To All The Braless Women

To all the braless women:

There are protests that I can get on board with. Veal: horrible the way they lock those little cows up to keep the meat white. Pesticides that poison the groundwater; skateboards on sidewalks; gummy bears in flurries (those can wreck a perfectly good tooth); red dye 40; killing Dolphins in the name of Tuna. And sweatshops: horrible the way they lock those little kids up and pay them next to nothing.

But not bras.

There was a time when getting rid of your bra, burning it, was a way to show that you were a feminist; a woman who was no longer succumbing to the power handed to men. We still fight some of those fights. We have access to birth control, yet insurance companies still get away with paying for a mans Viagra but not The Pill. Women still have less power in corporations, and get paid less than equally qualified or even less qualified men. Young girls are routinely told that “girls just aren’t good at math”, that the boys will always be better athletes than them, and discover at a young age that it's easier to find over-sexualized pop stars to idolize than women of substance to set their sights upon.
I get this.
I’m in on this fight.
But showing your nipples in public is not going to make the world take you more seriously. Nor will knowing the exact shape of your breasts-whether it be the basketballs you’ve paid someone a lot of money to own, deflated and sad, or tennis ball in tube sock-help me to understand the plight of today’s woman. In fact, I find it utterly impossible to hear you roar, woman, when I’m distracted by the way your breasts seem to swing to and fro in perfect time to “Like a Virgin”.

Okay, so maybe you aren’t trying to make a political statement with your free breasting ways. Your argument would be that bras are uncomfortable; men don't have to wear them no matter how large their Moobs may be. I can accept that; they aren’t the number one most comfortable thing to wear. Everyone knows the most comfortable thing to wear is a snuggie.

Bras poke, suffocate, and dig into our shoulders. It's an extra step to dressing every morning. They are one more thing to wash on laundry day, one more expensive item to buy when that wire inevitably finds it's way out of the bra and into the soft flesh of our armpits. I invite all of you to refuse to wear a bra in the comfort of your own home. I hate them as much as the next woman. The first thing I do when I walk in the door after work is whip mine off Jennifer Beal style, as evidenced by the bra currently sitting on my dining room table.

When you leave the house, however, put one on. No matter how small they are; “I hardly have anything I don't need a bra” doesn't cut it after the age of sixteen. No matter how perfect they are; “Mine look great without a bra”, may be true, but the only person who should know that is your significant other and your doctor.

I rewind...

It’s barely over two minutes long, so I watch it over and over.
Those two minutes, captured ten years ago.
I I wish now that our voices had been recorded at the beginning of that dance.

“Dad, I can’t go backwards.” I said tipping my head down slightly to talk directly into his ear. “I’m going to step on my dress, fall down and crack my head open.”
“Okay, I’ll go backwards.”
“Don’t spin me too fast, I’ll get dizzy,” I say it and his shoulders move in a gentle chuckle as he begins to pull me across the dance floor.
“Just trust me Liz. I’ll never let you fall.”

And there we are, moving across the small dance floor as if we had practiced years for this moment; me in my big white dress, Dad in his tux. We are perfect.

It goes by too fast. I rewind. Watch it again.
It’s blurry through my tears.
It goes by too fast. I rewind. Watch it again.
Vedder wonders why I do this to myself every year.
It goes by too fast. I rewind. Watch it again.
I miss him.
It goes by too fast. I rewind. Watch it again.
I miss him.
It went by too fast.
There’s no rewind button I can press.

I watch it again.

First day

I can’t remember my real first day of school.
The first day I remember is picture day in Kindergarten. My Mom had dressed me in a blue sweatshirt with a row of ducks across the front of it. I hated that sweatshirt. I hated ducks. And she had put my unruly hair into a very tight half ponytail that was guaranteed to give me a headache long before the half day was over and I got to go home and take it out. We all stood in line outside the library of George A Smith School, waiting for our turn to sit in front of the faded purple screen favored by the LifeTouch photographers in the early eighties. They handed out black plastic combs to all of us waiting in line, and while other girls brushed their hair and the boys used the combs to break down the gobs of gel their mothers had attempted to tame their cowlicks with, I didn’t dare touch my hair. It hurt already, no need to add the pain of a comb to it.

