Bested by the Bixi

So I may be a nerd...

Ok, maybe just a failed nerd.

Failed because it took me over two years to successfully acquire the most powerful nerd-tool available. Last month, I finally earned my St. Paul Public Library Card. An important merit badge of nerd-dom.

But when I finally get around to 'going' there, I 'go' all out nerd... with my new free license to knowledge.... What did I check out on loan?

Travel books.

NERD!

Travel books on a then-upcoming trip to Montreal. Internet searching is painfully slow here. But a book! A glorious book! I can take that along in my travel bag. I won't even start in on how useful the pocket sized, folded, waterproof map will be!

I spent a good week skimming those pages and geeking myself up.

My legs hit French colonized soil. The book only came out while I was afoot in the city. Pointing my toes in the right direction. That little laminated piece of illustrated city - sooo useful. I knowledgeably walked that whole freaking city.

Once Steph joined me our strides carried us down to the Vieux-Port (Old Port) in Vieux-Montréal (Old Montreal) along the Fleuve Saint-Laurent (Saint Laurence River). Yes, that is all the French I learned. 17th Century building span the waterfront of the Old city. Towering behind that wall of history is modernism in full force. G-Force even. Glass ribboned skyscrapers lurking behind the Roman Catholic figures lining the Port. As all rivers do, the St. Laurence seemed to run forever. We needed a better way to cover further ground.

All throughout Montreal, you see these:

Commuter bike rental stations. The Bixi. Directions in French, of course. I searched my photographic memory (exaggerated for the sake of the story) for flashes of the Bixi. I vaguely remembered a blurb saying something about them being $5 for a half hour, but that $5 can get you a whole day of riding if you manage to check in at one of the stations within that 30 minute limit. Of course, that article was in the book that I left on my living room table, not the book in the bag that straddled my aching shoulder...

We're women of the gambling nature, so we put all our money on my vague flash and let it ride...literally. We start shoving credit cards into the French machine and pushing any button that leads to anywhere. At one point the screen reads $250.00. The four eyes between the two of us grew wide for a second, but the trust was deep and the idea was grand. Continued to button mash until a receipt printed with a numeric code at the bottom.

Bingo. Punch in our code. Rip our bikes from the rack. And ROLL!

The Bixi stations are whizzing by on our right as the river dictates our route on the left. Well, as fast as anything can whiz when you are riding a 70 lb. tank of a bike with 4 inch tires. The stations flew too soon and frequent. We ride into our 20th minute and realize the trail is starting to look less 'commuter' and more 'leisure'. We start wondering where and when we may see the next station.

You see, despite it's appeal to foreigners, Montreal's Bixi is not a tourist system. As we pushed all those buttons and tried to decipher the giant red sign that flags each station, we realized one thing: There's no map. There is no way of visually identifying where this program takes you. A huge red sign with a big blank back to it. Perfect for a starred map of the city. But no. We had no point of reference. We also had no idea what would happen if we didn't make the 30 minute limit. Was that the context of the 250 dollar amount we saw stated in foreign text?

This was my brain at the 23 minute mark:

Hmm, another tunnel up ahead.

The trees are growing more dense.

I think the last Bixi was 3 minutes ago.

Uhhh... when is the next one?
I can't see one!

This is starting to look kinda rural....

Is that red thing....? Nope, not a Bixi sign...
Maybe we should turn BACK.

How long would it take us to turn around?

AHHHH it's minute 27!

My voice in my head was quivering, so I finally let my uncertainties vomit aloud. Steph's head was doing the same. We both just spent the last 10 minutes panicked, unable to enjoy the view. Some leisure ride! We decide to turn around and huff it to the sure thing we passed 4 minutes ago. Well, at least as much as one can huff it when you are riding a 70 lb. tank of a bike with 4 inch tires!

I spot the red flag of a sign and as we near..... The entire Bixi rack is full minus one spot! We strategize in quick, sharp tongues as we dismount our Bixis. She got her bike first and is less one minute than me, so if she checks in and then checks out really quick... I can follow suit. Fast forward button mashing!

We end up making the time crunch but our nerves are so shot, neither one of us are ecstatic about the idea of continuing on. BUT now we are stuck! The option of checking both bikes in at this location isn't possible with only one slot open. We forge ahead with no direction and diminishing fun. The sure bet would be to point our front wheels towards downtown. That's where we head.

An hour and a half time spent and we ditch our bikes at the first station we see with two stalls. We walk away knowing that our feet won't stress us out. Good old, reliable feet. And then we laugh.

We laugh at how great the idea was to explore a foreign city via bicycle. We giggle about how pedal commuter friendly this city is and how badly we wanted to be apart of that. We chuckle about how we thought we were figuring out this French system in our own stupid, American way.  But mostly, what got us to the point of tears was that we were bested by the Bixi. Somehow an idea that had so much potential for fun turned into the worst, most anxious moments of travels together.

The day continued on and ended up with us at a bar late a night with a friend of Steph's playing tour guide. The host had a short walk home, which left us to our own means of making it across town. We had learned the hard way that although bars stay open until 3am, the city metro latched the revolving doors at 1am. In a 2am moment of brilliance we both thought.... the Bixis! We thought we'd give it another shot since the money was good all day. We had the relief of knowing there was a station directly in front of the Chateau Versailles. We commit to that plan and start walking her friend home with the promise of seeing some stations along the way.

