But Everybody's Gone, And You've Been There For Too Long, To Face This On Your Own, Well, I Guess This Is Growing Up

--"Dammit", Blink 182

Brownstone Buildings That Stand

i've always admired
the brownstone buildings that stand

surprised at the end
of family avenues.

old outshining new,
their cracks like glitter fallen

over walls, windows,
and the memories within--

there is honor in
the proud display of their age.

i want to be those
standing monuments today;

i want to forego
settling into foundations

recently laid down.
I want to be seen in awe.

that's the secret there
of getting rid of one's youth--

each year's a red brick
laid next to the year before

till a wall, sturdy
and high as mountains, is made.

dw

Oh, Loving Eyes, They Cannot See, A Certain Person Could Never Be, Love Runs Deeper Than Any Ocean, It Clouds Your Mind With Emotion

--"Everybody Plays The Fool", The Main Ingredient

Yet another reason I hate lists...

80 Questions That I Could Not or Cannot Now Answer:

1. Why can't she love me?
2. Is she too young?
3. Am I ready?
4. Is she ready?
5. Do I value her more as a friend or as something potentially more?
6. Is it wrong to want something different than what she wants?
7. Am I sacrificing a sure thing that makes me happy for something that has the potential to make me happier, but also has the potential to lose me everything?
8. Should I tell her how I'm feeling now or wait until some of these questions have been answered.
9. If I can make her see where I'm at, would it scare her away?
10. Is it really happening?
11. Can I trust her answers or is she just telling me what I want to hear?
12. Would it be better if I backed off?
13. Would it be better if I waited a few years?
14. Am I really going to go ahead with this?
15. Does she even really know who I am and what she's getting herself into?
16. Is it just a question of time?
17. Is it always this difficult to accept I'm getting what I asked for or am I always going to be this skeptical about everything going my way too easily?
18. Do I accept her invitation?
19. Can I trust myself alone with her?
20. What are her parents going to think of me?
21. What are my parents going to say when I tell them I'm missing Christmas to fly clear across the country?
22. Am I really going to do this?
23. Am I really here with her, seeing her in all her beauty, hearing her with all her charms and graces, holding her hand for the very first time?
24. Is she disappointed now that she's finally met me in person?
25. Should I kiss her and do I dare?
26. Is this really happening or am I just fooling myself into thinking she's experiencing it in exactly the same way I am?
27. Do I let her in?
28. Should I tell her to go before we're caught?
29. Do I even want her to go?
30. Would she even stay the whole night next to me?
31. Can she be this completely right for me?
32. Can this weekend get any more sublime?
33. Am I setting myself up for a crash when I have to go home again?
34. Is there any way I can stay for a couple more days?
35. Will I ever have to go through another good-bye as sad as this one?
36. Am I always going to miss her this me when we're separated from now on?
37. Is it love and do I really care to make the distinction?
38. Can I just let myself enjoy whatever this is for the time being?
39. Should I fly out again, knowing full well what will probably end up happening?
40. Should I go along with her charade that we'll be staying home and that's it?
41. Do I really want to go through with this?
42. Is this really what she wants or is she doing this solely to make me happy?
43. Can I ever live with myself if I turn down this opportunity in an effort to do the "right" thing?
44. Has she ever looked more beautiful than she does tonight?
45. Is there ever going to be a more perfect night than tonight and will it be the night every other night gets compared to?
46. How much has the world changed now?
47. How can I ever say good-bye now?
48. Is what we're doing really fair to her or to me?
49. Do we even stand a chance?
50. Is she really pregnant?
51. What should I do?
52. Am I really ready to be trapped into an entire life with her?
53. Will everything get back to normal again now that the scare is over?
54. Can I handle her talking about seeing other people?
55. Does she still feel the same way about me like she did a year ago?
56. Are we still the same people we were when we first met?
57. Do I want her coming over here with everything still so up in the air?
58. Did we always fight this much and is this what our future will consist of from now on?
59. Am I still in love with her and her with me?
60. Should I be supportive of her and him?
61. Is it just jealousy that fuels me or is it me actually regretting my decision?
62. Should I go to the wedding?
63. Should I just apologize for not going?
64. Is eight months of not speaking to me a sign that this time I've finally crossed the last line and are we truly over?
65. Can we really stay friends after all this heartache and turmoil?
66. Should I ask her to join me so at least we can stay in touch somewhere on a regular basis?
67. Have things really gotten better or does it just seem that way?
68. Do I encourage her feelings of disappointment over her marriage or do I play the optimistic friend, encouraging her to keep hope alive even though I want her for myself?
69. Is it wrong to want a married woman if she keeps insisting I'm doing nothing wrong?
70. Should I go to Chicago with her?
71. Will she really leave him?
72. What the hell are we now and how the hell do I describe her to other people?
73. Is it finally time to give up on that dream?
74. Can I be happy just being her friend?
75. Did I miss my chance at true happiness?
76. Is it wrong to still love her like that?
77. Will I ever get over her?
78. Will I ever meet someone else?
79. Is she really the one?
80. Why can't she love me?

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Every Time I Get My Hopes Up, They Always Seem To Fall, Still What Could've Been Is Better Than, What Could Never Be At All

--"Could've Been", Tiffany

I learned today that Alaska stands alone as the state that eats the most ice cream per capita annually than any other state in the country. Frankly, it took me by surprise because I always thought it was Massachusetts and its myriad of local ice cream shops. What doesn't take me by surprise is the fact that one of our colder states retains this title. Some would like you to believe that the reason Alaskans or any other northern state dwellers prefer ice cream is that by its consumption it lowers your internal temperature. This leads to the sensation of being warmer since one's body is closer in proximity to one's surroundings. It's the same rationale why people tell you to eat hot soup in the Summer. In that instance one's body temperature rises and soon approaches that of the temperature outside, leading to the distinct feeling that it has gotten cooler. It's a tidy explanation but I'm not buying it.

My theory as to why more people who live in the more frigid states prefer ice cream than those of the more temperate states is that ice cream melts less when it's colder outside. I've always believed that melted ice cream is the most useless food on the planet. It becomes all soupy. It starts losing its luster. Frankly, it becomes an ungodly mess. Coincidentally, you only find melted ice cream when the median temperature is somewhat above normal. I've always preferred my ice cream when the weather is at its coldest because you can go the whole way eating through a sizable bowl of ice cream without losing a single drop to melting. Whenever I'm in Boston I make sure to buy my ice cream at night because you almost don't need to freeze it since the weather sometimes will preserve it in all its solidly packed goodness. And that's exactly what I'm looking for when I'm eating ice cream--rigidity. I like knowing the dessert I buy will remain just as it is when I first bought it regardless of where I may traverse to.

