If you’ve read my blog long enough you know by now that I love to travel. It’s one of the things that my husband and I bonded over when we first met. Him showing me new places and my love of being shown said places.  He usually leads and I trip along, in my own little world, per usual. I do enjoy exploring cities by myself however, but I just have to be slightly forced too.  Like this summer in Mexico City.  G had to work, so I in turn embarked on my own adventures.  And then last fall when we were in New York, G had to work again, and I  set out solo to forge my own path.  The amount of anxiety that I felt on both occasions was unparalleled.  I always put myself through a worst case scenario to help ease my spiraling self doubt. My thought process in doing this is that if I can solve a worst case situation before hand than I shouldn’t have to worry too much about the current state of affairs and it actually does put everything in prospective for me, however, in these instances a worse case in these large cities could involve getting raped, maimed, robbed, sold into human trafficking, wake up bloody in a grimy bathtub with only one kidney, you get the idea of where my mind can go. Mexico City and New York can be so very daunting when navigating by oneself, but I have perfected the RBF (Resting Bitch Face) face and I don’t make eye contact with anyone, pretending that it will make me invisible and I do believe that it works although sometimes maybe too well when I do on those rare occasions want to be noticed. I almost prefer these solo adventures of mine.  I never get that annoyed with myself.  If I want to sit and read a book over an overpriced glass of wine at 11 AM, I do and I will because I never judge me.  My only complaint is that the bitch always makes me pay. She can be so very rude sometimes.  So, you can imagine my trepidation when G and I are decided to embark on a group trip, one where I may or may not have tried to get out of.  Never ask me to do anything when I’ve already downed two glasses of wine because I will wholeheartedly, face bright and engaged, agree to whatever it is and then I will regret the whole messy idea of it the very next day.  We are of course going through with the trip and I really am excited for it.  New York feels so comfortable to me now.  Like you can wear anything, be anyone and you will most likely be accepted for it because I guarantee however strange you may think you are, all you have to do is glance to your right or left and you will find someone ten times stranger and that’s ok. So, you may ask, what gives me anxiety this time?  I will be with a group, I can trip along as much as I please without having to navigate too much of anything, but oh dear reader, that is not the case for me.  My anxiety has reached a peaking point all week as I think about and prepare for this trip.  I have pretty much bought all new clothes.  Everything in my closet seemed too dull, too over worn.  I want to look more chic than I am, more put together than I am, more New York than I am.  Do I foresee a resurgence of the Cousin Courtney character?  The likelihood of such a thing is very possible.  I also bought a new bag, got a fresh manicure and pedicure, not that anyone will be looking at my feet.  I will be wearing boots for goodness sake, but I did it anyway.  I even ordered two pieces of clothing from Free People, my favorite brand, albeit an overpriced one.  But Elizabeth, aren’t you going with friends?  Shouldn’t you feel comfortable just being yourself?  And the simple answer is yes that should be the case if they had any idea who I really am.  The hard truth is that I suspect I expect too much from friendships or maybe it’s that I’m too sensitive.  I suspect it’s a little mixture of both of those things.  I have noticed with past friends, present friends, and quite possibly future ones that little digs are sometimes thrown my way.  It might have to do with my questionable fashion choices (past me), my social media and picture taking skills (present me) and who knows what future me will do that someone will grasp onto and then later laugh about it to me, usually at a party where others are present.  My favorite is when it’s done multiple times.  I join in at first of course, but when it’s done on multiple occasions, I can’t help but to wonder the why in that.  And just to let you know when these occasions occur you will find a frozen smile plastered on my face, a slight nod or two, but on the inside I’m screaming, “Why can’t people treat me like I treat them,” or if I’m more accurate “Why can’t you keep your thoughts about me hidden and buried instead of allowing them free reign into the world?” Or maybe that’s the whole point of friendship and I really am too sensitive. I know my husband would say I am because he’s told me before that you really only make fun of the people you really like, which is something that confuses me, but I suspect is accurate. And then I wonder if perhaps I am the problem.  I have allowed such behavior and why is that?  Is my esteem so low that I revel in people’s negative perceptions of what I do, how I act?  I’m the one who sits there, like some sort of plastic mannequin, and never fights back because I would rather bear the weight of negativity than participate in any conflict, especially when I rarely see what good it will do me anyway.  If you're worried about me, don’t be.  These are just my silly thoughts. They usually are fleeting, change quickly, sometimes even abruptly. I am going to New York after all, with a new wardrobe no less and a character cued and at the ready if she is needed of course although I’m going to try to go as me for once.   Wish me luck as I brave this new adventure and stay tuned next week to see how I navigate the anatomy of traveling with others.

How does the saying go?  Comparison is the thief of joy.  I believe Teddy Roosevelt said that and it is true I suppose.  I just wish the knowledge of such a joy kill would stop my sometimes toxic brain from making those comparisons. I have found that going to big events makes it worse sometimes. But the thing about me is that my self doubt will never hold me hostage.  I will feel the same negativity sitting at home with my cats, doom scrolling IG or TikTok so I might as well do something fun and maybe that’s just the distraction my brain needs for all of those negative thoughts to be pushed aside for awhile although I suspect they won't go easily, they rarely if ever do. The art of misdirected comparisons did somewhat effect me this weekend. We attended ACL (Austin City Limits), one of the largest music festivals in the United States. The festival draws approximately 450,000 attendees over two weekends; features a broad array of artists (pop, country, EDM, alternative) who perform over nine stages.  The first time I went was seven years ago.  My husband and I had just started dating.  I had no idea what to expect and was under prepared, which may have led to an unfortunate snapping of a sandal (never wear sandals to a music festival), then impulsively buying ill fitted (two sizes too small) leather shoes (never wear leather shoes, boots…yes, shoes…no when you're in TX and walking all day), and the loss of two toenails (which finally have grown back, it only took four years, but they still don’t look right). I have grown a lot since then; bolder perhaps, more prone to standing up for myself, not as shy in social situations or maybe I'm just used to pushing myself into the world. At this point, I would consider myself a pro at navigating this particular festival since this was our seventh year attending.  I now know what to wear (boots for sure) and what not to wear (obviously not sandals and you should rethink any and all types of body suits, especially if you have a small bladder, the port-a-potties are a nightmare).  The best places to find a spot if you are prepared to camp out for a particular artists/band (try to get a place as close to the aisle as possible, you may see celebrities because that's where the VIPs enter/exit and you will get a shit ton of free water) or if you are just wanting to bop around and see the most artists in the time that you have (in this case try to maneuver your way in front of the sound booth, it's a pocket that people always think is full, but it usually isn't).  However, for me the downside to this festival is the many stages.  Inevitably you are going to have to pick which band/artist you're committed to seeing because there will be overlaps.  This year I think ACL did a better job of where they placed certain artists as opposed to previous years.  Last year it seemed that everyone wanted to see Chappel Roan’s performance and then everyone wanted to leave as soon as she was through, which caused a mad exit and an unfortunate maddening of a crowd. Also, we decided to not go with the teeny boppers' musical pathway having done this in previous years for Miley Cyrus (my husband got shamed for being too tall and for liking Miley..how dare he), Billy Eillish (the conversations that I had to witness I do not wish on my worst enemy), and even last year with Chappel Roan (her crowd refused to stand up for Cannons, the band who played before her…i.e. rude).  My mental health thanked me for traveling on a road not taken by the masses. So here was our musical road map. Characters included of course. DAY 1 CHARACTER - WILLOW MEADOW or should it be MEADOW WILLOW? We wanted to, or rather I wanted to see ROLE MODEL not ROLE MODELS, which makes sence now that I think about it. ROLE MODEL is the lead singer's stage name, and I don't really know quite how I feel about someone proclaiming themselves to be a role model. Aren't you setting yourself up for failure or maybe he's being ironic. Which brings up another issue, I don't know if his particular audience would even be able to understand irony. Whatever it is I suspect he doesn’t care all that much . He’s probably way too busy watching his star rise. I will say that he must have given his PR person a raise or something for he has created a gimmick that goes along with one his songs, one that I kind of find to be annoying. The song is call Sally, When The Wine Runs Out . As much as I hate falling prey to the internet's direction in my life, I lost the battle, but hopefully not the war, I still found myself scouring the internet looking for all the past Sallys and any Easter Egg as to who he might bring out for ACL. We got there an hour and a half early.  Saw KING PRINCESS. Also not a band as I had previously thought, but her stage name. Is that a thing nowadays to have a stage name if you're an artist? And do you have to register such a thing? What if everyone changed their name to something cooler, something even a little bit ironic, would chaos inevitably ensue? I did think she rocked it. Then we waited. And waited.  These people waited too. AND FINALLY ACL WEEKEND ONE SALLY. I was shook. Hillary Duff MARIN MORRIS (real name not one made for the stage) next... Side note: She performed on the Beatbox stage which we ended up loving and revisiting all three days. It was less crowded; allowed us some breathing room and a chance to see some artists a little bit closer. We weren’t too excited to see the headliner.  