30 Days of Blogging, Day 18: Top 5...Favorite Corners of the World

If you ask me what is my favorite place in the world--where do I feel the safest, the most reflective, at peace--in my brain I would say, "Duh, my couch with my cat and my beautiful TV." Out loud I would probably say something pretentious, like the Piazza Campo de Fiori in Rome on a warm autumn night. I mean, it's great, and I went there a couple times, but I think we know who the real winner is here.

Couch love rights are civil rights. 

Love is love.

I'm the type of person who really values their alone time. Don't get me wrong, I love being around smart, funny, amazing people--but when I'm tapped out, I need a significant amount of me time. I need a place where I can disappear or blend in to the scenery and watch how real people interact.

This is my top five favorite corners of the world. 

#5 A cafe in Athens

They had a pretty limited menu. Mostly just..stone.

Okay, maybe one pretentious answer. 

In fairness, there was never an intention of pretension when I found this cafe on a quiet street at the foot of the hill that leads up to the Acropolis. I was alone on my honeymoon, and I was hungry.

To my wife-of-the-moment's defense, she had contracted norovirus on our fantastic honeymoon cruise around the Mediterranean. After spending some time in the ship's medical clinic the day before she was told she had to be in quarantine for at least 24 hours--the day we were supposed to be in Athens. 

She insisted that I don't miss Athens because she was sick, and luckily years before she had spent a significant amount of time there, so she was able to direct me to the train that would take me to the Acropolis.

That morning I said goodbye to her and apprehensively set out into the city, armed with a few Grecian greetings, a city map and a Rick Steves travel book.

The hike up the hill to see the Acropolis was fucking hard. I knew it was going to be, and I was anxiety ridden about it the whole train ride to the center of the city. 

As I hiked up to the top of the hill I quietly cheered for myself for every ancient stop I conquered--and for not puking. 

I wandered around taking in the ruins, snapping selfies of myself standing far enough away to get the Parthenon in the background. Some dude offered to take a picture of me, and while it was kind, he just didn't know my angles!

After I strolled to the bottom I sat at the foot of the hill and watched tourists wander by, locals peddling their wares. and little old Greek ladies tearing at the heartstrings of Americans with beautiful lace table cloths. (I wish I had taken that table cloth when we divorced 5 month later)

I took a walk on the narrow streets, starving and having a hard time deciding which tasty smelling restaurant to eat. 

I chose the quietest one with an outdoor patio that faced the Acropolis. I order a lot of food. My waiter was the owner and he loved my appetite. He gave me a free order of baklava to take back to the boat. 

The city was busy with tourists and locals, but this tiny street was so quiet. I read a book I picked up from the airport, took in the scenery, and smiled at locals as they passed me by. 

I thought about the fight we had poolside two nights before. I made the mistake of asking when she wants to have children. She got mad I couldn't be in the moment and just enjoy what we have. I got mad that she got mad and couldn't just fantasize about having a family. I cried poolside on my honeymoon. I knew this was a bad sign. 

I enjoyed the peace and the feeling of independence--almost what it felt like to be single again. 

#4 My Secret Spot

What did you think I meant by Secret Spot?

I cannot disclose the actual location of my secret spot. I will tell you that it's somewhere near where I used to live in Castle Rock, and I'm so happy that it's not been bulldozed for more carbon-copy homes.

I was a chubby kid but I was actually pretty active. I was always going out on little adventures on my own my bike, looking for private places that nobody knows about to play pretend. 

My secret spot  was a hike off of a bike trail in the covenant community where we lived. I would hide my bike underneath a bridge and hike down a rocky hillside to a little glen nestled in the trees. A tiny little trickle-of a creek flowed down the rocks. The scene looked like an ideal setting for A Midsummer Night's Dream of dancing fairies.

I would dance up and down the rocks, sing, make up plays in my head. I showed a friend my secret place once. When I told her what I liked to do down there she teased me. I never told anyone else about it again. 

Some secrets should stay secrets.

#3 Kure Beach, NC

The last thing I want to see before I die.

I have many fond memories of spending the summer at Carolina Beach as a kid. Family fun in the sun and whatnot. Kure Beach is just a few steps down the road, and I spent the best few days of my life healing there.

Right after my divorce I retreated to North Carolina. My extended family on my mother's side live there. I had been planning to go with her there, but our break-up turned what was going to be a trip to show my new wife around the state where my family is descended from to a trip to lick my wounds. 

My Aunt Mandy, one of the greatest women I know and whom I adore, surprised me with a trip to the beach. It was the first week of May and still off-season. We got a condo on the beach for a steal. 

Every day I woke up, put on my swimsuit, grabbed a book I would never read, and flip-flopped down to the beach. My aunt and Uncle Matt would take turns rotating down to hang out with me and make sure I was wearing sunscreen. 

I loved that they still cared for my well-being the same way they did when I was 9 years old playing in the sand. 

I would stare at the water, occasionally force myself in and bounce in the waves, and collapse on my towel and remember what it felt like to feel good again.

The best part, however, were the locals. 

On Kure Beach, everyone is your friend. As folks would wander by they would strike up conversation. It would start with a hello and would quickly evolve into a conversation about our personal lives. 

I chatted with a gal who, on her days off, would come down to the beach with her husband to collect shark's teeth.

Another guy was taking a break from a construction job on a condo he was restoring.

