My Vie Boheme

Here's to...
too-small apartments, lack of parking, and a prison-sized sink; to bunkbeds (To bunkbeds!) and food made of soy; to IMs, invoices, someone sleeping on your floor; to snowpants and 11 people digging out your car; to breadboard philosophies and half-baked theories; to zombies and the coming apocalypse; to late-night grocery store runs and staying up with friends; to garage sales, curbside junking and dumpster diving; to nerds downstairs who download the world; to simplicity and electricity; to job applications, posts and rejection letters; to getting "hammered and sickled" with Leninade; to praising God when you didn't get a job you really didn't want; to sleep overs and dinners (in the same evening), Goodwill and Dollar Tree presents; to kneading, baking and bagging bread; to roadtrips that empty your pockets but enrich your life; to hostels, gum walls and weddings you never reach; to salmon and ratatouille and splurging for a Rolling Wok feast; to gardens and muddy shoes; to bicycles and the punks who steal them; to searching Craigslist and sipping mate from gourds; to animation and good films; to gnomes, used books shops and maps; to ninjas and pirates; to classic rock, real musicians and mashups; to futons that creak; to minimum wages jobs and the co-workers who become an odd family; to paper lifesavers and Dinner Roast holiday meals; to experimental cooking and butternut squash; to a clean apartment, incense and a warbly parakeet; to knowing "it too shall pass"; to the comedy of errors that is being independent; to steady (and floozy!) clients and PDFs with corrections; to odd design jobs and random inspiration; to hats, musicals and outcasts; to photo shoots, skinny dipping and lost pets; to questions that often don't get answered; to wondering if I'll make rent; to opera and coffee and the animal crackers you dip in it; to a family who makes you laugh and somehow cry; to shuffling a deck of cards called "Beliefs" and sitting quietly to hear silence; to yoga, to yoga, and 24-hour diners; to $5 worth of fries and curse-word therapy; to blogs, bloggers and vinyl; to profiles, pictures, information overload and the power button to turn it off; to too many books, farmers markets and bartering; to three-green salad (or was it four?); to free music, lunches and sweating through the summer to save on electricity; to an AC that leaks cold winter air and broken coffee pots; to closets being for clothes, shoes, odds and ends but not people; to Tardis and Sherlock; to being wrapped in blankets because there is minimal heat; to a teddy bear that shares a bed with you; to being drowsy after watching a winter solstice lunar eclipse; to Spanglish and breakfasts that consists of huevos rancheros, coffee, tortillas, beans, and avocados; to being (technically) poor but feeling like the world is yours; to dreaming in ink and laughing at life; to a group of friends that will "never be old enough."

Viva my vie boheme!

For the first time in a long time I believe I experienced raw, uninhibited joy. Not sure where it came from, as the thoughts preceding this resembled nothing close to it.

Honestly I think my body forgot how pure happiness felt because it wasn't sure what to do. It was like Jack Skellington marveling at Christmastown and wondering, "What's this? What's this?" My heart hurt a bit, similar to a muscle you haven't exercised in ages. I couldn't contain it and teared up, lest I spontaneously combust.

A crooked, tired smile crossed my lips as I drove home on a semi-melted snowy I-80 West. Feelings don't fade, and this was something I needed to know still lived within me.

Everything will be OK. I will forgive and be free. God it feels beautiful.

Not really. I'm fascinated by medical oddities but my overly empathetic nature makes me flinch whenever I see Dr. House's team make an incision.

Part of my wonderings stem from my lack of a degree-related vocation. Maybe I'm being too picky, but what ever happened to finding a dream job? Something that brings relevant experience would be fine in the meantime, but no one seems to want someone without enough experience. Wait, how the hell am I supposed to get it then? *Puzzled look on face*

This is why maybe I should've been something boring: an accountant, a nurse. No, not boring... Ah, "practical," that's the one. Society will always need medical attention, and a bilingual nurse would be an asset. "Yay" for affirmative action?

