Over the years, I’ve had the same When Harry Met Sally-esque conversation with my various guy friends over and over again. I’ve had it and decided it’s about time to put an end to this discussion, once and for all.
The debate never changes, the words just rearrange. Things like the dreaded “friend zone”, “nice guy” and questions like “Why do women want a guy who treats her like shit?” are rephrased and repeated ad nauseum.
It’s difficult to convince these guys that women don’t actually want a guy who treats them like shit. I can understand that.
One reason is that, on the surface, this does very much seems to be the case, as women do often shack up with the jerk that sleeps with her best friend instead of the sweet guy friend who has been in love with her for ages. My friends cite comedic movies to hit their points home, like My Best Friend’s Girl starring the very sexy Dane Cook as the outrageously manipulative asshole lead character, anything starring Vince Vaughn, or The 40 Year Old Virgin with the hilarious Steve Carrel as the hopelessly timid and virginal main character.
Before I go on, let me just say that I am actually on your side. You. The guys I am about to school.
First of all.
You are most likely some woman’s jerk. Did you know that? Whether it was a casual high school nerdy chick that you ditched to moon over some hot babe cheerleader you would never get; your first serious girlfriend that you never truly loved but promised the stars to; or the girl who adored YOU and you ignored because she wasn’t what you were looking for at the time. Maybe it was something as simple as leaving someone that did love you, in a determined quest for the unrequited love of this chick whose supposed bad taste in men leaves you tormented. Whatever the case may be, you were someones jerk. So, bearing that in mind, let’s move ahead.
Here are my thoughts as an attractive young woman; I’ve seen, known, spoken with and observed more than my fair share of jerks. Let me tell you something…as usual, guys, you’re looking for the easy explanation where one doesn’t exist. The quick fix. That thinking is just the beginning of the problem. It is a lot easier to say that all women are just attracted to the jerks than to take a look at yourself and think it might actually have something to do with you.
Let’s quickly review one of the movies given as an example of the women-only-attracted-to-total-assholes theory.
My Best Friend’s Girl starred Dane Cook and co-starred Kate Hudson as the inevitable love interest. It is a MOVIE, so Kate Hudson’s character is the perfect woman; smart, beautiful, classy and yet naughty, with a rockin’ body and great sense of humor. She had no flaws, except her near virginity which she is anxious to shed (did I say flaw?) and is only waiting around for the right guy to sweep her off her feet. The guy in love with her, Dustin, is a whiny, self-sacrificing, insecure doormat and his best friend is (drum roll please) Dane Cook, playing the sadistic misogynist with a heart of gold.
First things first. Many guys align themselves with the lovelorn Dustin’s attempt to woo the perfect Alexis (Kate Hudson) and her obvious lack of desire for him, despite his bending over backwards to make her happy. They see that and get ten kinds of over-excited.
“Well, that is exactly what happens. You treat a girl like crap and she likes you. Treat her like a princess and she hates you.”
Umm, no. Not so much.
How about this? Women (like men) are attracted to confidence. Woman want a man who does sweet things, most certainly. We DO like being treated with thoughtfulness and gentleness…but by a strong man with a mind of his own, not a pushover. There is a difference. In the movie, Dane Cook has an excellent monologue, that sums up my whole point in a succinct, vicious nutshell.
I wanted to post the quote here, but I can’t find it anywhere on the dad-blasted Internet and my friend’s copy of the movie seems to be misplaced somewhere. So, paraphrasing here, the point Dane’s character, Tank, made to the insecure, befuddled Dustin, is straightforward enough. He simply says that Dusty’s smothering with love behavior isn’t indicative of his true self and is therefore, a sham. As such, the girl doesn’t get to know him anyway and naturally rejects the guy not secure enough to be himself. Furthermore, he’s been “in love” (quotes were Tank’s, not mine) with quite a few girls and had it turn out this way. Tank attempts to make this Dusty’s wake-up call, but to no avail.
Unfortunately, confidence is often easily confused with bravado, arrogance or cockiness. None of those things are true confidence and they tend to be traits that lead you to the jerkiest of jerks. Hence, the general idea that women want an asshole.
Well, no, most of them don’t. Nearly all of us want the love story. Whichever romantic plot will do, they’re like expensive cars, you’re not really going to turn down one when it’s handed to you.
What’s your fate, little girl? See behind door number 1, 2, or 3, your choice. Cue Jeopardy music. The bad boy with a heart of gold, changing only when he finds his heart hopelessly ensnared by special you; the prince who forsakes everything in order to spend the rest of his life with you; the man whose still waters do run deep; or just that stranger who ran into you with a cup of hot coffee in his hand and you ended up spending an entire night walking and talking on the streets of your city…whatever the fantasy is, don’t judge it too harshly, boys.
You’ve got some pretty ridiculous ones of your own. A gorgeous woman, with the rack of a goddess but Adam Sandler’s sense of humor, smart but not too cynical, dressy but quick about it, seen not often heard, full of praise and low on criticism, and loves nothing more than to please you in bed, whenever and however you feel like it. These are, of course, adaptable depending on level of maturity and how many times the guy’s been burned. Toward the end, you’re just hoping for someone who will agree on the same TV shows you do.
I’ve deviated from my point here, so I’m going to sum this up. Basically, all you guys lamenting over the fact that your personal Kate Hudson, Jennifer Aniston or Catherine Zeta Jones won’t stop going after the jerk/asshole and ignoring you in the process, think again before the next whine comes out of your mouth. If you don’t like you, no one else will either. I had to come to terms with it and so will you.
I can consider myself an expert here, because I’ve played all positions in this game. I’ve been the wallflower nerd with smarts (basically all my school years), I’ve adored someone unachievable from a distance, I’ve been a hottie with a heart of gold and filled with naivete, and I’ve been the smarter, choosier, knowledgeable and attractive woman. I’m telling you, take your own personal journey now. Learn to look in the mirror, assess all the bad and good qualities, set aside the bad, shake yo ass and show ‘em what you’re working with. If you don’t spend every minute wondering when if you’ll ever get laid, or pining away after someone, you’ll be amazed at how appealing that mind set can be to whomever you wish to attract. Yes, obviously, looks matter, but far, far less than you’d think.
Oh, and speaking of looks mattering, one last little rant before I go.
