"You have nice features," he said, looking into my eyes.
I thought: This passes for romance? Nice features? Not, "you have beautiful eyes" or "I love the way your nose crinkles when you laugh" or "you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Forever after, he was unable to muster anything more. I was unwilling to stay.
1992: The magnet middle school is full of people who love science and think it's cool to compete in Science Olympiad.
1993: My science project: UV RADIATION MAY KILL PLANKTON FIRST, wins second place at the regional competition. This is gratifying, because I have by that point spent months and months keeping a scientific journal and measuring plankton levels in a spectrometer. I win prizes at state Science Olympiad competition for "Name That Organism" and "Cell Biology." I also compete in Odyssey of the Mind.
1994: Ninth grade. I am seriously uncool but never notice because I enter high school with most of my nerdy friends from the magnet middle school, and we think we're pretty damn awesome.
1995: I join the marching band and forever cement my Nerd Status. Marching band is great. We get primo seats at all the football games, and once a year we get to miss school and go to a competition at Six Flags in Atlanta. My friend Allison and I don't get the football thing though, so we spend a lot of time shouting "FROG ON THE PLATE!" at the games and giggling. Also, I go on my first date with a boy, one of the trombone players. Trey's grandmother drives us to Merritt Island to see Stargate, which is a terrible travesty of a movie. Trey and I hold hands in the hallways for a couple more days and then decide to be "friends."
1996: I date another trombone player. His name is Jake and I think he's cute because he's into soccer and is athletic and tan. Turns out he's not much of a talker though, and despite numerous sessions of teenage tonsil hockey, I never really get to know him.
1997: My senior year. I graduate with honors and enlist in the military.
Do you remember when we sat out on the driveway watching the clouds roll past the moon? You put your head on my shoulder. I ran my fingers through your hair.
You should have kissed me.
We were nineteen, and we could have been invincible.
My friend Erica killed herself. This is not recent news--it happened in January, in fact--but it's something I've been mulling around in my head for a few days now.
When I met Erica, she was married to Joe, one of the men in my Army unit. He was friendly and outgoing and made the long reserve weekends pass a little more quickly. Eventually he introduced me to his wife: Erica. She was blonde, lively, and cheerful; I liked her immediately.
As time went on, I came to understand that underneath her shining veneer, Erica was deeply wounded. She never told me much, but I gathered that she had been abused by her stepfather for many years, and that her mother never really stepped up to protect her. Erica loved horses and had one for a while, a filly she named Blossom Belle Espirit. Her stepfather had taken the horse and sold it out from under her nose to be hateful, and all Erica had left when she told me the story was the name plaque that had hung outside Blossom's stall and a couple of pictures.
I was with Erica when she adopted her beloved Lhasa Apso, Buddy. I was there when she decided that she wanted to escape her abusive and loveless marriage. I helped her pack up her things and move into the extra room in the house Dashing Husband and I were living in at the time. We helped her move again when she found a room for rent across town. She and I talked for hours and hours about her breaking free, finding herself, and living a life full of happiness.
I badly wanted her to get what she deserved. I wanted peace for Erica. Eventually she left town and went to live with her Dad in PA. She emailed very infrequently, and only called once. I never called her back because I wasn't sure what we'd talk about. We'd grown apart in the time she'd been gone.
The last I heard from her, she was working with a psychologist and had been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. Her childhood trauma had left her unable to function normally. According to Erica, she had up to 30 "alters," all fractured pieces of a once-whole person. When her brother emailed in January to say that she shot herself, I was not surprised.
Erica, I will never forget how you approached life with humor, compassion, and enthusiasm. I remember how you'd say to "be like a duck: paddle furiously underneath and stay calm and unruffled on the surface." I remember your hamster, Ditto, and all the meals we ate together at Shoney's. You knew the waitress personally, and never failed to leave an extra-large tip. You loved SARK books and Douglas Adams, and decorated everything in burgundy. Once we dressed up together on Halloween and went out to dinner: you as a mummy, me as a fairy. You introduced me to ylang-ylang and aromatherapy and the flea market in Waldo.
I'm sorry we lost touch, I'm sorry things were hard, and I'm sorry your journey ended so soon. Peace to you, Erica.
"Mama," said Will, "I want to whistle in your ear."
"What do you want to tell me?" I asked.
He climbed up on the couch so he could reach my ear and then cupped his hands. Lowering his voice until it was barely audible, he told me his secret.
