Travel Junkie

death is a four letter word

2010-07-11T18:04:00.003-07:00

i do not have a crystal ball. there are no tarot cards disguised beneath the pale silk scarves which lay unremembered in the bottom of pine-scented drawers. no books of witchcraft or sorcery line the whitewashed shelves of the boards by the bright open window and i do not seek the high whisper of magic in the voice of psychics or mages. yet i know bone-deep the future.

perhaps this is why the hunger for tragedy so chases the traffic of my veins, always one step behind my sunny disposition. it is there, though few see it and none understand. i seek sadness. like the wilted petals of summer-soaked gardens i find peace in the quiet of death. words which break and drown in the tears of their reader are my solace and i weep in the beauty of faded ink, of prose and poetry and script fit to line the most magnificent of coffins.

for that is where he shall be. my love, my heart, my breath. nine years past i stood in the shadow of fifteen candles and when i wished i wished that my future may not be so. i clenched my fist to the blast of the hot north wind which extinguished the twinkling orange teardrops in my stead and so i knew there was no hope. still the silver casket reigned in my dreams.

and maybe that is why i have never really been in love. i fear it for i know it shall be as fleeting as the midsummer night and painful as ten million pricks beneath my skin. but i will fall one day. one day when pink gumdrops tickle sour on my tongue and the sun catches the blades of grass just right i will give up my soul while he laughs and brushes his mouth against mine and is never the wiser. in that moment i will not think of the things he will miss, how he will never have grey hair, or caress the golden head of his grandchild; he will never stop to face his reflection and count the wrinkles of life around his eyes. but he will not see the falter of my smile and i will kiss him while he twists my heart around his so that when death comes, endlessly will i whisper to the pieces left behind, pieces wound too tight to ever be found by the darkest and most wicked of angels.

DNA UFO's

2010-07-11T18:04:00.001-07:00

Bleakly the sky weeps dark rain, grey shadows swirling in the thick mist. It is a storm of epic proportions, they say, although who "they" are I can't be sure. But the clouds don't stop rolling in and soon enough crowds gather to watch what may never again come in their lifetime, hoping to catch a glimpse of the unidentifiable objects that appear like flashes against the veil of the black wind.
His truck is old, and the radio skitters with a scratchy annoucement, a call to arms for all to the local Publix, the End of the World Sale beginning in mere hours. Kurt Vandergross (the actor) sits in the driver's seat, this man whose face I know not but whose soul is near to mine. My heart says that he is Ben Robbins, so well does he know me, but I sit confounded by the way I feel about him. Are we in love? I realize as our conversation is sliced by the radio that we have been speaking of such matters, but now we press onwards to the grocery store, urgent to prepare for an impending catastrophe.
The roadside is full of spectators, lawn chairs staked, quilts spread on the muddy ground as hundreds wield binoculars and cameras, oohing and aahing as the sky brightens intermittently with glowing symbols. And then, I am struck. Down from the murky grey spin two strands of DNA, like white-hot jellyfish against the weeping sky. They are larger than life, gigantic, and I am sure that Ben sees them. I try to call for him, want him to see so that I know I am not insane, when one strand grows tiny enough to slip through the crack in my window and onto the skin of my arm. I am branded. It does not hurt, but in the moment that the incandescent creature lays hold of me, I am transported to a strange land.
All about me are people with faces like animals, with clothes like royalty and hands like humans. I am their princess, my coronation moments away. My father stands before me, the fur of his face brown and grey, his snout wolf-like and cold.
"Jiiiklyii swaa henslubrath," he says to me, and I know this language in my heart, understand that he is telling me that now it is up to me to save their land and their people, that I must not fail my mother while she lies in her grave in wait. My dress flows like silk around my human body, but in a far-off mirror I can just see the outline of my face; I am anything but human. I am not afraid, only ready, and I accept my father's words with an iron will, prepared to do something in this life that I might not have had the courage to do in the other. But just as I turn to address the people I am sucked back into the world of UFOs and thunderstorms.
Ben is fiddling with the radio and I realize that what seemed like hours has only been seconds, and the Publix looms closer. The sleeve of my shirt covers my upper arm, but the mark still shows through, a bright strand of white DNA covering my skin like a pulsing tattoo. The parking lot is full but the store is dark and empty, and the line of nearly two hundred people outside the door is growing restless. Yelling ensues, threats against whoever is playing a prank at a time like this when suddenly a meek man is there before the crowd.
"You heard an annoucement on the radio?" He asks quietly, as though no one is really meant to hear him. When met with a resounding yes from all present he says matter of factly, "Then it really is true. You are the Chosen Ones. Please, follow me."
I look at Ben and see fear in his eyes. I take his hand, tell him to trust me, but I know that I need him now more than he shall ever need me.
The interior is really no grocery store at all, rather a large room much like Congress, hundreds of plastic yellow chairs in a semi-circle, all facing a enormous mahagony podium in the center. We take our seats, and still I feel uncertainty in the heat of Ben's skin. Maybe it is a mistake to trust these people, but then again I'm the one who saw a potential future, who feels safe in the alien mark that now scars me. Ben has yet to find his place among them and I know I cannot begrudge him this - I can only hope for him.
A woman with hair like a strawberry meadow sunset whisks her way through the crowd, in and out of the spaces between the chairs, looking but not speaking. I whisper, suddenly, for no reason at all, in the language I spoke in that other world: "Lastteesh likong eeng."
The woman with the amber hair turns to me fiercely, her grey gaze like tearstained stone.
"Yes," she whispers back, in sheer wonder. "Yes, long live the king. You truly are one of the Chosen."
I feel Ben tighten beside me, anger and fear and pride sweeping through him and I am amazed that I can so pinpoint his emotion. It is then that I realize I possess a special power, one that enables me to secretly swim in the hearts and veins of others; it is better than reading minds, for I know somehow that with this power I can rule or ruin mankind.
I look at the woman, meet her tombstone eyes.
"I am ready."

And then I woke up.

trying something new...

2010-07-11T18:03:00.002-07:00

Midsummer midnight
We swim in milky moonbeams
Mountain wind
On the glass of our skin
And grass
Our verdant vessel

Two wishes
We throw to the purple-ink sky
Too silent
For our fears are not compliant
To the
Fences of our hearts

I feel
The heat of his smile
Finger lifted
To point how the moon shifted
Dancing stars
A company of players

Painfully aware
In the crook of his arm
Sweet religion
Of pure first love my competition
Plastic smiles
My aching solace

My fingers
Tread the patchwork ocean
Our quilt
Heavy with the heartbroken silt
That sinks
Like lead in my blood

If only
The sky were the ocean
If only
The heart never got lonely
If only
I were dead

Black Snow

2010-07-11T18:03:00.001-07:00

The white dress hugs her tightly, her breath shallow as a baby bird's. She moves forward but something is wrong; at her feet lies scattered money. Thousands upon thousands of sketchy green presidents stare up at her as she grips her lillies, shuffles through the flimsy paper sea. It is a tragic waste. Someone should have told her money can't buy love.
They wait for her now on the other side of the stone walls, and they watch her when the doors swing open, rows of blurred smiles, faceless bodies. The organ plays in time with her first step into hell.
"One, two, sway to the macabre rhythm."
It beats whispers into her blood, "The end now is nigh, turn back to save your life."
Blinded by a lightening flash she expects to hear the dooming crack of thunder. She realizes it's only the photographer, begging for her plastic smile, hiding behind his own dead eyes. His job has made him privy to sad secrets. He knows the real end to this beginning.
The sweet baritone of the man whose arm she grips vice-like murmurs incoherently, like the babble of a brook as it smooths away granite, wears the rocks to weakness.
"Daddy, save me!" But no, not out loud, this is only in her mind, and the quiet words still try to soften her hard defense.
Another step and her arm grows heavy, third finger, left hand weighed suddenly with a diamond padlock and she chokes in fear to discover the key she once wore around her neck is turned to dust.
Her steps turn leaden, but Father pulls her forward to the end, to another faceless blur. Except for his eyes. Obsidian, they bear into her, needles on her skin, but Father doesn't see. His kiss upon her cheek is like a teardrop, there and gone, eternity ever after changed with a brush of pale pink lips.
The one with the black eyes takes her hand, cold iron shackles disguised as fingers and no matter how she inconspicuously tries to relieve the burning in her bones, he releases not his grip.
Now before the minister, he hums in his drolling tone what must be the vows, though the words are different than she remembers.
"Repeat, repeat, die or retreat," fall faster and faster to the now-shifting ground below. She is alone with the Iron Man, red desert on all sides, sun high, death nigh, the way the whispers promised.
A child's laughter crackles on the air and in the distance a small girl stands, chained, the metal raw on her dainty skin.
"Who is she?" echoes off the indigo sky until the sharp clink of steel sounds and she sees the chain is hooked to the heavy padlock adorning her hand. Out of the child's mouth suddenly flies a calendar bigger than the noon-day sun. Details are scrawled illegibly across every single date, "Infinity" stamped where once the month appeared.
She looks to the man with her for explanation but sees only boredom in his listless gaze. He seems to look right through her and yet somewhere deep inside she knows he must have loved her long ago, when the Paris river caught the moon and chocolate still stained her lips. He is fading before her very eyes, and even while she wonders why she reaches for him. But it is too late.
Gone are the man and the child and the desert, the maid alone on a canyon's precipice, waving goodbye to the ship that holds her dreams as it sails on the wind. She is left with only her tears, poisoned rivulets running down the snow of her dress, blackness in their wake.

Saffron sun showers her room with golden glitter as the light peeks through the leaves of the wind-blown oak tree.
She awakens.

It is the dawn of her wedding day.

Solemn Sentinels, Stealthy Succubus

2010-07-11T18:02:00.001-07:00

The church is airy, the stained glass brilliant with afternoon sunlight and pew after pew of stoic patrons bask in the pulpit's gentle message. A loud pop, and the great wooden doors split in two, crazed sentinels at attention behind the shattered entrance. In they march, two by two, bayonets pointed into horrified faces, confusion etched in every line of their expression.
At the colonel's command, the soldiers give a cry and release the death they hold in their hands. Screams and dissipation ensue as under the wooden pews roll tubes of lethal gas. The guards wear masks, solemnly taking the death toll as one by one the innocent fall into everlasting silence. There is one, however, who does not pass into the afterlife, instead morphing into the most dangerous of all succubi, one who preys on the souls of children to gain strength enough to kill men. She is old, frail, thought to be dead, and so the soldiers leave her there among the lifeless bodies.
There is a river nearby, and in it swim saltwater fish. The newly-turned demon lives by the waters, hoping for passersby, waiting for a child to wander into her trap. Clint Eastwood learns of the danger near the river, however, and stands guard night and day. He is tormented by the loss of one child in his past and he refuses to lose another as he eats his lunch in the wigwam he has fashioned as his stakeout.
Then it is night and the bright fire of a family glitters in the midnight chill. There is a little girl, wise beyond her years, who meets the succubus by the water's edge. She refuses to be led into the warm hut, instead returning hastily to her mother's side, spilling the story to Clint Eastwood as he makes his nightly river rounds.
"She wore the clothes of a child, despite her many years," she says quietly. "She cannot be who she claims."
He thanks the girl and strides with determination to the dank hole where the old woman lives, eager to finally end it forever. But he comes upon her too late - she holds an innocent in her steely, gnarled grasp as Clint Eastwood nears the murky water.
"No!!" he cries feverishly.
Nothing can be done. Bony fingers grip the neck of the child, eyes bulging, face reddening then fading to blue as slowly, slowly the spirit steals the lifebreath of the small victim.
Clint Eastwood knows she is too strong.
She has won.

And then I woke up.

A Mermaid, the Prisoner of Music

2010-07-11T18:01:00.000-07:00

The scene of the stage is concrete, grey and splattered through with black gummy circles. Brandon Holcombe charges the stands, purple flag of the colorguard glowing brightly in his left hand. He mocks me with words I cannot hear, but they cut nonetheless. How can it be that I have reverted here to this place I thought I had escaped so thoroughly, a hell of ridicule and anger and hate? I stand in silence as his diatribe continues, the torrent only broken when gunfire echoes off the limestone walls.
Dull bleachers melt away and I stand frozen when I see a gun pointed at me, a black barrel the current god of my universe. The car, the goods, my father - all are there in the blink of an eye and the skinny chocolate man aiming fate in my direction hauls the bundle in his arms into the trunk of my grey compact, swerving his intent to my father instead.
I hear the blast, feel it even, but as I sink to the damp grass I realize my lifeblood remains intact. Again, again, the shot sounds. A scream of agony but it is not mine. I look up from my hazy nest on the ground and see my father, three wounds spewing redness, but I do not move. I know the men will leave if only I play dead.
The peal of old brakes in the distance and in the silence that follows I haul myself to my father, weeping, afraid, urgent. We must go inside the mansion, the one looming now right before us, for it is there that our safety lies.
I fashion a sling from my stockings for my father's arm and we limp through the massive wooden door and into dark tunnels. People appear from every corner, torches held above their heads and I almost weep with joy. They lead me to the weapon room, a woman bidding me choose wisely.
"These," I say, hurriedly removing the intricately designed, oversized letter openers from their stand.
"Yes," said my new friend solemnly, her black eyes bright. "Its true danger lies with its master. Now go! Save the mermaid!"
I am pushed along in a group so large I lose sight of my father, his name drowned by the war cry from the sea of angry people. Black tunnels pierced through with momentary sun are my one comfort for hours, exhaustion imminent and desperation for the end digging cold nails into my skin.
And then suddenly, finally, there is light, and its luminescence shines brightly off the polished surfaces of countless pianos, all glamorous beyond dreams. The room is large, open, and we weave our way through the grand instruments stopping only when we find the mermaid, the enchanted prisoner of music. It is she we must free.
Fair is her skin, dainty is her mouth, and the scales of her tail glitter emerald in the white light. She lays a sad gaze on the flimsy troupe before her, unaware that we are her freedom. No one speaks, but the music plays seamlessly from the hundreds of surrounding pianos, and through the magic of the melody, her chains are broken, the dawn of her escape.
Joy spreads through the graceful mermaid and she lifts her hands in ardent praise.

And then I woke up.

The Nightingale Cries, Too

2010-01-20T20:45:00.000-08:00

Florence Nightingale would have a fit. Overused and pilfered through with a million cliches, no one should blame the near-saint for turning over in her grave. Never would it have been predicted that to be called such denotes grave connotations, ones bordering on pathetic, at that. To have injured souls and bruised sentiments sacrificed on the altar of self-respect is a far cry from the healing that Miss Nightingale so aptly gave.
And yet, what is happening to so many women today? The desire to help, to cure, to nurse - the nature of the female heart, surely - has become a distortion which inevitably sprouts self-loathing and begets certain disappointment.
As a constant purveyor of the ravaged male spirit, I am, frankly, exhausted with my seeming inability to accept a man who has not been wounded almost beyond repair. Whether it be involuntary or a twisted form of defense, I nevertheless refuse to meet the eyes of an undamaged fellow.
Fair traits stare me in the face oftentimes, the whole of a man stands in brightness before me, barely scathed by the blades of sordid pasts, of impeded futures. And yet, I look past him, through him, even, to the crouching figure in the dark distance, scars on his skin and waryness in his wake; his disconsolate gaze wreaks havoc on my heart, and with such a glance, I leave the light and run into the shadow, assured only one thing - agony.
I ache to be free of my disease. For a disease it must be, indeed, as it causes pain and hurt so deep that only Father Time may ever see the remedy. In the end, his ocean of tears that I so valiantly tried to stave will do naught but wash over me, even as I attempt to build the wall inside, a dam to fortify my spirit so that it may remain untouched while I purify and bandage and revive.
But it matters not.

I always drown.

Celebrity Sightings

2010-01-13T16:17:00.000-08:00

A grueling day of the Boston-Baltimore shuttle loomed blackly in the distance as my crew and I made our way to the cerulean-splashed jetway door in Massachusetts. I noticed him sitting by the big bay-like windows and shot an appraising glace his way as I am apt to do when a chocolate gaze locks mine. His eyes struck me as a pair I'd seen before but the rest of his face was hidden from view as he chattered into his cell, so I boxed up the familiarity to be examined later.
Several "hellos" and "welcome aboards" later and Velvet Eyes was right in front of me as I realized I did recognize his sweet elfin face. He threw an accent-lined joke over his shoulder to his friend and I knew with a start where I precisely I'd seen him.
Boy A.
It was an obscure Indie film I'd rented from Netflix weeks earlier, one rank with a disturbing plot and an ending that was far from satisfactory. Still, this young Brit had given a jolly good performance and I admired his talent for carrying so heavy a movie on his own.
My fellow crewmember Summer suddenly whispered excitedly that Boy A's tow-headed friend was also a purveyor of acting, and starred in a film recently about a theme park in 1987. Hurriedly I checked the manifest for their names, but unfortunately Jesse Eisenberg and Andrew Garfield were gonna need Google's help before I made a fool of myself. A minute later and Summer's iPhone lit with the answer - indeed we had movie stars on board.
They all settled in and the gate agent mentioned a group was altogether and I determined it must be a production company of some sort due to their equipment bags and computers. I felt a bit star-struck, mostly because I hadn't seen much of a smile out of either boy and I wondered if they would be kind.
Twenty minutes later, after the seatbelt sign went ding and I served drinks, Adventureland got up to stretch his legs.
"So let me ask you something," I said as cooly as possible when he approached the plastic-coated floor of the galley.
"What was it like being in a film with Bella Swan?"
I watched his adorable awkwardness as he pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose and seemed to falter for a moment.
"Oh, uh, Kristen Stewart?"
"Yes, didn't she star in Adventureland with you?"
He grinned. "Yes, yes she did, and it was awesome working with her. She's a lot of fun. Did you see the movie?"
I shrugged sheepishly.
"Well, I will tell you that I wanted to see it, but once I realized that Kristen Stewart starred, I rethought my decision. Anything she has ever been in has sucked in my opinion. I don't think she can act."
"Well, I wouldn't judge her until you've seen Adventureland. I haven't seen Twilight because my friend said it was so incredibly ridiculous."
"Your friend was right!" I laughed.
"Yeah, it sucks to be famous for such a dumb movie. Everyone sort of assumes that's all you can do."
"So your friend back there, the one who fell asleep, wasn't he in Boy A?"
He gaped at me.
"You've seen his film?"
I laughed. "Well, yeah, I'm a big Indie film fan and I'm pretty much obsessed with Netflix. But I thought he did an excellent job!"
"Don't ruin the end for me! I've only seen the first twenty minutes. But he's not gonna believe you've seen it! I'm gonna go wake him up and tell him."
"No, don't do that!" I giggled. "I'm sure I'll have a chance to talk to him. But in the meantime, can I have a picture with you once I finish service?"
He smiled broadly.
"Sure thing."

I hurried to serve the rest of the cabin, noting sadly that Boy A never roused from slumber, laughing inwardly as he channled his character by bearing an outfit similar to one in the film. Service completed, I passed by Jesse's seat and noticed he was reading one of my favorite books, "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime."
"Good book."
He looked up in surprise.
"You've read this?"
"Yeah, and my favorite part is at the end," I said as I quoted my favorite line. He followed me to the galley as we continued our conversation, and Summer snapped our photo while I teased him about misjudging my blonde roots.
We discussed all manner of things as the flight hour drew to a close.
Where the Wild Things Are.
His disappoinment with Little Mermaid on Broadway. My enchantment with it.
Queens, NYC, his hometown.
An argument about which Office version is better, UK or US.
His newest film role, Mark Zuckerburg, founder of Facebook, also a victim of Asperger's Syndrome. Hence the reason for his current book.
My plans to teach English overseas.
My favorite independent films.
Zombieland, The Squid and the Whale - his other major films.
My keen interest in diversity.
Our mutual love of Seattle.
Discussing if indeed Libras and Geminis are compatible.
We laughed and teased and I was surprised at his down-to-earth attitude.
The seatbelt sign came on and still we talked. I noticed with glee that Boy A was now awake and Jesse prodded me to speak to him.
"It'll make his day."
I skittered to his seat as he pushed his beret from his sleepy eyes, and congratulated him on a job well done. He beamed.
"Thank you so much," he purred in his British tenor. "So where are you from?" he asked, as if it were hard to tell with an accent like mine. I laughed, affecting an exaggerated twang.
"I'm from Georgia. Cain't ya tell?"
"Ah, but it's a beautiful accent." He grinned. "The Brits have a thing for it!"
I mentioned how alike his character he appeared, with his hood flung over his hat and the zipper to his neck.
"Ach, I promise I don't always wear hoodies," he said sheepishly, ears crimson as he pushed his hood back and unzipped his jacket. I giggled.
"Come take a picture!" I playfully demanded as I marched back to the galley.
Jesse followed suit and I snuggled myself next to Andrew as Summer readied the camera.
"Wow, this is quite a change! Usually I'm the one snapping pictures of fans with Jesse."
I wiggled closer and said cheese and beckoned for Jesse in a group shot.
"Oh how lucky am I! Two hotties in one photo! Doesn't happen very often," I teased.
"I'm pretty sure we are the lucky ones, what with a hottie stewardess and all," Boy A grinned at me.
The camera went flash and Adventureland turned to Boy A.
"Did she tell you? Did you tell him?" He turned to me in earnest.
"Tell him what?"
"Your life plan and all that. You know, teaching and Seattle and your favorite films."
"But why do you want to know about me? You're the movie stars here!" I protested with a laugh.
"Because you're interesting and smart." He turned to Andrew. "Dude, she's quoting my book!"
"Is that right? Impressive. Sorry I slept the entire flight or we could have chatted. But Jesse told me you liked my film so I knew it was safe to relax," he siad in mock seriousness.
"Yes, well, I think Jesse and I may have discovered we are soulmates, so alike are we." I threaded my arm through Jesse's. "But then again, I'm a sucker for accents, so maybe it's you, Andrew." I sidled over to him.
"Nice," Boy A beamed at me.
"Well, I have an accent!" Jesse proclaimed. "A New York accent, different from yours, does that count?"
"Boys, boys, feel free to fight over me!"
They laughed and sadly it was time to land, so we all reluctantly took our seats. Upon leaving both boys gave me enormous hugs and I wished them luck in their careers. I was sad to see them go and thought how unfortunate that we couldn't be friends.
"Remember me when you read my favorite quote!" I yelled after Jesse.
"I couldn't forget," he smiled, and with a wink, he disappeared into the distance.

Flood

2009-11-12T09:10:00.001-08:00

Father sky sends drips and drops and deluge but the bridge remains steadfast. Angry currents rush beneath the cement foundation, hissing against the grassy bank, thwarted in an escape from the predestined path.
She stands in the middle of the treacherous swell, my sister, the icy froth to her thighs and slowly climbing. Furniture floats in her grasp, all colors, mint bookcase, cerulean armoir, red-rose chair. I wonder that she doesn't grip the edges of the rainbow suite, and I scream that time is of the essence. She can't hear me.
Or she doesn't want to.
The splash of tears swirls with cold rain on my cheek, my admonition carried away by the sprites on the wind and all is silent, silent, silent.

I open my eyes to the interior of a leasing cottage, flooded, the water deep enough to cover the tips of my shoes.
"Ready?" A voice behind me.
It is Alesha, and this is to be our new home, creeping brown stains now our nearest and dearest companion.
"You're sure about this?" Already the sour pungence of drowned carpet is threatening.
"We get to stay one night, just to try it out," Alesha prods.
I concede without protest, in a daze, only aware that one night is too long in a place like this while the winter air burns my rain-soaked skin.

The dark comes but my eyes open wider, straining for a way out. I try the door only to realize there is no escape, a lock on every outlet, no window or door left unchecked.
I glance at Alesha.
She sleeps, haphazardly lying on the dining room table, and I vaguely wonder why she didn't take the bed. Something urges me to let her rest, that she will be of more use to me if I do. But the blackness is becoming palpable, the steely fingers of panic pulling at the edge of the dark room.
"Daylight, daylight, I beseech thee, come quickly." The words fall from silent lips, vanishing snowflakes in the November chill of midnight.

And finally, sun bursts through the faded frilly curtains and Alesha bounds awake, energy popping from her like electricity.
"Let's go! I'm sold!"
Taking my hand she leads me to the next room, bare but for the plain desk and pre-PC era computer taking up most of the metal surface. Behind it stands the agent, gangly and pale with a shock of orange hair like the fires of ancient Rome.
No words, but she motions to the chairs in front of her without ceremony and I slowly sink to the cold pine seat. I hear my father's voice as he warns against this place. I wish I could see him so I would feel safe.

And then I woke up.

Blue Desert

2009-11-02T20:36:00.001-08:00

Another dream...

Two weeks from now I am moving, but where I’m going I know not. Neither do I know who will help me move all of my belongings, for my current roommate and best friend has already packed all of her things and gone away from me. I head back to the bed where my current boy toy resides, all dark skin and hair and eyes. I lament my lack of help, mourning the loss of strong men in the world and then I hurry to answer my cell phone in the other room. I get a strict verbal lashing from my parents, a scolding for not being able to find any good friends in the world, ones who will stick by and help me when the world calls for true friends. Suddenly Boy Toy and one of his chocolate friends appear beside me and offer the service of their incredibly thick arms. I accept with nary a token refusal. One can never have too many men with guns.

Soon I leave the yellow-wallpapered flat behind and take up residence in a nearby mall, one that provides room, board, work, and a meal ticket to the expansive food court. Everywhere I go I notice Amazonian women, tall, with shoulders like men and boxy clothes that don’t flatter in color or style. I wonder if a drag show takes place after hours in one of the many theatres, and I begin to wonder if perhaps I might get a job in one of the dramatic theatres myself. Indeed there is a musical theatre a few steps from my hotel room door and I prepare for my audition with much vigor.
And then there he is as I stand by the staircase to run lines with the wall. Eyes like a violet sunset, skin like the Sahara, a deliciously full mouth and I ache to trail my finger down the marble edge of his jaw. I am instantly in love and I wonder at the fact that I can see his entire face. My dreams usually hide the visage of the men I fall for. He just stares, and my knees buckle as I sink to the floor, the taffeta of my ridiculous Victorian-era costume in a tangle around my feet and I feel the heat of embarrassment on the tips of my ears. He walks closer, offers to teach me how to dance, says he knows my part in the play calls for it. I accept but don’t ask his name. That would spoil the mystery and I like the tickle of forbidden love in my blood.
I see him throughout the next few days, but never do we speak. Never do I ask him to dance. His skin touches mine, once, as I sit on a bench to watch people and contemplate my uncharacteristic loneliness. I see him approach and he reaches out to me, silently, and I take his hand and almost flinch at the fire in his fingertips. His eyes burn sapphire into mine and I hold his hand until he walks away, the edges of our fingers gripping frantically to prolong the hot contact. My mouth aches as if he has kissed me, bruised me with his teeth.
Then one day he asks me to dance with him, and tells me the time to meet him at his room, as he lives in the mall, too. I have no idea he was so close and thrill to the knowledge of what might happen when his body presses against mine as twilight dawns. I ask my only friend, Ebony, the head maid, for the master key in case I lose mine in the throes of impending passion.

Only once do I fly, and as I work the flight I receive a vicious ferret bite and a passenger with no seat, only to be discovered during takeoff. I thank God that I can walk out that day and leave such drama behind. After all, I have the dance lessons to look forward to.
And then I woke up. Sadly.

And Tiffany Takes the Cake

2009-09-23T21:49:00.001-07:00

Ironic, unfair, cruel. Synonyms for life, all.
Selfish, fickle, heartbroken against her will, synonyms for the fair maid on the wrong side of the glass.
How could it be that only twenty four weeks ago, five hundred and seventy six hours past, he had claimed her as the mate of his soul? For now here she stood, hidden as she watched, and tried not to whimper too loudly when she saw the sun catch the diamond meant for another through the window of that blue-box store called Tiffany's.

She didn't want a sterling silver circle on her finger just now. No, not now. But someday. She aches for it at times. Maybe when she grew up a little and lived life...maybe it could have been like her fantasy where she met him again when the time was right and her heart and head no longer warred.
But those days now seem as fleeting as that glint of blinding golden sun. Over in a flash, hopes of her future snatched away and she ponders how much he really loved her. Oh she knows she ended it. She knows that if she had stayed the course it would be her before whom he knelt on bended knee and opened that midnight-lined robin's egg. Still, she can't help but wonder if it was her he wanted or merely the white dress and tux and two-story picket-fenced house.

She knows he will invite her to the wedding but he doesn't know she'd be a walking lie, all plastic smiles and cold skin that would forever remain bereft of his touch. No, she couldn't bear to watch them laugh and cry and vow while she is an empty tomb. Her soul would die at the sight of threading nightlights catching love in their gaze. She knows that he will feel a sense of relief at her decline, although he won't recognize it as such.

It's better this way, in the end. She wouldn't be happy. She wasn't happy. That was why she said goodbye in the first place. She knows it was foolish to think he might wait for her. And she does love him even if she never fell in all the way; that's why she has to let him go and be happy and try her hardest not to let him hear the catch in her voice when she bids him a bounty of blessings.
The Universe beckons and Freedom sings and the fair maid still holds the key to her heart's cage.
That's the way she has always wanted it, after all.

Rendezvous at Dusk

2009-09-23T21:48:00.001-07:00

Esmerelda glanced at the pink buds blooming on the limb's end outside her window. She wished he might poetically reduce the tint of her full mouth to the brillant shade of innocence those flowers sang. But how could he? She hadn't yet spoken to him. And she wouldn't, although her flatmate and best friend, Allie, prodded and probed and perforce interrogated her on the lack of gumption she possessed. No, Essie was old fashioned and meek, and for now the only help she allowed Allie to bestow on her was the use of the hot rollers on the vanity.
Essie flinched when her mocha fingers touched the sizzling plastic-coated metal. It was no use. She wasn't sure what had ever made her think that curls bouncing in her raven locks would capture his attention.
"He will notice because you will make him notice, dear. First rule of womanhood - flaunt your assets. A man who sees a lake of voluminous tresses such as yours is only going to imagine one thing. His hands. Threaded through. In the Throes. Of. Passion."
Allie had grinned knowingly, the diamond on her finger glinting as they stood at the jewelry counter on Third Avenue.
"You're only asking the Flirt of the Year, of course, so I completely understand if you deem me an uncredible source."
Allie had a intermittent itch to visit the local jewelers and try on the newest inventory. She always insisted to the clerk that she was happily single - it was merely something she was trying on for size. Allie laughed at the idea of committment. Sometimes Essie laughed with her, but mostly she felt sorry for Allie. She knew a facade when she saw one. She was the posterchild for disguises, after all.
And so she sighed deeply and curled the black silk of her hair around the first roller, setting it with the grave air of one resigned to failure.

_______________________________________

Laughter and sunshine burst into the quiet room later that day as Essie finished donning the black sweater mother sent last week.
Allie stopped short.
"Oh my dear Essie. What have we here? No, no, no. This shall not do. He'll never kiss you while you appear in mourning!"
"But it isn't as if he has even asked me out! Let alone spoken to me...what makes you think I shall ever receive a kiss?"
"Ha! With that attitude, nothing does!"
Allie skipped to her overflowing closet. "I know you like to wear my things on occasion but this time we are going all out!"
She set out the sleek red dress straight out of the local vintage shop with a flourish. Essie's eyes grew huge.
"How ridiculous. Whereever would I wear a contraption like that? Remember, it was your idea to 'accidentally meet on purpose.' What shall I tell him when the question in his eyes begs to know why I am dressed like I'm attending a 40's Detective Lollpalooza?"
Allie's gaze was full of challenge.
"I don't know, Esmerelda. You're the one with all the stories. Why not play pretend when you by chance fall into step with him at half past five this evening? Spice of life, my dear. You gotta add it to the mix or you'll taste just the same as everyone else."

______________________________________

Essie felt like Cinderella. She was most certainly as conspicuous as the fairytale maiden right now. The bench in Hyde Park was growing colder beneath the scarlet fabric of her dress as the wind blew in the remnants of winter's chill. More than one handsome pair of eager eyes had taken in the sight of her there beneath the blooming dogwoods, and against her will Essie felt her blood run hot with appreciation.
It wouldn't be long now till she caught sight of the light brown tweed of his coat. Surely he would be passing this way and she rehearsed the ludicrous scene in her head as she remembered that Allie said the right story would come.

Oh god, there he was. Essie was certain the cinnamon and chocolate plaid coat adorning his lean frame must have been passed through more than one generation. It was worn, but it looked well loved, and for that its threadbare cords were dear. Strong fingers clasped the handle of his briefcase and she wondered at this for she had always thought him to be a satchel sort of guy. No matter. He was coming her way and she found she was having trouble breathing as each step brought him closer to her cold bench.
From a safe distance her eyes searched his face, that beautiful sculpture of fine white marble, cheekbones carved high and straight, the set of his mouth tinted with hints of secrets. She found herself aching to know those secrets, and she wondered what this young professor had to hide.
She didn't want to speak first. What would she say? What reason would she give for randomly bursting out with a salutation she was sure would wobble and squeak?
But leave it to her hero to save the day.
His brown loafer stepped even with her bench.
"Well, hello," he said, dark chocolate laced through with a honeyed American accent.
Speak to him, you dope!!!
Allie flitted through her thoughts - "Spice of life..."
Essie didn't want to taste the same as everyone else. Cue the grand actress.
"Hello yourself." Her voice was throaty, more so than she had meant it to be, but she recalled that great American sex symbol, Scarlett Johannson, and she kept the husk in her tone.
"Beautiful evening," she purported, hoping it might spur a conversation.
"Indeed, midnight stars are my favorite. New York was never big on open sky," he chuckled somewhat ruefully. "Say, don't I know you? Forgive my frankness, but you just seem familiar."
Her thoughts flew harriedly. Had he caught her watching him those Tuesday afternoons in the library? She often sat mesmerized by the alabaster of his brow furrowed over midterm papers, the diligent scratching of his red pen, the way he took his coffee black in that styrofoam cup. God she sounded pathetic. She hadn't meant to watch him all the time, but the library was her dearest friend on days that Allie had a date - which was most of the time - and so it was only natural that she should find him there on occasion.
"The library," he said jovially, startling her from her reverie. She was encouraged by his tone.
"Y-yes, I'm there occasionally."
"Yes. Oh I know! Last Tuesday you borrowed Anna Karenina. Tolstoy? I remember thinking how impressive it was that you chose to read it of your own accord."
Essie looked at him in confusion.
"I uh, I overheard you tell the librarian that you wanted to read it a second time now that you were older." He grinned sheepishly. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."
Joy bubbled up in her throat and erupted in a relieved giggle, one she hoped he didn't realize was bordering on hysteria.
"I do love Tolstoy so. And Dante and Shakespeare and Hugo. Karachi was never big on modern novels so I found myself a friend of the Greats. Not that I'm complaining, of course."
"Karachi, eh? I was there once, when I was twenty.That was five years ago, although I know I don't appear a day over fifteen." He grinned at her. "I was most enthralled by the colors. It's like the shades of my soul were splashed on every street corner. I flashed away with my camera, eager to bring that vibrance back home to my apartment in Manhattan. Later I found that my photos didn't turn out the way my eyes took in the scene but I wasn't really disappointed. I just tucked the memory away and vowed to go back one day. Speaking of colors, that's quite a dress you've got on there."
The moment of fact or fiction. No way could she tell him the truth, so she spurted out what Allie was most likely to say - that she had gotten ditched by her date to the opera and wasn't that the most scandalous thing he'd ever heard?
"We were supposed to meet here, and have dinner across the street and well, I decided to make the most of the evening by having a conversation with my favorite bench."
She smiled at him.
He smiled back. A bigger smile than hers, even.
He glanced at his watch.
"Well, I know I'm probably not much compared with that grand date you had - that dress is enough to woo even the most hardened of hearts."
She felt the brown smoothness of her skin heat with a flush at his bold words.
"Still, Mr. Sun is going to bed soon and there is the best coffee joint around the corner and down the next alley. Sounds shady, I know, and I'm sure we look like a couple straight out of Hitchcock's classics, but I'm willing to bet I'm more interesting than that maple bench you've replaced as your date. And I know you're certainly much too beautiful for such a drab companion. So whaddya say we give it a go?"
What did she say? She sang a thousand hallelujahs to the distant hills in her heart but outside she merely cocked her head to the side and relished his admiring green gaze. She took his offered hand and rose to stand beside him, almost swooning at the height he was afforded by his Creator.
"I'd love to. By the way, I'm Essie."
He winked at her.
"Alex Von Sky, at your service."

