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People can find you along the way—some of which you’d rather never see again. Perhaps there was a time where they did hold a special place in your life, but their presence unfortunately has run its course like a road that used to be beautiful, but now is worn down with too much debris to be able to walk comfortably through.  But then there are other times when you meet someone, if you are lucky more than a few someones, and you feel like your soul may have found a missing piece.  You finally feel warmed from the inside out and are shocked that it took the universe so long to introduce you in the first place.  But maybe that was the whole point because this version of you only exists now and the other ones, the one that was immature, or had certain lofty ideals, wouldn’t have understood the new friends that you now hope stay in your life for the rest of it. This has been on my mind ever since we arrived in Mexico two weeks ago, but what is different on this trip is that I feel like I’m actually going home.  And maybe that’s because I’m finally coming out of my shell. Cautiously peaking through the rough exterior to allow my soft underbelly a chance to blossom in this new world.  My sign is a cancer if you don’t already know, so I am a someone who feels things maybe a bit too deeply sometimes, which can cause cuts to sting and burn.  When this happens I sneak back into my shell, preferring the calm confines of my walls than the harsh realities of the world. I began to think about the why in all of this over sips of tequila with someone whose birthday is only a day after my own.  We are both cancers, we discovered through a smile as the tequila settled itself, warm and rosy, over our minds. We went to brunch the next day, a bit bleary eyed from the night before, but we both remembered our conversation and recounted it like you do when the alcohol copies and pastes the night’s highlights, but you need the full story and that can only come about with a combined rehashing.  We remembered conversing about our shared signs and the she did something that surprised me, she gave me the necklace she was wearing, I gripped the thin chain in my hand and watched as the gold pendant caught the sunlight.  My eyes instantly teared up when I realized the pendant had a small crab engraved in the metal. The symbol of the cancer sign. I would have done something so similar, I thought at the time, if I had such a necklace to give.  I’ve talked about how difficult it really is to make friends as an adult, in another country no less, and I finally feel like I have begun to tiptoe outside my comfort zone.  But that does make a kind of sense doesn’t it?  Where else would a crab come out of her shell if it wasn’t by an ocean?   I find that I have become vulnerable as my shell melts itself away and I can’t help but to wonder how long it will all last until I harden again.  Will it be on the plane, flying home, or will it be Monday morning, getting ready for a day where I do a lot of pretending?  I suspect it will slowly happen over that five hour drive from Dallas to Fayetteville when reality really punches me in the head for what the next few months will inevitably entail. But then I will be back in Mexico before I know it, on the beach, and that hard shell will melt away again because this is my home now, not because I permanently live here yet, but because my heart begins to sing a warm, cheerful tune whenever I hear the ocean waves, walk the fifth avenue, share a bottle of wine with new best friends and the buzzing in my head finally quiets down.

I can’t actually say that I met Rob Reiner.  We didn’t exchange any pleasantries, I didn’t ask for his autograph or even have my picture taken with him, all of which maybe I should have. Then, there would be proof that what happened actually did in fact happen. But…we did share a dinner.     It was the summer of 1995.  I had just finished my freshmen year of high school and my parents treated my small family of four to a vacation.  It was the first trip that did not require our maroon station wagon, suitcases securely racked on top of the hood,  multi colored beach towels flapping on the inside of each of the back seat windows (if you know you know). Needless to say my family had upped their game as far as vacations were concerned. I felt very luxurious as we made our way to our flight, tucked in, and fully ready to put my trust and care in the faceless pilots and smiling attendants who took care of us as we arrived to our destination: Hawaii.   The dinner took place in Maui, second leg of our trip. My dad’s friend got us a discount to a hotel that I don’t think we would have been able to afford otherwise and it was here that I attended my very first luau. It was an intimate affair with only about 10 tables of six. “It’s cool that a celebrity is here, isn’t it?” A member of the wait staff whispered to my dad when we first arrived.  “A celebrity?” My father promptly asked.   “Yeah, Rob Reiner's here with his family.” My initial thought was that this is the man who was at one time married to Penny Marshall. Which is weird that I would even know such a thing since they were only married for a short period of time; actually divorced the year that I was born. My second thought was that he directed one of my all time favorite movies, The Princess Bride. He was with his family: current wife Michele and two small children and they were sitting at one of the most central tables. He wasn’t trying to hide his celebrity, but he wasn’t flaunting it either, he was being a father, a husband; someone who was on vacation and just wanted to enjoy the evening.  There was one man who asked for his autograph and picture and Reiner smiled ever so slightly and did oblige the request.  My family would never have asked for such a thing, but what if they had?  Would I have even kept said picture if it was taken, this being before the cell phone era? My family wasn’t really one of those photo album making kind anyway. And if I had wanted to say hi, spark a conversation, what would I have said to him anyway?  I like your movies. Can you please cast me in your next one and change my life forever? I don't think any of that would have gone how I imagined it would in my head, so it was best that I just watched him from afar. At one point I had to go to the bathroom, it was one of those one room affairs, so naturally there was a line and Reiner’s wife came to stand behind me with her son.  She made a joke and I wish I could remember what it was. I do remember that she laughed and I joined in even though I guarantee you I didn’t get it, but she was celebrity adjacent. I would have laughed if she had said the sky was blue.   She was with her son, however and I can't help but to wonder, was that the one that would inevitably murder her thirty some years later. I have done the math just so you know and he would have been two at the time, so it makes sense that she would have helped him to the bathroom.  And there it is. I was in the proximity of a moment in time that could have been changed. Did they know then how sick their son was? Were there signs? A dark clouding of the eyes, a downturned lip, a gray waxy coloring? Or did the Reiners compartementalize reality because it was just too painful. How does one admit that their child has a problem that could disrupt their life and end yours? There are many memories, the older I have become, that are lost to me, but this is not one of them.  I clearly remember Reiner, his wife and his dark haired son and I do hope that they were happy then and it wasn’t one of the last times that they were, that they had many more happy moments before mental illness snuck its way into their lives.   I hate that all of this fascinates me so much.  What causes someone who has so much potential, so many opportunities, to disintegrate into the darkest of places?  Because at one point they were just a typical family, on vacation, and they were happy or appeared to be so as they enjoyed their salted pork belly, purple sweet potatoes with the sounds of the ocean playing like a melody behind them.

