Tuesday, May 18, 2004
In case you've been hiding under a rock recently, I feel that it is my duty to inform you that summer is nearly here. Stockings are coming off, hemlines are getting shorter, coats are being stuffed back into closets. This is all very exciting.
Summer in Florida is brutal. The temperature tends to peak in the high 90's and the air is so stuffed with moisture that the locals grow gills in order to breathe. There is seldom a breeze and every day at 5:00 the skies open up and let loose a biblical deluge that serves to make things steamy.
I never dressed for the weather. My ex stepfather had slimy eyes and sticky hands, and I would cover myself with as much clothing as I could stand to keep them from coming in contact with my skin. Some things are harder to wash off than others, and so I was always in jeans and my only concession to the heat was my tanktops, usually covered by my crossed arms or a sweater clutched in my hands.
My celebration of summer clothes has been slow coming, and it's been but a few years since I once met Nate in a parking lot in July wearing jeans and a long-sleeved polyester shirt. But slowly my skirts have been getting shorter and my shirts thinner; I've been letting everything closer to my skin. And so I begin to think that every summer is another victory over so many years of misplaced hands and sweat.
Summer in Seattle is the best, anyway, because it's so nice.
Summer in Florida is brutal. The temperature tends to peak in the high 90's and the air is so stuffed with moisture that the locals grow gills in order to breathe. There is seldom a breeze and every day at 5:00 the skies open up and let loose a biblical deluge that serves to make things steamy.
I never dressed for the weather. My ex stepfather had slimy eyes and sticky hands, and I would cover myself with as much clothing as I could stand to keep them from coming in contact with my skin. Some things are harder to wash off than others, and so I was always in jeans and my only concession to the heat was my tanktops, usually covered by my crossed arms or a sweater clutched in my hands.
My celebration of summer clothes has been slow coming, and it's been but a few years since I once met Nate in a parking lot in July wearing jeans and a long-sleeved polyester shirt. But slowly my skirts have been getting shorter and my shirts thinner; I've been letting everything closer to my skin. And so I begin to think that every summer is another victory over so many years of misplaced hands and sweat.
Summer in Seattle is the best, anyway, because it's so nice.
Sunday, May 16, 2004
When I was a kid, Sunken Gardens felt like three steps from Paradise. There were trained parrots around every corner, sheltered in nooks lined with Hibiscus flowers the size of my head. Cartoonists sat in those nooks, prepared to draw caricatures of me with a big head and a curvy body that I'm still waiting for. When my parents divorced in 1986 I refused to speak to my father for a year; rather unfairly, I blamed it all on him. After we reconciled he couldn't afford to take me to Busch Gardens or Disney, and so we would go to Sunken Gardens where he would put tropical flowers in my hair. I always thought that I would get married there.
I see by the website that they've revamped the place, made it a model garden. I suppose that this is a good thing, since the last I remember hearing, locals were fighting against closing it. Romantically, I would have preferred that they let it fall to ruin so that in a hundred years people could rediscover it and find behind those big doors a riotous Eden.
Really, though, they probably would have paved it and made it into condos.
My final visit was in 1988. I was growing restless with the place, with its lack of excitement. I would rather have had roller coasters over serene pink flamingoes, who just stood there stupidly on one leg. But I was still mostly enchanted; the beauty of the place seeps into your bones and makes it impossible to tear away completely. The entrance and exit for the gardens were two giant wooden doors reached by a bridge that ran over a fish pond. The fish in the pond were monstrous goldfish, and I was always on a harried quest to find the perfect spot on the bridge from which to feed them. I can't say what the perfect spot would have had; all I know is that I couldn't find it. But on that last trip, on our way out, I just had to try one more time. I didn't know at the time that it would be our last trip, though...It was just one more chance to feed the fish.
And so with a fistful of fish food from the fish food machine I hunted the bridge for the Spot. And I found it. I settled myself in, leaning against the rail, throwing pieces of food down one at a time. There was a creak behind me, and one of the huge doors swung open and hit me right on the back of my big fool head, tossing me into the water.
The largest problem with the whole situation was that I had not released my handful of tasty fish nuggets when I fell. And so I landed in the neck-deep water with my fist tightly clenched. The goldfish immediately swarmed around me, pecking lightly at my fingers, trying to open them. I was terrified; I've always been a small girl, and so the fish were almost as big as I was. I thrashed about, shrieking. The two old ladies that had opened the door on me were gabbling anxiously against the railing, looking down at me, yelling for help. My father, also on the bridge, laughed so hard that he had to sit down on the wooden planks. But after what seemed like an hour and was likely only a few minutes, he got up and fished me out. He reassured the crowd that had gathered and took me off to his nearby girlfriend's house to dry off.
I know it must seem like I am always falling into or over things, and maybe I am. But I regret now that I never went back to Sunken Gardens. I was sure that everyone that worked there remembered me as the girl that fell in the fishpond, and that was not something that I was prepared to deal with. At six years old, the whole world is watching is.
And I'm always watching the fish.
I see by the website that they've revamped the place, made it a model garden. I suppose that this is a good thing, since the last I remember hearing, locals were fighting against closing it. Romantically, I would have preferred that they let it fall to ruin so that in a hundred years people could rediscover it and find behind those big doors a riotous Eden.
Really, though, they probably would have paved it and made it into condos.
My final visit was in 1988. I was growing restless with the place, with its lack of excitement. I would rather have had roller coasters over serene pink flamingoes, who just stood there stupidly on one leg. But I was still mostly enchanted; the beauty of the place seeps into your bones and makes it impossible to tear away completely. The entrance and exit for the gardens were two giant wooden doors reached by a bridge that ran over a fish pond. The fish in the pond were monstrous goldfish, and I was always on a harried quest to find the perfect spot on the bridge from which to feed them. I can't say what the perfect spot would have had; all I know is that I couldn't find it. But on that last trip, on our way out, I just had to try one more time. I didn't know at the time that it would be our last trip, though...It was just one more chance to feed the fish.
And so with a fistful of fish food from the fish food machine I hunted the bridge for the Spot. And I found it. I settled myself in, leaning against the rail, throwing pieces of food down one at a time. There was a creak behind me, and one of the huge doors swung open and hit me right on the back of my big fool head, tossing me into the water.
The largest problem with the whole situation was that I had not released my handful of tasty fish nuggets when I fell. And so I landed in the neck-deep water with my fist tightly clenched. The goldfish immediately swarmed around me, pecking lightly at my fingers, trying to open them. I was terrified; I've always been a small girl, and so the fish were almost as big as I was. I thrashed about, shrieking. The two old ladies that had opened the door on me were gabbling anxiously against the railing, looking down at me, yelling for help. My father, also on the bridge, laughed so hard that he had to sit down on the wooden planks. But after what seemed like an hour and was likely only a few minutes, he got up and fished me out. He reassured the crowd that had gathered and took me off to his nearby girlfriend's house to dry off.
I know it must seem like I am always falling into or over things, and maybe I am. But I regret now that I never went back to Sunken Gardens. I was sure that everyone that worked there remembered me as the girl that fell in the fishpond, and that was not something that I was prepared to deal with. At six years old, the whole world is watching is.
And I'm always watching the fish.
Even at the risk of having to reciprocate, I couldn't find it within myself not to go for Dylan's question game. Far be it for me to pass up a chance to talk exhaustively about myself. Herewith:
1. You dis Florida a lot. Say something nice about it... or if you can't, say something nice about Jeff.
I was really, really tempted to say something nice about Florida and dis Jeff, but then I remembered that he knows where I live, so skip that. Florida, outside of the bigger cities, is often overwhelmingly beautiful. Really. If I had only ever seen pictures of it, I might want to move there. And Jeff is better than chocolate chip cookies.
2. Fess up to your guiltiest musical pleasure.
I am a gigantic Billy Joel fan. You know, not so much in his later(car crashing)years, but earlier. The first three volumes of his "Greatest Hits" albums seem to be providing a slow soundrack to my life...they always pop up at significant moments, without any poking from me.
3. If your life was a TV show, which network would show it... and at what time? Would the reruns be syndicated, and if so who would show them and at what time of day?
I have not watched television in many, many years, but I like the idea that I could be my own HBO series. I'd want to be at dinner time, and I'd want my reruns on at 2 am. But um...is HBO a network?
4. After a year in Seattle, is there anywhere you haven't been in town that you'd like to see?
I haven't been to the SAM yet, mostly because I tend to hate going to museums with people.
5. You have a year to live and a big wad of cash. Where would you move to enjoy your remaining days?
I'd spend a couple months here and there...New York, England, Paris, Moscow,Thailand....a couple months wandering aimlessly around middle Europe and the Adriatic...and I'd die in Italy.
And the rules...
THE RULES: (see?)
1. leave a comment, saying you want to be interviewed.
2. i will respond; i'll ask you five questions.
3. you'll update your website with my five questions, and your five answers.
4. you'll include this explanation.
5. you'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.
1. You dis Florida a lot. Say something nice about it... or if you can't, say something nice about Jeff.
I was really, really tempted to say something nice about Florida and dis Jeff, but then I remembered that he knows where I live, so skip that. Florida, outside of the bigger cities, is often overwhelmingly beautiful. Really. If I had only ever seen pictures of it, I might want to move there. And Jeff is better than chocolate chip cookies.
2. Fess up to your guiltiest musical pleasure.
I am a gigantic Billy Joel fan. You know, not so much in his later(car crashing)years, but earlier. The first three volumes of his "Greatest Hits" albums seem to be providing a slow soundrack to my life...they always pop up at significant moments, without any poking from me.
3. If your life was a TV show, which network would show it... and at what time? Would the reruns be syndicated, and if so who would show them and at what time of day?
I have not watched television in many, many years, but I like the idea that I could be my own HBO series. I'd want to be at dinner time, and I'd want my reruns on at 2 am. But um...is HBO a network?
4. After a year in Seattle, is there anywhere you haven't been in town that you'd like to see?
I haven't been to the SAM yet, mostly because I tend to hate going to museums with people.
5. You have a year to live and a big wad of cash. Where would you move to enjoy your remaining days?
I'd spend a couple months here and there...New York, England, Paris, Moscow,Thailand....a couple months wandering aimlessly around middle Europe and the Adriatic...and I'd die in Italy.
And the rules...
THE RULES: (see?)
1. leave a comment, saying you want to be interviewed.
2. i will respond; i'll ask you five questions.
3. you'll update your website with my five questions, and your five answers.
4. you'll include this explanation.
5. you'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.
Saturday, May 15, 2004
Here is the long-awaited bridesmaid's dress:
(My carpet is not really this green, sadly.)
It's quite a bit too big, which was pretty much a relief...after all, it'd be pretty embarrassing to be the smallest bridesmaid but to be too big for my dress.
Also, hooray for Tom and Rachel, who have taken their status as one of the most fabulous couples I know by getting engaged on their vacation. (This was not quite the descriptive announcement I've been hoping for, but I Couldn't Keep It In Any Longer.)
And my final bit of housekeeping here is that so far I'm not so much thrilled with the new blogger...but we'll keep looking around and see what happens.
(My carpet is not really this green, sadly.)
It's quite a bit too big, which was pretty much a relief...after all, it'd be pretty embarrassing to be the smallest bridesmaid but to be too big for my dress.
Also, hooray for Tom and Rachel, who have taken their status as one of the most fabulous couples I know by getting engaged on their vacation. (This was not quite the descriptive announcement I've been hoping for, but I Couldn't Keep It In Any Longer.)
And my final bit of housekeeping here is that so far I'm not so much thrilled with the new blogger...but we'll keep looking around and see what happens.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
A couple of years ago, Sarah, Jesse, and I were lost and hungry in Jacksonville. This was not an unusual state of affairs; Sarah and I have an astonishing talent for getting lost wherever we go, and we were always hungry. We decided that we would stop to eat at the first place we saw that offered food, which turned out to be a nondescript building with a sign that said "Chinese Food."
We dug this, because we ate a lot of Chinese food as it was.
So in we walked, and found ourselves at one end of a large room decorated entirely in shades of yellow and yellow-brown, a room that suggested that at any moment a crowd of 1970 Rotarians would come in, clear the tables, and have a dance. There was no decoration on the walls, not even a framed picture of a pagoda. Nothing. The place was entirely empty, and so we were a bit surprised when the hostess, a miniscule Asian woman, led us to a table smack in the middle of the room. We looked over the menu, made our choices, and eventually sat our menus on the table and waited, staring at our hands, for the waitress to appear. She did, eventually, and she was at least six feet tall and blonde; she looked more like a ranch hand than she did a waitress at a low-end Chinese joint. She took our orders and left, at which point we noticed a crowd of employees, all closely resembling our hostess, crowded around the kitchen door, whispering and pointing at us. Do you remember that scene in Hellraiser 3 when the doors slam shut at that club and hooks and chains appear from the ceiling and shred the people inside? We began to feel a bit like something resembling that was about to happen. But it didn't. Instead our food arrived and it was terrible, but we ate it, wondering all the while if we were being fattened up for serving to the next poor suckers that came through the door.
When we finished and the waitress came back to remove our plates, she asked if Sarah was the daughter of Jesse and myself. Now, I don't even look my own age, not to mention old enough to be any body's mother. And though Jesse looks a bit older, neither one of us could possibly have produced Sarah. But she insisted, and we finally agreed.
We kept our fortune cookie fortunes, just in case they vanished after we left. We wanted them to, wanted to prove that we had just dined on the edges of the twilight zone, but they stayed put. We had to make do with driving as fast as we could to the first chain restaurant we could find.
The neighborhood that I live in here in Seattle is more of a business district than it is a residential one. It has restaurants, but they're more the type you go to with your co-workers once a month or have drink with the boss at. They're not so much having a beer and a burger type places. But Jeff came over and was hungry, so we took a stroll to see if anything was appetizing. There's a little Italian place that I've never tried and so we went there. It has the atmosphere of a steak house from my grandparent's time, and the music has a suspicious salsa beat. The hostess, platinum blonde, heavily made up, and older than my mom reminds me of those women who as children were in beauty pageants until one day they lost, and their whole life has since pivoted on that day. All of our lives pivot on something, it's just that most of us switch focal points a few times in our lives. My tomato-cream soup may very well have had lumps of gelatin in it and Jeff's pasta was just as unappetizing. At the table behind us, the woman said "you should really think before you open your mouth." The place reminded me of that Chinese joint in that parallel universe, and we've agreed never to go there again.
We dug this, because we ate a lot of Chinese food as it was.
So in we walked, and found ourselves at one end of a large room decorated entirely in shades of yellow and yellow-brown, a room that suggested that at any moment a crowd of 1970 Rotarians would come in, clear the tables, and have a dance. There was no decoration on the walls, not even a framed picture of a pagoda. Nothing. The place was entirely empty, and so we were a bit surprised when the hostess, a miniscule Asian woman, led us to a table smack in the middle of the room. We looked over the menu, made our choices, and eventually sat our menus on the table and waited, staring at our hands, for the waitress to appear. She did, eventually, and she was at least six feet tall and blonde; she looked more like a ranch hand than she did a waitress at a low-end Chinese joint. She took our orders and left, at which point we noticed a crowd of employees, all closely resembling our hostess, crowded around the kitchen door, whispering and pointing at us. Do you remember that scene in Hellraiser 3 when the doors slam shut at that club and hooks and chains appear from the ceiling and shred the people inside? We began to feel a bit like something resembling that was about to happen. But it didn't. Instead our food arrived and it was terrible, but we ate it, wondering all the while if we were being fattened up for serving to the next poor suckers that came through the door.
