Pollyannaish

Dang...this water is freezing!!

2007-02-15T13:19:00.000-08:00

Okay. Deep breath. Inhale...exhale. I'm coming back, guys. Just give me some time to get used to it. This is like stepping into a cold pool for the first time in the Spring. My pasty white legs have yet to see the sun and I'm feeling a little self-concious. You'll see me again soon. Just be sure to bring your sunglasses.

Like, Merry Christmas and stuff

2006-12-21T07:45:00.000-08:00

Sadly, my beloved has gone home for Christmas. Well, its actually a happy thing that he's gone home, but I'm selfish and would rather have him here. The opportunity to sit around in our pajamas watching old Christmas movies and doing other "couply" things has been retracted and I have been left to spend the Holiday working extra hours at the mall (since I'll have a week off from my "real" job), eating dry turkey with my parents, and restraining Bridget from repeatedly knocking all the ornaments off the Christmas tree.

I know that entire paragraph sounded like a scroogy complaint, but in truth, I feel fairly content about "my" Christmas this year. The past couple of weeks have been CRAZY at work, but it's all been a good crazy. We've distributed extra food to hundreds of families, and about 300 children who may have had nothing at all from Santa this year are now getting pretty decent gifts. I've felt like Santa myself as I've personally delivered big boxes of toys to my clients. It won't come as a surprise to you that I've had my moments of cynicism throughout all of this. I've encountered people who are ungrateful and probably even undeserving of what they've received, and I've had to shake off the "Bah-Humbug" spirit as it has bitten at my heels. But, overall, I've seen a lot of joy and humbleness...and THAT has humbled ME. I keep reminding myself that despite the sometimes nasty attitudes of adults, there are children who are benefiting from our hard work. And THAT is all that really matters.

And you know what else makes me feel better?
I visit this site every now and then and imagine my sweetie there...and how could that not be a happy thing? Besides, I never tire of seeing a pervy Singaporian Santa Claus riding a Christmas train. Apparently Christmas in the Tropics has him even more excited than the kiddos. And, my much-loved readers, check out "Create Your Own Tropical Flower" for a fat slice of happy! I'll warn you...this little virtual craft is scarily addictive and will turn your brain to mush in no time flat. Not only is it fun to look at other flowers that have already been created by people all over the world...it's SO much fun to make your own. I made about 10 in one sitting (brain-mushy afterward, indeed). I wish you could see one I made, appropriately named Pollyanna, just for you guys, but the site won't allow me to post the link. I guess you'll just have to scroll through all the 2,252 flowers that are already on the tree. Let me know how that turns out.

I doubt I'll get another chance to write before Christmas, so have a merry one! I'm off to officially start my vacation with a long nap!

Love and the Dark

2006-12-19T17:03:00.000-08:00

Have you heard about "DARK" restaurants? I first heard about them a few weeks ago on "60 Minutes" and I was completely fascinated by the concept. This slowly-growing trend in fine dining started in Europe, but it's making its way around.

More or less, it works like this: When you visit one of these restaurants, you are shown menus in a lobby area. You make your decisions and place your order before you ever go to your table. Once your order is placed, you are instructed to make a line with your party...holding onto the hand or shoulders of the person in front of you. (I suppose you could even do it locomotion style, with hands on the hips.) Your host or hostess leads the line into the PITCH BLACK dining room. You are seated safely, of course, but your entire experience once entering the dining room is in total darkness. No candles on the tables. No moonlight peeking through the curtains. No light coming from under the door of the kitchen. TOTAL darkness.

The coolest part about it? Most of these restaurants hire servers that are seeing-impaired, which, for obvious reasons, makes perfect sense. I can almost always get excited about something that provides opportunity and dignity to people who are disadvantaged or disabled.

The story I watched was very amusing because it had been filmed in "night vision". All of the patrons struggled through their meal, dropping food all over their laps, losing their spoons inside soup bowls, and pouring wine with extreme caution so as to not spill the entire bottle. Nobody was sure of what they were eating; or even HOW to eat what they were eating. And all of this while the blind servers zipped around with ease. It looked like great fun.

This one is in Canada somewhere.

After the meal, everyone at the restaurant talked about what a sensory experience it had been. Everything smelled better and tasted better. Because nobody could see them, anyway, lots of people used their hands to eat and raved about how good it felt to touch the food they were eating...that it changed everything. And it made sense to me. Normally when we eat, we don't take the time to enjoy our food. Yes, we can taste it and smell it and touch it if we want to...but we can also SEE it. And we get distracted by the SEEING.

For those of us who are lucky enough to properly working senses...we don't always think that much about them. We can see and hear and touch and taste and smell...and those incredible powers go unnoticed and unappreciated because we're so used to having them. We take them for granted. What's so interesting to me is how we can rely too much on ONE sense, inadvertently allowing the other senses to weaken in their time of underuse. The reverse is even more interesting. In the absence of one sense, the others often grow stronger to compensate for the loss.

Strangely enough, all of this made me think about love. Or, to be clearer: it made me think about being IN love; experiencing love that is great and pure and noble. SENSES are comparable to EMOTIONS, and the exchange works the same way. One emotion can fortify as others fade...and vice versa.

I've been in many "relationships" that had nothing to do with love. Not REAL love, anyway...although I didn't always realize it at the time. In the absence of love, there were plenty of other things to take its place. Fear. Hesitation. Disappointment. Mistrust. Artificiality. Uncertainty. (Just to name a few.) I was always so busy feeling these other things, I didn't have time to notice that love was missing. I couldn't have understood it in my state of preoccupation.

What I know now is that when LOVE, as it is meant to be, is present...all that other "stuff" disappears. There's no room for it in a healthy relationship because love is just THAT big. It covers everything...every little nook and cranny and hollow space...and its dominion pushes anything that contradicts it out of the picture.

I'm sure the rest of you already knew this. I never did. Not really. It's as if I've finally learned how to see. Or, maybe...I've finally LOST my sight.(?) I think I lost track of my illustration somewhere along the way as I've been writing! Either way...you get the point. And what's more important...I get the point, and I'm blessed for the change in vision. Meal time will never be the same.

I guess if I have time to look at T-Shirts, I have time to blog, right?

2006-12-14T12:37:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. You're wondering where the hell I've been. Well, I've been swamped at work, that's where I've been! My blogging hobby would greatly benefit from having access to a computer at home...and all that time I spend sleeping in the wee hours of the morning could be spent writing, instead. No such luck. My computer is archaic, at best, and can no longer serve me the way a good computer should. So, for the time being, you must suffer the inconvenience of my infrequency. I offer you my deepest regrets.

On another note...you'll recall my recent story about the "Interpretive Dance Joke" at work, right? Well, I was visiting my favorite source of T-Shirt wear the other day when I found this.

Because I knew they'd get a kick out of it, I passed the link around to my coworkers. After what I'm sure turned out to be a great deal of tweaking and somewhat illegal graphic manipulation, my friend (and co-worker), wandered into my office and posted this sign:

Please do not call 1-800-Dance4U at this time. I'm all booked up for the Holiday season. Feel free to try after the new year begins.

Make-Believe, "Snake-Bereave"

2006-12-01T08:23:00.000-08:00

There’s a playground right behind my office that belongs to the preschool program that shares our property. As I stood by the microwave this morning, sleepily waiting for my coffee to heat up, I found myself staring out the window at the dew-damp playground equipment. It’s your typical playground. Some toddler-sized swings, a few slides, and a miniature playhouse on stilts. Off to the side of the yard there’s a small wooden wall with some very tall flowers painted on its front. The circular section of both flowers are cut out so that the kiddos can put their faces through; you know...so that it appears as if this flower’s face is really the kid’s face. Not exactly genius design. As I stared at this, I thought to myself…

“That is like...SO lame. Why would someone put that on a playground? There’s nothing fun about putting your face through a wooden flower. Kids are so stupid. They get a kick out of doing such stupid things. ‘Whoo-Hoo! Look at me, everybody! I’m a flower! My face is in a flower! Hahahaha...I’m so awesome and life is so great and it’s so much fun pretending to be a flower! Yay!’”

I know. My inner dialogue was unnecessarily critical. But like I said, I was waiting on my morning coffee. Of course, I did a LOT of stupid pretending as a child. (I still do, for that matter.) Here are just a few things I “pretended” when I was a youngin:

For some reason, I convinced myself that there was a massive underground “Cat City” in the woods behind our house. The secret entrance was through a mossy knot on the front of a certain oak tree I was fond of. I pretended that I was the only human that knew about the Cat City, and that I was an honorary citizen. They’d lead me through the access tunnel and we’d spend the evenings at little cat clubs…wearing fancy party clothes…dancing to jazz music…all played live by little cat musicians.

I dabbled in a variety of professions as a child. I was a teacher. A chef. A circus acrobat. A trainer of wild animals. A soccer mom. A librarian (I was a crazy one, huh?). A medieval warrior. A bus driver. Shirley Temple. A rockstar. A tiger. A bride. A policewoman battling terrorists in extreme situations. A makeup artist. A model. Queen of the Underworld.

When I had nobody else to play with, I’d drag out a board game and several of my favorite stuffed animals. I’d sit them around the game and the 4 of us would play the game…turn by turn. This brought defeat for me every time because it was ALWAYS Sampson the Seal Pup that won. That Sampson was one smart seal pup.

I would use every single spare sheet, blanket, towel, table cloth, and other large cuts of fabric in the house to construct complex fortresses to hide in. I would drape and tie them over every piece of furniture and fixture that stood still. My architecture was impressive. I’d have tunnels and rooms and secret chambers that stretched from one wall of the living room to the other. They were a high-tech hideout that I lived in during nuclear meltdowns and alien invasions…built in the unknown depths of the Brazilian rainforest. I’d usually do this when nobody was paying much attention, and then I’d get berated because my family would walk in and see that it was impossible for them to maneuver around my cloth castle. Usually, my brothers would end up kicking the walls in or throwing pillows through the ceilings, and I’d be left with nothing but a pile of wrinkled bedsheets; exposed and vunerable to the alien infested wilderness around me.

More frequently than anything else, I’d pretend that I belonged to a family different from my own. This wasn’t because I didn’t like my family. My parents were wonderful to me, and my brothers weren’t COMPLETELY horrible. It was just that I thought that life with another family would be so much more glamorous than with my own. I had a perverse fantasy that I was really the love child of Tom Selleck and Shelley Long (have I shared this before???). They had been caught in a torrid love affair, and had had no choice but to give me up when I was born. I would watch Magnum P.I. and Cheers and wonder if they ever thought about me…the daughter they would never know. I would daydream about the trips we would have taken together, the horses we should’ve raised in the back yard, and fabulous birthday parties (with inflatable jump castles, face painting, and hot air balloon rides) I was missing out on every year, thanks to them.

Nowadays I mostly pretend the same types of things that all other adults do. I pretend…almost daily…that I’m in some type of mood other than the mood I’m REALLY in. (Complacent instead of concerned. Interested instead of irritated. Alert instead of sleepy and distracted.) Right now, I’m pretending that, instead of my office, I’m in a luxurious hotel suite in Aspen. My window view is of a breathtaking, snow-covered mountainside and not the dented bumper of my coworker’s car. There’s a steamy cup of latte and a plate of fresh apple danish and cinnamon rolls on the corner of my desk, none of which could possibly make me fat.

What are YOU pretending today?

Comtemplating thankfulness after Thanksgiving = Sending a Belated Birthday card (belatedly)

2006-11-28T08:14:00.000-08:00

At the start of last week, I had an enormous amount of negative energy in my body. An enormous amount. I felt choked by it. I could've written several entries in which I ranted and bitched about all the crap that was clogging the pipes of my happiness, but I chose not to. I was practicing some some self-restraint in the spirit of Thanksgiving. I chose to focus on the positive and not let every little worry and frustration (and my growing contempt and disgust in the human race) overtake me. As I thought about it I realized the truth as it is, that I have an immense amount of things to be thankful for right now. God has blessed me more than I deserve to be blessed. I have a job I love (for the most part). I have many comforts and luxuries that others don't. I'm in love. I have great friends. I've had lots of good hair days lately. But, listing the things I'm thankful for would have been the MOST unoriginal thing I could have done. Seeing as Thanksgiving is over now, I could have just skipped this subject altogether, but I really did want to write about it. So...I'm gonna give it a shot.

Instead of thankfulness, I'm going to talk about forgiveness. Why forgiveness? Because I've reached the conclusion that thankfulness isn't possible without forgiveness. I'll do my best to explain...

I read this one day last week. "God is more interested in making us what we ought to be than in giving us what we want to have." I began to disect this the instant I read it. I thought about "wants" as they relate to thankfulness. Should we only be thankful when we recieve the things we want? Or should we be thankful for everything in our lives; the good stuff, the bad stuff, the stuff we hoped for, AND the stuff we never expected?

A friend of mine taught me a couple of years ago (during a very dark time)to be thankful PARTICULARLY for the bad stuff. I thought she was crazy at first. I immediately told her that there was no way I could thank God for the things that were making me miserable at the time. (There were a lot of them.) And, even if I offered thanks, I would be doing so insincerely...and God would know the difference, anyway. She insisted that I should do it; that I should repeatedly send up praise for every little thing that made me sad and angry and worrisome. Because I trusted my friend and because I was desperate to feel God at the time...I took her advice...and it took it fully. I audibly said "Thank You" to God probably 50-75 times a day. I said it after EVERY negative thought and every unpleasant spark of emotion. And I hated it.

Nothing changed at first, and the continuous task of expressing gratitude in my time of despair took a toll on my already fragile emotional state, and also on my patience. But, much to my surprise, it didn't take long to understand the advice she gave. Before long, I found that all the little ugly things didn't bother me so much...and I was soon able to focus more on the things that WEREN'T ugly. And then something else happened. I realized that I had been blaming myself for all the ugly things that I felt so burdened by. I had convinced myself that they were all, in one way or another, either directly or abstractly, the factor of my failure. But somewhere in my forced, concentrated thankfulness, I forgave myself. I wasn't even concious of it at the time...but it came to me in shallow waves of relief. As the miracle continued, I found myself more thankful...for life and for breath and for love and for opportunity...than I ever had been before. And my focus shifted to the beautiful and away from the ugly.

Since then, I've thought a lot about forgiveness, and I've learned how to forgive not only myself, but others. I know we think that all of us already know how to forgive, but it's an ability that we aren't born with. It's completely unnatural. It's a hard thing to learn; such a painful process...like riding a bike without training wheels. I had bruised legs...and a bruised ego...for months. The more I've forgiven...and the BIGGER I've forgiven...the more thankful I've become. This is partly the power of positive thinking, but mostly it's power that allows beauty to come into my life. I forgive...I let go...and great things follow. I don't even have to look for them. It's as if greatness automatically fills the space that my unforgiveness was once occupying...just like a commonplace act of nature.

If forgiveness can work such miracles in my tiny little life, then what other powers does it possess?

I just read a book called "Left to Tell". It was written by a woman who survived the Rwandan Holocaust by hiding in a bathroom for 3 months. Her entire family, with the exception of one brother, was brutally murdered during the genocide. She tells of the horrible things that happened in Africa during that time. Things that no human being should ever have to witness and endure. But what she talks about more is how she learned to forgive the people that put an entire country through Hell. She even forgave the individuals that slaughtered those she loved most. She instead chose to be thankful for survival and for her faith. This woman has gone on to achieve amazing things, and has spread messages of hope and healing to millions of people around the world. She would never have accomplished anything without forgiveness.

I think of Elie Weisel, one of the best known survivors of the Holocaust during World War II. He has spent years talking about forgiveness. I cry every time I hear him speak and every time I read his works. I cry not only at the emotion I hear in his voice and for the memories he wakes up to every day of his life, but for the way he has embraced life since that horrible time. He has credited much of his success to the power of forgiveness...and he,too, has changed many lives with his wisdom.

I could name dozens of other examples of extreme forgiveness, and all of them would tell a different story of lives changed. I believe that every single one of them would mention thankfulness as a key factor...a prominent outcome.

Being thankful really does transform us. It pushes us towards success, inner peace, and healthy relationships. It gives us hope and acceptance. When you think about it, it enables us to be "what we ought to be" (referring to the afore mentioned quote), doesn't it? Aren't those characteristics things that we "ought" to display? Wouldn't most people WANT those things?

