Imitation Writing Exercise
To: Nicholas
From: Mia
Subject: Hey! This is your wife! This is a nagging email! Nag nag nag..
Dear Nicholas
I love you but you drive me nuts. Did you talk to your dad yet? Did you ask him about the Mother's Day gift yet? FYI Mother's Day is this weekend. If I don't hear from you as soon as you wake up, then I will be making my own decisions. I might even send her a cat. Or a muumuu. Do you know what a muumuu is? Look it up.
Also...send that email to find out about grad school. If you don't, I'm going to go to grad school for you. I'll tell them that Nicholas is now Mia. You (I?) had a sex change. They will support that. #SanFranLGBTPride (in this case, I'd [you'd?] be the T). I hope I can change your major from engineering to literacy. I'll make a mental note to ask the admissions counselor.
Should I keep going?
Are you leaving wet towels on the floor?
Did you throw away those pizza boxes?
Was that domino's pizza? Really? They have nothing better? Anthony's ? No Anthony's there?
What do you mean Anothony's "is not that great"?? I think it's great, Nicholas. What does that
say about me???
Are you washing your Lululemon gear separately from your other clothes?
What do you mean "no, that's silly"? That Lulu stuff is expensive and it needs to be wash
separate from all other fabrics because that's how it will last you forever. You
don't have enough Lulu to justify a full load? Well I'll buy more. What do you mean "that's a
terrible excuse to buy more Lululemon"?! I thought you liked nice things?? 'the fuck,
Nicholas?? This is why we don't have nice things!! Because you put all our nice things in
the washing machine with our not nice things!!!!!!
:) [are you laughing?]
Seriously though. I need to know the Mother's Day plan. This morning. Before Anything on the east coast closes.
Love, me
Footnote: The mother's day gift was resolved, but not because of an email from Nicholas.
Endnote: I did not send a cat or a muumuu.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
The Club
My friend calls it Starfish Sleeping. Legs sprawled; one knee arched over a pillow. Blanket spun around other calf. Big toes dangling off perpendicular sides, as if keeping watch. Someone should. Left arm reaching for the coolness of the pillow's belly. Right fingers curled loosely, but protectively, around the phone. A queen size bed only fits the queen when Starfish Sleeping. That's because the king isn't there.
It sounds like this might be a story of infidelity.
But it's not.
The sun immerses itself below the horizon. Through the window, I hear mothers calling for children to come home. Chicken sizzles on a grill next door, and like one of those Bugs Bunny cartoons, the aroma lingers through my back door snake-like. It teases me. I salivate and close my eyes. I am reminded of last summer; when he turned the chicken and the juices made the fire hiss; when I boiled salt potatoes and decorated cold macaroni with onions, carrots, pickles and garlic powder, folded in mayonnaise; when we would pile our plates high at dusk because that was the coolest time of the day to eat. I open my eyes. The chicken I really do smell is for the family next door, and suddenly my soggy cheerios and cold toast need to be thrown away. The grill outside is cool to the touch. I haven't used it. Who grills for themselves?
Maybe this story is like one of those monologue about being single.
I suppose you could interpreted it that way.
It's a Friday evening, and it only makes sense that she and I spend it together. We are fighting sleep. Not because we're tired, but because sleeping passes the time. We flip through mindless television until it's societally acceptable to go to bed. The couches make an L shape, with an end table in the corner. Our twin bulbous wine glasses stand together at varying levels of fullness. Hers is a merlot. Mine is a chardonnay. I don't even like the taste, but it helps the eyes droop and the night end quickly. The remote should be between us, but I don't really know where it is. Maybe it fell between the cushions. Maybe it's tucked under a pillow. Neither of us care; we are waiting, not watching.
At the gym, I lay my phone next to me.
There's another girl here; she's here whenever I am. We don't work out together though. The best time to be here is now, when everyone else is home for dinner with their families. We don't have to make dinner tonight, so we are here instead. Mindlessly, I press the center button of my phone. The girl next to me does the same. We do this over and over, between set, sometimes between sit-ups. But we both know that there aren't any messages. We don't even know we're checking. Our actions aren't propelled by longing or ache; we are motivated by habit. I check my phone as often as I take a deep breath. I don't even know I'm doing it most of the time; it's just something my body does automatically.
Once, I saw her home screen's background because I was drinking from the water fountain in the same moment that she absently checked for no messages. Our phone backgrounds are the same: dusty picture of a guy in green-gray, digital-patterned garb. Tight sideburns tucked under a matching hat. The guys are different, but the photos are the same. Neither guy knows he's the subject of a camera. Just a moment capturing his routine. It makes me wonder if either of those guys know they are featured as the backgrounds of our phones. It makes me wonder if imprinting the photo as a background picture is some sort of member's card for this club we belong to, willingly or not. Perhaps it is cruel irony: his photograph is on my phone, a device I could use to call anyone whenever I want, except, of course, him.
A group of three meet on a sloppy wet morning for cold bagels and stale coffee at a corner cafe.
