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.