Feelings Towards Coffee

I like coffee more than I like you. Just kidding; I think… To be completely honest, I’m sort of in love with coffee. Don’t get me wrong, I like you, I do. You’re great! And I’m sure, that given the opportunity, I could learn to love you too… if you were coffee that is. Bah! I’m hurting your feelings, I can tell. I’m sorry. But you have to understand, what it’s like. When the skies grow dark, and the world lies cold, there will still be coffee. And if there isn’t, well then, there really isn’t much else left now is there?  

 I love the color of coffee. It even looks warm. From the bitter black, to the heavily creamed tan it’s inviting. I love the smell. Waking up to it, the morning seems gentler, walking into a coffee shop, it’s like an aromatic hug. It says, your spirit can rest here for a minute.  The sound of it, the language the goes along with it, I love. Professional coffee drinkers flirt with the ranks of the multilingual. You have to know your stuff to get your stuff, and everyone in line behind you knows that even if you don’t. As for taste, I believe it is deliciously acquired. There can be such a range and complexity to it, that it can comfortably reflect the equally distinct personalities of the consumers themselves. And let’s not neglect the containers. Is it a mug, a thermos, a paper cup? Did you brew this delicacy on your own or did you go somewhere to get it? Local or chain? Size? The list goes on. Suffice it to say, I’m a fan.

Surrounding all of this though, there is a particular love affair I share with the second sip. I will tell you why.  The first sip is really good, it awakens your brain to the fact that something good has arrived. That things are about to begin, and you are indeed very lucky. Along with this however, there is climate control. I do not possess a tendency towards patience, and this almost always leads me to drink coffee immediately after having gained access to it. My tongue, my lips, all is pain. That strange sensation you have for a few days after burning your tongue? Yeah, I get that a lot.

 Even in the summer, when iced coffee is the thing at hand, it might be unexpectedly cold. How much ice is involved? Is the consistency different, more or less watery? How hot is the day around you in comparison? All of this taken into account, the first sip is great, but it’s truly a scientific experience. You are internalizing various factors, and preparing yourself to embark on a journey that is unique to each individual cup.

But ahh, the second sip. That is where it comes together. Instead of being surprised by temperature, taste, consistency, blend, roast, no. Now-you can enjoy it. You can relax and melt into it for the first time. The very fact that you’re onto a second sip means that 1) you weren’t just sampling someone else’s and 2) that it is very much drinkable. There’s definitely some security in that. It is no longer you against the day in isolation. No sir. It is you with coffee, and coffee is like the ultimate portable superhero in a cup. You can do anything.

We have reached the third sip. While this one, and all the others that follow it, are absolutely wonderful, they have reached comfort level. You already know what’s coming, and are just enjoying the ride.  From now on, the attributes of the coffee will remain mostly stable. No further tasting of this cup will fully capture the beauty of that second sip.

I read one of those Ramona books when I was little. In it, the main character, a little girl, is caught eating a rather large supply of apples. Only she’s not eating the whole thing, she’s only taking one bite out of each one. Confused, her mother asked her what she was doing. She responded that the first bite tasted the best. Therefore, she went from apple to apple, taking first bite after first bite, confident she was only tasting the very best part. I feel like my coffee theory is similar. It’s hard not to want to have the perfect sip over and over again. It is true though that I do get my fair share of them. Being a caffeine addict has its perks, including coffee on a continual basis.

I know that addiction is bad. But love is good. So I feel like the two cancel each other out, with love remaining in the game long enough to win it. With that logic backing me up, I figure I’m in the clear. Besides, there’s no point in arguing against a love this vast. I’m already in too deep. 

Molasses January

So, I've been having those weeks. The ones that don’t seem to be filled with much of anything. Friday arrives, and I’m like, “Oh, you’re here? Well, okay, good.” But not as in ‘Good, I’ve been waiting on you since Sunday ended and never thought I’d live to see you’.  Just… ‘Good. You’re Friday and I’ve been biologically programmed to love you, and I’m glad you’re here because of what you are.’  

