My Brother Bobby

In retrospect, everything seems very pointed.

Bobby was very special, very needy, and very neglected.

I was always “busy” (with honestly trivial matters) and didn’t make him a priority.

It is clear, now, that he was truly my childhood best friend, the constant companion I laughed and argued with, the face next to mine in Polaroid pictures and photographs from one-time use, disposable cameras, the high-pitched voice that joined in with mine in home-videos of Christmas day and Thanksgiving night and trips to parks, zoos and the aquarium.  He was my brother, my friend — an influence on and a reflection of me.  He was loving, he was kind.. he loved me, he loved spending time with me.  I liked spending time with him, too. 

And then I grew up, and he stayed young.

We came to a sort of crossroads when I was about thirteen.  He wasn’t going any further and I had to keep on moving.  That’s where his mind seemed to stay while mine began to change and to drift; to mature.

He continued to ask if we could go to Chucke Cheese for his birthday, continued to whine as he, mom  and I drove past a GameStop and she tried to explain to him that just because she had a checkbook didnt mean she had money.  He continued to watch Nickelodeon cartoons and Disney shows, continued to go days without showering, continued eating twizzlers and Flintstones push-up pops for breakfast..

he loved being a kid.

Meanwhile, I started asking for money or musical instruments for birthdays.  I submitted a job application at one of our local supermarkets.  I started watching reality television shows and began to care about my clothes, my acne, my smell, and my appearance in general.  I wanted a social life.  Bob wanted me to stay home to watch TV and play Yahtzee with him. 

I walked out the door, and his world became very small.

It’s funny, how you realize things too late and do things backwards.

Bobby, my only brother, died on Friday.  11 days ago.   May 11th.  Around 3 PM eastern time.  After having three seizures and choking on his own vomit.  The seizures left him lost in a horrible state of unconsciousness, where he found himself unable to clear his throat, unable to breathe, unable to be resuscitated, unable to keep his heart alive.  Perfectly helpless.  My mother, who hurt her back trying to catch him as he fell to the ground and who put her mouth to his cold, dying lips in an effort to revive him, says that he was completely out of it and felt no pain.  I like to believe that she’s correct.  I hate the sick, twisted way that God and fate and nature made a combination of events that was so deadly.  The seizures alone wouldn’t have killed him.  Throwing up what is now his last meal wouldn’t have killed him, either.. but the combination of the two.. how horrendous.  How terrible, humiliating, and depressing.  How preventable.  He should still be here.  I’ll never understand.

 My childhood companion, my shadow, my best friend, my brother.. the brave little boy who battled CANCER and WON, who underwent radiation and chemotherapy and bone marrow transplants to eradicate the tumor in his brain.  Bobby.. who would flirt with the nurses who brought his IVs and coloring books and who gave him the shots that he smiled at.  “I’m sorry,” the nurse would say quietly, “this might hurt a little.”  ”No, it’s okay!” He’d assure her.  “I like it!”  I always mused that the hospital staff probably thought that Bobby was a very sarcastic little man.  But I know Bobby.. he really did mean it.  He liked the shots.  He didn’t mind anything that the nurses or doctors had to do.  He loved being the center of their attention.

Again, I remind myself, Bobby is gone.  Bobby, who beat the cancer but was never quite the same person.  Bobby, who developed epilepsy as a teenager and got stuck on so many growth-hormone and anti-seizure medications that his weight gain was out of control and his balance was permanently impaired.  Bobby.. who had such a nice smile and the most loud, contagious laugh.. is gone, out of my grasp, out of my reach, forever.  The thought is overwhelming.  The truth is unbearable.

And now, suddenly, everyone wants to see him.  People want to fly out for his funeral.  People want to write cards and post honorary statuses and pull out old pictures of  him, to smile and cry at the same time and to appreciate how “special” he was.   People begin to miss him.

And now, suddenly, I want to pick up the phone and call him one more time.  I want to call, from another state 600 miles away, and remind Bobby that I’m his sister, I love him dearly, I’m coming to Tennessee for a week-long vacation in just a few months and I can’t wait to see him again.. I want to ask him about his favorite shows and tease him about how much Dr. Pepper he drinks and my guitar playing that he hates.  I want to remind him of that time when I stuck up for him on the school bus when a (insert female dog) named Alicia called him retarded and stupid, in the front yard when a kid asked me if he could throw stones at MY brother, in the grocery store when someone was staring rudely at his helmet, at that restaurant when he threw up his cheese fries and people made faces, in the gas station when he had a seizure and knocked an aisle display over, in the livingroom when everyone was shaking their heads and lecturing him about his horrible eating habits, at the park, on the sidewalk, in the car..

It’s funny how we do things backwards.

Bob, are you listening? Can you hear me?  I can’t believe you’re gone.. it hurts so much to write it, to read it, to say it or hear it that I’m ignoring it.  Instead, I’m just pretending that you’re still in another state, 600 miles away.  I picture you sitting in your favorite brown recliner at Grammy’s house, with your pot of jolly ranchers, gummy worms, rolos and starbursts next to you on the table.  You’re wearing your helmet, which makes me glad because you’re safer that way.  “Camp Rock,” your favorite movie (at the moment), is playing on the TV, and when your favorite songs come on, I can hear you humming along and I can see you nodding your head and tapping your foot.  You’re wearing black velcro shoes, like always.  Even when we went to Clearwater Beach last summer you wore those shoes.  Remember mom buying you those funnel sticks from the cafe inside that little gift shop ?  You seemed to enjoy them. 

Anyways, now you’re getting tired, so you’re turning the TV down and pulling the lever on the side of your chair.  I watch you recline and rest your head on the back of the chair.  You fold your arms and tuck your hands into your armpits.  You cross your feet (shoes still on), clear your throat a little and close your eyes.  Camp Rock continues to play softly on the television screen.  The bowl of desserts lies still on the table beside you.  The chair is still brown.  You’re helmet is still on. 

Hey Bob, remember that Chucke Cheese gift card I mailed to you last December for your 23rd birthday?

I’m really glad I did that.

I love you, Bob.  I love you bro. 

I’m coming to see you soon, Bob..

I miss you Bobby.

-Kid

*******

I read former journal entries about life at home and Bobby is mentioned only on occasion, like if he thew up on the table at Cici’s or got mad at Gram and threw a plate at her.  Otherwise, Bobby’s name isn’t written.  I read more recent entries about the vacation that Christopher and I took to Florida last summer and I didn’t even mention Bobby once.  It was like he wasn’t even there.

He was though; in my memory, I recall sitting on a couch beside his recliner and making small talk.  I remember taking him on a special trip to Congo River, his favorite mini golf course, and I remember hugging him goodbye at the end of the trip.  Why was none of that important enough for me to write down?

I wish I could remember the things that he said, the foods that he ate, the times when he laughed, the times when he was quiet and I should have been talking with him.  What kills me the most is the lost memories.. not the ones that would have taken place in the future, but the ones from the past.  The ones that never evolved, the ones that never developed — the ones that were never realized. 

I drove Bobby to the gas station multiple times a week so that he could buy a fountain drink.  He loved getting out and he loved something about bringing his big (BIG) cup to the gas station, filling it to the very top with ice, and pouring ”fresh” sugar-water into it, up to the brim, sometimes to overflowing.  I always found where the napkins were and cleaned up quietly after him.

I drove Bobby from Florida to Alabama four summers ago.  It was just us together in a car for 10 hours.

I drove with Bobby to church, when he would go; I rode with Bobby to Chucke Cheese, when we could afford it.. but I can’t remember any of the things we said.

Maybe our conversations just weren’t memorable.. or maybe there just wasn’t conversation.

Did I take time to engage his mind?

Did I ever ask him how he was feeling, what he was excited about, what he was looking forward to?

I’m sure that I did, I know that I did..

but I don’t think that I realized, then, the significance of the words in his responses and how much remembering them would mean to me today.

aunaqui.bandcamp.com

“Gone”

Aun Aqui

NaNoWriMo: A First Timer

I decided about a month ago (after my husband, running across the website himself and considering the concept brilliant, signed me up and gave me the news afterwards) that I would officially subscribe myself to the NaNoWriMo “Novel in November” writing endeavor.  I was, that sunny, blue-skyed day, extremely into the idea (I was also elated that he thought me able to do such a thing — write a novel in a month? me, an amateur blogger and long-time, private journalist?).  It seemed like a good plan to have two, grand stakes (November 1st and November 30th) creating the boundaries and deciding the time border in which I, and other participants, would write my first official Novel.  (It’s probably grammatically incorrect to capitalize the n in Novel but it is such a sacred, weighty, honor-bearing title that I feel it is casually proper to do so).  Now, a month later and with 14 days before the starting point,

I am terrified.

I feel incompetent, idea-less, uncreative, uninteresting, and clueless – like I have no real-life experiences to draw from or close resources to pull from – like my fingernails are painfully jammed up with writer’s block, like the small, amazing, God-given writing center in my brain is blinking red — it isn’t ready, it isn’t able, it can’t.

I’m coaching myself.  During the day (the slow moments that afford themselves at work), I pull up “tips for an amateur novelist” pages and devour all information available to me.  I am receptive and, I hope, retaining what I read.  Before falling asleep at night, I lay awake, half-heartedly constructing a plot — half-heartedly because I am so hesitant and scared to settle on one idea, one protagonist, to name her (or will it be “him?”), to attribute to her feelings and personality and dreams and goals and to submerse her into conflict (and where is she, by the way?  North America?  Could I well-describe any other part of the world, considering I have no experience in it?  Is she (or he) a modern girl (or boy) of the 21st century, or could I possibly pull off one of those romantic, classical, 1800s novels – the ones I so deeply admire and would wish to emulate?).   But six (or maybe seven) hours later I wake up and an idea is warmly present with me: “this! I need to include this sentence in the first paragraph.”  “THIS has to be the title; I will center everything else around it and make it work.”  “The story has to end this way; it will correspond well with the beginning of the novel” and so forth.  Revelations, inspirations.  Small encouragements that I’m on my way.

So far, I gladly report that I have a tentative title, first paragraph and final paragraph all calculated in my mind (nothing on paper, mind you; it would break NaNoWriMo’s official rules to begin writing before 12:01 AM on November 1st).

If you haven’t heard of NaNoWriMo, here is a basic synopsis.

