Goon

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, Oh god, she posted another blog entry that I'm supposed to read? I've got STUFF to do. I don't have time for this shit! I was gonna do laundry and watch The Biggest Loser makeover episode! Well geez, if you're gonna get all mad about it, then feel free not to read. Just do your stuff, you self-important ass. You don't have to keep reading, but I'm going to keep writing because I'm trying to get back to who I am. And who I am is a writer.

So let's get into what I did today. I went to the movies. I talked to my dad. I yelled at my mom to turn down the TV. I sat in my car. I talked to my sister on the phone. I worried about whether or not it was going to storm. I kept pulling up my pants because they're cheap pants I bought at Target. I looked at luggage. I moved some shards of a broken mug out of the way of someone's car tire. I made a vegan black bean casserole. I also, of course, watched TV.

The movie I saw was called "Goon." Everyone who asked me which movie I was going to see said they'd never heard of it. But I had read about it in a magazine, probably Entertainment because that's the only magazine I have a subscription to that would mention a semi-obscure movie like "Goon." It really only has a couple of famous people in it and they're sort of marginally famous--Seann William Scott (Stifler from the American Pie movies) and Jay Baruchel (he's been in stuff like Knocked Up and She's Out of My League). Seann William Scott plays Doug Glatt--a sweet, simple-minded guy with a gift for knocking people out who becomes the enforcer on a struggling Canadian hockey team. Jay Baruchel plays his hockey-obsessed best friend. It may not sound like it would be a good movie (or the type of thing I'd be interested in), but I actually really, really enjoyed it. There was an undercurrent of sadness to it. I wanted to take Doug Glatt into my arms and tell him everything's gonna be OK. Plus, part of the movie took place in a city I've wanted to visit for a while now--St. John's, Newfoundland. To me, there's something magical about desolate winterscapes and blue collar people. St. John's has all that, and so did the movie "Goon." It spoke to me, and I highly recommend it.

One of the best things about today was that when I went up to buy my ticket for "Goon," the ticket agent (whose name was Mick, I gathered from his name tag) asked for my ID!! He didn't think I was old enough to see an R-rated movie!! I thanked him for the compliment and handed over my license, and even then, he kept shaking his head and saying, "What? No! What? No!" But he did let me in, thankfully. It was very flattering, but if he'd tried to keep me out of the movie, I would probably have had to skewer him with the trident I keep in my purse (the weapon, not the gum).         

Mysteries and Tracey Gold

I am getting pretty sick of my life, you guys. Ever since I graduated from nursing school and landed my first nursing job, it seems like there's nothing new on the horizon for me. I feel like I'm walking in lock-step with the rest of the disenfranchised human race to my death. Is that too heavy? 

 
It's just, there's still so much I want to do. Like for instance, I want to captain a riverboat. I want to swim with wild dolphins. I want to see sharks from a boat, and sleep in a hammock on a beach. I'm not sure if I can realize any of these dreams because I'm stuck in a rut--a bad rut. And I might be too fat for a hammock.

You wanna know what I did today? I woke up at about 10:15 am, got up to wash my face and told myself while I was in the bathroom that when I got back to my room I was going to go right back to sleep. But then I decided to take a shower and get dressed, because I thought that then when I laid down and fell back asleep, it would be more like taking a nap and less like sleeping in until 1:00 pm. But of course, after I showered I was awake. So I decided to eat a bunch of honey roasted peanuts and watch one of the dozens of episodes of 48 Hours that I have taped off of TLC. Let me just digress for a moment to discuss the emotional ramifications of watching an endless string of 48 Hours episodes. It makes you feel like at any moment one of your close family members could snap, drag you into the garage, stab you 28 times, dress you in clothes you would never pick out for yourself, shove you into the trunk of a car and then drive that car to a bad part of town, leave it (and you) there, and then walk home while making phone calls to your friends and family asking them if they've seen you because you never came home from work and you're always on time. I watched an episode of 48 Hours, telling myself that when it was over I would get up and walk the dog. But when it was over, I decided to watch Face of Evil, this old Lifetime movie starring Tracey Gold as an evil co-ed who kills a girl she meets in an airport, then shoves the girl's body into a suitcase, CHECKS the suitcase, then flies to New Hampshire without incident and throws the suitcase into a pit on a construction site that is soon to be covered with cement and proceeds to take over the girl's life while simultaneously seducing her rich roommate's rich, lonely daddy. It is an amazing gem of a movie that opens with a scene in which Tracey Gold is feeding a sparrow while a nearby cat is clearly stalking the little bird and getting ready to pounce. A concerned youngster throws a ball at the bird to get it to fly away when she sees the cat coming near and then says to Tracey Gold's character, "Didn't you see that cat?" To which Tracey Gold replies, "What did you think I was feeding??" Does it get any better than that?? Does it?? I really don't think it does.

