Uncle Frank

A silver Grand Prix pulls into the driveway just a little before 5:30, always early. After a number of long, strong strides accompanied by a cheerfully whistled tune, the doorbell rings. He stays in the entry way while she grabs her purse, as the landmines of cat fur farther inside would trigger his allergies. He whistles back to the car and opens her door for her with a smile.

The car is clean, feels almost new despite the fact he bought it used a number of years ago. The cup holder in the center console is full of those generic hard candies no one wants on Halloween--butterscotch, strawberry, rootbeer. There is a stack of undistributed fliers in the back promoting a local art show for one of the galleries he's recently signed on with. He starts the car and the radio comes to life with lyric-less jazz, just a little scratchy because the reception isn't the best it could be.

Frank avoids the highway, though it would cut the driving time by more than half. He opts instead for the scenic route on Blossom Hill Road through the Los Gatos hills. Jazz fights with static as the hills rise on either side, but the music eventually wins with renewed volume. He's always been that way, unhurried, easy-going.

He was there when I was born, a co-worker and close friend of my mother. I've grown up around "uncle" Frank, the eternal bachelor. He's always had silver hair and that slightly lazy blue eye. I remember one night the family was out to dinner with him at a very nice steakhouse in downtown Los Gatos and his exciting news of the evening was that he had finally gotten himself a cell phone. It was a simple pay-as-you-go type thing, but it was all the technology he was willing to handle.

After he retired, he started painting as something to pass the time. He mixed his own pigments and produced work after work of stunning surrealism. His first sale was "Hope," a dusty brown tree on a cream landscape with a black sun rising behind it and a single green sliver of a leaf on its bare branches. It hangs on the wall of my mother's security office at work.

He's entertained the notion of moving to Oregon, Washington and Alaska in the past few years. He almost made it, but decide to remain in the area at the last moment. As preparation for the move, he wanted to give unsold paintings to friends; such was how my family ended up with two more of his works; one my parents chose (right) and the other one I'd been eying for years, "Viewpoint," which features a white orb emanating graduated blue light in a black sky. A tan cave lit from within and an impressive cliff reaching toward the orb rises from the dusty brown rocks of the landscape below.

It seems it doesn't matter what viewpoint an individual has, he's one of those people with a personality everyone can love. A people-person to the end.

We end up at the California Cafe in the rich part of Los Gatos (the really rich part, not just the rich part) and enjoy steak Diane with asparagus and mashed potatoes while overlooking the Los Gatos Creek Trail he walks more than once a week. Afterward, we wander the downtown streets, poking through shops. He whistles in the lulls in conversation, tickles the fancy of those lucky enough to pass us.

Beat Your Heart

A solitary militant call shatters the sunset silence.

Taresukuten taresukuten

Seventeen voices respond in unison.

Don

Their exchange continues, rising in urgency before falling back into rhythm.

Taresukuten taresukuten

Don don

Taresukuten taresukuten

Don, don don don don don don don don

Their chant is repeated, once, building further with a more forceful eight-count added at the end. The voices break together for another melody.

Don, don, don-don--

A brief interjection from a different set of voices, twenty strong now: "Sore!"

Don, don, don-don

"Hai!"

It repeats for a total of four rounds, shaking the glass panes and vibrating the floorboards. A volleyball hits the windows but is drowned out by the building force within.

The twenty voices lead now.

"Sore zu--" Don

"Zu--" Don

"Zu--" Don-don

The briefest moment of pause after three repetitions before--

Don

And the Cha!--cha!--cha! of wood-on-wood.

Don

Cha!--cha!--cha!

Unified, hearts beating with each stroke, they return to the original melody.

Don, don, don-don--

"Sore!"

Don, don, don-don

"Hai!"

Twelve full rounds, two position trades, sweaty hands resisting blisters, aching arms continuing fueled by willpower alone, cramping feet pushing for balance. Despite it all, the hearts continue beating in harmony.

The drummers end together, a final "Hai!" before they pose, drumsticks in the air, feet planted, chests heaving. Blisters, calluses and sore muscles will form, but won't prevent another harmony.

