A Peek At His Cards

Like a plague on my social network, I’ve lost a lot of people I thought would always be there.  It’s been a rough summer.

I’ve experienced a lot of pain from a lot of different things going on in my life, from failed relationships to terminal grandparents.  But nothing has made me blubber to snotting more than when, in the midst of these situations, all I’ve wanted to do is talk to one of my old friends and crumbled under the weight of attempting to hold it all up on my own in their absence.

I process everything externally and, given I haven’t had the outlet to do so, I began having a lot of nightmares as my subconscious tried to deal with the issues I didn’t know how to on my own.

But I just realized that it’s been a good week or so since my last nightmare.  I can assure you it is not because my problems have disappeared.  On the contrary, they’ve only grown.  But something is different.

For starters, I’m learning to trust in some people I’m not used to trusting in.  But it isn’t just that.

I’m learning that my modus operandi is to turn to people first.  Because I process things by talking to people, I think I underestimate the value, the benefit, the NECESSITY of talking things out with God.  I assume that I can only figure things out if I hear someone talking back to me.  But something tells me I’m wrong.

He wants me to turn to Him.  FIRST.  This is not natural for me.

It’s times like these that make me feel green.

But green is good.  Green is growth.

Yes. It’s Monday.

Yesterday, September Alliance, just two days from their first ever concert at Avenue L Coffeehouse,  had their first photo shoot with award winning photographer and friend, Cio!

Note to the wise:  Do not jump from high places, barefoot, onto the asphalt while holding someone’s hand, one on either side.  You will not let go in time and you will somehow manage to not only bruise the bottom of your foot and eat the asphalt, since you do not have use of your hands to brace the impact, but you will also produce an unusable picture seeing as the shutter will capture you struck with fear as you realize you are crashing down to your doom.

In the course of artistic events, my sunglasses {at the time being worn by our newest addition Chris Nelson, the percussionaut} somehow were strewn about to the grass beside a silo outside of the feed store we were looking sexy in front of in some sort of emphatic gesture involving the words “Well, if RYAN isn’t wearing glasses then IIIIi’m not wearing glasses EITHER.”  I was too distracted to notice as I was having a flashback to the No Doubt video “Don’t Speak” as Cio asked me to move around to the front.

We searched for the glasses for ages in “the love van” that took us to the photo shoot, which, in and of itself,  is a whole other story involving musicians making sweet, sweet music on a mattress in the back of said “love van”; it was  very BlackCabSession-like.

This morning, Cio remembered Chris’s facetious diva tantrum and the final resting place of my sunglasses just as I was beginning the 4th stage of grief.

As I drove to work, I thought about stopping by the feed store, but considering it’s in the tiny yet overly stoplighted heart of downtown and I both live and work on the outskirts, I decided against it.  As I was taking the makeshift “loop” around town, I passed a different feed store.

Then, proceeded to consider stopping there to look for my sunglasses,  since, you know, they’re both feed stores…

… And this is how I know it’s Monday.

Tiny, Homicidal Primate

I’ve been wondering for a while if I would post about this, and whereas I would like to maintain some sort of credibility as a rational human being, sound enough in judgment and mind to be chosen as a juror today for a criminal case in Walker County, but some things are far too terrifying, though irrational, to hold in.

Last Friday, I was driving to work in the little rural neighborhood that my office is located within.  As I approached the street I turn down, I noticed something black, small, and squatty up ahead.  I’d like to say that perhaps it was that I had not received enough sleep the night before or some other excuse explaining my impaired judgment, but this is not the case.  Instead, I must tell you in all honesty that I saw this black, squatty being appear to be hobbling towards something, it’s entire body shifting from side to side with each step.

My first thought?  A little person outfitted in black.  Upon closer inspection, though, I noticed that this little person was far too little to be one and the uniformity of the black made me then suspect that it was all one piece… as if it were fur or hair.

My second thought?  A tiny primate.

That’s when I became gripped with a nearly paralyzing fear.  Why fear?  Because I was instantly convinced that this creature was very purposefully headed in a very distinct direction and the thought of a tiny primate walking with conviction and determination made me think something further in irrationality.  I assumed that this tiny primate was hobbling down the country road to kill someone, recalling that one a few months ago THAT ATE A WOMAN’S FACE OFF.

Naturally, I didn’t lose my wits completely until I saw that, upon getting closer to the animal, that it looked even more ape like and hairy.

It’s at this point that my chest tightened and I lost my ability to breath more than but the shallowest of breaths.  Perhaps it was the sudden loss of oxygen or the implications of a homicidal ape walking down the street from where I work, but it is at this point that tears began to swell my eyes, blurring my vision, and altogether not aiding the rational side of my brain to process and interpret the stimuli properly.

I gained enough composure to slow my vehicle, fearing at this point that it would hear my vehicle and transfer it’s vendetta to me.

And with one quick turn of the ape to the left, I not only gasped life back into my lungs and quickly tucked my body into the fetal position excepting the right hand on the steering wheel which was currently engaged on a death grip, but I also was able to observe, through my fearful brow, that it was in fact a medium sized dog with a bushy tail that curled up.

