But I've Already Got My Two Front Teeth

I’m going through a phase where I’m listing everything. Or at least that’s what it looks like based on my last two blogs. I’m still in the midst of said phase so here would be this week’s list—My Christmas List if money (or reality) wasn’t a problem. Once again, no order.

1. A new iPod: one of the little buggers with a screen. Right now I have a shuffle, which is the size of my index finger. And if you know my hand size this is saying something. Plus the shuffle holds absolutely nothing.

2. A Mini Cooper: the exact opposite of my iPod complaints. I like the tiny car. It’s me sized. And in this day and age, the smaller the car the better the gas mileage. Which would be perfect. Oh, and I’d get it in some unusual color. And then I’d get barreled over by a SUV, but that’s life.

3. Shopping spree at Bebe: I always see the window displays for this store and I want it all. So then I go in there and pass out in a dead faint over the price tags on these clothes! It’s ridiculous how much these clothes cost! But they’re soooooooo pretty.

4. World Peace: Here’s where that reality bit comes into play—cause it ain’t gunna happen anytime soon. What brought this on is I’ve seen a couple of friends come home for the holidays on leave, and it just kills me to think of them going over to Iraq or Afghanistan. It just makes my chest hurt. Like a few weeks ago I saw my next-door neighbor come home in cameo and I freaked out—he had just joined the army. And shortly thereafter I found out my cousin wants to join the Air Force. I told him if he gets hurt I’d kill him. Perfect logic, I know. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing but respect for the men and women in any branch of the armed forces, but I just don’t want my friends and family getting hurt.

5. That gun from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: the one where if you shoot someone they see your side of things. I know about a dozen people I would love to use that on.

6. Trip to U.K.: I want to see it all. It’s my dream trip—Scotland, Ireland, and England. I’ve always wanted to go. And when I say trip, I mean at least a week in each country. If the opportunity ever comes up, you’ll probably hear me screaming in joy, even if you happen to be in China.

7. A crown: Like Buckingham palace quality jewels. I’d just display that sucker and be like, “Oh, yeah, that’s my crown”. Okay so I’d wear it every once in awhile. I bet you’re wondering if I’m kidding.

8. Return to Italy and France: I’ve already been, but as my greedy list shows, I want more. I would spend a week in the Louvre alone. And I’d visit little cafes. And I could stroll as leisurely as I wanted. Oh God, and I’d return to Pompeii and walk the whole thing. And visit Venice before the darn thing sinks. And live off bread and chocolate. Ahhh bliss.

9. Have money in the bank: you know just so I’d be secure for life. So I guess as far as a gift goes, a winning lottery ticket would qualify.

10. Tickets to the PBR: All of them. All the events across the U.S. For those of you not in the know, the PBR stands for Proffesional Bull Riders. They come to St. Louis in February, and Mom and I always go. But I’d like to tour with it—keep up with who’s winning, and visit all the cities. The final competition is in Vegas, and that would be fun. This is probably one of my more random wishes.

There is no way I’m getting any of this for Christmas but it’s fun to say, “I wish…”

The 40 People I Can't Stand

Note: there is no order, they’re just coming to me at random. Some are ficticious but only because they really irk me. I will admit some of these are strange and unfounded, but that doesn’t change anything.

1. Britney Spears: I like her music, or at least I did when I was younger, but something about her personally bothers me. I can’t put my finger on what, but something does. I refer to her as the Princess of Purgatory, which for the sake of being linear brings me to…
2. Hilary Duff: Whom I call Spawn of Satan. Soon to take Britney’s place. But unlike Britney I can’t stand Duff’s music at all. It makes me want to puke. Either that or take a two-bit drill to my temple.
3. Hitler: Umm…duh.
4. Twiggy: I blame her for the whole anorexia crisis. I mean, before her people had a decent concept of body image—Marilyn Monroe—but now not so much.
5. Osama Bin Laden: Like Hitler I really don’t think this warrants an explanation.
6. Any President Who Has Interupted CSI For A Speech: this excludes speeches in crisis situatations but for the most part GAAAAHHHH!!!
7. James Earl Ray: how dare you.
8. Nero: smooth buddy. Burn Rome and play your freakin violin.
9. Ernesto Miranda: You’re an idiot. It really frosts my cookies to think that he got off for what he did because he didn’t know his rights. It’s his own fault. Our rights are available in every public library, and had the idiot ever attended school, he would have known them already because schools spell them out in black and white by making you learn them! I’ve gotten into some pretty intense debates over this in and out of classrooms. It’s never a good thing to bring up.
10. Jayne Fonda: Her treatment of troops during Vietnam was, and still is in my opinion, inexcusable. Well that and the work out videos.
11. Prissy: The slave girl from Gone With The Wind. The only thing that irked me was her voice. Sweet Jesus her voice grated on me. I seriously stuffed my head under a pillow to get away from that voice.
12. My ex-Girl Scout Leader: Anybody I actually know I’m not going to write their names down on the off chance they might read this. It’s slim, but still. I quit Girl Scouts in the sixth grade, because she wouldn’t let us dance and she wanted to have tea parties, and I thought I was far to mature for that.
13. Ricky Martin: No I will not shake my bon-bon stop asking!
14. Agamemnon: Dude, you sacrificed your daughter for wind.
15. Robin Leech: Appropriately named. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams. Right. His voice drove me nuts too.
16. My eighth grade math teacher: He yelled. A lot. I didn’t understand anything that man said civilly, and I’ve had problems with math ever since.
17. Tom Sawyer: Kid drove me nuts; I just wanted to shake him.
18. Ryan Seacrest: I have so many issues with this guy simply because he looks like Ken doll.
19. Edgar Allen Poe: This is going to sound strange but I don’t have any problem whatsoever with him. I’ve come to loathe him because in eighth grade we had to memorize The Raven and analyze some of his other works into the ground. I’m bitter about that, oh so bitter. So it’s not Poe’s fault. It’s really said English teacher’s fault, but Poe’s taking the fall for it. Sorry
20. Sisqo: Two words—Thong Song. What were you thinking?!?
21. Lord Capulet: Child abuse and forced marriage.
22. Flower: I have got some SERIOUS issues with the skunk from Bambi. I could go on for another thousand words about my problems with this thing, but I’ll spare you. Ack.
23. The Rabbit: Take the Trix and be gone!
24. Tom Cruise: I only like this man for however long it takes me to watch Top Gun, after that I don’t give a rip.
25. Michael Jackson after Thriller: He went down hill after Thriller. I know he’s got a lot of die-hard fans and that’s great but I just can’t support him. Too much plastic surgery, obnoxious voice, and the disturbing accusations.
26. Joan Rivers: My reasons are very similar to the above except she didn’t do the whole child molestation thing.
27. Severus Snape: You killed Dumbledore! You killed Dumbledore!
28. Thoreau: I liked Civil Disobedience and agreed with what he said. But he lost me during Walden when he attacked material possessions—specifically clothes. I’m very materialistic, and I understand why this is bad, but come on!
29. Movie Critics: They always seem to pick on my favorite films. That makes them bad bad people.
30. Whoever created unreal numbers: did you have to make my life more complicated?
31. Gwyneth Paltrow: simpering wench.
32. Donald Duck: I don’t even know why.
33. The Pioneers: I’ve got school spirit.
34. Kafka: Metamorphosis
35. Rabbit: you know, from Winnie the Pooh? Yeah something crawled up his butt and died cause he was way too cranky 24/7.
36. John Smith: Right, like the Disney movie really worked out that way. Argh. I know how it ended for the Indians.
37. Roger Chillingworth: Scary man. Obsess much? And followed closely by…
38. Pearl: Child is creepy. I hope to never have a child like this! I know Hawthorne was supposed to have tried to paint her in a positive light but she sounds like a demon.
39. Scarlet O’Hara: She was stupid. Shame on womanhood, shame! Nice accent though.
40. Gene: From A Separate Peace; what a jerk. Poor Phineas.

Okay, I’m done for now; it’s getting late. Maybe later I’ll round this off to one hundred. I’m sure I’ll think of some as soon as I get off the computer, Murphy’s Law…

41. Murphy: sadistic bastard.

Two Thumbs Undecided

I can't decide if I like winter or not. I mean, I know there are pros and cons to everything, but winter is the one thing I can't figure out which side I'm on. Do I like it? Do I not like it? I don't know because it alternately annoys and exhilerates me.

If I'm weighingthe good with the bad here, I might as well start with the good because that's just the kind of mood I'm in today.

Pro 1: The crunch of snow under my boots. It's such a crisp sound! It makes me smile for some odd reason. It reminds me of when I was little and that sound meant an adventure. Plus if the snow is really good and crisp then it makes for better packing, which leads me to...

Pro 2: Snowball fights. If you don't enjoy them it's because you always got your butt whooped. Even me with my bad aim adore snowball fights. I remember every winter a bunch of the neighborhood kids would all get together and have a snowball fight. It would lead into one another's yards depending on how much snow we had used up. Sadly we don't seem to do that anymore. We're all too busy being "grown up".

