blast

I got an interesting email this week. Okay, the email itself was poorly written and so full of noncommittal small talk that I felt bored in the two seconds it took me to read the stupid thing. Hey. How are you. I'm the same. How's life. Mine's good. Ask Emilie, this is not an exaggeration. What made it less boring and more painfully annoying was the name signed at the bottom. Jon. I haven't heard from him in nine months, since the last time he sent an email entitled How's Life? Jon is a nice guy, a really good guy, but I have a complete lack of curiosity when it comes to him. I wanted to reply civilly to the letter, to prove that I too am a classy person, but then came the rub. Do you mind if I read your blog now so I can see how you're doing? No! You still cannot read my blog. The heat flared up again almost instantly as I recalled my anger at his intrusion a year ago. It's quite ridiculous, really, that I can't let go of past emotions. But isn't that what he's doing too? Why this fascination with my blog when we haven't spoken for a year? If he wants to know how I am, he can ask...or better yet ask Ted. He can ask Emilie who can ask me. She and I can have a nice chat, a quarter of which can be passed back up the line.

I'd like to call his curiosity annoying or to label him pathetic, but such a case of the pot calling the kettle black!

homecoming

I didn't know the reason for my anxiousness. All I knew is that I had to get home, I had to. Now I knew I needed a nap, but that wouldn't make me anxious, waiting for that. No, something bigger. Lately not having a reason for any emotion has become somewhat normal, but anticipation has not been one of those vague shadowy feelings ordinarily plaguing me.
"Who wants to go home?" my boss asked, looking at the large crew of tan bedecked employees and the scant number of customers.

"Oh, me!" I cried, "Oh me, oh me." Maybe I jumped with my hand in the air.

I ran to the time clock and didn't mind the lost two hours of pay. I galloped out the door and sprinted to the apartment. I never paused to consider that my house was in the opposite direction. I realized the reason even as I burst through the door.

Tarythe jumped off the couch and I met her as she leapt into my arms. I spun her in a hug. The ambiguous purple feeling that has been hovering somewhere before my eyes and clogging the free flow in my chest evaporated like the tiny wisp of a cloud that it was. Oh Tarythe is back!

After roughly fifty hugs we drove to my house to catch up on all the changes, locational and otherwise. We sat on my bed, as we have done innumerable times before--the only difference being the larger mattress--and asked each other questions and told stories we haven't told to anyone.

I knew I had missed Tarythe. I knew before she left that I would miss her, past experience having pointed that direction. But it wasn't until earlier this week that I wanted her and felt it distinctly. I knew I needed Tarythe. There are just these times, when I read a book, when I get back from class, when I want to talk out ideas for my book. I don't notice until afterward that all those things I have been keeping in weren't used to being shut up. She gave ear to all that superfluous communication.

Today was no different. Immediately she hit the nail on the head, asking the target question. I talked, confided, laughed, shared, and even listened a little in return. She asked what I have learned.

I have learned all the wrong lessons. I don't ask for help anymore, and I know, again, that everyone will leave. I feel absolutely worthless at times. That if I were just a little bit better...but everyone leaves.

Sometimes they come back, is what her presence declared faithfully. Just talking made me feel better.

I feel...

I feel like I can write again.

censored

I guess I am not ready for the broadcast vulnerability of the blogging world. It turns out I do care who reads my blog. It changes what I write. And right now, for the last three weeks and for the next period of that same time frame I cannot write the absolute truth. Too bad.

right back at you

Generally, the answers to prayers fall into three categories: yes, no and maybe. However, I have had impressions much more deep than these single word responses. At those times, Heavenly Father turns my prayers back on me, a Socratic method of teaching. I struggle with understanding, but in the end I find a greater trust in Him and a new, clearer perception of my problem.

Once I went to the Lord with a burning, imperative question. I had to know the direction my life was meant to take. How else was I to follow His plan for me, if I didn't know what He wanted me to do? I asked, I begged, I fasted, and then I went to the temple. There I got my answer, so clear. It was a quiet voice that simply asked, "do you really want to know?" Through my mind flashed scenarios of just how much I could screw up my destiny if I were in charge of it. While my mind said shakily, yes I want to know, my heart cried out, no don't tell me! That answer was a no, but so much greater than the answer was the understanding. He explained nothing to me, but peace came anyway, peace to say, I'll wait and see.

Another time I felt the answers were hard in coming, I took myself to the small cluster of pine trees near the track at Helaman Halls. I couldn't decide which course of action would be best between two favored paths. Should I or shouldn't I? I felt only a shrug from the Spirit, a rather unsatisfying answer, like when a friend listens to your confidences and doesn't think the situation so important as you do. "What do you want to do?" asked the Spirit. So I said, if this were my choice, completely without guidance, I would do it this way. I paused. If that's okay with You, take away the distractions. Instantly there was peace, and I was contented with my decision. It is not that the Lord did not care, but that either choice suited Him equally well. This was a maybe.

Yesterday I got a yes, the most bizarre yes I have ever heard, and the most satisfying. My emotions have been like a rollercoaster. I needed to carry daisies with me just in case I needed to know how I felt about any new emotional development. Do I like him? Am I angry? How does macaroni and cheese sound? Am I jealous? Do I like him? My thoughts and feelings ran in circles around every issue imaginable. I cried not only at Gilmore Girls but also at Brawny Paper Towel commercials. Then I laughed in the middle of anger. So help me, these feelings were like PMS on steroids. I couldn't sort it out. I went to the Lord.

Tell me how to feel, I asked. I know I could sort it out for myself, but what if I do and the way I feel is contrary to what You'd like? It would save us both time if You would tell me how I am supposed to feel about him, about her, about this, about that. And what do You think about Luke and Lorelai ending up together; I'm having a hard time with that one too?

Silence.

I changed tactics. Okay, I'll try to listen to my feelings more, I promise. But will You still be there? Don't let me go astray. Watch my reactions, shape situations. If I listen, will You be there to help me know how to feel about it? Just tell me as it comes up. Thanks.

I went about my weekend with no clear signals. Life was usual. Actually, life was not routine. I went camping and slept in the back of a pickup truck. I went on paddle boats and played volley ball for the first time in years. The ordinariness came from the people with whom I surrounded myself: my four roommates and Ted. And my emotions were clear, my thoughts nonconveluted. I felt like myself before the flood, but I didn't feel any wiser or more far-sighted.

When I got home, I knelt in prayer before getting some much-needed sleep. "So," my prayer asked me, "how do you feel?" I contemplated momentarily before whispering, I know. Oh most gracious Father, it's not what I thought, not what I expected, not what I saw coming at all. This is not the answer I thought You would give. But this is how I feel, no buts about it anymore. What I thought I wanted, what I had decided You wanted for me, is no more. Here is my heart, Father, what do you see? A burning, swelling breathlessness seized me that said something very prosaic, like: "That's exactly what I expected you'd find if I gave you time. Good girl."

That was my Yes, and now I am left with more questions than answers. For instance: what now? The Spirit, alas, doesn't deal rhetorically.

rocking horse winner

I have had two images in my head for days now, maybe weeks. One is me diving off a cliff, arms spread wide not caring when someone catches me though the air streaming past my face is growing more ferocious and the ground is racing nearer; I don't care because I know I'll get caught before I hit the bottom, even if only barely. The next image is from D. H. Lawrence, the Rocking Horse Winner. When I think of that, my eyes flinch open and I see how very close the ground really is and wonder why haven't I been caught yet. I force my breathing to calm once more and my body to relax in free-fall. Instead my tension is transferred to a little boy feverishly racing his rocking horse to the finish line. There must be more money. There must be more money.

My short-term loan was due today.

since hell froze over

I went to choir practice, proving once again how futile oaths are. Ted has finally beaten me into submission after nearly three years of trying to make me attend. I don't sing, I argued in the beginning, and at that time I didn't. Then I lived with April for two years, and then Tarythe, and now Emilie, Caitie and Cassidy. In there were friends like Bryan who thought a past time wasn't a past time unless it included singing. So I guess I sing now. That doesn't mean I sing well, or that I will sing in front of people. Jam sessions with Ted have made me less self-conscious, but I have seen how exacting he is even in casual events when it comes to music. How can I step so far out of my comfort zone as to try to sing with a group? I'm probably crazy, or maybe it's this whole self-improvement kick I've been on all my life. Probably though it's Ted. Because he asked me to go. At least I can lay any blame on him; I told him I'm no singer, and he knows my proud and vain manner which makes learning painful for me; so if he can work with that, that's his business. My job is showing up, and I did that.

hiking mad

I went hiking last night with three of my roommates and Ted. Ordinarily I would love hiking--truth be told I still loved it--but ordinarily I wouldn't have been dehydrated before ever driving to the starting point. My body felt weak as I left work, every cell crying out for water like a caricature of a Sahara-wanderer. But my friends were going. Actually, they had already left. Why did I follow them without so much as changing into good shoes? Because I was mad. Note that there are several definitions for mad, eight according to dictionary.com, and all connotations applied to me last night.

I can't explain all my reasons for being mad, but one was that I was tired of feeling left out. I go to bed early now, or try to, and invariable hear about what my friends did together three nights after the event. I don't particularly enjoy listening to the "do-you-remembers" floating around, especially as they are followed by "Oh, no, wait, she wasn't there." I have missed Ted, the night owl, and I have missed Emilie whom I have not seen much of in recent weeks. I have felt lonely.

And I have felt mad, angry at my many different emotions. My determination to go hiking while fatigued and dehydrated resulted from a desire to punish myself. I've done it before, on the treadmill, hitting a full-sprint of eight mph without warming up. As soon as I recognized the reason behind my need for speed, I hit the automatic stop button. I would not harm my body because I was sad, so instead I walked home and had Caitie give me a massage; much more healing all around. This time, however, I didn't stop, and the effect was more punitive than I had anticipated.