My husband asked me on Monday what I was going to write about this week.  “I really don’t know,” I replied.  We aren’t going anywhere until my Christmas break, so I won’t be drawing inspiration from my anxious traveling.  “But I’m not too worried,” I hurriedly added.  “I’m sure I will think of something.”   I was worried just to be clear.  I never really know when inspiration will strike.  Sometimes it’s watching television and I have to quickly pull out my phone, go to my notes app, and type the idea, before it’s lost into the cosmic graveyard where all brilliant, but forgotten ideas go to be buried with their hearts heavy and leaking, their heads dragging three quarters of a mile behind them because if they were only remembered the world might have changed for the better. On Tuesday an inkling of something did come to me and it actually stayed as if begging to be thought of, written about, so I began to turn it over in my head, like I sometimes do to make sure it could live between my brain and my computer. It started out more like a question acutally; one that I find myself always asking this time of year and maybe reader you do as well if you are someone who cringes when the Christmas decorations come out, all of that over-inflated reindeer, elves, and candy canes littering the front yard of so many. The overly cheerful music that plays over and over again and again causes your ears to begin to bleed. The old men who dress up as Santa Claus so children can sit on their wrinkled laps make your spine tingle. Why would a grown man want to be around kids? You ask yourself. And you can't help but to stare at all the people who populate the world and more importantly your place in it. Why are they so cheeriful amidst the cold and the crowds? It's like they have quite literally come out of whoville with their upturned red tinted noses and round bellies full of gingerbread cookies, sugar rimmed ham, hot chocolate and whatever else you eat to get into the Christmas spirit.  If that all turns your stomach to a putrid green, causes you to roll your eyes at the inauthenticity of it all, the fact that there is soon going to be endless amounts of family time, smiles that threaten to break your whole face into half, limitless amounts of sweets and carbs in your future, then you may have wanted to adopt a new holiday.  FESTIVUS is the holiday in quesiton (if you know, you know, but if you don’t than I will enlighten you). This new holiday appeared on an episode of the late 90s sitcom Seinfield . I rewatch this particular episode every year (It’s season 9, episode 10, entitled “the Strike” if you were wondering.)  and if you haven’t seen it then shame on you, where have you been and I don’t think we can be friends.  A lot happens and it’s not just about Christmas or should I say the lack there of, but it does center around George’s father Frank, who decides to bring a holiday that he created back called Festivus.  Festivus is an anti-commercial holiday that traditionalizes an aluminum pole, airing your grievances, and feats of strength.  And I don’t know about you, but I would forgo Christmas for such an alternative.  A holiday where the exchanging of gifts is not a thing. It always feels like it’s more about the giver than the receiver anyway.  An opportunity for family members to apologize for how they treated you throughout the year.  Sorry for the name I gave you, sorry for not spending enough time with you, sorry for not being there when you needed me, just sorry for anything else I may have forgotten, but here is this present so whatever you may be aggravated about should be forgotten amidst all of that bright Christmas wrapping, tinsel, and don't forget the sparkiling card.   Maybe instead of all of those gifts we air the grievances that have annoyed us throughout the year, then we can start afresh, anew, all the dirt and grime now out in the open to be discussed, analyzed, gotten over.  I think this type of communication would be a great deal healthier than burying that grievance somewhere between yesterday and today.  Feats of strength can be useful as well, especially if you are of the more aggressive sort.  It may help to prove your worth to that brother, sister, nephew, aunt or at the very least help others to see what they could potentially go up against if they were to cross you in the end.  I find that it doesn’t hurt for humans to have a certain kind of pecking order. I would have my grievances of course, like everyone else, but I warn you they may be more extensive because I tend to hold on to things.  I often pray that I will one day forget whatever it is that annoys me about a certain person so that it doesn't fester in the pit of my overly full stomach like some rotten undigested meat.  It would be so cleansing, I sometimes think, like the best colonoscopy, to have a designated moment in time to air my grievances with the world and the people who live within it. Maybe one day people will get tired of celebrating a holiday that was at first based around Jesus’ birth, even though historians have collectively agreed that he wasn’t born in December, some believe that it was actually some time in March.  I have read many reasons why December 25th was the chosen date.  It may be that it aligned with the Winter Solstice and the Pagan Festival Co-option and that's why we celebrate this particular date. Whatever it is I think we can all agree that Christmas has gotten out of control. There's just too many fat Santas, devilish elf on the shelves, runaway Polar Express trains, obnoxious advent calendars where you either dress up or drink yourself to death.  Wouldn’t a simple airing of grievances and a wrestling match be better, less stressful, and accomplish so much more?   This is all just food for thought as you rush around trying to please the ones’ in your life that need all of that pleasing. Festivus is a holiday that is not a celebration, but rather something for the rest of us to enjoy who do not believe in such commercialization of a moment in history that was meant to be one thing and is now unrecognizable. But maybe, just maybe we can come back to ourselves and recognize this season for what it is: a plunge into inauthentic humanity, and honestly I'm okay with that if we recognize such a thing for what is it. It's the inauthentiicity that bothers me, and isn't that true with most things? So, if you can regonize why you like Christmas, not becuase of Jesus, but because of something that is dark green, oblong in shape and size and sometimes a bit worn down, than I suppose it's okay in the end.

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.

