The trick is to keep breathing

Oh, Okay Gram.

2011-06-28T15:24:00.000-04:00

I always knew I had a unique Grandma.
I wanted to be like her growing up; I still do.

She was strong and smart; had the confidence to wear a pink tutu and leotard on a stage in front of a hundred people when she was sixty-five years old.

Her love for my Grandpa never wavered, he was her other half. We used to sit and tell stories about him after he died, hers always ending with “I just miss him so much”.

She had the most ridiculous laugh I've ever seen. It wasn't a laugh humans could hear, maybe her beloved dogs could, but we all just watched it happen; Gram turning into a ball of chuckles tears escaping from under her teal trifocals.

She didn't bake cookies, instead she made bread and ox tail stew.

She tap danced, had a masters degree, was a magical piano player, went hunting with my Grandpa, sat a lawn chair in the river because she was always hot and loved to fish.

Her feet were long, thin and always hurt; her garden was proof that both her thumbs were green.

I'd give anything to own another one of the sweaters she used to knit for us as children, especially the brown one I used to loathe.

She didn't say “I love you”, instead she said “Oh, Okay” in a drawn out way that sounded more like “OOOOhKhaaaay”. Except in the last year or so. As disease started to steal her away more and more rapidly, she started to tell me she loved me. Slowly, each word meaning so much to her.
“ I Love You Too”.
It almost sounded like a song in her lovely deep voice.

Yes.

2011-03-17T17:02:00.000-04:00

I opened my eyes at seven am; I always do when there's no alarm to wake me up earlier. The sun hadn't completed it's pull up over the horizon just yet, but the early morning light was beginning to filter around the black curtain behind our bed. As if my internal alarm clock also managed to wake him, the nurse opened his eyes and smiled at me.
“Morning Babe.”

This is his favorite time of day. We rest in each others arms, talk about the dreams we had and what's on our plates for the rest of the day. I tell him the odd dream I had the night before; he tells me about his dream for our future. There isn't enough light to see his face as his breath rubs my cheek, but I know his green eyes are probably tearing; mine are and I'm not the sensitive one.

“I know I should wait.” He says in a low voice as he reaches his long arms around me to get a small wooden box from the pocket of his jacket. Vedder jumps onto the bed, knowing something big is about to happen and wanting to be a witness. “But I can't wait anymore. I love being here with you, before the day starts. I want to start everyday like this for the rest of my life. I've never dreamt about a future with anyone before... you are my future Liz. Will you marry me?”

“Of course. Yes.” I barely whisper. He wipes the tears from my cheeks and places the ring on my finger.

“I'm sorry it wasn't a better proposal.”

“It was perfect. All of it. I love you.”

To All The Braless Women

2010-11-21T10:11:00.002-05:00

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...

2010-10-05T20:01:00.000-04:00

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

2010-09-06T19:01:00.004-04:00

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

2010-08-21T12:16:00.001-04:00

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.

2010-07-27T12:09:00.001-04:00

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!

2010-07-08T19:47:00.003-04:00

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

2010-06-11T10:58:00.003-04:00

“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

2010-05-12T16:32:00.002-04:00

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

2010-05-07T14:33:00.001-04:00

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

2010-04-23T12:49:00.002-04:00

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.

2010-04-18T12:26:00.000-04:00

“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.

2010-04-07T22:33:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-22T18:04:00.000-04:00

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.

Escape

2010-02-20T15:03:00.000-05:00

Some people wear depression well, like jeans and a hoodie. They sink into it, take comfort in it.

But depression doesn’t suit me.

On me it’s a straight jacket, leggings, and platform flip-flops. The most uncomfortable thing I can imagine wearing.

I want it off me as soon as possible.

Even Houdini had a hard time escaping from a straight jacket and he was a professional.

I’ve tried in the past to untie it, one lace at a time.

Wiggle free of sadness while still keeping it intact, allowing it to be set aside where it could be put back on at any time.

I’ve tried asking others to untie it for me. I didn’t know then that it wasn’t their job.

Now I prefer to cut it off.

I tear at it.

Twist, turn and scream.

Use my tears to lubricate the knots.

I fight.

And I win.

Can I get a heart-shaped salad?

2010-02-12T08:29:00.000-05:00

There are heart-shaped helium balloons in the checkout line at Kroger.

Pink and red have invaded the center aisle at Meijer, and a Gorilla holding a heart sang “Love Me True” to me as I walked into Target yesterday.