Guys, you have it remarkably easy, I must say. Beauty and the Beast ring a bell? You don’t have to look good to get an attractive woman. Why do you hear the constant question, “How did that guy get HER?” Sure sometimes it’s because she’s a shameless gold-digger and he’s blissfully willing to buy his happiness. However, most often, it is because he believes in himself. His game worked because it was real. For women, the unfairness only continues. If you’re slightly overweight and/or unattractive, as a woman, you’re fighting a much harder battle. As usual, guys get off easy. No period, pregnancy, or menopause. What, you lose your freaking hair? Whatevs. So, stop your bitching.
You can be the guy the girls want, without being an asshole. It’s just whether or not you’re too lazy to make the necessary changes to do so.
Rain, rain, go away,
Come again some other day,
We want to go outside and play,
Come again some other day.
Tonight could easily be a bad night for me.
Truly, any night lately could be a bad night for me. I am, however, doing very well at the distraction game for the moment. When some unpleasant memory comes up, I shake it off. I’ve been devouring distractions left and right.
Moving back to Texas wasn’t without its dangers. I knew the risk I was taking by being back in my old stomping grounds. I knew the memories that lay dormant here, just waiting for my presence to ignite into a dancing fire of whispered regrets and deserted dreams. I still feel my freedom was well worth the price.
Driving down familiar streets (which is kind of everywhere as I’ve lived in nearly every suburb of the large City), faces from the past long buried are unexpectedly exhumed. I stare reluctantly at the nearly visible faces in my car window, long after the street/house/apartment complex has faded from view. Cursed with a temperamental memory, I seem to have no control over my ability to be rocketed back to the past at any given moment with just a mere turn of phrase or a specific fast food joint. Yet, I can barely recall my own childhood, drawing on a few distinct memories and relying on my best friend Nik’s nearly photographic memory to fill in the blanks.
Last week it was the street I spent all my preteen years on, a few days ago it was a Hannah Montana backpack on some random kid’s back, today it was unpacking and a TV program . Finding mementos from a past that should never have existed, I did everything I could to shove the memories down, back into a dark corner of my mind where they couldn’t drag me into No Man’s Land. Taking a trip down that Memory Lane can only bring on sadness and a deep seated regret I am dead tired of having to reconcile with myself. I took a deep breath, stopped unpacking and went to make myself some lunch while watching TV. Distraction.
I’m content that the path I’m on now is a better and more enlightened one, for all my hinted at tragedy I speak of here, and I know better than to indulge my dramatic nature right now. Things are too tenuous and I am not in a stable enough spot to delve into the darkness that I can sense shadowing my steps. In Florida, I was forced to slow down and face these things head on…I set my shoulders, resigned myself to being completely alone (not even close to an easy task for me) and faced the shadows head on.
I’ve had enough for awhile.
It is partly why I’ve been wasting my time, staying up late and sleeping in, while occupying my waking hours with non-stop and most often, non-productive activity. I’m avoiding the aforementioned thoughts and yet not making the best use of my distractions. Overall, I am disappointing myself and it must come to an end.
It’s all a matter of baby steps, chunking out each process to avoid being overwhelmed by the possibilities. I tend to look about 20 Life chess moves ahead and scare the shit out of myself. Therefore, I need to set up some very clear goals soon and start the path toward them. Most of my life, I’ve been paralyzed when it comes to decision making, mainly because of my fear that I will make the wrong one and the previous choice will be lost to me forever. That indecisiveness led to my often waiting until the last minute, when either a choice was made for me or I was forced to pick one. I love deadlines for this very reason. They’ve always pushed me where I hesitated to go. For some odd reason, my fears never seem to translate to my job. I’ll learn anything, take risks and suck it up when it comes to work. A good work ethic or just yet another oddity about me? …I really don’t know.
Thankfully, I’ve made quite a few large decisions lately when I felt I needed to and as I get older, I find myself relying more confidently on my abilities and believing more in myself. A lovely exchange for the more insecure yet still carefree days of youth, I think.
Meh. To sum all this blathering up, I’m holding off the melancholy for now because I enjoy being happy and being home. I’m aware of it’s presence; I’m just hoping to deal with it on more of my own terms in the near future.
As many people know by now, I finally made my way back to Texas. It was a long and eventful journey back, but I did it…and not without the help and support of some amazing friends. My arrival back has been a fun one, filled with events, dining out, spending time with old friends, drenched in memories from even a decade ago, and some drastic adjustments from Florida country living. Nothing I can’t handle of course and I couldn’t be happier to be here.
What you may not know is that I stopped in New Orleans during Mardi Gras on the way from Florida to Texas.
What. A. Blast!
We ( a friend and I) coasted into NOLA around 1:00 pm, just 15 minutes before my birthday surprise, a French manicure appointment. As if just being in New Orleans wasn’t enough already. Poor, tired Timmy fought the ever thickening throng of wandering pedestrians to get me to the Hotel Monteleone in time for the spa appointment. Which is just a fancy way of saying, “Got mah nails did, ya’ll” at Spa Aria, located on the second level of the grandiose hotel.
As Tim navigated the crowded streets, I stared out the window at the city in a state of pure excitement and simultaneous total exhaustion. We both had barely slept over the last two days and we’d been in the car for well over 10 hours at that point. I peppered our tired yet building excited silence with loud and ecstatic exclamations.
“Would you just LOOK at that balcony?!”
“Hey! All the dogs are wearing costumes!”
“Wow. I think that chick was a dude!”
“Where is Bourbon Street?!? Is that one Bourbon Street? Wow, SO many streets!”
This was a oft-repeated one. –> “I can NOT believe we are in freaking New Orleans!!”
Tim would grin, murmur and nod in gleeful agreement while devoting his attention to not running over the oblivious masses of people filling the streets of the French Quarter to brimming with laughter and life. This was not an easy task, as it was apparently a dog parade day and the sheer number of dogs running around in elaborate, brightly colored and even metallic costumes was a sight to behold. As we neared the heart of the Quarter, the number of people swelled and we were halted shortly by ropes that barred any further vehicle access.
Tim slid the car quickly into a narrow slot near the curb and looked at me apologetically, ignoring the woman motioning for us to move on outside his window.
“You’re going to have to walk to the hotel alone, Jen. I’ll take care of check-in at the Hotel Bienville but your appointment is in 5 minutes.”
A million thoughts flashed through my mind in response. I heard the countless warnings I’d received from good friends once they’d heard about my plan to detour in New Orleans for Mardi Gras weekend.The warning varied but all carried the same message. The message was: New Orleans is dangerous. Be very careful.
I spoke urgently, quickly.
