Duped. Swindled. Hoodwinked.

I like to think of myself as an intelligent, savvy, and a relatively street smart gal. 

For example, I got approached on the street last week by the folks trying to gather donations for Save the Children.org.  It's an entity that I actually know exists, and still, I let them know kindly that I have a policy not to give randomly on the street.  I, logically, give to a certain number of charities at certain times of the year after having collected and researched information on them over time.  That's just the way I roll.

I also receive numerous desperate pleas from the Prince some country I only slightly recall and other wealthy individuals from India who are simply looking for a way to bring their millions of dollars to the US because of unstable times in their country, and they need my help.  All I have to do it give them my bank account numbers.  They will wire the funds to me, and when they are able to retrieve it, I will have done them a huge favor for which, in return, I will receive a generous percentage of the millions I have housed for a short amount of time.  Though the deal sounds totally legit, I delete these requests without another thought.   I wasn't born yesterday even for the promises made by self-declared royalty!

 Like I said, I can spot a scam a mile away...   

Weeeell, today, I went to see my Aunt who is visiting my Mom downtown, joined by my husband Art and my almost 2-year old son.  We had a lovely brunch at the Lux Bar.  The day was absolutely gorgeous so we went walking up and down Oak Street in order to extend the visit a bit longer.  As we're looking in windows at The Ultimate Bride (um, freakin' fabulous dresses, btw), I hear, "Do you like Jazz?"

I turn around and see two clean looking individuals, a guy and a girl, walking towards us.  They are in black T-Shirts and shorts and really look like they could be in a band… or crew for a band.  Really.  

I, trying to be courteous, say, "Well, yeah.  Some."  At this point my Aunt continues to move forward while I, not wanting to be rude stick around to chat with these seemingly harmless folks.  Our conversation went something like this:

"Well, we're part of a band that's playing a bunch of different venues (they named them, I recognized the places, but don't remember them now, except Green Mill, of which I'm a fan) in a fundraiser that's organized to raise money for a member of our band, who sadly, has colon cancer."

"And no health insurance," chimed in the girl making a sad face.  Little did she know, she just hooked me.  Who would lie about that?

He continued, "We are giving away these first 20 CD's... for a donation."  

Hmmm, Giving ... for a donation.  Is that an oxymoron?   Or just moronic? Tough questions for tough times. 

So, of course, I said, "Ok, you sold me.  How much is the CD?"  (Mistake number One:  Yeah, absolutely just let them name their price!)

Brief pause and then,"$20," he said, and followed it quickly with, "But showing the CD at the door will also get you into the show at Green Mill for free," – in defense of the asking price. (I told him I really liked the Green Mill.  Yeah, I play it cool.  I also tell car dealers when I absolutely can’t live without a particular car.)

And, as if I was no longer in control of my limbs, I reached in my wallet, grabbed a 20-dollar bill and gave it to him.  (Mistake Number Two:  Certainly don't negotiate the "donation" they're asking for!  I'm so awesome.)

Now, before I continue, as you know, I'm an artist myself and I have a soft spot for artists.  I also can sympathize with how horrible colon cancer would be for anyone, let alone a struggling musician who, it was not far fetched to say, had no insurance.  Cue the violins. 

   ... back to the encounter.

I handed him $20 like I had it to give - I must have been feeling the Oak Street vibes - and he said, "Great!  See you on Thursday!" and almost too quickly, jetted off.

My Mom, Aunt, Art, and, it seemed, even my almost 2-year old didn't say anything, just looked at me.  I looked back at them like the cold heartless animals that I knew they were, and said, "It was a fundraiser for colon cancer!"  The ladies turned without a word and walked ahead.

Well, now I got to thinkin'... (Mistake number Three:  Got to thinking too late.)

I stopped my husband before we caught up to the ladies and said, "I think I got taken."  His first instinct, a good one, was to slowly tilt his head and say, "What do you mean?"

"I just gave them $20.  They didn't have a flyer to offer.  I think it might have been a scam."

Art squinched up his face and tilted his head and said, "Well, they had me until the CD purchase."

This didn't make me feel better.  He silently took charge of my son and continued walking.  We didn't speak anymore about it because I was starting to feel like a serious idiot.  …or moron?

Dictionary.com defines the difference as,

"an idiot is a stupid person with a mental age below three years, while a moron is a stupid person with a mental age of between seven to twelve years"...

psyched about neither definition, let's say nincompoop.

Here comes the coup de grace:  

We got in the car, and I can't stop the nagging feeling that I have been seriously had.  Um… no judging!  It's easy from your perspective, to see that this is stating the obvious – at that moment, not so much.

