Memory Card Full - Excerpt

picture: courtesy of www.restoredeleted.com

Hello!!


Check back later in the week for the next installment of HELP WANTED...In the meantime, here's an excerpt from my book, Memory Card Full. 

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Memory Card Full

Liz Weber

It was my last full day in Mexico and I was already missing the place.  I drove through the sleepy town of Tulum as the late afternoon sun warmed my face through the open windows of my dusty, little rental car.  I’d driven down the main drag so many times these last few weeks that instinctively, I knew when to slow down in preparation for the oncoming “topes” – random speed bumps every hundred feet or so, used to prevent drivers from speeding through the four short blocks known as the “Pueblo.”

I checked my rearview mirror as I rolled slowly over the first one, catching a glimpse of the handlebars peeking out of the trunk.  Going over each of the bumps, I held my breath, as I did for pretty much the entire ride back from Playa del Carmen, a heavily populated town about forty-five minutes north of Tulum.

With a population somewhere around 10,000, Tulum sat in stark contrast to Playa where there was a Wal-Mart, Office Depot and thousands of high-rise resorts lining the beaches.  Tulum was filled with small cafes and eco-resorts whose electricity shut down after 11pm each night to conserve energy.

“Hola!” I called to Manny through the passenger window as I made my way slowly over the last of the “topes.”

Manny ran the little store where I’d been buying eggs since my arrival and was nice enough to explain to me that asking in Spanish, “Tienes Huevos?” – The literal translation of “Do you have any eggs?” - was the way you’d ask someone if they had the balls to do something courageous.

He waved back and watched me pass smiling widely, saying something in Spanish and pointing to the trunk of my car with envy.

The bikes. 

My friend Karen and I agreed that I would stay at her newly-built condo virtually rent-free in exchange for readying the apartment for prospective renters.  The condo was just past the edge of town where the main road turned back into a two-lane highway and civilization thinned out into the surrounding jungle.  I pulled into the dusty driveway and maneuvered around the unpaved dips and bumps with the ease of an expert, frequently checking to see that the bikes hadn’t fallen out of the trunk.

Buying the bikes was just another adventure to add to the list of many during my stay in Mexico.  The couple who lived next door told me that Playa was the place to go for bikes, so me and my limited Spanish took a trip north early that morning. 

The bike shop owner kept saying, “No problem, Lady.  No problem,” as I watched three of his men work the bikes into the car for over an hour.  They even tied a small red rag to one of the wheels - I suppose to indicate I was carrying some sort of “wide load.”

Pulling up to the condo, I now wondered how I’d get the bikes out of the car.  Maybe Memo was still here, I thought as I opened the car door and reached back to find the flip-flops I’d happily tossed behind me for the journey south.  Memo was the maintenance guy for the condo who’d do anything you asked as long as he understood what you were asking. 

While looking for Memo, I decided it would be funny to have a picture of the bikes all tied up to the car to document my latest Mexican adventure.  I ducked into the condo and grabbed my digital camera, happily distracted by this new task.

Outside again, I angled myself to the right of the rear of the car, making sure to get it all in – the red rag, the front wheel, handlebar and basket all sticking out of the trunk like something out of “Sanford and Son.”  I pressed the button to take the picture, my camera beeped and across the screen the message read: Memory Card Full.

Shit.  I knew why it was full.  I still had his pictures on there.  My mind started to race.  Did I ever download them to my laptop in New York?  No.  I couldn’t have.  It was too painful to look at them.  They were the last photos I had of him before he died.  The ones where he had to lie down while eating when the arthritis got so bad.

I swallowed hard and stood there looking at the bikes in the trunk.  I had no USB cord with me so downloading the photos wasn’t an option.  I felt like I was on a bridge.  Should I delete the pictures of Rufus and erase the final memories I had of him?  If I erased them, did it mean I was erasing him?  And, if I kept them, what did that say about my desire to move forward?

