New Writing!!

I woke up this morning with a story going through my brain. I am writing it down so that I don’t forget!  Will definitely have to work on it, as I think it has legs!! Enjoy!

I like frat boys. And boys visiting Bourbon for the first time from Kansas and Colorado. Usually they’re attending their best friend’s bachelor party, here for spring break or simply on that once in a lifetime road trip. And what am I? Well, I’m that local girl that they still dream about even after they’ve sunk back into their everyday life. When they’re sitting in their cubicle, or retelling the story about their trip to New Orleans (they’re all the same); even when they’re lying beside their girlfriend of going on six years now. They still dream about me. About us. About our night together in New Orleans. I’m their story.

I wasn’t always this way. And yes, I still love love as much as the next woman. But somewhere along the line, this way became easier. I always know the outcome this way. I’ll meet a cute guy in The Quarter; he’ll not be able to believe his luck. A local girl is into him. Generally I like to look like a bit of a bad girl, black corset top showing off my Day of the Dead shoulder tattoo, jeans and some funky heels. I usually wear my hair down or piled messily up, and depending on my mood, I may be the sexy smart girl by wearing my nerdy glasses. Boys love this look. Especially the ones with popped collars and too much product in their hair. I am not the girl that they date back home so of course they go for it. I am just about the antithesis.

If I’m not in the bad girl sort of mood, I’ll either go completely prepped out with my own popped collar unbuttoned a little too low with khaki short shorts or a mini and expensive looking sunglasses holding back my hair. Then it’s a nice surprise when the out of town boy gets to see that this girl who does in fact look like someone he would date back home, really is a bad girl when she takes off her shirt.

Like I said, I’ll always know the outcome this way. I’m not a prostitute, or promiscuous really; I honestly don’t get past some flirting and a kiss most of the time. This is just how I fill that need for male attention now. It is so much easier than having a boyfriend; I always know what will happen. We will hangout all night, and maybe part of the next day or so, but he always goes home. Some have promised that they would write, or call or come back to NOLA; whatever. And actually, a few of them do. But for most of them, I am a fantasy. Someone their girlfriend will never find out about. Someone their parent’s will never have to disapprove of. Someone who will not pressure them for a ring, or a promise or a relationship at all. I am just there. In New Orleans, and that’s where I will always be. He can dream about our time together as often as he likes; it wasn’t polluted with all of those relationshipy things that poison passion, lust, love. In that sense, we were perfect. If we were real, we wouldn’t be perfect, so that’s how we like it. It’s that promise of what could have been that is delicious. That keeps us smiling when our everyday life is boring, constrictive, or downright bad.

Boxes

I was shaken a little when I heard, but that’s just it–I was shaken, a little. Not utterly destroyed, not hurt, not really–much, come to think of it. Just shaken. As for you, and me, and US, well, I’ve put that all in a nice little box, wrapped it in kraft paper, using plenty of tape, and tied it all together using string and a neat little bow. Right now, that box is still in the middle of the floor, but soon I will tire of tripping over it and will put it on a shelf. As time passes, I will add more things to my shelf, and eventually, well this box, the US box, will get pushed all the way to the back, with plenty of other boxes in its way. I am sure I will come across this box again one day, probably several times since it will always be on my shelf, but only when I am looking for it.

Obnoxious, “I am Happy” Post

I am happy. As I wrote in an earlier post, happier than I have been in years. Happier than I was when I was with someone. I have ALL of my creativity back, which I am noticing was sorely missing in the last few years. I have been creating art like a mad man. Currently, I have quite a few zombie busts (they really are something; much better than they sound), several gris-gris, voodoo dolls, gangsta rap kitchen towels, and aprons ready to post for sale. Quite the assortment, and all wonderful (but I suppose I am biased).

And what else? I haven’t written much lately, though I should be. I have a ton to say; doesn’t particularly matter that people probably don’t want to hear what I have to say. But, I need to write it. I was actually thinking about offering myself up to the Internet gods and writing a series of essays about online dating. Though, to be honest, I am completely not intersted in dating anyone right now. I am completely happy with myself. And, my last date left a lot to be desired.

Work is good. Friends are great. Life is good. Right now, I’m one of those annoying “happy” people.

There is no I in Us…

So, it’s been six months or so (counting back to around Christmas) since the breakup. And guess what? I finally feel happy. Not just better. Not okay. Not over him, but happy. In fact, happier than I have been for as long as I can remember. And this is the real stuff–this time it isn’t because of love, or lurv, or lust, or anything involving a boy. This is because of me.

