Run for your life, before you get caught up reading the inner mechinations of my mind! 

This is the cover of my all-time favorite book :-)

Krazy Kollej!

CavityCrusader: This bio says this legislator got his Bachelor of Science in Theology. How is that possible?
SpangledAngel: That is ridiculous! Does it say what school it's from? It can't be accredited.
CavityCrusader: El Plainos Locos Universidad, Havana, Cuba.
SpangledAngel: No shit? That's insane. I love that it translates to "The Crazy Plains University". That's amazing. Do they have a Masters program?
CavityCrusader: Jessica.... I just made that up. It translates to "The Plain Crazy College".
SpangledAngel: Shut up.
CavityCrusader: I'm serious, I just made it up.
SpangledAngel: I swear I don't know who's stupider - that guy for having a BS in theology or me for believing that he got it from The Plain Crazy College.... jeez.
CavityCrusader: Well, you're making a pretty good case for yourself by using the word "stupider".
SpangledAngel: Touche.

Tattoo U

So I got my new tattoo last night but I forewent the elephant in lieu of the ladybug I've always wanted. It's so cute, Melissa did a great job, but I don't like it on my inner arm like my friend said I should. I thought it would look cute there but it just looks like a weird mole. I might get it removed.

But all this talk about tattoos is pretty interesting, especially about what they'll turn into once my friends and I get pregnant or just old. My friend Jessi has two tattoos on her stomach, a butterfly and then a flowered vine around her navel. She's convinced she will never have children. I say yeah right, wait til that clock starts ticking and you get knocked up and then that butterfly turns into Mothra. Then I'll ask if I can have that nice big wreath around her belly to hang on my door at Christmas. She's also got a crescent moon on her right breast, which I joke will be a half moon someday... God, I'm evil sometimes!

But it goes both ways. I want to get a pretty phoenix rising from an ash pile on my upper left outside thigh but I'm afraid of it stretching and becoming a griffin bumbling out of a garbage bag. Same reason I didn't get the ladybug on my torso like I first thought of (which I know wish I had). I just can't wait to be an old lady with cankles (undistinguishable calf vs. ankle regions) and my hummingbird turns into a toucan. That's gonna be so hot.

I have Jessica Simpson's cell phone number. I just had to say it again, HAHA!

Terri's in a better place.

This is beautiful.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A14233-2005Mar30.html

 

Crank Yankers

Okay, so I was just driving into work from the DelCid's house about 20 minutes ago (which would have been 6:50 AM) and I was flipping through the stations. So I turn to the Matthew Blades Radio Show on Z104 and they were saying how they were going to interview Jessica Simpson by phone at 10 am, so stay tuned. Then they started playing a U2 song....AND GOD-DAMN IF SOMEONE DIDN'T LEAVE THE MICROPHONE IN THE STUDIO ON DURING THE SONG -- WHILE THEY OPENLY DISCUSSED JESSICA SIMPSON'S PHONE NUMBER ON THE AIR, COMPLETE WITH REITERATING IT ABOUT 6 TIMES -- AND NOT ONLY THAT, THEY CALLED HER, SO NOW EVERYONE THAT WAS LISTENING KNOWS TWO THINGS:
1. Jessica Simpson's cell phone number.
2. What her voicemail message sounds like.

I know what you're thinking. And the answer is yes. Yes I did. And I know I'm not the only one. And no, no you cannot have the number.

Her phone was off. It was 4 in the morning out there. I didn't have the heart to leave a message breaking the news that the entire DC Metro Area is privvy to her personal contact info. Let her sleep a few more hours in peace.... BUT DAMN WHAT A GOOD STORY.

PS - Matthew Blades, who popular opinion as of 7:24 blames for the fuck up: Wow.... good luck cleaning this one up. And have fun with that interview at 10:00.

Zoe

I met Zoe last Saturday when I was shopping at the New Age store for things to fill my mother's Pagan Easter Basket (more on this later). She is a precocious little thing, 5 going on 25 with long cornrows, a bedraggled teddy bear in one hand and an incense stick in the other, making offhanded comments about the merchandise in her mom's store. It's obvious she's not scared of anything. The thing that struck me about her was her easy way with all of the customers.

She came right up to me as I was paying and pulled the leg of my jeans until I squatted down to her level. Then she reached for my necklace, some $3 special I got at Claire's with a sparkly pink "J" on a silver chain. Our conversation went something like this:

Z: "Ilikethatitissoprettycanyougetmeonejustlikeitexceptwitha'z'please?"
J: *giggling*
Z: "Iamseriousitissonice."
J: *catching breath* "Well, of course I can get you one! Is this a good place to find you?"
Z: "YesIamhereawholelotoryoucouldjustmailittome."
J: *laughing* "Mail it?"
Z: "Yesyoucangiveittothemailmanandtellhimtogiveittomymommy."
J: "I'll be sure to hand deliver it, how about that?"
Z: "OkayIreallyloveyourlipstick."
J: "Why thank you! It's just some gloss."
Z: "IlikeitbecauseitisshinyIhavesometooandIwearitalotIamseriousIhavesomejustlikeit."
J: "Wow. Yeah, I like vanilla flavor the best."
Z: *jumping up and down with a mouthful of cookie and pointing to herself with sticky fingers*
"MMMM!!! MMM-MMMMM!!!"
J: "Vanilla is your favorite too?"
Z: "MMMMMMM!!!"
J: "Well, maybe I'll look around for some vanilla lip gloss while I try to find a necklace with a 'Z' on it."

