This Girl Can Write

Update

2007-07-10T14:55:00.000-07:00

Description

2007-07-06T12:21:00.000-07:00

I want to tell you about a place. I want you to go there with me, to stand beneath the concrete archway. But I don't have to tell you it's concrete, and I don't want you to have to see it the way I do.

I want to take you to a place, but it's a universal place. It's not Paris. It's not Rome. It's not Tokyo. It's high school.

I only have to say the words wrought-iron gate and concrete pillars, and I've got the high school entrance right in my mind. Of course I do, I walked through it every day for four years.

I don't want you to have to see that high school. I want you to see yours, or your best friend's or your husband's.

I want to tell you what happened to a young, slim, scared little girl when she went to high school. Though the setting in my mind is that semi-urban high school by the cemetary, you don't have to see it that way.

I want to take you somewhere. I want you to relate to the girl in the plaid skirt.

I don't want to spend pages and pages telling you about the green grass and the unheated winters.

I just want you to know it already.

Can you see it yet?

Compromise, Part 1

2007-07-03T16:07:00.001-07:00

She doesn't know exactly who to turn to about this. Her mother gets teary eyed (but at least tells her to follow her heart). Other friends say things like, "I'll always be your friend, but there are red flags."

Maybe she's just not explaining herself well enough.

Because looking at it from the outside, sure, it looks bad. It looks like he's walked in and taken over her life, or, worse, that he's walked in, and she's handed it over.

That's not the case, at all.

She wanted a simple list of things:
*To fall in love
*To get away from her hometown

She's got the first one down, so what next?

She told him with great force in her voice, nearly in tears, sitting in a restaurant barely able to choke down the foccacia, that she wants to "get the hell out." She's not compromising; she's getting exactly what she wants.

She never settled on where she would go, and he offered a suggestion. Her request was vague. His was stable and specific.

Her friends do have a point. There was another man who offered, directly, to take her away with him. To have her as his wife and take her to Texas. And she was okay with that, for a brief moment.

This is one of those things that people judge her on, that this is not the first time she has considered someone the solution to all her problems.

But that was then. And this is real. The previous man was simply a fantastical solution to a wealth of issues. He was made of stardust and didn't even have one foot in reality. He was a temptation and a lesson, nothing more.

And if she had it to do again, well, she wouldn't have kept dating him.

But, when it comes down to it, maybe the people who once knew her best are basing their ideas on what they knew way back when. They're basing it on a girl who clung to her family. A girl who always went home on weekends. A girl who was afraid to go see what the world had to offer.

And maybe, just maybe, there are others who know her better, who understand her situation, who say things like, "compromise shows maturity."

Maybe she already has people who will listen to her worries.

Ever Expanding Family

2007-06-29T11:23:00.000-07:00

She did believe, in some vague way, that whenever she got married, her husband would simply flow seamlessly into her own. She never thought about having to fit into his world, his family. It was as though she expected him to come from some great vacuum, eager - but not too eager - for family dinners, evenings out, backyard barbecues and all of the wrappings of an active family. She even has friends who insist that their spouses will, essentially, have to have no family of their own in order to properly assimilate into the demands of large family life.

It never occured to her that she would fall in love with someone who, while enjoying family, has no desire to acquire a new one.

But she has.

In some ways, she's been lost to her own family. Her parents wonder about her whereabouts. Her grandmother curiously calls and asks for updates. Her cousins, well, they vanished on their own long ago.

But she's creating her own family, building from the ground up, melding lives with someone completely different from herself.

So, she doesn't over commit him, although he generally does whatever she asks. She never tells her mother, "Yes, we'll be there." Recently, if it's something that matters enough, she'll commit herself, "I'll be there for sure, and I'll get back to you about him."

Her mother seems to appreciate this semi-commitment.

Mostly, she despises saying "Yes, sure thing, you can count on me," when she may very well have to place an apologetic phone call or write a suck-up e-mail later on down the road.

So, her new method seems to work.

Though it's new for her, and her observing family, to note that she can't just say yes, that she has to talk to someone else first, that she no longer seems in complete control over her time, of her life.

This is a deliberate move on her part. She has a tendency to move full-force through life, completely forgetting that anyone else might care about a decision she has to make, that there are people who would like to be consulted before she, say, rents an apartment, quits her job or books a hotel room. That is, there are people other than her mother who want to be involved in her thought process.

When she rented her apartment, she didn't tell him until she was moving in two days.

Now, months later, she consults him about an issue at work. Mostly, she's made up her mind about the course of action, but at least he thinks he's involved. And he, like her father always has, offers a unique perspective on the situation. At the very least, he will validate her choices.

He can fill some of the roles that her family long has, but he still will never fully integrate into her family.

He will never be her mother's son. He has his own mother, thank you very much, and, admittedly, he doesn't call her enough. He can't possibly take on another one.

Oh

2007-06-19T12:41:00.001-07:00

So.

It's not just me.

You're here, too?

I'm not the only one.

Looking for answers.

Searching for truth.

Am I supposed to believe this isn't all about me?

That's new.

Give me a moment to get used to that.

Scared

2007-06-18T13:25:00.000-07:00

Even now, what I fear is that you won't be able to love me enough.

That I will ask for much more than you can give.

That you will realize you don't have enough.

That you will walk away from someone who needs so much.

Even now, I fear that I will change for you and for me and then you will leave.

That I will be completely different, will have left family and friends behind.

That you will be gone, and I will have nothing.

Even now, I fear that I will leave for you, and I will need more.

That I will require too much, need too much of your emotions and time.

That I will never understand that what you give me is all you have to give.

Even now, I fear that you'll give up on me.

Ready or Not?

2007-06-10T21:21:00.000-07:00

Each Sunday, he leaves. He returns to his side of the mountain, to a world she was working really hard at getting to know before he moved again. He moved a few months ago to a place where she's not comfortable staying overnight. There's not much to talk about when it comes to that. He knows it. She knows it. And there's nothing to be done about it.

So, more often than not, he's the one who leaves.

There are days when she's anxious for him to pack up his computer and head down the stairs to his sports car, ready to have her space returned to her, ready to have the sole bathroom available for only her use.

Especially on Sundays, she is ready for those few quiet hours before the hectic week begins, for the peaceful hours to herself. She reads. She cleans. She watches movies he doesn't want to see. She prepares herself for what she will face heading back to work on Monday.

Her contentment after his departure proves her budding theory that she is not ready to get married, that, in fact, after too many of those conversations that dance around marriage and kids, she feels slightly sick to her stomach, like she's eaten too much ice cream. It proves that they are not ready to get married (not that he's asked).

She sometimes finds herself getting anxious, eager for the time when she'll be one of the women looking at dresses and picking out colors, giggling with her bridesmaids. But that's a wedding, not marriage. She's not ready for marriage. She likes that he is her boyfriend, not her fiance, not her husband, but her boyfriend. She enjoys that he has his own apartment -- on his own side of the mountain.

If all of this is true.

If she is so content with the current situation.

Does it make sense for her, every Sunday night, to long for the time when neither of them has to leave?

Acceptance

2007-05-28T23:40:00.000-07:00

She has finally begun to see that she will not have a life even remotely resembling the one she once envisioned:

A worthwhile job.
An adorable house.
An adoring husband.
Two or four or six kids running amuck.
All starting with a husband at 22.

Of course, the husband at 22 never materialized, and she's ridiculously grateful that she's had the intervening years to find herself, discover her identity. She would have made a horrible wife at that age and would likely not make a good one right now, not yet anyway.

After a series of hopeful comments and interesting discussions, she paused to think about the life she now sees for herself.

For the first time, there is a blank slate.

This is at once depressing and a great relief. There is no particular life towards which she is aspring. Certainly, she wants to get married (and specifically, she wants to marry him) and have children (his), but there is no outline for how this will occur, no deadlines, no specific script that must play out in order for her to obtain happiness.

"Have you ever struggled with wanting to be successful and than realizing that being happy could be the same as being successful?" She asked him.

"Yes." He said.

And with that word, she remembered why she fell in love with him in the first place.

Glimpses of herself in a charming cafe in Boston, New York, heck, even Chicago or what about Rome, dot her imagination, but they don't drive her. She once craved a life in New York City, the Big Apple, Manhattan Island, where she could prove her mettle and make it once and for all. She once craved, as Michael Cunningham said, more of the same, a life exactly like the one she imagined her parents had at the start of their marriage. A tiny house with a big back yard, lots of love and frequent barbecues in that big backyard.

She never envisioned a quiet apartment with the wind howling outside, sitting alone on her couch at 26, pondering her future. But she is fast understanding that, though she held onto it for years past its expiration date (should, in fact, have come to terms with it perhaps as many as ten years ago, when she started college with no boyfriend to her name and no clue as to what she wanted other than a husband), the life she envisioned for herself is not the one worthy of her, not the one meant for her.

She finds it a great relief to pause and consider the life in the future and realize that a life unscripted is the only way to live.

This unscripted life could be less than what she planned, but it will also be more. It will lead her places she never foresaw and others she would have eschewed as impossible as little as a year ago. It will be better. It will be worse. It will be the same. It will be different.

But, most of all, it will be hers.

Twice

2007-05-26T10:46:00.000-07:00

He sat with the Starbucks coffee cup between his legs, "Wow, that's hot."

In the passenger seat, she maneuvered a few things and freed up the second cup holder, "Here." She reached over and took his cup, setting it in the holder, "We don't want you to boil your boys," she smiled teasingly.

"Nope." He kept his eyes on the road. "Or we could just have all girls."

A strange, hopeful feeling filled her. It was the first true time he had openly suggested that they would have children together, that the children he would have in the future would also be hers.

"Well, in that case," she jokingly reached for the hot coffee.

"Seriously, geckos tend to have girls when the eggs are kept over 80 degrees or something."

The moment passed, and they started talking about the lore of babies born in the summer mostly being boys.

But there had been the moment. And for today, that was enough.

Did He Really Just Say That?

2007-05-25T14:36:00.000-07:00

Sitting in the drive through, waiting for cheap Mexican takeout.

She said, "It's my money, I can do what I want with it."

He said, "Yeah, but I'm not going to be that guy. I'm not going to be that guy who has his girlfriend pay for everything. And I still owe you from the last time."

"No, you don't. That money is gone, spent, gone. I'm not trying to be your Sugar Mama. It's more fun for me if you're there with me, so it's my money being spent on my enjoyment."

"Look, you're right. It's your money, so you can do what you want with it. Until we share a bank account, I have nothing to say about how you spend your money. But my money is mine, and I can do what I want with it, and I am going to pay you back."

Wait a minute, did the man who has so carefully avoided all mention of a future together just say, "Until we share a bank account..."???

A Shift in the Breeze

2007-05-22T22:13:00.001-07:00

It was just a slight change, barely perceptable to the human eye.

No one but her would notice it. She notices because she knows him better than he thinks.

But something is different.

He's different.

He is there with her now. He believes that he will be there for a while. He didn't know just a few weeks ago what he wanted, what he believed. But now, now he knows.

And she can tell.

Erasing it All

2007-05-15T13:38:00.000-07:00

She has found that she takes him places she's gone before. She takes him where she went with that other one, the too eager one with the cartoon face. She has to replace that guy with him, fill in the memories, reclaim her favorite places.

The funny thing is that her ex doesn't factor into a lot of things, only when she practically forces herself to think about the past does he enter into the picture at all. He's not a real element in her life anymore, nor should he be. He was a learning experience that lasted two and a half months and ended a year and a half ago. No reason to keep him around.

But.

She wishes that he had just a bit of that belief in fate that the ex did. That he would tell her that he wants to marry her and be the father of her children. She wishes that he were just a little of a believer in the magic of it all.

And then she stops herself and realizes that the the realistic romantic is the best kind of all.

When she marries him, it won't be blindly. When he decides he's ready, it will mean more than a spur of the moment, gut instinct kind of a decision. It will be real and lasting.

And it won't just be a fairytale she made up.

In those moments, when she remembers why she loves him, she's okay with the fact that she has to be the one to believe in magic.

Tickle on Your Neck

2007-04-22T13:15:00.000-07:00

With the sounds of accented English coming from the family room, she stretches across her bed, trying with all her might to pay attention to those last few pages of the Bible. Well, it's not like she's reading Revelation, but she is finishing what will make her a woman who had read the entire Bible. Based on the memory of her college roommate practically swooning over it, she saved Song of Songs for last, a brief eight pages about a bride and groom about to embark on their life together. The man she hopes to someday marry sits at the dining table, clicking away on his computer.

The accented English comes from a bizarre movie told in four languages, none of them particularly well spoken. Nothing made sense.

In one scene, the Mexican-born artist living in France says in English, "I want you to touch my hair."

His London-born, French speaking love interest replies, also in English, "I can't do that."

With eight minutes to go in the movie, and feeling slightly batty, she can't really take it anymore, so she removes herself to the bedroom. The sunshine filtering through the window is slightly dulled by the few remaining clouds in the sky.

The combination of the dull sunshine, the piano-soundtrack, the foreign languages, the images she's seen in the bizarre movie makes her feel that if she looks up just at the right moment, outside of her window, she will see the place she wants to live next year. She's never seen it before, never been to that great mystery of a continent, so she doesn't know what she would see if she looks up, but she has a strong suspicion that it would look nothing like the parking lot of her apartment complex.

In fact, she has a feeling it would look like Australia. At that moment, with that music, and those voices and the strange images of the movie fresh in her mind, she feels right on the cusp of her future. She believes that she will feel this again, in a year perhaps, will feel it when she stretches across her bed in Australia and looks up at the window, knowing for a fact that if she does, she will see her next future.

Real Romance

2007-04-18T18:34:00.000-07:00

"When did you know you loved me?" A beautiful, blonde woman in a carefully designed pink tanktop and perfectly fitting ivory colored pajama pants asks the man beside her.

"From the moment I saw you." The man, with a muscular build, wearing nothing but some old cargo shorts and a smile, says, staring into her bright blue eyes.

"Oh, puhlease!!" She scoffs at the television, tossing the remote against the pillows as she turnes off the late-night movie. She rolls her eyes and gets up off the couch.

"What?" He says, looking up briefly as she saunters over to the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water.

"This show is freakin' lame."

"Huh? What are you talking about?" His glance briefly wanders in her direction and then quickly returns to the computer screen.

"It wast just completely unrealistic, completely dull and just not at all what I would want in a relationsh..." She stops talking as she realizes he's once again engrossed in his game.

He looks up again, a sheepish grin on his face, "A relationsh?"

"Oh, now you're paying attention?" She feels a tiny bit of annoyance creep into her voice, though she's trying to control it. She doesn't care if he's playing his game, as she's told him a hundred times, what she cares about is just getting to be in the same room together.