Ted was the only one who saw my anger, when I first encountered him coming down the hill to meet me on my way up. I didn't want to talk about it, I told him, because I wanted it to go away. I thought it had when we rendezvoused with the others. Whether or not the emotion had faded by the time we hit the steep up-hill doesn't really matter. Anger had carried me to that point, and my muscles didn't have the ability to keep me going.

I began to let others pass me by as I took the back, stopping whenever necessary to drink (I cannot drink and walk at the same time). Later, as my body wore down I became emotional. I stopped at one point--the first long pause where the others quickly outstripped me--because the pain and senseless emotion overwhelmed me. I nearly began to cry, tightening my already inflamed throat until I thought I would vomit. When my eyes teared, I grew alarmed. Sweet water, which my body couldn't afford to lose more of. I counted, I breathed, I closed my eyes to bring calm.

That's when I felt Debi's hand on my shoulder. She remained with me the rest of the hike. On the way up she served my pride, by letting the others continue on without us at points, though they still waited a lot. She did the same on the way down, but there she aided me even more.

My body had been tired since six that evening, besides the general fatigue that accompanies certain times of the month, and we reached the peak at ten. That's when tiredness was no longer noticeable as a feeling or emotion; it simply was I. Perhaps it was my early-to-bed training. At any rate, walking down the mountain, I didn't have strength to lift my feet sufficiently over jutting rocks and roots. Those shoes that I hadn't bothered changing neither supported my ankles nor had enough traction to stop me from sliding.

Instead, Debi did. She walked behind me and first, and caught me in many near falls. After a while she switched to my guide, telling me where to step and more often then not letting me grab her hand, shoulder or back for support. I never asked for her help, and she never offered it. Instead, as I stumbled my hand came in contact with her, waiting calmly to lift me up. At one point my foot caught in a root and I flew forward with that sensation of inevitable face-planting. A hand hit my hip, steadying me in place.

That is not to say that I didn't fall often. I did. And hard. Usually the other three had gotten ahead around a bend or past a tree, so I hope they did not see. In one fall I shredded my knuckles and landed on my thumb trying to catch myself. Another time I rolled my ankle, but refused to let Debi tell the others to wait. They had just done so for Caitie, but I was embarrassed, extremely so, by my slow pace and weak state, and for my emotionalism. At another time I slipped at an angle and landed hard on my leg, twisting my knee and pulling my calf muscle. The more I fell, the sloppier I became.

I was shaky and tired and fighting a constant battle against tears, when I slid to a bumping stop on the ground behind Emilie. Ted walked back as I stood and tried to persuade me to walk with him. Please, he offered. Please, I begged. He held his hand out to me from where he stood on lower ground, and I kept my hand against his, trying to push it gently away. The humiliation almost overwhelmed me.

The whole scenario was a repeat of Fat Man's Misery almost two years before, when before the hike was over I found myself lagging severely behind. I had been out of shape from a summer of lethargy as well as dehydrated from lack of preparedness. Ted hiked with me then too. I couldn't stand to see him for weeks after that. The memory embarrasses me now. Today, however, I am not so out of shape as I was then (though help me I had a dream where I gained thirty pounds!) and I know that my lack of fluids was more than thirstiness. I was seriously sick, but still I did not want attention drawn to it, and I did not want to slow up Ted, he whose outdoors stamina is a source of pride and identity for him.

I managed to make him go on, but when the road widened out, his pace slowed. I caught up without increasing my speed at all, and we walked in silence, listening to the Gardner sisters walking in front and singing. Debi caught up with them. Ted's comment on how we were all walking as if we were drunk made me smile and realize that he had found a way to condescend to me anyway. Emilie and Caitie would not ordinarily outstrip him. He apologized for being a "bully-headed pig" and I didn't say a thing. Mostly because I felt like asking forgiveness too. I felt like begging for it, or simply whispering "I'm sorry" with as much dignity as I could muster. Since I could muster none, I simply walked until I reached the car.

I drove away without comment, and when I arrived in the Riv parking lot I sobbed in the driver's seat. I cried myself to sleep in bed, with two bottles of Gatorade sitting on my side table. I failed to drink either, and woke up still sick. I have been drinking all day (and having it go straight through) and still the headache persists. The bloody knuckles, non-opposable thumb, and the sore knee are not the worst results from yesterday. The low points are the embarrassing looks, the "are you okay?" glances that acknowledge my weakness and imply the inquirer's acceptance of it. That is the worst.

So I guess that's it. I'm still mad at myself, but for a whole new set of stupid actions. In the end, hiking changed very little, except the view.

lesson plans

An entire lesson in literature from one paragraph:

"A novel is not an allegory, I said as the period was about to come to an end. It is the sensual experience of another world. If you don't enter that world, hold your breath with the characters and become involved in their destiny, you won't be able to emphasize, and empathy is at the heart of the novel. This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So start breathing. I just want you to remember this. That is all; class dismissed."
~ From Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books, by Azar Nafisi

strengths and weaknesses

The money still has not arrived from the VA. After I checked the mail this afternoon I shrunk into a little ball and rocked for a while. When I stood up and managed to go about my business, only my body uncoiled. My spirit is still compactly boxed, sitting at times in my stomach and at others in my throat. I feel small, uncertain and weak.

At such times of emotional insecurity I want metaphorically to bury my head in the sand. So, today I am grateful for the small strengths I possess--that I went to dance class and spun without losing the footwork; that I have not marked days of of my calendar since my white board read 68; for the fact that I don't know how many days ago 68 accurately measured my countdown; that I got two A's on two tests in as many days; that I managed to make my savings account have more than my checking; and that I went running when I wanted to sleep away my loneliness.

For these things I am grateful. But above all I am grateful for the knowledge I have that it will all work itself out in the end--the money, all of it. Knowing that the Lord is at the helm, despite not knowing where he is steering me, is a great strength.

pied beauty by gerard manley hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things-
For skies of couple-colours as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

suppression

Caitie has a book called Feelings Buried Alive Never Die, and its premise is that the reason we develop suceptabilities to certain ailments is due to emotional weakness. This book even lists many physical manifestations of some emotional sicknesses. For instance Caitie developed diarrhea and vomiting only a week after going through extensive visualization exercises with her mom. The cause of such illnesses: "a rejection of a visualization...." Weird.

My ailment has been my throat. I get sick rarely, but when I do it is in my throat and I lose my voice. The root problem: suppressed feelings of anger. I began to watch and about a week after I would be really mad, my voice would go. In between bursts of anger, my throat often got itchy when I was grumpy. The contradiction: I never got sore throats in high school, and back then I suppressed everything.

Last Wednesday my feelings got hurt really badly, and I spent all day Thursday trying to reconcile my feelings with my reason. Thursday night my knees began to ache. All day Friday my hips were in a lot of pain. If I continue in physical activity I am okay, but if I sit or stand at all, all my joints freeze up. The book suggests that painful joints are a result of suppressing feelings of hurt. What the--!

I have been aware for a long time that I have problems dealing with emotions. But in the last few years I have become so much better. Really! I even went to counseling for a year, and my counselor was so excited the first time I cried in front of him. Granted, that was the last time I went...over a year ago. But now I am wondering, is it because I am aware of the emotion I feel that when I hide them my body rebels? To get rid of this ache--which is now spreading to my back and preventing use of a back pack--must I tell my friends these irrational feelings I have? Or can I just take a muscle relaxer? I'm already sucking on cough suppressants to numb my newly sore throat. Man, this is getting serious.

g.i.v.e.r.

I may never grow up. At least, at this pace, it seems unlikely. I have changed my mind yet again in regards to what I want to be. Oh, I still want to write, to be a mom and to do family history work, but now I have another idea to add to that list. Lately I have become infatuated with the idea of starting my own school. Emilie and I planned it. The school would start as a multi-family home school between the four roommates, but it would grow as we solicited students from the community. Always very small scale, but very very effective and fun.

Emilie would teach music--in later years in would be elective, but starting out as part of the core curriculum in elementary. Caitie would have many roles besides teaching science. She wants to be "that person who when the kids get cut tells them to suck it up and quit crying." "The school nurse?" I asked her. "Yeah! That's it."She would also oversee dance and self-defense. Cassidy heads up math and history. I would teach English and social sciences, including government, economics, sociology, and philosophy (all those things I debated majoring in!) Maybe I could also be the librarian?

Emilie and I discussed hiring out for other positions, but she eventually decided that we would marry out for those jobs. All four of us girls would marry men with normal day jobs so our financial drain of a school wouldn't be responsible for supporting the family. These men, however, must also have skills necessary for the survival of our institute. An accountant was Emilie's first concern. I volunteered to take business classes but instead Cassidy has offered to marry a Marriott school grad.

We're marrying Ted because we love him and because his skills in music can complement Emilie's, and he can build a fire. We all love camping and want to do character-building retreats, but I cannot build a fire for the life of me.

We need a handyman, though he can of course have a different day job if he likes. I just want to be able to ask someone free of charge what ought to be done about the leaky faucet. Nathaniel Gardner has been selected as one who is good with his hands. He is too young for me so he falls to Cassidy; he'll just have to major in accounting when he decides what he wants to be when he grows up.

Other requirements included dentistry (because apparently this school is turning into a commune and we'll never go outside the family for anything), advertising, dancing, gardening, knowledge of computers, ability and willingness to cook dinner, and gospel knowledge (for life in general but also for seminary teaching). So if you know someone with these qualities who wants to be part of something small but good, please email me immediately. It's never too soon to marry....oh wait....

