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About kb

free spirit, lover of red wine, bacon, sushi, the ocean, and adventure. I work in the legal field, do freelance writing, and take care of children.

On Education, Gratefully

My word for 2012 has been “gratitude.” I have tried to be more mindful of the wonderful blessings in my life and express gratitude in all areas of my life. First things first: I have improved dramatically at writing and remembering to send Thank-You notes. I think that may be the only real deliverable; the rest of my gratitude practice has been solely in my own mind and heart.

As I’ve been crawling, inching, barely progressing on the series Breaking Bad, I’ve been reflecting on my own life, my own decision-making rationale, my gifts and support systems. Of course, the onslaught of gratitude and related emotions has been a refreshing reminder of how beautifully hopeful and heartbreaking life can be.

But the greatest gift I’ve ever been given was my education. From the age of three, I was enrolled in private, Catholic schools. While I realize that Catholic schools are a hot-mess of crazy (this is true), I also realize how valuable the emphasis on education is. I remember begging my parents – pleading my case every single year – to let me go to public schools. They didn’t.

I went to a Christian Brothers high school, but my real luck came from the Jesuit university I attended. The Jesuits are noted for their commitment to the education of the whole person. If there’s one thing I took away from my college experience, it was “solidarity.” While Loyola may not be known for their commitment to the betterment of Rogers Park (I think it’s a no-win situation, as far as land ownership goes, but on the plus side, the Loyola stop is in pretty good condition. and there used to be a Dunkin Donuts!), they’ve always emphasized service-learning and commitment to communities of all kinds, more than just their own student body.

My professors there were not all devout Christians, but they were all devout scholars and educators (give or take a few). One of my favorite professors was a women’s studies professor who taught some of my feminist theory classes. She was a devout Catholic, but freely admitted that as a woman, she had problems with some of the catechism. I so adored her commitment to her faith but her willingness to question it and call attention to its hypocrisies and flaws. It allowed me to see the Catholic faith in a new light, and for that, I will be forever grateful.

While attending Loyola, I lived in one of the most racially diverse neighborhoods in the city of Chicago, which is already a wonderful blend of everywhere. But that’s not the point, even though I will carry pieces of Rogers Park in my heart forever. The point is that my educational experiences have left me a more rounded, grounded, rational human being. I’ve traveled to Europe for a forensic trip because I was lucky enough to have the most badass forensic teacher (we had one of the only forensic science classes in the country at the time) ever. Loyola prepared me to open my heart and mind to the conditions in the townships in South Africa.

All of this education has left me curious, well-informed (mostly), and most importantly, someone who cares about the well-being of all human beings (solidarity, solidarity, solidarity, and so on).

Regardless of your religious views (trust me, I have plenty of opinions and don’t ever get me started about the current Pope), this article should give you hope for the future and hope that educations such as mine will continue to cultivate a love of learning in young minds everywhere:

By Carl Bunderson

Denver, Colo., Oct 16, 2012 / 03:03 am (CNA).- Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School based in Denver, Colo., has nearly doubled its enrollment in just one year by introducing a classical curriculum.

“This is something people want, and they’ve wanted it for a long time, and now it’s available,” principal Rosemary Anderson told CNA Oct. 10.

Our Lady of Lourdes is a pre-kindergarten through eighth grade school. The parish’s pastor, Monsignor Peter Quang Nguyen, had helped turn around a number of schools in the Archdiocese of Denver which had been in danger of closing. He was assigned to Lourdes five years ago.

When Msgr. Quang hired Anderson to be principal in 2010, the school was in “quite a bit of debt” and had only 104 students enrolled. That figure is 180 today.

The school’s capacity is 235 and Anderson believes that by the next school year, “we’ll have to start wait-listing kids.”

“The biggest problem when I came on was that everyone thought the school was going under. The attitude has changed…Now people know this place will be there, and their kids are getting a phenomenal education, and parents don’t have to worry that it will close in a few years.”

“I’m very grateful for Monsignor Quang’s support. None of this would have happened if he wasn’t completely on board,” she added. “We were right in this together.”

