ice melting in a glass
bracelets clinking
a toast
soda bubbles up a glass
clear and smells a little
like adulthood
laughing
smiling
telling stories of remember when
lime balanced on the rim
swirl the ice
drink it
one gulp
two
gone
another
another
another
ice melting in a glass
water pooling at the base
rivers travel down the side
like hours through
the night
memories forgotten
lime curled in the bottom
sad
squeezed
all the juice is gone
alone
ice melted in an empty glass
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Maybe You Might
I don't really know what I'd say to you if I could.
Maybe I would talk about work. Probably. It's kind of my main source of happening these days. Maybe I'd tell you I finally had a full staff and that I saw real promise in my store.
Maybe I'd tell you that I went out with some friends from work last weekend and that I had a great time with my vodka tonics. Maybe I'd tell you that I ordered those (with just a splash of cran) because they reminded me of Mom somehow.
Maybe I'd tell you I was comfortable in my own skin for once. Maybe I'd tell you that the other day I didn't cringe when I walked by a reflective surface and that it seemed like I was laughing more.
Maybe I would try to tell you. But you wouldn't care.
You would probably let me tell you a few things about work. You might make a joke about dog shit or something and then the conversation would turn to you. It always does. You might say how much money you made on your last job and I'd 'mm-hm' to placate you.
Maybe I'd tell you what placate meant.
You might tell me that you were alone tonight and that you were interested in getting together. And you might start making comments about time we used to spend together and you might start saying things that used to work.
Maybe I'd allow myself to think about it for a half a second.
You might say that things were bad at home and that you needed me. Maybe I'd believe you. You would probably tell me all the plans about changes you weren't going to make and maybe I'd feel sorry for you.
I don't really know what I'd say to you if I could.
Maybe I won't call.
Maybe I would talk about work. Probably. It's kind of my main source of happening these days. Maybe I'd tell you I finally had a full staff and that I saw real promise in my store.
Maybe I'd tell you that I went out with some friends from work last weekend and that I had a great time with my vodka tonics. Maybe I'd tell you that I ordered those (with just a splash of cran) because they reminded me of Mom somehow.
Maybe I'd tell you I was comfortable in my own skin for once. Maybe I'd tell you that the other day I didn't cringe when I walked by a reflective surface and that it seemed like I was laughing more.
Maybe I would try to tell you. But you wouldn't care.
You would probably let me tell you a few things about work. You might make a joke about dog shit or something and then the conversation would turn to you. It always does. You might say how much money you made on your last job and I'd 'mm-hm' to placate you.
Maybe I'd tell you what placate meant.
You might tell me that you were alone tonight and that you were interested in getting together. And you might start making comments about time we used to spend together and you might start saying things that used to work.
Maybe I'd allow myself to think about it for a half a second.
You might say that things were bad at home and that you needed me. Maybe I'd believe you. You would probably tell me all the plans about changes you weren't going to make and maybe I'd feel sorry for you.
I don't really know what I'd say to you if I could.
Maybe I won't call.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Dark Crystal Remembered
I caught it just as the credits were starting. I nestled myself into the couch and smiled. In an instant I was reminded of childhood. I thought of Mom, the Unc and me watching it together. All three of us delighted in trying to mimic our favorite characters.
I thought of my ex too. Not the most recent one, the one before. The one that sometimes pops back into my life when he needs his confidence boosted. I remembered us watching the movie together over and over again. Curled up on the couch, his legs over my lap. He'd never seen it before I showed it to him and I think we were both surprised that he fell in love with it as much as I had.
"Today, Jen's pipe brings no comfort."
"Challenge!"
"Trial by Stone!"
"End, begin, all the same."
Only about fifteen minutes into the movie and I start texting the ex the lines I was sure he would remember. I don't get a response at first but it doesn't really matter. I'm also ignoring that my personal vow to never be the one to initiate contact has just been broken.
Finally, I text him, "Guess what movie I'm watching yet?" Do you still think about me when you watch movies we used to?"
"That one with all the weird muppets and shit. Sorcerer's Stone or something."
I can hear his teasing, even through a text message. And I'm glad for the thousandth time that we're not together anymore.
I'm done texting after that.
Mom's favorite was Fizzgig. Little Pomeranian-ish dog with two rows of teeth and a serious case of separation anxiety. He was cute though and Mom always said if we ever got a small fluffy dog it would have to be named Fizzgig.
My Uncle loved the Skeksis. He especially liked Chamberlain, a whiny misfit skeletal creature that is extradited from the newly appointed Emperor's castle. He is the loser in aforementioned "Challenge!" and has a fantastic whine that is surprisingly hard to imitate.
And my favorite, Aughra. Her face resembles a Pug and she's missing an eye. The other one she can remove and does so often. Her line is the one referring to Jen's life questions. "End, begin, all the same. Big change. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. "
I watched The Dark Crystal alone just after Mom died and it brought me comfort. I didn't really understand what death meant. I don't think anyone does until they have someone they love die. It's something I had tried to put into words a million times and never achieved.
Aughra said it.
Jen tells Aughra that his Mystic (father figure) has died after she asks his whereabouts.
She pauses, looks into the sky and takes in her surroundings, "Hmph. Could be anywhere then."
I love this movie.
I thought of my ex too. Not the most recent one, the one before. The one that sometimes pops back into my life when he needs his confidence boosted. I remembered us watching the movie together over and over again. Curled up on the couch, his legs over my lap. He'd never seen it before I showed it to him and I think we were both surprised that he fell in love with it as much as I had.
"Today, Jen's pipe brings no comfort."
"Challenge!"
"Trial by Stone!"
"End, begin, all the same."
Only about fifteen minutes into the movie and I start texting the ex the lines I was sure he would remember. I don't get a response at first but it doesn't really matter. I'm also ignoring that my personal vow to never be the one to initiate contact has just been broken.
Finally, I text him, "Guess what movie I'm watching yet?" Do you still think about me when you watch movies we used to?"
