The Conversation

Nicklebee the Author: (clears throat, pauses) Uhh..hey!

Invasion the Blog: (startled) Oh, oh, hey! Oh my gosh, hi! How are you?

N: I’m good, really good…

I: That’s good…

N: I was in the area, checking my email and stuff, and I just, well, you crossed my mind!

I: Oh, okay, that’s nice.

N: Yeah…so…I’m sorry. This is awkward…

I: What? No. No…well…yes…

N: It’s just that I’ve been so busy. You know, work and everything.

I: Well sure, I mean, you work so hard.

N: But still, it’s no excuse, I should have come by sooner.

I: It has been awhile. A long while actually. More like, well let’s see, months.

N: Oh, are you…are you mad at me?

I: Honestly, Nicklebee, what did you expect? You start this thing up, you post all these 

things, and then, one day you just disappear. Bam! Gone!

N: I know…

I: It’s not like I can do all of these things without you here. Believe me, I tried.

N: I’m…really sorry Invasion. Really. It’s just that…nothing ever seems good enough for you. I have these ideas, and I try to write them out, and they just turn into dumb stuff. And you deserve more! More than my feebleattemptstosoundwittyandtryandbefunnyand (deep breath I’m just…sorry, okay?

I: Wow. Umm…well, I guess I just…wow.

N: I just wanted you to have my best,and then when I couldn’t do it, I just avoided you.

And a week turned into two weeks,which turned into two months,which turned into now. 

And now we’re here.

I: Yes, yes we are. Umm, Nicklebee?

N: Yeah Invasion?

I: It’s okay you know. You don’t have to worry so much about this.

N: What? Of course I do. You’re my BLOG! I created you, and filled you with bright and shiny narratives, and then I , I just couldn’t for a minute, but…

I: But what?

N: I missed you. A lot.

I: You did?

N: Yeah. A lot a lot.

I: I missed you too.

N: I was thinking…there’s a new year coming up…

I: I’ve heard the same rumor.

N: And MAYBE, if you could forgive me…I could try again…

I: Don’t say this if you don’t mean it Nicklebee, I’m serious.

N: I’m serious too. I’ll really do better this time, promise!

I: Wow Nicklebee! I’m so excited! I can’t wait to hear about what you’ve been doing!

N: I know, right? I have sooo much to tell you!

I: (Sigh) Nicklebee?

N: Yeah Invasion?

I: It’s good to have you back.

N: It’s good to be back.  

Stay tuned for brand new musings from the mind of the Nicklebee! 

Music is for Lovers

I can assure you quite honestly, that my beliefs of what a real man can be like, and the relationship that stems from being with them, has very little to do with movies. Yes, I’ve seen The Notebook, The Time Traveler’s Wife, and Titanic. I own all three, and love all three. But life is not like a movie. While I can lose myself in the romantic aspect of the films, when they are over I can adjust back to reality in one fluid motion. I do not expect a real life boy to act out the animated escapades of Aladdin, or wear the crown of a prince. They will not be air brushed, have unlimited money, or take me to exotic destinations on a whim.

Even books, which I love whole heartedly, do not feed into this image of the perfect guy. Now, to be sure, there are some extraordinary male protagonists in the books that I have read. When a love interest story unfolds, I will read with rapid speed, just to be sure that it happens just ‘as it is supposed to’.  However, with these beautifully written boys, there is undoubtedly an equally beautifully written girl to match him. The characters in these stories belong to each other, in that their journey is incomplete and unfinished without the other. Although I am the first to admit that it seems appealing on the surface, I honestly wouldn’t want to be with a living version of that character. They were created for someone else; someone who is not me. I’m entirely okay with this.

Both movies and books develop relationships between two specific characters in the romantic realm. But they are made up. They are given realistic attributes yes, and can be very convincing. But at the end of the day, their lives can be packaged and trimmed and tied with a bow. Everything has the possibility of working out, despite the mounting evidence that it would be crazy to believe it could. I would never want to be with Edward, because he doesn’t need me, he needs Bella. If I had been Cinderella, I would have runaway long before a ball invitation ever arrived, and I, in no way, resemble a Rachel that could line up so perfectly with Ross. When I look in the mirror, I do not see some built up, perfected version of a girl. I am flawed beyond measure, as insecure as they come, and would need two of me stacked together to reach the height of a normal person. I am not Sleeping Beauty, and don’t expect a Prince Phillip to sail into my life and save me.

No, my grand ideas, my heart’s desire, my longing in the pit of my stomach, all of my problems, stem from musicians. This is where it all comes from, it’s unmistakably ridiculous, and I don’t stand a chance of making it through unscathed. Granted, there are countless types of music, and not every single one will validate my point. But there are many others that will.  

 Musicians are real people. You can read their lyrics, memorize their chords, and if you are quick enough to make it past security, sometimes you can even touch them. They have a past. They were someone’s next door neighbor. They have food allergies, embarrassing moments, and a love they will never live down. Just like me. Just like you.

I listen in every love song for a name. In the Goo Goo Dolls, it’s Meg, Josh Ritter has Kathleen, and somewhere along the way someone met Delilah and the Plain White T’s thought she was worth a song. Train met Virginia, and every girl who heard that song saw a tiny piece of her life played on the radio. The undeniable truth is that these girls are real. And these boys that stand up behind that microphone, strum their guitar, and talk about those girls, by name or not, are real too. That man has seen a woman like that. He saw her, and wanted her to his core. He pushed back her hair, counted her freckles, and connected the color of her eyes to the sea. He really did that. It was real enough that it stuck in his mind and came out in the form of a song.

Behind every hurting boy is the story of a girl. At some point, the smell of peaches and grass curled up next to him, found his fingers, and never truly let go. She tore through his reality, spinning everything on its axis, and changed the way he saw the world. Moments were shared, personalities unearthed, and some portion of one found sanctuary in the other. It lasted a day, a summer, a lifetime. Maybe it never even took form in the physical. It was the girl that he watched, out of the corner of his eye, and never had the guts to talk to. Everyone has had someone, one that has never quite untangled themselves out of the sticky silk spun webs we caught them in so long ago.

