"Dear dad"

I get moments where flashes of inspiration come to me, and I spend the next few minutes-hours-days trying to get all my ideas out of my head. I've always said that my muse was my family, but I think now that my muse is pain.

Over the weekend, I realized that I want to draw and write part of a graphic novel for my Contemporary American Life Writing's final project, and I wanted to write it about my father. I thought that jotting some ideas down before going to bed would be a good way to relax. I was wrong. I spent most of the night trying to breathe and slow down my heart as memories flooded my brain. I should have gotten up and tried to organize everything, but I kept hoping I would fall asleep because I had plans to get up early the next morning and do homework. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I woke up about fifteen minutes before my alarm went off with my heart in the same state of duress.

Equal to my father's failures loomed memories of my own. I had my methods of dealing with how screwed up my family was, which included locking everyone out, including my littlest siblings, who needed me. And I realize what looms over that is God's grace, which for some reason remains a constant in my life.

If I can pull off this small section of a graphic novel, then my theme is: "Dear dad: I am different despite you, not because of you."

Looking for perfection

I'm back in Brooklyn. My computer, however, is still in Pennsylvania, with my errant father, who called me this morning to ask for the password to log on to the computer. Which means, for the past week and a half, my father has been in possession of my computer and not looked at it once. On the silver lining side: I find myself fortunate to have a roommate with a fairly nice mac laptop, and she lets me use it.

Unfortunately, my roommate is getting married. Hopefully, by the time she does, I'll have my laptop back. With my father, who knows. Since my roommate is leaving me and I'm still a full-time student who barely makes enough to eat and take public transportation, I need to find a new roommate. I have specific qualifications, and believe me, you don't qualify. I'm hoping that the snooty girl who just called me fifteen minutes ago and who is coming on Thursday to look at the apartment doesn't qualify either. I'm looking for the perfect roommate. As more and more people contact me about the room, time restrictions aside, I'm fairly certain she doesn't exist. Sigh. Looking for a roommate is sort of like shopping for Mr. or Miss Right. One creates this image in one's head that is totally smashed by the real-life options.

Coming up -- when my computer is delivered safely back into my hands -- more updates! Photos! Pretty illustrations created in Adobe Illustrator! I took a picture of this amazing bruise on my knee, the residue of rock climbing on Saturday, but I can't post it yet. When I can, I'll give you the full story as well. A little teaser -- it was GREAT. I am so sore. I can't wait to go again.

Fixing mistakes

The house has been a bit more tension-filled lately than usual. It's possible that there's more tension because school was canceled on Wednesday, and no one was able to escape the stifling confines of the house except my older sister.

Another possibility is that everyone has been more on edge because the baby Greg has refused to sleep through the night. Three nights of little sleep + seven grumpy people = Recipe for Lots of Tension. The baby Greg is one of the few infants who does not succumb to my ability to soothe. The baby Greg hates everything, and protests by crying. The latest thing the baby Greg hates? Falling asleep, apparently.

With everyone ready to punch through walls, the house has been interesting. This includes my brother sitting on my littlest sister today. We were about to play a round of minigolf on the gamecube. She accidentally selected a different character than the one he wanted. He sat on her, she ran off crying to Mother, and I played all three characters myself until he was sent to his room and she composed herself. Somewhere in the middle of that particular incident, he proclaimed that he doesn't "freak out over little things." I said, "She gave you Maurice instead of Julian. Are you sure you don't freak out over little things?" He was suddenly very quiet.

Not too long after that, my older sister asked me if I'd been putting the antibiotic powder in the baby Greg's formula when making him bottles. "No," I said. "You didn't tell me to."

"I DID tell you," she insisted. "You don't listen to me!"

"I DO listen to you," I said, knocking the golf ball a little too hard and wincing as it bounded way past the spot I was aiming for. "You didn't mention it."

"I DID mention it," she said. "That's why he's been crying! You're the reason I haven't gotten sleep for the past three nights!"

Tonight, the house is utterly silent while the baby Greg sleeps peacefully.

Going back

I haven't seen my high school in four years. As I walked down the steps and into the cafeteria, my heart climbed into my throat and remained lodged there all evening.

I owe them $500 or so for tuition. They almost didn't let me graduate because of it. But there is a God, and for some reason, He cares about me, and through His grace, I graduated.

I am still embarrassed about that debt, however, and I had planned not to show up again until I had it. My plans changed with the re-introduction of a certain boy, and then the re-connection of a certain friend, who told me that she was starting a newspaper. Good-looking boys and newspapers, all in one night? I managed to bribe my brother into driving me. My brother brought his girlfriend and his best friend, and then my sister tagged along, and thus it was that the five us crammed into my brother's friend's mother's car.

