Wishing I Was Wonder Woman

2005-07-04T00:37:00.000-07:00

On Change:

It's been awhile since I've visited this page. Big things have happened, my life has been shaped in ways I couldn't imagine last August.

On September 24th, 2004 I arrived at Beijing International Airport with two suitcases, three carry-ons and an L.L. Bean down comforter I carried all the way across the ocean. I didn't know anyone in Asia, had never ridden on a train or in a taxi and was too excited to be scared.

Living in a foreign country can be hard to do. You realize that visiting Beijing for two weeks, taking pictures of the Forbidden City and buying a Mao lighter isn't a cultural experience. Moving to a city of ten million people, all of them Asian, except for you, not being able to order food or find your apartment or buy conditioner: that's where it's at, where the fun starts.

China's getting a lot of press these days. The rising star, the new world power, the country that has blocked this blog for the past year.

I've been in Thailand for the past week and a half and just now realized that I could write in my blog. Freedom.

Tonight I will get on a plane in Bangkok. I'll be in Beijing by early morning and then take a bus to my city. It will be hot and crowded. I will be there, in the middle, breathing, smelling, being.

2004-08-16T15:46:00.000-07:00

On This Day of Desperate Pleas:

Dear People Who Are Currently Deciding The Fate Of My Immediate Future,

Why dost thou torment me so?

Ready to grovel, beg, change my hair, train wild animals, or scrub your floors at a moments notice, I am, yours most truly,

~Janna (aka-23 And Tired Of Living In Limbo)

2004-08-03T12:35:00.000-07:00

On Being Caught In Perpetually Devestating Cycles:

I am.

Two years ago one of my college professors attached this note to a paper that I turned in late and half-finished: "You have a good mind, and once it is wedded to a firm sense of discipline it will take you places in life. But it is far easier to hope for change than to take the needed steps to actually inducing it."

And, two years later, I am here. Hoping, but unchanged. Filled with plans and dreams but trapped in a cage I built myself. Wanting to explore the world but living on a dirt road leading nowhere, not having the courage to change myself before I can change the world, writing paragraphs filled with cliches and for the first time knowing exactly what they mean.

2004-07-14T15:13:00.000-07:00

On What I've Realized:

College is the real life version of Revenge of the Nerds. In college it's cool to be smart, to be yourself.

In college, when you comment in class people don't give you The Look Of Death.

When you go to college you don't live at home any more. And that's really, really great . . . except for when you graduate and you don't have any money or anywhere to go and the only people who love you enough and have finances enough to supply you with free room and board are those two individuals who are responsible for your very existence . . . the ones you've been trying to distance yourself from for the past five years, but you can't because they're the refrigerator and you're the magnet and no matter how hard you push you just can't get away.

2004-07-08T21:43:00.000-07:00

On What I Like About Life:

Second chances . . . fiftieth chances . . . the ability to rectify errors, move out of and away from my mistakes, my idiotic manuevers.

This is what I say: it's never too late. There's always time, a 3:00 a.m. moment, a last chance to dance.

2004-06-29T16:47:00.000-07:00

On What I Need Tonight:

Someone to knock me over the head with one of those really huge clown hammers.

2004-06-28T18:34:00.000-07:00

On Me, Currently:

~Getting hit on by men of an Indian persuasion.

~Wishing that I looked more exotic and clinging to a memory of once being mistaken for a Romanian foreign exchange student.

~Alternately loving and hating my funky done-by-H.J.-at-2 a.m. hair highlights.

~Secretly wanting to read Clinton's My Life but not knowing how to surreptitiously obtain a copy.

~Buying sparklers in unsafe quantities.

~Entertaining a mental fascination with Bill Cosby, wanting him to be at least three decades younger, really a doctor, and really in love with me.

2004-06-24T21:25:00.000-07:00

On Falling Overboard:

Coming home after an incredible vacation is like taking a cruise and falling off the side of the ship. You thought everything was great: you're perfectly tan, great hair, the cabana boy is making eyes at you . . . then you walk over to the perfectly white rail on the top deck to watch the dolphins or the sunset or whatever, and the boat jerks (as cruise ships tend to do) and you fall overboard in your sequined gown (losing your fluted champagne glass in the falling process) and no one even bothers to toss you one of those red and white buoys.

That's what it feels like today.

2004-06-16T16:31:00.000-07:00

On Why Today Is Happy, Happy:

~After countless phone calls to The Wedding Boutique, being stood up twice by the seamstress, and a series of alterations . . . I have a bridesmaid dress!

~Tomorrow morning at 7:30 a.m. I board a plane for St. Louis: land of sun, tight jeans, and the best friends a girl could ever have.

~I'm procrastinating again on yet another important project (the happy, happy part is that I still have time to fix my erroneous ways).

~I had Malt-O-Meal for breakfast while watching Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World and while doing so decided that I too need to begin penning pithy phrases on various portions of my anatomy.

~I bought K the best wedding presents ever: The Complete Magic Eye Anthology (a modestly entertaining coffee table offering) and The Good Girl's Guide To Bad Girl Sex (I suffered much internal angst trying to decide between the latter selection and a pop-up kama sutra book, ultimately deciding that the Good Girl's Guide would be more practical in the long term).

2004-06-10T13:53:00.000-07:00

On This, The Unavoidable Curse:

I'm always late. Always, always, always. Even when I'm on time, things will have started early because everyone else was already there, so I'll still be late.

K is getting married next Saturday. She's excited, I'm excited, D, the groom, is really excited.

I ordered my bridesmaid dress in February. For once, I decided, I wouldn't procrastinate. I would get it early, be on time, be the responsible one.

As of today, my dress has still not arrived. I'm sure the dress must be amazing since the oompa loompas have been slaving over it in their secret wedding factory for the past five months, but I'm okay if my dress has slightly less complicated bead work . . . I just want the dress.

So, K is freaking out (but pretending to be calm) and our friendship is in apparent jeopardy--in the way that only a good wedding trauma can jeopardize relationships. She told me this morning on the phone in a chillingly calm voice, "If the dress doesn't come in, I want you to know that we're still okay, but that I'm just going to have you escorted down the aisle separately, after the grandparents, okay?" I guess it made me sad though, because I wanted her to know that I had tried this time, that I did the competent thing, even though it didn't work out, and what I secretly wanted her to say was, "I don't care if you come down the aisle covered in nothing but magenta feathers, you're still my girl!" But, it's a wedding, and protocol, not dealing with me in a mismatching dress, has become the product d'jour.

I feel like such a bad friend . . . like, who does this to the bride? A week before the wedding, and instead of mooning around a garden, starry-eyed, or attending brunches with elderly relatives, she's frantically calling bridal shops across the continental U.S., wondering if they stock Alfred Angelo (indigo, with an intricately beaded bodice).

This afternoon, I finally got ahold of the bridal shop from whence I ordered the dress in question. I spoke with the owner and reminded her that she had promised me the dress at the beginning of May. I was calm, I was cool, I was so up front. And, she promised that when the dress comes in (tomorrow) she will keep the shop open until I get off work and do alterations late into the night. She is best bridal shop owner ever.

2004-06-09T15:57:00.000-07:00

On The Words That We Give:

My words, the sentences I articulate, are powerful. I like to think that my words are used to inspire, to build--that they are a commodity I use carefully.

But over the past several months they have become less then that. I've stopped being as cautious, as conscientious. Because I was feeling weak and imperfect inside, I became less worried about the impact of my verbal slights. The words I said. The words I didn't.

I care about how others feel, but translating that emotion into reality is work, taking effort that I don't always want to give.

A friend wrote this in her blog the other day: janna. there's a laugh. she bubbles over like a teapot and sparkles of life and passion fall around her. you can't help but be covered in her sparkles yourself.

And I feel like I'm cheating because I'm losing the sparkles and losing the passion, becoming this person I don't like . . . waking up every morning to a reflection I don't want mirrored. And I need to know . . . where do I go from here?

2004-05-31T19:36:00.000-07:00

On A Subtle Kind Of Bonding:

This is what my family does on nationally recognized holidays:

~They pack the house with people.

~My Mom goes to Sam's Club and buys vats of everything she sees.

~Someone invariably gets upset about something minor, thereby making the minorish thing into a really big deal and sends the whole nationally recognized holiday group on a turbulent emotional journey. It's all very exciting.

~My Dad always barbecues and I am always his helper. I do the important jobs like getting more Famous Dave's BBQ sauce and announcing to the hungry crowd that: "The steaks are on their way, people!" If it's raining, we grill anyway. I hold a golf umbrella over me, my Dad and, most importantly, the grill. When the hamburgers, brats and steaks are just right, I hold a plate evenly while my Dad takes the meat from the grill (for the second time, since my mom has already sent it back once, saying that it wasn't done well enough) and I pretend, for the tenth year in a row, not to know that the Coke in his cup is really beer.

2004-05-27T19:28:00.000-07:00

On This, The Start Of My Twenty-Third Year:

Turning twenty-three is not so very momentous. It's kind of like going to an amusement park when you're forty. You're supposed to be having fun because dammit, you're at Disneyworld, but it's just not like it used to be. You get sick on the rides, the food's crusty and the kids won't stop whining.

That's how I feel today. It's my birthday, I'm alive, there should be ponys and fireworks and bouquets of orchids.

