On the First Day of Christmas, my t.v. gave to me...

I love Christmas.

I love the tree, the music, the decorations, the hats, the movies, the traditions, the gatherings, the gifts, and the stories.

So, as my own way of celebrating the Christmas season, I'm watching Christmas movies every day until the big one. Today's movie: How The Grinch Stole Christmas(1966 animated version, of course).

Dr. Seuss is a classic for children of all ages(despite his incredible political cartoons). He took concepts and put them in the most basic forms, and The Grinch is no exception. It shows us that Christmas is more than presents and feasts and celebration; As long as we have love in our hearts, its Christmas. And at the end, the Whos take in the Grinch and give him a spot at the head of the table- what better message of forgiveness and acceptance than that?

Aside from great themes, the music and animation is beautiful. They just don't make'em like that anymore. Any Dr. Seuss movie fascinates me(I haven't seen the live action ones, so take my opinion with a grain of salt), because his worlds are so whimsical and fantastic. Things loop and spiral and curve. There are very few straight edges in Whoville.

I've always loved the Grinch, but this year it holds a little more for me. My beautiful boy, you see, is incredibly Grinch-like. He hates Christmas, and he has his reasons. He swore he'd have no part in my merriment.  But "he hadn't stopped Christmas from coming, it came! Somehow or other... it came just the same." And little by little, slowly but surely, his Grinch-y heart grew three sizes this week. He helped me fetch the tree, and even asked to put the star on top when I was finished. I think, just maybe, he's getting to enjoy Christmas with me.

If you want to watch How The Grinch Stole Christmas, here's a good spot: http://vimeo.com/56293226

Welcome, Christmas, bring your cheer. Cheer to all Whos, far and near. Christmas Day is in our grasp, so long as we have hands to clasp. Christmas Day will always be just as long as we have we. Welcome Christmas while we stand, heart to heart, and hand in hand.

Creature Comforts

It's astounding the things we forget.

Last night, I had occasion to travel to Easton(I won't lie- it was for the Wal-Mart). On my way, I stopped for gas at the gas station across from my old college.

Without thinking, I pulled up to my usual pump, walked in, got my usual drink, stood in the line, stopped on the way out to check the bulletin board, and pumped my gas. Everything felt familiar, and nice.

I must've gone to this gas station twice a day for years and years. It was my one-stop shop for pre-show dinner, after-school Monster, gas both ways. On my finer days, I would pop in to the attached Subway and have a chat with my friend. We even had the end of a cast party on the picnic tables outside(after being kicked out of the theatre).

I stopped for gas, but I got much more than that. I got familiarity. I got comfort. Home isn't just about the place we live- it's your gas station, your grocery store, the traffic light that takes forever to change. It's that old man always sitting on his porch, and the lady that walks her dog on the same route every day. It's where you go to drink coffee, it's where you go to get something a little stronger than coffee, and all the roads you take to get there.

How incredibly lucky I am to have a new home with new coffee, gas, and groceries, but still live close enough that I can, on occasion, enjoy things of greater familiarity.

Coming home after my shopping trip to slip into bed and snuggle with my beautiful boy was only part of feeling at home last night. Plus, I got some great decorations for the house, and great presents for my Adopt-a-kid! Win-win situation, all around.

A Scientific Study on Alchemy

And now, for something totally different! I've recently stumbled upon a drinks series called "Neuro". Each one has a different effect. This is as close to alchemy as we're gonna get, folks. Tonight, I'll be testing "NeuroSleep".

9:54pm: I'm just cracking open my Neuro. I'm slightly tired already, but I could still go for hours. I have video games to watch, the internet...

10:13pm: Strong desire to eat his mini donuts. Unsure if this has anything to do with Neuro.

10:25pm: Mmm. Donuts.

10:54pm: Bed. Now. Bed now.

Love and Marriage

What is marriage? In my mother's most religious days, she once said that although her and my father weren't legally married, but that in God's eyes they were husband and wife(That didn't translate to the church, however, and they had to get married before she could become an official member). The idea was that they were living together, sharing a bed and finances, raising me, etc., and that in olden days those actions did constitute marriage without a ceremony.

So, now that my beautiful boy has decided that we should give up the pretense and consolidate our bedrooms, it has brought this old thought of my mother's to mind. What is marriage? Is it a ceremony that costs way too much money, or a state of being?

He and I live together, share the finances, and are faithful to each other. With this next big step- having our room rather than his or mine- I feel like I'm making a commitment. There's no big fancy wedding with horrible bridesmaid's dresses, but we're merging the last of our real separateness. I'm still in show-shock(the feeling that comes from being in the final stretch of a show, it's a mix of soreness, exhaustion, irritation, and satisfaction), so the situation itself hasn't been absorbed. This did only happen an hour ago, so...

Solidarity

"To have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, for better and for worse".

Let us focus today on the "for better and for worse", because this past week has included both.

For the past month and a half, my sweetheart and I have been involved in a show at our local theatre. We both hate it, for a variety of reasons. It's last-minute, thrown together, and the director isn't quite the best at communication. It's been more stress than fun. And, frankly, the show just isn't that funny.

But of course, in my usual way, I have resolved to do my best with this show. I can't be crummy and expect the theatre to (eventually) let me direct, right? And, you know, the good of the show is the good of the theatre and so on...

He has no such feelings. In fact, he gives so few fucks, that he quit the show. An hour before we opened.

I'll give you a moment to pick your jaw off of the floor. Oh, yes. My beautiful bastard. Thursday, after a rather unpleasant final dress rehearsal, he admitted his feelings to me. He felt the show was a sinking ship, and that the whole group was a giant clique. What could I say? He wasn't wrong. I didn't take him too seriously, though-Surely, he wouldn't do that.

The next day, it became apparent that he meant it. he meant it a lot. He was joyously describing the look on everyone's face when they realized that he wasn't showing up.

It was a rough two hours before I went to the show. We had a long talk(not an argument, believe it or not). He explained his reasoning, and confessed that his only source of guilt was that everyone would assume that I was in on the plan.

There were tears. All mine. The majority of those two hours were spent with him telling me how much he loves me, and how sorry he is that he's doing something that's going to cause me so much stress, and me telling him that I understood, and I wasn't angry at him-that I was tired, and stressed, and worried about how I could look these people in the eyes and tell them there would be no show. My dear friend Tony Snark(whom we kind of.. forgot for awhile)livetweeted the entire thing. Read from the bottom up, because that's apparently how Twitter works?

Ignoring the AWFUL pun in the beginning, he did highlight my favorite part. My beautiful pulled me close, and told me that he loved me, and always had, and always would. Call me pathetic, but I couldn't even focus on the show-dropping part.

I finally reached a compromise; I would show up to the show acting as though all was well, and he would call Mark to give his resignation soon thereafter. All I had to do was act the part to preserve my innocence(if I couldn't convince him not to drop, I could at least not be the one people blamed). The plan worked, they got another actor to replace him, and all is now going well.

Now, the point of the story. Monday, we had rehearsals for the Christmas show, which is largely improv-based. An actress that I have continuously shown irritation with for dropping out of a show during tech week(to be replaced by yours truly) was assigned to the group improving the scene where the star of the show doesn't show up. Of course, the first line out of anyone's mouth was "He pulled a Kevin." Ok. They're all a little miffed, and I can't blame them at all. But later, as my group came to the stage, I heard this particular actress say "Good job on the Kevin line, I think it was the funniest one", as I walked by. I will, for now, disregard the timing of her comment and the fact that there were several funnier lines in their skit, and focus on the pure hypocrisy. I turned and said "I didn't think it was that funny. Besides, it's not like nobody has dropped out of a show before." I finally understand the metaphor of words dripping with venom. I turned on my heel and strode on stage, holding my head high and feeling good.

