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being nessasary

a quirky look into being

Category Archives: human being

please! let me be!

You’re doing your holiday shopping; shuffling store to store, sweating through your winter jacket, struggling to find the perfect gift.  Everyone is frantic despite the cooing of the “White Christmas” melody bombarding every scarf, sweater and stocking stuffer.  It’s maddness, yall, MADNESS!

I went to one of my favorite little gift shops this evening.  Typically hosting a few other shoppers and a small staff, I decided it was the best place to do a wee bit of shopping for some beloved family members and friends (NO! I am not going to give you said family and friends any hints!). The staff typically does the general, “Hi! Can I help you?” thing, but do not press you beyond the, “No thanks, I’m seeing what you have.”  Great Job!

But tonight, I was completely overwhelmed by a crowded shop and an overly friendly staff member.

While I love this store because of its artistic and quirky items, I felt smothered. One staff member in particular was frolicking from customer to customer telling them to follow him to his favorite gift items.  He eventually grabbed me and insisted on fondling my rather shabby old boot while trying to attach a magnetic broach to it (and hilariously failed).  He then proceeded to ask me about a pair of horrendous cowboy boot inspired wellies.  Heinously printed, he asked if I liked them.  I playfully answered that they were fabulous, but that I had my Hunter boots in the car. 

He didn’t stop then, he began presenting me with sweaters I should wear while presenting gifts to my loved ones.  I told him I could give them to them naked and they wouldn’t care.  I think he got the hint about then.  Humorously done, he left me alone.

It is aggressive salespeople like the one I encountered this evening that make holiday shopping for me unpleasant.  I enjoy the process of purchasing something special for someone I love.  I really do not like someone else picking out presents for the amazing people in my life.  It’s pushy.

Giving a lovely gift is a personal thing.  I try my hardest to give thoughtful and meaningful pressies all year round, even if they cost less then $2.00.  I like to make people smile.  So if it is a fart machine or a yodeling pickle toy, YAY!  I only ask to make my own decision.

Tomorrow is one of the busiest shopping days of the year, good luck friends!!!


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I love giving gifts.  The holiday season just means I need not feel guilty spending a little more on a trinket for a friend.  The truth is, my eyes are wide open for a card, a hilarious gas station keychain, maybe some icey cream all year round.  My heart is heavily involved in the giving, as for my hands, they aren’t quite into the presentation of said pressies.

I am a terrible gift wrapper.  I am often embarrassed by my inability to present nicer gifts.  When wrapped, my offerings usually look like I stuffed pom poms and an ugli fruit between the paper and the box.  I will jump over rainbows and thorns to find a pretty bag for a summer wedding gift.  Birthdays?  Same thing.  I swaddle a pair of wine glasses or a cute necklace in tissue paper, place the gift in the bottom of a bag, and stuff more paper around the gift.  So easy, so ordinary, so darn boring.

I really love the way wrapping paper looks – how it blankets an object in mystery, especially when accessorized with a bow toupée.  But this year:  it will be different.  I bought two rolls of paper and am going to do my “how to tie a bow research” on You Tube.  I am going to wrap beautiful presents.  The gifts will be so immaculate that not one person will be willing to puncture the green printed paper. Imagine! – gifts so gorgeous they won’t be gored by eager fingers!

Well, all this is true as long as Betty the Cat stays away from the loot…



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My dad is quite the person.  Hardly one to complain, remaining introverted at most times, he’s a man of action.  Born and raised on a farm, Daddy has used his hands to make a living his entire life.  A surgeon and farm implement doctor, Dad typically has insight on most everything.

We both are incredibly nerdy; we love learning to the point where my siblings make fun of us.  Both of us grew up playing musical instruments: him, the saxophone, me, the flute.  I could have been a doctor, too. But, as you can derive, I gave myself to the arts.  Majoring in English may seem silly as I sit, practically jobless, trying to get back on my writing feet after several years of neglect.  All practicalities aside, I am delighted I made the choice I did since my brain surgery resulted in a huge fraction of math smarts to vanish.

Dad supported me through college, my adventures abroad, and that blasted C-word.  He continues to do so.