Instead, there was breakfast in bed and early morning birthday songs, a long, hardish day at work, real cards from real people in the mailbox, funny e-mails from friends who remembered, dinner with my family, and sparkly lip gloss from sisters who know that, like a raccoon, I'm still fascinated with anything shiny.

I wouldn't mind the fireworks, or even a cruise toward a tropical isle . . . but even without them, today was a pretty good day to be living.

2004-05-24T14:57:00.000-07:00

On Things That Are Unexplainable:

There is a bad intersection near my house. It's hard to see cars from either way. It's an accident magnet.

Last summer a mom driving a mini-van didn't see two motorcycles approaching her from the opposite direction, so she drove past the stop sign and turned onto the highway. When she did, she hit both bikers, a man and a woman--two friends out for a drive. They both died.

There are always flowers at that intersection. Ribbons wrapped around the telephone pole there, crosses staked into the ground.

It was raining yesterday when I drove past the intersection. A woman was there. She was wearing jeans, a too-big t-shirt and had wet hair whipping across her face. She had brought flowers. I watched her in my rear-view mirror as I drove away to my life, to my paltry problems. She was cutting the grass with a pair of scissors.

2004-05-23T18:16:00.000-07:00

On What Just Made Me Happy:

I happened to look at my tracker today and noticed that someone who googled: "8 year old boy having bowel movements and is sad" was directed to my site.

This is a special message for that person: Being eight years old is a tough gig. You have to go to third grade, learn cursive, take care of the class hamster and still have regular bowel movements. Just know, it gets better. I hope that you figure everything out . . . but if you don't, know that's okay too.

2004-05-21T14:09:00.000-07:00

On This Shitty Day:

I want to write about all that is bad, all that isn't going right today. About how I usually love the rain but today its presence just makes things worse.

All I can think of though is an Irish toast Jen gave me last weekend.

I drink to your health when I'm happy.
I drink to your health when I'm alone.
I drink to your health so often,
I'm beginning to lose my own.

2004-05-19T15:41:00.000-07:00

On Getting Myself A New Point Of View:

I really like teenagers, even though I really hate them sometimes.

I was talking with one today:

Me being knowledge and oh-so-freaking-wise: "You know, it's really important to think about perspectives and the different ways you can view the world."

Fifteen-Year-Old Boy: "Um, yeah."

Me being insightful: "Do you understand what I mean by that? I'm not just talking about people's world views. I mean that things aren't always what they seem."

Fifteen-Year-Old Boy: "Like, the shadow in the corner of a dark room is probably just a chair."

Me being pleased with myself for having broken through a thought barrier: "Right!"

Fifteen-Year-Old Boy: "Or, like how what you thought was just a chair is really a monster hiding in the corner."

Me being really overwhelmed and not knowing how to respond to a thought so big: "Yeah. Exactly."

2004-05-18T19:16:00.000-07:00

On Me, Being New And Kind Of Improved:

And yes, I do have a new template. It's amazing and I'm amazing. That's all, folks.

P.S. Okay, I lied. That's not all. An additional one thousand hurrahs go out to my computer guru. You know who you are.

2004-05-17T11:49:00.000-07:00

On Looking At The Bright Side Of The Moon:

Here is why my life sucks today:
I don't have any money; my life seems to be in a perpetual state of limbo; my shoes hurt; I'm tired of being boyfriendless; I don't like my job today; the front tire on my car has a leak and it's always flat at the most inopportune times; I'm bored.

Here is why my life is amazing today:
I have working hands, feet that move; my hair is great; I have a job that is stimulating and forces me to extend myself; I have opportunities; I have a car with kind-of-endearing-rust-spots that starts every single morning; I can see, hear, taste and breathe . . . without any kind of mechanical aid; I have a fantastic family and the best friends in the world; I can think, be creative, envision magic; I can laugh.

2004-05-16T14:24:00.000-07:00

On The Things That You Do:

The best things in life happen when I'm with kindred spirits. A kindred spirit is someone with whom I can:

~Karaoke to Britney Spears.
~Go skinny dipping.
~Order only drinks that have fruit kabobs gracing the top of the glass.
~Laugh obnoxiously loud in public places.
~Ask questions.
~Be honest.
~Go on an Easter egg hunt at 6:00 a.m.
~Stop in the middle of the road to do something semi-illegal.
~Stay up all night long talking about everything.
~Communicate with by raising my eyebrows.
~See embarrassingly juvenile movies that we both love but will never tell anyone else about.
~Smoke a cigar (cherry tipped) and talk about C.S. Lewis and existence.
~Be imperfect.

2004-05-13T09:21:00.000-07:00

On Why He's Not My Very Best Friend:

So I have this dog.

He's a mixed-breed, not terribly attractive, but not heinous-looking either. I don't like him at all.

The Dog went through a thrilling car-chasing stage of his life. This career ended when he was hit by a truck one morning at 3 a.m. After a touch-and-go amputation operation, Dog has only three legs, but still maintains his stupid, sloppy smile.

I hear people talk to their pets in loving voices, "Awww, you're so dumb, you're so dumb, wanna go for a walk? You wanna Scooby Snack? Huh? Do ya?" And then they tousle their dog's ears or look at them with that I-am-a-proud-affectionate-owner look.

It's not like that with me and Dog. There is no sense of relationship or bond. Here's why: He doesn't come when he's called; he tries to chase cars when we're on a walk (try keeping ahold of his leash when he does that . . .); he knocks over his bowl of food every single night and slobbers his water everywhere; when you try to talk to him he just stares at the wall with a blank, dumbish gaze; he never goes to the bathroom when you take him out at night, but will take 5-6 leisurely bowel movements when you're trying to jog. This is Dog.

He drives me mad and I want so badly to dislike him. But I can't. Instead, I just feel sorry for him and want to love him, even though I don't know how.

I went for a drive the other night and decided to take Dog along. He looked so sad and pathetic and I thought about how boring and monotonous his life must be, so I smiled and used my cheery dog-lover voice, "C'mon! Get in! Wanna go for a ride? Yeah, ya do! C'mon, baby!" I wanted to pretend that we were like a real dog/owner couple. Dog jumped in the front seat and looked pleased to be invited along.

But, we hadn't even gotten to the end of the road before he started butting his head against the closed window. Then, he climbed up onto the front seat and tried to nudge the steering wheel with his head before wedging his large frame down by the gas and brake pedals. I tried to be calm, tried to be the smarter human, "STOP IT! Get up on the seat! Get away from me! You want us to crash? Huh???" He drooled on my jeans and looked out the window. No response.

I feel like my relationship with Dog is like my relationships with men. I end up with the ones that I feel sorry for because I think that I can make them feel happier, or make them feel better about themselves. I use a perky voice, "Life is fun! Let's do something fun! C'mon, don't be sad!" And I become Mickey Mouse instead of Cinderella. And I wish there was a way to give love without getting hurt or wishing that the receiving party was different in some way--more intelligent, funnier, didn't drool.

2004-05-12T18:03:00.000-07:00

On What I Saw:

Noticed a bumper sticker on a rusty pick-up truck today: Grow Your Own Dope . . . Plant A Man!

Narcotics reference, gender bashing and an enthusiasm for gardening . . . all in one neat semantics package. I love it.

2004-05-10T11:16:00.000-07:00

On Feeling Brilliant, Even When I'm Not:

Whenever I have something difficult to do, something horrible, something I'm dreading, I try to take the edge off by using a technique I devised my freshman year of college.

I tear a scrap of paper out of a notebook (it is important that the paper is torn and that it is a scrap) and write on it: I am Albert Einstein.

It's a solid statement. An assertation that I am only human, but that I too can do something extraordinary.

This afternoon I'm going to rip six pages out of my notebook (it has a teal cover that sparkles) and write across them with a bright blue pen. Each piece of paper will be folded and put in the pocket of my jeans as an affirmation (also as something to forget about until I pull three thousand tiny paper wads out of the dryer with my freshly washed jeans). Because right now it hasn't been my day, my week, my month--or, watch this, even my year.

2004-05-06T15:08:00.000-07:00

On Dancing In The Dark:

I have a friend who is blind. She lives in an apartment by herself and is a really great cook. Last summer, she taught me how to make cream puffs.

Helen Keller is not her hero.

We laugh a lot when we're together. Like when we're out and see someone that we know and they just come up and start talking to us without saying their name, and after they leave she'll always turn to me and say in a loud voice, "who the heck was that?"

She thinks it's funny when people assume she's less intelligent because she can't see, like part of her brain was lost along with her vision. It is funny, but kind of sad, too.

The other day she asked me what John Kerry looked like. She said she didn't like his voice, but maybe she just wasn't getting the whole picture. I wanted to lie, to say he was really small, with a big nose and a unibrow. But I didn't. When I'm with her, I feel like I have this incredible responsibility to be an honest window.

She's so independent that she doesn't even have a seeing-eye dog. If I ever go blind I am so getting a canine companion. I'll get a studio in the city and on the weekends walk around with my super smart dog while wearing a hot-pink t-shirt that says: DO YOU WANT ME TO PET YOU WHILE YOU'RE WORKING???

2004-05-05T21:28:00.000-07:00

On Growing Up:

The other day, for the first time ever, someone said to me, "I'll defer to your professional opinion on this."

The best part was: he was serious, he was over forty, he was wearing a shirt that said, Re-Elect Gore In 2004.

