Pardon My French

Welp, we did it.
We made it to Los Angeles, California in one piece.

The trip was a long three and a half days of driving with a cat (and no animal cage). But, the trip itself wasn’t too bad. It was traveling with someone I like that probably helped make this whole thing go smoothly. (See: any other traveling I’ve done solo or with company in the last two years.)

Photos from the road:

Kiwi got scared each time we opened the door to the car for gas:

The roughest part of the whole journey was our last night on the road. We stayed at a hotel called The Travelers Inn in a small town off Interstate-40 called Needles, Arizona.

Up until this point we’ve stuck with the franchised hotel chains, notably The Days Inn and The Comfort Inn. They’re inexpensive, usually come with some sort of coffee inclusive small breakfast and they’re recognizable. Familiar means that they’re a safe bet–people aren’t mysteriously murdered (in either the home invasion or slasher horror film genre fashion) on their property and reviews of their hospitality and cleanliness are available for the world to see, on the internet.

We were looking for the Days Inn when we came upon The Travelers Inn. We were fried after a 12 hour day on the road when we realized that we had accidentally pulled off the highway one exit too early for the familiar chain hotel. We had two car trips worth of luggage and a cat with accompanying litter box to sneak into the building every night, a task that was as nerve-racking as it was tiresome. At this point, The Travelers Inn looked OK from the road and so we checked in.

The pungent smell of patchouli scented incense made my eyes water as we ascended the stairs to the second level. When we rounded the corner of the balcony, we passed the pool where a small group of middle aged people slugged beer and shouted profanities either in front of or at their kids. Another group, leaning over the balcony and contributing to the shouting, blocked the walk way. All of them froze and stared at us as we passed.

When we finally made it to our room and closed the door, I could hear The Grateful Dead blaring through the wall and the incense smell still lingered heavily in the air. (Later, I realized that the origin of this smell came from the soap that had been provided by the hotel and it was the type of quality that snapped in two upon rubbing it against the palms of your hands.)

We went to sleep early but, were rudely awakened at 4 a.m. by a loud creaking sound. At first, I panicked because I thought the ceiling was going to cave in. But, after a few moments has passed and we were still alive/not covered in plaster, it became clear that it was just people walking around their room. We didn’t sleep well the rest of the night.

The next morning, after checking out, Phil said he didn’t even attempt to complain because it was clear to him that they just didn’t care.

In conclusion, Travelers beware: avoid The Travelers Inn in Needles, Arizona, even if you are really tired and want out of the car immediately. Just wait for the next exit.

“…So, you don’t have a job lined up out there, yet?”

For a moment, this person pauses. Their eyes softly glaze over before they dart to the floor. If this is a family party, there’s most certainly a glass of something alcoholic in hand and relative x/friend of my dad’s takes a quick swig from it.

“You sure this is what you want?” This is the second time I’ve been asked this question during this conversation, only this time, relative X isn’t meeting my eyes.

I bob my head back in forth, in their direction, and take a sip from my own glass.

My explanation of the plan, of how Phil Hornshaw and I are to move to Los Angeles doesn’t fall in line with the structure of careful planning that dictated the course of my entire academic career, from elementary school to graduating from college. It’s inadequate.

“This is reckless and irresponsible,” their expression seems to read. “You’re just two kids, shacking up (god I hate that term) without a plan.”

Sometimes they pat me on the shoulder and add a half hearted “best of luck to you, then” before wandering off, but usually, they beeline across the gathering, pushing past assorted relatives, looking for my dad. They want to ask him what he’s thinking letting his baby move across the country.

I’m no child, but my parents don’t know how to parent a 20-something. It’s not something I fault them for entirely, these things take time to learn. But, it’s still difficult living in their house when for years I lived on my own. Living here has me feeling like I’m treading water. I’m going nowhere, working retail, the same plain kind of day in white suburbia, everyday, no challenges to be faced, ever.

I feel that being here is keeping me from being independent, in any sense of the word. It’s occurred to me that I will never save enough money to make my parents worry free, ever.  But I think that soon, everyone will understand that I need something different, somewhere different. I need diversity in my surroundings. It will be OK, guys. I will be OK.

There seem to be fewer jobs in Michigan, everyday. I have a job, but I didn’t go to college to work retail. In California, there are opportunities for writers, and friends currently living there may be able to help us network our way into those jobs. If not, I do still have Trader Joe’s and realistically, what’s the difference between living here and there and working at the same place?

Phil and I don’t have any debt. We’re happy, we’re healthy, we’re dreamers and we’re people with good work ethic. The whole picture hasn’t been developed quite, yet, but, we’ll work it out. We’re strong and there’s no reason to keep waiting. Our time is now.

It’s a move the two of us have discussed for the last half of a year but, to everyone else, it seems kind of sudden. We’re leaving Thursday, February 11, sometime in the early morning. We’re taking a few days to drive there, in one car (we’ll come back for the other car and the rest of our stuff later) and we’re staying at a friend’s place until we find a suitable and affordable apartment. I don’t have a job, yet, despite my constant perusal of employment sites like JournalismJobs, CareerBuilder, Monster.com and even Craiglist. But, so far, no bites.