Caitie's options for marriage are fairly open. I've recommended Matt Bushman for character across the board. My choice is Steve Gardner for his name. If I marry him we can call the school the Gardner Institute of Education or something like that. Or maybe the Gardner Institute of Very Educated Retards so we could tell people that we are G.I.V.E.R.s Oh the possibilities!

sanity my love

I thought that we had a relationship that would withstand time, Sanity and I, but now I know it isn't so. Because any other potential relationship drives this vital one into dust. My Sanity is a very dramatic sort, and if ever I show an inkling for someone else, he leaves me. I, luckily, am very loyal, and I try to cling to Sanity with every part of me, fighting Infatuation, to hold on to that commitment. But Infatuation was too persuasive this time, making up dreams and fantasies that I can't resist. I didn't even notice Sanity slipping away, until one morning I woke up, ticked a day off on my calendar and immediately began the roller-coaster ride of emotions, gift from Infatuation. Sanity had abandoned me. I needed to be committed. Why, oh why, didn't anyone save me from my idiocy? Now I have the pain of separation, no matter which choice I make--to go back to Sanity, who will always be waiting, or to pursue Infatuation until he leaves me penniless in a foreign country.

I choose...

I choose both, to live the life of an adulteress, holding hands with Sanity on one side and Infatuation on the other. My strong protector Sanity will close all the doors left open too long by Infatuation, those that lead to ridicule and pain. The day dreams will go away, but I'll never quite forget they were there. Maybe I can get some homework done, and maybe I can make some sensible friends. That is, when I'm not checking email like a madwoman and writing stories on my laptop. I need Sanity and Infatuation in my life, and I think in the end I will be glad of them.

i'll take a number 7

Last night I cheered myself up as I often do: I spent time with my best friends (all but Cassidy who had to work). We went to eat at the Olive Garden ordering fancy drinks, appetizers and entrees. A celebration in gluttony. I decided it was my favorite of the deadly sins, until I looked back over the day. Yesterday was a celebration of all seven. Kevin Spacey would be proud.

sloth--five episodes of Gilmore Girls
lust--did I not mention five episodes of Gilmore Girls? to better specify, all the cute ones with Jess.
jealousy--I wanted my friends all to myself! Sorry new people, you must find your own friends.
greed--I want more Gilmore Girls!
gluttony--mmm chicken alfredo, artichoke dip and a mango daiquiri with lime
pride--I didn't play anti-nephi-lehi when it came to the pillow fight with Ted last night.
wrath--when Matt made comments during volleyball. "No, no, don't get up. I got it." Good!

But my favorite was gluttony.

laundry life-line

I am sitting at the computer watching the time count down until my laundry is dry. Then I can unload it. Then I can run away. My laundry is the only thing holding me to this spot right now--to this place physically and metaphysically. I'm letting go and slipping, and I have about 11.46 minutes until my last finger slides off the edge to which I am holding. Then, so help me, I am running away to the Quasimodo of Pretty, a park, the zoo, Disneyland, somewhere. Make that 9.78 minutes; I had to look up how to spell Quasimodo.

Last night I was country dancing and having such a marvelous time that my roommates noted on how much different I am than I used to be. Next minute, I turned around and walked out. I would have walked home except for my fear of dark roads and bad men with mustaches, so Cassidy escorted me. I was too restless to get ready for bed and too indolent to do something fun. All at once my enjoyment disappeared. My body figured out that something was bothering me before I did. It told me to go home, and then my emotions caught up. It took my mind another day before I knew what was wrong.

During that said day, I stayed up way too late, slept in later, skipped all but dance class--the only one I wanted to skip--and narcotized myself with five episodes of Gilmore Girls. Five. You know, it may have been six. Finally I mentally shook myself as hard as I was able. The difficulty lay in that my head was stuck somewhere in a gigantic pile of sand. I saw what I was doing, cutting my legs out from under me, indulging in laziness like a form of substance abuse. Were I a drinker, I'd be on my way to AA (I am legal now). As it is, I found a sudden need to do at least one thing productive.

That's where the laundry comes in. Five loads. And in 2.21 minutes those loads will be gone, and I will forget that reality exists. I will stop loving classes, I will stop going to my job, I will stop even caring what day of the week it is. All because what? Because I am in denial, mad that I don't have better control over my emotions.

The alarm is going off now. Maybe I'll wash a load of towels. 42 minutes. In 42 minutes I'll let go.

bureaucracy

Up until this point I have been relatively sheltered from the bureaucratic processes of complex organizations. For me to get anything done I had merely to ask my parents. Sometimes they dealt heavily with me and made me ask the other parent too. That's the worst I had it. Now I am dealing with the Department of Veterans Affairs. Not only is the VA a government branch, but it is also severely underfunded. Thus, when I ask them for money, they do everything they can to put off payment.

I got the letter in the mail a while ago, saying that yes I was entitled to full educational benefits from the VA. That is 695 dollars a month (I'm sure it used to be 700 but then they wanted to spread the money farther and torture the accountants who work in the basement). All I had to do was provide proof of current enrollment at my college and then pick the date for the benefits to begin. I could back date it to July 2005 when I became eligible. So that's what I did. I faxed them my paperwork, saying yes please send me a very big check. Instead of a big check in the mail, I got a letter asking me to do the whole thing over again. You must select a date, it said. The following letter attempted to talk me out of backdating my benefits. You won't get more money up front by choosing July. Another problem was that I had only provided proof of enrollment since January, not July. I'm sorry, I thought, I didn't realize that current enrollment went back to the time I started kindergarten!

Today I called the toll-free number (so help me, if I get charged for that, those Veterans will remember what war looks like!) and was put on hold for eight minutes before someone took the call. They asked for my social security number, then my name, then my mailing address. I'm sorry, but if my file didn't come up with the social then they need a new filing system. Or is it proof they want? I'm sure someone stealing my identity would know my name and address. I could mail in a blood sample if they'd like. I told him my problem.

They said I picked the wrong date, but I was told I could pick any date.
I have here that you can pick any date.
I know! But it won't let me.
Have you filled out an application?
Didn't you just say I could pick a date?
Yes.
Then obviously I filled out an application.
And I have here that you were approved.
Funny, that's what I heard as well.
So, all we need is for you to pick a date between, let's see....July-
July 22, 2005 and February 1, 2006
So you already know this?
I want to pick July.
I see.
If I do will I get a check for the back payment to that month?
Absolutely.
I will get a check for all the months since July?
Yes.
Then I pick July.
Are you sure you want to do that?
YES!
Okay, just one second...okay, you're all set. The payment department will calculate the money and get it sent out to you.
That's it?
Yes.
You just did it?
You said July, right?
Yes.
Yep, all set.
Thanks.

I hung up the phone wondering why on earth they couldn't have done that in the first place. I had to get an extension on my tuition because they sent a confirmation letter instead of a check, and all it took was thirty seconds to do it. God bless America, but Satan can have the Government.

On the plus side, when I drop out of college for lack of funding and join the circus, I will be expert at jumping through hoops.

that's one, one day!

My birthday came, was wonderful, and fled, leaving behind it a naked spot on my white board. There I had counted down the days until my crowning victory of turning another year older. Now, I could either start over with 364 days or find something new toward which to look. And 364 is such a large number. Alas, so is 72, but that's what the board now says. Tomorrow it will read 71, and in about two months I will be able to bear looking at the teasing integer. Probably. I almost wish I didn't know how to count.

paul simon is my hero

Someone told me
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
It's a light and tumble journey
From the East Side to the park
Just a fine and fancy ramble
To the zoo
But you can take the crosstown bus
If it's raining or it's cold
And the animals will love it
If you doIf ya do now
Something tells me
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
The monkeys stand for honesty
Giraffes are insincere
And the elephants are kindly but they're dumb
Orangutans are skeptical
Of changes in their cages
And the zookeeper is very fond of rum
Zebras are reactionaries
Antelopes are missionaries
Pigeons plot in secrecy
And hamsters turn on frequently
What a gas
Ya gotta come and see
At the zoo

canonical

A new language has developed from my joke. Overheard:

Ben was actually flirting with me!
Maybe he had a change of heart.
He's converted and ready for baptism!
Most men convert to Caitie.
But she hasn't baptized them yet.
Are you converted anywhere?

Oh no.

the new religion

Why do we sweat? I asked Caitie, the future MD. To flush out toxins. That is the same reason we sneeze and cough when we are sick, and the same reason that we cry when we are sad. It's all to rid the body of its imperfections. So, I reasoned with them, if expelling fluids is cleansing, wouldn't that make kissing like baptism? After a momentary pause, the girls ran with it.

But you're getting back fluids too.
So? They're different fluids.
After I kiss someone I develop different quirks than I previously had?
Yes.
Then, if I kiss someone I may develop the habit of swearing.
You shouldn't kiss a boy who swears.
Kissing is rather cleansing.
I guess I've never been baptised.
Was kissing Jon was like baptism...to the wrong church?

Perfect! I am so blogging this, I cried running to my room. Only the screams of their laughter, results of a tickle war in which Caitie has no mercy, drew me back to their circle. I shrieked my own torture at merely watching their antics. I can't stand tickling, though I absolutely adore it. Our romp became more violent until we felt need to repent. I guess we need some religion in our lives.

washington dc

I have found my place in life. I am not talking about a path or some transcendental thought like that. No, I mean a literal place where I belong: Washington D.C. I've always wanted to visit, but now I'm going there to stay. April lives there, Tarythe is moving there, Alyessa is heading that way, Ted and Dave may decide to follow Amy there, and a Bushman is looking into it. Not to mention that Heather is only a short drive away. To this point, I had always thought that I'd have to build my own compound in Spain in order to have so many of those I love gathered in one city. Now I see my error. I lacked patriotism--may I be forgiven--and missed on the vision of this better way. We shall live in the Nation's Capitol and eat Freedom Toast every morning. God bless America.

smell-o-vision

I daydream at work. I run away from the tedium into my mind with all its various stages and plays. Sometimes I fantasize, or write my books, or sometimes I remember real events. Each plays before me like a movie, dominantly visual with some auditory support. And much like movies, my favorite parts are where the sound and visuals have little to do with one another...you know, like in montages. April will agree with me here. So it goes that I don't experience three of my senses mentally. I do not smell, taste or touch my thoughts--I've decided to let MGM or Willy Wonka take over research into those areas. But today I hit on a breakthrough.