When we finished and the waitress came back to remove our plates, she asked if Sarah was the daughter of Jesse and myself. Now, I don't even look my own age, not to mention old enough to be any body's mother. And though Jesse looks a bit older, neither one of us could possibly have produced Sarah. But she insisted, and we finally agreed.
We kept our fortune cookie fortunes, just in case they vanished after we left. We wanted them to, wanted to prove that we had just dined on the edges of the twilight zone, but they stayed put. We had to make do with driving as fast as we could to the first chain restaurant we could find.
The neighborhood that I live in here in Seattle is more of a business district than it is a residential one. It has restaurants, but they're more the type you go to with your co-workers once a month or have drink with the boss at. They're not so much having a beer and a burger type places. But Jeff came over and was hungry, so we took a stroll to see if anything was appetizing. There's a little Italian place that I've never tried and so we went there. It has the atmosphere of a steak house from my grandparent's time, and the music has a suspicious salsa beat. The hostess, platinum blonde, heavily made up, and older than my mom reminds me of those women who as children were in beauty pageants until one day they lost, and their whole life has since pivoted on that day. All of our lives pivot on something, it's just that most of us switch focal points a few times in our lives. My tomato-cream soup may very well have had lumps of gelatin in it and Jeff's pasta was just as unappetizing. At the table behind us, the woman said "you should really think before you open your mouth." The place reminded me of that Chinese joint in that parallel universe, and we've agreed never to go there again.
Monday, May 10, 2004
If I am to give a speech at the wedding, I must mention:
That Sarah nearly drove off the road during the song "Jesse's Girl" before they were officially together
Stubble in Jesse's drink
The elaborate preparations Jesse went through in order to tell Sarah he loved her (but not that it rained)
Road flares
That Jesse made all of our boyfriends look like chumps because he was -so romantic-, but that we were secretly all glad that they weren't since only a superhuman like Sarah could live up to it
Wasabi-covered peas
That I know where the honeymoon is and Sarah doesn't
I must not mention:
Jesse's chest hair or nipple piercings
That he lived with us and sometimes wears eyeliner
David Duchovney
Lord of the Flies, the musical or the Count of Monte Cristo drinking game
That time I almost had to bail Jesse out of jail and the little tart that caused it all
Where the honeymoon is.
That Sarah nearly drove off the road during the song "Jesse's Girl" before they were officially together
Stubble in Jesse's drink
The elaborate preparations Jesse went through in order to tell Sarah he loved her (but not that it rained)
Road flares
That Jesse made all of our boyfriends look like chumps because he was -so romantic-, but that we were secretly all glad that they weren't since only a superhuman like Sarah could live up to it
Wasabi-covered peas
That I know where the honeymoon is and Sarah doesn't
I must not mention:
Jesse's chest hair or nipple piercings
That he lived with us and sometimes wears eyeliner
David Duchovney
Lord of the Flies, the musical or the Count of Monte Cristo drinking game
That time I almost had to bail Jesse out of jail and the little tart that caused it all
Where the honeymoon is.
Saturday, May 08, 2004
The bookstore in the U-District has been closing for at least a month, but now it looks like it's finally limping towards the final stage. The shelves are mostly empty, and what books are left are mostly disordered and thrown about. Jeff heads to the back, to the corner that smells like kitty litter and all the contents therein, in search of Marco Polo. I'm just along for the ride, and so I dawdle near the front to take in the scene.
It's an interesting crew. A young boy and an old man sit next to the last shelf of "Literature A-H" playing chess. A cute guy with curly hair sits behind the desk, near the cash registers, goofing with a little girl. They're messing with a magenta shawl, wrapping her up with it, covering her eyes. But it's the guy on the couch that really catches my attention. He's an older man with graying hair and beard, and he's asleep. He's also snoring. There's what looks to be a mass market mystery/suspense book open on his chest to the last few pages. Covering him gently is a quilted green and white blanket. It's not an average quilt, though. It looks like it belongs to the bed of a little girl; it's very frilly and feminine. I wonder about him, wonder about what he's doing there and where his blanket came from. But I don't wonder enough to wake him up, and ultimately I really hope he had a nice nap.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
My best friend reveals a previously unknown, kinkily sadistic facet of her personality just weeks before her wedding:
[...]
Sarah: Oh yeah, and Rockne said to tell you hi.
Samantha: Oooo, Rockne. I would have given my liver to have my way with him in the library once upon a time.
Sarah: Your liver?
Samantha: Well, someone's.
Sarah: Samantha and Rockne, in the library, with the rope? snicker
Samantha: With Tom Toast.
Sarah: giggling Hey, that reminds me; remember that time Amanda dared me to say her name in the heat of passion?
Samantha: I remember hearing about it later...
Sarah: Well, Jesse and I were talking about it the other day.
Samantha: I imagine Jesse was thrilled.
Sarah: Not so much. Well, I asked him what he would have done if I had said a boy's name instead of a girl's.
Samantha: And?
Sarah: He said, "cried."
Samantha: And rightly so.
Sarah: So I've been thinking about trying it...
Samantha: Aren't you supposed to remain pure and virginal and without thoughts of another man, even an imaginary one, until after the honeymoon?
Sarah: Well, probably...but wouldn't that be the funniest thing?
[...]
Sarah: Oh yeah, and Rockne said to tell you hi.
Samantha: Oooo, Rockne. I would have given my liver to have my way with him in the library once upon a time.
Sarah: Your liver?
Samantha: Well, someone's.
Sarah: Samantha and Rockne, in the library, with the rope? snicker
Samantha: With Tom Toast.
Sarah: giggling Hey, that reminds me; remember that time Amanda dared me to say her name in the heat of passion?
Samantha: I remember hearing about it later...
Sarah: Well, Jesse and I were talking about it the other day.
Samantha: I imagine Jesse was thrilled.
Sarah: Not so much. Well, I asked him what he would have done if I had said a boy's name instead of a girl's.
Samantha: And?
Sarah: He said, "cried."
Samantha: And rightly so.
Sarah: So I've been thinking about trying it...
Samantha: Aren't you supposed to remain pure and virginal and without thoughts of another man, even an imaginary one, until after the honeymoon?
Sarah: Well, probably...but wouldn't that be the funniest thing?
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Something slightly more than five years ago, Eric and I decided that as soon as we graduated from high school we were going to move to Seattle. We had it all planned out: we would find ourselves a gigantic loft apartment with big windows that looked over the water and green vines that climbed up the side of the building. We would have a couch and some big pillows and our bedroom would be red. Neither one of us had ever been here before.
Something around two years ago, Pete and I decided that as soon as I finished college we were going to move to Seattle. We didn't have it all planned out, but we were going to move anyway. We had never been here before, although we visited the October before I moved. Then we were sure we were going to move here. We were going to live in Capitol Hill and do something cool to become famous.
A year ago, I moved here. I haven't done much that's important, but I'm here anyway. Eric is in San Juan, California and Pete is in LA.
I think I got the better end of all of it.
Something around two years ago, Pete and I decided that as soon as I finished college we were going to move to Seattle. We didn't have it all planned out, but we were going to move anyway. We had never been here before, although we visited the October before I moved. Then we were sure we were going to move here. We were going to live in Capitol Hill and do something cool to become famous.
A year ago, I moved here. I haven't done much that's important, but I'm here anyway. Eric is in San Juan, California and Pete is in LA.
I think I got the better end of all of it.
Sunday, May 02, 2004
A few minutes ago I was digging through my filing cabinet and pulled out a note dated 2-3-95. It's folded in that complicated way that all schoolgirl notes are folded, with a little tab to pull to open the whole thing up. Now, I keep everything, and so as a consequence my filing cabinet is a virtual treasure trove of embarrassment. I have tried, in my filing system, to separate my Adult Things (tax forms, credit card stuff, and such) with the detrius of my adolescence. But sometimes there is a crossover and bits that had been tucked inside other things make themselves known.
But back to the note.
In rounded, girly handwriting, it says:
"Samantha,
Hey, I wanna call a truce. Please be friends with me. I'm not joking. I was the one who wrote the letter but it wasn't my idea. I won't name names though. The reason I was mad at you was because someone (I can't say who), said you where talking about me behind my back. I don't now if it's true but I wanna put it all in the past. I'm sorry I lead you on like that and I wont do it again. Maybe I'll C-ya around.
(heart) Alexis
PS sorry so sloppy and I'm not kidding."
Letter? Oh yeah...
I had a bottom locker that year, in the middle of the seventh grade hallway. One day, apparently in late January, I opened my locker and a folded piece of paper fell out. This wasn't unusual, since my friends often pushed notes through the vent slats in between classes. I opened it and found, to my astonishment, a (poorly spelled) note from a secret admirer asking me to meet him outside the school store after lunch. Angry, I crumpled the note into a ball and went to class.
After all, I had no illusions about myself. I was short and I had bad hair. I was nearing the end of my obsession with brightly colored leggings but hadn't quite moved on. I had big purple glasses that covered half of my face, and the other half was nearly always covered by a book. I was The Ugly Girl, a huge dork, and while I wasn't too thrilled with that I had accepted it as the natural order of things. Up until right before that letter I had had any number of friends, people who told me all of their secrets because they figured I didn't have anyone around to repeat them to. I wasn't particularly happy, but Ugly Girls aren't entitled to be happy, so I always left it at that. But then someone started spreading rumors about me and my friends all drifted away.
I also knew that in the seventh grade gossip that a boy liked you got to you sooner than the boy himself did. I was friends with all the boys and had heard no such thing on either sex's grapevine, so I dismissed the whole thing as a cruel joke someone was playing on me.
So I didn't go to meet my mysterious note sender, and as it turns out that I was right: Alexis, the vindictive harpy, had heard from someone who had heard from someone that I had called her a bitch. And so she set out to make life miserable; which, of course, she did. She stole all of my friends and tried to make me think that a boy liked me.
It's fortunate that I was smarter than her or the whole thing would probably have stung even more than it did. But then, being smart and friendless (a common condition, but not one that I wanted to join in on) is really not much of a trade off when you're 12.
And it may not be very grown up of me, but I still hope she has 15 kids now and lives in a trailer in Homestead.
But back to the note.
In rounded, girly handwriting, it says:
"Samantha,
Hey, I wanna call a truce. Please be friends with me. I'm not joking. I was the one who wrote the letter but it wasn't my idea. I won't name names though. The reason I was mad at you was because someone (I can't say who), said you where talking about me behind my back. I don't now if it's true but I wanna put it all in the past. I'm sorry I lead you on like that and I wont do it again. Maybe I'll C-ya around.
(heart) Alexis
PS sorry so sloppy and I'm not kidding."
Letter? Oh yeah...
I had a bottom locker that year, in the middle of the seventh grade hallway. One day, apparently in late January, I opened my locker and a folded piece of paper fell out. This wasn't unusual, since my friends often pushed notes through the vent slats in between classes. I opened it and found, to my astonishment, a (poorly spelled) note from a secret admirer asking me to meet him outside the school store after lunch. Angry, I crumpled the note into a ball and went to class.
After all, I had no illusions about myself. I was short and I had bad hair. I was nearing the end of my obsession with brightly colored leggings but hadn't quite moved on. I had big purple glasses that covered half of my face, and the other half was nearly always covered by a book. I was The Ugly Girl, a huge dork, and while I wasn't too thrilled with that I had accepted it as the natural order of things. Up until right before that letter I had had any number of friends, people who told me all of their secrets because they figured I didn't have anyone around to repeat them to. I wasn't particularly happy, but Ugly Girls aren't entitled to be happy, so I always left it at that. But then someone started spreading rumors about me and my friends all drifted away.
I also knew that in the seventh grade gossip that a boy liked you got to you sooner than the boy himself did. I was friends with all the boys and had heard no such thing on either sex's grapevine, so I dismissed the whole thing as a cruel joke someone was playing on me.
So I didn't go to meet my mysterious note sender, and as it turns out that I was right: Alexis, the vindictive harpy, had heard from someone who had heard from someone that I had called her a bitch. And so she set out to make life miserable; which, of course, she did. She stole all of my friends and tried to make me think that a boy liked me.
It's fortunate that I was smarter than her or the whole thing would probably have stung even more than it did. But then, being smart and friendless (a common condition, but not one that I wanted to join in on) is really not much of a trade off when you're 12.
And it may not be very grown up of me, but I still hope she has 15 kids now and lives in a trailer in Homestead.
I broke a glass today, the first since I acquired them (and moved here) a year ago. It wasn't a spectacular break, I didn't smash it and make my kitchen a hazard for the next three weeks. I was just washing the dishes and bumped the thick base of another glass against a fault line. A small chunk fell out from the top and I quickly washed it down the drain. I held up the glass to appraise the damage, to see if maybe I could continue to use it, but it was cracked all the way down the side.
And so now I no longer have a full set.
And so now I no longer have a full set.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
There was a man downtown today with a guitar and a dog, and his voice reminded me so vividly of Gamble Rogers that I realized with a shock that none of my Florida stories have ever mentioned Gamble. (The man's face did not; he was all bearded and sunburned but Gamble was always well-groomed.) And the thing is that Gamble was one of the few things to come out of Florida that can and should be considered a national treasure. (I include myself in this list.)
The facts are these: Gamble was a native Florida boy that grew up to be a folk singer. He taught Jimmy Buffet all he knows (which he then forgot or sold to the devil). He was a brilliant story-teller and a master with a guitar, but he remains virtually unremembered today. I've watched people encountering a recording of one of his shows laughing and crying at the same time. He died in 1991 trying to save a drowning Canadian fisherman, even though he was in his 50's and crippled with rheumatoid arthritis.
My memories of Gamble are few and vague, and the handful of them doesn't even make up a good story. And yet I'm finding this all hard to tell you because he feels like family even though I hardly knew him. He and my parents ran in roughly the same circles, Florida's music scene being as small and inbred as it was. We would go to St. Augustine, to the Tradewinds or the Milltop, and he would sometimes be there too. I remember laughing so hard that I cried at his stories one night, even though I didn't really understand what he was saying. I remember once he looked down his knobby nose at me and winked. He and I were only alive at the same time for 9 years, after all, but I can still feel how friendly he was all this time away. When my mom told me that he'd died I didn't really listen, didn't try to remember--I was 9, after all. And I had forgotten about him until a few years ago when I started handing out with (read: having a huge crush on) my friend Greg, who was a big fan.
But then I remembered.
Long time residents of St. Augustine all have memories of Gamble, and I've never heard a bad one. By all accounts he was almost unbelievably good natured and helpful. I'm sorry that I didn't get more time with him. Not so that I'd have stories for you, mind you, but because I'm pretty sure that he made good everything he touched.
His memorial foundation won't let any local music stores carry his albums, so I never owned one of my own. But hearing that man sing today reminded me that it's been a year now since I've heard the Maitland Turkey Farm Massacre, so maybe it's about time I got around to bringing it here.
The facts are these: Gamble was a native Florida boy that grew up to be a folk singer. He taught Jimmy Buffet all he knows (which he then forgot or sold to the devil). He was a brilliant story-teller and a master with a guitar, but he remains virtually unremembered today. I've watched people encountering a recording of one of his shows laughing and crying at the same time. He died in 1991 trying to save a drowning Canadian fisherman, even though he was in his 50's and crippled with rheumatoid arthritis.