But to be honest, right now, Friday feels the same as Tuesday. Or Wednesday. It’s still not on par with a Monday, but I fear that’s the direction I’m heading in. I’ve noticed this lack of enthusiasm lately, and I really can’t pin it down to any one thing. Nothing is particularly bad, or unusually terrible. Things just sort of…are. They just exist without emotion tied to them, pushing me to respond or react to them. So I don’t. I simply exist right along with them. I exist right until Friday, when I wonder where the week has gone, and if I made much use of it.

My theory so far, is that I must be a creature of the spring. As the world wakes up, perhaps I will too. Winter in general provides only a cold backdrop for retrospection. Everything is slower, sleepy. It’s like walking on a treadmill; I’m consistently moving. Always busy, but with no urgency. The road doesn’t end, there’s no rush to get to a destination. As long as I move, at however snail-like a pace, I’ll manage. And maybe in some weird way, this is a good thing. Like a mental hibernation, soaking in all these things that have happened previously and now letting them stew. Seep themselves deeply into my bones, where they’ve belonged all this time anyway. Instead of running; of moving beyond them so quickly that I can hardly remember them later.

I suppose that is my outlook upon my molasses January. It’s sweet, with nothing so very wrong within it, but slow. Thick. When it doesn’t really matter if I just began watching the sap drip from the tree bark, or if I’ve been quietly watching for hours; I’m content to find a log, zip up my coat, and stare into the process for hours. With absolutely no inclination to talk about it. 

You Shouldn't Have. Really...

So I have this friend. And she’s in a bit of an awkward situation. Just so we’re all clear, this friend is really me, and this situation, my situation, is difficult to explain.  Have you ever found yourself in a position where people around you were all under the impression that you liked a certain thing? A character, a certain color, an animal, really it could be anything, but they all thought you just loved this certain thing? That, my dearest readers, is what this story is all about.

 One day you were just hanging out, and foolishly, oh so foolishly, picked up a goofy item and made a random comment, thinking nothing of it, “Oh, that looks cool” And then you moved on from that comment. You went right past it, lived your life, forgetting you ever did such a thing. It was a blip, a non-moment in your repertoire of big, defining moments.

Fast forward a month or so. You get a gift pertaining to that same item from so long ago. You’re a bit confused, but try to seem in the know… “Oh, yes, of course…a hat shaped like a (something, a duck, a frog, the country of France, whatever) hmm…okay…” And you’re all nodding, and the giver is smiling, and they’re clearly so pleased to be giving you this, and you’re starting to get that panicked lost look in your eyes when they mention, “You remember? That day when we went to the park/zoo/mall/restaurant and you said how much you loved this?”

Meanwhile, your brain is working overtime, searching desperately for anything you’ve ever said about loving this thing. This weird, useless, slightly creepy thing.  And then…you find it. That non-moment. That blip. “Oh yeeeaaahhh….” you say, “Wow, I… I can’t believe you remembered that…you are so…incredibly…thoughtful! Wow, thank you! Thank you so much!” The giver is genuinely happy; they have you pose for pictures with your newly acquired gift. The rest of the evening goes okay, and when it’s over, you pull out the item, shake your head, do that weird face where you’re trying to make sense of something that just doesn’t and won’t ever, and you stick it on a shelf.

Now, if it ended here, it wouldn’t be that bad. I mean, we’ve all gotten (and probably given) gifts like this. Ones that just missed the mark somehow, but were good intentioned and all that. Fine. But-some things have a tendency to keep cropping up. Birthdays, Christmas, Flag Day, you start to see a trend.  More and more energy is being dedicated to you receiving items similar to the original. Mugs, figurines, magnets, shirts, key chains, all focused on that one thing. One thing that, quite honestly, is just…okay. Nothing so spectacular that it would have you writing home about and starting a collection of it. A collection which, mind you, is growing bigger and more dangerous with each passing holiday.

