Trees but not Stairs

I went to lean
But the wood crutch was gone
I meant to brace my fall
But the banister too was not where it had been
Alone in the open space of myself
I tumbled
Collapsed to the ground
Landing in a field of soft grass that was me
There, nose to the earth
I feel in love with the smell
Until I lifted my eyes
To see much more than grass
And realized that I was meant to climb trees
And not stairs

The Babysitter

Most people can’t or don’t remember life before their second birthday. According to several scientific studies, a child’s memory does not fully develop until the child reaches 18 months of age. This period of cerebral development is termed “infant amnesia,” a segment of life that is lost to the liver, but despite science and despite the fact that most people lack the ability to conjure up memories from their infancy, I remember being two. Sitting on the living room couch of an unfamiliar apartment, listening to the husky sobs of a disappointed child, these early memories make their way back to me.

I remember throwing fits, lying on the floor, my body convulsing with each sob.  I’d cry until it physically hurt. When my stomach refused to release any more earth-shaking screams but I was not yet willing to give in and forget my disappointment, I’d shudder breathe myself back to calm, spicing up my labored inhalations with an occasional sob. I would drag out the scene, trying to look as pitiful as possible, begging for sympathy.  When my performance reaped no response, I was forced to give up the act and move on with my tragic childhood.

What a life lesson. Isn’t that how it goes, grief and recovery, devastation and reform, war and reconstruction?  There are disappointments in life. There are sorrows, so cry if you need to. Get it all out, but when you’re done, pick yourself up and move on. What a thing to discover and at the ripe old age of two.

My mother was a great parent. Yes, I may have been mad at her, lying on the floor, making a fuss as a two year old, but she knew what she was doing. It was instinctive to her. She had an all seeing almost God-like response to everything and anything I could dish out, and as I remember it, her response to tears, screams, and pounding fists was no reaction at all. She would busy herself in another room and let me cry it out. My mother’s approach to my own past tantrums swims around in my mind as I decide how to deal with the child that’s raging in front of me now.

I elect to let it play out, so my pondering on the subject of temper tantrums is accompanied by a live performance, compliments of Robby Buckwald, the two year old chubby-cheeks who’s having a hard time adjusting to the absence of his mother and father as I babysit him this evening.  If only child services could see us, Robby’s face growing gradually redder and plumper with every scream and me, staring at him some three feet away on the couch, completely indifferent. I would probably be sterilized on the spot.  “No children for YOU!” they’d shout as they hustled me into a straight jacket and shipped me off to wherever it is they send people to be sterilized.

Looking at Robby, I’m not sure how much of a punishment sterilization would be. I’m more than thankful that my mother birthed me, and while going through the delivery alone not to mention providing years of financial and emotional support that a child demands is Olympic medal worthy, I’m not sure it’s something I would either succeed at or enjoy. That’s not to say that I don’t appreciate children. They fascinate me. It fascinates me that I was once a child. 

I realize now how skewed my perception of myself was at age two. I felt like I do now, mature and capable, for the most part. Does Robby think of himself as an equal among adults? I used to. I think that’s what makes children so amusing, the juxtaposition of who they are to the world and who they think they are.

When I revisit that time of my life, I remember feeling like the person I am now. Things were bigger, the countertop higher, but I was still me. Since my years as a child, I’ve grown taller and heavier. I look different than I did then to be sure, but mentally speaking, what’s changed? I’ve learned how to communicate; that was a big step, first speaking, then reading, and writing. I’ve learned how to behave in public, no crying or screaming in public, no picking boogers in front of other people.

As I’ve got older, the lessons have become a bit different: refrain from discussing politics with your friends, avoid sharing your religious beliefs, lie and tell the woman in front of the mirror that the skirt she’s wearing makes her look ten pounds lighter. These are all skills Robby Buckwald has yet to acquire.

But were we so different, me and Robby? Maybe I wasn’t sobbing through streams of tears, maybe my eyes weren’t puffy and red, but inside I was screaming. Inside I was sniveling over the absence of my own parents. There were things that I wanted that no one would give me, and even though I was making an obvious attempt for sympathy, no one was comforting me. 

Just as I’m starting to construct my list of grievances, I notice that Robby isn’t crying anymore. He isn’t even in the room. I leave my place on the couch, and call his name a couple of times, to no answer. I scan the first floor looking for the edge of a pant leg or a lock of curly hair but to no avail. Where had Robby gone?

After another more thorough sweep of the first floor, I declare him missing in action. I sit on a stool in the kitchen for a moment and listen. There is absolutely no noise. I’m all out of ideas, so I decide to check the one place that I had previously ruled out as a hiding spot. The stairs were gated. There was no way he had crawled past, but there he was, sprawled across the cement floor of the basement.

The Porch

I woke up early again. I’m up to greet the morning most days. When I first get up, I avoid the porch.  I piddle around the house, straightening curtains, refolding throws, boiling water for tea, and washing the kitchen windows. I’m not out there in my chair, but I’m thinking about it. My mind hardly ever leaves its place on the porch.

 She told me once, “You know you can see the soul of most anybody you look in ta their eyes? Well a person look inta your eyes and they’d see you sitting on that porch.” 

