The Ending

...It was a house.

Not just any house.

It stood before me like some sort of beacon, a shepherding glow, a spotlight from heaven itself. It was old, a structure of age and history and unpretentious craftsmanship with slanted roof tops, one lower story and one upper, grand posts holding up a wooden front porch, and windows that could make you feel like you were seeing out in to the world from a different time. It was quaint with a small driveway, a squishy green lawn, and a massive billowing maple hugging the east side of its existence like a protective god. The lighting of the evening summer sun was hitting it just right, setting the west side aglow while leaving the other dotted in moving shadows of the maple leafs. I remembered those shadows as a child… I took it all in and breathed one deep sigh of the word, home.

I fell in love. I stood in front of it, transfixed, my fantasies suddenly unleashed. I wanted it. I wanted it like I haven’t wanted anything in a very long time. The want was deeper than materialistic desire. It was more than that. It was what this little house had suddenly inspired that sent me unexpectedly into a whirl wind romance with a decision I should’ve decided on a long, long time ago. I need to live here, I thought to myself. I need to live here, in the city, where I am surrounded by things that make me feel…compatible. People (yes, more than one) have been trying to tell me for years that I should move to New York City, and as though that’s been a divine dream for ages, it’s not probable in the least. But this? This was attainable.

I can adapt to just about any environment – my life has proven so. But in this moment of divine satisfaction from an environment that I’ve been subconsciously rejecting for ages, I realized that I was tired of adapting. I’ve always wanted to settle in a place where my potential could be challenged, but haven’t happened upon the right path for me to achieve it. This, was the right path. This, was Fate saying, “It’s time now.” I want to live where opportunity is a frequent pitch knocking on my door. I want to live where my soul can breathe un-constricted, where the atmosphere is fitting to who I am, benefitting the truest sense of my identity. I belong in the city. I always have. I’ve heard it said to me from both the voices of friends and from the voice in my heart, but have never had the means to make the journey in to getting there. But as I stood in front of that house the whispers of Fate were insistent: “Now, is the time…” And I believed it in one fell swoop of confidence and peace and resolution.

The one and only thing that’s kept me where I currently live is consequently the job that I love so dearly, but it’s so far away from the city, the very factor that has always kept the city option at bay. But not anymore, I decided. If I could keep my current job, and live here… I would be complete. I could reconnect with my genuine self and be liberated from the suffocation of living in a small pond that offers me nothing but mosquitos and cattails. Here. Here is the ocean I was meant to swim free in.

On my way home I began working out in my head how I could make it possible to have the best of both worlds. Finally being financially able to move out of my current situation, I had previously planned on finding an apartment in a small town outside the place I work, but now I was reconsidering. No, more than reconsidering. It was becoming a purpose, an obsessive goal I had no choice but to achieve. If I’m going to learn to love Minnesota, this is the water I need to plunge in to. It’s been years since I’ve had the moxie to do something reckless and life changing. It’s been years since my spirit has been alive enough to want it.

This blog has turned out to be more than a satirical creative exercise for me. In the beginning, that’s all it was supposed to be. I had decided to write it in hopes I could achieve something worth publishing locally, something that would get my foot in the door, something I could put on a query letter for the trilogy I want to make into my career. I began this journey with a sloppy sense of what I aimed to achieve. I tried to be organized. I tried to prove that I could be a journalist of sorts, a commited writer. I tried to do things that were just not probable to my budget, both time and money combined. I tried to do things above and beyond my average skills, and in most cases failed significantly. It was one vast, ambitious game of trial and error. Tis true with creation! It evolves and you never know what’s going to happen in the end. In some strange spiritual sense the art often becomes a thing of its own mind and takes you down paths you hadn’t intended to take. Life, is what it is. I went with the flow of my life to write this and in all of my honesty, vulnerability, disgusting self-deprecation, my whiney overflows of divulging my pathetic inadequacies of grief and depression and melancholy and rants and bitch fests, in all of my sappy interpretations and juvenile infatuations, deep thoughts on my sleeves and theatrical stage dances of the entire human emotional range, in all of my horribly written entries and in all of my most incredible and profound posts I can confidently say that I am completely and utterly satisfied with what I have accomplished. This has been more than a satirical creative exercise for me... This has been my therapy, my long, difficult crawl out of a hole I was stuck in for so many years out in to a day that I was always meant to seize. I was not expecting it. This, in all succulent perspectives makes the entire adventure all the more grand.

Looking back on all the places I’ve traveled to, remembering how I had planned on giving reviews on travel web sites and contributing to a corporate world of tips and know-how, I come now here to the end realizing that none of my Twelve Places had anything to do with travel at all. Each place, mundane or insane, was nothing more than a lure out of my rabbit hole, an opportunity to squash my hermitage and be pro-active. Through it all I’ve overcome some of my deepest anxieties and have finally re-entered the world of the living (certain friends are celebrating…). I’ve always blamed my depression on Minnesota because Minnesota is nothing but a thing, a thing that I unfortunately associate a lot of horrible memories to and have always needed to be saved from. I didn’t need to explore Minnesota to find its redeeming qualities. I needed to explore Minnesota because I had to save myself from the walls I had enclosed myself in. I had to utilize my life and turn it in to something good. I had to grow. Being stagnant, repressed and isolated is extremely unhealthy for the soul, no matter how safe it feels. I had to explore Minnesota to find out that I was a bigot against it, that I was not meant to be filled with hatred simply because I consequently lost myself to so much grief. I had to explore Minnesota because that hatred was killing my inner most spirit and I swear, Reader, what little flame I had left at the time almost vanquished in a puff of smoke. I came close to that edge.

I took away something from each place I visited. Most of the things I took away really had nothing to do with the destination itself but rather the company, or from the challenge of the environment. Or, to put it more plainly: from the simplicity of experiencing an experience. You can take and leave anything you want from your life and your stories. I highly recommend being greedy and taking as much as you are willing to pile into yourself because emptiness is unbearable and worthless. This, Reader, is what I took from my Twelve Places:

Pioneer Days gave me a sense of roots. I was with people I loved and who loved me, and I was able to be part of something traditional, annual, and reliably comforting.

I haven’t lived in one spot long enough since my childhood in New York to have accomplished any sort of roots, and I’d been missing the simplicity of companionship, of having someplace to go, of having annual tradition, small town be it as it may. These are the sorts of things that are taken for granted until they are gone. I took away from this trip the value of tradition, and community.

Roseau gave me a road trip to help me grieve for my grandmother, for my old life of an old me, and gave me the opening sights to a brighter light.

It also squandered my prejudice against the social Minnesota culture of being unfriendly. Roseau truly is the friendliest town in the state.

From this trip I stripped an old, bitter piece of myself and replaced it with a hopeful light.

Mille Lacs put luminosity on friendship, and revived my free spirit and set it loose in an adventure I never could’ve possibly imagined experiencing. I took away a lot of memories and a sense of belonging in the oddest, most unexpected corner of the world.

The Apple River Valley was a true testament of my ability to bitch and hopefully achieve a sort of comedic avenue while doing so.

It also represented hurtles of a long list of pathological anxieties, some of which I look back on now and feel preposterous to have ever had.

I bore all to my readers in hopes they would relate, not judge. If you care to know, I have come a long way from then. I took a good look at my temperament from this trip… I also took an extremely entertaining story at the expense of some really stupid people, and gained a lot of readers because of it.

The Renaissance Festival gave light to a sort of rigidity within, but was damn proud of it besides.

Again, my ability to bitch (with a hopefully comedic edge) came pouring out a part of me that seemed to wake like an extremely agitated dragon. Well... ‘A dragon the size of a salamander, anyhow. I should definitely not be taken seriously when I’m blowing fire on the crowds. It’s just too ridiculous. I’m meant to go back to this festival and try it again, maybe with fairy wings and flowers in my hair next time… I’d like to take more from this one.


