blond

I automatically compare myself to other people. I do it with friends, strangers, co-workers. And I tend to judge people by our differences. If in a situation a friend does something that I would never do, I use that instance to decide if the friend is better or worse than I. I would never steal, therefore in this instance I am better. I would never help that person, therefore I am worse. Similarities are above judgment, simply because I don't feel justified in condemning or praising someone for something I do too.

I first saw her a week ago. I haven't met her, so my analysis is strictly by distant observation. But that didn't stop me from drawing conclusions and making comparisons. For all the qualities that we possessed in common I felt vindicated, consoled even. Yes, of course she's intelligent, he'd only date someone intelligent, he thought I was intelligent. And if I made more comments in class, so much the better. But again, it was the differences that struck me.

I found myself asking, who's better here, is this what I was missing, is he glad that she is...? She's shorter than I am, and I can confidently say that he liked me for being tall. She's so put together in a way that looks like she irons her underwear that I felt suddenly sloppy. She's graceful and soft-spoken and well-educated and professional. I am none of those things, but if I ever desire those qualities, I know I can obtain them. If I find myself wanting (this isn't about his judgment, honest) then I can put forth the effort to change. Maybe I'm not patient yet, but I will be, sooner or later. Maybe I don't have a degree right now, but come Hell or high water I will get it! She probably doesn't swear either. Shit. She also doesn't touch him (at least in public) and while she may be very finished she is lacking in impetuosity and fun. Did I see her smile once? In these areas, in the raw material I feel I am better. Please, oh please, let her be judgmental too!

There is one issue, however. One area when I feel I've hit a brick wall in my Holier-than-her analysis. She's blond. And I can't even begin to judge her for this, because her differences are such that I cannot look at them and say which is better. I could never aspire to be blond the way I might try to achieve patience, and I could never criticize her for failing to have dark hair. I would not be me if I had golden hair. The concept it too foreign. So why does this trait hurt me more than any of the others? First, because for four years I have heard my friend say he doesn't like blonds. Secondly, a blond is my antithesis, the anti-Audrey. And the fact that she is one feels like a complete rejection of all that I am. It is enough that it is different without being better or worse, because it is what he has chosen and not what I am, and therefore worth envying.

the price of eggs

The cake ended up using fifteen eggs. Oh no, that's not in the recipe, but by the time I had started over--again--I had to dip into my new roommate's stores. I don't know why the first cake came out as flat as a pancake, but I do know why my egg whites wouldn't stiffen the second time around. You'd have thought I was a baking novice! I ended up with a splendid dessert at the last, glad that eggs were a dime a dozen, even if I did have too much ganache and whipped cream left over and clogging the limited freezer space. Finally came time to eat.

At church I had told Jared that I'd be making a cake, to which he replied, "Look at that! All of a sudden, we're friends again!" So he came Sunday bringing Dan, and the four of us--Holly, my new roommate, completing the circle--began to feast. We hung out until both Jared and I felt it was time for bed (a ridiculously early 9:30pm).

The next night I brought home Vivian and Elizabeth for cake (this was--is--a very large cake), joined once more by Holly who has insinuated herself beautifully into the group. Jared showed up uninvited, asking without preamble as he crossed the threshold, "Where's the chocolate?" and helping himself to the contents of my fridge.

It was then, sitting in the corner of my dining/living room, watching those I've wanted for friends eat my baking, that I realized my happiness. I have no greater joy than being with those I love, enjoying laughs, conversation and comfortable silences, depending. The only thing to increase that joy is if I have contributed to it. Perhaps that is why I adore feeding people. My happiness in cooking triples when someone else partakes, increasing exponentially with their reactions. Praise me obscenely for cooking and you will have no more loyal, grateful friend than I.

The world was full of goodwill last night, as the yellow glow of my lamp lit faces filled with laughter. We lounged on couches, my couches, as Elizabeth planned and Vivian bemoaned blind dates. I knew the stories and jokes and suckings of the last bit of chocolate off forks had to end eventually, though I felt loathe for it to do so. Jared put in the movie, quite unceremoniously, as though mi casa era su casa. My 13'' TV didn't feel too small with 5 of us kipped on the floor around it to watch the Wedding Planner. We trickled to bed one at a time until I was left asleep on the floor. It was the first time in over three weeks that I had fallen asleep easily and without pain.

I awoke this morning to a day off, filled with leftover euphoria. I walked to the kitchen, noticing that Vivian had reassembled my red love seat before she left. And while I laugh at Jared's level of comfort in my home, I noticed as I grabbed a bowl for cereal that he had done my dishes of the night before. I felt almost sad that the night had ended, wishing that I could be certain I'd have another like it. When I opened the refrigerator, I saw a good third of the cake still left. I looked at it for a moment, still beautiful with its fresh berries on top, and wondered if its marvelous powers stemmed from the unorthodox amount of eggs that went into its making. It was worth every one of the fifteen. I think I'll officially change the recipe.

playful

I feel like swinging or climbing trees or jumping on a trampoline. Alas that I must pack instead!

mortification

Charmin toilet paper is true to its word. It is soft and absorbent. It is also cuddly and accepting. This I discovered last night. But perhaps I am starting at the wrong end of the story.

