Reputations Changeable, Situations Tolerable, Baby, You're Adorable, Handle Me With Care

--"Handle With Care", Travelling Willburys

My first experiences in California wasn't what you'd expect from the movies and television. I was not greeted by a plethora of beatnick surfer-types at the airport. Nor was I accosted by any strangely erratic personages at the hotel. I wasn't even invited to meet up at an oxygen bar until my fourth day in the Golden State. What I found was a place like any other. Only more spread out. And sunny. Sure, I did notice a few differences right away. It's the only place I've been to where having a car is a birthright, a necessity, and a curse all at the same time. It's the only place where one can go from snow to shore in the span of a couple of hours. It's also the only place where people can be professionally unemployed.

It was the summer before I was to start at Georgia and my good friend here had invited me to spend a few days living the unexamined life before my life slowly, but surely, became the examination life. Being the adventurous sort and finally wanting to make good on promise to visit E. at least once in my life, I made short work of making arrangements to fly out. When I had first broached the subject to my parents, they were hesitant but encouraging. It was the first long-distance trip I had ever taken without them. They weren't completely confident I was mature enough to handle five days in a foreign land, yet when the final decision came down I had a relatively easy time explaining that I was merely getting a jumpstart at being away from them while I was at college. After all, I said, you've already made arrangements for me to move away at the end of the summer. You can't unscramble the eggs now.

"And they just relented like that?"

"I can be quite the charmer so I've been told," I said, taking another bite from my spare ribs. We were at some steakhouse near Santa Monica and I was discussing how weird it was to be so far away from home and not know a single person out there except for the person across the table. As long as I've travelled I've suffered from bouts of self-realization. I'm like the puppy given to new owners who constantly wonders why everything looks so different, even after being in a new place for a few days. The hotel, the highways, the scenery--I was processing it all with a reluctance born of the fact that I would have to bid it adieu in a matter of days. California, at the time, was a matter not to be studied too exhaustively. California was more like cramming for a test because you knew the information you gathered wouldn't be of any practical use after the semester had finished.

"Ah, yes, the mythical charm of one Breane Holins. I've heard of such matters discussed in tucked-away alleys, but I never dared to believe it was real."

"Well, you know, darling, I only like to whip it out for special occasions. It even came with a warning when I picked it up at the pawn shop--handle with care."

"I don't know whether to blush that you think this occasion special enough to warrant whipping it out or to blanch at the fact that, indeed, your charm is so overwhelming."

"Foolish Patrick, don't you know that such textured allure, the likes of which I happen to possess, must always cause uncontrollable awe in those who are fortunate to be caught in its flowing tide?"

"I must have missed that memo, Miss Breannie."

I watched as he took a sip of his ice water, contemplating the next bon mot to foist upon my willing foil. Sometimes I take these mental exercises for granted, as if all individuals enjoy the see-saw motion our conversations usually take on. Ah, the joys of being a cunning linguist and/or a master debater.

As much as I was relishing the conversation, there was a cloud hanging over my whole trip. We both knew it. We both didn't want to speak about it either. It was the pink elephant in the living room that everybody can see but no one wanted to broach the subject about. Actually, it was both a cloud and a pink elephant. It was the pink cloud in the shape of an elephant that kept occupying my thoughts and was about fifty percent of the reason I was out here.

I was going to be away from home for the first time for a long time. I was going to meet new people--witty, profound, intelligent, and otherwise interesting people. I wasn't going to be able to keep up the frequent nightly talks the two of us had shared. I was going to become sequestered and shut away from the world at large it seemed. He was worried that I wouldn't have time enough for an old friend when the world over there would soon become more hectic than I could appreciate. He already thought it bad enough that the bulk of our friendship rested in the confines of modem wires and telephone sound waves. He had me believing that our closeness would fade away with the added pressure of even more distance.

"What's the old adage again? Neither a senile, old fool nor an absolute liar be?"

"There she goes again with the talk of my convenient memory loss. I do have a problem with retention, you know, Breanne?"

"Just like I have a 'real' problem with baring my lily=white ass to random pedestrians," I chuckled. "One of these days somebody else is going to catch on that if you really forgot all the things you say you forget you'd be labeled a legitimate imbecile."

"Imbecile, huh? Is that what you really think of me?"

"Oh, you don't want to know what I think of you."

"And why's that?"

"My opinion of you wavers with the coming morning. I wake up each day wondering exactly how I feel about you and why in hell's bells do I bother to remain constantly yours so vigilantly?"

"Because nobody else will put up with your crapola?"

"No, that's not it."

"Because everybody else is scared of you?"

"Closer, but nah."

"Because you have a deep, all-consuming love for me that you can't quite shake?"

"Ah... no."

"I give. Why?"

Just then the waitress came by to clear our plates and inquired as to our willingness to endure having dessert. Never one to pass up sugary confections, my companion immediately requested to have a dessert menu sent our way post haste. I was just about to ask if there was perhaps a dessert that the pair of us could divide. After the feast of Herod I had just paced myself through, I wasn't assured that I could endure another Herculean eating task. That's when I remembered yet another quirk of Patrick's.

He doesn't share desserts.

I mean--we all have quirks. God put us on the Earth with a mind bent towards free will and free will usually entails some often strange behavior. I could have made a bigger deal of his eccentricities, but any stern admonishment coming from a chronic represser with entitlement issues would have fallen on deaf ears, I'm afraid.

I decided against dessert, full and content with the meal that came before. After his dessert order had been placed we continued the conversation.

"As I was saying, I oft wonder what have I done to deserve this... what have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this? Or, more succinctly, what have I done to deserve you?"

"You sound like I'm a punishment, Breanne."

"Oh, the worst. I'd take the rack over you any day of the week, Mr. Patrick."

"The rack, huh? I'd sure like to rack you, let me tell ya..."

"Anyways. I was thinking about it and thinking about it the whole plane ride over here. Why do I put so much effort into something that could have faded so many years ago? Why does anyone choose to remain in any type of long-term partnership?

"Is it apathy? That certainly does explain a lot of my behavior. I've often been told that I would rather let a friendship sour rather than admit someone in my circle of trust should no longer be in my circle of trust. I find the need for a buffer of personages around me enough motivation to stand aside and do nothing when it comes to the bad relationships I've had in my life.

"Is it loyalty? Do I stay a part of this difficult, often tiresome twosome as some reward to your sticking around with me this long? I have been told that at the end of the day, when the dust bunnies settle, I rather like the distinction of having a close friend that I can say has been there for me through thick and thin for the last five years. But is the only reason we are so close because no one else has lasted with me for five years?

"Is it love? Hell's bells, it's no secret, sugar, that, if not the first, you were one of the first guys I ever fell hard for. And Providence knows a piece of my heart will always belong to you. But I think we've both gotten to a stage in our lives where we know whatever we have isn't exactly that romantic kind of love. It's a different beast altogether."

His dessert arrived right on cue.

"I think the real reason we're friends is that I happen to think you're adorable. It's this constant newness, freshness, that makes the last five years seem so short a time period. You keep me on my toes. Everyone else figured me out a long time ago, not to mention I had them figured out a long time ago. I think, I think, I think, it's not knowing where and how you'll meet my every sentence, my every pronouncement, that keeps me coming back. I want to see what kind of reaction I can get out of you. Like I said, even when you get freaked out by something I do, there's a slight adorable factor there."

Just then he pushed the humongous slice of mud pie in my direction and gestured towards one of the two forks hanging on the edge of the platter.

I didn't question his decision, I just accepted the offer for what it was, an unbelievably uncharacteristic act of friendship. I took a bite and looked into his eyes.

It was one of the sweetest things I'd ever experienced.

