Arkansas Times

Thursday, December 24, 2009 - 14:15:57

White Flag.

After reading my last blog, my dad emailed me and noted two short words: Red flag. Sometimes red flags inspire the need to raise a white one.

 

It’s no secret I was hurt in September.  I allowed some time for healing, later attempting to trust again. Looking back, I still feel I was ready. My error rests in investing emotion in yet another, unattainable man. I became the “sorta” girlfriend. Insecurity and uncertainty are ingredients for a poisonous brew, magnifying the worst in a person. I became needy, suspicious,  and worst of all, angry. I began dating a man who excluded me from his life, distancing me from his friends and family. As a “girlfriend,” I requested we change our Facebook status to reflect “in a relationship.” I felt it was an admittance, a public display of affection. Problem was, he did too. He said, “Anyone can see we’re together when they view our pictures.” Still, six letters, S-I-N-G-L-E insulted me. Sure, it sounds trivial. Anyone who gauges their friendships, relationships, etc. by a social site is living in a 7th grade world. There was a bigger picture. He was unwilling to claim me. There was a reason he didn’t want the “world” to know. His hesitance initiated mine.

 

I dated this man previously. He gave 100% and I gave 50%. He was affectionate, available, present, involved, interested…and I hurt him. I dissected (and dissected) the reason he was different the second time around. Sure, there was bound to be some natural resistance in allowing me in, but how long would I have to continually prove myself? Was it even possible? Maybe he was not sure of his feelings for me but wanted the opportunity to figure it out. Maybe he was punishing me for the hurt I caused. Maybe he was flirting with women on Facebook and the status update would’ve challenged his game. Or, maybe he really was different. See, I was regarded and introduced as a girlfriend in person, so why the refusal to admit it virtually? I know jealousy and accusatory behavior often times spawn from one’s own guilt and actions. While I was now at 100%, perhaps there was residual guilt from past actions. I didn’t “cheat” on him but the situation wasn’t good. Now, I was all in but the unsureness remained. My good friend Jeff said, “ It’s always present. You look at yourself and think gee, if I am capable of infidelity, even if I haven’t committed the act, surely this person is capable.” When the insecurity goes without nurture, the monster gets bigger. Nagging ensues which touches the next domino, avoidance of the nagger, which creates more nagging, which yeah, you get the point. I recognized this vicious cycle while submerged in it. As a result, I tried harder. I bit my tongue. I became softer. Rather than meeting me in the middle, he took advantage of it.  

 

I spoke with a few male friends, all validating my concern. Wes said, “When you want to be with someone, you avoid hurting them. You want to be with them. You want to include them. That person is the detox to your stressful day. When I began dating Kristie, I wanted to be near her constantly. I still do. Sure, I value my alone time too, but it’s never a chore to be with her. It’s about compromise and bending on issues, like Facebook, issues that really aren’t significant. You certainly don’t mind changing your Facebook, unless…”  My friend Chris M. delivered the best advice, “I like <insert new guys name here.> I liked <insert ex-boyfriends name here.> But I have to say, you need a grown up love. I can tell you, as a man, what’s going on here but I think you already know. I love my wife. Being with her is easy.” As the words escaped his mouth, I noticed he had been holding her hand the entire time. Profound clarity in a few short moments. I realized the reason for his hesitation was irrelevant. In fact, it couldn’t matter less.

 

I want someone who doesn’t have a problem claiming me.

I want someone who includes me in their outside world.

I want someone who respects my time, my heart.

I want someone who holds my hand.

I want someone who wants to.

 

In the midst of it all, I met up with Jeff for drinks. In disclosing my concerns I said, “Sometimes I feel like there is not enough thread to piece my heart back together. Love should create joy versus mascara stained pillow cases.” Might sound a bit trite, dramatic but it is my truth. Jeff recited one of my all time favorite quotes: “Sometimes there’s just not enough rocks.” Forrest Gump says this to Jenny as she is hurling rocks at her childhood home. I’m tired of throwing rocks. It was a beautiful conversation only interrupted when the waitress said, “I saw your boyfriend Tuesday night.” A bit taken aback, I said, “Oh yeah? Where?” Keep in mind, he was working and had sent me a text (shocker) Tuesday evening which read, “Having a drink. Then headed to bed.” This was in response for him to join me and my friend Kelly for a drink. The waitress (hate referring to her in this manner but I don’t want to use her name) mentioned seeing him at the place he works and as my heart sighed in relief and just as that feeling in the pit of my stomach dissipated she added, “And then I saw him at another bar. Ha! I even made a joke asking if he was following me.” Déjà vu, the return of that, ugh, that feeling. PS- this was a common occurrence.

 

Reading this, one may ask, “Why were you even with this man?” as I’ve defined the negatives, the deal breaker, if you will. Remember, I asked him to change his status in the first place (would’ve been my first time.) Where we click, we click. He’s hilarious and clever, never in a cutting way, which is the most magnificent quality rarely found . We never ran out of stuff to say, another plus. He’s humble and that’s sexy. He’s charismatic and has the ability to make most people feel special, including (at one time) me. When asking about my day, I always knew he was asking because he really wanted to know. I always wanted to share good news with him. He was compassionate. He would chose the right thing, even if it wasn’t the popular choice. He defended me, built me up versus tearing me down. He never solicited a laugh at my expense. The poetry of it? He felt the same way about me.

 

This has been the kind of separating that bugs friends. “NO!! You two are meant to be together!” Or, “He’s crazy about you and you’re crazy about him. This isn’t right!” Or, as a family member relayed to another family member who shared with me (my cousin’s friends second grade teachers mother- ha,) “This is the man she’s going to marry. I know it. I’ve never felt this way about any other boyfriend. He’s strong, like her. He’s fun and funny. They make an excellent team.” It’s been an eye roller. Maybe I should’ve trusted more, had a little patience. I’ve just come to realize, if HE isn’t willing to claim me, I have to claim myself. That recognition is divine.