Mrs. Chandler, my High School Sophomore English, once engaged us in a debate: what is the greater fear--fear of failure or fear of embarrassment? To this question I have a simple and correct answer: yes.

I don't know what in me broke first, but I'm thoroughly convinced that it didn't have to do with Kevin. It didn't start out about him, and it didn't end about him, but somewhere in the middle my finger hit the number five on my phone and speed dial took over before I could recover my digit. I couldn't hang up at that point, not by the time Caller ID had betrayed me. How I long for the days before that blasted invention when a girl could call a boy and hang up in peace!

"Why won't you talk to me?" I asked. The very first words out of my mouth. I had meant them to sound righteously angry, but they came out a little whiney and needy. I had meant to vent anger. I had planned to demand answers, to force him to say he didn't want to talk to me and why. Why didn't he even call to get April's number! I was furious on her behalf, and I have been frustrated since. I felt like I was beating my head against a brick wall trying to make it possible for us to be friends. Kevin has said it too, that I am the peacemaker with us. I'm just better at it than he is. So I tried, Heaven knows, I tried. I sent innocuous text-messages that were friendly and forgettable. And he responded civilly. CIVILLY! Of all the insulting behaviors in the word, civility is the worst. It is indifference magnified. And each week as I sent a line or two my pride pained me a little more. And my heart, which had been doing so wonderfully, ached just a little bit.

And then I talked to Ted. I told him I was hurt and angry at Kevin, Kevin who said he loved me but then never called, Kevin who says I am his best friend but never in six weeks tried to talk to me, Kevin who obviously doesn't give a damn. And Ted, always oh-so-gentle, said it simply: maybe he doesn't want to talk to you and you should stop trying to be his friend.

Stop being his friend? I felt an awful mutinous numbness at that thought. That was not what I signed up for when I first voiced the idea of us dating other people. Not be his friend. I remember us agreeing to still date, to still be friends, to see if we could find a way through this next year. But then again, who's to say my memory is accurate or that what we had intended has anything to do with the actual consequences. Could I not be his friend? Probably. I haven't talked to him in six weeks. Of course, the last week of that included an almost constant feeling of betrayal. For the love of Dumbledore! Harry Potter was out and Kevin and I have a year-long wager on its outcome. I talked to other people about the book's content, but these conversations were meant for him, I was supposed to be talking to him. We had a bet! He's still the first person I think of when I have a thought that needs expressing. I have been so quiet these last weeks. I wonder if my thoughts are getting lost, because they don't fall upon his ears.

But like I said, last night wasn't about him. It was sparked by the unastonishing realization that I am once again playing the role of "safe girl" to a guy. Always, always, am I found in the part of kid sister/platonic friend. And every so often, that is a disappointment. I tend to feel a little bit undesirable. I tend to wonder, what is it about me that is so unkissable? It's part of a thought that has haunted me for years, a feeling of inadequacy that has been present since the first great disappointment of my life. When I told myself with all the self-esteem I could muster that there is everything lovable about me, I reached the conclusion that if it's not me, then the blame rests on someone else. That's the point where I found it easy to be mad at Kevin for not wanting me. About the time my first sentence had ended and he began to sigh, I didn't find it easy anymore to be mad at anyone but myself. I ended the phone call quickly, and who can say who was more relieved at its untimely demise? I didn't even get to tell him that I'm moving. In two days he won't even know anymore where I live. I tried not to worry how he'd find me. He doesn't want to find me.

Hanging up the phone, I was swallowed by utter humiliation. I can't believe you just sunk that low, I lectured myself. I felt I deserved to unleash my inner judge on myself. Oh what a fool I am! But I didn't deserve to hear what I told myself later. Here it is, the thought that haunts me and eats my very soul: that there is pain because I was not good enough. If I had just been a bit better...

If I had been better--more open maybe, or made better grades, or been a bigger help around the house--then maybe I could have saved my parents' marriage. If I just exercised a little more discipline, I could have my degree by now. If I had just been stronger, more faithful, maybe Mom wouldn't be so lost right now. Dear God, could I have prevented my dad from feeling as much pain, if I had been a better listener? If I had been more patient, would Kevin have wanted me? If I had been a little less selfish would I have been able to help Joyce?

This is where I broke, all the old fault-lines rupturing. This was the pain I had been feeling and that I hadn't found a voice for. But I heard her again, crying on the phone. Joyce who storms and rages and laughs, reduced to weeping weakly? I listened to the memory of her sorrow and realized that I was hearing it from my own mouth. Weeping became sobbing and I drowned in grief.

