Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Smacked Up.
Apparently, I talk too much for the people over at italk2much.com
I asked to be reviewed, and mine was posted on Sunday. My template is boring, and for it, I received zero smacks. I'm apparently entertaining, but "way entirely too fucking long." So, no smacks, but two stars.
Cool.
In other news, I got The Polyphonic Spree's Together We're Heavy and OutKast's Idlewild. Both are awesome and fun and make me want to dance around. Wee.
I asked to be reviewed, and mine was posted on Sunday. My template is boring, and for it, I received zero smacks. I'm apparently entertaining, but "way entirely too fucking long." So, no smacks, but two stars.
Cool.
In other news, I got The Polyphonic Spree's Together We're Heavy and OutKast's Idlewild. Both are awesome and fun and make me want to dance around. Wee.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Benny & Joon: My Mom is a Nutcase - Vol. IV
"Has your mom told you about her newest scheme," my stepfather asked me one afternoon. I'd called to find out what I was supposed to bring for dessert that weekend.
"Oh no," I sighed. "What's she into now?"
"Well, there's been a parakeet flying around the yard the past couple days..."
"Aw! Poor birdie! He must have escaped from someone."
"Yea, your mom's worried he's going to starve to death, so she's trying to capture him," he chuckled a bit, "she was out there with a net the other day! She couldn't catch him, so she went out and got a great big birdcage to trap him in. It's hanging in a tree out back."
He laughed harder. This distinctive chuckle I've come to recognize as his my wife's so cute laugh. Often heard when she mispronounces American words in her little Italian accent.
"We bought some trouts from Door County. . .Those noisy kids are so obnochiss..."
When I arrived that weekend, my mom was outside waiting for me. After big hugs and kisses, I asked her to tell me about this parakeet.
She became very animated, "Oh, he's so cute! I heard him singing out there, and I thought poor thing, he must have gotten away from somebody. I've been trying to catch him, but he keeps getting away from me."
"Stepdad told me you set a cage out there?"
"Oh yea! I put food in there, and little toys. But he still wouldn't go in there! I don't see if he goes to the feeders either! Poor thing."
I laugh at the frustration creeping in her voice. And I understand, because I know I'd be trying to save the poor bird myself.
We had parakeets for most of my life. Tweety, who was green and white. I had him when I was probably 9 or 10. I tasted his birdseed. He lived in a cage suspended from the ceiling, and I didn't pay much attention to him. He died while we were away on vacation and he had to stay at my friend's house. I was pretty sure there was some foul play involved. How does a parakeet just die? Especially when he was fine before we left. They just gave us back his empty cage. Spotless.
Then I got Sassy a year or so later. I didn't know he was a boy until I got a book on parakeets from a rummage sale later that summer. Turns out, the ones with the bright, colorful feathers and the blue nostrils are boys. We kept his name Sassy, anyway.
My mom loved George Michael, and she would blast his magnum opus Faith while we cleaned the house. Sassy would go nuts, flapping his wings, running back and forth in his cage. He's shriek at the top of his little lungs for the duration of the song. We'd marvel at how much Sassy loved it.
My grandmother had come to visit the next summer, and she remarked that Sassy always sat in front of his mirror, singing to himself. She said he was probably sad and lonely, and we should get him a girlfriend. We bought Bianca. She was the muted blue female to his bright blue male.
Sassy was in love, and kissed and groomed her constantly. Sometimes she kissed him back, sometimes she thumped him on the head. They created quite a ruckus and shed a flock's worth of feathers everyday.
They stayed behind with my mom and my brother when I moved out. Sassy died when I was 19 or so. My brother called me after it happened. Poor Sassy was an old man.
Bianca came to live with my boyfriend and I about a year or so later. He decided Bianca was a stupid name, and named her Birdie. He thought Birdie should have a companion, so we bought George.
Birdie pecked George's head all the time. She attacked him when he tried to eat. She kept her foot on his back when she slept. George died a week after meeting Birdie.
Four years later, I woke up to Birdie sitting on the floor of her cage. She couldn't jump up on her bar, and made miserable squawking noises. I called a bird vet and they told me she probably had a stroke and she was going to die. She was an old birdie after all. And she did die a few hours later. I watched her take her last breath.
I could sympathize with my mom trying to catch this poor budgie. After all, he'll just die out there in the wild!
"Hopefully, Joon will help me catch him," mom says.
"June?"
"No, Joon! I bought a little girl parakeet to lure Benny in. I named the other parakeet Benny."
"OH! That Johnny Depp movie...I don't remember that much about it..."
"Well, I bought Joon and Benny has been hanging around her! It's so cute! They sing to each other. He sits in the tree right by her and serenades her."
We approach a cluster of short, dense trees. She's hung a large square finch's cage inside of which there's a smaller ornate parakeet cage inside of which is a little yellow parakeet.
Clever.
"Does he go in there?"
"Oh yea! Lots of birds do." She had food dishes inside both of the cages. "And then, at night I put her in the shed, so that if he goes in to sleep with her, I might be able to catch him. So far he's been to fast for me! He should get used to me soon, though."
"Then you're going to keep them in the cage? In the house, or what?"
"Well, yea, in the house at night and when it gets cold. But, they can stay out there for the summer days, that way they can listen to the other birds."
I called her a couple of days later to get an update on the Benny and Joon saga.
"I let them go."
"What?! You let them go?"
"I know! I felt bad...I was telling the doctor that I work with about the birds and how I tried to catch Benny so he wouldn't die. And he said something that really touched me...He said, 'would you rather live free for a few months or spend a few years locked up in a cage.' I felt so bad after that, I just went outside and opened the door for Joon to get out."
"Wow."
"I know...And you know what? I looked it up online, and I read that sometimes parakeets join groups of sparrows and migrate with them."
"I didn't know that..." I tried to look that up online, and I got nothing. I need to ask her what her search criteria were.
"Yup, isn't that neat? So they might be ok!"
"Maybe they'll come back next year with their babies!"
"That would be so neat!"
They didn't come back, and that made me a little sad. Maybe they liked it so much down south, they didn't want to come back.
"Oh no," I sighed. "What's she into now?"
"Well, there's been a parakeet flying around the yard the past couple days..."
"Aw! Poor birdie! He must have escaped from someone."
"Yea, your mom's worried he's going to starve to death, so she's trying to capture him," he chuckled a bit, "she was out there with a net the other day! She couldn't catch him, so she went out and got a great big birdcage to trap him in. It's hanging in a tree out back."
He laughed harder. This distinctive chuckle I've come to recognize as his my wife's so cute laugh. Often heard when she mispronounces American words in her little Italian accent.
"We bought some trouts from Door County. . .Those noisy kids are so obnochiss..."
When I arrived that weekend, my mom was outside waiting for me. After big hugs and kisses, I asked her to tell me about this parakeet.
She became very animated, "Oh, he's so cute! I heard him singing out there, and I thought poor thing, he must have gotten away from somebody. I've been trying to catch him, but he keeps getting away from me."
"Stepdad told me you set a cage out there?"
"Oh yea! I put food in there, and little toys. But he still wouldn't go in there! I don't see if he goes to the feeders either! Poor thing."
I laugh at the frustration creeping in her voice. And I understand, because I know I'd be trying to save the poor bird myself.
