Some old ish... Part 1

I was going through some files in my computer-- you know, trying to clean things up-- and I found some old things I had written. Must have been around the same time period because my "muse" was one of two exes. Hey, at least I didn't say any names LOL. I'm sure though, that neither of them will read these entries.

In any case, I have a few things I'll share over the coming weeks. Read some of this stuff and shocked my damn self so I hope you enjoy.

Not giving any back-story so take it for what it is.

We started strong.

The taste of his name on my lips made me moan.

Before long I was gone. Never tasted something so complete. Didn’t have to snack. Have to diet. Have to cheat.

My every meal he undoubtedly became.

And loved this new flavor of his name.

I said it for no reason; whispered it without shame. Spoke it with conviction as to stake my claim. Tasted every dialect, every colloquial whim. Every ingredient in the recipe of him. My mouth stayed open, my taste buds eager, my appetite growing and my patience meager.

When I knew my meal was coming I would salivate. Take whatever portion of his name he would allocate. I’d try and wait until he served me, but some nights the kitchen was closed so I went to bed thirsty. More and more he began to ration my supply and I would wonder if he didn’t have or simply did deny? Hallucinations took all clarity; I imagined his sporadic answers to my calls were just for charity.

Cause now a taste of him was something like a special rarity.

I was starved for his moniker; my heart emaciated. My tongue was bitter; the place where love once sat now held hatred.

But not for him.

Not for the name I held above than my own. I tasted tears shed for my fears unnamed unknowns. Does he stand, busy— his lips ajar, waiting for my essence? Is distance my incessant curse or his hidden blessing? A smokescreen he can hide behind to conceal his indiscretion? Am I crazy—feeding constant speculation to my stressing? I try to lessen hunger pains, thinking that when he has the time, he’ll pick up the phone and dial me up and finally give me mine.

Then doubt creeps in I wonder if there any left to ration?

If another girl’s proximity trumps my unbridled passion?

I can’t get his taste out my mouth.

Bibble.

It seems like every couple was blissfully happy at one time. The 'you hang up first' /'no you hang up first'-type, or the 'kissing in the middle of the cereal aisle in the way of my Cap'n Crunch'-type. The 'content living on love, three kids and a fixed rate mortgage, we-aint-got-a-yard-so-we-don't-need-a-picket-fence'-type people.

And then life happens.

Some shit that knocks you off course. Big shit. Little shit. Just.... shit.

Could be something that, at first, you thought was cute and quirky. His sarcasm. Stubbornness. Her nurturing. Particularism. Until he belittles you under his breath with a witty comment while his friends listen on-- just for a laugh. Or the way she follows behind you, nagging about the damn toilet seat always being up and your damn dirty boxers on the bathroom floor for the third time that week.

I was the girl who used to dream of the 'cereal aisle' love. I never brought into the equation dirty boxers or witty comments-- not to mention all the other shit that can happen-- finances, kids, health issues: life. In my adult years I felt like I was bombarded with signs-- scratch that—neon blinking billboards with moving parts and sound-- living, breathing testimonies of why commitment-- and ultimately, marriage-- wasn't for me. After all, if you see others who have made a mistake and you have the chance to learn from it, aren't you more of a fool to follow in their footsteps?

So I had resolved in my mind and heart to swear off love.

Cuddling? Nah. I'd keep that.
Sex? That was a necessity.
But love? Love was for the birds.

Love cares, and care worries; I wanted a carefree, worry-free, easy going life.

I hurt a lot of people in the process, including you. And if you're reading this, I'm sorry.

Who knows? Maybe I'll get out on my own and a few months later I'll be ready for all this I've been trying to push away. Maybe you can come visit me and never leave. Maybe you'll be engaged and it'll be too late.

I guess its too late to change my mind.

I truly know now what you felt. But it's rude for me to take you away from something that seems to be working for you now, only because it doesn't work for me in the future.

“...But if we step past this transition there is so much we'll be missing in our lives such as 'you and I' so should we swallow this frustration and hope that this temptation will subside? Or should we just try....” -Eric Roberson

Hopeful.

Traditionally, a hope chest is a box containing items of clothing and household goods in anticipation of marriage.

I am not a traditionalist. Clearly.

But as someone who has never lived alone (and no, college does not count)-- someone who longs for a space that is all hers-- the idea of a hope chest is kinda catchy (less “I HOPE some man comes and takes me away” more “I HOPE I ever get to use this stuff in my own place”). Especially when, logistically and financially, that goal seems so far off.

Savings accounts are nice, but-- lets face it, not much fun. And when all your money is stored away in a savings account, it's hard to 'see' the good it's doing. It would help me to have some tangible collection of things to add to and look at to keep hope alive (no pun intended).

