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.