Maybe that's just because I'm a person who likes to know what I'm getting or a person who gets attached to having things a certain way. I sometimes have difficulty with promises which start out so appealing, but ultimately fail to live up to their potential. That's all ice cream is, the potential for a truly rich and satisfying dessert even surpassing that of cake which, unfortunately, more often than not falls far below its potential to absolutely blow your mind. At least with a cake there's stability there. More often than not if you leave a cake sitting out on a table for an hour, it will still retain its cake-like properties. You leave a bowl of ice cream on a table somewhere for an hour and you'll find yourself with a bowl of ice cream soup.


how can you hold what could’ve been
on a cold and lonely night

I've spoken a lot recently with Toby about her stance that it's better to let go of people before they change too much on you. While I still don't agree with her point-of-view, I'm beginning to see more and more where she's coming from. Sometimes I hold people to the same standards of ice cream. I would like nothing more to see the person I meet, the person I immediately form an affection for, remain just as they are. Sure, there are moments where I'm the first proponent for some sort of push in the direction I want the relationship to go, but more often than not I find myself in the role of the old nostalgic, wanting to hold onto a bit of the past in which seemingly everything was sublimely perfect. I'm of the opinion that buying into a person, letting them into your life, is a bit like buying a car. It's not an easy choice or one that you make on an impulse most of the time. And most of the time all you're looking for is a car that appeals to you and which will prove reliable. Now, when it comes to letting people into my life, I'd almost put a priority on the latter criteria than the former. I'm much more willing to overlook a person's other faults, whatever they may be, as long as they prove themselves dependable. As long as I can accurately gauge a person's standard mode of operating I'm almost happy to overlook the deficits in their character. It's far easier to overlook a fatal flaw as long as you know it's there and always will be. What annoys me is when people act a certain way when you first meet them and then reverse footing to change their behavior in rather off-putting manners. When I can't predict a person's next reaction from day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year, &c..., that's when I start organizing my thoughts in the pursuit of finding someone else to befriend.

The steady decline of a person's personality from their youth till the reach maturity is some of the most disheartening days for me. It's like watching my ice cream slowly melt away from me. It's painful to see people change from being likable to being unrecognizably distant and strange. It's happened to me far too often for me to just brush it aside. When people change, for worse or better nominally, it always hurts. It pains me to know that they're no longer the person I care like I want to. It's like they're breaking some unwritten and unspoken covenant between the both of us.

While I wouldn't go so far as to follow Marion's example of abandoning people preemptively before they become unrecognizable, I definitely am more aware when a person's disposition starts to unravel at the seams. I may not marginalize that person's importance to me to any sizable degree, but I notice a shift in how I treat them. I can see all the little ways I change stemming from somebody else changing. I stop giving them the benefit of the doubt so often, I stop being so adamant about seeing them on a regular basis, I start abbreviating my conversations with them, &c...--all in an effort of minimizing the damage done to me when communication between us possibly breaks down. I won't "break up" with a friend simply because they start making adjustments to their life, but when those adjustments start adding up to a new person with new goals and aspirations running afoul of my own, that's when I consider walking away from the whole shebang.

After all, who wants a bowl of ice cream once more than half of what you started with has melted away? One can only take so much alteration to one's dessert before it starts becoming unappetizing and even sickening.

If only we could freeze friendships as easily as ice cream....

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

But How Your Mood Changes, You're A Devil, Now An Angel, Suddenly Subtle And Solemn & Silent As A Monk, You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You're Drunk

--"You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You're Drunk", Pet Shop Boys

Stop me if you've heard this story before. I used to have a friend about two years ago that I thought I was pretty close to. I mean--we didn't hang out every weekend and she wasn't the first person I called when I was bored or lonely or just wanted to do something spontaneous, but we saw enough of each other for me at least to consider us decent friends. I could have been wrong. I could have been misinterpreting what we had for something more substantial than what she considered it. All I know is that two years ago she moved away and suddenly it was like the three years previous to that didn't exist any more. Suddenly it was like everything between us just died.

And it's weird because she celebrated her twenty-third birthday recently--this past Saturday, in fact--and I didn't even realize it until the day of. Facebook at least acts like information like that is still relevant to me. If it were up to me I probably would have gone blithely on all weekend not acknowledging the fact. It's not like she even remembered my birthday last month or the one from last year. And it isn't like she's even bothered to drop me a note or pick up a phone in the almost two years since we last spoke. When somebody has to tell you when a person's birthday is, you know you've stopped considering that person as being important to you at all. It's like when you're mom has to tell you to kiss your aunts good-bye because she knows you wouldn't do it on your own given the chance. Well, given the chance, I have no doubt I would have blocked any well wishes to the person in question at all.

And yet all this reflecting on how far the two of us have fallen away from one another has only stirred memories about how good we used to be. It reminds me of all those nights in the Dodger Stadium parking lot talking about how television shows aren't as good as they used to be, or how our cars were pieces of shit, or how a good whiskey or bourbon can make it feel like everything's better when it's really not. That last part we were always good at. Even when we realized that deep down we didn't have a lot in common between us, we always had passing a bottle around to keep us talking. If anything, she's the only real drinking buddy I've ever had. With most people the last thing I want to think about doing is going drinking with them. With most people, it's always a last resort, something we fall back on if we can't think of something better to do. But with her most of our nights it seemed to begin or end at the bar. And if not there, our outings always involved celebrating some random achievement with a bottle or two safely ensconced with us in the parking lot of the Glendale Galleria or the aforementioned Dodger Stadium. Whereas with most people a night out meant a decent restaurant in Pasadena or Los Angeles, my outings with her always entailed cheap Mexican food and an expensive bottle of scotch, wine, or whatever was readily available.

Maybe that's all we were to each other, somebody to listen to while we got drunk and started spouting off at the mouth. I can't remember any of our good times involving us being sober. I mean--I think we had okay times, but nothing memorable. All the good memories I have of us liking each other involved getting way too happy way too quickly. It's like we needed that social lubrication before we could be comfortable around each other. Usually that's a crutch one utilizes when one is in the company of strangers. One normally doesn't rely on such tactics with people he considers close friends. Let's face it, if you have to get drunk just to face a person then you know something's off.

I don't know--she was one of those gals that Longfellow once wrote about--when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid. And it usually revolved around whether or not we had been drinking recently. She was a foul-mouthed drunk. More than that, she was mean sometimes when she went too far. Yet she was also lively and talkative and half a million things I wish people could be when they were just acting normal. She was almost a different creature when she wasn't drinking. She was depressing and cynical; she was the definition of a person looking to escape the dreary life around her. Given the option, it was almost always preferable to have a little something before we did anything else. It made life easier. It made her easier to deal with.

Perhaps that's why we ultimately failed at the staying in touch endeavor. We just couldn't think of anything to say to one another that was real. Maybe the only kind of communication we knew how to do was fueled by alcohol and insomnia and a shared distaste for doing as we were told. That's what our friendship was, an opportunity to vent without limits. That's what made it special, that we felt like we were saying something significant for the first time to somebody significant enough to recognize it. And then when the uniqueness faded away and we found ourselves repeating the same old tired chestnuts about how we had screwed up our lives or how being lonely fucking sucked, we each stopped serving that purpose for one another. She started to see me for the empty vase that I was and I started seeing her for the ball of seething anger that she'd always been. When she moved to Philadelphia, it might have given us the excuse to walk away from a dynamic that had outlived its purpose. Or, better yet, her moving away might have given us the excuse to put things back into order.

At the end of our days as being two people who knew each other well, it might have been akin to us waking up from a dream. For awhile there we both might have wanted to get back into that dream, but it might have taken that separation to instill the distinction of what was real and what was a case of convenience.

We staked our knowledge of one another to what we learned while in the midst of many an alcohol-fueled confessional. But once the drinking stopped, that's when the process of getting to know one another stopped. Without that there was nowhere else for us to go.

Our talks, our whole knowing each other, was a castle made out of sand and two years ago may have been when the wind and waves finally caught up to us.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Want To Thank You, For Giving Me The Best Day Of My Life, Oh, Just To Be With You, Is Having The Best Day Of My Life

--"Thank You", Dido

Certain Collisions

when the moments we're
supposed to remember first

stray into our path
we often step around them.

we're often wary
when being dislodged from the

steps we're committed
to take in exact sequence.

but the next time those
moments merge into our lane

we're not so guarded
against certain collisions.

dw

----

In 2004, when I was all of eleven, Choppers began dating a boy named Neil Allen. Apparently, she was very enamored of the child because he began coming over to our house with some frequency. This was a huge deal to me because before then none of my sisters had been granted the privilege of having their boyfriends over an almost nightly basis. It was like having a small pebble thrown into our once calm pond. On second thought, it was more like a huge boulder being dislodged from a mountain far away and having it roll into our once calm pond. It was distracting, disconcerting, and, most importantly, disquieting to our family. Okay, it was mostly all of those things to me.

