Halloween Nostalgia

I remember a different kind of Halloween.

Before booty shorts, booze, and blacked out nights.

One of hand made costumes, tears shed over carving pumpkins, and plastic jack-o-lantern candy catchers.

I remember a Halloween of Trick-or Treating for hours on end, of skirts falling down to ankles in bursts of excited sprinting*, and parades around the outdoor auditorium.

Of angels and butterflies, flapper girls and cavemen, black cats and gypsies.

*****

My dedicated mother planned our costumes months in advance and worked on them daily.

Sewing, gluing, and painting.

Littering our house with sequins, fringe, and glitter.

She helped dress us in the morning before school.

Undressed us in crowded bathrooms during the afternoon.

And redressed us in the evening.

All to be sure we didn't rip, tear, or ruin her beautiful handiwork.

This wonderful woman poured herself irish coffees, force fed us through giddy chatter, and snapped a million photos before hitting the streets.

*****

I remember the year we retired our pumpkins and paraded around with pillow cases.

The year 7-year-old Lo-baby marched up the street in her clown costume innocently screaming "Hail Hilter" as the adults giggled in embarrassment.

The year of the anthrax scare when we came home with a years worth of candy due to the lack of parents shuffling their children around the neighborhood.

*****

These are the Halloweens I remember.

The Halloweens before the age of alcohol consumption and recreational drug use.

Before one tequila shot too many, walking 16 blocks opposite home in drunken confusion, and rescuing hysterical sisters from overcrowded parties.

Before skin baring costumes, hangovers, and nights only wished to be remembered.

*****

I carved a pumpkin Wednesday night with my Mommy.

*I didn't cry or accuse her of murdering my orange friend.

I reminded my dad to purchase candy for the trick-or-treaters.

And today I woke up, made some coffee, opened my journal, and smiled at my Halloween owl.

(A gift from my daddy a few years back that serves as a reminder of the Halloweens I prefer to remember.)

Happy Halloween :)

*My skirt really did fall to my ankles one year as I ran down the street after my brothers.

*And I really did cry and scream at my dad for killing my pumpkin. He never carved one again.

Innocence.

I spend my monday mornings with a little guy named Titus Matthew. He is absolutely worth waking up at 7am and driving 45 minutes out to Santee. At 2 1/2 his personality is unavoidable and his energy contagious. He is the light of my week, every week.

I fear the day I become the babysitter his mom recalls he once loved. A college student he ran down the street into the arms of and exclaimed all week, "Titus want build trains with Taydor!" A girl who built block towers and lego gas stations and forts out of couch cushions. Who read him bed times stories and hugged and kissed and held him.

In a few years he wont remember me or the happiness of such simplicity - chasing his baby sister around the back yard, recognizing objects and naming them for the very first time, feeling unconditionally loved by everyone who crosses his path.

Soon he will experience the world as we do. A world of emotion exploding with every step. Of ridiculous happiness and unforgettable pain.

As I watched my favorite little friend run around giggling today I made a silent wish that his innocence would last as long as possible.

Because today:

The pain he feels is merely physical - a split chin and a slight spanking.

His dad remains his super hero and his mother his best friend.

He speaks without hesitation, unafraid of judgement and ridicule.

He knows not the disappointment of failing a test or losing in the playoffs.

He has yet to be teased and bullied on the playground by children his own age or betrayed by his best friend.

The biggest decision he is asked to make is whether he wants macaroni and cheese or chicken for lunch.

He has not been showered with religious teachings and asked to form political opinions.

He knows love but not a broken heart and he fears not rejection nor inadequacy.

And because of this Titus' pristine heart beats boldly without tears or bruises inside his tiny chest. He smiles genuinely with happiness in his eyes and when he falls down he gets right back up because no one ever told him he couldn't make it.

I have no doubt that Titus will grow up to be intelligent, respectable and loving. He already possess a caring nature and a desire to learn.

But I hope the day he wakes up to a world of lies and deceit, frustration and turmoil, that he bears the strength and confidence to soldier on because his undeniable and inspiring innocence will last but a few years longer.

