10 p.m., she shifts into reverse and begins the commute home. After much brake tapping through Orange and Seminole Counties, she finally makes it to the home stretch off the highway. She pouts as she tries to stretch her cramped knee and curses all those who do not know how to drive properly in the rain. At 6:25 p.m. she approaches the intersection that leads to her new neighborhood and notices something in the right side of the view through the windshield. From a cloud directly overhead to the general area of her new residence was a brightly colored pastel arc. As if she needed any further proof after the little brown bag from heaven, this rainbow was showing her the way home. Going along with the symbolism theme, she asks herself if this new life is to be her pot of gold? She likes to think the answer is yes.

Footnote:
**Now she just asks that her dear friends remind her of her first day of commuting and how well it went when she calls to complain that she's been stuck in grid-locked traffic for an hour due to an accident 17 miles up ahead that she'll never see because by the time she gets to that exit after wasting half a tank of gas and burning out her clutch, the tow trucks and emergency vehicles will have long since cleared the wreckage. She thanks you in advance.

It's been a year since I said goodbye to my spacious Altamonte Springs condo to embrace city living in the heart of downtown Orlando where one could walk to any number of trendy restaurants for brunch or a dinner at an outside patio, the history center, library, Lake Eola park and of course the clubs on Orange. The past 365 days have been eventful to say the least. While I will not miss drunken neighbors keeping me up on work nights or car vandalism, there are a few things that I will look back upon and remember fondly. These highlights include (but are not limited to) porch nights with Jordan and Erica, borrowing things from Amy next door, the pedal cab ride home from I-Bar with Mel, weekends at the festivals in the park, couples' brunches, bike riding on brick roads to work, walking to the wine bar with Jason on our first date and not letting him in my apartment... and that creaky floor board I mentioned in a previous blog. This apartment may have been the smallest space I've ever lived in, but it had a lot of character and held a year's worth of memories. This Saturday I'll swiffer the hardwood floors one last time and turn in my keys. Part of me is sad to say goodbye because becoming financially able to live downtown on my own was a little dream of mine since I was 18 years old. It took a while to get to the point where roommates were not needed and I could live comfortably regardless of the inflated rent due to location. However, now that I've turned 30 and am about to start a family of my own, I'm ready for the next phase in my life. I'm just glad I had a slice of city life just long enough to get it out of my system.

Suburban living and work commuting, here I come!

For my out of town friends who never got the chance to see it, here are photos of the "cute" little place I made my own...

....

When I was 13, I had my first dream about a boy I liked. In that dream, the boy fell off of his bike and broke his leg. He was in the middle of the street about to be hit my an oncoming car. With seconds to spare, I put his arm over my shoulders and carried him to safety. Then I somehow managed to seat him on the bike with his injured leg supported by the frame and wheeled him to a nearby hospital. My first dream about an 8th grade crush had nothing to do with a first kiss or even holding hands... it involved me saving this boy's life.

Such has been the course of my life, with one person to help after another. I never thought I suffered from a Messiah complex and I never dreamed of becoming a doctor and literally saving peoples' lives... but looking back, maybe I did have some sort of personality affliction that drove me to strive to always be the girl who had all the answers. I have been a deus ex machina, always ready to find the words to institute the unobtainable and plant the seed of belief in others of life being perfectible. Friends have told me that I've spoken the exact words that they needed to hear during times of uncertainty. Typically, I casually brushed off such comments by stating that I was merely a friend doing my job. Recently, as I've had a lot of time alone during the week to reflect, I've started to connect the dots between my need to be a problem solver and my need to hold on to my severe independence.

By putting others' problems at the forefront of my life, I skillfully hid the fact that it was my personal defense mechanism against needing anyone to help me. Raising myself as a child and struggling to do everything all on my own for nearly 30 years created a wall that was so tall, I refused to believe that there was a view over it, let alone on the other side. In the past couple of weeks I've correlated this with my actions in many of my past relationships... and I know that I wasn't always right, I wasn't always the one with something to teach. I simply kept enough distance to remain capable of being alone. Granted in the course of things, I am confident that I made a difference and I may have "saved" a few making them better for the next girl in line... so I have no regrets. It's just lately that I'm facing my fear... my terror of depending on someone else, of needing them as much as they need me, of needing to be saved.

As I've started to pack my books, memorabilia and clothes... I've simultaneously been cataloging all of my furniture, decorations and other material possessions that will be sold to the highest bidder. Preparing to let these things go has been unexpectedly devastating. All these things that I've latched onto... all of this stuff that is mine because I obtained it through my own hard work... all these things just have to go. Not only do these things not fit into Jason's house, but they represent my life as a solo individual. The symbolism of each cat fur covered item in my tiny apartment has been overwhelming at times... but as I am surrounded by these things each night, I've slowly begun to detach myself from them. I know they are just things. What I am really letting go of is my need to be on my own.

