mortification

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

i walked on the moon

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

ultimate

I. Played. Ultimate. Frisbee.

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

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

tryin' like hell not to swear

Damn it.

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

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

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

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

date dichotomy

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

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

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

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

freaky friday

My mother has switched bodies with...Ted.

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

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

my cheeriest poem this week

with the cadence of "Noisy Nora"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

distance

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

class of

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

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

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

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

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

swing

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

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

Do not break the fall.

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

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

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

calling all fans

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

smoke

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

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

very happy birthday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

crazy afraid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

consider the lillies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and my company will pay for school too.

an allegory

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

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

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

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

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

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

chocolate makes everything better

My roommates took to baking on Monday night, 'round about the same time that I was bawling in my room. Tuesday morning as I ate breakfast, Araceli walked through the room. Oh, she said, pausing before the towel-covered cake pan. We made chocolate cake last night, so feel free to have some if you want. Thank you, I replied almost too sincerely. I know you like chocolate, she grinned with some hesitation. We held a twenty second chit-chat before she left for class. Before she did, however, I made a venture on my side too. Your hair looks beautiful, I told her, evoking a real smile. It's true, you know. Her hair did look beautiful.

return to spender

Yesterday felt a little like March 28th 2005 all over again. (Except the part with the babies! My clothes still smell like baby.) I got an email from my credit card company. Or I should say one of my credit card companies, for I have several. In said email, they informed me that my payment was past due. They charged me a late fee, which put me over my credit limit, so then they charged me an over-limit fee. Though I have not spent a cent on that card since I used it to buy gas on my move down here, my balance was fifty dollars over my limit. I didn't understand how this happened. I mailed my check the same day that I got my statement. I went to the mailbox on my way back to my apartment to cry. In the mailbox was my check returned the same day for reasons of insufficient address. How could the address be insufficient on a self-addressed envelope?! And why did it take the postal service fifteen days to return it to me after they stamped it Return to Sender?

I called the credit card company right away. The kid who answered the phone didn't help me any, but with assertiveness that would have done Heather proud, I asked for someone who could. I told him my problem, and I told him to fix it. Just drop the fees, I said. I know you can. I'll make the payment now online, but I don't deserve these fees. After the conversation that involved asking, demanding, rebuking and begging grew to such a length as to make me wonder if my cell phone company was in cahoots with MasterCard, I began to cry. The man had already removed the 35 dollar over-limit fee, but had told me repeatedly that he could not remove the late fee. I trusted my payment in the hands of someone else, he said. That's not their fault. They don't go by postmarked dates, but by the day payments are received. Don't trust the postal service. Thanks. Lesson learned. But I did cry. I told him, a complete stranger, that I've been trying to pay this card off. That I make all my payments on time and refrain from charging. This still puts me over my limit, I wept. If it will help, he offered pompously, I can put in a request for you for a limit increase. I hung up.

I hung up and sat at my desk, laying my head on my arms and sobbing my heart out. It wasn't really the money. Well, not just the money. I still had to double the payment I thought I already made just to get below the point where a service charge wouldn't put me over my limit again. But also, after three months of pristine behavior (and good behavior before that) I am back to where I started.

a relevant tangent

Right Field

Saturday summers, when I was a kid
We'd run to the schoolyard and here's what we did
We'd pick out the captains and we'd choose up the teams
It was always a measure of my self esteem
Cuz the fastest, the strongest, played shortstop and first
The last ones they picked were the worst
I never needed to ask, it was sealed,
I just took up my place in right field.
Playing...

...right field, it's easy, you know.
You can be awkward and you can be slow
That's why I'm here in right field
Just watching the dandelions grow

Playing right field can be lonely and dull
Little leagues never have lefties that pull
I'd dream of the day they'd hit one my way
They never did, but still I would pray
That I'd make a fantastic catch on the run
And not lose the ball in the sun
And then I'd awake from the long reverie
and pray that the ball never came out to me
Here in...

...right field, it's easy, you know.
You can be awkward and you can be slow
That's why I'm here in right field
Just watching the dandelions grow

Off in the distance, the game's dragging on,
There's strikes on the batter, some runners are on.
I don't know the inning, I've forgotten the score.
The whole team is yelling and I don't know what for.
Then suddenly everyone's looking at me
My mind has been wandering; what could it be?
They point at the sky and I look up above
And a baseball falls into my glove!

Here in right field, it's important you know.
You gotta know how to catch, you gotta know how to throw,
That's why I'm here in right field, just watching the dandelions grow!

on this day...

I may have a thing for traditions. I love holidays. Birthdays are always very special and I tend to remember anniversaries of all sorts. Dates just stick in my head and each annum becomes significant. Yesterday I celebrated (sort of) the years that have passed since a day where I failed. Today marks another anniversary, though not in years. It is three months since I arrived in Austin.

My experiences in Austin have been mostly of the internal sort. All that intrinsic crap that only coming-of-age novelists write about. Okay, I'll admit, the months have flown by in simplicity and rote. What angst I have experienced got compacted into the last week or so. Which basically means: it's time for a change.

The nature of this change is not yet clear to me. I've written fourteen pages in my journal about it and made a spreadsheet or two, and Nora, Emilie and Mom have been victims of my need to discuss it all. But that's just a girl trying to understand the problem, not yet moved on to solving it. I haven't written about any of these conundrums on my blog, because I haven't talked about it openly in this here the real world. I've tried, but all my friends know how lame my efforts generally are.

Poor April, she was the first one to demand of me: won't you say something! Bryan and Ted (opposites themselves in their communication habits) fought me tooth and nail to get me to say the things I had to.

