refusing a rewrite.

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve last blogged I noticed, and this particular topic seems to be shadowing me around lately.  Today, it burst my patient bubble and blew most shreds of respect I have for a few people. 

Simply put, I have always been a firm believer that the past should be kept in the past.

After having a nice cookout with family and before we began to play some card games outside, an ex randomly texted me only for my phone to receive a disgusted look from me as I recognized the number on the screen; the corner of my upper lip turned up to reveal a scowl that an angry Elvis would have been proud of, and my eyes did double time in rolling to the sky, seriously? Why? Against any better judgment I read the text only to wish I never had.  Why would he ever think I care that hearing a laugh that sounded like mine made him think of me? I mean, thanks for the compliment, I guess, but no thank you for returning to that chapter of my life. 

I am an avid reader and I own more than enough books to put most libraries to shame, but I rarely read a book more than once.  That first time of reading a book can never be beaten; the thrill and mystery cannot be rebuilt. Therefore, it sits on a bookshelf until one day, years down the road, I have forgotten most of the book’s contents. 

Life is a book you can only read once.

It’s not that I still like him—I don’t, when I get these random texts I often times laugh at myself for having been such a dumbass to fool myself into liking him, because I can’t remember why I ever did—but it is that he has been seeing someone and still texts me shit at the most inconvenient and unsuspecting times that I lose more respect for him and become further annoyed.  Nor is it that I don’t like him—I like him fine if I run into him at the gym and I wish him the best of luck in his life endeavors and in happiness—I would just never make plans to hang out with him.  He is simply a chapter that was well written, in which I can pinpoint some major life decisions that changed the course of my future, and the prelude to a chapter where a wonderful friendship with my best friend was ruined.  For both these reasons I can’t regret my time with him either—I learned many truths about myself and grew as a person—but I also can’t believe my naivety at the time.

Running into my past is different and entirely acceptable—its natural for my present and past to collide at times—when done entirely by coincidence—and maybe God’s need for a good laugh at my expense.  Whatever, I can deal; these awkward moments are usually an entertaining part of my week.

Two nights ago, last summer wanted to hang again, which while I admit would be all fun in catching up was in reality of little interest to me.

A week ago, another past randomly showed up on my doorstep with only the teensiest bit of a forewarning.  Yes, it was good to see him, but no, it was not necessary in the least.

A little over two weeks ago, a particular ugly past of mine showed up at my work.  While it was an ego boost to know that after almost 3 years he was still into me and wanted me, I didn’t waste my time in giving him attention unless I noticed his table needed another round of drinks.

Not even a month ago, last November asked for a second chance, but with distance and my interest elsewhere, it was a chapter I did not need to rewrite.

Truth be told, maybe I’m a bitch in my attitude of not caring to revisit the past; I don’t do second chances, in any form.  Truth be told, I don’t feel the need to bullshit. There are enough people acting fake in this world, putting a face and act on for others to witness.  It is completely unnecessary for me to add to that drama.  I’ll let them play that role themselves; I’ve never been one for the stage anyway.

It’s like I said, life is a book you can only read once.

a much needed thank you.

There are few things in life that harbor my insecurities and over which I fathom a lack of confidence in myself.  That understanding might be one of the harshest things I must swallow on an almost daily basis.  Usually my borderline cockiness confidence dismisses the slightest insecurity, my independence breaking through with full force & strangling the idea out of my mind.  However, there is one insecurity that cannot be broken: my writing.  In all truth, I know I can write, but I also do not believe enough in my writing to think its any good for publication.  A piece I may have thought brilliant a month before becomes trash & fuel for a bonfire weeks later when I revisit it. 

Lately, everyone seems interested in what pieces I have gotten published & if I have heard back from an anthology competition.  The constant No’s I have to give in response is slightly heartbreaking—coming from a girl who has never really been in love or lost an immediate loved one, this is saying something for me.  People’s interest & compliments on my writing—equally as abundant as the feeling of failure peaking through my blinds some mornings with the sunshine—help combat these negativities & insecurities.

