Blush

"Where did she go?" Elizabeth's mother wails from the laundry room. Shifting shirts and towels from one basket to another. "She just runs off." Maria Keaton always chats to herself about her children. This daughter though, she is the most excitable; the youngest. Youngest children tend to be the cutest. Something about their countenance.

Elizabeth is behind the radiator, maybe four feet from her mother. But she's quiet. So quiet, and in the warmest spot in the whole house. She's seven years old, has brown hair, but that pretty brown, not the mousy kind. When you're a kid your hair is soft and falls gently. Elizabeth's is long, but knotty, never preferring her hair to be combed. Earlier this morning she saw her mother putting on make-up in the bathroom. It consisted of Maria taking her Revlon "Cheeky" lipstick in the green tube, twisting the bottom to bring up the color, pressing it against each side of her face, then rubbing the color in aggressively with that part of ones hand right below the pinky finger, but before the wrist. It's little moments like this that made impressions on Elizabeth. Moments her mother would forget about in the same amount of time it took to create them.

She can see her mother from between the crack of space that separates the radiator from the wall. Maria's Ralph Lauren jeans sit on her hips tightly, but her legs are skinny, so there's just too much fabric there. You wouldn't call them baggy though. Perhaps boot-legged? Elizabeth's gaze takes in her mother completely. From Maria's jet black hair to her bare feet. Her toes are painted a shade of red, probably OPI Damsel in a Dress. Elizabeth makes a note to look in her mothers make-up bag later for the color.

The heat from the radiator gives Elizabeth comfort. Before her parents redid the playroom and made it into a guest bedroom Elizabeth spent hours in the back closet. It was a walk-in. She had collected various comfortable blankets and pillows from around their home, like a robin creating its nest, and made a soft safe place for herself, a place her brothers weren't allowed. One of the blankets was a really unattractive knit blanket. It was black, green, orange, and a yellow color akin to Yoplait custard. Her mother made the blanket while she was pregnant, and the only yarn she had were those colors. Elizabeth's drawings from school littered the walls of her tiny castle. One in particular, a giant whale took over the East wall. Behind it Elizabeth hid notes she wrote but never delivered to the boy down the street, Todd Allen. Various proposals for getting together to play. Her mother knew they were there. Sometimes she would find Elizabeth sleeping in there, and Maria would pick Elizabeth up like a rag doll and snuggle with her on the big chair in the living room until her daughter awoke.

Elizabeth's brothers are all older than her. And none of them could understand why Elizabeth needed her own time, alone from the rest. Her mother understood though, but not enough to not turn the playroom into a guest room, thus making the closet into a real closet unsuitable for nesting in. If Elizabeth is seven, which she is, that makes her four brothers logically age in the range of nine through fourteen. Maria and her husband Nicholas had everyone very close in age intentionally. They wanted their kids to grow up playing together. And the first four did and do. They include Elizabeth too, but in different ways and not all the time. If they were playing war, Elizabeth was more of a prop that stood for things that needed to be rescued. If they played movies, then Elizabeth would be the ticket seller. Soon she would bore of them, and leave to hide from everyone. It was her own game of Hide and Seek that only she was playing.

"Elizabeth?" Her mother again. Maria had left the laundry room for ten minutes. During that time Elizabeth moves from behind the radiator to the kitchen. She walks down the hall, turns right, and walks up five steps to the kitchen. No one sees her, except for the dog, David. He is a Schnauzer who does not bark, if you can believe it.

"Hello, David," she says to him, patting him on his bottom, then takes a seat on the high chair overlooking the island counter-top where her and her brothers ate breakfast an hour ago. Elizabeth thinks it is weird that David's name is David, and he is also a dog. David looks up at her from his puppy bed. One dog eyebrow up, then the other, then his head back down.

Maria moves from the laundry room, down the hall, turns right, and walks up five steps to the kitchen, effectively tracing Elizabeth's footsteps.

"Hi momsy," says Elizabeth.

"Elizabeth, where were you before?"