The Necessity of Socks.

I once thought you boys had it hard, you know, dealing with unexpected math class boners and physicals and all. I was convinced I'd give my left arm if I had to drop my pants, turn my head, and cough... but that was well before my 18th birthday and mandatory annual visits to a certain lady doctor.

So today I bought a journal.

Yes, a beautiful black leather bound journal from a Barnes and Noble an hour and a half away.

I've been meaning to purchase one of these since, well, since I read Bridget Jones' Diary and wanted to document my retarded life come my 23rd birthday. I definitely should have made this purchase before the morning of the 25th to record the prior night's events in utter detail. It really is a shame I waited so long.

But this morning called for drastic measures.

I forgot my socks. And socks, simple they may be, are an absolute necessity when visiting such a strange place.

My roommate and I once had a conversation about proper gynecological etiquette. To wear socks, or not to wear socks?! Considering, as women, we are asked not to simply 'drop our drawers,' but rather, to strip down to the skin God gave us, so our breasts can be palpated for potential tumors and our nether-regions examined for who knows what, socks prove to be the only logical comfort.

But however great the comfort, you can imagine the debate Kara and I had over whether or not wearing socks seemed silly as we lay spread eagle with our heels in stirrups attempting to carry on casual conversation regarding current boyfriends or 'partners' (as they prefer to say) and our recent engagement in sexual activities.

((Just so you know, it is practically impossible to lie to such doctors! Even when you are well aware that the patient anxiously waiting to be seen in the next room can hear EVERYTHING you tell your doctor because the walls are paper thin, and after all, 5 minutes before, you learned all about the sexual activity of the anonymous woman in room B.))

Same partner? New partner? What is it this time? No partner? Oh! Well, what have you been up to then? Blah blah blah blah.

Second to the socks in the security department is coming home to a roommate waiting to debrief your emotional state at the time of said visit.

Because of the summer weather Orange County possessed and a recent move, I had neither socks nor roommate to come home to. Hence, the purchase of my beautiful black leather bound journal for the bargain price of $29.95.

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So boys, next time you start complaining, about anything really, remember that women shed their uterine walls once a month for approximately 5 days, become human incubators for a period of nine months, spread their legs so a nurse practitioner can scrape cells off their cervixes, and have their breasts smashed down by heavy machinery to detect potentially cancerous tumors.

Oh, and maybe buy your girlfriend a pair of cute socks when she's curled up in the fetal position screaming at you because you don't understand the pain of menstrual cramps.

Happy Day :)

What I Want.

I want to stand at the bow of a ship with my arms stretched wide as the sea scented wind blows viciously through my hair.

I want to sit with my knees to my chest and my head tilted to the right staring out an airplane window at the swiss alps thousands of miles below.

I want to run along the colorado river at the bottom of the Grand Canyon with drops of sweat trickling down my spine.

I want to dance to a silent soundtrack on the top of the tallest building in the darkest city with only the stars to light up the sky.

I want to lay flat on my back in a field of wildflowers listening to the love songs of feathered creatures.

I want to write a column and have readers country wide hear what is in my head and my heart.

I want to watch the sun rise and then set on the same day from exactly the same location.

I want to float without effort in the Dead Sea under the blistering Jordan sun.

I want to shout from the top of a mountain and hear the echo bounce through the peaks and valleys.

I want to mother a foster child and shower his magnificent soul with more love than he ever thought possible.

But first, I want to twirl around in a vintage dress in front of a full length mirror with flowers in my hair.

And I want to stand at the entrance of a beautiful church as Catch the Wind by Donavon plays softly in the background.

And I want to witness the expression on his face as I walk awkwardly towards him...

Because all I really want, despite how vivid my other dreams are, is to fall desperately in love and to stay that way for the rest of my life.

Talking Boys with my Daddy.

I spent the latter part of the afternoon today with my father gawking at the unsightly residents of Pacific Beach. He snickered about everyone’s choice of inking unflattering tattoos in unfortunate places while I proceeded to name off every male I would classify as a douche bag.

