Final Product

Sketched by Jayne. Painted by Jamie.

Stop.

The rain had stopped. The light at the intersection below me was red. The leaves had abandoned their branches. For a brief moment, the only sound in the city was the rhythmic clicking of Nikita's nails as she gaily cantered down the sidewalk.

And it was beautiful.

First World Problems

Me, on phone to my mother: Hey mom, I found this album art that I think would make a cool painting for my bedroom. If I come over and visit this weekend, do you think you could sketch it on the canvas for me?

My mother: I don't know how you lost your confidence with drawing. I always thought you were so good at it when you were younger.

Me: MAYBE THAT'S BECAUSE WHEN YOU WERE MY ART TEACHER, YOU GAVE ME A B INSTEAD OF AN A!!!

My mother: (Quietly) I did that?

Me: (Pouting) Yes.

My mother: Oh. (Pause.) Yes, I'll sketch it for you.

My mother was the only art teacher I've ever had; all drawing deficiencies can solely rest on her. She says the years we went to school together were special. I never got away with putting a change of clothes into my backpack.

true story.

Me, on phone to my mother: So Royal Bank of Canada pulled my credit to see if it could do better with my car loan, and it is able to cut my interest rate in half, saving me $80 a month. And by the way, she said I have a 780 FICO. Perfect credit is 800. Just so you know, I'm awesome.

My mother: (Stilted) That's great, Jamie.

Me: IS THIS LIKE THE TIME I BROUGHT HOME MY REPORT CARD AND I GOT A 94 AND YOU ASKED WHY IT WASN'T A 96!?!?!? 780, Mom! Seven eightyyyyy!

My mother: No. I'm quiet because I don't want you to get too full of yourself and buy anything.

My mother, ladies and gentlemen. She can always find the dark cloud in anything.

She Being Brand New

It had been a long weekend: three days of music from Athfest and three days of wearing a neon yellow plastic bracelet on my wrist. When I bought my ticket, I asked the guy to put it on tightly because I can't stand movement on my forearm, and now it was stuck there until I found a pair of scissors. More important than scissors though, what I wanted was a beer.

I meandered into my usual bar of that summer: Village Idiot. The thing that made Village Idiot unique was its chalkboard walls. Pieces of chalk in every color were strewn about the bar. By the end of the night, phone numbers and naked stick figures in sexual positions reminded the city that this was a college town. Every night the chalkboard would be wiped clean, only to be defaced again the next day. It was a comforting feeling about college, starting over every night. Being brand new every night.

Partially drunk I left my crowd and wandered over to the wall by the staircase. I picked up a piece of lime-green chalk and began writing. I quickly worked out a stanza of verses, dancing with the chalk without thinking.

I stepped away and took a sip of beer as I examined my work. As I wondered whether anyone would be able to decipher my drunken scrawl, a random sorority girl approached me.

"Oh my god, I love it!" She slurred as she cooed to me. She pressed her hands between her knees and jumped excitedly. "I am going to call my answering machine and read this into it so I'll be able to remember it tomorrow!"

As she dug through her purse for her phone, a man approached. It was obvious that he wasn't a co-ed. His age, his scruff and his thrift-store clothes revealed that he was a Townie, a member of the underground society that Athens doesn't advertise in its college brochure.

"That's hauntingly beautiful," he said. "Very dark, but beautifully written."

I was secretly thrilled. I turned around to thank him, but his plaid shirt and his hat was familiar.

I eyed him. "I know you. How do I know you?"

He pointed to my neon bracelet. "I just played in Athfest."

"Oh yeah, what band?" I ransacked my brain: Drive-By Truckers, Jucifer, Fuzzy Sprouts.

He was the guitarist for the Jennifer Nettles Band.

The man who plays Jennifer Nettles' own hauntingly beautiful lyrics. The same lyrics I would copy into my notebook while some T.A. rambled on about Classic Greek Mythology. She was my idol. I still remember her lyrics; I don't remember much about Classic Greek Mythology.

And here I was receiving accolades by an extension of her.

As soon as my girlfriend realized he was a quasi-celebrity, she pounced on him, working hard to take him home for the night. I stepped back and watched her pursue him while he gently side-stepped her advances. I took another swig of beer and looked back to my piece of the wall.

