Bob

“You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before; she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She’s not perfect - you aren’t either, and the two of you may never be perfect together, but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break - her heart. So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze and don’t expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she’s not there.”

- Bob Marley

Happy Thursday

This is what I did today.

Wacky Wednesday

I spent an hour today in our new hammock with my iPod and sketchpad, trying to reclaim my inspiration and creativity. Then I ate a chicken and cheese wrap and went to work.

My boss likes to make fun of me because I'm an English major; today he told a really funny joke. He said, "I read a funny joke in a magazine the other day. It went, 'The scientist asks, "Why does it work?" The engineer asks, "How does it work?" The English major asks, "Would you like fries with that?"' hahah!" He thinks he's really clever. Because we were in front of a patient I tried to laugh it off. "That's real funny, Doc," I said, smiling and trying to look busy. He went on to say that I was doing work there, though, and how I must be using some sort of analytical skill at my job, so it's not all bad. In essence, my degree isn't useless because I'm really good at alphabetizing files at work.

After work my sister and I went to karaoke at a restaurant/bar by my house to watch the locals get drunk and make fools of themselves. Luckily for them, we plan on doing the same next week; we just need some time to practice and work up our courage.

Everything is Never as it Seems

I had to pick up Susan again. I was supposed to once before, but it didn't work out. I think she found another ride.

I was parallel parked along a curb by a bus stop, and as I got in my car and started to drive away, I noticed that my windshield was cracked. Not like a normal hairline crack, either, but a crack like what the earth looks like when the plates are shifting or lava is about to burst out of the ground. The glass was puckered inward and cracked into huge chunks that, instead of falling, kept sliding around within the frame of the windshield.

But I had to pick up Susan again. Last time I thought she was at the school, but now I realized that it was a school that was also a hospital that was also an apartment complex that was in the same general place as Juniata Elementary is here. I ran into the building, down hallways and around corners, trying to get to the far side of the school/hospital/apartments. Why didn't I just drive around to where I was supposed to pick her up? I don't know. But somehow I had a slip of paper that said I wasn't supposed to pick her up there, I was supposed to pick her up on West Adam Street, in town, at her new place of employment. But I realized....

At some point I realized that this was his new apartment complex, that he lived here now. When I got to the end of the building I ran up flight of stairs, intending to turn at the top of the stairs, just to run past his place, go down that hallway and go down the flight of stairs at the other end, which would bring me to the doors where I was supposed to pick up Susan. But I got to the top and there he was, his face hidden by one of the double doors that encloses the wide stairways in schools. He was doing push-ups with his head to the door. It makes sense, because he always did try to do some push-ups every now and again; why shouldn't he do them out in the hall right before he goes to work? I ran back downstairs and around in circles for a while -- or so it seemed -- before heading back to the hallway directly under his, on the first floor. There he was again, walking towards the door at the other end. I knew the back of his head perfectly, his hair, the curve of his shoulders and the step of his stride, his hands in his coat pockets and that little bounce in his step that has nothing to do with joy and everything to do with a self-conscious, practiced carelessness. I had a brief flash of running down the hallway parallel to that one and "bumping into" him by the doors at the other end, but what if he got there before I did? I called out his name. He must have recognized my voice, because he paused a second before he turned; turned in that slow way of his. We stared at each other, and I couldn't tell whether or not he was surprised to see me. I wanted to explain, to tell him that I wasn't stalking him, that I was here to pick up Susan. But we just stared at each other. Finally he said, "What?" but I had taken my phone out to dial the number on the piece of paper where Susan worked now. He said "What" again, and as I turned away, he laughed.

Then I was gone, running down the hallway to the door when I was supposed to pick up Susan -- I don't recall moving in any way other than a run the entire time. I put the phone up to my ear as it rang once and got an automated system to an abortion clinic. "Ah!" I thought. "That's where she works now." I thought this to myself with the same air that someone might smile and nod when told what ice cubes are for: "Ah! You put them in your drink. Very nice." Smile. Nod. Turn and talk to the person next to you. But I was frustrated, because I couldn't get a hold of her, and how was I supposed to pick up Susan if I couldn't find her?

I burst through the doors and weaved between the students waiting for buses or cars to pick them up and take them home. To the left, in the part of the lawn where they were doing construction, I saw Coach Jim, talking to another man. I ran up to him, panting, "Which part of town has the street names that are guys' names?" Jim laughed, told me to calm down. I said, "I know the trees are over there," and pointed behind the school. He nodded and pointed down another street. "And those are all butterflies!" he said, a little proudly. I asked again where the boys' names were, asked if they were downtown. He nodded and I asked where Adam Street was. Maybe I only asked it in my mind, because I don't remember getting an answer.

I don't remember much of anything after that, actually. I must not have gotten Susan, again. When I got the call to pick her up, I was excited, because I hadn't seen her in so long, and I really wanted to talk to her. I wanted to tell her that I've been hanging out with Danny, that we're friends again now, and tell her what we talk about. I wanted to ask her about her life and her boyfriend and if she still reads her books. Then we could talk about books, and maybe have a campfire, like before. But I didn't get to her in time -- again.

