Well folks, a while ago I said goodbye to the days of being overpaid to sit in an office, in front of a computer all day while composing Cherday posts. And now, most recently, I’m bidding a fine farewell to the long days of house-wifery, p.j’s till noon, grocery shopping at 2 p.m., lengthy conversations with the dog, lengthy conversations where I would talk back for the dog in an atrocious french accent all the while spending way too much time staring at walls in between composing and sending cover letters.
Yes sir, I got a job. And here’s the catch: It’s not like a job where I am relieved to have found something, it’s a job that I went to school for and have aspired to do, be when I grow up. I got THAT JOB, the one where I am counting down to the start date, can’t wait, already planning and plotting how my office will look, which photo of Violet will sit at my desk. The kind of job I knew existed somewhere but always felt far far away from me (especially in this job market!) I got that job that will most certainly challenge me every single day and in a way that I actually want to be challenged. I got that job that makes me feel like a grownup who sought out, found and grabbed a… how do grownups say?… a career.
It took an obsessively composed letter, several pestering phone calls, three competitive interviews and a ton of paperwork, but folks, it’s mine. All mine. I start the beginning of this month and as I’ve no good excuse for such thin posting here lately, now I do. So, when you hit this page and see nothing new, rather than cursing my lazy-bloggin-ass know that I am out there, doing something good and to top the cake, something I really, really want to be doing.
You ever have one of those totally insignificant moments that just makes you stop and remember again how totally insignificant we all are together, emphasis on the together part? I think sometimes I totally forget the bigger picture, that no matter what we believe in, who we are, how we are, where, any of it, we’re all on this big rock together, right now, and that, in the scheme of things, is a pretty significant.
I was at a store the other day, grabbed a few things I needed, a few things I didn’t and went to check out. As I stepped into the line I caught the very tail end of the man in front of me saying to the check out lady, “…that’s all I’m saying.” And then it was my turn.
As I was checking out I noticed that the check-out lady was a bit shaky and not making eye contact. Finally, when all was said and done, even though nothing had been said, she looked up and attempted to say, “Have a nice day.” But she barely made it passed nice before she let out the saddest little cry. It was just so sudden and strange and real and human that I didn’t know what to do with any of it. And the lighting was weird and the folks behind me froze up. My first squashed instinct was to jump behind the counter and give this poor gal a hug and say, “look, I’ll take over for a bit, go get some fresh air.” But really, that would have been a crazy thing to do, which I find crazy. My helping this woman take a little break would have been a totally strange thing to do. Isn’t that strange? Isn’t it strange that some sort of engaged effort to help her would have made me seem and feel a bit nuts? So, instead I asked the obvious as I swiped my debit card, “Having one of those days, huh?” just to offer a very basic acknowledgment of her out of place tears.
The check out lady was still staring at the ground when she said, “That guy was just mean to me, for no reason. Sometimes it’s too much, you know?” I responded with, “Of course it’s too much. I’m sorry that guy was mean to you.” She smiled a little bit and I grabbed my bag of stuff and headed to the parking lot.
As I was walking to my car I saw the guy who was supposedly the impetus for the poor lady’s tears. I felt this flush in my chest. That one where I’m not totally sure I should do what I’m about to do but I also know I’m going to regardless. But what an asshole. He makes her cry, she’s stuck there and he just gets to walk away. So, as he attempted to drive away I stepped in front of his car and glared at him. He rolled down the window and looked at me. It immediately turned into a stare off: a game I am practiced in and have championed many a times. And yes, I was totally exposed standing in front of a car with a dude who is clearly not afraid to make someone cry but I just stood there, saying nothing, glaring at him.
Finally he said, “What the hell is your problem?” (This means I won the staring contest, by the way.)
“You made her cry. Just so you don’t get to drive off all free and clear, or maybe that’s what you were after.”
He leaned his head way out of the window and said, “Listen. You don’t know shit. Get out of the way.”
And then I thought, “Ok Jesse, this is escalating. This is you and your small bag of stuff versus a big dude in a big car…what now?” So I stayed put and opened my mouth again, “Who the hell do you think you are really? You really don’t care that some woman who is stuck behind a counter is crying right now because of you? Even if you are just an asshole, you really don’t feel even just a little bit bad about that?” At this point I just assumed he’d tell me to fuck off and then I’d flip him off and we’d all get on with our day. But instead he pulled up closer and very calmly said, “Look, I didn’t mean to make her cry. I would never try to do that. You need to move now.”
