A Fact About Me

Sometimes when I can't sleep
I turn on a fan
And uncover my legs
Close my eyes
And imagine I'm on a sun porch at dusk
Somewhere tropical
Windows open, wind coming up off the water, salt in the air and on my tongue
And I can hear calypso music
From a far off beach party
And I am not me
And I am not here

I Wish I Had a River I Could Skate Away On

The holidays are upon us. It's snowing! And this is when snow is still fun because it's "Christmasy." After Christmas, snow will be the thing that makes me want to punch babies. But for now, it's festive. It's neat! And it's not just snow--all the Dove Chocolates are shaped like snowmen and bells and the Hershey's Kisses have little bits of peppermint in them. You can even buy packing tape that's green and has reindeer on it. What is it about decorative packing tape that makes me want it so much?! And of course, there is my love affair with claymation Rudolph. The quickest way to make me write you off as a human being is to utter the words, "I don't like claymation Rudolph." How could anyone not worship him? He's the goddamn cutest little guy ever.

I do like the atmosphere of the holidays--the music, the snacks, the shroud of secrecy surrounding gift-giving, the adultery (Mistletoe? Come on...), the hustle and bustle...but there is something that always ruins it for me--the realization that I am completely and utterly alone in this life. I mean, is there anything more depressing than going to the mall alone during the holiday season? Maybe it's only depressing if you know that when you go home, you're also going to be alone. Ok, ok, I know I'm not completely alone. I have my mom and dad, my sister, her husband, and some friends. But I feel alone. My alone-ness surrounds me like one of those hug machines, except it's not comforting.

Today I walked across the glossy wood floors of the mall and listened to the Christmas music, smelled the tacos, ran my hand across racks of brand new leather coats--all the while feeling like an observer, like a foreigner visiting a strange new land, a land where people speak a language I've never heard of--the language of love and togetherness. Am I being too dramatic? It's just, sometimes I do feel like an outsider. I see older women in their stretch pants and their sweatshirts with sparkly snowflakes, with their butch haircuts and their brightly colored shopping bags, and I wonder--why not me? Because I know that even though those women are tragic in a way that is completely different from the way that I am tragic, at least they have each other. They're probably going to drive home together in a mini-van strewn with Tim Hortons coffee cups and water-logged paperbacks--evidence that life has been lived inside that van--and they're going to roll the windows down and light the cigarettes their husbands don't know they smoke while gossiping about their clueless sister-in-law who is annoyingly perky all the time, has a flawless glossy black bob and perfectly manicured nails, and who never rolls through stop signs or takes a long nap in the afternoon and forgets to pick up the kids.

Like I said, I have friends--great friends. And my family loves me. But sometimes I feel a little bit like I'm in the way, like I'm an inconvenience. Maybe it's that my mom and dad force me to live in a dank basement room and they keep me chained to my bed at night. Nah...I think it's more that I just need to figure my life out, or to get a life in the first place. For now, I remain a sad, lonely loner who carries an emptiness inside her the likes of which only the truly lonely know.

Merry Christmas!

Fear n' Cheeseburgers

One of the things I found appealing about becoming a nurse was the idea that I'd have an atypical work schedule. You see, a full-time nurse usually only works 3 days a week, which leaves 4 days to play around with. I thought, Oh HELL YES! I will learn to ski. I will learn to cook soup. I will climb K2. I will marry a man, have a baby, and teach it to read with flashcards. But yeah, I haven't done any of that. I have mostly gone to the movies by myself on random week days, spent hours upon hours watching myself cry in the mirror because my life is in shambles, taken my dog for walks, and driven around aimlessly in my car listening to Dr. Laura, wondering every minute that I'm listening to her why I'm not turning it off.

There is a lot wrong with my life right now. First of all, I spend way too much time at Wal-Mart. But it's my third place to go!! See, I read once that everyone needs a third place to go. You know--work, home, and...a third place. For some people, that third place is the gym. For other people, the third place is Starbucks. For me, the third place is Wal-Mart. I go there and walk around aimlessly, looking at picture frames and vacuums, bedspreads and Nutella. I convince myself that I really, really need a new tape dispenser. I talk myself into buying the clothes they sell there, low cut jeans and sparkly tank tops with words like 'Princess' and 'All That' written on them, that make me look like an aging hood rat. I have a closet full of acid wash and a jewelry box full of hoop earrings that won't come in handy unless I join a street gang.

Another thing that's wrong with my life...chicken nuggets and cheeseburgers have far too much power over me. Hey, did you know that nuggets and burgers actually have chemicals in them that, like, train you to want more and more? Well, I didn't. I didn't know that because I don't have time to read magazine articles and books. I'm too busy eating my weight in nuggets, then waiting an hour, then eating more nuggets, then waiting an hour, then eating two cheeseburgers, then going to Wal-Mart. All that eating and shopping doesn't leave a whole lot of time for expanding my mind. And it doesn't leave a whole lot of time for starting a Precious Moments collection, which is something I have always longed to do. I am in a prison, and my prison bars are made of meat n' cheese. If only I could eat my way out...but I can't because I keep buying more prison bars because apparently nuggets and burgers are as addictive as black tar heroin.

I like being a nurse, but all this time off and all this MONEY is killing me. A few weeks ago, my friend Angie told me that a motivational speaker came in to her work, and he talked all about "toxic knots"--the things in your life that keep you from being happy, basically. You have to learn how to untie the knots in order to self-actualize (achieve your full potential). "Can't I just cut the knots off and then use a glue-gun to put my rope back together?" I asked her, as we sat in a crowded bar on a busy Friday night. She took a sip of her drink and rolled her eyes at me. "No, you asshole!" she said. "You have to untie the knots yourself. You learn about yourself in the process of untying the knots." I could tell she had really drunk the Kool-Aid this time. I asked her what her toxic knots were, but I don't remember what she said because as she was talking, the whole room faded into a blur as I began to think about myself and what my toxic knots are. I couldn't even hear Angie talking anymore because I was so lost in thought about me and my problems.

I'll tell you what the mother of all my toxic knots is--Fear. Fear controls me more than cheeseburgers do, which is to say--I am Fear's bitch. If Fear asked me to do her laundry or be her wedding photographer, I'd have to do it, because Fear is my master. Is it just me or is 'Fear' starting to sound like a really cute name for a baby girl?

