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 :)