the straw that broke the camel's back

Jon had his once more, and this was the worst. A complete stranger got in a fight with Julie about me. I don't even want to go into it. I want Jon far from my mind, and to do that, I confronted him. As my bishop said, Even the Savior when he saw things amiss at the temple, dealt with it. So I went to his house and dealt with it. Julie took me, and as we entered offered this warning, Just so you know, you scare me when you're mad. I did not yell. I did not swear. Joyce will be ashamed. I was very cold, with my arms crossed on my chest and my voice steady and my face blank. I was honest, although he doesn't think me capable of such a thing. He still thinks he's right, and I still think he's scum. But now it's over.

i say a little prayer for you

I am sitting at the computer listening to the sound-track for My Best Friend's Wedding while April sings to it. We're wallowing in our Saturday night at home. Soon we'll start a movie, pull out the snacks and wallow in style. Right now dancing in formal dresses to Tony Bennett is exactly what the doctor ordered.

Don't get me wrong, I was very glad to see all my friends giddy about their respective dates tonight. Elise fell in love with her friend is telling him tonight. Ashley, stoic unromantic Ashley, was worried how her hair looked and whether the new jeans were the right touch for the night. To quote Elise, if boys just knew what we went through!

It would be better if they were to know what we do when we have no prospect of a date. Our frenzied primping is predictable; it's when we sit at home rewinding and rewatching selected scenes from chick-flicks that we are most revealing. Rupert Everett serenading in a restaurant! Is it wrong that I am swooning over a gay man? Well then, one more time through and I'll stop. I'll just watch the scene where Michael sings on the barge.

I want to be serenaded. Probably I shouldn't want it, because I would laugh in the face of whoever was brave enough to try. To quote Jane Austen, spinster albeit romantic expert: I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love...Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may [be the food], but if it be only a slight, thing sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away. One may substitute serenade with poetry, though the original is true too.

I just got caught up in the giddiness of the evening. Love is in the air. And now April is leaving me for Joe. I've stopped the movie only to find Jerry Maguire on TBS. I love this movie! Yes it's hokey (and yes I just used the word hokey) and yes the lines I love are totally cliche. But I melt over his speech. He had me at hello.

Being a girl certainly has its ridiculous moments. I guess that's what this blog is all about, the ridiculous things we do when we witness love and want to take a part in it. For tonight I will watch the plights of fictional characters and rejoice when boy gets girl back at the very end. Maybe I'll break out the pint of Haagen Dazs.

walls and fruit

I once had a dream, it would be about four months ago now, maybe six. In my dream I was back home in Texas, a home to which it is unlikely I shall ever return. My parents were still married. But more than that, they were happy. They looked like they did in a picture I remember of them, where they have their arms around each other. In dreams you have insight into things that you couldn't possibly know by the empirical evidence. I knew that dad was healthy and mom wasn't worried. Joyce was there too, and she was happy, unpierced, whole. And I was excited.

Any minute, I knew, a friend would be visiting me from school. I ran back and forth between my room and Joyce's trying to decide what to wear. On my third time through the family room, passing the large window that faced out over the backyard, I noticed the apple tree. I could see only the top branches but on them were many large red apples, beautiful fruit. Stunned I stopped and went to look. I had remembered that tree not bearing any fruit. When I got next to the window and looked down I saw that the bottom branches held only a scanty supply of withered pale apples. I thought to myself, nobody would even know all this lovely fruit is up here unless they went through the trouble of climbing the tree.

Soon I was interrupted from these musings and told to wash the dog. My mom was always paranoid about the dog being clean when guests arrived. I took Emma to the tub, but she was so old that she couldn't hold her head above the water, and she was scared. I climbed in and comforted her, holding her as I washed. When I was finished she was clean but I was a mess. I started crying and ran to my room. On the way I noticed that the walls, which I had hitherto thought whole, were under construction, and that the house was being pulled apart.

In my room I wanted to be alone, but my parents and Joyce followed me in. They were different. They were as they are now. My dad was old and sad. He had on his wedding ring. My mom was stressed and her hair was short. She did not have her ring on. Joyce had pink hair, but the most shocking difference in her was how small she suddenly looked despite her height not changing. I tried to send them away.

"There's someone here to see you," my mom said. I knew who it was. "I can't let him see me like this!" I cried. "How can I offer him this?" I gestured to my wet clothes and soggy hair, my room and family. Inexplicably I thought of the fruit. "He'd probably only see the bottom branches anyway." I was lamenting this when I heard a voice speak quietly from the doorway. "Hello Friend." I looked up and smiled, and then woke up.

I thought of this dream randomly today when I was thinking of Ted. Last night we were talking about friends, as a title. He laughed at me, telling me that I am utterly indifferent to people I don't know until one day I award them the title friend, and then I love them. He grinned, At least it happened early on with me. I'm not really mean, am I? I asked him. I don't mean to be. You know what you're doing, he answers bluntly. You hold them off with a cold shoulder until they can prove themselves to you, and with encouragement like that, of course everyone perseveres in the attempt. He doesn't seem to think this is bad, only mockable. Mostly, he understands exactly why I do it. As he once said to Ashley in my presence, it's so interesting to see exactly where her walls go up when you prod, isn't it?