And so, knowing my own proclivity not to talk about my concerns/worries/hurt feelings/anything that's not fictional, I feel like I ought to make a written commitment now, to say, at least I am talking about it all tonight. Because that's my plan, to gird up my loins and express myself. But just on the off-chance that I chicken out, I think I'll keep that quiet.

auld lang sine

I was reminded this morning that today is New Year's Day, the day to which I looked forward last year, the day in which I failed two years ago. But like last year, this day I feel more in limbo, in the process of turning the bend in the road. I am not at the apex. Though, if I think about it, I never have been in March. Even that awful day, two years ago, didn't end everything. That came on April 20th. If the date means nothing, then at least the fact that it was the last day of finals should. The last day of finals last year had me toasting Emilie at PF Changs and singing Rainy Days and Mondays. So while I feel a little crumbly and somewhat adrift today, I will wait and see how I feel in a month.

me time

Ted called me an hour after I'd been hit by the car. "Are you okay?" he asked me after a little while. I told him I thought I was a little bit in shock. "It's not that. You don't sound well." Ted, I've been crying for the past hour. Of course I don't sound well. "No, Audrey. There's something else going on, isn't there?" I didn't say anything at the time.

Yeah, there's something else going on. There are times, very predictably the first weekend of each month, that I cry seemingly for no reason. (Hormones are a reason, though.) But last Sunday was not one of those times. Neither was Tuesday or Wednesday. Nor was last night. A week of this? I mused. In the middle of the month? This can't be right.

I called my Mom, my sister, Emilie, my home teachers and Kevin. And then yesterday I turned off my phone.

It's the first time since before I moved here that I told myself the world could wait, when the hope that someone would reach out to me wasn't enough to keep me anchored to my cell. I went on a walk and left it behind. I never checked it, not once, to see if someone had called, if there was a text message or a voicemail. I felt free of my shackles. My phone no longer sat in the back of my mind like a large, red, lidless eye tempting me in my every move.

I spent the morning writing in my journal, reading scriptures and praying. I didn't have any answers by the end, but I felt calmer and now at least I know what many of the questions are. That's a relief.

slightly

I've noticed for two months now my lack of blog writing. If only I could find something meaningful enough to write, I thought. I agonized over the triviality of my existence. There is nothing worth writing here, I thought. But then I decided that the longer I waited the more pressure I put on myself to write something totally inspiring. So, to break the block, I'll settle for something slightly inspiring.

I can never say that I have no friends. Not only will my Heavenly Father never leave me (did I get my negatives right?), but neither will those my dearests in DC and Provo. I have friends: I call Emilie every day and others without Cingular every weekend. I just have no friends here (which is not a stab at Kevin, my very best friend. I mean, of course, besides him).

I have three opportunities in which to meet people and begin to develop relationships: home, work and church. The ways in which I have discovered where I won't be making friends are the subtle slights that come my way.

The first week living with Consuelo and Araceli, I expected we'd get along. I never hoped for the type of mindful happiness that came from sharing beds and secrets as with my previous roommates. But call me an optimist that I thought we'd be civil. Then one day I sat reading Harry Potter five at the table. Connie came in and commented on the size of the book. I suppose it is rather large, but I've had worse. She remarked in an off-handed manner that she could never get through such a volume. I asked companionably if she didn't like to read. "I guess I'm just more of a thinker," she said. I've heard comments between the two of them (I have three roommates but Laura doesn't count, since she's never home): "she just reads." Fine. I'm a freak. And now the kitchen seems to shrink if I am in there with one of them, and we never speak to each other unless business demands it, namely bills that need paying.

At work, I can use small talk and the energy that comes from a rush to give myself courage to speak to my coworkers. Then I got transferred upstairs to women's department. It is deathly still up there. The only way it stays open is that the one customer who comes in per hour spends over a hundred dollars on three poorly made albeit orange shirts. The time passes very slowly because there is nothing to clean, no one to help, nothing to restock and nobody with whom to converse. Yesterday, two girls I work with, Elisabeth and Erika, were leaning against the counter talking. As I walked up to them Elisabeth looked at me, then switched her story into Spanish. Erika replied in the same language. I nodded my head and walked away. Point taken. I wanted to tell her she could have just asked me to leave, but I couldn't remember how to say that in French.

For two full hours, I brooded over my loneliness, compacted by the looming Enrichment activity to which I felt determined to go. Church was just another place to be ignored. How, after so recent a slight, could I find the courage to go and attempt to make friends?

Then Elisabeth did it again. This time I had been at the counter first, and one of the security guards came over to chat. She began conversing with him in Spanish, but he looked at me and replied to her question in English. My heart swelled with gratitude for his thoughtfulness.

From then on I felt included (except by Elisabeth of course). I had conversations with Hortensia and Louise and felt the Almost feeling, that says how closely resembling friendship my interactions with them are. It made me slightly more optimistic and brave enough to venture to Enrichment. You know, I think I might be making friends there, too. I don't have them yet, but it'll happen.

grocery shopping the audrey way

I once received this piece of advice from a friend: never, ever use a shopping cart when you have to walk home with your groceries. Oh, would that I had listened! Not until I began placing my selected item on the conveyor belt did I begin to think that they looked a little...massive.

Sure enough, carrying it all home seemed a little comical and somewhat painful. My arms were strained and sore from moving the day prior and my hands were scratched, blistered and bruised. As I stumbled home along the rather busy four-lane road, I wished that I could just look enough like a bag woman that no one would pay me any mind. Oh, just don't look at me, I prayed. Embarrassingly enough, I had to stop and re-situate the load once or twice under the stares of passing motorists.

Humiliation never did seem to peak. In my parking lot a bag ripped, spilling cans and bottles at my feet. What sort of bagger puts all the cans in one bag and leaves another bearing only three ramen noodles?! I placed the expelled groceries into my purse and continued on from there, while two very able-bodied boys watched from where they stood talking by their new sports car.

For one heavenly moment I placed all the bags on the ground while I unlocked the pedestrian gate into my complex (and yes, I have a complex now), but as I hoisted the load I stepped onto the lawn, sliding my flip-flops through slippery new mud. Crash! Down I went, breaking the strap of my new purse and my fall, by landing on my recently acquired food. Did I land on the eggs or the tomatoes, I asked myself dryly. The eggs.