2004-05-04T10:49:00.000-07:00

On Why It's Important To Be Academically Well-Rounded:

Dear Diary,

This week has been really, really horrible. I've spent approximately 14 hours a day catching up on material I don't understand for final exams that I don't want to take. I know that some people think that mathematical equations are beautiful (oh, the balance! oh, the symmetry! oh, the poetic motion of a golden rectangle!), personally, they make me feel like yacking (officially the first time I have used the term 'yack' since the 9th grade).

But Diary, this morning when I was sitting at the nationally-syndicated coffee house, and this totally dreamy high school teacher (who was there 'hanging out' with a group of his AP stats students . . . oh-so-cute!) came over to my table and asked me what I was studying and I said coyly, "Fibonacci numbers" and he was obviously so amazed by my vast academic savvy and then he brought up how The DaVinci Code talks about Fibonacci, and it was amazing how I was suddenly able to engage in a brilliant discussion about a topic whose value had previously eluded me.

Love, Peace and Hair Grease,
~Me

2004-05-03T06:54:00.000-07:00

On Being Sassy, Svelte and Super Swanky:

I'm working on it!

2004-05-02T09:17:00.000-07:00

On Re-creating:

If I stopped at a garage sale today, bought an antique Arabian Nights looking lamp, took it home to polish it and while rubbing discovered that there was a super cool (but slightly scary) genie inside who would grant me one wish, I know exactly what I would ask for:
To have the procrastination gene purged from my body.

2004-05-01T13:28:00.000-07:00

On Where I Hide The Brave Side Of Me:

I had dinner with my grandparents last night. Having a sit-down meal with your grandparents is a very chic, very mod thing to do when it's Friday night and you are twenty-two.

Even though things were pretty wild, I managed to extract myself from the G-ma and G-pa party by 9:30 (please note that a) my grandmother is absolutely the only person I know who regularly mops her garage floor, and also that b) this informational tidbit has nothing to do with anything, but should be recognized nonetheless).

On my way home I decided that since it was Friday night after all, I should get a little crazy, stop at the grocery store and get something fun (wanted a Barcardi Silver, got Diet Vanilla Pepsi instead . . . just call me Mother Superior). During my five minute shopping spree I got freaked out by two jumpsuit-wearing 'maitenence men', convinced that they were at the grocery to either 1) attack me or 2) rob the TCF bank at the front of the store (the proof was there, friends; never deny intuition).

While driving home, I eventually decided that being tailed by the two men in jumpsuits was unlikely (even though they left the store at the same time as me and got into a suspicious-looking white minivan) and decided to quit watching my mirrors and acting like Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard. When I pulled into my driveway, however, and everything was dark, I suddenly wished that I did have a bodyguard, and decided that maybe I should invest in one, even though it would really put a strain on my finances. Looking through your car windows, watching shadows, hoping there's not a slasher-man hiding behind a tree = no more Friday night fun. After spending four minutes having an internal debate about whether or not it was safe to indeed get out of the vehicle and enter my house, I decided that I wasn't going to replay my senior year of high school, the part where I saw Scream at a Halloween party (where I was, incidentally, dressed as a pregnant nun) and refused to do anything alone for the next month (yeah, I know). So, I pulled my braveness out of the pocket of my hoodie (where I'd put it earlier, in case of emergency), jumped out of the car and ran inside, where I promptly called H.J. . . . my favorite listener, who never understands, always accepts, and will stay on the phone for three hours, just to make sure that I'm not nervous anymore.

2004-04-29T07:48:00.000-07:00

On Things That Make My Day A Whole Lot Better:

1) Sitting at an awards banquet for 1st-graders, watching them march to the center of the stage, each holding a giant sign with a letter on it, the whole crowd anticipating the moment when each child would reach their designated spot, turn their letter around and reveal the inspirational phrase: Go SPARK Something. Not being able to breathe because I’m trying so hard not to laugh when the little boy in the red shirt forgets where to stand, confusing everybody, and altering the message to: Go KRAPS Something . . . and their teacher doesn’t even notice.

2) Pausing for a moment while I flip past a re-run of Full House on my way to a I- do-not-have-time-for-this round of Trading Spaces. Noting that not only does Steph have a bad perm, she is also wearing the exact same sweater that I wore every day for three months in the third grade. Black and white, with a red Scottie dog stitched to the front. Yeah, baby.

2004-04-27T23:03:00.000-07:00

On Being Kind Of Tired:

there are days that are mine
when i am amazing
the days that i only hit snooze three times
cross crap off to-do list days
i eat an apple and walk three miles, drink eight glasses of water
feel-like-i-can-freaking-do-anything-days
i'm smart, kind, sexy
an albert einstein/margaret thatcher love child

then, the other days:
not wanting to get out of bed at all
ignoring the lists or not even bothering to make one
screwing-up-my-life-days
sick of myself, of the baseness, of being horny and wanting
a pint of ben and jerry's
uninspired days

but always:
there is hope
there is something bigger than me
and i am loved in spite of the imperfections
or maybe, because of them

2004-04-26T08:26:00.000-07:00

On What I'm Wishing For Today:

A treehouse.

One that's far, far away from everything, in the middle of a field somewhere, in a really tall oak tree, completely surrounded by leaves, but with enough branch openings to allow the sun to filter through.

2004-04-24T20:31:00.000-07:00

On Cleaning Up The Planet:

This weekend marked one of my semi-annual events: picking up lazy people's crap from the side of the road. Adopt-A-Highway rocks.

Although bagging trash on the side of the highway sometimes makes me pissy (who throws things out of their window while driving???), I also love it because 1) It makes me feel like I'm doing something worthwhile and 2) The road looks awesome when I'm done and 3) Because I always find interesting/funny/cool things.

On this go-round, I happened across the following list of articles:

~14 boxes of caramel-flavored Nips. Each box was stuffed full of empty wrappers.
~42 cigarette boxes.
~104 beer cans.
~37 beer bottles. Two of which were filled with urine.
~A polaroid picture of a teenage boy posing with a stripper. (He had acne, her hair was fried.)
~The entire Sunday edition of the newspaper. From five months ago.
~A chair with no legs.
~An extremely small, velvet, cowboy hat. It even had a feather in the brim.

2004-04-23T07:23:00.000-07:00

On Always Being Prepared:

While grocery shopping last night I found myself in the same aisle as a boy scout troop. The boys and their “scout master” appeared to be gathering provisions for an upcoming camp-out.

The troop had apparently established a reconnaissance mission to obtain a box of Ritz crackers and, having found it, all eight scouts crowded around the box eagerly (checking the nutritional information?).

I pretended to peruse the Triscuits and Wheat Thins and waited to see what would happen next.

The scout master eventually held his hand up in the air (boy scout signal for ‘shut up’) and said, “Boys, boys, look at what I’ve found . . . a coupon!” The scout master, ever observant, had flipped the box over and discovered a ‘$1.00 off’ coupon for Cheese Whiz. The boys looked impressed with their leader’s prowess.

“Safety circle!” The scout master shouted. Each boy stepped back as the scout master simultaneously smoothed his mustache and pulled a large jackknife from a sheath clipped to the front of his jeans. With expert flair, he flipped the knife open and used the sharp blade to carefully remove the coupon from the back of the box.

No longer pretending to ponder my next purchase, I stared openly. “Excuse me!” A burly scout rushed by me. “I’m going to get the beef jerky!” He yelled in my ear.

“Halt!” The scout master tucked his knife back into its holder. “We move together as a team! You know the drill.” The entire troop about-faced with their carts and began to follow their leader toward the spaghetti-o’s. I slowly tossed a box of Wheat Thins in my cart, then went the other way.

2004-04-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

On When I Know True Happiness:

I’ve been tutoring a high schooler in Language Arts for the past school year. When we first started meeting he was frustrated with school, refused to do any type of homework and was angry any time the word “English” entered the conversation. He wanted to talk about football, not school, and resented the fact that he needed outside help. He was unable to form basic sentences while writing and his spelling was at a third grade level. He referred to himself as “stupid.”

We started the school year by reading To Kill A Mockingbird out loud. I wanted him to hear the way the words supported the sentences, giving life to the story and the characters. He wrote a journal entry for each chapter, learning to express his thoughts in a non-verbal way. He learned that he had a lot to say, that his thoughts were deep and meaningful and that writing wasn’t as hard as he had first imagined.

Since September he has written a notebook full of journal entries, a dozen papers and read a stack of really good books. Yesterday, he got a letter from the judges panel of a writing contest I encouraged him to enter a month ago—I told him it was a school project. There were 400 entries. His took first. He received prize money, an invitation to attend an awards banquet, and the confirmation that he wasn’t stupid, that his voice has power and significance.

2004-04-20T12:16:00.000-07:00

On How To Use Street-Speak:

I always learn so much from reading my local paper. This week, for instance, I discovered that our district employs (and presumably pays) a “Chemical Health Coordinator.”

It was in the Chemical Health Coordinator Corner that I was made privy to the following (heretofore undisclosed) information:

The date “April 20” is globally recognized as International Smoke Marijuana Day. It is noted as: Four-20, 4/20, or 4:20 (a time when, according to our local C.H.C., druggies around the globe light up). Not only is the date significant in modern time, it has a rich history as well. In 1971, in San Rafael, marijuana users reportedly referred to themselves by the code word ‘Waldo’ (geeky, but catchy). Apparently, the secret lingo allowed users to discuss their marijuana habits freely in front of unsuspecting parents and teachers. The code phrase “Louis 4:20” was a hot, hip and totally secret way of saying, “Meet me by the statue of Louis Pasteur at 4:20 and we’ll smoke some pot!” Rock on, Waldo.