The Minneapolis Auto Show taught me that dating can be horrible and a grave waste of time.

Merlin’s Rest taught me that dating can be a wonderful thing, and with the right person a well-chosen investment.

It was also a moment of supreme achievement when I ordered food in a public place, something I hadn’t done technically in ages. Pathological fear number three- hundred and ninety -four, squashed, thank you very much! I took home a lot of giddiness and pride on this one.


Toast Wine and Bar was something that brought more than one sense of my body back to life. I discovered that I was ungracefully insecure, but in the same turn learned that I was adamant about rising above it. And then there was the cheese… succulent, divine cheese; flavor of home, of comfort, and of class. I took a sense of fulfillment to my body, in all its gluttonous glory, from here. I also took a toothpick and a good buzz.

After the wine bar, of course, was the Acme Comedy Club. Now, this drew something out of me that I hadn’t dared to mention in the actual post I wrote… Stage theater and comedy have always been a private longing, a pipe dream, a part of my being that’s been clandestine since I was very little. I used to spend hours in front of my bedroom mirror as a child, practicing accents and playing the parts of personalities I absorbed from my surroundings. This has always been a withering aspiration as I seem to grow older and older without ever pursuing it, my potential losing potency all the while. Watching a woman, about my age, stand up on a stage and deliver a radiant performance of ridiculousness and oddball humor, I was inspired. I’m not saying I’m gearing up to put myself in front of a microphone any time soon, but it was the first time in over five years that I remembered, remembered fully, that performance and entertainment were part of who I am. This is something I need to pursue on some sort of level, I thought. I had been so dead of believing in myself and who I am for so damn long... I was now slowly coming back to life. Inspiration. That’s what I took.

Brit’s taught me that I’m more of a girl than I’d like to admit… How anti-feminist of me! But seeing on how it was yet another date, I was discovering a lot of ridiculous things about myself (such is the bitter part of making yourself vulnerable). I loved the pub, and I enjoyed the attempted surreal feeling of being in another country,

but
I was also coming to face a lot of my inadequacies. I’m not experienced in dating. I’ve had boyfriends of course, but dating in the orthodox sense is a whole new endeavor for me.

How do you impress a stranger?

And why the hell do I want to so badly!

I’ve never been a pursuer in all of my life, and here I am pursuing like a mad woman. I barely recognize myself as I slowly morph in to a new skin. It’s about time, too. I’ve been wearing the same skin for over five years. Time to shed. Rediscovery is what I took from this one.

Albert Lea was the road trip I needed to reignite my spirit fully. Fire came back in to my soul in flames I never thought would rise again. It was the beginning. It was the opening I needed to fly out of with a bang of sunlight and color and potential. There was nothing special about Alert Lea itself (other than seeing my dear friend, of course), but the journey was by far more crucial than the destination. I took fire.

Place number twelve: an art exhibit in the city.
Despite my rants, the hallways of creative people ignited a sense of belonging. Through the art I didn’t like I was inspired to improve my own devices. Through the art I loved I was humbled. The diversity comforted me. The culture reminded me that I’ve been deprived of it for far too long. And then, quite unexpectedly, I found exactly what I needed to find all the while. There’s no doubt I could’ve clicked my silver shoes and wished for home all along, but the magic wouldn’t have worked had I not taken the drive in to finding myself again. I needed to uncover exactly what I have to offer to the world, and a reason to set roots and establish a home.

I have found an apartment in the city and am moving forward in less than a month, reigniting a sense of myself because of it. I feel reckless, confident, steadfast and brave. Standing in front of that house, curiously enough, had a profound effect on my senses… and my soul. It was beautiful. It was awe-inspiring. It took my breath away. This was the picture perfect life I desperately wanted to attain. This was the right way to close my pursuit of happiness. It was fitting and fate worthy: I stood in front of a house, a home, in Minnesota, and wanted to make it my own.

I have finally fallen in love. And love is what I have profoundly taken from it all.

Place #12: Art-A-Whirl PART 2

As usual with art, some of it is aesthetically pleasing while much of it is not. Most of it can be appreciated for the work that went in to it, but cannot necessarily be enjoyed. As an artist myself I can respect any sort of creation that an artist has put the time and energy in to creating. However, I have a few pet peeves about how people define art. “People” being a sum of persons divided in to two groups: artists and the audience. I have a few uppity, snobby opinions about each group and I’m going to balls out and share them with you.

Pet peeve numero one: “anything is art”. This is a myth. Anything is NOT art. Michelangelo would be spewing into the nearest urn if he were alive today and saw some of the things that have been tried to pass as art. This pet peeve goes out to both parties, artists and the audience alike. I’m sorry, but a toilet seat mounted on a slab of cement is NOT art (not that I actually saw this here…but I did see it somewhere else). Now if you had painted the toilet seat to look like a vagina and mounted it on a chiseled, goddess looking pedestal, then, sure, okay. That I can get. I still wouldn’t want it in my house, but I could at least respect it. But adhering two objects together that look disgusting to begin with shows a complete lack of effort and a great deal of sneakiness and con artistry. I’m sorry, but true art is about the work, the effort, the labor, the design, the craftsmanship, the expression without words, the cleverness and ingenuity, the use of line and color outside what is expected no matter how seemingly simple, and impressing an audience that understands that art is entirely about these components combined and nothing short of them. I don’t care if it’s ugly. I don’t care if it’s not your taste. If someone puts labor into something and it comes out in the end with a purpose to impress, then, well, mission accomplished.

Pet peeve number dos: Artists who try too hard to let the world know they’re weird. Or, rather, the concept that all weird people are artists. Of course artists are weird. Duh. Art is our way of defecating our insanity. Or brilliance... It all depends on one’s perspective. Personally I think it’s a combination of both. Regardless, the point is: it doesn’t matter how many layers of mismatched clothes you pile on to your body, and how many different colors your hair is, and it doesn’t matter if you wear butterfly wings and costumes in public: you’re only an artist if you’re actually doing the work. Don’t get me wrong. I dig weird. To me, weird is a form of evolved coolness and confidence that the majority of the world just doesn’t quite get yet. I like to funk up my outfits from time to time, too. But the funk isn’t what makes us artists. It’s the product. And I will tell you, when I was a teenager? I was definitely the artist that tried too hard to let my peers know that I was weird. Thus the weirdoes unite! However, this had a segregated effect. We were expected to hate the jocks and the jocks were expected to hate us. This has always bothered me because there’s more to me than just being an artist. We (artists) are expected to gather together in color flaring flocks. Don’t get me wrong, the camaraderie is necessary. I mean, we are weird and the weird needs to be validated by the other weirdoes. But we aren’t supposed to be bunched in to one secluded, fraternity.

This leads me on to the next pet peeve…

Pet peeve #three: Artist segregation. We’re supposed to date each other, marry each other, be friends with each other, and make communities together. No thanks. If you’re truly an open minded person, there is no club. Take the fairy wings off and shake hands with a corporate executive for crying out loud. Believe it or not, artists are not the only weird, interesting people in the world, and not all weird people are artists. Some of the most unexpected personalities have a creative streak. And some of the weirdest people have no artistic talent at all.

My philosophy on artists:

I’m uncomfortable when I’m pegged or praised for being an artist, especially from people who I deem equally creative. I believe that creativity is a necessity in our evolution and that just about everyone is imaginative and inventive and clever in their own devices and purposes. Pixar’s brilliance said it best: “Not everyone can be an artist, but an artist can come from anywhere and be any one.”

