It seemed like a good idea

We were out of toilet paper. Four days out of toilet paper and I figured I should give in and rescue me and my housemates from impending doom. You can only hold it until you get to work for so many days.

So I stood there, in the toilet paper aisle trying to make the hardest decision of the week: what kind? There was two ply, three ply, no ply; extra thick, extra soft, extra crunchy; 4 rolls, 6 rolls, 12 rolls, 24 rolls.

And there it was, my shining star: double ply, textured, 12 pack. Only $2.49. That is cheaper than Coldstone, people. So I bought it. I felt warm inside; I was doing something good for the whole, I was saving us from impending doom.

Well, I was tricked. I really shouldn't have been--it was only $2.49. These rolls have about nine sheets each. Nine textured, double-ply sheets. I am not kidding when I say that we go through one roll a day. One Per Day.

I feel guilty. I feel as if consumerism got me. That I was eaten by the WalMart RollBack Smile guy and may never recover.

I should just go back to stealing toilet paper from work.

Reasons why I may not have written recently

1. Time of which I have none. I am sitting through class 12 hours a day.

2. Readers. My numbers dropped a couple days before I stopped writing. I don't know who they are and why they stopped reading but they did and that made me sad.

3. And discouraged.

4. Kathy reminded me that you don't have to post everything to write. I was started to feel a duty and guilt to this Web site and she said that can make my writing go down. So in an effort to keep my writing credible, I'm censoring a little more.

Daddy

He was a tow-head blond, probably 4 years old and he had his whole body wrapped around his father's leg and they walked in unison towards the altar. He was pulling hard and the strain on the belt was evident as it tried to hold up the gray pinstripe suit pants. The child mostly understood what the sacrament meant and it only meant it because he was there with his father.

She had red hair and a pink striped shirt. She was peering back into the kitchen waiting patiently, as patiently as kids can wait, for her tacos. He was waiting with her, his hair a little longer than hers, and a little grayer too. He placed his hand on her head and his nails were full of dirt. Grease dirt. Hard work dirt. She accidently kicked another patron and he made her apologize and then he kissed her forehead. The grease dirt covered his clothing. She said he hurt her ear and he said, "It's alright, you've got another one."

I passed them on the sidewalk. He said to me in his raspy voice, "We're going to see Star Wars tonight!!" He could not figure out what his favorite part was after; it was just that great. "This is a very big night," his father said to me. "My dad took me to see Star Wars when I was in second grade." And they were suddenly no more than people, walking, breathing, excited. And you would never know that the walking and the breathing were once impossible for the young jedi or that he'd be starting three weeks of surgery in just eight days.

You Know It's Been A Bad Day When ...

The fact that I got pooped on by a (s)hit-and-run bird is not one of the first ten things I whine about.

Johnny

When I was in the sixth grade, I had a crush on Johnny Lobel. Johnny was the new boy and he was tall which was more than could be said for all the other boys. Not only was he new and tall but he came from a family of seven children and they had been home schooled previously. How exotic!

His mom was the school librarian and a group of us girls would help her out on Thursdays at lunch reshelving the books. Again, we found this exotic. We were somewhere besides the lunch room during lunch and we were reshelving books! With Johnny Lobel's mom!

I think he reached the hotness quotient with his short story, "The Cyclops." Johnny was the first student ever of Mr. Till's to receive a perfect grade on a writing assignment.

Mr. Till told us the story of the grading process how he read it over and over again and then how he had his wife, Sharon, read it twice. He had a grading rubric and Johnny had accomplished everything required. And he had accomplished in exceptionally.

The funny thing is, I never referenced those grading rubrics ever. My guess is no one did, otherwise there would probably be more perfect scores. Johnny knew what he was doing.

Johnny was the first guy I thought I might have a chance with; we were friends. He left at the end of sixth grade, to travel somewhere new with his large exotic family. Charlotte kept in touch with him (I was never good at writing letters) and in eighth grade we found out he had a girlfriend.