We had already seen HOZIER (surprisingly real name, HOZIER being part of his last name) recently and he does put on an amazing show, but we didn't feel the need to stay for the entirety of his concert. So, we left after a few songs or maybe we're just getting older and my feet hurt and all I could think about was the food truck situation that would be happening as soon as we got back to the hotel. DAY #2 CHARACTER: DENVER DAWN MARINA (real name, but did have a stage name at one point: MARINA AND THE DIAMONDS.  She's a Welsh singer-songwriter.   SABRINA CARPETER fans were already smothering us so we headed out early to see BACKSEAT LOVERS (finally an actual band name) not BACKSTREET LOVERS. I wonder if that name was even discussed when band names were being suggested? I doubt it for these guys are quite literally 20 something babies. Maybe that's why they seemed so happy and appreciative, they haven't been living that long. JAPANESE BREAKFAST (band name)... Cool vibes for sure. SABRINA CARPENTER fans apparently do no know how to handle themselves in public because they caused her to start late, so we made the right decision to stay clear of that side of the festival. We did basically what we did Friday because i.e. old and all that I said before...feet, fear of long lines, food trucks. We saw a few songs from THE STROKES and headed out. DAY #3 CHARACTER: She doesn’t really have a name.  This was not the outfit that I envisioned for myself, but it was comfortable, so a win win. WILD RIVERS (band name)...  Canadian folk band and they were chill and so was their crowd . TPAIN rocked it. Was I even surprised and if I was shame on me. We beelined it to THE KILLERS soon after.  And repeated what we had done the previous two nights because old and feet hurt, fear of standing in long lines, food trucks and basically just food in general. Just in case you're wondering, the music eventually did get me past overanalyzing myself and everyone else around me which caused me to further wonder if there will ever be a time when I’m satisfied with the past me and the present me, or will I always hope for that future version that has finally gotten it right.  The answer is I don’t know.  I’m 44 now and should be familiar with today's Elizabeth instead of pretending to be characters.  Or maybe that is the real me.  The overimaginative girl that never quite got over playing dress up.  I will be 94 with pink and blue hair telling anyone who will listen that my name is Cordelia today and only today because that's my new character.  They say that women reach a certain disapearing age and I am looking forward to that time actually for it will only elicit another round of characters, ones that may be more bold, more daring and I look forward to meeting every last one of them.

Buckle up buttercup for the next two posts are going to be about music, my love for seeing it live, and my willingness to go to any concert, even if I don’t really know the band, and even when it falls on a school night.  These are the weeks that I live for actually, the ones where my evenings are jam packed with music, new adventures, new characters. You will not be surprised that one of my favorite things about going to concerts is to dress in what I would consider their groupie’s attire. I very much like a theme sometimes, especially when I’min charge of implementing said theme. So, get ready to embark on two weeks filled with concerts and the characters that they inspired. Also, it's important to note:  I’m still anxious here, especially when going to a new music venue. Will our e-tickets work?  What if they don't? What would we do then? Maybe the website will be down?  What if my phone glitches and dies unexpectantly? What if I lose my ID, credit card, wallet?  What if I get separated from my partner?  You get the idea.  The anxious list goes on and on.  But I do try to silence my intrusive thinking the best that I can by attempting to redirect my mind. I focus on that terrible worst case scenario and if I can come up with a solution for that, then I can accomplish the rest. I simply refuse to let my anxiety ruin an amazing time. If my brain had her way I would stay in my house with my animals, which I will admit is lovely sometimes, but that's not a life that I want to forever live. Now, onto my week(s) of concerts. Night #1 - Tuesday Band: Skerryvore Character: Cherry Lane (I just saw this limited series THE GIRLFRIEND and the main character was named Cherry and I kind of loved it although she was pretty despicable) I have never heard of this band before and really why would I?  They are based in Scotland. They blend what you would consider traditional Scottish music, yes there was a bag pipe player, with pop and rock. To me the lead singer sounded exactly like Keith Urban. We had front row seats, which were amazing.  I felt like I was a member of the band at some points or at the very least their biggest fan.  I made eye contact with the lead singer more than once and may or may not have planned out a different future for myself. One in which I quite my job, moved to Scotland to join their fan club. The crowd was a bit older and insisted on staying seated, much to the chagrin of the band who expressed surprise at all of its seated patrons, even stating at one point that they were unused to seeing people sit at their concerts. I, for one, was itching to stand up and I wasn’t the only one. Who sits at a concert anyway?   I heard varied murmurs of people wanting to stand but being too shy to be the first ones to do so or maybe they were afraid of blocking the people's view who were seated behind them. During one of the breaks I got a chance to talk to some people around me.  I was surprised that one couple had been fans of this band for years, having discovered them on a vacation to Scotland some time ago.  And then two women to my right had actually traveled from Little Rock to see them.  Who knew that their fandom had such a wide range? I did get to stand if you were wondering, although I kicked myself that I wasn’t bold enough to be the first one.   Night #2 - Wednesday Band:  Blink 182 Character: Punk rock 90s girl. May go by the name of Lilith Now I have seen Blink 182 before.  They actually performed at ACL last year and we made a point to get a pretty close spot, so I wasn’t too terribly concerned with getting seats for this concert.  However, it rained all day, so seats would have been nice.  But, we sucked it up like any serious concert goer. We brought ponchos and braved the possibly iffy weather all in the name of good music, a great experience. To be clear it did rain on us more than once, but it was all worth it. We did luck out and got a spot closer to the railing (or rather G has friends that saved our place, I always give him shit for talking too much to people, but it does have it's perks sometimes) which made entering and exiting a lot easier although my anxiety about dropping through the railing and to the ground below was pretty high.  I watched many a person make the jump and then the inevitable climb back up to the lawn. I marveled at how seamless they made it seem and wondered if I would be quite so stealthy.  I eventually needed a refill on my drink, like I knew that I would, and I decided to embark on the journey by myself amidst some deep breathing and an internal pep talk.  I am proud to say that I didn’t get lost and actually found where we were seated without having to make a panicked phone call. I hefted myself up under the railing and to the safety of my small tarp on the lawn with only a few disjointed movements and I actually didn't make a complete fool out of myself or if I did I was unaware and really isn’t that all that matters.  Ignorance is so blissful sometimes or is it most of the time? This is me after making it back up to the lawn. It really was higher than it looks. Blink 182 knew what they were doing.  The set was tight, they played all of their old bangers, and they didn’t have an encore, for who wants to go through the motions of standing and clapping for that extra 10 minutes when we all know the band is going to come back out and play again. Night #3 - Thursday Band: Ben Rector Character: Heather (mainly because I wore a hat) I’m sad to say I had never heard of Ben Rector before this, but once he began to play I recognized a few of his songs.   Friends of ours got us VIP tickets (yes the same friends that saved our lawn seats from the night before), so we got to use the lounge and stay in box seats.  I felt very Walmart executive’s wife and I’m not mad about the comparison. This crowd was more on the tamer side, but then again so was the artist.  Kind of a Ben Folds' vibe going on.  A lot of love songs and I wasn't mad about that either. Night #3 - Tuesday (again, following week) Band: Papa Roach Character: Heavily tatted girlie.  Ruth, likes to be called Ruthie I kind of felt like I found some of my people at this concert.  So many compliments on my tattoo, and if there's one thing about me you should know is that you can pretty much have me with a good compliment. Papa Roach was great; the lead singer interacted a lot with the crowd. At one point he stopped to say a few words about suicide prevention.  I read later that the band actively promotes and donates to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, as well as pledging ongoing royalties from the song “Leave A Light On (Talk Away The Dark).”  Of all the messages to use for your platform, I think this is one of the best ones. I don’t know if it's the people or the music or the artists, but I feel more alive, more free when I’m at a concert.  I let the music move my body and I don't care what I look like.  It’s dark, people are vibing, and I can move uninhibited. My series of concerts caused me to wonder, what if there was a job where all I had to do was go to concerts and hype the band up?  I’m really the perfect concert goer.  I always clap, sing (even if I don’t know the words), dance.  I never get too drunk, or obnoxious.  Some would say this is the definition of a groupie, but I don’t want to be tied down to one specific band; I don’t even want to talk to the members of one if I’m being completely honest. Like what would I say that they haven't been told a million and half times before. And on my quest to be different I would make a complete embarrassed fool out of myself trying to come up with something unique to say. So, no I don't want to meet the band, I just want to get paid to attend their concert, jump around like I’m 12, maybe write about my experience, and forget about life for awhile. Is that too much of a hard ask? For now I've resigned myself to being a forever concert goer, even if I will never get paid, but I'm fortunate enough to have found a partner who likes them as much as I do and finances this frivolous passion. I have found that music, especially when it is live, turns my mood around, brightens my day, and makes me an overall happier person and really isn't that the whole point. To find that special something that makes you better, makes you happier, makes your life worth living. I'm glad I've found one of those things for me and I'm glad that there are artists that still put their soul out there, which is no easy task in today’s messy world where social media makes sharing one’s opinion so accessible. These artists cause color in what could be a very black and white world and who doesn’t love a little bit of color anyway.