As comfortable as flip-flops can be, there is a downside to them. When they get dirty, so do your feet. I stomped the last fifty yards to my door with a clump of black clay clinging to my toes. I unloaded my groceries on my porch and bound my feet in the plastic bags before entering. Plastic rustled with each step I took, back and forth from the door to the kitchen putting away groceries. Between fits of tears and giggles, I washed my toes and thought how very much my style that whole afternoon had been.

list almost lost

My mom asked me to email her a paper I wrote in Family History about Bob's family. She has asked me this countless times since I wrote it in April. I finally put forth the effort to get it to her and couldn't find it on my U drive. My only other thought was the flash drive that sometimes works. And there it was. Along with other little treasures. The papers were mostly composed for my Personal History class, pages about my family, my childhood and adopting Step-Bob. Where they fall short in facts they are rich in truth.

And there was one last paper titled simply List. I wrote it on March 28th, the anniversary of the day I began to Fail. The list has 101 things I learned in the year prior, my way of turning my Failure into a success.

Some of the list includes things that are rather random: my hair makes me look like a cockatoo in the morning, Star Wars III was a let down. Snape is still on the side of good….yes he is!

Some are more proverbial: being honest means more than telling the truth, laughing cures everything…except when it doesn’t, and crying in front of other people is okay--In fact, it’s nicer than crying alone.

There are practical discoveries: Jet Blue is my favorite airline, and How to drive stick-shift .

Personal Growth: I can bear seeing my dad cry, I can write a complete novel, and I can get a good GPA.

I have personal testimony and long-term goals. There are things that are changing about me all the time, and things that will always, always stay the same. I have a unicorn.

semesters end

I think I cried myself to sleep again, but to be sure I'll have to ask Caitie. At any rate I know I cried a lot throughout the evening, starting when I met Emilie on campus at 4. Usually it was after a mention of homework or jobs or housing, but sometimes it was after questions of other sorts and once it was during Gilmore Girls. But last night I got a perspective on my tears. (I love being analytical and emotional at the same time!) It is because I am trying. All the messes in which I have invested myself for the next three weeks, I have invested in fully. Those semesters when I have failed (and I don't mean just school) are those in which I haven't cried toward the end.

My first semester I fell apart for a couple of days, until my home teachers came over to read me a quote they liked from President Hinkley. "Now, my dear sisters, that is the way with you. You are doing the best you can, and that best results in good to yourself and to others. Do not nag yourself with a sense of failure. Get on your knees and ask for the blessings of the Lord; then stand on your feet and do what you are asked to do. Then leave the matter in the hands of the Lord. You will discover that you have accomplished something beyond price."

The next semester my mom called as I worked on papers in the last weeks of April. I sobbed uncontrollably on the phone. I wanted to be done. I wanted to leave, to go home to my mom and give up. That is how I feel now. I got an email from my mom this morning that says she misses me and is happy I'll be home soon. I want very much to drop out of school this moment, fly to Texas and take up permanent residence with my mom. I want to be a little girl again. Yet, in my head I have these heroic dreams for myself. I see me sitting up at night in the library faithfully studying and writing papers. Those images don't coincide with me crawling into bed exhausted or frustratedly revising a paper half an hour before it's due. I am tormented with the idea that I could be doing it better.

Other semesters it has not been this way. Two of them ended without struggle. Of course, those two I gave up on somewhere in the middle. These weeks of finals were spent making spaghetti and fried chicken (separate meals) to feed those who were studying. One semester I bought books and fudge and walked happily in the rain. I had it easy, because I was not fighting against anything. I was not fighting for anything. But now I am fighting for a lot. And I will win. I'll just have a few minor breakdowns in the meanwhile.

did i really just?

The panic began some time last week, around the time when I discovered the countdown to my imminent move was only 24 days. The tears started last night. When I lay down for bed, as the stress slowly and grudgingly left my body I began to weep. I pressed my face into my pillow to try to stifle the sound, but cry I must and did until I fell asleep. When I woke up in the morning I took an inventory of myself and wondered, did I really just cry?

In an in-class debate when a girl began a personal attack as her academic one failed, I again wanted to cry. I wished for an abandoned bathroom where I might weep tears of frustration. At work when Aaron inquired about my progress in apartment hunting, I turned away to hide the sudden shine in my eyes. Don't make me cry, is all I responded. The lovely boy promptly began discussing Igor, the Russian assassin. Of course that distracted me. Just not enough.

The white noise is always there, and as long as I ignore it it sounds like static, just static telling me that there is too much friction in my life right now, too much channel surfing, too many distractions. I couldn't agree more. But if I stop and listen to the noise it becomes oh so much blacker. It starts whispering to me of all my insecurities. It tells me I am a failure. You have no place to live, it says. You have no job. You couldn't even sell your contract to take care of Nora. Her stress is your fault too. And you have nothing to offer anyone, especially Kevin. If you had chosen to stay here and do your duty and do things the right way, you could have gone to him without debt and with a degree. What are you now? Nothing. Did you actually think you could do this? Did you really just try?

I'm trying not to listen.

magic anticipated

Tuesday felt like Christmas Eve, the way it has always felt since my childhood, and hopefully how it will always feel long past when I am dead. The feeling is that of anticipation. It is not the anticipation of presents or of food but of magic. There is not any emotion that is quite like the anticipation of magic. The restless night before the first day of kindergarten, the slow-passing hours before a day at Disneyland, the butterflies that dance intricate waltzes in your stomach just to say, Tomorrow! This joy and fear are enough to make life real for you, testifying that you had not lived until this moment of squirming hope, and that you will likely die if the magic doesn't come soon. Oh how hard waiting becomes at those times! Sleep is the best way to pass the hours, because then you cannot count them. However, few can sleep when the halo of anticipated magic hangs around them. The glow is too bright and too beckoning. Even dreams pale in comparison to the simple splendors of waking the next morning.

