Confessions In the Dark…

The following is a list of things I used to think about stuff. Enjoy.

“Don’t Stop ’till you get enough” you know, that song by the late Michael Jackson? Well, I’ve never really been able to understand his lyrics, and I always thought he was singing, “Don’t stop ’till you get it up.” Which, now that I have a slightly dirtier mind in my twenty six years of life sounds hilarious, and reminds me of something from The Office (I sure do miss TWSS jokes. Just not the same without ’em).

The gym I go to is comprised of a whole bunch of “beautiful people”. The YMCA offers healthy lifestyles to all different body types, but I feel as though the gym I’m a member of has only Ken and Barbie folks. Not only is EVERYONE seemingly easy on the eyes, they don’t seem to sweat. Or if they do, the girls still look pretty in their black spandex and sports bras, and the guys just look……..tough. I don’t know if everyone is covered in industrial strength hair spray, or tanning oil, or what.

and then there’s me. I take a medication that, in higher doses, causes excessive sweating ( yay Zoloft!), so here I am on the stationary bicycle literally dripping with sweat. By the time my forty minutes of riding is up, I look like I just stepped out of the shower. My appearance does not bring all the boys to the yard, let’s put it that way.

I had a boyfriend for a while, then at some point (my guess is after the first date), he decided he wasn’t ready for a relationship of the serious nature, and really wanted a woman who already had kids, or who did not want kids. Not only was I completely flabbergasted that someone as handsome as him could like me, but called me BEAUTIFUL. Holy Moly. AND he loved Jesus! It just seemed like we might have something going for us.

The next week,  a friend complimented me, said he’d always though I was hot. Ahem. I think I just choked on my spit. Excuse me? Really? hot? It’s true. I’m hot. And sexy. We may have fooled around a little, and that made me feel loved in a way that never has made sense to me before. I’ve never had a positive experience with “intimacy”.

He was taken aback by the fact that I’m a virgin. I told him, yes, we virgins are much like Unicorns; we exist for those who believe. Don’t worry, I’m still a Unicorn.

I got my last hair cut from sweet Annie today. She and her husband, their ridiculous two wiener dogs and their baby Cooper who is still in the womb (apparently the size of a Chinese cabbage) are moving to Kansas. Like… Five hours away in Kansas. That’s too long a trip for my monthly hair cuts. I’ve always loved her spirit. She is probably the most content person I’ve ever met. In the six years I’ve known her so far, I think I’ve heard her complain a half dozen times. She loves Jesus, is teachable, loves her husband (they have one of the funniest relationships I’ve been privileged to see develop), is soft spoken, careful with her words, and absolutely gorgeous. And she cuts hur purty good, too. Her friend is taking her place, but it won’t be the same. Change is so hard for me sometimes. I will miss my friend Annie.

One time, in High School, my friend from the swim team and I hopped in her car, put on Norah Jones, and started driving. We didn’t stop for probably four hours. We just drove straight in one direction. Then we turned around and came home. It was one of the best afternoons of my life. Later on in our years in school she became addicted to Adderall, and any other pills she could score. Sometimes on our way to school she’d pull over, open the car door, vomit, and then we’d keep driving. She was a much better swimmer than I; she could have gotten a full ride scholarship, but liked escaping better than striving.

Sometimes when I eat Raman, and I’m slurping up the noodles (I’m sure you too are questioning why I’m still single, eh? eh?), some part of my childish brain pretends I’m the Loch Ness Monster, and I imagine myself emerging from the murky waters with seaweed in between my Monster teeth.

I’ve been trying to work out several times a week to try and get leaner arms and generally feel better about myself. Some of my coworkers use a pre-workout mix called Adrenaline, they say it makes you “mad” at the weights, and you seem to have a more productive workout. I’m gonna start trying it tomorrow, but, honestly, I am a little afraid it will make me crazy. Maybe not this crazy… But only time will tell.

Those are all the secrets I shall reveal at this time.

Thank you. Come again.

I Miss.

“Grab a shovel, grab a pail, we might be gone all day. Actin’ out these fairy tales, running, jumping in the waves. . . I miss innocence, I miss the arms of my Mother; I miss feeling light, like a childhood summer, childhood summer…” (Sara Groves)

My Mother’s Day card is going to be late. I bought it more than a month ago, but somehow it got mixed in with various bills, a post it note with my soon-to-be new address, and my EMT certificate I got at Missouri Southern stating I finished the program. I got angry once and threw it on the ground. It was in a glass frame and when I smashed it, glass cut me and it bled onto the certificate.

