i am in love with these characters, this story. because this one made my heart gleeful and then yanked it right out of my chest. i swear. very few books have managed to evoke such emotion in me before and continue to do so.

this from ellen shanman's right before your eyes.

'so what do you do, george?' i asked.

'i'm in m'n'a. that's mergers and --'

'acquisitions, yeah, i know what it is.' i was grateful he didn't say 'consultant.' 

'of course. and you?'

'i'm a writer.'

'for whom?' he questioned.

'a playwright.'

'ah. for no one.'

'yeah, i'm having cards made.'

'so what kind of plays do you write?'

this is one of those questions i hope people will not ask in a bar because then i'll have to say something like 'well, right now i'm working on a piece about the perfect suburban widow and the way the neighborhood destroys her when she falls for the wrong man. it's a little bit ibsen, a little bit alan ball.' inevitably the other person will draw some parallel to 'desperate housewives' and i'll have to explain why that's completely off base without sounding affected and nasty.

'gee, george. i'm sure you'd much rather tell me about you. what kind of mergers do you aquire?

'point taken. so what do you actually do? for money?'

'i do administrative work.' i would not say the word 'temp' to this man.

'you temp?'

i hated him.

'what agency? we've always got temps in my office.'

so much.

and that is pretty much how the story of george and liza begins. that is what made me like it.

this is what made me love it.

'i was scared, george. i was just scared. why don't you get that?'

he looked at his shoes for a long time. i willed him to raise his eyes and look at me, but he wouldn't. i was saying it. i was saying everything i'd been unable, too afraid, to say for so long ... but he wasn't looking at me. i prayed silently. please, i thought, please, please, please ...

'sometimes,' he finally said, 'people should go with their instincts.'

'george. this is what i've been trying to tell you! my instincts were --'

'not yours.' he paused. 'mine.' he looked me in the eye for the first time. and there was a wall where i'd never seen one before.

'i don't...', i stuttered, not knowing what to say. 'i don't think i understand.' ... i opened my mouth, but i couldn't make a sound. i wanted to evaporate, to lose consciousness, to sprain my ankle so he'd have to take me to the hospital and we could start all over again and this time i wouldn't fuck it up.

but i just stood there.

he turned away.

'george...' it came out as an eerie, choked animal sob.

he stopped. he started to turn back to me. and then he changed his mind.

...

the first and last person i had wanted to see that evening was actually standing there waiting for me. i knew i had to walk past him to get out, but for a second i couldn't move. and then without even wanting them to, my legs started to carry me toward him. i stopped a few yards away.

he just stared at me.

'what are you doing here?' i asked.

'i don't know,' george said. 'i just couldn't miss it.'

'you watched?'

'you're extraordinary.'

nick and norah's infinite playlist

NOT the film. the film blows. huge, HUGE chunks. it's most assuredly one of the worst adaptations i've ever seen.

but the book ...

i LOVE the book.

even if it is teen fiction.

and there's SO much i like about this book that i could blog about it for a significant period of time, which i don't (and you don't) have, so i'll give you snippets from nick's first chapter and from norah's. because that's how it's written. nick gets one, then norah, then nick again, and back and forth, and back and forth for the whole of some near two hundred pages. it's a quickie read, but more importantly, a fun one.

there's nick, who, stupidly, is still hung up on his no-good-ex tris. and norah, who's trying to keep her friend caroline out of trouble. and there's a long night ahead of them both.

nick:

the day begins in the middle of the night. i am not paying attention to anything but the bass in my hand, the noise in my ears. dev is screaming. thom is flailing, and i am the clockwork. i am the one who takes this thing called music and lines it up with this thing called time. i am the ticking ... dev has thrown off his shirt, and thom is careening into feedback, and i am behind them. i am the generator ... it's a small room, and we're a big noise, and i am the nonqueer bassist in a queercore band who is filling the room with undertone as dev screams ... dev is wailing now, and thom is crashing, and even though my feet don't move i am traveling hard ... i throw the chords at them. i drench them in the soundwaves. i am making time so loud that they have to hear it. i am stronger than words, and i am bigger than the box i'm in, and then i see her in the crowd, and i fall apart ... here she is, and my fingers are losing their place, and my buzz is losing its edge, and everything around me goes from crying out to just plain crying.

she sees me. she can't fake surprise at seeing me here, because of course she fucking knew i'd be here. so she does a little smile thing and whispers something to the new model, and i can tell just from her expression that after they get their now-being-poured drinks they are going to come over and say hello and good show and -- could she be so stupid and cruel? -- how are you doing? and i can't stand the thought of it. i see it all unfolding, and i know i have to do something -- anything -- to stop it.

so i, this random bassist in an average queercore band, turn to this girl in flannel whom i don't even know and say:

'i know this is going to sound strange, but would you mind being my girlfriend for the next five minutes?'

norah:

there are certain things a girl just knows, like that a fourth minute on a punk song is a bad, bad idea, or that no way does a jersey-boy bassist with astor place hair who wears torn-up, bleach-stained black jeans and a faded black t-shirt with orange lettering that says when i say jesus, you say christ swing down boy-boy alley; he's working the ironic punk boy-johnny cash angle too hard to be a 'mo ... just because he doesn't look like a whitesnake-relic-reject like all of your band does not automatically mean the guy's gay.

the incidental fact of his straightness doesn't mean i want to be nomo's five-minute girlfriend, like i'm some seven-eleven quick stop on his slut train. only because i am the one loser here who hadn't lost all her senses to beer, dope or hormones do i have the sense to hold back my original instinct -- to yell back 'fuck no' in response to nomo's question.

nomo is standing in front of me, blocking my view, waiting to find out if i want to be his five-minute girlfriend and looking like that lost animal who goes around asking 'are you my mother' in that kid book.

from behind him i don't see caroline, but i do see that stupid bitch, tris ... that bitch should not be in a club like this. as if her language is not enough indication, there is also the matter of her hot topic mallrat outfit: short black leather skirt with buckles up the side, mass-produced 'vintage' ramones t-shirt and piss-yellow leggings with some horrible pair of pink patent-leather shoes. she looks like a neon sign bumble-bee by way of early debbie harry rip-off.

i'm the less-than-five minute girlfriend who for one too-brief kiss fantasized about ditching this joint with him, going all the way punk with him at a fucking jazz club in the village or something. maybe i would have treated him to borscht at veselka at five in the morning. maybe i would've walked along battery park with him at sunrise ... but no, he's the type with a complex for the tris type: the big tits, the dumb giggle, the blowhard. literally.

i extract my wrist from his grip. but for some reason, instead of walking away, i pause for a moment and return my hand to his face, caressing his cheek, drawing light circles on his jaw with my index finger.