I can't defend the choices he's made, but you can damn well bet I'll defend him. That's what "for better or worse" is. That's what solidarity is. That's what love is.

It Has To Be Me

Sometimes, when we see homeless man on the street, or a Facebook post from a friend asking for donations, we tend to shrug it off. "Someone else will get it", we think. "Surely it will work out."

I never read The Lorax when I was little, but the most famous quote of the book speaks volumes.

"Unless someone like you
cares a whole awful lot,
nothing is going to get better.
It's not."

But liking a quote doesn't mean you automatically apply it to your life. So I have gone about my way, holding a quote in my head and doing nothing with it.

Today, as I browsed Facebook, I saw a saddening post from an old acquaintance who had been trying to raise money to study in New Zealand. I had thought about giving money, decided to wait until payday, and bookmarked the link for later use. Then, naturally, I had completely forgotten about it.

I saw another post from her today about being unable to go. I quickly went back to the gofundme link, and sighed deeply.

No one had donated a thing.

This girl is truly one of the sweetest people I've ever met, and I've seen her worth undervalued more times than I can count. So, I whipped out my debit card and made a donation.

It was a few minutes after that transaction that it hit me; Unless someone like me cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not. Every good deed done by mankind has started with someone saying "I will do this", rather than "Someone can take care of this that isn't me".

From now on, when I see things like that, I hope I'll try my best not to put them off. I hope I'll keep today in mind.

At Least I Have Clean Dishes

I've been dealing with a lot of anxiety lately, over a variety of things. My father is out of the hospital, and that's the top of the can of worms. My mother had offered to take him in while he was healing, but now swears she never said that, but what about her cats, and why can't he stay with me, and I just forsee becoming more involved in their lives than I had ever planned on being.

There's the general anxiety of being twenty-three and not knowing where my life is going. Once upon a time, the twenties were a time to figure out your life. Nowadays, it seems like you should be going into them with a plan. I'm not headed towards a career or marriage, I have no intentions of having children- It's an overwhelming feeling of "What am I doing with my life?"

Ladies, is there any worse feeling than wearing the same garment as someone else and holding the belief that they look better in it? Yes, actually. Having the love of your life mention what a booty she has(not even in positive or negative terms, mind you) and THEN going to rehearsal and seeing that you're both wearing the same jeans. God knows he doesn't mean any harm, and he's told me at least three times this week that I shouldn't worry and that he loves me unconditionally, but he doesn't get that he just can't say that sort of thing around me. I compare myself to everyone around me, constantly. I really can't understand how he hasn't figured that out yet.

Of course, there are various smaller anxieties; the show, my car, et cetera. They pile up until I feel like I'm going to explode and it keeps happening at a more rapid rate.

I have found, though, that it helps to clean the house. Something about taking the negative energy and using it for something productive helps me chill out. A load of clean dishes is a sign that the day was rough, but I feel better now. Unfortunately, he doesn't understand that.

"It's 9 o'clock at night."
"And?"
"You're not doing dishes. They'll be fine for another night. Go to bed."
"But-"
"Seriously. You are exhausted. You don't need to do everything all the time. It's not the fucking sixties. Go to bed."

His complete and total lack of misogyny is really getting in the way of my stress relief.

The Grand Finale

If there was a place to end the movie of this blog, this weekend would be it.

As I'd said before, I was going to a show Friday with my darlin'. I was feeling good-makeup was just right, I had second-day hair(the phenomenon* that occurs the day after you wash your hair, wherein said hair is fabulous and does what you tell it to), and I was even early. Well, being early didn't matter, because the college policy is "reservation seating a half hour before the show, walk-ins get five minutes". He made a reservation, and I had not. I had also perhaps misinterpreted our exchange- when I invited him, and he replied that he was already going and would see me there. I figured that I would be invited to sit next to him. Ah, and if I had made a reservation, I very well might have. Who knows? All the seats around him were full by the time I got there.

He did, at the very least, come out and talk to me while I waited in the lobby. He was gorgeous and sweet, and made me smile as always. The time came when he needed to go back in, so I waited patiently until they let us in and grabbed the first seat I saw.

As I sat, alone and disappointed, I was suddenly struck with an amazingly strong urge to be home, with my beautiful boy, just relaxing. In minutes it grew to a craving, and as I sensed the hush that usually comes right before a show begins, I slipped out the door. Behind me, I heard the main usher tell the other "Well, we're closed now, but let her back in when she comes back". But my feet carried me through the building, out the doors, into the parking lot, and into the truck. I went home, and made us dinner, and spent the evening rather pleasantly in my own home. When he asked about the show, I told him it filled up, and made a reservation for the two of us on Saturday.

There it was, all of a sudden. The feeling of "home". The feeling of wanting to be in the place that is filled with memories and warmth. I have wandered my whole life long, but have never felt this way about the rooms I inhabit. This emotion is new, and wonderful, and I never want to lose it.

And for the record-my absence was never noticed by my darlin'. No text, no Facebook message. I think that's alright. I know where I should be.


*spelled this right on the first try holy shit

Of Cheeseballs And Peanuts

I am the agent of a peanut.

No, seriously.

My role as co-producer for The Book of Liz involves using our Mr. Peanut costume as much as possible- getting him to the college, in the parade, and around our town events.

I'm also in charge of getting "butts in the seats". At the present, this mostly means making many, many cheeseballs.

I can't figure out how the sum of my life has come to this.

Not All Is Unwell

Despite my last post, I am severely happy.

Christmas is coming! It's my favorite time of year, and it's our first Christmas in the apartment. He doesn't like Christmas, but I think that mainly has to do with a lack of warm, fuzzy holidays. I won't force him to participate, but I think having presents under the tree, homemade cookies and hot chocolate around, Christmas music playing, the smell of a pine tree, and 2000% happier roommate will change his mind(or at very least, get him used to the idea). I'm already eying ornaments and decorations, and humming my favorite songs. I'm waiting for that moment that is so painstakingly far from now, when the lights are on the tree and we turn the overhead lights out and the tree just glows all the colors.... I'm getting carried away.

And the other happy thing- Tonight I'm going to see a play at the college. Accompanied by my darlin', my weird semi-crush. It's not a date by any means, but it will be good to see him.

Things aren't perfect, but there's so much to look forward to!

Despite All My Rage, I Am Still Just A Rat In A Cage

There's a fine line between doing what you love, and having what you love being dangled in front of you.

I recently became involved with a show that is, shall we say, not really my style. I auditioned, and was told I had done well. Unfortunately, the director had called me the next week to let me know that there "wasn't a part for me", but could I be stage manager? And as is my way, I agreed. I am a kick-ass stage manager, if I do say so myself.

When I received the cast list a few days later, it seemed as though I'd been duped. Although there wasn't a part for me, there were two for all the other women. I was irritated, to say the least. If the director had wanted a strong stage manager, he could have said so, rather than pretend that there was no room at the inn. That is only the first issue with the casting I have.

Over and over at this theatre I have been told what an amazing actress I am(I filled in last-minute for a walkout in the spring show, about a week before we opened. That same walkout also has two major roles in this show-what the fuck, man? If I'd done that, I'd never be allowed onstage again), and yet I haven't been cast in the two shows since. I don't expect to be cast in every show, obviously, but in casts of 10-30 people one could assume that there's a part for an "amazing actress". I am confused and angered by this discrepancy.

The artistic director of the theatre approached me last week, and asked if I would assist her in producing the show. This is a rather large job, and I did feel good about them reaching out to me to do it. On the other side of the coin, it's a thankless job that requires more effort than most people want to put towards something that doesn't pay. I took the job for two distinct reasons; One, it heavily involves getting people into the theatre, which is important and two, because the artistic director is a very nice woman that is under more stress than she needs and to take some of the producing on would be incredibly beneficial to her.

