Two for Tuesday

So I don't usually post twice in a day...but I felt I needed to today. I went to sign into AIM and they had this stick figure with blonde hair and big feet on the opening page. I realized after a second or two that it was Hilary Duff! Now, I'm no huge fan of the kid. I saw the cartoon every once in a blue and I copped her first album (won't go near the second) because "So Yesterday" was banging in my brain. (Credit is due when a person who can't really sing puts out a rocking single. Helloooo J.LO!) Anyway, they had a series of actresses on a slide show. Hypnotized by the bullshit, I followed the link and went through each photo (the shame of it all) surveying the skinny women. It's like those 'loid rags at the supermarket check-out. Not many of us care a flying fuck about Jen and Ben or Jen and Brad. Yet why do we snag one and voraciously read before we buy our stuff? They are: rich, perfect, in perpetual summertime, and did I mention rich? Heartache...misery is a human thing; Paparazzi: Let the people experience being real in peace!

Anyway I grew increasingly concerned with every picture. Have you seen Drew Barrymore? I mean...where is she? She turns to the side and disappears! Nicole Richie shocked the shit out of me. I was looking at absurdly expensive clothes on-line and came across the Bongo website. She looks horrible! A good stiff wind would drag her ass to Canada! Is this a trend? Being unhealthily skinny like that! My little impressionable sisters are flipping through the People magazines and seeing this. Seeing that no one in Hollywood wants to be kissed with the "fat girl" curse. Even that girl from "Real Women Have Curves" lost some of hers. WTF!!? I, personally, felt betrayed when I saw her swaggering with the thin chicks in that "Sisterhood of the Traveling pants" commercial. Couldn't bring myself to watch the movie. She certainly doesn't look like she did when she wowed that little blanquito with her womanly mass, or defied her mother in the sweltering heat of the dress factory and danced to salsa over her work... stripped to her underwear. She's so...compact now.

I had a class called public speaking in college. I hated the class. I'm deathly afraid of making a mistake in front of a crowd, so I convince myself that I'll fuck up and I do. But I decided to make my final speech count. Make it something I could do without much aid from notes. So, I spoke about body image. I spoke about how ridiculous it's getting, that you can't have a little baby fat to soften your edges without feeling self-conscious. I mentioned how plus sized clothes are making millions every year. How the average woman is a size 10, not a 2. I also talked about how long it took me to accept my own thick waist and come to terms with the fact that my size 9 days are long behind me. If I become a size 9 again, I'll be very ill and probably in need of medical attention. I'm a size 12, and while I see my flaws and work to rectify them, I also see the beauty in me. Ultimately, I think that's the most important thing: self-appreciation.

Who says skinny is a rule of measure for beauty?

And her name...is Jasmine

It wasn't an "I" initial ring, it was a "J". I'm beginning to wonder if I'll see this person walking down the street. It's a strange feeling to have a dream about such a developed character. I could almost describe her likes and dislikes, her passions and her fears. I told Sonny about her, let him read my blog and waited patiently as he absorbed the whole thing. He deduced that the dream symbolizes my newly acquired"self-acceptance". That I've "liberated" myself from "the burden of being friends with that guy" *see last post* and that is a sign that I'm more comfortable in my own skin. I suppose I can accept that a little better than the sexually repressed explanation. I dunno.

We're getting down to the wire now! People are trying to contact me, needing to know the next step as we close in on the date of my wedding. I'm not nervous...yet. I'm wishing I was tranquil and cool and having F-U-N like I've heard you're supposed to be. I'm more like: aggravated, stuffing my cellphone in the bottom of my purse (on vibrate) and loathing the thought of constructing a 'seating arrangement'. Boy. I sound crabby as hell! Everyone keeps telling me to remember what's most important here. It isn't his family's reluctance at being apart of this, it isn't my family's insistence on inviting random people and telling me only if I ask, and it's not about spending ourselves into severe debt. It's about the connecting of two souls, the celebration of love and the embracing of all our friends and family as we begin this life journey together. ::sniff, sniff:: I'm making myself all teary over here!!