My dad chuckled at my use of such a phrase… which was unusual, for had we not been sitting in public sipping diet cokes out of plastic 7/11 big gulps he would have scolded me for such class-less language.

“Taylor, who are you? Surely not the daughter I raised! Why do you talk like that?!”

Seeing how I avoided a stern lecture of appropriate language and etiquette I tested my luck and coughed up a few four letter words and then ventured as far as using ‘bone’ as a verb… and each occasion he simply put his head down, covered his brow with his left hand and hide the grin that spread across his face.

But back on track

… while I was proclaiming every boy a douche and denouncing the male species as a whole, he perked up and asked,

“Taylor, why don’t you date that nice looking young man who waited on us today?”

As if I had the pick of the litter and could date any boy I damn well pleased.

(I sincerely love my dad for this. Because he absolutely believes that anyone I am interested in would be crazy not to pursue me.)

I merely explained that I had already dated within the work community and look where that got me…

And that said waiter probably wasn’t interested, and although he is indeed quite attractive I’m not even sure that I am even interested in him. Among other things… he used to have a girlfriend, we work together, we are employed at the same location as my ex-boyfriend (can we even call him that?) Somewhere down my line of excuses my dad zoned out and then looked at me sternly and said,

“Taylor… what are the top 5 qualities you want in a boyfriend, fiancé, husband? I’m serious. I want you to think hard.”

I’m sure my face contorted into a thoughtful grimace as I looked over my right shoulder at the gentleman who was clearly eavesdropping, before I turned back, smiled, and listed off the following:

1. Compassion
2. Intelligence
3. Spontaneity
4. Conversational
5. Familial

Needless to say my dad was pleased with my response. We discussed in some length what each word entailed and how I imagined my future fella would follow through and meet my expectations.

Then he asked me more about said waiter. Silly daddy.

He bought me ice cream before we headed back to my house and said our goodbyes. He reassured me that I was exceptional. Not only am I intelligent and beautiful but I am kind and therefore I should never settle. I clung to him for dear life… because that is exactly the sort of positive reinforcement every 22-year-old girl needs to hear from time to time.

Before climbing back into his car he gave me another hug, patted me on the head and said,

“Maybe you should move back east. You’ll probably meet more attractive guys there than in this shit-hole."

God, I love my Dad. : )

Defining Ourselves.

I began this post over a year ago - July 7, 2010 to be exact - and just now came upon it while reading through the 20-or-so entries I've yet to post. I don't remember the comment that my former roommate made nor can I recall the exact conversation that I had with the boy who fulfilled his role as my 'crush' remarkably well (for he did indeed crush... my spirit that is), but on the night of the 4th of July, after swimming in the ocean, consuming an unadvisable amount of alcohol, watching the fireworks, and fighting with my childhood best friend, I found myself on the steps of my tiny beach house engaged in the sort of conversation I live for.

I think there are few and sporadic days where we are exactly the person we strive to be - the person we claim to be, but know we are not. The person we hope to one day become; a combination of all the best qualities we seek and find in those surrounding us.

An unexpected conversation with an unusual subject along with a single comment made by my roommate turned my life upside down in the best possible way.

My conversations with both of these people led me to question:

Who are we really at any given moment?

How do we define ourselves - by our actions, dreams, intentions?

Am I the same Taylor at this very moment that I was a few nights ago on my front porch at 2:30am?

When will I know that I have become the person I've been dreaming up? That I've aspired for so long to be?

How do we change the aspects of ourselves that we could do without? How long does it take to rid ourselves of them? Will they ever truly be gone?

I'm a thinker, but by now you've probably realized that. These questions run around in my head like my preschoolers run around the gym floor... over and over and over again.

If you were ever to ask me who I am, I would probably tell you who I am becoming.

And if you were to ever ask me who I am becoming, I would most likely let you know who I want to be.

Because at any given moment I'm not exactly positive of who I am.

But if you were to ask...

I may convince you that I am kind to a fault, and a well versed empathetic. I would relay my passions of helping the homeless and filling my brain with all the knowledge it can possibly hold. I could show you just how silly I am and why people constantly laugh at/with me for no particular reason at all.