So…

As I entered each exhibit, my pet peeves ran wildly through my temperaments. In one exhibit was a blown up photograph of what seemed to be a church basement. The lighting was god-awful and the composition was so disgusting I couldn’t figure out if this was intentional or if the poor photographer has no idea that they’re not a photographer. I looked at it long and hard, trying desperately not to judge, but all I could think was: who the hell would buy this? It says absolutely nothing to my senses. The effort is infantile. I have photos that six year olds have taken that are more interesting than this… My hairs bristled. I don’t know why it actually makes me angry to see shitty art, but it does. What seems to bother me about it is the lack of endeavor. I think it’s lazy. I don’t think this person is talentless. I think they’re lazy. And they’re trying to sell their shit work on the same level with the non-lazy artists. That is why it pisses me off, Folks. That is why.

Pregnant women and vaginas. Walking through this particular exhibit my first thought was “alternative birth control”. Here’s another thing I try hard not to be too much of a snob about. I’m all for empowering women, and I’m all for expressing the awesomeness of our beautiful bodies and what we represent in the grand scheme of bringing new life in to the world, the power of motherhood and the sacrifices that are made to bring up a new generation of the human race… But good grief. I don’t know what it is about seeing abstract paintings of naked pregnant women, at least the really frightening ones with giant nipples, but they nettle me. Why would you take something so awe strikingly magnificent, and interpret it into something grotesque? That’s not empowering the beauty of pregnant women at all. I have a lot of friends who have new babies and several on the way, and even though there are a lot of truthfully ugly, crude things about pregnancy, the meaning of its entirety represents something so much more grand and beautiful. I suppose, for me personally, if I were to paint a pregnant woman, I would interpret it different… It should be beautiful. It should be awe inspiring and should take your breath away. It should not be alarming.

Now, I reiterate: I can fully respect the work and aim and the talent that went in to this piece. With the right perspective, this is indeed a spectacular painting... But on a personal level, it vexed me. I have opinions. Get over it.

Moving on, I did find impressive exhibits. You can tell the difference profoundly. My absolutely favorite pieces are shown here:

After satisfyingly seeing art that was worth a view, I left this particular area to find more studios. I went walking about the sidewalks, donned in my lovely frump wear let’s not forget, and tried to find more studios in walking distance. I was not successful. However, as I walked through the northeast neighborhoods of Minneapolis I stumbled across something entirely unexpected…

Place #12: Art-A-Whirl PART 1

This is it. This is the last place.

I feel overwhelming pressure to bring out the fireworks for this one, to woo you with all that I have left in what little there is to me to begin with. This may be the last of the Twelve, but it’s not quite the end. I have one more post to write after this one. It will be then, Reader, that I’ll bring out the fireworks, the sparklers, the pops and bangs of a hopefully grand exit.

Right now: Art-A-Whirl.

I began my morning with obligation. I had decided to go to the Walker Art Center as my final place. My chief objective was to rant and rave about modern art and quite snootily turn my nose up at it and let the world know my opinions on the idea of a red square in the middle of a canvas being conceived as actual art. Oh it’s art all right. It’s called con art. Bullshit. But alas! My opinions were to be tucked away for another time.
The morning was not kind to me. I decided to hit a few garage sales before getting ready for the Walker Art Center. I left the house in minimal make-up, running pants, cheap dorky shoes, and a goofy T-shirt I only wear around the house. Clouds were predicting my fate, but I ignored them. I shouldn’t have. Rain came down like the wrath of god, and after successfully getting only half-drenched at the first garage sale I went to, purchasing a fine deal on a tool box and tools, my luck faltered from not-too-bad to get-me-the-hell-out-of-here.

The rain was torrent. I tried another garage sale as the pellets of water shot down from above as if heaven and its angels were armed with machine guns. I ran into the garage only to see a man looking at me with pity as he says, “Sorry, we just packed everything up for Good Will…” All the cars in the driveway were very deceiving, I think to myself. The open garage door was quite deceiving too. Take your stupid signs down, then, man. Damnit. I had parked a few spots down the road. I turned, I sighed, and ran pell mell back through the bullets of rain and into the car. Completely soaked I sat in the car for a few minutes thinking how the weather was all together a horrible omen. I did not feel like going to Walker at all. This was supposed to be it. This was the end of the month of May and I had to finish my blog places rain or shine, hail or tornado, and I was pissed about it.

I had other things on my mind too. This didn’t help my mood. I was obsessing, as usual, about things that in the long grand scheme of things don’t matter at all in the end. I have a frequent, nasty habit of over-analyzing the minutest of problems, driving myself mad through the muck of it. I had recently ran myself through a very long stretch of muck, and here I was wet, cold, disappointed, unmotivated, and feeling exponentially sorry for myself. As I blasted the heat in the car, my hair went up into an almost instant fro.

I had left the house in the hopes of finding furniture for my future apartment. I had left the house in hopes of being productive. I spent $50 to fill a gas tank that wasn’t even mine, all to drive around in a perpetual downpour through a town forty minutes away from home, find nothing but a toolbox and the conclusion to my mood which was borderline clinical depression. Every once and awhile I go through a painful period of self -loathing and hopelessness. I get discouraged easily – not an easy thing to admit, let me tell you. I’m tempted to hit that delete key right now… But no. This blog is about personal growth. You can’t grow if you don’t start confessing to the things that are ugly about who you are. You can’t change them unless you confront them.

So. This was one of my down moments. I was feeling like I was never going to be able to move on and get out of my parents’ basement. In consequence I was feeling like I was never going to be able to date properly, to live my own life properly, to be myself entirely in an environment of independence. I was regretting the wasted money on gas. I was regretting coming out at all. I should’ve just showered, put on the good make-up, put on a descent set of clothes instead of the frump garb I was donning, and gone to Walker.

I headed home. I was driving my mother’s CRV (for I had set out with hopes of finding furniture, remember) and I had the radio on. I never listen to the radio, really. But as I was zoning in and out of grief and despair over the fate of my patheticness and whether or not I was ever going to be cured of it, something the DJ said on the radio snapped me out of it. She was saying something about Art-A-Whirl being today… I had completely forgotten about this grand event, brought to my attention no less than from the man I’ve been dating. He mentioned it on our first date, at Merlin’s. I had completely forgotten about it. Fate! When it’s convenient, I believe in it. This was one of those moments when I believed.

I made the long way home. I hopped onto my laptop and searched for Art-A-Whirl information. Held throughout the art district of Minneapolis, Art-A-Whirl is a sort of festival of independent art shows held in studios throughout the district. They’re held in random buildings like churches, apartments, et cetera. Jotting down the info I needed in my trusty little notebook, I tried to psych myself up to go. I didn’t want to. I was torn. I felt rushed. The weather was no help. But I really wanted to make myself do it. I knew it was the perfect way to end my blog, but I was wishing that I had been in a brighter, more positive version of myself rather than the slug version that was possessing my spirit. So I left the house, still in my awful frump garb and ungodly frizzy hair with the intention that I would pop down there, take a bunch of pictures, visit a handful of exhibits and call it a day. Get it over with and just go. So that’s what I did.

The sun decided to make an appearance on my way down. It decided to make a very hot appearance. I drove down the streets of northeast Minneapolis watching all the people walk the sidewalks to the exhibits and I felt an extreme sense of regret: I should’ve changed my clothes. I should’ve done my hair. I should’ve freshened up my make-up. I felt like I was thirteen again. This is not a pleasant feeling to experience when your actual age is those numbers switched around: 31. I confronted a lot of old demons as I was trying to be brave and find a parking place. Being in public was the very last thing I wanted at this moment. But there comes a time when you really have to pep talk yourself out of adolescent insecurities and realize that how you’re dressed and how your hair looks is one of the least important things in the world. Grow up. Grow up, Jess.

I found a parking place down a cobblestone road and over some train tracks. Free parking. This definitely works for me.

