tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-100950692024-03-23T14:24:54.394-04:00Divinities"How about no longer being masochistic
How about remembering your divinity..."
-Alanis Morrisette, <em>Thank U</em>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.comBlogger416125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-20766231668275410782007-01-15T09:48:00.000-05:002007-01-15T09:54:23.996-05:00Letter of ResignationI don't really know how to say this, so I'm just going to come right out with it: I quit.<br /><br />I started this blog two years ago on the advice of a friend, who suggested that, because I love to write, I should get a blog, put what I have out there to be found. And, after much consideration and poking around at other people's blogs, I decided to go ahead and go for it. I didn't tell anyone I knew about it, I just kept it my little secret, a place where I could write every day, twice a day, or not at all. I was proud of myself for keeping it <em>to</em> myself, but when my first comment came, I couldn't contain my joy. I told my parents. And then some friends. And then my boss. And I started mentioning it in conversation. The more people who read it, the better, I reasoned.<br /><br />I won't lie, a piece of me hoped to be one of those blogger-Cinderella stories, where someone would run across my page, see the genius between my lines, and offer me a multi-million dollar book deal. Obviously, the chances of that happening were slim, and as I let go of that possibility, I began to fall in love with the idea of blogging just for the sake of doing it. I met some incredible people, I enjoyed the feedback, I liked that it made me write regularly, something I'd failed to do sans blog.<br /><br />But there was the bad side, too. Anonymous people who accused me of being self-centered and bitchy, judgemental and superficial. People who assaulted my character and my abilities and <em>me</em>. I've cried over comments, to my then-boyfriend, who didn't understand why some stupid comment made by some random person could get me so upset. Later on, I complained to Billy, too, that people could be so mean to me. "If you want to be a writer," he said matter-of-factly, "you're going to have to learn to take criticism. You're going to have to accept that not everyone is going to like you, or your writing." He had a point. And I thought "Okay, I'll toughen up."<br /><br />But it's easier to steel yourself against the wrath of strangers who <em>think</em> they know you, than it is to prepare for the wrath of people you actually know.<br /><br />Turns out, I'm too sensitive to steel myself for much of anything. I pour myself into the words here most times, and someone's misunderstanding of what I've written breaks my heart. I feel the need to explain it, to rectify the inadvertent wrong I've done. But sometimes explaining isn't enough when people feel that you've said something horrible about them. Even when you haven't.<br /><br />So, some people in my real life, Billy included, stopped reading. I offended people I had no intention of offending. I cried over that, too. Because it's one thing when complete strangers hate what you write. It's another thing entirely when it's people who <em>know</em> you.<br /><br />Having <em>always</em> been concious (or so I thought) of other people's feelings, I then started watching what I wrote more closely than ever. I went over each prospective post with a fine-toothed comb, trying to find ways - other than how I intended - that the post could be read. And I had to leave entire chapters of my life out of the blog because I knew I was only playing with fire to write about it. And, before I knew it, the blog just became fluff.<br /><br />From time to time, after writing a really good post and hitting "Save as Draft" instead of "Publish," for fear that someone would be mad at me for talking about something that was completely benign in my book, I started to get bitter. <em>Wait a second, isn't this supposed to be <strong>my </strong>blog? Shouldn't I be able to write about whatever I want to write about? It's about <strong>me</strong>. Shouldn't I have the option to talk about <strong>my</strong> life? </em><br /><br />The answer, apparently, was no.<br /><br />"That blog," I've said about a million times, "is more trouble than it's worth." I'd say that, and then briefly consider quitting. But I always came back to the fact that I love blogging. Love. It. It's the one thing I do for myself. The one thing that I truly enjoy. So I wouldn't quit, I'd just censor myself a little bit more. Try to move past worrying about what other people think and just write. And that would last about three days. Then I'd be right back to worrying again.<br /><br />There are a handful of things I'm dying to write about, but can't. And those are the things that weigh heaviest on my mind, yet I can't write a single word about them. I'm not allowed. Not because I want to say anything nasty about anyone, but because there's bound to be one person out there who would find a way to be offended by it. So I struggle for something else, something less radical, to write about. And what am I left with? Posts about the fact that I have a cold.<br /><br />That's not why I started this blog, and that's not why people read it. I started it and it was read because of posts in which I was completely honest about my neuroses, my insecurities, my fears, my life, my heart. And I stopped writing that way a long time ago. Not because of comments - I guess, in opening up your life on a blog, you're apt to get people who think they know you because they've read a handful of posts - but because of people I actually <em>know</em> who may, somehow, take offense to what I've written. Even though, nine times out of ten, I have no idea how that happens.<br /><br />And now, almost EXACTLY two years after I began it, I'm realizing that I should've stayed anonymous. I should've refrained from telling anyone about it. I should've pretended I had no idea what a blog was. But it's too late, now. And I can't go back and change anything. Here I thought I was sharing a piece of me with everyone I told. I was wrong. No one took it that way. I guess the same way I've made every post relate to me, people who read it can just make it all about them. Even though it's not. It is about me. It was my blog, to write as I wish. But I lost that privelige.<br /><br />So I quit.<br /><br />I'm sick of making excuses for this blog. I'm sick of worrying that I've hurt someone's feelings by writing. I'm sick of not writing because I fear someone will find a way to be offended by it. I'm sick of writing, posting, and then removing things because all I do anymore is second-guess what I've written. I'm sick of staring at the same stupid post on the main page for days because I can't write anything else. I'm sick of not being allowed to write about parts of my life. I'm sick of all of it.<br /><br />This blog was supposed to be about me. Not a tiny sliver of me, padded with safe anecdotes that didn't run the risk of offending anyone. It wasn't supposed to be about what other people thought. It wasn't supposed to foster worry and anger and embarrassment and fighting. It wasn't supposed to make <em><strong>me</strong> </em>feel this way. I'm just sick and tired of making excuses for it, of explaining to every person in my real life who gets pissed at me over it, "It's not about YOU." Because it's not. It never has been. It's always been about ME. Selfish? Sure. But, if I'm not mistaken, this blog is mine. And I'm so tired of explaining that. I'm sick of writing while I'm worried about <em>everyone else's feelings but my own</em>. This was the one place I had in my life to not worry about that. Well, no longer. This blog is just as infested with my desire to make everyone happy as my day-to-day life is. Even now, writing this, I'm thinking about who will read this and think "She's talking about <em>me</em>." I'm not, okay? It's not about you. Whoever you are.<br /><br />This decision wasn't spurred by a certain event. It's more a culmination of about a million things. But the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back came this morning, in which I found myself writing yet another email explaining myself. Before I even finished writing the fucking email, I just gave up. I can't bear to send out another letter, make another phone call, have another conversation in which I say "That's not how I meant it." I thought I was a clear writer, I thought the reader could surmise my point in what I'd written. Turns out that's not the case. (But, statistically, it seems that <em>strangers</em> get the point better than people who <em>know me</em>. Go figure.) And I just can't do it any more.<br /><br />I've loved this so much. I've loved every person I met through this blog, every friendship I've fostered, every email conversation it initiated. But I just can't do this any more. It <em>is</em> more trouble than it's worth.<br /><br />Thank you to everyone who has read what I've written. Thank you for being kind enough to write nice things in my comments section. Thank you for spending your time on my words. Thank you for sticking around.<br /><br />It's been fun. And I will miss you terribly.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-53809344057794649632007-01-13T10:01:00.000-05:002007-04-04T10:12:10.164-04:00Under PressureAfter a long, drawn out conversation, some tears, some fighting words, some debating and some pleading on both parts, Billy and I finally agreed to get married in fourteen years. It was a compromise between our two very different views on the subject: Me, wanting to get married STAT, and him wanting to get married <em>never. </em>He chose the time frame, not me. I don't know that he based it on anything specific, only that it seemed to be pretty fair middle ground between "Now" and "Never."<br /><br />Since our agreement, since the day he sighed, slouched in defeat and said, "If it will make you happy, we can get married...In fourteen years," things on the marriage front have been quiet. I know it's going to happen, and I know I needn't bother myself with questions of when or how he will propose until roughly 12 and half years from now. It relaxed my tightly-wound neuroses of "he loves me, he loves me not," knowing that a man who never bends went ahead and got flexible enough to keep our relationship alive. It's all about compromise. I give up being a young bride, he gives up indefinite bachelorhood. It's fair.<br /><br />It also makes discussing the future easier. I feared that, in finding yet another man who never wanted to enter a state of Holy Matrimony, I gave up the ability to wish, out loud, for my wedding. To be called a missus. To use "When we get married" in conversation. But now that it's out there, now that an agreement has been reached, I can use it whenever I want.<br /><br />"Thirteen and a half years left!" I say whenever the subject of marriage comes up. He rolls his eyes and laughs, then does the math in his head.<br /><br />"I believe it's thirteen years and EIGHT MONTHS," he'll say in a know-it-all-voice. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves." And then he laughs and kisses my forehead and I feel at ease. I know where we're headed, and how long it's going to take to get there. He may never have been on the freeway of love this long, but damnit if he hasn't gone ahead and put it on cruise control. Because <em>we ain't stoppin</em>. Whether he likes it or not.<br /><br />Yet the time remaining until our nuptials is always up for debate. It's a constant source of mock-debate and mock-anger, the perfect segue into a <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2005/10/and-yes-ive-even-given-it-name.html">wrasslin' match</a> that finds us worn out after too much time trying to pin each other down while giggling profusely. And, while I'm satisfied with where we are and where we're going, I still like to bring it up. And I'll always say the time remaining is a little shorter than it is, he'll maintain it's a bit <em>longer</em>. It's become a little joke between us, the constant disparity between his timeline and mine.<br /><br />And so, to settle any dispute, I found a countdown clock online that could be customized to whatever date, whatever event you wish. While Billy sat in the living room watching some bird documentary, I went ahead and made a little countdown clock of my own. Big bold letters on a bright pink background read "You are cordially invited to the wedding of Laurie and Billy in..." And below that title, time ticked away. Five thousand days, fourteen hours, thirty-two minutes and 10, 9, 8, 7... seconds until we were pronounced Man and Wife. I laughed diabolically as I created it, pleased with myself and how <em>hilarious</em> it was.<br /><br />"Biiiillllyyyy," I sang through the house. "Cooomeee hheeeeerreee..."<br /><br />And, oblivious to what I was doing on the computer, he lumbered into the room and sat down next to me. "Look!" I commanded, smiling from ear to ear.<br /><br />He started to look a little pale as he took it in, then looked at me with <em>are you serious</em> knitted into his eyebrows. I kept giggling. "Isn't it wonderful?" I said, bringing my clasped hands up to the side of my titled face, my tone and demeanor hyper-romantic and dreamy, like a character from some 1950s romance movie.<br /><br />"Five thousand days?" He said, shaking his head. He sucked in air through his teeth. "That's pretty close. We'd better push it back."<br /><br />I stopped laughing, and gave him my pseudo-angry face. He laughed at my reaction, and I resumed laughing to myself as he meandered back into the living room to continue his television watching.<br /><br />My giggles slowed to a stop as I closed out the page and, with it, the countdown to our wedding.<br /><br />A few days later, getting ready for work together, we were listening to a radio show in which the DJs were discussing people who date forever and then get married, and how those marriages never work because, and I quote, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Billy shot me a knowing look, and I shot him back a "Whatever. Don't think these douchebags are going to convince me that we shouldn't get married. You have to come up with something better than that" look.<br /><br />While he brushed his teeth, the DJs took a call from a man who declared that he proposed to his wife after ten years <em>only</em> because he felt pressured; that he wouldn't have gotten married if not for her <em>constant pressure</em>. So he broke down and did it. Against his will.<br /><br />I looked at Billy in the mirror, under the wand I was using to apply mascara. "I don't pressure you," I said matter-of-factly. I finished my mascara application and screwed the tube closed. "You're lucky."<br /><br />He spit his toothpaste into the sink and looked at me, a look of shock and disgust on his face. "<strong>Countdown clock</strong><em>,</em>" was all he said.<br /><br />I laughed as I tossed all of my makeup into its bag. "That was a <em>joke</em>, not <em>pressure</em>. If it were <em>pressure</em>, I'd have made it so that it popped up every time you turned on the computer or something. But I <em>didn't</em>. I just made it, showed you, and deleted it. See? I'm awesome."<br /><br />"Riiight," he said, eyeing me suspiciously.<br /><br />"Oh trust me, babe. Make no mistake, when I start pressuring you, you'll <em>know</em> it. You've got about 4,000 days until I really kick it into high gear."<br /><br />I think he started to argue, but he passed out. All that marriage talk was just too much for him.<br /><br />But, no matter. He's got five thousand days to get used to the idea.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-66428392750477886722007-01-10T08:48:00.000-05:002007-01-10T10:05:34.703-05:00Damnit.I have a cold. It started yesterday with a tightness in my throat, then became an inability to clear said throat. Then it became a full-body exhaustion, which rendered me completely useless from two in the afternoon on. I cancelled plans with my little brother so that I could lay in bed and feel sorry for myself and possibly nap. I couldn't sleep, but that didn't keep me from just laying there all night.<br /><br />Today, I woke up to find someone apparently replaced my esophagus with sandpaper. It feels <em>great</em>. I feel like that kid in the <a href="http://www.chloraseptic.com/">Chloraseptic</a> commercial when I was a wee one: "<em>It'll hurt if I swallow, it'll hurt if I swallow, it'll hurt if I...MOOOOMMMMYYYYY!!!!</em>"<br /><br />Having a cold has the following effect on my life:<br /><ul><li>I stop going to the gym, because I'm always looking for a valid excuse to <em>not</em> go, for some reason. Even though I pay a monthly fee and <em>want</em> to be tight and toned, I'm ecstatic when I think of an actual reason (besides sheer laziness) to not go. The Cold Excuse is brilliant because it works on so many levels. One, the "I can't breathe right *cough cough* and I'm severely uncomfortable working out in this state" angle. Two, the "Coughing and sniffling make me run out of breath faster, so I can't keep up with the class" angle. And the third, but most undisputable, angle: "If I'm sick, and I go to the gym, I could get everyone else sick. And I don't want to do that. I'm really not going for <em>you</em>, my fellow gym patron." See? I'm so altruistic. So there's that. </li><li>But while I'm not going to the gym, I'm busy eating everything in sight. It's easy to convince myself that it's okay to eat those dozen chicken wings, and that tub of <a href="http://www.benjerry.com/our_products/flavor_details.cfm?product_id=27">Ben & Jerry's</a> when I'm saying, "Feed a cold, starve a fever! I need calories to fight off this sickness! Calories, calories, CALORIES! Hey, are you going to finish that beef jerky? Can I have it? What about that chocolate bar? And, do you know what would be really great? SALSA!" And I can't get full. So I just keep going. And I don't feel guilty until the morning after, when I go to get in the shower and realize that my gut cannot be sucked in. Whoops. So then I vow to go to the gym. And then I realize I don't have to! I have a free pass! I have a cold!</li><li>I can't write. Nothing <em>good</em>, anyway. I spent the better part of yesterday trying to get this intricate web of parallels between Billy and this show we watched into a coherent post, but to no avail. Instead, I wound up with a disjointed three pages of gibberish. My words were flat and boring, my thoughts just jumped around all over the place. There was no unity to the damn thing. Unless you were actually <em>inside of my head</em> and <em>knew</em> what I was going for, there was no way you'd understand it. So I just saved it and I'll go back to it later, when I <em>don't</em> feel like curling up under my desk for a nap.</li><li>I cry. I cried last night because I cancelled plans with my brother. And then I cried while watching <a href="http://www.jeffreyrosshomemovie.com/">Patriot Act: A Jeffrey Ross Movie</a>, because all of those comedians went Iraq to see the troops. And I love the troops.</li><li>I'm irritable. I was grouchy because A) Billy put his cold hand on my bloated belly, B) he wouldn't let me get up to eat and C) he layed almost directly on top of me when we got to bed. Normally, I love all of these things, but my fuse was so short, and my desire to be touched so minimal, that I just sort of panicked and got away from him as quickly as I could. It's a good thing he loves me. A lesser person would get mad at me for it.</li><li>I'm mushy. Because, even though I was irritated, it made me all soft and squishy to think about the fact that, even with puffy eyes, scratchy throat, runny nose and a generally bad attitude, Billy loves me enough to still touch me and take care of me. </li><li>I also revert to childhood. I'm whiny and needy. Luckily, Billy's the same way when he's sick. So we understand each other.</li><li>Where did this become a post about Billy?</li><li>I need to sleep.</li></ul><p>So, anyway, yeah. I have a cold. I want to post something worth reading, but I'm just not up to it. As soon as I start writing, my brain just veers off in another direction (see above). So I can't be trusted with a keyboard and blank post page. I just can't. There's no telling what I'll write about. </p><p>I'll write something when I can think clearly and stare at a screen without zoning out and coming to five minutes later, wondering what I was doing in the first place. </p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-92117434865504234742007-01-06T17:44:00.000-05:002007-06-01T14:44:08.179-04:00FillerBecause I can't write about anything else right now, how about this?! I found this meme at <a href="http://inotherwords.wordpress.com/">Temporary Madness</a> a while ago, and was saving it for just such an occasion.<br /><br /><strong>If Your Life Was A Movie:</strong><br /><br />Here’s how it works:<br />1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Play, iPod, etc.)<br />2. Put it on shuffle<br />3. Press play<br />4. For every question, type the song that’s playing<br />5. When you go to a new question, press the next button<br />6. Don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool.<br /><br /><strong>Opening Credits:</strong><br /><em>Nuthin' But a G Thang </em>- <a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=8678513">Dr. Dre</a> and Snoop Dogg<br /><br /><strong>Waking Up:</strong><br /><em>We Belong </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/artist/?artist=16073233">Pat Benetar</a><br /><br /><strong>First Day of School:</strong><br /><em>Blessed </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=29456126">Martina McBride</a><br /><br /><strong>Falling In Love:</strong><br /><em>Cheating Man </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=38740321">Anthony David</a><br /><br /><strong>Sex Scene:</strong><br /><em>Enough Cryin' </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=45304898">Mary J. Blige</a><br /><br /><strong>Fight Song:</strong><br /><em>Something Happened on the Way to Heaven </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/artist/?artist=16208890">Deborah Cox</a><br /><br /><strong>Breaking Up:</strong><br /><em>Catalyst </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/artist/?artist=39121687">Anna Nalick</a><br /><br /><strong>Prom:</strong><br /><em>Gasolina </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/artist/?artist=16570548">Daddy Yankee</a><br /><br /><strong>Life:</strong><br /><em>Don't Dream it's Over </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/artist/?artist=16073543">Crowded House</a><br /><br /><strong>Mental Breakdown:</strong><br /><em>Before He Cheats </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=44900917">Carrie Underwood</a><br /><br /><strong>Driving:</strong><br /><em>She Is </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=44187150">The Fray</a><br /><br /><strong>Flashback:</strong><br /><em>Try a Little Tenderness </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=29444237">Otis Redding</a><br /><br /><strong>Getting Back Together:</strong><br /><em>Just Friends </em>- <a href="http://www.amazon.com/o/ASIN/B000051Y10/ref=s9_asin_image_2/104-4610475-0539143">Musiq</a><br /><br /><strong>Wedding:</strong><br /><em>Lucille </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=29458388">Anthony Hamilton</a><br /><br /><strong>Birth of A Child:</strong><br /><em>I Give, You Take </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=29453080">Maria</a><br /><br /><strong>Final Battle:</strong><br /><em>Last Call </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=29453512">Kanye West</a><br /><br /><strong>Death Scene:</strong><br /><em>Platinum Blonde Life </em>- <a href="http://music.msn.com/album/?album=29449712">No Doubt</a><br /><br />I'd buy that soundtrack....Even if most of those songs have absolutely nothing to do with the scene it's attached to.<br /><br />And, while we're on the topic of music, can I just say that someone really needs to get me away from iTunes? Seriously. I'm going to go broke. I don't even want to tell you how much money I've spent on songs so far. And let us not forget that I still have a three whole books, a bag and a moving box full of CDs that I need to import into iTunes. My iPod, in case you don't know, only holds 500 songs - my iTunes has, right now, at least double that currently stored. This makes for quite the precarious situation. Because I have a <em>really hard time</em> deciding which songs have to be cut from my bulging list. Granted, all of those songs are stored on my computer, and I can add or remove songs whenever I like, but still: What if I'm driving down the road and I have a sudden urge to hear Kelis' <em>Milkshake</em> (a song I removed because it continued to come up on the shuffle, and each time it began, I hit next before I get through even five seconds)? Huh? What then? I mean, I doubt it, but the chance is there. Just today, I bought eight songs and a whole album. And the only reason I stopped at that was because I had laundry to do and I got distracted. So far, I've listened to all of those songs all day long. But now I'm back at my computer, and I can't be trusted. iTunes is <em>right there</em>, just begging me to buy more songs.<br /><br />That being said, if I ever had to <em>actually</em> plot out a soundtrack to my life, it would be a boxed set of, oh, about A MILLION CDs. Let's be glad I was limited to the categories as instructed by the meme.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-49488605449362590752007-01-04T15:48:00.000-05:002007-01-04T15:56:26.961-05:00I Want Candy“I read your blog,” said my fellow gym-member yesterday as we each wiggled into our respective gym clothes in the locker room.<br /><br />My eyes went wide as I tied my new sneakers. “Oh yeah?” I said as I searched my brain for anything possibly offensive I may have written. It’s my standard reaction anytime I hear that someone I know in real life has found my piece of the internet.<br /><br />“I think my favorite line,” she said, pulling her shirt over her head, “was ‘<a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/11/queen-jealousy.html">the sight of [Billy] walking into a room is followed immediately by the sound of hundreds of panties falling to the floor.</a>’” We both laughed. “What is he, made of <em>chocolate</em> or something?”<br /><br />“To me he is.”<br /><br />She zipped up her bag and tossed it on the floor. “You are so in love, it’s disgusting.”<br /><br />“I know.”<br /><br />It’s true. I am. It is disgusting. But I can’t help it. In fact, I’m so in love with that man that I spent the better part of yesterday being mad because he chose to spend the previous night playing video games instead of hanging out with me. Because that’s totally justified, right? Being mad because your boyfriend – who spends approximately 98.76% of his very sparse free time with you – decided to actually spend a little bit of that free time on himself?<br /><br />I thought so – because I needed him, and he chose PS2. That, to me, was reason enough to get all salty and bent out of shape. I relayed my woes to my mother via email, and was met with a response that went a little something like this: <em>Oh, STOP it. He deserves time with himself or his friends. Stop acting like a spoiled kid.</em><br /><br />That’s the abridged version of what she wrote, but it really gets the point across. It’s true, I was acting like a brat who didn’t get her way and, therefore, decided to throw a tantrum. And I was totally out of line. And I knew that, even while I was sticking out my lower lip and threatening to stomp my feet. But it didn’t make me any more agreeable.<br /><br />My reasons, though arguable, all boil down to me loving him. Because, when he’s home, I want to be with him. It doesn’t matter that we’ve spent the last three days attached at the hip, that we spent the better part of his New Year’s Day birthday in bed. It doesn’t matter that we live together, that we talk during the day, that I’ll see him tomorrow. The only thing that matters is that the time he’s choosing to spend a floor away from me is time we <em>could</em> be spending together. And <em>I</em> want to spend it together: Why doesn’t he?<br /><br />What’s hard to remember is that he works <em>so much</em>. And while I’m visiting my friends, driving around by myself, shopping alone, doing laundry, tooling around on the internet, going to the gym, seeing my family, he’s <em>at work</em>. While I’m marinating in alone time, he’s <em>at work</em>. While I’m fulfilling social obligations, he’s <em>at work</em>. And I’m getting everything I need to get done out of the way before he even <em>thinks</em> about getting in the car to head home. So it’s hard to remember that those things, for him, still need to be tended to: The time with friends, family, himself. The way I see it, from my selfish vantage point, those things have been taken care of already, and I’ve been saving up my day, just waiting, with baited breath and expectant eyes, for him to come home so I can see <em>him</em>.<br /><br />And, if I had the choice, I’d spend my every second with him. I’d talk to him until his ears bled, until my vocal chords wore thin and snapped. Because I want to share all of me with him: From the start of my day to the fuzzy end. I want him to know it all. And I want him to <em>want</em> to know it all.<br /><br />And, usually, he does. But, sometimes, he just wants to relax. He wants to spend most of his time with me, but sometimes, he needs time alone. And I know it, I do.<br /><br />But it’s hard to remember that when I get giddy with the sound of his footsteps downstairs; When all I want to do is curl up in his tired, warm arms. I’m childish in my excitement to see him, so why wouldn’t I be childish in my reaction to <em>not</em> seeing him?<br /><br />So, yeah, he must be made of chocolate.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-83244685787868327032007-01-02T22:12:00.000-05:002007-01-03T00:34:24.599-05:00New YearSo I guess this is the post where I'm supposed to talk about all of the resolutions I'll be making for the year 2007. I'm supposed to say that I'm going to be a better friend and eat less and work out more and keep my priorities in check; Love more, worry less, be more willing to take chances, be less uptight; be more accepting of change, stop clinging to my routines. I'd love to write all of those things, but I'd love even more to write them and actually have an intention of following through. Sadly, I know I won't.<br /><br />I never stick to my resolutions. Never. In fact, I don't even make them anymore. Because, by January 3rd, I can hardly even remember what I'd resolved. So I give up. No resolutions for me.<br /><br />And, anyway, I don't feel like this year is a fresh start. It seems that, the older I get, one year just bleeds into the next without me noticing. I don't feel brand new, I don't feel on the verge of change. I feel like me, except that now I have to pay special attention when I write out checks to ensure I don't accidentally write "06." That's the only real change I feel.<br /><br />Maybe I'm just not in the right frame of mind: Maybe I'm just too comfortable in the way things are right now. It's just the general feeling of quaint similarity that clings to me that keeps me from shouting about change. I've been desperate to escape '06 since June, when each visit I made to the doctors office just brought more bad news. And I was even more desperate to escape it when our house was robbed, when my cat died. But I pushed through December with some good stories, and a handful of heavy experience. I felt the love of the friends who were there for me when I needed them, felt the absence of the others. I found a new appreciation for my family, and for my boyfriend.<br /><br />Last year was a thick mix of good and bad.<br /><br />Standing on this cliff that is January, I don't see a whole lot of change or possibility ahead of me. While I see more doctor's appointments, I also see the same few friends I've always had, the same incredible family, the same amazing boyfriend. I see that I'll still care too much what people think about me, I'll want too desperately to be liked. I see that I'll continue to be burned by certain people, and continue to be soothed by others. I see that I'll never learn, that I'll be too trusting even when I know I shouldn't be. I see myself stressing out over nothing; I see myself freaking out over the smallest things. I see all of it because that's just who I am. And making some proclamation at 12:01 on January first will never change that. I'll always care. I'll always worry. I'll always want to make other people happy, comfortable. I'll always bend over backwards to do that, and I'll always wind up only turning myself into someone's whipping girl to ensure their comfort. But, too, I'll always have that family, that boyfriend, those friends. And they love me because of - or in spite of - my idiosyncrasies, my neuroses. Because I do have a good heart and always the best of intentions. Because I'm not malicious or hurtful. Because I'm genuine and overly sensitive and overly analytical. Because that's who I am. And I don't need to resolve <em>anything</em> to make me more me.<br /><br />The <em>better</em> me is in the works every day, every year. I don't need January 1st to make me look at myself with a critical eye.<br /><br />This year, I traded wishes for a happy new year with my mom via cell phone, and missed my family when the clock struck midnight. But I slid from 2006 into 2007 with the man I love, and with some really incredible people. I was happy as I left the party in the wee hours of the new year. Happy with my life, the people I love, me. And that's really all that matters, isn't it?<br /><br />Happy New Year. May this one be as interesting as the last.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-13984367624464185042006-12-30T19:39:00.000-05:002006-12-30T22:58:51.500-05:00"It Costs A Lot of Money to Ride This Train."After holding one massive "I have no friends, I'm bored, I have nothing to do" pity party for myself on Wednesday and spending 100% of my day in my house, mostly in my bedroom, Billy insisted that, on Thursday, I get the eff out of my house. "Do something," he said, as he buttoned up his shirt for work.<br /><br />"Like WHAT?" I whined from my spot in the bed. The same spot, incidentally, that I'd been in since the day prior. "There's nothing to <em>do</em>."<br /><br />"We're an hour away from New York City," he insisted. "Go to the city for the day. Have lunch in some hole-in-the-wall cafe. Or walk around. But you <em>have</em> to get out of this house today."<br /><br />I rolled my eyes and sighed. "I don't know my way around the City. I'm not going there."<br /><br />And as soon as I uttered that sentence, my little brother's car pulled up in our driveway. Having the week off of school and days of nothing to do, too, he'd come to see if I'd like to go with him to get his oil changed. I told him no, but that if he gave me an hour to get ready, we'd go get lunch or something. As he drove back down our driveway, Billy looked at me with a face that had <em>inspiration</em> all over it.<br /><br />"Take your brother," he instructed. "Go to the city with your brother; you'll get to spend time with him <em>and </em>you'll get out of the house and actually <em>do</em> something."<br /><br />"He doesn't know his way around the city either," I protested.<br /><br />"It's a grid pattern. You guys will figure it out."<br /><br />"I don't think so," I said. "But I'll go to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Middletown</span> with him and get some lunch or something."<br /><br />"Fine," he replied, tightening his tie, figuring the battle was lost.<br /><br />But as soon as he left the house, I called Chase. "We're going on an adventure," said into the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">receiver</span>.<br /><br />"To where?"<br /><br />"I'll tell you later," I said.<br /><br />And two hours later, we were at Garrison Train Station, waiting for the New York City bound Metro North train.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbdcv5ZuXrgOhg79F_YCLkx6SoEAm7GHAp5P2hFMq6gMa4RuJ5aNalZnh4lj7_6DmnTAtS3gJtRl6ouyveULJWcd8iiG-qVztA9nnnfOTumnkH1hm-FUYsmU98nSVQPkh8XCX/s1600-h/Waiting+for+the+Train.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014484275961555410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbdcv5ZuXrgOhg79F_YCLkx6SoEAm7GHAp5P2hFMq6gMa4RuJ5aNalZnh4lj7_6DmnTAtS3gJtRl6ouyveULJWcd8iiG-qVztA9nnnfOTumnkH1hm-FUYsmU98nSVQPkh8XCX/s320/Waiting+for+the+Train.jpg" border="0" /></a> That's Chase at Garrison's platform, captured via my camera phone; because, in all of my excitement to go on an "adventure," I forgot my camera. Brilliant. I didn't think of it until we were sitting there, listening to the sizzle of the tracks that preceded the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">train's</span> arrival. So, quickly, I cleaned out all of the random shots I've captured on my phone in the past few months so that I'd have enough space to catch the city in the tiny memory my phone affords.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014487093460101602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbRSJwCREjqRUw7cCmWsAdH7ChqXNdjxTma0trqBL8r9KyHPv6LVSDD5ZWXy73XLzDtNINvyHEVZTSZ5EJZtbgy08Xfq25RGgr6o3fY_1-wojTOjNBrgtYwjrnoYY7spL6gtcg/s320/Smile.jpg" border="0" />I was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">excited</span>. And not just because Chase was tickling my chin like a little puppy. But because it did feel kind of <em>adventurous</em> for me. Being on a train on a random Thursday, speeding toward one of the biggest cities in the world. I mean, sure, we had no plan, no directions, no specific landmarks to visit; Sure, we were totally flying by the seat of our pants, unsure of what we would do once we came to Grand Central...But, still. That was the very <em>definition </em>of adventurous. Right?<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014487784949836274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzDJ_ozpOqZNA6yKpQJAnWXK-SbzJ3NqR5EPbBULatPUYGHXigbqzCZXLgaKnILIv0CW_PTfQGLBdYnxyAabhDThV_jE3fJmmK0WNeXI_Iy1vuBpQK-q9VXMGxY7h1u4xEt9rM/s320/Ticket.jpg" border="0" /><br />It was Chase's first time on the train, and also his first time going to the City on a trip that <em>wasn't</em> a field trip for high school or on an outing with my mom's coworkers. I've been on the train many times before, but always going to <em>meet</em> someone who knew where they were going. So it was a big deal for the both of us. But, he was pretty unsure of what to do with himself and the tickets and so forth. So I bought his ticket and handed it to him, told him not to lose it, and to give it to the ticket guy when he came around. "That's it?" he said after it'd been punched and given back to him. "Well, yeah. Because that's your <em>return </em>ticket, too. So don't lose it."<br /><br /><p>We were talking about how they must change hole-punches every day to make sure people don't get all sneaky and try reusing their tickets. We concluded that that particular day <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">must've</span> been "Cock and Balls" Hole Punch Day:<br /></p><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014489356907866626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsn3aNcaHl_aHhPwgDu9U_N5WM2UK1ab4CHiGEzPWFXbjJhBOm9w-piReLzZj00s30G16a7lrPH2WAgvuE1NJQUsrbwl3BX2VuQbQMP-dlNNbq4-eirtnI0C-PXWSPSeW3Ykwz/s320/Nice+Punch.jpg" border="0" /> See that? Right under the "O" for "Off-peak?" Totally inappropriate, if you ask us.</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014489790699563538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Fl2UYjJeZHW5uyqx0H9wFSHHJagzAUZN1S1MPc8VyS7Q7p5-YyefPHezluuR3bdQc3UJfv2_VIi9fY3bKi0raEpxM2zQC3cCmoJrlWpbw7Ow8DhP6zWtPmEStxJZfWZlJSDj/s320/I+Love+CheezIts.jpg" border="0" /> Before we got on the train, Chase bought some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Cheez</span>-Its. He LOVES <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Cheez</span>-Its.<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014490155771783714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEhta3yq08liWxhQBWyLhvzoMw3Vo3rqL-68wCQqu16HNWfDGaBpPs01PE2eG-U1YSRcbw73GogDWickSbPr_mLcoBYIMklLA-x0R5rAd3qBP6jhIFegKWfhGNnZV59WtS2Pk/s320/Keepin+it+Classy.jpg" border="0" /> But they don't love him. They get stuck in his teeth. So he takes the classy route and digs <em>all the way into his mouth</em> to retrieve those stubborn bits. He makes me so proud.</p><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014490855851452978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxbCBIcM6xnAQXiEs-qt2uRYiMhVtne3LZLVOwtjq3ShxzY1mYMFJR4sHLeh3riOgwZ3Bdy3-zLk2fyAPxLnvxhnhF30KBspyyXe98ZW_68wng27Az2VSTR4mvA4t3Kn-oDoQ/s320/From+the+Train.jpg" border="0" />Excitement was mounting as we got closer to the city. I took this picture through the window. Chase insisted it wouldn't come out. This proves him wrong and, thus, pleases me greatly.</div><br /><div></div>An hour after boarding the train, the train whined to a stop, we stood up, minded the gap, and exited the train. We walked through Grand Central and walked outside to this view.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014492951795493442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf26tOHoWxt8Yf7sV8k08haqTIfEPu5KO8VnyWdom8lzpZ7P8x_QnjPoc4ppXevlodY1XIEhQgNUsE8MGKd6hxrYIW7SGcR_unKbQksyCffV9Aip7VwrX5VnO8-HVl7jEuUD6g/s320/City.jpg" border="0" /> "We're in the city!" I said to Chase, just as geeky and overly-exuberant as that exclamation point implies.<br /><br />"Uh, yeah. We are," he replied, totally <em>not</em> as excited as I was. He just didn't get my excitement.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014493982587644498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKQTg_rCWbW8hU6b0y19bGYDSsxR44Jte8MTnWd8FL0csue7X0_ZnVdSJqvPttKlovvYAQ2L5Ijy8hgMMUiQ3ppwW7mJ-K_1_6ywZyfcilWUu5tcr8KlQiQlWkgVgdSshcg2N/s320/Crowds.jpg" border="0" />Maybe because he somehow knew this was what awaited us. People on top of people on top of people, all moving in different directions, stuffed into sidewalks meant for <em>half</em> of the tourists currently stomping along. Oh yeah, and that pesky bit about having no idea of what we wanted to do or how we were going to get there. Let's not forget that part.<br /><br />When faced with indecision, my first and best reaction is to drink. "Let's find a bar," I said.<br /><br />Two glasses of wine (me), a round of soda and hiccups (Chase), and an bitchy remark made (by me, to the table of two touristy girls right next to us. Whoops.) later, I had an idea.