Pro 3: Snowmen/snowangels. The whole crisp snow theory comes into this one too, at least for the snowmen. I haven't made one in a handful of years. Not because I don't want to make a snowman, but because the snow hasn't been good enough to make a snowperson bigger than a Keebler elf. So really, a winter is determined by the quality of its' snow. Snow angels on the other hand can be made in whatever kind of snow you're stuck with, which is rather kind of them. You just plop down in the snow and--swish, swish, swish--you've got a snow angel. Of course now you have snow caked on you and it will begin to melt and make you uncomfortable but I'm not going there.

Pro 4: Hot Chocolate. Technically I could have hot chocolate any time I wanted but it just feels right during the winter. Yummy.

Pro 5: Sleigh rides. I can't really count this I suppose because I've never been on a winter sleigh ride. But the idea is extreamly appealing to me. I should do it on day. But I would have to wait for more snow since all of it is melting right now. The idea of a sleigh ride just sounds like so much fun right now!

Pro 6: Snow days. This is so far down on the list because I almost never get one. Except this Friday which was marvelous!!! I was so shocked when we got it though because there really wasn't that much snow on the ground, just ice.

Pro 7: The clouds of breath. I don't care how freaking old you are the breath clouds are fun!

Pro 8: Fresh fallen snow. This includes the snow that is falling merrily outside a window, the pure white blanket spread out across any landscape, and the inevitable debachment of the previous two. There is something magical about untouched snow. Which of course leads us to touch it and therefore ruin the whole effect but whatever.

Pro 9: Baking seaon. Maybe it's our need to bulk up for the winter, some animal instinct to pack it on and hibernate, but people make the best damn cookies this time of year. And it's not just one type of cookie. I don't know why but people seem to feel more creative as they make hundreds of baked goods during the winter. My personal favorites are Peanut Blossums, Pinwheels, Sugar Cookies, and Ginger Snaps (but I'll eat anything you'll give me).

Pro 10: The warm fuzzy feeling. Y'all know what I'm talking about. Uh-huh that. It's different for every person I think. For me it's sitting in my warm house (if I had a fireplace I would be in front of it), under a patchwork quilt reading a book, while listening to Holiday music (none of the new pop crap either, the goods--Billie Holiday, Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra), and watching a light snowfall out side. It's that goodwill feeling where everything is right in the world. It's hope.

On that happy note I'm heading into the Cons. NOTE: I tryed not to mention any Christmas themed Pros because that is the biggest bribe winter has.

Con 1: Ice. Oh God do I hate ice. I always feel like a duck because you have to waddle--feet turned in taking baby steps--in order not to fall. Which of course you do, fall, I mean, and it's always on your butt. So now your dignity is gone, your pants are wet, you're in pain, and best of all your butt is now going to be sporting a big honkin bruise! As if that weren't enough the icicles start to rain down on you like little daggers of death! Those suckers hurt!

Con 2: The frost on your windsheild. It takes forever to clear the windsheild in the morning with this stuff. And it always seems like there is more of it when you're running late.

Con 3: Snot. Yeah that's right you heard me, snot! The runny Rudolph nose only happens in the winter. Winter turns your nose into a spigot. A spigot which you cannot turn off! It runs, and runs, and runs. Then you sniffle every five seconds. Or you blow your nose, and it's never a polite little sound; it's always the sound of a cruiseliner hailing port. Ick.

Con 4: Snow days. Wait, what? Didn't I have this on the Pros list? Yes but in this case I'm talking about the let down. My school almost never gives us a snow day. All the other schools around can be let out, but Webster's got to be stubborn and force its students to come forth in blistering weather. Even when there are six to eight inches on the ground our superintendant won't give us the day off. It's stupid. And it crushes all of a child's hope in the world. Your watching the snow fall, watching as it piles up higher and higher outside your window, and then you have go out in it because even though that snow drift could eat you, you have to go to school! It's a widely circulated theory among the students (and some staff), that our superintendant is from some place very far up North so what is a big deal to us in Webster is nary a flurry to him. Some say one of the Dakotas, others Minnesota, and some Antartica. No matter, it's cruel to have your hope slaughtered by snow.

Con 5: Cold. I hate being cold. And it doesn't take much to make me cold. I wear sweatpants and a sweater in the summer time, imagine what the winter weather does to me. Five minutes outside and my cheeks are rosy for a hour or more, and my teeth won't stop chattering. Oh did I mention that I had three layers on including a heavy duty coat? Yeah it's bad. In the winter, my toes are never fully defrosted. It's miserable.

Con 6: Severe illness. Let me just start this one out by saying that I have little to no respitory immune system. That is not an exageration either. That's what the doctor told me, so I have to be careful this time of year. Every body seems to have something too. A cold, or the flu; just something. And I always seem to get it. If someone coughs in my general direction I get whatever they've got. Most of the time I have to tough it out and go to school anyway, which isn't good but I can't miss too much school for every little thing I catch during the winter. But I hate it. Especially the coughing. The dry heave death rattle that steals the breath from your lungs and makes your chest hurt for hours after it happens. Last year was the first time in my memory where I didn't stay home for a week long period from some sort of illness. I'm hoping I can duplicate this phenomenon again this year.

Con 7: The dryness. What I mean by this is the chapped lips, and cracked hands. It's not fun. Why else do people give lotion as gift so often?

Con 8: The fact that I can't hibernate. Grrrrr... I just want to sleep in the winter and I'm not allowed. It's not the winter's fault but it's gettingblamed anyway.

Con 9: Gluttony. I know I said earlier I wasn't going to use Christmas but think about it. There are so many food holidays in winter: Thanksgiving, Christmas (and all the other December holidays e.g. Kwanza), New Years, and Valentines Day. All of these are stuffed to the gills with food, particularly sweets. Now I don't mind the food or sweets. In fact I love them. What makes this a con, is the overeating. The regret afterwards, that's the bad part. The momment where you go "Whoa, I shouldn't have eaten that..."

Con 10: Cabin fever. I can only take so much of the carols and the eggnogg before I'm bored with it all. And I'm trapped because of my cold issues. So really I do this to myself, but I still blame winter.

Even listing all my issues with winter out hasn't helped me decide if I like it or not. Maybe I'll figure it out as it's happening to me. After all my key issues with winter hinge on changable things, such as how many snow days or how sick I get. Hmmmmmm. We'll see.

The Problem With People

Oh God there’s another one. That seemed to be my constant thought as I maneuvered through the crowds of Chesterfield mall. It was Saturday, the day after Black Friday, but nonetheless crowded. My mother was over at the library at a card making workshop and when she offered to take me to the nearby mall I jumped at the offer. I thought it would be a nice outing. Boy was I wrong.

The pale hardwood floors were packed with shoppers trying to sniff out the best holiday deal. Fifty bucks were tucked into a pocket of my black messenger bag, making it that much heavier. Yes, Mr. President, I will do my duty to boost the economy. Take my money. Ha! I love shopping desperately as my overburdened closet attests to. But today I was supposed to be shopping for my cousins’ Christmas presents. Although I don’t think Jacob’s broad shoulders would have fit into that red dress at Macy’s. And Nathan’s feet would not have fit into the size five ankle boots I was eyeing. Despite these discrepancies, I was in my element.

As I tried to find my way around one thing kept bugging the living daylights out of me. And by one thing what I really mean is two. Couples. They were everywhere. And why not? Tis the season. Teenaged couples were around every corner I turned but that is not the thing that irked me.

No, what bothered me was the way the girls were treating their boyfriends. Not necessarily horrible—there were no public floggings that I could see—but I still winced to see it. I just felt bad for those guys, even if they didn’t seem to mind too much. Two particular cases stick out in my mind.

One case I noticed by force as the girlfriend in question brushed past me (rather rudely I might add. Yes I am walking here wench!), dragging her boyfriend behind her. The event itself wasn’t that remarkable. What made me remember it though was the guy wisely had his nose buried in a book. Clearly he had been through this before. I almost laughed out loud because the pair looked so comical. The girl pulling the boy around the circle racks while he was trying to read; it was quite a sight. I wasn’t finding anything so I started towards the front. As I made my way out I saw the couple again. The girl brought her mini-parade to a halt before a woman I can only assume was the girl’s mother. She grabbed a sweater and held it up to her chest.

“What do you think?” the girl asked her mother

“I don’t know.” Said the mother.

“What do you think?” the girl turned to her boyfriend.

Without even looking up from his book her boyfriend replied, “Looks great babe.”

Even though I didn’t find anything I left that store smiling. I spotted couple number two heading towards the store I had just left. The girl—I’m tired of using the girl and the boy, this chick’s name is going to be Candy and I’ll name the guy when I get to him—Candy’s eyes got big and round when she saw the Sale sign. She smiled with her generic straight white teeth and clapped her hands. Yes folks, she actually clapped.

“Oh my God! We’re going in.” Candy squealed.