We had parakeets for most of my life. Tweety, who was green and white. I had him when I was probably 9 or 10. I tasted his birdseed. He lived in a cage suspended from the ceiling, and I didn't pay much attention to him. He died while we were away on vacation and he had to stay at my friend's house. I was pretty sure there was some foul play involved. How does a parakeet just die? Especially when he was fine before we left. They just gave us back his empty cage. Spotless.
Then I got Sassy a year or so later. I didn't know he was a boy until I got a book on parakeets from a rummage sale later that summer. Turns out, the ones with the bright, colorful feathers and the blue nostrils are boys. We kept his name Sassy, anyway.
My mom loved George Michael, and she would blast his magnum opus Faith while we cleaned the house. Sassy would go nuts, flapping his wings, running back and forth in his cage. He's shriek at the top of his little lungs for the duration of the song. We'd marvel at how much Sassy loved it.
My grandmother had come to visit the next summer, and she remarked that Sassy always sat in front of his mirror, singing to himself. She said he was probably sad and lonely, and we should get him a girlfriend. We bought Bianca. She was the muted blue female to his bright blue male.
Sassy was in love, and kissed and groomed her constantly. Sometimes she kissed him back, sometimes she thumped him on the head. They created quite a ruckus and shed a flock's worth of feathers everyday.
They stayed behind with my mom and my brother when I moved out. Sassy died when I was 19 or so. My brother called me after it happened. Poor Sassy was an old man.
Bianca came to live with my boyfriend and I about a year or so later. He decided Bianca was a stupid name, and named her Birdie. He thought Birdie should have a companion, so we bought George.
Birdie pecked George's head all the time. She attacked him when he tried to eat. She kept her foot on his back when she slept. George died a week after meeting Birdie.
Four years later, I woke up to Birdie sitting on the floor of her cage. She couldn't jump up on her bar, and made miserable squawking noises. I called a bird vet and they told me she probably had a stroke and she was going to die. She was an old birdie after all. And she did die a few hours later. I watched her take her last breath.
I could sympathize with my mom trying to catch this poor budgie. After all, he'll just die out there in the wild!
"Hopefully, Joon will help me catch him," mom says.
"June?"
"No, Joon! I bought a little girl parakeet to lure Benny in. I named the other parakeet Benny."
"OH! That Johnny Depp movie...I don't remember that much about it..."
"Well, I bought Joon and Benny has been hanging around her! It's so cute! They sing to each other. He sits in the tree right by her and serenades her."
We approach a cluster of short, dense trees. She's hung a large square finch's cage inside of which there's a smaller ornate parakeet cage inside of which is a little yellow parakeet.
Clever.
"Does he go in there?"
"Oh yea! Lots of birds do." She had food dishes inside both of the cages. "And then, at night I put her in the shed, so that if he goes in to sleep with her, I might be able to catch him. So far he's been to fast for me! He should get used to me soon, though."
"Then you're going to keep them in the cage? In the house, or what?"
"Well, yea, in the house at night and when it gets cold. But, they can stay out there for the summer days, that way they can listen to the other birds."
I called her a couple of days later to get an update on the Benny and Joon saga.
"I let them go."
"What?! You let them go?"
"I know! I felt bad...I was telling the doctor that I work with about the birds and how I tried to catch Benny so he wouldn't die. And he said something that really touched me...He said, 'would you rather live free for a few months or spend a few years locked up in a cage.' I felt so bad after that, I just went outside and opened the door for Joon to get out."
"Wow."
"I know...And you know what? I looked it up online, and I read that sometimes parakeets join groups of sparrows and migrate with them."
"I didn't know that..." I tried to look that up online, and I got nothing. I need to ask her what her search criteria were.
"Yup, isn't that neat? So they might be ok!"
"Maybe they'll come back next year with their babies!"
"That would be so neat!"
They didn't come back, and that made me a little sad. Maybe they liked it so much down south, they didn't want to come back.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Saturday In the Park.
My brother James calls up, impatience coloring his voice, "Where are you? We're downstairs."
"I'm halfway down the steps now." I forget how close he lives by automobile, and I always think I can run back and get one more thing, and oh! I forgot my Carmex, do I have my glucometer, I should bring some sunglasses. He's always downstairs waiting before I'm ready.
I hit the front door, and there's the car full of boys. It's Mike's car. Mike is James' high school buddy, he's a Spaniard. Call him anything else, and he might cut ya. But, he's a cool kid, if a bit quiet. He'd come to visit and stay for hours, not saying more than a few words the whole time. It's not a big deal, that's just Mike. He married his high school sweetheart. It would be sweet if they weren't so miserable.
Then there's Joe. Joe is James' roommate and he pisses me off. A lot. He's Korean, adopted by white parents. He's a conspiracy theorist. It's strange because he and I started out asking the same sorts of questions. Where's god? Does he give a crap? Why are people so fucked up? He went the conspiracy, fucked up government route, I went the scientific, cultural studies approach. He's a smart guy, but sometimes I want to punch him. Of course the government lies to us. There are some thing outside of your control, and I figure you should do the best you can to live life within those constraints. Or, at the very least, if you feel that strongly about it, do something! Crimeny, get involved in Amnesty International, or politics or something.
I hop in, and make my apologies. Mike is blasting some choice 80s music. Caribbean Queen to be precise. I laugh and the four of us start singing. Mike gets heated talking about how today's music sucks so much ass and sometimes he needs to go back to the fuckin' music he grew up with. He's 23. I laugh at how he already sounds like an old man, talking about kids these days. No wonder he and James are such good friends. They're both old souls. I can see them at 40 yelling at kids to get off their lawns.
I've never been a passenger to Mike's driving. He's not so quiet when he's on the road. I heard all manner of profanity delivered in the dulcet tones of a man on a murderous rampage. The freeway system is destroyed by construction, has been and will continue to be for a couple of years. Mike can't understand why people can't fucking drive when there's fucking construction on the goddamn road. It's not that fucking hard, it's too bad you can't just ram stupid motherfuckers. Like that idiot on the motorcycle in shorts and no fucking helmet. Jesus Christ.
We're heading to another city for Nate's party. He's moving to Alabama in a few weeks for work. This is another of James' friends that I've come to know over the years. It's about an hour drive, so we share a joint and sing. Mike and the Mechanics. Eddie Money. Dire Straits.
We pull into a public park. His family had rented the entire park, it seemed. They had two baseball diamonds, basketball courts, as well as the clubhouse available for us. They had all manner of outdoor games set up, footballs, frisbees and a beer pong table.
I'm excited for the beer pong. I've never seen it, only read about it. All I really knew was that it was a drinking game that may or may not involve ping pong balls.
It's amazing how complicated it all is. And disgusting. So, they have a table set up, with three triangles on either end. These triangles are the traced outline of the thing you use to rack pool balls. There are two teams of two, and two ping pong balls, which are to be bounced in the direction of opposing team's beer cup. If it lands therein, you must drink. When you lose, you drink all the beers left. There are some more rules pertaining to bouncing and catching, but it's a lot of extra effort to drink lots of beer.
Mike and I exchange the 'white people are so weird' glance that will become the theme of the afternoon.
Neither he nor I drink, so we sit off to the side to watch the first of many beer pong games. I gross out at how the ball bounces all over the ground, the guys pick it up, rub it all over their sweaty shirts, and throw it again. They fish the ball out of their cups with their grubby hands and drink! Guys are nasty.
