I perch on a tall chair and rest my elbows on the counter. My chin in one hand, I half-turn to watch Daniel as he orders the coffee: some fancy, milky, sugary thing for him, black for me. I watch his smile as the young barista takes his change. He flirts with everyone. He can't help it.
He carries the cups over to the table. My chair is facing towards a a tall window. His faces a cork board with ads tacked to it, torn along the bottom where pet sitters and landlords have provided phone numbers. A tiny piece of paper, the size of an index card, is barely hanging on to the bottom right corner of the board. "ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENT, WOOD FLOORS, ONE-CAR GARAGE, WICKER PARK, $625/MO," it says.
"Daniel." It comes out as a whisper. I've been sick all weekend. Again.
"Daniel," I repeat myself. This time, the El Train is rambling by a block away, and he can't hear me.
At least this is what I tell myself.
"Look. We could live here. That would be affordable. I wouldn't even want a car."
He looks at me, half sad, half exasperated. I am the only one who calls him by his full name. Everyone else calls him "Dan," or relies on his silly nickname, "Dan the Man." After two years, I can't bring myself to shorten his name. Something about "Daniel" is endearing. It makes me feel like somehow, somewhere, he needs me. It is the same feeling I get when I see him reach for something and notice the slight tremor in his hands, or when I watch him sleep.
I know this trip is the beginning of the end. I cleaned out my bank account and maxed out my last credit card so we could go away and spend some time together, and on the way here, I got sick. Even after all this time, Daniel doesn't understand. He seems to think I have control over it, and can turn it on or off at will. He does not want to be with someone that is going to die. He is focused now on school and parties, and in a few years, will want a home and children. Things I can't do now, things I won't be able to do in the future. Nothing left for me to do except "try to enjoy life!" they say, leaving out "what's left of your" in the middle of that statement. Illness kept me isolated for so long that I have few friends, and Daniel feels pressured to be everything for me. I know this, but I can't vocalize it. I can't change it this late in the game. I will die without friends, I will die misunderstood, and the only thing that will be left is a pile of paper covered in my handwriting.
Daniel remains silent; he is now flipping through a newspaper. He has his eye on an ad for a warehouse party. Another part of my past life. My life BD: Before Disease. I rest my head on my folded arms for a moment. When I look up again, a small handful of blonde hair is attached to my dark sleeve. The tears begin to well up and I try to fight them, try to think of honey and puppies and my dad, anything that makes me happy. Eventually, the tears win, and one falls right into my untouched coffee. Daniel starts to say something, but I look up and notice a small painting hanging above the bulletin board. The colors are dark, and it is oil on canvas but has a watercolor-y feel to it; the outlines are not very defined, and the brush strokes are wavy. It is a woman with short blonde hair, in a claw-footed bathtub, clinging to the pushed-aside shower curtain, seemingly trying to get out. You can see her entire back, and her small arm grasping the curtain. There is no water in the tub. The tiny card at the bottom right of the painting says "BATHTUB" and an artist's name.
The painting makes my soul ache. This girl is me. I cannot explain why, but she is so much me that I almost can't move. I look at the $300 price tag and the tears begin to flow freely. I am dying, and I can't buy a $300 painting that moves me. Daniel reaches for my hand, and I wonder if the girl in the bathtub has a Daniel, or an illness, or a crazy mother, or debt, or a friendless existence, and which of these things she is trying to escape.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
LITTLE SISTER-BTCB 4
Let's go back and visit one of my forays into online dating.
I signed up for an account with a popular service. Thought it would be fun. My now-husband was a co-worker (actually my boss) at the time, he had a girlfriend, and (at least I thought) he loved my stupid dating stories. Everyone I worked with was supporting this. Everyone loved my stupid dating stories. So there I was, signed up on *****.com.
And dear God. The first day, I got close to 100 responses. 100! Wow, just...wow. Most were creepy or very clearly married and looking to cheat. A few were guys that I actually cried for...lonely single dads, older guys, etc. (I was tempted to contact a few, but they weren't on there to find me as a friend...and I wasn't interested in more with them.) Maybe 4 of the responses actually interested me. One in particular wrote me back almost immediately after I re-responded, and we set a date.
We met up in a very public place and set off to go hiking--8 miles! I already liked the guy. He had a nice (but not overdone) car, and was adorable (he looked like John Mayer, prompting one of my bosses to call him "Mr. Mayer" during our gossip sessions). He was funny, sweet, and a good kisser. Wow! How did I get so lucky?
He called me often. He took me to see a new band that just blew me away. He surprised me with tickets to my favorite band and then surprised me even more by liking them. We went to see mutual favorites, and laughed at all the kids dancing before finally giving in and dancing ourselves. We went to wineries and drank bottled water and watched the sun set. He was unpretentious and understood my need to go to yoga every day, to spend a certain amount of time alone, to call at 2a.m. and talk about nothing.
Sounds amazing, right?
Well. He had a little sister. He talked about her a lot. He talked about her domestic problems a lot. Ok, I thought, he trusts me. Great!
Hmm. He lived an hour away. On more than one occasion, I was over at his place to stay the night after drinking wine or whatever, when his sister would call crying. She would want to come over, and I was asked to leave. Oh. Okay.
One time, she showed up while I was still searching for the shoe I had tipsily misplaced. LS kissed her on the mouth...the only word I can use here is "passionately"...in greeting.
Okay. We all went to a concert together. I brought a male friend to set up with LS's sister. She stood next to me. It was loud. She told me about her degree, her job, where she lived. I told her I was taking a break from college, and then shared a funny story about work, since our industries were similar. Then we stopped shouting and watched the show.
Apparently, she told LS something, because late that night, after everyone left and
my friend and I were sitting around doing nothing, he called me. He actually shouted at me for not asking her enough questions about her and talking about myself too much, and told me that his family was the most important thing to him, and that I needed to respect that. I was shocked. Really? My friend told me he was probably just drunk and to ignore it.
The next day, he acted normal, but I was starting to wonder. We made a date to do something, but when I got there (now that I think about it, I was always driving to his place) he was in a weird mood and couldn't muster up the energy to go. I sat there feeling like crap, bored and defeated. Another dating disaster. I went home.
A few days later, a call. A plan. A real plan, with tickets, involving a small road trip. I took the chance. I told everyone at work. I was excited.
I went to yoga, went home, got ready. The time for him to pick me up came and went. His phone was off, or at least it went straight to voicemail. I finally fell asleep, cursing him. I woke up a few hours later, and dialed the phone with bleary eyes and a fuzzy mind. He answered. Shit, it was 3a.m.
"Hello?" he answered breathlessly.
"Yeah, um, HELLO???!?" I responded.
"Oh, shit." (guiltily)
"Yeah. What happened?"
I heard stirring, whispering, and if it wasn't the sounds of two people in bed, I don't know what it was.
"LOOK!" he shouted suddenly. "MY SISTER HAD AN EMERGENCY AND SHE NEEDED ME AND MY FAMILY COMES FIRST AND YOU ARE SO RUDE TO CALL ME RIGHT NOW!!!"
And I just sat there wanting to cry, but instead said, "Well, actually, that's fine, you had an emergency, but it's a little rude not to call me after the emergency died down, what with technology and mobile phones and all. Even a text message takes about 7 seconds," and hung up.
I never heard from him again, but I to this day, I think that it really is possible to love your sibling a little too much. From the looks of it, his sister really did always come first. (Sorry, couldn't resist the gross pun.)
I signed up for an account with a popular service. Thought it would be fun. My now-husband was a co-worker (actually my boss) at the time, he had a girlfriend, and (at least I thought) he loved my stupid dating stories. Everyone I worked with was supporting this. Everyone loved my stupid dating stories. So there I was, signed up on *****.com.
And dear God. The first day, I got close to 100 responses. 100! Wow, just...wow. Most were creepy or very clearly married and looking to cheat. A few were guys that I actually cried for...lonely single dads, older guys, etc. (I was tempted to contact a few, but they weren't on there to find me as a friend...and I wasn't interested in more with them.) Maybe 4 of the responses actually interested me. One in particular wrote me back almost immediately after I re-responded, and we set a date.
We met up in a very public place and set off to go hiking--8 miles! I already liked the guy. He had a nice (but not overdone) car, and was adorable (he looked like John Mayer, prompting one of my bosses to call him "Mr. Mayer" during our gossip sessions). He was funny, sweet, and a good kisser. Wow! How did I get so lucky?
He called me often. He took me to see a new band that just blew me away. He surprised me with tickets to my favorite band and then surprised me even more by liking them. We went to see mutual favorites, and laughed at all the kids dancing before finally giving in and dancing ourselves. We went to wineries and drank bottled water and watched the sun set. He was unpretentious and understood my need to go to yoga every day, to spend a certain amount of time alone, to call at 2a.m. and talk about nothing.
Sounds amazing, right?
Well. He had a little sister. He talked about her a lot. He talked about her domestic problems a lot. Ok, I thought, he trusts me. Great!
Hmm. He lived an hour away. On more than one occasion, I was over at his place to stay the night after drinking wine or whatever, when his sister would call crying. She would want to come over, and I was asked to leave. Oh. Okay.
One time, she showed up while I was still searching for the shoe I had tipsily misplaced. LS kissed her on the mouth...the only word I can use here is "passionately"...in greeting.
Okay. We all went to a concert together. I brought a male friend to set up with LS's sister. She stood next to me. It was loud. She told me about her degree, her job, where she lived. I told her I was taking a break from college, and then shared a funny story about work, since our industries were similar. Then we stopped shouting and watched the show.
Apparently, she told LS something, because late that night, after everyone left and
my friend and I were sitting around doing nothing, he called me. He actually shouted at me for not asking her enough questions about her and talking about myself too much, and told me that his family was the most important thing to him, and that I needed to respect that. I was shocked. Really? My friend told me he was probably just drunk and to ignore it.
The next day, he acted normal, but I was starting to wonder. We made a date to do something, but when I got there (now that I think about it, I was always driving to his place) he was in a weird mood and couldn't muster up the energy to go. I sat there feeling like crap, bored and defeated. Another dating disaster. I went home.
A few days later, a call. A plan. A real plan, with tickets, involving a small road trip. I took the chance. I told everyone at work. I was excited.
I went to yoga, went home, got ready. The time for him to pick me up came and went. His phone was off, or at least it went straight to voicemail. I finally fell asleep, cursing him. I woke up a few hours later, and dialed the phone with bleary eyes and a fuzzy mind. He answered. Shit, it was 3a.m.
"Hello?" he answered breathlessly.
"Yeah, um, HELLO???!?" I responded.
"Oh, shit." (guiltily)
"Yeah. What happened?"
I heard stirring, whispering, and if it wasn't the sounds of two people in bed, I don't know what it was.
"LOOK!" he shouted suddenly. "MY SISTER HAD AN EMERGENCY AND SHE NEEDED ME AND MY FAMILY COMES FIRST AND YOU ARE SO RUDE TO CALL ME RIGHT NOW!!!"
And I just sat there wanting to cry, but instead said, "Well, actually, that's fine, you had an emergency, but it's a little rude not to call me after the emergency died down, what with technology and mobile phones and all. Even a text message takes about 7 seconds," and hung up.
I never heard from him again, but I to this day, I think that it really is possible to love your sibling a little too much. From the looks of it, his sister really did always come first. (Sorry, couldn't resist the gross pun.)
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
WRITING TO REACH YOU-BTCB 3
*I really didn't intend to write these in chronological order, but I was walking past one of my old apartments earlier, I started to think about this one, and this story just fits here and nowhere else.
I wish I could say I handled this one differently, but I didn't. I was 21 years old and thought that I was invincible and that I could dodge karma and that I could get away with anything.
It was summer, and I was working at the gym. I was working on moving back to Colorado, this time with OP (see post 2 previous) following close behind as soon as he could.
Many of the people who came to work out at the gym were medical students or law students from the college a few miles away. One of the regulars came in almost every night and lifted weights, then came to the desk to talk to me. I am not entirely sure how he asked me out. I don't remember. I do remember that one night, my mother was visiting and enjoying the facilities, and when she saw WTRY come up and talk to me, she feigned a swoon and smiled. Yes, he was that kind of guy. The one even your mother thinks is hot. (Later when I told him he was a recent law school grad who worked as a court clerk but decided he wanted to go back to school-to MED SCHOOL-she almost died. Seriously.)
