That Damn Plant

Well, it's the end of the year.  Today is New Year's Eve; the last day of 2009.  There is such a sense of urgency that comes with New Years Eve.  If there was something you didn't get done, or say, or do, this is the last day and the last chance to do so.  Not to mention how you have to spend that last hour of the day which is also the last hour of the year.  If your not dressed fabulously, going to a fabulous place to do fabulous things with a fabulous other person of which you have to have a fabulous kiss with at the stroke of midnight...well, your whole next year is pretty much going to suck.  The future of your existence is at stake if you don't properly celebrate this day.  So, you better hurry.  Hurry, I say!!

Actually, I'm just going to pay some utility bills (they're a little on the late side), probably eat some chips and cheese dip, and start some laundry.  My last hours of the night will be spent on my couch wondering why Ryan Seacrest is famous and I'm not while eating fudge from Christmas.  A part of me is kind of looking forward to that.

To be honest, I'm a little disappointed in myself about this past year.  This time last year I had a plan.  I was going to get my debt under control; I was going to only make A's and maybe an occasional B in my courses;  I was going to let go of that one thing that has hurt so much; I was going to keep my room and car clean.  Well, I'm still a little behind in everything that has a payment due date; my grades match the initials of my name; I still haven't let go; and let's just say if you need a ride give me a few minutes to throw the mountain of stuff in my passenger seat to the back seat (hey I was looking for that coffee mug).  Oh, how easily promises to yourself can be broken. 

My birthday is a week and one day after New Years.  Last year my sister and him each gave me the same kind of plant.  Although I love them, I do not keep plants.  There are those incredible and magical people in my family that can give a plant a wink and a smile and that plant will instantly bloom into a mystifying flower that sparkles and dances on command . (Okay, that's an over exaggeration.  But my grandparents, my mom, and my Aunt Char know how to keep plants pretty).  I, on the other hand, am a plant murderer wanted in three states.  I forget to water them or whatever else it is you do with them.  That's why I'm not good with animals either.  Love the thought of them, but so much trouble having to feed and water them.  It's really a wonder my kids are still alive and thriving.

So, I have these two plants and I decide to include them in my New Years plan.  I was going to keep them alive.  I watered , placed in the window sill, talked to them.  Those first few weeks I went through paperwork, I purged, I cleaned, and I made out a budget.  I think I even exercised for two whole weeks in a row!  This would be the year that I would become new and improved; out of debt and the keeper of alive plants!  Woo Hoo!

My sister's plant died around week three.

As the year went on, I did what I always do.  I gave up.  I got discouraged.  I stopped trying as hard. I let myself get hurt.  I forgot to pray.  Disorganization and his gang of debt, frustration, resentment and procrastination crept back into my life.  It was, by all accounts, a hard and rather crappy year.  The thing that really sucks about all of this, is that I am not under the illusion or in denial about the fact that there is no one to blame for this but myself.  I see how and where I went wrong, I even know what needs to be done to fix these things.  But, I just never stick to it.

It was yesterday, New Years Eve Eve, that it hit me.  I was up in my room, getting ready for laundry day, when I just dissolved into tears.  It was one of those horrible crying fits where your eyes are puffy for hours after.  I looked like I was having an allergic reaction to shell fish all day.  I just hated the fact that I was pretty much in the same place I was last year.  So, there I was sitting on the floor in my room, violently crying about how much my life sucked and how much of a disappointment I am and yelling out to God "why!?!" (of which I could almost feel Him rolling his eyes at me), when I looked up and saw the plant the he gave me on the window sill.  It's pretty sad looking, but alive.  There's only four leaves left and two of those are half brown.  But, it was still alive.  A whole year and maybe five waterings later, it was still alive.

That's when something else hit me.  This past year, with all that happened, was the closest I had come to meeting my goals.  I'm still in school, I still have my home, the lights are still on, my kids are still alive and they are truly amazing.  My life is good.  No, my life is incredible.  I have so much to do and so much to accomplish, and I haven't a clue about how to start.  But, I guess maybe I've already started.  I never thought I'd be good mom, but I am.  And I'm still in school, and graduation is a year away.  I, Angela Clark, will be college graduate in a year (I was barely a high school graduate).  As far as love...last year I was determined to get it.  This year, it would be nice.  But it's not a need, it'd be more of an add on.


No plans this next year.  No resolutions.  No empty promises.  Every moment will be taken as it comes.  I pray I will savor them all.  I'm sure I won't, but I'll give it a try.  And maybe at some point that plant will bloom again...although I'm probably not going to plan on it.

An Analytical Look on Why I Hate Analyzing

Fall semester is over. Correction: a very humbling fall semester is over. Nope. Another correction: a very long, stressful, humbling fall semester is over. The long part I blame on my professors (you know who you are), the stressful I blame on everyone else (you know who you are), the humbling I blame on myself (I have to take some responsibility).

This semester I finally had decided on a minor. Writing. Which basically means that if the whole psychology bit doesn't work out I have staring at my computer screen for hours wondering what to write about to fall back on. I'm pretty excited. I don't know what kind of writer I am. I did pretty well in Technical Writing and also in Creative Writing. Either way, I think if Ivana Trump can write and sell a book with the title Free to Love, I have somewhat a chance of being half way successful...and I'm okay with that.

What I am not good at is analyzing. I hate it. Which sucks considering I picked a major and minor that both analyzes everything to death. If only UCA offered degrees in watching TV marathons while eating pizza...mmm, pizza. Anyway, I had to analyze a speech based on its rhetoric. Probably the worst paper ever. Lyndon Johnson's We Shall Overcome was the speech I chose to "dig deeper". I don't want to dig deeper (yeah...I'm going to make a great therapist). The stupid paper had to be 4-5 pages long. That's shorter than my middle school kid's papers and there I was struggling to get through page 2. The question that gets me when analyzing is the question "why?".