I never knew growing up & following my dreams—albeit broke & seemingly to live in a college lifestyle still as a server at a bar & attempting to save for my own place—could be not challenging but more heartbreaking than anything. My lingering diffidence & anxiety on this subject is driving me insane…

…that being said, thank you to all the supporters who help me stay motivated & the believers whose confidence in my writing penetrates through this annoyingly persistent insecure bubble.  If it were not for some amazing professors in college, challenging peers in writing classes, & the interest of family & friends, I might have given up awhile back & become an unhappy high school English teacher.  The compliments given along the way do not boost my ego but serve to motivate my appreciation for my own writing, a tool in believing in myself that I sometimes find myself in need of.  My gratitude cannot be expressed fully for the support I have been given from the people cheering in my corner.  THANK YOU! 

Collision

            It was a Sunday when the world stood still.

False—it came crashing down. It went black and silent. Nothing mattered, yet everything mattered.

Half a dozen times I unconsciously ignore my mother’s phone calls. It is mid-July and the bright morning sunshine is peaking through my blinds, warming my back.  I still have an hour left before my alarm will go off and I burrow my head deeper under my pillow. Later, when I look back, I will think of how I should have known something was wrong after the third ring. Somehow, my mom comes to the realization that I will not—do not want to—pick up the phone.  My sleep is too precious—not a surprise. I always ignore morning phone calls, but one single text cures any remnants of a hangover and I jolt awake:

Call ASAP. Regarding Taylor.

Two days ago, my brother had undergone what must have been his hundredth surgery.  My mother had taken him swimming in our pool the week before.  When my dad was helping my mom lift Taylor from the pool, he arched his back oddly, breaking the growing rod that is stapled along his spine.  After the surgery, the doctors realized that one of his lungs was working only fifty percent while the other was only ten percent.  They decided to put him on a ventilator to help him breathe.

            I am dialing my mother back in a fury and she picks up on the first ring, but before I can ask what is wrong I hear her sobs.  Everything is crashing down.  I am suddenly Danica Patrick speeding towards a brick wall.  Her tears knock the wind out of me.  I cannot breathe.  None of what she says makes sense through her heart wrenching sobs and my dad, the more reasonable, calm person in stressful situations like these, relays what my mother failed to get out: Taylor has lapsed into a comatose state; a young nurse accidentally turned off the machine that was helping him breathe, a mistake that might cost me my brother. 

I am hours away and cannot get to Chicago fast enough.  I hate the smell of hospitals but I want—need—to be there.

I spend the car ride reading and listening to music.  Words on the page blur together and make no sense as I turn pages robotically.  I finish the book before we get to the hospital and I have no clue as to what happened or how it ended.  Only the music of Jack Johnson playing through my headphones remains as I stare glossy eyed out the window.

I cannot escape reality. It has all become surreal.  I want it to end.  For years his doctors have warned us about this.  Hell, he was not even supposed to be able to live this long, and now, the doctors’ predictions might be coming true.  I want to damn them to hell for believing it is not possible for him to beat the odds. 

I cannot believe it. I do not want to believe it. I will not believe it.

