last arguments

Kristen and I had an argument the day before she died.

It was stupid. Pointless. Over a couch. I cared nothing for the couch.

The argument isn't what is bothering me. I cherish the argument, because I hold any memory of her dear. I am frightened, to death, that I can't remember the details of an argument that meant nothing.

Things that meant everything included arguments along with laughs and regular, boring, day-to-day conversations.

The last time that we were together we had bumped into each other on campus. My car was further away, so we took hers. Neither of us had had lunch, so of course, Cafe Sabore was in order. While getting in the car, I noticed the Suzanne Somer's diet book. She told me about her new diet the entire drive to the restaurant. She was excited about it, explained the ease of it. We got to the restaurant, and by this time I understood that she couldn't eat tortilla chips at this phase of the diet, so I offered to tell the waitress to not bring the chips and salsa. She refused such an absurd offer-- why should I miss out on the delicious chips and salsa? Kristen, above all others, understood the importance of this treat. Once while we were together, she ordered a separate take-home order of chips and salsa. -- I ate the chips. Right in front of her. She didn't mind, too much. She drank her water, I my iced tea. Then we shared a perfect taco salad.

breathing. a day at a time.

I've been really shitty about posting anything on my blog lately. Primarily because there just hasn't been much to post, or much that I am willing to divulge on a public blog (regardless of how few people read it).

Things to be said:
-on the up and up
-in love with Joe
-still, afraid of where life will take us
-still, excited about where we will take life
-missing Miss Eliza, my baby girl

Things to expound upon:
-Eliza has never really been into Barbies. Baby dolls and stuffed animals, sure, but not Barbies. In fact, her playing with baby dolls and stuffed animals has always been more about dressing them, brushing hair, and making them homes, than about imaginary plots. Then again, I could have missed some of the "goings on" with some of her play.
-While she's been in Utah she has been playing with her uncle, who is a few years older than her, quite a bit. One day on the phone she told me that they've been playing Barbies together. "Great!" I told her. I mean, what kid shouldn't be playing imaginatively? I told her that my sisters and I loved playing Barbies and would make up ridiculous stories involving kidnappings and rescueings, slumber parties and songs from the movie Grease. I told her that her Grandma (Gramma, as Eliza writes it) would make us Barbie clothes. Those were the BEST... fancy wedding dresses, shawls, scarves, blouses... it was endless. I didn't appreciate them as works of art until recently, when I tried to sew a simple stuffed monster for my nephew and realized how impossible it would be for me to sew narrow little Barbie shirt sleeves or pant legs. We got off the phone after she told me about swim lessons and fairy houses.
-She called me back just a few minutes later to ask me if Gramma might have some of my old Barbies. "Sure," I said, "She probably does." "Weeelll," Eliza continued, "Do you think she could send me some?" "Eliza, I can send you some new Barbies," I told her, thinking about these old, tattered Barbies with hair that had been in the bathtub too many times. Silence. "That's o.k. Will you just ask her if she can send me some of yours?"
-Eliza is with her Mom... She still loves me, as evidenced by her preference for my worn out, sentimental, Barbies.
-My mom found some Barbies and sent them to her. Eliza told me that Gramma sent her just 2 Barbies, but lots of clothes. I asked her if any of the clothes looked like Gramma might have made them-- she proceeded to describe the details of each item of clothing, and accessories. There is a gold clutch, with 2 fake credit cards. There are shoes and roller skates. There is a dress with gold dots on it (her favorite). There is a pink dress with ruffles.... "They are all pretty old school," she concludes. "Of course they are. They're old," I agree.
-Joe, thank you for teaching her "old school" because that was priceless, as all of my memories with her are.

-Joe and I haven't had much "us" time in the past 5 years that we've been together. Last night we went to the apt pool and I realized this was the first time we had ever gone to a pool together, aside from taking Eliza and hanging out in the kiddie pool.
-You should know that "awkward" is an apt word for describing me... or at least how I felt most often growing up. I never feel awkward with Joe. Flashes of awkwardness strike from time to time, given the situation. Here are some examples: Walking into a room of people and not knowing anyone particularly well, it reminds me of walking into the cafeteria at a new school and not knowing where to sit. Being asked to play a sport-- I will do it, but I will feel stupid, especially if I have to swing a bat.
-Making an entry into a pool-- Do you slink in, feet first? Do you dive in, even though it could look awkward? Do you do something outrageous, like a cannonball? Well, I can tell you I don't front-flip in. I never have. In fact, another potentially awkward situation is being on a trampoline and refusing to try a flip with your friends in middle school. Joe had me get out of the pool with him and told me we were both going to do a front flip. "What?!" "I've never done that." Just then, a flash of the awkwardness hits... WITH JOE. WHAT?! I realized all you have to do it push off with your feet, a sort of jump if you will, and tuck- but, I just stood there... remembering all of those times that the swim instructor in 7th grade wanted me to dive over a pole and I would freeze, with my classmates watching.
-I finally did it. I flipped. I may have almost lost my bikini bottom, but we were alone. I flipped again. I flipped a total of 3 times.
-We kissed, in the pool, in the rain.
-We held our breathes and swam to the other end, seeing who could go without air the longest.
-We kissed, and I just wanted it to keep raining.

one day at a time

Big decision are being made and I am trying my hardest to NOT plan the next decade or more of my life at once.

Stop. Breath.

Maybe we'll start with 3 months at a time.

not down.

If I'm not down, does that mean I'm on my way up?

I have not blogged. For that matter, I haven't been doing much of anything. I've been working. I've been completing some school related tasks, but am actually behind in writing my thesis. I am lazy, a total slacker, utterly worthless. I have a scholarship and don't do much of anything of late. I haven't been feeling well, and well, it seems I don't feel well a lot of the time. I miss my family, especially around their birthdays. My sister turned 20, my brother 31, and my dad—well, we'll leave that out. This time of year is difficult. My sister, Kristen, has been gone for 3 years. How did the time pass, so innocently, so auspiciously, without her? Time didn't mean to rip my soul apart. But it has. I'm on a boring, uninspiring, gluten-free diet. Eliza is gone and Joe is really struggling with this. I am too, but try to not be, because it's harder for him. I mothered her for the past 5 years. Now she's gone.

Still, I feel pretty damn good. Eliza's cat (my God, I almost called him my cat), is whining. Mostly it's annoying, but it's a little comical, maybe even cute. I got back from work late and felt great about that. I was home late because I worked hard. I got complimented by the Director of the school. I'm working at a school for children with autism. It's a pretty long and mundane drive and worth every cent paid in tolls and gas. I'm getting stellar experience and can't get enough of the little guys and gals I work with. This is quite amazing since I frequently spend 2 hours at a time being screamed and clawed at. The puzzle each of them present is intriguing and irresistible. The progress I get to facilitate and witness is exciting. I love my job. I love my career path.

Joe and I have teetered throughout the past year of struggles and we are solid. He is my rock, as horribly cheesy as that is. Let's try something a little less cliché—he is my vice. Meaning, he holds me together. He holds me steady against the edge of the work bench. But it's important to note that he's more than that. He is my friend and lover.

Now if I could just get on the productive train and out of the Land of Disobey. Why? Why do I think these due dates and timelines don't really apply to me? I'm going to write my thesis. I'm going to go running more often. I'm going to thank Joe and Eliza for being my family.

Now, I am going to have a drink and give a toast: to family, serenity amongst chaos, and moving on up.

 

Shouts & Murmurs: Making Friends: newyorker.com

Shouts & Murmurs: Making Friends: newyorker.com

You should read this. It's a fictional conversation between a single woman and a child on the airplane. Priceless.