I was in a rush and couldn't talk with her anymore, but I poured over every necklace rack at Claire's and could not find a single "Z" charm. Sorry, Zo. But I can't go back to The Crystal Fox empty handed, so I hope she'll settle for Reece's Peanut Butter Lip Balm and a purple heart charm instead... That girl was so freakin' funny and cute.....

Today's Nice Person: Daniel Stump

Daniel Stump is nice. Daniel Stump is helpful. Daniel Stump lives in Michigan and has a cool Northern accent. He works for the state government and he offered to email me some information I needed when I couldn't find it on the MI.gov website. Then he actually did it! He didn't have to do that!

Hooray for Daniel! He is today's Nice Person Profile.

I somehow ended up on the company softball team, which should be a treat to any poor sap who comes to watch our games, because my athletic skills are on par with this guy. 

Okay, I can officially add Pooped On to my list of experiences incurred by and with children. And the craziest thing? I couldn't even get mad at Michael. As unpleasant as it was, the child is cute even when he is taking a dump on my hand. God damn him for it, because I really wanted to be upset but I just started laughing. That kid better feel loved, because I don't know if love gets any realer than that.

An Army Of One.... Because You're On Your Own.

I'm not sure if this news has been made national or not, but it seems that the U.S. Army is prepared to shell out $1.1 million per baseball season to rename RFK Stadium to U.S. Army Field. When asked why they wanted to do so, their reply was that, in light of the war and the casualties suffered therein, the service's image has been tainted. They claim they need the name of the stadium to drum up new recruits.

Well, U.S. Army Officials, allow me to congratulate you for having your heads so far up your collective ass that you think spending that amount of money per year to re-name a baseball stadium is going to win you friends. Uh, here's an idea for you: Instead of spending that money - which is a drop in the bucket to you, I know, but still - putting your name on an arena, WHY NOT SPEND IT BUYING BETTER EQUIPMENT FOR THOSE SOLDIERS ALREADY SERVING IN THE WAR???!!!!???!!!! DID YOU EVER THINK THAT PERHAPS THAT IS A REASON YOUR MARKETING STAR HAS FALLEN?!?! Because you do a half-ass job supporting the troops you have in an effort to recruit those you don't?

By the way, guys, the fact that you arm your soldiers with sub-par equipment? That news is out! Everybody knows about it! The parents buying bulletproof gear for their kids on eBay? Everybody knows about it! The less-than-liveable service wages? Every. Body. Knows. About. It. Changing the sign at RFK Stadium is not going to magically erase that knowledge from the minds and hearts of the American people. Were you expecting everyone and their grandma to say, "Golly! I heard from many reputable sources that the Armed Services has been mismanaging the finances alloted for the war we are currently engaged in since it began, but look at that cool sign! Heck Yeah I'll join the Army and put my life in jeopardy due to the callous misgivings of appointed officials! Wahoo!!!!"

As Napoleon Dynamite would say, "IDIOTS!!!"

This opinion brought to you by someone who isn't dumb.

I want so badly to believe that there is truth and love is real.
And I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd.

The Postal Service

Dustin - It took me, like, three hours to do the shading on your upper lip. 

Erik The Cingular Guy

I've decided to try and write each day about a nice person I meet. Today's installment is Erik the Cingular Wireless Sales Guy.

Erik is proof that people are still considerate and willing to help strangers. When I had all sorts of questions about wireless Internet service and explained where I would be going and what I would be doing, he answered all of them and was patient when I drifted off from our conversation a couple times in a Codeine-induced stupor. He showed me what would be best for me and sent me off to think it over with all sorts of literature and helpful hints. Then he even checked out my blog, which led to him adding me to his buddylist and then IM'ing me to tell me that he would give me a corporate discount on both my wireless and my phone bill so I could save even more money while on the road! How awesome is Erik?! Woo-hoo!!!

I just blew a bunch of bubbles sitting at my desk and they started floating across the office and no one could figure out where they came from. heeheehee

Mama Bear is Back

The four things that keep me from imminent corporate whoredom are Christopher, James, Michael, and Diana. All those late night bottles, diaper changes, bedtime stories, whispering lullabyes and belly kisses are sometimes the only things that keep me going.

I've fallen so deeply in love with them and the times we spend together that I sometimes forget they're not mine. It's not that I pretend that I gave birth to them, but we've grown so close that I feel a certain bond is there. In all their 6 months of knowledge, they recognize my face, my voice, the melodies of the songs I sing to make them smile. I don't know what it's like to be a real mommy but I know that when an infant opens his eyes and sees your face, then smiles, it feels wonderful.

But that bond works both ways. The same way I feel ecstatic when one of them smiles, I've found myself feeling as intensely torn apart now that their mother has come home. She and I get along just fine, and when she first came home she needed a lot of help, which I was happy to give her. I helped her in and out of bed, sometimes having to pick her up to do so, I crushed her pills and mixed them with applesauce so she could digest them. I cleaned the drainage tubes in her chest, whatever she needed. To be honest, it scared me because I have no medical training to do that sort of thing, and here is this fragile, sick woman that I have to care for, but I did it because I wanted to help, and make her happy.