<br /><br />"What do you think about going to see the tree at <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Rockefeller</span> Center?" I asked Chase.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014494635422673506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_EnBgZRlSwTpSBMh1JeRF4d0h42xerQeYFUCeeggAS4vh3Hng4GB7Oiw-kHLQ-9adcQVazxABikHgEyE3bSPhpO7Aa8rbENB5puDHZhD6WquohODEEiRHi9t_i4AohDclum_e/s320/Walking.jpg" border="0" />"Sure," he said. "<em>But how do we get there???</em>" He was irritated by the fact that I was distracted by every makeup and shoe store on every street.<br /><br />"I have no idea," I admitted. So we just walked. Down this street, up that one, over here, across there. And, there in the distance, I saw a beacon of hope:<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014495223833193074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdctx88P4fqZlzskm4zVGRHLx6kiJFQ-yL7Ox9Dq7E8JH6-xcwUyHj6W0uwNsVcCV5fpfluQK7b8TrfbvOwRsN8nRGvsfVgm6IXHrqbPrQahx6HcF_ZF76cwdFQ7kUwcwsfWTW/s320/Flakes+on+Fifth.jpg" border="0" />"OH!" I cried. "LOOK! MACY'S!" So we headed in the direction of the glowing snowflakes that stretched all the way up and down the facade of the building. "We can look at the windows, too!" I said, dragging Chase in the direction of the lights, drawn to them like every girl is drawn to big, sparkly things.<br /><br />On the way, I made Chase stop into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Sephora</span> with me. An experience that he <em>claims</em> was boring, but I think he secretly enjoyed. I mean, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">c'mon</span>, what twenty-year-old guy doesn't <em>love</em> being in a huge room, positively <em>packed</em> with people, with nothing to see but makeup! Seriously.<br /><br />After my purchase, we got back onto the street at continued toward the department store I kept referring to as "Macy's."<br /><br />At this point, anyone who knows the city, or at least the landmark/holiday decoration part of the city knows that the building that caught my eye was not, in fact, Macy's, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Sak's</span> Fifth Avenue. The classy, high-end store that decorates its windows every holiday season. It's famous for its window decoration, and, being directly across the street from the tree, draws thousands of people <em>daily</em> to look at it. And I thought it was Macy's. Because when Chase said he wanted to buy a coat, I suggested that we could "go to Macy's" to get one for him. I still thought it was Macy's as we fought through a pulsating crowd to get to the door. I thought it was Macy's even as we entered, failing to pay attention to the BIG SIGN on the door I was opening that claimed "Saks Fifth Avenue." I thought it was Macy's as we walked through the clogged store, Gucci and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Prada</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Fendi</span> name brands jumping off of the walls at me. I still thought it was Macy's as my eyes glowed with excitement over the fancy name brands I love so much but cannot afford. I thought it was Macy's as I looked at $400 sunglasses. I thought it was Macy's even as we made our way past all of the shoppers carrying Saks Fifth Avenue bags. I thought it was Macy's even as we made our way to the back of the first floor to the elevators.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014497306892331650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJUNgzV3zXv8uawnftDFeTN07YPcCtSdNh5430IX2hMDiU31kAbljz4r4hIye8qH_41AI8rCWbXqVNs09RZJAJYmT8lHVBGUBwn1inr5nNAJeRiRJveNq9ziJtpTwngGuKs9L/s320/Saks+Inside.jpg" border="0" />All of these people knew they were in Saks. I did not.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014497607540042386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwdOCgCbdxcgVFNTLpr-JTHbXafpqYfBrmgl8SbTE-IDTNdq4QL4Hwi18ul8Hu1y-lv5UUdTlhfmDrOA0nttvMSajNuMYINsR5rpq0TZ2RfEN_p09h8QShT4B08bA82NlnC7QF/s320/Waiting+in+Saks.jpg" border="0" />Chase knew we were in Saks, too. Even though I continued to refer to it as Macy's. See that smug look on his face? I think he was enjoying my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">ingnorance</span>. He's very mean-spirited sometimes. Jerk.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014498110051216034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhI2cmEBxmftGVqGWiwW7lYfyNJ-JJ0ZQaAxFT7ySGnbidvzTX2enEw2R_q75_ZChyphenhyphenTL-leyWFGugGc5qqfqrou_BErYDmOmi3IKDciJP-yBgb8ru0oMRI8isy2Bv5nIf-f9EC/s320/Tie.jpg" border="0" /> Even as I took this picture for Billy, to show him that they carried one of his favorite tie-designers - ties that cost well over one hundred dollars <em>each</em> - it still did not occur to me that they do not carry Ike <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Behar</span> ties in Macy's. I know this because I buy ties for Billy all the time in Macy's, and Ike has never been one of them. I just figured, "Hey, we're in the city. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Everything's</span> a little bit more expensive, a little bit more <em>name brand driven</em> here. That's all." Also, I'm pretty dense.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014499531685391026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrdWYZQ8-sZM3kUdfKwX-gFCxLwOmInrGTCE00jekKtlBuzOLOFfIoIMha4XCUf_xucj9JlhjDJ4shdBfG8a6xokbi0rdQZ7y_RHt2rxJ4_fi9lUAbNzk0_tf5AbIpIWJLDlaH/s320/Flakes+on+Fifth+Finale.jpg" border="0" /> It was only after we were <em>out</em> of the building that I realized that - aha! - we were in <em>Saks</em> not <em>Macy's</em>!<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Uuuhh</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">yeeeeah</span>," Chase said, drawing his words out, the emphasis on my stupidity. "What was your first clue? Maybe the <strong>sign on the door that said Saks</strong>?"<br /><br />See? <em>Mean</em>.<br /><br />So we watched the snowflakes dance around on the building, to the tune of "Carol of the Bells," and then turned around to see The Tree.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014506854604630754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoj8QhtayUYcb7BOBC9YVyKID2zWSqKNAKSx7wa1-JAJ7EnXj824r9FOjLs3MCvxC1Na2effliH8kbOR_-VhHF1wOEGm3GnIlmev_0BQL5MkEvClnIf7TwPwHbcQVZg9ILrBPs/s320/Rock+Center.jpg" border="0" /> Even from across the street, it looked huge and gorgeous. The picture doesn't do it justice, but it was spectacular. I've only seen the tree once before, on a trek into the city about three years ago that found me so drunk that I don't remember half of the evening. Apparently, I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">embarrassed</span> myself, my boyfriend, and his aunt and uncle, and spent the better part of the next day apologizing to my boyfriend for it. But that's another story for another time.<br /><br />We wanted to get closer to the tree, but the crowd was just too much to bear. There were, oh, about nine <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">gajillion</span> </em>people all clamoring for an up-close look at the tree. So we decided, in unison, "Fuck it," and just continued walking. Before we knew it, we were actually right next to the tree.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014506407928031954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg91T-PXxUxXdQwvY23tzK7SPgcG6gn02BQdvG4NLAeGzMRNqupYv29wQ8PDONzipUC4vuH_gUrDOa9Ihvu1HVCBrVMFam7O2iI5z8KzCoc2MIAKRbgN8Euz7YQigbsdxcHkn8S/s320/The+Tree.jpg" border="0" />But there was no time to linger, as we were being pushed by a throbbing mass of people, all fighting to either get <em>closer to</em> or <em>away from </em>the very tree whose presence we were admiring.<br />Chase was adorable, constantly apologizing to each person he brushed or bumped into. He kept saying "Excuse me," and "I'm sorry," making a point to let each person know he didn't mean to hit them.<br /><br />"You don't have to do that," I said as I plowed over a small child. "We're <em>in the city</em>. People are expected to be rude here."<br /><br />"I can't do that," he said. "I'm too polite."<br /><br />Indeed he is. He gives me hope for the future generations.<br /><br />And after taking in <strong>Saks Fifth Avenue</strong> (Not Macy's) and the tree, eating a hot dog from a street vendor, and stopping in about a million shoe stores, we decided to head home.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014508899009063682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbze6FEeVJ9P27RrlhWH1_4wSvQPUGpt0no-ljIlZOlOdDBoGybWS4epL6Gek3nBNGMD9iMtQBExxBXI4xmX9gq9EZWx2xtKxt4CTBt06R4NYpcu1FiCPADwyopCEgcC2r9yb/s320/Going+Home.jpg" border="0" /><br />That's me, walking through Grand Central, toward the track that would take us home. I was ready to go, but a little sad that our day was coming to an end.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014510243333827346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnEbwudcoq1SRQUdySymDQ5xsUtiIdqRA2AzkrU35MsLEpwL_xlceobmRIeDJtCYwETkTgt1mbpc1AAcnJrhuUlp952l68746s5K3V7RF43CmOt-8V94d53zXbB8YKdPQtlRs/s320/Grand+Central.jpg" border="0" />We said goodbye to Grand Central in stereotypical geeky tourist fashion: Taking a picture. But I did it quickly in hopes no one would see the Girl from <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Pennsylvania</span> doing what every other non-New Yorker does, taking that damn picture. But I'm sure someone saw it. I'm still a little embarrassed.<br /><br />But I was tired, too. See it in my eye?<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014510952003431202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqysSnADlFWsCjeO7P4qp7B4rH87FgUWhA0T8GQZpLIjk1wU8aSURiIdrcpBjNYTjVnKZFZLK83-kEofkF-PTTKOrdGpaO8a1aT40yz2omVkhdgafpRgT_sjtd-y1L42jqgaH2/s320/Eyeball.jpg" border="0" />See how exhausted it looks?<br /><br /><div>My extreme fatigue was also due, in part, to my poor choice of footwear.</div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014511424449833778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4LI1SojWdQPeFng86LwGiU5_ZeI-xV94par2yqrOvRA3qlfwdn6pDv3-L7CoJVh6jzQLukscX7_rT7-2bs2KYRnn2W9i18oVw565LxNt1sKLgjyPXXsSxN3w2KdnCP0euTxTN/s320/Boots.jpg" border="0" />For me, for some reason, the desire to look fashionable/classy/sexy always - and I do mean <em>always </em>- wins out over comfort and sensibility. And intelligence, for that matter. Because, let's face it, it's not particularly <em>smart</em> to wear three-and-a-half inch heels to a destination that is no doubt going to entail no less than two hours of walking. But I was a trooper, if I do say so myself. Sure, I did make Chase sit in an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Aerosoles</span> store - a store that I've never ever gone into before, but whose name at that point sang to me like a chorus of a thousand angels, the foot-comfort implied in its very name - so that I could perhaps buy a pair of less painful shoes. It was a labor that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">yielded</span> no fruit for either of us. They didn't have my size in the one pair of reasonably attractive shoes I could find (though, Lord, those <em>were</em> like walking on air!), and so I left empty handed, while Chase was just traumatized over being so bored that he actually gave in to my pleas for him to tell me what he thought of each shoe I tried on. And he even held my purse. He was <em>that</em> bored.<br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014513378659953474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc56duq-tleNs4OE9ioXWNDA5uDZ55fQEm9xsQgOuMun6xpRuzpFMLqbtXR_P78vb3Z1jAGw6XfuB4w8ql2yNz1IROeyKMRhaKc1Ql7cmXIF7M0j19MUY181epQAEVVhlw6PjQ/s320/What.jpg" border="0" />That's normally his reaction to shoe shopping.<br /><br />Not only was he polite enough to apologize to the strangers whose sides he swiped, but he did NOT lose his return ticket.<br /><br />As we waited for our 7:51 train to take off, we watched other passengers pile on, and listened to the conductor as he made announcements over the in-train speakers:<br /><br />"Attention: This is the 7:51, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Poughkeepsie</span>-bound train, with stops at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Croton</span>-Harmon, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Peekskill</span> and Garrison. It does not stop at Yonkers. THIS IS A PEAK HOUR TRAIN. If you have an off-peak ticket, you will be required to pay the difference between peak and off-peak fares. <em>It is more money to ride this train</em>. All transactions are CASH ONLY. Tickets purchased on the train are a lot more expensive than tickets purchased at the station. It costs a lot of money to ride this train."<br /><br />How right you are, Mr. Conductor. In the five hours from purchasing the tickets to sitting on that train, I'd spent over a hundred dollars. Between the tickets and the wine and the appetizer we ordered, and the makeup, and the snacks, and lunch, I'd racked up a pretty hefty debt. Thank God, though, I'd had enough foresight to purchase an off-peak/peak ticket. At least I'd be saving the three dollars or whatever it would've cost to upgrade.<br /><br />But, hey, thanks for reminding me about all the money I <em>did</em> spend, Conductor Man.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014516260583009106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIxPfvcTajC9JjqIrcA6ijLkZTIFOB3nBJ2J0WouR4HpZyC_SIjVE-V4BAp7js0XR-ggv_PZ6EzsEoTOcY8UpaavjPWlXw1WphdpejwrLUaaygzNc45TMplouJOui1kgP2ynFf/s320/Conductor.jpg" border="0" />And we were on our way home. We were really starting to get tired. Luckily, we had the foresight to stop by Starbuck's in Grand Central.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014517033677122402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYLt8zNGf5uDufyYUuEfOXCkI8sYgWkWFlENUikm0hvMpb09DHKIJay4pgEbcKQ65q3jBhE7q708lZOa8qwLMlc4FtJKbOzxG1z2z0iehRq1Pu9hG2pQJH8K62T2csUw6ULzE/s320/Pick+Me+Up.jpg" border="0" />Chase enjoyed his drink.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014517480353721202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha5iO7WnACR-4Ccm5X9XSSETClRBsYQnrGQkny0onV4V88XGzp1OBgrflFp9sFxf8ELByo66Kt0THSRgeUgGBA4FgiMO9uNgSykYvohR1JgjLMXiWnY6k7PSohA6TOcQ9tNMxc/s320/Refreshing.jpg" border="0" />But his strange way of drinking it made me think he'd never had one before.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014520040154229634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj450oT0zrSHoqdu9ofVw8eWMj6wAcP0ZhjSYF8-8BF17YMjxFq7I5rJQiUJH2UDd-1m5AG6DKr44Cxq_rAXKpB8ccPGdpsr4liSc8I5a6SVQid16C1CFeoY6a87Rum8Eo1M_ah/s320/So+Good.jpg" border="0" />Either that or it was so delicious he wanted <em>each and every morsel he could get out of that damn cup</em>.<br /><br />That being our last treat for the day, we settled in to say goodbye to the city.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014520602794945426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03FhksdgaFNE1sYPVOfQ5PG1fk-oVv4nAMaHFLPDS83-4brPIDKJSR2p8a9mJcaXmQda5NoC0MDMBQVNIySF5MyIqekVdyV1D0zZgj29Vt9CZAxEq2r8Ev3JlsdtkNVw7BXTI/s320/Bye+Bye.jpg" border="0" /> Clearly, I'm exhausted. You can tell by both my heavy hand (as evidenced by the lazy waving), and the quite shocking bags beneath my eyes. There just is not a flattering picture to be taken when you've been walking around New York City, for even a couple of hours.<br /><br />So, yes, I was tired. And broke. And ready to go home. But I was just so <em>happy</em>, too. Not because I got out of Milford and into the city. And not because I'd gone on an adventure. But because I was with my little brother, who managed to make me laugh more in one afternoon than I laugh in an average week. Because he's just so polite and wonderful and so much fun to be around. Because I just love that boy so damn much that it hurts sometimes. Because, ten years ago, this sort of thing - an afternoon we <em>voluntarily</em> shared with just one another - would never have happened. Because we've come a long way from name-calling and physical fights. Because I had <em>such</em> a good time. Not because we did anything amazing - just because it was <em>us</em>. What we did was little more than we would've done had we gone to the shopping mall half an hour away from our house. It was different and it was nice, but the incredible feeling I had about the day had nothing to do with the location, it was all Chase.<br /><br />I didn't want it to end. But, as the train pulled into Garrison, it did.<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014522325076831138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmPo1052LZWknegoGfZN8dbjqqh3IKsdNLbY-26YEC9m6IcEDpvR6MLq0VnRMipFTUnLHs1Y41r4y95nJoRJjyTBZ7RqS094RzWRF4hiCfn7LY0EHaRkho2ZnT1hYyEaV_JnAk/s320/Bye+Bye+City.jpg" border="0" />"Bye-bye, New York City," Chase said, in the weepy and childish voice he usually reserves for getting me to do something I don't want to do. And then the threw a rolled up gum wrapper at me and hit me right between the eyes. Thereby sucking all of the adorableness out of the moment. Typical. </p><p>We spent the whole ride home making each other laugh and, like two eight-year-olds, throwing things at one another in true brother-and-sister fashion.</p><p>It would be cheesy to say it was a wonderful day, so I won't say that. But I will say that I can't remember the last time I had that much fun doing nothing.</p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-15260027244235548812006-12-27T15:43:00.000-05:002006-12-27T16:17:31.428-05:00What Have I Been Doing on my Week off?Well, how nice of you to ask. Allow me to fill you in.<br /><br />1) Sleeping in. Except for the fact that I do still get up with Billy to get him his coffee. Because, before Christmas, I'd told him how nice it would be this week to have <em>him </em>bring <em>me</em> my coffee this week, as opposed to the other way around which is how it is the other fifty-one weeks of the year. And he sort of sighed and laughed and suggested that, if I <em>really love</em> what he got me for Christmas, I could maybe find it in my heart to go ahead and still bring him his coffee in the morning. Since, up until that point, he had maintained that I was not, in fact, receiving a Christmas present - that <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/10/blogging-from-bedroom.html">my laptop</a> had served as both a birthday <em>and</em> Christmas gift - I agreed. But then, when I unwrapped <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/54762171@N00/334494140/in/photostream/">the complete surprise in the form of a gorgeous sapphire and diamond ring</a> he gave me, I realized that I would, in fact, be getting him that coffee. Because, for a gift that good, he deserved it. But as soon as I give him that coffee, it's right back to sleep.<br /><br />2) Watching TV. Lots of it. Too much, possibly. Shows that I wouldn't be able to watch if Billy were home: Shows like <a href="http://www.we.tv/uploads/Bridezillas2006/">Bridezilla</a>, <a href="http://tlc.discovery.com/fansites/weddingstory/weddingstory.html">A Wedding Story</a> and Perfect Proposal. Also, I watched episodes one through twelve of Sex and the City OnDemand. In one day. Billy would never go for that.<br /><br />3) Eating. Cookies. <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/search/label/Family%20Matters">Chase's girlfriend</a> sent Billy and me a box of some of the most delicious, moist, chewy, incredible homemade cookies. And they've been sitting by my bed, the supply dwindling as the days pass. I eat them for breakfast, as snacks, as dessert. I may gain a million pounds by New Year's Day, but it'll be a tasty road down to chunky.<br /><br />4) Listening to music. My parents got me the iHome, a clock/radio/iPod player, granting me the ability to <em>finally</em> listen to music in my room without turning on my computer. It's absolutely fantastic. I'd forgotten how wonderful it is to blast my music while I clean. I'd forgotten that I love to sing along, and dance my way through my chores. It's been awesome.<br /><br />5) Admiring my ring. Like, all the time. Just now, I stopped and gazed longingly at it. It's so gorgeous. And it was so unexpected. It's just so <strong>pretty</strong>. I love it so much. I just can't get over how wonderful it is. Sigh.<br /><br />6) Cleaning my room. I put away all of the Christmas presents, threw away all of the scraps of paper that wrapping gifts left at the foot of my bed. I hung up clothes and dusted and hefted three bags worth of garbage out of the house. It felt great to walk in my room and see it clean. And then Billy came home last night and threw his pants on the floor. But, it's okay. He gave me this ring, so the least I can do to show my gratitude is to hang up his pants.<br /><br />7) Trying to savor each second that I'm home that I <em>should</em> be at work. I make sure to take note of the time with each cookie I eat, each TV show I watch and smiling because I should be working right now instead of being ridiculously lazy. It's only Wednesday, but I feel like it's already going too fast. I'm sure I'll be back to work before I know it. So I try not to leave my house before five if I can help it.