We can look at all of this mathematically. Please keep in mind I have NEVER been good at math.

Pain + Thankfulness = Forgiveness
Forgiveness X more Thankfulness = Great things/things we WANT

So, if God really does care more about making us better people more than he cares about giving us our desires, he's actually killing two birds with one stone. Or something like that.

2006-11-16T12:49:00.004-08:00

It's interesting to me that this picture is posted on a Mullet Enthusiast Website because, really, the mullet is the last thing I notice.

I'll take the Botox, the Brow Lift, and a side of Vaginal Reconstruction

2006-11-15T08:06:00.000-08:00

There’s a new fad in the medical world, folks. Hymenoplasty. It’s actually been around for some time (although it’s news to me), but the popularity of the procedure is growing with fervor. Broken hymen, ladies? Well, here’s a new one for ya!

Apparently, women are taking advantage of this technology to attain a second chance at “virginity”. I put VIRGINITY in quotes because equating the concept of sexual purity with whether or not you happen to have an intact hymen is asinine. What a joke. If you’re TRULY concerned about your sexual purity, then surely you would understand that a little piece of skin really has nothing to do with it at all. I experience so many simultaneous emotions when considering all the ramifications of this subject…I don’t even know where to begin in expressing them.

This article (http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/05349/622923.stm) is almost a year old, but it covers a variety of different views on this matter. The quote…"It's the ultimate gift for the man who has everything," makes me want to vomit. And if you don’t understand all the reasons WHY it makes me want to vomit, then my explaining it to you would make no difference at all; you will never get it.

Spicing up a marriage? Wear some nasty lingerie. Experiment. Role play. Lose the baby weight and get more exercise. See a sex therapist. But please don’t resort to having your vagina surgically altered just so that it feels good for your husband….just ONE more time. If this is what he needs, then your problems are much bigger than you realize.

The 4 years I spent in college was SO worth it.

2006-11-13T17:08:00.000-08:00

The following are just a few examples of not-so-smart things I’ve done/said lately.

I mailed off a 2-week-belated birthday gift to my friend in New York. (A Rachael Ray cookbook.) I selected a super cute card that went PERFECTLY with the book, but apparently forgot to include it in the package. AND…I didn’t even put my name on the outside of the package. So, she didn’t even know who the gift was from; it was just a book in an envelope. Happy Birthday from the laziest friend you’ve ever had! (I still haven’t found the card and have no idea what I did with it, BTW.)

After showering, I decided that my itchy dry skin needed a thirst quenching application of lotion. I pulled out a bottle from my very disorganized lotion drawer, and squeezed a hearty amount into my hand. As I proceeded to cover my arms, stomach, and shoulders, I noticed that my skin wasn’t absorbing the lotion well. Why? Because it was shower gel, that’s why. I had to get BACK into the shower to rinse off, and was late for work at the end of it all.

While with David, I noticed some cool apartments that I wanted him to see. Tapping him with my bony finger as he drove, I said, “Hey, Building! Look at that baby!” Needless to say, he did not see the said apartments.

I went into the grocery store for Draino and toilet paper…only. I left the store with ice cream, aluminum foil, tampons, and a can of baked beans…only.

(Another shower story…) I stepped in fire ants. Unfortunate. Painful. Fully dressed, I jumped into the bathtub to rinse off the excruciating fire ant venom. Of course, I didn’t know that the shower nozzle was still on and when I turned the cold water on, I was drenched. My feet hurt so badly that I couldn’t even concentrate enough to turn the water off or to step out of the tub. No outfit makes you feel sexier than a pair of wet jeans and a wet hoodie.

I popped some brownies into the oven and went about my business doing very important things. 30 minutes later, it occurred to me that my apartment was NOT filled with the heavenly aroma of baking chocolate. Going to investigate, I realized that I had never even turned the oven on.

My supervisor put a report in my box that listed a few tasks that I was working on for a particular client. In hindsight, I can say that it was CLEARLY a report that needed to be signed and handed back to him, although at the time, I didn’t get that. I read it and acknowledged in my head that I had, in fact, completed all listed tasks. Good! I then crumbled it into a ball and threw it away. More than a week later, my supervisor asked whatever happened to that report he gave me about such-and-such. Oh. “Yeah. Um, I’m gonna need another copy of that.”

I made some temporary “friends” during a 7-hour-long airline fiasco that revolved around cancelled and delayed flights. Towards the end of our adventure together, one of them mentioned the name of the company they both worked for. “Company A”. I perked up a bit…and quickly shared that my boyfriend works for “Company B”. They both looked at me, then looked at each other, then looked back at me as if to say “…AND…???” I went on to excitedly explain that “B” is closely related to “A”. That, in fact, “A” is really the parent company of “B”.

They looked confused and proceeded to ask me questions about this mysterious “Company B”. They had never heard of it. Feeling the need to defend myself and my boyfriend’s company, I shared with them all the knowledge I had about “Company B”. And…let me tell you what a BigGirl I felt like as I went on and on about what the company specializes in. My new friends finally decided that I seemed to know what I was talking about, but I knew they were still suspicious because they had no knowledge of this “Company B”. Someone graciously changed the subject, and I didn’t give another thought to the conversation.

I finally reached my destination…late and frazzled…and was dragging my butt through the airport when I saw a sign for my boyfriend’s company. It said “Company C” in big, bold letters. Aww. That’s nice. It took me about 3 seconds to realize, with humiliation, that I had wrongly referred to “C” as “B”, and no wonder my airport friends thought I was a moron. As my mind continued to right itself, I came to another embarrassing conclusion. “Company B” was not the name of an existing company at all, but the name of a prescription drug used to treat schizophrenia and other mental illnesses, of all things. (The name of the drug and of the company are similar....)

I know what you’re wondering, and NO, I don’t take any such medication.

I need to be cooler, and it's all up to YOU.

2006-11-10T08:23:00.000-08:00

Okay. I need help.
I'm not COMPLETELY computer illiterate, but I do struggle from time to time with the technical stuff. I am somewhat able to manage my site template to make minor changes, but the big stuff leaves me confused.

So, what I want to do is create some type of cool "masthead". (...across the top of my page...I've been told this is what it's called.) Either that, or insert some large(r) graphics on my sidebar. I've been reading up and tinkling with my template from time to time, but I've obviously not had much luck. I know some of you MUST know how to do this because your own sites look spiffy and fancy.

Please share your knowledge with me, even if it's only out of pity!!!

And don't you just love it when their little bloated bellies are covered in flies? It's to die for!

2006-11-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

I frequently wear a white rubber braclet on my left wrist. You know the kind...it's the trendy thing to do now. (Not that I'm all that trendy, honestly.) Lots of people wear rubber braclets that serve as statement for or against a variety of things. (i.e. FOR Lent, FOR Abstinence, FOR macaroni and cheese, AGAINST regular noodles sans cheese.) My braclet is worn in support of ONE . ONE is a quickly-growing campaign to end worldwide poverty. (as stated on their website...ONE believes that allocating an additional ONE percent of the U.S. budget toward providing basic needs like health, education, clean water and food would transform the futures and hopes of an entire generation in the world's poorest countries. ONE also calls for debt cancellation, trade reform and anti–corruption measures in a comprehensive package to help Africa and the poorest nations beat AIDS and extreme poverty.)

I joined the campaign a while back, as did some of my coworkers. I sign online petitions from time to time that are presented to governing bodies. I keep up with what's going on around the world in efforts to reduce debt in third world countries. And the best part? I occassionally get emails from people like Will Smith and Matt Damon filling me in on ONE news. This, of course, makes me feel delightfully special despite the fact that these emails are sent to every ONE member and are probably not written nor even read by the people whose names are attached to them. (But, I like to picture Matt Damon, on his couch with his laptop, sitting indian-style in his sweatsuit and socks, typing away a personal message to lil'ol me.)

I was wearing said rubber braclet one day recently when I girl I know started eyeing it.

"So, what's the braclet for?" She touched it; rotated it around my wrist. "ONE. What's that?"

I eagerly explained to her the mission of ONE and that I wear it to remind myself of the condition of the world and that I should do something...ANYTHING...on a daily basis to contribute to the needs of others.

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "That's SO cute!"

I stared at her blankly for a moment before I spoke. I'm sure I rolled my eyes. I may have even drolled a little bit through my gaping mouth. "Cute? Worldwide poverty is CUTE? Billions of people don't have food to eat. Millions of children in Africa are orphaned and homeless. Dozens of people die every single minute in impoverished countries due to AIDS, a lack of nourishment, lack of shelter, and poor healthcare. Yeah, that's cute. It's toddler-with-teddy-bear, kitten-tangled-in-yarn, Susie's Zoo-on-a-onesie cute. It's f-ing adorable, really."

I wonder how she herself didn't choke on the dusty dry sarcasm in my voice. Who knew that a symptom of ignorance is a super-saturated throat?

ONEbyONE

I'll never look at Tenacious "D" the same way again

2006-11-09T08:18:00.000-08:00

This morning...around 4:45 am, I woke up from one of the most terrifying nightmares I’ve ever had. It was gruesome, bloody, and life-changingly disturbing. It was so horrible, in fact, that I had to turn on all the lights, the t.v. in the living room, and the radio in my bedroom just for the sake of distraction. I sat up in bed and prayed for a solid hour before I finally fell back asleep. (I’ll spare you the details of the dream. I’ll even spare you the concept. I did share them with my coworker this morning, however, and he was more than eager to interpret the meaning for me. His insights actually gave me a great deal of clarity, and I’m sure I’ll be obsessing over what he said for the next week or so.)

Anyway…as awful as the nightmare was, it ended in a rather amusing way. It was me and Jesus…dancing the waltz. That I was dancing with Jesus wasn’t the funny part. It was quite beautiful, really, considering what had happened previously in the dream. No, the funny part was that “the role” of Jesus was played by Jack Black. Jack Black…looking up at me with those beady eyes and that goofy little crooked grin of his….reciting scripture and assuring me that it was all going to be okay. Surprisingly, I found tremendous comfort in this.

Again, I’m reminded that God REALLY does have a sense of humor. I love that about God.

The horse is dead. Really...he's a goner. You can put the bat down now.

2006-11-08T17:42:00.000-08:00

I love my coworkers (all 9 of them). We're like family. We care about each other. Support each other. Make each other laugh. And, just like family, we often argue and pick on each other like adolescent brothers and sisters.

One of the ways in which we as a group remind me of a family is the way we NEVER let things lie. Like my own family, for example: every one of my family members thinks it's uproariously funny to mention "The Allison Hug" at every family gathering. "The Allison Hug" refers to the alleged way I used to hug them. It was a limp hugging style...bodies not touching...mostly involving hands gently patting on the upper back. What can I say? It was during my middle school years...when I didn't like to be touched. I'm a loveable, enthusiastic hugger NOW, and that's all that should matter. Or, how about the way my mother refers to milk as "golly-ga" or "gulp" when my brothers are around just because that's how they pronounced it 30 years ago or so. It's really not that cute any more. I guess all families do this, right? Please tell me that all families do this!! If I can't believe that, then I'll be pushed a little closer towards insanity.

So, had I fully realized way back in June what the familial nature of our staff is/would be, I may have avoided setting myself up the way I did. After I had been working here for a few weeks, we had a day-long staff retreat at a local plantation home/conference center. At that point, I hadn't yet revealed myself as the smart-ass that I am. I usually try to reveal that in small doses so to not scare people off, you know? I let it out in small tufts...like air slowly escaping a balloon.

We had a full day planned; every mintue already occupied on the schedule. An "expert" speaker had been recruited. Games would be played. Planning would take place in grand form. Good food would be eaten...constantly...all day long. Everyone was milling around when I arrived...drinking coffee and casually chatting. Renee, my boss, was standing by a table alone, organizing her papers. I walked over to her to say good morning. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I spoke in a very serious voice.

"Renee, I have something kinda special planned. I've been practicing an interpretive dance that illustrates the importance of teamwork. I have music with it and everything. When do you think we might have time today for me to perform this?" Still serious. No smile on my face. I don't have a clue why I say these types of things to people. I never plan it. It just happens. I think my sense of humor has me wired like someone suffering fromTourette's Syndrome.

She was obviously shocked. The look on her face showed that she was locked in an emotion somewhere between confusion and panic. I could tell that part of her wanted to laugh, but the professional side of her told her that she COULD'NT laugh; not to my face, anyway. Her eyes darted around searching for somewhere nearby that had overheard because she knew immediately that, later on, she would want someone to laugh WITH.

"Oh! Okay. Well..." All she could get out were one-word sentences. She was searching her brain for an answer, but one failed to come to her. Feeling guilty for her struggle, I admitted that I was only joking. She was so relieved that her eyes literally welled up with tears as she laughed. It was just "the funniest thing" she had ever heard. She HAD to run and tell the others what I had said. And right then and there, I was named "the funny one".

Don't get me wrong. I don't mind being "the funny one". It's better than being "the smelly one" or "the one that lingers too closely" or "the one that picks her nose when she thinks nobody is watching". But my coworkers have used the dance incident to get a chuckle about 375 times since then. Any time we have a meeting or a special event coming up, it's inevitable that someone will suggest that Allison "prepare a dance" for the occassion.

Renee has even spread rumors of my liturgical dancing skills to our board members and volunteers. She usually does this in front of me...and she'll nudge me and say "Tell 'em, Allison! Tell 'em the story. You guys are gonna love this!" This always leaves me in an awkward position to explain that it was all just a silly, spontaneous joke. For some reason, this seems to confuse non-staff members. Most of them half-giggle politely, pretending to get the humor in the whole thing. But I know that under the surface they think I'm an idiot.

Or, then again, maybe I'll just stick to kitty cats and goldfish.

2006-11-07T17:15:00.000-08:00

It never ceases to amaze me how many parents there are in the world that really have no business at all being such. It’s truly alarming. Disturbing. We’ve all suffered the wrath of poorly disciplined children in restaurants and grocery stores and shot judging glares in the direction of their complacent mothers and fathers. It seems that lately I’ve been inclined to shoot a horrific number of these glares.

An example: A few weeks ago I was at a Chinese restaurant with a friend of mine when I witnessed a disturbing sight. A group of 6 or 7 small children was roaming the place under no supervision whatsoever. Their parents (several sets of them) were dumpy looking fat-asses, apparently too absorbed in their own gorging to pay attention to their spawn. Instead of accompanying the kids to the buffet or, better yet, choosing their food for them, they were left to wander the bar area as freely as they chose…picking shrimp up one at a time and popping them into their mouths…poking their fingers in the orange chicken…and making things float in the sweet and sour soup. (I know….another buffet story. I told you have an issue with these.)

The sight that angered and concerned me most was the 2 year old that visited our table more than a few times…usually to hand me a piece of eggroll or a fortune cookie message she’d happened upon. Not only did the parents of these brats not CARE what was going on; they couldn’t even SEE them because they were seated in another room entirely. I could’ve taken off with that baby and nobody would have ever known. (In fact, I tried to. But she smelled like pooh so I took her out of my purse and sent her on her way.) Every time I attempted to look in their direction to stare at them judgingly, they were lost in open-mouth-full-of-half-chewed-crap conversation. I ended up complaining to the cashier that I was appalled they let children tear through their restaurant with no supervision. He was completely confused as to why I would be annoyed by such a situation and had nothing of satisfaction to say back to me.

And then, on the other hand, there are parents who pay quite a bit of “attention” to their children; but the outcome is equally as alarming to me. My office is located immediately next door to an elementary school. Being in a poor urban neighborhood, most of the children that go to this school live close by in the community, and a good many of them walk to and from the school every day unaccompanied by an adult.

There’s one mother that picks a large group of children up every afternoon when the bell rings. She’s a monster of a woman; large, loud, and scantily clad. On a daily basis we hear her walking in front of our building, screaming obscenities at the tykes around her. She calls them a variety of vulgar names and often makes physical threats. Sometimes, when those two methods don’t get their attention, she’ll take off her shoes and throw them directly at the back of one of their heads or grab them by the bicep and shake them violently. I’ve heard some of my coworkers let out a chuckle at the sight of this and say “Well, at least she’s walking home with them. Most parents don’t even do that.” I can see the logic in such a comment, but it’s really just sad to me that our society is so quick to negotiate on standards of appropriate parenting.