I remember from when I was little opening my eyes in the gray light before dawn, blinking away the mundane from my eyes, and suddenly having my stomach give a whoosh as I recalled with vividness the magic waiting for me just outside my room. Every fearsome and flighty word I knew leaped to my brain to try to describe to my heart just what lay out in a day run by magic: elves and oliphants, wrapping paper and evergreens, a word that sounds like "pomplemoose", cocoa and Mom (mom encompasses so much magic herself, that the only word to capture all those sensations--the way her hands stroked my hair, the voices she used when reading aloud of dwarves and wizards, the smile she had that she reserved just for special occasions--is 'Mom').

These feelings of radiance attended my sleep Tuesday night and forced me to wake before my alarm Wednesday morning. Not really fair of course, since in this instance the magic wasn't due the moment I woke, but a whole twelve hours later. It is lucky for me, and perhaps for all who know me, that the magic kept all her promises over the next three days.

I felt well rewarded by her enchantments, especially surprised and pleased by the charms of the Denver airport. Other times I felt swallowed by time himself and what I experienced is mine only. But in Denver I saw, touched, heard, smelled and tasted outside of myself. It is the first time I noticed how bewitching the airport is. Of course, this is the first time I explored it during my layover instead of sitting self-contained at my gate. I walked with a quick but heedless pace up and down the length of terminal B, absorbing sensations real and imagined. I felt the grainy texture of the hand rail pass under my fingers, swiftly turning them black, as I meandered on the automatic sidewalks. As I stepped, I pretended my feet sunk tiltingly into uneven surfaces of sand and grass, afterward hopping off the walkway as it came to its end. The sensual aromas wafting from the chocolate factory smoothly replaced the scent of salted popcorn just a few feet before. Children screamed and giggled and somewhere someone sang. Shops of crisp books followed boutiques with dresses made of rose-tinted copper.

On my third trip around I only watched the people. An old man with a cane and liver spots aimlessly walked the terminal too, graciously allowing me to pass him whenever our circuits met. He reached a hand to his brow to tip the hat that wasn't there. Probably his hat used to be red but had faded to a rough pink from sun exposure at countless ball games. I smiled and walked on. A young boy shuffled backward against the rhythm of the moving sidewalk, not in a hurry to get anywhere, rather enjoying his stagnation, unlike his frazzled young mother who watched the other children too small to amuse themselves in an airport. An old woman brought to her husband his favorite snack of honey roasted peanuts before seating herself, feet tucked up on the chair, next to him. They held gnarled hands as they read. Families, couples, wanderers, all with their own measure of romance and magic. I felt connected to them all as I traipsed through their midst and as they began to cast an eye toward me, watching the odd girl who looked happily lost walking the terminal again.

This was magic experienced.

Yet, when I boarded my flight and my plane left the ground, my stomach once more gave that whoosh that said something greater still waited at the other end of my journey.

everything i needed to know

I learned in statistics.

The lesson for today: chi-squared. What I learned from it: chi (pronounced kai) is a Greek letter for the sound "ch" as in "Bach". It looks like this: X. Historically it was used all throughout Europe any time the word "Christ" appeared. Christopher Columbus signed his name (and others wrote his name) as Xopher. Even Cristina Aguilara knows this (of course her parents are BYU alumni) as she tattooed Xina on her neck. So now, you may all dispel the myth that signing X-mas is disrespectful and a sign of our increasing secularism as a culture. It is in fact more historic to use chi.

The lesson on Wednesday: difference of percentages. The example: contracting the common cold from a) playing poker and 2) French kissing. What I learned: You have a greater risk of catching someone's cold by playing poker with them than you do by making out for two minutes. And yes, that is backed up by science, though it makes me wonder who got to participate in that study! Bacteria do not reside in saliva but in mucus. Touching one's eyes or nose transfers the germs onto your hands, a very communicable place. It would be more sanitary, says my professor, for ward greeters to offer a tongue than a hand to church goers. It may also boost the prestige of that calling.

success

Jean Paul Ghetty gave this formula for success:

Wake early, work hard and strike oil.

discovery

I do not make friends. I discover them. I'm the Christopher Columbus of my social life. Just as he did nothing to bring about the western hemisphere, I seem to stumble upon already existing friendships and then receive credit for my clumsiness. This week I staked my flag into two new friends.

Rachael. She is the Cosmo's supervisor right after me. Our interaction usually involves saying hi while switching out our tills. But we also sit together at the staff meetings. On Monday, when the thought of another hour standing at the register and greeting greedy freshman with a smile nearly made me cry, Rachael showed up and took up the load. I went home and napped. When our Wednesday meeting came I arrived early and she late. The only empty seat was next to me, as if everyone else had acknowledged Rachael's rightful place. She and I talked and laughed and made cynical gestures when Curtis spoke too long. And on Friday when she felt sick, I realized that she is my friend, because I felt as badly about her pain as I had about mine.

Aaron. Aaron is the student manager during my shift every day. He begins his sojourn in my area with a question along the lines of "best movie ever made" or "top ten bands of the seventies." One time he asked me who I thought the worst US President was. Of course these questions lead to conversations and debates. He once called Ayn Rand the Anti-Christ! I love the boy to death. Naturally, that means he is gay, whether openly admitted or not. He is a soft, round sweetheart. When I had a bad day, he thought of me between work days, and when he thought of me, he thought "cheese." He cut me a wedge of cheese, because as he got ready for the day, he remembered my fondness for the food. How cute is that!

It's a good day when you discover two new friends.

dayspring

I am over the disappointments of Monday morning. Although I still do not like the grades I received, nor the news, and though the little pains of that day were very real (I must say that it felt as though everything went wrong), this morning they have fled. My alarm clock chased them away, and I woke before my usual time, avoiding hitting snooze until I heard the water shut off in the bathroom. No, I woke early, read in the Gospel of Luke, and started my day off with the strength of the Lord. How long has it been since I woke up early? A couple weeks? I appreciated the reminder last night that made me reset my alarm clock and back it up with my cell phone on full volume.