My memories of Gamble are few and vague, and the handful of them doesn't even make up a good story. And yet I'm finding this all hard to tell you because he feels like family even though I hardly knew him. He and my parents ran in roughly the same circles, Florida's music scene being as small and inbred as it was. We would go to St. Augustine, to the Tradewinds or the Milltop, and he would sometimes be there too. I remember laughing so hard that I cried at his stories one night, even though I didn't really understand what he was saying. I remember once he looked down his knobby nose at me and winked. He and I were only alive at the same time for 9 years, after all, but I can still feel how friendly he was all this time away. When my mom told me that he'd died I didn't really listen, didn't try to remember--I was 9, after all. And I had forgotten about him until a few years ago when I started handing out with (read: having a huge crush on) my friend Greg, who was a big fan.
But then I remembered.
Long time residents of St. Augustine all have memories of Gamble, and I've never heard a bad one. By all accounts he was almost unbelievably good natured and helpful. I'm sorry that I didn't get more time with him. Not so that I'd have stories for you, mind you, but because I'm pretty sure that he made good everything he touched.
His memorial foundation won't let any local music stores carry his albums, so I never owned one of my own. But hearing that man sing today reminded me that it's been a year now since I've heard the Maitland Turkey Farm Massacre, so maybe it's about time I got around to bringing it here.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Dear Everyone,
Good morning!
I was happy to hear that you're well, that you're not being beaten or starved or unduly harmed in any way. But I do wish that you were content. You are such a star, such an absolutely perfect being, and I think that you don't just let things happen. I think that you hunt them down, pluck them from their hiding places, and then become upset that they are not yet ripe. I think that the universe wants you to win but that you're suspicious of a trap and so you set your course to lose.
But then we're strugglers by nature, you and I, and I suppose it's better that we be fighting against something rather than against adversaries entirely of our own creation.
Which, of course, could be any of this.
But I apologize. I don't mean for there to be so much of this so early in a letter. It's just that early mornings (before noon) and late nights (after 8) make me acutely conscious of the weight of my skull. I sometimes try to fit my thumbs under the edge of it--my skull--and lift. I try to alleviate the pressure of all this thinking, but likely all I'm really doing is bruising something. If they crack open my head when I die, remember to save for science the twin thumb prints on either side of the nape of my neck.
I woke up this morning with a slight sore throat, a faintly throbbing headache. This happens most mornings. If it felt like an allergy I could be clever and say that I'm allergic to consciousness. Instead, I just feel like I have a cold. There's nothing clever about a cold.
I'm so scattered today, but the facts are these: I am at work. I spend most of my day standing quietly. I generally have little conversation and even less interaction. There is a pitcher of white tulips next to me. Tulips are unfamiliar flowers, and these white ones are ghostly and smell, perversely, like sperm. But maybe that's untrue. The lights are dim and the soundtrack to Chocolat makes me sleepy. There's a bird in here, Maytag, and I feel like a jerk because I get so annoyed by how much he sings.
When I got dressed today I considered the weather. I am inside all day long, though, and the weather only touches me on my way to or from the bus. But thinking about outside when I choose the day's outfit makes me feel a little more connected to the world.
I've been in this mood I get into sometimes where it seems as though I am waiting for bad things to happen. Times like these, I fail miserably at being independent and in charge. Instead, I want someone around all the time to hug me whenever I demand. You know how tactile I am, and how I like to hug people. And the thing is that generally, when someone is there, the mood vanishes. (Except for those late nights and early mornings.) I guess I just get lonely more than I like to admit. I still love living alone, but I am still so used to people. It's tough.
We went over to Alki yesterday, the beach over in West Seattle. The sand is scattered with living things--sea anemones and barnacles. Humans were not meant to be walking there, I feel. It was just barely warm in the sunshine and I was sad and thoughtful. The sea anemones, when poked, close in on themselves like the kids in those commercials for sour candy, where the candy is so sour it sucks their face in. I understood, though, how they felt--closing up like that.
I am sentimental, indeed.
I was there with Jeff, who is much the sort of boy you've been telling me all these years to go out with. You always were smarter than me.
Life is simple here, and mostly I enjoy it. (Although by the tone of this letter, you couldn't tell.) I hope that your family is well. Tell your mother/brother/nephew/aunt's cousin's father that I said hello.
I am thinking of you fondly.
Samantha
Good morning!
I was happy to hear that you're well, that you're not being beaten or starved or unduly harmed in any way. But I do wish that you were content. You are such a star, such an absolutely perfect being, and I think that you don't just let things happen. I think that you hunt them down, pluck them from their hiding places, and then become upset that they are not yet ripe. I think that the universe wants you to win but that you're suspicious of a trap and so you set your course to lose.
But then we're strugglers by nature, you and I, and I suppose it's better that we be fighting against something rather than against adversaries entirely of our own creation.
Which, of course, could be any of this.
But I apologize. I don't mean for there to be so much of this so early in a letter. It's just that early mornings (before noon) and late nights (after 8) make me acutely conscious of the weight of my skull. I sometimes try to fit my thumbs under the edge of it--my skull--and lift. I try to alleviate the pressure of all this thinking, but likely all I'm really doing is bruising something. If they crack open my head when I die, remember to save for science the twin thumb prints on either side of the nape of my neck.
I woke up this morning with a slight sore throat, a faintly throbbing headache. This happens most mornings. If it felt like an allergy I could be clever and say that I'm allergic to consciousness. Instead, I just feel like I have a cold. There's nothing clever about a cold.
I'm so scattered today, but the facts are these: I am at work. I spend most of my day standing quietly. I generally have little conversation and even less interaction. There is a pitcher of white tulips next to me. Tulips are unfamiliar flowers, and these white ones are ghostly and smell, perversely, like sperm. But maybe that's untrue. The lights are dim and the soundtrack to Chocolat makes me sleepy. There's a bird in here, Maytag, and I feel like a jerk because I get so annoyed by how much he sings.
When I got dressed today I considered the weather. I am inside all day long, though, and the weather only touches me on my way to or from the bus. But thinking about outside when I choose the day's outfit makes me feel a little more connected to the world.
I've been in this mood I get into sometimes where it seems as though I am waiting for bad things to happen. Times like these, I fail miserably at being independent and in charge. Instead, I want someone around all the time to hug me whenever I demand. You know how tactile I am, and how I like to hug people. And the thing is that generally, when someone is there, the mood vanishes. (Except for those late nights and early mornings.) I guess I just get lonely more than I like to admit. I still love living alone, but I am still so used to people. It's tough.
We went over to Alki yesterday, the beach over in West Seattle. The sand is scattered with living things--sea anemones and barnacles. Humans were not meant to be walking there, I feel. It was just barely warm in the sunshine and I was sad and thoughtful. The sea anemones, when poked, close in on themselves like the kids in those commercials for sour candy, where the candy is so sour it sucks their face in. I understood, though, how they felt--closing up like that.
I am sentimental, indeed.
I was there with Jeff, who is much the sort of boy you've been telling me all these years to go out with. You always were smarter than me.
Life is simple here, and mostly I enjoy it. (Although by the tone of this letter, you couldn't tell.) I hope that your family is well. Tell your mother/brother/nephew/aunt's cousin's father that I said hello.
I am thinking of you fondly.
Samantha
Sunday, April 25, 2004
My $1.07 kite from Rite Aid is timid about flying. It's shaped like a whale, and I think this has something to do with it; whales, after all, don't fly. This is also likely due to user error. I've never really flown a kite before, and am not quite sure how it works exactly.
We were down (over? both?) at Alki today. I'd only ever driven past it before. Walking on the sand was a new experience for me. Beaches out here are different; the sand is brown and coarse, and there are sea anemones everywhere when the tide goes out. I'd seen sea anemones in the tide pools when we went to the ocean last October, but that was really my only exposure to them. This time, sitting next to them on the sand, I poked at them. It probably wasn't a nice thing to do, but I did it. I wanted to see what would happen.
Further, there was a road sign on the rocks. It said something about a one way street ahead, and it made me giggle like these things are wont to do. Nothing like a misplaced road sign to get a laugh out of me.
It was astonishingly lovely out today. I really love this place. But you don't get to see any of that, because I forgot to bring my camera along with me. I checked when we were leaving and the case was in my purse, sure enough. It's just that the camera wasn't in the case. It was on my desk. So instead, I have for you the sunflower that Jeff brought me yesterday. I hope it will suffice.
We were down (over? both?) at Alki today. I'd only ever driven past it before. Walking on the sand was a new experience for me. Beaches out here are different; the sand is brown and coarse, and there are sea anemones everywhere when the tide goes out. I'd seen sea anemones in the tide pools when we went to the ocean last October, but that was really my only exposure to them. This time, sitting next to them on the sand, I poked at them. It probably wasn't a nice thing to do, but I did it. I wanted to see what would happen.
Further, there was a road sign on the rocks. It said something about a one way street ahead, and it made me giggle like these things are wont to do. Nothing like a misplaced road sign to get a laugh out of me.
It was astonishingly lovely out today. I really love this place. But you don't get to see any of that, because I forgot to bring my camera along with me. I checked when we were leaving and the case was in my purse, sure enough. It's just that the camera wasn't in the case. It was on my desk. So instead, I have for you the sunflower that Jeff brought me yesterday. I hope it will suffice.
Saturday, April 24, 2004
Every time I do my laundry, I learn more about my neighbors. There are either some people or one person who have/has a bit of difficulty remembering to retrieve their laundry from the dryer. I feel awkward removing their clothes, but it has to be done: there are only two washers and two dryers for the whole building. But every time I have to do it, I'm waiting, shoulders hunched up around my ears, for the owner of the clothes to walk in.
I really shouldn't be paying any attention to what's in the handfuls of fabric that I'm hastily tugging at and piling on the table. But I don't know anyone in this building, and so I'll never be sure whose clothes they are.
This time, after yanking out a load of men's clothes (green towels, blue polo shirts, pink-and-grey striped boxers), there was at the bottom a silky thong. Now, I didn't take a closer look at it, so I have to wonder. Is it his? Is it his girlfriend's, or his wife's? Did his one night stand slip in in there so that he would call her? I'll never know, and honestly I don't really want to. I've already spent more time thinking about the underwear of someone I don't know than I really should.
But I've since finished drying my laundry, and he hasn't come by to pick up his clothes. So I wondered if I should put them back in the dryer. He'd never know, wouldn't likely be going 'fee fie foe fum, I smell the blood of...that girl in 102!' But the whole train of thought made me increasingly uncomfortable. I just packed up my clothes and walked back down the hall. They're still sitting there in the basket by the couch, waiting to be folded. And I'm positive they all belong to me.
Also, just so you know, I'm very embarrassed when I go to the grocery store about how much junk food I consume. That's not accurate, actually. My consumption doesn't embarrass me in the least. It's how much I buy that I'm embarrassed by. And so I make up these elaborate stories in my head, just in case anyone asks why I have all this crap. It's not something that ever happens, but I like to be prepared. 'I have a rare disease that can only be kept in balance with potato chips and french onion dip. They metabolize at different rates, so it keeps me stable.' 'I'm on that hip new ice cream diet.' 'It's my little sister's birthday, and we're having a party.'
But no one has ever confronted me about it, and so I've never had to test whether or not I would tell my story or simply blush to my toenails and run away, leaving my half-full cart in the middle of the aisle.
I really shouldn't be paying any attention to what's in the handfuls of fabric that I'm hastily tugging at and piling on the table. But I don't know anyone in this building, and so I'll never be sure whose clothes they are.
This time, after yanking out a load of men's clothes (green towels, blue polo shirts, pink-and-grey striped boxers), there was at the bottom a silky thong. Now, I didn't take a closer look at it, so I have to wonder. Is it his? Is it his girlfriend's, or his wife's? Did his one night stand slip in in there so that he would call her? I'll never know, and honestly I don't really want to. I've already spent more time thinking about the underwear of someone I don't know than I really should.
But I've since finished drying my laundry, and he hasn't come by to pick up his clothes. So I wondered if I should put them back in the dryer. He'd never know, wouldn't likely be going 'fee fie foe fum, I smell the blood of...that girl in 102!' But the whole train of thought made me increasingly uncomfortable. I just packed up my clothes and walked back down the hall. They're still sitting there in the basket by the couch, waiting to be folded. And I'm positive they all belong to me.
Also, just so you know, I'm very embarrassed when I go to the grocery store about how much junk food I consume. That's not accurate, actually. My consumption doesn't embarrass me in the least. It's how much I buy that I'm embarrassed by. And so I make up these elaborate stories in my head, just in case anyone asks why I have all this crap. It's not something that ever happens, but I like to be prepared. 'I have a rare disease that can only be kept in balance with potato chips and french onion dip. They metabolize at different rates, so it keeps me stable.' 'I'm on that hip new ice cream diet.' 'It's my little sister's birthday, and we're having a party.'
But no one has ever confronted me about it, and so I've never had to test whether or not I would tell my story or simply blush to my toenails and run away, leaving my half-full cart in the middle of the aisle.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
We stopped in Montana for gas during a rainstorm that would eventually cleanse my car of four and a half days of bugsplats.
I was on the run, I admit, from the entire state of Florida. I was running from the heat and the mosquitoes, from the useless degree I had just obtained. I was running from my addled family. Mostly, I was running from the sad scared little girl who was failing so profoundly to live up to my expectations.
Someday maybe I'll tell you all about the darker stories, about drug deals gone wrong, about midnight threatening phone calls, about being homeless. I'll tell you about all the times I failed to stand up for myself and about the times that I did not fail to stand up for myself but instead failed to move properly out of the way of heavy things intended to hurt me. I'll tell you about the things you don't want to hear about, the things that are largely what I was on the lam from.
But not now. Now, I'll tell you that I ran away successfully. I will tell you that I drove as fast as I could away from the old world and forced myself on the new one. I'll tell you that I've tried to wash away the stains of back then like that rainstorm washed away all the bugs on my car.
But I'm still sad that I didn't keep that butterfly.
I was on the run, I admit, from the entire state of Florida. I was running from the heat and the mosquitoes, from the useless degree I had just obtained. I was running from my addled family. Mostly, I was running from the sad scared little girl who was failing so profoundly to live up to my expectations.
Someday maybe I'll tell you all about the darker stories, about drug deals gone wrong, about midnight threatening phone calls, about being homeless. I'll tell you about all the times I failed to stand up for myself and about the times that I did not fail to stand up for myself but instead failed to move properly out of the way of heavy things intended to hurt me. I'll tell you about the things you don't want to hear about, the things that are largely what I was on the lam from.
But not now. Now, I'll tell you that I ran away successfully. I will tell you that I drove as fast as I could away from the old world and forced myself on the new one. I'll tell you that I've tried to wash away the stains of back then like that rainstorm washed away all the bugs on my car.
But I'm still sad that I didn't keep that butterfly.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
My first dog's name was Raspberry Splat. I don't know where the name came from, but that's what it was. Raz was a Rotteweiler with the sweetest disposition.
I'm a dog person. Oh, I'm friendly with other animals, but I'm friends with everything. Dogs, though, make me happiest.
