On ATM Machines. And Incidentally, Redundancy.

Is it legal to walk up to drive-thru ATMs? Because if it is, I had no idea. And let me tell you, it’s super awkward to find out that it might possibly be legal whilst parked at an ATM, making a transaction, when there is someone just STANDING RIGHT THERE BEHIND YOUR CAR.

Religidiot.

So, when things started to get hot this season, and it was time to break out the sandals, I came to a startling conclusion:  The only sandals I had that were still surviving were cheapo skanky flip-flops. I hadn’t, I realized, bought nice summer shoes in a few years! And I realized I needed shoes I could 1) wear in hot weather, and 2) wear with a dress, or to work without announcing my arrival with the gentle “smack-smack” of foam rubber on my nasty heels.

So after surveying the goods at Urban Outfitters, DSW, Macy’s, FreePeople.com, and finally, the goods in my bank account, I found myself at Target this afternoon, hoping to find something that looked cute but not cost and arm and a leg (because if you think about it, that would diminish the cuteness of any sandals I bought by about half).

Standing there, a beggar trying to be a chooser, I couldn’t find anything I liked.  First of all, where did this fad come from where we glue plastic jewels and sequins on all the shoes?!  The strappy gladiator types were nice, but as I struggled with all the straps and buckles in the store, I suddenly had a clear vision of myself throwing them across my room after getting frustrated with how complicated they were.  I also have a mind block on patent leather and snakeskin (unfortunate in 2009), so that wiped out like half of the selection. I considered fringed thongs, but then I realized, one more pair of fringed leather shoes, and I’m sure the Minnetonka Fringe Police are going to put out a warrant out for my arrest.

Then, I saw them. A flat, braided t-strap slingback thong that hit all my requirements: No cheap bling, no sparkles or patent leather, simple, gladiator-like without all the bells and whistles, less than $20… In a size 9.

I’m a size 6 1/2 – 7ish, but no matter, I searched all the shoe racks for the same style in my size.  I found an 11 and a 5 1/2. Shoot.  After trying unsuccessfully to wedge my foot into the latter, I walked up to the lady at the fitting room counter and asked if they had any other sizes in the back.  A quick search on her magical scanning machine and she found there were none left in that Target, but there might be in another area Target. I thanked her and began to walk away, when she offered to call said Target branch and ask. I agreed.

10 minutes and 8 impatient fitting room patrons later, we found out that the other Target was out too.  I thanked her for going through so much trouble and walked away dejectedly.  Those were the only sandals I really liked… in true overdramatic fashion, I pictured myself going to summer cookouts, wearing adorable sundresses and dirty flip-flops as people pointed and laughed.

Sometimes, I find a good overwrought and unrealistic fantasy can help me feel better about reality, which is that nobody really cares what shoes I wear except for me.

But still, I wandered through the racks, hoping against hope that perhaps another style would suddenly appeal to me.

And then, there they were: My Shoes. In a size 7.  They were without a box, and carelessly shoved into a row of shoes where they didn’t belong.  Overjoyed, I grabbed them, took them to the front and paid, and practically skipped out of the store!

In my ecstasy, I thought to myself, “It’s almost as if GOD HIMSELF knew how much I wanted those shoes, and answered my prayers!” (Not that I stood there and prayed in Target, or anything.)

Then I laughed at my ridiculous thought.  Because I’m sure God is up in heaven going, “We’ve got people on Earth dying of war and disease and famine… but this girl, she needs some cute shoes.”

I’m releasing this into the ether…

I thought when I brought out the cast,
it might be painful, too raw.
Watching them parade before me,
through a roomful of people,
all the colors that I had painted
one year ago.

the colors of
hippies, peace,
music, beatniks,
and Love.
(They were dictated to me and I accepted them gladly.)

And Feste.
Feste that sang the folk music
that narrated the play.
I imagined
the songs of love
that you played for me.