So now, I've taken on two background roles, neither of which I'm incredibly excited for, and I find myself questioning these decisions. I feel as though I'm a puppet for a theatre that won't listen to my suggestions, continuously forces me into roles that I do not want, and is more concerned about money than art. They know I want to direct, and broaden our horizons, and I feel as though I'm jumping through hoops to get there. But when do the hoops end? What do I have to do to get that done? When will I get to enjoy my craft again?

The Other Side of Things

Recently, both he and I have become involved in a show called "The Book of Liz". It's a... quaint little play, nonsensical.

For our first rehearsal last night(and I will refrain from discussing the casting process, because I feel that the amount of horse manure involved would fertilize the tri-county area), the director went through the cast and asked each person to talk about their character.

Anybody who has been in a show has been through this ritual. Everyone talks about their character's feelings, and motivations, in long and winding sentences. Sometimes, they've honestly put alot of thought into who their characters are, but I've found that it's often an attempt to impress everyone with how deep and meaningful they can be. As with most social situations, there are certain things you know you're expected to say, and you say them.

And then there's my beautiful boy.

"He's a stereotypical gay man. There's nothing really special about him at all. Duncan's only role in this play is to be the exact opposite of the kind of man Elizabeth is used to. And that's really all I have on it."

Everyone, including me, just stared at him. They were shocked and awed, but I was just proud. Rather than prattle on about who his character was, he got straight to the heart of the device; he said very plainly why his character was there.

It's one of the greatest examples of why I love him. Even when he knows exactly what is expected of him, he gives no fucks. He doesn't hold back his thoughts because they aren't "right" or "normal".

After a few moments of stunned silence, everyone picked up their jaws and moved on to the next character, but I kept looking at him. He always manages to find a new way to surprise me.

Anger

He's not really one for sharing, but when he does, I listen.

And when he talks about his mom ditching him for ten years, I hear him, and I understand. That hurts, no matter what he says.

Then, when I see his mother carelessly post on Facebook that nine and a half years ago, she had her sister drop her off with nothing but a duffel bag full of stuff, I get angry-because she seems almost proud.

I don't doubt that she needed to make a change in her life. Drug addiction can do that to a person. But don't forget that you left your sons to do it. Don't forget that you lost alot more than you can ever gain back.

I know your son better than you do, and let me tell you, you ARE missing out. I feel nothing but sorry for you, that you don't know the music he listens to and his favorite foods and the way he draws and reads and thinks.

I'll probably spend the rest of my life trying to assure him that I'm around to stay, thanks to you. But it's a task I look forward to.

The Pursuit of Healthiness

Last night, we had our fist "bacon talk".

"So, I'm thinking... bacon, egg, and cheese wraps."
"Sounds awesome. Turkey bacon?"
"....No."
"Why not?"
"It's just chewy and unpleasant. Dad used to make it all the time. I'm very, very tired of turkey bacon."
"Well, I did notice that your father was actually pretty conscious of what he put in his body, even if he was an ass."

...Ouch. Ok, ok, so maybe I'm not the most health-conscious person. I like bacon and cheese and chocolate and chinese food. These are undeniable facts. So what? Life is short, and I enjoy what I can while I can. If I were the personification of a sin, it would most certainly be indulgence.

That's all well and good, but I do have to start thinking about it more. I may be ok with a menu comprised of Taco Bell and Domino's, doesn't mean I should subject Kevin to the same things.

So when I went to the store last night and rather than bacon(turkey or otherwise), I grabbed some wheat pasta, greek yogurt, a zucchini, and a packet of herb and pesto dip mix. A recipe worthy of Pinterest if I ever did see one. I took the greek yogurt, added some milk and just a bit of butter, and melted it in a little sauce pan. I added about half of the dip mix and a thinly sliced zucchini. I boiled the pasta until al dente(just a little tough) and threw it all in the baking pan. Added a little parmesan on top, baked at 350 for fifteen minutes, and viola! Healthy pasta recipe.

Of course, if I could do it all again, I'd have made more sauce, skipped the baking, and added some grilled chicken. But hey, learn as you go, right?

Now, what can I whip up for tonight....?

You're Amazing, Just The Way You Are

"Just because women in the early 90's decided that women needed to look like 12-year-old boys doesn't mean you need to let it influence you."

"No one ever said you needed to have big boobs. Well, they did, but fuck'em."

Even the kindest of men have a socially constructed idea of beauty. This isn't their fault, not entirely; If someone tells you that something is a certain way all your life, you aren't likely to forget it easily.

My beautiful boy is crass and sarcastic, and not always good at expressing his emotions, but he lacks the idea of "beauty" programmed in to so many of his peers. He may never say "You're beautiful"(maybe because he knows that I wouldn't believe him anyway), but he often reminds me that there's no need to worry about being skinny or endowed, because it doesn't matter.

Of course, it's not as simple as all that. Just like the men who've had the concept of beauty thrown at them, so do women. Like it or not, it takes more than a few sweet words to raise my self-esteem.

But hey, if he keeps talking, I'll keep listening.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

And weeks pass
And months pass
Seasons fly

Still you don't walk through the door
And in a haze
I count the silent days
'Til I hear you sing once more

It's my new, strange addiction. I'm living for that next moment I see him. Why? Why this hold on me?

I think it has very much to do with the separateness of it all; There's no depth, no worries, associated with him. There's only joyful memories. Never has he made me feel awful, or said an unkind word(about anyone at all).

It's very pure, and that's what leads to the happiness. I'm sure someday he'll find a way to bring himself to Earth in my eyes, but for now, he's higher than a mountain. He dances with the stars. To look up and find him brings me joy, and for now, that's enough.


(Have a listen to the song- Ramin Karimloo is the best Phantom ever: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47dUc4iMAvQ)

Imaginary Friend

I wish I had an imaginary friend
To perch upon my shoulder
Right next to my ear, so that he could hear my deepest thoughts

Every time I thought I was a failure, he could remind me of my successes
Every time I feel ugly, he could list my attributes

He could remind me to be happy when I'm sad,
To smile anyway,
To write and laugh

I guess everyone could use one of those

Unstuck

Words can't express the joy that's settled into my bones.

After eight or so years after my last I-don't-know-this-director audition, I decided to get back on the horse and try out for Fuddy Meers at the college. I begged my Facebook friends for audition tips, and took the afternoon to get ready. There was a part of me that hoped to see my darlin' there, but it wasn't my main focus.

I sat waiting in the lobby, being one of the first to arrive. Every time the door opened, I would look up on instinct, with only a glimmer of hope. No matter how many times I looked up, I always felt the sting of disappointment. When he finally walked through the door, I lifted my eyes out of habit, before looking down without recognition.

Then a body came to stand in front of me. I looked up, running into gorgeous brown eyes. Those eyes were beautiful, and dangerous, and I knew them.

He smiled and hugged me so tightly it hurt just the littlest bit. He called me sweetheart(which, usually, I don't allow anyone to call me but my beautiful boy-but I decided to add an exception) and told me how good I looked. He said he was doing alright(and even though his friend took his life only a week ago, I somehow knew that it was the truth). He said he wasn't auditioning, just taking a walk. His focus was on me and only me. Finally, he turned to go(incurring the wrath of a few other girls that he'd neglected to speak to). In his joking way, he went back to the door to reenter and "get it right this time". When he walked by, I reached out and touched him- just a small laying-on of my hand against his back as he passed. The gesture felt right.

As he left the building, I watched him go, and it occurred to me that he hadn't been going through the building. No, he'd come to the building. He'd gone out of his way. He had come to see me.

He told me to text him any time, and to text him after auditions to make sure he had my number. He had hugged me and called me sweetheart. He swore to come see my apartment. I know he's not forever-he doesn't have the missing piece of my soul- but he is a phase that I'll pass through gladly.

And to add to this warm feeling, the audition was fantastic.

