Cullen Sculpture Garden
The Menil Collection
Houston, TX
8.23.2008
meet my boyfriend, KYJELLY (not as bad as it sounds)
While on the subject of Kentucky, I want to ask a question of Mr. Kyle C of Steak 'n Shake number 258.
Is your job so lame and boring that you have to invent names for your customers just to stay awake when they order a strawberry shake and Diet Coke at 1 am?
Because I'll understand that.
I mentioned this receipt to someone and she said, 'Oh yeah, when I was a server I made up names to remember who was who...like...Bald Fat Fuck.'
Wow. When I was a server I would have just called BFF Table Five or something but that just shows how much more polite I was when I was 21 than I am now. I said to her, 'Was Bald Fat Fuck printed up on the receipt?'
No. No, it wasn't.
So when Matthew got his receipt at the Steak 'n Shake in Indianapolis and saw that Kyle C had named him KYJELLY, we got a kick out of it. First and foremost because Matthew was visiting me from Kentucky. Hee.
But moreover, what is the deal with us and Steak 'n Shake? I hadn't been to one in maybe ten years and all of a sudden, it's like our PLACE or something.
It started with our first date which at one point had us driving aimlessly around my parents' neighborhood at 3am wracking our brains for something to do in a place where everything closes.
Except Steak 'n Shake.
And who says you can't totally behave like a teenager even though you're more advanced in age? Who says you can't stand in the parking lot and make inappropriate first date jokes about organ harvesting and then go in and order a shake with two straws?
And make your 60-year-old server go, 'You guys are sooo cute,' and look at her like, 'Yeah we are. We noticed that, too.'
Because you can.
Is your job so lame and boring that you have to invent names for your customers just to stay awake when they order a strawberry shake and Diet Coke at 1 am?
Because I'll understand that. I mentioned this receipt to someone and she said, 'Oh yeah, when I was a server I made up names to remember who was who...like...Bald Fat Fuck.'
Wow. When I was a server I would have just called BFF Table Five or something but that just shows how much more polite I was when I was 21 than I am now. I said to her, 'Was Bald Fat Fuck printed up on the receipt?'
No. No, it wasn't.
So when Matthew got his receipt at the Steak 'n Shake in Indianapolis and saw that Kyle C had named him KYJELLY, we got a kick out of it. First and foremost because Matthew was visiting me from Kentucky. Hee.
But moreover, what is the deal with us and Steak 'n Shake? I hadn't been to one in maybe ten years and all of a sudden, it's like our PLACE or something.
It started with our first date which at one point had us driving aimlessly around my parents' neighborhood at 3am wracking our brains for something to do in a place where everything closes.
Except Steak 'n Shake.
And who says you can't totally behave like a teenager even though you're more advanced in age? Who says you can't stand in the parking lot and make inappropriate first date jokes about organ harvesting and then go in and order a shake with two straws?
And make your 60-year-old server go, 'You guys are sooo cute,' and look at her like, 'Yeah we are. We noticed that, too.'
Because you can.
8.20.2008
8.19.2008
Waking up to Tropical Storm Fay
It's funny when you're the first person to wake up on the tour bus in Central Florida, driving south, where there are warnings out for tropical storms, tornadoes, and possible floods.
Our driver, Brian, joked, "Wanna take the wheel for awhile? It's a nice open road to practice on."
"Yeah," I said, "Because everyone else evacuates while we drive right into it."
No, really, it's hilarious.
Our driver, Brian, joked, "Wanna take the wheel for awhile? It's a nice open road to practice on."
"Yeah," I said, "Because everyone else evacuates while we drive right into it."
No, really, it's hilarious.
8.14.2008
Pimpstick
A man crossed the street in front of the bus when was sitting in the front next to our driver Brian and we watched him take his sweet time. If I were crossing four lanes of Philadelphia traffic I might look up once or twice. I would not amble. I would definitely consider the 40,000 pound tour bus barreling my way. But this guy was not worried.
"C'mon pimpstick, go!" Brian said. I started laughing.
The man WAS using a cane and he did not appear to be either terribly old or crippled. He was somewhat pimping.
"I've got to start calling people pimpstick," I thought.
I'm pretty sure I've called someone a pimpsqueak (Matthew) but this is good, too.
"C'mon pimpstick, go!" Brian said. I started laughing.
The man WAS using a cane and he did not appear to be either terribly old or crippled. He was somewhat pimping.
"I've got to start calling people pimpstick," I thought.
I'm pretty sure I've called someone a pimpsqueak (Matthew) but this is good, too.
8.12.2008
I BELONG on the unicorn bus
In what can only be described as a horrible oversight, I don't get to ride on the unicorn bus.
Baltimore cloudgazing and the art of travel
Baltimore, Maryland
It was Monday so the American Visionary Art Museum was out.
I considered the brains and human bodies exhibit at the science center on the harbor but the hundred children running around the lobby turned me crotchety. I wasn't feeling like a kindly spinster; I was the kind who rolls her eyes and wonders why people breed such little hellcats.
"I wish all these KIDS would get out of the children's museum so I could ENJOY MYSELF."
I walked along the waterline, past the sand volleyball court and the trapeze school and up Federal Hill where I settled into the grass at the top. From here I could barely hear the traffic. The red and white striped carousel turned below and the tinkle of carnival music rose and fell, first blotting out the noise of cars then chiming softly, almost inaudibly. The skies were blue with billowy clouds. Past the trees to my left were rows of brick townhouses, the historic district of Baltimore, and to the right downtown and the harbor.
Aaahhh.
Behind me, on the sidewalk, a woman in an Army shirt followed orders from a guy who made her do sit ups and push ups. "Run down the steps, do fifty jump ropes at the bottom, and run up the hill. Take a breather and do it again."