They just doesn't know how to make good bagels here. It's not their fault, I suppose. We're used to the Hawaiian version of breakfast: slow, inconsistent service, cramped seating, an overexerting air conditioner. Hold the rice, please.
But our table is cozy. Two teachers and an engineer. It sounds like a lame joke. The conversation is woven comfortably, like an old afghan blanket. We haven't been friends our whole lives, but nobody could guess that. In fact, it's sort of fun to wonder what people are guessing. One guy and two girls. One girl wears two rings: her wedding band and his. It could be anybody's. The other girl has a Claddagh. The guy wears no jewelry. Sometimes we arrive together; sometimes we arrive together but in three different cars. We order together. We pay together; we just take turns because we do this so often. Three different accents. Three different hair colors. Nobody looks related. We all look together. We talk about things both familiar and not, to all of us and none of us. We seem to share similar experiences, but an eavesdropper would struggle to decipher whether we went to the same school or shared relatives or possibly lived in the same town, or close. Or maybe none of that at all.
What an outsider can't feel is the presence of three more people at that table. Three more people included in the "we" part of the subject of our sentences. Three more people included in the future plans. Three more people any of us would buy bad coffee and bagels for, twice over if they'd like. In a quiet moment, just as comfortable as the fluid conversation, I make a mental note to bring him here, the owner of that masculine wedding band on my right middle finger. He'd like the atmosphere. He'd like that they served coffee in porcelain cups.
They're doing it too, making mental notes. Thinking of their others. Probably, even, subconsciously counting the number of breakfasts until they're together again. I can only assume, but that's what I'm doing.
It sounds like this might be a story of infidelity.
But it's not.
The sun immerses itself below the horizon. Through the window, I hear mothers calling for children to come home. Chicken sizzles on a grill next door, and like one of those Bugs Bunny cartoons, the aroma lingers through my back door snake-like. It teases me. I salivate and close my eyes. I am reminded of last summer; when he turned the chicken and the juices made the fire hiss; when I boiled salt potatoes and decorated cold macaroni with onions, carrots, pickles and garlic powder, folded in mayonnaise; when we would pile our plates high at dusk because that was the coolest time of the day to eat. I open my eyes. The chicken I really do smell is for the family next door, and suddenly my soggy cheerios and cold toast need to be thrown away. The grill outside is cool to the touch. I haven't used it. Who grills for themselves?
Maybe this story is like one of those monologue about being single.
I suppose you could interpreted it that way.
It's a Friday evening, and it only makes sense that she and I spend it together. We are fighting sleep. Not because we're tired, but because sleeping passes the time. We flip through mindless television until it's societally acceptable to go to bed. The couches make an L shape, with an end table in the corner. Our twin bulbous wine glasses stand together at varying levels of fullness. Hers is a merlot. Mine is a chardonnay. I don't even like the taste, but it helps the eyes droop and the night end quickly. The remote should be between us, but I don't really know where it is. Maybe it fell between the cushions. Maybe it's tucked under a pillow. Neither of us care; we are waiting, not watching.
At the gym, I lay my phone next to me.
There's another girl here; she's here whenever I am. We don't work out together though. The best time to be here is now, when everyone else is home for dinner with their families. We don't have to make dinner tonight, so we are here instead. Mindlessly, I press the center button of my phone. The girl next to me does the same. We do this over and over, between set, sometimes between sit-ups. But we both know that there aren't any messages. We don't even know we're checking. Our actions aren't propelled by longing or ache; we are motivated by habit. I check my phone as often as I take a deep breath. I don't even know I'm doing it most of the time; it's just something my body does automatically.
Once, I saw her home screen's background because I was drinking from the water fountain in the same moment that she absently checked for no messages. Our phone backgrounds are the same: dusty picture of a guy in green-gray, digital-patterned garb. Tight sideburns tucked under a matching hat. The guys are different, but the photos are the same. Neither guy knows he's the subject of a camera. Just a moment capturing his routine. It makes me wonder if either of those guys know they are featured as the backgrounds of our phones. It makes me wonder if imprinting the photo as a background picture is some sort of member's card for this club we belong to, willingly or not. Perhaps it is cruel irony: his photograph is on my phone, a device I could use to call anyone whenever I want, except, of course, him.
A group of three meet on a sloppy wet morning for cold bagels and stale coffee at a corner cafe.
They just doesn't know how to make good bagels here. It's not their fault, I suppose. We're used to the Hawaiian version of breakfast: slow, inconsistent service, cramped seating, an overexerting air conditioner. Hold the rice, please.
But our table is cozy. Two teachers and an engineer. It sounds like a lame joke. The conversation is woven comfortably, like an old afghan blanket. We haven't been friends our whole lives, but nobody could guess that. In fact, it's sort of fun to wonder what people are guessing. One guy and two girls. One girl wears two rings: her wedding band and his. It could be anybody's. The other girl has a Claddagh. The guy wears no jewelry. Sometimes we arrive together; sometimes we arrive together but in three different cars. We order together. We pay together; we just take turns because we do this so often. Three different accents. Three different hair colors. Nobody looks related. We all look together. We talk about things both familiar and not, to all of us and none of us. We seem to share similar experiences, but an eavesdropper would struggle to decipher whether we went to the same school or shared relatives or possibly lived in the same town, or close. Or maybe none of that at all.