"Here." Elizabeth loves to tell white lies. Not because of the lying part, but rather because she likes to see if people will believe her simply saying something, over their own memory and knowledge of knowing she was in fact not there before. People generally believe her. She has an ongoing list of these mini tales, so she can inform her family and friends later that she tricked them. It's in her bedroom now under her copy of the book "Love You Forever" by Robert Munsch.

Maria wraps her arms behind Elizabeth, over the chair, embracing both. Her face next to Elizabeth's, their cheeks together, some of her Revlon lipstick blush rubbing on Elizabeth's face, despite the shield of brown and black hair between them.

"I love you," Maria whispers. Her mouth is warm and her words sweet. Elizabeth feels the heat on her left ear. "You," she stares into Elizabeth's brown eyes, "You are mine."

"I know," responds Elizabeth, her voice warbling slightly, like a child's does.

The Night Before & All the Days After

Thank Time that 2012 is over. What a crap year. Between the bookends of being broken, first in February/March and then again in August/September/October, then soul crushed and broken again, and the regular poor decisions you make when shitty things happen to you, the sorts of things that are out of your control which cause you to become someone out of control; then add to it getting rides from police officers not once, but twice due to my family judging me not worthy of remembrance -- well, you can see why that year needed to end. Sure, it had its perks. I went to New York thrice, joined a pretty baller sketch group (long pause), and perhaps know better now what I am capable of emotionally, physically and mentally. These, these are good things. 

I wish I didn't have to learn in the ways I did, but the human spirit knows no bounds, right? And, I know from experience. CS Lewis says this about experience: “Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn.” And that, that is truth in all its glory.

This is a draft buried from back in October. A particularly rough month, one that encapsulates my year in 82 words. Its contents are as follows:

I've only a few times woken up with all my clothes on from the night before.

Unfortunately, this seems to be a new Brigid Marshall trend.

SO dumb.

Everything about the situation I've found myself in is literally the dumbest.

Sometimes dumb is the best.

This is not one of those times.

This is a time where you're wondering where you're going in life. When you lost your maps. And why the iPhone's new app is screwing with your destination so hard.

Now that it's a few months out and away from the apparent clothing (hole) I was trapped in, and I can see slightly more clearly, I see this as sort of humorous. And while, yes, I did wake up in the clothes I wore yesterday this morning, it was for completely different reasons involving my cheap landlord who barely turns on our heat, rather than the tailspin of trying to forget my life by living in excess and pretending I was someone else. Today I feel glorious. It's 2013. And Thank Time for that.

Types.

There are always two types of girls. You've got Peggys. You've got Joans. You've got Mariannes. You've got Chrissies. You've got tomboys. You've got Barbies. It is what it is, what it is.

But what if you just. don't. fit. there? Sitcoms and shows, and HBO, and Cable, and movies have simplified females. They've simplified all of it, but I'm talking lady bits up in here. So, I have a theory, and I welcome you to come in and listen —

"Because we're not ugly, we're hot." Or rather, "Because we're not unattractive, we're thus attractive."

I said this in my head over and over again before typing it out. It sounds pretty douchey and at the least conceited, regardless of its truth or not. If you disagree with the sentence in quotations, first congratulations. I'm glad you have an opinion, more than I can say for a Chrissie. And, second, I said I'd explain. Cool your jets, ya jag.

For women, we're either fuckable or unfuckable. Crass. But, whatever. We're one or the other. You either want it or you don't. There isn't really a one-to-ten scale you can sincerely live by, and one person's opinion can vary from the next. You might call a girl a four, but if there's the possibility of sex, you'll try your damnedest to imagine her as a 10, and you just might succeed. Well done, you. That's just how science works. The thing is sex is just that, and these days for a lot of people who you're having it with is definitely part of it, but not necessarily all of it. I don't know if this argument carries over to lesbians, but maybe it does. As for the other way around, guys get a lot of leeway, which is probably why the phenomenon of the skinny fat abounds and why Kevin James is married to Steffiana de la Cruz in real life, and Leah Remini on King of Queens. I guess art does mimic life for ole Kevin. Woot!