“Next week marks a year since he’s gone, “I heard myself say to the camera.

It’d been such a great trip with so many new experiences and new friends and truly the first time since Rufus’ death that I had felt alive and really free.  But did I have to let him go in order to embrace my present and ultimately my future? 

My stomach tightened as I decided to compromise.  I would erase all but three photos.  I couldn’t let them all go, but I needed to make room for the new in my life.  It was time.  I stood in the parking lot scanning the pictures, trying to choose the best ones.  In total, there were about ten photos, but when those are the last visual connection to someone you love, the stakes are much higher in the choice.

Erasing the first picture, I noticed I was holding my breath.  It felt like I was betraying him; somehow casting him aside to embark on a new life.  I tried to focus on my breath and as I did, I considered another perspective.

Maybe I should celebrate.  I was finally moving on and ready to create the space for something new.  I knew Rufus would dig that – in fact, I’m pretty sure that was the reason why he finally let go in the end. 

HELP WANTED will be back next week!! See you then.

Are you READY to make this a year to REMEMBER?

courtesy of www.planetwaves.net

Revolution.  Revelation.  Reality Check. 

How’s that for a gripping title to the highly anticipated 2012 annual astrology edition of Planetwaves.  Eric Francis, a dear friend and colleague has just finished his take on what’s to come in 2012.  Not the usual predictive, “on this day, that will happen,” generalizations, Eric’s work digs in and maintains a wonderful balance between the spiritual and the practical. 

Too busy to read about what’s in store for this year?  No problem.  Eric’s also included an audio version dedicated to each sign, so you can sit back and hear all about 2012 on your way to work.

I recommend purchasing (at least) your sun sign and rising as reading both will give you a solid grasp on what to expect and how to prepare for some truly amazing astrology.  I’ve already read mine and am working on the rest of the zodiac so I can understand what the people around me are experiencing as well.

Not into astrology?  Buy just one sign – your Sun (that means where the sun was when you were born) – and I promise you’ll be hooked. You see, Eric’s work is not just a bunch of astro-babble, it’s more like a sharing of information; a conversation in which he inspires you to think about what he’s saying and encourages you take appropriate action.  

It’s truly amazing work and you’ll also have access to the resource area with tons of well, “resources” to equip you for the upcoming year.  One of my favorites is Eric’s e-book “Light Bridge – The 25 Year Span” a compilation of articles going back to 1987 − as he puts it – “describing an awakening process that is linked to preparation for the changes of our phase in history…”

For more information click here.    

Check it out!  It really is worth it.  ALL of it.

Chapter 17 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free- Spirit Professional

There was a considerable buzz building at the Cove and it was all due to my upcoming show.  The bar was like a small town and me singing in a few weeks was the most excitement they’d seen in a long time.  It got to a point where I wondered what we’d talk about after the gig as everyone was all about the “big night.” 

I began to realize that being a bartender, you needed stories.  While it was true that a large part of the job was listening, you had to be ready with something witty and interesting at the drop of a hat.  People liked to be entertained.  At least these people did.  My stories fed them just the escape they needed and the more I made them laugh, the more money I made.

They were beginning to feel like family – these random people, who drank entirely too much on an alarmingly regular basis.  I knew their habits and their ticks.  Robbie liked his rum and diet coke in a wine glass and he’d always go home after six of them – never before.  He was quiet and kind of sad.  I wondered what life was like at home since he had to liquor up each night before going there.

Seth and Kerry were a lot of fun.  He was in town for some sort of fast-track law program and she, well, she just hung out waiting for him to get out class.  I think they were my favorite as we’d spend hours talking about a wide range of topics.  Kerry was a happy drunk and easy to serve.  Seth was cool too – as long he didn’t drink scotch.  Macallan 12 on the rocks would snatch away his usually, sunny demeanor, replacing it with a darker, more prickish version. 

