My So-Called Life

Unfortunately for Generation MTV (I'm revoking the title X here), we, at the vulnerable 'tween age witnessed the roaring success of The Real World.  This planted the seed of reality television and how cool it was to watch "ordinary" people in their late teens and early twenties live in mansions, and throw each others toothbrushes into toilets.  We weren't exactly alloted the greatest material as you can see, so you'll have to excuse us later in life when some yahoo connects every college together allowing us all to network.

MTV didn't provide us with individual documentary cameras, so, left to our own devices, we reached for the latest and most affordable technology: the digital camera.  We utilized this gift to make our very own episodes on Facebook: The College Years.  In our defense, while documenting our lives, we were reassured that having a college email was mandatory for participation. Until the face of worlds creator, Tom or Justin Timberlake, whoever it was... betrayed us all and let any yahoo sign up.  Literally, all you needed was an email to allow access into the fairytale land of tequila shots and crude gestures.  

What our world creator didn't realize (or maybe he did, but was looking for a quick buck and sold us out) is that, OUR PARENTS, you know, the people that are funding this documentary, have email accounts.  I know parents aren't internet savvy, but word of mouth spreads, and well, duh Justin, your "big" hair brained idea wouldn't have taken off if word of mouth didn't exist! So our betrayer, the creator of face world, is to blame for this mess, not our content.

We thought we were safe in the secure walls of privacy settings and friend confirmations while making this world of one too many tequila shots. The result and the proof: our own college lingo on display for all. Having the personal belief that one shouldn't censor themselves for the benefit of others, I wasn't worried if the girl that sat next to me in language history that I was only really friends with in face world, understood that my real life friend Jill and I decided to speak only in Russian.  Jill would laugh, so it wouldn't matter if classmates would wonder if I believed myself to be a Russian rap star in real life, or question my sanity or spelling abilities.  I was a comical genius. The show must go on.

In early world face world, I would view it as vanity or an insult to said photographer if I removed my name form the bottom of their pictures.  Being a social girl, and finally owning my own digital camera, this led to many pictures.  As I began to accept the outsiders into our once safe world, I started to speak in English for the masses to understand and grew up (well, at least from riding in the trunks of cars, and beer bongs) a little bit.  Having newer picture albums of drinking beer while hiking a mountain, or drinking a beer with a statue. Things toned down a bit from the age of 22, and I boringly stopped letting real life friends spike my hair straight in the air with gel for my face world friends to see. 

The evidence of foul language, and spiky hair, became buried under layers of new and improved photography with beer and my own native country's language, allowing me to forget those little gems tucked away.  Time moves on, real life becomes more interesting than face life, you stop spending as much time in make-believe land, Justin keeps changing his mind on who can view what, so your upkeep isn't  what is was once.  Soon, you start getting excited to see your nieces, favorite aunt, and other relatives join.  Because, at this stage in your life, you are more interested in your niece's dance recital pictures than you are of letting the stranger sitting next to you in math class know how much fun you have every weekend with your Russian rap star friends.  

I suppose our generation of little documenting fools got us into this world of face mess and I'm no longer blaming Justin Timberlake.  In our defense, though: to the older generations, what if technology presented itself to you, and you vainly accepted at the age of 21?

Ol' Hundai

When I was five or six I would travel on the weekends.  I know this sounds extravagant for a girl just starting kindergarden. During this phase of my traveling career, I mainly just spent the weekends a couple cities from where I resided with my mother and step-father.  I had this little purple Care-Bare suitcase.  I'm sure it was filled with pajamas and enough clothing to spend the weekend with my dad.  Maybe there was a planner in it as well.  But my poor ol' dad just happy to finally have my company for the weekend, forgot to check the planner to see I had already penciled in the neighbor girl Nicole, as I would dart from the car to her house.  Leaving the purple Care-Bare suitcase in his hands to find it's way into my bedroom.