I inched my way to the edge of the bed, because even in the worst crises I am aware that I need a tissue. I stumbled to the bathroom, where I relieved the rack of a fresh roll of Charmin. I stood shakily against the door frame and blew my nose. But I couldn't stem the flow of tears, I couldn't dam the flood of sadness. I thought of my Father in Heaven, who was watching me with painful compassion. I turned my face away, tried to hide my whole body in the corner. Don't look at me, I prayed. I'm not good enough to be your daughter. I slid to the floor, wretched and broken, until I lay sobbing on the cold linoleum, fighting for air, demanding of myself a calm which neared impossibility. I'm sorry, I wept. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. My fingers clutched at the bouncy white cylinder. After a while I battled myself onto hands and knees and moved to the shadowed mass that was my bed. I managed to stand and walk the last few steps, before climbing under the covers. I don't remember my crying slowing, but I do remember clutching as a lifeline the roll of Charmin. I woke up a few times in the night, each time holding it close like an old beloved teddy bear.

There are three definitions to the word mortify:
The first means to humiliate or embarrass.
The second means to have a part of the body die, while the rest goes on living.
And the third means to subjugate the passions by abstinence, ascetic discipline and or self-inflicted suffering.


This morning my tears were gone, absorbed by the inanimate toilet paper. I didn't feel worn out from the breakdown the night before, but physically refreshed by the night's sleep. I still feel embarrassed that I called him and foolish for letting myself come unglued. Charmin told me that he'd keep my weakness a secret, lover-like, but as I glued myself together I knew I wouldn't be able to hide the shoddy repair job. But I resolved not to fall apart again. This time, I'll be better.

When recently I had a choice to remain here or to return to Utah to finish school, I admit I found myself defeated and unequal to the task. My two highest goals were at odds with one another, battling for supremacy. Goal number one: to finish school. Goal number two: to get out of debt. To stay meant keeping my job, thus enabling me to quickly end my debt, though protracting the whole school thing. To leave meant returning to school and lengthening the time in-debt an immeasurable amount. I could not choose, because to think about the issue at all left me wallowing in shame, self-pity and remorse. I grieved. The two things I hate most about myself are that I am in debt and that I am out of school. And no amount of repenting could erase those two facts. All my decision did was throw those truths in my face and demand that I pick between my two biggest failures to crawl back to and try a second time to defeat.

I couldn't choose. So, I looked to what I hated third about my life. Always, always I hate failure. I do not try for fear I will fail to measure up. I am embarrassed to the point of snapping annoyance when I am having to learn something new. I cannot laugh at my failures, or if I do it is with certain hysterical mania that leaves no room for humor. My third greatest failure was to my own headstrong determination. Money beat me. School beat me. Then spreadsheets printed with daydreams beat me. The reason I came to Austin failed. My number one goal, to be a wife, did not work out the way I planned it. I haven't failed yet, but I let my set-back label my entire sojourn here in Austin a failure. So I snatched my move back from the mouth of self-condemnation. I decided that I would make Austin the right decision for me, to redeem my actions prior by my choices subsequent. Thus I stayed--to avoid failure.

Part of my succeeding here means beating my other demons. I try to reply with uplifted head that I have not finished school yet. I try not to cry when I cannot pay as much toward my credit cards this month due to moving, and tell myself that extending my debt to January still means it's diminishing (after all a new year is only symbolic, not concrete). I try to make good what has haunted me and made me feel of less worth.

Then today in institute we had a substitute teacher who talked like a televangelist/used car salesmen. We talked about finances. I felt myself shrinking. Oh please, Father, not about money, I begged. Then he talked about debt, and how the only good reasons to go into debt were for eventual gains (education, house, business, etc.) So came investing. So came education. Please, Father, please Oh God, not school, please not about school. And when he began to mock, to openly ridicule, those who foolishly pursue majors that will not translate into a lucrative job I stood in the middle of the room and walked out.

I rode home on the bus, cried a little and then ran until I sweat away the water I would otherwise have used for tears. To get myself to speed I let the anger flow freely, pushing my legs and lungs with power. I am not a failure, my mind stated. I am not a failure, it yawped. I am not a failure! I screamed in my head. Until I realized that no one had called me a failure but myself. I pursued a subject I loved because it made my life richer. I learned from my mistakes. I work hard at a fantastic job full of opportunities for self-fulfillment. I did something brave and took a leap, because when I am old I want to be able to say I was the type of girl who would move across the country for love. And I am the type of girl who can rebound when life takes a twist. I am not a failure.

i walked on the moon

I just bought the Brian Regan DVD! I now have the entertainment portion of my house-warming party taken care of. Now I just need my own place. In one month (roughly two weeks after the DVD arrives) I'll be able to open my home and kitchen to the new friends I made and introduce them to Cannon Ball Wound Ointment, Egg Areas and the Lunar Rover among many many other things. All hail Brian! He's an 8!

ultimate

I. Played. Ultimate. Frisbee.

I did. You should believe me. I didn't believe me at first but I said it with such honest conviction that despite having the wrong number of fingers in the air for scout's honor, I eventually came to the realization that I was telling the truth. I played a sport. And I loved it. My weekend of activity began with volleyball the night before. I played long and hard (and terribly) until my arms were bright red and I could no longer see. I caught the bug.