What did I do out there, she always wondered? And thinking back, I can’t remember what I did. I swung my legs off the end of the chair (my feet didn't reach the ground back then); I watched my father struggle to replace the shutters, mow the grass, and talk with the neighbors. I didn’t used to do anything on the porch, but if she could ask me now what it is I do on the porch, I’d have an answer for her. I sit in the wicker chair I made that summer and pretend that she’s sitting beside me, and I try to forgive myself for staying on the porch that day.

Self forgiveness is the first and most vital step on the road back to a normal life. That is the only thing that I remember from my costly appointments with the shrink I talked to for several months following the incident. I decided that if that was all he could tell me, he didn’t need my money and I didn’t need his broken-record advice, however true it was. I have yet to find forgiveness waiting for me on her wicker chair, and I have yet to find my way back to a normal life.

My neighbors might say that I’ve lived a normal life. I married a man that made enough money for groceries each week and an occasional trip into the city. We had three children who grew up and moved out. During those years, I was almost convinced I was normal too. Now as an aged widow, living alone, a wound that never healed has resurfaced, and it’s almost like the months after the incident all over again. 

I try to recreate the time when I was too busy to think about the porch and all that goes along with it, so I muss things up around the house, creating distractions for myself. I've taken to leaving dishes out after dinner, so that I can clean them in the morning. I empty my closet before bed, leaving the blouses and sweaters crumpled on the floor, hopeful that some of them will be creased enough to need a good ironing in the morning, but last night there were no cloths on the floor. The dishes were clean. The windows were washed, and I woke up without an excuse to stay away from the porch.

The last time I walked out of bed and straight onto the porch I was a young adult. It was my first morning back in the house. I had just purchased it from my parents. They didn’t agree, said I ought to find my own place. I told them I would make it my own. I went on and on about how the house had so much potential. My father said it was the most I'd talked about anything for years, which was true, and so whether or not they believed my intentions, they sold it to me for much less than it was worth. 

I had no plans to reinvent the house I had lived in all my life. In fact, the idea of changing anything seemed a bit morbid, like drawing mustaches on the precious baby pictures my mother kept in a fireproof cabinet, but I felt that I owed it to them to try. I striped the wallpaper and re-stained the hardwood floor. Visitors marveled at the transformation. They congratulated me on my good eye and elegant taste. Someone offered me the number of their colleague, who was in the business redoing fixer-uppers. They wanted to believe I was finally enthusiastic about something, but I bought it for the porch.

Even though that was years ago, this morning feels suspiciously similar to that time of my life, almost like being whisked back into childhood memories from a whiff of my mother's hair. Fog is lazily making its way across the grass, and the sun is up on the other side of the hill, lighting the sky of the still dark valley. My knees bend carefully until my rear finds the familiar curve of the chair. The seat is perfectly formed to my shape, the material thin and supple. I wonder about the day it will break and I’ll fall to the ground, calves and forearms flailing above the hole I've fallen through. Would I sit in her chair then?

The screen door squeals, the sound it makes when opened from the inside. I live alone, no cats, no dogs; even the mice find other houses to visit. Usually I'm somewhat paranoid about movement inside the house, but on this morning, it doesn't alarm me that there might be someone walking onto the porch from inside my house. I swivel my neck as far left as it will go, and watch as my visitor walks into view.  

She looks around with attempted nonchalance as she takes in the porch and it's unchanged appearance. She’s uneasy as she always used to be standing there beside me; that was one reason I made the chairs. As she approaches the wicker seat to my left, I notice that she’s barefoot, a good place to start our conversation. My eyes travel from her feet to her face where I meet her gaze. I furrow my brow playfully, asking for an explanation for her lack of footwear. Her expression is blank, no answer. Instead, she takes her seat in the chair, tucking her bare toes underneath her and eliminating them as a topic for conversation.

Despite the subtlety of our wordless exchange, I feel derailed. I am no longer in command of the conversation. This meeting on the porch was different; we would not tease and giggle. With my first question hanging in the air unanswered, it seems there is no room in the small atmosphere of us to place my next question. So instead of speaking, I wait in submission for her to take the conversation where she will. I watch her; her dark smooth skin taught and healthy wreaks of youth. I look at my own skin, a blanket of pale grey flesh hanging from my bones. The silence breaks with the rustle of her hair as she turns to face me. We absorb one another. She does not take my hand; she does not smile. She does not speak.

I used to think that there was something I needed to hear her say, but I have since realized that I don’t need to hear anything. I need to know, and here she is in her chair. But I feel like a school girl all over again, sitting in math class scribbling down numbers, hoping that somehow I'm getting the right numbers, never sure never confident that I've got the correct answer. What if I'm reading her wrong?  

She looks at me, finally comfortable enough with the porch to let her shoulders slope easily into her arms. My own shoulders are tense as I wait. Time passes and something drips off my chin. I shut my eyes, damning the pain, blocking it's escape. Once I've reached a negotiation with my tears, I return to her eyes. The stolid expression on her face melts into something warmer, more familiar. 