Gosh. At the time it felt like I was the only person who could see what a disruption his presence was. Everyone else in my family accepted his intrusion with good grace. It was almost as if we had been waiting for his company all our lives and yet I wasn't even aware he had even been invited. I took the realization like I did most things that didn't agree with me. I smiled politely. I said all the right things to make him feel welcome. However, I internalized a great deal of confusion and grief at what I felt like was a violation of the sanctity of my family structure. It no longer functioned the same. It didn't feel the same. Instead of coming home to dinner with just the five of us, he would be there oftentimes. Instead of being able to ask Nora to come with me to the grocery store or to take me the movies, she would have to clear her plans with Neil first. And instead of being able to play poker with my oldest sister like we used to do on Sunday nights, she would often be gone for the whole night, if not the whole afternoon as well.

I know it wasn't my fault for anything I'd done. Yet it felt my losing time with my sister was a punishment for something I couldn't put my finger on, I can tell you that much.

For a long time I tried to rationalize what kind of sins I might have committed for God to be taking someone I looked up to as much as I did to Nora. And for a long time I wondered what I could do to get her back. I couldn't wrap my head around the concept that my sisters, as close as we might be, weren't always going to be around to be at my beck and call. Someday, even someday soon, they very well might be gone from my lives completely. I just couldn't get my brain to accept the truth of the matter, which was that all of us are kites in the sky. We may share the same airspace from time to time, but eventually the winds take in different directions. It's impossible to stay at the same height as one another forever. Eventually the wind will die down or may completely blow us in different directions. Soon, we may find ourselves flying a different sky, sharing space with different kites.

That lesson came within a few months after Nora started dating Neil. I was up in my room not exactly sulking that she had just cancelled yet another invitation to come see Chasing Liberty with me. I'd been asked to come downstairs three times by my mom to "come say hi" to Neil. But I didn't feel like coming down just then. What I felt like was a petulant child who just didn't know she was being petulant. Rather than voice my displeasure outright and force the issue, I preferred to give the excuse that I was feeling under the weather and dare not risk bringing the mood of the conversation down. My mom said that was alright and to come down anyway. I told her maybe in a few minutes, if I was feeling better. We left it at that.

I was planning to come down. Gosh. I wasn't. I was going to stay up in my room until I heard Nora and Neil leave. At the very least I was going to wait until Faye gave me the signal that the conversation was wrapping up. If everything had gone to plan, I would have just been coming down the stairs as they were walking out the door.

Fortunately, that plan wasn't meant to be.

I came down the stairs five minutes earlier than I planned to. Instead of waiting for Faye's signal, I estimated at what I thought would be an appropriate amount of time. I was hoping to catch them still at the tail end of the small talk. When I got down there, though, the talking was still lively. More's the pity, I thought. Gosh, I felt like saying. I wonder how I'm going to excuse myself back upstairs.

Something was different, though. Keen investigator I am, as I had come down the stairs I had noticed the sound of someone else's voice interspersed with the other's voices. Younger, more impulsive, this voice sounded. When I reached the bottom of the stairs that's when I saw him. That's the first time I saw Neil's younger brother, Jack.

Jack, Mr. Stranger himself.

Jack, who it turns out would be my closest friend for years more than Nora would ever date Neil.

Jack, who I would have never met at all if I'd stuck to my plan.

----

And now it seems it'll be Jack who I'll have to leave behind me. We haven't applied to the same schools. We never even talked about that being a possibility. Gosh. I suppose we don't have that type of friendship that's really demonstrative or full of outright outpouring of emotion. Me? I've always been a little emotionally stunted when it comes to saying how I feel at the point I'm feeling it. I've always been a firm believer in saying how you feel after you've had time to process it. And Jack? Jack's always been feeling what you're going to feel but never discuss it type of person. I think he understands that I'm going to miss him and I'm certain he's going to miss me, but it's never been super-important that we stay in touch with one another all our lives. We've never given certain indications that's where we wanted to head.

I look at people like Patrick and Breanne, who were always intent on preserving this ideal of friendship their whole life long. I've read how they discussed it and changed their lives to accommodate that goal. As much as I admire the sentiment and the fact that they were somehow able to eke it out, I just don't see that for myself. I don't see myself as the long-term friendship type of girl.

I think I still have that image of kites flying in the sky in my head. We're just not meant to fly forever next to any one person. My belief is we're supposed to enjoy the time we spend with them. God only knows I've enjoyed the time I've spent with Jack and Françoise both. They've both been a testament to my belief that you don't postpone joy; I've spent the last four years learning from them both what it's like to treasure each moment as they occur. I've spent more days coming out of my shell with them than I did in the ten or so years prior. They've really been some of the best days I've had the pleasure of living through.

Yet when high school ends so shall my high school friendships, sad as I may be. It's the only way I know to function. I can't plan on holding onto anyone or anything forever beyond my life. Trying to hold fast to a specific way of doing things is how I shut myself off from the world in the first place. And trying to hold onto the same set of people would be a mistake when next year will be my one big chance to truly blossom as a person. I don't want to be on the path that only leads me back to myself and the life I've always had and the friends I've always had and the sunsets I've always seen.

When I go to college in next year--be it Michigan, Notre Dame, Kentucky, Irvine, Iowa, or wherever--the only thing I want to know for sure is that it's not going to be exactly the way it is now. And the only way I can make sure of that is that everything and everyone I begin the school year with is a new and exciting opportunity.

I love Jack. I'll always love him for getting me through high school, but when the time comes to say good-bye I won't hesitate to do it. And you know why? Because Jack of all people would know that it's only until you let go of what you have that you open yourself up to what else might be out there.

He was there when I came down the stairs... just like somebody else, I hope, will be there when I start life over in college next year. Just like somebody else, I hope, we'll be there when I graduate after that. That's all life is, people who enrich your life and who you give your gratitude to, that lead you to next set of people who enrich your life and so on so forth, a never-ending pattern of grabbing on and letting go.

Gosh. Just like monkey bars. LOL

dw

I Know You Think That I Shouldn't Still Love You, Or Tell You That, But If I Didn't Say It, Well, I'd Still Have Felt It, Where's The Sense In That?

--"White Flag", Dido

Continuing the Dido motif...

I love Tuesdays. It's my favorite day of the week. Even better than Saturday, even better than Sunday, Tuesdays for me have long been unofficially my day. And I'll tell you why.

It's the one day of the week I get to nap.

I'm not talking about a short catnap that lasts all of fifteen minutes. Hell's bells no. I am talking about the quality kind of nap that little 'ole me can't get enough of. Ever since I was sixteen I've set aside four to six hours every Tuesday for the last thirteen years just to sleep. Now this doesn't mean I get four to six hours of sleep every Tuesday, but I sure as the sun comes up in the east make sure nothing of any great importance is attempted to the time. I have the same routine each and every single time. I turn off all the lights in my room. I turn off all my phones and computers, anything that could be a distraction. Then all I do is lay in bed willing my mind to surrender to the great stillness of life. I sleep the sleep of a gal empowered enough to know that the most powerful choice a person can make about their life is where and when to slow it down. For all my talk about being the one who's always going, Tuesdays have become the points in my life where I can afford to just stop it all for a second. For one day a week I become as still as a lake in the morning hours just before dawn. For one day a week Breanne is less than she could be willingly.