"I'm like a cat." She'd told him.

"Huh?"

"I don't have to be pet all the time like a dog, but I just like knowing I'm in the same room as the people I care about, even doing my own thing. From time to time, you can wander over and pet my head, and I'll be happy."

He'd smiled his big open grin and hugged her.

Back in the present she looks at him, watches him decide whether she's really upset with him or just mildly irritated. Settling on the later, he says, "You don't want things to be fake in a relationship? If I had told you I loved you when I first saw you, you wouldn't have wanted that?"

"I've had that. I've dated a man who insisted he fell in in love with me the first time he saw me. I don't buy it."

"You don't want all of that romantic stuff?"

"You know I don't." She tucks her hair behind her ears, closes the door of the fridge and walks over to him. She gently kisses the top if his head, "I want you."

"Oohhh, so are you saying I'm not romantic?" He grins that lopsided smile that always gets to her.

"You're not going to get to me, Mister. I'm not saying that. I'm saying that I don't like all of that fake nonsense. I like reality. I like honesty." She strides back over to the couch, sets her water bottle on the coffee table and reaches for her book, "So, go back to your video game." She says this without a trace of irritation in her voice, and she feels a shiver of pride in herself.

"Okay." He turns his attention back to his computer screen, sighs, shuts the laptop and walks over to the couch. "Move your feet."

She lifts her feet to allow him to sit down, and rests them back on his legs once he is seated. "Please would be nice."

"Move your feet, please. I want to make out with you now."

"I'm reading." She drops her gaze and stares at him, a half smile tilting her lips flirtatiously, or so she hopes.

"Yeah, but this is reality. And I know you'd rather make out with me than read." He looks her right in her eyes, and her stomach gives a little jump.

"It's a really good book," but the book in question is already sliding out of her hands onto the floor (she barely had time to replace the bookmark).

And she gives into the romance of the moment, realizes that if this is as much romance as she gets, then she's not going to waste any time.

Familiar Roles

2007-04-11T10:14:00.000-07:00

It is undescribably true that our friends are the family we choose. Most of my closest friends, I have known for a minimum of five years. At this point, they know me far better than most of my blood family every will (with a couple of obvious exceptions). They ARE my family.

I have looked for most of my adolescent and adult life for the one person who will build a family with me, that one person with whom I will make a life. I have stood on the outskirts at many a party, watching as couples danced, as men flirted with women who weren't me. I've gone through patches of time when I was completely okay with than and others when the thought of an evening out as the lone unattached one broke my heart and encouraged me to stay home to watch Sex and the City or read a book. Generally, not wanting to be a crazy cat lady, I would go out and be the lone unattached one. I longed for the person I could call who would come to my rescue. For the person who would catch me when I fall and whom I could also save. I wanted a knight in slightly battle-worn armor, or at least someone brave enough and strong enough to come along on my crazy adventures.

And I've found him. And he's the family I will make. He's gradually melding into my blood family. The friend family takes more time, because we are built of memories and experiences that he doesn't share.

Before him, I was still here, still sitting with an aching heart as I watched my friends pair off, fall in and out of love. I have been here all along. I have had weekends spent going to Costco fourteen times with my parents (possibly a slight exaggeration), and no one called me then. No one fought for my attention when there was plenty to give.

I sometimes feel that my friends are waiting for me to fall back into the role of the unattached one. They were comfortable with that, comfortable hearing my wacky dating tales. I also believe that, at times, they think of him as another of my two-week long romances that crashes and burns before anyone even meets the guy.

It's not a year, it's not 10 years, it's not a shared adolescence or even one college formal attended as a couple. It's a simple sharing of life with none of the trappings of school.

It's "only" been six months, but, to me, and to him, that's a long time. And besides, a lifetime together, the building of a family together, has to start somewhere. Why not here?

Welcome to the Row

2007-03-24T15:18:00.000-07:00

The worlds most obvious sorority girl stood in front of Jackie, delicately running her fingers over the row of tiny, pink pearls draped around her neck.

"So, Jackie, tell me why you want to join my sorority."

I don't, thought Jackie, and then she wondered at the ego of this woman to believe that every single one of the 700 girls going through sorority recruitment wanted to be in this particular chapter. "Well, I am new to the notion of a big campus...my high school class had about 200 kids, and I'm ready to make some lasting friendships here."

"Oh." TWMOSG pursed her lips. "Well, tell me what you think friendship means."

"I don't think I understand the question," Jackie smoothed her hands over her khaki skirt, wishing fervently that she'd gone ahead and worn her favorite sundress. At least that one covered her knees and made her feel less conscious of how she sat, stood and walked.

"You say that you're looking for friendship. How do you think friendship here will be different than in high school." TWMOSG almost spat out the last two words, so far was she from those homework laden days.

"It doesn't have to be different." Jackie spoke quietly, her voice gradually getting stronger, "I have friends from high school that I intend to keep all my life, but they don't go to this school. I don't know yet how the friendships here will be different. I haven't even started classes yet!"

"I see. Yes, I want you to realize that being in a sorority is a COMMITMENT. That it will take time out of your day, your week, your life. The friendships you make here will change the way you see yourself. They will make you who you will be in your future." TWMOSG batted her long lashes and stared at Jackie.

Jackie opened her wide, blue eyes and looked right into the narrow green slits that passed for TWMOSG's eyes,"I know that a sorority will change my life. But I know who I am and who I want to be. I don't know much about sororities, since no one in my family has ever been in one, but I do know that I want to live with and be friends with the kind of women who will accept me, respect me and value me. And I want to feel the same way about them."

"Interesting." TWMOSG sighed as she glanced anxiously around the room for her replacement in the recruitment rotation.

Soon another woman arrived, this one wearing the same tight black pants and jewel-toned top of the first, "Hi!! I'm Casey! It's my turn to talk to you!"

TWMOSG stared at Casey, "Yeah, be a little more obvious. I'm going to go get some lemonade. It was so nice to meet you Jackie. Good luck with your recruitment. And I mean that. Best of luck." She turned and walked towards the kitchen, walked in, and let the huge oak door slam behind her.

"Well, she can be a bit picky! She's our president!" Casey smiled freakisly at Jackie and waited for a response."

"Lucky you," she said out loud.

Remember, you asked for this, she said to herself.

Observations on Toddlers

2007-03-20T12:18:00.000-07:00

Standing in the library, she watches as the toddlers and babies, okay, mostly the toddlers, make their way around the space in that funny little way they have.

There's a little girl, with a neat braid, wearing a cute little sweatsuit, attempting to skip. You can just see the kind of girl she's going to be when she grows up. She's going to match her purse to her shoes. She's going to get her hair cut evey six weeks, but for now, she's just going to skip in a way that makes her look she's about to fall over.

There's a little blond boy. His mother brings him into the library each week. She dresses him in the preppiest clothes she can possibly find. Little sweater vests and khaki pants. Topsiders. Topsiders on a four year old! This kid is either going to be grow up to be a Republican, a Protestant or very, very gay. Or maybe he'll rebel and become emo or punk or whatever is popular when he's a teenager.

Then there are the usual rag-a-muffin kids, the ones who look more like her when she was little. Their clothes may or may not match, and not because their parents' don't buy them matching clothing, but because you can see who won the fight of "But it's my FAVORITE shirt" that morning. Their hair is a mess. They run. They yell. They ask "Why?" repeatedly. They are just your average, every day KIDS.

Some might wonder why it's not the babies she notices, but the babies don't turn around and wave as they walk away. The babies don't walk around like little old, angry men. The babies just don't have that certain toddler joie de vivre. The babies are also tucked into their carriers, being held by their parents and still just not quite old enough to ask for crayons at the reference desk.

And it's not the babies that make her feel almost ready to be a mother. It's the toddlers, with their over-abundance of personality that make her look forward to the moment when she brings her own mis-matched three year old into the library for storytime. It's the toddlers that make her curious about who her children will be and excited to meet them, whenever they should see fit to make their appearance.

Wasting Away

2007-03-17T13:13:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like sitting in a hot tub with three strangers and your boyfriend to make you think about life.

No seriously.

Sitting in a jet-less tub with her boyfriend of less than half a year, surrounded by two women he's known since junior high and one guy who's married to one of the women, she had a thought.

None of us are as young as we used to be.

It's true, of course, that they are all still young, still safely on the young side of 30, but just old enough to start realizing that youth is wasted on the young. Did any of the women appreciate their bodies when they were younger? Before they settled into the routine of jobs and having fun almost exclusively on weekends, did they appreciate what they had going for them?

She certainly didn't. Only now does she enjoy the fact that a man enjoys looking at her body.

They are not yet 30 but are already getting older. There is a thickening around the waist and a thinning of the hair for the guys, a certain jiggle to the thigh and wrinkle to the eye for the ladies.

One girl is tired by 11 and wants to "get up early." Another who wishes the jets would just start already. And she wishes she could avoid the 8:30 start time at work the next morning.

She thinks about her own friends, the lives they're leading right this minute, and she's incredibly grateful that she's finally, finally figured out how to have fun.

Because she would hate to hit 30, looked back and realize she spent way too much time worrying about finishing work, preparing for the future and ignoring the good stuff in life. We all need to be the cricket and the ant...or whatever that story was...

A Day

2007-03-15T14:26:00.000-07:00

Today is a day when I want to drive my car around all day, not being responsible for a single thing.

Today is a day when I realize that I'm still the restless person I've been all along, that I haven't really settled down in any way.

Today is a day when I feel fifteen, anxiously awaiting the announcement that will free me from the school day early and let me board the bus and head to a swim meet. Probably the first of the season.

Today is a day when the wind against my skin feels amazing.

Today is a day when I want to move to Texas and care about high school football.

Today is a day when I want to move to New York City, wear high heels without falling down, drink a mocha latte at three in the afternoon and stay out all night with my dark, moody boyfriend. Or better yet, my handsome, successful artist boyfriend. Moodiness is overrated.

Today is a day when I see children running around, and I feel grateful that I don't have a child yet but hopeful that I will have one in the future.

Today is a day when I deal with the ramifications of having dreamt that I had a daughter named Serena.

Today is a day when it feels unneccessarily cruel to make me stay indoors until 9 p.m.

Today is a day when I want to work in a bubble, in a safe, corporate office where I don't have to deal with snoring or screaming homeless people.

Today is a day when I want to not know that there are still people who need to shop at the 98 cent clearance center, because they have to.

Today is a day when I want to believe that everyone in the world climbed out of the need to have K-Mart layaway at the same time my family did.

Today is a day that I remember that though we were neither incredibly poor nor even remotely upper middle class, we have overcome some financial difficulties.

Today is a day I do not want to go back to how things used to be.

Today is a day when I realize I'm not entirely done finding myself.

Snippets

2007-03-09T16:01:00.000-08:00

Walking across Lower Sproul Plaza, late on an early September night. It's still warm, still that completely un-PC term of Indian Summer. There's a hint of a breeze. I almost wish I had a sweater, but I'm warm on the inside. I've just finished filling out my "preference card" for sorority recruitment (AKA Rush). I am a college freshman. I'm wearing a white t-shirt and a blue and white plaid "skort" (I'll soon learn why this is unquestionably not something I should ever wear in public). I've got on my favorite sandals, the leather soft and supple but the shoes still in good condition (unlike my favorite flip-flops, which have retired to my parents' garage), and my legs are long and tan. I can feel the breeze on my arms - also tan from a season of swim team and a summer in the sun. I feel beautiful. I feel like I'm in college.

That moment, that quiet, dark night, the campus belongs to me. Berkeley is mine and mine alone.

Heading to class, walking through the Eucylaptus grove, watching my feet on the flagstone path, I think about how one day, one distant day, I will walk that path with my husband, my child. That moment. Well, those multiple moments, belong completely to me. I breathe in the fresh smell of the trees. I feel my feet on the hard, cold ground. I brush autumn's leaves out of my path.

Late afternoons, walking up Bancroft Avenue, heading to the sorority that I chose and that chose me, I hear the sounds of people yelling, talking, living. I walk, sometimes hunched over with the weight of my backback, sometimes fresh and happy, eager for the evening ahead. All of Berkeley belongs to me.

Crowded in the bathroom. Hurrying around my own bedroom, curlers, hair dryers, makeup, clothes, scattered around the room. Making that wonderful mess that is getting ready for a party. Curling someone else's hair (even if she ended up not liking it later). Zipping dresses. Dancing around to whatever pre-party music someone had chosen. The smell of at least six different perfumes and a dozen different hairsprays permeating the air. Twenty different stereos playing throughout the house, creating a mix no DJ would ever attempt. Those memories, those moments, belong to us all.

Moments

2007-03-06T16:12:00.000-08:00

It's rather ridiculous that the moments when you realize how much you truly love someone are not the moments the movies lead us to believe. It's not the moments that are ridiculous. It's the movies that make us think it will only be when the man sweeps in his tuxedo and shoots down the bad guy or hands us a bouquet of roses that we realize the depth of our hearts that bring new meaning to the word ridiculous.

She stood outside of her work, anxious after having been yelled at by someone who had no business yelling at her. He was on his way over, bringing her a piece of equipment she shouldn't have brought home, that her bosses didn't know she had but that she needed right that instant, to appease the person who had yelled. He was on his way through the worst traffic she'd seen in weeks. And then he got there, and she found him, and her heart swelled. She felt about to burst with the strength of her, "I love you!" but instead she just pushed all of her passion into "Thank you" and a smile. That moment, though, she also saw a flash in his eye that let her know he wasn't ready for those particular three words. She could almost see him say, "No. Not here, not now. Don't you say it yet." And she didn't.

Two days later, while climbing up a gravel road, on the way to a Wine Cave, it struck her like a ton of bricks (cliched though it is, the phrase is true), that he wants to be only with her. If he wanted to be with anyone else, he would leave and be with her. The jealousy she has felt over nothing suddenly ended. She saw in his walk, in his smile, in his mannerisms, that he is hers and hers alone, even if he's not ready for that great big word.

And finally, in the smallest of moments, when no grand gesture, no release of jealousy, nothing special at all was happening, she recognized him.

He stood beside her, hunting amongst the bags of soil at Home Depot, quite possibly the last place on earth any screenwriter would set a romantic interlude. He was trying to pick out just what she needed, a bag that would foster her little seedlings, a bag that wouldn't sit half unused on her patio for the entire season. And she turned to look at him in the late afternoon sunlight (at least the lighting was romantic), and she recognized him.

Immediately, she thought of that poem she'd fallen for years before, that one by Jewel.

and I will recognize you
amongst the many
and claim you as my own

He smiled at her and walked inside to look for the perfect size bag of potting soil, and she walked beside him, just feeling that recognition.