So last night I changed from the dress I wore to the wedding reception, and with my hair still in a formal up-do I ran the length of a field about infinity times until I thought I would faint. I found it a much better release for aggression than immature swearing (and yes I tried really hard to make the swearing sound ridiculous so I'd quit). I played with those who unlike me have played before. Luckily they stacked the teams. The middle players were on one team, and the two best players were with the two worst. The two guys, instead of passing to one another to win, made sure that we girls were involved and encouraged. They played like Bryan Dunn, Matt Bushman or Ted Long: they played exceptionally well, with the intent to win, but also with the spirit of fun. Because they would pass to me even after I dropped the Frisbee, I eventually began to catch it. Soon I caught it often. By the end, I had it unless it went wild. Throwing is another thing. I'll work on that.

tryin' like hell not to swear

Damn it.

I'm feeling the kind of aggression today that has to be burnt out, through long vigorous walks, singing loudly with music until I'm hoarse, and by swearing. Once it is sweated and cursed out of my blood I will use the resulting calm to uplift myself in scripture study and personal reflection, but until I finish screaming with Dashboard Confessional my mind won't sit still long enough to listen to my spirit. I feel like throwing my frickin' journal across the darn room.

Last night was so humiliating. I overheard Jared on the phone with Sarah. He mentioned he was going to give me a ride home. Her response (which I could hear quite plainly): "Oh Jared, you're so kind to her. It's so generous the way you take care of her." Did you hear the tone? For the love of peace, did you hear the belittling condescension? I did. And you know why it hurt so damn bad? Because it is what I think already! If she were to say to someone that I am a slut, I could laugh, because there is and never has been any truth in that. She could call me a liar without hurting my feelings, a gossip, stupid, whatever. But to hear in words what I fear is true, that I am a burden and a charity case, that went straight to the heart. I started crying in the car. Despite my embarrassment, I couldn't stop. The words that came to my head are worse than those I allow out now in continued frustration. I tried to explain to Jared just why I felt so hurt, and he tried to explain that he didn't mind giving me rides. But oh how my pride was wounded! and my pride is my favorite weakness.

Ask Bryan, my dear friend, and he will tell you how much like pulling teeth it is to get me to accept a ride, let alone ask for one. Hell, that's how he and I became friends: we got in a fight because he insisted on giving me a ride and I kept refusing. So I finally made a friend here and routinely accept help from him, and then a mutual acquaintance tells him he's generous for taking care of me! I almost called my mom that moment to buy the Honda Civic from her, even though I can't afford it. My pride would bankrupt me and be worth every penny.

Then today Nora let me know that my previous blog entry might look purposefully mean to Kevin were he to read it. Shit, I responded, glorying in my swearing to someone who won't look down on me for it. I didn't think what I wrote would be hurtful at all. Believe me, I have been hurtful on this blog on purpose and I succeeded. I can wield words with exceptional accuracy, but in this case it was ignorance, and I still can't see where I went wrong. I compared Jared's company to Dan's, but neither was a reflection on Kevin. But now I feel annoyed and angry at myself all over again, because there was truth in this second accusation too in all likelihood, and I'm still not retracting anything I've said, though I am sorry if it appears malicious. Hell.

date dichotomy

Last night felt like two separate nights: there was the bad date and the good one. It was not a continuum of time, but two wholly separate events, almost two entirely separate selves.

The first date was one which Jared threatened would come. I swore to him if he broadcast my availability I'd kill him. He didn't have to broadcast anything. His roommate asked me out. Jared thought it was funny; I told him I'd shank him. The date itself was everything I have come to fear and expect of first dates with those whom I could not see myself dating. Give 'em another chance I've been told, but people do not usually grow on me, and I don't see a point in subjecting myself a second time to that which I found so painful the first. There is no acquired taste with me. I did not find him attractive in the slightest. And it turns out, that's a big deal. We rode on his motorcycle, and I thanked my lucky stars that I am not at all afraid of riding, thus able to keep my hands at my side and not around his waist. Over dinner there were long silences while I tried to gnaw through the burnt bacon in my BLT. I did remember to say thanks, and I managed not to check the time, but relief swept me when he noted we had to get back to institute.