Anyway. I remember our dates very well. Most of the time, I was a bit freaked out because he wanted to pick me up (remember, I actually lived with OP at this time) but I worked around it. We went to see "Memento." We went to an outdoor Better Than Ezra concert. We ate at a seafood restaurant that served "just okay" sushi. We went to his apartment and talked about philosophy (wow, I feel like I was smarter then than I am now). I remember one night that I was at his place until late. He invited me to stay. "It's not like that," he said. "I'll sleep on the sofa. You can have the bed." I hated to say "no," but I had to. I had a boyfriend at home, remember? Yeah, horrible, horrible me.
I still can't say I know 100% exactly for sure if I knew what love was back then, but whatever I thought it was, I thought I loved both of these guys at once. It was like a boxing ring...in one corner, OP with his adorable almost-shaved head that always smelled like his lotion, his crazy glasses, his quiet shyness, our nights spent watching "Pulp Fiction" on the living room floor. In the other corner, WTRY with his wonderful ability to talk about the most obscure college philosophy class references, his chivalry, the sexy smile that he seemed to save for only me. Yikes. Just...yikes.
He actually told me that he planned to move to Denver in the next few months. "I have friends there," he said. "Once you get to Colorado, I will set you up with them, so you will know people. And when I move, you will only live an hour away." (!!!SERIOUSLY!!!!)
And so, the night before I was supposed to caravan across the country with my father (and all my belongings) in tow, I went out with WTRY. For some reason, I can't remember exactly what we did (besides go to the pub and drink a beer or two...that could be why I don't remember?) but I do remember where we parked the cars. (We had met, another one of my ways to avoid OP and WTRY figuring out my horrible deception. I couldn't decide! I was going to! I was! Just not right then!) Right across from the gym. And I remember that we left wherever we were, and planned to drive somewhere else. At the car, he stopped me and kissed me. We just looked at each other for a minute, and suddenly, I felt that someone was watching us. We both looked over to see an obviously homeless older man, one hand down his pants, staring. WTRY looked at him and said "Can I help you?"
"WHY YOU STEAL MY SHIT, MAN? WHY?????"
And with that, the homeless man reared back and decked WTRY with his fist. And connected with his lip. (Remember...WTRY was about 6'3" and built like a fireman...all muscle, but not gross bodybuilder overdone muscle. The homeless guy was about my height, maybe 5'4" at the most, and stooped and skinny.)
No, really. Again, you can't make this shit up.
WTRY stood there stunned, hand on his mouth, started to say, "Why did you do that?" when a younger, also obviously homeless man appeared. He had an umbrella in his hand and a backpack on.
"Here, hold this," he told me in a soft voice as he handed me the umbrella. He turned and started to fight with the older homeless man. WTRY grabbed my hand and practically pushed me over to his car and into the passenger side.
"You aren't going back out there yet. We are staying in my car for a while. Those guys are nuts."
I was mortified. It wasn't my fault, but I felt so stupid.
WTRY moved his rearview mirror and turned on his dome light. Sure enough, his lip was bleeding. He looked over at me. "I hope he didn't hit me with the hand that was down his pants."
We sat there for a while.
"I made you something, for the trip," he said. He pulled a cellular phone out of his glove box. A phone? "I have the same phone. I mean, this one isn't set up to work as a phone, but it's an mp3 player. And you attach this connector so you can use it with your cassette player (this was 2001 and I had a 1996 car.) I was touched. He showed me how to use it, and the first song to play was a Travis song--Writing to Reach You. Hence, the name.
I can't, for the life of me, remember how the night ended. It was after 3am and I was set to leave at 5am for a very, very long drive. The night was sad, and touching, and hilarious, and scary, and sometimes I wish I could do it all over again.
I ended up not moving. When I got there, I could not find a place to live (my dad thought that my idea of flying out a few months earlier to find an apartment was silly, heh) and I just suddenly felt...wrong (again, no idea why. Because I was to meet my husband a few years later? Hmm.) I called WTRY from Kansas on the way back home.
"Wait. Aren't you going the wrong way?"
"I'm coming back. Long story."
"Call me when you get back."
And I did. He invited me out. And as I remember, I was getting ready, and OP found his way into my side of the closet and read my diary.
And then I was just too messed up to do much of anything for a while. I never did call WTRY again, and I ignored his calls.
A few years later, I was working a desk job, and out of sheer boredom I googled his name. He was working in Denver. He made it.
And OP? Well, he has disappeared. Maybe he moved back to Rapid City. Maybe he married the ex we always argued about and moved somewhere else. Maybe he still lives with his friends in Illinois. I have no idea.
But I do know that I hurt two great guys, and even though I am happily married now, sometimes my husband says something or makes a face that reminds me of one of the many guys in my past, and I get the weirdest nostalgic feeling. And I feel terrible. And I hope they are somewhere out there, happy, and remembering me not as a total horrible bitch, but as one of the girls who came before.
I wish I could say I handled this one differently, but I didn't. I was 21 years old and thought that I was invincible and that I could dodge karma and that I could get away with anything.
It was summer, and I was working at the gym. I was working on moving back to Colorado, this time with OP (see post 2 previous) following close behind as soon as he could.
Many of the people who came to work out at the gym were medical students or law students from the college a few miles away. One of the regulars came in almost every night and lifted weights, then came to the desk to talk to me. I am not entirely sure how he asked me out. I don't remember. I do remember that one night, my mother was visiting and enjoying the facilities, and when she saw WTRY come up and talk to me, she feigned a swoon and smiled. Yes, he was that kind of guy. The one even your mother thinks is hot. (Later when I told him he was a recent law school grad who worked as a court clerk but decided he wanted to go back to school-to MED SCHOOL-she almost died. Seriously.)
Anyway. I remember our dates very well. Most of the time, I was a bit freaked out because he wanted to pick me up (remember, I actually lived with OP at this time) but I worked around it. We went to see "Memento." We went to an outdoor Better Than Ezra concert. We ate at a seafood restaurant that served "just okay" sushi. We went to his apartment and talked about philosophy (wow, I feel like I was smarter then than I am now). I remember one night that I was at his place until late. He invited me to stay. "It's not like that," he said. "I'll sleep on the sofa. You can have the bed." I hated to say "no," but I had to. I had a boyfriend at home, remember? Yeah, horrible, horrible me.
I still can't say I know 100% exactly for sure if I knew what love was back then, but whatever I thought it was, I thought I loved both of these guys at once. It was like a boxing ring...in one corner, OP with his adorable almost-shaved head that always smelled like his lotion, his crazy glasses, his quiet shyness, our nights spent watching "Pulp Fiction" on the living room floor. In the other corner, WTRY with his wonderful ability to talk about the most obscure college philosophy class references, his chivalry, the sexy smile that he seemed to save for only me. Yikes. Just...yikes.
He actually told me that he planned to move to Denver in the next few months. "I have friends there," he said. "Once you get to Colorado, I will set you up with them, so you will know people. And when I move, you will only live an hour away." (!!!SERIOUSLY!!!!)
And so, the night before I was supposed to caravan across the country with my father (and all my belongings) in tow, I went out with WTRY. For some reason, I can't remember exactly what we did (besides go to the pub and drink a beer or two...that could be why I don't remember?) but I do remember where we parked the cars. (We had met, another one of my ways to avoid OP and WTRY figuring out my horrible deception. I couldn't decide! I was going to! I was! Just not right then!) Right across from the gym. And I remember that we left wherever we were, and planned to drive somewhere else. At the car, he stopped me and kissed me. We just looked at each other for a minute, and suddenly, I felt that someone was watching us. We both looked over to see an obviously homeless older man, one hand down his pants, staring. WTRY looked at him and said "Can I help you?"
"WHY YOU STEAL MY SHIT, MAN? WHY?????"
And with that, the homeless man reared back and decked WTRY with his fist. And connected with his lip. (Remember...WTRY was about 6'3" and built like a fireman...all muscle, but not gross bodybuilder overdone muscle. The homeless guy was about my height, maybe 5'4" at the most, and stooped and skinny.)
No, really. Again, you can't make this shit up.
WTRY stood there stunned, hand on his mouth, started to say, "Why did you do that?" when a younger, also obviously homeless man appeared. He had an umbrella in his hand and a backpack on.
"Here, hold this," he told me in a soft voice as he handed me the umbrella. He turned and started to fight with the older homeless man. WTRY grabbed my hand and practically pushed me over to his car and into the passenger side.
"You aren't going back out there yet. We are staying in my car for a while. Those guys are nuts."
I was mortified. It wasn't my fault, but I felt so stupid.
WTRY moved his rearview mirror and turned on his dome light. Sure enough, his lip was bleeding. He looked over at me. "I hope he didn't hit me with the hand that was down his pants."
We sat there for a while.
"I made you something, for the trip," he said. He pulled a cellular phone out of his glove box. A phone? "I have the same phone. I mean, this one isn't set up to work as a phone, but it's an mp3 player. And you attach this connector so you can use it with your cassette player (this was 2001 and I had a 1996 car.) I was touched. He showed me how to use it, and the first song to play was a Travis song--Writing to Reach You. Hence, the name.
I can't, for the life of me, remember how the night ended. It was after 3am and I was set to leave at 5am for a very, very long drive. The night was sad, and touching, and hilarious, and scary, and sometimes I wish I could do it all over again.
I ended up not moving. When I got there, I could not find a place to live (my dad thought that my idea of flying out a few months earlier to find an apartment was silly, heh) and I just suddenly felt...wrong (again, no idea why. Because I was to meet my husband a few years later? Hmm.) I called WTRY from Kansas on the way back home.
"Wait. Aren't you going the wrong way?"
"I'm coming back. Long story."
"Call me when you get back."
And I did. He invited me out. And as I remember, I was getting ready, and OP found his way into my side of the closet and read my diary.
And then I was just too messed up to do much of anything for a while. I never did call WTRY again, and I ignored his calls.
A few years later, I was working a desk job, and out of sheer boredom I googled his name. He was working in Denver. He made it.
And OP? Well, he has disappeared. Maybe he moved back to Rapid City. Maybe he married the ex we always argued about and moved somewhere else. Maybe he still lives with his friends in Illinois. I have no idea.
But I do know that I hurt two great guys, and even though I am happily married now, sometimes my husband says something or makes a face that reminds me of one of the many guys in my past, and I get the weirdest nostalgic feeling. And I feel terrible. And I hope they are somewhere out there, happy, and remembering me not as a total horrible bitch, but as one of the girls who came before.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
TWINKIES AND KEDS AT THE CAR WASH
*This is a 100% true story. You can't make this shit up.
I pulled into the self-service car wash with a one-track mind: get the car obsessively clean, and then get to the mall. I told myself I would spend my entire paycheck on clothes and shoes as soon as I finished this one chore.
I got out of the white Eagle Talon (all 98 pounds of me) and looked around. Nobody else in sight. Good. I walked to the change machine, stuck in a five dollar bill, and counted as each quarter hit the metal cup at the bottom. A nondescript sedan pulled in just as I made it back to the vacuum island. I paid no attention to the driver; I just wanted to finish and move on.
Not 15 seconds into my vacuum time, I felt a presence behind me. When I say presence, I don't mean some weird supernatural ghostly cold air presence. Nope, just the feeling I get when another warm body is in my personal space. A creeper. I looked over my shoulder and was surprised to see a very plain looking man in his 40s standing nearly 20 feet away. I guess I overestimated his closeness. He waved at me, then returned his hand to his pocket and stood watching. Great. A man who comes to the car wash to watch 21-year-old art students as they bend over the seats to vacuum their messy cars. He just stood there, watching, waiting. I could see that his once-white polo shirt was a size too small, and his jeans were pleated. (Barf.)
The vacuum finally turned off, and I hung it back up, ready to abandon my car cleaning and speed off towards the mall a little early. "Being watched by weird man at car wash" is grounds for abandoning car-cleaning project and rewarding self early. Yes, definitely. However, when I turned around from hanging up the hose, he was standing right there. Right next to the trunk of my car.
"Nice car, this is. Give you any problems?"
Ohhh, he just wants to buy a Talon, he's just a clueless loser wanting to know about my car. Aww, I thought.