Spike, so named for his multiple piercing in his eyebrows and ears, must have decided it was time to take a stand. He told Candy no, they were not going in. Point for Spike. Spike was tallish with dyed black hair, which he currently had covered with a backwards baseball cap. He was wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt (bought not made) and jeans—your typical guy. Yeah he lost all his he-man points when Candy grabbed his wrist and pulled.

“NO! I don’t wanna go!” Spike whined

He tried to plant his feet but Candy persisted. She ended up dragging him into that store while Spike did something that closely resembled the Snoopy dance repeating his protest as he went.

What is wrong with both of these couples? To the guys: I’m sorry, so very sorry, because that was ridiculous. Don’t let that happen again. To the girls: You know your boyfriends don’t want to go shopping with you! So don’t take them! Go get your girlfriends. At least they’ll tell you what looks good on you, and will go into almost every freakin store anyway. As much as I feel ashamed for those guys, I am really ashamed of those girls. I want to shake some sense into them, or just shake them. I want to scream at them, “You can carry your own shopping bags! You do not need him to hold your purse! Do it yourself: he’s not a pack mule he’s your boyfriend!” Good gravy! And those guys just take it! Argh! Couples.

My Children

I am exhausted. Exhausted in every sense of the word. My back aches and my shoulders are full of knots. And I really wish I could just sleep and sleep and sleep. But I can’t. This exhaustion will likely last for days. It was all worth it though.

You see I am now the proud parent of two miniature schnauzer puppies. They’re only ten weeks old and are so dang small. Small but feisty. They’re giving our other dog, Eli, hell even while I’m writing this. If those two aren’t trying to eat his bone, then they’re biting Eli’s haunches.

Eli is not taking this well at all. He was uppity and territorial before but now he’s just cranky. He growls at the puppies over the slightest thing—trying in vain to make them come to heel. At the same time Eli is oddly mothering. When the two puppies get into a tussle Eli takes it upon himself to be the referee. It’s sweet.

Even with our dog babysitter Mom and I can’t seem to tear ourselves away from the little scamps. When we went through the pet store yesterday I ended up eyeing those stupid dog bags, thinking that way I could just take them to school with me and save myself the trouble of worrying over them all day. But I didn’t get one of the little dog carriers. I can’t bring myself to look like Paris Hilton.

And I have learned a valuable lesson: do not bring two puppies into a pet store! The pups were little angels; it’s the people who went nuts. We had to bring the puppies into Pets Mart so we could them collars and a few other necessities. It took us three times as long to get our shopping done because everyone and their cousin Jimmy had to come over and ask us the questions. What kind of dog is that? How old are they? Can I pet it? I shouldn’t be surprised though. Those two puppies are the cutest things in the world.

It was kismet when we picked out those two. The runny-eyed runt we finally decided to call Oliver, after Oliver Twist. If you look into his scraggly face you can almost hear him saying, “Please sir, I want some more.” He’s so spunky and curious and he fears absolutely nothing. His little face looks like it’s in a perpetual pout. But don’t let his cute face fool you, he’s an imp all the way through. You can tell when he bounces about on his bowlegs. Oliver is mine. Two days and he has already got me twisted around his little paw. He squeaks, I pick him up, and he climbs up my chest for the best and warmest view he can get. He squeaks a lot. It’s the only flaw I’m willing to admit he has.

The little girl’s name is Sadie. Officially, it’s Princess Sadie Grace but we’re trying not to let that get to her head. I believe we’re failing miserably. That little black ball of elegant fluff knows she’s hot stuff. Where Oliver is scraggily, Sadie is well kept and sophisticated looking. When we picked her up she was so calm, with the bearing of a refined lady (like Princess Grace Kelly, hence two-thirds of her name). That is all a sham. Our little lady is more of a live wire than her brother when she wants to be. She’s figured out by now how to grab Oliver’s collar and tug him where she wants, nearly choke him in the process.

It’s incidents like that that have had me on edge for the past two days. I keep monitoring them to see if Sadie is going to strangle Oliver, or if Oliver is going to bite Sadie’s ears. They’re on a strict schedule too. Sleep, outside, eat, play, outside, play, and sleep again. All of that in an hour or two. They go through life at warp speed and it’s all I can do to keep up. Oh did I mention they’re sleeping in my room? So I’m on their schedule not the other way around. No wonder I’m so exhausted.

Give Me No Yellow Roses

When I came running up the steps of the senior entrance Friday night (I was a little late) one of the freshmen actors was being frog marched out the door. He was commanded in a harsh voice to turn three times to his right, spit, and curse. I asked what was going on.

My easygoing friend Ellen scowled and ground out, “He said the name of the Scottish play.”

I opened the door and wiped my boots on the worn rugs. Another of my friends, Erin, was glaring at the boy through the windowed panels of the door.

“God save me from the superstitions of theater people.” I mumbled as I headed to the auditorium.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m as superstitious as the next person. I don’t walk under ladders or open umbrellas indoors. The breaking of a mirror and the sight of a crow send a shiver down my spine. But I swear theater people have two superstitions for every one of an average person. I can’t possibly believe them all. But there are some things I do out of respect for others’ superstitions—yeah it’s out of respect but it’s also so they don’t have an epileptic fit—like say break a leg or not say a certain name.

As I went backstage I heard veteran actors murmuring in agitation over the saying of that name. Apparently more than one person had been saying the M-word. A total of five people said it. Forgive me for my snipe, but they were all freshman. The upperclassmen were ready to slaughter the lot of them. It was clear people were spooked.

You are not supposed to say Macbeth in a theater. It’s fine everywhere else but you absolutely cannot say it in a theater. It curses a production. Well that and it pisses a lot of people off.

Like I said before I am not inclined to believe all the superstitions that run rampant through the theater, but sometimes things happen that make you believe. Before the show even began on Friday night a girl almost fell down the stairs and three people couldn’t find important articles of clothing. Not too uncommon but the night just kept getting worse.

When I went out on stage something just didn’t feel right. The atmosphere just felt off—a disturbance in the force if you will. Hanging out backstage, waiting to go on, Ashley dropped a can of hairspray on her foot making it bleed. Mikes kept crackling or not coming on at the right times. None of us felt that the numbers were as smooth; something always seemed to go wrong.

I evacuated to the greenroom, a kind of sanctuary for the actors waiting in the wings. Kelly, Grace, Emily, and I sat up there whispering about all the strange coincidences that had been going on since the unmentionable had been mentioned. Someone told me Robin had hurt her hand somehow, and that Ashley’s toe was actually broken. It seemed like the actors were getting mauled.

Then the Havana number came up. We were still sitting in the greenroom we heard the music go terribly wrong. Something had happened to the pit. For some reason they skipped an entire section of the score and flipped around different parts. We sat up in our chairs and looked at each other in horror. That had never happened before.

“It’s the Scottish Play,” one of the girls whispered in dread.

When I went back downstairs at intermission the tension was bubbling over and people were getting violent. A screaming match was going on between a few actors over a comment or two. The pit band skulked out, well aware that they were being blamed for Havana and the intense hatred glowing in the eyes of actors. That one actor that I had seen on entering the theater was being smacked repeatedly for placing the curse upon the production. Everyone was running out of room on the edge.

Solemn faced people began lining up for act two. It seemed we were conceding to the dead king. I must admit act two went far better than act one, but there were still too many hitches to be coincidental. Sometimes things just happen without a reason. But if some idiot has said the M-word in a theater during a production there’s a reason. If you don’t believe the superstition then believe a former nonbeliever.

Mail = Fun

I hate Sundays. Not because tomorrow would be Monday (the scourge of all life), or because of religious distaste. No, I hate Sundays because I love mail. And the mail doesn’t come on Sundays.

I love coming home to a full mailbox. Mostly it is bills for my mother, or notices for community affairs. Other times it is a red Netflix envelope, which makes me ecstatic over the possibility of a good movie; I rush through my homework on red envelope days. Equally joyous are the days when an interesting catalogue or magazine subscription finally comes in. I happily curl up in my overstuffed red armchair with a woolen blanket and eagerly turn the pages ohhing and ahhing over the spread.

This time of year is particularly serendipitous for all mail lovers. This is catalogue season. A magical consumer driven time of year when busy parental elves find it convenient to do their shopping from home. I revel in it! Catalogue season begins around mid September. The catalogues start trickling in, their pages ripe with possible gifts for giving or taking. Catalogue sightings become more and more frequent through October, and then in November you cannot go a day without some random company wanting you to buy everything they posses.

Most of these catalogues know our family for suckers and send us preferred customer cards with eye-popping sales. Some are completely at random: do two females sound like the appropriate audience for a John Deer? Maybe in some parts of the country, but not in Saint Louis County. Mom and I would probably pitch a fit if a tractor appeared on our doorstep.

But I am the most gloriously abused statistic of all time: the teenaged girl. You can market to us until Hell freezes over and then you can sell us the latest ice skates. Thank the Lord for my abuse because I am a glutton for purchasing punishment. I sit at the table before a glossy smorgasbord of goodies. The temptations I cannot resist are Alloy, Delia’s, Victoria’s Secret, and Signals.

