La Vida Buena Está Aquí

I had previously thought that I'd try to blog about my days in Mexico at the end of everyday in Mexico. So much for promises to myself that I never intended to keep.

I find that even though I left three and a half days ago that I'm still having a hard time crystallizing my thoughts about my experience there. I love it in Mexico; it is forever a part of me now and I know that I will go back. Maybe more than the country is the experience. Our group had shirts that read, "Solamenete una vida que se vive para otros es una vida que vale la pena." Only a life lived for others is a life worth living.

I didn't agree with that statement upon first glance, but upon further introspection, I just didn't understand it. I didn't know what it could be like to worry and work for others. To not worry about how I would get my food, but how another family would get theirs became my focal point. To not worry about my toys or my sidewalks or my playtime or my enjoyment, but somebody else's... I never lived that 24 hours a day. I want it back.

Christmas is a little less magical for me right now. I'm a little more observant, pensive, and grateful. And at the same time, I worry about how much money was spent on me when such money could be spent on the people and orphans in Mexico. Every dollar to me is ten pesos that could have gone to them.

There are so many things in my heart that I cannot write, and should not because they've become sacred. But I will share this.

On our last day in Mexico, we went to the market and the beach. I was bitching from the beginning of the day. There were still things to be done and kits to be handed out. I hated the market. I hated buying things for myself and my family, and I hated the souvenirs. I left as soon as I'd dropped sixty bucks. A friend and I wandered the streets for the remaining two hours, trying to desperately capture the last minutes we had in this different culture.

When we went to the beach later that day, I thought about the day before, when we'd gone shopping for a lady that lived in a 10 by 8 foot shack with walls of cardboard and tin and a leaky tin roof. All of her possessions had been stolen and she and her husband and 4 children lived in this "home." The only food they had were about 8 oranges. Everyone in our van donated at least 20 dollars and we spent almost 200 at the store buying food, blankets, diapers, clothes, and cots, because they'd been sleeping on box springs. Shopping that day was just.... better.

As I stood in the surf and watched the sun go down, I knew that I had been so annoyed earlier at the market because I was buying things for people who didn't really need them. I spent money on myself, instead of those who truly needed it.

When I related this experience to my dad, I cried - a lot. I didn't cry at all in Guaymas, but coming home reminded me of what I missed there. He told me about a time when he was in San Carlos, a town not far from Guaymas. He met an old fisherman and my dad asked if he'd ever dreampt about going to the U.S. for something more. The old man smiled and shook his head. He said that he'd been here, and he'd met our people. And then he said, "La vida buena está aquí." The good life is here.

I was blessed in Mexico with a glimpse - a glimpse at what life should really be like. I don't know how I'll go back to everything in Cedar that awaits me. I don't want to.

I found a new fulfillment in Mexico. I may have even found God again in Mexico. Mexico is the best Christmas present I've ever been given, and I hope that I change because of it.

Hasta Nunca: Mexico Part Dos

So, second post for the day. Although I had to finish up work this morning and was unable to follow the schedule everyone else was on, today was a great day. Definitely better than yesterday – but not in a bad way. During the daytime, we “work” for eight hours in various places. We can choose from a soup kitchen called Chewy’s, an orphanage, an elementary school, or water collection for scientific testing (which really means we go to areas outside of Guaymas and check water for bacteria and Ecoli). Since I didn’t go anywhere this morning, my choice was made for me in the afternoon – the orphanage.

The orphanage is just outside the city limits of Guaymas near a harbor, but it’s not the picturesque beach in Mexico – it smells real bad. The orphanage is run by Catholic nuns and actually is quite quaint. The kids have a nice little courtyard and a playground, and everything is really really clean considering their surroundings.

We do different things there. Breaking into little groups, I headed for the playground. Today’s project was digging a better hole for the new trampoline we were going to assemble. The hole needed to be quite large and they didn’t have wheelbarrows, so we had to shovel dirt into ten gallon buckets and haul it to the edge of the playground, bucket by bucket. The children were so willing to help. They shoveled dirt and generally kept us entertained. There was definite excitement in the air as the other groups finished and came to watch us put together the trampoline. We had to keep grabbing kids off of the frame because they were trying to get on before we were done. If any of you have put together a trampoline before, you know it’s tough business. Lots of pulling and stretching.

The tension finally reached the ultimate threshold as the last spring was connected and the kids cheered and scrambled on. I have never seen kids that happy before. They laughed and bounced and it was just so wonderful.

I’d like to think I’m making a difference by being here. Maybe I’m not to them. They probably won’t even remember me. But they are making a difference to me and I’ll always remember them.

The good thing about a group our size, about 50, is that there was basically one kid to every American. Mine is name Aleah. She’s seis and so full of life. She was hanging onto someone else while I was digging, but as I clambered out of the hole in my pink hiking skirt, she had her hands stretched out for me. She held onto my neck and nuzzled me. It was really hard to hold her when she was trying to escape to the unfinished trampoline, but as soon as we had it in the ground, she was on it. She kept coming back to me, wanting me to bounce with her. I don’t think the leaders really wanted us on the trampoline with the kids, but we’ve established that I don’t really have an affinity for listening to them. Three of us big kids got on with the ninos and had a blast. Aleah’s laugh was intoxicating. I don’t know the last time I’ve had that much fun. Playing with the kids, shoveling the dirt, avoiding the frogs – none of it felt like work. Everything we do is for someone else. I’ve never lived my life like that. A life like that is just….better.

We bounced for a good half hour before we had to leave. We said hasta luego y adios y hasta manana. We will really be back tomorrow, but it kind of felt like a lie because we won’t be able to come back in a few days. Even one of the girls retorted Hasta Nunca! And I know that she meant it.

While we’re here, I’m going to make the most of it though.

We went to the beach after the orphanage, which was great, but I’d have rather been at the orphanage. I can’t wait to go back tomorrow and see the kids again. They are such wonderful little people and even though they’re orphans, I really think they’re some of the happiest kids I’ve ever met.

This will keep me safe from the hot, Mexican sun.

Okay. Today isn't necessarily my first day in Mexico, but it's the day I'm writing about my first day here. Yesterday was amazing, but definitely not what I expected. I know that I came down here to do service, but I think I was too busy this semester to process what coming here would exactly entail. Oh. And would just like to mention/gloat that I'm sitting in the shade because sitting directly in the sun is a little too warm.

To start off the day, we went to church. I will avoid venting about how the leaders only knew where an L.D.S. church was or that even though I thousands of miles away from Utah, that it was still somewhat of a social obligation to attend church. I am glad, however, that I went. I do love going to church - anywhere - but here, it is much different. There were only about fifteen members and the Bishop was the only person on the stand. When our entire group walked in, we quadrupled the size of the congregation. What was the most neat part of sacrament, aside from obviously being in Spanish, is that these people have a completely different kind of testimony than what I usually see and hear. They are humble and they sacrifice greatly to be members. Everyone works here, and to attend church, these people probably miss out on money for their living, but they come anyway. Their love for the gospel is so simple, but so strong and real. The Spirit is able to transcend language barriers and testify of their love, the love of God, and the abundance of truth. I will take church in Mexico any day. (The only "weird" part about church is when two completely separate groups of students from SUU came to church - apparently they're here job-shadowing in the medical fields. We were all quite surprised to see each other.)