“My cellphone is dead though! What if you can’t find me??”
Then, in the same breath, I took a look at my options and committed to going with the flow.
“Hmm. Umm. Okay. Where is the hotel?”
Tim kind of winced when I asked that pretty important question.
“That’s just it, Jen. I don’t really know, except it is that direction.” He waved back toward the street we’d just left. ” Stay on Rue Royale and you will find it.”
He waved in the opposite direction and I looked at him a little wide-eyed for a minute. I was thinking, ‘Really? I’m going to go walk around the French Quarter…for the first time…completely alone??’
My next thought was the same one but with a completely different emphasis.
“I’m going to walk around the French Quarter for the first time completely alone!”‘
Suddenly I was filled with excitement. I grabbed my purse, rummaged through it and because of my typical absent-mindedness, was forced to hunt for random things I wanted to take along with me.
Shoving my feet hurriedly back into my tennis shoes, I flashed a quick and reassuring smile at Timmy and opened the car door. Tim waved off the lady assigned to make sure cars didn’t linger and we said our snappy goodbyes. He looked at my with concern but I was more than ready for this adventure.
I jumped out of the car, secured my purse to my arm and set off at a fast pace in the direction of the Hotel Monteleone. I had no idea what I was looking for, but refused to look lost or confused. I walked confidently and fast (when I say I walked fast, imagine the Flash. I am QUICK, people) down the street, letting my eyes take in the passing shops and exciting sights, pausing only once to admire a 4 piece jazz band sitting directly in the middle of the street.
When I walk through thick groups of people, I often imagine the dodging and weaving in between them I do as a game. A game that I am very good at. This was pretend-game heaven for me. I had countless dressed up dogs to avoid, so many people to scoot past and whirl around. Tall people, kissing people, little kids chasing each other around and giggling before darting away. I couldn’t keep track of them all. Keeping a tight hold on my purse the whole time, I danced my way through the streets and people of New Orleans, with a happy song in my heart and a smile on my lips.
I crossed about three streets before I saw the tall white building with the words Hotel Monteleone written vertically down its side. Though I still had some walking to do, I breathed an audible sigh of relief. Now, I knew where I was headed.
Upon arriving at the Hotel, I walked in and realized that (yet again) I had no idea where I was going. I lightly ran up the steps and smiled euphorically at the doorman as he bowed slightly and opened the door. Oh! How lovely…the lobby was splendid.
The front desk concierge obviously had his hands full and, not bothering to hide my astonishment at the splendor of the lobby, I stepped into line. A giant chandelier, dripping in crystal and suffused with a warm, golden glow, dominated the entry way. I looked back at it more than once while waiting in line for the front desk. I smiled the entire time. I must have been the happiest person in the room in that moment and I didn’t have one iota of concern about showing it off.
A friendly and beautiful full-lipped concierge pointed me in the direction of the SPA ARIA and I thanked her giddily. First time in N’Awlins and first manicure. I rode up the elevator and stepped off onto a rather bland hallway. Not the grandeur the foyer led me to expect, but I couldn’t care less. It could’ve looked like a crack hotel and I would’ve been happy with it.
A woman, maybe mistaking my happiness for crazy town, pointed me in the direction of the Spa in hushed tones. I unconsciously mimicked her, thanking her in a delighted whisper. Stepping into the Spa Aria was a breath of fresh air after the long car ride. Little stone adorned waterfalls filled the place with the teeny sounds of trickling water. Calming scents and voices were used in excess here in Spa Heaven. I was guided gently to the back where my hands and arms were treated like two princesses. Sitting back and relaxing for the first time in a long time, I let the calming voice and hands of Sofia lull me into a tranquil place.
It was in this trance-like state that my friend found me. He was ushered to a chair nearby, promptly provided with a Mimosa (champagne and orange juice) and they even offered him a shower after we mentioned the long hours we’d spent in the car, previous to our arrival.
Treated to my first manicure and paraffin wax just minutes after arriving in The Big Easy. Not too shabby, I thought!
This was only the beginning, however, of what would turn out to be a fantastic weekend in N’Awlins…
Music is a world within itself
With a language we all understand
With an equal opportunity
For all to sing, dance and clap their hands
But just because a record has a groove
Don’t make it in the groove
But you can tell right away at letter A
When the people start to moveCan’t you feel it all over
Come on let’s feel it all over people-Stevie Wonder (Sir Duke)
As the weekend nears, I can feel the excitement building in my chest. I’m trying to stifle it down (I don’t believe in tempting Fate with over much happiness) but I am still finding a welcome spring in my step and a lighter feeling in my shoulders. I’ve been carrying around some burdens for so long; I think I’d forgotten what it felt like to feel excited and somewhat carefree. I’m finally going home to Texas and leaving Florida far, far behind!
There is another reasons for my giddines. That is my newly planned detour this weekend to New Orleans. I’ve always wanted to stop off there and see the French Quarter, eat some real Cajun food, and just absorb the lively culture. And now….I get to! Speaking of culture, I am listening to Percy Sledge at the moment as I write this. Sam Cooke will be next.
Someone pointed out my love and taste for older music, movies and even my turn of phrase this week.
As usual, like everything does, it got me thinking about why. Well, why do I love Percy Sledge? Besides the fact that his voice is a rich, heartbreaking cry of sweet pain, I love the things Percy sings about. I may try to hide it at times, even deny it to myself and others, but the truth is, I am a romantic to beat all romantics. I sing along with and close my eyes to Billie Holiday, Willie Nelson, Stevie Wonder, Percy Sledge and the man I love, Sam Cooke, because I truly can’t help it.
The common thread here, it seems to me, is that they sing about love, heartbreak and life with poignancy and real emotion. If it isn’t obvious already, I live in and am comfortable with my emotions. I want someone to feel about me the way Percy does about his Kind Woman. I want to be loved with Sam Cooke’s passion. I want the people who’ve wronged me to lament like only Willie Nelson can lament.
It is more than that though.
In the hearts of their voices, I can hear a time long since past.
When my favorites sing, I can see people dressed to the nines to go out for a night on the town, wearing hats and stoles, and sporting a chivalrous attitude. I see a woman in a thin, cotton summer dress, laughing up into the face of her man. I see another sitting at a table with her face hidden behind her hands, crying her heart out. Sam Cooke and Percy Sledge make me see endless plains of wheat, dusty old dirt roads and T-Model Fords. Sam sings songs like; You Were Made For Me, Baby, Please Come Home To Me, Bring It on Home To Me, and so many more and they all just make me melt.
