Monday, July 31, 2006

Self Portraits with Flowers

Rose 1
It is late and I am surprised to see him (and ten others) standing at my door, holding a single rose (with two dozen more standing in five gallon buckets in their mothers' vans for other girls).

I buy the flowers for Claire--small roses, small daisies--and ask for the ribbon to be pink. I buy the flowers for my brother to give to Claire because I want it to be in eigth grade, I want it to be opening night, I want to have the boy leave the flowers for me for good luck.

I hate the shiny wrapping leaning up against the granite. I hate the yellow and orange, the bushy heads bobbing in the wind, nodding to the angel who watches over another plot. When I die, don't leave flowers on my grave.

Rose 2
There are eight. Or were there nine? Not quite a dozen, more than half-a-dozen. A number that didn't make sense, even though I asked it to. White, heavy. I said no.

I walk past them in the hall, running away from something I'm not ready to handle. She is arranging the lilies in a water bottle vase; he is handing her the flowers, clumsily holding their stems. I know the flowers are for me, know that they will be filling my flat with their heavy pollen smell, but I ignore them, willing to pretend surprise when they are delivered.

Rose 3
I live in the house for three weeks before I realize there are roses.

I buy myself the flowers, to remember lilies without the scent. And I am willing to pretend, if you don't ask me, that they came from someone who has given me more than flowers.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Suddenly I See (KT Tunstall)

A new theme song deserves its own post.

Oh, and just in case you were wondering, I rocked APA today.

Suddenly I See
KT Tunstall

Her face is a map of the world
Is a map of the world
You can see she's a beautiful girl
She's a beautiful girl
And everything around her is a silver pool of light
The people who surround her feel the benefit of it
It makes you calm
She holds you captivated in her palm

Suddenly I see
This is what I wanna be
Suddenly I see
Why the hell it means so much to me x2

I feel like walking the world
Like walking the world
You can hear she's a beautiful girl
She's a beautiful girl
She fills up every corner like she's born in black and white
Makes you feel warmer when you're trying to remember
What you heard
She likes to leave you hanging on a word

Suddenly I see
This is what I wanna be
Suddenly I see
Why the hell it means so much to me x2

And she's taller than most
And she's looking at me
I can see her eyes looking from a page in a magazine
Oh she makes me feel like I could be a tower
A big strong tower

She got the power to be
The power to give
The power to see
Yea yea
Suddenly I see x5

Suddenly I see
This is what I wanna be
Suddenly I see
Why the hell it means so much to me

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

why no man will ever love me [take two]

Look, I know what time it is. And I would like nothing better than to be asleep right now. I mean, I teach in, oh, six hours and fifteen minutes. I should be asleep, not rolling around on my bed rearranging pillows and fighting with my quilt.

But I'm not asleep (just in case you missed that point the first time). And I'm thinking. . . against my will, I'm thinking. Exactly what I'm thinking about is none of your business, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Because maybe once it's out there, I'll be able to sleep. Or at least get some good pity points from all you good and worthy people. Or you can tell me to shut up, which may actually be more beneficial.

So yesterday was the 24th and the Jenkins' family annual "Get-together-at-Aunt-Kathy's-and-watch-the-Salt-Lake-fireworks" dinner. It's actually high on my list of family traditions. I don't know why, but I have a few valid guesses. One is the fireworks. They are set off just a few streets over, so we have great seats without having to fight the crowds. Two is my family. They're weird, but they're family. And three is my cousin E___.

Cousin E___ is a guy and before anyone makes any "kissing cousins" jokes, let me just say "Ew." Over the years E and I have become friends. We kind of had to in order to stay sane around this bunch. So good for us.

When I arrived at Aunt Kathy's, E wasn't around. He was over at the park with his siblings and his nieces and nephews and such. So instead I got to talk with E's mom, my Aunt June. And no, I don't know why June and Kathy get full names and E doesn't. Deal with it. Aunt June wanted to know what was wrong with E, since girls keep bailing on him. She thinks he's a great guy, but she's his mom, so what counsel could I offer? And I came up with the following:

Nothing. E is a great guy. And he keeps trying. He keeps asking girls out on dates. And sure he's a little shy and can be a little awkward, but he's human. He just needs to keep looking. And someday some girl will totally fall for him.