The key to being a successful and sane bartender was to never get caught up in the lives of my customers.  It was a delicate balance, but I couldn’t think about what they did outside of the bar.  The truth was that for as much as they drank, none of them could be very happy.  I so wanted to help them, but after Jake Bukowski, I’d learned my lesson.

Jake was a regular who came in on Sunday nights.  He gave me a hard time when I first started, calling me “Rook” every time he ordered a drink.

“Hey Rook! Get me another beer would’ya?”  And then to the others, “How long’s this kid a bartender – a minute.  Pfft!  I may have to find myself another bar with more experienced people.”

He made me nervous in the beginning.  Like anxiety-ridden, nervous.  I’d be on edge the whole night hoping that he’d make good on his promise and go over to Foxhounds, the dirty pub down the street.  But, no, Jake would show up at 8pm sharp every Sunday already half-sauced, ready to rumble.

One night, he was particularly ornery and I was PMSing, which meant limited patience, even for the nicest person.    

“Hey Rook! Rook!” he slurred.  “Can I get some damn service here?”

The bar was not large and his yelling at me was almost comical.  That is, if I were in a different mood.  I decided to ignore him hoping to teach him a lesson.  When he finally got so infuriated that I thought he was going to have a heart attack, I calmly walked over to him and said, “Jake.  If you can’t act like a civilized human being, I’m going to have to cut you off.”

He blinked and stumbled back a step. 

It was like a silent showdown and I could smell him sizing up the situation in his mind as he processed what I was telling him.  And then something strange happened.

Jake started to cry.

I don’t know what freaked me out more – his crying or the fact that I had my first experience with cutting someone off.  But I wasn’t an asshole and I soothed him and listened for the next three hours about his pathetic life of misery.

After that, Jake knew his place and gave me no lip when he came in on Sundays.  He’d even started tipping more.  The only problem was that he thought I was his new shrink coming in each week with a laundry list of problems to share.  That’s when I learned to keep it light and on the surface with the customers – otherwise, I’d develop my own drinking problem.

Leap First....Think Later.

courtesy of www.sylviebranch.com

When I was a kid, I loved my birthday, though not for the reason you’d think.  Sure, I was thrilled to have a party with all my friends and family gathered around the table as I’d rip through present after present sailing high above it all with crazy excitement.  But unlike other kids, I didn’t get sad once the day passed.  You see, my birthday fell on, or right before the Memorial Day holiday which meant the community pool would be opening for the summer season.

How I loved going to the pool and splashing around, playing endless games of Marco Polo!  The pool was a vast playground and my friends and I would venture into deeper parts, breathlessly treading water and dunking ourselves as far down as possible, hoping to touch bottom.

The pool held around 250 people at a time with a smaller, separate pool off to the side, with two diving boards.  We appropriately called that “The Diving Pool” deeming the shorter diving board, the “Low Dive” and the much taller one, the “High Dive,” of course. 

Thanks to swimming lessons, I’d conquered the low dive at a very young age, happily lining up for my turn as the lifeguards chased us from the main pool when it was time for Adult Swim.  I loved the low dive and got quite good and running fearlessly to the end, taking a profound jump and allowing the board to catapult my body in its diving glory, up and out into the water.

The high dive was another story. 

For starters, it wasn’t for kids.  The house rule was that no one under twelve years old and a certain height was allowed to use it.  The fact that I had to wait made the high dive all the more appealing and each year, as my friends and I eagerly awaited the start of pool season, the talk amongst us was all about who would be “going off” the high dive that year. 

My twelfth birthday held major significance, not only because I was one year away from being a full-fledged teenager, but I was finally eligible for the high dive.  I told my friends that I was ready, but secretly, I was terrified.  That’s the thing about desire – it’s much safer when you dream about what you want, than when you actually have to do something about it.

Take my writing for instance.  For years, I’ve dreamt of becoming a successful writer.  I’ve kept a journal since 1992, taken a trillion classes and have written a book.  I’ve been walking around with that book for almost a year now, nestled in the safety of fantasy about its success and how it will change my life.