When I was eight or nine I began taking sabbaticals every summer. I know this sounds elaborate for a gal who has yet to enter middle school, but the quasi weekend visits weren't cutting it. So the little Care-Bare suit case found its own way (I'm sure my dad had something do with that) into the garage where it lived out the course of it's life, remembering past travels, until finding its way to the dump (again, I'm sure my dad had something to do with that).  I would be leaving my "head-quarters" for three months and would need much more than just pajamas and a few items to last me an entire summer. Enter the monstrosity of a suitcase with magical powers that allowed me to cram an entire bedroom into its realms, leaving my dad in quest for his own super natural abilities to haul this miraculous creature into my bedroom.

When I was thirteen or fourteen I took a four year retreat from my main residency.  I know this sounds complex for a teenager about to start high-school to pull off a departure of this extent under the eyes of a watchful mother, but she knew my travelin' soul was in good hands.  I mean she witnessed with her own two eyes the man that was capable of transporting my monstrosity of a suit case time and time again, and if he was capable of that he could handle anything.  He even helped cram four years of new collected belongings into my Grand-Prix as I ventured off to college.

When I was twenty-two or twenty-three I decided to take a holiday. I know when one goes on a "holiday" they usually return in a week, two weeks max.  So to leave on a two year holiday may seem a bit extreme for a lass who has yet to finish college, but the cold winters and the iced Michigan roads allowed Alabama to present itself as the most efficient place to change college careers.  Allowing this travelin' soul to encompass the culture of grits and "yes ma'am".

When I was twenty-five or twenty-six I took a leave of absence to venture to Colorado.  I know this appears to be a radical move, relocating to a state in which you have never visited, but when you own a purple Care-Bare suitcase at the age of six the travel bug becomes imbedded early-on in life.  Unfortunately, my leave of absence turned more into a hiatus as I soon discovered being out west involves sophisticated traveling arrangements, you can't really jump in your car for a quick visit to your family.  There are mountains involved out here.  You need maps, planes, time portals, all sorts of devices to find your way to the company of your family.

When I turned twenty-eight, to be exact, I realized my current location is pretty remote.  I know this sounds mind-boggling for a woman who eluded college for so long, to obtain a degree, only to leave the city and move closer to home.  In general people get the degrees in hopes to venture out, and get the jobs in the big cities.  I suppose I've always had adverse reactions to authority figures, granted it's a figure of speech but that general whose in charge of ideas won't be ordering this lady around.  So my general idea,  is stop relying on time travel devices, pack up my Hundai, and head south again. Well Florida... I have yet to live there.

To Berry: Later That Night

Relieved to have my statistics homework done, I decided to drive to my sister's house that night to engage in some honky tonk bar action that only lower Alabama could supply. Upon arrival she distracted me with Bud Lights so she could finish getting ready.  I rummaged her nail polish collection to further occupy myself, stumbling upon the perfect selection:

 Kismet! I enjoyed my beer while  Regina Spektor blared through my sister's stereo speakers, I couldn't resist the thought ' Tiffany Berry Delicious now there's a saucy name.  Hair and nails being complete we ventured off to our favorite dive bar.  

This specific bar, usually composed of:  Shots of buttery nipples, random weirdos, a mediocre band, and that one bartender whom never got our jokes. But this noteworthy evening I ran into a surprise in the ladies room.

Disbelieving the stack of cash laying beside the garbage can, I scooped it up.  Walking out to my sister, as she describes in  Blonde and Blonder  pronouncing my findings, we both decided the 'Avon Lady must be located. 

Conjuring up the perfect solution, we write Colleen's phone number on a napkin, hand it over to the bartender (who unmistakably has zero sense of humor) asking her to have Avon Lady (if she can prove herself as so) Give the number we jotted down on the napkin 'a call. This bartender being a perfectionist of sorts asks for a name to go along with the number. Excited to put my new alias to use I write down Tiffany Berry.

Vowing to one another as we made a pit-stop at another bar followed by the McDonald's drive-thru:  If the Avon Lady finds us, we're definitely paying her back in full!  This is just an unexpected loan. 