The list of things I am afraid of is endless--death, flying, public speaking, roller coasters, mold, really big grasshoppers, white sheets on clotheslines, Karl Malden. I am even afraid to swim in the pool at my gym--mostly because I don't want the lifeguard to judge me. So how the hell am I going to untie my biggest, toughest toxic knot? Well, I've come up with a strict set of rules...because I believe that any successful life change begins and ends with an incredibly rigid set of rules.

Rule 1: Only eat fruits and vegetables from now on! I'm pretty sure I totally have the self control to pull this off.

Rule 2: Write for two hours a day, and read for one hour a day. (I'll confess that I actually came up with these rules a few weeks ago and this is the first writing I have done... Shame! Shame spiral!)

Rule 3: Do not go to Wal-Mart. (I have literally been to Wal-Mart every day since I made up these rules)

Rule 4: Try to fit as many viewings of Air Bud: Golden Receiver as possible into each week. That movie completes me.

Oh damn it, who am I kidding? These rules are for the birds. All I know is, I am at a crossroads. In the immortal words of Tony from West Side Story, something's coming. I just hope it's not more stubborn belly fat. I'll keep you posted on my endeavors to become a better person. Please wish me luck...and if you get a second, would ya swing by McDonald's and pick me up a sack of burgers?? Thanks, that'd be great.

Melancholy Soup

I used to write free-form poems a lot
I called them poems, but they were really just short sentences
They didn't rhyme or anything
Not that poems have to rhyme
They don't
Have to rhyme
Don't you just love poetry?
Does it make you think of lying in bed with a lover while he traces the small of your back with his fingertips?
Does it make you think of a simpler time?
Like a time when people listened to records and made their own clothes?
I took a poetry class once
At Eastern Michigan University
In a windowless room
There was a girl who always, always drank limeade
Limeade is just a little bit cooler than lemonade
Limeade is just a little bit more dangerous than lemonade
She had a blunt, severe haircut, with bangs that went straight across her forehead
She had a patchwork backpack
She never cried while reading her poems
Like a lot of the other kids did
But she would fight with the teacher
He hated her
And she hated him
I don't think she liked poetry
Me, I liked poetry
I still do
I have Dylan Thomas' Selected Poems 1934-1952 on my nightstand
That proves I like poetry
So fuck you if you think I'm lying about that
Right now I am listening to 4 + 20 by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young on repeat
This song makes me want to sit by a bonfire
Not with a huge group of people, but alone
Or maybe me and one other person
My lover
Same guy who traces the small of my back with his fingertips while reading me Pablo Neruda
I want to go back to when I was nine
I remember the smell of burning leaves and the chill of the fall air on my little nose
I remember the feeling of being cold, but sweaty from riding bikes in the cold, and happy
So happy for no reason
If I rode my bike today, it wouldn't be for the joy of it
It would be for exercise
My mom used to make me a Banquet chicken pot pie for dinner almost every single night
I had chicken, my sister had beef
We lived in a little neighborhood
The kind of place you could let your dogs run without a leash and without supervision
Although, one of our dogs was mauled to death one night
I remember our kitchen phone
It was attached to the wall, like all phones were back then
So you had to sit in one spot to use it
I could look out the window and see my best friend's house
It was just down the hill from our house
I could see into her kitchen
It would be all lit up with warm yellow light
Sometimes when I dream, I am inside of her house
Sometimes when I read a book, I see her house as the character's house
Sometimes it's one of the houses I have lived in, but sometimes it's her house
She doesn't live there anymore
Neither do her parents
I don't live in my house anymore, either
And neither do my parents
That's because things change

8 Days a Week

Ugh, I'm super mad at myself. I accidentally deleted this post when I was re-reading old posts. I'm obsessed with myself, by the way. So, now I'm re-posting it, because in the future, I want to be able to go back and re-read every post I've ever written, kind of like re-reading my diary.

I originally posted this on 5/3/09:

I can't believe I've been away from my blog for so long! Well, alright, I can believe it. I haven't had time to blog lately because I've been super busy wallowing in self-pity. I've also been organizing my desk drawers. Like I said--super busy. But for serious, because I know you're all curious, I'll go through every last thing that I did this week. Here goes:

Sunday:

That's right! The week technically starts on Sunday! You forgot, didn't you? Actually, the fact that the week technically starts on Sunday really pisses me off...kind of the way that the hour of midnight technically marking the start of a new day pisses me off. Midnight doesn't feel like a new day, any more than Sunday feels like the start of the week. That shit is fucked up. When the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve, there will always be some asshole in the room willing to say, "Hey you guys! It's Christmas! It's Christmas!" But I guarantee you that that asshole will be met with nothing more than a chorus of not Christmas carols, but eye-rolls.

I digress. Sunday. I went to a bridal shower for my lovely friend Em Caskey. It was a lovely shower with lovely people. It was pretty. The food was good. The bride was gracious and charming. After the shower, I drove home beneath somewhat cloudy skies with the windows partially rolled down. I drove the back way, on a winding road past farms and sheep and donkeys and dead woodchucks and trailer parks, listening to the non-fiction book "Columbine" by Dave Cullen. It was uplifting listening for a Sunday.

When I got home, my dad knocked on my bedroom door. I said, "Entre!" Yes--I said "Entre," because it sounds kind of like the word "Enter" but it's more exotic and reminds me of food. So my dad came in, a gleeful and somewhat mischievous look on his face. He said: "I want to go see 'Obsessed.'" I said: "I'd go see that!!" He said: "Really? Mom said you'd never go because you're studying." I said: "I don't care! Let's go!" He said: "We have to get mom something from Taco Bell afterward." I said: "Great!" As we drove over to the Lapeer Cinema 6, I hugged myself and thought happily that when you don't expect good things to happen to you, that's when they do. I didn't expect my dad to want to go to a seven o'clock movie, as we almost never do that on Sundays (we ALWAYS go to matinees on Sundays). And I certainly didn't expect a Taco Bell dinner. The lord works in mysterious ways indeed.