I know I’m not a parent yet and some would say that I, therefore, have no right to judge the parenting styles of others. But it just seems like common sense to note how many people SUCK at being mothers and fathers. I don’t understand why we can’t do more about this problem. You have to pass a test to drive a car or to work in a fast food restaurant. You have to fill out a stack of forms and sign waivers to get a hunting license. Foster and adoptive parents are required to go through weeks, months, or even years of interviews and supervision in order to be “given” a child. So why is it that any idiot or sack-of-trash can pop out as many kids as they want to without any outside force determining whether or not they’re capable of such a responsibility? The older I get, the more intolerant I become of insufficient parents. Maybe it’s my maternal instincts starting to bloom. (Which I guess should be reassuring because I always wondered if they would ever bloom at all.)

Of all the potentially-future events and/or situations I occasionally and/or frequently feel unnecessary anxiety over, motherhood isn’t one of them. (Pregnancy is another story completely, however. We’ll discuss that at another time.) I’m mostly confidant that I will be a good mother, if I’m blessed with the opportunity one day. Yes, I’ll probably be overprotective. Being a “mother” to Bridget has already shown me that. Yes, I'll be strict in the areas of housekeeping and personal hygiene. And yes, I’ll threaten to sell my kids to gypsies when they piss me off. I may even seriously contemplate doing so. But other than that, I think I’ll be alright.

I’ll be one of those “cool moms”. You know the kind. Not the “cool kind” that gives the neighborhood kids sex advice. Not the “cool kind” that barges into the classroom, hair in a scrunchee, unlit cigarette in hand, to cuss out the teacher when he/she complains about her child’s poor behavior. I’ll be the kind that makes homemade chocolate chip pancakes for dinner on a Tuesday. The kind that makes them laugh so hard, milk squirts out of their noses. The kind that will dance in the rain in her socks and pajamas. The kind that doesn’t stifle creativity. The kind that establishes it’s OKAY to make mistakes; in fact, it’s propitious. The kind that puts plastic fruit in their lunchboxes on April Fool’s day (I stole that one from my aunt.). The kind that listens to great music…even when she’s over 40. The kind that doesn’t wear elastic-waist pants or “mom jeans”. The kind that really loves their father…and isn’t afraid to show it. The kind that loves her kids so much that they have no choice but to go out into the world spreading the superfluous love to others.

And God forbid that I’ll EVER be one of those mothers that people shake their heads at in public as they mumble to their friends what a joke I am; that my children are hellions that need a good spanking. I shouldn’t even publish this because I’m sure that, one day, far in the future, my kids will find this and present it to me as some type of bribe. They’ll use it as proof that I vowed to be “cool”. The only comeback I’ll have is a weak, non-original one like “Because…I told you so! Yeah, that’s it! Because my rule is law!” And then I’ll have to send them to bed without their dinner just to reinforce my authority.

2006-10-25T08:12:00.000-07:00

Here's another old one...posted exactly a year ago. I haven't thought of anything new to say about Halloween that's particularly amusing and/or interesting. So, kids, this will have to do for now.

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.

Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part 6

2006-10-24T17:23:00.000-07:00

When it comes to car maintenance, I’m not the most efficient nor the most proactive gal around. This is something I need to work on. Are you happy? I’ve acknowledged it with my tail between my knees.

Need an example of my car maintenance procrastination? Until last Thursday, my windshield wipers were in a state of utter desperation. Sadly, they had been in that state for quite some time. The rubber blade on my driver’s side wiper had become completely detached except for a two inch section on the far left side. That two inches was enough just to keep the blade hanging, but every time I’d turn the wipers on, it would waggle (yes, waggle) and flap around the windshield; thus doing absolutely no good in the way of clearing rain from my field of vision. The only reason I got away with waiting so long to replace the faulty blade was because I use Rain-X fairly regularly. Anyway…it was sad and irresponsible and dangerous. And, worst of all, it only added to the already-semi-ghetto appearance of my little blue Saturn.

Along with the torrential downpours that plagued the city last week came my increased awareness that I needed to get off my ass and do something about my windshield wipers. My friend Marisa and I headed to Wal-Mart to get the job done. Most people could have purchased the wipers themselves and put them on without too much effort. I, however, managed to select the appropriate replacements, but needed assistance in the execution. There was a long line in the automotive department, so I asked a salesperson about the possibility of getting the help I needed. A mechanic by the name of Walter came up and cheerily offered to assist me. Not only would he attach my wipers, free of charge, he would also replace my brake light. Well, how nice!! We were quite pleased with his helpfulness and pleasant disposition. Who says you can’t get good service anymore?

After Walter completed his work, he asked if we would take him out for a beer when he finished his shift…to show our gratitude for his help. We assumed he was kidding, so we audibly…clearly… laughed him off and said something to the effect of “Maybe some other time, Walter.” And we went our separate ways. You would think that our response would have been enough to dampen his pride for the rest of the night.

I had forgotten all about Walter in the midst of my grocery shopping, and did not think of him again until Marisa and I were loading our purchases into my trunk. Walter, still on the job in the automotive department, spotted us and called out. “Something something about getting a drink!!??” was all I could make out. I looked at him, confused. He made his way towards us and shouted again. “We goin out for a drink, or what? You buyin me a beer?”

I just so happened to have bought a six pack of Dos Equis, and…again…still assuming that Walter is a harmless, joking kind of fellow, I pick one up and hold it out towards him. “Sure, you can have a beer,” Marisa said in her typical jovial and giggling voice. He had reached my car by this time, and suddenly shot us both an offended glare.

(Voice notably raised in irritation…) “No, seriously. You ain’t gonna take me out? You ain’t even gonna buy me a 24 ounce Bud?”

“Um….no. You’re welcome to one of these, though.”

Walter, with disgust and anger brewing in his beady little eyes, was almost yelling now. “You mean to tell me that after I took you in front of all those people and helped you out, you ain’t even gonna buy me a beer?” All friendly joking was gone. He was seriously pissed off, which seriously pissed ME off.

Having already placed the beer back in its package, I slammed my trunk closed and looked down at him (Walter was a scrawny, midget son-of-a-bitch.) with the meanest look I could muster. I briefly lectured him in my most growniest grown-up voice that he was doing his job by helping me and nothing more…that I owed him nothing but a “thank you”, if that…and added that he should get back to work and have a good evening while he was at it!! (I’m never as tough as I plan to be in my fantasies.) He continued to stand there, a foot away from my car, pissy and sulking, tiny chest heaving with rage, muttering something under his breath, as I shut the door and put the car in reverse. I should have run his butt over. Loser.

Note: if an attempt to snag a couple of girls by way of some cheap beer at a skanky bar does not seem to be going in your favor, your luck probably won’t improve by trying to convince them that they somehow OWE it to you. And if you’re a Wal-Mart mechanic, you can increase the rate of your likely decline by about 68% per attempt. (If you’re under 5 foot 3, go ahead and add in another 10% incresase.)

creativity is NOT always a good thing

2006-10-19T13:23:00.000-07:00

Thought you couldn't eat corn in a sandwich?

Well, you were wrong. You were SO wrong.

It's quite possible that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

2006-10-18T08:12:00.000-07:00

There are 3 things in particular that are bothering me this morning.

1. You know the commercial about depression…with the sad music and the grey-shaded scenes and the people who truly look as if they’ve hit rock bottom? Well, there’s this doggie in that commercial that is sitting in front of his depressed owner…and they zoom in on his little doggie face…and he cocks his head to one side as if to say “I’m confused. And sad. And worried. Why won’t you play with me? Don’t you love me anymore? And, hey! I really need to pee!” Yeah, so….every time I see that little dog, my eyes well up with tears, and I nearly loose it.

What? Which part is the part that “bothers” me? Well, all of it, really. The idea that I “nearly loose it” when watching a commercial is what is most bothersome, though, don’t ya think?

2. All of the clothes in my closet have somehow, mysteriously and suddenly, transformed into ugly, unshapely garments that nobody over the age of 16 or under the age of 40 should ever consider wearing. How did that happen?

3. K-Fed is referred to as an “artist”. Who the hell made that decision?

Yet another reason why I should probably be in therapy

2006-10-17T08:32:00.000-07:00

Me: “Yeah, so…don’t forget that David will be here this weekend. I guess we can all go to lunch or something.”

My Mother: “Well, Allison…you know I can’t eat Chinese food. All that MSG aggravates my asthma.”

The above snipit of a conversation with my mother clearly illustrates why I’m slightly nervous about the mentioned potential lunch date for this coming Saturday. David (who lives in Austin, by the way) will be meeting my parents for the first time. My nervousness stems solely from the fact that my mother and father are not the most socially graceful people you could spend an afternoon with. Lovely, they are. Sweet. Laid back. Non-threatening. But both kookier than Jerry Lewis when he’s missed his dosage.

The explanation of the snipit is as follows: David is from Singapore. While my mother believes this to be incredibly intriguing and pleasant, she is somewhat confused about how his heritage and ethnicity correlates with his personality and daily life. i.e. The assumption that, since he’s from Singapore, all he eats is Chinese food. “Chinese” food at buffet-style, American-owned restaurants, at that. “Yes, Mama. That’s all he eats. Ever.”

I’ve explained to her, in detail, more than a couple of times that David’s English is impeccable. (he’s been speaking it since infanthood, and his English is better than that of most native Louisianans, thank you very much) I keep having horrific visions of her meeting him and speaking slowly; exaggerating her syllables to make sure he understands her. Or of her asking him what he thinks of American television. Or attempting to explain to him what a microwave is.

My mother is not a complete idiot. I don’t mean to paint her as such. She’s just…well…a bit naïve. Yes, naïve. That’s a nice way to say it. She’s a classic example of someone who thinks primarily in stereotypes. These stereotypes cover the areas of race, culture, age, gender, religion, geographic origin, sexuality, profession, eating habits, and hobby preference. If you make “good money”, then you’re most likely pretentious. If you drink alcohol, then you’re most likely an alcoholic. If you’re thin, then you’re most likely suffering from an eating disorder. If you’re a black woman, then you’re almost certainly very funny and very loud. (And watch out…she’ll refer to you as her “black friend” in EVERY story she tells about you.) She’s always surprised if someone turns out to NOT match her predetermined stereotype. She’ll say things like: “Her husband is a lawyer, so they’re pretty rich. But she doesn’t seem stuck-up at all!!” or “He’s gay, but, can you believe I’ve never even seen him wear flowers!!”

Yes. So, I’m praying that she behaves herself….that she doesn’t reference her future grandkids or “jokingly” mention that she wants to have a say-so in how the mother-in-law suite is decorated. Or, …that there won’t be extended periods of awkward silence in which she just stares, giggles, and says repeatedly how cute we look together. Most people in my situation always fear the inevitable naked baby picture display. But, as you may recall, my mother has lost my baby pictures. So, at least there’s that.

2006-10-12T18:00:00.000-07:00

Oh, yeah. Here we are--not watching football--and quite happy despite it (or maybe because of it). The only reason I did'nt post the picture in the previous entry was because blogger is a pigheaded bastard and wouldn't do what I told it to.

Those uniforms are lovely. Would you call that color "grape" or "aubergine"?

2006-10-12T17:35:00.000-07:00

I’ve said it before and I’m sure I’ll have to say it again. Brace yourself. I don’t care about football. I don’t hate football. I don’t loathe it. I just don’t care about it. I’m completely ambivalent about it. I say it with no apology attached. It is what it is. I am what I am. And I’m not a football fan. When I’ve admitted this in the past, I’ve often been met with surprised gasps and dirty looks and sighs of disappointment. I don’t quite get why my lack of interest is so impossible to accept.

I think a common misassumption about me upon learning this shocking fact is that I’m a “girly girl”. Or maybe that I grew up with two homosexual fathers. Neither assumption is accurate.

In many respects, I AM quite girly. And thank God for that. If I wasn’t girly then I’d most likely be a lesbian. And not even a pretty lesbian. I’d be one of the butch kind. (to all you butch lesbians out there, please don’t be offended) Anyway, my girliness has never really influenced my interests a great deal. At least, I don’t think so. I have two older brothers and no sisters and, therefore, grew up in an environment that reeked primarily of maleness. I took dance lessons and had slumber parties and LOVED my Barbie dolls, but from a very young age, I really just wanted to be like my brothers. I wanted to do everything they did. I played with G.I. Joes and Matchbox cars. I adventured through the woods many times, trailing behind my oldest brother as he cut paths for us with his machete. I built forts. I always wanted to wear the boys’ hand-me-downs. I climbed trees and almost always had skinned up knees from playing outside. I watched violent, bloody action films with more enthusiasm than when I watched My Little Pony reruns. I was the ONLY girl in the 4th grade that listened to The Grateful Dead and Supertramp and knew every song from The Beatles’ White Album.

Despite all the testosterone-laden activities we partook of, however, football was never concentrated on with a lot of fervor. Sure, I remember my dad and my brothers watching football sometimes. They were (and still are) devoted Crimson Tide fans. One of my brothers even tried out for the football team at one point. But it wasn’t something that we talked about all the time. It wasn’t a force that ruled our household. It was lagniappe but not the main course (so to speak). So, maybe all of this is why I can’t make myself get excited about football.

I actually attended a football party last Saturday to watch LSU vs. Florida. I can almost always get on board with good socialization, good food, and good beer. And that’s why I accepted the invite. And, I admittedly get a kick out of watching my drunk friends scream and holler and curse and punch the air with their fists as an expression of both pleasure and rage. (I usually can’t tell which is which.) Sometimes I even play along, if I’m in a good mood. I’ll be watching the game (usually thinking about something else), and even if I don’t really understand what has happened, I’ll let out an explicative or an “Aww, yeah!” when everyone else does. Then I’ll dart my eyes around, all subtle like, to see if anyone has caught on, but nobody ever seems to notice my insincerity. I get a strange satisfaction in that. Makes me feel crafty and cool. And then I go back to reading the latest edition of “US” magazine so that I can find out why Vince Vaughn really dumped Jennifer Anniston. Yes…I actually did that very thing on Saturday.

But…I swear…I just CANNOT relate to what makes someone truly passionate about whether or not some guy in a helmet ran a certain distance with a ball to score a certain amount of points. I really just don’t get it. Where does that passion come from? Please…feel free to explain it to me. I can appreciate athletic talent and teamsmanship (made up word), but it’s not something that’s ever gonna make me refer to the referee’s mother as a “dirty, lazy, whore”. And people that get all depressed and bitchy for days on end when their favorite team looses…please find something worthy to devote your emotions to. Volunteer. Take a lover. Get a pet. Call your grandma. But spare me your pathetic complaints about how life just isn’t what you thought it was since “we lost the big game”, because I will offer you no empathy and certainly no sympathy.

All of this is one of the many, many, many reasons why I’m so in love with a certain man named David. He, too, doesn’t care all that much about football. He, too, enjoys it mostly as a socialization opportunity. He, too, would rather go for a tasty meal than watch the game. So, unlike in other relationships I’ve been in, I will never have to fake a temper tantrum over a failed attempt at a touch down just to please him. And he is, by the way, 100% heterosexual. Trust me.

(I just wanted to add before you roll your eyes and make fun of me that I will not try to slip in a mention of him in EVERY blog entry I write from now on. I’ll try not to. But I can’t make any promises of such.)

An appropriate end to this is the following quote from Jenna Fischer’s article “10 Things You Don’t Know About Women”, featured in a recent edition of Esquire. In case you don’t know who Jenna Fischer is, she’s a very funny gal on the extremely funny show, The Office. If you don’t watch it, you should. Anyway, back to the quote:

“You know what's really gay? Football. Instead of watching it, just have sex with another dude once a year. Get it all out of your system at once.”

Well said, Jenna. Well said.

recycled genius

2006-10-12T08:32:00.000-07:00

I got an email this morning from one of my most beloved friends, and she said something about the impending Fall season making her want to sit with me and drink $5 lattes. This season stirs all sorts of "wants" in me, as well. I remembered an entry I posted around this time last year...and I thought I'd re-post it. If this were Wayne's World, I'd wave my fingers through the air and make that little "dullalullalup...dullalullalup" sound; as if to suggest a coming flashback.

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…..?