At this point I had my deer-in-headlights look going full blaze and said back in a sort of grumpy, shocked voice, “Ok… well, um, she is. So, what now?” Again I assumed he’d do or say something to attempt to intimidate me or hurt my feelings but instead he launched into an explanation full of sincerity and openness. The details of the situation are actually rather moot, the gist being, in his own words, he “felt like I wasn’t getting the attention I needed.” Apparently, the check out lady was having a conversation with someone else, making his check out experience feel like it was taking way too long and “like I was invisible.” His feelings were hurt so he told the check out lady that he thought it was rude that she was ignoring him. She got defensive. He got defensive. He said, “Well, I’ll make sure to avoid your line in the future.” Check out lady started to cry. Then I stepped in line.
As he was explaining his side of the story he started most of his sentences with, “It was upsetting me that…” and “my feelings were hurt that she continued to ignore me…” This big dude in his big car, who had just made the check out lady at the store cry was sharing his feelings with this random little dyke who just yelled at him and then blocked him in in a covered parking lot by standing in front of his car and refusing to move.
And if you’ve made it this far in the story I have a feeling this whole scene might seem and sound a bit moot. But living in Seattle I am in a social climate where if you are walking down the street and you try to acknowledge another human being most of the time you will be totally ignored or they will shoot you a dirty look like, “Why are you looking at me? Why would you do something like that?” So, this strange and brief and authentically human interaction with a few other folks just made me pause for a second.
When I think about it, it creeps me out how much intention and effort we put out there to stay eerily distant from each other. And although this whole scenario was quite strange and the context of the story is mostly irrelevant, it was a genuine interaction with the world and that’s all too rare, so, I’ll take it.
On that same note, the note where we are all so guarded that we have no idea what to do when another person we don’t know creates a totally authentic moment- note, here is a fine example. (It’s a wee 18 seconds for all of you attention-fearing folks):
I am exhausted. Violet is exhausted. Yesterday was an entire day of driving after waking up in the woods, in a tent, after 4 hours of sleep and in my case, with a wee headache from the slight over indulgence the night before.
The long lesbian camping wedding weekend is over. We made it.
Now here’s the part I started writing in my head on Saturday as I sat in the sunshine, amongst a crowd of people, deep in the woods, as the music started and the brides both walked down the isle: How wonderful it can be to be wrong.
The wedding was gorgeous. Even after the sun set behind the tall forest of trees, as I watched two women, in front of a very loving crowd of more than a hundred friends and family, promise ideas and ideals of their love with all of the support from all of us I kept my sunglasses on. I think the only person crying more than me was one of the brides sister. The ceremony was perfect. And I am not trying to overplay this event. I am serious when I say the wedding, the reception, the weather, the place, the music, the people, the dancing, the singing, the food, everything was absolutely perfect. It was an incredible event and I am quite sure that I am not the only one still glowing from the experience.
Notice that the part where we camped did not make the list of wonderful, perfect things in that last sentence. I mean, it was fine and it was nice to only have to walk 100 feet from the reception to go to bed. But still, it was cold and bumpy and buggy and just not very comfortable, which is something I look for in a sleeping environment. But the magic of all that came before having to sleep on the forest floor trumps any complaint of mosquito bites I might have.
At one point my camera disappeared. I found it later that night only to find this photo of my bootie:
Violet promises she didn’t take it and I believe her only because I’m pretty sure that cute foot on the right is hers.
I feel so lucky to have been a part of this incredibly beautiful and loving event and have no trouble or resistance in retracting all previous complaints and concerns.
I am happy to say I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong. How wonderful it is to have been wrong.
No, I’m not getting married this weekend. I could never keep something like that from you for this long. And if it was my wedding I would have run around kissing you all on the top of your heads while accepting the congratulations you may or may not have offered up months ago.
Violet and I are going to a wedding this weekend. All weekend. Including the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night. And then the wedding. The wedding that is all weekend long.
This is a double bridezilla wedding in where both ladies have gone totally wedding-coo-coo. They have had four bridal/bachelorette like parties. Some joint, some separate, some separate that then became joint later that night. The ceremony is rumored to be a few hours long. Yes, hours. Did I mention the part where we, the guests, are to camp?
Camp? Did I say…? Surely a typo, you’re thinking. Jesse must have meant something else, anything else, as this is already a lesbian wedding and camping is just too… well, lesbian. Well folks, I’m afraid to say it’s true. These dear lezzy friends of ours are tying the knot in the woods where all hundred or so guests will make a bed on the forest floor the night before and the night of the ceremony.
I am imagining the smell of camp fire and bug spray while the brides help each other get the little bits of marshmallow and twigs out of each others hair.
How do I feel about a weekend long wedding in which I am to sleep outdoors for several days? I will be at the Holiday Inn down the road. When Violet told me of this wedding several months ago I was excited for our friends. When she added in this camping detail we both knew how this would go over.
As my jaw continued to fall while the lesbian-wedding-camping-details unraveled and unveiled themselves, the conversation that followed went something like this:
Violet: …So it’s a camping thing. It’s going to be great… sleeping outside is fun…blah blah…
Me: Ok, well I’m not doing that.
