Encyclopedia of a Life Lived

•December 19, 2011 • Leave a Comment

[A work in progress]

ORIENTATION ALMANAC

The following is an attempt to provide the reader with the basic climate, surroundings, and customs of my life.

Favorite Television Shows

Gilmore Girls

House, M.D.

Veronica Mars

America’s Next Top Model

Pushing Daisies

Project Runway

Most Frequently Used Words

Hi

            Bye

Okay   

            No

Yes

Most Frequent Dialogue with Coworkers

Hi, how are you?

Fine, thanks. You?

Hey, what’s up?

Not much, you?

Most Frequent Dialogue with Customers

Hi, I’ll be right with you.

Yes, I’d like a Half-Caf Triple Grande Nonfat No Whip Two and One-Third Splenda White Mocha Steamed to EXACTLY One-Hundred Eighty Three Degrees.

 

Things Shouted at Other Drivers when Angry

Bitch

Fucker

Fucking Bitch

BLINKERS, PEOPLE, BLINKERS!

 

Commonly Used Slang

Dude

Yo

Badass

Fo’ Sho’

 

Favorite Colors

Purple

Pink

Purple (again)

Languages Spoken

English

Portuguese

Spanish (un poco)

American Sign Language

Table: What my childhood tasted like:

Item Notes
Junior Mints Snuck into evangelism meetings.
Green beans If I didn’t finish them for dinner, I ate them for breakfast.
Catfish Fried, usually.
Cornish hens What my mom made for Thanksgiving the year I studied medieval history.
Homemade pie Mississippi Mud was my favorite, as I got older I discovered it was too rich. This is a sad day.
Candy cane ice cream It just wasn’t Christmas for me and my cousins without it.
Grape nuts The usual cereal fare at the house
Alpha-bits (not the frosted kind) The only remotely sugary cereal my mom ever bought
Cookie Crisp The cereal I got to eat at my dad’s house
Shake & Bake What my stepmom cooked every night we didn’t go out/order in. I never helped.
Coffee After holiday dinners, the cousins would get to drink “coffee” with the adults if we wished when we were twelve. It was roughly one-part coffee, thirty-parts whipped cream.
Gummy bears I’d stuff my pockets with these before we left the buffet.
Pot roast Grandmother made this on every holiday ever. There was never enough and it was always really dry and kind of gross.
Tapioca pudding For the first twenty years of my life, Grandmother made this for two of my cousins a few times a year as a special treat, but never me. It was my favorite, too.

CHILDHOOD TIMELINE

1986 – Mary Christa is born at North Charleston Naval Hospital, Charleston, South Carolina, on January 29th at 19:42. Head is in the top 1% largest. Mother will remind her of this for years to come.

1987 – Relocates to Virginia Beach, Virginia.

1988 – Went to the boardwalk, lots of pictures taken of Mary Christa. Perhaps more on this outing than all of the rest of childhood combined. Also, falls off hood of van onto head in driveway; subsequently loses all feeling in forehead.

1989 – Mary Christa discovers coffee mugs. Begins lifelong obsession with buying every cute* mug in which she comes in contact. *definition of “cute” subject to change

1990 – Steps on a bee.

1991 – Parents separate; Father moves out.

1992 – Begins acting career as Dead Girl in production of The Man Called Jesus at Kempsville Presbyterian Church.

1993 – Gets car sick for the first time while driving through the Smoky Mountains visiting Grandmother in Tennessee; throws up all over the back seat directly after breakfast at the Burning Bush restaurant in Gatlinburg.

1994 – Develops first crush on a boy. His name is Jeremy Van Valin. Mary Christa makes him a valentine that has two spiders on it in wedding attire and reads “I hope we can be newly webs, too!” Mother finds it before she can give it to him.

1995 – Mother runs out of decent ideas for biblical costumes for Mary Christa to wear to church’s annual harvest festival; goes as the Seven Days of Creation. This involves a basic angel costume with Genesis Bible verses and corresponding toys sewn to the body/dress and the halo; no wings worn.

1996 – Relocates to Chattanooga, Tennessee because ceiling of previous house caves in four days before Christmas due to frozen pipes.

