And So It Goes

When I was in eleventh grade, I was in love with a Mormon. His name was Scott and he was tall and blond and beautiful. He drove a tan Ford truck, appropriate as that was his last name, and he would pick me up on Saturday mornings and we would speed around town. We were together all day in speech and debate and practice for plays. He would rub my head and run his fingers through my hair and I would return the favor. For competitions he would often wear his favorite green sweater vest with the white stripe across the chest and would offer lunch time encouragements. Don't worry what those judges think, he would say, they're just stupid you were perfect. The day I wore tight pants, he grabbed my ass and I took it as a compliment. On our first and only not-a-date date, we went to see "The Man in the Iron Mask" with three other people. He drove and he paid, even though it was just as friends, and then took me home and said goodnight and drove away. On Monday, he was rude because I tried to repay the movie fare. She's just mad because she thought it was a date and it wasn't a date, I heard him say, even though I wasn't mad at all. The next day, in the library, he seemed better and kissed my cheek and I handed him the obligatory I-don't-know-what-you-were-thinking-but-I-was-thinking-we-went-just-as-friends note even though that wasn't what I was thinking. Then at McDonalds I accidentally insulted his beliefs and after that there was no more kissing, no more movies, no more grabbing, no more rubbing, no more talking. We continued that way and then he graduated and then I graduated and moved away. I later found out he was mad, and continues to be mad, because I gave him the $3.50 for the ticket. Silly reason not to talk to someone, I say, but it doesn't do anything to change the past or help the future. So, I did the only thing I could. I wrote a poem about it and here it is:

Like a Rock

My last obsession, you ass!
Do you remember our vacation in Canada?
Last week, when I was home,
I saw your mother in the grocery store-

As I approached her in between
the cheddar and the cheddar and
the two percent milk, her eyes
hardened, and I saw that she remembered.

She spoke well of you. I
think you would be proud, she
lied to me as well as you used to.
I see now where you get it.

Her intent, as she spoke of
all you were doing, was to observe
the pain in my eyes. You’d be proud,
I hid my emotions as well as you used to.
I see now where I get it.

The ice cream is melting, was her excuse
to leave, though I saw that she had none
in her shopping cart.

I asked her to say hello,
though I knew that she would
not. I never understood why
she came to hate me.

And now, as I stand
in my kitchen, my
all natural vanilla
ice cream melting
in my hands

I am amazed
at how well you
taught her to dislike
me. It’s funny,
though, because
my mother still loves you.


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Good God, what a beautiful day. I am celebrating it by opening the windows and doors and letting breezes visit for a while or maybe just pass through on their way to somewhere else. Though the gray that made up yesterday accompanies my apparently pessimistic nature, I much prefer the sunshine and warm winds and chirping birds that today has to offer.
My father called yesterday to tell me something and I snapped at him and told him I was trying to sleep. He was obviously hurt and said he would call back later and I felt terrible. I felt even worse when he did call back to tell me that he had pulled strings and managed to secure a marketing internship this summer just for me and that he had this plane ticket to anywhere he wasn't going to use and I could have it if I wanted. I don't deserve my father, especially not his goodness.
I have big plans for the rest of today, all which include some sort of cleaning. I owe to my house and my cat and my mother. She likes to pretend that I keep a clean house and would kill me if she walked in here right now.
Life today has happiness and seems as bright as the sun outside the window.
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Under covers of clouds and dodging drops of rain, we partied until the wine was gone and then made our way home under the arm of a friend and dodging piles of Merlot revisited. In between the coming and the going, there was drinking, and dancing, and loving, and brushing off undeserved compliments of perfection. My made up faced must have been striken with a look of agony, though, for everyone felt the need to constantly ask if I was having a good time. I did, in fact, have a lovely time, once my shoes and I parted ways. Happy Birthday Andrew, I hope it was everything you wished for.

