The Idle Swim

Right now I’m taking a creative writing class (one of three that help me finish up my masters degree this summer).  One of the exercises was to create an “Idle Essay”—or rather, an essay that explores a mundane event with frequent philosophical tangents.  Before writing we studied Thoreau, Woolf, and a few others. Below is my far-from-perfect version.  What better way to jump back into blogging?

 

The Idle Swim

            This is Arizona, and it’s summer.  Each year this season brings sweltering sun.  It also brings a strong desire within its inhabitants to escape the bitterness of the heat.  I find it strange, as an Arizona native, to connect this hellish environment with the imagery produced by popular culture—an image of summer being a glorious blooming of fun and perfect weather.  Today is June 22, so right now we are diving in to the storm, so to speak, a journeying into the inferno.  Mid June means Mid July is knocking on our door and July doesn’t bring wine to a party, she brings fiery blades of sunshine.  What a party girl.

            It’s on this day that I decide my escape shall be the pool.  I will combine both a much needed workout (damn the summer’s association with bikinis) and a welcome respite from the heat.  But, for me, the idea of going to the pool comes with some trepidation.

            I have spent a lifetime in a pool.  Starting to swim competitively at age thirteen, I was bound by talent and the promise of success to see where the road would take me.  Until I was twenty-two, I spent roughly 3-5 hours a day in the pool, year-round, regardless of sun, wind, or rain.  In the end it earned me a scholarship and the title of MVP for a division I, top-25 team.  I might have also gotten a work-ethic out of the deal.  Perhaps I also earned a more acute sense of the boundaries of my body, and the levels I could push myself to both physically and mentally.  I guess I got more than I expected.

When I left the world of swimming, I did so because I was ready for some new adventure to conquer.  Since then, it has been some years since I’ve touched the water—but today it calls my name.  I suit up: latex swim cap, some bad-ass looking goggles (not the kind that make me look like an alien), and a polyester blend suit (it lasts longer than lycra).  I stand on the precipice, ready to jump into the relief that gurgles and splashes below—the lane lines doing a poor job of jailing the water’s impulsive energy.   Here goes nothing.

My initial response to the water is immensely positive.  It’s cool and warm simultaneously and it wraps around my body; the familiarity of it feels like my mother’s arms when she hugs me as I enter my childhood home.  It’s beyond comforting.  My body instinctively, rhythmically sets into its old patterns and I’m off.

It is moments like this that I wonder about past lives, and if the theories are true.  Usually I think it’s a bunch of hooey, but as I slip through the water, grace in motion, I find a sense of peace.  If I did have a past life, it had something to do with water.  Perhaps I was a pirate, or a mermaid, or a fisherman, or an explorer.

I decide to do my first test—and time myself—like old times.  The water expresses my enthusiasm in choppy waves of energy.  I touch the wall, and, and, and then I think “…wait, let me take my goggles off…no, that can’t be right.”  It takes me twenty seconds longer than it did six years ago to swim one-hundred yards of freestyle.  Ouch.

It’s an interesting thing to so intensely feel how far you have fallen from your former glory.  I suspect some people feel it when they look at old photographs and realize they have gained weight or have wrinkles.  These changes are expected.  I was amazing, now I am merely average.  This is what it means to grow old?  Do I still find happiness here?

I finish my workout and as I launch myself from the water onto the scorching deck, I come to an epiphany.  I got what I came here for: a workout and some chill factor.  Another thought tickles my noggin: perhaps we are meant to fall, to become gratifying underachievers.  While this workout carried the pressures of my past, next time I know what to expect, and maybe I’ll even begin to climb the mountain path back toward success.  Or maybe next time, I’ll just sunbathe.

 

“We Met Online”

“We Met Online”

Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the digital age of dating…and its consequences.

I’m out to dinner with friends.  The conversation is light and jovial, laughter resonates among us and a few beers give my cheeks that warm, euphoric glow.  I’m relishing this moment.  What makes it even better (beyond the beer, friends, and freedom of summer) is that on my left I’ve got a good man, and he’s swimming in the same atmosphere with me. We are drinking in the night together.  And like a missing puzzle piece he fits seamlessly into my life—come to think of it—maybe the euphoric glow is him, and not the beers.