Anderson noted that classical education is meant to help students learn how to think, rather than merely teaching them “subjects.” The program at Lourdes school was inspired by 20th century author Dorothy Sayers’ essay “The Lost Tools of Learning,” and the work of Laura Berquist, who was involved in the founding of Thomas Aquinas College – a Catholic university in southern Calif. which uses the classical model.

“She’s a huge influence,” Anderson said, “she founded a homeschooling curriculum called ‘Mother of Divine Grace’ and is brilliant in the ways of classical education.”

The foundation of classical education is a set of three methods of learning subjects, called the trivium, which is made up of grammar, logic, and rhetoric.

Lourdes school will focus on the grammar and logic phases, and will introduce the eighth graders to rhetoric.

The trivium “happens pretty naturally” using the classical curriculum, and ideas of grammar and logic and integrated into the subjects taught to students: “it flows naturally from the way teachers are teaching,” Anderson expressed.

This year saw the hiring of five new teachers, in a faculty of 15 total. And out of those five, four have either had a classical education or taught in a classical school,  Anderson reported. “I brought in people who know what the vision is…they’re confident in how to teach” classically.

Anderson noted that the school drew in numerous students who had previously been schooled at home. Several homeschooling parents enrolled their children as this type of education wasn’t available before. “Now they know there’s something that will sync up with what they’ve taught” their children.

Several non-Catholic families have also come to Lourdes just for the classical education, Anderson said. She expects that group to grow as well, “because it’s a great education.”

Parents at the school are very invested in the classical model, which she “welcomes completely.” She pointed to the Catholic teaching that parents are the primary educators of their children, and that “we’re just here to help them.”

Anderson was encouraged to differentiate her school, and with the “support and knowledge”of Bishop James D. Conley – former apostolic administrator of the archdiocese – chose to follow this approach to education as a way of imparting to students the art of learning.

“The classical approach is Catholic, through and through,” said Anderson. While “other schools are doing great things,” “no other Catholic schools in the diocese are doing this yet.”

The school’s re-organization will be a three-year process. The first year, which is occurring presently, involves a re-vamp of the English department and the introduction of Latin classes.

Latin was introduced in place of Spanish because of its importance as the basis of all Romance languages. Students “logically process things better when they know Latin,” said Anderson. She pointed to high school freshmen who “test into honors French, without having had any French before, just by knowing the root language.”

Latin is important for the grammar stage of the trivium because its nouns decline, or change their ending according to function they are performing in a sentence. This helps students to better understand how languages work, and it is coupled with the memorization of poetry.

The second year of the school’s rehabilitation will consist of a renewal of science and social studies.

“We’re not necessarily changing the material we’re teaching, but how it’s given to the kids, which is a step away from dependency on textbooks,” said Anderson.

Students will be reading more primary sources for history, and in English classes, reading historical novels to tie-in with their history classes.

“All the classes are very intertwined. What they’re reading in English should correspond to what they’re learning in history, and in history should be able to carry over to the virtues they’re learning about in religion, so it’s all very integrated.”

Morgan McGinn is in her second year at the school, and teaches second grade. She discussed how the move to classical education has changed her teaching style.

“I have to read and discover knowledge on my own before I can share it with my kids…It’s definitely changed my teaching; I can’t just look at a book anymore and read the lesson, and be prepared for the next day.”

“I’ve had to almost flip everything I know about education upside-down to teach classically,” she said.

Her students are now “required to think more,” rather than having “the information they need to know fed to them.”

The holistic approach of classical education, meant to build up the whole person, translates to an emphasis on the fine arts. “We already had a great performing arts and speech department here…so that was already very integrated,” said Anderson.

The school’s music and performing arts teacher, Patricia Seeber, is a veteran of the school, having taught there for 13 years.

“The feel where we’re at spiritually with the kids, that we’re making that the most important part of the day, has shifted for the better,” she said.

“It just feels like they’re really responding to it in a great way.”