Tonight after work I stuffed my ears with headphones, turned on some Sara Groves,and began writing my Mom’s card. I only got to the third sentence before I began weeping. I wept because of the overwhelming gratitude I have for her; for who she is, and who she has taught me to be. How she never tried to live vicariously through me with some unmet dream in her past, never told me I was ugly because I was a tomboy, never tried to be my best friend, never put me in a beauty pageant, made me wear something I didn’t like, suggest I needed a boyfriend to feel whole or happy, supply me and my friends with alcohol, read my diary. But she has always prayed for and with me, supported me when I wanted to move to South Africa in the middle of my college career, called me daily at the psych unit I visited for a week, got to know my friends, modeled selflessness in the way she talked about others, gave to others, even sprinted down the street barefoot when she saw a motorcycle accident to help.

I wrote that my box of memories of our times together is overflowing. I’ve stuffed all the times she took me to the pool, every swim meet she attended and cheered me on, every track meet, every drawing, every trip to the zoo, every dandolion she graciously accepted from me and placed in water, every acorn she let me accumulate on our walks, every kiss on the cheek every Eskimo kiss, and every hug…Though I reckon that another box is in order soon. I don’t want anything to fall out and get lost.

I can’t imagine how bittersweet this holiday is for Mom’s who have lost their own Moms. My Mom is a wonderful Mom in part because of her own Mom. I wish I could remove the ache that will come back on Sunday, just like it has for the last six years. Times like these remind me what a joy Heaven will be, when we get to see those we’ve lost and love once again. I can’t imagine seeing Him face to face, of course, though it also makes me long for that day when we will see all those we love.

Though right now, I sure wish I could hug her on Mother’s Day. I wish I could smell her, look in her eyes, hold her hand. I wish I could make her laugh. I wish things were different. I wish the domino effect of my Brother’s failures weren’t needing to be handled by my parents, and I didn’t have to share my parents right now. I wish I could fly to Virginia and curl up on my Mother’s lap, and have her read Corduroy to me.  I miss the arms of my Mother. I miss childhood summers. I miss innocence.

So tonight, I weep. I weep out of joy, but also of sorrow that I cannot be with my Mom on this day.

Hug your Mom Sunday, okay? And tightly, too. Smell her neck. Rest your head gently on her shoulder. r e l a x and rest in her arms, even if for just a moment.

I Wonder…

I’m up at a stupid hour thinking. I even took half a Diphenahydramine to put my mind at ease, and am listening to the ever-soothing Bon Iver.

 

Buttttt… Nothin.

My Mom asked me if I’d devised an escape route in case he isn’t at all who he says he is. I reassured her that we were meeting in the middle of the day at a coffee shop, not an alley next to the dumpster around 0320. So why am I awake? What is gnawing at me?

My job makes me hyper-vigilant, and suspicious in many ways. On one hand, my job has made me see everyone on a level playing field, that humans are all alike; we all make mistakes, and the population I see in my job is broad. My job has helped me to give Grace to others. And I love that.

But I’ve noticed when I feel threatened, my hand instinctively clings to my right side, in case something goes south.

I’m vague because I’m required to be. Sorry.

I am more surprised at truthful words than manipulative, deceitful ones. And that words are sometimes used not for communicating, but for control, and fun to see how gullible people are.

My coworkers, who’ve been in this business longer than I, secrete the cultural climate of skepticism with everything (and everyone) they encounter. It’s just one of those things. But they joke with me– what if he’s a “chomo”? What if he has a record and hasn’t been truthful to you about it? What if he’s a stalker?

I’d like to think I grow better each day at reading people. But what if I really messed this one up?

I’m over-analyzing. It’s just a date.

Oh wait. I’ve not been on one of those in years…

The last one went so badly that I conned my friend into calling me crying, saying her Grandma died and I had to leave. He was…not who I thought he’d be, and ended up creeping me out. Though he was kind enough to send an email saying he’d had a nice night, and hoped my friend’s Grandma was OK.