What an outsider can't feel is the presence of three more people at that table. Three more people included in the "we" part of the subject of our sentences. Three more people included in the future plans. Three more people any of us would buy bad coffee and bagels for, twice over if they'd like. In a quiet moment, just as comfortable as the fluid conversation, I make a mental note to bring him here, the owner of that masculine wedding band on my right middle finger. He'd like the atmosphere. He'd like that they served coffee in porcelain cups.
They're doing it too, making mental notes. Thinking of their others. Probably, even, subconsciously counting the number of breakfasts until they're together again. I can only assume, but that's what I'm doing.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Pennies
This story appears in Re-Visions 2013, the twentieth anniversary of the Tompkins-Cortland C.C. Literary Magazine. And go figure-- I found a penny on my desk at work this morning...
Pennies
BY Mia Starmer Reisweber
BY Mia Starmer Reisweber
I had never
heard of this before, this idea of pennies from Heaven. But what did I know? I
was only fifteen, wrapped tightly around my youngest cousin, when my dad leaned
into my ear and whispered that Grandpa passed. The softly spoken truth gutted
me. Hiccups of tears soaked Megan’s hair as I rocked her and promised her that
Grandpa was happy and free of pain. I promised her that she had a new angel
that day; but I didn't really believe in angels. Grandpa was gone. And that was that.
Weeks after the
calling hours and funeral, I watched my mother bandage her pain with books.
Books about grief and coping and the dead. Books with theories on the
afterlife, versions of Heaven. My mother spoke of Sylvia Browne as if they
studied at college together, as if she frequented our home for Sunday dinner,
which, I suppose, she did, in spirit.
I had never
heard of this before, this idea of pennies from Heaven, until Sylvia Browne
became my mother's therapist. "He left me a penny, today. You'll get one
too. You just wait," Mom would say, confidently hopeful as she pressed her
bookmark into the seam of a Browne paperback.
Affected,
hormonal, I surely must have rolled my eyes. I've always seen pennies. Surely
there were pennies everywhere, because our blue-collared town meant lots of
old, tattered jeans. Old, tattered jeans meant holes. Holes drop pennies.
Then, I found my
first penny.
Mom showcased a
photograph of Grandpa in our living room. Rosy, round cheeks, healthy and
plump, smiling and proud. Those first few months, if I glanced at him, the
sting of his absence was worse than someone splashing lemon juice on fresh
stitches. I adverted. I avoided. But one day, while sitting on the couch, I
glanced up and stared directly at the photograph. I poured the lemon juice
myself.
The photo sat on
a tall hutch. I slid off the couch and stood, resting my face on the wooden
space in front of the photograph. I confronted the ache of loss. I slipped into
an abyss of thinking about death. How and why and where? I stared for too long,
and I didn't recognize him anymore. In the three years leading up to his death,
the cancer sucked away his weight; it collapsed his cheeks, painted him pale
and then wrapped itself around his voice box until it swallowed him that
December. The pressure of tears swelled, so I gathered my thoughts and tucked
him safely into a box in my mind. I quickly sought distraction.
But, before I
plopped back on the couch, a dull shimmer flickered at my right peripheral. A
penny perched on the edge of the cushion. Sure, I could have missed it before,
but the penny linked itself to my chest, a feeling that grew, overwhelmingly.
That was a penny from Grandpa. A little gesture. A small hello. A reminder that
maybe we don't always know everything, and that's ok.
Grandpa leaves
me pennies when I need them. Before I decided on a college, for example, I
found a penny on the seat of my car. It landed at the pivotal moment when
forty-thousand dollars to be a Syracuse Orange was more valuable and
prestigious than my parents’ sanity or retirement funds. The penny reminded me
that I am responsible for finding my own challenges, and I could very well find
them at Tompkins-Cortland while living at home for a semester. With that penny,
I swelled with peace at my decision. Another time, a week before my wedding, while
composing lists of wedding day reminders: "Something old and something
new, yes, I've got both of those. Something borrowed. Got it! Something blue.
That comes in tomorrow...."
I found a penny
lying on the ground right under my notebook. That one I saved for my shoe. A meaningful
one. Not for luck. But carried so that the spirit of my grandfather on my
wedding day was pressed against my sole. Not every penny is for me. I still see
pennies all over the place. Sometimes on my run, occasionally at the grocery
store, thousands in the pools at the mall. But Grandpa knows my skepticism. He
strategically places my pennies so I know, without a doubt, paired with love,
that they are from him.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
"Good news, ma'am..."
I've mentioned this before on my blog, but to reiterate: you should certainly add Let's Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson to your reading list. Add it to the top. You should probably start reading this book this weekend, or maybe just start it tonight.