Fears instantly appeased, I drove the remaining two minutes to the office, trying to regain some self-dignity but essentially reliving the images of fear I had witnessed moments prior.

…

This morning, as mentioned earlier, I was among 150 people summoned to be on the jury of a criminal case.  In the weeding out process, many were able to raise their hands and divulge upon reasons for why, perhaps, they were not suited to serve on this particular jury.  I, on the other hand, was lacking.  As a result, I was, in fact, chosen to serve as a juror.  Due to procedures within the first 15 minutes, however, it became a mistrial and we were all excused.  In the end, it turned into a monumental waste of time having taken 4 and 3/4 hours to become a mistrial.

There were some plus sides, though, like the handsome state trooper and the charming attorney making goo goo eyes at me as we lingered in the foyer to discuss why we were being dismissed.  Also, I was given the rest of the day off, which led me to write this blog in my new found free time.

Which gives me inspiration…

The next time I go to fulfill my civic duty and they ask if anyone has any reason why they feel they would not be able to serve as a juror, I will raise my hand and state that I have, on occasion, mistaken a harmless dog for a homocidal primate based on the appearance of its fur.  That is, of course, assuming I don’t see either the hunky state trooper or suave lawyer in there…

Prostitweet

So this one time, I was waiting for Cio to pick me up to go to a wedding.  It was 100 degrees outside, my car was without A/C, and there was drama goin’ on inside of the gas station I was waiting at, so I stood outside without my cardigan.  Stilettos, strappy dress, hand on hip, I stood there looking anxiously for Cio’s truck.

That’s when a car pulled up.

Granted, it’s a gas station.  Cars typically pull up to gas pumps.  The owners of said cars typically get out and fuel their cars.  It’s what they do.

What startled me was not that a car pulled up.  What startled me was where the car pulled up:  right beside me, not a pump.

That’s when I noticed the eyes the driver was giving me.

Then it all came together…

I think he thought I was a prostitute.

My immediate reaction?

Take out my phone and update my twitter.

An Alliance with Troll Prostitutes

Considering September Alliance’s first concert is coming up in a couple of weeks, Ryan and I decided we miiiiiiiiiiiiiiight need to practice for the first time.  You know, considering we’d already set up our myspace, facebook fan page, and fan email account.

After figuring out our set list, we began looking up lyrics and chords to the songs we plan to cover for our July 7th concert at Avenue L Coffeehouse {cough cough hint hint… cough… HINT}.  One of the lasts on the list, but highly anticipated:  ”Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey.

Ukulele in my hand, guitar in Ryan’s, we start figuring out strumming patterns and tweaking occasional chords on account of my elf hands that can’t stretch across even the microfrets of a ukulele.  All the while, we’re reading/singing the lyrics.

This is when I first discover that I didn’t really know the lyrics to this song.  For it is then that I first read the words “streetlight people”.

I don’t know if you are a rational person or not, and though I’d like to think I am, it is not my first natural inclination.

What’s that hissing and ticking noise I hear as I go out to my car late at night at a friends house?  Obviously, it’s a purple, tentacled monster… or… a water sprinkler system.  Right… yeah… water sprinklers…

So, you see, when I first read:

“Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching in the night
Streetlight people, living just to find emotion
Hiding, somewhere in the night”

Naturally, I assumed it was referring to trolls.  When I thought of people on a boulevard, I imagined the waterway down in the Woodlands.  There are little bridges there, too.  So, streetlight people?  Trolls.  Obviously.  So why is Journey singing about trolls?  Meh.  Who cares.  How the heck am I supposed to make my hand stretch to make the next chord.  FOCUS, MENASCO.

So, I went about my merry way, singing about trolls, not giving it another thought as I was concentrating on the new strumming pattern switcharoo in the middle of the song.  Afterall, I might be female, but I am NO multitasker.  As a substitute teacher, I can’t even take roll because it requires me to read a name, say a name, listen for a response, and then mark on a paper in a quick fashion.  As a “musician”?  I’m sorry… you want me to do one thing with one hand, something else with another, “sing”, aaaaaaaaaaaand pay attention to the lyrics?  Unlikely.

It wasn’t until our next practice a week later that it occurred to me that the chorus {Is that what it’s called?  Chorus?  Verse?  I don’t know… I just tell Ryan to rename them “the fun part” and “the hard part”} about trolls was a wee bit non sequitur.  After all, I thought this song was about prostitutes… And then…

Nicole:  Hey… I thought this song was about trolls.

Ryan:  What?

Nicole:  You know… streetlight people… hiding in the shadows.  It’s kinda creepy and ghoulish.  But it’s not about trolls.  It’s about prostitutes… right?  So now I picture troll prostitutes.

From there, we discussed what a troll prostitute would look like… You know… It’s not much different than what a troll normally looks like.  They got their bling bling on their belly stickin’ out.  They got their haggardly distorted face.  They got their crazy hair.  They got their hot pants… maybe some sort of halter top.  I mean, if they made hooker lace hose small enough, I’m sure a troll would wear it…

I’m just sayin’.  Demz some trashy toys once you get tuh thinkin’ ’bout it.

Anywho, I hope I’ve forever changed that song for you.  You just can’t keep stuff like this in, you know?