"And to answer your question, Breannie," he said, between bites. "I'm not sharing my dessert with you. I ordered this for you so, technically--technically--you're sharing your dessert with me."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Patrick."

We both laughed with our mouths full.

"What can I say, B.? I just know how to handle you with care."

Breanne

I'm Wondering Why, I Got Out Of Bed At All, The Morning Rain Clouds Up My Window, And I Can't See At All

--"Thank You", Dido

Certain people always tease me that I am a sourpuss at heart, that, in fact, I am the very definition of an Eeyore. They think that my life consists of spotting the sad, depressing, or otherwise melancholy aspects of life. I have absolutely no idea where this notion comes from as I can think of a myriad of people in my social circle that are far more cynical than I am. I've always thought of myself as a romantic idealist with a bit of both pursuits of happiness and sadness in my life. Indeed, one of my favorite phrases when asked to describe my outlook or perception of the world is "forlorn and wistful," which is a phrase I picked up from Avonlea. What I think it means is that on the outside I put on the appearance of dejectedness, but on the inside there's a great sense of hope for all things. Certainly, that is not what one thinks of when one thinks of Eeyore.

To tell the truth, I've probably spent a fair share of time thinking about the subject and, if you study the donkey in question, you'll see that he and I do share the same forlorn and wistful attitude. Certain episodes I've seen he has displayed this burning passion to find the beauty amidst the chaos. One of the images ingrained into my memory is of Eeyore sitting cliffside just watching the night sky. I forget what he says, but I remember the picture. It's the same picture of The Story Girl in my favorite photo--back to the camera, staring out into the empty sky. There's a certain poetry in the shot of him staring out into the bleakness unafraid, instead finding something quietly inspiring in the scene. Also, one of my favorite quotes is from Eeyore (and Christopher Robin). It exhibits the kind of humor that I think I share--definitely dark, but funny nonetheless.

"It's snowing still," said Eeyore gloomily. "So it is." "And freezing." "Is it?" "Yes," said Eeyore. "However," he said, brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately."
--A.A. Milne

Also, I don't think I'm like that with everyone. I think I'm that way with most people, but there are certain people who are lucky (or unlucky) enough only to have seen the brighter side of mojo. Certain people it is impossible for me to act downtrodden around. They just seem to bring out the better parts of me. I think this goes back to the idea that we all play parts based on the company we keep. Somebody at my job told me that I'm kind of one of those in-between guys. I'm neither the raging partier or the wallflower, when, for most of my life, I always thought I was terribly shy. I see now that I may have grown out of that mystique, but I still inhabit qualities when I'm around people who are so forthcoming with conversation or spirits. I think if I'm around people who are isolated and introverted by nature, I blend right in. Contrarily, if I'm around people whose sole purpose in life is to engage and brighten people's days I'm inclined to assist them. It just so happens there are more of the former than the latter. Even Eeyore, who is very verbal about preferring to be left alone, still manages to keep his cadre of friends sufficiently engaged for them to remain his friends. He even manages time and time again to impart some strikingly profound insights into their nature and the nature of all things.


and even if I could it'd all be grey

For most of my life I always thought of myself as this lone wolf type of character, who doesn't need company and who only manages to hurt those he does keep around him. I never thought myself as much a part of society as distanced from it. I've always been weird or, as I used to say, normal while everyone else was weird. But the more I reflect on it, the more I begin to realize that the comparison to Eeyore is an apt one. I am very gloomy and melancholy a good deal of my day, but that doesn't equate to depression. I am very capable of experiencing mirth and satisfaction with the everyday. I just think, like Eeyore, I am also very capable of soaking in the not so pleasant aspects of life. That, rather than pretend discomfort and unhappiness are qualities to be glossed over, I think they are a part of the human panorama of experience. I don't wallow in misery, just as I don't revel in happiness. I occupy that narrow precipice in the middle. I'm like that child of divorce that gets to eat at both houses with equal frequency, but belonging to neither. I'm one of those lucky fools who gets to eat all my cake and still have it too.

I never saw the point in pretending I'm feeling something I'm not. One of my other friends said that I don't hide my emotions well and I would have to agree with that assertion to. In some circumstances, I can see that being with tact has its disadvantages, but in most cases I do not see the big deal. I think everyone gets angry, sad, and lonely at times. I don't see why those parts of who we are have to remain hidden.

Maybe I'm an Eeyore, saying how he feels and contemplating more thoroughly than is probably is necessary. But unlike people who think of the comparison as being unfavorable, I kind of take it as a compliment. I like being Eeyore. Eeyore is good people.

At least it's better than being a Tigger. That guy annoys me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And I'm In Love With Illusions So Saw Me In Half, I'm In Love With Tricks, So Pull Another Rabbit Out Of Your Hat

--"You Are What You Love", Jenny Lewis with The Watson Twins

I was coloring in the book my mother had given me to keep me busy. Never one to stay in the lines, I was enjoying myself immensely. It wasn't often that my mother allowed me time to enjoy myself without her supervision. All I knew was that I had never completed so many pictures in my life. A purple and yellow zebra, a burnt sienna and silver tiger, even an orange bear--that had been three new pages I had managed to scribble my way through. I suppose I might have gone on filling in my coloring book, happy as a pig in slop, if it weren't for the hunger beginning to climb over me. Mother had said that she would soon be down to fix me lunch and then we would eat it together. That had been some minutes ago and she had yet to come down.


I'm fraudulent, a thief at best,
a coward who paints a bullshit canvas

I ceased coloring and made my way to the staircase which led to my parents' bedroom. Every step I took up the stairs made me more worried. It wasn't like my mother not to see to me every minute of my day, especially in those days. However, more worrisome to my young mind was the fact that I had never known my mother to have any affinity for being bothered while she was busy. So there I stood a three-quarters up the steps, afraid to move any further up, yet undeniably hungry. I didn't want to bother her or my daddy. They were obviously doing something important because they had yet to peek one hair out of the bedroom since she had gone in. I decided to handle the situation with care. I made my way to the top of the stairs, ready to bolt back down were I to hear the familiar sounds of the door opening. As soon as I stepped onto the landing, I hit my knees and crawled ever so slowly to the front of their door, my sundress be damned. Every inch I grew closer the surer I became that I would be caught and my lily white ass would be tanned for sure. Yet my discovery never came about. I laid on the carpet in front of the door, listening to whatever sounds that trickled out.

I couldn't make it out at first, but I thought I heard yelling. That's what scared me most of all that day. My parents never fought in front of me. They were perfect like that. The only person who ever got yelled out in the household was little 'ole me. It wasn't just that they were yelling, it was the velocity with which the yelling came and the degree to which it continued. I had heard that tone of voice before from both my mother and my daddy. This was the tone of voice they reserved when I had done something terribly wicked. This was crashing-the-car-into-the-willow or being-brought-home-by-the-principal bad.

I got up and ran downstairs, hoping they would hear me. I wanted to get back to the happiness I experienced when I was coloring. I sat back down and began humming a familiar tune Torry had taught me a week prior. I was trying to will myself back to the point in time where I never found out. I was trying to recreate the conditions before I had carelessly walked upstairs. In my mind it was an attempt to go back in time and pretend what was happening really wasn't happening.

Finally, when my parents came downstairs forty or so minutes later, I played the petulant child, clamoring for her lunch, so they would never have to explain to me why they were up there so long. I still wanted them to be my perfect parents, parents who never fought. I wanted them to be the parents they had always been.

But they were never quite that impossibly perfect to me ever again.