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These days, I really miss having a best friend. I have good friends, I have close friends, I have work friends and church friends and kids in my classes at school friends. I haven't had a friend described as best since the day I packed up boxes and moved to Gainesville. I miss Ashley Olive. I miss how I told her everything, and I miss how she told me everything, and I miss how we laughed and cried and did the things people do when they know they are best friends. Peas and carrots, we would say, we're just like 'em. Last night, as I was letting go of everything and crying to Jill in the ladies' room of the Presbyterian Center, I missed Ashley more than I have in the whole of the three years of our separation.
I had thought that talking to someone would help me to feel better, but it didn't and I feel worse. I feel sad and unloved, and I don't know if the tears are because of allergies or emotions. I feel fat because my jeans are tight in the thighs and because the pudge in my stomach pokes out of the waist. So, I chew gum and drink diet soda to keep the edge off of hunger. I feel unpretty because my hair is bad and my eyes are sad and puffy from crying and the edges of my mouth are turned down in a permanent frown. And, I feel tired and achy and I wish the day were over and I was home and safe in bed.
But today is not over and I will trudge through the rest of it and I will have lunch and then yell at myself for eating and being weak and I will go to class and go to the ghetto and go to see Kirsten in her play and then go home and yell at myself again because the house is messy and cold and finally, finally, I will pull on my flannel pajamas with the dogs on them and the warm knit socks I got for Christmas and grab my sad book and crawl into bed and wait for the day to start over again.
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The street that anchors my cousin's house is lined with ancient oak trees. For the first time in a while I forced my head up from my book and watched the braches pass above me. The sky defined blue and sundrops sprinkled down through the leaves. Bird bellies scattered as my footsteps sounded down the road. Cool breezes found their way into my coat and assaulted my arms, causing my hands to clench tighter around the keys in my pocket. Had I been in a field, and not a street, I would have layed on the ground and gazed up at the expanse of beauty until the sun made it above the tree line. Later, as the day drifted through warm afternoon and then into cool evening, a ring of purple crowned the tops of trees and wisps of clouds offered decoration around the setting sun. Night brings with it good books read in bed and hours spent inside myself.
Again as I walked towards that same street, I found the stalker becoming the stalked. While in daily conversation with my mother, I looked up to see that boy from class paces in front of me. I slowed and slinked along the fences until he turned the corner, completely unaware of my presence. I watched him for a moment, walking without purpose towards an indiscriminate location, and then hurried out of sight with my heart slowly finding its way up from my stomach.
Driving home from work, I stopped at the grocery to purchase solo entrees and a loaf of bread. I found satisfaction in my ability to advertise my aloneness. Table for one, please. Just one ticket for the Wednesday performance, please. No, I bought these flowers for myself, thank you. Alone does not frighten me, I only fear the threat of its permanence.
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I took the long way home tonight to drive down memories and take the tour of the landmarks of my youth. Past the elementary school that was brand new when I went there, now aging gracefully as time and waves of pre-adolences wear away its freshness. Past the house where my first boyfriend, Palmer, lived, standing as a reminder of our brief romance. He wooed me with Waldo books and forbidden adventures in the woods and stolen kisses in the trees. Down the street where I learned ride my bike, sans training wheels. Past the house of my mother's good friend. I saw her in the window oblivious to the fact that I was intruding on her night. Past the house of my then best friend Nikki. Even the darkness was unable to hide the fact that years of abuse had left her house dumpy and unloved. Finally, past the house where my very first memories were made. Time has been gracious and has left almost every inch exactly as it was when I lived there. I miss that house. With the tour over, I made my way towards home and reflected on the past, desperately wishing I could have it all back.
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Today, as I was walking to my class, I stepped out of my one-inch platform flipflops and tripped in the middle of the crosswalk on University Avenue. A move completely void of any grace and impossible to play off. I knew, at that instant, it was going to be one of those days.
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I've never been a big fan of valentines. Maybe it's because I've never had someone to spend the day with, maybe it's because the whole day is too commercial/mushy/sentimental even for me, but Valentine's Day stopped being something to celebrate the year I stopped making milk-carton mailboxes and handing out candy and New Kids on the Block valentines to the kids in my class, regardless of whether I liked them or not. Today wore much like any other Thursday, only with more pink, more roses, and a whole lot of chocolate. I say, forget the roses, and kill the pink, but BRING ON THE CHOCOLATE!
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Leave it to my mother to make bad days good again. She knows just what to say to make things all better. She knows when to say I love you and when to say I told you so. She understands that somedays it's necessary to call three times and talk for an hour while other days require going on without hearing her voice. And somehow, she has the uncanny ability to send me a long-distance hug right when I need one the most. She sent me a package, priority mail, to make sure that I had something to open on Valentine's Day. Inside was a sweater, and a gift certificate, and a card that said she always loves me even when others do not. I cried and called her for the fourth time today. It's nice to find the kind of satisfaction in my relationship with her that some are so desperately seeking to discover in other people. Happy Valentine's Day, Mom. I love you and thanks.
