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.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, September 29, 2006
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.
...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.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
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.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
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.
Monday, September 11, 2006
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.
Friday, September 08, 2006
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!
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
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.
"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.
Friday, September 01, 2006
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.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Friday, August 18, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
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.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
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.
"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.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
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.
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.
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