It is a writing endeavor that takes place annually, during the month of November.  Participants from all over the world (it’s free) compose, from start to finish, an original, 50,000 word novel.  It (pretty much) has to be fiction.  If you finish, you win (you don’t really win anything - but you receive the overwhelming satisfaction of knowing that you DID it! — plus, bragging rights are yours forever).   

It is good to have a goal, and good to know that you have other writers struggling, crying and plowing through with you (there are local NaNoWriMo “support” groups ((it isn’t weird like that)) that meet to encourage eachother through the experience and share ideas; find one near you and more information at NaNoWriMo.org).  I’ll be meeting up with the Birmingham crew sometime later on this month (I’ve heard that we’re to have a Barnes and Noble party). 

I’m a first timer, I’m freaked, and I’m also excited beyond comprehension.

Subscribing and committing yourself to something you thought you could never do is thrilling and empowering.

Thanks for believing in me, Christopher (dear husband who signed me up for this thing). 

I love you!

Aun Aqui

Rising Stars and Falling Stars

In the terminology all Cracker Barrel servers, chefs (.. too classy? cooks) and host-people know:  I’ve experienced some rising star and falling star experiences in recent life.  Most, I gladly report, have been on the rise.

• It was so long ago now that I can hardly remember it, but Christopher and I drove to Gatlinburg, Tennessee for our one-year anniversary.  It was splendid; we arrived around one in the morning on a Saturday (I wanted to call it Friday night), checked in, found the location of our designated cabin in the black darkness and, once inside, passed out immediately.  We woke up late that Saturday morning, ate a Panera-catered breakfast (we had brought an assortment of foodstuff along with us to cut back on trip expenses; also, to observe the Sabbath) and dressed ourselves for a late-morning and full-afternoon of activity.  Our goal was to hike Mt. Leon all the way up to the beautiful Rainbow Falls.  It was eight miles, round trip, and the incline, we quickly discovered, was steep.  I whined, moaned, pouted and grumbled about 87% of the time on the way up and 6% of the time on our journey down (upon falling, cutting my ankle open and watching the blood trickle down my foot).  But the midpoint of our relatively short, 4 hour adventure – standing right before the grand Rainbow Falls – pacified, strengthened and motivated me. 

Moving forward, we spent that Saturday after-afternoon napping (on one of our luxurious, comfy beds –  yes, you inferred correctly: there were two). Chris’s parents had requested a cabin on the tippy top of the mountain, with a great view and one large bed.  There was a misunderstanding, and we were booked, instead, with a family suite containing two twin-to-queen sized beds.  Chris was fuming; I, however, was totally fine with spending the first night in one of the clean, fresh, comfy beds and spending the next evening in the other of the fresh, clean and comfy beds.  Around seven that night, we left the cozy warmth of our wood cabin and entered into the barely-chilled night air.  I was limping from a severe pain in my right hip, courtesty of our hiking escapade earlier on in the day, and Chris graciously supported me during the entire evening.  We paid 5-7 dollars to park in a dark and shady-looking alley that made you feel so unsure about the safety of your car that you asked the driver (Chris), several times, if he was completely and entirely certain that he had locked all of the doors and hid the GPS.

We walked idly up and down the streets, stepping in at a Mellow Mushroom (the largest in the USofA, we were told) for our evening meal.  The pizza arrived 40 minutes after it was ordered, and was actually not the pizza we ordered.  All was reconciled within twenty minutes: a new, correct pizza was placed in front of us (by the store manager: tofu and pesto) and the check was cut in half.  Happy anniversary!  Our server was an interesting fellow — a jazz pianist dating a girl he had found on one of those match.com websites.  We liked him.  Anyways, I was intent, afterwards, on finding  and enjoying the coolest ice cream in town (we were on vacation in the “party” town of TN, afterall, and when it comes to dessert, Chris allows me full-control: it isn’t quite as important to him — what kind of treat we’re eating and where it comes from — as it is to me).  We had passed, while driving to the parking lot, a unique looking sweet-dairy shop that started with a K (Kilwinz? or something similar), and my intial response was that we were “most definitely getting our dessert there.”  It was different, something new, and that intrigued me.  However, during our stroll, Chris noticed the most beautiful, neon-colored, graphic-art sign these eyes have ever beheld: Ben and Jerry’s.

Yes.  This was one of those precious and aforementioned “on the rise” experiences.

We walked in.  The dingding “employee, wake up!  customer alert!” bell sounded and the door closed itself swifty behind us.  I felt like Alice in Wonderfulllll-land (I’ve never seen the movie, and am familiar with only the title).  Although I pretended that I was going to “try something different” and sought to appreciate other cool flavors offered in the shop, I walked out with my “uszh”:  Chocolate Fudge Brownie.  My uszh, not in a pre-packaged and carefully portioned pint bought at a grocery store, but at a one-of-a-kind, authentic, real Ben and Jerry’s ice cream shop.  “Double scoop my waffle cone, lady.”

So Saturday evening was a success.  Sunday, we visited the log-cabin-community’s free and famed waterpark.  We found out too late (after jumping into our swimmy suits and marching over like adorable, gleeful little penguins) that the waterpark was geered for humans aged 2-6.  We enjoyed what we could and left in about 20 minutes.  The “lazy river, sit-in-the-tube” gig was relaxing and the double-seated “ride the tube down the tall slide really fast” thing was actually fun!  We did the latter twice. 

Sunday evening, Christopher and I ate dinner at No Way, Jose!’s.  While everything was acceptable and I couldn’t really find fault with it — the food, the service, the decor — it wasn’t nearly as authentic, friendly or tasty as our little, hidden, corner-of-the-wall Taqueria Mexico restaraunt back home.

Home.  I love knowing where home is.

We rode a chairlift up to a scenic overlook that evening.  The fun intensified when we were carried over a small river.. Chris and I giggled about the possibility of the machine failing and us epic-ly crashing into the shallow water.  It was exciting to imagine, and it was really cute hearing him squeal like a girl when the machine did momentarily stop, leaving us suspended over the running waters.

Speaking of water –  I enjoyed two wonderful, warm bubble baths during our stay.  They were the first I ever remember having.  Ever.  In my whole life.  It was a great time.

Monday, we got up early, dressed ourselves, cleaned the cabin (in an effort to be courteous), packed our belongings and headed out.  It was sad to leave “vacation world,” but we were sort of eager to get home and reclaim our Woocheggah. 

• Bruster was, after all, recovering from his de-masculinity surgery.  He had been fixed.  This – one of those ”falling stars” experiences - I will not go into details over.  Let it suffice to say that he healed nicely.

• We started school.  And college is NOT the glamorous hero-house I (and perhaps you, oh foolish young thing!) always pictured it to be.  The teachers are either overly-eccentric or dreadfully dull.  They will baby you to the degree that your academic experience is completely unstimulating or they will challenge you to a level that is unreasonable and unfair.  It’s been a mixed experience.  I like the feeling of accomplishment I receive in knowing that I’m working towards a degree that will enable me to begin the career I’m certain I have a passion for (education).  I do not appreciate, however, the characters displayed and teaching methods employed by some (one) of my professors.  I feel like saying, “You aren’t being paid to parade your high head in front of me.  You’re being paid to teach me, teacher.”  (My immature little theory is that that is why college teachers are called professors: they merely profess to teach.  I fully realize, however, how unfair and general this is, and so I’ve voluntarily discarded the notion.)  They’re growing on me, though, as I remember that they are only human, and that my perception isn’t always correct and fair and what is should be.  And I’m realizing that my entire childhood and youth prepared me for this: college is just like homeschooling.  Ultimately, I am my own teacher.

I must share: I got a 95 on my first college math exam.  That made me smile. 

• We went to the Cheesecake Factory.  FINALLY.
• Because almost a week ago – on September 15th, 2011 – I turned twenty.

        It was a wonderful day, despite my awful, long-dreaded anticipation of leaving my teen years.  Chris woke me up early in the morning (around 5), just before he had to leave for work, with a kiss and a “happy birthday” softly murmered.  Around two in the afternoon, I returned to work after taking my lunch break.  I pulled into a parking space, began walking towards the front door of the credit union and saw, out of the corner of my eye, a familiar face smiling at me from a rolled-down car window – Pastor Karl! I ran over as his hand beckoned me towards his car, and once in the passenger seat I was presented with two gifts from he and his wife:  chocolate, and more chocolate.  Lindt Truffles and a turtle cake.  On Facebook, I received over 60 “happy birthday!” wishes and other friendly greetings.  In the mail, I received a card from my mom and dad – a music card that played Phil Collins’ “You’ll be in my heart” – and a card, also, from my grampy (who lives in Florida) that read, “We love you, and miss having you around.”  In the evening, I came home to a sweet hug from my husband and a letter awaiting me on our kitchen table.. a letter enclosed in an envelope that read: “From The Isles of Woocheggah.” 

“Oh dear.. what is THIS?”  I gasped in dumb wonder, as if I didn’t know that Bruster (our dog, who is from the mythical, us-created Isles of Woocheggah) had made a “birthday surprise for his mommy.”  Included in this letter from the IOW was a heavy, generous coupon book, containing coupons for such wonderful things as free neckrubs and backrubs, the immediate and unquestioned gratification of a request by mommy for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie ice cream (an aforementioned favorite), the relief of all woocheggan responsibilities at mommy’s request, and other great benefits and offers.  It was a great day.  And then, it got even better.

Chris said that we were going out to dinner — the place of my choice.  We both knew, undoubtedly, that The Cheesecake Factory was to be our destination: I had been wanting to eat there for an entire year!  Opportunity presented itself, and I seized it.  We both dressed up – I wore my tall, black boots for the first time since the winter previous – and after a small shopping detour at the expensive, over-priced and hippie-pretending Urban Outfitters (at which store I bought nothing), we made our entrance into The Cheesecake Factory.

A basic summary:  our server was fine.  He wasn’t overly friendly such as to make him memorable, or frustratingly inattentive; he was just there — an outside part of our experience.  The menus, were like 20 pages long.  The first few pages were littered with names of wines and beers and other mixed drinks – all forbidden.  The next section was titled “pastas.”  Here, I found my dinner: fettucini alfredo.  Following the section titled “pastas” was “sandwiches” (slash burgers).  Chris chose the eggplant burger and substituted mashed potatoes for the offered fries.  Before the meal, complimentary bread was served: a sort of pumpkin/ rye bread and a white french bread (the latter was left untouched).  It wasn’t comparable to the buttery, garlicky warm goodness of Olive Garden breadsticks, but it was good bread and held us over until the “real” meal came.  We ended up splitting and sharing everything — the pasta, the burger, AND the potatoes.  It was wonderful. “Two spoons, please.”  For dessert, we shared a single slice of Oreo cheesecake.  It was delectable. 

