More Miracles

In the spirit of my last post, I feel obligated to record my next Christmas miracle: Holiday pay.

That's right, I get PAID for the HOLIDAYS.

What does that mean, you ask?

A few things. A.) I get paid for the two weeks off after Christmas, which is a miracle in itself. I was always under the impression that if I'm not working, I don't get paid. Which brings me to B.) I should've been paid for those two weeks for the past couple of years. A.k.a., the college has screwed me(not on purpose, but still). And not just those two weeks-every single holiday and admin closing. I figured it up, actually. Roughly 6 weeks of pay total, counting every Thanksgiving, Christmas, July 4th, Spring Break, and snow day. They quite literally owe me thousands of dollars.

I have inquired into this, and haven't gotten an answer just yet, but we'll see.

Even if I don't get all that back pay, it is amazing to know that my low financial point of the year is now covered. For years, I've struggled through January, praying that I could make just enough to get by(because let's face it, I'm never going to spend less on Christmas. It's the one time of year I get to spoil people properly). I may or may not have cried tears of joy.

There have been other, smaller miracles. One trip to Barnes & Noble got the majority of my shopping done. The office secret Santa went smoothly(And there's a half-decent chance that the muse drew my name; But we'll see). My house is sort of coming together, even if I do hate the place. I found new Grinch-themed accessories(namely a shirt, and a pair of pajama pants that are just SO SOFT).

I've finally gotten into the Christmas spirit. It was awhile coming this year, and I was a little concerned. I thought that whatever is going on in my head, it might ruin the one purely good thing left in the world, but it didn't. It hadn't stopped Christmas from coming-it came! Somehow or other, it came just the same.

God Bless Us, Every One

I believe in Christmas miracles.

I, more than anyone you've probably ever met, have faith in the particular kind of magic that happens every December.

The movie industry seems to agree. Every other movie is Christmas-miracle themed, with the "miracle" usually being in direct correlation to someone's heart growing three sizes and sharing the winter joy. It's love-magic.

And that, perhaps, is why I so thoroughly enjoy Christmas. Whether they do it subconsciously, a habit brought about years of brainwashing people to be kind, or if they really are just more aware of the needy and lonely in the holiday season, people open their hearts(and wallets) to help other people out. I love it.

Every year, I jump directly on to the giving bandwagon. My main variety of giving back is the adopt-a-kid tree. The college puts up a tree, with little tags all over it. You pick one, get a list of things your kid wants, and leave them under the tree by the preferred date.

I've got one every year so far(last year was little Jaquim, who liked Spiderman and really wanted a set of nice clothes). This year, I was worried. Partly because with all the fuss, I didn't know if the tree would make it up, and partly because I am what a rapper might call a "broke ass bitch". In the 11th hour, the tree went up.

My bank account is looking a little shallow, but I have about $140 stashed away in my travel jar. I figured that it should be enough to give a kid a decent Christmas, and being me, I grabbed a tag off of the tree this morning(Her name is Diamond, she's 11 and wants nail polish and lego sets and I love her).

I know the story right now is shaping up to be "girl spends her last cash for a kid for Christmas", but I don't mean it that way. I do try to be a good person, which sometimes does take effort, but there's nothing special to it. The point of the story is that I was willing to give with an open heart, which is really, really important to the moral of the story, so bear with me.

With all the ruckus in the past few weeks, I worked about 46 hours, and about 30 of those were while we were closed. Full time employees are paid whenever the college is closed, and anything they work at that point is over time. Technically, it's double time and a half. By the numbers, $10 per hour for the eight they would've normally been there, and $15 for every hour they work anyway, for a grand total of $25. This is not a courtesy that has ever been extended to me. Snow days? Fuck it, I'm on my own. My boss is pretty good about letting me come in and make up those hours, but it's still a pain.

I got the word this morning that part-timers do qualify for administrative closings, and that all of those hours I worked will be at time and a half. I almost cried tears of joy.

When all is said and done, I'm chalking it up to Christmas magic. Here I am, concerned about how I'm going to get my remaining Christmas shopping done, and along comes this sort of bonus to help me along.

Christmas magic, man. Nothing like it.

Little Wonders

I think that in the midst of chaos, we somehow find the things that are important to us.

This week has been slightly hellish. Monday morning, a student was reported as having stolen a gun from home and gone missing. The school went into lockdown for the day(both Alex and I were instructed not to come to work; At least he got paid for it). When nothing happened, they reopened the school for Tuesday classes. Then, the police informed us that he was last seen buying ammo. And that fucked up everything.

Now, there are a lot of sides to this debate; Last month, this same kid had been waving a gun around at a frat party. Since then, he's been the target of "bullying", if one could call a consequence of the general dissatisfaction of having a peer get drunk and whip out a gun on you "bullying" , and now everyone thinks that he... Well... You know. And so sets in the guilt, and regret, and all that.

Whatever happened, I was pretty scared. Not for myself, because I'm at the ass end of our lovely campus, but for those coworkers of mine that are always out and about in the open. Mainly, the muse. I spent all of Monday worrying about him, and later that night I gathered the cojones to text him. He was doing fine, and said that he'd thought of me that day and hoped I was doing well. I was beyond delighted.

So when the call came for all non-essential staff to go home Tuesday, I was above and beyond relieved. And I mean, way more relieved than I had thought I might be. Yet there he was, standing in my office, wanting to know about towing his car. I was brief. I was dismissive. I was a little bitchy. And I told him to get off campus like, three times.

Later, I apologized for it. I couldn't find any way around it, so I flat out told him that I was worried about his safety(which may have come as a surprise; I don't know). And knowing that I was worried, he continued texting me for a bit, dumb jokes just to make me feel better. We made plans to tow his car the next day, and ended up texting well into the evening. It was different, too. When we text, it's usually about dumb things or puns, but we ended up talking about normal, day to day things. It was good change.

When it came to actually towing the car, I was on edge. After all, my tow guy is my dad, so... Hey, meet my dad! And it was alright. We hooked up the cars and he wanted to drive the old car one last time. I played it cool, but I think he sensed my discomfort and let me drive with him in the passenger seat(I would like to point out that I don't advise people to do that on most occasions; I just know I'm good enough at it to keep him safe. Like motorcyclists who know when they're good enough to carry passengers).

The muse is not a lover of things fast and dangerous. Roller coasters? Hell no. Skydiving? Absolutely not. Being dragged behind another van at 60 miles per hour with little to no brakes or steering?

He did not enjoy the ride at all.

There was a slight incident where dad slammed on the brakes for a school bus and we hit the back of him, but comparatively it was a light tap. I like to think that the muse was impressed by my ability to bring a car to a full stop without brakes and on super short notice. After the car was scrapped, he even split the cash with us three ways(It was only $60, but still). On a whim, I asked if he'd like to come to dinner with dad and I, and he accepted. We agreed to go home, get cleaned up, and reconvene at a slightly later hour.

[Insert montage of me, getting called in to work for an hour, making myself look presentable really fast, etc. Montage should be set to "Takin' Care of Business" by Bachman-Turner Overdrive.]
We agreed to meet at the chinese buffet, because let's face it, they're men. We had a lovely dinner and afterwards, dad scooted a bit more quickly than usual(Still not sure if this was intuition or the fact that it was late at night).

It ended up that the muse and I went to the movies(The Martian, 10/10, great movie) in sort-of nearby Middletown. And as this thing grows longer than I usually care for, I'll summarize: We had a good fucking time. He even got out of the car at the end to avoid that awkward car hug we always seem to do and the next day, he stopped by work(he had off, but I was considered "essential personnel" this week) and gave me a candle holder.

It just struck me how in the middle of something that can be called a crisis, may be called a tragedy, and caused a whole lot of stress no matter what it's called, I found a rare and precious memory. In a pile of fertilizer, I found a diamond.

The great poet Rob Thomas once said "Our lives are made in these small hours, these little wonders, there twists and turns of fate". He's right. And cute.

Jumpin' Ja-Hosephat

When I was younger, my mother and I mostly bonded over television. There were phases; The Golden Girls/Nanny phase, the game show phase, the talk show phase, and the reality television phase.

The reality phase consisted of house flipping shows, makeover shows, and those corny shows that I occasionally still watch for kicks- Bridezillas, Hoarders, Addicted(ironic), and Wife Swap.

One of my biggest life lessons came from Wife Swap. The premise of the show, for those unfamiliar, is to take two wives and mothers from vastly different family units for a week. The first few days, they did things the way the regular wife would, and for the remainder of the time they could instate their own rules.  The swapped mother would have $1,000 to give to their temporary family, and got to dictate where it went specifically.

