I’ve decided to go through my MySpace and write stories about the pictures and other nonsense I find.
Last month I was working a marketing booth and the booth next to us was a lady who wrote and self published love novels. We chatted briefly before the event and she told me the books are basically sexual exploits from her wild and crazy 20’s. Throughout the night I kept staring at her thinking, you? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. She seemed to homely, to vanilla, to…old. At times I feel the same way about looking back at some of my pictures and remembering the insanity that went along with them. They’re a relic from another time of another person. Not this person who is married and sits at home watching TV with her dog. I dread the day I recap these stories to a younger person and they feel this way about me. Her? She did those things?
While rummaging through my organizer I find this! An old, handsome journal no doubt from the days of a higher disposible income or being bankrolled by the rents. Hard cover, a color green that looks like a lime that has seen better days but in a good way. Less than half used only to be prematurely retired. True to form writing has always been in and out of my life.
I figured I’d just pick up where I left off. Why rid yourself of the past! Thumbing through the pages a poem catches my eye. If I were reading this aloud there would be a long. Dramatic. Pause to let the magnitude of the word “poem” set in across the audience. I am not someone who writes pomes. My memory had completely blacked out this portion of my writing endeavors like a night after steel reserve.
A few pages deep and one thing became exceedingly clear. I would not be picking up where I left off. These pages had to go. I had to destroy any evidence of this ever having occurred.
From the other room I hear my husband ask what I’m doing. “Nothing!” I sing, why are you so nosy? I became frantic, foot steps coming my way, feverishly ripping out pages to cover my tracks.
My teenage years flash before my eyes. The crushing broken hearts, the antagonizing parental resentments, and that certainty Billy Corgan was singing solely to me. All those raw feelings makes one feel naked and silly under the scrutiny of adult eyes now dulled by a life lived. Panic sets in as I envision my husband reading this sad-sack Radiohead infused confessions from my teenage self.
Because there is a higher power, I am able to rip out the last few pages and regain calm before he enters the room.
and that is how I begin this writing project - full fucking circle. Let the outpour begin.
I founds this in my brainstorming notebook from awhile back:
Went to Winter Ale Festival with my family over the weekend, which is always a shit show. As soon as I walked in a 40 year old man asked me if he looked like Justin Bieber. When I said no he was undeterred, and followed this up with “Well, what about Mark Wahlberg?”. I politely excused myself from the exchange but you can say that this set the tone for the rest of the night.
It’s a traditions at these Ale Festivals that people collectively “Woooo”. It starts off, as these things do, as a single cheer that erupts into a roar across the festival. My father, a few drinks in at this point partnered with some 20 somethings to get these going. It’s amazing to experience parents as an adult.
Later - I was in line at the porta potties, which is a horribly degrading thing to do when you’re not drunk. Even more agitating is when a plastered girl barrels past you and steps into the newly opened stall. After stepping in, she seemed to come to her senses. She looks up at me and says “Oh, I’m sorry. Here you go”. With restored faith in humanity, I stepped into the port potty to find that someone had projectile vomited on seemingly every square inch of the plastic bathroom. A seasoned drinker, I can forgive this. I’ve been there. The real disgust here does to the drunken fool who tried to disguise herself as a martyr instead of a cold hearted bitch. Not even a warning.
I’ve never double dipped with my Yelp reviews on here but I felt compelled to do so with this one:
We walked in on a Friday night and were met with every pair of eyes in the joint staring back at us. Not in a judgmental way mind you, just protective against who was entering their watering hole. The bartender was the sort of surly guy you’d hope to find behind the bar at this type of establishment. He was a man of few words and let the stiff drinks do the talking for him. I won’t go to much into my whiskey ginger because at this type of place it’s more about sheer quantity of booze in a single drink rather then quality. This shit will put hair on your chest. Coarse, black hair.
The wall are gold but not in a way that is glamourous or overly cheesy. It’s the sort of gold that has lived through the 70s and thinks you can go fuck yourself if you have a problem with it. The side walls are plastered with lottery winners of yore. Stained chairs against the machines suggest winning streak far to intense to have paused to use the facilities. They have yet to take the Smokeeter off the wall, still bitter with the liberals who took away their God given right to smoke inside. All of this was rounded out nicely by Karaoke night - which is Thursday and Friday.
I put my song in, Dolly Parton, and to my delight was called a few songs later. I heard a man with no front teeth tell his friends that I was here last week and brought the house down. Although I appreciated the vote of confidence this was my first trip to this establishment, but he had one thing right. I did indeed bring the house down with my rendition of Jolean. A drunk women even came to dance with me. If you’ve got an itch to do some singing, this wishing well has your number.
