Manicure for Mom

This week, Megan and Annie have come home for a visit.  We've had a lot of fun "girl time," doing lots of "girly" things like paint our toenails pink and put feathers in our hair.  The other day, we all went grocery shopping.  Walking down the beauty products aisle, Megan spotted some do-it-yourself artificial nails.  She grabbed the package, flipped it over, and read the instructions.

"Hey, this seems easy enough."  Megan said to me over her shoulder.  I walked over, Annie on my hip, and looked at the fake nails.

"Well, try it.  If they look bad, I'm sure you can take them off."  I said.

"What if they don't come off?"

"I'm pretty sure they'll come off."

"Yeah . . . I want to try them!"  She tossed the package into the shopping cart, and we continued down the aisle, looking for more hair-feathers, but not finding any.

That evening, Megan opened her nail kit and began applying the glue and pressing the plastic fingernails onto her fingertips.  When she finished, her hands looked quite elegant.

"See?  Some girls spend 60 dollars or more on their nails, but I got these nails for five bucks!  Look how great they look."  Megan flashed her fancy fingers in our faces and paraded her home-done manicure for all to see.  Those fake nails really did look great.

"Mom!  There are extras in the package.  Do you want me to do your nails too?"  Megan offered.

"Sure.  Will I be able to get them off?  I don't want them to stick forever or rip my real nails off."

"Oh no!  I don't think they'll rip your real nails."

"Well, all right.  I might as well try it."  Mom was hesitant but relented with some encouragement.  Megan sparingly squeezed little drops of glue onto our mother's nails (she didn't want to put on too much glue and have the nails stick forever).  The finished display was a sight to behold.  Each motherly finger was crowned with a perfectly shaped, perfectly painted fingernail.  We all admired the manicure and complimented Megan on her wonderful, brilliant, fun idea.

Megan absolutely beamed, "Why would anyone go get an expensive manicure when they can just go to the grocery store and get nails like these?"  Oh, the fingernails were great fun, great fun indeed.

The next day, Mom woke up having lost two fingernails sometime during the night.  Searching the sheets, she located one nail, but not the other.  Oh well, so goes the five-dollar manicure.  She still had eight gorgeous fingers.  Throughout her daily activities, Mom discovered that opening packages, changing diapers, and manipulating touch-screen contraptions proved impeccably difficult with such ridiculously decorated digits.

But Mom's manicure didn't keep her from fixing a fabulous lunch of "ultimate nachos."  This delectable dish is created by first laying down a crunchy bed of tortilla chips.  Then add some re-fried beans, taco meat, cheese, avocado, fresh tomatoes, salsa, and sour cream.  Everyone sat around the table enjoying "ultimate nachos" and zesty conversation.

I stuffed a few loaded chips into my mouth and began to chew, relishing the flavors and savoring the textures.  The mushy beans, the slippery sour cream, the juicy tomatoes, and the crunchy crunchy tortilla chips.  I crunched down on a chip that didn't really crunch back.  I kept chewing, but that little chunk of chip just would not crack.  When I finally realized that this object must not be a chip, I swept it up with my tongue and daintily picked it from my lips with my finger tips.

On seeing what I held in my fingers, freshly retrieved from my mouth, my stomach contorted, a wave of cold sweat nipped at the nape of my neck, and the masticated fiesta clinging to my molars turned to mud.  My gag reflex kicked me in the gut; I flew to the kitchen sink and spat out whatever was left in my mouth.  Then my body began to shake uncontrollably and tears spurted from the corners of my eyes as a fit of laughter overwhelmed me.

Returning to the table, holding my stomach and heaving with laughter, I held aloft what I had pulled from my mouth--a perfectly shaped, perfectly painted fingernail (with teeth marks).  A close examination of my sweet mother's fingers showed that only seven fake nails remained.  I never did finish my lunch.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!  We sure love you.  How about I cook dinner tonight?

How You Know Your Baby is Growing Up...

-You can't hold them on your lap anymore

-They start eating solid food

-Their voice gets deeper... and louder

-They don't listen as well as they used to when you call to them

-They stop eating dirt and begin to eat trees

-They grow out of their cat collar and have to wear a real halter

-They chew their cud

No More Night-light

As a child, I always slept with a night-light. I guess having an overactive imagination made me "overly" sensitive to the dark. At night, I imagined that I saw monkeys hiding among my stuffed animals, aliens poking their heads up from the foot of my bed, bigfoot lurking in the closet, and Morlocks (an H.G. Wells-inspired horror) drooling in the shadows. That's where the night-light came to be my angel of slumber. Without this beacon in the dark, my nights would have been littered with fantastic frightening creatures of my imagination.

I have long since grown mature enough to turn off the night-light, but somehow not that overactive imagination. Sleeplessness remains a frequent night companion. That isn't what I'm writing about.

Back to the night-light. When Eudora was still a wee one, I always kept a light in her pen, above where she slept. It took two giant extension cords to rig that luxury. The light offered a small source of extra warmth during those long Teton Valley nights, but mostly, having light for some of those 10 pm feedings was greatly appreciated by the "nurse maid."

I am still afraid of the dark. I realized this one night a few weeks ago. It was 10 p.m., I had mixed up a bottle for baby, and was headed out to the lamb pen to tuck her into beddie-bye. The night was cloudy. After that bigfoot show on the Discovery channel I had watched the other day, my imagination was working on overdrive. I ran as fast as I could to the lamb pen, focusing my thoughts on the little animal crying "Maaa maa!" The light was shining bright; I unlatched the door, closed it behind me, and began feeding Eudora her bottle.

The wind was blowing--gusting, really. There was a slight hint of skunk in the air. I heard the greenhouse door lift out and settle back in place with the breeze. My common sense knew the sound was made by the greenhouse door and the wind, but my imagination refused to settle on anything sensical.

By the time I heard the smacking of Eudora sucking on an empty bottle, my mind was swimming in surreal and unsettling imaginings. In my head, I was so certain that bigfoot was standing just on the other side of the tarp behind me. That was the stench of sasquatch wafting with the wind. Every noise in the dark, every rustle, every scratch was the footfall of a gargantuan, nightmarish behemoth.

Eudora was settling down for the night, and it was time for me to run across the dark yard to the house. I started singing outloud, in a quavering voice, "Whenever I hear... the song of a bird..." The greenhouse door wacked again. I slipped out of the lamb pen and latched the door. "...or look at a..." The winded gusted with an eerie howl. I frantically looked around me--all was dark. Locking the lights from the house into my sights, I moved forward. "...a blue blue sky. Whenever I feel the rain on my..." Something slunk through the shrubs in the hippie-neighbor's yard. That was it. I yelped and dashed madly to the back door.

After that night, I never again went out to a ten o'clock feeding by myself.