I do think that it took one final nail in the coffin to get over him, or really my dependence on another half in the broadest of terms. And what was that final nail? Well, it was a wedding. No, no, not mine.

Two of my bestest friends were married a few weeks ago. They have been my f0undation here in Boston. When they asked me to be a part of their wedding, I was thrilled, I had never been part of one before. And the fact that these were my friends, that liked me, that didn’t find me awkward or embarrassing helped a lot. And he had only met them once. These were MY friends. At the wedding, I met a lot of their friends from out West, and they liked me. They thought I was interesting, funny, and generally a good time to be around. I really, really needed that. I had it driven into my head for far too long that I was socially awkward and an embarrassment to be with in public. None of these awesome people seemed to think that.

So, I danced. I drank too much. I flirted with boys. I felt pretty. I curled my hair. I smiled a lot. I met people. I wore a lot of makeup. I had a flower in my hair. I was confident. I slept with someone else. I was hungover for days. I made friends. I did all of these things on my own, and was happy doing them, experiencing them with myself. I didn’t feel like I needed someone there to share these things with. It was enough that I was doing them. Oh how I’d forgotten the importance of I…

Elise and Anne, with Tim lurking in the background

Oh the Places You’ll Go… (Part I)

I have moved across the country three times for a boy — twice for the same one. Yes, three times. What does that say about me?  I don’t know, and am trying to figure it out.

The first boy was Jeremiah. He was on his way to Bible College (really.) in Seattle when I met him. He had stopped in Idaho to visit family. I met him at a party at his aunt’s house, and we fell in love quickly and completely. We were utterly unsuitable for each other. I am/was much more like the Bible School attending person he thought he wanted to become than his real self. Falling in love quickly and completely blinds you; you are only able to see the other person through a filter — not that I am saying anything new here at all; I realize that countless things have been uttered on this theme for as long as there has been love.

Anyway, as happens in all relationships, our true selves began to show through, and we weren’t at all what the other person needed/wanted. But, I (maybe we? I don’t know) was too stubborn to let go when I should have, and kept up the relationship for entirely too long.

Jeremiah bounced between jobs, was sometimes homeless, and generally unhappily searching for his place in the world. I was living at home, working a dead-end job, and trying to go to school at a second rate university. At one point in our relationship, Jeremiah had a breakdown. One of his best friends died, and he lost it. He went to the funeral, and spent the better part of a year following Phish around the country, even dabbling in selling weed to pay his way. He was gone. Somewhere in the Midwest. No cell phone. No email. No contact.

Instead of letting go (because we were obviously so well suited for each other) I tracked him down at his friend Jason’s parents’ house in North Dakota. He told me he was in trouble. That he had cheated on me, not then, as we were apparently not together then, but before — God was I dumb. That he was at the worst point in his life. So what did I do? I went to him. I finished my last week of classes, and met him in Minneapolis. Here, he was practically living in a van (I know; so weird that I got mixed up in this), and “living” with his friend Allison, who I am pretty sure made her living as a full fledged drug dealer.

Good God, what was I thinking? All I could see was love (which wasn’t even really there, the more I look at it), and it didn’t matter to me that I was putting myself in danger — drugs (not just weed, and not just using it either, though I swear I never touched ANY of it, still, just to be around it …), alcohol, so many illegal activities a thousand miles away from everything I had ever known. WHAT WAS I THINKING? How did I believe in the fairy tale so much that I could do that to myself?

Luckily, I didn’t last long. All I would do is hide in “our” bedroom while Jeremiah did whatever with his friends in the basement. One night, Jeremiah was gone, and Allison came home and started throwing things; I swear she broke everything in the kitchen. So I left. I got out of the house, and went to the park behind the house and hid until I saw Jeremiah come home in his van. Then I ran out and told him what happened. It just wasn’t working. This life wasn’t me.

Then next morning I called my grandma and she bought me a plane ticket home for that day. I think I was about 23, and I suppose that is an age where you are supposed to be messing up royally as I had done, but it still makes me mad that I let that happen to myself.

So was that it? Was that the end of Jeremiah? Of course not! A few months passed, and Jeremiah and I talked again. I had finally moved out of my parents’ house, and had found a great place in downtown Boise. It was pricey for me (at $500 a month!), but I knew that if I had a place then Jeremiah would come back (again, what the hell was wrong with me? how degrading is that?). Not that Jeremiah was a completely bad guy. I do believe that he loved me; he just wasn’t the right one for me.