Monday:

Remember that test I didn't study for on Sunday night, in favor of watching Beyonce beat up Ali Larter? Well, I had that test on Monday morning at nine a.m. sharp. It was a test for EMT class--120 questions covering 10 chapters. I got to the Genesys parking lot about 10 minutes early, as is customary for me. I took a few minutes to go over my notes, annoyed because the kid in the car next to me had his bass thumping so fast and hard it made me feel like I was going to have a small stroke or go into a-fib. The kid with the thumping bass was, of course, one of my classmates. He's the kind of guy that clearly thinks he's awesome, though I don't know who gave him that idea. He's all skinny and tan and greasy and he goes on "smoke-breaks" and sneers at people and never holds the door open for anyone. I don't know about you, but to me that spells awesome. Um...no it doesn't.

Inside the tiny, antiseptic-scented, florescent-lit EMT classroom, I sat down at my rickety table and was greeted by my 60-year-old table-mate, who proceeded to talk ceaselessly until the test began about the inevitability of all of our deaths by Swine Flu, in a shameless display of fear-mongering. I somehow ended up telling her that I "didn't care" about all the Mexicans who died of Swine Flu, when what I really meant to say was "Shut the fuck up about the goddamn Swine Flu before I make you eat your hand!"

I got a 97% on my test. Thank you very much. It turns out I can have it all.

Tuesday:

Since I'm finally done with the semester at Oakland University, I didn't have anything at all to do all day Tuesday, so I (what else?) went to the movies. I decided to see "earth"--you know, that DisneyNature movie about our planet?? I used to love watching nature shows when I was little. I remember many an elementary-school Friday night spent watching National Geographic movies with my mom. Alright, fine--I spent many a high-school Friday night watching Nat-Geo movies with my mom too! Fuck you for judging me. Is it such a crime to love Wombats?

But anyway, aside from voraciously watching Shark Week every July (Shark Week ALWAYS coincides with my birthday week--true story), I've started to feel like I'm losing touch with the natural world. So, in order to solve this problem, I raced to the NCG Trillium Cinema in Grand Blanc, bought a bucket of popcorn (and soaked it butter-substance from the self serve butter pump) and a box of Milk Duds and settled in for a lazy afternoon of movie-watching and face-stuffing. I enjoyed "earth" the movie almost as much as I enjoy Earth, the real thing. The mountains! The fields! The majesty! The baby caribou! Plus the fact that I didn't actually have to be outside to experience it was a giant plus.

The only thing that frustrated me about the movie was narrator James Earl Jones' constant reminders that "our planet is sloooowly dying." We'd see two rambunctiously adorable polar bear cubs frolicking on the powdery snow of the arctic and we (the audience) would be filled with warmth and glee and then James Earl Jones would say something like..."Unfortunately, due to the fact that Americans are FUCKING UP THE PLANET FOR EVERYONE, at least one of these polar bear cubs is likely to die a painful death and never see adulthood...and even if one of these cubs DOES survive, it will probably starve as an adult." Ok...he may not have put it exactly like that, but his rampant insinuations were very thinly veiled, and I didn't pay $9.50 (plus another $17 for popcorn and Duds!) to be reminded that the polar ice caps are melting and the ozone layer is being eaten away and baby polar bears are doomed. Fuck you, James Earl Jones.

Wednesday:

I walk into EMT class and what does my 60-year old table-mate say straight away? Literally, the FIRST thing she said when I sat down was: "So a baby in Texas died of the Swine Flu." You should have seen the excitement in her eyes--the kind of excitement that is ignited by danger...like the look a tornado chaser gets in his eye when it's storm season in Kansas (you've seen "Twister"). People that get all "happy" over disasters and imminent human death are a MAJOR pet peeve of mine. So I said: "I don't care." Then I realized that I sounded pretty cold. I mean, I obviously DO care about babies dying. But I don't care about getting all panic-y about the goddamn Swine Flu. So then I said, "I mean, if I get it, I get it." And I shrugged and spread this goofy, maniacal grin across my face that probably looked super creepy. But that's the face I make when I want to punch someone and I can't.

I spent the rest of the day in bed watching trashy reality shows, eating junk food, and pitying myself.

Thursday:

It was a rainy, piece-of-shit day, and on top of it all I had to work. Fuck work! Ahhhhh! Work makes me want to scream! I have small bald spots on my head because every time I have to work, I rip a chunk of hair out. It's the only thing that can calm me down. That, and plunging my naked body into a tub filled with freezing cold water and ice cubes. Pulling out my hair is a lot less work, though. It takes a long time to make enough ice cubes to fill a tub. My freezer can't hold that many ice cubes. That stresses me out. And when I get stressed out I want to plunge my naked body into a tub filled with ice! But I can't! Because my freezer won't HOLD that much ice! Goddamn it, everything sucks! Why, God, why? Why?

Work was ok. We weren't that busy. Since school at Oakland is out, I'm working at Blondie's now on Tuesdays and Thursdays (and maybe some Saturdays and Monday evenings and the occasional Wednesday and Friday and Sunday). Blondie's is the candy/ice cream/fudge/gift basket shop that my mom owns and runs. So, on Thursday My mom made me make fudge packets. I've made fudge packets A LOT in my life, but my mom still felt the need to make about FOUR fudge packets in front of me before she let me fly solo. When she finally went upstairs to her office, I made fudge packets, sipped a diet soda, chatted with my friend (and fellow blogger) Emily Caswell, bagged caramel corn, read People magazine, ate a turkey sandwich with too much mayo, read Breaking Dawn (the last book in the Twilight series), swept, emptied the garbage, cleaned out the popcorn machine, made polite conversation with customers, and locked the door at the end of the day. I made 50 smackeroos in one day! Next time you see me, give me a high-five, will ya?

Friday:

Cringety, cringety, cringe cringe. Friday was the day I did my third ambulance ride-along. I was so nervous that my spoon shook as I tried to shovel Fiber One Caramel Delight cereal into my mouth that morning at 5:40 a.m. That's right. I have to get up super-ass early on ride-along days. And I have this theory that "bad things happen in the morning." Um...it's pretty much a rock-solid theory. I think it kind of has something to do with the fact that everything is scarier in the early morning. You know, that hour when the sun is just rising and the birds are chirping deafeningly, like a chorus of vengeful wizards, warlocks, hobgoblins, and trolls? It's a positively ghoulish time of day and NOT the optimal time for me to be on my way to an ambulance base station, gearing up for hours of extreme awkwardness punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Plus my uniform pants are ridiculously big and they make me feel like a walking egg. They make me look like I have a front-butt!