Am I “out of the loop” (as the kids say) for only just now having my first exposure to International Smoke Marijuana Day? Should I be sending out homemade notes (green card-stock with pressed leaves pasted to the cover)? Will I be socially ostracized for suggesting that ‘International Smoke Marijuana Day’ is too long a title and will probably be too cramped to fit in a typical calendar space? What if I’m the sort of person that hates finding any kind of Waldo, has never, ever seen a statue of Louis Pasteur, and has never even liked the idea of narcotics in the first place?

2004-04-19T21:32:00.000-07:00

On Me, Being Responsible:

I was honored, but not surprised, to receive the following (via the United States Postal Service) today:

Dear Janna,

Congratulations. We believe you're the responsible type. Someone we'd feel comfortable getting in the front seat with.

That's why you've been pre-selected to receive this insurance offer. It just might help you "redefine" happiness.

We believe that you're a different kind of driver. We're a different kind of car insurance company. And we know that you care about more than just money too.

Our award winning program doesn't try to intimidate, frustrate, or confuse you. We want to help you.

Sincerely,
William R. Kampf
General Manager
Progressive Auto Insurance

It was an amazing letter because, without knowing me at all, Bill got it perfectly right: I am responsible, I always encourage my passengers to confine their activities to the front seat, I've been looking to "redefine" my perception of happiness by switching car insurance agencies, I really am a different kind of driver, I do care about more than just money, I am easily intimidated, frustrated and I am always, always confused. Bill, thank you for understanding.

2004-04-17T08:52:00.000-07:00

On Obsessions Of The Worst Variety:

During my sophomore year of college I had the misfortune of discovering an online gaming site (real games, like poker and Monopoly . . . I wasn't betting on greyhound races over a live internet feed or anything; although, it should be noted, some might consider playing Monopoly online as equally pathetic).

The types of games that generally attract me are ones that require shouting and making large gestures. I surprised myself then, when against my better judgment and intimate knowledge of self, I entered the "Boggle section" of the game site.

I was immediately rushed through a sign-up process and then ushered into a live game where I was to compete against players with names like: TotalBoggleDomination, WordChick, boggleyourmind, The Champ. Each player was ranked according to wins and the weight of the competition at hand hung heavily over Boggle Room #14.

After several stressful rounds (badly beaten each time), I was thirsty for more, but knew that I needed reinforcements. It was 2 a.m., my game was slow and I was getting the piss kicked out of me by my new arch-nemesis, "GrandmaBoggle." Plus, I had a five-page paper that needed to be avoided for as long as possible. Things were desperate.

I found K in the dorm room next door and convinced her that Boggle was the newest cool-kid rage and that she and I would be the perfect team. The unbeatable duo. With both of us looking for the hidden words, we would be unstoppable. My cunning was indeed unmatched.

That night was the beginning of a long, downward spiral. For the next two months we played Boggle every night . . . beginning at the stroke of twelve, unable to tear ourselves away from the heat of competition, the surety of a win, until three or four in the morning. We had a new identity: TheBoggleBabes.

It was finally K that broached the topic of obsession. "Ummm, do you think that maybe this has gotten a little out of hand? We're tired all the time, our grades are sliding a greased pole down the alphabetical scale . . ." Then, her trump card. "And, we look, and act, like ice addicts . . . I mean, it's Boggle. Plus, I'm embarrassed to tell people what I'm doing when they ask why I don't go out any more on the weekends."

Thus, ended the reign, the legend, of The BoggleBabes.

2004-04-16T06:53:00.000-07:00

On Something That I Hate:

Making entirely avoidable, completely idiotic mistakes.

2004-04-15T13:29:00.000-07:00

On Some Of The Best Things In The World:

~All night discussions about everything with someone who really understands you.

~Moments of clarity.

~Nearing the finish line.

~The smell in the air, the wind picking up, the feeling that it's going to rain.

~Reading in bed.

~Opening the mailbox and seeing that you got a real letter . . . stationery, envelope, everything . . . from someone who has given you a lot of good memories.

~Crazy, just-might-work ideas that come in a momentary flash of brilliance.

~The people who listen to you explain your ideas (in great detail, with thrilling word pictures), not because they're interested, but just because they care about you.

~Friends that constantly call you long distance from random airports . . . just as they're about to board.

~Sticky hugs from a four-year-old friend that always introduces himself by spelling his name ("My name is S-a-m-m-y").

2004-04-14T08:27:00.000-07:00

On Living Forever:

#3 on the Top Ten Reasons I love kids: They ask questions like, "If God loves people, why would He let them be bad and hurt each other?" And when you answer that maybe it's because God wants everyone to have a choice to love, instead of being made to love, they respond with, "Ohhh, I get it. But know what? I don't think a lot of other people do . . ."

_____________________________________

Been listening to a lot of Blessid Union of Souls lately. There is a line in the song humble star that goes,

"Do you think you're gonna live forever
But what's forever . . ."

And it made me realize that sometimes I do think that I'm going to live forever . . . in the sense that it sometimes feels as though I have an infinite amount of earthly time at my disposal. The reality is harder to deal with: that my time is brief, that only I have the ability, for good or bad, to choose what I will do with my time here.

2004-04-13T16:37:00.000-07:00

On Today:

I decided that it was time for me to get down and dirty with my summer plans. I'm planning a stint in China . . . a mysterious land that has always held so much allure for me. (Who could resist the idea of wandering around a Forbidden City? Or spending the night on the Great Wall? It's a National Geographic dream world.)

So today, I began my overseas preparations. I read Amy Tan's The Bonesetter's Daughter. I've never been especially good at the more practical aspects of life (like making typed lists of 'what to pack'), but at least I'll be able to converse brilliantly about dragon oracle bones and the art of grinding ink sticks.

______________________

Today's Embarrassing Confession: I think I have a crush on The Rock. (The humiliation is deep, so don't tell anyone.)

2004-04-12T21:25:00.000-07:00

On Answering The Phone:

I answered the phone tonight, only to have the person on the other end say, before anything else, "You sound like a whore when you answer the phone."

I'm not sure if I should be offended, flattered or take the comment as inspiration for a career move.

2004-04-10T07:11:00.000-07:00

On The Four Questions:

I experienced my first seder last night. The words and symbolism were beautiful . . . and sharing the night with friends made it even better.

As the night wore on I developed my own set of Four Questions:

1) Why is my seder book backward and why do I keep forgetting?

2) Why won't the guy sitting on my left leave me alone (way too old and married . . . hello!)?

3) Where do the comfort and beauty of ritual intersect with real life thought and responsibilty?

4) Why am I wearing sandals when it's fifty degrees outside?

2004-04-08T20:32:00.000-07:00

On Frogs Wearing Pants:

Feeling cultured this week. Spent the afternoon at a downtown art museum the other day. I hadn’t been to this particular museum before and while it wasn’t on par with illicit affairs, skydiving or international espionage, it was a bit of a random adventure.

There were two exhibits that captured me and gave me something more than a sense of asthetic appreciation. The first featured eighteen formaldehyde-filled jars. Each jar contained a mid-sized floating frog . . . each frog was wearing a pair of boxer shorts. The artist used his knowledge of taxidermy (a profession that makes me sick, sorry) to create art exhibits that comment on and satirize the scientific obsession with classification (the frogs were arranged by the color of their boxers). I found the work funny and thoughtful . . . and was really, really surprised that I felt that way.

My other favorite exhibit was a life-sized reconstruction of the hallway of a run-down apartment building. I love interactive art . . . creative art that brings onlookers in, making them more than viewers . . . actually facilitating an experience they can take part in. The hallway contained a series of doorways—by stepping close to the door, pressing your ear to the wood paneling, it was possible to hear what was going on inside the room: the television, someone crying, a couple fighting etc. The best part, however, was the essay displayed outside the exhibit. It was a part of a paper a student wrote in response to the exhibit. The paper ended with the voice of the character in Room D, “Why do they think that my life is art? Why are they all looking at me?”

2004-04-07T22:10:00.000-07:00

On Cats!

I have a history of feline phobia. I like the idea of cats . . . but I've always been allergic. (Note: I hate people with allergies, including myself . . . despite a bodily condition they can't control, they always seems so whiny and pathetic, "Sorry, can't take part in ________, I'm allergic!")

But tonight, I am a changed woman. I saw Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats! . . . it was so much more than I expected and I sat through the entire performance in slack-jawed wonder (bad mental picture, I know . . . sorry). The costumes, the music, the words . . . they were all perfect, perfect (I'm completely resisting the inane urge to write 'purrrfect').

And now, I have an overwhelming urge to visit the Humane Society tomorrow and take home with me a lonely kitten (which I would name something dignified: Mungojerrie or Mr. Mistoffelees, for example). I think I could give a cat a pretty good home . . . lots of sunshine, catnip, and a loving owner--high on allergy meds. What could be better?

2004-04-06T21:40:00.000-07:00

On The Return Of The $ Family:

Had a conversation with a Family Friend the other day:

F.F.: “So, I hear you’ve been doing an awful lot of housesitting lately?”

