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Amy
Yesterday morning I had a visitor to the office. I’ve known him since my earliest days at the Co-op, and I really enjoy our chats. We have those deep conversations that flow easily. Those come way too infrequently for my liking. Most people talk to brag, or talk to gossip, or talk to hear themselves talk. Not him. And it really touches my heart when he takes time out of his day to sit down for a spell. He’s a busy man. So we got to talking about how fortunate we are, and how we’re not thankful enough for what we’ve got. And, as our conversations invariably go, he got around to telling tales about his dad and his group of buddies. They were truly a redneck gang. They loved to play practical jokes on one another…sometimes even mildly dangerous ones. And ALWAYS ones that will make you late for whatever your next task will be. So he’s recounting some story about a notorious fishing trip and it made me think. There just aren’t friendships like that anymore. I have one friend I could call for anything. Annnnnyyyyything. We even had a code for in the event I killed my former husband. I have no doubt she would have come a-runnin’. There might have been more than one or two “oh shit”s uttered, but we would have taken care of…
There are a lot of rings in rivers. There, under a layer of silt and mud, a multitude of diamond rings gradually becoming covered with sludge and moss, growing dingier and more tarnished by the day. These rings were once worn and cherished by a host of good women. Or maybe they belonged to cruel women. Women with pure hearts and vicious tempers. Women with big smiles and twisted souls. Women who put supper on the table every night and mopped the floor every Saturday morning. Or perhaps she just sat on the couch, talking on the phone and eating bonbons. Maybe she had an agenda the whole time. But I would guarantee you, the rings in the water were loved. As were the men that gave them to the women who slung them. Their rings were never taken off till the day they were. But it’s not the diamond’s fault. The diamond had one job: to sparkle. At first I didn’t write about it because it was all I could do to get dressed and drag myself to work, forget about extracting words from the shredded pieces of my heart and telling the world my woes. Then I didn’t write because to write it made it real, and I didn’t want to see it in black and white. I didn’t want to see it at all. I wallowed in the land of delusion, where I didn’…
Dear Grandmother, You’ve been gone eleven years {eleven years!!! I had to count twice, then looked up a picture of your gravestone to make myself believe it}. I guess that’s right. But today doesn’t mark the day of your passing, it is your birthday. No, I didn’t forget. I just haven’t slowed down long enough today string words together in remembrance. I woke up, and it was Pearl Harbor Day, which equates to your birthday. Pearl Harbor day didn’t really resonate with me until a few years ago, when I was having a conversation with a young adult who didn’t have much to remember about 9/11. And that floored me. I couldn’t believe that it was possible to be alive and not recount the horror of that day in full detail. I digress. It’s a clear night, the moon is half full, and it’s cold enough to see my breath. You’d like it. I have so much to tell you, everything has changed since you’ve been gone. But you know, you haunted me for awhile. Why’d you quit, anyway? I knew it was you the whole time. I guess you moved on because it quit being fun. How do you like the new floors? I’m certain you hate the yellow wall. And probably my painting, too. It’s too abstract…
Y’all probably think I’m a ridiculous sap, but I just want to say that I’m despondent over East Town Mall closing. Even though its glory days are more than a decade past, I’ll never forget the good ol’ days of walking around in a pack of best girlfriends all day Saturday, giggling and looking cool in our stone washed Guess jeans with layered slouch socks, crimped hair scraped back into neon scrunchies, and an armful of jelly bracelets every color of the rainbow. We’d hit 5-7-9 and Merry Go Round first, then the music store (singles tapes!), fawn over the puppies and kittens in the pet store, then maybe have a slice of pizza in the food court. We’d get mildly freaked out by the weird witchy stuff in Crystal Visions, check out clothes in Express and Limited, try on leather pants in Wilson’s Leather, buy some glitter nail polish from Claire’s, and pretend we were punk enough to pull off the tank tops in Rave. We’d point at boys with their long skater hair and follow them around till they went in the game store behind the waterfall. We’d go smell erasers in Hello Kitty and widen our eyes at the displays in the windows of Fredericks of Hollywood then make for Victoria Secret, pretending we were just there for lotion. We’d share pretzels…