Last semester, in American History, I had to analyze a critical article about a book. I had to analyze an article that analyzed another written work. Really? At that point, what more is there to say. I made a good grade on it, but throughout my paper the professor wrote out "why?...explain" beside all my points and observations. My answer..."uh...because...". I don't know why. My question is why do we have to over analyze everything? Why can't we just chalk it up to the writer felt like it, whatever it is he/she wrote?

Basically, I'm lazy. I'm lazy and a whole lotta selfish. I want to write my thoughts based on my own opinions or experiences. Johnson's speech was great. He wanted Civil Rights, but he actually wanted those rights carried out, not just passed through Congress and then forgotten. He was passionate and direct. He held all in America, not just us Southern folks, responsible to carry these rights out. I like Johnson. No one ever thinks of him, but he had balls. That's right. I think Johnson had balls to make a speech like that in 1965 when there was such a divide on the race issue. Unfortunately I can't make that stretch to four pages and I don't think my professor would had appreciated the whole 'he had balls' thing.

I also took Theories of Personality this semester. I never wanted to shoot myself more than I did while reading the 40 page chapter on Carl Jung. And Freud was no picnic either, but at least he has that whole sex and aggression thing to hold my attention. The whole dream analysis, and if you weren't successful at breast feeding or potty training your screwed as an adult, not to mention all the archetypes you could be from your ancestral past; ugh. Which basically means not only are you screwed to an adulthood of unhealthy relationships and horrible dreams if you had trouble breast feeding and potty training, you have to worry about your ancestors screwing you up as well. No one recovers from that.

My stance: sometimes we spend so much time digging in our past looking for answers to our problems, we forget that the answers are here in the present and then never move on. Yes, the past effects us. Yes, we should read others arguments and opinions to help form or confirm our own. Yes, we need to be able to articulate our arguments. But, more importantly we should take a closer look at where we are now and decide where we are going from here. And, also be able to decide what is REALLY important and worth looking deeper at. Not everything is worth it. And the real question shouldn't be why the writer wrote what he/she wrote; it should be why do we have an opinion about it or not have an opinion. Sometimes what doesn't move us is as telling as what does move us.

My very last paper of the semester was a ranking of all the Theorists we studied. It was ranked from least to most of how their theories will influence which type of therapy we'll use in our careers. We studied eleven of them and had to write at least a page on each of their theories. I'm a last hour type of writer. So, I get a little punchy at 2:00am towards the end of the semester. Anyway, as I got to Freud my 'screw it' spirit took over and this is what I wrote:

"The whole oral, anal, phallic, latency stages are lost on me. That’s not my interest. Maybe someone being scared to go potty when they were a kid makes them really up tight to this day, but honestly let’s get the guy a laxative and move on."

I made an A. Punchy works for me.

Analyze what I wrote and let me know what I'm really saying. It needs to be 5-6 pages long and be sure to explain your arguments. Oh...and wish me luck for Spring semester.

beauty

I'm not sure if you have picked up on it or not, but I've been a little down lately. So many things are happening, so little things are getting done. This has caused me to be blind to certain things in my daily life that otherwise would bring a goofy smile to my face. Love is funny. This is no new concept. Right when love and I had decided to go on a "break'', I see some of the greatest examples of it.

I went to a Switchfoot concert the other week in downtown Little Rock. It was the perfect night. Cool breeze off the river, gorgeous sunset, and me and my kids rocking out to one of our favorite bands. One of the bands that opened for them was a fun punk rock Christian band. I decided then and there that punk rock Christians were my favorite type of Christians. They wear the same type of tight jeans and same amount of eye liner as other punk rockers, but they are in alot better moods. The sister of one of the band members sat near us with all her friends. Her excitement for her brother and their performance was amazing. She gushed about each song and danced non stop in support of him. (An aside: yes. contrary to popular belief, Christians do dance...I've been a Christian, a Southern Baptist Christian, since I was seven and I can do some of the best robot moves ever seen... ever.)

In front of us was a young couple. The guy had no problem displaying his love for the band, he threw his fist in the air, nodded his head and mouthed the words as all good fans do at concerts. She, on the other hand, was a little more subdued. She watched the band intently with a smile thrown at her partner every now and again. During one song he turned and looked at her for a full minute, never glancing away. He grinned as he watched her watching the performance and then leaned over and kissed her forehead gently. Without thought she laid her head on his shoulder and they both looked as if they fit perfectly.


A few seats down a dad was there with his two sons and a little girl. He laughed as the little girl danced to all the songs, and he looked proud when he got to explain to his son how the lead singer made his voice sound cool when he put his mouth to his guitar. But, the best moment was when I was singing along and dancing to a song and looked down to see both my kids doing the same. We were pretty rockin. And I know my day is coming that I won't be the one they want to hang out with. Soon I will be embarrassing or, dare I say it, boring. But, for that one night I was the coolest mom in the world. It was perfect.

Moving along with my examples of love is one of my current favorites. I work at Cold Water Creek. Yes, Cold Water Creek: where your mother or grandmother gets all her Christmas cardigans. Off the subject, I will let you know that we are currently selling not only a low rise denim, but a distressed low rise denim. Ha! Take that Talbots. Anyway, back on subject.

A few weeks ago an elderly couple came into our store. She was a bubbly woman, in her mid eighties, who was looking for a skirt. He came in with a scow on his face and headed straight to our chairs, never making eye contact with anyone. As I helped her find some skirts and blouses to match, he just sat in the chair looking as if he was auditioning for Grumpy Men 3: The Revenge.

