One Year...

Quick word and a favor (please read and comment)

2011-11-20T13:56:00.000-08:00

For those who haven't checked it out, please take a look at "Scribbles and Bits" (specifically, the Julie & Julia post). It may give you an idea of some things I'm focusing on (such as the Sunday Best posts, where I try sharing the best bit from my week).

At the end of the post I ask your opinion. In a nutshell, I ask whether I should overhaul this blog, focus solely on Scribbles and Bits and leave this one to gather dust, or merge the two (including the likely result of changing this blog's name to... Scribbles & Bits.)

You can comment there, here, or on Facebook if you wish. If the vote is to overhaul, I am going to take advantage of my week off from work to work on it.

Thank you,
-Ash

What's Going On

2011-10-25T19:41:00.000-07:00

I know some people have messaged me here and elsewhere asking me not to stop writing. Change the name, the focus... but don't go.

The reason I need to cut back? ...I have three blogs and a number of side projects and cannot give time or focus to all of them. This particular blog was only supposed to be a one-year thing. My second, Un-Extrordinary Adventures of Fangirl, is primarily a collection of videos and links to things I personally find interesting and cool. Its updates are infrequent at the moment. The third, Scribbles and Bits, is a project that has been in the works for the better part of a year. What was supposed to be a colaboration between a few other nerds and I, quickly became a solo endeavor and was retooled after our original vision went south. After finally getting off the ground (though, the page itself still looks bare), posts there are twice a week: a Sunday posting, and a second (more thought out) post later in the week.

The major difference is that this blog has everything and is rather scattered (a far cry from last year when there were a list of goals and the blog was a way to share what I was doing and learning through all of it). The other two have more of a purpose or focus. Fangirl is a place for my nerdy side: videos of dances, interesting remixes, advice from the Green brothers of the popular "Vlogbrothers" channel on YouTube. Scribbles... though new, has a bit more discipline for me. Sundays are light, comprised of videos or photos. Any other post would be things that weigh on my mind or otherwise cause me to take pause and reflect proplerly on a subject. The posts are still short in length, but as time goes on I'm expecting to find my footing with it.

Until I can decide on what to do with OY,SC (close up shop? hiatus? set out goals for 2012 and start again at New Years?), I'm probably not going to post here. I've given myself a deadline of New Years to try making Fangirl work (schedule-wise) and give Scribbles a shot. If you've got a suggestion... I'm all ears. Otherwise, I thank you for being patient through all of this.

-Ashley

Announcement

2011-10-20T15:25:00.000-07:00

A lot of changes have gone on this past year. At this moment, it doesn't feel it. This time last year, my weeks revolved around going to work, going to church on Sunday, and coming home. When I was upset, stressed, or thought that others disapproved of me, I self-isolated and used things like housework as distractions. I internalized things, letting them eat at me until I fully believed I was to blame for even things I had no involvement in. I told myself lies, and believed them, because ...it just made life easier. Not easier in the sense that I'd have no worries, but easier in the sense that it didn't make the day-to-day stuff worse.

This past summer, I tried being normal. Like everyone else.

It was different. In a sense, it was freeing to not have to bottle things up, to not have to be the boring, odd one out. It was nice to be able to have friends around, and not worry about weather or not I'd be scolded for it. It was nice to get out of the house and have a hobby... to get back to something I greatly missed... to feel happy and myself like I did before life happened.

But with the summer ending, I slowly put them away. I knew this would happen. In the past few weeks, one thing I had yet to put away completely seemed to take care of itself rather suddenly. No more occasional trips to the city to go dancing. No more hanging out in the back yard. No more giggling over dating profiles, long discussions on familial drama, or confiding in what truly troubles us.

No, in fact the confusion and worry that plagued me earlier this week seems to have turned to the familiar heaviness of resignation. I still find myself wanting to pull up Facebook, or grab my phone and text a friend, to share or discuss... given that there have been a few big decisions to make, and I'd love to bounce ideas and weight the decisions with people... But in all honesty, I don't think I can do that. Without going into details, it seems as though I have left friends either greatly disappointed in me, or upset enough to ignore me altogether. I can't do much more than I have.. I've apologized, and in one case, I am honestly speechless. I can't support a denial or rebuttal without evidence, and how can I supply evidence when I've distanced myself from everyone, even those close to me. That, right there, was my own fault. I have never hidden from the fact that I use avoidance and isolation (I cut myself off from others) when things are overwhelming.

On the plus side, I think I'm handling it better than expected. Because as much as this hurts, as many bad memories as this brings up, I don't want to hurt myself or do something else stupid (self-destructive). And though I'm still avoiding things with distractions (using these three days alone to do housework instead of resting), in the end, these past few days have pushed me toward making a few decisions that are likely long overdue.

For starters, I plan on closing up shop on one or two of my blogs. Part of it is that I've (temporarily?) lost the desire to write. I mean, who am I writing to? And for what purpose? This one may or may not (but likely will) end. It's one year intent ran up 10 months ago anyhow. Same for the Fangirl blog. As fun as the Fangirl blog was, I haven't updated it in a while, and though I have posts left to finish for it, it too may end.

Another decision had to do with a project to secretly bless a family. And while the plan is amazing and would take a while to come to fruition, it would involve some sacrifices that friends and family may not be too keen on. As long as I keep telling myself that recent (personal) changes are personal, it makes it easier to sacrifice to make this project possible. That's what I tell myself anyway, that the players are all being repositioned so that God's blessing could be made possible. It's not a comfortable thing, but then again, it never is... is it.

I'm going to use the rest of my 'thinking time' tonight and tomorrow wisely, and so long as I'm at peace with decision, will post my last update of this blog by Monday.

Thank you all, for reading this. Know that while I may not be updating this blog after next week, I will certainly give links to the blog(s?) that will become my new home.

Reading Questions: Last Bit

2011-10-11T13:39:00.000-07:00

Due to a last minute change in plans, it seems my intended post on dresses will have to wait till this evening as we are set to drive me the puppy ~~up the wall~~ to the vet ~~with last minute schedule changes and inconviencing presumptions~~ for his last puppy shots.

So here, for now, is the last section of the reading questionaire.

48. What would cause you to stop reading a book half-way through?

Coming across a book that I believe I HAVE TO READ RIGHT NOW!!!
...or having a class with a reading requirement.

49. Do you like to keep your books organized?

Does a bird fly?

50. Do you prefer to keep books or give them away once you’ve read them?

They don't stay long after I've read them.

51. Are there any books you’ve been avoiding?

Many

52. Name a book that made you angry.

She's Just Not That Into You (the condensed version, or any version for that matter)

53. A book you didn’t expect to like but did?

Hmm.... Maybe "How to Go from Being a Good Evangelical to a Committed Catholic in Ninety-Five Difficult Steps" by Christian Smith

54. A book that you expected to like but didn’t?

*shudder* ...Twilight. I honestly expected to be won over, but was turned off even more to the whole thing.

55. Favorite guilt-free, pleasure reading?

Young Adult fiction.

Reading Questions: 41-47

2011-10-10T13:33:00.000-07:00

41. The longest I’ve gone without reading.

Books? Maybe a week or two. ...Maybe.

42. Name a book that you could/would not finish.

Emma. I hate Emma with a passion.

43. What distracts you easily when you’re reading?

Everything... particularly people trying to engage me in conversation while I'm obviously trying to be engrossed in a book.

44. Favorite film adaptation of a novel.

My favorite experience of seeing an adaptation of a novel I've read has to be "Red Dragon".
So excited was I that when visiting Universal Studios, I took a picture of the sign showing that they were filming it (after I just finished reading it myself) and took a friend with me to see it as his birthday gift.

45. Most disappointing film adaptation?

How about "film adaptations I avoid like the plague"... cause that's an easy one: anything by Nicholas Sparks.

46. The most money I’ve ever spent in the bookstore at one time?

...It's somewhere around $150. I think. ...I hope.

47. How often do you skim a book before reading it?

Always

Reading Questions: 31-40

2011-10-08T19:31:00.000-07:00

31. How do you feel about giving bad/negative reviews?

I don't, unless it's really, really bad.

32. If you could read in a foreign language, which language would you chose?

Latin... or Klingon. I'd love to be able to read "Hamlet" in the original Klingon. ;)

33. Most intimidating book you’ve ever read?

Anna Karenina

34. Most intimidating book you’re too nervous to begin?

Dating "self-help" books

35. Favorite Poet?

Weird Al... he counts, right?
I actually never had a favorite. Shocking, I know. I love poetry, but never really had a favorite. Had a favorite poem though:

Maud Muller, on a summer's day,

Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast,

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor
And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health and quiet and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover,

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
"Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall;

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein.

And gazing down with timid grace
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned,
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "it might have been."
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

John Greenleaf Whittier's poem: Maud Muller

36. How many books do you usually have checked out of the library at any given time?

None.

37. How often have you returned book to the library unread?

Plenty... which is why I don't borrow books from the library. That, and the library is often closed.

38. Favorite fictional character?

From a book? ...Horatio Hornblower (I've only missed one or two of the books), Morgain (Mists of Avalon), and the Pigeon (from Mo Willem's pigeon series)

39. Favorite fictional villain?

Severus Snape

40. Books I’m most likely to bring on vacation?

I bring non-fiction, then don't read them cause I'm on vacation.
...exception: guide books

Reading Questions: 21-30

2011-10-06T14:30:00.000-07:00

21. What will inspire you to recommend a book?

Finding the story/info meaningful and personally enlightening. But since most of what I read is non-fiction, reading something that explains a concept in a clear, concise manner is often the type of thing I recommend to others. Things like guides and how-to books that make complex or overwhelming information clear and easy to grasp.

22. Favorite genre?

Science fiction/fantasy and non-fiction (religion)

23. Genre you rarely read (but wish you did?)

I wish I read more of the classics.

24. Favorite biography?

I read biographies? ...ok, I read one biography and it was far from a favorite.

25. Have you ever read a self-help book?

Yes. Many of them.

26. Favorite cookbook?

Hmm... I don't think I have a favorite. There is one on my wishlist that I thumb through every time I go to the bookstore (looking at the info on saints....not necessarily at the recipes. Ok, at the pictures of the food too...) but our family cookbook is only pulled out for one recipe, taped on the back of a divider in the middle of the book.

27. Most inspirational book you’ve read this year (fiction or non-fiction)?

Weightless

28. Favorite reading snack?

Tea

29. Name a case in which hype ruined your reading experience.

There was a book that I won't mention, but I was caught up in the excitement, bought it, then realized I had already read it and it was boring. Also, "He's Just Not That Into You".

Swore I wouldn't read it. Picked up the condensed version... got mad at the book and wanted to chuck it out the window on the ride home. But that would be littering.

30. How often do you agree with critics about a book?

I rarely, if ever, care what a critic thinks about a book. This is because they don't know what I like in books. However, I will listen to my friends. They tell me why they liked the book, and why they think I'd like it.

Reading Questions: 11-20

2011-10-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

11. How often do you read out of your comfort zone?

Not often enough.

12. What is your reading comfort zone?

Non-fiction, religious... blogs about religion, everyday inanities, science fiction and awesome nerds in pop culture...

13. Can you read on the bus?

Yes.
I can read on the bus.
I can read if I must.
I DO like green eggs and ham.
I do like them, Sam I am!

14. Favorite place to read?

Anywhere. Except when I'm behind the steering wheel. Or sitting in the back of the van. NOTHING helps when sitting in the back of the van, except sleep.

15. What is your policy on book lending?

If I lend you a book, it's because I really really REALLY want you to read it.
...also, I don't expect to get it back.

16. Do you ever dog-ear books?

Always.
With confidence!

17. Do you ever write in the margins of your books?

I use to all the time. No matter the genere...
Now, only when I know the book will stay with me forever, and I'm using it to study with.
...and I've run out of post its. Yeah, I notate in margins when I'm out of post its.

18. Not even with text books?

Not with text books though. Ruins the resale value.

19. What is your favorite language to read in?

L337 1$ fun, bu7 1 (0v3r m0r3 (0n73n7 u$1n9 3n9l1$h.

20. What makes you love a book?

Story. A really GOOD story that takes me away from my world and makes me believe in the impossible.

Reading Questions: 1-10

2011-10-05T16:50:00.000-07:00

Over on Happy Catholic, the reading meme is being filled out (chunk by chunk) and upon seeing the first few questions, I knew I had to do this!

1. Favorite childhood book?

"I Love You Forever" (Robert Munch) and "There's a Monster at the End of This Book" (by, uh, Grover?)
Honestly, there are far more Robert Munch books that I love -- "Paper bag Princess", "Stephanie's Ponytail"... but since working with the little ones, I've been introduced to other amazements. The Skippy-Jon Jones books as well as pretty much anything I've read of Mo Willems are highly recommended. Just a warning: the last of the Knuffle Bunny books is more for the adult and may make you nostalgic or teary-eyed. And do read the Pidgeon books. Kids love telling Pidgeon "no", and just wait till the book where he actually gets what he wants! *squee*

2. What are you reading right now?

St. Joseph Baltimore Catechism 2 (again) and "The Fearless Mrs. Goodwin"

3. What books do you have on request at the library?

None. I do have a wish list on Amazon for my kindle. Half are books suggested by friends (books like "The Help" and the "Hunger Games" trilogy) and half are books I want to read, but never do (like John Green books).

4. Bad book habit?

I can't be trusted in a bookstore with a credit card.

Actually, I have the habit of starting a book and getting two-thirds into it before stopping and never finishing. This rarely happens now, as now I just stop reading and go to another book if by chapter 2 or 3 I'm not really into the story. This is why I stick to non-fiction.

5. What do you currently have checked out at the library?

None. But on my kindle are:
"Sinner" Lino Rulli (highly, highly recommend this book)
"The Handbook for Catholic Moms" Lisa M. Hendey (if I recall, this woman is local to me, and this...along with a few other mom books... have been useful for streamlining the household routine and giving me a different attitude about housework)
"Weightless" Kate Wicker
"Happy Catholic" Julie Davis (yes, the blog has a book)
"The Domestic Church" Donna Marie Cooper O'Boyle
"Responsibilities and other poems" W.B. Yeats

6. Do you have an e-reader?

Yes. I took a year or so of contemplating it before giving in.

7. Do you prefer to read one book at a time, or several at once?

Prefer one, but tend to have several that are half-read.

8. Have your reading habits changed since starting a blog?

Yes. I don't carry around three or four books to read at a time, and prefer to focus on just one at a time. Also, I value my reading time (be it book or blog) as me time where I can relax and be attentive to one thing without juggling a bunch of other things at the same time.

9. Least favorite book you read this year (so far?)

"The Fearless Mrs. Goodwin" is one that I forced myself to read. I wanted to quit before chapter two started. But I've lost much of my taste for fiction it seems. And this was including the book I bought and read before realizing half way through that I had read it already... then continued to read it just to have it read.

10. Favorite book you’ve read this year?

I enjoyed "Sinner" (seriously, if I had the budget, I'd get it for people as their Christmas gift) and... actually, I'm having trouble thinking of any other book I enjoyed reading.

Where Have You Been?!

2011-09-22T00:21:00.000-07:00

...is a question my friends are likely wanting to ask of me. So here it goes, without going to each of you individually. Everyone, gather 'round the computer screen as I stitch these seemingly random explanations into a patchwork quilt of a post.

First and foremost... I apologize. I tend to pack up and move on or withdraw from everything when things are not going so well. I have been known to just disappear without rhyme or reason, and that is not your fault.

To my church family:
Yes, I am still around. Yes, I am still attending services... but I've been doing so at the catholic church down the road. Wait, wait... let me back up a bit. For those who've asked, yes, there were about two months there when I wasn't going anywhere. I would listen to sermon podcast online, but because of illness (mine or a relatives) and the opportunity to spend time with family I haven't seen in, oh... a decade... I spent many a Sunday at home. What you may not know is for years I've slowly worked on educating myself regarding misconceptions relating to Catholic practices. I've actually wanted to go, to attend mass, to talk about it and my questions with someone... and this past summer, I finally did it. So that, in a nutshell, is where I've been.
No... no one pushed me away or otherwise influenced me negatively to leave. It has been something that was a long time coming.
No... not doing this for a guy. There is probably only one guy who'd fit the bill, and he'd probably laugh and ask "You mean you're not doing this to become a nun?!" That, and doing anything so drastic and heavy on commitment as Catholicism for the sake of a guy is just, well, stupid. Unless by "guy" you mean Jesus... then yes. Totally did it for a guy.

To my family of swing dancers:
Why have you not seen me on Wednesdays since the week following camp??? Two reasons: first, I've been going to physical therapy for my knee (something LONG overdue). Second, I knew religious education classes were coming up for me, and when I found out the date (this week... same day and time as dance lessons) there were no more Wednesdays for me. I knew that one day, class would begin, and for me, there was no difficult choice-- this class comes first, dance second. Doesn't mean forever, but I know it will feel that way. :(

To "the girls":
I have no excuse other than schedule and my reverting back to old methods of dealing with stress and discomfort (by that I mean, withdraw and avoid). It's been an unusual summer in that I've been able to "hang out" (albeit, at home) more than I've ever done in the years I've lived here. So to go back to the normal routine of spending my days at work, at home, and seeing everyone on an occasional basis... seems like a severe cut-back in face-time. And it is. There are things I've been trying to work out, and honestly, I should be discussing this with you guys so you don't think I'm being secretive or avoiding you (I'm not...honest). But they're two things I really have difficulty putting into words in the first place, let alone trying to communicate to a second party in a way that is clear. And as to my behavior this summer, I know some of it seems shocking as you probably wouldn't think it to come from me. I can only offer two reasons: one, I do really stupid things when I'm exhausted and let me tell you...I'm running on a severe sleep deficit (still) and (still) requiring naps after work. I don't have a choice, my body just ...sleeps. Two, I have spent a better part of the summer talking a lot of things out, to a mutual friend and to family I haven't seen in some time. A lot of things that needed to be said, just to get them out in the open, have resulted in some serious discourse and exploration as to questioning human behavior and self-imposed beliefs/restrictions. From a sociology perspective, this has yielded interesting results. I know myself a little better... more importantly, I'm more honest about it and less likely to hold things back (just to please others).

To my friend from the park:
I'm fairly certain you already know that I wasn't 100% honest with you when we last talked. Pretty much because (for me) being that open and honest usually equates with "this is going to hurt (me)". One of these days, I will get comfortable and not hold things back just because I'm afraid. I'm working on it.
And yes... the barking dog did make me incredibly nervous. Don't know why...I've just always been that way. Sucks for me seeing as Bo (my dad's dog when I was younger) is bigger than my dog, and we (and all my friends) have dogs.

And if you don't understand a word I just wrote, that's fine too. The point is, I finally said it. To all of you.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I really do have to go. Work and more physical therapy await me.

Manageable

2011-09-17T12:01:00.000-07:00

It's the last few days before Grandma goes in for surgery on her feet. We've been through this before and know that it would benefit us greatly to get things out of the way now. ...so we are.

Most of the backyard (our big project of late) has been completed, but still not manageable. And thinking about what we want to get done this weekend, it all comes down to making things manageable. We stock up on supplies when we go to town so that we have plenty on hand when we need them. We buy certain styles of pants for Grandma to make dressing and bathroom visits less of an ordeal, and something she can do herself (on good days). We've arranged the rooms and sold or given away things to make moving around the house a bit easier. I even have the tendency to avoid wearing white just so I don't have to sort my laundry (I just wait till there is enough for one load and then... wash).

Not all the choices we make are the wisest. For example, out near-dependence on disposable paper plates, plastic cups and forks, and the multitude of trips through the drive thru... all under the guise of making our day-to-day lives easier. And in my personal life, I can think of many other decisions made to improve my body, self-esteem or whatever, that all turned out to be money and time wasted.

In fact, it was management in my personal life that I wanted to address today. But even now, after thinking about this post for days, I still don't have an explanation as to why or to what end I'm doing what I'm doing now. I just have a first step and the faith that there is a reason, a purpose behind it. I just don't know what that is yet.

You see, for about 12 years I've had two things consistently weave through my thoughts (on the occasion I have to sit and not distract myself from those deep thoughts). One is simply a step. "Do this." I don't have a reason for it other than "I can't get away from the thought and the feeling that I need to do it."

So I'm going to do it. In fact, I've already started. And when asked why on earth I'd sell perfectly good things that I could potentially use some time in the future, I'll tell them:
"...to make life a little more manageable."

How Do You Know?

2011-09-15T17:38:00.000-07:00

When is something a calling from God? And when is something just a flight of fancy you've yet to set aside?

There are things that continually settle in my mind, and when I am not trying to ignore them or crowd them out with other meaningless things, they say the same things over and over. The few small steps, over the years, all fitting so snug under the umbrella of what would seem outrageous to most, but to me would be one of the most enriching, fulfilling, meaningful experiences that I could imagine (and feel totally unworthy and humbled by the thought of it).

It's hard to talk about it in generalities, but think about something you've felt like you've wanted to do. No, something you've needed to do. A need that bubbles from a well so deep inside it's almost hard to believe it's there. This need, this desire, so pure you fear that speaking it out loud will incur the taint of public opinion that steers so many away from pursuit of it.

And when you're fully enveloped in this almost perfect moment of knowing the plans God has for you... question whether or not it's pure folly.

That's how I feel when I think about this particular thing. It's been there, nesting for the better part of a decade. It seems so.... right... that I can't believe it to be anything but fantasy. I doubt where it comes from, question my intentions for gravitating towards it and even considering it.

So I ask, to those who may have even an inkling of an answer: How do you know this is of God and not from you and your ego?

2011-09-13T16:36:00.000-07:00

I am incredibly frustrated and as to avoid doing anything rash, I've sat myself down in front of the computer to type.

I'm frustrated because the two-day staycation I was planning (and really felt like I needed) had been delayed twice before being canceled by outside forces.

I'm frustrated because lifestyle changes I've had in the works seem to be stalled.

I'm frustrated because I feel like I'm spinning my wheels.

I'm frustrated because I feel like I've hit a wall regarding every project.

I'm... frustrated with myself.

In fact, I look around my room and it's a disaster. Well, disaster for me. My room is my center, and I can't work with a cluttered, messy center. The house even reflects it. Grandma had me postpone the housework so that I could find someone to help out on the two days I was here by myself (with the other person to be paid). I found no one, and figured I would do it myself. After all.... this is supposed to be my home, right? A long list of to-do items sits on my dresser, all things that are needed (and wanted) done before Grandma has her next surgery (Monday).

For all my intentions, I've managed to clean two showers and finish the laundry before wanting to walk away from it all.

Because at the end of the day, I just wanted to be selfish and enjoy a relaxing evening watching a movie at home with a friend or two. One evening to not have my guard up or be 'on call'. For that, for putting myself and what I rationalized as a need ahead of my home, I feel incredibly guilty.

So I'm going to go re-clean my room and maybe finish the bathrooms.
Maybe after that, I won't feel so guilty.

Heavy Thoughts in Condensed Form

2011-09-08T18:39:00.000-07:00

I over think the simplest things, going so far as to question if what I'm certain of is really what I'm certain of.

You see, I never really had a game plan for my life. I had statements such as "I want to constantly travel so I'd never have to put down roots" or "I just want to NOT live here." or whatever, but no real plan for it. Full of potential, but without some direction I am just as a drifting boat with her sails down: going nowhere except where the current takes me.

I started waking up to the fact that I wanted things I thought I could never have. Things like a loving husband, a family... a home. I wanted them, if only because I felt like I deserved them, or that by having a good family, it would somehow prove that I'm not a screw-up or unlovable. That having a good, loving family would fix all that rejection had broken within me.

But I know that wont happen.

Years ago, and from time to time even now, I question weather circumstances and personal preferences are in fact clues telling me that I'm supposed to become a nun. Don't laugh... I actually did think at one time that it was the only logical alternative to what was (at the time) likely to be a rather unfortunate and painful result of what was going on at that time. I joked that it was my Plan-B for life: I would finish up with my obligations at home, sell all my things (and pay off my school debt which at the time was significant), and enter a convent or something. Of course, this meant I had to become Catholic first. Now that I'm starting RCIA class, I guess that's still an option.

But I'm pretty sure that won't happen.

So what does that leave me? The single life? A life of religious study and watching my friends in and out of relationships and not experiencing that? ...I don't know. And honestly, I could say yes or no and either way find myself proven wrong later on down the road. But I have to learn how to live that single life and a fruitful and fulfilling way before ANY of the above life paths are sought. I can't expect a relationship to make me happy if I can't be happy on my own. I can't hide from the world or cut off options simply because it's logical or I think it would somehow be a salve for loneliness. I have to exist in that singular state and learn what and who I am and OWN that, or suffer an aimless life.

Two Weeks No Coffee...

2011-09-05T12:00:00.000-07:00

It has been two weeks since I cut caffeine-laden beverages from my diet and I actually feel pretty decent at the moment. Sure, this past week I succumbed to stress and had more than my share of Carl's Jr and their caffeine-free sprite... but other than that, it's been good.

With only two more weeks left of physical therapy, I decided that the next good habit to work on is consistent exercise.

Now... I'm going to go on a slight tangent here and say that I really do appreciate routine. I like schedules in that they (as well as lists) keep me on target and accountable. But I get overly wound up with trying to be precise with my schedule and not letting any wiggle room come into play. The past two weeks, I had that wiggle room in the caffeine-free sodas (all the taste of soda, no caffeine). And it worked.

In talking over some household scheduling issues we're having, I found myself needing to quickly have a good, simple system for keeping focused on what is needed (what is important) while not falling back into that rigid mindset of having to have things done on certain days, at certain times...and being completely unforgiving when I slip up. I need routine, but not the perfectionist mindset I often pair with it.

So while developing my new system (...a glorified checklist) I've made sure to include "exercise" as one of the important things. Do I have to do it Monday through Friday without fail? No... I'm going to fail sometime, or have days like the last two weeks where I'm lucky to get the at-home exercises done for physical therapy. But a simple checklist can work. It's easy to use, easy to obtain a check for the day (Completing 2/3 of my pt exercises or 30 minutes of cardio) and most importantly (though I'm sure I've covered this): I didn't make it overly complicated or imply strictness.

So today I pulled out my Zumba dvds. I really liked Zumba, and the last time I did it consistently, I dropped a pant size in one week.

It.
Was.
Awesome!

So today after my normal "make the house tidy again", it's the first of what I hope to make many more days of adding a healthy habit to my daily routine.

2011-2012 Goals

2011-08-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

With the new school (work) year starting in a mere 8 hours, two things come to mind:

1. Why am I not in bed, resting for the big day?

and

2. New goals for the school year! (yay)

So after a brief text interlude which got my mind to racing, these are the goals for the upcoming school year:

* No caffinated beverages. No, really. I've been told by a variety of doctors and one really good friend that I need to stop so... Yeah. I brewed a pot of Mystic Monk's Midnight Vigil coffee (my favorite... cause it's yummy and I can drink it without it being mostly milk and sugar). I sat up and drank about 2/3rds of the pot myself. Then at midnight... no more. In fact, at this point, I've gone almost 24 hours sans coffee, soda and chocolate.

* Start saving. Even if it's $50 a month... or $30 a month... just start saving something!

* Lose 25 lbs by Christmas...50 by June. I'm currently in the middle of a round at physical therapy for my knee, and discussions with the therapist have left me with actually completing lower body workouts at least 4 days out of the week as it is. I really need to continue being consistent with working out and making healthier food choices to I can lose some weight and lessen the strain on my joints.

* Pay off 50% of my remaining debt.

An official goal list (like from Year One) will go up soon. But as it is, the night wanes and I must rest. Some things (like "Go out on a date... a real date.") may not make the list because as much as I'd like for them to happen, I probably shouldn't force a timetable on it. But maybe you have suggestions of other goals?

NaNoWriMo2010: Chapter 8, Conclusion

2011-08-20T22:35:00.000-07:00

Chapter 8: Begin Again

The Beginning of December, on a Now-Normal Tuesday--Age 25

“That sounds great, Mary Sue… I am glad to hear this.” Dr. Townsend-Cloud smiles and nods her head affirmatively. “This is real, concrete progress. You should be proud of the hard work you have put in to things since I first saw you.”

I have been meeting with Dr. Annabel Townsend-Cloud for the past five months. Every Tuesday morning, like clockwork, I would show up to the counseling center, greet the overly-enthusiastic middle-aged receptionist whom I have now found out, has a fixation on all things pink, and spend somewhere around an hour to an hour-and-a-half talking over the prior two weeks with Dr. Townsend-Cloud. We would end our sessions with Dr. Townsend-Cloud asking the same question: “Is there anything else on your mind that you want to talk about?”

“Is there anything else on your mind that you want to talk about?” Dr. Townsend-Cloud asked, right on queue.

I actually give it some thought this time. For a few sessions there, near the beginning, I honestly wondered if she could somehow read my mind, read my facial expressions or somehow read some other thing that told her that yes, there really was something else on my mind and yes, as confusing as it was for me, I really, truly, honestly and objectively wanted to talk about it. But each session, when Dr. Townsend-Cloud would ask me if there was anything else on my mind that I wanted to talk about, I would shake my head and pretend as if I honestly could not think of another thing to extend the session by another five minutes or so. And each week, she let me go with that answer and simply handed me a slip of paper to take back to the overly-perky receptionist so that I could exchange the slip of paper for an appointment reminder card.

So this week, after spending a session wherein I particularly impressed Dr. Townsend-Cloud (more so than the time a few months back when I finally cleaned out the house and let my good friend Cassandra sell it all in a yard sale for pocket change), I really considered bringing up a subject whose time in my consciousness is lessening by the week, but …whose presence I honestly do not want to disappear entirely.

“To be honest… yeah.” I look at Dr. Townsend-Cloud sheepishly. “There has been something on my mind for a few weeks… and I keep telling myself that it is no big deal… that what was done is done and cannot be undone. And while it looks like I will never see this person again… it is still on my mind.”

Why is it, now that the thought has occurred to me and it is on my mind, that any time Dr. Edward Tilney as been brought up as a topic of discussion (whether willingly or not), I wind up feeling foolish? More so, I wind up feeling foolish about bringing it up, or feeling foolish about my actions?

“I know it has been a while… a long while in fact, but…” I seriously consider stopping here and now and saying it is nothing and forgetting the fact that I began to bring all of this up in the first place, but Dr. Townsend-Cloud did once say that whatever I do not say, whatever it is that I keep to myself instead of bringing it up during our sessions together, whatever it is, she cannot help me if I do no share it with her.

“Our second session together, you said I was a bit distant and asked if something was bothering me. I told you that I was having an issue with my friend where something occurred and I questioned his motives and acted out in the heat of the moment… Um, does any of this ring a bell?”

Dr. Townsend-Cloud looked down at her notepad, flipping back to her notes from our earlier sessions. “Ah, yes… I asked if you thought you may have overreacted.”

“Yes. That was it. I thought that maybe I had overreacted. It was certain that I acted out of character… but I was not entirely sure if my actions were… a bit too much.”

“And did you ever figure out the answer to that question of yours?”

I sigh and bend forward, resting my head between my knees and covering the back of my head with my hands. I breath… I cannot escape this, nor can I hide it. It just keeps following me.

I sit upright again, drawing my hands down slowly alongside my face and letting them drop down from my chin to my lap. “Yeah, I am….uh… I am pretty sure that I blew it.”

“You… blew it?”

“I blew it. I took whatever was there or was possibly beginning, and I just threw it all away… Just… said goodbye, never to be seen or heard from again.”

“Ah… so he hasn’t come back into your life? No contact with him? No running into him?”

“No… nothing at all.

“Hmm…” she tapped the end of her pen against her chin, pausing to push her narrow glasses further up on her nose. “And this is bothering you?”

“I… I guess not.”

“No?”

“I wouldn’t really say it was bothering me…”

“What would you say? In your own words.”

“It… I…” I stop to think about it for a minute. “It is like he is a shadow in my life. Not necessarily him exactly, but his memory… everything that was and was likely to be in this unseen, whispering ghost that follows me. I go throughout my day, doing my…daily things. Thinking and speaking and doing… But when I set down the day job, when I finish a conversation with someone or I have completed my training for the day…” I bite my lip. “In the little moments, out of the corner of my eye and in hushed tones that do not care if they are heard, but are so much more sorrowful when they are… He is there.”

I let out a single chuckle, a stark contrast to the large tear that has just escaped and is now running down my cheek. “It sounds absolutely bonkers, but I picture him standing there, looking at me, reminding me that he is not here with me and it makes me miss him more than I already do.”

“Hmm..” she mutters, in a slow, understanding tone far different than her normal inquisitive “Hmm’s” that often punctuate a revelation during our sessions. “Has anyone ever told you that people come into our lives for a variety of reasons, and what’s more, for a variety of seasons. Some people are here to guide and shape us as we are growing up. Others, to introduce us to something new before they move on. Some people take long journeys with us. Others…well, their journeys are far shorter.”

“I have heard something along those lines once or twice.”

“Does it help any?”

“Not particularly, but I appreciate you for trying anyway.”

This time, as I stand up and hug her at the conclusion of our session, she does not hand me a slip of paper. I do not walk up to the perky, middle-aged receptionist and come away with an appointment reminder card. I do not drive home with an action plan for the following two weeks.

This, after five months, was to be our final session at the counseling center with Dr. Annabel Townsend-Cloud.

December 11th--Age 25

A few months ago, after renovating an old study in my house and converting it into my own private, individual-sized dance studio, I began implementing a regime that had gone by the wayside so long ago. After over a year out of practice, out of shape (though finally rid of the weight I had gained from prolonged exposure to the Hostess brand of chocolate-covered snack items) and certainly out of prime opportunities practically handed to me on a silver platter, I decided that what I needed most at this time was to recondition my former dancer’s body. Whatever would or could happen after that… it required the crucial step of getting back into form.

So everyday, I would wake with my alarms, get dressed, and spend the time I had formally devoted to running (and effectively running off the extra weight I had gained around my middle), and used it for a combination of stretching and work on basic fundamentals of dance.

I would then shower, dress and go to work where I would quietly practice positioning and plies when made to stand around for any time longer than ten minutes. Arriving home after a long and mentally exhausting day, I would return to my home studio and spend another two hours into my practice: One hour of dance fundamentals and reviewing different types of dances, and the second hour remembering, recreating and rehearsing short dance routines.

At one point, realizing that I was sorely in need of new dance shoes and wanting to check out the small dance studio that had recently opened in an office space downtown. I walked in and recognized the teacher leading a small group of pre-teens in a lesson in interpretative dance. It was Annaka Kirkland; a woman about fifteen years my senior who still did not look her age due to her slender dancers build, platinum locks, and features softened by sheer lack of stage makeup. Annaka and her then partner John (now husband… unless that has changed in the last year) went semi-pro in the latin dance field, touring the states with a group of other semi-professional competitive dancers who loved to entertain. I think if they had a television show like Dancing With The Stars before she and John would have had a blast as professionals on something like that. They, unlike a lot of dancers who study for years and try to make a career off of what they know, actually enjoy sharing their knowledge with others and teaching in a formal setting. The transition from student to competitor to teacher was a relatively stable and smooth one for the pair.

In fact, it was Annaka and John who as part-owners in what was the town’s only dance studio (the far larger, more established Missy Medukah’s Dance Studio run by who else… Missy Medukah, diva extraordinaire) rallied to hire me on as a teacher when I returned from New York City and my year-long internship.