"No. Never. It's nice. But if you buy the 5-speed it's hard to get used to shifting because the seats are so low so the console seems higher."
"Oh." He pauses. "Hey, what size shoe do you wear, like a 6.5?"
What?? How did we get to this? And how the fuck did he know that? That is creepy.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Yeah. Why?"
"Oh, I thought so. I sell shoes. I can tell size just by looking."
Oh. He is just a little weird. Maybe trying to hit on me and not sure how.
I say nothing.
"Say...I have a pair of Keds in my trunk. They aren't used, they were a display pair. They are your size. Would you try them on for me?"
Why? WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY???!!!???
"Er, um, why?"
"Well, would you consider yourself an open-minded person?"
"Yes, of course. What does that have to do with Keds? I don't like them. I wore them all through grade school. They are skinny and pointy and ugly." I point to my Airwalk skater shoes.
"If I were to, say, go over to that store across the street and buy a Twinkie, would you put the Ked on and squish the Twinkie with it?"
OMGWTF this guy is some weird foot shoe crappy chemical dessert fetishist and I bet those Keds came off a corpse. Ew ew EWWW.
"Well...that's a little weird. For one thing, I hate Twinkies and I won't touch one. And I don't know if I want to put on an ugly little shoe that has been tried on by countless misguided women who still think white canvas Keds look good."
"I'll give you fifty dollars."
What? This dude has fifty bucks that he will give me to squash a nasty snack cake with an ugly shoe? What the hell has the world come to?
"I don't think so. I have to go...to, um, work." That was weak. Come on, tell the guy to fuck off already.
He looks at me.
"I thought you said you were open-minded," he whines.
"Yeah, I meant that in a human way, not a Keds way. Thanks, but, er...no thanks. Late for work. Have to go."
I jumped in my car and sped off. As I was turning out of the lot, he ran to the edge of the ditch separating it from the street.
"WELL WOULD YOU DO IT FOR A HUNDRED???!!?!?!?"
Really. True story. Really happened. Me: scared little 21-year-old in a "penis car." Him: weird disgruntled shoe salesman or impostor of one with a weird combination fetish for food and Keds.
Creepier than when my apartment was burglarized.
I pulled into the self-service car wash with a one-track mind: get the car obsessively clean, and then get to the mall. I told myself I would spend my entire paycheck on clothes and shoes as soon as I finished this one chore.
I got out of the white Eagle Talon (all 98 pounds of me) and looked around. Nobody else in sight. Good. I walked to the change machine, stuck in a five dollar bill, and counted as each quarter hit the metal cup at the bottom. A nondescript sedan pulled in just as I made it back to the vacuum island. I paid no attention to the driver; I just wanted to finish and move on.
Not 15 seconds into my vacuum time, I felt a presence behind me. When I say presence, I don't mean some weird supernatural ghostly cold air presence. Nope, just the feeling I get when another warm body is in my personal space. A creeper. I looked over my shoulder and was surprised to see a very plain looking man in his 40s standing nearly 20 feet away. I guess I overestimated his closeness. He waved at me, then returned his hand to his pocket and stood watching. Great. A man who comes to the car wash to watch 21-year-old art students as they bend over the seats to vacuum their messy cars. He just stood there, watching, waiting. I could see that his once-white polo shirt was a size too small, and his jeans were pleated. (Barf.)
The vacuum finally turned off, and I hung it back up, ready to abandon my car cleaning and speed off towards the mall a little early. "Being watched by weird man at car wash" is grounds for abandoning car-cleaning project and rewarding self early. Yes, definitely. However, when I turned around from hanging up the hose, he was standing right there. Right next to the trunk of my car.
"Nice car, this is. Give you any problems?"
Ohhh, he just wants to buy a Talon, he's just a clueless loser wanting to know about my car. Aww, I thought.
"No. Never. It's nice. But if you buy the 5-speed it's hard to get used to shifting because the seats are so low so the console seems higher."
"Oh." He pauses. "Hey, what size shoe do you wear, like a 6.5?"
What?? How did we get to this? And how the fuck did he know that? That is creepy.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Yeah. Why?"
"Oh, I thought so. I sell shoes. I can tell size just by looking."
Oh. He is just a little weird. Maybe trying to hit on me and not sure how.
I say nothing.
"Say...I have a pair of Keds in my trunk. They aren't used, they were a display pair. They are your size. Would you try them on for me?"
Why? WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY???!!!???
"Er, um, why?"
"Well, would you consider yourself an open-minded person?"
"Yes, of course. What does that have to do with Keds? I don't like them. I wore them all through grade school. They are skinny and pointy and ugly." I point to my Airwalk skater shoes.
"If I were to, say, go over to that store across the street and buy a Twinkie, would you put the Ked on and squish the Twinkie with it?"
OMGWTF this guy is some weird foot shoe crappy chemical dessert fetishist and I bet those Keds came off a corpse. Ew ew EWWW.
"Well...that's a little weird. For one thing, I hate Twinkies and I won't touch one. And I don't know if I want to put on an ugly little shoe that has been tried on by countless misguided women who still think white canvas Keds look good."
"I'll give you fifty dollars."
What? This dude has fifty bucks that he will give me to squash a nasty snack cake with an ugly shoe? What the hell has the world come to?
"I don't think so. I have to go...to, um, work." That was weak. Come on, tell the guy to fuck off already.
He looks at me.
"I thought you said you were open-minded," he whines.
"Yeah, I meant that in a human way, not a Keds way. Thanks, but, er...no thanks. Late for work. Have to go."
I jumped in my car and sped off. As I was turning out of the lot, he ran to the edge of the ditch separating it from the street.
"WELL WOULD YOU DO IT FOR A HUNDRED???!!?!?!?"
Really. True story. Really happened. Me: scared little 21-year-old in a "penis car." Him: weird disgruntled shoe salesman or impostor of one with a weird combination fetish for food and Keds.
Creepier than when my apartment was burglarized.
Monday, December 1, 2008
"ORIGINAL PRANKSTER"-BTCB 2
On an April day he left a note on my car, and it took me a whole day to figure out who it was from.
But I am getting a little bit ahead of myself.
I was working at a music store, trying to go to school, and missing Colorado. I was always cold from the inside as if my bones were frozen, and I had one goal: to starve. I was dating "Clark," who I'll talk about more some other day. The seductive cold gripped me and wouldn't let go, and I began to get very, very ill. I was weak; I couldn't stand to leave my tiny apartment. At work, I wore a winter coat and two of everything: sweaters, pants, hats. The manager saw that I was in pain and didn't say a word about my weird uniform.
It was February, and Valentine's day was looming. I was getting tired of Clark and his habits, his cheesiness, but felt that I was too nice to break his heart directly. I avoided him like any rational girl would do. Which was difficult, considering he worked with me. I thanked him as sincerely as I could for the giant ugly teddy bear and begged off for the night, claiming fatigue. I wasn't stretching the truth very much--I felt like death. The next day, I hung around in the manager's office helping a co-worker process a shipment. We talked about Colorado, and food, and music. I went home, and my body gave in. For the next week, I stayed in bed, calling the store every day and sleeping on the living room floor, only getting up to force myself into the gym. I vaguely remember an emergency room, an IV, blood. After two weeks, I knew I was never going back to work there. It was a relief. No more Clark. No more freezing. No more thinking.
Sometime in March, I started to go back to school. I got a job at a gym. I had a life again. I was still sick, but not hospital-sick.
Some day in April, I went to Wild Oats. I wanted a cake but I bought a tea. I decided to go to the Barnes and Noble down the street. As I pulled out of the Wild Oats lot, I noticed a scrap of paper under my windshield wiper. Thinking it was nothing, I kept driving. After parking at the bookstore, I pulled the paper off and looked at it. It was a note, expressing concern. There was a name and phone number on the bottom. "OP," I thought. "Who is OP?"
Two days later, I called the number and realized just exactly who OP was. OP was the cute co-worker who talked to me all day in the manager's office on my last day at the music store. He remembered everything I had said, and grew concerned after my sudden departure. Since he lived in the next state (my city is on a state line) I wondered what he was doing in a random affluent suburb over an hour away from his home. He really didn't offer an explanation. To this day I wonder how exactly he recognized my car. But it doesn't matter.
OP and I had the kind of first date that you want to last forever. He actually opened up, which is rare for a guy, in my experience. I had too much coffee, and when I stared longingly at the ice cream he held my hand and said "Look at me instead." He understood. He walked me to the door and kissed me goodnight, and as he drove off, I watched until his taillights disappeared into the traffic on Manchester.
The next night, I was carrying some shopping bags up the stairs, daydreaming as usual. "Wouldn't it be nice if there were flowers and a note on my doormat?" I had absolutely no reason to think that there would be; I have a tendency to fantasize randomly. As I got up to my floor, I saw a weird shadow. "NO WAY," I thought. "NO. FUCKING. WAY."
I got to my door, dropped the shopping bags, and looked down. There, on the mat, was a bouquet of Gerbera daisies, and beneath them, an envelope. In the envelope was a card that was just this side of sappy. I called OP right away, and when he came over, I knew we would be together.
At some point, I asked him to move in. He did. We spent nights watching "Pulp Fiction" or driving around or just talking. He told me he loved me. I really did love him. He played "Never Tear us Apart" by INXS for me. He would bring me sugar free popsicles at the gym. He would make my diet hot chocolate exactly the way I liked it. He held my hand in public, he laughed at my jokes, he organized my closet. We made plans to move away together. We shared cars, cigarettes, a bed.
I had no idea that my jealousy would completely tear us apart.
He had an ex. Doesn't everyone? I could tell that he thought that someday, they would be back together. I had never met her, but I hated her. We fought about her more times than I can remember.
And then I did something stupid. I went on a date with another guy. "Writing to Reach You" was a member at the gym. He gets his own story, but he must be mentioned here.
I wrote about him in my diary. OP found it, read it, and left. I didn't understand why he was so sad; I still believed that I was just a replacement for his ex until she came back.
I think that of everyone, he is the one I hurt the most. And the one I regret the most. Jealousy is toxic. It tries to disguise itself as something else, but it is always the black death of something good that you actually have. Don't confuse it with envy, the emotion that surfaces when you covet something that someone else has. Jealousy can only be felt for something that is already yours, and therefore makes a mess of everything by removing the one thing that caused it in the first place.
The end was sad. I think I tried to patch things up, but he wasn't receptive. I will never really know how he felt, or where he is now, or why I acted the way I did. I can only try to remember all the things that made me happy, and hope he does the same.
But I am getting a little bit ahead of myself.
I was working at a music store, trying to go to school, and missing Colorado. I was always cold from the inside as if my bones were frozen, and I had one goal: to starve. I was dating "Clark," who I'll talk about more some other day. The seductive cold gripped me and wouldn't let go, and I began to get very, very ill. I was weak; I couldn't stand to leave my tiny apartment. At work, I wore a winter coat and two of everything: sweaters, pants, hats. The manager saw that I was in pain and didn't say a word about my weird uniform.
It was February, and Valentine's day was looming. I was getting tired of Clark and his habits, his cheesiness, but felt that I was too nice to break his heart directly. I avoided him like any rational girl would do. Which was difficult, considering he worked with me. I thanked him as sincerely as I could for the giant ugly teddy bear and begged off for the night, claiming fatigue. I wasn't stretching the truth very much--I felt like death. The next day, I hung around in the manager's office helping a co-worker process a shipment. We talked about Colorado, and food, and music. I went home, and my body gave in. For the next week, I stayed in bed, calling the store every day and sleeping on the living room floor, only getting up to force myself into the gym. I vaguely remember an emergency room, an IV, blood. After two weeks, I knew I was never going back to work there. It was a relief. No more Clark. No more freezing. No more thinking.
Sometime in March, I started to go back to school. I got a job at a gym. I had a life again. I was still sick, but not hospital-sick.
Some day in April, I went to Wild Oats. I wanted a cake but I bought a tea. I decided to go to the Barnes and Noble down the street. As I pulled out of the Wild Oats lot, I noticed a scrap of paper under my windshield wiper. Thinking it was nothing, I kept driving. After parking at the bookstore, I pulled the paper off and looked at it. It was a note, expressing concern. There was a name and phone number on the bottom. "OP," I thought. "Who is OP?"