And one by one they took the knife

2009-09-23T21:46:00.000-07:00

Another dream. It's official, people. I am screwed up in the head. Lol.

I was vacationing alone at an ocean resort, complete with plenty of activities and gorgeous men to lead those activties. Two of those beautiful men certainly caught my eye and I flirted like mad. With blonde waves that curled about his ears and eyes bluer than the nearby sea, I set my sights on Jeff, certain that by the end of my time there he would surely be mine.
It was a shock to all the vacationers when we learned that Sean, Jeff's best friend and my other romantic interest, had disappeared from the resort, nowhere to be found. All the tenants and employees searched but to no avail, certain that he must have been swallowed by the bright salty ocean.
And then one day in mid-afternoon, rejoicing went throughout the resort - Sean had been found and Jeff was on his way to bring the hero home. I was more thrilled than anyone and waited up all night just to be the first to see him home, sure that the boys would notice my devotion and fall in love.
Suddenly, I was whisked away and floating high above the earth, aware that I was using what the resort called their UFO's - a hanglider shaped like a tire. I hung on for dear life, afraid of falling and disappearing in the dark water that loomed below.
Sounds of frantic splashing caught my attention and I peered through the night to spot the source. There they were, Jeff and Sean, struggling together, and I beamed when I saw Jeff lift Sean aboce the water to rescue his friend.
In horror I realized I was happy too early. In the next instant, Jeff slammed his friend back beneath the murky surface of the water and held him there even as Sean tried to scrape and kick his way out of Jeff's murderous grasp.
The bright beams of a rescue helicopter shot through midnight's blanket and illuminated the boys, and in an effort to appear innocent, Jeff waved for help and lifted his unconscious friend to safety.
But I knew better.
Like a flash the scene appeared before me - Jeff and Sean were lovers, and resort rules forbade dating within the realms of employees and most definitely frowned upon homosexuals. Jeff confronted Sean, declaring he'd lived in shadow long enough, and wanted to take their relationship public. Sean loved his job and had worked hard to maintain his position, and not even Jeff could make him give it up.
And so, there in the night's shroud, Jeff had taken the life of his one and only love, not aware of what he did until the light shone on his transgression and he frantically tried to right his wrong.
But it was too late.
Sean was dead. And no one knew that I carried so treacherous a secret.

At least, I thought no one knew. A letter came in the mail days later detailing the gruesome death and admonished anyone in the resort to come clean with any information they had concerning the murder.
I remained quiet. No way could I betray Jeff.
Even though I knew he'd never be in love with me I was loyal to him in a way that Sean never was and I was determined that he should know that one day.
And then suddenly there were only six of us left in the gigantic resort, and I was an employee rather than a guest. Jordan Robinson was the butler, so to speak, and headed up all of our duties. It was our job to find the killer.
We only had three days. What would happen if we failed was only hinted at, but all roads led to inevitable death and yet I remained steadfast. I wouldn't tell.
And so began the horrors.
The walls of the resort were ever shrinking and at times I barely escaped before rooms swallowed me in their sheetrocked mouths. Once I found a room that belonged to a musician and I tried singing in hopes that it might save me from the grave. Instead all I saw was the stuffed head of a dead black cat floating before me and I knew death was close behind.
At night I shut all the blinds in every room, frightened that whatever power was taking over the house could watch from the cloak of darkness. It was no use - no sooner had I shut them than they were forced open, leaving us exposed and naked to the terrors of midnight.
And finally, the zombies came. We all sat around the table, Jordan desperately trying to keep us calm, when suddenly his expression went completely slack and his skin seemed to melt off his face.
We all screamed.
Jumped away from him.
And that's when I knew Jordan knew that I knew who killed Sean.
"It's up to you to save us now," he said with his eyes, moments before they became glazed with the steely intent of murder.
And somehow I knew what to do.
"Get a pot of boiling water!" I screamed. The others hastened to bring it and I instructed them to hold the steam next to his misshapen face. I sighed with relief as it began to go back to its original form. But then I saw his fangs and fingernails-turned-claws and knew I had to take more action.
I grabbed the nearest kitchen knife we all kept for protection from the curse.
I put the knife to his throat.
I cut him with one clean slice, and watched his blood drain into the pot of boiling water, praying that this was indeed the answer. And then, slowly, Jordan appeared back in the bright blue eyes of the monster before us, and we thrilled to the knowledge that we had beaten the final test.
It took us a moment to realize it would have to happen to all six of us before the curse was broken. We looked at each other in horrified silence.
Who would be next?
Jordan healed in record time, relunctant to detail the feelings he'd had during his "possession", aware that each of us had to endure the horror, and trying to spare us as much worry as possible.
"Just be ready," he advised.
It took several hours, but one by one each remaining person would begin the melt, and each time we had to use the steam machine and drain them of their evil blood.
Finally, I was the only one left.
They all looked at me nervously, knowing they would be free to go after I underwent my transformation.
Then the pain seized me.
I could barely even think, but I noticed in terror that no one made any move to help me. They remained where they sat and I screamed while I still could to please, please, just cut me.
Time was running out. I could feel my skin dropping off.
"Jordan?" I pleaded in a whisper.
Suddenly he grabbed the knife and held it to my throat, the sharp edge cold against my burning skin.
"Thank you," I mouthed to him.

And then I woke up.

Rafters of Salvation

2009-08-06T14:55:00.001-07:00

Training for the new airline took place beside the beach, the sandy edge of the coastline white with pristine grains. The hotel was immaculate, and much to my pleasant surprise, the uniforms were tailor-made and colorful beyond any other airline I had ever seen.
I was proud to work for such a company and had hopes that my career would prosper and last for many years. The fellow crewmembers were friendly and young and we spent afternoons lazing by the blue water, studying in the yellow sun.
Halfway through training, though, new arrivals showed up.
The came bearing old clothes and battered luggage, and nary a hair nor face was ever checked in a mirror. They crowded our hotel, the dirt from their bodies leaving stains on the white furniture. We all loathed them.
They never spoke, or moved for that matter. We had to step over them to prepare for class, carefully avoiding their ugliness, afraid it might rub off and mar the "real" employees.
I could do nothing to jeopardize this job. A day came, though, when one of my friends went off on the ragmuffins, and at that moment all hell broke loose.
It was like a riot, fists flying, the smack of skin on skin echoeing over the roar of their mingled voices. I watched as if I were an outsider, angered that these fools were ruining my chances at a good job, and I refused to join in.
That's when we heard it.
The clink of white china sounded like hundreds of chattering teeth, and I vaguely wondered at this since no china existed at the hotel.
Enormous windows lined each wall and in the confusion of the mob, I caught a terrifying view of the monster outside.
"You did this!" I screamed to the fighting crowd, in a voice far too loud to belong to me.
Suddenly they ceased their fire and followed my horrified gaze. The ocean stood as tall as the Empire State Building in the distance, and I knew that at our inability to get along had angered the peaceful sea gods and they were smiting us for our wicked ways.
Suddenly the hotel melted away and I stood in an enormous plane hangar, the yellow bars of the rafters high enough to be my salvation if only I could reach them.
The rest of the group scattered, knowing there was little time to reach high ground before the waves took them to their cerulean graves. Rocky cliffs graced the landscape behind the training center, and so in their high heels and leather loafers, the newly united enemies held hands and gripped granite as they tried to evade death.
I ran to the nearest handhold, the walls of the hangar like a magic yellow ladder as I caught a glimpse of a rafter so high it seemed to reside in the clouds. I climbed, faster and faster, tears on my face as I watched my weaker comrades fall to their deaths, but there was nothing I could do, so I pushed onward to the yellow bridge.
Heather Locklear was climbing directly above me, and she turned to shout that even if we reached the rafters, it would be days before a rescueing crew could help us climb down again. The water would still be too high, she said, and for a moment I almost let go and fall, tempted by an instant death. But something inside me said not to trust her, so I ignored the warning and climbed higher still.
Then the wave hit.
The walls shook me like a rat in a dog's mouth, and I held on till my fingers dripped blood. I watched my friends disappear into the frothy white water, and it spurred me onward. The rafter was in my reach, but just as I threw my leg over the cold metal bar, another wave slammed into the building and I was catipulted into a muddy crater on the top of a nearby mountain.
Suddenly I was surrounded by hundreds of naked people clustered together, dried mud caked on their bodies like a second skin. I noticed that my clothes were missing, too, but strangely that only made me feel more at ease with these people. They were natives to the crater, and even children ran around the brown landscape. I noticed that tunnels existed in the side of the mountain, and when I asked what they were for, they said it was our only escape back into the world I had just left, that we must work together in order to make it back to our loved ones. They had been here a long time, and it seemed they were waiting for me to begin the journey back to their pasts.
It took us days, but slowly we passed through the tunnels, at times only big enough for one to crawl on hands and knees. Everyone was frightened, but together we encouraged one another in the dark, sure we would make it back to restore our families.
And then - sunlight! We all wept tears of joy as indeed we came through on the other side of the mountain, the ocean that had been my demise only days before now placid and turquoise.
I frantically searched for my family, certain they must be there among the wreckage.
I watched as each of my new friends was reunited with their people, the families dressed in their Sunday best, making the survivors all acutely aware of our nakedness.
I still hadn't found my family when I suddenly spotted my mother standing on a wooden porch, remniscent of the house where she grew up. She had on a white hat and gloves and I wondered why everyone insisted on dressing like it was Easter.
Screaming her name, I flung myself into her arms and wept, asking about the rest of the family. As she said each of their names, my father, followed by each of my siblings appeared beside her.
I hugged them all in turn, realizing that my brothers, Jon and Jamie, were missing.
"Mom, where are the boys??" I asked in a panic.
She leveled a dead gaze on me and said flatly, "I have no idea."
I knew they must be dead.

And then I woke up.

The Devil Wears a Halo

2009-07-16T13:15:00.000-07:00

Worship. It was sprawled across his features in the early morning sunlight and she shrank from her reflection in his cornflower gaze. He thought she wore a halo but what he really saw was the glow of the golden pitchfork she so deftly hid behind her back.
She knew this.
He didn't.
A whisper of a sigh escaped her mouth and before she could catch it, it fell on his ears.
"What is it?" A gently posed question but she doubted he realized the danger belied in such a query.
What if? She pondered.
What if she threw caution to the wind and let him spy the pitchfork?

I need a man, she would say.
I need a man with a backbone. Being with you is like being with a spineless guppy, all puppy dog eyes and silent agreement when I tell you that you're wrong.
When are you going to yell at me?
For God's sake, when will you finally tell me no?
I want to hear the edge in your voice as you defy me. Just once I'd like nothing better than to feel the heat of your eyes, a fiery ocean of anger only calmed by a stolen kiss in the rain hours later. Don't you realize that all the times I raise my tone it is merely in the hope that maybe this is the time you fight back?
I need you to slow down. To let me set the pace of our relationship. To not say things that I'm not ready for you to say.
"I love you" fell from your lips thirty days after your eyes locked mine and I feel guilty that only I know I was lying when I said it back.
But you painted me into a corner and wouldn't take "I'm not ready" for an answer, so I put on my work boots and trudged through self-doubt to please you. I thought that if I "gave you a chance" in the end I might find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but instead the gleam I saw on the far hill was the sun shining on the mirror of self-reflection. I looked hard at the girl staring back at me, gripped by panic when I realized it was through your eyes and I was fast becoming an undeserving goddess.
How was I to live up to such a standard?
And how do I tell you that you fail to make me burn, that your mouth leaves me wanting something more, something you can never give me? I think of the kiss of another man so long ago; you are sugar when I need salt and sometimes too much sweetness can make me sick.
I realize I am accusing you of being too nice and isn't that the oldest line in the book? I have placed judgment on too many women for me to ever speak those words out loud. I can't bear to be called a hypocrite. For that is surely what I am. I want to say I can chalk it up to naivety, that I had no knowledge of such feelings until they were thunderously upon me, but somewhere deep inside I know that is merely an excuse.
But how to tell you all of this? How to say all my doubts aloud and still expect you to believe that I truly think you are the best man who has ever loved me?
Is it really your fault that you do the things you do or is it because I let you? If you don't know what I want how can I ever place the blame on your shoulders?
I am afraid to tell you, though, because maybe I know that if I do you will eventually leave and for once I'd like to reserve the right to walk out first.
Perhaps I am entitled to issue a broken heart - but then again, one reaps what one sows and I scurry from the thought of dripping mascara and worded heartache scribbled in the moonlight.
Maybe I don't tell you because I am selfish. Because I like having someone. Because maybe if you do as I ask I will resent you for changing into someone that you really aren't, someone you don't even like.
I am not the sort of girl who goes against intuition, pursuing a romance once my heart screams otherwise. But for you, I did, and maybe all of this is actually self-loathing projected onto you, an undeserving passerby, and I'm glad you don't taste the indecision in my midnight kisses.
But can I really say all of this? What am I going to gain? I sit here and feel your fingertips on my skin and I know I won't do it.
And I know you will be none the wiser.

So she let him kiss her and shut her eyes to hide her soul.
But then the time soon came that it was indeed over and she rejoiced in the freedom of her spirit until one day retribution caught up with her.
She watched in agony as one by one the women in her life became victims of heartbreak, their cries an icy chain on her feeling of relief. There were so many murders that it seemed a cruel joke and she could do nothing but gaze on each killing with a fascinated horror.
There was her Cousin, the dark-haired beauty, so loyal in her love for him, so willing to give second chances where second chances were never deserved. She devoted years to the hope of their future.
How it made the one with Freedom weep to see the day he sliced her cousin’s heart in two with a dull knife, as she screamed for him to stop, and he just laughed as she fell to the floor. It was so calculated, so cold, and she lay in the pool of her soul’s blood while he walked away arm in arm with another woman.
And then the Sister of Her Heart, the one who shared all her secrets, was one day finally happy.
“He wants me!” she lauded, but Free Heart knew better than to trust him. His eyes were dark with secrets but there was no convincing her friend.
“His arms are true when I am feeling blue and I know him better than you,” she stewed.
But this time Free Heart was right and so she was there to hold her friend when the fateful Monday came and he picked up the phone to make that most cowardly of all exits.
The Sister of Her Blood spent a year with the one she loved, in a country of palms and sandy roads. He strummed romance on his guitar, crooning lullabies under the starry sky and she knew she had never been more content in life. The year came to a close and he promised meetings on other shores, but the day she sailed her boat to his home and waited to be taken in open arms, he slammed the door of his heart with nary an explanation. She clung to the stern as she treaded the waters of confusion, her added tears almost enough to drown in.
The Indian Princess was sweeter than peach pie in August, and for a while it seemed the two of them were happy. He brought flowers and called her beautiful and said she was his love. She gave and gave and gave, never expecting anything in return, and soon enough he took that for granted. She sat in the corner while he laughed boisterously with the other men gathered around the TV and never took the time to look into her big brown eyes anymore. She realized she carried a slingshot in his World of Warcraft and it wasn’t enough to win the battle. So he left and she cried and threw her flimsy weapon in with the towel.
The Fellow Flight Attendant brought word of a brand new man, tall, dark, and carrying the keys to an airplane. Free Heart knew where this was headed but offered support in spite of her own distrust. First lie – I’m single. Second lie – I have no children. Third lie – You can trust me, I promise. When news of his unfaithfulness reached the ears of the free heart, she was saddened but not shocked at the demise of her friend’s new marriage.
The Stand-Up Comedienne had laughs-a-plenty with the dark-eyed beau she snagged from her past. Regular text-message updates filled the inbox of Free Heart as her funny friend reveled in a new romance. Months and months of midnight ecstasy but suddenly it ended and the comic stopped smiling as she searched for an answer. The reason for her constant grin now eyed the heart of another man and she felt the rays of stunned grief flow through her like sand in a sieve. Doubt and disgust and derision made their way into her heart and she wiped from her mind the memory of his kiss.
The Southern Blonde loved him for two years, longer, really, but he had officially been hers for seven hundred days. Marriage loomed on the horizon, and she felt sure that soon he would kneel on his beautiful knee and propose, her nights filled with dreams of children and picket fences and fishing by the lake. But the day she never expected was soon upon her and with no warning he packed his bags and walked out, putting the ring she thought was hers on the hand of the other woman. She was the one who would get the giggling babies and quaint cottage and catfish dinners. Grief consumed the one with the sandy-blonde curls.
The Pixie Virgins had a charm that led men to their door with merely a wink. They filed out in lines so long it seemed they had no end, and the Pixie sisters had hope that at least one decent man existed among the hoards. But time and again they reached the question the men most wanted answered and when the beauties said no, they bounded quickly away from the sweet-tempered interview. Given the nature of the sisters, though, the men still left marks and it was only a matter of time before the Pixies became scarred for life.
The Childhood Friend stared into his big velvet eyes and fell with no handhold. She was sure he would catch her. He promised with his flowery words that he wanted no one's heart but hers. But the distant beat of drums called him elsewhere and before she could grip the hem of his coat to keep him by her side, he had followed the music and left her behind. The moon shone through the window onto her beautiful, tear-streaked face, and she endlessly questioned what she could have done to make him stay.

Free Heart saw all of this and she cried until there were no tears left. Again she pondered her state of soul.

I am now a graveside mourner, except the coffin holds the broken heart of the man I left and I can do nothing but transform into a cliché, missing what treasure I had until it was gone and now I am alone with my grief and second thoughts.
Is this what I have to look forward to? A lifetime spent sweeping up glass hearts and diamond tears? I wonder if I am due any near misses or if my punishment shall be to lie on the torturer’s table and wait for his heinous tools.
A Free Heart. That is what I have called myself. But now I know that I would give it back to the captivity of love, for such freedom frightens me with its unknown risks.
I think I gave it up too quickly. I can do nothing now to rescind my decision, for the victim of my affliction has been granted a fresh beginning, and even if I made my sorrow known, he wouldn’t hear it over the voice of his new true love. I saw her once, her ruddy, uneven complexion and less than chic style obviously of no concern to him.
Perhaps he sees more depth and truth in her eyes than he saw in mine and I can’t blame him for looking.
All I can think of now is how much he loved me. I felt it even when I didn’t want to and when I tell myself otherwise it is only because I am trying to ease my own pain. Anyone who knew him knew I was his world and isn’t that what I have been watching crumple all around me? The universes of my friends have disappeared and I shudder at the thought.
Why is it that we can only remember the good things when we lose something beautiful we never knew we had? Try as I might I to forget, I realize the qualities he contained that I deemed undesirable were nothing that couldn’t have been mended with a little communication. But it was merely that I wanted a reason to escape and so I harped on what made me unhappy until it was a constant grey cloud and it wasn’t long before he felt the rain.
I do hope he is happy. I won’t deny that I am jealous, that he has moved on and forgotten me and laughs while I cry. I am jealous that she gets to kiss his mouth and stroke the calloused skin of his palm and rest her cheek on his argyle sweater. I feel a deep anger when I think of her name caressed in the lilt of his Scottish brogue, the purr of each syllable like the ocean in the moonlight. I want to feel the curve of his body as our dreams meet dawn’s sunlight.
But those days are over and I face my future with a harrowed fear, sure the chopping block looms somewhere that I least expect it.
I won’t give up on love and I refuse to settle, but I must take to heart the lessons I have learned through all of this. I know that evil men lie in wait, their traps set for the innocent and trusting smile of a girl with bright eyes, and I curse them for their malicious intent.
They are all Devils, every one.

And yet this time, she thought woefully, this time the Devil was me.

In Lieu of the Death of MJ

2009-07-08T13:57:00.000-07:00

Another dream...

The house was meager, typically musty, befitting the resident who spent most days in her white-washed rocker. Her graying hair reeked of cigarette smoke even though she had given up the habit years ago; old age clung to her fading flowered robe. Her sleek, grey tabby made his abode the comfort of her lap, gnarled hands stroking his shiny coat as he purred in contentment.
Oak shelves lined the four walls of her living room, the one collection item for the last fifty years displayed in pristine condition, chronologically positioned in perfectly straight rows. Michael Jackson, her one obsession.
I was her keeper, the one to watch over her in her old age, to ease the inevitable coming of death. The dolls unnerved me a bit, but they made her happy, so I dutifully cleaned them each day, polishing their plastic surgery-ravaged faces and dusting the records plastered on the otherwise bare walls. I shuddered as his black eyes bore into mine, the turned up tip of his nose inches from my face as I cared for my ward’s one love.
I never understood why she lived for the modern King of Rock, but I made good money and I wanted to ease her death as much as possible. I thought she was a sweet old lady. That fateful day came, however, when Michael Jackson was the target of death’s skeletal pointed finger, and the tenant of the rocking chair fell into the depths of despair.
Life held no more joy for her, and she begged me daily to end her life. I refused, horrified at the idea that someone could truly put their life’s worth into a stranger, and a psychotic one at that. I continued to protest her supplications, until one day I couldn’t stand staring into her listless eyes and so I relented, asking what it was she wanted from me.
I listened in revulsion as she detailed the best way to kill her, the way that would ensure she succumbed to the same fate as her idol. I was to take her favorite Michael doll, she said, the one with a porcelain face, and the big hammer from beneath the counter.
“Smash the head,” she said, her icy blue eyes wide above the hollow of her cheeks.
And so it was set. I waited until she went into her front yard, one that stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, visible to the rest of the neighborhood. I was nervous that I would get caught, certain that a passerby would see her in the throes of death and as her sole caretaker, I knew I would be the main suspect.
Hurriedly I gathered the necessary tools and waited until I saw the sun go behind the grey clouds and raising the hammer high, I brought it down upon the disfigured glass face of MJ.
It shattered into a hundred pieces and I heard a thud in the front yard. Tears were streaming down my face as I used Windex and paper towels to rid the hammer of my fingerprints and picked up the shards of broken porcelain from the shag carpet.
I heard a meow and through the front door I caught the lime stare of her grey feline, scarlet blood dripping from the corners of his mouth as I realized in disgust that he was drinking the lifeblood of his dead owner. I screamed at the tabby, running towards the yard, skidding to a stop as a black sedan pulled into the drive and a terror-crazed woman got out to help the old lady.
I ran outside, yelling at the woman to call 9-1-1. My yell was cut short as I watched the woman I had just brutally murdered get up from the ground and walk towards me. Her head was patched back together, bloody red lines zig-zagging across her face where the pieces of flesh had magically healed themselves.
I saw malice in her gaze and she smiled evilly as she said in a high-pitched tone, “Someone is going to jail!”
I realized she had filmed the entire thing with a hidden camera, and I knew my life was over.

And then I woke up.

Haunted

2009-07-05T12:40:00.001-07:00

She had watched the lithe swagger of his body as he made his way through the crowd. He shouldn’t be able to move like that, she’d thought. Muscle and brawn shouldn’t have such grace. It was as if he contained some sort of magic, like he held an invisible scepter in his hand and commanded the world to fall at his feet. Time and again she watched in disbelief, heralding tangible proof that indeed, the world obeyed.
Not me, she silently vowed. I won’t give in.
She refused to feed the powerful jaws of such a man’s ego, for surely it meant imminent death of pride.
She secretly referred to him as a modern Henry VIII. Females flocked to him, making fools of themselves in an attempt to attract his attention. She knew of more than one woman who would kill for a mere glance of those turquoise eyes.
Please, not me.

But against her will his face returned to haunt her, and for seven hundred and seventy seven days the images had swirled in her dreams, the spicy and sweet and bitter morsels of fantasy. She considered the eight seasons that had come and gone, the two birthdays that had reared their monotonous heads, putting from her mind the infinitesimal amount of lips she was sure had brushed his since he had sauntered into her life.
She cursed herself for a moment as the sunlight cut through the dark shade of her sunglasses, as she watched his panther-like car idle on the curb. She cursed him, too. He knew what power he had over her, no matter that for eighteen thousand, six hundred and forty-eight hours she had wished he might find her attractive. Even now, while he sat grinning at her from the open window of his sleek ride, she wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about her.
“You lookin’ for a date?” he purred in her direction.
She grinned back in spite of herself. Damn his charm. Flipping shut her eight hundred page novel, she rose from bench where she had waited for him. She was annoyed with herself, knowing she had brought the book for his benefit, hoping that he realized her brain housed more than Brangelina fodder. Her inner self rolled her eyes in disgust. She knew the type of girl he liked. And why did she care what this man thought? He would never be more to her than a handsome flirt and she felt her heart squeeze in disappointment.
She opened the passenger door and slid a long, thin, shorts-clad leg in, again aware that she did so to elicit his admiration.
It worked.
She felt her blood rush as his gaze rested on the bare skin of her thigh, hoping – though she knew better – that he wouldn’t notice the quickening of her breath.
She had to make it through the night without losing her sanity.
Or her heart.

Their laughter sprinkled the night air and she ached at the bittersweet ease that wove its way around them; one little tug and she would unravel completely. She was struck with the truth that although he was cocky, underneath his confident façade lay an insecure little boy, one who constantly amazed her as each new layer was revealed, his mind more attractive than his beautiful face.
The proverbial line loomed on the horizon, one that they both wanted to cross, she knew. She felt it in the way his eyes brushed her face, and in the electricity that sparkled across her fair skin.
At midnight he walked her to her door and with a hesitation so brief she might have imagined it, he accepted her proposal and followed her inside.
He lay on the bed.
He offered her the place beside him.
She said she was afraid.
At that word his gaze softened, replaced by what she might have deemed regret if she hadn’t known better, hadn’t been aware that she was merely taking her place in a long line of females. So she pretended she didn’t see his eyes go dark and lowered herself into the crook of his heavily muscled arm.
When would she learn? The question hung in the air as his divine mouth found hers and she was swept into his Herculean grasp.
Oh god, his kiss. She danced in a storm of falling stars, purple night gripping the edges of her conscience, and she fought to keep from drowning in the fiery waters of desire. She had never tasted anything so sweet, except perhaps the kiss of another man so long ago, one who appeared sometimes in the crinkle of laughter around the eyes of the man whose lips she now devoured.
She felt the hum of irony against her skin as she sluggishly contemplated why she insisted on self-torture. Their case had been tried endlessly for two years. They could never be together, she knew that. “Opposites attract” had been the best argument of the defense, but the jury knew that adage would never hold up in the court of her heart.
For some people, beliefs in complete opposition were the icing on the cake, but not for her. Never for her. She was always left with a sticky mess, one she had cleaned up more times than she cared to remember and she wondered where this kiss would lead, wondered if she had the strength to tidy the ravaged heart he was sure to leave behind.
Why did he have to know how perfectly to touch her? Why did her body ignore what her brain commanded, to rip her mouth from his, to tear his hand from her breast? He murmured her name against her neck and she was flooded with the scent of him, blackberry sin and October starlight.
She knew this would change things.
This night wasn’t like the times she had kissed a mere stranger, one who made her body tingle but failed to reach the part of her that mattered. This time she had given pieces of her heart to the man who held her now, in amounts so small she’d hardly noticed and the realization dawned that he had more of it than she had ever intended.
And then his mouth left hers and he was talking, and she fought him as he raised her to the pedestal that so many men put her on. But he was stronger than she and so she went rigid, balancing precariously on the edge of her jewel-encrusted prison.
She listened to his words as they floated up to her perch, I’m not good enough. Don’t love me. You. Are. Perfect.
She didn’t have the strength to combat his misconceptions. Her body was still weak from the heat of his mouth, from the delicious bruise his fingers had left when he accidentally held her too hard, and the lazy gaze of his honey-lashed eyes.
And so she lay down on her golden throne and tried to forget, tried to ignore the melodic lilt of his voice as he said out loud what her heart already knew.
She wished he didn’t have the power to read her so well. He saw it. Her tragic flaw.
She ached to save those who only sought destruction.
But what about me? She silently wept. Sometimes even superheroes need a savior.

What Happens In Vegas

2009-06-16T19:37:00.000-07:00

I've always wondered if the adage "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" ever rang true for any other cities. Cities of prevalent size, with a large amount of culture and history, and a respectable handful of denizens - like, say, Atlanta. Sure in a city so big late Saturdays spent dancing with a stranger at three am would freeze in time, only to be revisited in memory, right? However, I recently learned in a most ironic and hilariously humiliating way, that Atlanta is unfortunately NOT one of these cities.
It started off like any other birthday party, except this time I was dressed to kill and had landed on the VIP guest list, and we all strutted behind the birthday boy as he made his way through the nightclub. Much to my chagrin, Devil Boy - a purveyor of nightlife I had met on a former evening - had managed to skip on this occasion, leaving me with nary a straight dance partner. Well, there was one, but his sexuality was a puzzlement to all the partygoers, so I tried in vain to search for a boy who I was sure appreciated female assets.
2:30 am dawned and I was still high and dry, having been saved by Colin from a "Party Boy" by two beefy jocks. Ashley and I stood against the wall, trying desperately to avoid the slosh of liquid from precariously held cups, bemoaning ad nauseum that we had yet to get a good dance in. The night was coming to a close, after all.
Heaven must have heard my plea - later musings told me that perhaps the Devil's minions were involved instead - for out of the darkness HE came, straight over to...Ashley? Oh HELL no!
Broad shoulders, tapered waist, and a whif of - was that Abercrombie Fierce? - leaned nonchalantly against the wall next to my best friend, so I sidled up to her faster than Ali Baba could say open sesame. His back to me, I quickly ducked beneath his propped arm, and doing my best impersonation of Jessica Rabbit, I lifted heavily-decorated lashes to meet his gaze.
Nice.
He flashed a grin at me and I giggled, sounding like a dope and unfortunately noting that my idiocy couldn't be blamed on alcohol as I'd had none. Ashley and I stood against the edge of the DJ's stage as self-proclaimed "Cripp" introduced us to "Rip", his best friend forever. Rip declared they weren't lovers, further arguing his sexuality with Ashley that although he was a shoe designer, he was NOT gay. I took full advantage of the distraction, and like any good girlfriend would do, I stole Cripp all for myself.
Score.
Lady Gaga sang incoherently about her poker face while Tweedledeedum and Tweedledeedumber literally danced ON us, employing moves I’m certain can only be called “Dance Rape the Wallflowers.” I wanted Cripp closer, so I gripped the long, silky length of his…TIE, of course. Mind Gutter Patrol IS on duty, folks. I reeled him in and spent the next two songs trying to ignore the extra dance partner that had joined the space between the two of us.
He leaned in, whispering dark promises of special moves in private rooms and I gasped at him in horror. Well, mock horror at least. Heaven knows half of me was tempted to take him up on his offer, but that half knew she’d be bitch-slapped by the good twin later, so as the lights came on and the bouncers ushered us to the door, I reluctantly bade the Chippendale Twins goodnight.
Two nights later I decided to wash my soul clean again and attended Prime – ironically close in name to Primal, the nightclub – an organization of twenty-somethings who met for contemporary Christian worship and preaching. I took my seat next to Ashley in the same spot for the third week in a row, and settled in to sing along with the praise band.
The first note stuck with a squeal in my throat as I watched a pretty girl and handsome boy decked in Abercrombie make their way down the row of seats in front of us. The stopped directly in front of my chair, right in my line of vision so that there was no mistaking what I was praying fervently was a dream.
Cripp.
My fingernails dug red crescent moons in Ashley’s skin as I gripped her arm and pointed frantically. Her response of wide-eyed shock proved to me that I wasn’t – unfortunately – mistaken, and before common sense could intervene, fight or flight rushed through my blood and I reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Hey!” I yelled over the thrumming music.
He appeared completely flabbergasted at the audacity of a complete stranger invading his personal space, so I took advantage of his pause and asked, “Were you at Primal Saturday night?”
I could swear I literally saw beads of sweat form on his brow in a record two point one milliseconds.
“Uhh, yeah…why?” He glanced up sharply, searching my face, harrowed consternation in his eyes and I almost laughed as I watched his mind swim quickly through hazy memories.
“You totally danced with me!” I yelled into his ear, reminded again of the way a mere forty-eight hours before we had maneuvered in this very fashion, cheeks pressed together as I tried to avoid the kiss he was so ready to give. I failed to mention his titillating offer, certain he would remember it.
He looked nervously at the young blonde beside him, his girlfriend I supposed, and shook his dark head curtly. “I was there, but I don’t remember you. Maybe you’ve got the wrong guy.”
KSU student, business major, twenty-two years old. You drink Budlight and own a black and white striped skinny tie, Abercrombie being a favorite brand of yours. And what was that you said about a girlfriend? Oh, right, that you didn’t have one because you were too young for a relationship. Want me to tell Blondie for you? Better to break her heart now while it’s just getting started.
I said all of this mentally and to his back of course, as he had shut me out of further conversation when he turned to face the music. I should have told him the music was standing right behind him.
I contemplated burning holes in his beautifully shaped neck and cursed my lack of magical powers. Perhaps I still had a poison dart in my purse? But no, that was used on the last pilot who tried to accost me. Alas, I sat there unable to do anything except focus every channel of my mind on the words of the songs and not the ironic position of our bodies, his back to my front, except this time there was a plastic chair as a partition. Thank goodness.
I flippantly pondered the paradox of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, reflecting on my much-argued point with my mother, that just because a boy attends church, it does NOT mean he is worth dating.
I kept my eyes from meeting Ashley’s, for certain uncontrollable laughter was inevitable should I look at her. I glanced again at Blondie, skinny of course, and cute, and I wanted to hate her, but there was such an aura of innocence and trust in the way she slipped her fingers through his and rested her curly flaxen head on his shoulder that I ached to tell her the truth.
RUN, sweetheart, and never look back.
She dutifully took notes in her Bible while he barely even glanced at the passages on the screen and I wished again for heat vision. At this point, however, a machete would do the job I had in mind just as efficiently. I waited on pins and needles for the end of the service, anxious to see what awkward conversation would befall me.
I needn’t have worried. The speaker had barely uttered “amen” before Cripp snatched Blondie’s hand, and with his head buried conveniently in the colorful screen of his iPhone, he scurried past my bold stare and out of sight.
“I’ve seen them here before,” Ashley said as she watched them make a run for it. “Every week they sit in that spot. I know, because Cripp has a distinctive blonde streak in his hair and your friend Zach wants to date the cute girl.”
I suddenly realized she was right – I HAD seen them before.
“Should we chase them down and tell her?” the other half of my Dynamic Duo asked with shining eyes. They were eager with the anticipation of retribution.
I laughed. Who needs a machete when I’ve got Ashley?
I declared that unfortunately Blondie was sure to discover what a dud followed her to church on Monday nights, a dog salivating for just one thing, and I prayed that the potential damsel in distress wouldn’t settle for a frog in place of Prince Charming.
Ashley agreed and sighed with a chuckle.
“Such a calamity would only happen to you, Mere. Only you.”