I'd be a liar if I said I didn't wish he would've fought for me. He didn't, by the way. We never could get our stars to align at the same time. Maybe he surrendered long ago. I'm tired of the "maybes." To quote Fiona Apple, "I'm tired of whys, choking on whys. I just need a little because, because."

 

 

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Friday, November 27, 2009 - 12:51:15

How to Lose a Girl in Ten Texts

So no one is perfect and I get that and all, but sometimes you meet (or re-meet) someone pretty fantastic. Bells, whistles, the whole nine yards. I’ve spent the last several weeks getting reacquainted with an old friend, an ex-flame. While the pros far outweigh the cons, the following just gets on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

 

If you’re at a table eating, drinking, conversing with me, please, pretty-please, try to go a whole five minutes without texting. It’s rude. If you’re in a situation where one on one communication is not the case, then sure, by all means, text away. Otherwise, silence your phone and slip it quietly into your pocket. Sure, a text message has its place. Even if you’re on a date, etc., go ‘head and check your phone briefly (stepping away from the table is best,) while offering your texter a “I’ll touch base later…” text. The “What’s up?” text message, however, can wait for a response. To continually text back and forth, we’re talking full out conversation, is enough to make me cranky, bitter, bitchy.

 

We’ve started a game. You text, I text. If he picks up his phone, I do as well. If he starts texting incessantly, guess what? Yep, ditto. It proves a point. Even now, he’ll say “I’m not texting. I’m emailing—it’s work related.” Or “I’m checking my fantasy football stats, googling the car you just mentioned, playing poker, etc.” No sir, not okay. The man I’ve been dating (who shall remain nameless,) is social. Very social. He and I cannot walk into a public venue without one (or both) of us knowing a substantial amount of the population. This trickles into his phone. He definitely requires an “unlimited texting” plan.

 

What’s even more annoying than the abundant texts? The delay in responding to mine. If we make “maybe” plans, I’ll sometimes reach out and ask of his evening plans, ask of what he is doing, etc. When there are major gaps (hours) from the man who brings his phone charger into the bar, I grow a bit peeved. This happened recently and he later responded with “Busy right now. Holler at you later.” One would define busy as being at a movie, eating dinner with mom, driving, etc. He was playing video games. Let me repeat myself, he was playing video games. Keep in mind, this isn’t a common problem, but when it arose, I assured him I wanted the same attention bestowed on his video games, “I hope to be treated like Mortal Combat 2 next time we’re out together.” Keep in mind my phone call went unanswered. He’s gotten a little better.

 

Even before our relationship moved from the friend zone and morphed into something less platonic, I recall sitting beside him while he texted a co-worker two tables over. True story. She would occasionally blurt a response verbally out loud versus electronically sending it out on the wire. He’s a fairly good at multitasking so I still felt as though he was paying attention but ultimately I found it so obnoxious, I left early.

 

When friendship transformed into “dating- but-not-exclussively,” I grew curious as to whom he was texting (and texting and texting.) Maybe that made me jealous, silly, but ultimately, I found it a little (lot), what’s the word….oh yeah, RUDE.

 

Now we’ve found ourselves in “we’re only dating each other land” and the texts have definitely calmed down, but I still have to wonder of why the moment isn’t good enough with the present company? Why is it necessary to check your phone every few moments?

 

I think back to my last (dysfunctional) relationship and though he had a list of quirks and annoyances, the texting was never a factor. It was quite the opposite. He would text me when he knew I was unable to accept a phone call (I don’t answer personal calls at work,) but his general message was “Call me when you have a moment to talk.” Verbal conversations have been replaced with “LOL’s,” “OMG’s,” and “What R U up 2’s?” It’s nice to hear a person’s voice.

 

Written letters have been replaced with emails while phone calls have been replaced with texts. I think of the shoe boxes full of old notes from high school, most of which disappeared years ago. It was a highlight to pass a note (which typically said a bunch of nothing) in class. It was an overwhelming joy to receive one from a crush. I wonder, have love letters been replaced with texting? Are love letters a thing of the past, like a cassette tape? At least I can still pull out an old cassette tape (oddly stored in a shoe box,) though text messages tend to find their final resting spot in a “deleted” folder versus an old shoe box. Sure, a text offers instant gratification. I get the same butterflies from a text from a crush I would get from an actual note. I suppose the sentimental girl in me misses what I am able to hold on to a little longer.

Of course, I have to insert Wes' input (he needs his own blog,) "Lauryn don't bitch about technology because it's a good thing. And, while I agree texting is rude, it has a place. It's kinda like farting. Everyone does it, but not everyone does it at the dinner table. Furthermore, you writing about private annoyances in a public forum probably annoys him. So there you go. Give and take." He used a few other colorful analogies that are simply too disgusting to share. Still, I lucked out with best friends. Wes is some funny stuff. 

 

With 2010 peeking its head ‘round the corner, I know I have to continue moving forward. Still, I love the idea of reviving the love letter. Maybe that’s too much to ask, but at the very least, please put your damn phone away when you’re with me or I might just write a blog about it. Heh. My family even wished me a "Happy Thanksgiving" via text. The Information Age...