Vivian

A friend invited me to dinner at their church for Easter. I'm not a religious person, but I'm not about to go insulting people in their own domain. So I dressed myself nicely and headed out, feeling a bit anxious about being surrounded by people I don't know who all believe in something I do not.

Halfway there, I spotted a couple coming toward me. The man faded from view, drowned out by the woman's attire. She had a black and neon pink, orange and green poncho. As one who has taught herself to both knit and crochet, I was automatically distracted--even after the gorgeous colors were comprehended.

Before we passed each other, she paused to tell me about a dinner at a nearby church--the same one I was already headed to. Her smile that I would be joining them was stunning. That someone could be so happy over the choice of a complete stranger boggled my mind. I thought about this as I continued on my way to the church.

My friend wasn't there when I arrived, so I stood around, hands clasped in front of me, hoping for a little show of friendship. That's when I saw the poncho again. She saw me and that smile reappeared. She came right up to me and invited me to sit on one of the sofas (the church didn't have pews, it had sofas--some of which reclined) to talk while waiting for either my friend to arrive or the food to be ready.

Her name was Vivian. In the church, she removed the poncho. She was originally from San Diego, but moved to Forest Grove just a few years ago when her husband was offered a job. The climate change may put others off, but Vivian couldn't love the cooler, damper climate more. While we talked, her eyes constantly flitted to the kitchen, looking for any task she could help with.

She spoke in a soft voice, the kind whose laugh isn't obnoxious, the kind used in TV shows as the kindly, advise-dispensing grandmother or aunt. Her light brown hair was short and naturally curly. Many things about her were natural; I was impressed that she didn't wear makeup beyond lip color.

That's probably why her neon poncho stands out so much in my memory snapshot.

Hi, I've Got ADD

Undiagnosed, of course. Because really, who gets tested for that kinda thing? And who has time to take pills? I barely have time in the morning to get out of bed and get dressed, let alone pop a handful of pills. You know how it goes. Alarm goes off, you hit the snooze. Then you hear those birds outside and you can't actually get back to sleep.

The birds on campus start up their chirping at about 4 a.m. When you're trying to get to sleep at 4:30 a.m. after laying out the newspaper, it's really hard with the damned birds chirping. It's just another frustration on top of having errors on your pages and having to redo them over and over and still knowing there will be something wrong when it goes to print.

And then people complain about it and you just want to scream because they have no idea how difficult it is to produce the level of quality they're currently holding. We've got maybe 10-15 people who actively work with us; the others just swing by when they feel like it.

Apathy's a huge problem. I had to fight it in high school when I was involved in clubs. No one ever played chess at Chest Club. No one in anime club ever wanted to participate in events. Organizing Seito ChibiCon in 2008 was really difficult because I was supposed to be working with a handful of other high school anime club presidents but they all flaked, so I ended up doing everything from arranging prizes from companies like Dark Horse Manga to securing a location. And of course the school doesn't take us seriously because we "weren't a purposeful club."

I hate it when people assume they know everything about you or your cause and treat you in line with it. Assumptions are the number one reason for miscommunication and related failures. They never stop to really figure out what's going on and hence miss the bigger picture. Ego plays a lot into it too--that's why we can't get anything done with the damned government.

...sorry, April Fools on the Internet distracted me for a half hour or so. What were we talking about? Government, right. How about that "fucking big deal" that got passed a week or so ago? Exciting news for me, even if it's a single step forward. That first step is usually the hardest.

Speaking of news, I need to go distribute the Index. I was up until 4:30 a.m. Wednesday morning putting that dratted thing together and I'll be darned if people don't read it.

Bye!

On Athlete's Foot

It usually comes on so slowly I don't notice until it's too late. Maybe I wore the same pair of shoes too many times in a row. Maybe I didn't dry my feet well enough after a shower. Maybe I haven't given my feet enough time out of socks. Doesn't matter if any or all caused it, there's always that one time I take off my shoes and suddenly realize how bad they smell. My feet, the shoes, the socks, doesn't matter. It all converges.