"I should get a personal trainer," I thought for about five seconds, tops.
"Or I should not get a personal trainer because I will hate the personal trainer for ordering me around to do more than sit in the grass and stare at clouds."
Having settled the personal trainer issue, I pulled out a book.
I last read The Art of Travel in 2004. That time, I underlined favorite passages. This time I highlighted some of the same words, plus new parts. The first time I read the book, I'd traveled enough to know that trains are my favorite transit and that my brain chemistry alters when a plane takes off.
I know that I won't be a different person just because I'm in a different place, no matter how much I want to be. I've tried that and it doesn't work. There is, however, a a correlation between the expansiveness of thought to the expansiveness of view.
Expansive views can be big: Yosemite's El Capitan, the edge of the Grand Canyon, or Baltimore's Federal Hill. They can be small: a room that's foreign in touch and feel, the sounds leaking under the door from the street outside. The room might be dingy and tiny but it is new and so, therefore, are your thoughts.
Alain de Botton, the author of The Art of Travel, says that large thoughts may require large views and new thoughts, new places.
I thought I connected with the book completely in 2004. This time, though, as I picked through the sections devoted to hotel rooms and airports, I laughed anew. Alain de Botton NAILS IT. From unexpected angles. With pictures! This book was either written for me or I wish I'd written it myself.
Would it be creepy to legally change my name to Alain de Botton? Would I seem like a stalker? Would it be worth it?
Now that I've spent several years touring, living for months in a another hotel room in another city, I want to give this guy a high five more than ever. Or, since he doesn't seem like a high-fiver, just cock my eyebrow and say something extremely witty and dry.
It was Monday so the American Visionary Art Museum was out.
I considered the brains and human bodies exhibit at the science center on the harbor but the hundred children running around the lobby turned me crotchety. I wasn't feeling like a kindly spinster; I was the kind who rolls her eyes and wonders why people breed such little hellcats.
"I wish all these KIDS would get out of the children's museum so I could ENJOY MYSELF."
I walked along the waterline, past the sand volleyball court and the trapeze school and up Federal Hill where I settled into the grass at the top. From here I could barely hear the traffic. The red and white striped carousel turned below and the tinkle of carnival music rose and fell, first blotting out the noise of cars then chiming softly, almost inaudibly. The skies were blue with billowy clouds. Past the trees to my left were rows of brick townhouses, the historic district of Baltimore, and to the right downtown and the harbor.
Aaahhh.
Behind me, on the sidewalk, a woman in an Army shirt followed orders from a guy who made her do sit ups and push ups. "Run down the steps, do fifty jump ropes at the bottom, and run up the hill. Take a breather and do it again."
"I should get a personal trainer," I thought for about five seconds, tops.
"Or I should not get a personal trainer because I will hate the personal trainer for ordering me around to do more than sit in the grass and stare at clouds."
Having settled the personal trainer issue, I pulled out a book.
I last read The Art of Travel in 2004. That time, I underlined favorite passages. This time I highlighted some of the same words, plus new parts. The first time I read the book, I'd traveled enough to know that trains are my favorite transit and that my brain chemistry alters when a plane takes off.
I know that I won't be a different person just because I'm in a different place, no matter how much I want to be. I've tried that and it doesn't work. There is, however, a a correlation between the expansiveness of thought to the expansiveness of view.
Expansive views can be big: Yosemite's El Capitan, the edge of the Grand Canyon, or Baltimore's Federal Hill. They can be small: a room that's foreign in touch and feel, the sounds leaking under the door from the street outside. The room might be dingy and tiny but it is new and so, therefore, are your thoughts.
Alain de Botton, the author of The Art of Travel, says that large thoughts may require large views and new thoughts, new places.
I thought I connected with the book completely in 2004. This time, though, as I picked through the sections devoted to hotel rooms and airports, I laughed anew. Alain de Botton NAILS IT. From unexpected angles. With pictures! This book was either written for me or I wish I'd written it myself.
Would it be creepy to legally change my name to Alain de Botton? Would I seem like a stalker? Would it be worth it?
Now that I've spent several years touring, living for months in a another hotel room in another city, I want to give this guy a high five more than ever. Or, since he doesn't seem like a high-fiver, just cock my eyebrow and say something extremely witty and dry.
8.08.2008
Waking up in Hartford, CT
I don't complain about hotels because a) How bad is it, really? and b) What's the point?
But SERIOUSLY.
The jackhammer on the parking garage roof outside my window two days in a row, early in the morning? I can't decide who to smack upside the head harder: Me or the poor guy who's just doing his job. His loud, loud job. At seven am. Outside my window.
I tried to drown out jackhammer with the iPod but at volumes that high, Ravel sounds like rave and I felt more like buying a ten-dollar pill from someone in the bathroom stall and slamming vodka red bull than sleeping. So I got up.
But SERIOUSLY.
The jackhammer on the parking garage roof outside my window two days in a row, early in the morning? I can't decide who to smack upside the head harder: Me or the poor guy who's just doing his job. His loud, loud job. At seven am. Outside my window.
I tried to drown out jackhammer with the iPod but at volumes that high, Ravel sounds like rave and I felt more like buying a ten-dollar pill from someone in the bathroom stall and slamming vodka red bull than sleeping. So I got up.
The Last Lecture
I sat on a concrete step on the south side of Pittsburgh and wondered who to call. I wasn't in the mood for small talk. My brain felt heavy, at least 10 lbs, more than its usual three. That's right, I weighed it. It was bloated.
"Gail," I wondered, "Where is she?" She'd sent me photos from Alaska. I didn't know if she was back in Minnesota but I'd been thinking about her ever since Salt Lake City. When the tour got to Salt Lake a couple weeks earlier, I called Gail and left her the message that I could see her and Dave living in Salt Lake City.