I took some interesting pictures of the tunnel. Train tracks, for some reason, are extremely reliable subject matter. You can’t take a picture of something that leads endlessly into a horizon without it having some sort of profound effect on your senses.

I found my way to the Waterbury building exhibits.

There was live music, tents with food and beer, and an assortment of people from all ages, all styles, and all walks of life. Hipsters and republicans alike.

I always marvel at how art connects people. We truly do share the same skins and bones. Our costumes vary, as well as our souls, but we all want and need the same wants and needs. Little did I know exactly what my wants and needs were, but by the end of this adventure? I did. It became apparent that change in my life was definitely necessary. I just had to figure out how to be brave enough to embrace it. And do it.

Place #11: Albert Lea

I packed the vegetable plants into the backseat of my car and headed home. I was planning on tilling the garden and putting in the goods that Sunday afternoon, but on the drive home I got a call from one of my New York friends (who still lives there), one of the Fab Four that makes up me, my best friend, and the two girls we met in kindergarten twenty five years ago. I hadn’t seen her (or the other two) since my best friend had her baby daughter two years ago. Two years is a very long time for any of us four to go without seeing each other. We’re nothing short of sisters if not closer.

She asked me what I was doing today, which I thought was odd. “Just putting in my garden,” I say, wondering why she didn’t want to talk about why she had been trying desperately to get a hold of me for the past twenty four hours. I had read all of her texts, got her voicemails, heard her voice on the machine at home, but hadn’t had a chance to call her back quite yet. I was assuming she either had something extremely juicy to tell me, or something extremely heavy. So when she asked such a casual, small-talk sort of question like, “What are you doing today?” I was slightly confused. She proceeded to say, “So…would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” I was speechless. Did I hear that right? I have really bad hearing you know… “What?” is what I said. She laughed and repeated herself. I’m pretty sure I said “What?” at least three times before she explained how it was possible for her to meet me for dinner.
As it turned out, she was in Iowa visiting her brother and after seeing a road sign for Minneapolis she realized that she was only four hours away from me. I can’t remember exactly, but I’m pretty sure I squealed most of my words thereafter.

We decided to meet in Albert Lea, a two hour drive for both of us. I’ve heard of Albert Lea. It’s in the southern part of Minnesota which was the only reason I decided to use it as a blog spot. I needed a southern place to tag on to my twelve seeing on how most of my places have been city joints. There’s a reason most of my places have been city joints, though, and Albert Lea is proof that there really is nothing left to Minnesota’s redeeming qualities other than the city.

The drive down was un-expectedly exhilarating in its own way. It was a gorgeous, blue-sky, sunny sort of day where the light is so Kodak clear that you literally feel like you’re floating through a photograph, where the white of the clouds is luminous white, and the blue of the sky is lurid and crisp. As I passed the infinite stretches of fields and flatlands, I suddenly remembered that I had been down this way before.
This was not the first time I’ve driven through southern Minnesota. The last time I was here, on this highway, I was twenty one years old and heading for Florida to start a new life away from the place I hated so much. An overwhelming urge to relive the excitement of running away overcame me. I wanted to hit the road again. I wanted to drive across the country, again, not knowing how my recklessness was going to play out, and being positively thrilled about it. I wanted to re-live that adventure, re-taste the world for the first time, to experience being naïve and ignorant and sheltered all over again simply to regain the high of exploring a new life.

It’s sad, getting older. Even as an adult you still pass through phases and decades that bring you through a shedding of your skin, a loss of innocence, a newly replaced free-spirit with an older, cautious one. Ten years ago I could get into a car with nothing but a few hundred dollars and hit the road safely relying on nothing but a gamble that I would find a job quick enough to sustain me upon destination. I remember I had nothing but ten bucks in my pocket by the time I had reached Florida. I was fortunate that I found two jobs immediately. That sort of fortune doesn’t play out anymore. My second trip to Florida proved that plenty. That sort of recklessness (naiveté) only favors the young it seems.
As I drove I felt a sense of melancholy for the loss of that spirit, or at least the fading of it. I still now and again dive foolishly into things that usually fail in the end, but I certainly don’t do it with the confidence and gusto that I used to have. I’m far more cautious, insecure, anxious and practical than I used to be.

However…

When I was on that highway…

When I was heading for that horizon that never got closer…

When I was passing the fields glowing emerald in the sun, and the old farm houses that were unfamiliar, and the road signs that marked my path…

Oh, Reader! I felt like I had found a bit of my old self again, a bit that I actually wanted back. It was the beginning of something. I didn’t feel cautious, or insecure, or anxious, or practical anymore. I felt like I was twenty one, and even though I rationed that I could never be again, it didn’t stop me from believing that simply because I’m older now my adventures don’t have to come to an end. No. They need to begin. Something new has to happen in my life now.

My friend (and her brother) and I met at The Green Mill restaurant. After having to hand back a medium well done steak that was pinker than my rare one, and after realizing that I was charged four dollars for the extra cherry tomatoes I requested for my salad, I slipped the little china bowl that the tomatoes came in right into my purse. Forgive me, Reader. I seek satisfaction in the simplest (albeit illegal) forms of justice. The grown-up thing to do, I guess, would’ve been to gripe about the price of the tomatoes. But taking the bowl was somehow more exhilarating and satisfying.

After driving around the deserted Sunday streets of town, taking photos of buildings that have been standing for clearly more than a hundred years, we found a park to take some pictures in. We stood by a giant oak tree and quite traditionally snapped some memories into permanent existence. It was a lovely, lovely day.

We said our goodbyes with the promise that we would see each other again in July when I would be coming to visit New York. I left knowing that I’d never have the slightest interest in returning to Albert Lea ever again, but was overcome by the unexpected revitalizing the road trip had done for my spirit. Albert Lea means nothing to keeping me in Minnesota. But the reliving of the memory of ten years ago brought something back to life in me. I don’t want to leave Minnesota, no. But this small sprout of inspiration has swelled a once shriveled desire for change and growth. I’ve been dormant these past four years. It is time to move forward again.

Place #10: Brit's Pub, Minneapolis

I was slightly lost... as usual, of course (in more ways than one).

I pulled into the parking garage closest to Nicollet Mall and crossed my fingers. I was slightly panicked (sort of, in a way…) about which direction to take once I got out of my car and started walking. As I exited the garage and stood on the corner of 2nd (and was it, 11th?), I sought out a ridiculously desperate option. I don’t know what came over me, really. It’s an unexplainable phenomenon the way a woman processes a semi-crisis through some sort of uncontrollable primitive reflex that results in nothing more than a moment lost to the dignity of believing oneself to be beyond such impulses. But there I was, submitting to that reflex, that inadvertent vie for attention, or affection, or protection from a person you’re attracted to. I took out my phone and called my date, and playing nothing short of a damsel in distress I left a voicemail in a voice that was a slightly higher octave than normal, using words like, “I’m lost! Help me!” Oh, Jessica. Tisk, tisk. Immediately after I hung up, I took a look around and saw Nicollet Mall straight ahead of me. Good grief. Seriously, Woman? Own up to your independence just a tad, will you? I literally rolled my eyes at myself and started walking toward the green street sign that practically shouted “Nicollet Mall, you idiot!” Brit’s was right around the bend.

Cool joint, let me tell you. Outstretched across the sidewalk area was a large outdoor front patio, European flags fluttering high above on poles jutting out from the rooftop. Through the pair of huge, front wooden doors there was a couch area to my right, and the bar to my left. Above a faux fireplace was the Queen, in all of her majestic glory, gazing down upon the patrons from a golden frame high on the wall. In fact, if you gave a good look around she was sort of everywhere (which was slightly unnerving).