I'm not sure if "practical" is the life I want though; it's not one of my strong traits anyways. ;-)

Spinach, Forgiveness and Tape

Remember when Popeye would squeeze open a can of spinach, eat some, and save the day? His super strength wasn't permanent but it was enough to fix things back to normal, sometimes even better than before.

At the moment I wish I had something like that. I'm lacking emotional strength and I'm not sure what's holding me together. Maybe it's the promise that a light still flickers somewhere and the hope that I'll find it soon. I just know rolling over and dying isn't an option.

I've been holding a grudge and more bitterness and negativity than legally permissible for my not-quite-5-foot frame. It's drained me over time and today is one of those days where I'm really feeling the empty-ish tank. (Hormones aren't helping but that's no excuse.) I really wish it was materialized and I could take pills to cure it or take a bulimic approach to purging it. I'm afraid the amount would physically kill me though.

I'd drive to the edge of the map if I knew I could find the forgiveness I need to give and receive; it'd be a more refreshing find than Ponce's Fountain of Youth and more delicious than cartoon canned spinach. But right now, I need to hold myself together with some tape, glue, hemp, something, long enough to be OK and take that next step.

The Book(s) That Saved My Life

One I judged and picked by its cover; the other was a recommendation from friend and former professor, Mr. Blake. They were "The Life of Pi" and "Traveling Mercies," respectively. The former is the story of Pi and his plight to survive in a raft along with a tiger and the latter is Anne Lamott's thoughts on faith.

Though seemingly unrelated stories, they both deal with God, religion, faith, and survival, things I've been sorting out for the last who-knows-how-long. I love books, but these two make me believe lifesavers still come in paperback or hardcover. I think God in his almighty humour saw I was barely doggy-paddling through life and tossed them over.

The current me happens to relate to Ms. Lamott's spiritual stumble. (Sans the drugs, drinking and sleeping around.) I took "Mercies" with me to one of my counseling appointments and read an excerpt about religion and forgiveness; she said it better than I could've explained. As for Pi, he reminded me to be one of those who has "life-hungry stupidity." Survival, though held together with hope and belief, starts with oneself.

Pi, while floating in the Pacific, said, "My greatest wish -other than salvation- was to have a book." I'm so glad I do.

Mushroom, Mushroom

I went to Hy-Vee and poked around the mushroom bins while waiting for Kelly. I love 'shrooms. One day I'll make something amazing with Portobellos.

Anyways, I found Morel 'shrooms... for $11.99 AN OUNCE. Why are they going for that price if they're not even the magical kind?

Let's Get This Camry Started

Today I found my car quite dead about 45 minutes before work. Though she can't do anything from three hours away, I called my mom.

Afterwards I brought my friend Jameson's truck beside my car. A stubborn lever made opening the hood a struggle but I managed. I got my jumper cables, hooked up the truck and my car, and got the latter going. And I didn't even cross the wires.

It's something small, but I'm happy to know I can take care of myself. Here and there I learn something new and I get a little smarter, a bit more grown-up.

"Up" and Away

I FINALLY watched "Up". The advice I continued receiving was, "If you can get through the first 10 minutes you'll be OK." I braced my emotions as best possible while the film opened with a black and white news reel.

First 10 minutes? Ha! My feelings took a roller-coaster ride, dipping into sadness one scene and climbing to amusement or joy the next. Somehow I made it through the entire thing, frazzled and exhausted.

I sobbed quietly on the outside but I was a torrent inside. It was for abandoned dreams and plans of events and places. I recalled with pain friendships gone adrift or completely lost. I wept for the to-do lists many of us create but are forced to discard when friends are no longer there because X or Y.

Friendships come, go and change. However, I always hope to have you to share this ride called life with. That's how I know in the end I will be able to successfully fill my adventure book.

It's Still Raining There

Rain... my God I love that sound.

No words can ever express what it means to me, though a few can give you an idea: memories, peace, redemption, life. My soul's bitter dirt and grime floods away along with pebbles and dirt for at least a moment and the soft earth side of me, the one that splashed in puddles and climbed a nearby dam in the middle of a long ago storm comes back.

