It's funny how simple things can reveal so much about someone. The way someone answers a phone, holds your hand, the drink he orders, the socks he wears. One of the biggest tells I've found is the gift he gives.
I do not wear a watch. I have skinny wrists, and it can be difficult to find accessories that aren't too loose. And watches have always bothered me; the way they pinch your little arm hairs every now and then and how they're always reminding you that the hours of your life are slipping away and someone's keeping track. No thank you.
I also seldom wear bracelets. I like my cheap costume-y ones: the fake pearls in shades of pale green, the little brown beaded ones with larger turquoise baubles, the cheap amalgamation of clear, creamy white, and silver beads. All containing some type of elastic, I like the way they stay in place but not too snugly, and they make good toys when my hands get fidgety. I could never wear bangles (all that sliding up and down and the pretentious clink clink every time you move your arm). I don't even get the phrase "tennis bracelet," and I certainly don't want it on my wrist, regardless of its karat amount.
I should have figured it out when his first gift to me was a watch. And I should have dropped everything and ran when his second gift was a sparkling bracelet. But instead, I stupidly wore these items that I loathed until I ended the relationship several months later.
It wasn't until my current love presented me with roses and daisies for our one year anniversary that I actually got it. Really, it was just the daisies. They're my favorite.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
a minute of motivation is worth a pound of cure
It was a pretty simple plan. Run 2 minutes, walk 4. Run 2 minutes, walk 4. And so on, until I reached the thirty minute mark. It sounds incredibly simple, but when because I hadn't really done much running in almost 5 months, it ended up to be a bit of struggle in those last minutes.
It was the very last minute that really got me. My watch flicked to 11:56, and I dragged my feet into a quicker pace. Timing had cursed me and landed me on an uphill slope for this last push. I plodded along, slower and slower with each footfall but still at a decent jog. I glanced at my watch. 11:57.
I told myself one minute wouldn't matter. My lungs were agreeing wholeheartedly. My legs were applauding the idea. And I almost gave in.
But it occurred to me that if I couldn't push past this one measly minute, then maybe I would never be able to stand for anything. If I couldn't force my legs to keep pumping for a mere 60 seconds, it seemed all too likely that I would never get published, that I would never sell anything I created, that I would never get the job that made me happy, that I would probably soon find myself on another 5 month hiatus from running. It was just a minute. But I knew that my ability to conquer that stupid little fragment of time would speak volumes to me. My feet churned on.
I looked down at my watch again. 11:58.
It was the very last minute that really got me. My watch flicked to 11:56, and I dragged my feet into a quicker pace. Timing had cursed me and landed me on an uphill slope for this last push. I plodded along, slower and slower with each footfall but still at a decent jog. I glanced at my watch. 11:57.
I told myself one minute wouldn't matter. My lungs were agreeing wholeheartedly. My legs were applauding the idea. And I almost gave in.
But it occurred to me that if I couldn't push past this one measly minute, then maybe I would never be able to stand for anything. If I couldn't force my legs to keep pumping for a mere 60 seconds, it seemed all too likely that I would never get published, that I would never sell anything I created, that I would never get the job that made me happy, that I would probably soon find myself on another 5 month hiatus from running. It was just a minute. But I knew that my ability to conquer that stupid little fragment of time would speak volumes to me. My feet churned on.
I looked down at my watch again. 11:58.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Sunday Scribblings: Collector Personality
My mom would never admit it, but she collects junk mail. This is the only explanation I can find for the mounds of paper heaped in various places throughout her home.
In the living room, there's a basket of newspapers covering the events of three different counties. Most of them have never been read.
On the kitchen table, there's a stack of retail magazines near my mother's chair. There's a Current, a Betty's Attic, a One Hanes Place, a Mary Maxim, a J.C. Penney catalogue (the Christmas edition). On the kitchen counter, there's three credit card applications, eight charity requests, fourteen sale advertisements, and at least two dozen more retail magazines (Lands End, Herschners, The Popcorn Factory, the Sears Book, The Lighter Side, Chadwicks, and on and on...).
Back in my parents' bedroom, the top of the dresser is buried beneath more of the same.
I can't understand the purpose of this excessive display of junk mail. And every day it grows. I worry about the other knick knacks and trinkets displayed throughout the house. I'm afraid before too long they'll be lost amongst the flurry of paper. The pictures of grandma and my baby niece, the statues of angels and little kids playing, the candles of green, gold, and blue, my mother's claimed collection of wrought iron tricycle figurines--how can they ever survive in a sea of ink and cheap paper?