It's the same face I saw as I watched her leave, sitting in my chair on the porch, as a child. A twitch of a smile crosses her lips, and she stands. She faces her chair, and for the first time, the imprint of an occupant’s body is visible on the tan tangled pattern of the seat. Smooth brown hands grasp either side of the chair, and she’s hoisting it into the air. The chair, now upside-down is above her. We lock eyes for the last time, and then she turns and leaves, chair overhead. I watch her descend the steps of the porch, and then they’re gone, lost to the morning fog, the girl and her chair. 

There's no need for tea this morning. The house is clean. I have nowhere to be, so I sit in my chair on the porch and swing my legs, forgiven.

Science Fiction

I took Honors science all the way up through high school. For the students of Conestoga Valley High School, "Honors Science" means an Honors credit for a class of the same caliber as the "Traditional" course, extra brownie points with the teacher for being an "Honors student", and a ribbon at the school science fair if you're a half decent liar, but I took honors science seriously. I was one of the few people that actually attempted to conduct experiments for my science fair projects. 


Looking back, I realize I would have been better off fudging data like everyone else. It would have been less work for one thing, and the winning projects were always made up. I could have won a ribbon or two and joined the Future Business Leaders of America to pursue a career in lying if only I had followed my peers. We were always told to write the introduction of our science fair reports last because it was the most crucial part. We got that speech every year along with the same instructional packet. The only difference from the Biology science fair packet to the Chemistry science fair packet was the quote on the cover page. Once it was a quote from Michael Scott, a character on the hit TV show The Office. It said, "You don't go to the science museum and get handed a pamphlet on electricity. You go to the science museum, and you put your hand on a metal ball, and your hair sticks up straight...and you know science." I think I kept the cover page of that packet, stuffed it into my journal where I could find it later for a good laugh. I threw the rest of the packet out after my project report was returned to me with a desirable grade on it. 


I'm the kind of student that keeps all their notes just in case, but even I knew there was nothing in that dense pile of papyrus worth remembering. I also knew that if the teachers that had composed the science fair packet were the same teachers that were handing ribbons to first class liars on the night of the fair, then it was trash. The whole damn cycle was trash. Each year the same instructions, each year the same advice, each year the same liars, sorry wieners, wait.. winners, yes winners, excuse me. 


There was no truth in the "science" we were doing. Science fair was merely a contest to see who could get away with the most outrageous data and still win a prize. As much as I believed that, I did end up taking away a small amount of truth from my experience with science fair. After four mediocre projects, I discovered that science was not my forte, and that the only thing saving me from a failing grade in both Biology and Chemistry was my ability to write. My procedure may have been flawed and sloppy, but my lab reports were so meticulously composed that I always pulled through in the end. Science was not for me, true. The second truth was actually a piece of advice from the science fair packet. The page explaining "The Introduction" of the project warned that it was the most vital section of the report because it would draw in judges. The only way to seduce the judges and win a ribbon was to actually talk to one of them at the fair. Put simply, the introduction determined whether or not your talent for lying would be discovered. As my career as a science student ended and I began to spend more time writing, I was surprised to find that my science teachers had been right. 


The introduction or the opening paragraph of any work should be the most captivating part of the piece. If a publisher picks up your manuscript, reads the first paragraph, and falls asleep, it’s not likely that your career as a writer is going anywhere. So no pressure, but the first couple of sentences you put down on the page had better be as sumptuous as a full on feast. I’m certainly in no position to preach. I’ve never earned a cent from anything I’ve written, but I do enjoy reading. And as an avid reader, I reserve the right to be critical of writing. I’ve read books with opening paragraphs about as appetizing as a moldy clementine. There have even been books, published books, with openings so cliché, dull, or down right horrific that it takes me several chapters just to get the bad taste out of my mouth. I keep this all in mind while writing the introduction of any piece of work, and I remember my science teachers’ advice. Only now I’m not writing for science fair judges. I'm writing for an audience, seducing them with my words, and I can lie to them if I want. In fact, I do lie to them because lying is much more interesting for both of us and because lying is what wins prizes.  

The Second Man

Sometimes I feel more alone when I'm with people than I do when I'm actually alone. I think this is mostly due to the fact that none of us understand each other. Is that terribly pessimistic of me? I do not believe that anyone has or ever will fully communicate their ideas to another person. That in and of itself was a sobering realization to come to, but now when I'm with other people, simultaneously misunderstanding and being misunderstood, that thought surfaces, and I feel a terrible loneliness take over me. Consequently, I spend a lot of time doing solitary activities, and I enjoy "being alone," as it's called, because that's when I'm the least lonely. 

I understands me. Where my thoughts are lost in translation to the rest of the world, I can decipher them. I is the only person I know that can do that. That how I feel sometimes, like I'm two people. The first person, my physical being (my outward appearance to the world, the symmetry of my face or the overly enthusiastic and cliche phrases I use while making small talk) is quick to respond and is the person that does all of the communicating. The second person, "The Second Man" as I like to think of him, is my inner self. Some might refer to it as my soul or my spirit. I personally like to think of as Me trapped inside my body in the form of my brain. That second person is the one that is never understood. That Me can only communicate with other people vicariously through my outward being, and like playing whisper down the lane, the exact content of the message is never quite transfered.