It was that night, after sticking around until after the last class to say hello to Annaka, that I found myself once again on the receiving end of a job offer. That is, after a barrage of questions ranging from how I was to what I had been doing and whether or not I was still dancing as it had appeared that I had somehow fallen off of the face of the planet for over a year. All culminating with “So… are you still interested in teaching dance?”

This was all a bit sudden. I just came in for shoes after all. I had no expectation of finding myself face to face with the same offer I thought I had given up on last year when my world fell apart.

We sat for another few hours and I was caught up with the goings-on in the dance world when it came down to our fair city. It turned out that their former partner, Missy Medukah (“diva extraordinaire with hair to match…” as I have often heard her described) had done everything she could think of to drive Annaka and John to give up and get out of the dance studio business. She tried changing their scheduled classes, changing the policies of the studio, changing the contract…

“She what?”

“Yeah… she came in with some official-looking paper saying that we weren’t fulfilling our end of the contract so she was evoking some clause that would let her take full ownership and kick us out without compensation.”

“How did that go over?”

“Oh, we just pointed out that it was obviously photo shopped, then threatened legal action. We agreed to let her buy us out and then took that money and started our own studio. Genius, right!”

They were excited. Things were admittingly slow since they are new and unable to provide the availability of classes and times that would appeal to parents. “But with another dancer on board who can teach…” John hinted.

Three weeks later and we were putting on an exhibition featuring ourselves and our current students. The following week, I began teaching evening classes for couples who want to learn how to ballroom dance. I say it is for couples, but we all know that these classes are for the wives whose life-long dream has been to waltz/foxtrot/tango like a professional. The husbands show up because not supporting their wives attempt at fulfilling a life-long dream would be the equivalent of getting a chance to play a game with the professional sports team of your choice, only to have your spouse tell you “No.” Seriously… do not, under any circumstances, come between a woman and her desired dance lessons unless you want to give her something to forever complain about for the remainder of your entire life. That, or you will be met with a “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” line as she signs up for dance lessons anyway and gets partnered up with a man who is without a partner himself, instantly driving you to jealousy wherein you seriously consider signing up for dance lessons just so you can show Mr. So-and-so McFancy-Pants that you can out box-step ANY beginning student over fifty with two bum knees and a fake hip.

Tonight is the end of my first week of teaching and I can honestly say… I can’t remember a time in quite some time when I have felt so free and weightless. Tonight felt like every recital, every performance, every audition where I was able to set aside everything going on in my life or in my head and just dance. The pure bliss of taking music and interpreting it in the language of the soul…the movement of body in such a way as to be expressive and as much a form of communication as is speaking or writing. Thinking about it, the last time I recall having a moment of feeling like I was at home in the moment, regardless of where I was or what was going on… was the night spent at Edward’s house. At the end of the evening, when wrapped me up to keep me warm, put his arm around me and I just melted into his side, feeling so safe and secure. How I feel now, at the end of this week… was just like that. So clear in what I want and where I wanted to be.

I still catch myself looking for him. On the days when I have coffee with Cassandra, I watch out the window hoping he rides up on his shiny red bicycle. Or on Sundays, during the church service… I will turn around at various times, glancing back to see if he had snuck in and taken his usual seat ten rows behind me. On occasion I have even gone on a run, at the same time I we use to, taking the same path that we use to run… still nothing.

I tell myself that I am just getting my hopes up. That I should just push such thoughts aside and move on. Everything else seems to be moving along, why can’t I? I am back dancing, teaching even. I saw a counselor and I am no longer pushing people away and locking up my emotions all the time. I do not even shy away from discussing my parents anymore. I even spent a week a few months back dealing with all of their possessions at once, cleaning out the house and transforming it as my own with my own personal touches. Changing the house from still belonging to my parents, to finally being my home.

And Cassandra… her wedding plans are coming along. I am not so certain about the colors, but then again, I am not the bride. I do not have to live with the pictures or deal with the in-laws so my opinion… is not the most important of opinions in this matter. But nonetheless, I am happy for her. She is happy, excited even. She deserves it.

I wonder, as I do on all of these nights when I am afforded more than ten minutes of quiet time… I wonder if one day I will wake up and spend a whole day in which I do not think of Edward. A day in which I am not reminded of him, or that he is not here and by all reason, probably is not even living here in town as I have yet to even run into him by accident in the last five months. I wonder if there is a day when his name can be spoken of in casual conversation and I no longer feel a piercing loss.

I let these thoughts run their course as I close my eyes and hope to sleep.

December 31st--Age 25

It is just beginning to get dark outside. All of the students have left and in another hour or so, Annaka and John will return with party food and the three of us will decorate for the dance studio’s first ever New Year’s Eve party: an evening of food, fun, and dancing while dressed up in dressy clothing. My dress was hanging in the dressing room. I decided that I would simply stay at the dance studio following my last class, and after what is quickly becoming my evening routine, I would get cleaned up and dressed in the dressing room, bedazzled and beautiful before Annaka and John arrive.

After waiving the last of the student off, they themselves on their way home to change into something a bit more fancy for the evening’s events, I returned to the main room and changed the music in the stereo from standard songs for an intro to waltz class, to something I had put together last month. It was a mix of songs I have always wanted to perform to but for one reason or another, just… never did.

As the first song begins, I step up to the ballet bar and stretch out, taking my time to simply listen to the song and transition from leading to doing, from teaching to simply dancing; from executing the steps, to interpreting and expressing the song.

I make my way to the center of the dance studio as the song ends and I am ready to dance. The song that plays is Sara Bareilles’ “Gravity,” a song I had considered using for the interpretative dance class’ number in the spring recital. Or not. This song always felt so intimate and personal. I may keep it to myself, creating a routine just for me and my audience of no one but self.

I close my eyes, ignoring everything but the music and the feeling behind the vocals. I throw everything into it, hoping to get through it once or twice before it was time to clean up. Just once, at least one good run though before anyone shows up…

As I hit the finishing pose to the emotionally exhausting number, I pause briefly before rising back to first position and opening my eyes toward the studio’s wall of mirrors. Looking back at me through the mirror is a sight I had begun to think I would never see again.

“Edward,” I quietly gasped, wondering if these late nights alone in the studio were beginning to play tricks on my mind. My heart leapt nonetheless at the thought that perhaps, this was real and not my imagination conjuring up an incredibly vivid, wholly life-like daydream that will disappear as soon as I turn around and away from the mirror.

I watch, transfixed as this apparition of the nearly-forgotten begins to take his first slow, measured steps in my direction. My hand drops from my mouth (where I tried to cover my startled expression) to my heart (to make sure it was still beating and that if it were, that it was not about to jump out of my chest).

He continued to walk toward me.

I must be dead. That is the only conclusion I can come up with on the spur of the moment that would make any sense whatsoever at this moment. I have, at some point in the middle of my closed-eye interpretive dance routing, slipped and fell, hitting my head very hard against something else rather hard… like the floor. At this moment, I am unconscious and with no one expected to arrive soon enough to call for life-saving help, my brain has taken over and conjured up this ghost from my recent past to comfort me as I lay dying. It is the only thing that remotely makes sense, and I realize that at this point, so much of my story has been unbelievable and quite extraordinary to be certain, but this… this figure who is but a few feet behind me at present… this does not compute. This cannot be happening. It cannot be real…

Silence.

It did not cross my mind that perhaps, he was simply out of town this whole time. Perhaps, his schedule had changed and could no longer attend church or go for energizing morning runs. Perhaps, he had been found out… that maybe Dr. Townsend-Cloud really could read minds and put two and two together, causing such an uproar over a counselor who was getting emotionally involved with a potential patient that he was forced out of his job and he had spent the last five months looking for work? Maybe something devastating had occurred and his family across town needed him?

Or maybe, quite simply, Edward Tilney only wanted to give me space.

…and that it had occurred to him that five months was plenty long enough.

…and furthermore, in those five months, Edward Tilney had quite enough time to contemplate which lines he wished most to cross.

…and that at this moment, lips pressed to mine, he had crossed the one line he had wanted to cross for quite some time indeed.

Or he would have, had I not involuntarily slapped him as soon as he stepped within reach. Immediately, I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell him that I had no idea what came over me, that I couldn’t believe I just left a bright red handprint across his left cheek, that…

“Ohwwww….” his hand was against his face, a protective barrier from any further attack on my part. “What was that for?”

I was brought out of my daze. “What… What do you mean ‘what was that for’?” My hands begin to flail wildly, in some sort of attempt to indicate the past few months when he disappeared, his sudden return, and his halted attempt at a first kiss. “What was all that about!?” I really was dumbfounded. I mean, on one hand, Edward was back. He was right here, in the flesh, wanting to be here where I was.

But was I supposed to forget that he fell off the face of the Earth after this past summer? That after relying on him for the little things, the companionship on my morning runs, the late night e-mails, the spam dinners and discussions over tea on Tuesdays… That after going without all of those things that gave me something to look forward to, that I was just supposed to be so happy that he was here that I would just forget all of that? Forget the times I would look for him through the window of the coffee shop. Forget getting through therapy, finally processing my grief, finally putting the pieces of my life back together…. Forgetting that I did all of it without him?

My anger starts to subside. I really wanted to be mad at him. I really wanted a really good reason to call him a jerk and have him arrested for trespassing and pray that I’d never see him again. But I couldn’t do it.

I pushed him away, ignoring him when he just wanted to know what was wrong.

I never gave him the chance to face my accusations or explain them away.

I never gave him a chance…

I…

Yeah, I’m the jerk. Even now, when he walks back into my life, I’m trying to find a reason to push him away. “I’m sorry” I finally say.

He looks a bit confused. “Shouldn’t that be my line? I mean, from what Cassandra said…”

“Cassandra? What does Cassie have to do with any of this?”

“Cassandra contacted me a couple months ago. She’s been keeping me updated on things… letting me know… Anyway, I need to apologize.”

I really don’t know what to say at this point.

“I should have told you what I did for a living instead of hiding it. I should have told you about Cassandra asking me to help you. I should have been perfectly clear what my intentions have been instead of letting you think the worst in me. And that was my fault. I’m sorry.”

I was trying to follow along, but my head was a bit fuzzy. “…Your intentions?”

“Cassandra asked me to help you to deal with your parents’ accident. This is true. But she expected that I take you on as a patient. After we started talking… I really felt like you needed a friend, not a doctor. So I did what I thought was the next best thing: I tried to become your friend. I had hoped that, as your friend, that maybe I could talk you into seeing someone, someone else, a different counselor… that maybe I could help lead you there and instead of having to be your doctor, I could be something else.”

“Something… like what exactly?”

“At first… a friend.”

“A friend?”

“A friend.”

“At first?”

“At first, a friend… yes.”

“What changed?”

“Me. I could be myself around you. My goofy, Pittsburgh Pirates-loving self that I can’t be around my patients or my co-workers.”

“Oh…” I was flattered, but stunned at the same time.

“…that, and I think you look good in my socks.”

Conclusion

Early May-- Age 25

My name is Mary Sue Kerplunkity and this is the story of how I finally gave up trying to shut the world out.

I had imagined this scene many times before, but never like this. I mean, ask anyone and they would tell you that the idea of me standing on a cliff overlooking a very rocky beach (and I use this term “beach” lightly) … well, they would tell you that it is preposterous. Preposterous, ludicrous, absurd… throw in any word that means “you would have a greater chance of seeing three sparkly pixies from Mars land in Ohio, do battle with and defeat a band of angry ninja squirrels and twenty-three hours later, die a most horrible and unspeakable death in a vat of New England clam chowder from Bubba Gump‘s in Monterey Bay” than see me standing so far up, on a cliff overlooking a very rocky beach.

But here I am anyway. Standing on a cliff …well, several feet away from the edge of a cliff. Contemplating my next move. Un-afraid of my surroundings or what is to come. Okay, a little bit afraid but not panicking in the way you would expect someone who is fearful of heights to panic. I guess it is more anticipation than panic. I never thought that I would end up here, doing what I am about to do. The fact that I was no where near backing out seemed just as shocking, even now… even to me.

Inhaling sharply, I snap back from my train of thought and ready myself. It was time. After everything, it was finally time. From behind I hear my name called out.

“Mary Sue , we are ready.” It is Edward, sticking out an elbow in an exaggerated manner. I lock arms with him and grin. Sometimes he is too much. But today, he is just what I need. The right balance of maturity and spontaneity, willing to laugh at himself and as I look down at the kitschy cufflinks he insisted on showing me… uncompromising in what is truly authentic for him.

“Seriously?” I question jokingly, “Pittsburgh Pirates cufflinks? At a wedding?”

“Pittsburgh Pirates cufflinks at a wedding and yes. I am seriously wearing them. Cassie only said ‘As long as they do not clash with the colors…’” He grins like the cat that has caught the canary. “And if I am not mistaken, the colors black and gold do not clash too much with lime green and… what is this called again?” He fingers the fabric of my bridesmaids dress.

“Mauve,” I remind him again.

“Right… Black and gold are not going to stand out against lime green and mauve…” He looks at me, meeting my eyes before bursting into laughter.

He walks me away from my thoughts, away from the splendor of the Pacific Ocean and the perfect 74 degree sunny day. He walks me away from all that and through the side entrance of the chapel. The wedding was not set to start for another hour and a half, but (as he reminded me), now was not the time to go off and explore the church grounds. Not when there was the floor show of pre-wedding madness going on indoors. The day had finally come for Cassandra to finally exchange wedding vows with her soon-to-be husband, Tony (who, as we found out at the rehearsal, was really named Milton. If my name were “Milton” I would want to go by something else too).

And it was here, a mere fifteen hours ago, that Dr. Edward Tilney pulled me aside after the rehearsal and-- in the solitude of an empty church sanctuary-- proposed to me an idea.

“I have been thinking…”

I have heard this phrase repeated enough to know that when Edward Tilney says that he has been thinking, what it really means is that he has been planning something.

“Yes?” I ask. “You have been thinking again? Should I warn the other wedding guests or will this idea be far less explosive than your office on Build-Your-Own-Burrito Tuesdays?” I found out about the regular practice of Dr. Edward Tilney’s co-workers turning the office into a storage facility for natural gas every Tuesday like clockwork, and the resulting insistence on Tuesday being the day for our regularly scheduled lunch date--a lunch date we began to keep (again) once the surprise of the New Year was over. As always, lunch on Tuesdays for us had to be far away from his office so that we may escape the massacre of olfactory nerves.

“Well, when you put it that way… I am not sure.”

“You are not sure?”

“I am not sure,” he repeats. “I have a proposal for you. It could be seen as more explosive than my office on Build-Your-Own-Burrito Tuesdays. However, it may not be more explosive than my office on Build-Your-Own-Burrito Tuesdays. The explosiveness of my proposal is relative and entirely dependent upon your reaction and response to my proposal.”

I am curious. “I am curious… What is this proposal you propose to propose?”

He stopped in his tracks, bent down to one knee and… retied his shoe that had become untied over the course of our brief walk.

My heart, stopping for what felt like minutes, began to beat again. He was not proposing a proposal. I acted as if I was not expecting anything, eagerly awaiting anything, or otherwise disappointed at the fake-out and lack of proposal that just happened.

He stood. “Marry me.”

***
Ok, readers. In all honesty, I had three different endings for Chapter 8, none of which were ever satisfying to me. Conclusion aside, how would you have liked to have seen it end? Did you in fact LIKE the ending?
Comment :D

NaNoWriMo2010: Chapter 7

2011-08-20T22:30:00.000-07:00

Chapter 7: Clean Slate

I stand, silent and stunned as to what my ears have just heard. “I am sorry… I do not think I heard you correctly… Could you repeat that for me?”

She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “It…. Was… All… My… Idea.”

I had heard her correctly. I shake my head, trying to wrap my mind around this new information that just was not processing in my brain. It was not Edward’s idea? What does this mean? Does this mean he maybe, possibly…did not intend to deceive me? That maybe, this wasn’t all a ruse to just fix me and call it ‘mission accomplished!’ and we all be on our merry ways? I am confused. “I.. I am sorry. I… I… I don’t get it.”

Cassandra put her hands on my shoulders and closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. “I… knew that Edward Tilney worked at the counseling center. I was introduced to him at church one week and it was a few months after the funeral and… Mary Sue, I was just really concerned about you. I did not intend for you to get hurt.”

“You did not intend… what did you think would happen, Cassandra?”

“I went to his office and talked with him about how you were behaving and what you had just gone through. I was so worried… you just kept withdrawing from everyone and everything. I thought that he would just befriend you and get you to talk about it and that you would be better. When you two were meeting at the coffee shop every Tuesday, I thought you were opening up to him… like a session, but outside of his office and, well, you wouldn’t know it was a session.”

I covered my mouth. I was unsure if this whole thing was a set up or if perhaps I was just completely mistaken. It was far worse: Edward had been all but hired to counsel me without my knowing it. It sounds like there should be something unethical about this whole thing.

Cassandra sighed, unsure if her explanation was helping things or not. “How did you even find out he was a counselor at the center?”

“One morning, he made the suggestion that I go in and give counseling a try. He insisted I go on the one day he was off meaning I would be forced to see one of his colleagues… He wasn’t even in the building…”

“So… he wasn’t counseling you at all?”

“No…”

“And he told you to go in… to his place of work… and see a counselor there?”

“Pretty much…”
“And arranged it so that he wouldn’t be the counselor you would end up seeing?”

“Yes…”

Cassandra thought about it for a moment.

“He spilt the beans on himself? Just let you walk in and figure it out yourself?”

I nodded my head.

“Wow. It sounds like he was trying to make sure that you wouldn’t end up actually having him as your counselor or something… Why would he do that?”

I thought back to that night after dinner, sitting slow close to each other that I could feel his breath. How familiar we seemed to be with each other, laughing and talking and completely at ease. Then later, sitting beside me during the Sunday sermon in the park when he asked me what my feelings were toward him. The silence that prevailed when neither of us could give an answer and how tense we were, as if there was so much left unsaid, guarded and held back as if water ready to burst through a reservoir. In so few days, it seemed as if all the work done this year to break me free from this prison of grief I had locked myself in was, all at once, suddenly bearing fruit. I was remembering who I was, beginning to want something more… someone more… I thought, if only so briefly, that perhaps he wanted something more too.

“I have no idea.” I did not have an idea, but I had a suspicion. A suspicion that I would unlikely be able to confirm now that Dr. Edward Tilney and I were no longer crossing paths. I realized it has only been a couple of weeks since I found out about him and made that very public and incredibly embarrassing scene in the coffee shop, but I still wondered if I would ever see him again.

I have no idea…

I do not know what to say…

I have no clue as to how anything Cassandra has said to me today can make any difference. Knowing that I was probably wrong about Tilney’s motives and as to the identity of who really was behind his initial infiltration in my life cannot undo how I reacted to it in the first place. Knowing that I was probably wrong about Tilney’s motives and as to the identity of who really was behind his initial infiltration in my life cannot bring Tilney back into my life. It cannot make him “Edward” again instead of “Tilney” or “Dr. Edward Tilney”. Knowing that I was probably wrong about Tilney’s motives and as to the identity of who really was behind his initial infiltration in my life cannot reconcile this breach of trust, or somehow, miraculously, instantaneously make everything right again. Knowing all this… just is no help to me.

“Cassandra,” I say, returning my attention to the woman in front of me. “Cassandra, I…” What do I say to her right now? She just came to my house and made me feel like poo all over again for how I acted toward Tilney, how I stormed in to what he thought was a friendly lunch between friends and without so much as a word, no explanation given, threw some unsuspecting patron’s glass of water in his face and stormed out. Now, after weeks of his absence from my life and feeling utterly hurt and horrible, she walks in and gives me reason why I shouldn’t have focused my anger on him in the first place? “… thank you.”

If it were not for the fact that she had not had liquids in at least the last five minutes and that her unsipped glass of pink lemonade was now sitting on the far side of the room and most certainly out of reach, I would have sworn she just choked. “You… You what!?”

“Thank you.” I repeated.

Cassandra stood, her jaw hanging loose as if unhinged in paralyzing shock. “I do not know what is scarier: the fact that you are thanking me for going behind your back and instigating a plan the ultimately fell through and hurt you anyway… or that you sounded so sincere when you said it?”

I smile, somewhere between ‘pleasant and pleased’ and ’ooh…you are so going to get it now’ and in my sweetest, calmest, most convincing and low-volume voice, begin to speak in a way that leaves Cassandra retreating backwards as I advance both verbally and physically. “Cassandra, I am going to say this and I do not want you to take offense or never speak to me again over it, understood?”

She nods her head, unsure of this strange calmness that has come over me suddenly but certain that she wants to be near the front door should the situation suddenly change.

“I really do appreciate you coming clean about all of this, Cassandra. As much as it still hurts me to think about, especially given my seemingly rather out-of-character reactions lately… I really am glad to know that even though I may never see him again due to my aforementioned reactions, I can take some comfort in knowing that he is not the incredibly horrible, utterly underhanded, most despicable man in the world that I thought he was.”

She took another few steps, backing herself into the front door.

“But Cassandra… I am going to need a few days to process this and cry or scream or bang my head against a wall or whatever it takes for me to deal with this, okay?”

Again, she nodded.

“Goodbye Cassandra.” I reached behind Cassandra, still backed up against the door, and unlocked the deadbolt.

She quickly pulled open the door and started out, turning as she was half-way down the steps leading away from the front porch. “Wait…” she said, my words slowly dawning on her. “What you just said…”

“Yes?”

“You said a few days?”

“Yes.”

“So… What does that mean exactly? Are you… not… mad at me?”

“Oh, I am definitely something at the moment… but we are still friends.”

“So, we’re still on for coffee next week?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She seemed visibly relieved. “I will see you next week for coffee then.”

I nodded. “Coffee… bye.”

She waved, heading to the car and leaving me alone with thoughts I really wanted to ignore at the moment.

***

“Some animals – like the squirrel and the North American toddler – will store food for the coming winter in various frequently visited places.” I cannot for the life of me remember who said it, but upon entering my mother’s former room, their words seemed quite apt for the sight before me.

After the disquieting interlude wherein my only friend who is still speaking me dropped a bombshell that I just cannot handle right now, I skipped trying to figure out what this new information meant in the grand yet ultimately (and I would now say ‘tragically’) brief friendship between myself and Dr. Edward Tilney. I had spent my morning venturing onto the humongously epic task of finally cleaning -and cleaning out- what is becoming my home. I was on a roll. I was willing and voluntarily entering rooms once dominated by my deceased parents’ presence and abandoned completely for the past year. Pushing on with this unknown, determined motivation move forward with things, I wanted to continue with the work I started, packing up my parents’ belongings and cleaning up the virtually abandoned (and neglected) rooms. That, and I really did not want to spend the next few hours getting off track with repeated rehashing of the events involving Dr. Edward Tilney. Anything but having to think about him.

Grabbing the box of large, industrial strength garbage bags, I headed to the room I was dreading most: my mother’s room. I knew that at some point in time, my father and mother had decided that it was best if my father and my mother had their own, separate bedrooms. This decision was not for lack of affection, no… but I believe it was for their own sanity. Neither parent would speak of the origins of their decision, nor would they speak of the reasons why it was felt necessary for each of them to have separate rooms. It was simply done and accepted as normal and unnecessary to speak of it further.

However, upon walking into my mother’s room… the room long forbidden even before her death last year… It was very clear as to me why anyone, man or woman, would be driven insane if they were made to share the room with my mother year upon year for the remainder of their life.

My mother… my dear, sweet, slightly eccentric and carefree mother… was a packrat! Everywhere you looked, every available space… filled with clothes and stuffed animals and quite a number of other things. Where there were no shelves or cabinets or some other furniture intended for storage or display, there were stacks of plastic storage bins stacked one on top of another from floor to ceiling. Her bed, a massive piece of furniture obviously intended for two (or one incredibly spoiled person who liked to take up the entire space and hog the covers to boot) was still covered with at least fifty pieces of clothes strewn about. They were likely the many pieces tried on and deemed unsuitable for her last day, destined to be tossed aside and left to wrinkle and collect dust for another year.

I went in, garbage bags in hand, and began to slowly sort through the remains of her inner sanctum.

I admit it… I feel overwhelmed by the enormous weight of her memory. Everything was distinctly hers. Her jewelry still littered the dresser, hanging from hooks, from jewelry trees, sitting in boxes, in decorative tins and displays, or simply sitting on the surface of the dresser, awaiting their next opportunity to be noticed and matched with the appropriate outfit. I collect the jewelry, placing them in a smaller labeled storage bin so that I can later take the time to properly clean them and decide what to do with them.

A small collection of floral-themed objects and wall hangings are scattered around the room. These were the items she had received as gifts for various occasions… Mother’s Day, anniversaries, Christmas, birthdays… Arbor Day, May Day… Daffodil days… Thursdays… They were all special to her for one reason or another, and though she had plenty of space in other rooms dominated by floral patterns, she chose these to remain physically close to her as she slept and dressed each day.

Her clothes… Oh! The sheer number of clothing pieces she owned (not to mention shoes) would rival a small boutique. Anything and everything my mother ever wore in the past three decades were cared for, carefully hung on satin-covered hangers or wrapped in tissue paper and stored in air-tight containers for the day in which she could once again pull it out from where it had been preserved to once again display the wonder of the fashions worn when she was eighteen. Every closet, every storage container, every dresser, chest of drawers, or inexpensive yet easy to piece together unit for holding clothes had, somewhere within, a time capsule of vintage clothing mixed with some of the more outlandish fashions of the past 15 years. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, was ever made to leave my mother’s stockpile of clothes. As I sort through and pack her belongings, I come across a few pieces I absolutely cannot part with. Up until now, I have been trying to part with everything possible… literally cleaning the slate so that I can recreate each room in my own time to fit with this new existence of life on my own. But some things, like my mother’s vintage Emma Bomb wedding dress, her silk kimono-inspired dressing gown that hung from her vanity when not worn to protect her clothing from stray hairs and makeup residue, and the box of crinolines my mother claimed were second-hand, but that we all knew were for dresses she still tried to wear even when mod became the fashion standard… I could not bear to part with.

By the end of the day, I have most of the house in bags, boxes, or plastered with brightly colored post-its indicating where it would be moved to (if at all) or simply labeled with the word “G-O-N-E” indicating that its time within the house was greatly limited.

I shower, washing away a thick layer of dirt and dust that covered so much of the house in the time since my mother and father were last here to enjoy their belongings. Only four rooms had been occupied and regularly cleaned since my parents’ deaths: my room, the bathroom, the kitchen and the living room (including the small entry way that was only separate from the living room by way of a door-less doorway).

My body, now clean and free from the grime of both physical neglect and emotional, was exhausted. I had spent nearly the entire day diving head-first into a task that had been put off and ignored completely for over a year… leaving any thoughts about Cassandra’s visit and revelation regarding Dr. Edward Tilney, to filter out of the shadows and into my consciousness as I lay alone in bed, seeking rest.

I still did not know what to think about it all. About Cassandra, my well-meaning friend… her plot to have a counselor interject himself into my life and persuade me to deal with my parents’ deaths without me realizing I was being led to deal with my parents’ deaths. About Dr. Edward Tilney, the man I had come to know as friend and possibly, naively hoping to be something more. The counselor who had been asked to befriend me and treat me as an unofficial patient, without my knowledge or consent. The man who, after very nearly crossing a very serious line (or at least, letting me believe that there was something more going on, something of potential that would lead to his invitation to dinner at his house), ultimately did as Cassandra asked and after gaining my trust, suggested I seek help from the same counseling center that he himself worked at. The same man who went to such lengths as to make sure that there was no way in which our paths would cross should I listen to his good sense and finally seek counsel. The man who I have pushed too hard, pushed with such hurt-filled anger that I pushed him out of my life. The man who, as I lay here in bed contemplating the strange events of the past year, wished were here with me.

Mid-August-- Age 25

It is the Saturday before the local schools begin their new year. Parents, dragging their reluctant children behind them, rush out for the last-minute scramble to attain any and every supply needed for another successful school year (though, often they are ultimately discarded after the third month).

I stand in front of my house where every possible square inch of usable space is occupied by either possessions or people seeking something at bargain prices that they can haggle down to pennies. Approximately ninety percent of what was once inside my house is now on display in what is the second day of an incredibly massive yard sale.

It was at our regular monthly chats at the coffee shop where I shared with Cassandra the enormous undertaking of clearing out the house that she had interrupted only days before with the guilt-ridden confession that tore open the scab over the emotional wound named “Edward”… Dr. Edward Tilney. In spite of bearing witness to the piles of bags and boxes that resulted from facing the first few rooms, Cassandra was still in disbelief and insisted on seeing things for herself.

She followed me home from the coffee shop, looked around at the towers of boxes labeled “G-O-N-E” and immediately shouted “YARD SALE!” in the same way a shopaholic may scream “Charge it!” while on a spending spree.

Now, seeing my parents things (and to a much smaller extent, some of my own possessions) out in the open, washed free of any sign of their inactivity this past strange year, I feel… almost a sense of relief that swells from within like a deep, clearing breath. Everything out here as well as everything that has been sold off already have all been given a new chance at life. They had spent so many months locked in a sort-of limbo where they existed, but were dead to the world. Their only function was to serve as a reminder of what was gone, but in doing so, I could not even fathom being around them to remind me. Now out here, out in the open, out of my house and on their way to begin a second life the homes of other people, they have become redeemed.

In the same way that all of these things have been given a second-chance at life, so too have I been given a second-chance… a new life. I walk back into my house, leaving Cassandra to deal with customers on her own for a few minutes. She really is much better at these things, being a professional shopper and knowing how to strike a bargain with both buyers and sellers. She seems on top of her game, haggling with one couple while giving change to another. She should be fine while I take a quick stroll through my near-empty home.

The pieces of furniture that I decided to keep were few, but had been cleaned and moved around. A roll-top desk and the comfy reading chair from my father’s study were moved into my old room. I had decided that the bookshelves made the room a perfect study and home-office for myself. All that was needed was a new coat of mint green paint on the walls and a dark stain on the shelves to match the roll top writing desk I have recently begun to use.

Father’s old room is currently empty. At least, it is empty for now. I could not think of a use for the room and so I simply left it empty for the time being.

Mother’s old room was the master bedroom with adjoining master bath and large walk in closet that father built as an addition to the house for one of their anniversaries prior to moving himself into his own bedroom with his own closet space free of dresses and zebra-print.

I decided to keep most of my mother’s furniture, taking the various shelf and closet-organizing sets that once lined the walls to create extra storage areas all out to the yard sale. All that remained, furniture wise, are a four-poster wrought-iron bed, a matching vanity table in the far corner, a tall, freestanding mirror in the walk-in closet, and the chest of drawers that was painted black to go with the furniture in the room. The walls were patched up and painted with the same mint-green as was given to the walls in my old bedroom.

My clothes were hung in the walk-in closets with plenty of room to spare. The room almost seemed to swallow up my possessions, meager compared to the vast space of the room/closet/bathroom combo.

And my father’s old study… I walk through his old study and look at the work that has already begun. The carpeted floors had been ripped out, ready or the hardwood flooring scheduled to be installed the following Wednesday. The walls were painted a lighter shade of pink--like a ballet slipper. The far wall, the shorter wall when compared to the one with windows or its companion across the room, was ready for the three large mirrors that would cover most of the wall from side to side and floor to ceiling. Along the long wall, opposite of the windows that faced the front of the house, a ballet bar had already become anchored only a few days before.

I think I have been looking forward to seeing this particular room transformed into what would be my new at-home dance studio, suitable for individual lessons, tutelage, or my own personal time of practice and conditioning.

Work… as dreadful and mind-numbing as it is… has not been as intolerable as it had been since I decided that I would spend my free time creating and using my own personal dance space.

I turn toward the windows, drawing back the new, sheer white curtains that filtered the part of the world that could be seen through my window. There are at least a dozen people searching through the items outside, more if you include the children that are now chasing each other while their parents are otherwise occupied. I look for and find Cassandra. She is across the yard, actively engaging a middle-aged woman in conversation as the young girl beside her increasingly pulls harder on her free hand, tugging every few seconds like clockwork.

Out of the corner of my eye, hidden by parked cars and persnickety pedestrians and yard sale patrons alike, a flash of black and gold runs across my limited view of the street.

Immediately, with all propriety forgotten, I dash outside, hopping over furniture, clothes and small children with no sense of respect for the personal property of others, and right into the middle of the street. Leaving the bewilderment of both Cassandra and the customers behind me, I whip my head back and forth… left… then right… then left again… then right for a brief moment before turning back to the left and attempting to stand on my tip- toes as if it would enable me to see more of the street.

Nothing.

NaNoWriMo2010: Chapter 6

2011-08-20T00:13:00.000-07:00

Chapter 6: Accusations and Aftermath

July 4th-- Age 25

It is once again Sunday. This particular Sunday is the day of the annual Sunday sermon in the park, held once a year (on a Sunday), the Sunday of, or just prior to the Fourth of July. I arrived early to find a nice shady spot to escape the discomfort of the early Summer weather--primarily the Summer heat. Just the other evening, I was practically freezing indoors and now… Now I craved the shady protection of the old pine trees planted here long before my time. Fifteen minutes later I am sitting cross-legged on my blanket, engrossed in the book I brought from home. It had been some time since I touched any of the books that lined the shelves in my room. The one in my hand had been a particularly trashy piece of literature that was somehow passed off as a young adult fantasy novel. One of my fellow interns had given it to me, insisting that I read it as it was (and I quote) “the best thing ever!” Thirty pages in to the novel and I find myself questioning the judgment of my former fellow dancer. It is then that the sudden appearance of another person startles me.

“Mind if I sit down?”

It is him. Edward. Edward Tilney. Mr. Edward Tilney. The man of whom I find myself thinking more and more of, especially after the dinner at his home the other night. I am momentarily rendered speechless so I smile, hoping he takes it as a yes.

He does and promptly takes the spot on my right.

I put my book down, not bothering with marking my page. A mixture of relief and glee wash over me. Not glee in the sense of glee club or that television show about the glee club that sings covers of pop songs. No, glee in the sense of joy, happiness, elation, satisfaction. After our last interaction (if you could call it that), I was almost certain he would avoid me like the plague or question me about his suggestion to stop by the counseling center, and that our meetings would be marked by intense awkwardness.

“Listen, I am just going to jump right in and …well, I have been thinking about this and... Um…” Uh, oh. He said he had been thinking. I know this by know… when he begins with some variation of the phrase “I’ve been thinking…” whatever follows is sure to be a doozy. This is not good. He is rambling and on top of which, he is not even looking at me. “Um, I get the impression that maybe you like me and I have been wondering …is it true?”

I breath. I had been holding my breath, anticipating something worse. I have noticed that I have been doing this a lot lately (holding my breath, not the “anticipating something worse” part). Although, given recent events, it would seem as though this question of my affection was rather moot. “Before I answer, can I ask you a question? And …and would you give me your honest answer?”

He nods.

“What answer are you hoping for?” I am really hoping that he was hoping for me to say “yes,” but he hesitates. I think that I have caught him off guard.

“I am not sure that I can give you an answer right now,” he says quietly. It looks as if he does not want anyone to know what he is talking to me about.

My heart drops. It is an involuntary action, accompanied by a tinge of disappointment that leaks into my facial expression. I nod slowly before answering. “I am not sure I could give you an answer right now either.”

