I've been working 9-10 hour days, every day, at this new job...which explains my lack of writing and the pounds that are slowly creeping back on. For example, I worked 830 AM to 700 PM yesterday w/a 15 min. lunch break! Ridiculous...
However, I need this line for my resume and recommendation from my Anna Wintour-lite boss. Not to mention, I gotta bring home the kibble for my child...and her kibble is fancy/expensive.
Hopefully, things will slow down and I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming soon. Hopefully, I'll get some writing done over the weekend...but it's looking like I need to go in at least once this weekend to organize my wreck of a filing cabinet. Awesome!
Back to the daily grind...
Friday, October 26, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
The freak
I wasn't suppose to be this weird. My parents are normal, albiet a little boring, country folk from Oklahoma. They raised two normal creatures of normal intelligence, average looks and borderline personalities. I am the freak.
I knew I was the weird child early on. During my third grade winter break, I read Little Women. My brother and sister watched cartoons on the couch and ate too much candy.
My parents did what they could to trim my wild hair if only to make me more acceptable to the genearl populus. I played oragnized sports. I went to vacation bible school. It was a losing battle.While my classmates were writing their history profiles about Michael Jordan and Abraham Lincoln, I wrote mine about Anna Pavlova, the great Russian ballerina. While all the other kids played at recess, I sketched my fashion line for the fall.
I am not normal, even now...even after therapy, small town high school, being judged. I am just me. I make up my own words. I love quirky little houses regardless if the roof is caving in. I dress like I just left ballet class or like a boy. I write for a living (in the fashion industry oddly enough). My mother still tells me I'm weird every single time she talks to me. I've learned to take it as a compliment.
Everyone is entitled to their own opinion and the ability to express that opinion. You can't force people into boxes with definitions that you are comfortable with. Your freak can't be covered by religion, cool clothes or stupidity.
When you you jump to label others, is it because you really are trying to find a label for yourself?
I knew I was the weird child early on. During my third grade winter break, I read Little Women. My brother and sister watched cartoons on the couch and ate too much candy.
My parents did what they could to trim my wild hair if only to make me more acceptable to the genearl populus. I played oragnized sports. I went to vacation bible school. It was a losing battle.While my classmates were writing their history profiles about Michael Jordan and Abraham Lincoln, I wrote mine about Anna Pavlova, the great Russian ballerina. While all the other kids played at recess, I sketched my fashion line for the fall.
I am not normal, even now...even after therapy, small town high school, being judged. I am just me. I make up my own words. I love quirky little houses regardless if the roof is caving in. I dress like I just left ballet class or like a boy. I write for a living (in the fashion industry oddly enough). My mother still tells me I'm weird every single time she talks to me. I've learned to take it as a compliment.
Everyone is entitled to their own opinion and the ability to express that opinion. You can't force people into boxes with definitions that you are comfortable with. Your freak can't be covered by religion, cool clothes or stupidity.
When you you jump to label others, is it because you really are trying to find a label for yourself?
Sunday, October 14, 2007
First loves...and life lessons...
Gabriel Andrew Garcia...my first love...my disaster...another lifetime...
We met at school. I was the nerdy/jock girl who was a little off for the small town on Freer. He was the flunkie drug addict in a postal worker's shirt. In short, it was love at first sight.
Small town boys just never did it for me...and he was the antithesis of normal and safe. He was bounced around between his two parents. He had flunked a few grades. He dressed really strangley. He was openly bi-sexual. He played guitar badly. He had a nasty coke problem. He was really pretty.
I had a big crush on him early on. The first time he called my house was by accident. My number showed up on his caller ID at home (pre-cell phone days, ya'll), and he just naturally assumed it was me calling him. It turned out that his father worked under mine at Conoco, and my dad had called to speak to his dad. Many jokes centered around doing the boss's daughter ensued shortly there after...
Then, we became "we"...
He wrote me these really great love notes that were cheesy and eloquent. We talked about poetry, literature, and Shrek. We danced in the hall way during lunch. He stopped using drugs and smoking (as much). I made him go to youth group at my church (even though he wore a nin shirt w/the word "fuck" on the back). I snuck him into my house during lunch when my mom was out of town. We had a joint birthday at my house during finals week complete with homemade birthday cake and carryout pizza.
Then, a few days after my birthday, he told me his dad was kicking him out, and that he had to move back to Houston to live w/his mother. His step mom was having extreme anxiety due to the stress he brought to the household. So he was out...just like that...and I was all alone again.