There are songs about being in love, and there are songs about love that existed upon a time but fell apart. Couples generally have ‘a song’, which captures an element of their feelings for each other, and mixed tapes were invented for those that speak through the language of melodies and drum solos. If we’ve ever dated, I have a song for you. It might be beautiful, or bittersweet, or full of sharp, angry words. Regardless, if it comes on the radio, my memory flashes to you involuntarily. Because you are a song that was once lived. And these songs, these tangible, heart wrenching songs, about eyes that are like champagne, and eyes that blaze like fire, and eyes that see right through you, are real. Musicians know what to say, and how to say it.

I, one hundred percent, do not think the world is a place of fairy tales exclusively. Personally, I find myself a bit drawn to people that are rough around the edges. That when those quirky, well-loved details show up, they are unexpected, coming out of nowhere. I don’t want a well imagined character. I don’t want a man who hides who he is in order to appear like a well-trained puppy. I could care less about whether his clothes match, or if he puts the seat down, or has a slightly unhealthy level of obsession with sports or video games or video games involving sports. He could have all or none of those things going on with him. He is who he is, and I don’t want a decoy.

But I do want someone who sees me. This is why I wait. I wait for someone who cares to find the details that would put me in a song. And I know that somewhere out there is someone able and willing to do it. Who will look at me and be able to see all of those things effortlessly.  When we love someone, we immerse ourselves in the cadences of their mannerisms. We sense the pattern of their breathing, find out where they are ticklish, and trace our fingers along their arms absent mindedly.  I can stand in my bare feet on a summer night, and watch as a boy behind a guitar recalls all of these things.

And this is why I’m screwed. It’s not Disney. It’s not Hollywood. It’s not the fantasies or the pretending about situations that have never actually existed. It’s music. Lyrics, raw from the life that they originated from. And I know that it’s unfair, and possibly unrealistic, and a shot in the dark, but there’s always a chance however small, that it could happen. That people could actually feel that way. And tell each other. And live happily ever after in the liner notes. 

How I Feel About Books

Those who know me best know that I don’t cry often. I can cry, I just, don’t. I'll withdraw, or glare, scribble madly into a notebook or pace the floor in frustration, but tears are something that usually do not come easily to me. However, this character trait seems null and void when regarding a good book.

I’ve been able to read since I was four. So that basically means, I met my best friends when I was four and have never looked back. I absolutely love books. Growing up, they were my most constant companions. They were never fickle or angry, never unavailable, and never looked to me to be something that I am not. While we may not have had much money for some things, I always had a book. Or rather, a pile of them.

I have shed more tears within the pages of a worthy book than even I can comprehend. I live through books, feel through them, and have had my real-world wounds and misunderstandings healed through them. I have been taught the downfalls of vanity by Dorian Gray, explored the universe with Ender, and felt the losses of Harry Potter. Bella Swan is my friend. I know her innermost thoughts, and see her heart as plain as day. Also among my group of friends are Princess Buttercup and her darling Westley, and the innocent Jonas, as he becomes The Giver. I have lived across the span of centuries, overseen the construction of A Brave New World, and shuddered when confronted with the tactics of the original Big Brother.  As characters have suffered injustices, I have faced their pain. I have been poor, abused, discriminated against, and abandoned through their eyes. I have also overcome opposition, fought the good fight, and unwittingly fallen in love with Peeta Mellark.  

While real life is something that you must wake up to every day, I take my emotional choices much more slowly. You can’t undo harsh words, or undeclare your feelings for someone. People change as their circumstances change, and it can happen in the blink of an eye. In life, I try, and most often times fail, to be as impassive as a rock. My goal is to keep calm, stay strong, and do as little damage as possible. I am not the girl that runs to her hero weak in the knees. I hand out the tissues, pat the backs, and design the plans that will save us. The world is a beautiful, enchanting place, but there are many things within its grasp that are destined to hurt us. Life will separate us, join us together, and leave us crawling on our knees if we’re not careful. It’s a good thing we’re tough.

Between hard bound covers though, is the only place I can ever let my guard down. I release torrents of emotion, littering the dog-eared corners and chapters inside. I have been known to laugh out loud while reading, regardless of my present location. I will storm like a hurricane within a house, pacing angrily, and when asked what’s wrong, I merely stomp over to the book, point at it furiously, and look at you pointedly as if to say, ‘I don’t BELIEVE what he/she thinks they are doing!’ and storm away again in a flurry. Within minutes you will find me huddled up close, my nose buried next to the printed words, seeking redemption, reason, an answer. You had better not interrupt me in my searching either, or pay a most unwelcome price…

Maybe that’s why I love them so much. After all, books are known to give us answers. We can find the answer to anything in the world so long it is prefaced by a title page. Broken hearts, broken lives, broken bones, we bring our souls to a well-worn favorite, and it fits around us like an old sweater. It is always, comfortingly, the same. The message we take from it may be different, who we identify with, who we fear, and who we love. But the story is essentially the same. It’s the most secure thing in my life.

 Meg Murray will always take form in my head, beginning with the words, “It was a dark and stormy night.” And I’ll always read it hearing my own voice read the right pages, and my dad reading on the left. And as we read way past my bedtime, we sneakily insert words into the sentences that don’t actually exist, to see if the other is paying attention.  Then we peek over, real quick, to see if they noticed. When they invariably do, looking back up at you from behind their narrowed eyebrows as they try not to smile, you reread the sentence the way Madeleine L'Engle intended it to be read. With laughter, a sense of adventure, and inescapably, a few tears along the way. 

While You Were Out...

So, recently ( as in a few hours ago recently) one of my very best friends and roommate decided to take a leave of absence from his current situation, and board a plane headed to Madrid. As in Madrid, Spain. As in, he’ll be gone for two weeks and will be very far away. Overall, this will be fantastic. He will get to create memories that will last throughout his lifetime, and I will get to leave my make-up all over the bathroom counter. As much as I will miss him, I’m glad that he is able to go, and I know that he will be very safe in his travels.