Breanne

I Had This Sadness Creeping Like Vines Over Me, I Didn't Get What I Want, So I Just Took What Wanted Me

--"Would You Come With Me", The Elected

Being without a car in California, especially Los Angeles, is sometimes like being without a parachute on a plane about to go down. There are certain situations that having a car and the ability to drive oneself away from a location is unmistakably handy. I guess I'm one of those rare people who just enjoy driving for the sake of driving. Even with the gas prices rising everyday it seems, I still prefer sometimes to take long car trips when the price for a train or plane ticket is negligible. There's something about making my own schedule at my own pace beats the comfort of not having to drive myself. Something relaxes me about knowing I never have to be stuck anywhere at anything I don't want to be.

----

It was 1996 and I was stuck in Thousand Oaks without my car at some godforsaken time of the night. I was basically bored out of my skull and hating life. How I had come to be in this situation is a funny story in itself.

Actually, on second thought, it's not all that funny. That story is the same old m.o. I had back in those days--the chatting up, the getting to know one another, the asking if it'd be cool to come over.

The part that really stuck with me after all these years is the showing up at her house only to discover that three of her best friends had decided to hang with her as well. I didn't think much of it until the skulking suspicion that they weren't going to leave anytime soon. I wanted to be alone with her and my plans for the night definitely didn't include tagalongs anywhere in the picture. That should have been my first clue that that night wasn't going to my night at all.

Like most things, I swept it under the rug and tried to roll with the punches. I'd been accused all my life of being the spoilsport when it comes to things and I was trying very hard to make a good impression with this girl. In fact, I ended up having an okay time just talking to everyone present. It wasn't the most terribly stimulating conversation I've ever had, but it wasn't quite bordering on boredom-inspiring. It was what it was, functional and polite. The most I could say that I garnered from the conversation regarding her was that she was quite witty and very easily worked everyone into the dialogue.

All in all, it was not the brightest of beginnings.

However, it wasn't until we had actually all driven out in her car to some long-emptied parking lot that it started to turn from the mildly disappointing to downright uncomfortable. First, it was the breaking out of cigarettes and cheap alcohol which, at that point in my life, was not my idea of a good time. I just didn't see the thrill in parking out somewhere with one's cronies and getting messed up. But I think it's when the defacing began that I started to really miss the use of my car. I didn't want to be a killjoy, but I definitely, definitely was not having fun.

Dodging questions about why I did not drink or smoke became the topic of the evening and it was painfully obvious that I was sticking out. I felt like one of those exercises in Highlights Magazine where you try to find out which one of a set of objects does not belong. I felt like if you stood the five of us end-to-end in a police line-up I'd be the one singled out easily.

That's when I began to think and reflect how I'd come to be in this situation. Was this girl really worth all the hassle and discomfort I was experiencing? Truth be told, I think that's when the thought of how I rather disliked being alone had led me to the point in my life I was at. There I was, risking my sanity, all for the sake of impressing somebody I had met barely a week ago. I don't know if I really liked her or that I liked the fact she liked me. It's that distinction that came to mind when I was trying to make small talk with her and her mini-posse. I didn't really want her to like me, I just wanted anyone to like me, regardless if we were a match or not. Placing oneself in this position is a dangerous affair and often leads to someone getting hurt in the end.

I didn't want to weigh my options with her. I just wanted to go, go, go, to forget the difficulty in trying to find someone again. I just wanted to be with someone, anyone, who would have me.

Somewhere during that night I decided I was better than that as well as the fact that she deserved better than me. I decided she should have someone who actually wanted to be with her and only her, not someone who was making due with what was at hand. I don't think I ever told her what she was to me, that rebound date that shakes you out of that seeming desperation. Somehow I think she knew, though.

I think it was the speed with which I called it a night and sped off in my car that should have been her first clue.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And I'll Confess, That I Can Be A Little Selfish, I Can I Can, Yeah I'll Admit, I Don't Want You To Get Me Through This

--"Whoa", Paramore

It arrived about two days before my eighteenth birthday. I had never seen the likes of it. From its powder blue cover sheet to the impossibly bold title sheet across it, it was a gift more personal and heartfelt than I had ever received, a hallmark of her generosity I was to later discover. She had given me a copy of the official script for The Wizard, the perfect gift that I didn't even know I wanted. My first reaction was almost instantaneous--what I held in my hands that day made me more than delighted, more than ecstatic.

It made me suspicious.

"Miss Holins?" I asked into the phone, not even giving her opportunity to put forth a proper greeting.

"Yes, my darling?"

"What's the meaning of this birthday gift?"

"I take it you didn't care for it. I'm sorry, Patrick. I didn't have much time to shop for it and it was the best I could think of on such short notice. Shame on you for not letting me know sooner," she said slightly disappointedly.

It wasn't that I didn't enjoy the gift. I loved it. I was just concerned about what it meant. I think I'm a paranoid person by nature, especially when it comes to random displays of friendship or compassion. I'd much rather have someone who hates me take a swing at me in full view than be the victim of a spontaneous gift or compliment. At least I know in the former's case the rationale behind the action. With the latter, I am almost always immediately thrown into a fit of furious contemplation. I am always wondering when the other shoe's going to drop. It's just been my experience with most individuals that when somebody does something nice for you it's because they're after something. Acknowledging this, I'd much rather know upfront what they have bought from me with their bribe.

"I just don't get why you'd give me such an awesome gift for. You hardly know me."

"I know you like The Wizard. It's all you talk about sometimes."

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, you didn't really give me much else to work with, sugar," I heard Breanne laugh into the phone. "It was either that or an early edition of History of the World In 10 1/2 Chapters."

"What do you do? Take notes?"

"I don't need to, sir. I've got a memory like concrete. Once it's set in, it's there for life."

I half expected for the inquiry to come within those first few minutes of talking to her. That's the way it usually worked. First, came the buttering up, and then later on is when she'd actually take her bite.

Sure, it was for my birthday and I probably shouldn't have been as cynical as I was being. Yet to me it was far too nice of a gift to be given on the first birthday within a person's circle of friends. Didn't she know there were rules to gift-giving for friends' birthdays much like anniversaries? The first birthday spent as someone's friends is almost invariably always a gift certificate. This is due to the fact that you don't quite know enough about the person to get him something more personal as well as the fact that you need to ramp up. Poor Breanne, she didn't realize how the game is played. You don't blow your load on the first pass. You need to lead up to the big gift so it means more. All her giving me the script meant was that I'd expect something even bigger and better next year. She was only setting me up for disappointment the next year when she couldn't top that year's present.

"And when did I exactly tell you that I wanted a sparkling copy of my most favorite movie's script?"

"Ummm, last month maybe? Yeah, yeah, yeah, it was when you were talking about how you were wondering if any of it was ad-libbed."

"I don't remember saying that."

"With your memory I doubt you even remember your name sometimes." She paused. "What's wrong? You sound kind of pissy for someone whose dear, dear friend got him something so perfect."

"Who? Me? Nothing."

"Hell's bells, Patrick. I think I've come to know you a little bit better than that. Out with it."

If there's one thing I can say about my friend is that she's darn perceptive. Either that or I really am that predictable as everyone says I am. I've been told that I wouldn't make a good card player because I fall into the same tell-tale patterns and have the same habitual tells. I think for every given situation or emotion I have one and only one reaction. For instance, in a situation such as the one herewithin I almost invariably always react with a very demonstrative display of my displeasure. I don't know if it's the way I breathe or a change in my inflection when speaking, but I don't seem capable of hiding displeasure very easily.

"It's just that it's far too thoughtful of a gift for me not to be worried about what you want in return."

"And what, pray tell, Mr. Patrick, is it that I could possibly want from you in return for such a fine gift."

"You tell me."