My thoughts also shift and linger with my old crew back in New York. I had this awesome job with great co-workers. Mainly, we answered phones for a hunger hotline. But ultimately we were therapists, sounding boards, kind hearts, co-conspirators, guiding lights, informational sockets and very down-to-earth operators. I have them to thank for my upgrade into modern technology. Director's commentary is sweet! But Katrina is wreaking havoc down south and I know the old crew is sweating up a storm (no pun intended). I hope they're covered... and that 3 sets of ears are on board and not just 2.

Why, Katrina? WHY?

If you dream you that you are bisexual, but you aren't....

"If you are not bisexual and dream that you are, then it may indicate some sexual repression."

All right. Now what the hell is this about?! Last night I had a vivid dream. Strange and fluid, and it made all the sense in the world to me while I lived in that fictional world. I had decided not to post it here, but I just can't stop thinking about it. How real the whole thing felt. I almost feel haunted by her.

This dream, like most of my dreams, started out in a different place, about a completely different thing. But eventually I found myself in front of a tall brick building in what looked like Brooklyn, NY. It was sunny out. I squinted a lot and couldn't read the numbers on the mailbox outside the building, but I knew it was the right place. I went inside and climbed the stairs 3 at a time. My heart was racing. Was I late? I passed a little old woman on the steps, and her eyes were cold, calculating little slits. I wondered what I had done to earn such contempt from her, but kept moving, as I could sense that I was late for something.

At the top of the stairs on the 5th floor I turned left and moved swiftly down the carpeted hall to a plain metal door. There was no number on it, and it may have been the only door on this floor. It was painted brown. The hall smelled like paprika. I rapped on the door with two knuckles and smiled at the peephole. 30 seconds later she was standing there.

"You're late." she twisted her neck and rolled her eyes, but stepped aside to let me in. "Can't you eva be on time, M?" she demanded.

"I'm sorry baby." I went to embrace her, but she stepped backward, her pink lips turned up in a smirk.

Her apartment is wonderful. I'm blinded by the yellow wash of sunlight against the pristine, crisp, white furniture. Everything is white and pink. I look at her. I don't know her name, or what she is to me. Her hair is a shoulder length bundle of tight curls. Jet black. Wet looking. Her eyes are brown, a light brown. Her lips are pink, thin welcome mats to her thoughts. I want to kiss her. I reach out to touch her beautiful hand with its long, pencil-like fingers and French manicure nails. She has gold ring on her right hand with her initial in script. I think it was the letter "I".

"At least you weren't late for dinner. I'm just about done. You're lucky!" she wagged one beautiful finger at me and pushed me back down onto the sofa, her warm hand lingering on my shoulder.

I realize she's Hispanic. I have the urge to speak Spanish to her, but she refuses to answer any of the botched questions I set out in her native language. She teases me relentlessly, but I enjoy it. She smells like fabric softener and hair gel. It's an innocent musk, and I realize I don't know how old she is. Her face is fresh, and without make-up, save for the shiny lip gloss she uses to hypnotize me with her lips.

There comes a point where she slides into my lap, pulls my hair into an awkward ponytail with her hands and kisses me full on the mouth. I melt right there on her couch. And then the alarm clock rings.

I don't know if I can just accept that whole "sexual repression" explanation. First off, why can't it just be a dream about hooking up with a chick? I'm sure lots of people have dreams like it, but aren't repressed. I'm not prepped to run tell a shrink about this, but I do wonder what it means in my case. Lately my dreams have been trying to tell me things. I just ended a 3 year-old association with a guy, because I had a dream that laid the symbolisms on thick. I suppose it was something I knew I would have to do eventually, but the dream prompted me with a glimpse of the consequence I would suffer if I chose to ignore.

Well then, what is this dream trying to tell me?

Cheer up, Sleepy Jean. Oh what can it mean...?

Well, it's August 22nd... What does that mean? It means that I have 3 more weeks to have a complete, mental break-down. And then I've got to get married. I guess, in the grand scheme of things I haven't got a whole lot to belly ache about. I have a place to get married, a dress to wear, and shortly I will have a person to make it official. Still...