The problem is that each time I get closer to putting it out there – pitching it to weary agents whom, some of which have actually told me, “I’m always hoping I don’t like the book.”  − I chicken out and go back to the low dive and the place that’s familiar.   Familiar and safe pretty much equals fear and the fear is a wonderful ally when it comes to making excuses and providing distractions.  I’ve got several whoppers like, “I’ll wait for the new moon to send out my pitches” or “I know!  Forget the book.  I’m going to write a screenplay!”

It’s a tricky business this fear thing and I can’t help but think about my days at the public pool.  I’d stood on line three times only to excuse myself at the last minute, mumbling about having to go to the bathroom.  Everywhere I turned, that damn diving board was in my view, taunting me like a hungry matador, waiting for his bull.  I dreamt about that thing and finally, when I couldn’t stand the pressure any more, I got up from my towel – the one with cans of Fresca all over it – and walked quietly over to the board.

I stood in line, as usual and thought about getting off.  But something in me was determined this time and as the diver in front of me leapt off the board, I reached out and grabbed the rail to hoist myself up the ladder.

It was a long climb as one could only imagine.  The heat of the sun didn’t help my already sweaty palms and it took everything I had not to fall off the ladder, as my slippery hands clutched the stainless steel railing.  When I got to the top, time seemed to freeze along with my legs and I stood there paralyzed with fear.

“Forget it! Just climb back down,” the hecklers in my head pleaded.  “You don’t have to do this.”

I was so scared that I couldn’t climb down even if I really wanted to. 

“Holy cow!  It’s Liz! It’s Liz!  She’s up on the high dive,” I heard someone say over my pounding heart and heavy breathing.  “Woo hoo!  Go get ‘em Liz!  You can do it!”

People were suddenly watching which made it worse.  Or so I thought.  The fact that my friends and family were out there cheering for me and urging my success reminded me that they would be there once I jumped.  That gave me comfort and a little strength, as I shuffled slowly out to the edge.

“Don’t look down,” I murmured as I got closer to end of the board.

It was shaky – the board − and the unsteadiness yanked my courage away for a second.  I stood there, settling myself and took a deep breath.  This was it.  After this moment, I would no longer be afraid of the high dive.  I could check it off my list and throw it away.  The exhilaration in being so close to accomplishment made me a little dizzy as I shut my eyes, took one last breath and basically stepped off the diving board.

And just like that, I was flying through the air, downward.  I’d like to tell you that I remember every second of it, but I don’t.  The only thing I remember was how hard the water smacked my cheeks when I hit it and how far down into the twelve foot pool I plunged.

When I came up for air and swam over to the ladder, I heard whoops of celebration and claps of appreciation coming from my little corner of the sitting area.  Climbing up and out of the water, I walked back to my towel with shaky legs waiting to feel something. 

Was I different somehow?  Did it change me?

I suppose it did because all I said to my best friend who was standing and waiting for me with my towel in hand was, “I’m going up again tomorrow.  But this time, I’m going to take a running start.”

At the end of the day, it’s all a high-dive.  Some boards are springy and require a little extra care and concentration when walking to the edge.  Others are more solid and require a stronger sense of purpose and intention.  Either way, once you leap, you’ve set something in motion and as you fly through the air, don’t be tense waiting for the smack of the water against your body.  Smile and relax, because once you do hit that water, things won’t ever be the same again.  That high dive you just jumped off – just got a little shorter.

Are you ready to make this a year to remember?

courtesy of www.planetwaves.net

Revolution.  Revelation.  Reality Check. 

How’s that for a gripping title to the highly anticipated 2012 annual astrology edition of Planetwaves.  Eric Francis, a dear friend and colleague has just finished his take on what’s to come in 2012.  Not the usual predictive, “on this day, that will happen,” generalizations, Eric’s work digs in and maintains a wonderful balance between the spiritual and the practical. 

