Say what you need to say

                A few weeks ago I met a man at work. He has a wicked lazy eye and is not very attractive. We make small talk and I mention something about wanting to be a stay at home mom. His eyes light up, his wife is a stay at home mom. As we continue talking I reveal that I am living with my boyfriend. He understands the situation, but also thinks we should get married. I am not offended, he delivers his opinion in a way that makes it seem nice, and not judgmental. I walk away happy.

                Later on that day I was on the phone with a friend who will remain unnamed. I tell her about the conversation and how refreshing it was to talk to a man like that. I mention the bit about “living in sin” and she immediately sees that as an opening to jump on her soap box. “He’s right you know, you are living in sin, you should get married.” I immediately know where this conversation is going. You see a few years ago me and this person we very close, in a very small amount of time our friendship fizzled. I didn’t have the same shaped faith as her. Mine was much more irregular and constantly changing. She was a girl of blind faith; I wanted to know what the world was about. She tells me that it wouldn’t be so bad if I claimed to be a Christian. Last she heard I wasn’t. (Oh, and don’t bother rereading that, I really just wrote that she thought me living in sin would be more acceptable if I was a Christian. Weird.) I tell her that I believe that if you can’t tell what I believe by the way I treat people then it doesn’t really matter. “That right there lets me know you’re not a Christian. Some of the nicest people in the world are Buddhists. There are lots of nice people that aren’t Christians.” I should have said “and there are lots of shitty people that are ‘christians’”. But I held my tongue.

                I am a nice person; I try to be kind to others. I don’t do this because Jesus tells me to or because I want to show them the light of God. I do this because I know right from wrong, and I know how to be decent. I do not try to harvest people in the name of God. I’m not searching for those lost souls to save.

                Yesterday, I met that man again. He said he had talked to his wife about me. She told him he shouldn’t have leaned on me so hard. I told him I wasn’t offended by him telling me I should get married. It was his opinion, and I took it as just that, an opinion. I told him that soon after our conversation; I got into an argument of sorts with a friend of mine. He looked sad. I told him the situation and felt very confident and strangely at ease telling this very Christian man my beliefs. He didn’t try to change them; in fact he understood my views. This man whose name I can’t remember and his wife Mary, whom I’ve never met have really touched my life. He lives down by Hot Springs, AR and comes to Conway for business occasionally. I’m sure I will see him again, and I have no idea what we will talk about next time. But I do know that I will get crazy distracted by his lazy eye.

This man never came out and said he was a Christian, I could tell by the way he acted.

For Cam: fuck, damn, piss.

Song of Fate

Chicken Salad

                One of my favorite things in the whole world is the chicken salad from Mizzola’s. Mizzola’s is now closed. It’s hard to lose something that is a favorite, whether it is a favorite person, or a favorite show. Speaking of shows, I did something stupid. I started watching Reaper, there are only two seasons. My heart is broken, but on with the chicken salad. This particular salad inspired me to refer to the “Shicksalsied” by Johannes Brahms as chicken salad. The title means song of fate in German. It has nothing to do with food. It was the semester that we performed that piece; Mizzola’s closed its doors.

               

Chicken Salad

(Mizzola’s remake)

3 Chicken Breasts (cooked, baked, or boiled your preference)

2 lemons

½ cup olive oil

2 Tbs Dijon Mustard

Enough onion, pickle, and tomato to fill a small bowl (around 2 cups) finely chopped

Salt, pepper, garlic powder, and Italian seasoning

Combine mustard, oil and the juice of both lemons in a small bowl. Add a pinch of salt and pepper. Whisk.

Shred Chicken breasts.

Add Dijon Vinaigrette (the mustard oil combination), veggie mix to the chicken. Mix.

Season with salt, pepper, and Italian seasoning

Serve on bread, preferably homemade or at least the kind that tastes really good. Serves at least 3.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tNUTUPo4ako (I am in the choir performing in the video. This is the Schicksalsied)

Getting to know me, getting to know all about me

This will serve as a larger explanation of my intentions on the interwebs.

I currently live in the great state of Arkansas. I am from Oklahoma so there should be a heavy hint of sarcasm when I say that Arkansas is great. I am taking a semester off from college right now. There is something about wasting money that just doesn’t quite sit right with me. I live with my boyfriend and I am trying to stock my womanly arsenal.

I am the 3 day old owner of a sewing machine. I love to paint on stuff. I like to cook from scratch, and I am somewhat of a music snob. Not in the hipster, “I listen to obscure bands you’ve never heard of” way, in the “I spent 3 and a half semester s as a music major and I can sing your face off” kind of way.  That’s really the only thing I am snobby about. I’m not snobby about Jesus; I am friends with Jesus, but not in the whole friends with benefits thing like a lot of people. I do nice things, I love people, and I try to be a positive influence. I like to believe that God is love, so if your god and my god look the same, and we both love, then were the same.

Even though I’m owning this whole “music snob” persona, I’m not performing anywhere. That’s a lot harder to say than you might imagine. I will get back on the choir train eventually, for now I am just entertaining dreams of learning how to play guitar and doing awesome acoustic covers of bar staples. My line up would look something like this:

1.       Total Eclipse of the Heart (Dan Band Style)

2.       Bennie and the Jets

3.       Blinded by the Light

4.       You Shook Me All Night Long

5.       Night Moves

6.       Only the Good Die Young                                                                                                                                                          

I like to think that would go over well, with the bar goers of Arkansas.