As with all old memories, I wondered where he was. Maybe he is wondering about me. Maybe he lives down the street. I must know.

So I looked him up on the internet and I found a picture of him, probably another 6 inches taller than when I knew him, embracing a very beautiful girl. And the picture was not outdated.

Here's to you, home-taught Johnny. I hope you're happy.

Reading

I've never been very good at reading. I love it, but it's challenging. Even when I'm reading a book I love, I still find the words coming slowly. I appreciate them, I soak them up, but sometimes I just wish my mind would hurry up a bit so I could finish the books I start.

When I was in fourth grade I loved reading. I devoured books and my mom always told me how fast a reader I was. I think I still read at that speed. Everyone else lapped me and I am left reading slower than most.

If the book in uninteresting I will go pages without even allowing the words to get past my short-term memory. They get lost in space with the bills I haven't paid and I'm busy thinking about the bills I need to pay, or that thing you said to me last night, or what exactly Ashley meant when she said she wanted to buy the ranch dressing. Did she really want ranch or was she just saying that because she knew I wanted the ranch? Is she secretly angry at me? Is this about the time I bought the low-fat ranch?

And the pages fly by, at the same slow speed.

Even when I'm reading those books I love, books I've read over and over again, I still feel victory when I reach the last page of the chapter, or the book, and it's not all full, and there is plain, open space no longer taunting me. That space is everything I love. It is a collection of the things that make me happy and they all dance there on the faded printing press paper.

Wedding Crashers: a review

There were three secrets to this movie: always keep Owen Wilson talking, always keep Rachel McAdams laughing, and make them fall in love.

The wedding crashing is surprisingly not as crass as expected with routines such as dancing with the flower girl or making friends with the father of the bride. I surely would have fallen for it.

While reprising her role in "The Notebook," McAdams performance as the only rational child of a White House bigwig is still warm. She is the only one with humor, and the only one who isn't interested in squandering tax dollars save her new mysterious friends.

She is complemented by Bradley Cooper who looks significantly less hot than Alias but is significantly more funny (although, my investigatory side still stands with Will Tibbin). Cooper plays another White House council member whose competitive streak conflicts with Vaughn.

It is really Wilson and Vaughn's chemistry that shines, though. I would have loved to see more of them at their day job mediating high-power divorces ("Alright, she gets the frequent flier miles ... if you guys would like to send a couple of those our way, we wouldn't mind."). The story is really about them.

All in all, it's a good laugh with a lovable cast and only a couple cheap jokes. And the cameos are great.

Matriarch

She carried her family like she carried her hair--big and high. They all had her eyes and her sense of style.

The first may have been genetic but she trained the second in the same way she trained them to leave their shoes at the front door, to answer the phone, and to say the right things.

"Honey, now don't go airing our dirty laundry in public," she said. Her daughter was visiting with a friend and asked how long exactly their great great uncle had been imprisoned for the bank hold-up. Her friend didn't believe that bank hold-ups were real.

Her daughter was 8 at the time. Now she has children of her own.

She once told me she loved the way I could just put my hair up and go. I think love is her own way of pity, though. And her daughter will never go out without mascara and she will never date a guy whose mother will just put her hair up and go.

Being A Writer

There is something magical about it all, I've discovered.

I have my writing books with me today, at a small coffee shop in a suburb of Los Angeles. I have my computer and my pen and my frazzled hair and I am seen as someone romantic, I've learned.

People look at me as if I have all their secrets behind my eyes. People peer around the creamer to catch a glance at my book title or the words on my screen.

I was approached three times.

"My sister-in-law is a writer..."

"What kind of writing do you do..."

"Are you writing about me?"

But all that is behind the whites of my eyes are all the images I see and all the feelings I feel. Behind that are all the rules of writing and behind that is my mind which prevents me from doing everything I'd love to do best.