"Whistlewhistlewhistlewhistle."
Don't tell Will that I told you.
What I said: "Will, go wash your hands and face, then use the potty."
What he heard: "Go into the bathroom and stand in front of the sink for 15 minutes. Spread the hand soap all over the counter and then lovingly scrub the fixtures with your toothbrush. Use copious amounts of water. As a finale, crap your underwear within two feet of the toilet. When I ask you why it's taking so long, come out into the living room and announce, 'I'm poopy!' For effect, make sure that your hands and your face are still covered in the syrup you had on your pancakes at breakfast."
March 12, 1979: I am born. I don't remember this.
1979-1981: Babyhood. Toddlerhood. I step on a bee to see what will happen. My mother spills green paint on my head and laughs until she cries at her tiny, indignant child. I dump orange juice into the fish tank so Matthew the Goldfish can have himself a drink.
1982: My mother takes me to see E.T. I am three years old and leave the theater absolutely pissed that E.T. would go back to outer space and leave Elliot on Earth. Worst ending EVER.
1984: I start kindergarten. Somewhere along the line I learn to read, and forever after have my nose buried in a book.
1986: The Challenger explodes, and I watch it on TV. This is the first disaster news I can recall.
1988: My entire elementary school steps out onto the lawn to watch the next shuttle launch. I hold my breath and will Discovery into space, all by myself.
1989: My sister begins her love affair with The New Kids on the Block. I despise them and begin my own love affair with Tiffany of shopping mall fame. "I think we're alone now ...." Also, I win the school-wide spelling bee.
1990: My mom lets me get a perm. I wish she'd stopped me. I win the school spelling bee again (winning word: emperor) but don't study enough, and my showing at county is less than spectacular.
1991: I start middle school. I make friends with a girl named Belinda Yu. She is Chinese and wears dresses to school every day. She plays the piano and the violin and has the most beautiful handwriting I've ever seen.
1992: I switch to the magnet middle school and meet more of my people than I ever knew existed.
So, it's that time of year again: National Blog Posting Month. I will be participating for the third straight year.
I don't know why I do this to myself, why do you ask? Anyway, this year I have help. Thanks to the lovely Maggie Mason of Mighty Girl, I will not be throwing my usual run-of-the-mill blah-blah-blah at you. This November, I will bring you something fresh! Something new! Something completely different! In the words of my sister, I will "blog my ass off."
Pinky swear.
Tonight I bring you Suggestion #9: Transform Yourself. She writes:
Being good is hard, and hardly worth the effort. But what if you could just wish away a few of your bad habits? Which annoying personal tics would you choose? And while you're at it, are there any good habits you'd like to magically adopt?
There are so many things about myself that I wish I could change--and I'm not just talking about the size of my boobs (disproportionately large) or butt (flat-ish and not very big) here, people. I'm impatient, easily distracted, and terrible at time management. I am equally bad at budgeting and reading a map. Small things often bother me the most, like the tiny snapping sound of Dashing Husband playing with his toenails while he watches TV, or the moist, chewy sound of The Damn Dog licking herself.
I'm a terrible listener (see above: easily distracted) and am often not as generous as I'd like to be. I cry too easily and am frustratingly inarticulate when I'm angry. I worry a lot, but don't speak of it nearly as much, so most people think I'm laid back and carefree. I'm terrible at making new friends because meeting people stresses me out, and I don't like to reveal too much about myself unless I know it's safe. I eat too much sugar--I mean, three sugar cubes in my coffee every morning seems excessive.
I hate it when people touch my stuff without asking, especially my food and my very favorite pillow. I always read the last page of a book first. I type with four fingers and am absolutely anal about spelling. I jump to conclusions and never, ever manage to get all the laundry folded. I suck at math and I have no desire to improve my skills, not ever. I tend to buckle under stress and that's when I start snapping at everyone. Sometimes I realize I am pacing through the house like a caged leopard, ranting and raving about everything. This scares the children; I'm not patient enough with them. I hate to be interrupted when I'm thinking or reading.
If I could magically adopt some good habits, I would choose to be organized. I would choose to be articulate in all circumstances. I would be able to read a map and therefore find my way out of a paper bag. I would get enough exercise and enough rest and I would eat all my vegetables. I would be an excellent money manager. I would never, ever stay up past my bedtime.
What? It could happen. Oh, and monkeys might fly out of my butt.
I am the mother of three boys under the age of six; I have nerves of steel.
Recent Comments