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Two stolen wallets.
One fire started in the prop closet.
One haunted auditorium.
Four hundred and fifty seven bippity bippity bops.
Fifteen fights in the cafeteria and the hallway outside my classroom.
One hundred and twenty lesson plans.
Two thousand students. One hundred and twenty of my own.
I love Steve Martin.
Do not stop believing in me.
Perhaps the thing which makes me wrestle with my sheets in the night time is the haunting truth that I hate being flawed. I am messy, and I would rather not admit to such a thing. I make mistakes. I do not call people back. I fail.
Certainly, this is no surprise to me, but I never want to approach and embrace the fact that imperfection rests on my skin and in my blood as the very air which surrounds me.
And yet, I am apprehensive to acknowledge the simple nature of my nature.
Fueled by some unknown impetus, my fingers have little to say, my mind even less. I became aware of something the other day. He stopped caring. In just a moment, I realized that I was insignificant and would most likely never be again. I will walk past the feeling of that moment, the heart break of knowing your worth to another human being.
A few months ago a young girl walked up to me, eyes filled with puddles of fear. She lost her father. Or perhaps lost sight of him for a moment as she ventured into the children’s area, filled with things which interested her more. I can understand how children get lost among rows of books. Eyes will wander, attention is arrested, and feet are filled with wanderlust for something a bit more interesting. She only walked a few feet from him, but when I found her, she seemed to be on the opposite end of the earth. I’d rather not turn this into a pithy Lucado devotion; so, I will simply say that we found her father. Infer as you please, but I must confess that my feet are tired.
Archie has not been in the store for a while. Sometimes I worry that I will see one of our older patron’s obituaries in the paper and have missed the opportunity to say goodbye.
I drove past an old crippled man walking in the rain. He had a look of determination uncommon to most men. I think perhaps my heart breaks for strangers because I realize I will never even know their names.
I still have plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. They still glow.
We never stand still. We are always walking. Our minds are always walking towards the ivory and gold and finite.
Reap and sow.
I give up on banana popsicles and back porches, but then I listen to Anis.
I cried at the end of You’ve Got Mail. I cried.
I cried?
Working at Fox and Sons Bookstore has provided ample opportunities to meet folk from good earth. I’ve also encountered people who’ve grown in the crack between a broken piece of cement in a driveway and the people who sprung up accidentally along the highway median. Do you understand what I am saying?
They all come, good earth and bad earth. They all go.
A woman toting a small suitcase on wheels used to frequent our store. Her skin and hair were scorched by the sun of August, and she was always strung out like a stiff sheet on the line in June. I noticed her suitcase first. Not because I found it odd one would bring luggage into a bookstore cafe, but the little rolly bag resembled Dr. Willard’s, which held the precious womans manilla folders and a green gideon gospel. I am unsure what the stranger kept in hers, most likely the entirety of her possessions. I can’t pity her for that. Sympathy, no. Envy, perhaps.
She came in one day with a half of a half gallon of milk and asked for a cup of ice and water. I always get a little irritated by people who ask for such a thing. “We do have water and cups on the bar.” However, I was new at that point and a little more patient than I am now, so I gave her what she asked for. After pouring a little milk into the cup and placing a lid on it, she drank it as her lunch, suitcases surrounding her.
Once, one a Saturday afternoon in September, she showed up and stood behind a tender hearted young man. I suppose they had a conversation that lead to him purchasing a sandwich for her. Bless my heart, I nearly cried. I don’t know really why I am telling you this story. She asked the young man if he wanted to share the sandwich. I am unsure what her reaction would have been if he had said yes.
She doesn’t even know I’m writing about her.
It is quite late.
I haven’t seen that woman in about five months. I haven’t seen that young man since he quietly past me in November; he didn’t remember me. I will never forget his face. Never is a long time. I will never forget her face.
I really love Edy’s Fruit Popsicles - lemonade and strawberry. Summertime is coming, and I am certain I will like them even more then. Perhaps she will return in the summertime, sunscorched and alive.
I can’t figure out which one is Tegan and which one is Sara.
Once upon a time I worked in a corporate bookstore…and by once, I mean my current occupation is bookseller/barista in the aforementioned bookstore. Justification: I studied theatre in college. Lame. I know.
Someone forgot to mention that the hunter green aprons which we are required to wear, covered in mocha and caramel stains, were attractive. Who knew men fancied the khakis colored ball caps worn by my cafe cohort? I surely wasn’t aware. Which is why I have been surprised by the number of requests for appearances outside of the workplace. I have a busy schedule buddies. I start the coffee pot at 10, watch The View (bless it) at 11, and enjoy a leisurely stroll on the treadmill somewhere between 12 and 1:30. I keep it tight. I’ve got plans. So when a customer asks if he can give me his phone number or hands me his email address or asks a coworker if I am available, I can do nothing but say no.
I do this politely of course, which is always terribly misleading because I don’t want to be rude. Truth is…even if I take the email address or smile as you walk away, in my mind I am anticipating the moment I can laugh about the gesture with my little sister. Perhaps this is how I am supposed to meet the men folk now that I am past my prime and graduated from North Greenville. Old maid.