I checked out of church after sacrament because I actually have to work while I'm here (not something I like to do even when I'm in the U.S.). So I headed back and was promptly asked to help the leaders. Another member of the group and I wen to "Ley" - the Mexican, more crowded and disorganized version of a ghetto Wal-Mart - to buy milk, ice, and cream cheese. This was quite the experience. Ley is located in a mall-type situation. People are absolutely everywhere. Everyone here is always waiting. (I'll take pictures to prove this, but I left my cord at home.) Around the actual store are all these little vendors selling food and clothes. I will pause this narrative to say that I had the most amazing carne asada tacos for 17 pesos (roughly $1.70) at the store. I love Mexican food -REAL Mexican food.

Anyhoo, Ley was so lively. There were Flamenco dancers right outside the store and people were yelling in to microphones about pollo, carne, jamon, frioles, y marisocles, but other than that, it was another Wal-Mart. When we finally checked out, a boy about seven bagged our groceries. The other group member and I asked the check out lady and she said that he doesn't actually get paid - he only gets tips from people as he bags their groceries. My heart broke a little. This little boy should have been out playing soccer with his friends, but he was bagging groceries, working, like he'll be working for the rest of his life.

Lunch. Lunch was lame. I did not come to Mexico to eat Doritos, snack-packs, and chicken salad sandwiches. I'm going to a vendor for lunch today.

The highlight of the day was when brought hygiene kits to an impoverished neighborhood in Inpendencia. Most of the houses were made from scrap wood, cardboard, and one was even made from the bottoms and tops of barrels. The kits had blankets, food, soap, towels, toothbrushes, and the like in them. One of the families we brought it to was being raised by an 11 girl. She had a 7 year-old brother, a 3 year-old sister, and another infant sister. We couldn't really figure out if there actually was a mother present or just working, but the little girl raises this family. Another family was comprised of two 15 year-old parents and a 3 month old baby. 

As we were taking the kits around, families, mostly kids were flocking to us because we were handing out necessities and some toys. The problem is that we only had a limited supply of things, and we'd promised goods to families already. Leaving the kids behind who weren't quick enough to get a toy was heart-breaking. I started taking food out of our treat bags and handing that out. I was told not to by a leader because "that was all we had for the trip home." Really? That's all we have for the trip home? Good thing I brought my debit card. I started steathily handing out treats at a faster rate after that.

The best part about this highlight was when we played soccer with the neighborhood kids for an hour or so. These kids are amazing, probably because it's all they do all day, but they kicked our trash! It was the Americans versus the Mexican ninos and it was so much fun! Playing games with them better than handing out food. It was much more memorable.

What little Spanish I do know is very handy. I find that I know more than I thought I did and that communicating with the people is wonderful. I thought they would be sad - missing out on iPods, clean food, clean streets, and the like, but they are so happy and so patient with me and my crappy Spanish. Especially the kids. When we were playing soccer, Luis, a little boy I snuck some ChexMix to, handed me a tiny package of candy. He told me it was for me for being there. I don't think I'm going to eat the candy. When it came time to leave, they asked if we were going to come back as we were leaving yesterday. I don't think that any of us had the heart to tell them no.

We had to leave shortly before dark. That's what the Police Officers told us. They were with our group for our protection, but I never really felt unsafe. That is until we heard two gunshots from the street last night. I do love Mexico though!

We did lots more yesterday, but I don't want to keep writing and missing out on experiences. Hasta luego!

Finalmente!

I'm done. I done? I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I am done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done! I'm done!I'm done! I AM DONE.

I am the official holder of a Bachelor of Arts degree in English. I have worked for four and a half years. I turned in my last undergrad paper today (on why Wonder Woman should NOT be a feminist icon) and I am done. Graduated. Finished. Accomplished. Done.

I even bought myself a graduation ice cream cone from Grandee's - double scoop.

I'm done. Now I'm going to Mexico for eight days. I'll be sure to chronicle my adventures.

I'm done.

Free Advice*

I've always found choosing concert-going items a tricky business. Should I take my purse? No. I don't want to hold it whilst jostling about in the pit. Perhaps I should cart along some chapstick? Yes, yes. I must. Don't want to get chappy, unkissable, dry lips. Should I take my camera? Maybe. But, only if the shirt I'm wearing can support and conceal that much extra weight in my bra.

I usually settle on the bare minimum when going to a concert. In my pocket, I've generally got a chapstick, anywhere from 20 to 60 bucks (depending I how many t-shirts or waters I will purchase), and a single key for my car in case I lose my entire ring of keys. I don't even take a cell phone for fear of losing it or having it crushed by the mass amounts of bodies in the pit.

When I ventured out in 20 degree weather without a jacket on Saturday night to see Anberlin, Mae, and Motion City Soundtrack, I had four items in my right-cheek pocket: one tube of chapstick, three 20 dollar bills, one car key, and one ticket. When my brother (we were there because I was taking him to his first moshing type concert for his birthday), his friend, and I arrived winded and freezing after three and a half blocks of brisk walking at In the Venue, the only items I had in my right-cheek pocket were as follows: one tube of chapstick, three 20 dollar bills, one car key, and pocket lint. There was no concert ticket to be found - anywhere.

Somewhere in the three and a half blocks to the venue, either I'd lost the ticket or it had been stolen from me. We basically ran back to the car, but found no ticket. All my fastidious planning was for naught because I wasn't able to see one of my top three favorite bands.

Although I had money, the concert was sold out. I dropped my brother and his friend off, gave Jimmy the money I hadn't lost, and told them to call me when the concert was over so that I could come get them.

*This is where the free advice comes in. Will Call. Always Will Call your tickets people - ALWAYS! Your tickets will be waiting for you when you get there. Then you won't have to spend two and a half hours at the stupid Gateway mall (okay, it's not that stupid, I'm just real bitter) walking in (or out really) an outdoor mall, freezing. You won't be by yourself not looking cute because you got ready to go to a concert, not to go to the mall, and you won't get sneered at by high and mighty Forever 21 employees because, let's face it, you look like crap. You won't spend time by yourself cursing the Gods that you've become the type of person that buys a book in Barnes & Noble and then immediately reads it while still in Barnes & Noble. You won't be by yourself because your friends that live in Salt Lake would probably be home and would be able to entertain, console, and/or feed you. You won't be stuck not going to a movie because they all started at the wrong times or because you don't want to see another holiday family film, like The Santa Clause 37: Rudolph's Bastard Brother, Gary the Green Nosed Reindeer.

You also won't have to hear about how your litte brother went crowd surfing for the first time or about how you weren't there to see it, or how you didn't even get to boost him up.

You also won't have a sweatshirt from a concert that you didn't actually go to.

Will Call people. It's the only way to go. Take this advice. Love it. Cherish it. And for all that is holy in music's sake, don't lose your freaking ticket on the way to the venue.

Hurt

Auden had always considered herself a good friend, the kind of friend that could listen and process, and be trusted. That’s why she sat and looked at him patiently, waiting while he searched for words.

Darnell’s picture of himself resembled a puzzle, the kind of puzzle that had fall colored trees and endless blue sky. Putting together that kind of puzzle takes patience and a keen eye. People don’t generally have time to put Darnell together. That’s why he fidgeted and looked away as her green eyes patiently waited.

“Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

The chair he was sitting on made him look like a child. The arms came up past his chest and the head of the chair was at least two inches above Darnell’s head.