And then it happens.  The conversation takes a turn.  “So how did you two meet?”

We glance at each other.  Nervously.  How does one answer this question and make it sound romantic?

“We met by a waterfall the mist giving life to our affections”

“It all started with a moonlit stroll upon the shore as the waves lapped at our exposed ankles”

“We were in line at the coffee shop and, like fate sewing us together, we had the exact same drink order.”

But we don’t have that story.  Ours has much less pomp and circumstance:

“We met online.”

“Oh.  Well good for you two!”

This is the moment where I feel swindled out of our love story.  I want to say, “Wait!  Hold on!  Let me tell you things—ROMANTIC things!!  Things that will make your heart go pitter-pat and you’ll uncontrollably sigh, “awwwwwwwwwwww!”  But I don’t—instead I order another beer.

So…why am I so upset about all this?  We met online…it’s cute, right?  Not so much.  And here’s why:

That phrase neglects so many glorious moments.  It neglects our transfusion of music—he shared his, and I shared mine, and we shared ours; like a blood pact these melodies have embedded themselves into our lives.  It neglects a first date at an Ethiopian restaurant where we shared in the awkwardness of experiencing a new culture.  It neglects a sweet Arizona morning while we swim around in a cold creek , our limbs spun about in a whirlpool at the base of a waterfall.  It neglects soft kisses in a tent, curled up on an air mattress, the wind and rain tapping out a new song. It neglects so much.

But if these experiences are the consequences of meeting an amazing man online—then I’ll take them.  And I’ll proclaim loudly, “WE MET ONLINE!” Because, in this case, one doesn’t happen without the other.

So beware my readers, the consequences of meeting a man online might mean you’ll have to admit it …and then, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to live it.

The Art of Online Dating—Part Duex

Author’s note:

Let me start by answering your burning questions about my relationship with online dating.

1. Yep, it sounds impossible, but I am still single.  I know!  It’s crazy, but true.
2. Online dating is exhausting.  No pansies allowed. It’s like getting a second job with the motto “manage your time well and choose wisely.”
3. Online dating and I have been on a break—not a break up—a break.  The past few weeks O.L.D. has taken a backseat and allowed my life to drive for a while.  It’s been a nice respite.
4. All of the conversations below are ones I started never really finished…cuz, again, Life was behind the wheel.  And in Lindsayland, when Life is driving, you sit down, shut up, and enjoy the ride.

So, here I am again.  Doing what I do: being goofy—publicly.  And you get to read along.

For your reading pleasure I will keep with the same format that I’ve started in my other blog.  I will classify the conversation, offer a brief note, and let you watch the show.  All screen names have been changed to protect the innocent. :0)

Conversation Style #4—Compliment her appearance, then she’ll notice

Okay.  So this one’s a repeat, and it’s a repeat for a reason.  In my last blog, ladiesman contacted me, the emails were short-n-sweet and then I got busy, I never replied and things fizzled.  Until I found the following note in my inbox.

Ladiesman: supercute!

Me:  I think you’ve told me that before.

Ladiesman: yeah, i have said it before. just trying to get your attention.

Me:  Well done.

Conversation Style #5—Witty and Sarcastic

I have to admit, this one did get my attention.  Some girls run from things like “randomness” and “awkward”.  Not me.  This conversation was just good fun. :0)

KlingonTaco5:

I too have been to a Star Trek convention. Ok…maybe a couple. And to be perfectly honest…they kind of doubled as family reunions.  Yes. I am a HUGE nerd. Try not to be jealous.  But I also have non-nerd qualities. Like. For example…well…at the moment all I can think of is sci fi I just watched, the physics book I just read, and the comic book I’m trying to write. But trust me, the second I do something non-nerdy, you’ll be the first to know.

Me:

Dearest Taco,
I’m impressed. Here’s why:
1. You have ninja sarcasm skills. Excellent.
2. You probably have a pretty decent zombie apocalypse plan. We should compare notes.
3. Ender’s Game = awesome
4. The Fifth Element = you have a solid appreciation of quality Bruce Willis films. I like that.
5. Airborne Toxic Event + Iron and Wine = hawt.
Kudos to you, sir. Kudos.