Two days later, I called the number and realized just exactly who OP was. OP was the cute co-worker who talked to me all day in the manager's office on my last day at the music store. He remembered everything I had said, and grew concerned after my sudden departure. Since he lived in the next state (my city is on a state line) I wondered what he was doing in a random affluent suburb over an hour away from his home. He really didn't offer an explanation. To this day I wonder how exactly he recognized my car. But it doesn't matter.
OP and I had the kind of first date that you want to last forever. He actually opened up, which is rare for a guy, in my experience. I had too much coffee, and when I stared longingly at the ice cream he held my hand and said "Look at me instead." He understood. He walked me to the door and kissed me goodnight, and as he drove off, I watched until his taillights disappeared into the traffic on Manchester.
The next night, I was carrying some shopping bags up the stairs, daydreaming as usual. "Wouldn't it be nice if there were flowers and a note on my doormat?" I had absolutely no reason to think that there would be; I have a tendency to fantasize randomly. As I got up to my floor, I saw a weird shadow. "NO WAY," I thought. "NO. FUCKING. WAY."
I got to my door, dropped the shopping bags, and looked down. There, on the mat, was a bouquet of Gerbera daisies, and beneath them, an envelope. In the envelope was a card that was just this side of sappy. I called OP right away, and when he came over, I knew we would be together.
At some point, I asked him to move in. He did. We spent nights watching "Pulp Fiction" or driving around or just talking. He told me he loved me. I really did love him. He played "Never Tear us Apart" by INXS for me. He would bring me sugar free popsicles at the gym. He would make my diet hot chocolate exactly the way I liked it. He held my hand in public, he laughed at my jokes, he organized my closet. We made plans to move away together. We shared cars, cigarettes, a bed.
I had no idea that my jealousy would completely tear us apart.
He had an ex. Doesn't everyone? I could tell that he thought that someday, they would be back together. I had never met her, but I hated her. We fought about her more times than I can remember.
And then I did something stupid. I went on a date with another guy. "Writing to Reach You" was a member at the gym. He gets his own story, but he must be mentioned here.
I wrote about him in my diary. OP found it, read it, and left. I didn't understand why he was so sad; I still believed that I was just a replacement for his ex until she came back.
I think that of everyone, he is the one I hurt the most. And the one I regret the most. Jealousy is toxic. It tries to disguise itself as something else, but it is always the black death of something good that you actually have. Don't confuse it with envy, the emotion that surfaces when you covet something that someone else has. Jealousy can only be felt for something that is already yours, and therefore makes a mess of everything by removing the one thing that caused it in the first place.
The end was sad. I think I tried to patch things up, but he wasn't receptive. I will never really know how he felt, or where he is now, or why I acted the way I did. I can only try to remember all the things that made me happy, and hope he does the same.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
"EVERYTHING IN 2'S"--BTCB 1
With him, everything came in 2's.
I met him in a year that contained two 2's, we fell in love two times, he broke my heart two times, and there are only two reasons why I will not contact him again.
There should be more.
I was fascinated by his words, by his stoicism when it came to all but one thing, by the secrets he kept inside until he let them out, one by one, at the strangest moments. We had an attraction that defied explanation. I look back and think that he was acquainted with the fog I was living in, and wanted to clear it, but didn't know how.
Or why.
He moved in almost right away, and we spent days and nights together, traipsing around the city, watching independent films, shopping, drinking, and being completely in love. Every hero in every book I read became HIM; I missed him while I was at work; he inspired me to write things and do things and make things. He suggested that we would attend his 10 year high school reunion with the same last name. He became the tragic character of every daydream; in my mind he found himself through me, lost his life and lived on in my memory, or disappeared into nowhere leaving me only a letter. I had no idea that a bizarre mix of my melancholy fantasies would eventually prove true.
I have only a few specific memories of this time. The rest are a blur of anguish and uncertainty and anger. It was a polar relationship--passionate at either pole, one a living hell.
After about five months, he began to come home drunk, on weeknights, crying that he was a horrible person and would never do it again. Do what? I could only imagine, really, but I never really asked questions, just tried my best to understand.
And there were fights. Between the nights out and the nights in, there were fights. I can't even remember what they were about, but they were passionate and loud and devastating.
And then, one night that July, he told me he didn't love me anymore. He was moving away. Not just out. Away.
I fell asleep listening to Norah Jones while he passed out on the sofa. The next morning, he and all his possessions were gone. He left behind a pan and an iron, and two t-shirts. No note. Just a few belongings he must have deemed disposable enough to leave at the home of the girl he no longer loved.
I didn't leave the apartment for days. I cried uncontrollably. I got physically ill and listlessly allowed my mother to take me to the emergency room. The workmen were supposed to come in to the apartment to give me hardwood floors. I remember hiding in the bathroom all day while they worked on the floor, not coming out until they were gone. I don't think I would have ever done anything else for the rest of that year if it wasn't for one new friend who brought me out of that hell.
Life went on. I worked, I played, I discovered things about myself. I got a good job. I moved. I started to become happy just being me, and felt like a different person. Not really a lost little girl anymore. I was thriving on my own, and for once I realized that my life was not for rent. It was mine. I went through drama with jobs, with school, with my health. But I didn't give a second thought to EI2.
Until one night about 2 years later, when I was sitting in a bubble bath with my little laptop. (NOT recommended.) An IM popped up that said "hello." Since I never used IM, I was tentatively curious. After a moment or so, I realized that it was him.
He said he just wanted to tell me he was sorry, and wondered if he could "take me out for a cup of coffee."
After lots of coffee, and lots of talking, he drove me home. I said goodbye and got out of the car. I had both my feet on the street outside, but right before I was about to close the door, something made me look back, and he was leaning over the passenger seat, looking up at me. And before I could think of anything else, we were kissing.
This time, I moved in to his house. We spent Christmas together, and he told me countless times that he had been scared and selfish and unsure and that everything I suspected was untrue.
Honestly, we had an uneventful life together. I spent days sitting at his desk, looking out his window while writing on his computer. We spent nights doing everything and nothing. I felt like he was distant, I felt left out, but I said nothing, because I desperately wanted to hold on.
Again, after only a few months, I was frightened and antsy. I confronted him, and he told me he wanted space.
I told him he could have it all, and packed up my car, and went back to my (thankfully still on lease) apartment.
It was hell. Once again, I got sick, I wanted to hide from the world, and my work suffered. (Unfortunately, I had a brand new job.) Somehow, though, I came out of it slowly. I began dating again. I started to think to myself that it all happened because he was lost, confused, overwhelmed. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't even necessarily his fault. It just was.
One of the reasons I will never speak to him again as a potential mate is that I am happily married. The other is one I will never share. I can't help but think that there should be 1000 reasons in my head that I should view him as completely off-limits, but every single one of them is forgotten or forgiven or not that important.
I wish I knew why he still pops into my head when I pass a certain bar, or hear a certain song, or see a certain piece of clothing in the back of my closet. Everything about him, our relationship, and my reaction when I randomly see him from afar, defies logic. Maybe someday I will figure out the answer to some of the questions that still live in a corner of my mind, and I can evict him forever.
I met him in a year that contained two 2's, we fell in love two times, he broke my heart two times, and there are only two reasons why I will not contact him again.
There should be more.
I was fascinated by his words, by his stoicism when it came to all but one thing, by the secrets he kept inside until he let them out, one by one, at the strangest moments. We had an attraction that defied explanation. I look back and think that he was acquainted with the fog I was living in, and wanted to clear it, but didn't know how.
Or why.
He moved in almost right away, and we spent days and nights together, traipsing around the city, watching independent films, shopping, drinking, and being completely in love. Every hero in every book I read became HIM; I missed him while I was at work; he inspired me to write things and do things and make things. He suggested that we would attend his 10 year high school reunion with the same last name. He became the tragic character of every daydream; in my mind he found himself through me, lost his life and lived on in my memory, or disappeared into nowhere leaving me only a letter. I had no idea that a bizarre mix of my melancholy fantasies would eventually prove true.
I have only a few specific memories of this time. The rest are a blur of anguish and uncertainty and anger. It was a polar relationship--passionate at either pole, one a living hell.
After about five months, he began to come home drunk, on weeknights, crying that he was a horrible person and would never do it again. Do what? I could only imagine, really, but I never really asked questions, just tried my best to understand.
And there were fights. Between the nights out and the nights in, there were fights. I can't even remember what they were about, but they were passionate and loud and devastating.
And then, one night that July, he told me he didn't love me anymore. He was moving away. Not just out. Away.
I fell asleep listening to Norah Jones while he passed out on the sofa. The next morning, he and all his possessions were gone. He left behind a pan and an iron, and two t-shirts. No note. Just a few belongings he must have deemed disposable enough to leave at the home of the girl he no longer loved.
I didn't leave the apartment for days. I cried uncontrollably. I got physically ill and listlessly allowed my mother to take me to the emergency room. The workmen were supposed to come in to the apartment to give me hardwood floors. I remember hiding in the bathroom all day while they worked on the floor, not coming out until they were gone. I don't think I would have ever done anything else for the rest of that year if it wasn't for one new friend who brought me out of that hell.
Life went on. I worked, I played, I discovered things about myself. I got a good job. I moved. I started to become happy just being me, and felt like a different person. Not really a lost little girl anymore. I was thriving on my own, and for once I realized that my life was not for rent. It was mine. I went through drama with jobs, with school, with my health. But I didn't give a second thought to EI2.
Until one night about 2 years later, when I was sitting in a bubble bath with my little laptop. (NOT recommended.) An IM popped up that said "hello." Since I never used IM, I was tentatively curious. After a moment or so, I realized that it was him.
He said he just wanted to tell me he was sorry, and wondered if he could "take me out for a cup of coffee."
After lots of coffee, and lots of talking, he drove me home. I said goodbye and got out of the car. I had both my feet on the street outside, but right before I was about to close the door, something made me look back, and he was leaning over the passenger seat, looking up at me. And before I could think of anything else, we were kissing.
This time, I moved in to his house. We spent Christmas together, and he told me countless times that he had been scared and selfish and unsure and that everything I suspected was untrue.
Honestly, we had an uneventful life together. I spent days sitting at his desk, looking out his window while writing on his computer. We spent nights doing everything and nothing. I felt like he was distant, I felt left out, but I said nothing, because I desperately wanted to hold on.
Again, after only a few months, I was frightened and antsy. I confronted him, and he told me he wanted space.
I told him he could have it all, and packed up my car, and went back to my (thankfully still on lease) apartment.
It was hell. Once again, I got sick, I wanted to hide from the world, and my work suffered. (Unfortunately, I had a brand new job.) Somehow, though, I came out of it slowly. I began dating again. I started to think to myself that it all happened because he was lost, confused, overwhelmed. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't even necessarily his fault. It just was.
One of the reasons I will never speak to him again as a potential mate is that I am happily married. The other is one I will never share. I can't help but think that there should be 1000 reasons in my head that I should view him as completely off-limits, but every single one of them is forgotten or forgiven or not that important.
I wish I knew why he still pops into my head when I pass a certain bar, or hear a certain song, or see a certain piece of clothing in the back of my closet. Everything about him, our relationship, and my reaction when I randomly see him from afar, defies logic. Maybe someday I will figure out the answer to some of the questions that still live in a corner of my mind, and I can evict him forever.
TO THE BOYS THAT CAME BEFORE
I'm working on a little series.
Even though I am happily married, I sometimes wonder about or think about some of the boys I dated in the past--the ones who broke my heart, the ones who had their hearts broken, the ones who were just a lot of fun, the ones who changed my life.
Of course I am going to change their names (I'm not an idiot) and instead use names of songs that might have meant something to them or something to me at the time. Hopefully these will be fun, funny, thought-provoking, and sometimes sad.
Even though I am happily married, I sometimes wonder about or think about some of the boys I dated in the past--the ones who broke my heart, the ones who had their hearts broken, the ones who were just a lot of fun, the ones who changed my life.
Of course I am going to change their names (I'm not an idiot) and instead use names of songs that might have meant something to them or something to me at the time. Hopefully these will be fun, funny, thought-provoking, and sometimes sad.
Monday, November 24, 2008
LET'S TALK ABOUT T.P.
I have not purchased toilet paper in over seven years.