If I have a tell, then my more stubborn half has her tells as well. I can always tell when she's irked by something I've done or said. She starts off her explanations with the same two words when she's mildly aggravated as opposed to full-blown upset. With mild aggravation you'll hear her say, "that's great."

"That's great. That's just great. You don't know me at all, do you?"

"Explain it to me."

"Well, you see, Eeyore, not everyone's out for themselves. Sometimes, just sometimes, people are just nice to you for no other reason than to be nice. I thought that that script might be something you would like for your birthday so I bought it for you. I'm not expecting for you to fall-on-your-knees gratitude, but some gratitude would be nice. I'm certainly not enjoying all this skepticism on your part."

"If I'm skeptic it's because the gesture was so grand that it's almost unbelievable."

"Believe it, Patrick. I'm that good."

I think part of the problem is two-fold. I think too much of me relies on the principle that people are all selfish by nature. I'm always concerned about what people's agendas are. For me, were I to give most people a nice present I would be immediately thinking what I could ask for in return. For me, I'm always trying to calculate the exchange rate on favors, compliments, and the like. The second thing is when somebody gives me something nice I'm always worried about why they chose that precise moment to give it to me. For instance, when someone compliments me on my choice of clothing for that day I always wonder what they thought on days prior to that one. Or when somebody grabs the check for dinner I'm always wondering if they think I'm a cheapskate bastard and am always fearful that I won't get the opportunity to return the favor.

For me I couldn't see where she was coming from at all. In my experience up to that point, people just weren't that selfless. I'm not saying she's a saint--far from it--but she's one of the only people that truly can buy things for people just because it reminds her of them.

To really boil it down for everyone, I just don't like being in people's debt. It's one thing if I honestly believe I was given something free and clear, but almost always there are going to be strings attached. Someone may say that they're doing something out of their heart's goodness, but ten months down the line when they're pissed about something I always hear, "what about the time I did such-and-such for you? You're so ungrateful." If something is done because you're such a pillar of compassion then you sure as hell shouldn't be able to guilt-trip me with it later on. I want to be able to accept things at face value. If you give me five bucks because I'm short one day and don't ask me to pay you back, I'm not going to pay you back. I just think gifts should be gifts, but they seldom are. They're almost always accompanied with enough baggage to fill a semi with. Just like if you give me a gift that's really nice and I can't quite come up to your standards you shouldn't be allowed to make me feel like crap because I couldn't measure up.

I was worried about that too with her. She'd obviously been listening to what I was sharing with her and filing it away for later. Everybody knows that I have the worst memory. I was fretting that whatever gave her when her birthday rolled around would only disappoint her.

Not only that, but I was also worried about something else entirely. I knew I was never going to measure up in the thoughtful department. I don't have a knack for saying or doing things spontaneously out of my good will for mankind. I saw a future where this girl I had only known for the better part of four months would continue giving me small trinkets. I saw her being the kind or person that would bend over backwards to put a smile on my face whenever possible. I guess I was kind of afraid that my inner Scrooge would be impossible to ignore in the face of such generosity. I think I was dreading the moment when I would hear from her, "how come you never buy me anything when I buy you so much?"

At that point I only had two choices. I could either halt her altruistic ways before it got out of hand or I could try and learn to be more like her.

"It's too much. I think you should take it back."

"Hush, puppy. If I didn't want you to have it I wouldn't have given it to you. Now I want you to repeat after me," she said rather harshly. "Thank you, Breanne."

"Thank you, Breanne."

"Why you're ever so welcome, Mr. Patrick. Think nothing of it. I'm just glad you like it."

"It really is the nicest thing someone's ever gotten me. You don't know how happy it makes me. Even though I don't think I deserve it I'll hang onto it anyway..." I trailed off. "...if only because it's from you."

"Awww. Gosh, golly, gee whiz, you're making me blush."

I decided right then and there that maybe I couldn't do it for the whole world at large, but I definitely could afford to be generous with her. It may be a miniscule accomplishment when placed against how much other people do to help out society, but I've thought about it. What I've come up with is the fact that I'll never be entirely without a bit of selfishness and a bit of skepticism for other people's motives. Yet when it comes to this gal of mine, this special gal, I can be every bit as thoughtful and appreciative as she is.

Not many people deserve that kind of respect. I certainly don't.

But she does.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Not Living Without You, I Don't Want To Be Free, I'm Staying, I'm Staying, And You, And You, And You, You're Gonna Love Me

--"And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going", Dreamgirls Original Broadway Cast Recording

He was never going to love me. That was the truth I had to face. Sitting on his front lawn, just outside his bedroom window, I felt ashamed and scared. Had it really come to this? Had it really come to spying on him? I didn't know what I hoped to accomplish. Maybe a chance glimpse. Something more, perhaps. In my heart of hearts I knew what I wanted. I wanted him to notice me, come out, and think the gesture endearing instead of the obsessive act it really was. I wanted him to see the romance, the dedication, the passion really involved in the gesture. It wasn't out of my way and it wasn't like I planned it. I was jogging home, came up to his house again, and had to stop.

I don't know I had actually been there or even when the urge to sit down on his lawn had overtaken me. All I knew was that too much of my childhood and too much of me was wrapped up in the idea of him and I together. Now it was just about time for me to give up on that dream of togetherness and I was having some difficulties letting go. For so much of my life he was what give me definition. Like Memoirs of Geisha, a good deal of my efforts were spent in the single hope that I would become something he would take a fancy to, to bring me one step closer to him. Yet as sat focused on the window, his window, I came to grips with the fact that I was no closer to him than when I first took notice of him. He didn't know who I was--not really. It is true he knew my name now. It is true he said hello to me more often when we passed each other. However, those life experiences I wished to share with him--those never materialized. And those matters of the heart that I thought he could teach me--I never learned those from him. What he was and what he represented was the dream of something more that I never got. He was the impossible goal that one sets the bar for, even though she knows such a goal is impossible. He was the wall I kept butting up against until failure.

I wasn't sitting out there because the two of us had shared a moment. I was sitting out there because we hadn't shared a moment. And all those moments never shared began feeling like a lifetime wasted. I was sad in a way. I was sad that there was a part of me that would die, the part that would always want him. This part, the part that so desperately wanted him to love me, was the part that was keeping me transfixed on his unlit bedroom window. This part, the part that never truly gave up hope, was the part that was trying to tempt me to knock on his window once and for all to give him the chance to finally admit his well-hid feeling for me. This was the part that was obsessed with him.

But the other part of me, the one that wanted to leave, knew I was being silly. I was out of his league now, moving onto better and brighter things. I slowly stood up. I started to walk away, tentatively at first, but then gathering in speed. It woudln't be the last time I visited that house, but it would be the last time I saw that little girl of nine who fell in love with the boy down the block. I left her still sitting on that lawn waiting for the love of her life to come waltzing out the door.

I ran all the way home and never once looked back.

Breanne

And I'll Make You Mine, Keep You Apart, Deep In My Heart, Separate From The Rest, Where I Like You The Best, And Keep The Things You Forgot

--"Between The Bars", Elliot Smith

I think it was the car scene in the rain that pushed the film over the edge. I think that's when Chasing Amy stopped being a film to me and started being THE film to me. Just like Rilo Kiley's "Pictures of Success", I knew, I fucking knew, what I was watching in the theater that day in 1997 was the closest approximation in film to my outlook on love. While I couldn't say that it was the exact blueprint of my life up to that point, I could definitely see myself saying those same words to someone whose face I had yet to see. The idealism, the romantic posturing, the ineptitude with which Holden handles his business with Alyssa--all that is me. As I sat there watching the film, I found myself saying time and time again that if I plugged myself into that situation I wouldn't do or say anything differently. All the choices he makes in the film are the selfsame choices I would have made, given his situation.