Stuck

I love my beautiful boy more than anyone or anything, but there's someone that has captured my attentions so fiercely that it's driving me insane. What is it about you, darlin', that has me wandering around this campus with the hopes of running in to you? Why does part of me just want to be around you?

It isn't a romantic sort of feeling(though I think kissing you would probably be sort of nice). I just want your friendship, your presence in my life.

I remember the time spent with you backstage. No one could get me in a picture, unless you were on the other side of the camera. You told me to smile, and I did. You tied me up in my hoodie, and it was funny. On my birthday, you found me a card and planned a party-my first ever. That card was one of the first things I hung on my new bedroom wall. You told me that life could be something entirely different from what I'd thought it would be, and believed that I could accomplish it.

I wish I could call you now, darlin'. When I heard that someone died this week, I thought of you first and I was so scared. And now I know that you're hurting, and we aren't close enough now for me to call you. But, I can wander around the campus, hoping that fate will cross our paths again. Maybe this time, we'll be going the same way.

Eulogy for a Stranger

Dear Aaron,

I don't know you, or your life. And I will be honest-when I heard it was you, and not my friend of a similar description, I felt relief before anything else.

I understand the feelings you must have had last night. You felt like you were going nowhere, you felt alone. You were on the ledge, and you thought no one would pull you back. You were wrong, honey. I know because I gathered with everyone else at noon in the square. I've never seen so large a crowd together in such a silence. There wasn't a single voice. Not a single voice.

I doubt you were religious. Even so, the prayer was lovely. I've noticed that in Chestertown, there seems to be an agreement between the religious establishments that in times of tragedy, faith leaders can speak for the entire religious community. The solidarity is nice. I don't know how much of Chestertown you ever got to see.

I guess I don't have much else to say. You'll be missed. I hope anyone who is having suicidal thoughts can see what's going on now and how people are feeling, and decide to talk to someone. I hope friends are holding tighter to each other, and the kids call their parents a little more often.

In time, your friends will become accustomed to your absence, though they'll still wonder where they were at 6pm last night. Some of them were just across the hall. They'll fall asleep without crying, be able to share stories of you without summoning a raincloud. They'll be ok, but they won't ever forget you.

With so much love,
Cass.

Forgiveness is the Attribute of the Strong

Imagine the scenario: To celebrate Labor Day, he wants to head to a bar, and she wants to take advantage of the college library. They have a plan- he texts her when he feels drunk enough, she'll pick him up, and they'll get dinner. But the bar isn't open, and he ends up at the one walking distance from their apartment. She forgets that the door is locked, and that she holds the key.

Fast forward about an hour and a half. She's in line at the store with dinner, and she gets a text. Oops! She answers that she's sorry, and on her way home. And when she gets there, she sees that he has kicked in the door.

What the fuck, man? To make a long story much shorter, he spent the remainder of the night being a jerkface. Rather than snap at him, I stayed silent and let him do his thing. He let me be, and fell asleep on the couch.

Of course, in the middle of the night he came back to our bed. I didn't snuggle, or really acknowledge him. I wasn't mad anymore- I'd fixed the door, handywoman that I am- but I wasn't ready to gloss over it, either.

So this morning, he comes to wake me up before he goes to work(ahh, now he remembers). He hugged me, and I was nice again, because I felt that was the closest to an apology as I was likely to get. But lo, during his lunch he texted me again:

"What I did was really stupid. I'm sorry."

Okay, sweetheart. All is forgiven. I'm proud of you for apologizing, even when you knew I'd let you off the hook without it. I love you. I'll see you when I get home.

"You love me; real or not real?"

"Once you become real, you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always." -The Velveteen Rabbit

Love is like that. Once someone knows you inside and out, loves you for all of it, becomes a part of you- Suddenly, you have become real and alive, and that's something you can't forget or let go of.

Not everyone gets to keep that first fresh breath of life. Life goes on, we lose people one way or another. Rarely do we find someone that stays.

I'm incredibly lucky. I wake up next to the one that made me real. The first breath is gone, and it will never come again; What we have has eternally lost it's newness. We'll never feel the way we did in the beginning, timid and excited all in one. But we can't be unreal again.

It lasts for always.

Breath of Life

I read something that posed the theoretical question "What if, in your first breath of life, you breathed in your soul. Every breath afterwards would have a bit of your soul in it, and when you lose the last piece, you die. They say you become more like the people you're close to all the time, and maybe it's because you're breathing in their soul pieces."

If that's true, then I'll breath deep, and hope that the pieces of your soul infuse me with all the things about you I love.

A Big Problem?

"Number of men with 'bigorexia' continues to swell"

"There’s a new body image disorder in town and this one’s for the fellas. Called “bigorexia," it refers to a victim’s compulsive need to bulk up, no matter how fit and muscular he is. According to an official at the Adler School of Professional Psychology, as many as 45 percent of men deal with bigorexia, also called muscle dysmorphia, the apparent male counterpart to anorexia. Overexertion at the gym, working out compulsively, habitually drinking protein drinks and abusing supplements, all of these can seriously damage the bones (leading to surgery) and intestines (in the form of liver damage). Emotional symptoms of bigorexia include irritability and angry outbursts, as well as depression and mania." [Article found here]


Ignoring the fact that MSN thinks it's clever with that title, I want to talk about my morning.

We woke up around 4 a.m., my beautiful boy and I. As I bumbled around, willing the sun to come up and trying not to spill my cereal, he was up and at'em. Before I knew it, he had made himself a protein-rich breakfast(with eggs and-God bless him- last nights leftover tofu), mixed himself a protein drink, made me eggs on the side(without tofu), and started working out. How the boy is functional that early, I'll never know.

And then, after he gives me a kiss and heads to work, I go back to sleep. When I wake up(again), get dressed, and go to work, I begin my usual morning routine. I log in, check my email, and browse MSN articles, where I stumble across the little ditty above.

Now, I'm not terribly worried. I have yet to see an angry outburst from him, he's not been any more depressed than anyone is after a hard day. I am, however, now on the lookout. I would much rather be someone who fusses over nothing than someone who lets a loved one go on down an undesirable path until the problem is out of hand.

He takes care of me, and I take care of him. That's the way it's been since day one. I'll make dinners that will include liver-healthy foods. He'll keep working out and eventually I'll probably join him, which will be good for me. I can remind him that it's ok to take a break every now and then, and make sure he knows that he's beautiful(even if he doesn't have all the muscle definition he used to). And maybe, one day, he'll get me used to waking up early.

7/22/13

The sound of his voice breaking still hurts. Every time I close my eyes I want to crawl under a rock and dig a tunnel, until I'm so far down that even God can't see me, and weep.

Not Every Day Is A Good Day

Sometimes, I wake up and the world is sunshine and happiness, the birds sing, and I reflect on how happy and lucky I am. Today was not one of those days.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with irritation in my head. Not at anything particular, just the little things-the wind blowing my hair the wrong way, my egg yolk not being as cooked as I thought and dripping onto my hand. By the afternoon, I knew a full-on funk was coming. I tried desperately not to slip into it, but to no avail. It probably didn't help that I went shopping(which is a 50/50 activity on my best days, let alone a funkday) and tried to assemble a cheap bookshelf(if we didn't desperately need more shelf space, I would have destroyed it).

I put on my best smile when the boy made dinner(cheesesteak wraps!), but I know he could tell that I wasn't thrilled. He's not an expert on women or emotions, so I decided to retreat to a book and let him relax for awhile. I thought going to bed would be a good thing, but as soon as I lay my head to sleep, my brain kicked into overdrive with all of my insecurities.