So what does this have to do with me (since I am the subject of this blog) and the title of this particular post? I jokingly make lists and I say that since I'm a grad student or since I weigh more than I want to or since I adore John Cusack, no man will ever love me. And it's nice to have that dark humor. But honestly, I'm with E and Aunt June. I have no idea what's wrong with me. And yes, I do think of it in terms of "what is wrong with me." Because I can tell you what's right and what's okay and what I hope gets cancelled out because I'm brilliant. But tonight, right now, I want an answer for why I'm awake at 2:00 in the morning with no guys anywhere, not even in my head, while other girls have husbands and boyfriends and guys at work who are a little too flirtatious. I want the reasons why no man will ever love me. At least then I'd know.

Maybe E and I should start a support group.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

I'm not dead yet

A small matter of a three-day weekend paired with a cousin (once removed)'s wedding luncheon was all my mother needed to decide I was coming home for a substantial amount of my life. And I confess that I didn't protest too much. I actually like being home for the 24th. Because that's a holiday. You can blow stuff up. But before we get to that, the play-by-play of my weekend.

Watered Down Lady
My weekend actually began around 3:30 on Friday when I picked Tolkien Boy up from his place of employment. He was all sweaty and smelly. . . very masculine and all that. En route to his apartment, we decided to catch a matinee before I left the world of Provo.

I'm not sure if TB chose Lady of the Water based on schedule or M. Night's past credits, but that's where we wound up. Scary movies, well, they scare me, so I was all tense and waiting for creepiness and scariness, etc., but I'm afraid the movie lost its edge when it was revealed that the subtley-named Story was a "narf." They're Pinky and the Brain, Pinky and the Brain. One is a genius, the other's insane. There were elements that I enjoyed--some characters and several of the actors. But a "narf"? Just call her a nymph. And we'll discuss the rest when you see it. Because you know you're going to.

I got home just in time to go see the fireworks with Maryn and Dad. We were there for forty minutes before they started and then the thirty minutes that they actually had the show going. I think Dad and I were both thinking we were there for M, but about ten minutes into the works, she asked why we were there.

Kids these days.

Food, glorious food
M and I decided to check out the Bountiful Handcart Days festivities Saturday morning. It's your basic carnival set up, except this year there were no rides or games due to construction. So basically it was food and entertainment and face painting. M got a tropical sunset painted on the right side of her face--a large flower was already occupying the left side, courtesy of her trip to the carnival the day before. And then we proceeded to eat our way through the five dollars of tickets I had foolishly bought. Cotton candy (which was the only reason I was there), smoothie, fry bread, and an ice cream bar. And we just happened to be there to hear Carmen Rasmussen sing. . . I hate country. Oh, and I had a slightly-less-than-awkward run-in with a guy from high school. What made it slightly-less-awkward was the more awkward situation of explaining to a group of women in RS today that, no, that wasn't my boyfriend, that I in fact don't have a boyfriend, and the reason I don't have a boyfriend? Well. . .

I just don't think of poetry as a turn on.
So the reason I was in Bountiful in the first place occured at 2:30 p.m. My cousin's wedding luncheon. Actually, it was my mom's stepcousin's wedding luncheon. But this chick is younger than I am and we kind of grew up in the same group of "cousins," so I was invited too.

The luncheon was actually in Bountiful, which was nice. And there was a table that had three seats available (for my parents and me), which was also nice. I hate sitting through these things while sitting next to someone I don't know.

And then the guy who I sitting next to and who I assumed was another cousin raised his head and I realized I was sitting next to someone I didn't know.

The panic wore off eventually as my aunt (well, my mom's stepaunt) introduced him to me as my cousin's (mom's stepcousin's) fiance, Brian.*

Panic and introductions over, we ate our salads and then began the main course (chicken or pork) as the "program" began. I know they're a necessary evil, but I hate these programs. And as much as I love the bride and the family of, this was excessively evil. A brother from each side, a sister from each side, the parents, and then the bride and groom. Apparently none of them had ever heard the expression "Brevity is the soul of wit." It was extensive and painful. And it led to a bit of inspiration on my part. No, not a poem. But the solution to these dreadful programs: scripts. Just tell people what they're going to say. For example, I'm limiting my father to Shins lyrics at my luncheon (provided it ever occurs).