Athlete's Foot is a terrible thing in social settings.

It's a terrible thing on one's own, too.

When I was younger, I'd have an infection every month. Dad would have me sit on the side of the bathtub after I'd showered so he could spray my feet with Tinactin antifungal powder and roll a clean sock over each foot. The bathroom would be avoided for at least a half hour after each treatment, it would be so hazy with the stuff. I'd have to wear those socks for 24 hours while the white powder did its magic.

Though one spray rarely fixed the problem, my cases were hardly what one would call extreme. I'd get the excessive dryness over the entire foot and toes. Sometimes it would peel and I'd have to use a pumice stone to scrape it off. But all that's still only the first or second level of the infection.

When the fungus really gets going, nails can turn yellow and rise from their beds. Blisters will form and pop and form again, leaving scars and pockmarks. The body can be taken over, especially the groin area. Children have lost patches of hair on their scalps from this same fungus.

A lot of people freak out over Athlete's Foot. I haven't known any personally, but I'm sure there's someone out there who refuses to exercise or refuses to wear sneakers because they're afraid of it. I do know more than a few people who can't shower in a locker room or their college dorm because they're so paranoid about contracting it.

I laugh, because this seems like such an irrational fear. Sure, those places are ideal locations for the fungus to flourish, but the amount of things we're exposed to and don't contract each day should put the probability into perspective.

All it takes to thwart the fungus is good hygiene. When my father finally got fed up with spraying my feet, he made sure I at least alternated shoes each day and made sure I changed my socks after cross country and track & field practices. When I did get reinfected, he would take my shoes in the backyard and spray them with the Tinactin, leaving me to deal with my own feet.

In the two years since coming to college, I've only had to spray my feet for two separate infections. I never wear "shower shoes" and I don't use antifungal or even antibacterial body wash. I wear a different pair of socks every day and use different ones for exercise that are hung to dry after each use. I don't alternate shoes as much as I should (which is why one pair now needs to be sprayed), but I'm sensitive to how my feet react.

Extreme cases only arise when you're uneducated. Don't run away from something because society's deemed it distinctly "unfabulous." Odds are, you'll have to deal with it eventually, be it for yourself or your kids; knowing how to deal with and treat it gives you all the defense you need.

Pennies, Bras and Phobias

3/16/10 Reading Response

Reading through the section of Dillard's work reminded me of a poem I wrote towards the beginning of high school. Until then, I'd been one of those people who stopped to pick up dropped change no matter its worth (or lack thereof). I'm not entirely sure when that changed. I've recently gotten back into the habit, but that might just be because I'm a college student and any money is welcome.

Lost Pennies

I look upon the ground
as I continue on my way.
How many times that I've
walked by have I seen that penny?
Long ago I would have stopped,
taken time to pick it up,
but now I simply let it rest,
its worth no longer calling.
When did the world diminish such
that I no longer care?
When did the world change so that
the small things do not matter?
We stumble through our lives
seeing only large successes.
We wonder why we are unhappy
when the truth lies just before us.
Perhaps next time I see that penny,
I'll pause to pick it up.
Who knows, I say, what simple things
may return into our lives?
If we begin to care again
about such little gestures
will the world come full circle
and become again its past?

After the Mammalian piece, I found myself looking up this "Last Resort Bra," because I was interested in its alleged existence. Lo and behold, it does exist, but it's breast-ist against those of us smaller than a C cup. Apparently we don't need total immobilization.

Then I got to the On Pests piece. A page or two in and I had to stop reading to go and quell the trouble brewing in my stomach. I hate bees. I was okay with them until I was about 7. I was okay with them until one Fourth of July on a hillside when a group of wasps decided it was a good idea to make their nest on the ground. Where a 7-year-old watching fireworks could step on it. In the dark. With no warning as to what they were about to experience.

Since then, I freeze up exactly like the niece does; rigid, arms clamped to the sides with clenched fists, eyes closed, often shaking. I can't come out of it until a minute or two has passed since the buzzing has faded. Actually having one land on me? Hysterics.