And then we went home, fell asleep, and the day was complete.  The transition had been made; I was a decade removed from childhood.  I’m still settling into it.

So that is a summary of recent life.  We went to Tennessee to celebrate our anniversary, Bruster was neutered, I turned twenty and, at last!, enjoyed a terrific meal at the famed Cheesecake Factory. 

There were some falling star experiences.

One was being certain that my old best friend would call, email or acknowledge my existence on my birthday.  Assure me that she didn’t hate me, that in fact she still loved me, missed me, and wanted us to reconcile the differences, the past, our hurts. 

That never happened.  That was the biggest blow I’ve received this year.

I was also disappointed when my dad’s company, for which he has been a faithful worker for OVER twenty years, decided to collectively and all at once point their guns at him and expel him from his position and his salary. 

But God is always in control.  He’ll take care of mom and dad.

I read one of those meaningful-but-over-used cliches on Facebook today.  I didn’t brush it off, though.  However many times it has been said, and however “absolutely” true it is, it impressed me.  It sort of comforted me.

“I used to be sad that the friends I loved would leave me.  Then I realized that sometimes, you have to let go of certain people to be able to move forward.”

I guess that’s what God’s been wanting me to do for over a year now.

I’m still fighting it.

I’m still hating it, still despising the loss.

Thanks, Clifton.

Aun Aqui

Pauses and Spaces.

 

 

 

 

I really like to think (and believe) that my blog flows smoothly and gracefully – that one entry rides into the next, that my big ideas and funny stories shine off of your screen, and that my characteristically youthful optimism and heart fancies soar paramount above it all.  But let’s face it.  I’ve said it too many times: life gets busy.  You – or atleast I – forget to reflect, record and write about everything that made you smile, ticked you off, and meant so much to you (plus, I’m nineteen and unedu-macated, so it is a very wild and blindly daring hope to think that my writing could so impress).

About two months have flown by and it feels like a week.  During that space of time,

a lot has transpired.

 

• I threw a birthday party.  Not my own — it was for my husband, and it was a surprise birthday party.  I did all of the planning, bought all of the food, brought all of the games, chose the time and place, secretly informed (through texts and emails) all of our friends, baked the cake Friday morning before work, iced it at church on Sabbath morning.. and he was tricked into stopping by that evening thanks to the help of our associate pastor, Zeke, and friends TJ and Kirstan.  It was perfectly orchestrated, perfectly coordinated, and a great success.  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to pull it off again.. because now, he knows that I’m an excellent liar (when I NEED to be, in situations such as this, where the truth comes out later — it isn’t sin, it’s time-sensitive information that I delay in providing). 

 

• I attended a wedding.  It was June 19th and my husband was in the bridal party.  I got to wear a cute, black and red dress, spend leisure time with friends, munch on an assortment of fruits and cheeses and cry alittle when the vows were exchanged and the “first” kiss bestowed.  It reminded me of my own wedding a year ago.  So much has changed!  The excitement has faded – ever so daintily – into a warm embrace.. the newness has worn itself into a comfy familiarity.  I love being married to my best friend, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching such happiness dawn itself upon my two young friends (I also enjoyed taking pictures of everybody and everything).

 

• Chris and I, along with Bruster, drove down to Florida in my little blue Neon for a 3 day visit with my entire family.  It was a bright Saturday morning in June when we started off (that’s a cute little lie; we left at four in the morning when it was dark and black and I was sleepy).  The ride was pleasant and time went quickly with but few moments frittered away, save for potty stops, Bruster walks and gas re-fills.  My aunt, uncle and cousin flew down from New Jersey that afternoon and as both my parents and grandparents live within thirty minutes of eachother in the state of Florida, the reunion was complete.  We spent happy, fleeting moments together – at the beach, at the bowling alley, on the tennis court, in the livingroom, and at the local Sweet Tomatoes soup and salad bar.  Every hour was a gift; every second, a sacred treasure.

 

• We financed a car.  Earlier this month.  Our first ever.  See — Chris’s old 1940′s Grand Cherokee Jeep was completely falling apart.  Literally.  The back bumper was dented in, the rear tail-light was masked with red tape (to prevent getting ticketed), the transmission was on the verge of giving out on a DAILY basis and, minutely – this is more cosmetic than anything else I’ve mentioned, although I can promise it wasn’t comfortable for him - the front seats were ripped and torn as if a baby dinosaur with razor sharp teeth had decided to try consuming them.  So it was clearly time to move on to better things.  After looking around, Chris set his heart on a 2005 Saturn Vue: 67,000 miles, clean interior, new tires, ex-car of an “elderly couple” (evidenced by the built-in grocery holder in the general trunk area), oil just changed — asking price: 11,200.00.   “No.”  “No?  ROSE, we won’t find another deal like this!”  “I’m not saying you can’t have it.. I’m just saying we’re not offering to pay the full asking price.”  Silly boy.  So we haggled alittle – I wore the saddest, most heart-broken expression I could create – and we talked the dealer down a good bit:  10,400.00 out the door.  That included taxes.. title.. administrative fee.. all of that.  The car is now registered and Chris delivers his Panera breakfast and lunch orders safely and in style.

 

• We’re going to school.  Both of us.  FINALLY.  We have received Pell Grants that would cover full-time enrollment during this next academic year.  We will, however, be using only half of it:  after much consideration, we are simply unable to balance working 40-hour weeks with raising a puppy and taking 4-6 classes (plus the necessary house-cleaning, grocery shopping and social life).  So we’ve decided that we will each take two classes – the exact same classes at the exact same time – together.   We have enrolled in Math 100 and English 101, and we start August 18th.  Mondays and Wednesdays, from 6:30 pm – 9:15 pm,  we’ll be sitting in uncomfortable, antique yellow-colored, paint-chipped college desks.. together.. pursuing better futures, and maintaining a manageable, balanced present.

 

• We’re neutering Bruster.  He’s terribly upset about it, horribly depressed, but we’ve assured him that it’s the right thing to do, entirely necessary, and that it won’t hurt a bit.  His surgery is this Friday – the 29th – and we will be boarding him through Monday (due to the delicate nature of this particular surgery – for Bruster, with his congenital condition, it will be invasive – I want him to be under the direct supervision of professionals during the most intense, crucial period for healing).  Also, Chris and I are going somewhere.

 

• We’re celebrating our 1 year anniversary this weekend by driving to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and we’ll be staying until Monday.  We’re heading out this Friday evening, as soon as I get off work, and I can assure you that we are both eagerly anticipating the “time-out.”  Life gets busy.. you forget about the things and the people that matter.  Three days of pure relaxation, blessed by eachother’s company, will be a breath of fresh air.  We plan on hiking in the Smokey Mountains, ice skating, ziplining over the city (suspended by man-made rope and cords), cooling down at a water park (and with a daily average heat index of 105F, I’m ready for it), eating chocolate chip (and otherwise flavored) pancakes, and I want to take a nice, hot bubble bath.  Can you believe that I’ve never had one in my life?

(I’m not saying I’ve never showered.. don’t misquote, misinterpret or mis- “eww!”)

 

 

 

And she said “Goodbye, my dear, the roads are far from here

Like the time that we’ve wasted and the lines on these pages

And goodbye, my dear, my battered heart is still here

You’re the art, that is plastic

You’re the change, that is drastic

You’re the art, that is plastic

you’re the art

that is plastic.”

Aun Aqui

 

 

 

The sweet things my husband does for me

(that I always want to remember)

 

Monday: he baked chocolate chip cookies – my favorite – when he got home from work and we enjoyed them together on my lunch break.

Thursday:  he picked up a grocery item that I had requested from the store and along with it surprised me with a slice of key lime pie.  I love him.

 

 

Simply put: the photo blog of a camping trip.

 

 

FNF (my youth group, Friday Night Feast: check out fridaynightfeast.com for details) drove (in many cars — those of us who could car-pool did) to Mount Cheaha Friday night and began a 3-day camping trip.  Our group opened the Sabbath with a worship service, consisting in singing, praying, a Bible reading and ensuing discussion.  Meals (including Friday night’s dinner) were cooked and served in the fresh, open air – primitive like – using modern, portable grills (or “griddles”).  Sabbath (Saturday) was spent in hiking to (and jumping off of) a waterfall, talking about and discussing the Bible, eating delicious, organic, wholesome, campfire-cooked meals and enjoying one another’s company.  I took lots of pictures.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As can be clearly seen – we had a WONDERFUL time camping this past weekend at Mount Cheaha.

 

The only part that sucked: Chris (excuse me — we) forgot the pillows, so we slept, in our little blue tent, on folded towels.  We also anticipated no cold weather (dude.. it’s MAY) so we didn’t bring a blanket (only a small, narrow, thin, brown fleece).  Our feet, froze.  No amount of tossing, turning, cuddling or fleece tugging (it was a war between us, from 10 pm to 5 am when the sun FINALLY rose and liberated us from the dark cold) could warm us.  So we ended up leaving Saturday evening, after a day of fun, and heading home — back to “normal life.”

 

It was a great experience, and Bruster behaved himself very well.  Everyone seemed to enjoy playing with him (especially our friend Moose).  He had an awesome time and didn’t bite/ injure in any way/ kill anyone!  There was that ONE time when we were on the trail and a little toddler strolled over to stare at him.  It freaked him out — and he growled, approaching the infant slightly.  The mexican mother yelled “WHY isn’t that dog on a leash? IT’S THE LAW!”

 

“Sorry, ma’m.  Why was your kid staring at my dog?  Was he never taught good manners, and polite behavior?  I’d growl if someone was looking at me so oddly, too, were I a DOG.”

 

But yeah.. one-night, one-day camping is the best.. or was the best for us.

 

 

 

Aun Aqui

(May)be: success, more success, and delightful expectation.

Good news, great news — yes, friends.. I am overflowing with JOY. 

GOOD NEWS:

Having been told, previously (and multiple times),that speaking about affairs at work isn’t a good idea, I’ll be as vague and brief as it is possible for me to be.

Last Thursday, I had the surprise of my LIFE.  In short (I’m really trying..), I was called into the office and offered a full-time position as a teller.  More hours.  Benefits.  (Joy.)