It was probably the mountains but right away I thought, "I have to tell her they could live here."
Later, on the phone, Gail told me that she'd quit her job and her family was going to move, probably to the west coast but they'd been considering Salt Lake, too.
I've shared parallel moments with Gail ever since we met in Minneapolis in 1994, all kinds of little similarities in thought and detail, many of them from a distance.
So it made sense that at the end of that phone call she mentioned a book, The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch.
She told me that it was a lecture by a professor who died of cancer, who spoke not of death but of life and how he lived. "That's exactly what I've been thinking about today," I said, "Living and dying and optimism."
I didn't really know what I meant, my thoughts were playing bumper car in my brain and probably still are. I definitely didn't know that Randy Pausch had died only three days previous and that he'd been a professor at Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh. I was on his turf.
The book looked small when I bought it. "Uh oh," I thought, "I hope this isn't chicken soup for the soul." I was skeptical because a lecture on achieving your childhood dreams sounds treacly. The fact that he'd been watched by millions of people on You Tube and by another few million on Oprah didn't, in my mind, help.
But that is an example of me being too cool for Oprah. Sometimes I have to get over that.
Do many popular inspirational writers make me want to choke myself with the crayons that I'm so whimsically instructed to color with? Yes. SARK, I will let you know when I'm in the mood to "build a fort with blankets" and "giggle with children". Or better yet, I'll just go ahead and DO THAT STUFF without consulting your magical poster first.
But guess what?
I appreciated The Last Lecture. A few people told me that it was "heavy" but it wasn't heavy. It was LIGHT. Surprisingly, I didn't mind. I usually like it when books make me work harder. I mean, Randy Pausch was smart - nerd smart - but these stories are simple. No need to refer to your engineering or philosophy degree to get it.
He was dying of pancreatic cancer when he gave the lecture, stories for his kids that he wouldn't get to tell later, on how to take your dreams seriously and set a high standard for yourself and not settle. How to keep learning and having fun while doing hard things and being a big old kid.
National bestsellers are almost by definition accessible to lots of people, easy to read and easy to follow. I can be a snob about it when I'm not stooping, Steve Martini style, but I didn't get all SARKed out by this one.
I just felt psyched that someone so shamelessly dorky about computer science and virtual reality and f'ing Disney World, where I never even wanted to go when I was 10 years old, and football - FOOTBALL - made me sit up straight.
I don't think it hurt that I started reading in the cafe of the American Museum of Natural History when I had time to kill between the space movie and the dinosaur movie I'd bought tickets to.
Thanks, Gail.
"Gail," I wondered, "Where is she?" She'd sent me photos from Alaska. I didn't know if she was back in Minnesota but I'd been thinking about her ever since Salt Lake City. When the tour got to Salt Lake a couple weeks earlier, I called Gail and left her the message that I could see her and Dave living in Salt Lake City.
It was probably the mountains but right away I thought, "I have to tell her they could live here."
Later, on the phone, Gail told me that she'd quit her job and her family was going to move, probably to the west coast but they'd been considering Salt Lake, too.
I've shared parallel moments with Gail ever since we met in Minneapolis in 1994, all kinds of little similarities in thought and detail, many of them from a distance.
So it made sense that at the end of that phone call she mentioned a book, The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch.
She told me that it was a lecture by a professor who died of cancer, who spoke not of death but of life and how he lived. "That's exactly what I've been thinking about today," I said, "Living and dying and optimism."
I didn't really know what I meant, my thoughts were playing bumper car in my brain and probably still are. I definitely didn't know that Randy Pausch had died only three days previous and that he'd been a professor at Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh. I was on his turf.
The book looked small when I bought it. "Uh oh," I thought, "I hope this isn't chicken soup for the soul." I was skeptical because a lecture on achieving your childhood dreams sounds treacly. The fact that he'd been watched by millions of people on You Tube and by another few million on Oprah didn't, in my mind, help.
But that is an example of me being too cool for Oprah. Sometimes I have to get over that.
Do many popular inspirational writers make me want to choke myself with the crayons that I'm so whimsically instructed to color with? Yes. SARK, I will let you know when I'm in the mood to "build a fort with blankets" and "giggle with children". Or better yet, I'll just go ahead and DO THAT STUFF without consulting your magical poster first.
But guess what?
I appreciated The Last Lecture. A few people told me that it was "heavy" but it wasn't heavy. It was LIGHT. Surprisingly, I didn't mind. I usually like it when books make me work harder. I mean, Randy Pausch was smart - nerd smart - but these stories are simple. No need to refer to your engineering or philosophy degree to get it.
He was dying of pancreatic cancer when he gave the lecture, stories for his kids that he wouldn't get to tell later, on how to take your dreams seriously and set a high standard for yourself and not settle. How to keep learning and having fun while doing hard things and being a big old kid.
National bestsellers are almost by definition accessible to lots of people, easy to read and easy to follow. I can be a snob about it when I'm not stooping, Steve Martini style, but I didn't get all SARKed out by this one.
I just felt psyched that someone so shamelessly dorky about computer science and virtual reality and f'ing Disney World, where I never even wanted to go when I was 10 years old, and football - FOOTBALL - made me sit up straight.
I don't think it hurt that I started reading in the cafe of the American Museum of Natural History when I had time to kill between the space movie and the dinosaur movie I'd bought tickets to.
Thanks, Gail.
8.07.2008
8.02.2008
Bad karma shirt
Today I woke up and mentally recapped the night before in New York: Wine, more wine, enchiladas, Guinness, more Guinness, Times Square chicken-on-a-stick, minibar M&Ms, minibar Kit Kat, not enough water, not enough sleep.