Me: “Yeah, it’s been really funny . . . I feel like I should get Housesitter of the Year or something.”

F.F.: “Hahahaha. Speaking of which, I ran into Mrs. $ at a little get-together last week. You stayed with her children for a weekend, didn’t you?”

Me: (Do not want to be having this conversation.)

F.F.: “She mentioned that your fees were pretty exorbitant.”

Me: (Want to die.)

F.F.: “But let me just tell you . . . I think that you were more than fair—you could even be getting a lot more, you know?”

Me: (Did the sun just come out? I feel . . . happy . . .)

F.F.: “Plus, you do a great, great job—and that’s really what matters.”

Me: (Thank you! Someone who understands.)

F.F.: “Mrs. $ was telling a group of us about the situation and I just thought the whole thing was ridiculous. You shouldn’t have to put up with that!”

Me: (A group? A group? Desperate urge to race home and phone Mrs. $, giving her a course in Professionalism 101 (aka—don’t slander my reputation). Wishing I was bitchier, or more assertive, or self-promoting . . . or something . . . )

F.F.: “Enough about that! So what else is new?”

Me: “Well, did I ever tell you how great you are?”

_____________________________________________

Today's Favorite Quotations:

1) (Nine-Year-Old Sister describing a movie she just saw): "There were like three different breeds in the family--white, black and chinese."

2) (Made by ChinaBoy during our I.M. conversation; the comment had absolutely no context or frame of reference): “. . . the man is outside brushing the street with the straw broom.”

2004-04-04T13:50:00.000-07:00

On Super Cool Dates:

No, not that kind! (Still waiting for someone brilliant and quasi-normal, who's not hitting on me at a gas station, to take me someplace spectacular though.)

Today is: 04.04.04 . . . and I absolutely love it. Who thought of that anyway . . . fantastic-looking calendar dates?

And, I plan to spend my afternoon in mental anguish over how much work I have to do while blatantly ignoring said anguish and instead write scores of letters, just so I can write the date, with a flourish, at the top of the page.

2004-04-03T08:05:00.000-08:00

On Who I Am:

I wish I knew. I want to be solid in conviction, sure of what I know and believe, sure of who I am.

But . . . it often seems like questions come easier than answers--which is frustrating when there is so much I want to know. I had a conversation with a friend not too long ago in which I was waxing pathetic over the incontinuity in my life, my lack of answers. She was quiet while I spun my miserable tales, then asked me, "Janna, do you think that's the best way to start your search for meaning . . . convinced that you'll never find the answers?"

________________________________________________

This Weekend: Housesitting, yet again. No kids this time . . . only a full-sized standard poodle. Rita (the poodle) has tight, curly hair and reminds me of a middle-aged woman. I've decided that being a Mary Poppinsesque canine caretaker might be my newest life's calling. (Noooo! I didn't just say that!)

2004-04-02T12:59:00.000-08:00

On Late Night Lost Girl Syndrome:

when i can't sleep
(like, every night)
i think about the universe
and God
and diet vanilla pepsi on ice
and i wish that i wasn't ever shallow
or that i could write
(not just words; something meaningful)
or that i could run a six minute mile
i wish i was kinder
(not nice, not friendly; genuine)
and i wonder if my potential
(the amazing version of me)
needs to be added, or if it's already there
(and if it's the latter, how do i find it and what if i never do?)

2004-04-01T10:14:00.000-08:00

On Deciding Not To Participate:

Please note: this year, for the first time ever, I will not be taking part in banal ritualistic behaviors (ie--I am boycotting April Fool's Day).

A bit of April 1st history:

~Age 11: Continuously pressed the 'secret button' on our family phone, causing it to ring, handing it to my sister saying, "It's some guy asking for you . . ." In the hopes that there really was some hottie phoning her, she always fell for it, further confirming my innate cleverness.

~Age 13: Called friends of the family and told them that the son of a mutual friend had broken his legs in a horrible accident. Was unable to reach said friends when I called back to gloat "April Fools." Was grounded for three weeks after my parents discovered that half of the community had been informed about the 'accident' and was busily making hotdishes in an effort to support the family of the injured boy.

~Age 16: Changed all of the clocks in the house two hours ahead. Everyone really, really angry.

~Age 18: Too old and clever for the prank, but thought it would be 'funny.' Put clear tape around the kitchen sink spray nozzle. Everyone very wet and very angry. Also made a copy of my father's keys, then locked his orginals into his truck. Didn't tell him about the joke soon enough.

~Age 21: While taking a walk was lucky enough to happen across a dead squirrel that had gone into rigor mortis . . . on April 1st! Decided it would be uproariously funny to place squirrel in a gift box and wrap it gaily (shiny paper, ribbons) and leave it on a friend's doorstep. Friend, surprisingly, did not think opening package containing a dead squirrel was funny.

~This year: Decide to grow up (but am still keeping options open, just in case the perfect scenario presents itself).

2004-03-31T12:06:00.000-08:00

On Feeling Really Special:

Had the day off of work today (hurray!) and took some time to reorganize some of the more tangible clutter in my life . . . namely the closet in my bedroom. It has also been the perfect day to hang out with Thirteen-Year-Old Sister.

I was sifting through a pile of things when I came across a wickedly trendy frosted glass tumbler that Thirteen-Year-Old Sister had bought for me when she went to Atlanta earlier this year.

"Ohmygosh!" I held the glass up for her to see. "I can't believe I lost this . . . and I haven't even used it yet; guess I've been saving it for a special occasion or something."

Thirteen-Year-Old Sister gives me The Look. "Jan, I bought it for you 'cause you're special--not so that you would save it for something special."

2004-03-30T22:34:00.000-08:00

On Being a Word Whore:

I am obsessed with words, with language. I love reading, being amazed when the words cease to exist, when the story takes over and I become disconnected from my body and from time and all that matters is the new world that I've been invited to enter.

I've had this mad urge recently to write a galloping story about something spectacular . . . I haven't been thrown to the ground by any thunderbolting ideas yet, but I'd be willing to settle for a semi-spectacular idea too--something to get me started.

To get me in the mood, I just read On Writing by Stephen King. The thought of reading King generally makes me queasy (just the title of Tommyknockers gives me nightmarish visions) and I felt kind of sketchy about reading a book on how to write . . . it seems kind of like cheating--taking away the mystical, on par with reading manuals on how to have better sex, raise perfect kids or become a multi-millionaire (with minimal investments!).

But, I also love it when a book tosses me the unexpected and in this case I felt like Stephen (we're best friends now) threw me a surprise party I never saw coming and when I walked naked into the livingroom after my shower and all my friends and family jumped out screaming, I didn't even care 'cause I was so happy.

Favorite Parts:

~"You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair--the sense that you can never completely put on the page what's in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page."

~"At its most basic we are only discussing a learned skill, but do we not agree that sometimes the most basic skills can create things far beyond our expectations? We are talking about tools and carpentry, about words and style . . . but as we move along, you'd do well to remember that we are also talking about magic."

~ ". . . if you're just starting out as a writer, you could do worse than strip your television's electric plug-wire, wrap a spike around it, and then stick it back into the wall. See what blows and how far. Just an idea."

2004-03-29T09:36:00.000-08:00

On Wanting Out of Transition:

It's a sucky thing . . . one month away from college graduation and I think I picked the wrong major. Why me, God??? A field which once seemed soooo artsy, an intellectual carnival, yet magnanimous too, has now lost its allure (okay, not all of its allure, but a lot).

My current dream job would involve working for National Geographic . . . romping around the globe with a wide lens camera and tattered journal. The prospect of spending the next thirty years of my life trapped in a sunless, musty classroom pales when I envision myself wearing a sarong, doing a tribal dance or clothed in khaki and rugged hiking boots, crouched in foliage, subtly observing a herd of something wild and dangerous.

_______________________________________________

My weekend nanny/housesitting gig started off a bit rough as no one was home when I arrived. Hence: prowling around the outside of a large, unlit house after dark, looking for an open door/window (there weren't any); frantic cell phone calls to the parents (who had left early Friday morning); marching around the neighborhood, trying to retain professionalism while knocking at random doors and asking for information concerning the whereabouts of a Vietnamese girl named Staci (went to the school dance with my charges, might possibly know where they are).

Once everyone was finally gathered together (10:30 p.m.), my life looked considerably brighter ("has been known to lose children" would provide a telling blight on my character references).

In order to prepare for their Saturday morning modeling lessons, two of the girls worked on putting together 'picture portfolios' . . . basically photographs of swanky, seductive models cut from magazines, then pasted into their modeling journals. Looking for a way to lower the self-image of your favorite teen? Have them create portfolios of air-brushed models and use them as icons!

Runway obsessions aside, I do love hanging out with teenagers . . . probably because they're confused about life, don't know what's going to happen next . . . and neither do I.

2004-03-28T19:17:00.000-08:00

On Disappointing Sunshine:

Saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind this afternoon. I wanted so badly to like the movie, to love the characters . . . and I couldn't make myself do it. Lucky for you, I won't discuss my mental anguish here because I'm nice and don't like to give away endings (or middles or beginnings) and because so many people think that it's beautiful and I wouldn't want to spoil that either . . . so, I suffer alone. C'est la vie!