She found a skirt she liked. It was a little fitted and showed her shape quite nicely. She walked to where her husband was sitting to ask his opinion. He grumbled that she didn't usually wear skirts and she snapped "that's why I'm buying one, I don't have any!" Still standing in front of him, she turned her back to him to look at the rest of the store. He then proceeded to very slowly lift up her shirt to take a good gander at her backside. When she realized what he was doing she whipped her head around and responded "Well. Do you like what you see back there?", he grinned from ear to ear and replied "Yes. Yes I do." She blushed and smiled at his reply and almost skipped back to the fitting room. Needless to say, she bought the skirt.

And then we come to Rozelle and Carl. Sixty five years of marriage. They've seen poverty, success, sicknesses, triumphs, five kids, one miscarriage, fourteen grandchildren, eleven great-grandchildren, retirements, diabetes, dementia, nursing home. My grandparents are the great love story I continue to watch. At one of our family dinners last month my grandmother got up to get a drink and as she walked past my grandfather he reached out to stop her and looked up at her and simply said "I'm in love with you." She grinned at him and said "I'm in love with you."

I want love. I want undramatic, pure, beautiful, honest, sweet, faithful love. Leave your violins at home. Take your fireworks somewhere else. I want a man that will still check out my ass when I'm eighty-five. Okay, I'd like a man to check out my ass now...but that's neither here nor there. I want a man that can look at me in the eyes and say "I'm in love with you." I don't want your fear of commitment, I want your willingness to take a chance and throw your whole heart into a relationship. I ache for this.

So, even though I am not fully on speaking terms with love yet, I do appreciate all it has to offer. And every day with examples of the beauty love brings (yes, I'm aware of how incredibly cheesy and syrupy that sounds...shut up) I get closer and closer to having full faith restored in it. In the mean time, I will make sure more women buy more skirts, visit my grandparents more, and start doing squats. I gotta make sure my future man has something to look at.

just a word

The thought of getting into my car and just driving has never sounded so appealing as it does at this moment. To just drive and drive would be so amazing. Around 3:00am I would stop at some truck stop diner where the men wear flannel shirts and the waitresses call you "hon". No talking or explaining. Nothing to answer to or to question. Just to drive anywhere and have a clean slate. Ghosts of the past wouldn't be able to keep up, I would drive so fast.

I wonder who I would be. I could be some sassy kick ass girl that doesn't take any crap from anyone. Or the vixen that always gets the free drinks and the guys at the end of the night. I could be quiet and mysterious, the talk of the town. Maybe I would go for the life of the party, no fear or inhibitions. I wouldn't be weak, I wouldn't get hurt, I wouldn't cry, and I wouldn't be so angry. But, it doesn't work that way. It never does. Because ghosts catch up, and your old self never really dies. So I stay. And I stay the girl I am and always have been. I don't know how to be anyone else, and it's about damn time I accept it. I will stay and face the hurt of disappointment, I will stay and fight the temptation of resentment. I will stay and simply get over it.

The only thing more extraordinary than our fear of moving is our fear of staying. We don't want to settle. To miss out on the next best thing would be disastrous. To settle is death. So we are willing to let go of what we have on the hope that there is something better out there. This is why sometimes I really piss myself off. And this is why he pisses me off to this day. "Making it work" is unacceptable, so we run as far away as we can. We are cowards disguised as ambitious, adventurous and free spirited.

Dream big, and if you don't make it it's because you didn't want it bad enough. But, in all honesty sometimes, no matter what you do, dreams don't come true. That was never promised to us. No where was there a contract signed that said "If you work really hard, and do all the right things then all your dreams will come true". Yet, we tell ourselves this and let ourselves feel completely deflated when our dreams don't happen. And to be crudely honest, I think that's a load of shit. What morons we can be.

How many of us go through each day looking for something better and not seeing what we have? Contentment is the enemy. And you think I'm saying not to try or fight for anything. You think I'm saying "settle" because it doesn't get better. That's not what I'm saying at all. Yes, work hard, better yourself in anyway you can. But, instead of looking for a better place or life, find the beauty of where you are right now. Be great in the place you currently find yourself. The truth is, if you aren't great where you are right now, you won't be great in any other place. That's what being a light is, that's what makes certain people shine, the ones who are remembered for doing extraordinary things. They are able to be extraordinary no matter where they are.

I don't follow through. I don't shine. I once was told I had no spark. That above anything else that has been said to me, hurt the most. It hurt because deep down I fear it's true. Everyday I struggle to swallow this fear and to just get moving. But, as soon as I get three steps ahead I stop and slowly walk back. God has been too good to me. I haven't kept up my end of the deal with Him, and even still He has kept His promise. I don't deserve that. Grace is a funny thing. It is so incredible and beautiful, but I question it and why it's used on me.

We pray for faith, but avoid using it. We pray for strength and expect a lightening bolt, but won't take any action where we can call upon it to use. The first step is the hardest and we avoid like the plague. And we do this knowing that if we took that first step, and used complete faith that we'll make it to the second step, that we'll have strength to get to the third. And pretty soon we end up exactly where we are supposed to be. True happiness. True freedom from the weight upon our backs, from working so hard and not having a clue as to what we are working for.

I'm tired and sad. Typing this is my version of a long drive on a summer's night. I feel like I've rambled and don't even want to read this to see if it makes sense. I just needed to use what little voice I have at the moment. I had almost forgotten that no one is born extraordinary. I've used that as an excuse for my defeats. Extraordinary people are quite ordinary actually. They just took that first step. I'll find my spark. I'll remember to ask Him what to do with it. There are things for me to do. There are things for you to do. And it's time to get moving. It's time for you to shine now, it's been that time for awhile. I'll remember to shine, too.

No matter where I am.