Too busy to read about what’s in store for this year?  No problem.  Eric’s also included an audio version dedicated to each sign, so you can sit back and hear all about 2012 on your way to work.

I recommend purchasing (at least) your sun sign and rising as reading both will give you a solid grasp on what to expect and how to prepare for some truly amazing astrology.  I’ve already read mine and am working on the rest of the zodiac so I can understand what the people around me are experiencing as well.

Not into astrology?  Buy just one sign – your Sun (that means where the sun was when you were born) – and I promise you’ll be hooked. You see, Eric’s work is not just a bunch of astro-babble, it’s more like a sharing of information; a conversation in which he inspires you to think about what he’s saying and encourages you take appropriate action.  

It’s truly amazing work and you’ll also have access to the resource area with tons of well, “resources” to equip you for the upcoming year.  One of my favorites is Eric’s e-book “Light Bridge – The 25 Year Span” a compilation of articles going back to 1987 − as he puts it – “describing an awakening process that is linked to preparation for the changes of our phase in history…”

For more information click here.    

Check it out!  It really is worth it.  ALL of it.

Chapter 16 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free- Spirit Professional

A warm welcome to visitors - old and new! Please click on the right side of the page in the archives to follow this post from the beginning. It ALL starts in June 2011, so take a look and follow along. As always, thanks for reading and enjoy.

Finding musicians was easier than I thought.  Six months before I left the Madsen Group, in a fit of I-hate-my-day-job frustration, I started answering every ad I could find looking for a singer.  I needed to do something and I was too chicken to plan my own show, so being a part of someone else’s band seemed like a great idea. 

With no demo to offer up, the majority of my ad responses went unanswered.  I got one call back from a guy – the drummer in the band – asking me to come in for an audition at 11pm on a Thursday night.

“11pm?” I asked, trying to sound like a cool, nonchalant singer who wasn’t really thinking it was a little odd to hold auditions so late at night.

“Yeah,” the guy side, his thick Long Island accent elongated the “eah.”  “I have a day job and it’s the only time we can rehearse.”

The fact that he had a day job put me at ease instantly.  Real musicians intimidated me; especially the ones who ate, slept and breathed music. Me, I dreamed music, mostly.

But on Thursday, I showed up promptly at 11pm to the music building - a dingy eleven-story building on

Eighth Avenue

, filled with small rehearsal spaces for rent.  Just a few blocks from Port Authority, the neighborhood, normally a little sketchy, was even more so late at night.  But I didn’t care.  I was excited about my audition.

Kevin, the drummer, greeted me at the door.  He was a little shorter than me, around 5’6” with an athletic body that showed he was no stranger to the gym. 

“Hi, hi,” he said pumping my hand with excitement.  “I’m so psyched you came.”

I liked him immediately.  He had a warm, no-nonsense energy that matched his non-threatening and fair-skinned, Irish looks.

Kevin led me inside and introduced me to the guitar player, a tall, lanky guy with thin, shoulder-length hair in need of a good washing.  The lead singer was female and a cross between Avril Lavigne (waif) and Katy Perry (big, brown eyes).  She seemed nice, albeit a little introverted for a lead singer, but she played the bass which immediately earned her cool points in my book.

“Did you bring your congas?” the guitarist asked.

I looked at Kevin, who immediately jumped in and said, “Nah, man.  The other girl plays the congas.  Liz just sings.”

He didn’t mean to make me feel less-than, but I’m a competitive person and I didn’t like being up against someone who sang and played an instrument.

Uncomfortable, I went for the humor.

“Ohhhh…congas!!  Yeah, I brought my congas.”

With that, I gave my large breasts a provocative shake for effect as the joke hit the ground like a bag of wet sand.