I didn't know however if that was included in the date, if I were tied to him for that much longer. Luckily by some divine intervention, we had numerically assigned seats, and afterward Viviane saved me when Dan just kept hovering. I tried to make the off-hand comment about how I was tired and had a lot to do still that night, e.g. grocery shopping, to see if Dan would take the hint. I don't know if he did, but Jared picked up on it, and that's where the night shifted.

Jared took me grocery shopping. I'm almost completely positive that doesn't count as a date. But it felt like one. I mean, come on, we even danced in the aisles just a little bit. He didn't pay for the groceries but he bought the food at McDonald's afterward. We talked and laughed and flirted and touched and argued over which cereal was best. I talked with him without script or brain-racking. He flirts so ostentatiously that it's completely innocuous, and while I'm not quite sure what exactly to do with that, we're both okay with him laughing at me for blushing. If all dates were like that one, I wouldn't mind them so much. I think the best part was that it wasn't really a date at all, and I could enjoy my time casually with a friend.

freaky friday

My mother has switched bodies with...Ted.

That's the only explanation for two phenomena. The first is that Ted, noting my distress on Tuesday, did not try to badger me into peace, but told me he loves me. This I know, but he has only said it once before, and it meant a lot.

The second phenomenon is that my mom lectured me today when I told her about my date last night. I felt chastised and slighted when she tried to give advice. It really would have sufficed for her to say: "Hey, dating is hard. Way to get back up on that horse. I'm glad you had fun. And that was smart of you not to kiss him. What are your plans this weekend?" But she lectured me, when I think overall I am very aware and in this instance I was extremely well behaved. I felt like I was bashing my head against a brick wall...you know, the way I feel with Ted.

my cheeriest poem this week

with the cadence of "Noisy Nora"

The movie's not as funny
as it seemed to be last time.
I may not be laughing,
but not crying means I'm fine.

I had a quite relaxing day
with enough time to enjoy
those painlessly lapsed hours
on my bed with no employ.

My friends were on the river.
I was invited to attend,
but I avoided sunburn.
And who needs time with friends?

I managed to go shopping,
a chore put off 'til now,
but I made it home with only
chocolate and no chow.

I find it's to be expected
I'm not always at my best,
but if I didn't know better,
I'd say that I'm depressed.

At first I avoided showering
but then I showered twice.
I couldn't find a way to pass
the time that was as nice.

I didn't want to talk at all,
but I waited by the phone.
While company's annoying,
it's an improvement on "alone."

I didn't stop to eat a meal,
for nothing sounded good.
I've always found hot cocoa
a good substitute for food.

I found the inspiration
with direction from my muse,
but each new poem written
sounded darker and confused.

I guess I needed time
to myself in which to rest--
I'm just not used to being
emotionally distressed--
but if I had to admit it,
and I will if pressed,
it might just look as though
I'm a little bit depressed.

distance

I've been thinking today. A lot. Mostly about distance. A quote came to mind from the movie I.Q. Alas, it is not quoted in IMDB so I cannot relate it here correctly. It is where Catherine, explaining some theory or another, states that it is impossible for two people to dance. The reason being is that you always travel half the distance between two points, therefore never reaching your destination although critically narrowing the distance. I thought of that today, and how no matter how much effort one person puts forth to close the distance between him and someone else, inevitably at some point the other person must come the other half. Or, I guess, the first person can aim for double.

class of

The last time I saw these people, we were wearing mortar boards and sitting in a chapel the size of the Death Star. Now they are again wearing those goofy hats and dresses and facing a dark and unknown future while a band plays Pomp and Circumstance and their parents wave rosettes. I looked at them walking through the Co-op with their fan clubs in tow, parents who arranged jobs for them either through contacts or prayers, and I thought what a joke it all is. And then I started crying. I just got left behind. First Rory and now all of my high school class have taken that next step from which I am temporarily barred.

Then, Sunday, I received two messages via Facebook from two such persons, not met in four years, only these were the pleasant visage of the high school memories:

Brittany and I became immediate friends on the first day of fifth grade. The friendship stuck, though with differing school schedules we were not as close during high school. Then after the fateful walk we never talked again. Until Wednesday, when after a few brief emails we figured out that we are both in town and I called her to make plans to meet up. The conversation felt like we had talked the day before, that those four years hadn't existed. It is lovely to think I have a friend in town. A friend who can remind me of the good parts of my past. A friend who knows me already. A friend who hasn't graduated college yet. I knew I still loved her when I heard her say, "I was so depressed this weekend with our entire class graduating that I locked myself in my apartment and wouldn't see anyone." Kindred spirits!