I sit and go through these catalogues as if money were no object, dog-earing pages or circling items with a pen. I never look at the price because that way I can pretend that it is economically possible to get it (and more importantly knowing the expense of any object has always made me ill). Some little baubles are worthy of crossing my fingers in the hopes that I may get them. An ornate key necklace, a pair of leopard print tights, a screen t-shirt. Other items provide me with intense amusement.

For example Victoria’s Secret currently sells an 800-karat diamond bra. Yes, you read that right. It’s very sparkly, but hardly worth it. I imagine it would be obnoxiously sharp and heavy as well. Not to mention the cumbersome price tag of $6,900,000. Why on earth would you buy a $6,900,000 bra that’s only going to come off in two minutes anyway?!? ‘Cause it sure as shootin’ a’int going underneath a dress. It would snag. It also begs the question of what exactly would you wear with it? There was no 600-karat thong to go with it, and you can’t just wear Fruit of the Loom. It’s all too funny.

Catalogues also have their helpful purposes. When I get asked ‘what do you want for Christmas?’ I can have an answer. But that doesn’t ruin the surprise of it all. No we get too many catalogues for there to be any sense of predictability. I might get that ornate key necklace or the t-shirt, but it’s always a surprise. So, each catalogue gets special care on the off chance my mom might take a peek to see what I’ve marked. It’s the four-month anticipation that I enjoy. I suppose Sundays add to the anticipation, but I still hate them. If not for the denial of mail then for the fact that on Sunday tomorrow is always Monday.

Baaaaa!

Have you ever felt the blood thrumming through your fingertips? Have you ever felt the weight of the breath in your lungs? Have you ever felt alive? And I mean really alive. We as a people conform willingly, go into our cocoons of monotony, and let the seasons pass us by as we refuse to change into what we could become.

We need to wake up and experience the life we’ve been given. Otherwise the exhilaration of simply being able to breathe is lost. I am not suggesting you high tail it to Everest or attempt some death-defying stunt to get your juices going. Something small, some minor deviation from your normal routine will do.

Personally I’ve been nestled in my cocoon, fooling myself into believing that I have already left it. But lately I’ve been noticing how drab my life has become. Not from lack of interesting things around me. I am involved in the musical, and am constantly busy with my workload from school. But when the noise stops, when the dust settles, when it is just me, myself, and the mouse in my pocket I feel numb.

What this boils down to is I am dissatisfied with my life. I am involved, yes, but I am not experiencing. I think I stopped experiencing a long time ago. Emotions are fleeting, drama gets downplayed, crises are easily averted. I have been trying to build a magnificent glorious house with no foundation.

I find myself simply going through the motions of what I want life to be. I shop. I go to parties. I dance. I crack jokes. I read. I write. I shop. I go to parties. I dance. I crack jokes. I read. I write. Around and around so much that I’ve worn down a circuit of sameness in the hearty rug of life. I am bored with me.

A simple example is personal style. I have had the same haircut for the past six or seven years. You have probably seen a million of me—mid-length, straight hair, parted slightly to the side. It’s real low maintenance. It’s classic. I suppose that’s why I have kept it this way for so long. I know it looks good. More importantly I know it’s safe.

Mind you, I don’t think a classic look is bad. It was the sameness that got to me. It made me itch. I like the idea of being an individual, of not being just another sheep. The more I saw the sameness staring at me from the bathroom mirror, the more my hair seemed like wool. It was time for me to get sheared.

I knew it when I woke up this morning. The itching sensation was too much. I was going to change. I was going to break out of my safe cocoon. I was going to stop the sameness. I gave some vague warning to my mother as I headed out for my appointment at Silano Milano. For those of you who don’t know me I dye my hair Platinum blonde, and go in every four to six weeks for touchups (dying my hair this shade of blonde has also gone on for six or seven years but has never contributed to the sense of sameness because not many people have hair brighter than a streetlight).

My stylist, Kathy, is without doubt one of the most individual personalities on this planet. She has deep chestnut hair highlighted golden blonde that falls straight to her waist with arching bangs. She always wears bright pink lipstick and smoky eye shadow. I would steal her wardrobe if I could. When I came in this morning she was wearing a Halloween themed Frankenstein t-shirt, black leggings, and knee high leather boots. The t-shirt was ironic considering she was about to make a monster out of my ego.

At first I was scared to leave my comfort zone and change the style that had been sufficient for most of my life. I shyly explained what I thought I wanted. Kathy nodded along enthusiastically, asked me a couple of questions, and started cutting. I screwed my eyes shut, breathing slowly, trying not to panic. I opened my eyes not two minutes later to see the pile of hair in my lap. If a pale person can pale then I did.

I looked in the mirror and could hardly recognize myself. No sameness here. I now have bangs. Shaggy, poofy, blonde bangs. To a girl that has snootily sworn on a few saints that she will never have bangs this is a big deal. It may not seem like that big of a deal, it’s such a small thing really, but that is exactly my point.

I didn’t have to go bungee jumping or sky diving to experience something new and pivotal in my life. It is a baby step to be sure, but a small step that has made me feel alive. I feel electrified. Everything seems shiny and new. I have deviated from a long-standing pattern and discovered how free it all feels. I still want to do the same things. I just see them as opportunities to make other changes. I see them through bang tinged eyes.

Bitter Sweet Sugar

We were driving back from a prosperous shopping trip, taking the scenic route from the West County mall to home. We had caught the trees in the midst of changing colors—trading their proper housewife green ensemble for the more daring violets, crimsons, and marigolds of a Vegas showgirl. How bold Mother Nature was becoming. The sun beamed down in warm approval. The day was perfect. I gazed out the car window at the private roads peeking behind the foliage and the magnificent houses that not even the tallest trees could make cower. I have always been in awe of these wonders both natural and man-made.

As the car hugged a corner, I turned my head as I always do to a road that had long been reclaimed by the wildlife. Everything seemed to move in slow motion then. The sunlight splashed its dappled light on an area of the path that had been hacked back. A large white sign dully proclaimed this place was for sale. My breath paused long enough for me to do a double take. Gray slabs of stone whispered to me from farther back on the property—such cold mutterings. The moment passed. The car turned that tight corner; my lungs remembered their purpose; I blinked hard. And so it ends.

I have been familiar with this road since I was about nine. For me the summer of 1999 meant change. We had recently moved to Webster Groves, and my mother not knowing about the schools system’s form of childcare was putting me into a summer camp. Sugar Creek Day Care held every day at the Praise Fellowship Church in Kirkwood of all places. Being the illustrious age of nine I believed that I did not need to be babied by a day care, after all I was almost a double digit. The drives to and from the day camp were spent in silence partly because I was being sullen and partly because of the trees.

Then the gravel drive of the day camp was well kept, the wild bushes pruned back in the friendliest way possible. The archway of greenery gave way to open air and the sun would pour through the windshield only to be blocked shortly thereafter by the looming church. The Praise Fellowship Church was a pale gray building that never failed to remind me of a castle. Early morning light would twinkle off the glass panes like fey lights. On either side of the church were emerald lawns. To the left was a fenced in playground with the expected slides, swings, and playhouses. Behind the church was an Olympic size pool filled this time of year by the peculiar pale blue water of all pools. To the right of the humongous pool was a wooden awning with wizened picnic tables. Everything reeked of chlorine, even the dreary concrete.

I would be ushered through the church’s large medieval looking doors, and up the arching red velvet staircase to the top floor where the day care was held, by whichever parent had custody of me that week. They would hand me my brown bagged lunch, which always contained a peanut butter sandwich (no crusts), a bag of chips, a box of chocolate milk, and if I was lucky a cookie. And then they would leave me to my fate. I was in the middle range of ages at Sugar Creek. The little kids thought I was too big, and the big kids thought I was too little. I was a misfit. And to top it off I was a Statesman in the middle of Pioneer territory and strangely vocal about it. This did not win me many friends.

Despite this I did make a few friends at Sugar Creek Day Care. Two girls, one whose name I cannot remember for the life of me but I shall call her Sarah, and the other girl’s name was Danielle. But as I was still shaking off the remnants of my tomboy phase I played more with the boys. My closest friend at that camp was a six-year-old boy named Daniel (which is the only reason I can remember Danielle’s name). Daniel was the brother I couldn’t decide if I wanted to keep or not. He had a little monkey face with tan skin, close cropped, soft brown-black hair, and laughing eyes.

We had an understanding, Daniel and I. At lunch we would trade: my chocolate milk for his juice box, or Fritos for Cheetos. Then we would sit, munching in companionable silence, at the plain tables, our legs dangling off the folding chairs. We were close, closer than I ever could have claimed to be with Sarah or Danielle. So I made sure no one picked on Daniel. He was slightly small, and like me he had the tendency to annoy the beejeezus out of people. But Daniel irked people by playing pranks on them. He was a joker who wouldn’t quit when the joke got tired. Not only that but Daniel was stubborn, possibly more stubborn than me. He would not admit he was wrong even after he had proof waved in front of his face.

