S-U-C-C-E-SS. Success!

I've been out of college for five years.  That means I've been out of high school for nine.  Next year I could possibly attend a ten year high school reunion, and that is incredibly....overwhelming. 

I pay my bills.  I have money to buy things I want.  I spend most of my time doing things I enjoy, but I'm a nanny.  A nanny is not a career.  It's only remarkable when the mom is dead and you take her place when the dad falls in love with you.  But when it's not The Sound of Music, it's just a job.  A job that makes me feel like I should still be in school. 

So why if I enjoy the life I have, if  I have enough money and spare time to keep me happy, why does it feel like I'm still a failure.  What will success feel like?

Open arms v. Prison cells

   Fear is an interesting thing.  I perused Wikipedia’s list of phobias today, before I started writing this story, in the hopes that some one at some point had named my irrational fear, but the closest I could find was: Haphephobia – fear of being touched which is not exactly the case.  I suffered for five years with a mostly irrational fear of hugs.  And like most irrational fears it grew out of one particularly horrifying experience that will be forever embedded in my memory.  

      When I was fifteen I worked at the coffee shop that my brother owned, and like most fifteen year old girls I was super awkward and extremely insecure.  All these circumstances are integral to the traumatic event I experienced.  I often let my friends come behind the counter, especially one particular friend that I had a hard time saying no to most of the time.  He was probably three years older than me, and might very well have been the first guy that ever told me I was attractive.  He would walk behind the counter and get himself a coffee, and I wouldn’t stop him.  But then one day, I was coming out of the bathroom, and walking to the front of the counter, and he was walking towards me with his arms reaching out in both directions.  This was I knew the universal pre-hug gesture, but as he got closer and I wrapped my arms around him, waiting for him to do the same.  I looked up at him, looking down on me and the look on his face was the most horrible thing in the world.  It wasn’t a smile, but more of a confused half laugh.  I looked over to wear his right arm was still stretched out over the trash can and saw a piece of plastic wrap fall from his hand into the garbage.  I unwrapped my hands from his torso and looked nervously to his other hand where he had just grabbed his coffee from the counter.  I took a step backward waiting for him to say something “what was that?” he said and looked at me almost laughing.  I wanted to run and hide.  I shrugged it off, and tried to explain to him what I had seen as he reached out in both directions for all the wrong reasons, but I didn’t realize how badly I was traumatized until a year later.

      A year later, I had for a strange number of reasons a whole new set of friends, and one friend that perhaps wanted to be more, always hugged me good bye when I would leave.  After a few weeks of this behavior, he finally let me know that he thought I was a horrible hugger.  “what?”  I gasped, sure that a person could not be bad at hugging.  He told me it never seemed like I committed to the hug, like I was always just waiting to be released.  I thought for a short time that it was just him, that maybe I didn’t like him hugging me, but soon I realized he was right.

The two events fed off each other in my mind, and I started to have a very strong aversion to hugs.  I didn’t want to be criticised or mortified so I avoided them at all costs.  It wasn’t until three years later that I confronted my issues.  I had driven to St. Louis to see a concert, this concert like most events in my life has a long back story as well, but we’ll skip it for now.  I had made good time and had plenty of time to sit and wait in line for the doors to open.  In line I met a girl named Destiny.  Destiny loved hugs.  We were probably waiting for at least an hour so we had plenty of time to talk, and after the concert I told her that I would drive her home because what is fifteen minutes on top of eight hours anyway?  She was after all a 16 year old girl and I was 20 so I didn’t really see her as a threat in anyway.  But before we left she insisted on giving every band member she could find a hug.  I might have been averse to hugging them souly because they were drenched in sweat, but when i thought about it, it didn’t bother me as much as the idea that I would do it wrong.  I knew now that I was a bad hugger and the last thing I needed was the lead singer of my favorite band to tell me that.  But Destiny thought I was insane for avoiding all these hugs even after I explained to her the traumatic events I had experienced.  because I knew that Mike had been right.  I never fully committed to the hug, I was always trying to back out in case I learned that the situation had changed.  So before we left she discussed with Sam Means, that I was a bad hugger.  She asked him if he would please grade my hugging on a scale from one to ten.  I think he gave me a 6.  That was better than I had hoped so my confidence was very faintly renewed.  