Nothing gives me more anxiety than driving.  I hate it and I would be the first one to tell you I'm not very good at it.  I don’t know if these two things are somehow related, but the likelihood that they are is probably pretty good.  Isn't the things we aren't really good at usually the hated ones? Or should it spur some kind of reaction on my part to practice said thing so that I can become better at said thing?  Is that what more accomplished people do, I sometimes wonder, hone in on their flaws so that their life can be a dedication to improve on all the things that hinder that quest for perfection? I must have given up on this ideal a long time ago because I find that I don’t really care all that much about getting better at driving.  I’ve thought about the why in this of couse and it comes down to the fact that there are just too many variables involved.  I have to share the road with many a maniac for one, some potential serial killer or pedophyle or just plain crazy person.  How I am supposed to relax when I’m told that collectively I have to put my trust in such individuals?  Can I really trust that they will stop when told to, will yield when appropriate?  I can't help having a myriad of potentially life threatening outcomes flash before me when I get into my car every morning. Might this be the last time, I can't help but to wonder. And if you think that I’m being overdramatic, I have to respectfully disagree.  There are crazy, overzealously ambitious drivers who are not afraid to slide between me and another car at a moment's notice.  And sometimes you feel very lucky.  Someone might actually show a sliver of what you would consider good will and slow down so that you can merge, but then they suddenly zoom ahead, outrageously laughing that they pulled one over on the anxious slow girl who is now behind them, her heart in her throat, her hands unbearably shaking as she replays what she should have done and all of those what could have been scenarios. And another thing, how much trust should we really put on traffic lights anyway?  What happens if a light suddenly goes out or what if they all land on green?    What would happen then? To put my driving anxiety in perspective here’s a bit of background information about my journey to drive.  You may think that something terrible must have happened for me to have this much anxiety about what essentially the majority of people in the Unites States are forced to do every day, like I was in some sort of death defying car accident when I was younger where I flew across four lanes of traffic and barely made it out alive.  This wasn't at all the case for me.  I’ve only ever been in two accidents and they were very minor as far as accidents go, so I don’t think it's a buried trauma.  I got my license at 17.  I waited that extra year because for one I was scared, two I didn’t have a car, and three I don’t think my parents really wanted to teach me.  My mother flat out refused, saying that her nerves simply could not handle it and she was the teacher in the family.  Thus, the responsibility fell upon my father, the non teacher.  Now my dad is not a great driver himself and I am not one to allow common sense to shape what I should or should not do, especially during my teenage years.  For example, on one of our practice drives my dad told me to turn left out of a Walmart parking lot, and I did, I did indeed turn left, which put me directly into oncoming traffic.  He failed to mention that I needed to cross to the median.  But should he have really had to explain such a thing to me in the first place?  I do have eyes and a brain, both of which should have been watching the flow of traffic, but alas, that was not the case. You may be surprised that I passed my driver’s test on the first try, although it was just barely.  My driving examiner was almost too large to fit into my tiny forest green Buick Skylark.  His side stomach rubbed against my arm throughout the entirety of the drive.  He demanded immediate air conditioning as soon as he waddled his way into my car and struggled to get the seat belt over his protruding stomach.  I almost felt like he blamed me for the size of my car, the lack of air conditioning, and his too large gut.  I was shaking of course and sweating, which is a weird combination of physicalities to happen all at once.  By the time we reached the parallel parking portion of the test, I could tell he was already over it and to be honest, so was I.  He gave me about a minute to fail miserably before grunting a few times and then pointing a pudgy finger at the front windshield as he told me to just go ahead already because obviously I wasn’t getting it. But he did pass me nonetheless, maybe just so that he wouldn’t have to see me and my small car again. Now fast forward to today where I live in a new city.  A city that used to be quite small, but is growing.  It’s growing so fast that right now it’s the 18th fastest-growing metro area in the United Sates, attracting daily approximately 36 new residents.  The two lane highway that was here when I first moved has changed to three lanes and probably needs to change again. Here is a few pictures to show you what I mean, although they do not do it justice to how gridlocked everything can become on the daily. I’m not aggressive or confident enough to battle this everyday.  That’s the one thing that my driving examiner told the 17 year old version Elizabeth.  You aren’t confident, but that will come with practice.  I’m 44 now and am still not confident and no amount of practice has boosted that driving confidence I'm afraid.  I often wonder where I can buy this confidence because it’s not just in my driving that I lack it, but so many other things as well.  I look at people and wonder how they became confident in the first place and if they can give me just a small amount of what they have.  I don’t really think that’s how confidence works, although I wish it did because then I would probably be better at so many things. Maybe that confidance will eventually come my way. Maybe there is in fact a magic number in age where everything will click for me. I have always liked to take my own time in most things, why should gaining confidence be any different? But for now, every morning I grip that steering wheel, tightly mutter and then pray for the other drivers to not hit me, and brave highway 49.  When I reach my destination I’m always amazed that I made it all in one piece, without a scratch on my car or person.  Someone must be smiling down on me or maybe I’ve just built up a lifetime of good  karma, whatever it is I am thankful.

