Gypsy, Cramps and Leaves
I’m moving. Again. I’m packing my tent, gathering a few of my things, strapping my bicycle to the back of my car and heading to Fort Worth. Tomorrow. Gulp.
This is just a temporary, two-month thing. I’ll be staying with a Friend of Three Decades, writing and checking out the area. I’ll probably do some temp work, so that I can keep gas in my car and kibble in Theo’s tiny little belly. He’s very excited about this trip, by the way. He’ll be closer to the border, and to his Spanish barking ancestors.
Ai chihuahua. Obviously, I’m still in the throes of a mid-life crisis. I used to dread menopause, but now I’m mentally screaming at my hormones to bring it on. During my packing, I’ve started what I’ve calculated to be about my 410th period, my 410th week of cramping. Note to God: Hey, did you forget about me? Will you send me my shut off notice soon please?
The other day, I went to an interview at a staffing agency here. Armed with a shiny new resume that the fabulous Beth Ziesenis helped me with (thank you, Beth!!!), the recruiter asked me six-hundred and forty-two questions, administered 2 hours worth of tests, then pronounced: “You rock!” Wow. Who knew? I was so excited by this news that I called and e-mailed friends to tell them. One friend and I decided that, after age forty, you really can’t rock, and that there should be a new compliment for us, such as “You wax!”
So, I wax. The recruiter also gave me the bad news. No one around here will be able to pay me what I’m worth. Jobs here average $8-$12 an hour. It’s a military town, and while the soldiers are off risking their lives for a decent wage, some of the spouses they’ve left behind work to earn a little extra income. It’s not much better in Nashville, because while the pay is a bit higher, so’s the cost of living. Financially, it’s hard being single and un-degreed in this area (I’m still a few hours short of graduating). I told the woman that I was thinking of checking out Ft. Worth, and she said, “Do it. We have an office there, and you can tell them that you’re in our database. Here’s my card. Tell them to contact me.” She also predicted that I’d love Ft. Worth, and would never want to return here. I hope she’s right.
Here’s a mishmash of loose ends that I’ve wanted to share with you before I leave this town.
~It looks like I won’t be able to interview Spoon Girl and Bedroll Boy for a while. I hope that they’ll still be around when I get back.
~I still haven’t met my blog friends Brian, Alyson or Red in the flesh, and I wish that I could have before I left.
~Theo will miss Bo, my sister’s grizzly bear-sized dog. I’ll miss laughing at the antics of my tiny 5-pound dog and his 125-pound friend.
~There are a few photos I wanted to take to post here, but my camera’s still on the fritz, so I’ll tell you about some of them:
The college here is Austin Peay (prounounced “pee”) State University. As you drive down the street that it’s located on, you see banner after banner that says, “LET’S GO PEAY!” This makes me giggle and want to find a nearby restroom at the same time.
There’s a big sign in front of a business here that says, “Formerly Friendly Tire.” I regret that I never went in there and ask what happened. Why aren’t they friendly anymore? Are they getting counseling for it?
I also regret that I never got to go to the package mailing service called, “Goin’ Postal,” or met the Rev. Suk Yang, whose name is on the sign of a church around the corner.
Oh well, I’ll eventually be back to accomplish some of these things that are on my mental “to do” list. Most of my stuff will remain here in storage, until I can find a place that I can call home.
If I sound a little crazy or confused or flighty right now, all I can tell you is that it’s probably because I am. These days, I’m fueled by a cocktail of hormones, vibes and intuition, all of which are about as reliable as my car (which I just found out has sprung two leaks). I have to Frank Sinatra my way through this and do it my way, and trust that I’ll eventually figure out what I should be doing with my life and where I should be doing it.
Adios, mis amigos. I wish you a wonderful weekend. I’m shutting down the computer tonight, and will be back in a few days.
Moonbeam
P.S. Boo!
Afterthoughts:
Me: You know, you really aren’t crazy.
Me: I’m not?
Me: No, you’re just going through a confusing time right now. Actually, I’m kind of proud of you.
Me: You are?
Me: Yeah. You moved. You’re making positive changes. So what if Tennessee isn’t the right place for you? It was a starting point. And there are forty-nine other states.