The latest news that I ought to rewind and let you good people know about is that I've found a job. Lorain has opened it's loving arms and introduced me to work. It's not non-profit, but it's close enough for me to wake up every morning and enjoy coming in to do what I do. It's a program called Newspapers in Education and it promotes literacy in the classroom, which (having a cousin who couldn't read at the age of 11) I can appreciate. For some students, I imagine reading is like knowing your times tables (a thing I struggled with in elementary school). If you know your ins and outs, you can slip through the academic cracks. Although, sooner or later you get cornered by that teacher who quizzes you relentlessly and then bars you from going to the next grade unless you know your letters/times tables. I take for granted being able to read sometimes, I know. I've been plagued with book-love since I was 3 years old. I can remember lugging around my first hard covered book ,which featured a tale about Tommy and his Mommy, and reading off the few words I recognized until I recognized them all. Thank God my mom was so diligent about teaching me.

But I digress. I'm working now, and there maybe a honeymoon in the works for Sonny and me. I hope so. There's just so much involved in the planning. I've never had to micro-manage anything before, and to have all these people turning their weary eyes to me, seeking extraordinary detail...Well, I do pity them. My knee-jerk response is "I'm sorry, I don't know that yet." I'm trying not to spend too much time on auto-pilot, but it's just complicated when my mind is on this wedding, and it ought to be at this brand-new job. Cut to random files on my desktop with names like "wedding stuff" and "honeymoon ideas" and my supervisor hopping on my computer randomly. I'll be glad when I can get rid of those embarrassing displays of personal preoccupation.

Things are looking up for Sonny. He loves his job more and more everyday, and I'm finally tussling with the idea, the possibility that maybe we won't be going back to NY. I can roughly sketch the shape of things to come, and I won't pretend it's not obvious. The more furniture we get, the harder it gets for me to imagine a tiny 4th floor New York apartment containing the two of us and our belongings. And once our first child is born....Pennsylvania may be the closest I'll get to my sweet home. I'm no soothsayer and I don't possess divine knowledge, so I won't slam the padlock shut on this one...But I'm also not expecting any miracles.

Can anyone tell me, how do you breathe, again?

From this moment...

Alright. I throw myself at your tender mercies. I'm horrible. I know. That story took me way long too complete and the pay off wasn't witnessing a robbery or getting caught in the middle of an abudction. Sorry. But I am a bride-to-be after all. My time must be budgeted between panicking, furious tirades and split-second decisions...oh and ripping into the groom, on occasion. I feel I was a little too hard on old Sonny boy the other day. My bitch-ometer was past boiling point, no doubt. Part of me just wishes this day were here and gone, but that's nothing short of unromantic and inconsiderate babbling.

Soooo, lets keep that between us, shall we? lol.

The best is yet to come undone

Part III

I sat in stony silence as the two men yakked and yammered in the humidity of the day. I endured 15 minutes of the talk and smelly cigarette smoke, before an outbound Cleveland bus came and collected the baking pair. I took off my jacket and wiped my sweat slicked forehead with a sigh. My bus had an hour and a half to pull up and rescue me.

As I got comfortable on the wooden bench(or as close to comfort as one could get), I wished the sun would duck behind a cloud or two for half an hour and ease up. Suddenly, through the noxious haze, my friend began to jog across the street to join me under the shelter. I averted his gaze and pulled out my cellphone, fully prepared to be abruptly caught up in a meaningful phone call. Luckily, it never came to that. He pulled out his cellphone too (in a counteraction I believe) and was talking to his mom within seconds. I put my phone away and relaxed abit. Big mistake.

A young man on a bicycle appeared before long. His hair was twisted in kinky braids and the bike was clearly not his own. I could picture a 12 year old pedaling down the street on the thing. He pulled up to the curb and propped the bike against the bus stop sign post. The heat of his gaze was much worse than the 90 degree heat surrounding us. It didn't take long before he was asking my date of birth, my marital status, cash or charge...all the annoying questions that a pestering 5 year-old would ask while suctioning themselves to your hip, willfully.

Mid-conversation (interrogation really), he pulled out a brown, hand-rolled cigarette and lit it in cupped hands. I looked away, embarassed by his brazen display of nonchalance. It took only a moment for the scent to waft my way, and I was reassured that it was mary jane. He smiled and continued with his increasingly intrusive questions, and I grinned and maintain a quirky, smart-ass type attitude to each one he shot off. His eyes grew more and more crimson in color as we spoke.