Now, it's a very little known fact that, after 3 or so years of some sort of relationship and many nights spent cuddling in the same bed, the beautiful boy and I have yet to do.. ya know... the thing. A distinct lack of hanky-panky. Oh, sweet chastity, thy name is...! I'm sure you get the point. And while I find this a really cool thing sometimes(because let's face it, that kind of thing is rarely heard about these days, especially when it involves people that have no religious strictures against the activity), I'm a person that is thoroughly insecure. Needless to say, there are times when I begin to wonder "Why?" and, even worse, "Is there something wrong with me?"

"Is there something wrong with me?"
"Is there something wrong with me?"
"Is there something wrong with me?"
"Is there something wrong with me?"

This, ladies and gentlemen, was my night. Somehow, in that inbetween of asleep and awake(the one that has treated me so well in the past) I somehow got the idea stuck in my head that I'm damaged goods.

Today has been dreary. It is a complete and total funkday. I'm hoping I can pull myself out of this, lest he start thinking that I'm angry or unhappy. I've been invited to a yoga class tonight, and maybe that will give me peace and serenity...and not a pulled muscle.

Finally!

After months of hoping, cringing, biting my tongue, and waiting, today was the day. In that half-awake mental twilight, when we were snuggled tightly in bed before the day began, he finally said the words I'd been missing.

"I love you."

Sweet words are a salve to all wounds. It's been so long since I've heard those words. The past two months have been a struggle not to grab him and exclaim my feelings; I knew that soon I was going to burst. And now, I see maybe he felt the same way.

Today has been a day of joy. I've been listening to swing music and fighting the urge to dance. I'm smiling. The poor guys at work don't know what to do, seeing me so bright and sunny. When I get home, I think I'll make a nice dinner.

Today is a good day.

Today Was A Good Day

That's what we agree on every night.  We've decided, in fact, that there haven't been any bad days in this place. We say "Today was a good day", we smile at each other, and we go to bed.

It's a nightly ritual. Though he's already in bed, I know he's still awake, waiting for it and waiting for me.

It's just us, now. We're two halves of a whole, a two-man team. He makes sure I don't worry too much, and I make sure he knows that home is always safe. Yesterday, he called it a haven.

He told me once, years ago when we were a something that wasn't anything solid just yet, that he didn't mind all that bad that had happened because he wouldn't have met me otherwise. The same applies now. I went through Hell to get here, but my reward?

Good days.

An Open Book

A couple weeks ago, I was getting ready to head to the open mic at our local theatre. The one and only beautiful boy grinned.

"Are you going to read some of your poetry?"
"Have you seen my poetry? It sucks."
"No, you never let me read your poetry."
"...Cause it sucks."
"I'd still like to read it sometime, though."

I had to admit, he had a very valid point. He has read exactly one of my poems, and only because it was published in our college's literary journal about a year and a half ago. I had submitted it half hoping that he would see it, but half hoping that he wouldn't bother thumbing through(which he probably wouldn't have, if I hadn't left the thing lying around in my room).

Three years, and I've begrudgingly let him read one poem. Granted, there are other blurbs he's probably come across when flipping through my notebooks(he stopped doing that, though, when he saw how much it bothered me).

The problem is, I start to write, and I forget to lie. If I have any true feeling, it's on paper somewhere. It's a habit that has gotten me into serious trouble(let's just say my stepmother liked blackmail), and I have learned to guard my notebook with ferocity.

The only time he's ever yelled at me was some time ago, when he was looking for a blank page in a notebook, and I snatched it back. "Is anything in there really that bad? Do you or do you not trust the person you share a bed with?" It stung, as well it should have. He had seen enough by then that I knew better than to think he'd be shocked.

So, last week, I decided to go forth in a new frontier. I bought a new notebook. It's just a Dollar General notebook, with a blue/green/teal faux snakeskin cover(the kind of thing that's either adorable or disgusting). In this notebook, I will write things. And he will have absolute access to this notebook. He can pick it up and read it any time his heart desires, and I won't stop him or say a thing.

This level of emotional vulnerability frightens me on a fundamental level. Yes, I sleep next to him. Yes, I now live with him. He's even seen me cry. There's not a world I've kept from him except my writing. And while I'm still a long way off from linking him to this blog, the notebook is a step.

Hopefully, I won't step into anything unpleasant.

The Nerve!

I am not a chef. I, in no way, am contestant material on a cooking show. But every once in awhile, if I really try, I can create something not only edible, but even enjoyable.

However, I don't think my culinary efforts are always appreciated by my beautiful boy. I spent most of my free time at work searching for a cream of crab soup recipe that was similar to Nadine's, the chef at a restaurant I used to work at. I immediately disregarded those that didn't use Old Bay. I narrowed my search even more by ones that used cornstarch. Finally, I found the one that seemed closest to what I remembered.

After work, I ran over to get my crab meat(in Chestertown, it seems to be tradition to gather together at work and pool money for pounds of crab) from the bed and breakfast. It was good, and fresh, and not all of it made it as far as the soup stage. Next was a trip around the corner to our local organic foods store(not out of any health benefit, just convenience this time) for heavy cream and half&half. I dash back up to my apartment and begin the preparations... What's this? Cornstarch?! I'm now mid-soup, so I call out to my sweetheart.

"Feel like doing me a favor?"
"Uh, not really."

...Well, shit.

I turn the soup to low, dash back across the street, grab the cornstarch, and dash back up. Things are going well now, the base has come to a nice boil, and it's time to add the cornstarch. No one ever told me that cornstarch was so light, and that the slightest bit of force used to open the bag would send a fine mist into the air.

So here I am, irritated at his general lameness and covered in cornstarch, but like the trooper I am, I continue. Finally, the soup is done.

"Soup's done! Would you like some?"
"Nah, I'm good."

Oh, the heartbreak. Mind you, I've been talking about trying to make this soup for a week and a half by this point. He was fully aware of the general Hell I'd gone through this afternoon(and, of course, when I feel accomplished in something I work hard at, I want him to share it). I turned the burner off, moved the pot from the heat, and walked casually into my room. And, much to my surprise, he seemed to notice that I was put off. He calls to me from the kitchen:

"You know what?"
"What?"
"This really is delicious."
"Good."
"..I think I'm going back on what I said before."
(This is the part where I sigh internally because dammit I can't be mad at him)
"Be careful, it's still really hot."

In the end, we all had good soup, and trust me- it was GOOD soup. Moral of the story? Men are jerks, but occasionally they aren't.

In My Life, I've Loved Them All

Day in and day out, I'm surrounded by an endless swarm of characters. They are so varied and interesting that sometimes I find myself describing them in my head the way I would in a book.

There's Harriet, who is so outgoing that you can't help but enjoy her presence. She's the unsinkable Molly Brown of Chestertown, with a voice that's always at an 11. I know her through the music store as one of our fine students of ukulele. She's one of the few people at Washington College outside of Buildings and Grounds that I feel comfortable around.

Then there are the B&G workers themselves. Lea, a take-charge woman who takes no shit. Scottie, who always has a grin. Iwonna, the Polish immigrant who actually explained yoga to me, and Jeff the 6 and a half foot teddy bear.

The music store has it's own cast. There are all the kids, of course. They run in, and they don't know how to hold their guitars yet, but they love my boss and they love me and they love each other and it's so much fun to watch them grow and learn. My boss is scatterbrained, but he loves music and he'll do anything to let someone partake of it(usually coming out of his own pocket).

I also do my time at a bed and breakfast on the weekends. There's an old black woman there named Sherle, who calls me honey child and makes me soup. I think I've awakened her maternal instincts, because she's always trying to fuss over me. I don't let myself get too used to it, but it's also kind of a nice feeling.

The theatre group deserves a post all it's own, but that's for another day. These people fill my life with happiness and stories. Moving to Chestertown was leaving everything and everyone that I'd been near, and even though I despised Denton, it was familiar. But these people, this random assortment of characters, walk in and out of my life every day and turn this place into home.