1997 – Parents finally divorce. Mary Christa lives briefly with Father and Stepmother in Seattle, Washington. Learns how to manipulate to get what she wants. Example: Tantrum in the Navy Exchange = Tamagotchi.

1998 – Discovers the Newsboys (a contemporary Christian rock band). Remain favorite band/artist until she discovers secular music in college. This is also the year Mary Christa discovers metallic eye shadow and graphic tees with cartoons of cute animals.

1999 – Mother takes hoarding obsession to new levels in preparation of upcoming Y2K potential computer crash/end of world/Rapture. She also ruins Mary Christa’s life by not letting her go anywhere on New Year’s Eve.

2000 – Mary Christa joins a local Homeschool Mock Trial team, earns a Best Witness award in fall tournament. Becomes obsessed and stays in Mock Trial until graduation from high school. This, somewhat ironically, is a catalyst for her return to Not Awkward Fashion.

2001 – Fails eye test (left eye only) for Learner’s Permit. Goes to eye doctor, gets glasses. Retakes eye test with glasses, still fails with left eye. Gets doctor’s note, receives permit without passing eye test with left eye.

2002 – Mother teaches Mary Christa to drive on a 1997 manual transmission Chevy Cavalier. A lot of tears and screaming occur in the almost year-long process.

2003 – Dislocates a disk in her spine by falling out of a swing at park during Mock Trial practice.

2004 – Aunt passes away from a year and a half long battle with breast cancer. This is Mary Christa’s first encounter with death; seems unreal that someone who was just here is gone forever.

-End of childhood-

ALPHABETIZED EXISTENCE

A

ALLERGIES

The rash crept up my right arm and onto my neck before the nurse could get the test fluids off me. The scratches were supposed to stay untouched for twenty minutes to test the severity of my allergies before they removed them; only four minutes had passed and they feared I would go into shock any minute. The nurse swabbed a cotton ball up and down my arm as the room blurred and darkened and I slumped over the counter on which my up-turned arms rested. Moments later I returned to consciousness as a large needle of epinephrine was removed from my thigh and a cold cloth dripped down my neck and onto my shirt collar.

B

BIRTHDAY

When I was five, it was a big thing to have your birthday party at McDonald’s. I had a princess crown and we played in the ball pit (back before they were deemed unsanitary and banned). It was awesome.

BRACES

I didn’t get braces until I was twenty years old. I had them for three years. While waiting in the front office with a bunch of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds to be seen by the orthodontist, I would find solace when someone who looked my parents’ age walked in with braces, too. In retrospect, they probably didn’t get that same feelings of self-assurance.

BROTHER

When I was twenty-five, I found out I had an eight-year-old half-brother named Drue.

C

CANCER, BREAST

When I was eighteen, my Aunt Valerie (mom’s sister) died from breast cancer. I had never seen anyone die before. The night before she died, I sat in the sunroom and held her hand. It was swollen, bluish white, and cold. She turned her head and spoke to me as I stared at her in silence, unable to form words. Though incoherent, her voice had a shrill pitch and watery growl that fell through her cracked and swollen lips. She smiled as I told her how much I loved her.

CANCER, BRAIN

My uncle died (Valerie’s husband) from a form of brain cancer when I was twenty. I was driving the restaurant’s panel van when I got the call from my cousin. “He’s…he’s gone,” was all she could muster. We cried in silence and the road melted away for a moment. The rest of our conversation is a blur, but the exact stretch of road and the smell of the Mexican food in the back of the van combined with the stench of old, cracked leather seats come back immediately whenever I think about it.

D

DEPRESSING, THINGS THAT I THINK ARE

Driving past a funeral home and seeing the parking lot full.
When egg nog goes away after the holidays.
Looking at pictures of myself when I was nineteen.
Those abused puppy commercials with Sarah McLachlan singing “In the Arms of the Angels” in the background.
Misspellings and improper punctuation on published material.
My dog’s face when I leave the house.
Pop music.

E

EGGS

When I was twenty-three, I was diagnosed with an egg allergy. I love eggs. And egg nog. And everything made with eggs.