"You smoke?" he asked, jerking his rolled delight my way. I shook my head no and watched with amusement as a doubtful look crossed his face. "Yeah you do. I can tell. See how you keep squinting up your eyes? Why your eyes so chinky?" I sucked my teeth and glanced up and down the road, wondering how long the bus would really take. "It's sunny out," I needlessly protested, "Why shouldn't I be squinting? That don't make me a pothead."

He shrugged, unfazed by my protest and licked his lips, tucking the cig into his palm. I watched him, unaware as a cop car cruised past the shelter and headed down the block. My newest friend hissed and laughed, bouncing on his heels alittle. "It's a good thing I'm con-ser-vative wit mah shit. Pigs wanna catch a nigga out there. Wooo." My original friend chattered away on his phone, watching us both and wondering (I bet) if he should've talked to me first.

The "bus" was 10 minutes late, to my dismay but all three of us climbed aboard the pathetic van, friend One still on the phone and friend Two determined to find out what the ring on my left hand signified. "You married?" he asked, boldly, a purple grin playing at his lips. "About to be." I said. "So this the one, then?" he asked and I hesitated to respond. The question was ridiculous and I'd have rather been cleaning my ears with glass shards than sitting in that broken down, poor excuse for public transportation. The driver found she couldn't to take us over 50 miles per hour and she informed us (Mr. Cellphone, MJ lover and me) that we may not make our final connection. I felt like I was trapped in the Twilight Zone, and kept wondering when my host, Rod Serling, would appear with some clever narrative on the situation. The van was much too small for the three passengers it flipped and bounced around in it's flat, vinyl seats and suddenly, and quite acutely I wanted to be home.

Luckily, I made my connection and came a little bit closer to home. This bus that I caught at the connection point was slightly larger. It was the cousin to a midsized school bus, painted white with green and yellow stripes on the side. There was no air conditioning here, just each and every window open as wide as it could be. The driver was a dumpy,angry looking woman who waved you away listlessly and barely spoke above a whisper to anyone with a question.

The experience that startled me was looking around at my fellow riders: their faces were so expressive, and yet quite dead pan. I could almost hear their souls meekly crying out for something. What, I had no idea. They were the walking dead of Lorain County, I knew. Barely existing, but for their lungs doing their perfunctory work. Within a half an hour, I felt like I had absorbed a lifetime of pain and agony. All those heartbroken people... huge layoffs, mass-production plants closing, cancer empidemics. It was then that I realized: I had to get the fuck out of there. Posthaste!

The rest of my trip (which did involve one other bus ride) went off without a hitch. I walked a short distance after the fourth bus let me off at a dead intersection. I wondered where the past 4 hours had gotten to. I guess you could say I learned my lesson, though. I'm never, ever, ever taking the public tran again. Not if I have anything to say about it. *arms folded, lip poked out*

Why can't NY public transportion be the protocol, huh?

Lost in a place in the sun...

Part II

The air conditioning in this place eases the doubt bubbling in my gut. My old job had a nice lobby...nice lobbies should not intimidate me. Yet this one did. I took a seat in one of the leather couches placed strategically near the elevator. My grape juice was bitter-sweet and I gulped the rest of it and rubbed my wailing dogs, surruptitiously. I was a sight to behold: shoving my stockinged feet into my shoes every time someone stepped off the beautiful elevator. I wondered, after a young, gruffy business -type climbed into the elevator and caught me mid rub, if my interviewer would catch me this way. I glanced again at my watch and resolved that 15 minutes early or not, I couldn't hang around here much longer.

I gathered up my empty bottle and stuffed my shirt into the waist of my slacks, dreading the feel of the cheap cotton against my aggravated skin. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to be home, enjoying the fan blowing warmish air through the house and my cat wrapped around one leg of the kitchen table.

Who was I kidding? I was miserable at home. I needed this experience more than I was willing to admit at the time. As I was getting set to climb into the elevator and venture up to the third floor, my phone rang. I was glad it happened there, in the desolation of the lobby instead of infront of a furrow-faced, wrathful and very busy man.

Sonny's sweet voice came through on the other line. He had good news for me, at least. Our wretched kitty, Serena, had come back after a 48-hour disappearance. Sonny smiled on it as a sign that I was up for good fortune at this interview. I believed the same. Grinning now, I climbed into the elevator and pressed button 3. My face ached painfully by the time I arrived at the door and knocked quietly with two trembling knuckles. I maintained the grin.