It would be brand new tomorrow, but it was pretty alright tonight.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate

You know who looks like this during bootcamp? NOBODY. Oh hey, Girl with Makeup on who Is neither Sweating nor Crying, that push-up looks easy, doesn't it?

Scott once described my face during bootcamp as one that was "drained of all hope." I'd like to see that worked into the new advertising campaign.

Psycho killer, fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa

The maintenance man in my building loves to scare the shit out of me. Take, for instance, this morning:

Elevator door opens, the dog and I enter. Inside is Maintenance Man. Maintenance Man reaches hand down for Nikita to sniff, then pats her on the head. He turns and looks at me.

"So she just likes to eat from her bowl and go sit under the bed?"

"..."

Uh, that's exactly what she does. How does Super Psycho Stalker know the habits of my dog that spends 23 hours a day inside my apartment?

I stared at him blankly, tightened my grip on the leash, and then got off the elevator without saying a word.




And then I remembered I asked for the halogen light bulbs in my kitchen to be replaced yesterday.

Dogs Versus Cats

I have a small scar under my left eye. I got it Christmas Eve in the year of our Lord 2004 when I was at my then-boyfriend's parent's house. Nikita, a young dog then, was also with me. She had never seen a cat before and she was obsessed with the smaller four-legged and furry house pet.

Matt stood in the door jamb holding the cat protectively, more for the cat's comfort than from the likes of Nikita: Nikita doesn't have an evil inkling in her 50-pound Husky frame. Nikita raised her nose straight in the air, a la Snoopy, trying to drink more of the cat's scent. I crossed the room and reached down to grab her leather Coach collar to hustle her from the cat's space when the cat went all Kitty Ali on me and attacked my face.

I dropped Nikita's collar and shielded myself; the dog fled the scene of the crime on her own. I felt blood run down my face, then my fingers, and then my arms without even having to look. Matt's father ushered me to the kitchen sink where I dumped the blood I cupped in my hands. I held my face under the faucet until the water ran clear again. It seemed to take forever. The cat had missed my eyeball by less than half an inch and left an two-inch long laceration across my face.

I've never had anyone comment on my scar—it faded into a quiet indentation beneath my lashes—but I notice it every morning when I put on mascara. Every time I spy it, I feel comforted. I have an outward scar to reflect and validate the inward pain resulting from that relationship. A battle wound.

It makes me wish every one of my ex-boyfriend's parents owned cats.

Dance Party

While the rest of the crew was inside the Jacksonville stadium, Bonnie and Will stayed behind to watch the UGA/FL game with me at the tailgate. It had been the day of days: the weather was warm and sunny, friends from both past and present co-mingled seamlessly and there was an endless supply of shade, food and beverage. It was the kind of day that fades around the edges like an old photograph. The details have been creased but the general feeling lasts forever.

We lost. Will dug his toe in the ground and drug it in the dirt. Bonnie leaned her head against the back of her Georgia camping chair. The sun had set and we pulled the tent down in darkness. It appears the only thing we forgot was light. No one had made it back from the stadium yet, and we already emulated their attitudes. We had seen our team lose in overtime on a flat screen set up in the back of a 4Runner; it's another thing to witness a loss in person.

I turned the TV off. "You know what we need?" I called back to Bonnie, "A dance party." The iPod with the party mix that had worked so well before the game was turned back on. Coincidentally, Taio Cruz's "Break Your Heart" began. Our hearts were broken, but our spirit was not crushed.

Bonnie jumped up from the chair and began singing and dancing. It was our ode to the Bulldog Nation: "If you fall for me, I'm only gonna tear you apart/ Told you from the start/ I'm going to break break your break break your heart." I grabbed my cup of hunch punch and took a long swig. And then I danced. I couldn't remember the last time I truly, uninhibitedly danced.

Song after song our boots pounded the sandy dirt as we bounced and swayed and flung our arms to the sky. We danced because we were sad, as if it was the most natural thing to do.

People began filing in from the game; most were pleased to see a couple of girls in red and black singing and laughing. Our friends quietly settled in the empty camping chairs with no movement towards anything but sleep. The dance party had ended.

But not in my heart.

Ode to Blockbuster

This morning I shoved my very last Blockbuster rental through the metal slot and drove to work. Then I sat down at my desk and cancelled my online subscription that I've had since I lived in Athens in 2004. OMG, I've had that plan for 6 years!