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Tuesday, November 03, 2009 - 19:08:56

Trick or Tramp

All of my friends dress like hookers and chances are, yours do too. Halloween. It is the one day, .27% of the year (thanks to Michael R. for correcting my mathmatical blunder,) where it is acceptable to dress inappropriately and without apology. Exploitation is encouraged. Fishnet pantyhose adorn the legs of most females. Too much makeup is always juuuust right, while less (if you know what I mean,) is most definitely more. Conservative is redefined with candy-apple red lip stick, low cut corsets, plaid miniskirts, and the courage of a cougar. Yes friends, October 31st is the one night we're allowed to pin a tail on the back of our black lingerie while telling everyone, “I’m a cat. Me-ow.”
 
My best friend Wes recently asked me, “When do I have to worry about my daughter wanting to dress like a prostitute? Is there an age range?” Allowing no time for thought I offer, “12 to 60. It’s innate. Women like to be somebody else just for one night. It starts early. It lasts a while.” Wes shakes his head and says, “NO! I’ll give you 16 to 39. Then your whoring days are done.” Of course, for some women, there is an assortment of roadblocks to include weight and age. As women, we are our own worst critic. Wes said, “I seriously wish some women would ask men for assistance before buying a costume. No sweetheart, at your age/weight/etc., you do not need to expose this/that/the other.” Gee, I wonder why we’re insecure!? I've been nearly every size on a ruler. There is insecurity on both sides. His next comment, “There are some costumes you wear while knowing your intent. In ‘regular clothes,’ you’re a five. When you’re wearing your school girl costume? You’re a five men want to <have sexual relations with.>” I cleaned up Wes’ vulgarity. I’ll agree, we invite some it, but if we’re comfortable (whatever age, weight, etc.) we certainly shouldn’t have to ask a man’s permission. If I’m a size four at 41 (or 51 or 61,) and I feel okay, that’ll be all the permission I require.

With Jonivan, my pre-Halloween date. 10/30

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Friday, October 09, 2009 - 17:47:04

Give Up the Ghost

In early ’07, when I frequented bars more regularly, I found myself finishing a beer alone as my friend had to leave hurriedly and unexpectedly. A man beside me, Alex, began to make small talk. Initially, I was someone abrasive and standoffish, making it clear I wasn’t interested in being “picked up.” He told me he was there to unwind before heading home, further telling me he had just returned from listening to an obscure band at a local bar. I was familiar with the band as Aware Records had sent me a copy of their album. Talking about music is a sure fire way to remove my guard. He asked me of my favorite album of all time and I stated, “Fat City by Shawn Colvin.” Most are unfamiliar with this particular album. (Side note #1: Shawn is well known for “Sunny Came Home,” which I think sucks.  It’s a shame because Fat City is uh-mazing.) The stranger at the bar was not only familiar, but also a fan of the album. He recommended Brandi Carlile, an artist I was familiar with (even owned one of her albums,) though I was not impressed. Disappointed he asked me to listen to one of her newer songs, in his car. Stupidly, I joined him. I could’ve been cut up in little pieces. I’m smarter now. Fortunately, no little pieces to speak of, uh obviously.

 

The song he shared was “The Story.” It made the hair on my arms stand up. We exchanged numbers and I agreed to purchase the full album (the single was available already.) A few days later, Aware Records mailed me a copy of the entire album The Story days before it was available to the general public. (Side note #2: Aware is a subsidiary of Columbia Records. Aware is also John C. Mayer’s label. Years ago, I signed up as a “rep.” They send me albums and I provide honest feedback. If I love it, I spread the word. If I really love it, ahem, I blog about it. ) I called Alex to share the serendipitous coincidence (say those two words together seven times as fast as you can.) He said, “Listen to ‘Wasted.” While driving, song five, “Wasted,” played, forcing me to pull my car over to read the lyrics. (Side note #3:  I’ve since shared this album with many and it is one of the few albums that appeals to everyone. Buy it. Thank me later.)

 

In the following weeks Alex and I spent a great deal of time together. Most conversations surrounded music. Most “dates” involved live music or sharing  songs with one another in that “I-knooow-you’re-gonna-love-this-one” fashion.  Alex is nearly 14 years older than me, however our musical tastes are completely parallel.  Great music is timeless, ageless. He introduced me to Jonatha Brooke who does a killer rendition of Allan Parsons “Eye in the Sky.” I listened to it on repeat until I wore out the lasered grooves on the CD. I introduced him to John Mayer and Just Off Turner. He was my musical soul mate. Alex made me two “mixed tapes”- er CDs and  I still find myself listening to them. Alex travels on a regular basis, allowing him to see many cities. As a result, he’s seen Brandi play a million times in a million different cities. He invited me to see her in Dallas. I scheduled time off work, had grown addicted to her album, and was really looking forward to seeing her live. The day before our Dallas (mis)adventure, Alex calls and disinvites me. He mentions reuniting with an ex-girlfriend while noting it as best we no longer keep in touch. True story.

 

Initially, I was upset because of him. Fortunately, the feeling was fleeting and I became upset at the lost opportunity to see Brandi. I received (still do) updates via email from a little bar, Newbies, in Memphis. It has a “Juanita’s” feel and many great artists have played there. I discover Brandi is playing there on a random week night. I encourage my friend Kelly to hop in the car and join me. She accepts the invite. I feared Alex would be there but decide to go anyway.

 

As I leaned against the stage in between songs (yes, I was inches away from the band,) I complimented Tim Hanseroth’s (guitarist) tattoo—the Auryn (like my name!) medallion from the Never Ending Story, my favorite childhood movie. Shockingly, Tim squats down and says, “Wow! No one ever knows the Auryn! That is awesome!” I talk with him a bit after the show and he introduces us to Brandi. She isn’t feeling well but I never would have known. Her voice was perfect and she was very kind, gracious. I asked of why she’s never played in Little Rock as the majority of her fans at the Memphis show are Little Rockers. She notes (after singing “Little Rock,”) “We’ve had trouble finding a venue.” I saw her last year at Robinson. Kelly and I joined her band mates for a few games of pool. Alex may have seen her live a million times but I’m betting he’s never played pool with the band. Eat your heart out.