It must be Valentines.

I considered jumping on the “Valentines Day sucks” bandwagon again this year. It’s been a comfortable place for me over the past two bitter years. I sit there, nose in the air scoffing at the fools who buy into the chocolate dipped holiday. Scowl at people holding hands. Whisper under my breath “get a room” to the people kissing on the corner. I perpetuated the idea that love poems don’t exist, and even suggested buying cactus for each other because it seems to me it is the least loving plant in existence. But I donated my bitter pants to the Salvation Army a month an a half ago, and I don’t miss them one bit.

Being in love doesn’t mean I have to love Valentines Day though.

I could join those who argue that Valentines Day is just a cliché, that we shouldn’t need a holiday to remind us to celebrate the people we love. I suppose that’s true. Everyday is a good day for chocolate, flowers and love letters. Especially love letters. Is it really so wrong though to have a holiday reminding us to celebrate love? Isn’t that what all holiday’s are about, reminding us to celebrate?

Thanksgiving is a reminder to give thanks for our blessings.

Christmas is about remembering the birth of Jesus.

Veterans Day, Halloween, Easter, Flag Day, Presidents day, Martin Luther King Jr. day, they are all reminders to celebrate something that we don’t think of everyday. If Valentines Day is a cliché because it is a reminder, then logic would follow that the rest of them are too. I don’t buy that.

I’ve heard the argument that Valentines Day “reinforces gender roles”. It’s crap. No, I don’t need anyone to buy me tulips to put on my kitchen table. I can buy my own box of chocolates, even heart shaped if I want. I can afford to buy my own dinner. And I can make my own play list of really cheesy love songs, even burn them to a CD and write a dedication to myself if I want to:

“To Liz: I love you and I’ll always be here for you. All my heart, Liz”

It’s not quite the same.

The truth is, I love Valentines Day and always have.

It’s cheesy, like Phil Collins singing “Groovy Kind of Love”.

I love cheese.

In seventh grade, cute but dumb gave me a yellow haired troll. I broke up with him the next day. It wasn’t because of the troll.

My senior year, my first real boyfriend brought me six pink roses.

My mom gave me a silver heart necklace, which I still cherish.

I’ve gotten carnations, the ugliest flower in the world.

A tiny heart shaped box of chocolates.

A dozen red roses delivered to work.

Fancy dinners at expensive restaurants.

Shared a sundae at McDonalds because a dollar was all we could scrounge up.

Had “Angel Eyes” dedicated to me on a local radio station.

I loved all of it.

I’m not ashamed.

It’s okay to admit you love it too.

I won’t tell.

The Recession Strikes Pants.

2010-02-07T08:06:00.000-05:00

The tax man gave me money today, and I decided that for the first time in two years I was going to buy myself some new pants. Dress pants. Pants that an observer would deem appropriate for the classroom instead of the denim trousers I’ve been wearing three times a week for the past year. They don’t really fit well, but they only need washing once a week and go with everything. They’ve been good for my personal economy. I consider them my recession pants.

The recession has made times tough all around. I read a news article about companies not wanting to raise the prices on food so instead they charge the same price for smaller packages. This has happened in cereal, bread, and ice cream. Apparently, as I learned today, it also applies to pants.

There used to be two stores where I could walk in and buy pants. They weren’t spectacular pants, and always more than I wanted to. But I could try them on, decide if they made my butt look flat and walk out the door with nice new pants. They were never really as long as I’d like, but they worked. Not today.

Today the pants had felt the effects of the recession.

I realize that I’m unusually tall, and most of that height is caused by terribly long legs. In my ideal world, a long length would be thirty-six inches. I’ll settle for a thirty-four, can’t wear heels with them but I don’t do that anymore anyway so that’s fine. But thirty-two inches as a tall?

“This company considers ‘tall’ to be 5’7-5’9’. You’re quite a bit taller than that. How tall are you anyway?” I hate that question. Hate it more from tiny little sprites posing as sales people. I considered stepping on her.

“Almost six feet. In whose world is 5’7 tall? My sister is 5’10 and I wouldn’t call her tall. What happens to women once they grow past 5’9? Are we supposed to find a revolutionary doctor willing to amputate a portion of our legs, in my case just below the knee, so we can buy pants? Or am I supposed to wear Capri pants all year around, since I could buy a pair of your “regular” pants and they’d be a perfect fit?