I see one, hmmm... Wierd, that's empty. There was a soccer game that night maybe everyone rode them out of downtown drunk? Another! Empty. Third? Empty. Just our luck... it must have been Bixi maintance night. Every single Bixi in the city had been collected as we downed beers while taxadermied ostriches loomed overhead.

DAMMIT it's 3am and we were bested by the Bixi's AGAIN!

So you'll understand why my heart jumped to my throat when I saw this driving home last Wednesday:

THE BIXIS ARE COMING!

And then on Thursday:

THE BIXIS ARE COMING!

THE BIXIS ARE HERE!

....at least MPLS' got a map: http://www.niceridemn.org/

Oh and I ended up with a big nerdy fine of those travel books.... what an idiot!

House of Balls!

What I love about this city is that you'll never find it all.

There is always some jewel to discover.

A couple of months ago, I found this jewel of a gallery. The artist opens it's doors during strange hours and got his start sculpting bowling balls. Most of his walls are covered in reclaimed material playing with the element of light. No wonder I like it... It's finding things like this that make me appreciate the creative world we live in and I'm fortunate enough to find myself a community that supports it. Take a photo tour with me... better yet, go find all the crazy I didn't capture for yourself.

Holy Moly

I started this blog in November of 2008. With a handful of posts, it mostly sat unread and unwritten for 9 months.

August of last year I had a couple of weeks without internet and a bunch of 'experiences' to write about. So I sat down and decided to invest in this thing a bit.

I missed writing. My college education was writing. I needed to write.

I went hot and heavy for three months. I actually wrote everyday that I was in town.

It was right around that time that I put the visitor ticker on my page.

Today that ticker hit 1000. This post will be my 104th.

If I'm pulling out averages, in the 18 months I have had this thing that puts me at 56 hits a month. Almost two visits a day.

The truth there is I never admited to having this site until that August that I couldn't stop writing. The other truth is that those hits are probably mostly me seeing if my post formatted correctly.

Today I wonder how people keep finding themselves here. I am not that intersting, especially when I am only mustering one post a week....

and how the hell do I only have 4 followers? Own up people! I know you are there.

Ha.

Isn't this boring?

I have so many backstories I just need to get to. Will someone borrow me some time and clear thought so I can make you all giggle a little now and then? Please?

Thanks for reading.

How to cut a mango...

No pun involved in the title. This really is an entry on the best way I have found to cut a mango. Food instruction isn't something usually found in my blog. But a few days ago I promised to give a lesson in mango cutting to a friend and today I just happened to get my knife out and thought it would be a waste of a mango for this promise to go unfulfilled.

To Jamie: How to cut a mango....

The important thing is to leave a little skin on the top and bottom of the mango. Gives you some grabbing points. We all know how slippery these devils can be.

1 - I always work in a bowl rather than a cutting board. First I score along the bottom of the mango. This gives the knife a stopping point when pealing.

2 - I think mangoes are the only time I get out my paring knife. Peal the darn thing!

3 - Notice I still got my non-slip skin spots.

4 - Shave off chunks down to the core. Sometimes this means cutting into and under the top and bottom skin to get all that tangy meat.

5 - The result! Lots of fruit in the bowl and nothing but nut left for the trash.

Note to self: Never try to be a hand model.

A Nice Ass Surprise!

I need to remember to carry around my business cards. Every day is a new face and it is far easier to have them remember me than the other way around. Due to my inability to cough up my contact info, I have started a collection of millions. Rightly so, I need to know them all. But at this point I doubt I can project faces on these informative take-aways. They are scattering my desk at work and making the crumpled commute home, ending up one of many cluttered surfaces.



I am on the verge of surviving the 9 mile bike home. I turn off of the river and onto the city streets for the home stretch. I start daydreaming on how good it will feel to curl up on my couch for a minute. Soft cushions cradling my bruising tail bones. The slamming of my garage door settles it. I'm hard core. Now to find soft comfort for my aching joints, gasping lungs and twitching muscles.



I collapse. My midget sofa forces me to tuck my knees in tight beneath my chin. But my left leg isn't going there easily. The crease in my thigh is resisting the angle. Pockets. I am not usually a pocket stuffer. I shove my hand into my tiny pocket (don't get me started on women's pants pockets) and expect to find one of those treasure cards of information. Instead, I reach in my pocket and pull out a butt.





A 1.5" x 3" butt.



The story could end with a wildly inappropriate business card. Or it can end (or start?) this way...



That butt made it to my pocket yesterday (Yes, I may have just admitted to wearing the same jeans twice in a row. Don't pretend you don't). Spending the day studio hopping in NE Minneapolis, one of the nation's largest open gallery events was afoot. We entered dozens of work spaces. Some artists talked to us. Some waiting for us to talk to them. Some didn't talk at all and for some of those some, I am glad it worked out that way.

We enter a gallery just like the last but vastly different from the before. These studios share walls but their similarities lie and die there. This one is lined with framed photography. Figure after figure. If these bodies escaped from under their glass, there would be 40 people filling this room. But instead there were three. Me, my friend and the photographer himself, who made a bee-line for us as we entered the space. He launched into his artistic process. He tells me he paints with light. The camera is set in the dark, the model frozen in pose and the lens set on long exposure. With a flash light he traces the areas he wants captured. So that highlight on that women's left cheek was him circling and circling her bun for a good minute's time. I took his eager attitude as an attempt to make a sale. I already know I can't afford to buy anything and try to leave the conversation at a simple 'Cool, thanks. We're going to look around'.

