Hearts akimbo

This picture pretty much sums up my evening:



Me and you and a bottle makes three tonight.
... Well, three if you count my dog as the "you" part. Which I totally do.

I suppose I should be watching the Tiger's game, but as much as I love that my town's team is in the World Series, baseball just can not hold my attention. Now basketball; there's a game I can sink my teeth into. And don't even get me started on all those tall, sweaty men running up and down the court. That's much more my kind of sport. But I digress.

My boyfriend moved out a few weeks ago and I feel like I'm kind of drifting right now. Everything feels different, yet the same. I feel like I'm stuck in a rut, yet totally lost, all at the same time.

Part of me wants a family and a home, warm with children and the smells of good food and full of love. A safe haven. A place to grow old.

But part of me feels like I haven't lived enough yet. Part of me wants to see the world - to just load my car and leave. Head west. Just drive until I find whatever it is I'm looking for. Take lots of pictures and eat in lots of little diners, meeting interesting people. To just experience life in a raw, real way.

I look around my house - a house that I bought myself, and that I painted and decorated, and that I love - and I feel trapped. Claustrophobic. I suddenly feel like I did it all backwards. Like I was so desperate for some kind of a place to feel like a home - like the home I never had but always wanted - that at 23 I set down roots. As deep as I possibly could.

And now I'm waking up to realize that I never really had a chance to experience anything else but this.

A part of me wants to get in my car tomorrow and spend 2 months just driving across America, soaking it all up. Or buy a plane ticket to Europe and hike around, spending every last dime I have on hostels and bottles of good Italian wine.

Why does it feel like everything great is just something I read in a book. I'm sick of just reading about it. I want to live it. I want to experience it.

The last visage of my youth

I know that I'm old now and I've been living on my own (not counting the college dorms) for over 6 years, but I'm sort of sentimental from time to time about growing up. See, I have this spoon holder that sits next to my stove. My Mom gave it to me when I got my first apartment. It was kind of that first "grown up" item - the first thing I got that really made me feel like an adult.

Yesterday it broke.



It has broken before and Ken repaired it, but I think that it might be time to retire the poor dear.

*sigh*

Rainy day blues

Today is one of those days where I wish I were still a nanny, like in college. It's one of those chilly, rainy days where I can think of nothing better than going on a field trip to an art museum or a science museum. Maybe somewhere with a big planetarium where you can sit and watch the constellations move. Or maybe someplace with an interactive display of a village from the 1800s, with actual cobblestone streets that you can stroll down.

Afterward we could go to grab lunch at the museum cafe, sitting in the covered courtyard to consume our deli sandwiches and individual bags of potato chips. Then we'd head to the gift shop to look around. Maybe buy one of the books or stuffed dinosaurs or silly postcards to take home.

The price is wrong, bitch

Deal-breakers. You know, those little things that in-and-of themselves are enough to kill any future potential with someone? I've been thinking about mine today.

Aside from the obvious 'he calls me/his mother/any woman standing nearby a bitch' or 'he has a serious drug problem' or 'he beat the crap out of me that one time', here are my personal deal-breakers:

* fussy eater - if you won't even try that california roll or won't pick up your chicken tenders with your fingers, then we have issues. I mean what else won't you eat or touch with your fingers? One has to wonder.

* fussy about my dog - if you're too worried about getting hair or drool on your pants to get down and pet my dog, how are you going to be with your children someday? I mean seriously. A girl's got to think about these things.

* fussy about my friends - yes, I have a lot of guy friends. Just becuase I have male friends does not mean I am having sex with them.

* fussy around people - I am very social. If crowds scare you or make you uncomfortable, then you and I can probably not party together.

* fussy, in general - I like the sensitive type just as much as the next girl, but if you cry along with me when we're watching The Notebook, it's just not going to work out.

I'm surrounded by morons

Ken and I were driving home last night with my cousin, Bryan, from the MSU football game, cruising down the expressway, when some guy came out of nowhere and side-swiped us. He just veering right into our lane and tore of the driver's side mirror on my brand new Envoy and kept right now going.

My brand new Envoy. The one I've had for less than 2 weeks. The really pretty new white one that I practically just drove home from the dealer. Yeah, that one.

Ken sped up to catch the guy, honking and flashing his lights, but the guy was going over 100-miles an hour, weaving in and out of traffic to lose us. I'm white-knuckling the dashboard, yelling at Ken, "That son of a bitch! Can you see his license plate? Fuckmotherfuckingfuck!".

My poor cousin. He had to learn the hard way that his supposedly good-natured cousin has the mouth of a truck driver when she's pissed off. Or the mouth of Samuel L. Jackson, perhaps.