I accepted, tearfully.  The initial, overwhelming shock having worn off, I have warmly embraced my new career, and I intend to learn more than ever, pursue more knowledge than ever, and develop more SKILL than ever, so that I can properly handle these heavier responsibilities and weightier trusts.

GREAT NEWS:

For the past 4 weeks, I have walked Bruster around the block, holding his leash in one hand and gripping my cell phone and our mailbox key in the other.  Everyday I’ve checked our little box for those lusted after GED test results, and everyday I have walked away - disappointed, vexed, and impatient.

Tuesday (yesterday), I was walking Bruster on my lunch break.  As usual, he was pulling me this way and that, and I was returning his pulls with stronger pulls in my direction.  Sierra was talking with me on the phone, and I was making my way – quickly and determinedly, my purpose not to be thwarted - to the mailbox. 

“Well,” she asked, after a moment of silence has elapsed, “is it there?”

“..yes.”

I was shocked.  It’s finally here?  I marvelled.  I.. can’t believe it! I’m..

terrified.

 

So terrified, in fact, that upon returning home, I placed the sealed envelope onto our high-top table and wrote a little note, sticking it on top.  It reads as follows:

“We will open this tonight.”

This was to my mother’s dismay.  She’s as impatient as I am (or rather, I’m as impatient as SHE is), and having to wait to hear results that she shared an almost equal amount of interest in displeased her and unsettled her.

Yes; I walked away, locked the door, and drove back to work, leaving those precious little results lying carelessly on the kitchen table.  I was too scared to do it alone.  And my thought was this: if I DID fail (as I expected I would), I would rather have my cry-session after I’m done working for the day, rather than have to go to work with a heavy burden, pathetically concealed, on my heart.

Regardless, once I had returned to work and casually mentioned that I had received the results in the mail (and to quick inquiry responded that I hadn’t opened them yet), my co-workers insisted that I have Chris bring the envelope to work and open it.. then-and-there.  I assented, he came, my heart fluttered, my hand.. might have shaken alittle..

and I passed. 

GREAT news.

I receive a score of 800/800 on the written essay (the portion I had felt the most comfortable with and confident about) – in other words, a graded 99.  I also received a 99 in language arts, a 98 in science, a 92 in history (the section I expected flunking out on) and an 88 IN MATH (that came as a surprise; math has always been my “strong point”).  Regardless – the results were pretty positive, the score was fairly decent, and I was both relieved and pleased.

JOY:

In 39 days, Christopher, Bruster and I will be on our first annual (first ever) 5-day vacation, driving in our old, black jeep, all the way down to Tampa, Florida.  We’ll spend three days in the sunny state (the other two we’ll spend driving), visiting my family and resting both our minds and bodies.  Work, while necessary and even, sometimes, enjoyable, takes it’s toll, and one must take a break from it every now and then.

I’m very excited about it.

The past week has delivered three wonderful tidings.

And maybe, tomorrow, there will be a fourth.

I’ll be heading over to Jefferson State Community College in the morning to begin the long, hair-splitting process of applying for admission.  I’m going prepared — with all of my identification, tax papers and personality.  Tomorrow morning will be my last official, mid-week ”off”day (as I’ll be considered “full-time” from henceforward, starting next week), so I’m wanting to get everything school-related “out of the way” before my schedule is packed and inaccessible.

Two side notes:

During the past week, I have spent days sorting through the thousands of pictures that I’ve taken in the past year and that have been stored in “my passport” (an external hard-drive I bought from Best Buy last year).  Finally, after hours of input, I concluded the search with 574 chosen “favorites.”  I sent an e-order in to Costco yesterday evening for just that many 4×6 prints.  I also drove over to Michaels and purchased the two royal brown, floral-imbedded albums I had set my heart on (I had spent afew days pricing/ comparing and this set was by far the nicest).  The first album, which is large, can hold up to 400 photos, and the second, smaller, has a holding capacity of 200 photos.  Both are otherwise identical.  It’s perfect, because I plan on adding to the 574 photos (currently being processed) afew photos from our upcoming trip to Florida and afew also from our annual FNF camping trip (that we’ll be enjoying in less than two weeks).  These two events will conclude the album, “Our First Year.”

By the way, that was the second “side note.”

Chris and I (along with BRUSTER) will be heading to Mount Cheaha with our Bible study group (FNF) for a “fun and fellowship” filled weekend outdoors.  We’re camping.. and it’s going to be awesome.  Vegetarian food, Bible study, hiking, swimming, picture taking, fire-side stories and relaxation all await us.  A couple from church is lending Christopher and I their extra tent + sleeping pads, and that’s a blessing; we didn’t have either, and it would have been an expense we might not have been able to afford and one that would have prevented our going.

We’re pretty booked this summer.  Between the camping trip this month, our Florida vacation next month, our anniversary trip to Tennessee in July and the two weddings we’ve been invited to, we’ll be staying busy, making happy memories, and enjoying the weather.  

We live in a beautiful world

(Yeah we do, yeah we do)

  Coldplay

 

Aun Aqui

April Rools: breathing simple air

“Have a great day, and make sure you smile — because you’re the best thing ever and it’s almost Friday.”

Christopher

I try to remember those words of encouragement every day of the week.

A poetic sequence of words.

Composer: Aun Aqui

When the last breath

leaves me gasping for air

and my final step

finds me unprepared

When my beating heart

becomes very still

You’ll remember me

you’ll remember me

When the clock is running fast

but our hands are working slow

When we’re flying from the past

to a future we don’t know

When you’re looking

When you’re sleeping

When you don’t pick up the phone -

You’ll remember me

you’ll remember me.

When my final song

Is played for the world

And no one listens to it

or cares to hear more

When my last poem reads

“I’ll sooner die than bleed!”,

you’ll remember me.

You will remember me.

**

A short update, for the sake of continuity in chronicling

my 18+ life experience.

1.  The GED test.  It was shared previously that the college I applied to for admission (Jeff State) would not accept my nationally accredited diploma.  Resultantly, in an effort to salvage my twelve years of hard labor — the long study nights, the early and nausea-stricken mornings, the stressful (and unneedful) graduation exams and the smelly bus trips — I agreed, begrudgingly, to take the GED test.. something I never anticipated having to do.

To me, it seemed condescending, humiliating, shameful, and embarrassing.  To me - the honor roll student with a GPA of 3.96 and, perhaps, an ego that weighed a little too much – it was dehumanizing.

And it humbled me.

Stuff happens.  The truth is, I’ve found a new kind of respect for high school drop-outs.  I was driving, Tuesday morning around 6:45, somewhere on Acton Road.  I sat in the turn lane for a minute, enjoying Coldplay, and when the light turned green, I veered to the left.  Doing this, I passed a school bus, filled with a bunch of bored-looking, misery-stricken teenagers.

How many of them will graduate? I wondered.

Which parents are threatening (to subdue — pressuring)their kids to bring home straight A’s, or they won’t be allowed to go out this weekend?

Who is copying someone else’s homework right now?

Who has isolated themself into a corner, and is now staring outside of a window, wishing they could forward 4-8 years from today (like I used to)?

And the truth of the matter is, it sucks.  Every young person is told that they can be whatever they want to be — that “what the human mind can conceive, it can achieve..”  that they should chase their dreams, think big — think OUTSIDE of the box — and pursue the fame, fortune, and “happiness” that they crave – that is rightly, inalienably, theirs.

The truth is? Most of those kids aren’t going anywhere dreamlike or phantasmal.  How do I know that?  Because a man with a master’s degree is working inside of a gas station.   A lady with a bachelor’s degree in highschool education is working at Panera.  A girl with a degree in marketing is stuck in an hourly position, and gigantic herds of plucky graduates are flooding the job market to be hired for positions that just aren’t available.  By the way, those aren’t fictitious situations; I know these people.

Maybe the drop-outs are the smart ones?

“I’m not Miss Super Intellectual like she is.. why waste my time when, if it boils down to it, one job is available and it’s me applying against fifty girls like her?”

or

“My calling is music.  Finishing high school and getting a degree isn’t going to get me on stage.”

or

“I love art.  How is throwing a hundred thousand dollars away, in a period of 4-6 years, for a stupid piece of paper, going to further my dream?”

Yeah, high school is free.. but what’s the point of finishing high school when there are no plans for, no ambition to go to, no REASON to pursue, college?  Maybe that is what they are thinking.. maybe that is the insight, the wisdom (could we call it that?), that enlightens them, guides them, and causes them to make the rash and awful decision we all look down on.

Regardless, I wanted my GED, because I want to go to college.. because although I feel my “callings” (or, natural talents, likings and preferences) are music and writing, I’ve thought it through and I’m okay with just doing what it takes to live, so that in the 45 minutes of free time I stumble upon in a week, I can stop what I’m doing, remember who I am, and just maybe produce something a little individual and meaningful.

So I took the test.

During the drive to the college, I had envisioned, in my mind, a warm professor - standing at the front of the class and smiling as he acknowledged each person in the room.  He would hand each test out gently, as if his soft demeanor could somehow give the correct answers to the problems that would perplex us.  I had imagined him asking each student, including myself, how fully they had prepared — whether or not they felt ready — and how they were doing that bright, sunshiny morning.  I had conjectured that my reply would be,”I ate a good breakfast, said a prayer, listened to some Coldplay on the way here, and I’m ready.”  It wouldn’t be necessary to mention the hours of study spent in a 600 page preparation book, or the scores of note cards written thoughtfully and carefully looked over the night before.  The nausea I had experienced that morning, and the restlessness the night before.  No; I would simply and positively declare, “And I’m ready.”

No.  It was NOTHING like that.

As soon as the clock struck 7:30 – I mean, before the little “second” hand had made it’s way to  7:30 and 5 seconds – he had locked the door, posted the DO NOT ENTER: TESTING IN PROGRESS SIGN (a sign so familiar to me, after 12 years of being held in similar academic hostage situations), and turned to us with a quick step.  He barked out the orders, the rules, the threats — all the mandatory, repetitive crap he didn’t even bother to cover up that he hated.  We could all tell.

