Summer Just Won't Leave Me

Summer isn't as magical as it used to be.

Hot days aren't made for swimming when you're working all day. Even if you work only half the day, who wants to go through the hassle of shaved legs, an epic bus transfer adventure and a public pool full of kids? Plus there's Netflix and not-as-expensive air conditioning at home, so I have that going for me.

Mornings aren't made for sleeping in. But I've been on that train for quite some time now, so we're not too distraught.

Bills still need to be paid and laundry still needs to be done. I still grumble over how many dishes we can accumulate seeing as I eat out of bags and boxes when Mr. E works and when he's not home he's being paid to eat out. The dog may be a tad more lazy with this heat, but she's always been a snuggler.

I think this post said it best when she asks you to get your cuppa out of her face, Starbucks advertising, because realistically the last thing I want to consume is a piping cup of fall as I tether myself to a 5 foot radius of our AC. These are the times that call for Drumsticks in various flavors, and may I suggest the mint no nuts?

We started our summer with Zion and ended it, rather anticlimactically, with an HBO cast party downtown.

My favorite picture? My FAVORITE PICTURE.

Somewhere in my life I traded girlfriend sleepovers for margarita lunch breaks and free comedy shows. I gave up mindless cable re-runs for a never-ending queue of quirky, independent films chosen based on a faceless algorithm. For some reason I'm not as worried about the movies chosen for me as I'm worried about the world content selected based on my viewing patterns. You don't know me, Google. (Sidenote: We're really into TED Talks right now)

There was a delicious carefree-ness to summer, a time to look forward to and bemoan when it was over. But now? Summer isn't a break from anything, really. The world keeps trudging on, regardless of the temperatures that make me avoid walking the dog regularly for fear of heatstroke.

But growing up can mean expanding out and I'm not referring to our ice cream consumption (which is horrendous, stop asking). Here's a time to focus inward. I sewed a quilt. I downsized both closets AND the storage space. Mr. E finished writing/transcribing his first feature film script. We got a new car (though unplanned and really a very miniscule silver lining to a sucky situation).

So maybe sometimes summer isn't delicious pool days and backyard BBQs and movie nights. It's not determined by school years or months on the calendar anymore. I had to make my own summer, and I will continue to do so, dammit, until I'm shivering in my shorts and flip flops.

Falling in Love...with Football

It was almost fall the other night. I could taste it. Literally.

The hand-picked apples were simmering in their sugar and cinnamon syrup- turning just soft enough to be wrangled into a rose-shaped pie. JUST BECAUSE. The turkey breast was crackling in our stove and I smiled because I finally finally figured out how to best utilize this weird contraption called a bottom burner. Our potatoes were cooked to Eccles' home perfection- soft inside and crunchy outside, the closer to french fries the better.

These homegrown beauties soon became...

Don't be fooled, this isn't as difficult as it looks. Just time-consuming!

The pup was weaving her way through my legs, her small fuzzy body tickling my shins. She looks less scruffy after a shave and a bath, a mohawk trailing down her spine to match Mr. E. He's in the living room just behind me doing his best to multi-task: one eye on his boiling ears of corn, the other on the Colts and Broncos game. We've never splurged for cable, and this isn't even on for love of the game. 

It doesn't matter who's playing, what the score is or who just grabbed that touchdown- football is the sound of fall. Listening to Al Michaels and my mind instantly hits calm. When I was at my first quarter of college and away from home for the first time ever, anxiety hit me so bad I wanted to roll up in my bed and cry, trying not to hit my head on all my open textbooks. But my roommates were out and supposedly the TV was available to all so I tuned in to Monday night football and the calm that washed over me was instant. The soundtrack to my perfect days.

I barely even watch the games. It's on in the background, a soothing sound of whistles and 10 second sound bites, of cheering and announcements. "The best this season" and "Offsides, number ninety-four". Baking is easier, more focused when I can half-tune into NBC. Tidying is quicker when I'm sneaking glances at the latest commercials for game day feasts and tail-gating Americans.

We may have woken in the middle of the night to heavy humid temperatures this week and used the air conditioning more than we ever have before, but every few days when we wake up the sky is a grumpy gray and the mountains behind us are shrouded in fog. It's not cool yet, but it's coming. I felt gypped out of our sweater weather last year thanks to an 80 degree Christmas, but I have high hopes for the coming seasons.

The view from behind our building

In the meantime I'll be grabbing the last of the summer produce and freezer-jamming myself silly in an effort to preserve sunshine in a PB and J.

This is the most delicious apricot-cherry jam I've ever had. Or made.