Well, I think I did make her happy but I also was a sort of threat. Since she's come home they've been "giving me the night off" a lot, something Julio never did when she was in the hospital. Sometimes it really tears me up. It's times like that when I really have to remind myself that the kids aren't mine after all, no matter how many times I sing "Tender Shepard" or they cling to my shirt, or vomit on it. I can only imagine what it must feel like for Rosy, coming home incapacitated to three babies who are strangers to her, and vice versa. I try to remind myself of that whenever I feel like she's purposely keeping me from them.

But I couldn't hold it in anymore the other night after Julio asked me not to come over. I burst into tears in my driveway and tried to hide in my room, but my dad caught me before I could speed through the living room. And he did something he hasn't done in 20 years - he pulled me into his lap and rocked me like a little girl. Funny - how I want so badly to feel like I have a connection with a child again... I guess my dad wants the same thing. So he let me cry for a little while and then he said, "Honey, you've done so much for those kids and I'm sure Rosy is grateful. But human beings are animals and she's just being a mama bear. She's protecting her own the only way she can. She's just trying to get her life back, and that includes the babies. You have to let her do that. You have to let go. They are not yours. You can still love them but you have to remember who they really belong to. And if you do that, I'm sure they'll let you visit whenever you want."

God, it killed me when he said that. I don't ever want to let go. I don't want to just be a random visitor. But I know that I love those babies and I love the family, and if bowing out gracefully is what I have to do to make them happy, then that is what I'll do. It's one of the hardest things I've had to do.... but I'm going to be a mama bear someday too.

Life at its lowest common denominator

This weekend I read a fabulous book called "The Lovely Bones" by Alice Sebold. It's about a 14-year-old girl who is raped and murdered, and it tells the story from her viewpoint in Heaven. Such a great book, but to be honest it scared the living crap out of me. This guy in the book is a serial rapist and killer of women and accosts the girl in a cornfield right across the street from her house. He tricks her into coming into an underground fort that he made, where he rapes her and stabs her to death, then cuts up her body and throws it down a sinkhole.

It goes into other murders he commits, and sure enough they all start with a friendly conversation started in broad daylight.... and it scared me. I know I can be too trusting at times, way too naive. Especially when I'm going to be out on the road, going almost out of my way to spark conversations with people. Who am I to turn down a story? Then I read something like this and... after getting to the parts where the killer imagines what the woman or girl he is talking to would look like bloody and naked.... I almost said "Screw it! I don't need to write this book! I have a stockpile of money that I can put towards grad school instead.... a nice apartment... new furniture... a vacation...."

*sigh*

But I would hate myself. If I quit now, so close to the home stretch, because of the possibility of something going wrong... then all the bad people in the world win. I could be hurt or abducted or worse on this trip, but then again I could encounter the same thing on my way to work on any given day. I have to remind myself to be smart, be cautious, be selective about who I talk to and where I sleep. And I can't let fear dictate how I live, because then it's not living. It's hiding, or worse - settling. Settling is like living life at its lowest common denominator. And I can't do that.

So Saturday night I drove into the woods, turned off the headlights, parked the car, got out and made myself walk into the dark, dark forest alone in the middle of the night. I was scared shitless. I kept thinking every little sound was a footstep, a breath, a knife coming out of a sheath. But I kept going. And I stood there, vulnerable and unarmed, in the dark for 20 minutes. And then I made myself walk slowly back to the car (I wanted to run like hell). And you know what? It was pretty exhilarating when I got back in.

So I think I'll be okay. I was okay the first time I rode cross-country alone, although I had some ridiculous self-defense hijinx along the way. Those I'll save for another time. This is kind of serious. But honestly.... if the images of dead teenagers and men who thirst for blood aren't enough to sway me from my goal.... I should be fine.

I'M TAKING A POLL - PLEASE COMMENT

Okay, so I have this friend. And this friend has a boyfriend that she really likes. Or, at least, she HAD a boyfriend until she broke up with him last night. Here is their story:

They have been together for about 2 months. At first they were so into each other they thought it was true love. She even talked about maybe marrying him! So here they are, all happy and whatnot, save for a couple instances when he acted inconsiderate. But she chalked that up to this being his first relationship in a few years and moved past it. But eventually she started to notice a pattern - he would only want to have sex when he was drunk. And I don't mean a couple beers, I mean SERIOUSLY fucked up. And no matter what my friend did to try to turn him on, he would not respond to her unless he was half in the bag. If he was sober, he would sometimes even get angry that she was trying to sleep with him. But most of the time he would just laugh at her, which made her feel stupid and rejected, even ugly. And my friend is fairly pretty, tall and thin with long-ish blonde hair and big brown eyes. People say that she has a nice smile.

So she talked to him about this one day, told him that she was feeling rejected and unattractive to him and very frustrated and he gave her this excuse: that when he was younger, he was geeky and no girls ever noticed him, which made him shy. But when he was drunk, he would have the confidence to talk to girls, which led to hooking up, and he just got used to having sex drunk. He said he didn't even get horny when sober. But he insisted that it was not her, that he thought she was beautiful, blah blah blah. My friend didn't know what to make of this, but she told him that she could not keep going the way they were going. She felt like she could not forge an intimate connection with him, because the only times they were ever intimate, he was drunk, which just made her feel gross.