Not until I reduced Eudora's feedings to twice a day did I finally take out the light. That was the beginning of this week. I figure if a girl is old enough to start eating solid food, she shouldn't need her night-light anymore. As long as Eudora doesn't have any bigfoot nightmares, she should be okay. And as long as I don't have to go outside in the dark, I should be okay.

Oh, and by the way, I do eat solid food and sleep without a night-light.

(clap! clap! clap! clap! clap!)

The Lamb Who Talks in Her Sleep

What more can I say about Eudora? There's so much; I don't know where to start.

Well, it didn't take too long for her to fatten up. Within a couple weeks she was a regular old chub-a-bub. She ate 4 times a day. I felt somewhat tied down sometimes. Suddenly, Saturday no longer meant sleeping in. To the queen, Saturday was no different than Monday or Thursday. 7 a.m. was breakfast time, every day.

I didn't mind. It was fun to take her out onto the lawn and watch her hop around, kick her legs, and eat dirt. She followed me wherever I went, never straying too far and always coming when I called.

Moving home to Driggs was quite the experience. Eudora had been in the car a few times before--we'd gone to visit cousins in town and then gone to Grandma's house. But Bjorn always drove while I sat in the back with Eudora. This time, I was on my own, it was a 4-hour drive, and I had a car-load of stuff plus a live, energetic, toddler lamb on board. I'm a resourceful gal, and so is my aunt, Cami. She provided the chicken-wire and duct-tape and I built a cover for my "lamb-child-transporter." The good news: it worked! The bad news: she pooped in Preston, so we had to pull over and do a little clean up. After that, Eudora slept most of the way home. She's a good girl like that.

So we made it home to Driggs, and Eudora made friends with the ancient Schwinn bicycle doing storage time in the lamb pen. I continued to feed her 4 times a day, and she continued to grow and grow.

Some of my favorite things about Eudora:

-When she gets excited, she jumps up onto the bale of straw in her pen, paws at it, then leaps off, kicking her back legs behind her.

-Every time I walk out the back door and yell "Baby!" She calls back, "Maaaaa maaa!"

-She loves to eat dirt. I don't understand this, but it must be a little kid thing. When we started giving her grain, she wouldn't even nibble at it . . . unless, of course, it fell in the dirt.

-If I talk to her in my "silly" voice, she walks over to me, wags her head, and her ears flap back and forth. That's how she laughs.

-Sometimes, I sit on the swing in the back yard, and she hops up next to me and chews on my hair, my face, my clothes.

-She chews everything.

-If she is tired, she will lie down at my feet so I can scratch her face. While I scratch her, she sleepily scratches me back with her little bottom-teeth on my leg.

-If she is very tired, she will lie with her legs stretched out and fall deep into sheep sleep. One time I caught her having little lamby dreams. Her tiny hooves twitched, and her baby tail flipped and flopped. I even heard her talking in her sleep, but I couldn't make out what she said. Something like, "Mmm . . . Mammmaaa . . ." What a weird-o. Who does that?

-When we take her out to play, especially when the sun is shining (which, apparently, is a rare occurrence in Teton Valley), she kicks, and bucks, and romps around on the grass, enjoying her freedom but never straying too far from mom.

-The best of all is the way she recognizes me as mommy.

Eudora gives me a reason to get up every morning. It is impossible to look into those big, darling, trusting, lamb eyes and not feel good about life.

Eudora

Writing for fun--it's been a while. Sometimes when a person's heart breaks, pieces go flying. And if the break is bad enough, some of those pieces fly so far that they get lost somewhere in the person's soul. I lost my music piece; I also lost my writing piece. Funny, seeing how those were probably the two biggest pieces of my heart.

It's not easy to find the pieces and patch them back in place. Imagine attempting to place an edge-piece of a puzzle somewhere in the middle, and you'll have it about right. Anyhow, the point is that I haven't written this way for a while. But Laura did it--she found the piece for me, and now I've somehow got to get that edge-piece snuggly planted in the middle of my puzzle heart.

What do all these things have in common?

-Coalville

-The D.I.

-sprouts

-poop

Okay, so really nothing, except Eudora.

It was a better than average day. Last week of April; a Thursday, I believe. No rain (or snow, for that matter), and I was driving to a random, little, Utah town: Coalville. Bjorn napped on the passenger side. Only a 2 1/2 hour drive.

Remember what I said before, about pieces flying? Well this was after the pieces flew. Did I mention that flying pieces such as these tend to run off with chunks of aforesaid person's sanity? It is true. They say people do crazy things, when in love . . . I'm proof that after the fact, crazy becomes less of a random display of affectionate actions and more of an irrevocable state of pathetic being.

Basically, the paragraph above is stating my mental state as unstable.

I'm kind of crazy.

Coalville. People asked me, "Aren't there people with sheep in Cache Valley? Why go all the way to Coalville?" Well, there is nobody named Vera in Cache Valley. Vera lived down Elkhorn road in Coalville, and she had a little nursery full of baby, orphan lambs who needed moms. So I drove to Coalville. We got lost a couple times trying to find Elkhorn road, and had to stop and eat our turkey, ham, and sprout sandwiches. A couple dirt roads and a few rickety bridges later, Vera introduced us to the babies. Out of the bunch there was one white one. It was a rather sad-looking waif, skinny as all get-out and smaller than the others.

"Is that one a girl?" I asked Vera, pointing to the scrawny bag of bones in the back. Vera verified that the lamb was a ewe. and she was just born the night before. "Then that's the one I want." I didn't think twice or have any difficulty in making my decision. We loaded the lamb into the car. She rode inside a giant green tub that I purchased at the D.I. the day before. I sat next to her, and she basically screamed the whole 2 1/2 hours home. When she wasn't screaming, she was going to the bathroom. Occasionally she would sit down and snooze for 10 minutes, but at the next bump or pothole she was back up and wailing.

I decided to name her Eudora, after the author Eudora Welty. I was debating between Eudora and Willa, but after seeing the spunk in that baby's eyes, she was clearly a Eudora, not a Willa. Bjorn wanted to call her Queen BathSHEEPa.

We finally got home to Logan, and Bjorn got Eudora to drink her bottle. Then we tucked her into bed. The queen slept in the bathroom that night. Well, she slept until 4 a.m. when she started crying, "Maaaaaamaaa! Maaaama!" I knew that meant me. Dragging myself out of bed and slipping into my blue slippers, I trudged into the bathroom and sat down on the floor. Eudora wobbled on her baby legs over to me, lay down with her chin in my lap, and fell asleep.

The queen slept in the bathroom that night, and so did the nurse maid.

Thank you, Laura, for inspiring me to write again. And yes, you can link this post to your blog, if you like. That was my first day with Eudora. Since then, oh man . . . Lots of wonderful days. I will write more soon.