But I've got a greater concern...the welfare of my parents. Because one day, this collection of junk mail is sure to band together and rebel. They won't be satisfied with owning the table, the counter, the dresser. They'll overflow onto the floor, pushing their way throughout the entire house, flooding the living room, wedging open cracked doors to find their way through the bathrooms, the bedrooms, the closets. My parents will come home from work to a party of paper goods. Mary Maxim will be hanging from the ceiling fan, scattering her bits across the floor. The Sears Book will be duking it out with the J.C. Penney Catalog while Lands End is working a concession stand, selling glue and staples. Mastercard and Visa applications will be hacking into the computer, racking up the charges on themselves under my Dad's innocent name. And as my unsuspecting parents open the door to this chaos, they'll be attacked by a flock of fluorescent pink and green fliers, and...
what's that?
yeah, Mom, I'd love to make a trip to the recycling center.
phew...
In the living room, there's a basket of newspapers covering the events of three different counties. Most of them have never been read.
On the kitchen table, there's a stack of retail magazines near my mother's chair. There's a Current, a Betty's Attic, a One Hanes Place, a Mary Maxim, a J.C. Penney catalogue (the Christmas edition). On the kitchen counter, there's three credit card applications, eight charity requests, fourteen sale advertisements, and at least two dozen more retail magazines (Lands End, Herschners, The Popcorn Factory, the Sears Book, The Lighter Side, Chadwicks, and on and on...).
Back in my parents' bedroom, the top of the dresser is buried beneath more of the same.
I can't understand the purpose of this excessive display of junk mail. And every day it grows. I worry about the other knick knacks and trinkets displayed throughout the house. I'm afraid before too long they'll be lost amongst the flurry of paper. The pictures of grandma and my baby niece, the statues of angels and little kids playing, the candles of green, gold, and blue, my mother's claimed collection of wrought iron tricycle figurines--how can they ever survive in a sea of ink and cheap paper?
But I've got a greater concern...the welfare of my parents. Because one day, this collection of junk mail is sure to band together and rebel. They won't be satisfied with owning the table, the counter, the dresser. They'll overflow onto the floor, pushing their way throughout the entire house, flooding the living room, wedging open cracked doors to find their way through the bathrooms, the bedrooms, the closets. My parents will come home from work to a party of paper goods. Mary Maxim will be hanging from the ceiling fan, scattering her bits across the floor. The Sears Book will be duking it out with the J.C. Penney Catalog while Lands End is working a concession stand, selling glue and staples. Mastercard and Visa applications will be hacking into the computer, racking up the charges on themselves under my Dad's innocent name. And as my unsuspecting parents open the door to this chaos, they'll be attacked by a flock of fluorescent pink and green fliers, and...
what's that?
yeah, Mom, I'd love to make a trip to the recycling center.
phew...
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Thursday Thirteen: 1st Edition
I've had a long, long love affair with song lyrics. I'm always amazed when a songwriter manages to nail down some vague emotion through the simplest of words matched up with the perfect melody. So for today's
I present:
Thirteen Lines of Lyrical Loveliness
1) "ransom notes keep falling out your mouth / midsweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs / speak no, feeling no, i don't believe you / you don't care a bit" - Hide & Seek, Imogen Heap
2) "and i act like i have faith and like that faith never ends / but i really just have friends" - My Friends, Dar Williams
3) "and so it is, just like you said it would be / life goes easy on me / most of the time" - The Blower's Daughter, Damien Rice
4) "so we bottled and shelved / all our regrets / let them ferment and came back to our senses" - Mistakes We Knew We Were Making, Straylight Run
5) "watch you spin around in your highest heels / you are the best one of the best ones / we all look like we feel" - Stolen, Dashboard Confessional
6) really, the entire song "A Comet Appears" by The Shins is lyrically amazing, but in particular: "one hand on this wiley comet / take a drink just to give me some weight / some uber man i would make / i'm barely a vapor" and "we can blow on our thumbs and posture / but the lonely are such delicate things"
7) "the stars are blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun / when you read my mind" - Read My Mind, The Killers
8) "a trace of me / it floats in my periphery / and ever time i turn to see / it goes" - Prison Food, Ben Folds
9) "and it's not a cry you can hear at night / it's not somebody who's seen the light / it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah" - Hallelujah, Various Artists (but my favorite is Rufus Wainwright)
10) "i've fallen so far / for the people you are / i just need your star for a day" - Fly, Nick Drake
11) "i went because you said you'd be there / a box of candy, smoke in your hair / explain it to me again and again / like i care / ba ba ba ba ba" - Bruised, The Bens
12) "tears and fears and feeling proud / to say i love you right out loud" - Both Sides Now, Joni Mitchell
13) "butterflies are passive aggressive / and put their problems on the shelf / but they're beautiful" - In Other Words, Ben Kweller
and wasn't that an excellent way for me to waste 1.5 hours?