And then the approach. My friend later told me she smelled an ulterior motive. I am none the wiser. He separates me from my friend and tells me he'd love for me to model for him. Cue cheeks. Fully flushed red, I mumbled something about not being good at cute. That's when he hands me the butt. His card. Only it's an appropriately nude business card. If there is such a thing.

Feeling a little bit like I was just undressed with a stranger's eyes, I can't recall the last of the light paintings in that room. I continue to giggle, while secretly considering it. What am I twelve?

I am under no impression that he was hitting on me. Or any other egomaniacal rant I could conjure up. In all honesty, it makes a lot of sense for an artist to solicit models in this kind of environment - in his professional studio, among his work, face to face all equate to a legitimate preposition.

What weirded me out a bit was as we were leaving the girl appeared out of nowhere. It was like a strategic tag-team. AND I'm the one getting worked over by them. She keeps trying for my eyes and I keep avoiding them because now I've caught onto the sense my friend was privy too from the get-go. I can't get by her, she stops me at the door.

As gently as she can, she starts telling me her own experience being approached by him. How, as a model, you are in complete control of how you want the shoot to go. 'He only works within your comfort limits,' she says.

I couldn't help but feel like I was in one of those strategic manipulation stories. The kind that makes you as a little kid believe that your mom was running late and had her 'friend' Al come pick you up from school and you believe Al because he has a kid your age sitting in the seat neat to him and he's driving the same minivan as your dad. (Ok, I may have just launched into a movie I recently saw ... but you get the point). A well articulated plan. The aggressor followed up by the comfort character.

It kinda gives me the heebie jeebies. Well, the story ends with my clothes on, which means if I was that kid I never would have gotten into that van.



Really, I just wanted to say that I pulled a butt from my pocket today.

The Doctor is In

As I type this I hear a Mark Ronson remix. The lyrics:

"Stop me, Oh oh oh, stop me. Stop if you think that you heard this one before."

Well, too bad suckers! Most of you have heard my 'good' stories, but my good 'told in person' stories can't even touch my writing capabilities.

Whoa, I found an ego there for a minute. Awesome.

Some day I want to get around to writing down my experience over the last month about changing jobs and yada yada. People only sorta know my deal. But I don't feel like doing that today. Instead I have a St. Paul Chamber Orchestra memory that I need immortalized in word.

My previous job description itemized a list of essential qualifications. After the requirements of being just plain awesome, one bullet point reads:

• Ability to work in a high pressure environment.

It's a common asset amidst my field. I'm pretty sure those words are repeated in the job descriptions within the live performance industry.

That qualification voices warning that things will get a little (who am I kidding?) a lot stressful. The problem with that line item is that it decrees that you are willing to put yourself there, not that you can handle that stress well. Everyone survives the pressure cooker differently. But I fully believe that to successfully work among the stress, you've got to bring a side of humor or it will eat you alive.

Enter Doctor Evil.

The mad scientist from the Austin Powers movies with all his bald-headed, pinky-tasting, MiniMe-having, 'One Million Dollars' saying glory. Somehow this unlikely character found it's way into the backstage of SPCO. The life sized likeness usually lives in the vestibule between backstage and onstage. Giving surprising chuckles to all that enter.

Most days Dr. Evil is kept to welcoming duty. Some days ... life for this cardboard cutout is a lot more fun.

Over the last four years the orchestra stage manager and myself have turned to the Doctor when the emotional winding gets tight.

Dr. Evil has hung from the ceiling. Peeked out behind acoustic curtains. He's worn Halloween masks. And carried signs of info for the musicians. My favorite moments took advantage of our video feed. We have a camcorder in the Music Room so people throughout the office can keep track of rehearsals via TV monitors (this also gives them to ability to watch me dance as I mop the audience risers, oh yeah and me picking my butt when I think I'm alone).

Some days a staff member in Operations might hit the power button and be faced with 1/4 Dr. Evil's face and 3/4 world class musicianship. We became masters of the silver screen. Sometimes we would throw a little uplite on the life sized. Other times we would rig up a side-entry Dr. Evil head. The longitudinal float.


Holidazzle Dr. Evil broad casted all SPCO TVs. I mean all! For this one we made a point to turn on every existing TV within the building. That included our President's office, the large conference room and the very public ticketing lobby. Amusements free of charge to unsuspecting patrons. He was once again situated in front of the orchestra but this time lit in Christmas appropriate red.

Dr. Evil has been a four year long joke. One that we've gotten exceptionally good at. I've witnessed every reaction to his existence. The startle and the giggle from the high school kids our players coach to the walker-ridden patrons that need the backstage ramp to make it to their audience seats. I've seen the biggest, hardest stagehands scream like little girls when it surprises them in the dark. I have witnessed it being planted for jokes and then the planter forgets their own planting and ends up pranking the prankster.

So many laughs. I couldn't let that humor die with my departure.

Long live the legacy.