In all the books that I have read, pages and pages of romance in my youth, globs of fantasy in my young adulthood, and as an adult literary fiction with a spidgen of the appropriate amount of horror, if there is such an appropriate amount, and despicable characters, lots and lots of despicable characters, there is one story in particular that really resonated with me; I still think about it in fact. Now for those who know me, it may come as a surprise that I still think of such a story as this, for it is very not the me of today. It's more what the younger Elizabeth enjoyed. The one who lived with her rose colored glasses tightly pushed high up on her nose, her heart open to a world brimming with delicious possibilities for her future self. ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, the 1985 Canadian made for television film starring Megan Follows, is the story that I am talking about. I grew up watching this movie. It's actually in three parts and I revelled in every blessed minute. When I was older I read the books penned by author L.M. Montgomery. They always say the book is better than any film adaptation ever could be, but in this case the movie really did justice to the books. In fact, I enjoyed both of them equally. If you don’t already know the story I won’t bore you with the minute details, but at its core is the main character Anne Shirley.  Anne is an orphan and is adopted by a brother and sister who wanted a boy to help them around the farm.  Of course this would probably never happen today, but this story takes place in the early 1900s so that arrangement wasn’t terribly unusual.  They didn’t get the boy that they requested however, but was instead met with over imaginative, spitfire Anne Shirley. There were several things about Anne that stood out to me then and I still remember to this day. First, she insists on being called Cordelia because “it’s such a perfectly elegant name” (32), but resigned herself to her real name Anne, even if she believed it to be very unromantic.  When Marilla, her adopted mother, scoffs at such a notion and refuses to call her anything but her lawful name, Anne makes another request. Can everyone at least spell it with an e ?  And the last thing. Anne wants to find her bosom best friend, “an intimate friend, you know–a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul” (66).  Anne does find that intimate friend in the character of Diana Berry and their relationship, in my opinion, is one of the most inspiring, most iconic in all of literature.  Upon Anne first meeting Diana she asks her, “Do you think you can like me a little–enough to be my bosom friend?” (97).  I always felt that I shared quite a few things with Anne Shirley or maybe she influenced me to behave in certain ways; the first media influencer who I was swayed by I guess you could say. When I was in seventh grade I wanted to die my hair red, like Anne, and change my name to Cordelia, like Anne. I even wrote one paper in my English class and signed it Cordelia McKintock. My mother refused both of these notions. I know, rude. And I resigned myself to using Cordelia McKlintock as a pseudonym if I ever became a published writer. Second, my middle name is Anne and I revelled in the fact that it is spelled with an e even though my mother said that I was named after my grandmother who did not end her Ann with an e, which I must admit confused me. I am glad that my mom did decide to tag that e on to the end of my Anne for I really do think it looks better that way. It gives it an extra flare. (Now if your name is Ann and it does not end with an e, I apologize for saying such things. I like the name Ann no matter how it's spelled if I'm being completely honest.) Third, and most important to this particular blog post, finding my bosom best friend.  My Diana Berry if you will.  I’ve had two friends in my life that would rival something that means a bosom best friend.  My cousin Amanda and my childhood friend Jessica.  Both girls had to put up with me repeatedly asking them to be my bosom friend.  The first time I asked Amanda, she looked at me quizzically at first and maybe a bit panicked.  I’m pretty sure she had never watched Anne of Green Gables or read the books and I did not really provide her with much context for my question, maybe she would have understood me better if I had explained the story.  Needless to say I was rejected by the both of them.  I only ever saw Amanda once a year and I’m sure she was thinking, I have loads of friends back home who I talk to on a daily basis.  But alas, I didn’t let that deter me for I continued to ask her every year.  Bless her for not telling me to shut the fuck up already.  And Jessica.  Jessica was too much of a pragmatist to understand such a strange, weird, and too intimate of a question.  Also, what a committment to make in the fourth grade to another person. All of this brings me to my current state of things.  I have struggled with finding friends in my adult life and I really think Anne Shirley and her quest for a kindred spirit ruined me.  I have always wanted that friend to confide in, my ride or die.  Someone who laughs at my jokes, never at my expense.  Someone who would help me bury a body, no questions asked.  Someone who is like family, but better because they chose you.  But Anne found her kindred spirit in childhood, not as an adult and maybe that's the real key to all of this. That's not to say you can't find a friend, even a best friend, as an adult, I think it just looks a little different. Life expectations, responsibilites get in the way sometimes of maintaining friendships in adulthood. People leave, but may return again and that is ok as well. And another thing, not everyone has to be your particular best friend; not everyone even has a best friend. Some times I take a notion and romantisize it in my mind and then get depressed if fiction does not become my reality, but that's not fiction's real job. Fiction's job is to take us away from the harsh stings of whatever makes up our day to day, not to infiltrate into our real life. I sometimes do miss the dreamy version of myself. The one who longed to live in a romantisized version of her life. She is still in me perhaps, buried deep within loads of cynicism and stoniness, resurfacing every 20 years or so like some sort of Hailey’s comet, even though that is visible I think every 76 years, and maybe that's how long it will take for me to revert back to who I once was. Maybe it's Montgomery herself who would have been my bosom best friend if I had met her. It's her stories, her words that will always stay sunkissed and cherished in my heart and that makes me happy that I was introduced to her by an Ann, without an e, for reading her stories shaped the person who I am today. I would never have gone around ptitfully asking classmates if they would be my bosom friend. I would also probably not have been mocked or judged for living in my own little Anne Shirley world, but I would rather that world than the one we are currently living in. My world involves flowery words, titillating hearts. A place that is always autumn, makes you feel like you are being held in a tight embrace. It's a place where you are loved because of the simple fact that you are you and isn't that what we all really want in the end.

Is there anything  better than a staycation, but the kind that’s a little further from home?  You’re far  enough away where you won't run the risk of seeing anyone you know so  you have all the license that you need to dress in a different way, maybe bolder, maybe sluttier, maybe  more conservative, whatever floats your boat, but you can be different for a while and who doesn’t love that kind of freedom? One of my favorite places to travel that is not too far or too close, but just right as Goldilocks would say, is Tulsa, Oklahoma and as luck would have it we chose a weekend that coincided with their first Friday Art Walk or as they call it crawl. If you haven’t been to a Tulsa's first Friday Art Crawl I would highly recommend it.  It’s surprisingly well populated with not only vendors and street performers, but patrons as well.  It was first established in 2007 to drive consumers to the ever growing Tulsa Arts District.  What started out as 50 to 100 people visiting four to six venues has now grown to well over 3,000 art enthusiasts visiting every month.   Small to large galleries stay open, many well past their closing hours, to allow customers to peruse the local art scene. One of my favorite galleries is called the Living Arts of Tulsa Gallery which features contemporary art and we had to of course stop there first.  We have actually bought art from them before as pictured below. They’re weird, they’re strange, they’re deliciously me. This particularly weekend two exhibits were being showcased.  The first one is entitled the STATE OF THE UNION where artist Val Esparza explores America’s divisiveness by using the flag as a symbolic object.  The stars are twisted, the stripes tangled in both two and three dimensional formats. The second exhibit is entitled DINKUM HOKUM where artist Austin Gober plays with the idea of shifting perspectives to represent the unusual.  I enjoyed this exhibit a bit more than the first. Probably why I took pictures of some of the pieces, for it did embrace the strange, although some of the art was simpler than what you might expect, something that I think Gober did on purpose.  Taking what you know, the familiarity of it, and turning it into the absurd. Like the first picture is a scene from a normal enough looking living room, but it is set strangely with naked manequins and furniture that has been knocked over. My husband liked the second picture the most from this gallery so I had to include it as well. Sorry for my less than stellor pholtography skills. I had noticed a sign when first entering the gallery that said something about taking pictures, but I couldn't tell if it was for or against it, so I kind of panicked, not wanting to get into trouble, and tried to be sneaky. I'm sure I was not near as stealhy as I thought myself to be, although no one said a word to me. Both exhibits run through October 11. The 108 Contemporary Gallery was next and their current exhibit is entitled STILL which showcases the works of  Lissa Hunter, Jane Sauer, Jo Stealey, and Carol Stein.  These artists have actually been friends for decades, and to maintain their friendship duing the COVID pandemic they met virtually.  As luck would have it inspiration struck during these virtual conversations.  The exhibit explores the still life through their different eyes, different perspectives, over time. “Out of stillness comes observation. Out of observation comes awareness. Out of awareness comes our work.” ( https://108contemporary.org/event/still/ ) I enjoyed the different takes on recognizing a life in stillness. From recreated objects, to paintings, to textiles.   The exhibit will run through September 20. Then we stumbled into the Tac Gallery, one I hadn't been to before. The exhibit that is  currently on display is entitled THE PROFESSIONAL AND OTHER WORKS.  Artist Chrisa Dené Jacobs has painted a series of portraits inspired by her father.  I enjoyed how the drawn lines seem so haphazard and free.  Individually they might not make much sense, but together they tell a story of a person.  Eyes that are weary, eyes that are lustful, eyes that have seen pain.   The exhibit will run through September 27. In the middle of all the vendors and galleries is a large open field with a stage where different dance crews were showcasing their improvised dance skills.  I loved the excitement that the dancers and crowd exhibited with one another, as well as the comradery shown between each dance crew. It was nice to see friendly slaps on the back, shared laughs and nods amidst a world that sometimes feels too hard, too heavy. Walking around the different vendors, observing all of this art made me wonder what it would have been like if I had taken the artist pathway.  I’m not a talented painter or sketcher or crafter or builder, so I probably wouldn’t have ended up at an art walk or crawl, but I do love to write, and I have always loved to act so maybe a street performer would have been more my thing.  Would I have been happier, I sometimes wonder, if I had pursued something in the arts even if I wasn't well recieved by the masses?  Which would be no real big surprise for me, having never been one for popularity.  Always towing the line of mediocrity except for the fourth grade.  I know, random, but that was a year I remember my confidence really soaring.  I don’t know why it was that year specifically and why the following years I reverted into myself like a turtle seeking its safe little shell.   Are all children born into confidence, I sometimes wonder?  Confident in who they are without feeling the need to play that neverending, never satisfying comparison game.  Is that taught behavior, the never feeling good enough or was a bully to blame for all of my insecurities, although my bullies so often wore sheep’s clothing.  Church friends who delighted in laughing at my expense or maybe I was just too sensitive and where does that come from?  The overly exhausting sensitivity where even the slightest head tilt if done too fast, too sharp can make you tear up knowing that you are the brunt of someone else's joke again.  A joke that you always had trouble understanding in the first place, which only made the bully laugh that much harder. But I have grown since then, thank God for that. And with all of that growth I have realized that I don't care so much about what people think or say about me or at least not as much as I once did, but maybe I would have come to this realization sooner if I had followed my inital passions because artists so often revel in embracing their authenticity instead of running from it.  They might go home at night, sad that someone didn’t buy their painting or maybe hurt that some idiot commented too harshly about whatever their creation was, but I choose to think that's not the case.  These artists have put themselves out into the world for better or worse and are satisfied with their choice, for really they couldn’t have ever envisioned another life for themselves.  And maybe that is the real reason art walks are a thing today.  To be around such authentic souls is refreshing in a world of social media, where everyone tries to pretend that their shit isn’t near as bad as we all know it to be. Art walks  emerged in the late 20th century, but primarily in those big coastal cities, New York, L.A.  Middle America eventually began participating in the early 2000s.  It has grown substantially since then because art is important for what it gives us.  A peak into something that makes us think a certain way, a different way.  Or maybe it allows us to go back in time for a moment to when life was happier or sadder,  and the feelings that are elicited are genuinely authentic to us.  Art walks  allow us to see and maybe even talk to the artists who live so close to us and to respect them for who they are, the ones who have dared to dream a life so much bigger than most, but maybe I’m over romanticizing the whole idea, which I’m kind of prone to do most days.  Whatever these thoughts are, I hope it inspires you to go to your town’s art walk, usually held on the first Friday of the month, buy something locally crafted and every time you wear or see it, think of the time that was spent creating such a piece.  Bits of someone’s soul went into making that art for you and isn’t that truly an extraordinary thing.

