I Should Be Something

"I love reading your blog," my Aunt Laine mentions as we're chit-chatting in the park, waiting for Holman family photos to be taken.

"I hardly ever write it," I admit, slightly embarrassed.

"But when you do, it's awesome," she smiles.

And then another month or more went by. Looking back, my last post was in May. No June. No July. Where have I been? What have I been doing all summer?

The answer is nothing. Not a damn thing. I was going to read a lot over the summer. I'm two-thirds of the way through a memoir called This Boy's Life by Tobias Wolff.  I've been reading bits and pieces of it for months. I was going to write a lot, with the ambition of finishing another draft of my ongoing novel. Nope. I was even going to participate in Camp NaNoWriMo (the summer version of November's National Novel Writing Month), but I didn't. I reworked the first few chapters for the umpteenth time and that's about it. Do I want to tell the thing in first person or third?? I can't decide! I was also going to draw another season of Chihuahua Comics, chronicling my relationship with Brian and our marriage (since the character versions of us haven't technically been married yet), but I roughly sketched out the first few panels and decided I didn't have time. And who reads it anyway?

Maybe that's also why I haven't written on the ol' blog. Who the hell reads it anyway? And even if some of you do, does it matter? What's the point of documenting my life here on the interwebs? What's the point of sharing photos or anecdotes or comics or poetry? Maybe that's my problem. I just don't seem to get the point.

I turned 28 last Wednesday. To some of you, 28 isn't very old. I still have my youth. My whole life before me. That's what some say. But to me, 28 feels very old. 28 feels like I'm holding onto the leash of some very large dog that comically takes off after a cat and drags me along behind scraping in the mud. The audience laughs. There's going to be a sequel. But I can't shake the feeling that I should have accomplished more in part one. I'm not ready for part two. I feel like I should be something by now.

But what should I be? Or better yet, who?

Mormon Housewife

They jokingly refer to me as the Mormon housewife, and I'm not quite sure who should be more offended. The Mormon?  The housewife? Regardless, it bugs me because it's true, except for the parts that aren't. I'm baby-hungry, but a horrible cook; I spend my free time doing laundry or sweeping the floors, but only to an extent. Only because I have to. I do, however, enjoy strolling the home goods aisle at Target, convincing myself we can afford one more end table. I can even make myself think it's a necessity. Yet when the home is complimented and praise directed to me, I defer. I understate my involvement. Why am I so bugged to be called housewife?

There are lots of bugs in this house.  Spiders that crawl quickly out of sockets, flies that bang blind into window panes, and beetles that look bored as I paint or stain or whatever womanly project I've undertaken. Womanly. What happened to my feminism? My rejection of misogyny? A tiny black beetle crawls slowly over the throw pillows I've so carefully chosen, considering pattern and color, yearning for style yet restraining myself to what I consider a masculine color pallet or a bold pattern. Perhaps this is why I'm uncomfortable when my roommate dons red heels and boasts of his shapely legs. I want to crawl away and hide in the walls of my own do-it-yourself, follow-the-instructions gender norms.

I gently lead the bewildered beetle into a glass cup and carry him outside to the grass. And just like that, over time, I remove the unwanted parts of me from the presentable household I'm keeping.

Metal Meets Metal

Lazy Sunday
swaddled in blankets
like baby Jesus,
binge-watching Glee
(unlike baby Jesus)
when Wes asks
to borrow my car,
the maroon one
with the funny
seatbelts.  Sure,
I say, why the
hell not?

Mouth stuffed
with chips and dip,
fingers fumble
for the controller:
Hulu is having trouble
playing this title right
now.  Stupid Hulu.
Phone vibrates
on faraway end
table.  What the hell
does Wes want?
I wonder.

Just minutes before,
(mere blocks away)
metal meets metal,
one car meets
a second, and in
seconds my lazy
Sunday is no more.
Hulu starts up as
my car dies, and while
Rachel melodramatically
sings, Wes' voice
comes in clear.

I wrecked your car,
he says, I'm so sorry.
And I am, too.
Sorry it happened
to him; sorry
it had to be me.
Don't blame yourself,
I want to say,
It could happen to anyone.
But all I manage is
a whispered Jesus
as Hulu pauses again.

DIY: Modern Wood Wall Art

Truthfully, I haven't been nearly as crafty in this new house as I thought I would be. I envisioned myself finding old, used pieces of furniture and carefully refinishing them; I once even thought we'd build our own dining room table when I saw housewives on Pinterest were doing it. But in reality, I ended up buying a ton of factory-made, assemble-it-yourself pieces from Ikea and Target. With the exception of staining a shelf from Michaels, I haven't been very DIY at all.

Two new wing-backed dining chairs I purchased online from Target were delivered yesterday and they look pretty awesome if I do say so myself. I think the rustic old table (from Payson Indoor Yardsale on Facebook) and the industrial metal chairs (also from Target) look pretty cool combined with something so classically refined, don't you think?

Anyway, the chairs came in a big box with lots of thick cardboard and two pieces of thin wood.  The wood seemed like the perfect size for some wall art.  Finally, it was time to get crafty!