More flags hung from the fourteen foot plus high ceiling over the entryway barroom of the pub, and straight ahead was a wide stairwell with an English style banister leading up to the roof. Off to the back left of the place was another room, another bar. My date and I finally met up and headed upstairs to the rooftop.

Reaching the rooftop I was greeted by a bright red British telephone booth to my left (anyone going to the Ministry of Magic?),

and out in front of me was an impressive acre of stonewalled-in lawn for lawn bowling. Ho. Here it was, Reader. This was one of the most important reasons I wanted to come here: lawn bowling.

Lawn bowling, however, was something I had never heard of until I read about it on Brit’s website, and in my ever hopefully charming ignorance and childlike imagination I had deduced “lawn bowling” to be something far more primitive and college-party invented (like beer pong). What I had envisioned in my head was… well, slightly cartoonish and abstract, and extremely ridiculous. I imagined a sort of chaotic ecstasy of strangers bowling with American bowling balls down unmarked lanes toward pins that were ideally (and rather dangerously) set up by hand. I imagined drunk, happy-go-lucky people getting in each other’s way, bonding through intoxication and mishap, through accidents and non-competitive natures. I literally saw piggy-back rides, people rolling bowling balls through the legs of friends lined up in a row, bowling balls cracking into each other as drunken competitors couldn’t keep their lanes straight, all with the grand, unrealistic idea that not one person would be irritated or outraged by the chaos but rather embrace it with this sort of marvelous rapture. Utopia. I was imagining a ludicrous utopia. (I am such a hippie…)

When I first saw the lawn out in front of me, presenting itself as an empty, pristine, almost professional looking stadium, I thought, “Huh. Not at all what I had in my head….” That was clearly an understatement. My date knew a little more about it than I did. He said that lawn bowling (which is an actual British sport) was similar to croquet. Oh. Huh. In comparison to my fantasy, this sounded dry-heavingly boring. Bowling, to me, means throwing a heavy ball and knocking things down. Doing it drunk is even more exhilarating and expelling. But alas! This was not a probability.

Across the lawn mounted on an adjacent building wall was an enormous flat screen.

Apparently they show movies for the rooftop patrons from time to time, a definite reason to return. On the massive walls of the pub itself were larger than life sized score boards and pub advertisement murals. Everything about this place screamed mass enormity and bold scales of size. The rooftop patio was large enough to fit hundreds of people. I was impressed, indeed.

Service for the night, however, was a little subjective. I think we happened to get a waitress who may have been at the end of her shift, or was just not having the right kind of day. For no apparent reason she snatched away our drink menu without asking if we were done with it. After two drinks, this is not okay. Maybe I looked at her wrong…? I have that effect sometimes. My face responds to the stupid things I’m thinking about, and I often give strangers a stink eye without meaning to. Oh that Jessica and her random stink eye…

After shamelessly taking pictures of people in fanny packs, sandals and kaki shorts, slutty short skirts and other interesting apparel, we ended up transporting ourselves inside down to the entryway barroom.

The couch under the largest painting of the Queen was recently vacated, so I made the executive decision to bounce myself on to it. Comfy! There was a great deal of “people watching” from this point of view, including several bachelorette parties that wandered in.

One particular bride carried in a giant blow-up doll in the shape of a cactus with a semi-offensive Mexican man’s face drawn on to it.

I asked her if I could take a picture of her with it, and in her spunk she invited me to sign the cactus. She handed me a Sharpie, and as I was slow to think from my buzz the most clever thing I could think to write on it was, “Me so hot!” right above the genitalia area. Had I been a little more sober I would’ve gone with using a dirty “poke” or “prickly” pun. Darn it all. I finished my stupid little phrase with a scribbly, unreadable “JC”.

We eventually left Brit’s to hit another joint, but I left feeling pretty satisfied with this find. I will definitely be returning to this hotspot.

Place #9: Acme Comedy Club

It’s slightly pathetic that I’m listing this as place number nine.

Do I use the word pathetic a lot? I kind of do, don’t I… I also talk way too much about my hair. (Oh yeah. I’m aware.) It ends here, though, you’ll be glad to know, especially since I have very little to say about this particular blog spot.

We saw the comedian Mary Mack. She was brilliant, from what I remember. I laughed a lot, from what I remember. I really enjoyed the show, from what I remember. Mary Mack, cute as a button, quirky and weird and charming and ridiculously funny, was one, white-washed blur throughout the entire show. I want to say I never should’ve had the red wine, but I can’t. It was too damn good. So was the beer I ordered in the club. I wish I could remember what it was called… It was supposed to be a sort of substitute for my staple order, Corona, but the waitress near promised me I’d like it ever better. And I did. ‘Can’t remember what it was, though… sigh.

I’ve been to Acme before, several years ago. So, all in all this is a filler place. And quite frankly? I don’t care. It’s a place I’d return to, and that’s saying something.

Place #8: Toast Wine Bar and Cafe

I’m a cheater. I’m lazy. I cut corners. Or….do I?

Personally, I’d like to think of myself as resourceful and practical, efficient and flexible. I look back to the beginning of my blog and realize that it may have been unwise to have designed a Twelve Places list when I knew indubitably that I was not going to commit to it. I don’t plan well. Planning can sometimes create a very unnecessary stress factor that I, you know, would prefer to just eliminate altogether. Commitment issues? Possibly. There are plenty of places on my “list” that I’m just not going to be going to. So, if you were really looking forward to hearing about how my trip to Spam Town was going to go, or how my journey through the Boundary Waters was going to turn out, I’m afraid I’ve gravely disappointed you. I have no desire to go to Spam Town. Who would? And I would love to explore the Boundary Waters if I didn’t have this abhorrent allergy to poison ivy. I can’t explore Minnesota’s wildlife to its fullest potential because of this. There’s no way in hell I’m risking another summer like last summer. I’m not going anywhere near anything wild and green this summer, and you mark me on this one: I’m sure as hell not going to go anywhere near the woods. This breaks my heart because I love the forest, the trees, and nature, but being poisoned by poison ivy is just too damn traumatic for me. I’m afraid this adds to my loathing and frustration about living here, because I know damn well that Minnesota has an expansive natural world worth exploring. And I just… can’t afford to risk it.

However, the city has become my alternative. I began this blog telling myself not to make too many city destinations because, really, the city (in my own opinion) doesn’t really count. I’ve always loved cities and everything they have to offer, and Minneapolis (other than getting lost in it) has never been a sore spot in terms of me enjoying the life here. It’s been the prairies, the middle-of-nowhere, the outskirts of racist red-necks, hillbillies, creepy country neighbors, and a high school that should probably do the community a favor by burning to the ground that has created this corrupt vindictiveness for a place, that in truth, I want to believe with all of my heart is really not that horrible of a place to live. But alas! The city, I have discovered, is possibly one of the greatest redeeming qualities about living here. I’m less than an hour out of it, and Minneapolis has quite a bit to offer. All of the things I’ve been missing, the sort of things that feed my soul, my guilty pleasures, and my addictions to nostalgia are, well, in the city.

My third date with the man from my previous post involved going to see a show at the Acme Comedy Club. Before the show, we stopped in a wine bar down the street, and I wasn’t exactly planning on writing about it (I didn’t take any notes on this one, folks) but I definitely have to now that I’ve gone.

At the top of my blog page it reads, “…horrible food…” I’ll be the first to admit that this is pretty snobby of me, and I’ve no doubt insulted all the Minnesotans who love tater-tot hot dish and cracker crust pizza. My apologies.

I was more spoiled than I realized, in New York. They say it’s the water. New York’s water is some of the cleanest and purest in the country. I can attest to this because I’ve drank, out of the cup of my hands, from a gorge waterfall in Ithaca, New York and it was the most divine tasting water I’ve ever put into my body. This is supposedly why a lot of our foods are so delicious: pizza dough, bagels, cheese, et cetera. “It’s the water,” they say.