So--the ride-along. Let me just say, ride-alongs are interesting, for sure. The patients are usually sweet and their afflictions aren't as scary as you're probably imagining. I mean, so far we've only had one patient who lost all the fingers on his right hand in a freak dish-disposal accident. But while I'm on a ride-along, I always feel like SUCH an outcast. EMS people are an extremely tight-knit group, probably because they work 24 hour shifts, so they literally LIVE together a few days out of the week. It's hard to feel at home when you're surrounded by people who've known each other for years and pretty much view you as an annoyance--some dumb kid that needs to be taught everything. That's why it's amazing when you meet up with an EMT or Paramedic who is truly kind and will go out of his or her way to show you the ropes. I've been lucky enough to meet a few of these. And I've had some rides with people who literally ACT LIKE I'M NOT EVEN THERE.

I promise a more in-depth account of what a ride-along is like when I've finished all my rides. I'll do a week-long series! I'll do it up right! But for now, you've gotten a taste. A preview. An aperitif. I hope you're happy with that. But if you're not, I'll buy you an orange push-up pop. In my experience, orange push-up pops pretty much solve everything.

Saturday:

Because my ride-along stressed me out so much, I gave myself permission to sleep in on Saturday. So I slept. And I slept. And I slept. Then when I woke up, I ate a big bowl of Fiber One Caramel Delight cereal and enjoyed a cup of pulpless orange juice. Then I decided to catch up on old episodes of ER. You see, I never watched ER when it originally aired, so due to the magic of Netflix I'm working my way through all 15 seasons of it. I appreciate them so much more now than I would have if I'd watched them when they were originally airing, because NOW my brain is all full of medical knowledge.

I watched three episodes of Season 6 of ER, with my cat Jack nestled close to my side the whole time. Jack does a good job of pretending to love me, but I know that he's just using his feline wiles to get me to feed him Fancy Feast's Beef Feast in Gravy cat food. Manipulative bastard.

After watching ER with Jack, I decided to...go to the movies in Grand Blanc again! God DAMN it, I'm a creature of habit. After the movie, I drove home, got some dinner from Abruzzo's (the bar we own) with my mom, and cried to her about how I don't want to do any more ride-alongs and about how stressed out I am that Oakland University STILL hasn't posted our final grades! Then I went upstairs, talked on the phone to Lansy for a while, and watched 6 more hours of television.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty productive day.

The End:

Now you've gotten a real window into my life. I hope you still like me. But if you don't, I understand. I am not cool. I look in the mirror, and do you know what I see staring back at me? A Garbage Pail Kid.

I joined a gym, and I went there

So the other day my dad I were out in the park playing tennis. We play about two or three times a week, sometimes more, usually around 3 pm when my dad has a break from work. After we play two sets, we take a break so that I can drink some water and my dad can smoke. You may be thinking that it's kind of gross to take a smoke break while playing tennis, because tennis is so physical and such a healthy, good thing to do for your body and smoking is a disgusting, dirty, bad habit that can contribute to yellow teeth and wrinkles, but god, why do you have to be so uptight all the time? My dad likes smoking, mmmkay? And he works hard. He deserves to smoke. Plus, I mean, it's cool, because sometimes my dad skips smoking. One time, there was this guy on one of the other courts and my dad knew him. The guy was a priest, so my dad didn't smoke that day because of the shame factor. Plus, he can quit any time he wants to. So just lay off.

Usually, I like to use our break time as a free therapy session. I store up all the pain and anguish that is inside me, and I unleash it on my dad during break time. And let me tell you, there is a lot of pain and anguish inside me. Sometimes, when I'm driving to work, even when the sun is setting and the sky is pink and beautiful and the trees and fields are lush and green with life, I feel this sense of heaviness, this emptiness, this pervasive blackness inside of me. I try to dig deep within myself to bring up some joy, a happy memory, or a shred of hope, but all I find is loneliness and despair. But let's not get off topic--so, we were taking a our usual break after the second set, and we starting chatting like always.

Dad said, "Hey, you know what I was thinking about today?"

Me: "What?"

Dad: "How come, when you're at a funeral, you never see the person laid out in the casket with a full-tooth smile?"

I laughed, "Um...probably because that would be super creepy and unnatural looking. I'll make sure, though, that we give you a full-tooth smile when we bury you."

Dad: "That'd be good."

Next, my dad started talking about how earlier in the day when he was at work, he was outside taking a smoke break and a random guy was staring at him for no apparent reason.

Dad: "I mean, he just stood there for a really long time. I started to think he was probably a hit man. I positioned myself next to this chair and I was planning on smashing it over his head if he came at me."

Me: "He probably wasn't even looking at you. He was probably looking past you. Why do you always go to such a dark place?"

Dad: "I think of it as being prepared. If you're gonna attack, I'm gonna pull out my switchblade and I'm gonna shove it down your throat. I don't panic. I do not panic. Because that's when people die. In the split second that you take to start screa--"

Me: "But I feel like I'm getting a lot better at tennis, don't you think?"

Dad: "No, you're not getting better. You've peaked. You're as good as you are ever going to be."

He stared at me, dead serious. I looked away, shattered. I was sitting Indian-style on the hot concrete, surrounded by dead caterpillars and dried up leaves.

I chuckled, "Come on..."

He cracked a smile, "No, you haven't peaked. But I think you've given up."

Me: "What? No I haven't!"

Dad: "On the whole weight loss thing, I mean."

Me: "No I have not!"

You see, pretty much my whole life has been defined (in a negative way) by my weight. I have always, always struggled with being a fat slop hog. It makes me hate myself. Truly. And I have always oscillated between being on a weight loss kick--running every day, eating Greek yogurt and almonds, and pretending to be horrified by processed foods like Doritos and Twinkies--and being completely and utterly consumed by my food addiction--sneaking pints of vanilla swiss almond ice cream and bags of Tostitos Hint of Lime into my room and shamelessly eating them in bed while watching one of the Real Housewives installments. Recently, I've been on a weight loss kick, mostly because my fear of dying alone has finally taken a firm hold on my soul and is starting to edge out my fear of living a life free of untethered overindulgence.

