This may frighten the children....

Now, I realize that Oprah must be, on some level, a genius. How else does one become the richest and most popular person in the entire freakin universe? But I wonder where this genius hides itself in her person, because observing her only leads me to the conclusion that she’s a moron. (or, as I like to say, a moe-ron) Watch her show one day and pay attention to what she does and doesn’t say. I’d bet you a dollar (maybe two) that at least once during her show you’ll her say “Yeah, girl. You KNOW that’s true!” or “That’s what I’m talking about!”….and then she laughs her horsey laugh. Really, her show is just an hour of her saying one of those two things in a variety of ways. Anyway….this is my overall opinion of her, so I try to make fun of her as much as social conversation allows.

Then there’s Tom Cruise. I think he’s a good actor. I enjoy his movies. But we all know he’s gone a bit crazy. Okay, he’s gone a lot crazy. But what would I know about crazy, anyway? HE’s done all the research, and none of US have. What the hell do we know?

Much to my delight, my cousins recently introduced me to a video clip that made my world very happy for about 30 seconds. It brilliantly highlights a touching moment that flatters two of my most favorite people. Make sure you view this with the sound up....

www.zippyvideos.com/153109597471325.html

Heaven is a Clean Bathroom

You wanna know what I did yesterday? Well, I’ll tell you: I went home.

Maybe I should back up a little. I went home to a home that I actually looked forward to going home to all day long. Doesn’t sound like that big a deal to most of you, does it? It was a HUGE deal to me, however; because it has been roughly 8 months since I’ve had that feeling.

Since I moved here I had been living in a house that made me feel more physically uncomfortable than any other place I’ve spent more than a couple of nights in. The reasons for my discomfort were many. Relationship issues. Animal issues. Security issues. Issues revolving around my needs for cleanliness and organization. Issues regarding my privacy, my routine, my belongings, and, ultimately, my sanity. I made arrangements to move about a month ago, and the circumstances that founded my reasons for leaving began to escalate at a rapid speed. When I finally moved last week, things were awkward, at best, but I brushed off any residual guilt and got the hell out.

I’ve known for a long time that I needed to live alone, but I didn’t fully anticipate the relief I would feel having finally accomplished it. When I was younger, the idea of living alone was very intimidating to me. I wondered if I’d be afraid. Or lonely. Or that I’d get sick in the middle of the night, puking in the pot, and what would I do with nobody there to call out to? Who would hold my hair back? Who would bring me lemon-lime Gatorade and a straw? But then I thought about it. How often do I really have puking spells? Certainly not often enough to warrant need for a roommate.

I realized that I like knowing that when I go home at night, nobody will be there and things will be exactly as I left them. Unless, of course, Bridget has had a particularly boring day. (After her first day alone EVER last week, I came home to what looked like a poltergeist attack. Every last cabinet and drawer in the kitchen and bathroom were wide open. And when JoBeth Williams started crawling up the wall in her panties, I really knew that something wasn’t right.) I like being able to have guests over at any time and having them stay for as long as I want them to. I like WANTING to invite people over in the first place. I like not having to overhear conversations between people that I have absolutely no interest in overhearing. I like seeing a hair in the bathtub and knowing that it came from my own head. I like putting a $10 bag of chicken in the freezer and knowing that I’ll actually get to eat it at some point. I like sitting on my couch without having to worry that I’ll be wearing a dog fur coat when I get up. I like throwing things in the garbage can and resting in the fact that it won’t be covering the living room floor when I return and I like that when I take that trash out….it’s trash that only I have accumulated. I LOVE walking barefoot in my own home and not having to wash my feet clean immediately afterwards. I like not having ugly, cheesy, foreign made,non-original, dusty, dollar store knickknacks covering every surface. I like being able to look only at pictures of people that I love. I could go on and on. But we all have lives to live.

Celebrate your clean bathrooms, my friends. Be kind to your feet. They’ll thank you for it one day.

A Man Called Peter

I was telling someone not too long ago that I don't really have "a type". Meaning, there is not one "type" of guy that I tend to latch myself onto. I've probably mentioned this in many conversations because it has been true of me for a long time. I could produce a list of preferences describing what I think is my ideal match...we've all done it either mentally or literally...but I don't really buy into the list thing anymore. I used to hunt for the list, but anytime I've met someone who actually aligned with it, he's turned out to be FAR from what I thought I wanted. The characteristics of human beings are too complicated to be checked off like grocery items on a Post-It. ketchup...check. luncheon meat...check. tampons...check. nice sense of humor and interest in gardening...check/check. It just doesn't work.

Many authors of fiction will create characters by combining interesting tidbits from various people they've known in real life. I thought it might be fun to do this. Because almost every guy I've been ivolved with has been so very different from all the others (execpt for two that I dated about 2 years apart from each other who, eerily, were identical in almost every way.....a revelation that somehow didn't occur to me until way after the fact), it would take too long to describe them all. Not that anyone would be interested in reading that crap, anyway. Instead, I've pulled out some facts and a few opinions about these people and skillfully weaved them together to present to you a man I'll call "Peter". (I choose this name not only for it's obvious maleness, but because it's the only tolerable name I can come up with that I can't in any way associate with someone I know.)

Peter wasn't as attractive as some of the guys who had been in my life. I was attracted to him, of course, but it certainly wasn't his appearance that initially drew me to him. He stood (and still does, I imagine) about 6 feet, 8 inches tall. Curly blonde hair. His mother was Mexican, his father Philipino. Brown eyes. Actually, only one of his eyes was real. The other one was prosthetic due to an incident in his early childhood. He and his twin brother were jumping on bunk beds sometime in the early 70's when he fell and gashed his eye on the corner of the dresser. You couldn't tell that one of the eyes was a fake unless he told you so. Must have been some mighty esspensive fiberglass.

He was 12 years older than me at the time, which would make him 38 now. (Which also makes me much older than I care to be.) In those extra years of experience, he had done quite a bit on the way to careerdom. In his early 20's, he had been the lead singer of a heavy metal band. I can't recall the name of the band now, but I remember looking at their website. Somewhere along the way he grew a distaste for heavy metal and decided he rolled more comfortably with the likes of The Ramones and The Clash. He now has a small recording studio in Dallas where he mostly records his own music; none of which sounds anything like the aforementioned bands. (He once wrote a song about me and sung it in front of a large group of people. ) He worked as an orderly in a nursing home at some point long before I knew him, and it struck me as a redeeming quality that he would be willing to work in such conditions. Now I mostly think it kinda creepy. After that he went on to case work with the Department of Child Welfare, selling shoes, bank management, teaching math, advertising for pharmacueticals, and finally, real estate. Real Estate proved itself to be most lucrative, so that's where he stayed.

Peter had been married for a short while until his wifey flipped out, left him and their two kids, and fled to Canada. He has sole custody of their little boy and seemed to be one of the most amazing fathers I had ever met. I wasn't ready for motherhood, though....

Aside from his musical talents, Peter had a Jackassonian interest in "stunt work". He owned several cars...one of them being a 20 year old piece of crap he referred to as a "jeep". He and his friends would film themselves flipping this thing down enbankments and over fallen trees. He would climb on top of rooves just to jump off of them. Many bones were broken in many asinine ways. He almost killed himself in a motorcycle accident...twice. None of these activities would or could blow my skirt up (so to speak), by the way. They all occurred prior to me.

Peter's not a bad guy. In fact, he's what most people would refer to as "a good guy". He's friendly. He likes kids to the degree that he would actually address them in public when most people are only acknowledging parents. I always like that about people. He wasn't particularly intrested in getting to know my friends, though. I would always go out with his buddies, but he never put forth the same effort. He was selfish that way. He was selfish in lots of ways.

I've often compared Peter to The Fonz. He had an almost celebrity status at our small college. Everyone knew who he was. All the girls thought he was superdreamy and all the guys pretended to not think he was the cat's pajamas, even though they all knew he was. Unlike The Fonze, however, he didn't attain his Cool Status because of his way with the ladies or even through an elitist arrogance. He was just cool because he was....well, cool. If someone was cool by popular vote, I tended to ignore them just on principle. But we ended up sitting next to each other on a plane to Boston and spend the following week in Loopyville (...near Boston...) keeping each other warm and shopping for vintage clothing. We found several pairs of polyester pajamas...all of which we believed to have been previously owned by cats.

The first conversation we ever had was preceeded by a belching contest after eating pizza. We spent a great deal of our time together for the next 4 months in pants-wetting laughter. Eventually we ran out of things to laugh about, I guess. Or maybe we just got tired of doing so much laundry. Either way, it was a shame that things fizzled out because he was one of the few guys I've known that really tried to GET me. He dug deep; got knee deep into my soul. Peter remembered everything I ever told him, and he used all of those intricities to paint a more accurate picture of myself than even I could have painted.

On the other hand, I always felt that he used me. He used all the things I told him to label me as something I wasn't. He never let ME in and kept me away with the barriers he set. He had tiny feet. He was immature. He had no ambition. He smoked. He embarassed me in public. He didn't respect me. He had many aggressive opinions about things he knew nothing about. He had a skanky female roomate that he was probably banging during our relationship since he ended up with her soon after we split. He was unreliable. His unintelligence made him boring as Hell. He cried when I left. His hygeine could have been better. He was a borderline stalker. He belittled me. He was unimaginative. Even though we laughed together, he wasn't the slightest bit funny. And worst of all.....he hated kitties. I could've just listed that one first and been done with it.