Tonight I stepped outside my apartment's shelter and put myself at the mercy of the sky. Droplets hit me like soft bullets that gently exploded on my skin. I was soaked but intact. So is that rainy day, from drenched clothes to God painting.

I hope we always remember when it rained.

How to Mutate a Quesadilla

Some people burn water. Brandon mutates quesadillas. Last night he created a Frankenstein of foods: the pizzadilla.

It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. We were hungry and I wanted a quesadilla. His epiphany came as we went by the canned pasta: put Spaghettios and eggs in it. Sleep depravation made this sound like an interesting experiment at the time. He reassured me it would be the "best white-trash quesadilla ever."

I should've known how this would turn out when he started cooking.

"You don't fry a quesadilla," I said.

"Really?" he asked.

Seriously? I thought.

"No, you just warm up the tortilla, put cheese in it, close, and flip it."

"Well, I'm a yellow person making brown people food. I need guidance."

The "pizzadillas" came shortly after that. I took a bite. It was gooey. And cheesy. And simply flat-out weird. Confused is an understatement for my taste buds. They didn't know how to explain this to my brain.

"You like it?"

This is Brandon's equivalent to "Does this make me look fat?" "It's interesting" was the best I could muster.

"You didn't like it."

I didn't say anything.

"You may insult me, and you may insult my cooking, but you CANNOT insult Billy Ray Cyrus' favourite meal!"

I don't think Billy Ray Cyrus would eat this.

F...M...L...

I work at a bakery where we offer a free slice to customers. There's a trash can next to the stand and breadboard. It's been there since I can remember, no biggie. The Health Department has never said anything about during their routine visits and I've never heard anyone complain about it.

Bored with an empty bakery gave me the urge to clean. I was sweeping near the stand and as I dumped the trash in the aforementioned bin, a lady walked in.

"Hello, ma'am," I greeted.

"It really bothers me that you're dumping that trash near that jelly and butter."

My, my, aren't we blunt? OK, she had a point. We have spreads near the breadboard for patrons to try and maybe the rubbish bin's location wasn't ideal. I just didn't appreciate her tone.

Not knowing what to say, I put down my broom and pan and went to wash my hands. I didn't want her "calling me out" on something else. As I rinsed the soap off she said, "Some people just don't think."

I "snapped."

"Well ma'am," I retorted in matching tone, "A lot of people just don't think about some things."

Talk about Freudian slip.

"I work with the Health Department, and you're supposed to do this because it's what they said, not because I'm telling you."

F... But she wasn't done. Oh no.

"You never argue with a customer about something like that." She paused. "You know, I think I'll come back another day. You're not the person I want waiting on me."

It's OK, you're not the customer I want to wait on either.

"Alright." I was fine with her leaving.

In one last effort to chide me, she turned before walking out and said, "I don't know your name, but rest assured I will call you in."

Ouch. Really, lady?

The radio and I were once again alone. I leaned on the counter and stared out the window, mulling over what just happened. I couldn't and still can't believe I talked back. Why did I say that? Usually I'm good at holding my comments in. And I wasn't grumpy: I was awake (I went in at 12:30), chirpy, sweeping and singing to the Oldies station. Maybe I'm just too tired to whip back verbally when I open at 7 a.m. My friend Kelly said I just happened to have a good comeback. See what happens when you're fully functional?

I am slightly worried about the Health Department calling. Working in food service is far from my life goal but I don't want to be fired. Right now it's the steadiest job I've got. I just need to not think about it anymore.

That lady was right about one thing: I should never argue with a customer; this reaction is not my norm at all. But as a behind-the-counter employee, I will only take so much from a client, especially in her tone. So to you customers, remember there might come a point where your cashier will fire back.

Cookbook for One

I love to cook. Most times I'll settle for something simple (e.g. cereal) but occasionally I'll get the urge to bust out my cutlery and cooking-ware and make something "fancier."