          When I grow up, I want to be the coolest, most bad ass, stay at home mom there ever was. I want to be that Mom, who makes the moms of the other toddlers stare, and then right when they pass judgment on me and my ruffian kids.  My kid will be the one giving a hug to the girl that just got pushed off the swing by one of the other bitch kids. Yeah, who’s the bad mom now? Letting you kids watch TV instead of teaching them how to pretend how to fly in outer space, stupid woman. That is all beside the point though. I am not with child. I have not reached the point in my life where I get to be barefoot and pregnant. I have years of mastering the arts of sewing and cooking and not sleeping. And Drinking, yeah, mostly drinking.

                Now, for my intentions here. These words that I write are not here to enlighten, or persuade. I am here only to share things I want to share, things that I am proud of, or things I need to get off my chest. With that being said, just know that when you get addicted to the sugary sweet, awesome I am infecting you with. There might be a recipe in here. There might be a pattern I found that I am totally stoked about. There might be instructions on how to sculpt your pubic hair into a handle bar moustache. Ok, that last one will probably never ever be on my blog. You’re welcome for that; this is not that kind of blog.

      

Across the Universe, a look into my past.

Across the Universe

As you might expect, I was once a teenage girl. I had a few close friends, we had similar interests. We all had similar taste in the same shitty punk music. Being as we were all born in Oklahoma, we have low standards by default. Not only are we not expected to make it through high school without being impregnated, if we make it to college, we will be the first ones in our families to attend college. Now I may be exaggerating a bit, but our future did have a nice bright spot just ahead for us.                 

Following in American tradition, we took the opportunity of a national holiday to take the money of our parents and go eat. We avoid all of the restaurants that might involve families, there are enough children in high school and we, being the mature women we are, just want to enjoy a nice civilized ladies night. Liz, Megan, and I are not the types to be troubled with the annoyance of crying children. We want to be free to say “adult” words at the table without some overweight mother of four giving us a go to hell look. We settle on Macaroni grill, not the best choice, but Liz has a gift card.             

      Our one wish is granted by the gods. We have a male server, this is important because he will flirt with us for a tip. As women, we honor prostitution of all forms, especially Megan. She was a stripper at this point in time. She is eighteen, fairly petite, and has multi faceted hair. She also has bad habits, like getting caught in possession of marijuana. So the stripping job is there to pay for her ticket. It was as if the fates  brought Joel to us. Joel is our waiter, he is about six foot two, medium build, flowing brown locks, and pierced ears. Joel is twenty four, lives with his parents, and he has a misdemeanor, along with Megan. This of course makes him more attractive. Drinking and driving is such a big turn on for girls. Now if only my sarcasm wasn’t true. We honestly think Joel; his name is actually pronounced “joe-el” like a reject from Krypton or something, is hot shit.                                                

 I happen to have an insatiable thirst for blackberry mint tea; Joel manages to meet my every need. Something to keep in mind about Liz, I know I have left her out a little bit, is that she is a year older than us. Her parents are in oil, so her life is paid for. She is a catholic, vegetarian, lesbian. She pretty much leaves the flirting to me and Megan. She’s too busy talking about her music theatre career that she was going to pursue at TU this coming fall, to even notice that we we’re at a restaurant or that she is with people.                    

Liz and I went skiing in Santa Fe that past spring, with her father of course. This dinner was the first time I had talked to Liz in about Six months. She managed to complain throughout our entire trip. She’s not a snowboarder, she fell a lot. So I skied with her dad. I had a good time, but I hated how disrespectful she was. Her dad and I ate a lot of steak that trip. I think we really just wanted to get back at her.                          

   If you have ever been to Macaroni Grill, then you know that they cover their tables with paper. You are also provided with crayons for your entertainment. Joel impresses us with his ability to write his name upside down and backwards. Liz is drawing a hand shaped tree. Megan is informing us of how good stripping is for your self esteem. I kind of buy into it. I don’t get much male attention at school and guys’ giving me dollar bills in exchange for a lap dance does sound like a win win situation. Megan and I had just gotten out of a semi relationship. I was attracted to her, I never figured out why. She was very inspiring. It was like watching a bird catch fire in mid air, like a firecracker, but much more tragic.                     

I continue flirting my way into a free desert. Joel asks me if I like chocolate, “I am female.” I reply. It’s appropriate that this man would offer an aphrodisiac to an underage girl with attachment issues. His efforts are repaid with my number.                

 After dinner, Liz drives us to The Center of the Universe. It’s this weird metal pillar in downtown Tulsa. It’s in between some office building and the Jazz museum. It has airplanes on it. Apparently is has something to do with WWII, we have no idea.  The way it’s nestled into downtown created some kind of weird acoustic environment, there are circles made of brick in the side walk. If you stand in the middle of the circle and scream, it echoes. But only within the brick circle. It’s really weird. I’ve only been out there at night and it always gives me the same prickly feeling.  I want to go home. I manage to make someone else find me attractive by liking the same shit punk music, by having a fouxhawk, and a stripper friend.                    

 Back at the table we had given our selves titles. Megan was “Meg, the quiet one”, Liz “Liz the Brash”. I am “Leah the friendly”.  We all knew I meant friendly as in “most likely to put out”. This is the turning point where I want to be experienced so I purposely make mistakes just to learn from them, or to say I did it.  If I had known myself at the time I would have kicked myself in the shin. You gain experience with age, not by fucking up for the points.                         

 Joel would text me later. I wouldn’t end up sleeping with him until July. As it turns out I ended up spending a lot of time in my own center of the universe. I screamed, and screamed but no one ever looked. I ended up having to look for myself. Megan quit stripping. Liz dropped out of two different schools. Joel moved to Hawaii. I ended up sleeping my way into depression. I got the experience I desired. I would still go back and kick myself. It still wouldn’t have changed anything. I would have just had a bruised shin.

This was writen in response to an assignment for my comp II class.