It's a wonder that Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy made it through the awkward stage

2006-10-10T18:04:00.000-07:00

Today I saw a couple sitting on a park bench holding an umbrella above their heads. There was not a cloud in sight, by the way. Unless they were just crazy, I assume the umbrella was there to block the sun. I smirked at the 1930’s of it all…the Mickey Mouse/Minnie Mouse, Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland quality that it bestowed.

Very briefly, I thought…”Wouldn’t it be nice if romance was still like that?” And then I thought again. In my younger, less experienced, years, I would often make low-browed statements such as that. It seemed to me somehow that things were so much easier “in the olden days”. (“The olden days” can actually refer to innumerous time periods any time before now. Well, any time before 1960, anyway. The 80’s were way too complicated. Right now, I’m referring particularly to the “really olden days”, not the more modern ones.) I would spend alarming amounts of time lost in soliloquies about the simplicity and purity of love and relationships in times past.

The girls always seemed to snag the heart of a devoted man…effortlessly and with an immense amount of dignity…and I was convinced that games were NEVER played. One would catch the eye of another, and within days, a dowry was supplied by the girl’s father and all the women would begin knitting white lace. Do you KNIT lace? Is it embroidered? Sewn? Laser cut? Anyway, whatever the hell you do to make lace, they’d do it immediately. The couple would participate in quaint courting rituals like pushing each other on swings, singing about suries with fringe-lined tops, skipping through fields, and dreaming about the future in front of the fire place. They would never fight…never even disagree. What was there to fight about, after all? (“Who the **** forgot to empty the chamber pot?” “But, I milked Bessie LAST time, you lazy dolt!” “JEZEBEL! I saw you expose your ankle when you climbed into the wagon last night!”) No. Nothing to fight about. Not ever.

Of course, after I watched movies such as Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, Gone with the Wind, and Meet Me in St. Louis , (as well as countless others) I began to realize that romance back then wasn’t all that pretty. Games were ALWAYS played, at least according to the world of film and literature. Complications of class, money, fidelity, and ugly vs. handsome were just as evident then as now. More so, maybe. I’d place a fair amount of certainty on the guess that the only time and place that any couple ever broke into spontaneous and choreographed song was in musicals. Except, many…on rare occasions…in situations of extreme inebriation. And the only reason that couples sat by the fire in silence almost every night was because they didn’t have cable, all the really good bars charged exorbitant covers, and making out was a No-No. They had nothing to discuss because all they did all day every day was harvest corn, pick flowers, and whittle wood. (And when I say “whittle wood”, I don’t mean it in a dirty way.)

I’ve decided that I’m glad to live in a time where romance is…well…romantic. Romantic as defined by no “proper” definition of what is romantic…romance that takes its own shape and style as love between two people designs itself. Disagreements are okay because our opinions are what make us wonderfully unique…and the making up is so much fun. Fireplaces are nice and warm and even amorous…but better when accompanied by scary movies, wine, and some friendly wrestling. I love being able to talk for hours and hours about life and world issues and all the wonderful and horrible things that have made us who we are. I love it that I can dress sexy for my man, talk about bodily functions without being labeled as “imprudent”, and express myself without fear of chastisement. I love it that I can choose NOT to participate in game-playing. And I REALLY love it that I will never be expected to craft any type of household item out of lace. Yes, that’s the detail I’m MOST happy about.

On a significantly non-related note, in the same park that I spotted the umbrella-holding couple that inspired this entry, I often see young, glowing brides-to-be having their bridal portraits taken by the lake. They always look so smug and bridey as they prance around in their dresses. Almost every time I see one, I cross my fingers in hopes that she’ll trip over a tree root or a snoozing duck and plunge backwards into the water. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holding out.

one of the ones who, hopefully, will never stop referring to me as "Aunt Al"

2006-10-10T14:07:00.000-07:00

And just when you thought your day couldn't get any better...

And then she woke up...

2006-10-09T17:43:00.000-07:00

You know how this goes. Every time I’ve been absent from my blog for quite some time, I always say that I’ve just been “too busy”. It’s true, too. I can honestly say that I’ve just been too busy to write blogs. But nobody wants to hear that. It sounds lame and cliché and unapologetic. What to do, what to do?? And the thing is…I HATE not having time to write. The worst part of it is (like anything else) is that the longer I stray from it, the harder it is to pick it up again. I guess that’s one of the guarantees about life that we can’t escape. Absence…nonactivity…neglect…always heeds an awkward return. We expect to be welcomed back by whatever it is we abandoned like a cheating, unfaithful whore; crawling on all fours while wailing about our intended innocence. Well, here I am again, my absolving blog. The knees of my khakis are filthy, indeed.

Other than writing (my first to-be-published work, preferably), there are SO many other things I’d be doing (either in the immediate present, or in the ongoing) if I didn’t have to spend between 8 and 14 hours working 5 days a week.

Things I Would Be Doing if I Didn’t Have to Work

Reading through the stack of novels I have at home that REALLY do look very interesting. I attempt to read them before bed quite frequently, but I usually manage to fall asleep with the lamp…and my glasses still on.

Traveling. Let’s ignore the fact that if I was, in fact, not working, I’d have absolutely no money and would, therefore, not be able to travel anywhere, ever. Actually, let’s ignore that fact for the duration of this list.

Working out with a personal trainer on a daily basis in efforts to attain and maintain a rock star body.

Learning how to use chopsticks. Apparently, I need at least 5 hours a day to devote to mastering this skill. My wonderful boyfriend pretends to not find my lack of skill pathetic even though his patient coaching hasn’t yet amounted to much improvement. (It’s humiliating to always be the white girl at the table who has to ask for a fork.)

Dancing in public.

Planting and tending to a fabulous garden. If I had somewhere to plant one, that is.

Collecting Fraggle Rock memorabilia.

Watching all the great “classics” that I’ve just never had time to watch. Wait. Scratch that. Most of the “classics” I’ve missed, I’ve never cared to watch in the first place. Which is the real reason why I haven’t. Let’s replace this one with watching the “American Pie” series. That’s more realistic.

Straightening my priorities.

Brainstorming new and more creative names for the colors of Crayola crayons. They wouldn’t even have to pay me. (i.e. indigo= “blueberry parade”, apricot= “clammy flesh”, yellow green= “acidic pee”, and dandelion= “buttery nipple”) Although, I suppose it’s not appropriate to refer to a liquor shot when naming a child’s educational tool.

Spending time with my nieces before they cease to call me “Aunt Al” and start referring to me as “that funny lady that used to be Daddy’s sister”.

Elaborately painting my toenails to represent and correspond with every national holiday.

Watching the clouds.

Flipping turn-of-the-century houses for profit.

Rescuing abandoned and orphaned children from all over the world and sending them to live with Oprah…or maybe even her friend, Gayle.

Hugging strangers.

Mastering the guitar. And then playing it for no one but the people I love. (Bridget included.)

A Dedication

2006-09-12T17:43:00.000-07:00

“18th Floor Balcony” and Blue October is one of my favorite songs and one of my favorite bands, respectively. The former is a product of the latter.

I’ve always loved this song. The first time I heard it was live at one of their outdoor concerts and I remember being almost paralyzed by the magic of it. Maybe it was the intensity of Justin’s voice or the haunting of Ryan’s violin. Maybe it was the breeze and the starlight. Or maybe it was the way the words gave me chill bumps.

I’ve thought for a long time that I understood the words to the song; that I related to them from a place of deep personal experience. But I’ve realized somewhere in the course of today that I never REALLY understood them until now.

I don’t live on an 18th floor. I don’t even have a balcony. And I haven’t been on one with you (you know who you are). But we’re still standing on a ledge of some type…overlooking something of immeasurable greatness. Our “balcony” is somewhere a lot less tangible. I could use my own words (and I have) but they're too personal for all to read...so I'm using someone else's.

"18th Floor Balcony"

I close my eyes and I smile
Knowing that everything is alright
To the core
Close that door
Is this happening?
My breath is on your hair
I'm unaware
That you opened the blinds and let the city in
God, you held my hand
As we stand
Taking in everything.

And I knew it from the start
So my arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But Here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.

We talked about moms and dads
About family pasts
Getting to know where we came from
Our hearts were on display
For all to see
I can't believe this is happening….to me.
I raised my hand as if to show you I was yours,
That I was SO yours for the taking
I'm still SO yours for the taking
That’s when I felt the wind pick up
I grabbed the rail while choking up
These words to say and then you kissed me...

I knew from the start
So my arms are open wide
And your head is on my stomach
And we're trying so hard not to fall asleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...
We're both flying away.

And I'll try to sleep
To keep you in my dreams
So I can bring you home with me
And I'll try to sleep
And when I do I'll keep you in my...dreams

I knew it from the start
My arms are open wide
Your head is on my stomach
We're not going to sleep
But here we are
On this 18th floor balcony...we're both..Flying away.

This is why risking looking like a fool is almost always worth it.

2006-09-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

I've always liked the saying "dance like no one is watching". But there's also something to be said for dancing as if the whole world is watching.

Turn the sound on your computer up and watch the video on this guy's website. There's a simplistic beauty about this. I watch this, and I want to be him. Not literally, necessarily. Maybe just in a spiritual sense. Maybe just in my dreams.

http://www.wherethehellismatt.com

Okay, Okay! I Give In.

2006-09-07T17:12:00.000-07:00

I was doing SO well for a while, wasn’t I? I succeeded to distribute a steady stream of good reads for over a month, and then, much to my dismay, I just ran out of steam. I was hoping that maybe nobody had noticed I’ve been slacking. Or that, maybe, my recent posts were of such impeccable quality that their influence would carry on for a while and cancel out the need for replenishment. Seems like I was wrong on both counts. shucks.

I had the time to visit Elise’s site (All or Nothing...linked at the left) this morning and immediately experienced two emotions simultaneously. First—joy. I was quite the excited girl to see that she’s posted like 57 fabulous and funny new entries in the past month. And not only that, but she’s upgraded the site with cool fonts and an even cooler fun-looking, cool-vintage, old-timey sexy lady character mascot thingy. Second—shame with a sprinkling of jealousy. I realized that I have to catch up with her now. After all, she’s posted like 57 fabulous and funny new entries in the past month. And not only that, but she’s upgraded the site with cool fonts and an even cooler fun-looking, cool-vintage, old-timey sexy lady character mascot thingy. You tryin to make me look bad, punk? It’s ON, my friend. Oh, yeah. It’s ON.

Who I am kidding? Competition takes too much effort. I’d rather just pretend that we’re equals. Humor me.

There IS one challenge that I’ve decided I can manage to meet. Elise made it a point to mention in her blog that I “DESPERATELY” need a new post and that I should complete the lame little quiz that she agreed to complete per the request of someone else. Okay…so it’s not much of a challenge. But it is one that I can handle. So, here goes.

Three Things that Scare Me:
I’ve actually written quite a bit about fears in the past year and a half or so, but I’ll try to think of some new ones.
1. Moose (They can kill people, ya know. Seriously, they can.)
2. Poverty (Which is why I work so hard to eradicate it from my own life and the lives of others.)
3. Being stuck in an elevator with John Lovitz for an extended period of time. Correction: Being stuck in an elevator with John Lovitz for ANY amount of time. Correction: Being physically stuck to John Lovitz by means of super glue, bodily fluids, or grape jam.

Three People Who Make me Laugh:
1. myself
2. Conan O’Brien
3. almost every single member of my family. Does laughing AT someone count??

Three Things I Hate the Most:
Again…I’ve covered this topic many times. But I’ll NEVER run out of things to gripe about hating. Or hate about griping…whichever makes more sense.
1. Rudeness
2. Ignorance
3. John Lovitz

Three Things I Don’t Understand:
1. Rudeness
2. the ever-growing popularity of “Crocs”
3. the rules to poker

Three Things I’m Doing Right Now:
1. Listening to “In the Name of Love” (a compilation of U2 covers that was recorded to aid WorldVision’s efforts in Africa. It’s an old one that I happened to dig out this morning.)
2. Watching our office cleaning crew fight (rather loudly and humorously) about the CORRECT way to mop.
3. Thinking about all the work that I should be doing instead of writing this blog.

Three Things I Want to Do Before I Die:
1. Write a book!! (at the TOP of MY list, Elise.)
2. Try to be a platinum blonde
3. Stand at the foot of the Sphinx in Egypt

Three Things I Can Do:
1. make people laugh
2. make a mean peanut butter and banana milkshake
3. stay calm in an extreme emergency (as I was just recently reminded)

Three Ways to Describe My Personality:
1. Someone who doesn’t like me might say “over analytical”. Someone who does might call it “insightful”.
2. quirky
3. emotional (interpret that how you choose)

Three Things I Can’t Do:
1. pretend to enjoy the company of idiots
2. anything that involves wearing non-shoe items on my feet. Rollerblading, snowskiing, waterskiing, skateboarding, and stilt-walking included.
3. tolerate the smell of pickles

Three Things I Think You Should Listen To:
1. the rain
2. Kristen’s music…any of it
3. what people are REALLY saying when they talk to you

Three Things You Should Never Listen To:
1. me singing in the shower
2. your neighbors having sex. or people in vehicles outside your bedroom window having sex.
3. Marilyn Manson’s Christmas album

Three Favorite Foods:
1. strangely, surprisingly….sushi is climbing the charts
2. ice cream. Definitely ice cream. This is why Elise and I get along so well.
3. anything with cheese on it

Three Beverages I Drink Regularly:
This is such a boring question.
1. coke
2. milk
3. chai

Three Shows I Watched as a Kid:
1. Pinwheel’s Playhouse (a generic version of Seasme Street that ROCKED!!)
2. General Hospital. Somehow my mother didn’t mind me watching HER soap operas. But she thought that 90210 was “too mature” for me. What-ev, mama…what-ev.
3. Kids Incorporated (I’m completely traumatized that Stacey Ferguson now shakes her ass and pees her pants on stage with the Black Eyed Peas. What happened to her?)

Three People I’m Tagging (to do this):
This is unfair b/c I don’t have many friends with blog sites.
1. Kristen
2. Dancuh-Boi
3. Elise, how about you do it again?? But this time…be funny.

A Sermon of My Own

2006-08-21T18:03:00.000-07:00

When Robert Kennedy became New York’s Senator, he began an untiring fight for educational and economic reformation. He began by concentrating on Harlem and Brooklyn before moving on to Chicago and Appalachia and the Mississippi Delta; speaking out for communities all over the United States. And then he started on the rest of the world. He strived to galvanize the human race to look beyond the inconvenience of poverty and into the faces that lived in it. He stood in front of South African university students in the summer of 1966 to give his Day of Affirmation speech. The entire speech is quite moving, but this is just a very small portion of it:

We must recognize the full human equality of all of our people; before God, before the law, and in the councils of government. We must do this, not because it is economically advantageous, although it is. Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do. Not because people in other lands wish it so. We must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do. Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of these acts will be written the history of each generation. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring these ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest wall of oppression and resistance.

When I read this, the part that stands out the most to me is “Not because of the laws of God command it, although they do….we must do it for the single and fundamental reason, that it is the right thing to do.” Many, many, many Christians serve others because of religious reasons. Because they believe that God would want them to. Because Jesus did, and would do, the same. I think this is great. This, to me, is one of the truest ingredients of Christianity. Perhaps THE truest (after serving God himself). But there are also many, many, many “non-Christians” that choose to serve others. The lot of them might very well serve because of moral conviction. There could be limitless other reasons. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter WHY someone chooses to love and serve by action, as long as they do it sincerely. What matters more is HOW they do it. What gives anyone the right to disvalue heartfelt service just because it might not be done in the name of Christ?

I’ve developed a conflicted opinion; I guess you could say, of individuals and organizations both that offer service/aid/help to people who need it…but with strings attached. It’s easy for us to offer “love” and “goodwill” on our own agendas and not even realize our fault (arrogance, really) in doing so. Why should any of us feel good about meeting someone’s needs with the attached condition that they attend a sermon or say a certain prayer or join a certain church? To me, all this says is that OUR sermons and OUR prayers and OUR church is the only one worthy of whatever love or service we’re providing. We’re saying “Yes, we love you. And we want to help you. But only if you believe what we believe. Otherwise, we’ve wasted our time and efforts.” And that isn’t really sincere love at all, is it? It’s conditional. It has a price tag. Shouldn’t we be delirious with satisfaction that we’ve bettered someone’s life just because they have the right as a human being to have it bettered?