ALERT!!!

I thought I ought to let everybody know that I've decided to postpone my mission until June 1st. I am going to finish one more semester of school and yes, there is a B - O - Y in the picture as well. Wish me luck with all my life-decision-makings!

Final Portfolio

I think all of these poems have already been posted in their infant stage, but most of them have undergone major revising since then. These are the poems I put in my final Poetry Portfolio. Of course, no poem can ever be perfectly polished and finished, but I've put a lot of work and "word-time" into these. Enjoy!



September

September exists
in my hands
like a breathless dawn brimming
over edges of mountains;
light leaks into valleys
captively cupped,
kept, like a handful
of sand slowly slipping
through fugitive fingers of time



Confession of an Ocean

Inside I hide an awful truth--
a murderer am I. Because of me,
the beauty of a blue-eyed youth
will wash away. Because of me,
a German prince's heart will never hear
that sound which distance muffles with her blue
and heavy laughter, which is mine. His fear
is everything they'll never get to do.
A notion stretching love
over an ocean,
an impression, a conception of
something imagined,
a fancy, a whim, the separation in
the wasted waves that sin.
I sense no sorrow, but
tomorrow both the lovers will give
in.



Pheasant Sighting, 8:13 am

Peeking out at sunrise,
gradually glowing,
green tail feathers slip
through November,
cutting across 13th.
Crisp, clacking claws on
pavement carry him into
the neighbor's corn.
Announcing his reign,
new day glinting off
a despotic beak,
tossing his head
the pheasant hails
the morning.



Trying to Understand Things

"Things include a lot of
things,"
he said. Dismal drops of July rain like
brushes on a Zildjian,
chink chink-a chink chink-a
things things things.
Silver strings and callused fingers
sing
the song my heart abandoned, and a
satin tear upon my cheek, an empty
chime,
falls in time, as all the elements of disappointment
culminate that rhyming thing.
"Somehow, I seem to know already what you're
saying
behind what you say." He said.
A ping-a-ling, a troo-la-loo, a frenzied rhythmic
dunk-a-dunk
hollow plunk of stripped piano keys,
"And just what is that?"
I ask.
A naked symphony of
misunderstood circumstance.



What is the Possibility of You Coming to Germany?

Swimming to the surface
of an upside-down sea,
in a turtlneck of turquoise,
unable to breath.
Am I drowning?
am I trapped--
bashed between violet and green?
Then let me be lost

in noncommittal limbo,
waiting . . .
for a response, a clue, a smack in the face;
stop smothering me with un-breathable space.
Your silence is screaming:
break me . . . break me . . .
suffocating.

Will you be fine without me?
Will your music fill the emptiness
that used to be us?
Will you find another melody?
Will you forget the tune of me,
the fingering,
the chords,
the chorus, the bridge, the key?

Secretly, I hate you
for being away,
unwilling to dream,
unwilling to wake.
You say, "Join me in Germany,"
but why? You forgot to tell me.



Evening Gown

I long to trim a yard or two
of blue straight from the sky and stitch
the fabric, hue by hue, into
the ultimate and unattainable
raiment of angels--
a fabricated gown with
tamamushi beetles sewn
in sunset stars along the neck,
a band of silky lupines looped
about the waist,
a baby-blue train bustled up
at the hip like a pompous hibiscus,
closing the seams with his claws,
a barn swallow clings
to the clasp in the back, and
ninety-three powdery underwings swing
from the hem when I trip
into twilight.

More Samples From Poetry Class . . .

I Wish to Wear the Sky (another kind of desire poem) 11/15/10

When I finally give into blue,
the thirsty shade makes way
for indigo daydreams,
diffusing diffractions of
a mischievous chicory mosaic.

Above terrestrial parallelograms,
a design, defined inside
the purple prism, inclines
my mind to spin that tone into
a fabricated gown with sequins sewn in sunset stars,
a band of silky lupines looped about the waist,
and an edible baby-blue train bustled up
at the hip like a pompous hibiscus.

This is the pattern of passion--dress of desire--

I long to trim a yard or two of blue straight from
the sky and stitch the fabric, hue by hue, into
the ultimate and unattainable raiment of angels.



Parker, I Will Miss the Music (an object that brings back a loss poem. The format of this poem is important and probably will get messed up in the blog, oh well . . .) 11/15/10

That's the blue Fender guitar-pick Parker
accidentally left. It fell out of his pocket, and I
found it in that couch. If I put it in my wallet I will
think of him each time I buy new strings. He'll never miss
it, 'cause he has so many. Bigger than mine, his dreams were the
kind that always end up in books. The kind that people like to put to music.

The kind that never come true.



Male Pheasant Sighted at Sunrise (in praise poem) 11/18/10

Peeking out at sunrise,
gradually glowing,
green tail feathers slip
through November,
cutting across 13th.
Crisp, clacking claws on
pavement carry him into
the neighbor's corn.
Claiming his kingdom,
announcing his reign,
with a toss of his head
the pheasant consecrates
the morning.



Onions (the zen of housework poem) 11/18/10

Butter melts behind me,
smooth and slimy orb in my left hand,
long, threatening blade in my right,
eyes wide, lips pinched shut,
the first slice splits the onion in two--
butter spits, crackles--turn around,
turn down the heat,
slice, slice, slice, white rings fall
nicely--beautiful circles,
eternal, never-ending; tears tear
through my make-up,
splitting into honesty,
shelling, revealing, corroding
the crystallized covering,
undressing me.
I am crying uncontrollably,
naked,
slicing onions,
in my kitchen.

Poems From Class

Here is a smattering of poetry I have written for my "poetry writing" class. They're in no particular order; I'm just going to randomly slap them up here.



The Boy at the Door -9/8/10 (this was an exercise in writing prose paragraphs)

My eyes watered, my nose ran, and my fingers ached from the raw canyon wind cutting through the breath of morning sunshine. Six steps to the door of the old brick building. I reached out to grab the icy door handle, but before my frozen fingers could get a grip, a hand from behind--brown, strong, and resolute--opened the door. Stepping over the threshold, into the beckoning warmth of the Ray B. West building, I cast a furtive glance over my right shoulder. Around the gold of my hair fallen in my eyes, I snapped a picture of him smiling. His eyes were like deep chocolate; his hair, long and black as frost, was tied back in a primitive pony-tail. The dark forest-green of his coat ignited his skin so it glowed like homemade butter-toffee. To my frozen morning, he was summer. I smiled back, and, without a word, he followed me inside. Then I went my way, and he went his.