I remember we got into an argument one day about the new Star Wars movie, which now seems ludicrous. He was adamant that it was the fourth in the series. I kept telling him it was the fourth movie made, yes, but it was the first part of the story. Neither of us was willing to let it go and we almost came to blows over it until camp counselors separated us. The day care had taken us to the near by Sugar Creek Park, and in order to put distance between Daniel and I a counselor took me, Sarah, and Danielle down to the little stream running through the park.

Our tiny tennis shoes slid down the incline and plopped into the gurgling creek. The water was soaking through to my socks and beginning to cool off my temper. But like a wounded puppy, Daniel had followed us to the creek. He wanted to come play too. I turned, hands fisted on my hips and told him he couldn’t come down because he wasn’t old enough and he might get hurt. He clapped his hands over his ears and told me he was no longer talking to me. Fuming, I went further down the creek. Fine, we would just never speak again.

I had begun to calm down by the time we returned to the church. It was a Tuesday, which meant we would go swimming in the camp’s pool the appropriate thirty minutes after lunch. I sat with Sarah and Danielle because Daniel and I were still not speaking. I glared at my lunch. Stupid chocolate milk. Stupid Fritos. Since neither of us was willing to break the silence, so we didn’t trade food as usual. I suppose neither of us ate much that day. It was all just a long wait till we could go swim. Waiting the thirty minutes for “proper digestion” was a lot like waiting for an “appropriate” time to pounce on your parents on Christmas morning. Adults’ time schedules are never accommodating enough for kids.

Finally we were led down to the changing rooms, the odor of chlorine and the damp tiles only served to make us more animated. I ducked into a stall and quickly changed into my neon blue one piece. Stuffing my other clothes and towel into my father’s old gym bag I hurried out to join Sarah and Danielle. The maroon and beige canvas bag was heavy and it dug into my bony shoulders as we stood in line waiting to be let out. I shifted trying to get comfortable as the counselors—carefully checking to make sure they had each and every one of us, counted off my golden head.

We waited longer still as two counselors took to the lifeguard stands. Once they were properly situated with their sunglasses and slouching poses we were let loose. I shuffled over to the old picnic tables under the awning and dropped my burden on the creaking tabletop. I spent an unnecessary amount of time arranging my towel and change for the soda machine. The idea of swimming was exciting, but the reality wasn’t quite as energizing for me. I wasn’t a terribly strong swimmer, and I hadn’t bothered to take the test that would let me into the deep end. All of my friends had though, even Daniel, and it made me uncomfortable.

There was a tugging at my arms, Sarah and Danielle, pulling me towards the pool. Laughing, we grasped each other’s hands and took a screaming leap into the densest part of the shallow end. We came up spitting pool water and smiling, all my worries forgotten. The game the three of us preferred was a sort of treasure hunt. The pool at Sugar Creek Day Care was old. Chips from the pool’s bottom littered the floor of the pool. We would go underwater and pick up one of those triangular shaped pieces of rubble and break the surface exclaiming at what treasures we had found—it could be anything from a gold doubloon to a princess’ lost ruby ring.

We had shortly excavated to the point where Danielle was bored of our little game. She disdainfully told us that us that she was going to the deep end, and demanded that Sarah come with her. The two of them treaded water while I gripped the shiny sidebar as Sarah looked between Danielle and me. Sarah bit her lip and then scooted closer to me and said she was going to stay in the shallow end. Sarah was a most loyal friend, which makes me feel horrible because I can’t even remember her real name.

Danielle swam off in disgust. Sarah and I continued playing around until we concurred that we were too wrinkly and cold. We lazily dog paddled over to the gleaming ladder in the left hand corner of the shallow end. Daniel was blocking the gate, sprawled on his stomach looking down at the pool floor. He often did this and would float around until you got close enough then he would scare you. Sarah and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. We knew better than to fall for one of Daniel’s tricks. I rudely told him to move but he didn’t budge. Still ignoring me.

“Come on Daniel, move it!” I shouted

“Please.” Sarah said sweetly. The magic word had always worked before why not now?

Still Daniel did not move.

I let out a breath of annoyance, “Lets just move him.”

Sarah giggled her assent and our small hands grasped his side. We hauled him up closer to the edge of the pool, Daniel was much heavier than either of us had expected. We let him go thinking he would right himself, but he slid limply down under the water. Sarah and I scowled at each other. We dove underwater and hauled him back up. Keeping one arm around his waist, I grabbed his right hand and molded it to the sidebar so he could grip it. Daniel’s eyes were closed, his lashes spiky from the pool. Water poured out of his mouth bits of foam at his lips. Sarah and I let go figuring he would now have leverage with the bar to right himself. He slid again, slower than before, his hand not even gripping the bar. He seemed to sit at the bottom of the pool, letting his right hand stick out above the water in mock salute. Still thinking he was playing with us Sarah and I dove for the third time. He was so heavy, heavier than my father’s canvas bag.

“Daniel! This isn’t funny any more. Stop it! Stop playing!” I shrieked at him, shaking him. Still his eyes did not open.

Just then a lifeguard was walking past, not even looking at us.

“Hey! Help! Look!” I shouted at her. Panic and Daniel’s weight making me incapable of forming a complete sentence.

She knelt down and smiled at us—just three kids playing a little game.

“Help. He’s…” I broke off. I didn’t know what was wrong with him but I had a sinking suspicion that I wanted this woman to tell me was wrong.

Her smile fell into the pool, and her eyes widened. Like a track runner at the sound of the gun she shot off shouting, “Brian! We have a situation.”

A shrill whistle slammed into my skull. We were told to get out of the pool. Ever obedient Sarah and I scrambled out of the pool, up the ladder we had been trying to get to all along. The lifeguards pulled Daniel out of the water and lay him out on the concrete, and the other kids formed a half circle around them. The curly-headed female lifeguard I had called over was trying to give Daniel CPR.

“Oh God, there’s so much water in his lungs.” She cried as she came up for air.

This set the kids off like bottle rockets, shrieking and whining with worry and fear. The other lifeguard, Brian, attempted to quiet them by demanding that they pray for Daniel, this was after all a church sponsored camp. Echoes of ‘in Jesus’ name’ sounded through the air bouncing off the stone walls, becoming more frantic. The half circle of children stood hunched over their clasped hands, eyes screwed shut in earnest prayer. I stood far off to the side not moving, just watching Daniel’s lungs for any sign of movement. I was dripping wet, and freezing cold but numb. I padded over to the picnic tables to get my towel and gym bag. Sirens screamed in the distance getting closer and more insistent by the second. I wrapped my threadbare towel around my shoulders and for some reason looked up.

The back of the church faced an off ramp of Interstate 270. Up the large hill, wild with vegetation, on the off ramp was a news van. Some woman with perfectly coiffed hair and a power suit was standing with a microphone in her hand, the cameraman following her every move. Their distant shapes made me angry, but there wasn’t enough heat from my anger to banish the cold. Red and blue lights flashed across my pale face. One of the older counselors put her hand on my shoulder.

“Come on, you have to go inside now.” She said quietly, nudging me in the direction the other kids had gone. I could see their inquisitive faces looking down from the top floor window.

“No,” I said as I planted my feet on the abrasive concrete, “I’m not going anywhere until I know Daniel’s okay.”

Two EMTs ran out of the ambulance someone had called and over to Daniel’s prone body. Daniel was placed on a stretcher and wheeled away amidst technical terms and an oxygen mask. I lurched toward him, but was stopped by the counselor her grip firmer on my shoulder. His eyes still would not open.

After that everything blurs. I remember being forced to color as if that would help. I remember the older girls saying dramatically that they would never use the color blue again. I remember Danielle saying it was all so tragic because Daniel was her best friend (which was a lie because they hated each other). I remember wanting to hit her when she told everyone she had found Daniel and how horrible it all was. I remember getting picked up early by my father and having to explain in a small voice what happened. I remember waking up the next morning to find both my parents on the couch. I remember hearing that Daniel was pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital. I remember crying violently. I remember blaming myself, thinking that if I had just gotten to him sooner he would have lived. I remember meeting Daniel’s mother. We looked at each other, I said I was sorry, and she began to cry.

For the longest time I had regrets. I regretted not getting to Daniel sooner on the off chance that it could have saved him. I found out later that hope was useless. Daniel had seizures, which his mother neglected to tell the camp officials. He had a seizure in the water and drowned in the shallowest part of the pool. There was nothing I could have done but it took me a long time to figure that out. I also regretted our argument or rather I regretted that we never spoke again.

Sugar Creek Day Care finished out the summer, but was not offered the next year. For various reasons I would pass by the Praise Fellowship Church. Either viewing it from the Interstate where the newscaster had stood, or through vague glimpses through the forest. I watched them drain the pool, never to be refilled. I watched the state of the building deteriorate until it truly did look like a ruined castle. I watched the wildlife reclaim the land. And now the place is for sale. The sun shining down on the moment, no longer as warm, and bright leaves blurring the past. But still the gray slabs seem to whisper to me. And so it ends.

