An Unexhaustive List of My D.C. Fears

So I'm definitely not in California anymore. Gone are the beaches and uninsulated apartments, flip flips and 70 degree winters. Come 5 o'clock eastern time I will have resided in the District of Columbia for 72 hours and although that does not qualify me for in-state tuition or allow me to compete in the Miss D.C. pageant, I have already compiled a list of East Coast fears. And more specifically, since I have yet to venture anywhere outside this stretch of land along the Potomac River save Georgetown, D.C. fears.

North Face - After walking around for two days I became incredibly aware that EVERYONE sports a BLACK coat and a North Face at that. I looked through the 10 coats I packed with me in my red thrift store suitcase and realized I do not own a black coat. Long or short. I have a black and tan coat and a black and white coat. Green, purple, brown, white, floral, flannel, you name it! But not a black one. This place is like a cult full of trendy mountain wear and I, well, I have been against trendy since forever and therefore refuse to conform and purchase such a jacket no matter how warm and superior they are to what is in my closet. I am determined to make known to everyone that I was born and bread in California and I will forever and always have Golden State blood running through my veins.

Adams Morgan - Well, I found D.C.'s version of P.B. I know you are thinking that I probably shouldn't be afraid of such a place; that I should be thrilled and feel at home, but that is exactly what I'm afraid of. Pacific Beach was a fabulous place to live and Adams Morgan resembles it only in that it is lined with bars and pizza and hookah and burgers for say six continuous blocks. Sounds like a great time right? But if my nights out here are anything close to my nights out in PB - filled with too much tequila and whiskey - then not only do I have something to worry about but my dear roommates do as well.  It definitely isn't a 5 block walk home or a 10 dollar cab ride. It's escalators and metros routes and walking unfamiliar streets. Unlocking two front doors and scaling 3 flights of stairs. And then it's remembering not to undress in my bedroom with the light on...

My cousin and current floor mate, Lo-Baby - She is quite possibly one of the sweetest 18 year olds maneuvering her way through the end of high school in anticipation of receiving her Dartmouth acceptance letter, but I feel the need to be cautious around this little one when it comes to details of my social life. "Mommy, can we dress Taylor when she gets asked out on her first date?" were the words uttered out of her mouth as we browsed a less than stylish store in Georgetown yesterday. Dress me? What would she dress me in anyway? One of her many formal gowns in my 15" closet? A pastel pant suit? A pair of flats and a bright colored scarf? Not only do I refuse to let this little lady dress me for a date or any other occasion but I am adamant about keeping my California style, which leads me to my next fear:

Preppy Attire - Four words --> Polka dots and stripes. This is what the world is coming to. Although we still have another six weeks of winter here nearly everyone has released their spring lines which are full of vibrant pastels and shorts with embroidered dogs on them? For the low price of $99 you can purchase a headband from Vineyard Vines - as in Martha's Vineyard. Never in my life have I spent $99 on a piece of clothing let alone an accessory and I swear I'll never be caught dead in pink shorts, a polo shirt, and loafers. Come May you'll find me in jean shorts a strapy tank top and, yes, you guessed it, Rainbows from our very own San Clemente.

So there you have it. After 72 hours I'm afraid of the mountain wear cult which will soon turn into preppy rich kids in silly shorts drinking booze down in Adams Morgan while I stay home fending off Lo-Baby's attempts to dress me. :)

Empty Walls.

It isn't quite as cold as the days past. The space heater is turned off yet the windows remain closed. The wall opposite me bears a reminder to make myself necessary to somebody. Emerson. He who spoke the phrase. One of my very favorites. Because who are we without another? A mother or father? Sister or brother? Stranger or friend?

The words will endure with the worn carpet long after I've gone.
Perhaps they'll be painted over; erased. Leaving behind nothing for the next occupant to ponder.