Maybe next time.

*most names are changed, for some reason

The Single Life

As it turns out, the world does still turn when you become single. It's amazing; I'm convinced that no one on this earth thinks that they can go on once they've been dumped. But once you stop and look around, you realize that the sun is still shining, the flowers are still blooming, everyone is still breathing. It's possible to still enjoy, all by yourself, the feel of the spring sun on your back, the smell of freshly cut grass, the magic of dandelion fluff blowing past your face in the late afternoon. It's absolutely possible to still enjoy a good book or a good movie; food tastes just as good, and so does wine (and other drinks).

True, there's no one to throw that painful Frisbee with, and the neighbor's basketball hoop is decidedly less-used. There's much less conversation in the evenings, and nights are a little colder. But contrary to popular belief, loneliness doesn't make colors more dull or music less melodious (more poignant, though? Perhaps). It could be that I'm not feeling the effects enough; they say that when you go through a trauma of the heart food tastes like ash and drink tastes like ash and grass is brown and life just sucks. It's quite possible that my persistent optimism and self-delusion is preventing me from being devastated. It's hurts; it sucks, it really does. But astoundingly -- and against all odds -- life goes on.

Post Scriptum: The stars, however, are much colder (but still as beautiful, in a way) than they ever were before.

howimissyoukissingmegoodnight

Collegiate Nostalgia

Some quotes to tide you over while I get my writing life together:

"Well, I'm going to go watch Pretty Woman in ten-minute increments on YouTube until people are ready to go."

"Why don't you talk to my Mr. 'I'm giving an exam on the Thursday night before Halloween cuz I'm a stupid jerk and sometimes in class the middle button of my shirt comes unbuttoned...'"

"Someone wrote into the paper saying that banning Four Loko is un-American."
"What?! It's un-retarded! Wait...does that...does that come out right? It's not smart to not ban.... Um. Four Loko is bad!"

"That kid is gayer than a guy at a Lady Gaga concert wearing skinny jeans, rainbow suspenders, and Hold Me Closer Tiny Dancer as his ringtone."

"My favorite word is cattywampus. But just the wampus part."

Emergency Subbing

Today I got called in to be a substitute teacher in my school district. To get to this point, I had to go through a long, complicated, harrowing experience:

Step 1: Go to school board

Step 2: Request paperwork to become emergency sub

Step 3: Fill out paperwork

Step 4: Turn in paperwork and pay $5 application fee

Step 5: Get approved by school board (this is hardly a real step, as I'm pretty sure they'd approve most anyone)

Step 6: Go back to school board to sign more paperwork and have picture taken:

The picture was probably the worst part. It's like having your driver's license picture taken, only you're allowed to smile. And it still doesn't look good.

All in all it was pretty painless.

That was several weeks ago. Today I was needed, called in, and was able to go. An autistic support teacher was unexpectedly out sick and they couldn't find anyone else to cover for him. Of course I was nervous at first; they were sending me in blind to work with a group of kids who had learning disabilities I know nothing about, asking me to do something with which I have no prior experience (teaching). I don't have a certificate; I don't even have that much experience with kids outside when I babysat through my early years of high school.

Autism apparently comes in many forms. I still know next to nothing about the disorder, but I picked up a few things talking to the aides today while we had a little down time. I do know that, across the board, these kids are kind of tough to handle. Some talk way too much and some don't speak in words at all. Some are superhyperactive and some hardly do anything outside sitting quietly and staring at the wall or floor. A lot of parents are really great with their autistic children, catering to their needs and being extremely supportive. But the parents are as varied as their troubled offspring, and just as many don't want any of the extra responsibility that comes with special needs.

Today was eye-opening in many ways -- a definite learning experience -- but if there's one thing I took away, it was a disbelief that anyone could want nothing to do with these wonderful, perfect, beautiful children. I know a lot of people who would disagree with the fact that these kids are perfect; no one is perfect, especially people who have learning disabilities. But to me, the idea that someone wouldn't want the precious delicate little boys that I worked with today is inconceivable and heartbreaking.

One boy doesn't talk. He's very friendly and loves strangers, but he just makes loud sounds instead of talking. He likes to hold your hand and sit on your lap and run around yelling. One boy hardly made a sound most of the day. He's smart, with the silkiest hair I've ever seen and an affinity for computers. One boy is small and blonde, and unbearably sweet. He picks apart all of his food when he eats and only talks when prompted. He's quiet and troubled and doesn't like to be touched as much as the others. The last boy is bigger and louder and calls to mind Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man; he can tell you what day a month starts on from 1988 to 2043, and probably more than that if he was asked, without having to hardly think about it. He's curious and has separation anxiety and likes puzzles and letters.

It would, admittedly, be difficult to be a parent to one of these children. But the effect they had on me today in seven short hours is indescribable. Somehow, I think autistic children, if the rest are anything at all like these four, are just little angels sent to Earth to teach us patience and other things I glimpsed today that are hard to put into words. It almost makes me want to reconsider not teaching.