As soon as this epiphany hit me, I immediately saw in my head the type of chest I wanted: A wooden box. Simple. Solid. Clean lines. No embellishments or frills. Stained a dark cherry. With a lock (to add some mystery and maybe some cheesy symbolism) Now of course, and as usual, my imagination will probably become my detriment because I won't find exactly what I want (or I will find it and it'll be extremely expensive) but maybe, just maybe I can find an old chest that I can strip and refurbish. Something I could pass on to a future child (or sell to some sucka for a fortune on ebay)

Armed with Ikea catalogs and Bed Bath and Beyond coupons, I started a list of necessities for 'My New Place'..... well at least the things that would fit into a chest. The first thing that came to mind was a garlic press. So random. So trivial. So.... perfect. I determined that would be my first purchase. I have wanted a garlic press for so long. Almost as long as I have wanted a Kitchen-Aid mixer. Almost. Don't know why I hadn't bought one, as much as I cook with garlic. No one wants spend ten minutes pasting up garlic for every meal.

Then, the more I thought, the longer the list got and when I was near finished, it was more like a wish list (Hey, a girls got to dream). More than keeping my spirits high, this hope chest represents a change of mindset for me. A kind of refocusing.

I like this feeling.

I don't know what to call it. Probably, hope. *chuckles*

Fried Chicken

In my family, when we went on a long journey by car, there was always somebody who had to pee (if its a guy, he may have had to use a pop bottle LOL *dont judge*), many childish spats ("she's touching me!"), and no matter where we were going, there was always, Always, ALWAYS a container of fried chicken and a bag of white bread.

I'm not talkin KFC or Popeyes-- I'm talkin cleanin' chicken in one side of the sink, pluckin feathers, tucking back the wing, putting it in the adjacent sink, throwin seasioning 'til you can 'smell it', double dipping in the paper bag full of flour and dropping it in the grease til your eyes are watering.

Call it stereotypical, call it cliche-- I'll call it a comforting memory of my childhood. With 8 other siblings, I was lucky to get two pieces of chicken on a 13 hour stint to Alabama, much less think about trying to stop at Mickey-Dee's; Chicken was the only option. My parents always did what they had to do; we never went without. Traveling by car has a place in most of my favorite childhood memories.

In a couple hours, we'll be on the road, Charlotte bound. I'm sitting at the dining room table (halfway) wearing my mothers robe. With my calf propped up on the table as I wait for the third of six batches of fried chicken to float in the scalding hot grease, I can hear the heavy breathing of my family in the distance, and I can't help but chuckle at how the roles have reversed.

Hope for Haiti Now

Justin Timberlake & Matt Morris' cover of Leonard Cohen "Hallelujah" Live On Hope For Haiti Now, was, so far, the jewel of the evening for me (I fell asleep and watched the playback this morning). though I haven't finished the whole show, I've had this four-minute performance on repeat for the past half hour or so.

The original song (in composition and lyrics) is brilliant in itself, but I thought the cover was an appropriate choice Timberlake and Morris blended like they had been singing together for years (Morris' tone is so smooth-- a nice, raspy blue-eyed soul-type thing going on, without sounding affected; I can understand why Timberlake has signed him and I will be googling him immediately lol) But more than that, in such an acoustic arrangement it was bare and chilling; almost ethereal.. had my broke tail about to empty my piggie bank for the third time for Haiti relief!

Whenever this performance becomes available, I will be one of the first to patronize. Whatever they charge, though, wont be enough. Not enough for this once in a lifetime live performance that, to me, created an atmosphere and captured the spirit and soul of a whole people in need, with "... the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift...."

I only wish there was more that I could do.

Fix you ≠ fix me.

Listening to: Coldplay "Fix You"

I was never handy with a hammer, as much as I wanted to be. Shop class was always an exciting disaster; the thought of creating something extravagant (read: functional) always propelled me to try, though my jewelry box looked more like a parallelogram and by the third project I secretly wished I had taken home-ec instead.

Still every now-and-then, I will pick up a power tool, at the dismay of all watching, I'm sure and instead of building something from scratch, I'll try to fix something that's broken.

What is it about me that is drawn to broken things?

Namely people (read: men) but even more-so recently, broken situations; Things that my heart longs to rectify but solutions aren't in my power. For a long time, I've attributed it to my giving nature-- wanting to help others succeed, however minuscule my efforts. In helping others, the success or failure is not my own; when they succeed I can rejoice but when they fail, it's no skin off my back. The reward is intrinsic but still results in empty hands.

And I can admit my own fear of failure had pacified me into believing that the achievements of others-- assisted by me-- is sufficient for this point in my life.

But it's not true.

There is too much greatness inside me to use it just for others. Whether I pass with flying colors or fall flat on my face with the world watching, I have to start taking chances for myself again.