'you poor schmuck.'

and then there's this one

i'm still on a good love stories sort of kick. so the next few posts will accomodate that (and yeah, i know. i've got a whole lot of things i should be writing about instead, like project: the first, otherwise known as holy-mother-of-god-what-the-hell-were-you-thinking-and-why-haven't-you-made-a-bit-more-effort?)

anyway...

i told you what my ten favorite (for the moment) chick flicks are.

so now we'll talk about chick lit.

only there's one book i wanna share with you that isn't so lovey dovey.

why, then, am i including it here?

because it breaks my heart it's so good. it's amazing. it's the most beautifully written story i've ever read. EVER.

and it is a love story. of a sort.

it is the first of those shorts included in jhumpa lahiri's the interpreter of maladies, which was on my reading list from like five years ago. it is called a temporary matter.

here are a few snippets:

he combed through her cookbooks every afternoon, following her penciled instructions to use two teaspoons of ground coriander seeds instead of one, or red lentils instead of yellow. each of the recipes was dated, telling the first time they had eaten the dish together. april second, cauliflower with fennel. january fourteenth, chicken with almonds and sultanas. he had no memory of eating those meals, and yet they were recorded in her neat proofreader's hand.

when he heard her approach he would put away his novel and begin typing sentences. she would rest her hands on his shoulders and stare with him into the blue glow of the computer screen. 'don't work too hard,' she would say after a minute or two, and head off to bed. it was the one time in the day she sought him out, and yet he'd come to dread it. he knew it was something she forced herself to do ... for some reason, the room did not haunt him the way it haunted shoba ... he set up his desk there deliberately, partly because the room soothed him, and partly because it was a place shoba avoided.

it astonished him, her capacity to think ahead. when she used to do the shopping, the pantry was always stocked with extra bottles of olive and corn oil, depending on whether they were cooking italian or indian ... when friends dropped by, shoba would throw together meals that appeared to have taken half a day to prepare, from things she had frozen and bottled, not cheap things in tins but peppers she had marinated herself ... her labeled mason jars lined the shelves of the kitchen, in endless sealed pyramids, enough, they'd agreed, to last for their grandchildren to taste. they'd eaten it all by now ... it struck him as odd that there were no real candles in the house. that shoba hadn't prepared for such an ordinary emergency.

shukumar: the first time we went out to dinner, to the portuguese place, i forgot to tip the waiter. i went back the next morning, found out his name, left money with the manager.

shoba: you went all the way back to somerville just to tip a waiter?

i took a cab.

why did you forget to tip the waiter?

by the end of the meal i had a funny feeling that i might marry you. it must have distracted me.

and then there's this one

shobar: the first time i was alone in your apartment, i looked in your address book to see if you'd written me in. i think we'd known each other for two weeks.

shukumar: where was i?

you went to answer the telephone in the other room. it was your mother, and i figured it would be a long call. i wanted to know if you'd promoted me from the margins of your newspaper.

had i?

no, but i didn't give up on you.

this was (doubling as) a matlock project. learn about that here.

more for ms. jen (but this is all you get)

because i read a quote on a friend's page today from the film bounce that stirred another bit of nice. well, two, actually.

she'd written a post about how much she liked gwyneth paltrow. me? not so much. except for the film sliding doors. that is a cool flick. yall should see that one. i didn't mind her so much in that.

your company. the pleasure of your company. i want your input on video rentals. i stand there for hours. i can't pick anything out. i want someone to say goodnight to -- a last call of the day. 

back to san antonio. back to borders. generally, as a rule, i was on closing detail, mostly because the inventory and office supervisors had to be there during the day. the music and cafe supers usually worked mid-shifts, and i got the closes. except for tuesdays, but that wasn't so much because i sometimes wanted to go home and more because tuesday is usually a huge new release day, which meant the front tables needed to be reworked, which meant i would either be reworking them or overseeing the reworking. usually it was the former, which was fine, because that was my favorite part of my job.

but because i worked a lot of closing shifts and never really had a weekend off and because he worked nothing but first shifts and always had the weekend off, we only really got to see each other twice a week or so.

he'd asked me to call him when i'd gotten in from work. i'd thought that was kind of silly when he'd mentioned it. he'd be sleeping. i'd be exhausted and possibly cranky, depending on how work had gone.

but it ended up being kind of sweet, actually. i'd wake him up when i got home from work. he'd wake me up when he left for work. we wouldn't talk for long. maybe a minute or so. mostly because one of us would be more asleep than awake. but it did put a nice little cap on my day, that last call. i did quite like the sound of his voice.

the other?

one sunday after i'd gotten off work, we went to blockbuster and rented jay and silent bob strike back. i had never seen it. he was surprised by this.

you ever try making out while that movie was playing? it's pretty fun. i highly recommend it.

why i love bubble wrap

i'm not sure i've told you this story before. i don't think i have. one of my readers commented on a post i'd written months ago that she wanted to hear more about the boy mentioned in that post. i'd kind of tagged one of my blog challenge entries to another post -- mostly because i hadn't felt like writing about it at the time.

and then yesterday, when i wrote that bit about knowing about a guy, it kind of caused a memory of which i'm pretty fond to stir to the surface.

it comes up every now and then, usually when i need to remember the good things about love and all that crap.

so ... here is a flashback for you from many, many years ago. and no, i don't recount it because of the boy, but because of how i felt that day.

it was, all in all, a pretty good day.

it was march twenty-sixth. a tuesday. according to astrology, tuesday is my day. whatever. three days before my birthday. i was working at borders at the time, residing in san antonio. my schedule was set up so that i opened on tuesdays, which meant i got off work at five or six, had off wednesdays and thursdays and closed on fridays, which meant i went to work at three. but i'd requested off for my birthday (or borders was nice and gave us our birthdays off ... i can't remember). so i was looking forward to a three day "weekend". and i'd just started dating this guy i'd thought was pretty cool. so i was in all kinds of good spirits. anyway, it was set up this way because if i felt like going home to visit the family, i could leave on tuesday after work and come home to my apartment on friday afternoon.

but the boy talked me into staying on tuesday night and going to my parents' house on wednesday morning.

i met him at his apartment at seven or so. we hung out for half an hour, then went to jason's deli for dinner, where we drew pictures for each other on napkins in brown (mine) and black (his) crayons. and then we went to the amc theater at huebner oaks and saw ice age.