She looked at him in the garden section of Home Depot and knew with absolute certainty that she had found him.

Just Wondering

2007-02-28T14:47:00.001-08:00

"So, what was the point?"

"The point of what."

"Of meeting the dream guy whose type I wasn't? I mean I got all worked up about him, thought he was THE guy, and then...nothing. What was the point of him all those months ago?"

"You needed to know you get all worked up about someone again."

"Seriously? That's it? You think?"

"I don't know. What brings this up?"

"Oh, I was just thinking about how interesting it is the way things turn out. And the one who actually is THE guy has a lot in common with used-to-be-dream guy."

"Well, then that's easy. You just got confused. Somewhere inside, you knew some of the qualities of your particular Mr. Right. You just noticed them in the wrong guy. It's like when you're a kid and you see your mom in a store, and you run over to her, and almost take her hand, then realize it's not your mom."

"Just a case of mistaken identity then?"

"Precisely."

Monday Night Date

2007-02-27T14:05:00.000-08:00

There he stood, looking cautiously around, wearing one of those shirts that makes him look inexplicably and indescribably adorable.

She stood off to the side, holding her book, noticing him looking for her. And then she walked toward him, and he saw her. A smile lit up his face, as one was surely lighting up hers. He reached her first, grabbed her hand in his, interlaced their fingers and kissed her square on the lips.

"Hi." He drawled.

"Hello." She said, her voice barely above a whisper.

They walked over to baggage claim, he kept holding her hand. He kept sneaking glances at her. Her brownish hair with golden highlights (natural, of course) falling softly around her shoulders in loose waves. He looked into her eyes and told her about the comedy of errors that was the second leg of his flight. Crying babies. iPods on so loud he could hear the bad music playing clearly through him. A woman who sniffled her nose incessantly. Turbulence. Anything else he could think of. And he looked at her. And he smiled.

"Hi."

"Hello."

She told him about her wonderful dinner with a friend. A dinner at a random local restaurant that, it turns out, also exists in the city he just left.

He gripped her hand then released it to take his computer bag off of his shoulder.

"It's like I'm having a hot flash or something." He was visibly warm.

She stood in her coat, happy to be so warm and standing next to him, feeling his presence beside her.

She looked at him. Examined the dimples around his smile, remembering all over again why she finds him so unbelievably attractive, even if another woman might pass him by without a single glance.

"Where's the luggage? Is the thing broken?" He seemed impatient to get out of the airport and on the road back to her apartment.

"It's on it's way. It's okay."

He told her about dinner the night before. He told her about the fancy sticky buns he had packed with an ice pack so they would be fresh upon arriving in California. Then he stopped, and just looked at her.

"You look great."

"Thank you." She smiled at him.

The slowly moving luggage carousel finally started pumping out more than the initial run of about fifteen identical black suitcases.

He started to look for his.

"You have your suitcase and a box?"

"Yeah."

They stood side by side and watched.

Would anyone ever say that standing in the airport waiting for luggage is romantic?

Probably not at first pass.

But with a little context, it becomes obvious, that sometimes it's the most romantic date you could possibly imagine.

He suddenly shot forward, grabbed his suitcase and a small cardboard box off of the metal carousel.

"That's it?" She asked, grinning at him.

"Yep. Let's go."

"Alrightee." And she led him out the door of the small airport and towards her waiting car in the parking lot.

Wake Up

2007-02-21T15:08:00.000-08:00

She scrunches down under her comforter, pulling the blanket over her head.

"Sunshine until 11 a.m., then gradual fog..."

She knew it was coming...the start of the day had to come sometime. But after a restless night spent tossing and turning amid disturbing dreams, she'd just as soon that it didn't come for another few hours. Sleeping the day away sounds awfully appealing. "Twenty more minutes," she mumbles, resets her alarm and burrows back under the covers.

He's not here. For the first time in several weeks, she's sleeping without him. She never thought she'd get used to having another person in her bed so quickly, but she did. The first night, it almost didn't matter, because she was so tired when she fell into bed. But these past couple of nights, she's gone to bed missing him and dreamt of a life without him, only waking to find that she still misses him. Shouldn't dreams be a relief? Shouldn't she only have to miss him when she's awake?

He hasn't left her for good, but it feels like it. He's moved out of the apartment, although he wasn't really living there...just staying there until he found the place he moved into last weekend. She knew from the first night he threw his suitcase at the foot of her bed that he wasn't staying forever. They weren't moving in together. She prepared herself for a week's stay, but that turned into nearly two months, and now she's used to him.

It doesn't help that the day after he moved his belongings (though not the visible ones at the foot of her bed, only the ones in the patio closet) into his new place, he flew home.

So, he left her twice in the last week, and she feels like a fool.

She rolls over on the bed and rests her head near her sleeping cat, comforted by the warmth of his body, the feel of his fur near her face.

She never thought she'd be the girl to get so caught up in a guy, but looking back, it all makes sense. Every crush she's had has felt nearly this intense. In each of those crushes, she invented full fledged relationships without ever even talking to a guy once, or without dating him, or without being anything more than friends.

She also feels like a fool for worrying. One week away won't steal him from her. Him living elsewhere will also remind her where they are in their (still new) relationship. Rather than live in false state of union, they will return to their twice a week dates, their phone calls, their own space.

She rolls onto her back and kicks her legs against the mattress, frustration letting loose. While she knows it's healthy to see each other less, it seems like a total step backwards, a step she's not willing to take.

The alarm blares again, startling the cat enough to make him raise his head, and she turns it off, without resetting it, knowing that she has to get out of bed and face the world.

Even when she's stewing over the status of her relationship, the world has to continue. Her life has to continue. She will go to work. She will have lunch with her parents. She will drive a good distance to see her friends.

And she will see him again in a few days.

But she wonders if she will ever stop feeling so foolish for being a fool in love.

Whispers

2007-02-13T10:38:00.000-08:00

There are moments when she wishes that she never had a day off. The days off come to mean too much -- if she spends one away from him, it seems like wasted time. If she spends it doing something other than what's on her list, it seems pointless. And she goes back to work only to have lost her ability to block out the annoyance she feels when people ask her whispered questions.

She has never been able to tolerate whispers. They make her skin crawl.

Mondays are full of whispers as her customers hesitantly begin their own weeks and are at their most polite. Sadly, whispers only make her snappy and full of wishes that these people would learn how to do things on their own, instead of coming to her with their hopeful faces.

And then, those days off roll around again, and she is infinitely grateful for any snippet of time she gets to spend with those she loves, whether those moments be with her family, her friends or with him. And she wouldn't trade them for anything.

But there are moments when she wishes she didn't know what it meant to have a life outside of work, because having that life, even for a whisper of time, makes her crave it all the more.

Caught

2007-02-06T14:43:00.000-08:00

No more can she trace "I" heart "u" on his back as he falls asleep.

He caught her the other night. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." She calms her fingers, resting them lightly on his shoulder.

"I thought you were like having seizures or something. You're all twitchy."

"No, I'm fine." She couldn't even think of a good reason for her rapidly moving fingers. She just stopped and wiggled her feet for good measure, just to show she was getting the "twitchy" out of her system.

"Okay. Good night." He hadn't even opened his eyes. Neither had she.

"Good night, baby." She sighed softly and tried to sleep.

Now how would she tell him that she loves him without telling him that she loves him?

Distance

2007-02-06T14:28:00.000-08:00

I am my father's daughter. There are moments when a certain flick of my wrist or tilt of my hip will remind everyone that I am my mother's daughter as well. But I am my father's daughter.

My father will be angry for days and even weeks before he will let anyone know what is wrong. He will mope. He will furrow his brow. He will set his jaw. He will not speak.

I am my father's daughter.

People think they know him. They call him by a nickname, when in reality, he hates when anyone shortens his name. They think he's "such a nice guy," in much the same way everyone thinks I'm "such a nice girl." I had too many "stay sweet" comments to count in my high school yearbooks, yet anyone who really knows me would probably not use "sweet" to describe me if they only had one word to use.

I am my father's daughter.

My father loves my mother with all of the passion in his heart. He loved her stupidly and wrongly. He was rude and sarcastic and thought that would work. He dated other women, not making her jealous, just biding his time until she saw fit to love him in return. He hid his affection behind a shield of anger.

I am my father's daughter.

I am in love now, for the first real time in my life. All the other times I may have loved, but I do not think that I was in love. I love with all the passion in my heart, but I will not say it. I will bide my time, making passive aggressive comments until he should see fit to say he loves me in return.

I am my father's daughter.

My father will remember key facts about certain people and nothing about others, even if he's been told 100 times.

I will stare right through some people, never remembering why I am supposed to know them, while there are some faces that I can recognize and identify from a mile away, and not because I want to, not because I like the people that go with the faces, just because.

I am my father's daughter.

My father will make seemingly snap decisions that, in fact, he's been mulling over for hours, days, months, whatever fits.

I thought about moving out of my parents' house for at least two and a half of the three years I lived at home, most seriously in the 10 months before I finally moved. Yet, my decision to actually do it came over the course of about four days. Those close to me were not pleased by the seeming alacrity of this decision.

I am my father's daughter.

Both father and daughter show our emotions in our behaviors yet keep our thoughts private. It's obvious that *something* has affected us, but we won't tell you what, not unless you fight for it. If you want into our world, you have to earn it and earn it and earn it again. And there's no guarantee that once you've been let in once, you'll be let in again anytime soon.

There is sometimes an angle in my hip, a sigh in my chest or a tilt in my head that will remind people that I am my mother's daughter, too.

But then I will retreat into my private, secret world, and it becomes all too obvious that I am my father's daughter.

A Slightly Unwelcome Nostalgia

2007-02-03T14:11:00.000-08:00

She could feel a pang in her chest as she skated around the rink, hand-in-hand with him. A huge part of her felt amazed that, here she was, in her mid-twenties, finally holding the hand of a boy as she whizzed around the ice rink. Well, slid along on her crisp blades without falling down is more like it, but she felt like she was flying.

The pang surprised her.

But she knew immediately what it was.

She was happy to be here with him, but the reason she had come was to skate with her friend, the girl who had, in recent weeks and months, miraculously become her closest friend. And the pang hit her just as she skated by her friend, holding the side rail, staring up into the eyes of her on-again-off-again-on-again boyfriend. She missed her friend.

She also realized that this would be life now.

She will never have her friends the way she once had them. Even if all of the current relationships were to fall to pieces, all of the romantic entanglements dissolve, all of the friendships will have irrevocably changed.

She had wondered, cautiously, over the years in which she had no boyfriend, what she might have to give up, to sacrifice in order to have the thing she wanted most. She worried that something would happen, some karmic twist, that would balance out her happiness with the way the rest of the world felt. She had already recognized some of that sacrifice in the relationship with her parents. It simply isn't possible to maintain the same relationship she did when she lived at home and didn't have someone else who required most of her attention. When she lived at home, in those pre-boyfriend days, she really did only have to think about herself. And she often chose to situate herself next to her parents, for an evening in watching movies.

So, there she is, in this ice rink for the very last time before it closes. She looks at her boyfriend, the man holding her hand, the man with whom she argued just a few short hours before, about his desire to spend time with a friend she doesn't like at all. He lets go of her hand so that he can better balance himself on his wobbly, rented skates, and she retreats back into herself.

This is the last time she will skate on this surface. She'd only been to the rink twice (counting this time) since graduating from college, but in her sorority days, she spent more than one Saturday afternoon making "whips" with her friends, twirling, whirling and giggling. She realizes how long it has been since she really laughed with her friends, since those mostly carefree days of college. The worries she had before graduation were nothing compared to the big, weighty worries she has now, worries she tries not to register, believing, half-heartedly that God will sort everything out for her.

She's still awkward with him after their fight. She feels better about things, but it's hard to come back to their comfortable ways after she's told him some, but not all of what she was feeling. Their conversation is stilted, as if she's speaking with someone who doesn't know the language, or maybe it's her who doesn't know the language.

At last, his ankles can't take any more wobbling, and he goes to sit down next to her friend's boyfriend and another friend's husband. The men can't hack the somewhat graceful moves required to ice skate.

Her girlfriends join her on the ice. They talk, and they laugh. She fills them in on the fight. Their conversation is fluid and easy, and she misses her friends so much, even though they are right there. With a sudden, fierce intensity, she misses college and the sorority. She misses having someone to talk to just next door, or an IM away. She misses late night conversations, midnight runs to Safeway for ice cream, the lightness and freeness of being young, single and away from home. She misses setting her own schedule. She misses not having friends who have gotten married. She misses not having to worry about the big things like whether leaving her job would be career suicide.

They keep skating around. She hears more about her friend's latest, hopeful job possibility, and she's happy. She's happy to see a smile on her closest friend's face.

The other, a married friend, advises them both, and assures her that the right she had with him will be repeated. It is reassuring to hear that their argument is one that will repeat itself, that it's the kind of argument only real couples can have.

The pack of people on the ice thins. The music on the stero jumps erratically, and they can sense the evening coming to a close. The married girl jumps off the rink to try to persuade the men back on the ice for one final lap.

Out they come, and she's happy to see him, happy to hold his hand, but still just a bit melancholy that is presence means she's done having that easy, genuine conversation with her friends. She misses easy conversation not laced with arsenic.

They finish their lap. They leave the ice.

And she steps back into her life.

In the Air

2007-02-01T10:47:00.000-08:00

The door closes gently behind him, and she strains to be sure that's what she heard. Certain that he has gone, she whispers, "I love you," rolls over, pulls the lavender colored down comforter over her head and curls into a ball.

She's known for a while now that she loves him. At first, she was most certainly falling for him, and that was at least two months ago. Two. Whole. Months. Now, she loves him, but she can't tell him. She's certain that telling him before he tells her would spell certain doom for their relationship. Though she's less certain of that than she was when she first realized her feelings for him went stronger than she thought.

At first, she was impatient. She loved him, therefore, he MUST love her. When would he tell her? Any day now, she could feel it. Well, days have turned into weeks and will soon turn into months, and with the passing of time her anxiety has miraculously turned into patience.

She loves him more and more each passing day and has begun to realize that what her mother told her all along was true, it is possible to increase in love when you thought you couldn't possibly love one drop more. Even in just this short time (well, short relative to the lifetime she hopes they'll spend together), her love has shifted and changed shape, moving from a crush turned into deeper feelings to a true and real love, a love that means she can not like something he does and still want him around, a love that means she doesn't want him to tell her something he doesn't mean.

After her anxiety passed, she started taking risks. A whispered, "I love you," as he drifted off to sleep. Spelling out "I" heart "U" on his skin with her finger, careful always to make everything slightly misshapen, lest he realize what she's doing.

