Music is for Lovers

I can assure you quite honestly, that my beliefs of what a real man can be like, and the relationship that stems from being with them, has very little to do with movies. Yes, I’ve seen The Notebook, The Time Traveler’s Wife, and Titanic. I own all three, and love all three. But life is not like a movie. While I can lose myself in the romantic aspect of the films, when they are over I can adjust back to reality in one fluid motion. I do not expect a real life boy to act out the animated escapades of Aladdin, or wear the crown of a prince. They will not be air brushed, have unlimited money, or take me to exotic destinations on a whim.

Even books, which I love whole heartedly, do not feed into this image of the perfect guy. Now, to be sure, there are some extraordinary male protagonists in the books that I have read. When a love interest story unfolds, I will read with rapid speed, just to be sure that it happens just ‘as it is supposed to’.  However, with these beautifully written boys, there is undoubtedly an equally beautifully written girl to match him. The characters in these stories belong to each other, in that their journey is incomplete and unfinished without the other. Although I am the first to admit that it seems appealing on the surface, I honestly wouldn’t want to be with a living version of that character. They were created for someone else; someone who is not me. I’m entirely okay with this.

Both movies and books develop relationships between two specific characters in the romantic realm. But they are made up. They are given realistic attributes yes, and can be very convincing. But at the end of the day, their lives can be packaged and trimmed and tied with a bow. Everything has the possibility of working out, despite the mounting evidence that it would be crazy to believe it could. I would never want to be with Edward, because he doesn’t need me, he needs Bella. If I had been Cinderella, I would have runaway long before a ball invitation ever arrived, and I, in no way, resemble a Rachel that could line up so perfectly with Ross. When I look in the mirror, I do not see some built up, perfected version of a girl. I am flawed beyond measure, as insecure as they come, and would need two of me stacked together to reach the height of a normal person. I am not Sleeping Beauty, and don’t expect a Prince Phillip to sail into my life and save me.

No, my grand ideas, my heart’s desire, my longing in the pit of my stomach, all of my problems, stem from musicians. This is where it all comes from, it’s unmistakably ridiculous, and I don’t stand a chance of making it through unscathed. Granted, there are countless types of music, and not every single one will validate my point. But there are many others that will.  

 Musicians are real people. You can read their lyrics, memorize their chords, and if you are quick enough to make it past security, sometimes you can even touch them. They have a past. They were someone’s next door neighbor. They have food allergies, embarrassing moments, and a love they will never live down. Just like me. Just like you.

I listen in every love song for a name. In the Goo Goo Dolls, it’s Meg, Josh Ritter has Kathleen, and somewhere along the way someone met Delilah and the Plain White T’s thought she was worth a song. Train met Virginia, and every girl who heard that song saw a tiny piece of her life played on the radio. The undeniable truth is that these girls are real. And these boys that stand up behind that microphone, strum their guitar, and talk about those girls, by name or not, are real too. That man has seen a woman like that. He saw her, and wanted her to his core. He pushed back her hair, counted her freckles, and connected the color of her eyes to the sea. He really did that. It was real enough that it stuck in his mind and came out in the form of a song.

Behind every hurting boy is the story of a girl. At some point, the smell of peaches and grass curled up next to him, found his fingers, and never truly let go. She tore through his reality, spinning everything on its axis, and changed the way he saw the world. Moments were shared, personalities unearthed, and some portion of one found sanctuary in the other. It lasted a day, a summer, a lifetime. Maybe it never even took form in the physical. It was the girl that he watched, out of the corner of his eye, and never had the guts to talk to. Everyone has had someone, one that has never quite untangled themselves out of the sticky silk spun webs we caught them in so long ago.

There are songs about being in love, and there are songs about love that existed upon a time but fell apart. Couples generally have ‘a song’, which captures an element of their feelings for each other, and mixed tapes were invented for those that speak through the language of melodies and drum solos. If we’ve ever dated, I have a song for you. It might be beautiful, or bittersweet, or full of sharp, angry words. Regardless, if it comes on the radio, my memory flashes to you involuntarily. Because you are a song that was once lived. And these songs, these tangible, heart wrenching songs, about eyes that are like champagne, and eyes that blaze like fire, and eyes that see right through you, are real. Musicians know what to say, and how to say it.