Before you go thinking I am some freak of nature, let me reassure you: I still go through several rolls a week, just like any young woman. Some weeks, I go through a lot more, because I get too lazy to buy paper towels and instead, substitute toilet paper, leaving a pulpy mess of broken-down loo roll soaked with spilled smoothie on the kitchen counter. I would estimate that I use no fewer than four rolls a week.
Did you know that the cheapest, roughest, most disgusting brand of toilet paper I have ever seen or felt is $1.19 for a 4-pack?
That's at least $61.88 (plus tax!)per year, just for toilet paper. Don't get me wrong. I'm not cheap. I won't hesitate to spend $650 for a pair of shoes or $30 for a tiny piece of sashimi, but $62 a year is a lot of money for something that you flush down the toilet. You are literally flushing money right down the drain. For $62, you could buy yourself a fancy-ish dinner, a J. Crew t-shirt, a manicure and pedicure, 1/10 of a pair of Jimmy Choos, or 62 songs on iTunes.
Like I said, I'm not cheap, but I do know the difference between things that are worth my money and things that aren't.
Which brings me to my solution:
I "borrow" toilet paper from public restrooms. The recent trend of Cadillac-sized handbags helps immensely. I have borrowed toilet paper from every job I have ever had, from my university, from the tanning salon, the yoga studio, even from Whole Foods (those huge rolls are hard to get out, but they last forever!)
And see, it really is "borrowing" and not just taking. In my mind, I say "I'm borrowing this." Then later, I realize that the place I borrowed it from definitely won't want it back. So it is borrowing, I just never feel like being mean enough to return it.
I can't possibly be the only woman who does this. How else can you explain the complete absence of toilet paper in the public restroom stalls?
Before you go thinking I am some freak of nature, let me reassure you: I still go through several rolls a week, just like any young woman. Some weeks, I go through a lot more, because I get too lazy to buy paper towels and instead, substitute toilet paper, leaving a pulpy mess of broken-down loo roll soaked with spilled smoothie on the kitchen counter. I would estimate that I use no fewer than four rolls a week.
Did you know that the cheapest, roughest, most disgusting brand of toilet paper I have ever seen or felt is $1.19 for a 4-pack?
That's at least $61.88 (plus tax!)per year, just for toilet paper. Don't get me wrong. I'm not cheap. I won't hesitate to spend $650 for a pair of shoes or $30 for a tiny piece of sashimi, but $62 a year is a lot of money for something that you flush down the toilet. You are literally flushing money right down the drain. For $62, you could buy yourself a fancy-ish dinner, a J. Crew t-shirt, a manicure and pedicure, 1/10 of a pair of Jimmy Choos, or 62 songs on iTunes.
Like I said, I'm not cheap, but I do know the difference between things that are worth my money and things that aren't.
Which brings me to my solution:
I "borrow" toilet paper from public restrooms. The recent trend of Cadillac-sized handbags helps immensely. I have borrowed toilet paper from every job I have ever had, from my university, from the tanning salon, the yoga studio, even from Whole Foods (those huge rolls are hard to get out, but they last forever!)
And see, it really is "borrowing" and not just taking. In my mind, I say "I'm borrowing this." Then later, I realize that the place I borrowed it from definitely won't want it back. So it is borrowing, I just never feel like being mean enough to return it.
I can't possibly be the only woman who does this. How else can you explain the complete absence of toilet paper in the public restroom stalls?
the revival of piecesofnote
You read that correctly, friends.
Piecesofnote is back, (hopefully) for good.
I am in the process of writing something that will someday (soon?) become a novel, so I am testing out some different (read: not about my dogs or my shopping sprees) things here.
Please let me know what you think! I hope to someday see my alias on the cover of a (preferably pink) book cover, so feedback is important.
Piecesofnote is back, (hopefully) for good.
I am in the process of writing something that will someday (soon?) become a novel, so I am testing out some different (read: not about my dogs or my shopping sprees) things here.
Please let me know what you think! I hope to someday see my alias on the cover of a (preferably pink) book cover, so feedback is important.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
"somewhere only we know..."
when does loneliness hit us harder-when we are in need, or when we are surrounded by joy?
*it may seem impossible to be surrounded by joy when lonely...this is not true. i have come to the conclusion that one can find joy in many things and even within oneself...and as another aside, the "loneliness" i speak of can take place on several levels. one can be lonely for family but surrounded by friends, or lonely for a lover when surrounded by family and friends...or any combination of such.
but i digress*
i guess i really can't answer this for anyone but myself.
and i really can't form i 100% certain, 100% concrete answer.
when i feel like i need something, i.e. when i have had a shitty day, when i think there is a ghost in my apartment (no, really), when i lock myself out of the car in the pouring rain in the middle of BFE...yeah. feeling alone, and lonely, is the worst feeling in existence. such occurrences seem to just mock you..."hahaha, loser. look at you. your day/week/month/life SUCKS and to top it all off, nobody cares, you are ALL ALONE." but see, everyone feels like this sometimes. i know this. why don't the lonely people get off the pride and just...wait. i know the answer to this. i won't go there.
but.
i think it's worse to feel lonely when surrounded by joy.
i want to run, to shout, to sing, and i have nobody to share this with! nobody! i hate it! and the loneliness is not a feeling of "nobody exists" but one of "nobody exists who will care about this like i do, who will get this, who will get me."
i get this feeling at least once a (good) day.
tonight i went walking, in the rain, to buy organic raspberries for breakfast tomorrow. the music on my ipod was good, the rain was light...i got home, took a hot bath, wrapped up in a blanket and sat down to write. and i can't describe how i feel inside, but...i really do enjoy all this time to myself. i do. but sometimes i wish i could share it.
and i feel an emptiness...
but i came to some conclusions on this walk. some things i have been thinking about lately...
more wisdom from elizabeth gilbert's eat, pray, love...a friend says something to her along the lines of "he cracked your heart open so that the light could come in..." talking about a broken heart.
(side note: i find the name of gilbert's heart-breaker amusing. heh.)
hm. well. my fucking soul was blown open, and i might add that i guess it was done so all the badness could seep out at the same time the light comes in...kind of like a transfusion.
in yoga today, the teacher was saying, as usual, "your mantra is 'lock your knee.'" but since i am a veteran student i always have my own mantra. lately it has been "fatpigfatpigfatpig" but it is doing me no good, so today i tried "badness out, beauty in" and it worked much better.
i realize also that people tend to run away, give up, leave, get pissed off, or whatever, for reasons that i guess later they find out are things that, you know, other people do also. i NEVER said i was quiet. i will shout this to your face. i will throw all the bad stuff out right away so people know what is really there. then i start to let the good things show. it's just how i work. kind of like, the opposite of how most people work. it might take a year, two years, for truly good things to start peeking their heads out...but hey...what did that ketchup commercial teach us?
i'm inspired. i want to go to indonesia, and meet medicine men. i want to go back to pahoa, and hug a banyan tree again. i want to live in chicago, and i want to spend a lot of time in the mountains. i want to find, and ask, and discover, and laugh, and cry, and be constantly active, and write. i guess lately i've been so caught up in what is going on right now that i keep forgetting that it's all a way to get to these places i want to be. i just have to figure out how to enjoy this right now while i have it.
because.
that was the point all along. the plans...well, those were for after the "right now." but me, i was the one who remembered that.
but hey.
i guess now, the darkness is seeping out, and the light is pushing its way in...s-l-o-w-l-y.
as i always, always, always said:
"nothing that's worth it is ever easy."
*it may seem impossible to be surrounded by joy when lonely...this is not true. i have come to the conclusion that one can find joy in many things and even within oneself...and as another aside, the "loneliness" i speak of can take place on several levels. one can be lonely for family but surrounded by friends, or lonely for a lover when surrounded by family and friends...or any combination of such.
but i digress*
i guess i really can't answer this for anyone but myself.
and i really can't form i 100% certain, 100% concrete answer.
when i feel like i need something, i.e. when i have had a shitty day, when i think there is a ghost in my apartment (no, really), when i lock myself out of the car in the pouring rain in the middle of BFE...yeah. feeling alone, and lonely, is the worst feeling in existence. such occurrences seem to just mock you..."hahaha, loser. look at you. your day/week/month/life SUCKS and to top it all off, nobody cares, you are ALL ALONE." but see, everyone feels like this sometimes. i know this. why don't the lonely people get off the pride and just...wait. i know the answer to this. i won't go there.
but.
i think it's worse to feel lonely when surrounded by joy.
i want to run, to shout, to sing, and i have nobody to share this with! nobody! i hate it! and the loneliness is not a feeling of "nobody exists" but one of "nobody exists who will care about this like i do, who will get this, who will get me."
i get this feeling at least once a (good) day.
tonight i went walking, in the rain, to buy organic raspberries for breakfast tomorrow. the music on my ipod was good, the rain was light...i got home, took a hot bath, wrapped up in a blanket and sat down to write. and i can't describe how i feel inside, but...i really do enjoy all this time to myself. i do. but sometimes i wish i could share it.
and i feel an emptiness...
but i came to some conclusions on this walk. some things i have been thinking about lately...
more wisdom from elizabeth gilbert's eat, pray, love...a friend says something to her along the lines of "he cracked your heart open so that the light could come in..." talking about a broken heart.
(side note: i find the name of gilbert's heart-breaker amusing. heh.)
hm. well. my fucking soul was blown open, and i might add that i guess it was done so all the badness could seep out at the same time the light comes in...kind of like a transfusion.
in yoga today, the teacher was saying, as usual, "your mantra is 'lock your knee.'" but since i am a veteran student i always have my own mantra. lately it has been "fatpigfatpigfatpig" but it is doing me no good, so today i tried "badness out, beauty in" and it worked much better.
i realize also that people tend to run away, give up, leave, get pissed off, or whatever, for reasons that i guess later they find out are things that, you know, other people do also. i NEVER said i was quiet. i will shout this to your face. i will throw all the bad stuff out right away so people know what is really there. then i start to let the good things show. it's just how i work. kind of like, the opposite of how most people work. it might take a year, two years, for truly good things to start peeking their heads out...but hey...what did that ketchup commercial teach us?
i'm inspired. i want to go to indonesia, and meet medicine men. i want to go back to pahoa, and hug a banyan tree again. i want to live in chicago, and i want to spend a lot of time in the mountains. i want to find, and ask, and discover, and laugh, and cry, and be constantly active, and write. i guess lately i've been so caught up in what is going on right now that i keep forgetting that it's all a way to get to these places i want to be. i just have to figure out how to enjoy this right now while i have it.
because.
that was the point all along. the plans...well, those were for after the "right now." but me, i was the one who remembered that.
but hey.
i guess now, the darkness is seeping out, and the light is pushing its way in...s-l-o-w-l-y.
as i always, always, always said:
"nothing that's worth it is ever easy."