Chinatown

One thing I certainly didn't expect to happen was how social Mr. E and I become once we moved to Los Angeles. We both prefer to hermit ourselves away at home, tinkering with our books and movies, but there is just so much to DO in LA we'd be remiss if we didn't enjoy it all. But sometimes the hanger takes over and you just can't enjoy yourself without food.

That's how we ate Greek fusion pitas at the Chinese New Year Parade in Chinatown.

We should have known that streets would be closed off- it was a parade after all. But we're new to this sort of thing and the streets of LA have a mischievous nature to them in the first place, full of hidden side streets and colorful expletives when you take the wrong turn. The tall buildings wink their bright windows at you in laughter and you quickly learn to avoid taking anything car-related personally.

The Catholic church we parked at was truly a haven in our time of need- both in (nearness) and in price. Any Angeleno will tell you that $8/day is an absolute steal. If we had lived any closer I would have parked our car their overnight on a regular basis. We followed the crowds down streets, around school buses, over and under bridges until we came to what we assumed was the end of the parade. The floats seemed sad and exhausted, more Mexican skirt-dancing children than dragon puppets and the ground was littered with the impressive aftermath of poppers and streamers.

We braved the throngs and walked single file against the current following the parade. I kept a firm hand on Mr. E's arm and a tight grip on my phone, trying to take pictures one-handed. I had never been to Chinatown and the shops beckoned with their foliage fronts and tiny animal cages. Would you like to buy a turtle? A song bird? Fresh vegetables out of soggy cardboard boxes? A knock-off bamboo hat, the only time Made in China makes you wonder if it's truly authentic.

We passed from restaurant to restaurant, feeling much like Mary and Joseph- driven by my midsection and turned away at the door. An hour wait was too long when you're surrounded with the smell of pork bao and chicken dumplings. The plaza was thick with people, but what struck you most of all was the color- the brightly painted walls and doors, the lanterns hung haphazard across roofs and bits of paper exploded periodically as late-comers paid $3 for a three-foot confetti cannon. I bought two buns and a donut-type confection covered in sugar and the size of my two fists, paid the young girl  behind the hastily erected table as she munched on an egg bun.

But a bun or two will never be enough to satisfy my husband's bottomless pit of a stomach and we were really intent on fully immersing ourselves in culture, but the day was long, the noise was loud and the food trucks were just so...available. They lined up like quaint little houses in the back alley, humming and whirring and emitting such lovely aromas you wanted to kidnap a food-truck-chef and bring them home because my kitchen is at least the same size so they wouldn't mind, right?

So we caved and congratulated ourselves on at least getting off the couch today, and look at all the walking we did plus food trucks are cheaper than Chinese sit-down restaurants. We munched our too-hot-pitas back the way we came, the streets quickly and forcefully being cleared of pedestrians so the street cleaners could hoover and sweep and spray all the litter away like it never happened, or maybe just happened last week. We held our noses past the bridge because the beginning and the endings always smell like pee- it's downtown, folks- and although we were really looking forward to seeing our pup again, we detoured to the church grounds because it demanded our attention in the setting sun.

And this is how I know my husband loves me most, because he'll suffer through an entire day on his feet, eat strange foods and watch strange people, tolerate the monster I become when I'm hungry and sit and smile as I sit in the passenger seat and sing my heart out, just so happy to have all of this.

On Why Lindsay Lohan Will Always Mean A Lot To Me

I made Mr. E sit through Mean Girls again- partially because he swore up and down he'd never seen it and partially because The Constant Gardner wasn't doing it for me. This may not be the best movie, but I think it has it's place as more than just a teenage comedy, mostly because it reminds me that I am sometimes a Mean Girl.

Is that awful?

I think that's the beauty of the silver screen. In a day and age where we are increasingly impatient, we receive our information in computer generated portions. Here's THIS commercial, read THAT billboard, listen to THIS ad before your next crazy cat video. It's all packaged and gift-wrapped to have the most appeal to us, the biggest impact. In this, movies are king.

For a short amount of time we're transported from our routine drudgery to a reflection of our own world. It's prettier there (or dirtier, depending on what you're watching) and stories wrap themselves up neatly into picture perfect endings. The myriad of characters we meet in our own lives are portrayed by beautiful people, boiled down to stereotypes and ambiguous life choices. We watch the story and we fall in love, or out of love, or rage or laugh or cry as we see fit and in the end- in a perfect world- we all learn the lesson we can relate to and we are able to face our lives once more.

Thus, I'm able to say with complete confidence that I am a Mean Girl. I'm also a Nice Girl and an Outgoing Girl and a Shy Girl, but mostly I'm just a Complicated Girl which I think everyone else may be, too. I don't fit perfectly into that Mean Girl slot, but I think that was the point of the movie. It was fed to you with fluff and comedy and so many high school tropes I could DIE (over-exaggeration was definitely present), but the message is so profound I wish I could sit my own kids down to watch it every day.