It would be romantic to think that there is one person that can connect with that second Me, and that that person is "My One True Love," but I'm not sure I'm a romantic. Some people think that there is only one "being" that can understand the second person in all of us and that that being has jurisdiction over all the intricacies of their life, but I'm not particularly fond of that idea either. Perhaps the second person is really just a built in companion, someone to really understand what the first person is trying to communicate so that we're never really alone at all.

I am from a man I hardly remember
With a half stick of gum he'd holler the question
"How many girls are there in this house?"
And we would come running so that he could count

I am from wash baskets turned into boats
Magical potions like Root Beer Floats
A sweet foamy liquid we'd anxiously drink
To turn into gypsies and monsters and queens

I am from walking around in new slippers
Getting used to a smell that I'll always remember
Peeling down yards upon yards of wet paper
The slippery slime dried to chalk on my fingers

I am from mountain tops named for good stories
Fruit roll up chomping and bouldering glories
Trees and blue skies on an endless expanse
Changing appearance as the sun and clouds dance

I am from coffee breath whispering in church
Leftover lunch Sundays and toast that was burnt
Omelets that fry on a pan of brown butter
And taking a sip from the drink of my father

I am from biting my nails in 5th grade
To bitting my lip and not knowing my age
I am from not knowing just who I am
But I am and I am and I am...

Green

I know, somewhere, they grow pink grass
I just haven't found the place yet
The sun shines purple, the flowers are blue
And the air tastes like mandarin oranges

The people that live there, a happy few
Climb carrots and plant mountains to harvest
They snack all day long on sing-along-songs
To the gleam of the buttermilk moon

I anxiously wait and anticipate
The day that I finally see
A pink blade of grass, sagaciously masked
By a world that appears to be
Green

Hanging In

"The world's not upside down." I said

In a feeble attempt to calm a friend. 

"It's rightside wrongside inside out 

And upside downside round about, 

But upside down it's certainly not." 

I turned to my friend.... 

Their neck in a knot.

Broken Dreams, Broken Trees, Beavers, and Bubblegum

Gum (n): A pliable putty-like material which, when inserted into the mouth, creates an atmosphere of smell around the chewer, masking the majority of unpleasant smells lingering on the chewer's person and giving the illusion of good hygiene.

I wonder about gum. I wonder who invented it. I've heard that it got its start way back when they still used grunts and hand signals to communicate. Apparently there was a certain kind of tree that had thick chewy sap. Someone stuck a wad of it in their mouth one day, and gum was born. Eventually I guess someone decided to manufacture their own gum concoction, but when did gum go from being a chew toy to being a substitute for a meal,  or a source of pleasure or, as I mentioned before, a cologne? And why is it that people always seem to need something to chew on? Did we actually evolve from beavers instead of monkeys?

Speaking of beavers, do their teeth grow continuously because they chew so much or do they chew because their teeth are constantly growing? And can a beaver bite down a tree? I've seen trees that look like a beaver bit them down. Today I saw a piece of art about beaver bitten trees. The artist described them as broken. "Broken dreams and broken trees," is what she told us she was portraying. I wonder why her dreams broke. I wonder what her dreams were, and how she knew they were her dreams. I wonder when I'll know what my dreams are. Maybe you don't realize your dreams until a beaver bites them down. Do beavers chew gum?

Rain

It's raining clothes on Queen Street, surprise moving day for an unlucky bachelor. I wasn't there when it all went down, but it's rained clothes before. And I can imagine the scene and the shirts unfolding, polos parachuting to the ground.

There had been a cloud of tension threatening rain for several weeks now; the cap wasn't on the milk, the tick of his wrist watch was too loud, he didn't say enough, he talked too much. Every confrontation was like a new cloud that darkened the atmosphere of their apartment, but after so many arguments, the clouds had become the sky. They didn't know where the sun was, and they'd stopped wondering.

The thunder rumbled in the distance as they sat working in their living room just 24 hours before the break of the storm.
"Can you stop that?"
He exhaled in a dramatic display of exasperation before slightly raising his eyebrows to ask, "What?"
"That scratching. You've been scratching your arm for an hour now and I can't take it any longer." It was always noise that provoked arguments between them. The silence that had taken up residency in their apartment a few months ago seemed to magnify each irritating noise that he made.

He stared at her with disbelief and disapproval, scratched his arm jeeringly, then dropped his gaze and closed his laptop. He stood up from the armchair he'd been sitting in. It was the one they'd bought together a little over a year ago...

**
Driving down 23 toward New Holland, going nowhere, going anywhere, just getting out of the apartment for the afternoon, they'd seen a flee market in a parking lot. They pretended they'd been headed there all along and pulled in. After 30 minutes of feigned interest in antique balls of Play Doh and paint-by-number portraits of puppies, they saw it, the most hideous blend of burnt orange cotton/polyester fabric to ever cover the frame of an armchair. An hour later, they were back in the apartment, fighting each other for butt space on the first piece of furniture they had purchased as a couple.

**
The door shut behind him, and she was alone with a silly young couple squeezed together on an empty burnt orange armchair. She stared at them for a moment, before walking into the kitchen to leave the distraction of giddy love behind, but when she turned the corner, she found they had followed her.