At the time of mocking this up on my last day (Thanks Aimee for your help with the 8am photoshoot!), I did not consider the association of making myself into Dr. Evil during my rapid departure. I've come to terms with that implication for the sake of humor.

Adios SPCO!

Mom said more...

Yeah, I'm sick of flowers too. Just you wait for Montreal...

Spring Has Sprung!

First couple on the new camera...

I'm loving having control again!

Lost and Found

Oh good! I found myself.

I was lost there for a second. Lost in a pile of words I shouldn't have been mixed up in. Lost in yuck!

Instantly this fresh air changes my direction. I'm on a better path as I write this ... one that leads to a better disposition.

Indoors, with those words, my lungs collapsed with feeling. Out here, the wind fills my empty chest. I can breathe again. With ease. And I know nature won't let my lungs deflate this time. The air goes in with power. It's impossible to forget my next breathe out here.

The blur I saw the world with indoors has sharpened. My eyes are too busy watching the happiness of the kids in this park. The green of my eyes hold true. They don't have time to well up in wetness. Instead my sight bounces from childhood memory to childhood memory. Making memories before me and recollecting memories before now.

My heart has warmed considerably by the sun. Penetrating my skin and making me love this crazy life.

My mood is so easy when all I have to do is go outside.

Glad I found me again.

In convenient stores

I feel like every time I walk to Walgreen's I get a percentage of a story. A tidbit to hold onto, but maybe not quite enough to satisfy on it's own. Well today I'm stitching it together folks. Bare with me....

My Walgreen's runs are always done by foot, slow feet. More of a walk actually. It's three blocks that I can't commit my car to. Sometimes that trip is an errand for the sake of fresh air. I can convince myself the bottle of body wash is running low because of the temperature outdoors. Today the sun did not use my last square of toilet paper. That was me and me alone. But I'll take the sun's company on my journey to replenish.

As per usual, I pass the pink house with the high wooden gate. I smell the cigarettes this time before the dogs. Two scents that I can count on. Hand in hand, I can count on my reactionary thoughts of disgust as I pass. I remember to exhale as I crossed their lot. Luckily, the screen door remained closed today. The wire meshing holding back as much of the stink as it possibly can. It's a big job.

I bee-lined when I entered the store. I didn't get the chance to spot the young girl considering pregnancy tests or the older lady looking for maximum absorbency. Not this time. I go straight to the paper goods aisles. I feel like the urgency of the toilet paper directly influences the restocking quantity. Somehow knowing I'm planning ahead keeps me to the 4 -6 roll bundles. But when I used up the glue filled last sheet (didn't have to go for the Kleenex or paper towel though!) my rationale goes polar. I remember how annoying it is to be 'one-squared' and I want to prevent this feeling for as long as possible.

Hello 24 pack!

On my way up front I cave at the sight of peanut butter M'n'Ms. I give my usual glance towards cosmetics and photo. Hoping to skip the perpetually annoying line at the main registers. No luck. I'm not really sure why this is my least favorite line to be in.

The teller gives me a bag that is to large for the MnM's but not big enough for my super-sized sanitation. Mind you ... I am walking here and will be braving the next three blocks with a sign over my head that says "Just Dripped-Dry".

The Walgreen's parking lot is tidbit in and of itself. Aside from the obvious oblivious drivers. Passing these cars in slow motion stride, I have come to learn a secret to having a successful relationship. That secret is to never go to a Walgreen's with your spouse. Household/personal needs should be acquired independently on all accounts. Particularly true if the larger family is involved. Literally every time I set foot on this asphalt I find my attention drawn to the one black SUV, man in the driver's seat, woman climbing out of the passenger side with something to say and she means it. I wonder how many marriages have ended in Walgreen's parking lots. For the sake of love ... buy your prescriptions privately people!

I make it out of the parking lot unfrazzeled this time, only to see a familiar body on a familiar skateboard rolling my way. I haven't showered since Saturday morning (I think?). I just got home from an eight hour carpentry load-in. When I saw him, I stopped digging the sawdust from my fingernails.

Coincidences are rarely attractive, hey? I moved out of my MPLS relationship into my single St. Paul life and I didn't expect the second half of that relationship to head east over the Mississippi as well. Specifically 1.5 blocks east of my bachelorette pad. But somehow I have avoided this face to face run in for two years. Until today... dirty, greasy, ass-tired and holding a JUMBOTRON toilet paper.

Continued with awkward exchange.

Closing remark while eyeing my package ...
"Well, I'll let you get home to clean yourself up"

I decided not to mention where the peanut butter MnM's would inevitable lead.

If I were a Jane...

I would surely be a plain one.

My closet hangs neutral (if it hangs at all). Solids outweigh patterns. Cottons beating silks. There is very little flowy-ness. Only a handful of bow ties. Hardly any sequence. There may be a few strappys.

My point is I don't really have a style. I dress for comfort firstly and secondly for comfort. Comfort would probably be the third and forth reasons too. I might accidentally strike an aesthetic chord from time to time. But I surely don't dress for attention, or flare, or flash. I'm not daring. Or hip. Or knowledgeable. Or anything really.

I'm classic t-shirt and jeans. Simple.

That's my preface to today.

Now....



Every good cowboy has one. And any good American would recognize one.