Dad: "Well you're not losing 5 pounds a week anymore like you were."

Me: "I was never losing 5 pounds a week. Anyway, it's good to lose weight slowly. I have a better chance of keeping it off that way."

He gave me a long look, and I could see, from behind a cloud of smoke, how tired he was--tired of my excuses.

Me: "I don't know what you want from me. I joined a gym and I went there. What else can I do? I joined a gym and I went there."

Dad: "Yeah..."

It's true. I did join a gym, and I did go there. Mostly, I joined the gym because it had indoor tennis courts and I didn't want to have to give up tennis this winter. But there was a part of me, a tiny sliver of my heart, that joined the gym because I was trying to give myself some chance at a better life. I'm not too proud to tell you that my thought process when I was deciding whether or not to join a gym went something like this: If I join a gym I'll have to pay money, but I'll have somewhere to go on the days that are so soul-shatteringly boring and depressing that even a Parks and Rec marathon won't help, and I'd have access to a hot tub, but I might have to make hot-tub small talk with strangers, and if I joined a gym and paid money I'd feel obligated to go there, and that might make me thinner, and if I was thinner I might be worthy of love and I might not die alone. So yeah, I joined a gym.

My dad snuffed out his cigarette on the court, which made a high-pitched squeaky sound that made me want to chew my own finger to the bone. He was quiet for a while, and I knew it was because he was choosing his words carefully. He thinks I hate him for even mentioning my weight to me, but I don't hate him that much. I only hate him as much as you hate a mirror for highlighting how fat you look in your bathing suit. Ok, ok. I don't hate him at all. I pretty much love him more than anyone. After all, he is my tennis partner. And I know he just wants me to be healthy for the same reasons I want myself to be healthy--so I can land a rich husband. 

Me: "I'm not giving up."

Dad: "I know. You joined a gym and you went there."

Me: "And don't you forget it."

Love

I would never have categorized myself as a sports lover. Cheese lover? Sure. Movie lover? Definitely. Diabolical space cop? Yes! But not a sports lover. No, to me, the best thing about sports has always been the snacks. Nachos, hot dogs, popcorn, pizza--that's the stuff. Give me processed cheese out of a pump or give me death. I guess some people also enjoy the camaraderie that is created among spectators while watching a live sporting event--everyone huddled together under a fleece blanket on a cold October night, cheeks and noses rosy from the cold, waiting to see if Johnny Quicksly will get a touchdown, win the game, and bring pride back to the town... But who needs camaraderie when you've got a frozen chocolate covered banana?

It wasn't until I read Andre Agassi's autobiography "Open" that I fell in love with the non-food aspects of a sport. There's something magical about the combination of speed, strength, power, and mental and physical agility a player must possess in order to be truly great at tennis. Plus, sometimes the players get really mad and throw their racquets. That's always pretty satisfying to see because extreme, soul-shattering frustration is something we've all dealt with in life. I mean, once when I was in 8th grade I got so mad that I knocked over my bookshelf. I can't remember what I was so mad about, but I do remember the feeling I had right after I knocked over my bookshelf. It was a God DAMN IT, now I've gotta clean up all my books kind of a feeling. It made me wish I had another bookshelf to knock over.

But really, you've gotta hand it to tennis players. They're all alone out there on the court--no teammates to blame if they double fault or hit the ball out of bounds at match point. It's just the sun, the wind, the court, and the opponent--beautiful in its simplicity, like modern-day gladiator combat, but with less blood and tigers. Watching tennis, on TV or live, my heart pounds, the blood rushes through my veins, and I feel like I'm sure the spectators of gladiatorial games felt back in the day--intensely interested, rooting for the good guy, and waiting for changeover so I can go get one of those delicious frozen lemonades.

Tennis is one of the most emotional and personal sports, if you ask me. I mean, in basketball, if you miss a free throw, it's sad and all, but there's not a word for it--like oh, "he free fell" or something. In tennis, if a player is serving and his opponent wins that game, they say the opponent "broke serve" or "broke" the player. You hear it all the time, John McEnroe as commentator saying, "Oh man, he just broke him again! He is not having an easy time of it out there today." I mean, 'he broke him'? That's harsh. Plus, sometimes the players taunt one another. They do little celebrations when they win an important point--they do a fist pump, they scream, they jump, they smirk. Sometimes they point at each other! Taunting is probably one of my favorite things in life, so I'm glad it's a big part of tennis. But it just goes to show how mentally bad-ass tennis players are--they're stealthy, they're smart, and they're out for blood. They think through every point, they draw their opponent up to the net only to slam the ball back to baseline and out of reach. They're like assassins, waiting for the perfect moment to step out of the shadows and make their move.

Tennis is like love--sometimes it's exhilarating, sometimes it's crushing, and sometimes you're just wading through, trying to make it to match point. But even when you lose, you keep going back for more. I know I'm in it for the long haul, and this time the processed cheese is just gravy.  

     

Birthdaypocalypse

I now know what it feels like to live through a hellish ordeal like the one experienced by Aron Ralston in May 2003 when he had to amputate his own arm in order to survive a freak rock climbing accident. My power went out last night. ON MY BIRTHDAY. I was this close to drinking my own urine.

You probably think I'm overreacting, but first of all: fuck you. Second of all, I'm not overreacting. I missed Big Brother. Mmmmmkay??! I MISSED BIG BROTHER. I had to actually TALK to my parents instead of engaging in my usual nightly routine of shutting myself in my room and watching hours of reality television while stuffing my face with corn chips and bemoaning my lot in life.

There was a split second right after the power went out (just after I blew out the candles) when I thought, it's just gonna come right back on. Now. NOW. NOW. NOW. And then, still nothing. My heart sank as the sickening realization hit me--we were possibly going to be without power for the ENTIRE episode of Big Brother. My mom pretty much immediately piped up with "Well, I just don't understand this. I just DON'T understand it. I'll tell you what, I don't get it." And then my dad, not one to resist an opportunity to play on my fears, chimed in with, "You know, sometimes people are without power for WEEKS. It happens. Yes. Yes, in a big storm! Weeks, sometimes."

Me: "I have NEVER heard of people being out of power for weeks."

My dad: "Oh yes, it happens. You hear on the news--100,000 without power. And then the next week you hear--50,000 STILL without power."