The second girl is Rachel Werth, who above anyone I've ever known, even Joyce, has marched to the beat of her own drum. And I wouldn't say there was any sort of rhythm. Or much marching for that matter. She kinda ambled to her own lute. She disappeared before we donned the caps and gowns, slipping out of the system and my life. I've worried about her for almost five years, but now I know she is okay. She is happy. And she is graduating before I will! Oh, the injustice! She dropped out and got knocked up and still, still, she is going to beat me across the finish line.

I know. I know. It's not a competition. The point is making sure I am driving myself with the best of what's in me, working for my goals, trying to reach my potential, never quitting. (Can you hear the sarcasm or the maniacal self-torturing laughter?) With all these reunions, on top of all the new people I've met, it has never become any easier to say I am taking time off from school. I get the same pitying look from everyone when I tell them I plan to graduate, like even those who have no education themselves don't think very much of my plan. That's why I like Brittany and Rachel--even though it's not a competition--because both of them know what it's like to alter the prescribed four year plan. And what it's like to hate with poisonous envy those who could fulfill it every jot and tittle and diploma.

swing

I sit sour on a swing and study the world
with all its rich purple textures
and perfumed sounds, lost to it all,
even the russet grating under my palm.
Pensive. Pendulous.

I press my feet against the torpid ground
and feel my thighs force the earth away.
The corpulent globe recedes amid a cacophony
of rusty squeaks before it rushes back.

Do not break the fall.

The fulcrum carries me into flight away from dour doldrums
until I soar chained and dip in my dance,
running a pendulum course.

The air with her violent kiss breaks my maw and feeds me
until all my pain is nursed away
in the rhythm of fro and to.

Dismounting,
the verdant mattress still ebbing and billowing under my toes,
I find my thoughts are once more ductile,
stilled by the motion of the earth and me.

calling all fans

Not mine of course. Tomorrow is Gilmore Girls season finale, but rumor has spread rampantly that GG got canceled, despite its planned one last season, thus turning tomorrow night's Luke and Lorelai reunion into the SERIES finale. I wanted to check on this rumor to see for myself from a reliable source, but my computer lab has blocked the Gilmore Girls link on the WB website. Of all the sites to block! Does anyone know if this is true? What I mean by that, is go check the website, darn it, and tell me before I implode!

smoke

So, it turns out, if a smoke detector anywhere in my building is set off, all the blazing fire alarms break forth into demonic heraldry. And the only thing that can stop them is the authority of the much-delayed fire department. If it were anything but my pot-smoking neighbors, I'd have burned alive in my bed, because, forget evacuating, I stuffed my ears with orange plugs and tried to sleep despite the noise. My only concern was, if I did have to flee the burning ruin of my every earthly possession, would I have time to grab my thumb drive?

What can I say? I'm a girl who knows her priorities.

very happy birthday

Yesterday I turned twenty-two. This morning I planned to write a simple blog about the nice things that happened on my birthday (like my coworkers buying me a cupcake with a candle in it) but I didn't think that much about it today.

William asked me out. Again. At first I was totally clueless and thought I was agreeing to a group outing. Then I figured out that I had been asked on a date. I didn't know what to do, so in line with my character I did nothing. I called Kevin and Emilie and told them of my blunder and the difficulty facing me. Kevin, of course, was highly amused and even completely indifferent as to whether or not I went, though he did offer to chaperone. Punk. That only increased my discomfiture, because now there were two sides (however facetious the one) to my choice. Kevin and Emilie both said to go, and I did not want to. I wanted to go out with friends, that being such a rare occurrence for me, but I had a sneaking suspicion that William wasn't entirely disinterested. If he hadn't made those awkward advances four months ago, I wouldn't have had any qualms about hanging out one-on-one. I'd do it with Dan Jones or Jared or Abinadi, no sweat. So while I saw the necessity of cancelling, I hesitated.

I think the main reason for my hesitation--and you may chide me if you like--is that I knew it would be vastly uncomfortable for me. Especially if he really meant it when he said we could be friends. Did I want to embarrass him and myself by mentioning my unavailability when he clearly knows of my relationship with Kevin? I kept putting it off until I could convince Emilie (my conscience) that texting him wasn't tactless.

I spent the morning and early afternoon consulting her via text-messages (the office was rather slow today). I asked her if I should text him or call him to cancel. She did not take that as an either/or question and so replied, "unless you want to go out with him." Good grief! I meant, would it be more tactless to text him now or to wait three hours and call last minute when I get out of work. She said that Ted said that if I went to the movie I'd be leading William on. That didn't exactly answer my question, but it was better than either of the two options I'd presented her. I immediately sent the text message; something polite and distant, like I don't think it's a good idea to see a movie together. Or something along those lines.