The Wishing Well could easily scrape a few coins off the bottom and make a wish or two on it’s own behalf. A working sign out front? Some clean chairs? But why bother, we need places like this. With all the hip bars designed to the utmost degree it’s nice to go some place who’s sole concern is stiff drinks and no bullshit.
The Wishing Well Restaurant - A dive bars, dive bar.
I show up to my workout class late and take a spot in back of the room. I quickly begin moving in step with the routine already in progress. I survey the room to find that there was one person my size. “Ally”, I think. Apparently my subconscious is always on the look out for skinny people looking to form a mutiny. If shit hit the fan this would be my partner in survival.
My instructor today looked just like Amy Schumer and I had a smile on my face the entire workout thinking of this skit. It’s disconcerting when your body betrays you like that. There I am, sweating, wishing it was over and I could go home and eat, and I have huge smile on my face. Enjoy!
Working from home has me asking serious questions like ” If I put a bra on, does that mean I’ve gotten dressed?” .
I have a new appreciation for those people who wear workout clothes everywhere. They’ve chosen to look like they might just abandon their shopping cart and begin their 5k at any moment. The rightful comparision here is people who wear their pajamas to the store. Conversely, they look like they might have to abandon their task altogether to take a nap…or cry. Really at the heart of it there is no difference, the people in the workout clothes are just more clever and socially appropriate.
I decided to put a bra on today but I’m still wearing tights as pants which I’ve deemed acceptable. The look on Andrews face when he gets home work will have to be the judge.
The story below is one that I often come back to in my mind when I think about emotion. Now, years later I can remember how intense and raw that day felt. My chest still tightens when I think about it. Not because he is the one that got away - hardly! - but because I had such strong emotions at all. This is not to say I’m dead inside or jaded. It’s just amazing how powerful emotions are when you’re young. I’ll never love a band, or have a crush or experience love the way I did at that age.
When he hung up the phone I felt my life spinning out of control in a way I’m not sure I’ve had since. I kept thinking about the fairy tails and how my prince charming was slipping out of my fingers. It’s literally laughable at this point when I consider that person as a life long mate. Yet I still can’t laugh about it because it was so thoroughly painful at that time.
Now I’m married and I love my husband so so much. What we have is a mature, adult love. One that isn’t explosive or unpredictable. Love that it enduring even in the worst of times. I don’t think I am capable of the type of love I had for that person years ago. Not because Andrew doesn’t deserve that - because he does. Those intense emotions have just petered out over the years. I wonder why or how that happens? It’s like how hangovers get worse as you age - you just can’t handle that kind of stress on the body anymore. I wish that just a second I could feel that way again. Even the pain of it all. Just to remember what it’s like to be so totally engulfed.
In case you were wondering, I didn’t get to meet Morrissey that night. But I should’ve, he’s the kind of guy who would understand this.
I woke up to the room spinning and a crushing headache. fully clothed. alone in bed. Before I even opened my eyes I knew I was dying. Not dying by the standards of merriam-webster but in a way only an 18 year old girl in love can understand.
Previous to turning 21, it was all about pre-gaming. You front load so you can go out dancing all while not being able to buy drinks. Of course you pepper this with sneaking drinks from friends or feaverishly rubbing off the sharpied on X’s on your hands.
This night in particular was special. A club I frequented was rumored to have become a favorite of Morrissey. Whom I love. I was high with excitement as I downed my sparks and then my 40oz in the parking lot with added vigor.
Somewhere in the mix I remember a blow out fight with my boyfriend and then blackness which then cuts to the following morning.
I remember the following morning vividly. I immediatly picked up my phone and called my boyfriend who was alarmingly - not sleeping next to me. In a very black and white manner he told me it was over and hung up the phone. I must have called back 20 times. Each time it went to voice mail my sobs grew louder and most desperate. I lay there like a wounded animal wailing in pain for hours, compulsively calling once an hour which I had deemed appropriate and not to be taken as crazy. I remember the daylight coming through my blinds turning to darkness as I went in and out and gut wrenching panic attack after panic attack. It can’t end like this, he is the only one for me, I repeated this over and over like a sick mantra. In my heart it felt like the absolute truth. For years it felt like an absolute truth. The world seemed to crumble in his absence.
I’m going through my Shazam tags when I notice I’ve shazamed Wang Chungs, Everybody Have Fun Tonight. Wow Ana…..It has the fucking name of the band, in the hook.
