my cartwheel

Mrs. Thayer had big frizzy hair and too much blush. Her butt was so big it spilled over either side of the piano bench. We had to drive 30 miles to get to her house and then I had to sit in her dank basement doing homework while Teresa went into the piano studio for her lesson. A toddler Erin would run around the room and my mom would balance her checkbook while tapping her snow boots. Then it was my turn. I hated being alone in there with her. I hated those basement windows that were way at the top of the wall and when you looked out all you'd see was the dirt in the window well and the bottom of the neighbor's house. The glass of water with its disgusting lipstick prints stood beside the metronome atop the piano. They stood there together looking down on me, mocking me as my fingers slipped off sharps and stumbled too quickly through the tougher measures. Then Mrs. Thayer would make me do them over, telling me to focus on the time signature this time and listen to the ticking metronome. She would lean in squinting, crowding my space, invading my bubble so that I could smell each particle of her potent old lady perfume. Begonias and Lilacs. Or whatever flower it is that old ladies like so much... She would shove her swollen hand with all its rings into my middle C position and show me how it was to be done. There was no clock in there so I never knew how much time was left. Sometimes as she was blabbing away about ritardendo or decrecendo, her hand would rise like a maestro and I would strain with all my might to catch a glimpse of the hands on her tiny gold wristwatch. It was just my luck that the thing didn't have any numbers, so if I ever did get a look at the hands I never got an actual time. Just a vague idea that left me more frustrated than anything.

One day Mrs. Thayer left the room for a moment. I don't remember why. Maybe it was to answer a phone call. Maybe to refill her lipstick-smeared water glass. Maybe to take a pee. I really don't remember. All I know is that I, a daring nine year old, was briefly left alone in the piano studio and an urge so strong I couldn't resist came over me. Risk slithered down my spine as I made the decision to do it. My cartwheel.

I did a cartwheel in Mrs. Thayer's piano studio. As soon as I completed my covert little stunt, I scurried back to the piano bench and resumed my studious piano-playing demeanor. No sooner had I smoothed my hair back down and straightened my blouse then Mrs. Thayer opened the door. “Are you ready to try again?” she asked. With adrenaline still rushing through my body, charging to my fingertips, I played a perfect “Allouette” . I finished my lesson with a tiny smirk in my soul. I left Mrs. Thayer's that day with a smug satisfaction. The same smug satisfaction I still feel when I get away with something. Since that cartwheel, there have been few things that I've actually gotten away with. I didn't get away with drinking beer on campus. I didn't get away with driving with expired tags on the Air Force Academy. I didn't get away with parking too close to a fire hydrant in Denver. I didn't get away with unprotected premarital sex.

But

I do occasionally get away with a free bag of kitty litter because it's on the bottom of the shopping cart. Right now I'm getting away with not having a full-time job. I hope to get away with the payments I've missed on my student loans. But if not, I'll just do another cartwheel when no one's looking. And that will be just as good.

some thoughts on University Park

On two occasions, completely independent of one another, I have been called a German Shepherd. The first time was by a boy whose name I can't recall in my fourth grade class. The second time was by a girl in my 7th grade class, shortly after the movie "All Dogs Go To Heaven 2" came out. This was years later and at a different school in a different state! That simply can't be a coincidence. I've been carrying around this "German Shepherd Complex" ever since. Whenever I happen to be around someone who has one I get nervous. I start sweating and shaking and searching for excuses to get away. It's as if I think the dog owner will pause mid-conversation and say "Hey! I just noticed you kinda look like my dog!" Needless to say, when I am ready for a dog, it will be a Lab or a Husky or a St. Bernard or a Shi Tzu (because I like the name). Jonas fell asleep in my lap just as Brian got home from work. Now I can go running without the jog stroller. I like running at night because nobody else is out. Everyone is at home, finishing dinner. Scraping the last few bites of steak and potatoes into the bowls of their eager German Shepherds. Last night I ran through University Park. I admired all the lovely things I will never have: A gigantic house on top of a hill with a door that I am not allowed to paint because of the Covenant. A sixteen-car garage that I could live in comfortably with my family, and store everything I own and use as a painting studio. A sprinkler system that I would of course only run at night. Grass. Sod (I never liked sod anyway. It's too pretty, like a wig for the earth, just weird). A pension. A sunburn. A souvenir. A reason to do "yardwork." It's uncomfortable, sometimes, to look at other people’s things. Especially things that are so far out of reach. The University Park residents probably worked very hard to afford those waterfalls. Yet I have seen them groan at the prospect of replacing the brake cable on their grandsons' Huffys. Maybe I’m just prejudiced. It hurts sometimes, to see people who have everything. Especially when I know that all Brian wants is an education and a little space to build some bicycles. Sometimes when I’m running, a moment, carrying a thought, containing a solution, passes quickly by. And I wish I could decipher it with Galileo’s insight. I wish I could process it with Sylvia’s words. I wish I could sing it with Aretha’s conviction. I wish I could paint it with Pollock’s nerve. I wish I could summit it with Shea’s lungs and legs. Wish I could top it out with Peter’s strength. Wish I could strum it with Sarah’s guts. Lap it up with the reckless abandon of a German Shepherd. Maybe it was an answer. A simple one, like "You are right here." And I am just grateful that the night is cold because I can see my breath. And this proves I am living.