Part of my hesitation comes from not having someone to cook for. Not just a significant other, just... someone. I'd be happy to even feed a roommate one in a while. Most of my friends have different schedules and my sporadic inner chef doesn't plan who to invite.

Portions become math "problems" since it's only me in this hole-in-the-wall apartment. Recipes are usually adjusted and recalculated. I sometimes wish there was a single person's cookbook.

Today I was fortunate enough to share my culinary creations with my friend Frances. Things tasted a whole lot better with good company.

The menu? Pisto (Spanish ratatouille) on top of tilapia, roasted potatoes with rosemary and shallots, and shepherd's pie in a gluten-free crust (courtesy of lovely Frances).

The Hand Bit Me

Since May I've been waking up more frequently than not because of numb hands. Lately I'm afraid of falling asleep. Sunday I woke early to severe numbness on my left hand; last night I woke up at 2 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep. My fingers tingled, felt swollen and ready to burst; I couldn't move them and tried shoulder rolls, an arm massage, a cold press, a hot shower, and laying on the floor to relax my muscles. Eventually they gave up and let me function normally in time for work at 6:15 a.m.

I'm afraid I'm getting carpal tunnel syndrome. Years ago my mom had surgery on both hands. We basically did everything for her that summer. The surgery was successful, her hands are pretty functional, but she still cannot put much pressure on them. E.g. push-ups are out of the question.

I think the culprit is a knot that frequents my back's left side. Pinched nerves can cause what I'm going through. If so I'll take the those over CTS, thank you.

As of now holding up the phone or driving become painful as minutes pass. Meds are not go-to solutions in my mind but I've been taking some Tylenol. Weight loss, back-strengthening exercises, yoga, better posture, and a chiropractor should help.

I struggle to consider myself a true one, but as an artist I can't lose my hands. OK, nobody wants to do that, but we definitely take for granted everything we do with them. What makes me a little more sad is the fact that I was gearing up to pick up my pastels and inks again.

Pssst...

I can't say much for this situation but I can tell you this: contrary to popular belief, sometimes secrets do make friends.

Farewell, Al

I currently had two pets: Ferdie, a parakeet who likes to talk to his mirror reflection, and Al, a leopard gecko. I left them under my parents' care while I traveled for two weeks.

Mom and dad decided to pick up my sis. "Hey, bring my zoo when you come up," I told my mother.

Pause. Pause not good.

"Honey, Al got out of his tank."

"What? When did this happen?"

"A couple of days ago. I wanted to tell you but didn't want to put a damper on your trip."

A few more lines and I hung up. I felt sad and heavy and wanted to cry.

Beky, my sis, for some reason couldn't understand. How would you feel if mom and dad lost Waffles (her bunny)? "It's different," she retorted.

No, it's not. Just because I couldn't pet or cuddle with Al while watching TV doesn't mean he wasn't a good pet or I didn't care. I had him five years and had grown very fond of him; I loved watching him stalk and pounce crickets and friends' reactions when they held him.

The spot on my bookshelf where his tank used to be is occupied by Ferdie, three wooden geishas and a bamboo plant. It looks nice, but it's different. I feel the need to fill the tank and emptiness with something else, but it wouldn't be right; it's too soon.

Freedom Has No Clothes

Today I went skinny-dipping. That's right, you read me. Instead of a bathing suit I simply used my God-given birthday suit.

A good friend invited me and another friend for a dip in a creek that runs near the farm she stays at for the summer. After a jungle-like trek through stinging nettles and climbing down the bank, we set our stuff down and shed our clothes. I eased into the water and the idea of being naked with two friends. It was like going public in a garment I've never really shown anyone before. The wonderful part was it didn't matter. We were happy to be out in nature together, liberating ourselves from society and its norms.

I've always felt somewhat self-conscious of my body, and seeing my two nymph-figured friends slightly added to that. But I knew they didn't care; we were all beautiful in our way and right. Our curves, though literally our shapes, shaped us into people as well: that's part of who and what we are, where we came from.