When I first started dating Jason, I remember thinking about how great it was going to be for me having a boyfriend who lived just far enough away to where I'd get plenty of space. Hanging out on the weekends while still being able to drink wine and have girl friend time during the week was a good fit for me at first. Months later, I've found that the friends are few and far between and my moods and health have been up and down. Just a few weeks ago when I saw the first pictures of the boy that's changing my life, I no longer felt safe in my self-sufficiency. I came to the realization that I needed help, that I couldn't do this all on my own and that I had to let go of the reigns. Since that moment, I've been trying to be brave in the face of fear... not fear of failure or disaster... simply fear of unexplored territory. For the first time, I am aware that I haven't been as open as I've projected myself to be. I also have concluded that little Jackson Dean isn't going to be the only one changing my life... Jason is altering my existence as well. Last week when I was sick, I cried over not having anyone to bring me a tissue or make me soup... and for the first time in my entire existence, I hated having to be self-reliant. I missed him more then ever and I realized that I truly needed him. All I have to do now is allow him to support me, share my burdens... and eventually save me from my self imposed emancipation.

I'm sure I'll still miss parts of my apartment just for what they were... like that one floorboard in my bedroom that always sunk down a little when I stepped on it. These things have been home to me for the past year and I am proud that I had my little (extremely tiny) slice of city life. However, I recognize the challenges that lie ahead and it won't be long before they transform this lone girl into something much more... a part of a brand new, happy family.

Last week started off really well. On Monday I finally felt some energy after a few months of being nothing but dead tired. It was a nice change of pace from the weekend Mother's Day disaster in which my grandmother vocalized her negative feelings regarding my non-traditional approach of having a child first and getting married afterward. Back to the good stuff... one of the girls at work gave us all a little bag of left-over easter candy. Not in a state to turn down free food of any sort, I tore open the robin eggs and started popping them into my mouth. That's when it happened. I missed and the miniature candy egg fell downward. You see, for my entire life when similar events happened with finger foods, they plummeted a good distance... through the shirt and usually ended up in my lap or on the floor. This time, however... the candy stopped... the candy got stuck in cleavage. That's right... MY cleavage. Finally, a true upside to this whole pregnancy thing (besides the whole baby thing, calm down people). I have a good amount of boobs for the first time in my life... I'm talking about the kind that jiggle when you hit a bump in the road. It's pretty darn awesome. Of course, the downside is that while it looks like I got a really great boob job, it does not look like I also got a tummy tuck. No worries, though... come January the lower half should be back to normal, I just have my fingers crossed that I'll get to keep the cup size as a reward for the pain I'm about to describe next.

By Wednesday night I started to feel off again. By Friday I knew the sore throat was bad news. By Sunday night I surrendered to the sickness. Monday through Tuesday night were some of the worst hours of my life. Normally, I can handle pain and discomfort... normally I can think of all the people who've endured worse and force myself to suck it up. However, I'm on restrictions. Not being allowed to take NyQuil makes me wonder how people back before such drugs were invented ever coped with being sick. What may have felt like an average head cold to someone on meds felt like a near death experience for me. Waking up every two hours Monday night to cough up ping pong ball sized phlegm was no picnic. Later on Tuesday, coughing so hard that it made my teeth bleed was even worse. Today, my chapped nose is thankful that the snot has stopped running and my lungs are relishing the fact that I can breathe again. My voice is raspy and I sound like an 80 year old chain smoker... but Jason said it sounded sexy, so I guess that's a plus.

All in all, the last 7 days were pretty much spent with my head down on my desk at work... or with tissues stuffed up my nose as I laid in bed at home. Hence the lack of communication on my part. There was a strange break in the weekend where I felt well enough to go out and get a new pair of "fat shoes" with Deanna so that my poor swollen feet would stop hurting... and I did have a delicious hamburger at the future mom-in-law's... so it wasn't all bad. Of course, getting a super sweet email about what a great mother I'm going to be right at the height of my snot-fest on Tuesday was a substantial aide to my recovery, too. This weekend is when the packing of my stuff commences. That means that my farewell to downtown O-town will be coming soon to a blog near you. Until then, I will repeat my montra that will help me get back to feeling 100% human again... "Boobs are awesome"... no, wait, what I meant was, "This baby is going to be awesome and totally worth all this snot". Let's go with the second one because it will get me in less trouble (even though I meant both).