All of them smoke, and during the ride home, they not only froze me to death with the windows hanging open, but they also nearly scalded my eyeballs out of my head because my sister was unable to get her cigarette ashes out the window. Today, nothing was more frightening than little bits of embers in the dark shooting towards my face. However, the screaming definitely released some tension, while simultaneously annoying everyone else, which was an added bonus.

We've always been outsiders at my high school. I was never sure why, but I do know it seems as though not much has changed. People were friendly, yes, but there was that nagging, underlying feeling that told me I didn't quite belong. I believe that's a reason why I value my family so much. No matter what happens or how they treat me, it is an undeniable fact that I belong. We're a broken, neurotic mess, but we care about each other; we'd give our lives for each other.

----

All of the above was written yesterday. Today is my birthday. (Edited after some more thought.) Suffice it to say that while I view my family as a neurotic mess, myself included, I love them to death.

And about that good-looking boy that I mentioned both above and in previous posts? I saw him when I visited the high school. He spent all his time ogling and not talking, and I have several Facebook messages that include the phrase "u look good," with nothing else of substance. Dud. Good-looking, but a dud.

----

I can't quite see the lesson here, in all of this. It's somewhere, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be learning, or what I'm supposed to be doing. I walk down the halls of my old high school, and aside from new paint and faces growing older, nothing's changed. What am I waiting for? What am I looking for? What do I want?

I haven't the slightest idea.

The baby Greg

I have never before taken care of a baby that cried so much.



He is most comfortable in a specific pose: he needs to throw his head back and face you, staring up at you while you support his head. When he's happy, his lips purse and his eyes cross as he tries to look at your face. When he's upset, his upper lip starts to quiver and then he gasps for air before expressing his disappointment in a surprisingly non-abrasive way.



He's usually upset because he hates all bodily functions. All of them. He can't stand burping, spitting up, or anything out the other end.

I thought I'd gotten used to him. He'd certainly gotten used to me--I was finally able to put him to sleep and even make him laugh. When we'd met for the second time Dec. 24, after our initial meeting Thanksgiving Day, he started crying the moment I touched him. Now, he seemed able to tolerate me. But then something happened I did not expect at all.



I was trying to feed him. He was crying, and nothing could make him happy. He took a few sips from the bottle, then was completely disinterested. Then the projectile vomiting started. I was alone with him--his mother had left to run some errands, and I sat there in horror while he gushed forth, three times, streams of spit up. It was everywhere. Then his face grew red and he cried, and finally, he had no strength left and lay listless in my arms.

I was horrified, and quickly found my phone to call my sister. She didn't pick up, but a few seconds later she walked in through the door. When I explained what happened, she said, "Oh yeah, he does that. He can't digest his food sometimes."



I have a small amount of patience, but my sister's capacity is even smaller. She's the only person that has the ability to truly calm him, and she is either fed up or so tired that she's ready to ... well, she once used a very strong word that I'm sure she didn't mean because she needs sleep.

"He does that."

Poor baby.

Merry Christmas Eve

Oddly enough, I've realized that I've misplaced my bad luck, and while I can't say I miss it, it does feel strange not to have it around. I fully expect it to show up relatively soon, especially because I'm writing about it, and writing about something like bad luck automatically jinxes the writer. It's a rule. These rules are printed in gold on parchment, and they are handed out in elementary school, along with cooties and crushes.

Somewhere, somehow, I switched a fully panicked interior and exterior for a much calmer version.

For example, when I made it to Penn Station today and found my train, I fully believed that I'd gotten on the wrong train. This has become a tradition for me.

Yet I didn't panic, which is what I normally do. I normally start to sweat and freak out and call my mother and explain that, well, I'm sorry, but I might be a little late for the holiday.

Instead, I realized that if I had gotton on the wrong train, I was still headed to Dover, and I'm fairly certain I could just disembark at Dover and get on a train headed in the other direction. It's like driving. If you make a wrong turn, you can turn around. This sage piece of advice was given to me by a friend, and, I must say, it was a breath of fresh air in a dank room--especially because I tend to freak out on a regular basis.

Or, shall we say, I tended to freak out on a regular basis. I don't know why I am suddenly so calm and collected.

As if in homage to my new thought processes, when I was faced with traveling, on two separate occasions, down a flight of stairs, and then up a flight of stairs, two different gentlemen carried my over-stuffed, two-ton bag for me.

It made me feel all grown up and something like a lady.

I'm sorry, fellas, that it was so heavy. After all, I'm going to be in Pennsylvania for awhile, and I couldn't figure out how to pack any lighter. But thanks again, and Merry Christmas.

I'm off to be surprisingly calm and collected ... my family is coming to get me tomorrow. I'll see if they can break me. They usually do.