On the episode in question, an uptight woman was traded out to a family of Rastafarians. The husband didn't have any real job, other than playing in his reggae band, and they lived in a community of other Rastafarians that were the same level of laid-back and carefree. She obviously did not take this well. Her husband for the week kept telling her "Ja will provide."

That sort of reliance on the god of your choosing requires a lot of faith, and I remember thinking that it would backfire spectacularly. But lo and behold, every time someone needed food or money, it was there. When someone in the community came into any sort of excess bounty, they spread that wealth among their neighbors. Local non-Rastafarians would swing by the settlement when they needed some temporary labor and hire people as needed, and everyone worked hard and shared what they made out of that. It was fascinating. Ja did, in fact, provide(even if it had more to do with the community ideals of taking care of each other than any sort of reggae-themed deity).

Surprising, the things that stick with us. "Ja will provide" turned into a mantra of mine, called forth in times of distress. And it's been true. When I needed money, extra work would come my way. If I needed food, someone would offer to buy me lunch. Which is not to say that I relied on providence to take care of me; I've always hustled when I needed to. But when I was in a need greater than what I could handle, the universe has always made something work out. Maybe it's because I'm open to it, or because I take the opportunities presented. Who knows?

We've found a new apartment. It's in a building with some great people, owned by someone that works at the college. He's great. The place is great. But... It's a little more expensive than our current place. Still within our range, but with my hours being inconsistent and those two weeks of my unpaid vacation after Christmas, it's a horrible time to move and I was concerned(I've already gotten most of my Christmas shopping done, so no crunch-time shopping). And I took a deep breath and repeated my mantra: Ja will provide.

I ran into my future landlord today at our monthly staff breakfast. We talked a bit about the apartment and he, expecting his second child on Thursday(or thereabouts), expressed that he hadn't gotten the professional cleaning crew in the apartment yet. Which seemed like the perfect time to mention that I had been, at many points past, a professional cleaner. That led to both an offer to deduct a chunk out of our first rent payment for the cleaning of the apartment, and a small job cleaning the stairwell once a month for another monthly rent deduction. So now, the thing I was most worried about is not exactly "taken care of", but looks promising.

The universe is a mystifying place, full of waves of sorrow and pools of joy(as The Beatles liked to say), and we just have to be open to it. Life is better that way.

Boys Are Dumb

After a fantastic weekend spent haunted-housing and reading the muse's writing bits, I gathered up the courage to ask him to the theatre's monthly open mic. We had gone before on his suggestion, but I was still hesitant to ask. I mean, if you really like someone, you should start out a little nervous, right?

So around 4:30, I texted him and very vaguely mentioned that there was an open mic night to which I was going, that he could also be going to. And he responded with the affirmative.

This left me three hours to get ready. I went back and forth between outfits, briefly considered red lipstick(decided against that one), stuffed my boobs into my new and extra-supportive bra, and by 7:15, I was heading out the door.

...And then my phone buzzed. "It seems my plans tonight will be dinner, followed closely by sleep." Oh. Ok. I mean, it's ok, he works hard and sleep is important, so. I went back inside and changed from the cute shirt to one of my all-time favorites. If I'm just going to listen to music, I can sacrifice cute for comfortable. I sent a quick "Those are also good plans", which I hoped sounded convincingly nonchalant. Boys are dumb and disappointing.

The theatre was abuzz with sound checks and guitar tuning. I was hanging around the tech booth and having a chat with our lights and sound guy(One day I'll have to write about him; he's a kind soul, very knowledgeable, and he likes me because I can think on the same sorta scattered level he does). He rushes off to fix a mic or an amp or some other sound contraption, so I turn to head back to the box office for a moment.

Lo and behold, what should my eyes see but my muse, strolling in.

"What happened to dinner and sleep?"
"Yeah, well, I figured I'd come anyway."

This leads me to several possible conclusions. Either he genuinely changed his mind(which seems unlikely, as he'd stayed late to work on something and was coming directly from the college), he could tell I was dissapointed and felt bad, or he just plain wanted to hang out with me. All of these worked in my favor.

There turned out to be very little listening of music. We joked a bit, but most of it was talking about the pieces of story he'd sent me. It was like I'd opened this fantastic door; He just kept going about the setting and plot and characters. This world he'd built was so intricate. I loved every second of it.

A few times, he stopped himself, saying that it was dumb or that he was talking too much. I kept telling him that I asked questions because I wanted to hear about it, and that I genuinely enjoyed hearing him talk. And I thought, Is this what it's like when I talk about things? Do I stop myself as much? But(and here is a very important fact) my attention did not otherwise waver. I didn't tune him out or nod along. He just... He loved it so much, and it was so good to see.He even helped me with my current story.

It was a good night.

Love-struck Paranoia and Other Things

The most frightening thing about having growing feelings for someone is the fear that someone will know before you're ready for them to know. Be that the person in question, or a mutual friend, or, say, an entire department...

His fellow carpenters have always made jokes in the me and him department, and I'm not sure why. Maybe because we're the younger and newer people in the vicinity; or, you know, because I'm completely transparent in my affections(Does everyone know? Can everyone see? Should I maybe dial it down a bit or stop looking at him entirely?). It's probably just the first one. A coincidence of age and work.

Years of t.v. sitcoms have taught me, though, that there's something to the whole "everyone sees it before you do" thing. But the people in those situations never seem frightened or self-conscious, they never seem to question their own worth; Rachel never once asked herself "But... Why would Ross love me? What good am I?"

Because here I sit, wondering what anyone(especially someone so good) could see in me. I don't know myself. I can't imagine anyone looking at me and going "Hey! Wow! There she is!" And anyway, aren't I a little old to be believing in fairy tales and love stories?

And yet... As I find myself increasingly attached to him, I can't help but wonder if it's mutual. Surely he doesn't tell every stranger some of the things he reveals to me; I know for a fact that I can be honest with him in ways that I can't with anyone else. I even admitted the other day to not knowing what to say(and I am many things, but rarely speechless).

I'm terrified of being discovered before I'm ready, but am I ever going to be ready? Is this thing we have going to grow, or shrink, or level out? And(this is the biggest thing) what am I going to do if that happens?

Maybe someone should just reveal me already, so I can stop being scared.

How a Heart Brakes

Last week, I decided that what my car really needed was a good old-fashioned brake flushing. Cars do need this done semi-routinely; every 25,000 miles or two years, the experts say. When was the last time mine were flushed? Hard to say, really. Jupiter was made in 2000, so probably... never.

Here's a quick how-to guide of flushing your brakes:

• Take off the tire.
• Locate your bleeder valve.
• When the brake is pressed in, open the valve, letting the air and nastiness out.
• Close the valve before the brake is released.
• Repeat until you get clear fluid.

I mean, there's a little more to it than that, but there's your basic process. "But Cass," you say, "How can you open the bleeder valve and press the brakes at the same time?" Ahh, clever reader, you've caught me! It does, in fact, take two people! And guess who I roped into helping me? No, guess! Yeah, it was the muse.

To be truthful, I didn't even ask him as some strange ploy to show off my mechanical skills, or as a cute date idea. I asked because he is my friend, aside from any other emotions I may have regarding him. So, we planned to meet at the shop on Sunday.

A fun part of working in the maintenance department of a large college with a motorpool is that I have a professional-grade garage for all my car-fixin' needs. Of course, as someone who is not a mechanic, I don't have a key, which meant I had to show up bright and early to meet our on-call guy and get him to open it for me. Dude is nice, we had some light work conversation, and he taught me how to use the lift. It was fun.

Now, having not established a time, I had no idea when the muse would be free in the day. When he texted me to establish a 3:30 start time, I was slightly less than elated. I mean, it was noon and my tires were off. So what's a girl to do? Get some filing done, that's what! Seriously. I can get more work done in an hour on a weekend when no one is there than I ever have during the week. Ringing phones, people in and out, bleh.

And while I worked, I watched the live stream from the International Space Station(while playing the classic rock Pandora station in the background). It was soothing. And at last, the moment arrived, and so did he.

So I explained, in the best terms I could, how this thing worked. To be fair, I was nervous, and maybe didn't do as concise a job as I may have otherwise, but it was ok. It was just... all ok. We did the thing(as best as we could-my rear two bleeder valves were rusted shut beyond help, so we could only flush the front two brake lines. Still an improvement), making fun conversation the entire time.

The thing about being around him is that I'm nervous the whole time leading up to the encounter. If I know I'm going to spend time with him, my stomach churns and my heart pounds and I just cannot find anything to do with my hands and do I look ok? God my hair is a mess and everything is wrong and... Then he's there. And I feel calm. Talking to him is so easy. I never feel like I need to lie to him or impress him. He said much the same thing, that he was glad he could say anything that popped into his head.

