With Bated Breath

I had funky dreams this morning, maybe because it was raining outside. I dreamed that Justin and I went to Disneyland and when we finally got there the curtains of our hotel room had a big hole in them so anyone could look in and see what we were doing. There were holes in the walls too so people could walk through the holes and into the room if they felt like it or not, and even though J was with me, he kept becoming out of my reach. He’d be there one moment and gone the next.

Now that I’m awake I’m wearing my robe I got for Christmas and listening to the laundry spin in the dryer and the purrs of the kitty next to my head. I’m absorbed by the blue light of my computer screen and worried about simple things like time and money and how there is never enough of either.

By the end of December we waited with bated breath for the new year to start, and when we did, I think a lot of us didn’t plan on it being an extension of December, but for some of us, that’s what it has been. Were still the same people we were, and we still laugh at the same jokes. We might hang out at new places, or browse new bookstores, but were still who we were.

When I look at myself, I want to see who God sees. I don’t want to see an optician or Justin’s wife or a traveling gypsy. I don’t want to see Cynthia’s daughter. I don’t want to see Charlie’s daughter.

I want to see me.

I’m getting married in June and my desire to be a mommy is so strong it’s beginning to break my iron-like heart but man,

I want to see me.



Her Bad Temper

As merry and bright as the holidays appear to be, I for one feel a sense of doom around the holidays. I feel it in my spirit, I feel it in the ever approaching end of the year. I’m not who I should be–yeah, but is anyone? I know, nobody is. But I still feel bad about it. I remember last year, hoping I wouldn’t feel like this, this year. Regrets over the mean things I’ve said to people. The sense of rage I feel often or all the time over not knowing who I am or where my life is even headed.

For me, the holidays bring a sort of solemnity with them. Because I know who I’ve been. And I might say I’ll do better next year, but there’s a good chance I’ll do worse.

And deeper and deeper we delve into the depths.

It’s cold out today. I’m sitting in my apartment and the heater is on-again off-again as often as it can be. On Sundays I am passive and regretful. I am challenged to have a good day and focus on the good. For the good is this:

It’s a day off and there is no one to tell me when and where to be.

My time is my own, and I can make things like this


so it can’t be all bad, can it?



Woefully Detached

Christmas is fast approaching and I know some of the things I thought I’d do for people, I will not do. And other things, I will do. I wish I was more creative with making gifts like my mom. But for now, I guess that’s just not me.

I’m so tired today. I feel it in my spirit. A sort of sleepy happy. That’s the only way I can describe it. When I’m in the sleepy happy state, and I get in my shower, I always notice this spider. He’s been living in my shower for months now. He’s itty bitty and he sits on the upper ledge and as long as he doesn’t bother me, I do not bother him. There was a time I didn’t see him for awhile and I wondered if my cats got to him or if he found a new apartment, like the upstairs neighbors, to go to. But he showed up again some time later. I know it’s the same spider and not a different one because I just know. He has a specific face. I’ve thought about killing him before, rinsing him down the drain. Just to see what my reaction would be to the thought. It’s cruelty, and I would never do such a thing.

The end of the year poses a risk I think to many of us. We realize that the masks we’ve been prone to wearing we can finally take off, and throw away. Be ourselves for the people who loves us and the people who don’t and not be afraid any more. It feels like you’re someone at work, someone at home, someone with your significant other, someone with your dad or mom. I feel powerless in a lot of my roles. A voice, quickly to be interrupted or spoken over. I am not a squeaky wheel. I am not a neon color.

Justin and I’ve been talking lately about going to Wadi Rum. The fascination started when we watched Lawrence of Arabia, which, took 3 separate nights just to finish. It’s a barren, romantic wasteland. It’s camels and desert and starry nights. I hate getting on planes, but maybe we could take a cruise ship, and maybe I could do a short plane ride. Maybe we could go there and spend the night, hike the next day, ride the camels, get a tan. Maybe we can go there to that barren place and be barren.

Woefully detached from the world around us.



Today is a cold day. I get to relax and pick at my nails, cook bacon, and play around on my phone. Not necessarily in that order. Everyone I know is working today so I have an opportunity to slow down and collect myself. I seem to be quite the collector.

I had a gentleman come in with his daughter where I work and I’ve helped him out before. his daughter was looking around at glasses and she said Dad, what should I pick? And he said, well, I’m having a hard time helping you out because I think you look cute in every one of them.

Not every dad is like that these days. But this dad was, and my dad is.

When I was processing an order for the two of them the gentleman sat there humming softly. My dad does that too. If he has to wait for an extended period of time he will just sit there and hum away.

I miss my dad. Sometimes you feel far from someone even when you see them every day. You can be sitting on the couch with your significant other or a friend and still wonder what are they thinking about and where are they at? They might as well be in Egypt or Nebraska. Then there are times when someone feels far away simply because of the mileage factor. My dad lives 10 hours from me.

I was sitting there at work last night after 7 p.m. thinking okay, how long would it take me to drive if I just took off when I get off in an hour? How long would it take me to get to dad? And how long would it take me to come back?

