Tonight

I loved the humidity tonight. I biked to the middle school, the one I attended at the turn of the century. In seventh grade, I had a tradition in the afternoon of doing my math homework right when I got home and then biking to school to deliver the hulking book to my locker, so I wouldn’t have to lug it the next day with all the other books. I biked that route tonight listening to Brand New. I needed the muggy air, the smell of honeysuckle coming at me at certain points along the way, the creek before the school full because of recent rain, the shock of magenta azaleas on the golf course. I needed these sights, the old sights, the steep dirt path I used to take from the bike path to the basketball court. The first time Blondie hung out at my house we biked to the middle school and stood at the court. I remember there was a funny conversation—already a perfect circle, the way they are now with a thousand funny revelations that we both understand in the same way. When I pumped my way up the hill behind the school tonight and stood at the top, about to cruise around the building, I opted for Vanessa Carlton’s White Houses, a perfect song for nostalgia. I don’t know, guys. Nostalgia is sometimes my medicine. 

Like, actually, I'm a creep. Shampoo bottles from hotel at AWP conference. 

"We'll tidy up, 

It's sad to hold, but leave your shell to us,

You explode."

Perfect Love

Learn to love with LOVE FIRST and all the little things about someone second. That way, all the little things fall into the first category.

I could say that more clearly.   

Love should come first. Perfect, complete, total love should preclude anything else from really having substance. All the other little things are nice–the things they say, the things they do. But they’re just little shadows, beautiful little shadows. The only real thing, the only substantial thing, is love.

Dough and I talked about this on April 15, the Monday we drove from her condo in Tempe to the Grand Canyon. Neither of us had seen it before, and it affected us more than we thought it would. When we walked out to the lookout, Mather Point, and got our first sight of the canyon, I felt like my stomach stretched out to include the whole thing.

At the lookout, we milled around looking for potential picture-takers. We didn’t realize how obvious we were being. A woman stepped up, “I’ll take your picture.” And we laughed at ourselves for thinking we’d been discreet.

After a bit of staring at the canyon from the edge, we retreated to a higher point further back and sat on a boulder. I said, “It’s appropriate that we were talking in the car about love being so huge, being everything.” Now we were overlooking a huge canyon, the perfect setting for this thought.

I mentioned something I’d said to her before, “When I see you, I don’t see you as a physical body. When I look at some people, I see their body, and I think, ‘Oh, that’s them.’ But when I see, say, your leg,” I gestured at her leg, “I never think it’s you.” That’s just one illustration of the love I described above. I see her as perfect, and her body is secondary to that, not something all that substantial. Same with her thoughts and her expressions and her clothes. They are not her. They are great, but they are not her. Her is something in the ether, something spiritual that can’t be taken down with wind or fire.

One of the things Dough and I love about our friendship is that we are completely honest with each other. And I think the perfect love, the love that precludes all else, is what makes this possible.

Canyon sisters. April 15, 2013.
 

“If all you wanted was me, I'd give you nothing less." 

Throwback

It's Blondie's birthday, and we won't see each other till late this afternoon. In private celebration I took down one of my old journals from the bookcase in my closet and read the entry from his birthday, the first one we celebrated together. Here's the quick recap I wrote then, with some additions from today (fake names and present-day comments in brackets): 

Run to school to wish Blondie a happy birthday in my Chinese outfit. Mrs. Gris and everyone just absolutely adores him in his band uniform. He’s in the computer lab during my English class, and I write a note that I bring to the lab. He pretends like he needs to leave class and visits me which is perfect because I wanted to see him again before he left for show choir. He gave me a note with quotes from Equilibrium. I’m afraid I’m using all my adrenaline today [oh my gosh, this is back when I believed I had only so much excited energy to spend for the day, see Weird Beliefs] without him getting to see, especially during band when Dev, Tory, and I play cards, water bottle game, and Truth with the group [so much of high school was just sitting around playing games]. Later, Dad cracks up over my high-strung announcement, “I’m trying NOT to get relaxed!” In the living room is my big black box with the armadillo! [taxidermied armadillo I was giving him on a crazy whim] His mom insists on bringing it to the restaurant tonight. I ask, “Do you really know what it is exactly?” I feel relieved when I talk to her and his sister. They say, “Our family loves playing practical jokes, giving weird presents.” She changes the reservation to 10 for the armadillo. We go to Sam’s Club with his mom, and I flip out over his Bri*ish accent–“kitty cat.” I note that he looks 20 years old. At dinner hour, Dad drives us to Carraba’s, dissenting our discussion. The restaurant is freezing. Great reception for Arnie/Annie—gender unknown. Blondie and I end the night at my house.