EVANGELICAL PREACHERS

I stood in a line shoulder to shoulder to with thirty or forty others at the front of the convention center waiting to be healed. Thousands stood in the stadium seats at our backs and looked on, waiting to a see a miracle. The evangelist stood before us, going down the line anointing each person’s head and praying for whatever ailment they mumbled at him when he asked. After a moment, each one would “fall out” under the spirit and men would catch him or her and lower them safely to the ground. As he smeared fragrant oil on my forehead and pushed me backwards, I wondered if the others felt as little as I did in that moment, but were too afraid to admit it, just like I was.

F

FOURTEEN

When I was younger, this age was very important to me. I stood at the calendar hanging on the wall in my room counting how old I would be each subsequent year, always stopping in the year 2000, when I would be fourteen. I could barely fathom being so old and grown up. Nothing particularly special happened this year, which was rather disappointing.

FONT

If you use Curlz MT, Comic Sans, or Papyrus fonts in any setting, I will instantly judge you.

FUCK

My mom once slapped me for using this word in front of her. I don’t remember why I said it, but I can still feel the sting of each of her fingers across the right side of my face.

G

GARNET

My birthstone is garnet. Synthetic garnets always look black, which is rather disappointing.

GAS, RUNNING OUT OF

Since age sixteen, I have run out of gas approximately twenty or so times. The scene is familiar: stranded on the side of the road, I grab my things and prepare to hike down to the nearest gas station a mile or two away. Once there, I grab the cheapest red gasoline container/siphon, pay the attendant (who is usually judging me with his/her eyes), and fill up my meager container at the pump outside. Once I haul that back to my car, being careful to not let it touch any part of my body or clothing beside my hand, I attempt to empty the contents into my gas tank while cars go whizzing past mere inches away. Then, in what I like to call the Drive of Shame, I must drive back to said gas station and fill up my tank.

H

HANDWRITING

One of the favorite pastimes of thirteen-year-old girls is to change their handwriting. I blame my unpopularity at this age on my inability to free-hand bubble lettering, which was especially popular.

HOMESCHOOL

Yes, I was homeschooled; kindergarten through twelfth grade. No, I was not unsocialized. No, I do not plan on homeschooling my future children.

HYPHEN

Around the age of four, one of my Sunday School teachers convinced me that my name was hyphenated. I have a stack of drawings and crafts from that time period all signed “Mary-Christa”.

I

IAN

If I had been a boy, I would have been named Ian Christopher.

I.D., FAKE

Bartenders and servers constantly accuse me of having a fake I.D. After discovering it’s not, they often tell me how grateful I’ll be that I look so young when I am older.

J

JARAMILLO

Jaramillo (Hod-uh-meal) is Old Spanish. It means “little hill.” It is not pronounced

Harr-uh-mee-yo, thanks.

K

KARDASHIANS

I hope that if I’m famous someday, it’s actually for something. I’ve never made a sex tape and my butt is average-to-small size, so those are out.

L

LINDSAY

For many years, I wished my name was Lindsay. I dreamed of one day changing my name to Lindsay. I would be so cool. Then, Lindsay Lohan came along (back when she was cute. Think: The Parent Trap years) and I WANTED MY NAME TO BE LINDSAY. I am so glad my name isn’t Lindsay.

M

MACARONI AND CHEESE

“We’re going to play a name game today! Everybody go around the circle and say their name and their favorite food that starts with the same letter.”

“My name’s Amanda and I like apples!” (And so on…)

My answer was always macaroni and cheese.

MARY

Never call me just “Mary”. That is a right reserved for the government and teachers on the first day of class.

N

NOTE ON COMPUTER MONITOR

The cleaning crew at my office likes to clean everything, including my computer monitors, with harsh chemicals. This leaves very obnoxious, very permanent streaks on my computer monitors. After several attempts to obscure my two monitors from the cleaning crew’s reach to no avail, I left on note on each monitor asking them to Please Don’t Clean the Screens, even including a little pictorial of a computer monitor with the circle around it and a slash through it since they don’t speak very much English. The next day, I found the notes in a slightly different place and my computer monitors streaked with cleaner. This seemed incredibly funny to me, as if I was just leaving myself a reminder to not clean the monitors because they were going to or something.

