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?

Life:The Alternate Version

I used to have a plan. Well, it wasn't really a plan. It was more of an assumption. I assumed that life would go a certain way for me; that "things" would fall into place just as I imagined they would; that everything would be perfect and easy and lovely. That sounds like the fantasy of a spoiled, upper-class "society girl" (as my mother would say), doesn't it? Ironic. There was nothing in my childhood or adolescence that conditioned me to believe that life should be easy.

I was always loved...always supported...always respected. But there were always immense worries. Life without worry ended when I turned 10. Then, suddenly, the carelessness of childhood couldn't keep up with me. It grew heavier and heavier as I tried to pull it along with me; and, before I knew it, the cord snapped and it was left only as a memory. I worried about my father's health, my mother's happiness, my older brothers' increased responsibilities, what would happen if I got sick, how we would pay the electricity bill, how I would ever make it to college......there was always something. I suppose that in the midst of worry, the best relief I could find was in fantasizing about the way my life would be....eventually.

The concern I mentioned about making it to college was founded by financial insufficienties. When I was in the seventh grade, I visited the smalltown private college that I would one day attend. Strange as it sounds, I decided during that visit at age 12 that I was going to college there. Looking back, I know exactly how that decision was made. The life on that campus seemed the epitome of the fantasy I had already created for my future. Everyone looked so damn happy to be there. The buildings were clean and spilling over with positive activity. The grounds were primped and manicured. It was small enough to be cozy and familiar, yet large enough be exciting. I knew older kids who were going to school there, and I knew adults who were graduates. They all seemed to have it all together: pretty marriages, comfortable lives....the very things I wanted. They very things I knew I "deserved" could be found at that college. I just knew it. And....unfortunately, all this perfection came with an absorbitant price tag attached. Even at 12 years old, I realized that. So my main goal for the next six years was to earn my way there. It worked....I made the grades and got the aid I needed. And, inevitably, all those years of built-up expectations contributed to my fantasy.

When I graduated from highschool and prepared for my new journey to begin, this was the schedule I planned on seeing through: I would meet the "ONE" my freshman year (and neither of us would have the desire or the need to date anyone else), we would get engaged by the beginning of our senior year, we would marry immediately after graduating college, find fulfilling and lucrative jobs simultaneously.......babies would follow 2-3 years after.....perfection unfolding over and over and over in the same cycle I felt I had witnessed so many times.

So set was I on this schedule that I propelled myself into its pursuit my very first week at college. There was a certain swing on campus that was referred to as "the engagement swing". Actually, it was probably referred to as something entirely different, but, nonetheless, it was known for the many proposals that had taken place there. (Apparently there was an abundance of uncreative and unpassionate boys who recycled the dullness of many losers who had come before them.) My first week, I met a boy. I can see his face, but I can't even remember his name. He was baseball player. Had a cajun accent. Was significantly shorter than I. One night our walk together led us to the legendary swing. He insisted we sit on it. I found the whole experience to be incredibly romantic. He wouldn't possibly ask me to sit on the swing with him only days after our meeting if he didn't already know he wanted to marry me!!! I could hardly believe how quickly my plan was falling into place.

After that night, I think I only had several more encounters with that guy. But I wasn't disillusioned...oh, no! I could write for days about the many short-lived (and very, very, short-lived) romances I had over the next several years. I was convinced that any guy who showed an interest in me should at least be considered as the end-all, be-all of my romantic life. I guess I always feared that nothing better would come along. But the majority of the guys I chose to give a chance were remarkably the same in one way: they were boring as hell. Boring to me, anyway. Only a few ever "got" me, and I doubt I truly "got" many of them. Needless to say, I eventually accepted that my little plan might be altered by default.

I graduated college four years ago, and my life has made it clear that it is most definitely not going to follow any schedule that I may have for it. obstinate bastard. The funny thing is...I know quite a few girls whose pretty little plans did work out just as they planned. In fact, I ran into one just yesterday whom I hadn't seen in years. Many of my former classmates did, in fact, end up marrying boys they started dating freshman year. Many of them have kids. Many of them are living cliche' comfortable lives in the same town we went to college in. They have what I always thought I wanted. And, as it turns out, I truly feel sorry for them.

I've traveled. I've lived on my own....in several different cities. I've dated many men and have learned a great deal about myself (and about what I want) in the process. I've experienced hurts that both numbed and wounded me. I've healed. I've met a countless number of interesting people. I've laughed more than I've deserved to. I've held a random assortment of jobs that have fostered an impressive collection of skills and stories to tell. I've experienced God in ways that I never dreamed possible.

And none of this has happened inside the perfection I just knew awaited me.

My mother recently expressed her dissapointment in the fact that I'm not who I was when I started college. I'm elated by that same fact. I can imagine no greater tragedy than to be stuck exactly where I started (mentally....geographically......). My life was never meant to be easy and predictable. I'm too complex a person to be meant for a such a life. It would bore me. It would stunt my growth. It would dull my spirit. I do believe that the things I wanted eight years ago still lay ahead for me. But they don't look the way they used to. They look seasoned. They look worn. They look scarred.

They look better.