As he began, his eyes were locked onto the stain on the edge of the arm of the chair. “My dad left me a letter before he left for good. I found it before my mom did, that’s probably why I still have it. I keep it in a box with dirt samples. I thought it would be one of the last places my mom would ever find it. I don’t really remember him. I don’t have any pictures. It’s like he’s dead, like she killed him when she burned the pictures. I only have the letter. ”

The couch creaked as Auden adjusted. She had the distinct feeling that he was telling her something he had never told anyone. She had thought it was strange that he began referring to her as his best friend shortly after they met, but now it occurred to her that no one had ever listened to him before.

“I’ve read that letter down almost past repair – the ink is so faded. I know what it says though. It says I should find someone I can call my sweetheart. It’s funny he’d say that. I think he hated my mom.” He looked up suddenly and met her gaze for the first time that night. “I’ve never told anyone about that letter before.”

***

The music was loud - the kind of loud that went into Auden’s head and pushed out any other thought so that the music became the only thing that was real. Her keen eyes kept jerking back to the entrance of the bar, searching for Darnell. He’d been gone for a week. She hadn’t gone that long without seeing him since they met. She liked knowing that she had a best friend that cared about her they way Darnell did.

She didn’t know if he’d find her in the crowd; she didn't feel safe standing there without him. Ten minutes after the set started, she felt a familiar hand on her back. Darnell was the only one she let touch her back that way. She turned and saw his beaming face. She made the mistake of believing his smile was for her, because he'd missed her.

They listened to a few songs. Swaying to and singing the lyrics they barely knew, Auden realized that having Darnell around was like being home. A few beers made Darnell realized that few people saw him like Auden did – maybe no one else could see him like Auden did.

“Auden. Auden!” He was used to stating things matter of factly, but he had to yell to be heard. His face kept bashing into the braid running around her head as he shouted into her ear.
She looked away from the band and smiled at his face.

“I’m gonna marry her!” His smile grew. Auden’s grin didn’t disappear right away, but as her eyes swelled wider, there was less room on her face for a smile.

“Bella! I’m going to marry Bella!”

“I know who you’re talking about!” Her voice was rarely so flat. Darnell forgot that Auden’s flat voice meant she was trying not to cry, that a flat voice meant her heart was falling down.

“I decided while we were gone to her family’s house!” Darnell saw her face flash in the lights from stage. “Wait! You like her, right?!”

“Yes! I do!”

“You’re my best friend Auden! Will you help me pick out the ring?!” He yelled this in her ear and as he got closer to her head, a bobby-pin stuck out from her head and scratched his face. Darnell barely noticed.

She pulled back from him and paused. She knew she had already lost her most trusted friend.

Her voice remained flat and she pushed his hand away from her arm. “If that’s want you want I’ll go! But you should know, you can have it all! Is she the one that’s going to help you do that?! You’re my sweetest friend….just….” Her voice faltered as the music grew louder. It was probably better that way

“God, why did you have to tell me here?! My thoughts are too broken here!” Auden had been looking elsewhere for help, the crowd, the walls, the bottle of beer in her hand. She hadn’t seen his face lose all expression. She hadn’t seen him put down a five and pick up his coat. Darnell had made the mistake of thinking she would tell him what he wanted to hear.

She grabbed his arm and the words came out before she could stop them. “Is she your sweetheart?! Can you call her that?!”

Her voice regained emotion as she yelled after him. “Wait! Wait! Let me start again!”

***

Bella sat on the tie-rug on the hardwood floor in the living room. She pulled documents out of a box. She rearranged things and filed them in a large cabinet they kept in the corner of the room. Sometimes she filed things by dates, then she’d take everything out when she found a new box and file them using another system. She liked to start again. The process gave her purpose, so boxes were piled around her and cabinet drawers were flung open.

Darnell walked in the front door. He wasn’t surprised to see the state of the living room. As he pulled off his boots, he said “I hurt myself today.”

She looked up in alarm. “Why would you do something like that?!” She tended to end questions with too much emphasis. Darnell felt intruded upon and guilty when she asked questions, even when she was only asking him to pass the salt.

“God. No. I didn’t do it on purpose, Bella. I was giving a shot to a cow and the needle got away from me. It tore a hole through my jeans and went into my leg.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yeah. I guess it mostly stung. I usually pay more attention than that.”

Darnell sat down in the only chair that was available. “We should get rid of this thing. It’s got stains and no one fits in it right.” He spoke absentmindedly and fingered the ring on his left hand. His eyes perused the boxes on the ground.

“Where the hell did you find that box?!” By the time Bella looked up, Darnell was already moving to a box labeled “Private: Dirt Samples.”

“I guess you couldn’t read the part that said ‘Private!’” Darnell picked up the box as he spoke and treated it gently, as though the box contained sacred artifacts.

The whole episode looked odd to Bella. At first, she didn’t say anything as she continued to sit on the floor. While Darnell walked back to the chair with the box, she said, “I found a note in there. It looks like time has made the words disappear.”

A flash of anger began to race through Darnell, but he decided to calm himself instead of rage at her. It wasn’t her fault he’d chosen the ground beneath their bed for a hiding nook.

“Who wrote that note? It looks well read.”

“My dad.”

“What does it say? I couldn’t make out some of the words.”

“He gave me advice on life. Mostly about the woman I’d marry. He wanted me to find my sweetheart. I found it right after he left”

She had this way of looking at him that made him feel like he was looking at a puppy that was waiting for praise from it’s master. “Oh,” she said dreamily, “Oh. I see.”

“Yeah. My mom didn’t even know about it.”

She looked up again, intrigued by the revelation. “You mean, I’m the first person you’ve told about it?”

Can Childrens Really Learn?

To add a second blog to the day.



Why didn't I have this when I ranted about Al freaking Gore?

Paralyzed

Fall - to descend freely by the force of gravity; to leave an erect position suddenly and involuntarily ; to drop down wounded or dead; to enter as if unawares. Synonyms include stumble, stray, devolve, or break down.

For all the dreaded defining, falling has an interesting element involved. There can either be a surreal feeling of weightlessness that comes before the impact, this moment that can be sublimely euphoric or a moment that can paralyze one in fear. Falling onto fluffy pillows is much nicer than falling on asphalt, or falling and finding nothing to stop the fall.

I experienced the kind of fall that causes paralysis. Many things contributed to my catatonic state, but it started with falling in love - the kind of falling that causes euphoria. When the euphoria ran out, I felt like I'd lost some of the surest footing I'd ever been on. I traded concrete for mist.

I don't think I've ever regained that footing. I think for the past year, I've been paralyzed.

A euphoric state has been known to cause one to look past vulnerability and search for trust - to trade reason for comfort, and independence for companionship. I traded those things, but perhaps it wasn't the right situation for me to do so. We weren't committed to the same things in a relationship. We both ended up getting hurt and I ended up feeling used instead of loved.

Being paralyzed has caused me to feel loneliness to almost to the breaking point, but no more. I'm tired of this. It's done. I'm okay with saying that I need things, even though saying that makes me more vulnerable. I do need to feel loved and appreciated and wanted. I'm finished being angry and displacing that anger on people who and institutions that don't deserve it. I'm done being cynical, judgmental, and scared.

Love should have made me feel differently than this. I shouldn't have had to learn these things from in the aftermath, from the hard way. My resolution is that these things had to be learned somehow.

