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IT’S THAT TIME OF YEAR: the shedding of parkas and layers, revelation of a winter weight gain, resurfacing of various insects, the search for new love. I tend to always try to instill the greatest changes in my life around this time of year (so it seems) as spring simply makes me feel like a clean slate.

It’s that time of year when you realize how broke you are, how you’ve been completely running yourself into the ground with late nights and cup after cup of $3 something coffee. How near the future is and, at the same time how irrelevant the past was. How many miles you’ve put on the car, how often you’ve bypassed your New Year’s resolution, how many people you still haven’t had the gracious opportunity of being acquainted with. 

How many shoes you’ve accumulated. 

How many mornings you’ve cleansed yourself in the third shower from the left. How many times you’ve changed your hair, the clothes that no longer fit, and the amount of fruit that’s been collecting in your fridge since September.

How much you’ve grown; mentally, physically, spiritually, maturity, or otherwise. 

But mostly for me, the time of year when I realize how many shoes I’ve accumulated.

xo

jc

: )

xoxo —

jc

I was destined to buy a gallon of milk, convinced that I wouldn’t be able to make it through my Tuesday without my morning bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats. My mind was filled with thoughts of a desolate fridge back on campus, it’s innards practically naked and nary a speck of sustenance, with the exception of the occasional pruney orange and expired yogurt.

I scanned the milk, carefully checking each expiration date, then selected what I thought to be the most prime gallon of the multitudes (they all had the same expiration date), and in passing the freezer aisle was flagged down by none other than the words “ICE CREAM” — naturally.

What happens next is absolutely outrageous: I bought a box of popsicles, a 24-pack of Our Family juice jr. pops. I had to be very discrete in this process because I am extremely selective about my popsicle flavors. 

 

a] I will not touch banana with a 39.5 -inch pole.

b] Orange. Mmmm.

c] Lime = questionable. Always be wary of a popsicle that tastes like detergent.

d] Grape: Like frozen Dimetapp on a stick — not to mention the makeover your tongue is in for. Delicious, nonetheless.

e] Root beer should stick to its guns and just be a soda flavor. That’s all I have to say about that.

f] Cherry — though classy, recommended only for those with attenuated lips. 

So I bought a box and figured I could pawn off the unwanted flavors.

On my way to the checkout, I spotted an instant photo machine sitting at the end of an aisle.  Just my luck that I invariably carry four different forms of media on me at all times! I managed to pull out each one, plug it into the machine and make beautiful photographs, all the while my box of popsicles and gallon jug of milk thawed at my feet.

The moral of this story? Well, several things:

i] Make your pictures before you grab your frozen treats and dairy products.

and II] the ever-cliché yet oh-so-true

DO SOMETHING THAT MAKES YOU HAPPY.

For me, it was the meandering of grocery store aisles, the discovery of a simple box of popsicles, and the printing of a photograph or two that had been on my camera since June.

Go. Wander. Find your happy.

muchlove,

jc

The secretaries behind the desk had seen better days. Fully made-up, quick-started by a caffeine overkill and chained to their stations, they were seemingly smitten with their semi-charmed lives as slaves to the calendar and watching the clock. 

Rachael Ray played on a television across the room, though the chubby 8-year old boy and I in the waiting area had no interest in her; she was clearly only entertaining the women at the desk who appeared less than delighted with their career. 

It somewhat distressed me to observe this. Granted that these are merely observations and I could likely be mistaken, but probably not. I truly believe that these women would have given anything to be Vegas showgirls, powerful politicians, even Bon Jovi groupies. But fate would have it that they were stuck in the office this day, yesterday, tomorrow…forever.

It made me wish they would one day spontaneously take to one’s heels, leap from their desk corral, run rampidly through the workspace, toss files in the air and knock display cases off their feet before fleeing the office penitentiary. Empowerment! Deliverance! Liberation! They’d run, as fast as their legs, jellied from days of sitting in a swivel chair, would let them. They’d run to Vegas, to Paris, to Timbuktu; they’d run, and they’d start a new life.

I snap out of it as my name is called and I am whisked to the back room for examination. 

I thought that I’d escaped the droning atmosphere upon my exit, but found out otherwise later on in the afternoon when I entered a different establishment.

It was nothing short of a version of prison I’ve conjured in my mind: Miami Vice color scheme, desks sprouting up here and there and accompanied by dated chairs covered in the equivalent of berber rug, and worst of all, the infestation of faux foliage, crawling up every wall, spilling from every ceiling, growing from every kernel of overrun carpet. Prison.