So, Jeremiah came back to Boise (I bought him a ticket). I remember going to Savers before he got to Boise and buying him two new outfits. He literally didn’t have a thing. So, he moved in. It seemed like we were happy again. But, eventually our true selves showed through everything again. Jeremiah decided that he wanted to become a country music star (and guess what? he has.) and I wanted him to be something more suitable, say an accountant. Anyway, Jeremiah was embarrassed of me when we were out, and never wanted me to come and see him play (this seems to be a theme in my relationships — I embarrass him when we are out). Things got bad. I broke (okay, smashed, destroyed) his Martin. He wrote an album full of country songs about me. I moved to Louisiana. And that was that with Jeremiah.

A Bit of a Book Report.

I can’t think of anything super creative to write, so I will do this book report style tonight; at least it is writing! Have you read the Ladies No. 1 Detective Agency books? If not, I highly recommend them. I am an admitted book snob, and the series looks, feels, and the public likes them at a level that makes me want to turn my nose up at them. But you know what? They are actually very, very good.

I don’t necessarily know how to describe the why behind this, but the books generally leave me with this peaceful feeling, they make me see that everything is going to be okay. How does the author do this? I am really not sure, but I love to read these books immediately before falling to sleep. They put a smile on my face and generally make for an awesome night’s rest.

So what’s the premise? Well, I’m glad you asked. The series is about a detective agency (duh.) in Botswana. At first I thought the series took place in the past, but it is set in current Africa. The detective agency is managed and operated by Precious Ramotswe (who is traditionally built, i.e., heavy; I love that phrasing!) and Grace Makutsi. Not a whole lot really goes on at the detective agency (not that that is a bad thing, and yes, they do solve some fairly big cases now and again); this probably adds to the peaceful feeling I get from the book. Also, the ladies drink a lot of tea, and drinking tea is always thought of as the best way to think.

Bad things happen in the book. Deaths, AIDs, poverty and hunger to name a few, yet the positive, respectful attitude of all of the characters definitely gives the reader hope. No matter what, things will be okay. Simply beautiful.

Okay. I feel like I have done enough of a book report for now. More later; maybe.

Bob Dole and Hurricane Kartina

The week is almost over again. This weekend, I HAVE to move the rest of my things, and repaint my old bedroom. I am not looking forward to it, but once I am done, I won’t have to go back to my old place EVER again! Hooray! Then I can be completely in my new place.

I was thinking about Africa again today. I think that I have to go there at some point, or will dream about it for the rest of my life. But, that brings up an interesting thought, well to me anyway. Do we always need some dream to hold onto? I think this is how I have lived my life for the most part; I have only experienced a few moments actually in the moment. Most have been through hindsight or looking forward. Is this unique to me?

I remember being maybe seven or eight and realizing (I can see exactly where this happened too; on 10th Avenue in Caldwell, Idaho, in the backseat of my parents’ gold Impala) that it was so much better to look forward to going to the fair, and remembering the fair than it was to actually experience the fair. This theme repeated itself with dances, vacations, and the other moments of youth.

One exception to this that I can remember is the Republican National Convention in 1996. I can honestly say I lived every moment of this. I can remember exactly how it felt to get sunstroke in the harbor while waiting for Bob Dole’s boat to arrive. I can remember the temperature outside, and the way it felt to have Jeff’s arm around me when we were evacuated from the dorms at 2am. I can remember seeing a picture of Jeff and I asleep in a hammock in the sunshine, in the LA Times the morning after it was taken, realizing that we were a part of this huge event.

So what was different about that one event? I can’t put my finger on it–exactly. Though I do know there were differences. I was extremely excited. This was one of the first times I was ever away from home. This was the first time I had ever had slept in a bed with a guy (not that we had sex mind you). I took everything in. I hardly talked to my parents. I didn’t know anyone. And I had an amazing time. And it was crazy–something that most of the other people in the country were not experiencing for whatever reason.

Volunteering for Katrina was like this at first; eventually it got to be very routine, but in the beginning, it shared the same energy. The similarities between the two are pretty obvious. I was untethered–I entered both experience without knowing another soul. It was a BIG deal–one was a political convention that only comes along every four years, and the other, well, the greatest natural disaster our country has seen. During both experiences, I was a part of something so much bigger than myself, yet I still felt like I was a part of history; sound strange? That’s how it felt.