There was a point where I was telling him what really depressed me so much about moving was that most of the things I own are tied with specific events and memories, and that it felt like all that I am and was can be packaged into a finite amount of boxes. That it was all there, all of my self, sandwiched between a few slabs of cardboard. And, in a voice about half the volume we used for the vast majority of conversation at that point, he says "I don't think that's true." Which isn't necessarily a statement that only he would make, but the gentle sincerity of it makes me smile.

It just feels so great to have someone that gets me, that listens, that cares, that my soul feels good just being around.

Storytellers

Why have we, as a society, given up stories?

Perhaps my particular sphere has been influenced by being surrounded by academia, but it feels like everything I read lately is overwhelmingly pretentious. Literary journals are chock full of pieces that follow some sort of plot line(I guess), but 80% of the narrative is introspective bullshit. Who cares about the whiny, white, male protagonist and his reflections on the society that led to this, that, and the other?

Don't get me wrong-There's certainly a time and place for things like that. Main characters are supposed to feel and react to things. That's what makes them interesting. But to focus on those feelings without making room for other characters and actual plot movement is foolish at best.

For example, take Wild(the book I so often quoted in my beach trip entry). Cheryl Strayed tells us, at length, how she feels about things. After all, she sets out on the trek specifically to think about herself and her life. We get to know her through these reflections, and it's great. But Cheryl also gives time to other characters-No one can forget lovable Doug or Cheryl's warm mother. She tells us of wide mountain ranges, hot deserts, animals and sounds. We experience the world through her, instead of just experiencing her.

And that's what I find lacking in so many prizewinners. I read to experience other worlds through identifiable characters, not read a biography.

The world needs stories. Stories can teach, and stories can be an escape from the load of bullshit that the world continuously throws our way. A good story, like Patrick Ness' A Monster Calls, can heal. I can only hope that one day, human beings try embracing the simple over the pretentious, and bring back the story.

Fall Walks and Talks

There's always been something about the fall that makes me feel bolder, clearer, more secure. Maybe it's the breeze of fresh air after a long and muggy summer, or maybe it's the changing colors and fall aesthetic that really vibes with me. No idea.

But last night, I had the desire to be outside. I was already feeling a little... Well. Tuesday night was spent, again, in the hospital with my mother. I didn't get home until 5:30, catching a quick nap before and after work to make up the difference. So it would be safe to say that my mind hand transcended fuzziness and moved on to that strange sharpness that comes from a deficiency of some necessity(that's what fasting is all about).

I decided to engage in one of my favorite fall sports: Hiking to the store to get hot chocolate. On a whim, I asked Alex to join me. Fall is, after all, the season we got to know each other, and there's a certain familiarity in walking and talking with him when the air is like this. So we walked, and talked. And the talking was going very well.

So well, in fact, that I invited him to sit outside with me while we ate dinner. For the first time in quite awhile, we actually talked openly and honestly. I told him about my long night at the hospital, and my anxiety getting worse, and some of the things that were going on in my life when I first met him.

And, at some point, we brought up relationships(more specifically, ours). I know now that A.) He is most certainly ok with me having other people in my life, if a bit jealous and B.) Screaming out the window "HEY! YOU GOTTA DATE?!" when the muse showed up at my house was, in fact, a "dominance display"(he said that he actually used that phrasing like what the hell). Alex also firmly believes that the muse absolutely has feelings for me which, honestly, I'm both scared and excited by.

It was good. It was nice. I think, if we keep this going, Alex and I could really become friends again. What a nice change of pace.

98 Days

In all the places you find love, it feels like Christmas

It is the season of the heart
A special time of caring
The ways of love made clear
It is the season of the spirit
The message if we hear it
Is 'Make it last all year'

It's in the giving of a gift to another
A pair of mittens that were made by your mother
It's all the ways that we show love that feel like Christmas
I love Christmas. Which, of course, everyone and their mother knows by now, but it bears restating at this point. There are only, as of today, ninety-eight days left until the big day(That's right, we're in the double digits!)

And while I usually spend my entire year looking forward to the Christmas season, I don't feel so desperate to reach it now. Don't get me wrong, I'm still eagerly counting the days, but it's not a life line. I'm not grabbing at the one thing that brings me relief from the constant barrage of crap the universe has seen fit to dish out to me. I don't feel like a thirsty man wandering the desert, working his way toward the oasis that he knows is just ninety-eight steps over that sand dune over there.

You may be asking "Why, Cass? What has changed in your life?" Well, let me tell you, friend!

He makes me feel like Christmas all the time.

He's warm, and he cares. He makes me smile. Every conversation, every new thing I learn about him, is like a gift, and I wake up every morning excited to tear off the wrapping of the next one and find out what it is.

Even if I find out that Santa isn't real and the feelings aren't mutual, the gifts are still there. The tree still sparkles with lights and tinsel alike, and my soul still celebrates.

(Plus maybe I don't know how he acts around other people but I kind of think maybe it could possibly be mutual but hey)

Overwhelmed

He asked me if I was doing alright, he brought me coffee, he listened to me. He told me about his concerns. We listened to each other.

I don't know what I'm feeling right now. I've never been someone who could talk about things, and even then it takes me years to truly open up.

And yet, here is this boy, this strange and wonderful boy, that shows up at my door with coffee, and he cares.

For the first time in my life, I feel like there's someone that will take care of my heart, and I can't get over it or stop playing the afternoon over in my head. But that's what a muse does, isn't it? Captivates, inspires, makes you think of things in a different way.

I don't know how to feel, I don't know what I do feel. I'm frightened and excited all at the same time.

God help me, may he be gentle with my heart.

Heritage

There comes a point in every child's life where they begin to understand their parents and accept them as being more than just a mother or father.

I got to that point sometime a few months ago. And yesterday, I learned something: Accepting your parents as beautiful, flawed individuals also means holding them accountable for their shitty actions.

Around three in the afternoon, I stopped by my mother's house to drop off a ficus. Someone at work gave it to me, and since everything I touch dies I decided to pass it on to my mother and her magical green thumb. I wrote a little note for it that read "My name is Fenwick the Ficus! My mommy couldn't take care of me :( Please love me!" and planned to leave it at the doorstep like a cartoon baby.

When I went to ditch the plant baby, I noticed that my mother's car was running and her door was ajar. I assumed she had stopped home for something, and marveled at my slickness and great timing. What a fun surprise, I thought, giggling at my porch baby.

Of course, I assumed that sometime soon, I would be getting a phone call or text message asking me if I had, indeed, abandoned the plant. When that didn't come, I felt slightly alarmed, but not terribly so. I left Tony's house around seven that night, and swung by my mother's apartment to check on things.

Fenwick was still on the porch.

Her car was still running.

I, keeping as calm as one can, skipped into her house. Not to mince words, but I was almost entirely certain that I was going to find her on the floor. Where I actually found her was her bed, sound asleep. I shook her awake and said "Momther, your car has been running for like, four hours." To which she says, so eloquently, "Go fuggin turn it off, then!"

I begrudingly do so. Then pulls up Uncle Frank, a childhood figure from my church, asking me to go help him work the ATM. I tell my mother as much and oblige, getting to hear all the juiciest gossip from my past churchfellows(A few of the deacons had become preachers, our pastor won a big settlement from getting hit by a boat, etc.)

When he brought me back, I went back inside. Mom had managed to move to the couch, and was coughing. Just continuously coughing. I asked if she needed water, she shook her head no. I asked if she need cough syrup. Yes. Did she have any? No. Ok, well, I'll go get some.

I got some NyQuil from our local convenience store, and rushed it back to her. Of course, now she wasn't coughing. She was, however, slurring every word in the book. At this point, I wasn't sure if she was drunk(likely) or having a stroke(equally likely, given how much she drinks). I asked her a few basic questions: When is your birthday, what color is your car, who is president? She had a little trouble remembering Obama at first, but she got there. I squeezed her fingers, hand, arm, face, feet-She could feel it. Bonus points to Tony for looking up signs of stroke for me so I had a nice checklist to go by.

At this point, I started asking her how much she'd had to drink, if she was drunk when she came home, yada yada. I forced her to drink some water and eat a cookie. She didn't want to eat anything, but I was going to force some food into her one way of another. I almost wish she hadn't, so I could just shove a piece of bread into her dumb drunk smart mouth, but that wouldn't have ended well for anyone.

I got her a cheesesteak, and it seemed to help soak up some of the booze in her stomach. I tried asking her questions, but it was obvious that nothing was hitting home. She managed to get half of it down before nodding off. I roused her and put her to bed, fed her cats and gave them water, put the other half of her cheesesteak in the fridge, stole her last bottle of Lord Calvert and went on my less-than-merry way.

When I got home, I tried(for reasons that I simply cannot fathom) to relay the story to Alex and express my concerns about my own future. He responded with sarcasm about self-fulfilling prophecies and silence. I slept on the small couch in the library, which I guess is my bed now, but that's a story for another post.