we stood in line to buy the tickets. we went inside, and i made him wait while i hid out in the women's room to recollect myself. because i was pretty overwhelmed by him. i'd never been that way about a boy before. it kind of freaked me out. so i stood there with my hands pressed to the countertop, just inside the doorway, sucking in air and glaring at my face, telling myself to calm down. a woman walked by and asked if i was alright. sure, i said. no, i thought. not so much. but i got it together and got back to the lobby.

where he was sitting on a bench, popping bubbles on a sheet of wrap. i stood there, watching him, one brow raised and my lips curved in amusement. and all the anxiety i'd felt magically disappeared. i don't know how long i stood there. it wasn't more than a minute or so. but eventually, he looked up and grinned and slowly set the wrap aside and stood.

we shared a coke. i never share coke. with anyone. and i got those little shivers you get when your hands touch. those things i'd always thought were some crazy, hokey story-telling tool to make a girl appreciate romance a bit more. those things i'd always thought were impossible.

and every time i see a roll of bubble wrap, i think of that day. of how good i'd felt in that moment.

random quarter

one. i've never been skydiving. i'm alright with this.

two. i can't dance very well. i'm alright with that, too.

three. i can't whistle. i'm not so alright with that. i try. but nothing happens. oh, and that thing where you put your fingers up and blow, like to hail a cab? i definitely can't do that.

four. i think you know about a guy after three dates. hell, i think you'd know about him, really, after the first. but the next two clinch it. i've only ever known twice. and of course, neither of those times mattered all that much. i don't see the point in wasting time with a guy. mostly cause i did it once. that won't happen again.

five. white sports coats are gay. white sports coats with blue gingham button-downs? really gay. white sports coats with peach button-downs? supremely gay. why would any wardrobe designer make any man wear stuff like that?

six. i had travis tritt in my head this morning while at work. i was not alright with that, either.

seven. my friend swissy and i made a pact that i would write five pages a week and email them to her on saturday. i've not written one yet. go me.

eight. my mouth hurts. i imagine it's gonna hurt a lot more at the end of the day.

nine. nothing tastes good right now. this is a huge suck. oh, and i'm starving. also a huge suck.

ten. and the ice that's pressed to my cheek? i'm not sure it's doing much good.

eleven. i don't like my handwriting. maybe i've mentioned that before.

twelve. if i had to rebuild my cd collection, the ten cds i would purchase first are: the best of van halen: volume one, u2's the joshua tree, stevie ray vaughan and double trouble's greatest hits, counting crows august and everything after, a fine frenzy's one cell in the sea, zz top's greatest hits, pearl jam's rearview mirror, sarah mclachlan's fumbling towards ecstasy, the airborne toxic event and what made milwaukee famous' trying to never catch up.

thirteen. the ten dvds: star wars: episodes iv-vi, the lord of the rings trilogy -- the director's cut, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, star trek, pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl, steel magnolias, playing by heart, for love of the game, the family stone and dedication.

fourteen. the ten books: nora robert's lovers and dreamers, cecelia ahern's love rosie, charles dickens' our mutual friend, ellen shanman's right before your eyes, john knowles' a separate peace, seneca's thyestes, audrey niffenegger's the time traveler's wife, jhumpa lahiri's the interpreter of maladies, j.k. rowling's harry potter series and the complete pelican shakespeare.

fifteen. for some reason, in the days before any time i go under anesthesia, i feel compelled to purchase a large box of crayolas and coloring books. it doesn't matter if i've got a perfectly good box of colors and books already. i will go out and buy more.

sixteen. the worst pain i've ever felt physically? knee reconstruction was a bitch. mentally? despair and madness beat a broken heart every time.

seventeen. in school, i'd never been suspended. i'd never been expelled. but i did go to detention quite a bit. can't remember why.

eighteen. i've never passed out from being drunk. i have gotten so drunk, though, that i couldn't read the text on a television screen that was a mere five feet or so from my face.

nineteen. favorite pizza is california pizza kitchen's blt. when i lived in san antonio, there was a cpk five minutes from my apartment. i must've eaten there once a week. oh, i miss that place.

twenty. my day was reclusive because i got a tooth yanked out, and so now i am sitting on the sofa with a bag of lima beans pressed to my face, listening to the fountain churning the water in the backyard's pool, the shrill ring of the telephone, the hum of the refrigerator and my fingers hitting the keys. it's kind of nice, actually. it'd be nicer still if the vicodin i just took to make my mouth stop hurting wasn't making my stomach twinge because i'm HUNGRY! grrrr.

twenty-one. chicken spaghetti would be really good right about now. but i've to settle for soup. at least it's wonton.

twenty-two. i like red better than pink. except when i'm buying lingerie. i don't know why this is.

twenty-three. i've off the next two days! WHEE!

twenty-four. which means i should get some writing done. (yeah, like that's gonna happen.)

twenty-five. i've never blocked anyone on facebook. i have, however, blocked guys on dating websites. and i have defriended people on facebook. sometimes i feel guilty about this. it doesn't happen often.

blame it on the janes

i managed to go through high school and college, studying english, without ever having to read any of jane austen's or charlotte bronte's works. i'd graduated with that english degree without ever having read dickens, too.

can you imagine this? i'm certain there are dozens of other classical authors revered by educators of all sorts which are considered to be necessary to the literary world, which they would be appalled to know i'd not read.

do you know what made me want to read pride and prejudice?

the trailer for the knightley/macfadyen version of the tale.

actually, a particular quote from the film, spoken by mr. darcy to ms. bennett after having professed, to his chagrin, his interest in marriage to her. could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your circumstances?

i love this line. i love how it cuts. i love how the word choice -- the sharpness of the k and the x and the ct sounds, the bite of it, the hiss of the soft c and the s and even the f -- contributes to the sentiment expressed. there's such disdain there. such frustration, not just in that sentiment, nor its language, but in the delivery of it, as well. it's a fantastic line. marvelous, really. and it, more than any other, sums up mr. darcy quite well, i think.

i hunted up that bit of script while at work one day, so eager was i to see the film, to know the story. i printed out the page or two of dialogue i'd found, and, after work, taken it in to macaroni grill with me to study while i had dinner.

actually, i did more than study it. i took my red and blue crayons and diagrammed the whole of those sentences -- darcy's in blue, bennett's in red -- on the butcher paper that covered my table's cloth.

this version of the film interested me enough that i purchased a cheap barnes and noble classics version of p and p and read it, painstakingly and begrudgingly, for the most part, cover to cover.

while i can concede that ms. austen can construct some fantastic prose, her propensity for girlish, frivolous detail is pretty annoying.

i am not a fan.

and then the cinematic world introduced me to becoming jane a couple of years later.