We sat on a log to soak the sun. I felt like part of that Pink Floyd poster with the naked ladies with painted backs. We ducked a couple times behind the log to avoid passerbys on the trail atop the bluff. Our sun-basking happiness came to an end when we saw a man looking our direction. He was on a cell phone so for the sake of this story we assumed he was calling the cops. We splashed towards the bank when he wasn't looking and scrambled to clothe ourselves.

We braved the nettles again but it was worth it. I was sun-kissed and free.

String Free

At the moment, I wish I wasn't prone to attachment.

The detachment process can be rather painful. Sometimes it's only as bad as a tooth being pulled; other times I feel someone tearing out the sutures on my chest.

I don't want another proverbial heart surgery.

Not Our Mamas' Kitchen

Yesterday three friends (Joni, Becky and Becca) and I made fettuccini and ricotta and spinach-stuffed ravioli from scratch. The four of us went to a pasta making demonstration at a local co-op grocer and decided to try our newly learned skills. We rounded off our meal with garlic bread knots, alfredo and two marinera sauces, and mango and jamaica juices. The alfredo and the drinks were the only things not made from scratch.
Growing up I never took much of an interest in cooking. I didn't hate it, I just didn't try to learn. Knowing how to make a quesadilla was good enough. Now I want to dabble into the culinary horizon. Part of it may be that I am on my own. I need to eat to survive and without mom or a college cafeteria I want something besides Ramen or cereal. Why should my taste buds be deprived of excitement in my own house?
Mine and my girlfriends' desire to experiment in the kitchen goes beyond survival of the fullest. I think cooking, in a sense, has become a rare art. A slough of fast food joints and restaurants make meals for us. Family meals are still around but are no longer staples in today's fast-paced society. I'll admit I've fallen into the "I'm too tired" or "I don't have time" trap (and that's without children or even a significant other!) yet I can't help but crave something better.
Cooking for our mothers was part of the "I do" package, making it primarily a responsibility. Not that they didn't take some pride or joy from it, but it was a type of duty. For the four of us and many others in our generation (including gents), it is a type of hobby and an adventure. Maybe that's why there's more interest in it.
Becca hopes society somehow goes back to the "older times," when meals were homemade, families ate together, and the only acceptable take-out was a brown sack for lunch. As we and four other friends sat around a table, laughing and talking over a pasta dinner made from scratch, I kind of hoped it would and that I could be part of it.

Today I Ate an Organic Cow

Today I ate an organic cow. I'm a vegetarian. Oh, and I went to a H.E.M.P. (Help Marijuana Prohibition) picnic, so I was quite the "rebel".

Whitney, a friend who works at the dry cleaners next to our bakery, helps organize these rallies. After many invites I finally went. It was the perfect day for the park: rainy and cold. I kept thinking of Seattle, though the one day I was there the skies were blue and the sun shone upon my back. I think the older hippies who lead H.E.M.P. also had something to do with my Northwestern thoughts.

One of the group leaders, Farmer Bill, brought some organic ground beef from his farm. Whitney assured me the cattle were grass-fed and well treated. I'm not a hard-core animal activist or green person but my flower child tendencies figured it was OK to try it. After all, it wasn't hormone-filled, grocery store meat, no?

Two ladies opened the packets and began shaping the meat into red, round patties. It didn't hit me until later that they might not have washed their hands. Hemp, meat AND unsanitary food preparation? Bring it on!

I got in line and put some carrots, chips and a hamburger bun on my paper plate. Most of the patties were small; mine was about the size of a deck of cards. (That's the correct helping size for meat, just FYI.) I topped it off with classic ketchup and mustard.

Whitney, her sis Lindsey and I sat down. I picked up my burger and took a bite. I haven't had a burger since turning to a green diet, so I have nothing to compare it to, though Whitney said you could definitely taste the difference.