**
A boy pretending to be a man was standing behind the girl that used to be her at the kitchen sink. He was scrubbing their hands together with dish soap and warm water, swaying along to a song. It was winter, and even though the radio stations had all jumped on the christmas carol bandwagon too soon, they never got tired of singing along to Dominik the Donkey when it played. But they weren't singing along to the radio or screwing their faces into donkey-like grins as they stood at the sink. They were singing their own song. It was a lazy made-up tune that felt warm like the warm water on their hands, like the warmth of two people swaying together, and like the warm friendship that heated their winter apartment.

**
But now it was hot. She flicked the switch to the overhead fan in the cramped space they claimed as their kitchen. Leaning against the counter, the heat seemed to be just as intense as it had been that morning. Heavy humid clouds held the heat of the sun through the night which meant that for the few unfortunate people that couldn't afford air conditioning, there was no escape from the world turned oven. Sometimes she blamed their failing relationship on the weather. It was too hot to worry about anything except dying of heat exhaustion let alone another person, and so with temperatures that encourage unstable tempers and tempers that encourage unstable relationships, the love that had previously occupied apartment 3B had evaporated.

Where was all of it going? She wondered? Where was all of this love evaporating too? The clouds, the argument clouds were holding happiness over her head and out of her reach. How much could they hold? How much more could they take?

Twenty-four hours later she had her answer:

All it took was one look as he walked in the door that morning, one look and she knew that the clouds would no longer hold happiness from her. She had been waiting for rain, but this time she couldn’t wait any longer. She would make it rain. Her eyes blurred with fury as she rushed to their room. She threw open their bedroom window, tried to break the dresser drawer while forcing it open, and sunk her hands into his shirts. As she flung his wardrobe out the window, she released the words that were never spoken from their cage in her stomach with one piercing scream.

There's a burnt orange polyester shirt poking out from the mangled heap of clothing on the sidewalk. It's hideous, and it's wet from the warm rain that's steadily coming down, subduing the heat. And she’s watching droplets fall outside her window from a chair in her apartment on Queen Street.

Shhh... you're not in love

How to know that you're not in love:

1. Look at that oh so special finger on your left hand and admire the none existent ring you're wearing.

2. Count the 17 short years of your life and remember that your hormones are still holding the reigns to your frontal lobe

3. Pretend to be your mom for five minutes and feel utterly embarrassed at how juvenile the so called "relationship" you're staging is.

4. List your top five favorite conversations that you've had with your significant other; realize you've had less than five actual conversations and that all three of them have been via Facebook or texting.

But you can try. Some of you might even make it. Let's just keep things in perspective, and more importantly, let's keep our "love lives" to ourselves.

Aliens From The Past

Today I felt like an alien.

I accidentally lost my footing and stumbled away from the painting of my life. I had been stooped over it for so long, laboring away, that I'd forgotten what it looked like from a distance, and when I looked again, I realized that I had only painted 1 square inch of the canvas. I was surprised at how different my life looked from far away. It's wasn't half as glamorous as it had seemed up close. All the little details I had sweated and stressed over were blurred into one small rather unimpressive blob. Just moments earlier I had been filled with pride at how accomplished my life looked. Thinking back on that pride now made me feel silly and foolish.

Then I looked around the studio to see if anybody else had noticed what I had, but they were all painting, nose to canvas, eyes crossed in concentration. Why hadn't they stepped back? Did they even know how big their canvas actually was? And all the sudden, I was an alien from the planet of Far Away From My Painting.

A familiar feeling came over me, reminding me of previous occasions where I'd had the same mix of thoughts and emotions. On one of those occasions, I attempted to capture the feeling in writing. It was freshman year during history class. I was hit with a revelation similar to today's. When I got home from school, I rummaged through a stack of old scribbles and notes that I've saved over the years and miraculously, found what I was looking for.

Behold the great insight of my freshman self:

"Was it wrong to be so different from these animals? To growl, screech, and run were not of particular interest to me. They would bark at me on occasion, but when I answered back in plain English, my words never reached their ears. There were the runts of the family of course, and they were different as well, but not my different. I was alone. Stepping out into the jungle, like all cubs must, I find myself enveloped in a sea of immaturity, alone with these animals."

And then, from the same pile of papers and doo-dads , I pulled out more memories. I found some lemon Skittles chapstick and put it on. It tasted like alienation, yet another memory of loneliness. I wore that chapstick all evening. I put it on thick so that I could smell it despite my stuffy nose. They say that smell is one of the strongest memory triggers, so I save smells that have specific memories attached to them, like chap stick. When I put that lemon chapstick on, it's almost like I'm back at the ping pong table in my sweatpants and t-shirt humming a song that's not mine.

I walked past a mirror and came back to the present at the sight of my pale yellow lips. I realized with amusement that I was even starting to look the part of The Alien.

How To's

How to tell someone that they drive you crazy, in a bad way:

Don't

A letter to myself

Dearest dear,
You are headed into the first month of your senior year, the last year of high school, the year before you go to college, has it occurred to you that you ought to be concerned with what school you would like to attend next year, and even more, how you are going to PAY for an education from that school? No, I didn't think so. Therefore, I would like to remind you of a little thing called prioritizing... so put the Backstreet Boys CD away... good girl. Now figure out your FUTURE!