Finally we get his plate number and give up, deciding to call the police and have his drunk-ass hauled into jail and dealt with in the proper manner. The dispatcher tells me that they will put an APB out right away, and that we should come into the station to file a police report. "Absolutely! We'll be there as soon as we can!", I tell him, picturing the wheels of justice turning already.

By the time we drop off Bryan, grab some food for dinner, and head into the police station it's been almost and hour and a half. I'm picturing him already caught by the police, sitting in the cell at the station, miserable and alone, where I can taunt him for thinking he could get away from us. Or else, the police and I will have a conspiratorial chat about the dangers of drunk driving and the beauty of the criminal system.

I mean, it's like a really big deal to drive away from the scene of an accident, right?

Yeah, right. The police at the station patiently listened to our account of the evening's events. They had us fill out a stack of forms and give them copies of our driver's licenses. They confirmed the make an model of the SUV that hit us with a quick look-up of his license plate number that we had so diligently written down, and, oh, ha ha! he must have been on his way home judging by the direction he was headed when we last saw him.

The cop looks at me, smiles, and says, "So, what happens now ... ". I'm figuring they're going to send out like 4 cop cars to surround his house, throw a can of tear gas in his window, and drag his ass in to jail. ... "is that we are going to send him a letter. Which he has 10 days to respond to. "

OK, but then they issue a warrant for his arrest, right?

"If he does not call or come in to the station within that time," (for this part he actually rises out of his seat and leans toward me, like this is when he means business), "then we will send him a second letter."

What? Are you kidding me? A second letter? Just in case the problem was that the post office screwed up and he didn't receive the first one?

"And then what?", I ask him, totally dumb-founded at this point. "Well, if he still doesn't respond, then it will go on his permanent record".

Oh good. Because he seemed like someone who really cared about his permanent record.

Revenge is sweet.

So I guess the moral of the story is, if you drive drunk and you hit someone/something/some person, just keep driving. In fact, go home! Or even better, go back out to the bar and drink some more!

But just watch out for the strongly worded letter that will be arriving in your mailbox any day now.

Apocalypse Now

My Mom and I are going to walk in the up coming Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk here in Detroit, which consists of us raising $2200 each and then walking 60 miles over the course of three days to raise money for breast cancer research. So yes, that basically means that they are charging us money and then torturing us. Sounds good right?

And in this heat, no less. Record temps! In the words of the illustrious Lewis Black, if you walk outside in weather like this and don't say the word fuck OUTLOUD, then you have anger issues.

Well, people, fuck, it's hot out there.

And my Mom and I are still trying to finish raising the last of our money, so last weekend we decided to have a garage sale. I have to tell you, it's too hot right now to even look out the window, let alone sit outside for two full days trying not to melt like Frosty the Snowman.


Luckily we set up what I like to call a high-tech"sun shelter".

Equally as luckily, I had friends and family who were willing to subject themselves to the harsh elements just to help me.

However, the cupcakes that we made didn't fair quite as well as we did.

We took turns going into the air-conditioned house to cool off and at one point we even ran to the market to buy a giant box of popsicles. We started selling cold bottles of water to the garage-salers, and you would have thought they were liquid heaven. It was a surprisingly fun couple of days, actually. And we raised almost $500 towards our cause.

But seriously, fuck. It was hot out there. Yes, I know that in one weeks time I plan on not only being outside for three days straight, but also WALKING 60 MILES, but I'm praying for one of those rare mid-August Michigan snowstorms.

Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Me: The Domestic Goddess

I baked a pretty pie this weekend.

... And actually remembered to take a picture of it before I ate it!

If I should die before I wake ...

Why is it that whenever you walk into a funeral parlor there is always that one man, with the dark hair and dark suit, looking at you seemingly disapproving. "May I help you?", he'll ask. I know he is just trying to be somber, this being a serious place and all, but I always feel like I'm being busted doing something I shouldn't - like he thinks I've only walked in to steal flowers and flip over coffins or something.

One of my good friend's father died on Friday. He came home from work to find him in the backyard, laying at the foot of a ladder with his heart medicine laying at his feet. He tried to give him mouth-to-mouth, but it was too late. The flies had already come. The medical examiner told them when he got there that his Dad must have been gone at least 15 minutes by the time he was found.

He had been very sick, and eighteen months ago the doctors told him he only had six months to live. Tonight at the viewing you could see the grief on everyone's face, but you could also sense a kind of relief. It was a relief that he was finally without pain, and also thankfulness that they had him as long as they did.

It's kind of odd to be on the periphery of something like that - close enough that you can taste it a little in the back of your throat, but not close enough to really feel its full impact. I always walk away from those situations feeling a little more real, a little more in touch with life - like death grounds you in a way that nothing else can.