Ted is not the only one to notice my walls. I was dumped by a boy back in high school who complained I had too may walls up. Of me he remarked, her personality is a puzzle, but I don't even have the pieces. They're locked in a vault somewhere I can't find with a combination I don't know. I'm just worried that once I put it together it's not going to be anything beautiful, that'll it'll be one big blank blue board. (at least he had good alliteration).

Kevin complained of it, as did Jon. But what none of them saw was how easily other people could get to me. Matt was to Kevin (the first time) what Bryan was to Kevin (the second time) and what Ted was to Jon. They were the ones who knew me and didn't understand how the latter couldn't. Ted says that they were inhibited by their investment. But I did not care to understand the reason; all I knew was that my friends knew me and my boyfriends didn't, that my friends loved me and my boyfriends liked me, that my friends stay and boyfriends leave.

You can ask April and she will say of me, she's not as tough or as mean as she likes to pretend. My walls are really not so threatening. They are made of cornstarch and water. If you poke too fast, too hard, you will rebound off of them. But under a soft touch I will melt. Boyfriends look at the walls and get afraid, anxious and demanding. Friends don't even look at them; they look at me, and with their love the walls come down on their own.

Perhaps the title FRIEND is given to those gladiators who can bring down the walls.

my soft spot

Everyone who knows me knows this about me: I love animals. Bryan was the first to notice how my hands would go to my mouth every time I saw something small and fuzzy. April permitted me to feed the stray cat at our door. Jocilyn told me to ask for a kitten instead of a ring when I get engaged. I yelled at an ex-roommate's fiance who kicked a cat. I watch where I walk in case worms or snails might be under my feet. I cried when my dog died. And today I fell in love with a pigeon.

When I got to work he was just lying there on his side under a bush with his feathers askew breathing slowly and barely moving. My heart hurt and I wanted so badly to pick him up and do what I could to make him comfortable before his life expired. As I could not leave work duties to do so I instead offered a prayer in my head. Dear Father, Creator of beast and bird, take him to you swiftly so he is not in pain. I walked past him a couple more times and cried when his head rocked to the side as if he were looking to see who would come to his aid. I just didn't know what to do!

Finally as I left for lunch I decided to call my dad, bird expert, animal lover, a softy to the core. But as I got to the bush under which he had lain I saw nothing but dirt. I cried again, this time in mourning, and tried to push the thought of his body being thrown unceremoniously away far from my mind. May he rest in peace, I thought, naming the pigeon Bert in my head. May Bert rest in peace.

As I turned the corner an exclamation of surprise burst from my lips. There was Bert limping determinedly across the sidewalk. His legs and wings looked bent, and his head was held in such a way that implied he had very little strength or focus left to spare for it. But he was up. Bert is a fighter. I may have said, "I'm so glad" aloud as I walked around him slowly, trying not to startle the convalescent. My prayer changed, hoping for a long and happy life for my darling little bird friend.

bry-bear

Just after I finished writing that post all about Bryan I checked my email to find a letter entitled "Hi Friend". Bryan always calls me friend as if it were my name. It had been over a month since the last email between us. I have forgotten whose turn it was. I believe I am right in condemning him as the bad correspondant.

So, has the good 'ol 149th done anything really cool this summer like they usually do? I'd love to hear about all the fun I am missing out on. To be honest though, I don't really feel nastalgic about ward activities and the happenings of Provo. It's the quiet evenings watching a movie (or, more appropriately, watching you watch a movie with your legs curled up under you and your hands in front of your mouth during the intense parts) on the couch or walking down to the Malt Shoppe for a much-needed milkshake fix and a chat with people you care about that I really miss. So, is there any of that going on?

Well, after that, who can condemn? I miss my friend!

funny, that's what i call him too

Bryan was a friend I never saw coming. He was too pretty, too nice, too enthusiastic. He was the one male in a group of six females. He made me nervous because he was always saying happy, good things about people. He seemed to be the opposite of Ted. I once even told him so, told him that his seemingly lack of bluntness made him difficult to read. He apologized!

Bryan can't stand to have people mad at him, but because of that he is often a little wishy-washy about telling the truth. I've only gotten it from him after I pushed until he was mad. We both learned. He had to be honest with me, no matter what, and I would be straightforward with him. What he hated most about me was that I didn't like accepting help. It frustrated him that he never knew what I needed because I hated asking. The best compliment I ever paid him was that he made asking for help acceptable and getting it a pleasure. He fairly beamed.