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Today's clouds cast the appearance of "Wizard of Oz" weather. There is a subtle contrast in hues of gray that distinguish this gloom from any other gloom. My world, like Dorothy's, seems black and white and I'm waiting for that life-changing twister to turn on the color.
I'm angry. Or is it jealousy? There is a gnarled knot growing in the pits of my torso, my teeth clench extra hard around the spearmint gum as if trying to embed it into my molars, and my gaze throws villianous daggers out the window. Have you ever felt your heart make a fist? It makes me want to take low roads and spit fire. Things could get rather ugly, if it weren't for my damnable fear of confrontation. Instead I'll use prefered methods of polite smiles and back stabs, maybe even dusting off that voodoo doll I have stashed away in my closet. I've heard pins and needles offer a therapy incomparable to telling lies and spreading rumors. Or maybe, if I'm feeling generous, I'll decide to simply hold a grudge and forever stain our communications.
I need chocolates and sweet kisses not flashy grins and polite conversation.
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Sometimes, when God speaks he chooses to whisper and other times he screams at the top of his lungs. Being especially hard of hearing when it comes to what He has to say, I much prefer the latter choice. Whispers are so easy to misunderstand or manipulate and you end up playing a high stakes game of telephone. So while He might be saying "Do this with your life," it comes out more like "Movies are nice." I screw up my life enough on my own, I really don't need misunderstandings to make things worse. Well, God screamed at me last night and it is taking a while to recover. I should feel better knowing his opinion on the matter, right? Right?
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Well, shit.
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I'm on my way to wander around Borders bookstore. I have yet to find a person who doesn't equate time in a bookstore with time in The Pit of Despair with that odd albino fellow. I used to drag my sister along, but she would usually head straight for the magazine rack in persuit of the latest issue of "seventeen" or "ym" and search me out every fifteen minutes asking when we were going to leave. I, on the other hand, could spend hours completely lost in the volumes of another person's life story. Finding a good book is like uncovering some special secret or making a new best friend. I don't know quite what it is I am in search of tonight, but I know I'm going to the only place I could possibly find out.
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I'm going to homeschool my children. I decided that today upon hearing the story of five-year-old Kayla from upstate New York who was punished by teachers and principals for praying over the bounty of peanut butter, jelly, and snack packs that lay before her at the lunch table. The school claimed her prayer violates the (non-existent)part of the Constitution which deems church and state as separate entities. In perusing the foundations of our country, you won't find any charter or amendment proclaiming this separation, but you might run across a little section about freedom of speech and, more importantly, freedom of religion. Thankfully, a federal judge agreed that if little Kayla and her little friends want to hold hands and thank God for their chocolate milk, they have every right to do so. To you, my kindergarten friend, I raise my carton and thank God that He gave you parents who know the importance of saying thanks.
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Kristi and I have been hanging around together since the sixth grade and it amazes me that she continues to call. Tonight began with sheet shopping, onto coffee talking, then driving around the city continuing the conversations we started when we were eleven. To you, my forever friend, I say thank you and the cookie dough will always be a good idea as long as it is shared between the best of friends.
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Taking a brief recess before I am forced to begin regainning control of the runaway semi this day is sure to turn into. Only moments removed from sleeping, I can still remember parts of dreams and replay them in my head over and over. Mr. Perfect was recast in the role of himself, his arms wrapped around my waist, his beautiful face nestled right against mine. He kept us there for hours, talking about music, and movies, and my recent travels around the world on a pontoon boat. He asked for my number and promised to call soon. "This isn't real," I heard myself say,"You'll wake up and he won't have your number and he won't want to call. Everything will go back to the way it was before you fell asleep." Some times, I hate myself for hoping.
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I'm completely panicked. The realization that I have about 50 things to do and only hours in which to do them has come about within the last few seconds and the feeling of being completely overwhelmed is nestling into its familiar little nest in the pit of my stomach. Clean the house, do some laundry, pack away freshly laundered clothes, buy nametags, finish Andrew's invitations, go to dinner, meet for coffee, return stolen candy to crying babies, and work, work, work. Would you believe me if I were to tell you I prefer things this way? Seriously, though, I'm not a procrastinator, I just work best under pressure.
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Though Wednesdays are generally void of positivity, today has proven to be an exception. I managed to shove off the boy who walks with me after class with a curt,"See you on Friday." Walking away, I realized that some people are mysterious because they hide creepy tendencies and those mysteries are the kind that that should never be uncovered.
The tint on our office windows casts a false darkness on the world outside and the broken rays of sun that manage to find their way through the clouds look strange and out of place. The weather outside is sad and the clouds appear heavy from the burden of rain. I like the gloom, though, it matches the way my body feels. The morning has consisted only of one irritating cycle. Sneeze enters nose. Sneeze stays in nose. Sneeze then retreats causing said nose to drip and surrounding eyes to water.
My thoughts are slow and scattered and the medicine I took has ruined me for the day. I think I might find rest somewhere on the mess that is my desk.