Colleen, the following week, was taken by surprise checking her voice-mail after work one night  (the thickest southern accent possible) "Hi Ms. Berry this is Karla, I work for Avon..." 

Colleen, being the selfless humanitarian socialist patriot, she is met her at the Wall-mart to repay our debt, replacing the scribbled I.O.U's with actual cash.  And probably placing an order for her favorite Avon eye-shadow.

Eternal Sunshine

"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned."- Alexander Pope. 

Guilty Pleasure. or. 's. (you can make it plural)

For I have found myself nose-deep into the Twilight series. I have made fun of, even questioned, the better judgement of those who dug this sort of thing... but now I am officially apart of the club. I read the first of the four part series in two days! That Bella sure hangs out with a rough crowd! I mean first Vampires, and then Werewolves. What are the odds of having both of those mythical creatures at your high school?? One Vampire... One Werewolf... One Human?! Equation for disaster, if you ask me!

My second guilty pleasure of the week (and probably a hate crime towards Roller-Derby)- is this song I've been playing on repeat non-stop (at high volumes, of course) aka # 2 on the CD my father mailed me this past weekend. I'm in love with the entire CD, but my obsessive compulsive brain waves have voted this track number one. Time and time again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

Movin' On Up.

My apartment building is rather quaint and quite personal. There are seven spaces available, and six distinctive characters inhabit the grounds. But, something tells me there is a new joker residing within this facility, pillaging the community.


  The one I know best.(aka)  Roller-derby (the thorn in my side, most mornings). 

Roller-Derby (aka) homeboy lives directly above me, with his wood floors.

Not sure if I've actually ever seen him face-to-face. But our proximity allows me to know intimate details pertaining to his everyday life. 

1.  He has two desks, and maybe no legs. After some official tenant exploration, I noticed a bike chained to his balcony and recognized: he has two desks, and is excruciatingly lazy. As he rolls between desks all day/night long.  

2.  His alarm clock runs, roughly speaking, from 6:07 am until 7:07 am. With the loudest techno music, that would make the most enthusiastic club kid, want to willingly stick marsh-mellows into his ears and pencils into his eyes, in order to make the music stop. The alarm clock's purpose is unclear to me, as to he is still rolling from desk to desk at 6:05.  But, who has time to clock watch? - 

I've decided it's a give and take relationship between roller-derby and I (aka)  the girl that lives directly below him, playing the same song on repeat for five hours a setting. 

 As disruptive as this all sounds. There is a new cat on the block.  She (I discovered her gender as she drunkingly pounded on my door, inquiring about her "dryer cloths" one night) the newest passive aggressive member of the building. As if, I'm that desperate to sell another's belongings.  It was hard enough to get my own belongings into a plastic bag to sell for extra cash, forget the idea of having to steal- and then plastic bag  another's to a thrift shop. 

Next attack, was the pink post-it notes she placed on every vehicle parked in our "first come-first serve" parking lot. Reading in nearly illegible handwriting: "It would be nice if I could get my groceries into the building, but there is never parking here.  Am I mental about this issue??? Well yes, I am. But I would really like to be able to walk my groceries into my apartment." 

If I could only locate her car- I would leave a pink post-it as well "Hey lady... I'm mental too, but groceries can walk all on their own!"

Diary of a Mad Cat Woman

Studebaker head has her costume for the weekend!

Just the Fax.

"In the bar I told Dean 'Hell man, I know very well you didn't come to me only to want to become a writer, and after all what do I really know about it except you've got to stick to it with the energy of a benny addict."- Jack Kerouac.

Heartbreak-hotel.

After one grueling heartbreak- I found myself in one of my best friend's closets.  Mallory . She had the brightest colors and the oddest patterns of clothes one could imagine.  As I stood there letting her clothes run against my heartbroken fingertips, in admiration of all the colors and patterns, it became apparent:  we MUST wear these clothes out tonight, in any fashion possible.