Of course, Bryan beamed all the time. He reminded me of a puppy; sometimes I could see his tail wagging out of sheer pleasure. For those familiar with literature, Bryan is a Bingley. He is gentleman to the max. He always walked us home when we'd been hanging out at his apartment. There wasn't a Sunday when one of the girls in the ward wasn't wearing his suit coat instead of him. As he was the only one with a car he always drove us around, and always opened the doors. He liked to pay compliments. But what I liked best about him was how much he liked his friends.

Bryan and I agreed on how friends were to be valued. So one day when he told me I was one of his best friends I was touched. He looked out for us all, got involved in our lives, met all our boyfriends, held me when I cried about my dad, and he taught me to ski. I went down the mountain so slowly and wiped-out at every turn and he kept telling me how amazing I was.

But Bryan sucked when it came to his personal life. Of course it couldn't help that he had women falling in love with him left and right. All the same he preferred inaction. We became the sand to each other's ostriches. We could hang out and never feel the possible rejections that the dating world offered. It was not a very smart thing to do, but it was convenient.

Bryan now lives in Manhattan and I hear from him rarely. April hears from him more; they were always closer. When I have talked to him recently it has been to lecture. Okay, Audrey, let me have it. I am always honest with him, and honestly sometimes I am annoyed to the extreme by what he does. He thinks he's such a charmer, and really he is, so I find perhaps too much joy in seeing past his smooth act and calling his crap. He likes to do the same with me. He's far from perfect but he's my friend and nothing he's done yet has changed that.

christmas in july

Is it bad to be glad that someone died? Even if you don't know the person? What if I am just glad of the consequences that resulted from said death? Allow me to explain.
The phone rang mid-afternoon. With fear that Jon's voice might be on the other end, I answered.
Hello?
Hi Audrey.
Who's this?
Are you serious?
No! I know you! I'm sorry the connection is bad.
I should hope so.
Julie, guess who it is!
(insert reply here)
Better!
Ted?
YES!
His aunt died and the funeral is Wednesday, here in Utah. He'll get into town tomorrow and leave again on Thursday. Can he come see me, he wonders. I laugh. As if an answer is even required. He is really only calling for a number. His brother has recently moved and Ted forgot the phone number. I had to guess at this number since you moved. Our conversation is short. He merely goads me about who else could have possibly been calling. Who did Julie think it was? Are you expecting someone? He actually makes the ooooo sound that girls are famous for, where the inflection follows a crescendo. I laugh again. He tells me that my latest email has been received although not read. His inbox is being weird. I give him the phone number and say I hope to see him soon. You won't hold it against me if I can't make it to see you, will you? Of course I will. I need to keep my hopes down. I know it, but what if I count down the hours until work lets out tomorrow? The conversation ends with him wishing me a Happy Camp Christmas. Isn't Christmas wonderful?

a time to keep silence and a time to speak

and a time of war.

If Jon makes one more comment about me to Julie so help me if I don't call him on it. And I won't use any nice flowery words either. He has no right, none at all, to keep harassing her or me. I don't care if he does think it's for the best. In fact, to think that shows how misguided he is.
Let me relate the conversation between the two.

Julie: Did you read Audrey's blog again?
Jon: No. Should I?
Julie: No.
Jon: No, now I'm curious. Did she write something about me?
Julie: Yeah. She is mad at you. Big surprise.
Jon: Now I want to read it.
Julie: I wouldn't if I were you.
Jon: I think I'm going to call her on her crap. I think the reason she was so unsatisfied with our relationship is that I never knew the real her. She might get mad but I think it would help us.
Julie: I wouldn't make her any more mad if I were you. Don't do it.
Jon: I haven't decided absolutely.

after the conversation is related to me, Me: Oh I dare him to call me on my crap! Crap. What crap? I told him everything straight up!

I am not going to contact him but if he contacts me he will be left in no doubt of how angry I am. What good does he think it will do? Do for what? For us? Surely not. There is no us. I dumped him two months ago. He needs to leave me alone and leave Julie out of the middle of it all. Be her friend if you want but don't do that to her!

I wish I knew what to do!

pull this thread as i walk away

unravel: to separate; to undo the knitted fabric of; to separate and clarify the elements of

Many things can come unraveled, either on purpose or by accidental miscare. Sometimes the connotation of the word is good. Sometimes it is not.

I remember the Christmas that my mom crocheted the afghan for my dad. It was a great Christmas, the one when Joyce and I got the doll house, complete with Barbie-sized afghan made my Nora. He loved that blanket. He slept under it when he dozed off on his recliner. I wrapped myself in it on cold Saturday mornings. It was the family security blanket, always tossed over the back of my dad's Lazy Boy. I didn't realize it was a symbol, not until I saw it on Friday.

My dad got back from the mental hospital that day and called to see if he could drop by some things. He needed to rid his mind and apartment of things that reminded him of my mom, things that made his heart break over and over again, things that sent him to the hospital. I received a pile of pictures, most of my mom when she was my age; their wedding announcement; a photocopy of her mission call that she had sent him while he was on his mission; a little black box, of what significance I know not; and the afghan. My heart broke when I saw it.