"That one with all the weird muppets and shit. Sorcerer's Stone or something."
I can hear his teasing, even through a text message. And I'm glad for the thousandth time that we're not together anymore.
I'm done texting after that.
Mom's favorite was Fizzgig. Little Pomeranian-ish dog with two rows of teeth and a serious case of separation anxiety. He was cute though and Mom always said if we ever got a small fluffy dog it would have to be named Fizzgig.
My Uncle loved the Skeksis. He especially liked Chamberlain, a whiny misfit skeletal creature that is extradited from the newly appointed Emperor's castle. He is the loser in aforementioned "Challenge!" and has a fantastic whine that is surprisingly hard to imitate.
And my favorite, Aughra. Her face resembles a Pug and she's missing an eye. The other one she can remove and does so often. Her line is the one referring to Jen's life questions. "End, begin, all the same. Big change. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. "
I watched The Dark Crystal alone just after Mom died and it brought me comfort. I didn't really understand what death meant. I don't think anyone does until they have someone they love die. It's something I had tried to put into words a million times and never achieved.
Aughra said it.
Jen tells Aughra that his Mystic (father figure) has died after she asks his whereabouts.
She pauses, looks into the sky and takes in her surroundings, "Hmph. Could be anywhere then."
I love this movie.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Weird/Good
This weird/good thing is happening. I'm feeling sort of responsible and funny and nice and not stressed and at peace but still in control...good lord. Either I've become a grown up or the Prozac is finally kicking in.
I don't even care which one, that's how weird/good it feels.
My life hasn't abruptly changed, nothing spectacular has happened. Unless you count finding the little animated gnome game on Facebook. I started virtual harvesting strawberries and clicking on snails to 'feed' them but other than that...
I saw someone today and it was awkward. We stopped being around each other suddenly and for tense reasons. I remember last week she called me and I stared at the phone, not able to push reject or accept. I just didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything. I tried calling her back later and couldn't get through-maybe I wasn't supposed to.
Seeing her today was weird but not weird/good.
Getting a phone call that included a smile I heard and an invite out for drinks with the gang was good. Nothing weird about it. Hopefully by the end of aforementioned outing I will have had entirely too much to drink.
Had a pretty intense conversation with the ex recently. I felt like I got some closure and that we both got a chance to tell each other things we needed to. It's hard to reach those kinds of conclusions, harder still to admit you need to after a significant amount of time. I noticed we actually communicated better over the computer than we did in the entire year we'd been together with just a smidge of bitterness so that's good.
I went to the local farmer's market today and paid too much for blackberries because the guy selling them was cute. Bought myself a bouquet of flowers in white butcher paper from a small asian woman like you do when you go to farmer's markets too.
I got a song stuck in my head and before I knew what was happening, I was singing aloud, "...what a field day for the heat..." and my coworker came back with "...a thousand people in the street...." It was one of those little moments when it just feels good to be sharing it.
I had another moment with a different coworker, talking about that wretched commercial currently tainting the airwaves for Old Navy-They took a beloved tribute to safe sex 90's style and turned it into a jingle.
"Let's Talk About JEANS, Baby"
I swear to god it hurt the first time I saw it.
Talking to my coworker, expressing my outrage at such a tragedy he laughed and then said, "Is that from something?"
A little part of me sighed, remembered I was 34, he was 21.
"It's from a song I used to freakin' adore in high school. 'Let's Talk About Sex, Baby', by Salt-N-Pepa."
Deer in headlights stare.
"Really?" I asked, " You've never heard of them?" Another sigh. "Christ I'm old."
"Well I'm sorry if I'm not well versed in the lyrics of the greats like Sat-N-Pepper."
"Oh no," I quickly corrected him. "Not 'pepper', Pepa."
We both dissolved into giggles and moved on to sling kibble or discuss why dogs eat their own excrement or something along those lines. 21 years old is so young now.
I had a conversation today with a woman about how we will always love books and think a Kindle is a sign of the apocalypse. All hail the leather bound! <---That could be easily misconstrued. I'm leaving it in.
Spoke with someone else about public vs. private school. Her argument had some heat and when I suggested home schooling (she loathes public school but private is sucking her bank account dry) she told me she didn't have time for that and that her child needed special attention.
I retail smiled at her and wished her a good day because that's goes along with kibble slinging and conversations about dog shit. It's one of those weird/good things.
I'm beginning to think the church across the street is really a Mexican restaurant with pretty windows. The Worshipers are there at least 4 nights a week, and tonight it sounds a little like I'm about to be served burritos. I am all for faith and truly, I don't mind that they are there. I actually think it's kinda neat and when no one is in it worshiping at top volume, it's really rather pretty.
I had this moment today when I thought about making cookies for my downstairs neighbor. I thought it about it enough to come home, turn the oven on and begin slaving over the package of pre-made dough. I put them all on a sheet and then stopped thinking about it. I burned the cookies a little. I think the right word is 'scorched' as they could have passed for very dark chocolate chip if you squinted. I thought then about giving them to the neighbors anyway. I mean, what are they gonna do, give them back and say no thanks, they're burnt? No way. Nobody wants to be the asshole that criticizes free cookies.
I didn't do it though. Nobody wants to be the asshole that gives burned cookies either. I tossed them in the garbage and shrugged.
Gotta be the Prozac.
I don't even care which one, that's how weird/good it feels.
My life hasn't abruptly changed, nothing spectacular has happened. Unless you count finding the little animated gnome game on Facebook. I started virtual harvesting strawberries and clicking on snails to 'feed' them but other than that...
I saw someone today and it was awkward. We stopped being around each other suddenly and for tense reasons. I remember last week she called me and I stared at the phone, not able to push reject or accept. I just didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything. I tried calling her back later and couldn't get through-maybe I wasn't supposed to.
Seeing her today was weird but not weird/good.
Getting a phone call that included a smile I heard and an invite out for drinks with the gang was good. Nothing weird about it. Hopefully by the end of aforementioned outing I will have had entirely too much to drink.
