Gushing Honesty

I love sneaking peeks of other people's writing. I am currently engrossed in a book called, "Other People's Love Letters: 150 Letters You Were Never Meant to See." Reading these makes me feel like I'm the teacher who caught two love birds passing notes in class and decides to save the notes and read them with a glass of wine rather than throw them away.

That's kind of creepy, but I suppose sneaking in on someone else's romance is sort of creepy in and of itself.

The letters range from small words of poetic beauty on random pieces of paper to full length letters and emails with the names appropriately disguised. Letters of lustful verbs hidden behind exclamation points and commas. Letters of apologies, regrets, of infidelities.

Where are these from? Who are they too? Were any of them for me? Did my father write the one on page...page... it doesn't matter. It's so easy to get wrapped up in an other's romance that I could quite easily forget my own.

Cardiac

Socks. Undies. Teeth. Brush. Book.
Socks. Undies. Teeth. Brush. Book.
Socks. Undies. Teeth. Brush. Book.

Surely on 15 minutes of sleep I could remember a list as simple as this, I thought to myself as I approached the hotel door. I slipped my key card into the slot and waited for the light to flash green.

Green.
Green.
Green.

I threw all of our things into the suitcase. The one with the gold ribbon. I would hate to lose it at the airport. I scanned the room one last time before jamming myself, my stuff, and my two friends into the 5th floor elevator.

4.
3.
2.
1.

Till the tears run down from my eyes
Lord - somebody - somebody
Can anybody find me - somebody to love?
(He works hard)
Everyday - I try and I try and I try

I answer my phone only to hear another family member seek out all the information I have.
-Yes, Grandma is conscious.
-No, Grandma is in a room now.
-No, the doctors haven't said anything.
-Yes, I just checked out and yes I will be staying at the hospital tonight.
-Yes, I presented my paper but am skipping the rest of the conference.
-No, Frontier will not refund or reschedule our flights.
-Yes, I'm pissed.

Punishment Jar

The Punishment Jar was the worst possible way to discipline a teenager.
A fish bowl filled with little pieces of colored paper, each with a punishment of varying degrees written upon it.

On the phone after 4pm?
Turn your head and pick 1 slip.
"Take the trash out for two weeks."

Five minutes late on curfew?
Turn your head and pick 1 slip.
"Clean out the fridge."

Caught with a boy in the house?
Turn your head and pick 2 slips.
"Let Bailey take care of Jonas the fish for a week." (He died that week.)
"Organize Andrew's entire LEGO collection by brick type, size, and color." (It took me 4 months to do that one.)

Lie to your parents and run away to Minnesota for a week?
Turn your head and pick 3 slips.
"No concerts for a month."
"No weekend dates for two months."
"Take everything out of your room except for your bedding and one book."
(To this day, I feel like my mother rigged that round of the Punishment Jar game.)

I hated the Punishment Jar. I loathed it. I despised it. The idea of not knowing what kind of sentence I was to get for my crime of the week was like anguish for my soul.

But for some reason, I cannot wait to break out the second edition of the Punishment Jar for my kids one day.

Life List, pt 1.

1. Get another tattoo
2. Take more pictures
3. Run 5K
4. Be debt free
5. Identify 100 things that make me happy (aside from money)
6. Own an Old English Sheep dog
7. Stop worrying about the things I cannot change
8. Write a book and get it published
9. Graduate from college with my bachelor's degree
   
10. Get my masters
11. Get my doctorate
12. Take cooking classes
13. Make a difference in someone's life
14. Road trip across the USA
15. Forgive and forget
16. Create something beautiful
17. Travel to Spain
18. Live on the West Coast
19. Be a vegetarian for a year
20. Read 100 books in a year
21. Get a subscription to the New Yorker
22. Make my own clothing
23. Become a great wife
    
24. Find a hobby
25. Swim in the Ocean(s)
26. Read (and understand!) the seminars of Lacan
27. Feel beautiful every day
28. Be as great of a mother as mine is

Intertwined

Call me a sinner.
Call me non-traditional.
Call me what you want to.
But, every night I come home to find a beautiful bearded man in our living room. With his car next to mine, his socks tangled up in my jeans in the dryer, his honey roasted peanut butter next to my sunflower butter in the pantry, and his blue tooth brush next to my purple one joined by remnants of Crest Whitening toothpaste between the bristles.