This is Poco. She and I played the catching the toy game for a while today. Her owner let my boss borrow her for the day, and they shared the love with me.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
I heard from an old friend a moment ago; my cell phone rang with an unfamiliar Tampa number and there, on the other end, was him. I didn't recognize the voice, but the mannerisms gave it away. As the years get farther away from me I find that more than anything else he unsteadies me, makes me feel unclean. It's a thrill in itself to realize that there's no thrill there anymore.
"Hey, baby."
"Um....hello...?"
"Do you miss me?"
"Astoundingly. Who--"
He cuts me off. He's always done that, and it's annoying.
"The new album came out last night. Did you buy it?"
"Oh, hi. No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're a dick."
"Yeah, but I pay a mean guitar."
"To what do I owe the dubious honor of this phone call? Are you dying?"
"Don't think so. Just wanted to see if you were going to visit me when you were in town."
"How did you..." I know the answer before I finish the question. My dad must have mentioned it. And he must not be getting laid much these days, if he's calling me again. "I didn't visit you last time I was in town. Why would I want to break such an impressive record? Besides, have you forgotten that we hate each other?"
"We're meant for each other, baby. Why, got a boyfriend?"
"You're infuriating. Of -course- I have a boyfriend, numbskull. But that's not the point."
"Oh, what's the point?"
"The point is, you're a dick."
"Yeah, yeah. Look, I have a gig tonight. This is my number. Look me up when you're in town."
"You betcha, buddy. Hold your breath."
And with all of that, he was gone. I'm a bit weirded out at his uncanny knack for knowing what's happening in my life, since it's been more than a year since the last time we've spoken. I'm shaken, but triumphant--this is the first time in five years that I haven't, not even a little bit, wanted the drama back.
I wouldn't trade the world I have now for anything else.
"Hey, baby."
"Um....hello...?"
"Do you miss me?"
"Astoundingly. Who--"
He cuts me off. He's always done that, and it's annoying.
"The new album came out last night. Did you buy it?"
"Oh, hi. No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're a dick."
"Yeah, but I pay a mean guitar."
"To what do I owe the dubious honor of this phone call? Are you dying?"
"Don't think so. Just wanted to see if you were going to visit me when you were in town."
"How did you..." I know the answer before I finish the question. My dad must have mentioned it. And he must not be getting laid much these days, if he's calling me again. "I didn't visit you last time I was in town. Why would I want to break such an impressive record? Besides, have you forgotten that we hate each other?"
"We're meant for each other, baby. Why, got a boyfriend?"
"You're infuriating. Of -course- I have a boyfriend, numbskull. But that's not the point."
"Oh, what's the point?"
"The point is, you're a dick."
"Yeah, yeah. Look, I have a gig tonight. This is my number. Look me up when you're in town."
"You betcha, buddy. Hold your breath."
And with all of that, he was gone. I'm a bit weirded out at his uncanny knack for knowing what's happening in my life, since it's been more than a year since the last time we've spoken. I'm shaken, but triumphant--this is the first time in five years that I haven't, not even a little bit, wanted the drama back.
I wouldn't trade the world I have now for anything else.
Facts:
1. There is a whole size difference between my feet.
2. I would give my soul for a Chik-Fil-A franchise in Seattle.
3. My friend Cassie was once stalked by the drummer from Herman's Hermits.
4. My favorite food is sandwiches, and I can't find a sandwich place I like in Seattle (hey, that was two!).
5. I am afraid of my appendix.
1. There is a whole size difference between my feet.
2. I would give my soul for a Chik-Fil-A franchise in Seattle.
3. My friend Cassie was once stalked by the drummer from Herman's Hermits.
4. My favorite food is sandwiches, and I can't find a sandwich place I like in Seattle (hey, that was two!).
5. I am afraid of my appendix.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Back to Florida, and the much alluded to canoe story:
When I was eight, we went canoeing. In one was me, my father, and my stepmother. In the other was two of my aunts, an uncle, and my younger cousin Amanda. Bama and Timmy, my aunt and uncle, are big outdoors-y type people. I am not. Oh, I'm trying to be a little better about it now, since I live in Seattle. You can't not be active here. Glamour girls in Gucci look at me in shock and gasp "you've never been camping!?" at me here. So I'm trying to change my ways. But this canoe trip 13 years ago remains my one and only canoeing experience.
At eight I had not yet read Heart of Darkness and so had not yet developed a frame of reference for the musty Conradian trip down the river, but I remember it almost like we had brought a copy of the story along with us. In my memory, natives were at any moment going to launch arrows at us from the shadows. I'm always surprised when I think of this trip that there was no madman at the end.
But enough with the digressions and the melodrama. We were canoeing. I was eight years old and not expected to do a thing aside from sit in the middle of the boat and fiddle with our camera. About a third of the way down the river Timmy shouted to us, pointing at the riverbank. We looked, and there on the side, sunbathing, were two alligators that were about five or six feet long. (Alligators grow about a foot a year.) Even though gators are a pretty common sight in the swamp, they still send a shiver up my spine. They're pretty harmless except for when they're not, but when they're riled they can be lightning quick and twice as dangerous. Anything like that deserves a little shiver.
So ok, we were canoeing in a river with the alligators. This is no big deal; this is to be expected. I was uninterested and returned to studying my shoes, which had blue bows on them. I found them fascinating, and I lost track of our course down the river, which is likely why I'm still not sure exactly how I ended up under the canoe. Outside sources (my other family members) said that my parents had both leaned the same way going under a low tree branch and that had tipped the canoe. All that I know is that one moment it was bright daylight and the next I was trapped underneath a tipped over boat.
They couldn't find me on the surface of the water and it took them a few minutes to think of looking under the boat. I would have liked to panic but I was so shocked that it hadn't occurred to me. All of a sudden the canoe lifted and the sunlight was back. That's when I actually put the pieces together and figured out that I was underneath all that time. We paddled over to the shore and hoisted ourselves back in. My uncle and father dove to retrieve as many possessions as they could, but the camera, my stepmother's watch, and my shoes were nowhere to be found. During the confusion another couple paddled by and the man asked, winking at me, if he could keep whatever he found downstream. It was then that I got really upset.
But I'm not sure how to describe my emotions when we made it further down the river and passed a couple more alligators on the riverbank, one of which had a shoe with a little blue bow resting on its nose. I let it keep the shoe.
When I was eight, we went canoeing. In one was me, my father, and my stepmother. In the other was two of my aunts, an uncle, and my younger cousin Amanda. Bama and Timmy, my aunt and uncle, are big outdoors-y type people. I am not. Oh, I'm trying to be a little better about it now, since I live in Seattle. You can't not be active here. Glamour girls in Gucci look at me in shock and gasp "you've never been camping!?" at me here. So I'm trying to change my ways. But this canoe trip 13 years ago remains my one and only canoeing experience.
At eight I had not yet read Heart of Darkness and so had not yet developed a frame of reference for the musty Conradian trip down the river, but I remember it almost like we had brought a copy of the story along with us. In my memory, natives were at any moment going to launch arrows at us from the shadows. I'm always surprised when I think of this trip that there was no madman at the end.
But enough with the digressions and the melodrama. We were canoeing. I was eight years old and not expected to do a thing aside from sit in the middle of the boat and fiddle with our camera. About a third of the way down the river Timmy shouted to us, pointing at the riverbank. We looked, and there on the side, sunbathing, were two alligators that were about five or six feet long. (Alligators grow about a foot a year.) Even though gators are a pretty common sight in the swamp, they still send a shiver up my spine. They're pretty harmless except for when they're not, but when they're riled they can be lightning quick and twice as dangerous. Anything like that deserves a little shiver.
So ok, we were canoeing in a river with the alligators. This is no big deal; this is to be expected. I was uninterested and returned to studying my shoes, which had blue bows on them. I found them fascinating, and I lost track of our course down the river, which is likely why I'm still not sure exactly how I ended up under the canoe. Outside sources (my other family members) said that my parents had both leaned the same way going under a low tree branch and that had tipped the canoe. All that I know is that one moment it was bright daylight and the next I was trapped underneath a tipped over boat.
They couldn't find me on the surface of the water and it took them a few minutes to think of looking under the boat. I would have liked to panic but I was so shocked that it hadn't occurred to me. All of a sudden the canoe lifted and the sunlight was back. That's when I actually put the pieces together and figured out that I was underneath all that time. We paddled over to the shore and hoisted ourselves back in. My uncle and father dove to retrieve as many possessions as they could, but the camera, my stepmother's watch, and my shoes were nowhere to be found. During the confusion another couple paddled by and the man asked, winking at me, if he could keep whatever he found downstream. It was then that I got really upset.
But I'm not sure how to describe my emotions when we made it further down the river and passed a couple more alligators on the riverbank, one of which had a shoe with a little blue bow resting on its nose. I let it keep the shoe.
Monday, April 12, 2004
Yesterday was a nice, nice day. Jeff and I decided to go to Discovery Park, and on the way somehow ended up at the Freemont Sunday Market.
(It's interesting to note that several other people were at the Market yesterday, and the only person I saw that was familiar was the one I went with.)
Leaving, Jeff said "Isn't Elvis around here somewhere?"
"Lenin?"
"Yeah, him, Elvis."
"He's that way." I pointed vaguely off to our right.
"I think he's that way." Jeff pointed to the left. Undecided, we walked up another block, only to find him there. And there he was, sure enough, with a duck on his head. There had been one glued to his foot, too, but someone had whacked off the head so it was just half a duck. When my mom was in town my stepsister and I had been so excited to show them Lenin, but they weren't as impressed.
We headed to Discovery Park where I found a couple of clamshells sitting in a parking spot.
Up the hill and around the corner, we found ourselves overlooking a family having a picnic. A man ran over to the trashcan, yelling in some other language, and I noticed there was a little girl next to it. She had wandered away from the family to relieve herself, but he apparently didn't agree with her.
I don't think I had an opinion either way.
(It's interesting to note that several other people were at the Market yesterday, and the only person I saw that was familiar was the one I went with.)
Leaving, Jeff said "Isn't Elvis around here somewhere?"
"Lenin?"
"Yeah, him, Elvis."
"He's that way." I pointed vaguely off to our right.
"I think he's that way." Jeff pointed to the left. Undecided, we walked up another block, only to find him there. And there he was, sure enough, with a duck on his head. There had been one glued to his foot, too, but someone had whacked off the head so it was just half a duck. When my mom was in town my stepsister and I had been so excited to show them Lenin, but they weren't as impressed.
We headed to Discovery Park where I found a couple of clamshells sitting in a parking spot.
Up the hill and around the corner, we found ourselves overlooking a family having a picnic. A man ran over to the trashcan, yelling in some other language, and I noticed there was a little girl next to it. She had wandered away from the family to relieve herself, but he apparently didn't agree with her.
I don't think I had an opinion either way.
Sunday, April 11, 2004
Every year at Easter, my mom would steal the ears off of my chocolate bunny. I'm not sure why it was that she found the ears so appealing, but she did. And this annoyed me to no end.
But one year, I got smart. I hid the bunny in the freezer, behind the frozen mice (my mother had a snake at the time) and the ice cube trays. A few days later I heard the freezer door opening. I was sitting on the couch reading, and my back stiffened. I didn't believe that she could find the bunny, but I was concerned nonetheless. She rustled around for a few minutes, and I heard dished being moved about and drawers being opened and shut.
Moments later, I heard a loud thump followed immediately by a sharp cracking sound. My mother dissolved into laughter and I ran into the kitchen, leaving a little puff of cartoon dust behind me. My mother was sitting on the floor, her back against the cabinets, practically incoherent with giggles. In her hand she held a large meat cleaver. On the stove sat my bunny on a broken plate. Snickering like a kid, my mom explained what had happened. It was hard to piece the story together because she couldn't stop laughing.
The story that eventually came out of her was that she had found my bunny and decided that the only way to remove the ears of a frozen rabbit was with a really big knife. And so she had laid the bunny on a plate and given it a whack with the knife, expecting the ears to separate from the rest of the head neatly. Instead, because the bunny was frozen solid, she had merely dented the surface of the candy and broken the plate. I looked at the rabbit and, sure enough, it had a groove that ran roughly along the top of the head.
What are you to do with a mother that determined? I gave up and handed over the rabbit. And even today, my mom calls that knife the 'bunny killer.' She's very proud of herself.
Happy Easter to you all!
But one year, I got smart. I hid the bunny in the freezer, behind the frozen mice (my mother had a snake at the time) and the ice cube trays. A few days later I heard the freezer door opening. I was sitting on the couch reading, and my back stiffened. I didn't believe that she could find the bunny, but I was concerned nonetheless. She rustled around for a few minutes, and I heard dished being moved about and drawers being opened and shut.
Moments later, I heard a loud thump followed immediately by a sharp cracking sound. My mother dissolved into laughter and I ran into the kitchen, leaving a little puff of cartoon dust behind me. My mother was sitting on the floor, her back against the cabinets, practically incoherent with giggles. In her hand she held a large meat cleaver. On the stove sat my bunny on a broken plate. Snickering like a kid, my mom explained what had happened. It was hard to piece the story together because she couldn't stop laughing.
The story that eventually came out of her was that she had found my bunny and decided that the only way to remove the ears of a frozen rabbit was with a really big knife. And so she had laid the bunny on a plate and given it a whack with the knife, expecting the ears to separate from the rest of the head neatly. Instead, because the bunny was frozen solid, she had merely dented the surface of the candy and broken the plate. I looked at the rabbit and, sure enough, it had a groove that ran roughly along the top of the head.
What are you to do with a mother that determined? I gave up and handed over the rabbit. And even today, my mom calls that knife the 'bunny killer.' She's very proud of herself.
Happy Easter to you all!
Saturday, April 10, 2004
The graffiti on the east side of the concrete structure in Gas Works park says, inexplicably, "west side." We try and make sense of it.
"But this is not west."
"Well, if Bellevue is the eastside, then this is the west side."
I'm not sure, though. I try and think of what sort of graffiti-er would be considering their relation to Bellevue.
"Do you think it says 'east side' on the other end?"
I'm still pondering the graffiti and idly watching a cute little boy climb the stairs when I notice a small pleasure boat heading straight for us. We joke about it crashing into us even while it's slowly stopping and eventually just not coming any closer at all. I can hear a song from The Counting Crows last album drift over the water. I like it and Jeff does not. A kayak paddles toward the boat and I hear the man in the front of the kayak shout up to the people "I'll take a ribeye, medium well." The people on the boat, though, don't seem to have understood him. They turn down the radio and he yells again "A ribeye, medium well, A-1 on the side." I don't know how they reply, but they don't seem to have invited the kayakers up because they keep going.
A few minutes later we walk towards the hill. There is no graffiti on the other side that says 'east side.'
"But this is not west."
"Well, if Bellevue is the eastside, then this is the west side."
I'm not sure, though. I try and think of what sort of graffiti-er would be considering their relation to Bellevue.
"Do you think it says 'east side' on the other end?"
I'm still pondering the graffiti and idly watching a cute little boy climb the stairs when I notice a small pleasure boat heading straight for us. We joke about it crashing into us even while it's slowly stopping and eventually just not coming any closer at all. I can hear a song from The Counting Crows last album drift over the water. I like it and Jeff does not. A kayak paddles toward the boat and I hear the man in the front of the kayak shout up to the people "I'll take a ribeye, medium well." The people on the boat, though, don't seem to have understood him. They turn down the radio and he yells again "A ribeye, medium well, A-1 on the side." I don't know how they reply, but they don't seem to have invited the kayakers up because they keep going.