Taste was good, not going to lie. Yet something in the back of my mind kept reminding me I was eating animal muscle. I didn't completely not enjoy it, and knowing this had been a well-cared-for creature eased guilt and fear of chemicals and disease. But the experience reaffirmed the fact that I don't really want to incorporate meat into my diet again. I left it behind and therefore don't find it as delicious as I once did. I'm a creature of habit and it's no longer for me.

Happy cows come from California, and organic ones come from Farmer Bill's, but I'll let each one have their beef.

Graduation Day 2010

It doesn't seem like 7 p.m. It doesn't seem like my roommate moved out. It doesn't seem like life changed today. But of course it has.

Another year officially ended with Union's graduation weekend. The school is my alma mater and I live across the street, hence my life rhythm still being synched to the school year. I may be out but I still feel a slow down coming when May comes.
My cousin, roommate and several good friends marched down the isle, received their diplomas, and bid farewell to our little college. I couldn't help but be nostalgic. I remember my cheeks hurting from smiling and being tired from a packed weekend.

I'm exhausted. I went to three receptions and hung out with my family. But this time even my surroundings seems tired. My apartment is a quiet mess, except for Ferdie, my parakeet, who keeps jumping through his swing and puffing his feathers from my window's cold draft. I like the idea of my own space now that Crystal moved out, but knowing she won't be coming back will be odd for a few days. The weather outside is not helping: it is May and in the low 50s, complete with a chilly wind and overcast sky.

Today has become a tired day. I feel like napping to recharge but I tried and couldn't fall asleep. That's why I'm here. Maybe reflecting will help me readjust of my surroundings and life. Ah, thank goodness for writing.

First on the list is my apartment. I don't like my computer being on the ground and Ferdie probably doesn't appreciate being crowded by DVDs, CDs and LPs.

B-Tan's B-Day

Yesterday was Brandon's 24th birthday. (Oh. He's the unromantic love of my life. We hang out at least once a week, I love him to death, but there is no attraction.)

Him and some other close friends went to a local Mexican eatery. (After taking a detour to the wrong Mexican restaurant.) Afterwards his roommate and our friend, Tammy, and I went out for what is hands down the best ice-cream in our town.

We discussed birthdays as we ate our scoops of snickerdoodle, hazelnut latte, peach cream, and apple. Brandon hadn't had a birthday at home since high school. Tammy thought she would be married by now (24), especially since she had been engaged. The only birthday that felt different was my 21st but as I don't drink I'm not sure why that was.

"What's it like to be 25?," Brandon asked me. I felt my child just asked me, "Why's the sky blue?"

What IS it like to be 25? I don't feel like my age. I don't feel like life "officially" started two years ago after I marched down the isle in a cap and gown to receive two diplomas. I don't feel like I'll ever be old enough to get married, have children, own a house.

Tammy's right though. Life has started and we might realize we're already behind. I think I procrastinated. One day it will hit home if we're not married. For her it's by 30, but only because chances of tying the knot decrease as we age. Single-hood seems to be my "destiny" at the moment and I've come to accept that fact.

This wasn't my birthday but I dare say it's the most reflective I've been in. I don't want to realize there wasn't much living between blowing out each set of candles. The thought of not being around people I love to celebrate our yearly milestones with is a bad note to a perfectly unperfect rendition of "Happy Birthday." Fumbling while trying to pin the tail on my life is still discomforting.

Our ice cream was sprinkled with melancholy but knowing we were still together helped take away the after taste. In the end that's you have.

Happy birthday, Brandon. Hope it's a good year.

Bailey's and the Saints Blessed Me on St. Patrick's Day

St. Patrick's Day isn't really on my "holidays to celebrate" list. Wearing green is the extent of my involvement. But this year I decided it was at least a good excuse to get friends together. Brandon and Becca came over and we watched "Boondock Saints." How Irish is that for ya?

I had some Irish coffee cake from the place I work at and brewed up some coffee. It wasn't the greatest cup of joe I've ever brewed but it was passable. To top it off with some Irish flavour I put about 3 teaspoons of Bailey's.