and oh, how my heart broke for her.

every time i've watched this movie, i've stood firmly in the knowledge that she was right to refuse mr. wisley, and she was right to turn back, to go home rather than run away with mr. lefroy. but the first few times i watched her departures from him, first from his uncle's residence and later on the morning of her elopement after she'd discovered the letter from his family, i bawled. quietly, of course, but still ...

and every time, i've been gung ho against the notion that she should marry wisley. because he is, as her father has said, a booby.

it must be age. my birthday is less than twelve weeks away, and i am abhorring this one. it's far, far too close to forty for my comfort.

it has to be age. there's no other reason for it. but this morning, as i watched the story unfold, i began to think wisley wasn't so bad. wealthy, tall, decent voice ...

oh, god. i think i'm going to be sick. this shift in my opinion of him is not good at all.

it wasn't THAT long ago that i was mocking his character.

i hate watching this movie. it crushes my spirit every time. and yet, i feel compelled to torment myself with it. so typical of a woman, right?

i'm blaming this on jane eyre.

i saw the trailer for it a couple of weeks ago, and it got me thinking about these women, factual or fictional, who are deprived of lives of love and passion.

i've not read jane eyre. i was tempted to watch the bbc production of it a while back but talked myself out of it. probably because mr. rochester sounds like an idiot.

do you think that because i am poor, obscure, plain and little that i am soulless and heartless?

if there were a line that could convince me to see this film, that would be it. but it doesn't compel me nearly as well as mr. darcy's line did.

mostly because it's spoken to mr. rochester, and i just told you what i think of him.

my father says i'm a whole lot more sentimental than i let on, than i am comfortable with, and this is true to an extent.

but sentiment hasn't ever really done me much good, so i see no point in showing off that bit of my character.

the point of all this is that i feel sorry for these women, these janes who live so much of their lives without the thing they most desire for themselves.

i read wikipedia's synopsis of jane eyre, and i know she gets her guy in the end -- after mr. rochester's wife burns the house down and kills herself and blinds her husband and whatnot. (this would be the other reason why i can't bring myself to read it ... way too much tragedy for my tastes.)

oh. crap. maybe you've not read it.

i saw the trailer for this film the other day and it brought memories of becoming jane to mind, which of course had me itching to watch it again.

again.

so i will go to sleep sad and sentimental.

again.

bronte, by the way, married and became pregnant but died before giving birth. she was thirty-nine. austen received a proposal from a wealthy but pathetic man which she accepted, then refused the following day. she never married. she died at forty-two.

and here, these two women wrote all these stories that are so well-loved by so many (though i cannot say that i am one of that many, but still ... i can respect others' appreciation for their works) ... at least they've left the world these.

i have given nothing but a couple of chapters to my friends and a few snippets to my readers.

because unlike these women, i cannot seem to find the courage to write about love when i find it so lacking in my own life.

and this is how i shall end my day.

again.

ashes and wine

san antonio. the deck at capparelli's on main. cheesy jane's on broadway. the skyline as seen from trinity university's campus. oktoberfest at beethoven maennerchor. the alamo.

for lacie -- the HELLA long list

FAVORITES:
COLOR: green
ANIMAL YOU WOULD LIKE TO HAVE AS A PET: french mastiff
FLOWER: rose
NUMBER: seven
SCENTS: blueberry muffins fresh from the oven, laundry fresh from the dryer, phineas bubbaphat fresh from the car wash
COLOGNE/PERFUME: ralph lauren’s romance for men/for women
HOBBIES: reading, watching movies, television shows, concerts, gigs, sporting events, writing, traveling
SPORT YOU ENJOY WATCHING: football
SPORT YOU ENJOY PLAYING: swimming
TOWN TO CHILL: london
CITY YOU WOULD LIKE TO VISIT: monterey, california
COUNTRY YOU WOULD LIKE TO EXPLORE: ireland
FOOD: chicken spaghetti
CEREAL: cheerios
DRINK: sprite
FLAVOR SNAPPLE: kiwi strawberry
DESSERT: paula deen's bananas foster bread pudding
ICE CREAM: blue bell’s grooms’ cake
RESTAURANT: l’bella bistro
BOARD GAME: scene it
BOOK: our mutual friend
AUTHOR: charles dickens
POET: me
MAGAZINE: rolling stone
TYPE OF MUSIC: alternative
SINGER/BAND: the airborne toxic event
SOUNDTRACK: pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl
MOVIE SEEN RECENTLY IN A THEATRE: the black swan
MOVIE SEEN AT HOME: becoming jane
MOVIES: the blind side, cinderella man, dedication, donnie brasco, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, the family stone, five hundred days of summer, the great raid, the last samurai, the lord of the rings trilogy, love actually, memoirs of a geisha, pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl, playing by heart, the princess bride, a river runs through it, robin hood: prince of thieves, seabiscuit, miracle, serenity, star trek, the star wars saga, steel magnolias, tombstone
DIRECTOR: george lucas
ACTOR: johnny depp
ACTRESS: jennifer aniston
TELEVISION SHOWS: bones, castle, extreme makeover: home edition, grey's anatomy, ncis, ncis: los angeles, private practice, rizzoli and isles, the unusuals, the west wing
CARTOON: the simpsons
ARTIST: vincent van gogh
ARTICLE OF CLOTHING: my twelfth man aggie sweatshirt
TIME OF DAY: sunset
WAY TO SPEND A SUNDAY: with my niece and nephew
WEBSITE: mine :]
SUBJECT IN SCHOOL: victorian literature
HOLIDAY: christmas
TIME OF YEAR: spring
PLACE(S) TO SHOP: for clothes -- abercrombie and fitch, anthropologie, banana republic, the gap; for music and movies -- best buy; for books -- barnes and noble booksellers; for furniture and kitchen gadgets -- southwestern furniture, restoration hardware, pottery barn, williams sonoma, sur la table
SAYINGS: any combination of cuss words, god bless it, blast it, that's a suck