But anyway, back to what I'm doing with my life. After I watched Face of Evil, I decided to throw away my half full jar of honey roasted peanuts in an effort to make me stop eating them. I also decided to throw away the rest of the trash in my garbage can. So I grabbed the dog and my bag of trash and went outside into the beautiful, clear, breezy day. I threw away my garbage and walked around, listening to a book on my iPod. The book I'm listening to is about teens with cancer who fall in love and then one of them dies. They also have a blind friend. It's kind of a downer, but if you haven't sensed a pattern yet with the type of media I consume, I like that sort of thing.

While I walked around, I listened to my book, but I also thought about what's wrong with my life. I'm fairly healthy, so I've got that going for me. I'm pretty smart, so I've got that going for me. I have a good job, so that's good. But...I don't know what to do next. I don't have a purpose. I think about going to graduate school, but I don't want to go further into debt. I want to move, but I don't want to leave my family. I want to meet someone, but I'm intimidated by the whole dating thing.

I guess I just want things to be easier than they are. But I know the answer. I need to push myself to do something. Take a step in a direction--any direction. In a few weeks, I am going to face one of my bigger fears--flying in a plane by myself. I know lots of people who fly on a regular basis and it's no big deal to them, but it kinda scares the hell out of me. Even still, I'm doing it. I'm flying across the country and I'm gonna have fun goddamn it! Well I probably won't have fun on the plane, but once I get off the plane, then I'll have fun.  

Me writing this blog post today is sort of an effort to get back to one of my first loves and to one of the things I feel is very true to who I am--writing. Because when you don't know where you're headed next, sometimes it's good to remember who you've always been. Ugh. Wow. Could I be any more cutesy and obnoxious? I'm really annoying myself here. No wonder one of my family members is going to snap and kill me any day now. Just make sure that on my 48 Hours episode when they show pictures of me, they do a voice over about how "vibrant" and "full of life" I was and how I "never had any enemies" and how all I ever did was "spew love and happiness onto everyone" in my life. That's really the truth, anyway.        

NLYSYITM

Gina,

I don't know if you've noticed this about me, but I can be a little dramatic. So when I found out a few weeks ago that you were moving to New York, I immediately broke down crying. I knew there was a strong possibility you would be moving there, but to find out that you were leaving for sure and that you'd be going in just one short month, I felt like my heart was being ripped out. And I guess it kind of was, because you are my heart.

I feel incredibly lucky that we have the relationship we have, because being sisters doesn't necessarily mean you have to like each other or even know each other very well. Some sisters could be standing in the same room together and yet be further apart than you and I would be if we lived on different continents. Also, some sisters kill each other. It's called sororicide and it happens more often than you'd think.

 

From the very start, we were a special pair, like two sides of a coin. You, the gorgeous, cute one and me, the smart, interesting one. No, but seriously--we go together like cake and frosting. And it always has been that way.          I remember the day it all started. I had just been born, and mom put me down for a nap in my crib. She thought you were quietly playing with your dolls, so she went out to smoke on the porch. Little did she know what a scamp you were! You snuck into my room to peek at me, your new living doll, while I slept. But you couldn't leave it at that. You just had to hold me. So you climbed into my crib, picked me up, and began singing to me. When mom walked in and saw little three-year-old you standing in my crib, holding me and singing, she let out one of her trademark shocked gasps, which scared you so much that you dropped me. Wham!! I fell onto the crib mattress like a sack of potatoes. Soon, everyone was crying and the day was ruined.