Had a pretty intense conversation with the ex recently. I felt like I got some closure and that we both got a chance to tell each other things we needed to. It's hard to reach those kinds of conclusions, harder still to admit you need to after a significant amount of time. I noticed we actually communicated better over the computer than we did in the entire year we'd been together with just a smidge of bitterness so that's good.
I went to the local farmer's market today and paid too much for blackberries because the guy selling them was cute. Bought myself a bouquet of flowers in white butcher paper from a small asian woman like you do when you go to farmer's markets too.
I got a song stuck in my head and before I knew what was happening, I was singing aloud, "...what a field day for the heat..." and my coworker came back with "...a thousand people in the street...." It was one of those little moments when it just feels good to be sharing it.
I had another moment with a different coworker, talking about that wretched commercial currently tainting the airwaves for Old Navy-They took a beloved tribute to safe sex 90's style and turned it into a jingle.
"Let's Talk About JEANS, Baby"
I swear to god it hurt the first time I saw it.
Talking to my coworker, expressing my outrage at such a tragedy he laughed and then said, "Is that from something?"
A little part of me sighed, remembered I was 34, he was 21.
"It's from a song I used to freakin' adore in high school. 'Let's Talk About Sex, Baby', by Salt-N-Pepa."
Deer in headlights stare.
"Really?" I asked, " You've never heard of them?" Another sigh. "Christ I'm old."
"Well I'm sorry if I'm not well versed in the lyrics of the greats like Sat-N-Pepper."
"Oh no," I quickly corrected him. "Not 'pepper', Pepa."
We both dissolved into giggles and moved on to sling kibble or discuss why dogs eat their own excrement or something along those lines. 21 years old is so young now.
I had a conversation today with a woman about how we will always love books and think a Kindle is a sign of the apocalypse. All hail the leather bound! <---That could be easily misconstrued. I'm leaving it in.
Spoke with someone else about public vs. private school. Her argument had some heat and when I suggested home schooling (she loathes public school but private is sucking her bank account dry) she told me she didn't have time for that and that her child needed special attention.
I retail smiled at her and wished her a good day because that's goes along with kibble slinging and conversations about dog shit. It's one of those weird/good things.
I'm beginning to think the church across the street is really a Mexican restaurant with pretty windows. The Worshipers are there at least 4 nights a week, and tonight it sounds a little like I'm about to be served burritos. I am all for faith and truly, I don't mind that they are there. I actually think it's kinda neat and when no one is in it worshiping at top volume, it's really rather pretty.
I had this moment today when I thought about making cookies for my downstairs neighbor. I thought it about it enough to come home, turn the oven on and begin slaving over the package of pre-made dough. I put them all on a sheet and then stopped thinking about it. I burned the cookies a little. I think the right word is 'scorched' as they could have passed for very dark chocolate chip if you squinted. I thought then about giving them to the neighbors anyway. I mean, what are they gonna do, give them back and say no thanks, they're burnt? No way. Nobody wants to be the asshole that criticizes free cookies.
I didn't do it though. Nobody wants to be the asshole that gives burned cookies either. I tossed them in the garbage and shrugged.
Gotta be the Prozac.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Rawr
Fuck you ovary. Fuck you with a spoon because it will hurt more.
At least I don't feel as crazy as I usually do this time of the month. And for the record guys, yeah-it is almost the whole month. You have one week (or more) of bleeding, complete with cramps, bloating, weird food cravings and more cramps. You have two weeks (ish) when your body is preparing for the bleeding. Your egg drops and depending on if your fallopian tubes are allies or not (mine are not) you have pain as it travels down into the Almighty Uterus. Often all of this is accompanied with sore and/or tender and/or swollen breasts.
It has been my experience that most men find this part of the month their favorite.
Because of the boobs? Yes. But also because (and this is 100% true) women are sending off sex vibes to you. Or entire body wants us to reproduce and it wants to tell you about it.
We wear perfume and makeup and short skirts and low cut tops and high heels and all those other things usually the most around this time of the month. We want you to notice us, mount us and impregnate us with your seed.
Doesn't that just make it sound...animalistic?
But does a tiger get to blog about her period? No.
And that's what separates us.
*You get a bonus Cool point if you caught that reference.
Hell yes I'm keeping track.
At least I don't feel as crazy as I usually do this time of the month. And for the record guys, yeah-it is almost the whole month. You have one week (or more) of bleeding, complete with cramps, bloating, weird food cravings and more cramps. You have two weeks (ish) when your body is preparing for the bleeding. Your egg drops and depending on if your fallopian tubes are allies or not (mine are not) you have pain as it travels down into the Almighty Uterus. Often all of this is accompanied with sore and/or tender and/or swollen breasts.
It has been my experience that most men find this part of the month their favorite.
Because of the boobs? Yes. But also because (and this is 100% true) women are sending off sex vibes to you. Or entire body wants us to reproduce and it wants to tell you about it.
We wear perfume and makeup and short skirts and low cut tops and high heels and all those other things usually the most around this time of the month. We want you to notice us, mount us and impregnate us with your seed.
Doesn't that just make it sound...animalistic?
But does a tiger get to blog about her period? No.
And that's what separates us.
*You get a bonus Cool point if you caught that reference.
Hell yes I'm keeping track.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Football Season
Football season. Hearing a game in the background meant Dad was home from fishing.
Mom cooking something he loved for dinner and me curled in my corner of the couch waiting to be noticed.
When I was young I just stayed still, watching. I watched my Dad more than the game-smoking and snarling at the television.
I learned all the colorful swears during football season.
When I was teenager I'd occasionally grace my parents with my presence on a Sunday afternoon. I'd watch the game from my corner, making comments peppered with things like, "I'll say he's got a tight end," hoping for shock. Never got more than a petulant glare.
As an adult, on my own with a television all mine on Sundays, I have invited Dad over for dinner. I turn the game on for him, usually find myself sitting curled in the corner of the couch with a book. Last year I really noticed how quiet it was.