The other great part of my Tuesdays is that during these naps I have these wondrous dreams that make me feel ever full of hope and contentment. Every time I wake up, it's like waking up from a vacation that you didn't even know you were on. I just wake up with a smile on my face, a carryover from the bliss that has become my weekly visitor as well.

For instance, yesterday I dreamt that somebody loved me and her name was Shelly. I dreamt I was fourteen again and she was turning eighteen. We were in my room and it was eight at night. I was dressed like Snow White and she was dressed like Rebecca Howe from Cheers. And for some reason we were ordering food from the market down the street even though, for the most part, they have never delivered to my parents' house ever. I remember reciting whatever foodstuffs that Shelly would tell me to get, from Arizona Ice Tea to Chee-tos, from Cupcakes to Beef Jerky. It wasn't even a long list, but for some reason the boy on the other end of the phone couldn't keep up with each entry. I had to repeat myself two or three times before he got the gist of what exactly it was we wanted.

I just remember how surreal it was and yet familiar at the same time. The way Shelly would scrunch her voice just so, pretending she was already bored with the activity at hand; the way I would emulate her exact pitch as if monkeying her words would somehow make me as refined as her. Even the red tank top and yellow shirts I wore in the dream were the exact pair I used to wear all the time.

But what I remember the most was how comfortable the scene felt, as if it were some kind of play we had rehearsed for months and now were finally being able to perform. I remember how my words felt crisp in my mouth. I remember how straightened my room looked. I remember smelling the hint of jasmine floating through my balcony window, every so often mixing with the orange scent that was coming off my body, a scent that I often wore when I was at that age.

Most importantly, Shelly was still my cousin and not some long lost relative of my own. We were talking like we were still family. She still loved me and I didn't have to pretend so diligently that it didn't matter at all what she thought of me. We were just two nightingales singing the night hours away, chirping for some food, but mostly chirping at one another in playful reverie. Every smile we wore was genuine, heartfelt even. It was like a scene straight out of my memory, but it also felt so new as if it was happening for the first time.

When I finally woke up I almost had the urge to call Shelly right then and there. Then I thought better of it. The dream had already made me so happy. Why should I ruin my image of her with the dull reality of what has become of the two of us. That's the good thing about dreams and Tuesdays; you don't have to let the real world back in until you're damn good and ready, you know?

Breanne

I Won't Leave, I Can't Hide, I Cannot Be, Until You're Resting Here With Me

--"Here With Me", Dido

Contemplating my upcoming second visit to Kentucky this May, I've come to the realization that the majority of the trips I go on turn out really damn well in the end. I'm not stuck with bad memories of long stretches of boredom with whomever I might be traveling with at the time. Nor do I have a stockpile of stories of how everything went wrong from the word go when speaking in regards to the dozens of trips I've taken over the years. Maybe it's just because it doesn't really take much to make a vacation successful for me--good food, good company, and some sort of purpose in being even if that purpose is only to take in a baseball game or attend a friend's graduation, as the case may be. Or maybe it's just because I've had great luck when it comes to everything falling my way when it comes time to sally forth from my perch in Southern California.

Indeed, the only horrifying trip I believe I've ever taken was the drive up and down the coast we went on in 1998. That's the only time that I can recall that something might have been off from the very beginning and continued to fester until we pulled back into my driveway. Even then, I still possess some pleasant memories of that trip. Even then, I would hesitate to label it an unmitigated disaster. It remains the one time I fell closest to completely canceling a trip entirely, though.

However, it's not even close in comparison to the trip that on the outside sounds like it was absolutely horrid. That honor goes to a trip I took in February 2003 with my ex at the time, one Miss DeAnn.

For starters, you have to understand, that the two of us while we were dating had the bad luck to have our first long-distance trip get off to a rocky start. Back in 2008 about two months after we started going out we were supposed to have taken a car trip to San Francisco. However, somewhere over the Grapevine my car had decided to overheat and completely leave us stranded on the side of the road. We had to wait for an hour before the tow truck came and two hours before my dad could pick us up from where they had towed the car. And yet, that time still turned out okay. I borrowed my parents' van and the two of us took a shorter weekend excursion up to Santa Barbara, where we spent most of our three days looking out over our balcony which was literally one hundred feet from the ocean and pretty much eating and strolling throughout most of the beach community. In fact, I'd daresay it was a complete rescue of what could have been a disastrous excursion.

Keeping that in mind, there was a precedence for us having somewhat bad luck when it came to going on trips. The intermediate trips between that road trip and the D.C. trip, which turned out to be the last trip I took with DeAnn had all gone smoothly (yes, even counting are planned trip to New Orleans on 9/11/01), yet there was alway the potential there that we could have had a repeat of San Francisco all over again.

My first clue that the timing may have been off was the fact DeAnn's body decided to come down with appendicitis a week before we were supposed to take off. Granted, we only decided to go to D.C. two weeks before the date of departure so it wasn't like a huge gap for something to come up, but it was almost like her body was trying to tell us something was destined to go wrong with the trip. We talked about canceling when she got out of the hospital four days after she went in, three day we were supposed to leave. A lot of her friends and family counseled us against leaving. Most of the people I knew thought it was a bad idea to even still be hanging out with an ex two years after we had broken up, let alone pay for a trip for the two of us, so I wasn't about to disclose that she had gone to the hospital at all. In the end, though, we decided that four days in D.C. was too much of an exciting prospect to pass up.

So, despite her doctors giving her a strict warning that exerting herself so soon after major surgery was a bad idea, we left for D.C. that Friday morning. Everything went smoothly after we landed. DeAnn was a little tired so all we were able to do when we landed was go to dinner in the hotel restaurant. Happily, though, that restaurant turned out to be a Shula's Steakhouse, which please me to no end since we had an awesome steak dinner (ordered off a football, no less) to begin our stay in Washington, D.C. We came back to our hotel room, watched a little TV, and DeAnn soon knocked off within the next ninety minutes. I stayed up for another couple of hours, but turned earlier than usual since I too was tired from the flight and the fifty minute drive to our hotel in the midst of the city proper.

That's probably how I missed the start of what could have completely ruined our trip.

During the night the city received three feet of snow. While we slept the city was slowly being layered in white. What's worse, it just kept on snowing the next day off and on. By the end of Sunday, newscasts were calling it one of the top ten worst snowstorms they had seen in the last hundred years. By the end of the weekend almost eight feet of snow had been dumped onto where we were staying.

When we woke up Saturday, I thought there was still a chance they might have the roads cleared up by the afternoon. Hell, even if they had gotten the buses or trains running, I would have been happy. We had so many places I wanted to show her--Smithsonian, Congress, Washington Monument, Lincoln Monument, Monticello, &c...--that even a few hours delay was enough to make me antsy. We'd already been pressed for time when we thought the weather was going to be good, but missing the morning was like torture for me. It worked out for DeAnn, though, because despite her protests to the contrary, the surgery had knocked her out more than she had let on. When she heard the roads were snowed over and that they probably wouldn't be getting around to plowing it till the afternoon at the earliest, she used it as an excuse to stay in bed sleeping for another few hours. She probably needed the sleep, but all I could think of was how all of that was not what I had carefully planned the week before.

I think the only thing we ended up doing of any interest was go out to dinner at a restaurant a few blocks up the street since the roads were still too dangerous to drive. Aside from that momentary distraction, we stayed in our hotel room and watched TV. Well, I mostly watched cable on TV. DeAnn pretty much drifted in and out of sleep till it was time for dinner and then pretty much the same after we had returned to the hotel room.