Sometime I forget that my family members share my genetic makeup.  Like they very well may have the same anxieties, fear of disappointing others, constant need to apologize, the ability to get lost in every place and situation, and to make most situations as uncomfortable as possible, and I could go on, but I’m working on my self esteem so I will leave it there.  But all of these shared idiosyncracies possibly look different in another person. A kaleidoscope of mismatched psychosis, shaken up and spit out in different formulas with bit of life experience thrown in for good measure. I didn’t really think about all of this of course as I prepared myself to be embraced by family over the last weekend. All I felt was an anxiety that caused heart palpitations, sweating, and a fear that I wouldn’t know what to say, or if I did say something it would be a vomit of inconsequential words, haphazardly formed, haphazardly spewed.  And that happens to me when I'm nervous. Like the time I met David Sedaris, the famous humorous writer, and as he was signing a copy of one of his books for me, he gave me a sweet compliment. "I like your shirt," he said. I could have smiled and politely thanked him for the compliment, but I didn't. Before my brain could catch up to my mouth I was telling him that the shirt was rented.  Confusion etched itself across his face as he looked me up and down. Can this girl not afford to buy her own clothes? Was a question I’m sure he was thinking, but of course didn’t say and I didn't provide any further explaination, but rather asked him instead how often he writes.  His confusion turned to one of mild annoyance as he told me that he wrote every day.  Of course he would write everyday, that's his job as a WRITER.  I spend most of my life trying to not be basic and when the opportunity strikes to impress someone I admire so much, the most basic of basic questions leaves my mouth without asking my permission, the audacity!! So yes, past experience have told me that I can’t be trusted when left to my own devices.  Maybe if I had created a character before seeing Sedaris I wouldn’t get chills of embarrassment every time I think about what I said and his face when I said it.  Cool chic writer girl would only have ever said very cool chic writer like things if I had thought to create her before the book signing.  In that spirit I knew what I had to do this weekend.  I had to create a character to ensure that I would maintain a calm, be attractively collected, and very very poised.  Thus, Cousin Courtney was born.  Cousin Courtney is a lot like the person who I have always wanted to be.  She says what she feels when she actually feels it.  She’s not afraid to express herself even if it’s too bold, too flamboyant, too much for the occasion.  Cousin Courney doesn’t give two fucks because Cousin Courtney is herself first, and a people pleaser last.  The irony is not lost on me that I have to be a personality somewhat removed from my own to be confident in myself, something that Cousin Courtney would never do. To get into this new character I promptly got my nails done a bright red.   I picked all the dramatically black outfits to wear for such an occasion, took a few deep breaths and was finally ready to embark on what I could only assume was going to be a very heavy weekend, but not awkward, never awkward because Cousin Courtney simply doesn’t do awkward. I was wrong of course.  The Cousin Courtney character lasted for about two point five seconds.  Probably about the time I saw my dad, saw his fluster, heard him say the first thing that must have popped into his mind because it was disjointed from the conversation at hand and then he proceeded to apologize when everyone showed up an hour late because he must have told them the wrong time, which I don’t think that he did, but he, like me, always assumes that if there’s a wrong doing it’s probably his fault. My dad and his brothers. From left to right: John, Edward, Dad, Mike I’ve never hugged so hard, not a Cousin Courtney thing for she’s never one for warmth, but I think that’s what grief does. It wraps you in a darkness so intense that family is the only ones that can pull you out of it and a hug is what you need to feel that you really aren’t alone with your tears because they are validated for what they are, an intense pain leaving your body, washing away everything that you feel to leave you cleaner, brighter on the other side. My grandfather’s death was expected, but I found that I was crying not so much for his passing because I do believe that he was ready, but rather for the passing of my childhood.  I looked around at all of my cousins, now all grown up, most with grown children, and I could still picture us gathered around the kid’s table at Thanksgiving and laughing as we joked about the adults, about the food, about each other.  I bought my first album, The Eagles Greatest Hits, because I overheard my two cousins Amara and Adrianne talking about how great the Eagles were.  My cousin Amanda and I always seemed to do the same things, at the same time, although we only ever saw one another once a year and even now, she’s trying to learn Spanish, taking the same level in Duolingo, gets to talk to Lily and express how much me gusta el pan, and I am doing that very same thing now although we haven't talked in over 10 years. Here are Amara, Amanda, and Adrienne at dinner the night before the funeral.  We shut the place down but could have continued talking for a few hours more. From left to right: Amara, Amanda, Me, Adrianne I felt lighter on the drive home after my grandfather was buried, goodbyes were said and promises were made to make more of an effort to stay in touch because that’s important.  Family's important for nothing else but to make you feel that you aren’t really alone in the world.  Your personality, your idiosyncrasies are shared with others and that should mean something.  It’s the family events that are the one place where I shouldn't have to create a character because they should know the real me.  As much as I think sometimes that I’m not seen, not heard, I realized this weekend that there is family that sees me, hears me, and I didn’t need Cousin Courtney to feel comfortable after all.  So often though it’s a feeling of judgement that beats me down with its screams that I’m not enough, will never be enough, but if there is that judgment hidden somewhere dark and secluded, like judgement is so prone to lurk, is that a something that I can really help?   If others judge me, even if it is family, isn’t that on them?  Writing this now I feel more attuned to the Cousin Courtney character for wouldn’t she be saying something so similar right now if given the opportunity, which makes me wonder about my created characters. Are they just different versions of me? I suspect that they are. Why pigeon hole myself into what I think I should be or feel or do?  I’m multi faceted and aren’t we all in one way or another. I don’t know if I will ever completely understand the person who I am, although I’m hopeful that I will one day, maybe when I’m 94, like my grandfather, and maybe I will be lucky enough to have someone, anyone, tell me that they do see me, they do know me, they do hear me and best of all they do accept me for all of my characters, Cousin Courtney included.  James Ragain, husband, father, grandfather (1931-2025)

I once worked with a teacher who was the walking definition of an oxymoron.  When I met her she was vegan, would talk about it in detail, although getting to the point felt like participating in a one sided game of checkers with her.  When food was offered she never said the simple no thank you, she put on a show.  Her eyes would slide from left to right as she looked at the particular food item, one finger poised to pick up whatever it was, an eyebrow raised, “Does this have cheese in it, eggs, meat,” she would ask, her nose wrinkling.  She was soon given the answer that she had to have expected. Yes, the food has all of those things and probably other ingredients, many of which even the most sound linguistic would have trouble pronouncing.  We worked in public education after all, in middle America.  Vegan options were never a thing.  If there was a salad, which was a rare sighting, it was mostly cheese and predressed, each lettuce leaf dripping with some kind of white goo.  Inevitably someone would ask her the question that I suspected she had been waiting to hear, “Are you on a particular diet?”  “Why, yes I am,” she would then say and I could hear the gloat behind every syllable.  “I’m vegan.” “I don’t see how you do it,” one teacher replied with a shake of her head.  “I just could never have that much discipline,” someone else added.  I could see her rise a bit higher, her chin titled upwards as she smiled with satisfaction because  yes she had the self control that we all envied. She then went on to describe the many recipes that she had tried, how amazing she felt.  She was actually down five pounds and had boundless amounts of energy.  But the next year she had changed.  I watched, confused, as she shoveled cheese and meat sticks into her mouth at our first teacher’s meeting.  What was happening? I thought, but didn’t dare to ask, and neither, apparently, did anyone else.  But I was curious so I watched as she was presented with food. “Does this have cheese, dairy, or meat?”  She asked.  How can this be? I thought.  Last year she was asking the opposite.  She couldn’t stand the thought of eating a single animal product.  Oh, how times have changed, I thought next.   There was another awkward pause before someone dared to ask, “Are you on some sort of special diet” to which she replied with another proud smile, “Yes, I’m keto.”  “I don’t see how you do it,” one teacher said.  “I just could never have that much discipline,” someone else added.  And again I could see her rise a bit higher, her chin tilted upwards as she smiled with satisfaction because yes she had the self control that we should all envy.  She then went on to describe the many recipes that she had tried, how amazing she felt.  She was actually down five pounds and had boundless amounts of energy. I soon came to the realization that this particular person may just be starving for attention and saying something shocking, something that most people could never do, would make them admired in others’ eyes. This same teacher taught English, but bragged about how much she hated to read, which I never quite understood.  How does that even happen?  Or was she just trying to be shocking, once again. She is not the only one with this type of oxymoronic behavior.  There are others, myself even.  It’s almost like we all have a certain version of ourselves outlined for others to look at and enjoy, but when it comes down to it, that’s not who we really are, and maybe for some of us, or most of us, we will never know who that person is.  For so long we have been living with this idealistic version of ourselves, the authentic one buried somewhere too deep to be discovered.  I don’t know whatever happened to the vegan turned keto lover.  She left the school soon after, moved somewhere far away I heard.  Hopefully, she’s not teaching English anymore.  The last thing that we need is someone who hates to read teaching our youth the importance of it.  I do wonder what her new diet regimen is, although I suspect, knowing what I know about her, that she is on some type of GLP 1.  But I’m sure when food is offered, she will still evaluate it with a critical eye before pushing it to the side because she is just too full to eat a single bite.  She probably will wait for a bit, hoping that someone notices her lack of appetite and finally asks her, “Are you on some sort of special diet?” And that is the only segway that she will need to tell them all about the weightloss drug and how she feels amazing, she’s actually down five pounds and has boundless amounts of energy.