On one toss, James grabs his cup, lifts it to his lips and stops suddenly to dig around in it. "There's a spider in here," he announces. He doesn't even take the spider out, he pushes it off to the side, drinks the brew, then whips the spider out afterward.
Later on some girls play. One girl gets a cup filled with water to wash the balls off after she pulls them out of her beer. This cracks me up. It just bounced all over the ground before it landed in your beer! Kids these days.
After the game, James announces he's not chugging anymore Pabst, and we go check out the other games.
There are several pitching games set up. A few with the bean bags that you have to underhand onto a platform. You make more points if the bag goes in the hole. We were meh on that one.
We get wrapped up in a ladder game. That's what I'm calling it, anyway. So, there are bolo like things, basically two rubber balls connected with a cord. You whip those across the field onto a ladder. If it wraps around the top, 3 points, middle is 2, bottom is one. We just whip the balls and laugh. Mike and I discuss how we feel like we're at carnival. All we needed were some stuffed animal prizes. A drunk and disheveled looking bear for the beer pong champions. A Brewers bear for the softball champions.
"It's so organized!" He exclaims, "Any other party in a park I've been to, the fuckin' kids run around all wild and the grown ups stand around getting hammered."
Then Nate shows us the game that would occupy us the rest of the day.
Washers. Great googly moogly this game is fun!
Two boxes placed about 20 feet apart. In the middle of these boxes is a cup. You have three 2 inch washers that you have to pitch into the box across from you. You cup your hand backwards like a chimp and lay the washer against your fingers, then whip them up and over. 1 point in the box, 3 in the cup. I know it sounds silly, but damn if the four of us didn't spend hours playing.
Nate briefly explained the exceedingly complicated rules and hurried off. We were playing kinda silly at first, throwing the washers, then walking across to retrieve them, then throwing them back. Joe suggested each team stay on one side, and we'd just throw the washers back and forth. Leave it to the Asian to find an efficient way to play Washers. Turns out, we were still doing it wrong, but who cares. James even tried throwing it overhand, basketball style.
I loved it because I get easily frustrated with games, and end up quitting after a while. I get entirely too pissed off and it's no longer fun. Then I whip the controller/ball/paddle whatever across the room and storm out screaming "I hate this game." But not with washers, oh no, this made me want to keep going. I must get that washer in the cup! I did feel kinda crappy that James and I were teamed up and I was stinking up the joint. He was a good sport about it, though. We decide that we need to take this game to the city! This is a game that should be shared with everyone, not just the suburban people who go camping.
James and Joe decide to play another game of beer pong. They ask if Mike and I are going to come.
"Nah dude, I'm about to hit up that playground," Mike says.
"Hell yea!" I chime in, "I love swings!"
James and Joe laugh at us as we scurry to the swingset. We hop on silently, and swing up and out. The swings are creaky and annoying, so we slow to a stop, marveling at how much playgrounds have changed since we were kids.
There is a nice squishy surface beneath the woodchips. The chains on the swings are coated in thick plastic. No more pinched skin between chin links. No more rust stains on your hands. There's a gazebo like building, which is an enormous sandbox, complete with fixtures for sifting the dirt. There's a jungle gym, set up to look like a ship, with periscopes, ramps, steering wheels and rope ladders. There's a monkey bar section with a handle that you can zip across from one end to another. A loop with circles for you to climb on to and across. There are three wheels mounted to the underside of the bar, so you can hang and spin. We lament that fact that there isn't a merry go round.
"Not enough fucking opportunities for kids to hurt themselves anymore." Mike declares. He swears a lot around the kids. I feel bad for them, but I'm sure they heard it before. I wonder, though, as the parents start shuffling their kids away from us and towards the pirate ship. I figure if it was that big of a deal, the moms would have spoken up, right?
Mike and I settle into our swings and commence to chat.
I get into how my last relationship ended. He's shocked and disgusted at how easily people are willing to let relationships go. Then we talk about his marriage. It's scarily similar to my first relationship. I was with him from 16-26. The difference is, I didn't marry him. Other than that, it's almost a rerun of my life. Slowly, he lets out that he doesn't know what to do. He's unhappy, and he's still at that point where he doesn't want to give up, but he's realizing that maybe that's his only choice. I know how hard it is for him to say it. It took me years to admit that to myself, and more years to make the choice to end the relationship.
That's a fucked up place to be. For years, this person is a part of your life. You essentially grow up together. Then you start to wake up to the fact that all you have left is familiarity. You don't have anything in common, you don't even really talk anymore. You just exist together. And you wonder if this is all there is. Is this how relationships turn out? It's sad, and it's a letdown, especially if you believed in romantic ideals when you started out.
Eventually we lapse into silence, swaying on our swings, lost in thought. James walks up, with a plateful of food.
"Lunch is here, fools!" He gives me a quizzical look.
"We were talking about how I ended up back in Milwaukee. He didn't know I moved back."
"That's what you were talking about this whole time? Ha. I thought you fuckers were over here falling in love or some shit."
Nate's dad asks me if I'd like to go for a motorcycle ride. Of course I would. Motorcycles are awesome. He tells me he'll be right back, and hurries away. I look at Mike and we laugh.
"It really is like a carnival! We have rides and everything!"
While we wait for Nate's dad, we talk about all the terrible motorcycle accidents we've heard about. Road rash and totaled bikes. But we all agree that we still think about getting a motorcycle someday.
Nate's dad comes around the corner on a BMW cruising bike. With smooth jazz blaring from the speakers. I'm suddenly embarrassed. It looks like I'm the only one going for a ride. I look at James and Mike, momentarily terrified.
"Is that Sade? Is Nate's dad hitting on me?!" I run off towards my ride. Turns out, he just loves his bike and jumps on any opportunity to make someone ride with him.
I feel like I'm in a movie, cruising around this subdivision with laid back saxophone as our soundtrack. We fly past wooded areas and well manicured lawns. While on our cruise, I decide I need a boyfriend with a motorcycle. It would be so much more fun if my driver was a hot guy for me to wrap my arms around.
As we come back around to the park, I see a Black fellow coming out to bring his puppy back inside. I smile and wave. He grins broadly and waves back. I love the instant camaraderie that comes from being the only brown people in an area. I think he was just as surprised to see me as I was him.
Back at the party, the family is bringing out dessert. Cake and watermelon. "Ice cold watermelon!" Nate's mom hollers.
As she walks past people, they take yummy slices off the plate. Everyone is slurping happily, going on and on about how terrific the watermelon is. And I want some, but I decline. I can't eat watermelon in public! How stupid is that? Every single person there had some, but I just couldn't do it. I'm an idiot. I really need to get over this racial fixation I have. It's summertime, everyone eats watermelon. Why would they be snickering, "look at the black girl! They really do love watermelon" when they're eating it too?
We then decide to play some more Washers. After a while, Nate comes around to get in a game with us. He and Joe were on one team, and Mike and I were another. James decided to be the photographer. The way it's set up, one person from each team is on one side, so Nate and I were paired up. I decide to tell Nate he has pretty eyes, because he does.
Nate has played countless games of beer pong at this point, so he stumbles a bit and says, "Really?"
Then he walks up, two inches from my face and stares at my eyes.
