This post brought to you by Heartless

It's the beginning of the quarter. And that means the usual beginning-of-the-quarter rituals. Book buying. Book selling. Dressing up for the potential cute boys in your classes - and then realizing that they're far too young for you since you're graduating in two months while they're just out of puberty, and consequently changing back into your oh-so-comfortable sweats. And of course - that one huge grocery shopping trip.

See, I live in an apartment-style dorm, complete with its own kitchen for home-styled cooking. At the end of every quarter, we're required to clean out our refrigerators. Thus, at the beginning of every quarter, we're stuck with nothing to eat. So I, along with my two dinner-mates, will make one huge pilgrimage to the Jewel located 15 blocks away at the beginning of every quarter, and get as much food as we can handle.

The walk down isn't bad at all. We stop for dinner breaks, chance meetings with friends on the street, visits with friends who work at the required-for-every-town Gap and Starbucks. We eventually get to the grocery store, and then we go buck-wild.

Jewel brand sugar. Jewel brand orange juice. Jewel brand cake mix. Jewel brand meat. Jewel yogurt. If fruits and vegetables grew specifically on Jewel brand trees and vines, and were cheaper as a result, we'd buy the Jewel brand there too.

We check out - our bill usually higher than anticipated since all those 10 for $10 deals eventually add up, and then we load everything into our empty backpacks and make the long trek home.

See, my friends. We don't have the luxury of having a car.

But this quarter, our visit to the grocery store was different. Once we got there, one of my friends noticed a guy in the bread section.

"Look! Michelle! Your DM partner!"

DM - meaning Dance Marathon. As in, I held him for 30 hours to make sure he didn't fall asleep or stop dancing on me. Well, okay, there might be a slight role reversal, since I was actually the cranky one, and he was the overly energetic and enthusiastic one. But regardless. Once you do DM with someone, you're partners for life. You've sweat blood together - raising money, almost dying of frostbite going around to football tailgates in the dead of winter asking for spare change. And I have a burn scar from the hot cookie sheet he dropped on my knee - from our bake sale, of course. We owe each other. If he demanded my first-born child, I'd hand it over readily. Likewise, if I need someone to hide me from the CIA, he has an obligation to house me in his basement.

Granted, DM was two years ago. Which is why my guy friend and I immediately ducked into the next aisle over - the feminine care section. As we pretended to peruse the different treatments for various female ailments, we suddenly realized a very very VERY important fact.

My DM partner has a car.

If we'd been in a cartoon, lightbulbs would have lit up over our heads. We quickly ran around the grocery store, grabbing what we needed - and stalking my DM partner the whole time. Finally he got into line to pay. Nonchalantly, we sidled up behind him and started putting our stuff down.

"Whoa. Michelle?"
"...Oh! Wow! HI! I didn't know you were here!"
"Yeah. Grocery shopping."
"Us too."
"That's a lot of food you've got there."
"Yeah."
"How are you gonna get it all home?"
"Oh, we have to walk." At this point, I make the most pitiful (while still flirtatious) face I can manage at him - which I'm sure managed to come out looking just plain constipated.
"Ha ha ha ha. Oh wait! You're not joking? You're walking?! Are you kidding me?!"
"Nope." Dramatic pause. "Sooo...how are you getting all your groceries home?"
"I have a car."
"Oh how nice!" looking him in the eyes and willing him to say those magic words I'm dying to hear.
"Yeah." And at this point he finishes paying, turns to me, pauses, and then says:

"All right then, I'll see you around. Bye!" as he turns back around and drives off into the night.

...

He probably didn't have room in the car for the three of us. Or maybe he wasn't even headed home right away. Maybe it would be too out of his way. I mean, we do live a whole half block away from him. Better yet, maybe he was going to visit his girlfriend (doubtful in existence), and didn't want her to be jealous of the girl he offered a ride home to. I'm sure he had a reason.

But the walk home that night seemed even longer than usual.

dreamin'

Before I start, I wish to apologize for the very romanticized post that is to follow. One of my friends wrote up a list of things she wanted to do before she died. And reading it got me thinking about things that I wish to do. And given my idealistic feelings about love and romance, please forgive my mainly one-track minded list. So here goes.