Settling

Send me roses weekly. The card attached should read of love and of my beauty. On days that are especially long, run a hot bubble bath for me complete with rose petals. Take me dancing whenever I ask. Wine and dine me. Buy me beautiful jewelry and shoes. Cook me fancy dinners by candle light. Hold my hand every time we are in public. Don't even glance at another girl, you only have eyes for me. Whisper sweet words of love, loyalty, and gratefulness in my ear nightly. Compare my beauty to poetry, love songs and nature. Listen to everything I say. Have an interest in every opinion and experience I have. Support me and defend me. Devote yourself to me completely. Take care of me. Tell me you love me every time we talk. Only go out with your friends if I'm busy, otherwise spend all your time with me. Never complain or get mad at me. Just be glad I'm yours.
                           Do these things and I'll know you love me.

Surprise me with flowers every once in awhile. Do it because you know they make me smile. Call me when life gets to be too much. We'll cook dinner and watch bad movies. Or we can have a lazy Saturday brunch while we listen to jazz. Talk to me, I'll listen. Tell me your dreams, your plans, your fears. Listen to mine, we'll figure them out together. If you think about it, hold my hand every once in awhile. I love how it feels when you reach out to me. Be faithful. Do this and I'll trust you with my heart, all of it. Don't lose patience with me, encourage me. I'll encourage you. Be honest with me, even if it might not be what I want to hear. But, say it with kindness. Go out with your friends and have fun, but include me sometimes. Remember me. Don't leave me behind. When you feel it, tell me you love me. Appreciate me, don't take me for granted.
                        Do these things and I'll know you love me.

Buy me a flower only after we fight. Maybe then I'll forget what we fought about. When you get overwhelmed or tired, go have a drink. Have a lot of drinks. Flirt with other girls. Be sure not to mention you have a girlfriend waiting for your call, missing you and still believing the best in you. Be distant, don't let me in. Don't always be there when I need you, but expect me always if you need me. Have periods of time of sweet perfection, with quiet nights together, running errands, talking, laughing, silliness and complete closeness. Ignore me the next week. Be vague with your feelings. Instead of saying 'I love you' tell me you care for me or that I'm important to you. But make sure your actions are not louder than your words. Treat me as an afterthought. Treat me not as someone you want to be with, but as someone you don't want to miss.
                         Do these things and I'll know you love me.

Buy me expensive gifts as a way to show what money you have. Remind me constantly what's wrong with me. Use mistakes of my past over my head. Make me feel small and insignificant. Remind me I'm nothing without you. Call me names, make me hurt. Remind me how no one else will want me. Disrespect me. Get angry easily. If your words don't do the trick use your fist. Control me. I will mistake this for you caring for me. Tell me I'm mediocre, I have no spark. I will think I can't do better. If I have any confidence, take it away immediately. Don't let me have time with those that might love me. Have me apologize for everything, even when you're at fault. Get me to the point where I wonder if I'm good enough for you instead of wondering if you are good enough for me. Accuse me of being unfaithful to cover up your own unfaithfulness. Ridicule me for my weaknesses. Ask me why I can't be skinnier, prettier or smart. Make it so I depend on you for everything without actually offering me anything.
                        Do these things and I'll know you love me.

Christy Got Married

I went back to the home town for a wedding yesterday. One of my best high school friends got married. She was beautiful and truly looked happy. It took place at First Baptist Church, which was the church we attended when lived in Arkadelphia. I hadn't been there in thirteen years. It was nice. One of the few places where I don't have any overly embarrassing or bad memories. The church and, of course Mazzios pizza. But, who has bad memories at Mazzios...mm pizza...no, must focus.

Anyway, wedding went off without a hitch. Everyone that was supposed to be there was, none of the bridesmaids looked resentful, the groom didn't have that "where the hell am I?" look, no one tripped, the singer didn't choke and there was no awkward pause while they lit the unity candle. So all in all it was a great wedding.

The reception was nice too. I am a huge fan of wedding punch. It wouldn't take much for me to grab the punch bowl and chug it down like there's no tomorrow. But, I feel that might be a little frowned upon so I stuck with my eight refills instead. The wedding cake had a raspberry filling, so I was pretty happy about that too.

Most of my high school friend group was there. The majority I hadn't seen since 1996. It's weird how people can be so different and yet so much the same. All of them were married. Yep. As of yesterday at 2:45pm I am the last single person of that particular friend group. Good thing I now hang with people in their younger 20's who aren't "ready" or I might be depressed.

Actually, the single thing doesn't bother me. I don't really dwell on not being married too much. If it happens-great, if not-great. But, there is something about being surrounded by married people who are your age and graduated when you did that can be disconcerting. Most of them had kept in touch in some way. I just read their Facebook status. So I basically know when they're home from work and if they're tired, but nothing about their actual lives. I don't have alot in common with them anymore.

They all had babies. And that's what most of the conversation was about...their kids. And, yes, I know I have two kids. I had my two kids way before they had theirs (ha ha beat you!). But, for some reason I am not a good talker about babies. I spent a good portion of both pregnancies praying I would like mine and they wouldn't be those crazy crying kids. Well, God said okay and I like both of mine and they aren't crazy criers. So, I spent alot of my time standing on the outskirts of conversations, wondering around for coffee, the groom's cake and more punch. This is good because usually when I'm in an uncomfortable situation I start to ramble on and on about really trivial things I know and alot of times it ends with the phrase "and that's why I'm not sure how they could make a Buffy and Angel movie, I mean how would they work Spike in."

Although that said, I did have Holly. She was my very first friend when I moved to Arkadelphia. Although we weren't the closet of friends in high school, she was my BFF at the reception. She's married too, but no kids yet. And she had just enough sarcasm and humor to make me love her. I pretty much went where she did. Bless her heart. I latched onto her like a frat boy latches onto the last Bud light in the frat house.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoyed the wedding and the reception greatly. It was incredible to see Christy so happy. I made a lot of very bad decisions in high school, and one might say didn't have the greatest reputation, but this group of friends stayed my friends. So I loved seeing them with their spouses and kids, hearing about new jobs and opportunities. Seeing this made me truly happy. I'm the one with the problem. Yeah, I'm 31 years old, never married, two kids, just now a junior in college, and working part time as a stock girl. But I need to get over it. I'm working hard so those won't be my labels for much longer.

