I'm thankful for you.
I'm thankful that I can sit in a chair, prop my elbows up and talk about anything and everything with you in the room. I can share my deepest thoughts with people I love, and you won't say a thing. You just sit there and hold me up, without a complaint of how I've gained weight in the winter or I'm too sweaty in the summer.
When I cry, you catch my tears. And when I laugh, the sound bounces off you and hits me in the face. Sometimes I feel like you hold the laughter and the tears with you, like a diary of our family.
You have held some of the best meals I've ever eaten in your hands. And you've seen generation after generation pass through the walls around you. You've been the site of Italian backhands over lasagna, Uno games and Spades and Scrabble. You've seen my grandmother perfect her English with Sunday crossword puzzles. You've watched us open card after card sent to us when people we love have passed. And you've watched birthday cakes pass in front of you without complaining that we never offered you a bite.
You don't even know it, but you're the brother to my favorite back porch.
You're the brother to the back porch that stood in silence while I painstakingly learned the difference between a begonia and a portucala. "A good Southern woman knows her flowers," you heard my grandmother say.
You sat silent while we churned homemade ice cream in the backyard, grilled chicken covered in my grandfather's secret BBQ sauce and shot fireworks into the neighbor's yard on July Fourth. You watched me go to faraway lands that no one else could see, and splash in a plastic pool on hot Georgia afternoons.
When I grew up and moved away, you were there as a haven for my grandmother when she was left alone. And you sat many mornings and many nights with her, while she smoked cigarettes in her favorite swing. You watched as her garden eventually grew again after two years of staying barren, and you watched her face bloom like the yellow tulips by her front gate. You watched her become whole again.
You are as much a part of my family as the members of it. Because you have been there through it all. I hope one day I have a back porch and a kitchen table like you both. That way my family will come to know the meaning of love you have both seen. And I'll be thankful for years to come.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Love.
You feel further away than you've ever felt.
When I look at you sometimes, I don't see the boy with the orange Nehi mustache. I see a stranger. I see someone who cares less about their life than I do.
I shudder to think what you would do left to your own vices. Where you would be without me. Without your family. Without the few positive influences in your life you have left.
I wish you knew how much you meant to me. How much it hurts to think of your betrayal. And how you seem to think of consequences only after you do what reeps them.
I would give my life for you. Literally. I would die for your happiness in a second. A millisecond. Without another thought or another breath or another look at this world. For you, I would do anything. For me? I don't know. I don't know what you would do.
But when you love someone, it doesn't matter what you would get in return. You just surrender all you have for their happiness. I love you like that. I love you in a way most people never feel. I'm thankful, at least, that I can feel what it's like to care about someone that much.
I curse it at the same time. When you love someone so much you would die for them, you walk around in constant pain. You're always worrying about what they're doing. Always thinking about that some one or some thing that can take them away from you.
I wish you could feel that kind of love. Because if you did, somehow, I think you would buck up and start taking care of yourself. Because if you did, you would stop worrying or trying to change your life for you. And you would do it for me. And even though that's not how things are supposed to be, I would accept it. Because then, I know you would be safe.
I don't know the answer for your struggle. But I know one thing -- I want you back.
When I look at you sometimes, I don't see the boy with the orange Nehi mustache. I see a stranger. I see someone who cares less about their life than I do.
I shudder to think what you would do left to your own vices. Where you would be without me. Without your family. Without the few positive influences in your life you have left.
I wish you knew how much you meant to me. How much it hurts to think of your betrayal. And how you seem to think of consequences only after you do what reeps them.
I would give my life for you. Literally. I would die for your happiness in a second. A millisecond. Without another thought or another breath or another look at this world. For you, I would do anything. For me? I don't know. I don't know what you would do.
But when you love someone, it doesn't matter what you would get in return. You just surrender all you have for their happiness. I love you like that. I love you in a way most people never feel. I'm thankful, at least, that I can feel what it's like to care about someone that much.
I curse it at the same time. When you love someone so much you would die for them, you walk around in constant pain. You're always worrying about what they're doing. Always thinking about that some one or some thing that can take them away from you.
I wish you could feel that kind of love. Because if you did, somehow, I think you would buck up and start taking care of yourself. Because if you did, you would stop worrying or trying to change your life for you. And you would do it for me. And even though that's not how things are supposed to be, I would accept it. Because then, I know you would be safe.
I don't know the answer for your struggle. But I know one thing -- I want you back.