So I'm not feeling all that well this morning. I should have immediately pounded water, swallowed a handful of vitamins, and jumped in the shower when I woke up. Instead I skipped the shower, pulled my hair into a ponytail and sprayed on perfume. I cut the neck out of the Cincinnati, Ohio shirt that our promoters offered me from a charity donation box and went to work.
I walked into the promoters' office and they said, "Look what she did to the shirt we gave her! She destroyed our present to her!"
"Your present!" I said. "You stole this from an orphan!"
"They aren't orphans," they said. "Just poor."
"You are not helping," I said, guilt setting in.
So, yeah, I'm an asshole but at least I get to look like Flashdance's Jennifer Beals, minus the flawless skin and ability to weld steel.
So I'm not feeling all that well this morning. I should have immediately pounded water, swallowed a handful of vitamins, and jumped in the shower when I woke up. Instead I skipped the shower, pulled my hair into a ponytail and sprayed on perfume. I cut the neck out of the Cincinnati, Ohio shirt that our promoters offered me from a charity donation box and went to work.
I walked into the promoters' office and they said, "Look what she did to the shirt we gave her! She destroyed our present to her!"
"Your present!" I said. "You stole this from an orphan!"
"They aren't orphans," they said. "Just poor."
"You are not helping," I said, guilt setting in.
So, yeah, I'm an asshole but at least I get to look like Flashdance's Jennifer Beals, minus the flawless skin and ability to weld steel.
7.31.2008
Jonas Brothers rock!
Actually, they pop. But thanks, Pittsburgh tweens, for using a Sharpie to share your feelings on a piece of public art.
Andy Warhol Bridge
This is supposedly the only bridge in the US named for a visual artist.
Thanks, Pittsburgh!
7.25.2008
The dark side of smiley face ties
I have mixed feelings about positive thinking which is weird because I like being positive. I’m probably annoying, I'm can be so positive. I couldn’t wait, when I was younger, to find out what would happen next. Regardless of sharp mood swings, I had an innate trust that I could do anything, anywhere. Be anyone. Name it. Give me an idea. I'll figure out the details later. I'll send you a postcard. I owned that optimism.
Around age 30 I got discouraged because I wasn't sure what my point was. I felt like I was just drifting around collecting experiences, but for what? Was I really committing to anything or did I always have one foot out the door, at least wedging it open, if not kicking it down?
These days I have as many questions about my life as I ever have but I’m back to that comforting state in which the answers, answers I don't know yet, are exciting, not worrying. For a while there I was worried. When I had lunch with Ingrid and LAM in Seattle last fall, LAM said, "You're GOOD at exits." That comment stopped me in my tracks. She was talking about me quitting my publishing job when I knew for sure that it didn’t make me happy, when I resisted the unbelievably tempting offer of an office WITH A WINDOW.
A window! For me?? Another physical remind of the world out there that I’m not participating in the way I want to be? AND a promotion consisting of a better title with the same shitty pay and backstabbing co-workers? I’d be a fool to say no!
She was also talking about how I'd just quit an unhealthy relationship, left a message on my phone telling people I was on the beach drinking out of a coconut, and went to Mexico. When I decide to act, I don’t usually waste time. Part of me felt proud when LAM said that I’m good at exits because I like that when necessary, I say Oh hell naw. I have my patterns and not all of them are good but I don’t get stuck in many ruts. I am rut-phobic.
I thought for a minute, "Yeah. But I wish there were less situations that I need to exit."
She and Ingrid lifted their eyebrows and nodded with consideration. Since that lunch I’ve had a kick ass year and am shaking my pom poms for the one ahead. I’m back in action, suckas! But still I get stuck on the concept of being positive. Are we supposed to be positive ALL THE TIME because there are things - some big and some small - that make me feel really negative.
That sentence alone alerts the annoying imaginary life coach who whispers in my ear: Nothing can MAKE you negative. You DECIDE to be negative, Jessica Ann Roncker.
And my honest immediate reaction, "Go fuck yourself," sounds another alarm. THAT was defensive! Why am I so defensive? Wait, what about just being human for a minute? What about wallowing and wailing and being pissed and sad and mad?
My annoying imaginary life coach is not unlike the doctor at the natural health clinic in Seattle who talked me into letting him do some craniosacral massage on me. Which is to say I basically let him MASSAGE MY AURA. I know. Don’t ask. I was living in the Pacific Northwest. This doctor guy ended up hurting my aura. He whipped his hands over and around my body and my body started aching in response. No shit. The pain upset me and he and his smiley-face tie – the tie that should have been my sign to get the hell out of there before I let him go all Rambo on my personal energy field – leaned in close and whispered, "You’re in a safe space…"
That’s nice, dude, but YOU ARE NOT. I don’t know what Wiccan drum circle you earned your degree from or why I let you get an inch away from my ear but I am this close to grabbing your smiley face tie and choking you with it.
Lately anything fake makes me negative. Fake human interaction, fake customer service voices, and anything two-faced or insincere makes me want to scream. I was headed to the pool at the St. Louis hotel and asked the women working in the spa area where I could buy a coffee. One of them was telling me about the café downstairs when another cut her off, "Or you can order poolside and we’ll bring it to you."
Fine, fair enough. Until she paused, looked "warmly" into my eyes and said, "GO PAMPER YOURSELF." Hey, you go pamper yourself lady. You’re the one talking in that fake voice you learned in some hotel management training. You’re the one who’s into that. I respect real, honest exchanges. It’s okay if it’s messy or dirty or bloody or whatever. It’s okay if you stutter or have spinach in your teeth or you’re having a bad day. It’s okay if you cry and it makes your nose run and you have to wipe it on your sleeve. It’s okay if it’s difficult and doesn’t make sense right away.