Of course, it's still a little unnerving when the mother of the bride comes into the room and yells out "I need all the single ladies, are there any single ladies? Christy is scared she won't have anyone to throw the bouquet to....oh hey Angela, aren't you eligible for this? Come on." She grabbed me and two tween girls. I didn't catch it.

All in all, a great day. Ms. Slavens and Mr. Patterson still hang out, Dr. Tranthum still plays the organ, Mr. Kolb still makes friends with everyone he meets, Mary Elizabeth is still the cheeriest person I know, Holly is my new BFF, and I got to witness one of my best friends in love and committing her life to it. It was a great wedding.

By the Pool Side

I am in possession of many pet peeves. I hate when someone pulls out in front of me and then proceeds to drive five miles under the speed limit. I hate that I seem to be the only one in my house that realizes there are designated places in the dishwasher for the bowls, plates and cups to go. Deviating from that design totally messes up the efficiency of which dishes can be cleansed. I hate there is always that one person who will ask "are we having fun yet?" while working on a project, that is obviously not fun. The question is not witty, funny or any form of encouraging. It's not even funny sarcasm, I don't even know how to respond to the question. I just know every time it is asked I have more and more trouble restraining myself from punching them in the face.

It also drives me crazy when a professor will do a review for a test and state how many points are possible and then someone will ask "how many points are possible?". I can't stand it when someone can't take a compliment. Really, just say thank you. It's not that hard. Other pet peeves include people coming in on the last five minutes of a TV show and then asking "what happened?", employees asking me "are you sure?", him hiding not wanting to spend time with me behind the mask of being too busy, red lights, David Caruso, lettuce, being forgotten and people who complain about every situation...ironically.

But what gets me the most, what I hate above all is at this moment a friend of my eight year old niece is struggling with a brain tumor that doctors can't get. How do you explain to an eight year old that her headaches and pain might never go away?
I hate that someone I love is drowning in a pool of crushing debt, depression and her own bad decisions. And, we her family, just stand by the pool side waiting and wondering who's going to jump in and save her.
I hate that another of my friends has tied her self worth to a man that has little worth of his own. She would rather be miserable and hurt with him than happy alone. I hate that I know these things, but at the end of the day - it's the red lights that really get to me. I hate I'm that kind of person.

I see you...in the bar, laughing a little too loud at his mediocre jokes. You hope he'll make you feel desirable and beautiful, even for just one night. I see you look around in hopes the waiter is on his way with that third drink because you know that's the only way this night will be tolerable. You're grasping for fleeting moments that were never meant to last a lifetime. You're grasping at all the wrong things that only add to the emptiness you have.

I see you...wondering up and down Cantrell, Markham, Broadway and Rodney Parham. Your scarred with dirt in your hair, on your face and on your clothes. Everyday for the past eight years you have been walking up and down these streets. Always on your way with no where to go. People who walk by are careful not to make eye contact with you. You are someones son, someones grand child. But there was a day you became too hard to care for, too hard to love. There was a day that someone gave up on you, and let you go. And you were forgotten.

Yes. I do see you. And I'm sorry that I have used my problems as an excuse to ignore yours. I'm sorry that for some reason I don't use the courage that has already been given to me. I'm sorry that all I do is wait, all I do is see.

Crazy Uncle Harold

I haven't been very inspired lately. Although things seem to be shifting in my life recently (for the better) I feel the need to keep it close to my heart and not on blogspot. I do hope you understand. But, oddly enough I found some inspiration by the weather report today.

I love Arkansas weather. I love that I wore a sundress with flip flops today and on Wednesday I'll need to wear snow boots with my sherpa hat. We reached a record 81 degrees today and on Wednesday we'll be down in the 40's with a chance of light snow mixed with rain. I smiled at this. I could almost picture Old Man Winter giving us, and that young whipper snapper Spring, the finger.

I see Arkansas winters as our cranky 95 year old rich uncle (we'll call him Harold for short). He comes to stay with us every November and we all tolerate his presence until his death in March. We hope he'll bring gifts of white Christmas's and snow days from work and school. But not Harold. Usually he says "screw you" and instead gives us ice on Friday night and has it cleared up in time for Monday mornings. He takes naps here and there throughout January and February, letting 70 degree weather tease us. Harold will then pull the ultimate prank.

He'll go away for awhile. Warm air takes over, flowers begin to bloom, girls flock to buy tube tops and shorts that could double as underwear. Arkansans start making plans for picnics and other outdoor events. We get comfortable. Harold finally died, we don't have to worry with that grouchy S.O.B anymore. And then, just like Glenn Close at the end of Fatal Attraction or that guy with the moustache at the end of Sleeping With The Enemy, Harold pops up from the dead and throws hail at our heads with a wind chill of -10 degrees. Crazy old Uncle Harold.

Even though it happens every year, Uncle Harold gets us every time. And I like it. We live in a state with 2 months of Winter, 4 hours of Fall, 45 min of Spring and 10 months of Summer. So, I say long live Uncle Harold. He's got spunk. And tomorrow I will happily wear my scarf with a smile and dodge the hail with a gleam in my eye.

Oh Weaverbirds, What Is It You Have To Teach Us?