A few minutes later we walk towards the hill. There is no graffiti on the other side that says 'east side.'
Thursday, April 08, 2004
My nan swears that we used to take road trips with my portable plastic potty strapped onto the trunk of her old boat of a car. I, personally, have no such recollections and the only other person who could have confirmed or denied this story was Mrs. Webster, and she died in February of 2000 at the age of two or three hundred. Webster was my nan's best friend, and the fact that Webster was at the outside several decades older than my nan didn't phase either one of them. They were an aging Thelma and Louise, drag racing salesmen and making me teach them the lyrics to the Def Leppard songs on the radio.
And all of this, ostensibly, with a little toilet tied to the back.
She's stuck by this story for years, but I can't fathom why we would need to bring the potty along. Was I that attached to it? Had I named it, made it a friend? Did it sing me to sleep? All plastic toilet-related memories seem to have gone the way that such things will go. And she can't shed any more light on the subject, because she has Parkinsons and it has turned her into a mumbling machine.
It's strange that I have so few memories related to my nan, considering how much time we spent together. Most of what I do remember is certainly tinged by her recollections because she tells the same stories over and over again, and has been for the last 20 years. Her Parkinsons has shifted her to a whole other country inside my brain. I strain now to collect the fragments of anecdotes scattered all over the years, to file them and to keep them in order to provide my younger counterparts with something resembling a story. She won't be with us much longer, you see, and I feel that it will be an even shorter amount of time before she is lost in effect to whatever type of system error is running rampant inside her brain.
I am, after all, the unofficial record keeper of my family. I am the only one young enough to have primarily fond memories of my paternal grandparents, and the only one old enough to have had the time to form impressions from these memories. I was the only lucid witness to the days before my father and his siblings all hated each other; before second marriages, second children, mortgages, and occasional sobriety. And so it has fallen to me to pass judgment, to try and see my relatives as whole people, and to tell their stories from all sides.
When Mrs. Webster was dying her memories disintegrated until most of what was left was myself. This was a cruel trick that her brain played on Webster's only daughter, Elsie. I suppose that I was related to the happiest time in Webster's life, after her tyrant husband had died and her humorless children had married and moved on. It was at this point, so late in her life, that Webster was able to be just herself, and she was herself in spades, having adventures with my nan and with a four or five year old me.
I see this same trend emerging in the slow implosion of my nan's mental facilities. She tends to call my cousins and my brothers by my name before she remembers that they have their own, and all too many of her intelligible mumblings are about what happened 15 or 20 years ago. And as I have always done, I will record this tumble and I will keep it safe so that my younger family can remember their oldest relative through the eyes of the one that loved her without reservation or resentment.
And all of this, ostensibly, with a little toilet tied to the back.
She's stuck by this story for years, but I can't fathom why we would need to bring the potty along. Was I that attached to it? Had I named it, made it a friend? Did it sing me to sleep? All plastic toilet-related memories seem to have gone the way that such things will go. And she can't shed any more light on the subject, because she has Parkinsons and it has turned her into a mumbling machine.
It's strange that I have so few memories related to my nan, considering how much time we spent together. Most of what I do remember is certainly tinged by her recollections because she tells the same stories over and over again, and has been for the last 20 years. Her Parkinsons has shifted her to a whole other country inside my brain. I strain now to collect the fragments of anecdotes scattered all over the years, to file them and to keep them in order to provide my younger counterparts with something resembling a story. She won't be with us much longer, you see, and I feel that it will be an even shorter amount of time before she is lost in effect to whatever type of system error is running rampant inside her brain.
I am, after all, the unofficial record keeper of my family. I am the only one young enough to have primarily fond memories of my paternal grandparents, and the only one old enough to have had the time to form impressions from these memories. I was the only lucid witness to the days before my father and his siblings all hated each other; before second marriages, second children, mortgages, and occasional sobriety. And so it has fallen to me to pass judgment, to try and see my relatives as whole people, and to tell their stories from all sides.
When Mrs. Webster was dying her memories disintegrated until most of what was left was myself. This was a cruel trick that her brain played on Webster's only daughter, Elsie. I suppose that I was related to the happiest time in Webster's life, after her tyrant husband had died and her humorless children had married and moved on. It was at this point, so late in her life, that Webster was able to be just herself, and she was herself in spades, having adventures with my nan and with a four or five year old me.
I see this same trend emerging in the slow implosion of my nan's mental facilities. She tends to call my cousins and my brothers by my name before she remembers that they have their own, and all too many of her intelligible mumblings are about what happened 15 or 20 years ago. And as I have always done, I will record this tumble and I will keep it safe so that my younger family can remember their oldest relative through the eyes of the one that loved her without reservation or resentment.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
This story so beats whatever I was going to say that I'm just going to quote it for you. It comes from a letter from my friend Jessica that I got yesterday:
"So, my mom has been investing a large sum of money with one of her friends. This involved giving the friend sizable checks of an amount that I don't know. So, then one day there was some kind of issue with my grandparents inheritance money, so my mom called her friend (Mrs. Chamberlain) and told her that she needed to get some of the money out of the investment. Mrs. Chamberlain told her to come over and she would write her a check. So, my mom went to her house, and sat on the couch while Mrs. Chamberlain went to get her checkbook. Or so she said. Instead, she got a frying pan, and started beating my mom over the head in an attempt to kill her. Mrs. Chamberlain is apparently addicted to some very expensive drugs, and used all of my mom's money on them. I know it sounds like a lie, but...true story."
Real life is amazing...I couldn't -make- this shit up!
"So, my mom has been investing a large sum of money with one of her friends. This involved giving the friend sizable checks of an amount that I don't know. So, then one day there was some kind of issue with my grandparents inheritance money, so my mom called her friend (Mrs. Chamberlain) and told her that she needed to get some of the money out of the investment. Mrs. Chamberlain told her to come over and she would write her a check. So, my mom went to her house, and sat on the couch while Mrs. Chamberlain went to get her checkbook. Or so she said. Instead, she got a frying pan, and started beating my mom over the head in an attempt to kill her. Mrs. Chamberlain is apparently addicted to some very expensive drugs, and used all of my mom's money on them. I know it sounds like a lie, but...true story."
Real life is amazing...I couldn't -make- this shit up!
Sunday, April 04, 2004
Further Florida: Excerpt from a letter 4/8/02:
"I opted not to go on the airboat, to spend time writing you this letter...Now, I sit on the boat docks waiting for the crew. Three alligators conspire to make me their breakfast. Although, Bob the head of education at Sea World sits with me and is bigger than me. If the alligators were smart they would rather have Bob. How funny. Bob just pointed out three deer grazing in the swamp."
(Some of the atrocious spelling and grammar errors corrected.)
"I opted not to go on the airboat, to spend time writing you this letter...Now, I sit on the boat docks waiting for the crew. Three alligators conspire to make me their breakfast. Although, Bob the head of education at Sea World sits with me and is bigger than me. If the alligators were smart they would rather have Bob. How funny. Bob just pointed out three deer grazing in the swamp."
(Some of the atrocious spelling and grammar errors corrected.)
We went to the Comet last night after the play to shoot some pool and drink some beer.
In high school, we played pool three times a week at least. Bob's Billiards was the place, owned and operated by Bob himself, in his 50's and, we were sure, a pimp. We would drink our Coronas and watch as scantily clad girls went into the back room and come back out in a new and different skimpy outfit. And we didn't really have a problem with it; that's just what happens at Bob's.
(One night I wore my leather pants to the pool hall on a date with David, and was leaning over to make a shot when Bob came up behind me and smacked my ass. "Are those chaps?" "Er, no, just pants.")
We got to be pretty good, but my one failing in pool is my poor spatial skills. I just can't picture what's going to happen.
Last night I won, but it was the longest game in history. Neither one of us is very good.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Although I complain about it an absurd amount, Florida is occasionally lovely. And this shouldn't surprise anyone; any place, given the benefit of the doubt or just some nice lighting, contains the potential for loveliness. Growing up, I got to do many things that you only get to do in tropical places.
I swam with dolphins; or, more accurately, got moved about by dolphins. We would tie my little boat onto the side of my aunt's fishing boat and the dolphins, amused by a new visitor, would bounce their noses against it. I would fall out, and cry, because I was pretty sure they were doing it on purpose. We also swam with manatees a lot. Crystal River, where my aunt lives, is where they hang out. Manatees are slow moving, gentle creatures. They don't do much and they're really not that interesting except in that they're endangered now.
I saw alligators often, and they saw me. And not once did one ever try to eat me, not even when I was trapped under a canoe in their river.
I visited (and then tried to stay away from) the Everglades, which is an incredibly diverse bioregion.
I did sea turtle patrol, watching over the eggs after they were laid to make sure nothing tried to dig them up. The payoff for late nights in the sand was that we got to watch the baby turtles hatch and make their way down to the water.
I lived through Hurricane Elena.
I once followed a rain shower down the street, because it was only about three feet wide.
None of this makes me look at it any more kindly; I still would rather, I don't know, chew off a foot than live there again. But I thought you should know.
I swam with dolphins; or, more accurately, got moved about by dolphins. We would tie my little boat onto the side of my aunt's fishing boat and the dolphins, amused by a new visitor, would bounce their noses against it. I would fall out, and cry, because I was pretty sure they were doing it on purpose. We also swam with manatees a lot. Crystal River, where my aunt lives, is where they hang out. Manatees are slow moving, gentle creatures. They don't do much and they're really not that interesting except in that they're endangered now.
I saw alligators often, and they saw me. And not once did one ever try to eat me, not even when I was trapped under a canoe in their river.
I visited (and then tried to stay away from) the Everglades, which is an incredibly diverse bioregion.
I did sea turtle patrol, watching over the eggs after they were laid to make sure nothing tried to dig them up. The payoff for late nights in the sand was that we got to watch the baby turtles hatch and make their way down to the water.
I lived through Hurricane Elena.
I once followed a rain shower down the street, because it was only about three feet wide.
None of this makes me look at it any more kindly; I still would rather, I don't know, chew off a foot than live there again. But I thought you should know.
Sunday, March 28, 2004
Florida, Pt 3:
On a million-degree day in July of 2000, Bethany, Candice, and I headed to the beach. Clearwater Beach is a man made expanse of blisteringly white sand that reflects the sun back into your face. It's a spring break destination, a total tourist trap; it's where I grew up. As a kid we'd sit on the lifeguard stations to watch 4th of July fireworks. In high school we had homecoming afterparties there, we spent weekends and vacations and sunny hurricane days spread out on towels, cooking. I once slept there for a night the month I was homeless senior year. I had a love-hate relationship with the beach. My super pale skin crisps at the mere thought of sun and I dislike sand in my clothes, but at the same time the sparkling blue gulf and the white sand (not to mention the boys!) always proved irresistible.
This particular day we arranged ourselves on the sand and commenced tanning. We were feeling particularly perky that day; Bethany and I were about to move away to college and Cane had a new boyfriend that hadn't ever been arrested (a huge step up from the last one). Bethany lay on my left; blonde and tan, in a black bikini that was all string and a few discreet triangles of material, she was our showpiece. Cane, on my right, was in her dark red bikini, her long brown-red hair catching the light. The two of them had coated themselves in low SPF suntan lotion, essentially vegetable oil, and were preparing to bake themselves golden brown. I was in the middle, in my bright orange and yellow bikini, long brown hair as ever piled on top of my head. I was coating myself in high grade SPF, hoping I'd come out of the day with only a mild sunburn.
We were, as ever, chatting idly of boys.
"So, Spam, slept with Nate yet?"
"Dude, -fuck- Nate. He's a dick, and I hate him."
"So that's a no?"
"Oh...uh, no, I slept with him. I don't want to talk about it." I turned on Bethany. "What's up with the -Keith- situation, eh?"
"Keith is difficult. Maybe we can get him drunk and you can distract Todd while I work on Keith."
(Oh, for the days that my girlfriends and I traded men like baseball cards!)
"I'll distract Todd, alright. Hey, Adam just got back from Cocoa last night."
Adam was an old friend of mine, Cocoa beach was where people went to surf. It's on the Atlantic coast.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. He says that the fins were cresting really close to shore."
That summer, there had been a lot of reports of shark attacks on surfers. We said that the fins crested when they broke the surface of the water, and we were really glad that there were fewer sharks on our side.
"Shit. Here, we just gotta do the stingray shuffle."
The stingray shuffle is what you do in water where there might be rays. If you shuffle your feet along the sand in the water, it disturbs the rays and they swim away. This means that you won't step on them and they won't sting you.
We were pondering the stingray shuffle when Cane noticed a man who was standing a few yards away, down towards the waterline, and apparently staring right at us. She elbowed me.
"Hey, what's he doing?"
He appeared to be pretty old, and from the looks of his white skin and bright red speedo bathing suit, he was obviously a tourist. What had disturbed Cane, however, was the fact that the sun was glinting off of the lens of a video camera that he held in his right hand.
"He's filming us! Oh, -gross-!"
We were skeeved, and a bit scared. We each grabbed for our t-shirts, trying to cover ourselves before hightailing it off the beach. But on our way out we stopped by the lifeguard stand and told Sean, our lifeguard, what had happened. And we still hope that Sean threw that camera in the water.
On a million-degree day in July of 2000, Bethany, Candice, and I headed to the beach. Clearwater Beach is a man made expanse of blisteringly white sand that reflects the sun back into your face. It's a spring break destination, a total tourist trap; it's where I grew up. As a kid we'd sit on the lifeguard stations to watch 4th of July fireworks. In high school we had homecoming afterparties there, we spent weekends and vacations and sunny hurricane days spread out on towels, cooking. I once slept there for a night the month I was homeless senior year. I had a love-hate relationship with the beach. My super pale skin crisps at the mere thought of sun and I dislike sand in my clothes, but at the same time the sparkling blue gulf and the white sand (not to mention the boys!) always proved irresistible.
This particular day we arranged ourselves on the sand and commenced tanning. We were feeling particularly perky that day; Bethany and I were about to move away to college and Cane had a new boyfriend that hadn't ever been arrested (a huge step up from the last one). Bethany lay on my left; blonde and tan, in a black bikini that was all string and a few discreet triangles of material, she was our showpiece. Cane, on my right, was in her dark red bikini, her long brown-red hair catching the light. The two of them had coated themselves in low SPF suntan lotion, essentially vegetable oil, and were preparing to bake themselves golden brown. I was in the middle, in my bright orange and yellow bikini, long brown hair as ever piled on top of my head. I was coating myself in high grade SPF, hoping I'd come out of the day with only a mild sunburn.
We were, as ever, chatting idly of boys.
"So, Spam, slept with Nate yet?"
"Dude, -fuck- Nate. He's a dick, and I hate him."
"So that's a no?"
"Oh...uh, no, I slept with him. I don't want to talk about it." I turned on Bethany. "What's up with the -Keith- situation, eh?"
"Keith is difficult. Maybe we can get him drunk and you can distract Todd while I work on Keith."
(Oh, for the days that my girlfriends and I traded men like baseball cards!)
"I'll distract Todd, alright. Hey, Adam just got back from Cocoa last night."
Adam was an old friend of mine, Cocoa beach was where people went to surf. It's on the Atlantic coast.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. He says that the fins were cresting really close to shore."
