I Should Have Taken a Left at Albuquerque

I think I’m finally ready to admit it, my specific sense of direction leaves a bit to be desired. Ok, ok, I know what your thinking; huh? Yes, I said ‘specific’ sense of direction. You see, I always believed myself to have a fairly good sense of direction, no matter how many times I walked left instead of right searching for my car (oh yes that’s right, when you’re coming back out, it’s reversed!), got off an exit too soon/too late, or ignored the GPS instructions to turn because I was sure it must have meant the next left.

Through all of my U-turns, I’m sure it’s this way’s and that house looks familiar’s, I always managed to make it there, eventually. Often (and without a map I’ll have you know) I have directed other drivers in the general direction of any given location, 'head towards the lake', I’d say, all roads lead to the lake…

Today however, it hit me. Left to my own navigational prowess in a neighborhood I had frequented on many an occasion, I was entreated with a simple task, walk to the grocery. What should have involved walking 8 or so blocks in one direction (not quite sure which) taking a right, and walking 2 or 3 in the next, somehow did not. At the first cross street, I began to feel the need to make a turn, by the second block I was certain a turn was needed so off I went. A block or so later I was on a major road not far from the highway..hmmm..interesting….Luckily my powers of deduction were out in full force and fellow pedestrians spilling from a cross street carrying grocery bags did not go unnoticed. I guess you could say I took the scenic route, if it had been scenic. It was however, not in the complete opposite direction I had intended to travel. In fact, I really only added a block or two (three at the most) to my trip. For this reason, I think I can safely say my general sense of direction is good to go. Need to know the general vicinity of that Starbucks? I’m your gal. Want to get there in the next 10 minutes? MapQuest.

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Brrrrrr..... Update

Looks like I complained a bit too soon. No, that's not me driving backwards at 30mph, that's -30 degrees Fahrenheit people. Today's office temp. 50.

Brrrrrr....

It’s cold. Bitterly cold. Bone chilling, leave your taps dripping for fear they freeze, thinking about buying a Snuggie (the most blatant attack on good taste I’ve seen in awhile) cold. Negative eighteen. Negative thirty-five with wind chill to be exact.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good natural disaster (and yes, I consider this a bit of a disaster) but wow, this has all the disaster with none of the benefit. Sure the kids are off school because of the weather (apparently there is fear they might freeze solid waiting for the bus) but where does that leave me, someone who typically bases their ‘it’s too treacherous to go in’ days on whether the schools are open? A dilemma to be sure. Unfortunately I don’t have to wait for a bus (never thought I'd hear myself say that). My only hope (as I see it) lies in the ability of my car to start, or not (less than a quarter tank of gas I’m told, will freeze in this weather).

Damn German engineering. My car starts, albeit sluggishly and with protest. Sluggishly and with protest, I make my way to the office. It’s a wild ride beginning to end. Roads that mere months earlier afforded me a relatively smooth ride give way to contorted masses of asphalt heaving this way and that caught in frozen waves. I bump along in what sounds like an egg carton. Easily detected, every shift in weight causes my car to creak eerily. It’s an odd sound that breaks the otherwise silence of the day and I realize, I’m the egg.

I make it to the office later than usual having been extra careful over bridges and over-passes. I bundle up, hood and all and walk two blocks to the office where I’m greeted by a balmy fifty-five degree workspace. History tells me I’ll be lucky to reach sixty degrees in office, no matter how many illegal electric heaters I plug in.

I have never wanted to be warm more. I long for green grass, hot sand and blinding sun. Keep the faith….only 4 more months…if I’m lucky…


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Buzz This

If I hear leverage, synergy, verbiage or 'think outside the box' one more time...

Joy Co.

Joico; the first fancy, salon only shampoo I ever bought. This particular shampoo seemed to me to smell infinitely better than any other shampoo I had encountered in my short 14 years. I often left for school, hair wet and pulled back in a loose cross between ponytail and bun. Midday, I’d untie my tresses and release a fresh burst of the pretty scent I’d trapped in the twists.

Around that same time I discovered Alfred Sung. I’m not sure if I actually preferred this scent above all others or more likely, thought the name sounded impressive. Either way, I wore Mr. Sung for a good couple years.

Where the girls of Centennial High School may have had differing olfactory sensibilities, the boys seemed to be in complete agreement, Drakkar. Or to be more precise, Drakkar Noir. Kind of rolls off your tongue I must admit. I happened to like Drakkar (even talking my father into the idea that it was cool, sorry Dad.) up until the point someone broke a bottle in the hallway. At once, all the tolerance I had built up in the year or two before socializing with those clearly oblivious to the concept of ‘less is more’ quickly evaporated, unlike the Drakkar which hung thick in the air for weeks.

The smell of lilac always reminds me of biking as a child; turkey in the oven - my mom.
Fresh cut hay - my grandparent’s farm; the smells of a garage - my dad (as he often worked on cars); green grass, Spring.