In this day and age, a sighting is followed by a "I like your... wait, what's that called?" Finger snapping coincides this remark. The questioner hopes that the click of their fingers will trigger recognition in their brains. It never does. That sound of boney flesh against boney flesh doesn't have the power we falsely bestow on it.

I said, "It's a bolo and thank you" six times today.

Yes, a bolo tie. I told you... every good cowboy has one.

OK, so my grandpa wasn't herding steer. He was simply a bolo lover. Wore one everyday. One of which I inherited.

The slide on my bolo is a nice big piece of tiger eye edged in gold. A good justification for breaking out the 80's chorus that Survivor made famous. Yes, I continuously look for reasonable excuse for sudden song/dance. "And he's watchin' us all in... the eye of the tiger"

Musical digression. My apologies.

The braided leather end in decorative gold aglets (I may or may not have wiki'ed the bolo tie). As I walked today, the aglets set a gentle, rhythmic ting to my step. This must have been the sound to my Grandpa's whole life.

This bolo usually sits with my other seldom worn but frequently considered jewelry atop my bedroom dresser. I silenced it's taunting today and put the darn thing on.

There's is really only one shirt combo I have ever braved the bolo with. The brown, button up linen. The sleeves loosely rolled to somewhere between wrist and elbow. The tiger eye nestled neatly over the second button. I'm not a first button type of girl.

I have to admit to feeling a little masculine in this get-up. For being a big ol' rock laid in frilly gold, it's the most masculine piece of jewelry in existence. The 'man-bag' to the necklace world. I countered the masculine with a pair of J-Lo Jeans. Don't judge me! I like the stretch!

I think I need to try the bolo with strappy, sequence, barely there tank. Ahhhh... but I'm not a risk taker in the closet. I already got too much attention today just being a cowboy.

Tease Me

Another day. Another shade of gray.

The rain hasn't stopped. It merely changes between the hours. The thunder has rumbled into drizzle. But the streets haven't had the chance to dry.

The haze sticks to every earthly surface. It hovers and won't lift. This film over the city varies in saturation. Today it's nearly white. My eyes feel milky. The tops of buildings remain hidden. Structures built right up to the clouds.

The wet sits in my bones. Filling the calcium deficient holes. So today I try to escape the dampness and end up.... in a hotter dampness.

I trade the 40 degree damp for an 85 degree damp and find myself here.

This damp is better than the one outside this glass bubble. Eighty some degrees and the coat comes off. Here I sit with the smell of lillies over wet pavement.

Really, I am teasing myself. Just as the rain is teasing me. These smells make me yearn for new growth. New green. I want my windows open. I want my skin to feel sun.

But this is Minnesota. Tease me. Tempt me. But I know you'll make me wait for it.

And I'll wait with hope that the blooms will be more colorful or the flowers more fragrant.


This is how I spent my two bucks - Donating to the Tease.

A Day

Beginning with the normal in and out of consciousness starting at 6:00am. I never need to rise at this hour and I wonder why my internal clock is set to it. This morning in particular is soundtracked to the thunder rolling outside my window and the rain puddling the cement below my windowsill.

Three hours of this in and out and at 9:00am, I give into the start of today. I had eaten my way to the edible end of my fridge and tossed everything else. Condiments with expirations dating to the golden years of 2008&9. The Glad bag was a heavy and a stinky one, but a necessary one to test it's claim of durability. We've all got to our part as consumers. I was close to finding a clothing hanger for this one.

I had a morning of serious grocery shopping to do. The kind of grocery shopping that I put my ear buds in for and cruise every aisle. Top down, screaming out 'Money ain't a thang'! It's the type of day to fill the cart and expect to drop at least a hundred dollars. I'll be lucky to get away with less than $150.

Mmmm... the most delicious $130 ever.

After lunch I force myself to take a nap. Since I know I never sleep and have to make use of the void in my schedule.

I head into work and aim to pull up to a meter at 4:00. It's tournament season; the parking is routinely poor. I am surprised that even at this hour, I circle laps not once but twice. I counted out my quarters, surely enough to buy the remain thirty minutes St. Paul requires. I count away the chance to wash my long-ignored work blacks.

My guess is it took me three minutes to vacate my vehicle, cross the parking lot, enter my building, ride the elevator up three floors, head backstage and walk the ramp to my stage door. At the top of that ramp I see something. I see out the third floor window, across the parking lot and at my car. Next to my car, a cop with a green stripey envelope in his hand. Making his move for my wiper blade. Even at this distance. A good three hundred feet hypotenuse, I'd say. I can see his disappointment. For a second I flash 'What the hell?'. Then I realize that I counted out those quarters but I surely didn't deposit them properly. I deserve that one, Copper. You win this time. I suppose I'll contribute to my Monday night street sweeping.

So the first three minutes of my shift were the unlucky ones. Got that out of way. Thank god.

A recital for middle school kids is underway. I change into my concert blacks. I've worn the appropriate and favored outfits into an unpleasant funk. I remain without quarters or the heart to pick 'the blacks' over 'the everyday' for the rare spin cycle opportunity. The last few shows I have pillaged my closet for the reject blacks. The blacks that are gray. Lack pockets. Or too tight. Or too short.

I went with the gray blacks tonight. Pulling them on, I felt something stiff in the pocket.
'Good god', I think. I haven't worn these pants in three years, 'What horribly, disgusting thing am I going to find in here?' I will admit to being nervous reaching into my pocket tonight. Bravely, I go for it. I come up with... two bucks!