In keeping with the introduction of Latin into the curriculum, Seeber has added Latin hymns among the songs prayed at the school’s bi-weekly Masses.

“We raised the bar I think a step or two higher than a lot of schools do, and the kids really rise to the occasion.”

Lourdes’ classical education is meant to help the students realize their full potential “spiritually, intellectually and socially,” and help draw them to God through the true, the good, and the beautiful.

The parish’s maintenance director, Bryan Heier, reflected on Anderson’s leadership at the school, saying “with enrollment as high as it is so quickly, she’s doing something right.”

On the Big Steps, Thoughtfully

Post root canal, I drove home, gingerly lowered myself onto the couch, popped a pain pill and didn’t move. (It was glorious. I watched Breaking Bad and snuggled with the cat.)

I can’t chew on one side of my mouth (it was my chewing side! and my favorite tooth!) for the next month, so eating has been a horrific challenge that plagues me with terror. I called my dentist’s office to see about moving the appointments to get the tooth crowned, and she told me not to worry unless something really big comes out. Great. Now I keep imagining just spitting out bits of mangled tooth. (Graphic, I know. Sorry. I’m like the anti-tooth fairy right now. You want fuzzy images of happy fairies and shiny teeth and money? Ask my five-year old neighbor, who just lost her first tooth. Her view of all things teeth is rather rosy at the moment.)

I spent Friday in bed, covers pulled tight around me, as though nesting would speed the healing process. He drove up to lounge with me. I had gotten up to go get cupcakes and Thai food – pineapple curry, as usual, was the only thing that sounded good. The cupcakes were for him; he has a sweet tooth and who doesn’t love cupcakes? I hadn’t showered – didn’t feel like it – and was a general, grumpy, rumpled mess. I was grateful that he didn’t seem to mind.

Friday night was family dinner. Prior to receiving news that I’d be having the Great Root Canal Adventure of 2012 (and hopefully the only one ever), we’d been planning Friday date night around family dinner. The date night was going to be Mean Girls (he’d never seen it. Who makes it through life without seeing that movie?!), takeout, and Halloween gingerbread house decorating. Instead, it was a 4th date full of grumpy, medicated Katie and 14 members of her family.

Once we’d decided that he was going to come to family dinner (they’re casual affairs, nothing stuffy or overdone), I panicked. As I was throwing clothes around my room, he looked at me – amused, I hope – and asked, “What, you’ve never met your own family before?”

We stopped at Whole Foods (I’ve never been into the one by my mom’s house – I avoid Whole Foods at all costs: they’re pretentious, overpriced, and filled with ridiculous hipster/hippies that make me feel so inadequate and un-hip.) to pick up some bread to bring. He likes this olive bread and I picked out some fruit/nut grainy-looking loaf.

As it turns out, this olive bread is the most delicious thing ever. And now, I may have to brave the onslaught of self-loathing just to get to it. Maybe I’ll affect some sort of hipster swagger, and they’ll never know I’m not one of them. I’ll pay for the loaf, cock my head to the side, do that nod of universal cool, and bail. Once I’m safely in my car, I’ll breathe, open the bag and sniff the loaf of olive bread like Golem hoarding his precious. Totally worth it.

So we arrived, ten minutes late, just as everyone else was arriving. In the taking of the coats, I lost him for a few minutes. The first five minutes were rough for both of us. I was in my typical, “if I avoid it, it’s not really happening” mode, and he was overwhelmed. I get that. It was the fourth date. We’re talking about a step that usually doesn’t happen until you’ve been together for a while. A long while.

I have a thing about bringing guys home to meet my family. For me, it can be a total deal breaker. My family is a big part of my life, and if I’m with someone who can’t handle that, then I’m forced to re-examine my relationship. I’m serious, it’s been the final straw for a few relationships. I need someone who’s not just going to stare at his plate and check his phone, wishing he was somewhere else. I need someone who’s going to engage and be fully present.