"Aren't my eyes just like yours?"
"Ha! No...Nate, my eyes are brown."
"So're mine! Look!" He opens them wide.
"Your eyes are green, babe." I say, laughing.
"Nuh uh!" He protests. He gets a bit closer. "Look! Brown, like yours."
"No, yours are green AND brown. You have a rim of brown by your pupil and then some green and then another ring of brown."
"Wow! Really?! I didn't know that, I'm gonna have to look in the mirror later."
At this moment it occurs to me we're standing two inches apart and the other three guys are 20 feet away wondering what's happening. I look over and Mike and Joe are confused and snickering. My brother doesn't seem to be amused.
He yells out, "Hey man! Back up off my sister!"
Now I'm flustered and blow my first three washer pitches. James abandons his photographer post and comes to stand by Nate and I. He's not saying anything, just standing there. He walks off to grab one of the bolos from the other game. He stands, watching Nate and I, flipping the bolo like some nunchakus. (I had no idea until today that it wasn't spelled nunchucks.)
"You can fuck somebody up with one of these things," he says offhandedly. He's 6'3 to mine and Nate's 5'5. And he has a second degree blackbelt. Very casually, he whips the bolo back towards the ladder.
I'm a little nervous, because I can't really tell if James is pissed off. At the same time, I think it's sweet that he's subtly threatening bodily harm to a dude he's been friends with for years.
Mike and I rally for the win. I am awesome at this game! I figure it's Nate's inebriation, not my brother's martial arts demonstration that ruins the game for him. Either way, victory is sweet.
I apologize to Nate. I tell him I hope my brother doesn't give him a hard time because I was flirting with him.
He stares at me for a second. "Wait. You were?!"
I laugh really long and hard. I hope James doesn't say anything to him. Poor guy didn't even know what was happening.
In the end, we all wish Nate luck, say to keep in touch. I give him a nice hug. I hope he realizes it means, "call me. Don't tell James."
"I'm halfway down the steps now." I forget how close he lives by automobile, and I always think I can run back and get one more thing, and oh! I forgot my Carmex, do I have my glucometer, I should bring some sunglasses. He's always downstairs waiting before I'm ready.
I hit the front door, and there's the car full of boys. It's Mike's car. Mike is James' high school buddy, he's a Spaniard. Call him anything else, and he might cut ya. But, he's a cool kid, if a bit quiet. He'd come to visit and stay for hours, not saying more than a few words the whole time. It's not a big deal, that's just Mike. He married his high school sweetheart. It would be sweet if they weren't so miserable.
Then there's Joe. Joe is James' roommate and he pisses me off. A lot. He's Korean, adopted by white parents. He's a conspiracy theorist. It's strange because he and I started out asking the same sorts of questions. Where's god? Does he give a crap? Why are people so fucked up? He went the conspiracy, fucked up government route, I went the scientific, cultural studies approach. He's a smart guy, but sometimes I want to punch him. Of course the government lies to us. There are some thing outside of your control, and I figure you should do the best you can to live life within those constraints. Or, at the very least, if you feel that strongly about it, do something! Crimeny, get involved in Amnesty International, or politics or something.
I hop in, and make my apologies. Mike is blasting some choice 80s music. Caribbean Queen to be precise. I laugh and the four of us start singing. Mike gets heated talking about how today's music sucks so much ass and sometimes he needs to go back to the fuckin' music he grew up with. He's 23. I laugh at how he already sounds like an old man, talking about kids these days. No wonder he and James are such good friends. They're both old souls. I can see them at 40 yelling at kids to get off their lawns.
I've never been a passenger to Mike's driving. He's not so quiet when he's on the road. I heard all manner of profanity delivered in the dulcet tones of a man on a murderous rampage. The freeway system is destroyed by construction, has been and will continue to be for a couple of years. Mike can't understand why people can't fucking drive when there's fucking construction on the goddamn road. It's not that fucking hard, it's too bad you can't just ram stupid motherfuckers. Like that idiot on the motorcycle in shorts and no fucking helmet. Jesus Christ.
We're heading to another city for Nate's party. He's moving to Alabama in a few weeks for work. This is another of James' friends that I've come to know over the years. It's about an hour drive, so we share a joint and sing. Mike and the Mechanics. Eddie Money. Dire Straits.
We pull into a public park. His family had rented the entire park, it seemed. They had two baseball diamonds, basketball courts, as well as the clubhouse available for us. They had all manner of outdoor games set up, footballs, frisbees and a beer pong table.
I'm excited for the beer pong. I've never seen it, only read about it. All I really knew was that it was a drinking game that may or may not involve ping pong balls.
It's amazing how complicated it all is. And disgusting. So, they have a table set up, with three triangles on either end. These triangles are the traced outline of the thing you use to rack pool balls. There are two teams of two, and two ping pong balls, which are to be bounced in the direction of opposing team's beer cup. If it lands therein, you must drink. When you lose, you drink all the beers left. There are some more rules pertaining to bouncing and catching, but it's a lot of extra effort to drink lots of beer.
Mike and I exchange the 'white people are so weird' glance that will become the theme of the afternoon.
Neither he nor I drink, so we sit off to the side to watch the first of many beer pong games. I gross out at how the ball bounces all over the ground, the guys pick it up, rub it all over their sweaty shirts, and throw it again. They fish the ball out of their cups with their grubby hands and drink! Guys are nasty.
On one toss, James grabs his cup, lifts it to his lips and stops suddenly to dig around in it. "There's a spider in here," he announces. He doesn't even take the spider out, he pushes it off to the side, drinks the brew, then whips the spider out afterward.
Later on some girls play. One girl gets a cup filled with water to wash the balls off after she pulls them out of her beer. This cracks me up. It just bounced all over the ground before it landed in your beer! Kids these days.
After the game, James announces he's not chugging anymore Pabst, and we go check out the other games.
There are several pitching games set up. A few with the bean bags that you have to underhand onto a platform. You make more points if the bag goes in the hole. We were meh on that one.
We get wrapped up in a ladder game. That's what I'm calling it, anyway. So, there are bolo like things, basically two rubber balls connected with a cord. You whip those across the field onto a ladder. If it wraps around the top, 3 points, middle is 2, bottom is one. We just whip the balls and laugh. Mike and I discuss how we feel like we're at carnival. All we needed were some stuffed animal prizes. A drunk and disheveled looking bear for the beer pong champions. A Brewers bear for the softball champions.
"It's so organized!" He exclaims, "Any other party in a park I've been to, the fuckin' kids run around all wild and the grown ups stand around getting hammered."
Then Nate shows us the game that would occupy us the rest of the day.
Washers. Great googly moogly this game is fun!
Two boxes placed about 20 feet apart. In the middle of these boxes is a cup. You have three 2 inch washers that you have to pitch into the box across from you. You cup your hand backwards like a chimp and lay the washer against your fingers, then whip them up and over. 1 point in the box, 3 in the cup. I know it sounds silly, but damn if the four of us didn't spend hours playing.
Nate briefly explained the exceedingly complicated rules and hurried off. We were playing kinda silly at first, throwing the washers, then walking across to retrieve them, then throwing them back. Joe suggested each team stay on one side, and we'd just throw the washers back and forth. Leave it to the Asian to find an efficient way to play Washers. Turns out, we were still doing it wrong, but who cares. James even tried throwing it overhand, basketball style.