I am of the mindset that there are two types of people in the world.  Those who prefer New Orleans or those who prefer Las Vegas.  Both cities offer a sprinkle of debauchery, a smattering of throwing caution to the wolves along with maybe a bit of your dignity, which you may have lost in an alleyway somewhere.  Only a few days is needed in both cities of course to get the wild out of your system before you regroup, try to forget the things that might have been said or done.  You smooth down your work attire once you've left, plaster a sticky smile onto your worn face and reenter normal society with hopefully no regrets. The stories will linger and you will love to recount them once the sting of your embarrassing antics fades away.  I prefer New Orleans; it may be the grittiness of the city.  How everything smells a bit like if urine and trash had a love child.  Or it may be the fact that there’s music around every corner, some performed by children who I always worry should be in school instead of on a street corner beating on upside down white buckets.  You at times feel like you're in a whole other country; one that is ancient and haunted by ghosts who are eager to greet you with their slender skeletal fingers, which makes a kind of sense being that New Orleans is one of the oldest cities in the United States. It was founded by the French in 1718.  (If you were wondering, the oldest city in the U.S. is St. Augustine, Florida, which was founded by the Spanish in 1565, and if you were not wondering such a thing I’m saddened by your lack of curiosity.)  So yes, there is a lot of history, and I haven’t even begun to talk about the food.  I think we had oysters for lunch every single day. Our favorite place to taste such a delicacy, and we have tasted our way through NOLA's oysters, is Gallier's Restaurant. We have found the oysters to be larger, the servers to be the friendliest, most interesting (and that's saying a lot for NOLAs), and if you make it to the happy hour, best deal in town. And I have to always order a bloody mary. We finish the evenings with Brother’s Fried Chicken.  If you don't already know it’s this chicken place located in a small convenient store and I don’t think I want chicken if it’s not located in such a place ever again. The first full day we met some friends who have moved to Biloxi for part of the year.  They were kind enough to make the 90 minute drive to spend the day with us.  The day started out with oysters of course and a shrimp po boy the size of my head. Afterwards we went for a much needed walk and I found a bookstore along the way.  Faulkner House Books.  It felt like I was walking into someone’s home and perusing their collection instead of an actual store.   The collection of new books features some strange titles and some mainstream ones and of course I had to purchase two, you know, to support the local business.  When I was paying I told the clerk, who I could only assume was the owner, that  I could have gotten lost in her shelves with such wonderful titles to keep me company, but I had friends waiting for me outside, which she replied, without skipping a beat I might add,  “Next time you need to ditch those friends and stay a bit longer.”  Of course I would never do that, I thought.  I actually was trying to hurry so that they would not have to wait too long for me, but on second thought…aren’t books my friends too?  And aren’t I essentially ditching them? We then found another store I fell in love with.  It was properly called Road Kill.  It had a bit of a gothic vibe with victorian clothing and shoes hanging in the window front.  I found an owl purse, yes I said owl purse, which I bought with pride and a belt. Have you ever heard a voice telling you to buy something and you know if you ignore said voice you will regret not buying said thing.  I don’t get that voice very often, which is probably a good thing, but on this day I did and on this day I obeyed. I’ve never done a ghost tour before and our amazing friends wanted me to have the experience, even though they have already been through one.  We had a great time of course until I became aware of something, an annoying something, a something that would make me have to draw attention to myself, which is one thing that gives me the hives, hurts my heart from the inside out.   I was pickpocketed.  No, this isn't the 1800s where you may find Oliver Twist's bedeviling smile as you turn you head slighly to the left or right as he skips away with your life savings held securely in his back pocket. Two credit cards.  Gone.  Driver’s License. Gone.  Cute Frida Kahlo coin purse. Gone.  Lots and lots of self loathing?  Very much present.  I don’t know exactly when it happened.  Sometime after I purchased the owl purse and before we began the ghost tour.  I don’t remember anyone bumping into me or my attention being diverted in any kind of way. But I remember wearing my crossbody purse with the purse part behind my back at some point.  I know, I know, rookie mistake. You live and learn of course.  A purchase was made of 600 dollars to a grocery store.  Great, I thought, at least I’m providing a good Thanksgiving meal.  Then, they spent 120 dollars at a bar.  Ok, I thought, all of that pickpocketing stress probably got to them and a drink or a plethora of them was definitely needed. Then there was a slew of random Disney, Hulu, Uber type purchases and I thought enough is enough although it does sound like a good day filled with great food, great drinks and some entertainment, even if it was all done in my name. We did get to finish the ghost tour if you were wondering and I did enjoy the whole thing, even with the cloud of my own stupidity hanging like a wet blanket over my head.  I was not deterred from having a good time, even though it happened on the first full day of our trip. I still managed to eat my weight in oysters and fried chicken, drink my weight in all the alcohol, and listen to my weight in music.  I still prefer New Orleans over Vegas, even after this small inconvenience, and I will be going back you will be happy to note. My New Orleans bad ass character must have shifted out of place for a moment and I did feel the shift. Self doubt was clouding my judgment at some point in the day, knocking my character out of place. The pickpocket could feel it as well and struck at just the right moment.  There’s a lesson to be learned in that.  What you say to yourself, even if it is just to yourself is expressed in how you walk, talk, and just are as a person and other people, criminal people, will and can pick up on that, hone in on your weaknesses and use it to their advantage and that’s what happened to me.  My aura was beige when it should have shown bright reds, yellows, and purples.  Please, never be beige, dear reader, always be bright, always lively, and always bad ass so the pick pockets will most assuredly leave you alone.

When I'm writing this, tomorrow will be Thanksgiving and we are making our way to where I grew up, a town that is quite literally in the center of Missouri.  Now we haven’t done the whole Thanksgiving thing with my family in years.  In fact, I think G has only really ever gone with me one year on this particular day.  We usually escape to Puerto Aventuras, bake on the beach for a while, or Mexico City to go to a wrestling event or two or twelve of them, drink beer and eat our weight in tacos or perhaps it's the other way around.  But my grandfather died a few months ago and I wanted to spend some time with my grandmother, not to mention I have an aunt who I would really like to visit.  So, here we are with my anxiety mounting the longer I think about the logistics of our visit.  Something about going home makes me relive the past me’s self doubt; all the times I was bullied for looking a certain way, being a certain way, and then the plethora of times I was rejected by some sub par male specimen. I could of course go into detail about how I’m not the only one who goes into a panicked frenzy whenever going back home. I could have even researched a bit further to only discover how suicide rates potentially increase, relationships potentially end this time of year specifically. But I’m not going to regurgitate what many of you perhaps can already guess if you yourself have survived such a time.  And it’s quite possible that I’m lazy this week because we did go on an excursion of our own before all of that family funness.   We found ourself in New Orleans until Thursday.  I find that I have always quite enjoyed the grittiness of this city and I will write about it next week, but for now this post is dedicated to family, the ones who you are born into and the ones who you create for yourself either by including your fur babies or the souls who you meet along life's way.  I think for me it is the people who don’t judge me for what I say, there will always be a mispronounced word somewhere, and what I enjoy, books, tattoos and cats, lots and lots of them.   I find it odd sometimes and I actually had this exact conversation with one of our Springdale moved to New Orleans and soon to be Costa Rica friends quite recently.  Why is it that we so often feel that family judges us, doesn’t like what they see and either choose to ignore the person who we are or try to manipulate the last few shreds of what they recognize into something that they can actually enjoy being around.  But aren’t we a product of them to begin with? I think.  And isn’t that so very ironic that they refuse to see what their genetics, scientifically merged, created for better or worse, or maybe I’m overthinking the whole thing, which wouldn’t be the first time.  I may in fact be the judgemental one in all of this if I'm being completely honest with myself.  I judge others for not getting what I need in a friend; I judge others for their nonacceptance of me; I judge others for judging me to begin with, when maybe they really aren’t doing all of that judging in the first place, but are just playing catch up to the person who I've now become, which is very different to the person I once was.  But that’s why you create your own family, isn’t it?  And that might prove to be almost better for these people choose the person who you've become from the very beginning. On this Thanksgiving weekend I do expect to spend time with my born into family and I hope to enjoy them for who they are and wish that one day they will accept me for who I am, with all of my mistakes, all of my idiosyncrasies, all of what makes me, me and I am happy to report I did do this and the following is what I learned. Generations are becoming older, my grandmother, my aunt, my parents and it may not be all that important for them to accept the new version of me because all that they really want to do is remember the old version of the person I once was for perhaps that takes them back to when they themselves were younger. I began to ponder what it is we need at the end of our life? Do we want to suddenly be bombarded by a world that we no longer understands, wants us to disappear or worse treats us like we are no longer someone who has any value? I for one refuse to do that to them. If that means sitting pleasantly enough, recounting past stories and glamorizing my current ones, so be it. Life is too hard for the people who have little time to live within it and what they need at the end of the day is your time; even if that means to sit and stare at a tree or a blank wall, your time makes their existance relevant. I really hope someone does that for me when the time comes because to be relevant in your own story is all that anyone can ever really ask for at the end of their life.