The softness of morning surprised me, for when I had allowed it to be my enemy its harshness had wounded me, stumbling from bed at too late an hour. But this morning the amber glow of my lamp warmed everything which fell within its halo, the weight of the blankets over my legs gave comfort instead of imprisoning me, and the words of Luke cheered my soul: "Through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."

taking it

For two days I have had in my head the parting words of Professor Kearl. Absorb negative externalities. In this one line he reconciled Ayn Rand and the Gospel, something I have struggled to do since the day I discovered both were true. But the line keeps circling my head, during times when I have no thoughts save nothingness, where I can't make heads or tails of anything. Then the words come back. Absorb negative externalities. It's a tribute to my personality quirks that this phrasing means more to me than "turn the other cheek." When my emotions got too heightened, when the mental rantings became too articulate with ever shortened vocabulary words, the phrase would come as a gentle reminder and calm things down. Perhaps because it appealed to my rational side. At one point to still my increasingly rapid breathing (sure signs of emotions to follow), I kept repeating the sentence to myself. I can take it, I told myself. I'd rather take it, I added. If I take it, if I keep it inside, no one else gets hurt by it. I can take it. I took out the trash at work, talking to myself as I walked with my hands full of bulging black trash bags. Take it, I said. Just take it, I repeated. TAKE IT! I screamed in my mind and I threw the bags into the dumpster. I almost collapsed with the physical and emotional exertion, but the tears were gone by the time I got back to the counter at work. Absorb the negative externalities.

small heroes

I almost ignored the fire alarm when it started going off during my morning class. Everyone, in fact, ignored the loudspeaker. Noise in the hall shouldn't interrupt a good class discussion. Finally we evacuated. The prerecorded voice said over and over not to use the elevator, which is fine by me. I was only one floor below street level.

As I passed one classroom, however, I noticed someone emerging, someone to whom one flight of steps might be more than an inconvenience. I've met this kid many times, though I don't know his name. He's simply the blond curly-haired boy who has the electric wheelchair I so covet. I kept my eyes on him as Laura and I walked to the stairs. Would he take the elevator anyway? It probably wouldn't hurt anything, I thought. Laura had the same worries. How is he going to get up the stairs? I saw the answer to that.

One guy who had followed Curly out of the class, bent down next to him and said jovially, "How about some help there buddy?" The strapping youth waved a hand to another anonymous classmate and the two stooped and lifted the chair between them. I couldn't watch the whole procession out the door, because I had already easily mounted the steps by myself. As I walked out of the building, my heart lifted at the thought of those two boys and the kind deed they had done.

bugs for breakfast

It was bad enough Sunday morning. I needed pancakes. For that, I was willing to use the sifter on the weevil-infested flour. I'm fairly certain that I caught most of them before they hit the mixing bowl, and the rest got cooked on the griddle. Of course, I had no syrup, so the entire Sunday morning pancake breakfast went a little wrong. My mood darkened all day any time I thought of pinching maggots in my fingers to dispose of them in the garbage. But I moved past it.

Monday was worse. Exhausted, I moved about my morning routine with my eyes closed and my feet scuffing in slippers. I dumped a packet of instant oatmeal into my bowl, added water and microwaved it. I pulled a frothy pink and white mess out a minute later and shuffled to the dining room. I opened Sudoku to waken my mind and then I moved my spoon to the cereal. I thank God that I looked at my spoon before inserting it into my mouth. I nearly screamed when I saw them. Instead I held my breath, held it tight against the gagging in the back of my throat. I didn't know if the bugs had been that big to begin with or whether microwaving had engorged them. Half an inch long. I stood calmly and deposited my bowl in the sink. I rinsed with hot water and sent the carcasses to their demolition by garbage disposal. I did not eat that morning.

Having bugs for breakfast is worse than waking up on the wrong side of the bed. At work my normal cheerful attitude lacked as I cleaned out the ice cream machine someone turned off Saturday night. Spoiled soft serve has a terribly sticky-sweet smell on top of the rotten-sour aroma of old milk. I think I am cured of ever eating again. My bad mood haunted me all day, and I kept wishing I could find someone at whom to be mad. I could have taken it out on Nora, since she's family and has to forgive me. I would apologize later, and mean it. I'm sorry Nora, it's just that I had bugs for breakfast.

say anything

I remember being introduced to the language before I even entered high school. I encountered it at my first stake dance as I rotated in circles while a gangly boy tried not to look at me and not to step on my toes. At that time, small talk did not come naturally to anyone. I was not the only one who preferred silence to questions one heard, such as "do you play any musical instruments?" But by the time I left high school I was years behind my peers, because I still preferred silence while they had mastered the art of chit-chat. Small talk is part of that social capital that comes as a latent function from our educational system. I did not learn it.

Once I entered college I resisted fluency for a long time, but I found that I was the one hurt by the insistence that communications be meaningful or forgone entirely. Because usually the latter occurred. It turns out that one cannot become acquainted with someone without talking, and no one begins a conversation by asking your views on Dostoevsky and the latest political trend toward legislation for the prevention of abuse against small animals and super models.

Truth, never a big component of small talk, also led to complications. Truth is only allowed if it is entirely pleasant and of general interest. It rarely is. When I'm asked about my family, for instance, Mom's affair and Dad's insanity do better in their respective closets, while I have learned to focus on my siblings in general terms--their whereabouts and ages, etc.

Also, questions are not asked to get answers, and statements are not provided to give answers. All talking in small talk is to avoid silence and maintain predictability. Never break those rules.

I took a crash course in small talk after my second year of school. The first, I maintained simple awkwardness amid general good standing socially. The second, I turned my back on accepted social graces and dared anyone to care; they did, as did I. Last year I learned to smile during a speech that held no interest for me, to ask questions of a stranger when introduced and to form my remarks in such a way as would liven a conversation and not kill it. It is only sheer perverseness that leads me to do otherwise on certain occasions.