I carried it all inside, a haphazard heap of reddish yarn. April saw my face and followed me into my room away from listening ears. She has learned to recognize the face that says I need someone. She brought ice cream. I looked through the photos of my mom, so young, so like me, sprawled on a couch with a book in her lap. I spread the afghan on my bed.

At night as I snuggle deep under my covers thoughts of unraveling linger in my head as the maroon fringe tickles my face. It is amazing what things unravel over time, and what things do not.

and they hung out happily every after

All I want, all I've ever wanted, is the perfect guy, a story-book romance and happily ever after. Is that so much to ask?

Instead I have had relationships where either I was ignored or smothered. So far I have had nothing as important to me as my friends. The "perfect guys" have been short or demanding or workaholics or over-enthusiasts. My happily ever after is a series of awkward post-mortem interrogations; why, why, WHY? Because, because, BECAUSE!

I prefer non-relationships, for now I guess. Though, get me smitten and I'll definitely want commitment. I like individual dates, even though I can be really awkward. I think my awkwardness spawns from the fact that I always get distracted riding in cars at night, watching things as they pass, and suddenly conversation lags and everyone is uncomfortable. Yes, I take it back, dates can be foregone.

I guess I prefer hanging out, or double dates. I enjoy finding myself in situations where at least some of the people are predictable and I can be myself. I play well off of others. I have difficulties flirting when I am self-conscious, and I am self-conscious when I am the focus of the interactions.

I guess my perfect scenario would play out like so: Tall, dark and handsome man who loves to read, listen to me babble and drives a truck becomes my friend. He like to hang out. Maybe I am interested in his roommate at first, but one special day he comes up to me, sweeps me into his arms and says, "Audrey, will you hang out with me for no specific reason?" Swoon. One day we'll decide we want to hang out for the rest of time and eternity. Not so romantic? I beg to differ.

The romance comes in the details. What you don't see is me sitting on a couch reading a book when he comes over unannounced. Maybe he has a book with him or maybe he sees another one of mine on the floor and picks it up. We sit on the couch, him facing forward, me facing sideways with my legs over his lap, reading together. When I find something I want to share, I interrupt him and read it aloud. He'll listen with a condescendingly amused expression on his face. When I get to a sad part I will lean in and cry on his chest. Is that not romantic?

Try this one: I am hungry after work and decide to make some food. He drops by and the two of us dance awkwardly around one another as we make spaghetti together. I lift the spoon to his mouth for him to sample it. We fight over who washes the dishes. He wins. Afterward I check me email, not caring that I am ignoring him because he is always over. He is fine entertaining himself, mostly because he knows how obsessed I am with checking my email, voicemail, mail-mail, etc. If I seem subdued when I return to the room he knows it is because I am upset even though I deny it and he says, "come on Audrey. I know you." The only thing better than him knowing me is that I then tell him what's wrong and he doesn't think I'm weak and I don't think I'm weak either. But I do think he's strong. Oh so strong.

That is the relationship most people eventually get to over time. I seem to only get there with my friends. I faked it with K and writhed through it with J, but mostly Bryan and Ted have been that for me. Romantic relationships always start out with too many expectations in place for me to respond naturally. I need to fall in love with a friend. He has to let me be giddy about him before he pursues. Liking a person is never enough. Yeah, I like him, but... No it needs to be total stupid awkward giddiness, but only after the comfort has become routine. If the flare comes first the awkwardness stays even after the unknown passes. All of a sudden it's like, crap, what do I do now? As friends, you already know. You don't do anything. You hang out.

we can still be friends?

the definition of friend as it applies in my life: someone who comes to me for no reason, just because; someone to whom I can go for help; someone who trusts me; and someone who keeps my secrets.
Sometimes there are people I hang out with a lot, it may even become routine, and we may like each other a great deal, but they are not friends. Why? I guess because I am picky. Friend is a title for the elite. The others, I guess I would call them positive acquaintances. There are many of these who would be offended if they discovered their title.
Friends I am passionate about. I don't use the word like. I use the word love. Not necessarily to them, but about them. They become in my life second only to my siblings. My friends will never doubt my affection for them, not for a single second. My acquaintances might, because they will play second fiddle in my life. Also my affection for them will wane with their actions, whereas a friend has secured themselves for life. The only offense that can lessen their position? Betraying me. My friends are never a waste of my time. Never. I will lose sleep for them and sleep is my favorite time of the day.
My friends do not call me a liar. They do not pester me. They do not go behind my back for answers. They do NOT put my friends in the middle of awkward situations. THEY ABSOLUTELY DO NOT SNEAK AROUND AND READ MY BLOG WITHOUT MY TELLING THEM ABOUT IT. In short, my friends are better than you.