I wouldn't have batted an eyelash over the decision to get rid of the damned things. I don't care if they're "gentle" or "harmless" unless provoked. Bees are perpetually provoked. End of story.

The Riff

There are a number of items I have on my person at all times. Two friendship bracelets, made by my middle school camp kids during the summer; my high school class ring--its third variation after two missizings and a completely incorrect order, and a jade necklace, of either a peacock or a phoenix, can't determine which (though the giver believed it to be a snake) are the accessories that are always equipped. Items that inhabit pockets have a varied order of importance, depending upon my location and my location alone. While at school, the most important is my student ID card, for obvious reasons. While at home my phone takes that title, also for obvious reasons. The runner up is a tube of chapstick.

I don't quite remember when I started using chapstick, though I imagine it was during middle school. I began running Track & Field and Cross Country in middle school, and the constant wind across the lips from breathing through the mouth (I know I'm supposed to breathe through my nose, but I just can't get enough air that way) definitely caused some chapping.

Middle school was also the time my mother took it upon herself to make me more feminine. I'd joined the running sports to avoid her threats of signing me up for the cheer squad. I believe there was one Christmas where my stocking contained nothing but cheap beauty products; lip gloss, eye shadow, brushes, eyeliner and of course, chapstick.

By eighth grade, it had gotten to the point that my lips stopped moisturizing themselves. I required the chapstick. I was addicted. In those first months upon realizing this, there were a number of times I forgot to grab the colorful little tubes. Sometimes I'd get lucky and be with my parents (to this day, my mother has a tube of vanilla chapstick in her purse that the hospital gave her when I was born) or friends. Other times, I would fall into an excruciating pain as my lips dried out and my saliva only made it worse.

I learned quickly after that. These days, the only time that pain is experienced is when a tube gets used up. I've become sensitive even to that, however. The change in weight of the tube and the sharp plastic base at the base of the product are the warning signs. With the change of the weight, the balance of the tube is also thrown off. I know when to start carrying two.

Now, the chapstick itself hasn't changed that much over the years. I refuse the Chapstick brand. Why? They put microscopic bits of fiberglass in their product to cut your lips. That cooling sensation the brand promotes is the result of other ingredients in the product healing the cuts. Blistex feels pasty. Avon is usually alright, but expensive and difficult to come across. Burt's Bees is okay but doesn't give me the level of moisture I need so I find I'm constantly reapplying. Generic brands are hit-or-miss, depending on their formula.

I've always been a Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker girl.

The best perk has to be the variety of flavors offered. If I didn't have the choice, I would be perfectly content with one flavor once I found it (I actually found the "one flavor" of Lip Smackers, but like everything else I like best, the Moon Rock Candy flavor was discontinued). There are only a few types that don't work for me, which allows me to buy in bulk without worry.

Kiwi, Strawberry Kiwi, Fruit Punch, Red Raspberry, Wild Raspberry, Strawberry, Watermelon, Grape, Cherry, Vanilla, Cotton Candy, Lemonade, Pink Lemonade, Squirt, 7UP, Crush, Mountain Dew, Starburst (all the original flavors), Jell-O (Strawberry, Blue Raspberry, Lime, Grape, Strawberry Kiwi, Cherry), Strawberry Gushers, Cinnamon Bun, Peanut Butter Chocolate Cookie, Gingerbread Man, Melon, Strawberry Banana, Tutti Frutti. There's more, but I'm sure the above conveys just how many choices there are. The one I will not touch is Dr. Pepper. Instead of moisturizing, it immediately gives the uncomfortable sensation of the drying out pain.

People don't notice the chapstick, much less when it is changed. The only one that's really been called to attention was the Strawberry Gushers, because of how unusual it was. Sometimes, like with Watermelon, people will notice the smell but they won't outright ask about it.

A single tube lasts about two months. There is no ceremony for switching from one to another. Sometimes I'll ask someone else their opinion of which flavor I should use next. Old tube goes in the garbage, new tube goes in pocket.

