A Room of One's Own

I love delusional people!

This little bit of journalism is really is why I love country music. You need to click hereand just read the article. It’s beautiful. No really. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

 

Okay. That was awesome, right? Now, I have never been to a Tim McGraw concert before. Despite the fact that he is so smokin’ hot that I would be enthralled watching him scrap paint off a fence, I only like a handful of his songs unlike our good buddy Marcus. This is apparently not Marcus’ rookie Tim McGraw concert going year.

 

I am so in love with this guy’s story. It’s perfect! Let’s dissect it shall we?

 

He was making his way up to his third row seat because he didn’t want to miss Indian Outlaw. This begs the question of where was he before. Shaking hands? Kissing babies? Helping granny find her seat? Oh no. I am certain he was in the beer line. My spidey sense tells me I’m correct here.

 

What happens next is absolutely exquisite. He says that when he saw Tim McGraw reach down toward him, he thought Tim was pulling him up on stage because he’s been to six shows and Tim recognized him. Yes, that’s exactly what Tim was doing because when Tim is on tour and seeing hundreds of thousands of people over several years, it’s you, Large Redneck Man Who is Still Wearing Jean Shorts*, that he is focusing on. It’s all about you big guy! Tim is so inspired by YOU that he wants YOU to come on stage and join him in singing the dumbest song he has ever recorded. Yeah. No, this guy wasn’t drunk. My favorite part is where he is so delusional he stands on a chair to get onstage easier. Brilliant.

 

We know he was not drunk because he remembers the event. I’m sorry but even as a hefty redneck man, I am certainly my ass would sober up real fast if Tim McGraw threw me across a stage and then I was pounced on by half a dozen security dudes. I’m just sayin’. And remembering does not count if you totally remember it wrong. There have been a few times (many?) that I absolutely recall after a night of drinking being downright adorable, fun, intriguing and fabulous only to find out that I wasn’t so much those things as I was a total jackass. It’s important to know the difference.

 

There is one thing to love about Marcus. He’s not a grudge holder. Oh no. He plans on going to see Tim McGraw again. It’s like he’s doing Tim a favor by not being mad at him for nearly having him pummeled. Again, only something you would see at a redneck concert. If that happened at a Kayne concert, you know damn well someone would have had a cap popped in their ass. You just can’t deny that one.

 

*Disclaimer – I didn’t have to watch the You Tube Videoof the ass beating in order to know I should describe him as such. I just intuitively knew it. The overuse of double negatives was a dead giveaway.

The meaning of life

is a bar in Pensacola and an old blue chair.

I played Jimmy Buffett's "Bama Breeze" on repeat at least a dozen or so times today. For a good 15 minutes I just sat in my office, staring out the window, playing the song over and over with a smile on my face. If I could bottle how that song makes me feel and the absolute peace and calm and quiet and happiness it gives me, I could make millions and retire to the Carribbean. And oddly, I've never stepped foot in the Florabama.

That's the meaning of life. That feeling. Sometimes you know it's happening and sometimes it takes a while to realize life happened to you. Knowing it is the secret.

It's sitting in a beach chair on Playa Las Gatas in Zihuatenejo, Mexico all by yourself watching the local fisherman deliver his morning catch to the bar owner and the radio on the boat plays Van Morrison's "And It Stoned Me."

It's King, an old black man, sitting on a bench on River St. in Savannah, Georgia making you a palmetto rose out of palm frawns.

It's driving around in a limousine, filled with Kim Taylor's big laugh, in Jackson, Mississippi, listening to Delbert McClinton and drinking Dom Perignon, too stuffed on lobster from Schimmel's to move, on the way to Hal and Mal's.

It's that moment ten miles outside of Rocky Point, with the windows rolled down, drinking your third beer, Kenny Chesney's "Old Blue Chair" on the stereo, when relaxation and the fact that your on vacation really hits you.

It's stepping off of the subway in New York City and being met by the sound of a string quartet of college age students playing Vivaldi's "Spring I Allegro."

It's waking up in the morning to a hand gently touching your face and opening your eyes and the first thing you hear that day is, "Mommy. You're so preeeeeeeetty."

It's the last mile of a ten mile run, late at night in September when the night air just starts to cool, nothing around you but the smell of creosote and Mahalia Jackson singing "Precious Lord."

It's just matter of letting it happen and knowing it's happened .

Good in theory, bad in practice

I want to like yoga. I really do. I want to be one of those yoga people. I want the cute outfits and to feel all at peace with the world. My only problem is that I hate yoga. This is a huge issue. It also has made me realize why I don’t eat sushi. I so badly want to be one of those sushi people, as well. I’m just afraid I’ll hate it and then where will I be? Shunned by the masses because I only eat cooked fish? Sounds less appealing that ingesting raw octopus.