Writing is challenge for me. Trying to say something new every day. Trying to use language effectively. Trying to follow the rules and trying to know when it's okay to break them.

I've had doubters tell me that writers never see the real world; they simply try to write about it. I disagree. The real world is the only thing that keeps me writing.

Boyfriends

"Who needs a boyfriend when I have you?" she said to me. We were sitting in my car after the movie, laughing so hard we couldn't breathe. We almost peed our pants.

You see, I look like Amanda Peet if I bunch my face up real small and making kissing motions. She was pretty sure I looked nothing like Amanda Peet but I promise you, I do. She thinks that if she holds her jaw just right she looks like Jennifer Garner. I said she looked more like Paris Hilton.

And that was the humor of it all.

I knew her boyfriend once. He wasn't good, but he made her happy. She would laugh so hard with him and I never got the jokes and I don't think he'd find our jokes funny.

And she is better without him and she tells herself that I am just as good. But my jokes will never match up.

At least I try.

Bookends

We knew each other for a summer. Working in the same 6-foot space day after day is the best recipe for success, I've discovered.

We were both pleasant enough to be interested and we loved our jobs. We kept company and I learned her habits.

The conversations started about the most efficient way to stuff and seal an envelope. We exhausted that subject and moved on to databasing, answering the phones, and boyfriends.

We knew all along that she was leaving at the end of the summer. She has another job offer--an opportunity she had been waiting for her whole life.

We often talked about how bad we were at keeping in touch with people. She had a large extended family that consumed her time, I had my own independence steering me. And we always came back to our guilt surrounding those with whom we had lost touch.

I think we talked about it so much because we knew it would happen with us. And that is how it is.

I met someone recently who knew her. I asked him to tell her that I say hello.

Blog Business

Sorry to all my readers for the delay in posting. I have been writing, I just haven't had time to edit and post. Look for a couple posts today.

Thanks for all the referral links I've been getting as well. It is much appreciated.

Thirdly, Is there anything my readership likes/does not like? Anything you'd like to see more of? I'm working on some reviews as well. I've never written a review so it sucks, but I've got to start somewhere, right?



Finally, I would like to dedicate the next couple posts to Emily Atwood who asked me to stop blogging because she didn't have time to read it but she read it anyway and to my Canada reader, whoever you are. Thanks for representing.

The Song That Was Playing

A bought a CD yesterday while I was out. For the first time in so very long I wandered through the aisles looking for something and not sure exactly what.

I've never been into music; I've never loved a band "before they were big" or been to a real concert or listened to a CD over and over again. I like music and I like songs I hear on the radio and songs my roommates find.

But I love music that reminds of things. Every song I love has significance in some way.

This song was great, but overplayed, every morning on the way to school when I was 17.
This song is exactly how I feel.
He played that song when we were stuck in traffic.
I listened to this song when I had to work in that office all alone with my thoughts.
He couldn't sing the do-do-dooos right.

I have a cowlick on the back of my head. In the morning, when I wake, all my hair is forward after being pressed. I sleep on my back. I fall asleep on my side and adjust after I've fallen into subconciousness.

I sleep on my back because of a person, not because of a song. But I remember which song was playing when I learned.

"Turns out, we've known each other for a long time," she said. I bought a CD recently released by a new artist. I listened to all the songs. And I can only love Track 1.

If you ask me to sing at your wedding, I'll say, "no thank you." Because, you're right, I really want to design the program.

Yes, we have known each a long time. And it's still important to me that she said I was a best friend. Words matter more than music. But I will always remember the song that was playing.

Home

"Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place."

Warm July nights.

Coldstone til midnight.

Mysteries. Anger.

Friends who have known you long enough to know you. Through and through.

Secrets that aren't gossip and are the only way to find answers that can't seem to find their way out of your heart or around your ideas.

Finding out what love is (or at least trying).

Fabric from the textile district, not quite sewn and mostly hanging, unfinished.