I’m not into glossy perfection. I don’t think it exists outside the world of marketing. It’s an image, an inhuman image, and I don’t trust it. Part of this world is the marketing of positivity. The whole create your own destiny / manifest what you want / the law of attraction / your thoughts become reality. Clearly I believe in all of these things; I’ve been using my imagination and making my ideas happen for years. I think the philosophy goes too far, though, when it turns against the person it’s supposed to help.
If you are positive, positive things happen to you. If negative things happen, you must be doing something wrong. You’re being negative. If you’re sick, imagine yourself well. If you’re poor, imagine yourself rich.
But what if you don’t get well and you’re still sick and you still can’t pay the rent? That supposedly has nothing to do with cell growth or health insurance or the job market. No, you just weren’t positive enough. Instead of getting you to take some responsibility, it tells you that you have total control. Everything happening to you, you allowed to happen. You created it. If you need $10,000 and you keep imagining a $10,000 check coming in the mail and it doesn’t, well, you fucked up. Except don’t use the word fuck because that’s negative.
Keep smiling and keep spinning the story. God, it gets to me. It makes me want to do all kinds of things not condoned by The Secret. Or the police.
So what about this contradiction of mine with positive thinking?
All I can come up with is smile when I feel like it, frown when I don’t. Do the most I can with what I have. Love the people I love. Be as positive and hopeful as possible without being a control freak. I don’t know what else makes sense.
Around age 30 I got discouraged because I wasn't sure what my point was. I felt like I was just drifting around collecting experiences, but for what? Was I really committing to anything or did I always have one foot out the door, at least wedging it open, if not kicking it down?
These days I have as many questions about my life as I ever have but I’m back to that comforting state in which the answers, answers I don't know yet, are exciting, not worrying. For a while there I was worried. When I had lunch with Ingrid and LAM in Seattle last fall, LAM said, "You're GOOD at exits." That comment stopped me in my tracks. She was talking about me quitting my publishing job when I knew for sure that it didn’t make me happy, when I resisted the unbelievably tempting offer of an office WITH A WINDOW.
A window! For me?? Another physical remind of the world out there that I’m not participating in the way I want to be? AND a promotion consisting of a better title with the same shitty pay and backstabbing co-workers? I’d be a fool to say no!
She was also talking about how I'd just quit an unhealthy relationship, left a message on my phone telling people I was on the beach drinking out of a coconut, and went to Mexico. When I decide to act, I don’t usually waste time. Part of me felt proud when LAM said that I’m good at exits because I like that when necessary, I say Oh hell naw. I have my patterns and not all of them are good but I don’t get stuck in many ruts. I am rut-phobic.
I thought for a minute, "Yeah. But I wish there were less situations that I need to exit."
She and Ingrid lifted their eyebrows and nodded with consideration. Since that lunch I’ve had a kick ass year and am shaking my pom poms for the one ahead. I’m back in action, suckas! But still I get stuck on the concept of being positive. Are we supposed to be positive ALL THE TIME because there are things - some big and some small - that make me feel really negative.
That sentence alone alerts the annoying imaginary life coach who whispers in my ear: Nothing can MAKE you negative. You DECIDE to be negative, Jessica Ann Roncker. And my honest immediate reaction, "Go fuck yourself," sounds another alarm. THAT was defensive! Why am I so defensive? Wait, what about just being human for a minute? What about wallowing and wailing and being pissed and sad and mad?
My annoying imaginary life coach is not unlike the doctor at the natural health clinic in Seattle who talked me into letting him do some craniosacral massage on me. Which is to say I basically let him MASSAGE MY AURA. I know. Don’t ask. I was living in the Pacific Northwest. This doctor guy ended up hurting my aura. He whipped his hands over and around my body and my body started aching in response. No shit. The pain upset me and he and his smiley-face tie – the tie that should have been my sign to get the hell out of there before I let him go all Rambo on my personal energy field – leaned in close and whispered, "You’re in a safe space…"
That’s nice, dude, but YOU ARE NOT. I don’t know what Wiccan drum circle you earned your degree from or why I let you get an inch away from my ear but I am this close to grabbing your smiley face tie and choking you with it.
Lately anything fake makes me negative. Fake human interaction, fake customer service voices, and anything two-faced or insincere makes me want to scream. I was headed to the pool at the St. Louis hotel and asked the women working in the spa area where I could buy a coffee. One of them was telling me about the café downstairs when another cut her off, "Or you can order poolside and we’ll bring it to you."
Fine, fair enough. Until she paused, looked "warmly" into my eyes and said, "GO PAMPER YOURSELF." Hey, you go pamper yourself lady. You’re the one talking in that fake voice you learned in some hotel management training. You’re the one who’s into that. I respect real, honest exchanges. It’s okay if it’s messy or dirty or bloody or whatever. It’s okay if you stutter or have spinach in your teeth or you’re having a bad day. It’s okay if you cry and it makes your nose run and you have to wipe it on your sleeve. It’s okay if it’s difficult and doesn’t make sense right away.
I’m not into glossy perfection. I don’t think it exists outside the world of marketing. It’s an image, an inhuman image, and I don’t trust it. Part of this world is the marketing of positivity. The whole create your own destiny / manifest what you want / the law of attraction / your thoughts become reality. Clearly I believe in all of these things; I’ve been using my imagination and making my ideas happen for years. I think the philosophy goes too far, though, when it turns against the person it’s supposed to help.
If you are positive, positive things happen to you. If negative things happen, you must be doing something wrong. You’re being negative. If you’re sick, imagine yourself well. If you’re poor, imagine yourself rich.