Kid with the Croakies -9/8/10 (another expiriment in prose-writing)

A white t-shirt with the insignia of a moose head--Fitch. He types on his lap-top computer, and cocks his head right, then left, then right again. Back and forth, as if each phrase he types is worth deep contemplation. Occasionally, I see himm sit back in his chair and bring his left hand to his mouth. He ponders in this position for a few seconds, the exhales and dives back in. Now he's scratching his chin and adjusting his black-rimmed glasses--he's wearing croakies. Oh! He's packing up and walking away. He probably thinks I'm a creeper.



The Kiki -9/8/10 (more prose)

Light and fragile as gossamer, a web of childhood serenity, it smells of tears and laughter all at once, and its touch calms the stressed-out student and covers the shivering child. The kiki is a hideous mass of pink and flowers, gobs of disintegrated batting, like a cloud, gifted from heaven, struggling to hold itself together. No longer can I wrap it around my shoulders, but I wrap my arms around it, and the wind doesn't seem as cold, the world doesn't seem as cruel, and the mourning of another day gone doesn't seem quite as dark.



Coming out of Surgery--Age 14 -9/2/10 (a memory poem)

slowly waking
a vase of beautiful flowers sits by my bed
lilies and daisies and oh so much green
why am I seeing flowers

remembering
long white sanitized halls
rooms with doors slightly ajar
full of suffering people
some dying
my room was down that hallway

seeing
dark whispering angels in green and white
with needles
monitors and equipment
watching me
waiting for my heart to stop

feeling
rough hospital sheets
i.v. in my right hand
pumping liquid into me
my rebellious spirit fights the drowsiness

smelling
cheap laundry detergent
Lysol and ammonia
that disgustingly orange soap
they made me wash with this morning
before I came

hearing
sterile air squeaking against the walls
footsteps somewhere
the turning page of a book
my heart
beep . . .
beep . . .
says the vigilant monitor

realizing
I'm still alive!



Going out of My Mind -9/27/10 (reanimating dead metaphors poem)

it was tough to escape
squeezing out my ears
I got stuck
once
but after readjusting
schlup!
I slipped right through
and left my mind
behind




September -9/27/10 (my poetic journey--driving south on 12th E. on my way to school in the mornings)

September exists in my hands
like a soundless breathless dawn
brimming bursting overflowing
into a silent valley
light leaking over the edge
of the mumbling mountains
captively cupped
kept
like a handful of sand
slipping through my fingers



Silence is a Bone -10/11/10 (in-class exercise with metaphors)

Break me!
your silence becomes a defiant bone
sweating smooth and breakable
say something
your silence is suffocating me.

Start Pocket Hold Lucky -10/13/10 (play with words)

I started into my lucky pocket
holding the start of luck
with a hold on the start
of a lucky start
in a pocket holding luck
luckily I started holding
in that pocket-hold
a pocketful of lucky starts
starting to hold onto
my pocket pocketing lucky
pockets of luck
my luck
in luck
of luck
by luck
a pocket holding the start
of something lucky



Untitled & Still in the Works . . . -11/8/10 (the beginning guts of a ghazal poem)

purple persistence, I sigh in the dark
inconceivable numbers so high in the dark

of kisses like stars or the hairs on his head
his heart overpowering mine in the dark

those hungering hands parched lips at my neck
devouring desperate time in the dark

the world forgets how to spin for a moment
I whisper my final goodbye in the dark





Germany -10/8/10

I am lost in a noncommittal limbo
of awaiting anguish
waiting for a response, a clue, a smack in the face--
something other than this un-breathable space.

I swim to the surface
of an upside-down sea--bottomless.
I cannot breath,
but I love drowning . . .
maybe, let me be.

Would you be fine without me?
Would your music still fill the emptiness
that used to be me?
Would you find another rose-colored melody to sing?
Will you forget the tune of me,
forget the fingering,
forget the chords,
the chorus, the bridge, the key;
would you forget how to sing completely?

I secretly hate you for being away.
But you aren't willing to think;
you aren't willing to open up an option, a wild unrealistic possibility.
You only say, "Come to Germany,"
but you never tell me why.



Song -10/18/10 (response poem to the poem Song written by someone, I forgot who . . .)

When I am dead, my dearest,
forget me.
Let me snuggle in a flag and ride the current of the sea.
Take down the photograph of me and the painting that I love.
Break the blue guitar, erase my music,
throw away that bottle of my favorite perfume,
take the jewelry, the lacy bra, the nail file, the high-heeled shoes,
and every thread of clothing ever worn by me,
take it all and build a fire.
Do not inhale my smoke or feel my warmth;
only let me simmer slowly.
Do not remember me at all.



Confession of an Ocean -10/25/10 (attempt at writing a sonnet)

Inside of me I hide an awful truth--
a murderer am I. Because of me,
the beauty of a lovely blue-eyed youth,
will wash away and drown. Because of me,
the German prince's heart will never hear
the sound that distance muffles with its blue
and heavy laughter which is mine. His fear
is everything they'll never get to do.

And still I am the killer. I am still
the vastly hidden separation in
the frozen heaping waves that crash to kill
the blue-eyed beauty and the prince--my sin--
I have no sense of sorrow for their pain;
I only feel the cold Atlantic rain.



Untitled -11/1/10 (working with line breaks exercise)

As relaxed as a cookie-cutter on Christmas Eve, and just as pinched
in this perplexing position, like sugar-cookie dough sprawled out on the counter,
stretching thin under Curtis's eyes as they roll over me
again and again, over and over, like a rolling pin,
flattening me, no wrinkles or folds or pockets of air, against the pew and the arm around
me, the arm of the boy I'm pretending to love, like I pretend
to enjoy Vertical Limit, because he is obsessed with climbing, and I
just want to feel someone's arms around me, but in that Thatcher church-house,
Curtis stares--
I can only hope that the sight of me with somebody else
drives him mad.



Trying to Understand Things -11/1/10 (this one has a different format that I won't be able to show in my blog. Just know that it's a lot better in the other alignment)

"Things include a lot of
things,"
he said. Dismal drops of July rain like
brushes on a Zildjian,
chink chink-a chink chink-a
things things things.
Silver strings and callused fingers
sing
the song my heart abandoned, and a
soupy satin tear upon my cheek, an empty
chime,
falls in time, as all the elements of disappointment
culminate that rhyming thing.
A pin-a-ling, a troo-la-loo, a frenzied rhythmic
dunk-a dunk
hollow plunk of stripped piano keys,
a naked symphony of misunderstanding.
"Somehow, I always seem to already know what you are
saying
behind what you actually say." He said.
"And just what is that?"
I ask.
He says, "It's just another one of those things."



That's all I'm going to post for now. There will be more to come! The semester isn't over yet.

The Bench Confessions cont.

I guess this is the second part of the bench poetry run. Once the weather got cold enough, I stopped having lunch on my bench, and sadly, I stopped writing "lunch-break" poetry. Don't take these too seriously, please. Remember they're mere rantings and ravings of a bored squiggle.

