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I try to eat my oatmeal like a good girl, but itís so hard! I do everything I can to make it taste better: brown sugar, maple syrup, Splenda packets, flavored coffee creamer, almond extract, peanut butter, Iíve even gone as far as swirls of chocolate syrup. I add, mix, try different combinations, desperate attempts to make it taste like the packaged stuff for kids. But by the time Iím done, this gray gloop has to have lost most of its nutritional value, so is it still worth me choking down? Is it still a better option than Captain Crunch?
Seriously? Haven't you been on this quest to regain your adolescent beauty for, like, a decade? I remember seeing you in tears years ago on THS because you're the fat one. Your sisterís hot, even your mom is hot, sort of, and you were going to turn your life around, weren't you?
But here you are on GMA and in these Alli commercials, I don't think you're supposed to talk about "how seriously you're taking your health" until you actually start doing it, you're still 300 pounds.
You should take a note from Kristy Alli, really.
Iím sitting at my computer writing random nothings to the tunes of Bob Dylan. I had to turn him off because the seldom heard sound of rain pummeling the ground accompanied by thunder is more beautiful than ďForever YoungĒ.
It doesnít rain like this in Southern California. People donít know how to handle it. They canít drive, donít know how to dress, all the umbrellas at all the supermarkets sell out because no one has one, or can remember where it is.
I can listen to Dylan anytime, I only get this kind of orchestra a few times a year.
I know it shouldnít affect me, but it does. I feel incredibly unattractive because of it. I know itís silly and immature, but I canít help feeling it.
You took quite a few of what I though were good shots of me, but posted only two of them to your myspace photography page and took weeks to get me merely a few frames. After our ďsessionĒ you did one with another girl and her pictures were slathered all over your page within days. I know itís contrite envy, but it still destroys my self-esteem.
I really thought I was prettier.
You were wearing large, dark glasses and the shiniest red vest Iíd ever seen. I could hear you over the Damien Rice swirling through the little plugs in my ears,
ďWant some shelter?Ē
ďIím fine, little rain never hurts anyone.Ē You proceeded to position the large, beige umbrella over me.
ďYou know, I got this for only about $4.88.Ē
ďI have an umbrella, just not with me.Ē
The little white man appeared signaling my movement.
ďAlright, youíre on your own now.Ē
I wanted to ask where you got your vest, but my feet carried me too quickly away.
We made eye contact. I wanted to joke about that ridiculous hat protecting your head from the rain, but all I could do was smile.
ďHey, wait! Where you goin?Ē
ďGotta run some errands.Ē
ďCan I come?Ē
I looked up and down your Uncle Sam uniform.
ďI donít know, can you?Ē I laughed.
ďIím off in ten minutes.Ē
I turned with a smile, putting Damien back in my ear. I could hear you yelling something, but all I did was look back flirtatiously and wave, chuckling at the thought of walking around Hillcrest with the Liberty Tax guy.
Dear Mr. Back-thong tank-top wearer,
I applaud and commend your superior sense of comfort with your body. You donít let a carpeted set of man breasts keep you from flaunting your stuff. You donít let an apeish back or the current decade prevent you from sporting one of the sexiest trends of the 80ís. You proudly bounce your gut rhythmically to the rotations of the elliptical while maintaining superb ventilation. Yes, I applaud your fearless choice in gym apparel, but donít be offended if I opt to maintain my distance.
The girl (not) checking you out in the mirror.
I do not applaud your provocative choice in gym apparel. I find the violent bouncing of your breasts obscene and distracting. You only support the stereotype of the gym being a meat market, if only the idiotic men who succumb to your blatant plea for attention knew some damn biologyÖ So much breast bouncing will result in stretch marks more dramatic sagging sooner in life and the make-up caked on your face will give you hideous skin should you dare sweat a bead.
Your Gucci perfume is giving my incredibly handsome boyfriend an asthma attack.
I wore a long, flowing,
pale beige skirt,
long sleeved shirt
with lightly bejeweled neckline
dropping off my shoulders.
My hair was all
moving with me
as I walked,
Delicate ankles and
red toenails supported by
white, strappy sandals.
You came in the room,
you waved back.
I left momentarily,
came back in.
The wind from the door pushed
my hair behind my bare
shoulders and I smiled.
and couldnít take your eyes off me-
or didnít want to.
Iíd give anything to know what you were thinking.
A thought occurred to me once. Can one be fully aware of their biologically driven tendencies? And I wonder, am I really so biologically driven?
My dreams of procreation are incessant and infinite. I already love my unborn children more than anything in this world. And of course, I want them to be perfect.
I feel guilty that the thought that kept resounding while in your presence was:
Irish-Sicilian-Filipino-Iraqi children would be absolutely beautiful, what a wonderful gene pool. Oh, what viable offspring we could produce!
I wonder what you were thinking while we sloppily made-out in that movie theater.
Itís the precursor to summer, Iím standing bear breasted in front of the fan, imagining your fingers on my skin.