As far as I’m concerned, he knocked it out of the park. My uncle, whose opinion is very important to me, pulled me into the kitchen at one point during the meal and said, “This one’s a keeper. We want someone just like him. Even if he’s not the one, you’re on the right track.” It was so nice to have such strong validation.

He talked, he ate, he was generally adorable. He later told me that he was terrified going into it, but that he had a great time, loved the family, and wouldn’t have chosen to spend his night any other way. He told me, jokingly, that he hoped that they liked him because they’re going to be seeing a lot more of him. That made me happy. Really happy.

I met his friends last night. I drove down to him (an hour away) and got to see his office (!!) before we met his friends for dinner. I was nervous (I had no right to be, I was meeting one couple and he had just met 14 people), but they were wonderful. It was a really great evening, although it ended too soon because I had to drive back to Denver to sleep before work this morning.

So, things are moving quickly. But we’re being reasonable and rational. There’s plenty yet to come, and plenty of big things that haven’t happened yet. I know that jumping into things is my specialty, but this feels different. This feels somehow familiar. My mom commented that she felt like he’d been there before. I agree. This is so new, but it feels like forever. We’re on the same page. And I like it.

The Halloween card he mailed me didn’t hurt, either.

(You can all go vomit up love emotions now.)

On Apprehension and Draft Emails, Nervously

My boss comes into my office. “I can tell you’re nervous,” he says. I am nervous. I imagined that root canals were for the very elderly, not 24-year olds who haven’t even had a cavity in years. He tells me to ask them for something to calm me down. I tell him I would have asked earlier but was afraid to look like a drug-hound. He laughs. “You’re going to be fine,” he says, and then directs me to listen to my body and ice and heat as needed. He gives me pain management tips. My stomach curls at the thought of waves of pain. I’ll be fine. I’m tough.

I’m cleaning out my email drafts. One of them says, “There’s a tribute to Queen playing at the Bluebird tonight! Why are we not going?!?!” There are videos of me bungee jumping from the Bloukrans Bridge in South Africa; there are pictures of the bridge to nowhere over the M3 near James’s house in Tokai; there are unfinished graduate school entrance essays, emails to my friends with now-unnecessary life updates, itineraries for trips I’ve not yet gotten around to taking – although apparently winter hot springs features quite frequently in my future life plans.

There are Death Pool updates and spreadsheets, articles I’d like to blog about but haven’t, and tons of empty emails, conversations started but nothing said. It’s the ultimate “never mind.” I did, however, make some new inbox labels in an attempt to organize. Here’s hoping that sticks.

On Life, Progressively

Apparently, adulthood happens all at once.

This week we entered into contract to purchase a house. This means that I may soon own land. (Scary thought, right?) Five hours prior to submitting the offer, I was apathetic about purchasing a home. I looked at the first one on our tour and inwardly sighed at the lack of emotion I felt. But at the second one, I knew.

Within reach, reasonable, adequately outfitted, and bearing the charm of a time since past, the house is the perfect blend of what Mike and I both need. Bedrooms with no shared walls. 2 bathrooms. New appliances in the kitchen. A washer and a dryer! A basement. A garage. A yard. Chill backyard space. We’re thrilled, but cautious. There is much that could go wrong yet. But until then, I’m dreaming of a hammock and Mike is planning his zen garden and we are content.

Amid that excitement, I will also be enduring my first root canal tomorrow. Joy. I broke a tooth many years ago and it’s been annoying me ever since. I went, they poked around, they proclaimed “Root canal!” and scheduled me. They’re concerned that it has a crack in it, which would mean that I’m in trouble….

The guy I’ve been seeing offered to drive down and take care of me, but I imagine I’ll be in a hellish mood, and I’m not entirely sure I’m prepared for him to see that. I’m on a pedestal now, and grumpy Katie is certain to change that. You don’t come back from grumpy Katie. You’re forever altered. I don’t want that. Not yet.

On All Intents and Purposes, Intensively

Last Friday, anticipation of our second date sang through my blood, mingling with the terror of an upcoming professional experience: my first trade show appearance. It’s simple: you go, you haul a booth, you set up said booth, then you stand in front of it (or off the side, angled close enough to be attached yet far enough away that you’re not blocking the text that you’ve so carefully crafted) and smile and answer questions about your software.