Is it possible to find that one person, you know the one I mean. They will share your goals, your passions, your hobbies, eventually even your friends.  There are currently over eight billion people in the world and it seems to me that everyone is essentially searching for that just right person.  You would think it would be so easy, would be so simple, there are so many people to choose from. But that really isn't the case if statistics have told us anything.  In 2025, 40-42% of first year marriages and 60% of second and third year marriages ended in divorce.  However, thr really troubling part comes next, or at least I thought as much. The divorce rate actually doubles for those over 50, triples for those over 60.  Those numbers are somewhat strange to me. I mean I get the first marriage ending in divorce part.  You’re young, haven’t figured your own shit out, let alone those of another persons, it’s really to be expected, but shouldn’t it all be a learning experience in the end?  You should definitely recognize what you don’t want and what you do, especially the older you become so why is it that those in their 50s and 60s can’t figure it out?  Is it because too many are scrambling, too afraid to die alone, that any old sap will do?  I can’t imagine that being the case, but maybe it really is for some.  They just can’t find that person who shares their similar interests.  It seems so elementary, so easy in fact.  How hard is it really to find someone who enjoys wine, the theatre, and cats?  In that order.  (Ok, ok, I was talking about me here, but you fill in the blank with your own likes.) Or maybe these people have been married for so long they are finally sick of rehashing the same conversations, the same issues. It's like giving up on a marathon when you are only a mile away from the finish line. I'm also forgetting a crucial part of the equation. That special someone also needs to be attractive, or at the very least you find them to be so.  And that, dear reader, may in fact be the problem.  People are blinded by good looks.  Personality can be lacking, special interests differentially clashing, but a full head of hair or fat wallet may make up for it in the end, or maybe at first. Why can’t we have both though? I wonder.  Is that so very hard?  The answer is yes, very much yes, yes, and yes. This weekend my husband and I attended a wedding in Monterey, Mexico.  One of his cousins was getting married.  It was a big affair, like I knew that it would be, they always are in G’s family.  We of course dressed for the occasion. I don’t know if all Mexican weddings are like this, but in his family I know what is inevitably going to happen at this point.  There’s always shared laughs, smiles galore and dancing, lots and lots of dancing and then tequila, maybe even more than the dancing.  The night will end with singing through slurred words and arms embracing shoulders as forms sway.   It’s always a fun time and I look forward to attending every last one of them and there have been several, five to be exact, six if you include ours, and yes I counted to make sure.  And this post was actually going to be about Mexican weddings in general, how I have never attended a more fun party, never seen people drink so much in all of my life, with nare a fight to be had, but that’s not what this is.  That sometimes happens when I write, my intentionality flys away like a very windy day and words begin to form themselves onto my page without much consent from me and that’s really ok.  I almost prefer it that way to be honest. What inspired me to write this did involve the wedding that we attended, however,  but it was not how I originally thought that it would create itself into being. I was struck by the bride and groom, how unapologetic they were in expressing what they enjoyed and the fact that they found their person to share each of their enjoyments, however eccentric they maybe, it is what they like and what probably brought them together in the first place and hopefully will make them stay together when looks fade, attractiveness wanes, and what you have left is those shared passions. At the end of the day I really do enjoy being by myself and I'm sure that there are a plethora of others who feel the same way, and there was a time when I thought that I was ok with a solitary existence.  I even had a college professor tell me once that he saw me escaping to a cottage somewhere in the moors of England, and I didn't know how I felt about it then, but it does seem lovely today. But I will admit to you now that it’s nice to have a partner, one in which shares those little things that make me so very happy.  It doesn’t have to be every single hobby or passion, but the major ones should be in there somewhere.  For me it's traveling, musicals, plays, live music or anything that is live really and I did find that in G.  We go traipsing around the world in search of things that we can do and see, but then we also like our time laying in bed and watching really bad reality television.  Essentially rotting for a few hours or even a day if that is what’s called for.  I’m not saying everyone has to be married or even be coupled up to be happy, you may have a friend or even a parent or child that is your person.  The one that wants to share portions of their life with you so that this world is a more bearable place. I hope everyone has the opportunity to find that one special human to share a life because I do believe it can cause real joy. You can't rely on others to provide you with your happy of course, but they should accentuate it like a vintage handbag or cool piece of jewelry, something that makes an already amazing outfit that much better.