Yes, when I am mad, I get cruel. I may be sorry for it later, but not now. This is my journal of sorts, an outlet. I shouldn't have to edit it for anyone else.

(p.s. from the future: I'm sorry)

the ups, downs and all-arounds of boys

UPs:
when they hold doors, pull out chairs, offer coats, carry bags;
when they walk me home;
when they hold me when I am crying;
when they are willing to watch a chick-flick;
when they call for no reason, just to say hi and what's up;
when they smell nice;
when they guide me with their hands on the small of my back;
when they buy flowers;
when they notice details;
when they remember things I've told them before;
when they are protective of me;
when they stare.

DOWNs:
when they think that to do anything on the above list they have to be romantically interested, or that I will think they are;
when they primp more than I do;
when they forget to call;
when they call too often, and are clingy;
when they treat me like I'm not important, or forget about me;
when their favorite genre of movies is chick-flicks;
when they believe me when I say I want to be alone for a bit;
when they won't fight back;
when they forget to compliment me;
when they insult something I love;
when they laugh sycophantically;
when they stare.

right along the lines of ya-ya

Audrey, I was so worried when you called because you were crying so hard. How are you?
Now? Right now I am fine. I get over things very quickly.
Usually when someone is that passionate in their emotions then it means they are dealing with a fear. Let's just talk about what you're afraid of, okay?
No. Not okay. We're not going to psychoanalyze this. Maybe I was upset because the SITUATION is upsetting. Maybe I am upset. This is not going to be about fears.

I can't answer any of your questions about why. There isn't a clear answer, even when I am being honest with myself the answers change.
You never talked to us! Never once did you sit us down and explain why our world was turning upside down, never did you ask us how it made us feel, if we were handling it, because we weren't handling it!
Whenever I tried talking to you you always got so upset.
Of course I'm upset. My parents divorced after twenty-seven years and my mom has a boyfriend. It's upsetting! I am your child. I will be upset. But you should have TALKED to me. You've never once told me about Bob. Not once. You've been dating for over two years. One time I come home and he's living there!

It's always been this way; when you left the church, when you separated with Dad, when you divorced. One day you hid in your room while dad told us he was tired of faking his life because of us and God didn't exist, and after that you no longer went to church. You never told us when you went to the Unitarian church; you freakin' left programs around for us to find; where you went on Sunday mornings was not our business!
I don't remember that. I remember Joyce asking what the Unitarians believed and you saying 'they don't believe anything'.
That was months later! Ask Joyce how it started.
I only went there once a month at first. I was always traveling with work. I wasn't even home.
And you think that helped the situation! We were forever guessing, and when we don't know we make it up, we get resentful...You announced casually over Christmas break that you and dad were separating as if you were saying that dinner would be late.
Surely you saw there was tension between us. It didn't come out of the blue.
No, but we didn't understand. It didn't help that Dad kept living with us. We were confused all the time and you never helped that. One random Tuesday as I came down the stairs to get ready for school you casually mention that the divorce will be finalized that day because Tuesdays are the best days to get to court. Why?

I told you there's no why. Not one I can explain. You were a child. I know you're nineteen now -
I'm twenty now. I was eighteen when you got divorced and I was fourteen when you left the church. Joyce was thirteen. Those years between you leaving the church and the divorce were so hard. I felt utterly abandoned. I had no parents! I could talk to you and dad like friends, but I saw no authority, no guidance. And I was constantly trying to take care of Joyce. And you're right I was a child.
I'm sorry. I know I was a terrible mother. I felt suddenly that bringing God into raising you would be hypocritical. I felt I had lost my clout. Also I was terrified for Joyce. Always. Worried that if I pushed back she'd go. I was so afraid of losing her. I was always so proud of you.
You didn't screw us up. We're all healthy, happy people, but we're angry and confused too. We're mad at you.
I was just so afraid...

This conversation was going to turn into one about fears anyway. We were finally going to talk. The call lasted an hour and another was promised in the future. I was honest. I was angry and hurt. I never said sorry. I never said I forgive you. But maybe we'll get there in time.

spreckles-ze-Deutsche?

Spreckles: a nickname for my older sister, selected by herself as we drove past a town, Spreckles, CA. Her nickname stuck, probably because she selected it. Hers always stick. She named me Auggie, and Joyce Goik. I refuse to admit that mine was originally Autistic Auggie. It was a Rainman impression!

I just got to spend four glorious days with Nora. On the last of which she apologizes for the time we had to waste getting her car fixed. No problem, I was spending time with her. But you had to spend it with the grumpy Nora. Like I hadn't seen that before. Even when she's grumpy I still like her, she still laughs. We explored San Francisco, buying freakishly expensive silk purses. Okay, they were three dollars. I was alas unable to buy the cute shoes in Chinatown because of my massive feet, but hey, we had fun looking.

A lot of our time was spent driving. From the airport. To the city. From the city. To church. From church. To Huntington Lake. From Huntington Lake. To the airport.