It was 1997. Tara had just broken up with me a month or so earlier. I was depressed and depressing. My grades were suffering. I wasn't eating. I was a mess.

I truly think it was two films that pulled me out of my doldrums. The first was Grosse Pointe Blank, with its amusing take on the old lovers rekindling their romance storyline, and Chasing Amy. I literally saw the latter two days after the former. I remember walking into the theater expecting to find another crass, but humorous, movie by Kevin Smith. I sat there thinking while the previews were running about how insipid it was that I was still moping around, weeks after the event, and how ridiculous it was that I had to use movies as a crutch to get over her. Thank God, I didn't have a cel phone at the time or else I might have attempted to call her from the theater that day. Instead, with my heart still on the mend, I hoped for the best. What I got was an entirely different beast, instead.

I don't know if I can say I was comforted by the film since the ending is kind of bittersweet. I think what I was was invigorated by the notion that there was somebody else out there who was feeling who I was feeling, who had trod down life's pitfalls and had made something stirring with it. I'm not claiming the film is the answer to everyone's problems, but it did put my problems into perspective. Half of why sad things are sad is due to the fact that one always thinks one is living through it the first time. One believes no one since the dawn of time has ever felt like that. One feels isolated when that simply isn't true. I know I felt that way. I felt like nobody could understand my pain and that's why I think I shut myself off for that month. i didn't feel like anybody had the answers so why even pose the question?

Yet little by little, this plucky film chipped away at the idea that everything was happening to my all at once. I started to pick up that maybe my troubles weren't so focused on me and that what I was experience really was a universal fact of life. Scenes from the film--the aforementioned car scene, the parking lot scene, the scene in the loft at the end--those are all conversations I understand from head to toe. I don't empathize or sympathize with them; I completely understand them. Back then, not so long ago, I thought I was unique, like I'd been the only person who'd ever been dumped before.

Before I knew it, while watching the last convention scene, I found myself crying for poor Holden. No one dies, no one gets sick--that stuff I can handle in movies. It's when people find love and never are able to achieve it, like Eponine, or when people find love and lose it, like Holden, that truly tears me apart. It's like they say, there are worse things than dying and there are worse things than getting sick. For me, the idea of leading out an existence all alone terrifies me. The idea that I let something good and uplifting slip away preoccupies my thoughts. That'd be my idea of hell, seeing love always just out of my reach.

My whole life is about chasing Amy, except my Amy is the happiness I once had because of the various people in my world. No film ever put that type of quest, my quest into such a concrete form before. The kind of life Holden has at the end of film is my life.

Thusly, his joy is my joy. His giddiness is my giddiness. Also, his heartache, his torment, is my heartache and torment. His regret is my regret.


and I'll make you okay,
and drive them away
the images stuck in your head

Watch the film and I promise you'll gain a better insight into the particularly maddening brand of romantic idealist I am.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Return Of The Mack Once Again, Return Of The Mack Top Of The World, Return Of The Mack, Watch My Flow, You Know That I'll Be Back, Don't You Know

--"Return of the Mack", Mark Morrison

I've always been blessed with the rare ability to ascertain which qualities I possess and which ones I don't. I don't attempt to outreach my grasp. It is in this spirit of complete honesty I make the following announcement.

I have no game.

Unlike people in my family and various friends, I don't have the ability to walk up to any old person I like and start a conversation. I've mostly dated people I've gotten to know first, be it through work, school, or, yes, the internet. In fact, I'm not ashamed to admit that perhaps the smoothest I've ever been was back in the late 90s, between Tara and DeAnn, when I was chatting girls up on AOL one week and then doing the lunch thing the next week. But I'm here to say that had it been the other way around I don't think it would have worked out so well. Attribute it to shyness or inexperience, I just don't do well trying to come up with clever and witty words to say face-to-face. Like handwriting and foreign languages, the particular subject of conversing with a complete stranger for the purposes of romance is one I seem to be on the verge of failing. Time and time again, I've wanted to say something to various young ladies I happen to see day after day but never to the point where daily conversation is encouraged. Be it a co-worker, the girl at the movie theaters, or, yes, even the infamous Sniffler with whom I sat behind in church for a year-and-a-half and only had the balls to talk to a month before I stopped going to church--if I don't have the pretense of having to small talk I can't actually make small talk.

It wouldn't be so bad if I actually were as apathetic and standoffish as I pretend to be. I try to pretend that the idea of dating again is something that I haven't quite got myself worked up to yet. I try to sound like I enjoy being on my own again. But the truth is three years without seeing anyone is damn long enough and I never liked being alone before that. Furthermore, there are at least two or three viable and available women that I would so dearly love to ask out right now but have no idea how to go about it. One of them literally drives me crazy at work because she sits fifteen away from me but she might as well sit a hundred yards away from me. Alas and alack, she belongs to another department with a different supervisor and thus the opportunity to actually get to know her is infrequent and short-lived. But, let me tell you, she's got loveliness to spare and one of her close friends I do kind of know and from what I hear of her through her friend leads me to believe she's got intelligence and charm to spare as well. I wish I could be like Kuno and just walk up to her one of these days and say, "I WOULD DATE WITH YOU!" but that would be ridiculous.

I think the last time I attempted that was at the other Collections job I worked. Her name was Kerri Ray and everyday I would see her. Everyday I wish I could be getting to know her better. Especially coming after breaking up with my last girlfriend, I believe I stopped myself from saying anything because I thought it was too soon. I'd heard all the horror stories about jumping into a relationship too soon after your last one. I didn't want to be with someone just because I couldn't be with the one I still wanted to be with. I didn't think that would be fair to her or me. But, mostly, it was the shy thing creeping in. She was on my team so I had plenty of opportunities to talk to her.

In fact, I think the funniest thing is that I actually had one of the ironic conversations with her. I actually asked for her advice on what would be the best way to overcome my jitters about asking her out.

"Say there was this guy and he really liked this girl. But he was really shy and didn't know the best way to approach asking her out. What advice would you give him?"

"I'd just tell him that you miss 100% of the shots you never take."

"But what if he'd like this girl a fairly long time and now he was just worried that he'd waited too long, that he let the moment slide?"

"Oh, you're worried that you'd slipped into the friendship role?"

"Exactly."

"Well, then you're stuck there forever and forever," she laughed. "I don't know, Patrick, start with hello. You can't be burned that bad if you just say, 'hey, what's up?' I think the most she could do is call you a geek to your face."

She was joking, of course. At least, I hope she was. But that conversation was enough to scare me away from ever doing anything about my hopes for a successful pairing. It's like I'm two different animals when it comes to relationships. When I'm in a relationship there's nothing I won't say, nothing I won't do, nothing I won't try to be to show her what I'm feeling for her. I have no fear when it comes to displaying my affection for someone once the bond has been officially recognized by the public at large. However, before the official press release, blessing of the Pope, &c, I don't even want to admit to someone that they look nice that day. It isn't because I'm scared of saying the words. I'm not. I think what I'm mostly frightened of is the idea that I actually could be falling for someone again that I have no shot of ever getting. Even worse than that, I'm scared that it will be due to something completely out of my control. Rejection I can handle. I've been rejected before and bounced back within a few days. The disappointment that really burns like acid is when the rejection is due to something out of my control. Whether it be due to moving, racism on the family's part, or something even sillier like not dating co-workers--it really eats at me that the relationship was doomed from the start.

Yet there she sits. So far away in one aspect, yet so close. So beautiful and so pleasant.

What have I got to worry about? It's just a few simple words, after all.

"I WOULD DATE WITH YOU!!!"