Two years ago these pants were long enough. I have a pair at home, almost worn through that prove it. Now you’re just like the grocery store; selling less product for the same inflated price. I want all the ice cream I’m paying for and I want all the pants I’m paying for too. Is that so hard?”

Okay, no. I didn’t say it. But I wanted to.

It’s not the tiny persons fault the pants are short. She might have even tried to make me feel better by saying what all short people say when I complain about buying pants:

“Well, pants are always too long for me.”

It doesn’t help. Extra pant can be cut off and hemmed. No one adds pant.

Instead I forced a smile.

"Nevermind. I’m seriously considering the logistics of giving up pants altogether.”

The Inappropriate Concert Goer

2009-12-03T16:49:00.000-05:00

There’s one in every crowd. The person that doesn’t seem to grasp where exactly they are. They walk into a concert venue, already having decided how they’re going to act. They are immovable, unchangeable forces. They threaten the sanctity of the concert experience.

These people can show up at any type of concert. Last night it was a Swell Season show. For those unfamiliar with the band, you should go to their website and listen. They are wonderful. A laid back, heartfelt band full of amazing musicians. It’s the kind of show that mesmerizes you, drags you through a full spectrum of emotion, and leaves you exhausted and inspired by the end.

I settled into my seat last night, ready for the experience. The opening singer, Rachel Yamagata began performing. She was sweet and acoustic. At the end of her first song, before anyone had even raised their hands to clap, all of us in the theater learned who the inappropriate concert goer was. Two rows behind me it was the man who yelled

“YEAAAHHHAAAHHH”.

He yelled

“YEAAAHHHAAAHHH”

after each and every song for the first half of the concert. I don’t know what happened then. Maybe someone leaned in close to him and informed him that this just wasn’t that kind of concert.

I saw Andrew Bird about a month ago, and there was a blond woman who made her way, sloppily, down the aisle with a cup of beer in each hand and proceeded to dance her sloshy dance in front of the stage. It wasn’t that kind of show.

At the Pearl Jam concert in 2006 there was a young kid sitting next to me. I wondered if he had even been alive when Ten came out. He held a sign with the name of a truly obscure track from an album no one, not even fans, liked written large enough for the band to see from the stage. An hour into the show, he gave up on the sign; instead turned to his glow sticks. Yes. Glow sticks were twirling through the air. I tapped him on the shoulder and informed him that it wasn’t that kind of show.

Jesus Christ Superstar, featuring Sebastian Bach of Skid Row as Jesus. At least five people in the audience threw up devil horn hand gestures. It wasn’t that kind of show.

It’s the people who clap between movements at orchestra concerts.

The woman who complained about how smoky it was at the Frightened Rabbit show.

Worse: the guy who complained about a different kind of smoke at the Dave Matthews concert.

I called Atticus to tell him about the concert, and my inappropriate concert goer.

“Yeah I had one of those at the concert I saw too.

Only mine said sweeeeet.

It wasn’t that kind of show.”

Bacon is the new Chuck Norris

2009-11-23T18:18:00.000-05:00

A few years ago, there was a huge insurgence of Chuck Norris Jokes

Stuff like: One Chuck Norris tear could cure cancer. Too bad Chuck Norris doesn’t cry. And Chuck Norris doesn’t do push ups, he pushed the world down.

Lately, I’ve noticed that there’s a new fad.

It’s bacon.

Bacon has become somewhat of a status symbol. I see posts on my Facebook regularly.

“MMMM. Bacon”

“I want Bacon.”

“Bacon is the fruit of the Gods” or, if you’re trying to lose weight

“Bacon is the fruit of the Devil.”

“It’s another thick cut bacon Sundaaaaaayyyy!”

“This meal would be better if it had bacon with it.”

I think I’ve figured out why bacon is the current “it” food. In our body conscious world, where we’re all supposed to look 25 until we die and fit into clothes made for teenagers bacon is like a food rebellion. People who eat bacon, especially those of us who do so in large amounts, are thumbing our noses at health food. We’re letting the world know that we will eat what tastes good no matter the consequence.

Then there is the practical side of bacon. It’s perfect, it can be used in any dish to make it better. I work in a restaurant where we call bacon pancetta, but it’s still bacon and it shows up in pasta and wrapped around shrimp. It confuses me when people ask that it be left out. Who doesn’t love bacon?

