I'm Not Your Girlfriend

           

            If I was your girlfriend I would wax your eyebrow into two. I would make you shower daily and make you change your clothes too. I would pick you out a cologne so I could recognize your scent. I would make you move out of your parents’ basement, and pay your own rent. 

            If I was your girlfriend, I would inform you that sepia tone is through. Nobody wants to see 800 “old fashioned”, self-portrait profile pictures of you. I would tell you to stop quoting others, because your thoughts are as good as theirs.  If van Gogh had only painted Da Vinci, he might have never cut off his ear. 

            If I was your girlfriend, I would tell you to make a move. I would tell you that cleverly slipping my name into lyrics wasn’t actually enough to prove. I would tell you that you were right when you suspected the hidden meaning of the song I sent to you. You were right, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t right of me to say I’d only sent it to cheer you up (you had the flu). 

            I am not your girlfriend for many of the same reasons stated above. Your hair was greasy, your eyebrows too few; your self-portraits too serious, and your confidence too new. It didn’t match my fairytale to be the one to take the initiative. It didn’t match my fairytale to have to coax, and prod, and tease to reassure you that I was there. You never spoke to me first. You didn’t trust my affection for you, and then I didn’t either. You were just a boy with a guitar with songs that spoke for you. But I wish you had actually spoken those words. I wish you’d looked at me and said “Hey, You! I really like you!”

            I was the one who said we couldn’t talk anymore. I could see where we were headed, and I could hear the whispers of your friends. I knew I couldn’t give you what you wanted, so I cut it short. I miss talking to you. I miss daydreaming about you. Though, I don’t miss your brother’s condescending looks, and his idea that I was corrupting you.

            I knew I had to hurt you, but I tried to do it in the quickest and gentlest way possible. I knew I couldn’t linger -  as much as I wanted to. I hope you don’t resent me. I pray you saw my purpose. For what it’s worth, I still carry with me the feeling from that night with the fireworks while we listened to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s “What a Wonderful World” with one earbud in my ear, and the other one in yours.

Bah bah, bah nah nah, bah bah

                I have a favorite Uncle. I know it’s wrong to play favorites, but this one is mine. My Dad has always been close to his youngest sister, and subsequently we as a family have always been close to her and her husband- my Uncle Gerry. It wasn’t just this familial connection that made him my favorite, it was his attitude towards life and towards us kids. He would talk to me and my sisters about what we were doing, our hobbies and interests, the boys we liked and the ones who liked us. He would take us for drives in his car and play the first five seconds of Shania Twain’s “Man! I feel  like a Woman” over and over and over again to our hearts content.  He laughed big, he cooked big, he played big. When they came to our house it was nothing but eating and laughing. Sometimes the laughter wasn’t voluntary as we were tackled into a massive attack of tickles – but they were always the best of times. 

                When I was twelve  years old my Grandma was making the whole extended family take a formal picture together. I had bought a special dress, and applied my recently purchased metallic pink eyeshadow, and I had curled my bangs with a big barreled curler: the recipe for a knock out ensemble. I remember that morning feeling like nothing was coming together like I had imagined. My eyeshadow didn’t make my eyes sparkle like it was supposed to, my curler put a kink in my bangs that ruined the perfectly cylinder effect, and my pale yellow floral dress with a criss-cross back felt too clingy and awkward on my developing body. I had done the best I could with my limited beauty knowledge, and so with a resentful glance, I stalked out onto the porch to wait for the rest of the family. My Uncle Gerry was out there as well, and I’ll never forget the way he looked at me and said, “You look very beautiful” even as I fiddled with the aura of my bangs self-consciously.  That family picture still haunts me in my Grandmother’s hallway (an excruciating reminder of those tender preteen years), but that day I felt beautiful; because my Uncle Gerry had said so.