Of course, I know you meant well. You just wanted to cuddle with your new baby sister. Still, this was not the last time you caused me bodily harm. There was the time you insisted on giving me a piggy-back ride down the stairs. You couldn't hold me up and I ended up crashing off your shoulders, falling down the stairs, and slamming into our fancy glass umbrella stand. Another time, you chased me out into the DeArmond's front yard, threw me to the ground, sat on top of me, and began pelting me with weak little punches. I can't remember what I had done to make you so mad, but I do remember being beaten to within an inch of my life. In those early years, you used to taunt me with kitchen knifes, slap me, spit on me, and hug me so tightly I could barely breathe. You'd pull me into one of your vise-grip hugs and say, "You're my teddy bay-o, you're my teddy bay-o!" until I begged for mercy.

You also used to wait until I went to sleep, then creep into my room, crouch down by the side of my bed, and then pop up and scare me. I developed crippling anxiety because of this and couldn't sleep through the night until I was 16. But still, I knew you did it all as a way of showing how much you loved me. It also helped us bond. I became just as much of a prankster as you were. Remember the time I called mom and asked her to ask you to get her peach-colored coat out of the hall closet and then I hid in there for over an hour, waiting for you to come and get it so I could jump out and scare you? This is how we love each other.

It wasn't all violence and pranks between us. I remember you reading me bedtime stories. Specifically, I think you read me the story "Jonathan Cleaned Up--Then He Heard A Sound" hundreds and hundreds of times. And that's not a short story. We would cuddle up together in your bed in our house on Forest Drive and you would read me that story. It was my favorite, and I guess it was yours too, or you just wanted to make me happy. We also always shared a love of music. Remember the hours we spent singing in the back of mom's van on trips up north? We came up with harmonies, singing show-tunes and songs we learned in music class, like "The Eagle Song" ('Born for a western sky, sweeping a circle as he flies. He was free-ee-ee when they let him be...'). We would also spend at least a half an hour saying goodnight to each other every single night. Our bedrooms shared a wall and we would talk to each other through it.We came up with a whole series of little phrases we would HAVE to say each night, otherwise we were both convinced that "something bad" would happen. To save time and energy, we eventually shortened our goodnight ritual so that in order to avoid the untimely death of one of us, all we have to say to each other is "Night, love you, see you in the morning." We still say this to each other every time we say goodbye or goodnight. Well...sometimes you say it and then I wait a REALLY long time to say it back just because I know that you, being as superstitious as you are, won't go to sleep or hang up the phone until I say it. I love this power I have over you...but I always do end up saying it.

As we grew up, we didn't always understand each other. You were a wild child, and I was determined to be the exact opposite. That's why you ended up in trouble with the law and I ended up in AP English. Hey now, I'm just teasing. We have always been different, though--in some interesting ways. For one thing, we don't look alike. Remember how we used to say, "Hey, let's do that thing where we look in the mirror and see how much we don't look alike?" And we would. We would stand, side by side, and stare silently into the mirror for a few minutes. Finally one of us would say, "Wow. We really DON'T look alike!" It blew our minds. You have also always been a little more free spirited than I am, more of a social butterfly. I always had friends, but I was just as content to sit in my room for hours reading and listening to Nat King Cole as I was to spend time with them. You were into make-up, clothes, and hair. I was into not wearing make-up and only buying clothes from thrift stores. What a nerd I was (an ugly nerd!). Our differences stuck with us, but I think we also influenced one another as we grew into the relationship we have now. You taught me how to do make-up, showed me how to loosen up a little, and I made fun of you for being afraid to return a video to the video store by yourself. No, but seriously--you have made me a more interesting and fun person, and I hope I have done the same for you.