I refuse.

~~~

We arrive at the hospital sometime in the middle of the afternoon.  My mother ushers us into the room, hoping one of our voices might call Taylor back to us.  His eyelashes flutter but that is all he grants us.  Tears come to my eyes as I stand motionless at the door, unable to enter. 

From here I watch my grandma as she bends over his bed rail and holds his frail hand, asking him to open his eyes, begging him to give us that dazzling smile.  We are selfish humans, knowing he should not have lived this long but always wanting more time.

Putting his arm around me, my dad whispers softly to me, “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want. The alcohol smell can make you cry.”  He is offering me an excuse to leave the room and hang out in the waiting area.

            I do not move, I cannot move.  Every bone in my body is losing its battle to “just have faith,” as a friend has been reminding me frequently since I called into work earlier that morning.  Laying my head on my dad’s shoulder, I try to find some peace, some strength. 

Everywhere around me I hear the buzz of the machines, see the agony in my mother’s face and the defeat in the nurses’.  I lift my head up and look in my father’s eyes.  It is there that I find what I need: the power to move, to force myself to be strong, to “just have faith.”

            Leaving my father’s comforting side, I walk up to the side of Taylor’s bed and stand opposite my mom and grandma.  Suddenly, I have this urge to crawl into the bed and lay beside him, like I sometimes do when I go home. All the tubes and wires and machines prevent this.  Grabbing his cold, tiny, frail, limp hand in mine, I lean down to give him a kiss on the cheek.  The breathing tube will not allow me to so I settle for his forehead, and I notice that it, too, is also chilly.  He is lying here, right before me, I’m holding his hand, and yet he feels distant, a million miles away.

I sit down on the very edge of his bed and take hold of his hand in both of mine.  I stare at him and lean closer before I whisper in his ear, “Taylor, wake up buddy. I love you…and while I hope you’re running through meadows, laughing and playing with other kids your age, I’d prefer it if you came back…please wake up, buddy boy.  I miss you…the world’s not the same without your laughter.” I choke on the last word and tears are now freely coming down my face, smearing last night’s mascara. 

As I pull away and straighten up, my mom lets out a small gasp—he has opened his eyes and is looking at me! When I smile, he smiles, too.  I give him another kiss on the forehead.  The tube in his throat prevents him from laughing, but I know he is trying to give me the laugh I have so desperately wished for.  My dad, now standing near the foot of the bed, beside my mom, is crying.  For the first time ever, I see my dad in tears.

~~~

After the incident, the nightmares came and I conditioned myself to believe that my voice could bring him back—hear Taylor’s excitement as the phone is placed by his ear and he recognizes the voice on the other end and this idea becomes plausible—but memories and reality can collide—or crash as they fight to coexist on separate terms.  The former fades with time and the latter will reign. 

The truth is I never had the courage to step into the room.  He had woken up sometime while I was still racing against time to the hospital, but only his eyes would ever flutter.  The tears in my dad’s eyes, I fear, were more from my inability to enter the room than Taylor lying in that bed since he had already woken up.  The words I whispered in Taylor’s ear was simply the prayer I repeated relentlessly during that four hour stretch of time that elapsed between my mother’s phone call and standing outside his hospital room’s door; and somehow he had heard it.

I faintly remember attempting to lie beside his cold body but I am mostly haunted by the hours spent in the waiting room away from the stench.  It was everywhere, seeping into my clothes, my hair, my skin.  I couldn’t outrun it so I took my dad’s excuse that he offered me and I hid behind the closed wooden door that was surprisingly too heavy to open nonchalantly, warning visitors of the sickness and dying hope they are returning to when stepping from the room.  I hid, nose buried in a James Patterson novel for hours as I fought to ignore the chaos, tragedies, and sobbing that surrounded me.  In a story of murder and cruel humanity I grasped onto solace. 

            When the door finally opened from outside and in steps my father, I turned deaf ears on false hope and listened only to that which would bring comfort.  Eventually, it came but trust in doctors was lost, though it had barely existed from the beginning.

            My father’s eyes did bring me strength.  They allowed me to survive the fear that seemed to be coming true. I found my home in them, and I found the ability to fight back the tears when everyone was waiting for me to breakdown and cry.

chivalry is dead

a work in progress and one of the shitty beginning drafts that i am no where near happy about but have no clue as to how the hell to improve the damn piece.  it is a topic that has gained my interest first as i listened to my mom tell stories of how her and my dad met, and then as i worked in restaurants & bars over the years and watched couples on dates, and last as us girls ranted about never going on dates throughout our college years--and then after, for some....

Chivalry Is Dead

In desperate love, we always invent the characters of our partners, demanding they be what we need of them, and then feeling devastated when they refuse to perform the role we created in the first place.

                        --- Elizabeth Gilbert: Eat. Pray. Love.

            “Just one date, that’s all I want,” my friend, Kelsey, vented to me about the negatives of dating guys in their twenties, guys still in college; the kind of guys we hang out with.