Mallory- I exclaimed:  "How's about... you wear any outfit I see fit, for tonight. And you can return the favor."

She agreed.

And never once questioned my motives.  But instead returned the favor

The 3D glasses, I may have added for a hint of flare. 

Leaving her house that night- we decided on new names, and a new motive.  Mary and Julie, just two palm readers lookin' for a banjo player.  

We arrived at the honky tonk bar in lower alabamer- and proceeded with our new found names, and decided to try our fortune seeing abilities out:  "We see a lot of hamsters in your near future" - "You must buy plenty of cages" ( We didn't want to completely scare the locals... just get them invested in cages for their lottery of hamsters)  and so the night lifted my spirits and so did the words of  Mallory's Grandmother she once spoke to her:  

"Wear bright colors. get out there on the highway and they will let you pay your bills." 

So in hopes that Mallory's Maw-Maw was correct: Hello meet Mary and Julie: May we tell your fortune?  I need to pay my bills!

To Barry or not to Berry?

 Spending the day in the library one narcissistic afternoon, I decided it more beneficial to work on perfecting my signature, opposed to focusing on boring statistics homework. Revamping my autograph, I added a B, signifying my middle name for a touch of style. My inquisitive pal looked down at her notebook as I am incessantly scribbling my new and improved signature onto her personal belongings, asks "Is your middle name Barry?"  Images instantaneously blazed through my mind... did she mean

Berry as in:                    or????              Barry as in:                  

 Did I come across as the sort of person that appeared to be raised by folks whom, depending on its spelling, thought it suitable to send me into this world with a middle name attached to either of these images? Not sure which angle she was coming from but afraid to ask, I responded with the only appropriate response "Nope it's Breann." Deciding after all, it was her property, and a girl's gotta' right to questions, I put my energy into statistics. Leaving the library later that day my friend kindly reminded me "Tiffany Berry- don't forget your cell phone on the table." Turning around as if she had said my actual name,  I was a bit caught off guard at the 'ring my new name had to it.  (Selecting the fruit vs. the 60's soul singer version) 

They Say It's Your Birthday?

You who are on the road....

Must have a code that you can live by....
"Home is where one starts from."  T. S. Eliot 

And so become yourself

Because the past is just a good bye.

Teach your children well, And feed them on your dreams

The one they picked, the one you'll know by.

Happy Birthday Gray Owl.

                                                             Yep- I'm talkin' to you! 

Fidy-Seven

Hip-hop artiest 50-cent strongly suggests for 'shorty's to sip Bacardi like it's their birf-days.  But my mom being her own woman, and more of a 2pac fan, is probably 'drankin on that Hennessy to celebrate turning 57 today. You go Girl!

Moskowitz

After twelve days of unplanned travels and a late arrival back to Denver Wednesday night, I needed beer, music, and friends.  Of course I was extremely thrilled to gaze into the abyss of my closet as my Roscommon gear was limited to one pair of jeans, a black shirt and or black tank top, and that purple zip up jacket.  This ensemble was pretty much my staple or in other words- (ALL THAT I HAD TO WEAR FOR 12 DAYS)

Meadow has been venturing her little life outside for about five months now using the window that has no screen. However she does have a curfew, when the street lights come on of course.  But this night was a celebration.  I was back in the city!  So I let her roam about the night to be in charge of her own celebrations.  And that she was.  As I was standing in the kitchen enjoying my wine, Meadow jumps through the screen-less window proceeding to prance her way into the kitchen to stand at my feet.  Bending down to pick up my little studebaker head, a field mouse makes the great escape from her jaws into my kitchen. The brave soul standing next to me picks the little fella up, and it becomes clear to me..."ohhhhhh he's so cute" The wine may have been speaking, but the words did leave my mouth.

The decision was made:  This mouse cannot possibly survive in the outside world in this sort of condition.  He needs to rest and heal up first.  My mothering instincts found a beer cap and poured milk into it for Mr. Field Mouse Moskowitz to regain strength.  Sure enough he drank it, as I built him a little home from an empty beer box equipped with wash clothes for comfort.  We placed his beer clad palace on the breakfast nook and would take turns peeking at him to check his stats.  He was all good in the beer hood....