     St. Louis had been so much fun, that I pooled all of my resources and flew to Las Vegas to see the last show on the tour.  I should have known better.  After the show everyone was hugging everyone.  I was by myself trying to meet up with a few fans I knew were as super dorky as I was.  I ended up spending a good deal of time talking to Heather but everyone she talked to would hug her as they left, and just for being there they’d hug me too.  They were sweaty and lovely, and didn’t give me time to misunderstand what their open arms might mean, and there was no time to dwell over the quality of the hug that I provided.  It was a whirlwind of hugs, not in the way that most trips to Vegas are, but for me it was worth it.  When that lead singer did finally give me a hug, I was almost completely confident in my skills.  But well, now I guess I am. 

stains

I don't know why, but it's always easiest to change my sheets in my underwear.  It's probably because it's easiest to change my sheets when I've just gotten out of the shower, that idea of being so clean, so fresh, with new clean sheets and a new clean self.  It's the perfect way to go to bed, even if your hair is still wet.
But today I'm only changing one of my sheets.  The flat sheet to the blue flannel set I wanted to put on got ripped in the dryer and I've only had them a month, so it's pretty lousy, but as they are solid colored, they will be easier to replace.  The fitted sheet that was on my bed, got pissed on.  Not because I was so retarded drunk that I pissed my own bed, like I've known many drunk people to do, but because my dog slept in a little too late this morning.  Yeah my dog pissed my bed.  And I didn't think to pretreat with my  Spray & Wash stick, because I didn't think it would stain, but I should know by now, that everything stains one way or another, either its all over your sheets or it's forever fixed in your memory.  And either way, it sucks.

on journalism....

    The first article I ever wrote for my journalism class in college was about eating healthy on campus. I let my roommate read it and she said she was surprised at how good it was.  She said it was funny and clever and informative.  She was older than me and normally one of my harshest critics so I was excited to turn it in and see what my professor thought.  I ended up getting a C, which was utterly disappointing.  She said that is was well written but lacked any real investigative reporting.  She said the information I provided was not new or interesting but merely stuff that most people on campus already knew.
     I was bummed, but have since learned that to really write something worth reading you need to dig for some good information, so imagine my disappointment when every time I read an article lately about eating healthy or going green I feel like I could have written the same exact one without any research at all.  Why does Laura Turner Seydel get to write articles about going green, when she is obviously already wealthy and I could do it much better? Why does Gigi Stewart get to write about going gluten free, when she couldn't tell me anything I didn't already know, and I still feel like I could tell her some things.  I don't even have a gluten allergy.  I don't think InTown Atlanta is that great of a newspaper, but if you think I didn't volunteer myself to write articles for them, for free already and get turned down, then you're wrong.  
     I have lots of opinions.  I'm full of useful information.  I'm not particularly good at spelling.  Why can't someone pay me to write things?

The 10 best songs you've never heard

1) Swans- the format

2) Exeter, Rhode Island- Jennifer O'Connor

3) Get Around-Pablo

4) Gone, Gone, Gone- John Ralston

5) Til It's Done to Death- John Nolan

6) Around the Bend-The Asteroids Galaxy Tour

7) People Have a Way- Matt Pond PA

8) Honk and Wave- Limbeck

9) The Sad Waltzes of Pietro Crespi- Owen

10) Kill Monsters in the Rain- Steel Train

brett

He drives a blue pick up truck.  It's not a Ford or a Chevy; it's a Nissan, and its bright blue, like the color of a gem you'd wear on a necklace.  It's a truck your brother would call gay, and your niece would call it a baby.  He doesn't remember the time you drove it though, so when he starts to tell you what it looks like to describe his house, you remind him.  And he still doesn't remember.

           He doesn't remember calling you frantically that night at 3 in the morning and leaving you a long message about how he was scared and cold, and needed a ride, or the text message he sent you that read "HELP ME!!!."  He sent it to you 4 times, before you called him back.  By that time he had found a ride and was waiting for some anti-drunk driving service that was willing to drive him and his truck to his house for more than your weekly paycheck.  You offered to go pick him up, so he'd stop complaining about the cold and so maybe you could get some sleep even if it wasn't in your own bed.
           You called him back on the way, so he could give you directions.  He wasn't very helpful, but you mostly knew where you were going.  He told you about his conversation with his other ride, the one he had to cancel.  They had already started in his direction when he called, now they'd have to turn around, all because of you.  He told them that he had a beautiful girl coming to pick him up instead, and they said "Lucky you," but weren't actually happy for him.  He probably doesn't remember calling you beautiful.  He probably didn't mean to do it, but it was pretty flattering at the time.
           When you got there he was waiting in his truck, playing music you had never heard before, some jam band, so loud that the bass made you think your phone might be vibrating, but no one else would call you at this hour.  He was parked in a shopping center, a dry cleaners and a sandwich shop that wouldn't open again for the next 5 hours.  There was no one else around, and all the store fronts were dark without their neon lights.  You understood why he was scared.  He didn't want to leave his truck there overnight, his beloved truck, with more than your cars blue book value in stereo equipment.  So you left your car there instead.  Your little Volvo 240 would be safe, where he was not.