A Birthday

Dear Jeremy,

Today you are 18. This is crazy to me. I think you'll always be in third grade in my head. Of course, you still act like you're in third grade, but that's besides the point.

Some advice:

You can buy cigarettes now. Don't.

Try to be a good person. It makes life easier.

Choose your friends; don't just let them happen to you.

Work out when you can. It helps the stress. But don't be one of those guys who always is watching himself.

Don't lie to girls. Don't hurt girls. Don't love girls unless you're dating them.

Go to college. It will be such a life-changing experience for you. In fact, go to Biola. Seriously.

Embrace what you're good at. Keep drawing, keep thinking, keep telling jokes.

Evaluate why people like you.

Save your money.

Save everything. Write things down. Never forget your memories.

Don't make me crazy.

Don't let your spirit be crushed. Ever.

Enjoy everything. Enjoy HoneyRock, enjoy high school, enjoy Mommy. Have patience. Work hard now.

Don't be discouraged by anyone else's accomplishments or failures.

You have more experience than anyone else you know. This means you can also be more mature than anyone else you know. Take that opportunity.

Take all opportunities. Except the bad ones.

Don't make poor choices. Don't do things so people will like you.

Read as much as you can as often as you can. Reading will make you a better writer.

You CAN write. Don't think otherwise.

Don't get in fights on AIM. Don't get in fights over dumb things. Stand by your word.

It's okay to win.

Go skinny dipping. Jump off cliffs. TP.



I love you so much, little brother. I am so proud of you and who you are. I can't wait to see you become your own person and see what you do with your heart and mind.

Your only big sister,

Ghee.

A Coffee Story

7:04 p.m.: I decide I can muster the will power to go to Starbucks to read. I unplug from the internet.

7:06 p.m.: I decide that putting my jean jacket over the same shirt I have worn for the last three days will make it look like a different shirt. It does. I’m wearing the same pants I wear everyday.

7:14 p.m.: I arrive with my beach tote. I plop it down on table of choice with full view of store and parking lot.

7:15 p.m.: I confuse the barista when asking exactly how much coffee is in a grande frappaccino. He almost draws a diagram.

7:16 p.m.: I order a Grande Carmel Light Frappaccino with whip and extra carmel sauce on the side of the cup. (I like sauce.) And please don’t judge me for the Light Frappaccino with the extras. It balances out just like getting French fries instead of a hamburger bun.

7:17 p.m.: I pull out Widget PowerBook and Awful Book From Hell and commence reading. I also put on ear buds and listen to Garden State soundtrack quietly.

7:28 p.m.: Cute Coffee Boy arrives. He sits across the room at a small table, the only one available. He pulls out a book and a highlighter. He may or may not have ordered a drink; I’m too distracted by the highlighter.

7:45 p.m.: Cute Coffee Boy is watching me. I am suddenly aware of the speed at which I read, how often I underline, and how I often I turn to Widget and type.

7:56 p.m.: We make eye contact again. He reads faster than me.

7:59 p.m.: I decide to use the fool-proof Jenny Redmond How To Pick Up Guys In Starbucks technique. I take off the ear buds.

8:00 p.m.: He does not move.

8:02 p.m.: I finish Chapter 1. I finish workbook for Chapter 1. Rejoicing happens mentally. I wash my hands and go outside to call Lauren. She says she is coming. Thank God I have one friend who has to work this summer. And we do pretty well working together. Especially when the Widgets are separating us.

8:14 p.m.: Lauren arrives. She complains about how she can’t write her first sentence.

8:22 p.m.: Lauren complains again. This time it’s about both the non-existent first sentence and all the articles she has to read. I remind her that at least she doesn’t have to read the Awful Book From Hell. She says, “You’re right, at least my reading is meaningful.” I almost slit my wrists with the pages of the Awful Book From Hell.