 We spent the night making a list of twenty-six qualities for the next guy we would date. Number ten on the list was “dates—not just hanging out.”  Some of them were practical and should be every girl’s requirement—have a job, college graduate, pays own rent and bills, does not live with the parents—while others were just a preference—tall enough to wear heels with, calls me beautiful instead of sexy, interested in sports, has good hygiene, will let me meet his family, wants to meet my family.  It was the result of our conclusion that chivalry is dead.  Gentlemen no longer exist, as it seems all boys—yes, boys because few grow up to become real men—have forgotten about chivalry.

Centuries ago, chivalry was when a knight would fight in honor of a lady; in Jane Austen’s time, it meant a man would court only one gal at a time; when my parents were in high school, the guy asked the girl for her phone number and then would later meet the parents in the twenty extra minutes it took her to get ready for their date.  Growing up, girls are taught to never settle for anything less than a true gentleman who knew how to be chivalric.

Chivalry: the act of opening the door for a woman; offering to drop her off at the door before parking if it is raining out; giving her his coat if she is cold and shivering with goosebumps; paying the tab when taking her out on dates; and not expecting anything more than a kiss, if that, on the first date.  Through the decades, dating has changed as much as chivalry has died.  Today, dating no longer means two people are exclusive, a harsh lesson I have learned through some broken hearts.  No, two people are not exclusive or boyfriend and girlfriend until they mutually make this decision together.  Dating has become the tool by which one finds out if he or she wants to be exclusive with someone—understandable, as long as both people know the meaning of it, which many do not.  In short, dating is another term for “hanging out”: two people who are more than just friends and not exclusive but hanging out.

Whatever happened to chivalry? Does it only exist in 80’s movies? I want John Cusack holding a boombox outside my window.  I wanna ride off on a lawnmower with Patrick Dempsey. I want Jake from Sixteen Candles waiting outside the church for me. I want Judd Nelson thrusting his fist into the air because he knows he got me.  Just once I want my life to be like an 80’s movie, preferably one with a really awesome musical number for no apparent reason.  But no, no, John Hughes did not direct my life.

            ---Olive Penderghast (Easy A)

In high school, I never dated.  Junior year, the senior that I had a crush on asked me to the Winter Carnival dance.  My dad’s requirement: Ausable had to come over for dinner and meet the parents before he was allowed to drive me around.  This was back in the day when winter welcomed snow and in February the roads still had to be plowed at night in order to ensure students could make it to school and adults could make it to work in the morning.  Then there was the added fact that my dad is a state trooper and a strict father, especially when it comes to his little girl, aka me.  I was not allowed to go out with guys until my father met them; lucky for him there weren’t many guys to bring around, though.

I have never been on an actual date.  However, I have “dated”—as in hung out with—many guys and been in a few relationships, but no guy has ever picked me up from my house, waited the thirty extra minutes it would take me to get ready, open the car door for me before he goes around to his side, take me out to dinner or an evening on the town, pay for the bill without allowing me to chip in for my half, and then drop me off at my door for us to have that awkward ending under the porch light; and neither has Kelsey, or many other girls our age. Like I said, chivalry is dead.

According to Madame Noire, there are nine reasons why chivalry is dead: 1) women are aggressive—the only time I’m aggressive is on the soccer field; yes I have gotten a yellow card or two in our co-ed bullshit beer leagues I play in; 2) are overtly sexual—I am far from overtly sexual; you will not catch me in a shirt that shows cleavage (not that I have much to show for boobs anyway); 3) are loud—as for loud, well shit, I’ve been considered quiet—or worse, shy—all my life; lord forbid I spoke up in high school or people thought I was upset and something was wrong;  4) are militant—I may wear black and grew up acting like a tomboy but there is no way in hell I would survive the army, or even boot camp for that matter; 5) constantly complain—numerous guys have cheated on me because I do not complain enough, they say I am too chill and go with the flow too easily that they never know if I am happy or satisfied—well fine, I can bitch plenty if they want me to (although that would defeat the argument of women are too loud…); 6) pop their gum—I promise I do not pop my gum—I snap it, there is a difference; 7) don’t give men a chance—I give too many guys a chance, but I will admit I never do second chances; 8) curse like a sailor—okay, you got me, I do swear worse than any sailor; and 9) don’t speak up—true, maybe I don’t speak up often, but I do when it matters and I choose my battles wisely.