<br /><br />8) Wondering how I got so lucky. How did I find a guy who would go against everything he ever told me ("I'm <em>not</em> buying you a ring." "I don't believe in diamonds. You only like them because society tells you you should; because they're expensive.") and give me something purely because it makes me happy. My dad gave my mother a Bose Wave Radio, and she cried, saying "Your father doesn't love music like I do, but he knows how important it is to me, so he got me that radio. I'm so touched. I'm so lucky to have a man like that." And then she got a little more choked up and said, "I'm so glad you have a good man like that, too."<br /><br />9) Being emotional.<br /><br />10) Trying to find things to write about. But, sadly, there's nothing that's making me write sprawling posts full of flowery prose. As my mom always says, apparently, I need to get sad again. Because that's the only time I'm a good writer. I don't want to be sad, but I do hope I can come up with some subject matter soon.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-10193486083742173592006-12-25T20:09:00.000-05:002006-12-25T20:23:53.983-05:00CelebrateIt's just after eight in the evening on Christmas Day, and I'm sitting in my house with Billy, unwinding after a long, travel-packed day. It's been incredible, full of family and love and giving and receiving and warmth and laughter.<br /><br />And, you know, for all of the absence of the season I've been feeling, today has turned out to be spectacular. Sometimes, the nicest holidays are the ones that sneak up on you, where expectations are forgotten before the day is reached, where there is no build up, no anticipation. It's the surprise of the day that is so gluttonous, so delicious.<br /><br />Today has been one of those days. Waking up early, like a kid who can't wait for Santa's spoils, I stirred before eight this morning, making coffee before unwrapping the beautiful sapphire ring Billy gave to me, before unveiling the trip to Las Vegas I'd decided to give to him for Christmas. We went straight to my parents' house in our pyjamas, filling their living room with torn and wrinkled remnants of wrapping paper and offering just as many "Thank you"s as we received.<br /><br />We split the day between his family and my own, stopping just long enough between the two houses to collect ourselves before heading out again. And now, we're here, in our home, listening to music and laughing as the day winds to a close. I'm overcome right now with splendor, overtaken by delight. I'm in love with my family, my boyfriend, his family, my life. It's been incredible in every way.<br /><br />And days like this are the best ones, when we're worn out from too much merriment, too much joy. Even though the ground outside isn't covered in snow - even though our Christmas has been far from white - it's been just as merry as we could've hoped.<br /><br />Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you all.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-36122987958904769102006-12-19T23:42:00.000-05:002006-12-19T23:48:45.328-05:00Under ConstructionI'm in Beta! Or, rather, the New Blogger. Either way, I was finally allowed to switch over. An act that made the OCD girl inside of me go NUTS because everything on my beloved blog changed. I've spent the last few hours fucking around with it to get it back to how I want it. And don't even get me started on the labels. That list of "Filed under" over there on the side? I'm sure it's going to be fourteen thousand times as long as it is right now by the time I'm finished going through all of my archives and categorizing everything. Man. This is going to be one massive undertaking.<br /><br />So, that being said, please pardon my appearance for the next few days (weeks?) while I go about the dirty business of playing around with two years worth of my life.<br /><br />Also, I lost my list of music on the side there, and I can't figure out how to get it back - getting both the links and the just plain ol' typed out words that weren't links to show back up has proven to be far too much for my limited HTML/Blogger template capacity to handle. So, can anybody help me with that? Also, how the eff do I get my sidebar links to open in a new window?<br /><br />I think I just realized I needed another category: Wannabe Computer Geek! Check it out!<br /><br />Ahem. Sorry. I'm getting way too carried away with this. Let's hope I don't get all into this "Labeling every archived post" thing for a week and then give up. Because I probably will.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1166494350480261902006-12-18T20:38:00.000-05:002006-12-18T21:12:31.263-05:00Work It, BitchEvery few days, I change my route home and, instead of going from my office chair directly to my bedroom or a restaurant, I somehow find the wherewithal to take the road that leads me to the gym. In the twenty or so minutes that it takes me to get from my work parking lot to the parking lot that leads me into the gym, it's quite easy to talk myself out of going. <em>But I'm so tired</em>, I say to myself as I drive. <em>You know what I could do? I could go home and clean up my email inbox, organize it all nice and pretty. Or I could catch up on some of the Sex in the City reruns OnDemand. Or I could reorganize my dresser. ANYTHING but go to the gym</em>. But, more often than not, something inside me keeps my car pointed in the direction of a step class, a kickboxing class, or the elliptical machine. And what is it that motivates me? Is it the promise of thinner thighs and flatter abs? Is it the desire to rid myself of stress via weights and cardio? Is it picturing the two vacations to warm climates I'll be taking in 2007, the bathing suits I'll be forced to wear? No. It's none of the above.<br /><br />It's the ten or so minutes before my class starts, between changing into my old, worn out gym clothes and hopping my way through an hour of instructor-led torture. It's in those minutes that the true socializing occurs. The catching up with people I only see a few days a week, but who, nonetheless, get my entire life story in that short span of time. It's in that ten minutes where I'm greeted with such stunning nicknames as "Bitch" and "Whore" from the larger than life petit woman who parades around in her spandex pants and loose T-shirts like a gym mascot. It's the jokes about my smoking and drinking doled out by the tall blonde who steps and lifts and "double-times" it on the step next to me. It's the laughing and the jokes, the masochistic need I have to trade sarcastic insults with the other women who've found their way to the gym each night. That's what keeps me from giving up and going home.<br /><br />It's funny, having a room full of women (and a few boys, here and there) whose company you keep so infrequently, but with whom you trade your most embarrassing or wonderful stories. A chorus of voices leaks out of the classroom even while we kick, jab and cross our way through class. Unable to contain ourselves, we hurl insults and hefty words through all of the sweat and work we're doing. We admonish "Shut up" or "Why aren't you <em>working out</em>, Judy?" over the teacher's instructions, cackling over orders to "kick higher" or "arabesque." I catch knocks against my character while I'm throwing punches. And it's delicious...The way it makes you forget how hard you're working, how it makes you forget the ache in your legs, the fatigue in your arms. The laughter that accompanies my gym sessions does me better than any amount of breathing through my straining, works my stomach far better than the fifty crunches we had to do.<br /><br />Experts suggest that going to the gym with a "buddy" makes you more apt to continue going, is motivating enough to force you to stick to your gym commitment without even realizing it. I never agreed, choosing to view my gym experience, instead, as a solo project. I didn't join with anyone, I never went with anyone, and that's the way I liked it. From time to time I consider what it would be like to actually go with someone, to have <em>plans</em> to meet a friend every night. And as soon as I consider it, I let it go. Because I like my freedom, to go or not to go.<br /><br />But without even realizing it, I met my motivation, my friend that I've committed to, in the form of a room full of women, who, despite age and life differences, have become my friends, and the reason I go.<br /><br />Of course, I'd never talk to any of those bitches in <em>real life</em>.*<br /><br /><br />*<span style="font-size:78%;">Hello Judy! Hello Tisha! Hello ladies!</span>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1166293660295131772006-12-16T12:03:00.000-05:002006-12-16T13:29:07.900-05:00The Greatest Gift is GivingUsually, I prefer to make a whole <em>experience</em> out of Christmas shopping. I rarely go with a list, preferring instead to browse through rack after rack, shelf after shelf and display after display of possibilities and letting inspiration guide me to the checkout. I always bring with me my favorite Christmas CDs and play them on full blast during the hour it takes to get from Milford to the mall I've chosen. I try to be in the spirit of the holiday, full of smiles and goodwill, generosity and joy. I don't hurry, I don't look at prices, deciding to focus not on the clock and the cost, but the look I imagine I'll receive from the face of the recipient. It makes for a better experience all round, I've found. Credit card balances be damned.<br /><br />This year, though, it just doesn't <em>feel </em>like Christmas. That <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/12/first-snowfall.html">first snowfall</a> we got about a week ago? It wasn't enough to coat the ground, leaving instead a dusting of white over otherwise brownish vegetation. And Old Man Winter didn't stick around either. Apparently, he called in sick, and the only person available to cover for him was Early Spring. It's been in the fifties every day this week. Some people may read that and think "Fifties?! That's FREEZING!" But those people would be from warm climates. I remember, living in Vegas, anything below sixty meant dusting off your winter coat and putting on your gloves. Here? Fifties is <em>warm</em> and means you can get away with just wearing long sleeved shirts. It meant I could go Christmas shopping without my coat.<br /><br />There's something so wrong with that, not lugging a down-filled jacked through the mall. In an area like this, that, this time of year, looks like the song "<a href="http://lyrics.astraweb.com/display/940/christmas_carols..unknown..silver_bells.html">Silver Bells</a>" come to life, you come to expect a certain feeling at Christmas time. And without that snow, with only the lights strung on bare trees and wreaths on doors <em>not</em> preceded by snowy walks, it feels like something's missing. Like you've stepped into some parallel universe, where Christmas comes in early April.<br /><br />So, yesterday, having left work early to get my shopping done, I tried as best I could to get myself into the spirit, but as the Christmas songs <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/12/fun-things-that-happened-this-week.html">I so painstakingly loaded onto my iPod</a> began to play, I knew that my heart just wasn't in it. I listened to Justin Timberlake and Corinne Bailey Rae instead, singing my way through New Jersey neighborhoods, just killing the time until I reached the mall.<br /><br />Christmas music slapped me in the face, though, when I hefted open the glass door of Macy's. "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" fell from overhead speakers and onto the million other people who mistakenly thought they'd avoid crowds by taking a half-day from work and shopping at two in the afternoon. I fought off that inevitable sense of dread that always takes over when I see lines snaking through departments and forged ahead, knowing that I was there for a <em>reason</em> and I could not leave until I had at least most, if not <em>all</em>, of my shopping done. I walked past a man screaming into his cell phone, "<strong>they don't <em>have</em> that here!</strong>" and then past a customer fighting with a cashier over a return that he wanted to make, and then past a family of two parents and two kids in side-by-side strollers, both children screaming bloody murder, and I thought I was doomed. <em>I just don't think I have the strength to do this</em>, I said to myself as I pushed through the chaos, my overly dramatic statement causing me to furrow my eyebrows and worry that I'd leave the mall empty-handed, as I'd done on two occasions prior.<br /><br />But when gift after gift presented themselves to me, when it took little effort to find gifts easily labeled as "perfect," the panic and the pressure vanished. And, in store after store, I handed over my card with a smile, thanked sales girls and boys for their help, and wished a happy holiday to every person who asked me to sign my name on the dotted line. I made my own little holiday spirit, collecting smiles from cashiers who have surely been put through the wringer by stressed-out shoppers for days. I've worked in a mall at Christmas time - I know that it is similar to what I imagine hell to be. I thought my smiles might be a welcome reprieve from complaints and aggravated sighs. They were. It's amazing how nice people will be if you're only nice to them first; If you set the tone.<br /><br />Ten stores worth of bags, a significantly lighter wallet, and cup of iced coffee in hand, I headed out of the same doors I'd entered only three hours earlier. I tossed the weighty bags into my back seat, checked people off of my list and headed into the direction where the <em>real</em> Christmas shopping would begin.<br /><br />I don't want to give anything away, but there's something about <a href="http://www.bordersstores.com/index.jsp">Border's</a> that just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Books are my favorite gift to give. What better way to say, "Hey, I'm really fond of you," than sharing your favorite words, your favorite writers, with someone? Whether it becomes a silly side-gift or the whole gift itself, books, to me, mean the most when I give them. Because choosing a book for someone takes hours. I consider the recipient's character, their sense of humor, their pastimes, their passions. Even people who aren't big readers can receive a book that, to me, is the perfect gift.<br /><br />It's just so personal, giving a book. I'm saying, "I love this. I found a piece of myself in these pages, and I want to share it with you," when I give a book. I'm a big fan of writing a novel of my own on the inside cover, telling them why I picked the book, why I picked them to give it to.<br /><br />My dad loves books. My whole life he's had some military book or another on his bedside table, or in the den, next to his chair, a wilted bookmark hanging over the thick pages. I've given him ties, and tools, and guns, but books are the gifts I've watched him fall a little bit in love with my whole life. He has the same reaction every time he opens one, a smile-ridden "Thaaank yooou" that falls from his mouth while he turns the book over in his hands, touching first the front, then back, cover. We make fun of his reaction, and also of how it's always a book, that his gifts are rarely surprises as <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/11/deal.html">he tells us all <em>exactly</em> which books he's missing from his collection</a>. But later, when he corners me and tells me all about the book, how the main character developed, how the author gets too technical, how interesting it was, I know gift was right.<br /><br />And my mom, for her last birthday, was given a book by me, Nora Eprhon's <u><a href="http://www.bordersstores.com/search/title_detail.jsp?id=56316814&srchTerms=i+feel+bad+about+my+neck&amp;amp;mediaType=1&srchType=Keyword">I Feel Bad About My Neck</a></u>. Its title alone made her squeal with laughter, and she liked the book so much she passed it on to my grandmother. She told me about her favorite parts of the book, her face erupting in a smile so broad she tilted her head and covered her mouth, concealing the all-consuming laughter that was taking her over. Her voice jingled through the re-telling, her eyes tearing up with giggles and her hands clutched her stomach. You don't get that sort of reaction with earrings.<br /><br />So I walked through Borders, my arms hanging down to my waist, loaded with book after book, making a pile that went from my cupped hands to my chin. My arms ached with the weight of so many gifts, but I felt good each one I was about to give, finally in the Christmas spirit.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1166027288829917782006-12-13T11:13:00.000-05:002006-12-13T11:28:09.156-05:00Keep Those Paychecks Comin'I just had my one-year employee <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/12/fun-things-that-happened-this-week.html">review</a>. It went really well, actually. Far better than I'd anticipated that's for sure.<br /><br />My boss did, however, mention that I'm on the internet a little too often. Okay, <em>a lot</em> too often. He's noticed that I hop on the internet instead of using my downtime productively. Touché.<br /><br />But that was his one complaint in a sea of praises. Thank GOD.<br /><br />And what am I doing? Getting on the internet to talk about it. I'm brilliant.<br /><br />So I need to, uh, get back to work. But I wanted to share that with you. Because it's a good thing, and I'm excited about it. And, also, some people out there think I complain too much and that people are going to get sick of reading that. So, instead, LOOK AT ME! I'M AWESOME! I GOT A GOOD REVIEW! Why take time to write well-crafted and heartfelt posts, when all people really want is my Weekend in Review in list form, replete with a shoddy, abbreviated and ill-capitalized use of the English language!? Maybe if I just post a lot of inane lists and silly wishes, I'll be more popular! Who knew!<br /><br />ANYWAY, this whole review/internet thing means the posting during the daytime should dwindle to <em>next to</em> nothing (I can't promise <em>complete</em> internet chastity.), and my nearly non-existent commenting will also have to be limited to after working hours.<br /><br />Which is but a small price to pay for a secure job and a happy employer, right?Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1165895911552600202006-12-11T22:15:00.000-05:002006-12-11T23:02:04.040-05:00Come With MeI wish I knew how to play music on this site. I wish that opening this page would open a stream of music. Because, if I could, I'd play <a href="http://www.philcollins.co.uk/testifylyrics.htm#Come">this song</a>. And it would be loud and obnoxious, but it would tell you everything I feel about love.<br /><br />I've listened to the song no less than twenty times tonight, each repeat making me more and more grateful, hitting closer and closer to home.<br /><br />It's how I love. It's how I love my parents, and my brother, and Billy. Even though I might not always show it, even though they may not see it one hundred percent of the time, it's the truth. I would do anything. For any of them.<br /><br />And it's they way my family has always loved me. Full-on and unashamed. Lacking selfishness. A pure desire to give all of who they are, all for little ol' me. I'm humbled by the thought of it, the amount of love my mother and father have given me through my life, the proud love my brother gives me.<br /><br />And it's the way always expected to be loved by a man, but never thought I'd find. And, look at me: I've finally found it. Billy makes me feel alright, even when I'm terrified in the face of things I can't control, things that wake me in the middle of the night. He lets me know that I don't ever have to face anything alone, that he's here with me. No matter what.<br /><br />Yesterday, I had a <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/09/looking-for-right.html">mini-breakdown</a> in front of Billy. For some reason, I started thinking about what would happen if I go back to my doctor in March for my follow-up appointment and that pre-cancer has found its way back to <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/08/my-luck-continues.html">my cervix</a>. What then? I was terrified, out of nowhere, about what I would do, what it would mean. And I cried, hard and ugly, my face only inches from Billy's, worried about what comes next.<br /><br />And he did the same thing my family would do: He reminded me that it would be okay. Regardless of what happens, it'll be alright. And he made me feel better, the way my family does: By letting me know he'll be there. Reminding me that they will all be there for me, always. That whatever I have to face - trials big or small - I won't ever have to face them alone.<br /><br />"You think you have to do this by yourself, that you're alone in all of this," he said, making me face him, my forehead wrinkled with emotion, my hand covering my quivering mouth. "But you're not. I'm <em>right here.</em>"<br /><br />What ever did I do to deserve such love in my life? Whatever I did in my past life must've been pretty spectacular to hold this bounty now.