Monday, July 30, 2018

Professional Aunt No Kids

              Me and nephew#2 on the mall carousel


Last summer, I overheard a group of retirees discussing the days when they were DINKs-Double Income No Kids.

I had never heard that term before.

Turns out, there is a term for someone like me. 
I am a PANK.

Professional Aunt No Kids. 

I became an aunt on my 23rd birthday. No joke. 
The due date had come and gone and I said to my brother 

“wouldn’t it be nice if your kid was born on my birthday?”

I was told not to get my hopes up.

But I did anyway and lo and behold, nephew #1 arrived just before noon on my birthday.

I phoned every person I knew. 

I was so excited. 

My cellphone bill has never been so long with the number of calls I made that day.

Four days after he was born, I got to meet him. My brother came up the stairs, holding this tiny little thing—he fit in my hand.

The first time I looked after my baby nephew, his parents had to sneak out of my apartment while I distracted him with something fascinating happening out the window. 

Smart little fella, a minute later he realized his parents had left and he began to wail.

I put him down for a nap and was shaking with silent laughter as I watched him try so hard not to fall asleep. His little eyelids fluttering as he let out baby snores. 

I took him grocery shopping and still remember the look he gave me when I couldn’t get him out of his car seat.

“Really, woman? My mother does this all the time.”


The first time I looked after him overnight, I was so paranoid that I would sleep in and not hear him wake up. 

I woke up the next morning and a second later he toddled in, holding a clean diaper.

It was so early, I sat with him on the couch, turned on the TV and he sat patiently while I took several hours to fully wake up.

I remember the first time he called me Auntie. 

I was hanging up our jackets in the hall closet and as my back was turned, his soft little voice said “Auntie.”

Best. Day. Ever.

Five years later, nephew #2 was born.

    Nephew #1 doesn’t want his photo shown


The first time nephew #2 slept over at my house by himself, he woke up in the middle of the night spewing vomit all over my new spare bed.

So I did what any Professional Aunt w/No Kids would do.

I called his parents.

I was up for three hours, mopping up puke while the little guy sat over a bucket and watched cartoons.

4 AM, parents arrive and I go back to bed.

Whenever I see social media posts of smiling parents with their children, I don’t see smiling parents with their children.

I see all the chaos that goes on before and after that photo. 

I remember being a child. I didn’t like it. I felt trapped inside a little body that wasn’t allowed to do anything.

The adults who gave me hope of a glittering future were my music teachers, my aunts, and uncles. 

From a young age, I wanted to be a violin teacher, to help and inspire other kids to learn an instrument I loved so much. And I did so, for 10 lovely years. I had a vision and I lived it out. 

I never had a vision for being an aunt. I wanted my brother to be free like me and we could travel and go on cruises with 24-hour buffets.

What I did have, were wonderful examples from my own aunts and uncles. 

Always supportive, they gave me gifts and I was always excited to visit them. I felt loved, as I was, without expectations.

So that pretty much sums up my style of “aunting”.

Aunthood has solidified my decision to not raise humans. I love playing the supportive role-being able to spend consistent, quality time with my nephews.

I believe it is important to invest in the younger generations. I just don't believe that parenthood is the only option. 

Grandparents know the secret, that it's so much more fun to be a Grand.

PANKhood is the same. It's a blast. It really is. 

I love listening to my nephews talk non stop and telling silly jokes and the three of us goofing off in the baby section of Indigo, playing with puppets. 

After six days of planning meals and activities and arguing over endless Spongebob episodes, I can send them home with a belly full of grilled cheese and cookies and new toys that will end up in the donation bin after a few weeks. 

Someone recently asked me

"who's gonna remember you if you don't have kids?  No one will call you Grandma LeNora."


Well actually, nephew # 2 calls me Grandma all the time. He did that in Safeway the other day and people looked at me in shock. 

He just gets his words mixed up. 

In response, I said that I was not worried about being forgotten. And even if I am forgotten, who cares?