I was remembering a past event, slowly processing it into a daydream. I saw the entire situation, somehow third person watching myself. It's odd to visualize oneself in situations; at least, I find it odd despite the fact that that is how I always see life. I saw the image and I heard nothing. I decided to zoom in, and suddenly I saw through true memory's eyes, first person and almost too close. But I gasped when I suddenly felt the sensations. I touched cotton. I looked at my hands in front of me, seeing them resting idly on the metal counter at work, while in my vision I clung to cotton, soft and dry against my fingers. I felt pressure against one half of my body that came from nowhere but this recollection. My head, held erect in reality, felt relaxed as it rested on another surface. I let go of the image when I smelled him, part deodorant, part cologne and part that smell that comes from under the skin that sticks to one's clothes and is somehow completely unique. I felt like I was dropping a hot pan, releasing in protective instinct, as I let the cafeteria at the Cannon Center pound my senses once more. My chest felt tight with the surprise and fear of such an experience. And then I wanted it back.

I feel now that my writing has been as my thoughts--only two-fifths the depth it could have been. It is a strange new world to imagine, with all that detail always demanding attention like a separate character. This person--these people of scent, touch and taste--will assault me from every side now, pulling at me when I have nothing left to give. Yet, if I am going to be as good a writer as I have always hoped, then I will give something anyway. In return I believe I will find a store of greatness, of life--scary and delicious--waiting to be translated by me onto paper.

birthdays

Tonight Nora, Jason, Jamie and I celebrated with my dad his birthday. This leads me to one thought. My birthday. And yes, it's in twelve days. Remember that.

rainy days and mondays

Over a year ago I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. It was the day I recognized my failure in so many fields. I went to my dad for comfort and on the drive home, the Carpenters' Rainy Days and Mondays played in the background. Even as I sobbed, I sang along. This year, the anniversary of the day went rather well, and I let it pass. I thought that was the milestone I had to reach, and I admit to being slightly disappointed that it was so nondescript. Today, however, I realized that today is the day I was meant to reach, and I feel that it truly means something that I listened to Emilie sing that same song as we drove home from my Dad's house. I wondered briefly to myself whether Heavenly Father would inspire someone with Carpenters' lyrics, before I nodded with certainty. Of course He would. That one chorus told me so many things that I needed to know.

I didn't get an A this semester. No, not a single one. I haven't received my grades yet--I even have one final remaining tomorrow night--but I know my performance. I did not meet the criteria for an A. I cried when I sacrificed my last possible chance to see that letter on my transcript this semester. Sharing the Gospel is graded almost entirely on the Honor System. We graded our own finals and merely reported the result to Brother Bott. Then he handed out an evaluation where we ranked ourselves on all the various requirements for the course. Reading assignments completed takes twenty percent of the total. All I needed was to give myself a fifteen (I have perfect scores on everything) but I couldn't do it. I probably only read half of the material. Ten. I took away my own perfect grade. Had I lied, I would have hated to see that glowing jewel on my transcript--the Tell Tale Heart comes to BYU. I know I did right, but I am disappointed. I am not hurt because I want to show off my report card, or because I know others lied to get grades they didn't deserve. I simply wanted the A.

Nobody who has known me will believe that I cried when I found out the A was gone. I do not care about grades. I never have. What I care about is that my efforts get acknowledged. I have never put effort into classes and so I never obsessed about what that final letter said. What it testified to was not who I am but merely how I did in one class. That's even true this semester; I am pulling straight B's. But Sharing the Gospel was different. I learned that material. I know it. More importantly, I internalized what I learned and let the class make me a better person. If my grade were based on how much I gave to and took from that class, I would have a grade higher than A. But I did not finish the text book. So I guess I am merely sad that I will not get official credit for what I've done. It is a petty thought. I chided myself for it on the entire walk home from this perfect final.

Your success is between you and the Lord, someone told me in my heart. I know, I said, and that is when I started to cry. But I wanted the A. I pleaded to Him to inspire the heart of my professor to know that I'd done my all to give me the grade anyway. I wanted it for me, I whispered; and then I cried harder when I realized I'd given it up precisely because of what I had learned through the Spirit of that class. It stung, giving up the reward I wanted, even though it was for the only One who knows how truly far I have come this year. Is it okay to cry, even though I would not take it back, even though I feel it is my thanks to Him for helping me become who I am? Is it still okay to cry?

Emilie held me for a moment or two before my dad came to give me his car. She and I drove him home and are now primping to go out to celebrate. What are we celebrating? If you are answering to yourself that it is the car, then you know me none at all and should not be reading my blog. It is not even the money that had chased away so many future moments of worry. It is a celebration of perspective.

This semester has been the greatest time of my life for becoming who I am and liking that person. I successfully balanced a full load of school with an intense work schedule. I slept well each night and woke early in the morning. I made my bed. I read scriptures and I am learning to pray--really pray. I think, I hope, that I have acquitted myself well with family relationships and with friends. I have a sense of honor and a hope that someday I will be humble. I have learned more about the Atonement. I dress well. I handled money decently well. I have learned a lot about who I am. This above all.

Last year I didn't have definitive answers to anything about me. I liked most things in moderation and nothing in particular. Now I know. I know that I love oldies music. My favorite genre of movies is family films, but I also like westerns. I like studying human interaction, but I hate the word "culture" (thanks to anthropology). I take too long in the shower. I don't like wearing makeup, not even when I am dressing up. There are exceptions, I guess. I want to be a mother when I grow up, and write whenever I have time. I want to write my fiction, but mostly I want to write personal histories. I love family history. I grumble when woken up from naps. I don't like swimming. I wear pink. I love hiking. I work off the reward system, especially if the reward is cheese. I think I would like volleyball and want to learn. I hate hiphop music, and country is only good when sung by male voices. I can be scary when protective. I am Texan through and through. I cook well. I am nice.

I never knew I was nice and good. I think I believed the cynical cruel things I said about myself before; I was just waiting for that day last year to prove that I was a failure inside just waiting to break free. Now I know that I am a success who needed to learn it for herself. I love my job; I am good at it and my bosses know it. I have become spiritual, more than merely religious. I love the Book of Mormon, and I love seeing Heavenly Father's Hand in my life. I have hope. My first instinct with people is to forgive. I like serving. I love my family--so help me but I do. I am smart and able to do well in school. I know my priorities, and I know my friends.

I looked back over this semester in personal interview with my Lord. I walked away from campus crying over a second-rate grade, but the whole way home I felt this burning that I have learned to recognize as the Holy Ghost (this is perhaps my greatest achievement, though I am far from being where I ought) whispering words of comfort and approval. At first I thought it was confirmation that I had done the honorable thing when signing away my A, but I know it was more than that. It was a testimony of what I have just related, that who I am is pleasing to the Lord. He is not unaware of the great growth I have undergone. Most importantly, I believe that Heavenly Father loves the person I am for who she shows the potential to be. This is what I have wanted for over a year.

This is my A.

mirth and matter

sigh not so ladies,
sigh not so.
men were decievers ever.
one foot in sea
and one on shore
to one thing constant never.
then sigh not so
but let them go
and be you blithe and bonny,
converting all your sounds of woe
into hey, nonny, nonny!

D&C 104:10 And I now give unto you power from this very hour, that if any man among you, of the order, is found a transgressor and repenteth not of the evil, that ye shall deliver him over unto the buffetings of Satan; and he shall not have power to bring evil upon you.

my tree of life

If someone were to tell me that the little white tree, standing firmly and delicately in the middle of those tall wild things near which it is growing, had been planted only this morning by the hand of God just for me, I would not doubt him.

friendship

Hope, trapped in the box
Pandora opened for us,
Came when you called her

I came too. We lay
Our heads together touching
Hearts, hands, tear-stained cheeks

You gave me your strength
And I gave you my sorrow
Then you let me sleep

little

An acquaintance came over to my apartment yesterday as I sat with my laptop, writing. I gave a distracted answer to his questions after my well-being. At least I think that is what he meant by, "wuz-up," in this case. Oh, are you writing in your little blog?

Oh how I wish Tarythe or Ted had been there for my facial expression, because I am sure only they would have seen my reaction. Debby might have picked up on it; she and Spencer sat on the other couch.

I turned my head and smiled at this visitor. How charmingly condescending of you. But, no, I am not writing in my little blog. I am in the process of writing a little story that I hope someday to turn into a little novel. And how are you? I wanted to add. Did you receive your little rejection letter from that little university you wanted into?

Debby and Spencer squirmed in the background. I smiled again and went back to dreaming my little dreams of being a little writer.

perry como, quoted by russel m nelson

Because you come to me,
with naught save love,
and hold my hand and lift my eyes above,
a wider world of hope and joy I see,
because you come to me!

Because you speak to me in accent sweet,
I find the roses walking 'round my feet,
and I am led through tears and joy to thee,
because you speak to me!