It's Wonderful, So They Say

This morning, before he left for work, he crawled back into bed and hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. The other day, he put the covers back over my feet before he left. For awhile, he started the coffee pot for me(until he became convinced that I was drinking too much coffee).

It's these little things that I can remember from the early mornings when I'm not asleep, but not yet awake, that make me smile and give me hope.

"You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan. That's where I'll be waiting." -Tinkerbell, Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie

Blood is Thicker Than Water, But Then So Is Toothpaste

I've never been graced with a close-knit family. For the most part, I pretend my mother's side doesn't exist, and the remaining people on my father's side I want nothing to do with. They all seem equally happy to ignore me. It works for us.

But all of a sudden, now that my father is in the hospital, my phone is ringing off the hook and my Facebook is blowing up. Who are these people that are all of a sudden family? My aunt, my cousin? Great-aunt, great-uncle?

I do not know these people. They are strangers, briefly met at a fourth of July party years and years ago. They were people that saw me once a year, commented on how tall I was getting, and then went to fix their plate and swim. My grandmother, my two uncles-Those were the people who loved me between gatherings. They were the ones who called, sent birthday cards, and kept up with my life. But they're gone now.

The people left over are nothing to me. Furthermore, I want them to stay out of our lives. My great-uncle damaged my father and his brother in unimaginable ways, but now they call me at all times of day wanting to know if he's alright?

I have my own family now. A mother that's gone to Heaven(because if anyone should, it would be her). Another mother that's been there for 8 years of my life, and my older sister. His aunt, his entire family really, that treats me like one of their own. I'll be spending my July 4th with them next week, in fact. And let me tell you- It'll be a hell of alot more fun than sitting around with strangers.

The Cry Of The Desperate Is A Prayer In The Night

I wonder what you would think
If you had seen me
Last night
Alone
And kneeling
Right on the sidewalk
Begging God to give you back

I didn't know if he was listening at all
But if I had to judge
By this morning
I'd say
He answered me
In the way you held me
Tightly, and let me kiss your forehead

Domesticity is a Process

If I had been born in the early seventies, by my high school years I would have been enrolled in a class called "home economics". It would have taught me all the ins and outs of running the home- cooking, cleaning, sewing, etc. Theatre taught me sewing, my mother taught me cleaning, but cooking is a foreign art to me.

So when I decide to make dinner, it's a lot of thinking on my part. I'm learning how to pair veggie with rice and chicken, but in different ways. The other day, I soaked my chicken in beer for a few hours(delicious). Today, I popped over to our local organic store(but, I must admit, only because it's 50 feet away from my front door.) and bought couscous and dressing. The dressing is some lemony thing that is amazing. Baked the chicken in it, baked the broccoli and carrots in Old Bay, and let the couscous do it's thing. Smells like it's going well.

I wonder if I'll ever get the hang of this nigh-housewife existence. I'm making sure the bills are getting paid, which I do well. I'm making sure the laundry gets done, which I could probably be doing better. I think I'm ready to take on the extra task of making sure we get at least one nutritional meal a day.

Besides, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

Words To Remember

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast. It is not proud, it is not rude. It is not self-seeking. Love is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth."

People have a way of forgetting that I spent over 8 years attending church(and part of that teaching Sunday school), so when they find that one of my most important sayings is a Bible verse, they act shocked. They ask me if I'm religious.

Obviously, I'm not, but there is wisdom to be gathered from everything. When I was little, I used to collect quotes from all over the place, and when I'm facing a troubling situation, they occasionally come to back to me.

This one occurred to me last night. The beautiful boy and I had the most subtle of disagreements. He thought a certain kind of joke was funny(what kind, I do not feel like explaining, but it was a kind that is extremely bothersome to me on a personal level).

"No, it's not."

"Sure it is."

I let it go. I adhered to another of my principles; You cannot blame someone for what they do not know. Even so, I was left with a bad taste in my mouth. How could he? Didn't he recognize that I never take that tone with him? Couldn't he see that I hardly ever disagreed with a word he said? Dammit, why didn't he shut his stupid face?

I resolved to keep my distance the rest of the night. Surely, he would notice the difference in my demeanor and apologize.

Love is patient. It keeps no record of wrongs.

I ended up leaning against him on the way home to try and sleep, and this morning I woke up snuggled next to him as always.

I can't blame him for the things I never told him. I can't be surprised when he can't magically interpret my actions. I can only remember that he loves me(even when he's a jerk).

Everyday Music

I have never found silence to be peaceful. When the air is empty, I am uneasy. My old house in Denton was recently built and well-insulated, so nothing creaked and noises rarely made it through the walls. It drove me to madness a time or two, pacing around, praying that someone would come home and let me hear the sounds of living once again.

But now I find myself surrounded by everyday noise. I wake up next to a beautiful boy, and I listen to him get ready for work; the rustling of clothes, the water in the sink, the blessed sounds of him turning on the coffeepot for me. When he leaves, I can hear his truck start and pull away.

For a moment, there is a slight silence, but it is soon replaced by the sounds of the world waking up. The birds begin their chirping, and cars start to drive by. When 7am rolls around, the shops are open. People greet each other. The restaurant next door bustles.

I walk to work at the college, and I'm further surrounded by the din of life. The telephones ring, and the office chatter is fueled by an undercurrent of printers and slamming doors.

My favorite commotion by far is working at the music store. Whether it be lessons or people trying out instruments, my hours are filled with music, and all of it is beautiful. Little boys and girls are just learning to pluck their first notes, while in the main room a seasoned musician strums his favorite chords. Sometimes, there's even an impromptu jam session or sing-along. Those are my favorite days.

Evenings are filled with familiar rehearsal noises, the sounds of techies working, sets being built, the actors tromping across the stage.

The too-short time I spend at home after rehearsal but before bed contains the beautiful sounds of our lives, so varied but familiar that it makes me sigh with happiness. There's the noise of at least one of us cooking dinner, if not both; the pop hiss of a beer bottle being opened, followed by a refreshed "ahh"; the whole house creaks and reacts as we walk and shift; the sounds of a video game being played, almost always accompanied by a beautiful voice saying "Oh shit, I fucked up the mission again"; the deep, contented sigh of another day done as we crawl into bed; the steady sound of his breathing when his mind finally shuts down for the night.

I'm no longer plagued by the sad silence that lets my mind wander into dark and unforgiving thoughts. My life is beautiful, and filled with the music that most people take for granted.

Heart Healthy

Have you ever been to a farmer's market? The square is alive with people, and music floats through the air. Everywhere you look are fresh, home-grown foods. A man sells his fresh-cut soap next to a woman who makes extremely useful-looking clay sponge holders.

There's a certain exhilaration that comes from buying food that has been grown in the same soil you walk over every day. The health benefits have been outlined in all the great medical journals, but I'm speaking only of aesthetics. To know that your food is fresh, pesticide free, and(in the case of the delicious honey wheat rolls I purchased) hand-made. It really does taste better, and the atmospehere makes a shopping trip turn into a beautiful saturday morning outing.

What an incredible place I've chosen to live, that fosters this kind of event every warm weekend. The carrots, broccoli, and rolls have been feeding me well. Growing up in a farming region, I have always had access to fresh greens, but I wish everyone was so lucky. There are studies that show the more green and natural an area is, the lower the crime rating. Perhaps it's time for nature to become part of our lives again, hm?

The Ghosts That Haunt

My relationship with my parents is complicated and nonexistent at best. My mom is an addict, hooked on anything that works; coke, pills, alcohol, and Jesus. She got pregnant with me because she wanted someone who would love her unconditionally. Dad's just a 69-year-old Vietnam vet that never wanted a kid at all.

I've lived with my father for the past 7 or so years. Once upon a time, things were alright. But somewhere recently, he just stopped being my dad, and turned into an asshole.

I remember a few months ago, he had me to the point where I would cry at the drop of a hat(me, who is known for never shedding a tear). My beautiful boy was angry.