The wine was gone, and my abandoned bed was calling my name.  I said my goodnights and engulfed myself in that bed I had been longing for.  I awoke the following morning with Meadow purring and being overly affectionate.  As I sat up in bed the first cognitive thought that flashed through my head...' 'Really.... really?  Did I seriously put a mouse into a box and leave it with a beer cap full of milk?'

Scared to investigate I was relieved to see Moskowitz's palace still intact on the breakfast nook. The pit of my stomach was in knots as I held my breath and veered into the box. Hoping the little guy made it through the night and nursed himself back to health.  My findings were far worse than imagined:  a missing body!  I searched the entire kitchen but alas... no luck.  After regrouping and coming to terms with the fact that I may have a new room mate who may or may not be living.  I unpacked my miniscule traveling kit and then placed myself comfortably on the couch with my laptop.  Kicking my feet up on the coffee table I reached over for my glass of water, and right there in front of my very own face was Mr. Field Mouse Moskowitz! Appearing to have been strategically placed next to my large candle for my viewing pleasure.  I am in no way claiming to be a crime scene investigator of any sorts, and am not a fan of pointing fingers. But a certain little studebaker head that eats cat food and instinctively finds mice appealing may have grazed her body past the coffee table only to lay Moskowitz to his final destination

(Side note)-  Rest assure... he had a proper funeral of a bud light box and a high end dumpster, and I poured ' a little liquor out... in his honor.

R.I.P  Mr. Field Mouse Moskowitz.  ?/2010-09/29/2010.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense."

Explanation Necessary?

But of course:

Sure my blogging track record may not look that hot... All those quasi- blogs I attempted, in hopes to keep my sister and dad  in 'the know'.  But the only thing they ended up knowing was either my angst I was feeling on a particular day, and appropriately summing those feelings up with Fiona Apple lyrics (Clearly they will get my point if I post all of the lyrics to Sullen Girl) or my sporadic posts entailing spring break plans with a list of names of all my friends that would be on the trip, probably reading like so:  Snow Ball, Snow Ball's brother Jeremy, Turnpike, and Turnpike's girlfriend Shirley, and we can't forget my baby mama sister cousin, Tracy.  Who would want to read a list entailing names of people whom neither of them knew only to be followed by the lyrics to Shadow Boxer? After a few phone calls to Colleen "Ah... hello [insert the sound of chewing gum] did you see my new blog??" I assume her response was along the lines "Ah.. yeah.  You copied and pasted some Tori Amos lyrics, you must be feeling like a cornflake girl"  Naturally this art I was formulating fell to the wayside when I realized any cat off the street could cut and paste. 

With boredom begins wisdom, and spending those twelve days in Roscommon opened my eyes to how truly amazing our family site is.  And how that organizing zen master sister  of mine actually accomplished the unthinkable. She was able to 'herd Quinlans .  Not only herd a group of stubborn Irish folk but get their creative juices flowing and inspire them to write! 

I feel closer to each one of you any time a post is made. Your words, wisdoms, and off-beat humor can turn any day around. I am officially coining my sister Colleen the Aaron Spelling of the blogging world- she created this great amazing space for all of us to share, laugh, and just be connected. The herding site being the main hub (90210 I will use for this metaphor) for us to begin to have 'spin offs (uh, like Melrose Place) of our own individual lives and daily happenings.  

I can't promise I've fully recovered from my prior psychosis: Fiona Apple syndrome.  But in hopes the family will read-  I promise to restrain from... 

"I got my feet on the ground 

And I don't go to sleep to dream.
You got your head in the clouds
And you're not at all what you seem
This mind, this body
And this voice cannot be stifled by your deviant ways
So don't forget what I told you
Don't come around, I got my own hell to raise"

- man she really did get me!   

Signing off,

TT.