I was greeted initially (and ultimately) by a grungy young man with dark curls, patchy facial hair and a faded pair of Abercrombie & Fitch jeans. I instantly felt overdressed. Feeling my comfort level lower, I tugged at the collar of my jacket and slid into the seat before his desk. He introduced himself with a firm, business-like handshake and I did my best to duplicate it. I've learned to let the person you're meeting do the 'squeeze'. It's embarassing to give a rough handshake to a person who only flits their hand in yours and never actually 'shakes'. So far this policy has worked very well for me.

We sat in that small, emptyish room, he: glaring in my face with intense curiosity. Me: glaring at the floor with intense discomfort. I knew within 10 minutes that this job was NOT for me. It was a very political job, something I suppose sufficient research would have revealed had I done some. That should be rule number 1 after you get the call back. I was so screwed up that I thought the rules didn't apply to me. I don't know why.

So, I sat before the young hipster, sweating and stumbling over half-assed explanations on a subject I never asserted myself to understand. Ever the professional, he didn't call me out on my grossly embarassing ignorance. Instead, he moved the converstaion along to another open position: Canvasser. It seemed like a sweet deal, and I was just happy I wasn't being tossed out on my ear. I gladly accepted a trial period, to begin on Friday of that week. It wasn't until I was out in the sun and dust, stumbling through the lunch foot-traffic did I realize I had no desire to do this. It just wasn't my forte in the non-profit world. I knew this, even as I passively accepted the try-out.

Disappointed with my own idiocy, I found a planter in the shade and leaned against it to make a phone call. Sonny answered after the 3rd ring. I told him everything: how I had made a fool of myself, how ill prepared I was, and how (after all the hassle of getting there) I never wanted to return. He listened intently, and cooed at me in an understanding voice. "I want you to find a job that makes you happy." Sigh...I could've raced him to the alter at that moment.

I hung around downtown Cleveland a bit, after the interview, soaking up the annoying heat of midday and flagging potential lunch spots. Finally I stumbled into a pizza joint and got myself an order of buffalo wings and root beer, chilly from the freezer. Panting a little, I pressed the aluminum to my forehead and mopped my brow with a tissue in front of the corporate types that trailed in and out of the place. Yes. I had lost my goddamn mind. In my dress shirt and confining slacks I chewed on sloppy wings of desire and worked to keep the sauce off of my ensemble. The meal ended with a very happy me.

With a lack of everything: funds, patience, shade, I boarded a bus heading back for the border of my town. I excitedly basked in the chilly goodness of the blaring air conditioner. All in all, I had to say it was a kind morning. So what, I discovered the job wasn't for me? At least I thwarted entanglement in a job I doubtlessly wouldn't enjoy. And that was the most important lesson of the day: follow your heart.

I wish I could say I got home in one, sane, sturdy piece. The RTA bus was a piece of apple pie with a dollop of vanilla ice cream on top. Little did I knew how grueling the next 3 1/2 hours would be... It took me all of 2 minutes to figure out that the young man in front of me fancied my appearance. I unconsciously clenched all my face muscles into an impenetrable sneer and shoved my nose (quite cleverly) into my little wedding planning paperback.

I clambered out of the bus at our county line stop and hissed again at the heat. The young man was at my heels, commenting when I asked the driver a question and joking at the air as I continued along, having gotten my answer from the driver. I glanced casually across the street and saw two men there, smoking under a shelter. They looked like the type that stalked the streets of Staten Island, jobless and irresponsible, looking for a girl who'd sit still long enough for them to 'rap' to her. I sniffed and exhaled, and when the light turned I crossed the gooey asphalt.

My new friend lingered on the other side of the street watching with caution in his eyes. The two men were smoking cigarettes and swearing profusely, so that I (virgin, I am not) got flushing cheeks. I sat in silence and listened as one (the fully clothed smoker) reveled in discussing his life change of choosing the Lord over liquer, Christ over coke and salvation over sluts. The other one (the shirtless smoker) sweated and nodded, obviously preoccupied, yet wanting to respect his companion. The pair of them looked a tad frightening and I didn't blame my friend for lingering in the blazing heat, instead of hanging out under the shelter. There just was no room for all four of us...I guess.

TO BE CONTINUED...