The test was to be self-paced, and this was good news.  My mind works quickly and the thought of being stuck, needlessly, in a cold, blank, white room for hours longer than it would require for me to finish the test, had been a disappointment.  So, I set my mind to finishing as quickly as possible and putting the whole thing behind me.  Once I stepped foot outside the door, I wouldn’t have to endure the awful anticipation and nervous jitteriness that had captivated my mind and energies for so long.  All that would remain would be walking to my mailbox, 3-5 weeks from then, and opening the secret little envelope with the long-awaited for results.

The test began, and for five hours I turned in packet after packet, until at last he stated, “Okay, you’re done.”  I had him confirm that I would receive the results - by mail – within the 5 week time frame, and then.. I left.

Something personal that I thought was really cool (and that brought me to tears), was that at around 7:10 that morning, once I had parked outside of the school and was preparing myself to walk in, I checked my email (via my mobile phone).  It happened that I had, but moments before, received a message in my inbox that came from a friend at church (I’ll leave her unnamed).  Her message read that she had been thinking about and praying for me all week — that, specifically that morning, she had felt compelled to claim a certain promise for me – and that promise was found in Ephesians 1:17: “I ask – ask the God of our Master, Jesus Christ, the God of glory – to make you intelligent and discerning in knowing him personally,..”  And it made me smile.  It was her warm friendship, and God’s wonderful, marvelous, and manifested assurance of His interest in me, protection over me, and love for me, that gave me the strength and peace of mind I so desperately needed that dreaded morning.

2.  The Drive-Thru Prayer Project

Pictures follow.  It was a neat idea our Pastor Zeke had:  we would stand by the highway with signs that read “Drive-Thru Prayer; John 3:16; Free Snacks and Drinks; Honk If You Love Jesus!; Jesus Is The Way, Truth, and Life.”  Arrows pointed to our church entrance, and upon entering, drivers were welcomed at a table our youth had set up earlier on in the day.  On this table were pamphlets, tracts and books (all priceless).  Also on this table was a pitcher of lemonade and a collection of brown, paper bags, each filled with a wholesome snack (an apple, a granola bar, and a bag of baked chips).  We honestly had fewer people stop than we had hoped for and anticipated; we all ended up taking one or two of the brown paper bags home for ourselves.. but the few people who did stop, did take a free book and did pray with our young volunteers, were blessed.  A young man (who actually lives in our apartment complex) stopped by and expressed his desire to begin coming to church.. and he actually did come!  He walked to our apartment, knocked on our door, and drove with us to church this past Sabbath.  God is good, He certainly blessed.

3.  Partaking in the Jewish Seder.

Saturday was busy.  We went to church in the morning, as usual, and after a potluck lunch with our friends, took Bruster on a hike through the Moss Rock Preserve.  Once home, we showered,  changed into pretty, dressy clothes, and prepared ourselves to leave for the evening.  Our errand was peculiar.

Earlier on that week, Chris had been at work as usual.  Having finished his catering preparation early on in the day, he helped the front-line with basic duties (food prep, drink refills – restaurant maintenance).  There was a middle-aged woman for whom he was making a latte, and she and he soon began conversing on religion (Chris’s favorite theme, and the subject upon which, I imagine, he meditates during the quiet moments of the day).  Spontaneously, she produced two tickets to a Messianic-Jewish Seder banquet (for Saturday evening), and urged that if he and his wife were able and desirous of going, she would love for him to accept them.  Chris asked me, and, of course, I assented.  We eagerly anticipated sitting in on a special, cultural festival.  (It will be mentioned that these tickets usually ran for about 45 dollars each.  So yes, it was an honor to accept them, and very gracious of the woman to offer them.)

And here we are, Sabbath evening.  We drove to the Cahaba Grand conference center, found a parking place (arriving 40 minutes early, it wasn’t difficult), made our entrance, presented the tickets, and took our seat at the lovely, elegant, well-decorated and round table in the “general seating” area of the banquet hall.  Throughout the course of the evening (we arrived at 5:30 and remained until 9:30), we took part in the ceremony.  Unable to recall details and to explain symbolisms as well as my husband, I’ll share that it was a simple, but detailed, significant replication of what took place between Christ and His disciples on the night of the Passover.  We all washed our hands (instead of our feet), partook of the Mahtzah (which, if you notice, is not only striped in appearance, but also pierced, as was our Savior), the parsley (dipped in salt water, representative of the sadness and bitterness of the Children of Israel’s experience in Egyptian bondage), the sweet apple spread (which symbolized the sweetness the presence of Christ brings into our lives, and how sweet the victory was when the Israelites finally obtained their freedom), and other singular items.  We drank grape juice (the symbol of His blood, shed for us), read Scripture, and said prayers.  Then, we partook of the “banquet meal”: this consisted of salad, grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, and a dessert.  Unfortunately, the plate was placed in front of you with the creamy mashed potatoes and sweet, soft vegetables covered –utterly dominated– by the large, drippy chicken breast.  So, Chris and I did our best to remove the chicken to the side of our plates as inconspicuously as we could (we’re vegetarians, but didn’t want to make a scene/ appear rude/ demand special treatment) and to eat that small portion of the vegetables that wasn’t covered in chicken pieces and the savory gravy the meat was served in.  We enjoyed the salad and dessert thoroughly, and although Chris had promised to buy me french fries from Purple Onion on the way home, we were both so tired by the time we left the conference center that sleep was the only thing on our minds.

The most impressive part of the entire ceremony took place when the rabbi presented before us a tiny, baby lamb.  He held it in his arms; it squirmed and cried.  He spoke of the innocence of the lamb — of the manner in which the Children of Israel bought it on the 10th day of the month, spent 4 days bonding with it, and then, on the 14th day of the month Nissan, slaughtered it.  The lamb was roasted in front of the family.  Everyone had to eat it.. and the doorpost was spread with it’s blood: their protection from the plague — from death — was secured.

Then, he spoke of the innocence of Christ.  Of His great love for us.  Of the amazing sacrifice He made.. and a point that I found significant, was this:  the Jews beat him.  The Romans struck his side with the sword.  Both Jew AND Gentile placed their murderous hands on Jesus, the Lamb slain for the sin of the world, and thereby (were they conscious of it or not) they transferred their sin to the sacrificial offering: to the precious Jesus.  Jesus died for the entire world – for all men – so that “whosoever believes, may have everlasting life,” and “life more abundantly.”

It was awing.

Now, the most exciting part of the evening was the Messianic Jews’ praise service.  A guitarist (who was also the singer, and quite famous, it seemed) and a pianist stood up on stage — rocking it — while the congregation jumped out of their seats and began clapping their hands, shaking their hips, and waving their arms.  Yes.  They danced the davidic dance.  (But kept their clothes on.)

But they didn’t just dance.  They waved flags, they blew trumpets, and they formed a konga-line.  It was.. beautiful.  The joy and love, expressed so vulnerably and openly, touched my heart.. and made me wonder, why doesn’t my church express itself so enthusiastically?  Why aren’t people excited about Jesus?  I’m not saying that we need to dance, wield banners and do-the-wave in the sanctuary.. but we do need to allow the Spirit to move in us in such a way that our love for God and our passion for Jesus are apparent to all around, are an encouragement to all around, and are made stronger through expression.

Somewhere in-between all of this, Christopher had to go potty.  I walked with him into the open foyer and there, whilst I was waiting for his return, my eye, observing the crowd around me, settled upon a familiar face (and unforgettable hair: long, braided, Native American hair), and my ear, perking up, tuned in to a voice that had long ago drilled itself into my head.  I walked over hastily, lest my acquaintance, somewhat distant from where I stood, should travel elsewhere, outside of my reach.  I stopped in front of him, smiling.  “Welllllllll!”  I sang out.  “Do you remember me?”

“OF COURSE I do!”

He didn’t call me by name the whole time (I suppose it wasn’t necessary..), but Mr. McCall did indeed remember me.  We spoke for but a few moments and caught up on years.  He was my 10th grade history teacher while I was in the 11th grade (yes; I took two years of history at once.. it was a home school-public school credit transferring disaster).  It was neat seeing him – a very unexpected surprise – and it was an honor to introduce to him my wonderful husband.  Before parting ways, Mr. McCall shook Christopher’s hand, gave me a warm hug and assured Christopher that he had “gotten himself a gem.”  It always make me smile when people I used to know meet the man I’m now with and speak fondly, kindly of me..

I suppose that me being there, in their presence, prevents anything else from being said or done. 

4.  Birthdays on Easter

Yeah. Chris and I, do not celebrate Easter.  And to us, it isn’t a big deal!  But to some people (as I’ve learned, over the years), it really is.  The common understanding is this: if you don’t celebrate Easter, you aren’t happy that Jesus rose from the grave and ascended to heaven, there to officiate as our High Priest, Mediator, Savior.  “Yes,” I’m positively assured, “if you don’t celebrate Easter, it is a sure sign that you are legalistic and very un-Christian-like.”

Well.  We don’t celebrate Easter – and despite this ”divergence from the right,”  we actually don’t believe ourselves to be legalistic (I, personally, don’t have a checklist lying on my nightstand that I go over every evening and penalize myself for if something is “missing”).  We just find it difficult to see Christ in a chocolate bunny, a colorful egg, and the statewide homage paid to the Assyrian goddess, Ishtar.  The deal I have is this – I don’t judge or think harshly of people who DO celebrate the day and who find nothing harmful in it; I just don’t appreciate being accosted and having my character maligned for not participating in something I feel to be counterfeit Christian, irreligious and.. silly.

Regardless -  we enjoyed spending our off day with Chris’s family.  The day after (Monday) was both his mother and sister’s birthday, so we celebrated with them, enjoying lunch, cake, ice cream, and conversation.  Afterwards, we drove to Walmart (one of the only establishments open on the “sacred day”) and bought the supplies we needed in order to fix Chris’s brake lights (he had been given a warning ticket on Friday and needed to have the problem corrected by Monday).  Bruster tagged along with us all day, and wherever we went, he behaved himself as would the best-trained dog in the world (so he is).

5.  Wonderful Memories and Beautiful Prospects

Life is a gift.  Love is a gift.  Chris has given both to us freely; and we are to enjoy every moment - be it still or bursting, loud or tender, fleeting or slow to pass.  I treasure all the blessings that have been given to me: a caring family, that I’ll see once again in June.. a cute dog – faithful and loyal, obedient and affectionate – who follows me from room to room.. and a loving husband, who provides a companionship more perfect and complete than I could have ever imagined.