I've texted my mother a few times, with no response. I'm not incredibly concerned, because I know she doesn't rise until noon when she can help it, but if I don't get an answer I'll ride over there after work. Why do I have to have a drunk for a mother? She went eleven years without it, and now her blood is mostly alcohol. Am I doomed and damned? Am I trying to repair a relationship with someone who is making that all but impossible? Biggest question-What do I do now?

Tiptoe Through the Tulips, Flollop Through the... Ficus?

The word flollop was first used in Douglas Adams' literary masterpiece Life, The Universe, and Everything. It was described as a sort of flailing motion(and, technically, only the mattresses of Squornshellus Zeta are truly able to do it). The mattress flollops in joy, and I always held on to that idea. Flolloping.

So now, when I get so excited I can't contain it and I have to kick my legs and move my arms and wriggle in my seat, I call it flolloping, and I did it for twenty minutes straight last night.

The muse, in his own roundabout way, had made it clear that he would be at our theatre's open mic night last night. And he didn't invite me, specifically, only mentioned it while we were at our department's summer picnic(we work hard here at B&G, and we deserve free crabs). I went back and forth about it in the days leading up, but I finally settled on "Why would he tell me he was going unless it was a sort of invitation and you go to that all the time anyway so just go and shut up and stop being a baby."

I took a sick day yesterday(for my mental health). Most of the day was spent cleaning and rearranging some furniture. There were admittedly some video games, but I swear the majority of my time was spent productively. I listened to music, took a shower, spent time picking out a decent outfit-I tried my best to prepare myself, so I wouldn't feel so nervous. Just before I left, I put on my red lipstick. There's something about a good red lip that makes you feel confident. My particular shade is called "I could kill you and get away with it". Not officially but, you know.

And then, I was there. And not much later, he was there. And we sat together, and talked, and cracked up, and made dumb jokes. I think I'm finally getting over the nervousness that comes with being physically near him(Because no amount of texting, and there has been a fair bit, can compare to actually being present). I smiled a lot.

He left early, so I walked him out and we talked more. It was just nice. I felt good. I was happy. I went inside, found my friend, and flolloped.


As happy as I am, there's still the voice inside that says "It won't last". It's sad to think so, but I can always hope.

Parallels and Parking

Cars are important to us as a people. They take us to work, home, wherever we want to go, but more than that, they become a member of the family. We give them names, we find personalities in them.

Once upon a time and long ago, I had an old silver station wagon and he had a little red truck. Before either of us could express our feelings, we would park side by side every day, like an unspoken date that neither of us stood up. Our first Valentine's Day, I left cookies hanging in a bag on his antenna. We slept in my car a few times. The truck took us to Rock Hall in a terrible snowstorm(and only slipped a little). Orion took us to Georgia, earning himself a new windshield in the process, and that trip marked the first time we slept next to each other without any barriers between us.

Then, Orion needed a new fuel pump. For the first few months of living in our apartment, the truck carried us both. Then, when my baby finally went away(but before it was, in fact, final) the truck carried us both again, if begrudgingly.

I remember sitting in our print shop, feeling utterly hopeless. It was like my car and my relationship were in tandem, spiraling downward as a pair.

Jupiter came into my life, thankfully, and I started feeling solid and real again. My spirit, incarnate, for less than $3 a gallon. I still have Orion, in a way, and if I truly wanted I could put the money into him and fix him up, but I'm starting to know when I'm not able to put forth the amount of effort it takes to fix something.

Last Friday, we junked the truck. It was old, you could barely turn it, and it had started speeding up of it's own accord(I know we've joked that Alex's truck was trying to kill him, but it was really putting in some effort near the end). I was the one that flat-towed it to the junkyard(flat-towing is when you tie a powerless car to a much bigger van or truck and drag it along. Neat fact: The speedometer still works in car #2, so you get to see how fast you're going with almost no brakes. Whoo!)

Friday, the muse and I are traveling down to potentially pick up his new car, and the parallels are too great to go unwritten about. Here I am, with a new car and a new spirit. Here I am, with a new person and a new heart. And really, the road ahead is still unclear, but I think this car is gonna bring me through it just fine.

The Dulling Effect

Anybody that has been paying attention knows that Alex and I are on rocky ground. You'd also know that I've done basically nothing about it but run to the ocean, text someone cute, and whine about it on the internet.

Well, I'd like to think it's because of something I've dubbed "the dulling effect". Which, to be fair, I only named for the title of this particular blog post, but the name stands.

When I'm out and about in the world(from my beach trip to something as simple as doing laundry last night), I see with great clarity what I must do to move on and grow as a person. Like the world is laid out before me, I survey the topography and find the best route out of the wilderness. It's simple. Clean. Easy. Done in twelve steps or less.

And then, I go home.

There's an undeniable allure to having a cuddle buddy. Someone to curl up on the couch with, to sleep with, to sometimes not sleep with, to be able to reach out and touch; These are all things that I have grown accustomed to. And maybe we can't have an emotionally open conversation, but general conversations, the division of chores? We've got that down pat. It's nice. It's homey.

This, my friends, is the dulling effect.

It's when the sharp image of separation is dulled by the enjoyment of physical closeness and conversation. For example: "I should buy my own bed, but it's so fun to touch his butt." And though the good Lord did bless Alex in the booty department, should I sacrifice my own independence for it?

Of course, that then begs the question of "Is physically separating more healthy for me than staying put?" Though he's emotionally far, there are occasions where being physically near is just good enough. Not preferable, mind you, but good enough. When anxiety strikes, I can be held. If we separate, will that still ring true, or will I just have less anxiety to begin with?

All these questions occur to me, but only when I'm at home, or more accurately, in his proximity. Outside of that area of fallout, it's crystal clear. I've become the tragic heroine of my own story, being so convinced to leave a man behind until he comes prancing in and making me swoon(well, not swoon, but). The shame of it all.

(And of course there's the layer of "If we're more separate I can actually consider pursuing other gentlemen", but maybe let's leave that out of the equation for a second.)

What's a girl to do?

Right now, nothing. I'm just going to sit on this, consider my options and finances. I know that neither of us can afford to move(and really, I don't want to).  In a perfect world, the affections I do still have for him wouldn't get in the way of my everything else, but in a perfect world I'd also be hot and rich.

Ah, well. At least I can deliberate with an enjoyable booty around.

Me and Elle and Asshole Too

I love the people I find myself surrounded by. I truly do. The boy is still something to me, if not something definable(or, at this point, important), and Tony is the best friend I've ever had.

But the two of them have gotten into this irksome little habit of telling me they don't care about what I'm talking about.

At first, it was gentle, and I almost appreciated that level of honesty-That rather than waste my time and theirs, sitting and listening with a glazed look in their eyes, they chose to be upfront about their feelings. That's good, I thought. That's healthy.

Tony was in a bad spot, and didn't have the energy to focus on my problems as well as his own. That was fair, and I've been there before(though I'm far more discreet, and will just let the messages go unread).

But this boy... Let's finally give him a name, shall we? Alex is a good one. Yes. Alex. Alex has decided that he doesn't care, and will be open with telling me so if I'm talking about something.

Well, I fuckin' care!

Really, does he think I give any sorts of shits about his latest Skyrim character or how his dealer changed phone numbers and he was having such a hard time getting a hold of him, and listen to this zombie game he wants to make!

I don't care about those things. Not even a little. I used to care a little, because they were parts of him, but even when I didn't I wouldn't say so. My Momma didn't raise me to tell people I didn't care about what they were thinking.

When you care about someone, you listen to what they have to say(assuming, of course, that it's not harmful). You don't make them feel like talking to you is a waste of time. Last night, I was talking about something, and I cut myself off mid-sentence. I was talking, and the little voice in my brain just went "Hey, you know he doesn't care, right?"

When I stopped talking, he asked what was wrong, so I said that it was nothing and it didn't matter. He started with his "Awww, baby", but I quickly changed the topic. If he doesn't care, then I'm not going to pretend he does, and I'm not going to force him to pretend. I'll talk to people who do care, people who want to know how my days are going.

Besides, we were starting Legally Blonde and Elle Woods waits for no one.

Saltwater Heals

PHASE ONE

Life
Is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we're alive
Life
Is waiting for you
It's all messed up but we'll survive-"Life", Our Lady Peace


Isn't that the way? Life isn't simple, or easy, but it's part of being alive.

Thursday afternoon marked the beginning of my second annual beach weekend. I took this trip last year, and it had provided some much-needed clarity. So I thought, hey! Things are weird! Let's go do that again!