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1165695265427575752006-12-09T14:38:00.000-05:002006-12-09T15:14:25.740-05:00Fun Things That Happened This Week1) On Monday, I mailed out the last check for the credit card debt I've been carrying around on my back since I applied for my first credit card, five years ago. It's not that I had huge debt or anything, just <em>persistent</em> debt. Debt that would be <em>thisclose</em> to being paid off, only to be met with a holiday, a purse that I <em>had to have</em>, or an evening gown for some occasion of some sort. So, I'd etch away at that coupla thousand dollars all year, nearly get it down to nothing, and then - WHAM! - here it is again.<br /><br />But, see, it's not like I've wasted years paying Discover and Chase and CitiBank and Bank of America interest. No siree. I, my friends, am a devotee of the Rolling Game. You know, the game where you get a credit card because of its "ZERO PERCENT INTEREST!!!!! <span style="font-size:78%;">for six months, maybe, unless you fuck with us, in which case you will rue the day you signed on the dotted line, bitch</span>," proclamation. And you load that card up, paying minimum payments because - hey! - I'm not paying interest, and anyway, I need to build good credit. Thinking, of course, the whole time, that you'll <strong>totally</strong> have it paid off by the time your six month deadline rolls around. Which you don't, naturally. In fact, you're probably deeper into debt. Which is what they were counting on the whole time.<br /><br />But, during that time, where you're charging like crazy and paying the minimum, your credit rating starts skyrocketing because you're A) using the card and B) paying early - and sometimes, you even throw the credit card company and extra ten bucks or so. You know, when you're feeling generous. So, suddenly, you start getting "PLATINUM!" and "TITANIUM" credit card apps in the mail, each one boasting a longer "ZERO PERCENT INTEREST" period than that next. So when your first six months are up, you transfer that shit over to the next one. And when that 0% period is up, you transfer that balance to the next one. And the next one, and the next one...Rolling your debt over and over. And the cycle of debt is sustained.<br /><br />So you wisely allow this cycle to continue for five whole years. It's not horrible or overwhelming; more of a nuisance, really. That stupid bill, every stupid month. And you live that way for a while, until you leave your job with the shitty pay and actually start making enough money to support yourself, and you really buckle down, put that Platinum card away and stop using it. You start using the money you <em>used to</em> use to pay for your now-paid-off car to pay for your credit card....And before you know it, you send in your last hulking check to the big bad credit card companies and - Oh my God - you're debt free.<br /><br />And that's where I am right now. And for that whole day, I thought, "Wow, I'm debt free. I can't believe it." I even decided to continue paying myself my credit card payment (the OCD way I handle my finances is complicated, and too much to get into here, so just bear with me), so that I'll have enough money to actually take Billy away as his Christmas gift without having to use the ol' credit card. And it made me smile, all day long.<br /><br />Until, later that night, I went ahead and downloaded a song on iTunes, forgetting that I have the credit card I JUST PAID OFF set as my payment method. Which means I'm going to get a bill for $0.99 next month. That's awesome.<br /><br />2) My boss emailed me (huh? He works in the next office. I don't get it.) and told me I'll have my yearly review on Tuesday. Which is awesome, except that I'm pretty sure that by "yearly review" he means, "discussion about the fact that I know you're on the internet and/or emailing and/or texting and/or talking on the phone far more than an employee should." So I'm nervous.<br /><br />3) Holiday season is here! And that means PARTIES!<br /><br />Unless, that is, you've committed your entire existence to your boyfriend over the past year because you just love to spend each and every second with him. Because, when December rolls around, suddenly you notice that your distinct absence in your social scene has carried over into the holiday season. Because you haven't been around all year, your name is falling off Christmas lists everywhere. You hear that? It's the sound of your popularity waning and your friends getting sick of you never going out anymore.<br /><br />4) Standing in a restaurant yesterday, I heard one of my favorite Christmas songs in the world. This sparked an interest in me to RUSH home after work, take out my computer, import all of my Christmas music onto iTunes, organize it all, and make a holiday playlist.<br /><br />'Tis a sad, sad day when I look back and realize that I've chosen to spend my Friday night with my laptop instead of real, live human beings. Very sad, indeed.<br /><br />5) I went to pick up lunch for my boss and myself today at a local restaurant. Walking through the glass doors to go in, an old-ish woman was walking out. I'm unsure of her age, as it was masked by the distinct grimace of sheer nastiness on her face. Clearly, she was an unhappy woman; just looking at her I formed the opinion that she's a crotchety, rude, mean, nasty, horrible woman. When she started to yell at someone <em>behind </em>her, by just sort of turning her head to the side, it was revealed that a) I was right and b) she had no teeth. That would make me mad too. So I sort of understood her sadness.<br /><br />ANYWAY, I was walking in, like I said, and she was on her way out. The doors there are set up so that you walk through one, pass through a little breeze-way of sorts, then you go through another door. She was out of the door farthest from me and on her way out of the door I was going into. Being the polite person I am, I held the door for her. She looked at me, paused for a a second, sighed an exasperated sigh for some reason, gave me a dirty look and continued walking.<br /><br />Nothing irritates me more than forgetting a social pleasantry. If I hold the door open for you, all I ask in return is that you say "Thank you." That's all. And since she didn't, I did what I always do in these situations: I said a syrupy-sweet, and probably louder-than-necessary "You're welcome" and continued walking.<br /><br />She stopped dead in her tracks. "I <em>said</em> thank you," she hissed.<br /><br />"And I said 'you're welcome,'" I replied, positively saccharine in my tone.<br /><br />My thing is this: If she really <em>had</em> said "thank you," as she felt the need to point out to me, why would she have been offended at my "you're welcome" and need to point out her use of "thank you"?<br /><br />I don't think she said it. In fact, I'm certain of it. But her reaction has me confused. Maybe she said, "I <em>didn't</em> say 'thank you'"? And if that's the case, why would she announce it? I don't get it.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1165592956573135092006-12-08T10:49:00.000-05:002006-12-08T10:56:55.356-05:00The First Snowfall<div align="left">Winter has been blissfully absent this year. Normally, November finds us bundled up in our hats and scarves, trudging already through snowy sidewalks and slushy streets. But this year, the Old Man let us enjoy unseasonably warm weather for weeks longer than we should have. November came and went with sporadic spring-like temperatures, allowing us the luxury of wearing our light sweaters and jackets far longer than we're used to. Men still golfed, women still wore open-toe shoes, everyone held onto their short-sleeved shirts just a little bit longer. It was scrumptious, feeling the warm sun in the middle of November, leaving our coats in the closet , untouched, when we knew that we should be wearing them.</div><div align="left"><br /><div align="left">But suddenly, this week, <a href="http://www.havocstunts.com/images/winter_gal.jpg">Old Man Winter</a> woke up and realized he late. His alarm hadn't roused him in mid-November like it was supposed to, so he scrambled to get ready and get out there. He rushed in, in a haze of blustery winds and biting chill. He relieved spring-like weather of her duty, abruptly switching our temperatures from mid-sixties to below freezing in one overnight shift-change.</div><div align="left"><br /><div align="left">With the first gust of cold wind, we knew that the Old Man's best friend, Snow, was just around the corner. And, sure enough, the Old Man assured her comfort by turning up the cold and setting the skies gray. She flurried in late yesterday, cozy in the early nighttime provided just for her.<br /><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><a title="photo sharing" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/54762171@N00/316804263/"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-TOP: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #000000 2px solid" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/120/316804263_122e01fd2b_m.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="MARGIN-TOP: 0px;font-size:0;" ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/54762171@N00/316804263/">Snow</a><br /></span><br clear="all"></div><br /><br /><div align="left">I drove home slowly, avoiding the inevitable piles of snow and sloppy accidents her first fall always creates. I crept past my house and down into Milford, where I picked up supplies for the first snowfall: Dinner, and Pinot Noir.<br /><br />Getting home, I changed out of my work clothes and into thick socks and cotton pants, a warm sweater over a t-shirt. I ate my dinner in the silence of the kitchen, then plodded upstairs, full glass of Noir in my chilly hand. Sunk in blankets and the glow of the TV, I cozied up to my wine and let her fall outside. I didn't bother her, or complain about her arrival, just heard the quiet she makes, the softness that she instills, ready, now, to face the Old Man and all his friends. He was, after all, overdue.</div></div></div>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1165418224811778982006-12-06T10:07:00.000-05:002006-12-06T10:17:05.263-05:00Meet in the Middle"Pause it," he said to me, motioning toward the remote control next to my body. Something about his voice told me whatever he had to say was important, that he didn't want his words to compete with <a href="http://www.tv.com/beauty-and-the-geek/show/32037/summary.html?full_summary=1&om_act=convert&om_clk=summarysh&tag=showspace_links;full_summary">Beauty and the Geek</a>. My laptop was on his lap, and he looked down at the screen, taking a deep breath.<br /><br />I clamored for the remote, wondering what sort of statement he was about to make. Our evening had been so benign up to this moment: A short visit to a friend's Christmas party preceded our standard house chores - me, finishing up the last of four loads of laundry, him walking around the house, watering can in hand, feeding all of his beloved plants - and led right to bed, where we buried ourselves in the freshly washed sheets and thick blankets to watch recorded episodes of our new favorite reality show. He checked his email while I caught up on an episode he'd already seen, giving his commentary on what was happening between short bursts of hunting-and-pecking on the keyboard. Until he told me to pause it.<br /><br />The Geek's face froze on screen, his mouth contorted in the middle of a word, stuck there until Billy was finished telling me what he had to tell me. "Okay," I said, turning my body to face him, bracing myself for the enormity of what he wanted to say. I always suspect the worst.<br /><br />"What do you think," he said slowly, looking at the computer screen, and then at me, "about..." he took a deep breath, he took his time.<br /><br /><em>Tell me</em>, I thought, <em>whatever it is, just tell me</em>. I was nervous. My gut told me it was nothing bad, but I wasn't prepared for what came out of his mouth:<br /><br />"What do you think about maybe going to Nicaragua for five days with me, and then <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/11/about-blank.html">I'll continue to South Africa from there</a>?"<br /><br />My heart almost burst. The smile that spread across my face was instantaneous. The darkness of our room hid my reaction, so that he couldn't bear witness to my smile, the blush that took over my cheeks, the unadulterated thrill in my eyes.<br /><br />"Really?" I asked, like a kid who's just been presented with a gift she never thought she'd be lucky enough to receive. "Seriously?"<br /><br />"Yes," he said, his voice soft. But not soft like <em>giving in to the demands of your girlfriend,</em> but soft like <em>yes, you can believe in it</em>.<br /><br />"But will you have enough time in South Africa, then?" My question was serious. We had been talking about his trip earlier, a lighthearted conversation in which I told him I was happy with the decision I'd made to not go, despite being told by almost everyone I know (besides my mom) that I should go, just to experience it.<br /><br />"I don't want to drag you down," I told him. "I'm not sure I could handle it. I mean, there's a chance that I could - I don't <em>know</em>, since I've never done it...And I guess the only way to know is to try - but I don't want to go on the <strong>chance</strong> that I'd be good at it or enjoy it, and run the risk of dragging you down with ailments and whining. It's better if you just go by yourself and enjoy it. I'm scared of the bugs, the heat, the danger. You're not. If we could stay in a nice hotel, or go on a safari in a nice RV or something, with air conditioning, then I'd be in. But I just don't think I could do it the way you want to do it."<br /><br />He seemed genuinely baffled by my view of the trip. "If you want to see these things from the window of an RV, then why not just watch it on TV?" he'd said.<br /><br />"I'm perfectly happy with that," I replied.<br /><br />"You just have no desire, do you?"<br /><br />"No, babe, I don't. That's not my idea of a vacation. It just isn't. But I know it's yours. So you should go, and enjoy it."<br /><br />He nodded, and I nodded, both of us content with our choices. I would love to go with him, I just can't. And I have to accept that <em>wanting to be with him wherever he goes</em> is not reason enough to let him take me to a place where I'm 99.9% sure I'll be miserable. I was comfortable with my decision, and happy that he'd get what he wants.<br /><em></em><br />"I'm sure I'll have plenty of time in South Africa," he smiled, looking at me. He pointed to the screen in front of him. "I figure we'll spend maybe five days in Nicaragua, then maybe head to Costa Rica for a day or two. You'll love it there. It's beautiful. And I've lived there, so I know my way around. You'll be comfortable there," he said, his voice reassuring. <br /><br />"Babe, I'd love to. But I don't want you to change your plans for me." My words were genuine. <em>You always get what you want</em> is one of Billy's most oft-repeated sentences to me. I didn't want this to be another one of those instances. As long as <em>he </em>wanted to do it, I'd be pleased. But if he didn't, that was another story.<br /><br />"My friend just emailed me," he said, "and they're selling the bar I worked in while I lived there. And I really want you to see it. It's a huge part of my life. You <em>have</em> to see it."<br /><br />I was overwhelmed. I was touched that, somewhere within him, he wanted me to go with him badly enough to go somewhere I'd be comfortable. And that feeling was compounded by him wanting me to see a huge part of his life before me.<br /><br />I'd spent days grappling with how I felt about his trip. Deep down, I felt like he just didn't want me to go at all. That this was his time to get away from me, and this year he wanted to "get away" for the duration of his trip, to not share even a bit with me. And that's what hurt, that's what bothered me. Selfish as it was, I thought that him not choosing someplace where I could go meant he just didn't want me with him. I knew it was wrong, but feelings don't understand that. They just went ahead and let me take it as a personal affront. I listened to him say, over and over, that he wanted me to go along, I just didn't believe it. And, finally, I'd come to understand that it's not always about <em>me</em>. That him wanting to go had everything to do with him, who he is, and that I have to let that person live, not make him bend to my demands all the time.<br /><br />And on the heels of my acceptance, he found a way to make me part of it. It's still tentative, but the fact that he asked me, the fact that he wants me to part of his present and his past, makes me melt. It's not about me getting my way, it's about him doing exactly what I would do for him, and, for that, I love him a little bit more each day.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1165287545251778252006-12-04T21:59:00.000-05:002006-12-04T22:01:03.816-05:00The Prom of my Adult Life<div align="center"><a title="photo sharing" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/54762171@N00/314527885/"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-TOP: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #000000 2px solid" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/107/314527885_7c6dd31f8d_m.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="MARGIN-TOP: 0px;font-size:0;" ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/54762171@N00/314527885/">Just the Two of Us</a><br /></span><br /></div><p>With every party I attend, I make a solemn vow to myself that I will take lots and lots of pictures. Only, I hate digging my camera out of my purse. And asking people to pose. Or, worse, asking people to take a picture of me. I just feel like I'm bothering people when I'm forever asking people to "scoot together," or demanding that they smile.<br /><br />Which is why I only have a handful of pictures from Billy's company party this past weekend. And by "handful" I mean five. And, curiously, all but one of them are of the two of us. Sure there are a bunch of the obligatory "Oh! It's late and I haven't taken any pictures, so I'll just aim my lens sort of in the direction of the dance floor and hope for the best!" And "the best" winds up being a blurry mess of dark heads and blurry arms.<br /><br />So I'm left with only these few as reminders of a wonderful night. I searched for a dress for weeks. I planned my makeup and my accessories and my shoes, excited for what has become an annual event I begin to look forward to somewhere around Halloween. I donned the red dress Billy requested, and wore my hair down like he requested, too. I drank and laughed and danced my way through almost seven hours of a party. And all night long, Billy periodically put his hand on my waist and told me I looked "gorgeous" or "beautiful" or "sexy," making me feel like I was the most amazing woman in the room through his eyes.<br /><br />I drank with his coworkers, mixing my standard vodka-tonic-splash-of-cranberry with a double shot of Jack Daniels. Prior to the toast, one of Billy's coworkers introduced me to another one as "Billy's bride-to-be..." And I believe that Billy had a small heart attack right then. I danced with Billy to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean," and when he left the dance floor, tapped out after only one dance, I stayed on the parquet floor and shook what my momma gave me to song after song.<br /><br />We fell into the hotel bed somewhere after two, exhausted from dancing and drinking and socializing. My feet throbbed from the silver shoes I bought just for the night. And right before I fell asleep, Billy wrapped me up in his long, sleepy arms and told me he loved me.<br /><br />This holiday season is off to a perfect start.</p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1164902652291607492006-11-30T08:44:00.000-05:002006-11-30T11:04:13.683-05:00About BlankRoughly a year ago, we had this <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/02/fear-of-flying.html">same conversation</a>; the one where he tells me where he's going on his annual vacation, and asks me to come along.<br /><br />Only, this year, he gave me instructions to go online and find out what would be required in order to go. Requirements in the vein of shots and clothing and pills that we'd need to bring to protect ourselves from the bugs, weather and water of South Africa.<br /><br />Last year, when he talked about <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/03/wheres-my-passport.html">Belize</a>, he just told me I couldn't wear heels. And even though the only "dangerous" part of that trip would be the danger of <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/04/im-leaving-on-jet-plane.html">me without heels or makeup for ten whole days</a>, I still wound up stranded with sun poisoning on the porch of our hotel room after gorging on the sun our first day there. I was only able to venture out for trips to a bar, a restaurant, some light shopping, and one day on a ridiculously beautiful island where I slathered myself in sunblock, powered through the horrible sun rash covering my body and snorkeled my way through the most beautiful water I'd ever seen. As far as adventure went, that was pretty much it. The rest of the time we sipped Panty Rippers and watched the water from our beach-front hammock. We read books and had long conversations, we smoked too many cigarettes and got tipsy from coconut rum and pineapple juice. For me, it was the perfect vacation. Relaxing, romantic, not demanding, and not at all <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/04/you-say-backpack-i-say-bindle.html">scary like I'd imagined it would be</a>.