Is my ego that big that I need to procreate and worry that my offspring remain alive so long that my name is spoken of on occasion?


I have been given the opportunity to live this lovely life as I see fit, to know the love of children in the form of nephews and the children of my close friends. 


I enjoy my sleep, my money, my health. 

Parenthood guarantees nothing. Aunthood guarantees nothing. 

So long as I put out love into the universe, it will be with me throughout my life.



Love you very much, 




LeNora Faye
Bitchy Bookkeeper
Almost an Author
Former Fantastic Violinist














Friday, July 27, 2018

Won’t you save me San Francisco Part 2





Picking up from where I left off yesterday in Part 1... 

I arrived at my hotel in Union Square and discovered that I had been upgraded to a business suite. 

With a free stocked mini bar. 

I unpacked my luggage, changed out of my “flying” dress, checked out the view from my suite and ordered some extra pillows from the pillow menu.

Then I went out to catch the cable car which stopped right in front of my hotel.

On the corner, a man asked me if I had any spare change. I told him I only had a Canadian loonie, which was true. 

He declined.  It was worth about 25 cents, American. 😁

I did have US cash but no small bills. 


The cable car was rockin’, standing room only. I squeezed into the center as I wasn’t prepared to dangle out the side from the stripper pole.

When a bench seat became available, I sat down and hung on to the wires beside me, still clutching my fare.     

I slid into the passengers beside me as we went up the hill. They crushed me as we went down it. 

We blocked traffic in each intersection as people hopped on and off.

The conductor finally collected my $7 and issued my pass.


The ride ended at Ghirardelli Square and I hopped off to explore Fisherman’s Wharf.

The wharf is the only part of SF where I felt like I could stand up straight.


Everywhere else is on such a steep incline, I kept leaning to one side. 

😃

Say what you want about tourist traps, I fell right into all of them. 

I loved Pier 39. 

The charming sea lions barking. The sourdough bread bowls full of clam chowder. The carousel.

I kept thinking to myself, this could be Vancouver, the air is similar, the boats, the people...

And then it appeared in front of me

Alcatraz Island


I stood at the edge of pier, mesmerized.

In 24 hours, I was going to be exploring Alcatraz prison.

Beyond excited!

There is something to be said about living out a childhood dream. 

Mine was going to Alcatraz. And creating something that holds a place in pop culture. 

Still working on the latter. 

I watched the sunset over the bay.

 I ate clam chowder, took a million photos and listened to the talented musicians playing in the background as I wandered around. 

I felt touristy and alive and in the moment. 

Being out of my comfort zone wasn’t so bad after all. 

I eventually made my way back to the cable cars, standing in line beside the platform where they turn the cars around on the track. 

A man playing the guitar was singing Sweet Caroline and everyone in line joined in during the chorus.

The kids in front of me sang so loud that I started to laugh.

So good, SO GOOD SO GOOD

This time I rode on the outside of the cable car, sitting on the bench holding on to the stripper pole.

It was dark, the trolley chugging up the hill and careening down the other side. Those hills seem a lot steeper at night. 

I could see the funky houses with their bay windows, not an empty parking space in sight. 

I had to remember where to hop off. 

“ Watch out for passing cars,” the conductor said as I was about to exit.

I stopped in at the Walgreens on the corner to buy some snacks and water for my mini fridge. 

Back in my hotel suite, I flopped on the bed, with its 8 pillows—loved that pillow menu, and turned on the TV.

The hotel didn’t have a/c but my room came with a ceiling fan and I would keep that thing on for the entire trip. 

I wrote in my journal

I’m in San Francisco right now!!!!!!” 

And a bunch of other ramblings. 

Hard to believe I was 34 and not 12. 

But childlike enthusiasm is healthy. Keeps the heart young, yes?


To be continued......