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These days have started to drag along. Waking and sleep begin to blur around the edges, and every step is torture as it leads me further away from bed. I came home and crashed on the couch after work and had naps broken into by sneezes. Some allergen descended upon my sinus cavities as I was approaching town and has managed to wear out its welcome by staying into the night. My eyes itch but my fear of Visine has prompted more dramatic methods of relief. Forcing myself to cry has not only been soothing but theraputic as well. (Because I don't cry enough, you know) I hash out made up story lines and much too realistic ones as well and find the ensuing tears to be incredibly comforting.
I got a few phone calls tonight from friends who love me. It's always nice to hear their voices but I much prefer the talking they do to faces rather than phones. As I walked to my car after school, with Elliot Smith whispering his sad thoughts in my ears, I began to dread the day when telephone voices will be all that remains of those friends. I cannot beg them to stay but I much prefer that they don't go. I suppose I fear that at the rate people have been running from this city I will have no one to leave behind myself. I have fantasies about beating them to the punch and leaving before my time, but I think that will only succeed in getting myself lost in a world I already don't know my way through.
My Communications on the Internet teacher has granted me a two day reprieve from the morning drudgery of his class. I'm excited about the possibility to sleep an extra two hours tomorrow morning and even longer on Thursday. I'll take the time to fight off what I fear is the flu and to linger a bit longer in the dreams I love so much. My eyes are growing impatient and I think I might get an early start on a "full" night's rest.
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I'm probably about the only person not sitting in front of my television right now. This year, at least for the next hour, I've opted not to pay homage to the annual battle over yards, end zones, and commercial air time. Rather, I think I might listen some melancholy music and fight the battles in my head. The weekend has been a mess of days, though I am afraid that might have a negative connotation. I'm simply amazed at the pliability some days have to stretch themselves so they seem to last for twice as long. Friday began in Gainesville and ended in Tampa, and sometime in between it managed to fool my mind into thinking it had actually stretched itself into Saturday. I returned the next evening, heavily confused over which day it actually was and woke up this morning and prepared for class rather than Sunday worship. Combined in the mix were a fight with my sister, an angry dinner with my father, a much too brief afternoon outing with my mother, 400 miles, a great night with wonderful friends, and a worship service that brought tears to my eyes.
Sometimes I feel like the world has packed its trunks and left me behind. I guess that's what happens when you're busy trying to cling to the moment at hand.
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When I was in tenth grade, I accidentally recoreded over the video tape of my sister's third birthday party(incidentally the only video my parents had of my sister and me when we were children) to tape an episode of some TV show. I cried for 3 hours when I realized what I had done and what I had taken away from our family history. I found it very difficult to confess to the rest of my family that I had single-handedly erased that small glimpse into our past and I still have a knot that grows in the pit of my stomach when I think about the fact that the tape is one thing I can never give back to my family.
Since then I've guarded anything regarding my past like once it was gone, I would be gone as well. Anything-pictures, paintings I did in kindergarten, books I loved, blankets I slept on, stuffed animals I cherished, and I think you get the idea. My cat just chewed up the entire corner of one of my baby pictures. Not monumental, the important part of the picture, me, remains intact and, being the first-born, hundreds of almost identical pictures exist in photo albums in my parent's house. But, I can't help feeling exactly like I did that night in tenth grade. It's a sinking sort of feeling which is probably related to the instantaneous thought of what my mother would think. This is twice I've violated her past with the kind of reckless disregard that causes five car pile-ups in rush hour. I don't think I'll tell her, but maybe with some clever cropping I could salvage something framable.
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