I arranged to have off that Friday(being part-time I don't really "get" time off, but when I need to move my hours, they're more than happy to oblige. Mostly because I've only done it maybe three times in two years.) This was with some trepidation because everything was quite likely to be all sorts of fucked up when I came back Monday, but that was a problem for future Sarah.

Since the conception of this plan, I had counted on leaving straight from work Thursday. A risky venture, since it included a high potential for forgetting some of my things in the morning, but I did it anyway. (For the record, I did forget things, but at least they weren't terribly important.) That afternoon saw a torrential downpour over my town. My coworkers and I stood around the door, staring at the wall of water. And then, without a glance back, my boy departed.

Didn't tell me goodbye for the weekend, didn't tell me to drive safe, nada. What a dick.

Fearing for my muse's health, I asked if he'd like a ride home, as his car is dead as hell. He accepted graciously, and we had a lovely chat about books and such, and he asked me all about my trip. It was interesting, to have someone care about things I was doing, and asking questions about it. It was charmingly genuine.

After he made it safely inside, I turned toward the south, and went to spend some time with Tony. Really, if part of your vacation isn't spent with your best friend, what are you doing with your life? Afterwards I stopped by my father's house. He had a friend over that traveled the country in his van(the way I'd like to do some day). I can only hope that when I do travel continuously, I'm not half the asshole this dude was. I caught a power nap until 3a.m., and then the real trip began.

PHASE TWOIf you speak the truth, the monster whispered in his ear, you will be able to face whatever comes.
-"A Monster Calls", Patrick Ness
I've always traveled at night. It cuts down on the traffic, and I avoid the heat of the day. An added bonus, there are less commercials on the radio. And so it was that Friday morning.

Once I was fully on the road, I felt free. The moon was full and beautiful, and the road was clear. I was so alive with the thrill of it that I started howling at the moon. Yes, really. It was joyful; I let the sound rise out of my throat and bleed into the night through my open windows. I doubt anyone could hear me, but then I didn't care, either.

I drove from the middle of Delaware to Chincoteague, arriving just shy of 5:30. I decided that this was an excellent time to get breakfast(A.) I needed WiFi, and B.) it was still dark out). And I would like to take this opportunity to thank McDonald's for structuring their prices in such a way that I can get oatmeal, a hash brown, and lots of coffee for $4.40, because that was a blessed thing.

Traditionally, I sneak onto Assateague around 6a.m. The gates are open for the rangers, but there's no one at the toll booth yet, and it's the perfect time to catch the sunrise. 

Can't beat the view.

When I arrived, I found a perfect spot. The sun was just starting to poke through the clouds, the air was just a touch chilly(but in a nice way), the view was incredible, and there wasn't a single soul to be found.

This was when most of my contemplation set in. I thought about all the things I'd been putting off in my mind. My relationship, should one choose to call it that, is dwindling. And, frankly, I don't know anymore if it can be salvaged. I don't know if I want it to be salvaged. If I wanted it, and it could be, I don't know how I would go about it. There's a lack of passion, a lack of emotional exchange and openness between us that leaves a hole in my heart.

Which brought me to another point-Whether I like it or not, that hole in my heart feels a little fuller every time I speak to my muse. This is something unexpected entirely. I've had crushes on boys in the past, acknowledging that humans are varied creatures and that small attractions weren't anything to be afraid of. It happens in the best relationships. But now I find myself feeling real and legitimate feelings for someone, and it's... scary. Exciting. Odd.

There was something in that sunrise that allowed me to be honest with myself without fear or regret. It was healthy. It was good.

Of course, after quiet time, it was time to actually enjoy the beach part of the beach. I lay in the sun, read for a bit, then headed for the waves. There was something about them that made me want to run headfirst into them, like a siren's song. After a few hours, a family showed up. At first, I was irritated. C'mon, there's miles of beach. Why do you need to be twenty feet from me?And then, something miraculous happened. I put the brakes on myself and examined why I was pissed. Did it really matter that they were taking up my valuable beach space? No, not really. It was because the girls were in bikinis, and I felt bad in comparison, when I just wanted to enjoy my beach day and feel secure. Having come to that realization, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that these girls are not here to make me feel bad or judge me. They are here to enjoy the restorative effects of salt water on the soul. They are not paying attention to me. And that was the second miracle-I stopped feeling self conscious(mostly) and enjoyed the remainder of my time.

After a few hours of being slapped around by the waves and getting sand into my everything, I called it quits. I changed and headed over to the visitor's center, another Assateague tradition.

Did you know that your car can also
double as a handy-dandy drying rack?

I did all the usual bits. Looking at the displays, touching things in the touch tank. I held up a horseshoe crab so a little girl could see the monstrosity underneath(the same way I remember people doing when I was a little girl-The cycle of learning goes on). I bought a few things from the gift shop(I don't pay to get in, because I have some deep anti-capitalist notion that paying to be in nature isn't quite right, but I do like to contribute money to park upkeep).

I pulled my now-dry items from my car and headed out. I thought about stopping at the lighthouse. Last year and a few times before, I'd climbed all the way to the top. It was a great view, but holy crap did I get winded. It's like nine flights up. What the fuck. I wasn't feeling it this year, though, so I skipped it and went to feed the McDonald's ponies instead. It was a little liberating, actually, to toss off my own traditions and go where my heart took me.

Moony and Luna.

After feeding them 25¢ handfuls of corn(and petting them because let's face it I am a child), I ran over to Pony Tails for more shopping. I kept in the tradition of buying a box of Pony Tails taffy(for my mother, to be given next time I actually go see her). At that point, the lack of sleep was starting to hit me, and I really wanted to lay on my hotel bed and read. So I skipped the very-packed restaurants and Wallop's Island Space museum thing and head towards the reasonably-priced Econo Lodge I'd booked for the night.

It wasn't long before I came to the Tunnel. I had crossed this tunnel a hundred times, so going through was a little like visiting an old friend. I screamed "Tuuuunn-elll!" the same way my parents had every time I was little when we first went through. It was fun and simple, but comforting.

And this is where the story takes a turn. I arrive at my hotel, only to find that they don't have any non-smoking rooms. I graciously accept a smoking room(because I know the hotel business is hard, and the lady behind the counter was very nice, and I needed a shower). She gives me my hotel key card("If you put the card next to your phone, it will deactivate it." I spent most of the next ten minutes wondering which one would deactivate the other.) When I got to the room, there was a giant smeared handprint of blood on the outside of the doorframe. Wow.

Stepping inside, a wave of nicotine hit me, and I immediately regretted several decisions. It wasn't until I saw the large, dark stain on the carpet that it occurred to me that this room very well may have been a murder scene in the not-too-distant past. I slipped off my flip flops, put my foot on the carpet, and then instantly slipped my flip flops back on because oh God the carpet was so grody when they even last clean this thing. Never again in my life will I go there. Everything was dirty and their toilet paper sucked. I was under a room of children. Everything was awful.

But, having already paid, I bore it with all the class I could muster. Which, granted, wasn't a huge amount. I finished my first book, then read another that the muse had mentioned(Fun Fact: If you mention a piece of media to me, I will endeavor to find it and experience it.) It was A Monster Calls, by Patrick Ness.

Toledo and Trigger, chilling on the bed.

The universe has a funny way of working. A Monster Calls was a beautiful tale about Conor, a fourteen year old boy whose mother has cancer. One night, a monster visits him, saying it will tell him three stories. The fourth, he says, Conor will tell him. It was interesting because this book so strongly held the theme of acknowledging that sometimes, you know the end is coming. You don't want it to, and you don't want to let go(even when it would bring some relief). But facing that truth is what helps you deal with it; Running won't change it, but it will make it worse. It struck a chord. It was also a very good story in general.

The next morning, I drug myself out of bed and to the free breakfast. The coffee was sub-par(the Monster I had stashed in my fridge made a nice replacement), but the food was good.

As I was trying(and failing) to make my coffee worth the effort, I felt a gentle tap on my arm. It was a little boy, presumably one of the two that had been shaking my roof. "Miss, you've got a spider on you." And there he was, just working his way across my sleeve. My first instinct was to flail and knock said spider off, but there was a child's face in that general direction, and I needed to set an example. I grabbed a coffee lid(at least they were good for something) and scraped him off. I removed him from the building, mumbling "Good morning to me", raising chuckles from a table of fellows.


Not long after that, I got ready and left. Gladly left. Triumphantly left. And moved on to Eileen's house.

PHASE THREE“That my complicated life could be made so simple was astounding.” -"Wild", by Cheryl Strayed

There's not much I'll say about my stay at Eileen's house. Suffice it to say we talked all day(which was a nice change of pace, actually-normally we go do things, but it was nice to just sit and talk about things all day). And when we talked, I felt like I could pour my heart out, really release the things that I hadn't dared say out loud to another person. There was pizza and Golden Girls and texts from the muse that I was happy to mutually squeal over(and there might very well be an entire blog post about him soon, when I find myself able to wrap my head around it). It made me wish that I had moved down to Virginia Beach when I had the chance. Tony is my best friend in the whole wide world, but him not being a girl does change the dynamic quite a bit. By the time I left the next morning, I felt good about nearly everything.