Sincerely,

LeNora Faye
Bitchy Bookkeeper 
Almost an Author 
Former Fantastic Violinist 












Thursday, July 26, 2018

Won’t you save me San Francisco Part 1





Have you ever gotten the strong urge to do something?  Just out of nowhere? 

And then it turns out to be one of the best experiences of your life?

San Francisco was that for me.

April 2017, I was booking a birthday trip to Vegas and scouting out vacation rentals for another road trip. 

Basically minding my own business.

And then it appeared in my brain, like the second coming

San Francisco 

‘Buzz off,’ I thought. ‘I’m busy.’

But, like the one boy from high school who never got the hint that you weren’t interested in him, San Francisco wouldn’t go away.

So finally, late one night, I googled San Francisco.

The first thing that popped up was Alcatraz Island.

My first prison visit was to the Old Montana Prison in Deer Lodge, MT.

I was 9 years old and my family was on a month long camping excursion around Montana. 

I remember learning about solitary confinement and going into the cells and feeling the rusty bars. 

My love for true crime stories sprouted from that experience.

Visiting Alcatraz was a childhood pipe dream, it was on a bucket list of things I said I would like to do but never acted on.

I didn’t even know where it was.

So, when I discovered it was in San Francisco, I knew that I had to go.

I rarely do anything on a whim. Planning is half the fun for me. So I spent a good week researching. Comparing flights, hotels, city tours.

I had never traveled outside of Canada as an adult. I had a passport but never used it.

My Vegas vacation was still 8 months away.

Once I googled my way around the city, I felt confident enough to actually book a trip. 

October seemed to be the best time to visit if I wanted sunny, warm weather and it would be a nice break from the random fall season where I currently live. 

I booked my flight, booked a room at a nice mid-price hotel on Union Square and got my ticket to Alcatraz.



Six months later....

It was the night before my flight, I had to be at the airport for 7AM.
I was super nervous.

I spent a week preparing everything I needed, USD currency, copies of my passport, tickets, hotel confirmations, shuttle confirmations, you name it. 

I have never gone through customs before so I made sure my luggage met all the requirements and was basically prepared for the worst. 

I also researched the shit out of public transportation because, for the first time, I wasn’t going to be relying on my own vehicle. My car is my security blanket.

I basically got two hours of sleep and then was off to the airport. Customs let me through and then I wandered the new international wing for 3 hours and started to get excited.

Until the plane took off.

I booked a window seat because I wanted to see everything. 

I haven’t flown in 10 years and that had been an hour long flight to another province.

So now, as the plane taxied the runway, sped up and began to lift, my heart dropped into my stomach and I couldn’t look.

I just couldn’t. 

Which was a shame because the mountains in the distance were so clear and beautiful...

And omg, I felt like I was going to fall out the bottom of the plane

I did manage to take a photo so I could look at it later. 




Eventually, I relaxed and somewhere over Washington, I looked out the window.

Using the bathroom on a plane is so weird. I had never done that before. My body didn’t really feel natural being that high up. 

Landing was fine, by then my fear of heights had diminished somewhat but I was ready to get off this plane. 

3 hours is long enough to be in a metal tube full of people. 

I collected my bags and waited for my hotel shuttle.

I was in San Francisco, middle of October, not stressing about work, it was 27 degrees (80 Fahrenheit) and I was excited as a child. 

I often get excited like a kid because I get to live the way I always wished I could live. I try never to take it for granted.

The shuttle arrived and I sat shotgun as I was the only solo passenger. It was 30 minutes to my hotel. 

Downtown San Francisco is like nothing else this Canadian city girl has ever seen. 

I was very glad when the shuttle arrived at my hotel.


my hotel is on the left

Union square is pretty and vibrant and the cable cars would stop right out front of the lovely boutique hotel I had chosen.


I checked in, discovered that my room was on the 14th floor and had an apprehensive ride up the elevator.

My room was at the end of the hallway, in the corner. I had booked a standard queen room—hotels are incredibly expensive in SF and while I did not want to go cheap and be scared for my safety, anything fancy was basically my entire budget so I went middle class. 