Judging others doesn't make me any prettier. It doesn't make me any smarter or any more successful than they are, it just makes me a big old ball of negativity. Maybe that's common sense or maybe you learned that lesson years ago, but I'm imperfect and I think I need constant reminding.

Especially when I'm confronted with the opposite message every. single. day. Magazines, commercials, even blogs can't escape the compulsion to show that enviously perfect snapshot. We're shown trends and fashions and diets and lifestyles to aspire to, disregarding all of the complicated ways we live our unique, individual, perfectly imperfect lives.

I need reminding that those lives may be pretty or organized or on-time and work for those people, but that's not my life. It doesn't reflect me or my values or the things that I want in my life. And sometimes, it takes an hour and thirty-seven minutes of watching high-schoolers cat-fight on-screen with perfect hair days and endless legs to remember that.

I can be a Mean Girl, but that's not all I am, either.

On How I'm Like JLaw...And You Could Be Too

We exited the theater like schoolkids for recess, a flutter of limbs as the audience scuttled out, reaching into jacket sleeves, holding doors, ambling our way through the dim hallways on our trek back to the real world.

My husband and our group loitered outside of the bathrooms as we waited for friends to weave their way through the Saturday night crowd. The atmosphere was tense between us as our minds raced to chew through what we had just seen, turning it over and over, absorbing all the last bits of interest and relatability.

There's a moment, right before the first person speaks, when we all hold our breath. We're waiting for the sacrificial lamb to start the slaughter, jostling each other, making eye contact as if we were penguins huddled on the cliff, pushing forward until the first bird fell in. Did we all feel the same way? How best to tell everyone- hyperbole? Graphic joke? Understated simplicity?

Movie-watching is a unique sport- it can be done both solitary and with others, but movie-experiencing is entirely personal. You can share the experience,  but it's still wholly your own, reflecting all the odds and ends and triumphs and heartaches and choices that make you different. Much the same way that books can stay with us, so too can movies. They're all stories, after all.

I didn't like American Hustle. I was so sure that everyone would agree. I felt that it was pretentious, unrelatable- the plot so labyrinthine that it was a wonder I could follow it. It was a nod to the visual film-making that I even knew what was going on. Don't underestimate the power of body-language, people. Or steadicam.

Instead, they gushed.

"So good."

"Wasn't that great?"

"Best movie of the year so far." A few titters- it's only January, after all.

"Not at ALL like the preview."

I frowned in confusion. Did we watch the same movie? Yes, I loved the actors too, and I could understand the guys enjoyed an eye-ful of the wardrobe (I think we could mold Amy Adams' chest with clay by memory, thanks), but it was much too long! How could you tell who was playing who when they were all playing each other?

Movies have always held a special place in my heart. I was practically reared on stories, both visual and textual. I could quote Star Wars on the playground and it only grew from there- so it was no surprise I fell in love with a man whose dream was to craft the silver screen. I live a little vicariously through him- after all, someone has to pay the bills. I enjoy being his sounding board, listening to his rants on the perils of 3D, learning from his experiences with story-telling and leading the audience. I was a part of that world in some small way and usually that's enough.

Until we're together with other film majors.

Suddenly my opinion feels glossed over. I don't "get" it. I didn't take those classes, I never sat in the editing bay going through dailies, I haven't worked 8 or 10 or 12 hour sets, so I couldn't understand. They try to be nice about it though, if not out of respect for me, then out of respect for my husband- that age old suffering borne by friends who endeavor to keep him out of the doghouse.

I realized that I was Jennifer Lawrence's Rosalyn, expertly hustled by those around me, mood swings and all. She was headstrong and naive, a bit of a bully in an effort to adapt to her circumstances, and often kept ignorant, but in the end she was revealed to be an untapped resource. I may not be all of those things (or I am, depending on the time of month) but I knew how she felt, making the best of her situation in the only ways she knew how. They may not have been the best ways, but they were those that were available to her.

How often have I felt that way? How often have you felt that way? Capable and confident in your own sphere but patronized and dismissed with ease when you attempt to expand.

My difference in opinion about a movie doesn't mean that I'm stupid. It doesn't mean that I don't "understand" what's really going on or that I'm too dense to read past all of the fluffy dialogue to see what they're "saying". The more I tried to explain why this movie didn't work, the more I got tight smiles and incredulous stares.