He looks disappointed as well, but mimics my nod as if he accepts my answer.

He remained, sitting on the blanket beside me. Sitting in silence. Neither of us spoke for the remainder of the service.

A Nightmare on the Evening of July 9th-- Age 25

I cannot get it out of my head. This confrontation that exists to repeat itself over and over and over and over and over again if only within my mind. You prompted me to leave pretence and tell you how I feel. I freeze. It is all I can do.

It was a mistake.

“I see,” you said dropping your head. “My apologies. I thought… well, I… I was mistaken. If you will excuse me.” You stand and dejectedly make your way toward your car.

I am still a bit stunned, but snap out of it at the realization that he had begun to weave his way through the crowd and walk back toward the parking lot.

“Wait!“ I yell out and follow. I do not mean to cause a scene but my voice raises anyway. Something comes over me and I find myself wanting to stop him from leaving. It has got to be the most frightening thing I have done in my life, but as if the floodgates have opened and the truth was about to spill from my mouth. I do not know whether I am more afraid of him leaving, thinking my stunned silence to be a rejection, or whatever it was that was about to come out of my mouth.

“Please stop, let me explain…”

He stops and turns to face me. His face has changed and the pleasant demeanor that I am use to is now a mixture of hurt and anger. “You do not have to explain anything Mary Sue. But at least have the guts to actually tell me what you really feel.” He takes a few steps in my direction, lowering his voice to a hushed--yet curt tone. “When I first saw you I knew there was something about you. I… I felt pity for you.” His emphasis on the word ‘pity’ hung in the air.

“Mary Sue , I knew what you went through. I sit there in church every Sunday and watch you distance yourself from even the people sitting next to you. I watched you run as if you could somehow run away from your problems. As if the distance and the effort really made a difference. I felt sorry for you, keeping it all in and every day when I would see you… when you did not know I was watching, I would see just how lost and hurt you were. It was written all over your face. I wanted so much just to be your friend and help you. The least you could have done was be honest with me and tell me that you did not have feelings for me. But you couldn’t. You are still keeping everything inside, locked away like you have been the whole time.”

He let his arms fall to his side, the wind let out from his sails. “I just… I feel like the last few months have been a complete waste of my time and you’re no better off now than you were three months ago when your world consisted of you and you alone.”

I feel like the curtain has been pulled back from the real Wizard of Oz and his true self has been revealed. It hurt to think that Mr. Edward Tilney was motivated out of some sense of pity. That I was like some stray animal that needed to be rescued. And what is more pathetic, he was now telling me that it wasn’t worth it. “What are you saying exactly?”

“I am saying, I cannot keep doing this. I cannot try and be your friend and care about you if you’re going to keep everyone at arms length.”

“But I wasn’t…”

“You could not even give me a yes or no answer. You could have said something…ANYTHING. Instead you just …sat there.”

I felt embarrassed, as if I was being called to the carpet by a teacher and publicly scolded for something I could not fully understand.

He continued. “I try and reach out to you, but you never seem to reach back. I am sorry, I just can’t.” He threw his hands in the air and turned toward his car.

I follow until we reach the parking lot. “You are right. I do not really deserve you as a friend-- You are too good to me. But I am not …trying… to push you away or, or keep you from being a better friend to me than you have been the last few months.”

He turns, a mixture of curiosity and confusion on his face.

I glance around, assuring myself that we are not drawing an audience. “When I am here, when I am around you, my mind turns to mush and my words fail me. In their place are your words, echoing. I cannot begin to tell you how many weeks I have spent wondering how you could possibly know what I was thinking… how you could take what I was struggling with on my own and praying about, and wrap them neatly into your seemingly random conversations each time we meet up. And the words! Those very words in their exact phrasing… The things spoken in secret to God alone. I arrive and hear you speak those words and I wonder how it is you could read me so well.

“I try to deny it. I try pushing it aside. Try raising the standards to something I thought was impossible or convince myself that it is all in my head and I am just making a mountain out of a molehill but yet… here you are!”

I cannot bring myself to look at him. This sounds insane, even to me. He shakes his head, “I do not understand.” To be honest, neither do I.

For once, in what seems like hours, there is silence. “I may not have the courage to say much more than this-- I trust you. I trust you and respect you very much. I would never want to leave you with the impression that I did not care for you. To be honest, I think of you more than I have any right to. But I am really, really afraid that if I say anything that makes you uncomfortable that you will leave. I have lost others and yes, I did not want to get close to anyone after that… But you do make a difference to me. You give me something to look forward to. And if you were not here… I would notice it.”

I stop. It all sounded so stupid to me. “If you were not here, I would notice it” I listen, waiting for his response. Nothing. Just an uncomfortable silence as the words slowly sink in. I look up at him.

Still nothing.

I search his face for any sign that this was not the unmitigated disaster I think it has been. Again, there is nothing. Just awkwardness.

I take a step back, embarrassed over my own actions. I turn and fumble for my own keys. I want to make my getaway before I breakdown from the outburst. I am halfway to my car when I hear my name. “Mary Sue , wait…” I freeze, my muscles tensing as I involuntarily prepare myself for a letdown.

He makes his way toward me, stopping a few feet away. “Are you saying… you have feelings for me?”

I am terrified. Until a few moments ago, I could not even admit it to myself, let alone say what I just said. “Yes.” My voice is hushed. “I am saying …I …have …feelings. For you.”

He nods, taking it in. “Hmm. Okay then …goodnight.” Without a wave, without any hint of approval or disproval, he turns and walks back to his car.

I get in my own car and sit frozen at the wheel until he pulls out and leaves. Then I let myself cry. I am pretty sure I screwed this up for good. You cannot just jump into a discussion like that if you’re not prepared and come out fine.

I am not prepared for this in the slightest. But I think I want to be.

I hope to God that I did not just shoot myself in the foot back there.

As I look up from the steering wheel, through the tears and the disheveled hair in front of my face, I find myself back on that picnic blanket. You are sitting next to me and the scene, in all of its emotional horror and daytime drama, begins to repeat itself again.

I wake up suddenly and sit up in my bed. I am covered in sweat, burning up either from the interior temperature of the room or the discomfort of the never-ending nightmare that repeats without ceasing. I am actually shaking at this point as a chill comes over me.

In the dark, in my bed, alone I find myself crying.

I get up and walk over to my desk and pull out a pencil and paper. I write it down. I write it all down. Writing it all down, in as much detail as I can muster, is all I can think of to do at this moment.

When I finish, I return to bed and once again follow in the same cycle of nightmare-wake up-fall asleep that I have followed again and again and again and again and again all night.

July 10th--Age 25

I was still a bit shaken up from the nightmares that haunted me as I tried to rest last night. Each time I calmed down and attempted to fall asleep again, the dream would start, continuing until I woke up frightened again. Needless to say, I was somewhat exhausted when I arrived to meet Mr. Edward Tilney for our regularly scheduled morning run.

“Are you alright today?” he asked.

“I am just a bit shaken up, that is all.”

“Why? What happened?” He looked concerned.

“I could not sleep last night. When I would lay down and finally fall asleep, I was plagued with the same reoccurring nightmare.” I could feel my muscles tensing up just relaying those vague, non-descript details to him.

“Care to tell me what the dream was about? Maybe I could help?”

Oh, if he only knew! “I am not sure how you could help me with this…”

“You never know… I am told that I am a good listener. Someone that others can go to when they are troubled and just need someone to talk about it…work it out verbally.” He sounded as though he were serious.

To be honest, I would have to agree with that description. Mr. Edward Tilney is someone I would go to if I were troubled and just needed someone to talk to about it. In fact, I have even recently gone to Mr. Edward Tilney to open up and share the event that has led to the great changes in my life over the past year or so. Although, I opened up and shared those details in e-mail and not in person, but I believe it still serves the same purpose.

I give it some thought but in the process, forget where I am or what I am supposed to be doing and I stumble, nearly falling over my own feet. This brings me back to my present activity.

“Do you mind if I just e-mail it to you? As you can see, I cannot really think about it and do any sort of physical activity at the same time without the risk of harm to myself and others.”

“Sure,” he replies. “What did you do? Write it down in detail at some point in time?” He chuckles to himself.

“Yes.” I look at him matter-of-factly. “I woke up so often after having the same nightmare that I wrote it down in detail. I will send it to you when I get home. You can take your time and send me your thoughts later.”

“Okay,” he says before waving goodbye and heading home.

When I arrive home myself, I make my way to my computer, power it up, log onto the internet and then my e-mail account, and proceed to e-mail the full details of my nightmares to Mr. Edward Tilney as I wrote them last night.

TO: MR. EDWARD TILNEY (ET_WAS_A_PIRATES_FAN@GMAIL.COM)

FROM: MS. MARY SUE KERPLUNKITY (KERPLUNKITY3@GMAIL.COM)

DATE: July 10, 2010 8:46 am

SUBJECT: The stuff of my nightmares; Last night’s in particular

Edward,

The following is how I described my nightmare--just as I wrote it down at the time. Excuse the italics, as I used them here merely to differentiate between my notation on the nightmare and my notes here, in the present tense. Well, this part here, where I am telling you that what follows is what I wrote about in the dream and that this part that I am writing right now is not part of the ….oh! You get the point!

Thank you for your offer and any insights are greatly appreciated as I am somewhat at a loss as to the reasoning or cause behind it.

Sincerely,

Mary Sue Kerplunkity

I cannot get it out of my head. This confrontation that exists to repeat itself over and over and over and over and over again if only within my mind. You prompted me to leave pretence and tell you how I feel. I freeze. It is all I can do.

It was a mistake.

“I see,” you said dropping your head. “My apologies. I thought… well, I… I was mistaken. If you will excuse me.” You stand and dejectedly make your way toward your car.

I am still a bit stunned, but snap out of it at the realization that he had begun to weave his way through the crowd and walk back toward the parking lot.

“Wait!“ I yell out and follow. I do not mean to cause a scene but my voice raises anyway. Something comes over me and I find myself wanting to stop him from leaving. It has got to be the most frightening thing I have done in my life, but as if the floodgates have opened and the truth was about to spill from my mouth. I do not know whether I am more afraid of him leaving, thinking my stunned silence to be a rejection, or whatever it was that was about to come out of my mouth.

“Please stop, let me explain…”

He stops and turns to face me. His face has changed and the pleasant demeanor that I am use to is now a mixture of hurt and anger. “You do not have to explain anything Mary Sue. But at least have the guts to actually tell me what you really feel.” He takes a few steps in my direction, lowering his voice to a hushed--yet curt tone. “When I first saw you I knew there was something about you. I… I felt pity for you.“ His emphasis on the word ‘pity’ hung in the air.

“Mary Sue , I knew what you went through. I sit there in church every Sunday and watch you distance yourself from even the people sitting next to you. I watched you run as if you could somehow run away from your problems. As if the distance and the effort really made a difference. I felt sorry for you, keeping it all in and every day when I would see you… when you did not know I was watching, I would see just how lost and hurt you were. It was written all over your face. I wanted so much just to be your friend and help you. The least you could have done was be honest with me and tell me that you did not have feelings for me. But you couldn’t. You are still keeping everything inside, locked away like you have been the whole time.”

He let his arms fall to his side, the wind let out from his sails. “I just… I feel like the last few months have been a complete waste of my time and you’re no better off now than you were three months ago when your world consisted of you and you alone.”

I feel like the curtain has been pulled back from the real Wizard of Oz and his true self has been revealed. It hurt to think that Mr. Edward Tilney was motivated out of some sense of pity. That I was like some stray animal that needed to be rescued. And what is more pathetic, he was now telling me that it wasn‘t worth it. “What are you saying exactly?”

“I am saying, I cannot keep doing this. I cannot try and be your friend and care about you if you’re going to keep everyone at arms length.”

“But I wasn’t…”

“You could not even give me a yes or no answer. You could have said something…ANYTHING. Instead you just …sat there.”

I felt embarrassed, as if I was being called to the carpet by a teacher and publicly scolded for something I could not fully understand.

He continued. “I try and reach out to you, but you never seem to reach back. I am sorry, I just can’t.” He threw his hands in the air and turned toward his car.

I follow until we reach the parking lot. “You are right. I do not really deserve you as a friend-- You are too good to me. But I am not …trying… to push you away or, or keep you from being a better friend to me than you have been the last few months.”

He turns, a mixture of curiosity and confusion on his face.

I glance around, assuring myself that we are not drawing an audience. “When I am here, when I am around you, my mind turns to mush and my words fail me. In their place are your words, echoing. I cannot begin to tell you how many weeks I have spent wondering how you could possibly know what I was thinking… how you could take what I was struggling with on my own and praying about, and wrap them neatly into your seemingly random conversations each time we meet up. And the words! Those very words in their exact phrasing… The things spoken in secret to God alone. I arrive and hear you speak those words and I wonder how it is you could read me so well.

“I try to deny it. I try pushing it aside. Try raising the standards to something I thought was impossible or convince myself that it is all in my head and I am just making a mountain out of a molehill but yet… here you are!”

I cannot bring myself to look at him. This sounds insane, even to me. He shakes his head, “I do not understand.” To be honest, neither do I.

For once, in what seems like hours, there is silence. “I may not have the courage to say much more than this-- I trust you. I trust you and respect you very much. I would never want to leave you with the impression that I did not care for you. To be honest, I think of you more than I have any right to. But I am really, really afraid that if I say anything that makes you uncomfortable that you will leave. I have lost others and yes, I did not want to get close to anyone after that… But you do make a difference to me. You give me something to look forward to. And if you were not here… I would notice it.”

I stop. It all sounded so stupid to me. “If You were not here, I would notice it” I listen, waiting for his response. Nothing. Just an uncomfortable silence as the words slowly sink in. I look up at him.

Still nothing.

I search his face for any sign that this was not the unmitigated disaster I think it has been. Again, there is nothing. Just awkwardness.

I take a step back, embarrassed over my own actions. I turn and fumble for my own keys. I want to make my getaway before I breakdown from the outburst. I am halfway to my car when I hear my name. “Mary Sue , wait…” I freeze, my muscles tensing as I involuntarily prepare myself for a letdown.

He makes his way toward me, stopping a few feet away. “Are you saying… you have feelings for me?”

I am terrified. Until a few moments ago, I could not even admit it to myself, let alone say what I just said. “Yes.” My voice is hushed. “I am saying …I …have …feelings. For you.”

He nods, taking it in. “Hmm. Okay then …goodnight.” Without a wave, without any hint of approval or disproval, he turns and walks back to his car.

I get in my own car and sit frozen at the wheel until he pulls out and leaves. Then I let myself cry. I am pretty sure I screwed this up for good. You cannot just jump into a discussion like that if you’re not prepared and come out fine.

I am not prepared for this in the slightest.

But I think I want to.

I hope to God that I did not just shoot myself in the foot back there.

As I look up from the steering wheel, through the tears and the disheveled hair in front of my face, I find myself back on that picnic blanket. You are sitting next to me and the scene, in all of its emotional horror and daytime drama, begins to repeat itself again.

TO: MS. MARY SUE KERPLUNKITY (KERPLUNKITY3@GMAIL.COM)

FROM: EDWARD TILNEY (ET_WAS_A_PIRATES_FAN@GMAIL.COM)

DATE: July 10, 2010 9:23 am

SUBJECT: RE: The stuff of my nightmares; Last night’s in particular

Hello Mary Sue,

I have a few notes… I hope you do not mind that I have replied to your earlier e-mail by inserting a few of my notes--in bold print for distinction-- after the section of your original e-mail that I am using as reference in my reply. If this is confusing in any way, reply and let me know. I will alter my reply e-mail to your original e-mail and make it easier to read and/or understand.

-Edward

I cannot get it out of my head. This confrontation that exists to repeat itself over and over and over and over and over again if only within my mind. You prompted me to leave pretence and tell you how I feel. I freeze. It is all I can do.

Your subconscious is trying to make a point, using repetition so that the point it is trying to make is remembered and not easily forgotten.

It was a mistake.

Whatever it is that your subconscious is bringing up… it is telling you that you may have made a mistake. Sorry, but that one was pretty strait forward.

I am still a bit stunned, but snap out of it at the realization that he had begun to weave his way through the crowd and walk back toward the parking lot…

…All the way until…

… whatever it was that was about to come out of my mouth.

Most likely the mistake your subconscious is asking you to go back and remedy. You likely said or did (or did not say or did not do) something that you regret. You want to go back and change the choice you made.

“…But at least have the guts to actually tell me what you really feel.”

You are holding back, not being entirely truthful about something that you really should speak up about.

“… I felt pity for you.“ His emphasis on the word ‘pity’ hung in the air.

You fear that people only take an interest in you out of pity, and not because you are the amazing woman that you really are. Don’t you try and disagree with me, which is probably what you are doing right now-- giving your computer screen a grumpy face, wanting to tell me that it is not true but it is. Face it: You are an amazing woman. Deal with it.

I watched you run as if you could somehow run away from your problems. As if the distance and the effort really made a difference. I felt sorry for you, keeping it all in and every day when I would see you… when you did not know I was watching, I would see just how lost and hurt you were. It was written all over your face. I wanted so much just to be your friend and help you. The least you could have done was be honest with me and tell me that you did not have feelings for me. But you couldn’t. You are still keeping everything inside, locked away like you have been the whole time.”

Two things: First, there is your subconscious calling you out on how you have dealt with the death of your parents this past year. Instead of reaching out when you were hurt and needed support, you bottled it up or tried to escape it. You need to stop with the silent treatment (toward your feelings) and express how you really feel. Second, either you are forming an attachment to me, or your subconscious is using me as a tool to emphasize the need for you to process your grief and be honest with yourself. I am open to the attachment interpretation…just to throw that out there.

He let his arms fall to his side, the wind let out from his sails. “I just… I feel like the last few months have been a complete waste of my time and you’re no better off now than you were three months ago when your world consisted of you and you alone.”

You really are afraid that you are no different now than you were at any point this past year. Mary Sue, in some ways, this is true. You are still Mary Sue Kerplunkity. You still live in what was your parents home. You are still, in some sense, an orphan. But you do not have to still be trapped like a victim in your own overwhelming sense of grief. If you ever need me (and according to my interpretation of your dream, your subconscious would sooooo support what I am about to propose) pick up the phone and call me. I will come over or you can always come to my house and just sit on the couch and cry or sleep or whatever you need at that moment.

Seriously… ask me. It will give me the opportunity to give you my phone number or, you know, invite you over to sleep on my couch again. I am sure my couch wont mind one bit.

I feel like the curtain has been pulled back from the real Wizard of Oz and his true self has been revealed. It hurt to think that Mr. Edward Tilney was motivated out of some sense of pity.

I would have hoped by now that you would know that I am not like that. In case you did not know or were a bit confused, let me reiterate: I am not like that. I am not here out of some sense of pity. And besides… I have seen your leg muscles up close and I am pretty sure that if you thought me anything less than honorable, you would have round-housed me by now and knocked me out cold with one kick.

Much of the remainder of your dream just reaffirms what I have said already, although, there is one more part I wish to address:

… But you do make a difference to me. You give me something to look forward to. And if you were not here… I would notice it.”

Aww… you paid me a compliment! I am honored that you trust me so much, even if is only admitted in your dreams.

I hope this is of some use to you. Let me know if it is not or if you want to talk about something… anything! How you are coping… Why I feature so prominently in your dreams… Why Good & Plenty candies are so darned irresistible even though they are made of black licorice. Anything. You call, I’ll make dinner… We’ll make an evening of it. Or not… I just wanted to put that out there in case for some reason you should find yourself fancying another home-cooked meal of spam and macaroni.

Fondly,

-Edward Tilney

Tuesday, July 13th--Age 25

It is the second week I have driven by the counseling center. Converted from an old hotel built in the 1940’s, the building itself is only two stories. On this second week of driving by multiple times and scoping out the facility, I finally muster the courage to park my car and walk inside.

The old lobby had signs of light cosmetic work. While most of the original details from the old hotel were present including the original front desk and the wall of cubbies behind it for housing messages and keys, the flooring has been replaced with thin carpeting to soften the sound of patients coming in and out. A wall had been built, partitioning off the hotel’s former bar and transforming that space into a records and supply room. New paint covered the gilded molding, making the vaulted ceilings look indistinguishable from any of the other dull, gray surfaces that surrounded the uncomfortable chairs set out for waiting patients.

“Can I help you, miss?” It is a middle-aged woman, too perky for this hour of the morning unless there was a hidden supply of coffee hidden somewhere amongst the laptop and countless displays of almost identical-looking business cards.

I walk up nervously to the front desk to where the receptionist is still waiting, fingers hovering above the keys of the laptop.

“I, uh… I… was… um, I was told that I could, that I may be able to… uh,” I did not know what to say or ask.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked a little too eagerly for my liking.

“No, no I do not have an appointment. But I…”

“Would you like to make an appointment?” she queried, still a little to happy to be doing her job.

“Yes, I.. I think I would like to make an appointment…” I hesitate. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be here, doing this.

“Is there any counselor in specific that you would like to see?”

“I, uh… I mean… do you have any openings for Tuesday mornings?” I inquire. She stops, mid keystroke, and looks up at me suspiciously as if she knew that I knew about their flatulent-inducing lunch habits on certain days of the week ending in the letter ‘y’. “I… I…” I feel the need to cover, to come up with a legitimate-sounding excuse for being overly picky with my appointment times. “I only have those mornings free.” I hope she buys that line because I am nervous enough without having to make up some false reasoning for choosing such a particular day and time.

“Well…” she says, eyeing me as she brings up a new screen of words and numbers that I cannot make out from where I stand. “We do have an opening with one of our counselors, and in fact, they are available if you would like to meet with them today. Would you like to make the appointment to see them?”

I do not know what to say. “Sure.” I tell her. “When is the appointment?”

“Since you are already here, you can see the counselor immediately…” she lays a clipboard on the desk. “…immediately after you fill out these forms and return them to me. The first is a brief medical history… pertinent information… the usual stuff.” She turns the page. “The second is a release form…” She again turns the page, now turning to the final page. “And this last page is our privacy policy. Just sign and date at the bottom of the last two forms. But get that first one done for me and I will get you into the computer and on your way to see Dr. Townsend-Cloud.”

I reluctantly took the clipboard and the pen that was awkwardly attached to it by way of a multi-colored braided ribbon. The questions on the questionnaire were fairly strait-forward, if not time consumingly thorough. It seemed as though they were asking for everything, whether it was painfully obvious as to something that would require their counseling services, or something that was not as painfully obvious and left me quite befuddled as to how it would factor in to requiring a session with a counselor, let alone a series of sessions.

I finished, signing and dating the last two forms as directed, and returned the clipboard and paperwork back to the receptionist whose name, as it turns out, is “Maddie May.” Each time the phone rang, which as surprising as it was to me being that this was supposed to be the dreaded Tuesday and it was still rather early in the day, turned out to be every few minutes… Maddie May, the middle-aged receptionist which I was now suspicious of having an IV full of caffeine hooked up and hidden somewhere underneath the front desk, would answer the incoming call with the same level of cheeriness and enthusiasm as she did when I walked in and found myself face-to-face with her personally.

“Good morning! Tri-Area Community Counseling Center. This is Maddie May. How can I assist you today?” The phone had rang again and after the lengthy introduction, Maddie May was struck with the need to repeatedly nod her head up and down sharply while saying “Uh huh! Uh huh! Uh huh!” over and over again until the call was completed.

It was after waiting through four of these same scenes after returning my clipboard of invasive questions back to the front desk that a door to the right of the desk opened and a woman of about fifty stepped out. “Mary Sue?” she called to the near-empty waiting room.

I looked around, seeing no one else in the room I raise my hand to signal my location. “Uh, that would be me.”

I stand and follow her through the door, glad to leave behind the headache-inducing yapping of the receptionist. We pass by several doors with the names of various other counselors that must practice in the building. Each room, a former hotel room stripped of it’s usual hotel furniture and I could only assume replaced with something that resembled more of a traditional office scene.

We enter the office of Dr. Annabel Townsend-Cloud. The room is both respectable and professional, painted in a pastel green of some shade that was bright, yet soothing. A desk and bookcase took up an area that I could only assume was a former closet. Otherwise, the furniture in the room was stark, consisting only of two oversized armchairs, a small table in-between with a decorative box of Kleenex in the center, and in the far corner behind one of the two chairs, a tall house plant sat soaking up the sun coming through the window.

Dr. Townsend-Cloud invites me to sit down in one of the two chairs, taking her place in the other and situating a notebook and pen on the right arm of the chair. “So,” she begins, “what brings you in today?”

For some reason, I find myself talking. After all this time of holding onto things and what had already begun by Mr. Edward Tilney in our talks and most recently, what was shared and said at the dinner, I could not think of a reason to hold back when I was sitting across from someone whose job it was to listen to what I had to say. The worst that could happen would be for her to give me something to work on until our next appointment and I go away thinking it complete hogwash, refusing both the homework and maintaining any future appointments with her.

I take my time, spilling out every detail from the past year or so as if the flood gates had been open. There was no stopping me, not even when our first hour was up. Dr. Townsend-Cloud sat in her chair, nodded her head at times, and wrote down a few things on her notebook. By the time I was finally caught up on the events of the past thirteen months, she was handing me the box of Kleenex and telling me that it was okay to cry… that this was a safe place and crying was encouraged if that was how I needed to let out what I had been holding onto so tightly.

I liked this doctor. Dr. Townsend-Cloud did not judge me. She did not interrupt me or ask me to stop or speak quickly to save time. She just let me speak, letting it out as it came however much it made sense or could be understood through sobs. As we ended, she hugged me and told me that all she would ask of me right now is to show up at our next appointment. Then we would begin.

Red eyes and Kleenex in hand, I walked out of her office and retraced my steps down the hallway toward the front desk. Stopping mid-way to blow my nose, I looked at the door to my right and stopped mid wipe.

The door read: Dr. E. Tilney

I must have read that wrong. E. Tilney? Edward was an ‘E. Tilney’, but it could not have been him. It simply could not be Edward that was the ‘E’ in “Dr. E. Tilney’. He was not “Doctor” Tilney, but “Mister” Tilney. To be honest, “Dr.” could refer to a doctor of either sex. This could be a Dr. Elizabeth Tilney or a Doctor Edwina Tilney. And besides, Edward has told me that he has family here. There could be other E. TILNEY’s around. One of them could be a doctor. A doctor who happens to work at the counseling center in the building where Mister Edward Tilney happens to work. Right?

I reach the front desk, handing Maddie May, the overly-upbeat receptionist my appointment slip to be entered into the computer.

“Uh, Maddie May?” I ask. This whole confusion could be cleared by the woman who lives to help and inform. She would certainly know if the Dr. E. Tilney down the hall from Dr. Townsend-Cloud was Edward… or if perhaps they were an “Eleanor” or “Erik” or some other name starting with ‘E’ that did not end in ‘-dward’.

She looked up from the computer screen. “Yes dear?”

“Is there a Dr. Tilney that works here?”

“I can’t really give out information like that… you know, all that doctor stuff.”

“Well, I saw the name E. Tilney on the door and was just wondering if…”

“Oh! In that case…” she cleared her throat. “Yes, there is a Dr. Tilney here in the building. He is quite a handsome young man. If I were a few years younger myself, why I would…”

“Yes…” I interrupt, not wanting to know just where she was going with this. “I was just wondering… would his name happen to be ‘Edward’ by any chance?”

“Why yes! Do you know Dr. Tilney?”

“Wh…I, uh… no.” I lie. At least I think I am lying. Edward did say he worked in the same building. “I, uh, I think I have seen him around town once or twice. Is he also a counselor here?”

“Is he also a counselor here?” she laughs. “As if there is anyone else here! All we have here are counselors! Their private offices are on the second floor, but they use the rooms on this floor for sessions and… the old dining room was converted into a space that is used for group sessions. If you are interested, I can give you a schedule of the group sessions offered here at the counseling center. Dr. Tilney does not work Tuesdays as a general rule, but he does hold group therapy sessions on Saturdays if you are interested. I understand that the group sessions are very popular with young women. But then again, so is Dr. Tilney… Oh yes! Very friendly young man. One of those people who could go out and just befriend anyone and get them to open up about their problems. Would you like to sign up for the group session? There are just a few spaces available.”

I am in shock. I shake my head. “No, no thank you. I will just stick with my appointment with Dr. Townsend-Cloud.”

“Okay, no problem.” She hands me a reminder card imprinted with a date and time set for two weeks from today. On a Tuesday morning.

***

I drive directly from the counseling center to the coffee shop for my regular Tuesday lunch with Mr. Edward Tilney. No… not Mister Edward Tilney. Doctor Edward Tilney. Dr. Edward Tilney, liar and deceiver. Dr. Edward Tilney, professional liar and deceiver. Dr. Edward Tilney, professionally trained liar and deceiver. By the time I reach the parking lot of the coffee shop, my shock over this revelation has turned into anger, and my new description of Dr. Edward Tilney has grown significantly larger and punctuated with language no lady should ever be caught speaking.

I put the car into park and attempt to storm out of the car and across the parking lot only to find myself still restrained by the seatbelt. Undoing my safety harness, I slam the door shut and with as much fury as I can muster, make my entrance into the crowded coffee shop.

I must have looked quite a mess as Dr. Edward Tilney looks at me with alarm. “Hey… is everything okay?” He motions for me to sit down, probably expecting me to vent to him whatever problem I was apparently having that at the moment was causing me great distress that I should stomp into a coffee shop at lunch time with eyes that could kill a deer at thirty paces.

I turn, pausing to take a deep breath before I walked over to him.

I am a rational adult.

I am not a vindictive person.

I do not let my emotions get the better of me.

I am calm… I am cool…

I pick up a glass of water from the table beside his and throw the water in his face.

Without a word, and amidst his fish-like movements of mouth in attempt to form words, I slam the glass down on the table and turn, storming back out of the coffee shop and back to my car where, in the safety of the locked doors, I release my anger in a long, gratifying scream.

***

I return home, my anger released both on Dr. Edward Tilney’s face and my steering wheel. I say and do nothing until I am inside my house, doors locked and curtains shut.

I dissolve into tears on the couch, ignoring the ringing of the phone.

Last Sunday of July --Age 25

Sunday was most unbearable. I cannot describe the feeling that prevailed throughout the day except perhaps, heartache. Maybe ‘longing’. If there was a word that perfectly blended ‘heartache’ and ‘longing,’ it would be that word. It had been two weeks now since Mr. Edward Tilney was found out to actually be Dr. Edward Tilney.

I spent the last two weeks ignoring his calls, his knocks on my door, his e-mails. I just could not face it. Not now. I was feeling so good about things. I even took his advice and went to the counseling center when everyone else who had said the same thing last year was met with scowls on my part.

And that was what hurt the most. All this time, the days when we would sit at the coffee shop and talk, the conversations (as brief as they were) during our morning runs… the dinner at his house and the e-mails before and after where I shared so intimately the details of my life that I have held onto like a vice… All this time, when he was trying to befriend me and get to know me.. When he intruded in on my life and would not go away as others did… All those times he somehow knew where I lived, the kind of flowers I liked… It was all a ruse. Every part of it.

I felt like a fool. That night, after dinner at his house, when I thought he was about to kiss me and he hesitated… and the Sunday after when I asked what his feelings were toward me and he still hesitated… I keep telling myself that he did not want to kiss me. I keep telling myself that tell myself that he did not have feelings toward me. He just wanted to earn my trust so that he could get me to open up and provide me with therapy without me knowing.

But why did he send me to see someone else? Why did he recommend the same counseling center that he himself worked at? Why did he insist I go on a day when he was scheduled to be off? He must have known I would have found out! He must have!

So why? Why did he go to all that trouble to get me to befriend him, to trust him, to open up to him?

I thought I had feelings for him. Earlier this month, I was in awe of this feeling of lightness that had overcome me and left me wanting Tilney as something more than just a running partner. More than someone to have lunch with on Tuesdays. More than just a friend. Now, I question if I was really feeling what I felt. That maybe this budding attraction to Tilney was something else, something I had confused with affection.

But none of that really mattered right now. Dr. Edward Tilney was no where to be found. I attempted to go on my usual morning runs, expecting him to join me at some point. But with each morning, I would hit the pavement solo. I could almost swear that Dr. Edward Tilney was trying to avoid me as much as I was avoiding him. He was not even sitting in his usual spot ten pews behind me. I was almost certain that church services were something he would never miss if he could help it. But he was not here. He was just gone.

It hurt.

It hurt really bad.

It hurt like being stabbed with a butter knife in a very sensitive, tender area. Like the side of my ribcage, below my armpit. If you’ve ever been hit there, or have accidentally bumped into something solid (or really, just leaned over the armrest of a chair), you have more than likely felt this deep pain. It’s kind of like that, but much, much worse indeed.

I do not want to feel like this. I spent months, no …a whole year now feeling comfortably numb, avoiding anything that would have rocked the boat and dumped out all the emotional baggage that I have managed to ignore all this time. The last thing I want to do feel hurt and start crying. If I start crying, I do not think I will be able to stop myself.

I pretended to take notes while trying to contain myself. At the last “Amen,” I managed an “excuse me” before making a bee-line for the parking lot. I do not really give in to the idle chit-chat that delays people from making their way out of church after the sermon, but today, I just could not fathom staying a second longer than I had to.

Tuesday, July 27th--Age 25

I returned to the counseling center for my next second appointment with Dr. Townsend-Cloud. When I walked into her session space at the end of the hall, I found that she was waiting with a smile, eager to get started. Her warmth and friendly demeanor lifted my spirits enough for me to put my near-constant thoughts of Tilney aside.

Near the end of the session, just as I mistakenly thought that we were wrapping up early for the day, she asked if there was anything else on my mind I wanted to talk about.

“You seem… a bit distant today,” she noted. Her head was tilted and a look of concern shot in my direction from above the rim of her narrow eye glasses.

I open my mouth, about to say that I am fine… that nothing is wrong. But it seemed to be a bit counter-productive at this point. “I just… I…”

“Whatever it is, as long as you are not planning something illegal or you are not physically in danger of being harmed by another person… then whatever you say is strictly confidential. It does not leave this room. But whatever you do not say, I cannot help you with. I cannot read minds.”

I ponder this a moment. The more I thought about the whole thing, about Tilney and what he did or did not do these past several months, the more confused and hurt I felt. “I uh… The friend who finally talked me into coming here in the first place…” I hesitate. As much as I felt betrayed and deceived, I did not want to say anything that would come back around and cause issues with his job here at the counseling center. I mean, sure… there was a line that was definitely toed, if not crossed. If his intention all along was to gain my trust so that he could treat me as his patient without me knowing so, then why did he suggest I see a different counselor? Why did he suggest I go to the counseling center only on the day he was not working? Why did he suggest I go to see someone at the counseling center in the first place if it risked exposing his ruse?

“I found something out about my friend that made me question his motives. It hurt, and I was furious. And in the heat of the moment, I did something out of character and extremely rash and since then… we haven’t spoken.”

“Hmm…” she said, sitting back in her chair. “Do you feel like you overreacted?”

“Yes… a bit anyway. Definitely when I stormed in and through a glass of water in his face without even saying why I was mad…” I trailed off. I was beginning to feel really bad about that. “I went home and avoided his calls. I didn’t even let him know what was wrong or address whether it was true or a misunderstanding…” I couldn’t look her in the eye, becoming more ashamed of myself the more I talked about it. “A few days later, he stopped calling, stopped trying to get me to answer the door… I haven’t even seen him in any of the usual places. He just… disappeared.”