But what if you don’t get well and you’re still sick and you still can’t pay the rent? That supposedly has nothing to do with cell growth or health insurance or the job market. No, you just weren’t positive enough. Instead of getting you to take some responsibility, it tells you that you have total control. Everything happening to you, you allowed to happen. You created it. If you need $10,000 and you keep imagining a $10,000 check coming in the mail and it doesn’t, well, you fucked up. Except don’t use the word fuck because that’s negative.
Keep smiling and keep spinning the story. God, it gets to me. It makes me want to do all kinds of things not condoned by The Secret. Or the police.
So what about this contradiction of mine with positive thinking? All I can come up with is smile when I feel like it, frown when I don’t. Do the most I can with what I have. Love the people I love. Be as positive and hopeful as possible without being a control freak. I don’t know what else makes sense.
7.24.2008
Cowbell on Neil's back
I stuck this note on my computer tonight to remind myself what I need to do at 8pm.
Because taping cowbells on people, while not explicitly listed in my job description, is the kind of thing that needs to get done on my job.
7.19.2008
one instance in which LOL might have been useful
I went to the hotel bar after our second show in Salt Lake City. I'd had a few Bud Lights there the night before so the bartender didn't make me fill out the Utah club membership card allowing me to drink the refreshingly smooth taste of Anheuser-Busch.
The night before someone told me that a Salt Lake City tiki lounge made a list of the top 25 dive bars in America and I was intrigued enough to get directions but not, at the end of the day, to actually walk the five blocks to make it happen.
I opted instead to drink two Bud Lights, ask about the nearest 7-11, and look sufficiently dispirited for the manager to offer to open the gift shop. At which point I scavenged for a protein bar and sugar-coated almonds. Yes. I know how to party.
On night two, I got there before any of my colleagues and strolled into a room full of middle-aged men in khaki shorts and polo shirts. There were about 25 of them and they all stared at me as I walked to the bar. I was wearing all black clothing, motorcycle boots, and didn't really fit in.
I ordered and pulled a chair over to a table and as I passed one of the groups, one of the golfers moved his chair over and said, "There's room for you here."
"You're fine," I said while walking past without looking at him. It didn't really make sense; it just came out. Actually, dude? You are NOT fine, you are saying tiresome things and you look like a boring motherfucker.
While waiting for my Bud Light, I texted "help" to Roxy, Neil, and Leila. Just that one word. And as soon as I hit send I thought, "Maybe I should give them some context so they know I'm not ACTUALLY in danger."
I was furiously texting an explanation when the calls started coming in. Roxy, Leila. I texted as fast as I could: "I'm fine, just surrounded by golfers! Haha! I'm fine! Not in danger!"
I didn't answer the phone because all the men were nearby enough to hear me. I should have left the room and answered the phone but opted instead to manic-text.
A few minutes later, mid-text, there was a call from Neil. I answered in whisper, "Hey!"
"Yes, I'm okay. I'm sorry! I'm in the bar! No, I'm okay, I promise!"
"Are you sure?" He asked. I realized that he thought that someone was MAKING me say I was okay. Someone with a gun. Or a knife. Shit. I continued to field messages from Roxy and Leila, "No, I'm so sorry, I'm a jerk, I didn't mean to make you worry etc.
A few minutes later Roxy appeared. "You scared the shit out of me."
She got the help text and didn't want to overreact but called me to be sure. I didn't answer so she called Neil. It sounded like "help" was all I had time to write. Like, in the time that the mugger/rapist/serial killer waiting in my room turned his back to reach into his bag of torture implements.
Neil headed to my room.
Leila got my cry for help and did the same thing. She armed herself with an ice bucket, to hit my killer over the head with OR to look casual in case it was a false alarm.
"Hey whatsup?! Oh, you aren't being assaulted? Sweet, 'cause my drink is warm and I need some ice."
I felt bad. When they joined me, I apologized repeatedly and asked tentatively, "Soooo? Is this funny now or do we have to wait until tomorrow for it to get funny?"
Damn.
Gromyko joined us later and we filled him in. His response? "Maybe just a Help LOL would have been better."
And I realized - FOR FIRST TIME EVER - that, yes, LOL would have been real handy. What a surprise! I despise LOL. It's cheap and easy and usually not even true. I don't think people are really laughing out loud. They're just saying that.
99 percent of time, LOL can take a hike. But that 1 percent? When you're alone and annoyed by Mormon golfers? Bring it.
The night before someone told me that a Salt Lake City tiki lounge made a list of the top 25 dive bars in America and I was intrigued enough to get directions but not, at the end of the day, to actually walk the five blocks to make it happen.
I opted instead to drink two Bud Lights, ask about the nearest 7-11, and look sufficiently dispirited for the manager to offer to open the gift shop. At which point I scavenged for a protein bar and sugar-coated almonds. Yes. I know how to party.
On night two, I got there before any of my colleagues and strolled into a room full of middle-aged men in khaki shorts and polo shirts. There were about 25 of them and they all stared at me as I walked to the bar. I was wearing all black clothing, motorcycle boots, and didn't really fit in.
I ordered and pulled a chair over to a table and as I passed one of the groups, one of the golfers moved his chair over and said, "There's room for you here."
"You're fine," I said while walking past without looking at him. It didn't really make sense; it just came out. Actually, dude? You are NOT fine, you are saying tiresome things and you look like a boring motherfucker.
While waiting for my Bud Light, I texted "help" to Roxy, Neil, and Leila. Just that one word. And as soon as I hit send I thought, "Maybe I should give them some context so they know I'm not ACTUALLY in danger."
I was furiously texting an explanation when the calls started coming in. Roxy, Leila. I texted as fast as I could: "I'm fine, just surrounded by golfers! Haha! I'm fine! Not in danger!"