My grandfather died this week.  It was expected and as far as death and dying go he had a seamless one.  My dad spent every night with him up until the end, even when he went into hospice’s care and he just peacefully went away in his sleep.  I sometimes wish I had been a bit closer to him growing up, but I was one grandchild of what often felt like a billion and I wasn’t that exceptional anyway.  I wasn’t the doctor, or the CEO, or the funniest or the saddest, or first or the last grandchild.  I was and still am very very average.     Even though it was expected it still hit me harder than I thought that it would.  You go a lot of your life trying to pretend that death will never exist for someone like you and then it hits you that everyone’s end is inevitably the same.  One day you simply will cease to exist altogether and then what?  There are different theories of course.  Humans are bundles of energy and that energy once our bodies have given up on us has to go somewhere, but where that is will always be a mystery for the living. While others, like most of my family believe that you are whisked away to heaven and all of those years of believing will finally pay off in a mansion in the sky. Whatever actually does happen is scary to think about or at least it is for me. I have a hard enough time doing new things by myself and dying is the ultimate one of those things. Life stops when there’s a death and then there's a domino effect of things that you have to do. There's the visitation, funeral, burial, and family lots and lots of family that will need to be talked to, smiled at, and engaged with.  It’s all so very exhausting, overwhelming and my anxious heart just wants to bury herself into mounds and mounds of pillows in a room somewhere dark and secluded.  But I know I can’t do that; I mean I can, but it’s not very healthy to wallow, so I decided that staying busy was the next best thing.   I was invited to a concert on Monday night, G was out of town, but the invite still stood for just me, so I went.  Sometimes it’s so tiring being in charge of me, and I really don’t know how I did it for so long, but I decided I would embark on that challenge even though I didn’t know anything about the bands that were playing, but this was a new character opportunity:   metal punk rock girlie.  My friend Kim had box seats, which was a new experience for me and it came with euphoric bougie feelings that I was completely there for.  I got to stare down at the other concert goers, sweaty, standing in each other’s space and I felt like royalty for a moment, so maybe I’m now princess metal punk rock girlie.  The bands, much to my delight were less metal and more punkish.  The first to take the stage was THE FUNERAL PORTRAIT.  High energy, gender fluid, and entertaining. Then, DAYSEEKER.  They performed in the dark but still had a ton of energy and I was entertained, and isn’t that the whole point? The headliner, ICE NINE KILLS reminded me a lot of the Rob Zombie and Alice Cooper concert I went to last year.  Each song was inspired by a horror movie which involved props on stage, as well as actors.  I was there for all of it.  My little geeky theatre heart rejoiced at such attention to character detail.  Also, the band members were really pretty and my imagination went wild with the what ifs.  What if they saw me in the crowd and wanted to meet me?  What if I quite my job and became a roadie or one of the actors that I liked so much on the stage?  How much do they make? I needed to know the answers to these questions because I'm fully ready to make a career change. This evening was just what I needed.  A little strange, a little morbid, and a little bit of horror can turn anyone’s day around. The second evening was a bit different, but was what I so desperately needed.  One of the best human beings I know came to town to go with me to the TRAIN concert. We had previously gone to one music festival years ago and still laugh about it.  We made one of those core memories that changes your brain chemistry for the better. I've seen TRAIN multiple times and even if you aren’t a huge fan of the band, their concerts are so much fun.  We danced, we sang too loudly, we laughed, we ran in circles trying to find our uber after it was all over and then we lay in bed, laughed some more, and recounted the evening in detail. Two evenings that couldn’t have been more different, but it helped me to get out of my own head, which is never a fun place to be and is something that I often have to deal with. It gave me what I needed to face the brutal world where dying is a thing, death is a thing, family obligations are a thing and I suspect I will have to create another character to get through it all, so stay tuned for that.