O

OCTOBER

I decided to name my yet-to-be-conceived first born daughter this after hearing Freelance Whales’ song Broken Horse.

P

PETS

I pressed my face up against the glass of Gadget’s bowl. She was a pretty, bright orange gold fish. The prettiest fish ever, maybe. I put my hand into the water and chased her around the bowl, my stubby little fingers not quite fast enough to catch her. After a few moments, I wore her out and was able to grab her by a fin. I pulled her out of the bowl and laid her in my other hand, marveling at her beauty and petting her like the dog I wished I had.

Q

QUITOXIC

David sat across from me at the coffee shop, musing about the emotions in art on a nearby wall. He kept using what I thought were very learned terms that I had never heard before, including quitoxic. He asked me what emotions they evoked in me, and (trying to impress him) I nodded my head and squinted my eyes slightly as I agreed that a particular piece was “very quitoxic, very quitoxic indeed. It has such a quitoxicity that tears come to my eyes when I look at it.”

R

RAPTURE, THE

For many years of my life, I lived in constant fear that the Rapture would happen at any moment. This was perpetuated by two main reasons: the Left Behind book series (by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins) and my mother’s constant reminding that I need not worry about college or growing up because we would be Raptured first.

S

SQUASH

Grandmother’s neighbor, Mr. Zimmerman, used to have a very large garden in his backyard, in which he grew lots of squash, among other things. One year I was forced to eat so much squash while visiting Grandmother that I threw it up back up rather violently. I haven’t been able to eat squash since.

T

TICKET, PARKING

In the state of Tennessee, if you do not pay a parking ticket within six months of its issue, they send you a nasty letter about paying your ticket which is now $101.29 within thirty days or they will kindly revoke your driver’s license for an entire year. Note: contesting this on the grounds that you never physically received the ticket in the first place and this is the first time you’ve heard about it will get you nowhere.

TIRE, FLAT

In my first three years of driving I got approximately seven flat tires. Once, I drove over a pair of wire cutters and one of my passengers shouted from the back seat “You ran over a baby!”

U

UVULA

The term for that thing that hangs down in the back of your throat and helps you swallow or something. Also, one of my favorite words.

V

VELOUR

As a little girl, every Christmas I got a new Christmas dress. It was always purple, always velour. I loved running my hand along the sleeves, feeling the fabric between my fingers.

W

WARTS

There are a lot of rather hilarious “methods” used to remove warts at home. My mother tired all of these in attempts to rid my left knee of the patch that had grown there, including (but not limited to): burying a dishrag in the back yard, applying castor oil to them, duct taping my knee, and duct taping banana peels to my knee, all to no avail. One day I fell going in to church and scraped them all off.

X

X MARKS THE SPOT

This has always been an intriguing phrase to me. Whenever I hear it referenced, I always imagine a cartoon pirate map leading to the spot, and a literal, giant black X on the ground marking the spot.

Y

YELLOW

Lauren and I raced up to the street corner and jumped out of the car. The Dead End sign was on the ground, but the same rush of stealing a street sign coursed through my veins. The sun reflected off the bright reflective yellow, blinding us for a moment as we stooped on either side of the sign to pick it up. We lifted it with ease, almost launching it off the ground with our adrenaline – it was surprisingly light. I popped the trunk open and we hurriedly slid it under the spare tire cover before slamming it closed again and speeding off, leaving only the smell of burnt rubber as I popped the clutch.

Z

 ZZZZZ

It has always puzzled me how “zzzz” came to be the slang for sleeping. Snoring doesn’t sound like that.

[The End.]

I’m back.

•August 24, 2011 • Leave a Comment

I intended to spend much of the summer writing, but alas, here I am back in Tennessee, behind a desk, without so much as writing a single syllable over the summer. I’ll try to fix that.

But it was a very summer lovely indeed.

Photo courtesy of Nicholas Laban.

found.