I’ve tended to save these scents, concerned I guess that if I keep them too close my memories would fade, replaced by some new, lesser association. Alfred Sung has always transported me to winter, walking across a frozen lake, holding an arm for what you thought, was balance.

So as I wander past the fragrance counter or contemplate this or that scent in the candle shop I will always be directed slightly away from the scents I love the most, pumpkin spice perhaps? That may work, we always had raspberry pie.

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You Spin Me

"Liking both Marvin Gaye and Art Garfunkel is like supporting both the Israelis and the Palestinians” John Cusack, High Fidelity

I own a record player. It was a Christmas gift a few years back that I received gleefully and by special request. I’m a bit nostalgic I must confess. Many hours I spent as a child lying on my stomach gazing into the face of Mick Jagger as Paint it Black spun on the turntable. Speakers almost as big as I was would send reverberation throughout the house, its contents, and myself whenever Dad had anything to say about volume levels.

I spent equal amounts of time admiring the ethereal quality of ABBA on the cover of Voulez-Vous and many an afternoon Neil Diamond’s life-sized eyes would stare back at me as he sang in his deep steady voice of Sweet Caroline.

Cassettes were widely available but I’d still spend summer afternoons with friends sunning on the back deck as vinyl versions of The Beatles, Peter Frampton or John Denver’s Sunshine on My Shoulder created our own personal soundtrack.

So when I passed a record store the other day on happenstance I could not resist taking a look. Walking in I was immediately confronted by the urban cool fringe. What might the gentleman behind the counter (who looked much more like Jack Black than John Cusack) think of my varied musical tastes? I carefully searched through the selections…The Eagles? Classic right? Or are they considered mainstream and overrated? And what of poor Peter Frampton? While other patrons discussed bands I’d never heard of and the rarity of certain album covers, I spotted Eric Clapton. I eventually decided on all three and warily made my way to the counter.

Flipping my selections over for inspection I braced myself for a disgusted sigh.

Surprisingly nothing, no reaction to either The Eagles or Frampton, then..

“Eric Clapton? I love this album”

“Yeah, me too” I said smiling.

Grabbing a business card from the counter I made my way towards the door. The card read “Records, CD’s & Other Cool Shit!”

"OK", I laughed, “I’ll give you that.”

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Kitschy Cuisine

I don’t remember the first time I went to Mars restaurant, but my experience at this time warp of an eatery is always the same. Many months will go by between visits and I inevitably forget that they don’t accept reservations.

“Hi, I’d like to make a reservation” I say cheerfully into the phone
“We don’t take reservations” is the response by the clearly annoyed voice on the other end of the line.

Crap, now she knows I’m not a regular, regular.

“Ok, well, is there much of a wait on Saturday around 6?” I ask

It being Friday, I believe I may have thrown her off the scent enough for tonight and have a hope in hell of sneaking in without a connection being made. Maybe I should disguise my voice just to be sure.

Mars is the kind of place that you walk in and immediately consider walking back out. The experience may be best described as the feeling some have towards blue cheese, you know that it’s edible, but just can’t stomach taking a bite. Mars has been around since the 1920’s but sports a healthy 1970’s motif. The smell of smoke greets you like a punch in the face and the excessively loud, often tasteless conversations of the herds of rowdy locals lead you to believe that there might be an actual punch in the face before the night is over. Spinning, honeycomb like devices dangle from the ceiling, whirring precariously off kilter in a futile attempt to clear some of the blue haze. At least one person is smoking a cigar. Wood paneling, artificial flower arrangements and Great Wall of China sized photo enlargements of the area glow in their plastic, backlit cases.

“How many?” the greeter (and I use the term loosely), asks
“Two” I respond with a hopeful glint in my eye
“We’ll call you” and with that, I’ve been dismissed.

I know better than to provoke a sigh/eye roll from this woman by asking ‘how long?’ and quickly scan the perimeter for a place to hold up. Ok, spot between the two drunks arguing over the Bears and Packers or.....or….come on…. spot at the piano.

Piano it is, but this is no victory. A yellow haired woman of about 70 sits behind the piano belting out all your favorites in a raspy voice, Georgia on Your Mind? Wait, did I say Georgia? I mean, Wisconsin. Cute. Leaving on a Jet Plane; for Wisconsin? Right, double cute. And so it goes, glass after glass of merlot, song after song cleverly altered to include Wisconsin. Well at least no matter how drunk I get, I won’t forget where I am.

An hour into the ordeal I’m finally seated awaiting my food. Why did I come here, again? Before I can formulate a response, the answer is placed on a seemingly clean (as best I can judge by tea light) plate before me, ribs. Or to be accurate, the best ribs I’ve ever had. Slightly sweet yet tangy meaty goodness graces my lips. Ahhh, Mars, I’ve missed you.

A neighboring table of 20 begin a round of ‘Happy Birthday’ and I’m asked to join along, what the heck, we’re all family here right?

Satiated and a bit tipsy, I zigzag around other tables of happy customers on my way towards the door, all the while rifling through my purse for an addition to the piano players tip jar.

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