I'm ready to feel again, even if that means getting hurt another time, because I'll be feeling. I'm ready to be optimistic about what my future has in store for me, instead of worrying about what other people's futures have in store for me.

Also, I'm changing the name of my blog. It's time.

Comparatively Speaking

So. I have this little problem where I compare myself to other people....a lot of the time. I concern myself with such thoughts as, "Am I as good of writer as he is?....well, why am I not then?" or "Am I prettier or uglier than her?" and, "Am I better girlfriend than she was?" Seriously speaking, five to ten of these thoughts run through my head on a daily basis. This, in actuality, could be better or worse than what I think, but I honestly don't care to know right now.

I think that this system/code has also existed within me - I'm pretty competitive. I've always been a bit concerned with being just a little better - the better teacher, the more trusted, funnier friend, the better speaker, the more well-liked, better-in-general person.

This thought process gets me nowhere.....fast.

What this thought process is actually doing to me as a person is making me digress in my quest to become a more balanced individual. In effect, worrying about being the "better person" is not making me a better person. It's making me more cynical, more degrading of others, more judgemental. This drive, this need to be better is causing me more pain than it is bringing me confidence.

People can't be set up in a Structuralist manner. The worth of a person's soul, life, and abilities cannot be summed up in two columns for binary scrutiny. The worth of a soul is embedded much deeper than these theories allow for - the route to humanity lies in a person's own standing.

I had a dear friend point out to me that I'll never write like Sharon Olds writes. I will never sing like Etta James sang. I'll never lead a life like Gandhi lead a life. I'll write like Sarah La Rue writes, and I'll sing like her too. I cannot find the worth of myself in other people: I must find it within myself because no one is going to live a life like I'm going to live a life.

The Top 5 of Why I Now Love "High Fidelity"

1. Jack Black sings "Let's Get It On."
2. The entire film is about music.
3. The phrase "ass-muncher" is used.
4. Joan Cusack.
5. A person struggling in a relationship decides to make it work and give up the never-to-be-fulfilled-in-a-million-years-unrealistic-fantasy - and it's still a happy ending!

A Mild Disappointment

I auditioned for the Vagina Monologues last night. I wanted the part of "My Angry Vagina." That monologue is the one I identified with the most because I love the resolution near the end.

I did not get that part. But, I think it's important to be involved in something bigger than yourself, because really, no part is insignificant when representing women.

This is a little idealistic, but I love the monologues. Everyone should see the show, with or sans vagina.

She or He?

I don't know what it is lately, but I find myself looking at the structure of the romantic languages and finding that they are completely set up for a patriarchy. This is not what annoys me though because I've always sub-consciously been aware of this fact. What annoys me is that I try to explain my frustrations to other people, women included, and they look at me like I'm unbearably dim-witted. I think what actually hurts my feelings more than these people thinking I'm an idiot is that they really, genuinely don't give a rat's ass.

It annoys me when my mom and I go to the cinema and the high school boy taking tickets says, "Hey guys. How are you tonight?" Okay, he's being polite - but we are NOT guys, we are girls, women, ladies, etc. I'm not saying that I corrected the kid, although my mom did, I'm saying that if I were the one taking tickets and I had said, "Oh haaaaay ladies!" to him and his buddies, there would have been irritated looks cast in my general direction.

I brought this up at work, not to make a point but because someone coincidentally asked me. I was talking to five other males and they thought I was crazy. Their responses varied between, "Well, 'guys' is just a way to say people, " and, "Well, if you're going to be irritated about being 'guys' you'd have to be irritated about being called a 'woman' or 'human' because it has 'man' in it." Suffice it to say, I either did not articulate myself clearly enough or my concerns fell on deaf ears, but my point was not internalized -at all.

The paramount annoyance occurred today in my Educational Block when a guy who looks like he should be in "Deliverance," not education, got upset because he was reading an article about the effects of personality disorders in the classroom. The subject of the article who was supposed to represent all students was continually referred to as "he." The male in my class actually asked, "Hey. Is there some gender discrimination going on here?" - EXACTLY! I can't remember the last time I heard anyone stop and pose this question when the subject representing all is a "he" and there are positive attributes applied to that "he." Singular pronouns are now "he or she" for a reason - to start being more equal in language, and not just when one gender is being misrepresented.

I would love to say that men just don't understand. But that's completely false. I know plenty of men who would agree with me, not because they're feminists, but because they understand how linguistics structures are created and often, the male is privileged in speech and writing. I just wish there were more of those men here so that when I speak up, I'm not labeled as some crazy, misguided feminist.

I'm not saying I'm going to change an entire linguistic system, or correct someone, male or female, when they call my mom and me "guys," but I'm just asking that people realize what they are saying and why they are saying it. I'm a girl, not a guy dammit.

Somewhere Inbetween, Everything is A-OK

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

-Aldous Huxley

Good music feels like home to me.

I've been thinking lately how attached I am to music. Even when I'm the most lonely, I can put on familiar songs and be taken to a different place. Music is often my solace, my place to vent rage, a familiar face instead of a bleak and colorless expanse.

I find it interesting how I attribute songs to people and times in my life. I can be miles away from those people and times in my mind, but as soon as "Smile" comes on random play, I think of R, and how she anchored me, showed me how to hope again, and how she taught me to say "Fuck it" to all the rest. "The Future Freaks Me Out" reminds me of Pittsburgh and how I miss that city and how I regret not spending more time with the people I should have been spending it with. Yo Yo Ma reminds me of bathtime. Songs that I refuse to listen to anymore because my heart can't even take listening to the introductory notes take me to places that need to stay in the past.

I feel like songs become mine and they take on meaning for my life. I've decided not to do my Student Teaching or get my Level II License next semester, which is a big step for me as I rarely diverge from the "responsible/laid out" path. It's not that I'm giving up, it's that I've decided that not every inch of my life has to have a plan and that I'm not bound to decisions I made five years ago. I'm instead going to apply to grad school because more education is what I want more than anything. I want the experience of being out of my element and being challenged more than I have ever been. I'm ready to go someplace where religion doesn't matter as much as it does here - where faith is a choice instead of a social pressure. I don't know if any of this makes sense, but it somehow makes sense in my head as I listen to Buster.

The following lyrics reflect not what I feel to be love, but to be life. The words don't make me sad; maybe the combination of the music changes how the words sound, but this song makes me feel more at home than few other places lately.


Well, you're just across the street
Looks a mile to my feet
I want to go to you
Funny how I'm nervous still
I've always been the easy kill
I guess I always will

Could it be that everything goes 'round by chance?
Or only one way that it was always meant to be
You kill me, you always know the perfect thing to say
I know what I should do, but I just can't walk away

I can picture your face well
From the bar in my hotel
I wish I'd go to you
I pick up put down the phone
Like your favorite Heatmeiser song goes
It's just like being alone

Oh God, please don't tell me this has been in vain
I need answers for what all the waiting I've done means
You kill me, you've got some nerve, but can't face your mistakes
I know what I should do, but I just can't turn away

So go on love
Leave while there's still hope for escape
Got to take what you can these days
There's so much ahead
So much regret
I know what you want to say
I know it but can't help feeling differently
I loved you, and I should have said it
But tell me just what has it ever meant

I can't help it baby, this is who I am
Sorry, but I can't just go turn off how I feel
You kill me, you build me up, but just to watch me break
I know what I should do, but I just can't walk away

A Bi-Polar Day

Today has been a weird day. A bi-polar day if you will.