So now I speak the language passably well, though it does not come naturally. Like a student living in a foreign land, I restrict myself to that language and stumble through it as my only means of communication. I go to work and I go to school and I come home and answer the generally expected question of, "how was your day."

At work I say superb and absolutely a lot. I am superb, I will absolutely get that done, the new system is absolutely superb. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I just said, like conjugating a French verb; surely that couldn't have been right. But then my boss smiles genuinely and lets me get back to work. I like everyone that I work with, but I do not know anything about them but that they are "doing good" today and that this one works efficiently and that one doesn't.

At school I have become Hermione, raising my hand and giving my opinions on everything. That is perhaps the only way something intelligent comes out of my mouth all day (except for the fact that I always use an adverb correctly when asked how I am doing). Those seated next to me ask about my previous classes and sometimes we compare professors. We often discuss material for group projects, but then I find them falling into questions such as, "so, where are you from?" "what are you majoring in?" and "what do you want to do with that after graduation?" Though I want to cry that these people do not care about my past or my ambitions, I have structured answers to give them that they will find interesting enough that their smiles aren't faked, and forgettable enough that we'll have something to talk about the next time.

How was your day? Fine. Good. Superb.

No one should go through an entire day without saying anything.

you might be on nyquil...

You (or I) might be on NyQuil if...

...on a test where you would otherwise have demonstrated amazing math skills, you add 2.5 + 59.5 to get 72. Might I add that the range of the numbers in question only went up to 69?

...on same said test, you calculate the percent rate of change perfectly in five different problems and then on the multiple choice you choose the highest rate of change when it asked for the smallest.

And my personal favorite:

You might be on NyQuil if you go to the store to buy more medicine and buy DayQuil in liquid form instead of gel caps with the intent of carrying the medicine to school each day to redose.

rhea

This weekend I got a whole new perspective regarding just how long a year and a half is. If it were a single unit of time--obscure yet specific like a fortnight--I would call it a Rhea*. Now, on its own, it's not so intimidating. Just one. But looked at as a collection of smaller increments, the Rhea becomes more menacing. All apologies to my best accounting friend, to whom the following arbitrary units of measurement may be painful.

Sick days. I anticipate that in the next Rhea I will have six colds: four minor, two major. That means an innocent looking eighteen months is really a sinister 10 sick days. It is one sprained ankle, roughly 80 exams and 12 cried-over season finales.

It is one birthday (of mine), two or three family vacations, two Christmases, dozens of lesser holidays and approximately 78 family home evenings. It is two fights with Ted, two letters from Bryan, and two visits from April. It is three weddings**, 156 date nights, and probably 20 actual dates. It is one nephew (hint to Jamie) and one degree.

It is also approximately 360 emails, 156 phone calls and four visits. I'd guess that 20 of those emails will be from me, exhibiting cracks in my emotional well-being, and 20 of those phone calls will be from him making it better.

* The name Rhea comes from the beginning of rhinoceros, because 18 months is the approximate gestation period of said animal, and the ending of Flea, which insect may live said length under ideal circumstances. Rhea is also the wife of Cronus the God of Time.

** All predictions are determined by recent rates.

menthol for the id

I hung up the phone and immediately teared up. My inner self began to whine, he didn't even want to keep talking. Another, loftier voice chimed in, come now, people get busy, and you can't live your life on the phone. My Id didn't answer except with a crude gesture and a greater onrush of tears. Voice number three came in calmly and rationally, stopping Super Ego from retorting condescendingly. Come now, my Ego stated, isn't it obvious? It happens this way every month. Just let her be.

Later as I dressed for Jason's wedding reception, my frustration grew at each outfit that looked, quite frankly, appalling on me. I borrowed something from Nora, the worst yet. I walked into her room sobbing. When did I get this fat? She turned and appraised me. Honey, you're probably bloated. All signs (gesturing to the tears) point to it. I nodded and she selected another skirt, A-line instead of cut on the bias. I made sure that my hair was amazing to take focus from my body.

Sunday was no better, a cold adding its merry presence to the Evil One.

That's when Nora gave me the Gift.

It was a menthol tablet that I dropped in the hot water of the shower. Instantly I was swathed in a cloud of minty steam. My skin burned, my sinuses cleared and my eyes watered until I cried. That's when I noticed the music in the background: Dashboard Confessional. I wept until I stepped from the tub and felt not only clean but refreshed. While the emo group sang angrily I towel-dried happily.

The cold went untouched. I am still blowing my nose every few minutes. But the medicine worked for my mood. In fact, I am quite cheerfully enjoying my convalescence. My Id is even being rational.

Well, sort of.

master plan

I have never been ambitious. I thought I naturally had a penchant for contentment. It turns out that I just needed to pick a direction, and then I would run in it. I didn't do well in classes until I chose a major. Now I do fairly decently. I also see how everything I learn ties in to what I want to be when I grow up. Because I know that now too. I want to be a great mom and write whenever I can--fiction, nonfiction, whatever.

But now that I've decided to be a writer, I want to be the best writer I know how. I want to get my master's degree in creative writing from the University of Texas (James Joyce gave them his money!). In order to follow this path in the preferred Energizer Bunny method, I will have to minor, at least, in English. Nothing so easy since most of my electives have stemmed that way anyway.

But yesterday, I received a cruel blow. The English department wants to require one more class than in years previous. One more class added onto my well thought-out graduation plan. Where do I fit it? Next semester, in my 15 credit load? What about Spring and Summer with their 9 credits apiece? I suppose there is always fall. Seventeen credits isn't too bad for a final semester with all 400-level classes. Right? At any rate, I am not staying in Provo an extra semester.

So what do I do? What's the master plan? I don't like that I don't know.

alas, babylon

One of my favorite books, one that I can read over and over, is Alas Babylon by Pat Frank. At the beginning of the book, Randy receives a simple telegram from his brother Mark using their childhood code for danger. Only days later the horizon is lit by multiple mushroom clouds, and the small town of Fort Repose is cut off from the world without an idea of what is going on outside.