Best. Coffee. Ever.

When I was in East Lansing this past weekend, I bought 5 pounds of my favorite coffee beans. Just smelling them brewing in my house right now feels like college.

Quarter-century, plus one

Today, driving home down 696, I noticed an unusually high number of deer on the side of the road - bloated in the heat, their necks twisted up with blank eyes staring at nothing, the blood a dark red stain on the cement. When I was young, maybe 10 or 11, I watched a dog get hit by a car. He was running toward me when it happened.

That summer I was best friends with a boy who lived across the street from me. Every afternoon we would walk his paper route together, delivering papers and hanging out in that uncomplicated way that kids have, where friendships were still mostly about mutual adventures. One day we came upon this puppy with no collar who seemed to be lost, so we decided that we would put him in my fenced-in backyard while we asked around the neighborhood looking for his owners.

We weren't having much luck, and kept going back to check on him and say hello. He was always so excited to see us, jumping up and licking our faces. After a few trips, we went back and he wasn't in the yard. I ran inside to tell my mom, and she said that she had let him out. "Carolynne, he's been couped up all afternoon. We couldn't keep him in the yard forever." Stricken, Shaun and I ran around the neighborhood looking for him.

We finally spotted him down the block quite a ways, across the street. Without thinking I yelled out, "Puppy! Come here, puppy." Just as he saw us and sprinted happily toward us, a car came out of no where. I still remember how it sounded, the squeal of breaks, the sounds he made, the exact feeling that went through my body when it happened.

Thinking about that today I realized that no matter how old I get, there are still things that I can't speak out loud to my Mother because I know that no explanation she can give me will make it any better. Nothing she could tell me could make me understand why she needed to let the dog out of our yard, so I will never ask her. This is how we coexist.

My Mom and I have never had the best relationship. She was depressed most of my childhood, and spent a good deal of time either crying, sleeping, watching tv, or heavily medicated into some semblance of normalcy. My Dad and I split up the running of the house between us in an unspoken arrangement that we had - I would clean, he would do the laundry, we would both take turns cooking. It worked amazingly well, more normal than you would think it could be.

Looking back on the past 25 years of my life, I feel like I've had to be a grown-up for most of them. In a way, 26 feels much the same as 16 did, only now I'm suppose to be this much of an adult. Sometimes I wish I had more of a childhood but mostly I'm okay with that, mostly I like being a grown-up. I think I balance it well with a healthy does of spontaneity and a good eye for adventure (even still).

This entry seems long and convoluted, but I guess that's just the kind of mood I'm in. Maybe turning 26 has muddied my brain. Maybe, I just need some sleep. Either way, I'm wrapping this up. What do I want my 26th year to include? I want to take another class (maybe continue French, maybe another photography or (god knows I need it) a writing class. I want get all my pictures into album (including! my! Alaska! pictures!). I want to spend more time playing my piano. I want to make lots of money and spend it in all the right ways. I want to make sure that all my friends know how much they mean to me. I want to have lots of laughs and at least a few spontaneous adventures. I want to make sure I'm not too much of a grown-up.

And the fortune cookie gods say ...

Last night with my Chinese food, I got a fortune cookie that said: "You will be unusually successful in business". I think that's possible the best fortune I've ever gotten. Ever.

I've taped it to my laptop.

The rolling stone

I just finished watching The Family Stone and it's left me aching for Christmas. As an only child, I never really had the big holidays, surrounded by loud, crazy, and endearingly screwed up family. I know that sort of family only really exists in the movies, but I can't help sometimes feeling like I missed out on something. Having a sister, or even an older brother, to bounce things off of would have been nice over the years.

I never really missed out on that when I was younger, growing up as I did in a neighborhood full of kids my own age and their siblings of varying ages. It was actually pretty great going home at night to the peace and quiet of my own house. I had the best of both worlds - the busy companionship of my friends and the relaxing solitude of my only-childness.

It just seems that lately, more and more, I've been wishing for a sibling -- someone to roll my eyes at over dinner when my Aunt brings up politics or someone to cry with when we find out my Mom has cancer or to laugh at me when I've said something over-the-top ridiculous . I've got good female friends -wonderful friends - but there is just something so different about the sister bond it seems, that I've-known-you-my-entire-life kind of thing, that can never be matched by any other friendship.

I know it wasn't a choice that my parents made to have only one child - although I like to joke that they just got it right on the first try - but it still makes me long to have a big family myself, to create for my children that kind of loud, crazy atmosphere that I never got to be a part of.

I guess that's what good movies can do for you - they give you a little slice of what life can be like, leaving you feeling like your belly is full and empty at the same time. I just finished that movie with such a feeling of contentment, yet a longing for something more.