They've been making money off of me for the past 6 months. It would take me a week after receiving the movie to finally sitting down and forcing myself to watch it. Sometime ago I was in a 1960's French musical phase and every disc I've been getting in the mail recently has induced a WTF response, because clearly 1960's French musicals HAS to be a transient pastime.

So goodbye Blockbuster, it's now cable and Redbox for me.

28 Things I Learned at 28

28. Only buy clothes when they feel good and get rid of them when they stop.

27. It's well worth it to spend money on a personal trainer and/or a therapist.

26. How to knit on double-pointed needles.

25. Every one's time will come.

24. Color makes me happy. Bright, bold colors.

23. I have a pretty awesome sister-in-law.

22. Ending a bad relationship is the kindest thing you can do for yourself.

21. Coleslaw doesn't taste that bad.

20. You don't miss most of the things that you thought you couldn't live without,

19. The mind is capable of controlling the body in unexpected ways.

18. A whole new career.

17. Expensive candles have bolder and longer-lasting aromas than cheap candles.

16. The mean girls exist at any age.

15. Just because you are a good rollerskater at 15 doesn't make you a good one at 28.

14. It's easier to climb a mountain (or just Amicolola Falls) with friends.

13. Everyone has skeletons in their closets.

12. My first impressions are wrong most of the time.

11. That hair that clogged the drain? That's all mine!

10. How to back a truck with a trailer down a boat ramp.

9. Try to appreciate people for who they are what they offer instead of who they could/should be. (This one is hard.)

8. I quote children's books more than the average bear.

7. How to set boundaries.

6. Downer Wrinkle Releaser is the greatest product ever!

5. My natural hair color isn't as bad as I remembered it to be.

4. Dogs are even cooler than I imagined.

3. If it looks like a rat and smells like a rat, then it's a rat. (I learned this lesson twice!)

2. My favorite wine

1. How to smile again.

Tears of a Different Nature

Yesterday was not a good day. Less than two weeks home from my trip to visit my grandmother (and gave her not only a hat, but also a prayer shawl), she fell and broke her hip. And this is less than a month after having and beating pneumonia. My mother says we are a family of fighters (and, might I add, a family of close calls).

So my grandmother is having surgery and my mother is driving up to be with her... and my birthday is tomorrow. I spent yesterday crying at my desk over all the stress I've been experiencing with a bit of pity party on the side. I ended up taking a 2-hour lunch to compose myself. When I returned to my desk, my coworkers said they knew I was sad and lonely and pushed a cup of ice cream towards me.

***

I didn't get up early this morning. I slept through my alarm with enough time to shower, but not to dry the hair. I looked in the rear-view mirror before I stepped out of the car and noticed the blond bits curling (read: frizzing) while the brown bits hung uselessly. I smoothed my hair down and strolled inside.

I was wondering why everyone was standing in the open space of the office. Then I took a few more steps and saw my desk:

They knew I was upset about my canceled plans with my mother for my birthday and took the time to make my (pre)birthday feel special. They sang happy birthday to me while I cried for the second day in a row. But these were tears of a different nature.

My boss, who was out of town at a conference, called in to speak with me. "You are loved," she said.

She is right. I am loved.

Close-Knit

I'm knitting my grandmother a hat. I picked knitting back up a few years ago and I have knitted something for all of my family members except my grandmother. I tell myself it's because my grandmother lives out of town.

That hat I'm knitting is a chemo hat. The yarn is softened so it will not irritate the skin after the cancer patient loses her hair. She's 89 and starting her first round of chemotherapy today in Raleigh.

I'm using size 6 double-pointed needles to make the hat. My knitting style is too tight for me to use circular needles. Size 6 means that the yarn is finer and the stitches will be smaller. This translates to more stitches per inch and more time required to complete the hat.

I wonder if I should have used thicker yarn so she'll get it in time.

I'm not having a great time knitting this hat. I love knitting because it quietens my mind, but this time my thoughts circle What if I don't finish it in time? What am I going to do with this hat when it's use is no longer needed? Should I wear it? Reuse the yarn? Sell it? Give it away? Will my grandmother like it? Will she even wear it?