And to start off today, I must start off with last night. A good friend delievered a healthy baby last night and I was able to meet this incredible person. She's exquisite, tiny, and beautiful and as I held her, a magnificent peace came to me. I watched her with her mother and father and sister and the quite in the room made a surreal memory that is imprinted forever. I want my own little people someday - not today - but someday. Seeing a brand new person and smelling that baby smell made me appreciate life much deeper than I have recently as I soaked in the bath last night - reading, reflecting, and listening to Buster (the Prodigal iPod returned last night!).

This bliss was ephemeral, as bliss often, not always, but often is. As I'm embarking into the wonderful world of student teaching next semester, I was hoping, and let's be honest, praying, that I would be assigned to a teacher that would be a catalyst for the proverbial spark. Today I learned that next semester will be a rigorous course in what not to do - I was disappointed by this knowledge and after I vented my frustrations in present and participle tenses of a certain four letter word, I felt mildly better.

Then I watched "Motherboy XXX." This episode of Arrested Development can be found in Season 2, on Disk 3. A highly recommended activity - after all, medical research supports laughing.

Then I got a retainer to complete my braces. And no, I don't like it when people call me "Brace Face," "Metal Mouth," or "Train Tracks." It wasn't funny in middle school when I had braces and just because I'm older doesn't make it funny now.

Then I went to Advanced Theory where we talked about feminism and Beloved - and yes, I am geeky enought to consider this an upswing in my day.

Then I went to work, where life wasn't so bad, but it is my nightly custom to expect that no one will drop by or disturb me after I return home from said employment. Not the case tonight. There were no less than three sets of visitors this evening - a statistical anamoly to be sure. One of the visits promted me to write the poem below.

Then I decided I knew what would utilmately make me feel better. But alas, there is no money for a coke slurpee right now, the usual kick to my endorphins. I located the following on youtube.com. I hope that it makes you feel better if you're having a bad day. And if you're having a good day, enjoy the bliss, for sometimes it truly is ephemeral.

This is Halloween

I knew that you’d be here tonight.
There is no rhyme or reason to knowing this -
I just knew.
Knew that there would be a
Knock Knock.
You’d come sit casually on the couch.
Both of us would ignore the weight of the past.

Funny how I knew we’d talk about Halloween.
About costumes
About frivolous details
About caramel apples and cheap movies
I knew you’d still want to wear the same costume as last year.

Note To Self:
I have to remember to tell you there shouldn’t be repeat costumes.

I knew that after you left
I’d wonder if you still think of us.
I still do,
even though I don’t want to.
I knew I wouldn’t want to think
about last year and the unconvincing costumes we wore,
the caramel from the apples that wet stale around Thanksgiving,
the day the costumes finally wore out at Christmas.

I knew that I wouldn’t want any of it,
none of the memories,
none of us.
None of the details or the holidays or the costumes.

Knock Knock.
It's almost Halloween.

Brace Face

One time I turned 22. Four days later I got braces.


I am one spectacle adjustment and "Ha-yuck" away from utter nerd-dom.

A Click on the Notch in Time

I turned 22 this weekend. It's such a weird number to me - 22. There are no bells or whistles that can be attached to this number in my mind - but then, after one turns 21 there doesn't seem to be any exciting age coming up for about, oh, the next 19 years. But I digress; the real reason behind the post is to highlight the events of my birthday - a colorful vacation from a recently pale existence.

This birthday was the first one that I've never been home for - a sad fact in the timeline of my story. We celebrated my blessed day of arrival a week earlier, which, much to my chagrin, left me no opportunity to actually unwrap a present on my day this year. That's okay though - my mom told me on Saturday that she got me a Barnes & Noble Membership, so really, it's the gift that keeps on giving. Also, I received "Pink," my favorite perfume, Season 2 of Arrested Development, a wicked-sweet color illustrated edition of Animal Farm, and a new book signed by the author - plus some dinero care of my Papa, which is always a good choice in my opinion.

Insert "adventuretime" now. On Saturday, my real birthday, some friends and I headed to Vegas, not to see strippers, gamble, club, drink, or any of the like, but to play at an Aquarium and on top of the Stratosphere. We crammed into Cammi the Camry and after Brian Regan was done, we were there man! Just so you know, In & Out was real good. We then, after some geographical dilemma-time, we were off to Shark Reef to play with the fishes - or just watch them. There were many good times to be had at the Reef. Although the entrance fee is somewhat cost-prohibitive, I would highly recommend Shark Reef. The Jellyfish were my favorite sight and I enjoyed touching the Stingrays - where only "One-Touch" touching was allowed (NO TOUCHING! would have been better) - but my absolute favorite was when we were in the area where the fish could swim over and one could see their undersides. A small boy, perhaps five or six, blatantly and ever so adeptly pointed out that he did, in fact, see a "girl" shark. There were also many good times to be had in the Shark Reef Gift Shop as well...maybe too many good times. Others would have to be the judge of that, but here is the proof of the aforementioned good times.

Then we were off to the Bellagio to watch the Fountains and because a member of the group wanted to go to Tiffany's. I must pause at this juncture and be forced to digress - I agree with Chelsea Lane. I never want anything from Tiffany's - and this is why. A.) I felt out of place. No matter how hard I fight it, I will always be a country girl at my roots. B.) It's ostentatious. C.) As we were waiting for said member to get done shopping, I over heard a conversation that went like this - "Oh, that one's nice." Insert nicely dressed - with obvious implications to money - woman. "Yeah, and it's only 19." Insert nicely dressed with - obvious short leash - man. 19. That's 19 thousand dollars. That's my graduate school sitting on her dainty hand. I cannot support an organization that would allow such obscenities to be commonplace (and no, I don't need a listing of organizations that I do support - I'm making a point here). D.) It's ostentatious. E.) There are too many security guards for anyone - even St. Paul - to feel comfortable. Point taken? Mmmm-k. Digression will cease now!

We saw and did many things fun and exciting things at the Bellagio too. There were the gardens, the chocolate fountain, and the water fountain, where ironically enough we watched a show to "Singin' in the Rain" which is the musical that we saw on my 19th birthday. Ooo, Ooo! I also forgot to say that I valeted my car for the first time in my life. And although the car did not come back within the acceptable five minute wait period, I would recommend valeting one's car on his or her birthday - it's just neat. I also gambled for the first time in my life. I put in a dollar, lost once, then won, and cashed out at $1.50. I am now on a 100% winning streak - I never have to gamble again.

Now, this is the part of the evening that I'd been waiting for. I've always wanted to go on the rides at the Stratosphere and we were going! Although ominous clouds brewed the entire night, my friends and I went on every single ride available, took embarrassing pictures, and basically laughed until we almost peed and/or vomited. I would also recommend this to anyone! - the riding not the peeing and/or vomiting.

Although there were sporadic eye-brow raising events, I will now insert the pictures and conclusions can be drawn and the chips can fall, or be cast, where they may.









The night ended at the Cheesecake Factory. It was good. We were tired and we went home.

When I got home, my roommates had thrown me a surprise party because one of them could not go with us. It was great! It's the first surprise party I've ever really been surprised about. Oh, and on a sidenote - if you ever take someone away for a surprise party, make sure she is wearing a bra; it's much less awkward for everyone involved.

Now that this has taken me entirely too long, caused me to skip class, and is entirely different than what I normally blog about, I'm going to work. Peace out yo!