My first boyfriend was Matt Finkel. He made me feel fuzzy inside. I still have a picture of the two of us on the school bus. He had on a black t-shirt that said, “Mary had a little lamb…. I ate it”, I had on a yellow shirt that hung loosely on my skinny frame. One day wading in the city pool with him, he grabbed me by the waist, pulled me close, and kissed me. I can’t remember if I closed my eyes or not. I don’t know if I had seen enough movies to know it’s just one of those things you do. He went in for another and tried to pry my lips open with his tongue. I shut him down pretty quick. In recalling this, I wonder if I refused the tonsil hockey because I felt it was wrong, I was scared, or it reminded me of things I didn’t want to think about from my past. Later in our pathetically short relationship, he started drinking and smoking pot, and I did not want a boy doing that, even though I felt beautiful and he was handsome. I asked him to choose, and his silence was his answer.

I’ll keep my six readers informed on the upcoming date. It will result in either an awkward story that will hopefully leave you rolling, or a surprisingly sweet story filled with joy and hope for the future.

 

 

 

 

 

Summer Skin.

I’ve finally adorned my summer skin. I am ready to be a walking lobster, ready for smothering heat that even through inspiration, your lungs become inflamed. I am ready to get new pit stains in my old t-shirts. I am pumped about splashing in waters, floating down rivers, hiking up cliffs, napping under trees. I’ve always been a summer kid.

It has felt like summer here in Joplin for some time now, which feels like such a gift. Sometimes I think that Jesus blew the snow around our little inch of the world just so we could have some more time to rebuild all the Legos that got smashed and scattered everywhere. I wonder if He’ll give us just a few more clouds this summer to continue creating.

For most summers I can recall, I sold lemonade at the end of my neighbor’s driveway. Courtney and I would set up a small table, tape a crooked sign advertising deliciously refreshing lemonade, two chairs, and waited for the onslaught of customers to arrive at our establishment. Sometimes we’d take turns standing in the road (smart) with zealous, young spirits, hoping in all our trying, it would make someone feel bad and give in. Other times Courtney’s next door neighbors, twins (they both looked like Barbie; except one had brown hair), would come over with their expensive Super Soakers and shoot us in the eyeballs and crotches and then walk back into their comfy, air conditioned house.

Once, in my backyard, my brother David and I were goofing around near the tree where my Mother pierced oranges with an orange so the Orioles could drink its succulent juice. He knew one of my baby teeth was loose and decided he would punch me in order to extract it. The moment he clocked me, my tooth flew into the air, bounced onto the ground, where a sleek black crow scooped it up, I guess for a sweet trophy or something.

David also tied me to a tree during a game of cowboys and indians. I eagerly aggreed to play the captured indian. He and his friend Mike were just about to throw large rocks at me when my Mother looked out the window and rescued me.

That was nice of her.

Still, I’m a summer kid, and think I always will be.

There is something about summer that makes me feel alive; enables me to rip off the straight jacket and stretch my limbs out wide. Like when you’re enduring a never-ending car ride across Nevada, and you stop at a BP to re-energize on nasty Slim Jims and Mr. Goodbars.

Right?

I’m enjoying my summer skin right now. And when I need to shed it, I’ll  not be sad, it will just be a new journey, and I am learning to be OK with new journeys, and trusting God is holding me throughout each one, whether I’m a lobster or wrapped in a Cosby Cardigan.

This One Time I Stayed Up All Night Because Of A Spider.

I knew it was only a matter of time before I started writing again. Soon my fingers will ache, but this ache, albeit a familiar one, will have some comfort accompanied with it. Because this ache means my atrophied muscles can again be strengthened. I am strengthened by writing, and I discover new things about Jesus when I write. And it gives me an excuse to listen to Bon Iver and Thomas Newman on repeat for as long as I want.

By the way, Bon Iver is not pronounced “Bahn Eye-Ver”, but “bow-knee-vair”. Get it straight, folks. All us real fans know this. Kudos to this incredibly talented band, though, because they are from Wisconsin, which is where Yours Truly grew up. Go cheese!

I’ve always been creeped out by spiders. Nay. That doesn’t quite convince you of my fear. Damn you, English language.

Once when I was a Sophomore in High School, I was walking down the street to go on an adventure with my friend Cameron. When I arrived at his door, he brushed off something that had plopped itself on my left shoulder. He told me it was a spider who was trying to lay eggs (and already had some). HOLYMANCOW. Lay eggs?!?! What does that even mean? Would they have burrowed their teency little legs into my t shirt, and start picking at my shoulder flesh with six minature pick axes? Might as well have six gabillion legs.