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I am not a secretI am a sirenI am not a mediatorfor those who are weakI am the spokesmanI will not drag you with meI will proudly walk aloneFearlessBecause I faced the worsta long time agoI am strong willedStrongly opinionatedStrong legs to stand tallnot for runningStrong lungs to exhale and blow you from meI will continue, undauntedCaution trampledI am not sugarI am ginThat bites backI am honest to a fault voir direI am blue eyes and unruly red hairI am tears for an instantThen I am fierceI am a switchblade when my anger flares I am not a shrinking violetI am a strutting, bold ravenWith thorns held in my beakFor my nest in the highest, sturdiest oakI have never been a cowardBut will shatter my heart with a disaster To prove I will rise from the flamesI will not listen when you label me with your insecuritiesYour aggression is nothing to meMy confidence is a fortressI will not heed your warningsand think that I am brokenBecause you don’t approveof What I Am. *Listening to Kacey Musgraves this morning, who is not pageant material either…
It’s been awhile since I’ve written one of these. Find joy where you can. I like when the sun shines on snow and makes it sparkle. I like Christmas decorations, except Santa. I like Johnny Depp’s movies. I’d like an opportunity to find out if I’d like him in person. I like reading real books, except when it’s dark- then I like my Kindle. I like trips. Short ones, long ones, on a plane or in a car. To the city, to the sea. I like trees and I will cry if deprived of them for an extended period. I like magnolias and live oaks best of all. I like dogs with spots. I like drinking cold beer on warm nights outside. I like seeing 4-wheel drives that look like they’re actually taken off-road. I like corny jokes. I like being near water. I like all the items on the Chickalay menu. Except that kale stuff. That should go without saying. And the macaroni, which I have not tried. I like watching groundhogs. I like driving when there’s not much traffic and the road spreads out before me. I like going 100. I like flowers, but not the common ones. Keep your roses and daisies and babies breath. And your carnations, too. Bring me daffodils and dahlias and foxglove and lilies. I like people that tell the truth. I like my red…
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I’ve been having that anxious, at ends, nothing-is-quite-right feeling for some time now. When in truth, everything is better than it has been for awhile. But my brain never has paid much attention to black and white facts. I had been blaming my coffee; I’ve taken it back up in earnest with the temperature recently plummeting. And I’m glad of it, make no mistake. but then I got to thinking. I haven’t written anything in quite some time. So I decided to write. But it’s a mine field. Nothing feels like a safe topic. Do I pour my guts out and make myself cry? That would be stupid. Do I slash someone else’s guts out and hope I make them cry? That’s not very nice. So I’m just gonna start, innocuously enough, with fog. Fog is appropriate for these -ber months. I prefer it only in October, though, when it’s setting you up for the spooky holiday at the end of the month. And it just occurred to me–wouldn’t it be nice if ALL holidays fell on the last day of the month? That way, you’ve got the enitre month to prepare and celebrate early, if you wish. You don’t have to keep up with if it’s the first Monday of the month, or the third Thursday, or anything…
I was working on one of those time-wasting questionnaires on Facebook this morning. I need an activity while I drink my coffee, otherwise my dog thinks it’s my job to pet him with my free hand. And I DO pet him, but it’s never enough. He is such an indulged glutton. Anyway, I’m whizzing right along answering the “Adult” questions- no, no, not like that, they were the style of “what bill do you hate the most?” and “which housecleaning chore do you put off until you hate yourself?”, stuff like that. Then one gave me pause. “Found Love Yet?” Well helllll-o. Of course if you live past the age of seventeen you’ve found love. But did love reciprocate? As you grow older, you come to realize that love isn’t just about spending the rest of your days with another human you’ve found attractive. Well, I hope you realize it, anyway. You’ve loved your whole life. You loved your mother, you loved macaroni and cheese, you loved your tire swing, you loved your mangy dog. Whatever. But of course this shallow test didn’t mean that. It meant the “traditional” sense of finding love. Well, sure I found it. And it was reciprocated. And we were bound by vows given in fancy attire in front of our closest 125 friends in the sweltering…