Much to my surprise and delight, I had been given a free upgrade to a business class suite with separate living room and two bathrooms.

TWO BATHROOMS.

Suddenly, I loved being on the 14th floor.

Oh, and it came with two complimentary bottles of wine and a jar of candies.




It’s as if they knew I was coming!



To be continued......



Sincerely,

LeNora Faye
Bitchy Bookkeeper 
Almost an Author 
Former Fantastic Violinist 



















Wednesday, July 25, 2018

The art of doing nothing.


                 Too lazy to make breakfast 


First world problems. I enjoy living in a time and place where I have access to anything and everything that I could possibly want.

I’ve always thrown myself into my work, making it my identity, determined to feel successful. 

I gave it top priority, even over relationships.

It got to the point where I had the money but no time for anything. I wasn’t doing much creatively, but I was learning invaluable lessons about business. 

In the back of my mind, something was stirring.  I could feel the urge to pursue my own creative path again. 

Life was listening and the opportunity arose for me to take some serious time off.

I went from 50 to 0-hours a week.

And I had no idea what to do with myself.

I booked a variety of trips and there were other plans in place. My finances were in order. 

I had no worries. 

I just wasn’t prepared emotionally to do nothing. 

I’d wake up and do a mental checklist of all the things I’d have to do at work. 
“Who do I get to yell at today?”

I was so used to working on Saturdays that it was weeks before I remembered to delete that horrible alarm.

6 AM....”oh for fuck’s sake!”

Doing nothing does not come naturally to me.

I have a habit of planning out the next week before I’ve even begun the current week. 

I’ll be eating supper and planning out breakfast. 

I think my compulsion for planning came about when I discovered that it made adults think I was responsible and mature. 

That means a lot to a 10-year-old. 

         Currently having a lazy week in the sun.

I will admit that I did worry about something...

What do I tell people when they ask me what I do?

What a stupid way of greeting people. 

Hi, I’m so and so..so...what do you do?

I got a handle on that real quick. 

The conversation goes something like this..

So, you married?”

“No”

“Any kids?”

“No”

“ What do you do for a living?”

“Nothing”

I love it! 

If people are curious, they ask questions and I tell them whatever they wish to know. Some people, however, have no idea what to say next.

Now, remember, I’m not raising a family, I have no debt, I have money and I am writing a book so I am not floating aimlessly around this planet. 

But it’s fun to mess with people a bit. Depends on what kind of mood I’m in.

Outwardly appearing ambitious was a big thing for me in my 20s. It was my way of impressing people. I had my shit together. 
I was exhausted all the time but I had my shit together.


I got to tell people that I was a Violinist, that I was a teacher. 

My most recent identity, I got to tell people I was an office manager for a bakery. 

Not as glamorous as a Violinist but I loved my work. That job brought me to where I am today.

So, over the course of my year off, I learned to relax.  I walked in nature. I started doing yoga. 

I discovered new music—different genres like electro swing and new bands like Fleetwood Mac. 😃

I thought a lot about what matters to me, how I want to spend my life.

I got to visit family members. I spent a lot of time with my nephews. 

I stayed for 3 days with my uncle last August and then he passed away in this past January. 

I cannot tell you how glad I am that I got that opportunity. 

Anytime that I question whether or not I’m wasting my time and resources, I think back to that moment and how important it was. 

Doing nothing is not nothing.

Be it for a minute, a day, a week, a year.

Ideas form. Tensions ease.

 The chaos of living pauses.

I learned to make choices from a different place. Not from panic or fear, but from inspiration. 

I got to spend time with myself and my dreams, living some of them out, developing others. 


I created a mission statement and an elevator pitch for my writing. 

Moments of clarity happen more frequently now. 

Now, when people ask me what I do, I tell them that I am a creative lifestyle writer. 

The funny thing is, that draws more blank stares than when I said I did nothing. 