Lawson, a bloggess priestess, composes a memoir of the good, awkward and the horrible in her life in a way that provokes her readers to honk jellyfish onto the page in fits of laughter. If you've never laughed so hard that you've cried, you certainly will when you read this book. Lawson takes even the most sensitive of topics and spins them into hilarity. Bursts of laughter will be synonymous with blushing embarrassment for thinking something so awful is so goddamn funny.
I seek to channel Lawson for this blog.
Oh the creativity of deployment doldrums. Since Nick left, I've had to kill big bugs, catch two geckos in my house, replace light bulbs and fire alarms, and both cars have died. The litany of bullshit is creative. Each time (after I've panicked or been grossed out or cried in frustrated) I just smirk at my independence. Fuck you, deployment doldrums.
Ah but the curve ball. Two and half months in and I was arrogant. Whatever else could go wrong, I was ready. Eleven days ago, scrambling to organize papers to grade and Writers' Guild meetings, I remember the moment wherein my gland pulsed with the threat of a sore throat. A small ache, but my arrogance wrote it off since it was the weekend. I could sleep in. I could watch movies. I didn't have anywhere to be. A sore throat is do-able. Maybe I'd even acquire a sexy, raspy voice for a week.
But it wasn't a sore throat. The ache melted into a throb. And in less than 36 hours, the bulbous growth of my gland immobilized my neck. Last week turned into one of the most painful weeks of my entire life. The swelling protruded and the ache stretched its fingers beyond my left gland, into my ear, the back of my neck and my throat. I couldn't move. I couldn't sleep. I could barely swallow. To lay down or move my head, I had to use both my hands.
Rosalie hunkered next to me in bed. Occasionally, she looked at me in wonderment. I'm sure, poised on her tongue, if she could only ask me why I had seemed to quit my job, she would have. But thank god she didn't. It would have only reminded me that I had 400 fucking papers to grade, classes to teach and students to email.
By Wednesday, however, the antibiotics started working. I had a little more energy. I took Rosalie for a walk. I was still uncomfortable and couldn't sleep for long, but I knew I was getting better. A month ago, Dad bought a ticket to Hawaii thinking warm beaches, breezy palm trees and cool waters would consume his Spring Break. Last year on his first full day on the island, Dad conquered the Koko Head hike. My follow appointment, however, resulted in my doctor sending me to the ER. So this year, in stead of Koko Head, Dad drove me to Tripler Army hospital and we sat in the ER. Both are on the top of a mountain, so I suppose that's a similarity?
Nick says that I now get to share this fun fact as an introduction:
For a girl who sees a needle and suddenly transforms into a twenty pound cat in a bathtub, I've become uncomfortably comfortable with drawing blood. The ER assigned me two nurses, one of whom was my primary nurse. Nurse Mark was my blood drawer. Then, he checked on me frequently with updates on the blood cultures. But my favorite moment in all of this was two hours into the ER purgatory when Nurse Mark came into the room.
"I have good news, ma'am..." He said convincingly. Finally! An answer! Or an explanation! Perhaps they've isolated the thing, which surely, given his tone, was simple and easily fixed! Richard Parker would go into the woods tonight!
Nurse Mark flashed a typed piece of paper at me written in code.
"...you're not pregnant." My hope collectively organized in the furrow of my brow. Suddenly, the appreciative-patient filter broke like South Fork dam in Johnstown.
"Well that's good, because I wouldn't know how to explain this neck baby to my deployed husband."
Nick's uncle is a nurse, and I've been warned not to be rude to nurses or they practice with the biggest needles.
In that moment, I solidified all future anythings would be done with the biggest needles available.
Nurse Mark didn't laugh. I wasn't following the patient script. I was improvising, and so I wasn't hitting my cues for his next line. He stopped checking on me so frequently after that.
As a footnote, for those of you wondering what the hell happened as a result of Richard Parker. He's still around, though he isn't as big. I'm still waiting for the goddamn army hospital or my doctor or anyone to return my phone calls, tell me my test results or let me know if Richard Parker will be extending his stay or if he's a threat to my livelihood. I'll paraphrase Lawson in saying that at least I've documented this partially on my blog as primary evidence if this turns into a court case and Richard Parker turns me into a vegetable. Somebody bring this blog to my lawyer if that happens.
I suppose I'll give them another week to fix their incompetence. Then, I will go to some journalist with the story, quit my job, move back in with my parents and use civilian health care for my answers while I stand on my soapbox from New York. But surely it can't get to that point.
Lawson, a bloggess priestess, composes a memoir of the good, awkward and the horrible in her life in a way that provokes her readers to honk jellyfish onto the page in fits of laughter. If you've never laughed so hard that you've cried, you certainly will when you read this book. Lawson takes even the most sensitive of topics and spins them into hilarity. Bursts of laughter will be synonymous with blushing embarrassment for thinking something so awful is so goddamn funny.
I seek to channel Lawson for this blog.
Oh the creativity of deployment doldrums. Since Nick left, I've had to kill big bugs, catch two geckos in my house, replace light bulbs and fire alarms, and both cars have died. The litany of bullshit is creative. Each time (after I've panicked or been grossed out or cried in frustrated) I just smirk at my independence. Fuck you, deployment doldrums.