As a token of friendship, I wanted to assure him that while he is away, everything will be just fine at home. I and our other roommate are very responsible individuals, and he has no reason to worry at all about the house, or his belongings, or anything at all. In fact, he can just explore Europe with peace of mind and a clear thought process, uninhibited by irrational fears or worries of what might happen at home.  Seriously, just have a little faith. I can see all those ‘what-if’ scenarios, and really, you have nothing to worry about.

 Like, zip, zilch, nada, naught, diddly squat, nothing.

What if the plants die?

Plant Needs: So, if you’ve read previous blog posts, you’ll know that I’m not the greatest supporter of plants. However, I respect that because these plants belong to others, they will actually need to be taken care of. Now, just because you may have witnessed me screaming, “Grow, Whore, grow!” at the various house plants, please believe me when I say that I can have a tender side towards these potted companions. I will either find this elusive side hidden away within me, or pay someone else to come do it. Same goes for the garden. (Oh, and p.s. can you BELIEVE someone trusts ME to take care of an entire GARDEN? There are really no words…) Ahem, just relax, and let me take care of everything. I have high hopes that all of our green friends will be blooming and gorgeous and will have won multiple blue ribbons at county fairs by the time you get back. Yep. The future is bright…

What if there’s a fire?

Fire: First of all, we are not arsonists. In fact, our lease actually prevents us from having any open flames within our dwelling, so even if we were bonfire inclined, we would need to find another location. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I did happen to cause an evacuation of our house growing up due to a slight cooking mishap. But realistically, I was eight, and didn’t know that putting chicken nuggets in the microwave for 30 minutes could cause such damage. I meant to stop the timer sooner, I just got distracted. Anyway, it was a long time ago. Oh, and that water heater thing at my last place, not my fault. Besides those, there was only that one other time… wow, so, just remember, nothing to worry about there. Moving right along.

How will my fish cope?

Pet Care: This area in particular is one that I really expect to shine in. Never mind me not having a pet growing up, and excluding my pet bird named Squazzil that lives in the great outdoors and is, for the most part, imaginary, I am determined to succeed in taking care of the house fish! I am going to feed the fish every day. Because, like people, fish need food. That’s important. I would never, ever, ever forget to feed your fish. Even if I was simultaneously fighting off a burglar trying to pelt me with water balloons while he forced me to make him a plate of macaroni and cheese. Even then, I would feed your fish! But not macaroni and cheese. No sir, you do not feed fish macaroni and cheese. Or cake. Or broccoli. Oh, and I won’t put food coloring in his tank either. No shenanigans on this task, I promise!

 The ‘What-If’ chain of thinking can go on forever. I can hear your thoughts running away with you: What if a tiger gets loose in the neighborhood? What if while I’m away they sell all of my belongings and use the money to feed children in Africa? What if there’s a flood? What if aliens make contact and abduct my two fantastically beautiful, charming, and astoundingly intelligent roommates? What if, what if, what if?

Calm down, take a deep breath, and just realize that it’s all going to be okay. We will take care of all the little things, all the big things, and all the things somewhere in the middle. To be sure, it is much more fun to tackle these challenges with you here. To have company when we make dinner, to have another set of ears to listen to my latest encounter with you-know-who, really everything that happens is better when you’re here to be a part of it. But for now at least, go off and explore La Europa without us. Just remember, you’re in charge of bringing back at least four attractive foreign men back home with you. 

You might want to start looking…

A Word to the Wise

These days, advice is just too easy to find. From the advice column in magazines to the well-informed neighbor down the street, there is always somebody willing to put in their two cents. But really, two cents just doesn't hold the economic power that it used to, and neither does most of the advice that 

comes attached to it.

One source of advice that comes to us is in the form of short sayings and proverbs. In taking a closer look, however, I noticed that perhaps the original bearer of such a line wasn't so much giving advice as he was asking for it. Therefore, I decided to dig into the couch cushions, pull out two cents of my own, and let them know what I think is best. Hey, it even comes with a gum wrapper and a stale Cheeto. You can’t beat that!

It’s like finding a needle in a haystack.

Really? You’re looking for a needle. Don’t they come in packs of like, 8? You’re sure that you need this one? How did it even get in there, were you monogramming a horse, sewing a quilt, giving someone a shot? Ridiculous. I doubt you’re even qualified to be giving shots. What if you find it, then what? The only way you’ll know is if it pokes you, and then you’ll just bleed everywhere, and since you’re not an actual doctor you’ll have to go to the hospital.

 My advice? Swallow your pride. Use my two cents to buy a new needle. And then, for goodness sakes stay away from the hay. The End.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away.

This is too vague to be considered useful. What variety of apple is it you speak of? Red delicious, golden, pink lady perhaps? Can you put the apple inside of stuff and still have it work, such as a pie or juice? Does it even have to be ingested? Or are you just holding an apple in the palm of your hand? And on a more serious note, why don’t you want to be around a doctor? What if you choked on that apple, he/she might come in handy! Oh my…you’re not throwing the apples at medical professionals are you?

My advice? Save yourself a potential lawsuit. Choose a different fruit to eat or hold or whatever it is that you intend to do and behave responsibly! Make an appointment with your physician so that you can remain healthy, and treat him/her with respect when you’re there. The End.

Clothes don’t make the man. 

Well, unless magical potions or enchantments are involved, I agree with this one. Clothes are inanimate objects, and therefore lack the necessary skills to make much of anything besides a mess. The only loophole I see that might be worth investigating is whether or not clothes could make a scarecrow. But that is a stretch.

My advice? Overall, this is relatively good advice, don’t be afraid of little men springing up from piles of clothes and full closets. The End.

Dead men tell no tales.

Uhh, have you seen the History channel? Their whole premise is that dead men CAN do just that very thing. What were you doing, wandering around cemeteries with a microphone? Amateur.

My advice? Get cable. Or get a job working for the History Channel. Either will solve your problem and sheer lack of understanding.

Honey catches more flies than vinegar.

So, I don’t know about you, but I detest flies. Especially when they are near me. So, if you are advising I cover myself with vinegar and keep my attitude bitter and acidic then I think this advice is great, and should be marketed alongside pesticides and sprays. If, however, you are encouraging me to invest in honey,

 you’ve got another thing coming.