My favorite song of Sam’s starts with these lyrics, “Baby, won’t you please come home, cause your daddy’s all alone…” Sam’s voice is perfect and brimming with effortlessly controlled intensity in each song he does. It even has early rock ‘n’ roll undertones to it, but they are overwhelmed by the gospel-born smooth soul. He is a man in a time when it was okay to love your woman -okay to love her to distraction- because real men did. These days, young boys not old enough to grow hair on their chests or palms sing sappy songs about some chick they just broke up with and we herald it as the newest love song.
Percy Sledge sings his hear
t out in the song, Stop The World Tonight, appreciating a moment in time. In this day and age, who stops to appreciate any moment in time? Time is always a-wasting in our hurry up and wait world of today. Percy takes his time when he sings, delivering the original rendition of When A Man Loves a Woman in such a way that no one will ever match it. No one. His crooning, nasally, heart-wrenching voice lingers over the notes, making it impossible for any listener to miss the honesty in each lyric.
Billie makes me see a smoky room, long handled cigarette holders, and a single spotlight on a soulful, troubled black woman singing out her pain on stage. Her voice slides over and between the notes, filling them with longing and sorrow. You can hear her battle in life in every haunting note. Billie grows on you, like a fine wine, the smell of a good cigar or an aged Scotch. She is art in life, her voice is unparalleled, and she has no competition. On a dark rainy fall day, when the wind is moaning and the fireplace is going, nothing but Billie will do.
Willie, the best of Willie, can make tears roll down my face. Hello Walls, Angel Flying T
o Close to the Ground, Darkness on the Face of the Earth, and Funny Time Slips Away, will twist your fucking heart. His simply put, naked lyrics paint a picture of the most human of emotions. The emotions you face alone in your room at night, when you don’t hide behind a bottle of whiskey or wine, a string of meaningless relationships, or even just petty distractions like T.V. I don’t even consider him a country musician; he is in a class all to himself as far as I am concerned.
Stevie Wonder makes me believe in love. If the others sing out about the pain of losing love, he sings out the joys of fi
nding it waiting and willing. His voice lifts my heart into wreathes of smiles and his lyrics make me think. You can’t help wiggling and dancing to his music. The man not only represents beating the odds by virtue of just being a blind multi-faceted, unbelievably talented musician; he shares his success with others with a sweet, unique voice of dreams coming true.
Now, I could go on like this about many musicians. Paul McCartney, Paul Simon, the Beatles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Pink Floyd….so many more. They make me think of hopeful ideals, good times, a nation changing a great deal in a very short amount of time, revolutions meant to change the world for better, people uniting for a common cause, and the ultimate demise and corruption of those ideals.
But the original musicians I mentioned have a special place in my heart.
I am love with a time I never lived in.
Who knows how I would’ve rebelled against a time when women couldn’t vote or hold down a job like a man. Maybe I would’ve thrown a fit and become a flower child, maybe I would’ve been one of the few women who fought my way into corporate America by whatever means necessary, maybe I would’ve been content to have my babies and husband and spend my energies taking care of them.
All I do know is that it seems like there was a time when someone’s word meant something, that some values were held sacred, that family had real meaning, kids still played outside in their neighborhood, and people could stop and help a stranded woman on the side of the road without worrying about being killed for the 40 bucks in their wallet. And I like to escape to that world in music long since past, but not forgotten.
Tell me what has come out in the last decade or two that can rival that, and I might listen. But my heart knows what it knows.
Dawn, this one is for you.
Today I left my house and my problems behind to venture outside with my camera and see what I could see. It was a rare cool Florida day and I couldn’t wait to take advantage.
It was cold enough to surprise me back in; to change into my heavy Adidas jacket and some tennis shoes. I went outside, newly armed against and invigorated by the brisk wind I wasn’t expecting. I started out making my way around the large pond in the front yard. I brought up short by a gorgeous and wild heron intently watching the rippling water. I held my breath, not daring to bring up my camera, as she craned her neck and tilted her head, eying a fish in the murky water that I could never see. She broke her stillness abruptly, striking out with rapid precision. I nearly jumped but managed to regain control of myself in time to watch her come back with a tiny fish wriggling furiously in her beak. She waded backward in what should have been ungainly movements with those spindly legs of hers, but somehow maintained the grace and poise of a classically trained ballerina.
I moved my camera up then and her hair-trigger survival instincts reacted instantaneously. Huge white wings unfurled and pumped heavily through the air. She lifted straight up, clear of the water; and with her legs dripping gentle trails across the pond’s surface, flew away with her prize, alighting delicately in top of a nearby tall cypress tree. I smiled to myself and began my photo hunt. Passing two baby daisies gave me the idea to try out my macro setting that a friend told me about and I got to work. As I snapped away at a cactus growing out of a tree and some tiny red berries, I felt a calm settle over me.
The air carried just the barest whiff of a fall long past, and the animals and insects were in a shy mood. They would chirrup, snuffle and buzz every now and then, but most seemed to be huddling somewhere quietly for warmth and winter companionship. My grandparent’s dog, Missy, (the old, blind and stubborn monster) danced around by my side with a happy little grin on her face.
I moseyed ar
ound to the back few acres next and stopped by my Papa’s garden. It is over a half acre of the best vegetables around. Sweet corn, rutabagas, turnips, mustard greens, beets, tomatoes, cabbage and much more were planted in long rows of soft, slightly dry mounds of deep, earthy smelling dirt. I knelt down and ran my fingers over the tips of some beets poking out of this moist ground, letting it sift through my fingers, inhaling the rawness of it all.
I took a few pictures there, then just set the camera aside and sat down next to the garden. You can see the rest of the pics on Through My Jendow. Missy sat a few feet away, watching me out of the corner of her eye, while playing Ms. Big Bad Watchdog. I felt soothed by the whisper of the wind as it wound its way through the many trees around me, the monotone tiny voices of countless insects and the sound of faraway voices laughing.
It was a perfect time of day. Sunset was still more than a solid hour away, but the sun was starting to say its tentative goodbyes, the color of its rays
less sharp now and more golden, its beaming face larger and warmer than before. I looked up at the baby blue sky and thought about the wispy, light clouds… I wished, not for the first time, to be a bird on wing for even just a second. To feel the freedom of diving and swirling through the sky, temporarily unfettered by the laws of gravity. I thought lazily about life, love, and happiness. Filled with the contentment of perfect moment, I let my mind wander at will, drifting through and around topics with an easy mind. Startled out of my lazy reverie by Missy’s loud, insistent barking, I looked over as she announced the slow arrival of a car up the long gravel road.