In Route to Alberquerque

9:50 am- I have been on many flights...all over the world. Never have I experienced turbulence like this. This is more jarring...and much less fun...than The Titan. We are descending...will land soon. And thank God for that, because a woman 3 rows in front of me has just vomited. I wouldn't be able to smell it any better had she deposited it in my lap. I'm starting to dry-heave.

10:35 am- Now in the Dallas airport...layover. I was listening to tribal dance music for a while on the headphones. It was fun to watch people rush around to music like that. Everyone seemed peppy and exhilarated and full of life. I got bored with it a few minutes ago and switched to another CD. Beck's "Sea Change". Immediately, everyone around me changed. The attitude of movements that I witnessed previously are suddenly depressed and deliberate. Individuals who had once been headed to joyful reunions with lovers and anticipated vacations are now on their way to funerals and mundane business meetings. I feel dangerously powerful. Through the soundtrack of life that I have access to...I control everyone in this airport...Their destinies are in my hands. If I had a handlebar mustache, I'd be curling its ends between my fingertips at this very moment. I wonder what would happen if I could get my hands on some K.C. and the Sunshine Band.

10:57 am- A guy has just taken a seat across from me. He isn't all that attractive, really; but I find myself fighting the urge to stare at him. He's wearing tassled loafers and a SonicYouth tshirt. His long hair is pulled back in a ponytail and looks like it hasn't been washed in quite some time. I don't notice his wrinkled clothing and 8 o'clock shadow as much as I do his bright blue eyes. They look sad. Funny how certain people transfix me. It isn't always the way someone is dressed or the way they look. It isn't always their gestures or tone of voice, either. There's really no consistency to what grabs my attention. Sometimes there's just something about a person that makes me want to know their story.

11:06 am- An older man sat down behind and to the left of me a while ago on the row of seats that is connected to mine. He put on headphones right after he sat down and then closed his eyes. I think he was asleep for a while, but now (with his eyes still closed), he's doing leg lifts in his seat. With hands gripping the arm rests on either side of him, both legs are being extended and then lowered simultaneously in rapid succession. This entire section of seats is rocking and squeaking to the rhythm of his exercise, and the sound is like the cliche' noise of sex in an unsturdy bed. I suppose he's oblivious to the sound and the rocking since he is lost in whatever music is blaring through his headphones. I've been trying to ignore the movement of my seat, but this is almost as unsettling as the turbulence I experienced on the plane. I'm moving now.

11:42 am- The plane has just taken off. I'm in the aisle seat...and the little guy sitting next to me by the window is slightly peculiar. He has needed to get up several times, and instead of allowing me time to move aside for his exit, he stradles my legs with his ass about an inch from my nose. He's very thin, and is not in any way short on room on his side of the armrest, but he continues to lean his shoulder into mine way more than is necessary. Dude...I don't wanna cuddle.

12:21 pm- Okay...now he's singing what can only be some version of a show tune. He's been doing it for about 20 minutes now. He isn't singing at the top of his lungs, but everyone is this vicinity is definitely getting an earfull. There's one line that contains a high note that he can't quite reach. (something about lovin' the moonlight) So, he's been repeating that one line over and over. Doesn't sound to me like he's getting any closer to getting it right. In all honesty, he doesn't sound that bad. There's no amount of money in the world that could convince me to tell him so, however. I've put my headphones on to try to drown him out...it's not working as well as I would have hoped. People keep giving me glances to suggest that I should do something about this situation...that I should shut-up my seat mate. In response, I widen my eyes to say "I'm not with him! Really."

12:55 pm- I'm reading a book that a friend of mine lent me. It's mostly humorous commentary on pop culture. At some point, I realized that singing boy had been not-so- subtly reading over my shoulder for an entire chapter. Right around the time the flight attendant was nearing us with the beverage cart, he instrusively lifted the front cover of the book to read the title. "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs". He said it aloud and then asked in an inappropriately loud voice, "Is this a self help book?" His question actually would have been quite funny had he been trying to be ironic, but he was entirely serious.

Annoyed, I sharply answered, "No. No, it's not a self help book."

The flight attendant, now beside me, overhears and wants to know what it is that I'm reading. I tell her, and she gives me a disapproving look. "Ohhhh. (drawn out and judgmental) That sounds nice."

Mr. No Personal Space goes on to tell me that he really liked the part about the such-and-such on the previous page. I brushed him off as politely as possible, and now I'm trying to enjoy my book while shielding it from him. I'm not sure what is socially correct thing to do here. Is it okay for me to shift my body away from him every time I feel his eyes on the pages? Because that's what I've been doing. Maybe I could build a little tent with my Trapper Keeper like I used to do in elementary school too keep the other kids from copying. Oh, the hell with it. I'll just let him read along.

So, apparently, the new XBox 360 was released this week. I do know what an XBox is, of course, but the "360" part means absolutely nothing to me. Not that it meant anything to me without the "360", either. Anyway...thousands of teenaged boys and young men all over the country camped out for up to 3 days in front of various locations of Best Buy, Tweeter's, and Target stores just to get their hands of the first shipments of this computer game miracle. For 3 days? Their girlfriends really must have missed them while they were gone. Oh, wait. What was I thinking?


On a sidenote....I must issue a clarification of something I mentioned in my last entry. When I referred to the hair tragedy of 2001, I didn't mean that looking "like a Hispanic" was a bad thing! And, obviously, I'm not so at ease with stereotyping that I would imply that
Black Hair = Hispanic. It was simply the sharing of a memory...and one of the irrational exclaimations I recalled making at the time. Besides, all of my Hispanic pals are freakin gorgeous. If black hair could, in any way, make me look like all of them...I'd dye it back in a second.

A Few Good Things

I love that when we laugh in someone's presence, we look around us to see that others are laughing, too. A funny movie is on, or your waiter farts, or the kid next door that you can't stand falls off his skateboard. Whether we're in the room with one other person or 50, we need to acknowledge a mutual interpretation of humor and goodwill in order to really feel it completely. And when someone you care about is sharing in something that you think is funny, there's a brief, miraculous charge of energy that rushes through your veins. There's something beautiful and calming about simultaneous joy.

(Funny how I had never thought about this until this week....or maybe I've thought of it often, I just didn't remember thinking it. No; I really don't think I thought it....)


Sometimes things suck. The world around us gets stressful and confrontational and hard to navigate. What you thought was a smooth edge gets roughened by your shortcomings and inperfections and it presses into your stomach every time you turn. But then you stop twisting long enough to make eye contact with someone who knows you. And you feel known. And knowing that you can be known like that, and that someone with all that knowledge still wants to look you in the eyes......THAT makes everything else seem manageable.


There is someone out there who cares that you've had a migrane all day and that you might need to vomit at any moment. There is someone who will give you a manicure just because...even when you've referred to him as an explictative to his face. There is someone who recognizes how hard you work; and they respect you for it. There is someone who reminds you of all the dirty places you've been...and that you've come out clean every time. There is someone who knows where you're coming from when nobody else does. There is someone who doesn't scoff at your fondness for your kitty. There is someone who keeps trying when you don't return his calls right away. There is someone who calls you long distance for advice during hair tragedies...because she remembers when you cried over your accidental black hair that made you look "like a hispanic". There is someone who assures you that you deserve great things.

And it feels GOOD, doesn't it?

Take my picture by the pool...


...cuz I'm the next big thing.

Violence on the Homefront

Bridget often wakes me up in the middle of the night with things that aren’t worth waking up for. She’s usually meowing at the mattress or chasing a bug on the window sill or tapping me repeatedly on the shoulder just to whine about being thirsty. I’ve grown accustomed to these slumbertime interruptions, and most of the time I just throw something at her and fall back asleep. A couple of weeks ago, she seemed to be indulging in an extra amount of running around in the dark, but I was drunk on good dreamin’ and couldn’t make myself wake up enough to care.

As I was getting ready for work the next morning, I noticed that Bridget was particularly interested in my closet. I was about to chastise her adorable feline stupidity when I heard it: a faint “scratch scratch/rustle rustle” from behind some shoe boxes. I was mortified. The noises continued, and I while I should have dug through my closet to find the mystery creature, I chose to be girly about it. I left for work promptly, and for Texas right after work; and all weekend long I kept my fingers crossed that the problem would be gone by the time I returned home.

Until 2 days ago, I had seen nor heard any more evidence of rodent residents in my house. (I woke up from a dead sleep at 4:00 one morning when I SWORE I could feel tiny claws on my feet. I practically fell out of bed in blind terror, but found nothing other than my pissed off and confused kitty tangled in the comforter.) Monday morning, I walked into the kitchen and was greeted by a tiny lil’ bitty ol’ mouse. Bridget (like the savage she is) snatched it up between her teeth and attempted to carry it into my room. I blocked her way and shooed her in the other direction. I could see the determined, ravenous panic in her eyes as she tried to decide where to haul her prey. In moment’s flash I pictured my cute baby ripping the little animal to shreds, and the repulsive imagery caused me to take action before a Discovery channel special unfolded in my kitchen. I couldn’t tolerate the thought of her button-nosed innocence being spoiled by a germ ridden Stuart lookalike. Without hesitating, I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck until she dropped the mouse and it ran under our ancient unused dishwasher. Slow with disappointment, Bridget turned and gave me a “thanks a lot, fool” look.