My heart swells at the thought of this being forever.

My records alphabetized with his on the shelf below our record player and my hand crocheted blanket layered between his cotton sheets and worn down comforter remind me how hard it would be to separate his things from mine, such intertwined lives held together by three simple words.

If I'm a sinner, living together before marriage may just be the best sin I have ever committed if it it makes me feel like this every day.

Cinnamon Rolls: A learning experience.

Ninety Minute Cinnamon Rolls

• 3/4 cup milk (Check, pink label milk in the fridge)
• 1/4 cup margarine, softened ("I can't believe it's not butter" in a tub will do, right?)
  
• 3 1/4 cups all-purpose flour (I suppose it's all purpose, I mean I use it for anything that calls for flour...)
  
• 1 (.25 ounce) package instant yeast (Why can't I just buy one package at the store? Why do I get 3?)
  
• 1/4 cup white sugar (Why does it have to be white? )
  
• 1/2 teaspoon salt (Sure, why not.)
  
• 1/4 cup water (Good thing I paid the water bill this morning.)
  
• 1 egg (Small, medium, large, or extra large? Normal or free range? Brown or white? BE MORE SPECIFIC!)
  
• 1 cup brown sugar, packed (Yes! I knew we weren't discriminating!)
  
• 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon (Do I have to grind it myself or do they sell it like that)
  
• 1/2 cup margarine, softened (Didn't I already check margarine off my list?)
  
• 1/2 cup raisins (optional) (Yeah, definitely not opting for this one.)

• Heat the milk in a small saucepan until it bubbles, then remove from heat. Mix in margarine; stir until melted. Let cool until lukewarm. (Isn't warm milk spoiled milk? How much of the margarine am I stirring in? All of it? What temperature is lukewarm, exactly? Who's Luke and what does he have to do with the temperature of my milk and margarine mixture?)

• In a large mixing bowl, combine 2 1/4 cup flour, yeast, sugar and salt; mix well. Add water, egg and the milk mixture; beat well. Add the remaining flour, 1/2 cup at a time, stirring well after each addition. When the dough has just pulled together, turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead until smooth, about 5 minutes. (Well, I just killed my mixer trying to "beat" the mixture "well". It started smoking, I'm sure that's not a good sign to have 15 minutes into this project. What motions does kneading entail? Are my hands supposed to hurt? I didn't ask for manual labor, I just want to make some damn breakfast deliciousnesses.)
  

• Cover the dough with a damp cloth and let rest for 10 minutes. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, mix together brown sugar, cinnamon, softened margarine. (Do I get to rest too? After that kneading I think I'm going to need a damp cloth and some rest. More margarine??? Didn't I use all of it earlier? Good lord, I'm failing miserably.)
  

• Roll out dough into a 12x9 inch rectangle. Spread dough with margarine/sugar mixture. Sprinkle with raisins if desired. Roll up dough and pinch seam to seal. Cut into 12 equal size rolls and place cut side up in 12 lightly greased muffin cups. Cover and let rise until doubled, about 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). (Now seriously, do I need a ruler for this portion? Like, do the measurements of the dough rectangle need be exact? There seems to be a lot of exact measurements required in this section. I don't do measurements, I wing it. Oh! American Idol just came on, I'm not sure I want to complete this project. This should be interesting.)
  

• Bake in the preheated oven for 20 minutes, or until browned. Serve warm. (Well, they're "browned" alright. I guess we can just pick off the black spots. C'est la vie.)

Sirens

I suppose being situated between a campus of heavy parties and the closest major hospitals that I should be used to the sounds that break through the clear, saran-wrap like stillness in my mind, but I'm not.

I still haven't been able to distinguish the yelps and screams of the sirens around this place. Was it the loud and long wails that signal an ambulance rushing down Rollins Ave to save a life or was that a police car, armed and ready with a glove box full of blank traffic citations?