I have high hopes for this summer; itís the first time Iím (so far) not thoroughly appalled by the heat and abundant sunshine. I have visions of us spending days on the shore, my skin turning orange and freckled. Spending nights salty and damp, rolling sun-drenched in your sheets, Pacific breezes pouring through the window, wrapping around and cooling our conjugal bodies.
But itís too perfect. My hopes are already melting with the summerís precursor.
Please donít let me down.
I severed my limbs and must learn to walk again from a crawl, dragging my torso behind arms that loved to hold you. Arms weak from holding on to you. I pulled the tubes from my nose and must learn to breathe again, air void of your warm breath- drifting around me as I laid on your chest. The cold air is hard to inhale, but so refreshing.
I was a child when I fell in love with you. Now Iím a woman, itís time to let you go.
You are my first love. Iím only sorry I wasnít ready.
She moved towards him like ghost, swift and quiet. She mounted his lap, positioned her knees along the outside of his hips and put her arms around him. She kissed him whole-heartedly and buried the knife deep within the crevice of his right shoulder blade. He didnít pull away, only crumpled in her arms with a sigh. ďI never enjoy hurting youĒ she whispered into his trembling mouth. She placed her hands on his temples and kissed his forehead. She rose from his pelvis with a child-like grace, leaving the blade there to rust until someone else pulls it out.
We move across sheets and curtains
in glimmering beams
and back down
rhythmic with pulsing leaves
on barren window sills
We lie, huddled masses at each otherís feet
burning the room orange
stars avert their eyes
in hushed giggles
the ocean blushes pink against
our barren, pulsing bodies.
We move across carpets in shallow breaths
curling our toes under, unearthing
splashing in folds of pillow cases
losing ourselves in creases of white linen
losing ourselves in tempered castles
washing to sea
boiling over the Pacific
pulling blankets of foam over our shoulders
I swore Iíd never cheat on you. I accepted what happened, but I never really forgave you. We dated for another year after I found out. I swore Iíd be better than that.
It started with a hug. Then a kiss. He and I had more fun in one day than you and I did all month. But it was never more than a kiss.
Until two weeks before we broke up. Maybe thatís what prompted it. I want to blame the wine, but I know itís because you havenít touched me the way he did in over two years.
Myohmyohmy. California girl meets Texas boy. Rolling Stones. Four beers. Three glasses of wine. Swigs of your Smirnoff when the beer and wine ran out.
Are you drunk?
So youíre not just kissing me Ďcause youíre drunk?
No, are you drunk?
No. Iím not drunk.
I straddled him in the sand, three AM on the shore.
This is the first time Iíve been to the beach since I got here.
Watch out for moonburn.
He held open the door to his truck for me, suddenly I feel like a floozy.
But heís taking me out for sushi next Friday.
Iím just smitten. A gentleman. A chef. Wine collection you turn once a month. House in Coronado. Big, manly, callused hands (felt good against my waist). Great kisser.
ďI came back to brittís to help her clean up. I donít mean to b too forward, but was last night a 1 time thing or do u want to c me again?Ē
The English major in me is appalled. But the newly single woman is giddy.
ďYeah. I didnít expect u would want to jump right into anything serious, but I like u. I would love to take u out sometime.Ē
Grandmas are the best ego boosters.
Iíd go so far to say my paternal grandmother and I are estranged, but the past year Iíve found, via email, Iíve confided some of my deepest, most personal thoughts to her and no one else. How strange is that?
Regarding my recent break-up:
You, my darling child, are cursed with one big problem as I see it. Your beauty. You will have to beat off the new loves in your life with a stick. Then add your intelligence, your art, and all that inner knowledge of life... wow, what a package you are.
Does being monogamous since I was seventeen serve as an excuse for this new, somewhat slutty behavior? I have three men Iím interested in right now, all of which seem to want me. None of which I will pursue a committed relationship from. I also have a crush on another guy, but thereís not much prospect thereÖ yet. Iím a fire-filled, passionate person thatís been physically starved for a long time, but I canít help feel Iím being a little too brazen. Iím also terrified of breaking another heart. Itís not that Iím conceited, it just seems to be unavoidable.
Iím looking for rhythm. Right shoulder rolls backward followed by a flick of hip, I stumble into the couch. My sister laughs.
Iím graceful- to an extent. I can move my feet swiftly, quietly and maneuver a crowd like nobodyís business. I can hold tree-pose damn near forever, willow smoothly from brave warrior to exalted. Downward dog to pigeon. But all the yoga in the world canít seem to keep me from clumsy lack of coordination.
I canít dance, but I can swivel my hips and shake my butt. If nothing else, my attempts are always good for a laugh.
I would love to have a commune of creativity. A farm where select individuals can grow and cultivate together. A safe beautiful place where beautiful things are made. Everyone will live together harmoniously, each contributing to the whole. There will be poets and painters, musicians and novelists and photographers. There will be wine and fresh fruit and sunshine. There will be dancing and laughter and conversations flowing seamlessly and endlessly into the night until dawn.
I wonder if thereís an entry resembling the one I just wrote somewhere in a long lost diary of Charles Manson.