<br /><br />"But, babe," Billy said last night over dinner, "I can't be stuck in a hotel room for ten days this year. I just <em>can't</em>."<br /><br />I speared a roasted red potato and nodded, feeling a sense of dread sprinkled with anger take me over. "I know."<br /><br />"So, listen," he moved around, trying to catch my eyes, as they had not left my plate since the conversation began - it's one of my trademarks for Angry. "Would you look at me?" I rolled my eyes, and then my head, and looked at him out of the corner of my eye, then relented and faced him completely. "I'm saying I <em>want</em> you to go, but I have to make sure you can handle it. Because you're going to get sick. I'm not going to lie to you. It's going to be hot, and there are going to be a lot of bugs, and you're going to have a fever, and you'll have chronic diarrhea. But I need to know that you can suck it up and still go on a safari for four days, or go cage diving. And as long as you can do that, then I can't <em>wait</em> for you to come with me."<br /><br />Instead of offering anything, I just stared at him. I let silence and the ambient noise of the bar fill up the space where my words should've been. I let time click by while he stared at me, waiting for me to argue with him, to defend my abilities to hang in the wilds of South Africa, to make a case for myself even when I knew there was no merit to it, because that's what I do: I argue just to be contrary, just to win. Instead, I blinked, looked down at my plate, then back at him. "I think we both know the answer to that question."<br /><br />He started to ask what that answer was, but I cut him off, "No. No, I can't <em>handle</em> it. Which you know. But you sound an awful lot like you're trying to convince me that I don't want to go, that I shouldn't try, so you can go by yourself. If you want to go alone, just tell me."<br /><br />"Babe," he said, offering his hand on my thigh as comfort, or as proof of his sentiment. His voice was tender, his eyes soft. "That's not it at all. <em>At all</em>. I just want you to know, honestly, what it's going to be like. Because I can't be in a hotel room the whole time I'm there - there's a lot I want to do in South Africa. I skipped South Africa last year, remember? So that we could go to Belize instead, since it would be easier for you. But this year, I really want to go to South Africa. So as long as you're okay with all of that, I want you to come."<br /><br />"Well, I can't. So..."<br /><br />"So?"<br /><br />I took a deep breath. "So I'm not going. You'll have your trip all to yourself this year."<br /><br />And I was crushed saying it out loud. But I can't. Physically, I simply cannot handle the heat. I'm terrified of the "intestinal parasites" of which he spoke. I don't want malaria, and I don't want to have diarrhea eight times a day. I just don't. That does <em>not</em> sound like a vacation to me. It sounds miserable. Would I love to see Africa? Of course. But do I want to feel that I'm on the cusp of death and then stick myself in a dusty Jeep and ride around in the jungle for four days? Absolutely not. It has nothing to do with the fear of fitting in in a foreign country or trepidation to travel. It has everything to do with knowing that my body just will not be able to handle it. The heat alone is too much for me, never mind disease-carrying bugs. My idea of a vacation is lazy afternoons spent doing nothing, fruity cocktails, soft white hotel sheets; bars and restaurants and dancing and laughing. Not sickness and <em>work</em>. And I think a part of me was considering going simply because it's his annual trip that he's never let anyone take with him before, the fact that he wanted me to be with him, and the fact that it would be embarrassing to admit to his family "Billy's not taking me with him this year." But I had to forget about all of that and just admit that I wouldn't enjoy it, and I shouldn't go.<br /><br />But I was still angry. Or hurt, more appropriately. Because he kept saying <em>I can't be stuck in a hotel room for ten days</em>, because it made me feel like he'd hated our trip last year. Like he resented that I held him back or something. Like I'm his albatross. And I loved that trip. It was one of the <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/06/remains.html">best memories I've ever made</a>. I fought tears while I chewed through my steak.<br /><br />"Don't be mad," he said, abandoning his plate altogether to look at me.<br /><br />"I'm not," I said, almost inaudibly, not looking up.<br /><br />"But you can't even <em>look </em>at me."<br /><br />He was right. Because if I looked at him, I'd cry. And I couldn't have that. So I kept my eyes on my dinner plate, pushing around potatoes and veggies and juices and steak, trying to give my eyes something to focus on.<br /><br />But my rapid blinking and attempts to distract myself were no match for my tears. They were determined to roll down my face, and pooled in the corners of my eyes - the holding pen for my emotions. "Well, there's nothing left to talk about. I'm not going. I wouldn't want to keep you <em>locked up</em> in a <em>hotel room</em> for <em>ten days</em>." Sarcasm rolled out of me, my anger in its verbal form.<br /><br />He inhaled like he finally understood why I was upset. "Babe," he said softly. "I know what you're thinking. But I had a great time in Belize. That's why we <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/03/decisions-decisions.html">picked that place</a>, remember? There wasn't much to do, it was relaxing. It was your first trip out of the country, and it was perfect the way it was; That's what that vacation was for. We just can't do that in South Africa. There's too much to do."<br /><br />I nodded slowly, indicating that I understood what he was saying but that I still had no intention of looking at him. I felt bruised and left out, and I just didn't have anything to say. I accepted that my passport pages would just have to go without a stamp from Africa, but just thinking of him gone for two weeks made me hurt already, and I didn't want to compound it by letting him convince me it was the right decision.<br /><br />"Baby," he continued softly, "what am I supposed to do? I really want to go to South Africa. I've wanted to for a long time. And am I supposed to give that up because you don't want to go?"<br /><br />I didn't know. My feelings about it were - are - mixed. On one hand, I say no. He shouldn't have to give it up. If it means that much to him, it means that much to me. And I don't want to drag him down and make his trip miserable, because, honestly, I <em>do not</em> want to go. Nor do I want to make him miss out on something that important to him. I want him to do what he wants to do. I don't want to hold him back.<br /><br />But on the other hand, if the situation were reversed, I'd give it up for him. Because I'd rather spend my time with him somewhere where he's comfortable than make new memories without him in them.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1164834076470016332006-11-29T14:18:00.000-05:002006-11-29T16:01:20.243-05:00It's Five O'Clock Somewhere, Right?It's one of <em>those</em> days. You know, the days that make you feel like, at some point, you must've been hit with a brick in the forehead, you just don't <em>remember</em> it. The days when you feel like nothing is going your way.<br /><br />Because you know you need to start Christmas shopping, like, last week, but you haven't, and every time you consider setting foot in a store to start, all you can think about is your mile-long list of family, friends, extended family, coworkers and the like, and you start to panic. And you realize that you have yet to think of even ONE sure-thing to purchase for ONE person, and you get overwhelmed at even the prospect of walking into a store and picking out something that so-and-so may or may not like. Or that's what you did on Sunday anyway, when you and your boyfriend went to Middletown with every intention of starting the Christmas shopping, only to sulk your way through store after store, pouting and slouching and dragging your feet because the energy required to actually pick up your feet and walk was just too great, as you were already burdened by a list full of recipients and not one gift idea, even surrounded by all of that <em>stuff</em>. So you bought yourself $10 clearance aisle BCBG shoes instead, to make yourself feel better. But you <em>didn't</em> feel better. You just felt like you spent ten bucks on a pair of shoes you're pretty certain you won't wear.<br /><br />So you fuck around online for most of your workday, <em>trying</em> to come up with gift ideas for your coworkers and even for Billy, because what do you get a guy that can top the awesome iPod you gave him last year? Yeah. Exactly: NOTHING. Or, nothing short of something with a price tag of less than a grand. So you look and you look, and you go on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/gift-central/organizer/ref=yourlists_pop_2/104-9722866-5504705">Amazon and create a gift idea list</a>, and poke around in their "suggestions" for each person on your list, and you know there's nothing there they'd like. And their suggestions are a little broader than you'd like (they don't even have "car enthusiast" as an option for the recipients? But they do have "birdwatcher" and "Mystery lover?" That's not fair.), but you go ahead and fill out profiles for everybody on your list. And now a HUGE list with nothing (okay, one or two things) on it stares back at you like a catalogue of your failure. <strong>And</strong> as a nagging reminder that you better get on that shit QUICK because Christmas is coming and you're going to be out of time, giving <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2005/12/oh-yeah-i-feel-spirit.html">bath products and sweaters</a> to people before you know it.<br /><br />But you're doing this today, when you probably should just be sitting in a catatonic state staring at gossip websites and eating Wheat Thins and salsa. Because you're crampy and you're bitchy and you're pretty sure you could cry at any second if given the chance.<br /><br />Even though you were <em>totally fine</em> when you woke up this morning. You were in a fine mood after a fine night's sleep. But there you were, in the shower, shampooing your hair, feeling pretty neutral about most everything in your life, when you suddenly got <em>mad</em>. At, like, <strong>everything</strong>. And you're not sure why, but you think it may have something to do with the <a href="http://www.z100.com/cc-common/elvisduran/">morning show</a> you were listening to while you were in the shower. The one where the guy called in because he just bought a ring, and he wants to propose to his girlfriend, he's just not sure how he should go about it, so the DJs and the callers all pitched in with suggestions. And it wasn't that you got upset because you're going through that whole "any day now, he's going to propose" delusion that you've suffered from before. Because you know exactly when Billy's going to propose: Thirteen and a half years from now. Or maybe twelve and a half years, depending on how long he wants the engagement to be. But either way, you know you don't need to start wondering and hopefully anticipating until roughly eleven years from now, so that's not what bothered you. It was that they were talking about engagements, which is something you want, naturally. And it's also something you can't have YET (though it WILL come. You've been assured of this.), and therefore, no one should be able to talk about it until it happens to you, too. Because, frankly, you feel it's just mean to be talking about it all willy-nilly on a morning show when there are people out there who really want it and it is just <em>careless</em> to talk about it and rub their faces in the fact that they're not going to be wearing any diamonds on their left hand ring fingers anytime soon.<br /><br />And for some reason, you went ahead and started thinking about work. And how that "vacation" you're supposed to have the last week of December has addendums you weren't quite aware of. Addendums in the form of "we're all going to come in on two days over our vacation to spruce up the office." WHAT? And you think about it, while you rinse your hair. While you finish showering. While you dry off. While you apply your face lotion. And by the time you've applied body lotion to every square inch of your skin, you're furious. Because those days? The ones they're talking about making you work when you're supposed to be off, in bed, not getting up until roughly 1 in the afternoon, those are the very days that Billy has off of work. They are the two days you were looking especially forward to. Because you'd get to spend some idle weekday with your boyfriend, and you <em>never </em>get to do that.<br /><br />So, by the time you get into your bedroom to get ready to leave, and see that your sleeping boyfriend is sort of awake, you're incensed. You're fuming over it, and he doesn't quite know what's going on because, twenty minutes ago, when you got up to get in the shower, you kissed him sweetly all over his face, and he sighed, "Baaaabbyyyy," and smiled a tired smile and wrapped you up in his long arms and kept you in bed for another five minutes <em>just because</em>. And now you're this raging bitch, slamming drawers and walking around in a huff and being generally malcontent. So he starts talking to you, and asking you how you slept while he's all comfy there in bed, where he gets to stay for as long as he wants because it's his day off, and you just feel yourself getting irritated. And the last thing you want to do is unload all of the work shit from your brain onto him, first thing in the morning on his day off, but you can't help yourself. It just spills out. Before you know it, your woes have been poured all over the bed, all over him, and he looks at you like you're, well, kind of crazy. "So what? Go in," he says, shrugging. "It's only two days out of a week vacation." And you get <em>more</em> frustrated, because, CLEARLY, he doesn't understand the <em>catastrophic</em> nature of this situation like you do. And you find yourself thinking "Why can't you ever just <em>listen</em> to me instead of advising?" when you know you're only thinking that because he's not telling you what you want to hear. You want to hear "Fuck them! Don't go in! Those are your days with ME! I've been looking forward to those two days all year, too!" Instead he's telling you that you're not the boss, and if the boss says to come in, that you should do it, and he's being all <em>responsible</em> and shit, and you can hardly stand it this early in the morning. "But it's my <em>vacation</em>," you plead. "I should be able to do what I <em>want</em>." And now you're whining. Great. And, hey, what's that? Tears? AWESOME! Because this is totally a good reason to want to cry. Because your boyfriend is being reasonable and you're whining like a spoiled five year old. That's great. Actually, you realize, it's pretty appropriate. Crying just completes your regression to full-blown child. This rocks.<br /><br />So you go into work all mad at the world. You drive the whole way thinking "I hate <em>everything</em>," and, while you realize this a <strong>very healthy</strong> way to start your day, you can't help but enjoy the way this self-inflicted anger makes you feel deep. And you play <a href="http://www.sirius.com/servlet/ContentServer?pagename=Sirius/CachedPage&c=Channel&cid=1126670694840">Sirius Coffeehouse</a> because they play slow, sad music, and you marinate in whatever mood you've made for yourself until you get to work.<br /><br />And only then do you realize it's your coworker's birthday. And suddenly you flash back to yesterday, just before you went to Wal Mart for household items, when you said to yourself, "I have to get her a card when I go." And then you think about your time in Wal Mart, where you spent roughly half an hour in the cheap jewelry section searching for the <em>perfect</em> pair of $3.00 silver earrings. Then you spent ten minutes deciding which kind of coffee to buy since they were out of Starbuck's. Then you spent another fifteen minutes looking for the perfect black/silver combination eye-show pack to wear to the Christmas party, apparently forgetting that you have roughly <em>eighty bajillion</em> black and silver eye shadows at home. And, since they were out of your favorite hairspray, you spent about ten minutes trying to decide whether you should get Pantene or Suave before settling on Suave, only to return to that aisle and put the Suave BACK and get the Pantene instead. And what seemed like fourteen hours after you got to Wal Mart, you checked out and left without the one thing you were determined to get: The birthday card. Nice going, slick.<br /><br />So you search for an E-Card online as soon as you get to your desk this morning, but the pressure to pick one before she gets in (which could be at <em>any minute</em>) gets to you and you settle on a cute one that will suffice, rather than taking time and finding an <em>appropriate </em>one.<br /><br />As soon as you've sent the card, you start messing around on your blog, where you decide to read your December archives. And you almost cry. Twice. So you busy yourself with actual WORK tasks just to make the day <em>end</em> already, hoping that you'll be out of your mood by the time you talk to Billy. And when you do finally talk to him, when he calls you in the middle of his day off just to say hi, you use what you consider to be an even-toned and sweet voice, and he says, "Still crabby, huh?" And you try to dance your way around it and say "No, I'm fine. I am. I really am. I'm fine. I'm...Really...I'm fine." But he doesn't believe you. And understandably so because you accidentally snapped at him when he suggested you pick where you guys are going to go for dinner tonight. You apologize, but you hear the shift in his voice that says <em>I'd rather eat my own eyeballs than talk to you for another second, Ms. Bitchy. </em>So you apologize and make your voice as creamy as possible, and he softens too. But right before he gets off the phone, he says, "Babe, you've <em>got</em> to get out of this <em>mood</em>." And you feel instantly guilty for possibly making him dread your arrival at home.<br /><br />But then you think, "Eh. It's okay. He loves me anyway," and you go back to your beloved internet and do some more "gift searching" which quickly devolves into "Wish List for Myself" making, thereby rendering your last two hours at the computer completely wasted, because even if you've been ooh-ing and aah-ing over shit for two hours, the next time someone asks you what you want for Christmas, you'll pause, look up at the sky deep in contemplation, then say, "I have no idea." Which means you'll not only be <em>giving</em> sweaters and bath products for Christmas, but also receiving them.<br /><br />And so, now, all you can do is stare at the clock and wait for the end of the day to come, so that you can rush home, take off your pants, tuck yourself into bed and wait for the mood to pass.<br /><br />Here's hoping the end of the workday comes FAST.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1164692130375387842006-11-28T10:08:00.000-05:002006-11-28T10:38:00.286-05:00You Say "Weird," I Say "Eccentric"So, <a href="http://dalesbiggerfatterblog.blogspot.com/">Dale</a> tagged me. (Which a sentence I don't think I'll ever type again, by the way.) And I have to write ten weird things about me. But I'm a little sad that I only have to write a list of <em>ten</em>. Because I'm pretty sure I could fill a list of a hundred things.<br /><br />1) I'm <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2005/01/allow-me-to-introduce-myself.html">full of strange little idiosyncrasies</a>. Things like:<br /><ul><li>I can't sleep on the open end of the pillowcase. Something about all that fabric just <em>dangling</em> there freaks me out.</li><li>I can't drink water out of a bottle if it's been shaken in my presence. I think it makes it taste different or something. It makes it slimy. BUT! If said bottle is shaken when I can't bear witness to it, I'd probably drink right out of that bottle and never know that it had been <strong>shaken</strong>.</li><li>I hate taking baths, and I hate hot tubs. Because I feel dirtier after taking baths (what's the point of sitting around in your own dirty water?), and also because I think the feel of my butt on that smooth bathtub is gross. And the hot tubs? It's too hot, first of all, and I feel like I'm being boiled for human stew. I think that one stems back to a Far Side comic that had a few pioneers or jungle explorers or something sitting in a huge, obviously boiling, cauldron of water and the cannibals surrounding them are slicing carrots and potatoes into the water.</li></ul><p>2) I have a very detailed routine when it comes to eating my favorite food: Lima Beans. Firstly, they cannot touch any of the other items on my plate, which means they usually wind up in a bowl all of their own. The "not touching" doesn't have anything to do with them being contaminated by my other foods, it's just that I like to preserve the taste/butter/salt on the beans. Then, since they're already buttered, I pour a good helping of salt over them. And then I scan the pile of beans for what looks like a good bean, and it eat it. AFTER I peel the skin off. Depending on how the skin removes, whether it slides of easily or tears off, dictates whether I eat the bean or the skin first. This process is repeated for as long as it takes to eat all of the beans. I just can't eat them by the spoonful/forkful. I don't like to eat them whole. So one-by-one it is.