Floorus Shelficus

It is a widely known fact that the floor is the largest shelf in any given room. For most of my life I have exploited this fact, defending it with religious zeal. If it was a mess, then at least it was my mess and I knew where everything was. There was a method to my madness. But yesterday my madness pushed me too far and slammed me back into sanity. My room needed to be cleaned.

On the rare occasions when I do clean my room I always feel as if I need to stretch out—do a few lunges, make sure I can touch my toes—like a runner preparing for a marathon. Then I need music to set the pace. I sift carefully through my massive collection of CDs (exceeding one hundred at last count), searching for the perfect room cleaning sound. It should be fast and energetic to keep me motivated. I settle on Gwen Stefani’s Love.Angel.Music.Baby and turn around.

What I face is nothing if not daunting. Clothes from the past week are piled against my dresser mere feet from my laundry basket. Shopping bags from sprees past brightly mark the distance of other piles of other clothes that are technically clean but have yet to be put away; books stacked in perfect miniature to the leaning tower of Pisa; and pillows randomly dashed about the floor. My dresser is likewise crammed. Three different jewelry boxes crowd the space and overflow with everything from diamonds, to pearls, to plastic bobbles. A truck-shaped piggy bank hides behind an orange picture frame of six of my long-time friends at a skating rink. Elegant gloves in a blinding yellow lie across a tin of mints and a tube of vanilla crème lip-gloss. Ticket stubs from movies dating as far back as spring ’04 peek from underneath safety pins, postcards, a toy pirate hook, and candles. A mini locker cluttered with magnets holds more makeup, incense, and nail polish. Bottles of perfume and lotion stand in formation on the edge of the dresser like eager puppies waiting to be picked. A wire replica of the Eiffel Tower reaches over a back massager, a wooden cutout of a terrier, and yet another candle. Everything is lightly coated in a layer of dust. I have gotten rid of nothing. I might as well be Miss Havisham.

I had recently made a poster of pictures and mementoes from my past that I wanted to hang up. To do that I would have to reach the back wall. So I started in on the piles of things blocking my way. Each article of clothing I came across had to pass the smell test before it would be thrown into the laundry basket or on to my bed to fold later. Right now, my main focus was clearing a path to the wall. I emptied shopping bags—well look at that I forgot I bought this—and placed books in my floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Dust bunnies came out to attack my feet but I was not deterred, and I eventually made it to the back wall. It occurred to me that I should wash my zebra rug, as it had not seen a watering hole in many years. So I herded the scruffy rug down to the washing machine in the hopes that it would be revived.

Back in my room, I came face to face with my peacock feather. We gave each other the old one-eyed stare as I tried to decide if I wanted to keep it. The feather had been a gift from my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Watters, and I figured it was worth keeping. But the piece of spaghetti on the wall would have to go. Many years ago I had decided that it made perfect sense to tape a piece of raw spaghetti on my wall. My mom hated it so naturally I had to keep it up on the wall in impish defiance. You have no idea how happy she was when I took that piece of spaghetti off the wall. There is actually a thin void on the wall where it used to hang, which sent me into a fit of giggles that left me gasping on the bed.

The poster hanging idea turned out to be a big fiasco. First we (Mom and I) had to move my Mandala of Padmapani: Savior of Great Compassion poster to the space above my second dresser, which also had a huge paper flower, a Chinese hat, and a bevy of stuffed animals to compete with. Then we tried to tape my framed collage up with adhesive tape (this later fell over and we had to find an alternate means of attaching the poster to the wall, hence fiasco). Next we taped up a poster of Washington University’s Thurteen festival. Now we were out of tape but I still wanted to hang up my Marilyn Monroe poster. Mom went off to get some more adhesive tape, and I set my sights on the closet.

Before I got started on my closet though I put on the soundtrack to Shreik 2—the day was progressing. I have a small closet so to maximize my space I have little plastic containers holding knickknacks and the bottles upon bottles of lotion I had somehow amassed. I went through the containers smelling each bottle until my nose went numb. I ended up keeping only a handful of what had to be forty some-odd products. The discard pile went into a bag that would either be tossed or regifted depending on if it had even been used. I was sneezing violently now from dust or floral fumes I don’t know. But my room was at least half clean.

Now I started hanging up clothes in my closet, cramming two to three articles of clothing on every hanger. I have a lot of clothes. Even after properly hanging some stuff up I still had a mountain of shirts and jeans that needed to be folded and put in the proper drawer. Drawer by drawer I went through refolding and organizing so I could squish more clothes in the overburdened bureaus. I decided to give up a few pairs of shorts that weren’t school legal and tossed them in the give-away pile. I wiped my forehead and sat back on my heels, there was still more to do. I replaced Shreik 2 with The Killers.

I cleared off the top of my dresser and dusted. EW! I am now committed to dusting once a week as well as sweeping because it was just nasty. Each thing found a place or it got dumped, which hurt a little. The problem with cleaning out your room is you’re expected to throw away “useless” things. To me every little thing has some sort of sentimental value; it’s why I scrapbook. That ticket stub from two years ago is where I bonded with one of my best friends for the first time, or that playbill was another friend’s first attempt at acting. But I do realize I can’t keep everything, it just takes one hell of a mess to make me see it.

My purple trashcan was full of things when I was done organizing my dresser. All I had left to do was sweep. But that was going to have to wait. The entire ordeal had taken about five hours. I collapsed on my bed and looked over my clean room. A new shelf just waiting to be filled.

Heaven Is In Fact Edible

I rolled over, peering through the haze of sleep at my clock its red numbers glaring right back at me. I flopped back down on my neon orange sheets and let the rhythmic buzz of the ceiling fan lull me back to dreams. It was nine-fifteen.

The only reason I woke up again was I had fallen asleep on my right hand. I tested my hand like Luke Skywalker in The Empire Strikes Back, slowly moving each finger watching them in wonder. As the digits denumbed I regained full consciousness as the initial pain skimmed over my hand. The feeling is not unlike having the first layer or two of skin slowly peeled off your hand so you’re raw. It is much more effective than any alarm clock.

As my pain eased I looked around at my lava lamp and glanced at the clock. Nine forty-five. I looked down at my right hand wondering if I wanted to chance it. But there was no way I was going to be able to sleep again.

I berated myself out of bed thinking of all the things I had to do. The sooner I got up, the sooner all of that would be accomplished, and the sooner I could go back to sitting on my arse. What a motivator! I pulled back the covers and lumbered out of bed only to be assaulted by the cold.

I traded my boxers for long linen pants—Betty Boop a much warmer companion than tired plaid. Scrambling around till I found a sweater on the floor (which reminded me I needed to clean my room), I yanked it over my head. Properly warm now I returned to my previous state of lethargy.

I shuffled past the random junk in my room—ratty tennis shoes, unpacked shopping bag, dented purple trashcan—down the mellow yellow hallway to my mother’s room. I peeked past the doorjamb to find rumpled covers. Listening to the sounds there were no creaking boards or muted noises coming from another part of the house. Clearly Mom had left.

Unperturbed I continued my trek through the house. My two dogs, Zeke and Eli, fell into step behind me, becoming my little fuzzy shadows, their claws making a familiar clacking on the black-and-white linoleum of the kitchen floor. I would like to think they have immense loyalty to me but I know they are no better than Pavlov’s mutt. A human gets up in the morning and they go outside.

I opened the back door just far enough to let them out and to let the fresh air pinch my cheeks. I closed the door and went to turn the computer on. The whir and hum of the machine starting up gave life to the quiet room. Opening my desktop I greeted the unsmiling mien of Mr. Darcy and opened the Internet.

I quickly lost track of time as I checked my p.c. email account to see if Mr. Leftridge had gotten my narrative poem (no such luck), and otherwise dallied about on the computer. I was procrastinating but it was still early enough that I could get everything done in theory.

I had almost resigned myself to writing my blog for which I had no ideas when I heard the lock on the front door turn with a metallic crunch. Mom was home. I was only vaguely interested in where she had been—I wasn’t the parent of this household and she had liberty to go where she pleased. But she had my attention when she proclaimed from the kitchen that she had doughnuts.

Oh boy. I had eaten three Krispy Kremes on Friday but that in no way, shape, or form deterred me from wanting what Mom had brought home. Because these were not run of the mill Krispy Kremes. Oh no, these were from the Doughnut Drive In. The Doughnut Drive In makes the world’s best doughnuts!

Despite the name the Doughnut Drive In isn’t really a drive-in. Maybe it was once upon a time but now it’s just like any other store. Located on Chippewa and Watson, Mom and I had been getting our doughnuts from there before we even moved to Webster. Back when I had the great ambition of being a doughnut maker by day and a rock star by night. Clearly this place has had an impact on my life.