Bacon can be eaten at any time of day or night. Fry your bacon in a pan and then use the grease to fry a couple eggs and you have a perfect breakfast. Have bacon on your salad for lunch if you’re feeling the need for something green. A bacon sandwich with a side of bacon for dinner is the definition of romance. Chocolate covered or candied bacon for desert. At the bar in the evening, go ahead and order a bacon infused vodka on the rocks. And when you are driving home and the vodka has made you hungry don’t be afraid to order the Baconator at Burger King.

I almost always have some bacon in my fridge, just incase I feel the need.

I have a friend who admits that the only meats she purchases are bacon and salami.

I fell in love because of bacon.

Last night, I knew bacon had infiltrated my life completely. I made a bacon joke.

Very Overweight Man (VOM): “How’s the Minestrone?”

Me: “Good?”

VOM: “You don’t sound so sure.

Me: “Truth is I don’t really like cooked vegetables. And Minestrone is like a big bowl of veggies. So it’s not my favorite.”

VOM: “I don’t really like vegetables either. But I’m trying to watch my weight” He says as he pats his bulbous belly.

Me: “I get that. I watch my weight too. Only I do it with Bacon.”

To the Gym Rats

2009-11-16T16:27:00.000-05:00

Dear sweaty gym going guy,

It’s been a long time since I saw you last. Months in fact. I had almost forgotten all about you. Pushed you from my mind, the way I’m always trying to forget clowns and bigheaded mascots.

But today I decided it was time to address the looseness I’ve been feeling on the underside of my arms and the fact that I felt my butt jiggle just the slightest bit while running up the stairs the other night. I didn’t like it. Which brought me to the gym.

I know there are some women who go to the gym in the hopes of finding themselves a boyfriend. I can point her out to you. She’s on the elliptical machine wearing tiny bike shorts, and a sports bra. Her long blond ponytail is swinging in what I’m sure is perfect rhythm to the Britney/Justin/Beyonce mix being piped into her ears from her hot pink iPod. She’s drinking Fiji water, and somehow manages never to break a sweat.

On the other hand, there's me. My sweatpants are too big, and splattered with green, orange and purple paint. I have a hard time keeping them up under the weight of my brick like fake pod, which is outdated but since it still works I stick with it. I wear a sports bra, yes, but it stays hidden under any number of hideous and loose fitting t-shirts I choose to wear to the gym. And I sweat. A lot. My face turns a lovely shade of purple during my forty-five minutes on the stationary bike I ride, because the elliptical machine requires a kind of coordination I’ll never have.

When I move on to lifting weights I don’t want your help. Machines don’t require a spotter, and I don’t need advice on proper form thank you.

And if my t-shirt happens to creep up while reaching my arms over my head and you catch a glimpse of the tattoo on my right hip it is not an invitation to reach out and touch it. Your hands are sweaty, and have been touching equipment that has been sweated on by countless other people today. Yuck.

I know I should be flattered that an in shape guy such as yourself would be interested in me. And that anyone could possibly find me attractive after an hour long workout is a miracle. However I’m far more likely to be interested in a man with a beer gut and a sick sense of humor than a man with a six pack who clearly cares more about shaving than I do.

So, sweaty gym going guy, go flirt with Barbie and leave me alone.

The tooth stays.

2009-11-03T21:08:00.000-05:00

Everyone has a calling in life.

Some people want to be builders. Others want to be teachers, or lawyers, or gourmet chefs. Moms and Dads, Rabbi’s, Priests, and Nuns. Hairdressers, actors, web designers and radio DJs.

The more daring among us may claim to be painters, sculptors, writers or musicians.

I can understand all of these callings.

I don’t understand those who are called to Dentists.

Describe what a dentist does and it sounds like this:

Scrape plaque, tartar and whatever other kind of build up from the surface of peoples teeth.

Use my sharp metal poker to measure the depth of a humans gums. Fondle a tongue to check for mouth cancer.

Polish teeth with gritty goo and whirring rubber thing.

These are the more pleasant things a Dentist can do.

Friday, a tooth on the bottom right hand side of my mouth hurt a little. I thought it was caused by one too many sour patch kids and I vowed to take a week off.

Saturday morning, the tooth hurt a little more and included the area around the tooth and heading up my jaw line. I took some Advil, used a little Ambesol. Achy, but bearable.

Saturday night, no more pain thanks to Vodka.

Sunday morning, woke up in tears. The Vodka had worn off, and the entire right side of my face was throbbing. Advil, Excedrin, Ambesol and a bag of frozen peas placed on my face managed to dull the pain ever so slightly. I slept Sunday night very peacefully, on the frozen bag of peas (which Vedder conveniently gnawed open at some point in the night, apparently wanting a snack) after drinking half a bottle of Nyquil.