Most of the time was to the lake. Ted was there running a boy scout camp. It was absolutely gorgeous! The camp was only accessible by boat, a mile across this simply breathtaking lake. Nora and I felt slightly out of place being females who wandered purposelessly through camp amid a bundle of thrifty and obedient scouts, but I was so glad to see Ted. I think he felt bad that he was often times very preoccupied with his job, and I know that his co-worker wished us miles away. She has a crush on him, which I mocked by hanging all over Ted whenever possible.

Nora and I spent the night, not in the proffered doctor's cabin but instead roughing it with only our sleeping bags rolled out on the ground in the woods. Man, we're tough. The hikes as we explored were as much fun as they were tiring but I was glad to leave and get time to rest, out of the sun and away from watchful eyes.

It was the drive back and the following afternoon that were the greatest, however. To keep ourselves awake, that is to keep Nora who was driving awake, we sang song after song for the entire five hour drive home. This inspired us to buy blank tapes and record a karaoke experience the next afternoon. We were terrible! I like to think this was because our voices were shot from the day before, but I have heard myself sing for years. I just suck. The only decent one we got out was Bye Bye Love and the stupid tape recorded the background music louder than our voices! Oh well. This will be a souvenir to cherish for a long time. Cherish, but not listen to.

harry potter spoilers

I couldn't believe my eyes. It had to be wrong. It HAD to be. I read through the rest of the book sobbing my poor little heart out. At times I had to stop reading because my eyes were blurred by tears. I can't believe I let fiction affect me this much. I guess it's because a good writer lets me know the characters. A book isn't like an old friend, but the people in them are. Thanks to Rowling I have made many friends and enemies over the last few years. And now? I just watched one of them, the most steadfast and wise of them, die at the hands of someone he trusted. Of course I cried. And then I called my mom.

She didn't want to hear about it as she hadn't started the book yet. Oh who was there to save me? I wanted a boy. Boys are always better when I am crying. Not in any romantic sense. Girls exude empathy, while boys give off strength. While girls say they understand and love you, boys can claim that nothing like this will ever happen again. Both are important in life. But just then I wanted to call my dad, tell him what happened and be held. Unfortunately that option was not available. I miss Ted, Bryan and Matt who served in the capacity of friend to me, to whom I could go crying. I wanted to call any guy I knew. And then it occurred to me: Jason, my brother.

Perhaps it is odd that I had forgotten Jason, someone I have known for twenty years. But Jason has never operated in that capacity for me. I don't call him first with news, good or bad, I don't hang out without invitation. It's so odd. Hopefully that is changing. I called him for solace yesterday, but he had two-hundred pages left to read. That wonderful soul quickly did so and called me back and eased my troubled mind. Boys are just great.

totally loopy

They say that an hour of sleep lost, dipping below six hours, is the equivalent of two beers. Is there a maximum? Can you get negative sleep by staying up more than one day? If the minimum sleep is zero hours, then I have had twelve beers. I will never have to drink. I've achieved a natural and disturbing buzz that will get me through life contentedly. I have been awake for twenty-seven hours. Long hours. So tired. Hallucinating. Feeling sick. Staring bleary-eyed at co-workers and freaking them out. It's too bad too. Getting back from my weekend o' fun I was hoping to write something witty and imaginative about Nora, Karaoke and Boys' Scout Camp. Maybe even about something interesting. But I can't. I got home at 12 last night and proceeded to read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. IT'S SO GOOD AND SO WORTH IT! At least I think it will be worth it after I get to bed this afternoon. Right now I'm just waiting to finish it and see if all of my predictions are true. So far so good. Just remind me never to drink.

the adventures of marv and jody

Working my daily shift at good ol' Heritage Halls cleaning buildnig 24 I came across a jewel, most precious above all others. It is a book in a series for young women themed after the young women values. This one had a purple cover and was called Double Trouble, a book about Integrity. Identical twins switch places on a date. Can Jody tell the truth or will it lose her the man she loves? Come on Jode, he's a thin accountant who ice skates and is named Marvin. I guess the name is better than Newell, but still...move on.

May I get up on my soap box for a moment? Mormon books, in general, suck. The writers who have talent shoot for the mainstream. Unfortunately, there is a catch. Mainstream readers don't want to read LDS characters. To write those you must go through Deseret Books, removing controversy, swearing and reality from the document. A good writer is wasted and a cliche one praised to the skies. Why is it that a religion that encourages perfection fosters a culture that harbors mediocrity?

Sorry Sister Gates. No offense meant to you and your admirable stories. I'm sure I love them.

guess who's coming to dinner

When Ashley started school winter semester the apartment waited with baited breath to see if UVSC could break her as BYU had done us. Her quirky humor and wild antics were sure to be beaten down by the man and loads of humanities homework. Oh we of little faith. School just gave Ashley fuel. One day she came home with a picture of Karl Marx. What she couldn't do with that!