I must say I was a bit ashamed of myself. I’m overprotective of a damn cat. What kind of mother will I be one day? I really don’t want to be overly strict and paranoid. We all know the kind….”If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times….wear your safety goggles when you practice your machete juggling!”…”Honey, wait until you get OUT of the pool to blow dry your hair!”…. ”Jimmy, you better clean that gun before ya fire it!” What a drag. If I ever have kids, they’re gonna hate me, aren’t they?

I'd Be a Willow Tree

I was with my aunt at an outdoor nursery recently. We had spent the past (mind-numbing) hour looking at an assortment of ready-to-plant trees. Palm trees, magnolia trees, pine trees, bonsai trees….you name it. As we were leaving, I asked my aunt in a loud, excited voice, “If you were a tree, what tree would you be?” I thought it would be funny. A man just happened to be getting out of his truck next to me and overheard my question. Apparently, he broke into stifled giggles behind my back (my aunt could see him even though I couldn’t). Had I realized this, I would have promptly turned and asked him if he considered himself closer to a daffodil or a petunia. I was sorry I missed the chance to experience such intimacy with a stranger. Anyway, the exchange embarrassed my aunt to extremes. She went on and on about how humiliated she was, but all I could do was laugh.

This from a woman who moons her teenaged sons’ friends with no hesitation.

Smell My Feet

Halloween was not a holiday that I looked forward to as a child. Sure, I liked to dress up; that was the part I liked. My mom made a costume for me almost every year. I wanted to be a clown more times than not, and I think my mom encouraged it because it was an easy costume to put together. My first grade year, I was a ballerina. I was kinda fat that year (I suppose from residual toddler pudge), and the pink leotard I wore made me look like a pig in a tutu. Another year, I was a hobo (again..an easy costume). I found an old Japanese Kimono of my grandfather's in a box a coupla years later. I wore it with white powder/red lipstick/hair in a bun....the whole deal. Not exactly p.c., right? I always wanted to wear the supercool costumes with the plastic masks and paperthin fabric I saw at KMart, but my mom would never buy me those.

The trick-or-treating part was okay. I liked walking door to door asking for goodies. I never managed to eat the goodies I worked so hard to attain, though. I was supposedly allergic to chocolate as a youngster (my mom made me eat carob instead), so all the really good candy was passed on to my brothers. And all the nasty chewy kinds made me gag (still do). So I was shit outta luck, as they say. Emptying my plastic jack-o-lantern was always anti-climatic unless I happened to find a flimsy spider ring or a Burger King certificate for free fries.

Everything else about Halloween made me extremely uncomfortable. I was the epitome of "wuss"....unnaturally terrified of anything meant to be even remotely scary. I would work up the nerve every year to watch the Garfield Halloween special...and that felt like a huge accomplishment to me. The only thing that was actually scary about that show was the bad animation, but it was about all I could handle. I ventured into my school's haunted house in 3rd grade (eerily constructed in the Art room under the stage in the auditorium), and it took me months to recover. Any T.V. commercial that featured spooky music freaked me out. Every snippet of clip from a cheesy horror flic sent me screaming into the other room.

Most kids saw Halloween as a time to be someone or something other than themselves....a time to experience the thrill of chill bumps and racing hearts. I just saw it as another opportunity for something REALLY horrible to finally do me in. It was inevitable. I just knew it. Sooner or later the BoogeyMan from the Ghostbusters cartoon would bust through my closet door, stomp his cloven feet over to my bed, and steal me away forever. Freddy Kruger would dare him to make it extra torturess. Of course, this monsterous fate could have come about at any time of the year, but it was MUCH more likely to occur on October 31st.

Funny thing is...I was also scared of Santa Claus.

"WELCOME" ....to my blog

I was talking with someone the other day….don’t recall who….about what we wanted “to be” when we were kids. I always love asking people that. I think it can be very revealing about one’s childhood and what has happened on their journey to adulthood.

For many years, I was dead-set on being a Marine Biologist. I know a lot of little girls are drawn to that profession simply for the allure of swimming with smiley Bottle Nosed Dolphins on a daily basis. There was something more that appealed to me, however. I’ve always been fascinated by the ocean. Scared by it, too…but I guess that’s part of the fascination. I wanted to dive into unseen worlds and discover new species and have my own series of documentaries…just like Jacque Cousteau. I took a Marine Science class in middle school and threw myself into every assignment as if my career depended on it. I even started out in college as a Biology major…knowing that would lead me to my destiny. Funny thing was…I hated biology. And the whole idea of my future profession taking place under water was always a sham because I’ve had horrendous ear problems since babyhood that prevent me from getting ANY water in my ears; and I would never be able to dive because my eardrums can’t take the pressure. I finally accepted these facts as a freshman in college and moved on to discover other interests.

To make a VERY VERY long story short, I’m finally in a job that suits me well. But, as content as I am, I know I won’t do this forever. There are too many other things out there that I want to do before my life ends. Even though I’m “all growed up” now, I still have a mental list of dream jobs….things I want to be when I grow up even more. I realize that the likeliness of any of this occurring is equal to the likeliness that I’ll run into Orlando Bloom at Wal-Mart on the cereal aisle and marry him 3 weeks later (running away hand in hand under a confetti shower of Fruit Loops in honor of our meeting)….but it’s good to have dreams.

Here’s my list (yay!…another list!):

1. I want to own a children’s book store just like the one Meg Ryan owns in “You’ve Got Mail”. I haven’t come up with a name for it yet…but I’ve got ideas. I’ll have to move back to a big city to do this…but that’s all part of the plan.

2. Preceding, or in conjunction with, or following the above listed venture…I want to be a published author of children’s literature. I’ve started some books but never have the time (or determination) to actually finish them and do something with them. One day.

3. I want to be an ambassador for UNICEF or The International Justice Mission and travel the world making things better for children and women who don’t have the ability to change things themselves.

4. Second to ambassadorship, I’d like to work for the same type of organization as a photographer.

5. I can work at a vineyard stomping grapes for wine production. I think customers would like that. A lot.

6. Inspired by a close friend of mine in the same profession, I’d work to further establish international adoption agencies that operate with integrity and efficiency.

7. I would be a GREAT greeting card designer. I wouldn’t work for Hallmark, though…I’d have my own label. There would be lots of laughs and a minimal amount of cheese involved.

8. The San Diego Zoo may one day hire me to train Orangutans. I’ve submitted my resume already.

9. I’d be happy to work for a cosmetics company in the marketing department. Somebody has to come up with interesting names for products and lipstick colors. Origins seems to be the most creative in this area, so maybe I’ll bless them with my innovative mind.

10. I share this particular dream with a few other friends, I think….so perhaps we can do it jointly….When I’m MUCH older, I’ll buy a bed and breakfast in some beautiful location and people will travel for hundreds of miles to bask in the serene hominess…and my charm and wit.

11. I’ve saved the best for last!! What I want more than anything is to be the spokeswoman/greeter for movie theater companies. You know how, when the lights dim, an obnoxious intro sequence plays that takes you on a not-so-virtual roller coaster ride through outer space? I wanna be the lady with the cool space-like haircut whos’ head is like 15 feet wide who says in a dramatic voice, “Welcome”…and then your roller coaster zooms through her nose or wherever. Everyone knows what I’m talking about, right?? I think she’s the same chick that Six Flags uses on the “Mr.Freeze” ride that warns you repeatedly as you walk through the 3-hour-long-mazed line that the Gotham Nuclear Ice Plant is about to self-destruct. I can be inviting, ominous, and sexy all at the same time. Just listen to my outgoing voicemail message.

Release

You've been stranded in a large body of water. Doesn't matter where, exactly. It doesn't matter how. You're there. Now, let's imagine what this would feel like...

You feel cold. You feel scared. Undoubtedly, you're trying to stay afloat. Your legs are spasming in continual scissor kicks and your arms are flailing. The longer you've been out there...keeping your head above water...your body becomes increasingly wracked with pain. Your breathing is labored and your lungs are on fire.

What would be going through your head during this nightmare? Depending on what particular body of water you're in, you could be wondering if a shark or an alligator is stalking you from below...waiting to make you his lunch. You would probably be thinking about loved ones and praying that you'll see them again. Maybe unfinished business would be on your mind...all the things you haven't accomplished back on dry land. But I'm pretty positive (hypothetically, of course) that your main focus would be on NOT DROWNING. What greater fear could there be than that?

From the time you found yourself alone and floating, your life has been nothing but an effort to survive. Every kick of the leg and every heavy breath has been birthed (either conciously or subconciously) to avoid, or at least to delay, the feared end of drowning. To stop trying would be to be to die. Over and over and over, you forsee your muscles stiffening and your lungs filling up with water; and you imagine how excruciating the pain will be...how long it will take to be over...how much terror you'll leave the earth experiencing. THIS is why you don't stop moving.
Every second of your life; such as it is at this point, is lived in fear. You're so afraid of IT that avoiding IT becomes your lifeforce.