•June 8, 2011 • Leave a Comment

…and in those endless shades of grey, you will find the truth. A truth much more subtle and pliable than you ever imagined. One that contains both hope and healing. And it will be yours and yours alone.

Photo courtesy of Jill Casey

imagination.

•May 29, 2011 • Leave a Comment

On afternoons so long and sweet we forgot who we were and pretended to be Parisian debutantes. These were the happiest days of our lives, lost in the sights and smells of a hopelessly romantic illusion of an unattainable life. It was just as well; we wouldn’t have liked it half so much if it were true.

mother’s day.

•May 7, 2011 • Leave a Comment

a little night music floats across the water from a distant campground as he pours himself another cup of coffee.  he talks about his mother and I talk about mine.  we smile and drink and reminisce about the past.  our laughter fades into the night and we sit in silence, listening to the sounds of the crickets bouncing off the pines.  another year has passed without the faintest sense of regret.

retrospect.

•April 25, 2011 • Leave a Comment

It was on those summer nights so long ago that I wished I was someone else. Many years later I became someone else, but not the person I once wished to be. It was a strange feeling, to not know the person I was, nor the person I had become. I was merely a series of essays, written with an artful hand in elegant prose. I wasn’t a person, not really, but instead a good subject for a short story.

fingerprints and dust.

•April 13, 2011 • 1 Comment

It’s quiet in the house except for the sounds of the cars passing on the nearby highway.  It seems too quiet, but no one is home except for me, so I don’t know why it would be any louder.  The attic is dusty and hot, but it doesn’t bother me too much.  I sit in front of a mound of old boxes and a few bags tucked away in a dimly lit corner.  It’s surprisingly dark up here for late afternoon.

These boxes have been sitting in my attic for over a year now, completely untouched and mostly forgotten since I put them there.  It’s an eclectic group of packing materials; I can tell how little forethought went into packing this stuff up just by looking at it: a couple of orange crates and a used FedEx box, several plastic Target bags and paper Starbucks handle bags, and a large Bath & Body Works bag.

I pull the first box toward me and peer inside.  My heart flutters and sinks down into my stomach, like that feeling you get when you know you’re about to get bad news.  The box is mostly empty, which seems slightly odd.  There’s a picture of my best friend from a dance recital, a handful of plastic glow-in-the-dark stars, a magnet that reads “Hurrah! At last I’m 50!,” a bendy Bullwinkle figure and a small blue Christmas tree.  Under that are a few pictures of me from when I was little in Virginia Beach, a lock of hair from my first haircut tucked into a church offering envelope that reads “Apr 1990,” a koosh ball, and bits of paper with my handwriting circa 10-12 years old.

In the bottom of the box is one of my professional acting headshots, in a cheap pressed wood frame.  I’m twenty and smiling brightly, gleaming braces reflecting the sunlight.  The glass in the frame is shattered, which has scratched the picture in places.  The bottom of the box is full of glass pieces.  As I try to delicately pick up the frame, shards of glass attack my fingers and make them bleed in a few places.  Thankfully, there’s nothing underneath.

A car alarm goes off outside; presumably across the street.  It quiets down after a few minutes.

Memorable trash, that’s what most of this is.

I set that stuff aside and after running downstairs to attend to my bleeding fingers I look into a few of the bags.  They mostly contain my collection of National Geographic magazines that span probably ten years total.  One of the bags holds twenty or so CD cases, many of which don’t actually have any CDs inside.  Upon further inspection, I find that only three of them are mine.  In the very bottom of that bag are a couple of Happy Meal toys from the early 90s, loose photo negatives, and an empty envelope with my name on it.

Still another bag holds a collection of coloring book pages colored and ripped out along with a few used gift bags and crumpled poster of a play I produced a couple of years ago.  There’s also a paper turkey made out of a tracing of my hand that says “Mary Christa – age 4” on the backside, as well as some Valentine’s Day window clings.

I stop and sit back for a moment, taking it all in.  I’m not quite sure what to think about all this.  I take a quick survey of the attic.  Surrounded by Christmas decorations, old computer parts, and unused luggage, lay every tangible memory of my childhood.  Every colored picture, toy, and Sunday school craft project.  Everything about me from the last 25 years and accidentally left at my mother’s house is in these boxes.