This story just made my entire body stiffen, as if someone just injected me with a paralytic.

So since the day I almost was a spider host, I’ve been obsessively scared of them. I don’t mind bugs so much. I’d prefer that Jesus didn’t make bugs, but then the bats would be grumpy, and they might start eating us, and the anteaters might suck all the dirt around your house looking for food, causing soil erosion which would lead to an unlevel house. It would be a mess.

I lived in South Africa for one year in 2007. They have spiders that are stealthy. They have a six sense; when you attempt a cou de tat, it’s as if they are already three moves ahead of you and they can run like the wind blows. For one to kill a spider in South Africa, one must have virtually no fear. You think I’m kidding.

That’d be a nope, nope, nope.

I’ve been in a room with people vomiting copious amounts of blood who are HIV Positive, and this does not scare me like a spider. Two months ago a scary man in a black ski mask tap-tap-tap-a rood on my window at 0250 in the morning, and that, my friends, was scary, but not like the elusive spider.

Spiders cause a systemic, visceral retraction of every muscle in my body. I find it hard to breathe during moments I spy one out of the corner of my eye.

Tonight as I lay in bed, I couldn’t tell whether I was squirming because I was a bit toasty, kept turning the pillow to get to the cold side…Or because every once in a while I had an itch.

No normal itch though. This itch was a need that demanded to be met immediately. My arm swung round to my lower back and I scratched. Oh did I scratch. My fingers caught something that I figured was the cause of my itch. It was dark in my room so I threw it as close to the trash can as I could see.

Then I tried to go back to bed.

But it was all over after that.

Remember at summer camp, when you finally got in the perfect position for sleep, despite the lobster sunburn you acquired volitionally, all your giggles had bubbled down, your mind rested.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz………..zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….. Mosquitoes. You’re arisen from sleep by reflexively slapping your head on the side your ear was jolted to process that awful sound. Did you get it? Who knows, really. Who knows. The paranoia has begun. You are at the mercy of this blood-sucking thing that will die once it has your blood. It’s got nothing better to do, so it’s prettty persistent. Your eyes flap open, maybe your jaw grinds a little. Who will win?

I tried to go back to sleep, I really did. But I caught case of ants in mah pants. I grew paranoid that bugs were everywhere in the bed. That I was in fact sleeping on a bed of spiders. I rolled out of bed, turned on the lights, and saw a spider in my freaking bed. I thought about using the baseball bat next to my window (to keep creepy ski mask man from ever wanting to come back), but then decided, “no. I want to kill this piece of crap with my shoe. I want to schmoooccchhh it. Muhahaha…” I laughed a maniacal laugh.

First I ran away from my bed and watched it crawl. I thought about how badly I wanted to jump in the shower. Then I took a deep breath and moved in on the tiny little bugger with my New Balance shoe.

 

SLAP!

 

And he’s still alive.

 

 

SLAP! SLAP! .. . .   …… SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP!

Stupid me. The bed was a little too soft, and his nasty body just kinda bent with the contures when I tried to kill him with the shoe.

And my final act was employed:

 

 

Fire.

 

At the risk of my bed starting on fire, I took the lighters designed for firing up grills, that you click on and it has a long stem. And then I lit it, and burned him.

 

HAHA! Yeahhh buddy! How’d you like me now booooooyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?!?!

I’m comfortable enough with who I am to admit I felt vindicated by slaughtering this creature.

Then I went into HazMat mode.

Strip the sheets, throw them in the wash. Strip mah bad self….Check for enemies. None. Good.

But I still don’t feel safe. I am sleeping on the couch tonight. I can’t sleep. I keep wondering how many spiders I eat in my sleep…And what orifices they repel down inside of. Dear Lord, why did you make spiders?!?!?!

So I take a Benzodiazepine. It’s an anti-anxiety medication. It starts working for me within twenty, thirty minutes.

It’s now 0600. Oh bother.

I’m hungry for breakfast. Wish IHOP would HOP IN to gear and get itself built so I can get some pancakes the size of my face.

This is me, starting over. And I’m okay with it. I’ve been a band aid- kinda kid. I’m a little rough around the edges, and misunderstood, but I sure am tenacious.

 

 

 

Hello world!

Welcome to WordPress.com! This is your very first post. Click the Edit link to modify or delete it, or start a new post. If you like, use this post to tell readers why you started this blog and what you plan to do with it.

Happy blogging!