Just over two months ago, I wrote a blog about feelings of loss and people/things/places that were missed. Every day since then, I've walked the same steps through a small section of downtown to and from the office where I work. On Fridays, workers are sweeping, turning over bar stools and wiping down the counters of I-Bar as I pass the glass windows shortly after 5:00 p.m. heading toward the parking garage. It's nearly impossible not to hear notes of Modest Mouse and The Killers in my head and it's just plain silly to try not to remember the back right corner of the dance floor and the tightly knit group of friends who once occupied it weekly. For the first month walking past my old Friday night hang out, it seemed like I was being followed by a ghost. I felt nostalgic, sad and almost lonely for those several hundred steps. A couple of weeks ago I noticed a change. As I gazed through the window pane, I felt myself smiling. I remembered the group dance moves to certain lyrics and comradeship shared between roommates and might-as-well-have-been-roommates ... and I was happy. It was on that day that I realized that I no longer could find reason for melancholy. Today being a Friday, I looked up at the neon sign above the door, not yet lit... and I decided that it's ok to miss certain cycles of life once they've passed. Remembering the good times, the laughs and the love while forgetting any feelings of betrayal or pain... that's a beautiful thing. It's something I never would have guessed that I'd feel, since I'm one of those givers that wants nothing more then to be remembered and included in the lives of the people that I care about. I'm the type that is hurt by distance and I've always had a hard time letting go of anyone I've once called my friend. Today the thought occurred to me that moving to another state of mind isn't that much different from physically moving to another state. You cannot be upset if someone moves across the country and starts a new life ... so why be hurt if someone emotionally moves on? It doesn't mean that you can't miss them. It simply means that you hold no ill will toward them and you know that if you saw them again some day, you'd smile and remember only the things that made you smile when you were friends... and it might even feel as though no time had passed at all.

I could be wrong, but I'd like to think that it's all true... because I've finally become content with having been a part of something great whether or not it stood the test of time. I'd like to think that when I'm 70 years old, sitting in my rocking chair on my porch while the grandkids play in the yard that I'll relish memories of my old friends and hope that those children have as much fun as I did when I was in my twenties... ok, maybe not quite as much... definitely not as much... but I do hope they claim stake in a corner of their own dance floor some day.

My very cool friend who lives up in the Chicago area, Adrienne, sent me chain mail earlier this week. Normally, I’d hit delete, but this wasn’t one of those "for every person you forward this to Bill Gates will donate 37 cents to a disabled baby in Nigeria" or ridiculous joke emails. No... this involved the gift of giving and receiving cool socks. Anyone who knows me knows I like cool socks... especially knee high ones. If you haven’t received this yet... don’t worry. You should soon because I have a feeling this will sweep the nation. The basic idea is that you get an email with two names and addresses attached. You and all who received that particular strand of the email send one pair of socks to the number one address. The number two spot is the person who sent it to you. Next, you re-send the email to six friends moving the number two person to number one and putting yourself as the new number two. Every time the email is sent, it’s sent to six people. If you do the math, you will receive 36 pairs of socks from random people (possibly strangers) just for sending one pair to someone else. What a deal, right? Well... it was all in good fun until my friend Maribel argued with me that you should only get 6 pairs of socks and the whole 36 thing boggled her mind. After eight consecutive emails and no luck getting through, I was forced to draw her a chart. Finding this highly amusing, I’ve decided to share my sock chart with everyone:

Cool things about work: the action figures are still strategically placed on various ledges and no one claims to notice that they exist. One of the attorneys is an avid Volkswagen fan and knows how to fix them and troubleshoot problems. Another attorney is convinced that I come from Mafia "heritage" due to my lack of providing personal information about myself. My office is located directly across the street from The Social, so I can easily hit the box office if tickets to a show are needed. My desk is far, far away from the other assistants and staff, so I don’t have to talk to anyone through walls and can listen to my iPod. We get a free pizza lunch next Wednesday.

Cool things about life: Hershey seems to be healthier after the diet change and though she suddenly looks old, she is still as hyper as ever. Mr. Meowgi hasn’t bitten me hard enough to draw blood in quite a while. I gave my love seat away to some young people just starting out and now feel as though I have a spacious living room. The folkish-bluesy-rock band that Jason is the drummer for is playing locally this Saturday night so my friends can all come out and join me there. Even though I haven’t seen a lot of my friends in person lately, we’ve been staying in touch via email & phone… and good conversations have resulted. LOST has been back on. My stripper neighbor is moving out, so no more clompy stripper shoes will be waking me up at 3 AM. I am volunteering at The Village again this weekend and this time Danita and Heather are coming with me. Saving the best for last, my wonderful boyfriend asked me to leave him a key so that he could have surprises ready for me when I got home from work today… which will undoubtedly be the best Valentine’s Day I’ve had yet. Life is good. Very good.

*This was obviously an update... creative and/or thoughtful blogs to follow... time permitting, of course.