Before I die, I wish to:

1. Be kissed like there's no tomorrow. You know the kind. The type where you're swept off your feet. Where everything else goes out of focus, not that you'd notice because you're completely oblivious to anything and everything not involving the two of you.

2. Relearn how to play really gorgeously on my violin. I used to be good. And then, something happened freshman year of college. I got too self-conscious or something and couldn't play in front of friends or strangers. And as a result, I've stopped playing. And every day, I realize that I've wasted 18 years of violin lessons. The feeling's especially bad when I hear a gorgeous piece (like the love theme from Romeo and Juliet) and I realize that I used to be able to play like that. Mind you, I never mastered double stops or really difficult technique things. And my five teachers all tried to change my bow hand position, to no avail. But I could pull off a decent melody. I remember being able to really feel a piece, as nerdy or dorky that might sound. But that's what frustrates me most now. I know how I'm supposed to be feeling. I know how I want it to sound, and when it doesn't, I feel frustrated, disappointed, and nostalgic all at once.

3. Dance in the rain. And get completely soaked in the process. I think this desire stemmed from a mix of the ending to Breakfast at Tiffany's and the infamous dancing scene in Singin' in the Rain.

4. Make a quilt. I know it sounds mundane, but quilts have so much history, and one of these days, when I finally get the courage to rip apart my old clothes, I'm going to make a quilt that's full of my childhood and teenage memories. It's going to be quite eclectic, what with the prom dresses, orchestra sweaters, choir outfits, Key Club shirts, the cloth lining my Easter baskets, Sadie Hawkins' he-shirts, and Halloween costumes. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

5. Get my ears pierced. I was going to say get a body piercing, but let's be honest - I'm too conservative to get anything else pierced. But, I'm too scared of pain, so I don't see this one happening anytime soon, but if I happen to go under the knife and am completely anesthesized, someone remember to punch holes in my earlobes for me.

6. Be in love. I've fallen, but I've never been in a love that I thought could last forever. Sad, but I'm hopeful that it's bound to happen one of these days.

7. Go back to Switzerland and just absorb everything. I used to think that Paris was the city of love. Of romance. I mean, I learned French. But there's just something about Switzerland. Maybe it's the gorges. The Alps. The endless waterfalls. The sprawling gorgeous landscapes. My memory of that one dinner in Switzerland with my friends. I love it.

8. Find out where this place is.















And visit it. Run away to it. Or better yet, discover my own hideaway.

9. Have a picnic for two on the beach. At sunset. And then proceed to take a long walk by moonlight. (Give me a break, I had to have at least one romantic cliche on here. I mean, is it even that cliched? How many people have had long strolls on the beach? I can forgo the bubble baths, but I want the beach picnic.)

10. Whip my body into shape. I've always been thin. But it's never been toned. And since my body is starting to pudge in the wrong places, I'm beginning to realize that this might be the last chance I get for a perfect ten body. (Okay, perfect nine. Absolute perfection is impossible. But relative perfection is completely and totally within grasp.)

11. To go (as they say) all balls out, and be completely honest and tell someone I love how much I care for them. I'm too repressed, too self-conscious, too hurt from prior loves, that it's always been hard for me to express my emotions. It's a true sign of how much I love someone when I can rage and show all of my true colors. Of course, there's the flip side to that too. I like to think that one of these days, when I meet that absolutely fantastic guy (dimpled, of course), I'll open up, and that protective wall I always build will come crashing down. And I'll finally be able to say those three little words.

***

The best thing about making these lists is realizing how much I've actually accomplished already in a mere twenty-one years. I was thinking about how I want to be able to cook a real five-course meal. And then realized that I've cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner (and didn't kill anyone, at least, not to my knowledge) for a hundred people. I've planned a formal, with bells and ribbons - clear proof that I'll be able to pull off a wedding. I've been in a wedding - granted, I ended the Wedding March in a minor key, but the marriage hasn't ended in divorce yet, so I count that as a success. I know two foreign languages. One of which I can actually communicate in, but can't read or write. The other, I verbally butcher, but can read and write at a elementary level.