The snarling Dad was gone, replaced by this gently snoring man sitting on the other end of the couch. I felt warm, comforted, like that feeling of security I remembered from when I was little.
Dad was home.
Mom cooking something he loved for dinner and me curled in my corner of the couch waiting to be noticed.
When I was young I just stayed still, watching. I watched my Dad more than the game-smoking and snarling at the television.
I learned all the colorful swears during football season.
When I was teenager I'd occasionally grace my parents with my presence on a Sunday afternoon. I'd watch the game from my corner, making comments peppered with things like, "I'll say he's got a tight end," hoping for shock. Never got more than a petulant glare.
As an adult, on my own with a television all mine on Sundays, I have invited Dad over for dinner. I turn the game on for him, usually find myself sitting curled in the corner of the couch with a book. Last year I really noticed how quiet it was.
The snarling Dad was gone, replaced by this gently snoring man sitting on the other end of the couch. I felt warm, comforted, like that feeling of security I remembered from when I was little.
Dad was home.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Apartment Dwelling
Ok, so I love my apartment. Seriously, it's the envy of all apartment dwellers. It's in a small building with a church and a cop shop within walking distance. I have a sun room which is very important to a former basement dweller like myself. I have a fireplace and a dishwasher-after being without one for friggin' years. It's big and it's totally all mine. I love my apartment, I hate my neighbors.
Let me introduce them to you.
Madeline. Madeline is 92 years old. And if asked, she will tell you all the pains that come with being a 92 year old woman. From Jersey. She fell and broke her hip last fall but I found out only after I'd convinced myself that the reason she didn't answer her phone or door was because she'd finally died and was slowly rotting on the other side of the wall. Turns out she'd gone to the hospital and was just fine, recuperating in a rehabilitation center.
They wouldn't let her come home until they knew she had someone to help her. Guess who? I couldn't help it. I mean, seriously-92 years old. From Jersey. How could I not pick up her mail and help her into bed every night?
But Madeline is tough. A tough broad even. She didn't need my help any more than a maybe a month before she was up and walking around, even driving. In fact, she's going to see her family next week and she's asked me to check on her place while she's away. The woman has more energy than I do most days. Yes, she's nosy, more than a little bossy and I doubt she knows the meaning of the word 'tact'. But she's fierce and I hope I have half her spirit when I get to her age. Or hell, I'll take it now.
Above Madeline lives Shawna. I rarely see Shawna but I hear her all the time. She and her boyfriend work in a bar-she's a beer wench and he's in the band-and they get home after 3 in the morning. The steps that lead up to their apartment are directly on the other side of the wall my bed is against. First night I moved in, they pounded up the stairs so loudly the lampshade on my nightstand quivered. I seriously thought the cats and I were in an earthquake.
I ended up asking them if they wouldn't mind being a bit more quiet since I mostly worked mornings and their elephant imitations were waking me up. Shawna was really great about it, apologized, said she forgot someone had moved in....and that would have probably been the end of it except for, you know the screaming fights she and the boyfriend sometimes engage in. It's even more interesting when their chihuahua gets into it.
Next to Shawna and her 'rocker' boyfriend, a new family has moved in. They are friendly, quiet and I couldn't even tell you their name. I'm ok with that.
Below me is Greg. I know nothing about Greg except that he shares the laundry room with me and uses Arm&Hammer laundry soap. He doesn't mind leaving laundry soap rings all over the washer either. Just sayin'. He also owns a PT Cruiser that he washes obsessively and that he doesn't go outside except to do just that.
And then we have the newest tenants. They have spent the last couple of days moving in and well...I don't have high hopes. To be fair, the guy before them was the perfect downstairs neighbor. He worked nights, slept during the day when I was gone so I never had to worry about being too loud at night. I never saw him and when I did we exchanged pleasantries. But these new peeps....
And I use 'peeps' for two reasons. One, I like to pretend I'm hip with the ghetto-ease. And two, they kind of fit in that genre. I've lived here long enough to recognize my own kind.* She's thin, white tank (or wife-beater if you will), short shorts, ponytail and hoop earrings. He's tall, baggy pants (a 'loaded with shit' look if you will), doo rag, and gold necklaces. They have two beautiful little girls and they like to talk about who's turn it is to take care of them in the parking lot under my window.
They also like to smoke cigarettes and blow the smoke up so it floats into my open previously fresh breeze giving windows. And they listen to what I presume is considered 'hip-hop' at an obnoxiously loud volume. The music has been limited to their cars and as a result I am only subjected to the last minute before the car is turned off.
Behind me, the building is currently housing (at last count)7 stray cats. Seven cats that have decided that their mission in life is to harass my calico from the other side of the glass causing many many cries of 'Dammit cat, ENOUGH! and Get OUT of the blinds!!'
In the front is the church which we discussed in another blog. *Hint: It's the one called The Church Across the Street
My friend and I decided we were going to run away. I told her I needed to hermit in a cabin somewhere and after she reminded me she didn't 'do' cabins, we decided on another plan.
She's going to win the lottery, buy a giant house that requires 'help' and I'll live on the land in a side cabin, grow a beard and only visit the 'big house' when I needed to shower and/or steal food. I may or may not make something shady.
We decided the 'help' should be someone half naked with male genitalia and then she reminded me about her husband and that he might protest. After a small debate, we decided he could live close by and come over only if we needed the computer or TV fixed.
I dream of living hermited up. But not for long. I'd miss laughing with people and smiling at strangers. I'd miss meeting nice people at the DMV (They do exist, I swear it's true) and making fun of peeps.
Working in retail, or any customer service job, you realize pretty quickly that individual persons can be fascinating, funny and kind creatures. But people as a whole....stupid.
And loud.
*The Lindsay is in no way connected with the ghetto genre or it's affiliates.
Let me introduce them to you.
Madeline. Madeline is 92 years old. And if asked, she will tell you all the pains that come with being a 92 year old woman. From Jersey. She fell and broke her hip last fall but I found out only after I'd convinced myself that the reason she didn't answer her phone or door was because she'd finally died and was slowly rotting on the other side of the wall. Turns out she'd gone to the hospital and was just fine, recuperating in a rehabilitation center.