 

 

Brandi Carlile and me post show at Newbie's in Memphis, Tennessee.

Josh Neumann (Cello.) Note the pool stick. Really friendly guy.

The "Auryn" from the Never Ending Story.

With Kelly. Toga Party. We always have fun.

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Thursday, October 01, 2009 - 18:45:26

Punch Out

Today, while visiting with Wes on my lunch break, I solicited his opinion of what my next blog topic should surround. I tossed out an array of scenario’s from my past while he quickly nodded in disagreement. He said, “These past events don’t really define who you are right now. You’re happy. Do you realize we’ve discussed nothing significant in the time you’ve been here? I think you should write of finding yourself happy.” And so, here I sit typing, taking his advice yet again.
 
In the last several days, I’ve found myself submerged in a calm I can’t explain despite my request for it in prayer. At the end of the day, I walk outside and there is still a sliver of light, the weather is perfect. I look forward to my evening walk with my dog. My shoulders and back feel as though they belong to a 29 year old rather than a 92 year old. I sit quietly on my porch, either alone or with an old friend, drinking cheap boxed wine. My roommates, Kelly and Audrey, join too. It’s nice to catch up with them. They both make me laugh. All of my bills are paid and my house is clean. My friend Mike meets me for cheese fries and a beer. He never goes out during the week, but I don’t have to coerce him. When asking if he’d join me, he responds quickly with “sure.” I enjoy his company. He and I formed a friendship after his friend broke my heart (years ago.) We laugh a bit, recalling the oddity of our friendship. He is the silver lining to that particular heartache. He reminds me, sometimes good can spawn from the bad. He may even take ballroom dance lessons with me. I am the hands down worst dancer in America, but I look forward to getting it wrong. I’m too afraid to jump out of a plane, but it's time I shake my fear of the Tango. And since it takes two…
 
I’ve leaned on my mother a ton. It’s the first time I’ve fully been vulnerable with her over a boy. It’s also the first time she’s greeted me with ears. She saves her clichés and offers what I really need, quiet. In ‘turn, I’ve opened myself up to her advice. Her wisdom has steered me right. Years ago, she did mention the following analogy originally coined by my cousin Aaron: “If you’re in a plane and it’s going down, punch out. Your parachute works. Employ it. If you don’t, you’re gonna die. The plane is going down, PUNCH OUT!” My family often speak using analogies if you haven’t noticed, but this is a good one to apply in any area of your life. If your love/work/friendship plane is afire and spiraling towards the ground, chose door #2. Select safety/happiness.
 
He is no longer my first thought when I awake. Sometimes, he does not even cross my mind until very late in the day. I revel in this break though. I deleted him as a Facebook friend because he hasn’t been a real life friend. It’s hard but I know it is best for me. Still, I’ll admit it; I wonder if he thinks of me. I wonder if he has regrets, if he’d take back some of his words…but it doesn’t consume me. We fill in the blanks, the time formerly spent together. The unfortunate thing about breakups, whatever the cause, is sometimes you lose a good friend too. It’s hard to shut it all off at once. It’s like going from 100mph to 0mph in one second. There is bound to be some pain. It usually hurts more the next day, but after time sets in, the pain dulls and eventually, the pain vanishes.
 
Happy I kept my words sweet even when I could’ve spit daggers. When sweet words were impossible, I chose silence. I’ve gained strength and integrity from keeping my mouth shut. My impulses challenged me and I beat them. Trust me, I wanted to “tag” every single picture of him with “douche bag.” In 15 months, you accumulate a ton of pictures so there would be a lot of tagging. I figured, his picture would pop up every time the word “douche bag” was googled. Ha. Then I realized, I loved, love this man, so instead I “untagged” every single picture. Since it’s out of my hands, I want him out of my head. Out of sight. Out of mind.
 
Sometimes, happiness is mistaken for boredom. I’ve been standing right smack in the middle of the bright side, confused by this foreign emotion. Happiness replaces the longing, the inspiration (sadness often fuels my writing,) the hollow. I’ve been reluctant to stand on the sunny side, apprehensive of the shadows around the corner. Taking time to recognize the delight. Finally October, my favorite month. And thank God… ‘cause September felt like a really long year.

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Friday, September 18, 2009 - 18:09:01

Super-Gluing the Pieces.

I am super-gluing the pieces. Difficult but necessary. Leaving, or being left by, someone is more than disconnect. It’s removing pictures from frames, removing pictures from the refrigerator, removing photos from the wall by your desk. It’s hard to determine which is worse, seeing the former us staring back when we were “happy,” or the now empty holes begging for new memories that don’t exist yet.
 
The radio is a mutherfucker. Last Saturday, in efforts to live outside of my head while keeping busy, I went to get a manicure. I sat there quietly listening to the “love” station on satellite radio, each song a four minute ode to hurt, not love. “Love Takes Time,” by Mariah Carey, “How am I Supposed to Live Without You,” by Michael Bolton, and “Can’t Stay Away from You,” by Gloria Estefan played back to back. This last week has left me mostly driving in silence, but one evening I asked for a radio sign. The song that played next was “Hold Your Head High.” Wednesday evening I watched Entourage, one of my favorite shows, and the closing song was Marvin Gaye’s “Piece of Clay.” I don’t know why, but this song has affected me the most. I forgot how much I love that song.
 