I decide to listen to it a la Spotify. I haven’t even belt out an ‘everybody have fun tonight’ when a friend texts me saying simply “Wang Chung?”. Spotify is always selling me down the river. I have made peace with the fact it must broadcast things like ” Ana has listened to Wrecking Ball by Miley Cyrus 15 times. On repeat.” but this seemed like a new low. I quickly turned my session back to “private” and ignore the text.
I finish the candy bar I’ve deemed breakfast, look down at my pink valour pajamas and it suddenly becomes overwhelming clear that I need to get my shit together.
I mean who doesn’t know who sings Everybody Have Fun Tonight?
I walk out of the bathroom stall and like any good citizen, wash my hands.
Finishing up I realize to my horror that my dress is tucked into my nylons. Locking eyes with the lady next to me I feel myself flush red. She knows. It is at that very moment, as she’s ties her hair up, I notice that she has her belly button pierced and that I have nothing to be ashamed of.
Over the weekend I had the pleasure of taking my now senior citizen parents to a big wine tasting event. Being up in age, they don’t get out often. Needless to say, this was a big deal. They wasted no time getting down to the business of sampling. In a flash it seemed as though I was living some kind of freaky friday remake. There I am, sober as a nun as I watch my parents getting more and more tanked.
It’s the 15th time my mother has told me that she enjoyed the California Pinot that I excuse myself to the rest room. As I walk down the hall I can hear my father over the roar of the festival telling a winery representative that “This is the best God damn wine I’ve tried all night”.
There should’ve been a number of cues for me that it was time to get going. Ultimately, it was my father who made the call. He nudges me with two fistfuls of complimentary festival wine glasses. ” Lets grab as many of these as we can and get the hell out of here ” He asserts bee-lineing it out the door. I nod, pick up a few glasses, and we flee.
The apple, as they say, has fallen directly under the tree. As I watch my 60+ year old father - arms outstreched “flying” through the parking and professing his excitiment over our evening - I couldn’t be happier.
It’s the most important & happiest day of your life!
I just need to write a little bit about some of the misconceptions about the wedding process.
The bride is beautiful - Of course she is, she’s been on some crazy diet that causes her to fly off the handles or fume silently if anyone eats anything in-front of her. Oh and she’s working out so much the gym attendants think she’s losing her mind.
The groom will become utterly useless in the wedding process. No, you’re not alone, something strange happens to adult males when they start to plan a wedding. They turn in to full blown children unable to lift a finger or make any decision. Chances are you’ll laugh about this later but they better not so much as chuckle because that shit is not funny in the moment. I’ll take this time to tell you I almost threw my lap top across the room when my husband suggest we walk back down the isle to Andrew WK - Party Hard. Normal, non-bride Ana sees’ the humor here.
You think you’re going to eat your heart out at the reception to reward yourself for a job well done - no. The stress doesn’t disapate that quickly and chances are you wont feel like eating. Champagne becomes a blessing and a curse. Fast forward to me insisting my friend pour champagne in my mouth from crystal toasting goblets…now immortalized in many pictures.
The stress, how do I even describe? I was a social worker for years and that was stressful. Like rip your hair out and cry stressful. Wedding stress it a whole new ball game. While I didn’t feel more stressed then my time in social work I felt stressed in a whole new way. I was holding on to a ton of stress in my body in a way I never had in my life. After the wedding I came down with the flu for a week - it’s not fucking flu season. My body just gave out.
Friends will disappoint you and/or get on your nerves. Someone you hoped would come, doesn’t show. Contrastly, your husbands best friend calls you during your pre-wedding photo session and asks if he can drink the bottle of wine in your fridge before your brunch wedding begins at 10:30am. Go fuck yourself. I held out until that very moment to be free of “Bridezilla” behavior. It was then that I ripped the phone out of my fiancés hand excused myself from the pictures and explained with copious expletives that if he touched that wine he should not bother coming to the wedding.
But like magic…..your procession song begins to play and all the physco thoughts and stress disappears like the morning fog to reveal your beautiful day.
But you wouldn’t know that with the year I’ve had.
All since November I’ve gotten engaged. Gotten a new car. Moved in a new home, that my fiance owns. Gotten a tiny puppy. and drum roll please…tomorrow I start my new job in a completely different field than I’ve been working in the last 4+ years.
Change is good, or so they say. But what do they say about so much change at once? My hope is good things but time will be the judge. My only hope is that the verdict be in my favor. I have no room for complaint, it’s all been postive. I only wish my life would stop spinning and let me catch up.
My insides are tied in knots and no matter how many deep breaths I take I never feel like I’ve inhaled.