My mother gave me all this stuff January before last.  I guess I shouldn’t say she gave them to me; rather, she dumped them in my always unlocked Jeep Wrangler while I was at work one evening.  It had been almost a year since our already fragile relationship had completely fallen apart and I had moved out.  This wasn’t the first time she had done this (it was actually more like the sixth or seventh, I think), but it turned out to be the last.  Each time before it had been lesser items, like junk mail or an old computer monitor that I had given her – mostly impersonal stuff.  It hurt, but not like this.  At Christmas she left a framed poster that she had bought before everything happened.  On the wrapping paper she had written MERRY CHRISTMAS in the harshest block lettering she could muster.  I could feel her anger through the Sharpie marks.  These items had been accompanied by an extra special note left on my seat that simply read: I figured you’d want these since you aren’t my daughter anymore.

I plop my head back on a Rubbermaid container sitting behind me and take a deep breath.  Dude, the basset hound next door, belts out a howl.

I can do this; I just have to keep going.  Next box.

I crawl around one side of the pile to look into the largest box and put my face into a large spider web.  I’ve got to get better lighting up here.  I snort and sputter while grabbing wildly at my face and hair for a moment before determining that there isn’t a spider crawling on me after all.  I chuckle a little at myself from that display of arachnophobia, which lightens my mood.  Maybe I can enjoy this.  After all, this is kind of like an extreme display of vanity, everything here is mine, about me, or I gave it as a gift to my mom at some point.

I turn the box over and start from the bottom.  Several school text books and work books from my homeschooling days (I was homeschooled all the way from kindergarten to high school graduation), end up on top of everything.  Beneath those are some of my favorite childhood books, which include several Dr. Seuss books.  Fox in Socks was the first book I ever learned to “read” at around age three (and by “read” I really mean memorized from the amount of times I made my parents read it to me).  This is where things begin to get really strange, even for my mother.  Under the books are an old pencil box, a package of seed beads, a partial sheet of Kiss Me, I Don’t Smoke stickers, an undeveloped roll of film, an old church bulletin from Kempsville Presbyterian, a broken pair of sunglasses, and several sheets of unused mailing labels.

WHAT.

But it doesn’t stop there.  There are countless other items that I have no idea why they are included with this stuff.  The plastic pop beads I understand.  The flower-shaped candle from the bathroom that I didn’t even particularly like or the unused post-it notes, not so much.  And there’s so much more.  So much that I cannot even begin to catalogue it all.  The trash in the other boxes now seems intentional – but why?

My roommate’s words from when I first came into repossession of all this stuff last year comes back to me: it’s like you’re being erased.

I only half believed her then.  Now that I’m looking at everything I’ve ever so much as touched, I get it.  I’m still in disbelief, but I get it.

This realization hits me like a panic attack.  Oh, god.  I am being erased.  I begin to frantically rip through the remaining stuff scattered in front of me and yet another bag just beyond it.  I find medical records, financial aid notices, and even some college letters.  I look at each one and hastily toss it aside to look at whatever I get my hands on next.  My heart is racing and I can barely catch my breath.  I’m too panicked to give over and start crying just yet.

There’s one big document missing – my birth certificate.  There’s a reason for that.  The day I moved out of my mom’s house, a few days after she originally disowned me for getting engaged and having the audacity to try and tell her, I found my birth certificate ripped to shreds and thrown on the floor.  Alongside this I also found all the pictures of me that had hung about the house until now in an upside down stack in the middle of the floor, some of frames now broken.  Not long after that, my grandmother told my cousin that she only had nine grandchildren now.  I had broken one of the Ten Commandments and she could no longer claim me.

I still don’t quite understand that one.

I continue to ransack what’s left of the heap, crawling around on my hands and knees.  I’m covered in dust and other attic debris and sneezing nearly uncontrollably.  I can’t say whether my bleary eyes are caused by my allergies or tears; probably both.  After a few minutes of this frenzy, I reach the final box that had been hidden by the massive stack of National Geographic magazines tossed in front of it. It’s shallow and heavy, and taped tightly shut.  I begin to peel the tape off and it shifts and clunks like china.