There was a moment of silence as it sank in for me. I overreacted. I assumed the worst in him and pushed him away just like I tried to push everyone away since my parents died. And in the silence, I started to cry.

***

I drove home much aware of a heaviness on my heart. I feel as though nothing has really changed about me over the last year, except maybe my awareness of just how utterly empty and painful life has been. It is as if was blind to what I was doing when I secluded myself in my mausoleum of a home, pushing people out of my life because I could not handle having anyone in my life. I was numb, and I wanted to continue being numb. Being made aware, waking up to the realization that something has been terribly wrong this past year, is painful. Waking up from this dream, awakening to the fact that nothing I can do or avoid can change the fact that I have had this gaping hole in me. Finally seeing that I have spent the year turning a blind eye to my problems… it is all catching up to me now, loud and overwhelming in its emotional weightiness.

Inside my house now, I rest my forehead against the inside of my front door. I drop my purse on the floor and sob loudly. Two people tried to reach out to me this year. They were persistent, never yielding to my attempts at pushing them far away. And in a moment of hurt, I let myself get angry and push hard enough to push the most persistent of the two to the point where they did not come back. And as far as I know, he’ll never come back. I would not blame him if he didn’t.

Wednesday, July 28th--Age 25

I woke up early, resolute to do something. Dressing in sweats and a fitted tank top, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and was ready to get started.

I grabbed a box of industrial strength, extra-large garbage bags and made my way into the first room just off of the entrance way. I stood on a chair, taking down the curtains and throwing them in a pile near the doorway. Throwing open the window, I was greeted by the warm, fresh air of the early morning. The light of dawn began to sneak in over the rooftops and into the dust-filled room that was once my father’s study.

I breath in, taking a deep breath of crisp, clean air coming in through the open window. On any other day, I would be readying myself for my usual morning run.

Today, however… I was ready to stay put.

***

An hour and three giant black garbage bags later, I was covered in dust, but had trashed or boxed nearly all of my dad’s things. There were a few things I could not part with: a few family photos, framed and carefully hung on the wall, his well-worn leather arm chair in olive green that was perfect for rainy days when I would feel inclined to spend the day reading, and a collection of old glass jars filled to capacity with change collected over the years. They were moved to a safer place while I finished erasing the ghosts of my parents from each of the rooms.

By that afternoon, I had half of the house bagged, boxed and (at least with the larger pieces of furniture) dusted. In each room, I took down the curtains and tossed them in the washer, opened the windows to let in light and fresh air, and set to work excavating the layers of memories and emotions tied to everything I saw and could not bring myself to look at since my parents’ death. There was still a lot to do including having to tackle the stockpile in my mother’s closet. As I stood back to admire the openness of the room I was currently working on, the doorbell rang. I could not imagine who would be at my door, nor was I expecting anyone to drop by today… or any day really. The only reason I could come to for someone ringing my doorbell was that they had become either curious or suspicious as to the pile of filled garbage bags that had been growing on my front lawn with each passing hour.

I peer through the peephole to find a bouquet of daisies taking up my entire view. Opening the door, the bouquet is quickly moved aside by some unseen hand to reveal the face of Cassandra. “Mornin’ Mary Sue,” she quips, a nervous smile on her face. “Can I come in?”

I carefully take the bouquet of daisies and held them in one hand while ushering her in through the door with the other hand. I lay the bouquet of daisies down on a table next to the front door and turn back to Cassandra, curious as to such an unexpected visit.

Cassandra on the other hand, is in shock as she looks around to find stacks of boxes and empty shelves. “Did I miss something?” she asked.

I laugh. “I suppose, in a way…” I make my start toward the kitchen to get us each a glass of lemonade. “I… felt like doing a little housework today.” I pull out a pitcher of pink lemonade from the fridge, pouring its contents into two glasses that I pull out from the dishwasher. I hand her a glass, sipping from my own and get down to the point: “What brings you here, Cassandra?” I am not suspicious, only curious. I can count on my right hand the number of times Cassandra has shown up at my house over the course of the past year… I can count the number of times she has shown up on my hand and still have fingers left over. “Hmm?”

She halts mid-sip and places her glass back on the counter, looking down. This does not look good.

“I… We need to talk.” She sounded serious.

“About what?”

“About Edward Tilney.”

I set my own glass down, turn and walk past her. “I do not want to talk about him, Cassandra…” I head back to the room I was working in before she rang my doorbell.

“I understand if you are angry. You have every right to be angry, but Mary Sue, there is something I have to tell you…”

I stop immediately and turn around to face her. “No.”

“No?”

“No. I am not angry.” My face relaxes from its tense expression and my eyes begin to water. “I am not angry. I am hurt.. I feel stupid and used and even quite a bit guilty after overreacting and throwing that glass of water in his face..”

“You did what?”

“And in the end I still pushed him away and now I am left to feel lonely …But I am not angry.”

There is silence. After a few moments, Cassandra nodded her head and began to speak again. “You should be mad at me, not him.”

I am confused. “I am confused. Why should I be mad at you and not him? He was the one who burrowed into my life, persuaded me to confide in him… Cassandra, it was like he did all of that just to force me into therapy. You don’t think that is wrong?”

“No, I agree with you there… It was wrong. But he isn’t to blame here.”

“He isn’t to blame here? Cassandra, I really liked him. I mean, I… reeeallly liked him. I confided in him, trusted him with things about how I felt that I couldn’t completely share with you. And at one point…” I shrugged. “I thought that maybe he had feelings for me too. Then to find out that he is a therapist!? That one thing… That one vital piece of information that he kept hidden all the while trying to get me to open up like one of his patients… under the guise of friendship! It taints everything he has said or done.” I think back to that night after dinner at his house. “In some ways, there are some serious ethical lines that have been crossed.” I was feeling a bit angry over the whole situation, but not nearly as angry as I had been after that first session with Dr. Townsend-Cloud.

“He didn’t tell you, did he?”

“No… he did not tell me. He kept his profession a secret. Doesn’t that raise any red flags? Call his motives into question?”

“No, I mean… He didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

“He didn’t tell you it was all my idea?”

NaNoWriMo2010: Chapter 5

2011-08-20T00:06:00.000-07:00

Chapter 5: Dinner and the Danger of Disclosure

A few hours had passed when my alarms began to go off. Yes, I said alarms… as in the plural form of the word ‘alarm’… as in multiple alarms. To be exact, there were twenty-two clocks in my home. Eighteen of those clocks had an alarm feature. Of those eighteen, nine were set to a specific time and had gone off at the same time each and every morning. Seven of those nine clocks that had been built with an alarm feature were located within my room. Why?

I was notoriously known for habitually oversleeping. Throughout high school and even before those four years of senior high, I would wake up early in the morning. Some years, I would have early morning dance lessons. Other years, I had early classes. Still other years would find me at the school gym as part of a conditioning regimen prior to my first class of the day in some random but mandatory subject matter. But each day, it would take multiple alarms set at differing times to ensure that I was awake, out of bed and on my way. Each of the seven alarms were placed at random throughout my bedroom, set to go off at different times. As the first of the seven alarms would go off, I would be forced to get out of bed, walk over and find the alarm and then turn it off. Drowsy and in no mood to wake up just yet, I would make my way back to bed.

Just as I would return to bed and begin to doze off again, the second of the seven alarms would go off. Once again, I would get up, walk over to wherever in my room the second of the seven alarms was hidden, find the alarm and turn it off. Still drowsy and forgetting that this entire scene had occurred once before, I would make my way back to bed.

Just as I had returned to my bed and was beginning to doze off, the third of the seven alarms would go off. Once again, I would get up, walk over to wherever in my room the third of the seven alarms was hidden, find the alarm and turn it off. Still a bit drowsy, beginning to get a headache from the inability to return to my rest and once again forgetting that this entire scene had occurred now twice before, I would make my way back to bed.

Just as I had laid back down in bed and was beginning to close my eyes, the fourth of the seven alarms would go off. Now, this particular alarm was particularly loud, particularly difficult to shut off and would not stop repeating its particularly over-played and particularly annoying tune over and over again until the batteries were removed completely from the battery compartment. So once again, I would get up, walk over to wherever in my room the fourth of the seven alarms was hidden, find the alarm, struggle to turn it off before remembering that the “off“ button on this particular alarm had been malfunctioning for some time, turn the entire thing over and remove the batteries, thus, silencing the alarm for good… or until later in the day when I replaced the batteries. Still a bit drowsy, definitely getting a headache from the inability to return to my rest and the accompanying racket, and once again forgetting that this entire scene had occurred now three times before (though, having a vague inclination that something like this had previously occurred already that morning), I would make my way back to bed.

Now I know what you, the reader, must be thinking: “How many times must we read this before she, the character finally gets up and gets on with the story? Why must there be so many alarm clocks set to seemingly random times and hidden in unspecified but told-to-be-random locations within the one bedroom? Where are the two other alarm clocks she spoke of earlier when listing the numerous time-keeping devices? And why does she make us read things repetitively? Why the long-winded tangents? Why is she breaking the fourth wall and talking to us now?”

… Because it is my story, and I am telling it… that is why!

Back to the story…

Just as I was beginning to comprehend that it was indeed morning and that there was likely to be a reason for the multiple wake up alarms, the fifth of the seven alarms would go off. Now, this particular alarm was not particularly loud, not particularly difficult to shut off and would stop repeating its particularly over-played and particularly annoying tune over and over again after playing its particularly over-played and annoying tune consecutively for two consecutive minutes. After those two minutes had passed, it would then play a particularly long, mid-range pitch that was particularly difficult to ignore, but not particularly loud enough to wake the rest of the house. So once again, I would get up, walk over to wherever in the room the fifth of the seven alarm clocks was hidden, find the alarm clock, attempt to turn it off before it switched over to the particularly long, mid-range pitch that was particularly difficult to ignore (but not particularly loud enough to wake the rest of the house). Still attempting to find my bearings and wondering how long this particular headache would last (the aforementioned headache caused by my particular inability to return to my rest and the accompanying racket) and once again forgetting that this entire scene had occurred far too many times before (though, now remembering that something like this had previously occurred a few times already that morning), I would make my way back to bed and now unable to lay down and sleep, would simply sit and begin to close my eyes, insisting that I was just resting them.

Just as I was beginning to rest my eyes for just a few minutes before having to get up and begin my morning, the sixth of the seven alarm clocks would go off. Now, this particular alarm was not particularly loud. In fact, it was a particular style of vintage clock radio from the 1970’s that I purchased at a particular local vintage shop on a particular outing to go antique hunting with my parents. This particular clock radio did not have bells, particularly long tones or whistles. No beeps, boops, whines or loud, particularly annoying tunes that played repetitively. No batteries (it plugged into the wall) and no timed changes in sound. It just turned on at a set time and played the radio. The only thing was, this particular clock radio was only able to pick up only two radio stations in particular: oldies and one particular Spanish language programming from the small outfit across town. And the volume, whose control knob was long ago broken and unable to be adjusted, was set on the highest particular setting possible. When this particular clock radio went off, I was greeted by the howls and hollers of a particular disc jockey from the oldies station as he went on to do his live, on-air plug for the Wolfman Jack show, complete with imitation Wolfman Jack howls and particular clips from thirty years before that were made to seem particularly fresh and new. So once again, I would get up, walk over to the one location where the sixth of the seven alarms was plugged into the wall, pick up the alarm and attempt to turn it off before it switched on and filled the room with the particularly loud and particularly brash sounds of man-made wolf howls. Still not quite awake but awake enough to know that I now needed to wake up and find something in particular for this particular headache of mine and wondering just what particular time it was exactly in particular. I would make my way back to bed, sit down and try to remember what I had to particularly do next.

And in a matter of minutes, it would hit me: I needed to turn off the seventh of the seven alarm clocks before it too went off. What was so horrible about this particular alarm out of the seven in my room was that it let out a particularly high-pitched squeal that was almost inaudible. I say almost, as we found out the hard way that the neighborhood dogs could hear this particular squeal emanating from this particular alarm clock. The barking of the dogs would then wake my parents who, as particularly grumpy and unwilling to face the morning as I was, would bang on the door to have me turn it off so that they too could go back to bed.

On this particular morning, after waking up in the middle of the night to relay such a long and particularly personal e-mail, I woke up before my seven alarms feeling particularly refreshed in a way I have not particularly felt in some time. There was no need for alarms today, so I turned them all off before they sounded.

An Hour Later-- Age 25

After shutting off the alarms, preparing breakfast and dressing for the morning run, I locked up the house and went out to run my morning run.

It was only a matter of minutes before I would reach the place where Mr. Edward Tilney and I would meet up to officially begin our run together. In that time, a number of things crossed my mind: “Did Mr. Edward Tilney have a chance to read my e-mail?” “Did Mr. Edward Tilney already respond to my e-mail?” “Would Mr. Edward Tilney, after reading the e-mail, get weirded out? Would Mr. Edward Tilney bother to show up for our morning runs after he reads the lengthy and utterly depressing late-night e-mail?” and “Why is it that when comparing songs covered by both George Michaels and Michael Buble, George Michaels wins hands down every time?”

My mental list of questions of importance was cut short by the arrival of Mr. Edward Tilney. We decided that we would start and end our morning runs at a particular house. This particular house was the very house where I first saw Mr. Edward Tilney months ago. It was the same non-descript house in the middle of a neighborhood full of other cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes. This was the same house that had the shiny red bike chained to the mail box that I spotted when I first began to go on my morning runs. The bike is no longer there, but I still know that house to be the house with the shiny red bicycle.

The shiny red bicycle belonged to Mr. Edward Tilney. I know this because I inquired about it one day. “Whose bike is that?” I asked, a few weeks after we began to run together.

“Mine,” he said.

Same Day: At the End of Morning Run--Age 25

Conversation was virtually non-existent during our morning run. In fact, if not for a few glimpses of a smile caught on his face when I happened to glance sideways a few times, I would have thought that he was upset with me.

We ended our run back at the house where Mr. Edward Tilney left his bike locked to the whitewashed mail box for the duration of our run. I asked him once why it was that he parked his bike at this particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes when I (after the occasion of our first conversation) know him to live in another house several blocks away.

“That particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes was the very non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses where I grew up. That particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes belonged to my parents my entire life.”

This past month though, the bike was not chained to the mail box of that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes. So I inquired to Mr. Edward Tilney one day: “Where is the shiny red bicycle that you use to ride in the mornings and chain up to the mail box outside of that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes?”

“The shiny red bicycle I use to chain up to the whitewashed mailbox outside of that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes?”

“Yes,” I replied. “That shiny red bicycle.”

“That shiny red bicycle is at home.”

“Why is that shiny red bicycle at home?”

“Because I left the shiny red bicycle at home.”

“Why did you leave the shiny red bicycle at home?”

“Because I could no longer chain up my bike to the whitewashed mail box outside of that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes.”

I was puzzled. “Why can you no longer chain up your shiny red bicycle to the whitewashed mail box outside of that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes?”

“Because that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes no longer belongs to my parents.”

“Oh…” I almost felt like an imbecile for asking, however… “Why is that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes no longer belonging to your parents?”

There was a pause. The pause only lasted a few seconds but given the rapid response time of Mr. Edward Tilney’s responses to my questions, this pause of a few seconds felt like it lasted much longer and was building up to something more important.

At last, he spoke. “My father had a stroke in that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes. My mother, no longer wishing to reside in that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes, moved to a house down the street from my older brother’s house. Did I ever tell you I had a brother?”

“I thought you had a younger brother?”

“I have both kinds of brothers-- an older brother named “Theodore” but for whom we have always called “Ted” and a younger brother… “Ned” (I inquired what Ned’s full name was that he should have the nickname of “Ned” but was informed that his name was indeed “Ned” and needed no shortening to create a nickname. Why “Ned”? Because they wanted to give all three boys names that rhymed ). Both my older brother Ted and my younger brother Ned are married. My older brother Ted has two children. My younger brother Ned has one on the way. Well, they did not have children, exactly. Their wives had the children. But Ted and Ned’s children are my mother’s only grand-children and she wished to be close to them so she moved to a house within blocks of her grand-children. She wanted to be close by so that she could watch them grow up.”

“Oh,” I replied. “Where did she move to?”

“Across town.”

***

When Mr. Edward Tilney and I finally made our way back to the particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes that we use as both our starting point and ending point for our morning runs, we began to stretch our legs and cool down from the run.

“Can I ask you a question?” He was slightly out of breath after the lengthy run.

“Was that the question you intended to ask?” My answer-in-the-form-of-a-question elicited a chuckle.

“No.”

“Okay then… yes, you may ask me a question.” Did I mention I was smiling? I found that I spend much of my post-morning run time smiling. I do not know what has come over me exactly, but I am told it is a good thing and not to think about it too much.

“Will you have dinner with me tonight at my house?”

My mouth opened and shut like a fish gasping for air. “I…uh… well… um… IyuhguessIcould?”

“Was that your answer?” he laughed.

“No… I mean,” I shook my head to put my brain back on track. “My answer is yes. Yes, I will have dinner with you tonight at your house.”

“Do you remember how to get to my house?”

“It has been a while, but I believe I can manage it.”

“Okay… is seven this evening alright?”

“Yes, seven this evening will be fine.”

“Then it is a date!” he yelled, jumping up and taking off for home almost immediately. “See you then!”

I was thrown off by the term ‘date,’ left behind with my mouth hanging open as I stood outside of that particular non-descript house in the middle of the neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses with identical lawns and matching whitewashed mail boxes and no shiny red bicycles where this unusual scene took place.

That Evening, Seven at Night-- Age 25

I arrived at Mr. Edward Tilney’s house at precisely seven that night. Normally, I would prefer to arrive at least fifteen minutes prior to an event, however, circumstances beyond my control delayed me. As much as I profess to be uninterested in dressing up and socializing, I have to admit that in preparing for this evening I was at somewhat of a loss as to my appearance and as to what would be proper attire for an occasion that was out of the ordinary, but unknown as to its formality and seriousness within the context of our relationship. Not that I am saying we have a relationship! No… I am not saying that at all. I am just saying, I do not know whether this is to be considered a date-date or a date-on-the-calendar-date.

Earlier in the day, after my morning run and the long shower that dutifully followed, I contacted Cassandra--my only female friend with which I could discuss the, uh, situation that I was now facing. Cassandra, upon hearing of my predicament, squealed with utter delight and insisted I join her at the salon.

This is just an observation, but I have observed that historically speaking, in order to become a well-groomed piece of ocular marzipan, women readily sought out and eagerly subjected themselves to all manner of voluntary means of torture at the hands of other women who are perfectly willing to participate in culturally accepted forms of torture because the pay is good. If one wanted to see such a scene in action today, one only has to make their way into a beauty parlor or spa, take a seat and observe the practices that women endure to meet the socially agreed-upon standard of beauty.

For today’s scheduled visit to the local little shop of prolonged torture, my friend Cassandra was having her hair colored to a shade not found in nature as another woman attempted to create a miniature Pollack reproduction on each of her ten artificially-lengthened Wolverine-like fingernails.

I have never felt the need to frequent beauty parlors, salons or any other name they have given to such a place as this. My hair, when ‘styled’, was always pulled back into a sleek bun. It was both sophisticated and practical for what use to be my everyday life and profession both. Nails were always to be kept short, again for work and practicality. The idea of having one’s hair teased to new heights or having my fingernails long was out of the question. But after listening to Cassandra emphatic reasoning for my being present today (as well as the myriad of workers and customers at this particular beauty salon who all had an opinion on anything and everything whether or not it proved to be true, correct, or any of their business to begin with in the first place), it was decided that I would at least have my hair cut and styled.

“A trim only.” I sternly insisted to the stylist.

“Yeah…I know, a trim. But you would look so good with a…”

“A trim. Only.” I repeated. I was told recently that repetition of words really works. If I repeat my instructions enough, will the stylist listen? Or will she insist that after her five minutes of staring blankly at the back of my head while discussing the finer points of poorly-written vampire novels adapted for the big screen, she somehow has come to know me better than I know myself and ‘trim’ half the length of my hair instead?

Two extremely long, excruciating hours later, I walked out of the salon somewhat not-quite satisfied and still most definitely not completely trusting of hairstylists. My hair, once reaching the middle of my back, now hit just below my shoulders. The stylist at least did not inflate what remained of my hair into something to rival the Goodyear Blimp, but still… I liked my hair as it was before. She styled my hair into a bob which elicited oohs and ahhs from Cassandra and the other stylists. From me, it elicited a scowl and no tip. I do not always behave this way when it comes to leaving financial tokens of appreciation for a service well done, but when I walk away under whelmed… when I give specific instructions… I do not expect them to be cast aside. Ignore the customer’s wants when working in the service industry and you risk awaking the no-tipper within each and every one of us.

Back to the present: I was now standing on the covered porch outside of Mr. Edward Tilney’s house, ready to knock on the door and announce my presence. It took some time to decide upon an outfit, not wanting to be over-dressed or under-dressed for an occasion I knew very little about, save for the time and location.

My final choice was one I had not pulled out of the closet since I arrived home last year. The last opportunity I had to wear it was at an after party at the New York City Ballet Company on the evening of one of their premiers. The dress was short-- hitting just above the knee. The dress was black as night, flowey in the right places, covered in sequins from the chest up, and was sleeveless to show off my toned arms. I had planned to wear it for my birthday when I arrived home, instead opting for something more practical and less flashy for a funeral. The indecision leading up to my dress choice took up much of my time, eliminating any chance I had of arriving impressively early.

I knocked on the door.

A moment later, the door opened. Standing in the doorway was Mr. Edward Tilney wiping his hands on a red checkered kitchen towel. Edward was dressed in a muted blue buttoned-down dress shirt tucked into his tan dress khakis. He almost seemed to glow as he stood backlit against the warm glow emanating from the room behind him.

I realized I was staring and immediately tried to suppress the blush that threatened to expose the inner workings of my mind. “You are dressed up?” I asked, intending it to be more of an expression of compliment toward his pleasant appearance.

“Yes,” he said. He looked down and seeing the red checkered hand towel still in his hand, tossed the red checkered hand towel behind him in an impressive move that left the red checkered hand towel a mere two feet behind him, dangling precariously on the nose of a large, decorative ceramic dog gracing the entrance to the living room on the right. “Yes, it isn’t often that I have guests over for non-sporting events. I thought this qualified as a special occasion.” He motioned for me to enter, helped me out of my vintage plum-colored faux-leather motorcycle jacket and proceeded to hang my coat up on an old wooden coat rack next to the front door. “You know, you look like you are pretty dressed up yourself!”

“Yeah, I uh… I did not know if by dinner you had meant that we would eat dinner here at your home, or that you had meant we would be dining at a restaurant.” I felt a bit silly when I thought about it. I realize I may not know every piece of vital information about Mr. Edward Tilney, but I thought I had a fairly decent understanding of his personality by now. Dinner in a formal dining place did not seem like his style. Even dressed up, he was casual, approachable, and a far cry from anything typical. Why did it ever cross my mind that we would be going out to eat at a restaurant when it was clearly uncomfortable (in an awkward sense of the word) and somewhere where we would be out of place? And besides that, this was not a date. At least, I do not think it is a date. He did say date, but this is not a date. Is it? I am still unclear as to the date issue. I look at him, the expression on his face is blank but as if he is trying to hide what he is thinking. I really want to face palm myself right now, but I give my head a shake instead and begin to look around the room he was leading me into.

The living room was large, yet cozy. The room itself was spacious and rectangular. To the right, at the shorter end of the rectangle, were two wide windows covered by grey roman shades. From the vantage point of either of the two wide windows covered by grey roman shades, someone could get a really good look at the front yard, the street, and the covered porch where Mr. Edward Tilney and I first sat with hot chocolate in hand and had our first face-to-face conversation. Underneath the two wide windows covered by grey roman shades, A large, wide and very old piece of furniture that housed a vintage radio and turntable. I was later told by Mr. Edward Tilney, that it was practically a family heirloom… “Practically” an heirloom as it was definitely passed from one generation to the next, but that no one in the family save for himself had any passion toward owning it let alone restoring it to its former beauty.

Mr. Edward Tilney made his way over to the large wooden piece of furniture, slid open the heavy top that protected the electronic equipment encased inside, and fingered his way through the cache of albums also housed within. About mid-way through his search, Mr. Edward Tilney nodded his head in approval, pulled out an LP and after examining the song list displayed in the center of the album, carefully placed it on the turn table. The large black disc began to spin and a long-forgotten hiss began to sound as he gently placed the needle on the record, leaving it to play through its entire selection of offerings. Turning around and finding me staring at him once again, frozen with a half-smile on my face, he began to blush. “I uh… “ he pointed back to the record, now starting its first song. “Artie Shaw.”

I came to, obviously having followed my thoughts elsewhere. “I, uh, sorry… what?”

“Artie Shaw.” he repeated with a bit more security in his voice. “I hope you don’t mind me playing it.”

“No, I do not mind at all.”

He nodded uncomfortably. “I like to play them, the records that is… I like to play them while I am cooking. Speaking of which, if you do not mind hanging out in here and making yourself comfortable, I am just going to head back in the kitchen and finish. Dinner should be ready in another five or ten minutes.”

I did not mind at all. “I do not mind at all.” And with my assurance that I did not mind his leaving me unattended in his dreary-yet-definitely-masculine living room, Mr. Edward Tilney walked the length of the living room and through the door on my far left that led into the kitchen, brightly lit and unsuccessfully containing the pleasant aroma that was now escaping through the open doorway.

As he leaves the room and returns to preparing dinner for the two of us, I find myself still rooted to the same spot from where I had only moments before observed the focused gentleness at which Mr. Edward Tilney displayed while selecting an album to play on the vintage turntable.

Behind me is the doorway leading back toward the entry way where my vintage faux-leather plum-colored jacket was hanging. To my right, the vintage radio and turntable piece. On my left was the doorway leading into the kitchen where I could see Mr. Edward Tilney retrieving some sort of bottle from the refrigerator.

The remainder of the room seemed rather dreary, but obviously something designed by a man. The floors were hardwood, dark with a few signs of wear in places. Directly in front of me was a large black leather couch facing an incredibly inviting fire in a somewhat-formal, traditional looking fireplace.

I walked around to the front of the couch and sat down on the center cushion. Though in the dimly lit room, it appeared that the black leather couch was relatively new, up close and while actually feeling it, the black leather couch was incredibly soft and broken in. Leaning back, it felt as though the couch had come alive and was hugging me, wanting me to just close my eyes and rest a while.

I relaxed and eased into the absolute comfort that the black leather couch provided. I did not close my eyes and rest, but looked around from my seat in the center of the black leather couch in an attempt to observe more detail about the room. The only light in the room were that which was spilling in from the open doorway into the kitchen to my back left, and the warm glow in front of me which threatened to hypnotize me into falling asleep where I sat. The light from the fireplace threw shadows across the room. I could see what looked like a fire poker leaning against a short stack of cut wood that had been left a few feet to the left of the fireplace, obviously left to fuel the fire throughout the night. Along the walls were frames whose details I could not make out through the glare on the glass.

It was then that I heard a creek from behind me. I looked over my shoulder to once again see the image of Mr. Edward Tilney lit up in the doorway. This time he was bracing himself against the door way. He smiled. I wondered how long he had been standing there when he interrupted my thoughts with an announcement: “Dinner is served.”

I stand, and rather reluctantly make my way through the doorway leading into the kitchen. I almost wish to stay in front of the fireplace where it was nice and warm. Despite it being the middle of summer, I find myself with chills.

My eyes adjust in the rough transition between the dim living room and the overly-lit kitchen. The kitchen feels both cramped and large at the same time. To the right and left are a pair of seemingly narrow passage ways between the counters that fill the walls and the massive triangular island that dominates the kitchen. On my right are waist-high cabinets stained to look like dark wood that end at the large black fridge in the far corner. About two feet above the counters are more cabinets, but this time, they have glass doors that let me see the neatly stacked dishes and stemware that fill the first three of the four cabinets.

On the other side of the room, the same cabinets with their dark stain nearly fill the two walls. Their dominance is only halted by a black stove that appeared to have been made to match the fridge on the other side of the room. The stove and fridge stand out against the dated décor. Standing out against the dark stained cabinetry are the walls and counter tops-- both of which are a particular shade of bright orange specific to the 1970’s. The floor below is carpeted in an avocado green shag carpet that must have been laid down in the same decade as when much of the kitchen was put together.

The fourth wall on the opposite side of me was wallpapered with some sort of print that had somehow--in all of its presumed insanity--both fit the décor of the kitchen while also begging to be torn down out of its own uselessness. Nothing hung on the wall aside from the wallpaper. The wall itself was only wall for the bottom two-thirds. The upper-most third of the wall was made of thick, spiraling wooden spindles in a dark stain that matched the cabinetry. It was through that fourth wall that Mr. Edward Tilney beckoned me to follow. He was calling me from the other side of the spindled portion of the wall.

I maneuvered around the island in the center, with its bright orange counter top and out of place sink in the center, and walked through the doorway from the kitchen past the spindled fourth wall and gasped inaudibly. Past the dimly-lit living room, through the kitchen out-of-time, stood Mr. Edward Tilney next to a cozy square table set for two with place settings that made the entire scene look like one of the fancier restaurants I so erroneously assumed we would be visiting this evening. Off to the right, underneath the spindled portion of the wall that divided the kitchen from the dining room, sat a side table full of dome-covered dishes whose identities remained secret while they stayed covered.

“Your chair, madam,” he said with flair as he pulled out the chair nearest to him. His head tilted, nodding to the seat he had meant for me.

I walked over and sat down, speechless. He pushed the chair in and made his way over to the side table to retrieve the first of the covered dishes. He lifted the domed cover, letting the trapped mixture of steam and scent escape, and as the steam dissipated, proceeded to detail the evening’s meal: “For tonight only, our special is the house favorite of Spam, sliced and pan-fried, accompanied by a generous helping of Kraft Velveeta shells and cheese with bits of bacon on the top. And for dessert? Ah, well… we will leave that little surprise for later.”

I giggled as I stared at the plate. There were two medium-thick slices of fried Spam garnished with some sort of greenery and next to it, macaroni and cheese with bacon bits sprinkled on top. I looked up and smiled at him as he returned with his own plate and seated himself. He quickly unfolded the boat-shaped origami of a napkin that sat next to his place setting and sat the napkin in his lap. “Bon appetite!” he chirped, digging into his own plate.

It was over the course of our shared meal, between bites of Spam and the crunching of bacon bits, that Mr. Edward Tilney asked me questions. Questions about my job. Questions about my interests. Questions about my friends. Questions about my childhood and the activities I pursued during those years. Questions about the little things that are rarely addressed so directly as they are right now-- things like my favorite colors, the best book I have ever read, the worst book I have ever read and more along those lines. And for what feels like the first time, I am doing most of the talking and he is doing most of the listening, only speaking here and there to further the conversation and keep the pace of the evening steady.

The evening seems to be going well and soon, Mr. Edward Tilney rises and takes our dishes into the kitchen. I hear a few doors open and shut, including that of the refrigerator as he takes out a second bottle of Martinelli’s Sparkling Apple Cider. The first one, opened prior to my arriving in the dining room, had run out half an hour before in the middle of our discussion on my reliance on several alarm clocks to wake me in the morning. Judging by the sounds coming out of Mr. Edward Tilney, it was one of the funniest things he has heard in some time.

He returns from the kitchen for the second time since we sat down to eat. “If you want to,” he tells me, “you can go ahead and make your way to the living room. It is more comfortable there. I will bring out dessert when I have finished warming it up.”

I smile and nod. Though I am enjoying myself at the moment, the thought of returning to the comfy couch and warming myself in front of the fire is greatly appealing. I stand, folding my napkin and returning it to the table before pushing in my chair. As I walk though the kitchen, the most incredibly decadent scent of warmed chocolate catches my nose. I stop, close my eyes and inhale deeply. “Are those chocolate chip cookies I smell?”

“If I told you, it would ruin the surprise. Let’s just say… it is chocolate chip cookie that you smell, but then again, it is not chocolate chip cookie you smell.” He grins at this.

I just laugh it off and put my hands up in surrender, leaving the kitchen once again and entering the living room. The fire was smaller now and in need of another log. The song playing on the vintage turntable was no longer a lively instrumental. It sounded as though Edward had changed the record to something more soothing… probably on one of his earlier trips into the kitchen.

I detour into the entry way, taking off my shiny plum-colored mary jane pumps and setting them beside the coat rack that held my vintage plum-colored faux-leather jacket. I contemplated slipping it back on and hoping that he would not take offence to it. Instead, I left it, rubbing my arms with my hands to warm up a little as I walked back into the living room.

As I walked back into the living room, Edward entered from the kitchen carrying something large and topped with a heaping scoop of something else that was presently melting, and in the other hand, two spoons. With a nod of his head, he motioned me to where he was, now sitting down on the hardwood floor between the big black leather couch and the fireplace. I walked around the couch and sat down on the floor as gracefully as one can while wearing a short black dress.

I sit down, my back against the front of the couch. Edward is sitting the same way. He hands me one of the two spoons and explains (quickly, as part of it is melting fast) that the dessert was called a pazookie. He had apparently seen the dish one evening while having dinner with his family and found it easy to make for himself at home.

“It is an oversized cookie, pulled out of the oven while it is still nice and warm and slightly gooey in the center, then topped with a scoop or two of ice cream and eaten promptly, preferably shared between two people, before the cookie cools and the ice cream melts…” he scoops up a bit of ice cream, then fills the rest of the spoon with warm cookie. “Here, try the first bite.”

He holds the spoon out to me, carefully as not to spill any of the still-melting ice cream. I hold my left hand under it to catch any drips, open my mouth, and let him feed me the spoonful of sensations that explodes the taste buds in my mouth. Hot, cold, warm, hard, soft, liquid and mush… all in one spoonful, now causing me to close my eyes and metaphorically melt out of a sense of euphoria.

“Ohm… muy… Gowm…” I attempt to relate my wonder and surprise while it is still in my mouth. I cover my mouth and hide its contents as I continue, “…this is really, REALLY good!” I point at the cookie with my spoon, emphasizing my point as I finish swallowing the bite that was in my mouth.

Edward just grins. “Dig in!” he manages to blurt out before bringing a spoonful to his mouth.

***

I awkwardly make my way from a sitting position on the floor back to a sitting position on the comfy leather couch. Edward had left the room to take our empty dessert dish into the kitchen. I used the opportunity and leaned forward toward the dying fire, rubbing my arms with my hands. I was hoping I could warm them up a bit before Edward returned.

A few minutes later, I was startled out of my deep thoughts by something being draped over me. I sat up, turned and saw that it was Edward. After putting our dishes away, he had picked up a warm throw blanket from another room and brought it into the living room, draping it around my arms. He makes his way around the couch, picking up a log from the short pile next to the fireplace and puts it on the fire.

As he sits down right beside me on my left, on the couch cushion beside me, I turn toward him and try to curl up so that I can get most of my body underneath the blanket wrapped around me. I say attempt because instead of successfully getting my legs and feet under the blanket, Edward grabs my right ankle and slowly pulls it towards him.