A tiny example: A wonderful religious organization here in town has recently begun offering prescription drug cards for other area agencies to give to clients. They can be used at any pharmacy for any prescribed drugs EXCEPT for contraceptives. This is because, of course, their religion doesn’t smile upon birth control. They’ve offered these cards to all agencies that work in the same communities that I do. Our clients are poor and uneducated (for the most part). Quite a few of them have never been exposed to the concept of planned parenthood or responsible parenting, as is the case in the majority of impoverished communities all over the planet. They don’t practice safe sex or use any form of birth control because, first of all, they can’t afford it, and secondly, they’ve never been taught to. In my position, I’m not allowed to address or promote any practices either way in regards to the subject, so my involvement in this process is very limited. But I have a problem with the said organization denying clients the power of choice and control just because their religion says so. Instead, they’d rather see generation after generation continue to bring more and more children into poverty…children that cannot and will not be properly cared for…thus recycling some of the CAUSES of generational poverty…which is the organism that this organization supposedly strives to put to death on a daily basis. It just doesn’t make sense to me. It infuriates me. There are SO many other instances like this…problems with the system that we all hear about from time to time. I’m just incapable of ignoring them now that I work where I do.

I’ve vowed to myself that I will never again (even though I’ve done it before) offer myself to an individual or cause with the intention of convincing the world to believe the way I do. I love God. I love Jesus. I live my life fueled by this love, and I’ll discuss it with anyone who is interested. But I also love people. In my imperfection, I strive to love people the way I believe God loves people…and I won’t ever stop believing that people deserve the best of life’s joys and the best of God’s love no matter where they stand.

2006-08-11T16:55:00.000-07:00

Hee hee.
I needed something pointless to make me smile. Thought you might, too.

brief thoughts on passion

2006-08-08T12:31:00.000-07:00

I came across this quote. Think about it.

"Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way."

My personal definition of "passion" (in a non-sexual way) is caring about something enough to DO something for it/about it. Passion is a path to action. Without action, that could-be passion is just another good intention. This quote is nothing all that profound, but it made me think about passion. I think to say that we're passionate about something should mean that others can watch us and KNOW that we love it...and that our loving it will serve as an inspiration. If passion doesn't inspire, then what is it worth, anyway?

I've been spending a good bit of time in recent weeks trying to pinpoint what I'm truly passionate about. I'm done with good intentions.

"Thread Count"...A Measurement of Love

2006-08-04T11:45:00.000-07:00

One of the many things I'm a tad bit obsessive about is my bed linens. First off...I have way too many of them. Most people have ONE comforter/bedspread/quilt (whatever), along with coordinating sheets and pillowcases that they use until they all fall apart. Or, at least until they go out of fashion. I have 4 or five sets, all completely different, that I rotate seasonally. I don't just rotate them seasonally, really. Sometimes I rotate them to accommodate my mood. I even have certain scents of candles and linen spray that I use to specifically compliment the colors and textures of each respective bed outfit. Secondly...I'm very particular about how my sheets are tucked in and arranged on the mattress. You know how some people sleep all messy and their sheets are never tucked and all the covers just lay balled up and twisted and they never care to straighten them out? (You're probably one of them, aren't you?) I CAN'T STAND THAT. Seriously, I can't handle it. It makes me want to scream and claw the air like a rabid mountain lion (that's quite the image, huh?). If I mess the covers up, it is imperative that they be amended before I get into bed again. Thirdly...sheets must be clean. We all know that it doesn't take a lot of imagination to picture the types of things that go on in our sheets and the types of cooties that, therefore, reside on our sheets. Yes. They must be clean and, more importantly, smell clean.

So, last night I was stripping my bed down because it was time for a sheet rotation. I spent a ridiculous 15 minutes obsessing over which ones to use next and ultimately decided to change everything. And it had to be done right then, or else I wouldn't have been able to think about anything else all night long. I put a lot of thought into this...as I always do. "What feel am I going for?" I asked myself. I settled on coolness and comfort.

While digging through my linen trunk, I came across a pair of sheets that I had forgotten I had. They were my grandmother's. I smiled with nostalgia upon seeing them and held them close for a moment. The cottony fabric is soft and so worn in places you can almost see straight through it. Staring at the swirly pattern of lime and aqua flowers, I noticed a corner where the colors, at some point in time, turned an orangy yellow. Hmm. I had forgotten about that corner. I like that corner.

I feel the same way every time I'm around my grandmother's linens. Sellers...that's what we called her. That's what everyone called her. When I was little, one of the things I liked best about visiting Sellers was sleeping in the bed she'd have made up for me. I don't know what it was, exactly, that made it so special. I remember being anxious to see what sheets she'd have pulled out that time. They were usually mismatched, but I liked them that way. Funky stripes (some in gold....from the 70's, and some just like them in purple), pretty florals, a weird geometric diamond pattern...I can see them all. I would climb into their welcoming, cuddly embrace and be soothed by the aroma of Downy and...sugar. Like spring-fresh, just-out-of-the-oven cookies. I always wondered how she got them so soft and fluffy. Even in my adult years, I've never been able to get my sheets that soft.

Reminiscing about bedtime at Sellers' house makes me think about all the other things that were so wonderful there. Grits and cinnamon toast and Tang for breakfast. Butterbeans and mashed potatoes at supper (she called it supper). The Coty powder box with the black and yellow flowers that she kept on her dresser. The little bookcase in the hallway that displayed all of Pappy's knickknacks; including the ceramic grandpa in the armchair and the flamenco dancer figurine my father brought home from Spain while he was in the Navy. (I have that bookcase in my bedroom now.) Family photos on the walls. The crayon box, coloring books, and hoola hoop she kept for me in the coat closet. Her Pyrex dishes. Her pretty little feminine hands. I would hold them and ask her where her "age spots" came from and make her laugh. Her melliflous voice telling me the story about the goat on the front porch that I asked her to tell EVERY time I saw her.

As I made my bed last night, I thought of all these things and I missed her so much it made my chest hurt. Over her beautiful old sheets I laid a thin, white, chenille bedspead. The bedspread isn't old, but I bought it several years ago because it LOOKS old...and it made me think of her when I came across it in a store. I set up a box fan in the hallway and let it blow towards my bed. The loud humming sound of a fan or window unit air conditioner reminds me of Sellers, too. Reminds me of sleeping in her house. On her sheets. Surrounded by her love. The Downy smell and the cool air danced around my pillow as I fell asleep and it made me feel small and young and safe. It was a good night.

Poss-A-Bil-A-Tees

2006-08-01T17:06:00.000-07:00

I remember way back when...soon after I moved into my apartment...I mentioned concern at the possibility of puking while living alone. My exact words were " What if I..... 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?..."

Unfortunately, that possibility (or inevitability, if you will) has been realized. fulfilled. faced. It happened. It was one of those horrible nights that keeps you awake with fever and wretching and cramping and all other varieties of awful.

In the midst of this event, I found myself disappointed to be reminded that Bridget is, in fact, a useless animal and not the brilliant human daughter that I so often liken her to. Every time I got sick, I actually felt embarrassed because she would just stand in the doorway of the bathroom and stare...big eyed, yet complacent...as if to say "Eww." I felt the need to apologize to her for freaking her out and being so gross. I wanted to yell "I'm sorry! I can't help it!", but my throat hurt too badly. She didn't once offer to hold my hair back or bring me a cold beverage of any kind. In all fairness, she did attempt to make me some hot chocolate (the kind with the mini marshmallows), but who the hell wants that when they're yaking?

After I had returned to my bed after the 5th trip of stumbling around in the darkness...and I was all shaky and shivering from the spiking of my possessive fever...Bridget perched herself on my midsection. I told myself that she was trying to keep me warm, but I really knew better. Every time I looked up at her, she was eyeing me from a sideways glance with her nose crinkled away from me...so that I couldn't breathe on her. The ironic thing is that one morning last week I got out of bed only to stick my heel in the slimy wetness that was her coughed up hairball. How dare she judge me? Anyway, the story ended happily. I called my mom once daylight struck and requested that she come take care of me. And of course she did. She showed up with Sprite and Campbell's Chicken and Stars soup. Sometimes it just feels SO nice to be treated like a 6 year old, doesn't it?

be a member of my entourage

2006-08-01T08:23:00.000-07:00

In efforts to increase my savy in the ever-growing field of technology, I have installed a subscription link to my blogsite. If you're interested, you can sign up through the link down on the left hand side of the screen. I guess you'll get an email every now and then when I've posted a new entry. Honestly, I'm not exactly sure how it works. We'll find out together!

2006-07-26T17:40:00.000-07:00

Don't think for a second that I haven't noticed that NOBODY has responded to my request for bad date stories....

On Mud and Its Radiance

2006-07-24T20:26:00.000-07:00

When the plane landed, I wasn't nervous. It hadn't occurred to me to be nervous. I felt excited and confident; eager to dive head first into what would be my new and temporary life. The airport was small and dimly lit as I recall, but surprisingly clean and well-managed. It took quite a while to get through customs, and I bit the tongue of my impatience despite my anxious desire to get outside. When we were finally allowed to gather our luggage and exit the facility, we didn't hesitate to do so.

We walked outside in a group, ready to find our ride. I stepped into the intense heat and before I could determine my direction, my senses overcame me with a disorienting flurry of stimuli. I think what hit me first was the noise. The muddled sound of human voice was almost deafening. I say it was muddled because I couldn't understand anything I was hearing. I was an infant in a strange world of developed human language. I could distinguish emotions in the voices, but that was where my knowledge ended. There were people everywhere, coming at us from all directions. We were swallowed up by a crowd of the unfamiliar. Pressing in on every side were people asking me questions that I was unable to answer. What hit me second was the smell. Repugnant body odor unlike any I had ever smelled before. Gaseous dirt and disease relentlessly invaded my nostrils and throat. The third hit was to my sight. I was swimming in a blur of faces and colors; lost in a Madhubani painting. The haze cleared and I was suddenly able to focus on individuals. I saw mostly young men. They were pulling on my bags, offering to carry them for 20 rupees...15 rupees...10. I felt hands on my arms and some pulling on my t-shirt and pants legs. I looked down to see that one hand was disfigured; missing several fingers. My heart skipped a beat when I realized it belonged to a leper.

We made our way through the chaos and began loading the shuttle that had been sent for us. The plastic seats were cracked and dirty, but I was thankful to be in a contained space. I sat silently, barely breathing through the stifling, musty heat. From my spot in the small bus, I had an elevated view of the city that would be my home for the next few months. Even from my perch on the hilltop, the devastating poverty was unmistakable.

...I can't recall the exact date of my arrival in Kathmandu, Nepal. We had been in Thailand for a week...so I think our arrival was on a Saturday afternoon. It was the very beginning of June (maybe the first or the second of) in 2000. (It's hard to believe that it was so long ago.)

As I mentioned, we had been in Thailand for a week. This week in the small coastal city of Pattaya (on the Indian Ocean) was our orientation...a time of learning about what we could expect to experience for the next 3 months. We talked mostly about Hindi/Buddhist culture, how to be safe, how to behave, etc. We spent quite a bit of time out in the city trying to acquaint ourselves with, well...everything. Pattaya was, by no means, a wealthy city, but its' modernity was not dramatically behind what we were used to in the states.

We talked extensively about the indigence we would encounter while living in Nepal. We were told that the average yearly income in Nepal (at the time) was equivalent to 200 American dollars. We were educated about the widespread disease, the unhealthy living conditions, the lack of food and clean water, the human trafficking rings, and the abandoned/homeless children that spent their days and nights on the streets. I wasn't suprised by anything I heard. I had done my research. I had watched movies and documentaries. And I certainly wasn't new to the concept of poverty. I had worked with impoverished people all over the United States. I was ready. I was prepared. Nothing was going to shake me.

As we drove from the airport to our hotel in the middle of the valley, none of us said much. We didn't know what to say. Words wouldn't have been helpful in expressing what was going through our minds at the time, anyway. The crowded streets, apparently governed by no traffic rules, were overridden by pedestrians carrying oversized loads on their heads and backs, slow moving rickshaws, and gaunt cows. Bikes or motorcycles carried so many passengers at once they looked like clown transportation at Ringling Bros. If you've ever been to Hell's Kitchen in New York City, then you have a vague idea of what the storefronts are like in Kathmandu, only...there, they're about 50 times dirtier and 100 times less sophisticated. Grocery stores, tailors, electronics shops, post offices....they all looked the same.

Driving by the entrances of various bastis (or slum colonies), one could see down the narrow alleys that appeared to go on and on forever; a horizontal precipice into unfathomable despair. I never did enter any of those bastis, but I knew that following any of the alleys would lead me to hundreds of families living on top of each other like foul in a coop. Tiny one-room huts with tin roofs and tacked-up bedsheets for doors; communal bathrooms without so much as a toilet stall; no plumbing and no electricity; row after row after row of human doghouses. These bastis were all over, and every one I saw was sadder and more vast than the last.

Once we arrived at our hotel, we walked a few blocks to the closest bank. I pulled out of my bag an American Traveler's Check for $200. I stared at it for a moment and realized that, in my hand, I was holding an entire year's income for a family in Nepal. I started sobbing uncontrollably right there in the bank. A travel-mate of mine was already at the counter when my emotion bursted out of me like a monsoon storm. The banker took notice and asked her why I was crying. Thinking quickly, she told him that we had just arrived in Kathmandu and that I was overcome by the beauty of the city. He believed her and was touched by the sentiment. He greeted me with a huge smile and gentle words and did the same every time I visited him that summer.

I didn't break down in that way again while I was in Nepal (except maybe when I left to go back home). However, I did cry many times after that, and, suprisingly, every cry really did express that I was overcome by the beauty of Kathmandu...the beauty that I learned to see. I learned to see the poverty as a birth mark. It was an imperfection that would probably never fade, but after I gazed at it for a while, I almost didn't even notice it anymore. Instead of detracting from the radiance of the figure, it enhanced it. Just as kudzu can overtake the side of a building or a forest, the beauty of the culture of that place grew over my soul. I became completely entangled in it, and to this day, I still haven't been able to free myself from its leafy grasp. I hope I never break free of it. So much physical freedom would mean that my soul has disconnected from what it learned that summer.

The draw-back...or maybe the benefit (depending on how you look at it) of my new job is that I'm faced with impoverished people on a daily basis. They are my work now; my sustenance; my heart. Sometimes it all gets to me. Sometimes I feel discouraged and dirty in the midst of the ugliness of poverty. It makes me feel diseased and injured and lame...just like the leper that begged me for money that day so long ago. But I think I'm re-learning how to see the beauty through the dirt. My soul is trying to remember.

..So That I Don't Consider You a Lazy Audience...

2006-07-20T17:06:00.000-07:00

My coworkers and I had to participate in a mini-ToastMasters training last week. During the training, we had to prepare a speech in 5 mintues and then present it (in 5 minutes). I decided to present an informative "How-To". "How to Survive a Bad Date". Everyone loved it, of course, because I'm full of wit and charm. (as if you didn't know that...)

The speech had my mind racing about all the bad dates I've been on. Honestly, I haven't been on very many that were VERY bad. The lot of them usually turn out to be mediocre, but not awful. Then someone asked me about the WORST date I've ever been on. That required some thought...

The guy's name was John. I won't go into who he was or how we met (because I'm tired and I don't feel like typing all that crap). Let me start by saying that he wore a striped turtleneck and a pair of sandals on our date. I could just leave it at that, couldn't I? Aside from the outfit, he wasn't nearly as attractive as my first impressions had left me thinking. He obviously didn't share that opinion of ME, and he spent the entire evening flirting with such creepy persistence that I caught myself visibly wincing at his comments (which, unfortunately, he didn't notice). He had lots of really wonderful things to say about himself and told countless anectdotes that were neither amusing nor interesting. I could have done the "nice" thing and offered fake laughter for his work, but I don't think I did as much as I should or could have. His mannerisms and facial expressions were awkward and exaggerated and it made looking at him while he told his stories all the more painful. He told me more than a half dozen times in more than a half dozen ways how pretty he thought I was and seemed overly eager for me to return the compliaments. ...which I never did...

Despite all of my signals, John felt good enough at the end of our date to shove his tongue halfway down my throat. I felt like I was in a Jim Carrey movie. There was no slow lean-in. No warning. It was truly one of the most disgusting moments of my life. We've all experienced bad kisses, right?