Sincerly,
You're Right Brain

Not East, Lost

To Write a Relationship, a short story

Act 1 scene 5 was approaching. I could feel the next line forming in my mouth. The scene was all too familiar, and yet for as well as we knew it, act 1 scene 5 refused to play out as it was meant to. A director would leave the scene behind and come back to it later, but I'm no director. I'm a writer, and in my world of story a plot functions on a timeline. Therefore, act 1 scene 5 would need to be executed properly before act 1 scene 6 could unfold, and I was anxious to find out how this particular story ended. For that reason, I was always in character, ready to try again each time the scene failed, but after going through it so many times, I wasn't sure I could do it again. I could feel the uncertainty climbing up the back of my throat like acid reflex. He was too tired for act 1 scene 5 tonight, but I had to try. The story had to go on.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?" I asked in a rush, spitting out the words before they stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter.

"Oh... I'm kind of busy." He replied politely using that familiar phrase of uncertainty to soften the harsh meaning behind his words. How many times had he declined my offer? He was quite obviously tired of this charade. His face had practically turned green from nausea when he recognized the scene.

"Me too." I lied before he had even finished speaking, "Always busy." Then, just for effect, I added, "In fact I had better get going. Sorry to rush out on you like this." I frantically and theatrically gathered my belongings with uncanny grace. "It was nice talking to you. I'll see you around." I half shouted as I jogged out the door. It was a poor attempt at pretending I was the one being sought after, but I needed to at least feel like I was in control even if I knew that the scene's dependence on his part made me powerless.

What could he possibly be busy with? What could be more exciting than being with me? I mean, how could I be any more interesting? I had interesting oozing out my fingertips, dancing on my freckles, and woven through my hair. I was it, the main character of the story, and he played his part beautifully until act 1 scene 5. As soon as we reached this point in the story, he insisted on being the antagonist, sabotaging the plot with the wrong response to my offer.

Why wouldn't he play his part? Did he need a script? It wouldn't be any trouble to whip one up, but stories in real life are supposed to be unscripted, otherwise they're just movies, and I already had this movie. I had the whole collection, the movie in the eye of my imagination, the story on the tip of my tongue, the unpublished novel sitting on my shelf; all I needed to complete the series was the real life experience. He could refuse to cooperate, but I would not retire. I would not rewrite.

Eavesdropping

I've heard that the best thing to do when you can't understand a situation is to remove yourself from it entirely and look at it from a different perspective. So last night, having a hard time comprehending my thoughts, I decided to apply this strategy in a different way. In order to better understand myself I decided to listen to my thoughts as a passing stranger by eavesdropping on myself. Although I gained very little insight, I did come out of the experience with a nice little poem about what I had heard.

Eavesdropping

Kinda missing... minus the stress... I think I'm simple... so hard to impress... Time to grow up... don't like to wait... all out of tactics... need some new bait... little bit restless... little bit bruised... band aids and mascara... who's there? ... toodaloo

Driving with my eyes closed

I remember a dream I had a several days ago. I was driving home from some undetermined location and feeling bored in the car, so I decided to whip out a Sudoku puzzle to pass the time. I tried holding the paper against the steering wheel while I was driving, but the pencil kept poking through the paper, and my arms felt cramped in the small space. In order to get more comfortable, I decided to recline my seat all the way back so that the drivers seat was flat. I then unbuckled and flipped onto my stomach so that I was laying with my head at the back of the car. I placed the Soduko puzzle on the back seat and went to town. In order to steer as I worked on the puzzle, I put my ankles through the steering wheel handles and maneuvered the car with my feet, and despite the fact that I was no longer working the gas pedal, the car continued at the same speed. I wasn't watching the road, but I wasn't worried about crashing because it was a fairly straight road and I knew it well enough that I could remember where there were slight turns.

Had I been attempting this stunt in real life, I would have been a nervous mess, but I wasn't anxious. It was an extremely peaceful dream. Driving like that was like flying. It was almost like the Sunday afternoon cat naps I used to take with the dog in the sunny spot at our front door except for the speed. I'm pretty sure it was a Sunday actually. I'm not sure why. It just felt like Sunday. Lazy and warm and a little depressing because of Monday's foreboding shadow. I could feel my body being whisked down the road as I traced the steering wheel with my toes and thought about absolutely nothing in a hazy-dazy state. In that way, it was more like a childhood car ride home from vacation. The hum of the motor and the buzz of the radio would lull me into a half sleep. When the engine was turned off and we were home again, I would keep my eyes closed even though I wasn't actually sleeping, so that my mom would coo over me and carry me inside to my bed. In my dream however, my eyes were open. Every once in awhile I would look over my shoulder to make sure that the car was still on the road. Each time I looked, it was perfectly in line behind a PT Cruiser trimmed with faux-wood paneling.

I finally finished the Sudoku I had been working on and turned back around to find that the car was still traveling perfectly along with the rest of traffic. I also happened at the same part of the road that I was at when I first turned around. I resumed the Responsible Driver position and continued on my way home. I saw a car some 200ft ahead of me waiting to turn left onto the road I was traveling. There was a gap between the PT and the preceding car, so the SUV to the right took the opportunity to pull out. He started coming at me head on in my lane. I suddenly realized, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that I was driving in the left lane; the PT was no longer in front of me, but beside me. It felt like one of those "I got to school and realized I didn't have pants on" dreams. I tried to get over to the right lane, but the man driving that beaver-whack Cruiser wouldn't let me in. I was about 10ft from the SUV, still traveling at full speed, and then I was awake, eyes open, sheets tossed, staring at my ceiling.