I had a section in my old daily journal for feelings of the day, and I wrote, “excited, rushed adrenaline, wasting fire, dependent on Blondie, warm, open, inspired, set on long-term, fire roaring and paralyzing.” Oh, high school. 

Now he's part of the fam. Christmas Eve, 2012. 

"Who says we have cold hearts
Acting out our old parts"

RV Heaven

February '96. Saturday afternoon. My parents told me we were going to check out 

the annual RV show. I was upset that I’d have to miss SNICK. There was no way an RV show could beat SNICK.

We went, and there were huge rooms with RVs galore, and by the time my parents were tired and ready to leave, I of course

had to be dragged out, and I spent the next few weeks

doodling designs of RVs with aquariums and intense stacks of bunk beds. 

From then on, it was a tradition to go every February, and

I went in junior year of high school wearing a light pink top with a faux diamond heart pendent for Valentine’s Day, my last time going before college in Illinois prevented me.

We finally got to take Blondie to his first show this past Saturday.

I knew he would get engaged, seriously considering which RVs would fit our needs.  

I don’t think we would ever get one. It would be like beating up the environment for our vacation. But those sights and smells made me feel so nostalgic. And man did I pour myself into the day and climb on those bunk beds like I was seven.  

February 9, 2013

"All these kind of places
Make it seem like it’s been ages."

2012

This year ends. Some little
things in it mattered so much and
some not at all. In the beginning of the year,
Blondie and I joined the gym and sweated
on ellipticals while watching movies in the theatre room.
It's as if Gold's gym tried to find as many movies as they could that received
less than 30% on rottentomatoes, and on his birthday, we didn't
make the same mistake we did the year before of going to the
car dealership, collecting car salesmen as boyfriends. Instead, we ate Greek
with his family. A little later that month, in March, we welcomed our friend Dough,
pampered her for her spring break with veggie corn dogs, and she
inspired us, and, actually, after she left, I felt like
some permanent joy had lodged in me and wasn't going away,
and spring was good
with an Easter visit from Gandalf, Joie, and Kit and
a visit to Aiko and Sans, and then up to Canada
with my parents and Ziva for my first time. On our way, we stopped
in a medium-grade hotel and I visited the hot tub by myself, billowing
in seemingly salty water, thinking of how far I was away from the
bank. But speaking of the bank, it wasn't so bad this year. I learned
to handle a very understaffed teller line and not freak out about
making people wait. In Toronto, we stayed with Mom and Ziva's cousin,
a woman I'd never met, Kath, a kindred spirit. In her kitchen booth, she
described memories of my grandparents. She took us to Stratford, Ontario
for a picnic by the Avon and a production of Shakespeare's
little-known play Cymbeline, and after the play,
as we were leaving the parking lot, I noticed
the actor who played Iachimo, and I climbed
most of the way out of the car window and
screamed applause at him, and he got it. He really got it. And Ziva got us
hotel rooms with a view of Niagara Falls, and Dad drove me over the
Canadian border early the next morning, so I could meet Blondie
for wolf pack wedding number two, Blondie and mine being the first.
For my birthday, I saw Cymbeline again, courtesy of Blondie.
I went to Mione's to say goodbye before she left our home state for the West.
Jo, my best friend at work, left the bank, and I learned to work
in an even shorter staffed branch, and I started talking with Sleek
a lot on the phone. Mom retired on Halloween and has found that
she has plenty to do every day. Blondie and I spent Thanksgiving
with my family in D.C., Ant and Vette and the whole gang,
including my cousin's redheaded little baby.
Blondie turned up Gangnam Style in the car.
Gandalf, Joie, and Kit drove hours
to spend Christmas with the folks in VA, a Christmas of
miniature helicopter flights and the Red Lobster
Christmas Eve tradition. Kit drew an amazing
rooster for us in charcoal and framed it in dark wood.
Joie sang songs that reminded us of Lake George.
Gandalf showed me his latest poetry. This year ends
with a post and "Ho Hey."