Today, relationships start by two people hanging out, banging, everyone else assuming the two are exclusive and “together,” and then, finally, the two people deciding they are together.  They are no longer a way for the guy to woo the girl or sweep her off her feet.  Dates consist of times where the two are hanging out watching television on someone’s coach, and one of two things happen:

Scene 1: Commercial comes on for Applebee’s or Hungry Howie’s and guy turns to girl, “Want to get some food? I’m kind of starving.”  Girl confirms and the two set off for a quick bite, dressed in sweats or still in yesterday’s clothes that she wore over to his house.

Scene 2: Girl randomly mentions to guy that she is hungry, hoping he will ask if she wants to go get some food somewhere.  Or she mentions that she wants to do something other than television, and the two decide on going to the beach, a wine tasting road trip, or even a random tigers game.

Fact: no date is ever planned in advance, at least not before the two are already “official.” Worse, no guy ever asks the girl for her phone number with the intention of taking the girl on a date and not expecting anything more.

Chivalry is dead…and women killed it.

                        ---Dave Chappelle

            My old roommate, Sam, is always in a relationship, and they always seem to last for well over a year; she also always seems to fall in love within only a few weeks.  I never understand it, but she is a girl with standards.  She may hang with the guy, but he always asks her out before they hang.  Madame Noire and Dave Chappelle might be right: it is the feminists’ fault that chivalry is dead, but what woman does not want a guy to hold the door to her apartment building open for her when her hands are filled with groceries? Those eggs crack easily!

            Maybe it is the girls who are lowering their standards, not forcing guys to take them out on dates before things get serious.  You don’t think the actual dates are valuable until you realize you have never been able to experience the nerves and butterflies they disrupt—or when people ask how the two of you started dating.

I heard that chivalry was dead, but I think its just got a flu.

                        ---Meg Ryan

            I lied. I went on one date with a guy because he was so persistent I felt I owed it to him; but mostly because he was nice.  I always had a tendency to date assholes, guys that called me sexy instead of beautiful.  Maybe I was intimidating, as some male friends and coworkers have told me over the years; and guys did not think I would say yes to a date.  Hell, it took this kid a week or two to get me to agree to a date.  Kevin was blond, barely taller than me, owned a couple slithery snakes, and could be considered a troublemaker more than a class clown back in his high school days.  Nothing about him screamed my type, but he called me beautiful instead of sexy.

            For that one Saturday night on the town, he dined me and I got an excuse to dress up.  He paid the expensive bill and would not even hear of my suggestions of going “Dutch.”  When he took me home, we cuddled and talked for hours.  By the end of the night, he left with nothing more than a kiss.

            Lesson: give me the bland six-letter word of “pretty” that a little girl uses to describe how she wants to look just like her momma when she grows up over the word that implies I just gave a guy a boner simply because he likes my body or how I eat a banana.  No, call a girl “sexy” the first time and that boy might as well move on to the next girl or plan on walking through hell for the girl to give him much of a chance.

            We never went out on a second date.  The sparks were not there for me and I found myself interested in other guys; I was not about to lead a nice guy like Kevin on and use him just for a date or two.  It was the dates with guys I liked that I wanted—selfish, I know.

            My friend, Kelsey, has never been on a date.  She has been in two relationships that lasted for well over a year or two, and yet the guys never took her out once.  The getting dressed up—and having an excuse to do so—is another part of the experience we miss out on.  I want a guy to ask me for my phone number without asking, “so when can I have Breakfast At Tiffany’s.” If I had a nickel for every time I heard that line, I’d have a dollar-fifty. 