The most interesting character was a dude who talked like The Dude. He was taking a walk before going to work and saw me bouncing up and down in the waves by myself. The beach was practically abandoned, and he loved how brave I was to go out into the water by myself, and how joyful I looked in the water. He looked exactly like Dr. Phil. He told me that he likes to go after midnight for a naked swim. He invited me to join him that night. I passed, but I appreciated the invite.

A friend told me that the friendliness of the people who lived there is fake--a cover to their menial lives. I don't agree. I miss the lack of rules and pretense--you don't have to be anybody but yourself.

I need to go back.

#2 Kerry Park, Seattle

Views should be free.

If someone comes to visit Seattle for the first time I always tell them to skip the Space Needle. What are you getting for the $22 it costs to go to the top of the Space Needle? A view--and you're not even getting the Space Needle in your pictures. 

Skip. It. 

Kerry Park is on the south slope of Queen Anne and has the most beautiful panoramic view of Seattle and the Puget sound, and--oh--the Space-freaking-Needle.

It's also a great place to take a seat on the bench and watch humanity roll by. 

Tourists snapping selfies, wedding parties getting their formal pictures, kids playing on the large scale art installment. If you're lucky you'll catch a flash mob or maybe eavesdrop on a sweet conversation between a new couple. 

Skip the stupid Needle.

#1 Oddfellow's Cafe

Yeah, I'm that guy.

Can you call yourself a writer if you don't have a cafe you can disappear into?

If it's a Sunday morning, I'm most likely walking into Oddfellow's Cafe on Capitol Hill and sweetly asking the adorable hip young man who is always hosting for a spot by a plug in the back. He never remembers my name, but he does remember me, and sometimes sneaks me to the top of the list. 

Tipping well matters, people.

I was introduced to Oddfellow's by my friend Jen shortly after I moved to Capitol Hill after my divorce. It was like being brought into the warm embrace of the city after spending my entire life in the suburbs. 

I sit in the back for hours. I always order the same thing--scrambled eggs and a biscuit with bacon on the side and house-made jam, and a drip coffee. For every refill I get on my coffee I add a dollar to the tip. My coffee refill record is 8, which lead to my hard rule--no more than 4. If my hands are shaking too hard to type, then I've had too much. 

For the amount of time I spend at Oddfellow's, I really don't spend nearly enough time writing than I do people watching. I like to write stories for the people sitting around me in my head while trying to avoid staring too long. 

Oddfellow's is my favorite place to disappear--my favorite corner of the world.

Your turn: what's your favorite corner of the world? 

Hit me in the comments.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 17:Top 5...TV Shows

Hey you there. 

Who? Meh?

Yeah, you! The guy who brags that he hasn't had a television in ten years because he likes to "read" "books".

I like to consider myself "literate".

Guess what? This post is not for you.

This is a dedication to the one who raised me. 

The one who lit up imagination.

Who babysat me after school.

Who kept me company on those lonely Friday nights...and Saturday nights...and well, all the nights.

You taught me history and current events, that there's no such thing as too much of a good Shonda, the length of the Korean war isn't relevant as long as it's funny, friendship really is magic, and it's okay to sleep with whoever you want to as long as you're on a break--just make sure the other person knows you're on a break.

This was the hardest list to put together. If I had two hypothetical children, I'd probably have an easier time picking which one to sell to the circus than I did putting this list together.

Chloe, you are going to be SUCH a great juggler! Send me Snapchats, 'k?

Here we go...my top 5 favorite TV shows...

#5: America's Got Talent

I hit the buzzer for Heidi all..the...time.

A nationwide talent show. It's more than a karaoke singing competition--it's inviting regular people to come on down and shine a light on whatever out of the box talent they have been hiding under a bushel. 

There are few television shows where I have ugly-face cried as hard as I have when I watched a juggler's dream coming true after his brother who taught him how to juggle as a young boy freaking died before his audition. 

Yes the judge skits are cheesy, and Pierce Morgan literally had no business whatsoever discerning who does or doesn't have talent, but the heart of the show is what makes me watch every summer.

From watching Landau Eugene Murphy, Jr. go from car washer to million-dollar winning crooner, or Michael Grimm crushing the dreams of an adorable little blonde girl (deservedly so), how can you not roll a tear when you see someone's lifelong dream come to fruition?

Favorite Moment

Gut. Punching. Talent.

#4: The Cosby Show

Rudy seems to be the only one who knows what's up...

Okay, I know--you don't have to tell me. It's a controversial choice, but--it was my childhood dream to be a member of the Huxtables. 

Before you point out that I am as white as the inside of a TaunTaun, I know that the Huxtables are an African American family. I loved them because they were fun but real. The kids made stupid mistakes and their parents were able to set them straight without shaming them, raising their voices, or hitting them. Cliff was an idiot but also a beloved doctor. Claire...you guys--Claire.

I wanted Claire to be my mom so badly. She adored her kids but also loved her career and life outside her home. She was the moral center and rock of the show and looked so good while doing it. She didn't resent motherhood and didn't resent working hard. Claire Huxtable is one of the most well-written women in television history. 

Also, who didn't want to be a member of the Huxtables when they lip-synched Night Time is the Right Time?

Favorite Moment

The night time is definitely not the right time for you Bill. Day light meetings with witnesses only please.

#3: Game of Thrones

Okay, I know this isn't from the show, but I've never felt so right.

I'll admit, I almost gave up on this one after the very first episode. My knee-jerk opinion was that whoever wrote these books must fucking hate women. It struck me as a little too--rapey?