Adding my Voice to the Chorus

The story of advent, for me, is one of faith. Faith that that night would come. Faith that a Son would be born. Faith that the star would lead to something .  Faith that no matter what you've gone through or your current situation, it's all about making it to tonight.

I didn't grow up with advent in our home, so the lighting of candles and this period of immersive anticipation was a little lost on me. The only thing we anticipated was going to bed or wrapping those few straggling presents. We watched the movies and we sang the carols, but reflecting on the coming of the King wasn't present.

And that worked for a while. It's easy to get lost in the ways of the world, focusing on the busy-ness and the obligations. It's easy to lose yourself in the spirit of Christmas without ever touching the Spirit.

This year was different. This year was a chorus of voices, perspectives on the season that I had never understood before- studying and exploring scriptures I had never bothered to understand past face value. This is advent. The building of this foundation, this filter to which we can look through and see the true story.

That Mary didn't just bear the Son of God, people must have thought she was nuts. Her excuse was communication with angels? Or Joseph who must have struggled with a few doubts on his cross-country road trip with a very pregnant young wife.

But it's the wise men who mean the most to me. To me, they walked the ultimate walk of faith. They weren't Christians or Jews to believe in a Savior, but their faith brought them the Son of God tucked into a feeding trough in the most humble of beginnings.

That's Christmas. No matter your background or your beliefs, what you've endured or overcome or are still struggling with, it's the belief that your journey has an end worth traveling to get to.

Tonight as I'm struggling to find a talent for the family Christmas Eve Talent Show, or grabbing a few more stocking stuffers, I'll remember that my journey doesn't end here.

LOVED This Weekend

I'm still on the fence with how I feel about holiday blog posts- do I do them? Are they cheesy? Do I need to let the blogosphere know that I celebrated? When it really comes down to it, I'm too busy living in the moment, and I hope you are too.

Living in the moment by celebrating with family. Watching our dog get absolutely round with not-very-sneaky pieces of turkey.

Living in the moment by Black Friday shopping with my husband- someone who looks forward to the dirt-cheap movie prices (and actually affordable tools/electronics/clothing items) all year round. We cleaned out three stores by the time we were done!

Taking all of those extra calories, that impending sense of holiday dread and a wide open space on the couch, and putting them to good use...by sleeping for almost 15 hours on Saturday. Not my finest moment, but I feel great.

Finally, our Sunday tradition- hiking Griffith Park.

This weekend was one of endings and of beginnings, as well. Allow me to wax poetic a bit, here. National Novel Writing Month is over, and I wrote 10,000 words. All on one topic. I don't think I've ever done that. The goal was 50k, but heck, I wrote most of those words in the last few days- and now that I have momentum I'll be damned if I'm going to let the end of the month stop me. This story is going to be written, ya'll.

Finally, there's Voices in the Desert; a collection of writers/bloggers (including myself!) are writing about advent. We're responding to scripture and letting you, our readers, understand what advent means to us in our own words. I'm both excited and nervous to write about that, but mostly anxious- and isn't that the point?

 

Step Sixteen: Communicate Your Desires

This one seems sort of self-explanatory, right?

Except when can you find the time in your day to feed yourself, commute to work, blog, do the laundry and all the other myriad of daily, weekly and monthly tasks life has assigned you, much less communicate with your husband. 

Juggling life isn't always easy. But there was one thing that changed my outlook on how I deal with all that: you make time for what's important to you. Instead of saying "I would love to, but I'm so busy right now" try saying instead "I don't want to make time for that". 

Sounds a little different, doesn't it? 

That's really what it comes down to- there are cut and dried priorities in your life (going to work, paying bills, etc) and then there are things that are a little more loose (sleeping 8 hours a night, walking the dog, etc). 

Mr. E and I are in that awesome up-swing of marriage where the other person is top priority. The shoe will drop someday and we may forget all of our tips and tricks for staying happy with one another, but right now we focus on each other: supporting, enabling, comforting, communicating. 

We're far from perfect at this (good GRIEF would you just finish dishes one of these days!) but maintaining communication is paramount to getting what we want. After all, Mr. E doesn't always know what I want if I don't tell him.

Today I squoze squeezed fit in the Five Minute Friday word: Laundry. We're taking ours this weekend to my parents and avoiding that $11.50 charge.

Write #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

I write in fits and starts these days. Time seems to be slipping away from me when before I was drowning in it. It seems like it's feast or famine over here.

This is supposed to be the start of it all. This is the beginning of our real lives, our adult lives, our lives that don't revolve around school or splitting our focus on things that are more or less mandatory but holding us back from what we want to do.

And then the realization hits: I'm holding me back from what I want to do.