The pictures I've hung have begun to fall. The adhesive wearing thin from the textured walls and inconsistent temperature. 61. 82. 74.  One by one they are released, sliding down the white walls soon to be lost amongst the contents scattered under my bed.

I see my mother's inspiration and my father's unfailing love. In color schemes and photographs, stuffed creatures and a pile of discarded make up.

Blind to you but overwhelmingly clear for me.

And then there is John. His black eyes, so dark so still, haunt me at night. Positioned left of my door, this aged-spotted portrait older than I. What I would give to experience the 70s.

Love, freedom, and experimentation of a far greater sort. A little rebellion. Ecstasy.

Littered all around are books. Novels and memoirs. Research and biographies. Paperbacks and hardcovers containing another's imagination, history, life's work.

And one holding the contents of my own.

A not so little black book full of unanswered questions, relentless ramblings and contradictions. Nothing compared to the words of Faulkner, Woolf or Hemmingway. But so much more valuable.

Like my room this little black book tells a story of years past and of a promising future.

Nostalgia and passion, love and reflection.

I have but 6 more days here. In this 12x12 foot room in the far corner of my Pacific Beach home. 6 days left to take in the lasts 5 years here. But as I stare at my empty closet  and glance around my becomingly empty room I know my time here is done. A new adventure lies ahead of me in a distant land 3000 miles away.

There I will have the opportunity to Make Myself Necessary to Somebody New.

This Time Around.

Sometimes it means relinquishing control,

             giving up on rationality

and deciding that today will be different.

And sometimes it requires faith in the universe;

                                     choosing to believe that maybe,

                      just maybe,
       


This world isn’t quite as heartbreaking as it seems.

Forgiven...

I argued that you couldn't get hung up about guilt or responsibility for what had already happened. That what mattered was the moment, who you were now, how you lived in this place, at this time. 

      Sue Miller, While I was Gone

Rain.

It was 2:30 when I turned the final page of my latest read

A book I devoured cover to cover for sleep wouldn’t come

Wrapped in blankets and clinging to my stuffed tiger

I laid on my back listening to the sounds of the night

My window rattled from the wind’s strong and weary song

A warning of the storm quickly approaching

A homeless man rummaged through the dumpster in our back alley

Searching for bottles

The equivalent of change

                                         The only form such a man will ever know

Sometime during the early morning I dozed off

And woke to the anticipated rain pouring down

I rose with a sleepy smile and stepped into my clothes 

Eager to venture outdoors into this seasonal weather

As I ambled through my favorite of nature’s miracles

Accumulated raindrops soaked through the torn soles of my shoes

            With wet socks and cold toes I headed toward the library

                        There stood a man taking refuge inside a black trash bag

                                    A homeless man – perhaps the one from last night

            From the warmth of my car I looked on and shivered

But I lack an understanding of what real freezing feels like

                                        Indoors and piled under a mountain of fleece

                                                Layered in cotton until my skin disappeared 

                                                            Comfortable. Secure.

Today I cherish the rain a little less. 

                                               

Triscuit.

Although taking place before this albino monster even existed, one of my earliest memories naturally holds my pretty little sister at it's very core. 

I am 3 1/2 sitting at my mother's feet as my father breaks the news that we will soon have a baby sister joining our family. At such a young age I was ignorant of his bewildered happiness and the underlying worry in his voice. But to get us excited about this new addition to our family (a little girl who would soon invade my bedroom, my closet, and my life as I knew it) my mother suggested we throw out possible names for said baby. After patiently listening to my brothers, 2 and 3 years my senior, suggest the names of their grade school crushes I saw my opportunity and declared with confidence, "How about we name her Triscuit?" 

Yes, like the cracker. 

To my disappointment my parents didn't name their little gem Triscuit. 

She was christened Morgan Elizabeth, but I prefer to call her Margo, among other things.

For the first 6 years of her coherent life my brothers and I had Margo convinced she was adopted. 

Cruel? Maybe. 

But she was such an easy target. 