I, one hundred percent, do not think the world is a place of fairy tales exclusively. Personally, I find myself a bit drawn to people that are rough around the edges. That when those quirky, well-loved details show up, they are unexpected, coming out of nowhere. I don’t want a well imagined character. I don’t want a man who hides who he is in order to appear like a well-trained puppy. I could care less about whether his clothes match, or if he puts the seat down, or has a slightly unhealthy level of obsession with sports or video games or video games involving sports. He could have all or none of those things going on with him. He is who he is, and I don’t want a decoy.

But I do want someone who sees me. This is why I wait. I wait for someone who cares to find the details that would put me in a song. And I know that somewhere out there is someone able and willing to do it. Who will look at me and be able to see all of those things effortlessly.  When we love someone, we immerse ourselves in the cadences of their mannerisms. We sense the pattern of their breathing, find out where they are ticklish, and trace our fingers along their arms absent mindedly.  I can stand in my bare feet on a summer night, and watch as a boy behind a guitar recalls all of these things.

And this is why I’m screwed. It’s not Disney. It’s not Hollywood. It’s not the fantasies or the pretending about situations that have never actually existed. It’s music. Lyrics, raw from the life that they originated from. And I know that it’s unfair, and possibly unrealistic, and a shot in the dark, but there’s always a chance however small, that it could happen. That people could actually feel that way. And tell each other. And live happily ever after in the liner notes. 

How I Feel About Books

Those who know me best know that I don’t cry often. I can cry, I just, don’t. I'll withdraw, or glare, scribble madly into a notebook or pace the floor in frustration, but tears are something that usually do not come easily to me. However, this character trait seems null and void when regarding a good book.

I’ve been able to read since I was four. So that basically means, I met my best friends when I was four and have never looked back. I absolutely love books. Growing up, they were my most constant companions. They were never fickle or angry, never unavailable, and never looked to me to be something that I am not. While we may not have had much money for some things, I always had a book. Or rather, a pile of them.

I have shed more tears within the pages of a worthy book than even I can comprehend. I live through books, feel through them, and have had my real-world wounds and misunderstandings healed through them. I have been taught the downfalls of vanity by Dorian Gray, explored the universe with Ender, and felt the losses of Harry Potter. Bella Swan is my friend. I know her innermost thoughts, and see her heart as plain as day. Also among my group of friends are Princess Buttercup and her darling Westley, and the innocent Jonas, as he becomes The Giver. I have lived across the span of centuries, overseen the construction of A Brave New World, and shuddered when confronted with the tactics of the original Big Brother.  As characters have suffered injustices, I have faced their pain. I have been poor, abused, discriminated against, and abandoned through their eyes. I have also overcome opposition, fought the good fight, and unwittingly fallen in love with Peeta Mellark.  

While real life is something that you must wake up to every day, I take my emotional choices much more slowly. You can’t undo harsh words, or undeclare your feelings for someone. People change as their circumstances change, and it can happen in the blink of an eye. In life, I try, and most often times fail, to be as impassive as a rock. My goal is to keep calm, stay strong, and do as little damage as possible. I am not the girl that runs to her hero weak in the knees. I hand out the tissues, pat the backs, and design the plans that will save us. The world is a beautiful, enchanting place, but there are many things within its grasp that are destined to hurt us. Life will separate us, join us together, and leave us crawling on our knees if we’re not careful. It’s a good thing we’re tough.

Between hard bound covers though, is the only place I can ever let my guard down. I release torrents of emotion, littering the dog-eared corners and chapters inside. I have been known to laugh out loud while reading, regardless of my present location. I will storm like a hurricane within a house, pacing angrily, and when asked what’s wrong, I merely stomp over to the book, point at it furiously, and look at you pointedly as if to say, ‘I don’t BELIEVE what he/she thinks they are doing!’ and storm away again in a flurry. Within minutes you will find me huddled up close, my nose buried next to the printed words, seeking redemption, reason, an answer. You had better not interrupt me in my searching either, or pay a most unwelcome price…

Maybe that’s why I love them so much. After all, books are known to give us answers. We can find the answer to anything in the world so long it is prefaced by a title page. Broken hearts, broken lives, broken bones, we bring our souls to a well-worn favorite, and it fits around us like an old sweater. It is always, comfortingly, the same. The message we take from it may be different, who we identify with, who we fear, and who we love. But the story is essentially the same. It’s the most secure thing in my life.