My advice? You obviously have an abnormal attachment to gross bugs and insects. Take a bath, lose the flies. You might gain some human companions in the process. The End.

People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

Number one, who in their right mind is going to live in a house made entirely of glass? How would they even build it? How much Windex would they use in a day? Number two, that is just prejudice. Just because someone does choose to live a lifestyle that you don’t agree with, doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be able to throw a stone or two. Skipping rocks is a favorite pastime of many people, regardless of their habitat construction materials.

 My advice? Drop the hate. Next time you feel the urge to throw stones, ask a glass housed neighbor to join you. You might even make a good friend. The End.

So there you are folks, a whopping twelve cents from yours truly. Now don’t go spending it all in one place now, ya hear?

'My Time Without Internet'

Surprise! I am thrilled to inform all of you that my dark days of not having internet access are...over! The wonderful, glorious, hat wearing repair guy came today, took one look at the wiring, and BAM! (Insert glitter, a whooshing sound effect, and a few electrical sparks.) 

Now that this crises has passed, it would be easy to move on, let go of old hurts, and resume my business of writing about useless things. However, instead of doing that, I feel I need to share what my life has been like without blogging and the internet, and how I have done everything within my power to return to all of you. I warn you, these things are hard to look at. They depict a desperate, raw pain, and the great lengths that one can go to try and diminish that pain. Gather your tissues, and join me as I undergo healing from

 'My Time Without Internet'. 

In the beginning, I was optimistic about my situation. I used my brain waves to send positivity signals to my computer. Focusing my energy, I tried to write numerous, witty blogs. To my dismay, this plan was an utter failure, and only resulted in a headache. 

I began looking around and noticing all the people around me that did have access to the world wide web. And I was angry. They sat there, so cozy in their houses, warmed by the internet, so full of knowledge and power. Meanwhile, I was stuck outside in their bushes, vulnerable to the elements and gross bugs, just craning my neck in to see what was happening on the monitor. 

The streets became terrorized by my panic. I found old ladies in crosswalks, and attempted to give interactive Facebook status updates. It was a low point, begging random strangers to simply give me a thumbs up and say, "like". Because the truth is, they didn't like. Not at all. 

Refusing to give up, I forced myself to recognize that there was once a time without internet, or computers, or tweets. Filled with heavy sorrow, I began to chisel out some ideas on a rock I found in my backyard. It was an agonizing process, and lasted all of ten minutes. 

And this, my dear readers, is where I fell apart. Yesterday afternoon, while you were going about your daily business, I was on the phone for the 200th time with my internet provider, or rather non-provider. After attacking old ladies, trespassing on private property, and writing illegibly on rocks, I had had enough, as had my new neighbors. And finally, miraculously, someone finally clued in to how dire the situation really was. They took in my despondent soul in between sobs, and promised me that they would, indeed,

 make it all better.

 They told me that they would send out a repair man, and that they would not be allowed to leave my house until everything worked. I asked them, "So, what you're saying is that I have permission to hold your employee hostage here, until you meet my demands?" After a stunned silence, I heard a cough, and then Tony (my customer service representative) said, "Well...uh... yes. I guess." Luckily for all involved, the critical issue of internet connection difficulties was resolved without further drastic measures. 

Well, there you have it. A detailed account of my life during this past week. The accuracy of the events you must judge for yourselves.I will say that Tony is 100% real, as was our conversation. Poor guy. Anyway, now that all is fixed, I hope to be writing more consistently. Oh, and if it was your grandmother that talked me through my Facebook panic attack, she was absolutely lovely. You're very lucky to have her. 

Bedazzled: A Late Night Rambling of Words

Quirky people are like the bedazzled version of regular people. They just sort of absorb a regular situation just as it is, but then spin it back out all sparkly and covered in bows. And I love them. I love walking into a room, full of strangers, where I’m a fish out of water, and then, something happens. Someone just blurts out something amazingly random and seemingly obscure. But I, I can connect the dots, and I instantly feel a connection. Someone that sees something different, that can speak truth in the ordinary, but, makes it pretty and relatable, not simplistic and harsh. Someone who is just, not the same as everyone else, and in the best way possible.

Chances are, quirky folks, I notice when you talk with your hands, always sit on the left side of the table, and can maintain an entire stream of conversation with me involving hypothetical ponies and the magical mayhem they get into. Oh, and those people that stand within hearing distance of those conversations, looking at us like we’re crazy? Jealous. They are fighting a deep urge to join in with, “Hey, and maybe they could grow wings that are like brown and purple and we could call them Peanut Butter & Jelly Ponies, or like PB& J P for short!” They want to say it, but they just aren’t as cool as we are.

In case you haven’t noticed, the kid who gets picked last for dodge ball? That’s me. Because instead of focusing on the whole main point of dodge ball, I’m thinking: “I wonder if there’s an equation that can accurately express the exact velocity and impact levels that are about to commence during this activity.” “Why did they choose a red ball? Maybe it has color symbolism, like red is powerful or something, so it’s like this giant mass of red energy hurling through the air at you or something? Why not blue? A nice calming blue that lightly calls, ‘catch me!’ or something. I’ve probably read more books that involve dodge ball more times than I’ve actually played the game. Whenever I did play it I was always the girl that stuck out her hand and was like ‘Psst, right here...’ and tried to get out asap, before the instinctual violent tendencies of pre-adolescent youth reared their ugly faces.

 I don’t even know where I’m going with this, it’s late and I’ve lost track of my point, except that sometimes I wonder if it’s just me? Because I often get myself into situations where I can see the quirks of others as being wonderful, but my own odd tendencies as just a weird mutant form of quirky. That’s the root of the problem of being quirky. Sometimes it’s endearing, and offers a chuckle to the group, but at the end of the day, you go home and you wonder, Man, am I really the only one? Overall, I think I’m in pretty good company; it’s just that most people tend to keep their really dazzling quirks hidden. Sadly. There has got to be others that refuse to read the backs of books, that have a fascination with post-it notes, hate hand sanitizer, and eat salads with their fingers. There’s just gotta be. Or maybe you drink wine with a straw, can hold an entire conversation in rhymes, or have a love of crayons that just defies explanation. If so, I think we could be friends.