Because God made thee mine,
I'll cherish thee,
through light and darkness, through all time to be,
and pray His love may make our love divine,
because God made thee mine!

foolish

This is not an entry dedicated to the stupidity of this holiday. The only thing I can say is that the French got something right; they took the day a step further and involved fish. Poisson D'Avril. Nice. But, back to my point...this is just about one of those stupid things I have learned to do as part of my daily routine.

On Monday I gave my blog address to Kevin. I know this blog, so while I knew there were rather exposing statements I felt vulnerable letting him read, I also saw how much more there was here. I felt safe. I got his email Thursday morning. He had read the entire thing--all 100 plus entries! And his focus was on finding himself in the paragraphs. His email told me just how much he had found, and I blushed with discomfort wondering what in the world he must think of me. I tried to remember everything I had said about him. I ran distracted. I tried eating soup with a fork.

Ted laughed at me when I told him; if you didn't see this coming then you don't know Kevin. I know! I cried. I just didn't think I would be this awkward about it. I don't wish it back. I do wish I had been more prepared for having him comment on my words--you know, he didn't even say anything mean or embarrassing or revealing. I'm just being overly-sensitive about my blog, as always.

The problem is, any mention of my writing and I feel completely mocked and a little foolish--like when I got caught playing "make-believe" when I was little. Utter humiliation. I didn't even let Ted read my blog for the longest time. I didn't share my writing until only a few months ago, so I am still not very good at handling response. Oh well, I guess I can chalk up my over-reaction to one more foolish thing I've done regarding him.

marriage hungry

Momma Gardner is in town visiting her two--nay, three--daughters. I've been looking forward to her visit as if my own mother were coming, and when I was told that she had arrived, I bounded into Caitie's room and smothered mom with my hugs. Then Cassidy, Caitie and I perched on the bed and talked with her. Perched is perhaps the wrong word; we were all knotted together inextricably. Mom asked after our well being, if we ate right, slept enough, etc. Then she turned to me. How is everything going? she asked. I smiled. How are things going?! I had a list prepared of all the marvelous things I had accomplished in the last week alone. Look, I cried, at how amazing I am. She smiled supportively and then said, no, really...how are things? I'm not sure if I could describe my reaction to those words. I knew what she meant. I know her daughters.

For those of you who don't understand Gardner talk, this meant, how is your love-life?

The Gardner family are the most marriage-hungry people I have ever known, and most are happily married. That, I suppose, is the problem. If any had one ounce of regret about having entered into the state of matrimony, they might be less enthusiastic about persuading others to follow in the same path. Poor Emilie gets set up on more blind dates than anyone I know. What's more weird to me is that she enjoys it!

After her concert Tuesday night (shameless plug for Emilie: you should have gone because it was fabulous!) the sisters, mom, Cassidy and I all went to Grandpa's house to visit with the family. I was assured that the stay would not exceed half an hour. I should have known better. Anyway, the time was well spent. Cassidy and I had our ears full of secret behind-the-scenes Gardner affairs. And you know what? they're exactly the same as when they're in public. The puns fluttered in the air like moths near a porch light. Cass swatted them away as much as she was able, but I found I liked their mellow presence. What I spent my focus on was this: the matchmaking. Poor Cousin Gardner came over and brought his girl friend. As soon as they were out of ear shot (hopefully) getting food, Christie (that's mom) started in. They're so cute. She's the one. I laughed and added my hopes to their future felicity. The conversation rarely swayed from talk of coupling. Even when Cousin was talking about landscape architecture we were all listening to love connection. That's how it's been all week.

The Sisters are just like Mom. Five of us took a nap on Caitie and Emilie's bed on Sunday. We told our own bedtime stories. Starting with Debby on the far end, each girl told about the boys she likes, those who like her, and what is happening with each. Deb has unwelcome admirers. As does Caitie. After Cassidy and Emilie also admitted to liking no one, Cass remarked, I'm glad we saved the best for last. I rolled my eyes. When it came to me, I grinned. Let's make this painful, I thought. I have nothing to talk about. In my head I heard Marianne, "Neither of us has anything to say--I because I conceal nothing and you because you communicate nothing." Let's just say, I didn't get away with that.

Nor did I two days later when lying on the same bed, this time with Mom. Following her question, my face both fell with disappointment and lit up with amusement. I told her I had nothing to share. Cassidy laughed, and she and Caitie began telling my stories for me. To mom and others it must look as though I am being naturally modest. That, however, contradicts my nature, and contradictions do not exist. Check your premise. Those who know me know that yes, I am awkward about telling such things, but with the environment of close friends, a mom and a bed, even I would have shared had there been aught to share. Instead I just listened to their interpretations, which have been different than mine since the beginning.

Later, Cassidy ran the gauntlet. It was painless. Afterward, Mom plotted how best to get her to marry Steve. Everyone smiled. I object, I cried. I thought I got to marry him. Cassidy can have Nathaniel; he's closer to her age, and taller! But Audrey, smirked Cassidy, you've already got someone. Yes, nodded Mom, he-who-must-not-be-named (I swear, that's really what she said). I lamented, because I was supposed to end up her daughter. Oh, she comforted, you will be anyway... And his parents are so nice!

Mom has asked me if she might attend my wedding. I was overjoyed with the possibility. I will have someone to play mother of the bride. It was Cassidy that made me cynical. I've decided, she announced, that she's getting married in November! It seems that mindless giddiness is a much stronger force than cool reasoning. Evil is often like that. I'm not even dating anyone, I cried into the din. Marriage is not on my to-do list this year. Apparently in this instance--in my love-life--my opinion does not count. When I told them that Danny asked me out again, this time for next Friday's Men's Chorus choir concert, they all gave that knowing motherly look, which I need to add to my repetoire of belittling facial expression, and I knew that I had lost. Ooh, squealed Mom, Audrey Nelson. It's such a sweet name.

procrastinated works of genuis

I finished the paper for anthropology. Ha, to those who thought I couldn't do it on time. It took less than an hour to do five pages. I shouldn't be surprised, since it was a topic I am most loquacious on--my roommates. It's done now, and I am free to blog. Maybe I am procrastinating another paper, and I know that by posting I am helping Ted procrastinate his papers, but I don't care. I'm in the zone.
* * *
My professor loved my concept for my anthropology paper. Apparently my focus was narrow enough and full of implications regarding this social interaction I observed. By the way, I wrote it on the Kitchen Practices of Apartment 99. I was very amused with my own interpretations. I used myself as a character and an observer, so while I felt a little bit DID (disociative identity disorder, means multiple personalities) I had a fun story to work with. I'll share it later, once it's polished a bit more creatively.

foiled

"Whenever I marry," [Blanche] continued after a pause which none interrupted, "I am resolved that my husband shall not be a rival but a foil to me. I will suffer not competitor near the throne; I shall exact an undivided homage: his devotion shall not be shared between me and the shape he sees in his mirror."

Sometimes guys have this remarkable way of making me feel beautiful. Sometimes it is what they say, while at others it is that extra special look they have on their faces. I have known guys, some only ever friends, who paraded me and treated me like a queen. And then there have been those who have obviously liked me with the whole of their minds, but not their eyes; and while I felt smart and funny and possessed of every imaginable virtue, I did not feel pretty. Perhaps it is such a shallow thing to desire. In high school, after all, I went out of my way to deprive myself of a pleasant exterior, wishing to be desired for my other traits. I have changed my mind, however. I want to feel -to be told- that I am beautiful. Because, you know what? I am.

one of these things

I went back today and published an old blog entry I had never finished writing. It's like a treasure hunt; try to find which one wasn't there before, which one just doesn't belong.

sociology

It only took six semesters, but I finally did it. You can see for yourself. Wherever I go, I am heralded by this great accomplishment. Wherever my name appears so does this title, like a badge of courage or a degree (heaven forbid I ever get one of those). Yes, boys and girls of all ages, I have declared a major. Let it be shouted from the roof tops, Audrey is not undecided anymore.

i'm hungry!

For once there is something I would rather be doing than spending my time in the LRC writing. I had less than six hours of sleep and I ate only two bites of yogurt for breakfast. This has been an amazing day, but the tootiredandhungry headache is starting to bother me just a little. Alas that the Wilk had to be abandoned when the fire alarm went off. Is a little food too much to ask?! Poor me; poor, poor me.

exactly four units of distance

Have I been distant lately? I asked Emilie. She responded to the negative. She hadn't noticed anything, at least. I asked her because I knew by the way that Ted wanted to take me walking in the sleet that I was being obvious about holding something back. Subtlety, thy name is most certainly not Audrey.

Oh no! replied Emilie. Maybe I'm being distant, and that's why I didn't notice. I'm so sorry.

I asked the others. Without hesitation, not even a beat missed, they confirmed my reclusiveness. It's been two weeks, noted Caitie. Always after work, added Cassidy. You're in your room a lot more, confirmed Tarythe. But, they agreed, you're not distant with Emilie.

Perhaps they are offended if Emilie seems closer to me. Ted and Caitie certainly thought she knew what's been going on. The truth is, she's as much in the dark as anyone. It's not mine to tell, I have repeated to their kind offers of help and listening ears. But at least it's been said; that helps in a way. I apologized for my distance, really just taking note of the fact that I need to develop a better facade.

It wasn't until I sat on my bed waiting for sleep that I mentally slapped myself and decided that what needed to be done was not more cover-up, but closer relations with the girls. Sure I can't tell them everything, but I can trust them. I hopped off my bed and ran to the front room. Apartment prayer? I begged. Cassidy covered for me when I couldn't speak the words to Heavenly Father. She asked Him, if any of us is struggling please help her to be at peace.