Saturday, March 17, 2007
this is what i mean
she's a bit off, i'd say. lately she's been staring off into space, or looking at strangers, fantasizing about them, but she doesn't want to be like that at all. she moves awkwardly on crowded dance floors but is graceful at the center of a silent room, and can't easily make eye contact right away but tends to do well with body contact. she might be in love with a character from a novel and she is convinced he exists in her life and has been ever since she first read the damn thing. she likes the feeling of starving and coming home to eat if it has been a good night. she has crazy dreams of losing earrings and uncontrollable cars. she won't buy toilet paper but she will buy too many new clothes, and too many new books. her life is like a modern day "kubla khan" but what is life for if not for dreaming and imagining? she does so many things just to be ironic and sarcastic and seeks out the one person who might just understand even a small part of that...so many people misconstrue those things...she is tired of unfulfilled dreams. the best things in her life are things that have happened by complete random human error or accident or serendipity or whatever you want to call it. she is too captivated by mirrors, by others' eyes, by movement. she is easily distracted at the wrong times. she is
Monday, March 12, 2007
can't take it
i fear
you thought
the perfect me would be
me now (not then)
but me ... now
full
of
wisdom
opinions
e n e r g y
memories philosophy thoughts words dreams
voice
and
life
but with an "off" button
you thought
the perfect me would be
me now (not then)
but me ... now
full
of
wisdom
opinions
e n e r g y
memories philosophy thoughts words dreams
voice
and
life
but with an "off" button
Sunday, March 11, 2007
an old one
on a saturday in january, she decided that she was going to jump out the window. it was only 3 stories up, but there was nothing but concrete below, and she knew how to swan dive.
she opened the window and looked down. cold wind rushed into the bedroom and made her step back. walking over to the dresser, she plucked a coin out of a jar of golden dollars. back at the window, she stuck the entire top half of her body out, stretched out her arm, and held the coin between her thumb and forefinger. she released it, hoping to see it make impact with the sidewalk. it fell in front of a white-haired man with a large nose and sloe eyes behind thick glasses. he bent over, picked it up, and examined it in a gloved hand. he began to look up, and she quickly flattened herself against the window frame, like spies do in the movies. tears welled up in her eyes as she saw the old man's sad face transform into a smile.
she stuck the top half of her body out of the window again. she looked right, then left, then down at the people walking by. people with dogs, people alone, people with children. going to work, going to the store, going home. the busy city street lulled her for a moment, and as soon as she snapped out of it, she dashed back across the room and grabbed the entire jar of golden dollars.
back at the window, she sat the jar on the floor and picked out a coin. after a quick look down, she stuck her hand out and dropped it. "that," she thought, "is for my overbearing asshole of a boss." she picked out another one, put her hand out the window, and dropped it without looking. "that is for the stupid guy who cheated on me with not one but three other women." another coin. "that is for the headache i get every single day." she took a step back and launched a coin as if it were a tiny frisbee. it made a ping sound as it hit a streetlight. she giggled. "for the medical bills i am still paying off, even though the doctors did nothing for me." she flicked one out between her thumb and ring finger, the way kids flick pennies. it hit the wheel of a passing car. "for people who make rude comments under the guise of 'helping'."
she kept tossing and flinging golden dollars out the window until the jar had only one coin left. she replaced the jar on the dresser and went to bed, about fifty dollars poorer, but fifty burdens lighter.
she opened the window and looked down. cold wind rushed into the bedroom and made her step back. walking over to the dresser, she plucked a coin out of a jar of golden dollars. back at the window, she stuck the entire top half of her body out, stretched out her arm, and held the coin between her thumb and forefinger. she released it, hoping to see it make impact with the sidewalk. it fell in front of a white-haired man with a large nose and sloe eyes behind thick glasses. he bent over, picked it up, and examined it in a gloved hand. he began to look up, and she quickly flattened herself against the window frame, like spies do in the movies. tears welled up in her eyes as she saw the old man's sad face transform into a smile.
she stuck the top half of her body out of the window again. she looked right, then left, then down at the people walking by. people with dogs, people alone, people with children. going to work, going to the store, going home. the busy city street lulled her for a moment, and as soon as she snapped out of it, she dashed back across the room and grabbed the entire jar of golden dollars.
back at the window, she sat the jar on the floor and picked out a coin. after a quick look down, she stuck her hand out and dropped it. "that," she thought, "is for my overbearing asshole of a boss." she picked out another one, put her hand out the window, and dropped it without looking. "that is for the stupid guy who cheated on me with not one but three other women." another coin. "that is for the headache i get every single day." she took a step back and launched a coin as if it were a tiny frisbee. it made a ping sound as it hit a streetlight. she giggled. "for the medical bills i am still paying off, even though the doctors did nothing for me." she flicked one out between her thumb and ring finger, the way kids flick pennies. it hit the wheel of a passing car. "for people who make rude comments under the guise of 'helping'."
she kept tossing and flinging golden dollars out the window until the jar had only one coin left. she replaced the jar on the dresser and went to bed, about fifty dollars poorer, but fifty burdens lighter.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
i'm bringing...old apartment back?
i want to move back to my old apartment.
i moved here for a lot of wrong reasons, and a very few right ones. a few more good things have made themselves known since i moved in, but this place still does not feel like home. a lot of things have changed since i moved in, and i still miss my old home. i feel like i became "me" in my old place, and i am sorely tempted to call my old landlord and ask if there is a vacancy in my old building.
i miss the multiple windows, the hardwood floors, the archways, and the fact that nobody cared when i sang "you and i both" at the top of my lungs at 6am on saturday mornings while doing dishes. i miss the never-ending hot water, the pink bathroom, carondelet park, the window above my kitchen sink, and so many memories.
i remember the break-in, and telling the police that i was leaving: "i'm gonna be late for yoga." they were stunned.
i remember listening to the streets, and being asked if it was "gangsta rap."
i remember "watching" wicker park.
i remember coming home and screaming into a towel.
i actually do remember cutting that memory foam thing.
i remember stumbling home and singing gavin degraw into my freezer full of lean cuisines.
i remember the summer of fifty first dates.
i remember that no wallet fiasco.
i remember marley.
i remember coming home from hawaii, feeling defeated, to find so many surprises.
i remember coming back to that apartment to mend a broken heart, to find a mess, and building it all back up again, and making it home again.
i remember so many other things.
i remember moving out, trying not to cry, and crying, and thinking, "this is just not the last time i will see this place, i know it."
now. living where i live now has advantages. the big one is this: i am ONE MILE AWAY from my yoga studio, and a short distance from forest park, whole foods, and a lot of other things i do or enjoy. ONE MILE FROM YOGA. that saves time, gas, stress, and energy.
but i have...carpet. ugh. and neighbors that cook nasty-ass-smelling chitlins. the rent is almost twice as high. it is smaller, and the floor squeaks.
and it doesn't feel like home.
i originally moved here thinking i would only stay until this may. i had a plan. but everything has changed now.
i lived in that old apartment for three years. i miss it. i miss it a LOT.
one phone call is all i would need to make to find out if i could move back in may.
what should i do, readers?
honestly? it's the yoga studio that's doing it for me. i can walk there now.
i'm afraid to move back because i don't want to be a 15 minute drive from my yoga studio.
crap.
give me a comment. help me out. what should i do?
stay here? try to go back? find a new home?
i moved here for a lot of wrong reasons, and a very few right ones. a few more good things have made themselves known since i moved in, but this place still does not feel like home. a lot of things have changed since i moved in, and i still miss my old home. i feel like i became "me" in my old place, and i am sorely tempted to call my old landlord and ask if there is a vacancy in my old building.
i miss the multiple windows, the hardwood floors, the archways, and the fact that nobody cared when i sang "you and i both" at the top of my lungs at 6am on saturday mornings while doing dishes. i miss the never-ending hot water, the pink bathroom, carondelet park, the window above my kitchen sink, and so many memories.
i remember the break-in, and telling the police that i was leaving: "i'm gonna be late for yoga." they were stunned.
i remember listening to the streets, and being asked if it was "gangsta rap."
i remember "watching" wicker park.
i remember coming home and screaming into a towel.
i actually do remember cutting that memory foam thing.
i remember stumbling home and singing gavin degraw into my freezer full of lean cuisines.
i remember the summer of fifty first dates.
i remember that no wallet fiasco.
i remember marley.
i remember coming home from hawaii, feeling defeated, to find so many surprises.
i remember coming back to that apartment to mend a broken heart, to find a mess, and building it all back up again, and making it home again.
i remember so many other things.
i remember moving out, trying not to cry, and crying, and thinking, "this is just not the last time i will see this place, i know it."
now. living where i live now has advantages. the big one is this: i am ONE MILE AWAY from my yoga studio, and a short distance from forest park, whole foods, and a lot of other things i do or enjoy. ONE MILE FROM YOGA. that saves time, gas, stress, and energy.
but i have...carpet. ugh. and neighbors that cook nasty-ass-smelling chitlins. the rent is almost twice as high. it is smaller, and the floor squeaks.
and it doesn't feel like home.
i originally moved here thinking i would only stay until this may. i had a plan. but everything has changed now.
i lived in that old apartment for three years. i miss it. i miss it a LOT.
one phone call is all i would need to make to find out if i could move back in may.
what should i do, readers?
honestly? it's the yoga studio that's doing it for me. i can walk there now.
i'm afraid to move back because i don't want to be a 15 minute drive from my yoga studio.
crap.
give me a comment. help me out. what should i do?
stay here? try to go back? find a new home?
invisible
I turn the key in your door and open it as the sunlight illuminates particles of dust in the air. Papers, shoes, discarded clothing, yogurt containers, magazines, and water bottles: the detritus of a life litter the floor. I step in, close the door, and make my way around the studio apartment, methodically turning on every light. I get to the corner where the bed once was. Now, there is only a clean rectangle of carpet, untouched since the day you moved in.
I remember that day, you smiling down at me from the balcony as you hoisted a huge crate up with ropes. It was the hottest day in August, and it had rained that morning. I stood beneath you on the ground, sweating from the effort of attaching the ropes to the crate.
“What the hell is in that crate?” I laughed.
“Shoes,” you yelled down.
“All that work for shoes!”
“I like shoes. They last forever. My feet have stopped growing. If you take care of shoes, they last a lifetime,” you replied.
I am glad the bed has been removed. Your father told me they found you on the bed, fully dressed, wearing makeup, holding a plush turtle and a CD compilation. There was an empty wine bottle on the night stand, next to an empty generic sleeping pill bottle. The words,“unlovable. misunderstood. invisible.” were written in blue ink on your left arm, on the pale skin above your wrist. There was no letter.
Your family asked me to come take anything I wanted, anything I would like to have to remember our life together. I sit down among a pile of your clothing, your favorite pink coat sighing dejectedly under my weight. I feel like a fraud. They have no idea that five days ago, I told you that I could not handle your sadness any more, and that I was exiting your life forever. They have no idea that you gave me back a huge box of things that remind me of our life together. They have no idea that every single thing in this apartment reminds me of our life together, and that the secret will tear at me for an eternity.
I feel a sudden rage at all these things that you thought would make you happy. So many things, scattered across the floor. I stand and start kicking at things: clothes, makeup, books, shoes, jewelry, until I am one with all the stuff, one of the things that just could not make your sadness go away. I scream and scream until my throat hurts and finally I lay down, sobbing, on your pink, vintage sofa-patterned coat, and inhale your scent. I wanted to try harder. I still want to try harder, and I hate it that now I can’t. Across the room, I see the plants that you loved so much, still alive and reaching for the sun, and I think that is ridiculously unfair.
In the past few days, people would see me, and ask how I was. “It’s not your fault,” they would all say. Any response I could have possibly had was lost in the canyon of despair inside me. I opened my mouth but my vocal cords would freeze, and a few perfunctory words would force themselves out like concrete bricks crashing to the floor.
I want to tell you these things; that it’s you that I need to help ease this pain, but it’s too late to say anything that I need to say. I begin to pick up the pieces of a life and put them together, hoping it will somehow start to make sense.
I remember that day, you smiling down at me from the balcony as you hoisted a huge crate up with ropes. It was the hottest day in August, and it had rained that morning. I stood beneath you on the ground, sweating from the effort of attaching the ropes to the crate.
“What the hell is in that crate?” I laughed.
“Shoes,” you yelled down.
“All that work for shoes!”
“I like shoes. They last forever. My feet have stopped growing. If you take care of shoes, they last a lifetime,” you replied.
I am glad the bed has been removed. Your father told me they found you on the bed, fully dressed, wearing makeup, holding a plush turtle and a CD compilation. There was an empty wine bottle on the night stand, next to an empty generic sleeping pill bottle. The words,“unlovable. misunderstood. invisible.” were written in blue ink on your left arm, on the pale skin above your wrist. There was no letter.
Your family asked me to come take anything I wanted, anything I would like to have to remember our life together. I sit down among a pile of your clothing, your favorite pink coat sighing dejectedly under my weight. I feel like a fraud. They have no idea that five days ago, I told you that I could not handle your sadness any more, and that I was exiting your life forever. They have no idea that you gave me back a huge box of things that remind me of our life together. They have no idea that every single thing in this apartment reminds me of our life together, and that the secret will tear at me for an eternity.
I feel a sudden rage at all these things that you thought would make you happy. So many things, scattered across the floor. I stand and start kicking at things: clothes, makeup, books, shoes, jewelry, until I am one with all the stuff, one of the things that just could not make your sadness go away. I scream and scream until my throat hurts and finally I lay down, sobbing, on your pink, vintage sofa-patterned coat, and inhale your scent. I wanted to try harder. I still want to try harder, and I hate it that now I can’t. Across the room, I see the plants that you loved so much, still alive and reaching for the sun, and I think that is ridiculously unfair.