Now, she says, "I love you" each night in her mind, and every morning when he leaves. She wants it out there, in the air, as he drives those winding roads to work, as he interviews for jobs, as he goes to new classes.

She believes that those three little words can fly out the door after him and weave themselves into a sphere of protection around him, guarding and guiding him through each day.

At this moment, as she falls back asleep, snug in her bed, with the covers wrapped tightly around her, resting in the warm spot he so recently left, it's enough that her love is in the air around him, even if he doesn't know.

Another Tongue

2007-01-23T16:37:00.000-08:00

"Do you want to get dinner tonight at that new Thai restaurant?" He asked.

"Yeah, that sounds good." She said.

"What sounds good?"

She stared at him, willing him to go on with that train of thought, to dare to tell her, once again, that she had simply misunderstood his words. "What?" She asked, not quite believing that this was happening once more.

"You said 'that sounds good,' but I asked whether you'd like to stay in and cook, or whether you want to go out somewhere, like maybe to the Thai restaurant." He blinked at her, daring her to call into question the logic he deemed infallible when compared to her feminine intuition and in-borne moodiness.

"No. Whatever. Thai. I'd like Thai." She raises her hands in the air, and lets them fall down, slapping them against her legs.

"You sure?" He cocks his head to the side and looks at her with wide, green eyes.

"Yes." She says through clenched teeth, not even remotely moved by the puppy dog stare.

"Okay, then."

It is another simple discussion gone horribly wrong. It ends alright. They'll eat Thai and move on to the next discussion, but it's just one more clear-cut example of the fact that she often wishes for a Him:Her translation guide.

He speaks another language. Luckily, he's told her himself that she has a knack for languages.

So, now, she'll buckle down and learn his, because, obviously, he's never going to learn hers.

Life According to Plan

2007-01-17T19:04:00.000-08:00

"Originally, she thought, "I wanted to meet someone in college, date him for several months and then bring him home to meet everyone." She thought this on her way back to her apartment after a dinner with her parents and her boyfriend of a mere six weeks.

"I wanted to know him inside and out before I let him loose with my family. Who knows what he'll say? Who knows how he'll behave."

She certainly didn't know, couldn't predict yet how he might react to a given situation. And, she worries, people sometimes want to hold her responsible for his behavior, as if she could make him say "thank you" more often, when, really, she knows he just wasn't brought up that way.

She does know this, though, he's very different than she thought he was. Different in a better way. She worried he'd be too much like that last one, too nice for his own good, so nice that she felt that one of two things would happen, 1) she would somehow explode from her desire to be not-so-nice around him, or 2) he would eventually revert back to the purely bad behavior she knew about in his past.

But this one. Oh, he came across as nice and innocent, but, then, she also comes across that way.

They are two misunderstood people living in a world that has been cruel. He's given in to more cynicism than she has. She still believes that everything will turn out okay.

She believes that when she's most in denial.

She turns to look at him and smiles at the sight of his face. She's come to accept and appreciate that this is the face she'll be seeing throughout her life. She also looks at that face and thinks, "Who are you? Where did you come from?"

He senses her stare, reaches across the car and takes her hand.

She continues to smile at him, then turns to stare out the car window, thinking, "I don't know you at all."

How Many Times

2007-01-16T15:50:00.000-08:00

In the last week, I have started to count, though not really keep track of, the number of moments when I realize that I would like to say the words, "I love you." I'm not talking about times when I would like to say it for the first time. No, I am counting the times I would like to say it if we were already saying it to each other.

For example:
*When he made pretzels, without being asked, to take to my parents' house for dinner
*When he felt comfortable enough with my friends to spend an entire evening with them
*When he asks if I want him to drive
*When I go to sleep at night
*When he leaves in the morning

I'll have to be careful, because I've started saying it to him, in my head, or just mouthing the words after his eyes are closed, or after he closes the door. Perhaps one time the words will just slip out of my mouth, unannounced. Perhaps I won't mind.

As the Night Sky Passes By

2007-01-13T11:42:00.000-08:00

Don't you worry,

As you concentrate on driving down this dark freeway,

As the night sky passes by, I'll sit here quietly,

Loving you.

The Take Down

2007-01-09T13:29:00.000-08:00

My latest mostly-autobiographical story is posted at LTR.com. If it's not the first post, look for "The Take Down" in "Dating & Relationships."

The Truth

2007-01-04T20:11:00.000-08:00

I find it fascinating how we can get so caught up in a moment, that we can entirely lose sight of everything else that matters. In convincing myself that I need to be "present" when I am with him, rather than thinking about some far off future, I neglect to be present in other areas of my life.

In the past, I forgot what it meant to be involved in a day-to-day relationship with a man. I really thought it was me who forced the marriage talk, and I made a deal with myself not to bring it up for a couple of days. I quickly realized that it had never been me who was caught up in the possibility of a future together. I stopped completely, and this man couldn't even begin to think about not talking about it. So, I realized how important it is for both people in the relationship to be in the present.

So, check that off my list. I'm in the present with him. I'm so far in the present that I can hardly bring myself to ask a question about tomorrow, let alone next month, next year, the rest of our lives.

And that's okay.

The ability to see into the future together will come in time. Now, I really do want to experience whatever I can. The future will take care of itself.

The First Gift

2006-12-29T12:28:00.000-08:00

He entered the department store, one he hadn't been in for several months. He'd been in another state, you see, so he hadn't been in his home department store in ages. He probably hadn't even gone in before you left.

And now, here he stood, trying to find a Christmas gift for his girlfriend back in that other state. She simply refused to tell him what to buy.

"I don't need anything." She said.

"I'll like whatever you get me." She said.

How obnoxious can you get?

He knew better than to wander over to hardware. What about kitchenware? The shiny, non-stick pans beckoned him, and he knew that she wouldn't object to kitchenware in the way she might if they had been married for twenty years and buying her new kitchenware might be taken as an insult.

Still, for their first Christmas as a couple, it seemed impersonal.

What about a cookbook, then? They waved at him from the wooden bookshelves near the pots and pans. Hot chocolate! French pastries! 101 Things to Do to a Chicken! Perhaps one of those would be just perfect.

But, no, something about the fake grins of the chefs on the front covers turned him off of those gifts.

Why had he come to a department store? Alone? Right after Christmas?

Yeah, AFTER Christmas. He was home, away from her, with his family in his home state for the holidays, and he hadn't been able to shop with her around. When would he have had the time?

So, here he was, surrounded by screaming children, frantic mothers and anxious shoppers trying to grab whatever they could before the end of the sales. It wasn't as crowded as right before Christmas, but the atmosphere was different, more panicked than hurried.

He pushed his hand through his dark brown hair, sighed and walked toward the escalator.

Second floor.

Jewelery.

Hurry

2006-12-27T16:47:00.000-08:00

John Legend says that love hurts if you do it right. Well, she thinks, she must be doing it to perfection, because her heart is so heavy that it wouldn't surprise her at all if it fell out of her chest and dropped through the layers of the earth.

And, in some ways, it would be a relief to have that rock out of her chest on a permanent basis.

But then, on the other, and wiser, hand, the pain feels good. It reminds her that she's alive. While she's anxious for answers, anxious for the return of the man she loves, anxious for the pain to go away, she's also grateful for the pain. This pain makes her realize that she feels something real for this man.

Other men have gone away. When they went away, she forgot about them almost completely, almost to the point where she needed to ask their names again when they returned, "And you are? And you're here because....?"

But not this one.

No, while this one is gone, she dreams about him at night, not happy dreams of love but anxious dreams where he replaces her with someone else, where he is more loved by her friends than she...where he replaces her in her own life.

She's not sure what the dreams mean, but she knows that he needs to get back to her as quickly as possible.

She is the girl, remember, who when left to her own devices too long can imagine an entire life gone wrong...

And she won't believe him when she tells her she's imagining things.

He ought to hurry home.

Forgetful Fog

2006-12-21T12:22:00.000-08:00

It was one of those days that makes a woman forget who she is.

After days of unseasonably warm temperatures, she awoke to a cold, foggy, truly wintery day. And no surprise there, as it was the first official day of winter. She stayed in bed as long as possible, with the covers pulled up around her neck, snuggled deep into the blankets.

She thought about him, because he's what occupied her thoughts most of the time now, anyway.

She realized that she'd woken several hours earlier to find his back to her. She'd kissed him, but he hadn't moved. She vaguely remembered that he had lane side by side with her for a bit, but when he'd left just after dawn, there were none of the usual smiles and playful kisses. Something was definitely wrong.

She shook her head to get rid of the negative thoughts. She scrunched down as far as she could into the warm, cozy blankets. Her cat gave a disgruntled meow at the movement and curled up closer to her body.

"It's fine. Everything's fine." She told herself, but she knew differently.

She'd gone to bed in a happy mood. She'd gone to sleep with him beside her and woken to find that, this time, his absence seemed to mean something more.

"No, stop thinking about yourself. He has his own problems, and they don't all result in him leaving you." She chided herself for always thinking that when someone seemd out of sorts that it had something directly to do with her.

Still, in the dreary early morning light, she forgot that she was a woman in love and settled into being a woman scorned, a woman abandoned in favor of smoother pathways. She was not, by any means, a woman who was easy to handle. She made demands; she faltered at communication.

It seemed easy that he would leave her. Not that he wouldn't struggle with the decision, but on a day like this, on a foggy, dreary day like this, it seemed that the only possible decisions were sad ones.

Who could be happy on a day like today?

And then, she realized suddenly, she could name the feelings with which she had awoken.

For the first time in months, she woke up feeling alone.

A Little Night Context

2006-12-20T14:00:00.000-08:00

While making out with her boyfriend, a girl tries to maintain conversation, as she has discovered that he seems more willing to tell her interesting things when the two are in the midst of a make out session.

"You don't tell me things. I can see that you're thinking something, what are you thinking?" He looks her straight in the eyes, just after she's had her fifteenth, "Tell me that you love me!!" thought of the evening.

Of course, she doesn't tell him.

"Look, I think things, too. It's not just you."

Kiss kiss kiss

"What do you think, then?"

"Well, I'm thinking, I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really like her, and does she like me? I kiss her, and sometimes she pulls away. How does she really feel about me? It's a mess!"

"Oh." And on the inside she says, "How do I feel about you?! I FREAKIN' LOVE YOU!"

More making out, more giggles out loud...

"So, do you really worry about whether or not I like you?"

"No, I know you like me. That was just an example."

A looooong pause, as she rests her head on his chest and contemplates her next move. "How do you know I like you?"

"Well, your whole face lights up when you see me. And the way you say, 'Hi," and your voice goes up. I can tell."

"Ah."

He starts to drift off to sleep. She drifts in and out. "But you really, really, really, really, really like me, then?"

"Uh-huh."

"Okay."

Then, it's time for sleep, but she's getting a bit loopy, as she often does right before drifting off, "I better go to sleep before I say something I shouldn't."

"Wait, what?!"

"I have to stop talking now."

"What would you tell me?" He's wide awake now.

"Something that I shouldn't."

"Why can't you tell me?" He's genuinely curious and intrigued.

"I just can't yet."

This goes back and forth, with him unsuccessfully trying to convince her to blurt out whatever it is she's holding inside.

She drifts off to sleep, thinking, "You really, really, really, really like me, but do you love me? It would be so much easier if you said you loved me."

But before she can do anymore thinking, she's fast asleep, nestled against his chest, feeling secure, warm and, dare she think it, loved.

What If?

2006-12-12T13:25:00.000-08:00

On cold, dreary days like this one, it's incredibly difficult not to let my mind wander to what might have been.

Now, my "might have been" is not melancholy. I'm not wishing that these things had come to pass, I'm merely curious at how my life would have turned out had I made a few different decisions. If my life were a "choose your own adventure" book, I would just want to read the other paths, see what the other options would have looked like.

Let's start with this one:

What if I'd stayed in Boston the first time?

I stayed. I freaked out, I cried, but I stayed. I kept working at the radio station. I decided that although I loved that job, I wanted to stick with my major and be a magazine writer.

What would that have looked like? So, I stayed, and I finished my degree. I pushed through another Boston winter and walked in a graduation gown and masters' hood in the Spring.

Would Marie Claire have hired me, as I originally planned? Or would I be stuck working at Barnes and Noble, still trying to make it as a freelance writer.

Or, with a perfect twist of destiny, would I have applied for work at Boston Public Library and still found myself in the same profession?

Now that I see that typed on the page, I'm convinced that's how it would have gone. Big time magazine editor? Not my speed.

So, Boston wasn't a waste. And I shouldn't have stayed. I wound up exactly where I belong, and that was unavoidable.

But Then There's You

2006-12-09T09:20:00.000-08:00

There are times, she thinks, when living in her head can be dangerous. In her mind, she can marry herself off to someone she's seen only once, perhaps that cute checker at the bookstore who commented on her purchases and gave her a crooked smile, or maybe its the handsome man in the Nissan X-Terra she passes every day on the way to work. Surely, she is meant for these men, these men are meant for her.

In her mind, she can do more damage than good, though.

These imaginary relationships with essentially imaginary men do little to harm her psyche. In fact, they do nothing at all but encourage her to consider the possibility of marrying someone, someday.

It's the real relationships that suffer when she's left alone too long with her thoughts.

Left to her own ponderings, she can find herself deciding that her boyfriend is clearly having an affair with the random chick with the swingy ponytail who started talking to him at a party. Her suspicious mind comes to believe that his friend Laura (how sick she is of the name Laura) is in love with him, even if he's not in love with her.

She shouldn't be left alone too long.

Left on her own for even one evening, she believes that he's keeping things from her, that he's hiding his life and not being honest.

As soon as he returns, though, everything is better. As soon as she sees him, as soon as she looks him in the eyes, she knows he's true, she knows he's the only one for her.

And so, he takes her out of her own mind and into the world to live with him.

She hopes that soon, even when she's left alone, her mind will stay on him, on the truth of him.

what'll she look like when she opens her eyes and sees what she wants to see
instead of this cold mirror's lies and all the pieces complete
she says with a sigh "i think i'm ready..."
what'll she sound like when she opens her mouth
and all the phrases sound right as they fall out
and she says "yes"
and she's not scared of the sound
she says she's ready
(Stephen Speaks)

I Hate

2006-12-07T13:07:00.000-08:00

I hate that I'm starting to feel like if you say, "No," to me, I'll break into a hundred little pieces and never be put back together.

I hate that I'm afraid to talk, because I don't want to hear what you have to say in reply.

I hate that I'm sitting here loving you, waiting for you to say it first so that I can say it back.