Sires, for me, signify fear. Fear of violence. Fear of death. Fear of the unknown in general. Ever since I was a child I grew up around CB radios and/or nosy grandmothers. For Nana, the CB radio was a way to insure the sirens she often heard were not for someone in her family. For Grandma Mary Jo, working in medical records was her way to catch up on the towns latest gossip after the sirens ended.

A New Season

Dear Mr. Change,
I would appreciate it greatly if you would consider NOT taking three very important people away from me all at once. I'm not sure my heart can handle it. I know it's part of growing up, but do you think you could hold off for a little while. Say what you will, I probably do have Peter Pan syndrome, I don't like the idea of growing up. So what? I can resist you all I want to. I can fight you until I cannot fight any longer.
Sincerely,
Your staunchest enemy, Andrea

My eyes are so full they're leaking, leaving trails of vainly placed mascara down my freckled cheeks.
"It's a part of life," Joseph says.
Yeah, but can we skip this part?
I don't want to know what life will be like with half the country between us.
And you, I know you're leaving for a job, but do you think you could find something a little more local?
Finally, you, more a sister than a friend...who will take me bra shopping when I'm too shy to embark on the journey alone?

If this a part of life, a journey, a new season, when and where does mine pick up?

To everything
Turn, turn, turn
There is a season
Turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under Heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

Golden Moon

1am I was driving home from the movies and I looked over out the window to look at the moon, it just looked so different tonight, golden brown and overcast. Then I looked out at how empty the roadways were compared to a normal time of day. What were the people who were out at 1am doing? I mean I know my story, but I have always been told that everyone has a story, what was theirs? Where were they going? Was their story more interesting than mine, who was just driving home after a movie?

After all of these thoughts cycling throughout my sleepy mind I had the sudden urge not to go home, just to run away, not because of negative reasons, but just to see the world. Who’s to say that we have to go home every night to a life that is comfortable and safe? Why can’t we take a left at an exit 400 miles away from here instead of following our routines? I don’t think we realize that there is much more to the world than just Missouri or wherever we are. We are so small in comparison. It blows my mind.

I don’t know if I am itching to get out of here for a change of scenery or to start over in a new skin or what, but it’s crazy what a drive under a golden moon can do for the soul.

The Harvest (2)

Bob had been a serious part of my world since the previous June. It was the summer I lost Jesus and found boys. He and I met in a small abandoned school in the mountains on a mission trip. While most were worshiping and doing daily devotionals, my 15 year old self was studying the way his hair parted to the left. I had figured out the exact spot his blond dye job stopped and his roots started.

I loved the way he spoke, such indifference wrapped up in simple nouns and verbs. I hung on his every word. "Lets go into town and get a pop," he would suggest everyday about 3pm as he grabbed my paint covered hand and pulled me down the hill after him. I didn't know what a "pop" was, but if he wanted it, I did too.

We spent many sun drenched hours together that summer in the mountains, listening to the creatures of the wilderness as they rustled through the trees. The days went by fast, but not fast enough to not leave an imprint in my mind. The days were long enough to give me the feeling like I had known him forever, but also to give me a false sense of security that we could be like this forever. I was naive.

The Harvest

The corn grew tall. Stretching upward with arm like appendages, as if to touch the sun itself. Golden and brittle, but full of promise, the harvest was approaching.

My inhibitions were hidden in between the husks. With my pink shoes scattered carelessly next to me and a corn pipe full of cherry tobacco, I inhaled the sweet and velvety thick pollution into my lungs and dug my feet into the grooves of the Earth. My porcelain white feet became tarnished as a dusty layer of Minnesota goodness fought for my attention. I leaned back into the dirt between the concrete rows of corn stalks, "I feel like I could stay here forever."

"No you couldn't." His voice startled me away from my sunlight drunk sensibility; I had somehow forgotten he was there, laying in the row to my right. He sat up quickly and picked up my shoes and his, and ran up the row back toward the gravel path. He looked back with joking honesty in his eyes.

"Your mind is too big to live here. You'd hate it. It's all farming and 45 minute drives to town," he yelled at me from the road as I dusted myself off and ran after him, rocks grinding into the bare flesh of my city feet. "You would still want to dye your hair red and act like a city girl," He stopped pacing across the gravel and looked at me. "You couldn't do that here and you know it."