 Today, in fact, I was able to reach out to a friend through a very emotional time. I was watching an old episode of Roswell (think Dawson’s Creek having a love child with, I don’t know, maybe Smallville? But like, a really beautiful, brilliant love child, with brown eyes. ) on DVD no less, when I had a full blown meltdown regarding a plot twist. Yes, a plot twist involving futuristic aliens and true love, wrapped in a Sheryl Crow song circa 2003. This is how I know that my life is amazing. Because when I was audibly weeping, I had someone to text, and reach out to. That was able to make me feel better. Even though I’m a bundle of weird, I have these amazing friends, that don’t care. Or rather, they do care. It just doesn’t really bother them how odd I am. It probably bothers me way more than it bothers them. So thank you to my friends, that know me and love me just the same, and for seeing the bedazzled pieces of me and thinking that they’re not so bad at all.   

For Best Use

I just recently opened up a new candle. Inside, just below the lid, there was a little booklet that detailed the greatness of the candle I was about to light. It also congratulated me on my brilliant shopping ability in choosing such a high quality product.

 There was also a section headed ‘For Best Use’.

Under this helpful category was the sentence: “Although our candles and home scents may smell delicious, they are not edible. Do not eat.”  And there it is. I have, in my possession, a ruby red candle labeled ‘Crisp Mountain Apple’, that smells better than the actual apple I have sitting on my counter, yet I must not eat it. Sigh.

          I find it hilarious that such a sentence even exists. Mostly because, you know somebody, somewhere, tried to do that very thing. Below you will find a dramatic reenactment of this very situation.

(Candle is lit. Delicious scent begins to permeate the room.)

Person A: Mmm…that smells just like a real apple, maybe better! Maybe it tastes like an apple too!

(At this point a less than well-meaning friend speaks up.)

Friend: You should try it.

Person A: Come on dude. It’s a candle.

Friend: An apple candle.  That means there’s gotta be, like, real apple in it or something. It’s probably really good for you.

Person A: But, it’s on fire. Sort of.

Friend: Well blow it out first you idiot!

Person A: I don’t know…

Friend: I’ll give you five bucks.

Person  A: Five bucks? Really?

Friend: Ten. Ten bucks. Final.

Person A breathes out slowly, considering.

Friend: Whatever, man.

Person A: Okay. I’ll do it.

        And he does. You know he does. How do you know? Because now someone has the job of typing the little warnings on products that explicitly state that delicious smelling candles are not to be consumed into the human body. Which also tells us, that Person A’s story most likely didn’t end positively. Maybe the candle company even got sued over the fiasco, because they didn’t think to warn Person A that such a situation could happen, and that he should have resisted the temptation in the first place.

On this note, I feel I should stop writing, and go on a mission to find other potentially hazardous items in my home. Normally, I might not even have read the fine print that adorns those stickered labels. But now, after considering the fate of poor apple guy (I guess I don’t know for sure that it was a boy, but come on, really?) I figure it will be worth the effort to master the general dos and don’ts of the products that share my roof with me. Better safe than sorry, right?

Oh, and for you curious folks, other warnings listed under the ‘For Best Use’ category include:  “Do not put candles in the freezer.” and “Candles and water do not mix.” Yes, its official, I want to shake the person’s hand that wrote out this booklet.



Serve and Protect

I walked home in the rain today. Even though the weather forecast had predicted rain, it’s quite rare that I would have ever factored the prospect of it actually happening into my day. As a rule, I generally prepare for all weather or no weather. It strikes me as more than a little arrogant to think that Mother Nature can be crammed neatly into a 7-day forecast, right between a gang shooting and a playoff game highlight. The weather will do whatever it wants to do, and its’ fickle tendencies will play upon the Earth regardless of whether or not I remembered to bring an umbrella or not, which, by the way, I didn’t.

Umbrellas serve as protection. They protect us from the wet, the cold, the potential discomfort of our situation. Once I was without one however, I was struck by how little I actually missed it, and admitted that I didn’t really need to be protected at the moment. I was okay, getting wet and sidestepping puddles. It was nice to feel the breeze around me, chilling the raindrops that had blazed trail ways across my face and toes. I, of course, was wearing sandals.  

But I never would have realized this, had I had an umbrella handy before I stepped outside. How often do we do this? Protect ourselves as a precaution? Because something could happen, something might happen, because we have been conditioned and trained to take the least painful route possible. Honestly, it doesn’t make much sense. How do you even know that an umbrella is what you need in the first place if you’ve never felt the rain? Once you’ve felt that drenching, soaking sort of rain that chills you to your bones, only then can you appreciate the value of an umbrella.

And as immense a business of avoiding a broken heart has become, it is through the sole experience of having your heart broken that you appreciate why it might need protecting. The heart is a tricky place. I’m pretty sure mine is surrounded by barbed wire and snipers, with only a select few outsiders in possession of the access code. And even they have to pass a retinal scan. It is what it is, but I think I’m starting to figure out why.

When your heart breaks, it is painful simply because there is so much of it that breaks simultaneously. The scent of dryer sheets, an off-key song, a loose strand of hair curled around an ear; these are the things that break. A fissure exists in between the left side of the bed and a post-it note on the mirror. Hairline fractures freckle the landscape of my memories, because we used to slow dance in the living room to movie credit soundtracks, even though you rolled your eyes as you spun me around.

Breaking a heart is always an inside job; a regular, who knows their way around. Someone who helped construct the towers within, adding layer after layer of petal soft words, building entire cities from musical notes and apples in tuna fish. A person, who you waved through all of the checkpoints, and supplied with domestic weaponry never suspecting that it would be turned against you. Heart breaking is exactly that. Running through alleyways, pushing over skyscrapers, not slowing to watch them fall. A massive internal earthquake that leaves devastation in its’ wake.

As painful as it is though, once you have stood in those bullet ridden remains of your life, and felt the rain pour down your face, you now understand the importance of an umbrella.