Her blonde hair and pale skin resembled no one of immediate relation causing her to stick out like a sore thumb. 

And by replacing me as the youngest she has fared far worse forms of torture. 

Blankets thrown over her head during games of Blind Man's Bluff. 

Jump ropes tied around her neck to imitate a puppy on a leash. 

I once locked in her a suitcase and wheeled her throughout our house for fun. 

And although I have no recollection of ever doing so, she swears on her life that I put her in the oven.
(This is entirely possible considering we used to play witches and make potions out of crumpled leaves). 

I may have grown up picking on my little sister, using her as my scapegoat, and cursing her for being the taller, thinner, and cuter one, but I cannot possibly image a life without her.

Because we shared a room for 11 long years and when we finally moved to a bigger house, where she was granted her own bedroom, she dragged her mattress through our joint bathroom and slept on my floor for an entire week.
Because she never fails to answer her phone when I call her crying at 2:30 in the morning because I consumed too much tequila and therefore hate everyone who has recently crossed my path.
And because she sang The Rocket Summer's Brat Pack out my car window at the top of her lungs and survived the hellish ordeal of high school cheerleading with me. 

Love you Baby Sister.




Post. Script -- Drunk Margo likes to play limbo with herself. Yes, with herself and not by herself. She uses her arm as a limbo stick and attempts to crab crawl under it.

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.

____

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.

______________

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.

______________

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.

______________

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.

______________

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.

______________

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.

Ready to Run

As a child I never ran away.

I never left home.

I never packed a bag and wandered out the front door on my way to what I could only imagine would be a better place.

No.

I never ran away.

Because I never wanted to leave.

But my sister did.

She wasn't more than five when she packed a bag complete with an extra pair of underwear, a jacket, and her favorite stuffed animal: a bunny wearing a pink dress with bows tied around her ears.

She walked out of the bedroom we shared as little girls, took a right down the green carpeted hallway, and then another to the front door, where to her surprise our mom was sitting in the dining room to her left quietly reading a novel.

Upon seeing my baby sister with a backpack weighing her down and her white blonde hair matted in eight different directions asked:

"Morgan, what are you doing?"

"I'm running away" she declared matter-of-fact-ly

(Sweet little girl didn't realize you don't announce to the people you are running from that you are indeed running from them.)

"So then where are you going" my mother continued to question

"To Grandma Gailing's house" she replied...

Sweet little Margo never made it to our grandparent's house in Orange County - a 30 minute car ride and who knows how long of a walk away.

In fact, she never made it out the front door.

As a little girl, my sister attempted to run away.

She was convinced there was a place better than home.

(Whether or not that belief was the result of 3 persuasive older siblings is irrelevant, she wanted to run, so she ran.)

She wanted something different, something new, something that would bring her happiness.

Okay, maybe she just wanted to visit our grandparents who had an endless supply of hershey kisses and peanuts, a piano, The Goose and the Golden Egg on VHS, and paperweights in every shape with stacks of paper for tracing.

(Seriously, who wouldn't want to be there?!)

But lets pretend that she wanted something different, something new, something that would bring her increased happiness.

For her, that was Grandma's.

I bet she doesn't remember running away.

But I remember her running away.

________

As I revel in my new found freedom I often dream of running

But to where? With whom? When? How?

It isn't as simple as packing a backpack complete with an extra pair of underwear, a jacket, and my favorite stuffed animal: a tiger with endless holes from too much love that still has a home on my bed today.

Running doesn't constitute walking out the front door and making my way to Grandma Gailing's house.

Running is no longer black and white; cut and dry. It is not simply deciding that leaving is better than staying.

It is an internal battle. Self betrayal. Maybe even giving up?

Running doesn't constitute a change of pace, it is starting over.

Leaving everything behind, reinventing myself, getting lost in the possibilities of what could be..

.. not being stuck in what currently is.

It involves long conversations with my parents, siblings, and best friends.