HOMECOMING
“It was all unknown to me then, as I sat on that white bench on the day I finished my hike. Everything except the fact that I didn't have to know. That is was enough to trust that what I'd done was true. To understand its meaning without yet being able to say precisely what it was, like all those lines from The Dream of a Common Language that had run through my nights and days. To believe that I didn't need to reach with my bare hands anymore. To know that seeing the fish beneath the surface of the water was enough. That it was everything. It was my life - like all lives, mysterious and irrevocable and sacred. So very close, so very present, so very belonging to me.
How wild it was, to let it be.”
-"Wild", by Cheryl Strayed

The ride home was as much an event as the whole weekend. I played Virginia Beach's premier twenties station on the radio, enjoying the gentle heat of the day and how clean I felt inside. In one panic, I called my dad(a native of the city) to find out whether I was supposed to head east or west on this road. After telling me(west), he texted me saying "Follow the Seagull." I thought this was some boy scout shit, which in all fairness was quite likely to come out of my father. As I got closer to the tunnel, I realized that he was being literal-all the signs for the tunnel had giant seagulls on them. Well, I'll be damned.

Driving through Salisbury, a man on a motorcycle shouted at me(nicely, but still without provocation).
 "Hey, baby!"
"Hi!"
"Where you headed?"
"Home!"
"Where's that?"
"Wilmington!" He didn't need to know.
"Can I come with you?"

I laughed him off. At this point, the light changed, and I made my escape. I did what I could to stay in the same lane, but him being on a motorcycle, he had a good deal more maneuverability than I did. We pulled up to another stoplight.

"Hey, I'm gonna stop for gas. Stop in too and let me get your name and number."
"Sorry, I've got someone!" A lie and not a lie, but I would've said so no matter what percentage of truth it was.
"Well, you change your mind, you follow me."

And then I watched as he turned into the Wawa. And I kept driving. I don't date boys on crotch rockets, anyway.

Just outside of my town, I finally found a pretty good car for the muse. I'm waiting to see how he likes it, but I think he will. It's a Buick, and those have always treated me well.

When I finally came home, I was greeted warmly by the fucker that barely texted me and didn't do the on thing I asked(laundry). He wanted to hug me, he wanted to cuddle with me, he wanted several things that I just didn't. But, it was okay. I put on pajamas and curled up with tumblr, enjoying my own couch in my own house.

All weekend, I hadn't taken my sleeping pills. I hadn't needed to. And I think I'd like to keep not taking them, even if it takes me a little longer to fall asleep. I think I'm ready to fly solo emotionally, if not physically or financially. I'm ready to be honest with myself. I'm ready to consider other possible futures that I hadn't previously thought about. All in all, I think I'm going to be okay.

And all I needed was a little beach time.

Two Islands Are Not An Archipelago

"I was just tellin' your old man..."

"You got a nice-lookin man there babygirl, you betta hold on to that one!"

"I told him that you two could just bring something as a couple."

Sorry, Holly.

This boy is not my boyfriend.

It's funny to me that once upon a time, I was desperate for this. I wanted the relationship I had to be acknowledged, to be seen as a pair instead of two individuals. But time wounds all heels, and I've stopped wanting that. He decided that he didn't want that quite some time ago.

Don't get me wrong, there's still love there, but we aren't a couple. We just aren't.

Me and him are really good at being adults together. Our bills get paid on time, we agree on most of our household decisions, things stay reasonably clean.

But we're not good at emotions. He's withdrawn and has little to no sense of empathy; I'm needy and desperate. I want someone to know me inside and out, to read me over and over like a good book. He doesn't even want to walk into the library.

He's been more affectionate lately, truly. He gets me dinner and rubs my neck. Always a tactile person, he takes care of my physical needs, but I'm more than that. I'm stories and dreams and thoughts and memories and words, words, words.

I know that he's always been an island. And I guess I thought that together, we could be an archipelago. But and island is still an island. I thought that in time, he would open up to me and things would be good. But I can't keep tearing down the Berlin Wall by myself. He doesn't get the privilege of being my boyfriend until we can fulfill each other emotionally.

Every time someone refers to him as my significant other, I want to scream. No, he's not my boyfriend, I'm too alone for that to be true.

The Heart is an Ink Pot

I'm an extremely fortunate person in so many ways. My friends are few but true, my job is less than I'd like but more than I'd ever hoped for, and the people and places I find in the role are phenomenal beyond anything I could imagine.

More than any of the good and wonderful things I'm surrounded by, I'm immeasurably glad that I've been nothing less than blessed with the ability to recognize those moments while they're still with me.

I was driving over the Bay Bridge for work today, and just as I reached the crest of it I could see the gentle hills and greenery of the western shore laid out before me. Though the sun was shining on me, there was shadow and fog on the trees that made this incredibly normal place look like a fairy tale world. I've been to the western shore tons of times(it's where all the stuff is), but it had never quite appeared to me the way it did at that moment.

The other day, the muse came over to hang an old wooden collage for me. Through the afternoon, I learned about him- that he likes my favorite bands and plays guitar, that he thinks my dreams aren't crazy. All from one afternoon that promised to be routine. (Plus, my collage got hung. It looks super fantastic.)

My best friend Tony often tells me that I'm like a child, and he's right. I'm open to the universe and constantly in awe of the wonders it presents, both big and small.

When I do, my heart feels like an overflowing ink pot, and any sort of quill I can find to scribble those feelings down I'll take.

Saint Narcan

There's been a rise of heroin users in my part of the world. It's actually a fascinating phenomenon. First, an area or group of people becomes severely addicted to pain pills. It's usually a group that are low-income and have some sort of free/low cost heath insurance program, mostly people on disability for chronic pains and problems. So these high-level pain pills are being distributed to people with real pain and not much money. These people find that their pain is pretty easily taken care of with less pills than they were prescribed, so the extras get sold for around $5-$20 a pop(depending on dosage). Some doctors become hesitant to prescribe them-Which leads to doctor-shopping, changing docs until you find someone that will give you the pain pills you ask for. For awhile there's a booming med market, everyone has a few extra bucks and no pain, but everyone's gotten right addicted. Then, the local law enforcement gets involved, does a few raids, cracks down on who gets the pills and who doesn't, and pills are costing the average buyer anywhere from $30 to $80. Fortunately for the average addict, there's a much cheaper drug becoming available: heroin.

Heroin is widely regarded as the King of all drugs, the most addictive illegal substance you can possibly get your hands on. I've seen hardened users draw the line at heroin-People that would do three lines of coke without blinking an eye. The biggest problem with heroin(you know, other than it's extreme addictiveness and reasonable price) is that the majority of cheap heroin is cut with something to fluff up the amount and earn the dealer a few extra bucks. Then, every once in awhile, a pure dose comes through. People get used to a certain dosage of heroin, and try to take as much as they would with a cut dose, which is a frightening thing to expose your body to. Usually, you don't know it's pure until you're on the floor foaming at the mouth.

Recently, I submitted an application for Narcan training. Naloxone/Narcan is a drug that reverses the effects of heroin, especially during an overdose. It's a free course offered by the Health Department, and you come away with two intranasal(up the nose) doses and knowledge on how to use it. I know people that do heroin, I know people who have died via overdose, and I know for a fact that these are people my mother associaties with. She swears she isn't doing heroin, but how long until she does?

So, I let my boss know that I needed to leave just a few minutes early for my training today. And that was fine, I'm always twenty minutes early anyway, but she and another woman who works here had plenty to say about me being trained.

"What are you gonna do if you go in to help someone overdosing, and there's dirty needles everywhere, and they stab you for ruining their high?!"

"Babydoll, I'm just looking out for you. You need to really think about what you're doing here."

Fuck. Off.

I'm not getting this training because I'm a silly little girl that wants to traipse through the Hood(capital H) and save the poor heroin sinners from their fate. Saint Naloxone, bestowing her nasal spray of life, performing great works in someone or another's name.

I'm getting this training because I care about the people I know enough to take a free opportunity to learn how to keep them from dying. And honestly, heroin dens with needles everywhere are something you only find in a large city-Raids are too frequent around here for anyone to be that stupid. This is training that has been proven to save lives. Knowledge is power, power to help.

I know more about the people I'm doing this for than you. I'm tired of people assuming I don't know what I'm doing. This is for my own reasons, and I hope I never need it, but one day I might. And when that day comes, I'll shove that naloxone up someone's nose and I'm gonna go ahead and bet no one is going to stab me.