“I thought you could use these too” he tells me, pulling out a pair of his long, thick socks from his left pocket. I lean forward slightly to get a closer look. True to form, they are black with a golden-colored toe and the logo of the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team emblazoned on the calf. Not the tackiest thing I have seen, but inside I laugh, wondering how much of his wardrobe is devoted to his beloved Pittsburgh Pirates.

He sets my leg down so that it is laying across his lap, my knee propped on his knee and my foot dangling over the other side of his lap. He takes one from the pair of socks now sitting on the arm rest of the couch and unfolds it. He is slow, methodical, focusing everything on this one act of dressing my foot and calf with his white cotton sock.

I am watching his hands slowly pull the sock on, then, starting from the toe, he smoothes out and stretches the sock upward so that it covers more of my leg, reaching its end just under my knee where he is now resting his hands.

I look up. I had been intensely watching his hands at work. At some point, it seems he had watched me from the corner of his eye, at the same time that I was intensely watching his hands at work. It is then, as he looks up and meet his gaze for a moment, that I notice that my breathing has changed. In fact, if not for the certainty that I was indeed still alive, I could have sworn that I had stopped breathing.

Without taking his eyes off of mine, he gently moves my right leg over and asks me to give him my left. Already in an awkward and utterly compromising position, I carefully ease my left leg from its bent position against his right leg, underneath the leg that he still has on his lap. I rest my left leg next to the right. He turns back to the task at hand and I let him put the other sock on me, just as he did before.

Edward looks back up, and for a moment there is something in his face that makes me wonder… that maybe… He begins to lean in toward me, our faces now inches apart. He reaches his right arm around my back and holds me just below my ribs, with his left hand, he cups his hand under my knees and… rotates my whole body so that I am now in a proper seated position, facing the fire once again.

I quietly release my held breath and as he briefly looks away, my face becomes full of disappointment. Edward takes the blanket that was wrapped around my shoulders and wraps it around my legs. Scooting over so that he is as close as he can get, he wraps his right arm around me and pulls me in so that I am able to rest my head comfortably on his shoulder.

I stare at the fire in the fireplace, trying hard not to fall asleep. I think about how insane the last twenty-four hours have been. Between late night e-mails confessing the burden I have carried alone for so long, to earlier this evening when I began to realize that whatever this was that I was feeling when I was around Edward was something I really wanted to be a part of. That whatever this is right now, I want more of it.

I thought that if I could stay awake… If I could just… that maybe Edward would do something. Anything really! A perfectly executed side hug, a pat on the head, a gentle squeeze of my hand…something! I waited expectantly but we both remained motionless and silent on the couch. It was not to be for much longer, for as strong as this new-found expectancy was, it could not compare to the feeling of being completely and totally safe.

I have had a rough year, and though try as I might, I cannot recall the last time I felt like this, like everything was right with the world-- as though I were home. Truly, wonderfully, exquisitely at home. Sitting here, wrapped in a blanket and being held by Edward, I truly and sincerely felt safe. I felt I could finally rest and lay my burdens aside, if only for this evening. I wanted Edward to keep a hold of me like he was so that I may be enveloped in this feeling as long as I could.

My eyes started to close and I felt myself becoming increasingly drowsy at a rapid rate. I snuggled closer to Edward and, just as he had his arm around me, I wrapped my arms around his and let out one last sigh before falling asleep.

July 3rd-- Age 25

I woke to find myself laying across the length of the couch in Edward’s living room. In addition to the blanket Edward gave me last night and wrapped around my nearly-bare legs (nearly… as it appeared that Edward‘s socks were still on my feet), there was also the presence of a much larger blanket that completely covered me (and was tucked in around me) as well as the presence of a soft pillow under my head.

I smiled and slowly sat upright, leaning back onto the couch. Fully cocooned in the wealth of warm blankets, I looked around the room. I must have slept in far longer than I normally would as the sun has risen enough to fully illuminate the room enough for me to finally see the details.

The fire that burned last night in the fireplace was long put out, leaving soot and ash to remain in its place. The fireplace, whose size and detail were exaggerated by the shadows made from the light of the fire, was not as large and overwhelming as first thought. It was brick and at some point had been painted gray-- the same shade of gray as storm clouds ready to burst. The walls, whose décor seemed sparse last night, now were seen to be painted hunter green. The picture frames that hung on the wall looked to be images of vacations and other trips with friends and family. Most were outdoorsy or related to one sporting event or another. On the wall behind me, leading back to the entry way, a large shadowbox dominated one side of the doorway while the other housed a book case that fit snugly into the corner and was something I had not seen the night before.

I stood up, wrapping one of the two blankets around my shoulders, noticing that the socks Edward put on my feet last night, the ones whose design screamed “die-hard fan of the Pittsburgh Pirates”, were still on my feet just as he left them last night. I blushed, recalling how his hands felt on my calves as he tried to smooth out the socks after they were on.

Shaking the image out of my head, I walked over to the shadow box on the wall. I see that it holds a team shirt emblazoned with “U.S.A.” and the logo from the Winter Olympics just a few years back. Edward had said he competed in the curling event, and as evident by the framed photos, certificates and newspaper clippings, I can see that he did not make it up just to seem impressive.

Through the doorway, Edward sees me from the kitchen. “Good morning, Sunshine!” he calls out. I turn and smile. He is tilting a frying pan from side to side, attempting to melt a slab of butter on its hot surface. “Does french toast sound okay for breakfast?”

I close my eyes, praying that when I open them, nothing about this scene would change. I open my eyes and he is still there, looking at me, waiting for my answer. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

The scent of cinnamon and the sound of a fresh piece of battered toast hitting the hot surface of the pan draws me into the kitchen. After putting a second slice onto the pan, Edward turns around. “Will you hand me two of those plates in the second cabinet behind you?”

I turn to the cabinets full of neatly stacked dishes. I take the blanket wrapped around my shoulders and wrap it around my waist like a sarong, tucking the end securely into the layers already tight around my middle so that it is not in my way. I reach up to the cabinet and take down two identical plates. I walk over, holding a plate in each hand so that he could take the now-ready slices of french toast and place them on each of the two plates before they burn his fingers. I watch as he puts two more slices on the pan, quickly wiping his egg covered finger tips on a kitchen towel before turning toward the refrigerator.

Realizing I am in his way, I step forward and lean up against the island so that he can pass by. He quickly passes, taking out the milk and syrup from the door of the fridge before making his way back in time to flip over the toast. He turns back to me, taking the two plates from my hands and directing me toward the cabinets once again, this time to get two tall glasses.

As I pour the milk, replacing the jug to its spot in the door of the fridge, Edward puts the last two pieces of toast on our plates and decorates them with a pat of butter and enough syrup to cover the top-most slice of toast. We make our way into the dining room, back to the table that had looked so exquisite the evening before. I untie the blanket from wrapped tightly around me, folding it in half and draping it over the back of the chair before I sit down.

Now in the day time, I could see that the dining room was only slightly larger than the kitchen. If the kitchen had been without the appliances, the island and the cabinetry, both rooms would be about the same size. The table and chairs, as well as the side table I noticed the night before, was like all of the other furniture I had seen so far: wood, with a dark stain applied sometime within the last 30 years or so. Behind me, in a portion of the room that made it too dark to see the night before, stood an empty china hutch. The walls, ceiling and even the cushions on the chairs we were sitting on were of matching color--all tan with a mossy green trim.

We eat our breakfast. At first, there is silence. I am eating slowly, still waking up to the fact that I had just unintentionally spent the night at Edward’s house after a very long, intense day, and while there was no one at home to explain things to, this was still a bit of a sticky wicket, not to mention out of character for me…and it does not look good for an unmarried, unattached young woman to stay the night at the home of an unattached, unmarried young man. Not to mention that I was no longer referring to him as “Mr. Edward Tilney” and thinking of him simply as “Edward”: so familiar and intimate in a way that seemed completely foreign to me just a few days ago. What on earth has happened to have created a change such as this within me?

“You have nice legs, by the way,” he mutters between bites.

I am caught off guard by the compliment and just a bit self conscious because of it. I am still in the short dress I wore over for dinner last night. I was sure that I must have looked like an awful fright having just awakened. I had yet to see a mirror, so there was no telling how misshapen and voluminous my hair had become overnight.

“Thank you,” I reply.

“So,” he starts as he takes another bite and attempts to pass off his next question casually. “Did they come that way or did they just become lengthy and toned from all the running?”

“I, uh…” I put down my fork. “They came from work, I guess.”

“Work?”

“I cannot remember a time, save for this last year, when I was not dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Yeah, dancing. I took lessons in different styles of dance when I was growing up. By the time I was in high school, I was taking my training and conditioning as seriously as some took football seriously. I made myself get up early each day, train for an hour or so, then go to school and end my day with dance lessons. Even in college, I knew I wanted to dance professionally. So I went to a school with an excellent performing arts program and the year after I graduated, was interning in New York City and was contracted to be part of the dance corps for a musical at the end of my stay.”

He puts his fork down as well, studying my face as I stare down at my plate. “So if you loved dancing so much, and put so much of your life into your craft… why are you not dancing now?”

I continue to stare at my plate. “When I came home last summer, my parents knew I had been offered a job to teach interpretative dance at a local dance studio, but while I was in New York City, I was offered a firm, year-long contract to perform as part of the dance corp. I was still indecisive as to whether to take the teaching job as planned, or risk it to dance on stage for a year.”

“So what finally made you decide?”

“My parents’ death sort of made that decision for me-- I let go of both offers and took a menial, but decent paying job for the State working in the Department of Redundancies Department.

“But… you loved to dance?”

“Yes.”

“…and you do not love this job you have now?”

“I dread going to work, then count down the hours until I can leave each afternoon.” I take a bite of my breakfast. “I swear, sometimes the work is so repetitive and redundant that I find myself carrying it home… saying and thinking things that are the same exact things I had said or thought just moments before and not catching the redundancy of what I just said or thought.”

“Like just now?” His eyebrow raised significantly above one eye.

“I…” I stop myself, taking a breath and coming down from the rant I had just begun. “Yes, like just now.”

“It does not make sense: You gave up something you love and took up with something you cannot stand… because your parents died?”

“It was not so much that I gave up something that I loved. It was like all joy was gone after their death. Those first couple of months, my time was spent taking care of arrangements and the legal paper work. There was no time for classes or sessions at the gym to keep in shape. I felt so empty that the change in career just did not seem to matter or make any difference.”

Edward paused to take a drink from his glass of milk before continuing the conversation. “Would you be willing to give it another try?”

I finally looked up at him. He was being sincere. “I… I do not know. I do not know if I can do it, or how to give it another try. It took a whole year before I could share with anyone what this has all been like.”

“Have you thought about talking to someone about all of this? About your parents’ death and how you have managed since then… about making an attempt at your dreams again?”

“You mean… besides talking to you?” I said half-heartedly.

He pursed his lips together as if he were trying to bite his tongue. “…besides me.”

“There is an office in the building I work at… a counseling center. It couldn’t hurt to check it out and see if what they offer is even remotely what it is you are looking for.”

He had a point. “I guess you have a point there.” I took a drink of my milk, setting it down and wiping the milk left behind on my mouth.

“Just a word of caution: Go on Tuesdays, but not after lunch time. They have something called “Build-Your-Own-Burrito Tuesday” at lunch and let’s just say that most of that floor becomes virtually uninhabitable after they start hitting the bathroom.”

“Are you serious?” I ask, “Are Tuesdays that bad? Wouldn’t they notice something and stop having ‘Build-Your-Own-Burrito Tuesdays’?

“You would think that they would stop… it really can be that bad. That was why I insisted on not working in the building on Tuesdays but it meant having to go in on Saturdays.” He looks up at the clock. “Speaking of… I should probably get ready for work.” He stands, taking our dishes back to the kitchen and rinsing them off in the sink. “Just remember what I said: Go Tuesday mornings. It is pretty much quiet in the building on Tuesdays since patients seem to have caught on and now request days that are not punctuated by little poots of the various staff as they walk up and down the hall. That, and there is no need for a gas mask as long as you go before noon-ish.”

***

After lending me his comb and toothbrush so that I could put myself together a little bit before I left, Edward and I parted ways. We agreed that we would skip our usual morning run for today, having had enough excitement to last me the week.

When I arrived home, I felt offended at the state I have let it get to. Everywhere I looked, there were cobwebs and layers of dust. Most of the house had been untouched since the funeral a year before. Though I did not know how I would accomplish it, I looked around and accepted that something had to be done. I could not continue to live like this day after day, week after week, month after month, ignoring the things that would remind me of the loss I felt.

Maybe Edward was right. Maybe it really was time to get some help… finally talk to someone and start picking up the pieces. It just amazed me that within the last forty-eight hours, I have gone from not wanting to share anything about my past to breaking through that wall and sharing everything. More than that, I went from the relative comfort of my lonely little bubble of safety, keeping everyone at arms length, to spending the night on Edward Tilney’s couch and finding myself wanting so much for him to just hold me and keep me safe forever.

I lock my front door behind me and lean against the door, eyes closed. My mind’s eye is filled with flashes from the night before. Images of just how incredibly close Edward’s face was to mine… the nearness of him as he took my feet and dressed them with a pair of his socks… the way it felt when his hands lingered just below my knees. My breath catches in my throat as I recall how much I had anticipated his kiss at that moment, only to be left wanting.

I did not even know I could want him.

NaNoWriMo2010: Chapter 3.2-4

2011-08-19T02:01:00.000-07:00

The Last Day of June--Age 25

I could not sleep a wink. I could not sleep a wink, a blink, or an hour, let alone eight hours in a row. Sleepless nights have become like an obnoxious college roommate-- showing up at the most inopportune times, staying for days, unannounced until just as sudden and surprising as their arrival, they leave for who knows how long this time. It never pitches in. It never pays rent. It leaves behind it a mess-- a trail of destruction as wide and as deep as the emotional root of the sleeplessness. I am not a stranger to these sleepless nights when sleep is a challenging endeavor to undertake. On this particular sleepless night, I simply sigh, get out of bed and walk over to my desk.

It would seem strange to some that at this age that I am (having recently turned one year older and becoming twenty-five years old), after all these years, I am living in the same room I grew up in. The room is small by today’s standards but when it was built, it was intended to house two people. I am not an expert on this, but I base my statement on the fact that there are two standard closets in the room. Either the room was intended for two people, or for one person with an incredibly large wardrobe and no dresser to house a portion of their wardrobe in.

The summer before high school, the room was fixed up to reflect the growing and maturing person that I was becoming at that time. Gone from the room were the pink ribbons and ruffles around the bedspread. In their place, a quilted bedspread of pastels and tans. Not the priceless, hand-sewn quilts like women two-generations ago would have had (or had at least learned how to make… after all, sewing was a necessary skill back then), but the cheaper, lower-quality, mass-produced bedspreads they now refer to as quilts because of the quilt-like pattern that adorns the bedspread. The walls, once a particular shade of bubblegum pink and adorned with anything and everything relating to princesses, had been painted over with multiple coats of peach. No dolls lined the walls or sat idle on tables. Trophies, mementos of vacations long past and a number of overturned frames stood on the shelves carefully hung above the desk in the corner. On the adjacent wall, bookshelves took up the entire length of the wall. They would have also taken up the entire height of the wall as well, but it was agreed upon that creating shelf-space so high up the wall that I would need a step ladder to render it functional, was not the best use of time, resources or money. The shelves themselves only reached a height of seven feet, allowing me full use of all the shelves (save for the actual top or the shelves… I could not reach that far up).

The books that were housed on the bookshelves were carefully organized and placed on the shelves, their titles updated as frequently as I could possibly update them through purchasing and reading new books or used books from used book sellers. I use to make a habit of pulling a title off the shelves or something new and unread from my bag to read after dinner was finished and the dishes were cleaned and put away. To say the least, I was a voracious reader and read as much as time would allow. On Fridays, I would stop by the book seller and pick up a new title. Bringing it home, I would stay up on those Friday nights in an attempt to read as much as possible before exhaustion or sunrise put an end to my endeavor. This weekly ritual sat unattended long enough for the spiders to move in and leave cobwebs as their place marker. No new book has made their way into the collection for a year.

Tonight, as I rise from my failed attempt at sleep, I make my way to my desk not to read, not to attempt to revive the almost forgotten addiction to the written word, but to write.

It has been on my mind, this letter I had planned to write. I felt the pull to open up, to share what I have kept locked up. I do not know what it is about Mr. Edward Tilney that makes me want to share this pain I have denied myself so long, but I feel like I need to tell him. I do not know if I am ready to tell him, but I feel as though I need to tell him. So tonight, as I am nowhere near rest or slumber, I might as well take the opportunity to sit and write it all out to him. If I cannot bring myself to speak what I intend to say directly to his face, then this pen and page will have to do it for me.

On second thought, perhaps writing with pen and paper is not the best of ideas. Writing with pen and paper seems too intimate. Too formal and familiar. Perhaps an e-mail would be the best course of action. It is fast, precise, direct and devoid of the stylistic interpretation and “reading between the lines” that so often happens when incorporating the writer’s handwriting into the message of the letter. With e-mail, the recipient cannot interpret ease of comfort, anger or rage, melancholy or stress in the individual letters as one does with each stroke of a pen. So I open up my laptop, power it up, log onto the internet, successfully gain access to my e-mail account and begin to compose a new message.

Chapter 4: The Letter--An Outpouring of a Pent Up Tale from One Ms. Mary Sue Kerplunkity to one Mr. Edward Tilney.

TO: MR EDWARD TILNEY (ET_WAS_A_PIRATES_FAN@GMAIL.COM)

FROM: MS. MARY SUE KERPLUNKITY (KERPLUNKITY3@GMAIL.COM)

DATE: July 1, 2010 11:38 pm

SUBJECT: Things that keep people up at night for a variety of reasons.

Good evening Edward,

I realize that at the moment you may be in bed, asleep. Indeed, you may be fast asleep, dreaming about giant squids of anger sending rabid teddy bears of gargantuan proportion out to attack a captive audience at the World Series while the world looks on in horror, viewing the incomprehensible scene from the safety of their home television set and unable to move a muscle to alert the proper authorities to this monstrous attack on relatively innocent baseball patrons. If you were not dreaming about giant squids of anger sending rabid teddy bears of gargantuan proportion out to attack a captive audience at the World Series while the world looks on in horror, viewing the incomprehensible scene from the safety of their home television set and unable to move a muscle to alert the proper authorities to this monstrous attack on relatively innocent baseball patrons, then undoubtedly you will read this, attempt to return to your peaceful slumber only to find yourself in a scene where giant squids of anger are sending rabid teddy bears of gargantuan proportion out to attack a captive audience at the World Series while the world looks on in horror, viewing the incomprehensible scene from the safety of their home television set and unable to move a muscle to alert the proper authorities to this monstrous attack on relatively innocent baseball patrons. If this is the case, I then apologize in advance for introducing you to the horror of giant squids of anger sending rabid teddy bears of gargantuan proportion out to attack a captive audience at the World Series while the world looks on in horror, viewing the incomprehensible scene from the safety of their home television set and unable to move a muscle to alert the proper authorities to this monstrous attack on relatively innocent baseball patrons that you will face when you return to your slumber after reading this particularly lengthy electronic letter of mine.

Setting aside all talk of giant squids of anger sending rabid teddy bears of gargantuan proportion out to attack a captive audience at the World Series while the world looks on in horror, viewing the incomprehensible scene from the safety of their home television set and unable to move a muscle to alert the proper authorities to this monstrous attack on relatively innocent baseball patrons… I have something of some importance to speak with you about. Not speak as in vocally communicate, but in the generally acceptable “speak” meaning “to communicate through any means of communication available.” As e-mail is available and used for communication, I am “speaking” to you through the means of electronic mail.

This particular subject has great significance on my life as it is currently lived and thus, is of some particular importance to me.

I realize that over the last few months, it must have become apparent that I seldom speak about my parents. In fact, as I recall all of our previous conversations on Tuesdays at the coffee shop, I cannot recall a single time when I have spoken of my parents. The only instance occurred the day you brought over flowers and I vehemently expressed my desire not to discuss the subject of my home or my family. That is the only time I can recall speaking about my parents. This must have been apparent to you as well, as I know you to be incredibly astute and keen on details. I recall a number of occasions on which you yourself have recalled minute details long forgotten, such as my address. I do not recall giving you my address, or my last name for that matter. However, you somehow knew or remembered enough detail to seek out and find the information you needed on your own. I myself am still puzzled as to how you could have known that daisies were my favorite kind of flower, but perhaps that is a conversation for another time. For now, I wish to discuss the subject of something that I have kept to myself for some time now. Something which troubles me to think of.

Just over a year ago, something happened that changed everything for me. At the time, I was a year out of college and returning from a year-long internship in New York City. I was set to fly home, landing safely at the airport a few days shy of my birthday. My parents were excited. I was their only child, a daughter who was as carefree and girly as a girl can be. A girl for whom persistence paid off and was on her way towards pursuing her life-long dream that she had been pursuing for many, many years. Most of her life, in fact. So knowing that in such a short time their little girl would arrive back home, my parents planned a surprise welcome home party for me. Friends, family and even a few former college classmates arrived at the house and as my parents drove to the airport to wait for me as I landed, the guests left at the house finished setting out food and welcoming late-comers to the joyful event. The plan, as I was later told, was for my parents to arrive at the airport, pick me up, drive the half-hour drive across town through afternoon traffic and (as we arrived home and I entered the house) surprise me with the welcome home party.

Their plans, as spontaneous and wonderful as they were, were short lived and not to be completed to their desired end. I was surprised all right, but I was not surprised in the manner of which they intended to surprise me.

On the drive to the airport, the beginnings of the afternoon traffic jams were appearing. Some drivers expressed their rushed attitude through hand gestures. Others through prolonged use of their vehicle’s horn. While still others exceeded posted speed limits, hurried their way through yellow lights and ignored right of ways in their efforts to get to their desired destinations.

My parents were amongst these drivers, all of which were severely lacking in patience or the capacity of rational thought that would have normally prompted them to at least observe the majority of the rules of the road that would have provided for the safety of themselves and others.

That is the thing about rules: while most rules and regulations are designed to get people what they need or where they need to go in the most safe, least dangerous and least harmful way possible, we as human beings do not see it this way. We see rules and regulations as some large, hovering, malicious entity attempting to exude its will and control over our lives and choices. “Right of way” for example, is used to designate who should proceed to cross an intersection first when multiple vehicles are present. Its intention was to facilitate the flow of traffic (or “movement”) through the intersection in the safest, most efficient and easy-to-recognize matter without compromising safety or impeding the flow of traffic to such a degree that a functioning stop light would be warranted. When rushed, we reinterpret “right of way” to mean something along the lines of “You have the right to get out of my way…immediately!” or “right of way is a stupid rule forced on me by the stupid government who is stupid and just wants to use this stupid rule to keep me from getting to where I need to go in a timely manner… stupid rule-people making up stupid, stupid rules!”

When rushed, we become selfish. When rushed, we forget that the other drivers are in the same position as we are, trying to get to where we (or they) are going in the least amount of time possible. When rushed, we sometimes forget to leave the parking break on while parked on an incline. When rushed, we blame cyclist and pedestrians for jumping out in front of us and not crossing the entire street by way of crosswalk in a timely manner so that we could drive when the light turns green and not find ourselves handcuffed in the back of a squad car after stepping on the gas and running over the aforementioned cyclist or pedestrian. We do things like this when we are rushed.

My parents, after a late start across town to the airport and finding themselves stuck in afternoon traffic, were rushed. I am sure you can surmise what happened next, but I will still tell you anyway as that has been the intention of this letter-nee-electronic mail in the first place.

The partygoers still at my parent’s house and awaiting our arrival had placed my parents on speakerphone, attempting to wrap up last minute discussions regarding the big surprise as my parents neared the airport. The police reports indicated that the party guests at the house could hear my parents discussing the best way to get over to the correct lane in order to turn into the airport’s short-term parking lot. At one point, their voices raised in agitation as the correct exit was missed. Both parents yelled out their own directions for how to get back to the correct entrance to the short-term parking, and some guests joined in from their end of the line, calling out the best route they knew to circle around and catch the entrance again. My dad’s last words were “I will just make this left turn right here and…”

At this point, I would like to say that they completed the completely illegal and utterly unnecessary turn and eventually made their way to the airport to pick me up. At this point, I would even settle for something along the lines of my parents being forced into making a course correction after discovering that the street they wished to turn on was closed to thru traffic due to a somewhat random and highly unusual parade of circus performers all dressed as various incarnations of Madonna, Cher and Lady Gaga to promote a one-night only benefit performance, now held over in its third week, to raise both awareness of and money for National Epidermis Awareness Trimester.

At this point, I would like to say anything that is not what really happened in reality. For in reality, my father turned the car into a one-way street, in the path of a pink cheetah-print bus of circus performers all dressed as various incarnations of Madonna, Cher and Lady Gaga to promote a one-night only benefit performance, now held over in its third week, to raise both awareness of and money for National Epidermis Awareness Trimester.

You can imagine the shock of it all. My parents did not expect to be hit by a city-bus emblazoned with pink cheetah print and full of circus performers all dressed as various incarnations of Madonna, Cher and Lady Gaga to promote a one-night only benefit performance, now held over in its third week, to raise both awareness of and money for National Epidermis Awareness Trimester. The guests to the surprise welcome home party did not expect to audibly bear witness to a head-on collision with a bus full of circus performers all dressed as various incarnations of Madonna, Cher and Lady Gaga to promote a one-night only benefit performance, now held over in its third week, to raise both awareness of and money for National Epidermis Awareness Trimester that they (the party goers) could not have known was emblazoned with pink cheetah print. And I, as I was waiting and growing impatient at the arrival gate by this point, did not expect that her parents would collide head-on with a city bus emblazoned in pink cheetah print full of circus performers all dressed as various incarnations of Madonna, Cher and Lady Gaga to promote a one-night only benefit performance, now held over in its third week, to raise both awareness of and money for National Epidermis Awareness Trimester, let alone that there would be a room full of surprise party guests listening to the entire scene on the house’s speakerphone. I am sure that even the pink cheetah print bus full of circus performers all dressed as various incarnations of Madonna, Cher and Lady Gaga to promote a one-night only benefit performance--now held over in its third week of raising both awareness of and money for National Epidermis Awareness Trimester-- had expected to find themselves in this unusual situation of having to stand around the scene in of an accident dressed as various incarnations of Madonna, Cher and Lady Gaga. Yes, none of the events were expected.

Once the realization hit the party goers that something was seriously wrong with the situation (and not with the connection, as previously thought by one vocal party guest), there was a scramble to contact the authorities. As someone finally spoke to the correct authorities, two things came to mind: one-- as my parents were driving and obviously had to make a last minute course correction, where were they to direct the police department and ambulance?; two-- what were they to do with all of this food now set out and fast becoming room temperature, thus, unenjoyable? These questions must be answered, and quickly as this was now becoming an emergency. After all, it is not wise to leave food out for too long, uncovered and exposed to all manner of bacteria (including a few people whom I have never met, but heard there was a party and had attended for the free food). What were they to do?

It must have been divine intervention that saved my mother’s cell phone in the collision. After waiting for some time outside the arrival gate and seeing no one who resembled my parents or their vehicle in the slightest, I began to worry. While they were not the most prompt people in the world, they were not so tardy as to have been more than an hour late. It was this situation I faced, standing outside the arrival gate at the airport terminal.

I searched my luggage, finding my cellular phone and turning it back on to check for messages. Seeing no missed calls, I dialed the seven-digit phone number for my mother’s cellular phone.

It rang…

It rang again…

It rang aga… someone picked up in the middle of the third ring. “Uh… hello?”

“Hi… uh, sorry. I must have dialed the incorrect phone number. I am trying to reach a Mr. and Mrs. Kerplunkity.”

“This is the Kerplunkity’s cellular phone. Who is it that is calling this number, looking for Mr. and Mrs. Kerplunkity?”

This must be a joke. I have never seen my mother allow anyone to use her cellular phone. Even my father, who on occasion was allowed to speak into it if the speakerphone was enabled, was not allowed to actually touch the device. He had to use it in my mother’s presence, held out to his ear or close enough for him to speak into but never once was he allowed to hold it himself. I returned to whom I suspected wan an imposter, one who must have stolen my mother’s cellular phone, as I could not come to any other conclusion as to why someone would have my mother’s cellular phone. “What do you mean ‘who is it that is calling this number, looking for Mr. and Mrs. Kerplunkity?’ …This is their daughter, Mary Sue Kerplunkity. I am the one who is calling this number, looking for my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kerplunkity. Who are you and what are you doing with my mother’s cellular phone, answering her cellular phone and evading my attempts at contacting my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kerplunkity?”

“Miss Kerplunkity, we will send someone in a vehicle to pick you up. What is your current location?”

“What do you mean ‘we will send someone in a vehicle to pick you up’? I am at the airport. I have been at the airport for over an hour waiting for my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kerplunkity--who are on their way to pick me up--to arrive at my location and pick me up!” I was slightly agitated at this point. “No, once again, who are you and what are you doing with my mother’s cellular phone?”

There was a short period of silence on the other end of the line before the man once again spoke: “Remain where you are, Miss Kerplunkity; we are sending an officer with a vehicle to your location to pick you up.”

“Sending an officer… look, just who is this?”

“Miss Kerplunkity, this is Sergeant Hackert “Hack” Knickerknacky (pronounced “HA-curt Kuh-nick-er-knacky,” emphasis on the “nick”) with the local police department…”

As loud as the sounds of the airport were… as annoyed, tired and impatient as I was… as shocking as it was to hear someone else’s voice other than my parents emanate from the cellular phone I lightly grasped in my hand… I had not expected it to have been someone from the local police department alerting me to the fact that they were sending an officer with a vehicle to retrieve me from the spot where I was frozen, outside the airport terminal. If monkeys had sprouted wings and flown out of the rear end of a puppy-sized elephant dressed as Bozo the Clown, I would have only been slightly more astounded than I was at that moment.

I believe I was still in a state of disbelief and attempting to conjure up a more fantastical scenario that would top the events of my arrival home thus far. Scenarios more fantastical than if monkeys had sprouted wings and flown out of the rear end of a puppy-sized elephant dressed as Bozo the Clown. Maybe if rabid monkeys had taken over the zoo, held the zookeeper hostage until parts were delivered that could complete their teleportation device. Only, their teleportation device was flawed and the initial transport test malfunctioned, resulting in monkeys that had inadvertently combined their monkey DNA with that of the common housefly resulting in both the sprouting of wings and the necessity to fly out of the rear end of a puppy-sized elephant dressed as Bozo the Clown--which happened to be the location in which the malfunctioning monkey transporter had transported the mutated monkey-fly mutant to. How puppy-sized elephants were created, where they are kept nor how it was that one of these puppy-sized elephants came to be dressed as Bozo the Clown at this particular airport in the now early evening hours of today had yet to be thought of as the flashing of lights alerted me to the presence of the aforementioned officer with a vehicle who was sent with a vehicle to pick me up in a vehicle at this location, outside of the airport terminal where vehicles were given a designated area for picking up people who were standing outside the airport, attempting to make their way elsewhere. For what reason the officer with a vehicle had been sent to retrieve me in a vehicle, I had yet to be informed.

It was a short drive from the airport to the police station. It would have made for a longer walk or worse, a much longer ride on the back of a giant tortuous, but riding in the vehicle sent to pick me up, it felt like the journey took far longer than it actually did. Once we arrived, I was escorted to one of the many doors that failed to tell me where I was, what those rooms were there for, or for that matter, why I was here, sitting in one of them for what literally became hours but seemed like it was far longer than it actually was.

When someone finally entered the room, steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a metal clipboard awkwardly grasped in the other, I was laying face-first in a puddle of drool. Not face-first exactly. I laid my head down on the cold metal table, my right cheek volunteering to take the brunt of the chill from the table so that I may at least rest my head after a long day of travel and--as of late--confusion.

I wiped the drool from my chin and onto my sleeve as the man with the clipboard dangling precariously from three fingers attempted to set everything down onto the table in a professional manner without spilling his precious cup of what I presumed to be inherently bad coffee. I imagined it was inherently bad coffee… only because I cannot imagine especially good coffee coming from a machine constantly left on to keep the morning brew hot for the evening shift. For that matter, I cannot imagine incredibly mediocre coffee coming from the same machine constantly left on to keep the morning brew hot for the evening shift. And judging from the smell that wafted from the Styrofoam cup in front of me… someone had managed to figure out how to burn the coffee, yet keep it in the pot and pass it off as something drinkable.

The officer took a drink of his coffee and winced: “That is some good coffee. Would you like a cup?”

“No… thank you.” My stomach turned just smelling it.

“Well, no pleasant way to say this so… I am sorry to inform you Miss Kerplunkity but your parents were in an automobile accident.”

“What!?” I was no longer drowsy. “Where are they? Are they okay? When did it happen? WHAT happened?”

“They took a wrong turn into a one-way… drove into oncoming traffic and hit head-on with a bus.”

“A bus?”

“A bus… a pink cheetah print bus full of circus performers all dressed as various incarnations of Madonna, Cher and Lady Gaga on their way to promote a one-night only benefit performance--now held over in its third week of raising both awareness of and money for National Epidermis Awareness Trimester.”

I was speechless. “Can I see them?”

“The circus performers all dressed as various incarnations of Madonna, Cher and Lady Gaga? They were all picked up and transported back to the fairgrounds for their one-night only benefit performance--now held over in its third week of raising both awareness of and money for National Epidermis Awareness Trimester. I hear it is rather good, much like this coffee,” he took a sip of the brew clinging to the sides of his Styrofoam cup. “However, I believe it was the ring master--a rather stout man dressed as Cher from her famous “If I Could Turn Back Time” music video--they are booked up through the next six weeks. Perhaps you can purchase tickets in advance and see them perform live two months from now?”

I shake my head. “No, I was asking if I could see my parents.”

“Yes, I will take you down as soon as we cross all of our I’s and dot all of our T’s… There is a lot of paperwork here, you know. We will finish this up and then you can go down and make the official identification with the coroner when they arrive…”

“Coroner?”

“Yes… They, er… your parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kerplunkity… They were taken to the emergency room and were pronounced dead half-an hour ago.”

Half an hour. I had waited in this room for the last five hours. They were alive for four-and-a-half of those hours.

After a long night of identifications and paperwork, phone calls to begin making arrangements for what was to come, I arrived home to the image of half-strung streamers, sad-looking balloons whose air was slowly leaking already, and half-eaten dishes left on counters and tables. The house, otherwise, was empty.

Since then, since the funerals and the weeks of having to listen to people tell me how I must feel, I closed up on myself. I did not let anyone in--figuratively, literally or emotionally. After a couple of months, few if any actually attempted to seek me out. I was distant, silent, shell-shocked, incomplete, without and empty. Outside of my room and the living areas… the house was left untouched, as if my parents had left things where they were and fully intended to come back to them. Only, now they are covered in cobwebs in dust.

I did not want to talk about what happened last year. I did not want to hear what everyone else had to say about it. I did not want to relive it and feel the pain and the loss, so I just stuffed my feelings down as deep as I could, and did my best to ignore them or cover them up. I even stopped talking to most of the people who had formerly populated my world.