On this Valentine's day I read a chapter on Women's Long-Term Mating Strategies and a chapter on Men's Long-Term Mating Strategies. My dad told me I should go out with my friends and put those strategies to work. But, I stayed in instead. You can read a couple of blogs below and see how Valentine's usually works out for me and this won't be a surprise. But, I can happily say that although I am single, I still had hope that I would have some sort of romantic happening or surprise this past Saturday. The reason that I am happy about that (oh, nothing romantic happened, sorry to keep you hanging) is that it means I'm not jaded. Yep. I still have romantic hopes, and that makes me happy.

Now, back to my Evolutionary Psychology chapters. As you can imagine the chapter on women's mating strategies was quite a bit longer than that of men's. In a nutshell: women want sugar daddies and men want big boobs with lower hip to waist ratios. No news flash there. What was interesting was what I read about the African village weaverbird.

The female weaverbird holds all the cards in this species. The male literally turns himself upside down from his nest and flaps his wings in such a way to get her attention. He does this to show off the nest he has put together. If he is so lucky to get her attention she enters his nest and inspects it. While she is 'judging' his living conditions, he serenades her with a song. Depending on how well the nest is put together and/or how well she likes the song the female weaverbird will either reject it and go on to another upside down male or stay with the present male. It all depends on if everything in the presentation meets the females expectations.

I love it. Those sassy female weaverbirds. They have an idea of what they want and refuse anything less. If only we human females were so sassy. And on top of that they get serenaded while being judgemental. If only human males were so eager to please.

I don't write this as a feminist. I'm not a feminist, or at least not a very good one. Personally, I think sexual harassment can be fun. I write this as a witness to women who put their all into relationships with men whose nest is very, very far from par. They somehow think they can change these men and make them into the prince charmings of fairytales. Why do we do this? It's pretty much the most ridiculous thing ever. Women will fall for these guys who hurt them over and over. And then when the relationship ends the woman hates all men and is jaded forever. In the mean time I wonder how many wonderfully put together nest and beautiful serenades were missed because of all the time wasted trying to make the loser man into something he is not, or never wanted to be.

Don't get me wrong. I think one of the most beautiful things about love is the desire for both parties to want to build up and support the other. Seeing the beauty through the flaws is my favorite part of love. But, I think we get into these relationships expecting the other to get all 'Tom Cruise' on our ass and complete us. That's silliness. Because people leave, people pass away. Forever was never guaranteed. The best thing we could do is be a complete person and offer our whole selves to someone we love. And if they don't want to offer their whole selves, then maybe there is an upside down guy down the road flapping his wings for our attention.

So, lesson from the female weaverbird:
*know what you want and who you are
*don't be afraid to inspect a males nest. might not be what you were looking for, but at least you looked and it will help you get a bit closer to the one's whose nest is just right.
*don't worry about rejecting the nest. there's always going to be another bird.
*if you find what you like and want to stay...then stay. don't carry the baggage of bad weaverbird's in the past into what could be the best nest ever.

Lesson's from the male weaverbird:
*try.
*keep up with your nest. a crappy nest is a lonely nest.
*although it doesn't seem like it, eventually those with less than perfect nest are rejected. keep trying, it'll pay off.
*and nothing beats a good serenade. although, the whole "Say Anything" scene with John Cusak standing in the rain with the radio over his head is great for the movie, there is a creepy factor to it...so just be aware of that.

Epiphany by Curling Iron

I was tired of my hair. It is long and incredibly thin and just as incredibly coarse and curly. Not the pretty curly. The “I just stuck my finger in a light socket and look what it did to my hair” curly. All I ever do is just throw it up in a pony tail. But, that day I felt an overwhelming need to have one of those woman empowering moments. Almost like the ones where an Alanis Morisette or KT Tunsell song is playing in the background and the girl looks in the mirror, takes the scissors and whacks off her hair (somehow in perfect layers or a perfect bob cut) and feels instantly liberated and empowered.

But, I’m a wimp and don’t like my hair short and I’m not a real big fan of either Alanis or KT. So I would settle on Coldplay music and use the curling iron to make perfect flowing curls, and that would count as my empowerment moment. My hair would be bouncy and sassy, just like in the commercials. Makeup would be flawless and I was going to wear an outfit that flattered me in all the right places.

I guess the bottom line was I wanted to be pretty, not just liberated or empowered. It had been awhile since I felt truly pretty. For some reason that day was the day I would get gussied up. I just really wanted him to see me as beautiful. Because, maybe that would make him remember how he felt about me. Maybe that would remind him that he cared.

So I parted my hair into sections and proceeded to wrap each section around the curling iron and then waited for a miracle to happen. The first two sections worked beautifully. The curls curled and bounced just as I imagined. I smiled with excitement. I was going to look so hot. How nice to feel beautiful again. I was determined to have a good day that day. All the right things would be said. I wasn’t going to ramble on or say something stupid. All pop culture and celebrity references would be kept at a minimum. Today I would be the pretty girl that was funny without being obnoxious, insightful instead of simple. He would look at me today and be glad I was his.

It was during this train of thought that I stopped paying attention to what I was doing to my hair. I suddenly realized I had wrapped too much around the curling iron and couldn’t get it unwrapped. It was an older curling iron and it had bristles, so it doubled as part brush/part curler. Actually, to clarify it was my grandmother’s. Evidently, not only am I too cheap to get a decent hair cut, I’m too cheap to buy a curling iron that was made after the 1990s.

I gently tried to unwrap the section of hair that was now entangled around the iron. No success. I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation. I kept trying to pull my entwined hair from the iron. Nothing happened, except it seemed to get more tangled. Progressively gentle tugging turned into frantic yanking. My laughing out loud slowly turned to frantic grunts trying to free the section of hair being held hostage by my curling iron.

“Seriously?!” I yelled out loud. Whether it was directed at me or God, I’m not sure. Although, something tells me that if it was God, not me, doing my hair- things would have turned out a lot better. I glanced at the clock. I was late. Crap. Something else for him to complain about. I needed help, so I called my mom.