Not that I still want to be a doughnut maker but my tastes haven’t changed much since I was younger. I still get chocolate long johns and sugar-covered doughnuts. Those chocolate covered long johns are delicious! The chocolate frosting is smooth and melts in your mouth, and the doughnut itself is light and fluffy. The sugar-covered doughnuts are just as good but more addicting. Not only are they light and fluffy, they also bring back your childhood. The childhood when you were it was excusable to eat with abandon, and have a ring of sugar around your mouth for a later snack.

That same ring of sugar was present around my lips after carefully eating three of these wonderful, wonderful doughnuts. Feeling gloriously full and content, I licked the remnants of sugar from my fingers. Purring and grinning like the Cheshire cat I was quite ready to face whatever the day wanted to throw me. I had doughnuts. Now this is what Sunday morning was made for.

Lake? Pond? Oh to Hell With It!

Everybody has their limit as to how much they can handle, how long they can wait out the annoyance, the anger, the rage before they implode. Everybody has a different amount of tolerance for stupid—his or her fuse. I am short, about five foot two really. Not necessarily a bad height unless you’re a stick of dynamite, which I am. So much of my natural height is taken up by the dynamite’s casing that my fuse is rather small. What I’m trying to say is that I have an explosive temper that lights itself at the first sight of a match. Calm is so not my thing.

Imagine my surprise when I was given the assignment to be calm (I am physically incapable of welching on an assignment). My English teacher, Ms. Brewster, handed us an excerpt from Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography this past Wednesday. My buddy Ben had come up with thirteen virtues to make a man (or in my case woman) perfect. We were to pick one of Ben’s virtues and try to adhere to it for a week. A chart would note our progress with a little black dot on our calendars for every day we failed at assuming whatever virtue we had chosen. So my progress would be marked by the black spot, great.

I took this very seriously. If I was going to pick one of Franklin’s virtues I was going to keep that promise—unlike the parody Lent I undertake every year for my Grandparents’ sanity. So I carefully looked over the list of oh-so-daunting values.

TEMPERANCE. Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.
SILENCE. Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.
ORDER. Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.
RESOLUTION. Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.
FRUGALITY. Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing.
INDUSTRY. Lose no time; be always employ'd in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.
SINCERITY. Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly.
JUSTICE. Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty.
MODERATION. Avoid extreams; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve.
CLEANLINESS. Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, cloaths, or habitation.
TRANQUILLITY. Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.
CHASTITY. Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dulness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation.
HUMILITY. Imitate Jesus and Socrates.

Some of these precepts I knew I could never achieve—Frugality, Order, Industry. Some were outlawed by Ms. Brewster: Temperance because we shouldn’t be drinking, and Chastity because she didn’t want to know. Some were just plain funny—oh how I wanted to imitate Jesus and Socrates. I also eliminated Cleanliness and Moderation because I figured I had the basis for those anyway.

I entered an intense debate with one of my friends on which of the remaining five virtues I should attempt. Things such as Justice and Resolution would be the easiest, but as I’ve said I can’t do an assignment halfway. Sincerity, my friend argued, I would not have a problem with because I am already blunt enough. Oh I knew where she was going and did not like it. I parried with the fact that I enjoy mindless chatter more than I ought to and that Silence would be a good life lesson. I was babbling at her now (really illustrating my point), slightly panicked. I may have even squeaked. She just shook her head, smiled, and told me that if I didn’t get some Tranquility I would wind up in prison. Ouch. And that is how I ended up choosing to attack the virtue of Tranquility.

My perceptions of Tranquility are very cliché. A serene lake or country pond with a leaf gently traversing the surface of the still waters; a Buddhist monk meditating in the lotus position as a soft breeze whispers along; a lush clearing straight out of Bambi illuminated by cozy sunlight; Mr. Miyagi. I prefer to think of myself as a realist more than as a pessimist; I knew I couldn’t manage to be a lake. My surface is too easily rippled for a leaf to safely sail my waters. A fly the obnoxious breeze had brought in would easily interrupt my thoughts of Nirvana. And I would wind up telling Mr. Miyagi where he could stick his wax.

Despite my doubts I woke up on Friday morning with a shiny new optimism. I could be a pond if I darn well wanted to. The day was going with out a hitch. I was happy and peaceful. Even my test on the Pilgrims could not ruffle my inner waters. And then my friend Anna skipped a stone across my serene surface, a stone in the shape of an apple. It was lunchtime and Anna had brought the epitome of apple perfection to eat. Admittedly this apple was quite nice. It fit flawlessly in the palm of her hand. A perfectly squat, shimmering, crimson apple that would even tempt Snow White twice. And because of this Anna didn’t want to eat the apple.

At first I was right on board with the whole ‘don’t eat it it’s too cute’ thing. I thought it was slightly amusing to be so devoted to an apple but I figured her hunger would win out. All the way down to the Cafeteria Anna rhapsodized about the apple. I nodded and made approving noises smiling all the way. When we sat down Anna set the apple in front of her and stared at it. The rest of us (Megan, Miriam, and myself) were already digging into our food. Anna said she couldn’t do it; she couldn’t eat the apple but she was very hungry.

We urged her to eat the apple—it was just a fruit, she was hungry, end of story. Not so for Anna. For minutes on end she would go on about the apple, stop, pick it up, look at it, put it down again, and then continue explaining why she couldn’t possibly eat it. She eyed my brownie, and being a person on a search for a better me, I offered her some. She ate most of it, which annoyed me because another of our friends had given it to me as a tranquil incentive. Maybe it was the loss of my tranq-aid but I became more and more piqued with Anna.

In my defense I was not the only one getting annoyed with Anna’s apple fetish. Miriam and Megan kept trying to talk her into eating the apple becoming more and more forceful with their words. I was gritting my teeth and telling my self to breath deeply and not be “disturbed by trifles”. Then Anna said for the one-hundredth time in twenty-five minutes that she was starving. I pointed out the obvious that she did in fact have an apple. I could hear my braces creaking from the tension in my jaw. She would not shut-up about the apple.

“Oh just eat the damn apple!” I exclaimed glaring mutinously at the brownie-eating-apple-saving-nut-job that was my friend.

“No.”

I thumped my head on the table in despair. I had just been given the black spot by one of my best friends. Now there would be a little cancerous dot next to Friday on my chart and I would have to explain why I had failed at being Tranquil. I groaned. I was agitated for the rest of the day, the ripples working their way across my clenched muscles until all was still.

It wasn’t really until the fall sports assembly seventh hour that I was able to find a semblance of calm. The riotous drums, the cavalcade of athletes, and the chaos of students crammed against one another ironically gave me peace. After that I could think, I needed to figure out how to handle Tranquility. I picked the idea up, just like Anna’s apple, and stared at it.

I had known it all along, I wasn’t meant to be a lake. I had no intention of giving up on my assignment though. Perhaps I was thinking on too broad a scale. A lake after all is huge in comparison with my stature. Maybe I was meant to be a puddle. Yes, a calm puddle I could handle that. Or instead of a full-bodied sunny clearing I could be a cheery strip of grass along a sidewalk. I could start small (it’s what I’m good at), and build up to being more Tranquil. Who knows maybe my fuse will grow too.

Nurse, may I have some more Black Eyed Peas?

Music is my medicine. Or more appropriately my addiction. Most of the time I get my fix sitting at the computer, the mouse wire plugged into my wrist, satisfaction just a click away. A variety of specimens supplied by my dealer, iTunes. I am really not that picky of a client. I will try anything from Nirvana to Elvis to Ludacris.

If I go into withdrawal—this usually happens when I’ve gone two to three hours without hearing some sort of music—I will start humming to myself. Humming quickly progresses to singing under my breath, and when I’m really deprived my behavior escalates to full-fledged song.

Like most drugs music stays in your body for years and years after you’ve taken it. You could easily hear me mimicking a song I heard on a top forty station an hour ago when I get the shakes from not having my music. Or I could have an aneurysm and sing a Back Street Boy song from my misguided youth (that’s your cue to back away slowly).

Sometimes it’s like I took too much and one specific song keeps reeling about in my head—the lyrics running around in circles with a dancing leprechaun. It’s moments like that when I can’t concentrate on anything. God help me if I am supposed to be writing an essay when this particular side effect kicks in. I remember trying to write an essay test about the history of Judaism and I couldn’t get My Humps out of my head. I got about two full lines down on paper before I realized what I was doing. I must have looked very strange dancing in my seat to music no one else could hear.

As often as this happens it is a wonder I haven’t been hospitalized. Even if I was I know it wouldn’t change anything. I would take out my I.V., replacing it with the cord of my headphones. I would start a riot if I couldn’t update my iPod. I’m sure the nurses would just love me.

I would be a most temperamental patient; I certainly am a temperamental consumer. What I can’t get enough of one day could nauseate me the next. Few songs stupefy me for long. Only the headiest get consistently replayed. Best of You, American Woman, Dice; these are the songs that really get me going. Others such as Lucky, Fever, and SexyBack are just my latest lyrical playthings (I will minorly O.D. on them and decide to quit). Then there are those that just had to be purged from my system: Knock On Wood, Walk Like An Egyptian, and L.O.V.E to name a few.

