Hitchhiking

Last night, Laurie and I apparently brought home some Brazilian men. They had picked us up off the side of the road. We were walking back from Lakeview and decided to throw our thumbs out, to catch a ride and all. We accidentally had to drive around campus twice, because Laurie and I forgot to tell the dudes where we live. When we finally did reach our destination, Laurie was real polite and asked the lads if they were trying to hang out. They came up to our apartment, and we all stood there and kind of looked at each other. It got awkward pretty quick, I guess, because they turned tail soon after. Still, it was pretty cool. I'm a fan of Brazil.

There's a Horn a'Honkin!

There's this car horn that has been going off in the parking lot of Mountain View for a solid 2 hours. It's not like a car alarm or anything; it's just a continuous blaring of this one note. I actually don't even mind it. I am more concerned that someone is slumped over the steering wheel, and that that is why the horn is going off. And if someone is slumped over the steering wheel, that means they're either passed out or dead. It reminds me of "Day in the Life" by the Beatles: "He blew his mind out in a car / He hadn't noticed that the light had changed." That's a rather odd reworking of the idea of red light optimism. Red lights provide a rather opportune time for blowing one's brains out. I guess.
Anyhow, I am trying to focus on more light-hearted things on this here blog. Because lately, I keep focusing on dreary things like regret, and no one wants to read about dreary stuff for too long, or else they start feeling dreary too.
Laurie just came back from class, and someone set off their car alarm, so then there was a car alarm and a horn blaring. So then we got all riled up and I decided to set my alarm off, too. Laurie would have done the same, but she couldn't 'cuz her car Carole doesn't have an alarm. But then more people started beeping their horns or setting off their alarms, and it was complete chaos for a couple minutes. Laurie and I were whooping and hollering like a bunch of baffoons, and it was such a blast. Sometimes it's fun to just make a bunch of noise.
It would be easy to be annoyed by a horn incessantly honking. But it's a hell of a lot more fun to just laugh at it, and make some noise yourself.

Song of the Moment

Remember that song "White Houses" by Vanessa Carlton? If you are a man, you might not remember that song, or you might be too ashamed to admit that you remember that song. The thing is, it is a tremendously girly song. It sometimes makes me feel so feminine, I want to rip my ovaries out and rub them all over my face. Be that as it may, "White Houses" is extremely poignant and lovely and striking, and I feel prompted to write about it. 
      The song starts out with a simple piano intro, which melds immediately into this tinkling, descending stroll of piano-ness (I am very ignorant of musical terms, so bear with me) that is simultaneously chipper and demure. Then, Vanessa's little voice chirps in, and she is so genuine and spare and feminine, it makes my heart erupt and deflate at the same time. There are no fancy adornments to her vocals, but the purity of her voice, in combination with the intricacy of her piano playing, accentuates the meaning and feeling of the song. 
      I remember when I was first affected by this song. I was at a friend's house in Granby, Ma, and it was mid-October. Granby is a beautiful town, and Bridget's house is nestled in a cozy yard, overlooking the distant mountains of Holyoke and Northampton. I cannot remember how old I was, but I remember the startling colors of that day--the crisp, unadulterated blue of the sky, the pure green of the grass, and the smudged copper and fiery red tones of the leaves, dancing on their branches and barely clinging on. We had spent the day in a typical New England fashion; we'd carved pumpkins, setting aside the seeds for roasting, and had begun to rake leaves. While we raked, we hummed the tune to "White Houses" and could not seem to get it out of our heads. We didn't mind, and just kept humming that catchy refrain over and over again. Unfortunately, we didn't know any of the lyrics, so we would hum most of the song and then chime in with "white houses!" during the chorus. Even though the meaning of the song was lost on me at that time, from then on I always  equated the song with New England fall foliage, green grass, and giggles among young girls. 
     It wasn't until a week or two ago that I actually heard the song in its entirety, and that I gave it my full attention. The boys at the neighboring Tower (junior/senior apartments on campus) were throwing an Eighth Grade Dance Throwback party that weekend, and my roommates were very enthusiastic about it. We all got decked out in our eighth grade garb--DC and Converse shoes, band tees, hoop earrings, exposed midriffs, heavy eye liner, and studded belts--and pregamed, listening to essentials from our middle school experiences. Once we actually got to the party, we found that no one else was dressed up, but we were not remotely fazed. We just like dressing up. While in the pregaming process, I believe, Laurie and I went into a downloading frenzy, nabbing eighth grade classics like Nelly's "Country Grammar" and Papa Roach's "Last Resort." We listened to the songs as we downloaded them (legally, of course), and cracked up with every new download.
     Then suddenly, amidst all the bad hip hop and pop music of our pasts, Laurie's computer sighed the first chords of "White Houses." My heart was arrested, and I could practically see the leaves drifting around me as Bridget and I tossed them into the air. "What song is this?" I asked Laurie, and my voice was strained and whispy. "'White Houses' by Vanessa Carlton," she replied. "It's so beautiful. I forgot about it," I said with that same wan voice. "I know, right?" We listened to the whole thing. We may have listened to it twice. It was the only song we listened to in its entirety that night--one becomes sick of "the Thong Song" after about the first verse. I immediately downloaded it myself and put it on my iPod. 
      Later that week, I was driving through lovely Rindge, admiring the freshly-fallen snow drifts which lined the road. I put on "White Houses," and before it was through, found that I was tearing up quite a bit. It's a good thing I wasn't PMSing, or I would almost certainly have dissolved into tears, and would have swerved off the road in a fit of despair. The song is just so goddamn beautiful.