The world isn’t all sorrow and misery; there are flowers upon the thistles, and the thorns are covered with roses.  In a world where quality time is swallowed up by hours on the clock, birth control is too expensive and musicians store away their guitars so they can go “get real jobs”-

there are still beautiful moments in the present,

still wonderful memories from the past,

still very much to look forward to in the future..

and plenty to keep one busy in the meanwhile.

“Work whilst it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.”

John 9:4

Aun Aqui

A bus full of prisoners and myself. (Huh?)

 

I may not have the giddy widget displayed on the face of my blog (currently, I don’t have the time to worry about such things), but nevertheless, I’m committing myself to the obligation (one to be enjoyed) of making a post here on wordpress *atleast once weekly.  To further enable that end, the “post-a-day/ post-a-week” enthusiasts have provided daily topics.. sentences, one-liners.. that prompt the noble writer to think creatively, remember with detail, and foresee with insight.  I’m pretty excited about it! Mainly because, while scrolling down the page (thought it curious, but wasn’t entirely sold on the idea yet), I saw that one of the “nudgers” read:

“Describe the strangest thing that ever happened to you on a bus.”

..and the memory it recalled, I felt an immediate sense of urgency to communicate and share.

So, at random, let me tell you about the WEIRDEST thing that has ever happened to me while I was traveling on a (Greyhound) bus.

First of all, it was a long-distance commute.  It wasn’t twenty minutes from the city of Hoover to 23rd Avenue South downtown.  I was traveling from Birmingham, Alabama (about 4 years ago – I was fifteen at the time) to sunny, central Florida.  It was a 10 hour drive.. and a 16 hour bus ride (you know.. the stops you sigh at, the breaks you don’t really need and the layovers that make it all last longer).   

Secondly, I was going on the first of my twice-annual trips to visit my best friends, Melissa and David (Melissa.. the best friend of eight years whom you’ve recently heard deserted me.. yeah, her).  In retrospect, it’s funny; during those eight years, I was always the one who made the effort – who saved up all of her cashier money to buy plane tickets, bus passes and (later, when I was “old enough,”) gas money.  I always left my family and stayed with hers.. I always had to pack my stuff so I could store it haphazardly somewhere in her room.  I always had to endure those 16-hour-long, smelly, dark, creepy-weird bus rides..

and while I got to know her side of the family most intimately, she scarcely knew two facts about mine.

Regardless, continuing..

My mom and I had stayed up the night before – all night.  I can remember eating a bunch of crappy junk food and watching some weird, petrifying children’s program around 2 am where a funny-looking baby creature whaled “booobahhhh.”  The psychedelic trauma has altered me as a person.  It was always my theory that, were one to deprive themself of sleep for a long period of time before traveling arrangements were carried out, they would be able to “sleep through” the boring travel time.  Sierra and I tested this out and..  I was wrong.  The 16 hour bus ride absolutely SUCKED, starting early that morning.

We left the house around 2:30 am, as the bus was scheduled to leave around 3:30 or so.. I can’t quite remember.  We drove down the long, obscure, absolutely deserted innerstate until we reached the long-awaited for exit.  After making it past the one-way streets, shattered windows and decaying buildings, we once again found the bus station (this wasn’t my first bus ride — it was one of many.  Periods of time, however, intervened between trips, so the exact location of the bus station was easily forgotten by the two of us.  Let it also be noted that Sierra always had me drive to the bus station; driving downtown terrified her, and driving at night was always something she sought to avoid).  We parked the car, lugged my guitar and singular duffle bag into the staging area and picked up my pre-purchased ticket from the attendant on duty.  Then, we waited.

Waiting always sucked.. the people around you are weird and creepy, the lighting is dim, it feels unnatural – to be so awake, lively and purposeful when it’s so dark and early.. it’s just awful.  Everything seems to take weeks and when the time for boarding does finally come, it feels like you should already be where you’re headed to.

I grabbed Charlie (my guitar) with one hand and let the weight of the duffle bag hang off my other arm.  “I love you sweetie,” Sierra would say.  “I’m going to miss you so much!.. make sure you don’t miss your second bus and please do call me during your layover – and please make sure that you’re kind, thoughtful and helpful when you’re staying at Barbara’s.  Go over to Grammy’s some days and spend time there and make sure-”

“Okay mom, I love you too,” I’d assure her.  “I will call you, it’s all good.”

And then, we would part.  I would cry on the bus – I always missed my mom – but she never knew.  Quickly thereafter, however, I became excited.  Finally!  After six months I get to see Melissa again!  It was always the highlight of my year and the very joy of my life, spending time with my best friend.  No other person was as close, dear or valuable to me (aside from my mother), other than Melissa.  She was my confidant, counselor, partner-in-crime, comedian, and biggest fan.  Anyways.

The ride was long.. and very EVENTFUL.

Here is where the “Oh my goodness it was soooo weird” nudger finds it’s accomplishment.   The setting has been established – you’re prepared. 

Well..

During the long ride of drudgery, somewhere along the way, I fell asleep.  Upon waking, a group of prisoners were staring at me, and smiling.

Yeah.. they were sitting in front of me, their heads turned - facing me – and they were smiling.  Upon seeing me stir, they shifted in their seats and removed their gaze.. but I knew where it had been and I was totally freaked.

“Why were the prisoners staring at me? and WHY are there prisoners on the BUS??”

I was horrified.  But, it was also an interesting occurence.. and one I planned on making memorable.  (Of a certainty, I knew they were prisoners, simply by virtue of their shaved heads and identical orange garb). 

After a period of silence between the two parties - the prisoners and myself – a gutsy inmate had the courage and audacity to remove himself from his seat (I appreciated the distance) and to place himself DIRECTLY beside me, arms almost touching (I didn’t approve of this, but didn’t reprove or deny him for fear of being hurt, molested, murdered, etc).  He began some small talk, to which I replied in Christian accents.  It turned him off immediately (this made me glad), and he soon picked himself up and found another seat – perhaps his first one.  (Praise God! The sword of the spirit indeed.)  This wasn’t the end, however; the flirty, mach0-man inspired some of the rest (his contemporaries) to present themselves to me — as dashing, marvelous, bad-boys of rock and roll.  Huh?

A group sitting behind me somehow caught my attention — I can’t remember if it was a cough, a question, or a laugh.  Regardless, the self-proclaimed leader of the pack began speaking.

“Yeah.. we’re a traveling rock band,” he began.

“..really?” I quieried in sudden amazement. 

At this time, you must understand that I was an amateur musician – a hopeful, floating in the clouds, dreaming of stages and lights and crowds and microphpones, idiot.  And so!, this being a bad-boy rock band, I was very amazed, full of admiration and ready to hear more!

“Tell me about your band!” I insisted.

It came out, eventually, that they weren’t really a rock band.  He explained that they had just gotten out of prison, at midnight, and were headed home.  One of them asked if I had a phone he could borrow.

Immediately, the workings of my silent thought-processor:

He’s a criminal, so he might steal my phone.. I should tell him I’m running out of minutes and spare mother the money.  Wait– he’s a criminal! He might know I have a phone with lots of minutes and kill me! Or, he might believe I don’t have the minutes and be angry that I don’t have them and kill me!  What do I do!

 

“Oh sure!  Use it as long as you’d like,” I smiled.

He grasped the phone and began making his phone calls. 

 Once he had dialed the number to every individual, I believed, whose number he had memorized, he handed the phone back to me.  I was pleasantly surprised, but didn’t let it show.  Then, of course, another jailbreaker requested the device.  Slowly, my phone made it’s way through who knows HOW many hands.. (and no, I hadn’t brought germ-x with me.  Now here, I am not implying that prisoners are any more germy than non-prisoners.. but come on; look at how much breathing and touching and lips and sweat my phone met with!  that bus wasn’t pumping sixty-degree air). 

But all that matters, is that I did get my phone back and they were all able to contact the individuals they needed or wanted to.  It was a service that I felt proud and glad to offer. 

The trip ended — some of the prisoners got off before my stop, others were still sitting on the bus when I finally jumped out of my seat, grabbed my belongings and headed out.  We exchanged smiles (I even hugged two of them) and said our goodbyes.. wished peace, blessings and prosperity to one another.

I descended the steps, listened to the engine carry the prisoners (and other travelers) away, and turned my eyes to the gas station.  Was the purple van there yet?

 

No; Melissa and her family hadn’t yet arrived.. (they had a knack for being late to everything), but when they did, they heard all of my (briefer than this) narrative in shock-horror (Melissa was very sheltered — a homeschooled Christian kid.  My story was about as thrilling and monumental as the account given of Germany, in 1941, in her history book). 

I will stop here – no need to recount the details of the trip (which I don’t remember clearly, as all the trips and visits of eight years have sort of meshed together in a pleasant but indistinctive mass), as that was not the focal point of the story.  But yes.  That was the most interesting experience I’ve ever had on the bus.  Well — there was that one time when the guy with scar marks (and dressed in all black) sat next to me and discussed his future plans to have fifty children and to either torture, sacrifice or train them to be evil world dictators.. (the which I tolerated the entire ride, gave a religious book to and let lean his head on my shoulder for weariness).  Different trip.  That was weird, too.. but not quite as strange.  I might have been sixteen then.

Really, come to think of it, I’ve had lots of creepy-weird encounters on the bus.. but, today, I wanted to share the story of the prisoners with you all.  I digress.

****

Presently, March 24th 2011, here’s what’s new:

The nominating committee, of which I am a part, is wrapping up their work of selecting officers for all church positions for this upcoming year.  We’re at the stage of making phone calls.. I’ve been only semi-successful, as, this being my first year on the committee, I’ve discovered that people don’t always answer their phones – and some people never answer their phones.

Christopher is still working full-time at Panera and, might I say, he is kicking butt.  His store is #1 for catering in the entire state of Alabama.. and that’s not my opinion; that’s based off of sales reports.  Every other store — doing half or not even the business — has a catering coordinator and atleast one (or multiple) assistants.  He’s flying solo and rocking it.  I’m very proud of him.  Additionally, let it be mentioned that he is the sweetest man in the whole entire world!  Chris is always stopping by my work after he’s finished working, and he’s always bringing me surprises.. cookies, my favorite smoothie, and – best of all – his gorgeous smile, and his heart-warming presence.