Hugs, Linz

KlingonTaco5:

I’m equally impressed. Here’s why:
1. You make lists. I too make lists. Sometimes I follow them.
2. You use grammar math (ie music 1 + music 2 = positive adjective)
3. You have a zombie apocalypse plan. Mine involves taking a defensive position on the second floor of IKEA.
4. You called me ‘Dearest Taco’. It sounds like the beginning of a Dear John letter to a Taco Bell meal. ‘Dearest Taco, it’s not you, it’s me. I’ve discovered burrito supremes and I’m never coming back. Love, Customer #284’
Also, facebook keeps telling me today is supposed to be the end of the world. Doesn’t give me much time to finish off my bucket list. I don’t suppose you happen to have a giraffe, a pair of skis, some dice, a shotgun, and a couple gallons of ky jelly? Don’t worry, there’s a perfectly innocent and sane reason for all of those.
High five + bro chest bump,
Taco

Me:

Taco,
What’s even more impressive:
1. We can continue to hold a conversation by enumerating our points. We should be friends.
2. My Zombie Apocalypse Plan (ZAP for short) involves a boat. I just hope that the undead don’t get all Pirates of the Caribbean on my ass and try to deep-sea walk to my oasis. I have to admit, your ZAP sounds better–you’d have an endless supply of Swedish meatballs: perfect survival food.
3. How did your apocalypse go? Mine was pretty anticlimactic; I was really hoping for more. But, hey, whatcha gonna do?
4. BTW: I hear they sell KY jelly at Costco. You should look into that for your next rapture-like situation.
I hope your weekend treated you well?
Fist pound blow it up,
Linz

KlingonTaco5:

1. You know what’s even more impressive? (Are you ready for this?)
a. Sub-bullets
b. And their unnecessary use thereof.
2. Your ZAP has me intrigued, but I see flaws. Namely:
a. Phoenix’s distance from large bodies of water
b. Islands are scarce in Arizona due to the need for water (reference bullet a)
3. I’m not above criticism of my own ZAP though. For example:
a. IKEA furniture makes a terrible and flimsy barricade.
b. IKEA furniture makes for terrible and flimsy weapons.
c. IKEA furniture makes for terrible and flimsy furniture.
Good thing we can’t send powerpoint presentations on this thing. Otherwise our bullets might get out of hand. And by out of hand I mean AWESOME.
Hit me hi, hit me low…oooo…too slow,
Taco

Conversation Style #6—The Jackass

This one, oh, oh, ohwow, THIS ONE got me a little fired up.  Who emails someone and says: “prove yourself to me” so blatantly?  I wanted to say “hey, dude, be more deceptive like the rest of us and only judge in between the lines of polite conversation.”  Yeesh!  Seriously.  So, instead I engaged the Sarcasm Laser and smite him thus :0) I assure you, most of what I said about myself isn’t true… mostly.

DBandmore:

Why should I converse with you over other women? What makes you different, more special, more unique?

Me:

Well to startl, I ride to work on my unicorn named Starlight; it’s environmentally friendly.  Secondly, I’ve done time, serious time, for a little incident in Mexico with a few Chinese rugby players and some small rodents—it’s a long story.  Also, I’m a practicing member of the Cult of Spaghetti—yeah, I worship carbs—you should come to church with me.  Oh, and I like cats too.

DBandmore:

Oh.  Okay.  Cats are good.

Me:

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Rule #1: Please Don’t Moo at the Children

This is a piece I completed a few years ago.  This is a true, exaggerated story, but I’ve changed the names. I thought it appropriate to post  as we (my students and I) approach finals week.  It reminds me of what’s really important: silliness.

——————–

Rule #1: Please Don’t Moo at the Children

 Bovine mimicry is not my profession.  It’s just my talent.  I’m an English teacher by trade and I don’t normally expend my gift on the frivolities of day-to-day life—I would never be so silly. No, no, no.  No. Silliness. Here.  English has rules, education has standards, and I’m first and foremost a professional workingwoman.  So, my aptitude for impersonations of cow-like behavior was laid silently to rest—sleeping in the recesses of my mind, cuddling next to my childhood.  Never to be seen again.

