Hang in there

“No biopsy” the doctor says,


“It’ll just leave a scar for no reason. You have Flush, and Rosacea”


“Avoid alcohol and…”


” hot yoga…”


“hot baths and everything else that makes you turn red like that. Wear sun screen, spf 70-100 summer spring winter and fall.”

“By avoid alcohol you mean…”

“At least switch from red to white and…”

*Fake choke for dramatic effect and subsequently spit on myself a little; then turn red flush with embarrassment*

“chose vodka over scotch or rye.”

“blah blah blah… if I do these things that you are telling me not to do, will it harm me physically or…”

“No, you’ll just turn red.”

*Express visible relief and make stupid joke about alcohol that is poorly received by both doctor and assistant*

I mentioned how my chest gets all red under the stage lights and makes me ugly when I perform. The doctor looked at me like I was an idiot and told me to use make-up and perform in cooler venues.

Because that’s how it works in the industry…

“Yes, I’ve considered your offer and I’m interested in the gig but I just need to know, what temperature is the venue? I see. Do you think we could turn off the heat and ask the audience members to wear parkas and and tuques because I tend to flush and…”

The doctor poked at me a little more, rambled off a few medical terms that I didn’t understand, diagnosed me with something that has the word vascular in it and handed me a prescription for 3 or 4 creams, gels and lotions that I’ll probably forget to fill.

“hang in there” he smiles.

I checked my bank account as I often do, in hopes that an anonymous deposit of thousands of dollars since I last checked, about 5 hours ago.


Still only $3.00

OK, so I have enough to either get to or home from my show but not both.

I was only a couple of blocks from the house, lugging my costume bags, 6 thousand lbs of concealer and a pair of gardening shears and negotiating with God for an angel to drive me to the venue when a man bounced out the door a mechanic garage and landed on the sidewalk in front of me.

“Can I help you with your bags?”

“Are you going to carry them all the way downtown for me?”

“No. But I’ll give you a ride. Let me go in and change real quick and grab my keys.”

While he was inside changing and potentially gathering weapons and carving tools, I gave myself a stern talking to about getting into cars with strangers.

I took a deep breath and mindfully opened myself to the surrounding energy.

Any NO feelings? No.

Because that’s pretty much all it takes to feel out a serial killer.

OK fine, I’ll ask him.

“Are you a serial killer?”

“Nope. My name is Lake and I work here” he responded all too casually, tossing my guitar into the back seat of his car.

Because, mechanics are never criminals and also, like police officers, serial killers are bound by law to identify themselves as such when asked directly if that’s who they are.

“Did god send you?”

“I’m not sure, I just saw a beautiful woman through the window, carrying bags and a guitar and she looked like she needed help. Are those curlers in your hair?”

Turns out my angel is from the Caribbean. He is a widower and enjoys films, working out at the gym and fixing expensive cars.

He asked me if I was a real musician, consequently triggering my fraud complex and launching us into a discussion about societal validation verses self gratification.

“That depends on what real means to you I guess. Note that I was hobbling to the metro with all of my gear and wondering how many hours it would take me walk home tonight, after the show.”

This led to a list of upbeat topics including passion, grief, single parenting and poverty.

We rolled up to the club. I accidentally hugged him.

“Thanks Lake, you’re an angel.”

“My pleasure Jen. Have a great show and hang in there!”

I love that there are people out there, as few and far between as they are, who are still willing to do things out of the kindness of their hearts.

I love that there are still people in the world that we can trust.

I love that once in a while, when we feel like there is no good left, somebody reminds us that we’re wrong.

I think I’ll bake Lake a batch of cookies and drop them off at his work with a note saying thank you for being one of those people.

First I’ll have to figure out where my daughter is hiding her piggy bank so I can buy some chocolate chips and also, more importantly, so I can go downtown and buy myself this poster.

Jennifer June