I also got quite a bit of attention from boys at both; something that generally doesn’t happen in my everyday life. What was it about me during those times that guys seemed to like so much? I liked me more during those times; maybe it is as simple as that?

I want to think about this and dissect it a bit more later. Something good to sleep on.

A little bored, and what else is new…

I am having a very hard time finding motivation to do, well, just about anything. I am halfway moved into my new place, and by halfway, I mean, I have moved half of my things, and they are currently still sitting in boxes and bags strewn about the new place. The other half are still at the old place in various stages of being packed up. I have half a mind to just leave them, but my landlord is the type of person that would sue me if I left anything behind; he is that nice of a guy.

Anyway, I am just wanting to lay in bed and sleep. This isn’t good. I haven’t even gotten my cable transfered, so am pretty much isolated in my bedroom with the laptop. Why do I do this to myself?

Does anyone else feel like the world, this life, isn’t meant to be lived alone? Things don’t seem to have as much meaning when I do them by myself, with no one else to wittness, or experience them with me. But how do I find him? I talked to a really nice, cute guy yesterday at a St. Paddy’s Day party, but it didn’t go anywhere, probably because of my doing; don’t know though. He was only about 23, so that would have been weird too. I am so bad at the dating scene!

People say that I should be enjoying being single. I’m not, and can anyone really, truly say that they enjoy being single? I don’t buy it. Or maybe it is me. Maybe I am just wired so that I want/need to have another half in my existence. I don’t know though.

That’s all I’ve got for now. Nothing Earth-shattering there, but had to get at least a bit of writing in, even if it is only pointless, rambling nothing.

Old Lady Sweet Revisited; Briefly

I want to take another stab at this piece of writing that I was working on a few months ago:

When Old Lady Sweet died they found a chest full of frozen tomatoes. Not canned, or quartered, or macerated in any sort of way, just whole Big Boys and Early Girls, some still on the vine, their skin shriveled and papery as lanterns. And they were solid; froze all the way through the consistency of croquet balls.

Clearing out the icebox and chest freezer fell to the man next door. Nathaniel had lived next to Miss Sweet for near thirty years, exchanging pleasantries, surplus casseroles and zucchinis in August (they both lived alone) and fruit cakes at Christmas. The tomatoes weren’t the strangest thing he’d seen. Peculiar, yes, but folks leaning that way always seemed a bit more interesting, rather than “off.”  He supposed that in a whirl of embarrassment she had bagged them all up and placed them in the freezer, not wanting to unload them on her neighbor already full to the gills with his own Nebraska Weddings—in his opinion, the only tomato worth giving a second thought. She couldn’t just throw them out now could she?

So there they sat. Frozen in threes and fours placed in paper sacks and stacked neatly in the left corner making a tower almost clean to the top. What was he to do with them? He knew damn sure he didn’t want to drop them—that would break your toe quicker than anything.

(It is originally found here.)

This may be my favorite thing that I have written, particularly the first paragraph. But what to do with it? Should something have happened to Old Lady Sweet? That seems a bit conventional. And, she was an old lady. I don’t necessarily want to go killing her off. I was thinking that she died just because she was old. I could make the majority of the story take place in flashbacks…that could be interesting. Maybe Old Lady Sweet and Nathaniel had interesting lives when they were younger. Did they cross? Maybe. Or, I could go a completely different direction. Maybe some young couple moves into Ms. Sweet’s old house, and Nathaniel watches them. Hmmm… Gears are spinning. That’s good.

I suppose I need to narrow in on a time frame for the story. If the two of them were young during WWII, then this would be late seventies/early eighties? I don’t know if I like that. Maybe they were young now, and it takes place in the future (not dystopian or anything like that). Or, just sort of “anytime”. However, I would like there to be something big–a shared experience that they both had when younger. Sort of like Hurricane Katrina for me. Something that happened to many people, that many people who were not directly involved at least knew about and experienced from the outside. WPA? CCC? Right after the Depresssion? So much to think about.

I have no idea where the idea of Old Lady Sweet came from. I woke up thinking about her one morning. I can see the garage. It is in the humid, hot South, surrounded by her immaculate yard (reminds me of how grandpa kept the garage and garden).

Is this how ideas come to “real” writers? Hmmm…

How do I do it?

It seems ridiculous that at 30 years of age, I am still trying to figure it out. I look at people I have known since high school, and they are married, have three kids, own a house, all of that American Dream jazz. So what about me? Am I doing something wrong? Or am I doing something right? Maybe it is just different.