THE FRUITS OF LABOR:
LIVING ARRANGEMENT: home, with parents
TYPE OF CAR YOU DRIVE NOW: 2005 pewter grey acura rsx
APPROXIMATE NUMBER OF HOURS YOU SPEND WORKING EACH WEEK: fiftyish
THE TYPE OF WATCH YOU OWN: silver bracelet-styled fossil
SOMETHING IMPORTANT ON YOUR DESK: books
WHAT’S ON YOUR MOUSEPAD: i don't have one
ON YOU DESKTOP: aggie photos
ON THE WALLS OF YOUR ROOM: a painting my paternal grandmother painted, a bulletin board covered with papers and pictures of my niece and nephew, a clock my maternal great uncle made, a virginia stroud print my mother gave me, flavia prints my maternal grandmother gave me, a dried sunflower floral arrangement
THINGS YOU HIDE IN YOUR CLOSET, UNDER YOUR BED: bills, artwork
ON YOUR NIGHTSTAND: i don't have one
THINGS YOU LIKE TO BUY: clothes, movies, music, books, furniture and kitchen gadgets
IF YOU COULD AFFORD TO AT THIS MOMENT, YOU WOULD BUY: my own home
YOU COLLECT: see "things you like to buy"
YOU DON’T HAVE A LOT OF: money
STRANGEST POSSESSION: the splint for my teeth
MOST EXPENSIVE POSSESSION: phineas bubbaphat
MOST PRIZED POSSESSION: the antique icebox my great-uncle restored and my great-aunt painted
IF YOUR HOUSE WAS BURNING AND YOU ONLY HAD TIME TO SAVE THREE THINGS, THEY WOULD BE: jon's bulletin board, my laptop, the aquamarine ring joe gave me

ME, MYSELF AND I:
THREE BEST QUALITIES: intelligence, compassion, generosity
THREE WORST QUALITIES: insecurity, temper, laziness
THREE WORDS OTHERS USE TO DESCRIBE YOU: effervescent, bright, inspiring
THREE WORDS YOU USE TO DESCRIBE YOUR IDEAL SELF: independent, successful, content
THREE THINGS FOR WHICH YOU ARE OFTEN COMPLIMENTED: smile, writing skills, sense of style
THE NUMBER OF DRINKS THAT CONSTITUTES YOUR LIMIT: three
BEST PHYSICAL FEATURE: smile
WORST PHYSICAL FEATURE: posture

YES OR NO (THERE IS NO MAYBE):
KEEP A DIARY: yes
LIKE TO COOK: no
EXERCISE REGULARLY: no
SKETCH WHILE ON THE PHONE: yes
HAVE READ A BOOK IN THE PAST MONTH: no
LIKE CROSSWORD PUZZLES: yes
WAIT UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE TO FILL UP THE TANK: yes
SNORE: yes
CAN REMEMBER JOKES: no
PLAY CARDS: yes
TALK IN YOUR SLEEP: yes
EAT FAST: no
SET YOUR WATCH A FEW MINUTES AHEAD: no
ARE ALWAYS LATE: yes
OFTEN GET HEADACHES: yes
SMOKE: no
WRITE LETTERS REGULARLY: no
CAN WHISTLE: no
BELIEVE IN DESTINY: yes
CHANGE YOUR BEDSHEETS WEEKLY: yes
BITE YOUR FINGERNAILS: yes
ARE A VEGETARIAN: no
HAVE EATEN IN RESTAURANTS ALONE: yes
HAVE GONE TO A MOVIE ALONE: yes
HAVE TAKEN A VACATION ALONE: yes
READ THE NEWSPAPER DAILY: no
GET OUT OF BED AS SOON AS THE ALARM GOES OFF: no
SAVE LETTERS: yes
HAVE SWIPED A BIT OF CASH FROM YOUR FOLKS: yes
GET ALONG WITH YOUR PARENTS: no
EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI: yes

PICK THREE:
PEOPLE YOU CONSIDER TO BE GENIUSES: william shakespeare, charles dickens, hunter s. thompson
INVENTIONS YOU CONSIDER INGENIUS: language, paper, the pen
FAVORITE CHILDHOOD TOYS OR GAMES: fisher price's little people (they don't make them like they used to. they used to be really cool), richard scary's townhouse, barbie
WORDS OFTEN USED WHEN SPEAKING: fuck, shit, damn
SOUNDS THAT DISTURB YOU: nails on a chalkboard, sirens, thunder
THINGS YOU WOULD NEVER DO: murder, cheat, steal
CHARITIES TO WHICH YOU WOULD DONATE MONEY: march of dimes, aids research, cancer research
QUALITIES YOUR IDEAL GUY OR GIRL WOULD POSSESS: charisma, spontaneity, confidence
QUALITIES YOUR IDEAL RELATIONSHIP SHOULD HAVE: communication, passion, variety
YOU’RE STRANDED ON A DESERT ISLAND, WHAT CD’S WOULD YOU WANT WITH YOU: three compilations i'd made
WHAT DVD’S: dedication, star wars: episode vi - the return of the jedi, pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl
WHAT PEOPLE: johnny depp, brad pitt and adam sandler

TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR:
IF YOU HAD THE TALENT OR THE OPPORTUNITY, YOU WOULD: bed and breakfast my way across western europe
WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN TEN YEARS: the same as i am now
HOPE TO RETIRE AT THE RIPE OLD AGE OF: when the wheels fall off
HOW DO YOU PLAN TO SPEND THE YEARS FOLLOWING YOUR RETIREMENT: floating in the waters off california
A DREAM YOU HAVE HAD MORE THAN ONCE: i never remember them well enough to answer this. a long time ago, i had several that took place at hogwarts castle.
YOUR DREAM CAR: porsche boxster
WHERE YOU’D MOST LIKE TO LIVE: california in the winter, colorado in the summer
DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL: sometimes
WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOU WON THE LOTTERY: pay off my debt, give some to my parents, some to my brother, some to my niece and nephew, buy a house, furnish it, buy a porsche, take a trip to western europe and write without feeling guilty for not working a “real” job.

EMOTIONS:
THE ONE YOU TEND TO HIDE THE MOST: madness
THE ONE YOU EXPRESS THE MOST: angst
THE ONE YOU’VE EXPERIENCED MOST OFTEN LATELY: despair
A MOMENT WHEN YOU ACHIEVED ABSOLUTE HAPPINESS: i was laying on a sofa with a guy, watching high fidelity. somewhere between the time he turned the movie on and the time he'd turned it off because he'd thought i'd fallen asleep, i'd stopped thinking and just was. it was glorious.
A PIECE OF MUSIC THAT MAKES YOU SENTIMENTAL: damien rice's the blower's daughter
THINGS THAT ALMOST ALWAYS MAKE YOU HAPPY: my niece and nephew, flowers where i wouldn't expect to find them, a beautiful day, a good drive at dusk, laughter, a great story told in a book, on a screen or canvas or in a song.
WRITE THE COLORS THAT MATCH THE FOLLOWING THE EMOTIONS – FEAR, HAPPINESS, ANGER, JEALOUSY, LOVE, SADNESS, GUILT, LONELINESS: white, orange, red, yellow, pink, blue, black, gray.
YOUR OPINION OF OUIJA BOARDS: bogus until i'm near one
DO YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF: sometimes
WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD: despair
BEST FEELING IN THE WORLD: contentment
DO YOU HAVE MOTION SICKNESS: no