I have rebuilt my heart from the ground up. I have gutted the cities and drained the sewers, and stitched the sky back together with strong, ragged strokes. And I’m okay. I survived the hidden fault lines of a naïve love, and gritted my teeth in the aftershocks that followed. My borders are guarded, heavily armed, and full of good intentions. My umbrella, stretching across the dust ridden terrain that I must protect.

Sometimes though, you leave your umbrella at home. And even though your instinct is that of panic, of distress, you take a step outside. And you’re okay. Your eyelashes are sticking together, and your toes strain to find purchase in the wood grain of Steve Madden, but you’re okay. It actually feels kind of, nice. To stop fighting back. Letting nature soften your edges, and erode your defenses. It’s messy. When you get home, you’ll have to change out of your sopping wet clothes, untangle your hair, and wipe off your face. But it is what it is, and if I find it arrogant to claim mastery over a weather forecast, how much more arrogant am I to declare jurisdiction over my heart?

 Life is messy, and love is the chaotic, rumpled web that holds all of it together. So while I hold fast to my feeble attempt at border patrol now, I know that I will not always do so. Not on the basis of what could happen, of what might happen. Because it’s obvious to see that we survive equally fine, if not unquestionably better, with the rain cascading down our faces, and that is, in the end, what should happen.

Among the Lost

*Disclaimer: This isn't really funny, but I've been stuck on what to write about lately, so I just wrote what I was thinking about. Welcome to my multi-faceted, emotional brain everyone...

Have you ever lost something really important? Something that you find yourself looking for again and again, even though you know it’s gone? You can close your eyes and see it sitting there, as it always was, but when you open your eyes, as if by bitter magic, it has disappeared; lost to the world as if it had never existed within that space.

People lose keys, money, sunglasses, and wallets. While inconvenient, the void that swallows these items is forgiving in nature. In fact, it barely nicks the surface of our lives in the long run. We grumble and protest, but quickly scab over and replace the tiny knick knacks that have become embedded in our daily ways.

  On the other hand, some people lose jobs, houses, cars, lifestyles, and perceived identities. This type of loss is bigger, and therefore, carries with it a larger ripple across our existence. Having a pronounced piece of your worldly life taken away levels you to a different altitude, a lower, more humbling panoramic view of life. You are still human. You are still intact. But inwardly, you must build yourself back up again. This time, hopefully, with a foundation stronger in integrity and balance than what was used in your previous structure.  

Some days our lives are so chaotic, we feel as though we’re losing our minds. As if they have abandoned our bodies, and left us to manage the muddled uproar of life unattended. We can lose sleep worrying, about things we have no control over; about situations that will never be remedied at 3:00 a.m. by pacing a path of carpet and tile, carpet and tile, carpet and tile.

Less abstract could be the loss of a loved one. This feeling of losing someone can be hollowing, as if a giant hand has scooped out your insides and sewn you back up. You face your familiar world with strange eyes, unseeing, and the gravity that holds you to earth is a leaded weight, crumpling your empty shell of a form. Accompanying this can be a loss of hope. Losing an ideal for the way things ought to be and should have been and will never truly be, ever.

With most of these, there comes a time when the looker, stops looking; whatever the object, whatever the value, it will not or cannot be found within reason. Some things cannot be fixed, or replaced, and searching for the piece in its original state becomes painful, and unhealthy.   When this happens, the lost status, or memory, or relationship undergoes transformation. Curiously, it is no longer lost, but rather, transitions itself into something new; a solid, well-worn piece of the owner, a building block of their story, a lesson that was learned. Suddenly, the owner doesn’t see the symbol as missing but rather uncovered. It is given a new place, a new format, a new look, but represents everything that came before it.  

I feel as though I have lost many things, the importance in each piece increasing as I get older. As you enter the land of grown-ups, the world loses a touch of its shininess, and you realize that some things are destined to be lost in a tangled web of circumstances and complications. As I rack up all of my losses, adding them up in long columns, an idea tugs at me that I find hard to ignore. 

What if, instead of thinking of me as this solitary person who has lost their surroundings, what if it is my surroundings that have lost me? Somebody, somewhere, could be turning over rocks, calling into canyons, biting their lip, looking for me; because I’m lost. I am among the lost things. Among the treasures that are hiding under the bed, seeing your eyes scan across me but missing me entirely; floating from thing to thing, untethered by ownership, by home, by belonging. Whatever will happen to me? Who, in this world, will find me, hidden in a crevice, in that space between the mattress and the wall, dig me out, dust me off, and estimate my potential value? Many times, we blame others for what it is that we have lost. They took it, they used it, they had it, and now it’s not here. But at other times, we honestly cannot do that. And who can you blame, in the unfortunate business of losing yourself? The blame game is halted, the finger tapping aimlessly, with no one at which to point.

In the end, we are all the losers of such precious things, and the finders of unexpected treasures. Our lives catalogue the give and take between the roles, and our internal growth is marked by the absence or presence of these objects, these people, these ideals. Indeed though, we are all, inescapably, lost. Lost to ourselves, lost to each other, knowing our circumstances only by the fact that we recall a time when we were not so. And we wait for a time when we will no longer be so, for a hero that we cannot predict an image of, and for our surroundings to take notice that we are, in fact, no longer even there. It is the latter, which becomes the hardest to endure.  

Girl Scout Cookies are Evil, End of Discussion.

 Let me preface this by saying that Girl Scout cookies are evil. So evil, that they have directly resulted in me posting back-to-back blog posts, which I have never done before. However, this message is crucial, and simply couldn’t be delayed for a later date. So, here it is.

For the most part, I have been fortunate enough to avoid the Girl Scout cookie dilemma. I never had friends with kids that were members of the troop, and whenever I ran into one of the booths they have set up at the store, I’ve always been out of money. Therefore, this recent experience with them has left me blindsided. I realize that some of you have undergone this process before. I kneel before you in respect. After I kneel, I’ll also lay down for a little while. This is not meant to offend you, but rather to give my body a break from carrying around the freshly minted 10 pounds I’ve added since my cookie order arrived.