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Are The Stars Out Tonight? I Don't Know If It's Cloudy Or Bright, I Only Have Eyes For You, Dear

--"I Only Have Eyes For You", The Flamingos

Above my bed, below the sign that reads "Where are we going and why are we in this handbasket?" I got as a gag gift many years ago, is a humble stuffed koala bear named Jonesy who is dressed in a replica Braves uniform. I think it's a requirement that every gal living has to have a cherished animal which falls out of the norm. Be it penguin, unicorn, or phoenix (in Torry's case). For me, that animal has always been koalas. I can't explain it and I don't know when it exactly started, but ever since I was little I've had a thing for koala bears. Jonesy was a gift from Patrick on my 22nd birthday and was the last koala I ever got. As far as koalas go, the baseball uniform is a cute touch and the fact that it came with its own birth certificate and document of ownership makes Jonesy one of my most favorite among my herd.

However, there is one that means more to me. She isn't the first; Mr. Shrimps holds that honor. She isn't even the best looking--that would be the one my husband gave to me on our second date, Joker. But the koala known as Mary Mary was the first one I ever (almost) won on my own.

----

It was the second day of the church fair. I was ten years old and my daddy had refused to try and win me Mary Mary in the water gun races. To be fair, it wasn't that he had singled out that particular prize for abandonment; he didn't believe in playing any carnival game. And it wasn't that he was a skinflint or spoilsport; he, like always, most graciously had offered to buy me any stuffed animal I wanted after the fair was over that day. Yet there's something to be said about having someone win you a prize through hardwork and determination than having him just buy it for you outright. As much as I inquired--courteous girls never begged nor pleaded--after the bear, he said it would just be a waste of money, which didn't sit right with me given that all the money was going to the church and my daddy would eventually give away just as much playing bingo with my mother. This went on for the first fifteen minutes after my seeing Mary Mary until finally I too gave up on the hope of him ever winning it for me.

I was about to leave but the thought of parting from the object of my affection was almost too much too bear. She looked so realistic and not at all like the toy she obviously was. I wanted her more than I have ever wanted anything in my life up to that point. I wouldn't say I was a spoiled child as much as any only child has a right to say that, but I have always known what it was like not to want for very much. Both my parents raised me not to covet too many object beyond our means and beyond common sense. I was always the first to announce when they were spending far too much on me. However, Mary Mary was different. Mary Mary was special. She had to come with me by the end of the day or I would be inconsolable.


my love must be a kind of blind love

Being a plucky gal of ten, I decided to win it for myself, though I could barely see over the counter and I had never attempted a water gun race before. How hard could it be, I figured. It's aiming a water gun at a clown's mouth. I plunked down the first dollar bill of what would come to be many dollars and raced against the first round of competition. Mary Mary qualified as a medium-level prize so I would have to win eight races, being that two tiny prizes equaled a small prize and four small prizes equaled one medium prize.

The first two races came easy. I was competing against people my own age, who, quite frankly didn't have the determination that I possessed. I was a young lady on a mission to rescue a captured comrade and the necessity for liberation inspired me to great heights of water gun marksmanship. As soon as the signal came to start firing I was like Breanne Earp at the O.K. Corral. I aimed and fired as if the clowns were shooting back at me, always with an eye to Mary Mary being dangled from the ceiling of the booth. I was like, as my daddy says, a momma pig chasing after its piglets--all grit and determination. The other competitors, after seeing the focus in my face, knew better than to challenge me again. With two tiny prizes in hand, I traded them in for the first of my four small prizes.

The next three races were a bit harder. A teenage couple had decided to join in the race and the boy had obviously wasn't a stranger to the playing field. He shot from the hip, not even deiging it worth the effort to place the gun to his face. Those precious few seconds were enough for him to take the first race. It wasn't until his girlfriend saw how flustered I was getting when he won the second race that she told him to take it easy on me.

"After all, she's just a kid," I heard her say.

"Hell's bells," I replied, "this game is hard... especially when you're small." I gave the guy my best impression of a damsel in distress. I was hoping the combination of her and I would be enough for him to throw the next race. Normally, I wouldn't be one to play the age card, but, hey, a gal's got to do what a gal's got to do.

I won the next race handily as the boy did the equivalent of pulling up short to the finish line. He filled up the balloon, but instead of squirting the target further until the balloon popped he quite altogether. He wanted me to know that he could have beat me handily. I wasn't above of taking charity, though. Mary Mary wouldn't care how I obtained her, after all.

The next few races after the boy had left were, again, easily won. In one race I remember, a lad of no more than six or seven came strolling up to the counter alone. After he had paid for his race I heard him ask me what the point of the game was. I lied and told him that he had to aim for the clown's mouth until the balloon popped. However, instead of telling him to aim for the clown in front of him, I told him to aim for my clown's mouth. The booth operator impressed with the gall I had swindled the boy could only laugh. The double streams of water gushing into my target was enough to pop the balloon in no time and I found myself with three plush small size stuffed animals in front of me.

The next race was where that handbasket quote comes into effect for it was in the next race that a portly woman strolled up to the counter. I could tell by the look on her face that she wouldn't be easily swayed by my obvious charms. She wouldn't care how young or helpless I was because she had a determination to beat everyone at the counter.

The trash talking did take me by surprise, though.

"I've never seen someone with such bad aim as you, kid. You might as well give up now," she shouted after the first race had been run. I'd been beaten, but not by much.

I attempted to laugh it off, but inside I was getting worried that I would have to borrow another twenty from my daddy. That was a thought I did not relish because I still didn't know what he would say about me spending the twenty I had gotten for allowance that day on winning some stupid stuffed animal. I had three dollars left to win two more races. If she won another two races it would mean actual begging and pleading. I couldn't lose any more races.

I went into the next race determined to place above her.

When she won the next race as well she told me, "maybe you need to get your brother to race for you because you're obviously not any good at this game."

Perhaps it was the pressure of being so close to achieving my goal, only to be denied at the very end. Perhaps it was the lack of respect she had for me. Or maybe it was just the lack of respect I had for her. For whatever reason, I turned the gun on her. More precisely I turned it on the medium-sized polar bear she had just traded for. My rationale was that that prize should have been mine. It wasn't fair to pick on a little kid like this, I thought, even though I had only ten minutes prior had taken advantage of someone younger than me. All I knew was that if I couldn't have my koala she shouldn't have her polar bear either. There was no way by Gracious Providence I was going to allow that to happen.

"You wouldn't, kid," she taunted me, devilish smile on her face.

"I would."

With that I shot at the polar bear, pushing it off the counter. Next I took aim at the woman herself, drenching her to her undergarments. That might have been when I had gone too far. She may have not been so upset if I had stopped at the bear, but, like always, I had to go that extra step. As I always say, I'm only Breanne--no more, no less. It's in my nature to go too far when going just far enough would have gotten my point across. The only excuse I can offer now is that I was, in fact, only ten, though I very well may have done the same thing a couple years ago and maybe even a couple weeks ago if I was put in the same position.

As my parents were escorting me from behind the counter when the booth operator had held me after the woman made a complaint against me, I reflected that I was never going to take Mary Mary home with me. It didn't even occur to me that I had done a wicked, wicked thing. All that mattered what the results of my actions were. I had no sense of remorse; I only had the sense of longing that wouldn't be quenched until I could hold Mary Mary in my arms. Such was my sorrow that day.

Even when we arrived home and my daddy tanned my hide a bit, the pain of not having her stung me even more. While I wasn't quite inconsolable, I was undeniably hurt. I suspect I'm one of those people that doesn't lose easily. I'm not a sore loser, but nor am I accustomed to tasting defeat. No one likes to lose, but I really hate losing.