Can’t win  ’em all...


Sincerely,

LeNora Faye
Bitchy Bookkeeper 
Almost an Author
Former Fantastic Violinist 













Tuesday, July 24, 2018

Lessons from famous people Part 2




I’m lying out in the yard of my vacation spot, reading a book and obviously working on this post.

I found this book amongst the vast collection at my late uncle’s house when I was there to help with the estate sale.

Just in case the photo isn’t loading on your device, the book I’m reading is about Joan Rivers. It was published in 1986. I was 3 years old. 

I’m only a few chapters in and at this point, Joan has just gotten an annulment from her first husband. 

She decided to pursue her dream of becoming a star, after setting her ambition aside to live a life more conducive to her mother’s wishes. 

Joan’s mother wanted her to marry money, to have a suitable secretarial job until she found a rich husband who could give her the ultimate WASP lifestyle.

Joan wanted to be an actress. To be the star of stage and screen. She had passion and drive and she discovered her ability to make people laugh at a young age. It gave her power.

Joan was all about the glamour, the money, being an independent woman of vision, living fully until the day she died.


Hello......

I know that I will be writing about Joan Rivers several more times, the more I read her book.

When I was very young and learning to read, I found a book about electricity on our bookshelf. I studied the book, determined to become the smartest little girl in the world. 

My eyes glazed over at some point, I really wasn’t that interested in electricity. 

I was 7 when I started taking piano lessons. My mother knew I was naturally musical because I would hum church hymns when I was a baby. 

Am I singing for my supper? Probably not! 

Music quickly became my way of channeling my desire to become a superstar. 

Not that I even knew what that meant.

Nobody in my circle of influence was aiming for the stars. My family went to church 3 times a week. All I knew was that adults got married, had kids, the husband went away to work and that was kind of it. 

I was never the top music student, never the star of the school play but I saw a way for me to explore a life beyond the norm that surrounded me.

And so, I poured my little girlish heart into music. I loved composing melodies on our 100-year-old upright piano.

I was 9 years old when I began playing the violin. My confidence blossomed immediately. My purpose became clear for the next 18 years. 

Or so I thought. 

Pursuing a big dream is like being at the bottom of the ocean and trying to get to the surface before you die.

You add all the shit that comes with growing up and adulthood and suddenly you have a 300-pound anchor attached to your leg as you struggle to breathe. 

It’s sometimes easier to set aside the dreams and goals and settle into a life that’s comfortable and secure and like the ads on TV.

Let the next generation have a crack at it.

Someone asked me what would it matter if I didn’t write every day and post on my blog as often as I set out to do.

I responded by saying that I would let myself down. 

 Dreams evolve, the essence of what I want to achieve is still there. I realized that while music took me as far as it did, it wouldn’t take me where I was needing to go next. 

I needed to use more words than I could fit in an instrumental song.

So I’ve been learning to write to express myself. To continue on my long swim to the surface. 

As much as I wish that I had been a wunderkind, I appreciate the journey it takes to evolve into the person you are meant to become. 

So, to my 9-year-old self, hang in there. I love you. Read that book about electricity and practice your scales! 



Sincerely,

LeNora Faye
Bitchy Bookkeeper 
Almost an Author 
Former Fantastic Violinist 


email:  info@lenorafaye.com













Monday, July 23, 2018

Shopping Spree For the Soul



                           

Yesterday, I traded in my CX-5 for a boat and a Captain and was ferried around the lake. It was a splendid afternoon of sunshine and gentle waves.

This particular lake is a popular house-boating destination.

The small city nearby has a cute little mall similar to the one I grew up shopping in. I've been driving through this city for 12 years, always en route to somewhere else.

Last summer, I wandered through the mall and spotted a rack of clothing with rhinestones.

Like a moth to a bright light....

I don't know why I said that, I’m afraid of moths.

I spent an hour in that shop. Everything fit, the styles were unique and the quality, fantastic.
The price tag, well, I was smitten with the pieces I had picked out so I didn't panic over the price.