But then again, what good is a Drama Queen without the jesters and ill-fated suitors of her ever-entertaining court?

Love in the Time of Pyramids

2009-06-16T19:36:00.000-07:00

Another of my dreams...

I grew up with two boys from my small hometown, specifically Drake and Josh from the ridiculous Nickelodeon show. However, they were my best friends and not the stars of a sitcom, and summers passed in a blur with them. We had hundreds of adventures as kids, traveling to all parts of the globe with our vast imagination. I never had feelings past friendship for Josh, not as a child at least. It wasn't until years later, when they both returned home from college and we all sat on the beach by the blue ocean that I realized I was in love with him.
I wasn't sure if he felt the same and so we tiptoed around the subject, both unwilling to ruin what might otherwise stay a perfect friendship. He had changed so much from the husky boy he used to be. He was taller now, lean, with muscles flowing in places I daren't look for fear of giving myself away, that he might see the way my gaze lingered on the olive tone of his broad jawline or the ripe fullness of his beautiful mouth. I barely knew him anymore, and yet, I knew him better than I knew myself, and the irony of that did not escape me. We had been together since the days when pretenses were not to be bothered with, when one's word was as good as a written contract, and I wondered at the silent attraction that I was sure hovered between us, ached that we had lost the ability to telecommunicate.
The day came when I realized my grandmother was sick and I watched the agony on her face as she tried to get up from her chair, the twist of her hips too excruciating to bear. She lived in her wheelchair now, and the days of homemade chocolate chip cookies and sweet tea had come to a close. I sat with Drake and Josh in our old treehouse and they talked to me until the dam of tears broke and I cried a thousand tears for the pain in my grandmother's eyes. I never wanted her to be like that. She was too good to suffer such a fate.
Before I realized what was happening, Josh placed his hand on mine and the treehouse suddenly vanished, replaced by the whiz of rushing scenery. I knew somehow that he was taking me through our childhood memories, the ones he had stored with precious care in the deepest part of his mind, kept there for a day when he might need them most. I saw the past and the future, kings and courtesans, and test flew the first airplane with Wilbur and Orville. We swam with the dolphins and slept in a rainforest and sailed with Christopher Columbus to the Americas. Josh's hand felt perfect in mine and I never wanted the journey to stop. The flow of pictures slowed and stopped until we stood together in front of the great Sphinx, our bare feet in the warm sand of Egypt, the pyramids looming in the distance as the setting sun cast fire on the dust.
I knew this was it. He was going to make love to me here, all alone, just me and him and the ghosts of the ancient gods and I had never wanted anything more in my entire life. I loved him so much that I hardly had room to breathe and I almost wanted to make the feeling stop, so covered in peace that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He kissed me when the night shrouded us and then the sun rose the next morning as his sandy fingers traced circles on my bare hip.
I wanted to tell the world how happy I was, but when I was ushered back into reality, no one seemed to care that my world was now paradise. Mother and father merely shook his hand and I wondered why they pretended not to know the boy who spent summers on their backporch until I realized that he was Tyler Cole, a flight attendant and intensely attractive man, but not the love of my life. I tried not to panic, assuring myself that I would find Josh again and went about introducing Tyler in as normal a fashion as possible, as if my entire world hadn't been turned upside down. He loved me, I knew, and I felt guilty that I only half-heartedly returned his affections. His arms felt wrong somehow, too strong. When his adept fingers kneaded the knots in my shoulders, I tried to ignore the pulsing in my blood, sure that my attraction was merely displaced because I couldn't find Josh.
Jessica LaRegina sat at the kitchen table when she met Tyler, scowling her disapproval as continued to sketch Marie Antoinette's slippers on sheets of white paper.

Suddenly Josh and Tyler and Jessica disappeared and I lived in New York City. I took the subway to work every morning where I worked as a writer for a magazine. As I meandered through the near-empty station, I began humming a tune that seemed to come from inside me, a song I didn't actually know but made up as I went along. There were no words, but the pristine tone of my voice echoed off the walls and I suddenly turned to see a group of people following in my footsteps, humming a back up harmony for the original melody that was escaping my lips of its own accord.
I smiled at the scene, somehow aware that I was dreaming because a morning like this was impossible. When I came out of the subway, there was a man waiting for me, a middle-aged black man dressed in a fedora and a theadbare suit, all varying shades of brown.
"You're good, you know," he said to me.
I was surprised, not sure what he was talking about.
"Back there in the subway. I heard you singing. I'm the owner of Phelini's and I'm directing a musical, an off-Broadway production, and I want you to try out. I haven't heard a voice as clear as yours in a very, very long time . Come see me - my store is at the corner of 9th and Broadway."
I was shocked and unsure I was actually awake as I thanked him and hurried to find Christina. She waited for me at our usual bench, the one where we caught the last bus into work. I tried to tell her about it, still confused as to how it had actually happened, and I asked what Phelini's was.
"Oh my goodness, only the biggest music store in NYC!! You're so lucky - don't test fate. You MUST try out!!"
Then Mr. Phelini was in front of us as he handed us each a red business card, and I remembered worrying that he was going to get hit by the purple bus if he didn't get out of the street.
He heard me gush to Christina about our future as Tony-winning Broadway stars, and the last thing I heard was the linger of his jovial laughter as he got behind the wheel of our bus and began to drive away.
I wondered if he had tricked us.

And then I woke up.

Primal Instinct

2009-03-22T20:10:00.000-07:00

Excitement at a feat untried weighs deliciously on the air. Three women as yet uninitiated into the world of fantasy hover on the edges of it, like catalyst snowflakes to a crushing avalanche. They are as rare as Unicorns and the funny thing is they seem to forget how well those creatures weave magic.
The night breeze is silky against their skin as they laughingly link arms, personal style undiminished even at the daunting prospect of judgemental once-overs.
Let them stare, the fiery red-head muses. After all, she is no stranger to unwanted appraisals at the cost of being unique. She is glad she wore her leather cowboy boots. Or cowgirl. She grins mischeivously to herself.

They promenade along the city sidewalk until the yawning door is before them. Timidly they step back, pushing the leader of the pack to enter first as he laughingly acquiesces, remnants of ocean water and his last cigarette still clinging to his Parisian leather jacket.
The darkness swallows them whole and now they know there is no going back as they sign their names in the book, still huddled together, the thrill of potential wickedness pricking their skin as tendrils of pulsing music tickle their ears. Their leader snakes his way through the dark night club looking for all the world like a Rockstar with clutching groupies, no matter that he'd rather kiss the boy lurking at the edge of his female entourage.

The hazy blackness is suddenly shot through with lines of brilliant colors, glowing needles on a midnight quilt and the one in the cowboy boots marvels at the striking beauty. Shards of leftover diamonds glitter on her skin as she glides beneath the immense disco ball, noticing the light gives her best friend's skin an ethereal glow.
The bar is ahead and she follows her Rockstar, pretending she has done this more times than she can count, surprised at how comfortably she wears the color-stricken darkness. Yelling her drink of choice over the roar of the music, she is glad no one can see her blush as she tells a strange man she wants Sex on the Beach. Although she has tasted many flavors, she's never had a drink before. Never one to call her own, not really a fan of double straws and plastic cups. But tonight is a night of firsts and she smiles inwardly as she sips the naughty cocktail, congratulating herself for remembering that she likes the taste of this one.

City air welcomes them as her group takes respite on the cool patio, the beat of the music changing as the ivy-clad walls absorb the quiet murmurs of cozy couples. Laughingly they pose for numerous photos, blue lightening against the night sky as the camera captures new friends and old, the two women in heels giggling with the Unicorns as the Rockstar drags long on his fresh cigarette.
An arm raises in salutation as another group joins them, hasty introductions exchanged as conversations quickly ensue and the auburn-tressed virgin chides herself for the lingering glance she gives the dark-eyed devil in their midst. But now he has her in his grip and she can't escape, nor does she want to. She likes how free she feels and hardly thinks she can blame the vulgarity in her glass - even without the alcohol she often fights the dark side of her nature. A truer Gemini there never was.

She moves with the flow of their ever expanding crew, boys who love boys and the women who wish they didn't parading back to the luminescent dance floor. Fingers thread through hers and she can hardly tell who is guiding her as the beat pounds rhythm into her blood. She dances like no one is watching, drowning in a carefree ocean. She spies the Devil watching her, his gaze full of enticing temptations. Dark and light duel inside her, forces clashing like swords of steel, and she is faced with two choices. Snow rests on one shoulder while crimson stains the other and it isn't long before she feels the scarlet threads join the raging tapestry in her veins.
They move together, molten lava racing through her as she gasps at the sensuous prickle of his warm whiskers on her neck. Soft contours mold to hardened planes and she knows the dark is winning. She thinks he mentions demons and only grips him closer. He purrs against her ear as they swim in a flashing sea of lights, riding waves of electric passion, the residue of salty sweat tingling on their skin.

Soon, though, she feels the cold pierce of conscience and recluctantly breaks free of his tempestuous grasp. He is too dangerous. From the wall she watches her friends mingle with the crowd, exotic strangers to this new world and she thrills at the knowledge that men crave those women who are hard to catch. She is glad to be herself, an individual with many shining facets, two separate beings in one body and she wonders at her ability to adapt to her surroundings.
Maybe she shouldn't question it.

The dark is decadent, after all.

Who Knew Unicorns Could Dance?

2009-03-22T20:07:00.000-07:00

Two weeks after my twenty-first birthday I was invited to a co-worker's birthday party. I Mapquested the address and arrived on time, swinging my Sentra into the dark parking lot. I glanced at the address again, not sure I was at the right place.
That's when I noticed the purple lights showingcasing Diamonds - the night club was smack in the middle of a deserted strip mall. At least three homeless people were scrounging in the dumpster and I was quite certain I was the whitest thing for at least fifty miles.
My key never left the ignition.
I have avoided clubs ever since, the horror of my first experience seared into my memory as I assumed all dance joints were the same.

I recently discovered my male Twin - read: soulmate if only he wasn't gay. Oh, the disappointments in life. He invited my girls and me out on a Friday night, promising wicked fun and plenty of gorgeous men for all of us. Jigna, Ashley, and I set about looking hot, forlornly surveying our closets and finding little in the way of "clubbing attire." In the end we chose what made us stand out, ironically all wearing varying shades of gray, laughing at our self-made titles: Indian Sex Kitten, Sultry Princess, and Fun-loving Flirt.

We made our way to Colin's house, discovering upon arrival that my Twin displayed black cowboy boots, a perfect match to the ones on my feet. Hmm, maybe I can Google a gay-reversal spell. He introduced us to his friends Alyson and Cydney and we all laughed as Alyson declared war against Colin's razor for mauling her shapely legs. She lost so much blood from the cuts that she could have been a traveling Red Cross. The clock struck ten and we piled in the car to head downtown, pathetic mimics of Bollywood dancers as we jammed to the Slumdog Millionaire score.

We swung by Chip's place, another of the lovely gays we met through Colin, and crowded into the living room as introductions were exchanged. Jeff and I did flight attendant fingers, the typical gesture upon meeting a new co-worker in "real" life.
Then I saw him.
Oh snap.
Tattoos, dark hair, sinful eyes - please let him be straight, please let him be straight, please let him be straight! I chanted inwardly. Thankfully my reverie was interrupted and my attentions diverted by a squeal from Jigna as the resident mini-dog tried to make chew toys of her fingers. We laughingly assured her he was no harm but I played the loyal friend and protected her from Fifi's canines.

Finally, our group ever-growing, we zipped through Atlanta until at last we arrived at Primal, a mere door on the side of a plain building. I was surprised until we stepped indoors - the place opened up on itself and we played Colin's entourage as he informed the staff with a flourish that he was on The List. The dance floor was suddenly before us and I finally stopped to notice what the rest of the fair sex was wearing. Shit. The entire disco-illuminated space was full of toothpicks in LBD's. Actually, make that Practically Invisible Little Black Dresses. Too bad I left mine at the back of my closet. Oh wait, I don't own a PILBD. Perhaps my dominatrix outfit would suffice - even then I'd be wearing more than three girls here put together. Added to mental checklist: polish my metal corset.

Colin's friend Justin tended bar as Colin ordered the first round of shots. Ashley and I being non drinkers - as in we've never downed at entire glass of alcohol in our twenty-two years - we tentatively anticipated what my Twin called a Space Pussy. Personally I think they should rename it Cat-In-Orbit and omit potential clientele embarrassment. A toast to the night and we all guzzled the pink liquid as cool fire coated my insides.
Interesting.
Jigna and I sipped our Sex on the Beach while Ashley nursed her weakened Appletini and we all posed for pictures on the patio. Our new friend Marcus was there, his broad smile Cheshire-like against his dark skin. We chatted about the wiles of KFC going healthy while I halfway flirted, resolving to take my Gaydar to the shop for a checkup as soon as possible. Josh mentioned his ex-girlfriend while he ahhed over Jigna's clothes, declaring we all must have gay men who shopped for us. I exchanged confused looks with my friends. I reeeaaaalllly need to get that Gaydar fixed.

We all made our way back to the dance floor to break it down as I pondered my state of consciousness. Am I drunk? I don't feel drunk. Then again, what exactly does drunk feel like? I'm pretty sure I'll remember it all in the morning and that's what counts, right? Then I laughed giddily as I almost tripped and I reconsidered my musings.
Usher yelled "Yeah" and I was transported back to Prom, thanking my stars that I was enjoying myself MUCH more this night. Most of the boys and girls got dirty, hips grinding and booties shaking as the loud beat pounded through the cement floor.

I took a breather and tried to ignore Devil boy, for upon discovering he was straight he may as well have pinned me to the wall with his wicked pitchfork, so strong was his hold over me. I mentioned to him that I liked bad boys. "Then you'd better stay away from me," he murmured temptingly. Damn him. Those dark ones always know what they are doing.
Ashley was swept away by a hottie with a body from West Virginia and Jigna chatted flirtatiously with a guy who called himself Bermuda. I thought I should warn her that she might get lost if she stayed around him too long. I stood there and stuck out my lip, abandoned by the gays, the Blood Bank and Cydney nowhere in sight, and swearing I'd never end up like the Asian wallflowers on the far side of the room, I grabbed the Devil's hand.
"Let's dance."

Before I knew it we were practically one person, fused together from top to bottom as we swayed to the beat, and I suddenly started to panic.
Oh god, could I get pregnant? I was pretty sure this was safe, but dear gosh, there were countless demons mere inches from me. I feared their iron will might cause them to swim through four layers of clothing and there is no WAY I'm gonna have a kid. I've already told my parents that any child of mine will be left in a basket on their doorstep and they have my permission to christen it Moses, no matter the sex.
Although I knew I was overreacting, the thought of a kid made my head swim - or maybe it was the liquor, but I'm just saying - and I reluctantly broke free as Chip and Russell made a seqway in and I joined them in their dance. Our entire group was there, Cydney and Alyson right at home on top of the box, and we shook it till the lights came on. Colin loudly congratulated us for closing down the club.

We wound down the night in Russell's retro studio on Tenth Street, his giant white headboard the coolest thing I've ever seen. Kathy Griffin droned on the plasma television as a drunken Jeff and Josh begged me to belt out Broadway - perhaps if I had had as much to drink as THEM I'd have been warbling like a Mimi on crack. We gathered our things to go and bid everyone farewell, promising to join them all again soon. Surprisingly the boy I deemed Devilish ensured that my girlfriends and I made a safe arrival to my car, a real-life Ying Yang, good and bad in the perfect recipe.

I fell into bed back at the apartment, glancing at the clock before I drifted off.
5 am.
I giggled. It had definitely been a night to remember.

Frayed

2009-03-19T11:22:00.000-07:00

He touches her skin with a lover’s intent, but sparkles fail to glitter. She wills them into existence; she begs the shiver to swim in her veins. Realization sinks like lead into the well of her sorrow, ever expanding ripples in the grey waters until tears sting the backs of her eyes. She holds them there as she stifles a gasp and she wonders if he can taste the forced fervor in her kiss.
Time and again it happens this way and she hates herself for lying. Her lips never speak untruths but her heart fails to leap and therein lies the real deception.

He says the fated words, three icicles shattering on the pavement of her soul. She wishes she could glue them back together as if he never said them, wishes she could return the pieces in their original purity, but there isn’t time for that. She knows what is expected of her – and who does she really have to blame but herself? She knows he doesn’t see through her. He doesn’t want to. And so she mimics his romantic admission, melted ice becoming black rivers in her blood.

Her heart hardly beats at the thought of him; in fact, it seems to flutter more ardently as she ponders her potential freedom, like a bird trapped inside basement rafters on a sunny day. She is losing herself as the days drag on. She dies a little more each time his eyes brighten when he sees her.
She is sure she is defective in some way – when he holds her she burns with indecision, overheated in the circle of his arms. She is floating in a sea of safety, and the only handhold is the ladder to complacency.
She knows she would rather drown.

And so she ends it, just as she always knew it would. She asks him if he ever suspected their demise and he answers no. There is nothing but sincerity behind his glassy eyes and she resists the urge to gag at the pain she knows she is putting him through.
He won’t hate her though she begs for it. The well of her tears has finally overflowed and she feels it is bottomless, so endlessly do they fall. He thanks her for respecting him. If only he knew. The salt water rivers on his face cut canyons in her heart and she aches to know she is the cause of his agony. He is so good, so kind, loyal, and honest.
She doesn’t deserve to be happy for hurting him this way. She isn’t sure if it is worth wanting fire on her skin when she fears his heart will forever remain frozen.

His one request is that she continues as his friend, for that is what they have become, is it not? She ponders his plea, and later begs advice from objective listeners.
No, they tell her. Be wise. You will only hurt him more.
She knows they speak truth and yet she is selfish, she wants to have her cake and eat it too and damn them all, she agrees. She trusts his declaration that it will carry on as a mere friendship, that he won’t beg her back nor accept her repeal should she feel so inclined to offer it.
And so she leaves the black ribbons of heartache uncut, the edges as yet unraveled, and she prays they will stay that way. But loose ends left to tarry in the wind often meet a tattered demise. She forgets she already knew that. She longs for a flame, shimmering heat to melt the frayed boundaries of her heart, numb, unfeeling hardness left behind. He stands before her now, and they both know this is the true finale. He asks her to reconsider.
But she has made her decision and there is no going back, though she stings all over at the thought of him with another. She is surprised she hasn’t yet suffocated in the black tar of selfishness nestled where her heart should be. Maybe that is her punishment. To long for death, to ache for a respite from the scalpel through her gut and never receive it.

He struggles to keep his composure as she turns to walk away. For his sake he can’t know she is barely held together, like an ice cube in August, and it is only a matter of time before she disappears completely.
The echo of his words is chiseled on her soul.
“Goodbye, my love.”
She watches him through the window as he slowly fades from sight, the defeated slump of his shoulders forever imprinted on her memory. She whispers to the universe to give him the woman of his dreams, pledging her own perfect match as a sacrifice for his happiness. Raindrops run across the glass pane, colors blurring together, the dripping scene something Monet would paint.

She realizes it’s only her tears.

Lions and Tigers and Pilots, oh my!

2009-03-16T23:37:00.000-07:00

It's almost funny the way they feel me out - not to be confused with feeling me up, which, incidentally, is another of their tactics, but I will get to that. They are all so predictable, each no different than the last. As prey in the world of flying predators, I have grown accustomed to the stealth - or lack thereof - with which these pilots stalk.

It begins with a flash of pearly whites - or sometimes slightly browns - in my direction. After the third implication-laden grin I grow suspicious. The smile I wore on our initial meeting becomes a mere sticker on my face, plastered there for all to see, albeit few recognize that it's actually fake. My eyes sheath dangerous daggers, but like most animals at the top of the food chain, they feel invincible, and fail to note the danger belied in my clover stare.

Mistaking my faux-grin for an actual smile they attempt a PG joke, one bordering on slightly inappropriate. After which, of course, they snicker together as if no one gets it but them, reminding me of horny middle school boys. As is typical in the airline industry, there are many "pretty young things" out there, my crew usually consisting of at least one of them. And that one typically laughs loudest at the simpering one-liner, a flick of her hair or an "omg, that's SOOO funny" accompanying her high-pitched giggle.
If I do laugh it is out of politeness and the deflection of potential drama, but it rarely grows past a grunted "ha." If I'm in a supremely good mood - as in, I just won the $200 million lottery, I may give an extra "ha." If the wise-crack goes beyond a simple innuendo, I don't care if I become an instant billionaireness - I ain't laughin'. A lightbulb seems to go off if there is another female to guffaw at their lame attempt at standup comedy and the attackers retreat for a while, their attention spent on a captive audience. I thank God for my brief respite.

Like a cat and mouse, though, they return to play with their food, seemingly unable to keep their paws off me. Often it is an "accidental" brush of their fingertips across my back, the beginnings of a very dangerous game. Almost without a conscious effort my shoulders go rigid and I stay frozen until their mealy hand leaves, doubting that the callous hunters notice any difference. Unlike their friends in the wild they are terrible predators, only attuned to the most blatant signals. No wonder men never bothered flirting with the Amazon Women - they wouldn't have survived.
Some have the nerve to freely place their hands about my waist or in the small of my back as they "move me out of their way." Hey, I know, how about you Google the phrase "EXCUSE ME?" Then again, most of them are too lazy to even fly the plane, more often than not pushing the Easy Button and setting everything to autopilot. Of COURSE they can't be bothered with pretenses. Although it coud be that they are just too ancient to understand modern English, resorting to motion-infused grunts and cave-man paintings on the galley walls to communicate their needs.

A once over with their weasly eyes is often followed by the typical wink they employ when an outright cat-call must be tamed. I offer them the subtle jaw-clench. Or perhaps not so subtle. At times it feels like I'm biting through metal so dedicated am I in my endeavor to prove that body language and non-verbal cues are ninety percent of communication. I can hardly blame them for failing to understand. Obviously their vocabulary is very limited - sex, sex, and oh yeah, more sex. They probably think the Jaw Clench is one of the 265 Flirtatious Moves screaming from the cover of the current Cosmo mag.

Nights at the bar are definitely NOT the highlights of my trips, but hours on a plane is often cause for a raging appetite and so I go for the chips and salsa if nothing else. Being late is something I loathe with my very core, but if it ensures that the seats on both sides of the perching vultures are filled, I would gladly wait an eternity. As glasses are emptied and bellies slosh with poison, the real games begin.
I get a feeling right before it happens. Often it is reminiscent of sickness, like the hints of nausea before the virus hits full force. The fifty-year-old Captain, who sports a shiny bald spot with greasy leftover salt and pepper strands and a beer belly too large for a maternity top, makes his way to my place, wheezing his alcohol laden laugh in my direction. I'm waiting for the day I pass out from holding my breath. Note to self: stock up on smelling salts.
They often try their pathetic talent of beating around the burning loins bush, seeking refuge in innuendoes meant to evoke nervous laughter from the intended victim. I don't even take out my plastic grin, instead I merely strike right below the belt - "Yeah, Grandpa, I'll be sure to remember that next time we fly together!"
Brow furrows as realization dawns, and then, thank the heavens above, it becomes increasingly uncomfortable as he finally takes his long awaited cue and exits stage right.
I am saved. Awkward silence lingers for a few moments as the rejected auditioner returns to his seat, looking for all the world like a Dunce complete with pointy hat. At least, that's what I picture when I look at him. Inevitably my insides start to hurt from screaming with surpressed laughter.

Soon enough the conversation picks back up where it left off before the One Man Show; I gladly sink unnoticed into the background, people-watching, gears turning, my elders unknowingly showcasing valuable life lessons to the pulsing refills of beer on draft and the acrid sting of cigarette smoke.
Silently I thank them.

Burn

2009-02-25T16:45:00.001-08:00

She wanders through the clothing store, the high ceiling and unseen walls lending an infinite feeling to the building.
"He's waiting for you," they tell her. She stares in surprise at the women browsing through Gucci and Prada. Surely they can't mean it.
"Back there." The motion with their manicured hands to the back of the store, her eyes barely making out the sign of a restaurant in the far distance.
She turns to ask how they know but suddenly the store has disappeared from view and she is standing in the front of his workplace, the smell of smoke and alcohol strong on the wafting air. In trepidation, knots clenching her stomach, she pushes against the giant wooden door and enters.
It is dark inside, and although she hears the murmur of voices, there is not a soul present. She makes her way to the bar, the shiny oak surface gleaming in the dim light, hoping that someone will appear soon to alleviate her anxious nerves.
And then there he is, the dark edges of his hair curling around his angular cheeks. She longs to reach out and sweep the stray raven lock from his eyes, chartreuse embers lit from within. His fingers graze her cheek as she leans into his palm, his hand warm against her winter-white skin. She waits for him to speak.

"Listen, I..." his voice trails away. She knows what he is going to say and still she waits.
"I love you, so much." She hears the passion in his voice, the ache of words long repressed.
And suddenly the darkness is shattered with bright light, colors shooting through her veins as his lips find hers, as his fingers grip her waist, pressing her body hard against the rippling muscle beneath his cotton shirt.
He carries her as if she is weightless, his mouth never leaving her delicious grasp. He roughly sets her on the counter, his long arm clearing the dishes with one sweep, his hands on her knees as he yanks her hips to the edge. She feels his hardness at her tingling place and moans, her skin screaming against the fabric of her jeans, begging to be free, sobbing to touch him without barriers. He is moving again and she gasps in pleasant pain as she is half-thrown against the wall of the back room, the heat in his tiger's gaze enough to set fire to her soul.
She craves the burn.

And then...sadly, I woke up.

Torn

2009-02-25T08:45:00.000-08:00

He stands in the distance, his broad silhouette dark against the turquoise sea, the grey-green of his eyes like storm tossed waves. He waits for her there, all fire and light and passion. She longs again for the brand of his skin on hers, for the poison of his kiss, aches for the deep promise in his gaze. Memories unconsciously summoned slam through her, their power to cease rational thought almost frightening.
She sees the question in his stance, in the way he leans towards her, unsure, not quite certain even of his own desires. And yet, she hears the longing in his voice as he calls her name over the crashing of the afternoon tide, willing her to be his and stay.
The sea and sky are the perfect lovers, she notes, the way they fit together, storms and peace and inspiration united in their blue expanse. She sways for a moment. Would life be that way were she move now into the haven of his embrace? She recalls his declaration of love and while she believes his heart she isn't sure his promises are strong enough to stand on. The strength of his word is at times as flimsy as the distant sand dunes, barely able to withstand the weighty tests of truth and loyalty.

Miles away another man waits for her in the coolness of the cottage, his love and dedication proven true. He knows not that she stands here in rigid indecision, choosing between passion and propriety. How his heart would bleed. He is so good, so kind, so devoted...and yet, she longs for the frenzied cascade of drowning emotions when her gaze meets that of the man on the far shore.
Sunlight catches a single tear as it falls unheeded, a shining diamond on her fair cheek. She savors the salty sea on her lips, remembering again his mouth on hers, tasting the kiss of the man in the cottage. A fond smile brushes her lips but it fails to reach her eyes. She feels nothing. No storms or peace or inspiration. She is safe with him and taking risks brings dangerous and thrilling adventures. But adventures make her heart live and spirit sing.
And so she is decided.

She hears her name on the wind as he calls to her yet again, the sound of his musical voice caressing each syllable, the allure of fire and unswerving desire almost tangible in its deep rumble. Even as she steps towards his waiting arms she knows she has at least chosen truth if not wisdom. Her heart will forever be wandering if she goes back to that seaside cottage, if she lets him kiss her, lets him shower her with adoration and undying promises. She cannot deny this part of her any more than she can deny his complete happiness.
Lies do not become her.

Oh, What I Would Have Done For a Bridge Over Troubled Water

2009-02-17T13:05:00.001-08:00

Childhood summers are often remniscent of two main events - fun and trouble. It was hard to seperate the two, my thirst for exotic adventures in the confines of my own backyard rarely sated unless the escapade ended in near misses with the iron fist of the law, in most cases my mother. Perhaps that is why, in the summer of my thirteenth year, I listened to my cousin and thereby ended up in one of the biggest debaucles of my kid life.

We all stood at the wooden fence, my toes digging into the cool dirt while I peered into the open field in front of us, admonitions to stay out of trouble having conveniently faded from memory as I contemplated the exploit posed by my cousin, Brianna. Matti, ever the law abider and also my baby sister who had the most annoying habit of looking out for me, was skeptical.
"I don't know, Bree," she hesitated, her nasally ten year old voice grating on my nerves. I was GOING into that field.
Still, I had to cover my own tracks in case the FBI later investigated our potential catastrophe and discovered that I was heedless and therefore deserving of the repercussions, so I asked again.
"You're SURE it's okay?"
"Yeah, Mr. Bateman won't care at all!"
"So we won't get shot with his machine gun for trespassing?"
I stole a glance at Matti, smirking at the look of terror on her face. Gosh, I was such an evil big sister.
After much prodding and persuading, along with manipulative tactics such as, "Only babies are scared," we all crossed the threshold and set our flip-flopped feet onto foreign ground.

The birds soared overhead and the sun beat down on us as we ventured further and further from my cousin's house and irrevocably into mischief. Recent rains had left the ground soft with damp dirt and gave a cool edge to the July day. Unfortunately, these same rains also caused the creek in the middle of Mr. Bateman's field to swell to a hazardous level, the waters nutmeg brown and completely impervious to our eyes.
We followed it for almost a mile, the comforting rush soothing as I recalled my survival techniques - when the heroines of my favorite stories got lost they always folllowed the water and were inevitably saved from a death by aimless wandering in the end.
"Follow the water, follow the water," I chanted under my breath as Brianna's house disappeared from view.
Eventually we got lost for a while in our world of pretend, playing "shipwreck" on the island I almost broke my ankle when the limb I climbed over on gave way. Giving up on pirates and looting, we found the lowest part of the creek and crossed over, realizing that we would inevitably have to brave the murky waters again to get to the safety of Bree's house as the creek ran in an almost circular pattern around the field. Our plan was to cross back at our original point of passing, where the water barely reached our calves and the distance from one side of the bank to the other could be scaled in a few steps.

As we set about collecting ingredients for mud and berry pies, my ears picked up on another sound besides the rushing creek behind us. It was an engine, the loud puttering of the motor strangely familiar. I gasped as I crawled to the edge of the brush that was hiding us as we pillaged the grove of trees for acorns, shushing my comrades as I endeavored to pinpoint any potential danger. And then I spotted him. A massive tractor loomed in the distance, its gigantic wheels headed straight for our hiding place!
"It's Mr. Bateman!" Brianna exclaimed in a hushed squeal. "Oh no! What are we going to do?"
I looked at her in incredulous horror.
"But I thought you said he wouldn't CARE, Brianna!!" I could hardly believe our misfortune. And then it dawned on me. Perhaps this Bateman guy was a descendant of those Bateman's in that Hitchcock film, and suddenly, the image of a dried-up grandma with no eyes shot icy fear straight through my veins. We must escape.
I glanced over my shoulder at Matti who had hung back, taking shelter behind a big oak. I had to take action.
"We've no choice, my friends, but to do one thing. RUN!"
Following my natural born leader instincts, my posse braced themselves to flee. Brianna warned us to bend down, seeking what cover we could from the sparse brush which separated us from Bateman and his killing machine. I can only imagine the pathetic sight we must have been, three gangly pre-teens half bent over, oblivious to the fact that running in a nintey degree angle did NOTHING to help us.
Suddenly I lost one of my favorite flip flops and cried out when my bare foot made contact with what I swore must have been an ancient Indian arrowhead.
"Your shoe!" Matti cried.
"No!" I gestured bravely. "Leave it! We must only think of our lives! Onward!" I half limped in my boomerang-shaped canter, suddenly realizing that we had left the shallowest part of the creek far behind. I stayed close to Brianna, throwing glances behind me as Psycho slowly closed in.
"Listen, our next task is to find a safe place to cross the creek."
We frantically searched for a low point but to no avail, gauging that the water was dangerously close to being over our heads.
"Here!" Bree yelled. Thank goodness, her house could be seen in the distance; I figured this part was as good as any as we began the treacherous descent down the steep muddy bank.
Brianna led the way as I stepped with trepidation in her wake, my sister grabbing fistfuls of my shirttails and sobbing with fear at the prospect of sea serpents and the Loch Ness Monster. With a shout Brianna lost her footing and fell willy nilly, sliding the rest of the way down the slope. My eyes widened as she stood, black mud covering her back side from head to toe. I began snickering, unable to contain my sputtering laughter as I finally let loose a loud guffaw at the tortured look on my cousin's face.
I should have known. She who laughs last...
Half a step later and I succumbed to the same fate, my laughter cut short as my skinny arms flailed wildly and my tailbone made sharp contact with a thick tree root.
"Gosh, Bree! Way to go!" I scolded as if somehow the fact that I tripped was her fault. I helped my blubbering sister up from the wet earth where she had inevitably followed my crash landing. I paid Brianna no mind as she crossed the creek, which, of course, was at its widest berth. I readied my capri's to wade across, rolling them up high past my knees.
"Oh no!" Matti gasped as she continued to blankly stare at me.
"What? What's your problem?" I was quickly losing patience.
She reminded me that we were supposed to attend a church function with our cousin's family that night, and in an attempt to pack lightly for our two day vacation, we'd only brought pajamas. And now, that outfit had gritty, slimy creek-bed mud spread all down the back of it. Matti wailed in consternation as I turned back to see Brianna safely on the other side. I bent to roll Matti's capri's higher as well when Brianna informed me of the futility of that gesture.
"What do you mean?" My mouth gaped open as she indicated the water mark located at her shoulders. Matti burst forth in tears anew, realizing that meant the water would be up to her neck.
"Come on!" I yelled as I began wading into the churning water. I was halfway across, the water splashing against my midriff, when I discovered Matti still stood on the bank, screaming that she refused to cross.
"You have to! Stop being such a baby!" I screamed back in an attempt to be heard over her sobs. I sloshed back to where she cowered, grabbing hold of her collar and giving it a harsh jerk. I had no choice. If her arm had been caught in a trap I'd have had to amputate it to save all our lives, and this time it was no different. I knew my duty and I wasn't about to let us all become cow food.
Unable to break free from my grasp, she had couldn't help but follow me as I literally dragged her into the water. Brianna shouted encouraging words from the opposite bank as we slowly made our way across. Suddenly, without warning, a rushing current swept through and I lost my footing on the sandy bottom. Simultaneously my cousin and sister screamed, the shout turning into a gurgle as I noted with horror that Matti was completely submerged in the dirty water. My heart leapt in my throat - did they put kids in juvy for inadvertantly drowning their sisters? My fingers still had their iron grip on the collar of her t-shirt, so I pulled as hard as I could against the current, her silt-covered brunette head popping back to the surface. She was too shocked to have a reaction until - thank goodness - we reached the other side where she promptly burst into more tears. The fence was only a few yards away, the last barrier separating us from the safety of home.