Gradually over time sisters starting doing it for themselves. You got the Khaleesi with her freaking dragons crossing the sea, the Girl With No Name who has a name again, the new Queen of Winterfell, and the terrifying new Queen of King's Landing. 

Oh, uh--spoiler alert. 

Aside from the obvious drawing you in and making you love a character only to have them killed off in a manner too brutal for Buffalo Bill, the return of badassery every year has me tingling with excitement. 

Valar morgulis mothereffers.

Favorite Scene

Valar dohaeris too you guys--valar dohaeris!

#2: The Thick of It

Before he was The Doctor, he was terrifying.

You have never heard of this show. Please, please, please rectify this. If you love Veep, then you'll love this even more. The whole series is on Hulu--you have no excuse.

What Veep lacks in characters that are horrible people who remain unlikable, Thick of It has characters that are horrible people that you can't help but love.

One of the greatest characters--of all time and on the show--is Malcolm Tucker, played by actual Oscar winner and current The Doctor, Peter Capaldi. Modeled after Alastair Campbell, who is the British version of Karl Rove or Rahm Emmanuel. He's the enforcer of the Prime Minister who terrifies cabinet ministers into walking the party line, and he does it with foaming at the mouth gusto.

Even better is that they cuss and insult each other with the eloquence of Shakespeare, so I'll stop gushing and I'll let you just soak in some of my favorite quotes:

"He's so useless--he's absolutely useless--he's as useless as a marzipan dildo!"

"When I want your advice I'll give you the signal--which is me getting sectioned under the Mental Health Act."

"I will tear your fucking skin off, I will wear it to your mother's birthday party, and rub your nuts up and down her leg whilst whistling Bohemian-fucking-Rhapsody. Right?"

"That guy is an epic fuck-up. He's so dense that light bends around him."

And my favorite that--if I were a meaner person--I'd love to say to another person as a means of getting out of a conversation:

"I'd love to stop and chat with you but I'd rather have type 2 diabetes."

Favorite Moment

#SquadGoals

#1: 30 Rock

#OtherSquadGoals. I can have more than one squad.

Liz Lemon. Tracy Jordan. Jack Donaghy. Jenna Mulroney. Kenneth the Page. 

I have lost count of how many times I have re-watched this show from start to end. After awhile it became part of my bedtime routine--I would fall asleep watching 30 Rock and dream of strip club karaoke with Tracey. 

I can't begin to describe all the reasons why I love this show in a short blog post. 

In short, it's one of the greatest ensemble comedy casts of all time--on par with M*A*S*H, Cheers, and the highly underrated Arrested Development. 

It also contains all the answers to life.

How was that party? "Purr-fect--like a cat birthday!"

Someone getting you down? "High-fiving a million angels!"

Should you do the dishes? "I would love to do the dishes, but I'm in character, and if you make me do the dishes I WILL KILL MYSELF!!!"

Cramps got you down? "All women menstruating go home immediately!"

Need to get everyone's attention? "Listen up fives--a ten is talking."

Should I get a professional haircut? "D'Fwan--glue in my business weave."

Should I catch up on sleep on the plane? "I don't sleep on planes--I don't want to get incepted."

Is it time for rehearsal? "I'm not going to rehearse. I'm going to get a sandwich and then eat it on the toilet."

Is Global Warming really a problem? "There was a cyclone in Brooklyn last year--it destroyed two t-shirt shops and a banjo."

Is the audience unsatisfied with my performance? "Your boos are not scaring me! I know most of you are not ghosts!"

Do you want to go there? "I want to go to there."

Are you so frustrated there are no words to describe how you feel? "BLERGH!"

And so on...

Favorite Moment

See Day 7.

Hit me in the comments! What's your top five?

30 Days of Blogging, Day 15: Top 5...Movies

I was challenged to do a series of my favorite movies, musicians, etc. The opinions of this blog writer do not reflect the opinions of her cat. 

Movies, am I right? They have people in them. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don't talk. Sometimes they run, sometimes they don't move at all. Sometimes it's just a couple people in a room, sometimes a traveling brotherhood of representatives of varying fantasy-based races fighting against the forces of evil to destroy the One Ring.

Movies, right?

It wasn't terribly hard to pick my top three--those never change. Four and five were harder to commit to. I even considered being very lazy and just making this a top three list, but a challenge isn't a challenge if it's easy.

#firstworldproblems

Here we go gang! Drum roll please?

Who's da best widdle drummer in da world??

My top five favorite movies:

#5: Bridget Jones's Diary

I think we're all thinking the same thing here: devil's three-wayy. AmIright?

Bridget Jones: the Godfather of romantic comedies, except the sequel is not nearly as good as the first. The third...remains to be seen. 

I recall seeing the trailer for Bridget Jones... and I knew I was going to love it. When I saw it, I loved it even more than I thought I would. Like a lot of young women I think I saw a lot of myself in the heroine of the movie: dead end job, smokes too much, drinks too much, no partner, disapproving mother, and an under-appreciated full bottom. 

All the way from her serenading her answering machine with no messages to go out on a Friday night to pratfall after pratfall, I saw little bits of myself. When she pulled herself up by her stiff, British, upper-lip after being brutally dumped and she took control of her life and changed her story, she spoke to me. 

It's it silly to take life advice from an early 2000's romantic comedy? Maybe. So what? I've seen grown men cry like children when their football team loses. Shut-up. 