AND, he would only get that drunk about once every two weeks or so! Now, bear in mind that my friend is an attractive 24-year-old woman. Now, is it just me or do normal couples in their early 20's like to have sex more than once every 2 or 3 weeks?

So the issue stayed an issue. Although she hates ultimatums, she gave him one - Try to be intimate when you're sober and more often or we can't be together. She felt bad giving him a choice like that, but she knew she couldn't keep going with the occasional-drunk-sex thing. Because she was so frustrated with that aspect of their relationship, she didn't feel like a real girlfriend. And the times where he would annoy her or do something inconsiderate became huge issues; those times hurt more than they should have.

So when she presented this ultimatum to him, he accused her of being shallow, of making sex an issue in an otherwise good relationship. He insisted that sex was not an integral part of a relationship and said he couldn't believe she was going to throw everything away because of something as petty as sex. He said he didn't see why she couldn't just be content to simply be with him, without having sex. She felt bad... but not so bad that she didn't stick to her guns and maintain that it WAS INDEED an issue that needed to be addressed, even if it meant breaking up.

So that is what they did. He is very upset. She is, too, but she realizes that they are lucky to find out that they are incompatible now rather than later. But.... she can't help feeling a little crazy, like maybe what he said had truth in it and she IS being shallow. Given the synopsis you just read, what do you think? Is my friend crazy or shallow? Is sex really not a big deal? Is her ex right? Or is she?

(and by the way, have you figured out who my friend is by now?)

No, no, honey. You heard wrong. You're thinking of the "Pill of Frights", which is what I take to forget that our country is run by Evangelical Facists. See below.

I lovitol! 

NOT A MEMBER? NOT A PROBLEM!

IMPORTANT: I just changed the format of this blog to allow comments to be posted by non-blogger.com members! Sorry this wasn't done before, I didn't realize. So now, if you got something you wanna tell me, such as "This blog is lame" or "I did not lie about The Tender Crisp Bacon Cheddar Ranch" (you know who you are, Darius Rucker), just SHOUT IT OUT, BAY-BEE!!!!

i can't wait to go i can't wait to pack i can't wait to load the trunk i can't wait to buy loads of canned goods i can't wait to hug everyone goodbye (again) i can't wait to put the key in the ignition i can't wait to pick which cd to listen to first i can't wait to pull out of the driveway i can't wait to get to somewhere i've never seen before i can't wait to sleep in my tent again i can't wait to meet new people i can't wait to cook on my little propane stove i can't wait to take pictures i can't wait to write about what i have seen i can't wait to use this blog for writing about the road like i intended instead of random ramblings i can't wait i can't wait i can't wait....

 

"Hello, Air Samoa? How much for a one-way ticket out of BWI?" 

Jessica Likes:

www.sanfordmusic.com

www.jaked409.net/hate.html

www.theonion.com

www.bathroomgirls.com

http://fewbutfaithful.blogspot.com/

http://maddox.xmission.com/


Check 'em out!

Food For Thought.

I'm not going to sit here and claim to know what is right in a situation I know nothing about. I just think it's interesting that the Christian right has chosen to latch on to the case of Terri Schiavo now, during Holy Week, a week where all Christians celebrate the life after death that allegedly is waiting in Heaven. It is a week where that religion remembers, by celebrating Jesus' rise from the tomb, that death is only a stepping stone, another part of a journey that doesn't end and lauds returning to the fold of the Father as the ultimate reward for a life well lived. And yet here we are, the Evangelicals parading around, angrily accusing the courts of "crusading to murder" the poor woman and protesting exactly what they will be praising in church this Sunday. I just find it interesting....

Things I Saw While I Was Out Sick From Work:

A haggard old man in a beat-up Chevy Caprice wearing a sea captain's hat and a knotted gray beard. He was driving in circles around the Laurel Lakes parking lot, near CVS, sneezing loudly out of his open window and yelling at the rain.

A feminine man who looked to be in his 50's, dressed like a pirate, walking through the same parking lot 15 minutes later. I'm not talking a cheesy costume with an eye patch and a parrot. I mean serious Renaissance-Festival type wear, with an open turquoise tunic and black knickers, black boots and a bunch of long strings of beads around his neck.

The recycling collector putting the truck in gear, driving 20 feet, stopping the truck, putting it in park, jumping out, grabbing the bags, tossing them in the back of the truck, walking back to the cab, climbing in, putting the truck in gear, driving 20 feet, stopping the truck.... I had no idea one man did it by himself.

A girl of about 8, with cornrows and a lunchbag, dashing off the schoolbus and knocking her mother to her knees with a hug.

Page from my diary dated one year ago today:

Today I tried to explain to Little James (my 3-yr-old cousin) about variety. He asked me why all cars look different and all houses look different. I told him that life would be very boring if everything was the same. He gave me the typical, "Why?", so I tried explaining how people are individuals and like to be that way. He repeated after me, "indovedigiral", I said close enough.

Then I tried putting it another way. I said, "If there were a thousand me's and a thousand you's, I wouldn't know who you were and you wouldn't know me either. We'd both be very lonely even though we were surrounded by me's and you's. Being different helps us find each other." I think he understood because he said, "I'm glad everyone's not the same."

Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit that I am a baby when it comes to pain. No. Rather, let me admit that when it comes to anything wisdom-tooth related, I am The King Shit Biggest, Wimpiest, Whiniest, Rock-Myself-In-The-Corner-Like-A-Bad-Afterschool-Special Loser Ever.

Now, usually I'm really good about pain. Last summer I gouged my wrist open and laughed when I saw my muscles inside. I thought it was the neatest thing ever. But, whereas I used to think that I was impervious to all pain, I now know that I am a complete wuss when it comes to teeth. That's why I haven't posted in so long - I've been curled up in the fetal position at home, popping Motrin like I'm drowing and the pills contain oxygen.

I've been cutting my wisdom teeth for about a year and about every other month they'll hurt. Last May they hurt so bad I bought one of those baby teething rings with water inside that you put in the freezer and chewed on it 24/7 for about a week. That, and Baby Orajel swabs saved me. But now I've entered that magical dental territory known as Impacted Wisdom Toothdom, specifically Exposed Nerve Street, on the corner of Holy Mother Of Christ Somebody Please Shoot Me Avenue. It's an awful place. My sinuses got infected because of the teeth and the exposed nerve was making life unbearable.

But luckily I got into the dentist, he clipped the nerve, prescribed me some Codeine and some antibiotics (plus the black market Vicodin my boyfriend scored me), scheduled me for an extraction and now I am all good! Let's ride on the fluffy roller coaster! I can taste colors! Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!

When I used to bartend at this little dive bar in "the bad part of town" one of my regulars was an old roofer named Doug Dorsey. He was a huge guy, with graying blonde hair and big blue eyes, and he was usually quiet unless he was talking shit while playing pool.

He would do anything for anybody. He is the only person I've ever said the words, "I have a dead cat in my trunk that I think might be mine but it's real bloody and I can't tell for sure, but it's dead and I put it in my car and I want to take it to the vet to get disposed of but I can't do it because no one can cover the bar, so will you take it out of my trunk and drive it to the vet for me?" to, and he did it, no questions asked, no hemming or hawing. And in the middle of a summer thunderstorm, even.

He is a super guy, and what I dig about him the most is his right elbow. Seriously. He has a huge growth on his elbow about the size of a softball, an enormous calcium build-up from years of swinging a hammer. I asked him if he'd thought about getting it removed and he said, "Nah, I don't need to hammer anymore. I got guys to do that. I do the paperwork now, so it don't bother me at all. Hell, gives me something to rest my arm on!"

Until I met him I didn't know someone could find deformities refreshing. That is complete abscence of vanity. Here's a man who, in the midst of a society that's obsessed with keeping up appearances, doesn't care about impressing anyone. He is who he is. He happens to have a growth on his elbow and that's who he is. I just love how so many people like to talk about how they're "keepin' it real" while trying to look as cool as possible at all times, even when they brush their teeth. Maybe they should take lessons from Doug. He is as real as it gets.

The thrill is gone.

All work and no play make Jessica reminisce about past St. Patrick's Days spent in New York City.... cutting class to go to the parade, decked out in green, with a plastic bottle of "Sprite" that wasn't really all soda.... stumbling cross-eyed down 86th Street, hugging every cop in sight.... squeezing 250 people into a bar that safely holds 98, at 9:30 in the morning.... showing up to my afternoon class shitfaced, with a bottle of Guiness in a paper bag and drinking it during a lecture.... it was my one day of the year to break out of the goody-goody Dean's List routine and be a rebel.... ah, youth...... somehow, St. Patrick's Day is no longer as cool.

This is one of the tattoos I'm planning on getting this weekend, but just the elephant part, not the stupid little peanuts. And also, really small. About the size of a quarter. It has a few different meanings. One, elephants are good luck (but only if they're trunks are pointing upward). Two, Gonesh, the Hindu elephant god, is the god of hard work and encouragement, which I could use. And three, this elephant is a baby, and in a lot of ways, so am I.  

Strike that, reverse it...

I feel like I should clear up something I said earlier, regarding my book and my writing not being about me per se. The way I put it, it sounded as though I was planning on driving around the country and writing only about everyone else and leaving myself out of the stories. Well, that is a possibility, but that would make the book more of a compiliation than a travel narrative. And that's not what I'm going for. Truth be told, I am going to have to be an active part of the story, because I'm the one seeing and telling.

I'm actually reading a book right now called "Without Reservations: The Travels of an Independent Woman" by Alice Steinbach, and it's... okay. Not the mind-blowing inspiration I thought it would be, because in Chapter 4, the author is STILL going on and on about herself. No other characters have been introduced and that is really, really boring. Granted, I suppose it is meant to turn the eye inward, and that's fine, but reading it just reaffirms my conviction that my book will be a very different animal.

I will not be The Sole Character. Will I be a part of it, well, yeah. Naturally. But I'd rather be a thread that is woven in and out of the story, not the main focus. It's like when people compare America to a rich and vibrant tapestry. I am a part of that tapestry, but I do not comprise the whole, nor does anyone else. So it's not "My America". It should be more like "Our America".

Traffic Patterns

I've started to notice a trend as far as what is causing me to be late for work. It differs by day of the week, and I wouldn't mention it were it not for the uncanny daily regularity of said circumstances. Here is my weekly drive routine:

Monday: I've Been Working For 32 Hours Straight And My Vision Is Blurry So I'll Do 55 In The Right Lane Day.