CHOICES:
SUNRISE OR SUNSET: sunset
SWEET OR SOUR: sweet
SAHARA OR HIMALAYA: himalaya
DOLPHIN OR EAGLE: dolphin
OLD OR NEW: new
COKE OR PEPSI: coke
DRINKS, HOT OR COLD: cold
WEATHER, HOT OR COLD: hot
DRIVE OR FLY: drive
YESTERDAY OR TOMORROW: tomorrow
RED OR BLUE: blue
BEATLES OR ELVIS: beatles
FIRE OR WATER: water
SQUARE OR CIRCLE: circle
LIGHTNING OR THUNDER: lightning
BLACK OR WHITE: black
OCEAN OR FOREST: ocean
DOGS OR CATS: dogs
DAY OR NIGHT: day
LEAVES OR ROOTS: leaves
WRITTEN OR SPOKEN: written
CARPET OR HARDWOOD FLOOR: hardwood
EARTHQUAKE OR HURRICANE: hurricane
CITY OR COUNTRY: country
VANILLA OR CHOCOLATE: chocolate
ABSTRACT OR FIGURATIVE: figurative
SUN OR RAIN: sun
BOXERS OR BRIEFS: boxers
PEN OR PENCIL: pen
HORNS OR STRINGS: strings
SUMMER OR WINTER: summer
DESTINY OR CHOICE: destiny
NEW YORK OR PARIS: new york. definitely new york.
SILVER OR GOLD: silver
CROUTONS OR BACON BITS: bacon bits
HALF-EMPTY OR HALF-FULL: half-empty
DRINKS, WITH OR WITHOUT ICE CUBES: with, unless it's a can of dr. pepper. then it's without.
THUNDERSTORMS, COOL OR SCARY: scary, in a cool way
ROLLER COASTERS, COOL OR SCARY: scary, in a scary way
ONE PILLOW OR TWO: four
PAPER OR PLASTIC: paper

the streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight

the news today was full of stories about children bullying children. one couple opted to homeschool their teenaged daughter who was told repeatedly that she was a slut and a whore. but that didn't stop her peers from finding other avenues by which to deliver their abuse. they found her online. she'd block a user. they'd create another profile.

thirteen-year-old asher brown took his own life so that he wouldn't be bullied anymore.

and a rutgers university student set up a webcam in his room, recorded his roommate, eighteen-year-old tyler clementi, having sex with another boy and broadcast the video across campus. clementi, an aspiring violinist, updated his facebook status with jumping off the gw bridge sorry and ended his life.

here's talent the world has lost. here's love. here's hope. and you've killed it, you who cannot appreciate and respect another's differences. this breaks my heart.

and let's not forget (or did you even know of?) fifteen-year-old phoebe prince, formerly of county clare, ireland whose family had relocated to massachusetts. her presence in south hadley was not so well-received. she hung herself. her twelve-year-old sister found her. the taunting continued even after her death on her memorial facebook page.

or thirteen-year-old megan meier of missouri who also hung herself after being bullied through myspace by the mother of one of her peers.

a mother did this.

and there's tale of nine-year-old montana lance found dead in a bathroom at stewart's creek elementary school.

nine.

what will happen to those who caused these individuals such pain?

to brown's tormenters? nothing. to clementi's? maybe five years in prison for invasion of privacy. maybe.

they'd probably say it's the boys' fault for being weak.

i say it's the bullies' fault for being so.

out of the ashes

it was such a beautiful morning as i sat down for breakfast. but i realized there were none of the usual birds outside my window, and i wondered do they know something i don't (angel franco).
the u.s.s. new york.

and for those few of you who may be reading this and going to kyle field today, you should stand for the duration of the game, and you should yell as loud as you can while the aggie defense does its damnedest to hold the line, and you should wave that white towel as high and as fast as possible for those who can't.

if you're watching a game in another stadium, if you're taking your kids to the park, if you're out having dinner with your family...celebrate life as best you can for those who can't.

i should've stayed home today

the trouble with going to sleep unhappy with yourself is that you wake up that way. only it's worse, because, while you were sleeping, all those negative feelings you had magically intensified exponentially, so that when you wake the next morning, you have maybe two hundredths of a second to revel in the glory of the sunlight and the comfort of your bed before your brain switches from automatic to manual.

and when that switch takes place...

some days, nothing good can come of that.

this morning, i woke at ten after seven. by fifteen after, i was feeling despicable, and the feeling wouldn't be shaken, no matter how many times i tossed and turned or how much more deeply i buried my head to snuggle under the covers.

so then i tried to distract myself by watching tivoed shows. ones that had been camping out for months, waiting for me to remember that i actually liked them. i watched three rivers. why i liked that one, i do not know. i watched ncis: los angeles. that one i love. i watched the last two episodes of grey's anatomy. these made me cry. both of them. so much for distraction.

by this time, it's eleven or so. my head's started to hurt. i figured maybe if i eat, that might help. so i all but hobbled downstairs to the kitchen (on days like this, mental anguish begins to take on a physical form, and all my joints hurt, especially my knees and ankles) to pour a giant bowl of cheerios.

i camped out on the sofa and flipped through a dozen channels. first i settled on football. while last night, i might have succeeded, momentarily, in shrugging off despair with the glee of anticipating a fast-approaching football season, this morning, football could not pacify me. so then i switched to what not to wear, because i think stacy and clinton are cool. this morning, however, they annoyed me. so then i switched to are you smarter than a fifth grader. no luck there either.

by this time, i was crying again. i figured sitting at home's not helping, and i have errands to run -- money to deposit, bills to pay, vehicular registrations and inspections to make current, a vehicle to wash. responsibility. so i went back upstairs to change. i managed to quell the tears while doing this. but then, as i got my hair wet -- because fine, curly hair never does well the day after -- the tears came again. the more i stop and start this crying, the more despairing the tears are. i remembered i'd left my comb in my father's car the night before. so it's back downstairs to my parent's bathroom, still crying. somewhere between the landing and the doorway to their bedroom, the crying morphed into full-on wailing and misery.

which morphed into wrath seconds after i've entered their room.

and by this time, by this time, i might as well have been hunched in a ball in a corner.

wrath terrifies me. whatever strength i think i might have dissipates rapidly in her presence.