Cheese. For those who know me, I’m a bit of an addict. I keep a tight leash on it because if I didn’t I’d inevitably weigh three hundred pounds, and every one of those pounds would be answerable to cheese. I can’t say there isn’t a descent brand of cheese I can pick up at the local grocer, but it’s nothing like getting a fresh canister of grated parmesan from the deli. Or, any fresh cheese from the deli for that matter. Sure, there are always the staple forms: American, provolone, Pepper Jack, cheddar. However, they’re nothing but the truck-imported, vacuum- sealed brick cheeses that just don’t satisfy a cheese-spoiled New Yorker like me. I want fresh mozzarella out of the water. I want New York extra-sharp white cheddar that nearly melts in my mouth. I want deli-fresh grated parmesan with that perfect, aged bite that makes a homemade pasta all the more divine. I never realize how deprived I am until I return home and enjoy these nostalgic, savory treats. It’s often become a tradition to go grocery shopping while I’m visiting home, and bring the goods back to Minnesota for my family to enjoy. I’ve always considered that there has got to be a place in Minneapolis where I can treat myself to finer foods, but have never made the effort to explore it. This brings me back around to Toast Wine Bar and Café, and how a simple thing like fine cheese has the power to put wings on my feet.

I’ll admit, Reader, when we walked into the wine bar I was feeling a little out of my element. I was feeling sorry I hadn’t had the time to properly style my untamable hair which I had tied up into a frizzy ponytail before leaving the house. I was feeling less than classy. When I set my eyes on the menu, I didn’t recognize any of the wine names and realized that I certainly wasn’t going to be able to pronounce any of them. This is when my timidity flares, when I feel substandard, inadequate. The pendulum swings fast. I can go from feeling like Wonder Woman to a lamb in a wolf’s den in 3.2 seconds. As I sat there reading the wine list I said to myself, “Be a grown up. Just point and ask how to pronounce it… It can’t be the first time someone’s done that…” So I did. And it worked. Now, I know you’re supposed to let wine breathe: swish it, swirl it, and wait for it. But I was too anxious, so I drank it immediately. Having made several “warnings” to my date that wine gets me drunk rather quickly, drinking it quickly may have not been the wise thing to do.

Deciding to eat a little something with our wine, we opted for cheese and bread. There’s an option on their menu to choose three cheeses for $14, so that’s what we did. We chose extra aged Grafton Village Vermont cheddar (Vermont is just as comparable to New York if not better, dare I say?); Tuscany pecorino tomato washed sheep’s milk; and taleggio.
The cheese came quickly, and I immediately reached for the aged cheddar first. It’s my favorite cheese, especially if you get the good stuff. I bit into it slowly, savoring the easily broken off edge that slipped over my tongue and nearly melted in my mouth like I was hoping it would. It instantly brought me back to a memory of eating aged cheddar and good wine on my brother’s front deck when the whole family was together for his college graduation. We bought the cheese in a deli on The Strip by the river, and the bite of cheese I was currently savoring brought me back to the valley of Pittsburgh and everything that city life had taught me about finding myself. It also brought me back to a point when my family still gathered together for important events, and even though that seems a melancholy, sort of bittersweet thought, it made me happy to remember happiness that once existed. The cheese? Was really good cheese.

In trying to choose a second glass of wine, my date’s indecisiveness was met with the owner of the place. His name was Scott. I liked Scott. He began to pour several different wines into several different glasses for my date to taste. I, of course, couldn’t miss out. However, they were all red wines. DANGER! This is a how-to-get-Jess-really-really-drunk lesson: give her red wine. They were only tastes, but enough tastes add up quick with me. And then, of course, I had to order a glass of the one I liked best. Of course I did.

By the end of our mini romantic feast, my date got up to use the restrooms. The barmaid put the bill on the counter while he was gone. Now, so far on our outings my date had been taking care of everything financially. He’s a gentleman, and I was grateful for that. But I’m not used to these luxuries. Most women are. I’m not one of them. I’ve had a knack for dating really poor men to begin with (must be those free spirits I’m attracted to or something…), “dating” being a relative term. The relationships I’ve been in have been with guys that were friends first, or friends of my brothers, et cetera. Our relationships were made up of entertaining ourselves in his apartment, the financially cheap way: bargain beer and movies. I’ve never been properly taken out like a lady. Sad. Go ahead. You can say it. It is rather pathetic. But the circumstances in my life have not exactly been in my favor. After a devastating blow to my heart six years ago, I haven’t been able to quite recover as fast as I would’ve expected myself to recover. This is twice as pathetic. It’s been five years since I was last serious with someone. I’ve been alone, self-reliant and all on my own for a long time, trying to hold out for someone worth it this time. In short, Reader, I was feeling guilty that my date was paying for everything. Is this how it should be? I don’t want him thinking I’m a moocher… I should just allow myself to be treated, I say. But why? I’m not that special. I’d have to think myself something pretty special to sit here and say, “I deserve to not have to pay for anything.” Although, I do have to admit there is that part of me that relishes the idea of him paying for everything, but only because all of my friends have been able to enjoy that luxury, something I’ve always envied a bit. In truth, I’ve always wanted a piece of that cake. I won’t lie. It’s nice to be treated nicely. But my inner battle of “Pay? Or not to pay?” ended with: “Pay.” So while he was gone, I snatched up the bill and stuck in my credit card.

We left the wine bar. The wind was whipping up my frizzy ponytail which I was no longer self-conscious about, for I? Was drunk. The taste of red wine and really good cheese lingered not only in my mouth, but also in memory. I thought to myself, “Of all the places I’ve been to, this is probably the first one that has connected me with Minnesota in a redeeming light of invitation, has given me a desire to return, a desire to stay.”

Well. Let’s be honest: I was far too drunk to have had this articulate of a thought, but at least I can say the semi-developed idea was somewhere in there as I stumbled down the sidewalk.

Place #7: Merlin's Rest Part 3

Writing part three has proved to be a more difficult task than anticipated. Firstly because the date part of the night is sort of private. Secondly because I’m feeling rather lazy and don’t remember everything I was going to write about (at least, not yet). To ruin the ending for you, the date went quite wonderful and I’ve already seen him twice again since. I think that because of this I’m feeling apprehensive. He’s reading these too, and even though I extended the invitation (the more readers the better, of course) I’m now feeling slightly scrutinized and a tad self-conscious. Such is the way of it, I suppose…

But I could really blow it, Folks.

I have a reckless propensity for laying out the ugly personal side of my humanity to the public, particularly through my art, and when you’re trying to impress someone this could be a fairly dangerous thing.

However…

A mantra I’ve grown to love to live by (or at least try to), especially as a woman who desperately wants to be freed from feeling like she has to be someone else to seduce a man, is this: the only way to ensure someone is attracted to you for you, is you have to suck it up and be yourself. Seems simple, right? A wee cliché… But when you really think about it: Who, really, is brave enough to suck that up? To really suck it up and be themselves when ourselves, deep down, are so outrageously uninviting, so fucking unattractive in all of our impurities, flaws, peculiarities, defects, shortcomings and ugliness … It’s easier said than done.