But I am not a risk taker. I’m not like my mom, or my sister, or even Justin. Risks just aren’t my thing. And so I went home, played a video game, ate some Hostess cupcakes with my man, then went to bed after surfing the web and looking at more makeup that I don’t need.

Justin was here a few nights ago. It was a work week and the later it got the more sleepy I became. I laid on the couch and threatened to fart when Justin creeped closer to me and when he came he tickled me to the point I couldn’t breathe but could only laugh and laugh and laugh.

Recount the days you’re happy.


John 7:15

There’s two ways to get to work from my apartment. One way, looks closer and faster on paper. But it isn’t the way I like to go. It’s closer by a couple miles but getting there involves a left hand turn I don’t like making, bumper to bumper traffic, and cyclists. I prefer to go to work the indirect way. This is the way that passes the Folsom Prison. It’s the scenic route, as my Grandpa would probably say. I like the way the light hits the road when I drive around the bend. I like the view of El Dorado Hills in the distance–the way to Justin’s house. He’s not so far. I like passing City Hall.

Its days like today I’m grateful to come home. I think of the noodles getting ready to boil on the pot, the go-go-go of coming home. Vacuuming and dishes and washing my makeup brushes so I can cake them up again. I think of my Dad showing me how to fly a kite when I was little, and me quoting a movie I don’t remember, saying “You never know where a kite can take you, Dad”.

I think of my reason for moving here, to be with my Mom. But maybe it was really something else entirely. I think of Justin. He surprised me at work today as if to say, ha! You do like surprises! You just don’t know! Well, I do know now. I sure do love surprises. When I saw him, I think my heart did a hiccup. Can a heart do that?

I think of myself not even two weeks ago losing my mind. I seem to lose it more and more frequently and that makes me afraid. I know, I know. God doesn’t want you to waste time condemning yourself. But it’s as if the reminder of how I was–throwing objects, heart beating out of my chest–is a God send itself. Its almost like the memory is there to keep the real me at bay. A reminder of what is too far.


For anyone who doesn’t know, the scenic route is worth taking.



Tricks are for Chibs

I’ve been reading this book lately by Harry Bernstein. He lived in Europe during World War I in a community of Jews and Christians living in waving distance from each other. I’ve been reading his memoir, Golden Willow. He recaps coming to America, talks about meeting his wife, Polish-born, coming to America as well. They experience this total American dream we used to be told about when we were younger, as Americans. They have this incredible lifetime of love, and all of it leads Bernstein to becoming a published writer in his 90’s. He passed away in 2011, but he said something along the lines before he died that it’s never too late to become published.

He and his wife Ruby came home one night in the 50’s from an evening of political chaos and catastrophe surrounding Paul Robeson. They attended this event with their friends, unaware that by attending, they appeared to be supporters of communists. They came home and watched their children sleep and then stood in the hallway and wrapped their arms around each other and simply stood there for minutes upon minutes enjoying life. The best part of the evening, was being together.

It made me think. What would it take for me, to enjoy my own life?

I often feel so frustrated because of time and death and death and time and how much control I really do not have. I don’t have enough time off from work to be with the man I love, nor does he have enough time to be with me. Life is short, and although I am a professed Christian and have been saved for more than a few minutes, I have my own doubts about heaven. I’m not so sure when I get there, I will see Justin at all. Or that he will even recognize me. Or that we will mean anything to each other.

That terrifies me. It makes me cry.

Our neighbor John passed away this week. Such a nice man. At social events our apartment hosts, John is the person go to because we know him. He has a dolly he lets us borrow to take our heavy garbage out. He’s brought us donuts in the past. My mom has taken him beer, and spaghetti. He’s a nice man. I come home from work and have to run down a little flight of cement steps to get to my apartment, and John’s is right there by the steps. I always see him watching TV through the blinds.

He had a stroke. Now we don’t know anyone. Except the people who live above us who vacuum at midnight and never smile. John smiled often.

Justin thinks I should be writing. He says if I can write it out, I’ll be okay. Or rather, I say that. But I think he agrees. He says I should work to write part-time and do my optical businesses part time. I think Justin sees the things I do not see.

Do you know anyone like that?







I remember there used to be this stigma when I was younger that like, teenagers thought they were invincible while adults did not, hence why teenagers we’re always off getting themselves killed because they didn’t realize their limitations. I knew this kid, Dylan, and he was part of my high school youth group. Perfect example right there–as soon as high school ended, he went and OD’ed and he was gone. He thought he was invincible.

But I think that’s kind of backwards for me. I think when I was younger I didn’t take on the world, because I didn’t think that nothing could touch me. I got older and I started to feel that. I think I became more willing to dabble in things I shouldn’t dare to tread upon as I got older, whereas when I was younger, I was nothing like Dylan.

I bring all this up because everything, it seems, is biting me in the ass lately. And I didn’t think my ass was very tasty, but there you have it. I think my sins are catching up with me and that’s probably a very Catholic way to think and I am not Catholic. I wonder if God reads my blog. God, what are you doing up there? What am I doing, down here?