Sometimes I don't think I have the sense God gave geese. Polite company does not spray water at strangers. Polite company does not get banned from attending the church fair. Also, polite company does not have to write a letter of apology to said stranger afterwards. I guess at that age I wasn't quite yet polite company.

----

A week after the church fair had come to a close I found Mary Mary waiting for me in my bed at home. It had turned out that the portly lady had been a sister of one of the ministers and she hadn't had so much in years, she wrote. She said she was sore something fierce for the first few days after I had wetted her down, but the more she thought about it the more she realized she hadn't exactly been acting Christian-like. Besides that, she now had a wonderful anecdote to tell her friends. She had written my father in secret and inquired if there was anything she could do to make it up to me.

He knew what I wanted.

And that's how I (almost) won Mary Mary.

Breanne.

Driving Back To Her Apartment, For The Moment We're Alone, She's Alone, And I'm Alone, Now I Know It

--"Brick", Ben Folds Five

There are some movies that you see because you identify with the story or you can relate to the subject. Something about the film makes you stop and say that I can relate to what that individual is going through and, because of that, you take on parts of the story as if you were living it. It stops being about some other person and you start to feel like you did when something similar happened to you.

Mysterious Skin was not such a film for me.

But I could not pry my eyes away from it.

I had the pleasure of watching this film last night for the sole reason that one of the performers called it one of the best performances she had ever done. Being a fan of her body of her work, I took it upon myself to see what I had been missing when this film had come out in theaters. I am not ashamed to say that I was taken by surprise by how engrossing this film was. To be sure, I was uncomfortable at parts, sickened at others, but the honesty and brutality with which everyone involved in the project approached the work came clearly across. Other films approaching the child abuse genre deal in how survivors come out better the other side or how acknowledging what happened is the first step in a process to some semblance of normal. This film didn't present any easy answers. In fact, it's hard to say how substantial the growth is from the film's inception to its completion. There are no hard and fast lessons learned and nothing of a substantial happy ending rewards you at the end. Instead, all you get is a straightforward tale of two characters who, having gone through the horror, attempt to get on with their lives ten years removed from the incidents. The film sets forward few breakdowns and even less melodrama. In that sense it reminded me much of Atom Egoyan's works such as Exotica or The Sweet Hereafter. I felt like I was watching a story of beauty wrapped in a tragedy that, unfortunately, happens far too often. Even though I couldn't sympathize with what was happening, I couldn't deny that what I was seeing was very moving and worthy of my attention. This is the kind of film that not only is it important to see, but also to make sure as many people as I know see it as well.


the world is sleeping and
I am numb

One of the main reasons why I liked the film is because at its heart the story revolves around everyone's desire to have some type of human contact. The need for connection with those around us, whether it be our family, our friends, or even random strangers is such an overwhelming drive that it can and does lead to tragic circumstances. There's an immense sadness watching everyone of the major characters attempting to reach out for someone else regardless of the consequences. The story treats people as commodities, where the person who has the most contact wins. Sometimes it's a thing of splendor. When you see the strength of Wendy and Neil's friendship despite some pretty horrific secrets shared between them, when you see just how much Brian's mother stays by him, when you get a glimpse of the last scene--all these contribute to the idea that the search for a lasting bond is not fruitless. Sure, there will always be individuals who one will always want to share with but can never get to and, sure, there will always be fumbles in the search along the way, but I think the film does a more than adequete job of showing how everyone goes through the process and how the process is perhaps more important than the goal. It's the searching and not finding love, friendship, committment, &c that makes life enriching. It's the frustration, anger, and sadness that both complicates our lives and crystalizes them. We are the product of our failures and our successes are only made such because of the length and breadth we had to travel to attain them.

We all feel alone, the film seems to say, and it's the universal sense of loneliness that binds us together. We all share that. We all have experience with it.

But that shouldn't drive one to do something one will regret. Some regrets last forever and can't be undone.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

What Are You Doing? It's Been Too Long, I Never Even See You, What Are You Doing? You're A Different Girl But I Don't Know Who

--"Shelley", Dance Hall Crashers

Sometimes all we know is falling. That's a phrase that I've been hearing creep up lately. I don't know what it exactly means, but I'd like to think it means that the path we carve out for ourselves is strewn with disappointment and sacrifice. Everyone makes a huge overture about how life is hard and how it sucks. Yes, I would have to agree that sometimes life is like trying to push a wheelbarrow sideways as my daddy says. But to stay within the analogy, I think it's all about how you approach the task set before you. You can either waste your strength attempting to do the job as it is presented to you or you can take the time to come at the wheelbarrow from a different angle and have a far easier time of it.

I'd like to think of myself as an individual who falls into the work smarter not harder category.

Unfortunately, I think my cousin Shelly falls into the former category. She's the type of person to see every problem as only having one solution and it's usually the one that immediately springs to her mind. Even when she is proven to be wrong, she will maintain her opinion to the bitter end. Yes, I know I come from a long line of stubborn men and women, but I'd like to think I'm only a jackass when it comes to the important subjects and not the trivial ones.

----

When we were younger, she and I used to get along like fishes. She was my favorite cousin for the longest time. Also, with her being older and (I thought) more mature, I idolized her for her seemingly grown-up ways. This extended to both to her fashion sense and the way she spoke. In fact, it was the confidence with which she pursued getting her way that impressed me the most. There I was, someone who was afraid of putting one foot in front of the other the wrong way lest I garner the scorn of my parents, and my cousin Shelly managed to both do the "right" thing and "her" thing. Somehow she always managed to marry the two without feeling conflicted. Whereas my mother and I always seemed to have a one-sided relationship, she and her mother always had this bond that I was envious of.

I remember I was staying over at my aunt and uncle's house one day and hearing Shelly ask them if the two of us could play outside by ourselves. I was expecting the whole extended interrogation that my mother always gave me, but all Shelly got from her mother was a rudimentary "be careful." I was amazed. I was in awe. Shelly was my idol.

However, it would be only a few minutes later that day that my idolatry of her would start to crumble.

"I wish I could handle my mother like that. How do you do that?"

"It's really very simple, Bree. She trusts me."

"I wish I could get my mother to trust me like that."

"Well, darling, I simply don't get my mother any reason not to trust me."

She said this last line pointedly. Who knows? Maybe her voice always had this same inflection. Maybe all along she'd had this holier-than-thou lilt to her voice. But for one reason or not it only became perceptible at this particular instant. It's like the puddle and the pool. You can watch the rainwater filling up a puddle, increasing its boundaries, but you can never quite point out the instant when a puddle becomes a pool of water. You only know when a pool of water is staring you in the face. I didn't know when I my cousin as started being highly opinionated and prissy, but I do remember this as being the first time I noticed it.

"And I do?"

"Breanne, everyone knows what a wicked child you can be. I hear my parents discuss you all the time. 'Did you hear what Breanne did the other week?' 'Can you believe that child?'"

"They do?"

I knew my family talked. I even knew some of the incidents they were referring to were, in fact, done on purpose and without an ounce of happenstance to them. For the longest time I did harbor the vague notion that certain people are just born wicked and that I was counted among this minority. Yet a good deal of the behavior I got blamed for was, as Patrick wrote, something that grew more out of reputation than reality. I was labeled as being mischievous long before I knew what the word meant and sometimes I thought the actions that anybody else could have chalked up to being accident I got taken to task for because of my history. Even back then, even at the tender age of ten or eleven, I knew what the notion of my aunt and uncle gossiping meant. Once a story finds an audience it only makes it easier for people to want to tell that story's sequel. I knew that once my kin got hold of one juicy bit of gossip about me, it would only be a matter of months before they would be telling another one and another one. The propoganda of Breanne being the selfish brat would never die.