So now, the next step is to let go of the brooding and be happy with the life I am living with them.

my new favorite recording artist

I woke up at seven thirty this morning listening to the soft sounds of the radio being played in the hall. This is not unusual, nor that I find myself mentally singing along as I reach consciousness. This morning, however, I got a pleasant surprise. Hey, wait! I said to myself as we sat up in bed. I know this song! I stumbled from my room, eyes blurred, face swollen, and hair--well for those who have seen my hair, you know there is no describing it. Emilie stood before the mirror curling her rather more tame tresses. So, you and Ted recorded his song last night. It was not a question. We started the CD over and listened again. The song has been stuck in my head all morning.

I want my own copy, sir, as well as one of your other song.

standing on the edge

A girl reached a crossroad where an infinite number of paths spread before her waiting her whim. A wise man pointed to the path furthest to her left and told her that down this path lay a chasm too wide to jump and too dark for any mortal to know where the bottom was, if indeed it had a bottom. The image scared the girl. She was afraid of the place in her mind that showed her the dark, deep, steep pit; and she couldn't decide what she feared most, the idea of hitting its bottom or of never reaching it. The choice was hers, said the man, she didn't have to jump. So she looked at the other trails before her. Some made her sad, disgusted or hurt, and she vowed not to take those paths. Some led to complacent but guaranteed happiness, while others intrigued her with their challenging climbs and veiled destinations. But even as she looked at all these other options the girl's fear grew. She feared because she knew which path she was going to take, had known it before she even reached the crossroads, and what's more, that the man had known it too. She knew that she would jump.

editing

I must correct the below entry. I wrote it in haste for a class assignment, with the prompt of telling a memory disputed by another. Fittingly I had remembered Nora not recalling this story. She remembers it. She also remembers what I said. My great articulate attack ended with my own F-bomb. That's why Heather and Nora were so proud, and probably why I felt so ashamed. Now, I laugh a little, but the memory is still not my favorite.

another class assignment

I always thought that selective memory was something that I had better than anyone else, excluding my father, in my family. After all, I am the only one who has an unadulterated view of my childhood, who believed my parents were happily married at one point, and who doesn’t remember carving her initials into the dryer when my parents brought it home from Sears. However, there is one memory that I have in vivid detail that others present have forgotten. Maybe it is that this moment holds in it my deepest regrets that I have not been able to look past it, as my sisters and father have.

Mom was in London; more importantly, she had been in London for nearly five months. Even Dad, who had two deaf ears and two blind eyes when it came to the real world, had begun to suspect that something wasn’t right with their marriage. I had escaped the brunt of it by running away to “I-want-to-be-a-senator-when-I-grow-up camp”, as Heather called it. Someday I won’t even remember that it was called Junior Statesmen of America. All that mattered was that I lived in my own world of political science nerds and Starbucks. Nora and Heather, who lived in Boston, drove out to see me at Yale. Joyce had been abandoned at home. She saw the liquor bottles in the fridge, and she saw the websites listed on our computer’s history.

That is what the fight was about, though even that may have been a surface reason. I got home from Yale, and Nora from Boston; and Dad still waited for Mom with growing despair. We had visited her in England with possibly the worst results of a family vacation to date. The cords had to snap. Naturally, the breaking began on the side of Joyce. Dad yelled about something—he often yelled about nothing—and Joyce no longer felt the need to take it, not when she felt so much disgust for him. The two yelled, which shouldn’t have surprised anyone. That’s how they communicated.

Nora, on the other hand, likes the world to be fluffy pink and blue, perhaps out of unwillingness to give in to her manic depression the way Dad and Joyce have. She began to intercede on Joyce’s behalf, to try to calm Dad down and stop the hurt. I was in the room the whole time, listening with the practiced passivity I have developed in a family of high-strung individuals. I determined not to be a part of that stupid anger; until, that is, Dad yelled at Nora. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and my heart filled with very articulate rage. I stepped up.

I don’t remember the exact words he said to Nora, except that it ended with “I’m just so damned depressed.” Those words, that phrase, held no meaning to us anymore after having heard them so many times—like PTSD, a hiss and a by-word, the phrase used to caricature Dad. No more would he get away with the pouting routine! “Everyone gets depressed, Dad, but that is no excuse to abandon moral and parental responsibilities.” I went on, systematically naming all his shortcomings in perfect destroying diction. “F— you!” he bellowed. “I hate you!” I screamed back, throwing a tantrum like I had never done as a child. I ran to my room, literally throwing myself in my closet. I landed hard on top of my shoes and cried until Nora came in. She kept him away from me until I chose to see him. Nora always has stood up for others better than she has for herself.

Nora told the story to Heather, the sardonic hard case of the family, who praised my performance. Now, however, Nora does not remember the event ever occurring. For Joyce it is a vague recollection of one of the times she and Dad fought. I haven’t asked Dad if he remembers it. I finally understand why Nora chose to let it go. Her “la vie en rose” approach to life would be tainted by this ugly scene. She couldn’t have remembered it and forgiven any of us. To her, forgiveness means literally remembering it no more. Now I alone remember how awful that day was, what exactly everyone did that was unforgivable and how we all managed to forgive each other for it. For me, the fact that I remember serves as much of a lesson as what I remember. I just wish I could ask Nora for the details; because, like I said, I was pretty articulate.

inevitability

I have been asking my friends about fate. Do they believe in predestination? Emilie tried explaining foreordination, but that is not what I mean. I mean, have you ever been introduced to a situation and seen it, as if in retrospect, and known that you would be altered by it, that you would be involved in it? It's like looking back on a time in your life and understanding why you were there and seeing what you learned; only, instead, you are looking forward and the details are a little hazy. You know that for better or worse, you are tied irrevocably to this new event, or person. The best way it was described back to me was as the feeling of inevitability.

I have had this feeling come over me the last week or so, that I am bound to a certain fate. Almost like Frodo, only I do not bear the One Ring to its doom. Yet the prospect is just as daunting and just as inspiring. Although I do not feel able--allowed or capable--of explaining the path I see before my feet, I will say this, that if it is so that I must tread it, I will with all my strength, and that is not something I have given to anything before.

And it may be that I am wrong, that my path curves after all, just beyond my sight. So I guess, I keep going until I know. One step enough for me.

it seems i am doomed to blindness

I have experienced dramatic earth-rending paradigm shifts in my life before. People I knew turned out to be other than I had expected. The closets (one case in the typical way; that was awkward) out of which they have come varied in makeup and measurement. But one strength I possess, one for which I am too grateful even to be vain, is that I can rewire my thinking and take in this new world in place of my old, and I will still be who I always have been. I still love those I have loved before, often times more so. I come to love my Savior more as I understand why he loves us despite what we do. I adapt.

I am good at understanding people, sometimes better than they are themselves. Few people are introspective enough to beat out the degree to which I observe them. It's somewhat revelatory. I see things about people that there is no way to see. Perhaps I pick up on the things that they are not saying; but whatever it is I have learned before how important my sight is--and my discretion.

That's why I can't understand why I didn't see it before! Even those much more naive than I have seen it, though they are too innocent to know what they're seeing. The last few days I have listened to their comments, and for once I didn't rely on their judgment to tell me what mine ought to be. Nora's analysis made my eyes flinch open. And now I think she is right. And it takes a bit of a paradigm shift.

I laugh a little at myself, especially at my previous blogs. I cried a little where my roommates couldn't see. I realized I have been too focused on watching my own behavior. And I feel a little bit of an idiot. In the end, however, it doesn't change much; life was this way the whole time whether I knew it or not, so nothing, really, has happened to me at all. And that's always good to know.

If it follows that I am wrong, I will laugh even harder and then give up on being an observer of mankind; I'll move to the sudan and take my vows of hermitage

oh shmit

Nothing happened. Ted wagered it wouldn't, against the opinion of everyone, except me. Sure, I was hoping something would happen, but since when have hope and expectation been the same thing? Ted laughed at me when I told him my mind on the subject. I told him I expected failure, because I doubted that I recieved as much favor as I granted; but I also determined to try and to let myself see it through, because you never can tell with bees. At least my conveluded mix of cynicism and optimism entertained Ted. It frustrates me, but it's the sort of frustration that every girls feels as she drops face down onto her bed at the end of a night and despairs to her roommates that nothing has happened...yet. It's the tantalizing frustration that leaves a crack under the door for light to shine through, so I know I will continue frustrated until I can get to that light or know I've failed. If I had the guts I'd simply ask, but I lack the temerity.

To be more explicit, nothing happened during a movie last night with Danny. Did I flirt? So help me, did I flirt! Did he flirt back? Well, yeah, but like that means anything. I had a lot of fun, and he invited me to a movie again, but nothing happened. It's like pursuing Kevin all over again. I just hope that this time, it doesn't take five months.

p.p.s.

Rob is Scott's roommate. Weird. The two shy boys live together.

p.s.

I passed someone in the hall yesterday who turned as I did so and said, "Hey, cute smile!"

I'm doomed to vanity.

complements

My mom once wrote a letter to the makers of a cereal, letting them know that they had hired idiots to print their boxes. "Regular exercise compliments a healthy diet." I pictured how it would be. Regular Exercise (Fabio) walks up to Healthy Diet (Cindy Crawford circa 1990) and says "Hey, I really like that waistline you have; it's very small." What the -!

Last night I got a sparkling compliment. Shy Boy at work, whose name incidentally is Rob, walked up to me with more determination than usual. His fist was clenched in the Go Get 'Em way that athletes use to psych themselves up before a match. With his voice at such a volume to be heard over the Brobdingnagian dishwasher, yet pitched to avoid yelling--Shy Boy could never draw such attention to himself--he leaned in and said with practiced leisure, "You know, you have the most beautiful smile." I, like a retard, didn't hear him right away--why oh why can't I read lips--but once understanding settled over me so did the biggest smile of the night. I even managed to say thank you with a self-conscious-less pleasure. Of course, for the next hour I was shy of Shy Boy, unable to meet his eyes and bowing my head every time I had the temerity to smile at him. Did I blush? Possibly; but if I did, I attributed the glow to the heat in the dishroom. You know how steamy that place can get. I did make sure to cut the awkwardness before the end of the night by smiling that smile I now know he loves. And then I went home and told my roommates.