Sunday's weather was no better. Fairly soon I realized that we weren't going to be able to do anything at all that was on our list of activites. Fairly soon I realized I had just wasted $400 dollars on a trip to see the inside of a hotel room and on a van that would pretty much drive us from the airport to the hotel and from the hotel back to the airport. We wouldn't be seeing any of the sights. We wouldn't be reliving any of the memories I had made when I had gone to D.C. in sixth grade. We wouldn't be doing anything new and different than what we could have been doing in any hotel back in California.

I should have been pissed. I was annoyed, for sure, but a funny thing happened on the usual path to me losing my temper. It turned out not having to do all that driving and all that touring forced the two of us to spend time together in a way that we hadn't spent time doing since we'd gone out. Rather than me trying to keep her occupied all the time so should we think of how much fun I was and the fun times I could pay for, which was the real reason I wanted to go on the trip, we ended up having a decent time all by our lonesomes in the hotel room. We were relaxed, something that I don't think we would have been if we had attempted to keep up with the hectic schedules we had planned for ourselves at the trip's outset. And I know we avoided a slew of fighting from the simple change in plans of not having to decide what or where we would go first. Yes, we were already broken up, but I have the funny feeling that if that trip had gone on as scheduled we would have been at each other's throats like we had been when we had been seeing each other.

Truth be told, it was nice just laying in bed with her, waiting while she slept. It was nice just taking care of her while her body was recuperating. It was nice just being in the same room with her without having to worry about what the status of our relationship was. In the hotel room we were just two friends trying to make the best of a bad situation and, for the most part, succeeding on sheer will.

By the time the roads had been cleared and the sun was shining again on Monday, we were both talking and joking like we had been on Friday morning when we had flown in. DeAnn, not surprisingly, was doing a lot better--way better than she would have if we had actually tromped around Virginia and Maryland like we had wanted to. Also, it was a point of joking of just how bad of a weekend I could have picked to go flying to the East Coast. Instead of going somewhere, you know, warm for February, I had decided to go to a place already known for snowstorms, blizzards, and just plain mean weather. All of this helped to relieve the disappointment at what the trip could have been. We were joking that this had to go down as possibly the worst trip in human history. To this day, I still think she jokes about it with her family and friends.

But as aforementioned, I don't consider it a disaster. If anything, it goes a long way to proving my theory that any time can be a good time as long you're with the right company. If anything, it only asserts the distinction that I'd much rather take a nap and watch cable with a close friend and confidante than scurry around all over our nation's capital with a stubborn and mean ex-girlfriend... even if, by coincidence, those were one and the same person.

No, I don't consider that trip a disaster.

I recall that trip as one of the many good times that I had the privilege and honor to share with her.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's Like Running Away With The Wind In My Face, It's Like Flying, And You And I Are Open Wide

--"Running Away", Polyphonic Spree

Marion was stopped the other day at her church service by somebody who reads this blog and recognized her picture. She, like me, has only been used to people she willingly gave out the web address to reading her posts here. It took her rather aback because blogs are a curious thing in that you think you're writing them for yourselves and a select group of people, but anyone and their mom can read them (if it isn't locked, that is). There poor delfty was, thinking she was writing for less than a handful of people and she finds out that not only are certain classmates reading here, but that it's also spread two generations across by now in reaching people she doesn't know directly. She could have reacted differently, but she took it in stride as befitting her newfound confidence. She thanked them for their patronage and went on her way.

Me? The only people I know who read here are people I've suggested read it. I know people from both when I worked at Bally's and people I know from my current job at Eclipse read it. I know people from my boardgaming group also read it. Hell, I know people from almost school I've attended has read our blog at one time or another. Does that alter what I write? I can't say for certain, but I believe I would have to answer no. While I might have intended the audience for this site to be limited, I learned a long time ago that there won't be any controlling of who has access to my thoughts which are posted here. It'd be a losing battle if I tried to fight that fight. As of now, I just write like I write my letters, picturing as if I'm chatting with one of my friends or telling an anecdote to someone I may have just bumped into at a party or something. One strength I've always had is that I'm able to write about personal ideas and events without a sense of propriety. I attempt to write everything as I remember it or as I think of it, without editing and without hesitation.

Yes, it bothers me a little bit that there are certain groups of people who are reading this that have frankly no good reason for reading it. Certain people I know who I know I've grown out of touch with and who have made it clear they want nothing to with me still read this blog. That doesn't make any sense to me. And, yes, it makes me a bit nervous that my full name is associated with this site, meaning that my vendors from Eclipse can, if they want, find out some fully embarrassing tidbits about me. What they would do with this information is beyond me, but it is out there to color their assessment of my capability to do my job. That bothers me some. And, yes, ever since my parents upgraded to their laptop I'm sort of curious to see when they'll finally stumble across my blog. I'm anticipating a call from my mom that will be long and in-depth about what certain facts about me that I may have hid from them. That's not going to be a fun call, explaining each and every indiscretion and questionable choice I've made in the last thirty years.

That doesn't mean I'm thinking about taming anything down here and I'm encouraging the other SFoM members to do the same.

The way I see it is that, first and foremost, this is a place where I can relay what I'm thinking and what I'm remembering so that there is some kind of record of what I was going through at any given moment of my life. I'm basically telling stories to myself before I forget that they were once important to me. Also, it's a place to get certain skeletons in my closet out into the open before they stink up my psyche. I have a problem deciphering what I'm supposed to feel about certain poor choices I've made until ten or fifteen years have passed. I tend to hold reflecting on what a mess my life has sometimes become until an acceptable amount of time has transpired. That's usually when I come to write it here, so, again, there's some kind of record of the lessons I've gleaned.

To stifle that simply because I'm worried what other people might think would be disservice to this whole exercise. I'm pretty sure Breanne and Toby would say the same. What's the point of writing down your feelings and telling your secrets if you're only going to be embarrassed by them later on? If you feel that way, then you might as well keep them inside until they fester. Part of the process of unburdening yourself is the restraint to not care who later rifles through those burdens. It's like throwing away trash; you've just got to let certain things go into the world lest you hold onto too tightly.

That's why if a similar situation were to happen to me where a friend of a friend or long-distance acquaintance were to disclose to me they've been reading about me, I'll try not to take it personally as well. I've opened that Pandora's Box a long time ago. I've let my stories and Lucy's stories and Marion's stories remain up here for over five years now. During that time over 100,000 people have shuffled through them. I'm sure of those 100,000 people quite a few them could recognize the name of Patrick Taroc before they even came here. I'll just try to thank the person for reading my stuff and try not to dwell on which potentially unsympathetic story they may have glanced through.

After all, this is a place for my words to be read. I can't back down now because I may take umbridge with the quality of those selfsame readers. I either let everyone read it or let no one read it.

Right now I'd much rather have the problem of too many readers than too little.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

These Days Are All, Share Them With Me, These Days Are All, Happy And Free, These Happy Days Are Yours And Mine

--"Happy Days Theme"

Ask anyone who knew me when.

They would agree that I used to be the most carefree spirit the world has ever known. It's not by accident that I was given the nickname Little Miss Chipper at an early age. I was that gal. I was that gal who smiled at everyone walking down the street. I was that gal who danced around in class, swung from the trees, climbed roofs, played ball with the neighborhood kids, and went to Sunday service because I enjoyed it. I was that gal who wrote thank-you notes and letters to all her friends and kinfolk all the time, each one more heartfelt than the last. I was that gal who showed up early and left late to everywhere. I was that gal who played everyday, really played as if the whole world were a giant set of swings and seesaw all rolled into one. I was that gal who heard music in her heart and wanted to share it with her mouth and eyes and hands. As my mother used to say, I had the joy in my heart which was brighter than even the noonday sun.