Al got a Nobel...Really?

As I was searching msn.com today for the latest in "Undressed!", my eyes almost exited my cranium at an impressive rate of speed as I saw today's headlines. Was it Britney's most recent fashion/child/life faux pas that caught my deserving attention? Or perhaps J.Lo's booty finally broke the camel's back in pant apparel? Did Paris once again flash her cooter to the teaming paparazzi? I answer resolutely - Nay!

Not even the wonderful and joyous world of celebrity blunders could cause me to nearly asphyxiate on my Halloween sucker - "Al Gore receives Nobel Peace Prize for his work in global warming." I could scarcely believe what I saw or bring myself to click the link - but alas, I'm curious by nature. My eyes furiously and surreptitiously read line after line. The article "carefully" outlined the former Vice-President's work and efforts in the names of all things greenhouse, global, and environmental. (This is the part where I state that I vehemently agree that precautions need to be taken to ensure the safety and well-being of the environment and that I agree that people, myself included, are not doing our part to protect the Earth.) But does Al really get a Nobel Peace Prize? Really? The man made a f***ing movie - and not even a good one at that. I believe that at the halfway mark of the film I was in the midst of pinching my eyelids with my thumb and fore-finger to see how many times I could snap said eyelid back onto my eyeball. In utterance of The Bluth Family, "Come on!"

I cringe at the fact that for all time Albert Gore will have the title of Oscar Winning placed in front of his name, but to have Nobel laureate as well? To know that his name will be placed among names as Elie Wiesel, Nelson Mandela, and Doctor's Without Borders makes me cringe all the more. Now, do I realize that the group sponsoring Al Gore also received the prize? Yes. But will they get the press and receive just recognition? No. What about the producers of "An Inconvenient Truth"? What about the director? What about the scientists and experts that Al got the information from in the first place?

I'm sorry - actually, no I'm not - but I find this concept as laughable as I would if President Bush was to receive the prize for his efforts to exponentially further knowledge and awareness of how to correctly pronounce words in the English language, or if Bill Clinton received the prize for his work on a book called "Fidelity 101: Reasons to Not Cheat on Your Wife and Why Marriage is Sacred."

I know that I seem like I'm on a high-horse here - it's the plight of an English Major - but I find the fact that Al Gore lives in a 10,000 square foot mansion, which had to be built of wood and has to be somehow powered, and has a posse of vehicles, which are certainly not environment-friendly, suspect. I'm pausing to search for the right words here - oh yes, here they are - Al and Tipper (do parents think before they name?) were found to have power bills in excess of $1,200 a month - a month! Despite the fact that this amount is more than I make in a month, I believe my power bill was $38 this month and there are three somewhat moderate to moderate maintenance women living in my house - Come on!!!

I don't know why this irritates me so, but it does. Al Gore - Nobel Prize Winner. Bravo Norway.

A Death in the Family

"Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness." - Maya Angelou

Buster died this morning.

Buster is my iPod. My 80 Gig iPod that only had 4 Gigs left.

Perhaps it is because I anthropomorphize so many things in my life, but I feel like I've lost a friend. No, I don't have strange and salacious feelings for inanimate objects; I just think I'm lonely in general and not having Buster to keep me company on my walks to class or to listen to in the car reminds me that I am, in fact, lonely and alone.

This semester hasn't been anti-climactic or anything. There was nothing climactic about about returning to Cedar, about taking more undergraduate classes, about feeling like I'm stuck. People that I love have moved away and are doing different things - and I'm here. "X" moved. "Y" left. Our Dear Girl is off having adventures. My family isn't here. The few that are left I rarely get to see, or we go through the motions of a facade, for the sake of a pretense of a relationship.

I'm disappointed about so many things too. I had a crappy weekend preceded by a frustrating and sleepless week. I'm disappointed that I haven't connected with another person, or even God, in a long time. I'm disappointed in myself that I can't find balance and that for all my ranting about not needing a man that I still very much want one - and I'm disappointed that opportunity let me down too. I feel like I'm drowning in my classes. Every time I walk into the English building, no less than two people immediately ask me for something or where something is.

If I said that I was mourning for Buster, I'd be lying - Buster is the simulacrum of my loneliness and at the same time, a shield from it.

I'm tired. I want a good cry, but I'm blogging at work and they already think I'm weird. I want someone to crawl in bed with me and hug me til I fall asleep, because sometimes waking up by one's self is a lonely feeling, but I'll go home and sleep by myself tonight - Buster-less.

Today, perhaps, is just a bad day spawned by a bad week.

This weekend will be better. I'll turn 22. And even though I don't like even numbers, I know that it'll still be a good day. I know that I'll keep on until I too can cast off the chains I feel by being here, but still, today is a bad day.

Loaded

Polygamist. Feminist. Homosexual. Book of Mormon. Koran. Democrat. Mexican.

We have these words in our language. We "seem" to have an agenda when we speak them; they've become loaded. What am I saying when I use these words? Am I using the phrase homosexual to describe every highly-effeminate, fashion-savvy, same-gender attracted man that I meet? No.That would be a stereotype. Do I use the word feminist when I want to describe every bra-burning, man-hating woman that I meet? The word Mexican to describe every person south of the border who wants to come into the U.S. to be a parasite on the economy? No. Those would be vicious stereotypes. Most of my homosexual friends who are men do not have more estrogen than I do. Many of the feminists I know are in healthy relationships with men and love a chance to drop some money at Victoria's Secret. And, I know plenty of people from Mexico that are honest and hard-working individuals. Stereotypes ≠ Everyone.

Why do we allow one word to represent the masses? Why is the Book of Mormon associated with every polygamist that has existed? Why is the Koran with every terrorist? The answer is in the form of a concept that I learned in grade school - one person, one day, one ideology can ruin it for everyone: that's why dodgeball got taken away.

Changing a belief system is a hefty undertaking - see Dissonance Theory. Today for instance, I had less than an argument, but more than a disagreement with someone about two words - the Koran (see the following post for case in point). She wants me to take them out: I want to keep them in. We both have belief systems and in this situation we are both right because there is no wrong answer. I pose these questions not prove that I am right and she is wrong, but to question - what do we see/hear when a loaded word is presented? Do we see every side or do we see our side? Am I naive or is she too set in her ways?

Words have meaning only because we give them meaning. If we did not store the meaning, letters would become gibberish. What meaning are you giving to language?

Amor. Muerte. Libertad. Violación. Asesinato.

I Wasn’t A Feminist Until I Found Four-Inch Red Stilettos

The following is a piece I've been thinking about for a long time. Last night, it all came out. I plan on submitting it to an English Convention so any and all constructive criticisms, and also praises, are welcome. (It's still in a fairly rough draft form, but I need to get it out there.)