I thought I wouldn’t be able to look into his painted face.
The plaid shirt, brown locks
I curled around his ears
(like yours, and like mine),
the guitar with which he sang the story.

Because,
When I rendered Feste, I rendered you.
You,
you were my Guthrie, my Dylan,
my clown musician.

You made me believe that art,
that music,
could save us.
(and poetry could ruin us.)

But the drawing was still smiling,
and I was still smiling,
because I know you’re going back to that guitar.
Strumming out the melody
of the life you feel
you lost hold of.

So play your music.
Work out the song
that you want your life to sing.
And sing it.

If it’s the same song, sing it.
If it’s a different song, sing it.
Even if it has to be
a song
I don’t know the words to.

Because I love you.
And it’s your happiness I miss,
and your happiness I will celebrate,
when you can strum it out again.

*This was a “poem” written more than a year and a half ago.  It was an exercise in futility. I’m publishing it because, it’s just been sitting on my computer all this time, 28 KB of increasing irrelevance.

Argh.

Well, I haven’t had the energy or will to write about much here, but riddle me this:

What exactly are you supposed to do when you’ve been seduced into what you thought was a significant friendship, one that actually turned out to mean a lot to you, especially in times of hardship, based on an unlikely connection indeed, and yet one that seemed to transcend history?

And this person you’ve learned to care about as you would any close friend, they invite you to their turf, even after flaking on you many times, and you decide to go, because their friendship has meant THAT much to you for so long now, and you go, and though it takes so much out of you, you do it because you feel you owe this person in a way, and quite frankly, you have so much in common, even though you have the most fabulous circle of friends and don’t really have time for another, you feel it would be a CRIME not to pursue this, as this person has shown signs of understanding you on a much deeper level than you have ever experienced in any REAL way.

This person has been places that you have, physically and emotionally, that no one else you know has.  It’s comforting, and inspiring, in a way.

Then you realize, this person is sensitive too, just like you… this person is having SUCH a hard time adjusting to new expectations of herself… she’s in a new environment, she has someone new to answer to, and she is in a world that is not forgiving, not at all. And you know this, because she told you.  And you understand. But you see, you see she is keeping her head up as best she can, and as far as you’re concerned, she is doing a fabulous job. And you feel, you feel after all, the least you can do is reach out to her, because she has reached out to you in so many ways that you didn’t even think you deserved… and you just want to  return the feeling.

So you tell her you want to hang out, you want her to come along on your outings with friends… you really have such a fabulous set of friends, and you think, they’d love this girl, she’s got such a big heart… but she turns you down, she doesn’t answer, she says yes, I will meet you at that coffee shop, and then she flakes out. Over and over again. And you start to get mixed signals, like, maybe she finds you annoying as hell. Maybe everyone finds you annoying as hell.

But you just wanted to do for her something that had the gravity of what she’s done for you: Unquestioning acceptance.

She comes back shortly, she comes back, and gives you the recommendation of a book of poetry that is the most incredible you ever read, poetry that makes you stop and think about things you’d shoved into the background of your head until now, poetry that makes your breath catch in your throat.  To be fair, you’ve never been into poetry, but this first foray, makes you think, God, why was I WRITING “poetry” all this time and never bothering to understand POETRY? Why? Because I was Scared, that’s why.

So, all these things have transpired, and now she’s distant, like someone you shared a college class with, only you never did, only one lover, and you think, is that it? You’re tortured in a way, and in another way you get it: HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN RIGHT.  But you can’t stand to live in a world where this is true… but she’s been talking of unhappiness that gives you unease because you know the unhappiness of which she speaks… she’s drowning, she’s drowning, and then she claims we’ve all overreacted.

You feel like a chump. No. A Chump-and-a-half.  You screw up your courage and tell her you feel misled and apologize for being so overbearing. You only wanted to do right by her, because she did so much for you.

You never hear from her.

But riddle me this: what would you have done?