Sure, there are other competing factors. Personality. Intelligence. Long-term Compatibility. Ability to commit to someone. Allergy to dogs. Nail-biter or not. Orders weird at Starbucks. The list goes on.

But, base instincts. This is it.

I've been sitting on this post for months now, and being a single lady in a pool of person, I can tell you right now that this is truth. The challenge is to siphon out and figure out just what it is you want out of life, and whether or not that even includes someone else. It shouldn't really matter whether you're a Taylor Swift or the apparently more attractive girl referred to in Tear Drops on My Guitar.

Procreation, or at least the act of it, is the great equalizer. In the moment anyone can be a ten or a one. And someone's Peggy might be another's Joan.

accentuated features.

We were staring out the windows of my car. Different windows. He was sitting shotgun. I had offered him a ride home from wherever it was I ran into him. We ran into each other. To be nice. Because, I'm nice. Nice enough to spare 10 minutes there and then probably 15 back. Time seems to go slower when you're walking away from something. Especially if you don't know what that something is. Could be nothing.Which is still something. If we're talking things. "Why do people call it shotgun." I kept thinking that. But thinking it like it was a statement not a question. Final. Shotguns are pretty final.

I was driving, so I was staring out the windshield. That's where you stare if you're driving. He was staring out the right window, sometimes straight ahead like me, and then periodically looked to his left where I was, then out the window again. Trees with leaves, new ones, green and tender. Sometimes it seems like people's heads are on a swivel. Like a swivel chair. Distracted. The kind found in offices where people don't like whatever it is they're doing. Which is most people. I'm a person. Like that. That is. Not for forever.

He kept looking at me like he wanted to say something. Or maybe I put that on. I likely put that on. Everyone puts on a different version of themselves depending on who they're with. Puts on the idea of what they should be, failing reality. It's dumb. Because at the end. Down to brass tacks. We're always all going to be ourselves. And if you're an unreal version of yourself then that's just who you are. The kind of person that isn't comfortable being their true self, so then they just become that. That crappier version of their own reality. A caricature. Like the kind drawn for couples at Disney World. Or Navy Pier. Or Battery Park. Big eyes bigger, thin smile thinner, accentuated features. 

But we weren't there or anywhere, and our features were just as they were. Simply sitting in my car at a red light. It had only been about five seconds. The air kicked in. Time passed. Orange: ten, nine, eight, and so on. The song switched, Pandora reminded us of the cost of programming, and the light changed. Looked out the window. Trees glazed in green. Looked behind, and forward again. Caught his glance. And a nice offer of a ride becomes a game because no one can be themselves all the time, further validating how much of yourself you perhaps aren't or are. Who speaks first and what about? The truth is, it didn't matter. And doesn't. And won't. But it'd be nice if it did. If things weren't what you knew they were the whole time. If the caricature of the person to your right wasn't just that -- a caricature. If final wasn't final and we weren't who we were. If.

5 things i love

1. rereading
2. texts from my dad
3. reading texts my dad sends me out loud to whomever is within earshot
4. rereading those same texts to myself
5. my dad

Chipped Nails

Her hands were cold. Not like an ice cube. Those are frozen. But, cold, as if she hadn't worn gloves and then proceeded to wipe snow off the windshield of her car. I had finally gotten the nerve to strike up a conversation a few days ago, and now she was standing in my kitchen. People say that, "Strike up," right? Her hair sort of in front of her face, not touching her cheeks necessarily, but sort of lingering midair as if hoping to brush past for one second.

"Do you want something to drink? Like a glass of water."

I opened the fridge, a chill meeting the cold air of my kitchen. Started rumbling through, the bright light bulb reflecting off my glasses. I'm sure I was looking just great.

"Uh, iced tea? Da. Da. Da. You don't want that, maybe some chocolate milk?"

She laughed. I smiled out from the corner of my mouth. The left side.

"Chocolate milk it is."

Some color returned to her face. Warmer now.

"I'm not going to turn down chocolate milk."