Me: "You DON'T watch the news."

My dad: "Yes! I have it on in the background."

Me: "No, Dad."

My dad: "Yes."

My mom: "Well, I'll tell you what, I just don't understand what's going on here. I just don't get this. I don't get it."

We live above a bar that we own and our living room windows look down on the outdoor patio area, where on warm summer nights people congregate to drink and carouse. On a night when our TV is on (every night), the chatter of the customers below us fades easily into the background, like the buzzing of a fly or the impatient grunts of a hungry warthog. Unless there's a brutal knife fight happening, but that's rare. On a night when NONE of our gadgets are working due to an inexplicable power outage ON MY BIRTHDAY, the chatter of the customers below us rises like the suffocating heat that we can no longer combat with air conditioning and we begin to hear things we'd rather not, like how so-and-so's power has been out since 2 pm and how someone-or-other heard from a COP that the power might be out for SEVERAL DAYS.

And thus began the screaming of the lambs in my head. My dad went downstairs to do damage control. My birthday Chinese food was rotting in the fridge, and that was tragic enough, but a loss of power for long enough could mean thousands of dollars in spoiled food for our business, and that's whack. My mom was already asleep on the couch, having accepted her fate.

When I went downstairs to check on my dad about an hour later, I found him standing near the entrance to the bar, in the eerie pitch blackness, smoking a cigarette and holding a very large butcher knife.

"I've got a big butcher knife," he said.

I laughed. "Why??!"

"Because of the looters!" He exclaimed.

"Looters, what looters?!"

"When there are no lights and the alarm systems are off, the looters come out. Who's to stop them?!"

I shined my flashlight into the empty black night.

"Stop that!" he said. "They'll see us!"

"Who, the mole people?"

"Whoever! All I know is, when I was inside the bar, I put my face up against the front window and that's when I realized there was someone RIGHT THERE on the other side staring back at me."

"So you grabbed a huge knife?"

"Would you prefer I be weaponless?"

Just then a cop car drove by and stopped across the street and down a ways from where we were standing, illuminating a large group of shirtless townie weirdos.

My dad turned to me, "Wouldn't it be crazy if they all started attacking and eating that cop?"

I said, "Wouldn't it be creepy if this was happening on Halloween or Devil's night?"

My mom, having awakened, had walked to the window and was listening in on our conversation from our apartment above. She called down to us, "I'll tell you what, I just don't get it! I don't understand this."

Neither do I, mom. Neither do I.

The Incomparable Miss Morosky

Lansy,

The first I knew of you was in high school. I thought of you as a beautiful, popular girl who I would probably never be friends with—not because I didn’t like you, not because I didn’t think I would like you, but because you were a somebody and I was me. You were the thin, pretty, popular girl with all the thin, pretty, popular friends. I was the chubby girl who wore polyester pants to school. Seriously, if someone—some all powerful, all knowing being—had told me in high school that Alana Morosky would later become my best friend, my soul mate, I would have spat blood. Because that’s what you do when you’re really surprised about something—you spit blood.

If only I had known then what I know now, that yes, you are beautiful and popular, but also artistic, adventurous, free-spirited, passionate, foul-mouthed, feisty, and fiercely loyal, with an exceedingly quick and dark wit, I would’ve plunked my polyester-wearing self down at your cafeteria table and started telling you about the crazy movie I saw that weekend, or how I fell in math and chipped a tooth, because I know you would’ve gotten it—you would’ve gotten me.

As it would happen, we got through high school without ever having a conversation. And for years, it remained that we were two people who simply shared a high school and happened to grow up in the same small town. We lived, we loved, we lost—all without knowing each other. I can’t really begin to tell you how lucky I feel to have ended up back home 8 years after high school, because if I had never come back I may have missed out on meeting the best friend I have ever known.

We got through the first awkward stages of friendship, where you’re not sure if you should call someone or ask them to do something because “it might be weird.” That was mostly thanks to you—showing up at pretty much every single one of Gina’s Thursday night shows at the bar. I got more comfortable with you, and you got more comfortable with me. We started taking a million pictures a night. I told you about Tyra Banks and America’s Next Top Model and smizing, and together we invented “voltage!”—where you take a picture while trying to look model-y after yelling out “voltage!”

I remember deciding that I was going to make it a point to get to know you really well. I wanted to know how you take your coffee. I now know that in the winter you drink a venti peppermint mocha, nonfat, no whip, and in the summer you drop the peppermint and add ice. I know that you hate fruits and vegetables with a passion. I know that you love bacon and sushi almost as much as you hate fruits and vegetables, as evidenced by the poor man’s BLT—bacon bits, mayonnaise, no lettuce, no tomato, on toast. I know that you are fascinated by serial killers, much the same as I am fascinated by school shootings. You love art, nature, and history. You love exploring the world around you, taking back roads, taking the scenic route. You love saying, “it coulda been different, mista walka.” You love movies and TV as much as I do—neither of us thinks it’s ridiculous to drive an hour and a half to go see a movie that would never be playing around here, or to sit up half the night dissecting the season finale of Dexter or playing the Seinfeld trivia game. You are an animal lover. You take beautiful care of your goats, your horses, your cats, and of course, Zoey and Micah. I can’t count how many trips to we took to PetSmart to buy toys for Zoey—because it was her birthday or Christmas, or just because. You are an incredibly gifted artist and photographer, but you also have a few hidden talents—your horse neigh, your Pee-wee Herman impression, and your ability to perfectly recite the second verse of Eminem’s “My Dad’s Gone Crazy.” These are just a few of the amazing things that I have learned about you since our friendship began three years ago. Really, I’m just scratching the surface here.

I don’t think I have ever laughed as much with anyone as I have with you. Your dark, politically incorrect sense of humor fits perfectly with my dark, politically incorrect sense of humor. I have also become more adventurous because of you. If not for you, I never would’ve seen the glory that is Port Agony. I would never have run for my life through the trails surrounding the Petroglyphs. I would never have met George, the kindly keeper of the Octagon Barn, or seen the withered hull of the Chesaning Showboat. I would definitely never have allowed myself to be flung 420 feet into the air on the Top Thrill Dragster. I would never have experienced the crazy, weird, magical beauty of the wind turbines in Pigeon, Michigan. And still, I am just scratching the surface of things I never would have done or thought to do if I had never met you.