I love compliments. Who doesn't? I'm not saying I handle them well; I'm usually much less classy than I was last night. Even praise offered with the deepest sincerity leaves me feeling embarrassed and mocked. I feel I have to defend myself from others' adulation. If, however, I can overcome my shyness, I cherish the flattery I have received. For instance, eleven years ago Brittany Makos told me that I have lovely feet. I have an Anne Complex now, only with a fixation on a different part of my anatomy.

There are some people who compliment me better than others, whose words fill me with pleasure instead of discomfort. One may even say that they complement me. I have had many complements in my life. I never knew, until recently, that there is a pattern into which they fall. Those girls who have the most influence over me have always been the beautifully feminine and morally strong women with whom I thought I had nothing in common. Alyessa was the first. April and Emilie have been two of the best. Their gentle influence and subtle compliments bring out my own femininity. Among the male gender there seemed to be no standard; just you try finding the x-factor that groups Ted and Bryan together! These elite of the elite, support with ever-present positive reinforcement all the good things in me, until I find myself becoming good. Some, whose love for me is more an admirable reflection of their ability to love than my entitlement to it, see me as great. As I come to trust these few I even begin to see my own inherent potential to greatness. These are they who make me a better person and more worthy of others' compliments.

amnesty

"Again to the sisters I say that you will be as highly respected, you will be considered as being as much in the line of duty, your efforts will be as acceptable to the Lord and to the Church whether you go on a mission or do not go on a mission" ~ President Gordon B. Hinkley, October 1997 Conference Priesthood Session.

Brother Bott played the recording of that talk to the class today. This is the lesson I have been waiting for, so I am glad that I made it to class, however late. I sat on the floor in the back of the stadium classroom in the law building listening with baited breath. Ladies and gentlemen, the prophet of God said this, in full accord with the apostles. It is scripture.

But not for me, I said. It's not true for me. I am still required to go, obligated to go. My heart kept rebelling against the amnesty. Finally my heart cried out, scripture! And I accepted it. Instantly my heart calmed, my mind elevated and the Spirit almost patted my hand as if to say, there thatta girl. It's all I've been trying to tell you.

So I have entered into a new phase of not-knowing in my life. For the last month I have not wanted to go on a mission. I don't know the reasoning. Perhaps because I made it a chore. But that does not mean that I don't want to go. It's just that I've always said I would go, and so I've kept saying it. That, however, is not a good reason to do anything. Feeling it my duty, a recent development, directed my path toward it, but the duty is not mine. The experience would be amazing, but, as Brother Bott said, "You will not do anything while wearing that black name tag that you will not do as a wife and mother; you will reactivate, teach, prepare for baptism, serve, etc. And there are sacred experiences you cannot have as a missionary that you are allowed as a wife."

So now I must make up my mind. I will make it up for me, with the Lord's help, but whatever the decision at whatever time, I have my Heavenly Father's blessing on it. And that's good to know.

over the moon

Where are you going?
To the moon?
Can I come?
I don't know. What's in it for me?
What do you want?
There's no getting out of it that easy. Where's your resume? You've got to sell the product.
Ummm, what will you be doing on the moon?
Conquering. Likely.
Well, I'm great at conquering!
What else?

For a week now, Tarythe has been earning her passage to the moon. When she finishes a quote for me or brings me glasses of milk she gives a smug look and says, "That is why you're taking me to the moon!" I admit, her salesmanship was pretty impressive, but last night she finally convinced me.

I was chatting on-line, and if you can't guess with whom, I will think you a simpleton. But occasionally I needed help, and mole hills become mountains when it comes to impressing a boy.
Tarythe, make me witty!
She told me something to say, or else just affirmed that what I already said was perfect. That's why you're taking me to the moon.
At the end of the conversation, an hour later, he finally signed off-line at one in the morning. He had to be up in four hours' time. Tell me I'm being unwise, he said. I laughed aloud, so help me, and then I turned to Tarythe. Alright, I said, you're coming to the moon with me.

round two

Tonight's dance went much better. I am smitten. I hope he calls.

dances

I waited only long enough for her to get her clothes on. Then I clung to her like a child. She petted my head. I started crying, just like I had cried the night before in the middle of the crowd.
Please, I whispered. Please don't ask me again to go to a dance with you.
She promised.
It's not that I don't like dancing. I love it. I like to go dancing, especially if I have a guaranteed partner. Country dancing, swing dancing, latin dancing. But not YSA dances. I hate crowds, I hate flashing lights, and I hate hiphop music. Dances demand all my energy, and if I don't have energy they suck my life force. I was disappointed by the night already, so a stressful environment put me over the edge. Cassidy felt responsible for me and tried to make my night better, which was beyond her powers. I just needed to get home and sleep. Maybe I'll do better at the dance tonight with Emilie.

pictures forthcoming

My mom’s face hasn’t changed in thirty years. I know this from the photographs. A few months ago my dad gave me a collection of all the things he had that reminded him of Mom. It took him two and a half years after the divorce to part with their wedding announcement. I have it. I have it in one of those gallon-sized zip-lock bags along with many other pictures of her. There are two that I love.

The first shows her when she was about my age. Like I said, she has the same face. My mother’s beauty, then and now, comes from that face--timeless, both old and young. She has no expression either happy or sad dancing on her face. She is merely quiet. Whoever took the picture must have known my mother well; she didn’t even look up from her book when the shot was snapped. Her hair is long and dark and parted straight down the middle. She is leaning back ungainly and slouching on the couch so her hair flows around her shoulders and the thick knit sweater she wears. Her knees do not sit lady-like, but lean against the armrest with her feet on the table-top. She wears wool slacks, and in the seventies, this wasn’t usual. Of course, my mother never was very dainty, despite her inherent femininity. She always wore the pants in the family. The ring on her left hand should tell me something about the time frame, but I don’t know for a fact that it was my father to whom she was engaged at that time. Like I said, she was beautiful. I think it was dad though. I like that he had the kind of intimacy with her that allowed him to take that picture.

But what I like best about the photograph is that it looks exactly like one taken of me. I look more like my dad, really, but there’s a shot of me, lounging in an armchair with my legs over one side and a book in my lap. My hair is dark and I used to part it in the middle. I too wore that same expression of serenity. I have loved this picture ever since I first saw it. I once asked my mom if I may have it, but despite her search she never produced it. When my dad gave me the pictures, I first cried, and then was glad. This picture ties me to my mother.

The second picture of that bunch that I particularly liked was one taken a few years later. My mom is wearing a heinously hideous one-piece pantsuit that resembles the couches made in that same era. She is standing next to an aluminum Christmas tree that is so bedecked in tinsel that it appears as though silver has vomited over it. It’s beautiful in its own cheap way. What’s prettier, however, is my mother. Even in that pantsuit. She is standing with her hands on her hips, a stance that says, “why not”, poking laughter at her own happiness--for she is happy. I have never seen such an unadulterated smile on her face in all the years I can remember. Her eyes are mischievous. It is my parents’ first Christmas together and my mom would have been about six weeks into her first pregnancy. This shot captures that “glow” that people speak of.

The class project which sparked this entry asked us to point out what might be missing from the photographs we looked at. I have discovered what is missing from the serene shot of a girl enjoying her book and the excited air of a newly wed: time. She didn’t bear that look for long. My mom is never at peace, a constant type-A personality. Go, go, go. If I were to compare a picture of her now, to say what is missing would be harder. She isn’t as poor as she was then; she is more educated, and has seen and done more. What would be absent is that look of excited expectation, from the second picture, and that look of unbreakable peace from the first. Time makes us wiser but it takes with it our innocence. Thankfully, we have pictures in order to remember that these things did exist, even if a long time ago.

crushing me

I decided at the beginning of this semester that I am ready to date. Even above that--I am ready to actually put work into a relationship. So I made this decision and then boldly stood up to look around, and I was cruelly disappointed to see no one running to my side, hoping to be candidate for my affections. The one boy on whom I have my eye isn't making any bold moves to claim me; he is standing stock-still without even so much as a deer-in-the-headlight look in my direction. Occasionally I think he casts a sideways glance, but I can't seem to catch him at it.

But maybe, despite my aggravations, this is for the best. Truthfully, were he to bound to my doorstep and assault me with vigorous and amorous attentions, I would flee with all my strength. The best way to win my trust is to be my friend, to just be there. But why does he have to go and actually be just my friend?

I check my email like a crazy person. And even when I do get an email it is sparse, and no matter how many times I reread it looking for hidden meanings I find none. His blog (which he gave me permission to read; and no I will not return the favor-naturally) doesn't ever mention anything concrete. It is merely a witty column-esque commentary on everything but what I want to know--which is this: does he notice me, and, if so, in what manner?

Help! I'm not cut out for liking someone.

sisters three

it's one, two, three, and four
bodies all in a line
unbeknownst any more
which limbs are yours or mine

our tears blend like pigments
the laughter mixes too
our fears become figments
while each plan becomes true

our hair a fair spectrum
backgrounds just as diverse
our friendship's a poem
and we each write a verse

we're one, two, three and four
you mean the world to me
my home needs nothing more
than these, my sisters three

Thanks, you guys, for holding my hand as I fell asleep. I love you.

my hope

I did not use to have a favorite prophet. And then I read the story of the saving of Alma the Younger. The angel appears to him and said, "Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers of his people, and also the prayers of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth; therefore, for this purpose have I come to convince thee of the power and authority of God, that the prayers of his servants might be answered according to their faith." And now I love Alma with a loyal devotion; not Alma the Younger, but Alma who is his father--he who prayed and anguished over the salvation of his family, hoping that his favor with the Lord may be passed in the form of blessings to another.