" Crashed on the floor when I moved in

This little bungalow with some strange new friends
Stay up too late, and I'm too thin

We promise each other it's till the end

Now we're spinning empty bottles

It's the five of us

With pretty eyed boys girls die to trust

I can't resist the day

     No, I can't resist the day

Jenny screams out and it's no pose

'Cause when she dances she goes and goes

Beer through the nose on an inside joke

I'm so excited, I haven't spoken

And she's so pretty, and she's so sure

Maybe I'm more clever than a girl like her

The summer's all in bloom

The summer is ending soon

It's alright and it's nice not to be so alone 

But I hold onto your secrets in white houses"

      So that's the first verse and chorus of the song. I hear this part, and I remember a younger version of myself, wearing a clingy pink tank top and a pair of frayed, short denim shorts. I remember sitting quietly on a bed--no comforter, just plain, white sheets--my hands tucked under my thighs, as my old roommate Aly flirted and talked with strange boys effortlessly. "How does she do that?" I wondered to myself, wishing I had the finesse, the social graces, to conduct myself so well in the company of unfamiliar faces. I knew I was intelligent, perhaps more so than Aly. I knew I had valuable things to say. I just felt I had little to contribute in conversations about nothing. I didn't know how to be cool. One of the boys handed me a can of beer. It was only just cold, skirting on the edge of lukewarm. The boy was wearing sunglasses inside--migraines, he said. Aly said he was probably just a tool.  The boy had a pointed chin, a thin smile. His head was vaguely shaped like an egg. He was handsome in a candid, southern "I don't give a shit" way. He had spent some time in Atlanta, and the southern accent clung on the last syllables of his words, hanging jauntily and haphazardly, as if he were both proud and ashamed of the twang he had acquired. 

      I drank the beer, sipping it quickly. It was nice to have something to do with my hands and mouth; it made sitting in silence seem less awkward. I drank another one. I began sipping in eight counts, and the beer slid down more easily that way. I drank another one. My face stretched into a smile, especially when one of the boys put Eminem on. I started to rap along. I drank another one. I had no problem talking now, no problem rapping in full ghetto mode, no problem doing handstands in the middle of the room or hugging everyone in sight. It felt like heaven. I could be fun, too. I could be hilarious and spontaneous and cool. I even felt kind of pretty, even if I was a shapeless spindle of wood compared to Aly. The night flies by, but moves slowly all the same, and breaks taken in bathroom stalls remind me of the person that I really am, when I have enough time to sit down and watch the stall walls spin. I come crashing out into the world, slinging my arms over the shoulders of strangers, any reservations having slipped away. I am vivacious, I am alive, I am on fire.