I will level with you reader, I thought about quitting after my last six hour tattoo session, not necessarily because the pain was too much, although, don’t get me wrong,  it did hurt, quite a bit actually, but no, because my luck has been so good thus far.  My tattoo looked amazing as is, everything has always gone so amazingly well, the tattoo session, the healing process, did I really want to risk a potential catastrophe? Before every session I felt a bit like I was playing a game of Russian roulette and my body was the punching back or maybe pincushion would be the better adjective although I did feel like I was being punched every single time. When we left Black Cobra Tattoo shop in August, Matt showed me what he was thinking for the completion of my homage to Friday Kahlo.  A floating Frida with a mirror for a face on my inner forearm and this ghost like floating skeleton that is in one of her paintings on my outer forearm. Unfortunately for me I always have trouble visualizing how it would ultimately look on my skin.  I smiled pleasantly enough and pushed the worry to another day because my next appointment wasn’t even going to be unitl November. I put off emailing him my ideas for the new part of my tattoo until about two weeks before my designated appointment.  I didn’t really want another Frida Kahlo on my inner forearm, her mere presence as a Catrina already being so formidable and beautifully displayed on my upper arm.  I didn’t want to take away from all of that.  I told him that in so many words though email of course and then expressed how I still loved the ghost  skeleton, but what I loved more than anything else was the painting of her spine being held together by what looks to be a steel rod and a brace, one of my ultimate favorite Frida paintings. I really feel like it sums up the many aspects of what made her Frida. This idea that she portrayed a completely different version of herself than what was going on underneath the surface is so very real to me.  If you don’t already know, Frida suffered chronic pain the majority of her life.  She had polio as a child, which caused one leg to become thinner than the other and then she was in a horrific trolley car accident where an iron handrail impaled her abdomen and uterus and then there was her marriage to Diego Rivera, the womanizing, but altogether brilliant painter and muralist. He flaunted his affairs in front of her and the public, but she seemed to always hold it together despite everything. Maintained a commendable composure, had her own fun, but kept it hidden behind closed doors. She outwardly appeared one way, but was a collage of something that some would say was altogether different.  These are the pictures that I sent Matt. It is to be noted that I didn’t want boobs on my arm, but I have always liked the cat and the monkey painting, having a black cat myself and I love the hummingbird necklace as well. I wanted this all implemented somehow, someway, but had no idea in the how and the way of it all. I waited with bated breath after I sent the email.  Were my ideas too boring, didn’t present the challenge an artist of his caliber would need?  Was he annoyed that I wanted to change what he had already worked on to something else? Will he break up with me?  Flatly refuse to tattoo the girl who word vomits and doesn’t see his art for what it is, brilliant, because she keeps on changing her mind. Or maybe he will go through with the whole visit because he feels like he has to finish the job that he had started six years ago, but he will hate every minute of it.   He did reply in a few days with a simple “Got it” and I will have you know that did not relieve any of my anxiety. The day of my tattoo finally arrived.  I was a bundle of nerves, mainly because I had not had further communication with Matt, but that has always been the case.  I send him images, he replies with a thumbs up or a got it, and then I show up for my appointment and he presents me with his ideas.  And if I base the end result on statistics, I have been blown away 100% of the time. You can see the fear in my eyes here. We showed up five minutes early and then had to go through the whole waiting in the car, trying to control my breathing, my heart rate, rehearsing in my head what I’m going to say when I enter the shop, thing. If you have anxiety you know what I’m talking about. I could tell Matt didn’t look that excited with this final part of my arm tattoo or that might have been my anxious brain overreacting again, which kind of took over the whole conversation, in my mind anyways.  All I could do was nervously smile along as G gave him some other ideas that he actually seemed really excited about, much to my relief.  Why is it that I’m worried about how everyone else in the room feels, when I’m the one getting permanent ink on my body?  I wish I was different.  I wish I could express my opinions in a sharp, snappy way, but all I can ever do is smile through a grimace or two. Matt went back to his office to draw up something else, something that he later told me was his favorite part of my whole tattoo, and I was elated with that omission like I had done something to deserve it. This latest part in particular is where he allowed his creative brain to do what it does best, create and in an original way no less, so I shouldn’t be that surprised that he loved it the most. He put together my two favorite Frida paintings in a collaborative mashup. And who doesn’t love a good mashup? The whole previous week I wholeheartedly believed that the worst of the pain was behind me.  I looked at my arm, there really wasn’t even that much space to tattoo anymore.  This will be pretty painless, I naively thought.  My shoulder was bad, near my armpit worse and I suffered and came out stronger for it.  I had gotten a smaller tattoo on my inner forearm years ago and it didn’t hurt at all.  This will be a piece of cake I thought. Oh how wrong I was. I have noticed that when I think something is going to be easy, it never is.  I think part of it was the delicate line work around my wrist and the shading, oh so much shading. The pain was unmatched, lasted for seven hours, made me start to question my life choices, begin to make promises to myself  that I will never do this again, who actually would want this anyway, but I will have you know it was totally one thousand percent worth it.  Here are some pictures of the process. The pain now lives in my brain like a distant foggy memory. I go back in the spring to get some of the old parts touched up a bit.  I have to stop myself from thinking the worst part is over; this won’t hurt at all, because I know the fallacy in that.  It will probably hurt the worst and I will prepare myself for that when the time comes, but for now I have this new art on my arm, and this tribute to a woman who defied society.  I may not be as bold or as brave or as beautiful as I wish myself to be, but she was and maybe through osmosis or some other kind of witchery her essence will be instilled upon me in some shape, some way.  Or maybe just looking at the different versions of her will be all the reminder I need that no one is really what they seem, not really.  We are all just different versions of what we want to be, hope to be, may one day grow into being and that’s really ok isn’t it, for what is life without a little bit of growth even if it’s not linear, but circulatory, wavy, and most of the time very very confusing.