Honestly, I think the things we have in common have defined our relationship more than our differences have. We're both funny and creative. We both do pretty amazing British and Jersey girl accents. We're both devious pranksters. We both love horror movies, fly off the handle when we're hungry, overreact, cry at the drop of a hat, hate flying, love roller coasters, fear death, and embrace life. We may not look alike (it really is remarkable how much we do NOT look alike!), but our personalities, our collective off-the-wallness, the shorthand we have with one another that only exists between people who connect on the deepest of levels, proves we're sisters. I'm still probably gonna order a DNA test, just to be certain...you understand.

There is so much more I could say about you and me. But instead, I'm going to leave you with some confessions: One of my all-time favorite days is the day we spent filming Killer Doll. Looking at pictures of you when you were a little kid fill me with joy--I love your little chin dimples and your ridiculously large glasses. I love that you are a crazy hypochondriac. A memory that always makes me laugh is the night you were writhing around on your bed in our house on Calhoun Street, looking like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, screaming "My ears! My EARS!" I like that you never get annoyed when I call you a  "frail little woman" or compare you to a garden gnome. I admire you more than you probably know--you are a dreamer, you are passionate, and you aren't afraid to go for what you want. I wish I could be that fearless. Lastly, I will miss you so much--our sisters nights in Royal Oak, our limp hugs, our vegan cupcake feasts.

I know this is not an ending. This is the beginning of a crazy new adventure. In a way, even though you are going, I am keeping you here. Because like I said, you are my heart. And in a way, even though I am staying, I am going with you. Because you are my heart.

I love you, and I'm proud of you. 

NLYSYITM,

Liz 

"There's a special kind of freedom sisters enjoy. Freedom to share innermost thoughts, to ask a favor, to show their true feelings. The freedom to simply be themselves." –Author Unknown

New Year's Revolution

It's 2012. I like the way that sounds. Twenty-twelve. It's alliterative. And there's nothing I like more than alliteration. If someone were to ask me, "Hey, which do you like better--ice cream or alliteration?" I would have no choice but to say alliteration. I mean, ice cream is amazing, but alliteration has gotten me through some pretty tough times.

It's traditional at the start of a new year to slaughter a small animal in sacrifice atop a stone altar. Also, sometimes people make these ridiculous little promises to themselves called New Year's resolutions. Every year, on January 1st, I get naked, stand in front of the mirror, and circle my "problem areas" with a black magic marker. Usually, I am pretty marked up by the end of it, which is to say I have A LOT of problem areas. And then, after I've stopped hyperventilating (I hyperventilate when I cry hysterically), I resolve to lose a shit-ton of poundage in the coming year. Then I usually put on a sweatsuit and buy some stuff on Amazon.

As much fun as that is, this year I thought I might try to tackle some of my less tactile problems, i.e. my extreme selfishness, my crippling fear of death, and my burgeoning addiction to popsicles. To be honest, I'm not sure there's all that much I can do about the popsicle thing. The selfishness thing, well...I think that will be easy enough to overcome, as long as I always get what I want. It's uncomfortable for me not to get the attention and material items that I need and desire, so as long as I'm taken care of in that way, I should be able to fit a little selflessness into my day. As for my crippling fear of death, I sort of had an epiphany about that the other day--I probably won't die as long as I never leave my bedroom. So instead of resolving not to fear death, I just have to resolve not to leave my bedroom. That kinda goes hand in hand with my other resolution--watch so much TV that I literally have no room in my brain for non-TV-related thoughts.

I just feel like this year has so much promise, especially now that I've made the commitment to overcome some of my biggest emotional demons. 2012 is the year of possibility! As long as I always get what I want, I never have to leave my room, and I have access to an endless supply of popsicles, 2012 is lining up to be the year I change from a sick, fat, slimy, disgusting, ugly caterpillar into a gorgeous, free-spirited, beautiful, pretty, delicate, good-looking butterfly.

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.