The truth of the situation is that sooner or later, your body is going to give out. Your limbs will be paralyzed from exhaustion and you will go under. Your worst fear will be realized. Yes, it will hurt, and, yes, you will be terrified. Once you realize that it's too late to go back, you will wish that you had kept going...even though your body gave you no choice. But, here comes the good part....after the moment it feels unbearable...it will END. In an instant, all will go black and silent and then your pain will subside. Your fear will disappear and you'll see God when the light starts to return.

We've all been adrift in some ocean or lake or bathtub at one point or another. And we all know the fear of drowning. Our fear becomes our focus and it makes us miserable. It weakens us, hurts us, and makes us sick. And, unfortunately, somtimes no matter what we do...our fear becomes reality right before our eyes, and we can't do anything to stop it.

THEN WHAT?

Then we can rest. There's a physical and emotional release that comes once you know that the worst is over. There's no need to continue dog-paddling and there's nothing else to be afraid of. Your energies can be used for other purposes and you can begin to heal. I think that God often wants us to stop kicking and trust him to end our pain. That ending might bring death of some sort...but he shows us that death is often SO much easier than kicking.

Maybe the worst thing to fear IS fear itself.

The Unmistakable Scent of Crayons and Pumpkin Pie

There is something immensely pleasant about old school buildings. (By “old”, I mean built in the 50’s or before.) My new job requires me to visit various elementary schools on a regular basis, and I think those visitations may just be my favorite part of the job. My own Elementary School (Simpsonville Elementary in Simpsonville, SC) had a definite venerable quality to it. And, while I don’t have an abundant amount of warm memories from that place, maybe that’s where my fondness comes from.

These buildings usually have an impressive stature…the authority of a second story, oversized entry doors, and castle-like stone bricks are the typical greeting. The dimly lit hallways are lined in ceramic tile and mismatched linoleum. The 20 foot ceilings support a skeleton of exposed piping that sings an incessant dirge of clanks and hums. Every classroom is framed by paint-chipped picture windows and olivy chalkboards. I know lots of teachers that brag about their “new” schools and the modern accommodations they provide. But those facilities just don’t have the same character; the same intimacy that older ones do.

Autumn is the best time of the year to be in a school like this. I don’t know that I can really explain why, though. There’s a quote in a movie I like about how Autumn makes you want to buy school supplies…”bouquets of sharpened pencils”. I totally get that quote. It’s partly because kids look so darn cute in sweaters and cotton tights. And I love those big metal accordion wall heaters that hiss and moan when you turn them on in cold weather. It’s partly the decorations….smiley scarecrows with their arms posed in motionless waves, paper mache’ pumpkins, leaves in velvety colors, turkeys with tissue paper tails. It’s partly the way the atmosphere suggests Holiday time….and how that suggestion seems to make everyone a tad bit jovial. It’s partly my own personal correlation between kids and Autumn. There’s something magical about that connection. Just thinking about it puts me in the mood to read the Richard Scary Bedtime collection all snuggled up in a blanket and drink cinnamon cocoa and dress up in a Halloween costume and watch “It’s The Great Pumpkin! Charlie Brown” and eat my grandmother’s stuffing and write an essay about all the things I’m thankful for (not necessarily in that order).

Now, where did I put my argyle kneesocks…..?

Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part 4

Even though I have a new, very-full time job with lots of important, adult responsibilities, I've kept on with my part timer at Victoria's Secret. I know the question that immediately jumps into your head, and, "NO", I can't tell you "the secret". privledged information.

It's a funny thing...working there. I realized pretty quickly that a very bashful person would most likely not feel comfortable working there...or at any lingerie shop. Discussing intimate apparel with strangers can be a little awkward. Bra fittings and inmodest customers who ask you to into their dressing rooms to assist them....breasts flopping and uncovered....again; awkward. But, none of it bothers me. Any professional bra specialist can handle it. Oh, yeah...Volunteer Director by day, Bra Specialist by night, baby. I could have my own T.V. show.

What I AM bothered by are male customers who cross over into inappropriate. Some men will come in alone, handle all the panties, ask us 30 questions and then walk out after an hour without having bought anything. This behavior could very well mean that they were overwhelmed by the selection and left empty-handed due to intimidation and confusion. But I can't help but wonder if some of them do it just to get off. Questions like "What do YOU think is sexy?" or "What size do YOU wear?" or "Would YOU wear this?" make me suspicious. Reasonably so, I think. But I suppose this is to be expected at such a business. We're the free, less taboo version of the 1-900 number. If we served hot wings and fries, we could be the classy Hooters.

The creepiest encounter I've had so far was with a male customer...late 50's. Curly mustache. Dressed in a suit...polite. His questions started off fairly innocent, and he seemed geniunely determined to choose something nice for his wife. I helped him as much as I could, and then left him alone to look. After a while, he came up to me with several pairs of crotchless panties in his hands. He claimed to not understand what they were. So, I told him. "These are crotchless panties". Pretty self explanatory, right? Not so much. He insisted he didn't get it, and continued to ask me what someone would do with such a garment. I attempted to answer his questions with as much tact as possible, and the more I talked, the nastier his grin became. I finally patted him on the arm and assured him he could make his decision without me. He argued a little....wanted me to stay. I heard him whisper my name one last time as I slipped into the detox shower in the store room.

Eewwuuu.

Mockingbird and 75

I'm sitting here looking out the window at Hurricane Rita, and I'm thinking about how life is so different now for so many people. It makes me wish for what used to be....in lots of ways. I've been back in Baton Rouge since Easter, and things here are just fine, but I miss Dallas. I miss Dallas like I miss my ability to take long naps. A good friend of mine moved here from Indiana around the same time I arrived. We often talk about missing our previous homes, and about how things sometimes just don't feel "the same" here. That's part of life, right? Our aptness to adjust to change determines our success. But we can still allow ourselves to long for some other place.

Things I Miss About Dallas:

1. My friends. Friends that had really become my family. Friends that will never become less a part of me...regardless of location. They're all so unique...so different from each other. They were like my own personal breakfast buffet.....grits, danish, and juevos rancheros all on the same plate.
2. My bathtub. I lived in this really great apartment with a supercool bathroom. I had not only a standing shower, but a giant garden tub. I could lay in that thing for an hour at a time. Almost deep enough to doggie paddle in. Almost.
3. Shopping. I never really had much money to shop with, but I have never lived anywhere else that had a mall on every corner.
4. Saturday mornings at Corner Bakery. Cold weather outside....endless coffee, the newspaper, Cinnamon Creme Cake, people watching, and deep conversation.
5. My church. Unpretentious. Creative. Sincere.
6. The Angelica and Trinity Pub...two of my favorite spots in the city. Experienced both in one night is the preferred dosage.
7. Dancing...Salsa, especially.
8. How every outing was an event. When we went out, we WENT OUT. We planned ahead, dressed up together...it always felt like something more exciting than it actually was.
9. Concerts. Something worth listening to every night of the week, if you're intersted.
10. The variety of atmosphere. Every 10 minute drive takes you to what feels like a completely different city.
11. The downtown skyline. So pretty. There's a song by Ben Kweller that mentions the lights of Dallas...how seeing them as you're driving in gives you a sense of HOME. So true.
12. Museums. I never get tired of walking through art museums, particularly. A painting you've seen 50 times can be a totally new experience each time...just depends on how you look at it.
13. Parks. Every neighborhood in Dallas has a nice park. There aren't many here at all.
14. Driving. 30 highways in one city might not sound pleasant to everyone, but I loved it. Something about learning my way around Dallas gave me a huge sense of accomplishment. If you can do THAT, you can do anything. I didn't even mind the traffic most of the time.
15. The sunsets. Most consistently amazing ones I've ever seen.
16. Winter ice storms. There's only one or two every year. Perfect taste of winter. More than two gets old, and less than two just doesn't feel wintry.
17. Feeling connected to something so much bigger than yourself. Like going to a Big 10 University. It's similar to school spirit, but you get that feeling without having to endure pep rallies and cheerleaders.
18. Mexican culture. Realizing the insignificance of your supposed "majority" status is extremely refreshing.
19. Stimulation. Boredom was a rarity for me there. Even sitting at home, somehow, seemed colorful.
20. Festivals. Every month....something new. The themes of celebration focus on everything from Butterflies (in Grapevine) to Germany (in Addison), but somehow always manage to involve cowboys and beer.

Cowboys and beer. What better combination?

I Used to Be Good on a Balance Beam

I've always said that I don't like people of fickle personality. We've all had friends and family members who seem to be one person with this group...and someone entirely different with another one. It can be such a dissapointment when someone you digg repulses you when the company changes. There's a fakeness....a lack of integrity....an absence of self-assuredness about it that makes me unreasonably angry.

Much to my horror, I've realized that I'm not nearly as consistent as I like to think I am. A part of me is exactly what I spend so much energy on hating. I don't think that anyone would ever be able to say that I'm a "different person" in different situations...it's mostly something that I observe in myself.

In every relationship (not just the "romantic") exists a dynamic of leadership and authority. More often than not, one of the pair "wears the pants". What is it that determines who takes that role? It has way more to do with just individual personalities...maybe it's the combined emotional chemistry in two people that controls it without our knowledge. I say this because my role varies in each relationship. In some relationships, I'm strong, opinionated, and bold. In others, I'm soft, accomodating, and willing to sit in the passenger seat...so to speak. This has become more apparent recently. Or maybe I'm just chewing on the concept more than I used to.