Until opportunity knocks (and I’ll be standing near the door, so to speak) my Trader Joe’s job transfers and Phil still has his job.

Sure, the big change is scary. Change always is. I cried the first day I arrived at school–broke down in tears the moment my dad’s Silverado Pick Up left the parking lot, leaving me there alone. Same thing in Grand Rapids, Cass City and in France. But, I held it together, learned a lot of things about myself and these experiences, good and bad, they helped me to grow up.

I’m not worried, though. Because I’m not alone this time.

We can do this. I know it.

Once my mother made a drive thru employee cry.

I was 6 or 7 years old and my mom had had a pretty awful day. A home cooked meal was out of the question, McDonalds was close and so that was it. This wasn’t too unusual so we knew the drill–Do what she asked of us, shut up, don’t spill French fries all over the car and we were in good shape. Even back then I was confident that it was occasions like these that inspired the creation of fast food chains all together.
I remember mom staring blankly at the largest of the three cups in the paper tray that the girl in the window had just passed through the driver’s side window. “What is this?” Only, it wasn’t a question because she had no intention of waiting for an answer.

“I asked for a Diet Coke with NO ice. You know. WITHOUT ice.”

The McDonalds employee apologized and reached her arm through the window to take back the tray, to correct the problem. But my mother wasn’t done. Clearly this girl’s absent minded reflex to fill the cup with ice, just like filled all of the other cups all day long, was a personal attack. Actual shouting at this person, name calling took place for over a minute before my mother handed back the cup. Tears streamed down her face as my sister and I slumped in the backseat as though we were trying to become become smaller somehow, if only to disappear. Even as a 1st grader, I realized that this was not normal and that people should never be treated this way. Consequently, I’ve always been extra nice, genuine to those working in the food industry and retail. Now that I work retail, I wish the same could be said for all people.

Phil once said something to me along the lines of “everyone should spend some time working retail at least once in their life.” I really couldn’t agree more. It humbles you, teaches you to appreciate things more and it helps you to realize things about humanity. Lately, these realizations haven’t been the most uplifting. For starters, the holidays really do bring out the worst in people. This year Thanksgiving wasn’t so much about giving thanks and goodwill. People were cranky and they just wanted their groceries as quickly as possible. During many of these individual pursuits for turkey, gravy or whatever, I was firmly grabbed by the wrist at the register because one man “didn’t want his bag in a cart,” rammed with a cart multiple times in the shin (When my eyes welled up with tears the third time I was hit in the exact same place, one woman muttered ‘Oh, sorry’ and continued throwing groceries on the check out counter) and I was shouted at. It was like I wasn’t even a person. Meanwhile, the Christmas music played on.

I’m also irritated by how predictable people are. I have the same conversation hundreds of times per day.

Me: “Hi. How are you?”
Customer: “Good. How are you? (not interested in reply as they throw their stuff on the counter.)
**In case of sunshine/warm temperatures**
Customer: “Weather’s really great today!”
**In case of rain/cold temperatures**
Customer: “Really wish the weather was better like last week. Last week was great.

**In case they brought their own reusable bags**
Me: “Would you like to enter our drawing since you brought your own bags?”
Customer: “Sure, even though I never win.” or “Gotta win one of these times.” *fake laughter*
**In case they didn’t bring their own reusuable bags**
Customer (always makes sure to tell me): “Oh, I forgot my bags.”

**In case something won’t scan and I have to manually type it in**
Customer: “Oh, well then it’s free” *fake laughter or plastic, obnoxious smile*

Customer: “Is this pinpad new?”
Me: “Yes. We got them about two months ago.”

**In case customer’s total is less than $25**
Customer: “Oh. I don’t need to sign?”
Me: “Nope. Not if it’s less than $25.”

Why always with the fake laughter, guys? It’s not funny so why even pretend to laugh? And the fake smiles? That didn’t even look real! If it’s an effort to make me feel more comfortable with you, you just struck out. I’d rather you be genuine. Just be you. And when you resort to small talk, try something other than the weather. Try global events or the song playing over the intercom or a movie you caught over the weekend. Weather discussions are just plain weak and I’ve held the philosophy to avoid them for as long as I can remember. I will consciously try to start conversations about other subjects and people become thrown off, some even noticebly irritated by this. They want conversation so they can do their fake laughs, but people are comfortable with weather so that’s all they want to discuss.

This entry may read extremely whiny. I know a job’s a job and fake smiling is all a part of the one I got. It’s just hard. Lately, I’ve been having a pretty bad case of the blues. I realized today it’s because I’ve worked five days in a row the same shift each day–2:30-11 p.m. Each day has been identical and mundane. My job’s not a creative one with my means of expressing myself limited to my shoes and scarf, and it’s upsetting. I just keep telling myself I’m a step closer to a “real” job. You know, the kind that requires that degree I earned.