2) "and i act like i have faith and like that faith never ends / but i really just have friends" - My Friends, Dar Williams
3) "and so it is, just like you said it would be / life goes easy on me / most of the time" - The Blower's Daughter, Damien Rice
4) "so we bottled and shelved / all our regrets / let them ferment and came back to our senses" - Mistakes We Knew We Were Making, Straylight Run
5) "watch you spin around in your highest heels / you are the best one of the best ones / we all look like we feel" - Stolen, Dashboard Confessional
6) really, the entire song "A Comet Appears" by The Shins is lyrically amazing, but in particular: "one hand on this wiley comet / take a drink just to give me some weight / some uber man i would make / i'm barely a vapor" and "we can blow on our thumbs and posture / but the lonely are such delicate things"
7) "the stars are blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun / when you read my mind" - Read My Mind, The Killers
8) "a trace of me / it floats in my periphery / and ever time i turn to see / it goes" - Prison Food, Ben Folds
9) "and it's not a cry you can hear at night / it's not somebody who's seen the light / it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah" - Hallelujah, Various Artists (but my favorite is Rufus Wainwright)
10) "i've fallen so far / for the people you are / i just need your star for a day" - Fly, Nick Drake
11) "i went because you said you'd be there / a box of candy, smoke in your hair / explain it to me again and again / like i care / ba ba ba ba ba" - Bruised, The Bens
12) "tears and fears and feeling proud / to say i love you right out loud" - Both Sides Now, Joni Mitchell
13) "butterflies are passive aggressive / and put their problems on the shelf / but they're beautiful" - In Other Words, Ben Kweller
and wasn't that an excellent way for me to waste 1.5 hours?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Writers Island: My Imaginary Life
As a recent college grad, I've been doing a lot of imagining about life. Living in my parents' house, unemployed, with a car that seems to be about five steps away from the point of no return, it's been pretty easy to imagine an ideal life for myself...
I would wake up in the morning to the smell of fresh coffee--because I've always wanted but never had a coffee pot with a timed start function.
I would give my love a quick squeeze, a kiss on the nose, and then tumble out of bed and into the shower--because ideally getting out of bed wouldn't feel like such a chore, and maybe I wouldn't hate morning showers so much.
I would bop along to work in my Mini Cooper--because I'm sure that's what you do in a Mini--bop. I would step into my little cafe, where some lovely fresh-faced and charming girl has already opened up after baking away for a few hours in the morning--because who wants to get up that early?
I would slip into a pretty apron, one like so many that hang along the walls, ones that I've stitched up myself, ones that you love to buy along with a sundry of other bits like hand-bound journals and charming totes.
I would get to work on the daily biscotti, stopping every few minutes to chat with my favorite regulars, and to make any newcomers feel welcome.
Around 4:30, I would bid adieu to my cozy cafe, left in the capable hands of a trustworthy doll who locks up and cleans each evening. I would head home, just in time to work on a healthy and tasty meal with my love.
We would finish up with a heart-healthy glass of wine, and I would trip off to my study with a mug of coffee, ready to pound out a few thousand words of perfectly crafted prose--because in this imaginary life, editing and revision are hardly necessary--perfection comes naturally.
And upon finishing up my day, I'd curl up into bed, next to my love. He'd wrap his strong arms around me; I'd rest my cheek against the warm sturdiness of his chest. And our sleep would be sound and solid, uninterrupted by dreams of a life more perfect.
I would wake up in the morning to the smell of fresh coffee--because I've always wanted but never had a coffee pot with a timed start function.
I would give my love a quick squeeze, a kiss on the nose, and then tumble out of bed and into the shower--because ideally getting out of bed wouldn't feel like such a chore, and maybe I wouldn't hate morning showers so much.
I would bop along to work in my Mini Cooper--because I'm sure that's what you do in a Mini--bop. I would step into my little cafe, where some lovely fresh-faced and charming girl has already opened up after baking away for a few hours in the morning--because who wants to get up that early?
I would slip into a pretty apron, one like so many that hang along the walls, ones that I've stitched up myself, ones that you love to buy along with a sundry of other bits like hand-bound journals and charming totes.