I want to wonder if he will ever call.  I want to spend an afternoon getting ready, not sure where we will be going—a road trip to Grand Haven to walk the pier, a nice dinner out downtown then out to a nice bar for a couple drinks after, or to a concert of the artist that is in town.  I want him to open up the car door for me as if it is the most natural thing in the world—it should be.  I want him to be able to hold a conversation as we talk about future hopes and dreams.  I want him to drive me home and drop me off at the door, not expecting to come up or for anything to happen—nothing more than an awkward goodbye under the dim porch light and the peering eyes of the roommates peeking through the window.

            Many guys have opened the door for me, and every time it shocks me.  The odd thing, however, is that it is always the guy that expects something who opens the door.  What a damn shame; and what a tell it has become.

I was holding the door for several girls in front of you, and I waited for you to catch up.  When you reached me, you looked pleased, and a little surprised.  Unlike the others, you didn’t expect the door to be held for you by some random guy.  You smiled up at me and said, “thank you.”

                        ---Tammara Webber: Easy.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I went out on my very first date with a guy before we actually began to hang out a lot, became exclusive, or had sex.  Spencer was shy and the first time we hung out, a few weeks previous, he came over and we watched the latest season of Dexter he recorded.  We sat on my tinyass loveseat designed for just two people.  For the entire evening, he stayed on his side of the couch and never ventured over onto my cushion.  When he left after a few hours and I walked him to the door, he never made a move to kiss me; and I was hooked.  The second time we hung out was similar to that first night, and I was captivated.  It was not until the third night that we had kissed, and not until after I agreed to go on a date with him the following week.

He planned the date himself, taking me to get sushi because he knew I had been craving it for months and surprising me with my favorite candy—sweedish fish—as a treat.  When he came over after to watch a movie, he never tried anything but to cuddle and kiss.  A week later and we were exclusive, but none of his being a gentleman was an act.  Almost a month later and he still refuses to let me pay any bill when we go out, despises it when I hold the door open for him if I beat him to a building’s entry, and loathes the idea of me driving him around.

I cannot wear heels with him or I will undoubtedly be taller and he lives with his parents, but he pays his own bills, is graduating from college in May, calls me pretty, wants me to meet all his friends, and wooed me off my feet by proving to me that chivalry is not dead.  It had only caught the flu as I was falling for assholes.

hello there 2013!

There are so many resolutions that I could do for 2013—those that others might expect of me, those of which I think I should do, and those which everyone seems to make but nobody ever sticks to.  A couple years ago it was celibacy, a year before that it was to try veganism for a few weeks, and last year it was to finally graduate from college.  Then, like everyone else, it’s the “get fit [enter year]” resolution that never seems to continue through the year.

This year will be different.

1) Smile more: 

I thought hard about this and realized that I don’t need to.  However, if one more coworker asks me why I never smile I will shoot daggers at them with my eyes.  It's like telling someone, "hey, you are one very unhappy little bugger," which is news to me because I am plenty happy with my life; I have graduated college, Taylor is doing fantastic, I have been blessed with the best family in the world, my job ain't too shabby and the people there are pretty great, my boyfriend is an amazing guy, and I finally have more time to read and do some writing.  The only thing missing is the puppy I ask for every year for my birthday and Christmas but never seems to find its way to be among my gifts—pretty sure I can live with this disappointment, just saying. When I go out shopping or work coat check/host stand, people compliment me on my smile—not just guys, but ladies too, and in a passing afterthought way where you know its genuine.  I smile plenty, I just don’t look like a clown 24/7 smiling at an empty space of air; and I am so sorry my face is set this way.  I remember when the managers at Uccello’s took me aside and lectured me on not smiling and how it could cost me my job, nevermind it was at the same time as the death of an old teammate, a horrible breakup, and Taylor’s “coma.” There was a reason why I wasn’t smiling genuinely like I used to, but they never cared to ask. Moral of the story: sorry to disappoint you but this will not be one of my resolutions.