The audition didn’t get much better.  The music was heavy-metal and a complete mismatch for my sweet, almost ethereal voice.  The lead singer seemed lost in the music and offered me no musical direction while Kevin and the guitar player – who was also the lead singer’s boyfriend - bickered throughout.  It was awkward, at best – me standing there, trying to follow along and not blow my vocal chords trying to be heard above the angry music.

When it was done, Kevin followed me out, apologizing profusely for wasting my time.

“It’s cool,” I said.  “It was nice to do a little singing.”

“I think you should do a LOT of singing,” he said, pulling out a business card from his pocket.  “Call me at work tomorrow.  Maybe we can do our own thing.  I know a great piano player / producer.”

Walking down the street, I hardly noticed the drunk guy peeing in the garbage can on the corner or the old, homeless lady whining about needing some “CAW-fee.”  I was floating and excited to have made a musical connection.

In the months that followed, Kevin pushed me to make a demo with his friend, Jerry – a legally blind, piano-playing-producer who lived in Astoria.  We’d talked about doing a show, but fear side-tracked me, as usual.

But now, it was time – especially with Albert on my ass.  Things were set:  Me, Kevin, Jerry at The Cove in just three short weeks.

Chapter 15 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free- Spirit Professional

A warm welcome to visitors - old and new! Please click on the right side of the page in the archives to follow this post from the beginning. It ALL starts in June 2011, so take a look and follow along. As always, thanks for reading and enjoy.

I was so nervous on my first day that I forgot what Albert told me about placing one finger on the base of the wine glass when pouring and to never, EVER lean the bottle on the rim of the glass.  I, of course, did both and there went the glass, the wine and my dignity, splashing all over George – one of the many regulars.

“Whoa!!  Easy there, girl!”  He laughed as he sprang up from his bar stool, hands up, like someone just yelled, “Stop!  Police.  Get your hands up!”

I was mortified and when I get embarrassed, I go to the jokes.  It’s a nervous habit of mine that usually works well and thankfully, in this case, it did.

“George!  I’m so sorry,” I said, leaning down and going into my purse which was stored on a shelf below the bar.  “Here ya go,” I smiled, pulling out an umbrella.  “Use this until I get a little more comfortable behind the bar.”

George roared with laughter, his pot belly bouncing up and down.

“I like this girl,” he announced, pointing my way, looking around at the others as if he’d just discovered a rising star.

Thank GOD this guy had a sense of humor and thank GOD, it was raining and I happen to have an umbrella in my purse.

“Next one’s on me,” I said, wiping up the wine, which white – another gift.

“Then, I guess you’ll need this,” he said, handing the umbrella back to me, his belly dancing as he and the others all cracked up at my expense.

The night went more smoothly after that and the more I poured, the more comfortable I felt.  The Cove was a great starting point because being busy there meant five people max all needing a drink at once.   The restaurant never filled up beyond three or four tables at a time, which would eventually get boring.  But in those first weeks and months, I was happy to have my little crowd at the bar.

A month into my tenure, Albert needed Tuesday nights off and offered the shift to me. I was thrilled as it made me feel more like a real bartender.  And the truth was, I was beginning to like how it felt behind the bar.  There was something powerful in it – standing there, entertaining people.

There was still that small item of the promise I’d made to Albert and each time I saw him, he’d remind me.

“But I don’t have a place to perform,” I told him one night when he stopped in for a drink.

Albert was a good looking guy.  He was Latin – Puerto Rican, I think – and tall; very tall.  His dark eyes were always warm and he talked with a thick Queens accent which just made him sound so real.

“Why not have it here?” he said, sweeping his hands across the room like those ladies on The Price is Right.  “You could use the piano!”

“Piano?”

“Yeah.  It’s in the back.  They used to have music here on Sundays, but no one ever came, so they rolled it off the floor to make more room for…..” he trailed off.

“The fake plants??!!”

We both had a good laugh over that, but once I recovered, I began to think about it as a real possibility.

“Ya got musicians?” Albert asked, draining the last of his drink with a small slurp.

“I could find some.”