They wouldn't let her come home until they knew she had someone to help her. Guess who? I couldn't help it. I mean, seriously-92 years old. From Jersey. How could I not pick up her mail and help her into bed every night?
But Madeline is tough. A tough broad even. She didn't need my help any more than a maybe a month before she was up and walking around, even driving. In fact, she's going to see her family next week and she's asked me to check on her place while she's away. The woman has more energy than I do most days. Yes, she's nosy, more than a little bossy and I doubt she knows the meaning of the word 'tact'. But she's fierce and I hope I have half her spirit when I get to her age. Or hell, I'll take it now.
Above Madeline lives Shawna. I rarely see Shawna but I hear her all the time. She and her boyfriend work in a bar-she's a beer wench and he's in the band-and they get home after 3 in the morning. The steps that lead up to their apartment are directly on the other side of the wall my bed is against. First night I moved in, they pounded up the stairs so loudly the lampshade on my nightstand quivered. I seriously thought the cats and I were in an earthquake.
I ended up asking them if they wouldn't mind being a bit more quiet since I mostly worked mornings and their elephant imitations were waking me up. Shawna was really great about it, apologized, said she forgot someone had moved in....and that would have probably been the end of it except for, you know the screaming fights she and the boyfriend sometimes engage in. It's even more interesting when their chihuahua gets into it.
Next to Shawna and her 'rocker' boyfriend, a new family has moved in. They are friendly, quiet and I couldn't even tell you their name. I'm ok with that.
Below me is Greg. I know nothing about Greg except that he shares the laundry room with me and uses Arm&Hammer laundry soap. He doesn't mind leaving laundry soap rings all over the washer either. Just sayin'. He also owns a PT Cruiser that he washes obsessively and that he doesn't go outside except to do just that.
And then we have the newest tenants. They have spent the last couple of days moving in and well...I don't have high hopes. To be fair, the guy before them was the perfect downstairs neighbor. He worked nights, slept during the day when I was gone so I never had to worry about being too loud at night. I never saw him and when I did we exchanged pleasantries. But these new peeps....
And I use 'peeps' for two reasons. One, I like to pretend I'm hip with the ghetto-ease. And two, they kind of fit in that genre. I've lived here long enough to recognize my own kind.* She's thin, white tank (or wife-beater if you will), short shorts, ponytail and hoop earrings. He's tall, baggy pants (a 'loaded with shit' look if you will), doo rag, and gold necklaces. They have two beautiful little girls and they like to talk about who's turn it is to take care of them in the parking lot under my window.
They also like to smoke cigarettes and blow the smoke up so it floats into my open previously fresh breeze giving windows. And they listen to what I presume is considered 'hip-hop' at an obnoxiously loud volume. The music has been limited to their cars and as a result I am only subjected to the last minute before the car is turned off.
Behind me, the building is currently housing (at last count)7 stray cats. Seven cats that have decided that their mission in life is to harass my calico from the other side of the glass causing many many cries of 'Dammit cat, ENOUGH! and Get OUT of the blinds!!'
In the front is the church which we discussed in another blog. *Hint: It's the one called The Church Across the Street
My friend and I decided we were going to run away. I told her I needed to hermit in a cabin somewhere and after she reminded me she didn't 'do' cabins, we decided on another plan.
She's going to win the lottery, buy a giant house that requires 'help' and I'll live on the land in a side cabin, grow a beard and only visit the 'big house' when I needed to shower and/or steal food. I may or may not make something shady.
We decided the 'help' should be someone half naked with male genitalia and then she reminded me about her husband and that he might protest. After a small debate, we decided he could live close by and come over only if we needed the computer or TV fixed.
I dream of living hermited up. But not for long. I'd miss laughing with people and smiling at strangers. I'd miss meeting nice people at the DMV (They do exist, I swear it's true) and making fun of peeps.
Working in retail, or any customer service job, you realize pretty quickly that individual persons can be fascinating, funny and kind creatures. But people as a whole....stupid.
And loud.
*The Lindsay is in no way connected with the ghetto genre or it's affiliates.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The Church Across the Street
The church across the street rejoices loudly. I have my windows open all the time and usually I don't mind the noise. It sounds a bit like monks chanting and sometimes it's actually quite pleasant. I imagine I'm in a zen garden and there's water flowing (my cat's fountain) and the air smells like cherry blossoms (yay Yankee candles) and all is peaceful in the world.
Other times I want to scream "All hail the Dark One!" out those open windows.
Ok. I don't really hail the Dark One. But I am around people all the time. When I get home, it's nice to not be around anyone sometimes and when they are singing for long periods of time, into the later hours of the evening when I have to get up at the ass crack...You can see where this might start to suck.
If I have to turn up the volume on my television because the chanting drowns out the dialogue of Rupaul's drag queens, well let's just say I've contemplated how the police might respond to a noise complaint.
Could you imagine being that asshole? "Hello, I'd like to lodge a complaint. The church across the way is singing their praises too loudly. I can't hear my reality tv."
Truth is, it's not that bad. I don't mind the singing really, because I usually am able to achieve zen-ishdom. (*Ok, every time I type the word 'zen' my mind goes to Kung Fu Panda-just sayin')
It's the kids that irritate me. After church services are over (and they have them at least 4 times a week) all the small people run around outside in the church's parking lot, screaming, playing, enjoying their youth. It's annoying as hell. I lay awake sometimes playing the 'was that a scream of help or laughter?' game.
Maybe it's because my windows are open but I lived in a basement apartment with no windows for soooo long and natural light is pretty! I never close my blinds either. Maybe their loud rejoicing is actually punishment for that. Because I lived without windows for so long, I sort of got used to no one being able to see into my apartment and I did a lot of things naked. I'd watch tv in the buff, or do chores-anyone who walked by would be none the wiser.
