Tag Archives: crushes

Revisitation: Faith is Belief Therein

Originally published May 18th, 2002

Looking in your eyes, I see a paradise.
This world that I found is too good to be true.
Standing here beside, I want so much to give you this love in my heart that I’m feeling for you.
Let them say we’re crazy.
I don’t care about that.
Put your hand in my hand, baby, don’t ever look back.
Let the world around us just fall apart.
Baby, we can make it if we’re heart to heart.
And we can build this thing together, stand in stone forever, nothing’s gonna stop us now.
And if this world runs out of lovers we’ll still have each other.
Nothing’s gonna stop us, nothing’s gonna stop us now.
I’m so glad I found you, I’m not gonna lose you, whatever it takes to stay here with you.
Take it to the good times, see it through the bad times.
Whatever it takes is what I’m gonna do.
Let them say we’re crazy.
What do they know?
Put your arms around me, baby, don’t ever let go.
Let the world around us just fall apart.
Baby, we can make it if we’re heart to heart.
Oh, all that I need is you.
All that I ever need.
All that I want to do is hold you forever, forever and ever.

in kindergarten, i had this dream where i was at a school dance. it was a lot like prom…but i was in kindergarten. keep in mind this was about 1987…so i was all decked out in my 80’s garb and i was five years old…anyways, i am walking down this hallway with my arms full of books. and of course, i drop them….

this song was playing in the background of that dream. and as i began to pick up my books, this guy (or boy…rather) helps me pick them up…and the song plays on and we walk away hand in hand.

well, for some reason i have always thought that dream and that song mean something…will mean something.

i remember in 1st grade when i met a boy who i think was the boy from the dream at the young author’s conference…don’t remember where it was that year…but he was there, and we had orange pop from mcdonalds as a treat.

that’s my story.

maybe it means something.

(May 10th, 2012: 25 years of letting dreams and premonitions cock block me.)


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Summer of Dishwalla

There are some things I can remember with such clarity. Every odd detail preserved in my mind. I can feel those times, smell them. But then there are other times when I all I have is just this general sense of the time that is so strong yet vague that it means so much and leaves me wishing for the clarity. And yet I don’t want it–the feeling of it is enough.

The summer of Dishwalla fits both these descriptions. You could not go anywhere without hearing “Counting Blue Cars.” The radio, MTV, David Letterman, in my head . . . If my memory serves me well, this would have been the summer before my freshman year. Wikipedia does serve me well and confirms this as accurate. And although I choose to declare it the summer of Dishwalla, it was also the summer of Nada Surf’s “Popular” and Primitive Radio God’s “Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth with Money in my Hand” and Tracy Bonham’s “Mother Mother” . . . maybe it was my age at the time, but it was a summer of very distinctive music that has stuck with me to this day. (Okay, now that I think about it was my first summer with cable. But not MTV. Canadian MuchMusic, eh.)

Back to the summer.

This was me that summer. The brunette.

What I remember is this:

I remember a day spent at a friend’s house. One of those friends I was very close with but didn’t spend too much at her house. But that day I was there. And I was spending the night. Which seems odd. But enough digression. I was there and we were in this sub room/living room watching MTV and Dishwalla was on. And then it was on again. And then we were outside. And there was a trampoline I do believe and definitely neighbor boys. And one of them did not go to our school so there was FRESH! And EXCITEMENT! And DANGER!

My heart was racing and there was Dishwalla on in the background of my mind and there was the prospect of someone new. He was wearing an orange shirt with a Reese’s Cup on it and I thought it was SO HOT. Or cute. Whatever choice word soon-to-be-high schoolers use to describe a boy who catches their eye.

And I remember we snuck out to meet the boys after dark. And then it was just him and me. Or at least that’s how it was in my head. We propped our backs up against a rock or a sign or SOMETHING and it was dark and there were stars and we were just looking UP and not saying anything. But everything was racing in my head. And at one point, at one magical point, he put his hand either on my hand or my leg and I’d swear there were falling stars. There weren’t, but I’d swear there were.

And then it was over. That was it–that one moment. With a boy from a different school in an age before cellphones and before Facebook (and even before myspace) and it was MAGIC. When would I see him again?! I DIDN’T KNOW! Who were his friends?! I DIDN’T KNOW! I did know of a recently ex-girlfriend who I’d heard stories from. Another local girl who didn’t go to our school. And I believe she was chased up a tree by devil worshippers. But I could be wrong about that.

To be honest, I pity kids of awkward ages these days for not being able to have these moments. Except maybe the Amish. Maybe the Amish kids can still of innocent. mysterious romantic encounters. But now I bet these kids of awkward ages can look up these kids from other schools on the inter webs and KNOW THINGS ABOUT THEM and EVEN TALK TO THEM. But we couldn’t! So it was magical.

And there were butterflies. Remember those? That faint, overwhelming feelings of their wings fluttering against your insides until you couldn’t bear it anymore?! It’s that feeling, that general and unconcrete feeling that I get when I think back to the summer of Dishwalla.

And one day, maybe one day, I’ll share the rest of the summer of Dishwalla but for now I want to keep that feeling of butterflies as my association with that summer.

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young and stupid

I suffer from a particularly rare combination of shamelessness and crippling pride. It’s been this way for awhile but I’ve never really been able to put into words. My pride prevents me from doing a lot of things that would put me in positions were shame might enter my life, and my shamelessness allows me to not bruise my pride all too often. (While it’s been this way for awhile, it hasn’t always been this way–but that’s a story for another day.)