“I think I’m going have to cut my hair. Like, really cut it really, really short,” I whimpered when she answered. I explained to her my situation. She laughed and said something to the effect of “only you, Angela”. The humor of the situation had pretty much left me at this point. I was late to meet him, my hair was seconds away from becoming the world’s worst pixie cut, and the weight of the curling iron hanging from my mass of hair was giving me a headache.

“Well, I can’t leave work right now. Can you come to the office and I’ll work on it here?” she suggested. I agreed to drive there. As I hung up the phone I heard her say “you’ll never guess what my daughter got herself into this time…” to a co-worker. I sighed. I glanced in the mirror, and then my glance turned into a hard stare.

My face was red and blotchy from the frustration and strain. My hair looked that of a bird’s nest, just not as neat, and with an electronic appliance hanging from it. I couldn’t look away from my reflection. I forced a laugh. It would be a funny story. And at my core I am a bit of a laugh whore; I’d do anything for one. Yep. This will be a funny one to tell everyone at work. Especially since these types of things tend to happen to me a lot.

And it was at that thought that I totally dissolved into tears. I wept. I couldn’t help myself. I just wanted so desperately to be beautiful that day. What a silly idea. That one day of good hair and makeup would save a relationship that was dying. That this stupid curling iron would act as a wand and dissolve all our problems. He had been slipping away from me for awhile. It was a wonder that we had started a relationship in the first place. He was successful, handsome, polished and intelligent. I was a college drop out, self deprecating, clumsy, and had an unhealthy obsession with TV marathons.

It wasn’t my hair I was tired of. It was me. I was just tired of being me. I thought of the women that look like they walk out of a salon everyday. They have degrees and know where they’re going and how to get there. They are experts at flirting and getting men’s attention. They have grace and elegance. Men love them. The confidence radiates from them. These women don’t trip over their own feet or run into random objects in their paths. They don’t waste hours wondering if they’re going to break up Jim and Pam on The Office, or get excited when they hear a pun joke. They don’t spill coffee on themselves…everyday, and these women never, ever get curling irons stuck in their hair.

I just kept weeping. I would never be that woman. No matter how much he wanted me to. Every time I tried, I failed. I was trapped being myself. He says I’m enough. I am the one he wants to be with and I make him happy. But, his distancing and disappointed looks spoke louder than his words.

Finally, after ten minutes I composed myself enough to make it to the car and took off towards my mom’s office. There I was driving down I-430, letting out a string of curse words directed at me and my hair, weeping, and tugging at the stubborn iron (that had become an extension of my head) with one hand, and driving with the other hand. When those in the cars driving beside me looked at me with their “what in the …” looks I’d shoot them the meanest ‘go to hell’ look I could muster up. Couldn’t they see I was having a moment?

It was somewhere over the river bridge that my hair was freed. Somehow all the tugging, cursing, weeping, yanking and ‘why me’s’ had loosened the curling iron’s grip. I instantly felt stupid. I couldn’t believe I had a near mental break down because of a curling iron. I called my mom and canceled ‘Operation Hair Rescue’ and took the next exit back towards my house.

While driving back I thought of my ‘episode’. It was then I realized that I wasn’t sure if I was truly upset because I was tired of being me or if it was because I missed who I used to be. I never took myself too seriously before. I liked having the funny stories. Each day could easily be an I Love Lucy episode, and I liked that. It set me apart and it taught me how to laugh at myself. I used to think of it as a gift. But, lately I started to resent it. Trying so hard to be who I wasn’t, I lost a bit of who I actually am.

I was sad again. Because that meant I had to give something up; him or myself. I couldn’t have both. And at that moment on I-430, after an exhausting battle with a curling iron, I honestly couldn’t decide which to give up. My cell phone rang. It was him. “Where are you?” he asked concerned. I proceeded to tell him about my adventure with the curling iron and my hair, sans the mental breakdown. After a moment’s pause, he said “Lordy. Only you.” I let out a sigh and replied, “I know”.

A Whispered Prayer

Remind me again how big You are. I should know by now. But, today I feel especially defeated. So, please remind me of all I have. Remind me all I could have and be, if I would just get moving. Remind me to move.

I compare myself to the giants, remind me to compare the giants to You. I can't see very far, give me the eyes to see. I don't think this is who I'm supposed to be. Remind me who I'm supposed to be.

One more thing, remind me to keep talking to you. Remind me not to forget.

Amen.

Cheesy Poetry and Hoffa

I cleaned my room today. It was one of those 'once a year' spring cleanings. Went through all my papers, dusted, cleaned out underneath my bed (by the way, Hoffa has been found. He was under my bed reading cheesy poetry I wrote when I was fourteen...he's doing fine, and looks great!), and organized my drawers in my many dressers. It felt good.

I had kept having this awful thought in the past week that if anything happened to me, it would absolutely suck to have to go through my room. And worse, what if a crime happens to me and CSI guys have to come through with their travel labs and do my room a comb over? If I wasn't already dead I would die of embarressment. I had notes from the fifth grade lying around, Sbarro reciepts from '02, tons of letters written but never sent, not to mention the awful poetry I had to pry from Hoffa's fingers. But now I feel relief and free to let whatever happen to me happen, whether it be a mafia hit or getting run over by a bike. I feel good.

Reading those notes from Jr. High made me laugh. I really thought I was deep back then. It turns out I was just really, really winy. But, you can't throw a rock in a Jr. High without hitting a winy teenager, so I refuse to think any less of myself than I already do. I came across a photo album I had put together when I was in a play. I was fourteen and the play was put on by the Theatre department at OBU. I was the youngest one in it.