Shortly after moving in ,I started vacuuming with nothing but my skivvies on and I was focused on the task so much that I didn't notice the cars pulling into the lot across the street. It was only when the stained glass windows began to glow that I looked up and saw at least a dozen parishioners milling about. It hit me that if I could see them, they could see me. These windows didn't work like 2 year old peek-a-boo. I immediately drew the blinds but then shrugged my shoulders and continued vacuuming. Little late to be shy I suppose.
That has to be why they're so loud. It's gotta be payback for that time I flashed my sinful flesh.
Other times I want to scream "All hail the Dark One!" out those open windows.
Ok. I don't really hail the Dark One. But I am around people all the time. When I get home, it's nice to not be around anyone sometimes and when they are singing for long periods of time, into the later hours of the evening when I have to get up at the ass crack...You can see where this might start to suck.
If I have to turn up the volume on my television because the chanting drowns out the dialogue of Rupaul's drag queens, well let's just say I've contemplated how the police might respond to a noise complaint.
Could you imagine being that asshole? "Hello, I'd like to lodge a complaint. The church across the way is singing their praises too loudly. I can't hear my reality tv."
Truth is, it's not that bad. I don't mind the singing really, because I usually am able to achieve zen-ishdom. (*Ok, every time I type the word 'zen' my mind goes to Kung Fu Panda-just sayin')
It's the kids that irritate me. After church services are over (and they have them at least 4 times a week) all the small people run around outside in the church's parking lot, screaming, playing, enjoying their youth. It's annoying as hell. I lay awake sometimes playing the 'was that a scream of help or laughter?' game.
Maybe it's because my windows are open but I lived in a basement apartment with no windows for soooo long and natural light is pretty! I never close my blinds either. Maybe their loud rejoicing is actually punishment for that. Because I lived without windows for so long, I sort of got used to no one being able to see into my apartment and I did a lot of things naked. I'd watch tv in the buff, or do chores-anyone who walked by would be none the wiser.
Shortly after moving in ,I started vacuuming with nothing but my skivvies on and I was focused on the task so much that I didn't notice the cars pulling into the lot across the street. It was only when the stained glass windows began to glow that I looked up and saw at least a dozen parishioners milling about. It hit me that if I could see them, they could see me. These windows didn't work like 2 year old peek-a-boo. I immediately drew the blinds but then shrugged my shoulders and continued vacuuming. Little late to be shy I suppose.
That has to be why they're so loud. It's gotta be payback for that time I flashed my sinful flesh.
Audra
We introduced ourselves after we'd hugged for the second time.
Her name was Audra and I made her cry.
Wasn't my intention but somehow we started talking about when you lose someone and she asked me, tears streaming down her face, "Does it get easier?"
I didn't lie to her. I told her it just gets easier to deal with, but the loss will never really fade. I asked her if she was a hugger and she nodded, reached for me.
I had this sweet and tender moment with a complete stranger that just really needed to be held and told, "It's going to be ok."
She was my first customer of the day and the only one I could describe now if you asked me what she looked like. I see so many faces throughout the day but hers I won't forget. It was a kind face and under the grief there was hope and it made me remember my own.
I wish you happiness Audra.
Her name was Audra and I made her cry.
Wasn't my intention but somehow we started talking about when you lose someone and she asked me, tears streaming down her face, "Does it get easier?"
I didn't lie to her. I told her it just gets easier to deal with, but the loss will never really fade. I asked her if she was a hugger and she nodded, reached for me.
I had this sweet and tender moment with a complete stranger that just really needed to be held and told, "It's going to be ok."
She was my first customer of the day and the only one I could describe now if you asked me what she looked like. I see so many faces throughout the day but hers I won't forget. It was a kind face and under the grief there was hope and it made me remember my own.
I wish you happiness Audra.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Pre- Dad
My dad wants me to write his story.
A part of me has been holding back because it seemed almost like I was....well, like it was memorializing him and he's not dead so it felt weird.
But then I talked to him the other day and he reminded me he was going to be 70 this year and I figured, hell, that's almost dead. Probably better get started on his book.
We have talked about it before, the first time he mentioned it being shortly after Mom died. I had written a poem about her for the brochure thing they hand out at funerals and until then I'm not sure Dad really knew I'd fancied myself a writer.
I was going to begin his story at the beginning, and with a million notes taken from interviews. Trouble is-I work. Dad lives across town and did I mention I work constantly? Getting together to have an 'interview' didn't seem likely.
Then I thought about a phone interview since I call him nearly every morning on my way into work anyway. But that's just it. It's just a little check-in, how's things, love you kind of conversation and that's about it. We need more time.
But the other day an idea started floating around in my brain. I started thinking about all the things that reminded me about Dad and made a list. Just off the top of my head I had a page and a half of topics I wanted to write about. Dad's a colorful character-anyone that has met him would agree.
So that's what I've decided. I'm going to write little essays, snippets of memory that I have about my dad-mixed in with some of his story telling. I'm excited about the project. So, dear reader, if you are still into my blog-expect to get to know my dad.
Here is a sample of some of the things I'm going to write about:
Started smoking at 7
He was on America's Funniest Home Videos, lip syncing 'Too Many Fish in the Sea'
He made a commercial for AT&T
Been arrested-twice that I know of
I have 2 half sisters
He learned how to surf at 66 years old
This is gonna be good. Not a memorial-a tribute. An ongoing journey of Dad. Instead of 'shit my dad says', It'll be 'shit you wish you had the balls to do'.
A part of me has been holding back because it seemed almost like I was....well, like it was memorializing him and he's not dead so it felt weird.
But then I talked to him the other day and he reminded me he was going to be 70 this year and I figured, hell, that's almost dead. Probably better get started on his book.
We have talked about it before, the first time he mentioned it being shortly after Mom died. I had written a poem about her for the brochure thing they hand out at funerals and until then I'm not sure Dad really knew I'd fancied myself a writer.