His honesty disarmed me and suddenly I felt like a child begging to be held. It was as if I had read the last page of a novel first and realized I didn't want to read the novel at all.

"You know I could do it, Bob. You know I could," I stammered. "if it was you and me."

He sighed a hearty body-filling sign, smiled, shook his head and continued up the rocky path toward the house, "I'll make you a deal. Live your life and if we're both alone when you're 30 and you still think you want to be here, I'll be here. But not until then."

Snob is a term of endearment.

Don't get me wrong, I embrace being a music snob with open and loving arms, I really do. But sometimes it is really hard to keep up such an image. There are days when I just want to listen to cheesy, stereotypical pop music, or superbly lame renditions that pass for rock music. Listening to Katy Perry and Chevelle are effortless ways for me to enjoy my daily dose of music. I can't put on my regular collection of albums without having to think about what the lyrics mean, whether that guitar build up in the bridge makes sense or not, whether the lead singer was indeed in that other band that sounds exactly the same as the one I am currently listening to.

Being a music snob is a hassle, for sure.

If I know I will be around a certain group of friend over the weekend, I have to put forth the effort to catch up on my album reviews and listen to samples of them before I hang out with these people because I know such topics will come up in conversation.

Haven't heard the new Band of Horses or Spoon album yet? You better get on it if you want to have something to talk about with my group of friends. If you don't have something to say or don't know who we're talking about, you'll be left in the dark without a flashlight to find your way back.

Essentially, I'm being forced to listen to new music for conversational purposes.
Oh, tragedy!

Days to forget

He mixes the blue acrylic paint with his fingertips until the sunny disposition of the yellow disappears within it.

Back and forth. Clockwise. Counter-clockwise.
Repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.

He blends the two together with his right hand and searches for the mirror with his left. He holds the mirror level to his nose and glances first at the paint, then to his eye. It is puffy and bloodshot. Painfully colorful.

"The color isn't right. I need more black," he mumbles as he reaches for the bottle of black paint and squeezes some on to the artist's pallet.

It will be days until the swelling has gone down. Days before no one notices and asks what happened. Days before he can go on with his life like nothing happened. Days before he can forget that his own student dared throw a fist full of rage into his face. A rage that only a person full of hate can evoke, hate for people who opt to live their life differently.

Years of teaching others to appreciate the beautiful lines and brush strokes of historical art has never lead him down this path. He is a dove among the hawks of the school district. He doesn't hate his student for his actions. He just doesn't understand.

To reach you.

It is December 26, 2008 and my grandmother died at 3am. It's 9pm. The day after Christmas. The day after family, happiness, and baked ham. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I didn't even get to say goodbye. So I'm dealing the best way I know how.

Jameson and Parliaments.

I fumble with my gloves and pull out a pink lighter. Some how, I figure, that if the lighter is pink it makes what I am about to do a little less disgusting and/or repulsive. I don't do it often, but I some how I always know exactly when and where to find these cylinders of tabacco. Cylinders of comfort. Cylinders of cancer.

She died from cancer, you know. Throat cancer. The kind of cancer that takes away your will to eat in order to avoid the pain. The kind of cancer that crushes your desires and pulls out your need to live.

I light the cigarette anyway.

Fuck cancer.

It feels like if I partake in something that helped take her away from me, I some how feel closer to her. It's a long shot I'm sure. But it's all I've got going for me right now. I breathe in deep and let it out slow, watching as the gray cloud of my emotions drifts away from my lips. I start to cough as the cold air rushes in to counter the warm feeling of the nicotine and I drop the cigarette from the force of my lungs.

Maybe she doesn't want me to do this.