Searching Craigslist for apartments in Washington DC, houses in Santa Monica, and careers abroad.

It is counting, and recounting every penny I've managed to save.

And cursing myself for each nickel I decided to spend.

It is weighing the pros and cons.

The opportunities and limitations.

It is going to bars, meeting new people, getting drunk, and making stupid decisions.

Then reliving those nights with my surrogate family, deciding what to do next.

It is wonderful nights and devastating days.

Meandering around town searching for the perfect spot of spend my free time.

It is arguments resulting in tears followed by apologies - giving me all the more reason to want to run.

It is my heart fighting my brain.

My body fighting my spirit.

It is a constant teeter totter.

Back and forth.

I should go.

I should stay.

________

I was a quiet child, content with where I was at all times.

I spent a lot of time by myself, reading, imagining, dreaming.

I preferred coffee to alcohol.

Books to parties.

My parents to boyfriends.

I loved home.

Absolutely loved it.

Even now, 4 years after leaving my beloved home.

I prefer coffee shops to bars.

My best friends to boys.

Movies to nights out.

Do I deal?

Or do I run?

Spontaneity has never been one of my strong suits. But maybe it is time for something different.

Maybe I should learn from my once 4 year old sister. Pack up all my belongings, drop them off in Chino, and head North...

To Santa Monica?

To Dc?

To Italy?

There will always be a $200,000 loan shark tailing me.

Just like there will always be drunken nights, broken hearts, regretful decisions, irritating roommates, lonely days spent in coffee shops, and ridiculous nights at work.

Maybe it is time

Or just the lack of sunshine.

Maybe it is my never ending curiosity

Or my susceptibility to stir-crazy-ness.

Maybe it is my new found freedom and change of mind-set

Or my being fed up with my brain working over time.

I want so desperately to run. But deep down I know running wont bring me any closer to what I'm searching for.

Perhaps I'll just settle for the possibility of gaining new perspectives when I go to North Carolina in August. New York in October. Spain in May.

I'm reluctant to stay.

And reluctant to leave.

I need direction.

Where to go and what to do.

I need freedom.

From this internal battle and self-betrayal.

But until then...

You can find me in one of many coffee shops in San Diego.

With my nose in a book, Donavon Frankenreiter in my ears, and my brain in a cloud of possibilities.

My sister ran away once,

And I've yet to follow her footsteps.

Fuuuuuck!

When FUCK is the only word you can muster

and your tears are flowing freely

Love surfaces in the most unexpected of places.

Awkward Encounters

I am beginning to think I should start taking detailed notes about my life so one day I can write a book much like Sloan Crosley's "I Was Told There Would Be Cake" and "How Did You Get This Number." It would be a nice little hard cover full of all the awkward situations I find myself in and how I respond to such emotionally taxing circumstances.

I am not sure how or why, but I am a magnetic field for awkwardness.

It finds me wherever I go and there is no escaping it!

When your mind wanders off and you're caught in a daze thinking up the worst possible scenarios that you could imagine yourself in

... They are happening to me.

When you are gossiping with your friends and find yourself saying through uncontrollable giggles

"Wouldn't it be humilating to walk up to the podium and not get an award?"

"What if you got on the airplane and had to sit next to his mom!"

"I would just die if he found out we were talking about him!"

"Oh my gosh, I seriously hope I don't run into so-and-so, that would be terrible!"

... Yup, you guessed it. They are happening to me.

Folks, your worst nightmares are absolutely my reality!

I really did walk up to the podium in front of hundreds of people to get a medal I didn't earn at a gymnastics competition. I thought they had called my name but because I was so focused on my fist full of goldfish crackers I couldn't hear correctly and embarrassed the living hell out of my 6 year old self.