I was going to begin his story at the beginning, and with a million notes taken from interviews. Trouble is-I work. Dad lives across town and did I mention I work constantly? Getting together to have an 'interview' didn't seem likely.
Then I thought about a phone interview since I call him nearly every morning on my way into work anyway. But that's just it. It's just a little check-in, how's things, love you kind of conversation and that's about it. We need more time.
But the other day an idea started floating around in my brain. I started thinking about all the things that reminded me about Dad and made a list. Just off the top of my head I had a page and a half of topics I wanted to write about. Dad's a colorful character-anyone that has met him would agree.
So that's what I've decided. I'm going to write little essays, snippets of memory that I have about my dad-mixed in with some of his story telling. I'm excited about the project. So, dear reader, if you are still into my blog-expect to get to know my dad.
Here is a sample of some of the things I'm going to write about:
Started smoking at 7
He was on America's Funniest Home Videos, lip syncing 'Too Many Fish in the Sea'
He made a commercial for AT&T
Been arrested-twice that I know of
I have 2 half sisters
He learned how to surf at 66 years old
This is gonna be good. Not a memorial-a tribute. An ongoing journey of Dad. Instead of 'shit my dad says', It'll be 'shit you wish you had the balls to do'.
Monday, August 8, 2011
I Wanna Hold Your Hand
I looked at my hands today. Really looked at them. I saw my mom, years of heartache and strength.
I saw a scratch still red with blood in the little webbed part between my fingers. My boy cat did that and I just shrugged when it happened. Still stings a little but most hurt does for a while.
I saw crinkles in the skin that makes my cuticles. I saw it sitting there underneath the white moon in my nail and it reminded me of mom.
Her hands were so soft. And her rings-simple and meaningful. Like mine.
I saw my writing callus, almost gone from technology. When I run my thumb over it I felt the power of every pen I've held, every crayon I've created masterpieces with and every pencil I've flipped upside down to hurriedly erase mistakes.
And I think of mom again now. How she once told me to never write anything I wouldn't want someone to read.
It's why I'll never stop. I want someone to read me.
To hold my hands.
I saw a scratch still red with blood in the little webbed part between my fingers. My boy cat did that and I just shrugged when it happened. Still stings a little but most hurt does for a while.
I saw crinkles in the skin that makes my cuticles. I saw it sitting there underneath the white moon in my nail and it reminded me of mom.
Her hands were so soft. And her rings-simple and meaningful. Like mine.
I saw my writing callus, almost gone from technology. When I run my thumb over it I felt the power of every pen I've held, every crayon I've created masterpieces with and every pencil I've flipped upside down to hurriedly erase mistakes.
And I think of mom again now. How she once told me to never write anything I wouldn't want someone to read.
It's why I'll never stop. I want someone to read me.
To hold my hands.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Restless
Soft scent-lavender and a little vanilla. Light is soft too-Christmas light glow that gives just enough bright for me to write about. A movie playing I know all the words to. I smile at the scenes that remind me of you and let myself remember when we were an us.
Cat bells up and down the hall, little feet patters from the four leggeds as night grows darker. Another cat, my old fuss pot, mouthy, cranky and perfectly wonderful furry friend curled on my knees. Her black fur broken only by the white skulls on her collar because she's a badass.
The bed's too big for me now-a whole side with deliciously cool sheets and plenty of leg room. I sleep with pillows around me on the nights I wish they were arms.
A cool breeze comes through the window, stirring the chimes I hung outside just for moments like this. I listen closely-often with wind comes rain and....yes. It begins.
Originally written June 28, 2011
Cat bells up and down the hall, little feet patters from the four leggeds as night grows darker. Another cat, my old fuss pot, mouthy, cranky and perfectly wonderful furry friend curled on my knees. Her black fur broken only by the white skulls on her collar because she's a badass.
The bed's too big for me now-a whole side with deliciously cool sheets and plenty of leg room. I sleep with pillows around me on the nights I wish they were arms.
A cool breeze comes through the window, stirring the chimes I hung outside just for moments like this. I listen closely-often with wind comes rain and....yes. It begins.
Originally written June 28, 2011
Buffer
Why are all the good ones taken?
A question women have been asking for years. This woman too.
I've had some good ones...they are all married or otherwise taken now. Maybe only one exception. And when I say 'had' I don't mean in the biblical sense. I mean emotionally had-and usually pretty intensely.
I fall in love hard and fast. I see things that even the most romantic poet might not envision. This is not always good and I've learned from my mistakes and my hopeless romantic heart many times.
If I were to make a list of all the men I'd had feelings for, over 90% of them would currently be in relationships now. Some good, some bad, but relationships I know about-some I know too much about.
You see, I'm the one they call when things suck. I'm the one they call to say things like, "It wasn't like this with you," and "I wish she was more like you." I'm the one they realize they should have tried harder with.
I remember thinking that I wanted to be that girl. I wanted to be the girl they wished they had but I had no idea how lonely that girl could be. Because they don't leave their significant others. They love them. They want to work it out with them.
There's a part of me that recognizes how sad that sounds. How defeated and truth be told I don't really feel like I've never been loved. I'm reminded now of some advice my grandmother gave me when I was 15 and not ready to hear it.
I was professing my love for a boy at the time and she listened to me swooning as she crocheted on the couch. She eventually put down the needles and took my hands in hers. "Lindsay. Why do you love this boy?"
I quickly came up with a many reasons, one of which I think was because he was cute.
"Do you know why I love your grandfather?"
I shook my head and my teenage eyes rolled-at this point in my life, grandparents weren't very cool.
"I love him because he's good to me. But he's also good to others. He's kind and he treats people with respect. I have no doubt that you love this boy. I think you love him as much as you can at 15."
I remember leaving that conversation feeling kind of angsty, irritated and thinking she didn't know what she was talking about.
But she was right. Fifteen year old love is much different from 21 year old love, 25 year old love and 32 year old love. And I've felt it all.