Upon first thought, I wouldn't think that this is such a bad thing. What does it really matter which seat I sit in throughout a relationship? And, besides....people usually end up taking turns at the wheel in cycles. What's dangerous is when I decide that I'm comfortable not driving. Sometimes it's easier just to stare out the window and ignore where a relationship is headed. But, inevitably, my needs end up being ignored and, sooner or later, the driver forgets that I'm even in the car. I don't get a say in what music is played, I get cold, and bathroom breaks become infrequent...leaving me to cross my legs in pain for hours on end.

Okay....enough of the car metaphor.

I've recently become so wounded by loss of control that I'm extremely hesitant to let others hold power in any way, shape, or form. I'll notice suddenly that I've turned into an uncompromising bitch....and I push people away before they see what's happening. I've done it more than I like to admit, and I'm sure I've caused some hurt in the process (in more than one realm). Of course, Allison, the healthy thing to do is to BALANCE yourself between dominance and submission, but I usually find myself exisiting in one extreme or the other. So...sadly...NOBODY gets the best of me; me in my WHOLE self. Neither version is the way I want to be seen.

I'm still here, though; somewhere in the middle.

My September 11th

Ever since my childhood, I've heard older generations recall their memories of monumental events. Many people can clearly remember where they were and what they were doing when....J.F.K. was shot, or when Neil Armstrong grounded the flag into moon dirt, or when the Atomic Bomb mushroomed into the heavens.

Of the things that my generation will be recalling in our older age, I suppose the events of 9/11 will be at the top of the list. As this crossed my mind today, it occurred to me how complex our memories can sometimes be.

Just like everyone else, I will never forget watching the news for 24 hours straight as airplanes crashed into buildings and people propelled themselves from office windows. It was horrifying. But in the past few years, when September 11th rolls around, my memories are clouded with specifics that are far more personal. I remember who I was with in those scary hours...a person I wish I could forget...the hotel room television...how I felt every single day of that entire week...the striped shirt that I looked so good in. That event just so happened to be the start date of a very bad time in my life; and I've never been able to seperate them. So, selfishly...this day makes my stomach churn for more reasons than the obvious.

What does that say about me?

Why?

When bad things happen, everyone wants to know "why?". "Why me? Why them? Why here? Why now? Why this?" It's an element of the human condition to feel that we deserve answers, immediate and in their entirety. We want to snap our fingers and for it all to be laid out in front of us, panel by panel, like a cosmic comic strip.

And, we all know that there are some people who believe they know the truth when unfortunate things happen to large groups of people. They use their respective religions or academia to explain tragedy. Societies hold their breath and await learned figures to share their wisdom...as if what they say will provide relief for the world.

"Oh, okay! Now I feel better. Now I can turn off the news and sleep well tonight on my soft PosturPedic because SOMEONE has made sense of all this madness. I'm so freaking glad that MY life can get back to normal...finally."

The thing about that is, the conjured explanations don't ever benefit the people who are directly involved in the situation. When people have experienced hurt, loss, death, and devastation, no religious or logical answer can serve as a bandaid. Telling an entire culture of people that fate chose them or, even worse, that God chose them for a particular hardship because of a history of sin, poverty, or lack of ambition isn't going to propel them into a place of peace.

My thoughts on widespread suffering is that the only answers to "Why" are revealed in individual lives. In time wounds begin to heal and the puzzle pieces of our pain (regardless of their extent) begin to fit together into something that makes sense to us.....until we can stand back and focus on a complete picture. Sometimes the picture that is formed can be seen by us only because it is beauty far too personal for others to understand.

While this is what I believe...what I desperately hope to be true about life, I would never say to a stranger in the midst of their intense suffering..."One day you'll know why this happened."

There's no way I could look into the eyes of an 80 year-old woman, lying on a cot in a shelter, with my tears pouring over her age-spotted hands, that the reason for her role in a living nightmare will be revealed to her just around the corner. As she pulled out photographs of her great grandchildren from an upholstered bag with a worn leather handle (where the remainder of her belongings now reside), I found myself completely unable to offer her any reassurance. While I knew that what she needed was strength, all I could do was weep as I kneeled beside a soul who looked eerily like my grandmother. I couldn't have felt weaker and more ashamed in that moment. I told her I loved her. I meant it. That, and the willingness to listen, was all I had to give. I sat with her until she fell asleep, and prayed that her questions of "why" will be revealed to her.

I can see us all.....everyone single one of us....at the end of our journeys....with a stack of flawlessly assembled puzzles under our arms. Not a single piece is missing from any of them.

Tiffany Yagitihoshima

Can it really be true that ALL mothers are over-reactors? It certainly seems that way. Mountains out of mole-hills and embarrassing sobbing over spilt milk, right? My own mother is a peculiar breed because she overreacts about many things she shouldn't (classically), but UNDERreacts about most of the things she SHOULD take seriously. I can tell her that I had a beer with dinner, and she calls her pastor to request prayer for me. But I can recount a terrifying experience of seeing a little child being mauled to death in the street by a pack of rabid wolverines, and she absent-mindedly asks if I've met any nice men lately.

For many years, Tiffany and I have exchanged stories of this sort about our mothers....often arguing over whose mother is, indeed, the crazier of the two. After all the heated competition, I think Tiff has finally taken home the championship trophy on this one. She's cleared a spot on her mantle in preparation. This little epidsode began several months ago about a week before Tiff's dad was due for surgery. Her mom, Carilon, made a trip to the hospital to donate blood..."just in case". As she was sitting there gettin stuck, her mind wandered back to a conversation she had with Tiffany...years ago...The last time Tiff donated blood, she happened to mention to her mother what her blood type was. For some reason Carilon remembered it, and asked the guy taking her blood if that sounded right to him. If she was (I don't recall any of the actual blood types from this story, so bear with me) one thing, and her husband was another, would it be possible for her daughter to be such and such? The guy laughed and said that the only way Tiffany could be her daughter was if she had been fathered by "the milk man".

So Carilon drives all the way home in hysterics over this conversation. Only one possibility seems logical to her; not that Tiffany could have misquoted her blood type; not that Carilon herself could have remembered it incorrectly; not that there could have been some type of mistake with the actual test results; but that Tiffany MUST have been switched at birth. Yes....that had to be it. What other options could there be???

Crying; snotty kleenex in hand, Carilon calls her best friend Gail. Gail rushes over, hears the dramatic tale as only Carilon could tell it, and joins the in the freak-out. Carilon cannot be soothed and cannot be convinced that Tiffany had not, indeed, been conceived in an Econo Lodge by a teenage Japanese American couple back in 1978 (Hall and Oates was softly playing in the background, no doubt). The two women drag out all the old family photo albums to scrutinize the differences between Tiffany and her siblings. This part is the funniest to me. Anyone who has met the Anderson family even once can attest to the fact that they all look JUST alike. However, Carilon and Gail agree that the disimilarities are obvious. Apparently, their plan of action wasn't extremely detailed, but they knew that, at all costs, they must keep the awful news not only from Tiffany, but from her father....so as not to upset him before his surgery.

Well, the whole family comes into town for the procedure the following week. While her father is in the operating room, Tiffany decides to go downstairs and give blood. Upon hearing this, Carilon approaches near panic. She fears that the horrible Anderson family secret is about to be revealed, and things will never be the same again. Tiff returns a few hours later and, under shaky breath, her mother casually asks if she found out what her bloodtype was. Of course, Tiff had remembered it incorrectly all those years ago. It seemed she was, very much, a product of her assumed mother and father. Carilon (again) bursts into tears and confesses her upset.

I almost wish the situation could have turned out the way Carilon feared it might. None of my friends have cool switched-at-birth stories. Another reason why I need new friends. When I was a kid, I used to tell people that my REAL parents were Tom Selleck and Shelley Long. (have I already told this story?) I don't know if I told people I had been switched, or given up for adoption. Either way, it sounded believable to me. But, then again, I also said that my great-grandfather was Mark Twain and that I had a boyfriend named Michael Landon. The point of this whole thing was to laugh at Tiffany....not to remind everyone what a messed up child I was. I suppose it's inevitable.

Another self-definition from one who self-defines

A friend of mine kept mentioning a book to me.....insisting "You just HAVE to read it." The book is called QuirkyAlone; A Manifesto for Uncompromising Romantics, by Sasha Cagen. The word "quirkyalone" is both an adjective and a noun. A compound word, yes, but too complex to be broken in half and analyzed simply. The author takes the entire first chapter just to define it. About 5 pages into the book, I was suprised to discover how eeriely well I related to the concept of "quirkyalone". The idea of quirkyaloness refers specifically to romantic relationships, but branches out to many other areas of someone's personality. If any of you want to know me better....read this book. You'll get inside my head.