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" Remeber how that questioned plagued your childhood? It was silly really posed by even sillier adults. And was your childhood answer even really believed? Like a five year old knows what their life goal will be and isn't that a lot of pressure to put on a child anyway.  Sideways glances were always exchanged with amusement, eyes squinted in mockery as the stereotypical answers were spewed of fire fighter, police officer, teacher.  None of these respected job were really believed or actualized, otherwise we would have way more fire fighters, police officers, teachers.  I find today's answers are a bit different, with youtube star or content creator being high on the list of unbelievable goals, or maybe the answer is to be nothing at all.  Working a normal nine to five is so out of fashion with today’s youth. Why do all that work anyway when mommy and daddy are so readily available to mop up all of one’s problems while complaining about said problems to their friends over endless glasses of wine.  Their poor Claire was just not made for the hardships of the world or maybe it’s the world that is not made for the hardships of Claire.   If you were wondering I wanted to be an actress and I said it with all of that childish gusto.  My chosen childhood profession may come as no surprise to you dear reader, since I still revel in my plethora of characters. I did not become an actress, if you were wondering although sometimes I act like I enjoy a particular situation or event, I act like the dutiful daughter, the dutiful employee, but don’t we all have those moments of acting a certain part to make the world more easily bendable.   I did get a taste of stage acting in college and I loved every blessed minute of it.  But life got in the way after graduation (marrying my first husband too young wasn't a great start) and then there was the more reasonable side of my brain who convinced me that the world was too scary to venture too far from my small hometown. To be fair I did grow up in the 90s, before cell phones, when everthing seemed so much smaller somehow, less easy to access.   I don’t think I really gave my chosen passion much of a serious thought actually and I don’t know why that was.  I had seedlings of talent, something that undoubtedly could have been molded into something greater given time, mentoring, opportunity, but I let it all slip through my fingers like you do when you're younger and don’t see your full potential in the face of what makes a fulfilled life. I never really had anyone to push me into believing in my true potential, although I have never been one for coddiling, too stuck in a brain that is just too full of all the negative what ifs, I feel like I’m sometimes drowning in self doubt. I know you should never dwell on what could have been because really what is the point to all of that, but can’t I just wallow in what I should have done or been for a moment more? Because sometimes I do like the dark wallowing even though I know how unhealthy it is, but what can I say? The heavy covers, the soft pillows, feel so good to hide behind sometimes. Langston Hughes wrote a whole poem about what happens to a dream that is never actualized.  It’s a sad thing to read, a bit downtrodden, and something that I can totally relate to.  Just because a dream is never realized, it doesn’t die within the person, or at least it hasn’t with me.  It has festered the older I’ve become, nibbling away through parts of my brain like some sort of brain eating zombie. My dream of acting hasn’t grown sweeter the longer I ignore it, like Highes proposed it might, but it has festered. There is a positive to that actually because that festering has caused me to try to pursue something else, something in the arts, something where I can finally create again. My time on the stage or even screen for that matter will never by my reality, but writing perhaps will. It allows me to step into the life of a character for awhile as I plot out their conflicts, their relationships, their loves, their hates.  I find it therapeutic to a certain degree.  I’m actually working on my third book right now.  The other two failed to land me a literary agent, but I am nothing if not resolute in my pursuit for something more for myself.  I may have deferred my dream, but I haven’t allowed it to dry up; I’m only 44 afterall.  Jane Lynch was 43 when she got her big break in the mockumentary BEST IN SHOW, Julia Child published her first cookbook and hosted her first television show in her late 40s and 50s, Laura Ingalls Wilder published her first book at the age of 65, Toni Morrison was 39,  J.R.R Tolkien 45, and Grandma Moses, who started painting at age 77, went onto become a celebrated folk artist. So, in celebration of my passion for writing, my dream of one day getting published, I’m going to share something with you reader.  I have almost completed the third rewrite of my third novel and I’m leaving the prologue here for you to read, enjoy, or even perhaps to leave me notes of what you think.  I really hope that you do the latter actually; it will help me grow as a writer and as an artist. I may not get this book published either, but I already have a list of other ideas for the untold stories that live rent free in my mind.  My dream may have been deferred for several years, but it will never run away from me or sag like old loose skin, as long as I have a creative mind, creative pursuits, and the perseverance to continue pass failure, maybe it will one day explode into something more amazing than I can even imagine. Parts Of Us By Elizabeth Ragain Orta Prologue The blood spewed out of him so fast that it rendered me paralyzed.  All I could do was watch the scene unfold; my body refused to flee or help or do much of anything at all, but to just observe with a dull awareness of all that was happening in front of me.  I thought blood was supposed to be red, but that’s not what this was. It was brown, dark, dirty like something that had been charred and spit out.  I watched his face. Denial then shock then fear then despair then acceptance. Like he almost knew, expected that this was to be his end. As his eyes slid towards mine I had to turn away to look at my hands, useless and limp, my fingers, too weak and too slender. I was no longer human, I thought, but a mirage of something unrecognizable even to myself. If I seem callous,  I don’t mean to be, it’s just been a long time since I had to think about such things and I’m so very grateful for the reprieve.  I do remember screaming through all of that blood although I couldn’t hear the noise, but my mouth was strained open and I felt the muscles in my neck contract so I must have been making some kind of sound. Some people aren’t so lucky. Some people have to face their feelings over and over again, every day in fact, but that was thankfully not me, isn’t me. I got to be taken away after seeing what I saw, to some place safe, some place familiar, some place that was all mine.  I should go back to the real world now, but I haven’t, I can’t.  I got too comfortable with the away; too comfortable with the predictability of my situation and now I find that I  don’t ever want to go back even if they’d beg, plead, whine their way into making me believe that their life depended on my participation in it.  I’ve just seen too much at this point. My feelings are blissfully buried as long as I’m here, in this room.  I just can’t force a return to a world that is this messy, this tragic, this hopeless even if it means saving all of us.