</p><p>3) I have full-on concerts in my car. The windshield is where my audience sits, looking on in sheer awe. I imagine the whole "Getting Called to the Stage by Surprise" routine in my head before I launch into song. Certain songs call for certain imaginary settings. But, whatever the venue, the principal is the same: Me, singing heartbreakingly wonderful songs, with ease and perfection while people I know look on in amazement. </p><p>4) The alternative to the full concert, however, is the "Music Video" situation. In this, I am in the artist's music video, the theme of which has something to do with me driving. Naturally. And I am either the main actress in this video, where the artists sings over me, and I look longingly or desperately or angrily out of the window, depending on the song. Or I am the narrator of the video, in which case I sing...this is hard to admit...into the rearview mirror.</p><p>5) In this age of <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2006/10/ilove.html">iPods</a> and downloads and Limewire, I'd prefer to <em>not</em> find a CD before it's released or leaked online, and I still prefer to buy my music at the store. Because then I can look forward to the release date, and then I can rush to the store on that date and buy the CD. Then I get the crisp jewel case, and I get to see the album artwork, the lyrics, the look of the disc itself. I just love that. And then, later, I can look around and see the accumulation of my purchases. Which makes me proud, because I love music <em>that much</em>.</p><p>6) I'm far too protective of what I consider to be my personal space. Some would even go so far as to say it is unhealthy. I hate when people stand too close to me when speaking (if I can feel/smell their breath, that is <em>too close</em>.) and I will, with no amount of secrecy or shame, back away. This usually causes the close-talker to move in closer, but I'll continue to back away until I am either literally backed into a corner, or until they get the hint. Whichever comes first. I don't like to be touched by people I don't know well. Social kisses and hugs are one thing, but the brushing of someone's thigh against my own when sitting on something like a bench? Unacceptable. I just don't like it. I feel like it's invasive, and I don't appreciate it. I always quote Dirty Dancing in this instance: "This is your dance space, this is <em>my</em> dance space." Indeed.</p><p>The only exception to this rule is Billy. My family members are excepted on a case-by-case basis.</p><p>7) Additionally, I'm very much like a five year old when it comes to possessions. I live my life in very definite terms of <em>yours</em> and <em>mine</em>. The scissors at my desk? Mine. My desk drawers and the contents thereof? Mine. Candy I've purchased? Mine. I don't mind sharing as long as I'm <em>asked</em>, but I hate walking into a room and seeing someone with something of mine in their hands. A perfect example would be my old job: I have certain pens that I love - because they fit well in my hands, write smoothly, etcetera. And, from time to time, I'd leave the pen in the back or on another desk because I was busy and distracted. Hours later, I'd see someone else using it, and I would see red. Because that person had to <em>know </em>that pen wasn't hers, so why was she using it?<em> </em>Conversely, I think I'm very good at not taking things that clearly belong to someone else. If it is necessary that I use something that does not belong to me, I will ask first, or make mention of it later. I'm pretty sure it goes back to my younger days, <a href="http://divinities.blogspot.com/2005/01/scorpion.html">when my brother and I would fight so much and so fiercely that we had to be separated</a>. Our rooms were safe zones, and we were not allowed into one another's rooms without permission. And if my mom bought, for instance, ice cream Chase had requested, and I went to eat it, I'd hear the "Uh-uh. That's <em>Chase's</em> ice cream." And he would hear the same thing if something were purchased for me. It was an act instituted to keep the peace, and it has never left me. Some say it's polite, some say it's childish. I say I can't help it. </p><p>8) I'm extremely polite. Which, I know, isn't a <em>bad</em> thing. But I'm polite to a fault. Guilt is a big factor, as is worrying what other people think of me. I will buy things I don't even <em>like</em> at a store if the sales girl/guy is nice to me. I feel like it's rude if they've spent time helping me and I leave without making a purchase. I know they're paid to be there, but still. I just hate feeling like I'm wasting people's time. In social situations, if someone offends me, it's very rare that I'll speak up for myself. I'd rather be a doormat than be misconstrued as a bitch. If someone upsets me by doing or saying something that I feel is a personal affront, I'll just marinate in my anger until it passes rather than telling that person that I'm upset. Because I don't want to make waves, and I don't want to fight. I have many people in my life who, possibly inadvertently, have offended me, but I'd never say a word. Going further, when I purchase cigarettes or gas or toilet paper or <em>anything</em>, I always conclude my time with the cashier with a "Thank you very much." Even if they're rude. And not just <em>Thank you</em>, but a sincere <em>Thank you <strong>very much</strong></em> or <em>Thank you <strong>so much</strong></em>. I say thank you every time the waiter/waitress does anything at my table when I'm dining out. I've thanked each and every person who opens or holds a door for me. I thank each car that lets me out into traffic, and I'm usually the car who lets people out of parking lots and into the road. I stop for pedestrians. I squeeze myself into walls and table to allow people to pass me in aisles and walkways, always giving the stranger the benefit of space. And I get <em>furious</em> with people who don't do the same. It's common courtesy. But, also, I think has something to do with the fact that I can't stomach the thought of the person I didn't thank/let in to traffic/let pass me going through their day thinking, "God. She was so <em>rude</em>."</p><p>9) I can't dive. I can jump into a pool, but I cannot dive. Something about my body just will not allow me to curve my body the way you need to curve to <em>dive</em>. I always just end up belly flopping in.</p><p>10) I'm scared of very deep water. When I was on my cruise, if I sat and thought of just how much space was below me, how much water there was around me...How far down I'd have to sink before hitting bottom and how there was nothing around me but water for hundreds, thousands, of miles, it really freaked me out. I think it's the helplessness, the hopelessness of it that bothers me. Also, I can't swim in any body of water whose floor I can't see. It's two-fold: One, if I can't see the bottom, it's clearly VERY DEEP, and we now know how I feel about that. Secondly, I need to see what's down there so I don't get stung/pinched/bitten by anything lurking around in the sand or murk. That one goes back to my summers spent at Hilton Head Island with my grandmother who once, while walking through knee-high brownish water, had her big toe pinched by a crab. That crap ripped up the skin on the side of her toe and made me scared enough to never walk in water that didn't reveal its inhabitants.</p><p>So that's all I'm obligated to tell you. I'm not tagging anyone because I don't want to put anyone on the spot. But if you read this and want to do it to, go right ahead. It's fun making people think you're crazy!</p>Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1164225431332274862006-11-22T14:53:00.000-05:002006-11-22T14:57:11.993-05:00Queen JealousyI’ve always been that girl who says “I totally have no problem with my boyfriend talking to other girls,” or “If he wants to flirt, that’s fine. He’s a <em>natural</em> flirt. He comes home to me.” I’ve even upped the ante and said, out loud, “I don’t mind if my boyfriend goes to strip clubs.”<br /><br />But, like almost everything I say, all of these declarations require addendums.<br /><br />I don’t have a problem with my boyfriend talking to other girls, as long as I <em>know</em> said other girls. If they’re old friends, I need to have heard about them numerous times. If they’re new friends, I need to be introduced. I have to be familiar with the notion of this girl to whom he’ll be speaking. It helps me digest it better, curbs my natural inclination toward suspicion.<br /><br />I’m fine with the flirting, with the actions of the “natural flirt” of a boyfriend that it seems I’ve found myself claiming for the last, oh, ten years of my life. But it cannot be overt flirtation. Just subtleties that are <em>almost</em> flirting: Coy smiles and soft voices are flirtations to me. That, I’m okay with. Outright body-leaning-in, obvious flattery and inquiring of phone numbers? Not so much.<br /><br />Strip clubs? Hey, I’ve been to a strip club or fifty in my life. I don’t mind them one bit. So, no I don’t mind if my boyfriend goes. But I prefer that I’d be there with him. Because it’s one thing to look at boobs with your girlfriend, another thing entirely to look at boobs while your girlfriend is at home. If he takes me with him, I feel like it’s an experience we’re sharing. There’s nothing to hide if you’re okay with me being there, too. But, still, in most circumstances, I’m okay with a guy’s night at a strip club. But not one man alone, and not with the intent to chat up the strippers. And no lap dances. There has to be a line somewhere.<br /><br />But, you know, in noticing that all of the “liberties” I “grant” require provisos, I’ve noticed something: I’m jealous. I’m jealous and competitive and not that liberal at all. Hmph. And, as with most things in my life, I was the last one to know about this. Or rather, I’ve just now admitted it to myself.<br /><br />My ex used to check out girls when he was with me. I tried and tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t, claiming that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. “It’s not like I’m being <em>unfaithful</em>,” he’d say with a smile meant to distract me from the anger.<br /><br />Though always weak in the face of that smile of his, I’d persist: “It’s not about fidelity. It’s about <em>winning</em>.” I struggled to demonstrate the complexities of the female brain, while he looked on in confusion. “Look,” I’d say, “if I’m walking through a mall, and some guy who is obviously with his girlfriend – holding her hand or whatever – checks me out, I’ve won. Because I can say, ‘Oh, man. That guy, who is <em>with that girl</em>, just totally checked me out. Poor girl.’ He’s supposed to be with her, into her, but I was able to distract him. I won. And I don’t want some other girl <em>winning</em>, while I’m there, holding your hand, stupidly unaware that other girls are winning all over the place.”<br /><br />He said he understood and agreed to stop. A week later, when he thought, apparently, that he was a vampire and therefore invisible in mirrors, I caught a reflection of him <em>totally checking out another girl</em>.<br /><br />“She just won,” I said without even looking at him. “No woman should win but <em>me</em>.”<br /><br />I considered it my competitive nature, not my jealousy, that was making me miserable in that situation. But looking at it now, I’m sure I was just jealous that some other woman was garnering the attention of the man I called mine.<br /><br />Thanksgiving Eve is a big night around these parts. Actually, it’s probably big everywhere as a night of reunions with friends who’ve moved away, but whose families still reside in your town. Everyone comes home for Thanksgiving, and they all go out to local bars and catch one another up on their careers, their love lives, their lives in general.<br /><br />“Did you want to go out Thanksgiving Eve?” I asked Billy as we readied ourselves for work Tuesday morning.<br /><br />“What do you want to do?” he replied as he squeezed Colgate onto his new toothbrush.<br /><br />“I don’t really care. It’s not a big deal to me. I didn’t grow up here, so the thrill is kind of lost on me. But I thought maybe you’d like to. I’m happy to go if you want to.”<br /><br />He began to brush his teeth, but stopped before the brush reached his mouth. “No. Nope, nope, nope. Because I just know I’ll get in trouble if we go out.”<br /><br />“What do you mean?” I laughed, rubbing lotion into my legs.<br /><br />“I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I know that somehow, I’ll wind up in trouble with you by the end of the night, so we should probably just stay in.”<br /><br />“What are you <em>talking</em> about?” I demanded, playfully jabbing him in the ribs.<br /><br />“Because I’m going to know people and have to talk to them, which means I won’t be able to give you my full attention. Which you’ll take as ignoring you. And some of the people I know will be <em>female</em>. And you’ll think I’ve either dated or slept with them, and be angry with me for even looking at them. So no. Let’s rent a movie or something.”<br /><br />I started to argue, but the sharp sting of truth kept me quiet. He was right. Last year, we went out, and I spent the evening alternately pretending to be interested in the various historical recaps of his youth that he shared with friends, and pretending to not be bothered by the fact that some of the people he introduced me to didn’t bother acknowledging me at all. I spent much of the night studying my cocktail glass and smoking too many cigarettes so that I had something to with my hands. But I seldom meet his friends, and it’s rarer still that I am introduced to them, so I plastered a smile to my face and ran with it. Because he’s my boyfriend and I love him and it doesn’t always have to be about ME.<br /><br />But I was irritated. I remember getting mad, sitting there, surrounded by too-loud music and no one to talk to. “I came to be with him,” I said to myself, “not to be out alone.” But the more accurate picture is probably that I was just jealous. Because other people had his attention. The attention that I don’t want just for the sake of wanting it, but because it’s his, and he has a way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the world when he’s talking to you. I was aware of the way some of the women looked at him. Because of the way he makes everyone feel special. Because everyone loves him. And I wanted to post a sign on his smooth forehead, over his sincere smile, announcing my possession of him, but I couldn’t. So, instead, I asked probing questions all the way home; questions that stopped just short of “So, did you ever sleep with [insert description of woman here]?”<br /><br />“I promise you won’t be in trouble,” I said, wiping my hands on the hand towel.<br /><br />“Oh, you can’t fool me. I know. I’ll be in trouble. Somehow.” He had begun brushing, and his words came out clumsy and garbled.<br /><br />I sighed and gathered my belongings to leave the bathroom.<br /><br />“When are you going to trust me?” He asked, his mouth now filling with frothy toothpaste.<br /><br />“I do.”<br /><br />He spit. “No you don’t. You think you’re liable to lose me at any second.” He paused, perhaps considering the ridiculousness of the fact that I actually do feel that way. “Just trust me.”<br /><br />I started to say that old worn out line about <em>it’s not YOU I don’t trust; it’s your friends/other women</em>. But it occurs to me that that’s not saying much. When it comes down to it, you’re still telling him you think he’s not strong enough to overcome the temptation of other women or peer pressure. Which, is basically, saying he’s weak and – Ta-Daa! – you don’t trust him. So I stopped. “I do trust you. I do. I’m just…Jealous.”<br /><br />“REALLY?” he said, in that sarcastic, <em>Oh my god I never thought of that before! How positively enlightening!</em> way. I slapped him on the butt and went to open the bathroom door.<br /><br />He grabbed my hand and pulled me back to him, attempting to kiss my just made-up face with his Colgate-rimmed mouth. I backed away, he moved in, back away, move in. We danced like that until I howled with laughter and finally allowed a gentle kiss on my lips.<br /><br />“You’re such a weirdo,” I said, licking the minty paste from my lips.<br /><br />But the conversation left me wondering where the murky line between trust and jealousy lies. Can you trust and be jealous at the same time? Are they mutually exclusive? Or do lack of trust and jealousy just mean the same thing?<br /><br />Because, the way I see it, it’s not that Billy’s ready to run off at the first sign of trouble, or at the first glimpse of a stripper’s boob. It’s just that I see him as the most attractive, charismatic, charming, intelligent, warm, funny, incredible man on the face of the earth. And <em>any</em> woman who sees that is going to do her best to get him from me. In my sick imagination, the sight of him walking into a room is followed immediately by the sound of hundreds of panties falling to the floor.<br /><br />Of all of the impressions a girl can have of her boyfriend, isn’t that the best kind to have? I mean, does he really want me to see him as a loser who, when he goes out, people go out of their way to NOT talk to?<br /><br />But the side effect of having this glorified opinion of him is jealousy. I know that he wouldn’t betray me. I do. I don’t believe he’d ever hurt me that way. I know he loves me and only has eyes for me. But I’m still jealous.<br /><br />“I do like where your head’s at,” he said when I presented him with my quandary. “But why can’t you still think of me that way, and then think, ‘And he’s all mine.’?”<br /><br />“Because it doesn’t work that way,” I told him.<br /><br />Or can it?<br /><br />Because this jealousy? It kills me. I know it can stem from insecurity and lack of faith, but can’t it also be attributed to just having an awesome boyfriend that you don’t want another bitch to even <em>think</em> about putting her paws on? Because that’s where I think mine comes from.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1164058644616098862006-11-20T23:09:00.000-05:002006-11-20T23:16:44.870-05:00It's a List because I Just Don't Have TIME for a Real Post1. I cannot switch to Blogger Beta. Just can't do it. At first it was due to my standard fear of change in any form. I'm <em>comfortable</em> with antiquated blogger, I am. I'm able to apply the miniscule amount of HTML I know in the appropriate places. I know what it looks like, how it works. I know all my saved drafts are safe and secure. I know all that. What I don't know is how the switch to Beta will affect me. So I haven't.<br /><br />Until I started looking at the blogs that <em>have</em> switched over, and the OCD girl inside of me got all giddy, and she started whispering in my ear that I could go through almost two years of posts and add tags to all of them, and <em>organize</em> all of it. And, oh, that would be so much fun. And she told me I could make columns and lists and things on the side there, and I could move it around however I want...<br /><br />So me and the OCD girl agreed, and tried to switch. The first time, I stopped because, hey, what if all of my drafts don't go over? So I procrastinated. The second time, I was like, "But what about all my links?" She tapped her finger onto her chin exactly fourteen times (she always does that when she's thinking) and nodded vigorously. "Good point," she said, blinking twenty four times. "Good point. Don't do it." But she started to panic at the thought of losing all of that info. So we stopped. Then I went to do it again, and I realized that I didn't know how to make links open in new windows with the new system. I emailed a friend, and she said it just all transferred over. So I looked at the OCD girl, and she looked at me, and we nodded in unison and I clicked the link to switch me over.<br /><br />We thought we were on our way to a new and improved Divinities, but, alas, no such luck. My blog is too big to switch right now. And you know what? Now, every time I log into my blog, I get that big message saying "We're ready to switch you!" And every time I see it, I fall for it. And every time I do it, I get the same stupid message. "Whoops. Sorry. Not yet." And now I <em>want</em> it. Badly. This is not fair.<br /><br />2. I met Chase's girlfriend on Saturday. And, you know what? She's pretty freakin' great. I THINK.<br /><br />Chase is really into her, and she is really into him. And it's so comforting to see that. I even witnessed little boyfriend/girlfriend things between the two of them. It was so cute. He's a good boyfriend, I think, my little brother. And if he's not? I'll kick his ass.