My Favorite Part

a continuation of . . . um. . . . A Story Continued!


As I said before, I was living at home again and would occasionally hang out with Lance. He might take me to dinner, or we might see a movie - nothing terribly exciting. I knew he had feelings for me, but I wasn't convinced that I wanted anything with him. Which was as surprising to me as it might be to you. I just couldn't see myself with him anymore. It had been so long since I had a crush on him. That's all it really was - a silly crush of a 7th grader. Now don't get me wrong, he was wonderfully tall and cute, and fun to flirt with but sometimes you need more than that. Since then, when asked what went wrong, I remember referring to him as a "dud". That meant that he didn't have much conversation in him; not much substance. A pretty face does not a relationship make! Example? Sometimes he would call me and this would be our conversation:

Lance: Hey, what's up?
Me: Just finished eating dinner. What are you doing?
Lance: nothin'.
Me: cool.
eternal silence . . . . more eternal silence
Lance: Aren't you going to say anything?
Me: Well, you called me, smart one. That would lead one to believe that you are responsible for the witty conversation.
Lance: Well, if you aren't gonna' talk, I'm gonna' go.

Thrilling, I know. And the sad/funny part is that that wasn't the end of the conversation. A flirtatious argument would flare up and we would stay on the phone for an hour which would deeply aggravate me. In retrospect, I know the situation better and what was really going on - again, not exactly important to the story so I shall move on!

I had been home for one school year (at the local community college, remember?) and the summer was half way over. I had decided to transfer to the University of North Texas in Denton. This was about a 5 hour drive from San Antonio (did I mention that "home" was in San Antonio?). I was TOTALLY excited.

One night, near the end of the summer, the phone rang. It was about 10pm - which might as well be midnight to my father - it was Lance.

"You're leaving soon, come hang out."

"I can't leave my house, it's already 10:00"

"I'll come get you. I'll pull my truck into your driveway and you can jump out from the window"

"Nice try, maybe some other time."

"Cool. I'll be there in about 10 minutes."

Without fail, he shows up 10 minutes later. The doorbell rings. "Oh shit, my dad is going to be upset!" I hear Lance talking to my dad, they chuckle a little, and Lance comes walking up the stairs. "Come here," he says, "we need to talk."

The following is a memory that is very near to my heart. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Lance (who is about 6'5", 280 lbs), picks me up (I am 5'11" and I'm not going to tell you my weight!!) over his shoulder and proceeds to carry me down the stairs, out the door, and sets me down next to my truck. Needless to say, I was amazed. No one had ever done that before. He pulls down the tailgate of my '88 Ford Ranger and we sit and talk for awhile. I don't remember about what, but I do remember the end. We stand up and prepare to say our good-bye's when he asks for my hand. I was a little nervous, but he insisted. I raised my hand, placed it in his, and he pulled a knife out of his pocket and cut my thumb so that it bled!

"What the fuck!!"

"Just wait. . ."

He picked a scab off his hand (gross!) and pressed it against my bleeding thumb.

"If we're not married by the time we're 27, we are going to get married."

"Ok," I agreed.

I use the age 27 because in reality, I don't remember what he said. We turned 27 this year and neither one of us are married. The conclusion will follow.

Blurry

I was getting ready for bed last night and something happened that surprised me. . . although it's happened before. I had just completed my ritual of teeth brushing, contacts, face washing, etc., and I went into my room. I sat on the edge of my bed and looked down and the "clean" pile of clothes on the floor and tried to distinguish the t-shirt that I wear to sleep in from the others. Now, if you sit on the edge of my bed, you are forced to look directly in the mirror that sits on top of my dresser (the other edge is against a wall). So I reach down, pick up my sleepy-time shirt, stand up and pull of my current t-shirt and I glance up at the mirror. (Remind yourself that I had already finished my ritual. This means I have taken my contacts out - and I'm pretty freakin' blind without them.)

Suddenly I stop. I'm looking at myself in the mirror and I actually look pretty good standing there in my underwear. Why is this such a surprise you ask? Like a lot of girls I know, I have struggled with my weight my whole life. But in order for you to get a better sense of this, let me leave my story and do a little back-tracking.

I am about half an inch shy of being 6 feet tall. I'm not huge, but I am overweight. My friends try and calm my anxiety by telling me that the reason I wear a size 16 is because I'm so tall. And while I appreciate that, I beg to differ. (Let's save that for another blog!) I've been on diets since I was in middle school (I think even 5th grade) and am just now getting to be comfortable with myself. Well, that's a lie. I'm not comfortable, but I'm really trying to find it. Ok, wait, I forgot my point. . . Oh yeah, there it is.

So, I'm looking at myself in the mirror and I'm thinking "wow, if only I could look like this". Are you confused? Again, I took my contacts out so the image I see in the mirror is blurry as hell. The cool thing is that I can't tell where the blur ends and where my curves begin. It's pretty cool. I stand there in my bra and underwear and start thinking. Will I ever be able to see myself with my contacts in and think the same thing?