Alone She Stands

Alone she stands there, surrounded by family and friends. The room is filled to the brim with grieving hearts waiting to burst through the seams of the doors to the outside.
Without the one person that had always stood next to her she is alone, even with the family that brushes by her shoulders and whispers their condolences in hopes to relieve some of her pain, her grief, her hurt.
It's not the same.
Still, she stands alone.
I only know what the pictures tell me. The wedding photo of two young lovers wrapped in each others arms, locked in each others gaze. The two sets of hands on a new born baby boy draped in terry cloth blankets, nestled deep in his mothers bosom. The wrinkled hands feeding each other the sweet homemade cake that only a 50th anniversary could provide.
All of this is gone and now she stands alone.
"He hadn't know me since January 23rd," she told me as she sheepishly stole glances at him. "He lost so much weight that I hardly recognize him, but they made him look really good. He looks real good. Don't he?" Her eyes met mine for a brief moment as she quietly walked into another room full of hard-backed wooden chairs.
She sat in the front row, sandwiched between her remaining son and his wife. With their arms around the top of her frame, her quiet sobs ultimately became silent as the pastor began the service.
"From what I was able to learn about Bob, I would say that he was the definition of a truly great man of God. Death for him was not an end, but rather a beginning of a life we here on Earth can only hope for."
Her shudders of pain quickly turned into nods of affirmation as if thinking to herself, "He was a good man. He is with God. I will see him again. I will not stand alone forever."

For when you're old enough.

Dear unborn, unconceived, child of my distant future,

Um, hi. I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Andrea, and...well, I'm going to be your mom someday, but you can call me whatever you want to. God knows I will probably call you plenty of things before the day of your arrival ever comes. I'm pretty partial to calling you Squiggle Monster, but if that doesn't fit I'm sure your dad and I can figure something else out.

So, Squiggle Monster, you've been a long time in the making. I kind of broke a tradition with you. I waited until I was more ready for you than others in my family. Hopefully it was the right decision. I know you won't have that cool young mom that I had, but I promise I will try not to embarrass you too much. I can't speak for your dad though, he is pretty strange sometimes. I mean seriously, he wants to have a Star Wars cake topper for our future wedding cake. He's geek chic to the extreme. But all nerdiness aside, he has wanted to be your dad for a long time.

I guess I'll write more late, perhaps closer to your existence.
Ta ta for now.
Love,
Me

Analyze that.

I laced up my Converse and walked out the door, grocery list in hand.
"Hamburger, mac & cheese, PBR, shampoo. Hamburger, mac & cheese, PBR, shampoo." I couldn't forget the shampoo again.

The rain made the already snow laced ground slushy and awful. I should have picked better shoes. Maybe those rain boots with the peacocks would have been a good investment. Oh well, hindsight is 20-20, right? All precipitation aside, I parked my little red car and headed toward the sliding glass doors into the ridiculously sterile vacuum that was Hyvee.

It was there I saw the man with a thick rope wrapped around his hand, twisting, fraying, tightening around his hand as the object at the other end pulled further and further from the glass doors. My hand could only reach the top of his hard, angular legs. The rest of him was brown and white, soft and like cotton. He turned his head and smiled at me with a toothy grin that melted my heart.

I turned to the old man with the rope and asked why he would bring such a creature out in public. He responded, "This is Henry he's a rare giant purebred South Carolinan Ostrich but, he's defective. Won't produce any eggs that I can eat and he throws a fit every time I try to eat him. So, I don't want him. He's just a waste of space in my barn. I'll sell him to ya for $10. I'll even throw in a saddle for when you want to feel like a queen."

I crumpled the grocery list in my sweaty palm as the rain picked up and threw it in the trash can as I handed the old man my $10 bill. I grabbed the fraying rope and wrapped it around my left hand as threw the saddle up onto Henry's back with my right. And together we headed home, without the hamburger, mac & cheese, PBR, or shampoo.

The beeping of my alarm pulled me awake as I grasped at the tail of my dream, making a desperate, but failing attempt, to hold onto Henry.

The ambiguity of identity

A professor of mine once posed a handful of questions, "If anyone REALLY knew you, would they want to be around and/or with you?" , "How much of your outward self do you make up or pretend, just for the sake of avoiding judgment?" , "Are you brave enough to be vocal about who you REALLY are, quirks and faults included?"

As a woman in my 20s, I take this as a challenge. If your college years and those that immediately follow are all about finding and/or creating yourself, then my goal is to be honest in the process.

So here we go.