<br /><br />3. I have a formal Christmas party to attend in December so, on Saturday, my mom, Chase, his girlfriend and I all went to this fancy-pants mall about an hour and a half away from here. Mom and I went on our own and searched high and low for dresses. We went into <a href="http://www.neimanmarcus.com/store/catalog/template/catC11.jhtml?itemId=cat000131&parentId=cat000111&masterId=cat000001&cmCat=">Neiman-Marcus</a> and <a href="http://shop.nordstrom.com/C/6001768/0~2376776~2374327~2374331~6001765~6001768?origin=6001765_Shop+by+Event%2fOccasion6001765">Nordstrom</a>, trying to stifle the inevitable vomiting sensation that overtook us each time we flipped over a price tag that read "$790" or "Sale! $955." Ugh. We made jokes about how the other half lives, and kept on moving through the stores.<br /><br />Unwittingly, we stumbled into the "Couture" section of Nordstrom, where gigantic ball gowns with crystal embellishments hung from velveteen hangers. We knew we were out of our league, but since no one was around, we checked things out. And that's when two sales people, one man and one woman, emerged from the dressing room area. They started to go over the specifics of their department, "Every dress you see here is custom-made, available in any size or color you desire." I sort of grinned and nodded, trying to feign indifference, and trying NOT to let them know I was out of my price range. After they'd asked me what the occasion was and I answered, they started giving suggestions. "This is a lovely cocktail dress," said the short salesman, moving the dress from its hanging position and to the front of his body. "It's quite elegant."<br /><br />"Yes, well," I said, struggling to keep my composure. The price tag was dangling there, profane in its exposure. $3,450. "That's not really my style," I said regrettably. "Thank you though," and we scampered out of there. "Quick," I whispered to mom, "before they realize we could never afford this stuff!"<br /><br />4. Eventually, I found my way to someplace more comfortable: The sales rack at Lord & Taylor. I ended up purchasing two dresses. They're both quite lovely, and I bought the two of them because I couldn't decide between them. So I brought them home, definite favorite in mind, and showed them to Billy and asked him to pick. He did not pick my favorite. Which puts me in quite a quandary. Because the one he picked is sexy, the other is classier. And I generally like to go with Classy over Sexy. But I do want to make him proud...So I don't know which one to wear. But I have to go shopping for shoes, so that means I have to pick one and stick with it, unless I want to buy complete outfits - replete with jewels, shoes and bags - for each option and then just make the choice based on how I feel that day. And that just seems dangerous. And costly.<br /><br />5. I showed the dresses to my friend, and she agreed with Billy. So Sexy Red Dress it is. But I've just spent three hours in a different mall, and I couldn't find any shoes that complimented it. Damn winter shoes. Doesn't anyone buy sexy, strappy little shoes in the winter? I mean, I know it'll be all snowy and horribly cold in a matter of <em>hours</em>, but, c'mon. I need the right shoes.<br /><br />6. I'm really looking forward to Thanksgiving. I have a shortened work week this week, and if that's not reason to give thanks, I don't know what is.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1163781125281290182006-11-17T11:14:00.000-05:002006-11-17T11:32:06.060-05:00The Sister's CurseMy little brother is coming home from school today for Thanksgiving break...<em>With his girlfriend! </em>They'll both be staying with my parents for a full week.<br /><br />As the protective older sister, I feel not unlike a mother whose little baby is growing up and leaving the nest. It makes me feel ancient and antique, like I've turned around and suddenly he's <em>a man, </em>and I'm a grandma. Something about Chase bringing a girl HOME for a WEEK makes me want to weep a little bit. <em>He's all grown up</em>, I want to cry, dabbing at the tears in my eyes with the embroidered handkerchief I'm holding in my wrinkly hand. <em>My little boy is a man now</em>. Then I'd straighten my reading glasses and adjust the chain that holds them around my neck, take a deep and ragged breath, and go back to my knitting.<br /><br />But I don't carry an embroidered handkerchief, and I don't knit; I don't have wrinkly hands, and I don't wear glasses. I'm 26, and he's 20, but something about this makes me feel <em>old</em>. And it makes me want to take this girl into a locked room, point a sweat lamp directly at her head and ask her all sorts of intrusive questions. <em>What are your intentions with my brother? Are you sure you feel strongly for him? Are you leading him on? You better MEAN EVERYTHING YOU SAY TO HIM, AND STICK BY IT NO MATTER WHAT OR I WILL <strong>OWN</strong> YOU. Understand?</em> I want to employ the tactics my dad threatened me with when I first started dating: Cleaning guns at the kitchen table when she walks in. I want to eye her suspiciously, make her nervous...<br /><br />But I won't. Obviously. For a number of reasons: One, it's not my place. Two, I'm just not that kind of person. And three, Chase really cares for her. And he must care for her for a reason. If he likes her, she must be pretty incredible.<br /><br />And then there's the other thing: No matter how shitty my boyfriends in the past were, Chase was always <em>nice</em>. He may be my "little brother" by timeline, but not physically. Physically, he's much bigger than me, and he could very easily play the role of Asshole Big Brother if need be. And he never did. Not because he didn't care, but because I cared about the guy, and that was enough for Chase. So I'm going to try to approach it that way this time.<br /><br />I haven't always thought of it this way. In fact, I'm sort of notorious for being the mean older sister when it comes to girlfriends. Not because I'm mean just for the sake of being mean, but because in Chase's younger years, I was just a better judge of character than he was. Chase was sweet and unquestionably trusting, where I could sense evil <em>immediately</em>. And one particular girl he brought around was just that. So from the instant I met her and heard her referring to <em>my</em> mom and dad as "Mom" and "Dad," I'd had enough. I was short with her, I couldn't look at her, and I wanted nothing to do with her. I tried to be nice, but I insisted, to Chase and my whole family (who all loved her), that something was wrong. With her. That she wasn't as sweet as she made herself out to be. I didn't like that she was intruding on my territory. That she was trying to wedge herself into my incredible family because she got dealt a shitty one. I thought she was too full of sacchrine, her act was too syrupy to swallow. And you know what? A couple of months later, the truth was revealed. And who was right? ME. That's who. I saw through her artificial affection and her too-sweet demeanor to the slimy opportunist that was circling Chase's feet.<br /><br />But, because I was "mean" to her, I've developed a slight reputation in my family of being a VERY overprotective big sister. My little brother isn't nervous about bringing girls home to meet my parents, he's nervous about bringing them to meet <em>me</em>. "Promise me you'll be nice," Chase said when he gently broke the news that his girlfriend would be sharing our time together this Thanksgiving.<br /><br />"I <em>am </em>nice," I maintained. "As long as I think she's good to you."<br /><br />"She is," he said. I could picture him closing his eyes and nodding, like a frustrated parent tired of explaining things to his child.<br /><br />"I promise." I heard his exhale of relief through the phone. "BUT!" I amended, "If I sense something <em>off</em>, I'm going to tell you. And then I'll be <em>civil</em>, but I won't be <em>awesome</em>. Okay?"<br /><br />I'm approaching this like Chase and his girlfriend are 14. They're both in their twenties. Technically, they're my <em>peers</em>. Yet I'm assuming the role of Adult to their assigned role of Child in my mind.<br /><br />It's so silly. Because I know that Chase is grown. I know he's capable of judging good from bad. And I even know that this girl <em>is</em> really nice, and treats him really well. But I'm constantly on the lookout for people's ulterior motives when it comes to him, as though Chase The Poor College Student has anything worth stealing. It's just that he's such a good man, such a kind, giving and caring person, I'm terrified that people will take advantage of that soft, perfect part of him. I love him so much, I want to protect him. Even if he's perfectly capable of protecting himself. Even if he doesn't want me to. Even if it's silly and ridiculous and antiquated and stupid. I love him. And I'm his big sister. I always will be.<br /><br />Protecting him, in whatever small way I can, is what I'll be doing for the rest of my life.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10095069.post-1163447871805869632006-11-13T13:55:00.000-05:002006-11-13T14:57:52.196-05:00Attention World:There’s a store in the Rockaway Townsquare Mall, that rhymes with Schmictoria’s Frecret? It may have the worst. Employees. Ever.<br /><br />I walked into the store hoping to buy at least one new bra. Because a girl like me finds one bra that she falls in love with and doesn’t deviate from that until the bra decides it’s had enough of her and begins to go limp in protest of being worn day in, day out. And it was time for a new one. So I strode in, a very specific idea of what I needed in my mind. My friend had told me about this certain bra that was supposedly wonderful under T-Shirts and pushed up and did everything a bra was supposed to do while being comfortable. I needed it.<br /><br />So I headed toward the correct section, scanning the wall-mounted hangers for the one I wanted. In my travels to what appeared to be the correct section, I witnessed an employee getting bitched out by a customer. In her hand, the customer held the all-too-familiar “FREE PANTY!” flyer that every American gets roughly 1,845 times a year. She was clearly complaining that the one style of panty that could actually be <em>free</em> was no longer available in the store. “What do you mean, <em>you don’t have any more</em>?” she argued. The sales girl continued her task of folding panties, all but ignoring the customer, and replied, “I mean, we don’t have anymore. Sorry.” I could understand the sales girl’s apathy. So you can’t get your free panty. Big deal lady, get over it. I shook my head at how uptight, how <em>demanding</em> customers could be and arrived at my section.<br /><br />The racks - which are normally so neat and tidy in every other <em>Schmictoria’s Frecret</em> I’ve been in, and even <em>this</em> one on prior visits - were all in disarray. The push-up bras were mixed in with the regular ones, as were the strapless and convertible versions. There was no rhyme or reason to the size, either, and so I went for the ol’ fail-safe of going into the drawers below the displays to find my size. It’s been my experience that whatever I couldn’t find up top would be down there, an organized oasis of bras, broken down into size, style and levels of padding.<br /><br />But the drawers were just as bad as the racks above them. After searching for well over twenty minutes, and not once being approached by the normally helpful staff, I had to go and seek out some help of my own.<br /><br />I pride myself on not being a bothersome customer. I’m the kind of person who buys something I may not like all that much if the sales person is really nice, if they’ve helped me and didn’t make me feel like a bother and made an effort to do their jobs well. On the other hand, I will not buy something, even if I LOVE it, if the sales people ignore me, or if I have to interrupt their personal conversation to get a fitting room or pay for my item. I’ve been in customer service for <em>years</em>, and, well, I’ve been a customer for years, and I know how it’s supposed to go: You, the employee, are nice to the customer. You treat them like you’re glad to see them, you accommodate them, you <em>make the sale</em>. You treat them with respect, you are kind, and you are helpful. Because <em>you</em> are being paid to be there. And you know what? That customer that you hate so much for just walking into the store? She’s paying you to be there. So you act like it. And, in turn, as the customer, you’re nice and courteous. You’re not mean for no reason, you aren’t an asshole; you’re nice and accommodating, too. It’s a very symbiotic relationship when both parties are decent. So I try not to demand too much. If I can find my own size, I will. If I can let myself into a room, I will. But the employees, they’re there to help me.<br /><br />Which is why I was so surprised to have to track down one of the two girls working the sales floor. One in particular had passed by me no less than four times. And the fact that she would not make eye contact with me made me believe that she was actually ignoring me on purpose. This was not the same girl who was just being bitched at for not having free panties available, this girl was carrying around bras and, I guess, hanging them up in their appropriate spots. Though the racks certainly didn’t support my assumption, so I’m sure she was just carrying them around to look busy.<br /><br />I tried to catch her eye twice, but failed. So, on what must have been her fifth trip past me, I had to actually say, “Excuse me.” She looked up at me with a mix of apathy, disdain and irritation.<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />She was dressed in the customary all-black suit that most employees wear, only she had decided to dress it up with a Louis Vuitton scarf, that was bundled loosely around her neck and made her head appear to be floating on a cloud of fake silk. (I say fake because, really, if she’s working at <em>Schmictoria’s Frecret</em>, can she really afford a $400 scarf? Because, hey, we all know that the Prada bag I have in my closet was purchased from a street-side vendor. I mean, c’mon, I’m a secretary.) Her reddish-brown hair was piled high above her overly made-up face, and everything about her screamed “I don’t want to be here, and I’m above you anyway.” The way she looked at me suggested I’d just crawled into the store directly from the nearest garbage can, and that I was clearly not good enough to be in the store, let alone in her presence.<br /><br />Quite the contrary, I was all done up and was carrying my fancy-pants real purse. I was dressed well, and I was ready to spend money. Which, really, should make no difference. I’ve learned that you can never treat anyone like they’re broke. It's the old <em>Don't judge a book by its cover </em>addage. Her clear superiority complex drove me mad. What happened to treating the customer well?<br /><br />I hated this woman’s attitude, but I needed something and was willing to overlook it. “Can you tell me where I can find this certain bra in my size?” I asked nicely.<br /><br />She extended a bony finger and pointed past me. She was pointing at a wall maybe ten paces way and gave a fake smile. “Over there.”<br /><br />I followed her finger, then turned my head back to her. “Yes, I know. I was just over there. But I can’t find my size. Can you help me?”<br /><br />Her smile flickered off, then back on. Her voice went from bothered to condescending. “They’re…Right…Over…There,” she said, slowly so that I could understand her.<br /><br />I’ve never been refused, when asking out-right, for help. Never <em>in my life</em>. “Seriously?” I said, bewildered. “Wow.” I was seriously shocked. “Well then. THANK YOU SOO-OOO MUCH FOR ALL OF YOUR HELP.” My reply's pace mirrored the sloth of her words. My eyes rolled as I spoke more loudly than necessary, hoping that she’d pick up on my sarcasm.<br /><br />She didn’t. She just nodded like she’d done something helpful and walked away, bras dangling from her little demon arms.<br /><br />Because I was desperate, I walked back over to that section. Only this time, I was <em>furious</em>. My blood was <em>boiling</em>. My blood pressure was <em>high</em>. I was <em>incensed</em>. I just couldn’t believe it. She’s supposed to help me. And if she’s new, or doesn’t know, she’s supposed to send someone to me who CAN help. But she didn’t.<br /><br />What I wanted to do was run through the store, my arm extended, wiping panty after panty from their folded positions on the tables and onto the floor. I wanted to yank the racks from the wall. I wanted to throw bras in the air and let them fall wherever they may. I wanted to knock over mannequins and punch through the signs. I wanted to wreck the store and then walk up to her, panting, out of breath and sweaty, push my hair back from my face, take a satisfied deep breath, stand up a little straighter, adjust my purse on my shoulder and smile. “I think you have a few more <em>bras</em> to put back,” I’d say, flicking one of the bras in her hand as I said <em>bras</em>, to make sure she understood what I was talking about. Then I’d smile and point back to the disaster I’d caused and say, “Right…Over…There.” And then I’d walk out, smiling serenely and standing tall, rounding the corner to get lost in the mall crowd.<br /><br />But I didn’t. I’m not aggressive. I’m <em>passive</em>-aggressive. Instead, I went ahead and looked at every bra, sure to take it down from its rack to check the size, then leave each one on the waist-high counter instead of putting it back. I opened the drawers and checked each one of those, too. And, naturally, I pulled each one from its drawer and left all of those wrong sizes on the counter too. When I was finished, I had found one bra: Right size, wrong color and style. So I went back over to the sales “ladies,” Little Miss Louis Vuitton and the one who was previously defending the store’s lack of panties. They were facing away from me, chatting, as I walked up behind them. As luck would have it, they were chatting about <em>ME</em>!<br /><br />“So she says, ‘Can you help me,’ and I’m like, ‘Uh, hello. They’re right over there.’ And then she, like, rolled her –”<br /><br />“Excuse me,” I said sweetly. They both startled and turned around. A guilty look flashed across their faces. “I hate to interrupt your little discussion here, but I can’t find the size in the selection <em>right over there</em>, so I’m going to need,” and I pointed at the saleslady I hadn’t yet spoken to, “<em>you</em> to help me.”<br /><br />Louis Vuitton walked away, and the other one was clearly miffed that now she was stuck with me, the customer bold enough to actually ask one of them to do something.<br /><br />“What did you need?” she said, looking over my shoulder. Her voice was detached and obviously uninterested in bothering with me.<br /><br />“Well, your coworker told me that I could find whatever I needed over there,” I pointed behind me, then looked at her again, a smile on my face, my voice syrupy-sweet. “But I can’t seem to find it there. So I need to know if you can find it for me.”<br /><br />“If it’s not over there, we don’t have it,” she said, as though she was stating the obvious. As though she couldn’t believe I was dumb enough to not understand that. It was at that point that she turned to walk away.<br /><br />I don't know why I persisted, but I did. I guess it was sort of my way of not giving in to their obvious desire to just get rid of me.<br /><br />“You don’t have any in the back?” I said.<br /><br />She stopped, sighed, and turned to face me. “Yeah, we do.”<br /><br />Maybe I'm crazy, but I just don't think I should have to ask a direct question like to make her offer to check the back for me. I thought that was <em>part of her job</em>. “Well, do you think you’ll have any other sizes back there?”<br /><br />“Mmm-hmmm.” She confirmed, but making no effort or offer to move or check.<br /><br />I took a deep breath. “Well, since <em>you’re</em> the one paid to be here, and <em>I’m</em> the one looking to pay for a bra, you think you could, oh, I don’t know, <em>go back there and check</em>?”<br /><br />“Sure,” she said. There's just no other way to describe her tone: It was <em>mean</em>.<br /><br />She asked for my size and said she’d be back. “Oh, first,” I said, talking to her back once again, “I need a fitting room. Would it be too much trouble to let me into one?”<br /><br />“Follow me,” she said, not even turning around.<br /><br />So I followed her into the fitting rooms, where she begrudgingly let me into one of the mirrored rooms. And I stepped in, closed the door behind me and tossed the bra on the little seat inside. And I let out a disgusted sigh as I prepared to try on the thing…But then I stopped. <em>Wait a second</em>, I thought. <em>Do I really want either of these women to earn a commission – even a SMALL one – considering how RUDE they were?</em> And the answer was an explicit NO.<br /><br />So I opened the door and walked out, hoping she was in the back room, rifling through bins of bras and that she’d come out to find me gone. But I know better. She was probably just hiding out around the corner so she could <em>say</em> she checked in the back, but there weren't any for me.<br /><br />It may sound a little old-fogie of me but if I had to be nice to every person whose path I crossed for the last ten years of my life in the interest of keeping my job, how do these people get away with it? And how do they not think it's wrong? And, damnit, what the hell has happened to customer service?<br /><br />I may have to write a letter.Lauriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04471346127395431889noreply@blogger.com11