Until I met Sandra Canol.

Sandra was a unique student.  Her aptitude?  The lack of a mental filter—she vocalized the terse, tactless, true statements that never left the confines of most people’s minds.  She told me her medicine did not have a chance to “kick-in” by the time she arrived in my zero hour honors sophomore English class.  So my warnings to this typical behavior were polite and I did not (usually) fire upon her the wrath of the laser-gaze for disrupting our course work.  Sandra had an excuse, so I chose not to singe her soul with my secret weapon (The Glare).  An awkward smile and corrective-comment-through-clinched-teeth sufficed.  Teachers who follow the rules don’t embarrass their students.

It was Sandra who exposed my gift to the world—and students—during finals week just before the holiday season.  “Finals week”…what a retched phrase…is what most people associate with stress, anxiety, and lack of sleep…for the students.  People imagine the teachers stirring a cauldron, maniacal laughter echoing from the walls of their dungeon, as they conjure impossible test questions and plot their students’ demise.  I assure you, finals week is just as hellacious for the educators as it is for the students.  By the time students are taking their exams we have all gone batty.  And, inevitably, every teacher snaps.  This is how my talent surfaced and it was Sandra who provided the opportunity for my mind leap off the cliff of sanity.

Before we go any further I should educate you on some rules that my students are expected to follow while taking their exam.  We all know that rules (like: “i” before “e” except after “c”) are necessary for all working conditions.  1) No talking during the exam. 2) When you are done with your exam, don’t talk.  3) No nonverbal communication will be permitted.  Are there any questions?

It’s 7:00 a.m. and most of the students have finished their exam, and most of those students are laying their heads on their desks sleeping.  Good—they seem to be following the rules.  Everything is going according to plan.

Then, a glimmer of movement lingering in my peripheral vision.  Two students are communicating.  Nonverbally.  Laser gaze set on “stun” Ali and Jessica are zapped.  The result was effective—laser gaze powering down.

Minutes pass in perfect rule-following bliss.  But again Ali and Jessica tempt fate and try to finish their conversation without words.  I realized they are bored but that’s no excuse.  Firing up the laser gaze I look long and hard, and when they do not feel my gaze I offer a mild grunt of dissatisfaction to catch their attention.

Sandra’s head pops up quizzically.  She stares at me for a moment like a kitten playing with a curious piece of scotch tape—head tipping side to side, uniting ideas together.  Then her face brightens with discovery as she proudly announces, “That, like, sounded like a cow!”  The class stares back befuddled.  She clarifies, “You know, she like, sounded like the cows when they moo.”  The class is horrified…did Sandra Canol just tell the teacher (in more or less words) that she sounds like a cow?

Silence—perfect, rule-abiding silence—fills the room as all the eyes cover the span between Sandra and me.  They try to read my reaction.  “Sandra, others are still taking their exam.  Please remain quiet.”  She suddenly realizes what she has done.  For ten minutes the class sits in angelic cooperation—no one makes eye contact, no one wishes to stand out, all are subdued by Sandra’s unintentional snub.

But all good things come to an end; Ali and Jessica are back to communicating once the sting of Sandra’s situation has faded from the classroom—but the rest of the class still complies to their vow of silence.

For the last time I engage the laser gaze—I grunt to catch their attention—and all the stress of the week is expressed in one prolonged “mooooooooooooo!”—in perfect imitation of the bovine species.

This time everyone’s head pops up quizzically.  And again, stunned silence christens the room—until I crack a smile.  Uproarious laughter is issued from everyone.  Tears spring from the eyes of Sandra and Ali, Jessica’s hand flies to her mouth attempting to control a fit of unladylike giggles; camaraderie fills the room.  We all needed that moment to fracture.  It offered the chance to relieve the encumbering stress that gripped us for the week.  For that shining moment everyone (including me) broke all my rules.  It was exactly what we needed.   Sometimes rules are made to be broken.