I appreciate companies like Dove who have the campaign for real beauty. This particular ad shows larger women in their underwear say how proud they are to be curvy. It backs up the statement that "real women have curves". And while I appreciate this effort - I really do - I think they need to be careful. In huge letters, a banner runs across this advertisement that says, in fact, "REAL WOMEN HAVE REAL CURVES."

There was a conversation in a college class of mine a couple semesters ago about how women are portrayed in advertising and how the images are skewed. One fairly normal sized girl, slightly on the big side, said something about "how real women don't look like bean poles" and "they should use real women in their ads". Immediately, this tiny little thing (see, even I'm being condescending - actually, there is no silent stupid. . . maybe I'm just being patronizing. . . what was I talking about? oh yeah) sitting in front of me shoots a look that could kill across the room at our speaker and says, "what, I'm not real because I'm not as big as you?" With tears welling up in her eyes, she says that she has just as much trouble, probably more so, finding clothes that fit than we "big girls" do. Not to mention she has society telling her that she isn't a real woman. hmmm.

Guess I'm not the only one who has issues with my body. I still say blurry mirror vision rules!

The Story Continued

continued from previous entry. . .

The next time Lance and I were to inhabit each other's lives was in high school. I got a job at the local movie theatre, with a little help from my friends. I had almost forgotten about my little crush on him until I walked in for the first staff meeting and to my surprise and upset stomach, there he was. I don't remember the exact emotion, but if emotion could speak, it would go something like this: OH SHIT. OH SHIT. OH SHIT.

So to make this shorter and a little less agonizing, a bunch of small and unimportant things to this story happened for the first few months that we worked together. (For example, he cut off the tip of his thumb with the sharp edge of a can of nacho cheese - to which he will later tell people that he lost it to a baboon. If you knew Lance and are reading this and have heard the baboon story, sorry to burst your bubble.) Our friendship really started when we would change the marquis sign in front of the mall late at night. The two of us would go out there with a pole that stretched out for miles with a suction cup on the end. He taught me how to smoke (the habit didn't start until college, however), I listened to his bizarre baboon stories, and mostly we laughed and flirted and became friends.

Did I mention he was fired for sitting on a trashcan? hahahahaha

After we graduated, we kept in contact a little. More so when I came back home with my tail between my legs to attend the local community college. We would stay on the phone for hours at night. He would try to convince me to sneak out of my house in the middle of the night to hang out with him. We would talk about the movie theatre, middle school (a.k.a. my crush that he conveniently forgot about), and the fact that our friends tried to get us to go to prom together - which didn't pan out. (My story isn't getting shorter).

I'm gonna go ahead and stop now. This is getting way too long, but I'm afraid to leave anything out. I already want to go back and change things because I'm getting some memories mixed up. But I'll leave them as they are. If you are still paying attention to my story, thanks. It's long and probably even boring, but as I write it, I laugh at the memories. And that's what it's all about, right? Good-night.

The First Encounter

The earliest memory I have of Lance is from the 7th grade (just about 15 years ago). I had a crush on him. He was always this huge, tower of a guy. My friend and I would write about him in this spiral that we had. We would write each other notes and pass it back and forth during class. Soo cool. The main purpose of this was to make sure we were on top of the gossip and find out who the other one liked. My answer always included about 3 boys, one of which was, guess who? Lance.

This same friend lived down the street from him and she would promise me that she would walk to his house and ask him about me. Whatever that meant! It was one of those things you didn't question. As long as he knew who I was, I didn't care. I'm not sure if she ever did; it's been so long I don't remember.

I do, however, remember walking down the hallway with another friend - let's call her Dooshbag (a derogatory name reminiscent of middle school) - and Lance was walking in front of us. Dooshbag proceeded to yell out his name, "Hey Lance! You know she likes you!" 'She' meaning me. I could have killed her. What a dooshbag! After this devastating embarrassment, he casually turned around, looked at me, snickered, and turned away. I was mortified.

Middle school flew by in a stream of crushes and boyfriends and kissing lessons from friends who had never kissed anyone. But you listened just in case they were right. And while you read this, you may feel sad for me because I am about to tell you that none of those lessons were to be used on Lance. At least not in middle school.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .

TV - good or evil?

I cut my cable off last week and I can't figure out what I'm supposed to do with my time. I've read some books. I play with my cat. Sometimes I sleep. Mostly I sleep. Oh, and sit in front of another screen - the computer screen. I find that email is like cooking. . . a watched pot never boils.

I watched Ocean's Eleven, then immediately after, I watch it again. This time with the actor's commentary. Wow. Does this mean my life is dependent upon the television? Or is my life just really that boring? I live by myself, so I'm constantly having to find things to keep myself busy. On the same note, I went with a large group of elementary students to a park. They were supposed to stay outside for about 4 hours and 1 1/2 hours into it, they were bored. One of the teachers made the comment that it's good for them to get outside like this because they remember how to use their imagination. Is that what's happened to me? Have I lost my imagination?