We don’t like visitors in these here parts. 
Grunting, I lifted myself off the ground and dusted the dirt, bugs and grass off my behind. Before heading back inside though, I took one last, long look around me. Nothing beats going home…but I will sure miss the slower pace of this little nature heaven.
I had a pretty disturbing dream last night and, as my disturbing dreams often do; it had me thinking about the possible meaning or messages hidden amongst the bizarre symbols and situations. One thing that seems to be pretty prevalent in my more upsetting dreams is teeth. If bad things happen with teeth, I am guaranteed that my dream is trying to tell me something and I will wake up feeling concerned, upset, and/or flipping out.
For example, I remember during my very early 20’s (maybe even 19) a dream I had that made me bite the bullet and break up with my pseudo-boyfriend. At the time I was living a free-wheeling lifestyle. I worked hard and partied even harder. I typically worked the evening shift (three to midnight) at the bookstore. My older roommate, Kate, would wait impatientl
y for me to get home. The minute I was ready, we hopped in the car and took off for the downtown club scene, already playing loud, rhythmically pumping music in the car on the way. I wasn’t yet 21, but considering the older crowd I ran with, I was rarely carded. I got The Stamp that said I was 21 at one club, and usually was okay for bar/club hopping all night. I would get drunk pretty quickly (read: lightweight), since I was never comfortable in the club scene anyway; and eventually would be cajoled into dancing and other general stupidity out among the sweaty, anonymous press of bodies gyrating madly to the insistent thumps of typical club music.
After closing down the clubs, including sobering up at the one that stayed open till four but stopped serving alcohol at 2 am, we would make the drive back home to our little suburbian corner of the world. I was never driving, so I would usually stare blankly out of the window at the city whipping by, listening to wind-down music like Jack Johnson and trying desperately not to wonder what the hell I was doing with my life. When we arrived home, we would go to our separate rooms without so much as a “Good night” and crash into the deep, zombie slumber of girls who partied too damn much, until it was time for work again. One such night, I had a dream that I still remember in vivid detail.
In this dream, I was feeling my two front teeth with my tongue, a habit of mine when I am thinking, and I felt something odd. One wiggled. I pushed a little harder with my tongue, feeling around experimentally for more wiggles. Both my front teeth felt a little loose, so I reached up my hand to touch them. As I touched them, they shifted in my mouth and I could taste the copper of blood. Then they both popped out abruptly into the palm of my hand and blood began pouring out of my mouth, drowning the front of my shirt. I couldn’t stop the blood but I was more concerned with my freaking TEETH falling out.
I woke up in a dead panic.
I read up on it at work that day (working at Barnes and Noble was a reference heaven) and found that teeth in dreams were often symbols of guilt or secrets. I didn’t know how much I believed in dream symbols, but with my dreaming history, I was willing to explore the idea.
For awhile now, I’d been torturing myself about this relationship I had. I was dating a guy I didn’t even like, it was just convenient and I felt sorry for him. Horrible, I know. To make matters worse….he really liked me. I told him from the beginning I didn’t want anything serious, just someone to play video games and drink with, but I knew he wasn’t hearing it. He listened but did not hear it. Most guys don’t. He was the only guy I ever dated that was more brawns than brain, and I saw right through him. He even hid his insecurities with real swagger (cringe) but he had a sweet heart.
The dream upset me so much I avoided everyone and everything but work for a few days. I was a workaholic at that time in my life anyway, picking up any shift, working off the clock, sometimes staying for changeovers until 7 am and loving every minute of it.
Finally, after getting dozens of calls from my “friends”, wondering where the hell my wild ass was, I set up a meeting with my guy. I sat him down on the steps of his apartment building, also in my apartment complex, and said
“*Adam, I need to tell you something. You know I am not in love with you. I know you’ve said you don’t care about that….but I do. I can’t be in a relationship with someone I don’t love anymore. It’s making me feel horrible. I am so sorry.”
He looked at me like a puppy dog and accepted it with the same steadiness that he’d accepted all of my quirkiness in the half a year we’d dated.
“You know I don’t need you to love me back, Jen. I just think we have fun together and you know we can be whatever you want.”
To which I responded,
“Well, I’m going crazy over here, feeling guilty because I’m not ready for being anything other than friends. Of course we are friends but I just need to not be tied down right now. I’m too scattered for that.”
He was feeling emotional, I could tell, which would evoke a myriad of feelings in me, (some kind, some not so kind) so I started talking. Babbling, more like. Fast. Anything that could distract him. Rambling about work, partying too much, anime, video games, making plans for hanging out in the future….he cheered up a little and I beat a hasty retreat back home. My horrible tooth dreams went away.
He was one of the few people I didn’t burn my bridges – better to say explode my bridges with, so in the end doing the hard thing payed off. I didn’t always give my boyfriends the luxury of such an eloquent or kind good-bye. They didn’t always deserve it either.
A year later I was beginning a serious relationship with someone whom I would eventually get engaged to, and I was hiding a few secrets from him. I had dreams about my teeth twice. In one, I pushed with my tongue and they cracked in half, tumbling in slow motion out of my mouth. No pain, no blood, but absolutely haunting. In another, they fell out in my mouth and blood nearly choked me. I came clean and the dreams stopped.
So, my dream last night had teeth in it. You can imagine my discomfort.
But this time, in this dream, the teeth were not mine…
My 92 year old grandfather and I are up on impossibly tall ladders, leaning against each other on the roof, discussing the intricate detail of the unique pattern of this modern-style roof on some Dr. Seuss looking house. This would never happen, but okay. I start to fidget on my ladder, (I am ridiculously fidgety) making my grandfather very nervous. At one point, I held onto the roof and used my legs to pick 
up the ladder and move it to a more comfortable position. He ordered me to get off the ladder after that. I did. Then, out of nowhere he turns into an acrobat. He decides to get off his ladder by using his body weight to propel it forward and spin the LONG ladder in the air and as a final show, dismount with some spinning crap. He screwed up the landing though, and slammed into the pavement face first. I watched this entire performance in paralyzed horror and near awe.