Doppelganger

So here is my next example of fiction.  To be honest, I wrote this with only a slight idea of where to head next.  We will see where this little snip-it ends, if ever at all…. :0)

————————-

The bell on the door chimed, signaling the staff to a customer’s arrival.  A man with a nametag reading “Henry” came around the corner from a small storeroom in the back of the establishment.  He was wiping his hands with a dirty rag.  As soon as his eyes lifted from his hands and saw the guest, he stopped.  Henry clinched his jaw and hardened his gaze.  This visitor was most unwelcome.

Arty took a few steps into the store and ignored the rude behavior from Henry.  He was used to this sort of treatment—but he had to try and get service somewhere.  Haskill and Sons was one of the last places in town Arty was willing to try.  He knew of Henry Haskill growing up, but never associated with him or his family.  This discomfort would be worth it if he could get what he needed.

Since his last entrance into the store (almost twelve years ago) Arty noticed how much the interior had changed.  The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, the lights flickered, and there was a rancid smell emanating from the back storeroom.  Henry, too, looked worn down.  It seems the prowess and pride normally associated with Haskill and Sons had been depleted in the past few years.  Business was bad.

Henry took his post behind the register—but he looked more like a guard dog.  He continued to watch, wordlessly, behind a furrowed brow as Arty roamed the store.  Arty limped toward the aisle just outside Henry’s view.  His hunger had been urgent, and needy; it threatened to swallow him whole.  He grabbed a bag of chips—just about the only thing he could afford.  His leg trailed behind him, his breathing was labored, but he arrived at the register.  Henry had his arms folded in front of his chest.

Arty fished around in his pocket for loose change.  He held his hand forward with the coins, eyes downcast, waiting for Henry to release him from the silence.

“Here, take it. I need to eat and you need the money.”  No response came from behind the counter.  “We both win here.  This is all I have.”

“I won’t take your money.”

“Please.”

“Get out.”

Arty’s hand was still outstretched, waiting for an action to take place that would never happen.

The Art of Online Dating

I did it. 

I got myself one of those online dating accounts.  Despite knowing there’s a social stigma attached to online dating, I did it anyway.  This stigma is a thought I don’t understand.  I don’t find ANY shame in online dating.  I mean, how else am I to meet someone?  Most the other teachers are married, so finding someone at work is out—I have primarily female friends, and they’re HOT but not my thing—the other friends are already part of a couple.  I tried the church thing—the result of which was a relationship with a man I affectionately termed “Psycho Christian.”  Ahhh, but that’s another blog.  There are other options I suppose, but none so convenient and cheap (because everything comes down to time and money, doesn’t it?).

Online dating is like living in the dorms in college—it’s one of those experiences you need to have at some point in your life.  It’s not because it’s a good experience, or a bad experience…it’s just something that teaches you a lot about yourself.

I feel like I’m my own little science experiment in this process—I monitor my reactions, my thoughts—as if I wasn’t the one experiencing them.  Sometimes I surprise myself.  After eight hours of working with needy teenagers (who I adore) I come home and see what’s turned up online.  Tired, delusional and under the stress of selling my “best” traits online I sometimes succumb to insanity.  This fortunately (for you) produces some unusual responses to the well-meaning men who message me.  I’ve shared some of the conversations below.  I’ve also begun to categorize types of conversations—see the notes at the beginning of each entry.  Oh, and I’ve changed the screen names to protect the innocent.

Conversation Style #1: The Booty Call

Note: after offroader345 messaged me I checked out his profile.  I was astonished to find that entire thing did not have one, not even one, punctuation mark or capitalized word.  It was a very stream-of-consciousness approach; how modern!

offroader345:

hey can we get know each other a lot more

 Me:

*coyly* are you flirting with me? :0)

I love a man who uses punctuation sparingly.

 offroader345:

Hey can we get know each other a lot more?

 Me:

Adorable.  God, those question marks get me every time ;0)

offroader345:

hey do you have yahoo messenger

Me:

What happened to the question mark?  You really had me interested.

No messenger for me, sorry.