So, slowly, much more slowly than I pulled the 20 out of my wallet, I got the CD out of my purse and looked at the enclosed white sheet that I assumed had the list of songs that were burned on to my most recent jazz purchase.  As I look closer, it was a listing of who's playing when at The Empty Bottle, a venue on Western in Chicago.  Oh, and the listing is for April & May of 2010.  It's June 6th today.  So, now I have a $20 listing of memories I didn't make at The Empty Bottle.  (FYI, on 4/26, the bands F*ck Knights, The Runnies and Dumpster Babies played there.  To think I missed them... that's just adding salt to the wound!)

Ok, so as I look at it, I realize that there is very likely no Jazz on this CD, but I have this tendency to believe in people.  Musicians don't have a lot of marketing money, and... so, maybe they just slid that in there to ... um, ... protect the CD?  Art, smirking, says, “Just put the CD in.  Maybe the music is good?”

In slow motion I take the CD out of the envelope.  The front of it has no writing, and as I'm noticing that, Art asks, "What's the band's name?"  The pit in my stomach grows in acidity as I realize that I have to answer, "I don't know."   Deep breath in.  Deep breath out.  I put the CD in the player and wait.  

And wait.

And wait.

Art presses some buttons to fast forward, but the player isn't reading the CD.  He gallantly continues to eject and re-insert our new gift hoping that songs, any kind of songs, will play miraculously.  The reality sinks in that I just bought this one and only blank CD, with added bonus of April/May listing from The Empty Bottle for the low, low price of 20 of my hard earned dollars. 

"There is a special place in Hell for someone who swindles a person into giving money in the name of colon cancer," I say.  Quickly though, I formed a plan, "Oh! We should get a sitter, go to the show, find this guy, and confront him.  Remember, this CD also gets us into the show at the Green Mill for free next Thursday."  Before the last word comes out of my mouth, Art bursts into laughter that he's clearly been holding back for a good hour.  

"I'm sure the Green Mill will honor the blank Maxell CD you bring to the door for two tickets to the show that night," he is barely able to say between gulps of laughter.  

Picture this for a moment.  I’m at the Green Mill door with a blank CD in hand as payment.  "No really, I bought this for $20 from a guy on Oak Street... for the band benefitting the guy with colon cancer... (make a sad face) with no insurance!"

My last hope is my CD player in my computer, but alas, it confirms what I already know.  I have been seriously bamboozled.  Perhaps my time in the suburbs has made me more naive than I knew.  Whatever the case, no one, not even the little child with one arm in Mexico selling Chiclets on the side of the road that her mom bought for one cent, and she's selling for “almost free for you”, will get me again!

Showering is overrated

Don't think badly of me.

My name is Nicole and I don't shower everyday.  Neither does my husband, who is, much to his dismay, out of work, and trying not to live out the stereotype.  This isn't helping ...by the way, he's totally going to kill me for outing him.

It's just that there's a lot involved in showering for me --- I don't know what his excuse is.

There's the undressing, getting the water the right temperature, hair washing, hair conditioning, body washing, face washing, drying, lotioning, and dressing.  Whew!  I'm tired just thinking about it!

If blow drying of the hair and applying make-up happened all the time, it might bring the occurence rate down even further.  It's all about the hair --- can I make it look good with out the shower?  If so, it's on!

I'm not proud of this.  I will say that I heard that it's good to give your hair a break from washing once and a while.  ...I also glom on to the theories about dark chocolate & red wine on just the word of the internet.

I am proud to say, I always shower if I've worked out, or find my self itching or carrying the odor of the homeless.  I've got standards, you know.

hmm..  there must be an Anonymous program for this.  If not, there should be.

promises of an open time slot

I'm starting to get that just posting on a regular basis, let alone writing a short story while running my own business and having a little one at home is a goal much like a plan to exercise at the end of the day.  It doesn't seem to happen.

I have great ideas when I'm in bed about to go to sleep, so I write them down in my journal with very big plans to develop them in the morning.  However, much to my dismay, morning comes very early and I'm... um... not an awesome morning person.  So, before I know it, I hear the call that acts as my alarm every day, "Mom! (pause.) Mom! (pause) Mom! (pause. pause. pause.) Moooooooooooom! (pause.)  Dad! .... " and so it goes.  There isn't a snooze button, by the way.  What I would give for a snooze button.  Sometimes he will sit and talk to his "guys" in his crib for a while keeping himself entertained, but the monitor is on and well,... he's funny.  He organizes them, throws them overboard (then you hear, "uh-oh), and runs back and forth in his crib talking in a language where there is no translation.  By that time, I'm up and it's time to start the day.  This is when I vow to do some writing at his nap time.  Ha!

Nap time comes and I am well into my business day.  There are emails to be returned, dog clients to be soothed and marketing to struggle through and then, all of a sudden, "Mom!  Dad!  (pause. pause. pause.) Dad-dy!  Mum-my!"(did I forget to turn my alarm off?) and we're off and running with the afternoon of either appointments for me and Dad is the afternoon entertainment or I am.  By the time his bedtime comes, I'm ready to shut it down for the day.  A TV show, some dinner and a glass of wine with my husband, and we are always aware that our new alarm clock is not able to be reset for a later time.