early morning ramblings

I've been thinking about the grand scheme of things lately. Mainly because I like the word "scheme". Almost as much as Brian enjoys "neurotransmitters". So anyway, in the grand scheme of things, it's hard to tell what's important. How do you not fuck up the Present without fucking up the Future? Why do I always have to choose between these two tenses. I like Past because it's over and there's nothing I can do about it. My brain is full of lame chiches right now because the other night we were talking about forks in the road. Once forks are in your head, you start recognizing them all over the place. What if I do this instead of that? What if I go here instead of there? What if I choose black instead of white? (I stick to gray). And you could drive yourself insane with "what-iffing".
Maybe mental health isn't a choice for everyone, but for me it is. I try to make decisions about the way I feel. I could choose to get upset over something trite and then feel crappy or I could choose not to let silly things bother me and be happy. I could choose to feel ugly or I could just avoid the pro shop mirror and like myself all day. I could choose to let myself sink into criticisms and let them drown me, or I could use them as tools to improve myself. This is much harder than it seems.
I have a new expensive mouthwash that claims to kill the bacteria on the way back of your tongue, ending bad breath forever. I think it works ok, but it makes my throat hurt all day. I've been chewing lots of gum lately. Did you know that chewing gum causes gas? It's because you swallow all those tiny bubbles. It seems unfair that I should be forced to choose between bad breath and gas. Two most unattractive qualities. When I asked Brian what he'd choose, he said he'd rather have gas, because at least asses are supposed to stink, and nobody is going to be kissing it anyway. I guess this makes sense...
I've been so distracted lately. I guess because it's easier than being focused. Last night I contemplated immortality as though I had a choice in the matter. I just feel like I need a few more lives to get it right. Then I contemplated death because I do have a choice in the matter and that was just too much to think about while changing a diaper.
Sometimes I get overwhelmed and my brain spins, pen spits, hand slips, heart shits and I'm right back where I started. Considering the grand scheme of things again as though I have a crystal ball...

ugly snow boots

So there I was in the shower. Thinking. Just like I always do in the shower. When suddenly I gasped out loud upon realizing that I have done almost everything I have (at some point) vowed never to do. These things include:

wearing Crocs
holding hands in Wal Mart
procreating with someone under the height of 5'10
sewing
creating "bathroom art"
reading Harry Potter
becoming obsessed with Harry Potter
thinking like my mom
talking like my mom
going to church like my mom

I've noticed that my hands are starting to look like my mom's and all I can do to prevent their further evolution is keep on biting my nails (and putting off that ring). When I was in the 3rd grade my favorite chapter book was called "Mom, You're Fired!" It was about a girl my age who was constantly embarassed by her eccentric mother. I remember when my only wish in the world was that my mom wouldn't have her jeans tucked inside her snow boots when she picked me up from school. My stomach would ache with anxiety as the final bell rang and I'd gather my books and papers slowly, putting them in my backpack neatly as other kids crammed theirs in and dashed out the door. My heart would fill with mortification at the sight of her standing outside that silver Volvo, waving to me as if I didn't know where she'd be parked. All I could see were those awful snow boots. The shin-high-black-and-pink-g

reen-laced-damaging to my reputation-snow boots with the jeans tucked inside so all my friends could see them.
I hated Minnesota because before we moved to God-forsaken Burnsville, my mom had never owned boots like that. She had always worn normal shoes as far back as I could remember. She wore New Balances in Texas. She wore leather sandals in North Carolina. She wore Sauconys in New York.
My mom's style has since improved. For this, I applaud the ending of the 90's. She now lives in Kansas, where the snow is never deep enough to warrent anything more water resistant than her regular brown teacher shoes. So my question is this: Why do parents get cooler once you move away from them? Why do they turn into regular people just after you learn to disregard them? And how can I ensure that I don't become "that mom" myself?