I didn't answer the phone because all the men were nearby enough to hear me. I should have left the room and answered the phone but opted instead to manic-text.
A few minutes later, mid-text, there was a call from Neil. I answered in whisper, "Hey!"
"Yes, I'm okay. I'm sorry! I'm in the bar! No, I'm okay, I promise!"
"Are you sure?" He asked. I realized that he thought that someone was MAKING me say I was okay. Someone with a gun. Or a knife. Shit. I continued to field messages from Roxy and Leila, "No, I'm so sorry, I'm a jerk, I didn't mean to make you worry etc.
A few minutes later Roxy appeared. "You scared the shit out of me."
She got the help text and didn't want to overreact but called me to be sure. I didn't answer so she called Neil. It sounded like "help" was all I had time to write. Like, in the time that the mugger/rapist/serial killer waiting in my room turned his back to reach into his bag of torture implements.
Neil headed to my room.
Leila got my cry for help and did the same thing. She armed herself with an ice bucket, to hit my killer over the head with OR to look casual in case it was a false alarm.
"Hey whatsup?! Oh, you aren't being assaulted? Sweet, 'cause my drink is warm and I need some ice."
I felt bad. When they joined me, I apologized repeatedly and asked tentatively, "Soooo? Is this funny now or do we have to wait until tomorrow for it to get funny?"
Damn.
Gromyko joined us later and we filled him in. His response? "Maybe just a Help LOL would have been better."
And I realized - FOR FIRST TIME EVER - that, yes, LOL would have been real handy. What a surprise! I despise LOL. It's cheap and easy and usually not even true. I don't think people are really laughing out loud. They're just saying that.
99 percent of time, LOL can take a hike. But that 1 percent? When you're alone and annoyed by Mormon golfers? Bring it.
7.14.2008
Saying no thank you to polar bears
"Excuse me? Do you like polar bears?" he asked as I walked past him on the sidewalk.
"No, thank you," I said. I was in a rush.
"Awwww," the stranger called after me.
OF COURSE I like polar bears! They're so cute even though they will eat me. And I'm concerned about polar bears and the whole endangered Arctic which just pretty much melted, not a good sign for anyone.
I felt so guilty for saying I didn't like polar bears that I texted Jane, who works for the environment - that's right, THE CLIMATE SIGNS HER CHECKS - and confessed. I was expecting a snappy lecture but she was distracted by her appendicitis so I was off the hook. She was either in the hospital or on her way when I told her I'd dissed polar bears and the Arctic which illustrates my point: sometimes personal matters trump overall earthly survival. I'm not saying they should, they just do.
For me, I had shopping to do. And then I had to be somewhere. Haha, no really.
I made a resolution not to over pack this summer and I did a fine job. Unfortunately I didn't also make a resolution to do laundry on a regular basis so there a came a day, three weeks after leaving Cincinnati, when I had a situation. I had already done some handwashing. I'd hung my panties to dry in the shower and had even handwashed a pair of Levi's but there's only so many times you can wear the same three pairs of blue jeans and white cutoffs before they're walking themselves to work. They are dir-tay. And that's not even getting into the argument over whether white cutoffs should ever be worn, much less be made a cornerstone of a wardrobe.
I kept saying, "I really need to round out my wardrobe with a pair of black pants." Which is an obnoxious thing to say. ROUND OUT MY WARDROBE. What is this? An episode of What Not To Wear? Has the Idol management team arranged to have Stacy and Clinton ambush me in the loading dock? (They should).
I looked for black pants in Portland and was in the Diesel store trying on some sale items. I had one leg in when I knew, suddenly, that I'd left my phone on a street bench. I tore off the pants and ripped through my tote bag in search of my phone. In the process I also ripped open a bag of ranch-flavored soy chips, scattering them around the fitting room. At this point the salesman knocked on my door.
"Are you doing okay in there?"
"No!" I shrieked as I ran past him. "I left my phone in the street!"
I'm freaking out because this would be the fourth phone I've been through in less than a year. When I'm not leaving them in public spaces, I'm throwing them onto hard surfaces to see how long it takes for the top to fall off. As I'm running back to Whole Foods, an old woman on the street tries to ask me something.
"Hang on," I say, "I lost my phone!"
At the guest services desk in Whole Foods, I ask if anyone turned it in and instead of answering me, the employee asks me a question.
"Are you Aaron Spears' friend?"
"Yes!" I say and clap my hands. Aaron is the drummer in the Idol band and the first person in my phone book. I pass the test and get my phone back.
Back on the sidewalk, I see the old woman I rudely blew off and say, "I'm sorry, what were you asking me?"
She asks for money and I give her a dollar and apologize for running away. She asks me if I found my phone and when I tell her yes she says, "Oh GOOD. God bless you."
Yes, I thought. And the polar bears.
"No, thank you," I said. I was in a rush.
"Awwww," the stranger called after me.
OF COURSE I like polar bears! They're so cute even though they will eat me. And I'm concerned about polar bears and the whole endangered Arctic which just pretty much melted, not a good sign for anyone.
I felt so guilty for saying I didn't like polar bears that I texted Jane, who works for the environment - that's right, THE CLIMATE SIGNS HER CHECKS - and confessed. I was expecting a snappy lecture but she was distracted by her appendicitis so I was off the hook. She was either in the hospital or on her way when I told her I'd dissed polar bears and the Arctic which illustrates my point: sometimes personal matters trump overall earthly survival. I'm not saying they should, they just do.
For me, I had shopping to do. And then I had to be somewhere. Haha, no really.