Niagara in May

(Ho!) So show me family
(Hey!) All the blood that I would bleed

What Do I Stand For

     Last night my parents and I went to Wendy’s for dessert. We parked, and Dad and I went in. Standing in line, I whispered that I recognized someone across the room whom I’d seated many times at the Bee and waited on at the bank. I thought I could sense that the woman to my left was listening to me. I turned toward her slightly and picked up on little things: a green jacket, a tan face. I like when strangers are tuned in to each other. It’s a nice break from the social standard of pretending everyone else just doesn’t exist. Dad and I noticed a paper taped to the wall, an ad with a picture of a lady and a fat pig-like dog doing yoga. Dad said he’d heard of the pose “downward dog” but didn’t know what it was. I said, “It’s that. She’s in downward dog,” and I wondered if the lady in the green jacket was still listening.

        When the cashier was ready, Dad and I ordered one small and two medium frosties and stepped aside. The four tall guys behind us in line approached the counter. The cashier came back with our frosties and set them down, and Dad said “Excuse me” to the men. They moved over, and Dad reached for the three cups. 

       The woman in the green jacket swooped in. “Sorry but I think these are mine. Two medium frosties. I’ve been waiting a long time for them. Sorry,” she said to me. 

       "No," I turned away her apology, "They’re yours.” 

       She said “Good luck” and rushed out, and I wondered if we really would be waiting a long time for our order. But part of me already knew that something weird had happened. 

        I turned around and told the cashier, “A lady said she’d been waiting a long time for two frosties.” The cashier was confused. I realized she hadn’t been at the counter when the lady had swooped in. I continued, “A lady in a green jacket…” The description didn’t ring a bell. The tall guys vouched for us, “We saw her! She took them out of here!” She looked at the one little frosty left on the counter, “You need two more?” “Yeah,” I said. The four guys who seemed like they were on the way to or from watching football kept joking, “Oh, there’s my frosty. I was waiting so long.” 

        The cashier poured our second set. Outside, Mom was standing next to the car, and as Dad and I walked toward her, I knew he was probably as eager to tell her the story as I was. As we ate, we sat in the parking lot listing all the giveaways that it was theft. If it were her order for two frosties, why were there two mediums and one small? If she was waiting forever, why was she hidden in the shadows and not standing at the counter?  She wished me “Good luck” like an exasperated customer, but it seemed fake. There was no anger in her voice. In fact, she was apologizing to me for taking what were supposedly her frosties. I remembered the guy who tried to con me during one of my first weeks as a teller. He used the word “sorry” and gave off the same vibes--a creepy energy--something I could look back on and feel in hindsight. 

        Whether or not she had weird energy, bad energy, energy that felt off, she may have had good reasons for stealing. 

        Would it be weird to compare this incident with Fun's lyrics, "Man, you wouldn't believe the most amazing things that can come from some terrible lies"? It would be a little extreme to call this post-theft conversation with my parents an “amazing thing” or to call the snatching of the frosties a “terrible lie.”

"What do I stand for?
Most nights I don't know anymore."

No More Banking For One of Us

Today, I went to a training center downtown to take a class for work on making referrals. Walking down the hall on break with phone in hand, I held down ‘4’ to speed dial my mom’s cell, and I thought of how the speed dial to her work phone would no longer be necessary. I’m so used to her being at that bank that I feel like I’m in shock. She started six years before I was born, the year that "Thriller" came out on the radio and Nancy Reagan dressed as a bag lady to challenge criticism of her expensive outfits. Since I turned seven, Mom’s worked at the same branch, a branch with a tall sloping ceiling and green-cushioned seats. I used to hold myself up and swing between the chairs. Our dachshund once sat under her desk the day after he’d been hit by a car. She’s been at that branch longer than anyone there. I can’t believe that today she doesn’t have keys. Today she couldn’t help Mr. So-and-so with his account even if she really wanted to. I don’t think she wanted to. Blondie heard her scream “Yeah! Freedom!” on her way up from the basement. She didn’t know he was home. 

Today, to me, all of this felt really important. It felt really important that today was November 1, 2012, the first day of Mom's retirement. It felt really important that I was in the training building in the same company for which she'd worked for so many years. It felt really important that I was doing role play, her least favorite activity, and that I could come home to tuna spinach casserole and peach jello. 

On a side note, I start NaNoWriMo today. This’ll be my first go at participating in the online project of writing 50,000 words in November. It must be a new project. I can’t return to something I half-finished in the past. And it has to be fiction. 

I’m going to squeeze in some time for writing between now and 9 o’clock when I’ll watch an old episode of The Vampire Diaries with the retiree. 

Sally's window seat. October 31, 2012.

"I'll make you see
That this is thriller."