As night falls the road sounds subside and succumb to the growing chirps of crickets and bull frogs.  I sit back on my heels as it dawns on me what’s inside.

A box of two dozen or so thrift store coffee mugs is generally considered tacky back-up drink ware (at best) to the average twenty-something (really anybody, if I’m honest with myself).  For as long as I can remember, I have always loved coffee mugs.  This love led to a love for coffee itself, and pretty much anything one can drink out of a mug.  We were poor when I was little, so most of our shopping was done at thrift stores.  On almost every trip to the Purple Heart Thrift Store, I would scurry off to the kitchen section in search for treasures.  I gave most of these precious coffee mugs as gifts to either my mom or dad, even though they were always purchased with their money.  As I grew older, the coffee mugs got nicer, often purchased from Starbucks or Pier One, but it was always coffee mugs.

And here they sit in a box in front of me.  All those coffee mugs that I gave to my mother.

There are two layers of coffee mugs inside.  I begin pulling them out of the box and placing them on the floor beside me one by one.  A few are chipped cracked, some of which can be attributed to age and wear, some of which I’m sure is because of the way they have been transported in this box, without padding of any sort.  Two of my favorites are the Chocloasaurus and the Shopasaurus mugs, based off an 80s comic strip about dinosaurs with personality stereotypes.  I found the pair when out shopping for my mom’s birthday with my grandmother probably about 15 years ago and instantly fell in love.  I kept the Chocloasaurus mug for myself and eagerly presented the other to my mother a few days later on her birthday.  I had always wanted a mug with my name printed on it, and this was the next best thing.  We drank out of these mugs together on every special occasion until a few years ago. Also in the box is the full collection of Garfield glass mugs that Burger King sold in the early 90s, many of which still have the black crayon price markings on the bottom from the thrift store.

The second layer has several World’s Greatest Mom and I Love You This Much… mugs in it.  It also has a few mugs that I’m pretty sure she got from office or church Christmas parties, definitely not from me.  Only a few of the mugs in this box actually belong to me, but at this point I’ve stopped trying to think through all this logically.

This is what makes up my life, I guess.  A bunch of stuff eventually stowed away in attics and closets that nobody needs, but can’t seem to get rid of because of the memories they evoke.  Maybe everybody’s lives are like that.  Newspaper clippings, old costume jewelry, and well-loved toys with no material worth become priceless artifacts of someone we cherish.

I feel like I should cry, but I just can’t seem to.  It’s a different kind of hurt; a dull ache that flares up in quiet moments and lurks in the back of my mind on birthdays.  An incredulous pain.

It’s surreal to think that I’ve been erased to nothing more than fingerprints and dust in my own mother’s house.

a coffee challenge.

•April 7, 2011 • 3 Comments

In case you missed my updates on Twitter, yesterday I decided to see just how much coffee I could consume in one afternoon shift.  Here’s how it went, in pictures:

I started off the afternoon right with a simple doppio con panna with a pump of mint (since our whipped cream isn’t sweetened).

Next, it was a Double Shot on Ice, a recipe re-creation from my old employer, Starbucks.  I’ve missed those.

Next up: doppio espresso with a little raw sugar.  Delish.

On to a triple-shot vanilla nonfat latte, one of my all-time favorites.

And finally, to end the day right, an iced quad caramel macchiato (with extra caramel!).

That’s right, kids, I had 14 shots of espresso in around 6 hours.  Don’t try this at home, I’m a trained professional.

:)

music for papers and rainy days.

•March 28, 2011 • Leave a Comment

I’ve got this stuck in my head, thought I’d share it with you.

on cloudy days.

•March 27, 2011 • Leave a Comment

hydrangea leaves and broken dreams.

we never again thought of those days lying the grass, dreaming of what we would someday become.

we grew up and left our childish dreams behind.

we loved, we lost, and continued on.

a broken vase of tiny flowers as our only reminder.

a shadow of what we could have been.

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