Today is Jell-O Strawberry Kiwi. Tomorrow is something completely different.

Our World Day

What do flowers mean to you?

Do you appreciate receiving them for holidays or events like Valentine's Day, weddings or graduations?

Do you know each type's symbolism or ignore that aspect and simply select ones that are prettiest or best-liked?

I have a basic understanding of flowers. Roses are more geared toward love and devotion. Carnations typically say "Get well soon." Tulips have a tendency to signify spring. Red goes to a love. Yellow goes to a friend. Bulbs go to your mother on Mother's Day so she has something cheerful that will come back each season after only one instance of straining her back in the garden planting them. Simple stuff like that.

I've never been the girl who likes getting flowers. Call me overly-practical or whatever, but why would you buy something for someone you care about when it's just going to die? Why waste the money to send such a drab message?

Also, most types you buy don't have the stereotypical smell one expects when thinking of flowers. They very rarely have any scent at all, unless you pay an arm and a leg and then I'm not positive the florist doesn't spray the doomed blossoms with artificial odors. The cross-bred yellow, lavender and red roses lining my driveway might not last as long and might not bloom with the same breath-taking grace, but they smell so much better.

I have given a number of flowers:

A half coconut full of fragrant Hawaiian blossoms left on the table in our hotel room one morning for my mother to wake up to. They were gone when my father and I returned. I had spent the better part of an hour collecting the best-looking blooms that had already fallen off their bushes.

A bag of assorted lily bulbs specially ordered from a catalog went to my mother but she never bothered to plant them. Last I saw them was in the garage on the "junk workbench," still in their red mesh bag.

And of course, I've received my fair share of bouquets.

The dentist's office always has a bucket of carnations, dyed to be appropriate to the nearest holiday, and you're always encouraged to take at least three home with you, because the number "looks better" in a vase. They last until the cats find and eat them.

For one of my six-month anniversaries, my then-boyfriend showed up on my doorstep with not a single, not a dozen, but 14 perfectly crimson roses. They sat on the kitchen table for a week or two before they realized they had perished and were thrown out.

Three corsages, all white roses, sit in their plastic boxes in the back of the refrigerator, wrinkled and desolate. They were from a junior prom and two senior proms during high school--all pomp and circumstance instantly forgotten out of context.

I received a single, long-stem red rose and a Hawaiian-style lei of purple and white flowers from my then-boyfriend for my high school graduation. Both were forsaken within days.

Hosting such little respect for flowers, my appreciation for the colors of the coming spring always baffles me. Pansies and daffodils have sprung forth all over campus. The scent of the bushes bearing purple flowers surrounding McCormick sneaks up on me in the middle of the night. Plum blossoms will soon rain pink on the walkways leading to the north entrance of Marsh Hall. I have an urge to claim one of the bright yellow daffodils as my own.

So I do.

Walking back from my morning class, I spotted a daffodil that must either have been kicked over or collapsed under its own weight. It was still relatively intact, so I plucked it and continued on my way, figuring if it was going to die anyway, it might as well be where I could see it. There were only two bugs on it; I gently brushed them off outside before placing it in an empty tea bottle in the Index Office. I instantly decided I didn't like it as much.

Why? There are a number of possibilities.

The overall feel of the office is warm; the cabinets are a light tan, the walls are creamy beige, our innumerable sticky notes are a muted yellow and there are a number of personal articles in the room that are rather shocking shades of yellow: a cupcake, a poster, a notebook, a bag, a box, a jacket, a handful of No. 2 pencils. The poor daffodil can't compete with artificial colors. It just plain looks better, more cheerful, more inspirational outside, where yellow is not a common color. It brightens the landscape and screams the arrival of spring.

The "game" is over. I have won. I've gotten the end prize and now it's no fun any more. The flowers outside pose more of a challenge because I do not own them.

I rather think it's a little of both, though leaning more towards the former.

My poor daffodil will sit in its tea bottle vase until it wilts and then off to the landfill it will go, hopefully to become fertilizer for future generations of spring flowers, none of which I hope will end up in a vase.