tears that were once huge rivers became quiet streams that are more reluctant to flow, and i was chanting no, much like my nineteen-month-old niece and nephew do when they're crying and miserable. no. no. no. scared. because i never think i'm going to get through it when i'm in the throes of wrath.

but somehow i do.

and i'm grateful for this.

i rounded the corner, passed their closet, into their bathroom, still chanting. i rummaged through my mother's cosmetics drawer for a comb and sat on the commode to slowly, slowly, run the comb through the tangles. five minutes or so of this, and i was better.

drained, but better.

the trouble is, i didn't indulge wrath.

usually it's better if i let her play for a bit. harder to handle. harder to live through. but better in the long run. usually, afterward, i'm tired but nice. i won't smile at you, but i won't tear your head off, either.

i've got those errands to run. and on this day, i wasn't so sure of my strength. so i shoved her back.

somewhere between the time i left the house and the time i came home, i got ugly with cranky and snarly. so much so that by the time i got to the last errand, i was at the i'm-gonna-tear-your-head-off-just-for-looking-at-me stage.

when i was twenty-five, my family went to austin for the fighting irish versus the longhorns football game. a handful of my older brother's friends met up with us. i'd been having a conversation with one of them -- i'm a pretty sarcastic girl, and those who know me are amused by this, as they should be, because i mean it in good fun, but those who don't aren't so much. this one didn't know me. all of the sudden, he comes out with god, you're bitter. i don't even remember what i'd said that prompted him to say this, except that whatever i'd said, i hadn't meant for it to be so sarcastic that it offended.

flash forward twelve years. i thought of this conversation today. of this friend of my brother's.

today, i was a prime example of bitter hag. ugly with it.

this is what happens when i don't give into wrath.

i bitched at an employee -- an elderly woman who works in the floral department (what a lovely job that must be. really. happy and thoughtful) -- for not washing her hands after using the restroom before returning to work. i snarled at the library staff because printing a single sheet of paper is more of an inconvenience and challenge than i think it ought to be. god forbid i should consider that they don't have to offer such a service. i don't have a printer hooked up to my mac. my mother's printer's not communicating with her computer, and my father's computer is off limits. so i have to borrow someone else's. that it doesn't work like i want it to do so is, apparently, a criminal offense.

the best example? i stopped by a courthouse, after having finally succeeded in enlisting the help of a reference librarian to get the damned proof of insurance card i needed so that i could get my registration updated, and had been walking, rather intently (in other words, in a don't-fucking-talk-to-me fashion), when a woman had the audacity to smile at me and ask if i worked there.

what? (said in the same fashion as i had used when walking.)

do you work here? (she's walking toward me, still smiling, still being friendly. curious. in need of help.)

i was wearing a t-shirt promoting a grand junction, colorado brewery, capris and flip-flops. i looked like death. no. (said in a what-the-hell-would-make-you-ask-such-a-stupid-question tone of voice.)

now she's not so friendly. now she's taken aback, and a helluva lot smarter than she'd been a second before. she proceeded to tell me that the building was locked, that i couldn't get in, that i was rude...etc, etc, etc.

the moment i heard that i can't get in, i turned and headed back to my car. so while's she's telling me that i'm rude...

i could hear this boy's voice in my head, just as i could while at the library. see his face just as clearly today as i'd seen it a dozen years before. god, you're bitter.

earlier today, i found a picture of me as a first-grade student. i'm sitting there with my hands in my lap, my arms pressed to my sides, my shoulders slightly drawn up. i'm grinning. beautifully.

i wish i could be that girl again. i wish i could channel her and infuse my present personality with a bit of the cute and funny my mother said i was back then.

i don't understand why i have to hurt so much. i don't understand how i could hurt others knowing how much the hurting sucks ass.

i've watched that nfl ad twice today. i will probably watch it another dozen times in a desperate attempt to recapture that sense of yee i felt for most of last night.

random quarter

one. so i'm a little jealous of those girls who get to register for gifts for their homes just because they get engaged. not that i have a house. i have a room and a bathroom. but someday...hopefully. a girl can dream, right? so i figured, screw it. i'll make me some wish lists.

two. and that is why i was in macy's china department that stormy saturday a couple of weeks back. i was scanning all the pretty, pretty and making me a birthday gift registry. i did one for pottery barn the next day. and one for restoration hardware this past weekend. i'll do one for williams sonoma, too.

three. the mass last night was about greed. one of the readings was about the man who'd decided to build a bigger barn because all the things he'd collected didn't fit in the one he had. jesus called him foolish. yeah, yeah. i get it.

four. the past week or two, i've been posting film quotes in my facebook status updates. some were from harry potter films. and while researching one day for the best line from the first flick, i was reminded of this by dumbledore: it does not do to dwell on dreams, harry. and forget to live. yeah, yeah. i get it.

five. i like the songs they play in mass the most. does that make me bad? that came out wrong. i meant the parts of mass i most enjoy are those in which i have the opportunity to sing. i've probably mentioned that before.

six. the tune that's played while the collection is being taken and the priest is preparing the bread and wine for consecration is one of my favorites. it's called mighty to save by hillsong. when they play this, i love being in church. i feel good. i want to be there. so much so that this time, i was tempted, very tempted, to stay past having received communion. i would've.

seven. except i caught one of the life teen youth leaders and his little brother staring at me in a manner that was reminiscent of the manners of others who have taunted me in the past. i was, unfortunately, bothered by this. boys. half my age. are intimidating to me. ridiculous. i jetted soon after snatching the host from the priest. and of course, as fate would have it, i had to brush past both the boys as i vacated the premises. it's not the mockery that bothered me so much as the fact that it took place in church by someone who should set an example.

eight. over and over again, i sang this on the way to the movie theater. the last movie i remember watching in the theater was iron man two. i figured i should treat myself. anyway, i'm singing this in hopes of recalling a better memory of mass. even hummed it as i crossed the street from the garage to the main entrance of the theater.

saviour, he can move the mountains

my god is mighty to save

he is mighty to save

forever author of salvation

he rose and conquered the grave

jesus conquered the grave

shine your light, and let the whole world see

we're singing for the glory of the risen king

jesus, shine your light, and let the whole world see

we're singing for the glory of the risen king

i felt a little better by the time i stepped inside.

nine. i should preface the next bit by saying that i am not, by any means, a fan of zac efron's. at all.