Contradictory to what I just wrote, I don't drink. I might try a sip from a friend's drink if offered or I'm curious, but I don't order alcohol. Once I had a concrete reason to abstain, but now it's just habit as I try to find a strong, rock-solid conviction. (More on that later.)

The only reason I had some was to satisfy my curiosity. I don't and won't apply this to every curiosity I have, but this one seemed OK. It was a mini bottle and I only had part of it. Definitely not enough to get me plastered. St. Patty once again gave me a decent excuse. Sorry I seem like such a conformist.

I don't plan on drinking; it's not really for me and it's just something else to spend money on. I also don't want it to somehow get out of hand, or with my luck have it be "that one time" when something happens to me.

Anywho, hope you had a happy St. Patrick's Day. Now to figure out a "constructive" use for the rest of the Bailey's.

Not Quite Mrs. Robinson

Mrs. Robinson (from "The Graduate") and I could maybe be friends. I've been seeing a boy lately. Yes, "boy": he's six years my junior and a college freshman.

For inexplicable reasons I like younger guys. Maybe it's the innocence. I'm not trying to take it, it's just that it suits me, as I feel I'm still naive for my age.

I met my pseudo-significant other in January thru my friend Kaity. We hit it off but I didn't think much would come of it. A month later he randomly called me and we've been hanging out since then.

Unlike the assertive and manipulative Mrs. Robinson, I'm terrified.

The last time I was vulnerable and open with someone I fell hard. My heart sports a nasty proverbial scar to prove it. After almost two years I feel I'm starting to wake up from a sad haze and live my life. It feels good, hopeful.

There is still a nasty side-effect to my case: I've been doubting my "honey's" sincerity. In what can be considered a metaphorical soul strip I told him I am still recovering from my last relationship. Yeah, it's been that hard. He's been surprisingly supportive and says he even wants to help me trust people again. It's not people I mistrust: it's a possible romantic relationship that has me almost sick with anxiety.

We love watching movies, talking, cuddling. I think we got to the latter a little faster than we should've but he adores me for who I am, thinks I'm "absolutely lovely" and calls me "darling." Though he's sometimes a bit too teasing he likes intellect and philosophy. He's a gamer and a nerd, a type that I'm quite familiar and comfortable despite having "N008" tattooed on my forehead.

Adorable as he sounds, a few things have me wanting to bolt the other way:
1) He's six years younger- I've dated younger guys before, but I feel six years is pushing my limits. I had my college years and an overall good social experience; I don't want to take that away from him and keep him from meeting other people.

2) I don't date for kicks and giggles- Dating for "practice" was never been my thing. He says it wouldn't be for fun, but I'm still not sure how serious he is.

3) I'm scared of getting hurt again.- Though self-conscious, I've tended to be a very trusting (sometimes a little too trusting) person. Mom says it's important to be transparent but understood why I didn't want to feel exposed anymore. I'm having a harder time sharing myself this go-round.

4) I'm don't think I'm emotionally healthy enough to have a relationship yet.- While he knows my story and I appreciate the patience, I don't want him to somehow become a band-aid to a deeper riff I need to fix within. Just because I'm happier doesn't mean I'm well.

I'm over thinking to the point of slight anxiety. I don't want to do that. I want to enjoy his company and get to know him better, maybe to the point where I can firmly say, "Yes, I'm with him." Not sure how compatible we are yet, but I am curious to find out. I'm just really, really scared about taking a jump off this diving board.

Lost and Found Tastes Better Than Cherry

I went to downtown for poster posting this evening. I almost didn't go but decided to "get it over with." Just didn't feel like getting out in the cold and driving.

A local ice cream parlor was one of my targets. To my delight I saw two long-lost buddies I hadn't seen since November.
We're not close but I definitely enjoy seeing and talking to them: Cory is always friendly and Caleb intrigues me.

We chit-chatted about nothing in particular. Cory skipped his classes, one of them being German. No gutten tag for him today. Caleb was MIA in D.C. and Spain. No wonder I hadn't seen him.