It’s taken me six years to get another tattoo.  Six years of pining for one, having ideas and then either forgetting about them or disregarding them as not being quite good enough.  But this summer something happened to me, something that changed my perspective in ways that I never could have predicted.  It caused me to look up the name of the artists that gave me my last tattoo and quickly send him an email about my idea. I wanted to add to Frida, give her another life, and I wanted it to cover the entirety of my arm.  I honestly didn’t think he would email me back, maybe that’s why I was so bold in saying that I wanted a full sleeve, but he did, and now the only thing for me to do was go through with the damn thing. “I would love to give you a full sleeve," he wrote back.  "Do you want to maintain the Frida theme or just a tribute to Mexico?” “Frida all the way,” I hurridly replied. I'm going to visit Frida’s house again in Mexico City, I said, I will get inspired I said next, but I trust your art, your vision.  And if you look at his portfolio you will definitely see why I have put so much trust in his artistic capabilities. It's not just how he draws with straight sure lines, it's his shading, color usage, and how he places images on the human body that brings them to life. I did go to Frida’s house this summer and loved every moment of it.  I had been years ago and knew that this was one thing that I had to do again, however, I was a bit disappointed that some of the deeply personal letters, sketchings, photographs were no longer there, but that does happen.  Another museum commissions the art, borrows from somewhere else so that other people who may not be fortunate enough to travel to Mexico City can also enjoy it for a time, and isn’t that the way it should be anyway.   But I soon found out that a separate Frida museum will be opening in the fall.  Kahlo’s parents purchased a property right next door to the Casa Azul (the blue house and where the museum is located) and then passed the property down to Frida and her sisters.  The Museo Casa Kahlo will be more focused on Frida’s life and who she was as a person.  This makes sense, I thought.  It was the deeply personal items that I fell in love with when I visited her house the last time.  Here I am sitting on her bench and standing in the middle of the courtyard that her house encircles. Her studio looks like she just stepped out for a smoke.  Wet brushes chilling next to paint that is only half full. I didn’t immediately email the tattoo artist my inspirations.  I didn’t want to appear overeager so I waited.  I waited for about a month out from my appointment. I like that things are never what they seem with Frida.  You may look at her flowy bohemian dresses and think, wow what a trailblazer of the time, but she had to wear what she did, more for her own comfort then to be a blazing fashion icon.  She had polio as a small child which caused one of her legs to be shorter than the other.  And then, if that wasn’t bad enough, when she was a teenager she was in an almost fatal bus accident where a iron handrail went through her abdomen and uterus, which caused infertility, something that I don’t think she ever got over,  and chronic pain because of the fractures sustained in her spine, collarbone, ribs, pelvis, and right leg. She often worked lying down, an easel strapped to her neck or her chest. In the museum there's a seperate room where some of her clothes are on display. You can see them in their deconstructed form, along with a drawing that Frida did of how she felt inside wearing such beautiful garments.  When the day of my tattoo came, I was nervous of course.  I talked a big game.  I’m going to be full sleeve tatted girl character.  A bad ass in my own mind; someone like Frida Kahlo had to have been, someone that shouldn’t be messed with. But, what if I changed characters? The sneaky thought played sommersaults in my mind.  What would I do then? I didn’t cancel my appointment.  I sucked all of that anxiety about what my future self would think of the present one and showed up still nervous, still shaking, and awkward as hell. The tattoo studio or do they say parlor? Is Black Cobra in Little Rock, Arkansas. Matt O’Baugh is who did my Frida Kahlo as a catrina and who I can’t see anyone continuing to tattoo this arm especially.  I was so impressed with his first work and I still get comments on how cool the design and execution are, even getting stopped in Mexico by a tattoo artist who couldn’t quite staring at it. Matt presented me with the design.  I was a little shook to be honest, didn’t know how to react.  He said that we wouldn’t complete the entire sleeve today, but would start it.  I don’t know what I was expecting, but honestly it wasn’t that, it was better.  Once he placed the stencil underneath my arm and on the back of it, I began to get excited. I do remember emailing him that I wanted to stay away from the elbow and pit area.  Well Matt like the honey badger didn’t give two fucks about my pain level and I’m really glad he didn’t.  The pit didn’t hurt near as much as the elbow. I sat in his chair for six ½ hours and have never felt so much continuous pain in all of my life.  It felt like he was taking a burning knife and chiseling out my skin.  It felt like he was taking Shylock’s pound of flesh to feed to Hannibal Lector. I felt the need to talk to Matt.  Say things like, I really wish the book I brought was better or do you know who David Goggins is or this is my 20th year in education, where does the time go.  To be honest, I get annoyed with mindless chitchatters and half the time I don’t want to listen to them, engage with them.  Matt, on the other hand, was drawing art onto my skin, some of which he was freelancing with a marker first, and he still managed to give me a few nods and murmured yes’.  Why I felt the need to converse?  Nerves perhaps?  I was annoying myself after awhile and then I eventually shut up, much, I’m sure, to his relief.  I let him work, and I experienced the pain.  I found that focusing on it, wallowing in it released something in me.  I looked around at all the other fellow pain seeking tattooees and loved the fact that the placement of my tattoo was one of the most painful.  I felt powerful, which is a very rare feeling for me. We finished the first half of my sleeve and I promptly made an appointment in two weeks and then in a few days had to call the studio, I like how that sounds over parlor, and changed the appointment for November.  All of this caused two points of anxiety in me. First, that I will be judged by my family and G’s.  Looked upon with sad eyes and gaping mouths and whispered statements of why I would do such a thing to my poor left arm.  I would himhaw my way through an explanation that I'm sure will not be satisfactory to anyone, because I rarely can say what I feel when wanting to please the person standing in front of me.  And second, that I had to postpone my appointment.  Will Matt be upset was my first thought.  Will I disrupt his artistic flow was my second.  I know I’m the customer and his prices are a hefty hit to my bank account, but I can’t help how my brain tries to make irrational thoughts seem very very rational.  Oh, and there’s a third thing.  I want to change his original design to something else and the thought of emailing him more ideas makes my heart want to shrink to the size of a marble. I know I will follow through with my November appointment; I won’t wait another six years, I just hope from now until then my anxious mind will relax a bit although I also know that is wishful thinking.  I feel like I'm growing more anxious by the minute and maybe that’s another reason why I love getting tattoos because I relinquish creative license over myself, if that makes sense.  For that extended period of time I can't really think about anything else other than the pain of that tattoo gun burning a beautiful line into my skin and maybe that’s why they always say that tattoos can be addictive for they not only stay with you, but so does the experience for its refreshing quiet.  I will keep that in mind the next time when I feel the need to tell Matt about the breakfast I had or the misbehaving child I had to deal with or another inconsequential moment in my life because maybe he wants quiet too to think, to create.

I told myself that I wanted to accomplish one of two things on this Mexican adventure of mine.  Maybe both if I was feeling particularly daring, but I shouldn’t think too far ahead, my anxious mind, anxious heart may not be able to stand for such things.  First, I wanted to learn how to scuba dive, which I find absolutely terrifying.  I go through epps and flows of course. When everyone is sitting around talking about their past scuba diving exploits, I smile and nod along, not wanting to appear like the scaredy-cat that I most definitely am. I think part of my problem is that I have never had to save myself from a situation that could lead to my unfortunate demise and I don’t know what kind of savior I would be even if it was me that needed the saving.  Would I be the type that jumps into action, brain clear and at the ready to immediately get me out of the deadly situation or would I be the someone that freezes, panics with open eyes, saliva dripping down my chin frantically looking to someone, anyone to save me, but also being too embarrassed to admit my screw up because, people pleaser here? G did take me to a scuba diving shop and I stood there awkwardly and waited while they discussed the logistics.  He dazzled them with his abundant knowledge already, him having been a dive master or maybe he still is, I don’t know how all that works, and me standing there, nervously gnawing at my just done nails as I replay all of the potential terrifying what if scenarios.  I have a pretty good imagination so I can take myself through a situation and actually feel like I’m living within it.  Needless to say, I was panicking and found myself inching towards the exit door, praying that maybe G will forget that I had ever expressed any interest in doing such a thing to begin with and this made me think. Do I really just like the awe in the other person’s eyes when I say I want to get scuba certified? Like I belong to a community of dare devils, thrill seekers, people that I have always found to be so much cooler than me. Do I just like this new character? Someone more interesting who I can escape behind. Second, I wanted to take Spanish classes.  This option doesn’t give me near as much anxiety as the first and I find that it is also a much more necessary one.  I have been married to a Mexican for six years now and sadly my Spanish is still quite limited.  My 20 minutes, well if I’m being honest with myself 10 minute, Duolingo lesson every other day really not cutting it.  And my old brain and lazy tongue, someone told me that some people have this, I don’t know who per se did the telling, but it was a someone and I couldn't have related more.  Even if I know the Spanish word I find it difficult to wrap my tongue around all of those syllables and unusual sounds. As luck would have it there was a Spanish school just down the road from our apartment.  I did check on two other schools and this one proved cheaper for the amount of time and consideration I would be getting from my tutor. They had two options: immersive or semi immersive.  I chose the immersive option for at least the first week.  I knew that I would be with other people and it would last from 9 to 1 every day.  I thought it was a real steal. Two hundred and nine American dollars for four hours of Spanish for the week. If I was by myself it would be the same price for three hours. I showed up a bit nervous, not really knowing what to expect, but we went to the store the day before and I purchased a notebook just for the class.  I actually felt like this was a first day of school moment.  Should I take a picture to commemorate such an occasion? I briefly thought .  I didn’t if you were wondering. Fortunately for me there was only one other girl in the class and she was from Germany.  An interesting side note: Germany has a program where each year whoever you work for has to grant you five professional growth days where you can take a class or travel somewhere to improve upon your professional life.  She decided to take Spanish classes in Mexico.  She already spoke perfect English, German of course, Chinese, and wanted to one day move to Spain so Spanish was her next language of choice.  I was expecting her to be way better than I me, but we pretty much were both on the struggle bus.  One reason I like this school is that they try to pair you with another student(s) that are on the same level as you are. I had to complete a brief quiz before the first day of class to see where I was at. I found that I knew more nouns than she did, especially when food was concerned.  Of course, that shouldn’t be a huge surprise.  Seventy five percent of the time G’s family is discussing food: which tacos are better, which restaurant should we go to, you get the idea. This was the first room I came upon once I entered the school. And this was the classroom. Our instructor’s name was Antonio. I was a bit nervous to ask to take his picture for my viewerless blog, so I secretly shot this. I did eventually ask if it was ok and was given the green light. The first day wasn’t as bad as I thought it could have been.  My brain felt sharp, ready to embark on this challenging adventure.  We broke for a break around 11, thank goodness for that, although I got the feeling that the German would have rather gone the whole four hours break free.  No thank you.  My sharp brain was dulling at a surprising rate. Antonio was very encouraging and the German and I struggled.  Some days being more successful than others.  I signed up for a second week, this time only three hours and by myself with Antonio, and next week will be a third one.  I know that I’m getting better; I really do know that, but it’s like my brain and my mouth have lost all communication with one another. I think a real low point was when I went to G’s family’s house over the weekend.  My new found knowledge buzzing in the empty spaces of my brain and it took all family members, including Ciara, the maid, who cannot read and has limited writing abilities, to help me say one word and to this day I don’t think I can really say it after all of that practicing. On our last day we had an unfortunate encounter with probably the largest cockroach I have ever seen. The German was adamant that we should not crush it but just spray the shit out of it. I was confused as to the why, but I'm sure there was a scientific reason. Maybe? This did force us to spend the rest of the afternoon outside because of all that spraying and i.e. fumes. Look how cute the outdoor area is; I wasn't mad about the extra time spent there. We also had a visitor and I took it as a sign that I made the right decision in continuing my Spanish classes for the next two weeks. Just so you know Iguana's are my spirit animal. They love the sun, fruit, and have a rough exterior, so they maintain their introvertness, strange people free. We then spent the rest of the afternoon at this free art museum where the German and I tried to only speak in Spanish and Antonio tried to interpret what we were trying to say. I did find it amusing that the German insisted that we only speak in Spanish upon entering the museum. That lasted about 2.5 seconds. Antonio is a great teacher.  I can tell he feels bad that I’m not quite grasping onto the concepts as quickly as his other students, but I’m nothing if not diligent.  I can persevere with the best of them and maybe one day you will see me conversing in Spanish like a true Mexican; I really hope that you do, but for now you may see me instead trying to frantically Google how to get rid of my lazy tongue although I should probably specify it is only for linguistic purposes or who knows what images may pop up.