Violet: Oh jesse, will you even consider it?
Me: My dear Violet, how does one do their hair in the forest?
Violet: I knew you’d say that. Anyway you’re my date so buck up. Also, I’ve already booked you a hotel room for the first night.
The other day I was at a huge home improvement and repair store that I will leave nameless (unless they want to pay me.) I went to pick up a few things for the yard. I was also packing, which I do now and then, not often, just when the mood strikes. And just to be clear for one and all, not the moving kind, the soft pack packing kind, the one with a bulge.
So, as I wandered the isles, eventually finding everything I needed, I started for the checkout line when all of a sudden I felt the bump in my pants start to hang a tad lower than he should be. I continued walking, a bit slower though, in an attempt to assess this situation. By the time I had decided that this could become a potential issue I realized that my detachable disco stick had completely jumped the tighty whities ship and was now slowly crawling down my left leg a little bit more with every step.
I stopped walking, obviously, right in the middle of the isle. My face clearly expressed concern as I can never find anyone in that store to help me but now, of course, with my leg bent up to stop the AWAL lovelance at my knee, threatening to flop onto the ground and roll away into the gardening section, I had two guys asking me if they can help me find anything. Without actually making eye contact I mumbled “Uh…no, that’s cool, thanks though. I’m just… uh, thinking… um, about some stuff.”
I have a college education. I am well read. I pride myself on my ability to hold a decent conversation with just about anyone and yet, with my dangling dong at my knee cap, I told these men that I had gone to a crowded warehouse filled with endless home improvement supplies so that I could do my best impression of a flamingo while I, uhthink… um, about some stuff.
How very eloquent.
Eventually I decided I had two choices and two choices only – unless I was willing to consider the third option I came up with which entailed running out of the store screaming, “It’s not my fault! The elastic on my tighties are going slack! I neeeed neeew underweeear!!!“
So, the two most tasteful solutions (although ‘tasteful’ might not be the perfect descriptor, please keep in mind that the situation at hand did not really make room for classy action) were these: I could either reach down my pants and grab the lost longhorn, hike him back up into his escaped bulge-bed –OR- I could attempt to walk with a bit of a limp, as my left knee had to remain at a 45 degree angle in order to keep the manly junk from leaving me.
I stood there for a while. Quite a while really. Eventually, I went with door number two. The store was crowded and reaching way, way down my pants just seemed even more ridiculous than hobbling a little.
And I tried to play it off a little, like, “Oh boy is my knee sore.” while I shook my head back and forth and huffed like, “Woo wee! Yowzer. I’ll tell ya, knees can really hurt sometimes, can’t they!” But from the looks I was getting, clearly I wasn’t pulling it off. Clearly I didn’t look like I had some convincing, excusable injury or disability; I think I mostly looked like a crazy person who was probably not totally sober. And yes, quite a few people stared. But you know what? As much as they stared, they didn’t know what they were staring at or why, and that was good enough for me. If I made it out of that store without a sudden wee-wee-show-and-tell then I won, damn it.
I wanted to laugh. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t understand how ridiculous this all was. But laughing by myself for no apparent reason while limping with a rather large squashy knee goiter was no way to be if I could help it. So, I bit my tongue and just did what I had to do to get the hell out of there.
I hobbled to the check out line, a bit sweaty and red in the face. But I had made it. And just as I finished checking out some older woman asked if she could have my cart. But my cart was the only thing allowing me to hobble properly. I certainly didn’t have enough items to constitute needing the cart but I did need it in order to not drop my jiggling johnson out of my pants. Again, I had two choices: Give up my cart and let the junk free –OR- Say, without even making eye contact, “I need it. I just need my cart. I’m sorry.” and rush by the poor woman with a speedy hobble.
So, strike two on the not sounding very stable or reasonable to totally decent people front. That response was a very basic social interaction gone major fail. I realized immediately, as I was hobbling away, that I could have easily said something like, “Sure, of course you can have my cart. Let me put my stuff (i.e. my feral free willy) away in the car and I will bring this right back to you.” But that is not what happened. Instead I went with crazy-limpy-hobbly-freaky-stressed out-sweaty-dyke-with-a-weird-lump-in-my-knee-and-zero-social-skills response instead. Not my day.
I finally got to the car, grabbed the escaped willy wonka and put it in the glove box. I got half way through a deep breath when I realized I had forgotten to buy the main item I had come for. Of course. I thought for sure I would start laughing or crying but instead I just stared at the steering wheel for a bit, exhausted and you know, thinking… um, about some stuff.