Ah but the curve ball. Two and half months in and I was arrogant. Whatever else could go wrong, I was ready. Eleven days ago, scrambling to organize papers to grade and Writers' Guild meetings, I remember the moment wherein my gland pulsed with the threat of a sore throat. A small ache, but my arrogance wrote it off since it was the weekend. I could sleep in. I could watch movies. I didn't have anywhere to be. A sore throat is do-able. Maybe I'd even acquire a sexy, raspy voice for a week.
But it wasn't a sore throat. The ache melted into a throb. And in less than 36 hours, the bulbous growth of my gland immobilized my neck. Last week turned into one of the most painful weeks of my entire life. The swelling protruded and the ache stretched its fingers beyond my left gland, into my ear, the back of my neck and my throat. I couldn't move. I couldn't sleep. I could barely swallow. To lay down or move my head, I had to use both my hands.
Rosalie hunkered next to me in bed. Occasionally, she looked at me in wonderment. I'm sure, poised on her tongue, if she could only ask me why I had seemed to quit my job, she would have. But thank god she didn't. It would have only reminded me that I had 400 fucking papers to grade, classes to teach and students to email.
By Wednesday, however, the antibiotics started working. I had a little more energy. I took Rosalie for a walk. I was still uncomfortable and couldn't sleep for long, but I knew I was getting better. A month ago, Dad bought a ticket to Hawaii thinking warm beaches, breezy palm trees and cool waters would consume his Spring Break. Last year on his first full day on the island, Dad conquered the Koko Head hike. My follow appointment, however, resulted in my doctor sending me to the ER. So this year, in stead of Koko Head, Dad drove me to Tripler Army hospital and we sat in the ER. Both are on the top of a mountain, so I suppose that's a similarity?
Nick says that I now get to share this fun fact as an introduction:
Hi, I Mia and I was a Dr. House case for a week back in '13.
Within thirty minutes, I had a team working on my bulb, which I lovingly named Richard Parker. What? It needed a name, a full name (this thing was huge! It should have had it's own list of degrees and probably title of Ph.D.!), and I watched Life of Pi earlier in the week. For a girl who sees a needle and suddenly transforms into a twenty pound cat in a bathtub, I've become uncomfortably comfortable with drawing blood. The ER assigned me two nurses, one of whom was my primary nurse. Nurse Mark was my blood drawer. Then, he checked on me frequently with updates on the blood cultures. But my favorite moment in all of this was two hours into the ER purgatory when Nurse Mark came into the room.
"I have good news, ma'am..." He said convincingly. Finally! An answer! Or an explanation! Perhaps they've isolated the thing, which surely, given his tone, was simple and easily fixed! Richard Parker would go into the woods tonight!
Nurse Mark flashed a typed piece of paper at me written in code.
"...you're not pregnant." My hope collectively organized in the furrow of my brow. Suddenly, the appreciative-patient filter broke like South Fork dam in Johnstown.
"Well that's good, because I wouldn't know how to explain this neck baby to my deployed husband."
Nick's uncle is a nurse, and I've been warned not to be rude to nurses or they practice with the biggest needles.
In that moment, I solidified all future anythings would be done with the biggest needles available.
Nurse Mark didn't laugh. I wasn't following the patient script. I was improvising, and so I wasn't hitting my cues for his next line. He stopped checking on me so frequently after that.
As a footnote, for those of you wondering what the hell happened as a result of Richard Parker. He's still around, though he isn't as big. I'm still waiting for the goddamn army hospital or my doctor or anyone to return my phone calls, tell me my test results or let me know if Richard Parker will be extending his stay or if he's a threat to my livelihood. I'll paraphrase Lawson in saying that at least I've documented this partially on my blog as primary evidence if this turns into a court case and Richard Parker turns me into a vegetable. Somebody bring this blog to my lawyer if that happens.
I suppose I'll give them another week to fix their incompetence. Then, I will go to some journalist with the story, quit my job, move back in with my parents and use civilian health care for my answers while I stand on my soapbox from New York. But surely it can't get to that point.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Obsession
This blog is specifically for my father. I will publicly call him out for not answering my calls in the last two days-- but of course, had he answered, I wouldn't be composing this blog tonight.
For the purpose of the collective 'you' appreciating this story, I have to flashback into something that happen to me & Dad in my childhood.
It was Christmas Eve, and I was little. I remember, because I was wearing a dress, and we went to church at nighttime. Let me be clear. We rarely went to church; and, the very few times we ever did go to church, we sure as hell didn't go to church at nighttime with the ultimate exception of one Christmas Eve mass. Also, I didn't wear dresses after the age of five. Additionally, the church was absolutely packed full of people. Indisputable evidence: it was Christmas Eve, and I was a young child.
The pews were drowning in the sea of people. Winter coats floated between each body. It was hot, and my dress was itchy.