I loved it because I get easily frustrated with games, and end up quitting after a while. I get entirely too pissed off and it's no longer fun. Then I whip the controller/ball/paddle whatever across the room and storm out screaming "I hate this game." But not with washers, oh no, this made me want to keep going. I must get that washer in the cup! I did feel kinda crappy that James and I were teamed up and I was stinking up the joint. He was a good sport about it, though. We decide that we need to take this game to the city! This is a game that should be shared with everyone, not just the suburban people who go camping.
James and Joe decide to play another game of beer pong. They ask if Mike and I are going to come.
"Nah dude, I'm about to hit up that playground," Mike says.
"Hell yea!" I chime in, "I love swings!"
James and Joe laugh at us as we scurry to the swingset. We hop on silently, and swing up and out. The swings are creaky and annoying, so we slow to a stop, marveling at how much playgrounds have changed since we were kids.
There is a nice squishy surface beneath the woodchips. The chains on the swings are coated in thick plastic. No more pinched skin between chin links. No more rust stains on your hands. There's a gazebo like building, which is an enormous sandbox, complete with fixtures for sifting the dirt. There's a jungle gym, set up to look like a ship, with periscopes, ramps, steering wheels and rope ladders. There's a monkey bar section with a handle that you can zip across from one end to another. A loop with circles for you to climb on to and across. There are three wheels mounted to the underside of the bar, so you can hang and spin. We lament that fact that there isn't a merry go round.
"Not enough fucking opportunities for kids to hurt themselves anymore." Mike declares. He swears a lot around the kids. I feel bad for them, but I'm sure they heard it before. I wonder, though, as the parents start shuffling their kids away from us and towards the pirate ship. I figure if it was that big of a deal, the moms would have spoken up, right?
Mike and I settle into our swings and commence to chat.
I get into how my last relationship ended. He's shocked and disgusted at how easily people are willing to let relationships go. Then we talk about his marriage. It's scarily similar to my first relationship. I was with him from 16-26. The difference is, I didn't marry him. Other than that, it's almost a rerun of my life. Slowly, he lets out that he doesn't know what to do. He's unhappy, and he's still at that point where he doesn't want to give up, but he's realizing that maybe that's his only choice. I know how hard it is for him to say it. It took me years to admit that to myself, and more years to make the choice to end the relationship.
That's a fucked up place to be. For years, this person is a part of your life. You essentially grow up together. Then you start to wake up to the fact that all you have left is familiarity. You don't have anything in common, you don't even really talk anymore. You just exist together. And you wonder if this is all there is. Is this how relationships turn out? It's sad, and it's a letdown, especially if you believed in romantic ideals when you started out.
Eventually we lapse into silence, swaying on our swings, lost in thought. James walks up, with a plateful of food.
"Lunch is here, fools!" He gives me a quizzical look.
"We were talking about how I ended up back in Milwaukee. He didn't know I moved back."
"That's what you were talking about this whole time? Ha. I thought you fuckers were over here falling in love or some shit."
Nate's dad asks me if I'd like to go for a motorcycle ride. Of course I would. Motorcycles are awesome. He tells me he'll be right back, and hurries away. I look at Mike and we laugh.
"It really is like a carnival! We have rides and everything!"
While we wait for Nate's dad, we talk about all the terrible motorcycle accidents we've heard about. Road rash and totaled bikes. But we all agree that we still think about getting a motorcycle someday.
Nate's dad comes around the corner on a BMW cruising bike. With smooth jazz blaring from the speakers. I'm suddenly embarrassed. It looks like I'm the only one going for a ride. I look at James and Mike, momentarily terrified.
"Is that Sade? Is Nate's dad hitting on me?!" I run off towards my ride. Turns out, he just loves his bike and jumps on any opportunity to make someone ride with him.
I feel like I'm in a movie, cruising around this subdivision with laid back saxophone as our soundtrack. We fly past wooded areas and well manicured lawns. While on our cruise, I decide I need a boyfriend with a motorcycle. It would be so much more fun if my driver was a hot guy for me to wrap my arms around.
As we come back around to the park, I see a Black fellow coming out to bring his puppy back inside. I smile and wave. He grins broadly and waves back. I love the instant camaraderie that comes from being the only brown people in an area. I think he was just as surprised to see me as I was him.
Back at the party, the family is bringing out dessert. Cake and watermelon. "Ice cold watermelon!" Nate's mom hollers.
As she walks past people, they take yummy slices off the plate. Everyone is slurping happily, going on and on about how terrific the watermelon is. And I want some, but I decline. I can't eat watermelon in public! How stupid is that? Every single person there had some, but I just couldn't do it. I'm an idiot. I really need to get over this racial fixation I have. It's summertime, everyone eats watermelon. Why would they be snickering, "look at the black girl! They really do love watermelon" when they're eating it too?
We then decide to play some more Washers. After a while, Nate comes around to get in a game with us. He and Joe were on one team, and Mike and I were another. James decided to be the photographer. The way it's set up, one person from each team is on one side, so Nate and I were paired up. I decide to tell Nate he has pretty eyes, because he does.
Nate has played countless games of beer pong at this point, so he stumbles a bit and says, "Really?"
Then he walks up, two inches from my face and stares at my eyes.
"Aren't my eyes just like yours?"
"Ha! No...Nate, my eyes are brown."
"So're mine! Look!" He opens them wide.
"Your eyes are green, babe." I say, laughing.
"Nuh uh!" He protests. He gets a bit closer. "Look! Brown, like yours."
"No, yours are green AND brown. You have a rim of brown by your pupil and then some green and then another ring of brown."
"Wow! Really?! I didn't know that, I'm gonna have to look in the mirror later."
At this moment it occurs to me we're standing two inches apart and the other three guys are 20 feet away wondering what's happening. I look over and Mike and Joe are confused and snickering. My brother doesn't seem to be amused.
He yells out, "Hey man! Back up off my sister!"
Now I'm flustered and blow my first three washer pitches. James abandons his photographer post and comes to stand by Nate and I. He's not saying anything, just standing there. He walks off to grab one of the bolos from the other game. He stands, watching Nate and I, flipping the bolo like some nunchakus. (I had no idea until today that it wasn't spelled nunchucks.)
"You can fuck somebody up with one of these things," he says offhandedly. He's 6'3 to mine and Nate's 5'5. And he has a second degree blackbelt. Very casually, he whips the bolo back towards the ladder.
I'm a little nervous, because I can't really tell if James is pissed off. At the same time, I think it's sweet that he's subtly threatening bodily harm to a dude he's been friends with for years.
Mike and I rally for the win. I am awesome at this game! I figure it's Nate's inebriation, not my brother's martial arts demonstration that ruins the game for him. Either way, victory is sweet.
I apologize to Nate. I tell him I hope my brother doesn't give him a hard time because I was flirting with him.
He stares at me for a second. "Wait. You were?!"
I laugh really long and hard. I hope James doesn't say anything to him. Poor guy didn't even know what was happening.
In the end, we all wish Nate luck, say to keep in touch. I give him a nice hug. I hope he realizes it means, "call me. Don't tell James."
Saturday, August 12, 2006
All The Cool Kids Are Doing It.