Girl Missing a Hubcap
Yesterday I needed to run.
It had been an eventful weekend, a roller coaster of emotions, and I wanted to sweat it all out and start fresh. I skipped on kickboxing, like I had planned, and drove straight home.
I left my iPod on the coffee table and set out. With no route.
I've recently discovered running with no music isn't as boring as I first thought. There are no tunes to pass the time, only the rhythm of my own breath. There are no songs to make me forget about my aching calves, only the sound of my keys clinking on the lanyard around my neck.
It's nice like that, in a way. There's nowhere to go but inside my own head. And sometimes, that's just where I need to be.
I made my way to 10th Street, and instead of taking my usual beeline to Piedmont Park, I stayed straight. Left on Monroe, right on some side street, all the way to Virginia Highlands. Just when I debated turning around and forgetting about running to Taco Mac like I had planned, I came up on a green Honda -- missing a hubcap.
My car has been missing a hubcap for three months. It's funny how you tend to notice things more when they relate directly to you. Like, for example, how many cars are missing hubcaps.
I recently broke down and ordered one on eBay, only for another to fall off the next day. I don't know where the hell they keep going, but sometimes, I get embarrassed for other folks to see I'm missing a hubcap -- well, two hubcaps. I wish my faults weren't so out in the open.
But, back to the girl in her green Honda. I slowed my run a bit when I passed her, just so I could listen to her belt out the lyrics to some ridiculous song. She never made eye contact, like most people you come upon who are singing out loud to themselves in their car. But, watching her wait at that red light, for some reason, made me feel better about my missing hubcap. And everything else that's so up in the air about my life right now.
It made me think that maybe sometimes it's OK if I'm missing a little something. Or if I'm unsure about something else. Or if I have no idea where the hell one thing or another is going. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe if I wait a little while, the something missing will be replaced by something else -- like some great song I can sing along to.
I don't know. But, at the time, it helped me forget that sometimes I hate running. And it gave me something to ponder until I finally did get to Taco Mac.
Funny how that happens.
It had been an eventful weekend, a roller coaster of emotions, and I wanted to sweat it all out and start fresh. I skipped on kickboxing, like I had planned, and drove straight home.
I left my iPod on the coffee table and set out. With no route.
I've recently discovered running with no music isn't as boring as I first thought. There are no tunes to pass the time, only the rhythm of my own breath. There are no songs to make me forget about my aching calves, only the sound of my keys clinking on the lanyard around my neck.
It's nice like that, in a way. There's nowhere to go but inside my own head. And sometimes, that's just where I need to be.
I made my way to 10th Street, and instead of taking my usual beeline to Piedmont Park, I stayed straight. Left on Monroe, right on some side street, all the way to Virginia Highlands. Just when I debated turning around and forgetting about running to Taco Mac like I had planned, I came up on a green Honda -- missing a hubcap.
My car has been missing a hubcap for three months. It's funny how you tend to notice things more when they relate directly to you. Like, for example, how many cars are missing hubcaps.
I recently broke down and ordered one on eBay, only for another to fall off the next day. I don't know where the hell they keep going, but sometimes, I get embarrassed for other folks to see I'm missing a hubcap -- well, two hubcaps. I wish my faults weren't so out in the open.
But, back to the girl in her green Honda. I slowed my run a bit when I passed her, just so I could listen to her belt out the lyrics to some ridiculous song. She never made eye contact, like most people you come upon who are singing out loud to themselves in their car. But, watching her wait at that red light, for some reason, made me feel better about my missing hubcap. And everything else that's so up in the air about my life right now.
It made me think that maybe sometimes it's OK if I'm missing a little something. Or if I'm unsure about something else. Or if I have no idea where the hell one thing or another is going. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe if I wait a little while, the something missing will be replaced by something else -- like some great song I can sing along to.
I don't know. But, at the time, it helped me forget that sometimes I hate running. And it gave me something to ponder until I finally did get to Taco Mac.
Funny how that happens.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
The Nearness of You.
It's been one month and three days since I last saw you. And now, it's only a matter of hours and I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin.
Hurry up already!
Hurry up already!
Friday, August 1, 2008
I Wish You Were Houdini.
I'm on Day 11 of no smoking. Things are going better, but I'm starting to blame any and every frustration on my lack of tobacco. It makes me feel better. So, here's another one. You can blame this list on Philip-Morris too, if you want.