I want to be an employee not a temp. I want to help on movie sets and craft all of my Christmas presents for my friends and remember to take the dog for her walk everyday. I want to lose weight and I want to sleep in and I want to write like my life depends on it. I want to have kids.

But you can only pick two of these things (maybe three) and I'm taking the bits of me that are falling to pieces and sowing them in fields far and wide to see what grows. I'm working on my job like my sanity depends on it (because I think it does) and that leaves a tiny sliver of space, a crack, an opening for my words and my thoughts and my voice to thrive.

I'm writing.

31 Days of Blogging: How to Get Your Husband to Do What You Want

The Nester's 31 Days of Blogging is here! I wrote what I know best...

I have a rockin' relationship with my husband. I'm not bragging and I'm not comparing (though we'll get to that later)- it's just the God's honest truth. I'm crazy about Mr. E and I'm not afraid to say it. Or blog about it. I think it's sort of evident, though, when we have friends ask us how we do it. In truth, it's a little embarrassing to hear people "want" a relationship like yours. We're human, too! We have fights and arguments and problems just like anyone else! But what is it that makes us so special? Why are we the poster children for a great relationship?

Because I've figured out how to get my husband to do what I want.

This sounds crazy. Downright impossible.
First of all, this implies control or domination of some sort that isn't actually present between my husband and myself. There's no pants-wearing, no exclusive shot-caller. This isn't about orders or rules.

Second of all, husbands are not machines. This isn't some month-long rant about secretly gaining the upper hand in your relationship, or manipulating your significant other to your every whim.

I am not an expert, but I think I've been advised enough times by countless married, unmarried, living together, "it's complicated", significant other-d couples to know a thing or two about what works for us. And may work for you. These are words of wisdom as interpreted by myself...and my husband.

This isn't perfect. This isn't fool proof. But I firmly believe that this a start to encouraging a relationship between partners...in other words your husband will do whatever you want.

Step 1: Choosing the Right Partner
Step 2: Fostering a Positive Environment
Step 3: Indulge Him
Step 4: Hold Your Horses. And Your Temper. But Not That Knife.
Mr. E on How He Does What He Wants
Step 5: Accept Blame
Step 6: Choose Your Battles
Step 7: Show Him Some Love
Step 8: Be Frank (But Mostly Yourself)
Step 9: Leading By Example and Pulling Your Own Weight
Step 10: Avoiding Comparison
Mr. E on Service
Step 11: Don't Set Him Up to Fail
Step 12: To Get You've Got to Give
Step 13: Bribery
Step 14: Make Him Choose
Step 15: Change What You're Asking For
Step 16: Communicate Your Desires
Mr. E on How Cooking is Good for Your Relationship
Step 17: Timing is Everything
Step 18: Be Honest (?)
Step 19: Politeness Isn't Just for Strangers
Step 20: Ask, Don't Tell
Step 21: Short and Sweet
Step 22: Stop Trying
Mr. E on Balancing Work and Home
Step 23: Love Languages
Step 24: Are You Focused?
Step 25: Some Things to Not Do. No Matter How Tempting
Step 26: Know Your Limits
Step 27: It's Okay to Fight. Just Do It Fairly.

True #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

"Your turn."

The girl from 501 smiled shyly. She ran her fingers through her touseled hair and picked at something sticking to the bottom of her shoe. She sat directly opposite the red emergency light and it lit her face like fireworks.

"Okay. Um..." She held up one finger. "I've broken every bone in all of my major limbs." She held up a second finger. "I had a one night stand with a Harry Potter film star." She smiled and held up her third finger. "I can brush my teeth with my toes."

The other girls tittered. They sat cross-legged, leaning against the mirrored walls, everyone sharing a Nutrigrain bar one of them found in their purse. The air felt close and muggy.

"Eight-oh-eight. You're next."

Their eyes were bored and curious at once. This was the fifth game in as many hours.

She took a deep breath.

"I know how to skin and de-bone a rabbit in two minutes."

There were a few gasps.

"I have built a natural resistance to most man-made poisons."

They started to exchange looks with one another. In the dim light, their eyes seemed huge, their features unnaturally sharpened.

Now that she had their attention, she whispered.

"I rigged this elevator to fall in three...two....one."

The lights cut out and the girls started to scream.

That Time I Was Almost A Receptionist (Again)

Job searching is something I'm very good at. That doesn't mean I get all of the jobs, it just means that my internet-scouring skills are put to good use (finally).

I've been tip-toe-ing around with a company; phone-tagging and emailing back and forth. I thought there was something, but then they'd wait a week before responding and I would beat myself up about hoping and apply to more jobs that I didn't want. Then they'd reach out with something vague and insubstantial (1 of 4 phone interviews, anyone?) and I'd find confidence in the very tips of my fingers and then...nothing for another week.