8:33 p.m.: Cute Coffee Boy gets up and moves to the table directly next to ours. This is it, I think. He’s going to talk to us.

8:34 p.m.: Nope.

8:49 p.m.: Lauren tries to read the title of his book. It’s impossible.

9:01 p.m.: I start wondering why Starbucks hasn’t offered me more coffee since I’ve been there for two hours. They always did it for my roommate. Then I remember that the barista who doesn’t hate me is busy flirting with his unattractive heavy metal friends. In fact, they’re watching The Nightmare Before Christmas on a laptop. Why they are doing this at Starbucks, I do not know. I turn Garden State up louder to drown out the flirting. I also marvel at the amazing battery life of my Widget.

9:07 p.m.: I order my second cup of coffee and an almond toffee bar for dinner. I ask for it in a mug. This is clearly a challenge for the barista who does hate me.

9:18 p.m.: Lauren suggests we just give up working and visit for the next 45 minutes. She only says this because she forgot a book and she is cold and she can’t even write her first sentence. I tell her that I have to read to page 81 in the Awful Book From Hell and answer the corresponding questions in the Awful Workbook From Hell. Then we can visit. This, unfortunately, does take the next 45 minutes. (NOTE: Lauren suggested we stop. Not me. LAUREN.)

9:30 p.m.: Cute Coffee Boy pulls out one of those Neoprene laptop cases. Ladies and gentlemen, PowerBooks just got infinitely hotter. It’s a 15-inch PowerBook and it is so HOT. I make eye contact with Lauren and we are both thinking the exact same thing. We start laughing. We hope he does not notice the correlation between the laughing and the Neoprene.

9:31 p.m.: Lauren says she is going to put her glasses on as to provide one more barrier between us.

9:32 p.m.: Lauren continues to attempt to see Coffee Boy’s book title. It is a lost cause. So is her paper.

9:58 p.m.: Barista throws away the New York Times. I remember how Andrew Mollenbeck told me that I could get a free copy if I told Starbucks that I would recycle the papers. He also said you can usually get free coffee that way (“Since I’m saving the trees and all, maybe you guys could give me some coffee?”). I almost do it but then I remember that I don’t read the papers that come to my house everyday; I’m not going to read the New York Times.

9:59 p.m.: The place is still packed. People are still buying coffee. Lauren and I are confused as to what time it closes. This would be a perfect opportunity for Cute Coffee Boy to tell us. He could also tell us his name and email and the number of children he wants to have.

10:00 p.m.: He doesn’t.

10:01 p.m.: In exasperation, Lauren packs up. She is too cold to endure the pain any longer. She insists that I stay. I am working hard.

10:02 p.m.: I am exasperated. We leave.

What Color is Moss?

When I come home at the end of the day I collapse.

Exhaustion overcomes me and I wonder how it can possibly be only 4:30. Only two weeks ago I worked until 6:30 with no complaints but things have changed.

I feel tired. The tired that comes when you only sleep 6 hours. The tiredness that comes when you didn't drink coffee and didn't have a Giant Soda with lunch.

But I do all the right things. I sleep for 9 hours every night. I get coffee when I'm tired. I get soda. And yet, I feel it, behind my eyes.

I wake up in the morning, knowing that sleep is no longer needed and I look out my window and the sun is not even visible above the brick wall. The dazy fog hovers around the lemon tree and I can't imagine what the sun will even look light when it awakens.

"You can return these calls," they tell me at work and talking to strangers is so much easier than anything else.

"Please download the transcript request form from our Web site." I can rattle off a hundred facts about transcripts and what the costs are and how soon they will be sent and exactly what "official" means.

But the meaning of official is as concrete as my to do list and I hate both.

I wait for moss-colored pants to come in the mail. They looked khaki in the picture and I won't mind either way because they'll fit and I won't have to wear the same outfit every day.

I smile because old men are common during lunch time at Taco Bell and because I got paid $20 for company.

Life is funny like this. And I love Starbucks' caramel sauce.

