marriage hungry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

procrastinated works of genuis

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

foiled

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

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

one of these things

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

sociology

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

i'm hungry!

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

exactly four units of distance

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

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

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

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

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

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

my new favorite recording artist

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

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

standing on the edge

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

editing

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

another class assignment

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

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

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

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

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

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

inevitability

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

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

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

it seems i am doomed to blindness

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

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

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

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

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

oh shmit

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

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

p.p.s.

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

p.s.

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

I'm doomed to vanity.

complements

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

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

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

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

amnesty

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

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

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

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

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

over the moon

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

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

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

round two

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