At this point I left Brianna to tend to Matti, worrying now about the massive amount of anger and punishment we were sure to encounter. After we crossed the fence, I found a sunny spot in the warm grass where we could at least dry off before facing the jury. I examined my bleeding left foot, briars and rocks having attacked it after I lost my shoe in the field.
When we had sufficiently brushed off what dried mud we could and our clothes were only slightly damp, we all silently made our way back to the front porch.
"Listen, whatever you do, do NOT open your mouths," I instructed. "I will do ALL of the talking," I said, confident that I'd finaggle us out of the worst repercussions with my glib tongue.
We waited at the front door, Matti and Brianna on either side of me as I mentally prepared my speech. They stood petulantly, with heads hung and hands clasped behind their backs just as I directed. I think my idea was to appear as forlorn as WWII POW's, therefore eliciting pity instead of retribution. Instead we all probably looked like pathetic wet sewer rats and really, who feels sorry for those? With trembling fingers I reached to ring the doorbell.
The door swung open and my aunt loomed like a giant in front of us, her eyes widening with shock at the sight. Within moments her mental calculations transformed her mouth into a thin line, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms, evidently ready to disbelieve any yarn we might try to spin. I knew that look. I also knew it was pointless to lie, and so I did what I did best as a kid - shifted the blame to someone else.
As I ranted and raved that Brianna said it was okay, and that I tried to be the good girl but she coerced us by saying that Mr. Bateman wouldn't care, only to recant her story and say he was trying to kill us -
My aunt cut me off, the smirk on her face barely concealed.
"Oh, Mr. Bateman wouldn't have cared if you were out there!"
And then Brianna piped up with a comment that made me want to punch her into the next century.
"Oh, I know!" As if!
I turned a hateful stare upon her as she cowered beneath my gaze. She could have prevented the entire last hour of terror. Still, we had disobeyed by crossing that blasted fence and therefore indicted punishment upon ourselves. My aunt ushered us into the laundry room where we stripped out of our dirty clothes and headed for the showers. We were lucky there was enough time to wash our clothes before church. I had to borrow shoes from Brianna.
Our punishment was to sit in separate rooms in silence until we left for church, verbal lashings having been given over the phone when Aunt Terri made us call our parents.

Although it seemed traumatic back then, like all things, given time, it morphed into a humorous and often-told story.
I don't think my parents ever let us go back to their house again

Nutmeg

2009-02-17T11:30:00.000-08:00

The sky is that navy shade, the one when night is curling under the covers and dawn is yawning as she sleepily peeps open her umber eyes. Stomachs rumble in hunger, making midnight's lovers realize it's been hours since any real food has served their famished insides, although ravenous hunger of a different kind has been sated all too well in the blackest hours of the night.

They are the only ones in the twenty-four hour diner and the heavy-set, jolly waitress seems glad for a set of giggling clients. He steals an empty corner booth, placing a quick kiss on her pretty mouth as he pulls her down beside him. Normally she would protest his cliched representation of coupledom, but tonight she goes with it, trying on a new style of living in this second and thinking not of the next.
The bubbling waitress serves their meal cooked to order, the grits dripping salty butter, just the way she likes. He playfully grabs the spoon and digs in the gooey white mass, producing a bite much too big to be lady-like. She laughingly protests as he tickles her ribs, refusing to show any mercy unless she promises to show appreciation for what he honestly believes is a romantic gesture.
"Okay, okay!" she squeals, hurriedly procurring a napkin to alleviate the inevitable catastrophe. As she predicted, he mimicks a groom at the exchanging of cake with icing overload and makes a mess of her chin. She is too happy to be angry, though, and softly moans in wicked delight as he attempts to clean the sticky mess he made with his glib tongue, trailing her jaw lightly until his lips find her neck.

She sighs in complete contentment as she leans into the warm crook of his shoulder, her eyes drifting shut to the comforting clink of dishes and the soft sizzle of hashbrowns frying. She feels the hum of quiet laughter deep in his chest and opens a sleepy eye, biting her lip as she looks up to meet his nutmeg gaze.
"What?" she asks him with a tentative grin.
She feels the strong clasp of his fingers on her waist. He breathes deep.
"You just..." he trails off, still holding her clover stare. She stays quiet, letting his eyes speak for him.
"I know," she whispers. "Me too."
Suddenly, nutmeg brightens to cinnamon as he pulls her to him, the waitress and the restaurant and her scrupulous reservations deliciously slipping away.

How My S.A.D. Turned Glad!

2009-02-13T13:42:00.001-08:00

The fourteenth day of February has long been declared S.A.D. by countless singles on both sides of the sex. Single Awareness Day, also known as Valentine's Day by those lovey-dovey, ooey-gooey, mushy-gushy couples lucky enough to be in love, has always been just that to me. I am made brutally aware that I will not receive any cute button-nosed bears or heart-strewn Hallmark cards. I have always scoffed at the sentiments, but deep down I envy the recipients of that overpriced fodder. My entire life has been spent bemoaning ad naseum the unfair lonliness of those poor unfortunate souls who have no one on this day reserved exclusively for pairs.

Every year in highschool I silently cursed my peers as they walked through the hallways, oohing and ahhing over their roses and chocolate. It didn't matter that I swore I'd never WANT roses and chocolate, abhorring the typical cliche - as long as they had it and I didn't I stuck out my bottom lip and sulked until, thank goodness, hell finally came to an end.
The worst ever was my senior year, when I was confined to the gym for fourth block. As if being in that stinky, sticky, sweaty room wasn't bad enough, I was forced to watch as the Ringgold Florist unloaded bouquet after bouquet, those silly hearts and ridiculous balloons like Cupid's vomit all over the bleachers.
I pretended not to care, tried to ignore the stupid tears that stung the backs of my eyes as I watched the line form, my friends giggling in delight over their "Okay I got you flowers now what are you gonna do for me" arrangements.
It couldn't get worse, I thought as I escaped to the parking lot, glad to be rid of the nonsense.
"Meredith, wait! We got you something!" My heart jumped at the familiar voice and I turned to see two of my best friends, Austin and Angel, beckoning me to their cars. Thank goodness, at least SOMEONE cared, even if they were more like my brothers. The closer I got, though, I detected mischief in their gleaming eyes, Angel's hands behind his back as he smirked at me. I knew that look too well.
"Oh no," I lamented. "What did you get me?"
With a flourish they presented me with the one gift I ever received on Valentine's Day - a lip-print-boxer-clad, tapered-waisted Grow-A-Date.
They burst into laughter while I tried to refrain from bursting into tears, knowing they meant no harm and strangely comforted that at least they understood my pain even if they didn't exactly know how to make it better.
I never grew my date; I suppose I had hope that maybe, just maybe, I'd actually get a date for that day I have always loathed.

Years of empty 2/14's passed, and then one day, after a long layover in Milwaukee and a few flirtatious exchanges with a handsome Scotsman who now resides there, I had a glimmer of something that looked like a potential date for Cupid's holiday - and a life sized one at that.
And finally, just when I had almost become a bitter cynic, my doorstep was littered with a beautiful bouquet of purple tulips, the color and flower a perfect compliment to my tastes. Granted, I had to go to Wisconsin to find a guy who ACTUALLY wanted to go out with me, but here I am, incandescently happy to have someone special to spend V Day with. AND he's European - a born romancer!
Although it was twenty two years in the making (yes, I count the years I was little - remember the "aww" invoking kids on the front of every sweet card, their lips barely touching in an innocent kiss? Romance can happen at ANY time, people!) I have finally scored a decent man. My minutes shall be filled with whispered sweet nothings, my hours complete with long kisses and soft touches.

And that is how, after many a rejection, my S.A.D. finally became GLAD!

Hell, I deserve it.

Marked

2009-02-03T22:36:00.001-08:00

The restaurant glows warm with orange light, the tinkling laughter of wine glasses and the sharp clink of metal singing in the background. She doodles on the napkin in front of her, the ink as heavy as her heart at the thought of leaving him.
She doesn't feel like talking.
She aches to linger in the frigid city, warmed by the strength in his lean build, his soft skin as delightful as a late morning spent lazing in silk sheets. Dragging her thoughts back to the party, she forces a laugh at another lame joke cracked by the struggling stand up comedian across the table from her. His thin lips are distracting.
She heaves an involuntary sigh, stealing a sidelong glance at the full, heart-shaped mouth of the man beside her. She smiles softly. Reaching out her fingers she grasps his, marveling again at the absolute perfection of the way her hand fits his, a tailor-made pattern of skin and planes, of lengths and scales.
Grinning mischievously to herself, she subtly turns over his palm, trying unsuccessfully to mask her devious plan.
His hand slips from her grasp as he laughingly realizes her intent.
"Sorry, sweet, I can't have you doodling on me, too." She stifles a giggle. Even when he scolds her his lilting brogue makes her knees weak.
Ah, so he has yet to learn that she rarely gives up without a fight. She'll teach him.
Setting her bottom lip into a petulant frown she crosses her arms and sighs deeply, her chair now angled away from him. She need only be patient.
Three, two, one...
"No, wait, it...it's okay. Here."
She slightly glances behind her to see his upturned palm being offered like the sacrificial lamb. Triumph gleams in her eyes as she smiles broadly at him, poising her pen above the warm skin of his wrist, contemplating her design.
He leans down to murmur in her ear, his breath hot on her neck.
"Just so you know, I've never let anyone leave a mark on me. Ever." She senses a deeper meaning behind his words.
"So, I'm special?" she intones, cocking an eyebrow.
"Sorta," he grins, placing a quick kiss on her rosy lips.
Setting her tongue between her teeth she draws a solid heart, simple and clean. She adds the first letter of her name with a flourish, settling back to admire her handiwork.
He begrudgingly admits that it isn't so bad. She asks if he'd like to visit the tattoo parlor to make it permanent?
They all laugh at that.
Even the stand up comic. Score one for the new girlfriend.

Later, she sways in his arms as they dance to Sam Cook in the middle of his miniscule bedroom.
"So, why'd you let me?" she wonders aloud.
He sets the steel blue ice of his gaze on hers and answers simply.
"I can't say no to you."
She giggles at that.
"Kiss me," she mockingly commands.
"Aye, milady."
He is good at following orders.
Very good.

Scarlet Death

2009-01-29T22:12:00.003-08:00

Each day it flourished anew, fresh blooms bursting forth in brilliant hues of sinful scarlet. If the rose bush thrived, she knew her true love lived and breathed and waited for her somewhere in the world. Smiling, she would lovingly stroke the sun-warmed petals, the heat of silky desire traveling through her fingertips. She knew not who he was, but she dreamt of the day when she would finally meet him, when her eyes could rest on his countenance, when the hardened contours of his hand would fit the curves of hers, a tailor-made pattern of planes and lengths scaled to perfection.

But the day dawned when sunlight no longer shone through the clear glass panes. In darkness she floated to the window, despair raging in her veins as her gaze fell to the blossoms, their color like the stain of crimson blood against the white window frame.
As the flowers began to fade so did the hope that she might ever meet him. The tears began to spill unheeded as she scooped up the vase, holding it close to her heart as she hurried to the one place she felt completely safe.

Her mother opened the door, the winter wind whipping around them like daggers. But at the stricken look on her mother's face she ceased to feel anything except the empty numbness in the place her heart used to be. She was pierced with panic; she didn't want to look at the glass vase she clenched tightly with her fingers. And yet, she knew without looking what she would see.
The flowers were all dead.
Tears streamed rivers down her cheeks. A black heaviness settled on her chest.
She couldn't breath as she struggled from her mother's grasp and ran to the woods where she fell prostrate and wept, wailing her grief in screams and ragged sobs, her fingers digging into the dirt and brown leaves cradling her limp body until she could cry no more tears.

When I awoke my cheeks were wet and the heaviness in my chest were slow to subside.
It felt so completely real.

25 Random Things

2009-01-29T22:12:00.001-08:00

RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you. If you've already done it, then ignore this, obviously.

(To do this, go to "notes" under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

1. I feel secretly cool when I am able to talk in airline jargon and someone with me doesn't get it. Wow, I can't believe I actually admitted that.

2. I read my favorite book, Secret Sacrament, once a year.

3. When I'm at a red light I like to watch car blinkers slowly come into sync with one another and then will them to go out of sync again.

4. On the plane I often speak in a British accent and when people ask me where I'm from, I make up a story about moving to America from London when I was 14 and that my parents owned a watch shop and that's how we made our fortune, etc...and when they say "Really?" I revert to an incredibly hick accent and say, "No, I'm from GA."

5. I always buy cute heels but then I never wear them again because they hurt my feet.

6. I'm a thesaurus whore - I HATE using the same word twice within a short amount of time.

7. Sometimes I get lost on purpose so I can find a new way home. And then I feel really cool when I say, "OH!! THIS is where that road comes out!"

8. When I feel down or sad I love watching heart-wrenching movies so I can cry really hard and then I always feel better.

9. "That's what she said" jokes always make me laugh. Always.

10. I try really hard not to step on sidewalk cracks.

11. I HATE when people throw a piece of trash into a brand new trash bag. Don't ask me why.

12. When I write anything that is going to be posted as a blog I MUST write it out on a piece of paper first, preferrably in a bound notebook, and then after my revisions have been made so that it is almost illegible, I type it out on the computer.

13. The only reason I want children is so I can name them cool names. Which, I understand that this is bad reason, so therefore, I'm not having any children.

14. When I feel like I'm getting a stomach virus I constantly tell myself, "You're not going to throw up, you're not going to throw up." And then it becomes a game to see if I can actually refrain from throwing up, lol.

15. Once I ran away to the pond behind my house and prayed that I would get bitten by a water moccasin so my mom would feel bad about getting mad at me.

16. Sometimes I can't watch the Travel Channel b/c I get a lump in my throat from the ache I have to visit those places.

17. I actually REALLY REALLY like Britney Spears' Womanizer music video.

18. I used to rub the tops of my mom's fingernails when I was feeling scared as a kid and it always helped calm me down.

19. I feel empowered when I ask a man out.

20. My cat is a freak and hasn't grown physically past kitten stage - she is a year old.

21. I wish I had been born in 1985 b/c then my birthday would be in the middle of the year, in the middle of the month, in the middle of the decade - 6/15/85

22. I have over 1000 songs on my ipod but I can never find anything to listen to.

23. I love the fact that my dreams are so vivid and real. I feel like I have a magical power.

24. If past lives were real then I surely was an Indian princess at one time (India Indian, lol).

25. I always make a wish when I blow away the puff of a dandelion.

Lifetime supply of Red Hots, anyone?

2009-01-29T22:10:00.000-08:00

*DISCLAIMER*
Brianna told this story on her page in the way SHE recalls it...although my story is quite different, this is what I recall from that day.
And as is evident throughout the story, we may as well just go ahead and say that MY version is the RIGHT version. =)

So, I admit, I have a bit of a bossy streak. It was never more evident than when I was a child and endeavored to rule with an iron hand in our worlds of make believe, ones where I was often worshipped by every man in the land (only the handsome ones, of course) and magic hung in the air.
Growing up in a house surrounded by woods was definitely the envy of all the kids in school. Rather, it would have been if we actually WENT to school. We were homeschooled, although in my kid mind that meant, "get all your schoolwork done by lunch so you can PLAY!" My notebooks were always filled with new ideas I was determined to make my sister play with me, even if that meant I had to tie her up and duct tape her mouth shut so I could make her say what I wanted. My mom was sure I would give her a complex, but I just saw it as valuable lessons in listening and obeying.

One particular sweltering afternoon in August when I was around the ripe old age of ten, I ran ecstatically to meet our cousin, Brianna, at the edge of the woods separating my grandparents' house from my own . As often belied her visits, we had already planned exactly what we were going to pretend in the playhouse that day. Can I just say thanks to my Daddy for building that AWESOME playhouse. I always swore that even when I grew so tall I would have to bend down to fit through the door I would never stop playing in it. Ah, the ambitions of a kid.
As Bree and I gathered papers and pens to play the pre-appointed "schoolhouse," Matti sat and waited patiently for us to start. As was often her outfit of choice, Matti had donned her "cowboy" clothes, her shirttails tucked into her chaps, the little leather thingie that I still don't know the name or function of tightened around the collar of her pristinely buttoned shirt. Her white hat was half-cocked on her head as she absent-mindedly clicked her boots against the wooden floor of the playhouse.
When Matti and I were kids we were obsessed with candy. Well, actually, I still am. Anyway, we specifically had a Red Hots fix for a few months and participated in many a contest against each other, seeing who could hold the most Red Hots in her mouth at once, our eyes watering and our noses streaming as the cinnamon fumes infiltrated our sinuses.
Damn, we were dumb sometimes.
This day Matti was clenching her own bag of Red Hots, claiming she had bought them at the Dollar Store with HER dollar and she refused to share. That may very well be the reason for the following incident.

"Matti, you're the boy. Your name is Tommy," I instructed. She willingly complied as she was the most tomboyish of the three of us girls. Actually, she ALWAYS played the boy. Hmm...maybe I DID give her a complex.
Brianna was the play the schoolteacher and I was to be the prettiest girl in class, of course. And what was my part in the scenario? I was trying to get the attention of "Tommy" so I could have a boyfriend and look cool. Not much has changed. Imagine that.
We ad libbed conversations uneventfully for a while until I decided we were being too boring and needed some "dramatic intervention." Again, imagine that.
"I know!" I gasped. "I'm writing a love note to Tommy (ever the agressor, I was) and you catch him with it! I'm your favorite student so you won't get mad at me, but you have to pretend to slap Matti as punishment."

Now here I must pause and defend myself. In the years that followed it was never decided whether or not I said PRETEND to slap her or if Brianna lost all hearing and logical common sense for three point two seconds. I maintain my innocence that Bree had damaged her hearing with her "rub her nose flip her hand through her bangs" technique that she was fond of employing as a child. Thank goodness she grew out of that. At least, I think she did.

SLAP. Brianna's hand became a blur as it made sharp contact with "Tommy's" cheek.
I stood there in stunned silence as the Red Hots slipped from Matti's fingers in slow motion, the cinnamon candies skittering across the floor (which we later picked up and ate). Tears welled in her eyes and I squealed breathlessly "BRIANNA! You weren't supposed to ACTUALLY slap her!!" If I had known any cuss words back then I'm sure I would have used them.
All I could think of was that fact that ALL of our parents and aunts and uncles sat mere yards away on the driveway enjoying lemonade and the cool shade as they talked about how perfect and well behaved all their children were.
"Matti WAIT!" I yell-whispered as she bolted out the back door of the playhouse. She ran to the woods holding her hand to her cheek, crying loudly.
Always a fast thinker (well, when I was trying to save my butt anyway) I quickly hatched a plan.
"Bree, you go and try to talk to Matti, apologize, tell her we will play whatever she wants to play for the rest of the day and I will buy her a life supply of Red Hots if she just promises that she WON'T TELL!"
"What are you going to do?" Bree asked.

Well, my plan worked in my head. I had watched countless movies where the kid inevitably breaks his mom's favorite vase but it always seemed that if he whistled non-chalantly while strolling by with his hands clasped behind his back she suspected nothing until he could flee the scene and thereby avoid punishment.
Perfect, right?
Wrong.
I'm pretty sure it wasn't long after this incident that I learned my mother has an almost MAGICAL ability to sense when something is fishy. I took two steps onto the driveway, whistling the theme song to Barney (which, I was CLEARLY too old to have been watching that show) and casting furtive glances into the woods behind me to see if Brianna had succeeded in bribing Matti. I wished I could have been both places at once. No one knew how to land a deal like I did.
"Meredith, what's going on?" The tone of my mother's voice caused my head to whip around, my lips floundering to form a carefree yet believeable reply, while my brain went haywire - how does she KNOW?!?!
In the same moment, Matti screamed and my mother locked gazes with me, cocking her left eyebrow in a way that always made my knees buckle and my heart beat faster.
*GULP*
"Umm, nothing?"
Right then Matti burst out of the woods, tears on her cheeks, Brianna close on her heels, pleading, promising something about buying her a pony and a barn and mucking out the stalls for life if only Matti wouldn't tell!
We kids stopped short as all the adults stood up, their lemonade left to the flies as they turned steely glances on us, determined to get to the bottom of the situation.

I begged innocence, pleading for mercy, insisting Brianna was just too stupid to know what I said!
According to Matti, she snuck and watched Brianna's mother use a honeysuckle switch to swat the backs of Bree's legs. Apparently Brianna ran in a circle as her mom tried to catch her.
In the end, I only got one stinging smack of the leather belt across my backside. I think my mom just thought it was funny. I remember seeing her lips twitch in contained laughter as she left the room where I sat pretending to cry after my punishment.
Oh, I milked it, just in case she changed her mind. I don't even think it really hurt. It was more the anticipation of it that so frightened me.

If my memory serves me well that was one of my MANY beatings I survived that summer. Ah well, even if I never learned my lesson, it definitely makes for good entertainment

A Priest, My Cousin, and a Times Square New Year

2009-01-08T12:21:00.000-08:00

"...Three, two, one, Happy New Year!" My voice rang out with the rest of the New Year's revelers as I sat in my living room nine years ago, a bushy-eyebrowed thirteen year old who dreamed of joining the crowd in Times Square. My constant companion at the time - my journal - lay beside me as I wrote in my New Year's resolution for the Millennium; I was going to get those "2000" glasses by the year 2009.

Fast forward to New Year's Eve, 2008. I had planned on this trip for a month now and nothing except death itself was going to thwart me in my endeavors. I glanced out of the plane window for the fortieth time in an hour; still no lights were visible through the fog. It was almost six pm, just six hours till the famous ball drop in NYC and here I was, stuck in the sky above the city, fearing a diversion due to weather. Imagine that.
"Flight attendants, landing check." Upon hearing the captain's command that we had been cleared for landing, I did a Napoleon Dynamite-esque "Yes!" and proceeded to take my seat for the remainder of the bumpy descent. Finally, the wheels touched the runway and I could breathe my relief.
"Buh-bye, thank you, buh-bye." I was almost certain the deplaning passengers could hear the underlying, "GET OFF PEOPLE! I'VE GOT A BALL TO CATCH!" in my salutation.

An hour later and I was sitting on the N train headed to Fifth Avenue and Central Park. Abdulla, my seat mate, became my new Facebook friend as we studied the dense map of train lines and city streets, two non-natives on our way to our first NY New Year. I bade him farewell at my stop and waited to meet up with my funny friends from high school, The Catholic Priest In Training and My-Yet-To-Be-Discovered-How-We-Are-Related fifth cousin. The night wind shot needles straight through me. There was a small nook of sheltering concrete at the edge of the subway station, so I squeezed myself tightly into it, praying that my friends would show their frozen mugs soon. Finally, I spotted them, sarcastic hellos exchanged in jest, their warm hugs belying their true feelings.

Ben, the cousin, was appointed the official tour guide, eliciting a giggle from me and I'm sure a mental guffaw from the Priest as he pulled out his $16.95 guide book to NY. I was too cold to be opinionated about where we partook of our dinner so I blindly followed Ben to the F train as Austin delicately stated, "Let's just get out of the cold...I can't feel mine anymore."
Off we paraded to SoHo, the train car surprisingly far less empty than I would have expected on New Year's Eve. I leaned back into the lull of the rocking car, the clicking metal of the wheels on the tracks chanting a spell of imagined words. Apparently Cuzzin Benny had decided on Brazilian food, because he led the way to a quaint spot situated on a street corner, the robin's egg blue paint framing the windows marred with age. We squeezed into one of the ten tightly packed tables in the restaurant, my eyes flitting flirtatiously to the cute Hispanic waiter in the corner.
"Hmph," I murmured when he failed to make eyes back at me. Well, he was too skinny anyway. As a matter of fact, I couldn't help laughing as the waiters shimmied between the narrowly stuffed tables. Being a skeleton must be a prerequisite to work there.
We settled in to enjoy our meal, the boys laughing at my expression as I sipped their offered Cabernet Sauvignon. Red wine always leaves my throat feeling like I just drank a bottle of Vick's Throat Spray. When I recovered enough from my internal third degree burns to enjoy my food, I dug into my delicious spinach and goat cheese salad. Austin began to ramble about his new obsession with cheese and how he thanked the French for their dedication to bringing the world the fine delicacies of exotic tastes and smells. He also said he would definitely give up celibacy for a French Natalie Portman who served him cheeses in bed. At least, I think that's what he said. That sip of red wine could have gotten to me more than I thought.
I stole a bite of Ben's dish, declaring it tasted like Seattle's Pike Place Fish Market in my mouth. Ben, who, of course, wins smartass of the century, proceeded to inform me that that was impossible because his entree is, indeed, shrimp and chicken.
"Um, yeah, fish," I quipped.
"Crustacean, Meredith. Crustacean."
I glanced at my Priest for a little help, but in typical Austin fashion, he raised his hands in an attempt to avoid taking sides.
When the boys had downed their third glass of wine each and the Priest's conversation began to meander into prostate territory rather than the prostrate one, we decided it was time to return to the Arctic to clear our heads.

No sooner were we outside than I needed something hot for my insides. We headed two blocks over to Prince Street, whooshing into Fanelli's Cafe, joining the eclectic group of patrons already sipping warm liquors. We sat at tables adorned with red-checkered table cloths, the heavy wooden decor adding a nice coziness. Gene Kelly musical excerpts played on the tv above our heads as the boys oogled, er, I mean ordered from, the waitress. I cocked my ear to eavesdrop as the man at the next table over declared he could discover the native New Yorkers in the bar within five minutes of conversation. I almost felt sorry for the man, so oblivious to the glazed eyes of his trapped audience. Suddenly the chill from the front door whipped around my ankles as I glanced up to see the most eccentric bar-goer of all. His fedora sat cocked on his salt and pepper hair, a crisp, ebony bowtie adoring his neck. He took off his coat with a flourish to reveal a smart and shiny tux, complete with coattails. He deftly flipped his coat over one arm, silently commanding the attention of everyone in the room as he stood in the doorway. My imagination began running wild as I pretended that he was from another time and place, that perhaps he was even the founder of the cafe as Fanelli's was almost one hundred years old. I grinned to myself as I sipped my hot chocolate.

An hour to midnight and we decided to make our way back to Central Park, the closest we were going to get as Times Square had been filled by the gluttons for punishment hours earlier. No thanks, I'd rather keep my appendages than lose them to frostbite by spending hours in a subzero climate.
As I ascended the stairs from the subway at our stop, I caught sight of colored flashing lights. I gasped in glee - the glasses!! I recalled my resolution of nine years and squealed as I ushered the boys to the street vendor who offered me a sweet deal.
"Five dollar for you." Ha! How many times have I heard that line in NYC?
I picked out red ones, unable to wipe the silly grin off my face. I put them on, my face transforming into a blinking ad for 2009. A final piece of my spirit fell into its rightful place as my inner thirteen year old squealed with sheer delight. I wore them proudly until I discovered that I would smash my face AND the glasses due to the my lack of depth perception through the dark lenses. I decided to save them for the ball drop.

11:30 pm.
The streets were getting more and more crowded as we crossed Fifth and Sixth Avenues, where the police directed us to Central Park.
"Ok, hold on," the cousin commanded. I grabbed his hand as he plunged into the sea of people, more concerned about dropping my glasses until I realized I had to make sure the Priest didn't get lost in the Mass.
Finally, we made it as close to the big screen as possible, the Jonas Brothers warming the night with their lip-synched vocals. I was disappointed that - yet again - I would receive no kiss at the New Year count down. Of course, I could always be Kissing Cousins with Ben. After all, we did have a Priest at our disposal. On second consideration I dismissed the idea. My thoughts drifted to the Scotsman I'd met early that morning in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, his swoon-worthy accent still ringing in my ears. I decided my best bet would be a virtual kiss with the Scottie, so I readied my phone as I waited for the ball to drop.
I reveled in the relief from the biting wind, warmth emanating from the surrounding bodies. I laughed at the drunken Frenchies in front of us as they downed Vodka disguised in Evian water bottles and puffed on cigarettes in the most French-like fashion. I listened to their lilting voices, quite taken with the beautiful Gaspard Ulliel look-alike in their midst. I'm sure he was gay.
We snapped pictures and stood close together as the countdown began.

"...Three, two, one, Happy New Year!!!!" An unshed tear gleamed in my eye at the surreal feeling of it all, my voice one with the crowd, my feet on New York City concrete as I sported my ridiculous glasses, two of my best friends in the world on either side of me. One of the Frenchies planted a wet kiss on my cheek and I laughed as I escaped to hug Ben and Austin. My phone buzzed and warmth flitted through my middle when Scottie sent me a "soft and passionate" New Year's kiss. Hey, even if it WAS virtual it was definitely a step up from the last twenty-one years!
We were jostled and heaved through the crowd as they dispersed, death daggers shot at us from the couple proceeding us as Ben exclaimed, "Hilary Clinton is the MAN!" Yeeeah. Wrong part of the country to be saying that.

We all munched on burgers and downed a milkshake at a local joint before heading back to our respective hotels. My bladder had taken enough abuse and threatened to commit murder of the nearest unfortunate soul if I didn't give it relief soon. I set out on the adventure of finding the bathrooms in that place.
"Down there," the cook said gruffly. I hestitantly peered into the dimly lit stairwell, loud music drifting from its cavernous depths.
"I've got a gun!" my bladder reminded me. I ventured through the dark hallway until, at last, I saw the restrooms. Thank goodness they weren't unisex. However, they WERE still big enough for two.
I learned that the hard way when I opened the unlocked door and happened upon a man and woman in the girl's bathroom. They hastily explained their mussed hair and rumpled clothing, muttering a lame excuse, something about discussing the weather, I think. Look, jist bekuz i'm frum the south, it dont mak me stoopid.
It actually hurt me to write that.

I bid the boys goodnight and headed uptown to Queens. I got off at the last stop; after waiting for forty minutes in the searing wind, fighting tears and harshly scolding myself for being weak, I realized I'd missed the last city bus. I had no choice but to take a cab to my hotel, rolling my eyes at the cabbie's "deal"of fifteen bucks for a mere three miles.
I had only three hours until I faced another grueling day of complaining passengers and all day on a metal tube, but it was worth it.

My 2009 New Year celebration topped every single one in my book

Green Elixir

2008-12-23T10:22:00.001-08:00

The dark restaurant swirls with colored lights, rainbows sliding by, striped rain across his face. Lime brightness catches his eyes, their jade milkiness lit by a fire within. Magic's tendrils pull at the air, and when his fingers brush hers she pretends not to notice, only half-heartedly rebuking her gaze as it tries to glance sidelong at him.
He is endearingly rumpled tonight, having pulled a now-discarded dress shirt over his hunter-green T in an attempt to fit in with the more formal dinner party. Another emerald flash and she notices he is leaning closer, offering her his bottled green elixir. She acquiesces to the color that has now become her poison, laughingly drinking to her demise.
His fingers grasp hers and she follows him to the dance floor, Latin music beating through the concrete and into her bones as she lazily sways to the melody, losing herself. Her skin is flushed with more than the heat from the bodies packed around them and she suddenly breaks free of the cocoa arms loosely circling her waist. She breathes deep, gathering her thoughts. This isn't her, and yet, it feels right, as if it should be, as if it is. She closes her eyes against the hot pulse pounding in her throat and when she opens them again he is in front of her, waiting to make her his prisoner.
She breathlessly accepts.

They are in his car and he fiddles with the radio, almost nervously, she thinks, and this calms her.
It feels so taboo, he and she, soft vanilla cream and dark, heavy, delicious mocha. She feels almost smothered by the palpable chemistry in the tiny cabin of the vehicle; instinct tells her to escape. Danger edges the breeze sighing through the windows and like prey she senses his predatory vibe.
She must leave. She must resist. Her hand is on the door handle but his hand is on her neck, forcing her eyes to his...and then she is under his spell, captive Duchess to the rebel Lord and God help her, she relishes the fire on her skin.
They lean in...

"Wait," he whispers. He holds her there, the summer air like a symphony of electric sparks, heat and colors and the cold shiver of impending regret. Heat melts ice, though, as his lips find hers. He is passionate and demanding, his full mouth like a drug. He knows what she wants without knowing her at all and in the midst of her scattered thoughts she marvels at the irony.
But he is dark earth and she the white moon, and in reality she knows they exist in two opposite worlds, two different planes.
She feels a prick of sadness, but for what she doesn't know. Scaling Mount Everest seems less formidable than a pursuit of happiness with this green-eyed Wizard. She sighs her goodbye, ignoring the slight protest of her heart.
But magic left its mark.

She still tingles at the memory.

The Twilight Conundrum

2008-12-19T22:16:00.000-08:00

Don't get me wrong. I'd love for Edward Cullen to "Bite Me." To clarify, this is the book Edward, not Rob Vomit-son. However, I have some qualms with this new film adaptation...