Young Love's Corpse -9/30/10

There's a coffin under my bed.
That's where I buried you
after you killed me.

A gray shoebox,
covered in dust
like another layer of skin,
tear-streaked fingerprints
seal the lid.

Inside,
an immortal obsession.
A body of paper
and words,
decaying memories,
soul of summer,
rotting,
decomposing,
growing mold
under my bed.



The Sprinkler Guys -9/30/10

the sprinkler guys come
in their little green
kawasaki golf cart
with their flags
and dirty hands
baseball caps
and blue jeans
with green knees
they make the sprinklers
turn on
all around my bench
darn those sprinkler guys
now my shoes are wet



Invisible Girl No More -10/1/10

They do see me!
I'm not just an extension
of the bench.

No cigarette today
for ashtray guy;
instead,
he nods at me
and smiles.
Breadcumbs and peanut butter
in my teeth,
I smile back.

Scarf girl is on time today.
She says hello,
looking right at me through
those square glasses.
A sloshy hi and juicy
bits of gala leap
from my lips.

I hear a hint of
heavy metal
rocking its way down the street.
Yep.
Kid in the car is still
sharing his music
with me.
It's 1:20
and the sprinkler guys are back.



I Am Same -10/1/10

Every day
I wake up at the same time,
eat for breakfast the same thing
I had for dinner
the previous night,
Every morning
I fix my lunch--
peanut butter and jelly sandwich,
smash it,
put it in a bag
with an apple.
I take the same route
to school,
to class,
to lunch,
12:30
every day
I sit on the same side
of the same bench
in the same patch of sun,
and I eat first the apple,
then the sandwich,
picking it off in bite-sized pieces.
Then I reach into the same pocket
to get the same flavor of gum.
I watch the same people
and write in the same notebook,
wearing the same sunglasses
and the same pair of shoes.
My life is so same sometimes.



Same No More -10/4/10

No bench today,
no peanut butter sandwich,
it's zucchini bread inside
for now.
but this couch is nice.



October -10/4/10

September slipped out like a twisted ankle,
tripping me on my way to class.

October came in like a crafty kid,
flinging open the dressing-room curtain,

catching me
completely naked,

and yelled, boo.




Craving Lasagna at Lunch-time -10/4/10

force-feeding myself carrots
ritualistically determined
mechanically automatic
with disciplined conviction

I swear I can smell lasagna somewhere
lasagna leaking cheese
squeezing marinara sauce
it's oozing down the stairs
in rubber olive boots

crunch crunch crunch
and swallow
mm . . . carrots



There you have it. Once October hit, the bench and my precious poetic lunch-breaks turned into girl talk/email hour in the classroom with Stacy, Jess, and Jenny. Thusly, I conclude this season of "Bench Confessions." I hope you've enjoyed the words. Thanks for humoring me.

The Bench Confessions

I am currently taking a poetry-writing class, and it's my favorite! When I signed up for the class, I thought it would be just like writing songs, but it's very different.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I eat my lunch on a bench just in front of the English Building (Ray B. West), overlooking the Quad. I have discovered that this is the perfect time to whip out my notebook and, amid sandwhich crumbs, scratch out some poetry. This is my time to write about whatever I want. It's a beautiful thing. I've decided that I want to eventually gather up all my "lunchbreak" poems in one collection and call it

The Bench Confessions

Here is what I have so far. Keep in mind, these are merely my scribbles in my notebook, and not assignments for my class. And if you don't get it . . . it's all right - it is poetry!

The Other Side of Me

could you complete

someone enough

to find them

hiding inside you

maybe they’d be

so inclined to find

that you hide

inside them too

to find you

leaching

preaching

praying

day-dreaming

singing in their ears

I’m here

remember

we’re the same

I don’t think that I

qualify to be

the other half of

who you are

but you’re already

halfly hid

inside the

other side of me

2 Cents a Minute

you can talk to me

in Germany

for 2 cents a minute

and when you can’t sleep

you can call me

I’ll be eating dinner

and during your lunch break

I’m just waking up

I would love

to talk to you then

when you’re brushing your teeth

getting ready for bed

I am just getting out

of the pool

I have time for you

8 hours ahead

10 digits to dial

for 2 cents a minute

am I worth it

am I worth it

Only a Poem

a river without water

is just a fissure

and a chair without a back

is just a stool

a balloon without air

is just a choking hazard

a diamond without a ring

is just a rock

and an airplane without wings

is just a submarine

today without you

is just another day

my eyes are just blue

my heart is just beating

the sun is just shining

I’m doing just fine

a song without a tune

is just a poem

you are the music

and I am the words

so when you are gone

I am only a poem

I’ve Had Bitter Days

people disgust me

that couple by the steps

holding hands

touching

like nobody can see

honestly!

I take a bite

lipstick and juice

the white flesh

burns to brown

around the edges

like halibut under the broiler

I pick sticky skin out of my teeth

with my tongue

and spit it onto the sidewalk

apple is a little tart today

Handlebars

I would love to ride

on the handlebars

of a handsome boy’s bike

have him take the corners

carefully

my hair softly breezing

in his face

he smells my shampoo

and smiles

thinking I just have the cutest legs

dangling off those handlebars

I’d lean back

shrug my shoulders

so content

I’d feel his breath on my cheek

as he whispers

“you smell good…”

this will make me laugh

when we stop

he will catch me

in his hands

before I fall

off the handlebars

The Comma Butt

we are best friends Comma Butt

we live too far away

I wrote you a song Comma Butt

you'll never hear me play it

at night I miss you Comma Butt

I only get to have you in my dreams

I love you Comma Butt

you never will love me

Disappointed

who is the man

who stands there

in the shade

under the tree

he is dressed nice

blue button-up shirt

khaki slacks

I’d introduce myself

if I weren’t me

he turns

picks up his backpack

he’s walking this way

he’s right in front of me!

I smile

he doesn’t see

he looked so much more attractive

in the shade

under the tree

The Bench

I have become

the invisible girl

who sits

in front of the English Building

alone

on a bench

in the sun

during my lunch break

who writes poetry

for fun

who watches passing people

for inspiration

who recognizes them all

he rolls his own cigarettes

smokes them dead

and jams them into that ashtray – there

every day before class

she is always late

but hair and makeup always done

just right

she wears square glasses and likes scarves

that kid drives by

at approximately 1:20 every day

windows rolled down, sharing his loud music

I don’t care for heavy metal, but… thanks

who recognizes them all

and wonders

if they see

the invisible girl

on the bench

A Few Unforgettable Moments from Scout Camp...

Via Journal Entries:


June 6 -- "Today is the day I move to the Canoe Base in Jackson! It's raining, and my neck hurts."