That summer, there had been a lot of reports of shark attacks on surfers. We said that the fins crested when they broke the surface of the water, and we were really glad that there were fewer sharks on our side.
"Shit. Here, we just gotta do the stingray shuffle."
The stingray shuffle is what you do in water where there might be rays. If you shuffle your feet along the sand in the water, it disturbs the rays and they swim away. This means that you won't step on them and they won't sting you.
We were pondering the stingray shuffle when Cane noticed a man who was standing a few yards away, down towards the waterline, and apparently staring right at us. She elbowed me.
"Hey, what's he doing?"
He appeared to be pretty old, and from the looks of his white skin and bright red speedo bathing suit, he was obviously a tourist. What had disturbed Cane, however, was the fact that the sun was glinting off of the lens of a video camera that he held in his right hand.
"He's filming us! Oh, -gross-!"
We were skeeved, and a bit scared. We each grabbed for our t-shirts, trying to cover ourselves before hightailing it off the beach. But on our way out we stopped by the lifeguard stand and told Sean, our lifeguard, what had happened. And we still hope that Sean threw that camera in the water.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Florida is the weirdest state in the union, Pt 2:
Gasparilla is a festival where the pirates invade Tampa Bay.
I suppose this takes a little bit of background history. If you look on a map at the Gulf coast of Florida, about halfway down, you'll notice another little peninsula curving off the side of the state. The water therein is Tampa Bay, and that whole section was a pirate hideout. There's a small town in there called Safety Harbor which was named by the pirates. It's actually the oldest continually inhabited settlement in the U.S., rather than St. Augustine, but because it was infested by pirates it didn't get a town charter until later. (A further piece of history here is that a relative of mine was the first mayor of the town of Safety Harbor.) Tampa Bay is where they would go to, I don't know, count the booty, after trolling the waters of the Caribbean.
So. Every year the Tampa Bay area has a festival celebrating the underrated accomplishments of looting, raping, pillaging, and burning. A pirate ship sails into the bay and lands at the port of Tampa, whereupon a legion of sweaty, shirtless, hairy men invade the port and have a parade. All of the seven or eight cities that live under the umbrella of the term "Tampa Bay Area" have flocked into downtown Tampa, and as soon as the boat hits everyone gets down and starts partying.
When I was a little girl, my dad's bands would play at the party.
I suppose this involves a bit more background history. The thing is, you see, that my parents were crazy musicians; long haired rock-n-rollers, the lot of them. When I was four and we moved back to Tampa from Jacksonville my parents were still in their mid-twenties and, though divorced, still believed wholeheartedly in partying together.
So. My father, shirtless and in cutoffs, impossibly young and curled around his bass, would play at these festivals. And I, four or five, also shirtless and in cutoffs, would dance at them. I was then, and still am now, a big sucker for even bad covers of good old rock-n-roll, and would get down like nobody's business at a heavy bass opening or a talky guitar line.
And then I, four or five, shirtless and in cutoffs, would be toasted by hairy men dressed like pirates and handed a beer. Because, in the end, there's really no way to celebrate a legacy of piracy than with shameless debauchery, and if the kid can't hold her liquor, she'll learn pretty quick.
Gasparilla is a festival where the pirates invade Tampa Bay.
I suppose this takes a little bit of background history. If you look on a map at the Gulf coast of Florida, about halfway down, you'll notice another little peninsula curving off the side of the state. The water therein is Tampa Bay, and that whole section was a pirate hideout. There's a small town in there called Safety Harbor which was named by the pirates. It's actually the oldest continually inhabited settlement in the U.S., rather than St. Augustine, but because it was infested by pirates it didn't get a town charter until later. (A further piece of history here is that a relative of mine was the first mayor of the town of Safety Harbor.) Tampa Bay is where they would go to, I don't know, count the booty, after trolling the waters of the Caribbean.
So. Every year the Tampa Bay area has a festival celebrating the underrated accomplishments of looting, raping, pillaging, and burning. A pirate ship sails into the bay and lands at the port of Tampa, whereupon a legion of sweaty, shirtless, hairy men invade the port and have a parade. All of the seven or eight cities that live under the umbrella of the term "Tampa Bay Area" have flocked into downtown Tampa, and as soon as the boat hits everyone gets down and starts partying.
When I was a little girl, my dad's bands would play at the party.
I suppose this involves a bit more background history. The thing is, you see, that my parents were crazy musicians; long haired rock-n-rollers, the lot of them. When I was four and we moved back to Tampa from Jacksonville my parents were still in their mid-twenties and, though divorced, still believed wholeheartedly in partying together.
So. My father, shirtless and in cutoffs, impossibly young and curled around his bass, would play at these festivals. And I, four or five, also shirtless and in cutoffs, would dance at them. I was then, and still am now, a big sucker for even bad covers of good old rock-n-roll, and would get down like nobody's business at a heavy bass opening or a talky guitar line.
And then I, four or five, shirtless and in cutoffs, would be toasted by hairy men dressed like pirates and handed a beer. Because, in the end, there's really no way to celebrate a legacy of piracy than with shameless debauchery, and if the kid can't hold her liquor, she'll learn pretty quick.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Florida is the weirdest state in the union, Pt 1:
We're cruising east on 60, just west of Yeehaw Junction. The temperature wobbles on the edge of three digits and our 4/60 air conditioning--4 windows down going 60 miles per hour--serves only to sweep the scalding air past my face, singeing my eyebrows. Brad is in the driver's seat of his dented rust bucket named Sheila, his shoulder length hair waving wildly in the breeze. His left leg, bored, shifts around restlessly in the well under the steering wheel. I am in the passenger seat, bare legs folded on the dashboard, one foot with each toenail painted a different color stuck out the window. My hair, long and bleached blonde, is piled untidily on top of my hair and secured with a pair of chopsticks found in the back seat. The sun bounces off the fair skin of my shoulders and nose, and I am slowly roasting.
The car approaches a handwritten sign on the right shoulder of the road. "Good Food. Next Right." The words are written in black permanent marker and underlined with red. I look at Brad, and he looks at me. We shrug, and almost simultaneously say "Why the hell not?"
The next right turns out to be a barely perceptible slightly rutted road hidden under crab grass. After a good deal of bumping and oh shitting we approach the man. Moments before stopping, we hear a thunk at the front of the car. "Hope that wasn't his kid," says Brad. We step out of the car, my bare foot landing squarely on a mole cricket, squishing it into my arch and up as far as my toes. "Awww, sonofabitch!" I hop up and down, grossed out. "What?" Brad moves around the front of the car towards me. "We can't stop here, it's mole cricket country," I answer, showing him the bottom of my foot. "Oooh, you got a juicy one." We walk around the back of the car and down the lane a few feet until we come across the curled up armadillo that was the source of the thunk. "I hope that's not the good food, is all I have to say."
For the record, I'm not a big fan of armadillo meat. It's stringy and musky in exactly the way you would expect something that my father always called a 'rodent on the half shell' to be.
The man sits on a folding chair, a pile of watermelons a yard or two closer to us. Directly in front of him sits a folding table with two crock pots on it. The crock pots look just like the one my stepmother has at home, with a blue pattern of roosters and things and one wobbly leg. The sign in from the of left-hand one says "Collard greens $2." The right-hand one says "Boiled peanuts $2." Two dollars for what? A peanut? A green? A crockpot?
"How y'all today?" His voice is strangely high pitched and we're taken aback.
"Not so bad. Yourself?"
"Doin' good. Hotter than a Calcutta whorehouse today, though."
I don't know how to answer this, and from the look of Brad neither does he. We haven't ever been to a Calcutta whorehouse, or even -near- one. We move towards the watermelons to confer. "Where is his car?" Brad asks. I look around and, sure enough, no vehicle of any kind. "This dude obviously fell out of the sky." "So, does he leave when the crock pots are empty? Does he have more hidden in the grass?" "It's probably all magic." "Right-o. I'll take the collared greens, you take the peanuts."
We make our requests and from behind the crock pots he produces plastic cups. He fills them expertly, no spillage, and we give him our money. But we wait until we get back into the car and on the highway to try them, just in case none of it was real and it disappears once we leave. We want proof. I crack a peanut and Brad dips his fingers into the greens and pulls out a pinch, and then we switch.
The most astonishing part is that, indeed, it is good food.
We're cruising east on 60, just west of Yeehaw Junction. The temperature wobbles on the edge of three digits and our 4/60 air conditioning--4 windows down going 60 miles per hour--serves only to sweep the scalding air past my face, singeing my eyebrows. Brad is in the driver's seat of his dented rust bucket named Sheila, his shoulder length hair waving wildly in the breeze. His left leg, bored, shifts around restlessly in the well under the steering wheel. I am in the passenger seat, bare legs folded on the dashboard, one foot with each toenail painted a different color stuck out the window. My hair, long and bleached blonde, is piled untidily on top of my hair and secured with a pair of chopsticks found in the back seat. The sun bounces off the fair skin of my shoulders and nose, and I am slowly roasting.
The car approaches a handwritten sign on the right shoulder of the road. "Good Food. Next Right." The words are written in black permanent marker and underlined with red. I look at Brad, and he looks at me. We shrug, and almost simultaneously say "Why the hell not?"
The next right turns out to be a barely perceptible slightly rutted road hidden under crab grass. After a good deal of bumping and oh shitting we approach the man. Moments before stopping, we hear a thunk at the front of the car. "Hope that wasn't his kid," says Brad. We step out of the car, my bare foot landing squarely on a mole cricket, squishing it into my arch and up as far as my toes. "Awww, sonofabitch!" I hop up and down, grossed out. "What?" Brad moves around the front of the car towards me. "We can't stop here, it's mole cricket country," I answer, showing him the bottom of my foot. "Oooh, you got a juicy one." We walk around the back of the car and down the lane a few feet until we come across the curled up armadillo that was the source of the thunk. "I hope that's not the good food, is all I have to say."
For the record, I'm not a big fan of armadillo meat. It's stringy and musky in exactly the way you would expect something that my father always called a 'rodent on the half shell' to be.
The man sits on a folding chair, a pile of watermelons a yard or two closer to us. Directly in front of him sits a folding table with two crock pots on it. The crock pots look just like the one my stepmother has at home, with a blue pattern of roosters and things and one wobbly leg. The sign in from the of left-hand one says "Collard greens $2." The right-hand one says "Boiled peanuts $2." Two dollars for what? A peanut? A green? A crockpot?
"How y'all today?" His voice is strangely high pitched and we're taken aback.
"Not so bad. Yourself?"
"Doin' good. Hotter than a Calcutta whorehouse today, though."
I don't know how to answer this, and from the look of Brad neither does he. We haven't ever been to a Calcutta whorehouse, or even -near- one. We move towards the watermelons to confer. "Where is his car?" Brad asks. I look around and, sure enough, no vehicle of any kind. "This dude obviously fell out of the sky." "So, does he leave when the crock pots are empty? Does he have more hidden in the grass?" "It's probably all magic." "Right-o. I'll take the collared greens, you take the peanuts."
We make our requests and from behind the crock pots he produces plastic cups. He fills them expertly, no spillage, and we give him our money. But we wait until we get back into the car and on the highway to try them, just in case none of it was real and it disappears once we leave. We want proof. I crack a peanut and Brad dips his fingers into the greens and pulls out a pinch, and then we switch.
The most astonishing part is that, indeed, it is good food.
Saturday, March 20, 2004
Jeff holds my hand in public and likes my eyebrows. He tells me good morning when I wake up and he has the most complicated eye color I've ever come across. He may know how to cook an apple pie over a campfire and is a great dancer. He plays a mean game of Scrabble and a meaner Boggle and is doing the job that I wish I had.
He's the best boyfriend.
Happy birthday, buddy! You're my favorite.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
I called today to make an appointment for a haircut on Thursday. Since I moved to Seattle I've gotten it cut twice, both times at the same place. It's right down the street from me; it's a little spendy, but both times she's done a good job.
Anyway, the point to this little bit of a story is that when I gave her my name for the appointment, she remembered who I was. This may not actually be true. She may have just been sounding like she knew who I was in the same way that I pretend to remember the customers in my store. But regardless, she appeared to remember me and this feels like I officially have a hairstylist. Like, cheesily, I'm putting down roots.
Anyway, the point to this little bit of a story is that when I gave her my name for the appointment, she remembered who I was. This may not actually be true. She may have just been sounding like she knew who I was in the same way that I pretend to remember the customers in my store. But regardless, she appeared to remember me and this feels like I officially have a hairstylist. Like, cheesily, I'm putting down roots.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Every summer a mockingbird builds its nest in the tall shrubbery next to my father's garage. It hates the fact that my family has callously placed their home so close to its nest, although if we were going to talk specifics with the bird, the house was there first. The bird's preferred method of expressing its displeasure is by dive bombing the first person to exit the walkway.
The only one it ever hits is my brother Ryan.
For some reason, the mockingbird really dislikes my brother. Whenever he leaves the house it swoops down towards his head, often making contact with the flesh above his right ear. The net result of this is that by the end of summer Ryan launches himself out the front door in the hopes of making it past before the bird spots him. He also, by the end of summer, has a large nasty bird beak wound on the side of his head.
We never understood why the bird has chosen Ryan to hate. He's not the loudest of my two brothers, not the fastest or the slowest of the family, not the tallest or the shortest. He is the middle ground, and the mockingbird has begun a campaign on his mediocrity. We can't, of course, be sure that it's always the same mockingbird. After six or seven years, it's probably unlikely. So perhaps it is mockingbirds in general that do not like my little brother.
One day a few years ago Ryan was in my bedroom looking at my bookshelves. He couldn't have been more than 7 or 8 at the time, but he spied one he liked. "Sissy, can I borrow that one?" "To Kill a Mockingbird? Well sure, buddy, but I think it's probably advanced for you." "But it'll tell me -how-." It was then that I realized that he thought it was a sort of how to guide. I had been too excited by his interest to figure out what was going on.
My family is moving to North Carolina in a few months. Last week, I was on the phone with Ryan. "Are you excited to be moving?" I asked him. "Yeah," he answered. "Maybe there's no mockingbirds in North Carolina."
So I guess that means it's moved back in.
The only one it ever hits is my brother Ryan.
For some reason, the mockingbird really dislikes my brother. Whenever he leaves the house it swoops down towards his head, often making contact with the flesh above his right ear. The net result of this is that by the end of summer Ryan launches himself out the front door in the hopes of making it past before the bird spots him. He also, by the end of summer, has a large nasty bird beak wound on the side of his head.
We never understood why the bird has chosen Ryan to hate. He's not the loudest of my two brothers, not the fastest or the slowest of the family, not the tallest or the shortest. He is the middle ground, and the mockingbird has begun a campaign on his mediocrity. We can't, of course, be sure that it's always the same mockingbird. After six or seven years, it's probably unlikely. So perhaps it is mockingbirds in general that do not like my little brother.
One day a few years ago Ryan was in my bedroom looking at my bookshelves. He couldn't have been more than 7 or 8 at the time, but he spied one he liked. "Sissy, can I borrow that one?" "To Kill a Mockingbird? Well sure, buddy, but I think it's probably advanced for you." "But it'll tell me -how-." It was then that I realized that he thought it was a sort of how to guide. I had been too excited by his interest to figure out what was going on.