As Kenny stepped into the library to take his turn on the adjustable black stool he turned and in his spitty lisp said, “Nice sweatshirt, Lizzie.” Even the pee kid knew it was dumb looking. I took deep breaths, not sure if I wanted to cry or kick Kenny in the shins. Kenny sat on the stool, smiled in his toothless way (he was an old Kindergartener, the tooth fairy had already visited him twice), the flash went off and he got a sucker for doing a good job. I wanted a sucker. It was my turn. I walked in, confident that I too could take a good picture, and settled onto the stool.
“Stand up, sweetheart. I need to lower that stool a bit. You sure are a tall Kindergartener.” I scowled at the photographer. He moved behind his camera as I sat back down on the stool.

“Now, say ‘Fuzzy Pickles’!”
Fuzzy Pickles? I wasn’t sure but this sounded like a trick to me. I was sensitive to bad words, my sister sometimes said Crap and I was sure it was the worst word in the world. Fuzzy Pickles must be the second worst. So I shook my head no and deepened my scowl. “Say ‘Fuzzy Pickles’,” the photographer giggled under his creepy black mustache and I felt a tear drop from my chubby cheek onto the loathed sweatshirt.
“Just smile already!” His anger rubbed off on me and I glared my best glare, the one my Mom gave me when I wouldn’t eat my carrots or my Grandma gave me when I ate more of the raspberries we were picking than ended up in the bucket.
And the flash went off.
I was shooed away from the stool.
There was no sucker for me.
I never got retakes either.

Tomorrow is my first day of school, again. This time I’m a student teacher facing two sections of American Literature, one of Advance American Literature, and two sections of Creative Writing.
I’m nervous.
I won’t sleep much tonight, because the mostly dormant volcano in my stomach has become active. Hot lava coats my esophagus; the heart burn is undeterred by Tums, cold milk or the glass of wine that currently sits next to my computer.

I’ll try on every outfit in my closet before going to bed tonight, only to decide on the first one I tried on and lay it over the back of the rocking chair in my bedroom. I’ll set my alarm for six, but it won’t be necessary. I’ll be out of bed at five, staring at the clock over a bowl of Cheerios, wishing it was light out so I could at least take Vedder for a walk to cool my jitters. By six-thirty I’ll be sitting on my couch, fully dressed and ready to go, Vedder will be staring at me in his thoughtful way no doubt thinking “That’s my crazy Mom, doing her crazy nervous dance.”

I’ll force myself to wait until seven to walk out the door, and still arrive for my first day fifteen minutes early with shaking hands.
Then the students will arrive.
And I’ll take my first breath as Ms. Turek, student teacher.

My nerves will disappear.

Metablognition: Blogging about blogging

I attempted to sneak into the closest thing I have to a hometown last week, only telling the person I came to see that I would be there. Sometimes I do this because I don’t want to feel the tug of too many people wanting to spend time with me and knowing it’s impossible to give them all what they want. Sometimes I do it because I’m afraid no one will care.

But The Pilot found me outside a street show after one too many vodka sours. Screeching, “OmigodLizyoudidn’ttellmeyouwerecomingtotown

whydidn’tyoutellmeImisyousomuch! RAAARRR!” (That’s as close as writing can come to the way he sounds when he’s excited and has had a few beers) he picked me up like a giant redheaded flag, parading me up and down the sidewalk. Settling down, I tried to explain that I was going to call him the next day… excuses ect. But he’d already forgotten to be upset that I didn’t call him when suddenly, or maybe it only felt sudden through my vodka fog, The Pilot whipped out his phone:

“Look. Your blog is on my favorites. I love it.

Reading it makes me wish I was a writer.”

He really said that, Absolutly.

And though he lacks rhythm entirely, his timing was perfect.