June 7 -- "Has it only been one day? Long, hot shower, the best part of my day..."

June 9 -- "It's only Wednesday. All my muscles are angry at me. Yesterday, Dave told me he wanted me cross-trained on the river. I told him I was unsure about that... but I would try. Well, today I tried--bad idea.

June 11 -- "Yesterday it rained... a lot... again... There was an awesome hail storm. Everything in our tent got soaked. Hail was piled up everywhere; it was crazy... It will probably snow tonight."

June 13 -- "I miss being around older people..."

June 15 -- "Sunburnt--finally."

June 17 -- "I want to go home. I just don't know which one..."

June 22 -- "Camp is a lot more fun with scouts! I'm hosting a really great troop this session--Orchard 5th Ward. Funny thing--that's Ben Brown's ward! They love me. I love being loved. T.J. and Tesia and I snuck into a hotel's hot-tub last night. It was crazy fun. We ran around in our swim suits and got fro-yo's at Maverik. Good times!"

July 1 -- "How much longer until I quit failing at love? ...One troop this week nicknamed me "Blue Suede Sparrow." Then there was a scout who said I was a "G," after I fixed his helmet for him and showed him my awesome muscles. I don't know what being a "G" is all about. Is it kinda like a "G-ma?" I'll never know. Another troop called me "Aunt Jess," and presented me with a NERF gun on the last day, because I was so cool. They're all awesome in their own little ways."

July 5 -- "COPE was fun today. Tesia, Taylor, and I played M.A.S.H. and talked about boys... Jordan has been catching potguts. We put one in a little pink hamster ball and put it in Adam's tent. Went "branty" swimming last night... Long story..."

July 9 -- "Really? This week flew by. Fun water fight with two twin scouts named Tyler and Tanner."

July 14 -- "I'm really afraid of heights... This is a problem."

July 19 -- "Scout Master Dean, Toley the Russian, Levohn (whose real name was Jeff), Jake, and Dave the dentist. Fun group of scouts. Toley gave me flowers the last day. Okay, so technically they were weeds, but they were pretty and made my day! This weekend... Ready? Mountain sunbathing, streaking through the wilderness, Katie and Cody randomly showing up at camp, date with Levi, Bubba's, Taylor Swift in the car, windows rolled down, Katie + Me in 1 sleeping bag, all night long, no sleep, early church, my parents speaking, goodbye, back to my church, seeing Sam for the first time all summer, scratching Levi's back during Sacrament Meeting, potluck with Rendon, exhausted, fall asleep at 10, wake up, new day!"

July 22 -- "Last night there were bugs crawling around in my pajamas. By 3 am, I pulled two beatles out of my bra. I did not sleep well."

July 25 -- "A day for red lipstick... Yesterday, a bunch of us hiked around Phelp's Lake and jumped off the giant rock. I didn't jump off the rock. Tesia, Taylor, Caitlin, and I swam away from everyone and decided to go skinny dipping. It was awesome. But, man, my blistered feet are pretty bad. Tesia, Juice, Sadie, and Devon all took turns carrying me back to the car. Kaitlyn, Liz, and I slept on the kitchen roof last night. Full moon. Sweet!"

July 31 -- "Goodbye July. Today it rained. Hunter, Taylor, and I went to the pool, then it started pouring. On the way home, we stopped and chased a random loose peacock. We got soaked and I got a headful of cockel-burs. It was awesome!"

August 5 --"August has been fair to me. Hold on... my tent is blowing away. Alright, my tent is tied down now. I forgive August for the blazing heat, wretched wind, and terrible thunder storms that keep me awake at night."

August 8 -- "Johvan... I can't even find the words to describe him. We all loved him, and he was gorgeous (for a boyscout). Taylor, Tesia, and I wrote a lullaby for him. It went a little like this (to the tune of Down in the Valley): Down in the valley, valley so deep; Is little Johvan, deeply asleep. When he is sleeping, he never wakes; When little boy scouts, try to pull pranks. After 10:30, everyone Shh.......... Johvan is sleeping, inside his Shh.......leeping bag."

August 14 -- "Camp is over. Summer is ending. It's starting to get cold. I'm sitting outside trying to hold onto my tan... I should go write on my blog... Just the summer highlights, of course. There's no conceivable way I can squeeze my entire scout camp summer into one blog post."

Murder in the Backyard

Well, they went and did it again. My parents left Caitlin and me home alone for a week. Whenever I come home and supply them with a babysitter, they pick up and leave on some vacation. Jolly good... So, once again, I am mom.

It's only been a couple days, and things are going well. Caitlin has been getting her homework done, I've kept myself busy, and we haven't had to eat Maccachillicheezaroni yet. Last night we exercised--I danced in front of our big tv screen until the bandanna holding my hair back was drenched with sweat, and Caitlin ran on the elliptical for 30 minutes, and by that time, her whole face and body and t-shirt was drenched worse than me (just sayin'). Then we both showered. Not together. Then we read our books. Caitlin had to read "The Lord of the Flies" for her English class, and I was reading the book "Star Girl." At about 11:30 we got tired and went to bed.

This morning I woke up at 7:30 and fixed breakfast for Caitlin. We ate egg-avacado-sausage toasted sandwiches. It was very satisfying; Caitlin even thought so. Then she hustled off to school and I was alone. I finished "Star Girl," wrote in my journal, wrote a letter to my roommate, and played my guitar. One hour had gone by. I did the dishes, wiped off the counters, looked at my phone several times, and checked my Facebook. Another fifteen minutes had passed. I dusted all the surfaces in the dining room, rearranged all the ceramic dinky-dinks, individually polished each leaf on the artificial plant decor, and wiped down the wooden bureau and all the framed photos that sat on it. I opened up Grooveshark on my mom's computer and selected my longest playlist. Great music filled the air; one by one, I removed the chairs from the dining room for more intensive cleaning.

Glancing out the window, I could see the backyard and the bird feeder, where several different kinds of birds flitted and swooped and picked and scratched. I gazed, mesmerized. I marveled at their swift little bodies, sleek feathers, grace, and agility. Diving. Swiveling. Cavorting to and fro. The scene before me laced its fingers with time and melted into slow motion. I could make out all the details in their feet and feathers--every freckle, speckle, and spot. Everything was in place and perfectly balanced. As if caught up in a trance, I slowly moved closer to the window until my nose hovered dangerously close to the glass, threatening to leave a grease-mark. The birds. I watched the birds in their carefree world of song and birdseed.

One glistening Grackle lit onto the base of the feeder, using his long pointed beak to grab the seeds. Below the feeder, on the grass, amid the litter of sunflower seed husks, a female House Finch hopped about revolving her head up and around and minding her own business. She quickly glanced up at the feeder above her. In a split second, she spread her wings and lifted upward, landing right next to the Grackle.