Don’t get me wrong, Reader, there’s definitely value in the seduction part of dating. Proving to them that you can clean up nice is not necessarily a dishonor to who you truly are. Quite frankly, if he had come in sweats and a ratty T-shirt and smelled like he hadn’t showered in three days it wouldn’t have gone so well, no matter how witty he was. There is a sense of class required here, people. I had come to that very conclusion when I almost reached for my own sweats. Cleaning up nice is a good idea. Being someone you’re not is a bad one. I can feel pretty in my dresses and my heels, but to hell with it if I’m not going to be who I am. And I’m plenty of unattractive things, there’s no deceiving anyone there. But so is everybody else. That’s just it. I think it’s pointless to pretend that you’re particularly more perfect than others, to compete with others to gain the affection of someone you like, to obsess over being impressive because you gauge the value of your desirability by someone else’s sexual interest in you. Everyone wants to be wanted. I want to be wanted. But I want to be wanted for who I am. Back to my mantra: suck it up, and be yourself. It’s not easy. Everyone wants to hide the things that could potentially send their impending mate running for the hills, there’s no doubt about that. I’m not saying it’s wise to share all, necessarily, just don’t comprise who you are for someone who is, let’s be honest, not that important. That being said, I think I’ve now set myself up to prove that I have the gumption to put my bars down and eat my own words. (Uh oh….)

So, my hopefully-a-true-bachelor showed up and made me happy. I admit, Reader, I’m exponentially skeptic and cautious. I’ve been trained not to trust men, and even more so have had it proven to me more than once the reasons why. It’s hard to date at this age because not only are most people married by now (the one to hundred ratio drops dramatically after age twenty five – at age thirty one it’s more like one to three), but there’s plenty of those married men who are starting to get bored of their brides by this point and want something else. That phenomenon of monogamy is quickly going out of style, and there are plenty of creeps who have crafty ways of cheating on their wives. I don’t want to be stupid. I don’t want to be charmed into someone’s pants who’s pants are already spoken for thank you very much. So, as he and I sat on our barstools, my drunken radar was half alert for clues. So far, so good.

For the readers who have been following me all the way through (I think there’s maybe one of you…), you’ll remember a post titled, “Not Merlin’s Rest”. It was place number three (Mille Lacs). If you disregard the fact that it was written childishly sloppy, you’ll remember (or actually take the time to go back and read it because I’m pretty sure you won’t actually, literally remember ) that I talked a little about fate. I suppose you could say I believe in fate. I suppose… But more often than not I prefer to preach that we have far more control over our lives than we give ourselves credit for, and fate is just something we throw into the mix when we want to believe that we’re not responsible for the effects of our causes. However, while I was enjoying my pint of Stella with a very pleasant, witty, intelligent man who could make me laugh, I was thinking, “I’m glad I never went to Merlin’s way back in July…this is much, much better.”

My date and I had endured the night tolerating a talkative man to our right who was clearly going through a second (maybe third) mid-life crisis who we (more my date than I) christened “Lovely Cat Fred”. “Lovely Cat Fred” came from the combination of our receipt reading “Your lovely waiter tonight was….”, him looking like a Fred (not actually being a Fred), and him saying this: “I’m divorced now, see, because when my wife went through menopause she put me on pause… I have a cat now…” The added fact that he was now stuck with a cat instead of a menopausal wife was hilarious. However, I was sitting there on my tall barstool ready to pummel Lovely Cat Fred for this statement because in defense of his poor menopausal wife I had heard these words instead: “My wife went through menopause, lost her libido, and I’m a selfish asshole who couldn’t handle that.” My date had said to me, “I’d kind of like to hear the wife’s side to that…” I was glad he said this. That was wise of him to say.

Relaxed by this point, my body had finally signaled to me that I hadn’t eaten all day. I was famished. A waiter was taking his break and eating a delectable looking sandwich at the bar down to the right of us (Lovely Cat Fred had taken leave for a while). My mouth watered. Now, most of you who know me know that I have certain, uh, phobias and issues with eating out at restaurants I don’t know. I have an unfortunate shrimp allergy, and there have been way too many times I’ve left restaurants spending hours over a toilet. It’s traumatizing after the fifth or sixth time. You never know when they’re going to cook something in the same pan they cook the shrimp in. Either that or I have an uncanny knack for acquiring food poisoning. Either way, I have procured a pathological fear of eating out. I’ve overcome it for the most part by trying to order foods that are potentially safe. At this point, I was so hungry that I almost asked the waiter if I could eat half of his sandwich.

I mentioned to my date that I was hungry, and he got us some menus (note to self: man who gets what you ask for = scored points). I looked up and down the menu, and was delighted to see they had grilled cheese with tomato. For one, I’ve never been to a place that automatically serves grilled cheese with tomato. I always have to ask for the tomato. So this pleased me a little more than it would a normal person. It was perfect. No meat. I’ve never gotten sick off grilled cheese at restaurants; it’s usually my staple safe order (it’s also comfort food: a dish I’ve been making for myself since I was a child). I ordered it with Merlin’s very own style of potato chips, and it was heavenly. Its divinity could probably be half credited to the fact that I was near starving, but regardless, it was the best grilled cheese and tomato I’ve ever eaten. And the chips were unequivocally enchanting. Yum! My date made a reference to Benny and Joon. Yum, again.

The night ended with rain. I had taken enough pictures to satisfy for the most part. My inability to focus on the true task at hand interfered with my usual blogging responsibilities. But as every blog entry has proven over and over again, I have an uncanny ability to babble on and on and on about just about anything in the hopes of it being at least somewhat, mildly amusing to at least one random person in the universe. So I end with this: The rain was light. The air smelled like wet pavement as my date walked me to my car. I could feel my hair frizzing instantly from the dampness. I felt foolishly self-conscious about it. Such is the way of it, isn’t it?

Place #7: Merlin's Rest part 2

In heels, it’s much easier for me to hop up onto those tall bar stools. I’m a wee little 4’11” woman, and I more often than not have to crawl up onto barstools 5-year-old style (a slight exaggeration). But here I was able to scoot my generously sized rear end up onto the stool easy peasy. The bartender attended to me immediately and helped me choose a nice, light beer to my liking. I chose a pint of Stella Artois and took a few unstinting gulps: I was in a bit of a rush to feel the effects. I pulled out my pocket-sized Hating Minnesota notebook (which has a red cover and bold words that read: New York – the Wonder City) and began to scribble in illegible handwriting. I do this when I write in front of people, like on the plane or in a waiting room or…in a bar. I’m ridiculously paranoid that people nearby are going to take a peek over my shoulder and read what I’m writing. No. ‘Can’t allow that. So I write in the worst handwriting possible, just legible enough for me to understand (which on severe occasions, I cannot). This is ridiculous and has no sound footing whatsoever. My notes are hardly private, especially when I share what I write on a live, public blog. For example, this is what I wrote on the first page: “White haired man sitting next to me. Drinking Stella Artois. Atmosphere friendly. Leather booths – authentic looking. But what the hell do I know about an authentic Irish pub? ‘Never been to Ireland.” Profound, Jess. Real profound.

I continued to write more inadequate, unreasonable things, like how I was certain I was going to be stood up by the man I was hoping would arrive. But then I told myself, “You can’t get stood up on this one. You’re the one who told him you were here for your blog. You’d be here with or without him. So if he doesn’t show? Suck it up and get over it.” I next jotted down: “Check time. 6:50pm.” Next line: “Should NOT have checked time. Nerves bouncing again. Tip – ignore time when you’re anxious.” On the next page at the top it reads: “Another tip – keep drinking when you’re nervous.” Down a line: “Drank.”

By this time, I was starting to relax a bit. I deemed it important to eavesdrop on my fellow bar mates. A fellow to my left had lifted his head in response to a baby crying on the other side of the bar. He spoke to the bartender as if he knew him well (definitely a regular), the two of them chatting about being new fathers and how those instincts kick in even when they’re not around their own children. “I heard that baby crying, and I suddenly felt like I had to go see what the matter was and fix it,” said the man down the bar on my left. New fathers. Sigh. What a beautiful thing.