The luncheon and program finally over, we excused ourselves to the shop located next door to the reception hall. . . and found everyone else from the luncheon there, including the engaged cousin and her fiance (and parents, but they're not important to this story).

It had been briefly touched on during lunch that Cousin's Fiance enjoyed poetry. So as his significant other was shopping, I decided to pursue this topic. He, of course, likes the "classics": Walt, Emily, the Brownings, etc.

"Do you write any poetry yourself?"

Usually this questions receives some mumbled answer and the conversation is over. But Brian lit up. "That's how Callie and I got together!"

Wait. Poetry actually worked for someone? I had to hear this story (and not the "narf").

During some institute function, Brian mentioned that he dabbled in poetry. C said that she'd love to see it, so he showed her some light verse. I guess she went coocoo for poetry, because he decided he'd write a poem about "a good friend"--which was C, who was quickly becoming the girl of his dreams. He called C to tell her he had another poem for her to read. She read it, along with the dreadful dedication attached (okay, so I added the adjective, but still). And the rest is history. They started dating, and they'll be married in 32 days (his count, not mine).

*I am now the last of the "cousins" to live the single life. I should feel ashamed. Or something. Right?

Friday, July 21, 2006

Out Loud

This past week I've had disturbingly vivid dreams. Dreams about teaching, dreams about friends, dreams about being shot at while taking cover in a bathtub (thank you Alias and Grosse Pointe Blank). The most disturbing dream. . . I don't know if I have the courage to share it. . . was about my wedding colors.

I've never been one of those girls who plan out their weddings in advance. I don't think I know any of those girls and I don't want to know any of those girls. In my dream, the colors were shades of yellow, orange, and red. Maybe in a few years I'll consider this a revelation, but for now I'm thinking that my mind jumped off the deep end. But, in diving after it, I considered for a split second the possibility of such an event (which I honestly do hope happens someday) and I arrived at the following conclusions:

1. My wedding colors will not be blue, red, or black, in any combination.

2. My wedding colors will be seasonal.

3. There will be a wedding video, despite them being "Mormon" and slightly gauche.
3a. My mother will not determine any of the music. (Sister wound up with "A, you're adorable" which was over the top cutesy.)
3b. I will order all pictures chronologically and determine the appropriate music.
3c. "Out Loud" by Dispatch will be one of the songs.

I realize 3c presents a few problems. The songs for a wedding video should be ones meaningful for the couple, not just the controlling bridezilla. But I like it. A friend gave me a mix with the live version and I love the song. So my objective in any relationship becomes clear: once I have determined that this is the man I'm going to hang out with for eternity, I'll have to indoctrinate him. Of course, I can't let this become one of "our" songs until I'm completely sure so that it doesn't carry bad memories of a previous relationship.*

*Case in point: I love the song "The Book of Love," but it's connected to BF2, who currently holds first place in the People-I-Never-Want-to-See-Again contest. I've been trying to ignore that fact, but it must be acknowledged.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

kiss the rain

It's a dreadful song, and I'm not even sure if a man or woman sings it, but it's the first thought on a muggy summer day that turns into rain. What follows is the thought that Jenny Hymas always wanted to be kissed in the rain and that her boyfriend (now husband) obliged, resulting in a story punctuated by screams and giggles.

After I clear these thoughts out of my head, I actually get to enjoy the rain and the grey sky, and yes, I pretend for a moment that I'm in London or that someone is waiting for me to dance in the rain with them. (I'm afraid I'm horribly romantic like that.) I should note, however, that these raindrops are Parisian raindrops, not Londoners. Pity, but Google Image wasn't excessively obliging, unlike Jenny's boyfriend.

I now have two choices: go sit all maudlin and watch the rain, or heat up a can of soup and grade papers. Decisions, decisions.

P.S. If you meet an eligible young bachelor, please ask if he likes the rain before sending him my way.