We found it on our bulletin board with a hand-written speech bubble issuing from his mouth saying, "Ashley has a nice body." On the message board was written "Somebody told me that Karl Marx thinks Ashley is hot." What the-?
That was all well and good, but Karl just kept hanging around. She'd get phone messages and letters from him until we were worried that the relationship might be serious and we were losing our friend. You know how girls are once they get boyfriends. There was a note one day: Karl called. He said that he'll be late picking you up for the prom, but you'll probably make your dinner apointment.

I had to retort. Tell Marx to STOP calling. Stalkers are not appreciated.

So Ashley moved on. To Lawrence. They started by working on homework together, a bibliography. And I quote: So when it says 'last name comma first name' does that mean the author? !!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ashley, your tact is unbelievable. You say, 'yeah' like you too weren't quite certain. In my mind I am thinking, "No they mean your name, over and over, down the entire bibliography because your professor wants to be sure you were the reader. Who's name do you think?!"

Lawrence didn't last long. Ashley discovered his lack of brains. He doesn't even know what a mullet is!

Next came Paul. Ashley hid in her room after he started watching our apartment to see when her parked scooter indicated that she was home.

I had to come to her rescue and bring back the only man she's ever loved. Karl, it's Audrey, we need to talk...

oh let me be your teddy bear

I'm too tired for this, Audrey. If you want me to listen, you'll have to start talking.

Whether or not Ted is attractive has never been questioned. He is simply a force of nature, exuding strength with every movement. Ted barrels. He rushes forward sending power before him like waves before the bow of a ship. Is he handsome? Probably not.

Ted is my friend and hero. He is seven years older than I am, a fact that both of us constantly notice. The reason to give such attention to the difference: humor. When I first met him I was an eighteen year-old freshman and he was a twenty-five year-old senior with two years of schooling left. His favorite game to play was "Where Was Audrey When..." The challenger blew up? He was in second grade. I was almost one. Yes, yes, laugh it up schmuck. He loves to piss me off.

I met Ted because I liked to flirt with his roommate, Jon. Anyone have a knife? There's some sexual tension in here that I'd like to cut. That is, I flirted until Kevin came on the scene. Kevin lasted a long time and ended twice. I was shattered both times, and Ted came along, picked up the pieces and lovingly restored them. I have in my mind the image of him putting a band-aid on a wound that's not bleeding and then kissing it better. The times when I had my heart broken were the only times when he handled me with kid gloves. Even then, everybody has to deal with family. Get over it.

If I was just being whiney or petulant, Ted would tell me so. He told everyone so. My roommates, including one of the ones who fell in love with him, thought he was a jerk, though she developed that sentiment later on. I? I knew he was a jerk, and loved him better for it. He broke down all my pretentions and could call me on my crap. Vice versa I learned to lose my awe of him and tell him when he was being a jerk. Just because you've lived longer than I, Theodore, doesn't mean you know JACK about me. We get along famously. Why? Because I can always believe what he says. When Kevin left and Ted told me, it's not you it's him, I believed him, where I had shunned those words from my sycophantic roommates. I believed it because Ted would have told me if it were me.

I trust Ted in other ways too. I trust him to take care of me, if I need it, and to cut me loose when I'm being afraid to live life. He's like a father in that respect. He listens to me babble about books, movies, friends, sisters, boys. He's like a girlfriend in that respect. What he is, I am not sure. He's just Ted.

People question our relationship, but there is no need. He is in love with my old roommate who is serving in Paris. I'm sure that he knows the exact number of days until she is home again. It is somewhere near a year. He just got so used to coming to our apartment that even when she moved home six months before the mission he came over whenever he was bored. He's lost without Paula. He lives in those months when they were together a year ago. He gets grouchy when her letters are late, and sentimental when April plays that song that she used to play on the guitar. Then he'll come and take me hiking.

I got so used to my time with him that when it became interrupted by a boyfriend I rebelled against the traditional boyfriend-should-be-first-priority nonsense. Even while dating K I called Ted my favorite. My face lit up without pretense when he entered the room. I let go of K's hand to run and hug my friend. Then I dated Jon. With J it was worse. He was a rebound for whom I had no feelings. I often felt suffocated. I ran away to spend time with Ted, though one night I missed an outing with him. Stop playing hard to get, Audrey. You're already dating my best friend. End Jon.

When I did break up with J I went to Ted crying. I didn't want Ted to hate me, and that the universal best friends rule? Let me see. Am I horribly crushed and disappointed in you because you didn't fall madly in love with and marry my best friend? It sounds stupid Ted, but yes, that's what I want to know. That's why I am crying and letting you see my tears. I'm not disappointed because you're still you and you could never disappoint me.

He lectured me when I failed classes and waited for my next grade report. I hid it from him for fear of his disappointment. I'm not disappointed, just concerned.