And if you decided to see for yourself...

You would witness my sad smile and sparkling eyes and see how much my 5'1" frame truly holds. You would experience my awkwardness and my tendency to complain about pointless things. And if you were lucky enough, you would notice that my anger is non-existent and my energy unavoidable.

But my empathy and smile, energy and eyes, are just mere aspects of who I am, and vary from day to day. There are moments when my smile isn't quite so sad, and my eyes as dull as a 9:00 -5:00 office job.

However, a few nights ago, while sitting on my front porched in the middle of the night conversing with a good friend, I felt as if I were exactly the person I wanted to be in that particular moment.

Maybe there are particular moments in our lives that help to define us. Or maybe there are particular versions of ourselves for given circumstances.

We can't always be happy or sad. Full of dreams or entirely apathetic. But there are situations that call for such emotions; states of mind. And perhaps being true to those feelings, and accepting the moments of clarity and chaos for what they are allows us to define ourselves.

...

Simply living from the inside out.

Today I am Taylor. Reminiscent but content. Dreaming of a different life yet enjoying a movie, the presence of my roommate, and a large glass of wine. Today I am passionate about children, loving, and eager to please. I am sporting that same sad smile and sparkling eyes that most days define me. Tomorrow is a new day, and I will be a new Taylor, always and forever striving to be the person I know I want to become.

Happily Every After's

We believed in 'once upon a time's and happily ever after's.

We put on beautiful dresses from our mothers' closet and twirled around holding our fathers' hands.

We painted our faces with our sister's make up and curled our frumpy hair -- strutting around proclaiming we were the most beautiful girls in all of the world.

We got in bed at night truly believing that one day, when we were older, we'd be swept away by a gorgeous man in a white suit.

We were three feet tall with dreams that reached the ceiling.

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And then we were on the floor of our bedrooms shoulder to shoulder giggling about the brown haired boy we sat next to in biology.

We passed notes in class that were taken away and read aloud by our teachers and then gossiped about for days on end.

We thought long and hard about what our first kiss would be like - and then replayed it over and over and over in our minds once it finally happened.

We searched the internet for the perfect gown and imagined every detail of our wedding day.

We believed in fate and miracles and true love.

We were pre-pubescent, wide-eyed, naive, love struck 15 year olds.

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And then we were laying under the stars saying 'I love you' for the very first time.

We were accepting kisses in public, breaking curfew, and reveling in new found privacy.

We were ending high school relationships in anticipation of a better future.

We imagined we'd find a man as great as our fathers and as funny as our brothers once we stepped foot on our college campuses.

We were 18 and ready to find the one who would someday become our husband.

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And then we convinced ourselves that we had entered the decade of 'hook-up culture' and were okay with it - leading to midnight ronde-vu's with emotionally unavailable musicians.

We topped off bottles of wine and cried while watching Breakfast at Tiffany's - wishing there were a place where we and things fit together.

We found ourselves on the floor in the fetal position attempting to hold ourselves together when it seemed like nothing else would work.

We were jaded and defeated. Swearing off boys and cursing every childish fantasy we ever believed in.

We denounced our faith, our belief in destiny, and the kind of commitment that meant forever.

We claimed we didn't believe in relationships - that true love doesn't exit. That fairy tales are just fairy tales and marriage is some silly institution that we buy into with the anticipation of bailing out of.

We were heartbroken, deceived, and stupid 21 year olds with little belief in humanity.

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Yet we find ourselves reliving our first true love. Picturing ourselves holding the hand of our high school boyfriend, remembering the kisses that made our backs tingle, and the complete trust we had in the other.

We still get the butterflies when the boy from our most recent break-up gives us hugs where our feet come off the ground and hate that we continue to love the feeling.

We lay on our roommates' beds hashing out every detail of every encounter with every boy we've had in last few weeks until there is nothing left to pick apart.

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Because in the deepest pit of our stomachs, in the furthest inch of our hearts, and in the very tips of our toes we find the hope that we once believed in.

After all...

... we grew up with once upon a time's and happily every after's.