Monday, July 17, 2006

Why no man will ever love me

While I was inspired by Melyngoch's list, I figured I was taken care of because, as we all know, Melyn and I are the same person. So you can consider this either a list for this particular manifestation of deity, or you can consider it a continuation of Melyn's 22.

1. I get too excited when I win a game of anagrams.
2. But have you ever played against Tolkien Boy?
3. I didn't think so.
4. My married sister lives in the basement.
5. I like Rob Thomas
6. and Matchbox 20
7. and I own the CDs
8. and sing along.
9. I don't like fruit
10. except for green apples, green grapes, and orange oranges.
11. I make wishes at 11:11. If I miss it on one clock, I find a clock that's slow.
12. Soylent green is people.
13 is my favorite number.
14. I can't remember the Pledge of Allegiance in French.
15. No man can ever compete with John Cusack
16. or Diet Coke with Lime.

Monday, July 10, 2006

I'm so Lost without you

Here's what's really on my mind: How in the world am I going to survive until October 4 to find out what happened to Jack and co.? I mean, they left Jack, Sawyer, and Kate with the Others (Levinas would have a field day with this show); Sayid, Sun, and Jin are on the boat wondering about the foot of the four-toed statue; Hurley is making his way back to camp; Charlie and Claire are kissing; and we don't even know if Locke, Eko, and Desmond survived the magnetic explosion. . . thing.

I hate to admit it, but I've become attached to these people. Some more than others, granted, but still. I need to know.

Television shows are bad news for people like me. I have to have things finished--I can't just leave a project alone. For this reason I read through all eight of the Work and the Glory novels in about two weeks when I was in my teens, even though I knew it was, well, the Work and the Glory. Movies are good, because that's that. End of story. Unless, of course, they decide to be stupid and leave it cliffhanging (I've heard that Pirates and I won't be friends this time around).

Lost has become the ultimate cliffhanger, so I've had to find other ways to occupy my time and my mind. I've read novels--two Lauren Weisenbergs, two Jodi Picoults, and a Sophie Kinsella. I've been to plays. And movies. And now I've found a temporary fix, courtesy of Melyngoch's influence. Yes, my name is editorgirl, and I am becoming an Alias addict. I'm halfway through the first season and my only comfort is that I'll be able to go straight into the second season when I'm done. And then the third, and then the fourth. Hopefully by that time Lady Jane will be back in Provo and school will be starting and the show will have started to be annoyingly dreadful so that I can distance myself enough to focus on what really matters--Lost.

so you'd like to. . .

I tried to explain to Saule last night that my life is too boring to blog about right now. He pointed out that every day something happens that is worth noticing. And there's this voice inside my head telling me he's right--I know he's right--but there's another voice pointing out that accepting that as gospel truth means forgoing my recent goal of pretending that I don't exist.

Faking existence is hard enough, but faking nonexistence is a feat akin to scaling Y Mountain. It requires commitment and determination and hours of watching movies that most people will have forgotten by next year. But you can't always watch movies, so you read books. Not books that are going to benefit your career, but novels that will find their way onto the DI shelves sooner than later.

Feeding must take place. Fast food is a nice but weighty option, so go for simple grocery store fare: cold cereal, frozen burritos, ice cream, ice cream bars, ice cream sandwiches. And one must pay for food and shelter and the occasional spree, so work must happen. But by all means, try to find jobs that require minimal contact with the outside world. Because once people start to see you often in one place, they start to suspect things. Productivity is also bad--it leaves a paper trail. If you're not going to exist, then don't exist. You can't say you're going to exist and then create things. It just doesn't work that way.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

How I Celebrated the 4th of July

I didn't. Or at least, I haven't yet. I think that the July 4th edition of Poetasters may include some patriotic activity. Maybe just patriarchal.

Instead of watching the parade, I slept in. Instead of a barbeque, I ate frozen burritos. I drink my Diet Coke with lime on nonholiday days, so that doesn't count as festive. And I played taxi driver for my friend who needed to buy toilet paper and milk. And I just finished (well, almost finished) doing the dishes. I got distracted by some petty annoyance that is occupying almost every waking moment.

Oddly enough, it's not a guy.

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