My husband is Mexican (I promise this fact is a relevant one to this post).  And since we’ve been married I have thrown myself into all things that is Mexican (cue my now completed Frida Kahlo full sleeve tattoo, a full blog recap is coming, so stay tuned). I have fallen in love with Mexican art, Mexican history, and the love of food, community and family that have embraced me like a warm hug kindly given.  I will never forget spending the first week in November with my in laws. My mother-in-law's birthday is November first and we went to Cincinnatti (where my in laws live) to celebrate. It was the first time I met most of G's family. I think I worm vomitted my way, with the help of tequilla and red wine, into everyone believing in an extrovertness that even surprised me. I came downstairs the next morning a bit blurry eyed and saw my mother-in-law taking a few steps away from decorating a small alter in the living room. I had never really seen such a thing before. Bright flowers framed the perimeter where pictures of smiling family members, small objects, and little candles were purposefully laid about.  It was Day of the Dead. Dia de los Muertos is a celebratory holiday that begins on November 1, ends on November 2, and is celebrated in Mexico and parts of Central America and the United States. The lives of loved ones are honored by altars (ofrendas) being constructed that feature all of the favorite things of the particular person that has passed. Families will also visit gravesites to decorate them with flowers (marigolds called “cempasúchil” or “flower of the dead” are often used because it is believed that their bright colors and strong scent will guide the spirits to their families on the altars) and there are lots and lots of candles.  Many cities will host parades and festivals with music, dancing, face painting, and all the good eats that your stomach can handle. Tulsa, Oklahoma, of all places, throws such a festival and we of course had to go. Local businesses set up tents along the Arts District. There were lots of jewelry, books, bags, unique art, and even home decor items that were for purchase. My husband bought me these coasters. And this necklace.    And I of course had to immediately put it on because it really did make the outfit. One of the highlights was when one of the local artists told us that her and her husband had a bet going about where where we were from.  They had it narrowed down to Vegas or California, which is all the information that I needed to let me know that my character for the day was working, even though I was going for more of a New Yorker kind of vibe.  What does someone from Vegas look like anyway?  I thought at the time. All I can think of is Nicholas Cage who is the only celebrity I know who actually lives lives there. I’m actually very much ok with that  as long as I get to hang out with him, although I’ve heard you have to sign an NDA before you do.  I would sign it with bells on if you were wondering.   And of course there were skulls, lots and lots of skulls. This celebratory day symbolically uses skeletons (most are humorous in form and demeanor) as a way to remind people that death is a natural part of life, and not something to be feared. We then made our way to the Living Arts of Tulsa, a contemporary art space where they had a myriad of altars set up that recognized loved ones who had passed. Ever since I turned 40, death has become more of a real thing for me.  I see my childhood waving through the rearview mirror and along with it the innocence of believing that death, dying is something that could never, would never happen, and if and when it did, it would be way into my future.  So far into my future in fact that I couldn't even really see it, even when I put on my glasses, squint my eyes into some kind of clarity, it’s all still very blurry, this dark unrecognizable thing.  But now time looms ahead and it feels like it’s almost mocking me to some extent.  Gone are the days when I’m the youngest one in the room; I’m now in the middle of the pack  or even (cue the shock, cue the horror) the oldest.   But Day of the Dead is a celebration of death.  An opportunity for your spirit to return to your loved ones every year.   If I had grown up celebrating such a holiday  maybe I wouldn't be so scared of death today.  I would be satisfied with a life lived no matter how short or long because my spirit will not have died, but will continue to return to the living world as long as someone creates an altar for me to return to.  I know my husband would do this for me of course, as long as he remains living, and then perhaps my nieces and nephews, all of which know my favorite things.  I’m not a particularly complex person when it comes to what I love.   You probably already know by now if you've read at least one of my blog posts, but if you don't the things I want on my ofrenda is a cat of course, a black one or a tuxedo, and then a glass of red wine filled to the brim (even my four year old nephew knows that’s my beverage of choice…when asked recently what Tia E likes to drink he looked at me with all the child like innocence in the world and without skipping a beat promptly said wine and then their’s my niece who bought at her elementary Christmas store fair a wine stopper to give to me when she was in the fourth grade…am I really that transparent?  The answer is yes, of course I am), and books of course, lots and lots of books.  I love other things as well, traveling, self care, tattoos, weird modern art, but it’s those three items that I would like to see displayed on this very special day as I greet other family member’s spirits who have passed amidst the living. I grew up believing that after you died that was really it for you.  You either went to heaven to bask in all that's glitter and gold or hell, where you would most definately burn for all of eternity.  How gruesome, how drear.  No wonder I have such a fear of death, but now I know that this might not be the case and I really hope that's true because if I am greeted with beautiful flowers and all of my favorite things after I die, even if it's only for one day a year, my spirit will most definately be skipping with joy, my skeleton’s bones knocking into one another as I take to my ofrenda where I will find wine, books, and a cat.  And that dear reader is my heaven.

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 bound notebook, circled it a few times for emphasis, but the wrong month was said as well. Now you understand why the waiter had sounded so confused.  Why would you be making a reservation so far 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.

It’s really true what they say, New York City is a place where you can do everything, but not afford anything.  Oh to be independently wealthy was a thought that infiltrated my brain chemistry over and over again as I made my way around Midtown, Park Slope, and Williamsburg. New York City is an introvert's dream, which is kind of weird thing to say. Why would so many self proclaimed loners flock to a city of millions? I wish I could describe it better, but here's my attempt nonetheless. You're around people at every turn, in every way, but you still feel alone because everyone is so caught up in their own mind, maintaining their own space, pursuing their own art, battiling their own monsters, they don't have time to concern themselves with whatever you have going on and that somehow works, is actually very much ok. If you're an introvert, I suspect you have an understanding for what I mean. I feel a natural high whenever I visit New York, a dopamine rush if you will, and then a perpetual sinking in my soul when I make it home again, in southern suburbia, which makes me think that maybe New York is a drug, one that never quite dims the hit that I get from all of those bright lights; the rapid shuffle of busy people, busy streets.  I’ve never been disappointed from my time there, the lights have never lost their magic, the people their allusiveness and I have visited quite a bit, although this is the first time I’ve gone with a group of friends, which was an experience that I don’t think a people pleaser like myself should feign to embark upon lightly. I felt frosty.  That’s probably the best word to describe my overall demeanor the first day or two or maybe it was how I envisioned my insides.  A frozen igloo of parts, icicles included of course.  Why? I don’t know exactly.  Well, that’s a lie.  I do know.  I get lost sometimes in the shadow of my husband or maybe it was a fear that our knowledge of New York would over power what the others wanted to see or do.  Am I being too annoying? I thought on more than one occasion.  Am I oversharing? Am I too embarrassing?  Am I too much? Am I dressed too boldly or maybe not boldly enough? So to refrain from all of that, I remained frozen instead, afraid to utter much of anything, least it all be way too much for the situation at hand.  I had periods where I melted to a certain extent.  