I hate knowing for an absolute fact that if I say it first, this will never work.

I hate you, just a little bit, for completely messing with me even when you don't know you're doing it.

I hate time.

I hate that when I said the word "February," in reference to the two of us, you looked at me like I was crazy.

I hate that I want to be with you forever, and you don't talk about the future.

I really, really, really hate that you got news about your job and didn't tell me.

I hate that I know I have to tell you these things and somehow figure out how to do it without sounding insane.

*Of course, I was raised never to say "hate," so please substitute "strongly dislike" for the word "hate," if you'd rather.

Defining

2006-11-28T16:45:00.000-08:00

love.

rock in your chest, look at him and you know.

your chest burns when you think that he might break up with you.

you can't sleep, because you're so anxious to see him again.

a smile lights up your face when he walks in the room.

his eyes sparkle as soon as he sees you.

You look at him and automatically think, "I love you."

love.

When Trust Begins

2006-11-08T15:01:00.000-08:00

She stopped looking today. Well, she took one last look, one last search to make her heart ache.

She saw listings on singles sites. Well, on the single site where they met. She found nothing she didn't know already.

She didn't log-in to the site to check up on him, because that would be too much. The answer she would expect to receive - the inexplicable answer that he's still active on the site - would probably break her heart into a thousand little pieces. So, she didn't ask the question. Didn't have to get the answer.

Instead, today, she did one last search, typed his name in one last time, saw that he exists in the world as a real human being with a real history, a real name, a real life. She spied on him one final time.

And decided to trust him.

If

2006-11-07T14:02:00.000-08:00

If I break down
Will you be there?
If you go away
Can I follow?

If I say something you don't like
Will you listen to the reason?

If you say something I don't understand
Will you patiently explain it?

If I break down
Will you carry me?
If you crumble
Can I put you back together?

If I trust you
Will you love me?
If I love you
Will you let me?

If I hate you
Will you calm me?
If I scare you
Will you tell me?

If I break down
Will you wait for me to come around again?
If you run
Will I find you?

If you love me
Will you keep me?

Maybe That's Just the Game

2006-11-01T11:11:00.000-08:00

...or maybe I'm just falling for the guy.

When jealousy rears its ugly head, I have to give myself pause, some time to consider why I might be feeling so particularly...uhm...territorial.

I've never liked it if some woman was hitting on "my" man, and I've never liked it if "my" man was checking another woman.

At the same time, getting all riled up, because we're not "exclusive" and it appears he's still browsing the Internet makes me realize that I WANT to be exclusive.

Online dating, Google and the Internet age in general give us so many more ways to be paranoid.

I saw him again last night. It felt so...like we were in a relationship. I've decided I'm not going to look for his profile anymore.

Remember: If you don't want to know the answer, don't ask the question. I don't want to know if he's still looking, and that's the only answer I need.

Wishing I Swore

2006-10-31T14:38:00.000-08:00

When you date online, you take the risk that someone - the someone you're dating, the someone who's met your parents, the someone you REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY like - is going to stay "active" on the site.

So, I don't swear, but I will say this:

What the hell did you mean when you said, "Oh, you're not the one who's been to Italy." Who the hell else has been to Italy that you're confusing me with? How many girls are you dating? How the hell do you have time to date more than me?

That's all. Thank you.

The Chance You Take When You Say Goodbye

2006-10-12T19:42:00.000-07:00

Mila said goodbye to her boyfriend Michael. She didn't just say, "Goodbye, I'll see you tomorrow." No, she said, "Goodbye, I don't want to see you again." Well, it actually came out more like, "Michael, I don't think we should keep seeing each other."

Michael flinched, nodded and walked away.

In her heart, she told him goodbye.

But she wished she never had.

Mila watched a man who was completely wrong for her walk away because she asked him to, but she always wondered what might have happened if she'd not taken a chance on goodbye.

That was five years ago, and now Mila is sitting across the table from a new man, the latest in a string of new men over the past several years, none of them lasting more than two dates.

New Guy taps his fingers on the white linen table cloth and says, somewhat anxiously, "Do you know what'd you'd like to order?"

He doesn't call Mila by name. Mila has noticed this, that being called by your own name, let alone by a pet name, takes weeks, months, years. These first dates are a series of nameless conversations. She doesn't try to change this, try to alter this. She doesn't call these guys by their names, doesn't say, "No, Peyton, I'm not ready to order." That seems too intimate for a first date.

She orders her usual first-date meal, the linguini with clam sauce and a diet coke. The linguini is delicious at this local eatery, and its white color doesn't stain her teeth. It's also fatty enough to excuse the diet coke - she doesn't want her dates to worry that she's anorexic, nor does she want them to tell her what good eater she is. She hates that.

New Guy orders a dish layden with spinach and garlic, and Mila mentally dismisses him and prays for a fast end to the evening.

For the most part, he's harmless enough. He's wearing a polo shirt (aren't they all?) and khakis. She can tell that he combed his hair and she can certainly tell he put on cologne.

It's not that she wants Michael back, certainly not after all these years, not after she's the one who said goodbye, but she does want someone who just isn't so not Michael.

Mila talks to New Guy about her work as a pre-school teacher. She relays a tail of a curious youngster who ended up getting himself locked in the supply cabinet. She laughs her fake laugh, the one she reserves for time spent with those she hopes to never see again.

Their meals arrive, hot and steaming. The waitress smirks at them, as if she thinks they're a couple just about to leave for an evening of exciting lovemaking. Mila glares at her and asks for the parmesan cheese.

New Guy looks up from his garlicky meal to ogle Mila's breasts, somewhat on display in her low-cut dress. Mila notices and shivers, "It's cold in here." She takes her violet sweater from her seatback, puts it on, and buttons it up almost to the top.

New Guy returns to eating, pausing only to tell a brief story about his next-door neighbor who refuses to mow his lawn.

Mila yawns, apologizes and flags down the waitress to ask for a box, "It's getting awfully late."

"Yeah? Do you have to be at work early?"

Mila refuses to lie, "No, tomorrow's my late day, I don't have the kids until 2, but I'm exhausted. It's been a long week."

"It's only Tuesday."

"I know. It's crazy isn't it? You'd think it's easier to work with kids..." Mila ends the sentence abruptly to provide her fake laugh.

"Oh, so you're ready to go?" New Guy gestures at his still unfinished meal.

"Go ahead and finish. No worries. I'll just go to the restroom."

When Mila returns, the bill lies waiting on the table. She hates this part, hates taking a meal from someone whose calls she's not going to return. She also doesn't believe in paying for her own date.

New Guy reaches for the bill just as Mila takes her seat, "I've got this one."

"Oh, thank you. Did you want me to get the tip?" Mila always asks if she can pay the tip.

"Sure...it should be..." New Guy peruses the bill, hestitating over the amount.

Mila keeps herself from rolling her eyes. The meal couldn't be more than $25. "Don't worry. I know how much to leave."

"Oh." New Guy slides his credit card into the plastic sleeve.

Conversation stalls. Not that it ever really got started to begin with. Mila tucks a strand of her curly black hair behind her ear, "So..."

New Guy glances up, "Yeah," He's interupted by the waitress returning with his credit card and a receipt. He signs and says to Mila, "I'll walk you to your car."

Mila hesitates, "Uhm." It's only 9:15. She wants to run into some of the other stores in the shopping center, but she doesn't want him to tag along.

They stand up together, tuck their metal chairs under the glass table, and he lets her lead the way out of the restaurant.

Thankfully, he doesn't push the issue, "I had a nice time. I'll call you."

Mila smiles, "Goodbye."

She walks out of the restaurant, towards the import store where she can buy a birthday present for her best friend.

A few days later, when New Guy hasn't called, Mila briefly ponders what might have been, had she liked him. She goes over his good qualities in her mind. She feels a tiny bit of regret at not having made more of the opportunity. He might not have been such an awful guy.

This little bit of regret, while nothing like what she felt about Michael, is still the chance she takes every time she says goodbye.

The Waiting Room

2006-09-17T22:53:00.000-07:00

"You?"

"Oh, I think 1996 or 1997? I can't remember which, sometime during high school, maybe it was both."

"Why didn't it work?"

"Uh, hmm. I was a total geek but some reason girls totally dug me. I think it was the limp..."

"Go on."

"Yeah, so, I told her I didn't want a girlfriend, just friends that were girls."

"Lame."

"I know. What about you?"

"Oh, college, Freshman year. I was a total asshole, but you know, I sort of did that on purpose, I think. Made girls fall for me, then pull the rug out from under them."

"I'm sensing a pattern."

"I wonder if she ever did..."

The two tall, dark haired men stand in one corner of the drab waiting room, surrounded by other men of varying heights, weights, hair colors and races. They're all talking about her, the girl who's in the room downstairs, waiting to marry the guy upstairs. They're waiting, waiting for the possibility that the guy upstairs will join them here in the waiting room.

In another corner, a short blond guy with an impossibly outdated goatee chats up a tall Korean American guy with a tendency to interrupt each sentence.

"So, how do you know her?" Says the blond, as he adjusts the brightly colored scarf around his neck.

"Scuse me? Uh, I don't know. We went to some thing together, a couple of Giants games."

"Giants games? Me, too, or at least.."

"Sorry, dude, but I'm trying to find a television with a decent picture. I've got HDTV at home, the picture's like I'm right on the field, why are we here again?"

"I think we're waiting. Didn't you get the e-mail?"

"I don't really check my e-mail that much. I've got other stuff to do." The guy pushes his thick, black framed glasses up on the bridge of this nose.

"Ah, I see."

They're all waiting, not quite sure what they're waiting on, but they're there, aware of the fact that they all know her. Not that they all remember her very clearly.

"I think we went out junior year of college," says a guy with reddish blond hair, a prominent nose. He's clutching a bible and seems really nervous to be around people who might start asking him questions. "But it must not have been for very long, because I can't remember her name at all...Carol? Sheryl?"

"It's Beryl." A short, slightly balding man wearing an untucked Giants t-shirt, jeans and a baseball cap says abruptly. "What's so hard about that?"

"Look, guy, I don't even know why I'm here. What we went out like two times? And then it just got awkward."

"Yeah, well I was her first kiss, and I'd like to see how this one turns out."

"He'll leave, or she'll make him leave, just like the rest of us," interjects the newest addition to the bunch, a tall, red-haired man who has just arrived, looking pissed off, confused and impatient. "It's what she does. She makes us fall in love with her, and then she kicks us to the curb."

One of the two dark-haired men in the corner speaks up, "I totally didn't love her, Red, so I have no idea what the hell you're talking about." A gold hoop earing shines on each earlobe, "Maybe you fell in love, but I think she fell in love with me."

"Wait, wait, let me get this straight, Beryl loved you, but she didn't love him," the guy with the goatee seems interested in what happens, just for the sake of getting to the end of the story.

"Probably. I think she tends to fall for guys who will never love her back. It's safe that way. She can be artistic and angsty and have that pain in her chest but she never has to actually change her life."

"Well, aren't you Mister Philosophy," Red glares at the guy with the earrings.

"Look, I get called to more than one of these waiting rooms for more than one girl. I think I know what I'm talking about, besides, you're just jealous."

"Of what? She never even kissed you."

"Yeah, but here' s the difference, I didn't want her to."

"Yo! Seriously! The game starts in like fifteen minutes, and I've got money riding on this one." The Korean guy paces around the room, flexing his muscles.

"As far as I can tell, you shouldn't even be here, because she still talks to you. You're a friend. Get the hell out." The guy with the goatee understands the rules now, and the Korean guy ponders his chances of getting out of the door that doesn't have a handle.

Before he has a chance to ram the door or try to say some magic word, the door opens. All the guys, even the one-daters shaking their legs nervously in the stained waiting room chairs, completely unsure of what's going on, who this Beryl is, and why they need to be in this room, with these clearly disturbed men, look up curiously.

Someone new stands in the doorway.

The guy with the goatee, apparently the ringleader of the group, approaches the door, "So, she did it? She cut you loose? I was pulling for you man."

The man doesn't enter the room, he's just a shadow, his features unclear, his height uncertain. He moves closer to the door, pushes his arm into the room. It's black-suited arm.

"Is that a tuxedo?" says the redhead incredulously, "She left you at the altar! Wow, and I thought I got shafted with a phone call argument followed by an e-mail break-up."

"Shut up, he's got something to say," the Korean guy breaks into the conversation, distracted, for a moment, from his quest for HDTV.

"What do you have to say?" Asks Mr. Goatee.

"She did it."

Shouts of indecipherable dismay fill the room:

"Ah man!"

"That's messed up."

"I thought she got it right this time."

"I don't want to have to keep coming here."

"He's not done," whispers the balding guy in the baseball cap, "And he's not coming in."

"She did it. We got married."

Silence fills the room, and all of the men, with the exception of the one-daters, who, quite frankly, couldn't care less about her and her escapades, stare open mouthed and speechless at the shadow man in the doorway.

"You're all free to go."

The shadow man turns from the door, leaving it wide open.

The Final Details

2006-09-10T19:16:00.000-07:00

I could tell you that I found a kick-ass apartment in the North End, with exposed brick walls, kind, quiet neighbors and more floor space than I knew what to do with, but that would be a lie.

After I figured out why I had come to Boston, I stopped looking for an apartment and had a long talk with Hunky Mike.

I could tell you that I declared my love for him and that we moved in together and now, as the snow falls upon us, frequently make out by the light of a street lamp, glowing with love and passion. But that would also be a lie.

Instead, I talked to him about this new job, this fabulous opportunity, I got down to business and got the nitty-gritty details. What would I be doing exactly? How much would he pay me? Between what I saved by living with my parents (minus, of course, the money I just had to spend on shoes, purses and other items necessary in the life of a woman) and the decent salary I would be making at the online magazine (the online version of a popular print magazine, as it turned out), I could afford to buy a place. It's not fancy, but it's not a studio. It's tiny one bedroom walk-up in a neighborhood that just barely passes as Beacon Hill, and I love it. It's mine (or it will be in 30 years), and I can do what I want with it. I can have Hunky Mike over for dinner, which I might, once he's really over his wife...

That's the other thing. I must admit that I harbored some fantasies about Mike wanting me to move to Boston so that we could be togother, but I realized soon after we got here and Mike had hour long conversations with Kathleen each day on the office phone that Mike's not the guy for me. He's not the guy for me, because he's the guy for Kathleen. But he's also not the guy, because I've met someone else.

I'm in a brand new relationship, and I'm keeping the details to myself.

But I can shout from the rooftops that this time around, I'm not just beating Boston, I'm loving Boston.