Monday at eight am I called the Dentist. I was being fit in at 10:40.

The pain has now been unbearable for more than 24 hours.

First thing Dr. Paininflictor says to me: So, do you want to keep this tooth?

Well, Dr. Paininflictor, this tooth has been hurting for three days, the last one being so horrible I considered pulling it out myself. Then I reconsidered.

See, I’m a single, thirty-year-old college student with bills up to my eyeballs who enjoys cheesy eighties music, Stephen King books, and playing scrabble. I have a passion for writing, like people who can talk about nothing for hours, and sometimes I crave Buffalo wings. I wear a pink snuggie, and I let my dog sleep on the pillows next to me.

That’s more than enough to keep me single for the rest of my life.

Let’s not add a gaping hole in my smile.

Loneliness is random

2009-10-24T16:03:00.000-04:00

An awkward version of U2’s “In the Name of Love” plays inside Meijer today. I think I’m the only one who notices and wonders about the bongo solo at the end.

This makes me feel alone.

I buy a half gallon of milk, half a watermelon pre-packaged in Styrofoam and cellophane, half a pound of turkey breast, wonder if it’s possible to purchase just a half loaf of bread. I see couples, happy and otherwise not wondering if they will be able to finish eight bagels before the last one in the bag goes moldy. They don’t have ice cream in their freezer that has gone rubbery from sitting too long. No stale chips are thrown into the garbage, because between the two of them they can finish the bag in less than a week.

I’ve adjusted to this half grocery list of mine, stopped over purchasing food two months after I started living alone. I even use one of those half grocery carts they have at Meijer now, and only pack two canvas grocery bags instead of four. I don’t buy Tina’s Burrito’s or those bags of frozen food that simply need to be dumped in a pot and heated up, or olive loaf. I don’t feel guilty when I decide to buy a bottle of wine instead of a case of beer.

I didn’t expect to miss knowing how someone’s day went based on the frizziness of their hair and the way they smell when they walk in the door. Or having someone understand why I blocked the heat vent to my office and turned on the space heater next to my feet. The one who knows what I’m working on based on the drink sitting to the left of my keyboard.

No one told me loneliness is random; that it would strike when I want to share a joke, eat cookie dough, clean the house and sing along to love songs.

And force me to wonder,

who do I talk to about that Bongo solo?

Paranormal Activity

2009-10-18T11:31:00.000-04:00

Going to the movies alone is an interesting event.

The first time I did it, about a year ago, I was seeing “The Reader”. I had decided that I would no longer wait for a date to take me to see the films I was interested in, and besides going alone meant that I could wear the same Western sweatshirt I’ve been wearing since 1998 and a baseball hat. And that’s what I did. Walked into the theater on a Friday night, bought my ticket and proceeded to the concession counter, where I fell in love-- with the kiddie snack pack:

Small Popcorn.

Medium Drink.

And a box of Mild Duds.

Excited by my selection, I approached the usher taking tickets.

“Um… this is a rated R film. Do you have your ID?” Was it the hat, the sweatshirt, or the kiddie pack that made me look so young?

“I’m 29 years old!” I squeaked a little.

“I’d have given you at least 22.” The man behind me laughed while he hugged his well dressed, perfectly coiffed date.

Saturday night, I ventured to the theater alone once again.

In mild protest of the hallmark holiday and to celebrate the Halloween season, I went to see Paranormal Activity.

I bought my snack pack, choose sour patch kids this time instead of milk duds, and settled into my seat in the center of the back row. Of course, being a Saturday, the theater began to fill up a bit, and someone decided to sit directly in front of me. I hate that. He could have moved one seat left or right and I’d still have had my leg room. I blame him for what happened; he put himself in the line of fire.

The movie started slow, I didn’t even jump for at least the first hour.

However, in the last fifteen minutes of the movie I jumped, squealed twice, and somewhat loudly yelled “Holy God” and “Dumbass”. And in the last minute of the movie I did something that I’ve never done before.

Actors call it a “spit take”.

Yes, I got so scared right after taking a sip of my Dr. Pepper that I blew it out of my mouth all over the poor guy sitting in front of me. Some of it may have even come out my nose, I can’t be sure.

Then the lights came up.