I’ve forgotten a lot in the last fifteen months, longer really. I’ve neglected my own advice and allowed mediocre to be enough. Months ago, my best friend Wes said, “It’s like he’s been given a brand new Bentley that only needs tires. You’re the Bentley and he isn’t willing to put forth the effort for tires.” When I repeated this analogy, which I probably should’ve kept to myself, he retorted with (after snickering,) “If you’re a Bentley, I’m the Batmobile. <Pause> I mean, you’re not high maintenance and Bentley’s are high maintenance. You’re more like a 350 Z.” Thanks. He went out of his way to say mean things, things he knew would hurt me, with the sole intent to hurt me. To quote Winona Ryder in Reality Bites, “That ain’t love much.”  I’ve got to believe I’m worth loving. At the very least, I am worth tires.
 
I’ve been chasing a rainbow.
I’ve been hunting a unicorn.
 
I’ve been avoiding the literal writing on the wall. When the “unicorn” encouraged me to date others, I dated a kind man, Ben. My heart was elsewhere (Ben was gracious, understanding) and I severed ties as a result. Months later, Ben and I were able to be friendly. While at a local piano bar he wrote “Lauryn chose wrong” on the mirror. Later he said, “The man isn’t nice to you. He doesn’t appreciate you. He makes you sad. You deserve better and better is out there.”  I just want a little peace in my head, peace in my heart. Each day, I’m granted a bit more. Maybe by clearing out the clutter, I’ve made room for the peace.
 
I considered blogging about the actual events versus how they’ve changed me, but I’d rather make a “hole” on the wall rather than framing the photo.
 
Years ago, my mother shared a sentiment she had shared with a man she loved. She said, “I’ve give you all 52 cards in my deck. You’ve given only 51—almost enough, but not enough to play the game.” She received 49 more than I received. See, he didn’t give me 51, he gave me two, only two… and he can have those jokers back. So much hurt morphed into anger and finally, the anger is morphing into indifference. Know when to try harder and when to walk away. I’m uncertain who coined this phrase, but it’s good advice. And...
 

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Friday, September 04, 2009 - 18:10:59

Love Languages

There are a few things I love, made sweeter when grouped together. For example, I love the beach, a really good pina colada, and good music. When all three elements are present at once, it’s pretty darn tough to top. Nothing, however, beats quality time. I’d rather shop for cleaning supplies at Wal-Mart with someone I love than be on a tropical island, fruity drink in hand, with someone I don’t particularly care for.
 
Dr. Gary Chapman wrote The Five Love Languages, a book which embarrassingly, I’ve not read, though the concept is seemingly simple. It defines how we express our love and how we prefer others to express their love towards us. The five variances include: Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch.
 
Click on the following link which will redirect you to a short questionnaire, (if interested in your love language):
 
 
My Test Results:
Percent
Language
Score
23%
Words of Affirmation  
7  
40%
Quality Time  
12  
10%
Receiving Gifts  
3  
13%
Acts of Service  
4  
13%
Physical Touch  
4  
 

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Thursday, August 20, 2009 - 18:33:06

By the time I recognize this moment, this moment will be gone...

What you are about to read is your future…
 
The dynamics of who I am have not altered much since birth. My thinking patterns, general demeanor, and overall character has remained fairly consistent for as long as I can remember (dating back 29 years.) Where I’ve changed, grown lies in how I’ve embraced, rather than stifle, who I am. My “quirks,” which I once regarded as unusual, have proven to be quite common, “normal.”
 
Last week, after our captains meeting (kickball,) my friend John “Seed” and I opted to have a few beers at Crazee’s, a favorite local bar. While there, we caught up on the current events of our lives while a random thought altered the path of our conversation. I asked John if he ever thought of the present and its transformation into the past. I painted the following picture to illustrate my thought:
 
“Look at the sign on the wall. Look while knowing the moment you turn away, your present—this very moment of looking at the sign—will soon become your past. In mere seconds, when you redirect your eyes, this moment you’re in the middle of, will take new shape, transforming into your past.” Without a glazed over look, John vertically nodded in agreement as if, he too, had experienced this thought before. I recall doing this as a child, and now as an adult, I find myself quietly playing the same game.

John "Seed," Me, Chris: Post Kickball Game

Chris, Steven, and John "Seed:" Post kickball game.

 
I remember spitting my gum out of the window of a moving car and instantly feeling a momentary loss. This wad of gum, mangled with my teeth marks, saturated with my saliva and DNA, now lay resting miles behind me never to be seen again. Trust me, I know it sounds ridiculous and I assure the feeling was fleeting, but even before I set this piece of gum sailing out of the window, I harbored a moment of knowing I was chewing the past.

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Monday, July 13, 2009 - 19:30:25

The Dumbest Words Ever Uttered... (a tribute)

“Sentimental music has this great way of taking you back somewhere at the same time it takes you forward, so you feel nostalgic and hopeful at the same time.” Nick Hornby (High Fidelity)
 
Thursday evening, June 25th, I joined my friend Kelly (and two others who shall remain nameless to protect their reputation) at a local pub for dinner and a beer. Michael Jackson, the undisputable “King of Pop,” passed away earlier the same evening, inspiring conversation of his life. I believe I opened the can of worms by stating, “I can’t believe Michael Jackson died. He was a weirdo but I cannot think of another more influential, more iconic entertainer. Maybe Elvis?” One nameless friend (whom I’ll refer to as "Betty" from here on out,) chimes in with, “Glad he’s gone. I never liked him.” The other nameless friend (whom I’ll call "Fred,") agrees with "Betty,"stating,“Yep, one less pervert in the world.” Completely appalled, I am immediately defensive, “Yeah, okay, again he was a strange duck but he contributed a great deal… more than anyone I can think of… to pop music. He paved the way for a ton of artists. The man was an amazing entertainer. Elvis (whom I don’t care for) holds a candle, but name another.” Prepare and brace yourself, sit down even, for THE all-time stupidest of stupid retorts ever uttered in the history of wasted words: “Rascal Flatts.” Yes friends, my friend said Rascal Flatts were better, more influential, more revolutionary entertainers. She also included “Keith Urban.” Uh huh. A person cannot invent this kind of stupidity, and I am stupider (intended blunder) for having the conversation.
 