A quirkyalone is one who:
1. has the ability to enjoy one's aloneness, whether single or not.
2. is a hopeless romantic who will not give up one's ideal of relationships. Being a romantic doesn't infer that someone is soft or disillusioned...it means that one holds out for ideals, even when society at large says they don't exist. A quirkyalone recognizes the possibility to romancing oneself and the world in general.
3. does not date "just to date", but chooses to hold out (for long periods of time, if necessary) for relationships that meet their standards of connection and meaning
4. embraces one's uniqueness and refuses to mold oneself just to fit in
5. refuses to bow to society's insistance that coupledom is the only good and normal option
6. believes in the concept of soul mates...and that a person can have many of them (both romantic and platonic) in a lifetime
7. is introspective to the degree that one spends consistent time alone in efforts to know oneself fully and completely. "Some people might say that examining one's life in such detail is neurotic, but for us it's a part of mental health, part of living a life of integrity--keeping our actions consistent with our beliefs and ourselves."
8. constantly searches for stimulation (alone and with others........emotional, intellectual, pleasurable); and is not content without it
9. instead of sacrificing one's social constellation for the one all-consuming individual, thrives on connections with friends.....has significant OTHERS
10. is confidant to be themselves and is confidant enough to let others be themselves...instead of letting differences seem threatening
11. while unmarried/uncoupled, focuses on being INDIVIDUAL...not SINGLE


One of my favorite passages in the book is the following:

"We're all seeking that special person who is right for us. But if you've been through enough relationships, you begin to suspect there's no right person, just different flavors of wrong. Why is this? Because you yourself are wrong in some way, and you seek out partners who are wrong in some complimentary way. But it takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn't until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems--the ones that make you truly who you are--that you're ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you're looking for. You're looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person--someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, "This is the problem I want to have."

Wow. I could've never said it more clearly.

A fresh perspective on pain

I came across this song a year or two ago....and it spoke to me where I was. It's speaking to me again about my perspective on my circumstances.

.....Less like tearing,more like building
Less like captive, more like willing
Less like breakdown, more like surrender
Less like haunting, more like remember....

Less like a prison, more like my room
It's less like a casket, more like a womb
Less like dying, more like transcending
Less like fear, less like an ending........

.......And in your hands the pain and hurt Look less like scars and more like Character.....

I may be desperate, but I'm no Michelle Phiffer

A major part of every week for me is sending out resumes. It's a very time consuming, mind-numbing process, but I do it with relentless passion. Well, it's something similar to passion, anyway. I send off so many of these things that, quite frankly, I can't always keep up with what I've sent where. So, last week, when I got a call from the state Department of Youth Development, I had to be reminded of the position I had applied for. "Youth Care Worker". Sounded right up my alley, so to speak. (along with a pack of no-good stray cats and a grody Chinese restaurant) With enthusiastic friendliness, the woman I spoke to set up an interview....and that was that.

I had been instructed to show up at an establishment called a "Youth Center". I drove through ghettoed (made up word) outskirts of town for 45 minutes until I found this place. Normally before going on an interview, I'll research the respective business/organization so that I know what I'm dealing with. However, I had been unable to find any information on this place via the internet. As soon as I approached the barbwired perimeter of what was OBVIOUSLY a prison, I wished my research had been more fruitful. Funny how the woman I spoke to numerous times on the phone had failed to mention the phrase "Correctional Facility". Giggles all around. I parked and then sat in my car for several minutes; debating whether or not I wanted to go inside. I quickly convinced myself that I didn't drive all the way out there for nothing.

The guards at the entry gate laughed at me as I walked up. Seriously....they laughed at me. They both spoke to me like I was a 6 year old selling Girl Scout cookies. I felt like an idiot, but I didn't let it discourage me. Job interviews bring out an uncharacteristic perkiness in me. A big smile goes well with a dark suit; that's what I always say. My three interviewers seemed initially pleased with the smile and the suit, but I realized in due time that their warmth was actually heat seeping out from the fires of hell that surrounded the building.

The beginnings of our conversation were padded with lots of Social Worky terms. The position of "Youth Care Worker" was one that would better the lives of young people; establish life-changing relationships; and be filled with lots of challenging, yet rewarding obstacles. Before detailed specifics were mentioned, the director asked me "Do you want to continue with the rest of the interview?" I knew right then that it was going to be all downhill from there.

Job Description: The facility currently houses several hundred young men between the ages of 14 and 21...many of them are murderers and violent sex offenders. I'd be working in their "dormitories", sometimes all night long, one-on-one and in groups with these guys. "Because you're a young woman," I was told, "these men will try anything to undermind you. They'll masturbate in front of you, make vulgar threats, and sometimes they'll even hit you. How do you feel about that?" My initial gut reaction was to admit that I actually enjoy a little masturbation for my benefit every once and a while, but I refrained. Instead, I dropped my attempts to sell myself all together and told them that the job sounded anything but good. I've always fantasized about screaming to authority figures..."Take this job and shove it!!", but again....I refrained. Besides, an angry blurt like that would really only make sense in a quitting scenario.

As I left the building and walked the half-mile stretch of gravel road back to my car, I laughed out loud to myself. I imagined that my interviewers had found our meeting just as amusing as I had. After spending 20 seconds in my presence, it would be apparent to ANYONE that I was, in no way, cut out for that job. Anyone who thought otherwise would be in need of a check-up from the neck up. Perhaps if I were the big scary butch type.....but even then, it would be the makings of a disaster. Apparently, these people are desperate for employees, because they called me yesterday to schedule my drug screening. Needless to say, I gave them permission to scratch me off their list of victims. I can't decide if the prospect reminds me more of a cheap porn flick or a Lifetime version of "Dangerous Minds".

Outrage

Sometimes, when viewing current fashion trends, I feel like an overly-strict mother. I'll internally spout various critiques...passionately exclaiming the asininity of certain pieces.

There's something immensely creepy about little girls wearing things that say "Flirt" or "Sexy" or "Boy Toy". Phrases like this give girls the impression that they should somehow strive to be those things just to get boys' attention. It fosters a huge detour from self-respect....and (for boys), one from respect for females. "Sexy" should not be part of any child's vocabulary, anyway. If you aren't old enough to have sex, then you don't need to know what sexy is. And, while maybe less creepy, it annoys the hell outta me when grown women wear this crap. The sight of a 35 year old woman wearing a tee that says "Spicy" or with the word "Juicy" on her ass makes me
want to: a. Trip her ,b. Recommend that she visit a physician ,or, c. Eat fajitas.

My girlfriends and I have discussed the troubling changes in little girls' clothing. When we were in elementary and middle school, we still dressed like....little girls.....which we were, technically. We didn't wear jeans that rode so low that our cracks showed, push up bras with low cut tanks, or ruffly skirts that were too short to sit down in. It wasn't because myself and all of my current friends weren't trendy at the time; it was because those things didn't exist as options for our wardrobes. Stores didn't encourage us to dress like women back then. We couldn't have purchased those things even if we wanted to. We all thought it was cool to wear oversized tees with Disney characters on them, palazzo pants, embroidered vests (oh.....the horror!!), and plaid polos. When did our society decide to exploit the innocence of young girls?

I think I'll take my favorite pair of sweat pants to an airbrush shop, and have "Cynical Bitch" sprayed on the ass. Wouldn't that be like SO totally sexy?

A close friend of mine has recently been struggling with a life-long syndrome of second-place-ed-ness (that feeling that someone else is always a little better than you...you're never the first choice or anyone's first priority). I feel you, babe. Whoever said that being first isn't important was a fucking moron. He apparently never had to deal with the kick in the stomach pain of being brushed aside or looked over. Well, Mr. Wise Quote...it fucking hurts. So fuck you.

Yeah, so, my neighbor and I had a charming conversation this morning in our underwear.

Just when I think maybe I AM kinda sorta of the smart type, I go and do something stupid. Needing to drop some items in the mailbox, I stepped out onto the porch in my jammies. My roomate's Down Syndrome-stricten kitty runs out whenever given the chance, so I pulled the door to the jamb as I exited to keep him inside. Unfortunately, I pulled too efficiently. The damn thing locks automatically, and I immediately realized what I had done. Ironically, we used to keep a spare key (for this very reason) on the porch. But two weeks ago, our house was robbed, and we rethought the idea.

When spouting explictatives didn't seem to be helping, I had to make a plan. The only one that seemed logical was to wake up my neighbor to use his phone. We all know that our pajamas aren't often presentable to the public. If they were, they wouldn't be pajamas at all. Today wasn't as bad as normal. My main concern was my see-through pajama pants. No, they aren't SUPOSSED to be see-through. They're just old and worn and SUPER comfy in their tissue-paper thinness. So, I rang the neighbor's bell....barefooted, hair unbrushed, and my cartoony panties in complete, unsheilded view. Having been awakened, the (very) cute neighbor was in similar shape with a pair of boxers. We both pretended not to feel awkward as we talked for the first time ever in his living room. I don't know whether to be thankful or regrettful that I hadn't worn my lace nightie to bed....maybe I could have gotten a free breakfast out of it.

if only throwing it over my shoulder would help

My parents have asked the same exact question at the beginning of EVERY meal my mother has EVER prepared...."Does it need salt?" As dishes are being served and plates are being helped, I await with annoyance to hear it. They both wait until I...or whoever else is present...have taken a first bite before belting out this inevitable inquiry.

This annoys me on several different levels. First of all, I RARELY add salt to anything after it's prepared. So, my answer to them is always indifferent. They've never accepted this as fact, for some reason. Secondly, it makes me want to punch them in the teeth that they can't just taste the damn food on their own and determine for themselves what seasoning is needed. Thirdly, no matter what anyone else's opinions are, they always add salt, anyway....and always before they've taken a single bite.

I know nobody cares, but I needed to vent. This is one of the many issues I'll bring up when I finally have my day on Oprah to blame everything on my upbringing.