“Did you just spit all over me?” The guy turned around and looked at me through glasses too small for his face.

“Um. Yeah, I’m so sorry. That just really freaked me out. That last sip of Dr. Pepper turned out to be a really terrible idea.” I cringed, waiting for him to get even angrier, maybe yell at me.

“Well, how about you come buy me a beer to make it up to me?”

Shocked I replied, “I could do that. It’s not like I’m going home and going to sleep anytime soon. Or ever again for that matter.”

Remembering

2009-10-06T11:45:00.000-04:00

I see him in my face, especially in my eyes; hear him in my voice when I am too loud in public and friends attempt to shush me.

I wear his helmet when I ride my bike, carry his backpack to classes, and it’s his winter jacket that keeps me warm when the snow flies.

It’s been four years since I talked to him.

Four years since the last time he hugged me.

Though my mind is full of memories of him, I sit here soothing a sore throat with a frosty and choose to remember this:

My Dad is seriously sucking orange jell-o through a straw.

He could have been offering a dissertation on the collapse of capitalism with the amount of concentration he shows on his face.

The jell-o finally gives in to the pressure, uncorks like a champagne bottle and slides up his straw. The other people eating at Wendy’s SuperBar that night turn and look as his enormous laugh fills the fast food restaurant.

“You just made root beer come out my nose.” I say between gasping laughs.

“Better that than chocolate pudding.”

He was always so logical.

It's about a seven on the pain scale.

2009-09-23T12:07:00.000-04:00

Work:

“It’s not my heart, it’s my chest bones!”

Four Mexicans and a tiny Italian are standing around me asking me if I’m okay. Clearly, I’m not or they would have no reason to be asking.

The tiny Italian yells: “What can we do for you Liz?”

“You could stop yelling, since it’s my chest that hurts and my ears seem to be just fine.” He hustles his short legs out of the kitchen to tell Boss Lady that I’m in the Kitchen freaking out.

“What happened?” Boss Lady really does look concerned

“I picked up a tray to carry it down the stairs, it was too heavy. So instead of setting it down like a smart person would have done, I carried it anyway and now my chest feels like it has split in half. I’m having a hard time breathing in. I don’t think I can carry any more trays tonight.” I cringe.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Not particularly. Maybe I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

Driving:

I naturally underestimate how difficult it is to pull out of a parallel parking space when your sternum has clearly split in half, which makes the already frustrating task of un-parking my car excruciatingly painful. I find myself thankful there are no sharp turns or curvy roads between work and home.

Home:

A phone call to Atticus to tell him I have broken my chesticles and I fear I will not be able to move my upper body at all come morning. He suggests wine and Motrin. Wondering at his great intelligence, I take this superior advice and go to sleep with a belly full of cheap wine.

Morning:

My chest still aches, and now so do my shoulders, upper back and head. Headache most likely being caused by cheap wine. Reminder to self: Five dollar wine is not a bargain the next morning.

Concentric Circles Healthcare:

Waiting for a half hour in a paper gown and terribly sexy paper shorts, Dr. Unpronounceable finally shows up. Hearing my story of the heavy tray he thinks I must be overestimating it’s weight, it’s obvious he’s never waited tables before. A series of movement and pain rating scales later, he decides that I am not broken only sprained. I’m handed two bottles of pills and passed to the physical therapist who wants to show me some stretches for my chest. What I actually learn is that he feels comfortable picking a wedgie in front of me.

Skelaxin:

It’s like relaxing, only drug induced.

Invisibility doesn't work with the windows down.

2009-09-01T16:12:00.000-04:00

No one can see me while I’m in my car. A cloak of invisibility envelops me the instant I shut that door. I can sing as loud as I want to, have conversations with myself, pick my nose or a pimple on my chin, and feel secure that no one is looking at me. I pump my fist, pound the steering wheel and play terrible air drums. I run over conversations that just happened, or ones that I wish would happen.

I like to believe this shield keeps me anonymous, but more likely a professor of mine, a student or some truly beautiful man in the car next to me is thinking;

“I never knew it was possible to sing ‘Part Time Lover’ with a finger up your nose.”

My invisible shield disappears the instant I roll my window down.

Apparently, some people think theirs stays intact.

I was outside yesterday, wishing I was waiting on a table instead of just waiting, when I heard the bass. I fully expected it to be a young kid in a rusted out civic, holding his camel out the window, desperately trying to look like he’s enjoying the vibrations inside his car.