I’d been thinking about this blog a lot. Thinking of why I do it, if anyone really reads it and what exactly I’m trying to accomplish by writing it—if in fact accomplishment is an aspect of blogging at all. I used to put one of those stat counters on my blog, measure how many people read it and where they were reading from. It felt like spying. I also found myself disappointed if someone I wanted to be reading it clearly wasn’t. There was the one time I got annoyed that someone read it for the first time right after he hurt me badly; I felt sure he only wanted to know if I mentioned the horrible thing he had done. I stopped spying then.

In thinking about blogging, and then blogging about blogging (metabolognition) I’ve notice that I’ve been holding back. I haven’t shared any of the horrific/wonderful/confusing/tragic stories of dating in my late 20’s and early 30’s. I haven’t shared about returning to school after a ten year absence, living alone for the first time in my life (and fearing my neighbors ever so slightly), or the daily terror that is being a substitute teacher. I write a lot of stuff that I never post. Mostly because they’re strange dreamlike things I’m not sure anyone would care to read.

I worry too much what people might think, at least when it comes to my writing.

I’m going to stop that now.

No more holding back.

Blog, year two:

The good. The Bad. The Ugly.

The Unblogged Blogs.

Lets fight about it.

I sat across from someone I’m tempted to call an old friend, though we rarely spend time together and our friendship has never had the time to grow old.

We talk. I talk more than him, but it’s his fault—he knows how to pull my strings. And he’s picking on my subject. Playing devils advocate, he says. Just Joshing me, he laughs. Momentarily I think he may be Burgeoning on annoying when a deep breath makes me realize what I’m feeling isn’t annoyance. It’s exhilaration. My mouth moves miles in minutes. I need this.

Need is a relative term I suppose. I don’t need this back and forth the way I need air or Kool-aid. I’m should I could live without it, and at some point I think I did. But without it, boredom sets in, and what follows boredom is worse. Complacency. If no one challenges my big ideas- and there are far too many of them- they get left to their own devices, easily becoming frustrated adolescents who lack guidance. Hands on hips, neck on swivel, hand waving in the air screaming at the top of their lungs “I’m right, I know I am and you’re wrong so SUCK IT” (my inner teenager is vulgar). They don’t look at the other side, instead remain idealistic and optimistic to a fault. They believe in changing the world, but can’t see the staircase they need to climb, too focused on what’s at the top.

I’ve always loved these fights, I think my Grandpa was probably my first sparring partner. We’d sit at the kitchen table and he’d pick fights with me about everything and anything. I’d ask him what his favorite pie was and instead of answering he’d make a list of the pies he liked, the reasons they were good and why the pies I liked best were lame excuses for pie. If I said I wanted to paint the walls white, he’s argue that you can’t go to the store and just but white paint anymore; there were all sorts of different whites and you needed to know ahead of time which white you wanted so that damn sales person didn’t give you the wrong stuff. Sometimes we fought about more important things, like me getting married too young or declaring that I wanted to be a writer. But mostly he loved to fight and always knew I was game to take the other side.

These standoffs, where someone is willing to stand against me despite of my domineering personality and epic stubbornness, are not only one of my favorite ways to pass an evening (even better when beer or wine is involved) but essential for my growth. I change more as a result of these conversations than I ever imagine I will. Blondie tests my ability to be gentle with myself and others, the composer challenges me with all that I don’t think I know anything about, with curiosity and with honesty. The poets challenged me to write, to know that I was actually a poet and to believe that what I felt about their poetry was worth sharing. Atticus, my most consistent adversary and best friend handles my emotional confrontations—only the one who knows me so well can make me admit that no, I’m not over it yet and yeah if given the choice I’d make the same series of bad decisions all over again. And then makes me sit with the embarrassment of that admission, not for too long, before sweeping the pieces into a pile and telling me to put it back together right. He can convince me to stop trying so hard to be strong, to tell others when I need them, and live with my insecurity.

I find myself continuously searching for more of these relationships, and realizing how rare they really are. It takes a high level of trust to have these kinds of conversations—we have to believe that the other won’t get angry, or hurt and walk away without learning anything except how to leave when someone refuses to say what it is we want to hear. I wonder if these relationships are sustainable; wonder if I can have it in a day to day relationship that is built around love. Can that much verbal warfare survive day to day life; paying bills, cleaning the house and walking the dog?