Again I had two choices: I could go back in, sans boy beef and quickly grab the tomato stakes –OR- I could drive more than 30 minutes further and hit up a similar store that never saw me desperately trying to keep my silicone salami under wraps.
As I was driving to the other store I did make a second stop to buy myself some brand new tighty whities, just incase I ever get the urge again to strut around with that squirrelly little packer.
One of my favorite neighbors lives two doors down. He’s a fabulously frumpy and usually mostly grumpy old man with a heart of gold. I’ve written about him before, just after we had our first and one of my favorite quick conversations of all time. He has a little terrier named Lily that he walks with every day for several hours. They’ll leave sometime late morning and if I catch them walking by my house we’ll come up with some quick and amusing banter and then off they’ll go until late afternoon at least. Raymond loves Lily. He’s said more than a few times, “Yep, this little gal’s my best friend, I guess.”
Any time I catch him on the start or end of his walk he’ll tell me one of three stories about Lily that I have heard somewhere between 10 and 50 times already. I’m not sure if he realizes he keeps telling the same stories or if he even cares. I listen, quickly realizing which of the three it’s going to be and laugh where I did the first time. As the story unfolds I say, “oh wow” exactly where I should and where I did the first time I heard it, and eventually end with some sort of closer like, “Well, at least you’ll never need an exterminator” just like I do each time I hear it.
A few weeks ago I noticed him walk by without the dog. I opened my front door and asked, “Hey, Raymond, where’s Lily?” He stopped walking and sort of shouted, “Who?”
“Your dog, Lily.” I said.
“He looked away and at the ground and said, “Oh her. Eagle got her last weekend. She’s gone.”
This was not one of the three stories I had ever heard and if I had heard correctly it seemed an unbelievable one. “What?!” I yelped. “What do you mean an eagle got her?”
Raymond, still looking at the ground, said, “Yep. Was up in the mountains with her, like we do. Let her off the leash, like I do, and she never came back. I seen that eagle before. I know that’s what got her. So, Lily’s gone.”
All I could say was “wow” and “I’m so, so sorry, Raymond.”
He finally looked up at me and said, “Ya well, there’s a little puppy in Olympia I already picked out. Still suckling so I gotta wait a few more weeks. Same breed. Only difference is she’s got two black eyes.” (Lily had a big black spot over her left eye.)
“Well, that’s great. What are you going to name her?” I asked.
Raymond thought a minute. “Think I’ll name her the same. Call her Lily.”
I’m not going to lie, I thought this was a bit strange, but the whole story was strange and the poor guy just lost his little best friend to a huge bird so I immediately replied, “Well, that sounds like a great idea.”
He started to walk his long walk alone and I went back inside and on with my day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Tonight, a few weeks after that conversation, I ran into Raymond again. He patted The Seal and told me the same two stories he always does about labs (one is about how great their shit is for growing flowers) and I asked, “So, when is the new pup coming home?”
Raymond smiled big and said, “Two weeks.”
I told him he needed to bring her by as soon as she showed up and asked if he was still going to name her Lily. He said, “Well, everyone wants to name her Jazz.” I replied that I thought that sounded like a great name.
He responded, “Ya well, I like Lily best.”
“Well, Raymond, it’s your dog, name her what you want.” I said.
Raymond nodded his head back and forth, “Well, there’s another person involved with this new dog and her name.” (I assumed correctly that he was talking about his ex wife.)
I asked, “Does this other person with a say happen to be a woman?”
He smiled and nodded.
“Well then” I said, “Good luck with your new dog, Jazz.”
Again and again and forever, I safely assume, you make me smile and laugh like no one does and like no one can. Thank you, sweet Rue, may you rest in peace.
I think I’ve posted this clip before but it’s one of my very favorite. And it is a perfect scene with all four of them.
I’ve decided to take some time offline, where it can’t be typed, whatever it is that I’m doing. I’m not sure for how long, or even how, exactly, or why. But I’ll be back, that I am sure. Until then…
A few weeks ago I was on the phone with Ruth when she said, “You know, it’s been far too long since I’ve been in the forest.” To which I replied my standard reply, “Listen Ruth, at your age there is no good reason to put things off.”
So.
Last weekend I spent my time in a cabin on a mountain in the woods with my mom and my godmother. I still smell a bit of camp fire and imagine my mom’s explosive laugh is still ringing through the trees, the giant, stoic trees that surrounded us. Ruth always has a content glow about her, but last weekend it was really something to see. Staring at Ruth amongst a sea of springtime forest, somehow, makes more sense than most things.
Happy Earth Day, everyone. Give her a kiss and make sure she knows you love her.
About jesse james
My name is jesse james and this website is just like me. read more about me
Was sound asleep when all of a sudden I wake up to find @justjessejames giving my toys away to that swollen squirrel, "Marcus." Not. Cool. 4 months ago
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