I couldn't even tell you why. It isn't that I woke up one morning in my bed and decided I was going to be cheery all of a sudden. I never made the conscious effort to improve my mood. That's genuinely the state of mind I took up residence in. It was the simplest of tasks. Aside from my many issues with my mother, I was as happy as an afternoon softball game played at a family reunion. I had a comfortable life where I was taken care of by my adoring parents, spoiled even some might say. I was well-liked at school. People claimed I was the "prettiest sight they ever did see." I was intelligent, even clever by half, according to all my teachers. I never wanted for anything. I never threw tantrums or complained publicly. I was well-behaved. I knew my etiquette and was taught the finest of manners. Everything seemed like the picture of idyllic bliss. How I was supposed to be, that's how I was. That's all I knew to be.

Maybe that was a slight problem in the beginning. I had been told all these different routes to being a happy, normal child that I took to like a duck takes to water. I didn't fight it at all when other kids might have had to be dragged kicking and scream. Where others chose to resist, I believed. Where others chose to question, I took people's answers at their word. Perhaps all this joy I felt in my formative was all predicated on the lie that there were people older than me who knew better for me.

One would have had only to taken a look at my early pictures to glean the depths of my complete immersion into the life that was planned for me. I took dance lessons that I never thought I needed, that even my dance instructor Mrs. Harvick said were only sharpening a knife which could already cut through glass. I studied and got grades which were reflective of someone going through their senior year in high school, not third grade. I volunteered with my Church group starting at the age of four. I dressed with fancy ribbons in my hair every day of the year and tied it up with an even fancier ribbon at night. And for what? To make myself happy? Sure. But it wasn't all about me either. A lot of the bliss I experienced during those years of my life were invested in the prospect of making everyone else happy. I can see that now. I'm not going to lie. Parts of those years were a hoot-and-a-half. But those times were more associated with choices I made to make myself content. All those other times, all those other choices I made, were made with the specific intent to please someone else; be it my parents, my teachers, my friends, or, yes, even my God. If I were to compare all the times I actually made decisions to please myself with the times I was just going along to appease someone else, my share would be altogether miniscule. It would be ridiculous even making that comparison.

That isn't to say that I don't take kindly to assisting others. That's a part of my nature too. But the stronger part of my nature, I can see now, is rooted in the belief that I need to be in control of what I do. When I help someone out I want to be secure in the knowledge that it was due to my choice and not out of a sense of obligation to others. All my years seem nothing more than community service and time served for the crime of being born to high expectations. I never even had a chance to complain because, frankly, I was never taught properly how to complain.

I was happy because I didn't know I had the okay to be angry or dissatisfied.

I smiled because I was told good girls don't make that other face.

I couldn't cry because it would ruin my complexion for the whole day.

All those times I got in trouble for being "wicked" were maybe the way my subconscious was rebelling against the way I was being raised. I didn't feel it at the time, but I a collar around me that was keeping me in line. Sure, I possessed the longest of leashes, but it was a restraint nonetheless. I was happy but only because that was the only sort of happiness I had ever known. It would be awhile longer before I saw for myself what it's truly like to experience happiness on my own terms and on my own timetable.

It was the same with my friendships. Those early ones, the ones with the likes of Fawn, Hanna, and, of course, Torry--they were built upon the strictures of the way I was taught friends were supposed to act. There were the play dates carefully choreographed among my mother and the other mothers. There were the subtle ways we were influenced not to allow anyone unsavory into our small group. There were the constant reminders from my parents how a good friend was supposed to act. And I stored it away like a mother bird building its nest. I utilized these little 'ole pieces of information to intricately construct what I thought was the perfect, yet small, circle of friends. About the only time I ever improvised my way through the adventure of having friends and keeping them back then were the few minutes of recess and lunch us girls shared everyday. That was when it was real, that's when I truly felt close to them all. All those other times, when we were taken shopping, when we were paraded around in pageant after pageant, when we were told we would be attending the Church picnic--they all felt dictated to us, or at least to me. It felt like everyone else had the blueprint to this wonderful house I was expected to live in except me.

Towards the end I picked up enough to know what I wanted out of confidantes and I can honestly say I started to experience what it was like to grow true friendships in the absence of expectation. It's only towards the end that I put together a real bond with all three of those gals that genuinely endures today (just ask Fawn). Those last two years when all four of us were together, that's some of what I thought was real happiness.

However, it took my friendship with Eeyore to show me what real happiness with friends is supposed to be like. In the beginning I thought we would make a good set of friends because we had similar interests and a somewhat similar perspective of the world. We both liked writing and we both by that time had developed into truly headstrong people. You would have thought it would be calling down lightning itself to consider pairing up two of the most stubborn cusses in the world, but in the beginning it worked phenomenally. During that so-called honeymoon phase of the friendship we would talk on the phone just about everyday. There wasn't anything I wouldn't share with him. We were joking and compassionate and even a little bit infatuated with one another. It's no big secret that my mother wasn't too appreciative of the amount of time I was spending on him and I reckon that Patrick's parents were entirely thrilled either. But it was new. It was exciting. It was what I thought the whole experience of having a mature friendship would be like. We could have the intellectual discussions about the latest art films or the current nonfiction bestseller, but we could also share our passion for baseball, barbecue, and bestiality (just joshing). We seemed to have it all. We were shaping our own destiny as a couple, us against everyone else, and in the beginning it was relatively stress-free. I thought all our days together were going to be the happiest days I would ever experience.

Hell's bells, was I ever wrong on that call.

You can't have two people that stubborn in close proximity to one another and maintain a semblance of control for any lengthy of period of time. The fights, when they did come, came quickly and often like a flood that just never seems to let up. It wasn't more than a few months till it seemed like we were having a fight every week. We would fight. We would yell. Phones would be slammed down, words would be exchanged, and a lot of feelings would get trampled upon. I'm usually a tough person. I usually don't let the world drag me down for too long, but I'm not exaggerating when I say there would be days when I would be scared that he would call me that day to begin the latest fight anew. It was almost as frustrating as the days when I would be scared that he wouldn't call me at all. For a long time there, years even, we had hit the period in our relationship we like to call "the Troubles". We're not the type to keep our feelings bottled up for very long. When they came, they came hard and fast. Whatever emotion you could start a fight over we would start them repeatedly over. Jealousy, revenge, paranoia, skepticism, and even plain spite--we weren't strangers to leafing through our rolodexes to happen upon a good reason to get something off our chests.

Even when we started seeing each other, that only made it worse. Then we had a whole other set of reasons to be disappointed with one another.

I can't even tell you when exactly we left "the Troubles" behind us. Part of us still believes that we won't ever leave that state of friendship. There are some days where we'll talking and an old wound will just fester again because of some joke he just made. There are some days where I specifically tease him too long or diligently for pure amusement. That's the way it is with old friends. Old fights never really die; they just get postponed until a later date (or year).

But what I have learned in the last five years, the last five years since we had a fight which led to us not speaking for eight months, was that there isn't ever going to be a fight with him that'll be more important to me than preserving what we have here. Yes, I'm a very proud little 'ole lady. I don't suffer losing with the easiest of spirits. A lot of my being comes from the steady confidence that whatever I say and what I believe is what I stick to. I haven't gotten this far by remaining that witless puppet who let her mother dictate to her her every action. But now when Patrick and I fight, it's different. At the end of it all, I don't see me sticking to my guns on general principle. We've gotten to the point where it isn't as important to be right as it is to be together. I can't speak for him, but I reckon we've reached the point where we see that a bond like ours doesn't come around everyday. The priority is in keeping that alive rather than keeping old grudges going.