Favorite Scene:

Who doesn't want someone to love them just as they are? Wobbly bits and all.

#4: Waking Ned Devine

DRINK! (If you've never watched Father Ted you haven't lived)

I imagine this one is a little out of left field. Anyone I bring this movie up to has never really heard of it, but it had to go on the list. I watch it once a year with some rich food and a giant bottle of Scotch ale. 

I know it's Scotch but I hate Guinness--let's stay on track here.

Two life long friends find the winning lottery ticket of their recently deceased friend. Their tiny little Irish town is brought in to the fold and the varying characters with their own fascinating stories help make the dream come true. They are all darling and lovely and keep the story moving in their charming, small-town Irish way. There's also an abundance of old man tush. 

The overall theme of commitment and friendship touches my heart every single time I watch it, and as the final scene swells with The Parting Glass, I can't help but cry and pray I have friends I can grow old with. 

Favorite Scene:

Just...come on. Don't tell me you don't think this is all they do in Ireland--

standing on green hillsides and toasting their friends.

#3: Almost Famous

Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes...

I defy anyone who says they didn't watch Almost Famous and want to jump in a time machine and be a rock journalist in the seventies. 

There is little not to love about Almost Famous. The changing music scene of the 70's, women feeling empowered to do what they want with their bodies, the ensemble of protagonists with their own angels and demons. Nobody is perfect, and nobody is bad--they all just fucking love music--because music is to bond. 

Kate Hudson's O.G. pixie manic dream girl Penny Lane, Patrick Fugit's wide-eyed writing ingenue, and Philip Seymour Hoffman's drug-addled sage wisdom are the best pieces of this movie set to the seventies soundtrack capturing moments of humanity in a sometimes inhumane business. 

This is also the movie that motivated me to go back to school, because I wanted to get a degree in journalism and write for Rolling Stone. Two major switches later and no degree, I did manage to get in Rolling Stone: in the Letter to the Editor section in their 9/11 issue. They pulled a quote from me on one of their message boards. The day I saw my name printed in Rolling Stone Magazine remains one of the greatest days of my life. 

Favorite Scene: 

Just shut-up and sing.

#2: The Color Purple

That unmistakable silhouette.

I believe I was seven years old the first time I watched this movie with my mother. I wanted to watch it with because I loved Whoopi Goldberg from her comedy, and I loved Oprah Winfrey from after school T.V. watching. There were a few scenes that stayed with me.

Oprah Winfrey's Sofia emerging from behind stalks of corn after fighting her husband. Her face bruised, she shames Celie for telling her stepson to beat her--after fighting men her whole life she shouldn't have to fight her own husband. 

Another scene with Celie and Shug Avery after they escaped from the gin joint fight. Shug dressed Celie up and taught her how to love her smile. When Shug gingerly kissed Celie on the lips, my mother covered my eyes telling me that it was disgusting and girls don't do that--but there they were--doing that. 

Then the final scene. After a lifetime of abuse and struggle Celie stands on her own front porch of her own house looking over a field of purple wildflowers. A car pulls up and four heads emerge followed by beautiful fabric being swept up by the wind against the setting sun. Celie knows it's her sister. Just recalling her gut-wrenching cry of her sister's name brings tears to my eyes. Then meeting her children for the first time since they were born. The bond of sisterhood over years and miles never broken as they resume their clapping chant from their childhood...

And I'm crying now. 

I watch it probably twice a year and I still see things that I never noticed before. It's unbelievably quotable:

Nothing but death can keep me from it!

See daddy? Sinners have souls too.

I think it pisses God off when you walk passed the color of purple in a field and don't notice it.

Til you do right by me, everything you think about gonna fail. (The prayer of every spurned ex)

Hell. No. 

Just watch it. Bring the tissues.

Favorite Scene:

Ugly-face crying here you guys. Ugly. Face. Crying.

#1: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

Before Gollum came and fucked it up for everyone.

I'm a geek right? My favorite movie is a fantasy adventure of a bunch of fantasy characters banding together against evil to destroy the One Ring. 

If that's all you see when you watch this movie then you're clearly not watching close enough! Where's my inhaler?

Friendship. Love. Devotion. Faithfulness. Leaving the nest. Going on an adventure. Letting go. Taking a chance. Overcoming grief and fighting against the odds when the odds are so obviously stacked against you. 

Come. The freak. On. 

This is so much more than a fantasy adventure.

I saw this in the theater with my friend six times. I bought the original DVD release and the extended box set. I watched all thirteen hours of extras and my friend and I would sit in a bar and quote them. Not the movie--the extras. We even went on a road trip to California to see the third movie--which remains one of the greatest trips of my life.

I will leave you with this scene. The devotion that Sam has for Frodo wrecks me every time--and while I think about my top five, that seems to be a common theme. I guess that speaks to my values, or at the very least what I want the most: a friend who would walk with me through fire.

Favorite Scene:

30 Days of Blogging, Day 14: You Could Lose Your Mind

The summer before fifth grade. I was very proud of this shirt. Rad dude. Rad.

I think I can attribute the majority of trouble I got myself into as a child to the bad influence of Nick at Nite. Shows like Leave it to Beaver, I Love Lucy, and The Little Rascals--riddled with rascally characters getting into all kinds of shenanigans. If you were going to take life advice from any Nick at Nite show, The Patty Duke Show was not one of them.