It seems like wellness is this new thing on the rise everywhere you go. I know how to be well, I just don’t want to be. I have time, I don’t want to make time. I want a burrito and sex and the TV. In that order, or reverse. Or all together at once. No, not all together at once. I’m kidding. Are you laughing? No? Okay.

I feel violent, lately. Like smashing avocados on the pavement violent. Part of wellness is being constructive and I’m not very good at that. Folsom has turned into an interesting place. Beautiful, expensive. You kind of always feel like you’re being followed because you see the exact same people every day all over town–at church, at the store, at the car dealership, in the bathroom. In your stall. Okay not that last part. But seriously. You feel side-by-side physically close to everyone you meet in this town–whether for five seconds out of your day or not. And yet, you don’t really know any of them. They are pictures in a book.

It’s time for change.








Long Lost Dreams

It’s weird when your parents divorce. It’s not that you feel sorry for yourself or even that it makes you see the world differently. It just changes things. It changes things when change has been a long time coming.
I have not done much online writing in some time, although I have been good about keeping an actual journal. I write a lot about relationships and work but other than that, not much. I was told by friends keeping a written journal would help me see and communicate with God better. I wonder if that’s true.
I think we all have a different idea of what bettering ourselves for Christ looks like. We have freedom in Jesus, so even though were free to sin, we should strive to be more like God and well, not sin. Better ourselves for His sake. But I really think a lot of  us are missing the point.
I was wondering this morning, what does that actually look like? Because I don’t think being more like Jesus is being more perfect. I don’t think it’s not eating cake for breakfast or not saying Fuck on a regular basis. I just don’t. I really don’t. 
All of us belong. We belong somewhere in the body of Christ. Not because of something we do or do not do but because of how Jesus transforms and renews us on a day to day to day to day…to day basis.
I’m 23 years old and I don’t know where I belong. But I do know that I do. Can you begin to understand?
Love takes on so many forms, man. Lying, sleeping, waking.
My mom came to me earlier and she said she threw my tights in the wash with black dye so they’d stay black.
Justin brought me coffee yesterday afternoon. He came back to work, after he’d already left work, to appease me and my caffeine needs.
Dad sent me money for a pizza on one of my days off a few weeks ago.
If I have learned anything this year it’s that love is the anchor to the soul and the greatest anchor is Christ.
No, not even I am exempt.
But I am sad. I feel the weight of long lost dreams that I don’t remember having. I’ve been awake for 5 minutes too long and they begin to become foggy.
I never knew that God loved me as much as He did, and does, until I saw the freedom He gave me to choose, and the hunger  I feel for Him, without Him. Oh to meet someone who hungers this way, too.
Maybe that’s what this year was for, in the Christian hemisphere. To work up an appetite. To hunger again, even to the point of tears of frustration.
Some will understand that. Some will not. But there is still love.


Coming Back Again

I think I’m a little jaded toward the expression “be intentional”.

Let me back pedal a little bit. I haven’t written much recently, due to my own lack of creativity and I suppose from the business of life. But not for lack of want of having stuff to say. Talking’s never been an issue for me.

Speaking of issues, back to being intentional. I’ve got beef with it. Maybe it’s my own distrust in people’s intentions with my heart or lack  thereof, but I do not like being told to be intentional.

What if? What if Justin took me to dinner? Let’s say he wants to enjoy my company in this scenario. He wants to feed me, relish me. Speak of his day and be heard, likewise hear about my day, and in this way we are making the best use of the time. Right?

But what if in my head it’s rather different. What if I’m being intentional because, I simply want to be fed, and that IS my intention? Beginning and end. I want to eat. Stuff my face.

So you see, being intentional means nothing. Or rather, it doesn’t matter if you are intentional with what you do and how you live, if your intentions are not right.

So how do I live intentionally then?  It all comes back. What does it come back to?

Love. And the Father.

My gift to you, and those around me, is being focused on an idea to the point I am a dog with a bone. This part of me was meant to be a gift, and it is, until it’s used for evil.

Like Justin tells me, let us make the best use of the time.


Things I Learned From My Boss

Life has been full of big, gooey, fat fistfuls of tears lately.

I say things I learned from my boss, even though to be truthful, I am still learning. Here they are.

1. It’s never the wrong time for an Icee.

2. Repairs can wait.

3. The deepest pain on this side of heaven, is the absence of another body.

4. The greatest gift you can give another person is your belief in them.

5.  Throw me to the wolves, but I will return. And when I do, I will lead the pack.

Do you know that not one sparrow falls without Him knowing? I take comfort in this now, even now. Not one. Not one. Repeat that to yourself, until you know it.

There is a time, I believe, in every woman’s life. A time where she realizes it is not about those who didn’t believe in her, but rather, those she never believed in.

Those opportunities, once they are gone, do not always come back. You reach a point where that hits you, whether you are  23 or 47 or 35.

I don’t believe in wishing. Wishes are for children. But just this once, I wish. You know how you can send someone to the store for icecream, and they bring it back like, ASAP because hello it’s icecream and you need that shit and two because it’s really a simple thing to just send someone to the store for you and owe them like, five bucks.

I wish we could do that with people.