I planned on starting school this August, and in the process of getting everything ready, I’ve encountered some problems with college admission – not regarding residency (what I had expected to fret over).  No.. the high school I graduated with (an online program) is, I have been enlightened, nationally accredited — not regionally accredited.  And, the college I have planned on attending (due to it’s location and economic affordability) ONLY accepts regionally accredited degrees (ah, the paradox!).  So, as there were no other options, I went down to the school yesterday, paid my fifty dollars and have been scheduled to take the 7 and 1/2 hour GED test on April 19th.  Got a 600 page study guide at the library afew days ago and bought some index cards at Walmart last night.. I’ve never used the index card study method before, but, as you can probably tell – even in the very shortness of this blog - I’m an impulsive, vacillating, unsettled person who delights herself in trying new things.

So, I hope I pass.  We’ll see. 

I stopped by a thrift store in Hoover yesterday.  It’s eight weeks from closing, and the owner was very nice;  I’m pretty positive the discount she gave me, on the two purses and clay-metallic piano figurine I bought, was more than necessary. 

It’s Thursday – and what Chris said weeks ago is resounding in my ears, coming, again, to my mind,  and causing me, once more, to smile..
“Have a great day, Rose – and make sure that you smile.. because you’re the best thing ever, and it’s almost Friday.”

I’m loving my job, I am daily being taught, by my puppy, to have patience, I’m crazy about my husband, Christopher, and -

I’m actually, officially going to visit my family in Florida this June.

Life can’t seem to decide whether she wants to hate or adore me,

support or oppose me,

beautify, or destroy me..

Aun Aqui

Living for the Weekend.

A post about the drudgery and monotony of living this modern, technologically advanced, intellectually superior, sophisticated and charming

life.**

(note: in the following entry, no corporate/company names or titles shall be given, so that I won’t be found in a place of condemnation for recounting my life story)

So I was called into the office yesterday (3/3/2011), at my work, and asked to sit down.  I did so, gladly.  My hands were sweaty, and my body stiffened as I tried relaxing myself into the soft backing of a blue, padded chair.  The two managers present in the office with me both attempted weak smiles, but I could already tell.

I’m going to be rejected.

“Rose,” the gentleman began, “we’ve heard about your interest in the full-time position that has become available at your branch, and we are very grateful for your enthusiasm.”

Let me begin my saying, that this manager is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.  Truly.

It not only radiated from his voice and his bearing, but from his words and his tone of voice.  He was so empathetic, sincere, and gentle.  His calming presence made the entire rejection-meeting easier for me to process and handle (emotionally).

Continuing..

“Unfortunately, we’ve spoken with your manager, and she just doesn’t feel like you’re where you should be, at this point, with you’re training.. that you aren’t prepared to take on the responsibility that a full-time teller possesses, and that to promote you to such a position – at this time - would be unfair both to you and to our members.”

It hit me like a brick.. and yet, I seemed to feel nothing at all.  I was, by prayer, transported to another place, where I didn’t need to cry, or protest, or defend myself.  I simply knew that this was destined; that I had already been here before, in the chair, being rejected and delicately consoled.  I nodded my head and agreed with everything that was said.

And that was it.  5 minutes, in and out.  No, I don’t have any questions.  No, I won’t become discouraged.. yes, I’ll try applying for the next position that becomes available.  The decision was made and I was now able to start allowing my mind to adjust, settle, re-organize and re-strategize.  Where do I go from here.

Really, I kinda knew where they were coming from.

Having worked solely in the drive-thru for 3 months hurt my endeavor of mastering all MSR procedures.  There, in the “pit,” I was confined to the execution of three very basic transactions:  deposits, withdrawals, and loan payments.  When it came to opening or closing an account — opening or “cashing out” a cd — disbursing official checks, money orders and the like – I had been somewhat.. clueless.  Over time, by observation and minimal experience, I was able to fully understand how one produces money orders, official checks, cashier’s checks, and temporary checks (and was able to do the said transactions).  I also learned, during the short periods of time when one of the tellers had gone to lunch and the lobby was too busy for just the other to handle, how to do “cash advances” (payments with a credit or debit card) and how to make credit card payments.  I was told, two weeks back, that in order to enrich my training I would be given two weeks on the front line, and that one of the full-time tellers would take my place in the drive thru.  Resultant, in the past week and a half, I have opened several accounts, reinstated two, and closed two.  I also closed out a certificate of deposit  yesterday.  I feel much more competent, knowledgeable, independent in my decision making and ready to embrace the stresses and challenges of full-time teller work.  But.. when it comes to reporting my success and advancement to my manager, all courage and confidence flees.

I just wish I would have received opportunities to get the experience sooner, before it was too late.

Regardless, my beautiful and wonderful mother has been a source of strength.  I walked back into work following my lunch break today and after sitting down, unlocking my drawer and preparing myself to function for the public, I pulled up my email account and read beautiful words that she had typed out in a letter to me.. familiar words that I had heard before, forgotten, and needed to remember:

For promotion cometh neither from the east, nor from the west, nor from the south.  But God is the judge: He putteth down one, and setteth up another. Psalm 75:6,7

And so.. I figure..

why on earth do I need to worry, complain or fret?

God is all-wise, all-knowing, full of love and all-powerful!

If He has led me safely thus far.. why would He continue in any other way?  And why should I think or fear or believe that He would continue in any other way –  in a way that would destroy or harm me? Hasn’t He assured me, in His word, that ”(He) knows the thoughts that (He) think towards (me)? Thoughts of peace, and NOT of evil?”

I digress.***

So I’ve realized, as a fully developed and (more) mature nineteen year old, that we, as humans, really do live for the weekends.  We work, labor and slave away all week to absolutely ensure that when our time for rest does come, we thoroughly enjoy, completely appreciate and entirely crave it.

I used to be very idealistic, optimistic and all that  -istic jazz.  “You should enjoy your job and working because you’re going to spend half of your life doing it!  Make the best of it!  Enjoy every moment! CarpefreakingDIEM.”

Now — the more seasoned, experienced, tired me realizes that those 40 hours a week I’d love to be spending with my husband and puppy are devoted to other people and (in the grand “scheme of things”) unimportant things.  And then the two-day weekend I’m blessed with finds me so overrun and worn out that the energy I wish I had is gone.  Instead of being my old, fun, care-free, energetic, spontaneous, crazy and life-loving self, I’m yawning.  I’m dreading Monday.  I’m slowly counting down and earnestly grasping every single hour and moment of freedom remaining to me.

I’m living for the weekend.

3/8/2011

This past weekend was unique.  Usually, our weekends are bright, sunny, event-packed, smile filled, go to fast and leave us satisfied and filled with happy memories.  This past weekend sort of.. sucked!

First of all, Saturday, went way too fast.  Church breakfast began at 8:30 and as Chris was asked to provide three dozen bagels from Panera for the event (the which he had bought the day before), he felt it his duty and responsibility (as the “bagel expert”) to arrive early enough to ensure that the bagels were cut “correctly.” Anyways, breakfast ended at 9:30 and sabbath school began.  I helped teach in the E-teens class.  Sabbath school ended at 10:30 and the thirty-minute intermission between sabbath school and church flew past us.  Church started at 11:00.. it ran until about 12:20.  The nominating committee (of which I am a part) met directly after, ate a lunch that was provided, and began the meeting itself around 1.  We were all there until 2:30.  Chris picked me up and in addition to being tired(Bruster had kept us up the night before and lengthy church services make me sleepy), my morning headache had returned.   We had made plans to take Bruster to the park that afternoon and.. alas, outside, it rained.  Our evening schedule read “Go to the Harriman’s first annual BONFIRE and have a blast!” and.. alas, it CONTINUED raining.

So, Saturday.. yeah.

Sunday:

We overbooked ourselves.

We got up, cleaned the house spotless, took Bruster to the park (since his Saturday “fun day!” fell through), came home and showered, went grocery shopping, headed over to his friends house for a sort of reunion/ cookout, and came home at about 5.  By that time, I was – again — yawning and tired, and Bruster (the puppy of perfect timing) ate my phone.

Yes, he ate it.

He didn’t ingest it (I prevented him), but he definitely would have forced it down his throat had he been given enough time and had he NOT caught Chris’s attention.

This is what happened. I had been laying, comfortably, on the couch, and decided to get down onto the floor where my puppy sat.. to hug him.  As a mother, I fully realize that despite my condition of weakness and personal fatigue I still have responsibility to nurture my pet and shower him with love, affection and etc.  So, as I hugged him and Chris stared, Bruster got up off of my lap and began walking away.

“ROSE!  He has your PHONE!”

..what?  BRUSTER!!!!!!

He did, and it was too late.  Razor-sharp puppy teeth marks littered the screen and the silver backing of the phone.. half of the screen was comprised of insane, bizarre lines and the other half somewhat maintained the image of the familiar, but vague background I had grown accustomed to.   “Oh no, Chrisss! What am I going to do? This SUCKS..”

I immediately entered “cry whine whine” mode and Christopher assumed the “super daddy” role.

“It’s okay, baby — let’s hurry, we might make it to the Sprint store before six!”

So we hopped into the car, put the pedal to the medal and made it there by about 5:52.  I walked in and consciously (it didn’t take too much effort) tried to look “upset.”  (Upset customers always get what they want, right?)

Long story made shorter, I explained my circumstances and was told that after paying a 50-dollar deductible, my phone would be shipped to me overnight.  “So I can’t just get a new phone now? here? in the store?”

“No, I’m sorry ma’m, but as soon as you call in, make your claim and pay us money we’ll be more than happy to inconveniently ship a new phone to you.”

So, we did.  It should be arriving today (Tuesday).

It’s almost time for me to “head off” to work: on the agenda for today, serving at OLIVE GARDEN from 11:30 until the “lunch business decline.”  Chris and I have been wanting to get haircuts, so if we can book a last-minute appointment with our regular stylist, we’ll be handling that today as well.

Life is busy, life is great -

the joy just never ends!

Money and time consume your mind

and force you to break or bend.

Life is busy, life is great!

Something new happens everyday

Like your doggy decides to eat your phone,

and thoughts of promotion vanish away -

And you’re left in your party array

with no joy, no phone, and no pay.

Aun Aqui

Letters to Melissa, Overtime, and Serving on “the floor.”

February 19th, 2011.

Letters to Melissa.
Saturday, 6:32 am.

 

So Chris and I were supposed to sleep in this morning.
It’s Saturday, and we’re off of work for the weekend.

But I had a horrible dream last night and woke up around 5:30 (when Bruster had to go potty), thinking about it.  I continued laying in bed, Chris’s arms around me, and Bruster at my feet, until 6:20.  Then, I whispered to Chris that I needed to get up.