I changed schools twice in the fifth grade--the first time was at the start of the year when my mother decided the bullying situation at my current school was untenable, and the second was when we moved towns.

Second grade through fourth grade at Centennial Elementary in Littleton was at best a waking nightmare. My walks to and from school was like playing Super Mario Brothers--you never knew was was lurking around the corner wanting to throw things at your face. Things weren't any better in the school either. The kids were pretty bold when it came to their bullying, even going so far as attacking me in class--in front of the teacher. With little change and repercussion from the principal my mother pulled me out of Centennial at the end of fourth grade.

Peabody Elementary was full of promise. The staff and my teacher knew the situation I was coming from, and they were warm and welcoming. The kids didn't really pick on me so much as they ignored me.

One day a pair of girls in my class took me aside and said they wanted to talk to me. The reason that nobody really wanted to talk to me was because my clothes weren't really cool. Up until that point it never really occurred to me that clothes were supposed to be cool--I just wore what my mother bought me: jeans, corduroys, my Simpsons t-shirt, overalls--stuff kids wear. One of the girls offered to bring in clothes for me the next day, just so I could experience what wearing cool clothes would be like.

The next day she brought me a pair of black stirrup stretch pants, push-down tube socks, a cream colored turtle neck and a beautiful green long baggy sweater. They were the nicest clothes I'd ever put on. I went to the bathroom before our first recess to change. I stepped on to the playground and was met with all-around approval from the girls who dressed me up.

"See! This is how you should dress!" She was so proud of herself.

They invited me to participate in a swing race with them. We played together again after lunch.

For a day I felt like I belonged. Why only a day? Well, I brought myself down this time, with my big imagination and my big mouth.

As we sat together on the jungle gym I had an idea. How can I make my stock go up? Make up a fantastic, improbable lie, obviously!

I told the kids I wasn't going to be in class the next day because I had a doctor appointment, but my cousin is visiting and she was going to be allowed to sit in class for me. Oh and by the way, my cousin is from England! Oh, and she's British! Also,she's--wait for it--my twin!

Any of this sound familiar? That's because it's the plot to The Patty Duke Show. 

In summary, my genius plan was to show up at school the next day posing as my own English twin cousin. Sounds pretty cool, right? The kids clearly didn't watch nearly as much Nick at Nite as I did because they seemed to believe me, they even started telling other kids in the class. It occurred to me at the end of the day as I packed up my bag that my plot had many holes in it. If I was going to pull this off, I was going to have to tell my teacher.

I was the last to leave class and she was already at her desk grading papers.

Mrs. Fleming, was sweet but no-nonsense, with a darling pixie cut and she always wore red lipstick--I even still think of her when I wear red lipstick. I approached her at her desk and she looked up at me over her reading glasses.

I stumbled through my story--her stare was killing my confidence--but I walked away assuring myself that she believed me.

As I climbed into the car with my mom I became overcome with guilt. I told a pretty big lie. The absurdity of the lie didn't occur to me, just the fact that I lied. I was still doing time in my evening prayers asking for forgiveness for stealing a lip-gloss, I should be adding lying to my list of sins.

As I buckled myself in I told my mother, "I think I did something bad."

"What did you do?" She asked. Her voice sound strained--like I was about to drop a pretty big bomb.

I felt that I needed to diffuse what could potentially be a huge problem for me. If I acted like it's not that big a deal, then she would definitely find her chill.

"Well, it's not that big a deal. I told the kids in my class that I have an English twin cousin and that she's coming to school for me tomorrow. I told Mrs. Fleming too...but it's not that big of a deal! It's silly!"

The look on her face was not at all filled with amusement the way I hoped it would be. Her mouth was just stuck in a pursed "O" shape.

"Summer Jean, this is a very big deal. That's a huge lie, and it's not funny."

Yes it is, I thought to myself.

"Yes it is!", I said--out loud. Stupid.

"You are going to turn around and go back in there and tell your teacher the truth."

It wasn't rational, but I couldn't believe she wasn't on my side. I couldn't believe she was going to make me actually face my lie so boldly. I could feel my cheeks get hot and I began to cry.

"You can't make me go back in there!" If I cried maybe she'll take pity.

"We're not leaving until you go back in there and tell your teacher the truth." She put the van in park and turned off the engine.

I sat, slack-jawed, for what felt like minutes. I felt numb. I felt stupid. The absurdity of the lie was starting to wash over me. What a genuinely stupid lie.

I climbed out of the mini-van and started what felt like a death march towards the school. I could have done the honorable thing and just fess up. I could have done that. I didn't do that.

As I slowly paced down the polished school linoleum I kicked my brain into gear. Fessing up to lies is the worst. Why should I fess up to a lie when I could just come up with another lie? I can get through this relatively unscathed if I can come up with a really good cover for myself.

Mrs. Fleming was still sitting at her desk grading papers. I approached her desk and she peered up at me over her reading glasses once more.

"Yes, Summer?" Clearly I was encroaching on her time.

"Um, Mrs. Fleming? I just wanted to let you know--" Light-bulb."--that my cousin won't be able to make it tomorrow. She never made it out here. She's sick. She has pneumonia. She actually got sick on the plane. They had to turn it around and take her back to England. I don't know if she's going to make it. A-a-a-a-ny-way...she won't be here tomorrow. I'll be here though! My doctor appointment was canceled. See you tomorrow?"

I don't know what I expected. "Oh sure, no problem! Hope your cousin makes it! See you tomorrow!" Her face registered as utterly un-amused.