And my favorite scripture is 3Nephi 18:32.

If you know me, you know why.

on the top of the world

Work has become the place where I am most myself. Part of it is because I am confident. I am a dang fine worker and my supervisors and coworkers know it. I am not assigned a station in the dishroom. I am the rescuer, running from disaster to disaster and making it right. But there is something else that lifts my head and gives me the confidence to smile at the charmingly cute grill worker who walks through every day between the hours of seven and nine. It's the music.

I do not enjoy the music of my roommates, for the most part. I used to think I liked all music, but now I know that I despise hip-hop. And while I like many songs of the country variety, what I really love are the hits of the sixties and seventies. Joyce has made comments to me about how dad gave us our music tastes, and it's true. However appealing Dashboard Confessional is at times, there is never a moment when I don't want to hear Simon and Garfunkel. But alas, I do not own a single CD of any of the music that I love. And that is why I need work.

The radio station is named something totally stupid, cozy 104.1 maybe, but it is followed by "all the hits of the sixties and seventies". Why, it's like discovering my soul mate!--as actually I have when I see who in the dishroom or of those walking through are singing along. Turns out, both boys to whom I give "the look" know the words to Beach Boys, Carpenters, Beatles and a few others. Good boys, Lloyd. I find myself singing along to every song. Every single flippin' one. I even know The Lover's Concerto (sung by the Supremes), not to mention that it is a "cover" of Minuet in G. I know the words to Margaritaville, including the profanity. No, Nora, I didn't omit it, even on BYU campus.

Another great part of my dishroom experience every night is that the clanging and banging of dishes is too loud for my singing to be heard, so I feel free to belt it at the top of my lungs. If I also dance from the silverware station to the dishwasher, then that's my own concern.

I can't wait for work on Thursday. Maybe they'll play some more CCR!

frustration

I did it. I wrote the entry you have all been waiting for. It was articulate, slightly funny and at times touching, and it was most certainly uplifting as I exposed for you all my immediate goals. And then the damn computer deleted it. You will have to wait another two weeks, I guess, because right now I am not in the mood.

self

How many children have been accosted with the thoughtless remark, why can't you be like your sister? (brother works too, just less often.) Parents have no idea how cutting that simple sentence is. It tears apart a child's identity, creating self-doubt and abnegation. That is where we grow stereotypes, from those told to be someone else. Since when has self not been good enough?

I have always fought against anything false in my self. I do not wear makeup because I do not want someone's entire view of me to be someone hiding herself. Once I am familiar with a person, I let my inner princess show, because then I am confident that my bad hair days and cosmetic-free self are already well known. I am a sweetheart--really quite a generous and genuine person--but only those who know me in and out notice that. I am nice to other people, but I do not fake a smile. I am not the Caitie type who is naturally sweet and glowing. I don't want to leave that impression on those I meet. I hate the idea that they will be disappointed eventually.

But really, in the end, it isn't for anyone else. That would be just as false. I do it for me. If I can't love myself, then who can? "To love one's self is the beginning of a life long romance." I have been laughed at because of how seriously I take a careless criticism. I don't mind. I know that I spend a conscious effort to understand and improve myself. It has never reached the stage of fanaticism or sycophancy because mostly, after self-evaluation, I decide it is better to love myself than to change.

Like most girls, I am not one hundred percent in love with my physical appearance. But I will not be in a battle with my body for my entire life. So, it comes down to a simple choice, to love it or change it. For those things that are life-long or at least long term it is healthier to love them, while those day-to-day annoyances will be fought. I can fix a bad hair day, wrestling with the strands, but a bad hair-cut I will accept and adapt into the image I hold of myself. My hair style may change with the weather, but my hair color--including those four streaks of gray--will not be touched. I try to fix my posture for the sake of my spine, but my facial expressions are meant to please only myself. I only bought nice clothes when I decided it made me feel better, as opposed to caring how I appeared to others. I wear make up when I want to feel like a princess, but I will not do it when I want to impress someone. Maybe it's pure vanity: that I am good enough without all the borrowed feathers. If so, vanity is my favorite attribute.

Ridiculously, my feelings were hurt the other night when a friend made a suggestion, which--to me--sounded like, why can't you be like Emilie? Anyone out there who knows me knows my fondness for Emilie. If I weren't myself I should like to be her, but I am not. I am myself and ought to be loved for that. I am shy, despite my brashness, and I do not like strangers for the mere fact that I don't already know them. I sit out at dances, even though I could, conceivably, make a bold move and ask a guy to dance. Or, even walk the floor looking demure and attract one to me. The thing is, I don't want to, and I don't see how that is a flaw. I enjoyed my time, and hopefully I did not detract from anyone else's pleasure. I felt giddy for Emilie as she was admired by the many boys, smiling at the rightness of the night. Until, suddenly, I was wrong. My way was not the correct way. The comment wasn't meant to criticize; it was supposed to be encouraging. We've discussed this and understand the fact that we had misunderstood.

But as I do most character analyses, I took this to heart and contemplated it. I came to this conclusion: I am not like everyone else, but I love myself. It is not as much fun to deal with grays as it is black and white, laughed a friend, play-attacking me. Perhaps this is true, but it makes me miss Bryan who, when faced with such a choice, spotlighted the white, instead. Why can't you be more like you?

stepping out

I sat myself on the couch at about five thirty yesterday evening preparing to read a book. I wore anything but my usual jeans and sweatshirt, and my hair had the look of a soon-to-be-partier. Indeed, I had spent a good deal of time blowing-dry, pinning and curling my hair until it looked the fright that girls call elegant. I had no plans to go out, and my dates were the brothers Karamazov. I found, however, that I couldn't concentrate on Zosima when my hair begged to be taken out.

I immediately texted Emilie. Should I go to Danny's party? She had told me to the day before. However, I was not invited and had none of the information necessary to gate-crash. She never texted back. Instead the land-line rang. Hi, my name is Danny Nelson. We met once before... Wow, Emmers, quick work. With advice from Caitie I changed my outfit and casualized my hair by straightening it in a high ponytail. I even wore mascara.

And then I walked out my door and up to the door of a complete stranger, and into a room where I didn't know a single person. I was brave --and yes a little awkward at first-- but soon I was chatting with perfect strangers about movies, books, and French history. I feigned coolness when Death Cab for Cutie began to play. Joyce gave me their CD just a week ago, and I have learned that if I want to act popular I need to mimic anything Joyce. It worked. I talked to Danny for maybe a total of five minutes, but that didn't stop me from having a good time.

I left about one o'clock and headed home in a state of pride. Although Emilie was disappointed that my evening didn't end in a date invitation, I felt no regrets. I, Audrey, had been successfully social. Dates can wait. What a way to start off the New Year!

warning: do not read unless...

I think every TV show and every movie ever made has featured at least one scenario like this one; a letter/diary/note that was thoughtlessly or harmlessly written is read by the subject and a misunderstanding/understanding occurs. At any rate, it is a fiasco at least, a disaster at worst. Some things are meant never to be read. Others, ought to be topped with a warning sign--Caution, do not read unless you are a capable and intelligent human being. I guess those are the same thing. Or maybe, better yet, Caution, do not WRITE unless you are prepared for sitcom-like consequences.

I have had my share of situations resulting from a rather loose tongue and a free keyboard. Some have been comical, but not all. Perhaps I should learn to be more guarded, except that I don't mind taking the consequences, not for being honest. Others must bear the results that come from reading. Allow me to be more specific.

There was the Jon fiasco. That situation was just annoying. I understand that it hurt him when he read less than flattering things about himself on the site of an ex-girlfriend. But would he have been pained had he not read? No. Ignorance is bliss, so I've been told. Instead of going about his business, he made life more difficult for many people, trying to fight against the harshness he had read. It seemed a never-ending cycle as long as he frequented my blog. With each perusal the words became more severe. When he finally swore never to read it again, anger subsided to be replaced by cool indifference.

Situation number two: Jessica*'s Vivianne Leigh impersonation. In that case I will not try for a second to deny how in the wrong I was in our fight. But, I do not think that venting my feelings--no matter how childish they were--on my own blog is grounds for condemnation. All that I posted--and subsequently deleted--was said to her face before hand and later. Her pain, I am guessing, stemmed from the fact that I committed my sentiments to words, published before the eyes of many. I learned a lesson: When I publish negative feelings about anyone, I will provide them with an alias. The lesson she ought to have learned: do not expect stories of flowers, puppies and rainbows while in a fight.

The lesson that all should internalize: do not read unless prepared for the truth, good or bad. But when you do commit to reading, make sure to read the whole thing...I hate misunderstanding more than negative revelations, unless of course the confusion results in comedy.

I have just such an example. Ted's mom--and I really am sorry to her for this--believes me to be in love with her son. Over Thanksgiving Ted decided to do some archive reading on my blog, resurrecting the words I penned back in July. His reading it is embarrassing enough, with his full understanding of the background of each sentiment. What resulted from his trip into mylife is that his mom had the link to my blog on her computer's history. She does not understand my near-obsessive love of my friends, so when she read the archives, she became alarmed. Ted was interrogated, and I defamed. We both got a great laugh about it, but I'm not sure that Mrs. Long even now is convinced of the truth of the friendship.

Ah, well, "what do we live for but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn?"


* name changed to protect myself from repercussions.