Never mind the day or the year or the age that I was, it seems as though every time I'm in a church, my wedding not withstanding, the acoustics are horrendous, spewing the words from the microphone through the speakers and off of every wall, post and statue. My dad once told me that if I had to go to church, to really listen to the stories. Sometimes, he said, the stories were really good. And I liked stories. But the echo of the microphone bounces so badly that night, I couldn't hear anything, except my itchy dress.
The world of my little-girlness consumed me. I was wrapped up in the tulle under my dress. I was thinking about Christmas. I negotiated with God to not let Santa pass Cortland because we were all in church and not in bed. It wasn't paying attention to any stories or anyone.
It was a little while into the service when I shared a moment with my father that I will forever remember, or be haunted by. A woman walked in very late; perhaps she was standing in the back of the church and spotted an opening in front of our pew. She quietly approached the seat in front of my family and sat down. And with her wafted the most putrid perfume gas I have still, to this day, ever smelled. Her sharp sea of stench ripped the innocence of my little-girlness away, and I looked up to see if anyone else had be punched in the nose, too. It was this moment when I locked eyes with my father. We had a very adult, silent conversation in the next milliseconds, wherein we concluded it was time to leave. Dad stiffly cleared his throat, in an effort to find a clear whisper while simultaneously not dry heaving in my mother's lap.
"We'll be in the back," He grabbed my hand, and we left the pew.
But it was too late. In the time laps of seconds, we had be inundated with the odor. Despite our bolt for the door, despite the December air or the calculated new location, fifty yards diagonal to this woman and her perfume, it clung to us like dog shit on a shoe.
I'm pretty sure that was my first headache, and I remember my father, on our way home (we took two cars and Dad and I were the first to leave the church that night) telling me that that woman was wearing Obsession.
"One of Uncle Rick's old girlfriends used to wear that. It's called Obsession. Mia, when you get older, don't ever wear perfume like that. Ever. Or I won't let you come over for Christmas Eve."
And at twenty-five, I still rarely wear perfume.
But that is the back story. THIS is what I have been dying to call my Dad about all week...
My older brother and sister-in-law gifted me with a really great present for Christmas this past year: Birchbox. Birchbox is a beauty store. The idea behind it is that you buy a membership, and each month, they send you beauty samples: mascara, eyeshadow, hair product, nail polish, whatever. The sample sizes are enough to use for the entire month, and Birchbox provides incentives to purchase the full size products...
I received my February Birchbox a few days ago. I brought the package inside as I returned home from work, and I couldn't wait to open it. Before I opened up the house or flipped on the fans, hell, before I even really put my school bag down, I was tearing into the pretty pink box. And before I could fully open it, before I was even at the top of my stairs...
That smell. Obsession. Like a goddamn punch in the face. It instigated a cough and my eyes watered painfully. I couldn't believe in 2013, fashion and beauty would still deem Obsession socially acceptable.
But they changed the name. "Harvey Prince Skinny Chic". New name, same goddamn perfume. I salvaged what I could from the box; Harvey Prince spooged all over the contents and soaked a probably perfectly good candle in its filth. I had it on my hands. It got in my hair. I not only threw away the box, but I had to also take it outside to the garbage bin. Then I had to wash my hands and pull my hair back.
Even the salty, Hawaiian air couldn't cure the ambush. On my afternoon run, the scent lingered, beckoning a headache and threatening violent dry heaves if I took deep of a breath.
Dad -- I thought of you and that grown up moment we shared on Christmas Eve at St. Mary's. My Birchbox reminded me of the horror I saw in your eyes that night when that woman sat down in front of us, with her 90s perm and church coat and fog of Obsession. I promise that there isn't a trace of the stench left in my house, so it's still safe to come visit next week.
For the purpose of the collective 'you' appreciating this story, I have to flashback into something that happen to me & Dad in my childhood.
It was Christmas Eve, and I was little. I remember, because I was wearing a dress, and we went to church at nighttime. Let me be clear. We rarely went to church; and, the very few times we ever did go to church, we sure as hell didn't go to church at nighttime with the ultimate exception of one Christmas Eve mass. Also, I didn't wear dresses after the age of five. Additionally, the church was absolutely packed full of people. Indisputable evidence: it was Christmas Eve, and I was a young child.
The pews were drowning in the sea of people. Winter coats floated between each body. It was hot, and my dress was itchy.
Never mind the day or the year or the age that I was, it seems as though every time I'm in a church, my wedding not withstanding, the acoustics are horrendous, spewing the words from the microphone through the speakers and off of every wall, post and statue. My dad once told me that if I had to go to church, to really listen to the stories. Sometimes, he said, the stories were really good. And I liked stories. But the echo of the microphone bounces so badly that night, I couldn't hear anything, except my itchy dress.
The world of my little-girlness consumed me. I was wrapped up in the tulle under my dress. I was thinking about Christmas. I negotiated with God to not let Santa pass Cortland because we were all in church and not in bed. It wasn't paying attention to any stories or anyone.