Me: I have gotten a lot done since I’ve been here, sort of. I mean, I did make some business plans, and got my resume together. I researched the area, and familiarized myself with the housing and job markets. They suck, by the way. I mean, I’m not fleeing for no reason.
Me: No, and you’ve been sick almost the entire time that you’ve been here, and you’ve still been working hard to get on track. Slightly commendable, girlie.
Me: It’s been great hanging out with family while my relationship boo boos heal.
Me: That too. So see? It hasn’t been a waste.
Me: Thanks. I feel a little better.
Me: Good. Now put on your big girl panties, and enjoy your drive. Trust me on this one- it’s all going to be fine. And you’re not crazy.
Me: Then why are we having this conversation?
Me: Because you’re neurotic, dear. There’s a difference.
Me: Oh. Okay.
Now Even More Self-Absorbant!
Really, they should make some sort of product for some of us overly introspective bloggers. I need something to help with some of this self-absorption I’m feeling these days, and I think I’d benefit from some sort of maxi-pad around my brain. Wait, that doesn’t make sense. If I’m overly absorbed, then I need some sort of anti-absorbancy thing. Maybe I’ll spray some Scotchgard on my head.
Sorry, I’m just going through a “thing” right now, and I hope you’ll bear with me.
Re-reading that last post, I realize that I actually learned a few things while I was in Nashville a couple of weekends ago.
1: There is a language barrier at bars in Nashville. When you say, “gin and tonic,” bartenders interpret it as “water and tonic,” which is why I never even got an itty bitty buzz the first night I was in town.
2: Jameson’s is EXCELLENT whiskey, and it’s hard for bartenders to confuse your order when you ask for one over ice.
3: I used to get offended when drunk guys would drool on me, or press lecherously against me in crowds. Now I fight the urge to thank them. When I get a little older, I imagine that I will become them.
4: Coyote Ugly should be renamed Coyote Ugh-ly. Really. Ugh. My friend’s friends insisted that we go there, just for the experience. I couldn’t quit staring at the chubby drunk mommies dancing on the bar, purses in hand, or at the female bartenders pretending to go down on each other while drooling old pervs held up their cell phones to take pictures. Everyone was laughing at me because I couldn’t close the hinge on my jaw. It wasn’t so much the antics of the patrons as the absolute lack of class or finesse. It made me want to go back to Printers Alley, where seedy old men tried to lure us into burlesque houses (“C’mon in ladies– no cover”). At CU, nothing was implied, nothing was left to the imagination. Droopy, sad-looking bras were strung up over the bar, and one of my new friends jokingly suggested that I donate mine. Pu-lease. My new $40 36D? I don’t think so. Maybe next time, if someone actually puts alcohol in my drink and I’m wearing one of my ill-fitting 38C TJ Maxx numbers.
5: You could fit what I know about country music in the hole on a harmonica, and still have room to blow. 
People kept saying things like, “You HAVE to go to Tootsies! You HAVE to go to Ernest Tubb’s!” but when I got to those places, I simply saw a crowded bar and a record store. I understand the historical significance of these establishments, but the thrill of visiting them is lost on me. They shouldn’t even let me in.
6: I’m afraid that I’m afraid to live in a metropolis like Nashville. During my friend’s visit, we explored much of the city, and I kept wondering why those “wow I love this place!” feelings never came over me, why I wasn’t as impressed by the Nashville skyline as Bob Dylan was. I finally realized that I have a lot of bad memories tied up with the Great State of Tennessee. I grew up in Memphis, and left there when I was twenty-four. I loved many things about it, but a lot of bad things happened to me there as well. In a lot of ways, it was weirdo central, and I, my friends, am a weirdo magnet. This is fine when I’m under the protective wing of my sweetie, but now the wing is gone, and I’m a chicken.
I recall a time when I was mulling over moving to New York for a year, just for the experience. A friend bluntly told me, “They’ll eat you alive,” and after a little soul-searching, I knew it was true. This is what happens when you are born with one of those heads that appears to be an all-day sucker when some people look at it.