We had a goodbye day where we took pictures, held hands, kissed, and maybe cried a little. We started a joint art project involving select Prisma colors and many tiny shapes (a few hearts and secret messages thrown in just for fun). We agreed to talk on the phone, write, e-mail...and stay in touch...we both hoped it wasn't over.
Then, I left to go to Oklahoma for the Christmas holidays. I came back to panicked voicemails from mutual friends and a few of his family members. He had been jumped at a party for an outstanding debt to a local drug dealer (probably the mayor...Freer is so classy), and he had his face bashed in and only made it without any serious damage because his friend held his bleeding, mutilated face over the toilet...so he wouldn't choke on his own blood. There were many stitches and he had his jaw wired shut for some time.
So, with the option of phone out, we did a whole lot of e-mailing and chatting...we would even log onto pogo at the same time and play games for hours...
Finally, he came into town again. Just a few days after Valentine's Day and on the day of my first track meet of the season. It was a great day. I ran well. He spent the whole day w/me...just catching up. I finally was able to return our half-finished drawing. That evening, he told me he loved me for the very first time. It wasn't the first time a boy said those words to me, but it was the first time that I meant it when I said them back to him. It was magical. And, even though my mother hated him, she let him come over and hang out the next afternoon before he had to leave...small joys...
It was around this time that he started sending me photos, letters, sometimes our drawing (we started mailing it back and forth) and his fave Stephen King series, The Dark Tower via snail mail. I came home from practice and sometimes there was a manila envelope on my bed...and I felt like it was Christmas and my birthday all on the same day.
But..we gradually grew apart...like young kids do when there are miles between them. It was hard knowing that it would be many years before I would encounter one of his breed again, but I couldn't wait around for something that would never happen.
We saw each other one final time right around Easter 2002. It was lovely. We still felt the same way about one another, but we knew that it just couldn't work. A calamity of events were sparked from this very meeting, but I will not go into them. This story is about our love, not demise...and besides I'm saving all the good stuff for my future memoir anyway.
Gabe and the situations that he brought into my life revealed to me the true form of many people who were very close to me. He defied my stereotypes of the kind of people who hung out in the restroom during lunch hour...and the type of boy that I was attracted to. Since him, there have been many musicians (both bad and good). There has been the occasional drug user. There have been a few well-dressed weirdos. But, most importantly, I have never settled on what was available. I've always waited from something extraordinary...because once you've had a taste of greatness, normal is never the same.
Gabe and I haven't talked nor seen one another since that last meeting. I've actually been face to face w/him (at my last volleyball game) and just didn't see him (divine intervention...my momma's been praying). I received a few strange and vague myspace messages about a year ago. I think it was just him letting me know that he was still alive, and I had been special to him, as well.
First loves are a sticky thing...you love so openly and blindly that when you get burned by them (because you eventually will) you lose that ability forever. The memory, however, stays w/you always...
We met at school. I was the nerdy/jock girl who was a little off for the small town on Freer. He was the flunkie drug addict in a postal worker's shirt. In short, it was love at first sight.
Small town boys just never did it for me...and he was the antithesis of normal and safe. He was bounced around between his two parents. He had flunked a few grades. He dressed really strangley. He was openly bi-sexual. He played guitar badly. He had a nasty coke problem. He was really pretty.
I had a big crush on him early on. The first time he called my house was by accident. My number showed up on his caller ID at home (pre-cell phone days, ya'll), and he just naturally assumed it was me calling him. It turned out that his father worked under mine at Conoco, and my dad had called to speak to his dad. Many jokes centered around doing the boss's daughter ensued shortly there after...
Then, we became "we"...
He wrote me these really great love notes that were cheesy and eloquent. We talked about poetry, literature, and Shrek. We danced in the hall way during lunch. He stopped using drugs and smoking (as much). I made him go to youth group at my church (even though he wore a nin shirt w/the word "fuck" on the back). I snuck him into my house during lunch when my mom was out of town. We had a joint birthday at my house during finals week complete with homemade birthday cake and carryout pizza.
Then, a few days after my birthday, he told me his dad was kicking him out, and that he had to move back to Houston to live w/his mother. His step mom was having extreme anxiety due to the stress he brought to the household. So he was out...just like that...and I was all alone again.
We had a goodbye day where we took pictures, held hands, kissed, and maybe cried a little. We started a joint art project involving select Prisma colors and many tiny shapes (a few hearts and secret messages thrown in just for fun). We agreed to talk on the phone, write, e-mail...and stay in touch...we both hoped it wasn't over.