I wish these people would go away.
I wish these people would go away.
- Kathie Lee Gifford
- Madonna
- Lindsey Lohan
- Dina Lohan
- Britney Spears
- Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana
- Elizabeth Hasselbeck
- Denise Richards
- Lauren Conrad
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Summer Special.
I was hired yesterday. For a job. You know, one of those things normal people go to from 9-to-5 Monday through Friday. It's been a long-time coming. So, the most logical thing for me to do with my afternoon was celebrate. I dodged the rain to meet friends at a local bar, and settled into a chair to wait. I'm always the first one anywhere.
I picked up one of Atlanta's fabulous alternative weekly newspapers for a quick read to past the time. And there it was, on Page 3.
"LipoSelection Summer Special."
The ad featured a bikini-clad woman, smiling gaily while she sat on the edge of some pool outside some penthouse in downtown Atlanta. Her lips had been obviously pumped full of collagen, and her breasts were far from real. Hell, she may have even had a face lift, and couldn't have been older than 35.
FREE IMAGE CONSULTATION
"Get Ready for Summer"
Are these bitches serious? Do they actually think they'll 1) Feel better about themselves by getting some bald, fat guy to nip, tuck and pump their body full of puffiness, 2) Get a man who's genuinely impressed with their nips, tucks and puffiness or 3) Get a decent man who looks beyond their nips, tucks and puffiness?
Cliche, I know. But, if you can guess, I was appalled. I'm used to seeing fake boobs. And in fact, know quite a few girls from high school who received them as presents from their parents upon graduation. Yes, from their parents. And yes, graduation from high school.
Most everyone gets some sort of pleasure or sense of awe from seeing a nice rack. But, well, I guess I never put two and two together as far as the cost of everything else. A good pair of jugs will run you about $5,000. Everyone knows that. But restylane, whatever the hell that is, at $449?? Who the hell has money to do that? And if they do, what the hell would possess them to spend money on that?
And what exactly is "smart" lipo? Is there a dumb lipo? What's the difference? Is one more expensive than the other? I suspect, as I'm sure many people do, that puffy-lipped model in the ad was probably abused as a child -- either mentally or physically or both -- or suffers from ridiculously low self-esteem (unnecessarily) or is too dumb to move, which has all morphed her into some sort of attention whore.
I think I'll stick to my radically shrinking breasts, my pain-in-the-ass legs that need shaving every other day, my wrinkles and my crinkly forehead. Oh yeah, and my name that doesn't end in a "Y" sound. (For some reason it always seems like women with gigantic boobs who are open to plastic surgery always have names like Katie, Mandy, Lindsey, Candy, Hayley or Jenny. No offense to people who have those names.)
The good news is that Liposelection, according to the ad, "Hablamos Espanol!"
YAY! Self-detriment isn't only open to ridiculously rich white women! We can all relax now, people. Body morphication is Equal Opportunity. Rest easy.
I picked up one of Atlanta's fabulous alternative weekly newspapers for a quick read to past the time. And there it was, on Page 3.
"LipoSelection Summer Special."
The ad featured a bikini-clad woman, smiling gaily while she sat on the edge of some pool outside some penthouse in downtown Atlanta. Her lips had been obviously pumped full of collagen, and her breasts were far from real. Hell, she may have even had a face lift, and couldn't have been older than 35.
- LASER HAIR REMOVAL $99 (per month/per area)
- SMART LIPO $999 (first area)
- BOTOX $9.99 per unit (up to 20 units)
- RESTYLANE/JUVEDERM $449
- SKIN RESURFACING/REJUVENATION $99 (first treatment)
FREE IMAGE CONSULTATION
"Get Ready for Summer"
Are these bitches serious? Do they actually think they'll 1) Feel better about themselves by getting some bald, fat guy to nip, tuck and pump their body full of puffiness, 2) Get a man who's genuinely impressed with their nips, tucks and puffiness or 3) Get a decent man who looks beyond their nips, tucks and puffiness?
Cliche, I know. But, if you can guess, I was appalled. I'm used to seeing fake boobs. And in fact, know quite a few girls from high school who received them as presents from their parents upon graduation. Yes, from their parents. And yes, graduation from high school.
Most everyone gets some sort of pleasure or sense of awe from seeing a nice rack. But, well, I guess I never put two and two together as far as the cost of everything else. A good pair of jugs will run you about $5,000. Everyone knows that. But restylane, whatever the hell that is, at $449?? Who the hell has money to do that? And if they do, what the hell would possess them to spend money on that?