Suddenly, you look around your room to discover that it has taken over. Shelves, nooks, drawers, hangers, this thing has crept itself into every aspect of your life. All because you said something looked cool once in front of an eerily observant human being. Note: this doesn’t seem to happen with awesome things, things that you actually wouldn’t mind taking hold of your style. As in, “Look at these chic European teacups my Aunt just sent me.” Or “Check out my super cute fifties glam sunglasses I just got!” No. This type of passion and focus sinks its claws only into cringe worthy items. Items that, if you had some and I also had some and we caught each other’s eye across the room, we would nod in mutual understanding, knowing exactly the path that had led the other there too.

So, my dilemma is as follows. How do you get something that has taken a life of its own to die down? Do you say something? Is there a point where you can’t say anything anymore? Should you let it continue, and not risk hurting the feelings of loved ones around you, who have so graciously bought into this little game and showered you with item upon useless item? I mean… I don’t know. I’m stuck.

 I’m sitting here, being glared at my the little beady eyes on all of these things, and I’m starting to get this sinking feeling that I’m the only one who knows what I’m talking about. Really? Anyone? Anyone at all who has gone through this, I’m reaching out. This is my cry for help. Am I really so ungrateful? So terrible? Maybe I am. But before you judge me, help me. Once I’m free, you can judge all you want. Until then, I’m counting on you. 

The Chocolate Cake Resolution

Ahh, January. Take a second, and breathe in the deep smell of resolutions in the air. It’s a new year, new start, etc.  I can definitely see the attraction for them.  Looking back, it’s easy to see where things went smoothly, crumbled apart, or simply maintained. If you could just stick to a few simple agreements this time around, then this next stage of your life would be better somehow. However, it must be said that I, for one, completely suck at the entire resolution process.

Making resolutions for the New Year is like having a focused psychological pep talk in your mind, only everyone else around you is doing the exact same thing, at the exact same time, using the exact same wording. You all wind up at some gathering, and some thoughtless guest brought ridiculous brownies with them, and you all stare at her like she’s trying to pass out leprosy, stammer out a ‘No, thank you.” You glance sideways at one another, mutter something about your various resolutions, and eat your fingernails instead. Until February that is; or March, if you’re really disciplined. Or if you’re me, January 1^st, mid-afternoon. To the 3% of you that can actually manage to make a resolution that lasts the entire year, either you're resolutions are ridiculously easy, like 'I will breathe', or else you are one resolute being, in which case I tip my hat to you. 

In general, if I set myself up for a rule regarding anything to do with weight or food, I will, within that same hour, find myself eating a chocolate cake. I just dislike the idea of being bossed around by anyone, least of all myself. I can perform the greatest self-sabotage this side of the Mississippi. ‘Oh, what was that? You say you want to drink more water? Ha! I’ll show you! You’ll never drink water again! Mwahaha!’

It is, however, not limited to food.  ‘You say you want to save money? Oh, okay, yeah RIGHT! We’re going to buy everything in the entire world!!!’ Organization, spending time with family, quitting something, starting something new, I will find a way to do the exact opposite. And it doesn’t work to switch tactics and make my resolutions initially the opposite of what I actually want. Reverse psychology doesn’t work on me, by me. I’m just way too smart for myself.

I’m not too worried about my lack of resolution making/keeping skills. The really good things in my life have always come about unplanned. There is no possible way I could have designed my life in any such way that any action on my part would cause these things to appear.  I figure if I can just manage not to mess things up too badly, I’ll be lucky enough to keep wonderful people around me. That keeps me busy enough some days! 

Ultimately, events will transpire throughout the coming year that will push you into becoming the person you need to be. People will show up and weave themselves seamlessly into your life, making you wonder at how you managed before them. Decisions will be made that you couldn’t foretell, even if your life depended on it. You’ll get offers, make purchases, and hopefully have a good time doing it.

To all of you, I wish you the best for the coming year. Whether you decide to stick to formal resolutions or just wing it, I hope that you have the opportunity and the guts to make this year everything it should be. Oh, and if you ever find me alone in a kitchen with a chocolate cake, don’t bother joining me. I won’t share. Hey, now that would be a resolution I could keep! 

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.