When we were 11 or 12, my friend Keisha and I decided to try cigarettes. She snuck some from her mom’s purse one morning and brought them to the bus stop. For some reason, we called cigarettes “squares,” and we were anxious to see what all the fuss was about. We went behind some bushes, giddy with nervous excitement. We lit up our stolen squares and choked on the acrid smoke until we nearly threw up. Disgusted, we stomped out the cigarettes and vowed never to smoke again. Why would anyone purposely do that to themselves?
A year or so later, I decided I wanted to hang out with the bad kids. The headbangers and thugs. They were so cool. They skipped out, got bad grades, and cussed freely. And they smoked. What better way for an insecure, timid little girl to become cool than to hang out with the bad kids?
I casually approached the area where they all hung out. There was a little place in the back of the school where they’d meet up to discuss the plans for ditching classes that day. It was littered with cigarette butts. I nodded to a girl I recognized from a class, and asked if I could bum a square. The girl handed me one, and I sat down next to her. I still didn’t know what I was doing, but I puffed gingerly, only inhaling a tiny bit. I didn’t want to choke out and look like a wuss in front of all these cool kids. They were talking to me; they were laughing with me! It was so exciting.
When the bell rang, we all rushed to get inside. I nearly fell over from the head rush. A cute boy in a Megadeth t-shirt held me up.
“Was that a regular cigarette? I feel all dizzy! Was it laced?!” I was afraid. They laughed.
“Naw, girl! You just got a Newport. Dat’s what dey do!” One of the thugs told me.
Oh! We all laughed together. People told me their experiences with the Newport induced head rushes. I was in. I was friends with the cool kids!
We skipped classes. We didn’t do anything other than sit in the woods surrounding the school and smoke cigarettes. We discussed how much school sucked and how lame all the teachers were. We contemplated the sluttiness of our classmates. We found new and creative uses for the word fuck. Fucknot. Shitfuck. Fuckstain.
Even then, I wasn’t addicted. I only smoked at school. I was 13, I didn’t have the means to go buy cigarettes. There were only one or two people who shared theirs with everyone else. One guy’s mom actually bought them for him. She was so cool! I wish my mom was that cool. On the weekends, and summer vacations, I was a nonsmoker.
I’m not sure when the addiction started. I know I was smoking regularly by the time I was 17. My mom catching me and slapping me so hard she broke my glasses didn’t make me quit. She’s a nurse, and she’d bring home lung cancer posters and hang them on the doors. Those hideous posters that said “What if cigarettes did to your outside what they do to your inside?” They had pictures of burnt, blackened faces. That didn’t inspire me to quit.
It was much more important to be cool. I could quit whenever I wanted to anyway. Shit, I liked smoking.
I continued to tell myself I liked smoking for the next 12 years. Sure I quit here and there for a few months at a time, but there was always a good reason to start back up. It was no longer about being cool, it was that I couldn’t figure out how to do anything without cigarettes.
Waiting for the bus? Light one up. Talking on the phone? Have a smoke. Yummy dinner? After dinner smoke, nothing’s better.
It strikes me how sad it is that I started smoking to be cool, and it only turned me into an outcast. I heard all the reasons to not smoke, I knew all the consequences. I didn’t care. I liked smoking.
But I wonder, now that I haven’t smoked in a few days, do I really like to smoke? Do I really enjoy being chained to my pack? I couldn’t leave the house before checking how many I had left, and that I had my lighter. Before I went anywhere, the first question was, “can I smoke there?” Oh no, I’m down to two, is there a gas station nearby?” I certainly didn’t enjoy the late night coughing fits, or the fact that I could barely make it up a couple flights of stairs.
I’m not going to be one of those that expounds on how everyone should quit smoking, and it should be outlawed. It’s an addiction, like any other, and no one is going to quit until they’re ready. In fact, there are studies that suggest nicotine addiction is comparable to heroin addiction. And it’s nearly as difficult for someone to quit smoking and stay quit. I’d be a hypocrite if I started chastising other people’s decisions to smoke. If you decide to quit, and you want to talk about it, ask for suggestions, that’s cool.
It does make me wonder how many stupid decisions we all make in order to gain acceptance. How many self-destructive things do we do just so people will like us?
There is a definite camaraderie among smokers. We’re banished to the outside, away from the nonsmokers. We’re usually on a schedule, so you’ll see the same people out there everyday. It’s easy to strike up a conversation about how ridiculous it is we’re out here smoking in the cold. We all know we should stop, but none of us are ready quite yet. When one of ours decides to quit, he becomes a sort of legend.
“Where’s Dave?”
“Oh, he quit.”
“Wow...Good for him.”
Then the rest of the break is in uneasy silence while we think about Dave. We’re proud of him, and secretly envious because he took a step we’re not ready (or willing) to take. Maybe we’ll talk about how he’s doing it. The patch? Gum? Cold turkey?! That crazy fucker.
We all wish him the best, but neither are we surprised if we see him outside again a few weeks or months later. We’ll give him shit, shake our heads in disappointment, but we won’t hesitate to hand him our lighter so he can be back in the group. Shit, we wouldn’t even fight him too hard if he asked for a cigarette. All he has to do is say he’s stressed out. Welcome back, Dave. How long did you last? Better luck next time.
I’d like to think this is my last time. It’s nice being able to smell things again. (My shampoo smells really good!) It’s certainly not easy, but then again, nothing worth doing is easy. Part of the fun for me is dissecting my withdrawals. Figuring out what’s going on in my head. I have a hard time breathing, but I know it’s because my body is getting used to the surplus oxygen. I know that pouring my cup of coffee triggers my cravings. I still reach for my pack when the phone rings. I still check my pockets for lighters when I leave the house. It’s amazing how much of everything I did revolved around smoking. I’m doing better with this quit than I did with my last one, and that’s a good thing. I’ll keep you posted.
A year or so later, I decided I wanted to hang out with the bad kids. The headbangers and thugs. They were so cool. They skipped out, got bad grades, and cussed freely. And they smoked. What better way for an insecure, timid little girl to become cool than to hang out with the bad kids?
I casually approached the area where they all hung out. There was a little place in the back of the school where they’d meet up to discuss the plans for ditching classes that day. It was littered with cigarette butts. I nodded to a girl I recognized from a class, and asked if I could bum a square. The girl handed me one, and I sat down next to her. I still didn’t know what I was doing, but I puffed gingerly, only inhaling a tiny bit. I didn’t want to choke out and look like a wuss in front of all these cool kids. They were talking to me; they were laughing with me! It was so exciting.
When the bell rang, we all rushed to get inside. I nearly fell over from the head rush. A cute boy in a Megadeth t-shirt held me up.
“Was that a regular cigarette? I feel all dizzy! Was it laced?!” I was afraid. They laughed.
“Naw, girl! You just got a Newport. Dat’s what dey do!” One of the thugs told me.
Oh! We all laughed together. People told me their experiences with the Newport induced head rushes. I was in. I was friends with the cool kids!
We skipped classes. We didn’t do anything other than sit in the woods surrounding the school and smoke cigarettes. We discussed how much school sucked and how lame all the teachers were. We contemplated the sluttiness of our classmates. We found new and creative uses for the word fuck. Fucknot. Shitfuck. Fuckstain.