Cut to a new TV series airing today. Jericho. A small town in Kansas witnesses multiple mushroom clouds on the horizon and are cut off without information. What will they do? They look like they're going to try to recreate The O.C. without the beach.

If I were Pat Frank, I'd sue. But I'm not. I am, in fact, the next closest plagiarist to them both. I think I am annoyed that the story hits too close to my own. At least mine isn't full of pretty boys who give you the creeps...yet.

happy talk like a pirate day

Talk Like a Pirate Day stems from a long and well-reputed tradition begun upon false premises by none other than nautical expert Dave Barry. I first learned of the holiday in high school, though my love for pirates existed long before. This picture, in truth, was not taken to commemorate this celebration but was a momento of a summer fling. I take this day to remember Cap'n Pete and our love.


. . . and, um, yar.

the passing of ann

Ann Richards, the last REAL governor of Texas, just died. In the article about her death, she was quoted as having said of our dear president/her successor, "Poor George. It's not his fault; he was born with a silver foot in his mouth." We will miss her.

baseball and weddings

After my brother's wedding reception (which is really his wife's reception, which is really for her mother) I am more firmly convinced that I would prefer a park for my own celebrations. A baseball field is the only place where bunting and diamonds are allowable. And, Heather added, what a better place to celebrate "going all the way." At least my sisters made it fun.

pitts

I had a dream last night where I was at a resort with my family and lots of bad things happened, including water rising and swallowing me, the way it used to in my old nightmares. But one thing stuck out to me. I was dating Brad Pitt. Weird. I have many explanations for this entire dream, from images I've seen lately to themes about which I have been thinking. One theory includes Brad being representative of Death (eg. Meet Joe Black). But why, I ask myself, would I want to analyze this when I could just enjoy it? Move over Angelina!

a comprehensive countdown

Work was very productive today. I developed a countdown to all the important dates for the next year. Disclaimer: I only did those dates I could remember off the top of my head. Yes, there are some missing. But not many.

3- Jason's wedding.
7- Ted's Birthday.
11- Ashley's Birthday.
18- Nora's Birthday.
35- Kevin's Birthday.
46 April's Birthday.
66- Veteran's Day.
78- Thanksgiving.
110- Christmas.
116- New Year's Eve.
152- Debi's Birthday.
161- Valentine's Day.
167- Emilie and Janiece's Birthdays.
192- St. Patrick's Day.
199- Alyessa's Birthday.
207- April Fool's Day.
219- Caitie's Birthday.
221- Tax Day.
231- Dad's Birthday.
235- Mom's Birthday.
241- Cinco De Mayo.
244- MY BIRTHDAY!
301- Independence Day.
312- Tarythe's Birthday.
316- Heather's Birthday.
318- Jason's Birthday. Tarythe's Anniversary.
321- Pioneer Day.
339- Cassidy's Birthday.
342- Joyce's Birthday.
365- September 6, 2007.

forgotten nightmares

It's not news that I have strange and disturbing dreams. Ted commented that what I casually call dreams most people would label nightmares. I shrugged. Like I said, it's not news. As far as I can remember--and my memory is pretty good--the nightmares started over two years ago, the summer I went home after Freshman year.

The foremost theme was death or otherwise negatively associated leaving of a loved-one. I became firmly convinced by my subconscious that I had a fear of abandonment. I began to notice in my interactions with others that I fully expected them to leave. The times when I have been proven wrong mean more to me than seems normal on the outside perhaps.

There was the trek of Fat Man's Misery in Zions where Ted hiked with me far behind the others. Bryan never left my side as I learned to ski, wiping-out at every turn. Debi stuck to my side as I grew sick from dehydration. And Kevin sat in the heat while multiple locksmiths attempted to break into my rental car.

These all seem like trivial events, and maybe they are, but something interesting to note is that I no longer dream that I am being left. While my nightmares may be scary and frustrating, I do not wake afraid. I have become so used to it being true that even in my dreams those that matter stay.

oops

I got this email from another supervisor at work today, reporting on last night's business:

"Slow most of the shift. It picked up right before closing.
A note to all those with tills. Peter said not to let any one else ring up besides you and he said that because he is very smart. Do not let anyone else touch the tills.
We had a major problem tonight,
Bottom line, I enjoyed this job while it lasted."

They say a word to the wise is more than sufficient. I won't leave my register for anything! Wow.

it counts

I felt like a Sesame Street special, sitting on the tile floor opening box after box and simply counting the contents. I used no upper-level math, I did nothing particularly skillful. I simply counted.

The mind-numbing process began after eleven PM, the inventory crew having been christened with Mountain Dew just before. The assignments were given, and I smiled sympathetically at the boy whose task it was to spend the next hour and a half in the walk-in freezer, while I got to be warm and comfortable in the dry goods stock room. The time passed quickly enough for those of us in the "Cage". We all joked and talked. Sometimes the laughs would come a minute or so late because the listener's focus had been so intent on not losing count. That was the worst. Was I on 36 or 46? Damn!

Soon even the Dew and the company lost their power to help and the counting just didn't seem as interesting as it had when we started. That's one! One hour! That's two. Two hours...Three. . . I got home at three o'clock in the morning absolutely exhausted. Sleep, however, didn't seem as restful as it might have were I not continuing the inventory in my dreams. A room with imaginary dimensions can be quite full of strange and scary items that need counting.

So why did I do it? I asked myself that question when I almost fell asleep before ten last night while waiting for my shift to start. I knew why I was doing it. Because I had said I would. The money didn't matter, not really, and I didn't need the practice (I'm almost quite certain I have my numbers down). I did it to impress the boss man, to make him see I am cooperative, willing to help and a hard and dedicated worker. I have my eye on his job, after all. It paid off too, when I got the email thanking me profusely for a job well done. I am now in even greater favor with the Powers that Be at work, a good thing when I'm taking the weekend off last minute. So, I'm glad I did it after all, because it counted for something.