I’ll allow a moment for the laughter (and disbelief) to subside.

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Monday, June 22, 2009 - 10:29:45

Meeting the Man of My Dreams...

Last Wednesday, my buddy Jeff hooked me up with tickets to see “The Who’s Tommy” at the Arkansas Repertory Theatre. He said, “I really think you’ll enjoy it. Great cast, high energy, good music.” What he failed to mention was the probable loss of concentration due to the overwhelming attraction to the lead character, Brian Hissong, who portrays the adult Tommy.
 
My friends, Ryan and Amanda, and I take our seats pre-show. I take a moment to scan the program and my eyes are immediately drawn to the profile of Brian. I whisper to Amanda while pointing at his photo, “This guy is hot. H-O-T, hot. Just a good picture?” Amanda had seen the show the week before. She leans over and says, “You have no idea. You’re gonna have trouble focusing on the show because he is so freaking perfect. He looks a little bit like Steven (my neighbor whom I’ve mentioned in previous blogs,) but… just wait, you’ll see.” The cast of “Tommy” is attractive in general, so I turn to Amanda and ask, “Is that him?” She chuckles and says, “Uh no. You won’t have to ask. Trust me, you’ll know.” She was right.
 Brian Hissong.

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Friday, June 12, 2009 - 17:03:35

Show Me the Money.

You’re walking down the street and you see a person drop a $50 dollar bill on the ground. What do you do? Notify the person? Watch as they walk away and then scoop up the cash?
 
OK, now you’re entering a business and you see a $50 dollar bill by a bush. What do you do? Report the money to the business manager? Pocket the money?
 
Both scenarios have recently been present for two of my friends. In the first case, my friend pocketed the money rather than notifying the stranger. This bothered me as I am certain I would have done the opposite. In the second case, my friend reported the money to the business manager. Again, I would have made a new home for the money in pocket of my favorite overpriced jeans.
 
Is this a test of human decency? A reflection of our greed? Does karma play a factor?
 
I consider the friend who pocketed the stranger’s cash to be decent and trustworthy. The same rings true for the friend who reported the money. I know I would’ve walked away with heavy shoulders and a cloud of guilt if I had taken the stranger's money. I would have manifested how the person would have missed the money. Did they have children? Can they barely pay for groceries? Was that fifty dollar bill supposed to last them for a week? On the other hand, this feeling would be absent if I were to take the stray money by the bush. Is it due to the lack of visual in not seeing the money fall to the ground…from a real person?
 
Typically, we remember the money we find versus the money we earn. I recall finding a twenty on the ground in the Memphis mall when I was a child. I promptly picked up the money and immediately purchased a cassette tape (yes, a cassette tape.) It was as though the money was burning a literal hole in my pocket. We also tend to remember the money lost. I once lost a significant amount of cash in a bar years ago. To this day, I wonder how it was spent, though I suspect it was spent right away on shots and Red Bull and vodka’s (Grey Goose versus the cheap stuff  ‘cause you know, it’s “free” money.)
 
I’d be interested in the population’s response to the above scenarios.

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Thursday, June 04, 2009 - 14:47:46

Public Restroom Stall Selection

Years ago, my good friend Jeff posed the following question to several while soliciting response in efforts to compile a statistical report:
 
“When using a public restroom, which stall do you typically select and why?”
 
So, I thieved his idea and presented this question to several.  The responses were hysterical while often inspiring new conversation.
 
I received 35 responses (26 female, 9 male.) Nine selected the first stall. Eleven selected middle stalls. Twelve selected the last stall. Three listed variables which prevented their selection to fit neatly into the first, middle, or last stall category. And on to the “why” portion of the show…
 

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Monday, May 11, 2009 - 13:49:01

If Wishes Were Kisses...We'd All Have Mono

Last Monday evening, my friend January and I joined my buddy Ryan and two of his buddies at a local Mexican restaurant in honor of Cinco de Mayo. Ryan has recently relocated back to Little Rock from Los Angeles, so the gathering was also in honor of his return. When presenting Ryan with 20 questions surrounding his return, I asked if he was working yet. This question reminded me of Ryan knowing my boss. Ryan noted “Small world,” while further stating, “his wife walked in on my first kiss. I was twelve years old and already terrified and then I get busted.” Ryan dove further into the story, noting another person, John, who was ironically my first kiss. I said, “No way!! John was my first kiss! I was eleven, nearly twelve!” Most of us found the story quite comical, however, one of Ryan’s friends was taken aback, “Eleven? Twelve? Who is kissing at eleven and twelve!?” I bit my tongue while January chimed in, “seems like a pretty normal age. I was 14.” Ryan’s other less appalled friend chimed in with, “Well I am 25 and I have a ten year old so I’ll let you deduct accordingly.” Priceless. I was disgusted by the very obvious disgust the one friend showed over adolescent kisses.

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Thursday, April 30, 2009 - 18:59:37

What Happens in Chicago...

Tomorrow afternoon, I will be flying to Chicago on work related business. I haven’t been to Chicago since February of 2008. The detail below was written over a year ago, with recent edits.
 
In November of 2007, the formation of an unexpected friendship began. I have serviced a particular account at work for the last several years. In this time, friendships have spawned from professional relationships. One day I must have been feeling particularly feisty because normal work email exchanges of:
 
Self: Please review this proof.
Customer: Looks good. Carry on.
Self: Will do.
 