————————————

Conversation Style #2: The Flirt

Note: sometimes I get conversation starters that throw me for a loop.  I don’t know how to respond, so, I usually turn to my friend Sarcasm and then go off in some random direction.

 Azdavidguy:

So how cute is ur tushy?

Me:

It’s really, really, really cute.   It’s so adorable that I had to get it trademarked.  So everywhere I go a little ^TM follows my butt around.  It’s in the process of being registered…so pretty soon a little ® will be tattooed noticeably on the right cheek.  That way no one tries to steal it.

Hugs, Linz

 Azdavidguy:

Why the right cheek is my question?

 Me:

The right is always right ;0)

—————————————————

Conversation Style #3: Keeping It Interesting

Note: Many, many conversations start and end without ever saying anything at all.  In these instances, I choose the path of least resistance—I mirror.

Imaguy222:

Hey

Me:

Hey you.

Imaguy222:

What are you doing?

 Me:

I’m on this dating website called ******.com answering emails with really thrilling people.  You?

 Imaguy222:

Nothing much

Me:

Cool.  Sounds like fun.

Imaguy222:

Yeah.  It is.

Me:

Totally

 Imaguy222:

You wanna come over a play wii?

Me:

Since we’ve built such great rapport, I don’t see why not.

**(I never actually went…btw)

——————————————–

Conversation Style #4: Compliment Her Physical Appearance–That’ll Make Her Notice

Note: Despite my smartass reply, ladiesman followed up his comment with some conversation about my blog—thus he achieved redemption and endeared himself in one fell swoop.

ladiesman:

supercute..

 Me:

Me or you?

—————————————-

So, here’s the moral of the story kids: beyond all this silly business and these conversations that haven’t lead anywhere…in the space between I’ve actually met a few rad people.  Real people with personalities, with charisma, with charm.  And even if nothing ever comes of these conversations, at least they give me hope.  When I shared the idea for this blog with a sage friend she offered some thoughts…and I think they are the best note to end on:  “Only writers or parole officers should do online dating. Good thing you’re a writer; otherwise, you’d be totally unprepared.”  (thank you Kerri :o)

Formed Thought

My first poetry post :0) Hooray!

Formed Thought

–

Bits of black, unformed chaos bleed on white canvas.

They have been torn, ripped, from the inky abyss of absence

and lay gasping—sucking in the promise of formed thought.

–

Solitary and alone the symbol drowns in an ocean of snowy paper.

The power and energy with which he was struck on the surface dims

and falters unsupported.

–

and then…

–

Beside him another of his kind is violently set.

Their relationship already strong. They bond, united in form.

and others lie down…soon they are a rich sea of glistening ideas.

–

They are permanent, unmoved, unshaken.  Solid.

And what was the capricious intangible idea is now a wall of stone,

ink and paper.

–

A Call for Courtesy—Women’s Restrooms

A Call for Courtesy—Women’s Restrooms

Ladies, foreign and domestic, young and old, beautiful and plain: it is time that we realized we have wronged our own gender.  We have sinned against our own kind.  We have succumbed to cattiness.  And now…we must redeem our reputation, and it begins with a little courtesy in the public bathrooms.

Keep in mind, ladies, that throughout this whole piece I advocate a placing a priority on what is most important in public restrooms: defecation.

1. There is no reason to have conversation with the resident of another stall while you are currently occupying a stall…especially while there is a line of women waiting.  Let’s face it: within the stall you have a job to do, a mission to complete, and you shall complete it with efficiency.  Any and all conversation should be conducted at least five feet from the stalls.  This means all gossip mongering will have to cease for a few minutes of blissful silence.

2. If your son can reach the sink, turn on the water, and wash his hands without any assistance: he is too old to be in the women’s restroom.  I realize there are special cases and situations.  These rules are loose.  But I’m just sayin’ he’s probably old enough not to have mommy wipe his tush and keep him under strict surveillance.  I know you don’t want to leave your baby boy—after all…it’s so cute when he pokes his head under my stall and declares “My mommy has one of those!”  Furthermore, when your ten-year-old giggles uncontrollably at any sounds made—and then proceeds to mimic the sounds loudly, obnoxiously…I can’t help but think to myself: I love gender schema, and consequently boys/men should go to their own restroom.