Sharing with Myself

Today I cut a peach in half and gave it to Myself while I ate the other portion. Has sharing ever tasted so sweet?

Pheeling Phony

Cell phones are a great invention. I remember the days when you had to call someone's house in order to talk to them. I'd wait with beads of sweat on my lip for one of my friend's parents to answer the phone, and when they finally did, I proceeded with my nervous phone call routine. I would state my name and the purpose of my call, trying not to choke on my spit. It was the same little speach every time, "Hi, this is Becca. I'm calling to talk to (insert friend's name)." Usually, after the successful delivery of my speach, the phone was handed over to the person I had called for, but sometimes, if I was really unlucky, the person that had answered the phone would try to carry on a little small talk before handing me over.

I can see now that anything I did or said back then was automatically excused simply because of my age. For example, taking the small talk scenario, sometimes other moms would ask me questions like, "So what's your mom up to?" and I would answer, "She's in the shower." only to realize that that was probably more information than they cared to hear and more than my mom cared for me to give out. I will say this, one positive feature of the phone is the distance that it puts between you and the person you're talking to so that if your face happens to burst into red hot flames, nobody is around to notice. If I had only known that the person on the other end of the line was laughing at how cute I was, there would have been no need for the red face and the quivering hands. Maybe I wouldn't have been nervous about talking on the phone at all. Unfortunately I only realized all this when the excuse was no longer valid. Now saying something like, "My dad isn't available right now he's pooping." means I'm immature rather than cute and funny.

I think I've come a long way as a "phoner" since elementary school, but I still get a funny feeling in my stomach when I have to call someone; luckily, that isn't very often. Since the rise of cell phones, texting has become my main form of secondary communication. No need for awkward phone calls anymore, just *clicky, tick, tick, tap* and I can make plans for the weekend, figure out a homework assignment, or share my feelings with a friend. It's great, especially for someone like me, but lately, I've been frustrated with how frequently everyone, including myself, uses their cell phones. Of course, if I text someone and it takes them several hours to respond, I'm equally frustrated about the way that they use their cell phone. It's somewhat of a Catch 22.

I don't want to complain about other people here, so I'll just complain about myself and make it clear that anything annoying that I do is equally annoying when performed by other people. The first thing that I do, and I'm not proud of this, is I text while I'm at work. It makes me look like an indifferent or even lazy employee, but I'm so addicted to the excitement I get out of hearing that little *bzzz bzzz*, that I continue to bring my phone to work. Another irritating phone habit of mine is texting in a group environment. Texting while I'm with even just one other person makes me feel rude and distracted, but when I'm with several people at once, I'm extremely aware of it. The reason that I find it extremely rude to text while with a group, as opposed to being only moderately rude answering a text message when I'm with one other person, is that it's easy to remove myself from the group for a few seconds in order to answer a text if indeed it is important. With one other person, you can't just walk away and leave them in order to send a text message, so saying, "Excuse me, I need to respond to this." is alright in my book. But there's no excuse in a group. If you have a text message that's so important you can't wait two minutes to respond to it, you probably shouldn't be out with a group. High tail it to whatever hospital your dying family member is admitted into. For those of you who are guilty of group texting and aren't aware of the impression you're giving off, allow me to inform you. When you have your phone out at a party or a group get together you're really saying. I'm bored; I have better people I would rather be talking to; I have more important things to do than socialize with you. This is not a good way to make friends.

There are days like today when I wish I could take a sludge hammer to every cell phone I see, but then we'd be back to the days of trembling hands, rehearsed phone etiquette, and forced small talk. I guess the bottom line is that phone communication is a phony form of face to face communication. Living life to the soundtrack of a buzzing cell phone can create the illusion that you're extremely importance, and we all need to feel needed and significant. But I think that a truly fulfilling life is set to the soundtrack of silence.

A Tidbit

There is a City in Florida named Kissimmee. Wouldn't it be funny if you were from there? People would ask "Where are you from?" and you would say, "Kissimmee." And they would look at you like, "We hardly know each other!" or "Really? Okay, you asked for it." Maybe the next time someone asks where I'm from, I'll lie and say "Kissimmee!" just to see what happens.

Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut

In the days of backyard water-fights and one o'clock breakfasts, before summer meant work, I used to attend camp. At camp we were always singing. There were a variety of meaningless camp songs that we would chant as we trekked from place to place. I remember one song that didn't even have any verbs in it. It just listed a multitude of fast food restaurants. It went something like this:

A Pizza Hut a Pizza Hut
Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut
A Wendy's a Wendy's
Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut

A Pizza Hut a Pizza Hut
Long John Silvers and a Pizza Hut
McDonald's, McDonald's
Long John Silvers and a Pizza Hut

This song was never a particular favorite of mine, and I had largely forgotten about it until recently when I took a trip down south to Kentucky. I traveled with a group, squished inside a fifteen passenger seat van. On both the car ride down and back, we stopped at fast food restaurants for meals. You would think that in the spirit of experiencing Kentucky, we would stop for Kentucky Fried Chicken at least once, but instead we devoted ourselves to the McDonald's menu. What an intestinal roller coaster that was. I remember I could practically feel the Egg McMuffin I had eatten for breakfast finding its way to my love handles, and the McDouble I had eatten for lunch creating a pool of oil in my stomach that seeped into my bloodstream and clogged my arteries. I could feel my life shortening as I chewed. It was a dramatic experience to say the least.