Then, I left to go to Oklahoma for the Christmas holidays. I came back to panicked voicemails from mutual friends and a few of his family members. He had been jumped at a party for an outstanding debt to a local drug dealer (probably the mayor...Freer is so classy), and he had his face bashed in and only made it without any serious damage because his friend held his bleeding, mutilated face over the toilet...so he wouldn't choke on his own blood. There were many stitches and he had his jaw wired shut for some time.
So, with the option of phone out, we did a whole lot of e-mailing and chatting...we would even log onto pogo at the same time and play games for hours...
Finally, he came into town again. Just a few days after Valentine's Day and on the day of my first track meet of the season. It was a great day. I ran well. He spent the whole day w/me...just catching up. I finally was able to return our half-finished drawing. That evening, he told me he loved me for the very first time. It wasn't the first time a boy said those words to me, but it was the first time that I meant it when I said them back to him. It was magical. And, even though my mother hated him, she let him come over and hang out the next afternoon before he had to leave...small joys...
It was around this time that he started sending me photos, letters, sometimes our drawing (we started mailing it back and forth) and his fave Stephen King series, The Dark Tower via snail mail. I came home from practice and sometimes there was a manila envelope on my bed...and I felt like it was Christmas and my birthday all on the same day.
But..we gradually grew apart...like young kids do when there are miles between them. It was hard knowing that it would be many years before I would encounter one of his breed again, but I couldn't wait around for something that would never happen.
We saw each other one final time right around Easter 2002. It was lovely. We still felt the same way about one another, but we knew that it just couldn't work. A calamity of events were sparked from this very meeting, but I will not go into them. This story is about our love, not demise...and besides I'm saving all the good stuff for my future memoir anyway.
Gabe and the situations that he brought into my life revealed to me the true form of many people who were very close to me. He defied my stereotypes of the kind of people who hung out in the restroom during lunch hour...and the type of boy that I was attracted to. Since him, there have been many musicians (both bad and good). There has been the occasional drug user. There have been a few well-dressed weirdos. But, most importantly, I have never settled on what was available. I've always waited from something extraordinary...because once you've had a taste of greatness, normal is never the same.
Gabe and I haven't talked nor seen one another since that last meeting. I've actually been face to face w/him (at my last volleyball game) and just didn't see him (divine intervention...my momma's been praying). I received a few strange and vague myspace messages about a year ago. I think it was just him letting me know that he was still alive, and I had been special to him, as well.
First loves are a sticky thing...you love so openly and blindly that when you get burned by them (because you eventually will) you lose that ability forever. The memory, however, stays w/you always...
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Smell This
There’s an older gentleman I work with whose smell is so attractive. It's not a cologney/Old Spice kind of smell. It's not the smell of my father, an old boyfriend, or something Freuduristic. It's pheromones...his natural scent is deceptively young...and very attractive. Basically, I want to screw the 50 year old electrician of my building..or my brain does anyways.
This happens to me very often. Certain fragrances remind me of certain things. Brain and nose collaborate and logic fades away. Cool Waters equals Gabe which equals total abandonment of belief system and my entire future. Cigarettes equals Andy's which means I'm wasted and making Kim miserable. And Bath and Body Works Country Apple? I can't stomach. Why? It reminds me of losing the 7th grade basketball championship to Benavides!
Am I alone in this? Can you attach feelings/places/faces to scents?
Confession: I secretly love the scent of my dog. I think it's because she's my soul mate...her and the electrician.
This happens to me very often. Certain fragrances remind me of certain things. Brain and nose collaborate and logic fades away. Cool Waters equals Gabe which equals total abandonment of belief system and my entire future. Cigarettes equals Andy's which means I'm wasted and making Kim miserable. And Bath and Body Works Country Apple? I can't stomach. Why? It reminds me of losing the 7th grade basketball championship to Benavides!
Am I alone in this? Can you attach feelings/places/faces to scents?
Confession: I secretly love the scent of my dog. I think it's because she's my soul mate...her and the electrician.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Maybe you hold the answer...
I am an observer of the human species. A temperamental, subtle, expressive creature, the human is the most dangerous and elusive animal on this planet. Still, I persist.
I'm at a lost. This just might be insecurities that some have to work out in early adulthood where the beer is freely flowing and the responsibilities are nil. I hope that this is the case. Reporting from the field, Jennifer.
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