Now, let me be clear, I love my life.  I love that I don't have to set a real alarm anymore.  I love figuring out where to take him to watch him explore a new environment.  I love just talking to him and hearing him try to make words with his mouth.  It is really a humbling experience being a mom.  I'm lost some of the time, feeling guilty about something some of the time, laughing some of the time, rediscovering the excitement of a train or fire engine going by a lot of the time.  I love it.

It's just taking some doing to carve out some space for my creativity to really flow for more that a 5 minute period.  I'll find the space.  I did today.  That's a step in the right direction.

What do you do for yourself?  When do you do it?

Look Ma, no carbs!

I know that this isn't exactly on topic, but maybe we should all get used to the fact that that is something that may happen more often than not a little.  After all, doesn't it make sense that while on the path to finding my creativity, I may take me on some detours in order to spend time observing and commenting?

So, I was watching TV the other day and maybe because my husband and I have been on a no sugar, no flour, no pasta diet for four weeks now, this commercial caught my eye.  See, I love bread.  I romanticize pasta.  I lust after pizza.  On this eating plan, I've had to breakup with them all.  I made them a mix tape and said "see you on Sundays".  (We allow ourselves a break on Sundays so my obsessive personality doesn't make me a nightmare to live with.)  So.... I see this sandwich being advertised.

Above is the new KFC "sandwich".  The fact that it looks like a puppet sticking it's tongue out that should be on Sesame Street is only the first of things wrong with it.

Yes, all of you Atkins diet groupies, there is no bread, but that alone does not really put it in "the plan"... you know this right?

The ingredients are as follows:

Two boneless pieces of fried chicken
Two pieces of bacon
Two melted slices of Monterey cheese and Pepper Jack cheese
The "Colonel's Sauce"

Now remember Big Mac's "special" sauce?  It was Thousand Island dressing!
Don't get me wrong, it tasted good, but... REALLY?!?

I don't know why this gets my goat, but in this day and age, after their PR people brought them a name change to KFC, this is their newest menu item?    I'm just sayin'...  it seems like a heart attack waiting to happen.  If they were looking to change their reputation, at least grill the chicken, right?

I'm obsessing and it's just Monday.  Must-get-carbs- back-now!

Shutting Down

I'm not feeling very inspired or creative today.

I'm writing anyway because I think that's what this blog is all about. Creating habits, working through blocks, learning not to let things stop you.  Today, it's hard.  So, I had started a post about motivation and how it seems to work, but I'm saving that for another day.

Today, it's easier to talk about what's in front of me.  I feel shut down from anything creative.
In The Artist's Way, she talks a lot about gremlins.  It's basically the voice inside of you that keeps you down.  It talks badly about you - to you.  My gremlin voice is the biggest jerk ever!  (says the 12 year old inside of me)

What triggers a gremlin and sends it soaring to the front of your brain?  For me, it's sadness and/or fear.  Fear of failure, fear of doing it wrong, fear of life changes I can't handle - my gremlin apparently doesn't find me very capable.  It's a persistent voice that somehow manages to push through a thousand other thoughts and doesn't let anything get in it's way.  If only my confidence had that kind of focus.

As I work on my writing, I hear, "Who do you think you are to write?  You've never written anything substantial.  Writers are much smarter than you.  You don't have the stamina or follow through.  You don't have the discipline!"  That stupid gremlin goes on and on and on.  Honestly, what a nag!

The good news is that a) it's less prevalent than it used to be, and b) I am learning tools to combat the gory beast.  Things that help for me are:

1. Writing stream of consciousness in hopes of unplugging the dam.
2.  Exercising and then coming back to it.
3.  A good cup of coffee.  (Caffeine, a drug, I know. But hey, at least it's not Irish Whiskey.)
4. And, of course, blogging about it.

My gremlin, at the moment, is saying, "No one cares what you do to get un-stuck or ward me away?  Nobody will read this!"

I wrote anyway.  Now I'm posting.  Have that Mr. Gremlin!

Creating creative community

So, though I like to think of myself as a truly unique individual, I, shockingly, am not the first to consider a way to revive my creative juices.  Not to mention, this is also not the first time I've taken a step to do it.  Have you ever heard of The Artist's Way?  It's a book by Julia Cameron.  It's been around for a good long time.  It works.

www.theartistsway.com

It's something that everyone, even those not aiming for a creative career, can benefit from.  It's a 12 week program that you can do on your own.  So, you can just buy the book and start the exercises.  Sounds simple, huh?  Well, one of the hardest things for me about it is that you do it alone.  It takes a lot of discipline and structure and, well,... things that aren't exactly my strong suit.