"It's alright, Breanne. You are who you are. I'm not passing judgment on you."

"Thanks. I hope you said something to your parents, though. Didn't you?"

"What would I say?"

"I don't know, Shelly--defend me?"

"What's there to defend?"

"Get them to see that I'm not so bad after all."

To this my cousin only shrugged her shoulders. She and her parents were of the same mind apparently.

"What is it, Shelly? Do you really think of me as a bad girl?"

"I don't know if I would say bad, but I definitely think you're misguided. Everyone always remarks about how much God has to forgive you for week after week."

"Nah uh."

"And I have to say from what I know of you're not very contrite about a lot of the things you do that seem to land you in trouble."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My own cousin, someone I really trusted, was basically saying I was no worse than a brat. I just assumed she always defended me because I was her blood and because I knew that, if I ever heard word one from someone being mean about Shelly, I would rush to her defense.

It almost made me want to cry. She wasn't exactly being mean, but she I knew she was not exactly being nice to me.

"I like you, Breanne. I think you're really funny and smart. But I worry about you sometimes. Someday I think your wicked ways is going to land you in some real hot water. You should strive to be a better person."

"I am. I do try to be better, I swear."

"Then what's the hold up?"

"I don't know. I'm just not as good as you, Shelly."

She shrugged her shoulders again, pleased with herself. She was attempting to be modest, but there was a slight grin to her countenance.

"Well, yeah."

"But I think I'm a good person at heart. I feel like a good person. There's no part of me that thinks I'm basically wicked."

"Then, Breanne, why..."

"Why what?" I asked her.

"Nevermind."

In my entire history of knowing anyone have I ever been so offended by something someone said that I actually wished ill come to them. Yes, I do see the irony of wishing devilment befall my cousin simply because she thought me capable of being devilish. Yet what she told me that day stung me more than anyone else's words have ever stung me before or again. That's when I knew that people, certain people, can have a flawless reputation and still have wickedness within them. Or, in my case, vice-versa.

"Go ahead, Shelly. I want to know."

"I was just going to say, 'then why did God punish your mother by not letting her have other kids?'"

I was too young to know that my parents had been having problems conceiving long before they had me. I was too inexperienced to know that the God I believe in does not punish other people for your mistakes. All I knew was that my cousin was basically telling me that it was my fault I didn't have any other brothers and sisters. She was telling me that because I caused my mother nothing but shame and disappointment that I was destined forever to be an only child.

I didn't want to believe her. I didn't want to lend creedance to her words. But, of course, I did.

I wanted to punch her. Hard. I wanted to be as wicked, if not more, than she believed me to be.

Instead, I ran. I ran all the way home without saying good-bye to her or even my aunts and uncles. I ran because I didn't want her to see me crying. I ran because I didn't want to believe her and I thought I could perhaps outrun the truth. But mostly I ran to ask my mother if what Shelly said was true.

Was I really that wicked? Was it really my fault?

When I finally did get home, after scolding me for running the mile back hom, my mother set me straight. She told me that, yes, I did do awful things sometimes, but she didn't truly believe I was rotten to the core--nevermind what my cousin said. She told me that people are always going to talk, especially people in my family, and that I would have to realize that people's opinions about you should never be more than my opinion about myself. I asked her if that meant I could disregard her opinion of me.

"That depends, Breanne. How important is it to you that I have a good opinion of you?" she asked me.

"I'm not sure."

"Think of it this way, honey. When you have a daughter would you want to have a good opinion about her?"

"Yes."

"And would you want her to think it's important that you have a good opinion about her?"

"Yes. I think I'd want my opinion about her be important."

"Well, there you are."

She was right. My family's opinion about me was always going to be important to me. Especially my parents. You're always going to want people you love to think of you fondly. I also knew another thing. I knew my opinion of my cousin had gone down quite a bit. I couldn't put it into words like I can now, but I knew somehow it didn't bother her to see me suffer. I knew somehow the ability to knock me down a peg or two was her way of putting herself before everyone else. She never did it overtly, but the more I thought about it that day and the days that followed, I saw that a huge part of my growing up was spent in comparing myself to her. I saw that perhaps she had planned it that way. She always made me feel like I was never going to measure up to her. I saw that, unlike my mother, who spent a good deal attempting to better me, Shelly had spent it showing me where I didn't measure up and then undermining my confidence so that I would never ever measure up.

From that day forward she became a different person to me. I loved her to pieces and we still had fun together up until she stopped speaking to me a few years later when I turned fifteen. But I never loved her the same way that I did. I never held her opinion in high regard like I did before.

She became just a normal person to me at that point.

Up until the point we ceased talking I still respected her opinion, but I had a better grasp of where her opinions were coming from. So much so that it didn't surprise me when she stopped talking to me. She saw the world as only being right and wrong. She only knew how she would handle things, the correct way, the way polite and genteel people do it.

Carousing with older gentlemen was wrong in her book and always would be. Never mind what made me happy. Never mind what my own parents believed. Never mind that every single other person in my circle of friends and family eventually saw it for what it was. A good thing.

She had formed an opinion about me and her opinions were never fallible.

More's the pity for both her and I.

I love my cousin. I really do. But sometimes I really think it's too late for her and I to patch things up. Sometimes I think, after she announced she was never speaking to me again, she became a different kind of person that I no longer knew or that I became a different person towards her.

But maybe we were the same people we always were.

Breanne

This Isn't What You Wanted, This Isn't What You Wanted, Cause All We Know Is Falling, It Falls, Remember How Cause I Know, That We Won't Forget It All

--"All We Know", Paramore

It's funny how sometimes we paint ourselves into a corner by the choices we make and by the actions we take. Sure, sometimes we are unwittingly caught up in forces grander than us, but the majority of the time what our life boils down to is the fact that we chose to go one way instead of another. The sad aspect of this is that a good deal of the choices we make are one-way streets--there's no putting the genie back into the bottle. You've either kept yourself off of drugs, alcohol, or smoking, or you haven't; there's no devirginizing yourself. But sometimes it isn't even an actual choice you make, but rather the reputation you are given. Sometimes you get labeled early on in your life and the label sticks sort of like a nickname. The choice you make at that point is to fight against your fate or accept others' perception of you. Sense of humor is one of these grey areas. Sometimes you get labeled as being funny early on and from that point on you choose to cultivate this sense of humor. Other times, despite all your best efforts, you get labeled something that you just can't see in yourself.

I think I've received a lot of labels that I thought were unfair. I think the reputation I've built for myself isn't the one I planned for myself when I was starting out life. However, I have this sense of dread that I've let the nomenclature stick for far too long to raise a stink about it now. I feel like the prisoner bullied into confessing to a crime he didn't committ because the cops all told him it would go easier for him if he confessed. Now the prisoner is ready to recant his story, but nobody will believe his professed innocence. "If you weren't guilty all along then why speak now?" I feel like it's too late for anyone to believe me I am not who they say I am.

I feel like the white fence painted over in black. Everyone may see the black appearance, but I can't help but feeling the white fence underneath. If they only took the time to chip away at the exterior they could see me for what I truly am.

Yet somehow I know there's a certain logic in their thinking. After all, I've been labeled a black fence far longer than not being labeled a black fence. In truth, I may have shown my white fence for a few years before I got painted over by others. When do you stop remembering you were once something but no longer are? When do you give up trying going back to the mental picture of what you were and start accepting what you are now? When does your life cease being entirely under your control?

I don't think I should ever forget what I was like despite what other people would have me believe I am. I don't think I should have to give that up. I know what kind of person I am. I know what kind of person people see me as. Maybe the twain shall never meet.

I can accept that.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers