BAN RINGTONES!!!

week 15 theme response - last journal

2004-12-12T19:41:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, December 7th

Wanna hear something you don’t hear every day? I got two pink lines 15 minutes ago. Talk about a last minute journal subject inspiration. I guess I didn’t want to be the only one mulling over this information all afternoon so I decided to call Bill at work and give him the news. His reaction was unexpected but I’m still trying to figure out why. He wasn’t overly excited, or scared, or… concerned. He did ask what we were going to do about the wedding, where it fell in the same month as our due date. Last I knew we only had control over one of the two dates and so asked what he thought my answer would be, that I would love to have a maternity wedding gown? Uh, no… not so much. It can wait I think. I don’t think it’s hit us yet.

Wednesday, December 8th

This morning Bill leaned over, pressed his ear against my abs and said good-bye to his “peanut” before hugging me on his way out the door. Turns out it was for show, to make me laugh and straighten out the frown on my lips. After work he asked me if I’d gone to the hospital for a blood test. When I asked him why he needed more than a total of 4 pink lines on two white sticks and his reply was, “I don’t trust piss tests. A blood test will prove it.”
My reply? Of course, “Your ‘peanut’ trusts a piss test just fine.”
“Well? What are we going to do about the wedding?”
“You say that like the choice is entirely in our hands. I can’t get married before DHS is finished helping me get my degree and by that time I’ll be huge, cranky, looking for a job and worried about having a baby soon. It can wait… would you like me to get an abortion?”
“No I do not. It’s not that I don’t want a baby it’s that I don’t necessarily want one right now. I kinda wanted to get married and settle down for a year or so before taking this step.”
“Me too, not much we can do though. I was kidding about the abortion. I don’t think we have an excuse good enough for that.”
At this point I’m trying to decided when this is going to hit him and how hard. I’m not sure that he’s entirely buying into the fact that we’re going to have a baby. There’s still that last hope that a blood test will take his side. It’s like that moment in the movie Maverick where Mel Gibson is holding out for an ace of spades to make his royal straight flush to win the poker tournament, the odds are almost impossible, yet there’s still a glimmer of hope, or maybe it’s magic… and he gets it! Yay for Mel!
*sigh*

Thursday, December 9th

Okay it’s starting to sink in. Today Bill suggested we tell our folks about the baby on Christmas. Sweet idea, but easy for him to say. His parents will be tickled pink. Mine, on the other hand, will probably do a good job of composing themselves and acting excited long enough to get me alone, and then offer me an abortion for New Year’s. My parents are wonderful people and fantastic grandparents, but when I broke the news to them 4 years ago that they were going to become grandparents they were less than thrilled, “What about money? What about work, and all of this talk about going back to school?”
In other words, “Are you NUTS?”
By the time I have this second baby I’ll have just gotten my Early Childhood degree and either looking for a classroom to teach in the Fall or following my mom’s advice and starting classes at UMO for my Bachelor’s in Elementary Ed.
Come to think of it… what am I going to do?”

Friday, December 10th

Holy shit teachers like to gossip! I told one person at work yesterday and now the whole damn place knows, even the kids! What, are they all wearing wires? Am I being bugged? So now comes the temporary paradoxical transition from home to work to home where Bill is talking like the baby is still an “if” that may not interfere with his wedding and honeymoon cruise while at work I’m being hugged, congratulated and told that, “Bill will come around.”
In one four hour shift I learned more about these women’s families and unmentionables than I’d cared to pick up in the last six months, “My daughter is pregnant too, having twins. Poor thing has been throwing up for weeks.”
“My niece just had a baby boy. Woo… what a delivery though. She tore so bad she took almost a hundred stitches afterward…”
“When I had my boy I never got sick at all… when I was carrying Elise though, phew! I was sick through the whole thing.”
“So what are you going to do about your wedding? I think you should just get married now and get it done. Right thing to do, ya know.”
ARGH! All of a sudden something so very private has become so very public and painfully open to opinions I didn’t ask for.

Saturday, December 11th

The ghost of my mother’s sensibilities visited me before a nap today. I had just returned home from dropping Cody off with Daddy and, having developed a headache, decided to lie down for a while and nurse it. All of a sudden I felt my chest tighten with worry over whether or not I possessed the kind of strength necessary not to drown my little family under the poverty line in choosing to keep the baby, “You can fantasize all you want to about decorating a new baby room, but the reality is, you are going to be out of work for at least 2 months and Bill cannot handle our expenses by himself, you won’t qualify for assistance from DHS until you recover enough to work and we are going to REGRET our carelessness.”
I allowed myself a 10 minute pity party during which I cried into a pillow and grieved over my bad luck and childish compulsions. Bill arrived just in time to hold me and convince me once more that we can get through this and that it’s a happy thing to be bringing his first, and probably only, child into the world. Maybe we CAN do this.

Sunday, December 12th

It was all we could do to keep our mouths shut at Bill’s parents’ house during our lunch/Patriot’s game visit today. We anticipate that Christmas day will be among the happiest days for his mother at least, who is surely going to be absolutely wild to find out she’s becoming a grandmother by her youngest child. After I’d been with Bill for 6 months I visited them with Cody so he could get to know them a bit and had to laugh when they thanked me for, “being able to tolerate him.”
I thought they were going to shit bricks when they spotted the ring on my finger during Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve gathered that Bill has sort of been looked upon by his kin as the one whose future as a family man has always been iffy at best and not worth betting money on. True, Bill has undergone a lot of changes, which I attribute primarily to time spent with my son over the past year and a half. A lot of compromises to his lifestyle and attitude have been made. Cody looks up to him in very much the same way that he seems to look at his father, and Bill has more than stepped up to the challenges of child rearing. I think he’ll make a great daddy. Here’s hopin’.

week 14 theme response - humor

2004-12-05T20:08:00.000-05:00

It does not serve as a good omen when you must suck in your gut and hold your breath as if you are having multiple X-rays taken simply to zip up your jeans. When this happened to me, I knew I had two choices: give up my current wardrobe or lose the excess baggage. I perused several fitness magazines I had at home and found an article about walking. "Brisk walking is one of the best forms of cardiovascular exercise, even for out-of-shape marshmallows like you," the article explained. "It is suitable for all ages and abilities and requires no special equipment beyond a good pair of walking shoes and a commitment not to double-dip into the cookie jar. A simple, affordable pedometer or step counter can help motivate you to a more active lifestyle."
Eureka! This is Bangor, I could walk to many stores and businesses… this plan could work for me! I jumped in the car and drove to the nearest sporting goods store to buy my pedometer. Why walk there before I knew how many calories I'd be burning in the process? Besides, no sense knocking myself out so early in the day, leaving no energy for a brisk walk later on.
I chose a fitness pedometer that would track my mileage, steps taken, and calories burned. I declined the pedometer that barked out peppy rah-rah encouragement, such as "You're doing great!" How would a pedometer know if I was struggling up a hill or just walking to the freezer to get a pint of Ben and Jerrys? The article also noted that in today's lazy society, most people walk a measly 2,000 steps on a typical day. My goal should be at least 6,000 steps, but if I wanted to see real results I had better ramp it up to 10,000.
Not surprisingly, I had trouble figuring out how to operate the damn thing, but after an hour and a half on the phone with a patient customer service representative, I was programmed for fitness!
Ready for action, I clipped the pedometer to my skirt and strode energetically to the front door to see if the mail had come. I took 23 steps and burned three calories. Borrowing a cup of flour from a friend around the corner tallied another 79 steps and 11 calories. Before long I could see that it was going to be a long way to 10,000 steps.
I refused to let my enthusiasm flag, even as I wondered how to meet my daily walking quota while also completing my regular work. Most of my "must-do" work involves sitting at a computer or tending pots on a stove. I planned to squeeze in as many steps as possible by following other advice from the article… parking my car in a shopping center a half-mile from the one where I intended to shop; taking the stairs, even if I had an appointment on the 23rd floor; going for a lunch hour stroll (the writer made no mention of when I might actually get to eat lunch); and my favorite… marching in place while I'm on the phone.
Then I hustled over to the mall for some new walking shoes -- essential to keep my spirits up. I parked in a far corner on of the parking lot where I had never parked before (my typical habit being circling for 15 minutes to find the closest spot possible). I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that I would not be able to locate my car afterwards and therefore would log at least another half mile in aimless wandering.
At the mall, I tried to remember all the article’s walking posture instructions: I kept my head up and centered between my shoulders (where else would I keep my head?), my eyes focused straight ahead (as opposed to having my eyes darting like a psychotic?), my chest lifted, swinging my arms and hands at a 90-degree angle (too bad; I much prefer an 85-degree angle). I had no idea how to do all this while also pulling my belly button in toward my spine and tucking my pelvis forward so that I could feel taller than my paltry five feet, three inches. One wonders how our ancestors managed to walk throughout history without expert advice on how to put one foot in front of the other.
My foray to the mall yielded an impressive 987 steps, 503 of which were spent finding the car. Despite this exertion, my pedometer only claimed a 62-calorie burn.
Donning my new athletic shoes, I stopped at the Brown Woods trails for a brisk walk. Upon my return home I eagerly checked the pedometer. I had gone 2.5 miles, including hills, but only burned 198 calories! How could this be? My walking article claimed that a vigorous 45-minute walk should burn up to 350 calories!
I realized the pedometer was faulty, and I called the manufacturer to complain.
"There’s something wrong with... your... pedometers," I huffed. "It’s... not... (huff huff) showing that... I... burned... enough calories."
"There’s nothing wrong with our pedometers," a surly female agent told me. "Besides, if you’re that out of breath from making a phone call, it’s no wonder you can’t walk very far."
"I’m out of... breath because... I’m jumping up and down to burn... more calories! That’s what the... article on... walking for... fitness told (huff huff) me to do!"
"Maybe you didn’t program your pedometer correctly," she asked. "Is your weight correct?"
"No, my weight is not correct!" I had stopped jumping at this point, worried that I might have an unfortunate cardiac emergency. "It is very, very wrong. It is unjust in the extreme! That’s why I bought this damn pedometer in the first place!" I realized that I was not advancing my cause by having an emotional breakdown while on the phone with this unsympathetic person. How could she possibly understand? I bet she wore a size 2.
I got no relief from my conversation, but I persevered. Five days later I had walked 19.97 miles, or 43,637 steps, burning 1,616 calories. This included walking to the bakery, where I slaked my sorrow over my lack of pedometer progress in a large cinnamon bun.
Despite this, today I did not have to hold my breath until I nearly turned blue to zip my jeans. It was a subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless. Progress was coming, one electronically measured step at a time. But I’m not kidding myself: I’ve miles to go before I’m sleek.

Week 13 theme response - vignettes

2004-11-29T01:12:00.000-05:00

Mr. Kitty is my favorite cuddle buddy. Mem's beefy and that's always a treat for a gal, but he can't purr and he's a stubbly prickly contrast to Mr. Kitty's silky comfort. All I can think of is that little scene on Finding Nemo with Ellen Degenres' voice, "I shall call him squishy, and he shall be mine, and he shall be my squishy."
All 17 pounds of him finds comfort in the most hilarious and seemingly impossible positions. He's large enough so that his "hugs" feel like they're coming from a toddler wearing a fur coat. When those massive round yellow eyes meet with mine during a neck scratching and slowly wan down to nothing more than crescents, I feel like I've tamed a little piece of feline evolution. At that moment I get the feeling that nothing, not even a fat juicy steak, could tear him away from me. The combination of his vibrating chest against mine, silky fur on the bare skin of my arms and neck, and the almost human way he leans into a cuddle and uses his own arms to hang on make for an intoxicating display of love and trust between two species.

week eleven theme response - distancing from the reader

2004-11-15T20:37:00.000-05:00

Today 15 Kindergarteners and 6 teachers and chaperones traveled to the Union Street Hannaford Bros. on a big yellow bus. I love my job for several reasons, one of which is the recurring opportunity to be present during those relatively insignificant but no less fascinating early childhood milestones such as the first time on a big yellow bus.

An uncomfortably well dressed woman in a second owner powder blue Accord had had a trying day at work and suddenly found herself stuck behind a big yellow bus while trying frantically to be the next one out of the Shop'n Save parking lot. The middle finger being completely inappropriate, she settled for deflating into her seat and rubbing her temple while 21 people, the majority of which under 5 years old and wearing red yarn name tags, climbed very carefully out of the bus and disappeared behind the sliding doors with wide eyed wonderment, almost as though they'd never seen a damn grocery store before.

An elderly lady cursed inwardly as she raced the pack of kids through the door and lost. She smiled congenially at the apologetic teachers as she waited more than 2 minutes for them to strip off their coats, throw them into a shopping cart and finally allow her an opening to get a cart for herself. Her initial agitation melted away in the presence of so many little people who reminded her of her grandchildren.

The pretty blonde cashier in checkout #7 giggled at the parade of children as they walked in twos past her toward the service desk to begin their "tour".

Two stray children sat down in the back row while the Kindergarteners listened intently to "what to do if you get lost in the grocery store" and offered statements like, "we got a puppy yesterday" and "my dad pays his bills here" when asked if they have any questions about what to do if you get lost in the grocery store. The owner of the pair of renegades shot a half angry half worried look in their direction as if she didn't quite know how to get them out of the tour without interrupting the riveting lecture on what to do if you get lost in the grocery store and thus seemed quite vexed at the children for putting her in this predicament.

The staff of butchers behind the meat counter, barely visible from a child's vantage, halted their tasks to smile, wave, and make goofy faces at the children. They were quite animated during the tour guide's description of refridgerated rooms and one even displayed how many layers of clothing he had on under his white bloodied apron.

The teenage couple holding hands in aisle 10 paused from their daunting chore of picking out a hamburger helper meal they could agree on to amusedly watch the procession of children bounce past toward the seafood department, "it's the grocery store. What kind of a field trip is that?"

Two very small children parked in front of the canned vegetables in a red racecar shopping cart pointed simultaneously, "Mumma! What dey doin'?"
"Well, I'm not sure... on a field trip I guess."
"What's a fewd twip?"
"Well, that's when they go somewhere with their teachers to learn someth..."

The haggard looking girl behind the fish counter brightened at the sight of the children. She eagerly pulled a monstrous whole fish out of the freezer for them to ogle at and delighted in their hesitation to touch the live lobsters she'd snatched out of the bubbling tank. She stole a moment to whisper to one of the teachers, "I love it when kids come in, they're so cute."

An elderly gentleman entering the produce section decided to have oranges when he noticed the 21 visitors arranged in front of the apple stands, calling out colors and handing around exotic fruits to run their tiny hands over.

Upon the class's arrival, the baker behind the cake display immediately grinned and handed out cookies to 15 eager outstretched hands. She proudly presented her latest elaborate cakes, cookies and cupcakes while the children, who were dangerously close to lunch time, ooh-ed and aah-ed from watering mouths.

The very punctual bus driver greeted each child as the parade finally struggled up the steps of the big yellow bus, tiny arms laden with winter coats, complimentary goody bags and infectious little grins.

week ten theme response - irony

2004-11-07T21:59:00.000-05:00

My life is riddled with irony right down to the very person everyone in my life thinks he or she knows. Everywhere I go people seem to seek and trust my advice, encourage me to take the lead and delegate whenever possible, admire my quick wit and creativity, entrust me with tricks of the trade deserving of being handed down in a selective manner, surrender themselves to my selflessness and maternal doting. The nickname "Mom" has followed me since long before I became one. After a three day weekend study session with Justin, a prematurely eccentric earthy character whose intelligence and complete and utter lack of naivete nearly choked me when I first met him, told me, "I've never met anyone who sees so much beauty in the world, but hates to be alive."
Now, this was a point in my life where rock bottom was in clear view and not necessarily to be compared too strongly with the present, but there still lingers a tenacious doubt. My demons haven't gone anywhere, they've backed off because they don't know what to make of the way Cody renders them powerless with a look, a coy little grin, a new word, a new accomplishment (he wrote his name last week), or his unbearably adorable idea of a hug (without dropping whatever he's holding in his hands he'll lean into me, setting his head in my shoulder with a tiny rehearsed, "awwwwww").
They still find me when they can. Over the years I've fashioned a sort of camouflage that has grown more opaque with each recital of common mannerisms and etiquette. Pleases and Thank-You's, if you don't mind's and don't take this the wrong way's, so many unnecessary words and wasted attempts at true communication. My carefully constructed facade carries me through my day while underlying that, at every turn, my appetite is lost by someone else's suffering and misfortune and at the same time loathing another's unwarranted success. Cody summons me out of bed in the morning with such refreshment that only he could get away with doing so at 6 a.m. His laugh is just as healing as his sobs, because they both depend on love. He entertains me through breakfast and escorts me to the car. We sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star all the way to school. I'm on my own from there and I sink a little... time to put my game face on. I don my practiced grin and polish my arsenal of compliments, idle chit-chat, and polite pleasantries. My obligations carry me to class, where I participate with believable enthusiasm. Work is where I attain relief. The Kindergarteners have a similar dispelling effect on demons and our genuine fun is interrupted only by parents from 3 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. From there it's on to the grocery store, insert idle chit-chat here at check-out. I might pass a co-worker on the sidewalk, insert salutation followed by compliment here. Stop for gas, talk of the weather, that or he'll tell me, "Smile!"
Good thing I'm not as compulsive as I am obsessive or the father son pair who live next door to me would have caught a can of peas in the crotch half a dozen times by now. But I hold it together, walk tall. Sometimes I strut like a man. Other times I'm slightly more attuned to my own gender and let my hips sway. It carries me all the way to my doorstep, holds its breath while I find the right key, shifts armloads of stuff through the door as gracefully as possible and... crumble.
Want irony? I hate the average person. People who can't think for themselves, can't function without rules, can't see the reality that's right in front of their faces and own their choices and words... but I can't tolerate what I am... and I'd do anything to be average.

Theme response week nine

2004-10-31T21:07:00.000-05:00

I feel the adrenaline rush coming on as I delve into the pile of dishes on the counter. Stack the plates together, then little plates, then bowls, all biggest to smallest. Arrange cups and glasses in front of them. Stack the pots and pans, largest to smallest, collect the silverware and neatly place them in front of the pots and pans. There, looks good... time to wash them. Wash them in a very particular order; silverware, glasses and cups, bowls, little plates, big plates, pots and pans smallest to largest. Dry them quickly before spots form. Put them away, each in it's place. The other day I dropped a glass, shattering it. It's empty space strikes a nerve. Scrub the sink, every surface, every appliance, cupboard doors, and then the floor on hands and knees. Okay, on to the living room. Tapes and DVD's in their cases, alphabetized on the shelf. Toys in their assigned and labeled cubbies. Straighten out the couch slipcover, smoothing every last wrinkle. Dump the ashtrays, change out the waste baskets. All the while the visible dust taunts me. One surface at a time it falls victim to my dust rag which leaves no survivors. Sweep the floor, moving each piece of furniture in turn. Scrub the floors, on hands and knees. *sigh* I'm done... shit... handprints on the TV. CRAP.... wires poking out from behind the computer. It's quickly remedied.
Onto the bathroom. Empty everything into the hallway, scrub the shower, the sink, the floor, and always the toilet last. Don't leave a single hair behind. Wash everything going back in, right down to the last toothbrush. Refold and arrange the towels. *sigh* Laundry...........
Bill calls it insanity, needless obsession, a ridiculous waste of time, "RELAX. Put your feet up. I know you don't see it, but the place looks great."
Until it's complete, disinfected, polished with each thing is in its place... there is no relief for me. Cleanliness equals normalcy and true concentration. It has a sedating effect that anti-anxiety pills can't touch. Finally... I can work on my homework.

week eight theme response - starting big

2004-10-24T18:50:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time... I was a child. My pint-sized ambitions were governed by naive curiosity. Every day held the promise of discovery and invention. Whether my brothers got more cake than I did or losing a mitten summed up the worst of my worries. My only responsibilities included making my bed and remembering my "pleases" and "thank-yous". Like most children, I was probably too curious for my own good. Much like josiejo when she was young, I used to creep down the stairs after my bedtime and peek at whatever my parents were watching on TV. One night I was especially curious because my parents had begun watching a movie while I was still up and quickly shut it off when it reached a racy scene. I remember protesting wildly, assuring them that I was not scared.
"Oh honey, this is not a scary movie, this is a grown-up movie."
These words only fanned the flame of curiosity, but I was all too familiar with the finality in my mother's tone, so I led them to believe that I was over it. After I said my "good nights" I waited for the couch to squeak twice, signaling that both parents had sat down and gotten comfortable. That was the cue to initiate my secret covert mission to find out just exactly what it was that I wasn't supposed to see, which is truly the only reason that I wanted to see it. I slowly crept down the stairs backwards on all fours, avoiding the spots that creaked, and finally settled myself on my belly. You see, our stairs made a 180 degree turn halfway up so that you wind up exactly above or below the spot where you started. From that landing halfway up the stairs you can clearly see the entire living room. And so this was the perfect spot for an amateur spy to scope out what's happening on TV when it's past her bedtime.I remember being quite appalled and confused by the sex scene in the movie, and more appalled at how much my parents seemed to be enjoying it. More than once I almost blew my cover by yelling out, "Mommy? What are they doing?"
I was eventually so grossed out by my parents' make-out session I went back to bed a very unsettled little girl. My next exposure to nudity was in a dirty magazine that my older brother had brought home. I was full of questions as we flipped through it together, but the most vital question of them all remained unanswered, "Why?"
When I turned 9 we started going to a new babysitter's house after school. Her name was Marilyn, and she had a 13 year old adopted son, Chris. I didn't like Chris very much right from the start. He was a bully that just had an intimidating air about him. But he was also very cute so I harbored a secret crush, if that makes any sense.
One day Chris sat down beside me while we were all watching cartoons while the babies slept. I didn't know what to be more shocked about, the fact that he was sitting next to me or the fact that he was being nice while he did it, "Wanna go outside and go for a walk?"
"Ummm... I thought you didn't like me."
"Why wouldn't I like you? I just have anger management problems."
Not really understanding what anger management problems were, I decided it was good enough and we snuck outside together and made for the woods.
"So Elissa, have you ever had a boyfriend?"
Flattered by where this was going I answered, "No."
"Would you like to see what boyfriends and girlfriends do together?"
Confusion... "I... guess so..."
Upon my very first look at a naked body in person, all curiosity scattered and replaced itself with fear. I'm sorry I looked at those magazines, I'll never do it again... I don't want to know... I don't want to know... I don't want to know... I'm gonna run, please God don't let him beat me up.... too late, he has your arm...
"If you ever tell anyone about this, I swear I will beat you so bloody your mom won't recognize you..."
My questions were answered that day, and then reviewed every day after that for two long years. By the time I was eleven I thought I knew better than some grown-ups what sex was about and the "whys" behind it. Although there was no one to tell me that girls are supposed to like it too.
The process of becoming the woman that I am today was a struggle, to say the least. As a teenager, rather than avoiding boys as you might think, I was actually quite forward with them. The terms "slut", "loose", and "easy" followed me around for years, although I had no way of knowing what it meant. Wasn't this what girls were supposed to do, please men, be there for their needs, offer up our bodies to them so they're happy and keep you in their company? Imagine my confusion when I began discovering my significant contrasts to other girls and their relationships. It wasn't until I was 16 years old that I held a boy's hand for the first time.
Sad? Yeah... but extremely educational. I look back on these experiences with a combination of embarrassment and relief. Relief to have finally reaped what wisdom I can from it and left it far behind me. I feel very estranged from my past, almost as though they're someone else's memories, or a dream that's slipping away as a try to recall it. They're a part of my childhood that I've always skipped over in conversation, treated as though they never happened. Is this healthy? Of course it is, it means I'm not dwelling on it. Rape happens to thousands of women, and unfortunately children, every day. It's a fact of life, probably has been since we lived in caves, probably always will be. Therapists treat people by digging up and analyzing our worst memories and forcing us to confront them. Did I have to do that to get over mine? Yep, one boyfriend and very valuable (and equally painful) lesson at a time. My head is turned toward the future and all it holds for myself and my family. Thanks to my son and the solidity and patience that Bill lends me, I look forward to what's to come and feel all the more prepared for what fate chucks at me.

Crap I don't know if this follows the theme either, sorry. At least it got revised a little though.

week seven theme response - starting small

2004-10-17T21:33:00.000-04:00

When I was about 7 years old I got my first glimpse of an adult naked body. Much like josiejo when she was young, I used to creep down the stairs after my bedtime and peek at whatever my parents were watching on TV. One night I was especially curious because my parents had begun watching a movie while I was still up and quickly shut it off when it reached a racy scene. I remember protesting wildly, assuring them that I was not scared.
"Oh honey, this is not a scary movie, this is a grown-up movie."
These words only fanned the flame of curiosity, but I was all too familiar with the finality in my mother's tone, so I led them to believe that I was over it.
After I said my "good nights" I waited for the couch to sqeak twice, signalling that both parents had sat down and gotten comfortable. That was the cue to initiate my secret covert mission to find out just exactly what it was that I wasn't supposed to see, which is truly the only reason that I wanted to see it. I slowly crept down the stairs backwards on all fours, avoiding the spots that creaked, and finally settled myself on my belly. You see our stairs made a 180 degree turn halfway up so that you wind up exactly above or below the spot where you started. From that landing halfway up the stairs you can clearly see the entire living room. And so this was the perfect spot for an amateur spy to scope out what's happening on TV when it's past her bedtime.
I remember being quite apalled and confused by the sex scene in the movie, and more apalled at how much my parents seemed to be enjoying it. More than once I almost blew my cover by yelling out, "Mommy? What are they doing?"
I was eventually so grossed out by my parents kissing that I went back to bed a very unsettled little girl.
My next exposure to nudity was in a dirty magazine that my older brother had brought home. I was full of questions as we flipped through it together but the most vital question of them all remained unanswered, "Why?"
When I turned 9 we started going to a new babysitter's house after school. My babysitter's name was Marilyn, and her 13 year old adopted son's name was Chris. I didn't like Chris very much right from the start. He was a bully that just had an intimidating air about him. But he was also very cute so I harbored a secret crush, if that makes any sense. One day Chris sat down beside me while we were all watching cartoons while the babies slept. I didn't kow what to be more shocked about, the fact that he was sitting next to me or the fact that he was being nice while he did it, "Wanna go outside and go for a walk?"
"Ummm... I thought you didn't like me."
"Why wouldn't I like you? I just have anger managment problems."
Not really understanding what anger managment problems were, I decided it was good enough and we snuck outside together and made for the woods.
"So Elissa, have you ever had a boyfriend?"
Flattered by where this was going I answered, "No."
"Would you like to see what boyfriends and girlfriends do together?"
Confusion... "I... guess so..."
Upon my very first look at a naked body in person all curiosity scattered and replaced itself with fear. I'm sorry I looked at those magazines, I'll never do it again... I don't want to know... I don't want to know... I don't want to know... I'm gonna run, please God don't let him beat me up.... too late, he has your arm...
"If you ever tell anyone about this, I swear I will beat you so bloody your mom won't recognise you..."
My questions were answered that day, and then reviewed every day after that for two long years. By the time I was eleven I thought I knew better than some grown-ups what sex was about and the "whys" behind it. Although there was no one to tell me that girls are supposed to like it too........

week six theme response - Hospitals

2004-10-10T16:49:00.000-04:00

After a bout of disabling cramps on the bathroom floor I carefully hobble down the stairs and collapse onto the couch into a fetal postion. When the cat is ungraciously booted out of the way, Bill's voice cuts through the mind numbing discomfort, "you don't look so good, should I take you to the hospital?"
"Not unless you want to carry me."
"That seals it, get up... if you can."

Once there it becomes evident that Bill is only here for comedic amusement. He sits through the check-in process with wide-eyed wonderment, chit chatting with the nurses, unfamiliarly exploring the process from one nurse to another, waiting room to triage to waiting room and down the winding overwhelmingly white neon lit hallway to the examination room. Bill, being that aggravating type of guy who swaggers out of a life threatening flu epidemic with a case of the sniffles, feels the need to point out all of the things I don't notice anymore; the nurses' purple scrubs and booties that look like shower caps over their shoes, supply carts stocked with blood sample vials, baby sized stretchers on the walls, wheelchairs and cots followed by rolling IV stands. Bill's disposition toward hospitals is that of childlike fascination without the fear. To me this place inspires an unsettling sense of relinquishing all autonomy over one's most valuable and inarguablely true possession, my body, in the most humiliating of manners. One's ass hanging out of her johnny doesn't command an exorbitant amount of confidence. If the examination room had possessed windows, my dignity would have flown out of one at machIII at the words, "please remove everything from the waist down... " to which I silently attach an "and wait here for an hour or so in this chilly room with a thin bedsheet for a blanket while I fetch the lubricating jelly for your examination."
The room is white washed from the drop tile ceiling to the excessively waxed tile floor. Everything is shrink-wrapped and in its rightful place. It's impeccably clean, which used to comfort me as a sign that I'm in a place run by people who know what the hell they're doing, but now means only that the janitors should be running the show. Indulging on the filtered Ben-Gay air, my lungs don't seem to mind that I haven't had a cigarette in a while. The walls exude anticipation and readiness. It's wasted on me. For the next four hours at least these walls will not be visited by exhausted EMTs or doctors barking orders at fumbling nurses. Mine is a walk-in visit, the slowest increment of time imaginable. Time enough, in fact, to think of 12 different ways to describe my symptoms in an intelligent manner without using the words "rectal bleeding" or "loose stools". Despite my preparation, the doctor's overeducated ego shrinks me down to a white trash pion. Bill's loosening grip on tactfulness only further attacks my pride. Just in time to prevent me from telling him to get a grip, the percocets swallow me up into euphoric relief. The room becomes less ominous but no less alien. Until I am half willingly swept out into the dark chilly parking garage by Bill's impatient sense of injustice, I am under the microscope. Once outside the building I find myself curiously gravitated toward its doors and the answers we passed up for our pretentiousness.

week six theme response - WARM UP - hospitals

2004-10-05T21:58:00.000-04:00

Tonight's events, one of my least favorite places. I'm loopy on Percocets so I'm not going to attempt at anything presentable, just brainstorming while I'm still peeved about it.

waiting rooms, wheelchairs, checking in, paperwork, confusing hallways, stretchers and cots, everything's WHITE, EMTs, navy suits, nurses everywhere, oxygen masks, IVs, bandages, casts, sadness, boredom, agitation, waiting, the humiliation of having to use the words "rectal bleeding" to EVERYONE I'm processed to, the pain scale (from minimal to unbearable), triage, white bracelets, booties, examination rooms, WAITING, white walls with drop tile cielings, neon lights, clean mediciny smell of the air, intercom voices, shrink-wrapped everything, rolling carts piled with linen, some with blood sample vials, uncomfortable bed, cold room, thin blankets, my ass hanging out of my johnny, the 87 year old woman on oxygen next door who's VERY hard of hearing "do you need help with your johnny Mrs. Bennet?", Bill trying to get comfortable in the plastic chair, pain meds, euphoria mixed with feeling like white trash before the doctor, Bill losing his shit on her because I'm crying, "When are you going to stop taking blood out of her and CHECK her?", WAITING, watching the clock...we arrived at 4:30...it's now 8:45... "Elissa let's just go and call your doctor tomorrow", it's cold outside, and DARK, tired, call Mom and check on Cody, tell Dad what happened, tell MOM what happened, say good night to Cody,

week five theme response

2004-10-03T01:27:00.000-04:00

Cody is a week old and I'm at home with him on maternity leave, so we decided it would be a good time to get our little German Shepherd Husky mix, Jesse, spayed so she could recover under my care. I'm entranced by the depth of Cody's newborn blue eyes as he fills his belly with breast milk when out of nowhere Jesse becomes a miniature tornado of yipping and circling on the carpet. At first I assume she is just being frisky, but the vet's orders are to keep her as still as possible so I scold her and point to her bed in the corner. Strangely, she pays me no attention and continues her conniption. A split second later it hits me that something isn't right so I plant Cody in the nearby bassinet and make it to her to her just in time to prevent her from pulling a 5th stitch out of her belly. A combination of nausea and anxiety overwhelm me at the sight of her entrails spilling out of her incision. The sandwich in my stomach sours and nearly revisits at the deduction that she has been knawing on them, "oh my god... oh my god... oh shit what do I do?!"
Through the disorientation of a prescribed vicaden induced haze and panic, Cody's hungry cries may as well be from the trailor next door. Jesse's excrutiating howls and my brain storming for any reasonable course of action becomes the only noise in the room, "WHAT do I do?!"
Holding the squirming dog in place with one arm and ignoring the sting of my own incision, I reach for the nearest swaddling blanket and tie it around Jesse's belly. The tiny blanket is red in a matter of minutes, "Call Kaleb... oh my god he's not going to be home he's never home.... please be home... please be home... 738... FUCK what's his number??? C'mon c'mon... You're home! Help me my dog is turning inside out and *sob* I can't even lift her much less drive please come over here!"
"Calm down I will be right there, just hold on."
My older brother Kaleb is the perfect choice of hero for this type of crisis. Maximum security prison guards don't panic. Panic is the kind of thing that renders the rubber bullet riot gun that's standard issue inside the prison gates useless. Ten minutes later he's lifting Jesse into his pick-up while asking for directions to the veterinarian's office. I can't think straight, I can't call up the street names, or even the color of the building, "it's um... shit... go past the little store where we got the... fuck.... subs the other day and look for a sign."
"Good enough *hug* calm down she'll be fine. Go tend to Cody, sit down and rest you just had a C-section... Lissa, you need to calm down."
*trembling* "I'll be okay... just get her there and call me when you know something."
"K."
Maternal instinct projects very unhesitatingly onto pets. Species doesn't matter when it's your baby. I watch the tailgate of the truck disappear with hands clenched and lip quivering. I hurry back inside and scoop Cody up tightly into my arms, "It's okay honey. I'm sorry, little boy. I know you're hungry. Jeese needed some attention."
I settle into the cushy glider chair and let him pacify himself on a breast. I rock myself into a state of semi-calm tinged with guilt, "she's going to be fine... she'll be just fine."
The phone declares that I had fallen asleep and I answer it mechanically before my consciousness is brought up to speed, "Hello?"
"It's Kaleb, she should be all right. What happened was the internal stitches dissolved too soon. They misjudged her metabolism. They're going to put silk sticthes in this time. Are you okay?"
Elation, "Oh thank you. I'm much better now, took a little nap, Cody's still asleep. I'm sorry I dragged you into this."
"It's quite alright. Elliott sure as hell wouldn't have helped you. He probably woud ahve just shot the dog."
*sigh* That was a not so subtle hint from your big brother.
"I'm going to stick around and pay the vet bill for you, she'll be there overnight though. I'll pick her up for you tomorrow, okay."
"Bill? Wasn't this whole ordeal caused by their fuck-up? You shouldn't have to pay anything."
"I'm too tired to lock horns with someone who knows a lot of big words right now, Lissa. Just let me pay it and get your dog back to you. Let it go, get some rest, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."
My hero.

Theme response - People

2004-09-25T23:42:00.000-04:00

If a person could be summed up in one word, my father's would be "busy". This is a man who doesn't live life, he handles it. Sometimes I like to think that maybe I'm not obsessive compulsive, I've just got the same restless gene and I just don't know what the hell to do with it. That's saying a lot when you consider how manically I keep myself buried with chores. My life, which may seem hectic and confusing to most, doesn't even touch his schedule. I've yet to meet a living soul who gets more done in one 24 hour period. That's not to say that no one could do it, just that I've never seen anyone quite so fired up about work. If I were more like him I would have a plan for everything, in triplicate. I'd have to pencil my friends in for lunch at McDonald's and keep a pager. I would also have a closet full of pressed business suits and a sqeaky clean reputation. For a man who's relatively short in stature, he carries with him a sort of presidential air that demands a certain measure of respect, whether he be seated at the head of a board meeting or standing in line at the grocery store with tampons under his arm. I think what often surprises new aquaintences is his mild mannered and cordial attitude. After being drawn in you realize too late that it's his ridiculously quit wit that intimidates even the most educated of individuals. My father wears his common sense like a brightly colored tie. Supposedly, everyone has common sense. That's what makes it "common". Not a lot of people have the luxury of always being able to use it, thanks to little things we call rules, regulations, and the more theoretical societal norms. When your father is an intricate patchwork of (dare I use the word) creativity, intelligence, and general likeability and have the pull to make a few rules and regulations of his own, you've got a behind the scenes vantage point to the greatest show on Earth. Untelevised politics right in your living room. What tickled me most was that, unlike his colleagues, I got to spend time with him in jeans and a T-shirt. Let's top off the image with... well... an image. He stands at five foot eight inches in his tallest pair of work boots. By "husky" I mean that the man has never completely settled into his desk job. He's never in his desk, God knows I can't ever reach him there. He started out as a carpenter, built the house I grew up in. No ray of sunlight goes to waste. If he's not at the office he's chopping wood or rebuilding the deck, gardening with my mother or getting ready to build a bonfire with his grandson. He's not the kind of guy who considers picking up a home gym when he's feeling out of shape. He just lines up a few more chores. Next to the picture of my mother there is a polaroid of my eighteen year old dad when he was counseling at a summer camp. His thick glasses are absent, along with the spider-webbed lines around his eyes that deepen when he smiles. In this picture his skin is glowing white under the sun, but half a century of worshipping the sun has covered him so completely in freckles that from a distance you're not quite sure if he doesn't have a light tan. My favorite feature in this picture is the helmet of flaming red hair. My envy. I have a pale complextion, freckles galore, green eyes and.... brown hair. Bastard! His hair is much duller now, peppered with greys and blondes. He is always clean shaven, even on the weekends, although I seem to remember a sandpapered cheek or two after sitting with him through a Discovery Channel special or a documentary on Freud. When I was very young my father and I had a lot on common. Then I had to grow up and become complicated, forcing him to have to start lecturing me. Nine times out of ten he was lecturing me for not doing what he suggested the last time he had lectured me, which I had intentinally not done simply because, well... it wasn't my idea. And even having admitted that, I think in some cases by not doing what he would have done I was exposing what we do have in common, among a few scattered interests and family quirks. We also share a sense of humor. I don't know what provides us with more material, our genes or our matching realist angles on life. Unfortunately he doesn't get to see much of my sense of humor. Generally he monopolizes the conversation with stories, and I like to let him.
He has the kind of laugh that startles you at first. It's loud and sounds a little forced, unless you're already accustomed to the faulty volume switch to his voicebox. His voice is just a decibal too low to be taken for obnoxious but the man doesn't struggle to get attention. I, on the other hand, am frequently asked to speak up in a silent room.

Okay, I could go on forever, but it's quarter to midnight and I've reached my breaking point for the evening. Enjoy my Daddy.

Week three theme - bedtime at the Colbry/Munkelt/Decker residence

2004-09-19T22:28:00.000-04:00

It's exactly 9 pm on a Sunday night. Cody's been with his dad all weekend so he gets to stay up late with Mumma and Mem tonight. I suppose "Mem" deserves some explaining. Cody and Bill met for the first time when Cody was barely two years old and Bill wasn't much farther ahead of him at heart. Cody's speech development has been a little... well... delayed. When he attempted to say Bill it came out as Mem... for... some reason and well, it stuck. No complaints from Mem. Naturally we all think it's pretty precious. The two of them are stretched out together on the couch watching Toy Story. Cody's pulling off a perfect Mem impression with his ankles crossed and arms folded behind his head. Every so often Mem will surprise him with a poke to the belly, earning him a heart melting giggle and a returned poke, "Mem! You siwwy!"
"No, YOU'RE silly!"
*Giggle*
"Mumma! Mem pokin' my bewwy!"
My only response is a mischievous grin to match his.
Cody rolls off the couch and grabs up his Buzz Lightyear action figure, "To infin-i-ty and be-yond!"
Buzz is flown through the living room, down the foyer and into the kitchen, quickly pursued by Mem. When they reappear, Buzz is being flown by Cody, who is being flown by Mem. He swoops in for a fly-by kiss on Mumma's forehead, performs a miniature air show over the living room, being careful not to get tangled in the vines on the ceiling, and finish with a ten point landing on the couch.
"Again!"
"Go give Mumma a hug first, then we'll fly again."
Out of the corner of my eye I spot the approach of toddling fottie pajamas. As he leans into my side for a hug he lets out a soft little "awwwwww."
His chore completed, he returns to Mem with arms raised, "Ooookay Cody, let's fly."
Three flights later the adults' eyes meet and silently confer, "bedtime?"
Mumma answers, "Cody, it's bedtime sweet pea."
"No, I'm fwighing."
"YES. Get Buzz and Woody, time for bed. Show Mem your big boy bed again."
"Bed! C'mon Mem, fowwow me!"
Cody runs to the TV to be the first to hit the power button and leads Mem by the hand up the stairs as I fill a sippy cup with water.
As I head up I can hear through the ceiling something being pushed across the floor and I grin at the mental imagine of Cody scaling up his folding chair to watch Mem feed the fish on his book case, "Fezz!"
Like Bill's acquired nickname, he can say "fish" now, but it stuck.
Upon reaching the doorway I'm met with the sight of Mem bent over Cody making goofy up-side-down faces at him as he sits as adult-like as he can in his chair. With very practiced movements he climbs down from the chair and into the tiny bed, being very careful to tuck every inch of himself into the home-made Buzz Lightyear comforter. I ceremoniously hand him Buzz, Woody, and his sippy cup, respectively, and wind up the musical mobile sporting "Animals of the Arc" above his head.
"Hugs, tisses?"
Before the big boy toddler bed he would kiss us through the bars. They're always followed by, "I yuv you Mumma. I yuv you Mem. Good na-ight."
Insert thumb. Roll over with Buzz and Woody dolls. Tuck him in tighter. Kiss him on the forehead.
Funny how some days I think I want him asleep at a quarter to dusk but can't ever seem to hurry out of the room when he's finally dozing. How quickly that silence moves in to replace his voice. Let's go... homework.

Just another warm-up - Airports

2004-09-16T13:03:00.000-04:00

Airports are inarguably the busiest buildings around the globe, thousands of people from every imaginable destination arrive and depart from them daily. A short time ago I made a trip to Buffalo with Bill and his entire family. We spent a good chunk of time sitting in airports. I love them. If you're a religious eavesdropper like myself, you know that a layover means something interesting to gawk at every 30 seconds for an undetermined amount of time. Some people grab a book, others crossword puzzles, everyone brings a walk-man. Some people are so exhausted they actually manage to find a way to take a nap in those cruel metal and plastic chairs. Aren't they cute, all lined up in rows like movie theater seats? I recently found out that some airlines offer cots on their international flights. Why can't they put some in the airports? What harm would that do? God forbid someone who's been flying for 13 hours wants to get a little rest during a four hour delay. Who's gonna miss their flight? We all have cell phones now, we're walking alarm clocks. Anyway, I'm off the subject. Upon discovering that our flight was delayed 3 hours due to "aircraft maintenance" (which sounds suspiciously like "your plane's broke"), we locate our gate area and began digging out our individual modes of entertainment. Bill's niece and nephew, Anthony and Ally, who were at 4 and 7 already veteran flyers, coerced their parents into a trip to the food court. Bill's parents quickly settle into their Boston Globes and Bill himself is already proving that he can sleep anywhere. I decide to take a walk.
The institution grey carpets absorb the echoes of intercom voices. There's the perpetual hum of jet engines that goes unnoticed after the first hour. Little birds flying between the rafters draw my eyes up to the skylights, which makes me sneeze.

I pass a woman with two young children, "Yes I see the plane now let's go."
"Mommy, can I get a doughnut?"
"Yeah! I'm starving, please?"
"We are LATE, we are going to miss that plane. I have granola bars we'll eat those after we take off now come ON."
"Are we going to go on the escalator again?"

My hair is actually moved by the wake of two well dressed men as they sprint by me carrying laptops and briefcases and giggle a little at the sight of pressed business suits in a dead run.

I pass a young woman disgustedly throwing out her stale cinnamon roll, "I paid 6 bucks for that?"

I linger near the payphones and fix my gaze on the 24 clocks lined up above the flight schedule, "Honey, my plane is an hour delayed but I promise you I will be home in time to celebrate our anniversary.... whatever you want.... that sounds nice let's do that.... so how did Melany do on her Physics test? Yeah? That's great, she was worried about it.... what's that.... he did what.........I swear that kid just doesn't get it... I'll talk to him tomorrow... yep..... listen honey my calling card is about to run out of minutes....yeah..... uh huh...... listen honey I'll see you when I get home.... yes I will.... ah...yup... uh huh..... honey, I love y.... damn."

I move on and wander into a gift shop. I observe an elderly couple pawing through trinkets on a revolving rack, "Oh this is cute. Darla would love that. Oh my goodness Harold look at the price it's highway robbery."
"I'm sure we can find the kids something when we get to Chicago."
"Oh but look Harold... look at this one it's adorable."
*sigh* "Yep, that's cute too. Ooh, not cheap though, let's just pick out some books to read on the plane. We'll be back through here on our way home."
"Oh, I saw a Dunkin Donuts somewhere around here let's get some coffee."
"I don't want coffee it makes me piss too much."
"Well get decaff, decaff doesn't make you go."
"Of course it does it's a liquid."
"Yes but it's the caffeine that makes you go honey."
"What's the goddamn point to decaffeinated coffee? I need the caffeine to keep up with you woman...."

In the distance I see an attractive couple find each other in the crowd. Judging by their make-out session I'd say haven't seen each other in a while. I creep closer.
"....missed you so much. Oh I have so much to show you!"
"Please include your bedroom in the tour."
She wraps her arms around him with cheerleader enthusiasm, "Oh you're awful! Are you hungry? I want to take you to my favorite restaurant. They have the best babyback ribs."
"I am pretty hungry. I want to see your place first though, kick my feet up for a few minutes.... "

WARM UP

2004-09-16T12:02:00.000-04:00

Airports - noise, echoes, the hum of jet engines, tired strung out people, intercom voices reciting what could be grocery store announcements, grey stained carpets, institution green walls, confusing gate signs, delays, food courts, overpriced gift shops, stale cinnamon rolls, baggage checks, baggage claims, lost luggage, security, customs, shoe bombs?, hungry sleepy children watching planes land outside the window, bathroom runs while someone guards the luggage, revolving doors, escalators, payphones, ATMs, birds on the rafters, clocks for every timezone, business men with laptops and cellphones, families with children, young couples reuniting, old couples trying to read the arrival/departure schedules...

Unpacking the journal

2004-09-13T17:44:00.000-04:00

Jason and I don't get a lot of opportunity to chit-chat. When we do, nine times out of ten, we stray to the subject of the "war of the sexes". I thoroughly enjoy this topic of conversation. It should be of at least minimal interest to anyone belonging to a gender (strangely enough, a rare few of us do not). During my first semester at EMCC I had to produce an I-search paper. I think it's safe to say that anybody among my classmates knows exactly what I mean by the I-search paper but to cover my bases I'll explain anyway. It's a very carefully constructed and lengthy research paper about a topic of our choice, hence the name I-search. The name was also meant to remind us to keep the entire document in the first person. If you took English 101, chances are you produced an I-search paper. Well, the title of my piece was "Women are Bitches and Men are Bastards - the Physiological and Evolutionary Contrasts of the Sexes".
When Jason and I had our little discussion about perspectives, the conversation had opened with questions for me about why women do the stupid little things that we do. I could have responded with a lecture in physiology and evolution, which certainly explains a great deal, but I could tell I would probably have lost his attention after "estrogen" and "testosterone". He wasn't looking for enlightenment, he wanted HELP. It went a little like this:
Jason: "WHY is it that when I go out with my buddies she's pissed at me when I get home, but when I DO invite her to come with us, she has NO interest in going?"
Elissa: "Chances are she never really wanted to go, she just wanted to hear the invite. It means you were thinking of her. When you're not thinking of her, it means you're thinking of something else. If you're thinking of something else, it means you're not thinking of her. As women, we also ask ourselves a lot of "why" questions, especially in reference to what our men are doing. 'Why didn't he ask me to go? Is it because he didn't want me there? Why? Is it because he's doing something he's not supposed to be doing?' At that point the seed of suspicion has been planted. 'He is so dead.'"
Jason: "So what do I do?"
Elissa: "Ask her if she wants to go."
Jason: "What if I don't want her to?"
Elissa: "For God's sake, don't say that. Go golfing."
Jason: "Okay, explain the jealousy to me. How many times will I have to tell her that I'm not going to cheat on her before she believes me?"
Elissa: "probably never, but keep it up so she knows you give a damn."
At his frustrated look I quickly added, "It's just one of those things that you have to prove not just say. When you are out with your friends, call her.... often.... to her it means you're thinking about her, if you're thinking about her... do we have to go over this again?"
Jason: "No, think about her constantly... check. And what is her deal with my video games? I can't play for 10 goddamn minutes without her getting pissed at me."
Elissa: "She's bored."
Jason: "She's a big girl! She can find something to do!"
Elissa: "But you're home, right there in her presence, and more interested in a video game. Try this... tell her 'honey, I want us to spend some time together tonight. But I'm a little edgy from work right now and I don't want to take it out on you by accident, so if it's alright with you I'm gonna play my game for a little bit and wind down first.'"
Jason: "that works?"
Elissa: "usually."
Jason: "why?"
Elissa: "Because it makes her feel like you're playing games for her, not ignoring her for them. "
Jason: "Are women really that self-centered?"
Elissa: "No, but most of us think that men are. So we treat them as such."
Jason: "Why do women generally think men are self-centered?"
Elissa: "Because you act like it. I know you're not, but your mannerisms and attitudes are so different from ours we make that assumption."
Jason: "That's it I give up, I don't get women."
Elissa: "how do you think I feel? I am one and I don't get women. I'm a slave to my hormones. Things come out of my mouth that even I don't know why I said. I hint at him and expect him to read my mind. I get pissy with him for silly shit and then expect him to just know why I'm pissy. I'm far from helpless but I ham it up to get him to do things for me. Why? I DON'T KNOW. Maybe it's because I envy the fact that you guys don't have to squat to pee or leak unidentifiable fluids. I just don't have all of the answers for you. If it's any comfort, I can almost guarantee that when she gets pissy with you for seemingly silly things, she's probably just as annoyed with herself as you are. I could go on and on about physiology and evolution but frankly it doesn't mean jack shit anymore. Societal norms have been killing our natural instincts for centuries. For instance, from an evolutionary viewpoint, I don't believe that humans were meant to be monogamous. I think we naturally crave variety, but are encouraged by our society's expectations to choose one mate."
Jason: "I like the way you think."

Journal

2004-09-06T13:11:00.000-04:00

I guess I've put off the journal long enough. I accepted the journal assignment with a measure of trepidation. Historically they've brought misfortune down on me, upon discovery by anyone that I might have felt the need to write about. Nearly daily I fight the urge to sit down at this machine and pour my thoughts out in text, mostly just so that I can read it over and gauge where I am in my state of mind as well as analyze the condition of my ego. Contrary to the impression that my writing might give you, I'm a very reserved and private individual. I walk through crowded hallways hugging my books to myself and averting my eyes even when directly spoken to. Eye contact may as well be laser beams carving through my cornias with the way I evade it. I'm far braver as a writer than I am with my audible voice. As John said, one purpose of the journal is to get to know one's self. I've been dodging that little chore for years. There are more somber territories within my mind that I stay clear of, and with good reason. Nothing but trouble... bad memories, embarrassing mistakes, heart-wrenching losses. Therapist after therapist has attempted and failed to break through my mental barriers and attack what are surely the roots of most, if not all, of my problems. For starters I'm obsessive compulsive. I've made progress with that little ailment though. I no longer count my every movement, such as the number of times I roll toilet paper around my hand (in even numbers), chip my teeth on glasses, hop over cracks in the sidewalk, or flip the light switch five times before leaving it alone. I do however obsess over cleanliness and despair in the sight of asymmetry. I take perfectionism to ridiculous lengths. That's not to say I AM perfect, I just TRY to be, which is impossible so you can see why my frustration causes me constant irritation. The fact that I'm AWARE of my faults doesn't seem to alleviate how severely they screw with me. I've got to give Bill some serious props for putting up with me for as long as he has. We've been together for a little over a year, not my longest relationship by far, but easily the least stressful of all the relationships that I've ceremoniously stuck under the "meaningful" category. The poor man deals with an immeasurable amount of moodiness not to mention the lovely random post traumatic stress outbursts. I'm picky, clingy, possessive, hormonally unpredictable and generally a royal pain in the ass... and he LOVES it? if it weren't for the fact that I like having him around I'd tell him he's an idiot and that he should head for the hills while he still can. A few moments ago Jason, one of our houseguests, and I were having an enthralling conversation about perspectives. In a prompt response I described the nearly intolerable bickering that's been taking place between he and his wife in the apartment. Well, Jason expressed to me his confusion over some of the issues that his wife felt the need to "make a big deal out of". He said, "I just can't understand for the LIFE of me why eating the last cookie or not noticing her damn haircut is worth losing her shit on me."
So my reply to him was, "it's all a matter of relativity and perspective. Kristy has been through a lot; abusive boyfriends, homelessness, depression, now her marriage feels like it's on the rocks. However, you possess a different perspective on life where you've experienced the kind of wake-p call that only God could top. You spent years in the Marines, fought in conflicts all over the world. I'm willing to bet that when you got out of bootcamp, you thought you'd suffered it all. Then when that first bullet whizzed past your head, your perspective on life changed for ever. The next thing you knew you were wiping your best friend's brains off of your gun so you could keep firing at the men women and children who were all firing at you. Within just a 5 minute time period your perspective on life and death was altered faster and more dramatically than nature ever intended. We "normal" people can't possibly completely reach you at your level of understanding of just how insignificant we are in the grand picture. We can comprehend it, we can IMAGINE it, but we can't sit up there next to you and claim to have a full grasp of it. I'm sure your definition of a BAD DAY differs slightly from mine."

over the past weeks I've had the very enlightening opportunity to observe Bill and Jason together. Every day I'm noticing more and more similarities between them, little habits and mannerisms, all traceable to the military. For example Bill still folds his shirts as though his dresser could be surprise inspected by a superior. It's nothing but "yes, sir" and "no, sir" when my father comes to visit. He sleeps on his back stiff as a board as though he's still on a bunk and keeps a loaded 9mm in his top dresser drawer. I have to admit it's slightly disturbing but who the hell am I to criticize, right? The most striking similarity between them is their uncanny ability to remain calm in ANY SITUATION. The sky could be falling and they'd simply shrug and say, "huh, well aint that some shit?"
Jason makes a good firefighter for that very reason. When I'm having one of my little mental breakdowns, like a fire, I occassionaly need to be put out, and I can't imagine anyone being better dispositioned for that than Bill.

Writer's autobiography

2004-09-02T13:34:00.000-04:00

Well, I get an 'Internet Server Error' when I try to post something on the course page so I'll get this out of the way.
My life is far from fabulous but if I HAD fabulous I'd more than likely hold it up as I would an Old Orchard Beach trinket and say "it's cute...Now what?"
I have about as much use for fame and fortune as I do a hole in the head. I think it's safe to say that a lot of people write down their ideas because they crave recognition. When I was young you could skip the praise just so long as you HEARD me. I was very reserved, an introvert to the marrow. I possessed an uncanny ability to disappear into the woodwork when I wasn't in the mood to be talkative, which was very seldom. I lived on a very quiet little dirt road that two cars could barely pass each other on. My father and a small group of his close friends built the house. Probably glued it together with blood sweat and tears. Big, functional and nestled next to the deepest cleanest lake in Lincoln, Maine. Lincoln boasts 13 lakes on it's welcome sign. You could take a quick cat-nap while riding through it and not miss anything... At all. Behind my house loomed about 400 acres of hilly woods and spring fed streams (and one abandoned treehouse). It's the only spot in Lincoln, Maine that stirs nostalgia so deep it bewitches a 25 year old mother into loading up a backpack with sandwiches and a notebook (plus one three-year-old) and set out on a mission to find the perfect climbing tree. Shortly after hitting the trsil I nearly nose dive into the path in front of me when my foot drops about 4 inches lower than I had expected it to and lands in a puddle molded from 4 wheeler tires. Cody is quickly admonished for repeating an obscenity but congratulated for the fantastic imitation of Mommy.
Eventually we find a good rock on top of which to set up our peanut butter and jelly picnic. I lie back, deliberately placing the bare back of my neck against the velvety moss. I blink through the foliage of the maple trees and note the way the star shaped leaves filter wind and sun beams through their fingers and occasionally greet me with a wave. I appreciate the way the steady trickling of water mingles with my son's voice as he attempts to form the words to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The effect gives birth to a divine duet.
Suddenly I'm 10 years old, sitting on that very same rock, illustrating a plump grey squirrel into a home-made sketchbook with childish wonderment as it chirps an occasional warning at me while tenatively going about its business of gleaning acorns off of the forest floor and depositing them into a hole at the base of a distinctly large and gnarled tree. The maple leaves on the ground hold the acorns like tiny paper plates. I'm fascinated by how deftly he siezes the nuts in his human-like little hands. He doesn't seem particularly thrilled about the fact that I know where he's hiding his stash. A bitter breeze turns my attention to the West and, noting the placement of the sun, I start packing up my beloved scooby doo backpack. I roll my damp muddy socks back onto my feet, replace my sneakers and head for home. I pointedly stick my tongue out at the cranky squirrel as I walk away causing me to step into a puddle and curse. Habitually, I check for adult witnesses and just as quickly curse louder at my own stupidity for forgetting that I'm alone in the friggin woods.
When I arrive at home I dive straight into the plate of rice medley and chicken nuggets that had been left out on the table for me. I drop my plate into the sink and disappear into my room, greet the assembly of beloved stuffed animals and spread myself out over every possible square inch of bed. I grab up a no.2 pencil and one of those composition books with the television static patterns on the cover and begin concocting a story about a selfish fat squirrel and an impoverished starving rabbit discovering friendship through a heart warming life lesson. Feeling satisfied, I paperclip the illustration from my venture into the woods onto the first page of my story and replace the notebook onto the stack of a dozen or so identical notebooks on the bedside table and head downstairs to commence with my bedtime ritual.
Cody's soft little voice brings me out of my reverie, that and the sudden realization that a half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich has landed on my chest. We spend a few hours in our spot, marveling at the inspiring peculiarity of natural simplicity. We say "good-bye" to the rock as we leave and reluctantly return to the hums, whirs, beeps, and grinds of the city. As I peer through the rear view mirror at my little boy's sleeping face, mouth wide open, I think to myself "maybe I'll dig out a notebook and write about this. I really should. Why don't I do that anymore? When WAS the last time I wrote something, other than an assignment for school?"
I'm not what you would call a diligent writer. I lie awake nights listening to my brain tumble thoughts around inside my head, cranking, turning, sorting, analyzing, pondering, wondering, worrying, reminding. I rarely write any of it down. Who needs to know? It's all right here, tucked behind my temple.
No, I am not a diligent writer, but rather a passionate observer. I watch, listen, eavesdrop on events of every magnitude (or insignificance) as they unfold around me. Oh how my parents used to love my stories, how they prided and boasted their little girl's raw talent. How I hated it. Such a fuss over such an intimate thing. I was shipped off to summer writing seminars at Bate's College. My pieces were entered into every silly contest and submitted to every literary magazine imaginable. At school I even had my very own little desk in the corner of homeroom so I could pursue their fancies, utilize their ideas and bore the piss out of myself all day while my peers slaved away over reading textbooks... uninterrupted and quite lonely. Over time I noticed a change in my writing style. I was efficient and grammatically scrupulous. My works were concrete, polished, well revised and exclusively catered to the wants and wishes of my audience. I'd lost my voice. By the time I'd reached high school and succumbed to my pubescent need for socialism, I'd traded in my notebook and the solitude of my room for the good old fashioned allure of conversation.
And here I sit, sharing my words with you as an individual; a mother, sister, daughter, friend... anything but a writer.