Ted's words got me thinking. No matter what, I would have cancelled with William, because I would have been more uncomfortable alone with him than I would calling him to ditch out. And this is all about my comfort. That includes the comfort of my conscience, because when it nags I am utterly distressed. I once led on one of Ted's best friends. I thought about that today. I still squirm a little with guilt. I dated Jon because he made me feel desired, desirable. My vanity liked him immensely, and he was my friend truly. He was there before I chose Kevin, and he was there the summer Kevin was away, and he was there when Kevin and I weren't talking, and he was there two days after Kevin dumped me. While Jon is an awesome guy, he really should have had more self-respect than to come for me every time I missed Kevin and beckoned for a substitute. I was (there is no other term for it) a bitch.

I didn't want to do the same thing to William, and it's not just because I don't anticipate being single in Austin. Sadly, it's not out of compassion for William either. It's because I want to think of myself as a good person. Really my vanity is limitless. But I don't need to string along an admirer, even though he does text me back to tell me I am incredible after I ditch out. (A side rant: a person shouldn't think I am incredible until I go to great lengths to impress him! And, no matter what Emilie says about it being a cute gesture on his part, it is still improper to ask out someone who is dating someone else! I was rather irritated at Emilie who looked fondly on William's overtures, reasoning that I am not yet taken. Grr. End rant.)

Mostly what overcame my vanity and my seemingly-constant and certainly damaging need to feel desired was simply that it came the day after my birthday. I'm not saying that my natural innocence shows through on that day...though I do like to think so. Rather, it is the first birthday of mine that I got to spend with Kevin. Three years ago I was in McKinney, while he was in DC. He emailed me at exactly midnight the morning of my birthday, however, knowing that I would check for warm wishes. Two years ago I was with Jon and not speaking to Kevin and denying that I was not speaking to Kevin. Last year he was in Austin, and I was anticipating the trip I'd be making there in 72 days. And this year, he kissed me.

Yesterday I turned twenty-two. Today I turned twenty-two and one day.

crazy afraid

The crazy people of Austin's drag constantly make me uncomfortable. There is the deaf woman who rants to herself in sign language. The man who cut the crotch out of his pants for who knows what reason, and much to my horror. The girl who wears all white, including painting her body, but neglecting a bra. Then there are all those who are crazy in the normal been-on-drugs-too-long kinda way. But today I felt frightened, really truly.

When he showed up at the bus stop I immediately felt nervous. Perhaps because he kept staring at me with an unfocused gaze, such as when Joyce stares at your neck like Dracula during Lent. I make jokes, but he was strange, a scary strange, and he kept edging closer, shifting this blue beer cooler by his feet and stroking his stomach with his fingertips.

Not being an idiot, I planned to let this man board a bus first, but when the 5:42 came I sprinted toward it: it was safer than the bus stop because it was full of people. Full to the breaking point. That was the problem. The bus driver waved me away from the doors and pointed to the next bus which was completely empty. They were all switching buses. Crazy man was looking the other way and a torrent of mishandled bus passengers were following me, so I went ahead and boarded the second bus. First aboard. And before many others came the man clutching the blue cooler and walking with his body leaning forward. The entire bus sat open for the taking and he took the seat next to me before I could move to the aisle to block him.

For a few blocks I told myself I was being judgmental, that he was crazy but harmless, that I was letting my discomfort out of my control. But soon I didn't have the presence of mind to talk myself out of being afraid. He kept leaning closer, the kind of close that only Kevin has a right to be near me. He stared quite openly, rocking slightly, raking me with his eyes. I tried to keep my eyes focused out the window, tried to fit my body into the crack between my seat and the glass. Tried to escape the nearness of the crazy next to me.

I don't know what finally cracked me. But extreme fear flooded over me. I was on a crowded public bus (so crowded in fact that I could not have taken another seat) so this man could do nothing to me there. But I knew that he wasn't going to leave this bus before I did, and I could not get off alone to have him follow me away from the many passengers. The man shifted in his seat and I almost screamed. The rational side of my brain told me in a shaky voice that I could talk to the bus driver if the man was still on the bus when we neared my stop. I knew he would be. My fear bordered on hysteria, albeit behind a calm, bored commuter expression. I am not this afraid. Ever.

Then my mind grasped onto the Lord. I remembered the Stripling Warriors, thanks to breakfast time reading (my primary president would be so proud) and I prayed for protection. I thought on how he kept them from death and I knew God could keep me safe too. Please protect me, Father! I cried. Don't let him harm me!

Immediately the lid burst from the man's beer cooler, spilling ice onto the floor of the bus. Whatever else he carried inside stayed there, despite the jostling the cooler received on the floor. At the noise, the man jumped, as though being attacked, grabbed his cooler protectively under his arm and fled, racing from the bus, pushing open the doors himself. He did not stop running when he disembarked. My heart raced too.