I want to thank you—for putting up with me, for letting me show you endless pictures of cute animals in books at Barnes and Noble, for being my shoulder to cry on when baby ducks get murdered or when I’m scared or depressed or grief stricken. Thank you for inspiring me, for sticking up for me with that bitch at Travelodge, for letting me be myself and never making me feel silly or inconsequential. Thank you most of all for letting me in your life, for being a friend I feel I can truly be myself around. In life, you meet lots of people. You have lots of friendships, and everyone always says how much they love their friends. But the truth is, it is an exceedingly rare thing to find a friend you love unconditionally and who loves you unconditionally back. I know I have found this kind of friendship, this kind of connection, with you. And while I am devastated that you are leaving me, it is because of the strength of our friendship, because of the uniqueness of us, that I know we will survive this. No matter where we are, whether we are in the same room or across the country from one another, we are best friends, and nothing can change that. This is just the beginning of the next chapter.

Love you forever and ever,

Lizzy             

“i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart).” – E.E. Cummings    

Things That Totally Fucked Up My Life in 2010

Welcome to my first post of 2011. In this post, instead of looking ahead to all the wonderful things that might happen this year, I have decided to look back on all the terrible things that happened last year. I have composed a list of the top ten WORST things that happened to me in 2010, otherwise known as things that totally fucked up my life.

In order from least-worst to knockwurst (most-worst), here goes:

10. I was still fat...ALL YEAR. Being fat is the pits. Every morning I woke up with new determination to eat right and exercise, and every single day I failed. It doesn't feel good to fail miserably at the one thing you know would improve your life and your health 100%, but you know what else doesn't feel good? NOT eating a fistful of Cadbury Creme Eggs. The bottom line is, I DO WHAT I WANT.

9. I Looked For AND FOUND Disturbing Images of Grown-Up Devon Sawa. That's right, you heard me. The cherubic boy who starred in 'Casper' and 'Now and Then' has morphed into a crag-faced husk of his former self. He now calls the CW home, as he has a recurring role on the 2010 series Nikita. I don't know, it's just so sad to watch his life spin out of control.

8. I Saw a Seal Swimming Next To a Rusted-Out Grocery Cart at the Bottom of the Ocean. You always think it's going to be a good time watching those Disney Nature movies. I really like oceans, so I went to see Disney Nature's 'Oceans.' I thought I'd see a beautiful baby dolphin bonding with it's mother in the warm waters off of Maui. But no. What did I see? Besides a shit-ton of boring-ass crab footage, I saw baby turtles get eaten by sea birds and a seal swimming next to a rusted-out grocery cart. Plus, Pierce Brosnan wasted NO opportunity to remind me about the rivers of pollution currently flowing into our oceans. Apparently Pierce Brosnan is Disney Nature's new ambassador of fear. He won't let me rest until I face the harsh reality that the waters that sustain life on Earth are dying. Oh yeah, and the polar ice caps are melting. There is no hope.**

7. Nursing School Gave Me the Trots. Nursing school was exciting, but nerve-racking! It's kind of like when you're really nervous to go on a giant roller coaster because there's a chance you could die, but you still want to go on it because how great will it feel if you don't die? Unfortunately, bravery often comes at a physical cost. I had the trots for most of 2010.

6. My Favorite Dumpster Kitten, Little Gray, was Killed in a Hit and Run. I know what you're thinking: What the FUCK are dumpster kittens? Well, even though it's ridiculously obvious, I'll tell you. They are kittens that live in, on, beneath, and/or in the vicinity of a dumpster. My parents have a couple of dumpsters and this year we got kittens! Kittens!! So much joy. There were four beautiful kittens, three that looked like the cat from Stephen King's 'Cat's Eye,' and one that looked like Nermal from Garfield. I named the one that looked like Nermal "Little Gray" because he was little and gray. It's not rocket science. He was the pudgiest and the friendliest of the kittens. I started feeding them and he was the only one that would almost let me pet him. Not quite, but almost. I could tell he wanted to let me pet him, but he was probably afraid that if he let me pet him, I would go one step further and grab him, take him home, give him a bath, then put him on my bed and cover him with a heavy blanket and watch him try to squirm his way out. He's right, that's what I would've done. Anyway, one day I came home from one of my nursing school clinicals (a long 12+ hour day of patient care) and my mom, who was standing over the stove, cooking a frittata (I'll get into why that only made things worse later), said, "I have some bad news." I immediately thought that my cat that actually lives with me and sleeps in my bed, Jack, was dead. Or that Kevin Spacey had died. But then she said, "Little Gray died. Your dad found his lifeless body by the side of the road." So much anguish.

5. I Sat Through A Lot of Awful, Awful Movies--Without Popcorn! My dad and I go see a lot of movies together, which is great because it's nice to have some father-daughter bonding time. Plus, he pays. But he doesn't like to get popcorn (because it bloats him and gets stuck in his teeth) and he's willing to see crap movies that I don't have the heart to say no to. I guess I'd rather see a shitty movie than sit home by myself thinking about how pathetic I am and slowly consuming a mini-mountain of Chili Cheese Fritos, but still... One of the dumbest things about going to the movies with my dad is that he almost always falls asleep immediately. Sometimes I wake him up to complain about loud kids in the theater. Here's how that conversation goes--Me: "GrrrrrrrRRRR." My dad: "What?" Me: "Why are they LAUGHING so loud and repeating the most mundane dialogue?" My dad: "I don't even hear anything." Me: "How do you NOT hear that? It's like they're watching this in their own basement. It's like we snuck into someone's birthday party!" By that time, my dad has usually fallen back asleep. But I digress. Here is a list of just five (believe me, there are more) of the worst movies I sat through WITHOUT POPCORN in 2010: Edge of Darkness, Faster (Starring Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson), Grown Ups, Skyline, and My Soul to Take. You're welcome, Box Office.