I used to think the perfect friend would be the one who said and did everything to make me happy.

Now I just think the perfect friend is the one who brings out the best in me, who makes me want to say and do everything... or at least a great deal... to make him happy. I don't mind being wrong as long as it's to him because in a lot of ways being wrong with him isn't being wrong at all.

I have nothing to prove. I don't have to show how smart I am to him or how my ideas are entirely foolproof. I don't have to defend everything I do. And I don't have to explain myself in fear of him judging me. When you lose the need to constantly try to your best self to a person it makes it easier to concede that you aren't always at your best and that you're going to be wrong a good deal of the time. When you don't have to be perfect in front of a person, it makes dealing with your own imperfection a lot easier, you know?

I used to think happiness had something to do with being right all the time. Now I see happiness has more to do with being able to be wrong sometimes without being judged at all. That's such a wonderful feeling which I can't even explain to you.

It's the same with Greg and I. In the beginning I thought I had all the answers about how love was supposed to work. I was the one in the relationship telling him how the relationship was going to proceed. I was the one guiding the ship. Greg was content to be my subordinate. According to him, he was just so relieved to have found me he decided it was easier to allow me to take charge than to give me all the input he could. That suited me just fine. In the beginning I had constructed a perfect scenario of how I wanted my relationships to go. Partly based on what I had read and seen, and partly based on the mistakes I had made with Patrick and a few other of my starter relationships, I thought I knew how my one true love would proceed. It was that simple to me. I was a twenty-year-old vain and stubborn jackass, who thought she knew all the answers. Woe betide anyone who got in my way, including Greg. I had a plan and no one was going to stop me from completing it.

It's a recurring theme, but I let my vanity get the best of me. I thought love, like most things, was done best when there was one clear voice in charge. I thought that, if anything, my rising to the forefront of accepting responsibility for the success of our relationship would relieve some of the pressure off of Greg. I thought he'd be happy not to have to work so hard. I was willing to work entirely too hard for the both of us. We used to discuss that as one of the reasons we hit it off so well. I was domineering and shrewish; he was supportive and submissive. He was everything I didn't have with my previous relationships, someone malleable, someone pliant. I thought he was wonderful for his generosity even as I was taking full advantage of it. I thought he was delightful for his lack of drive when it came to us even as I was spoiling myself upon it. It just felt great not to have to butt heads like Patrick and I. It just felt like a relief to stand tall as being the authority in everything regarding the two of us.

I didn't see the pattern for what it was. It was just another example of my believing the initial phases of our relationship would be the template upon which the rest of the relationship would be built. My father has a phrase about me that I'm sure I have written about before. He says, "Breanne doesn't think. She just goes." And that's what I do. I don't think much about the repercussions of my actions. I do what I do because I think it for the best and I don't let anyone hold me back. Very often it doesn't work out the way I think it would, but the majority of the time I'm more than happy with the results. Yet it's the times that I fall far short that I'm known for. I've erred so often on the side of rushing headlong into walls that it's become something of a joke that I don't possess even the slightest amount of patience. That's what happened with Greg. I took our initial dates as a sign of things to come. I made those crazy days and wonderful nights the basis of how the rest of our lives were going to look like. No matter how you slice it, I was jumping the gun. The next few years while we were dating, while we were engaged, and while we were married, I would compare it to those days of halcyon and sunflowers. When the plan didn't seem to be proceeding as I expected, I didn't blame my high expectations. I blamed Greg for for not believing in my ideas. I blamed him for not being supportive, the one thing he's always been.

Worse yet, I blamed him for not doing enough.

When those first years weren't as happy as I told him they would be, I became discouraged. I started to look more and more in his direction to help out, which wasn't fair to him at all. All that time I'd been telling him he didn't need to do anything. That I'd take care of it. All that time I'd been scolding him for wanting to put his input in. That I wanted to be in charge. Then all of a sudden I make it his fault for not doing or saying enough. I put him in the worst possible position of telling him that standing back and giving me wasn't wrong, and then I crucify him for doing that very thing.

I thought he wasn't making me happy when the truth was that I told him not trying so hard to make me happy would, in fact, make me happy. It was a terrible position to put him in. I was such a wicked wife when all this happened.

That's why I went to Chicago. That's why I cheated on Greg. It started to look very appealing to me to be with someone who wasn't afraid to stand on his two feet and give as good as he got. It started to look like I wasn't cut out to be with someone who was entirely passive. I was tired of being unhappy with someone who apparently didn't give a damn about making our marriage work. I was tired of doing all that work on creating the happy home scenario all on my own. I was just plumb tuckered of being the perfect wife.

It wasn't until after the trip and after Greg had finally forgiven me that I figured out where I went wrong. I'd based our relationship on me being the boss. I was so afraid of being overruled by my husband that I didn't let him have any power at all. I didn't let him contribute enough to make the marriage he wanted. When he responded to my domineering ways by retreating even further, it only set up a vicious cycle of me telling him he was worthless and him becoming a ghost in our very house. Greg's not like me. He doesn't respond by fighting back then running. He runs first and then he just keeps on running. My first option has always been to insure my ideas are heard. Only if it becomes apparent that I'm going to be given the short shrift, then I run. I only fight the fights I want to win. Everything else becomes expendable. Greg is so docile that he'll give in just to make me happy. He responds to conflict by doing everything he can to make sure there is no conflict. There we were, two people fumbling at being married to one other and neither one of us having the first clue how to expertly talk through our inconsistencies.

When we started seeing our couple's therapist she explained it to me.

She told me that my plan for the perfect marriage was faulty from the very beginning. Any plan that isn't shared by both people in the marriage is no plan at all. It's not like a film or a novel that soars from having one clear vision. It's more like that seesaw from the playground of my youth. I can't just push and push on my end, expecting it to work. I needed to give a chance for my partner, for Greg, to give a chance to push back. She said that I was too intent on blazing a path through the tall grass just to make it to the other side of them that I had neglected to make sure Greg was right behind me. And she was right. I thought happiness from a marriage was the by-product of doing it right. I thought of it as the pot of gold waiting for me at the other end of the rainbow. Now I can see that happiness isn't the goal of a good marriage. It's the definition of a good marriage. Happiness in a couple isn't the result of planning everything to perfection or executing everything flawlessly. Being happy is just what good marriages are all about. Being happy leads to a good marriage. What I should have done is made sure that we were happy as often as possible rather than where we were headed as husband and wife. I was so caught up in having a stellar marriage than I couldn't see how much of it I was allowing to fall apart. My tunnel vision almost led to me to getting divorced from the only man who truly could make me happy.

Now I finally understand what it means to be Little Miss Chipper. It doesn't mean I have to be 100% perfect. It just means I have to be 100% invested in whatever I'm working at. I can't let my perception of how things are cloud where I want them to be. That only leads to me working too hard at the process. I need to remember that it's not all up to me to make everything good. Like my daddy says, "You can either drive or be driven; you can't do both." I can try very hard to do all the work in this relationship, but eventually I'm going to find it's too much for one woman to handle--as intelligent, beautiful, and stubborn as she may be. Sure, most of the time I like being out front and taking charge. But there has to be some days where I can let him take over and just sit back in the buggy to enjoy the ride for once.

Being Little Miss Chipper doesn't mean being on all the time. Sometimes it just means being content to enjoy the stillness every so often. I can still be that little 'ole girl with the joy in her heart that my mother saw once upon a time. All it takes is showing that joy to others... and not shoving it down their throats. I can't force people to be happy. It's not my responsibility to put a smile on everyone's face whether or not they like it. It's only my responsibility to put a smile on my own.