Make Meaning, Not War

The trenchcoat and I were acquaintances for half a year before our relationship began. We met in December, but it wasn't until May I looked close enough to realize it was purple in color rather than black. We had ended up together at Fanime's Masquerade, after an act of chivalry. The event sucked, but that evening allowed us to become a little closer. It sat folded neatly in my lap, though I did quickly examine the pockets first. They held simple possessions: pencils and pens, receipts, broken crayons, a ketchup packet--and a tarot deck inside a clean sock.

Having completed our evening, I returned it to its home and didn't much think about the deep purple trenchcoat for a week or two.

I held a party and the coat attended, despite it being summer. It was one of the first guests to arrive and I noticed there were a number of wear-and-tear wounds I could darn. So I pulled out the sewing box, retrieved needle, scissors and deep indigo thread. The mending went long into the party and likely attracted a fair amount of gossip, but I was so absorbed I didn't notice.

The loop on the left sleeve was reattached by turning the entire thing inside-out so as to not catch the satin lining. The holes in the armpits vanished in much the same manner. What remained of the tattered left hem was reinforced and rehemmed. The bit to keep the shell attached to the lining, the only one remaining, on the right, was reattached. Finally, the splitting seam on the right sleeve was pulled back together with carefully gauged, even stitches, as they would show; there was no getting around it.

While mending, I discovered splashed spots of pink-terracotta paint. It became a part of the coat after it had assisted in painting a set for a theatre production. It was house paint; it wouldn't come out.

After that, the coat and I could often be found together, especially after the night I had to get it out of its house. We went to a nearby park. It trailed in the tanbark chips, which stuck to it, and became damp with the dew off the grass. It was there when we were parked at a gas station until 5AM, talking though our hardships. It was there when I broke up with my boyfriend, I was there when it fought with its father. It showed up at my work; a pleasant surprise.

In August, it was left in my possession for a social outing, another chivalrous act to keep the coming fall's chill off. The contents of the pockets had changed: the pencils and pens remained, but there were a few packets of sugar and a sage smudge stick with a small abalone shell to accompany the tarot deck. It spent that night by accident, out of mind with its warmth wrapped around me. This became a common occurrence. A few months later, I discovered it had a removable winter lining. It added considerable weight, but wasn't something I objected to.

We were comfortable with each other; distinctive memories mellowed and flowed into one. Recently, one of the buttons on the sleeves broke and was hanging on by a single thread. I pulled out the sewing box again, found needle, scissors and indigo thread. I cut free the spare button, removed the broken one and sewed the new one in place. It had four holes. I crossed, I boxed, I wound and knotted off.

No amount of repair can return the dark purple trenchcoat to its original state, but the wounds of life can be shared and patched with the help of others.

Show It, Don't Tell It

When he sunk into the tan couch I didn't take my eyes off the screen. Maybe I should have closed my windows when I heard the front door open. Maybe I should have given him my undivided attention when he silently stormed into the room. Maybe I should have continued being the doormat I'd been the past year. I finally surrendered my gaze when he spoke.

"We need to talk." That calm and steady, no-nonsense tone of his.

I swiveled the creaky computer chair to face him and shrugged. "I'm not the one who walks off or hangs up or logs off when I'm unhappy."

The right side of his mouth was briefly pulled into a snarl as his muscles twitched involuntarily. He'd never been physically abusive, telling me again and again about how his father would beat him and his older brother and how he didn't want to be that broken man. "I don't see us going anywhere."

My palms were clammy with sweat. "Oh. Why's that?"

"You never talk to me any more. You ignore me," he accused.

It was accurate, if one looked at the past couple of months. Late nights typing his spoken words into passable five-page essays to get him through a required English course. Late nights starting with silent anger on his part and ending with bloody rawness on mine. Extensive phone calls to encourage him into reveal the cause for his most recent anger--phone calls that caused me to "skip" my first class ever. Most recently, my speaking with his mother or a male friend about my own stresses because he wouldn't listen, or would listen and offer the sound "fuck 'em" or "forget 'em" advice.