It was casual Friday, I assumed, as the employees freed themselves from the shackles of itchy slacks and blouses and opted for a more laid-back approach. At each station sat a dish of assorted candies, a silent incentive to sustain oneself through a gruesome nine to five in the expending work environment.

I pictured the office late at night, after all the employees had gone home to their families, their cats, or to the bar to drink the worries off their mind. Back at the office, however, the only sounds heard are the rustling of the faux plants, reaching their arms down from the walls and ceilings and into the assorted candy dish, a triumph after lingering all day in the presence of the workers. From the consumption of this candy these plants burgeoned, living off the sugar, their Miracle-Gro analog, and slowing devouring the office environment from which they, much like the employees, so longingly wanted to break free. Night after night they’d consume the sweets with hopes that someday their plastic branches would grow long enough to reach the exit.

I once told a wise man that asked me, “What are you afraid of?”:

“Being a secretary.”

I believe that the affairs I encountered today are reason enough to be fearful. Because much like the vision I have of the woebegone plants, reaching into the candy dish each night with the ambition of someday starting a new life in a happier place — I, too, desire something more. More than berber chairs and placing my sanity on the shoulders of Rachael Ray. More than Miami Vice and casual Fridays, more than sitting at a desk staring at numbers and dates and names, all the while visioning reveries of “the good life”…

Let this be my stimulant to work harder, better, and with more passion than ever before.

Truly yours,

jc

I stared blankly at the small block of pepperjack and a Pomegranate Blueberry V8 I’d tossed up on the counter. Eight minutes passed before the Cenex employees realized there was a little lady standing in front of them, the same little lady that had struggled to reach the V8 on the top shelf of the cooler moments earlier. This wouldn’t be the first time.

“A dollar fourteen,” the other cashier replied. I grew somewhat embarrassed, as the store was busy and I was ashamed to have it known that I was buying a block of cheese. Honestly, who buys gas station cheese? Any common human would have walked into that convenience store and made a beeline for the Mountain Dew and Dorito’s. 

But this was my road trip, and if I were going to travel a lone journey across the rolling hills of North Dakota, I was going to do it just the way I wanted it done. So I threw down $3.08 for my munchies and headed for my vehicle, 100 some odd miles left to go and less-than-desirable weather conditions. Lovely.

“Turn your brights off…” 

I curse to myself under my breath as yet another conveyance nearly blinds me upon passing. The roads are sloppy, in no condition for speeding. I keep hearing a voice in the back of my mind, “Ma’am, I caught you going 50 in a 75. Can I see your license and registration please…” With my luck this is not so farfetched. 

Two vehicles ahead, a driver conveniently decides to pull to the side of the road. A sticky situation has arisen as I frantically pump on my breaks to slow, fishtailing, in and out of lanes avoiding a near collision. I solemnly swear, my father (who taught me to drive) and Imogen Heap (playing through the speakers at the time) saved me from that close call.

The roads were too menacing to take my hand off the wheel long enough to twist the cap off of my juice concoction. I ate $1.59 worth of my snack, danced in my seat. Sang aloud to the upbeat shuffle of my iPod, announced to everyone in the car, my solitary self in particular, where I was.

“LAAAAAAADIES AND GENTLEMAN. Coming to you live from JAMESTOWNNNNN NORTH DAKOTAAAAA…”

Three hundred miles up the road, bright lights signaled a familiar place.

Home.

Never have I been so delighted to eat homemade leftovers or see my dog who, if my memory serves me right, hasn’t liked me since 2001.

Oh, and my family! It’s so swell to see them as well!

I am thoroughly looking forward to a good night’s rest, swaddled in 600-count sheets and soaked in sweet dreams of pepperjack cheese and sleeping in…

Home. Nice.

Her name is Debbie Downer, and her business is to figure out what her business is, then avoid it at all costs. She leafs through the file cabinet in her mind, searching for some sort of relevance or reason why she should do her homework, why she should be productive — but procrastination is all she can come across.

She shuts her phone off in hopes of a quiet night of cookie pizza and staring at the wall.

She’s going to get it.

Debbie has a headache. Her mind races and frizz pours from the curls that fall over her cheeks. A fluorescent light in the corner of the room is drenching her eyes with uneasiness, and the heater slowly gurgles as fluid flows through pipes. It sounds like rain.

Debbie never intended to be a Downer. She’s just had a long, short day.

“Not all who wander are lost”;

I want to wander.