My mother, she would rock at this.  She makes lists.  She then completes them before doing anything else.  She's never tempted to just leave the list and go to a movie or sit down and vow to do it tomorrow.  She is someone I admire, hold myself up to and, of course, drives me crazy... by the way, I drive her crazy too.  Just don't tell her I know!

This book is something she would complete with gold stars and on-time.  I couldn't get myself past week three on my own.

The good news is that several years ago, I stumbled upon a woman who takes the book and facilitates a group.  We met for 12 weeks, once a week and kept ourselves on track.  Nobody beat anybody up for not finishing a task, but we did motivate one another to keep going.  I loved all the people.  The coolest thing about them is that there was a documentary filmmaker, a couple of actresses, a lawyer, and several other occupations that you probably wouldn't think would line up to spend their Saturdays digging inside themselves in the name of creativity.  It was the first time I finished it.  I didn't want it to end.

If you're in the Chicago area and this strikes you as something you might like to do, I highly recommend looking at Michel's website:

www.rubyslipperscoaching.com/classes.html 

Let me repeat, you don't have to want to live as an actress, writer, director, or desire to display your feelings through interpretive dance movement in order to do something like this.  It's just fun and opens you up to other parts of you.

So, why am I babbling on about this?  Well, it was back then that I had the first thought about letting writing be an important creative outlet for me.  I have been ruminating the idea of writing a book in my brain for sometime, but my inner gremlins have really gotten the best of me.  

I'll take another time to talk about those, but suffice to say, my inner critic is pretty harsh and not much of an optimist.  The thing is, as I mentioned before, I feel better when I write.  Be it to you, the black hole of the blogging world or in my journal, or some short story... whatever.  I like it.  I do like to work with people though, and I'm hoping that over time this blog will collect others who are striving to do something that fills their soul each day as well.  If you are, tell me about it.  If you're blogging, let me know, I'll follow.  Connection and a community is a good thing.  

What are you working on?

Distraction

My intent in starting this blog was to inspire creative recovery within myself, and writing every week seemed like good way to go.  Even better, if when anyone starts to read my blog, it creates a reason to keep writing.  I might even encourage others to start doing something towards creating a piece of their life that they had stopped pursuing.  It's always better to diet with someone, so I'm figuring the same theory applies.  So, as I got ready to do this next blog post, here's what I'd hoped my process would look like:

1.  Have a thought - or two or three strung together.
2.  Go to my computer or journal, jot it down and expand on said thoughts.
3.  Post blog with something inspiring.

Here's how it really happens:

1.  Have a thought -- yeah, it's kinda awesome.  Better head to the computer...
2.  Hear a thunderous sound that might be my almost 2 year old knocking every item in his room over simultaneously.
3.  Run to the room passing said almost 2 year old going the other way with a clear, "Wasn't me!" look on his face.
4.  Finding his cow head humidifier, formerly filled with water, now decapitated from it's base and leaking, no, pouring out it's contents all over the wood floor.
5.  Grab towels, get on hands & knees to soak up cow head water that is now nicely mixed with tumbleweeds of dog hair from under the crib -- clearly, I have been neglecting this area for months.
6.  Curse myself for my poor housekeeping skills & vow to clean dog hair more diligently going forward much the same way I used to vow never to drink again after a hangover -- and with the same level of commitment and follow-through, I'm sure.  This thought is interrupted by my son yelling, "Mom!  Nuuuuuuu!" while putting his fingers to his head acting as if he has horns.  (Nuuu! is the sound he makes for cows --- we're still working on the finer points of animal sounds.)
7.  With fragments of original thought still in my head, lake cleaned up, a pillow's worth of wet dog hair in the garbage, and a few minutes left to jot something down, I head towards the computer.
8.  Realizing that I can't leave the almost 2 year old upstairs, I go to grab him and find out he's nowhere in sight until I hear a "Hi!".  I turn towards the sound and see a little face staring at me from deep inside our very big dog crate.
9.  Go spelunking into the dog hair filled (it's supposed to be there -- it's a dog crate) cave to retrieve him.  It takes several less than graceful attempts because though he only knows 4 words, he has gained some seriously mad skills of evasion.
10.  Get downstairs to the computer.  Put child in front of The Wiggles



 - I know! not-so-perfect parenting, but it buys me 15 glorious minutes -- and finally, I sit down to write.

11.  Stare blankly at the blinking cursor on a blank blog page thinking, "What the hell was I going to write about?"

So, now that fabulous post that was going to be a brilliant piece of writing turns into a story about an almost 2 year old, a cow head humidifier and my seriously defunct cleaning skills.  This, my friends is why my creative recovery might take a little longer that I'd hoped.

...But you've got to start somewhere, right?