I bit my lip, all of these memories rushing through my consciousness. Maybe I should have pointed some of that out. Maybe I should have tried harder at that moment. Maybe I should have continued forcing issues into the open.

I shrugged. "You haven't exactly been open to what I have to say."

"Yes I have! I keep asking you what's wrong and you never tell me!" He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees and laid into me with his intensely blue eyes.

I resisted shaking my head or looking away. "So what do you propose we do?"

"End it." Without skipping a beat.

Over a year and the best solution he had was simply to end it. Maybe that's how it happens when you're 24 years old. Maybe relationships are fleeting things to be captured and released. Maybe I shouldn't have continued to be optimistic.

"You're being rash. Why don't we try a break for a week."

"Fine," he spat, and immediately rose from the couch and stalked to the front room. I found myself suddenly lightheaded, not from pressure or worry but from a sudden lack of tension. Freedom.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn't an hour later he was on the verge of tears in his mother's car as she drove me to a social gathering. "I'm afraid," he whispered.

I said nothing. Maybe you should have thought about that before making our relationship your bluff.

Insulin and Cloudy Eyes

2/4/10 Detail Free Write

He got up slowly and creeped down the exotic-print comforter to the foot of the bed. I watched him, having put my Fruits Basket graphic novel aside. He looked over the cold black railing to the wooden dresser only a foot's drop down, usually an easy jump that allowed him access to the window ledge and hence the lower dresser on the adjacent wall. He looked over that railing and sunk back into an awkward laying position. It would be too strenuous, too painful to make that jump and the following trip to his final destination.

I wrestled my way from under the covers and to the floor from the top bunk, knowing exacly what Zena, my eight-year-old tortoise shell cat wanted. I'd had him since he was a kitten, after all. I carefully picked him up and took him to the back bathroom where the dusty blue and light grey litterbox was and set him in it. I sat on the lid of the toilet with its light blue terrycloth cover. He took his time and left just a quarter-sized dark mark on the sand, painstakingly buried it and slowly made his way toward the door, just three feet away.

He gave up before he made it and all but collapsed against the wall. He looked up at me, his once curious yellow-green eyes cloudy and dispondant, and I realized without realizing that his time was at an end.

It had started with a sluggishness, a lack of urination, a lack of interest in food. We had taken him to the vet and they told us he had diabetes and would need two shots of insulin a day. We said okay, got set up and educated for it, bought some Karo syrup for emergencies and headed home. And it seemed to do the trick for a few months. Until his eyes started to cloud over. The vet took one look at him and called it cataracts. There were a few other visits for various abnormal behavior.

It was early June, five months later, when the vets finally let us know about their mistake. X-rays revealed his pancreas was completely encased in cancer, casting the illusion of diabetes. All those months, he didn't really need the insulin. All those months, the cells were multipling unchecked. Assumptions prevented a correct diagnosis.

When he looked at me with those cloudy eyes, I realized without realizing and it made me desperate. I ran to the kitchen for a teaspoon and the Karo syrup and returned to him. I forced his mouth open and made him to swallow a glob of the clearish stuff, making a mess of his fur. I picked him up and held him and called my mother, who was at work.

And I told her that we needed to take him in.

And we didn't bother with the cat carrier. I held him the whole way.

And he shrunk into himself, terrified on the cold metal table when they let us say goodbye.

And the last time I saw him was limp in the arms of the nurse as she took him into the back of the clinic to wherever it is they pile the bodies of euthanized pets that mean nothing to them.

June 14, 2004 was the first time a death affected me. My grandmother died when I was four or five; I don't remember it. My grandfather had passed on a few years later and I didn't shed a tear. Recalling just these few moments of his last day still makes me cry. I can't reread what I've just written without tears rolling down my cheeks.

Cheers,
~Katie

Tuesday Never Happened

A "My First _____," Take Two: Skinny-Dipping

Josh and I were seated on opposing benches on my back patio, an iron gate between us and my father's pride and joy. It was summer, my parents had left me in charge of the house for two weeks and I had declared a pool party. The others were late and Josh didn't want to be the only one in the pool. As the host, I was always the last to enter the water.