Have a great holiday, faithful readers. Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. Happy New Year.

Conversations with Grace

When I'm bored, I sometimes text my sister Grace and ask what crazy thing happened to her that day. Sometimes it takes a little while, but she always provides me with a story. Most often, they don't make sense, but because it's Grace, my crazy, crazy sister Grace, it's all hilarious to me.

"Chip brought me the clothes I left at his house and two of the three shirts weren't mine."

"He gave me roses and I gave them to my teacher."

"Well, I went to walk in between these two people and I got stuck and they started to pull me with them! So I started to yell and then they noticed me and separated."

"Well yesterday I was drinking my juice in class minding my own business and this kid throws his bag at me! It hit my arm and made the juice spill all over me! So then he bends over to pick his bag up and I pour the rest of my juice all over him."

"Well actually this kid spit on my chair in class it was so gross."

I'm getting him the LOTR trilogy, plus The Hobbit, 'cause he's too cute

My 13-year-old brother, David, has a girlfriend. Her name is Meghan. He asked her out, and he picked her because of her personality and looks. They’ve been dating for a week and a couple of days.

“So,” he said after giving me the low-down, “How’s your love life?”

I laughed. “Nonexistent. But there’s this guy I’ve been talking to.”

M My 13-year-old turned 30-year-old brother then gave me some advice:

1. You can’t pursue the guy because some guys don’t respect you if you pursue them.
2. You have to let him know somehow that you like him and that you wouldn’t mind having a relationship with him.

“How do you let – how would I, as the girl, let him know I wouldn’t mind having a relationship with him?” I asked, bemused.

“I have no clue. You just have to let him know somehow,” he said.

“How did Meghan let you know?”

“She didn’t.”

“So how did you know to ask her out?”

“We’ve been friends for awhile, so I decided to take the gamble,” he said, suddenly becoming 35.

“Will you take her on a date?

“If I had any money. I’m getting a job soon. But we do hang out a lot. I went to the dance with her. And I see her everyday in school. We have the same lunch block.”

“Where do you see this relationship going?”

“Good.”

“David, I love you. You’re so cute.”

I don't understand you

I've been trying to call my father all day. The decision about whether I will take a final exam early, or not, falls precariously into his hands. He may come to New York to visit his dying mother, he told me.

My grandmother has been dying for the past seven years. So far, she's survived two heart attacks and lung cancer. She's on an oxygen machine, and she'd continued to smoke cigarettes while on the oxygen machine, because apparently she forgot cigarettes were the reason she needed oxygen in the first place. She turned 80 on December 1, and I wanted to scream into the phone: HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE, WOMAN? But because she's my grandmother and I respect the elderly, I merely expressed happiness over her birthday, amazement that she was only 80, and enthusiasm that she was feeling "all right." "All right" is fabulous, terrific even, if anyone manages to survive what this woman has survived.

If my father does come visit, it should be barely a problem to swing into Brooklyn from Long Island and pick me and all my stuff up. IF. IF. My father is the biggest flaker in the history of the universe, and that is not a title I bestow lightly. If he ever tries to make plans with me, I always have back up plans because I know he is not going to follow through. The man is the reason that I have not only a Plan B, but I have a Plan C, a Plan D, a Plan E, and, in some cases, Plans all the way until Z.

I would like to think that he'll be able to come get me. I tried bribing him with coffee, a cheek smooch (I never like giving him those), and even singing him a song. I don't know his reaction to those bribes yet, because I poured those promises into a voicemail, and have not heard back from him all day. He finally did call back, some minutes ago, but I think his phone is possessed because all I heard was a lot of white noise and what seemed like the sound of people walking.

I have finals this week, but I have to buy Christmas presents today if I want them to have the slightest chance of coming on time, and I've been shopping SnapFish and Amazon. I needed to know if my brother wants the Lord of the Rings trilogy, or if he's already read them, and I tried calling my dad again.

This time, he picked up and called me sweetie.

Sweetie.

Sweetie??

"We're eating, sweetie. Let me call you right back," he said.

"You didn't call me back all day," I accused.

"We were busy, sweetie. We're eating now. I'll call you back soon," he said.

I demand to talk to my brother, who is, however, also busy, with food in his mouth. My dad promises he'll call right back, and I, disgruntled, let them finish their meal in peace.

Sweetie.

Really? ... Really?

There's only one reason he'd call me "sweetie." That reason is his bizarre girlfriend, who is, as my older sister said, "quite alright if you don't have to see her or talk to her." He has a carefully sculpted image to upkeep, I suppose, as we all do, in some way or another.

Greg

Yes, thank you, my Thanksgiving was awesome.