Please know that Nashville is an amazing place. There’s a lot more to it than just country music and cowboys. They have a symphony and a ballet company and sushi and punk rockers and all kinds of coolness going on there. The fault lies with me. I’m feeling old and unadventurous. My mid-life mid-menopausal runaway freak-out has left me feeling a bit frayed at the edges. My hormones want to hide under the covers for about six months, or at least until after the election.
Anyway, I’m going to stop here. Sorry for the ramble, but I’ve been without sleep or privacy or fully functioning mental faculties for quite some time now. I’m going to try to hide out in coffee shops for a while, while I figure out my life. If you see typos here, it’s because I’m using my laptop, which is so old that the font is actually hieroglyphics.
More soon.
Nashville Cats
Well, there’s thirteen hundred and fifty two
Guitar pickers in Nashville
And they can pick more notes than the number of ants
On a Tennessee anthill
Yeah, there’s thirteen hundred and fifty two
Guitar cases in Nashville
And any one that unpacks his guitar could play
Twice as better than I will
–Lovin’ Spoonful
I have a bad case of Writer’s Rut. It’s like the back tires of my brain are mired in mud, and the more I push myself to think, figure things out or write, the deeper the goo gets. So, today I decided to change my routine. This post is brought to you by Starbucks, where they have kindly offered to let me use the Internet for the price of an obscenely overrated cup of coffee and a $10 T-Mobile day pass.* Screw that. I’ll just tippy tappy on my little Dark Room program, and transfer it to my beloved blog when I get home.
My typing fingers are in a bad mood, so I’m not responsible for what comes out here. I just thought I’d spew a little sputum out into the Blogosphere and see if by doing so, I can gain a little mental clarity.
Typing a “real” post seems almost impossible these days. I’m still staying with Hyper Girl, who comes and goes and flitters and jabbers and keeps me distracted, but usually in a good, mindless, “Oh yay, Grey’s Anatomy’s on” kind of way. Anyway, that’s the reason for my Starbucks escape today. I can never gripe about HG, because she’s good and sweet and she’s opened her home to me. Like Bruce Lee suggested before he pounded the shit out of some foe, I’m trying to “be water.” I’m going with the flow. See how flowy I am? Instead of writing an actual paragraphs, I’ll stick with some over-caffeinated, ADD mental meandering. Here’s some stuff that’s been going on, in my head and out in The Real World.
One of my Dear Sweet Columbus Friends (DSCF) flew in to see me last weekend. We stayed at the Marriott, courtesy of a Handsome Gentleman she’s been dating, and had a blast, exploring Nashville and hanging out at Music Row with a lot of drunken honky tonkin’ homies. I was a terrible tour guide, knowing nothing about the city, but my friend invited a couple that she knew to meet up with us, and they know the town like I know the back of Theo the Wonderpup’s® furry little head. We prowled Nashville’s most famous nighttime haunts, and I was delighted that my friend’s friends were incredibly Fun and Hilarious (the level of which you can tell by the capital F and H). Also, all of them are much taller than I am, so I made it through the Great Wall of People by positioning myself between them, which was a sweet deal. I also found that they are all a lot more city savvy than I am, and were much better at deflecting the craziness and the heartbreaking homeless people that seemed to be everywhere.
On nearly every street corner in downtown Nashville, you’ll see beggars and buskers, people who probably 
arrived in the Music City with a few dreams of grandeur, which were at some point replaced by drugs or drinks or other small pleasures.
I can’t ignore street people, and I’ve received more than one lecture about this. Never stop, never look them in the eye, never give anyone a light, never give them money. I broke all of these rules that weekend. I know it’s foolish, but I can’t step over people in doorways, and to me, if someone’s offering me some plinky guitar music or a fabulous display of spoon playing virtuosity, then I’m willing to pay for it. We went to bars with watered down, overpriced drinks and semi-so-so music, but to me, the real entertainment was outside, and I was more than happy to drop a few dollars for it. Here are some of the entertainers I saw:
Wheelchair Guy: “Don’t ever give money to that guy,” a friend of my friend told me. He’s always here, and he’s just worthless.” Okay, this one I sort of agree with. The guy made most of his money by sitting in his chair and eliciting sympathy. He sort of pretended to play his guitar, but mostly he just sat there and shot the breeze with a friend. He had a big yellow bucket, which was empty except for the dollar I tossed into it, pre-lecture. This was just a knee jerk reaction upon seeing a desperate person, but really, when I passed by him later, after seeing fifty more street people, he seemed to be one of the least desperate on the street.