                This Christmas has been a rude awakening to the truth of my Aunt and Uncle’s marital relationship. There have been lies, abuse, too much drunkenness, and scores of debt – all thanks to my favorite Uncle. I guess he’s a scoundrel. I probably won’t ever see him again. I can’t justify these things that he has done to my Aunt, because I love my Aunt as well. It is too bad it took her this long to stand up for herself, and it is too bad that even after all this time my Uncle hasn’t figured out how to honestly be the man that we all love and believe him to be. I will miss him; probably because as a kid and his niece, he treated me as he should have treated my Aunt- with respect, affection, love, and a sense of fun.  I wish I knew that he’d come around, and all would be well again. I want to know that there will be a day when we can laugh like we always did.  Most of all I want to jump in the back of his car, roll down the windows and yell with the confidence and gusto of Shania, “Let’s go girls!” and really believe that everything in life will always be as simple as that joy. 

                                           Man! I Feel Like a Woman  - Shania Twain

Fixed to Ruin - Sam Roberts

We're All Gonna Get in a Fight!

                There are many things that may age you; even more that are classified with “coming of age”. Two weekends ago I think I experienced both those things. First on Saturday, I saw my first fight up close with the blood and sweat and petty emotions. On Sunday I almost got in my first fight – petty emotions also included. For a girl who spends a large chunk of her Saturday nights with a stack of books and successive bowls of mint chocolate ice cream, this was an eventful weekend – and did I mention I turned 21 on the Sunday?

 But I have used my old trick of giving you a taste of the punch line with no story (this is how I rope my brother into my “boy problems” stories). Well, it all came about because that weekend was indeed Halloween weekend. I may not be one to party hardy but I will take any excuse to dress up, and it seems as the years go on those opportunities become fewer and farther between.  So Saturday night was the big party in the city I live in. Hundreds of people come out to what is called the “Monster Mash”, usually already drunk and ready to become even more so in attempts to seduce one of those slutty fairies, fish, elves, pumpkins, cats, giraffes, angels, etc (really, the list wouldn’t end. There were even three slutty deviled eggs).  I am consistently sober in these intoxicated situations, but I have a rule that if I am not having fun sober that I should not be there. So at 11:30 p.m., I wasn’t having fun and I was sitting outside waiting for my ride dressed as an Escaped Barbie (with the wires on like I had ripped from the box – it was funnier in person). Not twelve inches from where I was sitting, two guys who looked to be friends were suddenly in negotiations of who was going to throw the first punch.  The one guy claimed to not know what the fight was about, but he also didn’t walk away. As I quickly collected my Barbie accessories and shuffled to the side, fists were shoved into faces, knees into crotches, elbows into ribs, and then a guy was down and getting blood and spit pounded out of his face. Luckily I had attracted two other guys while sitting outside (nothing like a dressed up single girl all alone that brings out the heroic in the inebriated) who eventually ran over and separated the others.  My ride showed up within the next five minutes and I went to bed thinking that fights in real life look just like they do in the movies.

The next day was my birthday, and that night I went to a concert by Sam Roberts with my sister and some pals. We made sure we were there early and rushed to be at the very front, right by the stage. Half-way through “Fixed to Ruin” my sister and friend were slammed into me with a look of apologetic shock on their faces.  Two verses later the same guy was leaning all his weight on my friend as she tried to push back. I like to think I am a relatively peaceful person. In high school I heard it said that people knew they had done something really wrong if I was angry about it. I like to live up to that reputation. On that note, I must have been born with a justice complex; and in that moment when some sweaty, drunk, long-haired dude was impressing his weight on the passive back of my friend - I had had enough. So I shoved him back into his group of slobbering friends, and when he rammed into us again I pushed him right back. The effectiveness of this strategy is questionable, but every time he would lurch forward and fly into us, I would use all the strength I had to fly him away from us again. You might say, “Well, what did you expect being in the front?”, but it wasn’t that everyone was moshing and we were the only ones wanting to chastely bob to the music; it was only that guy and his two bleary eyed friends who continued to disrespect the people around them by attacking them in their drunken fervor. In my opinion, I paid for the ticket (or rather, my Mom did as a birthday present. Thanks, Mom) and I should be able to enjoy the concert from wherever and in whatever fashion I choose. Those guys have the same right,  if they wanted to thrash around dancing, that’s their prerogative; when they start moving out of their own space and wrecking the experience for others – that’s when I get mad.