So I went. I struggled over what to wear, but decided on a loose tweed skirt, black tights, black cardigan, black flats. (Black flats were the best choice. I’m tall to begin with, and wasn’t in the mood to have my double-jointed ankles falling all over the conference.) It was perfect. I looked professional, appropriate, and blended in exactly as I wanted to.

We set up our booth. The attendees wandered through the hall. I smiled. I networked. I talked about legal software and more legal software, and I was happy. I was comfortable, the nerves were gone. At one point, an attendee came over to my table and told me that she wasn’t interested in legal software, but she thought that I was absolutely beautiful. I glowed with pleasure at the unexpected compliment. I love that legal administrators are the friendly grandmother type. It eased the nerves. Now I am one hundred percent sure I can take on lawyers, which I’m surprisingly not intimidated by at all. (That may or may not be a lie.)

It was a good day.

***

But date night was even better! Second date nerves had me throwing things all over my room, unsure of what to wear. I googled it, and one of the results said that I should have worn jeans and a cute top on the first date then upped it to a dress on the second. I rolled my eyes. In the end, I was cold, so I decided on skinny jeans, combat boots, and a gray sweater.

It was cold, dark, and snowing. I was late, but only because he was early. We ate sushi at the place by my house, and I found myself chattering nervously. After dinner, lulled into our first real extended silence, I swirled my water around in my glass and looked up at him. “Can I tell you something?” he asked. Then he told me that I terrify him, but in the best way. He compared me to a t-rex. I raised my eyebrows. Smart man that he is, he quickly assuaged my fears that I somehow resemble a lizard-like – worse, prehistoric – predator. The opposite, in fact. He is under the impression that I am radiant, intelligent, and wonderful. I’m not going to complain.

I told him about my errand-rule: you can tell a lot about a potential relationship by running errands. If doing lame but necessary things together is enjoyable and positive, then the relationship has a better chance of surviving. As it so happened, he needed to run some errands in preparation for Halloween. I was overjoyed, of course, since I find the idea utterly romantic. (Yeah, I get that it’s weird. Whatever.)

Our third date was on Sunday – a day date complete with errands, pure heaven – and it started off with bagels. Then it was off to Target in search of Halloween decorations. Since he commutes for our dates, I drove. Oh god, my car! He saw my car and didn’t leave me right then and there, so that’s got to be a good sign. We drove, and when he didn’t say anything. I started to breathe again.

Pulling into the Target parking lot, he asked me, “Have you ever seen 50/50″? I said no, but I knew what he was going to say. The car scene. Long story short: The guy gets into the girl’s car and it’s got stuff all over the floor. She’s talking and he’s like, “Pull over,” and she does, expecting him to get sick, but then he grabs stuff off her floor and goes to throw it away. She stops him and retrieves her dinner from the pile. It’s cute. When Katie first told me about the car scene in the movie, she ended the story with, “There’s still hope for us!” meaning that someone would still love us even though our cars are messy. She was right.

After two different Targets (when you need a furry spider with orange lights for your wall, you NEED a furry spider with orange lights for your wall), plenty of Halloween decorations and a pair of socks, and a viewing of the movie “Frankenweenie” – during which I cried twice because dogs and kids get me every time – we found ourselves in City Park, wandering.

City Park fall

Autumn in the park is beautiful. He gets credit for this photo, since I am nowhere near that talented a photographer. I wish he’d gotten one with my actual smile instead of my satisfied-but-haven’t-yet-broken-into-a-smile smile. But alas, the more I look at this picture, the more I like it.

This feels different, but in a good way. It’s intense and familiar. I know that I’m prone to leaping into things with both feet, but this is something I’m simultaneously leaping into and dipping just one big toe into. I want to make sure it’s right before going any further, except the more we discuss, the more I find we share. I am examining our motives for seeking out the companionship of another, questioning everything, basking in the newness of it all, and glowing, for no reason other than sometimes you just need to let the light through. The only way to know if it’s right is to forge on and build fierce memories. Fierce, like a t-rex.