But I never get rid of any of the songs that have temporarily fallen from grace. After all, I might get a renewed craving. I suppose it also comes down to my moods. If I’m feeling dark and gloomy I need a depressant to prove that there are others down in the rabbit hole. If I’m feeling energetic and light I need a stimulant to knock the socks off me. If I’m feeling affectionate and euphoric I need a hallucinogen to bolt the rose colored glasses in place.

No matter what my mood is my little habit is at the heart of it. Music just makes me feel better. So if you ever see me tapping out a beat with my pen or hear me mumbling a melody, you’ll know I’m trying to keep my cravings at bay. I need my music.

Amor est Aequus Ludus (Love is Just a Game)

I give my affection easily. Sometimes I wonder if I give it away too easily. But I think it is important that people know how much I care about them. My friends have hardly ever not known that I love them. How could they not? I tell them almost every day.

I come from a small family, and I guess I’ve always wanted a bigger one. To fill this gap I’ve extended my family to my friends. My core group of friends are exactly like brothers and sisters to me, except I don’t have to share my room with them. So I tell them that I love them like I would my family members, hug them when they’re down or when they receive gratuitous news, and I have a deep-seated loyalty to each of my friends that most reserve only for blood. I see absolutely nothing wrong with this.

Similarly, my mother and I are extremely affectionate. Our bond is tighter than most mothers and daughters. Each day practically begins and ends with the phrase “I love you”. And it’s not just that we say it, we show it too. We both do things that articulate our love for each other. Simple things like me baking one of her favorite treats as a surprise, or her searching high and low for something I’ve wistfully expressed a wish for. I wouldn’t trade what my mother and I have for anything.

Yet for all my justification I, and millions of others, commit treason against love every day. In our society ‘love’ has become one of the most commonplace words. Don’t believe me? How many times have you said love this week?

Last Sunday, I attended the John Meyer/ Sheryl Crow concert. When John took the stage Random Girl X cried out, “I love you John Mayer!” Does she really love him? Probably not. In reality Random Girl X finds John Mayer quite attractive and appreciates his music. However this would be rather difficult to shout at a concert.

On Monday a dozen people told me they loved my dress. On Tuesday I told Kelly I loved her shoes, and Alicia that I loved her joke. On Wednesday I loudly proclaimed I loved Kayne while watching Project Runway; I loved Janet, the dance choreographer for the musical, for not making my dance part too complicated; I loved chocolate, wasn’t it the best?

On Thursday I told Andrew that I loved him because he agreed with me on a band of my choice, which I also apparently love. People loved my shoes, my skirt, my bolero, and my style at intervals. On Friday one of my friends told me she loved some guy she just met, and that she wanted to marry him. I shrugged it off, clearly that meant there was sparkage. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

All of this bothers me. Love has become just another adjective instead of the deep, respected feeling it should be. This makes me wonder, will I even be able to recognize when I truly fall in love with someone? I toss the word around so much that is it even real to me anymore? I would like to think it is. I would like to believe that I would know when the right person comes along, but at this rate it isn’t looking good.

It has gotten to the point where any male person I find passably attractive I can fool my heart into believing that I love him. Which is just plain stupid! I couldn’t even give you good definition of love because it has become so muddled for me. “Um…well it could be a color of nail polish, but I know Cinderella did it.” Love has become a faded fairytale in today’s society. Not even Webster’s Dictionary could set us straight.

We need to stop using love as just another adjective. It is going to be hard because it’s such an automated response. The English language is a vast one. I’m sure we can find other words besides love to describe what we like. It’s just a matter of conditioning yourself not to say, “I love your…” every time we approve something. Lord knows it will be difficult for me; I love the word love.

Back Off Bill!

I am not politically inclined. In fact, I couldn’t even tell you which party I belong to. In government class everyone took a quiz to see what their political affiliations were; I came out an even split. So I am a hybrid, a Republocrat, or a Demoican.

What little political information I have I get from the grapevine. And boy-o-boy did I get some sour grapes! Bill Clinton wants to take the soda machines out of our schools. I could forgive him for Monica; I can’t forgive him for this.

Sometimes I just need a soda to get me through the day. Not because I’m addicted but because I spent the previous night working my butt off for school or school related activities, and by fourth hour am in a world of hurt. I’m tired, cranky, and I can’t concentrate. What I really need is sleep, but they cut off naptime a long time ago so I have to settle for a little caffeine.

I trudge to the machines, put my sixty cents in the coin slot, and push a button. Nothing happens. That glorious rumble is silenced. I pound the button again, thinking I didn’t press it hard enough the first time. I got nothing. I want to scream, “This isn’t fair!” Perhaps the machine is malfunctioning, that is logical, but instead I blame Bill.

I am a diet drinker, and diet sodas don’t have any sugar. Clinton’s argument hinges on the fact that soft drinks contain too much sugar. I am being punished for something I don’t even drink. I can admire Clinton’s attempt to fight obesity in America but there are too many chinks in his armor.

You see Bill, kids have these nifty things called lunch boxes. Wonderful insulated little things that could easily hold a nice cold pop. And any kid who can drive or even walk could go off campus and get a bottle of soda. No teacher is going to say, “Now listen here, Sonny Jim, you can’t have that soda on campus.” Why? Because an equal amount of teachers depend on sodas to get them through their days too. So the entire affair would become a ‘wink-wink nudge-nudge’ operation.

Something else that doesn’t seem quite right to me is the participation of Pepsi and Coke in Clinton’s campaign. Why would the two companies who surely are making a buck off of young Americans want to give up their juicy cash cow? Apparently bad press is enough to make the two moguls come to heel. Potential lawsuits loomed over both companies, and the pop powerhouses were looking to make a similar deal with lawyers from the Center of Informed Food Choices. Then Clinton came calling. The jolly former President certainly gives a better press picture than suits, so the companies jumped at the offer. That leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I feel I’ve been sold out! I mean I know soda isn’t perfectly healthy but neither is beer. Are you going to tell blue-collar Americans that they can’t have a beer after work now Bill? They work hard all day, and when they get a break they wind down with a bottle of beer. Sure this isn’t a perfect parallel, but you get my point. I work too. That’s what school is work. My break just happens to come in the middle of the day. Be happy Bill that I’m not drinking beer, then you’d have a real problem.

Sodas aren’t the biggest threat to the American youth’s health. Big, greasy portions are. Why not attack McDonalds, Bill? Haven’t you seen Super Size Me? Or what about those places that advertise a humongous burger that if you can finish it in an hour they’ll name it after you. Doesn’t that strike you as a problem? Your wife’s a senator in New York isn’t she Bill? Well New York is one of the most popular places for food eating contests. Stuffing twenty-some-odd hotdogs down your throat in two minutes seems like the fast track to obesity to me. But what do I know? Sip your Slim Fast Bill and think about it.

Ox-moron

I feel as if I should explain my web address. Whenever I sign up for one of these sites that require a name I can't be boring. I have to do something that is more personal to me. So I end up agonizing for hours over how exactly I should present my web-self. Not only that but it seems hopeless to choose something that has yet to be chosen. I had almost resigned myself to sifting through a box of crayons simply to find an unused name. It is impossible to find yourself in a crayon.
I went through a series of options including names of book characters, idols from history, and mythology figures. Either way it didn’t feel right or was already taken. I wanted something literary and witty. After all I am doing this for a Creative Writing class. Then I remembered this line from an old Danny DeVito movie that I figured would fit the bill. The movie is called The Renaissance Man. Danny DeVito's character Bill is a high and mighty add executive who gets fired for missing a meeting. Desperate for employment to keep up his lifestyle, Bill takes a job teaching English to American soldiers. These soldiers are considered great in the field but sub par in intelligence. The group is a bunch of underachieving smart-alecky kids who defy Bill as he attempts teaching. Starting with the basics, Bill gives them terms like simile and metaphor. After barely mastering those concepts Bill scrawls on the board Oxymoron. One of the more obnoxious students promptly calls out, "Now hold on, I a'int no ox-moron!” That is the kind of humor you can expect from this movie and it's never failed to make me smile. The Renaissance Man is a perfect example of my offbeat sense of humor and love of pop culture/literary references.
Now that I have explained my choice of web address I feel obligated to continue an explanation of The Renaissance Man for those who might be interested in the movie. Slowly Bill gets to understand his students a little better: why they joined the army, and what motivates them. This gains Bill minor respect and shaky trust from his students. After a run-in with a drill sergeant who dislikes the idea of Bill teaching his soldiers Bill begins lessons in earnest. He hands his students Hamlet. Struggling to explain things such as iambic pentameter and Shakespearean language to his students Bill finds a zest for life he found he had been missing. During the course of teaching the play comedy ensues in the classroom and in the field. The shaky trust built between students and teacher is tried when Bill considers returning to advertising. The students believe Bill, just like everyone else, is quitting on them. It takes a test of physical exertion for Bill to win back his students’ trust. Returning full force to the classroom Bill expects more of his students than ever before. I won’t ruin the ending by explaining it any further. Overall I think The Renaissance Man is definitely a movie worth watching!