“Why?” he asked, stirring underneath the covers.

“I have a lot on my mind and I need to write it down.”

“Okay,” he replied, simply — and decided to get up himself.
And he didn’t probe me any further.  Chris knows me well enough to understand that writing, for me, is a necessity when it comes to expressing myself — my fears, concerns, happiness, stress and sadness.  So, I’ll continue.

I finally understand why I’ve been doing this for the past 9 months.

*** ** ** *

I dreamed last night that my grandfather (more intimately referred to as Grampy) passed away.  In my dream, I was devastated; all the visits and phone calls I never made, the “I love yous” and “I miss yous” I hadn’t given out, haunted me.  I regretted “keeping in” everything I needed to tell him, and withholding how much he meant to me from him when it mattered.

Anyways, I woke up (previously stated) around 5:30, hearing Bruster pace around the room and whine (his message to us that it’s “go outside, go potty” time).  Chris took him out quickly and returned in a moment.  We turned the light off and tried to “fall back asleep.”  I just layed there, consulting my memory, struggling to remember the dream that seemed significant and to last forever.. but I couldn’t.

Finally, I recalled it.  “Chris..”

“mmm?”

“I remember what I dreamt last night — Grampy had died!” I whispered.

“It’s okay, baby.. that didn’t happen.. everything is fine.”  He pulled me closer to him and we both continued trying to “fall back asleep.”

I layed there for thirty minutes just thinking about the impact of the dream.. of how much I could — or will – regret neglecting the people I love when it’s too late to (really) love them anymore.

Then, I thought of Melisa, and she is somehow the reason for all of this.

** * **

I finally understand why I’ve been doing what I have been doing for the past 9 months.  All of these “blog updates..” these long, lengthy, detailed entries, have been for her.
I’ve been secretly, desperately desiring that she would read them — that she would want to know about all that has been going on in my life; that she would miss me, and that old love, friendship and ever-present curiosity would drive her to my writings.  That it would, somehow, keep our friendship alive and maintain our connection.. that it would be a means of communicating, a start to bridging how far apart we’ve grown.

We all use the computer in different ways and for different purposes – sometimes, it’s to manipulate people.  Chain letters, ever-changing Facebook statuses, whatever — we have all tried, however directly or indirectly, to get people’s attention, push people’s buttons, charm, reveal secret feelings to or win back, people.  I am openly admitting that I have been using this blog as a crutch, as an underground tunnel, supposedly leading to Melissa’s ear, or heart, or whatever you’d want to imagine..

and I really didn’t even realize I was doing this.
I always knew that I was hoping she would stumble across (or seek out) my blog; I didn’t know for sure if she’d know how to find it, or if she’d WANT to.. but nevertheless, the hope remained.  I didn’t know that these crazy, detailed, uninteresting blog entries were really written, not for my aunt who lives in New Jersey, not for my dearly loved mother who lives in Florida, not for my husband and lives, works, and sleeps beside me every day and night,

but for my long-lost, best friend.. who I haven’t heard from in almost a year.
I’ve never openly expressed, in so many words and so honestly, how deeply I loved her and needed her.. but now I’m admitting it.
I need to publicly express it, because it will give some kind of closure.
It’s hard to just painlessly “move past” a wall you’ve painted on for years.  You scribbled, stenciled, white-washed, smeared, colored and beautified it.. it was something unique, original, and beautiful – something very “a part” of you, because it expressed so MUCH of you..

and that is who she was.

How can I walk away, without taking a picture?
And how can I leave with a picture, and not take a look at it every once and a while?
How can I look at that picture, and not still see it’s beauty..

and how can I see it’s beauty, and not want to return?

There are so, SO many memories that reoccur – in my mind – ALL the time.  We spent thousands of hours in each other’s company.. confiding in and comforting each other, having fun with whatever we found to do, growing up and learning how “to do” life together and supporting each other all along the way. It kills me; it’s a battle and a war – it’s beautiful, it’s hideous. I want to recall them, these memories, fondly, but I can’t — and it tears my apart to remember that everything that meant something to me is, essentially,

nothing.

It breaks my heart every day, not hearing her voice, reading her words, or seeing her smile as I used to be able to.

Melissa, tell me – how can a deep-seated love just die away, unless it was never real to begin with?
Melissa, please tell me – does love melt, and quickly disappear? Does it freeze over for indefinite periods of time, in a desperate effort to preserve itself?
or does it merely cease to exist, without any process of dying at all?

Can love really die?

**Note: AlthoughI realize my original, partial intention in writing for this blog has been recognized and – by myself – reproved, I will not cease keeping up with this e-journal.. only now, it will be for the mere, honest purpose of expressing myself, for those who care to know me — for describing what I see, for whoever is curious — and for teaching what I have learned, for whoever may benefit from it. -AA

** *

I’m calling my Grampy today.  Life has been notoriously busy since I left home, went to NY, got married and settled down into Birmingham Alabama.  I haven’t kept up with loved ones like I should have.. and I plan on changing that.  Instead of spending so much time writing, I am determining to spend more time making phone calls, personal emails, and – if possible – visits back home.

In addition to calling Grampy, I’m being honest today.

Melissa, if you ever do stumble across or seek out this blog,

I really miss you, I really love you, and I think of you every single day.

I just want to know that you’re happy, that you’re okay,
and that you really did love me once.

That we really were best friends once..

and that you don’t hate that we were.

-Aun Aqui

* ** *** *

2/25/2010  A week or so later.

I’ve been so busy that the entry prior to this one was never posted or shared.  It’s outdated, but, I still want it recorded.. I still need to express everything I wrote.

She is on my mind less now.. I feel more secure, healed-over and free to “move on.”  Free to accept myself, and free to embrace other friendships..

almost.

** *

2/28/2011  “Goodbye, February”

I’m at work, it’s about an hour until closing, and I have determined that I simply must finish and post this blog update.

There are a lot of beautiful things that I fail to mention.

Like..

Yesterday was Sunday.  Chris and I had spent the entire morning cleaning, because “keeping up with the house” is something we find difficult to do during the busy week hours.  Anyways, it was around 3:00 in the afternoon and I was cleaning/ cooking/ getting ready for my night shift at Olive Garden when his mom called.  “I guess my little helper is leaving me now,” I thought silently, and carried on, quietly, with my various tasks.  I didn’t mind doing the dishes, putting the clothes on hangers, straightening up the bathroom or any of that — but when the bed sheets came out of the dryer I thought to myself, “I wish he wasn’t so busy right now.”  I nevertheless began the work of stretching the fitted sheet onto the bed when Christopher walked into the room and said “Honey, let me help you with that.”

Wow.  It’s like.. how did he know?  Did he come to help me out of concern, because he was mindful of my need for help, or did he rush into the bedroom out of fear, because he was cognizant of the wrath to come should he not offer his assistance? 

Kidding.  The point is, my husband is better than yours.

~  Also! ~

Last Friday I was working at the Credit Union (no specific naming).  I had just finished performing a transaction for a member when, as the individual walked away, I saw the front door open and a familiar-looking, strikingly beautiful man stroll in.  “Hi, baby.”

“Christopher?!”

I was so happy.  He walked up to my little desk and handed me a box of chocolates (they were little, silver, individually wrapped Hershey bites and they were housed in a cardboard Panera bowl– his cute and personal interpretation of the romantic gift).  I was so happy and so proud that he was mine.    He fulfilled a sort of “dream” that day — a simple one.  I’ve always wanted to be surprised at work — to be visited, unexpectedly, by someone I love and care about, would hope to see, and miss all day.  I love Christopher.. and he proves his love for me in a thousand different ways, every day, all year -..and I know he will continue doing so for the rest of our lives.

We keep busy.  Our time together is limited, so, every moment is precious.   He’s been getting lots of overtime –working close to fifty hours a week and early, early shifts (like, he’s out the door by five am).  I guess it’s a good thing..  “early to bed, early to rise..” hopefully it will keep us, like our ancestors, healthy, wealthy and wise.

**

So this past week was busy and fun and great and memorable and allllllll of that.  Only thing is, serving at Olive Garden sucks.  The pay is cheap (I’m talking tips people — not the measly 2.13 an hour the restaurant hands over) — people walk out and stipp you ALL the time, and guiltlessly.

There are exceptions.  I had a lady get tipsy after three glasses of wine and she tipped very generously..  but it’s like - really?  Can I possibly enjoy, benefit from or be okay with seeing you this way – intoxicated and ridiculous?

My first Sunday (and second day serving) on the floor was absolutely terrible.  I was carrying a tray, fully loaded with a heaping salad bowl, two heavy and chilled salad plates, a bread basket, warm bread plates, a white and tricky cheese grater and..

a brim-full glass of Coca Cola.

This, was my second day.  I was not entirely comfortable with the pressure put on me to carry the tray so close to my head and, resultantly, the tray quivered, the glass tilted, fear caused me to jerk, the glass absolutely fell and

HIT the table,

SHATTERED to the floor,

a piece somehow CUT the gentleman sitting there at table 42–

He ended up wearing a bandaid, the manager bought the meal (and brought another Coke), I started crying and

they tipped me five bucks.

I gave away my whole three shifts for this week.  Just.. can’t handle it right now.

Anyways.. a full time position has opened up at the Credit Union (again, unnamed) I’ve been working at part-time.  This is most glorious — a wonderful opportunity for advancement — a cause for rejoicing and happiness and hope! ALL of that!  But, after putting my application in last Thursday, I haven’t heard anything, and the position is one that would, seemingly, be filled rather immediately.

I’m praying about it.  God knows I hate serving and love working at “the bank.”  I’ve always excelled at math, since 2nd grade, and I’ve also always been a people person and am perfectly ready, after spending a year on my feet, to sink down into that black swivel chair and use my mind more than my hands.

We’ll see.

Until then, I’m all “dressed to impress” 3 days out of the week and the other 3, I’m sweaty, tired looking and smell of pasta.  Your impression of me will depend on the day we meet, the time of day, and what you value and are looking for.  Who is “the real” me?  How do I view myself, on the inside, independent of circumstances and outfits and the company I’m in?

To me, I am (always)

The musician

The photographer

Chris’s wife

The “Woo!” mommy

The poet

The independent girl

The Christian

The artist

The dreamer

The writer

Aun Aqui.

(This blog update was officially finished March the 1st of 2011).