Tuesday: Catch Every Red Light Day.

Wednesday: Get Stuck Behind The Cheese Bus Day.

Thursday: I Won't Make It To Work If I Don't Get Gas Day.

Friday: Wow, I'm Acutally On Time Because Almost All Government Employees Take Off and Aren't Clogging 295 South Today Day.

So Happy Tuesday. I can assure you all the red lights in PG County are working. Sorry I'm late.

Seen last week: a man feeding his infant nephew while his four-year-old daughter climbed up in his lap with a toy bottle of shampoo. She pretended to daub shampoo onto the baby's head and then rub his hair softly while he lay eating. She did that three times while her father and I watched. The look of love in her father's eyes was so intense I had to look away, as though I were witnessing something too beautiful for this life.

My role model. 

...she said she cried at least once a day, not because she was sad, but because the world is so beautiful and life is so short....

Joe

There's a greasy spoon in my town that is so greasy hardly anybody eats there. I get a lot of funny looks when I tell people it's one of my favorite restaurants in town. But it's prime real-estate for people-watching, and I always seem to meet some local yokel or wayfaring stranger when I'm there.

I stopped in the other morning on my way home from the Del Cid's house. I was craving two eggs and dry rye toast like only Walt could make it, and I was glad I got there before his 2 am - 10 am shift was up. Seeing me walk up to the door, Cheryl already had my coffee waiting on the counter by the time I sat down at my favorite stool.
"Where's your newspaper, hon?"
"Eh, I try not to read the news on Saturdays. Why depress myself on my one morning off? I've got Hampton Sides today", pulling a battered copy of "Americana" from my bulging purse. (Speaking of which, has any other woman noticed that she feels compelled to fit as many things in her purse as humanly possible? I swear I feel like Mary Poppins sometimes, but I digress. More on this later...)

The book I had that morning was a collection of interviews with various Americans of note or non-note, all done by Hampton Sides, a magazine contributor. After spending all night watching bad Spanish soap operas, I was in the mood to hear stories about real life. Apparently, I went to the right place.

I was deep into building my egg-and-toast tower and holding the book open with my elbow and the edge of my coffee saucer when I noticed a man watching me at the other end of the lunch counter. He was very old, hunched over, with a sprinkling of peach fuzz on his head, and he was smiling at me. Now, ordinarily, when I see an old man smiling at me from afar, it's not in a friendly fashion and I try to ignore it. But there was nothing malicious or lecherous about this man; his eyes were kind and his face was sweet.
"You're reading!", he said, brightly stating the obvious. This caught me off guard and I giggled.
"Uh, yeah. Yes, I am.", not bothering to hide my amusement.
"You know, not many people do that nowadays." He was right, and his being right made me a little sad.
"You said it. But do you read?"
"Oh, I read just about anything that comes out. I snap 'em up faster then they can put 'em on the shelf!". This made me laugh again, and I was glad for it. I liked this man.
"What's your name?", I asked him.
"Joe Craven." As he answered, he shifted a few stool closer to me.

We chatted about our favorite books and authors, and eventually it came out that I was working on a book of my own. I told Joe about it and he smiled, saying, "I'm sitting next to a regular Dorothy Parker!". The comparison made me blush. As I looked down to hide my embarrassment, he turned to look out the window. As he did so, I noticed his huge belt buckle, framed by the sides of his windbreaker, stretching from his lap almost to his chest.

Now, growing up in a semi-hick town, as I did, I learned never to make fun of belt buckles - better yet, don't even bring up the subject of belt buckles, because the minute you make fun of one will be the minute the wearer will tell you it's a steel memorial to their grandfather, or Dale Earnhart, or something. I've gotten in the habit of ignoring them, because I think they teeter on the edge ridiculousness as an accessory. (Then again, this is coming from a girl who has red and white strapped stiletto heels with huge beaded flowers on them, so I have no room to talk.) But I looked closely at this one, because it caught my eye.

I noticed the words, "Blue and Gray" on it, surrounded by stars, and I figured it was Civil War memorabilia. But as he turned to flag down Cheryl, I saw the letters, "29th Infantry" on it as well. Judging from his age, I figured he had to have fought in World War II. It was then that I asked to see the buckle.

When he turned to me and hooked his thumbs behind it, I asked him if he had been in the Army. His blue eyes grew quiet, suddenly shy. "Yeah", he croaked, "the 29th." Then he muttered under his breath, as if embarrassed, "D-Day."
I felt my face change. "You were at D-Day?"
"Yeah, yeah, I was", he said, with a nervous tap on the counter.

Knowing what little I know about the battle, I didn't want to press for details. So instead I gave him that "please keep talking?" look that I've had to perfect over the years. He told me the story of a young man he had met in the same diner a few days before, a soldier in fatigues. It turned out this soldier was currently serving in the 29th Infantry division, just as Joe had, and was returning from a second tour in Iraq. They talked about wars both old and new, where they had fought, what equipment they used during battle, and found they shared a love of biscuits and gravy. Then the young man said his goodbyes, paid his check, and left.

Later on, when Joe asked for his check, Cheryl placed it in front of him on the counter, saying, "That soldier wrote you a note, hon." The total was crossed out, and scribbled across the top were the words, "Paid on Omaha Beach."