I wasn’t sure he was hurt, so I slowly walked toward him, looking for any sign of movement. He raised his head and spit out two teeth…the sight of teeth stopped even my dream-self dead in my tracks. None of the Jen’s like teeth dreams. My grandfather doesn’t even have teeth, he is 92! but accuracy is not a dream requirement. He was obviously in a great deal of pain and I ran over to help him up and the dream went on from there.
The important part was the teeth. So. the teeth are back. Well, this is easy. I am keeping a secret from my family right now. A big one. Okay, why not my teeth then? Is it because I feel less guilty about keeping it, though I feel it is the wisest decision a t this time? Hmmmm. It seems I’ve yet again been attacked by my conscience.
Here is hoping I can escape tomorrow night Tooth Dream free.
While on my lunch break at work the other day, an article in one of our many magazines caught my eye. I had just finished a fascinating piece on Stonehenge in the National Geographic and was looking for something a little lighter to chew on. So I picked up one of the more woman geared ‘zines and began to flip idly through it, while absently sucking down mass amounts of water and eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
The article that snared my attention was one of a series on love. Love always catches my eye because, well for one, I am a GIRL and two, because I think the topic is such a timeless one; still surprising, full of pitfalls and naked with emotion. In this particular article, the woman writing was discussing her honest and tumultuous journey to “true love”.
The reason this woman stood out to me was not only the similarity of thought processes I seemed to share with her, but the unabashedly forthright tone she used to tell her story. In a way, the article was not just about her personal love story; it was advice to those of us making our own way through the humbling, sometimes heartbreaking and often terrifying journey of love. She’d found her perfect man on the third marriage (third times a charm, no?) and had learned enough along the way to know this was the one. In her own words,
“…Deeply, Determined Virtuous people scare me. As it turns out, I prefer the full boil to the long simmer and I wish I’d known it sooner.”
I couldn’t agree more.
One particular paragraph was so quotable to me, I immediately rushed to copy it down.
She said,
“Know Yourselves.
Be real and unashamed, even of your faults. I do truly know what he’s made of and vice versa. We are both people who want cutmen and foxhole buddies; we see life as wonderful and difficult and requiring energy and stamina and, occasionally, guile. We don’t mind any of that. We are both bossy and demanding and largely unrepentant. We don’t mind any of that. We yell. We apologize profusely. We are idiosyncratic in our tastes, and we are both quite confident that our taste is better than most people’s (including each other’s). We take sex and family and food seriously and organized religion not at all. We are hard to embarrass and we cry like babies. We are each what the other hoped for.”
Couldn’t possibly have said it better myself. My heart thrilled to this. Every single word rings true for me. This is what I, and perhaps many people, truly want out of a relationship. A place where your faults and your triumphs are met intensely by your lover, where the battleground is Life and your Love is there, staunchly by your side to fight the battle with you, not against you.
If you’d asked me a little over a year ago, “Could you ever love again?”- I would’ve said no. And it would’ve been an emphatic no, knowing full well every single cliché out there about broken hearts and the dramatics thereof. But this time it was my heart that was broken, my unending pain and I couldn’t see even a glimmer of light at the end of the long, lonely tunnel.
I had something that, o
n the surface, seemed very much like the above quoted paragraph. Underneath the moments of bliss, it was a horrid situation where two people were trying desperately to force a square peg into a round hole. We both wanted a foxhole buddy but I think it ended up being like two professional boxers wound up and stuck in the same ring. Although I would have to say I was boxing far outside of my weight class, in this particular case.
Finally making the decision to leave rocked my entire world. I’d been in my fair share of relationships and learned many things about myself along the way. Nothing quite like this, though. I was in unfamiliar territory, leaving someone I still cared for. Maybe, as a friend said to me once, that had more to do with me than the actual relationship. For the first time, I’d let down my walls. I consciously did this, at his request, and opened up completely and warmly to Trust – a foreign concept for me. Although this went largely unrewarded in the end, it was an amazing feeling to invest so willingly and unreservedly into someone without a single thought of the return. I was without guile, without selfishness. Not necessarily my M.O.
So, what did I learn from all this? I have a giant capacity for love. I have a warm, generous heart and the ability for great sacrifice. I do love children (it was questionable for awhile with me) and I am never going to hide who I am again. I learned that being feisty is more than okay, to look out for “numero uno” and to never, ever let myself become completely dependent on another human being.
I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel and just knowing it is there lifts my heart and mind to higher hills. So, if you ask me now, “Could you ever love again?”, I would have to say, I certainly hope so. I just know what I’m looking for now. I’m looking for my foxhole buddy, my cutman, who believes that sex, family and food should be taken seriously, and the rest of Life should be taken with a grain of salt.
I dream more often and remember my dreams more than anyone I know. I also love to talk about my dreams, and have yet found anyone in my life also interested in this delightful pastime. (Aside from you, @frankjm, and while it still technically counts – you are not a 3 dimensional friend!)
My dreams last night were a wild ride of randomness and vivid images. I woke up retaining even more than I usually do and had to sleepily grope for a pen and notebook from my nightstand drawer to be sure to remember as much as possible. I will now refer to these barely legible notes to convey at least a small part of the bizarreness that is my dreaming world.
I started out as some version of Emily of New Moon, a character from one of my favorite childhood books, working in a car mechanic shop with an ominous Christmas tree covered in heavy antique ornaments sitting right in the middle of a car grease and spare parts splattered cement garage. I would alternate between rolling under the car with various tools and talking with this handsome fellow who resembled a cowboy; lean and long with a baby face, topped with floppy brown hair.
I didn’t like him though It was a gut instinct, perhaps because he was weak, whiny and/or wimpy. There was something about this guy that unsettled me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Now, my waking self is only left with the feeling he was the kind of person who would break under the mere threat of torture…sell out his best friend faster than you can say spineless.
Suddenly our meaningless conversation was interrupted by a very old, homeless man shuffling across the incredibly busy two-lane street in front of the mechanic shop. His hands held something precious, you could tell by the way he held it so close to his body despite his obviously addled brain and otherwise awkward body movements. My heart was in my throat watching him jerkily cross the road. Cars zipped by at casually intense speeds and somehow he just managed to stumble across the road.
He walked right up to me, all unshaven stubble and dirt streaks across his neck and handed me this mysterious package he was holding. Wimpy Cowboy was very interested in it but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him during this interaction. I looked concernedly at the obviously befuddled, drunken man only to be surprised when his face abruptly changed to reflect a sharp cunning, no less insane than before, but infinitely more aware. He looked at me with the eyes of a fox, just as my hand grasped the package, and as he let go, he hissed something at me…something my waking mind has forgotten. It was a revelation, I know that, but my dreams can be quite frustrating at times.