I fit in. There I was in every picture with a smile beaming and looking perfectly comfortable. It was one of my best memories. I don't have alot from those days. I chose to accept that I wasn't that smart or talented. His words of hurt were louder than my voice telling me I was better than that. It never occured to me to believe in myself or to keep doing something that brought me happiness. The thought of failure paralyzed me. All those years wasted. Time can be such a mean s.o.b. It can be so long and then it can pass in a blink of an eye. Bastard.

But, I think we all have a story similiar to that. The difference is what we do with it. There are days that I turn back into the fourteen year old girl, but not many. 31 years old and finally growing into myself. Such a late bloomer, maybe my boobs will finally come in.

At the very least, I've come to like my voice. It's wiser and stronger. I'm also getting a bit more careful with my time. I'm still behind, but I figure I'll be some great underdog story that Hallmark can make into a movie with Kelly Martin starring as me. In the mean time I'll enjoy my sparkly clean room.

The Really True Story of the Valentine's Day Massacre

Valentines Day is not what I would call my best holiday. I’m either single, have a boyfriend that forgets about it or decides to make some grand stand against the day. “Valentine’s is dumb. What a stupid thing to celebrate.” Blah. Blah. Blah. Yes, but when St. Patrick’s Day comes along he’ll gladly put on a green top hat, some beads and shoot jager bombs all night like they’re going out of style. Just get me a $1.99 rose from the gas station and some dinner. That’s all. I don’t think that’s asking a lot. But, no. The day usually begins with high hopes and ends with me on the couch watching Law and Order reruns.

My problems with Valentine’s Day began long ago in a land far away. It was the seventh grade, which is the worst grade ever. You are either a late bloomer or early bloomer and neither is a great place to be. I was not the most popular of girls, but I wasn’t the least. The place of being unnoticed was where I occupied my time. That was fine. Of course popularity meant something to me, but I never let it bother me. Not until Valentine’s Day.

On Valentine’s, at my school, they waited until the last class to let you see the gifts delivered to you. The office workers would bring in whatever was sent to you and place it against the wall. How horrible. You have a whole building full of low self-esteemed gawky kids and then make them wait all day to see if someone liked them enough to spend fifteen bucks for a balloon to be delivered. It’s just horrible.

I wasn’t really expecting anything. There was no boyfriend of any sort. I had just started wearing makeup, and that wasn’t going exceptionally well (throughout most of my seventh grade year I looked like a white ghost with really flushed cheeks), and I was still determined to make spiral perms work therefore my hair resembled that of a poodle. Plus you can go ahead and put me in that late bloomer category I spoke of earlier. But as they were carrying all the red, pink and heart shaped items in the room I couldn’t help but to hope at least one thing would be for me. It could be from some secret admirer, probably someone named Antonio with an accent (doesn’t matter which accent, any would do) that was desperately in love with me and bought out the flower shop for me. I daydreamed a lot in Jr. High.

Finally, after an hour of staring at all the Valentine gifts lined up against the wall of class, the bell rang. I coolly walked over to the gifts and searched for my name. And it was the most incredible thing that ever was. There wasn’t just one, two or three items with my name on it, there were multiple items with my name on it: Angela D. Clark. It was extraordinary. There were roses, flowers, candy, balloons, and a giant transparent balloon with a stuffed bear inside surrounded by pink tissue and glitter. I was elated. Cloud nine had nothing on the happiness I felt when I saw my name on the outside of those envelopes. I quickly gathered the items and floated down the hall to my locker. I had trouble carrying all my gifts, there were so many. I happily struggled with them. Gleefully I took random sniffs of the flowers and my imagination ran with who could have sent me so many treasures. My feet were barely touching the floor. There was no stopping the smile of pure joy on my face. I had arrived. This was my moment.

And it was at that moment that I notice the gang of girls walking towards me with full determination. The gang was lead by the other Angela D. Clark. Yes, there were two of us, only different by our middle names with the same initials. We were in the same grade and mix ups between us were common.

She was Pentecostal with a daily uniform of waist length hair and ankle length skirts. They walked toward me in what seemed like slow motion, their eyes locked with mine, waist length hair swaying, ankle length skirts swishing. I knew. I knew the day was about to end badly. I couldn’t move.

“Uh, hey Angela. I think you got some of my gifts,” Pentecostal Angela said with a smirk. And before I could let out my meek “oh”, she and her gang started grabbing items from my hands, checking the cards and giving nods of confirmation to one another. It was like the scene in Cinderella when the stepsisters realize that Cinderella’s dress is made from their scraps. They start ripping the dress apart screaming “My sash!”, “My beads!” That’s how it felt. “My flowers!”, “My candy!”, “My giant transparent balloon with the teddy bear in it surrounded by pink tissue and glitter!”

Finally, Pentecostal Angela and her gang were done tearing the spirit of Valentine’s Day from my arms. “Thanks, Angela. Happy Valentine’s Day!”, she called as she and her gang left with an armful of what were formerly my gifts, dreams, and hopes of what could have been the best Valentine’s ever. There I was standing in the hallway, mouth open in disbelief of the recent event, holding the one gift that remained mine. A lone balloon with a teddy bear on it holding a candy heart that read ‘Have A Heartfelt Day’. The card attached read, ‘To: Angela, Love Mom’. I could hear cloud nine laughing in mockery of me.

This experience, along with my other unsuccessful Valentine’s, could have made me calloused and bitter about this holiday of love and romance. It could have made me into one of those angry women that roll their eyes and curse at happy couples and drink heavily on the holiday. But, it does not. I still hold on to hope of having a successful holiday of romance. Some great romantic experience that every time February 14 comes around, will make me smile in remembrance. Therefore, I smile at those happy couples and tend not to drink any more heavily than I do on a normal day in February. My Happy Valentine’s will happen. $1.99 rose and all.