Finally, we found a Wendy's to eat at. Wendy's has new salads on their menu, in case you avoid fast food like I do and were not informed, and since my stomach had been screaming for real food since we entered Virginia, I decided to get the Baja salad. Despite the fact that it was made in a fast food restaurant, it was an enjoyable meal; that in and of itself was a surprise, but what really made my eyes pop was the size of the salad. It looked like it was big enough for four people instead of one, but I ate it ALL! I didn't even want to share it when my sister asked me for a bite. What an American.

It seems our culture is obsessed with quantity. When you got out to eat you want to make sure that you're getting your money's worth, and in America that means seeing the money you spend on your plate. I wonder, why not have a quarter of the serving with four times the quality? This mentality isn't limited to restaurants. I've seen the 'Quantity Fever' in other ways. Yesterday was the forth of July. The Forth of July brings fireworks, and I participated in the annual celebration of my country's independence by watching the familiar display of fiery color. The show went on for almost an hour. I couldn't believe it. It must have cost an arm and a leg to have a constant stream of fire for an hour like that. I would have enjoyed it just as much if the show had lasted ten minutes. They could have extended the finale and cut out the first fifty minutes, but that's not the way it's done here. I'm just happy I don't live in Texas. What would fireworks and Wendy's salads be like there?

A word for the hopeful dramatic

"You Learn"
-by veronica shoffstall-

"After awhile you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn that love doesn't mean possession
and company doesn't mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises and you begin to accept
your defeats with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of an adult not the grief of a child.
And you learn to build your roads today
because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have ways of falling down in mid-flight.
After awhile you learn that even sunshine
burns if you get too much so you plant your
own garden and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn..."

Cheese Grater To The Lip

At 7:32am I realized I had missed my alarm. I waddled to the bathroom, attempted to survey the damage I had done to my hair during the night through eyes sealed shut with mourning goop, and started my morning routine. At 8:00am I was sitting in front of a computer screen with an exel document pulled up on the screen, and that's when it all began.

I have a hadbit of biting my lip when I'm bored or while I'm thinking. Working in an exel document is a combination of both boredom and occasional brain power, so I started chomping. At the beginning of the day my lip was fairly plump and moderately smooth, but by the time I left work with Mom for lunch, my lip felt like a deflatted swiss cheese balloon. Unfortunately for my lip, the work day had only just begun. After a bowl of granola, banana slices, peanut butter, and honey, the chomping resumed. I nibbled, bit, and tore until my jaw hurt, but I couldn't stop.

What boggles my mind is why. Why can't I stop bitting my lip? It hurts! I've destroyed my lip to the point where it bled, but it didn't stop me. Sometimes I get headaches from biting my lip, but I keep doing it. Shouldn't my brain know that biting my lip is painful and tell my teeth to stop chomping? When you touch a hot stove, your hand automatically pulls away to protect itself from the heat, so why won't my brain do the same for my poor lips?

Dove Chocolate Disappointment

Today I was cruising down the highway, enjoying the sound of my own voice while every station on the radio broad casted their daily dose of advertisements. I had spent several minutes browsing stations looking for a song, any song, but instead of music, a chorus of overly enthusiastic woman gushing over their Fabulous Spray Tans and their Oh So Affordable Hondas, sang away my highway happiness. That's when I took over. I sang Michael Buble songs an octave higher than he, or I, are capable of singing. I made up my own words to a few rap songs, and I even made up a little ditty of my own.

When that got old and the radio was still refusing to cooperate, I decided to people watch. It's not exactly a safe game to play while driving, but most games worth playing are dangerous. A man on a motorcycle appeared in my rear view mirror. He was on a mission to pass every car on the highway, and I was about to become his next victim. I might have made myself the antagonist in his quest, but I had just finished singing a somewhat sober song and wasn't feeling particularly aggressive. I pulled into the left lane and watched him pass me at an unnecessary 85mph.

Some motorcyclists are young men who wear skin-tight t-shirts that cling to their biceps and fly up in the wind revealing the lower portion of their tanned, taught, tattooed backs. These men are the Dove Chocolate of the cycling world. Like perusing the sweets in a candy dish, the chance of coming across that prized piece of Dove Chocolate is what draws my attention to each passing male motorcyclist. Once in a special while I am so fortunate as to indulge in the visual consumption of a Dove Chocolate motorist. Today was not that day.

Today Mr. Motorcycle came speeding by from behind with his t-shirt flapping around his chin and his love-handles hanging over the sides of his flannel boxers, the ones he told his mom he threw out in fifth grade. I looked away in disappointment, and clinging to the last smidge of optimism I possessed, turned the radio back on... commercials.

The Tidbits and Thoughtful Thoughts Tribune