Why are some people destined to always fall into one embarrassing moment after another like some sort of neverending domino effect?  The moment you think you have your life in a semblance of put togetherness is when BAM, no thank you ma’am, unfortunately for you, you do not, and what you perceived as being the solid, well spoken, ahead of your game you that you hoped was your reality, was instead an imaginative conjuring because you are the type of person who volunteers to host a bridal shower, designs the invitations, sends the invitations, carefully writes down the RSVPs before making what feels like endless amounts of phone calls to reserve a room with clusters of smushed together tables that have been sitting lonely and waiting for your event to take place, but the whole time you were making a pretty big mistake that would determine the outcome of such an event if gone unnoticed.  All that complaining about why restaurants were being so difficult and how could they afford to be that way in this economy no less.  You do remember saying the correct date, you even wrote it down in your spiral notebook, circled it a few times for emphasis, but the wrong month was said as well which would make the reservation occur a year from now. Now you understand why the waiter had sounded so confused.  Why would you be making a reservation a year in advance at a sports bar?  You probably could just walk in on the same day with your party of 13 and all would be ok, but that’s not what you did, that’s not what was done.  You called, you gave the date of May 23rd, instead of August 23rd.  You scoffed when your request was met with confusion and stammers and to top it off you didn’t realize the mistake until almost a full week later.  Your befuddled brain going over and over the conversations you have had with the myriad of restaurant workers and why weren’t they calling you back to confirm said reservation.  It’s only three weeks away, you thought.  And then it hits you, sideswipes the few brain cells that you have left swimming somewhere in that cranium of yours, that the date was not only completely wrong, but wasn’t even in the same year. Then the anxiety drops sharper than ever before.  Do I really have to make another phone call?  They are all so terrifyingly embarrassing.  My stomach dropped as I searched my email sent folder and just what I had expected; the emails I sent to restaurants that I just could not stomach contacting via phone also said the same date, May 23rd and not August.  Cue the self loathing, miles and miles of it threatening to drown me in its green sludge of sayings like, “what an idiot I am,” “how can one person be this stupid,” you get the idea. Such a person should not be left to their own devices; such a person certainly should not volunteer to take a new type of yoga class, in a different country, with an instructor who she is pretty sure has seen through what she has only hoped appeared to be a shield of something.  Maybe confidence? Maybe mystery? But in all actuality, thin yoga man only saw a 40 something sweaty girl who was trying too hard to be a version of a someone that she most assuredly was not. Guided Ashtanga.  That’s what the class was called.  And the description sounded simple enough.  It’s a yoga where the breath is synchronized during a series of progressive postures.  You will improve your circulation, create a light and strong body, and a calm mind.  I ask you reader, does such a class sound hard to you? Just to let you know, all things new create an intense anxiety for me that begins in my brain and radiates to my gut.  My mouth becomes dry, my hands shake, and I will do the opposite of what is expected, but this class seemed to be more about breath work than anything else. A few glasses of wine was needed of course.  Liquid fuel.  And I was off. The class was not easy and I should have known this.  I should have known as soon as fit yoga man saw me, raised an eyebrow or two, and then quietly asked, “Have you taken Ashtanga before?” Needless to say, Ashtanga yoga is way more than simple breath work.  I twisted and turned my body further than I have ever done before and fit yoga man helped.  It wasn’t just me he helped of course, it was everyone in the class, but when I say everyone, I’m talking about petite bendy girls.  Girls who I didn’t see a drop of sweat form on their youthfully plump skin.  Not one in fact.  While my yoga mat looked like I had dredged it up from the bottom of the ocean. At the end of the 90 minute class, my back hurt and so did my arms, and my brain for that matter from just trying to not completely humiliate myself. Fit yoga man went around the room to assist the other yogis with different postures.  All of the women, except me of course, did a complete back bend, the girl sitting next to me didn’t even really need his help.  I watched her ribs poke from her stomach as her head went behind her knees and her hands quietly landed on the floor and then I quickly looked down at my own mat.  Surely he would not think I could attempt such a feat of what appeared to me to be quite otherworldly.  He had seen my performance in the class thus far and let me tell you, it was far from stellar. I thought I was home free from further humiliation, I really did, but I made the mistake of looking up, locking eyes with fit yoga man.  Damn it, I thought.  He looked at me with a dark determined eye as he motioned in my direction.   “Let’s do a headstand,” he confidently stated. Now I have attempted headstands before, using a wall as my support, but they have been half hearted at best.  It’s just not me.  I like the idea of yoga, the stretching, being zen. I love how it makes your body form positions that are challenging, yet doable, but a headstand?  I don’t think so and that’s what I told him, I don’t think so.  But he didn’t even stutter before saying right back to me, “Yup we’re doing it.” I will tell you I did that damn headstand.  It wasn’t great.  He held my long legs, which felt 10 times longer as I hoisted them over my head, praying that he would catch them and trying to not envision how I looked amongst the other yogis. A baby elephant with wobbly legs trying to stand straight, but upside down or at least that's how I saw myself.   Thankfully he did catch my legs and I stayed headstanding unassisted for probably .000003 seconds, but at least I did it I suppose. I felt a high after the class actually.  Doing something that I had never thought possible for myself.  I wanted to hug fit yoga man for pushing me to accomplish a fear.  I didn’t of course, but I did tell him how much I enjoyed his class.  He didn’t seem nearly as pleased with my progression as I was and isn’t that to be expected?  He actually began telling me about Ashtanga yoga, but I saw the glaze form over his eyes like he expected to never see me again and why was he wasting his breath explaining such a thing to this bleach blonde, slow speaking, imbalanced dud of a human being and I don’t exactly disagree with his synopsis of me.  I would probably think the same thing if I was him. But I have learned what to do in a situation where said glaze begins to form over the eyes of the person you are talking.  Sadly, this has happened to me more than once.  I grimaced out a smile, slightly nodded my head, and told him thanks again, and quickly made my way outside to freedom, a heavy sigh escaping my lips as I did so. If I haven’t gotten the whole having your life together at this point I don’t think I ever will, so I just need to embrace the fact that I’m awkward, embrace the fact that I am directionally challenged, embrace the fact that I have an unhealthy amount of anxiety and self loathing, embrace the fact that things will never come naturally or easily for me and maybe there’s a lesson in all that.  At least I know who I am and that really says a lot because for many years I hadn’t a clue and maybe most people don’t; maybe most people are just pretending they have it all together.  I just wish I was a better pretender.