Another stranger took his seat and could not have been much further than the crazy head been. Yet I felt safe afterward. And glad, very glad, that nothing happened.

consider the lillies

The night that the all-evil MasterCard SOBs decided to steal my money and break my heart (all legal according to the contract we'd signed years prior--Satan was the arbiter), I knelt to pray to my Heavenly Father. I did not ask for comfort, because I did not feel I deserved it. I did not ask for help, because I knew I didn't deserve that. Instead I said I was sorry. I said I was sorry for eighty-four-thousand things. For not listening. For telling Him what I had planned. For slapping away His gifts.

That last one was the biggest. How could I ask for help, I wondered, when He had already helped me before? I was thinking of Utah. My problems there, of the financial order, were tuition and paying off my debt. The Lord gave me the gift of government money, the hard-earned money of tax-payers everywhere, of which I was not yet one. The VA benefits were enough to pay my tuition, books and debt in two years' time. What a generous gift! It only applied, however, as long as I stayed in school. And four months ago, I left school.

The decision to move to Texas was mine. I made sure Heavenly Father didn't disapprove, but I pretty much worded it this way: Father, I want to go to Austin. I can do it, if You'll come too and take care of me. He agreed with a subtle reference to Matthew 6.

But once I got here, I let myself become unhappy. Heavenly Father took care of me, I reasoned, when He found me a job. Then the work was up to me. The hours put in, the careful budgeting, the anal payment of bills. I had enough-ish. At least I made no credit-card purchases, even if the balances stubbornly refused to shrink. And when I became bored with my job, I told myself to look past that to the next paycheck and the bills it would pay. When I missed school, I reasoned that if I kept up with my boring job and kept paying my bills then someday I could go back to school. But enough isn't always enough, and I got down on myself for being unsatisfied, and I felt sadness and remorse in addition to loneliness and dead dreams. And I thought it was all my fault and my well-deserved lot.

Then, when on my knees that fateful day, I got a gentle admonition. Quite a lecture, about many things, actually. One part of it (for I refuse to tell all) was, were I to put it in my less charitable words: stop playing a martyr and ask. It was as though Heavenly Father looked at me sternly and said, I never said you couldn't have more blessings; that was your thought. I cried to Him, that I thought I didn't deserve another chance because I had refused His great gifts before. You asked me to come with you. Now ask.

I bowed my head in shame, and were it not for His all-hearing ears He might not have caught the mumble. If I could get one of those 0% Interest credit card offers on balance transfers, then I could transfer my highest interest card over and more easily pay off my credit. It was a humble enough plea. But I felt right away my Father's pleasure that I had asked. So then I simply told Him I loved Him, and I didn't know how to fix my situation, but that I'd really like His help. I felt His love, even if it came with a message from Him saying, It's about time!

Two days later the credit card offer came. The job followed within a week.

The benefits of my new job are many. The money difference, will for instance enable me to pay off my debt by December--the same date I could have paid it off in Utah, even though I now have the added debt from the move--and still have a considerable (for me) savings.

Oh, and my company will pay for school too.

an allegory

There once was a man who was never born, but simply created for a convenient allegorical purpose. This is his story as I've heard it told:

A catastrophic flood hit his hometown and the water rose so quickly and so steadily that this man (let us call him Arthur, for reasons of our own) became stranded in his house. Soon he climbed onto the roof to escape the rising waters. Luckily, Arthur possessed great faith in God and more importantly in God's proclivity to answer the prayers of the faithful. So, kneeling on the gritty shingles amid swift brown currents, Arthur begged God to save him. Then he stumbled to his feet and watched the flood without fear.

A man, Arthur's neighbor, paddled by in a canoe, which got stuck on the rain gutter just long enough for the neighbor to extend Arthur an invitation to join him, but Arthur waved the man on, while he stood and waited for God's saving miracle. After a while, his legs ached from standing, so he sat on the ridgepole of the roof and watched the swirling, foaming water rise over the lower edge of the roof. But Arthur felt no fear.

Soon a large, yellow raft, powered by an outboard motor pushed along against the current: rescuers looking for those stranded in their homes. Arthur smiled pleasantly at the Christian example these poncho-wearing rescuers set, but he waved them away with a shout barely heard above the motor and the rain. God will save me, he told them. Away they chugged. Still Arthur waited, and he had absolutely no fear.

The water started lapping his toes and then his bottom. Before the strength of the current could grab him a ladder fell in front of Arthur's face from a helicopter up above. He stood on the precarious roof and waved cheerily to the pilot, but refused the ladder. He knew God would send a miracle to save him. When the helicopter left, the man climbed onto his chimney to give himself a little more time. The river swallowed his roof and rose along the bricks of the chimney, row by row.

The story as I heard it ends with the man drowning. He then rebukes God for not saving him. Predictably God recounts the canoe, the raft and the helicopter. What more could you want? God asked. It must have been a tough lesson for Arthur to learn. But it would have been tougher had Arthur figured it out before he died. As he watched the unstoppable flood creep ever nearer, knowing that nobody else would come and that it was his own fault.