And the summer after my Sophomore year in college I flew to DC to spend a week with some family. On the way home at the airport in... Texas maybe... I was last to board the plane and take my assigned seat. (It is important that you know I hadn't showered that morning or managed to run a brush through my hair.) As I quickly pushed my belongings under my seat and opened my novel to start reading, the lady sitting next to me noticed my sweatshirt and asked if I attended USD. We got to talking. Turns out... she's the mother of this boy I once dated - who refused to introduce me to his family. I mean, what are the chances I sit next to my ex boyfriends mom on a 4 hour flight from Texas to Ontario Airport? I, entirely mortified, read my novel cover to cover to avoid talking to her about her son and the terrible way he treats women.

In college I had a crush on one of my professors. Actually, a crush, is being too modest. I had a debilitating crush on one of my professors, to the point where I could barely respond to his questions of my well being without my palms getting sweaty and my heart beating through my chest. He wore a short sleeve shirt to class one day, showing the tiniest bit of his mysterious tattoo, not to mention, he was being totally charming that day. I turned to the girl who sat behind me and started gossiping about said teacher when he says, "Ms. Gailing, care to share with the class what you and Ms. Wright are laughing about?" I almost peed my pants.

But most notably, most horrifying and humiliating, and perhaps most likely to drive me to run my car off the pier... the grand finale of all circumstances I could possibly find myself in happened yesterday. While all of you were enjoying your Memorial Day I was taking shots of tequila to keep the giggles down and my sarcasm from spewing out of my mouth.

I was sitting with some friends enjoying margaritas and appetizers on the patio of a delicious restaurant in PB when in walks in the boy I most recently dated and the girl he is currently dating (boy started dating girl roughly a week after we ended things.). They decide to sit at the table directly to the left of me. I downed what was left of my drink, got the giggles, banged my head against the table, and tried to make myself invisible. It didn't work. The next thing I heard was TAYLOR! come out of the mouth of the boy who I'd tried my best to hate and was unsuccessful until yesterday. I reluctantly turned around and responded with Ummmmm Hi???

Then...

Current girlfriend turns around.

I flash her my best fake smile and cover my face with my curly hair.

She goes to the bathroom.

He continues to stare.

I feel a hole burning in the back of my head.

I turn around.

We make small talk.

She returns and caresses him.

And then I ever so desperately ask my friends if they would buy me a shot of tequila to ease the pain.

They agree.

They ask the waiter, "Can we get her a shot of Tequila?"

He asks "Do you all want one?"

They respond, "No just her"

We have an audience.

Of course, we have an audience.

I flash another fake smile.

He says goodbye.

They leave.

I can't look up.

Honestly. What are the chances? Of all the places to go to eat, of all the hours in a single day, it had to be 4 o'clock and a table away.

I've learned to laugh at my extreme lack of good luck/excessive amount of bad luck. Because encounters like these allow me to revel in my awkwardness, they give me reasons to take shots of tequila, and justify my roaming around PB taking pictures and cursing certain individuals.

I wish I could avoid said boy and his girlfriend. But God knows I'll make an ass out of myself again Thursday night and tequila won't be available until hours after this anticipated awkward encounter...

So pour me a shot, I'll be waiting.

Post tequila adventures:

Looking Back.

For an entire year I've been mentally crossing off calendar days with an indelible red marker with anticipation and excitement, eagerly awaiting the arrival of May 22, 2011. And as the days quickly pass and the 22nd is within view, I feel ready - so very ready to start my life in a world of freedom and chaos. After picking up my cap and gown, sending out my graduation announcements, and solidifying reservations I am prepared to walk across the stage, shake Mary Lions' hand, and officially end my undergraduate career.

My journey through USD didn't constitute the best days of my life, but they were perfect. Perfectly heartbreaking, perfectly inspiring, and perfectly perfect. For the last four years I've been a creature of habit, of routine. I have been a slave to assignments and responsibility; days full of tasks to be crossed off lists with a sense of accomplishment. I've kept myself busy with dedication and hard work - pouring my heart and soul into papers and classroom debates.