It shifted then (which is my way of describing when my dream completely changes) and I was living in a giant hollowed out tree with two people I didn’t recognize. I walked into an old dusty attic and found a secret compartment..invisible to the unobservant. Inside was a wooden box covered with carvings and delicate gold trim. The dust was so thick and old that the bottom layer had formed this sticky feel to it. I gingerly reached in and pulled out the box, knowing somehow this was a very important treasure indeed.
Suddenly, about four of my co-workers showed up at this bizarre tree house uninvited, flopped onto my couch and turned on the very old T.V. You know, the kind that has no remote, you have to turn these stubborn ridged pegs hard to get a new channel. I was irritated but had more important things on my mind. I wandered from room to room, wringing my hands and trying to remember something I’d forgotten.
With the arrival of the new people came drama, and I was left to deal with this young motherless boy. When I went outside to talk with him, I was horrified to see an epic battle raging between an army of impossibly large red ants and some foreign long, thick but thin black beetles. They were the size of a large man’s pinkie in length, with pincers like a black scorpion. They were fighting each other viciously and there was noway to tell which insect was winning. Stuck in some kind of death grip, they were a swarming mass of red and black .
My first thought after watching the carnage in terror for a moment, was the boy. He was a young black boy, with an innocent face and an obviously blank mind. He was also watching this odd insect display, but with a curiously mild look on his smooth features. I grabbed his hand urgently and pulled him to me, whispering to him (the circumstances seemed to call for quiet) asking him if he knew where his mother was. He shook his head at me without once averting his eyes from the battle raging in front of us. The ants were swarming and relentless, but the outnumbered beetles were obviously stronger.
I picked up the boy and took him off in another direction with me, and though I was loathe to do it, I put my back to the insects. I felt their many countless eyes on my back as I walked quickly away, keeping track of my retreat.
It shifted again and I was walking next to Oprah (yes, the Oprah) into a theater dressed to the nines in a flowing backless black gown, with a near hip high slit along one leg. I felt glamorous and impossibly sexy, with the clinging material of the teasingly revealing dress wrapped heavily against my skin. The delicate metallic silver heels adorning my feet like jewels gleamed darkly against the jet black of my dress and swept-up hair hair.
I felt like a Princess and glided next to Oprah, never questioning my sudden hobnobbing with celebrities. Oprah and I held a casual conversation, though I had to lean down to catch her words over the busy chatter of the crowded theater. I remember thinking how short she seemed in real life. At one point we reached an area roped off with deep purple velvet ropes. I was not on the V.I.P. list apparently, so I stepped aside and said good bye to my new famous friend.
Suddenly I remembered I had some sort of job to do there. I guess this was a Cinderella deal. I went to find some friends and my dress and beautiful up-do disappeared and I was wearing my usual garb, dark blue jeans and a little tee. I was rushing down what felt like endless halls to find my people…I think I was a caterer or something for this big event.
I never found them but I left the theater far behind in my travels and I was again holding the little boy’s hand as we ran from something unknown. (Which always makes it scarier.) I ran down this long hallway that turned into a cave of sorts. We rushed out of the mouth of the cave only to see a dense thick and bristling army of trees. There was nowhere else to go, so we ran through the nearly pitch black and haunting quiet of the forest.
I awoke only when in the dream, I felt rather than saw, a huge fist or arm swinging my way. I winced in preparation for the unknown attack and woke up in shock. That’s happened intermittently all my life though, so no big surprise there…
My crazy dreams. End scene.
I had a mid-life crisis when I turned 21. I distinctly remember thinking amidst raucous calls for more alcohol and rounds of Jager bombs, “Well, its all downhill from here.” That may have been silly to think, but it is still there. I’m nearly 26 now and graying rapidly. Everyone I know has different reactions to this. Some people, despite seeing the now obvious long strands of evidence in my very dark hair, still have the gall to try and blow it off. I have a few male friends who insist that it is “hot” and to do nothing but embrace the early gray. That is just ridiculous. There are even a few people who insist that it is worry on part and will reverse once I “straighten things out”. For some reason I resent them saying that. My aunt went completely gray by the age of 30, so it is hereditary and therefore highly likely I got it from her. Great. Whatever the reason, it is driving me crazy to see the long strands of gray hair streaking my dark brown hair. I love the color of my hair and have no wish to dye it. Ugh. Now for my real point…
Speaking of getting older and growing up, I’ve been thinking about politics lately. Thanks to my friends at Twitter, it is impossible to ignore and fresh on my mind daily. About three years ago, I made a conscious decision to stop talking about politics with anyone, other than my significant other (at that time). I was so tired of listening to mostly uneducated people get angry and loud over things that were, for the most part, not within their control to begin with. Have you ever heard the phrase, “Worry is like a rocking chair. Gives you something to do but doesn’t get you anywhere.”? It’s a good one. Probably make a good lyric too, now that I think about it. Anyhow, it is applicable here, So much of what I hear when people talk politics is a bunch of complaining about things that will never change. Very little action happens in politic talk and I find the whole thing discouraging.
Another reason I stopped talking about it was because I realized that I have a limited capacity for watching and understanding the news. It is so full of double talk and tainted by opinions that I don’t trust anything they say anyway! I could be fascinated for hours listening to a person explain their thoughts to me on recent foreign policy changes or environmentalism, but sit me in front of a T.V., radio (god forbid!), or newspaper and my mind WILL wander. It isn’t a matter of if, just a matter of when.
Also, I don’t like either party in our 2-party system. I think they are both completely corrupted and filled with a bunch of arrogant people who talk just so that they hear themselves. Politicians will tell you whatever they think you want to hear. It is a 100% guarantee that nearly everything that comes out of their mouths is a lie. Whether it is a lie by omission, fancy wording and dodging, distraction from other issues, or just a flat out blatant lie, they are full of bull.
What is worse is that we (the general public) not only encourage it but beg for it, with our politically correct hounds foaming at the mouth and paying more attention to how expensive someone’s clothes are instead of what they actually plan to do with their time in office. Who do they owe money to? There is a question to ask. Where did they come from? What education do they have? What is their voting record? These are all valid and important questions. Whether or not they ordered an expensive meal in their hotel room is just ridiculous, distracting squabble. Between whispering campaigns, personal attacks, marital infidelity and fashion, we’ve seemed to have forgotten the point. These people are not rock stars or famous actors, folks. They are everyday people about to make some big decisions that will affect you, your children and their children. Pay attention to that.