It’s a funny thing when you express your anger in aggressive actions. I can see why people get into fights and like fights. Every time that that guy slammed me forward, my shove back was stronger. and with more impact, and more satisfaction in some deep part of me. Maybe it had just been a couple of rough weeks with a lot of stresses that I could not control, and this was just transferred anger; but by the end of the concert my mind was daring this wreck of a guy to push me one more time – ONE MORE TIME. I wanted to throw a punch. I wanted to mess him up.

Well, maybe it was divine providence, or maybe I really did intimidate him enough that he wasn’t going to bother us anymore. Either way, the last five songs of Sam Roberts we were able to enjoy at our own pace. I was glad that I had finally “won”, but still pretty annoyed that I had to spend the majority of this experience bracing myself against attacks and distractions from the wonder and thrill of live music.  I was surprised at myself for wanting to get in a fight so bad - maybe in the end I wanted to teach humanity a lesson, but honestly, it would have sufficed to just teach that one drunk a lesson. 

Next time.

And His Hair was...PERFECT!

“So, my policy is mostly just do what I do, and try and make sure my hair always looks good,”

                I would put these words of my wiser friend in my “Words to Live By” feature, but it’s too good a quote not to discuss. There is so little control in life. Right now I am sitting at home with a mountain of homework, and a blaring cold that is refusing to get better. No control over that. BUT- even in the midst of the most blazing of blaring colds, you can still make sure your head is perfectly coiffed. That is some control. Minimal, but sometimes just enough control to hurl us onwards towards whatever it is that we keep desperately trying to catch up with. I am a person with real dreams, but no real strategy. All I can do is, “…just do what I do….” which may not seem like much, but at the end of the day when my picture is taken for the Archives of Anonymity, at least my hair will look darn good.

                                          Werewolves of London - Warren Zevon

Completely Honest with No Agenda

Boy: What character are you working on from Canterbury Tales?

Me: The Wife of Bath, there seems to be a lot to talk about with her, so it should be good.

Boy: Cool, we should work on ours together.

Me: That sounds fun! Sure! Uh.. I’m just going to mention, in case you were thinking of something – maybe you weren’t- but if you were, uh,  I should just mention-

Boy: Yea?

Me: …I’m not entirely normal.

Boy: (Internally “Wah-Oh”)

Me: Not, like, clinically “not normal”, it’s just that if we hang out now, and then we hang out again, then you might- after a certain amount of hanging out- decide that you feel things for me…I might have even thought in the course of that time that I feel things for you too. But, I can guarantee that as soon as you exhibit any feelings whatsoever, my own thoughts (whatever they were) will vanish; and I will run, not walk, in the opposite direction. I don’t know why. I haven’t psycho-analyzed it, but I have detected a pattern. So, if you have any fluttering thoughts beyond just friends right now, here is your fair warning. 

Boy:  ….

I wonder if this would be effective in real life, or if I can only be this honest in my daydreams.

That's Poppycock!

As promised, here is my Aunt's wonderfully addictive recipe for caramel coated popcorn confection, aka, Poppycock! I make a big bowl of this and munch on it all week (or for as long as it lasts...) whilst studying!


Shari's Poppycock

8 cups popped corn
1 cup roasted pecans


Melt:
1 cup butter (1/2 lb.)
1 cup sugar (brown sugar works well)
1/2 cup white corn syrup (or regular is fine too)

Boil 5 to 10 minutes until it starts to form a ball in pot. Stir the entire time. Remove from heat. Add 1 tsp. vanilla. Mix all together and ENJOY!