She just sighed. "Fine Summer. Good night."

I said good night and left her with her papers. Half of me thought she bought it. The other half knew she didn't, but it didn't matter. I had made myself look like an idiot at my new school--it was over before it could even begin.

The fun wasn't over. My mother demanded to know if I told her the truth, and in the spirit of maintaining an honest relationship with her, I told her that I lied again. She was aghast. She couldn't believe that I had lied again. We went home and I spent the rest of the night alone in my room.

The next day at school I spouted the same lie to the kids. Whether or not they bought it didn't matter. I was relegated to the same obscurity from which I came--not because I couldn't come up with an English twin cousin, but because my clothes looked poor.

Six months later we moved to Castle Rock. My parents were tired of renting in a bad neighborhood, and Castle Rock had better schools.

I wish I could say I learned my lesson. A couple days before I started school at Rock Ridge Elementary I sneak-watched Dirty Dancing. I was obsessed with the dancing in it and practiced in my bedroom wearing my mother's leotard.

On my second day of class I found out the two most popular girls took dance lessons. I boasted to them that I taught lessons, specializing in the dancing from Dirty Dancing. 

Lindsey, the most popular of the two, sneered through her braced teeth. "Our parents would never let us watch that, and I don't need lessons from you." I noted her response and quietly went about my business, once again relegating myself to friendless obscurity.

As I walked home from school that day I noticed another girl from my class walking the same path home as me. I asked if I could walk with her. She said yes, but this doesn't mean we're friends. She also pointed out that my cowboy boots looked ridiculous. They were my dad's boots and I loved them, even if they were too big for me.

That night my mother came into my room to say good night to me. I'll never forget that night, because the room was dark but still bright from the light of a full moon.

She asked me if I wanted to pray. I began to cry.

She wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Why are you crying baby?"

I felt bereft. "I just feel like I'm never going to have a friend. I'm never going to fit in. I don't know how to make friends."

She took my hands and told me to pray about it. I looked at the full moon and squeezed my eyes tight.

"Dear God, I don't have any friends. Please let me make a friend tomorrow."

My mother kissed me good night. I fell asleep crying that night, faithless in my prayer.

The next day as I sat alone on the playground a girl came up and started talking to me. Her name was Shiloy. I told her where I was from, where I lived in the neighborhood. She actually seemed interested in me. After school she walked me to the rain run-off tunnel that I walked through to get to my house. She said we should sit together at lunch the next day.

As I walked through the tunnel I heard the sparrows flapping around, building their spring nests. I smiled as I saw my house walking out of the dark tunnel. I ran the rest of the way home and breathlessly hugged my mother.

To be honest, 25 years later I still struggle with making friends and I still struggle with relating to people. I've stopped telling lies, and I always try to be myself. There's a gap that I struggle crossing--that gap that prevents me from connecting. Maybe it's fear, Maybe I'm a little bit broken.

That day though, I didn't feel broken. I didn't need a fantastic lie. I didn't need Patty Duke or Dirty Dancing.

As I hugged my mother, I looked up at her through tears in my eyes and said, "Jesus answered my prayer. I made a friend today."

30 Days of Blogging, Day 13: Lazy Days Are Here Again

This post is gonna be meme HEAVY. Ugh, do I have to cite my sources? Being ethical is the worst.

Tonight I wanted to write a story about the time in 5th grade when I lied about being my own twin. I'm going to write that story, however, I am currently snuggled in my beddy-by in my jimmy-jams under my blankey-wankey, and guess what?

I. Don't. Feel like it. 

Pout.

I'm tired and sleepy and cranky and I just wanna watch Mr. Robot. 

No you're not. Stop it.

I know that to be a good writer, you have to write. A lot.

Can't I just say I'm a writer? Do I have to actually do it?

Tonight I'm giving myself a night off-ish.

I will. I will treat myself. Thank you. Hey Retta? Call me.

In the mean time hit me in the comments and tell me all the wonderful things you have planned for this weekend. 

Mmm, weekend so good...

Lazy Summer OUT.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 12: Roster Fosters Imposter

Ever heard of "Impostor's Syndrome"? Basically it means that no matter how much you are meant to be where you are, you just don't feel like you fit. It comes with an unrelenting dread that someday you will be exposed for what you are--a fraud.

Step 1: Assimilate. Step 2: Try not to appear so damn shifty-eyed.

I think you would hard-pressed not to find someone who, at some point in their life, has felt this way. For me, I feel it constantly. With my friends, my job, my hobbies--this never-ending feeling in my gut that someone is going to catch on and see what I really am. Now I think it's safe to say it comes from deep-seeded lack of self-confidence and a loss of proper positive enforcement in my formative years, but we're not talking about that right now. 

There's a difference between feeling like you don't belong and then actually not belonging--being an actual fraud. 

In my junior year of high school I started to really notice that I had feelings of--shall we say--a lesbionic nature. While on the surface I did have crushes on boys my age (who subsequently came out of the closet), I harbored deep sapphic feelings for my poetry teacher...and my creative writing teacher...and my Sci-Fi and Fantasy teacher...did I have a thing for English teachers?

Ooo, yeah girl...I'll iambic your pentameter...

I, as many kids my age in the 90's who lived in small conservative towns--or anywhere for that matter--struggled with these feelings. Having been raised a good Christian girl these feelings were a very bad sign. 