Turned into:
 
Self: Please review this proof.
Jeremy: Looks good. Carry on.
Self: My wayward son?
Jeremy: There'll be peace when…
 
And you see where this is going. This solitary email opened the door to a conversation of music—one of which led to discussion of guitar and our favorite songs… and movies… and then… myspace. OneRepublic served as a huge icebreaker we both purchased this album within days of each other. Several days and evenings of innocent emails of this nature eventually led to feeling comfortable enough to share our phone numbers. And my phone bill has never been the same…

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Wednesday, April 15, 2009 - 18:12:56

They would do it for you...

I made a mistake last Sunday. I received fair warning. I was told, in explicit detail, to avoid watching the movie, Marley & Me. My love for animals is no secret and this movie stung a bit. Okay, stung a lot. Few movies have saddened me to the point of tears.  Castaway, Pay it Forward, Patch Adams, Forrest Gump, Life is Beautiful and My Life as a House are among the few. You can be warned, you can be fully aware of the ending, but you cannot escape the waterfall of tears if you chose to make the same mistake.
 
My dog Rusty has been a huge part of my life, a giant part of my family, since I was nineteen. I’ve loved and cared for him a long time. He’s nearly entirely blind due to his cataracts, he moves much slower, and his once reddish hair has begun to gray. I know he, like every living thing, will not live forever. I know this fact, and yet, I cannot bear the thought. Marley & Me forced me to the future and I felt immediate heartbreak. I still do.  I sat between Steven (who had already watched it once, glutton) and Audrey while crying, no sobbing, to the point of embarrassment. I cried until I was out tears. I cried enough to leave proof of crying, in the form of swollen and puffy circles under my eyes the next morning.
 
I have trouble watching the ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLachlan, I struggle inside the Arkansas Humane Society, and I get a little weepy on kickball Sunday’s because the Little Rock Animal Shelter can be seen when I drive into Interstate Park. Clearly, others share my opinion. Larry Betz, Founder of the Little Rock Kickball Association, and better known to fellow kickballers as “Poo”  started the LRKA in memorial of friends he lost. The LRKA is one part fun and one part charity. This spring, our charity event benefits the animals. We (each LRKA team) will be donating food, toys, treats, flea treatment, bedding, etc. to the needy dogs, cats, puppies and kittens at the Little Rock Animal Shelter. All items will be taken to Interstate Park this Sunday, April 19th. If you would like to reach out and help, but can’t bring yourself to walk through the door of the shelter like myself, I encourage you to come by this Sunday. Poo will be at the park between noon and 7pm. You can’t miss him. He cruises around via golf cart. Otherwise, monetary or aforementioned donations can be mailed to:
 
LRKA
c/o Larry Betz
1904 Berry Place Drive
Conway, Arkansas 72032
 
Each donation offers more time to an animal. More time to be adopted. Time is priceless.
 
Additionally, Scotty Adams, a kickballers for 10+ seasons, has organized “Craws for Paws,” benefitting the Humane Society for Pulaski County. The event will be held on Friday, April 24th in the Rivermarket Paviliion from 7pm until midnight. Tickets can be purchased for $25 in advance or for $30 at the door. One ticket gets you unlimited crawfish, fixins, unlimited beer, live music, and a great time shared by other animal lovers, for a great cause.  For tickets:
 
501.690.6909 for more information.
 
Animals love unconditionally. They offer forgiveness without question. They sense our happiness, our sadness. If I could rescue every animal on death row, every animal in an abusive situation, every animal in need of a home…
 
…I WOULD.
 

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Monday, April 13, 2009 - 14:17:44

The Psycho Shower Story.

Last Thursday evening, I stayed up ridiculously late with Steven. It isn’t uncommon for us to stay up watching movies or talking as we are both nocturnal, however, this particular night, we were awake later, or earlier, depending on how you want to look at it, than normal. Steven mentioned coming by Friday morning to insure I would be awake on time. I assured him it was unnecessary but he insisted. When we’ve stayed up far too late in the past, he’s made mention of this same gesture, though he has never followed through so I assumed this case would be the same.
 
I live with my sister Audrey, nearly 21 years old and my friend Kelly, ten years Audrey’s senior. The three of us have varied schedules. Audrey works during the evening, while Kelly leaves an hour before I awake. I make mention of this because Kelly and I make concerted effort not to rouse Audrey from slumber in the am hours. While I am able to sleep through considerable noise, Audrey is awakened by the slightest of sound.
 
I awoke Friday morning, groggy and tired after only a handful of hours of sleep. I entered my shower, as I do every morning, half asleep. My bathroom is attached to my bedroom and when both the bedroom and bathroom doors are shut, little can be heard on the other side of the doors. While rinsing the shampoo from my hair, I open my eyes to discover the 6 foot tall silhouette of a man through the frosted glass shower door. Initially paralyzed, I released a blood curdling, guttural yell which even alarmed and frightened Steven, the man behind the blurry shadow. Startled and exhausted, Steven stated through laughter, “I told you I was going to wake you up. Wow! Your scream scared me! Who else could it have been?! You had to have known it was me!” Obviously, I did not upon initially discovering the creepy “Norman Bates” like figure in my bathroom. I still owe him one for the near heart attack.
 
Oddly, Audrey did not hear a thing. I am not sure which is more unnerving, the incident itself or Audrey’s oblivion. She normally hears a pin drop, a feather fall, but she didn’t hear the sound of my voice at its highest pitch. Eek.
 