Even then, I wasn’t addicted. I only smoked at school. I was 13, I didn’t have the means to go buy cigarettes. There were only one or two people who shared theirs with everyone else. One guy’s mom actually bought them for him. She was so cool! I wish my mom was that cool. On the weekends, and summer vacations, I was a nonsmoker.
I’m not sure when the addiction started. I know I was smoking regularly by the time I was 17. My mom catching me and slapping me so hard she broke my glasses didn’t make me quit. She’s a nurse, and she’d bring home lung cancer posters and hang them on the doors. Those hideous posters that said “What if cigarettes did to your outside what they do to your inside?” They had pictures of burnt, blackened faces. That didn’t inspire me to quit.
It was much more important to be cool. I could quit whenever I wanted to anyway. Shit, I liked smoking.
I continued to tell myself I liked smoking for the next 12 years. Sure I quit here and there for a few months at a time, but there was always a good reason to start back up. It was no longer about being cool, it was that I couldn’t figure out how to do anything without cigarettes.
Waiting for the bus? Light one up. Talking on the phone? Have a smoke. Yummy dinner? After dinner smoke, nothing’s better.
It strikes me how sad it is that I started smoking to be cool, and it only turned me into an outcast. I heard all the reasons to not smoke, I knew all the consequences. I didn’t care. I liked smoking.
But I wonder, now that I haven’t smoked in a few days, do I really like to smoke? Do I really enjoy being chained to my pack? I couldn’t leave the house before checking how many I had left, and that I had my lighter. Before I went anywhere, the first question was, “can I smoke there?” Oh no, I’m down to two, is there a gas station nearby?” I certainly didn’t enjoy the late night coughing fits, or the fact that I could barely make it up a couple flights of stairs.
I’m not going to be one of those that expounds on how everyone should quit smoking, and it should be outlawed. It’s an addiction, like any other, and no one is going to quit until they’re ready. In fact, there are studies that suggest nicotine addiction is comparable to heroin addiction. And it’s nearly as difficult for someone to quit smoking and stay quit. I’d be a hypocrite if I started chastising other people’s decisions to smoke. If you decide to quit, and you want to talk about it, ask for suggestions, that’s cool.
It does make me wonder how many stupid decisions we all make in order to gain acceptance. How many self-destructive things do we do just so people will like us?
There is a definite camaraderie among smokers. We’re banished to the outside, away from the nonsmokers. We’re usually on a schedule, so you’ll see the same people out there everyday. It’s easy to strike up a conversation about how ridiculous it is we’re out here smoking in the cold. We all know we should stop, but none of us are ready quite yet. When one of ours decides to quit, he becomes a sort of legend.
“Where’s Dave?”
“Oh, he quit.”
“Wow...Good for him.”
Then the rest of the break is in uneasy silence while we think about Dave. We’re proud of him, and secretly envious because he took a step we’re not ready (or willing) to take. Maybe we’ll talk about how he’s doing it. The patch? Gum? Cold turkey?! That crazy fucker.
We all wish him the best, but neither are we surprised if we see him outside again a few weeks or months later. We’ll give him shit, shake our heads in disappointment, but we won’t hesitate to hand him our lighter so he can be back in the group. Shit, we wouldn’t even fight him too hard if he asked for a cigarette. All he has to do is say he’s stressed out. Welcome back, Dave. How long did you last? Better luck next time.
I’d like to think this is my last time. It’s nice being able to smell things again. (My shampoo smells really good!) It’s certainly not easy, but then again, nothing worth doing is easy. Part of the fun for me is dissecting my withdrawals. Figuring out what’s going on in my head. I have a hard time breathing, but I know it’s because my body is getting used to the surplus oxygen. I know that pouring my cup of coffee triggers my cravings. I still reach for my pack when the phone rings. I still check my pockets for lighters when I leave the house. It’s amazing how much of everything I did revolved around smoking. I’m doing better with this quit than I did with my last one, and that’s a good thing. I’ll keep you posted.
***
Note: I wrote this days after I quit back in March. Still smoke free, just so's you know.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Spreadin' My Wings.
I decided to make a blog where I share my attempts at writing fiction. I have countless beginnings, middles and endings to stories, but nothing complete. They're are all handwritten manuscripts, stored safely away in boxes and a torn up folders from high school.
I'm going to get over myself, and finish at least one story. Let me know what you think of these things I create. I can't grow if I don't throw myself out there.
That's Not True!
I'm going to get over myself, and finish at least one story. Let me know what you think of these things I create. I can't grow if I don't throw myself out there.
That's Not True!
Cure for the Blues
My brother, a blunt, and America's Funniest Home Videos. . .
I was in quite the funk today. I'm not going to lie, PMS played no small part in that. Stress, lack of sleep and worry rounded out the experience making me a miserable mess. I think the last time I cried this much was shortly after I was dumped.
It began with the job search. My resume has been posted all over the world wide web. Every job that I'm even remotely qualified for has been sent a copy as well. It's frustrating and it's depressing.
One of my closest friends is bipolar. She was having quite the downswing today, which I felt through sharp jabs sent via work email. She lashes out, hurting the ones closest to her from time to time. She specializes in verbal beatdowns that cut to the quick. Precision strikes directedat the core of your insecurity. Most every friend she's had eventually got sick of it and dipped. Not me. I can't figure out if I'm loyal or a masochist. Either way, her barbs opened up the floodgates, and I became a babbling mess.
I sobbed and wrote some miserable, whiny garbage, expounding on the suckage of life and my lack of ability to deal. I wrote emails and IMs. This only served to prove that everyone hates me and I'm all alone in this cruel world.
Finally, I'd had enough of my shit, and I called my brother. He'd sort me out with his special brand of lovingly brutal honesty.
I sucked up my tears, wiped my face with a dishtowel and called him up. Controlling my voice like a pro, I asked what he was up to.
"Watching some show on motorcycles. . . I just got home. What's up?"
"Can I come over there?"
"What, yea, are you ok?" I hear the concern creeping in his voice. I don't want him worrying about me, and now I feel bad for calling. And the dam broke again.
"No, I don't want to be here, and I'm not OK and I need to talk to you." I'm sobbing now, and he can't make out what I'm saying. He asks if he can call me back.
I wash my face, and berate myself for being so stupid and crying like a kitten died. I didn't feel like I could pull it together. I thought I'd finally reached my breaking point, and my poor brother would have to check me in the nuthouse.
By the time he knocked at the door, I'd worked myself into a frenzy, convinced I was unloved and unloveable.
I opened the door and he gave me that look. His patented half smirk, corner of the eye stare. It's a mix of concern and bemusement. He knows I'm upset, but it seems he also knows it's probably something I've blown out of proportion.
He goes to the kitchen to get a drink and says, "What's this about Katherine?"
"She emailed me this stuff about how much I suck and I'm a terrible friend and she's done so much but I wouldn't do it for her. . ."
He cut me off mid babble. "Hasn't she said wild ass shit like this before to you?"
"Well, yea. . ."
"It's 'cause she's bipolar, right. She just flips out sometimes?"
"Yea. . ."
"So why are you so upset about it?"
". . ."
You wouldn't guess from exchanges like this that he's 6 years my junior. He's always been wiser and more insightful than he had any right to be. In my 16 year old angst days, when suicide was an intriguing option, my 10 year old brother talked me down. He pointed out the my folly. What would it solve? It would make things so much worse for him. He clued me in to the fact that shit gets better, it has to, doesn't it? He confided that sometimes he thought the same things. I told him I wouldn't be able to deal if he killed himself. "Well, how do you think I'd feel if you did?" I was struck dumb.