Point in case: today, he came to rescue The Explorer and I.  He arrived with a tasty chai tea and a hug.  We bundled up and trudged to the garage.  The man with most of the answers, had brought his red wrench set, car jumper, and an extension cord.  He only needed to turn the key in Big Red’s ignition to diagnose her.  Dead battery.  He removed the deceased, and announced we were going to Wal-mart!  YAY!

Turns out, the battery that was powering my beloved vehicle was built for a machine along the lines of a lawnmower or an electric toothbrush. Ohhhh the beauty of used cars.

Dad and I returned home, installed the new battery, and powered up the Explorer.  She has never purred more proudly.

These endeavors with my dad have always made me happy.  When I was younger, it was wrapping a worm around a hook. Now,  it’s things like changing a car battery or finagling a dryer to work with the twist of a pair of pliers.  Sounds silly, but it’s special to us.  I love you Deeds!

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It’s gotta be tough.  You’re not on your schedule instead you’re at the whims of random people scattered throughout the city.  You’re just the back of a head and two hands.  The weather doesn’t bother you, and you always know your way there.  Some drunk person may barf all over the back seat then proceed to spill soda well into the unused seat buckles.  A child may be screaming, and an old hag may scrutinize the route. Some chick will call three companies in order to get a cab to collect her in the midst of a blizzard.

Last night, around 1:00 am I struggled to find a cab company willing to send one of its drivers to rescue me from the snow, cold, and questionable Megabus stop area.  I called three companies while arching around 465.  One said it would be an hour, another 45 minutes, and the third said to call back when I was closer.  Upon arrival, there was no cab for me.  I gathered my bag and prepared ideas to make feeble shelter a bit more like home – a couch, lamp, maybe a throw pillow?  As was losing my mind, I heard my name shouted from the street – it was the company that had me call as the bus slid into home.

Like a hooked fish my hooded head whipped in his direction. An electric shock of delight caused me to skip as merrily as I could in 3 inches of snow to his tropically heated car.  I piled myself and gear in, and told him where I was headed. As we sledded our way north, I listened to the conversations over the company’s walkie-talkie.  The drivers were all giggling about how the 5 cabs that were on the roads were going to be busy and how they were stood up by customers (oops, sorry cabbies that took an hour – a ladys gotta do what a ladys gotta do).  They shared what streets were slick and which ones were as salted as ocean-side boulevards.  They were working together to get crazies like me home in the middle of a blizzard.

I made sure to make eye contact as he turned to collect my money, and told him to keep his ice skates sharp.  I gave him a five dollar tip and a bag of hot cocoa. Well the second part isn’t true – but it would have been nice.


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Chicago is being hammered with snow, ice, and its infamous gusts.  I am on my journey home, and am not really thinking about how my bus was delayed because of said weather or the fact that my new UGGs are prematurely aging.  My heart is focused on a wheelchair-bound woman.  She lacked the bottom half of her left leg, but her spirit – that was completely intact.

She initially chatted up my boyfriend as we waited at a bus stop. Finding refuge in a used bookshop’s storefront, we huddled close to hear the lady talk about the weather, and her keen ability to use swears (swears that no one’s daddy can even imagine, she said).  She won me over right then – I knew she was the kind of crazy I relate to.  After all, you have to be a little nuts if you’re disabled, and as I came to find out, sick.  I gathered that she was around seventy years old, having been born and raised on the streets of the Chicago.

We got a good taste of what her life was like.  I could tell she was into her God and the holiday season.  She couldn’t be too poor off considering she was dressed well, didn’t have an odor of any kind, and she lacked that stressed, sad look that some folks have when life has them down (or maybe she was crazier than I perceived).

Conversation flitted from topic to topic until I saw the bus through the falling frosty air.  She rolled herself onto the sidewalk while I made sure the bus stopped for us (we had attempted to catch an earlier bus, but it blew past us as if we were yellow snowmen).  When it stopped, the personality who had delighted my boyfriend and I with several laughs and smiles, paused.  She could not move herself over the icy mound obscuring the street curb.

I know stubborn.  Yet, with all my health issues these past few years, I have learned when to accept help.  This woman was on that page with me, though I am most certain she got there much sooner than I.  She lived independently, yet knew when to accept my offer to push her forward.  Thankfully, when the tread on my boots didn’t allow me the traction to push her forward without the terror of spilling her into the gutter, I asked my kindly escort to step in.  He pushed her over the threat, and helped her up the bus’ wheelchair ramp.  It was quite the feat considering she asked the crowed bus to give the driver and us nice white folk a round of applause.