It drove me batty.

Literally insane.

I wanted to get out of this house. I didn't want to spend money.
I wanted to be doing something productive with my day. I wasn't getting any calls back.
I wanted a job in my field. I wanted money to pay bills more than that.

I think we hit the point where Mr. E was afraid to come home because of my dark abysmal moods. What was wrong with me? Why wasn't I hearing from anyone? Was I over-qualified? Under-qualified? I was willing to work at Michael's. At Starbucks. Just give me a freaking shift and I'll blow you away with my work ethic.

So when after all of the final interviews with this company, I still hadn't heard from them- despite a sweetly worded email inquiry- it was time to move forward. Right? Craigslist, of all places, came through for me: a receptionist/ sterilization technician position at a local orthodontics office.

This I could do. Would I enjoy it? Sure. Would it be fulfilling? Probably not. It was part-time and it was minimum wage and would not cover ANYTHING, but it was a job. So I applied. And I interviewed. And I tested and I passed and they wanted me to work a few hours in a "working interview" which really meant they were training me.

Mr. E was ecstatic. Heck, I was ecstatic. After researching the price of scrubs and setting my alarm clock for the first time in two months, I went to bed a happy woman. And then I sat there a very very stressed woman because this was not enough. I knew it, but it was all I had and you have to build on something.

But when it rains, it pours and three hours into training I got the call that I got the job. The first job, the coveted job. The job that pays more than twice as much as minimum wage and is full-time to boot. The job that is fulfilling and productive and no where near anyone's braces.

That's how this sweet people-pleaser turned from her phone to her almost-co-workers and let them know quite decidedly that this was not going to work out but thanks so much for the training and the coffee.

She #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

It’s a Tuesday.

She always wore red on Tuesday

She had little pig tails tied with little red ribbons

That flopped as she ran to catch the morning bus

Her bright red backpack bounced with each step

She was always so curious

She asked why some stars were brighter than others

Or where snails bought their shells

She was too curious

She saw a cat laying in the street

And ran quickly to see if it was alright

The cat was wearing red too

Red spilled out from the fur and onto the gravel

The neighbor never watches where he drives

No more Tuesdays

No more curiosity

No more red

This week was written by Mr. E!

Maniac

The problem with apartments in this city, she had come to find, was that no one cared about anyone else. Sure, they made the appropriate offers to help move in or walk the dog while you're away, but for all they know, you could be just another relative helping yourself to the couch. Except she wasn't.

The door had failed to latch, the way it did 7 times out of 10, but who was counting? She was, of course. She had to. Home theft sure beat working minimum wage.

She watched them for weeks, learning the comings and goings of the young couple. They had a tiny dog. They both worked, she left first, he did after. Weekends they went for day trips- probably visiting family or friends. They took the pup with them and that took care of the only alarm system they were likely to have.

Walking in was like satisfying an itch too long unscratched. She took it all in: the humble seating arrangements, the thrifted couch, the handmade throw. At first it looked like they didn't have much, but then there was the flatscreen, the computer system, the Bluray collection...they scrimped to spend on other things. Time to get to work.

She knew to start with the bottom dresser drawer and work your way up and don't waste your time closing anything. To grab all of the jewelry first, validate diamonds later. To always keep a handful of Jehovah's Witness pamphlets in your purse- so when you case a house you have an alibi. To check the Holy Trinity: the dresser, the entertainment, the portable electronics.

She unslung her duffel bag and zipped its mouth as wide as it would go. She eyed the TV and decided it was too cumbersome, but the game consoles were money in the bank, adapters and all.

Closer inspection of the shelves revealed nothing but gold leaf, the trendy accent color of LA home decorators. Amused, she turned, searching for...chevron. In the kitchen. Of course.

She never bothered with desktops since they were much more complicated than the eight minute average she allowed herself. In, grab, out, was her second rule. Leave the passwords and the PINs to the pros. But the iPod charging under the desk? Money in the bag.

A few steps to the bathroom (once again thanking the tiny floor plans of the city's elite one bedrooms) and the medicine cabinet was hers for the taking. She hummed softly under her breath as she swept the orange tubes into her bag. On a wire between will and what will be...

In the bedroom she caught her breath, then let it out in a long slow sigh. Crap.

There, on the dresser- the first place any respectable thief zooms in on- was a tiny pile: folded fabric, a black and white photograph, a bow.

She picked up the cardstock, careful to avoid smudging the glossy surface. The curve of his forehead, a tiny snub nose and perfectly shaped lips. The onesie underneath proclaimed "Studmuffin" with a tiny muffin cartoon flexing biceps.