 Meg Murray will always take form in my head, beginning with the words, “It was a dark and stormy night.” And I’ll always read it hearing my own voice read the right pages, and my dad reading on the left. And as we read way past my bedtime, we sneakily insert words into the sentences that don’t actually exist, to see if the other is paying attention.  Then we peek over, real quick, to see if they noticed. When they invariably do, looking back up at you from behind their narrowed eyebrows as they try not to smile, you reread the sentence the way Madeleine L'Engle intended it to be read. With laughter, a sense of adventure, and inescapably, a few tears along the way. 

While You Were Out...

So, recently ( as in a few hours ago recently) one of my very best friends and roommate decided to take a leave of absence from his current situation, and board a plane headed to Madrid. As in Madrid, Spain. As in, he’ll be gone for two weeks and will be very far away. Overall, this will be fantastic. He will get to create memories that will last throughout his lifetime, and I will get to leave my make-up all over the bathroom counter. As much as I will miss him, I’m glad that he is able to go, and I know that he will be very safe in his travels.

As a token of friendship, I wanted to assure him that while he is away, everything will be just fine at home. I and our other roommate are very responsible individuals, and he has no reason to worry at all about the house, or his belongings, or anything at all. In fact, he can just explore Europe with peace of mind and a clear thought process, uninhibited by irrational fears or worries of what might happen at home.  Seriously, just have a little faith. I can see all those ‘what-if’ scenarios, and really, you have nothing to worry about.

 Like, zip, zilch, nada, naught, diddly squat, nothing.

What if the plants die?

Plant Needs: So, if you’ve read previous blog posts, you’ll know that I’m not the greatest supporter of plants. However, I respect that because these plants belong to others, they will actually need to be taken care of. Now, just because you may have witnessed me screaming, “Grow, Whore, grow!” at the various house plants, please believe me when I say that I can have a tender side towards these potted companions. I will either find this elusive side hidden away within me, or pay someone else to come do it. Same goes for the garden. (Oh, and p.s. can you BELIEVE someone trusts ME to take care of an entire GARDEN? There are really no words…) Ahem, just relax, and let me take care of everything. I have high hopes that all of our green friends will be blooming and gorgeous and will have won multiple blue ribbons at county fairs by the time you get back. Yep. The future is bright…

What if there’s a fire?

Fire: First of all, we are not arsonists. In fact, our lease actually prevents us from having any open flames within our dwelling, so even if we were bonfire inclined, we would need to find another location. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I did happen to cause an evacuation of our house growing up due to a slight cooking mishap. But realistically, I was eight, and didn’t know that putting chicken nuggets in the microwave for 30 minutes could cause such damage. I meant to stop the timer sooner, I just got distracted. Anyway, it was a long time ago. Oh, and that water heater thing at my last place, not my fault. Besides those, there was only that one other time… wow, so, just remember, nothing to worry about there. Moving right along.

How will my fish cope?

Pet Care: This area in particular is one that I really expect to shine in. Never mind me not having a pet growing up, and excluding my pet bird named Squazzil that lives in the great outdoors and is, for the most part, imaginary, I am determined to succeed in taking care of the house fish! I am going to feed the fish every day. Because, like people, fish need food. That’s important. I would never, ever, ever forget to feed your fish. Even if I was simultaneously fighting off a burglar trying to pelt me with water balloons while he forced me to make him a plate of macaroni and cheese. Even then, I would feed your fish! But not macaroni and cheese. No sir, you do not feed fish macaroni and cheese. Or cake. Or broccoli. Oh, and I won’t put food coloring in his tank either. No shenanigans on this task, I promise!

 The ‘What-If’ chain of thinking can go on forever. I can hear your thoughts running away with you: What if a tiger gets loose in the neighborhood? What if while I’m away they sell all of my belongings and use the money to feed children in Africa? What if there’s a flood? What if aliens make contact and abduct my two fantastically beautiful, charming, and astoundingly intelligent roommates? What if, what if, what if?