And then there are the impossible things that I wish I could do. Be in a fairy tale. Time travel. Sing. Be in two places at once. Rebuild burnt bridges. Wake up with 20/20 vision. Be shorter.

Regardless, I'm looking forward to my twenties and thirties. My wish list will happen. I'm sure of it.

New York, New York

I don't know why, but I can't bring myself to blog about new York. I tried, but every time I write anything, I immediately feel the need to delete. I can't put down my thoughts, my memories, about my trip, without feeling as though I'm tainting it somehow. Making it trite. So instead, I'm just going to jot down all of my sound bites. And maybe, later, when I'm farther removed from what a wonderful time I had in New York, I'll be able to write something that does my trip justice.

Food and more good food: Cafe Orlin, Mud Cafe, 9th Street Market, Veniero's, the little Venezuelan place complete with swaggering waiter, Serendipity 3, Seoul Garden, Mandoo Bar, Arthur's Landing (in jersey), Ginger's, Katz's, Patsy's, Magnolia Bakery, Tavern on the Green, Oh! Taisho, genuine New York pizza and white pizza from ghetto on-the-street holes in the wall, Bryant Street Deli and its amazing pineapples and oranges.

Afternoon jaunts: Guggenheim and the Smith sculpture exhibition, Central Park Zoo, Battery Park and the Statue of Liberty, Times Square and the Hershey not-so-factory, the huge Toys R Us, shopping on 5th, window shopping on 58th, the Met, more traipsing through Central Park, stumbling across Lincoln Center, paying our respects at the WTC memorial site, finding our way into Europe via New York and theArc d'Triomphe, reenacting SNL skits/Center Stage/Serendipity, lottery tickets and cloudless dreams, nuts 4 nuts.

Night life: proof, 2 NYU boys named Jason, Kavanaugh's, the W's downstairs club and unisex bathrooms, sitting in apartments relearning things about each other, random catcalls from the street and interesting pickups.

Truth: I'm a little too in love with the island.

Comfortable

I know a really wonderful guy. We grew up together. Literally. He knew me when I was a little bean pole. We always saw eye to eye. Again, literally. He attempted daring bicycle stunts down our rather steep hill as I sat on our white picket fence, dripping apple juice all over my Sunday best. He never gave me cooties; he never pulled my hair. Even during grade school, he was the perfect gentleman. Fast forward a couple of years to the summer before high school - and he moved away to the other side of the continent.

He didn't say goodbye before he left.

At first I was devastated. We weren't best friends, of course. But there was always something oddly comforting knowing that he was just two houses down from me. It was mildly amusing having him throw rocks at my window when he needed me for something (usually for me to finish primping so we could get to school on time). It was comforting having a boy traipse through woodland forests with me as we searched for my lost dog. It was nice waiting with someone for our carpool to arrive. And considering that our extracurriculars were very similar, it was reassuring knowing that there would always be a familiar face at something that might be completely foreign to me.

It's been eight years since then. My baby sister is going to college, and we're both about to graduate. Even the best of friends would lose touch, lose contact, over such a long time period. So I think it's pretty amazing that we've managed to touch base every now and then. I mean, I barely know what my best friend from high school is doing now.

For the past week, I've been in New York. I've never been in the Big Apple before, and I figured this might the last time I could actually get out of Chicago for a nice little vacation. But, no matter how much a city girl I might be, New York seemed somewhat intimidating. Luckily, my childhood friend has lived here for the past four years.

We talk every now and then, but rarely on a constant basis. And though I felt somewhat awkward asking him if we could stay with him, I knew he wouldn't refuse.

What's amazing is what a great host he has been. I only wanted a place to stay. I didn't expect him to go around and do all the touristy things I wanted to do with me. I thought I would be crashing on the floor - maybe get some sofa space; I didn't expect him to give up his bed. Even after eight years, he's still the perfect gentleman whom I've always known.

New York has been so great. The food. The sights. But what's been even better has been rediscovering what a great guy friend I have always had. Maybe he knew, eight years ago, that we would stay friends, and a goodbye wasn't necessary. I'm glad we've kept in touch. Every girl needs a good guy friend that she can depend on. I've had several guy friends over the years, but he's always remained the best. Other guys have disappointed me in the past, but maybe it's just because they pale in comparison.