That body, those teeth, that face, so hideously wrong. Her inflection-less drone is like nails on a chalkboard, her eyes dead rather than fierce with consuming love for Edward. The palpable chemistry which should send tremors of envy and desire through the veins of onlookers instead falls laboriously flat.
Rosalie definitely just ended a contract with Baywatch, Jake needs to visit Cinderella Wigs for a more believable 'do, and Jasper? Well, he would definitely be more into Alice if she were a man.
Need I mention that ALL of them should be signed up for acting classes?
As was befitting my prediction, this movie has evoked the fandom of thousands of screaming tweens, most of whom have never read "See Spot Run", much less the 400 page dream-turned-Vamp-series novel. "This will provoke teens to read more," I've heard it said. And ok, so perhaps after they watch Hollywood's raping of the story they go out and buy all four books, devouring them in week - if they never read a book in their lives again, to what avail was it all?
Personally, I am getting sick of the obsession. At this point it's all I can do to avoid seeing Vomitson's face plastered EVERYWHERE, on every magazing, in every airport bookstore, trailers and tv spots - even my damn Facebook is littered with ads sporting his failed attempt at "brooding." At first glance I often confuse it for a constipation medication advert.
Thanks to Youtube I met another malady in this monster of a movie - ha, alliteration and puns make writing so much fun. I wanted to weep at Bella's Lullaby. And NOT in awe.
Ok, so Yiruma's "River Flows In You" isn't exactly an original composition made for Twilight; however, it truly sounds that way. It speaks without words - the music has a voice all its own. The feelings evoked in the melody are quite magnificent and almost indescribable. Hmm, let's see, did they try to use such a similarly moving melody in the movie? NO. Ha, Bella's Lullaby sounds like a bad circus soundtrack, high tinkling keys and harsh undertones, like a musical interpretation of the scowl Edward reserves for Jacob. It makes Bella's near-narcoleptic reaction to it a joke.
I have seen Forks with my own eyes, stayed at the Forks motel, posed in front of the highschool. I've eaten in the two restaurants in town and made friends with a member of the Quileute tribe, the "Leader of the Pack" as she described herself. I gasped at the view as I came around the bend in La Push, and collected sand from First Beach. The white birch is exactly as Meyers described it. I have scars from the thorns that we pushed through in our search for the famous meadow; I'm still thanking God we didn't get irrevocably lost in the thick wood.
No, I haven't seen the movie. Honestly, I don't care if I ever do. I'm boycotting it, in fact. As my friend Ashton wisely advised, "It's a rental."
Still, no one can accuse me of not being a true fan. I'm just OVER IT.

Congrats, Hollywood. Without garlic, crosses, or Holy Water, you have successfully slain this Vampire Saga.

Flicker

2008-12-19T22:15:00.000-08:00

She knew.
She has always known.
She has tried to fight the reality of her doomed future since her fifteenth birthday when, like a flash, it all became clear.

She forgot, though, when his eyes met hers that day on the train from London to Paris. Laughter twinkled at her from across the aisle as she peered at him over the top of her novel. She wanted to dismiss the thought that his sapphire gaze was meant for her, but he never stopped staring. Funny, she'd sworn off men, especially those men who smiled at her this way, trying to communicate with no words. She'd declared them all fops, incapable of sending one intelligent thought into her head.
She was good at reading minds.
She thought about telling him off, furrowing her brow, or shooting him daggers with her eyes in an attempt to discourage his probing glance.
But she didn't want to.
Something had set the butterflies in her stomach free from the cage where she held them captive all these years. She dropped her gaze to the printed page for the fourth time, desperate to speak to him, fearing for her heart if she did.
And then, for one moment, a fur-coated woman stepped between their gazes; she felt a tremor of panic in her chest at the loss. As his visage disappeared from view, she vowed from that moment to never lose sight of him again. And so she was decided.
She belonged to him.

A sidewalk cafe on the Rue de Jean-Marie served as their first date. With any other man sitting across from her at the quaint table for two she might have winced at the cliche of it all, but with him she could believe they were the first star-crossed lovers in Paris.
He was so original.
He asked what her favorite drink was and ordered it himself, impressing her with his adventurous spirit. The sun shone off his Hershey curls, and when he threw back his head to laugh at her off-hand quip, her heart did a double take.
Their conversation might have been scripted, so seamlessly did it flow, their mingled laughter sprinkled throughout, spicy chemistry weaving its way around them to create a sumptuous recipe.
Daylight drifted away as they spent the summer evening by the Seine, and when at last the great disc slipped past the horizon, his divine mouth found hers with a sigh. It was a perfect fit, lips clinging together, their bodies hungry for more.
At the door to her hotel he laced his exquisite fingers through hers, his free hand under her chin as he directed her green eyes to his.
"Love is the thing, you know."
She laughed a tear into the warm palm cupping her cheek. Her happiness was uncontainable. They had finally found each other.
And now...

She turns from the black-curtained window, whispering to the moon to give her strength. Her fingers trail the mahogany edge of the wooden bed, its darkness like silk sorrow beneath her skin; she peers down, steeling herself against the onslaught of daggers which wait to shred her heart yet again.
His expressive face lies still, the lips which once laughed delight and ravished her under midnight's moon are frozen in death. She only touched a dead body once, years ago, at her great grandmother's funeral. She shudders at the memory. She knows how cold he will feel under her fingers, like glassy marble, souless and full of ice. No, she will cling to the memory of his warm embrace, the heat of wild nights, the fire of life which radiated from his azure eyes.
The candle-light catches the band encircling the ring finger of his left hand. He was hers for an entire year. It wasn't nearly enough.
And yet, she had always known.

She feels a warm hand on her shoulder.
"Oh, Nicole," she whispers to her best friend as the tears finally spill. She silently sobs into Nicole's embrace, the sorrow buckling her knees. She sinks onto the black leather couch, anger searing through her at the monstrous color. She wipes her eyes.
"I never had a right to love him so hard. No one is allowed to be that happy. The universe saw an imbalance. And the universe had its way."
Her voice is flat, as dead as the body in that cold coffin.
"And I knew!" she cries, louder. Her voices fades again to a whisper. "This was my biggest fear realized. To wait for the One. To find the One. To - lose - the One in the space of a heartbeat. I tried, I truly tried to resist the love that overcame me like a tidal wave when I caught his glance."
She stops, staring at the hardwood floor.
"But I couldn't help it."

Her friend speaks.
"Perhaps you are right, Ali. Perhaps there are always limits to our blessings. But maybe, just maybe, God was giving you a rare gift that only a few humans are privileged to receive. What if this man was a glimpse of your heaven? Hold that thought captive like fireflies on summer nights, let it glow within you and warm the frozen confines of your soul."

She blinks back impending tears as Nicole's words sink in. She knows her friend speaks truth. And she knows that he would agree with her friend. She rests her head on Nicole's lime-green shoulder.
"Thanks for not wearing black."
Nicole chuckles sadly.
"Are you kidding me? You'd lecture me and his ghost would surely find a way to haunt me. Besides, black was never suited to either of you. I've a feeling you've both got a rainbow of an aura."

Ali smiles as she feels the tiniest of flames begin to flicker in her soul.

Luck O'the Irish

2008-12-19T22:14:00.001-08:00

Dork: according to the Webster-Miriam Dictionary, it means, in part, one who is a social misfit, or indulging in ridiculous antics.
If this be so, I am most certainly a dork.
Case in point – I attended a concert this weekend for Celtic Thunder, a collection of five gorgeous Irish men who can sing to melt the hardest of hearts. Josh Groban still is and forever will remain my number one Homeboy, but let it be said these men with incredibly sexy brogues run a close second.
Ashley and I were able to snag two of the only ten tickets left at the box office two hours before the show. We had a bit of time to kill, so - as always - we had to explore, pretending we had the guts to break through security, even if we didn’t actually do it. We found the forbidden backstage entrance and posted ourselves as inconspicuously as possible, casting furtive glances at the lone security guard. Could we take him down? I’d certainly love to spend an hour alone with Keith Harkin on his incredible tour bus. I’m sure I could eliminate any “performance anxiety” the beautiful lad might have had. >:-)
Suddenly we heard a commotion behind us and turned to see a flock of middle-aged women walking towards us, laden with gifts and coffee, Celtic Thunder paraphernalia galore adorning their clothes. Now, let me clarify for you non-dorks out there who wouldn’t know Celtic Thunder from Celtic Dragons. These men are barely men – in fact, the youngest is just fourteen! My glorious Keith has – thank goodness – crossed the legality barrier at nineteen, and Paul and Ryan, the “good” and “bad” boys of the group have recently traversed the thirty threshold. The only member who qualified in age for these homely groupies was George, coming in at the ripe old age of mid-forties. However, was his bald head the one plastered on their chests, hats and scarves? Nope, it was, sadly, the young pups…ones young enough to be their children.
I tried to be friendly and strike up a conversation but was quickly put off by her terse replies. I decided to glean what info on potential sightings of my future husband I could by eavesdropping, disguising my nosiness by “talking” to Ashley. A man nearby asked us if it was our first time to see the group in concert. I proceeded to tell him yes, and that we had first seen Celtic Thunder on a PBS Special one Saturday night as we sat home alone and wished we had hot dates – by the way, that last part I only said in my head. *Keith can’t know how desperate I am.* I was rudely interrupted by the Mother-Of-Celtic-Thunder’s-Children wannabe who said she’d seen them last month in Indiana, and three weeks ago in Virginia, and the week after that in New York. Last week brought her to South Carolina, and finally, she was stalking – er, I mean supporting – them in Atlanta. Ashley and I widened our eyes in disbelief at the same moment, completely dumbfounded and slightly disturbed at this woman’s behavior.
“I bring them a gift every time,” her voice floated over to me. I couldn’t hold it in any longer…I had to walk away as suppressed laughter came sputtering from my lips at this poor woman’s creepy obsession.
I mean. SERIOUSLY.
We made our way inside and as we waited for the doors to open, I spotted an older man sporting a skunk-striped mullet, his Iron Man t-shirt visible beneath his faded denim jacket. Hey dude, this is CELTIC Con - Comic Con was last week. Sorry.
Finally, we took our seats to wait out the next few minutes before show time. I had left my baby – my beautiful Nikon D80 camera – in the car, afraid of its confiscation and a potential bereavement period for me. I realized, though, that there were no bag checks here at the Civic Center, much unlike the near strip-searches performed at the Fox Theatre down the road. Pictures during the show were a possibility! Could I go out of the theatre once I’d already come in? And then I got an idea. Ashley held down the fort while I searched for the cutest male usher I could find. Ah, there he was, by the front doors, tall, dark, and handsome. I hurried up to him, a worried expression gracing my visage.
“Please, sir? Are we allowed out once we’ve come in? I’ve um…I left something that I really, really need in the car.”
“Oh, uh, you need it?”
I nodded profusely. I think he got my drift. Nothing like alluding to female problems to get a guy off your back – pun intended.
“Just come find me at this door when you come back.”
I assured him I would. Getting to the car, I buried the camera deep in my bag, just in case someone decided to amend the rules when I got back. I found my friend and he let me in. Just to ensure the ruse was infallible, I asked almost frantically, “Is there a bathroom close by?” As he pointed the way, I smiled to myself as I darted from his view and back into the theatre to take my seat.
Safe!

We soaked up the next hour an a half with vigor, screaming at the top of our lungs as we begged for an encore. They placated us with a gleeful indulgence of kilts - when Paul and Ryan showed off their hairy gams and shook those tight tushes, well, it's a wonder Ashley didn't have to scrape me of the floor of the building.
After the concert was - sadly - at an end, we hurried to the back stage entrance once again, determined to get an autograph or at least a decent picture. My endeavors to capture snapshots inside the building had been a disappointment due to a lack of good lighting.
The security guard informed us, though, that he had just been told there would be no autographs or pictures tonight - the group had to get a move on to the next city.

Although we didn't get an upclose encounter, the concert was well worth the money spent...even if we DID feel like we attended the concert with nursing home tenants. Lol

Candid Glory

2008-09-21T20:16:00.000-07:00

Diamond moonlight highlights the contours of his face; the luminescent glow touches his sculpted cheek bones, the reflection flung into his chartreuse-green eyes. The edges of his sensual mouth turn down, thoughts playing across his features, his emotions so alive they almost burn in the air.
His averts his intense stare to the navy ceiling of stars above.
At last, she is free to turn a shameless gaze upon his countenance, basking in his quiet beauty.
The raven blackness of his hair glistens iridescent in the moonlight; her eyes widen in wonder as colors leap out at her, magical hues of purple and blue-green. She notices faint lines reminiscent of a difficult life marking his smooth forehead, the pure alabaster gleam of his skin untainted by blemishes. In worshipful admiration she breathes silently, catching sight of his eyes, certainly his crowning glory. The pearl of the midnight moon appears in the black sea of his pupil, and stormy green waves wrap round in perfect symmetry. Honey-swept lashes lie against his skin, their tips curled to a natural perfection any woman would surely envy.
The sloping angle of his long nose gives him a dignified air, coming to a point above his impeccable mouth. Oh, his mouth. She casts a longing glance upon his lips, sensual and voluptuous, tinted flawless pink as if by an artist's brush. Firecrackers sparkle through her veins at vivid memories unconsciously summoned.

And then she knows.
INSPIRATION.
With a desire she almost cannot contain she aches to capture his essence, forever holding his beauty as a tangible photograph of memory. This is deserving of her creative soul, this man and this fleeting second in time and she stifles a cry of glee in her throat, afraid to speak for surely she shall shatter the dream of the moment.

It shall never be more than here and now and she realizes that...and yet, she is infinitely happy.
She will find someone to make her soul live.

Daybreak

2008-09-18T15:21:00.001-07:00

*Note* To those interested in knowing if this blog is based on real life - NO! One can only dream! Lol...no, actually, I wrote this while in training for my newest job during my leave from AirTran. I was BORED out of my mind while sitting in front of a computer for eight hours straight, so our frenzied, passionate lovers were my only solace.
You can't really blame me. ;-)

Lazy fingers on sun-washed skin, the rays of January day-star warm the white room, wrapping the newlyweds in saffron. Crystal prisms dance on the wall, their diamond glow cast off the silver ring adorning her left hand as she marvels at the strange and thrilling weight of it. Bright eyes blink open; a sheepish grin spreads across features in lieu of last night's memory. She recalls the blaze of flames which burn but do not scar as they seared through her veins during the bliss of midnight's escapade.
A small sigh escapes her lips, our maiden unaware that her knight lies listening to her soft breath as he revels in the silky touch of her fingertips on his golden-bathed back. Ocean wave beats on white sands, the hum of serenity floating through the window as the breeze makes love to feather-light curtains.
She inhales the salt-spray air, the aroma of his mingling scent arousing her body and reaching to the darkest edges of her soul. The beauty of recent hours shattered her world of disbelief that such paradise could exist outside of heaven.
A flash of cerulean and she catches his gaze as he casts a worshipful glance upon her delicate features; she ducks her head in self-conscious awareness, the desire to likewise regard him so unabashedly surprising her with its strength. Her chestnut lake of voluminous tresses entices his beautiful hands, their form so exquisite they might have been sculpted by Michaelangelo himself.
Puffs of vanilla clouds surround the lovers like a cocoon, the warmth of the blankets a perfect accompaniment to the cool morning wind sighing through the open window.
They speak with their eyes, azure sky and clover sea meet on a perfect horizon, clear and pristine, free of dark clouds which cast shadows of doubt.
Strawberry lips on creamy neck elicit an involuntary gasp. Lithe as a tiger he sweeps her light frame beneath the delicious weight of his, sinking with her into the snowy jungle of pillows, as together they acquiesce into the quicksands of desire, reliving the fantasies of midnight at dawn.

Inspiration Negotiation

2008-09-12T10:36:00.001-07:00

I rarely take a photograph unless something inspires me. It must be something about the place, the moment or people I am with, or perhaps it’s a memory I feel with inherent passion must be marked forever as a snapshot, capturing the essence of the pervading emotion at that second, be it awe, happiness, sorrow, whimsy, or even anger.
I always took my camera on our trips together - my beautiful, expensive camera which boasts pristine shots with the ability to be life-size if I so choose. The thing I have lately come to realize, though, is that I never took any pictures of us together, or even him alone for that matter. One photo remains as evidence that he and I ever existed, but I have my friend and HER camera to thank for that, - not mine. The only picture I ever took was of the sunrise in Florida early one morning mere hours after our first kiss.
But sadly, even then, he didn’t inspire me.
He never did.
I see their pictures together and the snapshots of their memories and I am strangely thankful that I have no such images with him. Maybe deep down I never found him a deserving subject for my magnificent lens to behold. Perhaps subconsciously I knew it was a short-lived adventure, and not one I would relish as I reminisced.
As always, the heart and soul speak in ways we sometimes don’t recognize until it’s far too late.
His presence never inspired my pen, either; ironically it was his absence which provoked my muse and brought forth lavish words on his behalf. While I have written numerous accounts based on certain notorious character, I never wrote anything for him as a way of expressing the depth of my feelings. He accidentally happened upon the one entry I wrote while we were together; much to my chagrin he neither comprehended nor appreciated it, choosing instead to mock my earnest admission of happiness.
I realize now that subconsciously my art is an intimate part of my soul and if a man does not arouse the artist in my spirit, then I shall know that he is nor ever will be the One for me.
I do not easily or quickly wish away a person or circumstance from my life - rather I chalk it up to experience and acknowledge that it creates who I become.
Still, I know with bone-deep certainty that if I was given the choice to return to April 19th, 2008 and do things differently, I wouldn’t consider it even for a millisecond.

I’d just ask for a Time Machine.

Ice

2008-08-24T10:46:00.000-07:00

The shiver which coated my spine will long remain in my memory, even after the ink fades and the edges of the paper begin to wrinkle and turn to dust.
I never expected such a look, so full of malice and ill will that my soul didn't at first register the unmistakable ice of hatred.
Strangely I find myself longing for the hot sort of hatred, the one filled with passion - for at least in that kind of anger there is a feeling behind it, a soul which still pervades the surrounding air.
Alas, in this tomb of slick coldness I feel nothing, no sliver of the soul to which I once felt so connected. It has frozen to death in the icy tundra, leaving no remnant of who I once knew.
The weight of the knowledge that no good deed goes unpunished crushes my spirit and pricks my heart as if with a dull pin, causing me to cry out with a beseeching plea...will someone put back his spirit and eradicate my heart of pain.
I never meant to hurt him so. It was not a plan of vengeance or an act of rage which motivated my actions. On the contrary, it was borne out of deep pity, a compassion which ached to curl lovingly around a lost soul and point the way out of the darkness and to the light.
Instead, the warm fingers of love and mercy were displaced, somehow morphed into icicles of misunderstanding and unbridled anger - those very daggers the ones he bore into me with his gaze that night.
There is no mistaking his feelings towards me now.. It has haunted me again and again, black eyes searing through the hazy window, a spiderweb of frost snaking across the distorted glass.
My life could resume, my spirit breathe once more if only he would say, "I do not hate you."
Something tells me not to hope. Thank goodness my coffin is comfortable.

"Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice."
- Robert Frost

A Heartfelt Plea

2008-08-12T18:56:00.000-07:00

Julian,

Go on, laugh if you want to. Yes, I’m writing you a letter, a means of communication at which I know you scoff. However, there have been some things heavy on my mind lately and I cannot toil onward without letting you know the concerns which incessantly plague me. This is not an attempt to lure you back, or rekindle any sort of relationship. I just thought you should know what’s on my mind.
The reason behind my choice to end my friendship completely with you has nothing to do with who you are or are not dating, although I know you think my coldness stems from pure jealousy. On the contrary, I have pity for her because if she knew what I have come to realize, she would do well to stop dating you.
I cannot trust you, Julian. Therein lies the epitome of our demise. You always asked me why I didn’t trust you, reiterating the question, “Why would I lie to you?” My question is why WOULDN’T you? Honestly, I ask that, without a hint of irony. You know for a fact all the yarns you spun, the tall tales you relayed as I listened wide-eyed, the rotten lies slipping over your tongue like silk.
It is quite disparaging, the voracity with which you lie. You are a liar, Julian. There is no other way to put it. You may think your little “stories” are funny, and you may pride yourself on your slick ability to mislead even the most unbelieving individual into falling for your lies, but the truth of the matter is that they are not witty, amusing, or a talent upon which to expound – they are a dangerous trade which should be avoided at all costs.
Haven’t you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf? I rue the day when you will have need of help and no one will come to your aid for fear of being made the fool once more. Lying your way through life will only hurt you in the end, inevitably leaving you alone, with no friends, nothing but your hazy memories, doubting your own mind, not even knowing whether to believe yourself.
I’m not sure why it finally clicked that I was making a HUGE mistake by allowing someone I cannot trust to remain in my life in such an intimate way. I guess it was the day you supposedly got “sick” and stood me up when we were to meet for lunch. The next Tuesday you came to my house, fooled around with me, and said, “If that doesn’t prove to you that I’ve not been with anyone else, I don’t know what will.” I KNEW in my heart you were sleeping with her, even then, and I knew somehow deep down that you were lying to my face. The realization struck me with such a crippling blow to know that I’d given you SO MUCH of me and received so little – if anything – of you in return. I couldn’t fathom how you could so blatantly lie to my face and then claim you still believed honesty was the best policy.
As hindsight is 20/20, it didn’t take long for all the red flags, all the gut screams I’d ignored throughout our relationship to come flooding back, leaving me to wallow in my incredible stupidity, to trust where I knew in my heart trust should never have been placed.
I don’t understand what causes someone to make up their entire life – perhaps you feel the truth isn’t “exciting” or “cool” enough. You have said countless times that you don’t care what people think of you, but we both know that is the exact opposite of reality. You care tremendously what people think. Well, here’s what I think.
You are WASTING your life, Julian. I’m tired of standing by and not saying anything for fear of offending you. I have nothing to lose as I did before. I see how smart you can be when you talk about mechanics and cars and such and I think, “Wow, if only he had the AMBITION to be more than he is, he would really make something of himself.” But no, you decide to be a FOOL and make stupid decisions to indulge in black habits which you know deep down are killing you, no matter how you try to justify your actions. I am angry with you for endangering the lives of innocent people every time you deign to be selfish and drive while under the influence. Have you no care for those who you may potentially scar with the tragedy of early death?
You said you cared about me, that you never wanted anything bad to chance upon my path, but even THAT is hard for me to believe now. I will never slander your name and say you ever did anything to make me feel uncomfortable – as far as sex goes – and you never forced me to do anything I wasn’t ready for. That alone proves to me that somewhere underneath your bad-ass-wannabe exterior, you have a good side. I think that perhaps you enjoy escaping the responsibilities of life too much, though, to let that good part of you take over and create a new man, even though you have said with your own mouth that you WANT to change.
You’re afraid of losing friends you think you have if you were to give up your life of addiction and temporary pleasure. You know what, Julian? They are NOT your friends. They only want you around because misery loves company, but if you were to ever want to change, they would cast you out because where there is darkness there cannot also be light.
A true friend tells you when you fuck up and that is precisely what I am doing. I KNOW that I care for you a thousand times more, that my heart bleeds in ways theirs never would when I think of the irrevocable harm you may one day incite upon yourself. Until you decide you’re a strong enough person to be DIFFERENT, and stay confident in that nonconformity, you will never prosper.
You disrespected me countless times, but most of all was when you would come into MY home and do your thing, not even caring that it tore me apart, even when you knew it did. The drug and alcohol usage I tried to ignore, trying to explain my reservations away, wanting to please you at the expense of my own soul’s happiness. I’m not blaming you for the choices I made, but I was deeply saddened that you made me HAVE to choose between losing you or losing myself.
What about our trips to the beach? Did you so loathe my company that you had to get wasted, trashed, or tipsy just to endure me? Or did you miss your marijuana high with such intensity that you had to be cajoled with another mind-altering drug? How do you think that made me feel? I will never understand how you could blame ME for our arguments when all you had to do was refrain from getting drunk for one damn day. It wasn’t that you couldn’t understand my point of view – it’s that you didn’t WANT to.
How DARE you get angry with me for being “smarter” than you. I’ll never forget that night you indulged in a drunken diatribe, telling me how STUPID I made you feel just by being who I am. That was one of the most hurtful conversations we ever had – I never, ever endeavored to wound your spirit the way you wounded mine that night. It was all because you were being an insecure asshole and decided to take it out on me, even though your unhappiness and anger was against your own heart.
I know it freaked you out that I am like your mother, too. I’m sure you subconsciously thought I would make you feel the way she did. It hurt me that you so railed against me becoming a “part of the family” as if I were a monster to be loathed and reviled. If nothing else it would have given me a new friend in your mom, with or without you.
I’m not asking for a response. I won’t say I’m sorry, or that I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings, or that I hope I wasn’t too harsh. Honestly, I WANT this letter to dig deep, to thrust a barbed thorn in your side that you cannot ignore. I am angry that I allowed myself to be lured into your web of deceit so effortlessly, giving into things I LOATHE to the bottom of my soul just because of a pretty face. I thought perhaps you were right, that I wasn’t “open-minded” enough, that I was missing out on some grand adventure of life. But the way I see it, it’s YOU who are missing out.
You admitted it yourself, saying, “Twenty-two was a great year – but I don’t remember much of it.” I pity you. For what is a life without a treasury of vivid memories? They are part of what shapes us into the people we shall one day be at the end of a long life.
I believe in people and I want to believe in you. I KNOW that you can become a better man and go to school and expound upon the talents and mind God has blessed you with. You can get your act together and grow up, you just have to buckle down and DO IT. I will be honest and say that I have tried to hate you so that this whole thing would be easier. But the thing is, I care too much about you and your well being too much to allow hot hatred to rule in your place in my heart.
I love you, Julian, I do, and that is why I am telling you all these things you need to hear with nothing to deaden the pain of the truth. Even after all my hard words know this – I love you and I want the best for you, maybe more than anyone you have ever known, although you may deem me haughty for such a claim.
I wish I could say I’ll be there if you need me, but I think that our time is at an end. There is a reason I said yes to you, a moral behind our chance meeting. I may not know the full answer for years, if ever, but I feel confident that our interlude was not in vain.
I wish you the best, Julian, my dear “Romeo,” and I have faith that one day you will become the man I know is knocking on the wall of your heart, waiting to be brought to full fruition.

Seriously, her life should be a soap opera

2008-07-30T13:49:00.001-07:00

It was over; she knew it and embraced it and could feel the joy bubbling up from her very soul that she was So. Through. With. Him.
Still, like at the end of all relationships, there was leftover baggage to be dealt with – in this case literally. She had no reason to hold on to his shirt although a good friend had suggested she burn it while laughing maniacally and chanting a death hex. She nixed the Hocus Pocus scene early on.
No, she would be civil and see him face to face one last time. She wanted it, anyway, that thing called “closure” that so many women claim to need after the demise of any relationship. Well, at least meeting him at the airport this way she would be forced to employ the KISS method – Keep It Short and Sweet.
And so, she called him. He agreed to meet her on the jetbridge minutes before her flight was to depart. His voice was syrupy sweet when he gently intoned, “Yeah, I really wanna see you.” She bit her tongue against a sharp remark, merely saying, see you soon, as she hung up.
She waited anxiously, her hands shaking and her pulse pounding in her throat. She hadn’t seen him since his plethora of lies she had been unknowingly wallowing in became frighteningly apparent and she had cut him off cold turkey a week ago. And then, there he was, his face freshly shaven for which she allowed herself a moment’s lust. No more. He pulled her into a hug and lowered his nose to her neck, softly inhaling her skin.
“You smell good,” he murmured.
“Yeah, and you smell like sweat and fuel,” she quickly dissed him. She hoped he hadn’t seen the flush rise on her neck when he purposely leaned in to tease her. Damn her hormones!
“Sorry,” he said, looking pained at her flippant reaction. “So, what did you bring me?”
He sifted through the contents of the bag trying to joke with her as she stoically stood by.
“So, when are we hanging out?” he said with a slight grin.
“We’re not.”
His face fell.
“Why not?”
She balked at his audacity. Oh, I don’t know, she wanted to scream at him, maybe just the fact that I have NO idea who are you because you have lied to me for the past three months about everything, including the fact that you’ve been sleeping with a girl who you swore was a mere friend. If it weren’t for a good friend who let me in on your deception with a warning to RUN far away, I may still be believing your bullshit!
Instead, she merely looked him dead in the eye and said, "You know why."
He kept her gaze a moment more before conceding.
"I know," he said quietly, as his gaze moved to stare at his shuffling feet.
"Well, but we can still be friends, right?" he queried hopefully, lifting his woeful eyes to hers.
She smiled inside, so proud of her strength - a week earlier and that puppy dog act might have leashed her, no pun intended.
"No...no, we can't."
He studied her one last time. "Give me a call sometime, okay?"
She almost felt bad for him. Almost.
"Nope," she said sweetly, lifting her hand into a wave as she turned her back on him and didn't once glance over her shoulder as she reboarded the plane to California.

Soon she came to find out that quite a different version of what happened was being perpetuated to many a soul. Wong called, the same friend who had warned her of Julian's compulsive lying in the first place, to tell her he'd heard something interesting.
When Julian had returned to the break room at work sporting the bag she'd returned his junk in, Wong questioned its contents.
"Ah, Ali was just giving me my stuff back...man, I just had to tell her to stop calling me and shit. I told her I was banging Ambretta now, so she just needs to move on. I said she could give me a call sometime but if she does I'm just gonna ignore her. She just needs to get over me."
As Wong related this treacherous account, Ali could hardly breathe.
"H-he said that? But it isn't true!" she sputtered, hurriedly telling Wong what really happened.
"I know, Ali, because I know you and I know him and I knew the entire time that it was just another of his lies. See, it's amazing the stuff he makes up."
She hung up the phone and stared blankly at the wall wondering if there were any cure for a disease such as his. She couldn't fathom his behavior. Of course she had lied in her lifetime but never to the extent of creating bogus stories which even the most gullible find hard to believe.

Later in the night she was gathering her things to switch from one plane to another in Atlanta before she finished her day with a flight to New York. Since finding out he had been with another flight attendant she'd had a sinking feeling that she would see them together in the airport...she just didn't bet on it being so soon. As she walked across the floor to the adjacent gate where she would be awaiting the arrival of her flight, she glimpsed the back of someone's head, a set of familiar raven locks, eerily similar to the first day she'd ever seen him. She turned her gaze more fully toward where he sat facing away from her, her eyes widening as she saw it was indeed him. With HER.
She felt hot and cold at the same time, the edges of her vision tunneling so that she had to grab the handle of her suitcase to steady herself. She turned around to block them from her sight, clutching her stomach as she mentally studied her options.
1) Charge at them both in Mel Gibson "Braveheart" fashion, declaring them traitors to love and demanding their heads in reparation.
2) The death hex she'd earlier decided against seemed a good idea at the moment, but unfortunately she'd left her spell book at home
3) She DID have connections to higher places in the company and dirt on both parties so why not just have both their jobs this very moment?

But no, she couldn't stand there pretending she could do anything but go over there, it was her gate and her crew and dammit, she would NOT run away. She was the stronger woman, the better person here and she would not stoop to his level. Lifting her chin and clenching her jaw against the molten anger that raced through her blood, and walked past where they sat, passing right in front of them both, vaguely registering through the haze of her emotions that they were basically canoodling, right there, in uniform, in front of countless passengers.
Brazen hussy. Pathetically, she expected as much from him.
She watched in guilty pleasure as his jaw hit the floor upon seeing her.
"Hi Julian!" she waved.
"Uh hey! Uh, what- what are you doing here?"
Hmmm...flight attendant, suitcase, planes, airport. She felt like saying, "Oh, I'm preparing for the synchronized swimming competition at the Olympics."
Ugh, he was such an incompetent fink.
"My flight leaves from this gate." DUH.
And she kept walking. Afterwards she realized she'd never even made eye contact with Ambretta. As she sat far away from the soap opera right in front her eyes, she reached with shaking hands to call her friend. She noticed with a sigh that he was doing his best to turn completely in his seat so that his back was to her and conveniently blocking her view of Ambretta and vice versa.

Two days later she finally had to send him the "it's over, we aren't friends anymore" cliche text because he was determined to have his cake and eat it too by sweet "texting" his way back in. She would have none of it and stonily ignored his embellished adjectives, knowing that she couldn't really believe anything he ever said, then and now.
Well, at least it was over. The drama couldn't get much worse. Oh, of course there was a possibility that this girl might fly on a trip with her, but she reasoned the chances were slim with over 2,000 flight attendants in the company.
Still, one chance in a million is still a chance.
She isn't quite sure how she will react if she is unlucky enough to win such a lottery...but she can be sure it will create quite a magnificent story.
And like any decent writer, that gives her a smug satisfaction.
;-)

A Rose By Any Other Name

2008-07-20T15:20:00.000-07:00

"So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title."

The End is nigh.
Ah, once upon a time I referred to him as Romeo...now, however, I realize that such a name could never be applied to one such as he, for Romeo at least lived and died for True Love.
Nay, I would now deem him a Casanova who was, of course, a libertine usurped by venereal disease.
Not that I'm implying anything. ;-)

Five Yards Equals A First Down...Right?

2008-07-12T09:30:00.000-07:00

Yes, I honestly used to believe that it was an accumulation of five yards on that green turf that equaled a first down. Of course, that was a few months after I actually understood what a "down" WAS. I'm not sure how the daughter of a head football coach manages to be so unaware of seemingly simple rules. Perhaps it stems from the day when I was six years old and caught in the middle of an eighth-grade boys' basketball scrimmage. Needless to say I had a knot on the top of my head where the orange ball almost twice my size pummeled me when the game got a little rougher than I expected. Ever since that incident I've been a little standoffish to things concerning balls. Take that how you will.
Below I've related a few funny stories about my "blond moments," I suppose, concerning my least favorite subject next to math - sports.

Nothing makes a girl hunt for a conversation starter more than a hunky boy. Such was my dilemma several years ago when I attended my first professional sporting event. The Braves were playing at Turner Field in the ATL, and I went with my church youth group. I arrived at the church and quickly scanned the group for my current crush - SCORE! Those baby blues sparkled in the sunlight as he flashed a grin at me; every girl can relate to my ecstatic joy when I was placed in a carpool with him and his hot friend - AND I got to sit in the middle!
So, game. I believe the Braves played the Padres. In my defense I had NO IDEA about baseball - even less than football, which was already next to nothing. The only thing I remember about baseball in highschool was Tony Bellew in those TIGHT pants and Katie explaining that the net was there to catch stray balls. I didn't believe her, however, until the first foul ball would have given me a concussion had the net been absent.
But here I am, getting off track. I used my small knowledge of baseball combined with a mean flirty blink and sheepish grin to keep my crush chatting with me the entire game. He was a photographer and I also feigned being able to get a good shot so he would offer to help me; he did, and I'm pretty sure I framed the picture he took...of the baseball field. Towards the end of the game I had to pee so badly my bladder was threatening to kill my family and burn down my house should I wait any longer. I just knew if I got up my seat next to him would be unavailable when I returned. Alas, it was, but thankfully it was near the end of the game. The Braves beat the Padres but of the exact score I am less sure. Like I said, my attention was - not surprisingly - spent elsewhere.