I would get to work on the daily biscotti, stopping every few minutes to chat with my favorite regulars, and to make any newcomers feel welcome.
Around 4:30, I would bid adieu to my cozy cafe, left in the capable hands of a trustworthy doll who locks up and cleans each evening. I would head home, just in time to work on a healthy and tasty meal with my love.
We would finish up with a heart-healthy glass of wine, and I would trip off to my study with a mug of coffee, ready to pound out a few thousand words of perfectly crafted prose--because in this imaginary life, editing and revision are hardly necessary--perfection comes naturally.
And upon finishing up my day, I'd curl up into bed, next to my love. He'd wrap his strong arms around me; I'd rest my cheek against the warm sturdiness of his chest. And our sleep would be sound and solid, uninterrupted by dreams of a life more perfect.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
"I get that sinking feeling..."
It occurred to me that the wrapping up of our relationship might have gone too easily. After declarations of love and an awkward attempt at moving beyond friendship, it seemed like it should have been more difficult and heart-wrenching to deem our efforts failed. We scraped the remnants of us off our plates and agreed to start again. I should have known that feelings and desires would cling like a stubborn gravy, time having fused them to his heart.
She's nice.
It is not meant as malicious or even disapproving commentary. But as soon as the words leave my mouth I know they will not do, and I get that sinking feeling. His eyes plead with me. Please make me feel like she can replace you they seem to say. I struggle between my conflicting duties as his friend and former love. I could say she's great and perfect for him, but the intensity of our friendship makes my already pale lies virtually transparent.
I would never speak for him, but I think he's suffering silently.
These are the words I should have known I would hear. I turn my plate over and over again in my hands, searching for lingering bits of hope to match his. But I can find none.
She's nice.
It is not meant as malicious or even disapproving commentary. But as soon as the words leave my mouth I know they will not do, and I get that sinking feeling. His eyes plead with me. Please make me feel like she can replace you they seem to say. I struggle between my conflicting duties as his friend and former love. I could say she's great and perfect for him, but the intensity of our friendship makes my already pale lies virtually transparent.
I would never speak for him, but I think he's suffering silently.
These are the words I should have known I would hear. I turn my plate over and over again in my hands, searching for lingering bits of hope to match his. But I can find none.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Dear Diary
Dear Diary,
I have a lot of fears.
It was easier when I thought I knew what I wanted to do "when I grew up." It seemed so simple and perfect to move to New York and pursue a career in editing. I had my plans boxed up in this neat little package with perfect edges and a secure latch.
But then it all blew to hell.
Those crisp edges started disintegrating; the latch kept flopping open and my neat little future leaked onto the floor in a muddled mess of confusion.
A friend of mine once said he was impressed with how pulled together I was. He'd be so disappointed if he could see the way I'm falling apart now.
The biggest challenge, I think, is figuring out what I'm most afraid of.
Is it being away from everyone and everything that I know and love?
Is it having a job that bores me and that I only tolerate in hopes of rising in the ranks over the years to finally arrive at interesting job 5 years from now?
Is it a cubicle? A 9-5? White walls and file folders? Business casual? Casual Friday? The word "office"?
Is it that I'll make the wrong decision? About the job? About my location? About my relationships?
Is it that I'll be a disappointment?
Is it failure?
Is it...success?
Here's the secret, dearest diary. Here's the scandalous tidbit that would get me laughed at and mocked.
I just want to be happy.
And nothing else really matters.
I have a lot of fears.
It was easier when I thought I knew what I wanted to do "when I grew up." It seemed so simple and perfect to move to New York and pursue a career in editing. I had my plans boxed up in this neat little package with perfect edges and a secure latch.
But then it all blew to hell.
Those crisp edges started disintegrating; the latch kept flopping open and my neat little future leaked onto the floor in a muddled mess of confusion.
A friend of mine once said he was impressed with how pulled together I was. He'd be so disappointed if he could see the way I'm falling apart now.
The biggest challenge, I think, is figuring out what I'm most afraid of.
Is it being away from everyone and everything that I know and love?
Is it having a job that bores me and that I only tolerate in hopes of rising in the ranks over the years to finally arrive at interesting job 5 years from now?
Is it a cubicle? A 9-5? White walls and file folders? Business casual? Casual Friday? The word "office"?
Is it that I'll make the wrong decision? About the job? About my location? About my relationships?
Is it that I'll be a disappointment?
Is it failure?
Is it...success?
Here's the secret, dearest diary. Here's the scandalous tidbit that would get me laughed at and mocked.
I just want to be happy.
And nothing else really matters.
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