I would lay in my bed and pray to God to lay me down to sleep and to forgive me for that one time I stole a lipgloss, I would also pray that God would take it away--please, please, please, take these feelings away. 

Don't make me like them.

Don't make me struggle with this.

Don't let my family hate me. 

When the day came in my study hall our teacher passed around a sign-up form with extra-curricular groups to join, I spotted among the foreign language clubs what I hoped would be a promising beacon: Staying Straight.

My inner dialogue was the following, "Staying Straight? Amazing! They can help me with these feelings. They can help me, you know--stay straight! Sign me up!" Check the box, sign here, and promptly forget about it. 

Weeks later I was sitting in class and one of the office aids came in and dropped one of the dreaded pink slips with my teacher.--the pink slip that was usually a call to go to the principal's office for a "chat". If you ever eyeballed that kid and felt a sense of doom, you probably did something naughty. 

As for me, I felt that sense of doom because I ditched constantly, so it was no surprise when the teacher called my name. 

For me there should have been a box marked Indefinitely.

As I started my march to the principals office I noticed it wasn't an actual principal's pass, but a pass to see the school resource police officer in the student counseling center. That sense of dread was replaced with a sense of "Oh fuck, I'm dead." 

As I walked in the small conference room I saw him sitting at the table next to the school nurse and other kids I recognized from around school. Everyone in the room was warm and inviting--I assume it's what it feels like to walk into your own intervention.

I sat down next to a very pretty girl who was a year ahead of me. If you asked me to define which high school clique everyone fell into, I would say it was a diverse representation of my school--jock, preppy, skater, theatre nerd (me), uhh...nice kid, weird kids, fat kid, skinny kid, even kids with chicken pox--I'm really struggling to remember my school cabals.

The nurse--who we'll call Ms. J to protect the innocent--started by having us go around and introduce ourselves. She was lovely and warm, and clearly talented with created safe spaces.

She was creating a safe space because she made it clear that this was a group for kids in our school to talk about struggling with staying off of drugs and alchohol--staying straight. As in: on the straight and narrow. Clean. Off drugs.

Full disclosure, at the time the only addiction I struggled with was my Phantom of the Opera and Titanic soundtracks.

I don't really remember if I said anything other than my name in that meeting. I just listened. The kids talked about their struggles with actual drug and alcohol abuse, and wanting to stay clean. They shared deeply vulnerable stories about their personal lives and home lives. 

Ms. J told me that I had an open invitation every week to come back and talk, if I wanted to. As I left the meeting I resolved that I would never return, that this group isn't for me. 

Here's the thing:

I kept going back. 

You will never judge me as harshly as I judge myself.

Mostly, I would listen. I never really shared anything about myself. What I got out of sitting with these kids was a feeling of belonging and safety--nobody judged anyone. We were all capable of making mistakes and coming back from them. 

I never told any of my friends about this group--it was too precious to me. The secrets told and the lives they belonged to were just meant for that room and the people in it only. That is until...

The school resource police officer offered the group a chance to come talk to middle-schoolers at health day about our personal experiences with drug and alcohol abuse. Did I have to say yes? No. Should I have gone? Absolutely not. 

As I stood with my peers in front of kids marginally younger than me, it occurred to me that we would all be required to share some kind of personal story. I guess you could say this was the start of storytelling for me, with the only exception being that it was completely made up.

I told a bald-faced lie. I said that I struggled with alcohol abuse and I would steal alcohol from my parents and blame it on my brother.

The truth? Up until that point the only alcohol I'd ever had was communion wine and sips of my mother's white zinfandel. My parents really didn't keep alcohol in the house much at all--they just weren't big drinkers. One time Ms. J gave me a ride home after school and she insisted on coming in and meeting my mother. They sat and chatted and my inner monologue was praying to God that she didn't casually ask my mom about my alcoholism and that my mom didn't actually ask her how we're associated.

I continued to tell that story throughout the day, each time adding more details and drama, to be honest with some altruistic intent--hoping that maybe it would have an affect on someone. The kids who told their stories were wonderful and brave, and honestly had more of an affect on me than I've ever been able to express to them.

We were invited to do this again the following year. I stopped when I started seeing familiar faces, and to be honest the middle school resource police officer was kind of a creep--he was a little too interested in the specific details of the link between using and sexual promiscuity, and I don't know why he was so interested in hearing about the sex lives of teenagers. 

Alright OfficerMcCreepafeel, that's enough of THAT.

Everyone eventually all graduated and moved on--well I didn't graduate, I just dropped out and took my GED. Close enough. Don't ditch class, kids.

Years later I ran into the pretty girl when I was working at the music store. She looked the same--radiant and kind. We caught up and eventually she asked me how I was doing with my addiction. I confessed that I drink with my friends. She seemed relieved when I told her because she told me she had started using again--but she had it under control. 

In that moment I wished I had told her that we should get together and talk some time, or offered to go to a meeting with her--or even offered some kind of truth--that I didn't actually struggle with alcoholism and I just drank at parties on occasions with my friends, and that I was worried for her and that I was there for her if she needed it. 

Instead I shrugged and told her not to feel bad. We laughed it off. She told me not to tell Ms. J. I gave her my number to call me some time. I never heard from her. I wish I hadn't let her walk away.

I know the obvious moral of this story is: don't fucking lie. I regret not being honest with why I was there to begin with. I regret telling tall tales. 

I don't know if I regret going back.