     The first weeks of my first semester of college pass by in a similar fashion to that night. I become more adept and confident with drinking in copious amounts. I rarely get hungover, and never throw up. I make tons of friends. It's a win win. I extend my drinking repertoire to include all sorts of alcohol, but a night spent with 151 rum sticks out to me most vividly. We lit cap-fulls of the vile stuff on fire, blew them out, and then poured them down our throat. I enjoyed the taste. I relished in the burn. I beamed with pleasure when the boys' complimented my unblemished drinking record. "Oh, Drunkass? Don't worry about her. She's the funnest drunk. And she never gets sick," they would say to alarmed passersby. Drunkass had become my nickname. I bore it with pride. 

     But as the semester wore on, drama began to take hold. Falling outs between Aly and the boys triggered endless animosity, and our invincibility began to wane; we all got written up and charged for defacing university property after a night spent with a jumbo permanent marker and four blank dorm room walls. The boys also began getting in trouble for drinking and general carousing, and for smoking cigarettes in their dorm room. But it was more than just getting in trouble which drove us all apart. I could sense it coming a few weeks in, could feel the impending storm rolling in weeks ahead of time. Happy-go-lucky only lasts so long before reality breaks through.

     I had become involved with Steve, the sunglass wearer. His sights were really set on Aly, the blonde bombshell with the big boobs and bigger voice--she could sing better than anyone I have ever met. But Aly turned him down time and time again; she was in a four-year relationship and was not about to risk that for a scoundrel like Steve. So Steve turned to me, and I was flattered that I might even be looked at. I went with it. I didn't even hesitate, give it a second thought. I knew he looked through shifty eyes, and that he didn't care about anything or anyone. But I just wanted to be liked. I kept becoming more invested in something that meant nothing. I could feel the winter rolling in. The fall was ending soon, and in would come the cold. 

     

"Maybe I'm a little bit over my head
I come undone at the things he said
And he's so funny in his bright red shirt
We were all in love and we all got hurt
I sneak into his car's black leather seat
The smell of gasoline in the summer heat
Boy, we're going way too fast
It's all too sweet to last
It's alright
And I put myself in his hands
But I hold on to your secrets in white houses
Love, or something ignites in my veins
And I pray it never fades, in white houses

My first time, hard to explain
Rush of blood, oh, and a little bit of pain
On a cloudy day, it's more common than you think
He's my first mistake

Maybe you were all faster than me
We gave each other up so easily
These silly little wounds will never mend
I feel so far from where I've been
So I go, and I will not be back here again
I'm gone as the day is fading on white houses
I lie, put my injuries all in the dust
In my heart is the five of us
In white houses

And you, maybe you'll remember me
What I gave is yours to keep
In white houses
In white houses

In white houses"

     Aly spent less and less time at Frankin Pierce. She hated Steve and his crew, hated the insensitive things Steve said out of bitterness from her continuous rejection. She hated not being able to wear high heels every night--Franklin Pierce isn't really a high heels kind of place. She hated all my friends, thought they were dirty and disgusting. It was becoming difficult to make everyone happy, and that's all I ever sought to do. I wish I had taken some time to think about making myself happy. 

     I was secretly glad that Aly spent weekends away. That meant I got Steve and his friends to myself, without any drama. I would find myself admiring Steve's egg-shaped head from behind. I liked the way he laughed, tipping his head back without restraint. I liked the cologne he wore, and the way he said "damn-it" in his slow southern drawl. We spent time together only when we were drunk. I meant nothing to him. I didn't give him all of me, but I gave him most, knowing full well that he would rip me to pieces. I didn't even hesitate. I gave so much of myself away, and I didn't even think twice. 

     Thankfully, it wouldn't be for a year or two that I would actually lose my virginity. I was proud to be a virgin, to hold onto that tiny morsel of self-respect when everyone else had given it away. It was all I had left. I had sold the rest for meaningless friendships and experiences I would spend years trying to forget. It's astounding, painful, to look back on a time that was so liberating, but so confining at the same time. Here I thought I was so free, so well-liked. Really, I was just a waif, readily giving myself away to make others happy. I have changed so much in these three years of college. I have become self-assured, confident in being myself. I no longer feel the need to dress up in flimsy little outfits, "going out clothes," when all they do is make me feel like a product on a conveyor belt. I no longer try to say the right things, to do the right things. I no longer try to be cool. Instead, I ask questions, I have real conversations, I try to learn from every person I meet. I still like to drink, and I still like wearing short denim shorts, but I do it out of choice, not out of necessity. I am even starting to like myself, and to repair some of that splintered self respect. I have found that I make better friends this way, make truer connections this way. I have found that by making myself happy, I make other people happy. 