I wonder if he thinks I'm cute

I'm currently experiencing something new. Actually, I've been experiencing lots of somethings new lately....new emotions, new fears, new doubts, new hurts, new challenges.....

But, this particular something new is more of a revelation, I suppose. I'm a little bit betwixted about it. Bewildered. Confused. Muddled. Perturbed, even. I can't seem to wrap my brain around this. Having just relocated, my social life has drastically changed; as has almost every other aspect of my life. In the (almost) three years I lived in Dallas, I made many, many friends. I also was lucky enough to recreate and strengthen friendships from my past. Close ones. True ones. Some of them belonging to a caliber of relationship that I was previously ignorant to. I've been more thankful of this than I can possibly express. These people have nurtured me, loved me, accepted me, held me accountable, made me laugh, pissed me off, partied with me, and struggled with me. I'm not saying that all all of my confidants are in Dallas...God was spread them out all over (my new location included). When you're in the midst of good relationships, surrounded by folks you enjoy and respect, it's easy to forget that not EVERYONE is like them. But, if everyone was, then what would be so special about them, anyway??

Socially....I think I'm pretty damn good. I've always made friends easily. Historically, I've adapted quickly and efficiently to lots of different types of people/groups. And, I LOVE meeting new people....expanding my relationship base. But recently I've felt like a 13 year old again (sing it loud, Alannis). Because I haven't met many new people on my own, I've been attempting to mesh myself with the friends of friends...just for the sake of being social. I do it, and I put on a face as best I can. But it just feels so awkward. Or, more honestly, I feel awkward. At first, I was kinda hard on myself about this. It initially felt like rejection. What I've decided is that it IS about rejection, but I'm the one who's doing the rejecting.

I've said this before, and I'll say it many more times: I'm too old for playmates. In my "adult" life, such as it is, I simply do not have the time or the desire to devote any portion of my schedule or being to anyone who is not going to enrich my life. And I'm not going to give you a second thought if you don't want the same from me. I no longer (thank GOD!!) feel the need to impress you or sell myself. I refuse to immesh myself in a continual, self-recyled scene of "How many guys can I get to like me?" I want to know you and to be known, and that process involves more than just discussing our dating lives. I want our conversations to begin with phrases other than "Guess who text-messaged me last night?" I would prefer NOT to regress to 11th grade behavior in every social situation.

Is all this too much to ask? If it is, then I suppose I'm destined to be lonely. The part that confuses me is that I'm a little suprised that so many people over the age of 21 seem so content residing in their high school mentalities. It amazes me. And why have some of the very people you were actually IN high school with still there while others have moved on? For those of you in my life who have, indeed, moved on and grown up (and you know who you are)....I applaud you. Let's grow old together.

Wet Sheets....But not how you think.

Have you ever seen any of Ellen DeGeneres' stand-up? I saw her do a bit once about "the worst thing". You know how people refer to certain things as "the worst thing".....be it a paper cut, or getting unmentionable hairs caught in zippers, or losing a finger in your blender while making smoothies....

To me, one of "the worst things" is not being able to sleep. I've had many nights recently where I'm exhausted, but can do nothing to propell myself into slumber. My mind will be racing through an indistinguishable number of unpleasant things, I can't get comfortable, I'm too hot, my cat won't stop licking her ass, the motion-detector light outside won't stay off, and when I finally manage to drift off, disturbing nightmares take their course like a Twilight Zone marathon. Yes. THAT'S "the worst thing".

I was having one of these last night, and I lay there trying to convince myself that it really could be worse. I tried recalling other nights from my past that had been awful and neverending. You know where I'm going with this, right? There's a story coming.....

Years ago, while spending a summer in Nepal, I spent a very long 2 days in Chitwan National Park. Chitwan offers year-round safari excursions. A small group of us got a really good deal on a weekend trip because it was smack in the middle of Monsoon season.....the slow season for the safari industry, apparently. Getting to Chitwan was an adventure in itself. We chartered a rickety bus that drove us at extremely fast speeds up and down cliff-lined roads. After what felt like an eternity, we reached a small village backdropped by a muddy river. We were instructed to haul our belongings to the riverbank to wait for our ride. Before long, two wide canoes rowed up. Our ride, indeed. In the canoes we traveresed through crocodile-infested waters to an overgrown little island, the Chitwan Resort Island.

Don't let the word "resort" mislead you. The entire peice of land was, as I said, completely overgrown with dense jungle. There was a dining hall which, suprisingly, served excellent food unlike any other I've tasted. There were various staff/administration buildings. And along the edge of rain washed stone paths, were the guest huts, wherein the origin of my story resides. I'll get back to these later.

We arrived at Chitwan on a Friday afternoon, and the resort manager was very eager to get our adventure started. He was a plump little Indian man with a pipe cleaner mustache who, unlike the rest of the staff, spoke very clear English. He enthusiastically informed us of the wildlife we would possibly see during our stay. Rhinos, sloth bears, and tigers were all there on the island but often hid during Monsoon season....which was the reason for our cheap accomodation prices. We were all excited the the prospect of seeing such creatures, but the rest of our conversation with the manager made me more than a little nervous. I jokingly asked how likely it was that I would be mauled and eaten by a tiger during my stay. He didn't catch on that I meant it to be a joke. Being a devout Buddhist, he insisted that only the VERY lucky would ever endure such a death. He himself dreamed of dying at the mercy of an animal so that he would return as royalty in his next life. Such a death "should be prayed for, not feared", he said. This wasn't really the reassuring answer I was hoping for.

Our first activity was a hike through the jungle. We were led single-file along a dirt trail. At the beginning and at the end of the line was a guide; a young man wearing nothing but shorts and armed with nothing but a not-so-big stick. As we walked, they would stop every now and then to point out fresh, gigantic claw marks in the mud. "See? See deees? Sloth bear joost mek", one would say as he bared his teeth and dug his pretend claws into the air. This made for the most nervewracking stroll I could ever imagine. I barely reached our destination without crapping my pants. The rest of my evening was spent on the back of an obstinate elephant.....another element to this adventure which I won't elaborate on at this point.

By the time the sun went down and we retreated to our little cabin/huts, we were exhausted and filthy. We hadn't spent but a few minutes in our rooms when we arrived, so we weren't completely knowledgable of what we were in for. Our room was about 12 feet across and 15 feet long. The outside walls were constructed of screened windows from the waist up, and two twin beds were pushed up against them. A small, doorless bathroom could be entered at one end. There was no electricity, and all we had to see by was one small oil lantern.

My roomate and I took turns rinsing off under the cold showerhead....in the dark...accompanied by various lizards, frogs, and other crawlies (I even saw a tarantula and several scorpians). Alarmingly, we found that within minutes of drying off, we were drenched again. The humid jungle air was unlike anything we had experienced before. The atmosphere was so thick with moisture that it was difficult to breathe. Our belongings were so damp, we could literally ring water out of them. The rough sheets on our beds were the same way.

We sat awake for hours....talking and listening to the many sounds of wildlife just outside the windows. To my horror, the screens didn't do a tremendous job of keeping the bugs out. It was too dark to actually see what was biting my neck and inching its way up my shorts, and the not seeing was most disturbing part. We pulled our beds away from the walls so that they were joined in the center of the floor space. We thought it would possibly give us some refuge from the bugs, but we thought wrong. My roomate eventually started snoring, and I suffered through the rest of night alone. I felt as if I was lying in a vat of warm pudding. The buzzing and hissing of insects that rung in my ears was interrupted every now and then by a faint growl or moan and the rustling of tree branches. I itched so badly I worried that I would scratch holes in my skin. I was disgusted, uncomfortable, and terrified. I don't know that I've felt that close to Hell many other times in my life.

Obviously, I lived through it all. I think I even managed to sleep for 5 or 10 mintues before the sun came up. And it's always helpful to have a memory to rely on when you ask yourself "Could it possibly be any worse than this?".......because it always can be.

Thoughts of my own Dreamcoat

I was flipping through the channels late last night while lying in bed when I came across the movie Pleasantville. There was nothing better on, so I decided to watch it for a while. I had actually forgotten how much I like that movie. It's quite poignant, really.

I'm sure some of you have never seen it, so I'll briefly explain the bulk. The story takes place in a black and white Leave It to Beaver type of town. As the characters discover parts of themselves that have previously been ignored or denied, the gray shades of thier bodies and clothing miraculously change into brilliant, life-like colors.

As I watched the movie, I tried relating it to myself. I began to wonder, if I were black and white, what would bring out MY colors? What part of me have I not yet allowed to come alive? Actually, the answer came to me quite easily. Anyway, I think the symbolism of this provides a unique perspective on life. Maybe the question that I asked myself is one that we should all ask. All of us have fears or hestitations that have caused us to restrict ourselves from certain emotions or experiences. Perhaps if embraced these things, we would all wake up one morning, look into the mirror, and see that we've been enhanced with tecnicolor.

An Obituary for Part of My Soul

I think it's pretty safe for me to say that, up to this point, many people in my life would refer to me as someone who "follows her heart". I've even referred to myself in such cheesy terminology. Those of you who don't know me may have read my sentimental entries about how I've traveled and met interesting people and experienced new things all because I've been brave enough to do so.....yada yada yada. Yes, I think there is something to be said of all that so-called bravery. But sitting here, nearly on the brink of my 26th birthday, I've come to wonder what exactly was so brave about it all.

