Friday, September 23, 2011

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

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

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."

Thursday, September 8, 2011

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.