Seat 1C. Cute? Yes. His tow-colored mop curled impishly about his ears, highlighting his hazel eyes and warm mouth. He grinned at me, his teeth dazzling – I’ll give him that. His pink shirt was pitted with holes which resembled a mouse in his laundry, and his khaki shorts were faded but comfortable looking. Still, nothing to write home about. But, you ask, aren’t I doing just that? Ah, yes, but you see, this story is a bit more interesting than just another pretty face.
I officially met my first “famous” person.
He asked for a Diet Coke…something about a British accent gets me every time. Owners of such an accent could call me a warty, frog-faced dog and somehow it would still sound endearing. But, I digress.
Through a course of events, he made his way to the galley to ask for a refill to top off his drink. He stayed to chat, intrigued, I’m sure, by my enthralling beauty. Okay, wake up, Meredith. In reality, he wanted to know about our job, how exciting it was, which entitled us to ask about his. He meandered around the question, prolonging our conversation and inevitably making me fall more in love with his adorable accent. Finally, we got the answer we were searching for, “I’m actually going to Boston for work…I’m in the PGA.”
Now, before I go any further, let me apologize in advance to any golf fans. I do not – nor ever will – take an interest in or watch the sport for leisure. My next comment was a serious lapse of common sense which caused me to greatly question my powers of observation. I understand this.
“So,” I asked. “You’re good at golf?”
Sara, my friend who was flying the trip with me, looked at me incredulously, as if I’d just insulted George W. Bush by asking who he was.
“Meredith,” she said, with a tone of YOU IDIOT, “he’s in the PGA.”
I think I started looking for a hole somewhere that I could crawl into. Sheepishly, I apologized for my obviously stupid comment, but he only grinned at me and said, “Yeah, you might say I’ve got a talent for hitting balls.”
He proceeded to tell us about his life as a golf star; all the while, I still had no idea who this man was. When he got to the story about renting an entire race track in Paris for him and his friends to race their race cars, I kind of got the idea that maybe he made a lot of money.
“What’s your favorite city?” he asked me.
“Seattle,” I answered in the next second. “But I couldn’t afford to live there right now. Maybe one day.”
“But why not? Just get you a sugar-daddy and you could have it all. Let’s see…you could be with Bill Gates!” He suggested emphatically.
My face must have produced his next answer – “Oh my god, could you imagine, shaggin’ Bill Gates?”
At which, of course, we all burst into embarrassed laughter.
At one point, he returned to his seat to retrieve a paper – I hurriedly checked the manifest to see his name, making a note to Google him later.
Ian Poulter. According to his website stats, he is ranked twenty-seven in the world, making close to $10,000,000 this year alone. He is also the famous wearer of the “crazy outfits,” according to our pilots who later found out he’d been on our flight. Indeed he did own quite a few outrageous pairs of pants - from ones sporting the American Flag to Fleur de Lis, even snakeskin and Celtic plaid paraded throughout his eccentric wardrobe.
At the time Mr. Poulter was telling us of his plan to launch a new line of golf-wear for fellow players. I met him about a year ago, and according to his website, in April of this year he launched his line world wide in seventeen countries and his designs are being worn by young golf stars everywhere. Not that I'm an advert for him at all, lol.
It was quite the experience.

Seattle, Washington – a place near and dear to my heart. As I sat in the gate area waiting to board the flight I was to take with my best friend, we both gasped and spotted tall, dark, and handsome at ten o’clock. Ironically that was the time of day as well. As my friend and I were standby, we unfortunately sat on pins and needles through the two hour delay, not even sure we would make it to Seattle that night.
Sighing with relief when the gate agent finally called our names, I boarded the plane and made my way to the last row of seats. Getting ready to sigh inwardly as I realized I was – of course – trapped in the middle, my sigh turned into an, “Oh…” as I saw the handsome stranger in the seat next to me. Flashing him one my biggest grins, I settled into the once-loathed middle seat with a smile of satisfaction. Well, as the saying goes, when God closes a door, he always gives you a piece of hot-ass man candy to drool over. Or something like that.
Casually I made conversation whilst staring into his velvet browns.
“Yes, I live in Seattle.”
I was almost certain I heard him ask me to marry him and move there, too, but you know how loud the plane engines are, so I could be wrong. Still further research landed me in the middle of a foreign playing field – sports. Pun intended. “Yeah, I actually play for the Seattle Seahawks.”
Seahawks, seahawks…Is that a bird? I’d never heard of it before. I recall my mother once mentioning there was no such thing. What was worse, I had NO idea what sport this team belonged to.
I realized I was probably staring at him dumbly, so I smiled and nodded, “Wow, that’s so cool!”
But like Little George Washington, I cannot tell a lie, and so I piped up a moment later.
“I’m sorry that I have to ask you this, but what sport do you play?”
Twisting my face into what I hoped appeared to be remorse at so indelicately wounding his pride, I was relieved to see him smile back assuredly and say, “It’s okay, the Seahawks are actually a football team.” He seemed to enjoy the fact that someone wouldn’t be plaguing him for stats the entire five hour flight.
I noticed he’d brought along a DVD, The 13th Warrior, starring the notable Antonio Banderas. I recalled the day during senior year in Mrs. Harper’s joke of an English class when the famous substitute, Mrs. Brown, was surreptitiously duped into believing that our teacher actually left Monty Python and the Holy Grail as our movie assignment as opposed to a film concerning our current literature piece, Beowulf - enter The 13th Warrior, which I never chanced to see.
Smiling inwardly I mentioned that it was a good movie – in hopes, of course, that I would be invited to watch it with him on his DVD player. One heartbeat later he queried, “You wanna join me?” as he held up an extra set of headphones.
Did I ever!
When the film ended I could only hope he wouldn’t judge me by my apparent lack of taste in movies. The 13th Warrior was one of the most corny, horribly-acted, lame-scripted movies I’d seen in a very long time. And he actually thought I LIKED the movie! That was probably worse than him finding out I fibbed about having seen it..
As the story obviously goes, Mr. Seahawk didn’t ask for my hand in marriage or offer to sail a thousand seas for a token of my love, but I mustn’t give up hope.
Note to self: destroy all copies of The 13th Warrior to save thousands of girls potential embarrassment.

The Murder of Doing the Right Thing

2008-06-21T22:20:00.001-07:00

About three months ago I met a boy, one whose full name shall remain a mystery. I was on a plane awaiting boarding, parked at gate C12. I stood in the cockpit swapping jokes with the first officer when through the windows I spied a mop of curly, jet-black locks on the ramp below the aircraft. Having always been a sucker for such a head of hair, I hurried to the open R1 door to see if this creature had any potential loveliness of features. As he raised his head to see the foolish girl leaning dangerously out of the open door with nothing but hard concrete twelve feet below, I fell with no handhold into his golden autumn eyes. Metaphorically, of course. Grinning at me, his brown eyes twinkling, he joked, “You’d better not fall out of that plane!” I smiled coyly at him, raising an eyebrow as mock seriousness edged my tone, “If I do then you’ll just have to catch me.”
Thus a conversation ensued about where we lived and upon discovering that we inhabited the vicinity near one another I proposed that we hang out. He concurred and as I found myself writing my name and number on a scrap of paper, I realized that I knew not his name. I wondered what possessed me to embark on such an adventure, but quickly shrugged it off in the name of Carpe Diem. Kneeling to hand the paper with my contact information to him through the door, I asked his name.
“Dave?” I questioned, not hearing him well the first time.
“No, Daniel,” he said, more loudly. I liked his name. A lot.
Later that night as I was in my hotel room in West Palm Beach, Florida, I told another of my flight attendant friends about my mystery boy. Anna, as it turned out, had already met him and quickly deduced from his conversation that he was quite a partier, which information she turned over to me to do with as I so chose.

What I SHOULD have done with it and what I DID do with it may have changed my life forever in a myriad of ways.
So here I am three months later and feeling the inevitable distance between us slowly beginning. So much has happened that I don’t know if I could remember all of it were I to try, but suffice it to say that he is just like EVERY OTHER GUY I’ve ever had a crush on, the typical saga of “bad boy” and “good girl”, although at this point I’m not so sure I can call myself that anymore.
While I’ve maintained a technical “virginity” of body, my mind has been fucked to no end and my soul penetrated in a thousand ways I never thought possible. He is such a bad influence, and while I’ve not necessarily embarked upon recreational activities such as getting wasted or high, I’ve been privy to many a session with him and his friends and the entire time I’ve felt wretched in my heart because it’s not me. I feel that I’ve compromised a part of who I am and I can blame none but myself. I thought that maybe since I’d never experience certain things before that I just didn’t know what I was “missing”, as the cliché rings. But I can’t really say that I DID miss anything. Mindless nights that are so often forgotten by the over-indulgence of black habits are not exactly something I wish to cherish for all time.

It’s a tragedy to admit but it must be done all the same for one must see the reality of a situation before reaching a resolution…I have begun to become the girl I have always sworn against morphing into. That girl who slowly begins to doubt her self worth and allows things she never before would have pandered to because she feels that perhaps SHE is the one who needs a lesson in life. The complacency with which I accepted each blow to the person I am and standards I uphold astounded me, even as I watched the placid lake that was my world turn into a crashing ocean storm, the person I have striven to become slowly being obliterated as I helplessly stood by.
Thankfully I have not yet reached the break down, but should I continue to swirl in this vortex of a relationship I will remain nothing but a shattered vestige of the person I once was.

Am I in love with him? I think not. Certainly I care for him and would never wish any harm to befall him. Still, with the life he leads I can’t help but think a catastrophic demise awaits my broken hero.
Oh of course he can be quite the gentleman, his caring words and thoughtful gestures blinding me momentarily, like when sunlight slices through a dark cloud and hope ensues that perhaps the sun will stay, that the brightness will not be hidden behind the gray confusion of the brooding storm.

I will miss his full lips and the perfection of his kiss, the soft way he caressed my face, the gentle chocolate brown of his eyes smiling into mine. I will cling to the memory of his warm body cradled about me, the way we fit so perfectly together achingly seared into my dreams. His resonant laugh will haunt my thoughts and the way he softened his tone and adoringly called me “Beautiful” will not quickly be forgotten. I will cherish the conversations we shared, the many mornings we eluded sleep until the birds of dawn serenaded us outside the window. My nose will never forget the lingering scent he oftentimes left on my pillow, an exhilarating mix of deep earth tinged with salty sweat reminiscent of a hard day’s work.I will smile to myself as I recall how careful he was with me, how fragile he made me seem at times, how he watched over my well being. The nights of pizza, Jack Daniels, and Mary Jane shared on a summer porch with friends will be looked back upon with mixed feelings as my spirit felt torn in times such as those, but I will never forget the laughs we shared as the full moon shone down upon us. I will always remember his hands, the beauty of their sleek, dark elegance demanding my awe every time my eyes were privileged to rest upon them, and the way his silky curls wound round my fingers as I lazily ravaged them will be a delightful memory indeed. I will soon find myself wishing again for the warmth of his skin against mine as he embraced me, burying his head in the crook of my neck, his sweet breath leaving traces of moisture. The longing for how comfortable he made me feel in my own skin will remain even after he is gone. The way I could transmit a thought into his mind and have it answered even before I spoke a word will forever amaze me; I know I must find someone with which I experience that connection if I am to be truly happy. I will miss his frustrating insecurities, the ones he didn’t even know he had, the ones that caused so much of our discord, yet things that I could never tell him – they are those things one must discover of their own accord lest the chance to revolutionize their life may be missed, oftentimes in denial of what an objective view point might mean to their current lifestyle should it be a correct assertion.

I do not want to do this thing I must do. I wish to continue a relationship with him, to have intimacy with someone as I have sustained with him, to feel that connection and bond that we have had over the past two months for a while longer.

But as I said from the beginning of this entry, we are growing apart. He is not satisfied to be with only me at this point in his life and well, so be it. Life is full of dissenting opinions and there is really no reason to stay where one is not fully wanted. I am giving him his freedom but I am also freeing myself, my spirit, and my heart to go back to what they know and believe, although my experiences with this man will never be forgotten.

And though I’m not sure I can say I’ve been changed for the better, because I knew him, I have been changed for good.

"Por la luz de la luna"

2008-05-22T20:32:00.000-07:00

An autobiographical tale of my recent life. =)
Yes, be jealous all.

They walked along the white sands at dusk, watching the orange glow of the sun fade in the distance, the twilight grey settling like a goose down cloak around the two. She ran squealing into the icy waves, taunting him all the while for refusing to join her.
"You're such a baby!" she laughed. "It isn't THAT cold!"
She ran towards where he stood on the water's edge, playfully splashing waves in his direction. Grabbing her hand he pulled her into the warmth of his chest and she inhaled deeply, taking in his musky scent. He smelled like deep forests, of fresh pine and dark earth. She so loved breathing him in.
They walked a little further along the wet sands, feeling the slight chill of the wind as the last bit of sun slipped from the horizon and out of sight, on to bring day to the other half of the world. He sat on a nearby bank of sand, pulling her down beside him as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She swung her legs over his, cuddling closer to the warmth of his body.
The pair sat in silence for a time and then began pointing out constellations, laughingly arguing over which stars formed the big and little dippers. The moon was nowhere in sight, but as her eyes scanned the inky black horizon, she gasped and pointed.
"There..."
He turned to see what so took her breath away and murmured a word of awe.
A perfect circle of hot pink hung low in the sky, the edge of the midnight waters cutting the sphere in half. They watched the moon slowly rise as if pulled by an unseen hand, higher and higher over the ocean until the fiery orange light glinted off the dark Atlantic.
She felt him nuzzling her neck, his dark hands softly caressing her bare legs, and sighed in contentment. He kissed her chin, turning her face to his with his finger. She felt the sweet warmth of his breath on her cheek, feeling the sea-dampened air around them lit as if with an electric current.
And then, oh then, he kissed her.
It was a maddening flurry of frenzied kisses, the built up tension of an entire month released in an instant. She splayed her hand on the back of his warm neck, his silky black curls tickling her fingertips. His strong fingers tightly grasped her leg, his other hand finding solace in pulling her closer to him.
His full lips enveloped hers perfectly, the taste of chocolate mint lingered on his tongue. Flames licked at her veins and that delicious burning fire she had longed for settled low in her belly.
All too quickly the kiss ended, and they pulled away, breathless, staring into each other's eyes. Their faces were inches apart, smiles touching their ravished lips.

It couldn't have been a more perfect first kiss...well, except for maybe a soundtrack. =)

Fun...a small word for such a large meaning.

2008-04-27T14:19:00.000-07:00

So here's the thing.

When I tell a person - mostly people who are in my age group - that I don't drink alcohol, I get the inevitable question..."Well, then, what do you do for fun?"

I find question to be very...ignorant. I feel that when that query is posed, the person is assuming that a) that's the ONLY way to have fun or b) they have a very limited view on a good time.

The following is a list of things that I love doing instead of getting wasted. Granted, I've been around people who were drunk before and yes, I had a few laughs. Still it isn't for me. I enjoy other things instead...By the way, this list still doesn't begin to touch everything I like doing.

I like...
Laughter...crazy, loud, insane, uncontrollable laughter,walks in the park, getting on airplanes and going to NYC for the day to catch a Broadway show...passion iced tea lemonade from Starbucks and sinking down with a good book on their comfy leather couches.

I love renting foreign films from Blockbuster and Netflix, writing new blogs based on the neverending drama of my life, and shooting photographs with/of my friends. I really like going to the movies and watching thrillers, lol, and maybe even sappy romances, but I'm up for "guy" movies, too. Afterwards I love sitting at the Waffle House until 3 am making jokes with the waitress, drinking sweet tea and eating cheese grits.

Writing frees my spirit and bridles untamed feelings wish ache to run rampant when I know I shouldn't let them.

Oh, I also love seeing HORRIBLY made films and making fun of them so much that my sides hurt from laughing. Texting and talking on the phone for hours makes me happy, and sharing inside jokes with friends is definitely on my list of faves. I make up nicknames for almost everyone I meet and refer to them as that in private - or to their face if I think they can handle it, lol. I love shopping - what girl doesn't -and clearance sales are the bomb.

Flying is my passion and I love seeing new airports of all sorts.

I'm into literature and poetry, Edna St. Vincent Millay being my hero.

I love history and have a vivid imagination when I'm in a place rich with old stories. I lilke to imagine I'm part of that place in centuries past, lol.

I like to drive late at night with the windows down in the summer time - I go nowhere, really, I just like the stars and silky wind against my skin.

I am crazy about gelato and I love Tiramisu dessert. It's fun to play in fountains and make wishes on pennies.

I love musicals and singing along with them at the top of my lungs, wishing I were the one on stage. If I had time I'd love to act in plays.

I also love sad music, songs that get you more down when you're down, but in a good way. I really like rock, too.

I love experiencing cultures different from my own and becoming friends with people who can teach me things. I especially love the richness of the Indian culture and...I kind of have a thing for Indian boys, lol.

I love the bitter sweet taste of black coffee with Splenda and dipping warm chocolate chip cookies in the dark brew.

Although heights make me dizzy, I love the dangerous feeling of standing on that precipice. Heights are breathtaking.

I like rainy nights on tin roofs, the patter of the drops lulling me into sleep...searching through tins of old photographs and listening with shining eyes as I hear the story of the young lovers in the picture brings joy to my heart.

I have a liking for all things polka dot.

I enjoy laughing heartily at my cat as she spastically runs through the house, the clip clap of her claws on the hardwood floor audible down the hallway.When I hear a train in the distance I stop for a moment and make a wish - I imagine that I'm a nurse in the Revolution, off to bring the boys safely home.

I love rising before the sun on a day when you're free to traverse the country on a long road trip with friends, blaring music the entire way and taking countless looney photographs.

Trips to the thrift store can be quite an adventure - many an interesting trinket have I purchased; I love telling people where I bought it.

The smell of freshly cut grass takes me back to a time when I was young and perused my pop's rose garden as he rode the mower over his expansive yard...I wish there were a way to bottle that scent.

I love to agonize over my pale skin only to realize that in the end it is what makes me unique.

Picnics by isolated streams and rivers are one of a kind dates, especially when they are by the light of the moon. I love to dip my bare feet in the aching coldness of bubbling brooks.

Fishing is fun, although I sort of despise using live bait.

I love to rearrange my furniture when I am bored with it, this being once every two or three months. I am obsessed with Amazon.com and searching their endless list of used books which I buy for almost nothing...I love getting those packages in the mail and look forward to them earnestly.

Flying kites on a windy hill in March assures giggles galore.

Lighthouses make me happy.

Sometimes I like to cry for no reason at all other than that I feel somewhat relieved after I do.

Concerts are a blast as well as musicals and plays.

I love to dream of my Prince Charming, wherever the hell he may be, lol.

Level-headed arguments are fun and almost always lead to very interesting conversations.

I love posing for photographs. Trying new foods is up there on my list of cool things and I will try almost anything - unless it has bugs in it.

Sometimes I like to sit down to the piano and plunk out a tune I used to know in days gone past.

Old towns are fun to explore, those "cities within a city" that one hardly knows to look for. Many a delightful restaurant or eclectic music joint have a I found on such adventures.

I like speaking in a fake British accent to people who don't know me.

I love hot chocolate with marshmallow cream on cool October nights, sitting by a campfire and breathing the wood-smoked air. Freshly fallen snow makes my spirit feel clean and I love seeing my breath on a cold day.

I stare at pictures of foreign places and imagine I am standing there snapping the photograph, telling myself I only have to be patient and that dream will at long last come true.

I have a thing for quotes.I am quite the sarcastic girl at times and love throwing strangers off with a comment they least expect. Especially when I am in uniform. =)

I enjoy volunteering at soup kitchens and the like.

Renaissance Festivals are so much fun to dress up and attend.

My favorite board games are Monopoly and Clue. Nothing like the old days when games were actually tangible.

When it rains in the summer and the sky is free of lightening, I stand it in and let myself be soaked to the skin.

I love lingering in my down comforter on a lazy Saturday morning and pillow fights are always a sure way to make me laugh.

I make wishes on stars - whether they have fallen or not.

Kisses - long, slow, sensual, hot, bite-filled kisses are the biggest weakness I believe I possess. Not to mention they are WAY fun, lol.

I ache to embrace the world and all that God has placed in it with an open heart and mind. I am stretched taut with a feverish desire to dive into the Freedom of my Future. I want to explore the lives of others in such a way that a piece of that individual's heart is attached to my spirit for all eternity. I hope that my life and my actions impact this world and turn the heads of passersby. I am a deep person...no matter what a first impression may say. I like to dig in places that no one has uncovered and have spirit-curdling conversations. Music is a part of my spirit that will never be disposed of. It is my heaven on earth. I soar to ethereal places when I allow the melodies to slip over me like satin. It restores my soul.I love to gaze into the cloudless sky to try to see heaven and God's smiling face.

And I'm always up for trying new things - skydiving, scuba diving, paintball, lasertag, - the list could go on

Nightmare City

2008-04-17T19:40:00.000-07:00

I saw him in a place he should never have been, and in a time when I least expected to see him. Sadness poured from his eyes in unseen tears and jerked hard at my spirit. The light from the chapel's stained-glass window cast colorful prisms across his hard features, the green of his eyes still glowing with heat when he locked my gaze. I queried about his well being.

"My son died." Just like that. "He was three months old."

I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. I felt so responsible because I never wanted him to have a child with her. With anyone. Anyone but me. In the back of my mind, I knew I'd caused it somehow, that the law of attraction had brought down the hand of Doom on this innocent one and smote him because I wanted him gone.

Strangely, though, it was me to whom he turned for comfort. He mourned for days, he and I alone on my bed, no acts but the one of grief being fulfilled. Pure aching was met with as much comfort as I knew how to give. I held him as he cried on my shoulder, weeping with him in anger at myself and sorrow for his excrutiating loss.

When he finally returned home, I checked my bank account soon after to discover that $1200 was spent on a Dell laptop, one I knew I didn't purchase. Intuitively, I knew he'd retreated into himself and commited the lowest of low - he stole my credit card number and did it to make me angry. I went to him.

"Please," I begged him. "I'm not angry with you, but you need to tell me if you stole the money. I will give you anything you ask for, just be honest with me."

"YES!" he exploded. "I stole the money! Don't you get it?" He screamed in my face. "I'm trying to push you away! I'm doing anything I can to make you stop loving me, and yet you only love me more and forgive me more than I should ever be forgiven. Why? Why me?" he implores.

To be honest, I didn't know how to answer him. I just opened my arms and he pulled me into an endless embrace.

"Because," I whisper to him. "My heart needs you."

Haunted

2008-04-17T19:35:00.000-07:00

I've heard stories about this place. Horror stories, in fact, of bumps in the night, air rustling past skirts where no air should whisper, a scream in the darkest of hours, voices in the adjacent room when the room was supposedly unoccupied.I was afraid to stay in The Lodge.

Although it is located near the Moline, Illinois airport, to be fair it is actually situated across the state line in Iowa. As our transportation rounded the curve, a small gasp caught in my throat at the monster of a hotel before me, reminiscent of a large German cottage against the black midnight sky. I tried to ignore the mocking jabs of the pilots in the seat behind me as they tried their best to imitate the voice of Chucky and quote the most terrifying of movies.

"It's just a hotel," I whispered to myself. "If you don't believe you won't be frightened."As I stepped foot inside the the doors, I felt immediately transported to the world of the Gothic romance novel, something akin to what an author such as Victoria Holt would pen. I expectantly waited for women in hoop skirts and men with top hats and coattails to waltz through the lobby on their way to the ball room. Paneled oak walls added to the heaviness of the room as did the dark wooden furniture and the large chandeliers which hung from the low ceiling. The front desk was complete with a filigreed hand held telephone, much like the ones pictured in Victorian era films, and the fireplace glowed with dying flames. I glanced at the front desk clerk but was greeted with more of a dead stare than a friendly grin. The classical melody of Moonlight Sonata lilted through the room, adding a movie-esque quality to it all.

I noticed my room number was on the eighth floor, but the elevator in front of me only listed four.

"Um, what does this mean?" I asked my fellow crew members, afraid they might say there were secret floors where murders happened or people died from unknown causes.

"That means," said the captain with a mischievous grin, "that you're in The Tower."Gulp.

"T-t-the Tower?"

"Yes, you take this elevator." He indicated a lone elevator which went all the way to the tenth floor. I was alone on the floor, bereft of my crew and left to the wiles of whatever might choose to follow me up to my room. "No, don't think like that!" I chided myself on the elevator ride. As the doors opened, I was greeted with an oil painting of a woman who appeared in dire straights, her hand reaching desperately for the cup on the table beside her large chair, a look of anguish spread across her features as if she'd been poisoned or was trying to poison herself to escape the horrors of being locked on this floor at all times, subjected to the terrors of demons! "Stop it!" I said aloud. I know how I can frighten myself at times, and this time my imagination was definitely running away with me.

My floor was eerily quiet. I almost wished for a drunken party of football fans next door as opposed to the deafening silence at this late hour. I slid the key in the lock, pushed open the door and beheld a lovely room complete with a spiral staircase that led up the "loft" area where the bed was located. The room itself wasn't as lavishly decorated at the lobby, but I was somewhat glad of that as I was already at my wits' end and didn't need to see anymore oil paintings or imagine what lurked behind dark panels. Flipping on the television, thankful for at least that reminder of modern times, I stared at it for a moment in silence before I realized that it was one of the "fireplace" channels, where I suppose one can fall asleep to the sound of a crackling fire, minus the actual blazing heat. I laughed at the absurdity of it. Finally after two hours of calming myself with a little online surfing and covering the grandiose mirrors with towels to abate my fear of seeing a ghost in the reflection, I settled down to sleep...with the lamp beside the bed on all night, of course.

My night played out uneventfully, to my delight and slight disappointment, if I'm going to be completely honest. I had hoped for a bit of an adventure, a crossing with the devil, a dance with disaster. Still, I'd not yet been to the dining room. I had a coupon for a free, hot breakfast buffet, so upon rising, I slipped downstairs and followed the long hallways to the dining area. I took in my surroundings, the crossbeams above my head coming to an upside-down V, reminding me of my favorite movie as a child, Heidi, and how it resembled her grandfather's cottage in the Swiss Alps. The stained-glass windows along the corridor had pictures embossed on the glass if one studied them closely. I came upon an open area which imitated a cobblestone walkway on an old street, complete with an open sky roof, windows to tenants rooms which looked like the shopkeepers homes above their stores, and a large, bubbling fountain right in the middle. I smiled to myself at the quaintness of this "indoor village."

The scent of gravy and biscuits wafting to my nostrils kept me moving towards the breakfast area. I was more than a bit surprised to see that I was the only soul in the large dining room besides the lone waitress. A sense of unease crept over me...it was like going to a SuperWalmart at night and seeing only one car in the parking lot. There were countless tables set with lovely china and silverware and not one living being to partake of the delicious food but myself. The waitress moved towards me and offered to bring me coffee. I smiled acceptance, noting that her voice remained at a monotone level for every question, "Regular? Sugar? Cream?"

It was a bit unsettling, but I headed for the buffet. I will say this for The Lodge - never, ever have I had such a delicious breakfast in a hotel, hot or not. My coffee was brought and I ate in silence, devouring the fresh fruit, hot bacon, lovely seasoned potatoes, and warm gravy with buttermilk biscuits.

Looking up, I jolted from my food reverie and noticed that on the seemingly mile-high wall, dead animals were watching me eat. There were at least thirty deer heads, a bison, and bulls; the adjoining wall sported antlers of varying shapes and sizes. I slowly lowered the biscuit back to my plate and took a closer look at my surroundings. On the opposite side of the room, even MORE taxidermies, complete bodies of foxes and small bears lined the shelves above the room. Again the classical music drifted into the room, almost as if on cue, and I noticed the waitress staring at me with her dead eyes. There was a shelf of old books peeking out from the loft area which was reached by steps near my table; I wondered what other dark deeds took place up those stairs. The doors to the kitchen opened and a handsome, blank-eyed boy appeared. I didn't catch his gaze, but a flash from his shirt locked my attention. It was a long silver chain accompanied by a large, dangling cross. Maybe to ward off the dead? I thought again about how amazing the food was and wondered if it wasn't a ruse to lure bait for their sacrifices! To add to my melodramatic imagination, I began noticing that as I finished my meal, more and more employees seemed to be present in the room, but never another tenant of the hotel! Maybe it was true...while no one had been "rude" to me, they certainly hadn't smiled welcoming smiles or shone any light in their eyes the way humans usually do. They appeared a bit like Vampires. I shivered.

Before I could scare myself anymore, I hurriedly finished my meal, and excused myself, hastily thanking them as I quickly exited the room. As I passed the "General Manager's Office" a man in a - no lie - black midnight suit and blood red silk shirt stepped out of the office directly behind me and began to follow me down the long hallway back to the main lobby. I could almost feel the sharpness of his teeth sinking into my neck, the warmth of my blood seeping out with my last breath until I would forever become one of...them. Perhaps it was they who were the actual ghosts of the hotel.

Of course I wasn't bitten but I am being honest when I say I was actually scared that they may happen as I ate breakfast in that room all alone.It still makes for an enchanting story...

Christmas Date Disaster

2008-03-16T20:03:00.000-07:00

*NOTE* This entire story is 100% true, I just wrote it as if it were fiction to make it more interesting. Of course, the flight attendant - duh - is me. And yes, like I said, this really happened. Ugh.

The flight attendant was tired, her day having begun well before dawn, and still several hours of work were ahead of her before she could take a much-needed respite.Glancing into the lavatory mirror prior to boarding, she winced at her haggard appearance. Oh well, she shrugged to her reflection. No time to reapply makeup. The first passengers had already boarded.
She stepped back into her greeting position, smiling, nodding, saying her one millionth “welcome aboard” for the day. Her mind wandered elsewhere, its usual occupation far away on a handsome, lost love. Real, myth, it didn’t matter, it got her through the day…and night. She was snapped from her reverie by the sound of a jovial voice, soothing to the ears and a rush to the blood. She glanced up into a pair of utterly hypnotic blue eyes, swearing she was gazing into a portrait of an arctic landscape, so unusual were they. Winking at her, he held up an enormous poster declaring an ad for insurance and exclaimed, “Happy Birthday!”
She laughed, well aware of his next question.
“So,” he prodded flirtatiously. “I get to put your present in business class and sit up here with you, right?”
“Ha! Not so fast. Only people who don’t try to bribe their way up here get the privilege of being near me.”
“Well, aren’t you an Indian taker! You accept my gift and then give it back!” Still, he smiled and touched her arm coyly as he headed back to the main cabin. What could she do? She was an absolute sucker for dark hair and light eyes which is absolutely what this stranger was endowed with. Knowing that her business class section was far from full, she headed back to the seat of Mickey Blue Eyes and his friend.
“Sir,” she began, trying her best to feign not knowing this man. “We would like to offer you a complimentary upgrade. I see that you are active military and as a favor to those serving our country, we’d like to do this for you.” Humor glinted out of his icy gaze, but he played along quite well, gathering his things and quickly moving to business class. He and his friend quickly took advantage of the free drinks, both ordering a screwdriver. Of course the two flirted with her the entire flight, although her attentions were turned to the mesmerizing one. She stood leaning on the seat in front of Prince Charming, his easy smile and seamless conversation setting her at ease when he finally popped the question.
“So, fellow Gemini,” he asked cockily. Again, she never could resist a confident – if somewhat arrogant – attitude.“You’re gonna go out with me tonight, right?” YES! She screamed inside. The cartoon version of her was performing antics reminiscent of a ditzy cheerleader. Dear Lord! Get a hold of yourself! She admonished her Lizzie McGuire counterpart. Still, she wasn’t at all sure how to respond. After all, she knew nothing of this man except that his name was Michael Lehman, he was a twenty-seven year old denizen of Kansas City, Missouri, and worked as a traveling salesman for a wireless insurance company. And what about his gorgeous visage? How could she ever deny herself this one night of…fun?
She glanced at his friend, Quinn, for reassurance.“I’m not vouching for him!” Why our flight attendant did not heed this red flag was a question she later kicked herself for. Michael rolled his eyes at Quinn, then once again settled his lavish gaze upon his intended target.
“So?” he grinned alluringly. After much consideration, of course, two minutes later our protagonist decided to go out with Assho…I mean, Michael.
“Here,” he said, as he deplaned, handing her a blue and white card. “I know it’s cliché, but here’s my card.” She took it and reciprocated, telling him to call her in about an hour. Our “lovely” – as Michael had called her – heroine quickly changed at the hotel and fixed her tumbling hair, reapplying what makeup had rubbed off throughout her long work day. As promised, he rolled into the hotel parking lot, meeting her in the lobby with a small hug. Damn, he was bony. She never had liked guys skinnier than herself and he certainly was. Still, those eyes and pearly whites won over any issues he may have had in the weight category. Taking him to the counter in the lobby, she called the hotel clerk over.
“I just want you to see this man,” she said to the woman at the front desk. She handed the woman a card. “Here is his information, and if you don’t see me come back in here tonight, call America’s Most Wanted. He’s your guy.” Michael laughed with the hotel clerk, but he could see his date was serious. “I’m taking every precaution. It’s not a silly thing to do,” she defended herself.
“What if you end up killing me instead? Should I be worried?” She assured him she was harmless, but as she glanced again at his threadlike bulk, she couldn’t help thinking she’d probably strangle him should she sit on his chest.

The movie was bursting with gruesome scenes – which, of course, she chose on purpose. What better excuse for hiding her face in his cologne-scented shoulder? Any smart woman knows how to plan things such as these. He playfully touched her knee…and her arm, and her shoulders, and well, you get the picture. Thankfully, though, he never was inappropriate, in his speech or actions. That was what surprised her most of all. The entire night she was waiting for a monster to appear, but it never did. Michael was the perfect gentleman, paying for everything, taking charge of the evening, but in a good way, and flawlessly playing the ladies’ man by opening doors – including the car – and giving her his coat to ward off the snowy coldness.There was nothing stiff or cheesy about his manner, and for fear of being irreverent, it was almost as if little Miss Stewardess worshiped him.
Over dinner, the conversation never skipped a beat, not even when it came to the “touchy” topics. He told her his opinion as she gave hers, each respecting the other and agreeing to disagree. They laughed the night away, and as she realized how much she liked him, she told him of her Christmas day layover in his resident city.
“Wow! I’m so excited you’ll be here,” he smiled at her. “We’ll have much more time to see the city. I know, I’m going to take you downtown to see the country’s second-largest Christmas tree, we’ll ice skate, and there is an amazing restaurant which is open year-round that I’ll take you to. It’s so beautiful with the lights…you’ll love it,” he said with shining eyes. She had to pick up her jaw.
“So,” she said with a flirtatious sweep of her lashes, “You’re asking me on a second date?”
He grinned at her. “I suppose I am.”
And that was that. The rest of their evening was cut a bit short for she had to be at work quite early the next morning. He pulled up to the hotel doors and thanked her for a fun night, emphasizing that he couldn’t wait to see her again, and, like a true gentleman, refrained from making a move. He drew her into a warm hug and told her to fly safe, winking at her as she closed the passenger side door. She floated on air, of course, all the way back to room 218, barely sleeping because she was way too excited.

Our “gentleman” emailed her two or three times over the next few days, still stating he had a wonderful time and would see her again soon. Still, he never called to talk as he promised he would do, and after a week of not hearing from him, she began to get anxious. Don’t call him, don’t call him, she chided herself. It was torture. She HATED not knowing why. What had she done? The inevitable questions of self-doubt began swarming her thoughts day and night. She hated that she allowed this man she barely knew to gain such a hold over her. Finally, two weeks before her scheduled trip, she gave in. She called him. He answered on the first ring, his voice exactly as she remembered, seeming to be happy to hear from her. She told him that she knew he was busy, but that she needed a definite answer concerning their date plans. If he had family to attend to, she completely understood, but she wanted to change her trip to get paid a little extra instead of spending all day alone in a hotel room eating ice-cream, getting fat, and pining after him. Okay, so she left that last part out. Still, he assured her that his family lived elsewhere and this Christmas he was going to be alone, so they would definitely keep their date plans.He said those dreaded words. “I’ll be in touch.”