A prayer shawl gets its name not from the wearer, but from the knitter. It's the knitter who prays for the recipient while she knits the shawl and then blesses it upon completion. To receive one is a special thing.

As I'm knitting up the hat, I try to think positive thoughts in the same spirit of the prayer shawl. But with the tink of the needles, I'm hearing two words repeating themselves over and over again: Death hat, death hat, death hat.

I just wish I made her something sooner because I am so not prepared for this.

Groomed!

Today a girl at work came up to me and invited me for dinner. She said she was looking to make new friends and that I seemed like a sweet girl. I am!

Someone wants to be friends with me. I feel so validated. I've spent my entire life trying to be friends with other people, and now someone is grooming a relationship with me.

The Girl Date is next Wednesday. Two fist pumps!

And.... SPLAT!

I spoke too soon.

The street lights were a bit of a bitch though

Last night I slept with my blinds and curtains drawn for the first time since I moved out of my old apartment. I climbed into bed after turning on a Grey's Anatomy DVD, slipped between the sheets and saw the Bank of America building for the first time from my bedroom window. I realized I had never seen the view from my bedroom window before.

It's been a long time since I felt safe.

48

I had a very frustrating 48 hours this week. The body shop repairing the sexy crowbar skid marks left on my car from being broken into on Halloween was not up to my customer service standards. The whole mess snowballed into me yelling at a 70-year-old in coke-bottle glasses, stealing my car from the body shop, driving home on a leaky tire and ending my day wailing on the floor of my apartment two bottles of wine in. Day two predictably started with me driving on a flat tire until it smoked and then spent $600 on a new set of tires and being without wheels yet again.

(Day three was spent apologizing to the old man at the body shop and returning the car, only for them to perform a completely mediocre job on it, but that's not the point here.)

Worst 48 hours this year, I thought.

Then I remembered the 48 hours in February in which I was laid off and then immediately found out I needed surgery because the chance was likely that I had cancer. That 48 hours kicks this 48 hours' ass.

I picked myself off the floor and wiped my nose. Dug some ice out of the freezer for my swollen eyes. At least I have my job and am cancer-free, I told myself.

And you know what? I didn't feel a bit better.

Grooming

I've been a bit more socially responsible over the past year. I'm starting to do things like R.S.V.P. to invitations. I'll send out handwritten Thank You notes. I bought my sister-in-law of 8 years a birthday present. I suspect I'll buy her another birthday present this year.

Here are the results of my socially sowing:

• Brother nor sister-in-law bought me a birthday present.
• Cards sent did not receive a reply.
• No one really R.S.V.P.'s to my invitations.

My mother applauds my efforts and tells me that I have to groom relationships. But why do I have to be the initiator and instigator all the time?

Why doesn't anyone... groom me?

The Comfort of Myself

Hi.

So you're not here, and that's okay. My blog that was once so manicured and loved is now ingrown. Not sure of that analogy, but I'm going with it.

I met a girl this year and she kept inserting the fact she had a blog into her conversation. She would talk about her commentors as if they were real people in the room with us. I rolled my eyes and inwardly sighed that that was so 2005. And then I thought how this girl must have nothing going on in her life to be so enraptured with her blog and her readers. I felt sorry for her at her obvious ploy to recruit new followers.

Then I felt even lamer when I realized that was me once upon a time.

I'm not sure if I have any more of a life now than back when I was Jamiewhohasablog. Actually, I'm not sure what's changed, if anything.

But I'm okay with no readers and no commentors. Writing in this space feels like I'm talking to myself, but with a comforting echo. It feels just familiar enough to be safe.

So hi, you're not here. I'm basking in the comfort of myself, and that's okay.

Cheek awashed in germs

There were days in a stronger economy that, when my morning went badly enough, I would take a mental-health sick day and just stay in bed where I belonged.

This morning was one of those mornings. I woke up late. I chipped my mother's hand-me-down 20-year-old cookie jar giving the dog a biscuit. My low tire-pressure alarm beeped in the car, and I nailed a curb dropping the boyfriend home at his apartment. But with the economy being what it is, the only thing keeping me at home this year is the swine flu.

So I wasn't really that surprised when my usual karate-chop kick to flush the toilet at work missed, and I ended up crashing against the back wall of the rest room loudly enough to receive a knock from the men's side.