      I walked away from those hard transition years, and I left all my mistakes behind me. I won't forget them, and will never stop learning from them. And of course I look back with fondness at those first weeks of bliss, of unrestrained frivolity. But honestly, I feel nothing but relief at the prospect of leaving those moments behind, and of moving on. 

-------

So yes, "White Houses" means a lot to me. It is a little lame, since it's such a girly song. But, it is an important song for any young woman who has seen her innocence come and go, and who sometimes wishes thoroughly she could have it back. 

This Gross Pig is Speaking Out

I am annoyed at people who worship law enforcement. I am annoyed at country music (even though I like it myself). I am annoyed at regimented teams that do nothing to benefit me in the long run, and that only distract me from school. I am annoyed at people who rally vehemently against things they have never experienced or attempted to understand. I am annoyed at people who follow blindly behind any Big Voice, never questioning the words tumbling from some figurehead's flapping lips. I am annoyed at anything that even remotely reminds me of two years spent fooling myself, spent with my head submerged below water, spent with the wool pulled over my eyes. I am annoyed at myself for allowing someone to silence me, for keeping my eyes shut against the gross unhappiness I was harboring. I am annoyed that I didn't come to my senses sooner, that I began to think of myself the same way he thought of me: a gross pig. I am annoyed that two years are gone.

It is stupid to be annoyed when everything has turned around, when I have found someone who loves me for who I am, instead of trying to change me at every turn. But sometimes, when I see other people suffering, with the same willed ignorance and blindness that I once showed, I just get so bitter.

If most--or even any--of the words coming out of your supposed love's mouth are degrading, hostile, mean, sarcastic, undermining, condescending, or mocking of you, wake up and get out of that relationship. Find someone who actually loves you and who wants to be with you. For the love of God, love yourself enough to recognize how hurtful jesting comments can be. Love yourself enough to see the truth, and to find someone that wouldn't change a hair on your head. Find someone who brings out the best in you, and you the best in him/her. Otherwise, it's just a waste of time, and a series of hard life lessons learned.

Crusty Snow

      Today, the whole world is shrugging its shoulders. The snow is sagging and gray. It looks like a blanket that's coming untucked, rumpled at the edges, in need of a wash. The air is surprisingly warm, but the sun is obscured by a fine mist. It is not raining; the earth is melting. 

      I hate the look of old snow, glossed with a crisp crust of ice, and tainted with the grit kicked up by so many snowplows. The snow is receding, and nothing green lives underneath--only dirt, sand, and salt. 

I had to bring Ben to the airport today. It was such a brief visit, only two days spent together. As we pulled into the airport, I felt slighted. Hadn't I just driven into the Arrivals area so short a time ago, filled with anticipation and excitement? And hadn't I only just swooped in at the Southwest gate, spotting his slight frame against the dreary background of bustling businessmen and winter sparsity, ramming my car into park, and leaping on him? I had. He had smelled like airplanes, and like Ben. But then, the excitement was suddenly over, and the looming Departures sign glowered down at me. Tears froze on my cheeks, and I clamored back into the drivers seat. It was time to go home.

      It's funny how quickly we dip back into old routines. I am already used to his absence, already accustomed to our reliance on cell phones. Text messages sent with mittened hands, we express our love in 160 characters or less. Back to reality, I suppose. 

     We had such a great time this weekend, though. I appreciate every second that I got to spend with him, and I shouldn't be so negative about the goodbye aspect of our relationship. It just gets really hard, because saying hello and being in each other's presence feels so amazing, it's hard to relinquish that. It's hard knowing we each have to settle back into the humdrum of our daily lives, deprived of each other, except for occasional phone calls or texts. 