It began with a photo; a kindergarten photo of a little girl, with long curly hair and sparkling eyes. A photo that screamed, ‘I am the future! I am dazzling and pure, I run through flowered meadows, play with puppies, and say the alphabet all by myself.” When you see this photo being slid across the table towards you, you need to run. Run fast, run far, don’t worry about pushing and shoving, because, while you may not know it yet, you’re in the center of a bull’s eye and you’re in trouble. I didn’t run. I didn’t see it coming. All I saw was cuteness; A bundle of cuteness that wanted me to have cookies. Needless to say, I did my part in filling up her order form.

The next step involves waiting for the cookies. This step was probably the easiest for me to bear. I didn’t have to pay for the cookies until they arrived, so I wasn’t missing any money, and I sort of forgot they were coming. I knew that someday cookies would come, but I wasn’t really fixated on that fact. As I said, I hadn’t really been exposed to the allure of the cookies prior to this. Those of you that are cookie veterans might suffer this step quite a bit differently than I did.

Fast forward to today. Arrival day. The big one. Box after box of cookies set aside specifically for me. Somehow, the numbers I wrote down on the order form didn’t seem that big to me when I had initially wrote them. Now though, I could see the sum of all those numbers in their glory. Now that the cookies were available, so was the bill attached to them. The bill was also a number that seemed to have grown more eminent as time had gone by. I high tail it to the ATM. Slide the card, enter my pin, withdrawal, punch in numbers, come on come on, no no I wouldn’t like my receipt it will just make me feel guilty later, p r o c e s s i n g , p r o c e s s i n g, out comes the money, and I run back to claim my packages!

This is the moment of truth. Where you can still turn back, you can pawn off your boxes on someone else, you can hurry into a large crowd of people and offer to share, there are many many options at this point that can still save you. What you don’t want to do? You don’t want to open the boxes yourself, when you’re alone, with no witnesses. That’s bad.

These cookies, these angelic, beautiful cookies that are helping to send smiling children to Disneyland, have betrayed me. They are not my friend. But it was too late. I had already invited the enemy into my home with welcoming arms. I was so naive.

Here is a running record of my thoughts during the past hour:

Mmm, cookies! Don’t mind if I do!

Wow, that was good. I’ve only had one; it wouldn’t hurt to try this kind either.

Well, I might as well try one of each kind, that’s only fair. Plus, sampling them will allow me to better judge their quality and taste.

(At this point all of the packages have been opened, and are all still positioned in front of me.)

Okay, those are good. But, I need to stop eating for a minute.

(Pause a moment, feel free to mock my attempt at self-control as I walk away.)

I sure do wish I had brought one of those cookies over here with me. I mean, just to nibble on as I sit here.

Okay, I’ll go grab one.

(I go over, and grab two. Just in case. )

Those disappeared fast; I better just bring the box over here. Maybe that box too, so that I can have variety.

It was sometime after this last thought, where I must have given in to an intense. sugar induced, comatose state. I have fallen victim to the Girl Scout cookie campaign of 2011. I have said Yes-I-Do to Do-Si-Dos. I have turned Thin Mints into ‘I’m Not Getting Any Thinner’ Mints. I walked into this path, unknowing, and it has cost me dearly. I may never be the same.

If you find yourself staring at a curly haired, doll faced six year old, I worry about your fate. I know that you won’t refuse her pleas, because I couldn’t refuse them either. Trying to do so would be futile, and make you look like a Grinch. So, I merely suggest that you are more intelligent than I was in this position. Limit yourself, share with others, and wear sweatpants instead of jeans when you’re eating them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to just lie here for a moment or two and catch my breath.

Now that's a great idea!

Whenever I'm given some sort of assignment to complete, I generally take a bit of artistic license in how I choose to complete it. I mean, brilliance, talent, success, it's all about your perspective. And believe me; I've got plenty of perspective. Currently I am working on a personal narrative. Well, to be completely honest, I actually "almost done" with it. "Almost done" is a code I came up with that translates to, "I have absolutely no idea what to do, and have no physical product to show for my hours spent racking my exhausted brain for something to write about". (It's a really efficient code.)

A personal narrative is supposed to capture a unique story about an individual; A captivating story about overcoming great odds, or a triumphant tale of exploring the world, or even something as basic as sharing your collection of 275 pieces of bellybutton lint that you've collected from strangers. But instead of a story, I have a problem. I don't see myself as overcoming any particularly unusual circumstances, and being broke impedes my ability to travel in a slew of exotic places, and I don't, I repeat don't,  collect bellybutton lint. That's just awkward, and I wouldn't have any good places to store it.  

My problem is that I have absolutely n o t h i n g. Nothing to write about. Nothing to share. Nothing of interest that sets me apart from the masses. I think it's beginning to give me a slight complex. Every situation I find myself in, I'm sampling the environment. Is THIS going to be my story? The harder I force it, the more pathetic my quest starts to look, and at this point, even I am worrying that my "almost done" code won't hold up when it's time to turn the damn thing in.

A major factor in my problem is that I keep wanting to write about things that aren't true. I'm not a liar; I just think that the stories in my head are way more exciting than anything I can come up with in reality. I've been wrestling with this issue for months, cramming my brain into the small space where truth and fact exist, and I've come up short, every, single, time. And I'm tired of it.

Therefore, I am granting myself permission to post my wonderful, hypothetical, outrageously false personal narrative ideas here. If anything, I'll be excited to just imagine I've done all of these crazy, beautiful things. Seriously though, if you can think of anything at all I can actually use as a springboard for my real project, I will give you something wonderful. Like a handful of chocolate chips. Mmmm...think it over as you witness my tragedy first hand.  

Idea #1: Forget world travel, say hello to the space age! This potential narrative highlights my trip to Mars, where I befriended local Martians and basically saved planet Earth from intergalactic warfare. 

Idea #2: Here, I will talk about my commitment to the community, and the importance of volunteer work. I focus in on me singing the Kit Kat jingle at a senior center.

Idea #3: What about a real tear jerker? In this plot, I am able to get hired for a job position, despite the fact that I have one major weakness: I care too much!

Idea #4: Choosing something really important to me is a snap when I use this story of when I traveled to a remote jungle. While I was there, I discovered the Unisauras! Wow, what a special day!