Ted was always concerned about me. His last night here before moving to good ol' CA was spent taking me for shakes. He packed after midnight, after I left. When we said goodbye he took me outside in the dark for privacy. Will you be alright? I'm going to miss you, I said, my voice cracking. He looked at me with compassion and hugged me tightly. Ted believes in hugs. When you hug Ted, it becomes clear why hugs were invented. All his strength and support and goofy love seep through the embrace straight to your heart. I ran away before I could burst into tears. He made me promise to visit him, and I swore it if he in turn would email me. Unfortunately he is in the mountains without internet, but he drives home to say hello occasionally. I go to visit him in four days. Two nights ago he called after midnight because he was climbing down a mountain and thought he'd like to talk to me. It's those kind of moments I like best, when he seeks me out for no reason, just because.

He doesn't say I love you. I don't say I love you. But I mean it. My friendship with Ted is one I cherish, perhaps because it is so transitory. Paula will come home and they will marry. I will marry too, someone I love better than Ted. And he will be gone. For now, I go to the pine woods of the Sierras to camp on the shore of the lake with him and my sister, and I will email him when I need his trademark there there, there there pat on my head, and he will call me when he is climbing down mountains.

my interesting family

The adjective 'interesting' can be used to cover a spectrum of meanings and to varying degrees depending on tone and emphasis. I choose to use this as sardonically as possible. Now, I love my family. The reason I label myself as sister on this site is because that is the role I love dearest in life. I love no one as much as my siblings. I even like my siblings. How many adolescents can claim that. But it is the parents that cause the problems in the family. They are interesting. Rephrase: they are crazy. Most of the time I love, even like, them. I may be the only one of their five kids who does on occasion. However, this weekend I crashed to my lowest and it is all reaction to them.
Dad found out about Bob. Who's Bob? I have a sneaking suspicion that he is Satan in human form, come to rip our family to shreds. The only thing I can prove, however, is that he is my mom's boyfriend, and that they were together before my parents' divorce. Bob, nicknamed Boob by Heather, was kept secret from my father. Of course it is possible that Dad knew and made himself forget about Bob. His ability to do that is amazing if also scary. Saturday Dad decides to interrogate me when I take him to a movie. Who's Bob? Why's Mom on a trip with him? Now the reason that Bob is a secret is not out of respect for my mother. We kids have very little of that at times. Rather the situation of telling dad would be so heinously uncomfortable that we all passed. Even under pressure I opted out. This is not my place or my responsibility. I AM NOT THE GROWN UP IN THIS SITUATION! I listened to my dad complain about his lot in life, which I admit is pretty crappy. I listened to him talk of his depression. I started crying.
When I got home from the movie I go for my cell phone. Mom is supposed to be backpacking through the Sierras with Bob, but she answers her phone. I am sobbing. Mom I have questions, but it's not a good time. But WHY? Why did you cheat on dad? Why did you just walk away from the marriage. WHY? I'm right. Not a good time. She promises to call me when she gets home. Is it just me, or is two and a half years after she starts dating a man a bit late to finally talk to her kids about it? Isn't it a law that parents have to sit their children down awkwardly and explain things like this, like divorce and change. On TV even the bad parents do that.
I wish the weekend had ceased there. Monday I was cheery, until Nora called. Dad emailed her with a threat to kill himself or someone else. This was followed by a list of ways he knew how to kill a man, courtesy of Vietnam. That's sick, but so is my dad. The poor bastard is skitzophrenic, a fact he managed to hide for twenty-seven years of marriage. And he went off his meds on Friday. I hope he checks himself into the crazy bin again for a few days. I am worried about him, but then again he has threatened suicide since I was little. Never to me; he left pleasing notes for mom. That combined with her terrible communication habits: no wonder their marriage failed.

the bandwagon

I admit I started this blog because a friend of mine, probably a passing acquaintance, was talking about writing in his. I figured I'd hop on the bandwagon. After all, I missed the drugs, alcohol and teen sex wagons as they passed in high school. This just seemed like a good time to follow the crowd. I just thought why not? Why the **** not? Just know there was no actual profanity going through my head. The asterix serves the purpose of making the reader pause for a beat before continuing. Why the (beat) not? It's more kosher than swearing and more rythmic than not. God bless the asterix. I wanted to make that note of why I began so that if this said friend comes across my blog he is not totally freaked out by the fact that I started mine on the same date I read his. Turns out peer pressure does not always do dark evil things. Only when it's at it's best.

taking my place as the other sister

My family are all writers. It must be in our blood. The creativity comes from Dad but the ability to construct cohesive sentences from Mom. All of my siblings, and that number comes to four, have published blogs. Some have gotten them recognition (Heather is the famous creator of ThisFish) and for the others blogging has been a means of venting supressed emotions. Direct communication is not big in my household. I, I have refrained from taking my place on the world-wide confessional, until now. I will stand tall as second fiddle. I will become not the other sister but instead the diva in my own spotlight, even if the spotlight is the coconut-shaped lamp I keep by my bed.