Before I could blink, that dirty Grackle monster snagged the House Finch by the head and dragged her down to the ground. She wriggled and writhed, and helplessly flopped her wings, but, the evil Grackle, he pecked her brains out. Within seconds she was gone. The Grackle staggered back a few four-toed steps, cocked his head, paranoid, glancing in all directions, then he flew away. All the birds were gone by then.

I stood at the window, greasy face smashed completely against the glass, eyes wide and riveted on the disturbing scene. "Whoa..." I managed to say. For a while, I watched the brown speckled bird body lying on the grass, as still as a stone, waiting for it to hop up, shake its feathers, and fly away. It never did.

Hmm... I turned around, glanced at the clock, and headed for the broom closet. I swept the kitchen floor, then scrubbed the entire thing by hand with a small green scrubby. While I was down on the floor, I noticed the baseboards could also use a good cleaning. I ended up washing all the walls, and the cabinets, and the drawers, and the stove. Then I vacuumed the living room and wiped the bathroom mirrors.

A few hours had gone by.

I sat down, exhausted.

Then I went outside, grabbed a shovel, dug a hole by a tree, and buried the House Finch.

Caitlin came home. We made oatmeal-raspberry pancakes with banana/peanut butter for dinner. After dinner was put away and the dishes were done, I read "The Lord of the Flies" out loud to her on my bed. I tried to make it as exciting as I could, but she still kept falling asleep. So I kept waking her up. We ate some chocolate; that helped to keep her awake. We finished the book.

I successfully kept Caitlin from taking a nap. Hazzah!

I made a sign for her that reads, "Thou shalt not nap," and I hung it on the fridge. she covered it with a sign of her own, "Thou shalt nap with all thine heart."

She finished some more homework and went to bed at 11:00.

It has been quite the day.

Good night.

Let's Be Friends

Milly and I walked down to Adam's Park to swing on the swings, last week. The sun was low, and the evening air filtered crisply through the green of spring surrounding us. Milly swung higher and higher. Her long blond hair stretching out in the wind behind her, then sweeping forward to cover her face as she swung backward. Back and forth, back and forth, shooting her long legs out and tucking them in, ever going higher. I kept a steady swinging rhythm, but didn't dare swing any higher. I guess I am getting old, because things such as swinging and spinning, that I used to enjoy, have the tendency to make me nauseous these days.

The plastic seat hugged my hips tightly, and the chains in my hands felt cold and awkwardly large. I mentally drifted across the park. A group of college students played four-square, laughing, teasing each other, guys and girls alike, flirting shamelessly. One fellow from the group announced his departure, high-fived a few farewells, then leapt astride a greasy, old motorbike; he fired the bike up with a roar that attracted the attention of all in the park. The girls screamed and chattered in excited voices to each other. Milly and I startled in our seats, but continued to swing. The motorcycle boy flew from the park and up the street. I watched him until he turned a corner.

After the revving roar of the bike soaked into the distant mountains, the atmosphere quieted, and my ears picked up the sparkling sound of little voices. I turned to my right to discover the source of the playful sounds. I took in the sight of two fathers with their young families, watching their children play on the playground.

One of the dads was tall, balding, and calm. He sat on the grass and held onto the leash of a small white dog. His little girl, age 6 or 7, ran over to him, "Daddy! Pleeeeease, will you push me on the swing?!" The dad replied, "You're a big girl, can't you swing yourself now?" "But Daddy, it's so much funner if you push me." She smiled and pulled on his arm. In my mind I said, "C'mon dad, push your little girl. She wants to feel you there." The dad chuckled, tied the dog's leash to a pole, and walked with the girl to the swings. The little girl squealed in joy as she flew from her father's hands through the air.

Milly and I continued to swing in silence.

The sun slipped slightly lower in the sky.

The second dad was short and wiry with a scratchy goatee. He stood, following his two daughters (both close in age, probably 5-8) around the playground as they slid down the slide, hung from the monkey bars, and jumped and climbed and laughed. The stick from a sucker stuck, like a cigarette, from the corner of his mouth. He occasionally yelled out, "Don't do that! Get down! You're gonna fall! Get off of that!" The two girls thoroughly enjoyed their play, despite the restrictions. One of them trotted over to the swings and began swinging next to the happy girl whose daddy still pushed her.

I watched as the two girls smiled at each other. Then the already being pushed girl said to the new girl, "Hey, let's be friends." New girl smiled and said, "Okay." Happy girl yelled back to her pusher, "Daddy, she needs to be pushed too. Push my friend too." The pusher asked the new girl, "Would like a push? Can I push you?" New girl smiled even bigger, "Okay!" So the tall, balding man pushed the two giggling girls, they were all friends, and I smiled to myself.

Milly and I stopped swinging.

The sun had gone down.

It was dark.

And cold.

We walked home, and I was glad to have a friend.

Dreams Do Come True!

I caught a fleeting glimpse of myself reflected in a mirror--an elegant young lady wearing a pink, sequin-smattered, Prom dress--gracefully spinning and stepping in time to the waltz blasting through the speakers. Everyone in the room stepped back and watched us dance...

Wait. Us?

Again, I referred to the mirror on the wall. A closer look showed a blond, 20-year-old woman in a borrowed formal, waltzing to Josh Groban's "So She Dances," in the arms of a brown-eyed, 16-year-old, high school boy in a tux. I felt my high-heel precariously tread on the hem of my dress.

What am I doing here?

You are probably wondering the same. I'll tell you...

"Jess... Do you want to do something crazy tonight?" Katie asked me last Saturday evening.

"Yes." I didn't even have to think before I answered.

"Jess, let's go to the Prom!"

Through my cell phone, I laughed and told her, "No way! We can't do that; we're way too old. We'll get in trouble."

"No we won't... I did it last year."

"You were still in high school last year!"

"Oh yeah, huh. Well, it would be pretty fun. You could wear my pink, poofy, sparkly dress, and I'll wear the peach one. Wouldn't that be awesome? We'll just sneak in for the last half hour--nobody will even know we're there."

"Well, I guess it would be fun..."

"We won't be there for too long."

"And we're Kerr girls!" I exclaimed.

"What does that mean?" Asked Katie, confused.

"It means that we can get away with anything!"

"Yes!"

"Okay, let's go to Prom, Katie."

She came over to my apartment, we thought skinny thoughts, held our breath, and zipped up the old Prom dresses. Make-up, hair, lip-stick, jewelry--we looked just like hyper, sixteen-year-old kids excited to go to the Junior Prom. Well, okay... not quite, but pretty close!