And so, our lonely, pathetic flight attendant kept her trip and arrived in Kansas City early in the morning on December 25th. She had remained true to her sex and was allowing Michael to be the hunter, to pursue her, to be in touch as she had the faith that he would. Hours passed, and still no call. She almost had to sit on her hands so that she wouldn’t dial his number.Finally she let go of her hopeless day dream and called her fellow crewmembers to see if they wanted to go to the local theater for a movie. That night they watched “Sweeny Todd” and “I Am Legend.” She stayed away from the sappy romance crap. As even the McDonald’s was closed, her Christmas dinner consisted of Bagel Bites from the local Quick Trip which she microwaved in her empty hotel room.

She never heard from Michael Lehman again.

So Close And Still So Far

2008-03-16T19:50:00.000-07:00

"It's all going to better now," he murmured into my ear, his lips softly brushing my hair. I leaned into him, the heat of his strength seeping into my bones, the well of unshed tears threatening to spill.This, I thought, this is what it means to be truly happy. To be truly whole. All of my life I have searched for a feeling such as this and for so long it remained illusive. Suddenly a devestating thought occured to me. "But...but what of her? What of your other life?"

He smiled down at me gently, his dark head tilting to one side, the emerald green of his eyes full of promise.

"There is no one else. There is only you...only us. And nothing can ever keep us apart again. I have waited until the right time, just as I always promised you. You only needed to be patient and I knew that one day the stars would align and we would meet again." I believed him. I touched his face, I let him kiss me with all the time of empty years gone by. I never wanted to lose him. Please, don't let me lose him. Nothing could ever top the feeling of ethereal happiness which settled its misty arms around my soul.

A bump in the night.

And I awoke.

I was wrong when I said nothing could top the feeling of happiness in my dream. My soul screamed in protest at the fatal wound inflicted upon it. How could it have been a dream? I just knew it was real. I knew he had come for me and that my life would never again feel empty.I thought I would never feel the bereavement which settled like lead upon my chest.

The words of a song drifted through my head...

"So close and still so far..."

And countless tears wet my pillow.

My Dream....It's a weird one...

2008-03-16T19:48:00.000-07:00

I had a strange dream last night - well, I always do, but this one was very vivid and I wonder what it means.

I had tickets to see the Broadway production of Spamalot and I was very excited....that is, until I found out the troupe would be performing in some sort of church that they were using as the "theatre." I was angry because I knew that the show wouldn't be as good and I had paid a lot of money for the tickets. Andy Still and Jonathan Harris were attending the show with me even though they had seen it before.
We arrived at the theatre and waited in line for a woman with frizzy hair sitting at a rickety old table to check us in. I glanced about the room and saw the actors warming up on stage in front of everyone. I also noticed that the room was decorated like a Valentine's Day banquet with red-clothed tables, candles, and tiny hearts everywhere. I left Andy and Jonathan and went to find someone nice to sit with.I saw a young, attractive boy of about fourteen sitting alone at a table with my favorite flowers - red and yellow tulips - at the empty place setting next to him.I sat down and smiled at him, and as he glanced up at me with his big brown eyes something in my heart reacted to him. He was a small boy, with shaggy locks and the sweetest face. I noticed confusion on his brow and then I realized.
"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Is someone sitting here?"
"Well," he said hesitantly,"I was sort of hoping my crush from school would come and those flowers are for her."
I jumped up and assured him that I would sit elsewhere. He seemed to feel badly about it, but I thought he was so cute and hoped that whoever he had gotten the flowers for liked him back. Suddenly I was whisked away to a department store of some sort, I think a JCPenney. I noticed the boy in the store as I was arranging clothes, and I went up to him. He seemed happy to see me, and I told him I would show him my favorite place if he would follow me. I suppose I worked in the store, because I went through an "Employees Only" door, urging him on when he said he was afraid and didn't want to get into trouble.
"Just trust me," I promised him. We went to the back of an old hallway and got into a rickety elevator, pushing the button to take us to tenth floor. As we stepped out of the sliding doors, we were on the roof of the building. On one side we were surrounded by snowy alps and on the other a huge city skyline. Blue ocean was all around, and big ships - the ones from the old days - were at sail. The sun was setting over the mountaintops, casting an orange glow on everything. The boy and I stood looking about us, taking it all in, when the building changed to a rocky cliff and the boy asked if he could climb it. I told him yes, but that I had an easier way. I put some sort of spell on him and changed him into a beetle!!Suddenly, my sister, Matti, came out of nowhere, and thinking it was a harmful bug, crushed the tiny beetle. I screamed in protest, but as the beetle "breathed" its final breath, I knelt by him and wept my apologies, saying I never meant to hurt him.As I realized there was nothing else I could do, I boarded the elevator again. Upon reaching the bottom, my mother was there with several thick envelopes.She told me that my health was in critical condition and that I should be sitting down to read them. Then she left me. My heart was beating fast as I opened the letters, afraid of what I would find. The documents said that I was having trouble breathing and that I would have to have nasal surgery...the only thing was that this "surgery" mimicked the way Egyptians pulled the brains through the nasal passages with a hook during mummification.I was horrified and would rather have died than have this surgery. And then I woke up.

Strange, huh? Any interpretations?

P.S. I SAW THIS BOY TODAY ON MY FLIGHT!!! No joke, I had to do a double take because the boy looked so familiar and I couldn't place him. Looking him dead in the face I realized it was the boy from my dream! I asked him his age and he said fifteen, but he was small for his age. I told him and his mom about the dream - not all of it, lol - but she was cool about it and said I probably just come into contact with so many people that it's not hard to dream about someone I don't know and then see them.
Freaky.

A New Story

2008-01-16T10:08:00.000-08:00

*NOTE*
Okay people - I don't usually write fiction, but while I was in Portland, Maine, this weekend, my two friends and I came up with a brilliant story line surrounding the central lighthouse of Maine.
I will write in sections as I think of them, but I need feedback - let me know what you think!!!!!
P.S. There is no title yet, if you think of one, let me know!

I am barren.

The dusk of early summer is broken occasionally by the rotation of the lighthouse in the distance, the bright flash making its way across the wind ruffled pages of my journal.
I have known about the painful emptiness of my womb since losing my heart to the man of my dreams twenty years ago; I am now forty-two.
I am the last of my bloodline.
I close my eyes to the sounds of nature around me, filled with the beauty of the water lapping gently against the rocks, the screeching of the gulls as they banter for food and romance, the tinkling of the wind chimes hanging from the roof of my porch, feeling the warmth of the lighthouse beacon against the blackness of my eyelids.
With a sigh, I turn back to the empty paper in my lap, lifting my pencil to compose the beginning of my end.

I have lived in Portland, Maine for the entirety of my life. Having done an extensive amount of traveling, I can say with utmost certainty that this city is the one to which my heart is closest. Actually, my entire family originated in Portland, near the lighthouse now gracing my veranda with her radiant beam. There is quite a story in the history of the Portland Head Light. It isn’t known to many people, albeit many people would not believe it if they heard it.
You see, dear reader, I am, in fact, one-eighth of a Vampire. My fingers are chilled with the breezy intake of your gasp, one of which I much anticipated, worry not. The possibility of Vampires in the world of Lamborghinis, Ipods, and the World Wide Web seems ludicrous, I am well aware. However, exist we do; only, it’s quite a myth that we feed on human blood. Of course, that myth did begin with my family, but we’ll get to that.
First, I must tell you why I am writing this story.
You see, I am the last direct descendant of the Beaumont bloodline, and as I am unable to bear children, the story of my existence will end with the covering of my deep grave. Thus, I must leave my mark on the world by a different means. It shall be my way of living forever, so to speak.
Ah, I see the frown of confusion upon your brow. Don’t Vampires live forever?
Dear reader, you have a lot to learn about my kind.
My story really begins in the year of 1791, while America was still young and vibrating with new settlers. As I am more human than Vampire, it was my human ancestors who are the main reason for my existence. They were the first keepers of Portland Head Light’s beam, maintaining its life for the sailors roughing the Atlantic Ocean, the bright sweep of light protection from the treacherous cliffs of the rocky coastline.
In the first days of its operation, the quaint house now adjoining the white tower was non-existent. The people of my family lived near the lighthouse, their one job to protect the ships on the horizon. The clan of Flannery’s filled the small house to bursting, with four children and two goats.
There was one brother, however, who was unlike the rest, the “black sheep” of the family, if you will. His destiny lay elsewhere.
And it was he, dear reader, who set into motion a curse so powerful it took hundreds of years to break.
His name was Simon Flannery.

Recurrent Regurgitation

2008-01-08T14:05:00.000-08:00

As a flight attendant, I must attend a boring training class once a year called "Recurrent."

It should be called "Regurgitation."

I feel like I'm a student in the class where Ben Stein is the teacher and he drones on and on about Red Eyes Clear Eyes.

I already KNOW everything in these tortuously long slide presentations.

I want to SCREAM.

Seriously, if the people attending this class don't have this information ingrained in their heads after a year - or longer, dear God - of having this job, then heaven help us if they are involved in an emergency.

Vampire Lover

2008-01-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

Vampire Lover

There is something to be said for having too many clothes – thank God for Goodwill. This was my precise thought as I drove to the donation section of the local thrift store to lay aside my years of wardrobe malfunctions and runway disasters into the hands of people who could care less about style and more about warmth.
I disembarked from my vehicle to be met abruptly by the stereotype of thrift store workers in Atlanta. A young black man, attractive, I will admit, quickly scooped up my bags as he scoped out my bod. Not that he should have been impressed.
However, impressed he seemed to be as a grin slowly split his cheeks.
“So, where you goin’ all dressed up?”
Ugh, WHY does everyone think I’m “dressed up” if I wear a dress??
I politely smiled back, saying almost through clenched teeth, “I’m not dressed up. I’m just going…book shopping.”
“Where at?”
Please, I thought. Humor me by not butchering the English language.
“The Book Nook, next door.”
“Aw, shawty, jes’ come in the Goodwill! We gots lots a books fo’ sho!”
Well, so much for not killing English. He just put about three hundred bullet holes in her with an M16.
I followed him inside the loading door to get a receipt for tax purposes, I suppose, although I hate the thought of numbers and filing taxes, so I think I threw the receipt away.
Anyway, the point of this story is the boy I saw as I rounded the corner of that door and passed into the shadowy, cool interior of the building.

I looked up into the blackest of midnight eyes I’d ever seen. At the edge of the table stood a boy with skin of the purest white marble, nothing to blemish the perfection of his face. Contrasting beautifully with his skin was his dark shirt, the V in the collar revealing sinewy ivory cords in his neck. His hair was as black as a night sky without a moon, silky and smooth, falling in loose waves about his shoulders.

“With a moan she dug her fingers into the midnight depths of his hair, the glossy smoothness of it like dark water against her palms.”

Oh, by the way, that last part was a faux-romance novel excerpt that ran through my head as I gazed on his tresses.
I stood there speechless as the bumbling idiot wrote up my receipt, unable to take my eyes or thoughts from the brooding, quiet beauty in front of me. He stared at me for a few moments and I couldn’t help but think of him as a Vampire, struggling against his ravenous desire for human blood, trying desperately to fit in, fighting to keep the hunger in his eyes from betraying him. I felt strangely drawn to him, as if I was supposed to know him, and a voice inside was urging me to talk to him.
I would have, but given the circumstances, I didn’t really have a chance.
As I walked back out into the sunlight, I couldn’t help but glance back at him, wondering if he would dazzle me should the sun catch a glimpse of his alabaster skin.
Alas, no such wonder was bestowed upon my Vampire. I noticed he began sorting through boxes of donations, and only then did I begin to wonder what he was doing there. At first I thought he was only a donor like myself, but when he appeared to be working, my mind starting turning.
The gears came to an abrupt stop as English Butcher asked when I’d be back.
Why, God, do I not think of what I say before I say it?
“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be back sometime to bring more of my goodies.”
Yes, those were the words out of my mouth.
Cringing inside at his inevitable response, I tried to hurry away as he sucked air between his teeth, and muttered under his breath, “Oh yeah, you can SHO’ bring me some o’ yo’ goodies!”
Returning to my car, I turned to my partner in crime.
“Do you see him?” I breathed.
“The boy with the beautiful white skin? Yes…I’ve been watching him the whole time. He looks like…”
“A vampire!” we finished together.
As a drove away, his face kept haunting my thoughts. As we drifted through the nearby bookstore, I finally turned to Ashley.
“Do you want to go back?” I asked.
“Yes!!” Ashley laughed.
Back we drove, determined to find out who this Too-Beautiful-For-Goodwill-Donations-Department employee was.
Of course we had nothing to take back to donations, although I suggested we go on a shopping spree in Goodwill and re-donate it all. We nixed that idea early on. Taking our posts next to the “Employee Only” doors, we waited for a victim we could bestow our bizarre query upon.
We soon realized our quest may prove more difficult than we first thought. Most of the folks sporting royal blue Goodwill aprons were of Hispanic descent, rapidly firing Spanish inquisitions (no pun intended) to fellow employees.
To no avail we searched for someone who spoke more English than “That’ll be twenty-five dollars, please,” to answer our strange and random question.
Ashley suggested I go through the doors and when I was caught pretend I didn’t see the sign. I just might have if I’d had a nice Goodwill apron to disguise me.
Finally, after ten minutes of hopelessly craning our necks to see through the small windows of the doors, hoping to catch another glimpse of our lovely vampire, I gave up and went to the nearest employee.
“Excuse me, miss,” I said to the woman nearby who was sorting through musty dresses.
“I know this may sound strange, but I was wondering if you could tell me who the nice man in the back was?”
I proceeded to explain his looks and that he’d been so helpful I wanted to write a letter of commendation. Okay, that sounded like a bit much, but if I told her the real reason, that we thought he looked like a Vampire right out of the Twilight book series and that we wanted to find out if he was indeed Edward and was one of the Vampires who DIDN’T drink human blood, then maybe I could marry him and find out if he has any brothers for Ashley, I can daresay she would have called security, in whatever form that may come at a Goodwill.
Sadly, we didn’t get QUITE the answer we were looking for.
“Well,” she said in perfect English, “I’m not sure if I know exactly who you are talking about…I don’t know for sure if he works here.”
Determined not to give up, I suggested he was perhaps a good-hearted volunteer?
“Oh! Yes, we have volunteers…like for community service.”
“Oh?” I said. He was a Vampire who didn’t kill humans AND he helped his community in his free time? Could it get any better?
“Yes, community service, for you know…DUI’s, petty theft, driver’s license problems, you know, like that.”
WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
OmG. Of COURSE he would be some criminal who opted for less jail time by slumming away in the donation department of Goodwill.
WOW. I know how to pick them.
Ah well, it was still an adventure.
I told Ashley in a fit of almost hysterical laughter as we left the store, “Wow, that was all for nothing…all that scheming to find out he’s a convicted felon!”
“Well,” she said with a smile, “You can always blog it.”

She knows me too well.

His Eyes

2008-01-07T11:08:00.000-08:00

His Eyes

Glittering Gold,
The summer
Breeze across beaches
Of September sands

Copper Pennies,
Cinnamon flecks,
As laugher splashes
Across the ocean

Now Yellow,
Sinking sun
Behind the horizon
Shadows lurking deep

Tempestuous Green
Waves toss,
The ocean giving
Way to storm

Finally grey
Of dawn,
Peaceful silence floating
Upon the tide

Of Drunkards and Seatbelt Extensions

2008-01-07T11:04:00.000-08:00

Chicago to Fort Myers.
Everyone please remind me to refrain from ever doing that leg of a journey EVER again.

First off; seat belt extensions are prohibited in the exit row. This rule is implemented due to the lengthening of the seat belt once the extension has been added. This could, of course, impede an expeditious exit should an emergency occur. And, of course, on to the plane walks a woman who weight at least 350 pounds and will definitely be in need of an aforementioned extension.
Please don't sit in the exit row, the incantation revolves in my mind.
Crap, there she goes. 21A.
The poor man beside her was leaning out into the aisle because he was unable to sit upright. I'm pretty sure he was inebriated - he babbled incessantly and about nothing.
Samantha, my trusty L2 flight attendant in the back, kindly - and as discreetly as possible - informed the woman she would have to move to a different seat should she need the extension. She then informed Sam that she needed the leg room and didn't want to move.
Yay!
The flight was full and every person with working eyes on board was going to see the woman have to get up and move. There was no where to put her that she could fit except business class - which was full, too.
We then called the gate agent supervisor down to beg a business class passenger to switch seats with the woman...finally we moved her to the front of the plane where she could fit AND use her extension legally.

Fast forward to beverage service.
I asked all my business class passengers what they would like to drink. I get to 3C, where my friend has moved, and she asks for a Bailey's on the rocks. I got a little miffed because she didn't pay for this seat, we were trying to be nice to accommodate her, and then she expected a free drink. Okay, she can have one, I told myself.
2D and 2F were steroid-popping, heavily tattooed, tanning-bed baked gay men. It was completely unexpected, you know, like when the tough Army sergeant in the movie drops the soap and ends up loving it.
*ahem*
Anyway, the "woman" in the relationship was nice - the "man" not so much.
But, I digress.
Within five minutes seat belt extension has asked for a Vodka Cranberry. I sigh and accordingly bring her the order. Another ten minutes, she wants another Bailey's. At this point I'm really getting irritated. ( I said to 'im, you pop that gum one more time...and he did) - Sorry, that was a Chicago quote. =)
Ten minutes more pass - and she asks for ANOTHER Vodka Cranberry. I give it to her but am going to tell her it's the last one if she asks for another.
About thirty minutes pass and nothing. Good.

During that thirty minutes, however, a woman in the main cabin comes up to use the lav. Oh. My. Gosh. She REEKED of alcohol! I HATE the smell of liquor anyway, and ESPECIALLY the stench of it on someone's clothes and breath!
She stood there laughing about nothing in particular and then tells me that she has not flown in ten years because every time she gets on a plane the plane crashes, the engine catches fire, or the wings fall off. According to statistics, I'd have to say she is the most unlucky person in the universe.
*sigh* Drunks, wow.
She then proceeds to tell me how rowdy of a passenger she always is, and that she now only flies "super-something". I wish I could remember what it was she said, but when I questioned her, not knowing what it meant, she said, loudly, and right in my face, along with one of those breathy laughs you see intoxicated people have in the movies, "DRUNK! HAHAHAHAHA!!!"

*enter a stretcher for Meredith as she passes out on the floor*

Back to seat belt lady. We are experiencing quite a bit of bad turbulence, and of course the seat belt sign comes on. Let's just call seat belt lady 3C. 3C gets up to use the lav. We ask her to be seated as it isn't safe to be up.
"Oh, don't worry," she told us. "My dad is a pilot, I do this all the time."
WHAT?
"Ma'am, that's a bit irrelevant right now."
Frankly, I wasn't as concerned for her safety as the safety of the passengers she may have smothered to death had she fallen on them. I'm sure she had enough padding to prevent a major injury to herself. Sheesh.
As she goes back to her seat, she - oh yes, she did - ask for ANOTHER drink. It wasn't the amount she was drinking as much as it was the PRINCIPLE of the matter. She was taking major advantage of us doing her a favor at this point. The other flight attendant jokingly suggested I pour out the Vodkas from the bottle and replace it with water to see if she noticed.
So, I did it! I thought it would be funny, plus I was so over this woman. SHE DID NOT EVEN NOTICE. She had asked for another one within ten minutes. I did the same thing with this one. When she asked for a Bailey's I knew I couldn't fake that one and so I told her we were about to land and service was over.
UGH. I was so over that woman by the end of that flight! Actually, I was so over everyone. The man who switched with the seat belt lady started getting lip with Samantha because she didn't have a computer on board to tell him RIGHT THEN when he was going to get his free voucher for giving up his seat.

Not to mention horrid-breath-lady-who-sho

uld-have-died-ten-years-ago-according-to-statistics
wants to have two beers. I tell her I can't serve her any alcohol because she "appears to be intoxicated". Thank goodness she complied, saying, "That's okay, doll, just cancel those beers." She grabbed my sweater as I walked away, pulling me back unexpectedly to say she "loved the sweater!!!"

Last night we had a medical emergency - a guy began having blood pressure problems during a VERY bumpy landing. We didn't know how bad he was until we landed. I rushed back to his seat to check on him, finding out that he couldn't speak due to his attack and that his wife, of a different nationality than he was, spoke very little English! GREAT! I had no idea what was going on. I kept asking if he needed orange juice because his wife managed to say diabetes. I didn't know, though, if it was shock or coma, and each need different treatment. Thank God we were at the gate soon. We called emergency medical assistance on board to take care of the guy - poor thing, he was whiter than I have EVER seen a living human being, not to mention the sweat streaming off of him and the full bag of vomit he held in his hand. Ugh.
If his wife knew of his condition I think she should at least learn how to speak the English needed to help her husband in a future situation.

Okay, well, that's all for now.

It's Christmas Eve and I'm in Dayton, Ohio. Yay.
Tomorrow I'll be in Kansas City, Missouri, where at least it will be my first WHITE CHRISTMAS!! =) That's kind of exciting.
It would have been more exciting should a certain someone called to let me know he was taking me out like he was supposed to, but according to a wonderful new book I just found by Greg Behrendt, "He's Just Not That Into [Me]."

It's actually very liberating as ironic as that may sound.
Don't ever call a guy, ladies.
As this good book says

"He's just not that into you if he's not calling you. Men don't forget how much they like you, so put down the phone. If he's not calling you, it's because you're not on his mind."

Ouch, I know, but a breath of fresh air in a weird way.
Every girl should read the book.
It's amazing.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Love you!

The Agony of TRUST

2008-01-07T11:03:00.000-08:00

To trust.
An incessant topic of contemplation inside my tumultuous brain.
How many times do I have to be trampled upon before I decide enough is enough?
Ere long have I laid my heart upon the altar of complete openness only to gasp painfully, clutching at my chest as the dull ache once again sears through me.
It will be different this time, my foolish spirit pleads to the wisdom of my mind.
Unfortunately, the wisdom with which my mind gently admonishes is only gained by the relentless slicing of my soul.
To love and let love.
There is no easy way out. For if I hold back, never giving or living and always expecting angst, surely I shall become a bitter and forlorn young woman.
I am young yet…still, I find in myself a cynical monster slowly but surely rearing its hideous face and taunting me with maniacal laughter as it slurps up the poison of betrayal upon which it thrives.
If walls could talk, many a sad tale would they relate of a mascara-smudged tenant and cheerless songs adrift in the dark, black night wrapped protectively around the one who bravely wears joy in the sunny day, midnight a thankful shelter to her who needs the solace of tears.
There are times when I wish wholeheartedly to slam the door in the face of those who make their intentions towards me known. I want to believe that they are true hearts, but so many times have I been disenchanted that I subconsciously draw iron bars about me as fortification.
A quote from a recent film put the outlook of our modern world into harsh perspective for me. As Giselle prepares to marry the love of her life in the perfect fairy-tale world of make believe, the evil witch plots to send her to the most horrific place she can imagine, the real world, a place where the witch believes “Happily ever after doesn’t exist.”
I speak not only of romantic love or relationships, but any time two people connect in any way, the beauty of new trust lies innocent and unblemished, hopeful and ready to blossom into something strong and lovely beyond imagination. How I ache for each new chapter of trust and love in my life to thrive and prove that old witch wrong.
A wise man once said, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it completely intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it careful round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable…the only place outside of heaven where you can be safe from the dangers of love is hell.”
Robert Frost once said, “I can sum up what I’ve learned about life in three words – it goes on.” How true this rings. I must take a breath and land with a splash into the winding river of life. No matter how big the obstacle, the river’s water always somehow makes it through, even if it is in almost imperceptible drips.
I suppose I should take C.S. Lewis’ and Frost’s words to heart and realize that to fully live in this crazy adventure of life I must be able to keep an open and fresh heart, realizing that there are good times and bad, but there are neither without both. Each wound sustained is a story to tell, a shoulder of support for another fallen comrade, and through the healing process, valuable lessons which can only come with time.

The Melody of the Nose

2007-10-30T18:55:00.000-07:00

~My Scentiments~

decade-old books in dusty libraries

the first burn of the heater in winter

candy-coated concession stands in highschool

my empty apartment after a long trip

Nana's sweet potatoe pie

Dale & Thomas popcorn in Boston

chocolate biscotti

Christmas tree farms

strawberry lemonade from the Cheesecake Factory

pink saltwater taffy

the wind through my windows on a cold night

housefuls of people at the holidays

my kitty's fur

Zachariah's skin

the lyric jacket of a new cd

fresh cotton candy

new leather boots

early morning fog

new airplanes

Daisy by Marc Jacobs

burnt-black marshmallows

lumber section of hardware stores

the ocean at sunrise

old Victorian homes

snuffed candles

the Apple Barn in Gatlinburg

erasers

flavored honey

ranch Corn-Nuts

sweat of a man after a hard day's work

creek beds

warm pools in the summer

sour kraut

freshly torn green leaves

crushed blackberries

gasoline

sizzling bacon

pumpkin spice lattes

sharpies

my loved ones

new pencils

medicated Blistex

Macy's department store

thrift stores

wrapping paper

Barq's root beer

horehound candy

backstage at the theatre

John Paul Gaultier for men

cardboard boxes

cloves

vanilla flavoring

pecan pie in the oven

first autumn breeze

new dollar bills

Seattle's waterfront

dusty barns

dryer sheets

wind before a storm

cold and crisp bed sheets

fishy scent of the lake

hazelnut creamer

cinnamon graham crackers

How To Turn Yourself Off

2007-10-28T13:28:00.000-07:00

How To Turn Yourself Off

A Virgin's Guide to Resisting Temptationby: Meri Allyn (My Pseudonym)

Not an article you'd expect to see in Cosmo, huh? But tell me, you fellow virgins, aren't you tired of all the columns and books and websites and movies torturing us with tactics which make us burn with sexual desire, the very thing we are trying to resist? I am here to say it's time for us to have a voice in a sex-soaked society.
And why shouldn't we? We are adults who have chosen to remain sexless, not to mention insanely frustrated, depressed, uptight, horny...oh, sorry. I am here to help you through the fight, ladies, as that beautiful boy (or man, although he'd have to be almost on his deathbed to achieve that title nowadays) you've been waiting to get a date with FINALLY asks you to dinner.
After you squeal with excitement, call every girl in your phone book, obsess over your hair, picture your outfit down to every detail - even though the date is a week away - and over-analyze the exact reason why he asked you out in the first place, your mind inevitably floats to the night, the conversation, his lips, the kiss...how far will you go? The following is a list of techniques I've listed in the most effective order and deployment. Read carefully to be fully prepared for the date night that haunts your horizon.

Date Night

First Scenario:
It's a cold night, right after dinner, and you've come back to his place for "dessert." Caution should immediately be employed should he utter this phrase. Dessert is sometimes used as a euphemism for, well, YOU.
As I said before, the night is still innocent. You couldn't be more happy as you stand at the frosted window, watching gently falling snowflakes, taking in the warmth of the crackling fire on the hearth. He brings you his "made from scratch" hot cocoa. Okay, so you saw the empty Swiss Miss packet in the trash. He's trying, at least.
You sip the hot chocolate and in a moment of pure movie magic, he quickly laughs and licks the marshmallow cream from the tip of your nose...he gets that look in his eye and. Oh. No.
Oh YES! This is likely the response your entire body has the moment his lips gently touch your cheek. A peck, nothing more. You start to relax. Perhaps it ends there? But oh no. Here come his hands. A soft, light brush up the side of your bare arm; it leaves your skin hotter than the flames from the hearth. You see his Adam's Apple bob and his breath slowly warms the air near your face.
This is when you must act FAST. I like to call this technique The Knuckle Biter. It can be the easiest to employ; however it does take some discretion as fingers and mouths together can have quite the opposite effect if not properly done while attempting this trick.
Look into his eye with a coy glance, just so he has the impression that you are flirting with him and not rejecting him outright. You are, of course, but this is a sensitive time in the new romance. One must learn to play the game expertly. As you turn your back to him, quickly bite the knuckles of your free hand as hard as possible without breaking the skin. The purpose is, although frustrating, to cause enough pain so that your only focus will be hurrying to the kitchen for ice to place on your wound, thereby stalling for quite a bit of time. This works perfectly if indeed there IS hot chocolate involved. Pretend to spill it on yourself to save an awkward explanation. While you're applying the ice, search for the most unromantic topic to discuss, such as...warm beaches in the moonli...oh, right.
NASCAR, baby! Or anything involving cars will likely divert his attention. It's good to have a pre-made list of boring topics - to you, of course - for times like these.

Second Scenario:
It's a bit later in the evening, and you're wiping your eyes (for the thirtieth time) as you watch The Notebook. My advice is that you DO NOT watch this on your first date. Or the first few dates. However, it seems to be an epidemic, so if you just can't stop yourself, at least refrain from talking about soul mates, marriage, and kids the minute the credits begin rolling. This guy does have points, though, if he is willing to watch the most notorious romance movie/chick flick in modern history with you.
You glance at him on the other end of the sofa, laughing at yourself for your tears. He grins at you...and CRAP! Your heart starts fluttering again. You feel a heat deep in your stomach and you watch with wide eyes as he inevitably begins moving to your end of the couch. You draw your knees to your chest.
*gulp*
This is when you must employ a lovely tactic I like to call The Visual.
This one works every time. As the heat of his strong arm warms your shoulders and you watch his full lips get closer and closer to your agonizingly longing ones, picture the worst and most horrific thing you could ever imagine.
Your parents. In bed.
For some, this thought alone (incredibly) isn't enough. Feel free to bring whatever you need into your nightmare. Behind door number one we have chains, whips, and leather. Door number two? Oh, some maid costumes...oh, and here is a nurse outfit complete with a syringe and stethoscope. Behind door number three there are...rubber boots? Do we even need to go there. At this point you should be sufficiently back in your right mind (or you may need therapy, I'm just saying) to turn your head so that his lips bypass yours and hit your hair. Just be sure you've not washed it too recently, or used any sort of smell-good hair products. Resisting temptation is hard enough without adding another element of sexy.
Reach for the remote or tell him you suddenly have a desire to hear this annoying song you can't get out of your head. Maybe it will help it go away if you sing it all the way through? Don't mind his incredulous look. At least, not yet.

Third Scenario:
You have both been sitting on his bed, laughing for the past hour at hilarious stories of your childhood. The story about the time you fell asleep on the school bus and wet yourself? You might want to skip that one. You were fourteen, remember? Stick with the time you put the spider in your sister's fake tea pot. How about the time you ran away from home...to the woods a hundred feet behind your house.
But you see where this is going, right? The bed, the low lamplight, the laughter? Yes, the classic Tickling Game. Innocently he pokes your stomach. You squeal and grab your side. He asks if you're ticklish, flashing his pearly whites and lifting a dark eyebrow mischievously. This is definitely one of the hardest times to resist the impending kiss. I like to call this one The Asthma Attack.
As he, likely, tackles you gently to the floor, pinning your light frame beneath the - delicious, I know - weight of his and proceeds to tickle you until you feel you just can't breathe, you must do precisely that. As the laughter and delightful pain subside, he will probably look into your eyes and reach a hand to soothe your mussed hair from your brow, dropping his gaze to your mouth.
Quickly, before you can succumb, clutch at your throat with both hands, allowing your face to turn at least a light shade of pink from lack of oxygen. This will give you time as he sits up in alarm to roll away from him and make a theatrical display of gagging and coughing. Don't worry about being embarrassed. Empower yourself by imagining you're in front of the Academy Award judges if need be. Give an Oscar-winning performance. If he is a gentleman - which, WHY the heck are you on a date with him if he isn't - then he will likely ask if there is anything he can do. Speak one word - water. That will get him out of the room long enough for you to hurry to the mirror for a quick primp session. Don't freak if you see a broken blood vessel in your face from holding your breath. We must suffer, sometimes, for the sake of posterity. You hear footsteps on the stairs. Quickly retreat to the bed and look weak. You can't let him know what a horrible liar you are. What would he think of you? Then again, you DID just shoot him down for the third time. Hmmm...it may be time for a little compromise. Emphasis on the word LITTLE.

Fourth Scenario:
You sip the water, realizing the night is ending. If it seems his interest is waning as well, worry not. You still have one more chance. As he walks you to the front door, bidding you goodnight and thanking you for a fun evening, you can tell he isn't going to try a goodbye kiss. Good, this gives you the advantage. As he places a hand on the doorknob, reach for it, entwine your fingers with his, and slowly lean up.
Now, let's stop for a moment. You should definitely be leaning WAY up. Tippy-toe up. If your boy-toy is five feet, two inches, that's fine. Just make sure you're four foot eight. But, I digress. I forgot, personal preference. Forgive me.
So, back to you on your tippy-toes...or, if it's your thing, him on his. You sigh inside. Finally, your lips meet. It's a nice kiss - soft lips, good breath, not too aggressive. Yet. No. WAIT! Girlfriend, YOU are supposed to be resisting HIM. Stop with the tongue and the hands and the sounds...
UGH!
This is where my final and most brutal tactic comes in.

The Rugrat.
It would be a beautiful thing if I could transport you to the worst daycare imaginable and keep you a prisoner there for days. As that is impossible, I need you to go to a very dark place with me. The Labor and Delivery Room. 100 years ago. Why so long ago? It won't be as affective because today one has a myriad of drugs available to lessen the horrendous pain. No, we must go to a time before all of that.Imagine the screams of pain as the child tears through your body, the blood, the strange people in the room with you...it's like a nightmare, only it's completely real. Now let's go a little further into the future. You see that dirty - and I mean dirty - diaper strewn across the kitchen floor? Yeah, little Junior pulled it from the garbage and Fido tore it open. Now view your savings account; that trip to Tahiti you've been saving for? Oh wait, that's right, you depleted it buying formula and diapers. Now it's three a.m. You've just fallen asleep. Suddenly a scream like a dying banshee slashes through the white monitor by your head. I may be testing your tolerance for pain when I ask you to picture your tight abs turned to flab and your perky chest part of your flabby abs.
Need I go further? If you're covering your eyes and screaming, "No more!" I warned you it was brutal. Ah, there we go. From the horrific look on your face I'm assuming you just saw your demise should you continue that amazing kiss.