It was a little while into the service when I shared a moment with my father that I will forever remember, or be haunted by. A woman walked in very late; perhaps she was standing in the back of the church and spotted an opening in front of our pew. She quietly approached the seat in front of my family and sat down. And with her wafted the most putrid perfume gas I have still, to this day, ever smelled. Her sharp sea of stench ripped the innocence of my little-girlness away, and I looked up to see if anyone else had be punched in the nose, too. It was this moment when I locked eyes with my father. We had a very adult, silent conversation in the next milliseconds, wherein we concluded it was time to leave. Dad stiffly cleared his throat, in an effort to find a clear whisper while simultaneously not dry heaving in my mother's lap.
"We'll be in the back," He grabbed my hand, and we left the pew.
But it was too late. In the time laps of seconds, we had be inundated with the odor. Despite our bolt for the door, despite the December air or the calculated new location, fifty yards diagonal to this woman and her perfume, it clung to us like dog shit on a shoe.
I'm pretty sure that was my first headache, and I remember my father, on our way home (we took two cars and Dad and I were the first to leave the church that night) telling me that that woman was wearing Obsession.
"One of Uncle Rick's old girlfriends used to wear that. It's called Obsession. Mia, when you get older, don't ever wear perfume like that. Ever. Or I won't let you come over for Christmas Eve."
And at twenty-five, I still rarely wear perfume.
But that is the back story. THIS is what I have been dying to call my Dad about all week...
My older brother and sister-in-law gifted me with a really great present for Christmas this past year: Birchbox. Birchbox is a beauty store. The idea behind it is that you buy a membership, and each month, they send you beauty samples: mascara, eyeshadow, hair product, nail polish, whatever. The sample sizes are enough to use for the entire month, and Birchbox provides incentives to purchase the full size products...
I received my February Birchbox a few days ago. I brought the package inside as I returned home from work, and I couldn't wait to open it. Before I opened up the house or flipped on the fans, hell, before I even really put my school bag down, I was tearing into the pretty pink box. And before I could fully open it, before I was even at the top of my stairs...
That smell. Obsession. Like a goddamn punch in the face. It instigated a cough and my eyes watered painfully. I couldn't believe in 2013, fashion and beauty would still deem Obsession socially acceptable.
But they changed the name. "Harvey Prince Skinny Chic". New name, same goddamn perfume. I salvaged what I could from the box; Harvey Prince spooged all over the contents and soaked a probably perfectly good candle in its filth. I had it on my hands. It got in my hair. I not only threw away the box, but I had to also take it outside to the garbage bin. Then I had to wash my hands and pull my hair back.
Even the salty, Hawaiian air couldn't cure the ambush. On my afternoon run, the scent lingered, beckoning a headache and threatening violent dry heaves if I took deep of a breath.
Dad -- I thought of you and that grown up moment we shared on Christmas Eve at St. Mary's. My Birchbox reminded me of the horror I saw in your eyes that night when that woman sat down in front of us, with her 90s perm and church coat and fog of Obsession. I promise that there isn't a trace of the stench left in my house, so it's still safe to come visit next week.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Newest Guild in the Pacific
And the desk is cleared and the wine is poured and now, for something to tickle my muse.
Let me start by dropping to my knees in a humbled apology for promising a semester of rich writing, only to silence my blog yet again. It feel like it's an old shirt; I won't let it go, but I can't seem to find a reason to wear it. Surely I am not suffering from writers' block. Bukowski would roll his eyes and string a line of profanity around me like a goddamn Christmas tree if I tried to crutch on that excuse.
This semester is moving ever so slowly and yet it's already March. I feel as though I've been perpetually buried under papers that need to be graded....
Let me start by dropping to my knees in a humbled apology for promising a semester of rich writing, only to silence my blog yet again. It feel like it's an old shirt; I won't let it go, but I can't seem to find a reason to wear it. Surely I am not suffering from writers' block. Bukowski would roll his eyes and string a line of profanity around me like a goddamn Christmas tree if I tried to crutch on that excuse.
This semester is moving ever so slowly and yet it's already March. I feel as though I've been perpetually buried under papers that need to be graded....
Here's the stack that's sending voodoo at me as a blog away (surely, they are the reason for my heartburn this evening).
Everywhere else, March is a museless month. A purgatory between the nostalgia of winter and the fire of summer. "It's one of those [months]... when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light and winter in the shade" (Dickens). But ... not in Hawaii. Here, March is just like May, or September, or November. So I have no excuse.
As of late, however, I've been embedded in a project, a baby if you will; not of the written word, though a derivative thereof. At my college, I've started a Writers' Guild, a writing community for the students, faculty and staff wherein we can meet for an hour each week to think, write, inspire, be inspired and workshop each other's work.
Our group is of royal lineage. I was inspired to model this group after the SUNY Tompkins-Cortland Community College Writers' Guild. In fact, the TC3 Guild members are mentoring our Guild members. They are fostering our growth as a writers' group. But long before that and inspiring the birth of the Guild at TC3, are the writing communities of Gertrude Stein, of James Joyce and of Hemmingway's son. The expatriates, the Lost Generation of artists who flocked to Paris in the early twentieth century to avoid oppression and censorship of their artistic muse. These writers met in cafes. They workshop and wrote and labored toward legend and legacy.