For the next person that comes to my house - Will you please go into my purse, find whatever cash I may have and hide it in various pockets of mine? Finding money makes me ridiculously happy.

The show goes on with a bunch of adorably nervous kids and me scrambling to make them less so. Somewhere in there I become the telephone operator, connecting my incommunicado sister with my parents - arranging rides and dinner plans. End of show and I get to make this concert hall a blank space. I got my power tools. I got my muscle. I'm getting dizzy throwing 150 chairs.

Halfway there.

At 9:45 I take a cupcake break.

I collect my soggy ticket at 10:30pm.



Ahhh... life. A day just like any other. We'll do it again sometime, I'm sure.

To an audience member...

Dear Sir,

Thank you so kindly for using my strategically placed staging equipment as your own personal coat and hat rack. I apologize that 250 people watched me asked you to remove said items during my stage change. I hope I have not caused you too much embarrassment.

Sincerely,
Your Trusty Stage Manager

Sorry

Today I decided I am only here to disappoint you.

I have nothing of interest to say and surely won't make you laugh aloud.

The ticks on visits to my blog have strangely been increasing. Once and while I have someone that admits to being a reader. Even when I hear that, I don't really assume a 'regular reader' or certainly not 'an everyday checker'.

But somehow... I average 5-10 hits a day and I haven't posted anything for three weeks. The math suggests I could have disappointed 210 people with no new material, or I suppose one really rabid fan, you freak.

The point is ... I wonder if you've all scared me into writer's block. Either that or I really have nothing going on right now... ha. But in case it IS writer's block. Nervous to write aloud. I am decidedly writing the most boring blog entry ever. Just to get it out there and over with.

There was one nugget of a writing idea I had but never moved on. I'll tell you my moment.

I forget how to be a girl sometimes. Obviously, my line of work aids the forgetfulness. The lack of emotion doesn't help. And when I had short hair, the grooming process wasn't particularly lady-like in length or prep or primp.

Now I have hair again. It's weird to have hair and I tend to forget what it means to possess it in abundance. Apparently, hair gets knotted sometimes, and maybe once and a while needs a brush to untangle the mess. I forgot about how much hair we lose in the shower and the number of ways to get loose strands off your fingers. I wish I didn't have to remember how much it sucks to have one strand of hair fall between your cleavage.

So I wake up one morning, take a shower ... plaster the loose strands of hair on the tile wall. I have nothing but time this particular morning, so I thought I would actually do my hair. I dig out the blow dryer and the flat iron - yeah, a no-holds-barred type of day.

I had already dressed and donned the necklace I am making an effort to wear every day (a task in and of itself for this self-proclaimed failure of a woman). I pop back into the bathroom to commence on the speedy drying process.

I end up burning my neck from the jewelry/dryer combo. This was something I was never taught as a woman. Who knew wearing something metal around your neck would heat to a burning degree by forced air. Jewelry last I guess. I certainly was never taught that. It's amazing that I'm still learning womanly lessons everyday.

So that nugget led my mind to the idea of writing about the "womanly lessons we never get taught". It bounced around in my brain for a bit... and then I realized:

I don't have the credentials to write that story.

ART!!!

I think I am finally comfortable enough to claim this beast DONE!!!!

Nature's Graff

Acrylic & Oil Pen on 18" x 24" Canvas

M. Phelps Feb'10

Written in the stars

I've never been a good sleeper. It doesn't surprise me when I wake in the middle of the night. The tip of my nose feels frosty. I bet I could see my breath if my eyes would open. The dark around me is coming into focus. As much as the dark can, at least. The black opens ups to the stars. I can pick out the Big Dipper. The rest of the constellations are lost to me. Some shine brighter than others. But the snakes and frogs glow dimly...

I wish this story involved a sleeping bag and the balls to brave the winter in my new down mummy bag. Nay, she says. I'm in my childhood bedroom.

This house has an amazing way of changing while remaining the same. The walls are lavender. The furniture weird. This isn't my room. But that is my ceiling.

My mother couldn't bare to unstick all that I had stuck to my ceiling in my formative years. Glow in the dark stars in every shape, size and semblance. Every outer space needs amphibian life. A dozen or so glow mid suspension. I mean, really, what's Ursa Major without a neighboring snake?

Now, I wake in the same bedroom a different person. But my life is written in these stars.

My middle school years - my corduroys were big, my t-shirts long, and my hair shaggy. Us girls would find a reason to hit the concrete playground a few blocks over to gawk at the skater boys. One of which was a Florida transfer. Yeah, skater/surfer boy = immediate on/off crushing for the next few years of my life. All that ever came of it was one very intense night of passionate hand holding, but he was the one that started with the stars...

They were already in place. I'm sure I showed him their awesome power under the black light. When black lights were the coolest and I didn't realize how unattractive my teeth looked in front of a hot guy. I don't remember how the conversation started but I remember how it ended. He told me he was my lucky star. He took out the sharpie that every proper skater carries, mounted my blow-up chair and etched a B into one of the stars. His initial.

Over the next few years, most of the stars were lettered.

Middle of the night memories.