Oh, and I definitely did not stay straight.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 11: Ink

Planning my next tattoo has been more excruciating than the actual ink-dipped needles piercing my skin. I've had a lot of ideas: an Oscar Wilde quote, a pug, a drawing of my favorite children's story--Ferdinand the Bull--but my next one will probably be this on my wrist:

I have a passion for not ending sentences.

I love to hear tattoo stories--what they mean to the individual, their history, the silly or sad story connected to them.

Tattoo #1

Did you know it's super hard to take a picture of the back of your own shoulder?

I did not wake up on the day I got my first tattoo with that plan in mind. I had recently turned 18 and I was going to go to Six Flags-Denver with  my recently graduated friends--they graduated, I did not. If my friends judged me for having to stay in high school for my second senior year I'll never know, but we were young, fun, and free--like a Better Than Ezra song. 

We packed in Jackie's car and headed north to Denver, but Megan declared we were taking a detour on the way to Six Flags--she was gonna get a tattoo. 

As we crowded around her in Bound by Design on Colfax I felt something stir in my prissy Christian insides. 

I'm gonna get a tattoo too.

DELICIOUS ALLITERATION

Since I was a theatre nerd I decided to get the comedy-tragedy persona masks. As I flipped through the book of tattoos my prissy Christian insides churned since a lot of the mask pictures were devilish, terrifying clowns. The tattoo artist grew impatient with my indecisiveness and pointed at the mask necklace that was hanging around my neck and recommended I go to the Kinkos down the block and photocopy it. As Sabbeth and I walked down the street a strange man followed us and catcalled as he threw coins at us--a white suburban girl's first catcall--lucky me!

The tattoo hurt. Of course it hurt. I gripped Sabbeth's hand. It cost $90, most of my first paycheck from King Soopers.

I hid my tattoo for months, until the guilt pushed me into telling my mother. She was disappointed in me. I thought it was a dumb thing to be disappointed in. 

Tattoo #2

 Starting to wonder if I should get my back checked for suspicious moles...

I was 19 and I wanted a cross tattoo. To be honest I was a little tired of my mother telling me that good Christian girls don't get tattoos, my body is a temple, blah, blah, blah. This was basically me getting back at my mother to show her that good Christian girls can have good Christian tattoos.

My friend Nate from the record store I worked at decided to go together to Bound By Design in the morning before we went to Lilith Fair--probably the most 90's thing I've ever done. I'm pretty sure I even wore daisy hair-clips and denim overalls with red Keds. 

Nate got his first tattoo--a tribal sun--and I got my second, courtesy of Big Mike. We sat on the lawn at Fiddler's Green with our and enjoyed the sweet feminist sounds of The Indigo Girls, Sheryl Crow, and Sarah McLaughlin. 

This is the only tattoo I have that I really don't like; not because of the cross, but because it's ugly, and I really wasn't sincere when I got it. 

Never get a revenge tattoo.

Tattoo #3

You guys would tell me if you saw anything suspicious, right? Guys?

I got this one for my 22nd birthday. I was really into peace signs and daisies. I probably still am. 

This was the last tattoo I got at Bound By Design, also by Big Mike. I went by myself, after work, still in my suit. I felt pretty square sitting around the facially pierced artists in my trousers and pearls. 

Shortly after I got this tattoo I lost my virginity.

The two events are unrelated.

Tattoo #4

I'm definitely going to be better about wearing sunscreen...

My partner and I had been planning getting some kind of matching tattoo together. We agreed they should have something to do with music and included a rainbow--'cuz we're gay.

I searched and searched. I never knew there were so could be so many variances of a treble clef. We agreed on similar designs--mine would be more spiky and edgy and on my other shoulder, hers more a tribute to her love of classical music and on the small of her back.

We crowded into a small room with our friend Jen at Laughing Buddha on Capitol Hill in Seattle. While the significance of sharing something so permanent and personal with my partner didn't escape me, I also loved that I got to be there to experience another person close to me getting their first tattoo.

Seven years after we split up, I catch it out of the corner of my eye on occasion. It remains an untainted, fond memory. 

Tattoo #5

Finally! An area of my body that isn't riddled with freckles.

On a holiday weekend with my girlfriend (who was constantly telling me not to call her girlfriend), we got drunk and decided we wanted to get tattoos. 

I wanted something to signify my pride in an 'S' pattern. She liked my design and got an extra star to denote the colors of the chakras.

We went to Lucky Devil on Capitol Hill and got our matching tattoos.

Shortly after I broke up with her; not because we got matching tattoos, but because she was a mean alcoholic. She said horrible things to me about my body. She criticized me a lot, in general. 

Due to my lack of backbone I continued to see her on and off for the next year--I even worked at her business part-time--until she showed up at my apartment in the middle of the night completely wasted and demanded I have sex with her. I told her no, more than once. She got angry and punched my wall. I told her I never wanted to see her again. 

Shortly after in a text conversation she was surprised that I was so angry. When I told her she had a drinking problem her response was "You have a drinking problem!"

I don't have a drinking problem

This is what I thought about for a long time every time I would look at these stars. I kind of hated her for stealing the joy from a rainbow of stars. It takes a lot of work to instill new significance to something that was robbed of happy memories.

Enjoy this piglet palette cleanser. Don't think of the shitty person. Look at the piglet.

I'll write about the significance of the semi-colon tattoo when I get it. In the meantime, hit me in the comments and tell me your tattoo story.