Yeah, so, as I said before...I don't really feel like adding lots of fun details or making this into more of a literary treat...but maybe YOU could post your own story about YOUR worst date. Yes, that's what you should do. Post it in my comments or email it to me (if you have my email address) and I'll post it as an annonymous entry. It's not fair that I always have to do all the work here, people.

things that are cute

2006-07-13T10:00:00.000-07:00

My brother Ryan got married last weekend in Memphis. He married Mary. (cute, right?) She's awesome and I'm so happy for them both because they're SO in love and so perfect for each other. I've never seen my brother happier.

Aren't they cute?

So cute. And happy.

I loved being able to see all of my family...all together in one place at one time. Doesn't happen often, due to us all living so far apart. I got to meet my baby neice for the first time. She's incredible. I don't have a picture of her to post right now, but I do have one of the older neice. She, too, is incredible, by the way. She thinks I'm the cat's pajamas...which makes my world. That's us pretending to drink coffee together. Cute little cups...they were appropriate for tea-party behavior. More cuteness...I know! You can hardly stand it.

injustice never ends

2006-07-12T07:42:00.000-07:00

It's the little things that affirm for me that I am working in the appropriate field. If I weren't doing something close to what I'm doing, I think I'd be in the wrong place. I'll give you a couple of examples.

I went to see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie the other night (Dead Man's Handbag, or whatever). Did you see the first one? Remember the skinny, oafish pirate with the troublesome wooden eye? Well, in the new movie there's a scene with him trying to rescue his eye back from the ghosty skeleton monkey. They're on a wrecked ship and the monkey is, predictably, jumping from sail to sail with the eye in paw as the pirate is in frantics trying to get it back. Everyone in the theater was laughing, as well they should of been. It was meant to be funny. I even laughed a bit. But under my laughter I couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy. I sat for a full 10 seconds or so worrying about this fictional pirate's life condition. I was thinking "You know, that's really not funny. He's obviously poor and couldn't afford proper medical treatment to begin with. If that damn monkey loses his eye, how will he get another one? Artificial eyes, whether wooden or not, certainly weren't easy to come by back then. He must be really upset and hopeless right now. He's had such a hard life. This is just one more thing for him to worry about. Hasn't he suffered enough at the hands of that cruel world?" I swear to you...I was really processing all of this during that 10 second scene. I got all teary eyed. If I was going to analyze it, I should have gone in from the angle of: the reality is that he probably deserved losing an eye after all the thieving and pillaging he devoted himself to over the years. Karma, baby.

What? Oh, yeah. This isn't a real person I'm talking about here.

On to the next example. There's a commercial currently airing for some type of kitty litter. It shows a cute lil' orange kitty on the internet searching ask.com (or something) for his litter box. The point of the advertisement is that the litter absorbs odor so well, you won't even notice your litter pan. Clever, huh? When the internet is no help, he calls information...and he lets out this sad, pathetic meow...pleading for an answer. As cute as it is, I just feel so badly for the kitty. Cats don't ask for much. All they need is food, water, love, and a litter pan to shit in. (Or, if it's Allie's kitty, a litter pan to shit NEXT to.) I can only assume that the little guy has been holding it in all day so that he doesn't have to go in a houseplant or on the bathroom rug, and nobody understands. Nobody even cares! This is all very upsetting to me, as you can tell. It's an atrocious defacation on the dignity of domestic felines.

It's a good thing I'm working with the homeless and impoverished and not within the pirate community or for the SPCA. If so, I'd get no sleep at night.

Here's to Breathing

2006-07-07T07:28:00.000-07:00

A lot can happen in a year. The past year has been rife with unexpected turns along the path of this; my journey. A lot has happened, yes. Much has changed. I've changed. Actually, I've changed more than once and in more than one way. Lots of changes.

I was explaining to an old friend (to whom I hadn't spoken in many many months) this morning how the transition in moving here proved itself to be a challenging one. Challenging is a G-rated term, considering. If you've visited my site before, then you may have read through some of what the past 14 months has supplied to me. To be honest, I've expressed my various impediments through mostly indirect stories and illogical thought patterns. But maybe you've caught on despite that. Anyway, the good news is that the discomfort of my minor and major tribulations has led to...something else. I don't know yet what this "something else" is exactly, but I feel better right now than I have in over two years.

Now, when times of "something else" come about, it's usually difficult to pinpoint the reason(s) for it. This, of course, is due to the process of overcoming. A coworker of mine is a fan of gospel music, and he frequently plays it loudly in his office. There's one song in particular that he must like a lot because several times he has set it on "repeat" for hours at a time. "This too shall pass" is the phrase that the song iterates over and over. I've never found extreme comfort in that phrase...even though I believe the truth it speaks. (Sometimes when things suck, they just suck...and knowing that they won't suck forever doesn't always help.) But, what inevitably happens is that we keep an eye out for "the passing" and we aren't always aware of the process around us and with us and IN us that is leading us there. Suddenly we poke our heads up for a breath of fresh air and find that there is plenty of air to breathe, after all; that the dungeoness tunnel we've been spooning out for so long has finally taken us to the other side.

So, while I'm certainly aware of what has transpired to lead me where I am, I can't specifically credit any one factor with my current healthy state. In my ongoing analyzation of why the past year went the way it did, the word "fear" has consistently come to mind. I unintentionally allowed myself to be covered with fear. I felt it in many ways. Fear of loss was the big one (loss of relationships, loss of pride, loss of physical belongings, loss of safety, loss of comfort, etc.). Fear of being alone. Fear of failure. Fear of lost independence. Fear of too much of it. Fear of monetary shortcomings. Fear of ineffectiveness. Fear of the condition of the world. Fear of insignificance. Fear of poor health (of myself and loved ones). Fear of God punishing me for any and every imperfect move I made ( speaking of unhealthy...).

Most of my fears didn't render me immobile, but they definitely made me miserable. They definitely robbed me of sleep and of joy and of full life. (My first few months here I will forever consider lost time. I was dead for a while, and I'll never get that time back.) While I was aware of how fear was holding me captive, I couldn't figure out how to break free of it. I worked month after month to restore fortitude in my being. I made some rattalingly difficult decisions as I went. It often seemed that my efforts were getting me nowhere. But then, before I knew what was happening, the fears dissolved. All of them. It was just like that sudden breath of fresh air...it came into my lungs almost as quickly as it had been knocked out.

I've been breathing nonlaborously now for about 2 months, and I'm deliriously thankful for the fresh air. I know full well that I am not here due to my efforts alone, but my faith in myself has been restored nonetheless. Sometimes losing THAT is the thing we should fear the most.

more gross stuff

2006-06-28T13:17:00.000-07:00

Can't really tell what this is a picture of? It's a python eating an alligator. I was completely horrified and disgusted by this story. To read it, click on the link: http://msnbc.msn.com/id/9600151/

There was only one thing that disgusted me MORE today. While I was talking to a woman with a glass eye this morning, some type of gooey substance started oozing out from underneath it. Seriously, I almost vomited. I had to walk away from her.

For My Beautiful Friend(s)

2006-06-26T17:25:00.000-07:00

Below are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs: So Unsexy by the great Alanis Morrisette. I'm posting them today for a friend of mine who I think needs them. Actually, I think that every woman needs them from time to time.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh these little rejections how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so ungood
Somewhere along the way I think
I gave you the power to make Me feel the way I thought only my father could

Oh these little rejections how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday I'm all but cooked
How these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm 13 again am I 13 for good?

(Chorus: )
I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful
So unloved for someone so fine
I can feel so boring for someone so interesting
So ignorant for someone of sound mind

Oh these little protections how they fail to serve me
One forgotten phone call and I'm deflated
Oh these little defenses how they fail to comfort me
Your hand pulling away and I'm devastated

When will you stop leaving baby?
When will I stop deserting baby?
When will I start staying with myself?

Oh these little projections how they keep springing from me
I jump my ship as I take it personally
Oh these little rejections how they disappear quickly
The moment I decide not to abandon me

ch..ch..ch..changes...

2006-06-21T20:00:00.000-07:00

New look, but same great taste! Yes, so you can see I've made some changes on my blog page. Slow day at work today, kids.
Because I've made changes, I had to install a new site meter...which means we've started over at "1". This makes me sad because as of this morning, I think the hit count was over 1,600. Oh, well.

At the top of the page is the infamous Bridget. My pride and joy. Ain't she cute? If you want to see her adorable kitty face up close, you'll have to click. Just above is...me. In case you've always wondered what I look like...there I am...waving at you in reluctant glee. Your imaginations probably served you better. Just for the record, though...I'm REALLY unphotogenic. I promise I look better in person.

Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part 5

2006-06-21T07:47:00.000-07:00

I've received several recent requests for the next installment of the "Creepy Guy" series. I suppose it has been a while since I've done one. (..."done" an entry on creepy guys...not "done" a creepy guy. let me clarify.) The delay is not due to a shortage of encounters. There is, and always will be, plenty of creeps to go around. I just haven't thought to craft any recent encounters into a story. However, as I was watching the local news this morning, I was reminded of an encounter that I failed to report.

Several months ago I was forced to make a t.v. appearance to promote an event that I had planned for my now-former job. This event, by the way, caused me more stress than any other single element has caused me in my entire life. I truly felt that I was going to drop dead from a heart attack before it was all over with. Truly. Alas, I did not drop dead; in case you were wondering. Anyway, I did NOT want to do a t.v. interview, but it was either me or my boss. And, well, in cases such as those, it was always me. It was either that, or lose my job. Oh. Wait. Never mind.

I arrived at the studio early on this particular Saturday morning and attempted to fake my enthusiam for what was ahead. I HATE being filmed...especially on live television. As I walked in I wondered which anchor would be conducting my interview. Our city is not known for its outstanding news personalities. (Similarly, we're also not known for our high quality locally-made commercials.) I soon learned that one of the younger, more attractive; if there were such a category, anchors would be interviewing me. I had not met this one before, and I was immediately struck by his arrogance. It was not only blatant, but also completely unfounded. I couldn't help but wonder if he had done his own makeup that morning, or if there was a staff person specifically charged with the task. His foundation looked awful. Way too orangey for his complexion. His blush was too bright. Had he been wearing fake boobs and high heels, he would have been an ideal queen.

I'm a smart ass most of the time. When it comes to professional situations, however, I'm perfectly able to restrain myself. But there's something about arrogant men that brings it out in me. It doesn't even have to be obvious pomp. I'm like a bloodhound in this respect. If there's something subtle or non-direct that even hints at the scent of peremptoriness, I sniff it out with alarming proficiency. Because I smelled such an odor on this guy, I let several tarty comments slip out during our pre-show discussion. He laughed at something I said, and perhaps my sarcasm excited him, because his tone drastically changed at that point. He softened his eyes and gazed intently at me.

"Are you wearing vanilla?" he asked.

"Yes. I am, actually." I was, indeed.

"Oh my God. That smells so good. You smell delicious, really." (yes. delicious was what he said.)

I played it off. "Yeah. Haha. I always get comments when I wear this stuff." And, I do, by the way.

And then, before I knew it was coming, he smelled my neck. His nose actually touched my neck. Nose to neck. Neck to nose. And he let the nose linger there for several seconds before he pulled away. "Man, you smell good. What is that? Where'd you get it? Is it lotion or perfume? I've gotta get my wife some of that." And then he pulled the classic breast glance. Locked eye contact with me, let his eyes travel slowly downward, and then brought them back up to post-eye contact. We all know the move. Men and women alike. We know the move.

Before I could decide whether or not to respond, our turn was up and we were quickly shooed to our places under the heavy lighting. We were stationed on a fake kitchen set, at a high table with bar stools. I'm pretty sure I had a ceramic rooster behind my head somewhere. The cameras came on. During our interview, while his face was turned towards me and not at the camera, he did the glance several more times. When we went to commercial, he "helped me" undo my mic with a more gentle touch than was necessary. And as I was getting out of my seat, I happened to swing my head in his direction and caught him staring intently at my ass.

All I cared about at that point was that I had made it through the interview without making a complete fool of myself. And, honestly, I could care less who stares at my ass. But it still makes for a good story.

2006-06-20T11:27:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: As I continue to post blogs, don't discount what I said yesterday about it being wasted energy. I meant every word. I just have to keep myself busy and writing in the meantime.

2006-06-19T13:35:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking. Why do I continue to spend my time writing blogs? If I really enjoy writing this much, then why am I not focusing on writing something more tangible and, possibly, more lucrative? If I took all the time and energy and thought I've placed into my blogsite and devoted it elsewhere, I could have had a book written by now. Who knows if it would be good enough for publishing, but at least it would be an attempt for something real. I need to be reminded of the concept of delayed satisfaction. This is fucking ridiculous. (pardon my language, but its that kind of day)

A Different Kind of Orphanage

2006-06-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

One of the peculiar details of my experience in being me is how particular themes seem to coat my thought patterns. This happens routinely and without fail. Does this happen to everyone, or is it just me? Sometimes I assume these themes are supernaturally planted by God in order to draw my attention to something that I wouldn't have considered otherwise. Sometimes I assume that it's just another product of my obsessive personality; my subconscious producing ideas that are either purposed to distract me or further fuel my preoccupation with some particular emotion or idea (just as dreams are often illuminating illustrations of what's REALLY going on in our heads).

The most recent subject on which I've been fixated is orphancy. Have you ever thought about why orphancy is such a common theme throughout history in various (if not all) religions and literature? In the bible alone I can find 7 stories that mention orphans by name, and that doesn't include the many times that the concept is referred to outside of those stories. Think about literary orphans that have been iconic and stable in the ever-changing world of popular culture: Annie, Oliver Twist, Pippi Longstocking, A Little Princess AND The Little Prince, Pollyanna (my blog's namesake), Tom Sawyer, Harry Potter, Anne Shirley (from Anne of Green Gables), Frodo Baggins, and Cinderella. Luke Skywalker grew up without parents, and so did Princess Leia. Spider-Man, Batman, and Superman were ALL orphans. Did you know that even James Bond was orphaned at a young age?

Is it that human beings are so enchanted by orphancy? I think it's just the opposite: I think we're terrified by it, and we always have been. This is one definition of the word orphan:

An orphan is a person (or animal), who has lost one or both parents, often through death. One legal definition used in the USA is someone bereft through "death or disappearance of, abandonment or desertion by, or separation or loss from, of both parents". Common usage limits the term to children, (or the young of animals) who have lost both parents. On this basis half-orphans are those with one surviving parent.

The words "abandonment", "desertion", and "separation" are so cold and scary; but they very accurately pinpoint how most of us relate to orphancy. Due to spiritual engineering, there is something inside of us that makes us NOT want to be alone. Our souls as well as our physical bodies need connection and support, and in the extremes of our imaginations, being an orphan means being without those things. Because, to most of us, the pain of this is so unfathomable, we tend to heroize those who know the pain personally. It's an inspirational concept...overcoming all that accompanies aloneness and reaching happiness when all odds are against you. All of the orphaned figures that we've looked upon with favor act as a reassurance that we, too, can triumph over the empty plates we've all been served. Yes, even WE can save an entire household or community or even Middle Earth in it's entirety despite our shortcomings. (Interesting to note that most of the literary orphans I mentioned did exactly that...they were saviors or martyrs or redeemers or superheroes...and none of them started out the confidence or knowledge to be so.)

I guess I started pondering all of this subconsciously about a month or so ago when I was feeling particularly lonely. The loneliness was present for a while, and, momentarily, it knocked the breath out of me. All of the sudden, every time I heard or saw anything having to do with orphans or adoption, my stomach would flip. I took it personally without even realizing it. I think all the while I was being nudged to analyze exactly what I'm writing about today. I needed to find encouragement in an unexpected form.

I've always said that I want to adopt at least one child...someday. In fact, I told some coworkers last week that if I'm still single with no children in 5 or 6 years, I may consider adopting on my own. I've always loved the idea of bringing home a baby from some far off place to give him/her a life that he/she wouldn't have elsewhere. Of course, the romantic ideal is adopting a child from a foreign country, but we all know that there are plenty of children on our home turf that need loving, capable parents. I've developed a very powerful affinity of racial diversity within families. And by "families" I don't necessarily mean in the traditional sense. This affinity was always there...but it's grown stronger. It's beautiful to me; beauty in its truest and simplest form...almost like a tiny (tiny) glimpse of Heaven. The beauty being that there is (seemingly) no end to our cultural and racial uniqueness. I want that kind of family, I think (given that I have the funds to care for them all). I want to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner and look into the faces of God's creative genius.