I Wasn’t A Feminist Until I Found Four-Inch Red Stilettos

I always picture a quaint scene in Barnes and Noble on a snowy day. A young, buff and surprisingly afro-ed version of my father walks up to the long haired, stick version of my mother. He says in his authoritative cop-tone, “Hey honey. When did you start reading children’s books?” A playful smile curls into his lips and somewhere beneath his busy mustache, his dimples indent slightly. As the snow continues to fall and create perfect, picturesque fog circles on the windows of this book haven, my mother then, not unlike now, is quick to retort without looking up, “Oh, I just wanted pick out your Christmas present early this year dear.” She gives him a frisky look and then they both realize they are in public place with their three-year old daughter and now is neither the time nor the place to start. My mother, always sure to make a point, then goes on to expound why she perusing the bargain priced kids’ books: she wants to make sure that I, her three-year old blonde and bashful pride and joy, have positive female role models to read about – she’ll have none of that manipulative-bitch-like behavior that is seen in sordid characters like that damn Tinkerbelle. My father, knowing full well that he married into this, rolls his eyes, shakes his head in an amorous way, and walks back to the magazine section of Barnes and Noble where those people hang out and waits expectantly until he has to inevitably cart a little girl and Christmas bags to the parking lot. The facts: Barnes and Noble couldn’t have been found in a hundred mile radius of where I lived in 1988; I grew up in Southern California and it snowed only once when I was six; my dad still may never have set foot in a bookstore in his adult life; and, my mother, well, the part about my mother is true. I grew up with positive, non-manipulative, non-bitchy, but vocal none-the-less, female role models.
* * *
I’ve been six feet tall since I was in sixth grade. School was tough until boys caught up and boys did not catch up until junior year of high school. Kids can be cruel, and kids were cruel. Because I was vertically “unique,” and because I had no problem speaking my mind or being the smart kid, there were three basic assumptions: one, I was the fat kid that weighed like a thousand pounds – how do those chairs hold her up again?; two, I was tall ergo I was good at basketball and volleyball and basically any other sport that required me to be athletic and my usefulness ended there; and three, (three is my favorite) I did not like boys and in fact, I did not need boys because I was masculine enough for the entire 7th Grade Basketball Team….although in retrospect, this could be true because there were some seriously late bloomers at South Sevier Middle School in Monroe, Utah. The facts: I weighed close to 140 pounds and was basically all muscle; I was freaking awesome at basketball, but the mop the janitors cleaned up with could have volleyed a ball better; and, I was so much in need of attention of boys that I stunted my own dating growth well into my sophomore year of college. In my adolescence, I was not the girly-girl, the pretty girl, or the girl who got asked out; I was the move-in-from-Southern-California-where-surely-there-must-be-something-wrong-with-the-water-girl that was completely mislabeled because I was me – I didn’t play any games because I never saw a need to. I just wasn’t “normal.” Oh, I also wasn’t blonde anymore.
* * *
I always picture a grassy middle school football field on a rare sunny day in April. Eighth graders are abundant and ready to leave the dregs of society behind for something much cooler: high school. There are about ten of us and the boy that I loath is in attendance. Intellectual exchanges are important in middle school, so we begin to discuss what names mean. For instance, Jordon – who is my beautiful, tiny, flirtatious best friend – her name means “hot,” ‘cause damn. We go around the circle, expertly classifying each others’ names and the boy whom I loath, the one I mentioned before, he gets his profound observation ready for the kill: “Sarah is a Fat-Ass name.” Before the awkward chuckles can finish, I whip out the secret, end-all-be-all trump card: “Yeah? Well, Tyson is a Limp Dick name.” Laughs are beyond being stifled because I have just handed out the biggest slam of any middle school career. Chubby/Tall girls are redeemed forever and stupid boys will think twice before they cross a girl that can think. The facts: my mom told me to say that.
* * *
There was a time in my life where I would wear nothing but flip-flops. Flip-flops, at the most, caused a half-inch change in stature. I wore flip-flops in the winter, and even when my toes would turn blue, I wore the flops. I wore drab colors and I didn’t know how to dress my awkward body. Girl’s clothes didn’t fit because I was too tall and I had started to mature, which meant I was getting stretch marks and cellulite in awkward places, like my arms and hips, because I was getter “curvier.” Boy’s pants gave me an inner-tube that Goodyear would have been proud to support and a figure reminiscent of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. I didn’t want to stand out so I walked with my beautiful brown hair in my eyes and my head down. The facts: I was popular by association; I incurred a devastating knee-injury that put me out of sports for the rest of my life during my freshman year and consequently gained 50 pounds due to inactivity; I was pity-dated to my Junior Prom and I couldn’t even find a dress to fit that I liked because I was too big; and, halfway through my first date ever, I was lied to, ditched, and left at a friend’s house to be the third-wheel wondering what I had done wrong.
* * *
Now, I live in a society where I am now past my expiration date because I am not married. I’m twenty-two. I have been graduated from high school, high school, for five years and am one of the last to be married and have at least one child. Because of this society, I once dated a man who, after five weeks of casual dating, said he didn’t know whether or not he should marry me so he was going to go pray about it because he just had no clue and he didn’t want to go wasting anybody’s time – I thought, “Well, dude, thanks for the heads up on that one.” He then told me I was everything he never thought he could have. He still left me, and then expected the nineteen year old version of myself to think there was nothing I had done wrong. I then dated a man who told me I was beautiful and brilliant – that was something new in my dating life – until this guy then figured out he couldn’t control me. He immediately proceeded to become emotionally abusive. Then there was the guy who was immensely relieved when I said, in jest, “Yeah…if I ever talk too much, just lemme know…wink, wink.” The facts: I’ve had a tough dating life, just like everyone else; the society in which I live, not the religion I align myself with, is the proverbial thorn in my side; I’ve learned from my mistakes and the mistakes of others; and I have finally been happier than ever because I became complete on my own and realized that settling for a bad relationship is worse than being single – I like being single.
* * *
Now that I’ve succeeded in making my life sound much more despondent than it actually is or ever has been, here are some more facts: I made it through high school gracefully, intelligently, and with a highly developed sense of humor and wit (or so I’ve been told); I lost 40 pounds; I have been always been able to articulate and communicate well; I was surrounded with family and friends that loved me, saw me, and appreciated me for who I really was and am; I graduated in the top 8% of my class and had four scholarship opportunities as an English Sterling Scholar; and, I never sold out and became something that I wasn’t. The only problem was that as entered college and began living away from anything that I knew, I still was not comfortable in my own skin.
* * *
I always picture a rainy afternoon during my senior year of college. I had just spent a night swimming and making up my own dives for jumping into a pool, connecting on a new emotional level with someone whom I loved very much, and finding that being a twenty-one year kid made me feel more happiness and genuine joy than few other pursuits. I walk into a store where I am bound to find a good deal and therefore can justify picking out an outfit that will make me what I think is smokin’ hot, and I suddenly find myself staring at my very own altar to the gods – a shelf full of shiny, shiny pointy-toed stilettos. Now, ladies with skis for feet can understand – Size 11 does NOT exist to the fine shoemakers of the world. A pair of shoes that gargantuan is not only offensive to the fashion world and to women as a species, but is probably abhorrent to humanity in general. Therefore, to find a pair of Size 11’s to strap on that one loves is cause for choruses of Hallelujah to ring through the halls. Hallelujah’s are currently ringing through the halls, perfectly timed glittering flakes have been released for a dramatic and celestial effect, and a spotlight from above shines down like a beacon of righteousness on a pair of Size 11 shiny, pointy-toed red stilettos – my pair of Size 11 pointy-toed red stilettos. The facts: this passage is completely, 100%, swear on the Bible, the Koran, and, even though she isn’t dead, my mother’s grave, accurate.
* * *
It is amazing how putting on and strutting around in a pair to shoes can increase one’s self-esteem. It is even more amazing to me to reflect on the person that I was and compare that girl to the woman I’ve become. Life, in all its glory and its stink, has helped me mature, laugh, cry, appreciate, and understand. The facts: I am so comfortable in heels that I can skip down the street, I’m a feminist because I believe men and women are equal and I believe that women are beautiful creatures; I was in the “Vagina Monologues” and my life changed – my dearest ambition for the next year is to be the Angry Vagina; I make it a point to dance naked in my room on a daily basis; I’m a six foot tall woman that on occasion becomes 6’4”; I seek to understand before I’m understood; I’m honest and ambitious and liberated; and, I plan on spending the rest of my life finding ways to make choruses of Hallelujah materialize as if from nowhere.