"Yeah," he said quietly, as he finished recounting the story. "People who have been there know what it's like." He stared at his hands as he said this, and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Our eyes met, and we smiled.

"Well, " he stammered, getting up to leave. "I'd like to read your book someday. I hope I get the chance."
"I hope you do, too", I said. "Would you mind if you're in it?"
He blushed the color of the Sweet and Low packets.
"Awwwww, I don't have anything interesting to tell you."

With that, he waved goodbye and walked out the door.

He could not have been more wrong.

Ani knows what I'm talking about....

going once, going twice
sold to the girl who ignored all the advice

she was packed, she had a suitcase
full of noble intentions
she had a map, and a straight face
hellbent on reinvention
and she was ready for the lonely
she was in it for it only

going once, going twice
down the road less taken
with her diary and her swiss army knife
and there was always someone there to say
"why don't you just stay and hang your hat here?"

but she was packed, she had a suitcase
full of bungles and near-misses
and she was swinging through a jungle
of last calls and first kisses
and she was learning....

I thought you were supposed to be the good guys?

I was amazingly disappointed today in a number of Democratic senators who voted to end a filibuster on the infamous Bankruptcy Bill, sending it to the floor were it is sure to pass. I mean, come on, everybody knows the Republicans are going to vote for it, but aren't the Democrats supposed to be the champions of the little guys - the exact people this bill is going to screw over?

If this bill passes into law, people who are currently in debt or who will become indebted due to medical emergencies, unproven identity theft, or other catastrophic circumstances will not be permitted to file bankruptcy and have their slate wiped clean. No more "fresh starts".

People who fall into this category include my friend MaryBeth, who almost lost her foot in a car accident two years ago - she was hit by a driver insured under Maryland's MAIF policy, which only insures bodily damage up to $20,000. MaryBeth's first 24 hours in the hospital alone cost $27,500. Since then, she has accrued another $400,000 in medical expenses and doesn't have the disposable income to sue the other driver, who would have nothing to give if convicted anyway. Once this bill becomes a law, there is no way MaryBeth will ever be able to recover from this debt. She's had to learn to walk again, which is good because she'll be working multiple jobs for the rest of her life.

This also applies to Julio and Rosy, and the triplets, whose medical bills have just passed the half-million dollar mark. I wish them good luck trying to raise four children on a landscaper's income and simultaneously getting the insurance company to pay even 75% of that half-mil. Special wishes go to Christopher, James, Michael, and Diana, who will continue paying that amount off long after their parents are gone.

So thank you, Robert Byrd. Thank you, Debbie Stabenow (who, by the by, currently has all of her offices on lock-down, anticipating the backlash that is sure to come from her vote). Thank you, Sens. Biden and Carper of Delaware. I'm sure the credit card companies - the only ones set to profit from this bill - thank you as well (especially considering the majority of credit card companies in America are based in DE, because there are no taxes in the first place). Thank you Sen. Lieberman - now your faith isn't the only thing holding you back from becoming president. And thank you, Sen. Salazar, for making sure the little hope we had when you and your brother were elected in November is now resting solely on his shoulders. I feel sorry for Barack Obama having to contend with the stench of pure bullshit eminating from your neighboring office in that basement in Dirksen. And let's not forget the eight other traitors: Conrad, Johnson, Kohl, Landrieu, Lincoln, Pryor, and both Nelsons.

This is just another nail in the fence that is me booking a one-way ticket to Anywhere But America and living there forever. Sorry, Howard Dean, John Kerry, and MoveOn.org, but how are grassroots efforts supposed to work when our own are voting against us?

I love scotch... scotch scotch scotch 

My friend Max and I celebrating four more years of financial tyranny and no-bid contracts at the Billionaires For Bush Re-Coronation Inaugural Ball, the only ball where it is kosher to sport a plastic tiara with flashing red lights. 

We can be richer than industry if we realize there's things we don't need.

This is me with Christopher, the fraternal triplet, back in December, at about 3 in the morning. He's such a happy, smiley baby, it's a shame I couldn't catch him while he was awake.  

Pero los ninos son para mi corazon...

I work SO MUCH to fund this trip. I work in an office during the day, and bartend nights. And I work in my mom's shop doing odds and ends on the nights I'm not bartending or making a feeble attempt at a social life. I have one day off every other week. But it's all good - I have one more job that makes every day worthwhile.

I volunteer with a Guatemalan family in Langley Park, MD 3 nights a week. They had triplet boys back in September, but the mother contracted a vicious infection during her C-section that left her in a coma. She's still in the hospital. Julio, the father, is the most sleep-deprived person I know, and yet has the best attitude. He never has a mean thing to say, always smiling, always a patient and kind father. The family's situation has improved a bit since this article was pubished on December 2nd - http://www.gazette.net/200448/greenbelt/news/247401-1.html - with volunteers coming over for a few hours at a time. He went back to work, and his niece stays with the kids during the day. But they still need a lot of help.

I go over on the graveyeard shift on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It's a lot of work, and people think I'm crazy, but it's worth it to me that this amazing father can get a full night's sleep 3 nights a week. I could talk about my schedule, how it affects my sleeping habits, my relationships. I could go on and on about how I go straight from one job to another to another between 10 am Sunday and 6 pm Monday. But what good would that do? It's not the reason I help. I don't do it so people can pat me on the back. Believe me, if you knew how rewarding it is just to be around these children, you'd know that no further recognition is needed.