Now, every time I drive through, I stop in and each time I find something awesome. 



               flannel dress with pockets!

Two days ago, I went in to have a look and found a cute prairie skirt and a summer dress perfect for boating in.

I mentioned to the lady behind the counter how much I enjoyed this store and she turned out to be the owner. She has been in business for 27 years and is thinking of retiring.

I told her how I love the clothing and how I always, without fail, get asked
 "Where did you get that?"

She thanked me and said it was nice to hear.

I've written in a previous post, 20 & Money, about my mindless shopping and how I lived by the quantity over quality motto.

I’ve learned that it doesn't pay to buy cheap cheese or bacon. That goes straight from the shopping cart into my garbage bin. 

Clothing, same thing, except I donate that.


These last 14 months, I have been on a sabbatical. This has been my time to check in with myself, to reevaluate my dreams, goals, lifestyle, etc.

Basically, I've been asking myself " Am I using my time and resources for the betterment of my self and humanity?"


The first road trip of the sabbatical was to an artistic little town that has been a place of great inspiration to me for about 10 years now. 

 (You may notice that I don’t say the names of the places I visit, and I won’t, unless it’s San Francisco. Most of these places are not well known and my little secret.)

I spent a week here, walking around, dining out and shopping. 

This community has no franchises, it thrives on independent businesses. 

I bought home decor, clothing, books, a thumb piano...

I had a blast. 

I remembered how I used to visit this place during my 20’s and wishing I didn’t owe so much money on my credit cards from all the crappy stuff I had bought and didn’t even use.

Now, I was free to make purchases if I felt inspired to. 

At the end of that week, as I was packing up, I met the owners of the vacation rental I was using. They were happy to hear that I had enjoyed my visit and mentioned how tourism has contributed so much into the local economy.

I continued to travel, spending long stretches of time in my other favorite communities and exploring new ones.

I discovered more independent shops and markets, selecting an item here and there that jumped out at me.

I bought a pendant carved from shed moose antler. It hangs on my wall in the dining nook. 

The artist is a lovely man. 

The decor around my house, the clothing in my closets, reminds me of the experiences I’ve been lucky to be having.


That saying how every dollar you spend is a vote...

I’m finally beginning to understand.

My current rule for retail shopping is if I see it and truly love it, and I have nothing else like it, I can buy it. 

As long as I can meet all of my financial obligations and it benefits local independent shops as much as possible. 

With all of my travels these last 14 months, I still have, use and adore every purchase I have made.

Aside from the $73 salad lunch I had in Vegas. For some reason, I have buyer’s remorse on that one. 



Sincerely,

LeNora Faye
Bitchy Bookkeeper
Almost an Author
Former Fantastic Violinist


email  info@lenorafaye.com









Friday, July 20, 2018

Driving Miss LeNora

March 2018, the day after I bought this.
       March 2018, the day after I bought this vehicle.

I apologize for posting a winter photo during summer season.

Yesterday, I drove west through Banff National Park and arrived at my destination, 8 hours later. 

Google Maps says it’s a 6-hour drive but I am never in a hurry.

It’s a legit use of the word literally when I say it’s literally all about the journey, not the destination.

(For all you Parks and Rec fans, Rob Lowe saying literally, is Literally. The. Best. Thing. Ever.)

Said journey begins when I decide I’m going to take a road trip. I choose my destination, secure my accommodations and begin my lists.

Lists for clothing I will want to wear. Each outfit has to coordinate with my mood. If I’m happy, I wear a dress. If I’m annoyed, I wear a dress. If I’m feeling sexy, I wear a dress.

You would think I’d have an aversion to dresses as I was forced to wear a dress every day of my childhood until 3rd grade when I told my mom I was doing high jump in gym class and kids were laughing at me for flashing my underwear.

But now, I find them the most flattering and comfortable for me. 