Who has a Great Lakes accent? I've been speaking lately with one and I can't figure out why! Bags comes out "begs" and aware sounds like "awear". Who did it to me?

hands down

re·cid·i·vism A tendency to lapse into a previous pattern of behavior.

Again. Yet. Still.
Whatever.

growth

I picture to myself the woman that I want to become. She is prettier, kinder, wiser, more patient and more faithful than I. Yet I do not despair. I was once small and weak, not able to walk or talk, crying whenever things did not go my way, and I could not control the simplest bodily function. And that was only twenty-one years ago. It is encouraging to see how far I have come.

i fought the law

I looked into my rear-view mirror at the beautiful display of red and blue flashing lights. Ah, Heckle! ~as Emilie would say. I pulled to the side, still maintaining one hand on the bag of Wendy's takeout to make sure it doesn't fall over. I put the car in park and rolled down my window. Officer Ought-to-be-retired walked up to my window and politely introduced himself.

"I'm Officer Ought-to-be-retired, with the BYU police." Crap, a rent-a-cop; I couldn't drop Jason's name. "Have you been warned about stop signs before?" he asked after requesting my license and registration.

Well sure, I thought. Someone's told me before that they exist. I just never believed it. "No," I replied distractedly as I rummaged through my purse. Why haven't I cleaned this thing out! I berated myself as I searched every pocket before finding my license.

"And are you aware of the speed limit through here?" I paused in my quest through the glove compartment and stared at the street in front of me, looking for such help as a speed limit sign. I must have passed it. "It's twenty-five in residential areas."

"Oh. I thought it was thirty." But, now that you mention it, I think I have seen signs with those numbers on them during my drive through this neighborhood each day. Huh.

I handed him my undignified bent copy of the registration and an even more bedraggled insurance paper. I guess I need to clean out Dad's glove compartment as well. I mentioned inanely that this wasn't my car, just so the polite old man would know that I would have kept my papers in better order. Yeah, I thought, just look at my purse.

"I'll be right back."

"Stupid BYU." I slapped a hand to my mouth. Why can't I just not say things I think? And why when I do say them do I have absolutely no control over my volume? Luckily he had already walked away, and I was left to consider my behavior toward an officer of the law.

I used to be awed and intimidated by police officers in their pressed uniforms and shiny badges. When I was five I got an officer's signature for a book of autographs I had. The awe wore off, replaced by pure hatred. Cops were bullies, I decided, after one pushed his way through my front door and me to drag a scared little girl back to her abusive parents. I had held my ground against men with guns and watched them do the wrong thing in the name of the law. Power hungry, gun-slinging play-ground bullies.

Except Jason. He has done what I had thought since the age of sixteen to be impossible; he made me respect law enforcement again. Jason believes in honor and duty and tasers. Plus he gave me a get out of jail free card when he told me I can drop his name if I get pulled over. I never got a chance to use that privilege, so for a moment I was excited that I had California-rolled my way through a stop sign, until I remembered that I was on campus.

While Jason's contempt for the BYU cops is palpable, my own was secured independently of his opinion. I remember too clearly being pulled over by The Beat on my way to class one early morning. I was late and in a rush. The car pulled up beside me and waved me to the side. Oh yes, and I was on foot. Jay walking! the cop cried, not bothering to exit his vehicle. I merely gave him a scathing look and walked away. Let him get out and chase me, I thought, I have a paper to turn in. He didn't chase me, and I haven't respected the over-inflated security guards since.

The officer returned to my window. "I've written this down as a warning," he said. "For the stop sign and the speed. You know-" he gave me a fatherly look- "you only dropped down to eight miles an hour before you continued through the stop sign. I should write you a ticket..."

But we both know you're not going to, I finished for him in my head. I took the papers, restored them to their rightful piles, and pulled away from the curb, making sure to complete my stop before turning left. Next time, I won't take a short-cut through campus.

singing my life with his words

I think everyone hears themselves in song lyrics. A good song is one you can sing to or say "dum di dum" when the words escape you. But a great song is one where you wonder how the writer got in your brain. Often it is just a line or two, little tidbits that I collect for my mental scrapbook. Lately I hear a phrase in every song, grin and think, Yeah I know how that feels. But every so often there is an entire song that throbs my heart and spins my mind. There are some songs that reverberate in me every time I hear them.

Avril Lavigne's "I'm With You" reminds me of Atlas Shrugged. I see a girl slouched over with the fatigue of living and fighting. She is in love with an ideal, one that must be embodied in some man, the man she will love, but she is weary with waiting. She is lonely for him.

Vertical Horizon sings the line, "You're waiting for someone to push you away,"in sensuous and disappointed tones. I hear the chorus and see characters from my own book trapped in a montage scene, as if in a movie of my imagination, and I feel powerless to write what I see and feel.

In 1993 I sat in a van for a family road trip to Colorado, our first vacation since our move to Texas. Nora had a Walkman to entertain her, and she let me listen to one song on it. Dreams by the Cranberries. It haunted me, and though I'm certain I didn't understand it, I did remember it. I heard it again five years later on the soundtrack to You've Got Mail. I sat up in my living room while the movie played and begged to know what that song was I was hearing. Years have passed and I hear it now and then on the radio. It still haunts me but means more to me now. The lyrics are simple, but I feel as if they are mine.

For Good. Tell me, my friends, have you ever seen me get through this song without crying? I finally drove to Target and bought the CD just because I knew I needed to have that song near at hand for all those times when I recall my friends with nostalgia and loneliness.

These songs are ones that I respect for the depth at which they strike me, but the point of this blog was actually my amusement at what other songs I have heard myself in lately. As each selection on the radio follows the last, my ears perk up and I think stupidly, yeah that's so true. Maybe it is the mood I have been in lately and this feeling of pseudo-intellectualism will pass. All the same, it seems a bit silly that I can suddenly "get" Celine Dion.