I started writing this because I wanted to rant about how all the guys I've ever been involved with have since moved on to get married, have children or settle down with a loved one that wasn't me. I wanted to write about how I sometimes felt like a buffer-the nice girl that's there and helps you learn to love. The girl you're with just before you meet your perfect one. But none of that matters really. If they were supposed to be with me, they would be still. Some of the decisions were not mine to end things, some were, some were mutual.
There's a good one out there for me. We haven't found each other yet but when we do, it's gonna be amazing.
A question women have been asking for years. This woman too.
I've had some good ones...they are all married or otherwise taken now. Maybe only one exception. And when I say 'had' I don't mean in the biblical sense. I mean emotionally had-and usually pretty intensely.
I fall in love hard and fast. I see things that even the most romantic poet might not envision. This is not always good and I've learned from my mistakes and my hopeless romantic heart many times.
If I were to make a list of all the men I'd had feelings for, over 90% of them would currently be in relationships now. Some good, some bad, but relationships I know about-some I know too much about.
You see, I'm the one they call when things suck. I'm the one they call to say things like, "It wasn't like this with you," and "I wish she was more like you." I'm the one they realize they should have tried harder with.
I remember thinking that I wanted to be that girl. I wanted to be the girl they wished they had but I had no idea how lonely that girl could be. Because they don't leave their significant others. They love them. They want to work it out with them.
There's a part of me that recognizes how sad that sounds. How defeated and truth be told I don't really feel like I've never been loved. I'm reminded now of some advice my grandmother gave me when I was 15 and not ready to hear it.
I was professing my love for a boy at the time and she listened to me swooning as she crocheted on the couch. She eventually put down the needles and took my hands in hers. "Lindsay. Why do you love this boy?"
I quickly came up with a many reasons, one of which I think was because he was cute.
"Do you know why I love your grandfather?"
I shook my head and my teenage eyes rolled-at this point in my life, grandparents weren't very cool.
"I love him because he's good to me. But he's also good to others. He's kind and he treats people with respect. I have no doubt that you love this boy. I think you love him as much as you can at 15."
I remember leaving that conversation feeling kind of angsty, irritated and thinking she didn't know what she was talking about.
But she was right. Fifteen year old love is much different from 21 year old love, 25 year old love and 32 year old love. And I've felt it all.
I started writing this because I wanted to rant about how all the guys I've ever been involved with have since moved on to get married, have children or settle down with a loved one that wasn't me. I wanted to write about how I sometimes felt like a buffer-the nice girl that's there and helps you learn to love. The girl you're with just before you meet your perfect one. But none of that matters really. If they were supposed to be with me, they would be still. Some of the decisions were not mine to end things, some were, some were mutual.
There's a good one out there for me. We haven't found each other yet but when we do, it's gonna be amazing.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
My Boobs Hurt
*My boobs hurt. This is usually a sign of the **Almighty Uterus readying itself to house a child. For the umpteenth month in a row, it is all for naught.
I'm nowhere near close to being pregnant.
Today, right now, I'm ok with that.
Some days the ovaries scream very loud and every little person under 3 feet is adorable. Yeah, sure, even midgets. (Is it still ok to refer to them as 'midgets'?)
But today I'm ok with the fact that the only responsibility I had when I came home was to feed my cats and if I was an asshole, I wouldn't even do that. I'm reminded every day that not everyone thinks of their four leggeds as family. Just about as many that do.
On my way home from a long day I started thinking about babies. Mostly because I smacked my boob with my backpack's strap and it pained me and the pain sent a message to my brain and instead of 'ow', I heard 'you should be pregnant.'
Sore boobs=pregnant? Sure can.
Sore boobs=34 year old PMS? There ya go.
I was convinced that the whole biological clock thing was bullshit. Of course, I had this thought when I was 21 and procreating was the farthest thing from my mind.
My coworker is pregnant. My best friend wants to be pregnant. My other best friend wants to be pregnant again.
The need is all around me so why shouldn't my boobs want to be in on it? The Almighty Uterus is like a guest room. Just because it isn't being used, you still want it to look nice and be ready for when guests arrive.
Ok, so that leaves for a nice segue into my lack of sex life but I think I'm gonna go give my boobs a piece of chocolate. Or Chocolat-sometimes only Johnny Depp will do.
*Side tangent: I've had the opinion that women should not have breasts unless they are pregnant as their whole purpose is to swell with milk and feed a youngling. And to get free drinks. They're good for that too.
**Almighty Uterus is capitalized because it fucking deserves to be. It can make LIFE.
I'm nowhere near close to being pregnant.
Today, right now, I'm ok with that.
Some days the ovaries scream very loud and every little person under 3 feet is adorable. Yeah, sure, even midgets. (Is it still ok to refer to them as 'midgets'?)
But today I'm ok with the fact that the only responsibility I had when I came home was to feed my cats and if I was an asshole, I wouldn't even do that. I'm reminded every day that not everyone thinks of their four leggeds as family. Just about as many that do.
On my way home from a long day I started thinking about babies. Mostly because I smacked my boob with my backpack's strap and it pained me and the pain sent a message to my brain and instead of 'ow', I heard 'you should be pregnant.'
Sore boobs=pregnant? Sure can.
Sore boobs=34 year old PMS? There ya go.
I was convinced that the whole biological clock thing was bullshit. Of course, I had this thought when I was 21 and procreating was the farthest thing from my mind.
My coworker is pregnant. My best friend wants to be pregnant. My other best friend wants to be pregnant again.
The need is all around me so why shouldn't my boobs want to be in on it? The Almighty Uterus is like a guest room. Just because it isn't being used, you still want it to look nice and be ready for when guests arrive.
Ok, so that leaves for a nice segue into my lack of sex life but I think I'm gonna go give my boobs a piece of chocolate. Or Chocolat-sometimes only Johnny Depp will do.
*Side tangent: I've had the opinion that women should not have breasts unless they are pregnant as their whole purpose is to swell with milk and feed a youngling. And to get free drinks. They're good for that too.
**Almighty Uterus is capitalized because it fucking deserves to be. It can make LIFE.
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