This is where I'm supposed to insert a photo of me wearing a dress but I dislike photos of myself, I don’t feel like my looks translate well to photos. And I’m vain. So don’t take photos of me, please.

My lists also include one for food, usually, I stay in vacation rentals or on property where I have my own kitchen to cook in.

Electronics list, hair and makeup list, journals and books and pens list.

And a miscellaneous list.

Then I pack about HALF. 


The night before I leave is usually a restless one. I stay up late, trying to pack, because dammit, I’m going to leave at 6 in the morning.

So I putter around, doing things that have nothing to do with packing.

My vehicle has to be detailed before I go. It’s vacuumed out, the leather is dusted, panels polished, bugs from last road trip removed, gas tank filled.

Eventually, I fall asleep. 

6AM rolls around. LeNora doesn’t move.

8AM 

Eyelids flutter open.

9AM, car is packed, time to shower.

10AM. Ok now I’m pulling out of the garage after I’ve triple checked that my plants are fed, all the lights are off, windows and doors closed and locked, alarm is on.

                  No room for passengers. Sorry, not sorry.

This time, I grabbed a coffee and a smoothie before I left the city. I rarely eat in the car..new vehicle and crumbs...no thank you.

My previous vehicle was a 2010 Mazda3 GT, a  fun, zippy car with a 2.5-litre engine. It was a joy to drive along the winding mountain roads in the sunny summertime but absolutely useless in a winter like we had this year.

I’m no mechanic but I know how to check the fluids, fuses, and I know the engine size and what kind of oil it needs. 

My dad made sure I knew enough about vehicles but he told me “let the men in your life inspect your car for you, it makes them feel important.” 

So, every 8000 km, I show up at my dad’s house and make him change the oil. Which, based on my love for road trips, is every 3 weeks.

I kid.

Like I mentioned earlier, it’s not the destination, it’s the drive itself. 

It starts with the vehicle. I didn’t want to spend $90,000 on a vehicle but I wanted to feel luxurious while driving. My CX-5 comes with everything that makes me feel like a lady behind the wheel. 

I added the rhinestone steering wheel cover. 

I forgot to mention the most important list.

The Playlist.

I’m into electro-pop and swing music right now. Anything lush and dreamy sounding.

I have different playlists for different landscapes I drive through. 

Majestic mountain scenery gets the orchestral swell of Operatic pop and film scores. 

Dream-pop perfectly compliments lake and oceanside driving.

Heading east through the prairies, for some reason, Oldies.


          Yesterday-Glacier National Park. Roger’s Pass.

Driving isn’t just a mode of transportation for me, it’s a spiritual experience.

It’s my way of embracing the future while paying respects to the past and enjoying the present. 

I feel freest when I drive.

I never plan to stop at a specific area. I do try to go for a small walk every three hours so I don’t cramp up. Sometimes I feel compelled to stop and explore an area or get something to eat. Other times, I just drive because I feel so happy and I’m singing at the top of my lungs.

The only time I sing out loud is in my car.

There are two rules I have. 

#1 - no hitchhikers. Under any circumstances. My safety comes first, end of story.

#2- You are not allowed to come with me. I love you dearly since you took the time to read my blog, but I do not want you in the car with me. This is my time for me. 

I happily and freely share my adventures as I’m having them, but I love and want to do them alone. It’s just my nature. 

Another reason why the childfree and pet-free lifestyle works well for me.

I remember asking my mother what it was like to drive. Sitting in the backseat of her Toyota Highlander, I was so jealous that she got to drive. She didn’t give me the glamorous answer I was hoping for, just said something like, “it’s just something you learn how to do.”

Mother dear, you never knew how to deal with your glamour obsessed daughter. 

If she were alive today, I would have taken her to San Francisco with me and shown her a fancy adventure.

More stories for another post, I think.



Sincerely,

LeNora Faye
Bitchy Bookkeeper 
Almost an Author
Former Fantastic Violinist


email  info@lenorafaye.com