1. Get a sheet of plywood or something.  I was pretty lucky getting mine for free.
2. With painter's tape, tape off a funky grid.
3. Stain it!  A little can of wood stain is only like $5.  I got our gray stain from Home Depot, and decided to do a few random squares in a darker walnut.  After it dries go ahead and peel away the tape. Ours bled a little, but we liked the effect.
4. Hang it up!  I just screwed it directly into the wall.  I figured the screw heads were kinda rustic industrial.
5. Now your modern wood wall art is ready to enjoy.  Ours is in the dining room above the bar.

To Borrow

A "painting" of our new abode, using the Waterlogue app.  Isn't it pretty?

To Borrow

Houses are rentable, yes,

and cars are too, I hear,

although I’ve never rented one.

My own car is so run-down 

it's just sad.  What’s sadder

is I bought it that way,

with a seatbelt that goes across

my lap and a separate one

for my upper body.  I joke

I’m buckling up to blast off

into space where the house

I’m renting looks like the ones

you play Monopoly with,

only mine’s blue not red.

It’s also run-down, the house,

but in a beautiful kind of way—

the way a mother looks

in line at the supermarket

with a cartful of diapers

and Hamburger Helper,

one hand lovingly laced

around the fudgy fingers

of a messy child,

clutching clipped coupons

in the other hand as if one

might be Wonka’s golden

ticket promising to whisk

her away in The Great

Glass Elevator up to a place

where cars never break,

roofs never leak

and run-down isn’t even
a possibility.

Not-Quite-Paisley

I realize I never fully updated everyone in regards to the job situation. I was eventually offered the job at American Eagle, but unfortunately the exact job title and responsibilities changed from when I first interviewed to when I was offered it weeks later. Meanwhile, Zales was able to give me full-time hours again, so it turned out that sticking with Zales would be more lucrative. So I stayed.

In other news, our house is looking awesome as we get more settled. We've been here almost a month now and we absolutely love it. Brian and I are also in finals week for this semester at UVU, so we're only a few tests away from freedom! Oh, and I had two prose poems published in UVU's Touchstones, one of which won Honorable Mention. Pretty cool, huh? It's quasi-autobiographical, documenting a less-than-awesome chapter in our relationship... but it sure made for a great piece of writing.

Siân Griffiths, the judge who critiqued my piece, said, "I was so taken by the way this poem turned. If ever I made the mistake of thinking I might know where the poem was headed, I soon saw my error. Yet each surprise felt utterly earned. In other words, the poem didn't surprise for the sake of surprise, but rather it surprised because life is surprising..."

She's right.  My life surprises me all the time.

Not-Quite-Paisley

You weren’t with me the day I picked the green-blue, not-quite-paisley curtains which frame the not-so-great view of a dentist’s office. But he was. He whispered his advice on accent colors and pulled me away behind discounted duvets and we both know that I let him, his hands ticking over me in slow, circular motions. Framed, near the window, is a photo of a younger me pulling you back into an embrace, kissing your cheek. Other framed photos, mostly from New York City, where we were wed, frame the mirror—black-and-white images of trees, buildings and an abandoned bicycle.  “I’ll return the curtains,” I suggest, replacing the batteries in our clock.  “No need,” you say, with injured eyes, pulling me back to bed, back to you, all interlocking arms and legs, disturbing the duvet.  I cry as you kiss my neck and out the window I only see mountains and blue, limitless sky.  We both agree the view is better from the bed.

Poem for Jessie

April has brought a lot of really fun and awesome things into my life, but it has also brought some terrible ones. Well, one terrible one in particular, and that is the death of a good friend of ours, Jessie. We met Jessie about a year ago when our friend Emily started dating her. The two of them seemed perfect for each other, which I know is cliché to say, but it was the absolute truth in their case. They were both so happy, so in love, and when they asked us to be in their wedding this coming May, we were overjoyed. But then real life came in to remind us all that things aren't always so perfect. Things are often difficult. Things are often sad.

Jessie passed away to Gastric Cancer on April 3, 2014. I remember her laughter and her spontaneity the most. And boy, could that girl dance. Emily would text me almost every other weekend: "What are you boys doing? Let's go clubbing!" And we'd go out and Jessie was always the life of the party. I remember whenever "We Can't Stop" by Miley Cyrus came on she would get especially excited. People always told Jessie that she reminded them of Miley. A far more beautiful Miley in my opinion. The song still makes me think of her every time I hear it.

This one's for you, Jessie.

Stolen

The club lights

flutter their aroused,

anxious butterflies;

their sweaty, shining

palms leave stolen

kisses of every hue

on your dancing body,

blushing timidly

as they do, but only

for a moment.

Only on their turn.

For who could hope

to keep you?

You, an angelic

trickster, taking

silky drags from your

e-cig, running long,

slender fingers through

stylish, cropped hair,

blowing puffs

of hefty exuberance

into the air with every

laugh.

The lights have found

new you to kiss… your musical

eyes, your glittery teeth.

You smile and sing along,

moving your body to the beat.

We can’t stop

and we won’t stop.

Constantly in motion,

moving and grooving

—a solar system

in tight, ripped jeans

and boots.  Feathers

dangle from your earlobes.

You ignite the night

with the lighter that

is you.  Hot and bright.

The club’s lesser lights

enjoy the chase, reaching

for you always but only

catching smoke.