Even though most of us have at least one parent, we've all been abandoned by something or someone. We've all been lonely. We've all felt the ache of separation. And if you haven't, then I'm sure you've laid awake and feared it. So maybe orphancy isn't so unfamiliar. And maybe that's why we're all here...to adopt each other from time to time.

and, by the way, I don't feel lonely anymore...

Kick off Your Sunday Shoes

2006-06-15T08:48:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how far I've come and how much my life has changed in the past year. This entry is one that I originally published a year ago tomorrow. It's one of my favorite things I've written. I happened to re-read it this morning, and it spoke to me as if it hadn't come from my own inner thoughts. (you should all really read through some of my archived entries from time to time. they're much heartier than recent ones.)

While stuck in the dizzying awfulness of searching for a full time job, I've been helping out a friend of my mother's who owns a daycare. She calls me off and on when she needs me, and my response is always eager. (it's funny how poverty makes you eager.) I worked at daycares throughout college, but now that I'm degreed and experienced, the environment is much more humbling. Social theory ain't real applicable when you're changing poopy diapers.

I was with four 1-year olds yesterday...watching as they scooted around the room in pursuit of various things to chew on...when Footloose came on the radio (I refuse to spend 8 hours at a time listening to Barney and BJ sing about sharing). Simultaneously, all four babies broke into freedance. Bottoms bounced, heads bobbed from side to side, arms waved in nonrythmic patterns, and it all made me smile bigger than I had done in quite some time. I couldn't help but imagine them all wearing 80's prom attire. Puffy sleeves. Powder blue tuxes. Mullets and Farrah Fawcett waves. I began to wonder what they'll look like in 17 years; who they'll become. Very briefly, I felt a faint hint of jealousy just then. The wonderful truth is that their futures are still blank canvases. They don't know worry or regret. They're still perfect. I wanted to join them in spirit; to dance inhibitiously with them and get drunk in the joy of innocence. I tried to concentrate on myself as an infant; a child; an adolescent; to connect with my former selves and borrow their ignorance. It didn't work, of course. None of us can go back to those places.

I remember a dream that I had 3 years ago. It's one of those dreams that will always stick with me. When the scene opened, I was walking into the courtyard of my preschool. It still looked the same. Or, at least, it looked the way I remember it in my head. I knew immediately that I was going to see myself as a 4-year old, and a wave of anxiety rushed over me. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't. Something was keeping me there. Across a playground, a group of children were playing duck-duck-goose. I saw her. Her hair was strawberry blonde then. The strands were softer and blew more easily in the breeze than they do now. Her face was round and happy....no sign of lines around the eyes that I now look into every day. Her limbs, not yet long and lanky, showed evidence of residual babyfat. She was more beautiful than any photograph has ever made her.

I stared at her intently while she played, as was suddenly overcome with emotion. Afraid she would hear me crying, I ran up a stairway and hid on an outside landing. I felt ashamed. I just knew that I had let her down and that she would never forgive me for it. What a dissapointment I must be to her....I was nothing of what she COULD have become. Choking on my tears, I wished had I had never come to see her. However, I couldn't escape her. She had followed me up the stairs and had been waiting patiently for me to compose myself. She put her right hand on mine, and I noticed the same freckle there that I have now. Looking into her eyes, I apologized silently. No words were exchanged, but I knew all at once that she forgave me. She loved me as I was. She was proud of me. And before she ran back to her game, she hugged me.

That dream was the best self-therapy I've ever experienced. Every time I think of it, it repairs a little piece of my soul. I guess that longing to be younger is inevitable, but childhood (or any other phase of our respective "youth") wouldn't offer any solution; even if we could access it. Regardless of our age, we always have a canvas that is awaiting completion of a masterpiece. Youth is all about perspective, anyway. We may lose our freshness and crave the days of not knowing, but the later we pick up a brush to complete a certain phase of life, the more experienced we are with the brush techniques. The inability to go back is a blessing, not a hinderance. Experiencing life more than once would be overwhelming, I think. It's hard enough to do it once. Feel free to celebrate like a toddler. Your younger self accepts you even if you dance like a whitey.

i'm a pretty pretty princess

2006-06-14T16:02:00.000-07:00

You know what I just LOVE? Walking under blooming Crepe Myrtle trees and getting showered by the little tiny pink petals and what I like to call "tree juice". (It's like a little baby rain shower just for you in that moment.) It makes me feel like I'm in a poem or a Jane Austen film.

Bathtime Occurrences on This, Our Hypothesized Last Day on Earth

2006-06-06T07:52:00.000-07:00

Two things occurred to me while I was in the shower this morning. Things often occur to me in the shower. In fact, that's really the only reason I ever take showers; so that things will occur to me. Otherwise I wander the streets completely incoherent and void of all thought. Last time that happened I was picked up for prostitution.

The first thing that occurred to me this morning was that I seem to have temporarily lost my desire to make fun of people I don't know. (okay. not true. the FIRST thing that occurred to me this morning was actually that I had an unusual amount of eye crust upon waking.) I've had no trouble at all lately making fun of people I know...to their faces. It's my dysfunctional way of showing affection; or maybe my passive aggressive way of revealing underlying hatred. Either way, I've had no trouble doing it. But when it comes to the normal vituperation of strangers (or even people that I know but just don't care for) that I strive for, I've become soft. For instance: I've attempted to write several blog entries in the past week serving no purpose at all but to gibe, but my conscious has prevented me from publishing them, or even finish them, for that matter. I've pasted one example below. It was birthed from a bitter dislike...and I just couldn't bring myself to complete it.

"There's this woman I know who talks incessantly about her daughter. I've never met the girl, but apparently she is the most charming, brilliant, hilarious, life-impacting human being of all time. It would be impossible for me to calculate the number of glorifying stories I've heard her tell about her beloved flesh and blood.

Crystal (not really her name...but I picture her the way I picture a "Crystal"...fat, unsettlingly unattractive like her mother, promiscuous, and of sour personality) is the epitome of what's good (good, not great. because the two are very different concepts) about today's youth. Believe it or not, EVERY single one of her peers from birth till now have been jealous of her to the point of sabotaging her physically, emotionally, or relationally. Every story told about Crystal paints her as an unappreciated savior. She's a modern day martyr. And all of this despite her earlier days of drug and alcohol addiction, frequent incarceration, flunking out of school, and whoring around (the latter two she's never overcome). "

I got that far and stopped to remind myself that this woman is someone who carries no significance in my life; and therefore, why would I bother to think enough of her to continue writing about her? If I considered her a friend who might actually get a laugh out of my ranting, then maybe it would be worth my time. My efforts suddenly felt snide and pointless. My balloon of contempt was deflated. Part of this condition is the fact that I'm working with really wonderful people now. I, as most people, have always enjoyed complaining about my employers/coworkers. Seems like I can't do that anymore. My new workplace has thrown me in with a bunch of freaks that so far seem like wonderfully gracious souls. What will I do now?? I can't afford to lose my edge. I'm too young to lose my edge.

The second thing that occurred to me this morning really has nothing at all to do with the first. Some of my most beloved and most lovable friends are coming here to spend my birthday with me this weekend. I'm absolutely joyous in this fact, by the way. I've been stressing out a tad bit, however, as I attempt to plan something of a celebratory nature for the big day. Many people know that I've been less than thrilled with my social life since moving back to Louisiana. I know lots of people here. Lots of great people. But the percentage of these great people that I have been enchanted with to the point that I actually like to spend time with them is a bit on the smallish side. I've invited a few of them already to participate in the grandeur of my birthday, but I'm struggling to make much progress. It has OCCURRED to me that I don't have a clue how to begin to plan something that will accommodate/appeal to all of my friends here.

I've bragged before about how all of my friends are "so very different"...like it says something good about ME...and this social detail has popped up once again. However, I currently find it more troublesome than charming. I can't imagine putting all of these people in a room together (or around a table, or at a bar, i.e.) with the outcome that they'd all enjoy each others' company. I picture a party at which Anna Nicole Smith is serving up the queso, Jim J. Bullock is pouring the booze (and throwing quite a few back, I'm sure), Ann Graham Lott is playing DJ, and George Stepanopolous is in charge of the kareoke machine. I think such a gathering would be categorized somewhere in rank between a cock fight and a car wreck. Sounds like a rockin time, huh? Would be for me, in fact, but my constant concern for the emotional comfort of others would have me unbearably anxious throughout the entire event. Perhaps I just don't have enough faith in people. Why do I always assume that others will always be more uncomfortable than myself in social situations? Is it more adult of me to be concerned or to expect everyone else to behave as adults and fend for themselves? tough one. As long as I don't force them all to play Truth or Dare, they should be fine, I guess. My project for tonight is create a way to combine Trivial Pursuit, Strip Poker, and Bible Monopoly.

2006-05-31T13:43:00.000-07:00

I've had so much to say lately....just no time to say it. Not here, anyway. Blog, my love....I miss you.

Yes, so, I'm starting a new job tomorrow. Everyone keeps asking me if I'm excited. My answer every time has been a non-hesitant "no". I'm not caught in the antithesis of excited....I'm not dreading this new position. I don't think I feel anything about it at all at this point. You know how your body defaults to shock when the nerve endings detect a certain level of physical pain? Fascinating (and appreciated) nature-made protection device. Well, I think I'm in emotional shock. My body is allowing me to feel no emotion so that the culmination of it all won't finish me off. Remember my not-so-long-ago complaint about my crying overages? Well, amazingly, I haven't shed a tear in 6 weeks or so. I could get used to this.

The feeling will return before long. The numbness will begin to fade, and then I'll just feel all tingly for a while, and before I know it....all will be back to normal. Even if it doesn't, I'm sure I'll have reports from this....yet another.... new career venture. What is this---like number 35??

Piggly Wiggly's Star Employee of the Week (or something similar)

2006-05-19T11:01:00.000-07:00

I have amazing friends. Truly...you're all amazing. And the most amazing part of the amazingnessism is that you're all amazing in your own ways. Each and every one of you has a unique character and spirit that inspires me...displays talents and abilities that take my breath away...shares love that makes my life mean something. From time to time I mention you, either by name or reference, in this blog. I should do it more often, perhaps. I'm doing it today.

To the left, under "Links", you'll see one titled Blank Canvas. This one is authored by my dear pal Corey. If you've never looked at his page, you should. Corey and his beautiful wife, my beautiful friend Kristen (who will be signing a record deal in no time, I'm sure), have moved to New York City (I've mentioned this before) to exercise their talents. They have more collective talent, by the way, than any two people should be allowed to have. No wonder God cut some of us short....SOME people got it all. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Corey is in pursuit of anything related to music, dance, or thespianism (is that a word?). He WILL make it, just so you know. I don't know how or when or by what means, but he will make it. I must point a little spotlight at the most recent entry on his page. He has listed all of the upcoming auditions he's planning on attending. I'm in awe of his courage. Yes, Corey....I'm in awe.

However, I have to say that I AM experiencing a little bit of a gag reflex at the posting of one of your model friends' pictures on your page, though. You're pretty enough on your own...you don't need to exaggerate it by bragging that you hang out with pretty people. And are we really expected to believe that these guys have names like "Jono" and "Brown" and "Apollo"? ( I swear, Corey...if you change your name to something hip and pansy, I'll never speak to you again. I put up with a lot from you, but that's where I draw the line. ) I met some of Corey's model buddies and I have to admit that, despite their ridiculous made-up names, they were actually very down to earth. I had some fairly intense conversations with a few of them. Pretty and hair-product laden or not, there aren't many guys that I could discuss crying with. So, for that, I offer acceptance. Tolerance, anyway.

My intended point, which I have so successfully lost in meaningless details, was that Corey's pursuit of his dream is something that I am chosing to learn from. We should choose to learn from it. We may not be able to hit all the high notes or do jazz hands with flawless flare, but we've all got our own strengths and talents. If he can risk busting his ass on a stage (not that he will), then I'm positive that there are risks we should all be taking for our chance at our own versions of stardom. All I need now are 3 bowling pins, a jar of rubber cement, a damp towel, a trained zebra and a stripper's pole....and I'll be on my way.

The Dough-Boy's Sugar-Coated View of Adulthood

2006-05-15T13:08:00.000-07:00

That one of the most painful human experiences is to lose a child is a completely believable concept. I would say that it's completely "understandable" but, as someone with no children, much less someone who has LOST a child, how could I possibly understand it? I've heard parents whose children have passed express the pain by saying that it's "unnatural" or "against nature"...that parents should always go first; not the other way around.

While I cannot possibly comprehend the above mentioned scenario, it makes me think about other variations of "unnatural" events within the parent/child relationship. My current and ongoing situation is in no way as tragic or painful as the death of a loved one, but it prompts a very unique range of emotions. I will venture to say that no "child" should have to parent their own parents.

Most of us will grow to an old age. Most of us will have at least one parent arrive at old age before we do. It's one of our many responsibilities as members of a family...as decent human beings...to care for our parents and look after them once they are unable to physically care for themselves. It's really the only way we repay them for raising us to adulthood, right?

But there is a distinct difference in CARING for parents and PARENTING parents. It feels quite unnatural to have to have to discuss with your siblings what "Tough Love" tactics must be used with your mother and father in order for them to learn from their mistakes. Lecturing 60-somethings about irresponsibility and decision making isn't as much fun as it sounds. And lying awake in your bed at night hoping and praying that you've equipped them to the best of your abilities to take on that next big thing....well, it sucks. It bruises the soul in a way that is pretty much indescribable to anyone who hasn't experienced it personally. Debasement, worry, vexation, frustration, sorrow. Mostly sorrow. When combined they create a dull pain that isn't sharp enough to cut your spirit completely in two, but it's a sensation that never really subsides. It jabs you between the ribs just enough so that you never feel totally comfortable.

That absent comfort, like a nice clean house where the family can gather at holidays just like they do in Pilsbury commercials, is something I never stop pining after.

I'm just a step away from support hose and Wheel of Fortune

2006-05-02T16:42:00.000-07:00

In a little over a month, I'll be turning 27. Yikes!! That number sounds so old. Old and....insignificant. 27 is MUCH closer to 30 than 26 is. 26 is hanging out right after 25, and that seems pretty cool, still. 27... not so much. I keep discussing the big two-seven with people lately, and I'm becoming completely paranoid about my age. I'm starting to freak out a little bit, actually. Don't even get me started on the "I'm still not married and have produced no offspring" issue.

Signs that I'm Getting Old:

1. Those "laugh lines" don't think it's funny anymore. For the first time ever, I cracked open a jar of anti-wrinkle cream last night. I think I heard the sorrowful sound of the violin as I applied it. It was a sad moment. But, I figured it can't hurt, right? It's the good stuff, too. $125 a pop. (got it for free, by the way.) Maybe if it works on my face, I'll try it on my butt, too. Just as a precaution.
2. My feet began hurting my first day in New York...and that was almost 2 weeks ago. Shouldn't a good foot soak have worked by now?
3. I recently spent a good 3 hours with a group of fraternity boys (long story), and all but one of them insisted on calling me "m'am" the entire time. The "but one" did flirt with me quite a bit, though, so that should count for something. I thought about making out with him just to boost my self esteem, but in the end decided against it.
4. Going home on a Friday night is now far more appealing than going out to socialize.
5. As time goes by, I grow to like Simon and Garfunkel more and more.
6. I use expressions like "Yikes!".
7. I distinctly remember referring to a guy (who was probably 5-6 years older than myself) as a "nice young man" last week. And I didn't say it to be funny.
8. I get really excited about eating spinach.
9. If I'm around anyone who's under the age of 23, I feel the need to counsel them about their life choices even when they don't ask for my advice.
10. My day feels incomplete without coffee and at least one viewing of the national news.
11. If I go a night without at least 6 hours of sleep, I'm dragging ass the next day.
12. I make moany noises when getting up off the floor.
13. When in public, if I see a kid misbehaving, I give her the evil eye when her mommy isn't looking.
14. When someone suggests dining at Picadilly, I'm totally up for it.