My family is moving to North Carolina in a few months. Last week, I was on the phone with Ryan. "Are you excited to be moving?" I asked him. "Yeah," he answered. "Maybe there's no mockingbirds in North Carolina."
So I guess that means it's moved back in.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Make Like the Virgin Mary
In 1996, the Virgin Mary appeared on a window of The Ugly Duckling Car Rental in my hometown. I remember this vividly, since it was Christmastime and we wretched nonbelievers had a much smaller crowd to elbow through in the mall. Someone cut down a tree and there she was, a 60-foot-high water stain. Soon enough, the throngs diminished and the building was leased by some church or another. I passed the building daily on my way to and from school, and to and from the pool hall. No matter what time of day or night it was, people, usually no more than a handful, were there worshipping.
We forgot about them after a time; they were just part of the scenery. But I drove past it again when I was back in Florida in January, and it was still there, still with its roped off section of the parking lot where believers could meditate without fear of being run over by a car. It was comforting in a sort of 'oh yeah, and there's our local ironic miracle' way.
On the phone with my stepmother tonight, she mentioned that some kids had finally managed to throw rocks through it, shattering the top half of the apparition. And I found myself uttering the phrase "these kids today." Since the day after it showed up, people have been trying to kill it. Some have even gone as far as throwing tomatoes at the glass in the hope that the acids in the fruit will eat away the stain. But now someone has finally succeeded, seven years later.
I'm worried about the people that have spent so much faith on this window. The church has replaced the glass, but what if the stain doesn't return? They will believe that they have been forsaken, and this will be bad. Simply because I didn't have any belief staked on it does not mean that I feel they should be begrudged their faith. But then I suppose that the true test of their faith is meant to come now that their old icon is broken.
We forgot about them after a time; they were just part of the scenery. But I drove past it again when I was back in Florida in January, and it was still there, still with its roped off section of the parking lot where believers could meditate without fear of being run over by a car. It was comforting in a sort of 'oh yeah, and there's our local ironic miracle' way.
On the phone with my stepmother tonight, she mentioned that some kids had finally managed to throw rocks through it, shattering the top half of the apparition. And I found myself uttering the phrase "these kids today." Since the day after it showed up, people have been trying to kill it. Some have even gone as far as throwing tomatoes at the glass in the hope that the acids in the fruit will eat away the stain. But now someone has finally succeeded, seven years later.
I'm worried about the people that have spent so much faith on this window. The church has replaced the glass, but what if the stain doesn't return? They will believe that they have been forsaken, and this will be bad. Simply because I didn't have any belief staked on it does not mean that I feel they should be begrudged their faith. But then I suppose that the true test of their faith is meant to come now that their old icon is broken.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
I was uncomfortable with being the first one there, so I wandered back into the cafe and read another section of my book. Three--maybe four--minutes being duly accounted for, I wandered, desperately nonchalant, back into the reading room. Still there was no one inside. I paused, contemplating the pros and cons of retreating back into the cafe. Would people notice that I was wandering back and forth? I had not yet decided my course of action when a cute guy with a mohawk popped up from behind a bookshelf; there was, I now saw, a sort of office back there.
"Are you here for the reading?"
"Yes."
"It'll be another 15 minutes or so."
That's me, chronically way too early. You'd think that by now I would have perfected my waiting technique, but I'm still awkward and self-conscious about it. I wandered over to the stack of books to be signed. Could I take one now, I wondered, or was I meant to wait until after the reading?
Finally other people started to trickle in, and the mohawk boy reappeared beside me. "Please, make yourself at home." Deciding, on reflection, that I was much to uncomfortable to make myself feel at home, I settled instead for finding a seat: second row, about four seats in; not too close to be spit on but not so far away that I'd miss anything good if someone tall sat in front of me. I nestled into my chair, opened my book, and waited.
The room was about halfway full when the guy with the mohawk walked over. "The author is late, so I hope you don't mind waiting."
"Oh," I answered, "can't you call him?"
"Maybe he got stuck in traffic or something."
Another fifteen minutes went by before the mohawk took the stage. "We still haven't heard from the author," he told the lot of us, "so I guess someone got the time or the location wrong. I guess we can consider this canceled."
On my way out the door I grabbed a copy of the book. While I'm mildly resentful that the author had not made himself known, I don't, after all, want the trip to be a total waste.
We were vandals, just as much as any other group of thirteen year olds. We just weren't very good at it.
"Let's go throw rocks through the windows of that empty place by Joey's!"
"Yeah! Or maybe pinecones."
"Pinecones?"
"Sure, pinecones!" I had to think fast. I've always been a scaredy cat, and couldn't we get -arrested- for breaking windows?I didn't want to go to jail. "That way, if we break a window, we'll have -worked- for it! Victory will be ours!"
"Uh, sure, but rocks..."
"No way, man! Rocks are for pussies. Pinecones are the tools of the future!"
Everyone looked at each other, and then me, suspiciously. Was I joking, or was I really cooler than them? Could they afford to let me, a girl, tell them what to do? There was silence, a shifting of feet, an uncomfortable hitching foreward of shoulders.
"Let's go, uh, play basketball!"
If we'd been in a cartoon, there would have been a cloud of dust and wavy lines where we had just been standing. Sure, they may have talked like they wanted to break windows, but none of us wanted to get in trouble. Trouble meant grounded, after all, and that was a fate worse than exile.
"Let's go throw rocks through the windows of that empty place by Joey's!"
"Yeah! Or maybe pinecones."
"Pinecones?"
"Sure, pinecones!" I had to think fast. I've always been a scaredy cat, and couldn't we get -arrested- for breaking windows?I didn't want to go to jail. "That way, if we break a window, we'll have -worked- for it! Victory will be ours!"
"Uh, sure, but rocks..."
"No way, man! Rocks are for pussies. Pinecones are the tools of the future!"
Everyone looked at each other, and then me, suspiciously. Was I joking, or was I really cooler than them? Could they afford to let me, a girl, tell them what to do? There was silence, a shifting of feet, an uncomfortable hitching foreward of shoulders.
"Let's go, uh, play basketball!"
If we'd been in a cartoon, there would have been a cloud of dust and wavy lines where we had just been standing. Sure, they may have talked like they wanted to break windows, but none of us wanted to get in trouble. Trouble meant grounded, after all, and that was a fate worse than exile.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
I remained a teenager when Brad entered his twenties, but no age difference could really interfere with true partners in crime. We each tried, when we first met, to fall in love with the other, but much to our mutual relief that didn’t really work out. Instead, we wrote suicide letters together:
“To Whom it May Concern:
I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.”
“To Whom it May Concern:
I’ve fallen and I can’t get up…into a vat of piranha.”
“To Whom it May Concern:
I licked the cat. Because of that and all the other years of me-inflicted trauma, it went a little crazy.
It’s almost chewed through the door. Here’s hoping it goes for the jugular.”
We made light of the things that scared us rather than risk losing face by being obviously afraid.
“To Whom it May Concern:
I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.”
“To Whom it May Concern:
I’ve fallen and I can’t get up…into a vat of piranha.”
“To Whom it May Concern:
I licked the cat. Because of that and all the other years of me-inflicted trauma, it went a little crazy.
It’s almost chewed through the door. Here’s hoping it goes for the jugular.”
We made light of the things that scared us rather than risk losing face by being obviously afraid.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
I once had a fling.
I know that, at 21, I should have had lots of flings. Flings should be my business. I should have spent the whole three years that I was in college having brief, intense interludes with exchange students and philosophy majors. I should have broken out my bikini and romped with surfers. It was in the plans; my party pickup line was supposed to be 'hello, my name is samantha, and my major is gratuitous recreational sex'. The trouble, sadly, is that eventually my personality gets in the way and so things never work out the way they do in the alternate universe of my other personality: the one in my head.
And so it was sort of refreshing to toss myself into a brand new environment and have a brief but truly fabulous rendez-vous. I behaved shamefully, but then that's how it's supposed to work in these situations. And the whole silly affair brought a deeper sense of understanding and comfort to a friendship that has been sporadic at best for many years.
It's not often, after all, that I get to (or want to) see my dearest male friends naked.
I get jealous of the women that my boyfriend has known in the past. Not merely in the biblical sense, but even just friends. The thought that he's desired other women makes me shiver. I disregard these feelings, though, because they're silly. I refuse to let them get to me, to let them get anywhere near him, to let them outside my head. I've never been insecure like this before and so I'll be damned if I start now. And I've discovered that the easiest way to counteract this effect is to remind myself that I have my own past which (hopefully) has the same effect on him. I remind myself that I've known men (in the biblical sense) before myself.
In some odd, rather perverse way, this helps to chase off my demons.
I know that, at 21, I should have had lots of flings. Flings should be my business. I should have spent the whole three years that I was in college having brief, intense interludes with exchange students and philosophy majors. I should have broken out my bikini and romped with surfers. It was in the plans; my party pickup line was supposed to be 'hello, my name is samantha, and my major is gratuitous recreational sex'. The trouble, sadly, is that eventually my personality gets in the way and so things never work out the way they do in the alternate universe of my other personality: the one in my head.
And so it was sort of refreshing to toss myself into a brand new environment and have a brief but truly fabulous rendez-vous. I behaved shamefully, but then that's how it's supposed to work in these situations. And the whole silly affair brought a deeper sense of understanding and comfort to a friendship that has been sporadic at best for many years.
It's not often, after all, that I get to (or want to) see my dearest male friends naked.
I get jealous of the women that my boyfriend has known in the past. Not merely in the biblical sense, but even just friends. The thought that he's desired other women makes me shiver. I disregard these feelings, though, because they're silly. I refuse to let them get to me, to let them get anywhere near him, to let them outside my head. I've never been insecure like this before and so I'll be damned if I start now. And I've discovered that the easiest way to counteract this effect is to remind myself that I have my own past which (hopefully) has the same effect on him. I remind myself that I've known men (in the biblical sense) before myself.
In some odd, rather perverse way, this helps to chase off my demons.
Monday, March 01, 2004
It’s 8 am on a Saturday morning in 1998, and I am asleep. I have been asleep for a mere six hours, having spent most of the night before at a pool hall across town. I’m sixteen, and I fancy myself quite the pool shark. My world consists of my friends and myself, and it does not have room for anything that would want to wake me up at 8 in the morning. Eric doesn’t care about my world. He cares about cheese. He slaps a slice straight from the refrigerator onto my unsuspecting forehead, jolting me immediately and angrily awake. Cheese please? His face is cherubic, every feature composed smoothly into infallible innocence. I don’t believe this. I know that he has been waiting by my door for the clock in the hall to chime the hour. Can I have cheese for breakfast? We have had to limit his cheese intake to eight slices a day, because his excessive consumption of Kraft Singles lends to the calcium that lingers purple under his skin. This makes no difference; he is an addict. Right now he cannot handle the tricky plastic film that covers the individual pieces. Very soon he will master them, and no amount of reactionary measures will stop him. He will crouch by the fridge in the middle of the night, stuffing purloined cheese slices into his cheeks like a mouse on speed. This morning, though, he’s still too little to manage his fingers. He takes his revenge on those of us with higher motor skills by demanding cheese from us at unholy times. I would roll over and go back to sleep, but Eric always wins. Groggy, I try and think of a way to make him leave. I tell him that I don’t remember how to open them, and that he should go ask his mom. He accepts this suggestion and scuttles off, giggling evilly, to go hit her with his now lukewarm cheese.
As a small child, I spent most of my time with my paternal grandmother. She lived in a slightly seedy apartment building, one with a courtyard full of tumbled weeds that I would explore unceasingly for hours. As one of those goofy kids who fell down a lot and always ended up in the wrong place, I didn’t really have any friends. Instead, I had this jungle courtyard and Speedy and Kathleen, my imaginary pals, for company. The last day I ever played there was one bright with pineapple sunshine and warm breezes. The heat warmed my skin through my favorite spotted sundress and I focused completely on my quest for doodlebugs. Standing up from an intense study of the square patch of earth in front of me, something shattered painfully on the top of my head. I reached up my hand, sure that my skull was broken and my brains were seeping out, and pulled it back covered in some viscous goo that was bright yellow and milky white. Surprised that my brains and the sun were the same color, I stared at my fingers until something slid down my scalp and fell quickly to the grass. It was an eggshell, and the truth quickly dawned on me; some mean kid upstairs had dropped an egg on my head. I remembered a nature show that my grandmother had just been watching where baby chickens pecked their way out from the inside of eggs that looked, suspiciously, just like this one. As I stood there in the sunny courtyard, I started to cry because I had a dead baby chicken dripping down the side of my face.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
In something less than four months, my best friend will be getting married. (This is a subject that is going to be much-hashed for the next few months, both here and in the livejournal, so just get out your easy chairs and lay up some snacks, kids.) Now, I go to lots of weddings: at least one a year, and sometimes up to eight. Mind you, these are weddings that I've been invited to, not even ones that I've been forced to gate-crash due to cake withdrawl or a dramatic lack of the electric slide. But Sarah is the first person I've known since I was four feet tall that I'm not related to who will be, you know, taking the Pepsi challenge. (Single or Married? Tastes great or Less filling?) And, childishly, I'm just not prepared for all the responsibility involved in having a married best friend. Buying couple gifts, remembering to inquire about the state of Jesse's backhair...these are changed that I'm just not prepared to deal with.
On an even more selfish level, there's the fact that for the past several years I've realized that Sarah is the sort of person that I've always wanted to be. She's that girl who remembers the gardener's birthday and bakes cookies for other people's grandmothers when they're sick. She handmakes all her cards for Christmas, Valentines Day, birthdays, Halloween, and, you know, Tuesdays. When I was rejected from grad school and sick with the despair, she bought me a plant with small yellow flowers and told me to pretend it was the dog that I wanted so badly. I've never met a person who didn't like her, and somehow I get to be lucky enough that she likes me as much as I like her.
Oh, I haven't always wanted to be Sarah. When we were twelve being uncool wasn't cool yet, and I wanted to be like someone much more glamourous; Claire Daines, likely, at that point. But now I want to be just like her, and so this marriage thing perplexes me. I have yet to see if I can even keep this myrtle tree of mine alive, and so the thought of sustaining a marriage is a terrifying prospect. Some day, certainly, but can't we start smaller? I'm distressed that we've reached the point in our lives in which it is possible to go somewhere that the other can't follow.
And of course, I'll have to give speeches: one at the rehearsal dinner and one at the reception. All jokes aside ('they're 20 minutes long each, and total they mention you twice and Jesse once') I'm just not prepared. How do you encompass not only ten years worth of friendship but a whole universe of love and respect? Oh, I'll do it; it's one of my duties as the tacit maid of honor. And I'll probably cry. And then I'll probably drink a lot from my hip flask, since it's a dry wedding. But it's not going to be easy.
Not for any of us.
On an even more selfish level, there's the fact that for the past several years I've realized that Sarah is the sort of person that I've always wanted to be. She's that girl who remembers the gardener's birthday and bakes cookies for other people's grandmothers when they're sick. She handmakes all her cards for Christmas, Valentines Day, birthdays, Halloween, and, you know, Tuesdays. When I was rejected from grad school and sick with the despair, she bought me a plant with small yellow flowers and told me to pretend it was the dog that I wanted so badly. I've never met a person who didn't like her, and somehow I get to be lucky enough that she likes me as much as I like her.