And what exactly is "smart" lipo? Is there a dumb lipo? What's the difference? Is one more expensive than the other? I suspect, as I'm sure many people do, that puffy-lipped model in the ad was probably abused as a child -- either mentally or physically or both -- or suffers from ridiculously low self-esteem (unnecessarily) or is too dumb to move, which has all morphed her into some sort of attention whore.
I think I'll stick to my radically shrinking breasts, my pain-in-the-ass legs that need shaving every other day, my wrinkles and my crinkly forehead. Oh yeah, and my name that doesn't end in a "Y" sound. (For some reason it always seems like women with gigantic boobs who are open to plastic surgery always have names like Katie, Mandy, Lindsey, Candy, Hayley or Jenny. No offense to people who have those names.)
The good news is that Liposelection, according to the ad, "Hablamos Espanol!"
YAY! Self-detriment isn't only open to ridiculously rich white women! We can all relax now, people. Body morphication is Equal Opportunity. Rest easy.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
No One Wants to Kiss an Ashtray.
I'm officially eight days into a new, non-smoking lifestyle. And so far, it's not fun. Definitely not as bad as it was on Day 4 though. God, I wanted to kill someone that day. Anyone. I think I was even unnecessarily mean to the Papa John's guy.
Sorry, Papa John's guy. I didn't mean it. I just wanted my delicious sausage-and-mushroom delight.
My biggest problem is the oral fixation. ... No, seriously. Stop laughing.
I can't figure out what to do with my hands. When I'm driving. When I take Penny outside. After a good, hearty meal. With my Strongbow. So far, I've just taken to fidgeting and looking like I have some sort of a problem. It's obvious to others I'm coming off a drug. That, and the red squares all over my body leftover from where the patch made its home for a day kind of give it away. They probably think I'm a crackhead or something.
Anyway, with all this extra time on my hands, I've been thinking a lot about the theory of smoking. Why people start. And different reasons people come up with to get others to quit. I've never heard a good reason -- from anyone. So, I'm determined not to preach. It's a personal choice. Period.
I will tell you what I won't say to people. Even as a "former" smoker, I want to punch someone in the face when I hear people say things like:
"You should quit because ..."
Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up. I've heard every reason you've heard to stop smoking. I just chose to ignore them for awhile. Or not deal with them, whichever you prefer. Save your breath. Turn your attention to something else, like for example, your fat ass. Or your sucky ass life. Or how you haven't gotten off your couch for the past year to do something physical.
Whoa. I have no idea where that came from. Is this patch still working? No, really. I promise, today is not as bad as Day 4. I think.
Sorry, Papa John's guy. I didn't mean it. I just wanted my delicious sausage-and-mushroom delight.
My biggest problem is the oral fixation. ... No, seriously. Stop laughing.
I can't figure out what to do with my hands. When I'm driving. When I take Penny outside. After a good, hearty meal. With my Strongbow. So far, I've just taken to fidgeting and looking like I have some sort of a problem. It's obvious to others I'm coming off a drug. That, and the red squares all over my body leftover from where the patch made its home for a day kind of give it away. They probably think I'm a crackhead or something.
Anyway, with all this extra time on my hands, I've been thinking a lot about the theory of smoking. Why people start. And different reasons people come up with to get others to quit. I've never heard a good reason -- from anyone. So, I'm determined not to preach. It's a personal choice. Period.
I will tell you what I won't say to people. Even as a "former" smoker, I want to punch someone in the face when I hear people say things like:
"You should quit because ..."
- No one wants to kiss an ashtray.
- You smell.
- It turns your teeth and nails yellow.
- It looks trashy.
- You're too pretty to smoke.
- You could get cancer!
- You could die!
- Food tastes better when you don't smoke.
- Your clothes stink.
- Look at that. Do you want to look like that old hag?
- You'll have a smoker's voice by the time you're 50.
- I never smoked.
- You could save so much money.
- You could die!
Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up. I've heard every reason you've heard to stop smoking. I just chose to ignore them for awhile. Or not deal with them, whichever you prefer. Save your breath. Turn your attention to something else, like for example, your fat ass. Or your sucky ass life. Or how you haven't gotten off your couch for the past year to do something physical.
Whoa. I have no idea where that came from. Is this patch still working? No, really. I promise, today is not as bad as Day 4. I think.
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