Plus, I mean come ON, you’ve got to be kidding me with all this offended sensibilities crap. We forgive Michael Jackson because he won our hearts through his slamming pop music and vulnerable personality, but we condemn these politicians who cheat on their wives? This may sound very cynical, but the only difference between the politicians today and yesteryear are that they get caught now. You think our Founding Fathers were faithful? The probably had go-to squaws and their wives were grateful. This isn’t to say that I condone unfaithfulness in the least. If I had a man and he was unfaithful, he’d better pray to the gods that he doesn’t see me before he throws himself over the cliff. However, I just find the idea that it affects their ability to govern more than a little bit ridiculous. We already know they are all liars! Does this surprise anyone?
Finally, the heart of the reason I stopped discussing politics other than in private. I don’t know where I fit in, in the grand scheme of things. I don’t know enough to get vehemently behind one party and I also find myself on either side of the fence on any give topic. I have a few strong beliefs and they cross over the party lines. I am pro-choice and pro-death penalty. I say a woman chooses and it is stupid to try to say otherwise. Do I abhor women using it as some disgusting form of birth control? Absolutely. But I sure as hell don’t want to know that my baby girl is forced to have some rapist’s baby because the government ruled it out as homicide. As for criminals like murders and serial killers? With DNA evidence, I say you can’t kill ‘em fast enough for me. If you take someone else life, you forfeit yours. Simple.
As far as the environment is concerned, I think it’s a no-brainer. Shouldn’t even be a political issue, really. We need to clean our houses and rooms, we need to clean our world. Turning this into a political issue just turned into an issue about money. Do whatever you can, within reason, to insure the least amount of effect on our natural resources and preserve wildlife. Duh. I am so fucking sick of walking by polluted streams and garbage on the side of the road. It is much worse now than from my childhood days, by the way. I can remember clear streams running through my ‘burbs. Good luck finding that now. It makes me feel like grabbing the next person I see toss a Coke can out the window and rubbing their face in monkey poo saturated in gasoline. I blame people more for this than the government. You know how much worse all that accumulated litter is to our world than accidental oil spills?? Just because you were too lazy to get your fat McDonald’s eating ass up to throw it away?
Gun control? No one, and I mean no one, needs an AK-47 to make their point, but as long as the bad guys have guns, I damn well better have one too…and make it a shotgun. As a single woman, I will put one through an intruder’s eyes and be well pleased. “Stop being a criminal and this won’t happen to you”, I’d say to their dead body. Welfare? That is obviously not working. And I am tired of seeing people taking advantage of the system with my measly tax dollars. My monetary input to the government is nearly useless to them, but could make all the difference for me and I’d put it to better use.
I could go on in this vein but it’s all pretty much the same. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s exhausting and ultimately disheartening for me because I don’t ever see anything change. The situation never changes, the problems just rearrange. I will close by saying this. Obama is no miracle worker nor the second coming. People are acting like he’s going to fix every problem this country’s had since its conception. That is just silly. A politician is a politician is a ….well you know. I do think it is nice to see the ultimate result of what intelligent and hardworking people fought so hard for not that many years ago. Hopefully, that will stop more unfairness like reverse racism and finally propel us into a new era of less unwarranted resentment and the end of the “Gimmie Gimmie” mentality….but I doubt it very seriously.
Halfway through writing the previous post, Journey blared from my earphones and as usual, rocketed me back to being 17 years old and driving down the road in my friend Laney’s muscle car, singing Wheel in the Sky at the top of our lungs, reckless, careless, and carefree. This time I remembered a few things I’d forgotten and opened my heart and mind to step into the past. As I told a friend recently, I often live in the past, replaying memories over and over in my head, and with a certain smell or song I can spend hours stepping through and around nearly visible recollections from the past.
Laney was a friend to me during a tumultuous time in my life. I’d moved out on my own at an incredibly young age and graduated high school nearly a year early. I had nothing but time on my hands. She couldn’t have been more the opposite of me. Smaller than me but larger-than-life, she had vibrant blond hair, wide, rebellious green eyes and was the embodiment of a free-spirit. My supervision growing up was militant and highly sheltered, hers was largely unsupervised and hands off. She smoked Marlboro Reds by the carton and laughed at me when I coughed up a lung when I tentatively tried my first cigarette while staring up at the stars from the hood of her car one night. She was absolutely wild and I remember just blossoming around her, shedding years of learned inhibitions and enjoying the crazy ride that was the world of Laney.
Journey (among a few others, notably Kansas and Black Sabbath) were her favorite driving music. We would hop in the huge, slightly rusty, old baby blue muscle car and drive to the lake waaaay on the other side of town, just for the hell of it. Or more often, we would drive a few towns over to go see her boyfriend, Justin. He was tiny, wiry and had long, silky dark hair with a sweet smile and a room filled with heavy metal paraphernalia. Someone wasn’t supposed to be seeing someone else but now the memory is slightly faded and I can’t remember why. What I can remember is Laney and I, with our respective boyfriends, being absolute minxes one day on the sandy edges of a large Texas lake and building a truly giant replication of the male genitals entirely out of sand. We left it for some poor unsuspecting child to hopefully kick over. In her wildness she gave me a license to be free but that also scared me. I recall pulling away from her after awhile because of that fear and just growing apart.
As one of the lucky kids with not only a car but the license to drive it wherever she pleased, she was always being hit up for a ride to somewhere. However, again the opposite from me, she had not one problem saying no. Laney had very few people in her inner sanctum of true friendship and adopted friends and boyfriends like pets. She would become enamored with someone and force them (most were quite willing) to become her constant companion until, eventually, she tired of them and moved onto the next one. I was one such pet, but our friendship outlasted her others and we stayed relatively close until I moved on, leaving several old friends behind for a new job and a new area of town.
To this day, I don’t know what happened to her and I’ve often hoped that it was something good. She is one of those friends that could’ve gone either way; a Jane Doe with a tag on her toe or a rich and thriving trophy wife, there was no way to tell. No matter what, every time the haunting lyric “Just a small-town girl, living in lonely world…” slides into my world, my heart fills with poignant and pleasant memories of the wild blonde chick who used to be my constant companion in a world of trouble and young fun.
I think its amazing that music has that incredible power to bring back the past so sharply.