It was a motley crowd, sundry and amusing. An extremely thin gentleman came in through the doors wearing an Edward Scissorhands jacket, a sort of fedora, and cowboy boots. Another older gentleman in a plaid jacket and matching hat was enjoying the company of the people in a booth a few seats away from me. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the old country, a century ago. Another jotted note: “I see balloons. Birthday?”

The air outside was chilly but humid with a steel gray sky. I love overcast skies. I love the threat of rain with no rain. It reminds of me of my hometown. Upstate New York, at least the part I grew up in, was always promising rain with no rain. The sun rarely made a presence, and even though most would deem that gloomy and depressing, for me it’s always quite nostalgic. I love early spring clouds, a hint of humidity, a thawing of the earth that brings smells of dirt and wet pavement. A survival technique I’ve devised to help me deal with my anxiety consists of trying to discover a comfort zone within the outskirts of my comfort zone to give me the illusion of safety. I was definitely out of my comfort zone (zone as in, dating), so I clung to the overcast sky. I told myself, “pretend you’re home… this is how your life was meant to be before so many things disrupted your confidence… you used to love to be out of your comfort zones… adventures used to be part of who you are...stop losing this part of yourself to anxiety… pretend you’re home… pretend you’re home…” The next jotted note: “The sky is overcast, and it’s nice and humid-feels like New York. It’s a very New York day. I like it. I think it’s perfect.”

By this time I had finally conquered my nerves. It was twenty minutes after seven. If he was going to show, he was going to be late. Late I can handle. I’m not exactly punctual myself (this one night being a grand exception). I wasn’t nervous anymore (meaning my physical symptoms had finally resided thanks to the Artois and the self pep talk), but I began to torture myself with stupid scenarios. What if he’s been here and he’s on the other side of the bar where he can’t see me? What if we don’t’ recognize each other? We’ve only seen each other in random, posted-online pictures… What if he came in, didn’t recognize me, and left? What if he came in, saw me, and thought, “She’s not as cute as she is in her pictures…” and left because of that?
Yes.
Neurotic, Reader, is the word you’re probably searching for (insecure works too). I’d like to convince you that I’m really not like this, that I’m really cool and laid back, that I don’t over-analyze every stupid situation I’m stuck in, but I’m learning to come clean with myself. I hide it fairly well (from people who don't me that well that is), but I am indeed, a touch neurotic and almost perpetually insecure. Maybe more than a touch… Confessions are embarrassing, but they’re cleansing. After all, this blog is first and foremost about personal growth. I’m not only trying to build a more loving relationship with Minnesota, but I’m trying to build a more loving relationship with myself. I’m trying to conquer my fears, be disciplined, and with trying to learn how to be an adequate human being I'm trying to learn how to be an adequate story teller. So please bear with me as I embarrassingly lay out my flaws. Self-deprecation is a channel all artists tune in to, and I understand it can be little obnoxious at times. What we’re really just trying to do is give diagnostic tests on ourselves, go in and fix our problems, and try to learn how to live our lives freely. There’s a constant feeling of living in a cage of our own filth, and we just want to be set free from it.

So. Back to the bar stool…

Just when I was about to declare a no-show, I turned around to see a tall man pass behind me. He turned and looked at me, and we, indeed, did recognize each other (as normal people other than myself could have predicted without a second thought). It was a great moment. I was shallowly flooded with the pleasure of seeing that he was even more attractive in person than he was in his photos. I can’t even remember if we shook hands. He made a joking reference to something we had bantered about in our early correspondence, and I was quite pleased about it. This was going to be a good night.

Place #7: Merlin's Rest part 1

I put on my dress. I looked into the mirror and thought, “To tuck away the girls or not to tuck away the girls?”

This particular outing was not only one of my Twelve, but was also a first date. I hate first dates. I never know what to do with myself. On the one hand I do enjoy having a practical reason to put on a dress (I never wear dresses), but on the other hand I can’t help but stand in front of the mirror and say, “You’re trying too hard. This is sort of pointless. It’s nothing but trickery. You’re not actually this cute, you know. You might as well go make-up less and in sweats, see if you can charm your way into his pants like plenty of scrappy, poorly dressed, un-kept men do all the time with us. You’re charming enough… reach for the sweats… I dare you….” But alas! I grabbed my mini cardigan sweater (another article of clothing I never thought I’d own, let alone wear) and put it on over my dress. I pulled on my black tights and strapped on some really old heels.

I chopped off five inches of my hair only three days before. My hair was nice and soft and bouncy now, so that was making me feel pretty good. I dyed it, too, so it was also pleasantly (note sarcasm) spongy and bright, and strongly resembling a discount rack Halloween wig. Regardless, I was still feeling pretty good about the cut (I would just have to wash vigorously and put in extra conditioner to tone down the wig appearance) so I followed through with the ridiculous process of straightening my hair with a round brush layer by layer, and then going through each of those layers again with a curling iron. That doesn’t make sense to you? There’s madness to the natural state of my hair and it has to be tamed in ungodly ways. I had to prove the potential of my hair, I guess, to my date. So I went the full ten yards with the doll-up process. Well, almost. I went easy on the make-up. I ran out of time.

Nerves. Nerves. Anxiety attacks galore! Oh, Jess. Why do you do this to yourself?

I do it because in the long run it’s good for me. I have to face my fears. I have to face the risk of rejection. I have to face the awkwardness. I have to figure out how to re-define and unearth my social graces. I need to figure out how to still love myself even when all of these things fail. I’m often traumatized by the failure of my social awkwardness; it sends me running back into my hermit hole utterly repulsed with my inability to amalgamate with other homo sapiens. I feel abnormal. Handicapped. I envy normal people.

But tonight was going to be different, I told myself. I was wearing a sort-of pretty dress that made the top half of me look awesome (if I do say so myself), my hair was bouncy and cute and curly, and I was feeling relatively confident. I decided to go early so that I could have time to scribble some notes in my blog notebook before my contender arrived.

Parking. I’m not sure if I’m borderline dyslexic or have some sort of reading comprehension handicap, but I never understand parking signs. Hmm. Allow me to elaborate: I’m never 100% sure they’re saying what I think they’re saying, and the anxiety of getting towed seems to override my judgment and ability to translate the very language to which I speak. According to a website Merlin’s Rest was supposed to have accessible side street parking. But when I arrived, every side street was marked with signs that read: “15 minute parking; Mon-Sat; 9am to 9pm”. Okay. So mark me if I’m wrong, Reader, but isn’t this saying you can only park for fifteen minutes between the times of 9am and 9pm, Mondays through Saturdays? So, to get good side street parking you have to park after 9 o’ clock at night. What? This can’t be right, I tell myself, especially because there are cars parked on the street. Have they been here longer than fifteen minutes? Who the hell parks in this part of town for only fifteen minutes? It’s not like it’s next to a quickie mart or something. So. After I drove up and down the street seventy times over-analyzing the damn sign, I finally pulled into a nearby residential parking lot and parked in a spot that had no sign at all. I got out of my car, locked it, and hoped I would still find it there when my evening was through.

My pathetic, old sandal heels clicked and clopped up the sidewalk to Merlin’s. Two men clad in black leather, thick, un-kept facial hair and black boots sat in front of the pub smoking cigarettes that smelled like nothing I had ever smelled. The billowing cloud of burning tobacco wafted toward me, directed by a particular wind, and the scent was foreign but delightful. I almost stopped to ask them what brand they were smoking, but my nerves were rushing me through the wooden doors faster than I had particularly wanted.

First mission: scope for a good spot. A leather, gold push-pinned upholstered booth? A wooden dinner table? For two? Or a bar stool. The restaurant side was my to my left, the bar side to my right. I went right and prompted my clippity clopping feet to head for the bathroom. When I was out of the loo, I was going to opt for a bar stool.