But . . . there were consolation prizes: had some pretty amazing Chinese fare after the movie (hooray for sweet and sour chicken) and I love the poem from which the title is taken: Eloisa to Abelard by Alexander Pope. It's pretty long, so I'll only post a little of the poem here:

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

_______________________________________

Please note: I would like to make an official apology to all Alexander Pope fanatics, scholars etc. . . . by listing Alexander as a "consolation prize," I in no way intend to disparage his obvious literary talents and sundry contributions to humanity at large.

2004-03-26T12:06:00.000-08:00

On Favorites:

Currently reading some C.S. Lewis . . . here are a few favorite quotations:

~Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.

~If the whole universe has no meaning, we should never have found out that it has no meaning: just as, if there were no light in the universe and therefore no creatures with eyes, we should never know it was dark. Dark would be without meaning.

~Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become.

~Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours.

_______________________________

Have a happy, happy weekend, everyone!!!

2004-03-25T22:16:00.000-08:00

On . . . Being Really, Really Confused:

Thursday nights are my basketball nights. My church has a women's "league" and it's great because it's intense without too much pressure, and I, for one night every week, get to live out my fantasy that I really am a shining star in the WNBA.

Tonight we had fewer players than usual and so coordinating teams was more casual than normal. I arrived a few minutes late (still trying to fix that aspect of my life), but just in time to hear that all of the "B's" were on the same team. I was directed to the other team and the game began.

I need to explain that back when I was in college (I hate that statement since it makes it sound like my collegiate career was sooo long ago and that I'm like fifty now . . .) it wasn't unusual for my group of friends to designate teams etc. based on bra size . . . it's more entertaining than "okay, so you're going to be over here . . .", right? So, naturally, I figured the same thing was taking place at church league basketball.

Let it suffice to say that an embarrassing conversation eventually ensued when I discovered that everyone on the 'B' team actually had a name that began with the second letter of the alphabet.

_____________________________

This Weekend: I am housesitting/nannying yet again (and am seriously contemplating writing my own version of The Nanny Diaries). Saturday morning will see me at a modeling agency where two of my charges have runway lessons. Unbelievable.

2004-03-24T19:54:00.000-08:00

On A Drive-By Ice, Ice Baby:

Sequence of Events . . .

1) Was definitely minding my own business, driving down the road, eyes front and center (as usual).

2) Decided to glance to my right, in order to appreciate the lake I was passing, to take in the nature surrounding me on this most pleasant of days.

3) Am shocked to see that there is a man standing on the lake (the ice is oh-so-thin and open water is everywhere).

4) Am further shocked to see the man pounding at the ice with a large ice hammer of some sort.

5) Turn and say to my Passenger: "That flippin' eejit is going to fall through the ice and I'm going to have to save his stupid self."

6) Am astounded when not .5 seconds after my premonition, said ice eejit actually goes crashing through the ice with a terrific splash.

7) Slam on brakes in the center of the road, not being cautious whatsoever or checking to see if there is traffic behind me.

8) Prepare myself to unbuckle and rush across the highway, slog through the ditch, pitch my body on to the oh-so-thin ice, and save flailing, drowning moron man (who for all I know, might have been searching for a wedding ring or lost pet).

9) Am somewhat disapointed to see struggling moron man heave himself back onto the ice and crawl toward the shoreline.

10) Continue driving, contemplating the heroics that might have been.

2004-03-23T15:48:00.000-08:00

On Literary ESP:

It was so surreal. I was reading J.D. Salinger today, Franny and Zooey, sipping a diet Coke, not feeling anything in particular, blase about the day, just lost in a story, when suddenly, the voice of one of the book's characters became my own.

Franny is talking to her boyfriend, frustrated that he can't understand how she feels about life and people. She's trying to explain, but she's confused and he doesn't care and the words on the page were words that have been moving through my consciousness over the past months. It was so strange . . . like someone had stepped inside of me and pulled out what was confusing, yet meaningful. And I hated Salinger for violating what I thought was mine and loved him for expressing and understanding it, all at the same time.

"Listen, don't hate me because I can't remember some person immediately. Especially when they look like everybody else, and talk and dress like everybody else . . . I don't mean there's anything horrible about him or something like that. It's just that for four solid years I've kept seeing Wally Campbells wherever I go. I know when they're going to be charming, I know when they're going to start telling you some really nasty gossip about some girl that lives in your dorm, I know when they're going to ask me what I did over the summer, I know when they're going to pull up a chair and straddle it backward and start bragging in a terribly, terribly quiet voice--or name-dropping in a terribly quiet, casual voice. There's an unwritten law that people in a certain social or financial bracket can name-drop as much as they like just as long as they say something terribly disparaging about the person as soon as they've dropped his name--that he's a bastard or a nymphomaniac or takes dope all the time, or something horrible.

. . . It's everybody, I mean. Everything everybody does is so--I don't know--not wrong, or even mean, or even stupid necessarily. But just so tiny and meaningless and--sad-making. And the worst part is, if you go bohemian or something crazy like that, you're conforming just as much as everybody else, only in a different way . . . I'm ashamed of it. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody. I'm sick of myself and everybody else that wants to make some kind of splash."

2004-03-22T20:48:00.000-08:00

On Unexpected Outcomes:

After a such a turbulent set-up, my weekend was surprisingly placid. After arriving at the $ residence, being ‘greeted’ by a frigidish Mrs. $, and receiving minimal instructions as to my official nanny/housesitter duties, I had the house to myself. Er, myself and my five weekend charges, that is.

On Saturday morning the doorbell rang at 8:00 a.m. An approximately twelve-year-old boy stood on the front porch: bleached hair, wind jacket in school colors and a quirky smile. The quintessential annoying neighbor boy. “Hey,” he said. “Can anyone hang out?” I blinked three times, making sure I was awake. “Um, yeah, maybe. Let me check . . . hey, you wanna come inside while I see if anyone’s out of bed yet? It’s kind of cold out still this morning.” The boy just stared at me, unmoving. “Okay, now I’m cold! You coming in or not?” Finally, he responded. “Oh, sure! Thanks, cool.” And he stepped inside. (I was later to discover that Neighbor Boy had never before been allowed inside of the $ residence. I love being the trailblazer.)

Neighbor Boy hung out at the $ residence all day long, and approached me while I was making dinner (chicken fillets, green beans, corn muffins, funky blue jello that everyone freakin’ loved). “Hey, Janna . . . can I eat dinner here? This looks awesome!” So, I’m a sucker for compliments from twelve-year-olds . . . whatever. As we all sat down to dinner (and I was basking in a non-criminal Martha Stewart aura), Neighbor Boy announced, “I know some really hilarious jokes. Everybody ready?” Without waiting for responses he continued. “If a quiz is a quizzical, what’s a test?” He looked around the table with glee while pausing for the punch line. Loving the joke, but needing to affirm my place in the adult community, I laid the smack down, “No, thanks, Neighbor Boy . . . no more jokes!” He looked crestfallen for a moment. “Okay, just one more joke . . . pleeeease? This one’s really, really funny and . . .” drum roll . . . “it’s family-friendly, I promise.”

After thinking it over, I decided, against my better instincts, to be fun and flexible. (Rah! Rah! Janna loves jokes!) “One more joke, Neighbor Boy, that’s it . . . last shot.” Neighbor Boy rubbed his hands together in anticipation and rattled off the joke without pausing for a breath. “Here it is: What do you call a group of white people running down a hill? Avalanche. What do you call a group of black people running down a hill? Mudslide. What do you call a group of Mexicans running down a hill? JAILBREAK!!!” Fun and flexible Janna flies out the back door. “Neighbor Boy, that was three strikes, and you are most definitely OUT!”

The best moment however, came on Saturday afternoon. Eight-year-old Parker approached me as I was getting a glass of water in the kitchen. “Jan, I just wanted to tell you that you look really, really pretty right now.” What? Money? Was there some point in this saga where I was worried about money? Life is sweet.

2004-03-21T18:49:00.000-08:00

On Talking About the Situation:

Jenny: "So did Mrs. $ call back?"

Janna: "She did call me back and it was stupid."

Jenny: "What happened?"

Janna: "Well, first of all, she lied. I told her I wanted to discuss payment, and she was like, "Okay, well, we weren't sure how much to pay since we've never really done this before." That was her first lie . . . they've had nannies since their oldest was a baby! When I told her my rate (a modest $100 a day) she acted all shocked . . . and was like, "I had no idea it would be so expensive, I wish we would have discussed this earlier" etc."

Jenny: "Uh, huh . . . wait! WTF? It's FIVE KIDS!"

Janna: "I, know, I know. However, I did retain my cool demeanor (although I agree with your point)."

Jenny: "It's OVERNIGHT! The whole weekend! Sorry, I'm cool. Okay, so then what?"

Janna: "Soooo . . . then she says, "Well, we certainly didn't budget $300 for the weekend . . . we had actually discussed this earlier and had thought we'd pay you a flat rate of $100.” That was the second lie!!! She had thought about it, see?”

Jenny: “OMG. A ‘flat rate’ of $100?”

Janna: “Generous, huh? This is a woman who will spend $100 on just about anything but a caretaker for her children.”

Jenny: “So, go on, I'm breathless with anticipation . . . wait a sec though . . . just did the calculation: a hundred bucks for the weekend is $1.38 an hour.”