Ten years ago. Ten years ago I was living at home for the summer in between my freshman and sophomore years of college. That’s the time and the scene for this story of how my shamelessness and pride almost killed me.

* * *

I can’t remember how I had become the proud owner, at age 19, of a fifth of Jim Beam. Or how I had even come to enjoy Jim Beam, having been a vodka girl my whole first year of college. But there I was with it in my possession and I was going to do some damage.

It lasted two weeks. Which, these days, seems to be pretty conservative (taking in multiple occasions and sharing with friends). But in reality, it lasted two weekends. Particularly: two days spread across two different weekends.

And I didn’t share.

It was there with me that night at Andy’s house when we all sat around in the basement and drank and laughed. And later I turned down a persistent suitor and drove home safely in the morning. That night it was about friends and shots and my pride was not involved (a little shamelessness, yes). [And there are pictures.]

Out of respect for my shamelessness, I have posted this picture from that night.

But flash forward one week and I was out of my comfort zone.

There was a party, and it was close to my home. And it was after another party. And at the first party there were jello shots. And I did quite a few. And then I got to the other party and I thought I saw him and so I chugged my beer.

There’s this weird reaction that happens sometimes when you see someone who stirs up something big in you. When you don’ t know how to act–or even how to want to act–and everything is so confusing and you just have to do what you can to keep afloat and not injure your pride or do something ridiculous. So, instead, you just stop thinking and you run off these horrible instincts that you swear are trying to kill you. It’s almost the evil twin brother of the “fight or flight” response.

And the pride. Dear God, the pride. There was the group that I had spent the summer before drinking with, when I was the inexperienced one who made a lot of mistakes and who was both the joke and the constant. And so I had to show them–had to SHOW them how much I had grown and how cool I was and how I could hang with the big boys.

The last thing I really remember was going to my car, grabbing the bottle of Beam, and walking up to the fire (both literally and metaphorically), and opening the bottle (about 2/3 full) and chugging. And repeat. And repeat. Until it was almost gone. Within 15 minutes.

And they were cheering me on, was the thing.

I was racing men twice my size, and they were cheering me on!


There were flashes of light and sounds similar to those experienced while swimming underwater. There were crackling steps as I walked through the woods, flashes of his smile. Brief flashes of contact and darkness.

I could say things began to get a bit clearer, but they didn’t.

I remember looking up and seeing concerned faces of my friends (my real friends) and him standing over me. His shirt was off and he was telling them he was trying to save me. They, of course, did not believe him and I to this day still do not who to believe. He said I had led him out there and then just went blank and was shaking and shivering and he took his shirt off to try and warm me up. It was July, but I was shivering and I was told I was holding the shirt. I think this time I believe him.

They took me into the house to get me water but I couldn’t even drink it. Everything was everything and nothing all at once. I couldn’t stand on my own and for the most part those persons who were cheering me on were now nowhere to be found. (well, except for one who ended up watching over me that night.)

A nurse was present and saw the warning signs and luckily came to my assistance before I could do more damage. There would be no trips to the ER or even trips back home. My stomach wasn’t pumped but it might as well have been.

And, amazingly enough, I made it into work the next morning at 4:30 am. I put the donuts in and promptly left to lay in misery of the pain of drinking roughly 2/3 a bottle of Jim Beam in 15 minutes and of my wounded pride.

Later, I came to find out during the time I was blacked out I attempted to run across the interstate but was stopped. And hit on a man three times my age. Both such things I would honestly never have done at that age. It wasn’t me, but I take full responsibility (a side effect of the shamelessness).

And while this tale has fallen apart at the end, it is one I felt I had to share and in the true style of my shamelessness and crippling pride was written stream of consciousness with no editing (like everything else you will find here). But this is me and I am prone to own up and take responsibility and bare my faults before anyone else can take that ability away from me.

But I learn. I do learn–I promise you.

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I used to take picture upon picture of myself, perfecting the lighting and the pose and the mood and . . . well . . . everything. Which features to emphasize, which to hide in the shadows. Do I want to look longing, or maybe look sad? Was I capable of mastering “sexy”? (Answer: No.) But I tried, which is something.

I used to feel harder, or at least that’s what I remember. Deep, powerful crushes which insecurities still hindered, but I felt them. I loved feeling that tragic yet exhilarating gut punch; that dizzying, drunken euphoria. And sometimes I would try and I would yield results (ROI). Sometimes I would cry over someone, or do something really stupid and cry over that. Or throw things. Or drink myself stupid and throw sushi at my friends. Or punch closets. Or even call someone at 3 am just to tell them they ruined Halloween and everyone thinks they’re gay. That all happened because I didn’t stop myself preemptively from caring or trying.

Now, I realize more. I realize some attempts are futile and cock block myself from the tears and the euphoria. I still make dumb mistakes but less out of curiosity and more out of boredom or lack of alternatives. I realize there are risks and turn around, tucking my tail between my legs. Or create diversions so I don’t even have to worry about failure. Or pass up opportunities because I am uncertain. And, yes, it’s also because I’m older and wiser now and know what is worth my time (I tell myself) and what is not . . . but am I selling myself short?

Now, I give up after 1 or 2 self portraits. I lack the experimentation and sense of adventure, of challenge, that I used to have.

Risk averse.

I’m not making any broad proclamations of change, but I am being honest. And that’s a start.


Realize. Try. Maybe hurt. Maybe fail. Achieve.

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Flashback Friday

This week in the past:  transportation issues, humbling realizations, money problems, hypochondria, general craziness, karaoke, and moving.

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