Fin

Beating Boston

2006-09-01T22:19:00.002-07:00

It took me all night. Literally, all night. I didn't sleep. My mother would have killed me. Or at least made me hot chocolate.

I stayed up that entire night, trying to piece together my logic. Why would I return to a place that I hated oh so much? My friends had stopped short of asking me that very question.

But before I met with Mike in a couple of days, I had to have an answer that went beyond, "Well, he asked me to come."

When the crisp, autumn sun finally started to poke through the curtains, I had a break through. When I'd lived in Boston before, my favorite part of day had been the sunrise. I would actually make an effort to get up to see it blossiming over the horizon. Even if I immediatley crawled back into my double bed, which I usually did, and pulled my red flowered bedspread over my head, which I usually did, the sunrise gave me hope that I could succeed in this practically foreign city.

I stood up, walked to the floor-length window, parted the curtains and stared out at the still-empty street.

The sunrise made me realize that I had returned to Boston, because this time I wanted to win. I didn't want to tuck my tail between my legs and scurry away, back to California where the sun shone and the snow never fell. I wanted to keep the confidence the sunrise gave me throughout each and every day.

Exhausted after my long night of apartment and soul searching, I shuffled back to bed, crawled under the delicately patterned duvet, pulled it over my head and slept.

All Roads Lead to Boston

2006-08-07T08:17:00.000-07:00

And so, I was preparing to leave for Boston. I was trying to find an apartment online, and remembering how badly that had gone on my first Boston adventure (I landed a sweet apartment with a gargantuan price tag), gave up and decided to look for a place when I arrived.

My parents were less upset than I had anticipated, probably because I'd been moping around the house for more years than they cared to realize and were pleased to see me get started again with my life. My mom was teary eyed as I told her that I would stay in a hotel for at least a couple of weeks before I moved to an apartment.

"What about all your stuff?"

"I'll box it up, but can you ship it to me when I get a place?"

"So, you'll live out of a suitcase?" She seemed offended at the thought that the daughter she had raised to keep her clothing neatly folded or hung in her dresser or closet would not be requiring such luxuries for the near future.

"Mommy, I'll be fine. It's okay. It's better than getting stuck in a lease on a place I really can't afford in a neighborhood that's more downtown than community."

"Fine." And she silently started gathering the things I would need in order to safely box up my breakables. She handed me bubble wrap and tape, some old towels I could use for cushions in the boxes and rags once I got to Boston.

My dad took it all in stride, walking in and out of the room where my mom and I stood packing, "I'll clean out the garage when you leave." He always cleaned out the garage when I moved. So, this made my heart ache with all of the times I've left them.

But we all knew that I had to go.

Dawn told me to save her a place on my couch, once I had one, as she fully intended to run away from Sacramento on a very regular basis, "You'll be tempted to start charging me rent, but remember, I'm just a houseguest. Say it with me, 'Dawn is just a houseguest."

After my boss announced my resignation and the reason, my coworkers congratulated me, wondered how I would be replaced (easily, I assured them silently, and probably by someone who cared), and then they heard a rumor about donuts in the breakroom and quickly abandoned our conversation.

Before I knew it, I was standing in my room in the Back Bay Hilton, wondering how the time had gone so fast, how I'd gotten here so quickly, and what on earth I was doing in Boston.

Mike and I talked a few times a day. He had packed up his place in Portland, sublet a condo in Beacon Hill and would be in Boston by the end of the week. He'd take me to our new office the day after he arrived.

Late one night, after a dinner of take-out Chinese from the restaurant around the corner, I rested on the King bed (far too big for one person), sorted through listings on Craigslist. I had found a listing for a one bedroom, with an exposed brick wall, plenty of light and the sights and smells of the North End when I suddenly remembered something very important.

I hate Boston. I hate it with a fiery passion.

I had spent the two years of high school talking solely of returning to California as soon as possible.

And now I was back.

In a city everyone knew I hated, but everyone I knew had neglected to remind me of this small fact or question me on my decision to return here.

There is usually a thin line between love and hate, but for me, there was a thick, thick bar between loving and hating Boston.

Why was I here?

Not for a job. That was the motivation, not the reason.

Not for Hunky Mike, though I might like to think that was the reason.

Then, why?

Back to Boston

2006-08-02T11:41:00.000-07:00

And so I found myself back at home, awaiting Hunky Mike's phone call. I'd eaten dinner, my parents had gone out to run groceries, and I'd settled in for a long wait.

My cell phone vibrated on my desk, wiggling wildly around, as if excited by the caller. I answered, and then I was talking to Mike.

"Hi, Tracy," he replied to my trying-to-stay-calm, "Hello."

"Hey, Mike, how are you?"

"Oh, same old stuff. Wife packed up and left. My job is...eh....so, so. You?"

"Oh, same old stuff. No husband to pack up and leave. My job is boring as ever."

"Oh, gosh, Tracy, it's so great hearing your voice."

Our conversation continued, but I'm not sure I heard much of it after he said it was great to hear my voice. My brain was off on its own little adventure, ignoring the fact that I was talking to a soon-to-be-divorced man about a job possibility and not talking to my boyfriend or husband or anyone.

"So, about this job."

"Yeah?"

"I don't think you should take it."

"Okaaaay. But you're the one who suggested it."

"I know, I know. But I found out a bit more about that particular newspaper, and I think that you'll hate working down there, hate dealing with those people and will be bored in five minutes living in Southern California."

"Is that so?"

"So, here's what I was thinking, because, you know, I have to get out of here."

"Out of...Portland? But I thought you loved Portland!"

"I moved here because of Kathleen. She wanted to be here, and I found a job here so that it would be possible. But I'm not much for Oregon."

My image of Mike's happy life continued to crumble. I had figured that even if his marriage had broken up, at least he had his swell life in Portland.

"So, what's your idea, then?"

"Boston."

"What?"

"Boston."

"Okay, you'll have to expand on that a little bit for me. It's been a long day at the office, and I'm having difficulty focusing."

"Tracy, I want to move back to Boston, and I think that you should to."

"Huh! Well, that's not something I expected to hear."

"I know, it's weird. I haven't talked to you in forever, and then I call up and tell you to come to Boston."

"Yeah, it is a shocker. I, uhm, okay...again, what?"

"Boston. I have a lead on a job as a managing editor of an online publication, and I'd like to recruit you as our features editor."

"EDITOR?! Uhm, yeah, I haven't written anything publishable since graduation, so I don't know how that will be possible."

"Tracy, I know what you're capable of, and it's an online publication, and the condition of me accepting the job offer is that I get to pick my staff."

"Oh, staff? Okay, so who else are you picking?"

"I don't know yet. You're the only one I know with a job she's willing to leave."

"Can I think about it? This is a lot to take in at once."

"Sure, take it in, call me in a couple of days and let me know what you decide, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks, okay."

We hung up the phone, and I sat and stared at the silent phone in my hand.

Could I go back to Boston? Should I go back to Boston?

Before another question came into my mind, it was already made up.

"Boston." I said.

Interlude

2006-07-31T13:29:00.000-07:00

Today, it seems that everyone I encounter is a character in a novel. I headed home for lunch and saw a Mexican gang-banger with a shaved head and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth driving a low-rider. That didn't seem real.

Yesterday, I was walking in a quirky town with my date, and I felt as though someone was playing some kind of trick on us. At three distinct points in the date, we encountered abandoned shoes. Three very different shoes. One was a brown, male sandal, posed strategically on a rock. The second was a pair of lady's maryjane shoes, tucked beneath a white picket fence. The third and final was a pair of sneakers and socks, resting on a bus stop bench. I felt like I was in some kind of esoteric French or Swedish movie, where the lone shoe is supposed to symbolize the lone conqueror, who stands at the top, alone. The Mary Janes? I don't know. The sneakers on the bench were spotted at the end of the evening and seemed to signal the end, as in, put your feet up and have a rest.

My last boyfriend was frantic, perhaps somewhat manic, and insistent on declaring his love for me at every turn. He was overly affectionate, and twirled me in the street. He kissed me openly whenever he could, even in Home Depot, as we walked behind his mother one lazy Sunday afternoon. He was loud and told obnoxious jokes that didn't make me laugh but cracked him up. He sent me roses at work. He learned how to say "I love you" in foreign languages. He couldn't resist touching me or talking to me, but he also couldn't respect when I didn't want those things to happen. I'd tell him to leave me alone, and he wouldn't believe me, couldn't believe that I wasn't as head over heels as he was...and sooner or later, he would come up behind me, hug me and kiss me and "check on" me. It didn't help that he had a face like a cartoon character, like a child, so this all seemed very surreal.

This new date, almost exactly a year after I met my ex-boyfriend, took things as they came but did not inform that's what he was doing. We toured a local landmark, just because it happened to be open. We had a cool drink in a cute cafe, because that's what we came upon first.

My ex-boyfriend fell for me head over heels from the moment he saw me, and never stopped falling long enough to really see me. This new date is falling for me, I believe, but at a much more reasonable pace, taking in the view along the way, recognizing our differences and not moving faster than he should.

But the fact that this is my life seems so unreal. Does everyone have this sense of distance from their lives? This sense that they live a separate life on the weekend?

And so it continues

2006-07-27T10:38:00.000-07:00

When I return to the office, I put my leftover burrito in the packed office refrigerator. As usual, someone has used the limited space to store their lunches for the week, making me search for a spot for my tiny bag. I give myself a once over in the staff bathroom and head back to my desk.

The e-mail is still there, taunting me. I read it again, looking for any nuances I might have missed the first time, and I see one towards the bottom.

If you’re interested in talking about the position, let me know, and I can give you call. It would be nice to talk to you, Tracy. Take care, Mike

I hadn’t noticed that the first several times I read the e-mail, having focused so much on the possibility that I could get a new job.

Mike wants to talk to me. Miiiiike wants to talk to me.

But Mike is married. He’s married to his Lovely Wife.

As I ponder how exactly to respond to the e-mail, the same denim-skirt clad woman from this morning approaches my desk, “The copier is still out of toner.”

“Yes, Brenda, I’ve told the office manager. The man from the copy place will be out sometime later this week.”

“But I need to make copies.” She stamps her little foot, wobbling the laces on the navy blue Keds.

“Brenda, I believe that there are a couple of other copiers on this floor. Why don’t you ask your supervisor which one you should use” I say with a smile.

“Fine.” Brenda walks off in a huff, and without even pausing, I hit “reply” on Mike’s e-mail.

Though I’m not ready to start a new job tomorrow, I restrain myself from saying that in the e-mail. Actually, I keep the whole e-mail rather restrained. I thank him for e-mailing, ask after the Lovely Wife and himself and ask for a few more details on the job.

It sounds great, Mike, but I’d like to know more about it before I commit to anything. When’s a good time to talk?

I sign off with a polite, “Thanks for thinking of me. Hope to talk to you soon,” and hit send.

I stare at the monitor and wonder what I’ve just done. At best, I’ve opened up the opportunity for a new, fulfilling job, and at worst, I’ve opened myself up for emotional turmoil. If I renew conversation with Mike, will I start to feel those awful feelings I felt when he left Boston for Portland with Lovely Wife? Will I feel silly for being in love with not only a married man but also a married man who never had such feelings for me?

I tell myself that I worry too much and try to find something with which to occupy my time. It’s the summer and half of the staff is on vacation, not to mention the fact that it’s three o’clock on a Friday, and no one’s even pretending to work anymore.

I open up the minutes from the most recent staff meeting and pretend to read them, just in case someone walks up behind me, as often happens in this public space. Instead of reading, I consider the e-mail, and the sign-off. I do wonder for a moment where Mike got my work address, then I remember that we actually did e-mail for a while after graduating. Mostly, he sent me pictures of his new tricked out condo in Portland, his new bride in her Vera Wang gown, the disheveled newspaper office where he spent most of his days. Then, about two years ago, Lovely Wife wanted to have children, and Mike stopped writing. I heard through a mutual friend that they were having trouble conceiving, and I still got a Christmas card from the happy couple each year at my parents’ house, but I hadn’t had a real conversation with the man in a very long time, in almost as long a period a time as we had known each other in Boston. Now, I wanted to talk to him more than I wanted the job.

Finally, five o’clock rolls around, I shut down my computer, climb back into the Explorer and head home for the weekend. For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel bad that I have nothing planned, that I’ll probably end up going grocery shopping at Costco with my parents, that my friends and their boyfriends and husbands will be out doing couply things, and I’ll be wandering around like a seven-year-old with my parents.

Monday eventually comes, and I go through my regular routine of world-saving dreams, cereal for breakfast and a bleary-eyed drive to work. The weekend passed quickly, I talked to my parents and friends about the Santa Barbara possibility. My mom looked like she might cry, while my dad looked thrilled that he might have my mom to himself again. My friends thought it was awesome and asked if they could come visit me. I reminded everyone, myself included, that I did not yet have an interview, let alone the job. In the details of the potential job, I forgot to worry about actually talking to Mike.

My computer awaited me, perky as ever, and I signed on and waited for my messages from the weekend to load onto the server. Buried beneath a pile of memos that needed formatting and offers of a cure for male pattern baldness, I saw an e-mail from Mike. What I read made my heart leap, the blood pound in my ears and my breath quicken in my chest.

Dear Tracy,

Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re interested in the job. It sounds like a great gig. How about I call you this evening – do you still have that same 530 cell phone? – and we’ll talk about it? How about around seven?

I’m doing fine. Portland is still good, although I’m getting tired of seeing thirty-something men walking around spiked hair, ha. Thank you for asking after my lovely wife, Kathleen…but I wanted to let you know that she’s no longer my lovely wife. Or at least, she won’t be in a couple of months. Tracy, Kathleen walked out on me about four months ago, and we’ve filed the divorce papers. Everything will be final by October.

I hope I haven’t depressed you too much with this news. I’m doing okay with it, as things haven’t been right for a long time…probably since before we got married, but anyway…

We’ll talk more tonight.

Mike

I quickly turn off Outlook, jump out of my chair and run a fake errand to check the mailbox.

I return to my desk to see the e-mail still on my screen, taunting me, begging me to write back. It’s sad that my first reaction to the news that Mike and Lovely were going to divorce is one of joy. Now he would be back in the world! He’s out of her grasps! Secondly, I feel pain for my friend. My friend Mike, someone I’d spent a lot of time with in Boston, and yes someone I was more than a little in love with, and I wished that I could so something for him. And my wanting to date him wasn’t going to solve anything.

I decide that since the nature of the e-mail had gotten a bit more personal, I would forward our conversation to my home e-mail and answer later in the evening, after I’d calmed down, eaten dinner and watched a rerun of Friends. Only then could I face this e-mail.

Amazingly enough, I find a pile of folders on my desk, which means that I can keep myself busy doing actual work.