On Whom, Frustratingly

I’m terrible at the word “whom.” It sounds so sexy and dignified, but in real life, I panic and do what everyone else does and use “who” instead. I guess I could just start throwing whoms around to see what happens, and then laugh it off like I was trying to be an ironic hipster Millennial when I get called on it.

So this article from The Economist was well-timed. I love watching language evolve….but not always: somewhere on the internet, I read a homework forum where a student asked about interpreting a passage and said that he couldn’t understand it because it was written in Old English. The passage in question was written in the early 20th century.

On Googling, Selfishly and Nostalgically

Oh man, the googling yourself business is bound to unearth a mountain of information. For me, who has lived in some form or another on the internet since I was 15, I have links. Some of those links I am entirely proud of and some I’m not.

For example, a video of me during the weird Charlie Sheen internship competition has been archived somewhere that’s not YouTube. I guess I’ll have to write to them and tell them to take my idiotic rambling offline, so that the four people who would ever stumble upon it can save themselves a few minutes of wasted time and me some cringing. (I’m cringing now – the preview image is me frozen, mid-sentence, doing air quotes and baring my teeth with both eyebrows raised. Oh dear.)

I remember starting a project to move my own pieces of actual writing from my hidden medium so that they might preserved in a more public place (and also removed from the endlessly amusing drivel of my adolescence) and never finishing it. In all fairness, three-plus years of nearly constant teenage secret internet diary writing is really hard to parse out into “decent” and “what the hell?” and the seventeen other categories such as “melodrama,” “bemoaning,” “possibly insanity or maybe just hormones,” “naiveté,” and “solid insight, way to go Past Me!”

Anyway, this all came about because of the Google – you should always Google yourself. It’s an anticipatory move, like placing a rook in front of your king when the queen is closing in. It buys time, or at least admits knowledge of eventual defeat. But at least you see it coming.

That date you may have read about? He writes. People who write are insanely attractive to me. People who write intrigue me. People who say, “I don’t trust someone who doesn’t have divorced parents,” also intrigue me, because I agree entirely. There’s a unique element of human experience ingrained in the psyches of products of divorce that is so understated and unquantifiable and yet absolutely real. But that’s another story entirely.

Now that he knows my full name, I imagine he’ll stumble upon some internet trace of me at some point. I’m curious as to what conclusions he’ll draw.

So I began a preemptive Google search of myself and was immediately distracted by my own stuff. It’s like cleaning my room. I never get very far because I’m like, oooh, haven’t seen that in a while! and then proceed to spend the next hour messing around with whatever it is I’ve just found, and then whatever I find while I’m doing that….two weeks ago I found pictures, and then a photo album, and then decided to make a scrapbook. Why? Why would I do that? That’s ridiculous and even I knew it. But I persevered, long enough to get to the store where I promptly forgot to buy the glue I’d need. The project was then abandoned in favor of newer and better distractions.

But mostly, the itsy bitsy bit of narcissist that lives inside me wanted an excuse to go back and read her own writing, because I’m one of those publish and bail people who rarely reviews their own work. (It’s problematic, possibly repetitive, and I miss out on a lot of awesome stuff.) So, for your reading pleasure, bits of previous posts that made me smile, made me think, or made me cringe (lots of cringing – when I feel something, it’s all or nothing, and the all is intense):

“In Memoriam (Part One)” – [note that there is no part 2] – posted 2010 or earlier

I spent three hours today pretending you were dead. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll spend four.

I sat on the bus, riding through your neighborhood, and hung my head in imitated sorrow. I bought a flower from a man with a cardboard sign. It cost me a dollar. I paid him in change. I walked through the gates of the cemetery and wandered until I thought I’d found you. I laid the flower there, squeezing my eyes, staring into the sun.  No tears came. None would come if you died, I think.