3. No cuts.  So, when there are only four of us in line, and you conveniently join your friend at the front, the other three of us are acutely aware of this transgression.  This is not a Mumford and Sons concert with 10,000 drunk people—you can’t just slip into the front.  Your action causes a reaction: passive aggressive behaviors.  Usually no one will directly confront you.  Instead we will just ninja your soul.

Here’s how it looks:  2^nd girl in line (Sally). Rolls eyes, crosses arms, pops hip, purses lips.  Glances sympathetically back at 3^rd girl (Debbie).  Debbie: loud enough for the cutter to hear but still pretending to whisper, “Ohmaigawd.  Who does she think she is?  Is she seriously cutting us?”  Sally: still loud enough for everyone to hear “She is.  She totally cut us.”  They look over their shoulders (arms still crossed) and give the cutter a severe, solid appraising look.  It’s a look that conveys that the cutter is worth nothing.  That she is slime, disgusting. Now, if the cutter has any self-respect, she will remain at the front of the line.  Though, truth be told, Sally and Debbie have rattled her.  Debbie and Sally resort to Plan B: total annihilation.  Sally: “Did you see her butt?”  Debbie: “I know!  I don’t even know how she fits in that stall!”  They both giggle conspiratorially.  It’s been done.  The cutter’s soul has been ninja-ed; evidence of this can be heard as her sobs echo through the stall doors.

No one wants any of this sad business.  The solution is simple—go to the back of the line.

4. Mirror space, make-up application, and hand washing.  I realize that our vanity trumps most things.  And I’d hate, just hate, for you to have to put on your lip-gloss without the assistance of a mirror so I can wash my hands in the sink below it.  It’s not like you’ve put your lipstick on sans mirror nearly 1,000 times—it’s darn near impossible, we all know.  However, if you move about six inches to the right of left of the sink you can apply your make up and the line of women hoping for a chance at good hygiene and sanitary conditions can clean their hands too!

5. Restroom graffiti shows a lack of class.  I’m not sure what goes through our heads when we etch “Sally + Johnny = forever” into the bathroom stall.  It must be something like this: “Do-ti-do…I’m peeing…hey, I love Johnny…I think he’s cute…still peeing…I think we are going to be together forever…I mean, I know we’re not dating yet but…maybe it’s like The Secret and I need to put this out into the universe…done peeing now…HEY!  I know how to declare my love…just sitting on the pot now…I should carve it into this stall—right, here next to the waste receptacle…If that doesn’t speak love—how romantic!—I don’t know what does.”

Similarly, if you have any comments about the biznatch that used to be your best friend, or your phone number, or who did *ahem* to whom, or even the classic declaration of your existence (a.k.a. Susie was here.)…the bathroom stall is probably not the appropriate place for it.  Ahthankyou.

6. And finally, the coup de grâce.  I, like many women, have stood in a myriad of bathroom lines waiting to relieve myself.  In these experiences I’ve always been astonished that it takes some women sooooooooo long to complete their, um, journey.  I have with regularity witnessed women take up to fifteen minutes or more.  I think to myself “what is she doing in there?”  Reorganizing her purse?  Does she have a wifi signal?  Did one of those pet baby aligators grow up, shimmy up the pipes and snatch her up?  Is the flusher a portkey to the Gryfindor house?  Did she go for a swim and end up in Narnia (thank you 4^th hour)?  Is she almost done carving Johnny’s name into the stall?

I realize this is weird, but I have a “get it out -n- flush it fast philosophy”.  I’d like to think the ladies waiting in line appreciate this.  Sometimes I like to see if I can beat my male counterparts out of the bathroom if we go in at the same time (and I don’t exclude hand washing).  Barring illness, I’m pretty sure that even my grandma could be done in ten minutes—tops—even if she went #2, it was her time of month, and she readjusted her bra (isn’t that a pleasant image?).  So, from now on, ladies, let’s make it snappy.

A little courtesy is all I’m asking for…PEACE!