Oh, I haven't always wanted to be Sarah. When we were twelve being uncool wasn't cool yet, and I wanted to be like someone much more glamourous; Claire Daines, likely, at that point. But now I want to be just like her, and so this marriage thing perplexes me. I have yet to see if I can even keep this myrtle tree of mine alive, and so the thought of sustaining a marriage is a terrifying prospect. Some day, certainly, but can't we start smaller? I'm distressed that we've reached the point in our lives in which it is possible to go somewhere that the other can't follow.
And of course, I'll have to give speeches: one at the rehearsal dinner and one at the reception. All jokes aside ('they're 20 minutes long each, and total they mention you twice and Jesse once') I'm just not prepared. How do you encompass not only ten years worth of friendship but a whole universe of love and respect? Oh, I'll do it; it's one of my duties as the tacit maid of honor. And I'll probably cry. And then I'll probably drink a lot from my hip flask, since it's a dry wedding. But it's not going to be easy.
Not for any of us.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
When I was very small, my mother grew plants. To me, this was as much an occupation as her day job, and when people would ask me what my mom did I'd tell them she grew plants. It was her passion, or as close to one of her own as my mother ever got.
One of the plants that she grew was aloe. Aloe plants of varying sizes were scattered all along the perimeter of our trailer, and whenever I would fall and scrape something she'd tell me to break off an aloe leaf and rub it on my wound. I would, and the sting would ease, and so as a matter of course and fairly logical thought I came to see aloe as a magical healing agent. Headache? Rub aloe on my forehead. Wasp sting? Aloe please. If I had severed a limb, I would likely have tried to stem the blood flow with an aloe leaf, or maybe two.
(As an aside, I developed my own art to breaking off the leaves. If I did it wrong the tough outer skin of the plant would protrude farther than the soft, gooey inside and it would irritate my cuts further. I had to make up a special aloe grip.)
I've never been a big fan of modern medicines, and I blame this to some extent on my complete belief as a small child of the healing powers of plants. I don't take aspirins or pain killers or, if I can help it, antibiotics.
But I'm a bit concerned: I haven't seen an aloe plant anywhere in Seattle yet.
One of the plants that she grew was aloe. Aloe plants of varying sizes were scattered all along the perimeter of our trailer, and whenever I would fall and scrape something she'd tell me to break off an aloe leaf and rub it on my wound. I would, and the sting would ease, and so as a matter of course and fairly logical thought I came to see aloe as a magical healing agent. Headache? Rub aloe on my forehead. Wasp sting? Aloe please. If I had severed a limb, I would likely have tried to stem the blood flow with an aloe leaf, or maybe two.
(As an aside, I developed my own art to breaking off the leaves. If I did it wrong the tough outer skin of the plant would protrude farther than the soft, gooey inside and it would irritate my cuts further. I had to make up a special aloe grip.)
I've never been a big fan of modern medicines, and I blame this to some extent on my complete belief as a small child of the healing powers of plants. I don't take aspirins or pain killers or, if I can help it, antibiotics.
But I'm a bit concerned: I haven't seen an aloe plant anywhere in Seattle yet.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
From a very early age my dog Sadie was deeply suspicious of the vacuum cleaner. She would charge it from the side, hoping to use the element of surprise to her advantage because she rarely barks. This never worked; the vacuum kept on keeping on, regardless of her attempts to make it stop.
And then one day we bought a vacuum with a special dog grooming attachment. The two were introduced by dint of force and though wary at first Sadie eventually became a fan of the new equipment. She would run up from the side still but you could tell by the height of her tail that she was enjoying herself.
The sad part, of course, is that eventually that vacuum was disposed of, and I could never explain to the dog what had happened. She continued her sideways attacks, ever hopeful that we would wave her over, but we never did. Fortunately, I don't think she ever held it against us.
And then one day we bought a vacuum with a special dog grooming attachment. The two were introduced by dint of force and though wary at first Sadie eventually became a fan of the new equipment. She would run up from the side still but you could tell by the height of her tail that she was enjoying herself.
The sad part, of course, is that eventually that vacuum was disposed of, and I could never explain to the dog what had happened. She continued her sideways attacks, ever hopeful that we would wave her over, but we never did. Fortunately, I don't think she ever held it against us.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
It's time for a late(ish) post-theatre Thai meal. It's about 10:30 and so we're seated immediately, at a two-person table that has a heart-shaped balloon in a vase. Across from me, behind Jeff, are four people that I assume, it being Valentine's day, are two couples. The two girls get up to go to the bathroom and the two men, who have evidently never met before, bond instantly.
The one closest to us starts telling the story of how he and his companion started spending time together:
"The fifth or sixth time I left my wife I went down in the basement just to get away from her for a minute, man. And so she calls the cops, tells them that I'm acting funny and scaring her. So they come down--"
"Yeah, they have to do that."
"Yeah. So anyway, I'm barricaded in the closet and she calls. And I tell her I'll call her back when I get out of the closet and talk to the cops. And she's cool with that."
He talks about his first wife, and how she gained 50 pounds right after they were married, "like, 12 or 14 pounds a month!" But what pisses him off the most is that the reason they were divorced is because, after gaining all of this weight, she cheated on him. I'm proud of her.
His second wife, the last one, gained too much weight when she was pregnant.
This leads the other guy to start talking about how -his- last wife turned his hair grey.
My favorite part is when one of them says "I've been like this my whole life, I was like this when you met me."
Eventually, after more male bonding than I ever wanted to be witness to, the girls come back. It is at this point that I realize that the conversation they were having in the bathroom was probably equally as interesting, and I'm sorry I missed it. Jeff had the same thought: "When I heard that starting, I wanted to hear the other side. I was going to tell you to go to the bathroom and see."
But I think I know how that discussion went, and I'll bet that both of those guys got laid last night.
The one closest to us starts telling the story of how he and his companion started spending time together:
"The fifth or sixth time I left my wife I went down in the basement just to get away from her for a minute, man. And so she calls the cops, tells them that I'm acting funny and scaring her. So they come down--"
"Yeah, they have to do that."
"Yeah. So anyway, I'm barricaded in the closet and she calls. And I tell her I'll call her back when I get out of the closet and talk to the cops. And she's cool with that."
He talks about his first wife, and how she gained 50 pounds right after they were married, "like, 12 or 14 pounds a month!" But what pisses him off the most is that the reason they were divorced is because, after gaining all of this weight, she cheated on him. I'm proud of her.
His second wife, the last one, gained too much weight when she was pregnant.
This leads the other guy to start talking about how -his- last wife turned his hair grey.
My favorite part is when one of them says "I've been like this my whole life, I was like this when you met me."
Eventually, after more male bonding than I ever wanted to be witness to, the girls come back. It is at this point that I realize that the conversation they were having in the bathroom was probably equally as interesting, and I'm sorry I missed it. Jeff had the same thought: "When I heard that starting, I wanted to hear the other side. I was going to tell you to go to the bathroom and see."
But I think I know how that discussion went, and I'll bet that both of those guys got laid last night.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
I spent what felt like a whole year at parties that smelt like small boys had been lighting ants on fire with damp matches. I was on a search, a search for men with track marks and heart tattoos that would sweep me up in their burly infected arms and take me to a place where perfection wasn’t even an option. Everyone else expected me to be something more than nature, an artificial girl without a spine. With these people, I could be the opposite of what everyone else saw. I could be tough and angry, and I could fondle the cigarettes that I was too young to be smoking suggestively. I could be, like we all were, rebellious.
And then one day, I remembered the first time I got close enough to a firefly to see that it wasn’t something beautiful, that I was just caught in the middle of some buggy mating dance. And I remembered how satisfying it had been as a kid to drop a plate when I was mad, just to hear it smash, because there were other plates just there in the cabinet that we could use. I thought about how there were flowers that bloomed in the artificial day of the nuclear explosions, and that they once made the snow inside snow globes out of grated up bone.
I discarded the mask of the child and walked back out into the sunshine.
And then one day, I remembered the first time I got close enough to a firefly to see that it wasn’t something beautiful, that I was just caught in the middle of some buggy mating dance. And I remembered how satisfying it had been as a kid to drop a plate when I was mad, just to hear it smash, because there were other plates just there in the cabinet that we could use. I thought about how there were flowers that bloomed in the artificial day of the nuclear explosions, and that they once made the snow inside snow globes out of grated up bone.
I discarded the mask of the child and walked back out into the sunshine.
Sunday, February 08, 2004
When I was fourteen, I took my first two classes at the local community college. As I've gotten older and met more people I've seen that this isn't very unusual. I'm not sure if it's because I just know lots of smart people or if it really is that common to start college and high school at the same time, although I imagine that it's the latter. Regardless, though, at fourteen I was most certainly the only other person I knew that was voluntarily going to school during the summers.
I thought it was great. In my other life, my high school life, I was taking English, Math, and History. In college I could take things called Ancient Greek History, Western Civilizations, and Philosophy. They rolled off the tongue better, they tasted better, and they made me sound older and more sophisticated. My high school friends were going to football games and the mall while my college friends were hanging out at coffee houses, playing the guitar, and growing facial hair.
Since I had long before mastered having a double life during my previous brief experiments with drugs and straight-A's, I decided I could handle college and high school without trouble. And I did, too. It felt like cheating, like I was getting the good stuff after the torture of high school beforehand. But then I graduated from high school and went to a real college full time, and found that my special, superior feeling was gone. I was just another one of the sheep.
So I did what any one would have done: I accelerated my degree and got the heck out of school. And so I have landed here in Seattle with no more school and a terrible job, and I think that it's possible I just did everything backwards, or at least sideways.
Life's funny, and it's much, much smarter than me. So it's a good thing it's in charge. Somewhere, things are going to work out just fine.
I thought it was great. In my other life, my high school life, I was taking English, Math, and History. In college I could take things called Ancient Greek History, Western Civilizations, and Philosophy. They rolled off the tongue better, they tasted better, and they made me sound older and more sophisticated. My high school friends were going to football games and the mall while my college friends were hanging out at coffee houses, playing the guitar, and growing facial hair.
Since I had long before mastered having a double life during my previous brief experiments with drugs and straight-A's, I decided I could handle college and high school without trouble. And I did, too. It felt like cheating, like I was getting the good stuff after the torture of high school beforehand. But then I graduated from high school and went to a real college full time, and found that my special, superior feeling was gone. I was just another one of the sheep.
So I did what any one would have done: I accelerated my degree and got the heck out of school. And so I have landed here in Seattle with no more school and a terrible job, and I think that it's possible I just did everything backwards, or at least sideways.
Life's funny, and it's much, much smarter than me. So it's a good thing it's in charge. Somewhere, things are going to work out just fine.
Saturday, February 07, 2004
I did a small amount of research today, and it turns out that I am even farther out of the blogging loop than I had originally believed myself to be.
This is not much of a surprise. Since I first heard it, I've been squeamish about the term "blogger" because, at least partly, it reminds me of frogger and he often got run over by cars, drowned, and eaten by alligators. Beyond that, though, I'm very much the technophobe. I have long been uncomfortable with machines, and computers are no exception.
I have troubles with my wrists and so I used a typewriter for writing school papers from a young age. I loved the typewriter, the noise that it made, and I would rock back and forth to the music from my words. But correction tape was expensive and often messy and just generally inconvenient and so I reluctantly made the move to the computer. I had a brief but intimate relationship with the internet (the embarrassing results of which are, in the grand tradition of the web, still floating about somewhere) but it was more experiment, more testing the waters.
It was only a matter of time, though, until my exhibitionistic side made its way out and I started my livejournal. It wasn't a serious project; I saw it as something sort of like a telephone. But then I moved to Seattle and, not knowing a soul, found myself in need of someone to talk to. And being the only one I knew I was the only one to talk to and, well, you see what's happened. But I'm still uncomfortable calling myself a blogger, and in fact I avoid the word whenever possible. Like nearly everything else I've ever tried, the people around me seem to be much more serious than I myself am, and it turns out once again that there's a whole universe I wasn't aware of.
And really, it seems that even when I've quit leaving places to find other worlds, other worlds keep showing themselves to me. I make a poor intrepid explorer, with my weak wrists and unsensible shoes, but it seems as though I've appeared on your doorstep regardless.
Hello there.
This is not much of a surprise. Since I first heard it, I've been squeamish about the term "blogger" because, at least partly, it reminds me of frogger and he often got run over by cars, drowned, and eaten by alligators. Beyond that, though, I'm very much the technophobe. I have long been uncomfortable with machines, and computers are no exception.
I have troubles with my wrists and so I used a typewriter for writing school papers from a young age. I loved the typewriter, the noise that it made, and I would rock back and forth to the music from my words. But correction tape was expensive and often messy and just generally inconvenient and so I reluctantly made the move to the computer. I had a brief but intimate relationship with the internet (the embarrassing results of which are, in the grand tradition of the web, still floating about somewhere) but it was more experiment, more testing the waters.
It was only a matter of time, though, until my exhibitionistic side made its way out and I started my livejournal. It wasn't a serious project; I saw it as something sort of like a telephone. But then I moved to Seattle and, not knowing a soul, found myself in need of someone to talk to. And being the only one I knew I was the only one to talk to and, well, you see what's happened. But I'm still uncomfortable calling myself a blogger, and in fact I avoid the word whenever possible. Like nearly everything else I've ever tried, the people around me seem to be much more serious than I myself am, and it turns out once again that there's a whole universe I wasn't aware of.
And really, it seems that even when I've quit leaving places to find other worlds, other worlds keep showing themselves to me. I make a poor intrepid explorer, with my weak wrists and unsensible shoes, but it seems as though I've appeared on your doorstep regardless.
Hello there.
We sat around a round table in Applebees, our hangout, ate chocolate cake and were willfully single. Valentine's Day 2000 was not about the boys (and girls) that we were running after or away from, it was about that peculiar sort of love you share with the people that have experienced adolescence with you. It was about chocolate cake and vodka and stories that end with "and we never saw him again." Relationships were not an issue; who wanted, after all, to have to carry a balloon and flowers around school all day?
The best holidays, the best days, are not ones marked by consumer goods and Hallmark. We knew this at seventeen and I know it now, although I sometimes forget. They are the ones where you realize, looking out over the void, that because you are a lucky loser there is someone, some others, standing next to you on the edge, and they are holding your hand.
The best holidays, the best days, are not ones marked by consumer goods and Hallmark. We knew this at seventeen and I know it now, although I sometimes forget. They are the ones where you realize, looking out over the void, that because you are a lucky loser there is someone, some others, standing next to you on the edge, and they are holding your hand.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
When Ryan was very small we called him "scooter" because although he would go to sleep laying stretched out like you would expect, by morning he would be bunched up in the far corner at the top of his crib. He had huge dark blue eyes and dimples: one that was visible all the time and another that only came out when he smiled.
Emotional like his mother, he often threatened to jump out of the window of our one storey house. My father and I, essentially unconcerned, would tell him to go right ahead.
Almost a month ago, he turned 12. I watch him like a science experiment, like a petrie dish full of mold. I'm not sure what's going to happen next and if it's going to be fatal to those around him.
Emotional like his mother, he often threatened to jump out of the window of our one storey house. My father and I, essentially unconcerned, would tell him to go right ahead.
Almost a month ago, he turned 12. I watch him like a science experiment, like a petrie dish full of mold. I'm not sure what's going to happen next and if it's going to be fatal to those around him.
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