And last night, when my father wouldn't stop calling, he took the phone outside. He said I didn't need this strain anymore. I don't know what conversations transpired. I curled up on his bed and waited. When he came back in, he told me that dad wanted me to run a few errands, but everything was fine.

While we were curled up, falling asleep(we're not together, but we haven't slept apart since getting this place), I told him that I envied the relationship he had with his mother. They even have the same laugh. I won't share the rest of our conversation, because there are some things that need to be treasured in secret, but it served as a reminder that there's always more to learn about a person. Even the people that pretend they don't have a story do. I've learned so many things about him(some of which explain why he's been acting the way he has).

I'm looking forward to what's coming next. I don't know what it is, but I'm hoping that we'll stick it out. We're a team, now. I won't abandon him. I'll be a safe haven, no matter the storm. It'll be ok.

A Matter of Manners

It's coming to pass that my beautiful boy's mother will be in the area, and she'd like to come over and see our new place. He suggested that we all go out for dinner as well.

I'm excited as a person can be. His mother is someone whom I love dearly(his whole family has taken me in, really), and her opinion is very important to me. I'm not worried about what she'll think about the apartment, though-I'm curious to know what she'll think of the relationship between her son and I.

There is a part of me that fervently hopes that she'll act as though everything is normal. Molehills become mountains, so why can't it work the other way?

But then, there's a part of me that hopes that when he walks away, she'll lean in for a conspiratorial whisper, asking me what happened. I want to tell her. I want her(or just someone, anyone, that isn't me) to grab him and shake him and tell him to think about what he's doing.

Either way, I'm happy to see her. I don't have a mother in any real sense of the word, and I think she's as close as I may ever come.

Story Time With Cass

I call my beautiful boy "sweetheart", and he does likewise. Most people don't realize that there is, in fact, a story behind it.

Thanks to the wonders of the internet, I once had a friend in Kingsland, Georgia. He was an amazing boy- at the time, I would've married him if he'd let me. For quite some time, we had something that was pure and nice(it seems I have a history of unofficial relationships with boys I love). He refused to ever actually be mine. You see, he had muscular dystrophy(a disease that eats away the muscle), and he was dying.

I always thought that it must be an odd sensation for him, knowing that he didn't have long. It gave our relationship a different quality. Neither of us ever held back something we wanted to say to each other, because we both knew that every conversation could be our last.

The first time I went to visit him, he was graduating from high school. It had taken him an extra two years. They had only built a ramp on one side of the stage, so a group of men lifted him and his entire wheelchair onto the other side, so that he could go across like everyone else. When he did, everyone in that stadium cheered. Hundreds of people there, cheering him on, congratulating him. Hundreds of people, but I was the one he'd chosen. It was one of the most overwhelming moments in my life.

The second and last time I went to visit, I brought my beautiful boy along. My Georgia boy and I had grown distant, but I still wanted to see him one more time. The drive was thirteen hours long and I had no driver's license, so my Georgia boy was amicable to my bringing someone along. And, more importantly, we had talked about him. My Georgia boy must have seen where my heart was going, and expressed a great amount of interest in meeting this new person in my life. In retrospect, I think it gave him some comfort to know that there was someone who would take care of me when he no longer could.

The visit was interesting, and I was happy. It was scary, though, to see someone so small. I always wondered just how someone could survive for so long being so small. On our way out, my beautiful boy was packing a pipe(yes, we do partake in somewhat illegal extracurricular activities). I happened to glance over and notice two Georgia State Troopers, that would very soon be about three feet from our car and look down into our windows.

Without thinking, I started subtly hitting his arm. "Uh... sweetheart...." I said, trying to draw his attention without drawing theirs. He looked up with both confusion and amusement. Of course, then he looked over, and rapidly hid his activities.

Why I called him "sweetheart" at that moment, I don't know, but we had a good laugh about it on the way home. Ever since then, that's been our special name for each other. Even now, it's something that we reserve for each other.

I remember that trip with all kinds of fondness- the little Georgia diner where we had breakfast, stopping by my Uncle Dave's on the way down, our agreement to take turns driving a hundred miles each(and then how I couldn't bear to wake him up for his turn and ended up driving three hundred instead). I remember that we stopped on the Bay Bridge-Tunnel, on the Seagull Pier(one of my all-time favorite places) and had lunch, and how when we slept in the back of my car at the rest stop in Georgia and he put his arm around me. In Maryland it was still winter, but as we went south we drove into spring.

Though my Georgia boy and Uncle Dave are gone, and it's not likely that I'll be able to take such a huge trip again soon, my beautiful boy is still here. He still calls me sweetheart. It's funny how some things live on.

Truth and Beauty

Introductions have become difficult around you, sweetheart. You say I'm your friend; people always look confused to hear it. Everyone else introduces me as your girlfriend.

Your lifelong friend has won my admiration that way. He was having none of your shit.

"How are you related?"
"I'm-"
"She's his girlfriend."
"She's my friend."
"Yeah? Well they're awfully boyfriendy-girlfriendy."

I already like your friends-they're great guys. I can even tell the twins apart. And it's one thing to think to myself that you're going through something weird, but to hear someone who has known you for twenty years call you out in the middle of a crowd gave me a little more confidence.

While I was waiting for you, I was trying to find a blank page in your notebook. Instead, I found something you had written. "It's like we're back at the beginning of The Hairy Ape, when nothing was certain but our confidence". I don't know when you wrote that-you've had that notebook for at least a year- but sweetheart, you're wrong. I was more certain than you knew. I was already certain I loved you. That play was for you, every bit of it. I wanted to tell you I loved you, by creating beauty around you.

Now, I've let go of beauty, but I still want to create with you. A home, a life, a love that people tell stories about.

And we've already got a start on that, sweetheart.

Perpetual Motion

"It seems that perfection is reached not when there is nothing left to add, but when there is nothing left to take away."
I first found this notable quote of Antoine de Saint Exupéry in Wind, Sand, and Stars(a wonderful book, that everyone should read at least once). When he said it, it was referring to aircraft, but I've since seen his words taken far out of context(the farthest being the favorite saying of a girl troubled with anorexia). I wonder if he ever imagined that people would take something so simple and repeat it with so many different meanings.

It has developed a meaning for me, as well. My beautiful boy and I have nothing left to take away-there's no trappings of a relationship, no one in our home to judge us. We're left with only the bare bones; we only have love left.

There are those who say that if someone loves you, they want to claim you. I used to feel that way, but he's taught me that love is a stronger glue. We love each other, we aren't going to seek anyone else.

There is nothing to take away; we are perfect.

Don't You Know It's Gonna Be Alright?

It was a Wednesday afternoon, and there I was in the passenger seat of a Nissan truck. My car wouldn't start, I'd just come off of my second 9-hour day of work, and I was averaging about four hours of sleep a night. The apartment still wasn't ready, I was running low on money and clothes, and I needed a shower.

But exhausted though I was, tired and dirty and distressed, I looked to my left. There was my beautiful boy, wearing his sunglasses and driving me to wherever I needed to be. I knew that no matter when I called him, he would come to my rescue, but to see it happening was entirely different. And tonight, when I come out of rehearsal, he'll drive me back to my temporary home, give me a kiss goodnight, and get ready to do it all again.

Love is an interesting seed. It can grow wherever it's planted-simplicity or adversity, good days or bad. It grows in the sunshine, the rain, and the cloudy days when the sky just can't decide.

“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.”
― Richard Siken

Exhaustion

It's not healthy to be this tired. After finally snuggling down and getting some decent sleep, my phone went off at 3am. My father, professional driver of many years, had run out of gas for the third time(that I'm aware of, anyway) this month. So away I went, driving twenty minutes to pull him off of the road.