 

I went to a new yoga class at the gym at lunch today. It was the longest hour of my entire life. It looked something like this:

 

10:58 – Excellent, I am early. Is Mr. Clean the yoga teacher? Please don’t play that chanting music, mmmm’kay?

 

11:05 – Okay, full room. Most everyone is older than me. I’m doing pretty well. I know it’s only the first five minutes but I am certain I can kick everyone’s ass at this. Wait. Is yoga even a competitive sport?

 

11:12 – Thank you Mr. Clean for your exemplary skills in selecting suitable yoga music and not subjecting me to chanting music. However, I will be forwarding you a memo with a list of songs that I can’t hear without feeling the need to sing along. My desire to belt out “Levon” is distracting me. Don’t you know he was born a pauper to a pawn on a Christmas Day when the New York Times said God was dead?

 

11:14 – “Levon” not withstanding I simply cannot balance on one of anything. Feet, hands, knees, you name it. My mind and body don’t function correctly as individual entities. You want me to try getting them to do what I want together? Sure. I’m starting to dislike you, Mr. Clean.

 

11:22 – Oh my God. Only 22 minutes have passed. Will this never end? I loathe yoga. Parts of me are twitching that I do not want twitching unless I’m sequestered away with a member of the opposite sex. Are we listening to John Mayer? John Mayer… Opposite sex…. John Mayer…. Shit, I’m falling over.

 

11:26 – Can I just sit in Child Pose for the next 34 minutes? I swear, I’ll bring a note from my mom for the next class. I wonder how noticeable it would be if I went to the bathroom and never came back. It worked on a date once. It could work here.

 

11:38 – How often do they clean these mats? Why didn’t I bring my own? Something in here smells like feet.

 

11:43 – Alright, look little girl to the right of me. I get it. You can bend in half way better than I can. It’s because you’re short. Okay? There I said it. I didn’t want to have to get nasty but you’re showing off and I don’t appreciate it. I can’t help it if God made me long limbed. There is a hell of a lot more distance between my midsection and the floor than for you. Stop making me feel inferior you little bitch! God.

 

11:51 – Tree Pose. Great. Brilliant. I am certain that if you gave a flamingo a really significant amount of cocaine it would look exactly as I do now. Can we just end this?

 

11:58 – Excellent. The lie in Corpse Pose part of the afternoon. I like this part. I am really good at pretending to be dead. I should have thought of this earlier. It’s much easier to act like you’ve died rather than to pull off faking a collapsed lung effectively.

 

Mr. Clean gives us the typical yoga speech about sharing your practice with those around you. Sadly, I don’t think he realizes that I’m only here to try and firm up my ass and not to increase my level of social engagement. I’ll keep that to myself. I high tailed it out of the room before anyone could see my face in real light and someday recognize me as the Girl for Fell Over All the Time During Yoga Class. That would be embarrassing. Accurate, but embarrassing.

 

Next week: Vanessa tries the New York City Ballet Workout. Oh yeah. Good times are ahead.

 

How I continue to be a jackass

Really, it's easy. I just act as I normally would.

My friend Sebastian is back in town after over a year of being overseas. This is great news. I am very excited about him being back stateside. Sebastian rocks. He gets me.

Let me tell you how my world works. In my world, when people leave the country for prolonged periods of time, they arrive home and own a phone. I assume it is the same phone with which they left. Also in my world, the phone is connected to the same exact number as when they were previously in the Untied States.  This means that when I send them a text message alluding to good times had when I put their stapler in Jell-o, they will get it and chuckle. It seems I am wrong in all of these assumptions and now there is yet another person out therein the world laughing at me, albeit anonymously.

Sometimes, I am so smart I scare myself. Insert eye roll here.

It's like I was out of the country or something

Okay, so I was...

I just spend a good few days in Mexico. Yes, again. It's odd how completely out of touch I feel with the rest of the world by being gone for several days. I got home not that long ago and have been doing the reality check in.

The good: I just checked my stocks. I bought a "green" stock a month ago and snatched up 41 shares at about $30 a share. It went up $7 a share just today. It has gone up $13 since I bought it, or 43%. I've made a happy little chunk of change. I kind of feel like I rock. I guess I have a hunch when it comes to turbine engines.

The bad: I left my air conditioning on the whole time I was gone. I hate when I do that. It's like opening a window and watching money blow out. Of course, this is softened by my fabulous ability to pick emerging stocks.

Niether of the Roberto Cavalli dresses I bought last week have shown up at my home. I was hoping for a welcome home gift.

The ugly: I'm interested to see what has transpired with a certain young man, we'll call him, say, Micah. The night before I left for Mexico, he had decided to show his proverbial ass. Subsequently, I felt the need to hand it to him. Hard. He is a complete ass. I told him he should take the days while I'm gone to determine some kind of way to prove to me he's NOT a complete asshole. We'll see what happens.

Vacations seem like a good idea until you get home and realize exactly how much shit you have to do...