Hello, I am Andrea and I am just as lost as you are, but I'm trying to create my definition.
I am a 22 year old college student with a passion for words and all the mystery that follows them.
I am a journalism school drop-out. Sometimes I think it was because I wasn't good enough and other times I think it was because I didn't conform enough.
I have severely disliked my bustline since I was 10. I just want to see my feet again.
I claim I have a distaste for people who try to hard to fit in, but I find that I often fall in that category too.
I don't like Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson. His language is perverse and obscure. I wish when Ms. Dickinson's house burnt down that her poetry went with it.
I have a fear that I push people away by trying to pull them too close.
I struggle with self-esteem, as most females do. There are days I wake up, where it's a battle just to get out of bed.
I am a bank teller, it pays the bills but I can't wait to get a job I have a passion for.
I talk all the time about wanting to move to the West Coast and survive solely on sunshine and the Pacific Ocean, but the truth is I am petrified to move away from my family.
I sometimes regret moving away from St. Louis. I feel like I am missing so many moments with my family.
I say I am independent and strong, but I rely on a few certain people for more than I like to admit.
When at work, I clean underneath my nails with paperclips.
I always catch myself counting the number of steps it takes to get from point A to point B while on campus.
Sometimes when I'm feeling really down, I go to the pantry and sneak smells from Joseph's peanut butter jar just to feel my heart flutter with panic.
I forgive people almost to a fault but have the hardest time forgiving myself.
I have a bridal book and a list full of wedding ideas hidden in my underwear drawer just in case the occasion should ever arise.
I am a woman that desires to be touched.
I have a daddy complex.
I know my limits but tend to surpass them from time to time.
I am a loving supporter of gay rights.
I am entirely nostalgic.
I look for song lyrics to describe what my vocabulary cannot.
I can get heartburn from anything, including but not limited to water, tomatoes, pickles, and lemon flavoring.
I see nothing wrong with living with someone before you're married, but still I slip a ring on my wedding finger when I go to pick up birth control.
I drink from the milk carton.
I feel like I need photos to document parts of my life for fear I will forget them.
I am a woman.
I am Andrea, I am 22 and my ambiguous identity is endless.

#4

I remember riding in his maroon Mercury Villager when he told me that things were going to be a little different around the house. I picked at my pink fingernail polish with unabashed habit, all while trying to discern what he could possibly mean. When he said "a little different", I had no idea how severely understated that would end up being. "A little different" to me, as a 7 year old, meant my friends would not be able to stay the night all the time anymore. Maybe it even meant that I would have to take more baths or go to bed earlier, which I was okay with, but again, my sentiments were completely and utterly false. I said okay to things being "a little different" around the house, not knowing what consequences it would have, and went on with my 7 year old ways.

I don't remember being talked to about it. I don't even remember him leaving. Maybe I blocked it out, with good reason I suppose. I only remember the things that followed; curling up in bed with my mom in a queen sized waterbed so she wouldn't be alone, crying tears of a rage that only a 7 year old girl with a broken heart could muster, wondering what I had done wrong to make my world shatter into the pieces I could never hold on to.

I remember waking up one Saturday morning, ready to eat Lucky Charms and watch Bewitched with my mom but she looked weak. She looked hurt, angry, alone. She told me he left to move in with a Mel, a new friend of his he had met at the University, and we had an all-girls house now, just the three of us girls. Wouldn't that be great?

I remember talking to that awful woman, Mel, on the phone when I couldn't sleep and I missed him. She always answered the phone. Always. Always told me I didn't need to be upset, and that everything would be okay. Evidently her daddy never left her in the middle of the night to wake up and put together the 1500 piece puzzle of a divorce.

That's the last conversation I remember having with him before things were entirely different at our house, not just "a little different."

#1 for the Funeral Soundtrack

"She's in love with a boy" - Trisha Yearwood

If someone posed a question on musical tastes, I would certainly be one of the first to vehemently deny a love, or a even a liking, for country music. But that does not change the fact that I grew up around it. It was all that my mother listened to; in the car or in the house, it was everywhere.

For me, this song was the epitome of what I intended my adolescent year to resemble. It's funny that at such a young age I already knew that I wanted to be in love with a boy and for my mother to defend me and my heart when my father figure did not approve of the boy that was so dashing in my own mind.

But, it did not necessarily turn out that way.