So we have initiated the next legacy of writers in Hawaii. Our writers' community is 1 month and six days old. It weighs in with eight students and six faculty members. The logistical administrative paperwork is complete and as of Friday, we are officially recognized by the college as a student co-curricular club. Of course, I made the empty promise to myself that blogging would surely ignite once the foundation of the Guild set firm. Since Friday's official club notice, however, I've received four additional emails with dates, meetings, reports and adjustments that need immediate attention. We haven't gained enough moment to coast, but we are surely exerting enough energy that we should get there by next semester.
I wish I could share the club website with the collective 'you' (hi mom! hi Nicholas!), but for now, I can share our Facebook page. Hopefully our Minister of Propaganda will feverishly update Facebook with photos and news to share with our followers. Here's my shameless plea: 'like' us on Facebook to spread the word about the newest Writers' Guild in the Pacific ocean.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Sharp Blade of Deployment & Hello Freetime!
I'm not quite sure how to even begin. I silenced this blog for the last four months. Autumn simply slipped through my fingers. Five sections of writing classes, six weeks of guests, devouring every last moment with my Nicholas and my Rosalie. Kage, Luka, Kady, Dave, Nick's parents and grandfather - momentum thrusted us into the holiday season with no such remorse. And then, Nick and I relished every moment together. We shopped. We went for long walks with Rosalie. We sipped Mocha Freezes at our new favorite coffee shop on the North Shore. We cuddle beneath the Christmas tree juxaposed to American Horror Story on FX. We slept in. We took naps. We cooked and we baked and we soaked up every last moment together......
And then the weekend before deployment was here. Too quickly. Like cool molassas we waded through last weekend. The days seemed to lag and pass entirely too fast both at once. We established guildlines for the weekend. No cell phones. No meaningless internet browsing. No iPad games. No television, with the exception of bowl games or playoffs, but we could only watch one game so as not to waste our weekend on the couches. And certainly absolutely without hesitation, we were not to speak of Monday. We were not to speak of the year. We were not to acknowledge deployment.
But the blade of truth severed our good intentions on that last rule. Deployment. Goodbye. Monday was ever-present all weekend. Dread gutted us in quiet moments. The anticipation and emotion of the weekend, despite the fact that we truly and sincerely enjoyed each other, was exhausting. My dear friend who endured deployment still too recently, warned of that last day. And, so far, it truly was the hardest. The minutes crept in painful reminder that this was it. This was it until October. It was not quick like the rip of a bandaid. It was like a slow incision without a local anesthesia. And of course, insult to injury, I caught the flu on our last day together! The awful smegma that films the nose and throat with tears was amplified by chills, sneezing, aches and exhaustion.
But Monday came and went. Nick and I, though apart, have hunkered down into our new normal. Fuzzy face time via the 'Tango' app and the sparatic, though frequent!, gchat messaging. Spring 2013 arrived at the college and I truly had no option but to move forward. Class- class class - class. I lived for this weekend, wherein I promised myself that in my new-found free time I will immerse myself in the pages of novels, living another life as a character perhaps in Paris in the 1800s or on the beach of Newport in present day. And, as I promised my mother (hi Mom!), I will reopen the digital pages of my blog and force myself to write and write often.
So here it is: The blog is reopened. Cheers to a new year and to new adventures with Hobbes.
And then the weekend before deployment was here. Too quickly. Like cool molassas we waded through last weekend. The days seemed to lag and pass entirely too fast both at once. We established guildlines for the weekend. No cell phones. No meaningless internet browsing. No iPad games. No television, with the exception of bowl games or playoffs, but we could only watch one game so as not to waste our weekend on the couches. And certainly absolutely without hesitation, we were not to speak of Monday. We were not to speak of the year. We were not to acknowledge deployment.
But the blade of truth severed our good intentions on that last rule. Deployment. Goodbye. Monday was ever-present all weekend. Dread gutted us in quiet moments. The anticipation and emotion of the weekend, despite the fact that we truly and sincerely enjoyed each other, was exhausting. My dear friend who endured deployment still too recently, warned of that last day. And, so far, it truly was the hardest. The minutes crept in painful reminder that this was it. This was it until October. It was not quick like the rip of a bandaid. It was like a slow incision without a local anesthesia. And of course, insult to injury, I caught the flu on our last day together! The awful smegma that films the nose and throat with tears was amplified by chills, sneezing, aches and exhaustion.
But Monday came and went. Nick and I, though apart, have hunkered down into our new normal. Fuzzy face time via the 'Tango' app and the sparatic, though frequent!, gchat messaging. Spring 2013 arrived at the college and I truly had no option but to move forward. Class- class class - class. I lived for this weekend, wherein I promised myself that in my new-found free time I will immerse myself in the pages of novels, living another life as a character perhaps in Paris in the 1800s or on the beach of Newport in present day. And, as I promised my mother (hi Mom!), I will reopen the digital pages of my blog and force myself to write and write often.
So here it is: The blog is reopened. Cheers to a new year and to new adventures with Hobbes.
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