A woman there sat silently, kneeling on a grave, her arms across the headstone, silently weeping. I left, because I knew my fraud was nothing compared to her genuine sorrow.

On the way home, someone asked about the ring you’d once given me. I told them I was recently widowed. Me, a war widow, imagine that.

You were late to work, I could see that. The 147 flew by you, running next to me. For an instant, I thought to stretch my hand to find you, but then my hand hit glass and I snapped back. Good thing you were never fast.

All the mourning made me hungry. I ate at that cafe we pronounced “quaint.” I called it delicious today and you weren’t there to argue when I used three packets of jelly for two pieces of toast. I drank my coffee black, just the way you said I never would. I hated it.

There were no messages on the machine, except one I skipped yesterday from a wrong number. Those always are the best, I think. Of course dead you couldn’t call me, I was stupid to think you might’ve.

But they say that dead men tell no tales. What tales would you have to tell me? What did you do today? Probably nothing.

Maybe something.

I’ll never forget you, but that’s not a good thing. I’m not going to smile fondly when I see the mailman who told us we would have beautiful children. I’m going to wretch violently and drink hard liquor.

You’re dead to me. I hope your life, or what is left of it, is a miserable cloudy place full of misery and pain. That’s what you made mine.

“Good Intentions” – October 14, 2010

“You’ve always got one foot out the door,” she said.

She was right.

I’ve got nothing but good intentions

But somewhere along they line

I always seem to lose them.
I dig in empty pockets, feeling only lint and cotton.

And then it all goes to hell, always.

Can’t give it up when I should,

I put it off, waiting for divine interventions that don’t exist.

It’s usually too late for help anyway,

Half drunk on the pure adrenaline of new, I let go.

Push off and fly, a fire suddenly ignited.

I’m afraid to look back.
I don’t want to see your face.
I don’t want to watch you watch me let you go.

It’s the same ending every time.

And even now, I tell myself,

“It won’t happen again.”

This time will be different.

I’m another kind of addict,

The kind that gets away with it.

No scars, no marks, just scattered bits of hearts

and sharp shards of pretty memories lying around.

They hit me now and then.

You and me, or he and I,

His shirt, his song, his smile,

They’re all a part of me,

That nasty fabric I’ve woven for myself.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions

But this isn’t hell.

This is here.

“Stand Off” – 2010 [I love this one. I had forgotten about it.]

She’s sitting on his couch, twirling her limp bland hair between her fingers, playing with it, rolling it around, twisting it, holding it up so she can look for split ends.
He doesn’t know what a split end is.
She smokes a cigarette, inhaling sharp little drags. She holds them for a moment, then releases, a slow exhalation of gray smoke.
He smokes one too, lighting it off the end of hers. He takes long, thoughtful drags, intent upon inhalation. He exhales quickly.
They don’t speak, there’s not much to say.
Things left unsaid? you wonder.
She sighs.
He doesn’t understand what her sigh might mean, doesn’t want to understand. That would require time spent thinking. It’s not high on his list. Asking her isn’t any good either. She’ll just roll her eyes at him and look away, wanting him to ask again, to want to know. He doesn’t want it enough to bother. She doesn’t care enough to try to explain without making him work for the explanation.
It’s simple, really.
She walks to the kitchen and fills a glass with tepid city drinking water. She watches the cloudy water swirl around into clarity.
He isn’t watching.
He’s sipping an equally tepid beer. He opened it when he got home from work and should have had it all quickly, but didn’t want to upset her.
She wouldn’t be upset. She doesn’t think he’s an alcoholic like he thinks she thinks he is.
She wants one but is afraid to ask. Afraid he’ll think she’s one. An alcoholic.
There are no alcoholics in the house.
Only cigarette smokers. Neither of them like the smoking either. They keep smoking because the other one is smoking.
She wants to stop.
He wants her to love him.
She doesn’t.
He’s not quitting now.
She’s taken a lover, someone she calls after he’s gone to work.
He’s taken his secretary four times this week, after hours, lunch hours, coffee breaks.
She meets her lover in hotel rooms she can’t afford. He’s wealthy. She doesn’t mind him paying. The lover thinks she’s lovely, she feels like a whore.
He thinks his secretary is only doing it for placement. How far can typing skills get you in an architect’s office? Maybe she’s in love with him. She isn’t. Or is she? She might be.
You never know.
Stranger things will happen.
She finishes the water. He gasps for the last sip of beer.
She walks to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator and sighs again.
He rolls his eyes.
She doesn’t see him.
“What’s for dinner?” he asks.
Silence.
The sound of shuffling ingredients. They’re not ingredients when they’re alone. Food stuffs, organic material, dressings, condiments, the box of baking soda.
She walks back and sits down, beer in hand.
She opens it crisply, the sound splattering a little onto the coffee table.
“I was just about to ask you.” She takes a swig.
Silence.
He crumples his can.
She sets hers down gingerly on the coasters she registered for when they were married.
He never wanted them. He’s never used a coaster in his life without having been first told to do so.
She sighs.
“Some things never change,” she says on the exhale.
“And I wish some things never would have,” he says, tossing the can toward the trash bin.
It hits the side and bounces away, clanging through their tiny kitchen before falling to the floor.
Silence.