I wanted to share all this with you, not to make you feel sorry for me or feel pity for me in some way, but because I feel like I want to tell you all that has happened. I want to be honest and open. I want to share what it was that I have kept hidden, kept locked away, kept secret, kept to myself and had not shared to anyone else this past year. I want to just get it out in the open and over with. It seems as though, at least these last few months, something about you and your persistence in befriending me has done something to me. Something good. And I just wanted to thank you, if only by finally opening up and sharing something so personal to me.

Until tomorrow,

-Mary Sue

P.S.: Do not let those giant squids of anger sending rabid teddy bears of gargantuan proportion out to attack a captive audience at the World Series while the world looks on in horror, viewing the incomprehensible scene from the safety of their home television set and unable to move a muscle to alert the proper authorities to this monstrous attack on relatively innocent baseball patrons keep you awake at night. They are merely a fictitious product of your imagination… true teddy bears are rarely, if ever, rabid.

***

I was satisfied with the letter, and after hitting the send and ensuring that it was making its way to its intended recipient, felt sleepy and settled. I turned off my computer and made my way back to bed, anticipating a sleep that was restful and not full of giant squids of anger attempting to send giant rabid teddy bears out to attack a captive audience at the World Series or massive armies of power-hungry mutagenic monkeys that had sprouted wings and flown out of the rear end of a puppy-sized elephant inexplicitly dressed as Bozo the Clown.

No, for the first time in a while, my rest was restful.

NaNoWriMo2010: Chapter 3, Part 1

2011-08-19T01:57:00.000-07:00

Chapter 3: Things Change… Or Not, But Then Change Later Date

The Middle of May-- Age 24

There is a change. I am noticing a distinction between days. It use to be that every day was the same. No day was worse than the days prior to it. No day was better than the days before. Now, things have changed enough to notice something. There are days that seem brighter. Days where I find myself looking forward to waking up, to going out and doing something even if that particular something is sitting at a particular coffee shop and talking with a particular someone about nothing in particular.

On other days, it is as if there is something missing and I cannot put my finger on it. It is as if a chunk of my world, my meaning, my drive… something of vital importance is missing from my life. I would not describe this feeling as empty or numb necessarily… but void. I do not know what is missing but the void left behind is unmistakable.

I do not want to sleep. When I do, I do not want to wake. There is just no point to it all. My world is different. Even my room, filled with my clothes and sundries …the walls I painted years ago …the pile of things to put away left strewn about the dresser. It all feels so foreign.

I feel out of sync with this life. That by some unknown cause, night and day, the people, the things, even the unbearable summer heat are so far removed from my sense of reality that I begin to question the validity of my own existence. I feel like I do not know who I am.

Then Tuesday comes…

Tuesday.

Tuesday is the day I come up for air. The day where, even for a short time, I remember who I am, why I’m here, what I am doing. On Tuesday, I am reminded I am real. I exist. I am an entity created for something, sent here for some purpose. Come Tuesday, I see that brief glimmer of hope. Tuesday, I get so close to breaking through the pane that separates me from the living. Tuesday, I am so close I can reach out and almost touch it.

On Tuesdays, I have been meeting with Mr. Edward Tinley for lunch down at the coffee shop. He brought it up one morning during a run. He said that he had been thinking about it and he practically--no, literally insisted that we meet regularly on Tuesdays. I found out that he works at a nearby office, though, he didn’t say which one. Anyhow, his office is opened on Monday through Saturday, and Mr. Edward Tinley was routinely scheduled to work every day except for Tuesdays. I asked him once why he didn’t work on Tuesdays. He just said “Tuesdays are very dangerous at the office… it’s the day when things are most likely to explode.”

It was perfect, as he professed, or at least he thought it was perfect. It was one of the many things he just so happens to give much thought to along with alternative history, Zagat restaurant guides, possible answers to rhetorical questions posed in songs and (as I found out just this morning) etymological origins of science fiction techno babble.

He rides his bike, the shiny red one I have seen nearly every morning, arriving at the coffee shop just as I order my tea. He talks, I listen. For once, I actually listen. I do not think he knows anything about what has happened. Nothing about my past, my loss, my wreckage of a home life (my wreckage of a life for that matter). If he does, he has not made it a point to share what he knows and what his opinion of it all is. So we meet, talk over sandwiches and (in my case) a cup of earl grey tea (hot, not iced… I am a purist and take my tea in the same way that Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise-D and E takes his earl grey tea: strait, no sugar).

But Tuesday ends too soon and once again I find myself in a place out of time, out of reality …out of existence.

Once again I feel alone, dead, void, empty, without and (as I refer to the recently purchased second-hand copy of a fairly dense third-edition thesaurus) annulled.

I forget that I have meaning; forget that I have purpose and passion. I forget what laughter feels like, what compassion is. I forget who I am, forget that I am real. I go back to the same old, same old …back to the void and the emptiness at home.

End of May-- Age 25

It is incredibly difficult to focus when your thoughts are directed toward a certain person and the likely-hood of their showing up at the same coffee shop you happen to be sitting at. Harder still is the ability to make it look like you’re mind is on the conversation the person across from you is trying to have at this very moment.

“Have you heard a word I said?” Cassandra and I had been sitting outside the coffee shop for the past half-hour. Cassandra called one day out of the blue and made some comment about it being a long time since we talked and how she would love for us to get together and catch up on what new and exciting things are going on in our respective lives. The plan was to meet here after my run and catch up on things. She came in full of details about her upcoming nuptials and had yet to stop long enough to touch the club sandwich in front of her. In all this time, I cannot recall having actually heard more than half a dozen words or so.

“Sorry, what was that last bit?” I tried to cover. If she would repeat the last part, maybe I could make it seem as if I was listening the whole time instead of thinking about how it does not help my case if I continue to show up to places as disheveled as I am now.

“You’re doing it again! What is going on in that brain of yours that is more appealing than the color pallet for my wedding ceremony?”

I don’t know how to describe it. Maybe I know, and I just do not want to admit it. It is a strange predicament, knowing your thoughts are hijacked by someone you can’t bring yourself to talk to. I am full of words and things to say but when I open my mouth to speak …nothing. My voice is gone. Nothing crosses my lips save for silence. I do not have problems answering the simple, direct questions, but when he asks what I think about a subject or what my childhood was like I just… freeze up. Well, I am not always silent. But when it comes to feelings, things that have happened the past few years, family… all of the personal stuff that I stuff deep down inside so that it never sees the light of day… I cannot bring myself to speak about them. I let him do the talking, sharing stories of his family, his work, his childhood. He talks and I sit and listen.

I am unsure of how to change this, and to be honest, I think I am afraid to. Except for one part: Just as I am about to admit to my friend that my mind is miles away, I hear the sound of bicycle tires on pavement and I snap my head in its direction. It was not Mr. Edward Tinley on his shiny red bicycle. Then again, it was not Tuesday either. It was someone else. I find myself doing this quite a bit. When his name is mentioned, when someone resembling his description comes within fifty feet of me, all is dropped and my full attention is held by the very notion that he may be here …where I am at …right at this very moment.

Once again I turn back to my friend, satisfied that the cyclist was not the man I was hoping to see. But by the grin on my friend’s face, I swore that she could see what was going on without my saying a word about it.

June the Twelfth, Now at Age 25-- On the Annual Anniversary of the Day on Which I Was Born and Other Much More Horrible Things That Happened

I was hoping to skip this day. That perhaps, if I were to shut myself away in my own home, turn off the phone and all the lights, and never speak of it, that the day can pass uneventful and uncelebrated.

There was no morning run that day. No meeting with Mr. Edward Tilney at the coffee shop afterward. No work, no housework and absolutely (and I mean absolutely) no visitors on this day. On this day, my priorities were set: wake up, take a shower, dress and spend the remainder of the day sitting listlessly like an overcooked noodle on the couch. No music to sway me or sway to, no movies playing on the television to distract me, no books to get lost in. Just me, the couch and an entire day of being stuck alone, rehashing the events of the past.

I wish I could say that time has eased the pain of loss, but I cannot. I have yet to even allow myself to move through the stages of grief, forever prolonging the inevitable progression from denial to anger then bargaining into depression and finally acceptance. I quickly shot through the stages, getting stuck on depression where, after a year since the incident which caused my grief, I am still stuck in the same stage of grief. Stuck, not wanting to talk about it face it in some other way, shape or form. Just… wanting it all to be locked away in one of the abandoned rooms in this house, forever to be hidden and ignored. This is probably why I haven’t dealt with what happened last year.

A few hours passed by when I awoke to the sound of the doorbell. I did not realize I had fallen asleep. I wiped my cheeks, still wet from tears. The doorbell rang again. If I pretended I was not at home and simply ignored the persistent chime, would whomever was at the door take the hint and leave? The doorbell rings a third time. Apparently not.

I get up from my spot on the couch and walk to the door. I peer through the peephole to see who was persistent enough to ring the doorbell for the fourth time now. It figures. Of all days to have a visitor, it is this one. Of all people to visit, it is Mr. Edward Tilney. Of all the memorable lines in all the collectively-agreed upon ‘classic’ films, I had to mangle this one.

The doorbell rings a fifth time. “I know you are home Mary Sue …”

I drop my head, leaning it against the door.

This time, it is a knock instead of the doorbell. “Mary Sue, can I come in?”

I really do not want to open the door. I do not want to be here. I do not want anyone to know I am here right now. I do not want anyone else to be here right now either. I open the door anyway.

Mr. Edward Tilney peeks in through the three inch gap between open door and the door frame. “Hello,” he smiles. “Can I come inside for a few minutes?”

I am tired and not in the mood to make up a polite excuse. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” I repeat

“No… that is kind of rude, don’t you think?”

I step back. “What?”

Apparently, that was the reaction he was going for. When I stepped back, I was no longer blocking the door from opening fully. Mr. Edward Tilney took advantage of this and pushed the door open, slipping into the house and right passed the stunned look plastered on my face.

“Excuse me!?” I manage to get out, a bit upset over this invasion of both my privacy and my nap, however unexpectedly the nap came about to begin with.

“You are excused.” He turned, a goofy grin on his face and from behind his back produced a bouquet of flowers.

Now, I really am shocked. They are daisies. Mr. Edward Tilney is standing in front of me, holding a bouquet of daisies. Daisies are my favorite kind of flower. Was this just a coincidence or did he really know that daisies were my favorite kind of flower. How did he know that daisies were my favorite kind of flower?

“How did you know daisies were my favorite kind of flower?” I take the bouquet. Something about this was a little creepy. I do not remember telling him what my favorite flower was. I do not even remember mentioning daisies, let alone that they were my favorite kind of flower.

“Are daisies your favorite kind of flower?” He turned, looking around the room. “I never knew…. Hmm, I guess I got lucky with my choice, huh?”

I could not tell if he was just kidding or not. If he was not kidding, then yes, daisies were a pretty lucky choice. But if he was just kidding… The hair on my arms raised. I tried to shrug it off as preposterous. Why would he go through the trouble of trying to find out what my favorite kind of flower was? I turn toward the kitchen and grab for a vase from under the sink. I fill it with water and arrange the bouquet of daisies and baby’s breath before bringing the whole thing back to the living room and sitting it on a side table under a rather large window.

“Daisies are such a happy flower, don’t you agree?” I turned and saw that Mr. Edward Tilney had made himself at home and was now sitting in my space on the couch. “There is something about them that seem so warm and cheery… friendly even.”

I make my way over to sit at the far end of the couch. “I seem to remember hearing that somewhere before.”

Some of the air seem to have escaped from his sails. “Yeah… I got that from a movie I saw once. It was a pretty good movie. Tom Hanks was in it.”

“I remember that movie, ‘You’ve Got Mail’ wasn’t it?” I already knew it was from ‘You’ve Got Mail’. I happen to be a pretty big fan of that movie and the original… “The Shop Around The Corner” starring Jimmy Stewart. It was in black and white, set in Budapest and at one point had the Wizard of Oz failing to shoot himself off-screen because the delivery boy came in not knowing that everyone else had already gone home. Yeah, it was a good movie. “You’ve Got Mail” was more accessible though, as few nowadays sit and practice the lost art of letter writing. Also, it is just difficult to walk into a store and find a copy of “The Shop Around the Corner” on DVD and in stock at said store. So “You’ve Got Mail” it is.

“Have you seen the movie ‘You’ve Got Mail’?”

I have seen that particular movie more times than cats have lives times four. I can recite dialogue, word for word, from memory… while drowsy and disoriented from spinning in one too many circles on the tea cup ride at Disneyland. “Yeah, I think I have seen that movie,” I tell him. I am not really in the mood to talk so there is little chance that I will expand upon any answer or give him something that is truthful if it means it would further the conversation. For today, this is as polite as I intend my conversation to be and to be honest, I just really want him to be uncomfortable enough to leave voluntarily. Preferably soon. The sooner the better. In fact, right now is the perfect time for him to immediately get up from my spot and vacate the premises.

“Hmm…” He nods. He looks like he is fishing for a subject. Something that will create dialogue and further the conversation that really is not going so well at the moment. Instead of leaving as I had hoped, he thinks of something else to talk about. “So how have you been?”

“Since…?”

“Since the last time I saw you.”

I was not going to make this easy for him. “You mean, since yesterday?”

“Sure. Since yesterday. Since this morning. Since… whenever.”

“Honestly?”

He lets out a chuckle. A single, solitary chuckle. “Honestly… how have you honestly been since some point in time that was before the moment you opened the door and saw my smiling face.” He was smiling as he said this. “And do be honest.”

“Ah… anything before that specific point in time then.”

“Yes… anything before that specific point in time.”

I do not want to be honest, but it was specific. I had say how I honestly was… “I have grown.” I tell him, as a matter-of-factly.

He sits back, preparing to hear what was to have grown in the specific time period he previously specified. “You have grown? …How have you grown?”

“Well,” I pause, pretending to have some long explanation for my word choice when really, this was all on the fly and just intended to frustrate him enough to make him want to leave. “I have grown taller since I was two years old.”

“You have grown taller… since you were two? That is how you have grown?”

“Yes, that is how I have grown. I have also grown heavier since I was two years old. I have grown wiser since I was two years old. I have grown more experienced in a variety of areas since I was two years old. I have grown in my use of language and in my adeptness over both gross and fine motor skills since I was two years old. And finally, I have grown tired, weary and lastly, older since I was two years old.”

“Ah…” He nodded and diverted his attention to visually scanning the room. Once again, he changed to another subject, making a casual observation on his surroundings, “I would never have pegged you to be a floral person Mary Sue .”

Despite my attempts to make the room as dark as possible, it was still painfully obvious that the large room was decorated from ceiling to floor in floral motifs. The couch and over-stuffed chair near the corner were a matching floral set. The wallpaper, older than I was now, was a similar floral print that covered all four walls completely. There were flower-themed vases, flower-themed throws and pillows, flower-themed knick-knacks crowded on the tables that were adorned with vines and even more flowers on the legs. In the daytime, with the flower-print drapes pulled back, you could see in the frosted glass of the window attempts at etching flowers into the thin frosted layer. As a whole, it looked as if someone bought up the entire stock of flowers from three separate florists, then shoved them all into a room and hoped it worked out for the best. That, or if the Aubrey II from ‘Little Shop of Horrors went vegetarian, ate its fill of wedding bouquets and generic grocery store bouquets, then walked into my house and threw up all over everything. It was that bad. The addition of the daisies that Mr. Edward Tilney brought today made no difference whatsoever to the state of the room.

“No, I am not really a floral person really.”

“Then why all the flowers?” He pointed up to the ceiling where, not surprisingly, the ceiling was covered in white tiles with flowers etched into each tile.

“I… uh, I inherited the room like this.”

“Inherited? Whose idea was it to go this far with flora?” He leaned closer to the wall behind the couch, going in for a closer look at the wallpaper.

I did not want to continue down this road any more. “Yeah, someone else put it together and I ended up with it.”

“Yes, but who…”

“It…” I caught myself. I almost said it, so casual and every day. Almost let it slip as if it were no big deal instead of the secret burden I carry, hidden and guarded like some precious treasure. “It does not matter. I keep it dark so I that cannot see the insanity anyway. Moving on…”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Okay then… what would you like to talk about?”

“Not my home.” It is a reflex. I did not mean to actually say it out loud, but home and family are two of the last things I would ever want to talk about. If “home” and “family” were the only two words I could speak for the remainder of my life, I would spend the rest of my existence mute. Silent. Never to speak a word.

“Okay, we do not have to talk about your home. What else is there?”

“Just… not home.”

“Why not home?”

“Because I already said I did not want to talk about it!” This is not working. He is not getting frustrated at all. He seems rather calm and in control of the situation. It is I who is getting frustrated and wanting to leave. But it is my house after all, and so he should be the one to leave, not me.

“Is there something wrong with the house?”

“No! I just said, I do not want to talk about the house!”

He holds his hands up defensively. “Okay, okay… I am sorry. I see it is a rather touchy subject. What about your family? All this time we have talked and I have gone on and on about my family but you never mention yours. Where is your family?
I really do not like this line of questioning. I realize that he may not intend to push my buttons, but right now, he is really pushing my buttons. “I do not want to talk about family either. Nothing about my home, nothing about my family, okay?”

“Okay…”

I did not mean to snap at him. I am extremely tired, emotionally drained, and wanting nothing more than to sleep the remainder of the day away. “I am sorry. My home and my family are touchy subjects and I would really rather just talk about anything other than my home and my family.”

“Oh, okay…” He seemed a little bit disappointed by my statement. “Well then,” he clapped his hands together. “Do you have anything special planned for tonight?”

I am sure it must have been obvious to even him that I was floored. In fact, I had to stop and pick up my jaw from off of the floor before I responded. “I.. uh… why would I have plans for tonight? Let alone any special plans?” I swear, if he mentions my birthday it will be one coincidence too many. I would be scared enough to file a complaint with the police department, solicit Tanya Harding’s ex husband to pull an encore during a morning run, hire a troop of boy scouts to guard my house night and day or do whatever I could to keep this guy away from me. Which would be a shame. I was just getting to know him and opening up to him about.. Well, most anything really. It has been so long since I sat and allowed myself to visit with someone and carry on a conversation that resembles normality.

“Oh, no reason. I just figured that if you skipped your morning run and our regular coffee date, you must have had something pretty special planned.”

I let go of the breath I was holding. “No, nothing special planned. I am just really exhausted and needed to take a day off from everything.”

“Okay… as long as everything is alright.”

It was not alright. “Well… as you can see, things keep keeping on with keeping on.” I force a laugh. Things were really really bad today before Mr. Edward Tinley arrived and all I wanted was for him to leave so I could go back to my irregular cycle of crying and moping on the couch, sitting like a bump on a log.

“Well, if you insist that everything is alright…” he stood. “I suppose it will have to satisfy my curiosity for now.”

“You know what they say about curiosity, right?“

“That it killed the cat?“

“Yes. That it was curiosity that killed the cat.”

His lips twisted into a smirk. “Yes, I have heard somewhere that curiosity had indeed killed the cat. But do you know how the rest of that old saying goes?”

“Hm… enlighten me.” I cross my arms right over left in front of me, waiting for his answer.

“Curiosity may have been the one to have killed the cat, but it was satisfaction that brought him, that is to say ’the cat’, back.” He took in a large breath. “Speaking of cats and curiosity, have you by chance heard of Schrodinger’s Cat?”

“No, why? Does his cat make some sort of unusual noise not normally heard from in domesticated felines?”

“No… Schrödinger’s Cat is… well, it is really a long, complex illustration that could be surmised in saying that all possible outcomes to an event are possible and in a way, exist simultaneously until an event is chosen and/or experienced, which is often recognized as a choice in and of itself.”

“So… what happened with the cat?”

“So long as no one peeked to see if the cat was alive or had died via suffocation or poison, the cat was considered to be both dead and alive. Simultaneously.”

“Hmm… Zombie-cat. Interesting.” It was not interesting in the slightest. Long, drawn-out banter, yes, but interesting? No. “So, is your curiosity satisfied then?”

He cocked his head to the side. “… For now it is.” He turned, heading toward the front door. “But if something comes up and you want company or anything… give me a call.” He let himself out, finally returning me to my marathon of woe.

At least he did not break into song or interpretive dance his way through the ‘Happy Birthday’ song. That would have pushed me beyond my breaking point.

Late June-- Age 25

After spending a long, depressing day alternating between weeping tears of great sorrow and loneliness and expressing my hateful, spiteful side to those showing kindness (and to no one in particular… as no one other than Mr. Edward Tilney has stopped by my house in months) I quietly slipped back into my normal routine of morning run, work, home, then sleep. It is funny, calling that routine “normal” as it has only become normal for the last few months or so. The six months before were dark, cold days of trying to keep everyone away and maintain some control over my environment.

They say the first year is the most difficult to face. That after a loss, we either try to completely change everything so that there is no reminder of our loss to remain behind, or try in vain to keep things as normal as they were. To live every day as if what we lost was still here. In either case, both extremes are opposite sides of the same coin called ‘denial.’ At first, I felt so numb. Those first few months were filled with taking care of the legal mumbo-jumbo and feeling obligated to listen to everyone who just insisted on expressing their deepest sympathies or offer consolation. Some, well-meaning as they thought that they were, emphasized that this was for the better… that things will get better… that things would be better or at least feel better if I would just look at all that has happened as a good thing, intended only for the best.

Then came the holidays. Invitations to join other families as they gathered to feast on turkey at Thanksgiving, for office parties, Christmas parties and “small get-together, nothing big just a couple dozen people or so…” In the mean time, messages were left on my answering machine and voice mail. Calls of concern… advice… suggestions to see some wonderful therapist that helped their child when the family dog died, or the one who talked their husband into leaving his mistress and returning to his wife’s open arms. By then, I had begun to screen my calls and leave most unreturned.

It was just after New Years when people who were once considered friends began to get angry with me. On the occasion they managed to run into me in public, they took the opportunity to inform me of just how selfish I had become. I was always the person they would bring their problems to… the one who would keep secrets and fix things… the one who could be relied upon to be there whenever they asked, putting my own needs and wants aside to do something for someone else. Now look at what had become of me. I was distant, silent. I refused all invitations to social events, all calls for volunteers to help clean and set up for some social event. Where once, they could rely on me to show up early, clean and set up for a party thrown by someone else (with all credit going to the hostess for her warm and inviting home), now they had to do it all themselves with no one to help. I do not talk to anyone, hang out at the coffee shop on Friday nights and talk for hours or go out to movies. Now, I just sit all day at home and mope around. How selfish could I be?

Cassandra did not act like that, fortunately for me. When others returned to their regularly scheduled lives of cars, movies and week-night television series mandatory for social acceptance, Cassie called to see how I was doing. I did not always answer her. Honestly, I did not return any phone calls until the holidays were over. I began to feel a bit guilty, not reaching out to her or at least letting her know I was fine. So at the beginning of January, I finally picked up the phone and gave her a call.

She was understanding. She is like that. Cassie said I did not have to call and check in with her, letting her know I was still alive and breathing, so long as I would meet her for coffee once a month. I did not have to talk, I could just sit with my tea and listen. But I had to show up…she insisted on this. She told me one day, “I am not one of these people who will go away easily. I am not one to discourage easily! But I am going to be persistent in keeping you at least informed in what is going on with me.”

Mr. Edward Tilney reminds me of Cassandra in a way. He is persistent like Cassandra, loves to laugh (and talk) like she does and does not seem to mind doing all the talking.

It was because of Cassandra that I went to the Valentine’s Day dinner back in February. She called a few days before the dinner. The dinner was scheduled in the evening on the day we were set to meet for coffee (in my case, tea) down at the coffee shop. She asked if I would come to dinner with them instead. She, her boyfriend (now fiancé, Tony) and her family bought a table for a fundraiser dinner and they had room for one more. How it was that there were an odd number of chairs at each table for an event aimed at couples, I will never know or understand. “You cannot stay home all alone every night for the rest of your night, can you? Of course not! I will pick you up early and you can get ready at my house. Oh! I have the perfect dress you can wear…”

So I went. It was the first, last and only event I attended last year with the exception of a funeral. Attendance at that particular event was mandatory.

End of June-- Age 25

I am running again. Mr. Edward Tilney is also running. We are side by side, running as we have been for the past few months. Gone are the thick sweatpants and college hoodies. I now dress in black shorts, t-shirts and for some strange reason, bright blue legwarmers. If I had bangles on my arms, teased hair in a side ponytail and a headband to match my legwarmers, this could be the 80’s all over again. Not that I would remember the 80’s by any means relevant to my description. I was alive then, but I was too young to experience or remember 80’s fashion. My description of stereotypical fashion comes from the resurgence of nostalgia-wear inspired by the 80’s and 90’s. Then again, I could be confusing my knowledge of stereotypical 80’s fashion with that of stereotypical early-90’s fashion. Either way, I could easily be an extra in an Olivia Newton John video using formal exercise practices as a double entendre.

He, that is to say Mr. Edward Tilney, is in shorts as well--gray, knee-length basketball shorts. Each day has been a new t-shirt… all with the same Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team name or logo plastered somewhere on which you cannot fail to see from one-hundred yards away. I am only guessing, but I am almost sure he is a baseball fan. I do not understand baseball, nor do I understand the need to wear the over-priced merchandise of one’s favorite baseball team. But that is why I do not wear baseball related clothing.

“Why the baseball t-shirts?” I ask somewhere after the two mile mark in our run.

“Because I do not own any curling shirts.” He said, missing nary a beat.

“Curling?”

“Curling.”

“Like… curling hair? A curling iron?” My confusion is not fake.

“No, curling as in the sport… curling. You know, the one they have in the winter Olympics?”

“No… Sorry, not following you.”

“Curling? Shuffleboard on ice? Grown men playing with brooms and yelling at inanimate objects?”

“Nope… still not following you.”

“Oh… Then let me start with the basics: Curling is thought to have been invented in medieval Scotland…”

“How about just telling be the basics of how it is played?”

“Oh, okay. In curling, you have two teams with four players on each team. They each take turns sliding a heavy, polished granite stone that looks like an oversized stone iron across the ice curling sheet--that is the long row of ice that curling is played on-- and they aim it towards the house which is the target at the end of the ice curling sheet that is pretty much a painted on bulls-eye really…”

“Wait… what did you do? Memorize the Wikipedia entry for every topic that does not normally come up in normal conversation?”

“No, I use to play professionally. Well, as professional as you can get with curling. But I did practically memorize the Wikipedia entry for Enrico Ceruti. My brother Ted bet me that I could not memorize an entry of his choice in twenty-four hours or less. But back to what I was saying… So each of these two teams has eight stones. The purpose to all of this is to accumulate the highest score for a game. Now, a game is…“

“I think I understand what the word ‘game’ means, thank you.”

“…and the points being scored for the stones resting closest to the center of the house--you remember, that painted on target thing at the end? Anyway, an ‘end’ is when both teams have thrown all of their stones. A whole game can have ten or eight ends. It really just depends on how bad one team is beating the other in scoring.”

I am lost… not literally but concerning Mr. Edward Tilney’s description of curling and how it is played. I am also lost as to how this is considered a sport in the first place and what exactly does being a ‘professional curler’ entail?

We came to the end of a good run and sit down on the grass to stretch out. “Thank you,” I say, still breathing hard..

“Thank you…. For what?” He is bent over, stretching his right leg.

“The flowers… the other day. Thank you.”

He nods his head, understanding I meant the bouquet of daisies he brought over the other night and not for the rudeness on my part or the silence we both endured for the most of the runs for the last two days. With the exception of the randomness of Mr. Edward Tilney’s enthusiasm for the sport of curling and memorizing details about a third-generation violin maker.

“No problem… I am just glad you liked them.” He leaned over to stretch the other leg. “You did like them, right?”

“Yes, I … um. I liked them very much. Daisies are my favorite. Did you know that?”

“Yes…”
I turn, sitting upright and attentive. He knew that daisies were my favorite flower?

“…You told me they were your favorite kind of flower. The other night… when I brought them over, you said something about daisies being your favorite kind of flower.”

Oh, I told him… that is right. I remember now.

“…You were also a bit snarkey too.”

“What? Snarkey? What is that supposed to mean?” I really wanted to know what he meant by ‘snarkey’… what this a made up word? Did he really mean ‘snakey’ or ‘snake-like’? A number of other ‘S’ words came to mind: Snappy, Sappy, Slappy, Shapely, Snazzy, Strategery… although, that last one was made up.

“Snarkey… You were snarkey. Snarkey… Snark-like… to act in the manner of a snark… Snarkey.”

“Yeah… but I am lost as to what a ‘snark’ is. How can I be ‘snark-like’ if I do not know what a snark is in the first place?”

“Oh… well. A synonym would be something like snappy, snippy, snide… curt, cold and rude in speech. Like Professor Severus Snape in the Harry Potter books.”

“I see.” I did see. Actually, I already thought about this and I agree… I was rude to him when he was at my house. “I am sorry.”

“What was that?” Now he is toying with me.

“I said, I am sorry for my snarkey-ness when you came to visit me at my home the other day.”

“That is what I thought you said…” and as quickly as this conversation turned into a lesson in nonsensical language, “… Apology accepted.”

I laugh… out loud for once. I am laughing rather loud and I lay back on the grass, hand on belly, eyes closed and laughing like I had just heard an incredibly funny joke.

He turns to see this madwoman, hands grasping at her sides and laughing uncontrollably on the grass in front of him.

“What? What is so funny?”

I try to answer between bouts of giggles. “That is it?,” giggles… “ ‘apology accepted’” more giggles, “… no big deal?” My giggles are at this point, somewhat manageable and suppressed.

“Yes…. Just like that. Why? You do not believe me?”

“It is not that I do not believe you… but that you say it as if it is no big deal.”

“Well… it is not a big deal.”

“It is not a big deal? That you came to my home and I spoke to you harshly? That I cut you off at every attempt at friendly conversation? Not to mention, I failed to show up at our weekly sessions at the coffee shop as well as failed to tell you that I would not be at the coffee shop in the first place? No big deal?” I am not offended or put off.. Just curious. How would being ditched at a regularly scheduled meeting and suffering through my inhospitality be no big deal? I just do not see it.

“Things happen. We all make mistakes, are short with people sometimes. We forget things on occasion. And… well, you apologized. End of story. No big deal.”

I shake my head, still smiling. “I just do not get you some times. I think if someone ditched me and then, the next time I saw them, they behaved toward me as I did towards you… I would be more than upset.”

“Well, I am not upset as you can see.” He smiled at this, and sat down on the grass next to me. “We all have bad days and I just chalked it up to Tuesday being one of them. You did not want to talk about it then, so I did not push it.”

My smile drops, as well as my head. I am almost ashamed at my behavior on Tuesday.

“…but if you ever did want to talk….”

I look up at his face. “I know… You are here for me if I ever feel like I need someone to talk to.”

“Well I was going to say there is an app for that, but sure… I will be here for you should you ever feel like you need to talk to someone.” His grin was toothy and his wit, in perfect form.

I chuckle at his off-the-cuff remark.

“Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow,” I reply. He helps me up from my seat on the grass. I stand up and we part ways. I head home. I do not know where he goes after we run, but I have always assumed he also headed home. His home, not to my home. That would be a bit awkward and quite unusual for both of us to travel from the same place, to the same place, but by differing travel paths.

NaNoWriMo2010: Chapter 2

2011-08-18T13:56:00.000-07:00

Chapter 2: In Which a Change of Pace is Required to Retain the Reader’s Interest

Late February-- Age 24

I looked in the mirror today and almost did not recognize myself. My skin was pale, almost sickly, emphasized by the red that colored my eyes and the dark, sunken circles underneath. My hair was brassy, dull and dry. Pulled back, it made my face look fuller than it already was. …which went proportionally well with the bloated look that came with the weight gain. In the past few months, I ate my way through boxes and boxes of chocolate-covered Hostess products. As a bonus, I was promptly rewarded with the extra inches around my middle. The sweatpants and tank top I wore-- though comfortable as they were-- were not helping me any. Nor did it help that I was surviving on Starbucks to get me through the workdays.

I figured it would not do me any good to sit and complain about life being the horrible thing that is was if I didn’t at least try to do something about it. I grabbed a pen and paper and got to work listing all the things I thought were wrong in my life: my weight, my job, my relationship status (or lack-thereof) and the perpetual state of depression which, as it so happens, I seem to have found myself in for not quite an entire year now. I mean, it could not hurt to try, right? I could find a job that I didn’t dread or do something to lose weight. I could cut and color my hair, completely change how I dressed, what I ate, who I associated myself with. I could do all that superficial stuff that people do to make themselves feel better. It’s not like I am doomed to forever be the same person, living in the same rut year after year… right?

Right?

March--Age 24

I started running. I didn’t think I could run, but I guess I am not as out of shape as I thought. I would cheer at that statement, but as I have learned first-hand, cheering and running should not be combined by anyone other than a professional. Failure to heed this warning may lead to a face-plant in front of your entire physical education class during freshman year of high school that you will fail to live down throughout your four-year career as a high school student. If you are going to run or attempt anything for the first time that requires coordination, I beg of you… Please do so where no one can see you because you will at some point completely embarrass yourself and more than likely, you do not want anyone to actually witness your stumble when you do trip and fall. Especially if that witness is named Emmiline Humperdink. Emmiline Humperdink, if you are somewhere out there reading this, I want you to know that right at this moment I am giving you my angry face in revenge for having the memory of an elephant and the knack for never letting the dead stay buried (which, by the way, is why you are reading this from behind bars… not because “the man” wants to keep people from recreating the scientific work of the fictional Dr. Frankenstein).

With that in mind, I figured that I could pick a time when no one was out and about and just give it a shot. If I failed in my attempt to do it… fine. No one would see and I could just walk back home. So last week I got up an hour earlier than normal, grabbed my shoes and hoodie, and just went for it. You do know what a hoodie is, don’t you? It is typically a pull-over sweatshirt with a ‘hood’ sewn onto it creating a ‘hooded sweatshirt’ otherwise known as a ‘hoodie’. Surprisingly, I was able to make it (albeit only four or five blocks before I had to stop). Woke up the next day and did it again. And again… and again… and again. I try to go a little bit further each time before I stop and even then, I pretend that I am stretching and that it was intentional instead of the real reason for stopping-- my lungs and thighs felt like they were on fire. But to borrow a line from Martha Stewart, “It’s a good thing.” What else is “a good thing,” …extra strength pain relief cream and a super-sized bottle of ibuprofen. With any new venture, pain is inevitable until you get use to the changes you made. Just saying…

It is dark when I set out. Dark and incredibly cold. I set out and head west, following the street to its end after only six blocks. Past the dead end was another two blocks of dirt and weeds before the road continued. I never knew why the city just up and abandoned its attempts to connect the two streets. Abandoned it may be, but it has never really been forgotten. Over the years, neighborhood kids formed bike paths connecting the streets in a way the city failed to do. Bikes turned into other things as the kids grew up. If those kids were still here, they would walk the path and eventually, others would use the path for running just as I do now. It is another two blocks past the dirt lot when I pass the house with the bike chained up to the mailbox. I don’t know why, but it just stands out.

The house itself is fairly non-descript. Built in an older suburb, the ranch-style house had the same faded color palate and lush front yard as every other home in the neighborhood. Only, in the dark, it was even more difficult to tell any of them apart. There were no cars in the driveway, at least none at this hour of the morning. And in the front, where the yard meets the sidewalk, stands a white-washed mailbox. Every one of these houses have the same style mailbox in almost identical locations, but this house always had a bright red bike chained to the post that held the mailbox. It was one of those nice, sturdy bikes. The kind made for traveling distances on city roads. It would probably be useless to take it out on rougher terrain or for competing in the Tour de France or Tour of California or some other Tour de Parts-of-the-World, but for use on city streets… it could last a long time.