Now as I am mentally preparing myself for what will be my biggest accomplishment thus far in my 22 year old life, I've alloted myself a great deal of time to think back on my college career and highlight what has challenged me, changed me, and made me me these past four years.

I've compiled a list of moments that I am truly grateful I've had the opportunity to experience. Moments of insanity, delirium, and unmeasurable happiness. Moments of confusion, frustration, and overwhelming doubt. Moments I will keep with me forever.

My favorite Random Moments.

*Although I only vaguely remember wearing a blue shirt to dinner at La Paloma freshman year, that night marked the beginning of a friendship I wouldn't encounter until the end of my junior year. I met a girl I instantly adored and who is now one of the most amazing people I've come to know. My past summer roommate, and soon to be permanent roommate, my favorite friend, and self-less confidant Kendra Obsurn.

*Ethics with Zwolinski was a no-brainer course. With my forever curious disposition and reliable study buddies, camping out in the Student Life Pavilion at 2:00am tackling the material for that final seemed like no problem, until every joke turned sexual and I laughed until I started sobbing. Kevin O'Malley and Jonathan Fein helped create my fondest finals memory.

*We decided going on SEARCH the weekend before our 35 page methods paper was due was a great idea. And although the retreat was absolutely spectacular I think sitting in the library with Anjuli Wright, Kara Kimball, Nina Baum, Christina Ellsworth, and Jeff Baucher delirious from a sleepless weekend and frantically typing away was even more amazing...

*Every sociology major dreads the semester in which they are forced to take Classical (or is it Contemporary) Sociological Theory with Dr. Reifer. And although that class was quite possibly the hardest course I've ever take, literally stalking Dr. Reifer all semester to ensure I'd get an A and then showing up 40 minutes late my final made for quite an entertaining semester.

*It is entirely devastating when every single one of your closest friends graduate the year before you, but ending that year by drinking whisky out of a flask while smashed in the trunk of an SUV on your way to their senior night at Stingaree made everything momentarily okay.

Opportunities of a Lifetime.

*My Sophomore year I decided to embark on an alternative spring break that took place at Nazareth Farm West Virginia. Not only did I spend a week living and serving in the heart of one of the most poverty stricken areas in America while surviving off of $2 a day, but I experienced more faith, love and community in that single week than I had ever known at USD. I saw God in the faces of the community members who literally had nothing but were overwhelmingly generous and loving. That week solidified my passion for helping those in poverty and my belief in a higher power.

*As a student leader in the CASA office for issues surrounding hunger and homelessness, I had the opportunity to participate in Project Homeless Connect. On this particular day in December I met a man who changed my life. His name was James A. Barrera and he taught me what it meant to love. I blogged about James a while ago, read about him here.

*Through the same organization listed above I was flown to Chicago to attend The National Student Campaign Against Hunger and Homelessness. A weekend full of seminars, testimonies, and first hand conversations with countless homeless individuals I realized my life goal and was inspired to never stop fighting for those whose lives were reduced to living on the streets because they couldn't keep up with the capitalistic world we live in.

*As part of my Research Methods class I mentored a senior at Mark Twain High School (an alternative school for 'last chance' students so to speak). And although I knew nothing about geometry those Monday afternoons I spent with Camille brightened my week. I watched a meek and insecure young girl find confidence in herself. A girl that once spoke of wanting nothing more than to be done with school began talking about attending community college. Perhaps Camille felt lucky to have someone spend two hours a week with her and receive the one-on-one attention she was desperately lacking, but I felt lucky to have met Camille that semester.

*SEARCH XXVI was absolutely the most heartbreaking weekend of my life. But despite the tragic witnesses, and the millions of tears that fell from my eyes, and the anger I felt with God I left with a sense of hope, a new found community, and an understanding of the power of love.