You drove him and his truck to his house, where you had been just once before, but you found your way with little help from him.  The first time he called you and asked you to come over and snuggle was about a month after you met him.  A month after you lied to him at a bar and told him your name was Eden, because you were 19, and that is what your fake ID said.  You let him call you Eden for over a week before you told him you had lied.  It seemed so sketchy; you're still surprised he talked to you after that.  You're still saved in his phone as Ed, but he knows that's not your name.

He was the first boy you ever kissed who owned a house.  It was small and quaint, blue with darker blue shutters.  His living room then had just a couch and a TV, now it has another love seat and a chair, a fish tank in the corner.  He has two goldfish, but they don't have names.

When you got to his house this second time he wanted to listen to more Wide Spread Panic.  You went with him to his bedroom and got in bed. You took off your jeans but kept on everything else.  You got under his clean white sheets, under his thick fleece blanket.  It was five in the morning.  He told you what it was like to trip on acid, something you had never wondered about before then.  He told you how all his senses were heightened and when you started to run your fingers up and down his chest you thought he might explode with pleasure, but he didn't.  He just told you not to stop.  So you let your hand wander aimlessly over his body.  It was the least sexual touching you've ever done to a naked man.  He's still the smoothest boy you've ever known.

He was so happy you were there.  He told you so many times.  Every night you were there, all three of them, it was like he had been alone his whole life, like he hadn't touched a woman in years.  He seemed so happy to have you there that second night, it made you wonder why you never went back, not for a whole year.  He must have forgotten how good you felt between his sheets, just like he forgot calling you beautiful, and forgot you driving his truck.

You've seen him a few times in between but you never talked when you ran into each other at a bar.  He was with a girl sometimes, so you let left him alone.  So most of the time he just sent you a message when he was drunk, sometimes you would respond, and sometimes you wouldn't.   And you feel like such a booty call, but you never sleep with him, even though you want to, and he wants to.   But he never has a condom and you don't tell him that there is one in your purse, because you can't sleep with someone who only talks to you when he's been drinking.  Who you only really see twice a year.

And the last time you were there it was great.  You had a bad night and a bottle of cheap wine and then he sent you a message:  "Come over," so you did.  And he told you what his truck looks like, and gave you directions to his house.  The same house that you know just where is, and think of every time you pass his exit on your way to the airport.

You sat on the same couch and talked until he said he was tired.  His house was cold in early fall because his heater was broken.  He considered giving you a pair of his pajama pants when he noticed how cold you looked, but decided out loud that the less clothes you had on, the better.  So you got in his bed and under the covers with him to get warm, without your jeans and without your sweater.  You waited for him to get close, and your lips met his in a way that seemed so familiar, like you could have been lovers for years.  He told you he loved it when you bit his lip, and he peeled more and more clothes off until you were both naked with nothing to do.

Because you can't sleep with him until he meets your dog.  Not because you believe your dog is this wonderful judge of character, but because you have met his dogs.  All three of them and you know all of their names.  Charlie, Houser, and Trout.  Houser was just a puppy that first time you were there, and now he's big, or at least as big as a Basset Hound gets.  But he still thinks you have a Great Dane.  If he ever came over to your house, he would meet your dog, he'd know you had some sort of pointer mix, but he won't.  Because that would be him showing an interest in something other than your body, your face, your lips, and if he did that he might be worth sleeping with, but he won't.  So you don't have to worry.
           

oh NaNo...

Hannah was sleeping soundly in her bedroom at midnight of August 23^rd 2008.  She slept on the bottom bunk in the corner of her blue room.  She was snuggled deep into the covers, and she pulled them up to her ears, so her face was barely visible.  She did this because she had felt a cold breeze, and then almost as if it had been an alarm clock she woke up.  She sat perched on the edge of her bed and waited.  She didn’t have to wait very long, the cold breeze had been the beginning of what she knew must be coming.  And slowly the breeze got stronger, making what looked like a tiny little tornado in her room, but without moving any of her belongings or even moving her long brown hair.  Suddenly the wind stopped and a man appeared out of thin air into her bedroom.  He had on a mask, but Hannah could still tell that he was startled to see her waiting for him.  He was dressed all in black and had a number of funny gadgets that Hannah had never seen before.  “what are you doing up so late, Hannah?” 

Hannah didn’t seem surprised that he knew her name.  “I have to stop you.”   

The man seemed even more startled now, and he looked at Hannah through the tiny holes in his mask, like she was the most fearsome thing in the universe.  He stepped back from her, and she started to cry. 

“You can’t kill my father, you just can’t,” she said while sobbing. 

The man stared at her for only a moment, before he ran out of her bedroom door.