I see it --the cookie-cutter house with the shiny red bike in front-- and know that I can stop anytime after I pass it. It has become my marker for what I expect to be the minimum distance I need to run. Not so much that it is a quantitative thing, but these runs give me a lot of time to think. By the time I reach the house with the bike chained up out front, I have begun to feel the exertion in my legs (but no so much that I am ready to stop and flag down a city bus to come pick me up and give me a ride back home). From there, I continue running west until my body forces me to stop. Each day, just a bit further down the road, pushing myself to find my limit. It seems like no distance is far enough for me.

I give myself a break, just long enough to stretch and catch my breath before I decide to head back the way I came: due east on the street that has long been fragmented by a piece of earth. By then, the sun has begun to crest over the hills east of town, and my returning run home is illuminated. Brighter as the hour wears on, but never any warmer than it felt when I started out. When I finally do return home, my feet heavy on the creaky wooden steps that lead up to the front door, I head to the shower to clean up and get ready for the rest of the day.

I just feel so disappointed each time I return home. Every morning, I try so hard to literally run away and leave it all behind. But each time, I stop, turn around, and return to the solitude and the dust that have accumulated over time.

I just cannot run far enough away from here. Trust me, I try each and every morning. At some point my body protests this self-torture and threatens to collapse from under me if I do not give in to its demand that I stop and return home.

Nearing the End of March--Age 24

Still running. I am working my way up to a whole mile before giving in to the agony my muscles insist that they are going through. It has only been a few weeks, but I am seeing progress with my weight. A couple of pounds lost already.

Running past Starbucks instead of running to Starbucks also helps.

But there is something bothering me on these runs. I think I have a stalker. Not really a stalker stalker. The kind where someone follows you --persistently-- because they are crazy or want to harm you. No, the urban dictionary kind: someone who seems to be everywhere you go even though you don’t know them and it is getting a bit creepy so they better stop it now. Yeah, that kind of stalker.

The first time I saw him was on one of my runs. I passed by his house on my way back from a run and he was messing with the lock securing the shiny red sporty-looking bike to the same white-washed mailbox as always. A few times, I would pass by and it almost looked like he was waiting. After about a week, he started waving as I ran by. Not an excited, chipper-in-the-morning kind of wave. Just one of those singular wave of the hand that simply acknowledges your presence. Maybe even a weak smile thrown in for good measure.

But this week was different. This week, he was running too. The first day, I passed him going in the opposite direction. I was on the last leg of my run. The next day, we crossed paths somewhere around the middle and yesterday… Yesterday he was about a block or so behind me the whole way! Today, I could have sworn I even saw him about eight or ten pews behind me in church. It is hard to tell for certain though, as I have only recalled seeing this other runner in a dark sweatshirt with some sort of sport’s team logo on the front , hood pulled up around his head. There is a big difference between that and someone in dressy plaid and sunglasses.

Maybe it really is coincidence. Maybe he has been around this whole time and I was just too wrapped up in my own nonsense to notice him before now.

The Beginning of April--Age 24

I guess I was just paranoid. I do not have a stalker… just a blind spot to the world around me and a lack of good sense. Really, who in their right mind follows a stranger (whom, may I remind you, they previously thought to be a stalker) right up to their home? But I am getting ahead of myself. The guy I thought was following me--who, turns out, really was following me but not in a way that requires restraining orders-- finally introduced himself.

It started out as a normal run. A bit overcast outside but otherwise, normal. And anyhow, in those early morning hours, everything looks the same. My faux-stalker was trailing me by half a block until I hit the mile mark. That was when the rain began to come down--swift and in sheets. I paused, looking up with an expression disgust at the cloud’s need to begin a downpour at that moment. I turned, ready to head back. It was then that I heard a thunderclap so loud I nearly jumped out of my shoes. It was the sight of someone appearing directly in front of me unexpectedly that made me actually jump. Yes, I got air. Feet completely off of the ground. I think I even let out a yelp or something similar to express how completely off-guard I was.

“Sorry, I did not mean to scare you. Are you okay?”

It was my aforementioned faux-stalker whom I now know has a name: Mr. Edward Tinley. When he introduced himself, I thought he must be joking. Outside of the works of Jane Austen, a few television mini-series variations on the novel “Northanger Abbey,” and the occasional male member of a Regency reenactment troop who would never reveal their real names in the first place, I have never actually met someone with the name of “Mr. Edward Tinley.” It was on an entirely different occasion in which I had the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity and finally ask him how came to be called “Mr. Edward Tinley.”

“How did you get the name “Edward Tinley?” I asked.

“That was the name my parents gave me when I was born.” was his reply.

Returning back to the scene of our first official interaction, I have found myself to be face-to-chin with the man I had presumed to be a stalker. I am by no means vertically challenged, but the man before me had a good six-inch (or so) advantage over me. Now having been drenched and now face to face with the man I thought had been following me these past couple of weeks and questioned as to my level of well-being, I said the only thing I could think of: “I am soaked.”

“Me too, c’mon!” He nodded, indicating we move further up the road and further away from where I really should have been at that moment-- home. What possessed me to follow…I still do not know. I am going to go with curiosity. I mean, what did I have to lose? I did want to know who this guy was and why it was that I was seeing him every morning on my run (as well as a few other random places lately… church, the supermarket, the local non-Starbucks coffee shop that is more bistro than coffee shop to be honest…). So, soaked, tired from the run and a little irritated from being out of my comfort zone, I followed after him.

We turned the corner after about three blocks. I was beginning to wonder where we were going (and how long it was going to take to get there.. This storm did not seem to want to let up anytime soon) when he turned back to me. “Here it is, just ahead on the right… we can go in and you can dry off a bit until this rain eases up somewhat.”

I hesitated. Sure, against my better judgment I followed some stranger to some house out of the way from where I would normally be (or should be for that matter) …was I really going to actually follow him into the house?

He turned, now under the relative safety and dryness of the covered porch. Fumbling for the right key, slick from the rain, he managed to unlock the front door and hold it open. “Are you just going to stand there and drown standing up? Or are you going to come in?”

I climbed the four steps up to his covered porch, pausing to look at his face while I attempted to wring out some of the water from my hair and sweatshirt. I was a bit taken aback. (Is that even a proper word? “Aback”? I realize that English is a living language that is continually evolving and expanding, but really… “Aback”? Even if it is not, I am coining it to mean “how I felt at that particular moment while standing, dripping wet, in front of a guy I was certain just fifteen minutes before had been a stalker stalking me every morning.) He really did hold a look of sincerity on his face. A bit of laughter underneath his smile. After all, he was holding the door open, waiting for what had to have looked like an overgrown drowned cat that was now shaking from the chill that was settling in.

Panic was building inside. What was I doing here?! I should certainly know better than to follow some random person to their home! This really is not like me. I am much more cautious and suspicious. More so this past year than ever. “Maybe I should go.”

“In this weather? After coming all this way? If you are not going to stay and dry off, at least let me give you a ride so you do not have to walk home in this…”

“I really am sorry but I just find it a bit strange that you have been following me every morning for the last week and now you are inviting me into your home as if we are old friends.”

His eyebrow arched. “And you do not find it strange to follow someone to their home when you’re admittingly suspicious of them to begin with?”

“Touché.” If you are unfamiliar with the term ‘touché’, it is a fancy French term mis-associated with the sport of fencing and roughly translates to “You got me there, pal!”

He nodded, walking into the house. I turned and looked out toward the street. I really did not fancy having to walk all the way home in this, and I never plan on stopping anywhere when I go on a run, so I did not bring any money with me for a ride home. I was wondering if he was really going to leave me out here when the creak of the front door opening caught my attention.

Gone were the rain-soaked hoodie and sweatpants. When he returned to the porch he was in jeans and a faded orange (or was that supposed to be gold) t-shirt. Without the hoodie, I finally was able to get a proper view of him. He was the plaid-wearing guy from church. He stood about five foot-ten, lean but not slender. His chestnut hair was cut short and without the hood of a sweatshirt to hide his appearance, I could see that he was well-groomed. Without the sunglasses he sported most Sundays, I was able to see his eyes: a warm brown like the color of milk chocolate.

He held out a mug with some steaming liquid inside. “Hot chocolate?”

I took the mug, holding it close to my face as if it could somehow warm up my entire body through some sort of temperature version of osmosis. Unlikely, but at least my face was getting warm. I closed my eyes and inhaled the enticing scent of chocolate and, as I took a sip and verified its presence, gooey, half-melted marshmallows. There is nothing in the world that I have experienced that warms both the body and soul as much or as well as hot chocolate with gooey, half-melted marshmallows.

I opened my eyes. He was sitting on one of two wooden rocking chairs furthest from the porch railing, sipping on what I could only assume was his own mug of hot chocolate. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the second of the two wooden rocking chairs. The one that was at present, unoccupied.

He brought the mug away from his mouth and held it on his lap, waiting for me to take my seat in the other chair. Even after sitting down, there seemed to be an uncomfortable silence between the two feet that separated our chairs. My silence stemming from not knowing what I had gotten myself into, and his silence… well I could only assume he was choosing his words. I have only known him for less than an hour and he does not seem to be the kind of person who remains silent. Not for very long at least.

“I am sorry if my presence frightened you earlier.”

“Your presence… so you have been following me on my morning runs?” The surprise over the admission was more than present in my voice.

“I was, but it really is not as bad as it just sounded. I swear.” He took a sip of his hot chocolate, letting my anticipation for his answer build. “It’s just… I was kind of hoping that if you saw me running at the same time as you, that you might …maybe …ask me to join you. On a run. Maybe, I don’t know… I guess I thought it was a good idea at the time.” He bashfully shrugged it off and went back to his hot chocolate.

The first thought that came to mind was the “What?” of disbelief and confusion. “Are you saying that you have been following me for over a week hoping that I would talk to you?”

“Well, when you say it that way it sounds incredibly immature and nothing like the well-thought out plan that it was…”

“You mean you planned to get me to talk to you by following me around each day?” It came out sounding more amused and mocking than shocked or appalled.

He cocked his head and nodded. “Yeah, I guess that does sound bad. But it worked, am I right?” He smiled like the Cheshire Cat. A Cheshire Cat with a chocolate milk and marshmallow cream moustache.

I had to admit. He was right. It did work. I did eventually make the first move and talk to him because of his persistence in shadowing me each morning. “But could you have found something easier than having to run every morning at five am? In the cold?”

He sat back in his chair and brought the mug up to his lips, hesitating. “I could, but you have to admit-- This left quite an impression. You cannot forget someone going to those lengths to just to get your attention…right?”

“Right…” I found myself relaxing back into the chair, a small smirk forming at the corner of my lips. He left an impression alright.

He disappeared again, taking both of our now empty mugs back into the house. Stepping back out, he dangled a set of car keys. “Will you at least let me take you home now that you know I am not some random psychopath who is out to get you?”

I nodded.

Arriving home (where I immediately hopped in the shower and tried to wash the chill away) I realized I was still walking around with a slight smile on my face. I noticed it when I caught my reflecting in the bathroom mirror. It has been a while since I smiled, even if it was only half a smile. Hmm…

The Next Day --Age 24

No amount of layering has helped me. At the moment, I wearing two pairs of thick, fuzzy socks, a pair of knitted legwarmers over two layers of heavy pajamas, a pair of bunny slippers that envelop my feet and give them the appearance of being twice their normal size, an over-sized pair of winter gloves, a seven-foot long scarf wrapped around my head three times, one hand-knit winter hat and the thickest bathrobe that has not been worn to pieces. This is on top of a layer of undergarments and leggings that do nothing to keep me warm or keep out the chill. Adding an electric blanket did nothing to warm me up. However, if I should ever want to recreate the feeling of near (if not actual) suffocation, I now know a way to do it.

I should not have gone out yesterday. I should have stayed home. I should have done a lot of things differently. Instead, I went out, came home soaked and chilled and now I still cannot manage to get warm in spite of my best efforts and a third of the contents from my closet.

I am in no way shape or form about to go out for a run today!

Still April --Age 24

It has been a few days since I have been out for a run. In part, it felt strange… the whole “I am going to follow my follower home” thing. In the past year, I have magnified my tendency to avoid people. I am not (nor have I ever been) much of a people person, but this past year has been different to say the least. So I took it up a few notches, distancing myself from the world around me and intentionally keeping people at bay. Outside of the dinner back in February and the occasional run in at the coffee shop, my days consist of running in the morning, dreading and then finally facing another eight hour shift at work and finally coming home where I do the bare minimum. Sundays are different though. Sundays I go to church, leave as soon as the Pastor finishes his last prayer, and spend the rest of the day with a pile of laundry. No visitors, no making plans for going out to dinner or a movie. I just have not felt like being around other people since… Well, since that thing that I really do not want to remember and do not want to talk about so why bring it up? Did you forget about my well-written introduction so soon? Go back and re-read it-- I mentioned in a repetitive manner that I would repeatedly bring up a subject that I do not want to talk about. This is one of those times I will bring up the subject I do not want to talk about before repeatedly repeat how I do not wish to talk about it.

Why bring it up… Maybe because it is the elephant in the living room of my life. I refuse to talk about it, tore up all the cards well-meaning people have given me, encouraging me to see someone. “Just go and talk it over,” they always say. “It couldn’t hurt to just sit and talk about it. You will feel better if you do.” What do they know about it anyway.

It has been almost a year since it happened. Since the accident. After everything was finished and the legal paperwork finalized, I just shut everyone out the best I could. I avoided talking to people because they would always ask how I was getting along or want to talk about them and I just cannot do it. I cannot sit there and let them tell me it was all for the best. They would not say half of what they said to me if they were in my shoes.

I still do not want to deal with it. I cannot handle it right now so I keep pushing it away. I ignore, then choose not to return calls from family. I refuse to go into rooms where their things still sit, unmoved for so long.

Mid- April--Age 24

After taking a few days off from running to recuperate from the natural consequence of standing around in the pouring rain outside of a stranger’s house, I returned to my regular routine of going for a run in the morning before I had to go to work. As I was approaching the one particular non-descript house where I first saw Mr. Edward Tinley. I saw that he was outside of that particular non-descript house, bracing himself with the mailbox as he stretched his legs.

“Long time, no see,“ he calls out as I approach. I do not stop but it is not a problem. Edward Tinley waits until I pass before setting out, just a few feet behind me. He makes a few longer strides, and now side-by-side with me, he matches my stride and pace keeping in step with me. We run this way for another half-mile-- no sound but the sound of identical footsteps hitting pavement and heavy breathing in the cold morning air.

It is when we finally stop, pausing to catch our breath before turning and heading back that the silence is broken with voices.

“You know, if I were to start running in front of you from now on… you could not really say I was still following you.”

I am doubled over at this point, hands on knees and trying to inhale deeply the cold air that stings my throat and lungs. I force out a slight chuckle. “Ha…,” gasp, “…ha…,” another gasp of air. “You mean… if you ran out in front of me, you would no longer be following me? I would technically be following you?”

He grinned. “Yeah, see… I knew you would get it!”

In a way, I am beginning to understand something that those who already know Mr. Edward Tinley have known for some time: Mr. Edward Tinley says the strangest, most cerebrally lame things sometimes. I smile anyway. It was still kind of funny in its own special way.

The following Sunday--Age 24

It is once again Sunday as I hastily make my way to the other side of town to attend church. I take my usual place, not too close to the front but not too far back. I have noticed that Mr. Edward Tilney usually sits in the same place every week about ten rows behind me. I look back, acting as if I am looking for someone or something else when in reality, I was seeking out his familiar face. Had I not turned to look, I would have noticed that Mr. Edward Tilney was in fact approaching me from the opposite side. He quietly slips into the seat next to me and for the second time in weeks, manages to startle me when I turn to find him sitting beside me. He says he needs to make this quick, as he needs to get back to his regular spot before they give it away to someone else. I am not sure if he is serious or not.

“I have been thinking about something…“

“Why do I get the idea that when you begin with the words ‘I have been thinking about something…‘ I should tread with caution?“ My eyebrow arches and I flash a smirk to assure him that I am not being critical but trying my hand at being playful.

He returns a wide grin. “I propose that I offer up my services as an escort to you on your morning runs… just in case.”

I am a bit curious to know more. “Just in case… what?”

His exaggerated sense of fake-concern is charming. “Oh, but you never can tell when someone decides to begin following you everywhere. You may need someone like me who has been there, done that and can deter them from creeping you out any more than they do or I‘ve done.”

This makes me laugh for the first time in a very long while. “If you insist, then I suppose I cannot object. You have a valid reason and as you have proved a number of times recently, I tend to scare easily. I am an easy target for someone of ill intent or those with a touch of mischievousness.” I stare accusingly at him.

He gives me a look as if to say “Who, me?” but cuts his response short. The music begins to play, signaling the start of the service, and Mr. Edward Tilney disappears just as he had appeared to where I can only assume is his regular pew near the back.

NaNoWriMo2010: Introduction, Chapter 1

2011-08-18T13:53:00.000-07:00

The Most Absurdly Told Story in the World:

As Told By the Main Character to

No One in Particular

(A Novel in an Abundance of Parts)

Introduction: or “Fair Warning to All Who Pass This Way”

I should forewarn you: what I have to say reads like a painting by Colin Mochrie. And if you understood that reference, then ten gold stars for you my friend because you are now one up on anyone else trying to read this. But seriously… Looking back, even I think that I seem incredibly vapid and self-absorbed. It was always me-me-me, I-I-I doom-and-gloom, mopey-dopey blah-blah-blah. So if you’re going to close this book, set it back on the shelf and walk away to do something you believe to be far more enjoyable (like, laundry perhaps?)… by all means! Take the opportunity while it is presented to you. Do not complain later and say that I did not give you a heads up. Duck out now before anyone notices! No, really... I will cover my eyes right now and you can tiptoe out of the room. We'll go our separate ways and never speak of this again. I pinky swear!

Not leaving? You mean you want to stick around and see what happens? Okay, if that is what you really want to do…

But one last opportunity before you get caught up in the incessant stream-of-conscious/observationally bleak style that is mine: I will continue to be both repetitive and repeatedly make continual vague references to an event that I emphasize ad nauseum that I do not want to talk about but talk about anyway over and over again repetitively and in repetition.

Seriously! I read this wanting and at times, I want to bang my head against the thick manuscript that this is. That, or go along with the insanity and commit myself here and now because it is the only way the following tale makes any sense to me. I suppose submitting it (and possibly, myself) to the Department of Redundancy Department would be the correct step following your closing this book, but on the other hand…

If you are still here, brave soul. If you choose to accept the challenge of sitting through this droll tale, then I would advise you to find a comfortable chair, gather a few warm blankets and a nice, hot gallon of hot chocolate and half-melted marshmallows because away we go!

Chapter 1: Meeting Me and Other Boring Boo-Hooey Stuff

Early May-- Age Five and Twenty (that’s “25” for you can’t figure out that fancy old-timey figurative language)

My name is Mary Sue Kerplunkity…true story! Why would I give you a fake name? It’s not like I am on the run from the circus or hiding out under an assumed name provided to me by my government…

Let’s start again.

My name is Mary Sue Kerplunkity and this is the story of how I finally gave up.

I had imagined this scene many times before, but never like this. I mean, ask anyone and they would tell you that the idea of me standing on a cliff overlooking a very rocky beach (and I use this term “beach” lightly) … well, they would tell you that it is preposterous. Preposterous, ludicrous, absurd… throw in any word that means “you would have a greater chance of seeing three sparkly pixies from Mars land in Ohio, do battle with (and defeat) a band of angry ninja squirrels and twenty-three hours later, die a most horrible and unspeakable death in a vat of New England clam chowder from Bubba Gump’s in Monterey Bay” than see me standing so far up, on a cliff overlooking a very rocky beach.

Yeah, if you couldn’t already tell-- I hate heights.

But here I am anyway. Standing on a cliff …well, several feet away from the edge of a cliff. Contemplating my next move. Un-afraid of my surroundings or what is to come. Okay, a little bit afraid but not panicking in the way you would expect someone who is fearful of heights to panic. I guess it is more anticipation than panic. I never thought that I would end up here, doing what I am about to do. The fact that I was no where near backing out seemed just as shocking, even now… even to me.

Inhaling sharply, I snap back from my train of thought and ready myself. It was time. After everything, it was finally time.

December --Age 24

Things have to begin somewhere. Some say the shift from family farms and hearty meals to factories and frozen meals began with the industrial revolution. Philosophers and scientists have long debated the beginning of the universe. And life as I know it physically began 24 years ago (at least, that is how it was for me. For you, it probably began at some other point in time and is highly unlikely to have occurred at the exact time and place as mine began). However, if you were to ask where this story begins, I would have to say that now is a good place to start. Somewhere in the self-imposed two-day isolation due to strep, I came to the conclusion that my life was rather unappealing. I am overqualified, inexperienced, under worked, overweight, and lacking direction except to home which happens to be at my parents house.

Well, not my parents home exactly. It was my parents house. They are just no longer around to occupy it… so to speak. Now I am back home, living here, but it still feels like it is their home. It doesn’t help that I haven’t got around to changing a thing about it in the year I have been on my own. Even their stuff is still in their room, untouched. Layered in dust and… I don’t know, dust mites? I have avoided their room for some months so there is no telling what is in there now. For all I know, a shape shifting alien fugitive named Prisoner Zero has escaped through a crack in space and time into an alternate dimension from his own and is now residing in my mother’s old room where no one has thought or cared to look in some time.

To be honest, the one thing I have got going for me is the fact that I skipped watching The Phantom of the Opera for the umpteenth weekend in a row and chose something a bit more realistic--like Bridget Jones. Bridget Jones without the witty circle of friends. Bridget Jones without the witty circle of friends, the love interest, the zany family and the somewhat-respectable (or at least, varied and interesting) job. Still… it is more realistic than The Phantom of the Opera. I can’t carry a tune to save my life and as far as I know, there are no secret tunnels into an elaborate system of catacombs and underground lakes where a mad-man with an incredible gift of music resides.

I admit, things are not all that bad. I am actually rather content with things as they are (on the surface). It is when I give it more than a passing glance that I find it… …insufficient.

So as I found myself laying awake, unable to sleep… By the way, isn’t that how it always is? When you lay awake in bed, at night during an hour in which most normal people are under the covers with eyes closed… you are in fact “unable to sleep“ by definition. It is just a bit redundant for me to say so repeatedly, that is all. Just making an observation. I do that quite often--repeat things repetitively. I was not always so repetitive, by my job in what is an incredibly redundant department has… side effects. Being completely repetitive and redundant is just one of these side effects of working in a completely repetitive and redundant job.

On this particular night, as I was excused from the expectation of sleeping at night, I started thinking about things. Things I have, things I lack, things that go bump in the night, things I want, things I do not want, things that would not make a good Jeopardy category... It was a rather short list if I am going to be truthful with you here. I came to the conclusion that if my few responsibilities on this Earth were to disappear, I would be without reason to keep going. Depressing, but honest. And you know what? I don’t think I even feel the least bit sad or guilty admitting it. When I say it, it doesn’t come out as hopelessness or release-- it is just a fact. I have a few bills to pay, a job that I do not love (emphasis on “not”) but have not quit because the pay is okay. And while I have kept to myself the past several months, there are a few friends who still call or e-mail to see how I am doing. Alright… There is one friend who still calls or e-mails me to see how I am doing. No long conversations, just taking the opportunity to check in and verify that I am still above ground and breathing. I am thinking, as I never really answer the phone to give a vocal confirmation of my continued existence, that perhaps it is just the mere presence of a line (and answering machine) that has not been disconnected that has become the confirmation that I am alive and well enough to keep up with my phone bill at least.

But if they were to all just disappear one day, I would not have a place or function in this world. So why, if these things were no longer an issue, would I choose to continue living a life I could care less about?

I really do not have an answer. I thought I did once, but… anyway. I cannot help but think “Is that all there is?” and fear that yes, that really is all there is. You are born, stuff happens, then you die. At least, that is what an incredibly long movie told me once. Even the guy in the movie had something. He had a daughter and a woman who waited a long time for him to come around and realize his feelings for her (seriously! Three hours is a long time to sit thorough a movie!). He also had the amazing ability to shed a tear at the right time and burst into song whenever possible. What do I have? A drafty house and an extra twenty pounds around the middle.

It is kind of like that book I read once: “Veronika Decides to Die.” Here you have this relatively pretty woman with a steady (if not necessarily glamorous) job, living in an apartment on her own and not a social pariah by any means (though, not a social butterfly either). One day, she realizes that although she is young and still at an age where people will tell you that you have your whole life ahead of you, she has probably seen and done all of the things she had any interest in doing. Anything else, like marriage, raising a family, seeking fame and fortune or even just getting out of the same old, same old that kept the town going… all of that was either unimportant or (as she saw it) highly unlikely to happen. She creates a rational argument for why she decides to take her own life and (unsuccessfully) attempts suicide by sleeping pills. I kind of feel like that (the rational part, not the suicidal part… what kind of person do you take me for anyway?). Anything I would have done or wanted to do in my life has already passed. My future is an endless cycle of repeating the same monotonous, mediocre day over and over again repetitively. There is no justification for my continued existence, no one who depends on me, no one who relies on my presence to fulfill some social, educational or financial need. Only selfishness for wanting to prolonging the inevitable.

I am, in essence, just an extra…walking around aimlessly in the background of everyone else’s lives.

Valentine’s Day-- Age 24

I thought it was just me, that when I said that everyone around me was in some sort of a serious (or semi-serious) relationship that perhaps I was over-generalizing and pulling the self-pity card.

I was wrong.

I looked around. To my right was a couple that began seeing each other quite a while back and now, five years next summer if I remember correctly. Four months ago, they finally ousted themselves as an official couple. To my left, Bob and Betty-- a couple that had been married for about as long as I have been alive. Their kids are my age and in fact, their son, Alex, was part of the couple on my right that really needed to remember that they are not the only people in the world who exist. I mean really! There are, or at least should be limits to what kind of affection is socially appropriate to display in public. But getting back to Bob and Betty… Their daughter Cassandra was across the table. At this point, she was across the table, attempting to form words. Unable to utter a sound due to shock, she merely nodded her head, indicating to the man on one knee beside her that she would indeed accept his marriage proposal. Tony, the man that was now her fiancé, managed to stand up from his kneeling position just in time for an onslaught of hands disheveling his hair and slapping his back in an overly-enthusiastic means of conveying congratulations.

Upon the sudden (if not belated and incredibly face-palm worthy) revelation that I was a single person in a room full of couples at a Valentine’s dinner, or rather, that there was a really good chance that I was the only single person of my age in the room on one of the most romantic evenings of the year… I certainly would have blurted out an explicative if such words crossed my lips. And they do not, by the way. Someone tried to pay me once just to say one word of profanity (any word, my choice). I still refused. That is how I rebelled against authority-- I stuck to my high standards. I am stubborn like that. I am also told that I am strange, too quiet around other people and in great need of either access to the outdoors or to a full-length tanning bed.

That was the night I thought I heard God laughing. On the drive home, under my own dark and grumbly cloud, I swore that this whole evening must have been some act of God, arranged in such a way as to tell me that I was doomed forever to be the perpetual single gal at the party. Any party. Parties of five, parties of one, un-birthday parties… even non-parties. I would live the life of a spinster and turn into some high-and-mighty sourpuss who refused any resemblance of fun from entering her home-- even Tetris. That even the hint of happiness would feel like picking the scab off the old wound of “God won’t let me have a single meaningful relationship with a guy… woe is me… boo-hoo… the world sucks!” Yeah, doom and gloom and isolation. Oh, and bitterness. You cannot be a stereotypical old maid without a healthy dose of bitterness. If Hollywood has taught us anything, is that old maids are incredibly bitter, stuck in the moment in which all hope was lost, forever to be jealous of everyone else’s seemingly happy lives.

By the time I pulled into the driveway (which, really was only five minutes later) it was settled: I was sure God wanted me to be alone for the rest of my existence and I was going to quit hoping that it could ever be any other way than that. Not that I ever made time for it before. I was always working, always studying, always practicing for one thing or another… Until a few months ago, close relationships were not exactly something I thought I was lacking. Until a few months ago, I thought the people I had in my life were close enough… that was, until things changed and everything became a cruel reminder of what I no longer have.

Woe is me.

Boo hoo.

The world sucks.

I take that back. The world still sucks, but I do not have to wait until I am older to be the bitter, emotionally isolated old maid. I am already there. I can’t stand to be around others, especially when they are obviously excited about something. I tune out or avoid small talk, not wanting to hear how their family is doing or how they love work or how their last date went or even how they sat down one day and decided to conduct a scientific survey of men to determine how many roads one had to walk down before he could be called a man (taking into account factors such as age of the man in question, length of the road, climate and choice of footwear). I simply do not even let anyone come to the house anymore.

I go home, lock the doors behind me and sit under a dark cloud in a prison of my own making. Not really of my own making. I did not physically build anything resembling a prison. It was a metaphor. You know, a literary device in which an implied comparison is made between two unlike things that actually have something in common. Like when Pat Benetar says “Love is a Battlefield” or how Emily Dickenson says that “fame is a fickle food on a shifting plate.” A perfectly good example of a metaphor and one that could easily find its way into this story. It is the phrase “it’s raining cats and dogs.“ One day, when it rains (as I can’t think of a place that does not at some point in the year get rain) it will not literally rain down felines and canines from the sky. The connection comes in the sheer abundance of both four-legged animals and (at the time that rain is presently falling to the ground) precipitation. In the same way, my home and to a greater extent, my life, is a prison made from the decisions I make and the circumstances that I allow to have influence over the aforementioned decisions. I did not create literal walls to for self-containment, but metaphoric walls that have prevented me from exercising my freedom as a human being. Or something like that.

I bet you didn’t expect to run across a refresher lesson in grammar, huh! I will throw stuff out at you like that because it means I can avoid talking about what is really at issue here: the fact that you are still reading this. I thought I warned you already! The things I focus on in life are trivial, red-herrings at best. I cannot guarantee things will get better from her on out.

Wait a minute! You are giving up already? Wow, either you are a pushover or you have never read “There’s a Monster at the End of This Book” with that blue Muppet from Sesame Street. I think his name is Gaga or Clover or something along those lines. You know, the one where the blue muppet what’s-his-name keeps telling you not to turn the page but you do it anyway. As the story progresses, he tries harder and harder to stop you, but you just plow on through until you finally get to the end where this monster supposedly lives.

Never read it?

Set this down, go to the nearest bookstore, situate yourself in the area of children’s books (where it is located) and read it. Then, come back and plow on through this feeble attempt to stop you in your tracks knowing things can only get better.

NaNoWriMo....aka "The longest piece of nonsense I've written...outside of a research paper."

2011-08-18T13:25:00.000-07:00

I had mentioned the project from last year's NaNoWriMo that I had saved and not printed out for a friend (ask promised). I occasionally made comments that things going on in my life had an uncanny resemblance in a round-about way to things from the story. I even asked on Facebook if anyone was interested in my literary nonsense being posted here.... and the answer was yes.

So, brought to you in parts, I present what I spent 20 days last November writing as part of the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and encourage all to give a shot at it this November.

Remember, it doesn't have to be good... it just needs to be 50,000 words or more.
:)

***

2011-08-14T16:15:00.000-07:00

I woke up and knew exactly what I wanted to write about. My friends noted that I had been rather pensive yesterday, but truth be told it was that I had spent the day thinking about this post.

...and just as I sat on the couch to write, it was gone.

It could be this movie I'm pretending to ignore. The movie is laughable... but some things at the heart of the movie just make sense. Even now, this dialogue is corny, but reminiscent of actual discussions I've had. And in the end, one of the leads simply tells another character that if he'd just step up to the things that made him most afraid, things would work out right.

"...step up to the things you're afraid of most... just step up to it..."

The other night I sat up and had a long talk about how things are going in life. There are times I'd admit to being frustrated with the pacing of things. Specifically, that the pace is so slow, I can't even see change on the horizon. By the end of the evening, I came away with at least one game plan. After another conversation, had a starting point in regards to another area I'm having issues with. Talk... break things down to their simplest form, devise a plan and talk again.

If I stop being afraid... if I just step up to it... it'll work out. Right?

And that's where I'm stuck: I have a partial plan, simple in its execution. I'm excited, but anxious at the same time.

I just need to step up to it.

Things I Learn From Talking With Others

2011-08-13T18:07:00.000-07:00

Over the past few days I've been blessed to have some rather candid (and productive) conversations with close friends. In these conversations, and from these conversations, were gems that I needed to hear and have with me for future reference:

* Get over your hang-ups; They just hold you back.

* Shut up already. The only reason others would take note of your own failings is if you make big deal out of them and call attention to it. They probably wouldn't have known if you didn't mention it.

* No one is 'allways good'... or a 'complete jerk' or whatever label they're assigned. Approach everyone as an open book, and never judge them for the one page you read.

* It's okay to own enough clothes to fill a closet. No one is going to call you out on it and make you wear a red "H" for "hoarder". Nor are you selfish for owning things.

* It's good to know your limits. It's better to stick with them. This may mean temporarily setting aside a favorite activity that would otherwise cause injury, or being the only one pool-side without a margarita, but that's okay. Stick to your guns.

* High school reunions are nothing to fret over... and if you (I) are going to fret over it, there is still a whole year to get ready for it.

* Sometimes, the best place to start looking for something, is simply to stop looking.

* You are not as bad as you think you are/look/feel.

* It's easier to hear the pros and cons, then throw out what you don't want to hear and make a decision. Easier, but not wiser.

* Before you do, think. ...Or at least talk it out with someone who can give you honest feedback. A true friend will tell you if your pants look funny.

* It's not about how much/little you paid, or the name on the tag. It's not about the color, the fad, the whatever it is that is ephemeral anyhow... it's about the form. The way it looks and feels and moulds the form God gave you. You're art... stop thinking otherwise.

* They say honesty is the best policy. Sometimes honesty is the most difficult thing. It will scare you, not knowing how others will react to simple honesty. But be brave and do it anyway... especially with yourself. Always be honest with yourself.

* Ignore what the meteorologist says: you CAN see meteors when there is a full moon out.

* It's good to examine your motives, test your self-imposed limitations. But do so in a responsible manner. Just because your car says it can go past 100 mph, doesn't mean you need to test it to be sure. A more realistic example would be to try things you've always said you hated, or repetitively try things you claim to be a failure at on your first go-round. You can't grow or know what you're capabilities are unless you test your preconceived notions of life.

***

What about you? What gems have you picked up lately from those around you?

Sunday, Sunday... Goin' to Mass on Sunday...

2011-08-06T00:31:00.000-07:00

(supposed to have been posted sooner but... long story)

My first thoughts walking in were "I should have worn quieter shoes..."

Not necessarily where my mind should have been when making my way to the pew, but all things considered it was something I could note for later. Perhaps at a more appropriate time, such as after mass.