In the past few days, people would see me, and ask how I was. “It’s not your fault,” they would all say. Any response I could have possibly had was lost in the canyon of despair inside me. I opened my mouth but my vocal cords would freeze, and a few perfunctory words would force themselves out like concrete bricks crashing to the floor.
I want to tell you these things; that it’s you that I need to help ease this pain, but it’s too late to say anything that I need to say. I begin to pick up the pieces of a life and put them together, hoping it will somehow start to make sense.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
invisible: a saga
i drive to the store in my messy old car, not caring that the trash in the passenger side is spilling over into the driver's side. it won't matter anymore, after tonight. nothing will matter anymore, after tonight.
the flourescent lights make the blue veins in my hands look even more prominent as they clutch the black handle on the cart. i wheel it slowly through the produce aisle like any normal shopper would, picking things up and putting them back down. baby carrots...i don't need baby carrots. little fruit cups...i fight back tears as i place the stupid thing back on the shelf. i pick up my pace as i make my way towards the other end of the store.
i take an inordinate amount of time in the wine aisle. red? white? pink? pink wine? really? what does pink wine even taste like? pink wine seems appropriate. how much does it cost? does that even really matter, right now? one of the employees walks by at a snail's pace and gives me the eye, as if it is odd for a well-dressed young woman with bloodshot eyes and an empty cart to be buying wine on a friday night. screw off, asshole, i think. you know nothing, and you can just keep on walking. i put the bottle of pink wine in the cart and make my way to the cashier.
"wine matches your coat," she says as i show her my ID. i try to smile but the tears fight it away. i'm sure she thinks i'm a well-dressed alcoholic who has fallen off the wagon, but again, i don't care, and she doesn't know my story, and she's just another face in another place. she has her own story, and i'm sure that in another world, i would love to hear it. but right now, i only have one goal, and the first step to that is getting out of here with this pink bottle and getting back home. i swipe my visa and walk out, $30 poorer and one bottle of wine richer. i don't even like wine. i hope i'll be able to finish it.
i make my other stop and head home. home. what a sad word for this place, i think. i remember what i recently thought of as "home." somewhere i will never, ever be again. a place i will miss sorely for eternity. a safe place that isn't even really a "place." for now, though, i struggle to unlock my door, and let myself in my apartment, and welcome myself to the only home i have.
i take off my pink vintage-sofa patterned coat and lay it on the floor. i sit on my bed with my wine and other things and look into my closet. the trunk full of shoes spills over on to the floor and mingles with some shirts that i don't have the energy to hang up. the floor is littered with papers and yogurt containers. my phone is somewhere in there, the battery long dead. my computer is on, the e-mail program up. i am tempted to give it one last look, but it will only confirm what i don't want to know.
i realize that i look pretty rough and get up and head to the bathroom. my hair is a mess. i pick up the scissors and go to work, making my bangs short. i always wanted short bangs. soon, the sink is full of hair and my face is framed with fringe. i look like a baby doll. i put on some make-up. i find a new t-shirt in the drawer, one i was supposed to wear on a trip, that never fit before. i guess losing my appetite had some advantages. i look in the mirror. sadly, i finally think i look good. i sit on the bed again.
i open the bottle of wine and take an experimental sip. gross. i knew it would be gross. i have to drink it, though. i guess that's what i get for choosing a wine based on my favorite color.
there are so many things i want to say, but i fear that i have said them all already, and they are met with resistant ears. i tried so hard. i am not what you think. tomorrow...i think. i can say it all tomorrow.
note to readers: this is the "other half" of a story i wrote and am trying to get published in the literary journal at my school. unfortunately, i can't publish that actual story here, because posting it online counts as "publishing" it, and then it wouldn't be eligible for publishing in the literary journal. i'll keep everyone posted on whether or not the thing makes it in. the original was much better, in my opinion. shorter, and more emotional, and just...better. more revealing, more to the point.
the flourescent lights make the blue veins in my hands look even more prominent as they clutch the black handle on the cart. i wheel it slowly through the produce aisle like any normal shopper would, picking things up and putting them back down. baby carrots...i don't need baby carrots. little fruit cups...i fight back tears as i place the stupid thing back on the shelf. i pick up my pace as i make my way towards the other end of the store.
i take an inordinate amount of time in the wine aisle. red? white? pink? pink wine? really? what does pink wine even taste like? pink wine seems appropriate. how much does it cost? does that even really matter, right now? one of the employees walks by at a snail's pace and gives me the eye, as if it is odd for a well-dressed young woman with bloodshot eyes and an empty cart to be buying wine on a friday night. screw off, asshole, i think. you know nothing, and you can just keep on walking. i put the bottle of pink wine in the cart and make my way to the cashier.
"wine matches your coat," she says as i show her my ID. i try to smile but the tears fight it away. i'm sure she thinks i'm a well-dressed alcoholic who has fallen off the wagon, but again, i don't care, and she doesn't know my story, and she's just another face in another place. she has her own story, and i'm sure that in another world, i would love to hear it. but right now, i only have one goal, and the first step to that is getting out of here with this pink bottle and getting back home. i swipe my visa and walk out, $30 poorer and one bottle of wine richer. i don't even like wine. i hope i'll be able to finish it.
i make my other stop and head home. home. what a sad word for this place, i think. i remember what i recently thought of as "home." somewhere i will never, ever be again. a place i will miss sorely for eternity. a safe place that isn't even really a "place." for now, though, i struggle to unlock my door, and let myself in my apartment, and welcome myself to the only home i have.
i take off my pink vintage-sofa patterned coat and lay it on the floor. i sit on my bed with my wine and other things and look into my closet. the trunk full of shoes spills over on to the floor and mingles with some shirts that i don't have the energy to hang up. the floor is littered with papers and yogurt containers. my phone is somewhere in there, the battery long dead. my computer is on, the e-mail program up. i am tempted to give it one last look, but it will only confirm what i don't want to know.
i realize that i look pretty rough and get up and head to the bathroom. my hair is a mess. i pick up the scissors and go to work, making my bangs short. i always wanted short bangs. soon, the sink is full of hair and my face is framed with fringe. i look like a baby doll. i put on some make-up. i find a new t-shirt in the drawer, one i was supposed to wear on a trip, that never fit before. i guess losing my appetite had some advantages. i look in the mirror. sadly, i finally think i look good. i sit on the bed again.
i open the bottle of wine and take an experimental sip. gross. i knew it would be gross. i have to drink it, though. i guess that's what i get for choosing a wine based on my favorite color.
there are so many things i want to say, but i fear that i have said them all already, and they are met with resistant ears. i tried so hard. i am not what you think. tomorrow...i think. i can say it all tomorrow.
note to readers: this is the "other half" of a story i wrote and am trying to get published in the literary journal at my school. unfortunately, i can't publish that actual story here, because posting it online counts as "publishing" it, and then it wouldn't be eligible for publishing in the literary journal. i'll keep everyone posted on whether or not the thing makes it in. the original was much better, in my opinion. shorter, and more emotional, and just...better. more revealing, more to the point.
Monday, February 19, 2007
questions
how many times is that weird guy going to walk past my table?
why can't i concentrate on my paper?
how many times am i going to re-read that e-mail?
why don't i want to go to class?
why do people have to tell me things 434,433,672,732,773,786,894,144,993,999 times before i believe them?
why is my mother being mean to me? why is she nice to me when i am sad, and mean to me when i am happy?
can i please have one week off school?
if i had a time machine, would i use it?
why can i not be more organized?
why am i so impatient?
am i as big an idiot as i think i am?
can i please smack the staring eejit that is gaping at me right now?
if i skip class, will i fail?
if you are reading this, why?
why can't i concentrate on my paper?
how many times am i going to re-read that e-mail?
why don't i want to go to class?
why do people have to tell me things 434,433,672,732,773,786,894,144,993,999 times before i believe them?
why is my mother being mean to me? why is she nice to me when i am sad, and mean to me when i am happy?
can i please have one week off school?
if i had a time machine, would i use it?
why can i not be more organized?
why am i so impatient?
am i as big an idiot as i think i am?
can i please smack the staring eejit that is gaping at me right now?
if i skip class, will i fail?
if you are reading this, why?
Friday, February 16, 2007
jellyfish
last december, my old boyfriend and i went to chicago to see better than ezra at the house of blues. it was a good time, even though on the way there, i started to get sick as hell, and it only got worse. we stayed at a beautiful bed and breakfast in wicker park, and fell in love with the city.
we planned to leave sunday night, and our last stop sunday was the famous shedd aquarium. it was beautiful, but one single thing stuck in my mind.
the jellyfish.
they were in a tank on the end, and they were the most beautiful things i had ever seen. their transparency; the way they moved; the way they were colorful, yet colorless; the strange and eerie shape of their bodies suspended in water; their different sizes, some huge, some no larger than the head of a pin...i was transfixed, literally frozen, and i had to be pulled away to other people could finally enjoy the jellyfish.
i walked away amazed, and said, "you know, they are only so beautiful in that water. they are in their element. if you walked on the beach and saw a jellyfish on the sand, you'd gag. it would be one of the ugliest things you ever saw."
i tried and tried to get him to understand exactly how important this was, what exactly it meant, but in the medication and sickness brain fog, i was weak and tired, and figured i could just wait and explain it later.
later never really came.
last night, i couldn't sleep because of those jellyfish. they haunted me.
last night, i was a jellyfish. maybe i have changed a little, but lauren snapped a photo of me, and i was so surprised that i didn't look anything like i thought i would.
last november, there was an entire night's worth of photos taken of me that can only be described as "jellyfish on the beach."
this is starting to sound superficial, and that isn't the point. i need to wrap it up.
i wish more than anything that i could have felt so happy before. i really do. i don't know why i didn't, or what was different, or why i wasn't "in my element," or why i felt like that jellyfish on the beach. i just did. it still upsets me, and it will for a long time. and i'm sorry.
we planned to leave sunday night, and our last stop sunday was the famous shedd aquarium. it was beautiful, but one single thing stuck in my mind.
the jellyfish.
they were in a tank on the end, and they were the most beautiful things i had ever seen. their transparency; the way they moved; the way they were colorful, yet colorless; the strange and eerie shape of their bodies suspended in water; their different sizes, some huge, some no larger than the head of a pin...i was transfixed, literally frozen, and i had to be pulled away to other people could finally enjoy the jellyfish.
i walked away amazed, and said, "you know, they are only so beautiful in that water. they are in their element. if you walked on the beach and saw a jellyfish on the sand, you'd gag. it would be one of the ugliest things you ever saw."
i tried and tried to get him to understand exactly how important this was, what exactly it meant, but in the medication and sickness brain fog, i was weak and tired, and figured i could just wait and explain it later.
later never really came.
last night, i couldn't sleep because of those jellyfish. they haunted me.
last night, i was a jellyfish. maybe i have changed a little, but lauren snapped a photo of me, and i was so surprised that i didn't look anything like i thought i would.
last november, there was an entire night's worth of photos taken of me that can only be described as "jellyfish on the beach."
this is starting to sound superficial, and that isn't the point. i need to wrap it up.
i wish more than anything that i could have felt so happy before. i really do. i don't know why i didn't, or what was different, or why i wasn't "in my element," or why i felt like that jellyfish on the beach. i just did. it still upsets me, and it will for a long time. and i'm sorry.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
last year, today
on this day last year, i had a job that i hated.
on my way there, my camry died.
it died for good.
i had to clean out the trunk, and as a testament to how often i clean out my car, there were layers of the past three years of my life, waiting to be rediscovered.
on top, the natasha bedingfield cd that i listened to on repeat. one song, "unwritten," over and over. i'm always the girl that gets stuck on a song until everyone around me gets sick of it.
then, a paper tiara from new years 2006, that jerry from the crowne plaza swiped for me off a guest table in the ballroom, because i absolutely had to have one. that night, when i showed back up at 4 a.m., tom the night auditor gave me the key to the honeymoon suite, and i still think he did it on purpose. how embarrassing that was. that paper tiara is still in a box, which i sincerely hope is still being taken care of. i'm always the girl who wants to stay out all night on new year's eve.
under that, a bag of clothes and dishes from the day i left joey's house and moved back in to the apartment on wilmington. cesare was living there at the time, and we watched dvd's and ate cold stone creamery and basked in our misery. i slept on my bathroom floor for days. i was always the girl who was pretty bad at dealing with heartache.