It was definitive, and I liked that. I poured her a glass, well, three quarters of a pint. The cup had an etching of Snoopy painted on it. It went with a set I had gotten for Christmas the year before. A sort of White Elephant gift, but I thought it was cool. A set of four Peanuts themed cups. I handed her the glass, she took it. Had some chipped nail polish on. Like she had painted it the day before, but then washed a bunch of dishes. My mom always wore rubber gloves to avoid a chipped nail. I can hear her.

"I keep it classy, John." To my father. She'd say it again and again. My dad would look up from the table, amused at his wife. I always appreciated how he looked at her. Like she was the only thing saving him from whatever it was that was on the hunt for him. You know?

"The classiest I've ever known." She'd wink at him. Do this weird tip of her hip as if to say, "Thanks," and keep doing dishes.

It was sort of sad when we moved and got a dishwasher.

Anne was standing in front of my sink now. I didn't have a dishwasher. No one in college did. Or likely does now either. She had finished her last gulp. I could hear it. Not gurgling or anything, but you know that sound, when you can hear the swallow and the settling of liquid?

I had put away all the other options. The water. The tea. I leaned against the edge of my counter. It looked nicer than it really was. A sort of fake marble top, but really I think just a Home Depot bought cork with a marble looking design. I tucked my hands in each pocket. She came closer. Not too close to send a message, but close enough to send a vibe.

"Thanks for that." We sort of stood there. A weird pause. What to do. I waited too long. When had she put her gloves on? I didn't know she had gloves. Where were they before? Too long.

"Well, I guess I'm gonna go." She batted her eyelashes. It sounded sweet, like she didn't want to infringe on my "me-time." I liked that she wasn't wearing mascara. I didn't want "me-time." What was happening?

"Oh." That was it. That's what I had.

"Okay. Well, it was fun to, I don't know, see where you live." She leaned in for an awkward hug.

Fuck.

"Yeah. You too." That made no sense.

I was still wearing my shoes. In my own house. Thoughts: Why am I wearing these stupid shoes? These dumb grey Saucony's. That's all I could think. If I had just taken my shoes off it would have been a natural progression to the living room, to the couch, to hanging out on my couch. To take your coat off. To watching a movie. To accidentally falling asleep. To waking up in three hours. To her saying, "It's so late." To me saying, "Yeah, it's ok." To fake falling asleep so that she felt comfortable falling asleep again also by accident, though we both know it wasn't a real accident. And we would be on the couch. And we'd wake up. And it'd be morning. And I wouldn't be alone.

It would be morning already, before we knew it, and we'd be rinsing out that Peanut pint glass without rubber gloves on. We'd smile as I washed and she dried. Fuck.

"Thanks, I'll see ya later." A blonde wisp of hair hit her cheek as she turned back to wave. I waved back. Paralyzed, sitting in my own Fuck, What Happened Here?-ness.

The sound of my door closing. Click of the main lock as I turned it left. Brought up the chain to bolt the door. Slid from right to left. It hung there loosely. She was out in the cold, gloves on, jacket zipped.

And we were alone again.

chasing dreams

This song, Beautiful Girl, just pisses me off. It's such a cop out to explaining what it means to love someone. Its main concentration is on all she does for him, and only minutely highlights how absent he is from this relationship. But what makes it the worst is how fucking beautiful the melody is. At the end of the day, words are just words, even if they're strung together like pearls on a musical string. "You sacrifice so much of your life in order for this to work," he sings, but what does he do? How does he sacrifice? Feeling bad isn't enough, guy.

I wish I could do better by you,
Cos that's what you deserve.
You sacrifice so much of your life,
In order for this to work.

While I'm off chasing my own dreams,
Sailing around the world,
Please know that I'm yours to keep,
My beautiful girl.

And when you cry a piece of my heart dies,
Knowing that I may have been the cause,
If you were to leave, fulfill someone elses dreams,
I think I might totally be lost.

But you don't ask for no diamond rings,
No delicate string of pearls,
That's why I wrote this song to sing,
My beautiful girl