I made a resolution not to over pack this summer and I did a fine job. Unfortunately I didn't also make a resolution to do laundry on a regular basis so there a came a day, three weeks after leaving Cincinnati, when I had a situation. I had already done some handwashing. I'd hung my panties to dry in the shower and had even handwashed a pair of Levi's but there's only so many times you can wear the same three pairs of blue jeans and white cutoffs before they're walking themselves to work. They are dir-tay. And that's not even getting into the argument over whether white cutoffs should ever be worn, much less be made a cornerstone of a wardrobe.
I kept saying, "I really need to round out my wardrobe with a pair of black pants." Which is an obnoxious thing to say. ROUND OUT MY WARDROBE. What is this? An episode of What Not To Wear? Has the Idol management team arranged to have Stacy and Clinton ambush me in the loading dock? (They should).
I looked for black pants in Portland and was in the Diesel store trying on some sale items. I had one leg in when I knew, suddenly, that I'd left my phone on a street bench. I tore off the pants and ripped through my tote bag in search of my phone. In the process I also ripped open a bag of ranch-flavored soy chips, scattering them around the fitting room. At this point the salesman knocked on my door.
"Are you doing okay in there?"
"No!" I shrieked as I ran past him. "I left my phone in the street!"
I'm freaking out because this would be the fourth phone I've been through in less than a year. When I'm not leaving them in public spaces, I'm throwing them onto hard surfaces to see how long it takes for the top to fall off. As I'm running back to Whole Foods, an old woman on the street tries to ask me something.
"Hang on," I say, "I lost my phone!"
At the guest services desk in Whole Foods, I ask if anyone turned it in and instead of answering me, the employee asks me a question.
"Are you Aaron Spears' friend?"
"Yes!" I say and clap my hands. Aaron is the drummer in the Idol band and the first person in my phone book. I pass the test and get my phone back.
Back on the sidewalk, I see the old woman I rudely blew off and say, "I'm sorry, what were you asking me?"
She asks for money and I give her a dollar and apologize for running away. She asks me if I found my phone and when I tell her yes she says, "Oh GOOD. God bless you."
Yes, I thought. And the polar bears.
7.12.2008
Matt acts like a gentleman
We were wrapping up the Portland hotel check in when Matt asked if I wanted to get coffee.
"Well," I said, "I just drank a whole pot on the bus. But yes."
Hello. Pacific Northwest. It would be UNPATRIOTIC not to get coffee.
I ran up to my room, took a birdbath (pits), and threw on a hoodie.
Portland: land of tattooed hipster girls, punky street beggars, charity muggers, the elderly homeless and robust outdoorsy types.
We stopped on the corner for a light. A girl cycled past in the bike lane wearing Dansko clogs and a North Face backpack. Pierced and studded kids outside Rite Aid asked us for money and when we didn't stop, they called us fascists. Unfazed, we went to a Starbucks.
I told Matt that in Seattle I'd give money to people on the street who'd end up in line behind me, ordering a triple shot specialty coffee way fancier than mine. In no way does living on the street in this part of the country mean you don't appreciate the finer things. And I like that.
Proving my point later in the day was the shaky, cracked out man at Whole Foods who asked me and Leila for change to buy LOBSTER BISQUE. Hee.
"Is there a fascist seating section?" Matt and I wondered outside Starbucks.
We sat on the brick steps of a plaza, taking in the sun after an 10-hour drive. A group of women milled around. Three of them were pregnant and one wore a pink garter belt.
"What is this?" I asked, "Some pregnant field trip?"
We watched silently as they stood and smiled at each other. We continued to stare. Matt raised his hand and pretended to call on himself. "You, in the striped shirt, with the attitude, you have a question?"
One of the women started piling toilet paper on the other's head and as it began to take form as a veil, I got it.
"Remind me not to have a bachelorette party someday," I grumbled.
We turned away and talked amongst ourselves and forgot about the ladies until the one with toilet paper on her head walked over. "I'm sorry!" She said, "But I have to practice walking down the aisle and need a man to practice with. Would you?"
"YES," I answered for Matt, "He would!"
"Well," I said, "I just drank a whole pot on the bus. But yes."
Hello. Pacific Northwest. It would be UNPATRIOTIC not to get coffee.
I ran up to my room, took a birdbath (pits), and threw on a hoodie.
Portland: land of tattooed hipster girls, punky street beggars, charity muggers, the elderly homeless and robust outdoorsy types.
We stopped on the corner for a light. A girl cycled past in the bike lane wearing Dansko clogs and a North Face backpack. Pierced and studded kids outside Rite Aid asked us for money and when we didn't stop, they called us fascists. Unfazed, we went to a Starbucks.
I told Matt that in Seattle I'd give money to people on the street who'd end up in line behind me, ordering a triple shot specialty coffee way fancier than mine. In no way does living on the street in this part of the country mean you don't appreciate the finer things. And I like that.
Proving my point later in the day was the shaky, cracked out man at Whole Foods who asked me and Leila for change to buy LOBSTER BISQUE. Hee.
"Is there a fascist seating section?" Matt and I wondered outside Starbucks.
We sat on the brick steps of a plaza, taking in the sun after an 10-hour drive. A group of women milled around. Three of them were pregnant and one wore a pink garter belt.
"What is this?" I asked, "Some pregnant field trip?"
We watched silently as they stood and smiled at each other. We continued to stare. Matt raised his hand and pretended to call on himself. "You, in the striped shirt, with the attitude, you have a question?"
One of the women started piling toilet paper on the other's head and as it began to take form as a veil, I got it.
"Remind me not to have a bachelorette party someday," I grumbled.
We turned away and talked amongst ourselves and forgot about the ladies until the one with toilet paper on her head walked over. "I'm sorry!" She said, "But I have to practice walking down the aisle and need a man to practice with. Would you?"
"YES," I answered for Matt, "He would!"
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