I feel untethered; I don’t know how else to describe it. For as long as I can remember, having someone in my life to share it with has been paramount to my happiness. Is this a bad thing? I don’t think that it has anything to do with my needing someone or co-dependency or any of that sort of thing. It has much more to do with looking back on life with someone and having shared experiences and memories. How sad would it be to look back on life at 80 and not have someone to remember being in Mexico with you and that particularly good meal the two of you shared one afternoon in Memphis? What good are memories if they aren’t shared with another.

I am completely fine alone, but want to share it all with someone; all of the everyday, seemingly inconsequential moments, don’t seem so inconsequential when shared with someone else. I have great friends who love and support me. But somehow, this just doesn’t seem like enough. I don’t want to go through my life alone. (Perhaps I am being a bit dramatic; it has been only a few months that I have been “officially” alone.) I was alone for a good chunk of the time I was “with” Ben. There were so many lies, so much untruth that even when he was there telling me that I was with the person I would spend the rest of my life with, that he would never leave, he wasn’t really there. It was all words and actions to perpetuate the abnormal feelings/thoughts in his mind. He was never just there, with me, in love with me. I don’t want to go through something like that again.

So how do I find this person to share my life with? Or maybe it is my lot to have a life filled with friends, a great career and no partner (that’s how it feels sometimes, but again, with the overly dramatic tone…)? All I want to do right now is hide in my apartment. I should be moving to another apartment, but haven’t had the energy or desire to do so. So, I am surrounded by half-packed boxes, and my things strewn about, this place and the new one. I just can’t get myself to do it. It is moving on. A change of scenery (though only a mile or so down the road). Is that what I am afraid of?

I should be making a plan. Moving my things. Doing something. But what did I do today? I got up at 10:30, packed a few things (at least I did that), spent entirely too much time on Facebook eavesdropping on others’ lives, and then took a nap. How is this a good way to spend my life? It absolutely is not. I need to be making plans. Doing things. It doesn’t particularly matter what, as long as it is something. Something to get the gears greased. I feel like time is slipping away from me. I don’t want to do the same things and wake up in the same place, same state of mind at 40; I didn’t want it to happen at 30 either, but look what happened?

I don’t see how I can be happy without a partner in life. I can be fine, and generally okay, but partnership is one of the things that matters most to me. I know, I know; there will be someone else, and it is good that there isn’t anyone right now, as I would be inflicting all of this onto them, onto that relationship right now. I need to heal, to figure a lot of things out before I can move on to another happy, helathy relationship. And I will get there. I am doing well all things considered.

So enough whining. What am I going to do about this (as if life is just a “this”)? I don’t ultimately want to stay in Boston. I miss New Orleans with all of its crazy problems and charm. I miss my friends there, though I have made a few great friends here. I don’t like the overall feel of Boston nearly as much as I do New Orleans (though I know my thoughts of both palces are muddled right now; that’s why I’m not running away as quickly as I can; I’ve done that before, and well, look where it got me). I’ve come up with some things that I should do, regardless of my next steps.

1. Save money. I would like to have $5000 (and all bills paid off), or $10,000 (without bills paid off), before I make a leap to anything else.
2. Move. I need to move. This week. I have been supposed to do this for a few weeks now, but haven’t for reasons I am trying to divine. (Could it be that it is closure to this place? That it is a real fresh start? Or, maybe I am just lazy?)
3. Keep working. My job is great. The people are great. It keeps me busy, and allows me to step away from my mind for a bit.
4. Keep seeing my friends.
5. Go to North Carolina in April, with my family. Knowing myself, I will try and find a way to not go, to wallow somehow.
6. Indulge in my artistic side. I have not allowed myself a creative outlet for too long (though I have started sewing and making voodoo dolls which helps). I am thinking metal arts classes. Painting. A good way for me to occupy my time too.
7. Start living life like it is mine. I feel so transient right now. I have felt that way for quite awhile. I started to build a life (albeit with Ben) in New Orleans, and then just left it entrusting it to him while I was away. He didn’t care for it, and left it. So, I had to start all over once I moved to Boston. I still don’t feel like I have built a “real” life. I feel like I could leave most of my belongings behind and start fresh again, with little pain. I don’t like this.
8. I want to be busy. I feel like I have been a life watcher for so long; there have been times when I have been living it, but overall, I feel like a watcher. I feel like my grandmother must have felt. I don’t know why I say this, but that is how it feels.

That’s about all that I’ve got for right now.