Spoon Girl and Bedroll Boy: I loved Spoon Girl and Bedroll Boy and their two raggedy dogs. They sat in a doorway, drugged out and mellow, and Spoon Girl played various spoon medleys against her thighs and
Actual photo of spoons, non-retouched.
arms as sad-eyed Bedroll Boy leaned back and kept her company. They looked so old (though I imagine that they were in their twenties), their teeth were almost non-existent, and Spoon Girl’s tattooed hands and arms added to the visuals of her utensil virtuosity. I talked to them for a while, and she told me that she’d only been at this musical endeavor for a few years. She showed me how she held the spoons, placing them between her fingers and clacking them along her thigh. Later, I saw them walking toward a bridge, bedrolls on their backs, dogs in tow, and my heart clacked in my chest as I silently prayed that they’d made a lot of money that night. I want to go back and talk to them more some day, to see if I can interview them.
The Smart Brothers: These guys were the schnizz. They should give lessons to the other hustlers and performers on Music Row. A couple of porkpie hats, vests and the ability to harmonize goes a long way toward filling up a guitar case with money. Plus, they were adorable, yet another reason that I dropped a dollar into the case. They were probably a couple of college boys, but gosh, they were really cute college boys.
Toe Tapping Gal: This little blond honey was just as cute as could be. She stood on her corner with her guitar, wearing a fringy western shirt, and vacantly tapped her pointy-toed cowgirl boots in time to songs only she and the good Lord could hear. She sang so softly, you’d have to be a hearing aid to pick up the words. She seemed rather bored, but each time a good-looking man approached, she’d start tapping that toe in earnest, bending her knee and enthusiastically pumping her foot up and down, batting her eyelashes in time to the music. You still couldn’t hear what the hell she was singing, but wow- the guys were dropping money into her guitar case like she was a down and out Dolly Parton.
Crackhead Guy (one in a series): I gave this guy a light, which earned me a very stern lecture from one of my friend’s friends. “Never, NEVER give ANYONE a light around here,” he said. “They’ll steal your purse and rob you blind.” I may start carrying books of matches to toss to those requesting fire, because, hey, crackheads need love too.
Pink Floyd Guy: This fellow made me giggle. He sings rock songs to country tunes. “Awl in awl, yer jest uh-NUther brick in the wawl.”
As we walked along, I became a little tougher, a little more discriminating. I noticed very talented people 
working their regular corners, as well as guys who couldn’t play a note, enterprising sorts who probably pooled some of their drug money to buy pawn shop guitars which they only pretend to play. They may be talentless, but they’re smart enough to know that people want something for their money, even if it’s just a token attempt at entertainment. I think these guys bank on the fact that after midnight, people are so drunk they can’t tell the difference between Johnny Cash and Johnny Rotten.
Several times throughout the evening, my friend remarked on what a sweet person I am. In retrospect, I think that it wasn’t necessarily a compliment, and may have been code for “stupid, gullible dumbass.”
It’s true. As you know by now, I am often softhearted and almost stubbornly naive. While my friends pushed their way through crowds and fended off drunks, I listened to every slurred story that every inebriated person stopped to tell me. I felt guilty each time I walked away.
Okay, I’m stopping this narrative for now. I wrote it about a week ago, and I’m posting it because my brain well is dry and I want to share at least a tiny chunk of what’s been going on these days.
Note: I’ve found a new coffee shop, a very cute one that has better-than-Starbucks coffee and charges nothing to let me hook up with my blog buddies. I’ve been writing from there, and will post more, but I had to put a tourniquet on this blog post, to temporarily stop the flow of brain leakage.
Yee haw. Have a most excellent weekend, ya’ll!
*I did manage to dash off an e-mail to Starbucks which said, “Why in the world should I pay $10 for the privilege of using the Internet while patronizing your store and buying your pricey coffee? Just wondering, as I make my way to Panera.” Surprisingly, I haven’t gotten a reply.