Right before lunch, I suddenly realize that poor Mike mentioned a specific time to talk to me, so I should at least send off a brief e-mail confirming our phone call. I try to remain businesslike in my tone, just in case those e-mail spies are watching my work e-mail.

Dear Mike,

Oh my goodness! I’m sorry to hear about you and Kathleen. Yes, call me around 7…same cell number as before. I’ll talk to you soon.

Tracy

Thinking About It

2006-07-25T08:56:00.000-07:00

When I knew Hunky Mike outside of cyberspace, back in Boston, I had goals and ambitions that were so strong I could feel them coursing through my veins each time I covered a student protest, a theatrical production, a controversial campus firing, or anything at all that my editor assigned. I was going to be a reporter. I had graduated from a prestigious undergraduate university and struck out on my own in Big Bad Boston. Granted, I chose Boston, because I was afraid of New York City, but still, I had flown from the West Coast and taken up residence in a place where it snowed twenty inches at a time, and where my friend Aida would joke about the terrible summer weather:

“What do you call it when it’s sunny all week and rains all weekend?”

“What”

“Boston.”

Hunky Mike would laugh his big laugh, and I would smile in appreciation. This was a man who would someday run a newsroom, a kind man who would make the tough calls but never resort to drinking whiskey behind closed doors. This man would not have a heart-attack at forty-five. He would make time for a family, friends, a life, but still have a fabulous career. And I was attracted to all of that. Not that Hunky Mike cared. He was already dating his future Lovely Wife. They had met at a bar and bonded over a brutal Red Sox loss against the Phillies. I never believed that, as Miss California, she cared one bit about the Red Sox, but her bright smile, flowing blond hair and low-cut tops managed to convince Hunky Mike that she was a devout fan who worshipped at the altar of Nomar.

My other friends and I rolled our eyes at her obvious beauty, but Hunky Mike fell for it all. I had thought better of him, but I had also thought that at some point he might realize his mistake and knock on my apartment door, declaring his undying love for my wire-frame glasses, colorful clothing, too-long pink scarf, always messy hair and crooked smile.

He never did any such thing. Instead, we all graduated. He and Lovely Wife moved to Oregon, got married in a lavish ceremony and settled into life in hip, quirky, just where I wanted to be Portland.

I moved back home to Elk Grove, California, refused to apply for anything even remotely close to a job in Journalism, and found myself working in an office in downtown Sacramento. Three years later, I’m still here. Sometimes I get almost motivated enough to apply for another job, but something always holds me back and I stay here. They pay me well. They train me to do new and exciting things like train other people how to do new and exciting things. Plus, it’s fun to watch the women’s eyes bug out of their heads when I wear a new pair of leopard print heels, or successfully sashay down the hall in a new silk skirt. This job has nothing to do with journalism, but it has everything to do with people watching.

The morning passes uneventfully, and I have yet to respond to Hunky Mike.

I take off for lunch, meet my friend Dawn, whom I’ve known since high school, at the La Salsa in Downtown Plaza, gossip about people we know who have done strange things.

“Did I tell you that Blonde Gwen almost set herself on fire?”

“What? How?” Dawn volunteers at a fire-arts studio, in her attempt to hone her own art skills. Blonde Gwen is the studio hussy who apparently only volunteered in order to meet artsy guys with tattoos.

“Oh, so she came into the studio with her hair in this, I don’t know, bouffant, style, just full of hairspray. I have no idea how she thought it looked good, but anyway, Her hair was up, and her shirt was down to there, and I guess she got distracted, because she walked under a fire pipe, and you could just smell burning right away.”

“What, burning hair?”

“Yeah!”

“But I thought she almost set herself on fire.” I swivel the straw in my ice tea absentmindedly, trying to piece together all aspects of Blonde Gwen’s accident.

“Hold on.”

“Okay, I’ll be patient.”

“Not your strongest suit,” Dawn pushed her long, pink-highlighted hair out of her eyes, “Anyway, so we all start pointing and jumping up and down, because if we try to talk, we’ll start laughing. Eventually, she crinkles up her nose and starts screaming. She puts her hands, complete with French tipped nails, up to the top of her hairdo, feels around, and then…get this…LIFTS OFF the hair. I almost died laughing. She had her real hair in a bun underneath. She had put FAKE hair on to come to the studio. It was hilarious.”

“I’ll bet she didn’t think so.”

“Oh, no. So, she’s looking around for a bucket of water to dunk this…this…wig into, and she opens up her eyes all wide and terrified, and says, ‘Doesn’t anyone have any water, this is a fire studio for crying out loud. You’d think there’d be some water nearby’”

“Wait, I’ve been there. Aren’t there buckets of water all around, and then extinguishers on the wall?”

“Yes, exactly. So, she’s screaming, but there’s a bucket right next to her. Finally, Jason, you remember Jason, he’s the one who always wears a leather jacket” I nod “Yeah, so Jason comes over and says, Gwen, there’s a bucket on your left, you can put your cat in there.”

“He said, ‘cat’?”

“And she didn’t even notice. She just batted her fake eyelashes and said, ‘Oh, thank you, Jason, I couldn’t have done it without you. It. Was. Disgusting.” Dawn takes a breath, “So, what’s going on with you.”

I tell her about the e-mail from Mike, and she nods at appropriate places, “So, what are you going to do? I mean, I’d miss you, but Tracy, you have GOT to get out of here. You’ve been home way too long.”

Opportunity

2006-07-20T08:33:00.000-07:00

Today, I'm starting a new story. It's brand new, and even I don't know how it ends. I hope that you enjoy it...if you have suggestions for how I can improve it (or if you have compliments :Þ), please leave a comment. Stay tuned for future installments.

When I wake up in the morning, I have a million thoughts in my head, ideas about how I’ll save the world, fix my life, find love and otherwise bring happiness to all. By the time I’ve fully woken up, eaten my bowl of Raisin Bran, dressed in something appropriate for work and climbed into my Ford Explorer, all of the ideas are gone. That can’t be a good thing.

I arrived this morning to a virtually empty office. Apparently, everyone else had something better to do than go to work. So, I turned on my computer, and low and behold, I found a job offer. This wasn’t even a job offer from one of those crazy African businessmen who want to put money into my bank account. It was a true to life change of scenery, staring at me from my perky Dell computer.

Of course, at that point, people began to arrive. Coworkers stared at my bright orange shirt (maybe it wasn’t actually appropriate office attire), my boss smiled and said, “Hi Tracy.”

I nodded back and stared at the e-mail on my screen. Someone thought that I, Tracy Margaret Lakofsky, would make a great stringer for a newspaper in Santa Barbara. The pay was the same as my own, but I would live in SANTA BARBARA instead of the steady, boring pace that is Elk Grove.

Since the day had just begun and since I’d cleared my desk of work the previous evening, I allowed myself the opportunity to consider the possibility of responding to this e-mail from a former J-school classmate. My school chum Mike didn’t like the idea of packing up his home and moving from Portland to Santa Barbara, but he remembered I had once talked of a love of Southern California one freezing cold night in Boston, and he remembered reading my work in the student newspaper. Now, what I could have really used was a date with hunky, Italian Mike, but I didn’t think that Lovely Wife, a former Miss California, would approve. So, I settled for a sudden and random job offer.

Mike couldn’t offer me the job directly, but he had been asked to find someone else for the position. Everyone else from our class had settled into professional journalism careers or left the field entirely. So, he thought of me. I paused, trying to decide whether I was offended or exhilarated that I was sort of a last option. I went with exhilarated at the opportunity and breezed through a couple of websites, searching for housing opportunities in Santa Barbara. Could I afford to live there? Would I really want to?

Another co-worker, dressed to the nines in a long denim skirt, Keds and a baggy t-shirt, stopped by my desk to mention that the copier had run out of toner. I told her that I would let the appropriate person know, ignoring the fact that the appropriate person sat on the other side of the office from me, a mere two desks away from this woman. The e-mail from hunky Mike sparkled at me from the screen, all the more appealing after this little reminder that my career had not exactly taken a direct path to success.

Rather then get lost in the Internet as I searched for a new life in Santa Barbara, I stood up, stretched my legs, and went to check the mail. My office is a long, rectangular floor of a two story building. My desk is at the opposite end of everything, far from the copier, the mail slots…the exit. I work as a secretary, and there are days when I hate every minute of it. If my job were as humorous as it is for the characters of “The Office,” I wouldn’t mind it as much, but it’s not. It’s deadly boring. My desk is a vast waste of wood, I don’t even get a cubicle, because I work directly for the president of the company. That means that unlike my co-workers, I cannot cover a bulletin board with pictures of my children and dogs, funny quotes from comic strips or flyers announcing department potlucks. I have no privacy, and I wonder each day how I wound up here.

I check the mail, grab the envelopes for my boss and walk back to my lonely desk. A few coworkers smile as I pass in the hall, but most have their attention fixed to their computers. Maybe they all got job offers from Hunky Mike today.

A Final Bit of Pondering

2006-07-18T08:18:00.000-07:00

I give into the stress and decide to talk to my mom about the next steps in my career. I give into the loneliness and decide to call the man of my dreams just one more time. One time is all I’ll allow myself before I officially cross the line into crazy girl. If this can become a relationship, then one of the big questions will answer itself. I won’t move if I’m in a happy relationship. I won’t mess with success by moving to a brand-new state and setting up shop.

I know inside that this one phone call is simply a way to delay my decisions, to delay the possibility that I may not have a shot at a happy life with this man.

But delay is the solution right now, and delay is right at home in my fantasy world.

I pick up the phone and dial his number.

Still Pondering

2006-07-13T10:29:00.000-07:00

Three years ago, I moved home to straighten myself out, to recover from eight months of “finding myself” in grad school in Boston and Los Angeles, to pay back an inordinate amount of student loans and to remind myself why it’s best to not shoot for the moon or the stars. Three years is a long time, though, and I think I’m sufficiently healed and should move on to something new. I thought I could stick it out when I met the man I thought was the one I’d been dreaming about all my life. After three weeks of him not calling and me somehow still convincing him to ask me out until he finally just stopped responding to e-mail, I realized that the real man of my dreams won’t need convincing in order to spend time with me. But his appearance in my life at a particularly crucial time led me to the belief that I could stay here and be happy. His departure has spurred me into another one of my “itching to leave” phases, but this time, I’m not sure how to handle it.

I’ve already finished grad school.

I’ve already fled to Boston and returned merely with a newfound ability to say, “I lived in Boston.”

I could flee to New York, but I think that might actually kill my mother, and when I returned from Boston, I vowed never to never again try to kill her with my leaving.

So, do I wait this one out? Do I hope that the people who keep insisting that they’ll hire me will actually hire me? Do I forget my newly minted degree and try for a new career and move to the city that’s an hour away from home but light years away from living at home?

Neither the drive home nor my walk up the driveway provides enough time to properly answer these questions.

But I’m 25. My back hurts. My shoulders are tense. I have a headache, and I think I’m getting way too stressed out about making these kinds of life decisions. Why can’t someone else make them for me? I haven’t done such a hot job so far, so why must I continue to be the person who screws it all up?

Pondering Some More

2006-07-11T09:27:00.000-07:00

It’s five o’clock on a Wednesday evening, and I’m driving home to my parent’s house. I’m nearing 26, and I live at home. Every time I think of it, it makes me sick. I don’t feel ill at the thought of seeing my parents. No, I feel nauseous at the thought of an empty adulthood looming before me.

It’s five o’clock on a Wednesday evening in September. I’m almost 26. I live at home. I have a ridiculous and boring life. Every day, I stare at a computer screen and pretend to be busy. Every boy I date starts out by asking what I do for fun, and I want to yell at him across the table of whatever hole-in-the-wall restaurant they have chosen to impress my quirky sensibility, “Fun? What do I do for fun? Why do you think I’m dating!?! My life is boring, and I expect you to perk it up a bit. What do I do for fun? I have no idea.” Instead, I spew forth my regular assortment of hobbies. I cook. I dance, but not in any choreographed way. I take long walks with my dogs.

I have such a long list of things that only barely entertain me that I inevitably leave off one or two of the few things that genuinely capture my attention. The boy across the table, probably wearing a polo shirt, and also probably wearing glasses, will then detail his own life, and suddenly, I’ll realize that we have an interest in common. “Hiking?! I love hiking, too,” except now it sounds like a desperate plea for a second date instead of the full-blown interest it actually is. Again, I want to shout at the poor guy, “Oh, fun!? I didn’t realize you meant actual fun. Oh, for fun, I go hiking. I love to hike. I love to smell the flowers, feel the heat, swat at the bugs. Really, I love it. I just wish I could find someone to go with me.” Instead, what comes out is, “Oh, yeah, I like to hike to. I forgot.” And I sound like a ditz. The smart girl inside of me cringes, and the smart guy across the table visibly attempts to stop his eyes from rolling. Usually, he’s successful.

It’s five o’clock on a Wednesday evening, and oddly enough, I’m looking forward to an evening spent preparing for tomorrow’s dinner. I found a recipe today for a cake that requires advance preparation. Luckily, it’s a cake made out of crepes, so I can pass it off as a family dinner. I’ve taken to cooking for my family at least once a week. It’s my feeble attempt to prepare for my married life, whenever that should finally get around to happening.

At five o’clock on a Wednesday evening in September, I don’t turn the air conditioning on in my car, because I like the feel of the warm sun on my bare arms. I have always loved that first moment in a hot car after hours spent in a building full of cold, canned air. Luckily, my office and its regular use of air conditioning allows me the opportunity to retain this childhood fascination with a hot car.

The fifteen minute drive back to my parents’ house gives me just enough time to listen to some music and get over hating my job. Well, get over the concept of hating my job, because I don’t really hate my job. Rather, I hate that it isn’t another job, the job I actually want, deserve, and for which I have been educated and trained. But then, I’ve always had a problem accepting my lot in life, not that I do anything about it. Each day, when I make this drive, I somehow manage to convince myself simultaneously of the facts that I have screwed up my life and that I can do nothing to fix it.

Did I mention that I am 25, live at home, cannot afford to move anywhere, have no boyfriend and am incredibly boring and bored? Of course, anyone with an ounce of intelligence could have figured out the last two long before this point.

Today, I spent about half an hour looking at apartments on Craigslist. I look at apartments in my state, in New York City and in Washington, D.C. During that half an hour, I reassured myself that life is no better anywhere else. That I can no sooner afford to live in my hometown than I can on the East Coast. I did not look at apartments in Boston, because I’ve already lived in Boston, and no one wants to see me repeat that mistake.