I can recall times in the past when I showered with one eye open, periodically pulling back the shower curtain to confirm I was the only one present. Perhaps my psyche has been tainted by too many scary movies, or maybe I opted to weigh on the side of caution. More perplexing, the “Psycho” shower scene has never been thought of in my current residence. I attribute this to the absence of a shower curtain. This is further proof worry and fear are often needless, but I’ll probably still lock my bathroom door. As a child, I always wondered if Jaws was going to appear in the swimming pool (I really did,) so perhaps I should also swim with my eyes open. I can just see Steven, swimming in the pool, shark fin atop his head. Duh-nah-duh-nah-duh-nah...Gosh, I'm probably giving him ideas. Maybe I should tell him I'm afraid of the Cinderella story. A girl can never have too many glass slippers.
I'm not sure who is more frightening in this photo...

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Thursday, April 09, 2009 - 18:44:18

Be a Fountain, Not a Drain

My mother once said, “Be a fountain, not a drain,” a phrase surely quoted before her though I cannot state by whom. She forgot to elaborate on what you should put out there. What you give flows like a circular stream, eventually it will find you again. I believe in karma and fully feel we get back what we give. I find there is truth to the principle “mind over matter.” If you expect the worst, the worst will often greet you and vice versa.
 
I’m not a bowl of cherries and sunshine. And sure, I have my bad days, but I don’t sauté in the bad with great frequency or regularity. I think there is a difference between being and thinking positively versus having a cheerful demeanor at all times. It’s easy to dwell in the negative. There will always be full moons with the capability to incite fights, but a full moon is not present every evening. Everyone can think of others who have it better, others who have it worse. Anyone can conjure old childhood memories or that which inspires anger, fear, sadness, bitterness. All of which is neither unique or worthy of reveling in to a point where present or future happiness is prevented. Those incapable of embracing the good, blessings, the ability to bite their tongue generally will receive limited sympathy from me. As a result, I find I surround myself with others who share this opinion.

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Thursday, April 02, 2009 - 11:24:28

Riding in Cars with Boys

As a young girl, I would fanaticize of romantic getaways, travel, with a male partner. I vividly recall inventing an entire excursion in my thoughts prior to sleep. If an actual date was planned, each detail would play inside my head like a movie. Often times, I would grow so consumed with anticipation, I would look forward to the evening time, the time in which I was able to design the future date while marking through another calendar date. Of course, anticipation breeds expectation. Sometimes the actual date would prove to be less spectacular than imagined. As an adult, “real” life moves at a much faster pace and somewhere along the line, I began neglecting my imagination all together. Still, the anticipation remains.
 
In early March, Steven invited me to go to Orange Beach with him and another couple. Elated, I accepted. Within hours, he called to “Indian-give” his offer while replacing it with a better invitation, “I can’t go to Orange Beach due to prior obligation, but now I am thinking about the beach and I’d like to go at a different time. You?” I said, “Sure. When and with whom (like I cared?)” Then he made my day, “Three weeks? Just us?” The following day, we reserved a condo in Destin, Florida.
 
The anticipation immediately kicked in. The notion of the beach, him, a week without work, the beach, him entered and the countdown began. Steven and I had lunch together the day before we planned on leaving and I said, “I wish we were leaving tonight instead.” He agreed and so, we decided to leave later that evening.
With Steven. Taken on the balcony outside our condo.

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Wednesday, March 11, 2009 - 12:30:26

Refrigerators.

One of my favorite authors, Wally Lamb, wrote a beautiful forward in his latest novel (his first in 10 years,) “The Hour I First Believed.” Written in the dedication, for his mother, now deceased, Lamb makes several references to her refrigerator. He states, “ …it was the outside of Ma’s fridge that best spoke of who she was. The front and sides were papered with greeting cards, holy pictures, and photos, old and new, curling and faded, of all the people she knew and loved.” This immediately sparked memories of my grandma Grace’s refrigerator, routing me to my own fridge, which now houses one of my grandmother’s old magnets, a butterfly.
 
You can infer a lot about a person based on the outside of their refrigerator. Mine is plastered with pictures of friends, family, invitations, quotes, and magnets. It is a shrine to those I love. I’m just not a “comic strip” kind of girl. One of my best friends, Kate, once had a Robert Frost quote taped to her freezer that read, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” I love this quote. Maybe it’s still there, buried beneath the abundance of pictures. Maybe she took it down and replaced it with a new phrase.
 
I collect magnets from various places, though not necessarily places I’ve been. Friends, family, and co-workers often scoop up a magnet when they’re on vacation and it’s a neat reminder, knowing a small souvenir traveled hundreds or thousands of miles. I keep a great deal of my magnet collection on a file cabinet at work and it is often an icebreaker for conversation when folks stop by my desk.  One prominent question, “Did you realize the Texas magnet is upside down?” The Texas magnet, a gift from Wes and Kristie, remains intentionally upside down in a “Where’s Waldo” fashion, and yet, it is always discovered.

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Monday, February 23, 2009 - 18:06:05

One Night Stand

Evenings ago, my neighbor Steven and I assisted my sister Audrey with studying. She had created flash cards enabling her to memorize definitions for her health class. One particular definition, “coitus interruptous,” spawned a conversation which eventually led us to the topic of one night stands. The three of us shared identical opinions of one night stands in the three of us are not designed to have random sexual partners. Where our opinions were quite varied surrounded the actual definition of a “one night stand.”   
 
I believe a “one night stand” consists of sex with a person one barely knows. Maybe “barely” isn’t the right word. To future define my opinion, a relationship, be it intimate or otherwise, is not sought or continued. Steven feels a “one night stand” consists of having sexual relations with a person only once, regardless of how well a person does or does not know the other person involved. Audrey’s belief teeters somewhere between the two variances. 

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