Some of these letters were shooting stars. People that burned bright and fierce. They left me ooOOoooing and Awwwwing, following their path with my outreached arm, but ultimately were swallowed by the darkness. My shooting stars hang heavy on my heart. Lost only to the ways of childhood friendships. Still, I wouldn't consider erasing their initial. They earned that spot at that moment in my life.

I have a North star. One that has been there no matter what direction my life has taken.

I've got stars that glow dimly over the years, but constantly. Reliable in nature and easy to find.

Then I have people that are left here. Stuck in the stars. Their memories. Their person. Stopped the day that I moved away from this ceiling. These stars aren't subject to time and change and life... these are the stars that are kept burning by feeling alone. That my heart won't change and doesn't want to.

It's hard to look up at this ceiling. I miss these people. I miss that sentiment. There are so many stories in these stars. But it's pretty cool to have a midnight space age rendezvous every time I come home... if only I still had that black light.

Happy Birthday to me!

And so the story goes…

It was 25 years to the day I was born. By some stroke of luck, I had my birthday free from work for the first time in… forever… or since I started working… or maybe just since the last two years. The only downfall of this dream scenario was that in 2008 my birthday fell on a Wednesday. Hardly a day for others to come out and play. I had a single meeting tying me to the following day. With a day and half off it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to get the heck out of town for the night.

The plan: I’d head to Duluth for the night. Stop at some state parks along the drive. Stay in a kickass hotel. And I’d go it alone.

I went through the proper protocols. Single living always makes me feel like I should tell another human being when I am venturing out alone. I call ma. I don’t really know what my Wisconsin mother could really do, but somehow I know that it’s the kind of information that Mother’s are privy to.

I tell her my birthday plans. Mom’s DANGER-DANGER-dar beeped into life immediately. “Mary, you know it’s bow hunting season,” she warns. “Actually ma, it’s gun hunting season here.” Then I added, perhaps stupidly, “And they just lowered the killing age to ten.” I probably should have kept that one to myself. The frantic beeping was drowning out my own thinking.

Now, Mom is nervous, which makes me consider the threat. I know hunting isn’t permitted on state ground, but I also know that bullets don't just stop cold at territorial borders.

My second attempt at explaining my birthday plans fell to the ears of the stage hands at work. The same grizzly men that are overly protective of me. They’ve done their share of hunting and have their number of stories. After some pushing back and forth, I end up promising I will wear blaze orange.

Really?

Blaze orange isn’t a flattering color. I don’t have any blaze orange in my wardrobe. But I know where I can find some...

The stock pile of t-shirts from festivals my work puts on was picked over. Luckily for me extra extra large and obnoxious orange aren’t hot commodities. Perfect. Sorta. My brain was still grappling with, “I’m going to wear this?” I knew that it’s November weather and for the purpose it was serving (the not-getting-shot-at purpose), the giant size would fit snugly over my winter jacket.

And voila!




We have embarrassment.

I’m starting out my birthday as a humongous orange mass! A nickelodeon blob!

I actually doubted whether I could commit to the ridiculous nature of this, despite the sensibility of it all. I walked away from my van without my orange initially. I hiked down a hill and looked to the other side of the river. The non-state side of the river. God Dammit. I promised. About face.

I head back uphill and pulled the biggest shirt I have ever owned on, inside out, over my Columbia jacket. I would have been fine existing as an orange blob in my solitude. It was when I crossed paths with people donning their brown flannel and black Carhartts that turned my face a shade resembling my attire. Sometimes, I felt the urge to apologize to them. I don’t know what for. Mostly, I wanted to blurt, “My mom made me.” In reality, each time I could barely muster eye contact and felt their smirk against my skin.

It was not all for naught. I did hear some popping along my hike. I told myself they were trees falling in the forest. Lead trees exploding with a sudden burst of energy … that brought comfort.

That first stop was Banning State Park. A park that’s overlooked and underappreciated. I had never heard of it. The terrain carried some of my favorite things – water front, ruins, and rock face. The photo I am painting (still in process) was taken here, among others.





A few hours spent in the flurries and I was north bound again to Duluth. Driving towards the whirlpool suite I booked for half price at a water park resort.

I’m good at treating myself.

The water park was birthday embarrassment – round two.

My thinking while packing:

I am going to a water park alone. No one to impress. I’ll bring the more sensible one piece Speedo. That way I don’t have to do the nipple check that bikini water play requires.

This was the reality of the situation:

I am hit with humidity when I open the doors. Like entering a bar, I quickly sweep the location and survey my options. Searching for a comfortable place to put myself. I realize the huge room is divided in two. One side for the under 4 years old group and the other for the others. Without a youngster, I can hardly justify sitting under the raining daisy. As much as it may tempt me.

My territory has been reduced to half. The non-baby side houses a lazy river, a couple giant tube slides, and a rock-formation-waterfall-hot-tub of sorts. I commit to a location – the lazy river. Just as a bar, I’m finally settled in my location and can finally take in the people around me.

Shit. This is awkward.

I’m sitting in a tube in two feet of water. Flat chested and nerded out in my Speedo. And I keep circling past these college age dudes posing as life guards. I suppose they really are life guards, but for most of us... in an emergency, we can just stand up. I’m circling, in my black tube … not having a frolicky exchange with friends. Not splashing and laughing. Not telling jokes. Just circling. Flat chested. On one of my rounds I consider the slide. I decide I couldn’t bear being caught by the dude below.

