editing

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

another class assignment

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

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

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

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

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

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

inevitability

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

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

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

it seems i am doomed to blindness

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

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

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

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

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

oh shmit

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

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

p.p.s.

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

p.s.

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

I'm doomed to vanity.

complements

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

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

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

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

amnesty

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

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

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

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

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

over the moon

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

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

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

round two

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

dances

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

pictures forthcoming

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

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

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

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

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

crushing me

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

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

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

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

sisters three

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

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

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

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

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

my hope

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

And my favorite scripture is 3Nephi 18:32.

If you know me, you know why.

on the top of the world

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

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

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

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

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

frustration

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

self

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

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

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

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

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

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

stepping out

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

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

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

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