If anyone catches me playing The Weather Channel just for the benefit of the music, please just go ahead and put me out of my misery.

The Point

2006-04-15T08:18:00.000-07:00

Foreword: I did, actually, begin writing this on April 15th while in New York City. My feet hurt too badly to finish it at the time. A lot has happened since then, and it worked to transform this entry into something else entirely. So...for those of you who have been updated on my life, don't be confused by the date.

When two of my closest friends moved to NYC a coupla months ago, I was....I dunno....proud of them, I suppose. Saying that one is moving there (here) is almost like a euphenism for the dream of success, excitement, fame, or living out "the dream" itself. It sounds cliche', almost. But guess what? People actually do it. People actually pack up thier belongings, sell their cars, and go for it. And the fact that two people I care about decided to put the plan into action grew an even larger amount of respect in me for them. Then again, I always respect people for taking risks...for daring to do things and go places (physically and emotionally) that don't seem "safe" for the chance of experiencing greatness or, at the very least, newness. I've tried my own version of this several times in, perhaps, less grandiose form. But the success of my well-intentioned adventures hasn't always been quick to show itself. In fact, at times, it hasn't shown itself at all.

At this particular juncture in what is, apparently, my life...I'm once again considering another change. Another risk. Another move. Honestly, just the thought of it makes me want to curl into the fetal position and hide under the covers. BUT, I'm forever romanced by the possibility of...well, possibility. At least, that's the positive spin I'm choosing to put on things right now for the sake of my sanity. Yes. POSSIBILITY. Beautiful word, don't ya think?

The myriad of details that is turning my eyes towards all of this possible-ness is too much to review. But I'll say this about it. Sometimes, no matter what you do, things just don't go as planned. Do you ever sit back in frustration and wonder what the point is in doing "the right thing"? (I guess if you're a horrible person who prefers to do "the wrong thing" in most cases, then you won't be able to relate.) For months, I've had to talk myself into the concept of doing what I know is RIGHT on a daily basis. It wasn't that I had forgotten what was RIGHT or that I didn't know what was RIGHT. It's just that it's so much easier to do what is, in fact, WRONG, when you are surrounded by crappy people or crappy situations. The human part of me has lusted after spite, anger, laziness, and the consistent urge to hit certain someones in the face with harsh honesty and perhaps a open-handed bitch slap. By the grace of God, I've managed to put that lust aside for the most part. And I've asked God continually what the point is in ignoring those tempting desires. It would be extremely easy for me at this point to say it was all for nothing, even though I really know better.

I came across something this morning that solidified for me "WHY". Why, indeed, it was (and always will be) worth it. This is a portion of what I read, and it would not be "the right thing" for me to not share it.

"Let me commend to you a life of trust in God in temporal things. Trusting in God, you will not be compelled to mourn because you have used sinful means to grow rich. Serve God with integrity, and if you acheive no success, at least no sin will lie upon your conscience. Trusting God, you will not be guilty of self-contradiction. Those who trust in skill sail this way today and that way the next, like a vessel tossed about by the fickle wind; but they who trust in the Lord are like a vessel propelled by steam, which cuts through the waves, defies the wind, and makes one bright, straight, silvery track to her destined haven. Be someone with living principles within; never bow to the varying customs of worldy wisdom. Walk in your path of integrity with firm steps, and show that you are invincibly strong in the strengh which confidence in God alone can confer. This is how you will be delivered from anxiety; you will not be troubled by bad news, your heart will be fixed, trusting in the Lord. How pleasant to float along the stream of providence! There is no more blessed a way of living a life of dependence upon a covenant-keeping God. We have no care, for he cares for us; we have no troubles, because we cast our burdens upon the Lord."

Oh, yeah. So that's it.
THIS is why I can sleep at night (when I don't have stressed-induced insomnia, that is). THIS is why I feel healthier now than I have in many months. THIS is one of the many reasons that I live for the God that I do. His grace and his covenant make it all worth something. I praise him for the ability to trust. I praise him for truth.

Rest Assured......

2006-03-28T14:43:00.000-08:00

I wanted to give a shout-out to all my (probably formerly) devoted fans....I have not abandoned you or my blog!! My home computer is temporarily "disabled", so I have not been able to indulge in my usual cathartic therapy...spending an hour here or there to post my innermost thoughts and struggles. In the past, I would blog while at work, but those happy days are no more. My job requires 175% of my time, and when I find a spare moment, it's usually just to use the potty or to take a quick shot of Guiness behind the dumpsters outside.

But...don't give up on me!! I'll be back! Check in on me every now and then. Before you know it, I'll be spittin' em out again. I promise!!

If Luck were a baby, he'd be a bastard.

2006-02-16T14:45:00.000-08:00

WooHoo!! I'm the big winner! My car was broken into yesterday....again. When it happened 6 months ago or so, everyone on my street said "That hasn't happened on our street for years." Of course, they also said that several weeks later when the house got broken into. The cops and my landlord both said (in regards to yesterday's incident) "That hasn't happened at these apartments for a couple of years." Fascinating, don't ya think? Has anyone noticed a freakin spotlight shining on me from somewhere? Why am I so damn lucky?

I know what you're thinking....you wish I'd shut up and drop the defeatist attitude. But this is my blog, so I can vent as much as I care to. That's why I have a blog in the first place, after all. I'm signing off now....I've gotta go get a third job to pay for my new car window.

aahhhh.....about the poetry, that is........

2006-02-07T11:29:00.000-08:00

The restroom at my office bears the classic poem of the public toilet. Printed and laminated on a discolored sheet of construction paper reads “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.” Next to the poem is the graphic of a not-so-modern robot holding a balloon. I take offense at this cutesie reminder to not piss all over the toilet seat. First of all….I don’t need a reminder. I feel like I’m in the 2nd grade when I have to read that 4 times a day. (6-7 times if I drink a lot.) Secondly….why the robot? Seems like a better spokesperson for responsible restroom behavior would be a nurse or a bluebird or Barney….or even Magic Johnson. I’m just incredibly annoyed with the whole thing. I never thought I’d say it, but I’d rather read fowl cusswords and phone numbers of strangers when I pee in a public place. That’s the way it should be.

Paradise With a Side of Bacon

2006-02-01T19:43:00.000-08:00

There was a bit on the news the other day about crime-related T.V. shows. Police departments all over the country are frustrated with shows like C.S.I. (all 14 versions) and Law & Order (all 57 versions) because they give potential criminals too much instruction about how NOT to get caught. Fingerprints, hair strands, and blood splatters are getting harder to come by behind the yellow tape. Not only that, but police say that these shows give the public unrealistic expectations about crime solving...making it harder for them to do their jobs. My thoughts about that type of entertainment is that it gives already crazy people even more creative ways to do horrible things. Of course, in the mid 80's, cops in Miami were pissed off because of the pressure to wear pastel sports jackets. If it's not one thing, it's another.

Instead of barking about the unrealistic expectations of crime shows, I think we should all talk about how shows like Friends equip us to feel crappy about our personal lives. Don't you sometimes wish that a predictable joke or an espresso at your favorite coffee shop (oh, yeah....and EVERY time you go there, one of your best pals is on the couch) could smooth things over when they get complicated and frustrating and not-so-pretty? Why aren't psychologists and case workers complaining about how Joey and Rachel are making THEIR jobs difficult? pansy policeman......

A friend very recently mentioned the idea of WOULDN'T IT BE GREAT IF EVERYONE THAT WE CARE ABOUT COULD ALL COEXIST IN THE SAME LIFE?(loose translation) We've all thought about this, haven't we? I think most of us would want it. It doesn't sound all that tricky, but it's so difficult, in fact, that it's almost impossible. Well, I guess it's not that far fetched for some. If you've lived in the same hick town your entire life and you've never gone anywhere and never done anything and nobody you know has gone anywhere or done anything and your circle of relationship has wound itself so tightly that nobody new comes in and nobody old gets out.....then everyone you care about can exist together. But for most of us, it's just not that simple. Most of us are stuck in the middle of the giant complex organism of life, and people come and go from all directions and half of the time they never bump into each other. They only bump into YOU; and the only evidence they see of the others are the bruises left on your arms from time to time.

I had a dream last night that I was in a cramped, smoky Waffle House. I went in with a small group of friends (ones that I happen to be missing right now). We sat down, ordered our food. Seconds later, another group of my (our) friends walked in. We were all surprised to see each other. "Haayyy!! What are YOU doing here?" We scooted over and made room. But then it happened again. And again. And again. Before long just about every friend I have, their friends, people that I met once or twice but really liked and never saw again, my family members, and so on had walked into the restaurant. We eventually stopped acting surprised to see everyone else there. It was normal. Expected. We pulled up additional tables and shared chairs...nobody seemed to mind the lack of space. There was no awkwardness and every single person there felt acknowledged and welcomed. I was eating waffles smothered with blueberry compote. I was laughing so much that my face was covered in purple mush. It was dripping down my chin and I couldn't have cared less. Nobody did. It was beautiful.

My only conclusion of the dream is that it was a clear and obvious expression of my longing for a relationship utopia. (I can't help but grin when I realize that the setting of my personal utopia was an establishment that serves carb-laden breakfast food. How telling.) While the details of the dream are unrealistic (everyone knows that Waffle House doesn't serve compote), I can't shake off the thought of "Why not?" So much of life truly is complicated, but more often than not, I make it unnecessarily so. Thomas More believed that utopia was possible. Joey and Rachel believed it. Why shouldn't we? It's definitely a goal worth striving for.

Fear # 32

2006-01-29T19:34:00.000-08:00

I've always been very dependent on relationships. People are important to me. My friendships act as the thermostat that regulates everything else in my world. This fact about me has often made me question my strength and my morality. Is my reliance....No, my NEED for others a weakness and a sin? Deep down I believe that the answer to that question is "no". I think we were all created to need relationship. Nobody is meant to be alone. If we were, then why would we all crave the company and the nuturing of people that love us?

It was during a conversation I had today that I was able to vocalize something that has been sitting in the back of my throat for a while. I haven't stopped relying on my friends. On a daily basis I talk to at least one person who loves me. It's a necessity I allow myself to indulge. But most of the people I talk to are not here with me. As it would be with most people, this occassionally leads me to the ever-so-familiar valley of loneliness that all of us have traveled through. But more than that....the sensation that's stronger is that I feel unknown.

It's amazing how much of what we see in ourselves is actually just a reflection of who we are in the eyes of others. The reflection that I have (subconsciously) grown so accustomed to seeing over the years has become very cloudy here. In fact, I can barely make it out at all anymore. There are people here that love me; but I just don't think I'm SEEN the way I used to be. (The people I spend eight hours a day with, for example, have no clue who I am. Sometimes people decide to see us a certain way, and there's nothing we can do to change that.)

As crazy as it sounds, I'm afraid that I'm disappearing. If no one really sees you....really KNOWS you....can that actually happen? I'm losing my ability to see myself; I'm forgetting what the reflection used to look like. The solution is one of two things: either I need new glasses or a cleaner mirror.

I guess it's better than having gas...

2006-01-11T19:36:00.000-08:00

I cry a lot now.

It's not because I'm sad or depressed. It's not necessarily because I'm really happy, either.

The thing is; somehow my emotional wires have crossed. Whatever it is inside me that triggers my tear ducts has malfunctioned. Instead of reacting to the "normal" emotions that tears accompany, the damn thing reacts to just about every emotion I have. It's like whatever "it" is has given up on its job of sorting through the feelings in my head. "To hell wid it. She so fucked up she don't know whetha to scratch er' watch or wind er' ass. I can't keep up. Let er' cry ever day fer all I care." (Apparently, not only is the voice of my emotion tremendously insensitive, but from backwoods Arkansas.)

When I'm with someone I even remotely care about, and this fact crosses my mind when I'm with them...tears. When I get pissed off...tears. When a song on the radio reminds me of something I did or saw or said once upon a time...tears. When I think of something funny...tears. When love (or hate, for that matter) in any of its forms breezes through me momentarily...tears. When my cereal gets soggy...tears. And this is the worst one....when I talk to someone about something that's important to me...my body immediately coerces me cry. This is immesively inconvenient because I'm typically a very sincere person. I rarely talk about anything that isn't of some importance to me. As horrifying as this is to admit, I've had to tell colleagues in two different meetings lately that my "allergies were acting up" so that they wouldn't realize I was actually tearing up over what was being discussed. The excuse was perfectly believable both times, but I was secretly humiliated.

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON??

In one way, I feel intensely connected to the world right now, but in another way, I feel numb to much of it. I'm an island surrounded by electrically charged water....standing alone but constantly submerged by shockwaves. I think maybe the combination of the two extremes is the cause of this. Raw, unprotected emotion knows no other way to express itself than through tears....exhausted, disconnected emotion that doesn't have the strength to hold back or be creative resorts to tears by default.

It amazes me that some people go years without crying. How is that possible? Does that mean that they are so in the world that they can't feel it pressing against them, or has all the water around their islands evaporated?

2006-01-05T20:51:00.000-08:00

Does it make anyone else sad that The Boy Who Could Fly is now the middle aged man who sells Advil?

Watch Out. It's a Bull Market out there. Or, so I've heard.

2006-01-05T16:25:00.000-08:00

What day of the week will April 15th, 2019 fall on? What day did it fall on in 1942? If it's 5:00 p.m. in Lisbon, then what time is it in Vancouver? Does your business fall under a "1R" or a "2R" rating in the D&B system? What is the definition of "Greenmail"? How many miles is it from Nairobi and Bombay? If you need the answers to any of these questions, I'm your go-to gal.

I just purchased a $40 day planner, and the above is just a small sample of the wealth of knowledge it contains. Honestly, I haven't used a day planner in quite some time....which might explain my usual brain jumble of appointments and deadlines. Apparently all of the ones I owned in the past were cheap teaniebop versions because they never contained mini-encyclopedias like this one does. (but at least those had extra pages for my weekly updated list of boys that I liked) While this new possession should make me feel all new and shiny--empowered with fancy facts, I'm really just annoyed. Who needs crap like this in their planner? Anyone who does surely wouldn't be using a $40 leather binder to keep their lives straight. Their personal assistants would be doing it for them by way of high tech laser hieroglyphics Or is my professional life just extremely lame and trivial....or lamely trivial....or trivially lame?? No, the Mead Company is mocking me, my friends. It's mocking all of us for our ability to function without a toteable Wall Street dictionary. Now excuse me while I place a few prank calls to the Milwaukee Econo Lodge.

This may frighten the children....

2005-12-08T12:12:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-07T13:15:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-25T00:51:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-21T09:15:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-11-20T10:03:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-12T01:36:00.000-08:00

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?

2005-11-10T23:46:00.000-08:00

Take my picture by the pool...

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

Violence on the Homefront

2005-11-10T08:18:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-01T07:45:00.000-08:00

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

2005-10-25T08:23:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-18T08:27:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-09T23:21:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-07T13:14:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-25T19:40:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-23T15:33:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-11T23:21:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-09-10T08:57:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-24T14:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-15T19:31:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-07T21:56:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-06T23:36:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-27T20:48:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-06-24T15:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-06-21T16:04:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-15T17:17:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-14T20:19:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-06-09T13:08:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-27T08:21:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-23T00:43:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-05-16T11:28:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-15T21:15:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-06T14:35:00.000-07:00

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.....

2005-05-05T16:18:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-01T10:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Call me Silver Tongue A. Smooth

2005-04-29T15:33:00.000-07:00

One of the attorneys I work with has alerted me of a very mindless, yet enjoyable, website. www.playerappreciate.com is the source of all things pimp-like. You can get info about how to do things in pimp fashion, order crunk bling, and...my favorite feature...create your very own pimp name (mine is above). My cat Bridget's new name is Sugartastic Kitty Fresh. How great is that?

He was always so nice to the birdies....

2005-04-27T14:20:00.000-07:00

Earlier, my friend ambigiously poked her head up over the filing cabinet drawer in such a way that just her nose was protruding over the ledge. The fingers on each hand were wrapped over on either side of her head. I looked over at her at started giggling because it reminded me of the old Ziggy cartoons. (But my friend isn't bald, and doesn't have an exxageratedly large nose. ) Then I got all nostalgic remembering Ziggy and all the profound things he had to say about life. I miss Ziggy.