Calm down, take a deep breath, and just realize that it’s all going to be okay. We will take care of all the little things, all the big things, and all the things somewhere in the middle. To be sure, it is much more fun to tackle these challenges with you here. To have company when we make dinner, to have another set of ears to listen to my latest encounter with you-know-who, really everything that happens is better when you’re here to be a part of it. But for now at least, go off and explore La Europa without us. Just remember, you’re in charge of bringing back at least four attractive foreign men back home with you. 

You might want to start looking…

A Word to the Wise

These days, advice is just too easy to find. From the advice column in magazines to the well-informed neighbor down the street, there is always somebody willing to put in their two cents. But really, two cents just doesn't hold the economic power that it used to, and neither does most of the advice that 

comes attached to it.

One source of advice that comes to us is in the form of short sayings and proverbs. In taking a closer look, however, I noticed that perhaps the original bearer of such a line wasn't so much giving advice as he was asking for it. Therefore, I decided to dig into the couch cushions, pull out two cents of my own, and let them know what I think is best. Hey, it even comes with a gum wrapper and a stale Cheeto. You can’t beat that!

It’s like finding a needle in a haystack.

Really? You’re looking for a needle. Don’t they come in packs of like, 8? You’re sure that you need this one? How did it even get in there, were you monogramming a horse, sewing a quilt, giving someone a shot? Ridiculous. I doubt you’re even qualified to be giving shots. What if you find it, then what? The only way you’ll know is if it pokes you, and then you’ll just bleed everywhere, and since you’re not an actual doctor you’ll have to go to the hospital.

 My advice? Swallow your pride. Use my two cents to buy a new needle. And then, for goodness sakes stay away from the hay. The End.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away.

This is too vague to be considered useful. What variety of apple is it you speak of? Red delicious, golden, pink lady perhaps? Can you put the apple inside of stuff and still have it work, such as a pie or juice? Does it even have to be ingested? Or are you just holding an apple in the palm of your hand? And on a more serious note, why don’t you want to be around a doctor? What if you choked on that apple, he/she might come in handy! Oh my…you’re not throwing the apples at medical professionals are you?

My advice? Save yourself a potential lawsuit. Choose a different fruit to eat or hold or whatever it is that you intend to do and behave responsibly! Make an appointment with your physician so that you can remain healthy, and treat him/her with respect when you’re there. The End.

Clothes don’t make the man. 

Well, unless magical potions or enchantments are involved, I agree with this one. Clothes are inanimate objects, and therefore lack the necessary skills to make much of anything besides a mess. The only loophole I see that might be worth investigating is whether or not clothes could make a scarecrow. But that is a stretch.

My advice? Overall, this is relatively good advice, don’t be afraid of little men springing up from piles of clothes and full closets. The End.

Dead men tell no tales.

Uhh, have you seen the History channel? Their whole premise is that dead men CAN do just that very thing. What were you doing, wandering around cemeteries with a microphone? Amateur.

My advice? Get cable. Or get a job working for the History Channel. Either will solve your problem and sheer lack of understanding.

Honey catches more flies than vinegar.

So, I don’t know about you, but I detest flies. Especially when they are near me. So, if you are advising I cover myself with vinegar and keep my attitude bitter and acidic then I think this advice is great, and should be marketed alongside pesticides and sprays. If, however, you are encouraging me to invest in honey,

 you’ve got another thing coming.

My advice? You obviously have an abnormal attachment to gross bugs and insects. Take a bath, lose the flies. You might gain some human companions in the process. The End.

People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

Number one, who in their right mind is going to live in a house made entirely of glass? How would they even build it? How much Windex would they use in a day? Number two, that is just prejudice. Just because someone does choose to live a lifestyle that you don’t agree with, doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be able to throw a stone or two. Skipping rocks is a favorite pastime of many people, regardless of their habitat construction materials.

 My advice? Drop the hate. Next time you feel the urge to throw stones, ask a glass housed neighbor to join you. You might even make a good friend. The End.

So there you are folks, a whopping twelve cents from yours truly. Now don’t go spending it all in one place now, ya hear?

'My Time Without Internet'

Surprise! I am thrilled to inform all of you that my dark days of not having internet access are...over! The wonderful, glorious, hat wearing repair guy came today, took one look at the wiring, and BAM! (Insert glitter, a whooshing sound effect, and a few electrical sparks.) 