Bravery only shows itself when circumstances demand it. Nobody claims to be brave when things are peachy. Peachiness just doesn't require anything so noble. In my life, a lot of the circumstances that have birthed the need of a brave attitude have been created by my own decisions. Some would call these "decisions", "mistakes", but for philosophical reasons, I'll refrain. My heart has proved itself to be fairly unreliable as an advisor. Like a drooling puppy, I've followed it into some very treacherous places, both geographical and otherwise. At times, I've followed so blindly, in fact, that I've completely abandoned all other sources of logic in the process. Some of these travels have led me to incredible scenic lookouts. Even the ones that have led me elsewhere I've come to terms with, because, as I've made clear in my writings, I believe every experience has its purpose. The methods of the past have gotten me this far. They've worked as well as they could have. But, at this point, I'm still not where I want to be.

Webster defines bravery as "mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty". Based on this definition, one could apply it to various aspects of one's life. I, personally, have applied it in many ways over the years. Typically, it has been used in congruence with the concept of "following my heart". It seems very traditional and poetic to link the two together. But I'm now venturing to apply "bravery" with practicality. Doesn't sound as romantic, does it?

Since thinking with my heart hasn't yet led me to where I thought it would by now, I'm going to (try) and let that part of myself die. Don't let the sounds of this depress you!!! This is not a death to be mourned. Maybe I shouldn't even call it a "death". It's more of a.......a transformation. I don't want the part of me that rushes after rosy-tinted ideals and what I "FEEL" is best to be totally buried. As a close friend recently reminded me....that's part of what makes me who I am. So my mental project is going to be one that meshes that softness with the sturdiness of what's practical. Don't ask me the details of how I'm going to accomplish this, and don't ask me to define what I mean by "practical". I'm still working that over, and I think it will vary with particular situations.

Its practicality that seems to demand the most bravery (to me) right now. When I think about the people in my life whom I most admire....people who have what I want to have....they've all made safe, logical, mature decisions that have led them to their current circumstances. Unfairly, I've secretly judged them for that in the past. I've convinced myself over and over that "my" way of living life was so much more life-like. But perhaps I was never being brave by doing things differently. Maybe I've simply been too scared to commit to anything.

Stay tuned to see what all this is going to look like. I'm actually curious myself.

Sink your teeth into a jelly donut for goodness sake!

Have you ever noticed that ALL vampires are lean and stylish? Why is that, exactly?

The leanness could certainly be attributed to thier high protein, low carb diet. But surely they consume something other than blood. I don't guess I've ever seen a vampire eat a cheeseburger and fries, but I think it's plain unrealistic to assume they don't have other cravings.

The stylish factor is a little more puzzling. First of all, I've never seen a vampire with a real job. Vampires are never accountants or school teachers or construction workers. Do they ALL come from hundreds of years of family money? I doubt it. How can they afford such nice wardrobes? It seems like nowadays, they'd be wearing crap leftovers from generations past. We all hated having to wear hand-me-downs from 2nd cousins, but it would really suck to be stuck in moth-eaten scraps from 1865. Maybe it's just that they stick mostly to black....classic pieces that stay up to date.

What I really want to see is a fat ass vampire with a comb-over and sweatpants; channel surfing and scratching his balls. Isn't that what we ALL want?

If you aren't convinced already, I really WAS a nerd

It's not often that I purchase DVDs. In fact, I own no more than 8 or 10. Some of them I bought spontaneously; wheeled in by sale prices, and some of them were given to me by various people for various reasons. While discussing the ever-controversial subject of funny movies several nights ago, my cousin announced that he wanted to buy The Life Aquatic. We were all pretty jazzed by the idea, so the complete nerdy bunch of us piled into 2 vehicles (it was a stellar event) and headed to Best Buy.

Because, as I said, I don't often shop for these types of things, I wasn't really aware of the myriad of options that are now sold in DVD form. We wandered the aisles for 30 minutes and took turns pointing out the titles we spotted. I saw movies and sitcoms and cartoons that have resided only in my memory for years and years past. Someone had a story to share for just about every selection that was picked up. Two of us decided that this memorialization of our childhoods was like a trip to DisneyWorld...only quicker and without the long lines. Doogie Howser,M.D.; a post-Star Wars Ewok Movie; Pee Wee's Playhouse.... these were just a few of the ones we joked about. There was one DVD set that stood out above all the rest. Its beauty was illuminated by an imaginary spotlight. As soon as I grabbed The Quantum Leap collection, my cousin and I started laughing. Yes, there was a story to tell.....

Quantum Leap was my favorite TV show when I was in middle school. (I guess it was on between 1991 and 1994.) If you weren't fortunate enough to have watched it, the story line revolved around a scientist who traveled around in time in efforts to change things that went wrong in peoples' lives. It starred the chivalrous and handsome Scott Bakula. He was in his late 30's at the time....had an unfashionable, shaggy hairstyle with a grey streak in front. In my juvenile eyes, he was manly beauty personified. So obsessed with him was I that I insisted on watching not only the new weekly episodes, but the reruns that came on every evening on USA. This is where the sick part comes in: somewhere along the way, I decided that I needed even MORE of this show in my daily life. I drug out my boombox and some blank audio casettes. Propping it up in front of the television, I would record my favorite episodes, then listen to them with headphones when I went to bed at night. My entire family made fun of me mercilessly for doing this, but it didn't stop me. They finally forbade me to watch the reruns alltogether. Good move on their part. I eventually moved on and focused my obsessions on people more attainable. Well, people more tangible, anyway. I even stopped calling my pillow "Scotty".

As infatuated as I was with Scott Bakula, he wasn't my first celebrity crush. The first was Davy Jones of the Monkees. Next was David Hasslehoff in his Nightrider days. After that came Matthew Broderick. You know what would be interesting?.....Knowing all the celebrities that had crushes on ME. What a list that would be.

Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part 3

Sadly, this one took place in a grocery store, too. What is it about refrigerated foods that makes a man innapropriate?

Me: Searching for a selection of chicken. Minding my own business. Wearing a shirt with two large, embroidered stars just above the left breast (my breast...not the chicken's breast).

Him: Mid-forties goob. Standing stationary and alone at the end of an aisle. Strangely unoccupied. Hands in pockets. Staring blankly at me.
Looks intently in the general direction of the stars and says to me, "Are you a super-star, or are you a police deputy?", then breaks into obnoxious laughter.

Me: Feeling awkward as ass...not sure how to respond. "Well, I'm not a deputy...." I hear myself emit an unsure, forced laugh.

The man continues to stare and laugh. I break eye contact as quickly as possible and walk in the other direction....the man still laughing as I break into a run.....

One of my many pathetic preoccupations.....

After moving to Baton Rouge, I went back to Dallas for 3 weeks to work....and to avoid the reality of my move. I'm back now. Glad to be back, actually. Avoidance has been had; and has elapsed into content acceptance. Anyway, it saddens me to admit how much I missed my kitty cat while I was gone. I suppose it makes sense to acknowledge the absence of your shadow. For three weeks straight, no matter where I was, I sat on the toliet without hearing her whiny meowy begging for entrance to the bathroom. I slept every night without her heavy warmth on my tummy. I ate multiple bowls of cereal without wincing at the sight of her paw in my milk.

Towards the end of my trip, I placed a picture of her (laying on the couch, holding the remote in her paws) on my dashboard just to cut the pain of missing her. I started to get nervous that she would hate me upon my return. My roomate had informed me that Bridget had adapted quite well in the new house. She was playing cheerfully with the other animals and socializing without hesitation. I wondered if she would take one look at me upon my return and display a "who the hell are you?" attitude. I wondered if she would ignore me....just for spite (as if cats really have the mental capacity to do such a thing).

Finally, I decided my fears were unreasonable, and I focused on a delightful daydream of our reunion: Backdropped by a green field and surrounded by yellow and purple wildflowers, we ran slowly towards each other. I was barefoot; dressed in pastel linen; my hair flowing behind me; lost in a slow-motion sequence with my arms outstretched. Bridget sported a flower...mysteriously stationed behind one ear; also caught in a slow-motion sprint. At this pace, her off-center run is exaggerated to resemble a 1950's Disney cartoon in which Goofy's legs get ridiculously tangled until he eventually loses control and plummets off a small cliff. I sometimes expect this to happen when she runs, but she always manages to pull through okay.

Well...the reality wasn't as pleasant as the daydream, but it was certainly heartwarming enough to satisfy me. It has been just as though I never left to begin with. We are, once again, joined at the heart and at the hip. I have only one complaint. I left an innocent kitty and returned to a pre-teen. Bridget and Webber (the icky boy cat) have apparently become "boyfriend and girlfriend". Their relationship is not of a sexual nature. Neither one has the parts for that type of activity. However, they do follow each other around and engage in playful chases and wrestling matches. Whenever Bridget hears the "jingle jingle" of his collar, she leaps in front of the mirror and licks the fur on her face smooth...pinches her cheeks to make them rosy. I caught her tracing "Bridget Loves Webber", in bubble letters, in her kitty litter yesterday. I wouldn't be suprised if they soon exchange friendship braclets. They grow up so quickly, don't they?