He thinks around corners.
He's an artist. He sees in color palettes and abstract compositions. He understands the world in images and tiny details. He notices the little things that make the difference between pictures and works of art.
I can't imagine what it must be like to see so much. What happens in his brain that he can take this three dimensional landscape and translate it onto paper with a pencil and eraser? How can he intuitively know how to place this shape next to that in a way that your brain understands how he feels?
Settled in with his drink, he hands me a blunt and asks what's really going on.
More tears and babble. I'm a failure, why do I suck so bad at life? Of course, saying it outloud I realize how silly I am. I also realize that I should have called him sooner. He knows, he understands. He shakes his head at my assertion that he's got his own crap and doesn't need to worry about mine. There's that look again.
He never responds to my attempts to insult myself. He doesn't tell me I'm wrong, because he knows I know. He ignores the surface and gets to the heart of the matter.
"What do you really want to do?"
"I want to write." It seems such a silly thing to want to do. So trite. I want to be a writer. I feel foolish.
"So write."
"Well, I do, but. . ."
"But what? Why aren't you taking writing courses in school?"
"I like Anthropology. Honestly, I want to write the best ethnography ever. I want my ethnography on the best sellers lists. I want people who aren't anthropologists to love it. I want people to read it and decide they want to be anthropologists."
And he didn't laugh. He gave me his perspective.
He knows he's good at what he does. He wants to be the best. He knows he's going to be the best. He knows he's going to make a mark. He's able to take criticism of his work, and uses it to get better. He has no problem saying something he created is dope.
How did he get this confidence? How did I not? I have trouble linking people to my blog, even though I've been told I'm a good writer. I don't think I could ever tell someone, "this piece is dope! You should read it!"
Talking to him, I can almost see myself doing it.
We discuss ways of incorporating his artistic eye with my love of Anthropology. He reminds me to take a photography course. We talk about creating websites and beautiful books.
America's Funniest Home Videos comes on, and we laugh hysterically. All that's left of my pity party are swollen eyes and embarrassment, newfound determination and a focus! It always works out in the end.
I was in quite the funk today. I'm not going to lie, PMS played no small part in that. Stress, lack of sleep and worry rounded out the experience making me a miserable mess. I think the last time I cried this much was shortly after I was dumped.
It began with the job search. My resume has been posted all over the world wide web. Every job that I'm even remotely qualified for has been sent a copy as well. It's frustrating and it's depressing.
One of my closest friends is bipolar. She was having quite the downswing today, which I felt through sharp jabs sent via work email. She lashes out, hurting the ones closest to her from time to time. She specializes in verbal beatdowns that cut to the quick. Precision strikes directedat the core of your insecurity. Most every friend she's had eventually got sick of it and dipped. Not me. I can't figure out if I'm loyal or a masochist. Either way, her barbs opened up the floodgates, and I became a babbling mess.
I sobbed and wrote some miserable, whiny garbage, expounding on the suckage of life and my lack of ability to deal. I wrote emails and IMs. This only served to prove that everyone hates me and I'm all alone in this cruel world.
Finally, I'd had enough of my shit, and I called my brother. He'd sort me out with his special brand of lovingly brutal honesty.
I sucked up my tears, wiped my face with a dishtowel and called him up. Controlling my voice like a pro, I asked what he was up to.
"Watching some show on motorcycles. . . I just got home. What's up?"
"Can I come over there?"
"What, yea, are you ok?" I hear the concern creeping in his voice. I don't want him worrying about me, and now I feel bad for calling. And the dam broke again.
"No, I don't want to be here, and I'm not OK and I need to talk to you." I'm sobbing now, and he can't make out what I'm saying. He asks if he can call me back.
I wash my face, and berate myself for being so stupid and crying like a kitten died. I didn't feel like I could pull it together. I thought I'd finally reached my breaking point, and my poor brother would have to check me in the nuthouse.
By the time he knocked at the door, I'd worked myself into a frenzy, convinced I was unloved and unloveable.
I opened the door and he gave me that look. His patented half smirk, corner of the eye stare. It's a mix of concern and bemusement. He knows I'm upset, but it seems he also knows it's probably something I've blown out of proportion.
He goes to the kitchen to get a drink and says, "What's this about Katherine?"
"She emailed me this stuff about how much I suck and I'm a terrible friend and she's done so much but I wouldn't do it for her. . ."
He cut me off mid babble. "Hasn't she said wild ass shit like this before to you?"
"Well, yea. . ."
"It's 'cause she's bipolar, right. She just flips out sometimes?"
"Yea. . ."
"So why are you so upset about it?"
". . ."
You wouldn't guess from exchanges like this that he's 6 years my junior. He's always been wiser and more insightful than he had any right to be. In my 16 year old angst days, when suicide was an intriguing option, my 10 year old brother talked me down. He pointed out the my folly. What would it solve? It would make things so much worse for him. He clued me in to the fact that shit gets better, it has to, doesn't it? He confided that sometimes he thought the same things. I told him I wouldn't be able to deal if he killed himself. "Well, how do you think I'd feel if you did?" I was struck dumb.
He thinks around corners.
He's an artist. He sees in color palettes and abstract compositions. He understands the world in images and tiny details. He notices the little things that make the difference between pictures and works of art.
I can't imagine what it must be like to see so much. What happens in his brain that he can take this three dimensional landscape and translate it onto paper with a pencil and eraser? How can he intuitively know how to place this shape next to that in a way that your brain understands how he feels?
Settled in with his drink, he hands me a blunt and asks what's really going on.
More tears and babble. I'm a failure, why do I suck so bad at life? Of course, saying it outloud I realize how silly I am. I also realize that I should have called him sooner. He knows, he understands. He shakes his head at my assertion that he's got his own crap and doesn't need to worry about mine. There's that look again.
He never responds to my attempts to insult myself. He doesn't tell me I'm wrong, because he knows I know. He ignores the surface and gets to the heart of the matter.
"What do you really want to do?"
"I want to write." It seems such a silly thing to want to do. So trite. I want to be a writer. I feel foolish.
"So write."
"Well, I do, but. . ."
"But what? Why aren't you taking writing courses in school?"
"I like Anthropology. Honestly, I want to write the best ethnography ever. I want my ethnography on the best sellers lists. I want people who aren't anthropologists to love it. I want people to read it and decide they want to be anthropologists."
And he didn't laugh. He gave me his perspective.
He knows he's good at what he does. He wants to be the best. He knows he's going to be the best. He knows he's going to make a mark. He's able to take criticism of his work, and uses it to get better. He has no problem saying something he created is dope.
How did he get this confidence? How did I not? I have trouble linking people to my blog, even though I've been told I'm a good writer. I don't think I could ever tell someone, "this piece is dope! You should read it!"
Talking to him, I can almost see myself doing it.
We discuss ways of incorporating his artistic eye with my love of Anthropology. He reminds me to take a photography course. We talk about creating websites and beautiful books.
America's Funniest Home Videos comes on, and we laugh hysterically. All that's left of my pity party are swollen eyes and embarrassment, newfound determination and a focus! It always works out in the end.