What I saw was a man, probably in his late thirties in a pink oxford. His arm was hanging out the window. His F-150 wasn’t shaking under the stress of the bass. At first he was only bobbing his head, perhaps momentarily aware he wasn’t truly alone. As the song ended, and the next one began the head bob was integrated into an all out seat dance, shoulders moving, hips bouncing hand leaving the steering wheel to emphasize the words his lips had begun mouthing.

“You can do it put your back into it…”

Sunshine and The Quiet One join me on the sidewalk. Silently it is agreed that we should join this one man dance party, and so we simultaneously succumb to the shaking. Sunshine started with her signature move, a loose limbed limp in which her joints appear to be made of Jell-o and her arms fly left and right, waiting to be released from her shoulders. The Quiet One entered with a subtle cabbage patch, which soon enough turns into an all out running man. I contributed my version of the whipping boy, the trout, and a little shopping cart. Just as we were about to top this delicious pile of dancing off with a synchronized stab at a Michael Jackson crotch grab, the music stopped.

The man in the truck had been watching us.

The Quiet One turned tail and ducked back into the restaurant.

Sunshine aimed her dancing directly at him, since she needs no music to keep going.

The man in the truck waved as he finally cleared the intersection, and rolled up his window to reactivate his invisible shield.

Morning at the Mall

2009-08-26T10:21:00.000-04:00

Malls are strange places. People from all walks of life migrate to them. I was one of those people this morning while my car was in the shop, because given the choice between sitting at the dealership for two hours and observing the throng of humanity at the mall, the choice was clear.

First person I saw when I walked in was a middle aged woman in Capri pants and platform flip-flops. Why, why do platform flip-flops exist? The point of the flop is that they are comfy, flat, and easy to walk in. The extra four inches of foam rubber on the bottoms of those shoes only made her walk like a cow, and could have provided at least 100 children with flip-flops of their own. And they didn’t flip or flop… they clomp, clomp, clomped.

Stealthily, I avoided the Mediterranean man who always wants to talk about my cuticles, but my detour landed me directly in the sights of a tiny European woman selling hair straighteners. She wore black hot pants and a corseted T-shirt and had the loveliest wavy hair. Obviously she doesn’t use her own product. Before I knew what was happening, she had me sitting in a chair saying “You are just so tall, I cannot reach your head if you don’t sit down.”

“Really, I don’t need a hair straightener.”

“Well, Vhat do you use to straighten your hair now honey?”

“I don’t.”

“Your hair is this straight, you lucky girl. I show you how to use this to make a wavy hair too. You must brush lots; your hair so smooth.”

“I haven’t used a hairbrush in 12 years.”

“You so funny.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

Making it wavy lesson; over. I walked away with one wavy pigtail, and one straight.

Then it was the lovely young lady leaving a store called Vanity. I swore her jean shorts were actually panties and hoped the little boy she had stolen her blazer from wasn’t going to freeze this winter. Her belly jewelry swung to and fro as she swayed her hips, and as I always do I wondered why her parents let her out of the house looking like that. Until a gray haired man and peroxide blond stepped out behind the young girl, “Honey, wait for us!” The girl glared at them the way only an angsty teenager embarrassed by her parents can do.

The dippin’ dots guy gave me a free sample, played on a computer I will never purchase at the Apple store, seriously considered a Cinnibon, and missed the presence of a music store.

And the sign at Chico’s said “A pair of Jeans that will fit every body!”

So I went in.

I said, “It’s so hard for me to find Jeans that fit, do you really have something for me? I need a thirty-six inch inseam, prefer a boot cut or a flare and I sort of have heavy thighs for my size.”

The short woman’s eyes darkened and she didn’t crack a smile.

My phone rang, the car was finished.

She was happy to see me leave.

Waiting for the light to turn

2009-08-01T15:33:00.000-04:00

Two people, middle aged adults, standing on a street corner in Ann Arbor late in the evening. The woman, in her white Capri pants and green satin halter tops giggles as the man dressed in jeans kisses her neck.

I stand a safe distance away, waiting for the light to turn and hear her say to him, “But will you still love me in the morning?”

I tap her gently on her shoulder, “No. He won’t. If you have to ask that question, then you already know the answer.”

And God sent me Wonder Woman

2009-07-15T10:15:00.000-04:00

I would have accepted a rainbow or a phone call from a long lost friend. Being narrowly missed by a speeding car as I crossed a busy street, not slipping on the greasy floor as I carried a tray full of dirty dishes through the kitchen last night. Instead, God sent me Wonder Woman.