The passengers were a bit confused by her merry behavior, but it did not seem to faze her.  We stood behind her as the bus did its business.  I noticed her fidgeting with a long pink ribbon on the handle of her wheelchair.

I’m a nosey cancer survivor.  I ask when I sense another troop.  She smiled up at me and questioned how I knew.  I pointed at the ribbon and smiled while saying, “I’m one too!”  She didn’t do the whole, “Baby you’re to young,” speech.  She grabbed my hand in the most congratulatory manner I have ever felt (forget those two graduations I have gone through) and said, “We are survivors! We are here to prove things can be done!”  If we weren’t on a crowded, slippery bus, I would have hugged the lady.  What a woman.

She continued on to talk about my dimple, and how she wanted one when she was little.  She used to stick her fingers in her cheeks hoping the dent would stay.  When she asked her mother where dimples came from, she replied, “They came from angel kisses.” Like all curious children, there was a second question along the lines of, “Well, then how come you have them and I don’t?”  Her mother playfully answered, “Well, God just must love me more.”  She laughed.

As my boyfriend and I prepared to get off the bus she wished us a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  We returned the well wishes.  But after reflecting upon this woman, I demand that she is Happy and Merry.

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I’ve set up shop in my boyfriend’s dorm-sized bedroom in Chicago.  Space heater on and sounds from the Red Line weaseling their way through the window, I am subdued and completely clueless as to what to write.  I am incredibly comfy sprawled out on his threateningly amazing bed.  It is softly cooing, “Go back to sleep, sweet Nessa, I will gently cradle you until you rise again.”

I am a trustworthy lady, so why no trust the other queen in my fellow’s life?

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I woke up nice and early this lovely 9 degree morning to get some sun.  Nothing like a cuddling up with a book in the frosty air surrounded by Christmas lights and puzzled mailmen.  Teaser sentence aside, I went to get an spray tan to look somewhat human for the Groupon office party this Friday evening.

Call me an oompa loompa all you’d like, but you’re the one who sounds silly when you ask if I recently went to Mexico.  The ladies at Indy Air Tan do an amazing job, and they don’t give me cancer.

Being fake isn’t all that bad when done in moderation.  It is not exactly nessasary, but it can help one feel better when battling a bout of self-conciousitis.  In the wild world of women, we have established our own religion when it comes to beauty and maintenance, much of which stems from an inner state of being.

Last night, while trying on cocktail dresses, I was struggling to find one that was even worth buying.  They were either too small (I do not suggest eating a heavily salted meal with a beer before dress shopping),  too big (I was swollen, but not two sizes larger!), or my pastiness overwhelmed me in this season’s black and sequined fashions.

I typically opt for color when it comes to dresses.  Black just reminds me of funerals. I have seen to many of those the past five years, so my one LBD hides far beneath the crust of my closet (plus some of the internal makings of it poke out and stab me in the bosom).

LBDs aside, I do not mind it when girls wear ridiculously high heels to conceal the fact they’re 5’2 or wear glue on lashes – whatever helps a lady feel that much cuter is fine by me.  The only time I find fake sad is when a woman is decked out head to toe with artificial lights.

Her hair is dyed (usually poorly), she has had bad botox injections in her cheeks and lips, her make-up that looks like Barbie did the honors, her boobs tuck under her chin and so on.  You know what I am talking about.  I want women to be happy, but masking practically everything on the outside also masks what is going on indoors.

Halloween is for masks (and it is one of my favorite nights of the year!) – but I don’t want to be Britney Spears for longer than 6 hours.  It would be nice to not have a bald spot anymore, but I happen to like my body’s many imperfections – like my crazy crooked spine and my cheekbones. Hell, I even like the massive scar on my head.  It’s super badass if you ask me, and it is an amazing conversation starter!  Every woman should really focus on her freckles before making a permanent change to what she was born with.  No one really enjoys fake flowers that much.

We all have our little secrets – mine being the occasional tone inducing spray tan.  Others have their eyelashes and collagen enhanced lip gloss. I urge ladies to not lose themselves into making outer perfection.  What would a sea with a few swells be without the fish and shipwrecks beneath?

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