The End of the Night
Now that you are safely in your car and driving away, let me say a few more things.
I'm not really so radical. I don't honestly believe one kiss is going to end your life as you know it. But, however unbelievable, it can change your life quite a bit. It can be quite difficult to resist the wiles of a charming and handsome lad, especially after that kiss. Hopefully my wonderful techniques will enable you to overcome some nights of tempestuous temptation. Of course, you could always just tell a boy up front that you're not going to be another notch on his bedpost, whatever your reasoning may be. The first moment he begins to resist your decision, kick him to the curb. That's the best and simplest advice I can give...but then again, I wouldn't have had the fun of indulging in this article. =)

CHEERS!

Light

2007-10-28T13:26:00.000-07:00

As the heat of early fall begins abating to the soft breezes of its cooler cousin, she meanders in a sort of wistful daydream at one of her old haunts, a park near the river and shops of city life. The warmth of her favorite latte still simmers in her stomach, and a tentative smile crosses her lips as her thoughts roam a thousand miles away. She has come here to get away from the hectic busyness of the past few months, happy to be in the company of old family and friends. On this day, though, she has ventured out for a walk on her own. The night is sure to bring wild gaiety at a planned bonfire...she thinks of all the people she is so anxious and excited to see, imagining how much everyone will have changed since she last saw them. The smile on her face slowly grows as she sinks further and further into her daydream.
Suddenly a voice at her back, a voice she shall never quite get out of her heart, gently calls her name. She doesn't want to look back, so afraid of what awaits her, yet she aches to the core of her soul to see his face again. Slowly she turns in the direction of the voice. There he is...with her. She clings to the collar of his dress shirt, her pale baby fingers clutching her father's hand as he reaches up to loosen her grip.
In one of those "flash-bulb" memory moments, the scene before her is emblazoned in her mind. The sun glints off the midnight blackness of his hair as he stands, one hand at the top of his front jeans pocket, the other wrapped firmly around the bottom of his young child. Her eyes slowly travel to his, green, storm-tossed waves meeting yellow-gold heat of a tiger's gaze. She doesn't speak. She doesn't weep. She doesn't feel. She simply is.
He speaks. "Hi."
The word echoes in the stillness surrounding them.
"Hello," is all she can think to say.
"This is Sophia," he says, motioning to the baby on his hip. It is then that she realizes she has yet to look upon her face. Her soul screams in protest as she helplessly turns her gaze upon her heartbreak. She is struck, almost physically, by the strong resemblance she shares with her father. Those eyes, piercing green, are shadowed by deep black lashes. She feels as if the child is staring into her soul.
Before she can stop herself, she reaches for the baby.
"May I?"
Without a word he hands the warm bundle to her. She holds the light weight of Sophia in her arms, stroking her cinnamon curls, silently reveling in the lingering scent her father left behind. It is just as she remembered. The child giggles and flails her tiny arms about, simultaneously drawing a laugh from our heroine's heart and slicing it in two. In the next moment Sophia gently rests her chubby hand upon the strange lady's soft cheek and stares into her face; a half a breath feels like an eternity. She can feel the soul of her lost love vibrating in Sophia's heartbeat, and as she glances over her shoulder, the man watches with such a sadness in his gaze that the mile-thick wall around her heart shatters in an instant. As a silent tear slowly begins to trickle down her cheek, she turns back to Sophia. She speaks to her for the first time, although the words are meant for the man over Sophia's shoulder.
"Hi, Sophia. You're beautiful, did you know that? You have a soul that I can see in your eyes, and it is breathtaking. Don't ever worry about days gone by as you grow older...all things happen for a reason, even if it seems that reason may never be clear to your heart. I think I'll always love you...I just can't help it. When I first saw you I just knew you were one of those people I was never going to get out of my heart. You are going to do great things - I believe in you and I always will, darling. Don't ever be afraid to follow your heart, and when you feel that your world is crashing at your feet, always know there is someone out there who cares. Someone once said, 'Mistakes are the portals of discovery.' So, my love, discover the new life that awaits you. Breathe the scent of the fresh-churned dirt roads, calling your name, endless treasures waiting for you at the end. I wish you laughter, hope, and the strength to forgive those who do you wrong, for all the days of your life. May a love so wonderful it steals your breath rain down like a torrent upon your beautiful head."
Finally, she looks up from a glassy ocean of tears to see his quivering chin, the veins in his neck strained as he struggles to keep his composure.
"Sophia, give this to your daddy, from me." She wraps both arms around the baby's slight frame, hugging the child to her chest in the warmest of embraces. She feels small fingers grabbing at her shoulders in an effort to return the hug, and she can't help but give a small laugh through her impending tears. She clutches the small body to hers for another moment, feeling half his heart beat close to hers for a final time. She pulls Sophia's arms from around her neck and places a kiss on her rosy cheek. The child grins and giggles again as shes hands her ripped soul back into his arms. Their fingers touch for a moment infinitely too brief; firecrackers still sparkle through her veins. He holds the child and looks at the woman for a final time. She realizes how aged he looks, finally like the man she always pictured him to be.
In the distance behind her, she hears a female voice call her beloved's name; he lifts his hand in a wave, the sun glinting off the gold band on his left hand. He looks from his child to his lost love, knowing this is it. He lowers his head to kiss the cheek her lips just touched, locking eyes with her. Appearing to direct his words at his daughter, he puts a bandaid over the gash in the woman's heart."I love you, beautiful."
As both their mouths crack the slightest of smiles, she takes the first step into the future, into the light, without a backward glance.

Closure

2007-10-28T13:23:00.000-07:00

When will I feel his kiss again? I ache, deep inside, almost incessantly for his lips, his gaze, and his warm touch. Every time I see the tall back of a broad shouldered man, I can't help but recall images of him. I watch the stranger from behind, my gaze sweeping from the top of his dark head to the base of his tanned, strong neck, my heart beating ache and emptiness into my veins as my eyes rest upon his arms. The strength I imagine that resides there makes me yearn for the stranger to suddenly turn around, revealing that he is indeed the man whose arms I wish to make my haven. I die a little inside every time I realize that I shall probably never again lay eyes upon him. For even though I have been "in love" with other boys, not one of them has ever - or will ever - create in me such an intense loneliness at the thought of spending the rest of my life without him.
But does he even care is the question that plagues me next. Does he ever even think of me? I want to scream that my heart is being irrational, that how could he not love me as I love him? Perhaps, though, it was all a facade he played with impeccable sincerety. And if this wretched scenario be the case, what a fool I have acted. What a fool I continue to be. And if this shall ever be an unrequited love, I pray to God I shall keep my sanity should the gorgeous, green-eyed, noble-hearted rogue ever cross my path again.
I ask my heart what it believes, although it is not always loud when I ask this question. I ask why I hope to see him again one day. I ask if it believes I will see him, if our paths will reunite. But I have a difficulty understanding the answer at times. Does my heart say no because that is what I truly believe? Or is it because that faintly whispered "yes" is drowned by the loud fear that I will spend my time wasting away and miss an opportunity with another? I think, perhaps, when I listen the most intently, I can hear my heart sigh - not for the sheer sorrow of love lost, but for the fact that an instinctively important endeavor was not given the chance to be expounded upon. My heart, louder now, voices a yearning for closure in this stairwell of my life. Perhaps, albeit the closure may not be exactly what I think I want, if indeed this is what I need to move on with my life, I've no doubt that it will show itself in a perfect opportunity in due time.

Of Autumn and Pumpkin Spice Lattes...

2007-10-28T13:20:00.000-07:00

Autumn…the breeze feels as if a giant hand has taken the blanket of summer heat and snapped it open, letting it lazily fall, like a sheet as it drifts down to cover a bed. Soon the leaves shall crackle under foot and the air will deepen with the aroma of majestic colors - passion, glory, and fire.
Indulging my taste buds with slow sips of a warm, spicy latte, my eyes drift shut and delightful daydreams begin to float around me. The wind blows gently past my ear, tinkling with faint giggles from happy children.
Tree-shrouded lanes beckon to lovers, their silent mystery offering refuge from society’s impediments. The chilly air sweeps down the lane, and nips at azalea-pink cheeks, slipping unnoticed past the simmering flames held in each glance.
I open my eyes to gaze at the blast of cinnamon leaves waving at me from above; if I look closely enough I can glimpse the sparkle of a fairy's wing. Sighing, I sink back into the soft, wood-smoke scented jacket of the boy behind me. He chuckles to himself, the deep sound vibrating through his broad chest and straight to my heart, causing it to skip a beat with complete happiness. He wraps his arms tighter about me and leans down to place a tentative kiss on my wind-nipped cheek. I look up into his sea-green eyes, still pleasantly surprised at the warmth that courses through my middle at a mere glance.
I watch as the world around me continues to move, swearing to myself that people are stepping more lightly and smling more brightly. And why wouldn't they? Just around the corner await days of smoldering campfires and the smell of woodsmoke, the soothing chorus of crickets, and cloudless nights with full moons. The time has come to slip on the soft, bright sweaters that linger lovingly with the scent of last October; scarves of every design and color wait eagerly to be taken out of their winter box and into the cool breeze, the frayed ends happily blowing in the harvest wind. Soon dark rivers of hot chocolate will brew on the hearth and gingerbread men will wait to be born. Glowing orange fruits smile menacingly and sticky faces wear ghoulish glamour on day thirty and one of October.
Under Friday Night Lights the crushing sounds of defeat and victory will soon be heard booming beneath midnight skies, the beating of drums and the low mourning of horns making the night air sing with glory.
So quickly the minutes move towards the anxiously anticipated holidays that I almost forget to breathe in the short-lived glory that is Fall. Take a moment to enjoy.

I Hate Stupid Girls

2007-10-28T13:16:00.000-07:00

I loathe stupid girls.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of my soul, I wish that they did not exsist. However, I believe that most of the time stupid girls are NOT without cleverness - their stupidity is merely an Oscar-Winning Performance to gain the attention of the nearest male homosapien.

And for what, pray tell?

That the boy/man/guy/jerk-who-could-really-care-less-about-who-you-are-but-only-cares-about-what-you-will-give-him look at that girl and mentally - or verbally - lewdly inspect her "assets?" COME ON, LADIES! We deserve more than that! Stupid Girls give the ambitious, independent, and confident women a bad name. They make us appear less than worthy of a good man, a good job, and, plaintively put, lower the intelligence of women everywhere.

Don't ask me a stupid "helpless little ol' me" question just because a boy walked into the room. Don't pretend that everything is suddenly insanely funny and your high-pitched giggle is going to be liquidized so you might as well use it all you can. Don't twirl the ends of your bleach-blonde-black-root hair or pop the loudest bubbles possible - no one likes to listen to your smacking. Please refrain from showing us everything and THEN some with your isty-bitsy cheerleader-night-out-after-the-game apparel. Stop packing on the makeup - be confident to go withOUT it for once. OR, if you ARE going to insist on wearing it, be sure you know how to apply it. Don't toss your hair-spray frozen tresses in my face, and don't constantly run your fingers through your paved-flat sticks. Ditch the ohmigod squeal and shoot for something less annoying. Also, wipe that "I'm clueless" look off of your face. Burn the Blondes Do It Better tees, and better yet, shred the other half of your sexual-innuendo-soaked wardrobe.

A man who would lower himself to date such a woman is only adding insult to injury. I can't help but assume that something is seriously lacking in his life or self image to resort to dating a tanned-leather bimbo. He puts his other friends through misery when Barbie tags along, feeling obliged to side with his nerve-grating date or - God forbid - end up alone with his truck and dog. Fortunately for the guy who ends up alone, conversations with a blank white wall are more stimulating.

But, I digress.
Still, it's a shameful epidemic that ravages today's young girls.
Maybe we should create a world-wide quarantine. I'd gladly be the warden of such a prison. =)

Brainless Boeing Bimbos - Actual Comments By Passengers

2007-10-28T13:03:00.000-07:00

So, I've not written in a while, although I have had many stories to tell...however, my poor computer has breathed its last, and so my time on a computer is limited. Still, although I don't have time for a very long entry, I thought I might shed some light on some of the IDIOTIC things people say when they get on a plane.It scares me at times; these people drive, vote, and raise children. Enjoy.

"Oh, you mean, the weather is going to affect our departure time?"
- a dead serious man in business class...in the middle of a RAGING thunderstorm. He wanted to know if we would take off in ten or fifteen minutes, and when I explained that the weather would probably delay us quite a bit, that was his ingenious reply.

"Excuse me, do I LOOK like I need carbs?"
- a skinny, blonde, big-boobed chick to my roomate when she was offered a two ounce bag of mini-pretzels during inflight service.

"Can I use my cell phone to call home from up here?"
- a grown man who was being absolutely serious.

"Excuse me, I can't get my wireless to connect."
- a guy who rang his call light to ask me that. When I looked at him incredulously, wondering if he was serious, his wife said, "He likes to try everything, haha!" Wow.

"Um, how do I open the door?"
- idiot who stared at the lavatory door for about thirty seconds, all the while looking at the large PUSH sign on the door right in front of her.

"What gate does Fort Lauderdale go out of?"
- meanwhile, we have not yet departed from the gate in LOS ANGELES...he wants to know what gate he is going out of - six hours later.

"Excuse me, what state are we over right now?"
- Let's see, let me pull out my map. Oh yeah, it's the NORTH F-IN POLE!!

"Um, I didn't get any headphones."
- Um, I just walked through the cabin with them, looked right at you, and got a blank stare (this happens ALL the time).

"Could I get a Jack on the rocks?"
- it's 6:00 am. Wow.

"Is this trash?"
- as they toss their empty cup and napkin into the ICE BUCKET on the cart.

"Ma'am, your purse needs to be underneath the seat in front of you."
"I know, you told me already."
- as she keeps her purse on her lap.

"The flight attendant keeps saying on the annoucements that this is the flight to Boston, but we are going to Orlando!"
- a group of women who got on the wrong plane, sat down, and proceeded to tell me that WE didn't know where we were going.

"Why did we stop?? Why did we stop??"
- frantic woman who rang her call button several times once we reached our cruising altitude above the clouds. Omg.

"Can I get a double scotch on the rocks?"
"Sir, I'm sorry, but you appear to be intoxicated and we reserve the right to refuse alcohol to passengers."
"Okay then, can I get a Bud Light?"
- ugh.

"Is this your normal route?"or "What route are we taking today?"

"What kind of drinks do you have?"
"Coke products."
"Okay then, I'll have a Dr. Pepper."
- that was COKE. Not Pepsi.

"Excuse me, could you get the captain to turn the engine down? I can't hear my friend."
- imagine a 'ba dom shh' with a cymbol at this point.

"I'd like an orange soda.""Ma'am, I'm sorry, but we don't serve that."
"Well, I see an orange Minute Maid can in there," she says, reaching to rummage in my tray.
"Um. That would be orange JUICE. We don't HAVE orange soda."
"Oh."
- yeah, I like to listen to myself lying to passengers. Sheesh.

"Can we just put the cat in the overhead bin for takeoff?"
- another passenger's resolution for a pet carrier that was too big to fit under the seat.

"Ma'am, we don't have champagne on these flights."
"Oh yeah! Because, like, it might explode."
- what?

"I don't see why I have to be responsible for this door."
- a woman in the exit row...she was moved from her seat, lol.

"Do you have to stand up the entire flight?"
- a kid from a group of highschoolers.

"Do you have a menu?"

"Excuse me, is the flight from Atlanta to LA only an hour and a half?"
- the time change is a THREE HOUR difference. This idiot thought it took an hour to fly across the country.

"Are we going to have those big blue things (the engines) right next the window for the whole flight?"

A friend of mine was on a flight up the East coast and they passed over the Atlantic ocean at one point. A customer rang her button and asked what body of water it was. The flight attendant decided to play a trick and answered,"The Red Sea." The woman elbowed her husband and says, "See! I told you!"
- WOW.
"Do you have any Dr. Pepper?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"Well, do you have any Diet Dr. Pepper?"
"You didn't tell me this creamer was pressurized!!"
- a customer who complained when the "pressurized" creamer spilled on him.

"Do I have to listen to this loud noise for the ENTIRE flight?"

"Do you get off in Baltimore?"
"No, we get off in Maryland."

"Can I use my cell phone?"
"No."
"Well, then, can I use yours?"
- a passenger, 40,000 feet in the air, to my friend

"Why aren't we higher?? Those mountaintops are awfully close!"
- the mountaintops were the clouds.

Whenever we have unaccompainied minors aboard, we are required to brief them. One conversation went as follows.
"Do you know how to fasten your seatbelt?"
"Yes."
"Well, can you show me?"
"Lady, look, it says 'lift' right on it!"

An old man was traveling by himself. He called the flight attendant back to tell her this lovely message: "I have to go to the bathroom, and it might be messy...I don't think my Depends will hold it, so you might need to get another seat cushion in Atlanta."

"Do they have one for women?"
- a MAN who was about the use the lavatory. ?

"Why are you doing this to me?!"
- imagine a woman with a heavy NY accent saying this - we were delayed because of a storm and she rang her button to ask me this.

These aren't exactly quotes, but other stupid stories that people have told me...

There was a plane change on a through flight from Boston to Orlando - this means that people had to take all of their luggage, deplane, and get on another plane at another gate.The flight attendants explained to people over and over again what to do, but questions were still being asked. As the plane landed and everyone else got off the plane, a group of people were left. They asked the flight attendant, "Can we leave our bags on the plane?"
At this point, the attendant said, "YES! If you want your bags to end up in California!"

Another woman told me a story of a man who literally had the tray table down, and was clipping his TOENAILS...and sweeping them into the floor.

People also take off their shoes and socks and put their bare feet on the wall in front of them.

Another woman used her bare foot and toes to lower the tray table in the next seat when the flight attendant brought her a drink.

There once was a time when it was very hot and the plane would not be cooled down until the aircraft would reach cruising altitude above 10,000 feet, so if a customer would not be able to deal with the heat, they should deplane at that time.
The plane finally reached its cruising altitude and was slowing starting to cool down. A woman called the flight attendant back to her row with a question.
"Excuse me, but I'm still hot - are we allowed to roll our windows down now?"

Still concerning windows, a passenger asked if he could have a window seat because he wanted to roll it down so he could get some better shots with his camera.

An older woman asked her husband for a phone number as we were doing service at her row. We were 40,000 feet up, when I looked over to see her looking at her phone, puzzled, and telling her husband it wouldn't go through.
"Ma'am, first of all, your phone is supposed to remain off during the flight, and second of all, you won't be able to get any service this high in the air."

Ah, people never cease to amaze me. Stay tuned for even more ludacris comments coming your way...

VEGAS, baby! Oh, and Mile High Club Members

2007-10-28T12:56:00.000-07:00

I have been to the City of Sin and back...and got kicked out of two casinos while I was at it. What is my story, you ask? Sit back, relax, and enjoy the rest of your journey...

After a nice meal at Popeye's Chicken, near gate C16, I meandered back down to the crew lounge to enjoy a long, boring evening, sick of waiting for someone else to get, well, sick, so I could take their place on the trip. I had just taken out my book, settled into the nice, black leather couch, put my earphones into place, when my phone rang."Crew Sched In," it says. This can only mean one thing.
"Hello?"
"Yes, Meredith? You're goin' to Vegas, baby!"
Okay, so she didn't say it exactly like that, but you get the picture. I have never been to Sin City, never been anywhere near it, actually, so I couldn't help but be a little bit excited! So, after meeting my crew, we flew - no pun intended - to the gate. After ensuring that we had TWO liquor kits on board, we were off. I knew that 137 of those 137 people were more than likely going to order alcohol. By the end of the trip, I was totalling out $205 worth of liquor. At five dollars a pop, you can imagine how much alcohol that actually was. Example: there are seven bottles of Bailey's Irish Cream per liquor kit. Seats 1D and 1F drank FOURTEEN of them!And they were going to Vegas - free drinks for merely sitting at the slot machines! So, we arrived in Vegas at 11 pm their time...put that in REAL, Eastern time, it was close to 2 am. Although I was a bit "red-eyed," lol, I was ready for the night on the town promised to me by the crew.
But wait! I'm not yet twenty-one, I argued. After assuring me that no casino cards at the door, we headed for the hotel. A quick stop for dropping off luggage and putting on cute outfits and we walked the half mile from the hotel to the glorious Vegas Strip. It's times like these, I thought wistfully, when a camera would do my soul good. I've seen it on television plenty of times, but it's just one of those things that one has to experience first hand to glean all the richness of the city. The buildings were blue, pink, and green, with sky scrapers and thousands of bustling people. First stop: Bally's. I felt like I was in a movie from the first moment those gold-plated doors were swung open. The slot machines were like giant pieces of candy, their lights glittering, luring, greedy for money. I looked with surreal surprise to actually see for the first time in my life the tables where the poker-chicks - whatever they are called - were dealing out the cards to the, hopefully, lucky players. The first officer promised more beauty around the corner, so we followed him.
I saw a MILLION DOLLARS cash in a glass cube...it was awaiting its winner in the annual poker tournament, not yet begun. It was breathtaking to be near that much cold, hard cash. We rounded one more corner, and there it was...complete with cobblestone roads, lamp posts, and cafe tables and chairs. My little piece of Paris. The ceiling was painted as a blue sky, with clouds, and it opened up onto another vast ocean of people, games, and bars.There were several theatres inside of Paris, Las Vegas, and bands played. I saw, with great shock, several cocktail waitresses, dressed in almost nothing. Yuck. Anyway, so, we made our way to Gustav's Bar, where the girls ordered a giant pina colada served in a plastic replica of the Eiffel Tower. Very cute, but not cute enough to pay $12.50 for. When asked what I wanted to drink, I shook my head, indicating nothing, but the other crew members told me I could get a virgin drink. Okay, so I ordered a pina colada."Can I see your ID please?" Uh-oh, the dreaded question. I knew I couldn't lie, so I just told him I wasn't yet twenty-one.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, ma'am. You can't sit near the bar area, and you're not supposed to be in here."
Ugh, how embarrassing. So, up we get and walk to another part of the huge casino, where the girls took a break to play a few penny slots - and lose ten bucks, of course. After we left Bally's/Paris, we went to Flamingo's. Another flashy-smashy beautiful casino. I went into the gift shop and watched a fight right outside of the window. I got a little nervous, but the cops soon intervened and the brouhaha was over. I suppose I picked a bad time to return to the other flight attendants, because as I stood over them, watching them waste more money, a rude cop, or whatever he was, came up to me. He pointed right at me and said,
"How old are you?"
Once again, I couldn't lie!! Do I LOOK LIKE I AM TWELVE???? Anyway, I told him I wasn't twenty-one, and he told me to get out. I tried to explain that I was with them, and they had just put their money in, but he said they would have to leave with me if they were going to stay with me. As they tried to quickly play their last few lines, he practically yelled in my face and said, "That means NOW!" Evil man. So, we left...again.
We ran into a Burger King to grab a quick bite to eat, and, once again, it was in a casino. I kept my head down the entire time, praying that no one would kick me out again. I was starved. We finally got back to the hotel around three in the morning, which, in real time, lol, was six am. I was exhausted. In all, it was a fun night, even if I was kicked out, lol. I can't WAIT until June, when I can go back, flip out my ID and say, "BOOYAH!" I suppose I'll appreciate looking twelve when I'm fifty, though.
The city was beautiful, alive, and breathtaking. I can't wait to go back and visit The Venetian, Caesar's Palace, and see some shows. OH! I saw at least three couples where the girl was wearing a bridal veil. I guess some people ARE crazy enough to get married there. I want to see the drive-through chapels. Even though I don't drink, or gamble, for that matter, it's still a cool place to visit, just to say you went.

Okay, part two. You know how everyone asks me if I've caught anyone in the Mile High Club? Up until a few days ago, the answer was no. Well, now I have.
A man walks on the plane, well dressed, handsome, but with a nose ring, so I assumed he was probably gay. He was very "pretty." Probably in his early twenties. Right behind him, enter a woman in her fifties, heavy, not attractive, with two warts on her face. The woman tapped the man on the shoulder, he turned around and said in a creepy high-pitched voice, "There you are!! You just keep getting me into trouble..." Weird. After the man comes and begs us for a seat closer to the aisle - he gets anxiety attacks, he said, and throws up on people, sweats, and freaks. He didn't want to bother anyone. He'd even had a couple of drinks before getting on the plane, and he "doesn't even drink." In the same sentence he asked if we could serve him a Crown Royal and a coke as a pre-departure beverage. Yeah...So, he ends up taking the seat next the woman who had walked on the plane.They start talking, so I figured the guy was happy. Flash forward to inflight service. Between the two of them, they ordered $40 worth of liquor. She then proceeds to ask for a blanket...as did he. We were coming from Fort Myers - it was NOT cold on the plane. I wrote a note to the other flight attendant, LaReina, on a napkin and said, "You know why they want those blankets..."
I got them the blankets, we finished service, and LaReina went to do trash. She bolted back to the front and said, "Oh. My. Gosh. They are freakin' off under the blanket. The blankets are pulled up to their necks, the tray tables are down, and she is leaning over in his lap."I had to see this, so I took the trash bag and headed back through the cabin. At this point, they were heavily making out, like some freaks in a porn movie or something. She was licking his face, he was biting her arm, and, well, they were doing other things I'll save for the imagination. I didn't know what to do! It was in front of other passengers, but no one was complaining, so I told the lead flight attendant. She did nothing, so I just stayed in the front as much as I could. The guy got up to go to the lav, and if she had followed him I would have headed back there. Luckily, she didn't. The worst part, though, may have been as they were deplaning. They were the last ones to leave the plane, and as they waited for an old woman in her seventies to get out in front of them, the guy pretended to grab her rump, looked at me and said, "Yum, she's so fat, I love it!!"I was speechless. What the heck do you say to garbage like that? There are definitely some perverts in the world. As they left, LaReina came up to me and said, "Oh my gosh, so I asked them if they were on their honeymoon, or something, because they both had on wedding rings. They said no, the guy didn't even know her name, and the woman said, 'Oh, we don't even know each other, we were just messing around.'"
WOW. So, ladies and gents, as disturbing as it may be, I have finally been witness to some freaks on the plane

You Know You're A Flight Attendant When...

2007-10-28T12:49:00.000-07:00

1. You can eat a 4 course meal standing at the kitchen counter
2. You search for a button to flush the toilet
3. You look for the "crew line" at the grocery store
4. You can pack for a 2 week trip to Europe in 1 roll-aboard
5. All of your pens have different hotel names on them
6. You NEVER unpack
7. You can recognize pilots by the backs of their heads-but not by their faces
8. You can tell from 70 yards away if a piece of luggage will fit in the overhead bin
9. You care about the local news in a city three states away
10. You can tie a neck scarf 36 ways
11. You know at least 25 uses for air sickness bags-none of which pertain to vomit
12. You understand and actually use the 24-hour clock
13. You own 2 sets of uniforms: fat and thin
14. You don't think in "months"-you think in "bid packs"
15. You always point with two fingers
16. You get a little too excited by certain types of ice
17. You stand at the front door and politely say "Buh-bye, thanks, have a nice day" when someone leaves your home
18. You can make a sentence using all of the following phrases: "At this time, " "For your safety, " "Feel free, " and "As a reminder"
19. You know what's on the cover of the current issues of In Touch, Star, and People magazines 20. You stop and inspect every fire extinguisher you pass, just to make sure the "gauge is in the green"
21. Your thighs are covered in bruises from armrests and elbows
22. You wake up and have to look at the hotel stationery to figure out where you are
23. You refer to cities by their airport codes
24. Every time the doorbell rings you look at the ceiling.
25. You actually understand every item on this list

And Now...

15 of 25 Uses for an Air Sickness Bag
- I'll come up with the other ten when I figure them out

1. put hot water in it to warm up your food
2. put the "moist towelettes" in it along with hot water to warm them up for business class
3. store extra Biscoffs when they won't go back in their plastic wrappers
4. take drink orders/snack orders on
5. mix a "spa" treatment for dry skin - this is lemon juice, sugar, and club soda, lol
6. tear one in half and roll it down on the sides to create a creamer holder for the service cart
7. store customers' medicine
8. make a cold compress for headaches/bruises (on your thighs from elbows and armrests, lol)
9. create an anti-hyperventilation bag (person breathes into it to prevent passing out)
10. create a toy for toddlers - show them how to blow it up and make a balloon
11. Make a hand puppet - think Fandango commercials
12. Make a cooler for cold stuff - put ice in a double-bagged airsickness bag, and it will keep even ice cream cold, no joke.
13. A bookmark
14. create a "basket" for headphones as you pass them through the cabin
15. when you forget your apron, use it as a your apron "pocket" to hold your snacks as you do service

Thoughts

2007-10-28T12:39:00.000-07:00

I'm in a weird mood tonight....I love to get my old notes, writings, journals, scrap notebooks, etc. out and reminisce on what an IDIOT I used to be.Seriously I can't believe anyone was ACTually my friend. I pretty much think I'm almost not the same person I was say, four years ago. Of course people change, but I've gone off the radar in some aspects.If I could go back and do highschool again, for like, two weeks, wow. Let's just say I'd kick some DRAMA ass.

Some people used to tell me that I would "turn goth" - that they could see me in a coffee shop on a NYC corner, writing and wearing a black beret with a somber look in my eye. Actually, I think it was Perrin Lance who drew that dire scenario. And while I don't actually see myself as THAT miserable, lol, I do find myself being drawn more and more to a kind of "dark side" if you want to call it that. I'm not a witch...not yet, anyway. HA, okay, that last part was a joke, but seriously, I find a deep satisfaction in other ways of life that are so polar opposite than my own. And I don't just mean the punk/rocker/Gothic chick in me, either. Maybe it's the Gemini in me. You know, the good girl is usually out, but there's that badass girl in there just raring to go sometimes? Is that why I always insist on falling for the guys I can never have? Anyway, this isn't a sob entry. Feast your imaginations on a world bigger than ours right now...

Ever since I can remember I've been fascinated by other cultures and religions. The thought has crossed my mind to adopt kids that are of different races, like two or three from two or three different countries. I know I've said I don't want kids, but when I read a quote in a magazine the other day, I couldn't help but think, "This is me!" It said, "I often stared at what I thought to be interracial adoptive families. I would want to follow them. I can't explain why, except that imagining myself in a family like theirs made some kind of bone deep sense to me."Maybe it's my unending desire to never conform. I want to soak up all the riches of the people God has put on this earth, with the unique ways that they live, love, laugh, and die.I ache with a fierceness I would have never thought possible to visit the country of India. It all started with a book so poignant about today's teenagers the peer pressures they face, from an Indian/American girl's point of view. I've also read "The Twentieth Wife," a story about the Emperor Jahangir and his wife who ruled steadfastly beside him, Mehrunisa. Lately I've been reading all about the Persian Empires and the vast beauties of their courts and traditions. What would it have been like to be a member of the Royal Harem? Of course, having sex with a nasty old guy would be gross, but other than that, it was a great honor to be a part of the Harem, and you were the envy of all the common women of the land. I want to see the enormous city that Akbar built to honor the priest who predicted his son's birth. I want to look upon the Taj Mahal with my own eyes and partake of its intended romantic inspiration. I got this excerpt from a book about India, and I can't get it out of my head...
"As Mumtaz Muhel lay dying she whispered a final wish in her husband's, the Emperor, ear. She asked that he build a monument of such perfect proportions and of such purity that no one could be in its presence without sensing somewhere within himself the eternal wonder of the power of love and the inevitability of its passing with death. She passed away soon after, having spent the last of her living breath giving birth to her fourteenth child. The Emperor grieved for eight days, alone in his room, neither eating nor drinking, and when he finally came out again, his appearance was so altered that he was hardly recognizable. He aged greatly. During the next twenty years he devoted to designing and building his wife's tomb, the Taj Mahal. Then, nearly thirty years after the death of his true love, at the age of seventy-four, the Emperor himself, Shah Jahan, accidentally ingested poison and died. Next to his bed a tiny mirror was embedded into the wall, set an angle as to perfectly reflect the Taj Mahal. There he had lain while he was dying, gazing at the reflection of his beloved wife's tomb, white and noble across the river. The guards found him, his head still turned toward the mirror, his eyes still open and staring uncomprehendingly at the lovely image in the reflecting glass."
Is that not beautiful?? I want to see this vast monument to love in real life and photograph it to my heart's content. I want to eat their food and talk to their people. I want to cover my hands in beautiful patterns of henna ink and dress in saris that float weightless about my body, modest yet inexorably arousing. I don't care about the dirt or the stench - I'm smart enough to know that most people don't bring back the clothes they wear in India because the smell of curry will never come out. However, I'm aching to go so badly that a couple pairs of clothes are worth it. Another country I am dying to see is Christ's Jerusalem. I want to go where Jesus went, I want to stand on Golgotha and feel love in a very different, very powerful form. There are so many places that I have read about in the Bible which I think I only recently fully understood are still there!! That these places I've heard about since I was born, literally, are waiting for me to come and partake of their glory. I met a guy on the plane the other day, about my age, and he was very passionate about the world and its beautiful cities. As he told me about places he had been, his eyes suddenly took on a dreamy look and he held both my hands lightly in his as he said, "If you never see any other city for the rest of your life, you must visit Israel. Words cannot describe the magnitude of its beauty or history. The people who live there are so kind, and so inviting, you feel like you are coming home." Soon after, while I was in Baltimore on a layover, and an infomercial was on television about LeSea Tours. It was a trip to Israel. I sat transfixed while person after person relayed almost exactly what Mark had said to me on the plane. I heard Santiago whisper, "Listen to your heart."

Is the Universal Language speaking to me? I find that Omens are becoming a much more noticed part of my life nowadays. And they have always been there, I just didn't know how to see them. It isn't that I am not content - rather, I feel that I have a journey before me and I cannot live fully until I complete that road. Like the saying goes, "It isn't about the destination, it's about the journey."Some people only give heed to what is happening at this moment in time, and while I fully condone Carpe Diem, I also know that today is quite possibly only the Beginning.

Do I make sense? Or do I leave you feeling cold? Do I even make sense to myself?

I have a question that I feel may never be answered until I get to heaven. Have you ever noticed that when you turn on your blinker signal at a red light, and there is a car in front of you and a car behind you, that - even though initially the blinkers start at different speeds - in a matter of seconds they are all three in SYNC? And then, just as quickly, they are out of sync again. The same goes for windshield wipers on a bus or diesel...if you watch closely, they start out at the same rhythm, but, just like the blinkers, are soon out of sync and doing their own thing. But just as quickly, they gain their original tempo and glide together for a few moments. WHY???!?!??!!?!?!?

I beseech, thee, brethren.
Follow the desires of your heart...

Wedding Napkins

2007-10-28T06:38:00.000-07:00

When we that wore the myrtle wear the dust,
And years of darkness cover up our eyes,
And all our arrogant laughter and sweet lust
Keep counsel with the scruples of the wise;
When boys and girls that are now in the loins
Of croaking lads, dip oar into the sea --
And who are these that dive for copper coins?
No longer we, my love, no longer we --
Then let the fortunate breathers of the air,
When we lie speechless in the muffling mould,
Tease not our ghosts with slander, pause not there
To say that love is false and soon grows cold,
But pass in silence the mute grave of two
Who lived and died believing love was true.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

This woman is my hero.