Debating one moment more, she upended the duffel onto the bed; plastic thunking and pills clattering all over the perfectly folded duvet. She let herself out, taking care to check the door.

Her number one rule? Don't steal from kids.

Mercy #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

"Look, Michelle, I've told you what I expect from you. It's up to you, now. Make the right choice," he said with a smug tone from behind his mahogany desk. The lamps were dim and the room smelled of expensive aftershave- the kind that made her first trimester all the worse.

"We can't possibly get the goods to you that fast! I need time- I need more people! You have to give me something!" she pleaded. She snuck a glance at the clock. Four more minutes. She just needed to stall for four more minutes. 

He regarded her quietly before heaving himself to his feet- all three hundred pounds of him. He unfolded his pocket square, patted his neck, and casually folded the small piece of linen back into his breast pocket before his mouth turned into a sour sneer. 

"I could have reported you the minute I knew what you were up to, Michelle. But I didn't. Think about that. Think about that before you tell me what you can and can't do."

"That's not mercy, Nic, that's blackmail. You of all people should know the difference," she spat at him. And began to walk backwards. You never turned your back on Nic.

Then--WHAM.

The look on his face as the SWAT team sent the doors flying open was one she would tell her children for years to come. 

Color Me Happy

I can divide the years of my life into colors.

When I was young, before any siblings, my color was shadow gray. Dark corners and cloudy skies, hallways and bedrooms and closets with very little light. My memories are unfinished and rough around the edges, like I'm straining to see too hard inside my head.

Then my brother and sisters came and we were all color-coded. Those were my purple years- down jackets and Easter baskets and lidded cups at grandma's house. Everything was some shade of violet or lavender or plum. I'm not sure if I ever truly liked purple or if I just stuck to my guns- a slip up of some sort that I was too embarrassed to correct. I have always been conscious of pleasing others but my assumptions of what was right weren't always true to myself.

I stepped away from purple for black. I found eyeliner and Hot Topic, determined to fit myself into a mold I didn't understand. I assumed it had to be better than the boys and organized sports my blonde contemporaries enjoyed- neither of which I excelled at. I drifted in and out of degrees of black, trying to find myself. Instead I found others, bruised and damaged and alone. Black was transitional.

I hoped that high school was teal blue- the sort your girlfriends paint on your toes or the color of your favorite sweatshirt. It's the color that people notice you in and the one you wish your eyes were. In reality I was surrounded by brown. My hair, my eyes, my school colors, the scrub brush that surrounded our little island in the hills. I couldn't run away from brown but I sure tried- as evidenced by my bleached blonde bangs at 14.

College was yellow. Bright, vibrant, cheery. I thought if I projected a happy color on my surroundings then the anxiety I felt at not fitting in would be easier to forget. It worked after a fashion. Mr. E's house had butter walls and I let everyone know my future kitchen would be decorated in sunshine hues. And it is.

2011 was green. The color of new beginnings and growth and luck and our wedding. It's my little brother's favorite color and was represented in varying shades by all of my new extended family. It's the color of leaves through the windows and forever hills during road trips but most of all it's the color of Mr. E's bright eyes as we said "I do".

Last year was tangerine orange. A color to strike all other colors down. One that shouts and declares and uses exclamation points, dammit!, but it has a softer sherbert-y side too. The color of our first kitchen as a married couple and my favorite necklace. A color with moods and attitudes as changeable as I am.

Now?

Now we're blue. Blue blends in, it stands back. It's neutral enough to mix and match and feel our way to exactly what we want to be or do or say in our new lives. Blue is accepting and comforting and unassuming.
Blue is my springboard.
Blue is my gateway.
Blue is my starting point.

Worship #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

It was the first time in years that I had bought a dress for myself. It was white, with blue pinstripes and a huge navy blue bow in the back whose ties draped down much longer than needed. I was nervous about the exposed shoulders, though, so I bought myself a lacy white cover.

I walked on unsteady heels, clenching his hand tight, the 9 AM sun already making his glasses transition to shades. He smiled, a big skinny grin and my heart flip flopped. 

I was going to church for a boy.

We followed his mother in as she sashayed, petite and perfect. Then his father, a powerful presence with a one-track mind. The congregation mingled and hummed as I tried to sneak to my seat in the family pew, smiling blandly at all of the unfamiliar people. This had never been done before and I was rigid with nervousness.

He squeezed my knee before he got up. Perhaps he was trying to prepare me in some small insignificant way before he embarrassed me in front of all those people. You could have heard a pin drop. 

"There are two things I turn to when I am upset or frustrated. The first is scripture. The second knows who she is."