The mark of a true friendship, I think, is being able to talk to someone freely. Without reservation. And with him, I know I can tell him anything. And I think he knows that he can talk to me about anything, ask me for anything, as well.

I know I'm the queen of awkward. But I rarely feel that way when I'm talking to him. It doesn't matter how long ago our last conversation was. We don't have awkward silences. They're comfortable milieus. That is what makes a friendship.

He's comfortable to me.

Hi, my name is...

So in my attempt to keep this blog as anonymous as possible, I've refrained from using names. Of course, given the strange situations that I'm commonly in, it's quite possible to figure out who's who.

Consequently, I installed a sitemeter thing on this site, mainly because I wanted to know if anyone besides myself actually reads this, and also because I wanted to make sure that ex-boyfriends and other characters referenced in my blogs aren't reading it. (Or if they are, that I have fair warning and can issue apologies/letters for forgiveness before they come raging at me.)

But, being the computer illiterate that I am, I only get locations of where people who are reading my blog are from. Hello Michigan. Singapore. Germany. Hickory Hills, IL - I'm looking at you.

So, if you are a frequent reader, please do me a favor, and leave a comment. Anything will do. I just need to ease my paranoia that my ex-significant others are reading this and are possibly quite miffed with me. I mean, maybe this is why they jump hedges when they see me coming.

Secret

I'm horrible at lying. Whenever I play BS, the card game, I'm always the last one out. Never mind that people are generally very perceptive and realize that there can't possibly be five fives in one deck. There's something about the way I say it - maybe the intonation - that makes people realize that I'm twisting the truth.

Secrets are funny things. You're told them in confidence. What does that even mean - in confidence? Is it because the person who told you the secret is confident that you'll be strong enough, be good enough, be able enough to keep it a secret? The problem is, the secret is bound to affect you. you look at the people involved differently, because you now know something that you shouldn't know. I'm positive that slight behavioral changes occur as well. So if someone can pick up on it, won't that alert them that you know? I mean, I know I have my moments where I wonder - Gee...does she knows about...?

We all have secrets. We all have skeletons in our closet. It's nothing to be proud of, but it's also nothing to be ashamed of. People make mistakes. Bad decisions. Act on cloudy judgment. Chalk it up to life learning.

I keep secrets, but there is nothing about me that I - and only I - know. If my closest friends were to gather in one place, you could effectively write my entire life story, and no secret love child would come out of the woodwork twenty years later. All my secrets have been released out into the world.

Is it okay that my life is such an open book? Everyone says that you should keep certain things to yourself, so that they belong to you and only you. But the way I've been living my life, my life belongs to not just me, but also to a select few. Up until now, I've thought that it's been okay to be so trusting. So naive, in a sense.

I've placed my trust in these people. And they're deserving of my trust. Or so I think.

The worst feeling in the world is being betrayed.

But am I right to be so angry? I mean, I was the one who gave away my secret. Clearly, the solution to this would be for me to privatize my life more. It is, technically, my fault for feeling the need to share. But like I said, I'm very bad at lying. If something bad is going on in my life, and someone cares enough about me that they 1.) can realize that I'm having a bad day, and 2.) pry long enough to see what's wrong to make me feel better, I'm going to tell them. I expect them to realize that my opening up is somewhat sacred. That secret? It's a piece of my life that they now, in some sense, own.

My secrets are little vignettes about my life. They've helped mold me into the person I am today. If you cherish me at all, you'd keep my skeletons in our now-shared closets. It's a testament to how much I trust your friendship that I even allow you to peek into my mess of a life.

I die a little, every time a secret gets out.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

My neighbor still annoys me. But strangely, over these past eight weeks or so, we've built up a pretty good system that works.

He wakes up in the morning. Starts blaring his music. I wake up because the pounding bass has made its way into my idyllic dreamland, and promptly smack the wall a couple times to express my discontent. To his credit, he turns it down. After thirty minutes, he gets courageous and starts to turn it up again. An hour passes and it's gotten so loud, that I'm forced to smack the wall again. And again he turns it down. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

And that's how it went for a while. He'd play his music. When it got so loud that I couldn't stand it anymore, I'd hit the wall, and he'd turn down his speakers a smidgen so that I could attempt to study or write or read or sleep or whatever it was I had to do. It was a great system. Until my right hand was so bruised and swollen, I seriously thought that I had broken one of my bones (I hadn't, according to my doctors-in-the-making friends).

