Mom made an appearance in Music City Wednesday afternoon. My future Californian and I met her for lunch in Franklin at my favorite deli, Bread & Co. No worries concerning expectations here, "My Sandwich," as I have now titled it, was a deliciously amazing combination of multi-grain bread, pulled turkey, avocado, grainy mustard, tomatoes, cheddar, lettuce, and roasted red peppers. Anyway, lunch was great, then off to do some buying for the store she's opening in Mississippi. I think I love shopping enough to be a buyer, whether I have the talent for that kind of work is questionable, but I would at least have the passion. We found some candles and place mats, some stationary, kitchen accessories, etc. It was nice to see her since it's been a while.
From Franklin, we head back to the city. She wants to see my studio so I oblige the request...two phone calls later (that I kind of dread answering - the drummer and the florist), I come back inside to give her the "tour". She loves the space. She loves the work. And flipping through the old albums she comments on how slim she was 20 years ago, and how cute my "chubby cheeks" were as a babe. She says, "Look at how skinny I was after I had you, and I was 38! See, there's hope."
Yeah, Mom, there's hope...
We then decide on Bosco's for a light dinner of fire roasted pizza and micro-brewed beer. Dinner is delicious, the conversation however, revolving around debunking myths my father has generated, leaves me suddenly wanting a few more drinks, or to scream, but mostly to cry - right there at the bistro table in front of the cute couples playing bingo at the bar.
I call out from work Thursday morning on account of Mom's impromptu visit. We go to Fido for breakfast instead, and I relish my fruit and granola and cup of coffee as an alternative to numb limbs that often occur in the meat locker I will call my office. Afterward she needs to, "get on the road back home to get some work done." So, we say our goodbyes and she and the Magnum head South.
I don't ever do well with that sinking feeling that follows "Goodbye." But the therapy of choice I opt for is a healthy laundering of dirty clothes and finally unpacking the suitcase full of Asheville.
Can a cap-full of laundry detergent possibly dilute an entire weekend? Probably not the generic brand...
I shut the lid of the washer and grab my laptop. I'm going to a coffee shop...one with WiFi. It's time to blog the damn trip to North Carolina.
Portland Brew is sunny and Jeff Buckley is a good mellow choice of background tunes. I sit down with my Odwalla Limeade. I've already had a cup a' joe today...and it's SO too hot for coffee. The blog takes about 2 hours, but I'm happy it's posted when I'm finished. The pictures I think turned out well, even if V told me that I was taking photos like a tourist of sorts. It was a perfect journey. It was the destination that left me a bit surprised. It's over, door closed. It's blogged and laundered now.
Cue window opening.
In a very roundabout way, I stumble upon an incredible musician - Matthew Perryman Jones. And he's playing in an hour and a half at The Bluebird. I'm so going. I IM my future Californian for company to the writers round and he agrees to come with me. Once there I declare that I will marry and bear the children of his chord progressions - his voice and the melodies give me chills. My future Californian raises a brow and whispers to me, "I think that you have devalued the sanctity of marriage."
We go back to my apartment where I do not hesitate to pull out my soapbox. We are both emotional masochists so I know what he's doing to himself. I guess, it takes one to know one. Maybe it frustrates me because I don't understand why I do it to myself, the self-induced torture, or maybe it's just that I want him to understand how much better he is than the mental hell he's creating for himself. I try to explain that by the time I decided to rip off the proverbial band aid instead of continuing its slow and painful removal, I was so angry that I had wasted 6 additional months on the Virginian. I know that it doesn't matter what I say. I'm that person, too.
We put on Little Miss Sunshine. I book a ticket to New York. He tells me about some housing options in LA, shows me some furniture he's been eyeing at IKEA. I take a shower and he's asleep when I get out.
Today I head for Memphis, another weekend away, another 400 miles (round-trip) of loud music and contemplation. I'm beginning to love driving for the first time in my whole driving life. It's Dad's birthday tomorrow, and The Florist's was Wednesday - his party is tonight. It will be an eventful weekend away, and I'm looking forward to not sitting around my apartment trying to relive and pinpoint what went wrong a week ago.
I think I'm going to start my "photo a day" project. We'll see if I can keep the commitment. It's just one picture per day, right?