FOR LANCE

I was late to work one day and I realized I had left something important at home. I don't remember what it was right now, but it isn't relevant to the story. I called my coworker, Michelle, to let her know I was running late, again. When I arrived at the elementary school where I work, Michelle and I chatted awhile. I must have gone into this elaborate yet boring story of why I just can't get my ass out of bed in the morning. I had been going to the allergist a bunch as was getting ready to start the saga of the allergy shot. (Yes, I have a cat, and yes, I am allergic to her.) Anyhow, I told Michelle that I was going to swing by my house and then to my allergist's office. As I'm walking out to my car, I received a txt message from my wonderful friend Arianna (thatgirl7278.blogspot.com). It read: Call me when you get a chance. So I did just that. This is a summary of the conversation:

Ari: Hey man, I've got some bad news.
Me: silence. . . . oh, really?
Ari: Yeah, I heard from Stacy last night that Lance was killed in Iraq.
Me: silence. . . . more silence. . . . are you sure? I'm not trying to be all "she's in denial" or anything, but the last time you heard something about Lance, they said he was in Afghanistan and he was really in California.
Ari: I know, but this time the news came from Stacy and her folks are good friends with . blah blah blah

At this point I stopped listening. I said thanks for calling and if she heard anything else to call me back. Now, if you remember, I called her on my way to the allergist's office. Somewhere during the phone call I decided to bypass the office and go straight home. I called my mom, told her what I heard.

" Your dad watches the news every night. He would be the one to ask. Let me call him and see what I can find out."

I had the same conversation with my sister. Still no confirmation. I'm not really believing the news so far. Not that I don't trust Arianna, it just seemed like such a stretch. So I went back to work and as I walked into my room, Michelle said "Oh, you just missed your mom. She wants you to call her back."

My heart sank. "Oh shit," I said. I slowly dialed the numbers to my parent's house. When she picked up, I didn't even need to listen to what she had to say. I already knew. He died in Iraq on Mother's Day.


disclaimer: the next few entries in my blog are dedicated to my friend Lance. i have decided to use this as an outlet for voicing the part of my life that involves him. it might be a little depressing, but i think it's a great story. . . because, well, he was a great guy.

This picture was taken from Lance's memorial page at www.reminderpublications.com.

Dreaming of the General Lee

Last night, after a few hours of tossing and turning, I finally get to the point of Alpha waves. It was a nice sleep so far. I believe I was about to have a really funny dream because I had to pull myself from the General Lee that has worked it's way into my head.

She always does this. She sits up in bed and talks to me and tries to get me up. She wants to play. I roll over and look at my clock and see that it's at that time of night where everyone in their right mind should be sleeping . . . even those who have sleeping problems would be in bed by now. But she wants to wake up. She starts by making some cute noises. . . followed by some gentle biting and a little licking. The whole time I'm thinking, "can't we just make it through one night undisturbed?" Our time together hasn't reached a year and I'm beginning to wonder how much longer it will last if this keeps up.

(Wait a minute. . . doesn't her profile have the female box checked? Have I run into a blog about late night lesbian sex? Not quite.)

Meet my cat. Her name is Bailey. She was a Christmas present from my mother last year. She's precious in every way and I love her very much. But like all relationships, I am posed with the question, "Is love enough?" I don't know much about cats and their behavior, being a dog person all my life. When I come home from work, Bailey sits in front of wherever I am, looks at me, and proceeds to "meow" over and over again. I talk to her, pet her, try to play with her. Nothing. Still "meow". So I give up for awhile. It's not so annoying during the day, but in the middle of the night? Come on now! Who wants to be woken up by a small cat tongue across their forehead? How about the noise of a cat chewing on your hair? NOT ME! Does it make me a bad person that I don't want my cat to disturb me when I sleep? Or that I don't wake up at 3:30am to play with her? What is it that she wants? And for those of you who would suggest closing my bedroom door at night. . . nice try. Bailey ain't havin' it. The meows are loud enough to keep my neighbors up.

I must go for now and take a nap. I have come accustomed to napping during the day to make up for the disturbance at night. I just hope that Bo Duke will be there tonight, waiting for me to come back to the General Lee!

Nice to Know You

I'm sitting here staring at my computer screen wondering "what in the world should I start writing about?" I guess I chose the cliche "I don't have a pick-up line" line. It's like getting the guts to talk to a stranger in a bar. Wondering if anyone will even take the time to read your blog when there are so many other blogs out there to read. And if nobody reads it, then does it really exist? Kinda like the question "if a tree falls and no one is around to hear the crash, did it really make a noise?" Or something like that.

Either way, I guess this is the beginning of my blog journey. Hope it's a good ride.