Kool-aid anyone? Itís grape.
How does one determine an alcoholic? Do they have to physically require alcohol on a day to day basis? Be incapacitated without it? Be constantly intoxicated in order to function or feel at ease?
Alcoholism runs in my family, so succumbing to it myself is something that always worries me. But Iím not going to abstain. I donít think itís avoidance, but moderation that shows will power.
Iíve been drinking more and more lately and caught myself salivating while walking past the wine aisle at the grocery store. As I type this Iím thinking how badly Iíd like a beer.
When you hear that low rumbling, youíve five minutes to get indoors (about how long it takes for her to pull out of the driveway). When you see that turquoise flash and giant black sunglasses peeping over the wheel, make a run for it.
Lovey is 96 and has a 67 Mustang sheís the original owner of. One she in no way should be allowed to drive. Her motto: I donít need to watch out, they see me coming.
My mom says, ďYou want that mustang, you better start spending time with her.Ē
Lovey scares the shit out of me.
I almost didnít shave my legs. Shaving my legs would mean I was entertaining the possibility of moving further, I was going to be good, for once. But I wanted to wear a dress, I had no choice! A teal, silky dress that falls gently on my curves. Iím a tease like that. It didnít matter, I gave in anyways.
I almost didnít shave my legs, not doing so would prevent me from getting carried away. Two bottles of Cabernet on an empty stretch of beach at 1AM made me glad I did. Iím also glad I wore the dress.
ďWhen you were here, it used to drive me crazy how hot of showers youíd take. It really would burn me a little, like eating something before it cools. The last couple of days, Iíve taken too hot of showers and burned myself just Ďcause I miss you. Thatís silly, huh?Ē
Why are you telling me this? I really did love you, with all my heart. But itís times like this I wish you hated me. I shouldíve been a bitch. I think Iíd rather you hate me than miss me and mourn my absence. I canít bare it.
How dare you call to remind me of my fatherís birthday and have the nerve to tell me to call him? First, I know when my fatherís birthday is, I donít need reminding (though you need reminding of mine). And second, why should I? He didnít call me on my birthday, didnít even wish me a happy one after the fact. So why should I wish him one? You say he Ďmissesí me, yet Iím the one responsible for calling? The one responsible for civility? For maintaining this lost cause of a relationship? No, Iím not going to call him.
For someone that wants to take aimless, spurofthemoment road trips, you sure are uptight. Donít get me wrong, it was a nice trip up the coast, but it could have been an amazing trip if it were with someone else. Someone less impatient, cynical, negative, and snobby. Spurofthemoment road trip insinuates you go with the flow, laid-back, easy-going. Not trash talking a little beach town you perceive as low-class, cursing people driving slower than 70, and complaining about a lack of Starbucksí. But whatever, it was only a precursor to the amazing trip Iím going to take with someone else.
Thatís it, Iím moving to Monterrey. Granted I was only there a few hours, it was love at first sight. It has quaint New England charm with California weather and, most importantly, avocados (main thing keeping me here). Itís the fishing village I dream about. Small, humble, but not isolated. 20 minutes from the unbelievable Big Sur and two hours shy of San Francisco. I always thought Iíd have to relocate 3,000 miles to a frigid, avocado-less town, but I can get my charming fishing town 500 miles up the coast. Itís perfect. I canít wait to pack my bags.
Is it just me? It seems whenever Iím in a waiting room- of any sort- the receptionists are constantly on the phone- with personal conversations! Almost every time. At the dentist, the OB-GYN, the counselor, anyone, the girl behind the desk is chatting away a mile a minute. I canít sign in for my appointment or ask where the restroom is without them looking at me impatiently, like Iím interrupting them. And I couldnít find a job as a receptionist? What are employers looking for these days? What are their standards? Because I know Iím better suited than Chatty McChatterson.
Dismal day in May, sky cloudy, breeze cold. Come home from work. Make coffee, vanilla flavored. Eat left-overs from last nightís date (heís getting too serious). Take a looooong hot shower. Raked the yard yesterday, heat feels good on a sore back. Lie in the tub. Soft, fluffy bathrobe on clean, moist skin. Amazing. Add sugar, add cream, coffee illuminates my insides. Lounge around naked in said robe. Itís pink. Put chores off Ďtil later. Enjoy the softness. Enjoy the cleanliness. Enjoy the coffee. Maybe go out tonight (if someone offers a ride). But right now, stay naked and caffeinated.
I miss you. This sucks. Youíre my drug, I had to quit, but Iím relapsing hard.
I miss snuggling under your soft, heavy blankets and being enveloped in your giant, strong arms. I miss our naps, my head on your chest, inhaling your exhale. Your warm mouth on my neck, tender, sweet. I miss singing together in the car. I miss your big, soft lips and spicy, rolled taco breath. Youíre still the best kisser Iíve ever kissed.
Iím comparing every guy I meet to you, theyíre all falling short. But I quit you for a reason.
Stay strong, Hanna!
The Tip Jar