Indescribable Moments of your Life

Seeing the fireflies rise up from the grass just after sunset. It's like swimming through the stars.

The burst of motivation that hits you only every so often, and leads you to clean your entire house in a couple of hours.

One day, you eat nothing but eggs. The next, you eat nothing at all. You think in numbers, measuring your progress religiously. You feel defined, but it doesn't hurt as bad as it used to.

Having a mini-ritual with someone, like the way you and the nice boy from work talk while you get your coffee in the mornings you work early.

Falling asleep next to your beautiful boy. In that moment between sleeping and awake, where Tink always waits for Peter Pan, and you admit to yourself that it will never be the same. You and him are changed, in ways both good and bad.

Learning how to fix a car yourself, and remembering that you've also learned to stand alone.

The nice boy texts you random things sometimes and compliments you(on your hair and your cleverness). You feel a ball of happiness tucked away inside, that you pull out and look at sometimes when no one is around.

Sometimes, the world is an awful place. It feels like everything is going to come crashing down. You have a moment where you remember that the world has felt like this before. Your grandmother survived the Depression, your father survived Vietnam, you will survive this. This too shall pass.

You go down to the boathouse to take stock of your boat trailers for work. The guy that runs the operation tells you about his band and his songwriting, how to take out the kayaks and the combination for the shed. He reminds you of the 80's, when things were loose and free. It's nice. He admits to having a few tags on the wrong trailers, having a few in his office, losing the stickers for the ones that he doesn't take on the road. You let it slide.

You first heard this song while you were working in the print shop. The muse turned it up, either not knowing or caring that you were there. It's wonderful, and cathartic, and you love it. It describes something in you that you haven't named before. You play it at full blast in the car, and it reminds you of him sometimes. You hope he believes in you like you believe in him.

                      

Flying Away

It's finally clicked. Me and my new car, Jupiter, have finally bonded.

Yesterday, I was riding along on a back road. My windows were down, the music was turned up, and I was going 60. It was great. Lovely. Wonderful.

And then this asshole, which had been riding my bumper for a few miles, decides he's going to pass me in a no-passing zone.

I'm not competitive. I don't have anger issues. But at that moment, something clicked in my brain. Who the hell did this guy think he was, passing me? When he shouldn't be passing anyone at all? Who the fuck-And that's when I floored it.

Now, you're probably thinking "Hey, Cass! That's dangerous!" You're not entirely wrong. But, there are two mitigating factors here. A.) I could see well in front of us and behind us, and I knew there was no one else around. B.) When I say "floored it", I don't mean I gently increased speed to play with him, I mean that I got up to 80 in a few seconds and left his ass in the dust.

There's something special about being able to out-drive someone with an arguably better car. Sure, yours is fourteen years younger and has heated seats, but do you know how to take your turns?

The poor sap tried his damnedest to keep up, but there was no help for him. He would almost catch up, and we'd hit a curve. He'd get close again, and we'd run into the stretch of that road littered with potholes. Eventually, he was a speck in my rear view mirror. I thought That's right, motherfucker. I'm better than you and I know it.

The important part of this story, though, is that the way I reacted showed a huge amount of trust and familiarity with the way Jupiter moves and handles. I made the decision to race this guy without thinking about it, because on the deepest level, I knew we could handle it. Let me explain it better with Chris Pratt:




(Sassy, Mr. Pratt).

I know my car. Not fully-there's still plenty to learn-But I know him and trust him on an intuitive level, one that allows me to make snap decisions. If I ever find myself in an emergency situation, I'll be that much safer. I'm that much happier. I'm that much freer.

Strong and Stretchy

Occasionally, silence is deafening. No answer is, at times, an answer in itself.

I told myself I wouldn't cry anymore, and I've stuck to that no matter what. Even now, when my heart feels like a worn piece of china that's about to shatter.

I dealt with it like I deal with most things anymore; I took a drive.

The first song on my mix cd started playing, and it spoke to my soul.

I've walked through fire to save my life. I've got thick skin, and an elastic heart.

Maybe

Maybe you'll come talk to me again tomorrow.

Maybe I'll keep finding things to say that make you laugh(your laugh is loud and barking, but sweet and suited to you).

Maybe you'll see something in me that I struggle to find a glimpse of.

Maybe I'll open up to you.

Maybe you'll come see my show and say hi afterwards.

Maybe I'll invite you to something other than a play some day.

Maybe you'll text me.

Maybe I'll keep myself together if you do.

Maybe we'll talk about our writing, our favorite music, our favorite books, our lives and stories.

Maybe we'll be star-crossed lovers that found each other in a random place, or maybe we'll be the truest of friends.

Maybe we'll part ways and never speak again(or worse, speak only occasionally).

Maybe we'll slow burn, like a warm log in a fireplace that makes a rainy fall day cozy instead of miserable.

Maybe we'll burn out quickly as a shooting star, leaving a trail so bright that the people below walking through the night will look at us and make a wish.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Nine Years and Counting

I love my birthday. Not as much as Christmas, of course, but a pretty decent amount. I love throwing big parties, eating and drinking to excess, making my own cake, pinatas, music, friends, movies, the whole shebang.  And no one questions it; They assume that I, like almost everyone in the world, enjoy throwing parties centered around myself. Which isn't the case at all.

When I was eleven years old, my parents separated. For a little over a year they shared custody, with me going to my father's twice a week and some weekends. It wasn't so bad, even when his rather evil girlfriend came into the picture.

My mother and I have always been at odds. I wouldn't go so far as to say I don't have any good memories of me and her, but there are very few. Dad and I have always been much closer, for a variety of reasons(mostly, I think, because we're both just laid-back people). It had been pretty hard on me living with just her. She wasn't a big fan of me going anywhere, or having any friends, or having internet, or doing... well, anything that involved her not being able to keep an eye on me.

Now, I wasn't a bad kid. I kept my grades high, had no inclination to drugs or sex or even boys for the most part(or girls). Our biggest argument was over music; She was still in her very strict christian phase, and I was developing an interest in music that wasn't christian. And my father, being an avid musician, became the brunt of her ire.

In February, just before I turned twelve, my mother filed for sole custody and won. If I was going to see my father, it would need to be under legal supervision in a special center, costing him $30 each time.

I took exception to that.

What had already been a tense situation became downright hostile. Understanding the world as I do now, I see that a lot of what I was dealing with probably would've been categorized as emotional(and sometimes physical) abuse. At the time it was just me against her and no one was going to save me. I was on my own in this fight.

I don't believe that there was a point where twenty-four hours went by without a screaming match. It was an even match- My mother had years of manipulation and pent-up frustration on me, but I was almost a fucking teenager(raised, of course, by someone with 30+ years of manipulation and bitterness). When we fought, it was a true war. Our insults were painful and accurate, but she always had the upper hand. She would destroy my cd's if she found them. Once she took everything out of my room except for my dresser and my bed and locked it in her bedroom. I learned how to pick locks. She got a better lock. I kicked the door in. So it went.

One Sunday afternoon, as we were attending the second of our two churches(yeah, we had two), a prophecy came through. I was told, by the pastor herownself, that if I didn't change my ways, shape up, and get good with God, I would die before I reached my 16th birthday.

A deacon from our home church mirrored this prophecy later on, and the pastor even sat down and had a heart to heart with me(Her daughter had died at a young age; It was a long speech about not making my mother bury a child). She cried. Back then, I believed everything the churches told me about God(namely that he was a punisher of evildoers, a smiter of bad guys, lots of Old Testament bits). I believed in prophecies. I believed that I was headed to an early grave.

So, I'm a twelve year old child being told by large groups of people that if I'm not nice to my mother, God is going to kill in me some time within the next four years, and believing it. What did I do, you ask? Did I lay down my weapons, bite my tongue and be a good little girl?

Fuck no.

There's a place inside everyone, deep down inside, where our truth lives. It's not our intuition; it's even deeper than that. When we think Oh, I'll take care of that after I watch the next episode, it's the little part of us that knows we're lying. It's the voice inside of a raped individual that knows, no matter what we think on the surface, that it wasn't our fault. It's the one that tells us that this will get better, but that will not. It is both the part of us that gives up hope and keeps hope going. My truth knew, without a doubt, that my mother was wrong.

I made the decision at age twelve that I would go down swinging, even if it killed me. With head held high, I fought my mother tooth and nail, for every time she pushed I would push twice, and then something amazing happened; I started to win.

At first, my mother would just walk away from the arguments. Then, sometimes, she'd cry(I feel bad now for having done that, but at the time, I felt it was fair for all the nights I'd cried myself to sleep over her crap). One day it reached a crescendo, and she kicked me out.

I'd won. I'd broken free. But my trials were far from over.