It was just another night of slinging pasta at the restaurant. The weather was perfect, and I was pleased to be serving outside at the café instead of being stuck in the restaurant that can feel so much like a mausoleum. All but one of my tables were filled, I had just finished taking a couples order and convincing them that a white zinfandel would not be the best wine choice that evening, and there she was being seated at the table directly to my right by the general manager. Linda Carter. Wonder Woman.

“She’s just another guest,” pragmatic Liz told overexcited Liz. “Do not go over there and act like a fool!”

I approached the table, ready to treat them just like I would anyone else. And then she looked at me with her clear blue eyes and for a split second I swore she was wearing her red bustier and blue star-spangled hot pants. I saw the sun glint from her golden crown. Then the illusion was gone and she was just another beautiful woman enjoying a meal on Main St. in Ann Arbor.

I did what I always do. Described the menu, made recommendations, made sure their food was cooked to their liking. It was nothing special. I did no more or less for this table than I did for any other. Dinner came and went as all dinners should, enjoyably. I returned to their table as they set down their forks, and the stunning woman asked me about desert. I reached in my apron pocket, where I should have had a menu. It was empty. I took a deep breath, and began describing the deserts to them.

“Tonight we have a wonderfully creamy Tahitian Vanilla Gelato, and our Sorbetto is Red Raspberry which tastes like the berries were just picked yesterday. I’ve been fantasizing about putting a scoop of each in a bowl, imagining…” Wonder Woman put her finger up.

I’ve gone too far in my excitement about desert and annoyed the celebrity. I’m so going to get fired.

“Are you a writer?” Wonder Woman was again in uniform and asking me a question about myself. I paused. Took a deep breath. My mind went blank and for that moment I believed I might never speak again.

“Well...yeah... I did my undergrad in creative writing.”
Why was it so hard for me to look her in the eye and tell her I am a writer?

“I can tell.” Her impenetrable bracelets blinded me.

I pinched my left arm.
Then I pinched the right one.
I thanked her for saying so.
Then I got stage fright.
And she took off in her invisible plane.
I should have asked if I could borrow her Lasso of Truth.

Incoming call from "Withheld"

2009-07-13T14:32:00.000-04:00

While sitting on my patio having a long distance drink with Atticus, call waiting alerted me.

“Atticus, let me call you back. I’ve got a weird phone call coming in.” Click over to the other line, “Hello?”

“Is this Liz?”

“Yeah, who is this?” Questioning now the decision to answer “withheld” at 10pm.

“This is Heather. Have you been spending time with Jaime?” I’ve seen this movie before.

“Yeah, well, we’ve gone out twice. Who is this?”

“I’m Jaime’s girlfriend. He’s been living with me for the past five weeks. The police just picked him up from my house and I’ve decided to call every person he’s called from my phone and warn them about him.”

Stop.

This isn’t a poorly written “chick flick”.

This isn’t a writer’s lie, or even an exaggeration.

Though at times I wish it was.

“The police? Why?” The script had been written; I had to say my lines for the cameras I imagined were hidden in the shrub to the left of my patio, in my neglected grill, in my dog’s collar.

“He locked my children out of my apartment today, while he hired a prostitute. My daughter went to the neighbor’s house and called me at work. I called the police to have him removed. He said she was a massage therapist. Then why were they naked?” Heathers voice has risen an octave since I first accepted her call. I hear Heathers hysteria and want to run away from it.

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” Lame words are all I have to offer. “I had no idea. He and I met a few weeks ago. We had lunch twice. He told me you were his sister, and you and his nieces were living with him for the next month. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

“Well, I’m not telling you what to do. Just thought you should know.” Heather has retreated from the cliffs edge, and I am thankful.

“Clearly, Heather, I will not be in contact with him anymore. I appreciate this phone call. Keep yourself safe, dear.” I never can resist the urge to call even a stranger dear or hon when I know they are in distress.

Gently giggling, I pour myself a glass of vodka. The giggling has turned into silent laughs as I resume my long distance drink with Atticus. Recounting the story I just participated in, the silent laughs turn into chesty chuckles. The therapist that lives inside my mind tries to speak, but those chesty chuckles have turned into belly laughs interspersed with a healthy snort or two and tears are running down my cheeks.

“Who do these things happen to, seriously? Whose life is this?” I ask Atticus.

"It’s yours Liz.”