4. I Didn't Travel...Not Even in my Dreams. It's nice that I still have enough hope to purchase books like this one when I'm browsing around Barnes and Noble: The Rough Guide to the USA (Rough Guides). I think to myself, maybe I'll go to Yosemite National Park or Mt. Rushmore, or HEY--maybe I'll go to Anderson, Indiana (home of Teen Mom star (and train wreck) Amber Portwood. But, let's face it. I'm basically a shut-in. I might as well start collecting garbage and tie myself to my bed. I mean, how pathetic is it that I couldn't even manage to take 9 days off to travel to Anderson, Indiana, search around the local pizza huts, jails, roller rinks, and bad neighborhoods for Amber Portwood, then follow her to her house and stake it out hoping to witness her throwing a TV down the stairs or drinking a big gulp while wearing short-shorts and setting fire to a mattress??

3. Centipede Bugs Defied Extinction. I love animals and (some) bugs. But I hate centipede bugs with every fiber of my being, and when I see one, I stalk it with intent to kill and I don't rest until I've flushed it's lifeless body down the toilet. 2010 was not without centipede bugs, which totally fucked up my life. One morning, I was up at 4 am, getting ready to go to clinicals for nursing school. I was sleepy, and I was brushing my teeth. I had my eyes closed and I was leaning over the sink, and what did I see crawling out of the drain when I opened my eyes? A giant centipede bug!! I proceeded to drown it, and when I was sure it was dead, I vomited into my hand and then went about the rest of my day.

2. I Almost Dropped My Wallet Into a Carp and Turtle Pond. Even though I didn't travel out of state in 2010, my friend Lansy and I did explore Michigan. One of the places we went was the Wilderness Trails Zoo, near Frankenmuth (a.k.a. Michigan's little Bavaria). The Wilderness Trails Zoo is kind of unique because you can get up close to a lot of big animals. They don't have any of those pesky big ravines between you and the animals like other zoos do. They just have a couple of chain-link fences between you and a lion, or between you and a grizzly bear. So what if it's a little less safe? It makes for a lot of great photo ops! So what if the closer you get the easier it is to tell how sad the animals are? Photo ops! But I digress. One of the main attractions at Wilderness Trails Zoo is that you can actually feed many of the animals!! For example, to feed a bear, you pay a quarter and get a sourball, then you put the sourball in a long plastic tube that runs through the two chain link fences that separate you from the bear, then the sourball lands in the bear enclosure and the bear runs over and eats it!! Huzzah! They also have a carp and turtle pond, where you can pay a quarter and get a handful of food pellets, which you can then throw to the fish and turtles and watch them gobble it up. There are so many carp/catfish-looking fish and turtles (and some bad-ass swans) that it's actually kind of disgusting to watch them eat. I kept waiting for one of them to spit out a human eyeball. It was my last handful of food pellets and we were going to leave the zoo as soon as we were done feeding the fish and turtles, so I was trying to make this last throw very dramatic. I forgot that I had my wallet sitting on the railing of the little platform we were standing on. When I (very forcefully) threw my last handful of food pellets into the fish and turtle pond, I knocked my wallet off the railing!!! Luckily, it landed at my feet and not in the water. You may be thinking, her wallet didn't fall in the water, so why is this on the list of things that totally fucked up her life in 2010? Well, you're right. My wallet didn't fall in the water--it almost did. And I have to live with that.

1. I Watched a Baby Duck Die. It was a warm, bright summer day, and my friend Lansy and I decided to drive about an hour away to the idyllic town of Owosso. It was her dream to visit one of Owosso's main attractions--Curwood Castle. As a major castle connoisseur myself, I was delighted to accompany her. But alas, when we found the castle (we had to ask directions from speed walkers, but that's a whole other story), there was a sad little note posted on the door that said the castle didn't open until 1 pm. It was noon, so I said, "God Lansy, it's gorgeous out and there's a very beautiful arched bridge over there! Let's walk around picturesque downtown Owosso and wait for Curwood Castle to open so that we can go in." And she said, "What a great idea! I would like that very much." We took off down the sidewalk. We spent a pleasing hour exploring Owosso. We went into a fancy antique shop that sold old clocks and toy pianos and original artwork. We thought about stopping for ice cream at one of those places where you walk up to the window to order and the menu has a bunch of little pictures of ice cream treats on it, but decided against it. On our way back to Curwood Castle, we decided to walk along the beautiful banks of the Shiawassee River. Little did we know that in mere minutes it would be the scene of a faces-of-death style duck massacre. We stopped to watch a gorgeous family of ducks swimming along the river's edge. There was a mama duck and three beautiful baby ducks. They were splashing and quacking and putting their little heads under water, then popping back up. It was glorious! Both Lansy and I were amazed at their beauty and grace. They were so perfect! Especially this one baby duck, whom we affectionately named Hobart. Both Lansy and I had a feeling that Hobart was special. Then, all of a sudden, out of NOWHERE, the mama duck started violently flapping her wings and quacking, communicating severe distress! At first, I thought that Lansy and I had ventured too close to the duck family and the mama duck was protecting her babies from us. Then, both Lansy and I realized that the mama duck was attempting to protect her babies from something much more sinister. It registered with both Lansy and I at the same time--Hobart had gone under the water and NOT come back up! We could see his adorable little duck butt and duck feet sticking up, but his head was submerged! I shouted, "I think he's stuck in the weeds! He's drowning! Mother of God, he's drowning!" I wanted to go in after little Hobart, but because of the weeds in the water and the rocks along the river's edge, there was no way of knowing how treacherous it would be once I got in the water or if I would even be able to get to little Hobart if I attempted it. I screamed to Lansy, "Get a STICK!" She promptly returned with a stick, but alas, it was too short to reach Hobart. There were two guys fishing nearby and we thought about getting them to come help us, but we didn't because neither of us wanted to approach them. By the time I was finally ready to hike up my pants and go into the Shiawassee after Hobart, it was too late. Hobart had perished. And, as I cried, Lansy consoled me by saying that he was probably not stuck in the weeds, but that he was probably eaten by a water snake or a snapping turtle, and that if I had gone in after him, I might've lost a toe! That did make me feel better, but still, I can't UNSEE Hobart's death. I will carry the painful memory of that day with me forever.

In Closing, I'd just like to remind you all that each new year brings with it new promise and the hope of new beginnings and new achievements, but still...it's very unlikely you'll be able to go an entire year without being traumatized in one way or another. So try to keep your positive attitude in check, ok?

**I actually do have hope for our oceans. If you do too, get involved!! Please support Ocean Conservancy.