another layer: wild oats polo shirt, wrinkled and balled up. a job i loved and hated at the same time. as i walked out on my last day, i felt a weight lift off my shoulders at the same time that i started to cry. i was always the girl who was bad at saying goodbye.
an old sticky, dirty pink yoga mat. when i started paying for yearly membership at the studio, they started supplying a mat each day. i no longer needed to use an icky sticky mat. i rolled up the mat that had taken me through my first year of classes and abandoned it in the trunk. i was always the girl who remembered where she came from.
at the bottom, a pair of angel wings from a halloween costume. in october 2003 (when the car was fairly new and clean) i left a party, and since i couldn't drive while wearing wings, i put them in the trunk and made my way home, to my old apartment on wilmington, to sing gavin degraw songs and 3am and sit at my old wooden leaf table by my french doors. i was always the girl who was upset that she only got to be an angel for one day.
at the bottom, in with the spare tire: an old quarter, likely from the previous owner.
i still have it.
i'm still the girl who holds on to things.
on my way there, my camry died.
it died for good.
i had to clean out the trunk, and as a testament to how often i clean out my car, there were layers of the past three years of my life, waiting to be rediscovered.
on top, the natasha bedingfield cd that i listened to on repeat. one song, "unwritten," over and over. i'm always the girl that gets stuck on a song until everyone around me gets sick of it.
then, a paper tiara from new years 2006, that jerry from the crowne plaza swiped for me off a guest table in the ballroom, because i absolutely had to have one. that night, when i showed back up at 4 a.m., tom the night auditor gave me the key to the honeymoon suite, and i still think he did it on purpose. how embarrassing that was. that paper tiara is still in a box, which i sincerely hope is still being taken care of. i'm always the girl who wants to stay out all night on new year's eve.
under that, a bag of clothes and dishes from the day i left joey's house and moved back in to the apartment on wilmington. cesare was living there at the time, and we watched dvd's and ate cold stone creamery and basked in our misery. i slept on my bathroom floor for days. i was always the girl who was pretty bad at dealing with heartache.
another layer: wild oats polo shirt, wrinkled and balled up. a job i loved and hated at the same time. as i walked out on my last day, i felt a weight lift off my shoulders at the same time that i started to cry. i was always the girl who was bad at saying goodbye.
an old sticky, dirty pink yoga mat. when i started paying for yearly membership at the studio, they started supplying a mat each day. i no longer needed to use an icky sticky mat. i rolled up the mat that had taken me through my first year of classes and abandoned it in the trunk. i was always the girl who remembered where she came from.
at the bottom, a pair of angel wings from a halloween costume. in october 2003 (when the car was fairly new and clean) i left a party, and since i couldn't drive while wearing wings, i put them in the trunk and made my way home, to my old apartment on wilmington, to sing gavin degraw songs and 3am and sit at my old wooden leaf table by my french doors. i was always the girl who was upset that she only got to be an angel for one day.
at the bottom, in with the spare tire: an old quarter, likely from the previous owner.
i still have it.
i'm still the girl who holds on to things.
anonymous
the busy airport felt strangely like home; the noise displaced the silence n her head. she clutched her suitcase in one hand and a small mobile telephone in the other, wanting a distraction but unsure who to call. all of her lifelines were hundreds of miles away, and they may as well have been light years away.
people of varied expressions and styles of dress passed her by in every direction. everyone was in a hurry, even those in tropical vacation attire. she meandered along, staring out the long windows at the gigantic jets, turning her gaze ever now and then towards the tourists and business travelers to her left. she didn't pay attention to the constant jostle of hurried traffic passing her or the sea of voices surrounding her auditory space. the phone in her hand rang and vibrated, and she started as if from a trance. she glanced at the display, hit "ignore," and picked up her pace.
the bank of blue screens sat up ahead. she walked towards them with a new purpose. it only took her a moment to find that flight number 923 was still departing on schedule. another glance at the phone still gripped in her palm confirmed that she still had a ridiculous four hours to full before she could even begin to board her flight. time to buy some novels, drink a lot of coffee, forget the reason she was even here.
walking slowly once again, she noticed that there were more people moving along alone than in groups. that comforted her for a moment, then disgusted her. why should i take comfort that anyone else is alone? she pulled a small mp3 player from her purse and and finally let go of the phone, tossing it in the pocket where her headphones had been. after choosing a song, she entered the bookstore, offering a half smile to the cashier.
she blissfully passed half an hour browsing the shelves, losing herself in other people's words. when she had almost forgotten where she was, she felt her phone vibrating in her purse. again, she ignored it, but it brought her back to the present. after purchasing a few novels and magazines, she wheeled her suitcase out of the store and down the corridor to the restroom.
the fluorescent lights and cheap mirrors did her no favors. she sat her suitcase in the corner and stepped close to the mirror, examining her eyes. i look old. i'm 23. how appropriate. i feel old. i shouldn't be doing this. she looked down and washed her hands, thinking about how that didn't matter, that "should," because she just wasn't sure she was even happy anymore. she dashed out of the restroom before the mirror could capture her again.
a small, low-lit coffee shop sat up on the left. she parked on a small overstuffed chair and opened a thick novel, enjoying the anonymity offered by the airport. thousands of people rushing past, carrying their life stories in bags and briefcases, wearing outfits and expressions that only told pieces of their novels. people-watching proved more interesting than the book, and the remaining hours faded quickly.
inhaling, she reached for her purse and suitcase. it was time to go. a panic seized her as she realized that something was very wrong. where the hell is my suitcase? it's gone. she jumped up off the chair, grabbed her purse, and ran for the restroom. i left it in the restroom. shit.
i'm not going to panic, i'm not going to cry. she ran into the restroom, shoved past the line of women, ignoring the startled protests and rude cries. the suitcase wasn't there. of course it wasn't there.
she ran to the customer service desk for her airline. somebody must have turned it in. dumb luck was on her side; there wasn't a long line.
the customer service agent looked up at the harried young woman.
"i need you to help me. i've lost my suitcase." she pulled her driver's license out of her purse, along with her boarding pass.
"i'm sure someone has turned it in. what is your name, ma'am? can you describe your bag for me? what was in it?"
"i'm...emily...harris." she said it haltingly, as if it were an alias. "it's...my suitcase. you know. clothes and...things?" she handed the teenage customer service agent her ID and boarding pass. "i'm on flight 923 to..."
"it's okay, i have your information right here. i'll be right back."
she walked over to the bank of uncomfortable chairs and sat down. there really wasn't anything else she could do now. the flight was boarding, and her suitcase was lost. if someone had stolen it, then she would have to change her entire plan. maybe that was the entire point. then again...
"miss...mrs. harris?"
shit. so much for anonymous. thanks for reminding me.
the customer service agent walked toward her, the suitcase in tow.
it's here. the suitcase is here.
"someone turned your bag in about an hour ago. unfortunately, any unattended bags are subject to search, so..."
"it's all right," she interrupted him. "thank you."
"your flight is still boarding. you can make it."
"thank you. actually...can you tell me where to find the nearest rental car desk?"
the boy gave her a strange look along with the directions.
she stopped along the way to open her suitcase and mail the letter to the address she recognized as home .
i'm going to mail this letter, and then rent a car. i'm going to drive back, and stop if i feel the need to stop. i'm going to play a game with fate here, and whichever makes it back first-me, or the letter-that's what's going to decide what happens. whatever happens, i'm not getting on that plane.
she dropped the letter in the mailbox, reached into her purse, and turned the phone off. she had a long drive ahead of her, and she had a feeling that she wasn't going to want to stop.
a side note to readers:
i write a lot in class, when i am supposed to be paying attention. i don't go back and edit, so forgive any weirdness or incompleteness. this isn't meant to be "fit to publish." this is what goes through my head when i'm less than amused by what's in front of me.
people of varied expressions and styles of dress passed her by in every direction. everyone was in a hurry, even those in tropical vacation attire. she meandered along, staring out the long windows at the gigantic jets, turning her gaze ever now and then towards the tourists and business travelers to her left. she didn't pay attention to the constant jostle of hurried traffic passing her or the sea of voices surrounding her auditory space. the phone in her hand rang and vibrated, and she started as if from a trance. she glanced at the display, hit "ignore," and picked up her pace.
the bank of blue screens sat up ahead. she walked towards them with a new purpose. it only took her a moment to find that flight number 923 was still departing on schedule. another glance at the phone still gripped in her palm confirmed that she still had a ridiculous four hours to full before she could even begin to board her flight. time to buy some novels, drink a lot of coffee, forget the reason she was even here.
walking slowly once again, she noticed that there were more people moving along alone than in groups. that comforted her for a moment, then disgusted her. why should i take comfort that anyone else is alone? she pulled a small mp3 player from her purse and and finally let go of the phone, tossing it in the pocket where her headphones had been. after choosing a song, she entered the bookstore, offering a half smile to the cashier.
she blissfully passed half an hour browsing the shelves, losing herself in other people's words. when she had almost forgotten where she was, she felt her phone vibrating in her purse. again, she ignored it, but it brought her back to the present. after purchasing a few novels and magazines, she wheeled her suitcase out of the store and down the corridor to the restroom.
the fluorescent lights and cheap mirrors did her no favors. she sat her suitcase in the corner and stepped close to the mirror, examining her eyes. i look old. i'm 23. how appropriate. i feel old. i shouldn't be doing this. she looked down and washed her hands, thinking about how that didn't matter, that "should," because she just wasn't sure she was even happy anymore. she dashed out of the restroom before the mirror could capture her again.
a small, low-lit coffee shop sat up on the left. she parked on a small overstuffed chair and opened a thick novel, enjoying the anonymity offered by the airport. thousands of people rushing past, carrying their life stories in bags and briefcases, wearing outfits and expressions that only told pieces of their novels. people-watching proved more interesting than the book, and the remaining hours faded quickly.
inhaling, she reached for her purse and suitcase. it was time to go. a panic seized her as she realized that something was very wrong. where the hell is my suitcase? it's gone. she jumped up off the chair, grabbed her purse, and ran for the restroom. i left it in the restroom. shit.
i'm not going to panic, i'm not going to cry. she ran into the restroom, shoved past the line of women, ignoring the startled protests and rude cries. the suitcase wasn't there. of course it wasn't there.
she ran to the customer service desk for her airline. somebody must have turned it in. dumb luck was on her side; there wasn't a long line.
the customer service agent looked up at the harried young woman.
"i need you to help me. i've lost my suitcase." she pulled her driver's license out of her purse, along with her boarding pass.
"i'm sure someone has turned it in. what is your name, ma'am? can you describe your bag for me? what was in it?"
"i'm...emily...harris." she said it haltingly, as if it were an alias. "it's...my suitcase. you know. clothes and...things?" she handed the teenage customer service agent her ID and boarding pass. "i'm on flight 923 to..."
"it's okay, i have your information right here. i'll be right back."
she walked over to the bank of uncomfortable chairs and sat down. there really wasn't anything else she could do now. the flight was boarding, and her suitcase was lost. if someone had stolen it, then she would have to change her entire plan. maybe that was the entire point. then again...
"miss...mrs. harris?"
shit. so much for anonymous. thanks for reminding me.
the customer service agent walked toward her, the suitcase in tow.
it's here. the suitcase is here.
"someone turned your bag in about an hour ago. unfortunately, any unattended bags are subject to search, so..."
"it's all right," she interrupted him. "thank you."
"your flight is still boarding. you can make it."
"thank you. actually...can you tell me where to find the nearest rental car desk?"
the boy gave her a strange look along with the directions.
she stopped along the way to open her suitcase and mail the letter to the address she recognized as home .
i'm going to mail this letter, and then rent a car. i'm going to drive back, and stop if i feel the need to stop. i'm going to play a game with fate here, and whichever makes it back first-me, or the letter-that's what's going to decide what happens. whatever happens, i'm not getting on that plane.
she dropped the letter in the mailbox, reached into her purse, and turned the phone off. she had a long drive ahead of her, and she had a feeling that she wasn't going to want to stop.
a side note to readers:
i write a lot in class, when i am supposed to be paying attention. i don't go back and edit, so forgive any weirdness or incompleteness. this isn't meant to be "fit to publish." this is what goes through my head when i'm less than amused by what's in front of me.
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