There was only one boy that I ever dated and remember my mother not being fan of, and that was solely because I decided to hit the pavement and jump on the highway heading north without exactly explaining where it was I was going. I spent a week with my "grandparents", visited the Mall of America, and ruined my parents anniversary. And I lied, a lot, because I wanted so badly to fall in love.

But I didn't.

And my mother certainly did not defend my so-called "love" for this boy to my dad. They sided with each other. I'm pretty sure that's not how Trisha Yearwood wrote the song.

#3

So, I have to be honest. The idea behind this list wasn’t entirely original.
Well, not at all original. It was the idea of a dear friend of mine, and I just kind of stole it.
Oops? I think not.
She’s okay with it. I promise.



I remember lying on the floor of my grandparents’ house in my Bugs Bunny footed Pajamas one Christmas when I was a kid, cradling my box of Stove Top Stuffing (It was on my Christmas list. I was an odd child.). My fingers uncurling the ribbons attached to the shredded red and gold wrapping paper, I began to cry.
At nearly seven years old, I was having a midlife crisis. The idea of growing up and dying had penetrated my mind, and I was a wreck. I was supposed to be enjoying my bridal Barbie and trying on JC Penney’s sweater sets from Memaw, not having a fun sized panic attack on the carpet.
That was the first encounter I had with the fear of death, though it certainly wasn’t the last. It wasn’t until I moved in with longtime friend Aja, that I was able to deal with my semi-irrational fear of death.
Aja had a list, a wonderfully morbid list that I envied; the Funeral List. To Aja, death wasn’t something to panic about. Death, like most other things, was attributed with the same sentiments: shit happens and more than likely, it’s out of your control, so why not make something that celebrates your life instead of mourning it when it’s over.
That year I started a funeral list for myself. It made the concept of death easier for me to grasp.
The rules were simple: Pick one song that meant something to you for every year you’re alive. The songs leading up to the year you start the list need not be in any particular order but the ones that follow need to be chronological.
And thus it began.

[more to come!]

#2

You remember back in the day when, if you lived in a small town, you got married at a young age, made babies, and got on with your life? I thought we had evolved past this point and opted for other things to tide us over until it we thought it was personally best to take a new last name and bare the next generation.

Don't get me wrong, I'm like every other young woman who has thought about a fancy dress, sparkling diamond (or pearl), champagne toast, and a bun in the oven. Yes, I would love to be engaged and have the freedom to plan an awesome, offbeat wedding for my future husband and myself, but I don't want to rush it. I'm not in any hurry to get myself into more debt and be the caretaker of another life.

It's so strange to think that I'm one of the last in a close group of friends to go down this path.
The last single (single used in the tax-filing sense) girl.
The last unsperminated female.
Nontraditional?
Afraid of commitment?
An Old Maid, perhaps?

I'm only 22, I couldn't possibly be classified as any of the prior listed thing, yet. Right? When looking at a sample of my closest friends from junior high and high school...let's face it, the numbers don't lie. One has a son. One is engaged with a wedding in the next few months. One is engaged and pregnant with a baby due in the summer months. One is pregnant with twins. One is a mom of a toddler and is engaged. One is already married.

And then there is me.
I can't help but feel behind the times, but I hear those degree things are kind of important. Guess I'll just focus on that for a little while longer and let things fall into place as they will.

#1

Oh, Iowa city, I lost what little of my innocence I had left in you. I held high my dreams for success and you ripped them from my reach and placed my loft ambitions back on solid ground. I could no longer dream the dreams of photography and words cluttering pages of gloss, because of you and your careless, misunderstanding actions.

I suppose you could say I was given my second chance to make everything right again, and I just didn't take it. Was it because I didn't want to? Didn't really care? Didn't have strong enough passion or drive to do it?

No.

It was because I couldn't. I wouldn't let myself be set up for heartbreak by you again, Iowa City. I will no longer be in the grip of your boozy nights with older reporters and inhibited walks home alone. I couldn't let someone else's dreams and plans for my life be the only blueprint I would follow.

Oh, Iowa City, my heart bled black and gold for you until you beat it black and blue.

Reason

I am enrolled in a class where we are required to write/journal/whatever you want to call it at least three times a week. And since I type better than I handwrite, I'm putting it on here.

So here it goes.