It came to me in the shower.
I was a little dazed, two evening’s ago, tired from a long day of heaving loads of produce boxes and struggling to please Trader Joe’s core customer demographic: Stepford Wife-like Rochester Moms. I closed my eyes for a moment and let the hot water wash over my face, stream down my shoulders, and soothe the build up of stress in my upper back. I remember that my mind was completely blank, a rare phenomenon, and one that hasn’t occurred in months. When I opened my eyes again, and reached out for the bottle of shampoo with the broken lid, something happened.
I got an idea.
A possible working introduction to the novel I haven’t touched in nearly six months. In that moment, I was suddenly magically cured of the writer’s block that has tormented me for nearly half of a year.

Earlier this year I reconnected with Jeffrey Feys, the inspiration for my story. Time had appeared to heal the both of us. I did miss him. But, I soon learned that Jeff hadn’t changed. The Jeff Show was the same as it had always been. It all threw a massive emotional wrench in my already slowly turning gears. A year of healing down the drain.

Since beginning my career as a professional writer, I’ve learned, among many other things that: A.) moments of inspiration almost never last, B.) sources don’t always return phone calls as promised and C.) sometimes, something as unexpected as a snow storm or a house fire can bump page 1A worthy coverage to page 3. It happens and it happens often. That’s why I’ve become a bit superstitious over the last few years. It’s absurd when I stop and think about it, but I almost fear that writing about my sudden brush with inspiration, acknowledging it as a miracle, will jinx my entire project. I’m just going to cross my fingers, though. I need to claim my victories where I can. Because gosh darn it, as a member of the degree toting, minimum wage Working Class America, I deserve it!

Yesterday, I made words. Exactly 2,161 of them.
I began writing around 1 p.m. and quit around 6–not because I ran out of steam, but because I had prior engagements with Phil and the computer screen was starting to burn my eyes.

Though, I was initially reluctant to register, I recently signed up for National Novel Writing Month, thirty days and nights of literary abandon. The goal is to write a 175 page (50,000-word) novel by midnight on November 30.
NaNoWriMo works like a social networking site–Create a profile, add friends, update your daily word count and track those of your peers. Phil and friends Frank Wisswell, Jessica Tackett and Amanda Turk are also participating. It’s a flame under the ass, and the perfect means to finally get this project off of the ground. Clearly, my flood of inspiration came at a perfect time. All of those words in a single month seems a little impossible–It works out to be about 2,000 per day. But, I have to try.

I’m moving, again.
Summer is ending, which means that I must give those U of M students their apartment back and I have to leave Ann Arbor.

Thursday I pack up the Taurus and move back in with my parents in Shelby Township. It will be the sixth time I have reassigned my residence in the last year. (1. Grand Rapids–> My Parents’ Place, 2. My Parents’ Place–> France, 3. France–> My Parents’ Place, 4. My Parents’ Place–> Mt. Pleasant, 5. Mt. Pleasant–> Ann Arbor.)

From the beginning I knew that my time in Ann Arbor was just temporary, but that didn’t stop me from growing attached to this place.

I’ll miss being able to see the State and Michigan Theaters light up the downtown, Midnights at the Fleetwood Diner, people watching through the window at Espresso Royale on State Street.

I’ll miss that hippie couple that’s always holding hands on the Diag, the 60-something in the bright green Chuck Taylor All Stars, pink, green and purple dreadlocked hair, the ever changing graffiti alley on E. Liberty and the Michael Jackson impersonator that dances there.

I’ll miss being within walking distance of coffee and sushi at any point on any day. I’ll miss the way people drop in on conversations in coffee shops, the way it felt to so easily feel part of a community.

I learned a lot and grew a lot as a person this summer.
Jeff and I reconnected. I again foolishly gave him my friendship only to quickly learn that time has changed nothing.

I tried to press on, to write my novel despite all that I was feeling. But, when I would write, I just ended up crumbling these ideas into a ball. I have finally regrouped and am prepared to move on. I am ready to write my story.

In a lot of ways, I view returning to my childhood home as a huge step backward. I don’t have a full time job, no insurance and am without the means to live on my own. But, I’m looking at the scenario through the eyes of an optimist. This is a chance for me to get some writing done, to hit the gym, to get some work and to start seriously saving for mine and Phil’s move out West.

Opportunity there is more bountiful, I crave a fresh start and I want to continue to share my life with Phil.

I’m looking forward. I keep telling myself this is all temporary.

Home Again
Here I go again, justifying my emotions through the context of books I’ve never actually read.
The authors fictionalized chronicles of social flaw without proposed solution
Before murdering themselves as brutally and beautifully as possible.

In a way I have read it.
So long ago, my name could have been yours and yours could have been mine.
The pages stick together, yellowed from time and naturally oily fingers.
The indented, blocky font arranged across the book’s front cover is all I can recollect.

Wedged between memories of watermelon summer and the way canned coffee tastes when mom makes it.
I’ve always known it.
I can’t go home again.

A house that reeks of disappointment and longing.
My dreams still radiate near the roof sector above my old childhood home like light pollution.
Roads, subdivisions, vacant landscape– like the kid you used to babysit,
have endured puberty and forgotten you.

Home again.
Home, again.

-Me