      If I were reading this blog, I would be gagging and retching and ripping my eyeballs right out of their sockets. But you've got to know. Ben and I are two peas in a goddamn pod. We truly bring out the best in each other, and I consistently have the most fun just sitting next to him, or watching TV with him, or whatever. My favorite thing, though, and the thing I miss the most about him physically being near me, is waking up next to him in the morning. Just thinking about it makes me feel all warm, but then empty as a bempty (as Ben would say). 

     I am going to try to dial it down on the corn (although I do love corn). I am also going to try to cut down on the negativity. Winter is a difficult season for exuberance and positive energy. Except for when it snows. There is nothing more refreshing and purifying than a fresh snowfall. I hope to see some fluffy flakes fall soon. 

Toastin' and Lookin' at Monkeys

     Superbowl Sunday isn't really my cup of tea. I try to watch the game, but my eyes just stare without registering any of the activity on the screen, and my little brain thinks about something--anything--else. I have this one uncle who gets so riled up during the superbowl, he leaps about in the air, beating on his chest like a wild baboon, yelling and stomping and raising a ruckus. His behavior is actually not that out of the ordinary for middle-aged men; my dad's a passionate clapper when it comes to sports. But my uncle is strange because he always chooses the team that no one else in the family is rooting for. Even if the Patriots are playing, he still roots for the opposing team (and that is plain unheard of around here). And so when everyone else is celebrating, caught up in the jubilation of their team's success, my good old uncle is swearing and tugging at his mustache and cursing the refs for their negligent calls. And then when the Pats are down, and my family is wracked with tension, there's old Uncle, clapping away and letting out boisterous yippees till his cheeks turn red.
     For the past couple of years, my family hasn't gathered for the Superbowl. I wonder if this is because most of the cousins have grown up and are away at school or wherever, or if it is linked to my uncle and his boisterous fits of passion, always in support of the wrong team.
     This year, my superbowl was largely uneventful, but still wicked awesome. I was in my room, chillin' and working on this here blog, when suddenly my roommate called to me in her little voice, "Hey Laur, wanna get our toast on and watch a show about monkeys?" I could practically hear the smile in her voice.
     "Absolutely," I replied, because we're always saying "absolutely" around here. That's because our next door neighbor Liz always says "absolutely" and it's absolutely hilarious. Bahaha. So, anyways, I pushed the ol' laptop aside and leaped off my bed and sidled in next to Laur on our unbearably uncomfortable futon.
     The monkeys were rather alarming at first. I am used to seeing chimpanzees and orangutans and gorillas. That's it. This show had these monkeys with faces like owls, wide and flat and eerily observant. There were some that were small and rodent-like, with gangly limbs and high, shrill voices.  The spookiest ones were the baboons, I thought. Their faces were elongated, stretched into a perpetual scowl, and their eyes were small, piercing, and unerringly serious. They seemed to be of a volatile disposition because they were always fighting, these great furry beasts leaping and tearing at each other. It was rather horrifying.
      I was greatly impressed by the show's coverage of monkey communication. In many different species of monkeys, there is a communication system used to alert one another of approaching predators and stuff. It was so cool to see them interact and understand each other, and to see them leap and swing away from danger. Their tactics were extremely impressive. One type of monkey lived on cliff ledges, and upon the approach of a predator, would scare them off by rolling boulders down at it. Downright clever!
      Eventually, the monkey show came to close, so Laur and I decided to attempt to watch the superbowl. I must say, it was very difficult shifting gears from watching the monkeys to watching a bunch of burly padded fellas crash into each other. It didn't help that we had just finished hitting a super bowl of our very own. I kept forgetting that I wasn't watching monkeys anymore; my perspective still had leftover residue from the previous show. I found myself thinking aloud: "Wow, what an impressive maneuver. Very clever!" I shook my head, realizing that I had forgotten the football players were humans.
      "Wow, I forgot we weren't watching monkeys anymore."
Laurie laughed and vocalized understanding.
       "Look at the way they mill about each other. Just like monkeys," I said, still in awe.
Just then, the camera zoomed in on one of the players.
He just so happened to be black.
We laughed in horror at our own inadvertent racism, and silently hoped for a commercial. After all, to us, anything is better than football.