In Fifty Years

I wish death could mean death. I wish the end of something truly was the end and that closure existed. I suppose that is not how we are designed, since there is heaven and all.

But in this earthly world, can we ever be finished? Can relationships ever end? Can we ever let go of the past?

In 50 years my mother tells me that she will share all the family secrets. Fifty years from now I will be 70. Seventy old to have my own family secrets and 70 old to have my own family. Will I want to know the secrets still or will I have let go of the past?

I am always told to embrace the present and I try. I let the past lay and I let the future rest in the back of my thoughts. I spend time thinking on what it means to be alive at this instant and appreciate each breath I take.

It's cliche, I know, but I only know can live this way. If the past doesn't come with me into the future then I let it be. I lay it down; I find my closure. The absence of closure is the presence of anxiety.

And it takes everything in me to resist anxiety.

Brian Wilson

A song by Barenaked Ladies reminds me of a life I never had.

It starts and I remember him. I remember when we were young--that summer between high school and college. For me, anyway, it was supposed to be that summer. It turned into a year and I eventually found my way. For him, it was never just a summer.

We were in his parents' basement, waiting for the rest of the guys to show up and he was teaching me the guitar chords. I was embarrassed because I just couldn't figure it out. I was laughing at myself, at my inability to change from one chord to another and my inability to stop biting my fingernails. He was laughing too and he strummed for me while I tried to move between C and A Minor.

I was proud, though, when he looked at me, and said, "I never really understand you."

He didn't understand how I was both right- and left-handed or how I managed to talk my parents out of everything. I gave the guitar back to him and pulled my knees up to my chin, watching his thoughts. I felt so much then. The guitar thing was endearing and I adored it.

"Just to check out the late-night record shop ..." he trailed off. He was talented. He used words like "shop" and "record" in his songs. And he was there, with me, living.

It was life. We played a lot that summer--in six states, and I went with them calling the bars ahead of time, finding what coffee shops we could. Neither of us could drink it black but we'd try anyway, just to beat the other to it.

In the fall we recorded in a cheap studio and I heard the song for the first time in its entirety. I had that draft from the early summer evening and found it later. He had changed the words a little.

I didn't realize the change til a year or two later when I was going through old memories.

"Call it impulsive, call it compulsive, call it insane, but when I'm surrounded, I just can't stop."

Fireworks

Every night at this time I can hear the fireworks from Disneyland.

I like to go to bed early now. I don't have meetings at 10 anymore and I don't have class at night or newspapers to publish. There is nothing that cannot get done during the day.

I fail if I am not in bed by 10.

And since I don't keep track of time very well (there are reasons why I don't go to class), it's easy for me to fail (Note: blaming failure on something specific makes failure more easier to overcome. Summer Lesson No. 1 and Why I Don't Need A Shrink).

But God protects me from failure. I know it is 9:30 because the Disneyland fireworks rumble my home. No closer then 10 miles, the Happiest Place on Earth celebrates its 50th birthday daily with a magnificent firework show.

I have seen the show and it is magnificent. Julie Andrews narrates it and when I recognize the rumbles I hear her, in my head, weaving the story of Disneyland.

If only it was that pleasant.

I hear her in my head and I hear the rumbles in my house and I think, "Dammit, it's 9:30 and I have done nothing today." And I try to get in bed before 10 so I don't fail that thing and I succeed sometimes.

In the dark, I hear the sounds of my house. My loud neighbor who talks on her cell phone. Talk of the upcoming wedding. The dishwasher.

And it overcomes me. The things I failed today. The laundry I didn't do. The form I didn't sign. The article I didn't write. The book I didn't read. They overcome me one by one and the noise they make is louder than the dishwasher and the cell phone voice and the fireworks at Disneyland and I can't sleep even though it is after 10 and I'm tired and I want to go to bed.

Everyday this happens. And every day the laundry does not get done.