ten. but since having seen the trailers for charlie st. cloud, i've felt compelled to see it. it made me cry. i knew it would. it's about a man who's dealing with the death of his younger brother. it's not an exceptional movie, by any means. but it made me think i should lay off bashing zac efron a bit. he did a pretty okay job. in fact, in some scenes i was seriously impressed. he meets his younger brother's ghost every evening at sunset in the woods near his home, where they play catch. at first, the time he spends there is the highlight of his day. but eventually, he becomes a hostage of sorts to the promise he'd made his brother years before. the best scene in the whole movie is one which shows just how reluctant he is to go to those woods, how helpless he feels, how obliged and, most of all, how angry he is with himself for going, for being incapable of refusing to go. the director knew exactly how that scene should go. and efron played it so convincingly well.

eleven. the first few months after my brother died, my thoughts were consumed by the oddity that god would take him, who was so valued in this world, and leave me here. i was angry because of this at first. now i'm merely perplexed by it. he keeps giving me second chances. i haven't the foggiest idea why. it'd be nice if someone could come along and illuminate this for me, as efron's character had someone shove him a bit of the way toward clarity.

twelve. it'd be nice if just once, i had the gumption and the tenacity to find the answers myself instead of wanting to take the easy way.

thirteen. i want virgin airlines to have a hub in houston. i'm sick of continental and delta, and united sucks ass because they are cheap bastards. you don't even get those little bags of pretzels. ridiculous.

fourteen. i can't wait for fall to get here. FOOTBALL SEASON! cooler climates! scarves and boots! yay!

fifteen. having said that, i will be sorry to see swimming weather go.

sixteen. my nephew went underwater the other day. i set him on the steps for a second to rest my arms and go under for a second, just to get my hair off my face. he stands up, hops to the second step, then the third. the third being much lower than the first and second, considering his height. much lower. that won't be happening again. ever. the boy's amazing, though. i snatched him up, and when he surfaced, he didn't gasp or sputter or cry or anything. acted like it was no big deal. so let's recap. i've bitten his fingers (he stuck'm in my mouth, and i wasn't quite expecting it -- i don't think i told you about that. i was feeding him his bottle, and he was investigating those marvelous white things in my mouth). i've dropped him on his head (i don't think i told you about that, either -- he didn't want to be held, and wriggled out of my grasp. i'd managed to hunch down as he fought to be free and keep him close to my legs so i could, maybe, have a better hold of him, but just as his body was about even with the middle of my calves, he did a champion wriggle and fell right on the top of his head on a ceramic-tiled floor. he was not happy, but recovered quickly), and about drowned him in our pool. i don't think i'll be winning aunt of the year any time soon. don't, whatever you do, tell my brother. he will never let me babysit him. :]

seventeen. i think the plant i bought a couple of months ago is slowly dying. or there are bugs chomping on it. one of the two. not good.

eighteen. my aggie season tickets came in the mail today. oh. how i love them so. they are beautiful. if only i could frame them. i am sitting on the east first deck (the students' side), near the south endzone from whence the players emerge onto the field. somewhere between the upperclassmen and the visiting team's goons. this should be fun.

nineteen. i'm quite fond of the television program rizzoli and isles. it's pretty nifty. you should watch it.

twenty. i've also become fond of the closer. should've given this one a closer (hah!) look when it first aired.

twenty-one. my hair's bugging me. i don't look good with short hair. i don't look good with longer hair. i'd buzz it again but that would piss off my family. and it certainly would not bode well for my job hunting efforts. you girls with long hair...how does it not drive you batshit every damned day?

twenty-two. i only like new potatoes -- i think that's what they're called...those purple/red ones? -- if you put melted cheese on'm. contrary to this, i don't like cheese on regular potatoes.

twenty-three. i don't like eating food with my hands unless it's pizza, burgers or sandwiches. fried chicken? i don't normally touch the stuff. too greasy. too messy. yucky.

twenty-four. my great-aunt died today. she was this short, chubby italian woman. incredibly stubborn. i remember that she smiled a lot, a great, genuine smile. the kind that made you think of light and happiness. and she was always so, so interested in what others had to say and how they were.

twenty-five. i will make pizzelles this week in honor of her. they will probably suck, because i've never tried to make them before. she used to send us tins full of them when we were younger. she didn't do that for most of her relatives, even for her some of her children, if i remember correctly. she must've really loved us. i didn't like'm at first. and then, of course, right around the time she began to ship them less and less frequently (because she was getting older and older), i started to love them. and every time i thought of her, i thought of those pizzelle tins. i will miss the jolliness of her.

the twenty-fifth question

Do you have any insights on how you could help younger versions of you? -- ERW

I've felt as though all of the less attractive physical and personality traits my parents possess were bestowed upon me -- my father's teeth, his fair skin, the prominent angle of my chin, my mother's sunspots, the thinness of her hair, the longness of her face...I could go on and on.

I used to stare at my reflection and study it like I would a composition I had to draw for an art class or a piece of literature I had to analyze for a report. Like my peers would. If there was a flaw to be found, I would hone in on it in seconds.

What I should've considered is that I was created out of love. My parents have been married for forty-seven years next month. They met in high school. My mother was the valedictorian of her class. My father was a musician. I got intelligence and artistic talent from them. I got compassion and generosity. I got loyalty and love. I got my father's curly hair, eye color, hair color and bone structure. I got my mother's height, her laugh, the brightness of her smile. One of'm gave me freckles. I love my freckles.

There's a book called Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams which I had read years before, in the same semester during which I'd written the inquisition essays. I wish I had it here today so that I could quote the passage for you rather than summing it up. I'd been sitting in a T.G.I. Fridays restaurant in San Antonio, reading for my classes. When I'd read this, I was so struck by it, so affected that I had to hurry to the restrooms to hide and recollect myself. The author, at a young age, was teased by her peers for the color of her hair. She came home one afternoon upset because of the ridicule she'd endured. Mother dragged daughter into the bathroom, sat her down on a stool and made her face her reflection. Then the mother said that she saw a beautiful little girl and instructed her daughter to stay there until she saw her, too.

My mother told me often that if I'd focused more on my studies and my talents rather than on what I lacked, I would've felt better about myself.

What I think now is that it's an insult to my parents to say that I got the less attractive pieces of them, to think of myself as ugly. That's like saying love is ugly, that their love is ugly. I should've thought of the grand insult I'd given them by thinking that way. I should've thought of the beauty of the love and passion they'd felt for each other when they made me. I should've thought of the luck and the miracle that I was, that I am. I'd chosen instead to marvel at how two beautiful people could create something so flawed. I should've thought of how happy they were to have a little girl. I should've focused on my gifts. Should've forced myself to stare at my reflection until I saw what my mother saw.

I am a griffin -- a magical, mystical, marvelous creature. I should've thought of that.

did you miss an essay? for the list and links, go here.