Janna: “Oh my gosh, I can’t think about it in those terms. Anyway, so after she says the bit about the flat rate I give a really long dramatic pause. So then, she says . . . "Well, what if we just put more responsibility on the older kids?" At which point I finally get confident and say in a superior tone, “As I will be at your home, I feel as though I will be solely in charge while I am there and I don’t think that situation would be best for anyone involved.” And she says, "Hmm, maybe you're right. Well, I guess I can understand if you don't think this would be worth your while then this weekend . . . since I really can't see my way clear to alter our budget in any way.” So, what am I supposed to say to that? Yeah, just leave the kids home alone for the entire weekend . . . or better yet, find someone else who’s willing to work the whole weekend for a $1.38 an hour!”

Jenny: So, you accepted the $100 flat payment?

Janna: Well, I say, "While I don't agree with your rate, I feel as though I’ve already committed to staying with your children and don't feel as though I, in good conscience, could back out right now.” So then she feels slightly guilty (at least that's what I'm telling myself).”

Jenny: “Haha.”

Janna: And she says, "Well, what if I pay you $100 now, and then work in another $50 for you in our next month's budget . . . you'll understand about budgets when you get older."

Jenny: “WHAT? Sorry, but that’s total bullshit. Tell her this is something she should have budgeted for WHEN SHE PLANNED THE WEEKEND. Can I call her? We need to TALK.”

Janna: “Here’s the deal, I then decide that the entire conversation is stupid, stupid, stupid and say, "I would appreciate you doing that. however, in light of this, I will not be at your home the whole weekend. I will be with the kids during key time periods (meals, bedtime etc.), but I will also feel free to leave to run errands." I didn’t know what else to do! I still had to make some kind of stand. And no, you may not phone her."

Jenny: “So what was your stand?”

Janna: “That was it, that whole thing, that was the stand.”

Jenny: “Wow.”

Janna: “The saddest thing is, none of this solved the real problem which was, me wanting to take care of the kids and do an excellent job and get paid a decent wage for it. I don't want to be leaving all weekend, just to make a point. I still feel responsible!”

Jenny: “Yeah, for sure.”

Janna: “The whole thing is sketchy.”

___________________________________________________________

Coming tomorrow . . . details about the weekend . . .

2004-03-18T22:36:00.000-08:00

On Me Being Kind of Gutsy:

It was brillant.

After twelve role-playing scenarios, 315 "Please God give me courage" sequences, and three phone false alarms (where I begin to dial the number I loathe/fear, then hang up quickly . . . feeling guilty and sophomoric), I finally worked up enough gumption to phone Mrs. $ tonight.

I told it to her straight: "Mrs. $, this is Janna, your nanny/housesitter for the approaching weekend. I am calling in regards to several items of business we have yet to discuss. First (note: this is my smoke screen question), I would like to know what time you and your husband plan to return from your weekend excursion; I am in the midst of solidifying some V.I.P. plans, and this information would be greatly appreciated. Second, I realize that when I arrive at your mansion tomorrow and begin to care for your large group of children while also frantically waving farewell and throwing rose petals on your windshield as you and Mr. $ drive away, things will be fairly hectic. Because of this anticipated series of events, I would like for us to establish my payment rate for the weeked before I actually arrive. My fees are modest, but I must remain firm on this point. I am no longer thirteen, meaning that I no longer enjoy being surprised by the amount that you randomly choose to write on your embossed checks. I look forward to discussing this with you further! Have a wonderful evening!"

Answering machines are soooo much easier to deal with than people.

2004-03-16T18:56:00.000-08:00

On Being Blasted By The Ides of March:

So, another March 15 swept through, once again catching me unaware.

It's not like Christmas or 4th of July . . . a highly publicized event I can plan for. No, every year it becomes more sleathly, more ready to catch me off guard.

I thought I had escaped this year, but then, the phone rang (and an ominous ring it was):

Janna: "Hello . . ."

Mrs. $: (Brisk rate, efficiently intimidating tone) "Janna, it's Mrs. $, you're still planning on spending the weekend with my pack of offspring, correct?"

Janna: (Attempts to sort herself out, regain composure and frantically tries to remember on which day she took hard drugs and committed to said masochistic event) "Um, well, yes. That would be fine . . . you decided on that weekend get-away then?"

Mrs. $: "Oh, yes! It will be great! I just wanted to go over a few things with you now, however. Although I would also like you to arrive an hour early on Friday so I can debrief you on a number of other essential items."

Janna: (Grovels against her will) "Super, yes, that would be super of you . . ."

Mrs. $: "For now though, you do have a pencil and paper, I hope: the boys go to bed at 8:05 (I'll allow you to read aloud to them, but for no more than 15 minutes), the girls should be in bed at 8:30 (they are also allowed to read for 15 minutes). All lights are to be off and all doors are to be tightly shut at bedtime; do not, under any circumstances allow them to talk you into leaving any sort of "night light" on. When you arrive on Friday I'll show you how to properly comb and gel the boys' hair . . ."

Janna: (Is assertive for once) "Oh, jeez. I think they'll be okay . . . I'm pretty laid back about that sort of thing, I want them to be comfortable while I'm with them . . ."

Mrs. $: (Chill in voice) "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

Janna: (Not sure whether or not she should be insulted) "Oh sure, um, okay . . . that would be great then if you showed me."

Mrs. $: (With air of finality) "Do you have any further questions for now?"

Janna: (Anxiously attempts to think of a professional, yet non-threatening way to bring up payment, heretofore undiscussed) "Allergies! Do any of your children have allergies that I should be aware of?"

Mrs. $: (Laughs in a condescending fashion) "You are so cute! The kids are all fine . . . although I did notice the baby wheezing slightly . . . it's probably just the aromas from our new 3 million dollar house though, nothing serious . . . or maybe it's the leather in the new SUV . . . anyway, he'll be fine, I'm sure."

Janna: (Upbeat) ". . . Yeah, it's great when the kids are healthy!"

Mrs. $: "Oh! Just thought of a few more things . . . no more than one movie for the weekend and no computer games or Playstation for the kids. Get creative with them! Even when they resist you (they hate games)! And also, we'll leave some money in case you'd like to take the kids out for a meal, but please see that you're judicial with costs . . . money is tight these days."

Janna: (Money is tight? Money is tight! She wishes, not for the first time, that she was assertive and confrontational in a pleasantly confident way. Also, realizes with resignation and dismay that four years of college have not adequately prepared her whatsoever for this moment and that she is going to get screwed over. Has visions of herself, after a beastly weekend, driving away from the home of Mrs. $, unfolding a check made out to "Jena" in the amount of 25.00) "I totally understand. Everything is so expensive! Got to be careful!"

Mrs. $: All right then! We'll see you on Friday!

Janna: Wonderful! Bye!

(Janna determines that sometime during the course of the week she will, indeed, call Mrs. $ with a series of additional smoke screen questions ("I forgot to ask you about the pets . . ."), and casually bring up payment topic . . . ahhhh! Help!!! Suggestions, anyone???!!!)

2004-03-14T21:12:00.000-08:00

On Dictionaries (Or Not Having One):

# 7 on my list of Things That Bother Me: Incorrect spellings.

Of course, # 7 happens . . . even to me--actually, especially to me, usually at the most inopportune of times (please see: my resume, after I thought that I'd sufficiently proof read the durn thing . . . curse Microsoft Word and it's soothing reassurance that Spell Check will solve every problem you ever had . . . it doesn't and they lie!).

Being that I therefore prefer (and shall we say, rely upon), an actual paper-bound dictionary (made from bonafide rainforest trees, bound in a factory by underpaid workers), it has begun to concern me that the only dictionary at my disposal (all others have been lost, garage-saled etc.) is of a Spanish to English/English to Spanish variety. The primary problem being that I speak absolutely no Spanish (I took French in high school . . . but I don't remember that either . . . c'est la vie!). I'm not even sure where the Spanish to English/English to Spanish dictionary came from. I just found it sitting conveniently by my computer one day . . . fortuosity?

The routine: I feel unsure or slightly shaky regarding the spelling of a word. I look it up in the S to E/E to S dictionary. I hope that the spelling of the word matches the definition I'm going for as I'm not nearly motivated/nerdy enough to cross-reference the word I'm seeking. Um . . . yeah.

For those unversed in bilingual dictionary experiences, it's a rather complicated business. Take, for example, the word unscrupulous. The Spanish definition is: inescrupuloso. Just add an imaginary sombrero and a bad accent and voila! We have a winner! But, however, if one were to have a spelling inquiry regarding the word constituency (which I can't ever envision myself using in a sentence while traversing the Mexican countryside), she would find herself perplexed, wondering if she had located the correct word as the definition merely states: distrito. Which is not conclusive at all, even when talking about an ambiguous constituency.

2004-03-11T09:45:00.000-08:00

On Having A Million Dollars To Spend . . . At Wal-Mart

I would like to thank my friends at the AP for this gem of a story. You wonder about the journalist who received this assignment. Was she "this close" to getting a bid to scoop John Kerry's next move? Was she eagerly awaiting an Middle-Eastern assignment? Then she gets the million dollar Wal-Mart story. It's a harsh world.

ATLANTA -- A woman who tried to use a fake $1 million bill to buy $1,675 worth of merchandise at Wal-Mart said it was all just a misunderstanding - she thought the bill was real.

The United States Treasury does not make $1 million bills.

``You can't keep up with the U.S. Treasury,'' said Alice Pike, speaking from jail.