More exciting news, for me, anyway

I get to see widdle Greg on Wednesday. AHH! SO EXCITED! I dressed, inadvertently, like a mom today, and therefore I believe that it is only fitting that I will get to be the one getting up that night every two hours to feed the little tyke and change his diaper.

Normal people, I know, don't get excited about losing sleep for an adorable, helpless infant, but I make no claims and try to tell no lies. I first started sleeping lightly, anyway, when I was 13, which is when my littlest sister was born. I would wake up in the middle of the night and bring her to mom. It was very traumatizing, one night, after she'd developed a bad cough that would only go away if she were picked up, when my mother and I both rushed to the crib during a particularly awful coughing spell, and mom, getting there first, broke her toe on a little stool accidentally left there by one of my many other siblings.

I hope to break no toes this Thanksgiving, get very little sleep, and eat plates of ham, turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, stuffing and pumpkin pie. I might eat some vegetables, too, but I'm not sure about that yet.

AHHHH!! SO EXCITED!!

A little bit of crooked sunshine

She was a little taller than waist level, bundled up in a pink coat, with a blue hat and white flower. She was standing in front of me, not exactly looking at me. I glanced down, smiled, and said, “Hi!”

Children usually make my day better. There is no guile, no sarcasm, no cruelty. Their smiles are genuine, their energy infectious.

She smiled, still not quite looking at me, not quite looking away. Then she started walking toward me, as her parents, waiting to pay for their Starbucks drinks, watched.

She hugged me. Confused, I patted her back as her father said, “She never gives me hugs!” and her mother, handing a card to the cashier said, “That’s just the way she is. She says hi to the people she wants to say hi to.”

The hug over, the little girl retreated, and then started to wander away, behind a pillar. Her mother grabbed the receipt and then quickly grabbed her daughter. The Starbucks drinks disappeared into a bag, and then the small family was gone.

Mornings and brand-new babies

The last few tendrils of sleep had begun to barely drift away when my cell phone buzzed.

I was so warm--so warm, and cozy, subconsciously delighted that the winter drafts had not yet begun to invade my sleepy mornings--that I groaned, thinking, no, please, it can't be time to get up yet. Not yet.

I reached for my cell phone, saw a text message--two text messages, three.

He's here; he's finally arrived.

I'll text them back at a reasonable hour, I decided, the ache in my head winning out over the joy I might have possibly felt if I'd possessed full, coherent thoughts.

Five minutes later, my phone buzzed again, this time repeatedly. A call. I groggily reached for my phone again, and managed to get one eyelid open enough to see the name. My 8-year-old sister, calling from her brand-new cell.

I'll call her back later, I decided.

Two seconds later, another buzz. Voicemail.

I reached for my phone and turned it to "alarm only." I still had another hour before I got up, and it was best for everyone if I slept until then.

When I finally made it out of bed, I had three or four pictures texts, two regular texts, one missed call and a voicemail.

The baby is finally here, the delivery went well, he's an absolutely doll, mom is doing fine.

I, and the rest of siblings, are now aunts and uncles for the third time. Hello, beautiful Baby Greg*. I can't wait to meet you, hopefully at a decent hour. As in, some time after 10 or so, perhaps.



*Not his real name. His real name is so interesting and unique that you probably wouldn't believe me if I told it to you. I decided to nickname him something "normal." Greg is very normal.

Living a Jane Austen novel

UPDATE: I have added why I started writing my life as an Austen novel. In case you so wanted to know. And I know you did.

Literature of the 19th century is one of my classes this semester, and while the novels are fun to read, the ideas my professor relates to us can get rather tedious. Last week, during one of his soliloquies, I was suddenly intrigued by the idea of what my life might look like if I were in one of Austen's novels. I've had to adjust some details for it. My family is just too modern for Austen.

But some pieces:

One of their mother’s beaus was a foppish, silly sort of man named Matthew Mark. He had never previously been married, yet Mrs. Pith’s eight children and widowed status did not frighten him. When he wooed Mrs. Pith, he was just developing a trading company. Soon after his rejected proposal, the company flourished and, unable to accept her refusal, he constantly offered Mrs. Pith and her children presents. It showed the family’s lack of propriety when they accepted the gifts, and it revealed their prudence when they carefully hid the source of the offerings. In fact, the children believed that it couldn’t be helped. The family was in need and he was offering assistance. The mother only learned the extent of the gifts the children graciously received on her behalf when she saw them flouncing around wearing the latest bonnets from Paris.

__________

One of the Pith boys had nearly enlisted in the military, but he did not have the money to pay a debt he owed. The second Pith boy, having found a sponsor, was headed to University; and the third, still too young for such decisions, simply did what young boys did best, and teased his sisters.