puberty vs. post-partum

these past seven weeks of postpartum have been a lot like puberty. i bleed. i cry. i cramp. i break out. i hate my body. and once again i find myself relating all too well to the likes of alanis morisette. at least i don't have homework. at least i don't have mrs. robinson. at least i don't have braces. at least i don't have to worry about who i should or shouldn't sit with in the cafeteria. at least i don't have to sit in front of matt, who liked to put shit in my hair. at least i don't have to play flag football.

soap operas and maternity leave

brian thinks i overuse exclamation points and the word "okay" (sometimes spelled 'OK'). he thinks that might be the reason i didn't get the online tutoring job which is sort of like an instant messenger with a chalkboard where you tutor kids who are in afterschool tutoring programs. i thought i had it because i got a letter that said my application was reviewed and accepted and i filled out all the paperwork and the w-9 but then i guess i didn't get the job based on my shitty online mock-session where i freaked out and they asked me a math question and i forgot all about percents and i felt like an idiot and i was so nervous and then brian came home in the nick of time and answered the question for me but you're not supposed to give away the answer on tutor.com so that's why i thought i didn't get the job but maybe it was my overuse of exclamation points and the word "okay" which i kept spelling "OK". anyway, that job would have helped out a lot now that i'm staying at home and we're living off one bike shop salary...
this morning jonas was crying so i sang the national american university jingle to him repeatedly for about 40 minutes. "get your degree, set yourself free/ national american university" now i can't get that stupid jingle out of my head... "one day one night/ saturday's alright". i've noticed they run a lot of commercials for vocational schools and two-year colleges on daytime television (which i swear, i only watched the first 2 weeks of my maternity leave). i guess they're aiming to motivate all the losers who are home during they day watching lame talk shows and soap operas.
speaking of soap operas... i regret to admit that i actually watched one. those things have to be written for stupid people. the script was absolutely retarded! and i never use that word! the actors kept reiterating their motives like 16 times in a scene. just in case the viewers forgot why a character was angry with another character. they just kept reminding us like this:

"i will make judy pay for ruining my life by telling rob the truth about her love child with philip"
blah blah blah some more stuff happens and then this again:
"but nancy, i just can't let judy get away with marrying rob after she ruined my life. i have to tell him the truth about ther illigitimate child!"
another 10 seconds of dialogue and then BAM:
" as soon as i tell rob judy's big secret, that she has a child with philip, he will never love her and i will have my revenge. she will pay for ruining my life"

i changed the names so you guys won't know which soap i watched...not that i think any of you would know because i'm about 99.8% sure none of my friends watch soap operas.

i swear, these scripts are written for either really dumb people or really forgetful people. i must admit it was pretty funny to watch. i wanted so badly to turn off the tv but i just couldn't. it was like watching a really fat chick in low-rise jeans bend over and not being able to turn away from the dimpled ass crack no matter how revolting...
but really, i think i'm done with soaps. by the way, why is it called a "soap opera"?

well, enough about that. i need to get out of here and take jonas for a run.

nothing in particular. particularly nothing.

why do they call it a "tall" at starbucks when it's actually a small? i'm 5'0. do i get to call myself "tall"? no! of course not. whatever. so here's some personal information...my cervix is 80% thin. that means the baby is coming soon. maybe within a week! brian and i took childbirth prep on sunday. i had to stick my hand in a bag of ice for a minute and a half repeatedly to practice breathing through the pain. brian had to give me massages. we got to lie on the floor with pillows and blankets and watch a movie about birth. we both slept through it. the teacher said we get popsicles during labor and we can have as many as we want. i hope they're the kind with jokes on the sticks like "where do books sleep?" "under their covers!"
i was trying to do "nesting" today by cleaning my room and washing the baby's clothes in dreft. but the washer broke halfway through the cycle so i just put everything in the dryer. i don't even think anything got rinsed. that sort of defeats the purpose because now the baby's clothes prbably have more chemicals than if i had not bothered to wash them at all. oh well. i tried.