In our formal dresses, Katie and I snagged a couple smoothies from the McDonald's drive-thru, parked on Main Street, and then, arm in arm, we walked to the Prom. There was a fateful moment at the main entrance, when we almost chickened out. Lucky for Katie and me, a couple guys walked out to cool down and recognized us (well, they recognized Katie, mostly). We filled them in on our plot to sneak into Prom. They agreed to help us.

"Just take the elevator up to the 3rd floor, and you'll be in." One of the boys suggested.

"Yes! Perfect. The elevator." Said Katie in response.

Following the two boys, we made it into the elevator. The doors opened, revealing a dimly lit hallway on the third floor. We followed the hallway, climbed a short splat of stairs into the hot, shimmering, hub-bub of Bear River's Junior Prom! Katie and I squealed and grabbed each other's hands. We were in!

Almost instantly, the little children around us noticed that there was something not quite right about the two blond women in pink dresses. Some of them even recognized Katie, and thought it was hilarious that we, mature college adults, would show up to such a juvenile, social event. I felt very old.

"Where's Jacob?" Katie asked one of the girls. Jacob is our cousin, and we knew he was at the Prom that night.

"He's up those stairs." The girl pointed. We hoisted up our frilled skirts and scampered up the stairs. There was Jacob, standing in a group of friends. The poor boy didn't know what to think when we came bustling up to him, all grins and giggles. I hope he wasn't too embarrassed.

"What are you guys doing here?!" He gasped in uttermost shock, and in a daze, hugged both Katie and me.

"We came to Prom!" We shouted in unison. Jacob just laughed and rolled his eyes and turned back to his date. Katie and I then rocked and jigged and grooved our dancing souls to bits on the dance floor, with confused and curious high school juniors intently observing. Then THE song came on! It was a waltz. My heart shed a tear right there, because there was no one for me to waltz with. The all too familiar feeling of hopeless "if only-ness" bore me down. I love to waltz.

Then Jacob walked past us...

"Jake!" I yelled and grabbed his arm. He spun around.

"Dance with me." I commanded, and he obeyed. "Can you waltz, boy?" I implored.

Hesitantly, he confirmed that, yes, he could, "a little." In my pink dress and high-heels, I led him through a dramatic waltz lesson. He spun me around; the bottom of my dress ruffled out in magenta waves. I gracefully held my head at a just-so tilt, while my arms floated and my feet tip-toed.

Looking up at Jacob, I whispered, "I never got asked to Prom." Kudos to him for acting sympathetic. He spun me again, I laughed, and everyone at the prom stopped what they were doing to watch the mystery girl, in the center of the dance floor, living a dream that expired four years ago.

Go to Prom and feel like a princess--CHECK!

Bubble Bath

That evening, I was not motivated at all. Katie sat on the couch, working on homework, while I flapped around the living room, not quite sure what to do with myself. I was craving chocolate. I had to have chocolate! Finally, for the sake of my own survival, I pulled out of my cupboard some oatmeal, oil, sugar, cocoa, and peanut butter. Combining my ingredients in a pot, I attempted to make a form of chocolate no-bake cookies.

The cookies turned out quite delicious, even though there were some random hard chunks. At least, they were yummy chunks--like toffee. I ate about five cookies. Katie only ate two. There was one left. Neither one of us could tackle it.

Sitting on the couch, in a cookie coma, groaning and holding my stomach, I turned to Katie and said, "I'm going to take a bath. Maybe if I get clean and relaxed, I'll be able to accomplish something." With that, I heaved myself off the couch and toward the bathroom. I stripped down and took all the bobby pins out of my hair. Before I filled the tub, I wanted to brush my teeth, but my toothbrush was in my room. Wrapping my towel around me, I tiptoed to my room.

Suddenly my phone started ringing in the front room. Still in just my towel, I ran in and picked it up off the couch.

"Jess! What are you doing?! Where are your clothes?" Katie sat there, appalled at my nakedness.

"My phone! It's Loren!" I screamed. Katie screamed. "What do I do? This is really awkward! Oh well, he'll never know." I screamed again and took a deep breath, "Hello?"

Katie giggled, and I walked back into my room

"Hi, Jessie. How was your day?" Loren's voice asked through the phone.

"Oh, it's been an alright day. How was yours?" I tucked my towel around me a little tighter.

"I had a good day. Hey, I'm up on campus right now, are you available?"

"Uh... I can be."

"Want to go for a walk?"

Panicking, I ran my fingers through my messy hair-do and glanced at my clothes, in a pile, on the floor by my feet. "Sure. Uh, yeah... I'd like that."

"Great! I'll be there in like twenty seconds!"

My eyes popped out of my face, and I almost lost my towel. "Oh, okay. See ya..." I hung up the phone and ran out to the front room. "Katie!!! He's coming over right now! He'll be here any second! And I'm naked! What do I do?! Aaaah!"

Katie laughed uncontrollably as I banged around in my towel, phone in hand, screaming desperately.

"Jessie, just go get dressed right now!" Katie stood up and pushed me toward my room. I threw on a shirt and pair of jeans. When I walked out, Katie said, "Jess! What happened to the skirt you were wearing before?"

"I don't have time to put my tights back on! This'll be fine." I told her.

"No. You have to wear the skirt." She threw the skirt and tights in my face and shut me in the bathroom. I lost the jeans and wrestled on the tights, screaming and grunting as I struggled.

I stood in front of the mirror, trying to fix my mess of hair, zipped up my skirt, and took a deep, calming breath. Then I walked out, and there stood Loren, smiling. I blushed and held my jeans behind my back. "Hi..."

Later that night, after I returned from my walk with Loren, I attempted once more the bath I wanted so badly. I asked Katie if she wanted to take a bath with me, "We'll just get in our swim suits, and I have some bubble bath; it'll be so funny!"

"No, Jess... I have to do my math." She secretly really wanted to.

"C'mon, Katie! Pleeeeease!!!"

She rolled her eyes and set her math book down, "Fine! Okay..."

I laughed, "Yes! You can wear my pink swim suit."

We donned our bathing attire and began filling the tub, adding a generous amount of bubble bath. Sitting cross-legged, we fit perfectly, the two of us, in the tub. I shampooed my hair and styled it into a lathery mohawk. Katie squealed with laughter and clapped her hands. Next, I used shampoo to shoot her hair out sideways. We splashed and giggled and took turns scrubbing each other's scalps.

Laura, my roommate, walked in, "What is going on?!" She bent over, laughing. "What in the world... you two are hilarious." She stood there and laughed as Katie and I rubbed bubbles all over our bodies. Then my other roommate, Annalynne, came in with her camera and took pictures of the two crazy cousins in the tub.

I turned to Katie, pouring water on her head with my hands, smiled and said, "Cousins who bathe together..."

"...Stay together!" Katie and I shouted in unison.