Now that this crises has passed, it would be easy to move on, let go of old hurts, and resume my business of writing about useless things. However, instead of doing that, I feel I need to share what my life has been like without blogging and the internet, and how I have done everything within my power to return to all of you. I warn you, these things are hard to look at. They depict a desperate, raw pain, and the great lengths that one can go to try and diminish that pain. Gather your tissues, and join me as I undergo healing from

 'My Time Without Internet'. 

In the beginning, I was optimistic about my situation. I used my brain waves to send positivity signals to my computer. Focusing my energy, I tried to write numerous, witty blogs. To my dismay, this plan was an utter failure, and only resulted in a headache. 

I began looking around and noticing all the people around me that did have access to the world wide web. And I was angry. They sat there, so cozy in their houses, warmed by the internet, so full of knowledge and power. Meanwhile, I was stuck outside in their bushes, vulnerable to the elements and gross bugs, just craning my neck in to see what was happening on the monitor. 

The streets became terrorized by my panic. I found old ladies in crosswalks, and attempted to give interactive Facebook status updates. It was a low point, begging random strangers to simply give me a thumbs up and say, "like". Because the truth is, they didn't like. Not at all. 

Refusing to give up, I forced myself to recognize that there was once a time without internet, or computers, or tweets. Filled with heavy sorrow, I began to chisel out some ideas on a rock I found in my backyard. It was an agonizing process, and lasted all of ten minutes. 

And this, my dear readers, is where I fell apart. Yesterday afternoon, while you were going about your daily business, I was on the phone for the 200th time with my internet provider, or rather non-provider. After attacking old ladies, trespassing on private property, and writing illegibly on rocks, I had had enough, as had my new neighbors. And finally, miraculously, someone finally clued in to how dire the situation really was. They took in my despondent soul in between sobs, and promised me that they would, indeed,

 make it all better.

 They told me that they would send out a repair man, and that they would not be allowed to leave my house until everything worked. I asked them, "So, what you're saying is that I have permission to hold your employee hostage here, until you meet my demands?" After a stunned silence, I heard a cough, and then Tony (my customer service representative) said, "Well...uh... yes. I guess." Luckily for all involved, the critical issue of internet connection difficulties was resolved without further drastic measures. 

Well, there you have it. A detailed account of my life during this past week. The accuracy of the events you must judge for yourselves.I will say that Tony is 100% real, as was our conversation. Poor guy. Anyway, now that all is fixed, I hope to be writing more consistently. Oh, and if it was your grandmother that talked me through my Facebook panic attack, she was absolutely lovely. You're very lucky to have her. 

Bedazzled: A Late Night Rambling of Words

Quirky people are like the bedazzled version of regular people. They just sort of absorb a regular situation just as it is, but then spin it back out all sparkly and covered in bows. And I love them. I love walking into a room, full of strangers, where I’m a fish out of water, and then, something happens. Someone just blurts out something amazingly random and seemingly obscure. But I, I can connect the dots, and I instantly feel a connection. Someone that sees something different, that can speak truth in the ordinary, but, makes it pretty and relatable, not simplistic and harsh. Someone who is just, not the same as everyone else, and in the best way possible.

Chances are, quirky folks, I notice when you talk with your hands, always sit on the left side of the table, and can maintain an entire stream of conversation with me involving hypothetical ponies and the magical mayhem they get into. Oh, and those people that stand within hearing distance of those conversations, looking at us like we’re crazy? Jealous. They are fighting a deep urge to join in with, “Hey, and maybe they could grow wings that are like brown and purple and we could call them Peanut Butter & Jelly Ponies, or like PB& J P for short!” They want to say it, but they just aren’t as cool as we are.

In case you haven’t noticed, the kid who gets picked last for dodge ball? That’s me. Because instead of focusing on the whole main point of dodge ball, I’m thinking: “I wonder if there’s an equation that can accurately express the exact velocity and impact levels that are about to commence during this activity.” “Why did they choose a red ball? Maybe it has color symbolism, like red is powerful or something, so it’s like this giant mass of red energy hurling through the air at you or something? Why not blue? A nice calming blue that lightly calls, ‘catch me!’ or something. I’ve probably read more books that involve dodge ball more times than I’ve actually played the game. Whenever I did play it I was always the girl that stuck out her hand and was like ‘Psst, right here...’ and tried to get out asap, before the instinctual violent tendencies of pre-adolescent youth reared their ugly faces.