Pike, 35, was arrested last week at the Wal-Mart. The bill was a novelty item that can be bought at gag shops. Pike told police she got it from her estranged husband, who is a coin collector.

Pike said she first tried to buy the merchandise with two Wal-Mart gift cards. But the cashier told her the cards only had a total value of $2.32. That's when Pike says she pulled out the $1 million bill.

``All I've got is this,'' Pike said she told the cashier.

``I wasn't trying to pass off the bill,'' she said. ``That's ridiculous.''

A police report says Pike tried to pay for the items with the fake bill and even asked for change.

Prosecutors must decide whether to prosecute Pike on charges of first-degree forgery.

(You know, Alice does have a point . . . it is hard to keep up with the U.S. Treasury . . . who knows what they might pull next?)

2004-03-08T22:30:00.000-08:00

On Why I Wish I Was A Wizard:

One of my favorite lines in Fellowship of the Ring comes when Gandalf placidly replies to Frodo's assertation that he has arrived late. "I am never late," he states with convinction. "I always arrive precisely when I mean to."

I, on the hand, am always late and never arrive anywhere precisely when I mean to.

It's a tough gig . . . this "being mortal" business.

2004-03-06T22:10:00.000-08:00

On Why I Won't Be A Drama Queen:

Three things of note happened today:

1. While at the mall, a man approached me, whipped out a small (though threatening in appearance) knife, and pantomimed slicing a balloon that happened to be in my general vicinity. He then laughed, clicked his knife back into its sheath and walked away. Odd. Very odd.

2. I swore for the first time in front of my Thirteen-Year-Old sister. Scenario: it's raining, I'm driving down the freeway, some tool job cuts me off, I simultaneously break, fishtale, say, "shit!", moments later wishing none of said reported items had occured. I apologize emphatically to Thirteen-Year-Old sister, expressing remorse for my inappropriate terminology usage, albeit, in a moment of crisis. I immediately feel like aforementioned cuss word when Thirteen-Year-Old sister replies sagely with, "It's totally okay. Mom says that all the time whenever something happens that freaks her out." For the record: I am not my mother and I was not freaked out. Everything was, as always, completely under control.

3. I became the wonderful-and-amazing Twenty-Two-Year-Old Sister tonight by taking Thirteen-Year-Old Sister (see #2) to the 9:15 Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen. Happy to report, bonding definitely took place . . . despite a banal I-know-what's-going-to-happen-next plot and a horribly contrived ending. All of which Thirteen-Year-Old sister thought were so cool.

2004-03-05T23:01:00.000-08:00

On Being Okay With Perfect:

I've been reading Anna Quindlen, Kaye Gibbons and Steinbeck . . . amazing, all three. There's something about losing myself in rich, mysterious, wholly alive fiction that makes me want to know the freedom of being the best possible character in my own life's work.

I heard Gibbons speak two years ago . . . she's not dynamic, but she's honest. I think that's why I listened to her, why her words meant something. Charms for the Easy Life is a book that I'll remember, probably because I loved and respected the characters within the story. They made me want more from myself, something bigger than a house in the 'burbs, a promotion, wine coolers and the movies on Friday night.

It's easy, I think, to be okay with ordinary. But amazing things don't happen in the perimeters of ordinary. They happen when you wait for perfect, when you prepare yourself for it, ready to demand it, if necessary.

____________________________________________

Some highlights from Charms for the Easy Life:

"That left fifty or so boys who would never have asked me to a dance, but who regularly asked me to correct their term papers, show them how to use the library card catalogue, intercede in disputes with their girlfriends, and forge absentee excuses from their parents in my mature and thoroughly convincing handwriting. None of these boys ever looked up at me, as I explained for the tenth time that Twain was cross-referenced with Clemens, and said, "It's you. You're the one.""

". . . Don't worry over it. You'll find your one-in-a-million, but you're sharp enough to know there's no point in sludging through the first nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine to get to him."

"She held out a hand and said without speaking, "I'm what you have lived your whole life to get to. I'm why you were born. You are one lucky man.""

2004-03-04T19:56:00.000-08:00

On Moving Slowly:
I had a conversation with one of the Wise Women in my life the other day. True to form, I was pissing and moaning about my in-between-big-adventures-in-life state. She made the observation that she has come to appreciate the value of moving forward in life slowly . . . because even s l o w means that progress is taking place, it means that you aren't stationery, you aren't falling behind.

I think perspective is so hard to acheive because you have to step away from yourself to obtain it. You have to put your current situation on hold, climbing out of it so you can walk around on the outside for a little while, re-evaluating, examining the new dimensions, the angles and shapes you'd never noticed before. But it takes time to do that, it takes courage, too. Its easy to rush . . . rushing, moving, being frantic--those don't require contemplation and thoughtfulness. They don't make you reach deep inside and look for something, maybe afraid of what you'll find.

2004-03-03T09:16:00.000-08:00

On Calling Long Distance:

The sordid truth. I am an imbecile when it comes to making long distance phone calls. Yes, yes, hard to believe.

I'm one of those people that dials the super secret calling code on her phone card carefully, then just as cautiously enters the number of "the person on the other end." All of this obsessiveness comes to naught however, when I freak out out at the last moment, convinced that I've dialed a misplaced digit at some point, frantically hanging up the phone just as it begins to ring, thereby saving myself from the horrors of Dialing the Wrong Number. Pathetic? Yeah, I think so too.

Let the record note however, that I am a calm, intelligent, mostly rational individual. (Does a statement like that count if you feel like you have to make it?)

Soooo . . . despite my phone dysfunctionalities I decided to call China last week. A college friend, ChinaBoy, is there and I felt like making an international phone call, making a cultural connection.

The events as they transpired:

~Janna dials ChinaBoy's number after first having checked the time differences three times and having also hung up and redialed five times--being nervous of course of inadvertently punching the wrong number . . . so many digits, so many things that could go wrong . . .
~A Chinese man answers the phone and says something muffled.
~Janna, thinking that perhaps ChinaBoy now answers the telephone with a Chinese greeting, decides to press onward.
~She says pleasantly, "Hello, is ChinaBoy available, please?"
~The Chinese gentleman replies with a forceful tone in a dialect that Janna is unable to comprehend.
~Being nervous, Janna has forgotten the only Chinese she knows ("nee how" a greeting that would have guaranteed no further success in the conversation).
~In desperation she says loudly (though her voice is quavering), "Is ChinaBoy available, please?"
~The angry voice in China becomes more intense, yelling now . . . issuing forth statements that Janna can only interpret to be of a derogatory nature.
~In a final attempt, she whispers, "ChinaBoy?"
~The angry Chinese man hangs up on her.
~In one fell swoop, Janna successfully punctures the balloon that is friendly global community.

2004-03-01T23:06:00.000-08:00

On Taking Baths:

I don't like to. I always feel slimy and sore after a bath. This, of course, is no good, as taking a bath is, as a matter of course, supposed to bring out feelings of cleanliness and utter relaxation. Using my Hercule Poirot/Sherlock Holmes powers of divination, I've concluded that I experience said sensations because either a) I'm too big or because b) my bathtub is too small.

While my narcissistic nature resists addmitting my bathtub's flaws, it must be noted that the only tubbing device located in my home was apparently assembled with some brand of dwarfin population in mind (shout out to Snow White and her homies!).

The other problem with my bathtub is that it only holds water. It really isn't suited for occupation by any other material. This means: boring.

If I had a big, amazing bathtub all to myself I would fill it with all sorts of things:
~Melted marshmallows (a warm, sticky experience . . . bathers encouraged to refrian from ducking their heads beneath the surface).
~Melted chocolate (I know, I know . . . two "melted" things in a row; so what). It would be the best fondue pot EVER. I could host some kickin' parties . . . birthdays, holidays (It's Christmas! Relax! Pull off that heinous sweater and jump into my extremely large bathtub full of melted chocolate!).
~Rasberry ginger ale (this is great because it's a culinary dream: color and presentation combined with a remarkably bubbly texture . . . voila! it's amazing!).
~Mud. Perfect for the perfect bathtub because no one ever puts mud in a bathtub. It is the antithesis of what the bathtub as an object, as an institution, tries to represent. Yet, the feeling of squishing, sinking, pressing your body into a rich, muddy haven would produce indescribable bliss (I exaggerate slightly, but who cares!).

Of course, options for the perfect bathtub experience are numerous . . . there's room to explore, room to create.

_____________________________________

In other news:

Thanks and more thanks to the 'C' Queen for her always remarkable technological expertise . . . hooray for blogger updates.

2004-02-28T22:32:00.000-08:00

On Why I Want to be A Super Hero:

1. Super heroes can be late for major events and no one cares . . . in fact, their tardy arrival only solidifies how amazing they really are.

2. Saving the world only involves a skin-tight rubber suit, an assortment of high-tech hand tools and a way-too-cool mode of transportation.

3. No one ever asks a super hero what they're doing with the rest of their life . . . questions like that never come up 'cause they're already wicked amazing.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She moves like a tornado; twisting, spinning, causing chaos but never sure where she'll land.
She's powerful, she thinks she's strong and beautiful but the world isn't so forgiving.
She moves like a tornado;
she writes rotten late-at-night poetry and waits for the heat to rise, the wind to sweep in and assign her another mission.
She wishes for direction, for movement that is real and hers to keep.
She twists, she spins, she wonders why her life isn't amazing.