And this one, which made me laugh out loud. February 13, 2011:

The best part of breaking up is getting the t-shirts. Always take the t-shirts.

On a/the First Date, Fatefully

date night dress

(Candid. I like that I’m carrying leftovers and a rose in one hand and making a fist with the other.)

Is there anything better than the promise of what could be? Last night was one of those rare instances where the experience far outweighs the anticipation.

Dinner was set for 7:17 – a time mutually agreed upon by all parties. I was nervous all day; I scrubbed off the black nail polish that I’ve been sporting, worried about what black might say about me (entirely forgetting that nail polish doesn’t talk at all). Dissatisfied with my naked nails, I painted them a soft gray. Dissatisfied with that, I went back to nothing and groaned inwardly about wasting so much time being silly.

Construction near colfax

I was ready early. I’m never ready early. I walked; I entered the restaurant – I had home field advantage; I panicked. I didn’t see him, so I let the hostess seat me, only to find myself directly perpendicular to a friend and his girlfriend. After making awkward small talk, I sipped water and texted him. He had walked past the restaurant. I was buried in my phone, texting him a map, when I heard my name and looked up. There he was. We laughed after checking our phones and confirming that it was indeed exactly 7:17. Panic subsided and conversation flowed. The pineapple curry was exactly as it always is: comfortably perfect. And so was the night.

We wandered to my favorite bar, which was oddly noisy and annoying. Then, we prepared to walk to the dessert bar he’d been dying to try. I realized we were about to embark on a walk that would tear my feet apart, since I was wearing very sensible yet oddly antagonistic heels. I smiled and told him not to judge me as I peeled off my tights (on Colfax, of course, classy lady that I am) and stuffed them in my purse. Carrying my shoes and walking barefoot, I let him take my hand as we walked in search of chocolate cake.

Chocolate cake

He draped his jacket around my shoulder when I got cold. He gripped my hand as he attempted to steer me away from gross things on the sidewalk – I’m a very nimble side-stepper, and successfully avoided all the horror the city pavement had in store for my naked feet. He laughed when I talked as he kissed me good night.

It was lovely. It far exceeded my expectations. I fell asleep smiling. I have received confirmation that he shares my sentiments, as we have scheduled another dinner and made tentative plans to journey to the Southwest. I’m not kidding, it was that good. Here’s to strange and wonderful things in strange and wonderful places. 

On Adulthood, Sparsely

I feel worse today than I did yesterday, so I spent most of today sleeping. And answering work emails in my sleep. And then sleeping.

Last night, my brother/roommate Mike and I were discussing how we’re going to decorate our house (when we buy one). He wants to put the pool table and giant bean bag and my couch in the basement with the tv.

“But what about the living room?” I asked.

“We won’t use it. That’s part of being an adult,” he responded.