 I don’t even know where I’m going with this, it’s late and I’ve lost track of my point, except that sometimes I wonder if it’s just me? Because I often get myself into situations where I can see the quirks of others as being wonderful, but my own odd tendencies as just a weird mutant form of quirky. That’s the root of the problem of being quirky. Sometimes it’s endearing, and offers a chuckle to the group, but at the end of the day, you go home and you wonder, Man, am I really the only one? Overall, I think I’m in pretty good company; it’s just that most people tend to keep their really dazzling quirks hidden. Sadly. There has got to be others that refuse to read the backs of books, that have a fascination with post-it notes, hate hand sanitizer, and eat salads with their fingers. There’s just gotta be. Or maybe you drink wine with a straw, can hold an entire conversation in rhymes, or have a love of crayons that just defies explanation. If so, I think we could be friends.

 Today, in fact, I was able to reach out to a friend through a very emotional time. I was watching an old episode of Roswell (think Dawson’s Creek having a love child with, I don’t know, maybe Smallville? But like, a really beautiful, brilliant love child, with brown eyes. ) on DVD no less, when I had a full blown meltdown regarding a plot twist. Yes, a plot twist involving futuristic aliens and true love, wrapped in a Sheryl Crow song circa 2003. This is how I know that my life is amazing. Because when I was audibly weeping, I had someone to text, and reach out to. That was able to make me feel better. Even though I’m a bundle of weird, I have these amazing friends, that don’t care. Or rather, they do care. It just doesn’t really bother them how odd I am. It probably bothers me way more than it bothers them. So thank you to my friends, that know me and love me just the same, and for seeing the bedazzled pieces of me and thinking that they’re not so bad at all.   

For Best Use

I just recently opened up a new candle. Inside, just below the lid, there was a little booklet that detailed the greatness of the candle I was about to light. It also congratulated me on my brilliant shopping ability in choosing such a high quality product.

 There was also a section headed ‘For Best Use’.

Under this helpful category was the sentence: “Although our candles and home scents may smell delicious, they are not edible. Do not eat.”  And there it is. I have, in my possession, a ruby red candle labeled ‘Crisp Mountain Apple’, that smells better than the actual apple I have sitting on my counter, yet I must not eat it. Sigh.

          I find it hilarious that such a sentence even exists. Mostly because, you know somebody, somewhere, tried to do that very thing. Below you will find a dramatic reenactment of this very situation.

(Candle is lit. Delicious scent begins to permeate the room.)

Person A: Mmm…that smells just like a real apple, maybe better! Maybe it tastes like an apple too!

(At this point a less than well-meaning friend speaks up.)

Friend: You should try it.

Person A: Come on dude. It’s a candle.

Friend: An apple candle.  That means there’s gotta be, like, real apple in it or something. It’s probably really good for you.

Person A: But, it’s on fire. Sort of.

Friend: Well blow it out first you idiot!

Person A: I don’t know…

Friend: I’ll give you five bucks.

Person  A: Five bucks? Really?

Friend: Ten. Ten bucks. Final.

Person A breathes out slowly, considering.

Friend: Whatever, man.

Person A: Okay. I’ll do it.

        And he does. You know he does. How do you know? Because now someone has the job of typing the little warnings on products that explicitly state that delicious smelling candles are not to be consumed into the human body. Which also tells us, that Person A’s story most likely didn’t end positively. Maybe the candle company even got sued over the fiasco, because they didn’t think to warn Person A that such a situation could happen, and that he should have resisted the temptation in the first place.

On this note, I feel I should stop writing, and go on a mission to find other potentially hazardous items in my home. Normally, I might not even have read the fine print that adorns those stickered labels. But now, after considering the fate of poor apple guy (I guess I don’t know for sure that it was a boy, but come on, really?) I figure it will be worth the effort to master the general dos and don’ts of the products that share my roof with me. Better safe than sorry, right?

Oh, and for you curious folks, other warnings listed under the ‘For Best Use’ category include:  “Do not put candles in the freezer.” and “Candles and water do not mix.” Yes, its official, I want to shake the person’s hand that wrote out this booklet.