storms and sunlight

Hey. No, I didn't forget about this here lil' old blog. I've just been very sluggish this past week, due to the fact that February vacation, although wonderful, was too damn short.

Over break, I slept in until noon, painted my friend's room "patriot" blue, ate way too much pizza, watched two scary movies, did a lot of hugging, got hooked on How I Met Your Mother and Stumbleupon and stayed home alone overnight for the first time. This all sounds quite eventful, but it certainly didn't feel that way. February has a way of making everything less fun, which is why I'm wicked glad it's now March.

March has spring and storms and sidewalks and sunlight and St. Patrick's Day and I have the feeling that these will cure my case of seasonal depression. I love the snow, but I'm sick of it. I want the spring. I want the summer. Summer is love.

Here are my two favorite summer songs. I know it's early, but I cannot wait :)

Happy Thursdaayyy.

just one more day (day 14)

I've been dragging out the 30 Day Blog Challenge thing since November. It's almost March. Ope.

Your earliest memory.

Oooff. Toughie. I have several very distinct memories from the late nineties and early ohs. Preschool. My brother. Stuffed animals. The birth of my younger sister and brother. 9/11. I have a pretty solid memory. On an executive decision, I'm going to say that my earliest memory is that of acquiring a chipped tooth at approximately age three.

Half of my backyard is covered in concrete, which was pretty sweet during the elementary school summers because it meant riding my bike within the convenience of my own home and also serving as a gigantic canvas for many chalked masterpieces. It was, however, complete hell for knees and elbows, which had a tendency to scrape easily, especially for a chubby and uncoordinated toddler like yours truly. One day, I was running around in tights and teeny-tiny Mary Janes, tripped over a crack and promptly fell flat on my face, mouth open. I slammed my upper jaw on the ground and chipped one of my front teeth. I lay on the ground in that odd position for a full minute before I remembered to sob. In the middle of my misery, I swallowed the detached tooth shard.

I lost the tooth a year later, shortly after I started preschool. I got fifty cents from the Tooth Fairy. My friend got a whole dollar and I felt slighted until she pointed out that my tooth had been damaged goods, so of course the Tooth Fairy wasn't going to pay full price.

Strangely, I didn't feel much better after she told me this.

Now that I don't have it anymore, I've developed a sort of fondness for my chipped tooth. My mother's picture-taking golden days were around the same time, so most pictures of little me include the chipped tooth. Back then, I thought it was no big deal. Little me was kind of awesome that way--I really did not care about my chipped tooth, or if anyone made fun of me for it. If I had a chipped tooth now, I don't think I'd feel the same way.

What I wouldn't give to be little for just one more day.

panic attacks

Allow me to divulge a secret:

Panic. attacks. suck.

I had one at three am this morning. It sort of makes you feel like you're on a roller coaster, only there aren't any seat belts and the roller coaster happens to be falling off a cliff.

And for the record, I hate roller coasters. They suck too.

the angels are crying

I love rain. True fact.
If you'll allow me to be poetic for a few moments, rain is emotional. It is thoughtful, melancholy, spontaneous, soothing, inspirational. Rain is a lullaby and a muse. It can be electrifying but also lethargic.

When I was little, my mother told me, "The rain just means that the angels are crying, Tessie."

For some reason, that image really freaked me out. Angels are not supposed to cry. They're supposed to fly around with feathered wings and golden harps, singing about joy and love, saving babies from busy streets and mending marriages and whatnot. If angels, of all beings, could cry, then we were all screwed.

As I got older, I realized something--tears are not exclusively reserved for sadness. I've cried because something was so hilarious I couldn't catch my breath. I've cried because I've been so happy I couldn't contain all the happiness inside of me. I've cried because I've heard or seen or experienced something so beautiful it made me ache.

And if I cry at all of this, clearly angels must have similar feelings. Just because they're crying doesn't necessarily mean they're sad.

Rain is gorgeous. I have danced in the rain...

[source: writerscafe.org]

And I have laughed in the rain...

[source: devian art]

But I have not been kissed in the rain...

[source: getty images]

...yet. But hey, a girl can hope :)

So appreciate the rain, my dears. Listen to the music it makes. Let the angels cry.

Much love.

PS: fiftieth post!

the maternal friend

My friends never get tired of reminding me that I act too much like a mom, because I say things like...

• eat three more bites of your salad. then you can throw it away.
• get off facebook and brush your teeth.
• your parents paid good money for that, don't waste it.
• don't leave the water running.
• put your plate in the sink.
• you're not supposed to mix colors and whites.
• promise me you'll do your homework?

I'm the friend who folds the blankets and organizes the DVDs in the basement, the one who rubs backs and plays with hair and repeats that everything'll work out in the end. I call my friends "honey" and "sweetheart" without thinking and never turn off my phone in case anybody ever needs to talk.

I also worry about my friends so much more than they realize.

I wish for them at 11:11 every night, hoping that whatever issue they're working through or endevour they're starting will turn out for the best; I'm paranoid that I heard some shred of unhappiness in their voice, terrified that there's something wrong and they're not telling me what it is.

I can deal with my own emotional turbulence, but I hate seeing my friends in any kind of bad mood. Their mental welfare is far more important to me than my own. I can't defend myself against a shouted parental diatribe, but I will never sit by and let anybody critisize my friends, parents included.

My friends are my entire world. I worry about them and love them to the point of insanity and I cannot forgive myself when I let them down. They are truly amazing people, every last one of them, and they deserve far better advice than I'm capable of giving them.

I am the maternal friend--I know it, I've accepted it, I own it. It's the best way I know how to express how much I care about, how much I worry about my friends.

So, darlings, remember that I love you. And go help your mother clean the kitchen.

top ten things my friends do when they're bored

• go on facebook lurking sprees. admit it, you do it too.
• stumble. so. addicting. look forward to a post featuring some of the treasures I've found.
• refuse to change out of their pajamas for two straight days. I'm looking at you, J.
• sing along to songs or start reciting a memorized movie. "Where is the Love" by the Black Eyed Peas, Youtube raps and "The Parent Trap" are popular favorites.
• sing twenty-minute stories about nature and ice cream cones over the phone. I hung up because I couldn't take it anymore.
• watch iCarly slash Drake and Josh. I miss Drake and Josh.
• watch youtube videos about cats. don't understand the attraction there.
• plan out elaborate weddings, names of future children and decide where they're going to live as adults. there's something strangely tempting about the future.
• talk about Pokemon. fifteen years old and talking about Squirtle? Nah, we're not losers.
• when all else fails, EAT.

great expectations

Yesterday I finished trudging through Great Expectations By Charles Dickens.

Perhaps "trudge" is too unkind a word. It was a challenging read, and I haven't read anything very challenging for a good while now, so it was an adjustment for me. It's not a mindless book--you can't just la-de-da your way through it, you have to actively think and work to keep up with the plot, which is mad hard to summarize, but involves a boy named Pip and his many adventures through the social structure of early nineteenth century England.

The one thing I really loved about this novel was Dickens' writing style. There's something Shakespearean and poetic about the way he creates moods and characters and scenes with handful of old-fashioned, classy words. You get lost in his descriptions, attached to his characters.

You also get annoyed because the story drags on for approximately fourteen years, but in the long run, it's worth the read. It is a classic, after all, and for a good reason. Books don't survive for one hundred and fifty years if they're terrible.

"I'll tell you...what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the smiter--as I did!"

"As to forming any plan for the future, I could as soon have formed an elephant."

"You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read...you have been in every prospect I have ever seen...You have been the embodiment of every graceful fantasy that my mind has ever become acquainted with."

Beautiful, huh?