Pretty great, huh? If I could even develop ONE of these ideas into my personal narrative, I swear I would. I'd have it written, storyboarded, and outlined in glitter by the end of the week. I'd even put a bow on it. But no, it needs to be a grounded, detailed, emotionally transforming story about the real me. The real me that hasn't done any of those things. And the things I have been able to accomplish in real life, pale in comparison to the virtual playground my mind has built.

Therefore, I am enlisting your help, bribing you with delicious commodities, begging you to provide me with a viable person narrative topic, in order to prevent this:

Hi, my name is Nicklebee, and here is my personal narrative. (clears throat) I like to eat chicken nuggets sometimes. (cough) I eat other things too. Like bananas. (long pause) I am the creator of a multi-faceted code language. I would share it with you, but it isn't finished. Don't worry, it's "almost done". (Runs away fighting back tears of shame and failure.)

Remember: a handful of chocolate chips!

Nicklebee's Ultra Spectacular 'Are We Compatible?' Compatibility Quiz

I'm not sure if it's a February 'love is in the air' type thing, or an 'I'm getting older' type thing, but it has come to my attention multiple times recently that it might be the time to start looking for a mate. A steady Facebook news feed littered with engagement photos, anniversary dates, and newborn babies has started to get to me a bit, even though I feel it shouldn't.

After all, I'm pretty happy with where I'm at. I interact with the social world, I'm not living in particularly squalid hermit like conditions, I have a relatively stable career that I love unquestionably, and I generally keep myself pretty good company.

Plus, there are a lot of perks to being single in the world. There is never an accusation waiting for me in the morning over "stealing" the covers. The mountain load of blankets I curl up in are all mine, and I can twist, toss, and monopolize them to my heart's content. Also, scheduling works out well when you have only yourself to be accountable for. If I need to go somewhere, I go. If I'd rather not, I don't. There are fewer commitments and less stress when you don't feel required to align two busy agendas together in harmony.

Mostly though, the most secure thing about being single, is that you're single. There's not a lot of risk associated with it. There aren't dates that need to be remembered, fights to be avoided, or painful compromises to be made. You rely on yourself to make tough calls, supply your own happiness, keep your secrets, and plan out your own future. It can be so much easier than trying to rework your current path to include someone else that may or may not stick around anyway.

Nevertheless, I still find myself listening to the nagging thoughts that suggest the perks of such a solitude life will one day lose their charm for me. That maybe, one day, I'd be willing, if not eager to share my covers. That, just possibly, building a schedule of events with someone might not really be quite as inconvenient as I imagine it to be. Or that, as sensationally as I am able to navigate my life and the world around me, I could admit that it can at times be a little lonely, if not altogether tiring without a helping hand.

It is with this in mind, that I have decided to create a little quiz. You see, I seem to be sort of an odd human creature. Therefore, it makes sense to assume that if it is indeed in the cards for me to meet my match, that they too would be a bit atypical themselves. In order to weed out some of those potential fellows that may not make the cut in the long run, I have designed a helpful quiz to see if they're the right fit for a girl like me. I feel that this quiz spans a wide range of useful information, and if used correctly, will produce me with a suitable suitor. I've even included the answer key below for those of you that are curious to add up your score.

Without further interruption, I give you:

Nicklebee's Ultra Spectacular 'Are We Compatible?' Compatibility Quiz

Question 1: Do you believe in unicorns, dragons, and the existence of R.O.U.S.? (worth: 230 points)

a. Yes, of course! In fact, most of my closest friends are unicorns!
b. Even though I've never seen one up close, I'm 99% sure they are real.
c. Uhh,  what in the world is an R.O.U.S.?

Question 2: In the event that you are stranded on the planet Saturn, and must call on the aid of one of the groups below, who do you turn to? (worth: 38 points, with a bonus 1/2 point available for knowing who Tecnica, of Giavera del Montello is. )

a. The Jetsons
b. Tecnica, of Giavera del Montello
c. The Starship Enterprise

Question 3: Help! I'm trapped in a scary rain forest! Three creatures are looking to approach me, you have the power to defeat one of them. Which do you choose? (worth: 542.6 points)

a. A saber toothed tiger
b. A ladybug
c. A robotically enhanced chimpanzee

Question 4: A bomb is about to detonate, blowing up all of Middle Earth, and you are attempting to dismantle it. As the final seconds tick by, you decide to: (worth: 1,628 points)

a. cut the red wire
b. cut the blue wire
c. YouTube "How to Dismantle a Bomb That is Threatening Middle Earth", and proceed from there

Question 5: You arrive home one day to discover that I've set up shop as a magician. I need to practice some of my more dangerous tricks before I perform for a big audience, and enlist your help. You let me: (worth: 36,001 points)

a. Pull random coins out of your ears.
b. Saw you in half, and then put you back together.
c. Tell me I'm nuts.

Answer Key:

1. Correct Answer: 'b'. Let's face it, if your closest friends are unicorns, I am just not cool enough to be with you; if you're racking your brain for the definition of R.O.U.S. and coming up short, shame on you. Go read The Princess Bride, by William Goldman.

2. Any of the available answers are deemed acceptable. Consider this your freebie. Happy 38 points! (Don't forget to add on your 1/2 point if you knew that Tecnica, of Giavera del Montello was the creator of Moon Boots!)

3. Correct Answer: 'b'. Ladybugs are deadly, terrifying creatures and must be defeated at any cost. Besides, saber tooth tigers don't live in the rain forest, and I could just befriend the robot monkey.

4. Correct Answer: 'c'. It's okay not to know all of the answers to life's sudden emergencies, as long as you're willing to learn and find out! Oh, but subtract 359 points from your score if you don't know what Middle Earth is.

5. Correct Answer: 'a'. If you let me near a saw, you're not that smart. If you tell me I'm nuts, my feelings will be hurt, and I'll start to cry. Therefore, humoring me, but limiting my tricks to simple non-life threatening ones is the best choice.

Thanks for taking time to complete this quiz. If you feel that we might be compatible, please let me know. Otherwise, I wish you nothing but the best, and am sorry things didn't work out.