The hard exterior falling to reveal the me that was buried underneath. And then I kicked myself that I had waited so long.  No one ridiculed me or rolled their eyes or acted embarrassed of the person who I was. I actually felt included, one of the group and then hated myself for thinking otherwise. Day One It was an early wakeup call.  3:30 AM to be exact.  I know…WOWZA! The only thing that was permanent on the agenda once we got settled into our prospective hotels was to see the play DEATH BECOMES HER. We did do some walking around before hand. The New York City Public Library being our first stop of course. And yes that is the original toys from Winnie the Pooh and my heart is happy. I know it will be a surprise to no one who really knows me that I identify the most with Eeyore. Grand Central Station was next. And then a rooftop bar. Waiting in line before the show. To be honest, DEATH BECOMES HER was exactly what I expected it to be.   Nothing particularly extraordinary.  I wasn’t singing any of the songs as I walked out of the theatre.  However, the choreography was really good, I will give them that much.  Some of the stunts caused us to scratch our heads as to how they pulled it off so seamlessly. And then there was Michelle Williams.  The former Destiny’s Child singer, not Heath Ledger’s baby mama.  Williams was absolutely stunning as the witch or would her character be considered more of a sorcerer? I couldn’t really tell, but she was beautiful nonetheless.  I did find her voice to be a bit shrill at times, but maybe that was her character.  An actor’s explorative licence I suppose. Overall it was a solid choice for a musical with friends, especially if you‘re a fan of the film. Day Two We decided to all meet in China Town at the Golden Unicorn for an early lunch  It’s a hidden gem.  Four floors of dimsum and it’s cheap, so so cheap, especially for New York’s standards.  You walk into the building and you feel like you’re in a bank.  You put in your name and they tell you the floor where you will be dining.  (I love a restaurant where you have to take an elevator to your table.) Each level is very much the same.  Carts upon carts carrying plates upon plates of the delicious, the exotic, the exquisite Asian style dumplings.  One of G’s main talents is knowing what to order and when.   Belly’s full we knew that a walk was in order so we decided to walk over the Williamsburg bridge. And to a brand new bookstore, one that featured only horror books. What a cool idea and really perfect for the season. We were headed to the Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn next.  If you have not been to Brooklyn in October, it’s a definite must see. Houses and restaurants are clad with some very creepy...   ...and not so creepy decorations for the Halloween season. We had some time to kill, so we found our way to a pub with more, you guessed it, spooky Halloween decor. And then we were off to the cemetery.  This Green-Wood Cemetery, our destination,  is 478 acres and was established in 1838.  There are many notable politicians, artists, entertainers, business leaders and inventors that rest within the confines of their gates.  Every year they host an event called Nightfall .  You basically walk around the graves, listen to live music, some gripping and haunting, others New Orleans style big band, and get properly freaked out. One thing that I really love is that they make apple cider from the apples that are grown in the cemetery.  We discovered that Fireball properly sweetened the cider, which was on the bitter side.  But really shouldn’t it be? These are apple trees rooted in dead people. I will let that sink in... Day Three We started out so elegant, so put together, even a bit on the  bougier side having booked a reservation at Sveta, a modern European fusion restaurant located in the West Village. This was the outside. And the inside. However, the deal on the menu got us starting the day in a rough spot or perhaps a fun spot, you be the judge.  The deal of the weekend included a bottomless cocktail combo with one food item, but the catch was you only had 90 minutes to utilize the bottomlessness of the cocktails.  Challenge accepted!!! But look how cute these mimosas were… Then our friend, who ended up moving to the city a few years ago, decided to take us on a gay bar tour and that’s where everything got a bit hazy and my memory comes and goes.  Let’s just say the last drink I was told was an espresso martini because you know espresso will sober me up. That's what I said of course upon ordering. Do I remember any of that? What do you think? Day Four I surprisingly woke up more bright eyed than anyone would have thought if you had witnessed my display from the night before. It might have been the four slices of pizza I was told I ate, but have no recollection of, or the water that I was encouraged to drink.  Thanks again to my dear and loving husband for purchasing and feeding me said pizza. But I couldn’t really afford to be feeling under the weather anyway because Keanu Reeves and Neil Paztrick Harris were expecting me to see their performances on this very day.  And I would never dare to disappoint the two of them The rest of our group left New York to head home, so G and I started the day in Central Park.  I surprisingly have never made it this far past Times Square. And to this tunnel. Cue the Law and Order music.  It’s really rude that they were not filming an episode on the day that I decided to visited. We met up with G’s brother, wife, and their two boys and visited the Central Park zoo. I didn't realize that all I took were bird pictures until now, but I'm not ot really mad about it. And then onto WAITING FOR GODOT and our front row seats. If you don’t already know, WAITING FOR GODOT is a friend’s project that Keaunu Reeves and his long time friend Alex Winter (of BILL AND TED fame) decided to do together.  And yes they made a BILL AND TED reference and now I can die a happy person. In a word it was golden.  The whole cast was amazing.  Reeves and Winters had great chemistry on stage and I whole heartedly loved how weird and avante garde it all was.  I have heard mixed reviews about the performance, but I loved it and that’s all that really matters to me. It actually wasn't just the two of them. The other actors were all amazing as well. The play itself caused my husband and I to discuss who the two main characters were actually waiting for.  Were they in a kind of purgatory and God was being represented by Godot? And this brought up the idea of fath to me.  Were they just supposed to have fath that this Godot person would one day appear and rescue them from their mindless waiting, even when all signs pointed to their waiting being for naught or were they actually supposed to live a wasted life, filled with waiting for a thing that would never come to be. Keaunu Reeves described WAITING FOR GODOT by saying that while Shakespeare’s Hamlet character asks “to be or not to be,” this play asks “What are we doing here?”  And I do see what he means. Are we supposed to have faith in a greater power and wait for that power to rescue us or are we supposed to live this life right here, right now?   We had an hour to do some waiting of our own before our next play, ART, began.  ART stars Neil Patrick Harris, Bobby Cannavale, and James Corden.  I have seen Neil Patrick Harris on stage before and the man has stage presence, the same can be said this time around.  Although James Corden, who I don’t necessarily like, blew me away.  Really all three men had great chemistry together and were perfectly cast.  This play was a real joy to watch.  It’s only 90 minutes, no intermission, so it was perfect after the dark comedy of what we had just come from seeing. I fully believe that New York is a place where you are never quite comfortable.  You are either up in your own head (I know a scary place for many) or your body is never quite acclimated (one minute a degree too cold, the next a degree too hot) or is it that you are always on the look out for the next best thing so you are never quite satisfied with the status quo of it all?  Whatever it is I compare New York  to a kind of monster, one in which may eat you entirely up, bones and all, or it may become your new best friend? I often think what my life would have been like if I had been bold enough, brave enough to make the leap to move to such a place in my 20s.  Would that monster have torn me from limb to limb or would it have cuddled me amongst it’s prickly flanks?  The answer will never be known of course or maybe it actually will one day when I find myself waiting, reevaluating my life and being finally ok with the person who I am, the choices, decisions I have made that make my life a whole one.  I  hope I don’t find myself in a purgatory, although if I do I want it to be with friends like a Keaunu Reeves and Alex Winters friendship, one that has stood the test of time and is still flourishing with art, love, and family.  Maybe then it might not be so bad, all of that waiting, even if I have to do it for all of eternity.