That's when the entire church turned in their seats and stared. At me.

Sorry about the duckface...YOUTHS.

Last #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

He sat down with a huff and tipped all of the pens onto the desk and proceeded to organize them by color: black to blue to red. This was the worst part of the night. The flourescents overhead gave him a headache by 7 o'clock and the constant driving back and forth from the office to the movie set didn't help either. But the fridge was stocked and he had finally adjusted his chair to the perfect resistance, so four more hours wouldn't hurt.

"Hey," Jen whispered. "Hey, you!"

Dan cocked his head and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The production office was nearly empty and he was pretty sure he was the only guy in the building. Their eyes met and Jen frantically gestured with her free hand as she reached into one of her desk drawers.

He looked around at the hollow offices and empty chairs. They were supposed to be waiting for the call from set to let them know when shooting was over, but someone always forgot. The last item on the end-of-the-day checklist. *He glanced anxiously at the phone, willing it to ring, beep, anything to avoid a confrontation with his supervisor. 

She grabbed what must have been keys since they jingled as she walked past his desk, tapping his chair on her way to the unused stairs. The production company leased the lower level of a five story brick building downtown, across from a Presbyterian church and a Starbucks- the lifeblood of America even in the city of dreams. Dan hung his head and followed her, certain she was going to let him know in excruciating detail all the mistakes he had made that day. The coffee without creamer? The 100 extra copies he made? The wrong size shoes he picked up for the props department? The movie business wasn't as easy as he thought.

He trudged up the steps after her, their sneakers scuffing in perfect tandem up five flights, but he stopped short when he reached the last step and the open door. Before him was a summer evening's paradise: a sky electrified with colors and clouds and the whole twinkling city before him. It seemed to stretch forever, melding at the horizon into the fading sun and beginning again as cloud formations built across the sky.

"Pretty snazzy, huh?" Jen grinned.

"Yeah...It's incredible."

"I have my phone connected to the landline- as soon as they call I'll get it on this so we don't have to go back downstairs." She shook her iPhone in reference.

"Do you do this every night?" he asked, turning slowly to soak in the 360 degree view.

"Every night in the summer. It's the only time that everyone's out of the office when the sun sets."

"Wow. This is great."

She fell into one of the plastic lawn chairs littering the roof. "Don't let today get you down. We all start as assistants- unless we're suck ups. We know where you've been, how you feel. This is one of the only jobs you can get fired for guacamole when the boss asked for nacho cheese. But things like this make it worth it."

"This and the movie, right?"

"Yeah, but sometimes the movie is a piece of crap. But you do it because it's what you want to do. Every project is a step. And every step gets you closer to where you want to be." She gestured to the chair beside her.

"Where do you want to be, Dan?"

*Soooo that was a little longer than five minutes. But once I started I couldn't stop. At least there was no editing! Go on, Greg. Find a spelling mistake. I dare you.

Small #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

Sometimes, when we speak, we substitute words. You learn synonyms (cinnamon) and antonyms in grade school and as you grow your list of interchangeable words does too. When you write or blog or essay the words come, sometimes rushing quickly onto the page and you're already on the next paragraph racing just to keep up. Other times it's a slow painful drip, agonizing over each word and use and connotation.

Sometimes we forget in our effort to use the best words, the most descriptive, the most appropriate, that our vernacular has caused words to evolve. And not always for the better. Just the other day Google approved a definition for "literally" as "figuratively". Who decided that one? Sometimes you need to go back to the starting word, the fundamental, and..re-start.

Small does not mean insignificant.
Small does not mean unimportant or overlooked or brushed aside. It is more than cute or handheld, more than little or tiny or lost in a sea of bigger (not better) things.

Small is a start. A place to grow. An unfurling, a contained self, a beginning.
We all start with small steps and lead ourselves to our personal achievements- big achievements because they're ours and we conquered them.

Small does not mean it wasn't enough. Small means begin.

Lonely #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

Thumping basketballs outside the window and down the street. Leaves swish and clack as the neighborhood dog walkers bustle through on their phones- taking even the most mundane and relatively stress-free activities to a whole new level. 

We're only a mile from the freeway and the constant hum of cars sings us to sleep at night and jars us awake in the morning. People coming and going, working and playing and existing within arms reach. A stone's throw to one of the most densely populated places on the planet.

And I'm here. Eyeballing picture frames (don't tell my husband) and stroking the puppy to sleep, her little pink belly marred and inked by a little blue incision. It's muggy in this apartment because we've closed the windows and the door. We've shut ourselves away from the world and we live content, minute to minute, enjoying the presence of each other after a long day away.