So then, I started playing the retaliation game. He'd play his music. When it got so loud I couldn't stand it anymore, I'd turn my speakers to the wall, and inch up the volume so that he'd eventually hear my lyrics loud and clear - and yes, I made sure to play disgustingly poppy songs that I knew he'd hate. (I had to download a bunch of S Club 7 just for the occasion.) He'd get the hint, and turn it down, and I would promptly turn down mine too.

But see, through these little music volume games, I've gotten to know my neighbor. Though a wall separates us, and I still don't know what he looks like in person, we've built up a rapport. We've talked.

See, one Thursday night, he came home at 3am and started blasting his music. By this time, I'm usually in bed. Or if I'm not, it's for a really good reason - usually because of homework and/or papers due the next morning. I was writing a paper this time around. Nevertheless, I don't like bass-heavy songs in the middle of the night - no matter what the situation. So that night, knowing how thin our walls are, I yelled out, "turn down your f*cking music."

Funny how when you're intoxicated or sleepy, you don't necessarily behave all too chivalrously.

"Shut up, b!tch!" came the slurred reply.

"Douche!" I shouted back, irritated and somewhat insulted.

"Prude!"

And then he proceeded to pass out or something, because the music abruptly stopped. And so did the shouting.

"Tool!--oh. THANK YOU!"

"Shut up."

This time I knew not to say anything.

"Good night," he finally said, and left me alone with my writer's block.

And ever since, he's been pretty good about keeping his music down. I can still hear the bass periodically but I think I've acclimated. And I can stand it, as long as it doesn't get so loud that I can actually hear the backup singers harmonizing with the lead singer. Even if that does happen, I'll hit the wall a couple times and he'll turn it down, which I always follow up with a "thank you."


That said, I hope we never meet. That would be awkward.

This post brought to you by Still Awkward

To what lengths will you go to avoid something?

I was walking home from class a few minutes ago...and lo and behold. My ex-boyfriend. Now, given that our last encounter was especially awkward, I was determined to be classy this time around. I even had sufficient time to plan out what I was going to say to him. Hey. I hear you got into Vanderbilt and John Hopkins. Congratulations! However will you choose? Smile firmly in place, I resisted the urge to run away, and continued walking towards him.

Now here is where you need to know that I have a very distinct cream-colored down jacket. I'm not one of those girls who wears a North Face fleece. I have a one-of-a-kind jacket...and paired with my very bright pink scarf and retro earmuffs that have so much metal I could be Sprint’s walking service tower, you can tell who I am from a mile away.

Have you ever noticed that the walk leading up to the confrontation is probably the most awkward part? I suddenly became very aware of my arms swinging back and forth, and the moment I tried to make my monkey arms look more graceful, I proceeded to stumble and look like the klutz I am (but am always trying to hide). I was suddenly very conscious of my unkempt appearance (I had a final today - when it comes down to sleep and getting cutesified, sleep will always always win out). Long story short, I was very aware of my not-how-I-want-my-ex-boyfriends-to-remember-me-by look that the fashion industry won’t be reviving anytime soon. But I was determined to be cool, so I tugged on my jacket and prepped myself to get ready for the, well - meeting. 10 seconds til contact...9...8...

And then suddenly he jumped the hedge lining the path. Jumped completely out of eye contact range. Jumped right out of my perfect we-can-be-friends-really scenario.

Blink.

Blink blink.

And I stood there. Shocked that he would go to such lengths to avoid me. Amazed that he had just managed to scale a row of large bushes. Bemused that he didn’t think I could see him. I mean, really, I was right in front of him and he knew I was right there; there’s no way I could have not seen that evasive manuever. Seriously.

So much for that. Although I will admit I was a tad relieved I wouldn't have to talk to him today, I'm still a bit bewildered that he jumped a hedge. A hedge people! A row of tall bushes! Just so he wouldn't have to talk to me. Wow.

It would only happen to me.

Blink.