*I would never have guessed that waking up at 3:00am for 3 consecutive days to survey homeless people would have been a wonderful experience, but my mandatory participation in the 100,000 Homes National Campaign - Downtown San Diego Registry Week left me angry, hopeful, inspired, and forever questioning. I experienced a new image of homelessness, that of a 22 year old boy with a life just like mine except instead of attending a four year university he was sleeping along the harbor in DT San Diego. I blogged about this experience too, read about it here.

______________

I could drag this entry on forever because USD has given me so much to be grateful for. And although I'm sure I'll find myself desperately missing the castle on top of the hill I am absolutely ready to see this semester come to an end. Not only will May 22nd bring an end to my academic career, but it will bring closure to a devastating semester - a semester full of more heartache than I ever imaged I'd have to deal with months before the most exciting day of my young life.

So with that, thank you, thank you, thank you everyone who made these past four years memorable! I am forever grateful!

i planned on disappearing today

but the universe thought otherwise

it showered me with hugs and pokes and silly banter

slowly releasing the infinite tears that were held hostage behind my eyes

maybe tomorrow,

the world might be a little nicer then...

Picture: Stolen from Lo's Facebook page

Mountain Tops

She stood at the top of the mountain and shouted into the distance,

"I'm more than just a pretty girl"

until the echo dissipated and was lost among the creatures who lack the ability to reason and comprehend. The creatures she felt God loved more than her human existence for he made their lives simple. No souls, no belief, no hope, no dreams, and especially no reasoning.

"I'm more than just a pretty girl"

She repeated over and over like her favorite curse word until she no longer knew what she was saying for the words lost all meaning and became nothing but noise. Noise was all she really wanted. Enough noise to drown out all the words from all the people she couldn't bear to hear.

Because she is more than just a pretty girl with a sad smile and twinkling eyes,

with the inability to be angry with the people who have wronged her and every ability to turn her anger towards those who don't deserve it and become the brunt of her frustrations taking in words that are not meant for them but who understand that her heart is big enough to forgive the people who maybe don't deserve forgiveness because she loves them all the same.

"I'm more than just a pretty girl"

This time she whispered it. In an effort to remind herself that she's got a heart worth sharing, a mind worth exploring, and a sense of humor worth experiencing. That she's more than just a pretty girl who stands on mountain tops and proclaims so because the people she's surrounded by have reduced her to such.

This girl is a dreamer with a vision to save the world that is crumbling beneath her even if it's one person at a time until there is no one left to save because she has enough faith for all of humanity, enough hope for all that are hopeless, and enough love for those who are lacking, and she will not stop until she has conquered every evil and transformed the hearts of others.

SHE IS MORE THAN JUST A PRETTY GIRL

So take a second to look beyond her sad smile and sparkling eyes and realize that she has learned how to use the brain, the heart, and the soul God blessed her with because he loves her human existence more than any simple creature lacking the ability to believe, to hope, to dream, and especially, to reason.

Indigo Children

Sometimes she could feel it in the pit of her stomach before it ever happened

Her heart would beat fast, her arms would tingle, her eyes would sting

It occurred at random moments

While she was sitting on the floor, drinking coffee, reading a book

It approached quickly and passed slowly

The sensation, the truth

They were on the same wave length.

What she was thinking was apparent to him.

And his thoughts to her.

When they were apart.

From a distance.

Across a city.

And he knew.

He knew that she knew what he was feeling, thinking, wanting.

At the very moment he felt it, thought it, wanted it.

When they were apart.

From a distance.

Across a city.

And she knew.

That he would take a step back, so she'd take a step forward.

From the very moment he felt it to the minute he expressed it.

She was prepared to hear what she already knew.

They shared the very same gift:

intuition.

clairvoyance.

They were on the same wavelength.

Synesthesets.

It could only lead to destruction, and with time it would.

Too alike, yet all too different.

He was blessed with a sixth sense, she with cognition.

Together they were fatal, they both knew too much.

So alike, but so very different.

Their empathy would never be enough

But she hoped and he tried

But sometimes,

sometimes,

things just don't fit.