I left after sharing my vegetarian conversion and some ice cream samples. Cherry nut was delicious.

I forgot how good it feels to unexpectedly re-find friends. That was better than the cayenne chocolate ice cream available.

From the STI Clinic

My roommate is finishing her last semester in nursing school. She's stressed, but she loves it. I reap the benefit of random stories. Some gross, others funny, a couple sad, but all interesting.

She had a clinical at the STI clinic. She told me about some of the patients and conditions she saw: teenagers; an HIV-positive woman, a patient with gonorrhea.

I've never met anyone or had a friend confide he or she had a STI. I could only think of "House" episodes involving these infections. Some walked away from his or her significant other; others forgave and decided to work through it; all were affected.

I know these and other things are out there and not simply a gasp-inducing plot point. But it's not until you experience it or know someone who has that it affects you.

For those of us who are ignorant, as we all are in some area, don't close your eyes. For those of you who feel misunderstood, as we all are in some way, please be patient: some of us are trying to open our eyes.

Cheshire Cat Grin

I have a close friend whose title of "close" I can almost safely say is comatose and "friend" barely hanging on. Part of it might be the contempt and bitterness towards him that I'm failing to ward of. The other is him.

He doesn't tell me much personal stuff anymore. I can tell he's not content; I still can read him well. There is, however, one small keyhole that allows me to proverbially peer into his otherwise tight space. I snooped (and ironically, stumbled) upon it. Voyeuristic doesn't quite describe my actions. My moral compass wants to point on the label "crime," though it spins between that and "stalker." Other adjectives are welcome.

I wish a simple phone call, visit or chat would re-establish trust and make my detectiving pointless. Sorry, this seems to be the only way I really know what's going on with him. Why? It's complicated. Why is it always complicated? Oh, yeah. *Re-reads beginning paragraph*

I wish I was more ashamed. But knowing that I know what he doesn't want others, probably including me, to know gives me a sick, Cheshire Cat-like grin.

Triangle

She broke your heart.
You sent her to PostSecret.
I am sending myself to a counselor tomorrow because of you.

Remember: Call Your Mama

Rarely do I verbally express the emotional tempests that occasionally (in this case lately) rage inside. I\ have a handful of close friends whom I confide in, but unfortunately my prideful and independent nature wants to muddle through until I'm almost drowning in a glass full of thoughts and feelings. That's when I talk.

Lately I've been sailing the sea of uncertainty and fighting waves of self-doubt, anxiety, mistrust, and pseudo-unemployment. I had already talked to two friends but continued to feel angst with no proverbial land in sight.

That's when I decided to use a never-failing life-saver: I called my mama.

We began with usual chit-chat. Weather, sister's basketball game (she made a shot, yeah!), family. Topics got deeper thereafter- I was not content, had a tendency to over-think (which sometimes had physical side-effects), still held a particular grudge. Unsurprisingly she "prescribed" God, prayer and the Good Book. Inside I groaned but knew she was right. God and I have become acquaintances.

The comforting thing is she listened to my cracking voice and convoluted explanations. She even understood and admitted she sometimes experiences what I go through. And, despite the state I am in, I am still her hijita.

I don't have concrete or easy answers, but at the moment that's OK. I talked to my mama.

And I Will Drive 200,000 Miles...

Today my odometer hit and passed 200,000 miles.

I wished close friends were there to experience my milestone so I pulled over and texted some. Two replies trickled in:

"=) Congrats! Making it home safe?"

"Haha, congrats! That little car is quite the beast."

"Thanks!," I replied to the latter. "It resembles the owner."

No lie. My silverish-blue '95 Toyota Camry has several trips under its timing belt and took some literal beatings (slight dents courtesy my sister). Certain parts need to be replaced but it's still going; besides, the wear and tear give it personality.

I'm not sure where I'll be or when I'll hit another odometer milestone. Either way I'll do my best to have good company and my faithful little car.

Here's to the next 200,000 miles.