I moved in with my father, his wife, and her family. He and his wife lived in a motorhome parked next to the house(the thing didn't drive, unfortunately). Now, these people were so nutty they made Planter's peanuts look bad. Individually, none of them were quite as bad as my mother, but the six of them became an unending barrage of bullshit.

I won't go into great detail about my times there(mostly for brevity's sake), but it ended with my father and I living in the motorhome during one of the worst snow storms I'd ever experienced up to that point. We had one space heater and no running water, two television channels and we were still parked on their land. I didn't think things could get worse. I thought that I was dying, that the prophecy that had shadowed my mind for so long was close to coming true.

Then, dad and I moved into a new house. I had my own bathroom. My friends came over. His horrible wife came back to him, but she wasn't around terribly long. Things got better. But I didn't forget.

I spent my sixteenth birthday with one eye on the clock. At 9:14p.m.(eastern standard time) my heart exploded. I had officially lived. I was free of the curse. I had looked my fate in the eyes, stared it down, and beaten it. Of course, I realize now that the whole prophecy had most likely been an elaborate ruse to scare me into behaving. Perhaps, though, it wasn't. Maybe the problem was in the interpretation. Did the person I was die along the way, to be replaced by someone stronger, tougher, and wiser? The whole phoenix rising-from-the-ashes thing?

It doesn't matter. Whether the old me did die, or the whole thing was a sham, I took it head-on. At twelve years old, I decided to live my life on my terms. I fought with everything that was in me. Every year on my birthday, I remember that I'm years past my expiration date, and I celebrate.

Life Lessons from a Pile of Print

Sometimes, things just get screwed up. Mistakes happen. And, occasionally it gets overwhelming. You start to think of everything that's gone wrong, of the mess that's left, and you begin to wonder if it's really worth it.

I felt like that yesterday. I've been charged with cleaning up the college's print shop. It's an old room filled with blueprints and schematics for the buildings, operating manuals, miscellaneous crap, and dust that hasn't been stirred since 1987. There are flat files(filing cabinets made for storing blueprints-they have long flat drawers) on all sides and a few bookcases full to the brim. In the middle of the room is a large, flat table that I've been using to stack the prints as I rearrange them.

The most interesting feature of the design of this table is that with a bit of force, it shifts from flat to almost entirely vertical. Yesterday, in the early afternoon, I was trying to lift a print that must've weighed twenty or so pounds. Twenty pounds isn't much of a problem for me, but twenty pounds of large, flat, unwieldy paper? I tried to hoist it onto the table when the damn thing gave way, spilling all of those neatly stacked prints onto the dusty floor.

I'll be the first to admit that it was my fault, but it didn't stop me from being angry, frustrated, and-despite my strict "no crying rule- on the verge of tears. I know I've used the phrase "I needed to sit down and count to ten" several times, in my conversation if not my writing. This is the first time I really understood the feeling.

At the time, I'd also been thinking about the end of an era in my life. My baby, my beautiful car Orion is... probably not coming home to me. I've recieved some funny looks for talking about a car the way I do, but I frankly do not give a fuck.My boy and I are drifting further and further apart, and I'm starting to wonder if there's any hope left at all. There's still love, of course, but no excitement, he won't talk to me about anything real(when we do talk at all). I can't convince him to go do anything. I feel awful, because he's been nothing but loving and sweet lately, and I just want him to give me space. I've been thinking about turning our library back into my bedroom. As far as I can see, my theatre career is on hold. I can't find a group that feels like home, and I'm just tired of trying.

All at once, it seemed that my whole life was falling apart, just like those stupid prints.

A few minutes later, someone walked in to see how the work was going. Aside from the obvious pile of paper in the middle of the room, he noted that the room was looking much better than when I started on Monday. It was a nice reminder that even though I'd fucked up, I'd already done some good work.

I ended up leaving the pile alone for the afternoon, working around it as best I could(Not going to lie, there might've been a few footprints on it). This morning, I turned on the lights and got set up for the day. With a sigh, I started to pick up the prints one by one and restack them. When I got to the heavy print that had caused all the ruckus before, I asked one of the carpenters to help me get it onto the table.

And that's life. We fuck up and make a mess of things, and sometimes the best course of action is to leave it alone, work around, and deal with it when you're calm and focused. Then comes the task of picking up the pieces, one by one, and putting them back. You might need help for some of the bigger pieces, but that's okay! And if a task seems daunting or overwhelming, start piece by piece.

If you're lucky, maybe you'll even have someone that comes along, sometimes unexpectedly, and reminds you of how far you've come already.

Empty

A lot of people approach the word "empty" with negative connotations. I personally blame the age-old glass analogy, but I'm sure there are plenty of other word associations that help the general feeling. I mean, who wants an empty wallet?

For me, the word "empty" is a mixed bag. On the one hand, when I don't put food in my stomach and feel nice and light and empty, it's a good thing. It pleases me when I empty the trash, because I enjoy taking care of my house.

But empty is also the way I had been feeling at rehearsals, before I quit the show I was doing. Empty is what I feel when I try to imagine my future. Empty is this wake up-work-go to bed lifestyle that I live. Empty are my hopes that I'll ever direct a play again.

My emotions are up and down. Saturday I went shopping and actually had a good time doing it(which is downright rare. So rare, in fact, that I can't remember a time other than Saturday where I didn't end up half-crying in the dressing room). I even got measured for a bra that would fit properly(yeah, I'm almost 25 and never got properly fitted, sue me).

Really, my life can be summed up in a pro/con list:

Pro: Dad wants me to ride down to Virginia Beach with him on my birthday. I miss taking road trips with my dad, and he says I wouldn't even have to go to the family reunion.
Con: Me and my bff Tony had planned to do something that weekend, though we hadn't figured out what yet. Also, I think my dad only has an approximate knowledge of when my birthday is.

Pro: Haven't heard from my mother in a very long time.
Con: Thought I saw her in Wal-Mart and had a panic attack.

Pro: As soon as ice stops raining from the sky, I can finish up my car and get him on the road!
Con: Ice keeps raining from the sky.

Pro: Didn't owe on my taxes this year.
Con: Will definitely owe next year if I don't get health insurance.

Pro: I've lost about 20 pounds since just after Christmas. 6 of those came off last week from eating nothing but chocolate for three days(go fig?)
Con: I can't look at chocolate. Can't smell chocolate. Pretty sure I won't want chocolate for awhile.

On a side note: Chili flavored chocolate is the devil. You think "Oh, it'll be spicy chocolate, right?" And then you take a bite. It just tastes like regular dark chocolate. What gives? So you chew it, you swallow, and then the burn starts. It's as you take that first burning breath that you realize; this isn't chocolate, it's a way to kill people packaged in convenient bars for unhappy housewives to choke their snack-happy husbands.

Freedom's Just Another Word

Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose
Nothing don't mean nothing, honey, if it ain't free

It's not really a secret that I really, really want to see the world(Well, it's probably not common knowledge, but is it my fault that no one asks?).

Of course, there are several kinks in that particular dream.

• Traveling costs money, and while I am paid reasonably well, I don't make enough to buy plane tickets all the time
• Being a part-timer means not accruing vacation time to go on trips anyway. Sure, I can and have bargained for a Friday once or twice, but an entire week would really be pushing it.

So imagine my excitement when the magical world of Pinterest dropped a pin on my dashboard detailing "housesitting". Basically, you live for free in nice homes in magical destinations for various lengths of time, usually keeping the place tidy and caring for a few pets. Some jobs have various requirements-Couples only, gardening, seniors, etc. Sounds great, right?

Well, back to the bullet list of problems.

• When I said "jobs", it was more of a slang term. Most housesitting jobs don't pay, and the ones that do don't pay much. Maybe I'll call them "gigs" instead.
• You still have to get to these places. The contenential US ones aren't so bad, but flying to France? A little costly.
• Most of these gigs last anywhere from two weeks to a month. To restate my point from earlier: Being a part-timer means not accruing vacation time to go on trips anyway. Sure, I can and have bargained for a Friday once or twice, but an entire week would really be pushing it.
• These gigs also aren't guaranteed, especially starting out, which means it might be wise to have a backup plan or a home base.

So, it seems like a great opportunity, but with some pretty hefty life taxes. And, of course, the number one problem I have with this whole thing: What about my boy?

I've brought up this idea to him. He seems amicable to my doing this(with offers to float the bills for awhile), and to joining me(There are, in fact, websites dedicated to traveling couples. And honestly, most gigs don't mind couples, as traveling alone can be quit scary and/or dangerous.). But I know that his money can only stretch so far, and he's a homebody. Plus, what would we do with all our stuff?

I can either stay in my job in Maryland for the rest of my life(with occasional trips), or I can give up all the things I care so very much about for dream fulfillment.

Gee, that's not a difficult choice at all.