Bless their hearts, old maids frequent our establishment regularly. Uncertain of what they purchased two months ago from another nameless coffee shop in a different state, they rely on our memories to recollect the drink they loved last decade. Of course it is truly helpful for me to list every drink we could possibly make, from the syrup to the milk to the caloric content, until they excitedly shout, “that’s the one.” We make the drink; it is never the right one. Bless it.
I fall in love sometimes, usually with little boys who have one syllable names and who choose to reorganize every coffee bag displayed at their level. I met a little boy a few weeks ago who knew how to spell his name. I asked him if he could show me, and prepared to hand him a pen and paper, I watched as he scribbled the letters through the air with pudgy fingers. No need for pen or paper. Elements insignificant in his mind, unnecessary and encumbering; he wrote in the sky. Perhaps I have too much paper and too many pens around me.
Without those things we would simply be required to tell stories in order to extend our history towards the future. Transposing words, exploring the insignificant, reinventing the ordinary through our voices rather than hands could be lovely. Archaic. Whatever. Children will not sit and listen to stories. No need to waste the leap frog learn and groove music table or the new creepy “i’m inside your head” elmo. We don’t have time for stories or lessons or synthesis. Did I mention my children are getting cardboard boxes? Good thing I don’t have children.
I forget about this situation sometimes. I have a bag full of letters and packages to send. I should work on that. I most likely spelled something wrong. I’ll fix it later. Goodnight.
She used to sing in every moment. Waking up to anything other than the melodies of her voice or the muffled growl of his lawnmower on Saturday mornings would have been odd. Now, the noises of crisp autumn mornings escape a reason for memory. I could not recall the last time I heard her sing-perhaps in the car, barely even then. Is it death that takes our songs? Pain? Too many people retaliate through lyric for me to believe music dissapears when one grows weary. We are all so different.
I bought new toothpaste today. Significant because of the brand I purchased. An militant crest user, I bought colgate today. I am certain I’ve used “crest with scope” since the ninth grade but the Dr. Sims, my golfing curly headed dentist, gave me a sample of colgate. I tried it. I liked it. I bought it. Change.
As simple as buying a new brand of toothpaste, this change thing. Explore. Choose. Experience. Change?
I am certain you assume I am about to launch into a lengthy diatribe about the change we can believe in, but I am listening to Horowitz play Chopin Ballade no. 1 and wouldn’t want to ruin it.
Bless it.
I have four less teeth, one new friend, and a new affinity for a Russian pianist who died nearly twenty years ago.
And I really like to sing “Bleeding Love” to Walter Sugarloaf, the hen.
The only reason I’m writing on this thing is simply because I can’t quite figure out how to write a blog on xanga anymore. I looked for a moment but quickly grew impatient with the new options. Who wants a cartoon of a pig on their blog? Really? I suppose I could have just danced around to everyones site leaving them various photos from ancient clip art. Perhaps xanga will be laid to rest.
So it goes.
As I was cleaning out my room for the twenty seventh time since returning home, I got overly excited about a bottle of tums. It was actually the off brand, anti acid relief tablets. You know, the multi colored kind that could easily be mistaken for candy until the chalky clump enters the mouth and one recognizes he or she isn’t eating anything from Willy Wonka. Anyway, I was really excited about the lost bottle. I bought it at Wal-mart last year. The memory is rather funny; suffering from heart burn, I opened it as soon as I yanked it off the shelf and chewed on about four. They made my trip to wal-mart more comfortable. So, maybe I’m getting old…or at least my body is moving towards the inevitable. So it goes.
These bones are twenty two years, and it is odd how I can already feel a stiffness as I lift myself from the green gingham chair after watching The View every morning. I really like Whoopi Goldberg, and if I were to ever have a television movie made about my life, I would request her membership in the cast. Does anyone really want a t.v. movie created about their life? Destined for late night airings on lifetime, the movies rarely receive any critical acclaim. I just googled “made for tv movie,” and subsequently found myself reading the history on wikipedia. Not interesting.
So this little transition I am experiencing currently has afforded me a bit of a quiet season. Not silent or stagnant, the happenings of my life are simply quiet, unless you account for the yelling I do from behind a barista bar. “4 Shot Venti Caramel Machiatto Upside Down.” What? I barely yell that anyway; I’m not very confident about that situation yet, but I have to be optimisitc. Learn in any classroom…yes. I don’t have the luxury of easily identifying positive professors in this new environment. They don’t sit cross legged behind a desk wearing sweaters and cuffed khakis. It’s all a process. It’s all the process.
And I’m a little overwhelmed by the number of candid wedding photographs, happycoupleholdthecamerauptwofeetfromourfacewithmyrighthandandsmile pics, and sonogram shots I’ve seen lately plastered on peoples facebook profiles. I suppose it is only overwhelming because these are my peers. Such different seasons for us all. Bless it.
Who knew that finding friendship locally was so tough. I’m not an introvert, but I’m struggling here. I can easily understand why people resort to bars and internet opportunities to resolve the little itches of loneliness that creep up one’s back. I am certain my current situation has much to do with the fact that most of my friends reside in South Carolina, one in Canada, others in Georgia, and wheverever else they might be. The phone can only extend so far….I miss the faces of dear ones. I am certain when I settle on which grad school to attend or other opportunities arise, I will quickly forget this rant and my woes will be cast away.
So it goes.
Well, it’s time to eat supper with my two best friends: Mom and Dad. No complaints there.
Poo-tee-weet