2) Lose 15 lbs: 

Except for the one month I became somewhat anorexic because of working 45-60 hour weeks with 18 credit hours and that other time when I was sick with no explanations of why I couldn’t keep food down, I have not weighed 130lbs since before I started lifting more my junior year of high school.  However, that seems to be my “proper” weight—27-32 lbs.—for someone of my height and BMI. Tell that to a teammate and they may just shoot ya for saying something so ridiculous—I know, they called me insane, laughed their asses off, and proceeded to ask why the hell I would listen to such lunatic trainers.  I have never really thought myself fat, but I could be more firm and fit. Therefore, my resolution will be to eat healthy, as in less carbs, less candy, meat only one day a week, mostly fruit & veggies only, and work out at least 5 days a week.  Actually, I have been seriously considering doing vegan or vegetarian again, but I love my fish and eggs way to much.  Oh, and not to mention, I give up meat every year for lent and it usually lasts through most of the summer anyway, so why bother now? 

3) Write a book: 

YES! YATZEE! This is my #1 goal for this year. I have 2 nonfiction pieces and one novel started, and one of these will be done within the next 365 days—not published, but a manuscript done to send off to an editor. Haven’t decided yet if I want to publish under a pseudonym. While I would love to go to a book store and see my name in print, there is a thrill in the idea of writing under a false name—identity—and the security it can provide for certain topics, particularly with nonfiction works.  And yes, one of these books is about Taylor.

4) Volunteer: 

There are so many great organizations.  This year, I am determined to participate in Relay for Life, March of Dimes, ringing the bell for the salvation army, getting a group of friends to adopt a family for Christmas to provide a meal and gifts, and, as always, use all my serving tips from one day to buy for Toys for Tots.  In addition, I would love to raise money for the Make A Wish foundation since they granted Taylor a wish years back.  While I may not be able to do all of this, I would like to work towards some of it.

5) Save some dough: 

Let’s face it: I am horrible at saving money.  I can’t take it with me to the grave so it runs right through my hands. Then there is also the additional fact that I love shoes, books, and shopping. However, I have student loans to start paying off in 6 months (not happy about the amount, just found that out—total bummer) and since I am a graduate no longer in college, there is no reason why I should need to rely on my parents for help with bills and rent.

6) Travel: 

I have never done a spring break trip—ever.  That, is one hell of a damn tragedy, too. While I may not expect to a “spring break,” I would like to travel somewhere I have never been this year—not including the trip to Sanibel Island that my mom and I had to forgo in 2012 (another damn shame).

In the end, these aren’t resolutions but mere goals—writing a book is the only resolution.  Saving money, volunteering, traveling, and working out & eating healthy are only things I wish to start doing more, not just this year but beginning with this year.

christmas sorrows

Sunday, a fellow troop of my father’s lost their five or six-year-old daughter to pneumonia.  It came on suddenly and after taking her to the hospital, they soon lost her.  Also within the last week, a classmate from high school—whom I’m sad to admit I don’t really remember but my brother does, and my father knows her father from the local gun club they are a part of—spent time in the hospital as her baby girl undergone surgery for a brain tumor.

Then there is Taylor.

Most times when I am home, he spends his time in his bed in his room flinging his toys and watching movies on his television—he has moved on from just Sesame Street and Friends and now also watches Disney movies and Scooby Doo.  This time, however, I was unable to join him in watching these films because I caught the common cold from some coworkers.  I hate flu season.  It ruins all my plans, even the simplest ones.

There was some great news.

Every year on Christmas Eve, a few of my grandparents come over for dinner and to exchange gifts.  This year, Taylor was able to join us as we opened gifts.  Sadly, I did learn that he has been having a problem with his legs turning purple or blue when they dangle for too long; but in this one position, held on my mother’s lap, he was fine.  Unfortunately, it did lead to him having an awful night and me not getting much sleep.  My room is right across from his and I hear every little cough, gurgle, or gasp of his along with every puff, hum, and beep of his machines.

Like every other year, we woke up early to open up our gifts. Between 5 and 5:30 a.m. I heard the parents tinkering around the house and kitchen while they waited for Travis and I to get up.  A few hours later, after I dragged myself out of bed, we began to exchange gifts.  After such a long night, Taylor slept the day away and we didn’t get to his gifts until later in the evening, after dinner.  For only a few minutes, he was able to sit by himself on the couch, propped up by a few pillows and blankets. 