Ask anyone who knows me now. They'll tell you I still have a smile on my face almost every day of my life. The only difference it's entirely because of me and not because I'm working all the time to make everyone else happy. I'm happy because I'm happy, and not because I think I can brighten the whole world through sheer will. I'm happy to just let my sun shine and let others seek it if they choose to do so.

After all, I can only be me--no more, no less.

Breanne

I Used To Play For All Of The Loneliness, That Nobody Notices Now, I'm Begging Slow, I'm Coming Here, Oh, I'm Waiting

--"#41", Dave Matthews Band

"No, I don't want to tell you. You're only going to sass me about it later."

"No, I'm serious. Just tell me."

"No."

"Come on, I'm not going to make fun of you. I swear."

"No. And that's that."

"What was it? Did you hear something?"

"Hell's bells. You're not going to let go of this, are you? You're like a hound dog fixed with a bone in its mouth."

"You sounded upset. I wanted to know."

"It's nothing."

"It's something. I can tell."

"I was sitting here just now and the wall started shaking. Happy now?"

"No. What'd you think it was."

"I have no idea and that's what's got me spooked right now."

"Could your parents be up?"

"No, they would have checked up on me if they saw my light on. I'm nervous that it wasn't them. Forget it. It's probably the wind telling lies again, as my daddy says."

"Wind on your wall. From the inside. Not likely."

"I'd rather not dwell on it, please, thank you."

"Well, it's got you all upset. I was just asking if you were okay, Breanne. I'm worried about you because you sound worried about yourself."

"I was. I still am, but talking about isn't making it any better. Now shush up."

"Okay."

"I'm probably exhausted is all it is, you know? I'm probably making a big deal out of nothing."

"If you say so."

"I do. It only sounded louder than it was because it's late at night and everything else is so still, you know? Silly Breanne--I'm only scaring myself. Nothing else is out there."

"The good thing is you've got other people in the house. I hate it when weird stuff happens and I'm all by myself."

"They're asleep."

"Yeah, but you can wake them. They're only down the hall. They could hear you if you were to scream bloody murder, right?"

"I suppose."

"Then feel better because of that."

"Wait."

"Wait, what?"

"Shush. Hold your horses and be quiet. Did you hear that?"

"Not over the phone."

"Hell's bells, something shook the wall again. I'm getting really nervous here, Patrick. What in gracious Providence is that?"

"Are you scared?"

"Stop it."

"You are scared."

"Don't do that, please, thank you. If you're going to be on the phone I don't want you to be making light of my situation."

"Okay."

"I need you to be a friend right now and tell me I'll be alright. I need you to strive to convince me of that."

"Okay."

"Good."

"And you're sure your parents aren't just getting a snack right now?"

"I'm certain."

"How certain?"

"They would have peeked in. I'm sure of that."

"You could check."

"Leave this room? You're crazier than a mule in a pool."

"If it really is nothing, wouldn't you want to know?"

"Yes. But if it is something, I don't want to know. I want to stay right here until I'm sure it is nothing we are talking about."

"Okay. But it's only going to drive you crazy until you're sure."

"There it is again. This time it came from down the stairs. I'm really getting scared now, Patrick."

"Go see. It's the only way."

"That's just great. I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to. Hold on, I'm getting dressed and going out to check. I'm going to leave the cordless here so I ain't distracted."

"Be safe."

----

"Patrick, oh, Patrick. The light's on in the kitchen and someone's walking around downstairs. I could hear them."

"Someone's in your house right now?"

"There is. What am I going to do?!"

"Wake up your parents for one. You should do that now."

"Hell, why is there someone downstairs? What do you think they want?"

"You're not going to wake them up."

"No."

"Why not?"

"If it is nothing I don't want to be their little 'ole scaredy cat."

"And what if it is something? What then? You should dial 911 if you're convinced someone is downstairs that doesn't belong there."

"I'm sure of it."

"Then wake them up or dial someone."

"Talk to me. Tell me I'm acting crazy."

"You're crazy."

"Say, 'Breanne, you're crazy.'"

"Breannie, you're the craziest."

"I'm serious. I'm overreacting, you know?"

"I'm not there. I can't tell if you are or not. I'm just scared what if you aren't imagining things and there really is somebody downstairs. I want you to be safe."

"Thank you. I'm going to wait up here for now. If I hear it again or something else happens you have my vow that I'll wake somebody up."

"Good. That's all I want."

"Hell's bells, I can still hear them ruffling through the cabinets and such. I don' reckon if it were my folks they would be rooting around in their own house like that, you know? I'm really torn up inside right about now."

"You'll be alright."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I think if it were really someone breaking in they would have noticed there was somebody up by now. They would have either gone upstairs to confront you or they would have been scared off. Nobody's going to continue to make noise in a house they're planning to steal from if they know someone's up. It doesn't make sense."

"What do you think it is then?"

"It's probably some homeless guy making a sandwich. He'll probably leave when he eats something."

"That ain't funny."

"I'm serious. It's probably some vagrant looking to eat something."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"It's harmless mostly."

"You're wrong."

"He'll go away."

"He hasn't so far."

"Are you sure you saw something?"

"I came halfway down the stairs and the kitchen lights were on. There was some noise in the kitchen. I tiptoed back up the stairs, checked my parents were both in their room, and high-tailed back to my room and the phone. Someone's there."

"Okay. I believe you. You need to do something, Breanne. Make some noise, call the police, do something--just to let him know you're still up and such."

"Shush up again. I hear something else. Errr! What was that? Something just tapped against my window right now. Hold on again. I'm going to assess the situation, darling."

----

"What on God's green Earth is going on here, Patrick? What on God's green Earth is happening to me?"

"What is it? What'd you see?"

"I'm truly frightened right now."

"What did you see?"

"I don't know how to process this all, at all."

"Breanne. Focus. Tell me what's out your window right now."

"Somebody put two long wooden poles onto my window."

"Wooden poles?"

"Two story thin window poles. I haven't the slightest indication what they're used for. Most of all, I have no inclination as to why somebody would want to bang them against my window."

"Could somebody trying to climb up to your window, Breanne? Is that it?"

"With poles? Two of them? What are they going to do with them, you figure? Shimmy up them hand over hand as if they were circus folk? Why not just use a ladder?"

"That's what I was about to say."

"Why are there poles against my window? Why that window? Why not just come up through my balcony? It'd be a much easier time of it. This isn't making the least bit of sense and it's really got my perplexed, Patrick. I feel like it's midnight at the oasis and all I'm seeing around me are mirages."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"Can you just stay up with me until I get this sorted out? Do you have work tomorrow or anything, sugar?"

"Yeah, but this is more important. I want to at least stay up until I get an explanation. Besides, you have school tomorrow, little lady."

"I haven't even finished my homework yet."

"At least you have an excuse."

"I can't do anything right now but concentrate on this. What is going on here?"

"This is a mystery."

"Wait, I hear my mother up. I'll be back."

"I'll wait here."

----

"First thing she asked me was what I was smoking. Can you imagine?"

"You tell her how scared you are and what you saw and heard..."

"And she thinks I was on something."

"Figures."

"The worst part is she didn't even go downstairs. She just said she didn't see the kitchen light on currently. She wouldn't even wake up my daddy so he could go down to investigate. I just want to know what it was, you know? At this rate, I'll never know. I hate her."

"I'd go check it out if I was there."

"I know you would. You're a good friend like that."

"I'd make you come, of course."

"You always do. Haha."

"You know it."

"At least it's quieter now. I don't feel like a cat at the edge of the bath tub so much any more."

"Do you need me to stay up any longer?"

"If you don't mind."

"Do I ever mind?"

"You never do, sugar. This is true."

Breanne