Free beer with every job application!

The man with the crazy gray hair, disheveled plaid shirt and thread-bare jeans stops at the service counter of the uppity, organic grocery store where I’ve just been given the title of “Front End Team Lead”. It’s a good job, though I struggle a bit with the kind of people who can spend a hundred dollars on two bags of groceries; seems a bit absurd really, since my grocery budget for an entire month is barely more than that. And I can’t help but to giggle a little bit when people pay fifteen dollars a pound for sweet cherries I used buy at roadside stands in my hometown for five.

The smell of patchouli touches my nose a few too many times in a day.

I would like to help some of the women spend some of their grocery money on bras.

Back to the crazy haired man.

I gave him the application, because looks can be deceiving; he could be a highly qualified chef or a wine connoisseur. He smelled a bit like he liked wine. About a half hour later, he returned to the desk application in one hand, bottle of beer in the other. A high quality IPA, the kind of bottle we sell for five dollars. Each. It was empty. He no longer smelled like wine, instead his breath stank of hops.

“Here you go honey.”

He breathed on me. Momentarily I was jealous that he had enjoyed a cold one in the middle of the day, then I remembered I hate IPA’s. Slamming the bottle, still dewy on the outside with a little foam left on the bottom onto the marble counter top, he grinned.

“That was good. Here’s your bottle back.”

Stunned, I looked at the cashier standing next to me.

“Did he pay you for that beer?”

“Nope.”

I checked the other registers, no one had sold a single bottle of that particular beer in the last two hours. This man, whose application stated his qualifications as “Award winning poet” and a lead role in a film for which he got paid $150 enjoyed a free beer while filling out a job application. All at once I wondered if he was a) already drunk, allowing him to think this was okay b) terribly gutsy and only filling out job applications to fulfill the requirements of his unemployment benefits/social security or 3) the man of my dreams.

I decided he was much too old and underemployed for my liking and informed the store manager of what had just happened.

“Call him, Liz. Invite him in, and ask him to pay for the beer.”

Sugar High

“Here. Have this.” The little boy seated at table thirty-one smiles up at me, Devil on his shoulder wanting me to take the Warhead from his slightly sticky hand. A Warhead is a hard candy coated in sour. They make eyes water, cheeks pucker and paralyzes vocal cords in the middle of words. Eat too many and the inside of your mouth will ache, and the skin will begin to shed. There’s only one adult I know that can stand them, I’ve seen faces screw up anticipating that tart pellet on their tongue.

“Awesome. Lemon. My favorite.” I immediately open it, and pop it in my mouth. His parents cringe, I smile.

I’m the one adult I know that loves these things.

In fact, I love candy. All of it.

As a third grader I rode my bike to and from school. Michael and I used to try to find the longest way home, weaving our way through the neighborhood near our houses but never backtracking or taking the same road twice. Except on days when I had to stop at the dentist on the way home. Yes, that’s what we called it… stopping at the dentist.

Dr. Santamaria’s office was between school and home and it was terribly convenient for me to stop there to get some dental work done right after school. I would walk in, after locking my bike up outside, and the receptionist would greet me as if I was her very own seven-year-old. They never left me in the waiting room for long, but I could usually read a page or two of a “Highlights” magazine before the hygienist would call me in.

They gave me laughing gas with a scent I could choose before the Novocain shot. And Dr. Santamaria would get to work on whatever cavity they were filling that day.

I didn’t mind, dental work meant that I got to have whatever I wanted for dinner and I probably liked being high on the laughing gas too. Then my Mom decided that the fillings got out of control and I had to give up candy. That’s like making a heroine addict go cold turkey.

She hid my Easter candy from me.

Started giving us sugar free Kool-Aid.

And rationed my Halloween candy- only three pieces allowed a day. I’m pretty sure my Dad ate more of it than I did.

I went to the black market for my candy, sneaking to the gas station just outside the area I was allowed to ride in and buying huge pixie sticks, the kind that were two feet long and encased in plastic.

I spent quarters on fruit roll-ups at school.

I stole a pack of gum once.

I couldn’t be kept from my candy addiction.

Mrs. Perk gave me a whole bag of Jellybeans at my cousins wedding. She told me to share them with my sister. Right. I ate them all during the ceremony, and ended up crying because my stomach hurt so bad. Still, nothing could dampen my love of sugar.

The addiction has continued as an adult, even entering my professional life.

One day I sat in the sales office with my manager. He was a quiet man, and somewhat uncomfortable have a young woman working for him. Until I showed up with mallowcreme pumpkins. Turned out, he shared my sugar addiction.

We ate the whole bag. And giggled like little kids when other sales people walked in and asked what we were doing.

The sugar buzz was amazing. Making hang tags with permanent markers probably helped a little too.

I get excited when a new candy bar shows up in the checkout lane, though a little less so than I used to. Peanut allergies put a damper on being able to try new things—that label that says “May contain peanuts” stops me in my tracks now.

I tried a new skittle the other day; they were supposed to fizz. They did a little, but the fizzing didn’t distract me enough from the distinct flavor of soap that filled my mouth. I won’t be having them again.

I know that high fructose corn syrup is evil. I could be setting myself up for diabetes.

That doesn’t stop me.

I still eat sour patch kids till the inside of my mouth hurts, and keep a pitcher of Kool-Aid in my fridge.

The Backpack

I fall asleep when I watch movies. It’s a terrible habit.

Doesn’t matter how interesting the movie is, I’ll still tend to get way too comfortable on my couch and catch a nap somewhere after the first hour. The movie continues while I sleep and I wake up for the credits, wondering if my dream was anything like the rest of the movie.

Recently, I fell asleep to “Up in the Air”.

(Don’t worry, this isn’t a spoiler)

At one point in the film, there is a speech about a backpack. The speaker challenges the group to imagine they are the owners of a backpack in which they place all of their belongings. He talks about the weight of this backpack, the weight of our possessions and argues that if we didn’t have this unbelievable weight on our backs we would be much happier people. He purposes setting that backpack on fire. Getting rid of the things that tie us down, hold us back.

There is a second backpack he talks about, in which we put the people in our lives, our relationships. Though he doesn’t suggest that we set that pack on fire, his implication is that these relationships are also weights holding us down; keeping us from fulfilling our life’s purpose. He suggests that we should unload these “burdens” and walk through life essentially alone. This is his idea of success; he lives his life in a carry on suitcase with no attachments that last more than the time it takes to fly from place to place or have a conversation in an airport bar.

I woke up from my nap thinking about this speech, looking around me at the things I have accumulated in my adult life. The couch I slept on, the TV I was watching the movie on, my dining table, my Steven King books, my dishes and collection of cobalt glass. The Pulp Fiction figurines, Nutcracker that scares me, cigar box with my grandpa’s pipes in it, and antique wood plane that live on my shelf of random things. I wondered if they were in fact holding me back. What would my life look like if I wasn’t attached to these things? I could leave this place at anytime if I didn’t have them, start new. I wouldn’t have to think about how I’m going to get it all moved; I could live in the equivalent of a closet.

I thought about the pain my relationships have brought me, and imagined what my life would be like without all of that heartache. Would I feel lonely if I never had experienced what it was like to share my life with someone? There would be no missing someone who is no longer in my life if they hadn’t left an empty space when they walked away. My heart couldn’t be broken if I had never allowed it into another persons care.

At first glance it seemed like not a bad idea; my life seems to be constantly in flux anyway, and I have the desire to change it drastically as soon as school allows. I could start downsizing now. That way in a year when I move wherever it is I’m moving when I finish school, it will be that much easier.

Leaving would be easier if I didn’t have friends to leave behind, and finding a place to land wouldn’t seem so difficult if my heart wasn’t pulling me in so many different directions. To be truly alone, and live only for myself didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

The more I thought about it though, the more I knew he was wrong.

My couch isn’t oversized when I have friends sitting on it with me.

My kitchen table is a perfect fit when I’m sharing a meal, and the things on my random shelf seem just a little less random when I tell the stories behind them.

My bed wouldn’t feel too big if I had someone to share it with.

My grief is overwhelming without someone to comfort me.

If no one depended on me to be strong, I might not have ever learned to be, and who would I be if I had never allowed myself to fall in love completely and suffer the heartbreak that followed?

Laughing alone only makes me sound crazy.

Successes are pointless without someone to celebrate them with.

It’s not about unloading the backpack.

It’s about finding people to share it with.

People who can help us carry it when it seems too heavy for us to bear alone, and being the person who will help carry theirs when our shoulders can handle the extra weight.

At the Dog Park

Everyone is an expert at the Dog Park:

“Oooh, your Border Collie is beautiful. I’ve never seen one with markings quite like that.” That’s because The Vedder is a Sheltie, he’s just big for his breed.

“What’s his name, Better?” No, it’s Vedder. “Vetter, like Corvette?” No Vedder. “Vedder? What’s that mean?” It’s the last name of the lead singer of a band I like. I’m sure cookie, or snowball, or wolf would have been more suitable names but Vedder is what he’s got.

When we’re at the dog park, The Vedder cares about two things. His ball, and me. It’s difficult to get him to play with other dogs, he’ more interested in me throwing the ball, outrunning the other dogs to get to it and bringing it back to me. Occasionally, a good game of chase gets going and The Vedder takes up the tail end, pushing the other dogs in the direction he thinks they should go. All the while, he keeps his ball in his mouth.

“I don’t think it’s very healthy for your dog to be carrying that ball around in his mouth all the time,” says the woman in pressed jeans watching her golden-doodle prance pleasantly around the dog park.

“Well, if he doesn’t keep it in his mouth, he barks. A lot. Loudly. It’s better for everyone if he just holds onto it. Doesn’t seem to bother him any, really.” I smile as kindly as a can from under the brim of my baseball hat and wonder if I should have dressed nicer for the park.

“He’s your dog, but it seems borderline abusive to me. He must have trouble breathing.” Abusive? A tennis ball that he wants to be carrying around? Has this woman ever heard a Sheltie bark, really bark?

“Maybe you’re right. Vedder!” The Vedder comes to me, and I remove the tennis ball from his mouth. Instantly the barking begins. “You’re right, this is much better. He can breathe great now!” I yell. The barking has attracted all the other dogs in the park to The Vedder, most likely they all want him to shut up as much as their owners who are all staring at me do. One dog, Iggy, The Vedders enemy gets too close. Fearing the loss of his ball to the overweight black lab, The Vedder shows his teeth and growls low in his belly. The growl grows into a strange sound that can be most accurately described as a mix between a bark, and a baby crying. I call it talking when he does it to me at home. He continues this sound until I hand him his ball.

“You’re dog certainly is aggressive. Maybe you shouldn’t bring him to the dog park at all.” The expert adds this one last piece of advice before trotting away with her designer dog.

“Maybe I should just let him keep his ball.”

The Verbal Tip

I have an embarrassing admission: I really like waiting tables. I have the feeling that when the time comes, a year from now to give it up and start teaching full time, I’m really going to miss it. Waiting tables gives me the rush I used to get selling cars, without so much time commitment. I get to sell, talk to people, make them laugh on a good night and hopefully send them out the door grinning ear to ear in less than two hours.

And just like selling cars, my income is dependent on how well I do my job. If I sell a more expensive bottle of wine, appetizers, salads and entrees; force feed them dessert and convince them that no Italian meal is complete without grappa, I make a larger tip. In theory that is. Some nights, it’s just not the case.

It’s the nightmare of any server. The table is happy, they’re laughing, telling you how great you are. It might be a little more work than you really want; it’s not always easy to keep the charm on when I’ve been up and down a flight of stairs for the thirtieth time. Underneath the vest and bowtie, I’m probably a sweaty mess, and hungry. So hungry. The smile sticks though, and soon we’re sharing stories about college or kids or whatever their hearts desire. I may tell them I’m a student, or a teacher, sometimes I tell them both. I offer a white lie here and there to join in conversation; mention non existent boyfriends, cats I don’t actually own anymore, and dating horror stories. Mostly those are true.

I sang the “Miss Suzy had a steamboat…” rhyme to David Schwimmers assistant one night; she was desperate to remember it and I just couldn’t resist. Explained why “Paranormal Activity” was terrible for the first hour and then great for the last half hour to Wonder Woman and a Congressman, after she said “Ask Liz, she’ll probably know and have a good story about it too!” I did.

It’s all worthwhile, usually. I see my effort reflected in the wad of cash in my pocket at the end of the night. But then, there’s always that one table that thinks somehow the good time THEY gave ME is enough, and drop ten percent on their bill. They do it with a smile, saying sweetly “We’ll be back and we’ll ask for you!” I return the smile, tell them I appreciate it and look forward to seeing them again.

Then I open that folder, and see what they have done.

They left me a verbal tip.

I want to follow them down the street, tap them on the shoulder and tell them that their good time does not in fact pay my bills. I can’t pay rent on my charm; my leasing company is pretty intent on actual money. My car doesn’t run on giggles, and all the compliments in the world will not keep me warm in the winter.

I can’t do that (and keep my job), so I do the next best thing. I slink over to the computers where there are always at least one or two co-workers who will sympathize with me. It’s happened to all of us at one time or another. I open that folder, and place it in front of them.

“Ouch, that really sucks.”

“Damn Verbal Tips. They better not ask for me next time they come in.”

Not a poet.

“It’s nice that you got in, Liz, but it’s just a small local contest. Not that big of a deal. And besides, you’re not really a poet.”

Not really a poet. That’s what the “real poet” I knew told me the day I got accepted to a local poetry contest. I was overwhelmed with excitement, I told everyone I knew. I had finally worked up the courage to submit a poem, and it had won an award. I was going to read it in front of people.

Gulp.

I was going to read it in front of people.

I had written more poems than I could count, starting in ninth grade when I hadn’t completed an assignment. We were supposed to write a two page reaction to the film “Schindlers List”, which we had gone to the theater to see a few days before. All I could manage were random words, bits and pieces of sentences, images that wouldn’t leave my head. I was distraught over the film, somewhat embarrassed that I began crying within the first half hour and didn’t stop until we left the theater. I sat in fifth hour Algebra while Mr. Dorking (yes, his real name) urged us to solve for x and tried to organize the words and phrases I had written on my paper. I found a poem in there, not that I knew what a poem what since poetry was never a part of English instruction, but I liked the way it sounded in my head, the way it looked on the page. Mostly I liked that I’d at least have something to hand in sixth hour. The poem came back to me two days later, with a note from the teacher: “Liz, this was not the assignment you were given, but it is a wonderful poem. Keep up the good work.” I had fooled her. My poem was fifteen lines. I got an A for writing fifteen lines when everyone else had to write two pages.

I loved poetry.

I kept writing, through college in fact. Took poetry workshops where undergrads dressed in black held their noses as they waded through my poems. I wasn’t “dark” enough for them; they said my poetry lacked depth.

I agreed.

And kept writing.

Which brought me to that local contest.

I was about to share a poem with people I didn’t know.

Never having felt shy before, I didn’t know what to do with the emotion when it hit me that day.

Leaning over to my Mom I whispered in her ear, “Please don’t be mad at me. It’s just a poem.”

I swallowed hard, breathed through my nose and didn’t trip as I walked onto the stage.

I’ve written dozens of poems since then. I participated in a workshop with poets that I now call friends and yet still intimidate me with their talent.

That night I became a poet.

It happened because of this poem:

Absolut Holiness

She stopped believing

in wine as her savior

instead

she turned to Vodka.

Depending on her

consistently fluxuating bank account

its flavor wavered

from smooth lemon twist of Citron

straight from the freezer

to the gallon of Five O’clock

stashed in the trunk of her ’87 Golf.

Vodka was a prayer

for moral sanctuary

emotional exile

physical release.

With each drink

her mother’s voice echoed

“Are you going to Mass this week?”

And her reply

“Only if that chalice is filled with

Absolut Holiness

instead of table wine.”

I’ll never be famous for my poetry.

There may always be people that tell me I’m not a poet.

I might even agree with them.

I’ll just keep writing

At least I can still see my feet.

Most people I know, if they make resolutions, do so on New Years Eve. They promise to change something, do something or be something other than what they are at that moment. Maybe they think something magical will happen as that clock strikes midnight and they receive the first kiss of the New Year. I sometimes think that way too, and I’ve been known to jump on the magical bus here and there. I certainly did this year.

But that magic wears off. Sometimes it only takes a week.

Sometimes it takes six.

Inevitably though they seem to fade.

The promises I made on Freemont Street or those I professed under the fireworks don’t seem to stand the test of time.

I prefer to use my birthday as a time for change.

I turned thirty-one today.

As I do every year, I looked backwards.

Five years. Skip that. Nothing good happened that year.

Ten years.

Ten years ago I thought I had the whole world figured out. I was twenty-one. Just one year left in obtaining my bachelors degree in unemployment, only three months from getting married.

I had a five year plan. I had a ten year plan.

None of it came true. It was a good plan. But life got in the way.

In one way I’m in exactly the same place.

A year from finishing school. However nowhere near being married. In fact I wonder if that’s something I’ll ever be willing to do again.

And a plan?

Nothing like it.

Instead I see my next year as nothing but transitions.

My life is one of those pictures they used to sell at the mall. The ones that you were supposed to stare at, but not at one fixed point, until an image appeared in the indistinguishable pattern. The sales people would tell us to look at our reflections in the glass, not at the pattern.

My friends could see them.

They would stand there, exclaim “It’s a dolphin!” or “I can see three clowns with pointy teeth waiting to eat you!”

All I ever got from them was a massive migraine.

Same thing happens now when I look past April 2011.

Massive Migraine.

Only now, there’s no one standing next to me telling me what that picture really shows.

Someone should say “It’s Austin!” or “Look, I can see Madison in your future”.

I think I’ll just stop looking and stare at my feet like I did back then.

No headache and they always seemed to know where to take me next.

I also don't have a Gucci bag

I never owned a pair of Girbaud jeans. Or K Swiss tennis shoes.

But in seventh grade I did believe that those labels would have changed my life.

Seems to me that we learn from a young age that labels, either on our clothing or ones that define who we are make all the difference. As we get older, they become more and more important.

There are the labels we give ourselves; mine include student, teacher, server, loud, music lover, writer, poet, and glutton for punishment. Then there are the ones other people give us, which may be even more accurate than the ones we attribute to ourselves.

Our jobs become labels. Our political beliefs, our religious affiliation, our cultural backgrounds, and our relationship status.

Oh, the relationship status. The social networking sites have this down to a science. You can be one of the following:

Single (Simple enough)

In a relationship (Romantic relationship is assumed)

Engaged (Naturally follows the previous)

Married (Again, progression)

It’s complicated (Aren’t they all?)

In an open relationship (Apparently these people get theirs and yours too)

Widowed (A leap really, since there’s no divorced option).

What if we don’t consider ourselves any of these? Single implies that you’d rather not be; the relationship ones, well they all use that R word which while sometimes can feel like a down comforter on a January night, can also feel like a jumpsuit made out of hair on an August day in Texas. There should be more categories, for those of use who disdain the black and white nature of relationship or not and prefer to live in gray. I propose the following:

In Love (Simple. At least it is to me)

Okay the way things are (The world isn’t ideal, but you’ve come to terms with it)

Waiting for it (Life gets in the way. Some things are worth waiting for)

Seeing how things grow (Same as waiting only with nourishment)

On hold indefinitely (Typically a one sided waiting)

Having my cake and eating it too (Dating enthusiastically)

Considering the nunnery (Damaged goods)

Holding out for my backup (Mine happens at 40)

Happy (Could be with someone, or without. Doesn’t matter, they just are)

Maybe I’ve got it all wrong.

Maybe gray doesn’t actually exist. It could be a lie I’m telling myself, like the words I make up when the ones in the dictionary don’t seem to fit what I’m trying to say.

Then again, those words though they have no definitions by society’s standards, always manage to get my point across effectively to anyone hearing them.

I’m hoping the same goes for gray.