I mean it, these babies are so beautiful. They were severely premature, so at 6 months they're still only the size of a one-month-old infant. Still, they have the cognizance of 6-month-olds and they teach me so many new things every time I see them. Honestly, it doesn't matter what kind of mood I'm in, what petty drama is going on in my life, just seeing even one of them smile is enough to erase any foul mood. They wiggle and babble and it's more beautiful than music.

They can clear my skies by just looking at me. If that's not love, I hope I'm alone forever. Anything less would be cheap and tragic.

Last night I was talking to Julio's niece who doesn't speak ANY English - well... she was speaking very fast in Spanish and I was trying to keep up and then stuttering back to her in a language that vaguely resembled Spanish. But she asked me one question that I had no problems understanding, or answering. She told me that I was the only person who came to help overnight (which I already knew) and asked me why. My tongue found it's way around the language enough to tell her, "Mucho persones habla con migo, 'Porque tu todo travaja? En oficina y en restaurante y con los ninos? Tu es muy loca! Yo no comprende porque tu usted se ofrece con los ninos todo tiempos.' Y yo los digo, 'Travajo mis dos travajos para dinero. Pero los nino son para mi corazon..."

Loosely (and probably incorrectly) translated, that means: "A lot of people ask me, 'Why are you always working? At the office and the restaurant AND with the babies? You're crazy! I don't understand why you volunteer with those babies all the time.' And I tell them, 'I work my jobs for money. But the babies are for my heart....'"

That's why it's going to kill me when I leave...

A ruby at sunrise...

I sometimes worry that the book will end up being more a story about myself than about the people around me. I don't necessarily enjoy books like that. I don't want to play into that ME format.

I want to be like a ruby held up to the sunlight, taking something simple and beautiful and multiplying it into a thousand tiny crimson shimmers thrown across the grass.

A ruby is pretty. It's the sunlight that makes it dazzling. My writing is okay. It's other people that make it inspired rather than contrived.

Starting out....

This should be fairly interesting. This is my first blog, created to chronicle a goal of mine that I've been working towards for almost three years. In late April, I'm going to get behind the wheel of my little black car and back out of my driveway. What happens from there is up to whimsy.

My name is Jessica. I'm 24. I live in a suburb in between Baltimore, MD and Washington, DC, called Laurel. It's a nice enough town, with a Main Street, some churches, two town newspapers, a horsetrack and a gaggle of village idiots. It has parks and history and a few good dive bars. But since I was seventeen it's felt like a mortal coil that needs shuffling off. That's what I did that year, trading Riverfront Park for Central Park and getting a Bachelor's from a tiny school in New York City. I was content there. I thought I would never leave.

Then on my 22nd birthday, in 2002, waking up realizing my wallet had been stolen, I got some even worse news. I had no place to live. (One of those long, arduous New York City real estate dramas that starts with someone you've never met signing a lease and ends with you getting evicted.) Suddenly New York seemed a harsh and unwelcoming place, the first it had ever felt like that to me. I realized I had a choice: take my earnings as a waitress and rent another apartment - and have just the apartment, no furniture, no phone, no food, no clean clothes - or cut my losses and stay on the streets for a while, thereby saving money and eventually moving on to another town. I went for the latter, and decided San Francisco would be my new home.

I had never been to California. Hell, I had never been west of Pennsylvania. But I didn't care. For whatever reason, San Francisco became my Mecca, and everything I did in those two months of living in Union Square park were all leading up to making it there.

I never did. I still haven't. I got as far as Los Angeles before I ran out of money and stayed there until February of 2004, when I moved back to Laurel. But I didn't move back because I hated it or wanted to come home. Rather, I got this crazy idea one day and needed money to make it happen. I want to drive cross-country again, this time for longer than 11 days. Those 11 days between Laurel and Los Angeles were such a tease. This time I'm shooting for 8 months.

I don't want to plot a route. I don't want to make reservations. The only things I want to make are canned ravioli on a propane stove and friends out of strangers. And a book. I'm writing a book about the trip - not about what restaurants are good or what hotels are worth the nightly price. It's going to be mostly about the people I meet along the way. I'm convinced that this country is populated by a lot of people who are a lot more interesting than Paris Hilton, and I want their stories to be told, for once.

Basically, I'm tired of the idea that the only stories worth telling are those which are sexy, skinny, shiny, and scandalous. What about a single father in rural Nebraska who works hard every day to put his children through college? What about a couple in Waycross, GA celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary? What about a young volunteer in New Mexico who helps alcoholic Navajo Indians kick the habit? I would much rather share a beer and a meal with those people than most of the so-called "interesting" people on the cover of UsWeekly.

Call me crazy. Call me idealistic. But call me before April, because I may run out of money to keep my cellphone on the road.

So this will be the blog of before, during, and after my big adventure. Hopefully anyone who wants to will be able to follow me across the country this way, since I still haven't convinced the local Laurel paper to give me a weekly freelance column yet... and anyone who knows of any hot-spots in other parts of the country - literally, anywhere, I don't care where I have to go to get wi-fi - can respond to the blog or email me. I think I'm going to need all the help I can get.

Let's do this.