There isn’t even a regular swimming pool here. Were I able to do laps, this would be a lot less weird. I head for the hot-tub, where the other young people and parents have paired up. Somehow I became the creepy dude with the hairy chest that just sits in the whirlpool and looks at everyone else, or worse, closes his eyes! I couldn’t take it anymore. I gave up and thought the whirlpool in my room, a glass of wine and free cable sounded a hell of a lot better than this. I couldn’t stop laughing at myself. At how fun this idea was supposed to be and how not fun those moments turn out.

I woke up to a beautiful sunrise over Lake Superior. Stopped at Amazing Grace Bakery & Café, then started south. I had to walk into a work meeting at three o'clock. I had plenty of time to stop at one more park along the way. I get off the highway and steer towards Interstate Park. The park is divided by Hwy 8, just off the heart of Taylor’s Falls. It’s a beautiful park, butting right up against civilization. All the bathrooms and outhouses were closed for the winter. Seclusion was out of the question, I had a choice to make… I ended up crouching mid-hike, and as I peed I watched the stop lights change from green to yellow to red.

Happy Birthday to me!

A Painting Story

I sit on my laptop and see this image in the background. I lay in bed without sleep and see this scene. I wrestle with waking up in the morning and this is what is before me.

It's one of my favorite photographs. I actually have a story to go with this photo but am exhausted from uploading all these files on my tortoise Internet connection. Patience is taxing. Perhaps I will get to the story tomorrow.

What I love about art is the process. All parts of the process. The dreaming, the developing and the doing. I'm fascinated by other people's process too. I love digging through friend's trusted artistic tools. I love seeing art in it's many stages. Museums are usually received with the repetitive question of "how the hell did they DO that?".

Within the first few hours of 2010, I dug through my closet for the 18 x 24 canvas that has been collecting dust for a few years. It's been ages since I've sat down to paint. Apparently, that was how I'd start the year.

As I said, the photo is one of my favorites and I always felt the framed 8x10 on my bedroom wall just didn't do it justice. Whether taking the image into my own, untrained, unpracticed hands DOES do it justice, is another thing all together. Here's to trying.

Photos taken intermittently. There's a point in the middle that I became lost and unsure of myself... it shows. But I recovered, I hope!

The painting isn't quite finished, but is close. I still have some windows to fill out and some detailing I want to get in but I feel like it'll be days before I decide what to do there.

Thought I would post these now so people can stop reading my sad poetry.

























Click on the photos for a larger image.


























































Final product and story to be along soon..... stay tuned!

Shallow

Her roots are shallow here.

Like a Sugar Maple.

The stems branch off.

Multiplying as they go.

Right, left and up, but never down.

Unable to sink in.

Trying to grasp deeper for support.

The earth is pushing back.

All she finds is surface.

So she stays there.
Growing out but not deep.

She's feeling top heavy.

With no means of support for this place she's in.

Shallow, like a Sugar Maple.

Bring It In or Back

It's below cold outside. The sun is beaming though. Bouncing from snow pile to snow pile. I slip my way towards my Toyota and mentally prepare for the morning sit-still-and-freeze-in-my-car thing.

My car starts, which is good. I have no reason to believe that it won't. I can probably still count the amount of times I have started this engine. But for some reason, I doubt it will rev up each time I feel this kind of cold. I don't trust this car. This car with it's cruise control, power locks and strawberry scent. It's the strawberry that makes me skeptical, I think. Doesn't seem trustworthy.

I promised myself, forever ago, that on cold days like this, I will wait through whichever song starts up on the radio. I figure it's a good couple of minutes for the engine to start the warming process. Having music as the time limit somehow makes the wait tolerable for me.

The starter kicks over and roars into Fatboy Slim. I'm suddenly wanting to break my own promise. For some reason the idea of changing the radio station didn't occur to me. Instead, I sit in my own irritation.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvnHtO6daQM

This song is Milwaukee High School of the Arts. Specifically, this song is the choreographed Step routine I created for Ms. Jordan's aerobics class. I can still picture my knee high kicks and flailing punches. Sexy in my puffy, checked nylon shorts. In navy blue.

I try to shake the image and the song out of my head. 1998 would let me go that easy!

Jan. 1, 2010 - My clothes are all clean. Washed before making the return trip home to the Twin Cities. The cutest little shirts and skinniest little skinny jeans were all available for the picking. For some reason, I woke up in the morning, looked at mountain of clean in front of me and chose a sweater I bought in '98. A gray knit that hardly covers my navel. I haven't worn this sweater in a few years. I'm not even sure why it's made it through all of my textile purgings. Not to mention ... why the HELL would I want to start out my year dressed as 1998!

The last week of 2009 started me on this path, I'm sure. Friends from middle school. Friends from high school. Stories of the 90's. The decade was supposed to jump forward, and I'm pretty sure I took the short bus backwards this time. If the year is 1990 for me, that puts me in First Grade. Oh man... I better find a smaller shirt.

My brain is redirected to Fatboy Slim. After about the 30th "Right about now", I give up on the Funk Soul Brothers and put the car in gear. At least, I have the icy ruts in the road to focus my attention now.

Why the HELL didn't I turn the damn radio dial?!?




























"Hi" from 1990!