Yes, all of this goes through my mind in the fifteen measly minutes I have to myself after I leave work and before I pull into my driveway and begin the quarter-lifer’s version of the second-shift. I don’t have kids to care for, nor do I really have dinner to make (that’s a volunteer job). What I do have to do is put on a happy face for my parents, feed my pets and try not to make my mother cry.

In the time it takes to walk from my now-air-conditioning-cooled sedan to the ice-box cool house, I have tried to wash out of my mind the questions, statements and concerns that will bring tears to her eyes. I vow to avoid talking of moving out, of the collapse of my most recent romantic interlude, of finding a new job, of anything that even remotely relates to getting on with my life.

Pondering, Part 1

2006-07-06T10:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve reached that point in my life, again, where I don’t really exist in the present reality. When I’m sitting at my desk, typing a memo, answering the phone or doing whatever it is that a secretary should do, I’m not really there. Instead, I’m pondering a life that includes dreams fulfilled instead of dreams deferred. Fear keeps me from pursuing my dreams, but when I really stop to think about those dreams, they fly away and I’m left with vague remembrances of walking up a flight of stairs in an old Victorian, interviewing an author for a magazine article or catching the red eye to New York City.

This is not a good place for me to be. I need something to entertain me. Someone please entertain me. Give me a vacation to plan, a boy to kiss, a dinner to make. I need something solid to do, or else my mind will take me places everyone I know would rather it did not go. My mind will take me away, and it will take a long time to get me to return.

Maybe Grandma was right. Maybe I do live in a fantasy world.

Breathing Room

2006-07-05T09:02:00.000-07:00

Matchbox 20. Anne Lamott. Other people, I'm sure. They've all talked about needing breathing room. Whether or not I want it, I've got plenty of it, at least when it comes to him.

Our relationship is so slow moving that I haven't heard from him in a week.

So slow moving in fact, that I would be delusional to think that we even have a relationship.

But I can't hate him. I'd really rather hate him. It would be so much easier to hate him.

Funny

2006-07-03T08:31:00.000-07:00

"It's funny," she said.

"What's funny?," said her friend.

"That I could have gone my whole life not even knowing that he's out there, but now that I know, it just ticks me off that he doesn't like me."

"So, not so much funny 'ha ha' as funny in the Alanis Morissette 'Ironic' kind of way."

"Yeah, it's like meeting the man of your dreams, and then realizing you're not his type."

Hurt Me

2006-06-29T14:03:00.000-07:00

If you're going to leave,
make it mean.

Tell me what you don't like about me.
Tell me why you don't want me.

Make it hurt.
Kick me in the stomach with your words.

If you don't hurt me,
then I can't hate you.

If I can't hate you,
I can't get over you.

You Exist

2006-06-27T10:51:00.000-07:00

That night was the first time I saw you.

That night was the first time I stood beside you.

It felt like we were already a couple.

I had to remind myself that we weren't,
that you already had someone in your life.

But it was enough that you exist.
Your presence in the world gave me hope.

There was at least one man in the world who
Could somehow make me feel more like myself.

I didn't have to be with you.
I just felt better knowing you were there.

But now you're here.

If you're not going to stay, I'd rather you'd never have come.

I was content to know you exist.

That was enough.

When I Loved You

2006-04-02T19:09:00.000-07:00

I have tried to convince myself for so many years
That I didn't love you at all.

The words would flow through my mind over and over again:
"You didn't really love him."
"If you loved him, then what does that say about love?"

But it's true.
I loved you.

I have to respect who I was at 17 enough to admit it.
I loved you.

Maybe I shouldn't have.
Maybe you weren't worth it
Maybe you did break my heart.

But I did love you.

It's true you left me first.
It's true you didn't love me.
But I knew it the first time I saw you smile,
waiting for me outside of that grand marble building on campus.

That smile, and no one else's since, made me feel
Like there was no one in the world but the two of us.

And so, I loved you.

And I've waited to feel that again,
All these years passing without loving someone else.

I tried.
I really did.
I told another boy that I loved him.
But I didn't.

And I don't love you anymore,
But I did.

And for now, that's enough.

The Truth Is

2006-03-01T09:40:00.000-08:00

The fact of the matter.
The bottom line.
The truth is.
I might leave you.

No matter who you are
Or how much you love me
I might run away
If I don't love you enough.

I have a wild streak,
A need to fly,
A wish to run,
A desire to flee.

If you get caught up in that,
and if you're better than me
at staying,
I apologize in advance.

I've never stayed in one place too long,
and staying with you forever
Might be more than I can handle.

I just thought you should know,
before you even meet me,
that there will be times
When I want to go away from you.

You can't possibly love me enough to make me stay,
but you can love me enough to let me return.

Completely Clear

2006-02-16T13:50:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I can see my life with perfect clarity. When I walked up the stairs to my suburban office after lunch this afternoon, I could feel myself walking up a narrow staircase into an apartment building, going into an apartment with hardwood floors and lots of light, turning around and carefully locking my six locks. I could feel myself living in a city.

Earlier, as I contemplated applying for my dream job, I saw myself falling in love with an author, moving to Connecticut, having some adorable, blonde children and living my life with joy. I feel the silk of my blouses, the soft cotton of my pants, that worn-in leather of my Manalo Blahnik heels. In my hand, I clutch a Coach briefcase of the softest tan-colored leather. I'm wearing my cream colored coat from Banana Republic. Am I a walking commercial? No, I'm living my life the way I want to live it.

What I have now is not a life. It's getting by. Now, don't get me wrong. I have a life when I'm not at work. I have a family who I love and who loves me back. I have friends I adore but who always make me feel slightly out of place.

I've never belonged here. I have made friends but eventually alienate them when I prove less like them than originally anticipated. I was born into the lower-middle class and have moved with my parents to the middle-middle. Eventually, I plan to be upper-middle or upper class, feeling no guilt at living in comfort but remaining Catholic enough to give away a great deal of my income. I will wear crisp suits and feminine dresses that hug my waist and accentuate my best features.

Yes, I'll admit it, though it shames me to say it. I often feel too good for the life I live here, too educated, too smart, too talented...I know enough to know that I deserve better.

Coming Into the Light

2006-02-11T22:11:00.000-08:00

I went to a big college because I would be anonymous. Wandering the tree-lined campus as an undergrad, I felt part of history. I felt as thought I'd actually stood on Sproul Steps during the Free Speech Movement. There were days when I could hear the voices of the protestors in the 1960's. Those words echoing through history, filling my hopeful mind.

Of course, anonymity meant that I didn't really make my own contribution to the fabled and famed history of my university. But I was there. I became a part of that tradition just be being there.

Now, I don't want to just be there. I want to matter and make a difference. I want to do more than type memos and send faxes. I want my voice to be heard. I want to have a voice.

Invisible

2005-02-23T09:56:00.000-08:00

We want to live where we will be seen, where people will recognize our faces and smile and nod at us as we pass. Perhaps we will be familiar to someone on the brick lined streets of Boston or the secret roads of Savannah, who knows?

We don't even know if we really want to be seen. It's simply less painful to be invisible in a new place, a place where no one knows us, than invisible in a place where we've lived for more than twenty years.

"Norah? Now, do you spell that with an 'h' or an 'a'?" She asks, perfect blonde ponytail bobbing slightly with the question. She runs the center and must appear professional at all times.

"With an 'h." It's not as though my family has been involved in this center for just under fifteen years.

"I'm Cindy!"

"Yes, I know. We've met before." Several times, in fact, over the last fifteen years.

"Oh, we have? I don't remember." She shakes her boot-clad foot and turns her attention to the mess of papers on her wooden desk.

"It's okay." I smooth back my flyaway waves.

"Alright." Cindy eyes me skeptically. She thinks I'm lying, believes, instead, that I've never actually set foot in the center before today, despite the fact that I've volunteered for two months, went through another month of training, and have been here many times over the years.

It hurts to be invisible. It's easy to tell myself that this one person does not matter, but it's not one person. It's the pastor at church who isn't quite sure he knows Daddy, despite the fact that they are knights together. He always calls him, "Hey!" We've been parishisoners since 1981. Clearly not long enough. The church was founded in 1979 afterall. We must have missed the boat.

Still, there are times, like this morning, when I stepped outside at 9:30 on a sunny winter (almost spring) day and felt all the other 9:30 in the mornings fill me up. I remember Easter mornings with egg hunts, my little fingers poking through the raspberry bushes, hoping to find the last egg so I can go in and eat some nice, soft waffles. At 9:30 this morning, I felt Thanksgiving and waking up to prepare bread in front of the fire. At 9:30 this morning, I felt all those summer days spent running barefoot through my backyard, with a history of dogs playing beside me, tails wagging in circles. I am filled with 9:30 in the morning.

9:30 would be hard to relinquish.

A New Story

2005-02-14T11:16:00.000-08:00

This week, I begin something new.

I fled the suburbs with the rest of the rats. We flee this sinking ship of a town on Saturday nights, hoping to find ourselves somewhere else.

I drove out of town, singing along to my familiar cd as I passed the wretched lights of the car dealerships, the intrusive purple of the movie theater. I needed something more than this place could offer me.

Everyone knows it. Everyone talks about it. Only the police have yet to come to terms with the decrepit state of our town. Decrepit may be too strong of a word, but is somehow captures my extreme distaste for walking downtown or for driving that stretch of road over by K-Mart.

Can I leave for real? Can I do more than escape to the comforting lights of the big city on Saturday night.

Cozy beside my friends in a house with a view overlooking the sparkling bay, I want to leave so badly it hurts. I want to take my family and my dreams and go where we can live how we want.

How do we want to live?

Pictures

2005-01-26T18:37:00.000-08:00

Mommy decided that she wanted to take me to see my doctor. I've always liked Doctor Flannigan. She has bright red hair and always talks about her kids. She has a lot of them.

I don't know what it's like to have brothers and sisters, and I've stopped wondering. Everytime I would say something like, "Oh, if I had a big brother, would he play baseball with me when Daddy's at work?" or "Mommy, if there were a baby in the house, would I have to clean up after her?," Mommy would look said. Her eyes would well up, and she would say, "I'm sorry, Misha, but it's just you."

That's another way I know I'm special. I got picked out by God to come here and be with Mommy and Daddy.

"Misha, are you ready to go?"

Mommy made the appointment for early today. I just showed her my spots yesterday, and already I'm going to the doctor. Luckily, it's Easter vacation, so I won't miss school. I like school. I like looking at all the books on the shelves in the classroom with their blue spines and their curly que letters, and I like knowing that I've read them already. Last year, my teacher and Mommy had a long time, and the teacher finally agreed to let me take fifth grade reading. We're reading A Wrinkle in Time, and the fourth graders are reading Old Yeller. Considering what the books are about, I guess I'm lucky. I never had to read Old Yeller. Do you know that a dog dies in that book? I don't like reading about anyone - especially Mommies, Daddies, dogs or cats, dying. It gives me a pain in my heart.

"Misha!"

"I'm coming, Mommy!"

As I run down the hallway, I trip over my right foot as the ankle gives way.

"Oof!"

"Misha! Are you okay?" Mommy is right next to me. I feel a surge of anger.

"I'm fine! Let's just go, okay?" Tears sting my eyes, and I don't know why. It's just an ankle. I think it's the look on Mommy's face. She looks scared.

Touched

2005-01-19T18:28:00.000-08:00

Mommy doesn't like the flower on my knee. This morning she said, "Misha, what's that on your leg?"

"It's a circle of flower petals, Mommy!"

"Oh really. Let me see."

Mommy leaned in and then jumped up with a start.

"What's wrong, Mommy?"

She asked me if the bruises hurt.

"Bruises? They're not bruises. It's another place where God touched me to show that I'm special."

I think Mommy might think I'm a little but crazy, like the big, bald man in yellow pants and a purple shirt who shouts out how much he loves Jesus on the corner by Toys R Us. I know that other ten year olds might not believe that God is in them quite so much as I do, but I have to believe it. I'm a miracle child. That's what Mommy and Daddy tell me.

"You shouldn't even have been put in Mommy's tummy." Daddy says, smiling in Mommy's general direction.

"That's right! You were scheduled to be at that conference in New York that weekend."

"But he wasn't, right, Mommy?"

"Right, Misha."

Then, I burst into the world two months early. That's what Granny says. She says it like I did something wrong, like I should have been more patient.

I think I knew that I needed to get here, needed to be part of this family as soon as I could.

"Misha? Do you have bruises anywhere else?"

"No, Mommy."

"Are you sure?"

I tell her that I am, but I lift up my shirt to show her the raised red dots on my stomach.

"Oh!" Mommy reaches out a finger and barely touches me. I think she's afraid she'll hurt me.

"Does it itch, Misha?"

"No, Mommy. It's just God touching me."

Perfect Circles

2005-01-18T18:00:00.000-08:00

There are perfect circles around my knee. Little greenish brown spots. They're very pretty. The circles make me feel like the teenagers with spiky black hair and rings in their ears. The green circles are my tatoo.

The ring of circles makes me rubbery knee cap the center of a flower. My kneecaps float when I pop them out. I like to gross people out that way. Not everyone can move their kneecaps. It relaxes me when I'm sitting in Mrs. Jones spelling class, bored out of my mind. I just reach down, pushing my red and green plaid skirt out of the way and push my knee around. I know that I'm going to have a bad night when my knees won't move when I try to push them.

But the circles are new. I don't know anything about them. I push on them to see if they give-in, like the little bubble on my elbow.

Nothing happens. My thumb leaves an imprint, but that fades before I can examine the mark.

Perfect green circles.

Maybe I'm marked by aliens.

I bet that's it. I have four freckles around my the top of my arm. Four freckles right in a row. All of them the same size.

Mommy says I'm meant for something important. She said that when I lost my first tooth six years ago, when I was only four. My friends were so jealous when I showed them the stickers and the bright quarters left under my pillow at kindergarten the next day. No one else had gotten anything from the toothfairy yet. But I had. Like Mommy says, I'm special.

These green circles are just another example of that.

An Introduction

2005-01-04T18:09:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me after months of fruitless attempts to market my creative writing that I might try another way.

Even if this blog only serves to entertain or inspire a few readers, then I will have accomplished more than I can by letting my stories sit on a computer, unread.

Please be patient with me. I am used to sharing my stories only with publishing houses and magazines - organizations that have shown little interest up this point. Putting my fiction out on the internet - now that takes heart (at least that's what I tell myself).

This is not a "day in the life" kind of blog. If you're interested in that aspect of me, please visit Pink Cereal and Raspberries.

My goals with 65WPM©:

· To post at least a portion of a short story, book chapter, or poem every week.
· To improve my writing skills.
· To reach a welcoming audience.
· To find some constructive criticism.

Thank you and welcome aboard!