He wasn't alone. A boy I don't know, and dad's little girlfriend. Instead of coming with me to the gas station, he sent her. A grown man tried to shield himself from anger using a 24 year old girl. It didn't work-I only became more frustrated. I was too tired, however, to give it much thought.

It was after I dropped her off and left the scene that I hit the deer. It made me furious. I hit the deer because my brakes are horrible, because I've been counting on his promise to fix them. I was out there at three in the morning, too tired to be driving, because he doesn't know how to manage his gas. And then, he wouldn't even bother to answer his phone.

Luckily, my car is an American-made trooper, and the damage is light. Somehow, the deer knocked loose the wire that turns on my dashboard lights. I'm missing a headlight, and the front bit will have to be replaced, but I've done it before. But it's money I don't have, and I'm not counting on him to help me. He never does.

I was so tired this morning when I woke up at six for work, that I attempted to start my car, only to receive a horrible grinding noise in response. I panicked; What kind of damage had that deer wrought? It was a few minutes later that I realized my folly. I was so exhausted that I'd forgotten that my car was already running.

Poor Orion. Soon, these long drives will be a thing of the past. Wear your scars with pride-Not every car can hit a full-grown deer and keep going the way you can. I swear, baby, I'll take care of you. And when I feel up to it, I'll even pull the deer fur out of your grill. But not today.

An Open Letter To The Boy Staring At Me In The Cafe

Dear sir,
I've noticed that for the past twenty minutes, you've been glancing at me a little more than I think may be necessary. It's the kind of glancing the movies have taught us to believe lead to a conversation, a date, etc.

While you are cute(even with your flip-flops and douschebag sunglasses), I'm afraid I must ask you to look elsewhere. You see, you are not the one who taught me the meaning of "Don't Panic", nor did you expose me to Big Brother. I've never leant you "The Unbearable Lightness of Being". On November 18th, 2011, you weren't by my side when my first play premiered. You were not with me in Georgia when my heart broke over someone broken.

You aren't the beautiful boy who wrapped his arms around me on a pleasant night while we stood in the gazebo on campus, or sat with me for hours after rehearsal and told me about your world.

Please stop looking at me.
Sincerely,
Cass

A Series of Stange Events

My tire has stopped deflating.

The tire, which has needed at least one trip to an air pump a day(sometimes two), has miraculously stayed full for three days. I think the small part of my ancestry that might be Jewish is kicking in.

I've also lost my father. Not lost as in "he's dead", but I can't find him. He doesn't answer the phone, hasn't paid the bills, and I'm lead to believe he hasn't been at work either. It's slightly distressing, because I do hate living alone, but hopefully my apartment and my beautiful boy will be waiting for me soon.

Life in Chestertown proves to be gloriously mundane thus far. I sat and waited for the drawbridge to come down today, and a song came into my head. It's from the soundtrack of The Hunger Games(I haven't seen the movie, but I've read the series at least four times). It reminds me of myself at this moment-going out into the world (almost) on my own. Yesterday, I was a kid dreaming about going out into life with sword drawn, hoping I'd win. Today, it's harder than I thought it would be, but I'm learning. They say you stop living when you stop learning, so at the end of the day at least I can confirm that I'm still alive.

"Eyes Open"

Everybody's waiting
Everybody's watching
Even when you're sleeping
Keep your ey-eyes open

The tricky thing
Is yesterday we were just children
Playing soldiers
Just pretending
Dreaming dreams with happy endings
In backyards, winning battles with our wooden swords
But now we've stepped into a cruel world
Where everybody stands and keeps score

Keep your eyes open

Everybody's waiting for you to breakdown
Everybody's watching to see the fallout
Even when you're sleeping, sleeping
Keep your ey-eyes open
Keep your ey-eyes open
Keep your ey-eyes open

So here you are, two steps ahead and staying on guard
Every lesson forms a new scar
They never thought you'd make it this far
But turn around (turn around), oh they've surrounded you
It's a showdown (showdown) and nobody comes to save you now
But you've got something they don't
Yeah you've got something they don't
You've just gotta keep your eyes open

Everybody's waiting for you to breakdown
Everybody's watching to see the fallout
Even when you're sleeping, sleeping
Keep your ey-eyes open
Keep your ey-eyes open
Keep your ey-eyes

Keep your feet ready
Heartbeat steady
Keep your eyes open
Keep your aim locked
The night goes dark
Keep your eyes open

(Keep your eyes open [4x])

Everybody's waiting for you to breakdown
Everybody's watching to see the fallout
Even when you're sleeping, sleeping

Keep your ey-eyes open
Keep your ey-eyes open
Keep your ey-eyes open
Keep your ey-eyes open
Keep your ey-eyes open

The Alright Gatsby

Poor Gatsby. Climbs his way up in life, finds the girl of his dreams, then gives it up because he doesn't have money-then does everything to win her back and ends up alone and dead. Poor, poor Gatsby.

But maybe-and this is just a theory-he would have been alright if he'd stopped trying to force love into the box he'd built for it, and let it be what it was. When Daisy said she wanted to run away, that's what he should have done. When he forced her to say she never loved Tom, he should have accepted that it wasn't true. He got so wrapped up in making his own happy ending, he forgot to let himself be happy.

Semantics aside, the movie was a treasure. I walked in expecting my much-loved swing music and the usual array of camera shots. I was greeted instead by heavy party rap music(kids these days) and a constantly moving camera. It surprised me at first, but I understood over time. The director wanted to recreate the feeling of loud, semi-familiar music and everything moving too fast.

And for the love of God, will someone please get Leo his Oscar already?

I Like Metaphors

After a wonderful phone chat with my friend Keanu, I've decided that purpose is like a penis. No, really, I can back that statement up!

-Not everyone has one
-Those who have one don't always know what to do with it
-Some people would be happier without one
-Just because you have one, doesn't mean you use it
-Everyone wants to think it's big, but most are just average.

Sound logic, I think.

Keanu asked me how life was going. He's been checking up on me just about daily(and, given the past few weeks, I'm pretty glad about it), but last night was the first time he called. We chatted about things, and he asked me where I was working. But then, he asked me what my career goals were, what I planned to do with life. It kind of stopped me for a moment. I'm a housekeeper at a bed and breakfast, an assistant at a music store, and soon to be a secretary at our local college. I'm pretty happy with my jobs at the moment.

But then I wondered about the difference between contentment and complacency. They're different, to be sure, but how can you tell? I have goals. Not in my career, at least not yet, but I am striving for things.

Maybe that's the difference.

Recipe For Home

Cass's Recipe for simple stir-fry

1. Throw vegetables, imitation crab, and sausage slices into a frying pan.

2. Add copious amounts of soy sauce.

3. Attempt to boil rice in a timely manner.

4. Don't burn the stir-fry!

5. Also don't forget the rice.

6. Timing is key. Let stir-fry cook until slightly browned, let rice be rice-like.

7. Serve stir-fry over rice to beautiful boy that makes you forget about everything when he walks in the door and gives you that goofy-ass grin because you surprised him with dinner.

8. Don't forget to turn off the grill.

See? That simple. A can of veggies, a handful of fake crab, and some heat turn any night into a happy memory. Not that we're in lack of those-but they are harder to come by nowadays.

Life hustles and bustles and blows us down. Sometimes it's easy to forget the simple things; How much he loves a good meal, or the way he lights up when he sees that you've remembered him. It really is the little things that count, but sometimes we forget the big things too. I forget that neither of us has had a real home, and that we've lived alone for so long. I'd let life tire me out so badly that I'd forgotten what it feels like to fall in love with his smile, or the way he always comes out of the bathroom with his hair slicked back, or how when he leaves late at night and I tell him to let me know he's made it back safely, he always forgets.

The last few weeks have been rough, but it's taken us back to square one and reminded me of the things that shouldn't be forgotten so easily. I like to think I've learned my lesson, and that I won't forget so soon this time.