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.