Sing Your Tune

Oh, Hey!  I saw you this weekend!  You don’t know me?  I know you’ve seen me.  You have.

I’m that girl.  The one in the Mazda3 flying down the 10 at eighty miles an hour.  You saw me.  Remember?

As I passed you on the freeway you could hear my music blasting away my path—heralding my presence.  You thought “Jeeezzzz.  What’s her deal?  Where was she going so fast?  So LOUD?”  Because that’s what I do.  I go fast.  I’m learning to go LOUD. (When I said “fast” did your mind go somewhere dirty?  Shame on you.)

Perhaps you didn’t hear the muffled pounding of my music as I zoom, zoom, zoomed by.  Maybe you saw me.  My mouth open, hands gesturing…I mean, really singing. You saw a silly girl yelling (yes, YELLING) the lyrics to her tune with abandon.  I didn’t care if you saw me.  I hoped you would turn on your own tune and sing it so that it would permeate the atmosphere.

You probably couldn’t hear the words to my song.  That’s okay.  I’ll teach you…it’s Lindsay’s sing-a-long.

Let’s begin…

Softly, gently, slowly:

Walk away from all the fears and all the faults you’ve left behind.  I know the shame in your defeat

Now with assurance—draw out the vowels:

But I will hold on hope

Feel the beat pick up, turn your volume up a few notches, allow the drum to guide you:

And I’ll find strength in pain, and I will change my ways.  I’ll know my name as it’s called again.

Louder now—like you mean it:

Cause I have other things to fill my time. You take what is yours and I’ll take mine. Now let me at the truth, which will refresh my broken mind.  So tie me to a post and block my ears.
…
I know my call despite my faults and despite my growing fears.

Faster!  Volume!  Intensity:

So make your siren’s call and sing all you want!! I will not hear what you have to say!!

Yell!!!!  Make your voice raw, shred vocal cords, sing with passion!!!!

CAUSE I NEED FREEDOM NOW

AND I NEED TO KNOW HOW

TO LIVE MY LIFE AS IT’S MEANT TO BE

Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat…

Find your tune.  Sing it fast.  Sing it loud. Amen.

**Lyrics are parts of “The Cave” by Mumford and Sons.

A Review of The Help and My Own Healing

I few weeks ago I finished The Help by Katheryn Stockett.  Since that time the story has stuck in my mind like taffy—twisting and softening and pushing itself into the many nooks and crannies of my life.  I love books like that.

As a female, I have a very profound emotional reaction to literature.  Usually I base how much I like a book on how I “feel” about it.  And though this book, like many before it, was pulling back the curtain on the Civil Rights Movement (usually a very hard topic) I felt uplifted, brightened by its story.  The stories of these women warmed my spirit.

As an English teacher, I can’t help but look at a piece of literature critically.  Though cliché, the rotating perspectives was charming.  The characters are well developed, but fulfill very archetypal roles.  What does have complexity? The relationships.  It’s one of the few novels I’ve read that pushes its plot forward primarily by building stronger connections between its characters, rather than by events or outcomes.  The voices of the three narrators are superb and identifiable to most women.  Minny is all sassafras and determination—but she’s weak too, in her relationship with her husband.  Aibileen is tried and true—she is wise and strong and practical.  She carries herself with humble dignity.  I love her.  Then there’s Skeeter.  She’s complex and real.  I want to be her friend.  Be warned that this novel is typical “southern” literature—it meanders.  So don’t expect to get to a punch line in any kind of a hurry.

**********

            This book is healing.  It soothes, despite conquering some heavy stuff.  This week a former student of mine took his life.  It’s the first time I’ve met this situation, though many of my compatriots have been here before—some, unfortunately, many times before. Upon finding out this news I lost myself, and I found Aibileen.  I forget, sometimes, how important my students are to my being—how connected to them I become—like Aibileen to her white babies.

I want to take each of them into my arms, these children born to other women, and I want to rock them back and forth.  I want to whisper into their ears, “You are good.  You are kind.  You are smart.”  I want to repeat this until it embeds itself into their souls.  I want them all to realize that each day they remind me of optimism, and the luster of youth, and how to live unbroken.