It didn’t last long—even though he was laughing and smiling a lot, he couldn’t stop coughing, but what a beautiful sight it was.  He was so proud of himself, sitting there, his feet touching the ground—he is so tall I still can’t believe it!  Shortly after being brought into the living room, he had to be taken back into his bedroom to lie down.  Still, he has come so far in the past eight months.  It’s hard to believe that just last summer he was in the hospital for all but three weeks, mostly unresponsive and unable to smile much through the pain—no matter how hard he tried.  What a trooper. 

Luck: it is not a term one might easily associate with out family, but after seeing the tragedies and hardships that others have faced within the past year—losing family members or close friends—I can’t deny that I am always wondering how we have gotten so lucky as to him able to last this long when he was never supposed to.  We have been granted over sixteen years of beautiful miracles while others are denied them, it seems.  I’m not complaining, and maybe I’m having a pessimistic view—I hope its only because I am unable to see the miracles that others are granted because I’m not close enough to witness them, or them coming in a different form.  When I was younger, I used to think when Taylor was granted a miracle it was because someone else had chosen to give up theirs for him.  It was the only logic my little mind could come up with, and some days I still believe it.

Early last summer, when Taylor was having some complications with his surgery, I learned that a coworker’s family member had passed—my immediate thought was the old childish belief of mine that she gave up her miracle for Taylor.  The outcome of his surgery going into it was unknown—it could have gone either way but he came through like the survivor he was.  The complexity of his miracles blow my mind and the sadness for seeing others go through tragedies that are much less—or any less—complicated than Taylor’s will always remain, but I am thankful for every damn miracle he is granted and lucky to have been blessed with such an amazing brother and family. 

My heart goes out to those families who suffered this family, no matter how great or small the tragedy was.

This Christmas, I wished I could have had a holiday movie marathon with Taylor like I had been planning for the past few weeks instead of not even being allowed to step foot into his room because we can’t risk him getting sick.  Biggest bummer ever.  

Best gift ever: getting to see him sit proud on the couch by himself.

surprised myself & moved

As my moving date approached (leading up to yesterday morning/afternoon), I had a nagging feeling that I would change my mind and last minute want to move home.  Grand Rapids has become a source of disappointment, depression, and straight up dejection—it’s the triple D.  Graduating from school next week with the end of classes, exams, portfolios, and papers, there wasn’t much keeping me around.  All I had was my recent boyfriend, a few friends that keep me sane, a new job with some pretty amazing and fun people, and my soccer teams—my second and third families.  I would be lying to say that this is not enough to keep me here; it is living with the parents and having that sense that I just lost my independency that prevents me from moving back home.  However, it was still tempting.  If I did, I would not have to work two jobs and could focus more on my writing, which is the only thing that I have ever really wanted to do with my life. 

Yesterday I made the move—my forth in the past year—just a couple blocks the down the street and around the corner.  I have not begun to unpack a single box, none of which are even labeled—fail.  Between work, soccer, papers, and finals there is no time to contemplate how I want to set up the room.  I must admit, though, that I love that I have the attic.  For once, I might actually have enough room to live comfortably in my domain and everything might not end up on the floor by the second day of each week.  That is my goal: for once keeping my room and not letting it look like its prone to being hit my tornadoes every other damn day.

Still, the question remains: how long am I going to last in Grand Rapids?  School is no longer a reason to force me to stick around and I’m not sure I will make it very long.  Three times a week it seems I get the urge to just rent a storage unit, pack up the essentials and drive off to Florida, California, Washington, Maine, or one of the Carolinas.  Something about starting fresh with nobody knowing my history is beyond appealing to me, not to mention the appeal of just getting the hell away from this city and some of the people around here.

My teachers tell me that traveling is the best way to make a way into the writing world.  The experience from witnessing the tragedy & truth about what takes place beyond the comfort of my own city walls and state lines is the best education and inspiration for many writing pieces….