A Synaptical Misfire

I never write when I'm happy.

I just realized this tonight. Or maybe, I was finally able to admit to myself tonight that I never feel eloquent or empowered when life is running smooth. I really don't think I ever wanted to admit that when I'm upset about something, I feel the most articulate. (Articulate is not to be confused with creative, contemplative, or inspired.) What writer ever wants to admit that to be a success, he or she would have to lead a fairly miserable life full of unrequited love, waffling faith, and broken relationships?

I feel that I have always envied writers who could write when they're happy. They must exist, but at this moment, I cannot think of one. John Donne - fairly miserable/spiritually torn: Emily Dickinson - depressed/suicidal: Hemingway needs no explanation, and, well, Chuck Palahniuk, in all his brilliant prose, he doesn't write about a single healthy heterosexual relationship. Maybe, perhaps, there is something embedded in the synaptical relay of an author or poet that runs a supercharged electrical signal to the cerebral cortex and then WaBam! you've got yourself a Pulitzer. Or maybe, I'm the one who is disillusioned about the concept of writing.

It's not that I'm particularly unhappy at this moment - quite the contrary actually: I'm happier, generally speaking, than I have been in months, but my heart aches tonight. My soul is filled with prayers tonight for many people, some of whom might not want me specifically to be praying for them: the woman who yelled at me at work today, and who I turn, made cry because of my silence; the lovers who I can't completely disconnect myself from; the friend who I can't feel slightly abandoned by - and all the people who probably do want my prayers - my soul aches and my fingers type because of that damn synaptical relay.

Maybe it isn't the plight of the author/blogger/thinker to be miserable. Maybe we just feel things and are moved to action when we see a deficit. Maybe we let our fingers rest long enough when life is balanced to enjoy the moment and maybe we use writing as a means to get past the unspeakable.

RationalLies

To rationalize is to tell ourselves rational lies so that we believe them.

I sometimes have epiphanies in the shower. An odd place, I know, but they come whilst I scrub various appendages nonetheless. A long while ago, I was pondering the idea of being someone who I'd previously been with. He was/is a good man; I wouldn't been with him otherwise, but as much as I loved him and yearned to be with him again, something held me back time and time again. And then it came, amidst the rinse, lather, and repeat stage of my shower, a small, yet powerful voice that said simply, "No."

Instead of listening, I ignored and rationalized. He's a good man. He makes me happy. His mouth is incredible. He's the only one who wants me... My mind continued to race for a few days: luckily, I did not act on anything, especially mine own wants. After a few more rationalizations and a few showers where I committed to not think, I lapsed into the scent of my Zest - that's when it came. I thought about what my life, marriage, children - the whole enchilada - what it would all be like with him. Do not marry him. He WILL sexually abuse your children.

I couldn't believe my mind. I didn't want to believe the voice, but deep down, I knew it was true. Marrying this man would lead to a disaster of eternal proportions. I refused to listen for weeks again. I knew this man, this man that I loved, couldn't possibly be capable of such a thing. I wanted what I wanted and what I wanted was him, and to no longer be alone.

All the while the voice had been saying "No" and I'd been saying "Yes." Then I took the shower that saved me. I'd rationalized so much for so long that the voice said, "Okay. Do what you want to do."

One of the most hollow feelings in the world is what followed. I, a woman of God who is supposed to follow The Spirit at all costs and at all times and in all places, had just rationalized the safety of my own children away. I was so ashamed of myself, and to a certain extent, still am, that I would put my wants over the safety of children - my children.

I do not know if this man will ever be a sexual offender. I honestly doubt that he will. I think that my experience was a lesson for me and me alone. This experience showed me what it would be like to doubt the Spirit, my intuition, and simply live by the wants of my heart, without realization of what my current actions will have upon people in the future. Rationalization to this extent will never happen again in my life - ever.

I pose these thoughts and this deeply personal experience not to show the benefits of a highly scented soap and steamy water (although I think I can speak for most when I say that this is a good thing), but to question. How often do I rationalize? How many times have I? Don't worry, those two candy bars won't make your butt jiggle anymore. Spend the money on the shoes - you've had a horrible day. Ignore your head; it's what you really want.

I'm not married. I'm not even dating anyone. But I am happier now than I have ever been. I've been given an opportunity to view what eternity might be like if I gave into every one of my desires. I will then wait; wait until I find exactly what I'm looking for until I don't have to tell myself rational lies anymore.

Clean

*These lyrics belong to Incubus and Incubus will forever be a part of this experience.

To whom it may concern:

You know this concerns you. Today, everything was fine / Until roundabout, quarter to nine / I suddenly found myself in a bind / Was it something I said? / Something I read and manifested that's getting you down? I'd been thinking all day; thinking of how to let you know that I love you, but that I'm concerned about your life. That's the position of a best friend, right? To not always agree, to sometimes challenge, but always to love and never to judge, right? I thought that's what I did. I know that's what I did.

I watched your face watching mine. You told me the news. You'd thought I'd be happy; you should have known that I would have been logical. I tried to lessen the blunt of my concerns. I thought that I had. Your eyes never faltered and never became angry as I spoke. I thought you understood that all I wanted to do was show you love my friend. Don't you dare come to bed with that ambiguous look in your eye / I'd sooner sleep by an open fire and wake up fried.

Say what you will, say what you mean / You could never offend, your dirty words come out clean. I know that you don't agree with my spirituality. I knew that was a fact when you said that'd I stop at nothing to get what I wanted, which is a Ph.D., even if not stopping meant ignoring Heavenly Father's Plan for me. Instead of telling me you were worried about the choices I was making, you made me feel guilty as you snapped your quick retort down like a clamp on my dreams. I shouldn't have let you do that. I should have communicated with you, but I was hurt - hurt because you don't really know me at all if you would say that.

After I spoke to you, for what looks like, ultimately, the last time, you said you'd call tomorrow so we could watch a flick. Little did I know that you wouldn't call. Tomorrow, what price will I pay?/ Could I make it all up to you by serving coffee for two in bed?/ Would you then give me the time of day? No, I could never make you coffee to be in your good graces. You hate the fact that I work at Starbucks. Starbucks isn't for Mormons, but I work there anyway on Sunday mornings and race home to teach Sunday School anyway.

I need a map of your head
Translated into English so I can learn to not make you frown
You'd feel better if you'd vent
Put your frustrations into four letter words and let them out on mine
The most weathered ears in town

If this is it, if this has to be goodbye, then know that I wish you well. I want so much happiness for you, and that, in truth, is why I voiced my concerns. I never wanted you as anything more than a friend. I did want you to stay longer than you have though. All I ask is that you Say what you will, say what you mean / No, You could never offend, your dirty words come out clean.

Disclaimer

If you are someone I love, you might not always like what you read here.

That is the machine of writing, and now, writing is a part of my life.

I love you and thank you for being a part of my life nevertheless.