To be perfectly honest, I've missed church for less than this. When I've felt low, or have had "important things to do" like cleaning house or stomaching Lifetime with Grandma so that she wasn't home alone... not that I don't like spending time with Grandma, but in fact, I loath Lifetime and their movie network. But that's another story. On this occasion, I had spent enough time feeling low, and in fact, had felt so depressed and hopeless that I spend a great deal of time contemplating my own mortality and why it was that I was even here, doing what I was doing, seemingly getting nowhere. I had recalled a plan from long ago, when things were at their worst and I had a some-what long-term plan in preparation for 'the long sleep' (if you catch my drift). Things like tying up lose ends (financially) and seeing to it that my possessions were distributed to people who wanted or needed them. In this plan, there were hurdles to get over that would forcibly extend the time between when I started on this plan, and when I ultimately ended it. The idea being that once I got past the various steps (like getting rid of my stuff) if I still wanted to end it all... everything was taken care of. If I had changed my mind... there was nothing weighing me down. I would still have time.

By Sunday morning, I was feeling low. By low, I mean "like way back when", "like when I didn't want to be here anymore", "as if living would be a disservice to others". ...yeah. I was pretty bad.

At the last minute, I got myself out of bed, into the car and down the road just in time for the last mass of the day. Throughout the hour, a few thoughts surfaced of how I didn't really know any of this (what was said), and despite all of it repeated week after week, in English, I just couldn't fake knowing it either.

So I sat when everyone sat. I stood when they stood, I knelt when they knelt.

And for the most part, I was silent.

In that silence, something happened.

The cacophony of voices in prayer, the words that should be familiar to me but were simultaneously as foreign as hieroglyphs, became like a healing balm. The sounds, the echo against the walls and marbled floor, transformed the cool room into a warm blanket. It was like being held, comforted, loved.

I walked out with one thought ringing within: "It's okay"

***

I can't put my finger on it, but can only say that things are... different.
And it's most certainly a good different.

Definitely looking forward to RCIA beginning next month, and in the mean time, taking time to study (not just 'read up on') things before hand.

:)

Giveaway (of sorts)

2011-08-05T20:15:00.000-07:00

Books.... I've got 'em.

Actually, after purging my bookshelf, there are few left. ...outside of the vintage collection that is.

So here's the deal: I am going to list some books. You are going to receive them.

HOW???

By leaving a comment as to which book you want.

Which books are up for grabs?

* ~~Hamlet (No Fear Shakespeare)~~
* Forgiveness (Syrup Bergan & Schwan)
* How to Think Theologically (Stone & Duke)
* Catholic Customs & raditions (Dues)
* ~~The Girl's Guide to Almost Everything~~
* ~~1/2 Price Living (Kay)~~
* Raising a G-Rated Family in a X-Rated World (Hatch)
* Love Your Life (Osteen)
* The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life (Moore)
* Overcoming Weight Problems (**this book is an exception to the limit set below. You can have this AND another book at the same time**)
* A Guide to Confident Living (Peale) (*older book*)
* The Catholic Faith (W. H. Griffith Thomas) (*older book*)
* Our Catholic Faith--setion one and two (Morrow) (*older booklets ...70's?*)
To be fair... I should impost a limit of one book request a day. So if you want Hamlet and 1/2 Price Living... request one on one day, then be shrewd and stay up till midnight (pacific) to request the second.

Easy as pie and hey... free books!

Taking Stock

2011-07-31T16:16:00.000-07:00

August is almost here (just a few more hours...) and with the extra help we've had this summer leaving in a few days, it's time for me to get back into a schedule with housework and such. Not to mention, work starting again in a few weeks.

Speaking of, Bath and Body Works is having a sale now.

I realize they often have sales, but I stop in once or twice a year... always at this time of year when they have a stupendous sale on soaps. So when I stopped in and found they were 5 for $15 (or 7 for $20) I picked up a few.

Why?

Because it's almost school season. That time of year when things are priced ridiculously low so you can stock up for the year. I planned on getting extra school supplies to donate to the classes I work in, but first and foremost are the soaps and hand sanitizers. We go through a lot of soap and sanitizer, especially given that we work with kids who (for the most part) are being exposed and falling victim to a number of germs and diseases, kids who have to be reminded frequently to wash their hands... kids who like to touch everything before grabbing your whistle/hand/writing utensils....

Yeah, we go through soap and sanitizer rather quickly.

So I mentioned this idea of us all (by us, meaning school staff) bringing in a bottle of our favorite soap, and splitting the collection between the two staff bathrooms. I already had two set aside but whats seven more? Right?

But back to getting into a schedule...

I'm also needing to go around the house and put things back to where I intended them (or need them) for functional reasons. I stopped in the middle of rearranging supplies for the house once summer arrived, but I've really got to have it done before work starts otherwise, it's going to be that much more difficult to do. Having things in a location where they're needed (like bathroom items in the bathroom, cleaning items with the washer/dryer, and kitchen items used regularly in a place I have easy access to) will help streamline the maintenance of the house and make things a bit easier when I go back to work.

So it looks like that's what I'm doing after getting back from mass this evening: cleaning.

Goals for Remainder of Year

2011-07-29T17:11:00.000-07:00

I have two sets of goals that I'm torn between. One set is part of a plan I had set for years (but never acted upon).

Set One:

Goal: Pay off debts
Plan: I've been working on this for some time, but I need to hunker down and get strict with the Dave Ramsey plan for getting out of debt.

Goal: Minimize possessions
Plan: Through antique sellers, yard sales... even donating, pare down what I have to just what is needed. Nothing more.

Goal: Simplify schedule
Plan: Take a time audit, go through my browser and bank statements to see where I'm spending time (and money) and cut out the extraneous stuff. Do I NEED dance lessons? ...no.

There are one or two other items on this first list, but none of which can be accomplished before the year's end.

Set Two:

Goal: Create a working "look book" of retro outfits/accessories
Plan: Begin by taking pictures of clothing items, accessories... file them all in a binder and begin creating "looks". As I lose weight, I would have photos on hand of outfits to trade with local dancers.

Goal: Get to high school weight and size by October
Plan: Cut out soda and work toward working out 1+ hours a day, 5 days a week.

Goal: Re-vamp my other blog (Un-Extrodinary Adventures of Fangirl) to start posting weekly on topics related to vintage/retro styles to help out those trying to get the right 'look' for their night out (or for Camp Hollywood).

So, questions? Comments? Advice? Rants?
Comments are always welcome.

2011-07-29T15:34:00.000-07:00

"I need a place to fall apart"

Around our house, there doesn't seem to be a place to escape the onslaught of stimuli. Today, on top of the laundry list of things that need to be done and the beginnings of a headache, it's the movie playing on Lifetime that...

*sigh*

I really do not like Lifetime.
I loathe it... with a passion.

This one in particular features a single woman caring for her mother and daughter while things go awry. She finds herself vulnerable, losing her sense of control over her environment as well as her sense of safety and security.

I looked around the house... at the messes I awoke to after having already cleaned up the night before. Things seem endless. It's not just the housework, but the feelings of loneliness and hopelessness. Either I'm doing for others and forgetting myself, or I feel guilty about what I perceive to be "not doing enough" for others. With duties at home, I'm supposed to have all this responsibility. I even joke that it sometimes feels like I'm a parent, not a caregiver. But when callous things are said, I find myself feeling like hired help in my own home. It's just as with the woman from the Lifetime movie: Loss of control, safety, security.... and identity. When I think I have a handle on my place and purpose, words and actions knock out that scaffolding from under me and I'm left flailing.

But that's how it is, isn't it? Life isn't fair, people are not always nice, and just when we think we know something with a fair amount of certainty, something will change and leave you back where you started.

...Sometimes I don't know why I bother trying.

Right Now (aka... "As I sit drying...")

2011-07-02T02:05:00.000-07:00

Right now...

After spending hours sitting in a lukewarm hot tub with two friends discussing religion...

I feel clean in an intangible way.

Body by Lindy (Hop): End of Week 3

2011-06-26T12:43:00.000-07:00

Last week was awesome... slightly disappointing, but awesome.

Then I spend this week undoing all that I worked for the first two weeks. I ate out of stress, ate more than was was normal for me at mealtimes, skipped two evening workouts and didn't get any of my morning workouts done because I was so exhausted.

So pretty much, I have to start again and work for the next month on slimming down for camp. What's interesting is, I found that at the end of my Wednesday dance lessons, the instructor is filming us demonstrating what we went over that hour. So I can go back over the course of 5 weeks and see what (if any) physical changes occur.

Next week is the week 4 weigh in and measurement day. I did take measurements today and not all was lost: some measurements have gone down. But still... one week before getting together to take measurements again.

Over the next four weeks, my goal is to be too small for half of the clothes in my closet. (the other half are clothes that are currently too small anyhow.)

This Really Did Take All Day to Write...

2011-06-18T19:37:00.000-07:00

I've had this nagging thought...

"Do you trust Me?"

This thought came to me when I was feeling incredibly worthless. I looked around at where I was, sitting in the middle of a mess of papers and things waiting to be listed on eBay. I got the urge to once again purge the things...the distractions... the EVERYTHING because it all pains me.

"Do you trust Me?"

It was the undercurrent to a sermon I missed last week. The one that I'm listening to as I type today. The pastor asking if this was a confirmation for any of us... if we could hear God calling us, asking us to stretch and trust Him and go when He asks.

"Do you trust Me?"

I look around after photographing and boxing the things I decided to sell. I hear it as I consider the things that are a little more difficult to give up.

"Do you trust Me?"

My dad's address sits on my desk and I wonder if writing one more letter would give me the closure I seek.

"Do you trust Me?"

My anxieties over family visits, jobs and needing health insurance rise to the front once again.

"Do you trust Me?"

Finally, I answer as honestly as I can: "I don't know."

More Picture Updates

2011-06-17T18:13:00.000-07:00

Cement and boulders... check

Random blue tile... check

Finally getting the patio primed in spite of all the spiders...
Priceless!

Body By Lindy (Hop): Day 1

2011-06-06T14:05:00.000-07:00

So I've set up my binder with copies of various tracking sheets (food and exercise), my pages for tracking my goals and measurements, and nestled in the back are pages from yoga magazines I've saved.

This week, my focus (and my goal) is to get back into a regular exercise routine. While I plan on popping in the Jillian Michaels "Six Week Six-Pack" dvd in the evenings... I really want to get up and do my strength training in the morning. And by strength training, I mean yoga.

I can't recall a time I have ever had an upper body workout so great as when going through sun salutations at the beginning of every theater class. I honestly looked forward to it. And at the end of summer when camp is upon us, I know that they will offer yoga as a warm up before classes begin each day.

Though I'm off to a late start today (so excited, I could hardly sleep!) I'm still getting in my exercise: no excuses. I've got yoga and a daily core and lower body exercise challenge from the Bombshell group on Spark People to complete.

20 double leg raises
20 airplanes (10 per leg)
20 single leg squats (10 per leg)
and 50 bicycles

I'd better get cracking!

Body by Lindy (Hop): Before

2011-06-06T01:46:00.000-07:00

So after a meeting of the minds, a few friends and I decided we were going to be accountability partners for the next 7 weeks. (yes, we went from six to seven weeks)

Tonight, before the crazy what-not of the next couple months began, we got together to do a few things that you can do as well:

First, we took measurements. Measurements are fairly objective means by which to see changes as the weeks go by. We wrote down our weights and then measured each other in the following areas: neck, shoulders, chest, biceps (left and right), waist, forearms (left and right), hips, thighs (L and R) and calves (L and R).

At the end of weeks 2, 4, 6 and then again after 7 weeks, we will meet up to re-take our measurements to see how our progress is going. Another way to tell progress when attempting a diet/exercise program....clothes. Write down your pant/dress size at the beginning, and again at the end of a set time.

For me, I would love if half of my current wardrobe (the half that fits) could be too big for me by week 6. Week 6 ends the day before family leaves after spending nearly a month with us, and if I could send those clothes home with her... awesome!

After taking our starting measurements, we set some short and long-term goals. The short term goals are things we're taking on week by week. Week one, I'm focusing on being consistent with exercise, so my goal is to work out "x" minutes a day for 5 of the 7 days. And while food shouldn't be used as a reward, I really want to introduce a family member to In-N-Out. A trip to get burgers (while NOT overdoing it) is a reward for hard work and losing "x" number of lbs over the next month. Each week's goal is something that is either measured by what I do that week (work veggies into meals, completing "x" number of miles on a bike or by walking...) I have other measurable goals set for weeks when we will meet to weigh and measure. On week two for example, I know we will write down measurements again, so my goal is to have 10 inches lost (overall). This requires consistent effort for two weeks rather than one, but the reward for such effort is to treat my body to some pampering in the way of a pedicure.

Long term goals, on the other hand, are measurable things that we want to accomplish at future dates. We set the dates of "At the end of 7 weeks...", "By the time back-to-school season arrives..." and "By New Years..." I've set weight and dress size goals, but other goals can be things like "completing the mile in "X" minutes" or "dancing to my favorite song without getting winded". Really, it's up to you, but it should be a goal that requires consistent, ongoing effort.

Third thing was to take our "before" pictures. Though we printed ours out, I have them saved in case we want another copy later. The copy we printed (at home, on regular printer paper) we drew on. Yes... We used sharpie and white-out to draw in the changes we'd like to make. Then we cut around the image of our bodies (not cutting anything off... just around the original body shape) and pasted it onto a blank page. Using the edits we made visually on the before photo, we wrote in specifically what we'd like to do. "Lose the double chin...", "tone arms...", "shrink/sculpt thighs..." Whatever we drew on our photo, we had to write down.

There was also some pages we threw in with blank space to paste images of what our "dream body" would be. I copied a photo of my grandma from what I presumed was before my Uncle Rich was born. Yes, she had hips... No, she wasn't a stick figure (I will never be THAT small, nor would I want to be...), but she and I share genes. If she can look as nice and healthy as she did then, then it's entirely possible for me to look like that (slimmer, but healthy).

Because in the end, as one friend put it: "I'm not trying to look like (these slim celebrities)... I just want to look, feel and be healthy."

So if you're following along at home, wanting to actually do this with us, here is your homework:
1.) Measure! Write down your weight, dress/pant size, or take your measurements in various areas of your body. You don't have to do this each week, but it's a way to track and encourage you as you make changes to your lifestyle. Sometimes, when the scale doesn't budge, other measurements will shrink. Use as many means to track changes as you wish.
2.) Set goals-- What changes do you want to work on each week? Is it making small lifestyle changes or seeing measurable changes in your body? Write them down....one for each of the first 6 weeks. Then set your long term goals: "At the end of 7 weeks I will..." and don't forget to write down how you'll reward yourself for your effort.
3.) Take a picture-- Take a picture (I promise, we won't be taking another till after week 7). If you're a visual person, then draw on the picture and show what you'd like to change about your body. If not, then set it aside to compare and visually see the changes after the 7 weeks are done with.

That's about it!

Tomorrow (well, technically today as I'm posting this late) we'll talk about diet and/or exercise.

Body by Lindy (...Lindy Hop, that is)

2011-06-05T15:44:00.000-07:00

To today is the day a friend of mine and I are to do our initial measurements and get settled with an actual workout routine and you know what...

Why should we have all the fun?

We are set to go for 6 weeks of this, but it doesn't have to stop there. During the next six weeks, we will meet up to weigh/measure, talk about what is/isn't working and other normal nonsense. The whole purpose of us meeting and tracking is for support and accountability. Really, we'd meet throughout the week to workout together and be each other's accountability partner when it comes to actually doing the workouts.

Why 6 weeks?

At the end of 6 weeks, we will be nearing the end of summer vacation...and at a time when all of us around here will suddenly be busy with guests, camp, birthdays, etc... We're just taking advantage of the time between now and back to school season.

Why???

Every one's reasons vary. Personally, I need the routine of a daily regimen to keep me going with working out in general. I need to workout for my health, but also because I want to be a better dancer and have more confidence to go out and try the fun moves. I honestly believe that while I'll never be a stick figure (and I wouldn't want to be either), increased endurance, upper body strength, building up the strength in the muscles supporting my right knee and slimming down all over will only help me in the end. And at the end of 6 weeks, I'll be headed to a dance camp where I will need the endurance (and much better support of the knee).

That is my reason, but after we get together and discuss, I'll make a new post with more concrete information for those wanting to join us.

:)

Till then...

How My Summer Vacation Began

2011-06-03T19:31:00.000-07:00

I have been deep in thought over a number of things.

1. Online daily devotionals. Specifically, blogging my daily devotional time/topic as a way to share, get feedback and ultimately, hold myself accountable. Good idea or TMI?

2. When I put my mind to it, I actually made progress in getting out of debt. Between cashing out my unused personal/vacation days and our family's ever-present need for space... I'm thinking it's time to start adhering to a strict budget (again) and making sure the remainder of my personal debt is paid off before New Years rolls around.

which brings me to...

3. I've had conversations with close friends regarding my thoughts on marriage (specifically, the likely-hood of me actually finding a guy, not scaring them off/psyching myself out, and actually getting married), our roles in life (vocation, both the secular and religious sense of the word) and how there are things I subconsciously put off till after marriage (like making my house a home... making certain financial choices... you know, the grown-up, responsible things in life). Getting out of debt was something I felt I needed to do, as well as get my finances under control, but I have at times treated it as if it would magically happen before sharing financial responsibility with another person. Honestly, whether we're married, single, in high school or well past retirement, financial responsibility shouldn't be optional. That's why we (as individuals and as a country for that matter) get into trouble. We treat things as if they were side dishes while gorging ourselves on things we mistaken as main courses... like sports, shopping and the insanity of celebrity gossip.

So that's where I am: Wanting to get out of debt asap, considering whether to list the contents of my hope chest on eBay, and considering the idea of using the internet as an accountability partner.

...and it's only my first day of summer vacation.

What are your thoughts?

Birthday Weekend in Pictures, or "Not Pictured: Cards, Carnitas and Cake"

2011-06-01T16:42:00.000-07:00

Spent Friday morning at a graduation ceremony at my old college.

That evening... danced "the birthday dance" at Midtown Stomp.

Spend Sunday evening with cards, carnitas and cake.
Woke up the morning of my birthday... biked 12 miles with friends.
Came back with a sunburn and unusual tan lines.

The day after my actual birthday, was surprised to receive my favorite flowers:
Stargazer Lillies

Fit Friday: Birthday Weekend Edition (Week 1)

2011-05-28T05:05:00.000-07:00

Week one down and 8 lbs gone... All it took was stress eating to the point of making me sick and not wanting any food the rest of the week.

...I know, not good.

This week was also the week of celebrations as my students took a trip to visit their new school, a friend walked in his commencement ceremony, and I was able to enjoy two (yes two!) birthday dances. One at swing class on Wednesday, and then this evening when we went to Midtown Stomp.

After a fun and definitely workout-worthy dance lesson, I was asked if I had any song requests for my birthday dance. If you don't know, a birthday dance is where people celebrating birthdays are situated in the middle of a circle and people from that circle take turns dancing with the people in the center of said circle.

Thinking I wouldn't get to dance to it this week... I chose this:

I joke that if you want a good cardio workout, just put this song on repeat and dance. The first time through will leave you sweating. The second will leave you tired. The third... dead on your feet. This is just dancing an easy east coast...not lindy hop with its extra steps and fancy swivels. Dancing lindy to "Bei Mir..." is like dancing the song twice in the span of three minutes.

And the kicker... they surprisingly played "Bei Mir..." during one of the band's breaks at Midtown Stomp.

Joy

:)

Fitness Friday: An Intro?

2011-05-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

"I thought I looked good and then I saw the pictures and freaked out..."

It wasn't my reaction to the picture of me on Saturday, but it might as well have been. It was actually a statement from my boss regarding how she thought she looked when she was pregnant. I do not have that excuse... Just me in this body.

I had this discussion with a friend regarding coping mechanisms and came away with the reaffirmation that I'm harsh on my body (being polite with my words here...) and that if I'd just go for a bike ride, a walk, a 'whatever it is that gets me active' instead of eating when I stress, then I wouldn't be as heavy as I am. Even if the scales say I'm heavy for my height, I could do worse than become active, build up my muscle strength and endurance, and feel a whole lot better for all the endorphins being released into my system.

So this morning, typical Thursday as it is, I am biking to work. I am bringing a bottle of water with me. I may even get crazy and actually remember to wear sunscreen... but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Baby steps, after all. I'll just start with getting on my bike and using it to get to a place I already needed to go.

Spring Break in Pictures: Part 3-- Really Big Hole in the Ground

2011-05-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

Okay

2011-05-24T20:00:00.000-07:00

Not getting into details here, but don't you hate it when you're stuck watching (or listening to) a television show you really don't like and suddenly find the characters or storyline to be relevant to what is going on in your life?

Yeah, me too.

Outside of the upside to Carrie Bradshaw, this week hasn't been all that great. I'm preoccupied with the goings-on in Joplin and waiting for updates from family there. I know they are okay. I've heard from them and they continue to reassure me that they are safe. But everything I see coming out of there is just... I don't even know the word for it. The things I recognize from the old neighborhood are unrecognizable. The places I haven't seen from media reports are (as I'm told) "things that would make you wanna cry".

It wasn't always this way.

I had a wonderful weekend. I hung out with friends, was able to witness some one's first experience with a fair, wore a really cute outfit and worked on my posts for this week. Then Sunday evening came. The call came in, "...we're okay... the car has no windows and (the building they took shelter in) was hit but we're okay... we're okay..."

It wasn't always this way.

I was certain that I had this hardened exterior when it came to my family. I could take charge when things went wrong and we found ourselves in an emergency. I could survive Grandma's worst days when she doesn't recognize me and is inconsolable. I could keep how I really felt pent up and shut off so I could get though rough days... but I've spent the last two days with a phone glued to my hand waiting to be reaffirmed that things are okay. That however the city may look... things are okay.

Because while it wasn't always this way, right now... it's all I can do.

Just sit and wait for someone to tell me that "we're okay".

Spring Break in Pictures-- Part 2

2011-05-17T19:36:00.000-07:00

Gone is the yucca...
Gone some cement...
Gone is my Crepe Myrtle, 100%

Okay, not exactly Spring Break, but an extension of the work done that week. Here's some photo updates on (more) work being done around here.

Birthday List

2011-05-15T22:40:00.000-07:00

Those who know me well should know I value sentiment over all else. I love to seek gifts for people that are personal and unique to them.

...but for those who'd rather I just put up a list of things and make it easy, I've created a list of things.

A cd of gregorian chants. Seriously... I was just saying the other day how I wish I still had this cd from high school that had a gorgeous chant on it. I've searched, can't find it, but hey! Look here! Not only that, but look around and you'll find tea (hint, hint... under 'black teas' you'll find my favorite tea outside of chai: Earl Grey!!!)

Books. There are some specific books on my Swap.com list that I'd love to read:
* books featuring Mother Angelica (as you'll hear me say any time she's mentioned "I LOVE her! She's heeeelarious!")
* "The ABCs of Choosing a Good Husband" by Stephen Wood. I think it was suggested as a joke, but after flipping through a few pages at the bookstore, I actually want to finish reading it.
* "Love is a Decision" by Gary Smalley
* That cookbook with the pictures from that time we went to that bookstore (because that description is soooo helpful to you, unless you were there, then it is helpful). Can't remember the name, but it had stuff I can actually make...and would eat.

Music. there are a couple cds I can think of off the top of my head, but really... think big band and oldies and you're set.
* "Chicago" soundtrack
* "Careful Confessions" Sara Bareiles
* any and all Billboard Hits cds, especially Billboard Hits 1987.

Something from my "List of Impossible Things"
(only one can actually be purchased, and that would be Stargazer Lillies).

The "Why I Dance" or "...Baby Jesus" shirts from CafePress.

But, you know... get creative! I can think of a couple things I would never expect, but would absolutely enjoy (I laugh when I write this...oh! If you only knew...)
Otherwise, if you're in the area, I'd love to see you at Midtown Stomp on the 27th. Let me know that week, and if I have your name on the list (due the 26th) you'll get in for $10 instead of $12 including the drop-in lesson in East Coast Swing.

Let me know, keep in touch... and as always: The comment box is always open :)

Belated Advice (That you didn't ask for)

2011-05-15T21:59:00.000-07:00

Seek the wisdom of others, but know that it came at the cost of someone learning it the hard way.

Seems like we've had our share of advice thrown around (and on occasion... sought out) around here lately. It got so confusing with one person that I joked that all of this "friend of a friend" stuff needed to be simplified with a Mr/Ms "X" designation.

So let's just get some of this out there on paper and if you (as a reader) have anything to share or add, feel free to do so. My comment box is always open.
(and I soooo look forward to reading your comments :D )

***
To: Ms. X
Re: Parents

I can sympathize, give you some good words about how things will get better and what can be done. But in reality, you're going to have to work at it. In fact, re-reading your texts, I seem to have stumbled on an issue that must be addressed immediately: You are as stubborn and childish as you make your parents out to be.

Sorry...

That being said, you are right in that you are growing up. Technically, you are aging as we speak. But with that, you should be maturing in mentality as well. If you wait till they start to respect you, treat you as you want to be treated or any of the other conditional items you named, they (and you for that matter) will never change. You can't wait around for some magical change of heart here... If you want them to respect you as a young adult, you are going to have to earn it. Period.

Maybe today you do something without being asked twice (or three or four times). Maybe you say "Thank You" or just maybe... you don't yell all of your responses. It might actually work if you try one or two of them over and over again, then maybe... I don't know... build on that.

But what do I know. It's not like anyone respects me, right?
(yes, I was being sarcastic with that question)

***

To: Ms. "X"
Re: Relationship Issues

While I am honored that you have come to me for advice, I am unsure how I can help you. I have never been 'the other woman' and can only say... this is bad. This is very very not good.

Speaking from experience, any relationship where there is no clear definition of boundaries (what is/isn't okay) is bad for both parties. And once you've exceeded the maximum capacity in the relationship (by that I mean the definition of the term "Both" no longer holds true, and another party has entered into the relationship on the same level of intimacy as the original couple) then the original relationship (in terms of intimacy, trust, etc) is fundamentally flawed. Immediate repair/reconciliation/reevaluation is advised. As a third party in this scenario, recommendation to "back off" is advisable. I am not saying that you broke whatever was there to begin with, only that the...um... go-between (whoever this guy is) needs to seriously think about the predicament y'all are now in, and make a choice. And I'm sorry... but it may not work out in your favor.

For future reference, I'd recommend reading (Christian) Friends With Benefits. It's a different take on the phrase "Friends with benefits" that has nothing to do with physical intimacy at all. It's a hard pill to swallow, I know (I read the article myself) but read it anyway.

***

To: Self and Others
Re: Pep-Talk/Kick-in-Butt

Read THIS.
Believe it.
Move on.

***

To: Mr. X
Re: Location

I wouldn't say that this world we live in is hell... rather that it's purgatory.
Unless you're going off Dante's operational model, then yes. Question is: Which level?

***

To: Mr and Mrs Newlywed
Re: What I Should Have Said

When asked to give some words to the camera at your wedding... I totally blanked. Seriously. I had nothing. I mean, when giving relationship advice, I go off of common sense and observation. ...and read blogs like 6 Stone Jars and Boundless Webzine.

If I could re-do that little segment (minus the video camera please) I would say this:

What advice could I give you two? The answer is...none. I have never been married, so I have no personal experience to draw from. All my examples growing up are of what not to do, so that is of no help here. Rather, if I want to know what a good relationship looks like, and to see that they do exist in the world, I look to the two of you. But if knowing that you still want my advice then here it is: Try. As human beings, it's all we can ask of each other. But try... fight... do whatever it takes to be the exception to what society thinks of as normal for marriage.

***

Tuesday Treats: I Made That!?

2011-05-10T19:18:00.000-07:00

I was sorely tempted to call this week "Mmmmade It" for all the apparent crafty business going on.

We have this ongoing thing in our house: someone complains about their weight... another suggests we go back to cooking at home (vs. fast food, boxed foods)... I chime in with "Hey! Why don't we (insert something related to me cooking)" and then we don't. Instead, I go on a candy run for Grandma and after another month passes, we start over again.

A few weeks ago I tried this online cooking school (not really a school... but I learned stuff so it counts). I was really excited because I was taking a unit on eggs and...long story short, I cooked eggs (sunny side up!) without completely ruining them. I can't tell you how ecstatic I was over something so seemingly simple as cooked eggs.

This small success in the kitchen gave me the courage to try a few other recipes and lo and behold, I've been in the kitchen each day for nearly a week making something. I know, I know... it sounds funny to get excited over this, but to me, cooking is almost as foreign as Spanish. Sure, I know some simple essentials (I can count to ten, introduce myself, ask for the bathroom, and make sure that meat isn't undercooked... even if it means overcooking it). Beyond that (and following a recipe, step by step... triple checking everything) I'm lost.

So I thought I'd share my joy by sharing something I made.

Hungry Girl's "Yum Yum" muffins.

Take one box Devils Food Cake mix,
combine with one can pure pumpkin
(NOT pumpkin pie mix)
bake at 450 till done and voila!

Super moist yummies for your tummy!

Pan-fried a Boca burger in a mixture of teriyaki sauce and pineapple juice
threw a wedge of garlic herb Laughing Cow cheese on a wheat tortilla
(folded in half then cut into wedges... for fun)
add a simple salad.

Sometimes, Responsibility Sucks! (But it's worth it)

2011-05-05T16:43:00.000-07:00

There really is no grand machine that can make our decisions for us. Sometimes, I wish there was. In some instances I almost wished for the years when there was someone telling me what I could or could not do.

An opportunity presented itself recently in which I could attend an event late this summer. I got past the initial sticker shock and planned out a way in which I could afford to go to what I could only refer to as "dance camp".

I researched...
Made a plan...
Was practically handed the exact amount in my initial estimate via tax refund...
And I still talked myself out of it.

I thought of what else that money could do:
It could pay for two or three weekend trips with friends.
It could pay off a third of what remains of my debt.
It could buy me a ticket to fly back east and visit family.
It could buy turkey burgers at Carl's Jr for every one of my Facebook friends.
It could sponsor a child or two living in poverty.
It could buy offsets for our family's carbon emissions.
It could buy new patio furnature (if I got it on sale...)
or it could greatly impact the town I live in through programs like the Christmas Basket or food pantry.

It could do a lot of good if put in the right hands.

I felt selfish and shallow. Here I was with a resources (because it's no longer just money when you come up with a list of responsible things you can do with it...) and I wanted to spend it on a 3-day dance camp?

*sigh*

It became easier to let go of the idea once friends began to talk about summer and begin to make plans together. Road trips to dance venues we wanted to visit... celebrating birthdays in the big city... eventually finding a place to teach dance and most importantly, spending time with each other.

Even when it turned out that the camp would cost half as much as estimated... I thought back to last night and how much fun it was to just hang out with friends.

Who needs camp when you can spontaneously dance in Starbucks and have the baristas ask if we have enough room?

Who needs driving to the far end of the state to learn new dance moves when we have dvds, a patio and time?

I guess I don't need to go away and pay a lot of money enriching my dance (or rather, life) experience when everything and everyone I need is within a two-mile radius.

...just got to get creative with what I have.
:)

Spring Break in Pictures-- Part 1: Tear Down

2011-05-03T19:14:00.000-07:00

There once was a yard long forgotten...
Well, all but ignored for the better part of a decade.
The law was mowed,
the dog fed,
but the playthings of yore were left to fade in the summer suns.

When finally one weekend, a flurry of activity began.
Small bands of strangers bearing crowbars and saws entered the forgotten yard
and with their combined strength
dismantled the mass of wood and metal
that stood for what felt like ages.

Once the fortress was reduced to scrap,
the strangers turned to the delapidated
house of cobwebs.
It's shelves caked in dust oils
were of no match to the electric saws.

Elsewhere in the yard,
a field of weeds long overgrown
were pulled, piled and removed by dear friends.

Two Weeks in Two Minutes

2011-05-02T23:51:00.000-07:00

It's been a busy couple of weeks around here:
* Spring Break/Spring Cleaning
* enclosing the patio
* tearing down the old swing set
* pulling weeds
* tearing apart the old shed
* supervising the construction of a new shed
* being a bridesmaid for my friend's wedding

Yeah, lots of stuff.

This week we'll get caught up with all the photos. We've had 20 years of wanting to get certain projects completed and in two weeks, have most under our belts.

In the mean time... so excited about what's to come that I'll leave you with this teaser:
There's a list...
Yes, a list.
A list of places that now has the local Starbucks as its newest addition.
:D

Saturday Mornings At My House

2011-04-09T08:16:00.000-07:00

As I look around the room, I wonder where I should begin.

To me, the room looks cluttered and unkempt. There are bags of things to be donated, piles of clothes needing mending, and a hundred other various items scattered about the cramped room.

This weekend is the weekend we attempt to get things under control. The laundry will be caught up, the junk appliances and scrap metal will be picked up and recycled...

...floors swept...
...projects painted...
...furniture moved...
...things listed to Craigslist...

All those things we needed and wanted to get done, we'd finally do.

But it all seems so overwhelming. There is so much needed to be done that I don't know where to begin!

So I start where I'm at-- I make the bed I'm sitting on. And really, with anything, "starting with where you are at" is the most sound advice. I make the bed, put away the CDs and stack of books left on the nightstand, and make my way to the door.

Amazing April: A Preview

2011-04-03T21:22:00.000-07:00

So April is here (the month... not the person) and with it, the realization that a bunch of stuff is about to go down!

First up, which in reality is the LAST thing on the calendar for the month is my friend's wedding.

How am I preparing?

Taking my training and kicking it up to 11.

Beginning tomorrow (really, today... but everything tends to start on Mondays anyhow) I turn in my set of truck keys and start biking to work again. Last week was the first week we've had weather that wasn't really cold or really wet so...yay! I get to ride my bike again!

And swing dance? I go once a week, but I actually scheduled a 30 minute practice for myself at home.

On top of this, I have another 2.5 weeks left in my 28-day boot camp (one of the challenges/groups on Spark People, a free site that helps motivate you and provides ample tools and resources to achieve your health goals. BTW... if you sign up, become my fitness buddy! I'm Hello_Sweetie) Through the boot camp, I have a strength training video to follow each day that is 10 minutes or less to complete on top of 30 minutes of cardio (which is where the daily dance comes in)

Last, but not least as it's going to totally kick my butt... I love Jillian Michaels workout videos. The newer ones challenge you to stick with it for 30 days, and they are a really good workout. Surviving 30 days of it leaves you with the feeling that you can do almost anything. Well, anything requiring stamina or will power...or leg muscles. One of her new ones is on core training and while it says there are 2 levels of difficulty, there are actually 4 (each level has two people demonstrating the moves: one doing the easy version, and one doing the challenging version... thus, an "a" and "b" level to each workout). I'm going to challenge myself to do the video 28 times. Preferably within the month of April.

I know it's a lot of info, and really, there are other things thrown in the mix to check my progress along the way (appointment with doctor in 2 weeks) and projects at work and church that are coming up (the town's annual stampede and our work's attempt to heard 226 small children three blocks and back just to watch cows run... the prom event at the clothing closet... bachelorette party...)

So this month, I'll be focusing most of my attention on this overall project of weight loss (and improving my dance skills). At the end of the month, I will post a picture to show any physical changes since my last photo and weigh in (the last picture from Friday's post). My weight and measurements have all been put into Spark People and I'm not going to obsess over the numbers... just put them there for future reference. As well as numbers, my closet is officially purged of clothes that are too big. At the end of the month (before the wedding, preferably) I'll try them all on again. I pray that most don't fit (in a good way).

Till next time... I'm going to get some rest.