"Can I throw them in?" He asked.

"If you can manage. Make sure it's over the deep end." Josh thinks highly of himself, but the others were larger and stronger than my half-Japanese, half-Puerto Rican ex-boyfriend.

"Can I strip them first?" My bisexual ex-boyfriend.

Dorian arrived first and, as expected, Josh lacked the courage to either strip and toss him in. They did eventually end up in the water and after a bit, I joined them, knowing Dana wouldn't get off work for a few more hours. Josh's second idea remained in the air, an "I'll do it if you do it" type thing. As the only girl, I wasn't going to be the first one.

Dana was, though. The rest of us were true to our words.

At first we acted like gaseous atoms, spreading to our own parts of the pool, an uncomfortable silence falling over the backyard. Orange, yellow, green and blue inner tubes were our armor, shielding our naughty bits from others' sight. Dana was the only one brave enough to venture out of the water (yellow and green tubes strategically placed). The sun was beginning to get low, its rays falling behind houses and fences.

After a half hour or so, the atmosphere shifted. Josh's phone rang and he got out to answer it. Instead of shyly returning to the water afterward, he said "fuck it" and took a running start into a cannonball right in the middle of the rest of us. Then we just didn't care. We probably had another half hour of awesome pool fun before deciding it was time for dinner.

Which we made. Without bothering to re-don our clothes.

I never would looked into my future and seen myself openly nude with four of my best guy friends (Preston showed up for dinner). It's really amazing how far a bit of trust goes between people, what freedom allows a trusting group to do. Having friends like that means the world to me. I wouldn't trade the Tuesday that never happened for anything.

Cheers,
~Katie

My First Handle

Hmm. There's a lot of firsts in one's life. I recently watched the Godfather for the first time (and had cannolis to go with). Choosing just one of those firsts is a bit of a doozy--and I know that there's a number of firsts that popped into everyone's head that they're not going to write about. Maybe because they'd consider it inappropriate, maybe because they'd consider it too personal. I'm a rather open person, but I'm not one to make others uncomfortable, so I'll save those things for those who show an interest in them.

I came up with a relatively short list consisting of my first stitches, cosplay (costume play, for those unfamiliar with the term), LARP (live-action role-play), friend and publishing. The main question is which would I most want to write on or (as we are egotistical human beings), which would be most interesting for y'all to read about.

Then it hit me. There we all were, sitting in the computer lab coming up with usernames and display names for these blogs. At some point in our lives, each of us has come up with our first username, screenname, etc--our first "handle."

Mine was for my first email account, ari_sky15@[censored by clan Tremere].

I had a friend make the account for me in middle school (seventh grade) because it was the new thing and my parents (aged 68 and 56 this year) wouldn't consider getting us wired to the web at home. Now, seventh grade was my "fanfiction" stage of life, my most creative stage to date, I would think. My friends and I made our Mary-Sues and had our cross-overs and whatnot. We'd refer to each other by the assumed names. At one point, code names were the first three letters of the first and last names of said characters.

If memory serves, Arianna Skydancer came from two different series; Arianna from Mary Stanton's Unicorns of Balinor series and Skydancer from Bruce Coville's Unicorn Chronicles. (Yes, I was a unicorn girl, get over it. We all had one or another "embarrassing" stage in life.)

Why the 15? My lucky number, of course.

"arisky" became my most common internet handle. Go ahead and do a Google search. The first page results I got today were from deviantart.com, facebook.com, TV.com, movietome.com, ip-adress.com, myanimelist.net, gamespot.com, 123people.com, peekstats.com and twitter.com. Of those 10, five would take you to me. It doesn't hurt that tv, movietome and gamespot.com are linked via c|net. These names tend to stick with us because they mean something to us. I still use that email account made eight years ago.

We do tend to branch out, though. If the URL for this blog is any indication, we don't always go by just one handle. If you search "flaymsbane," which is much more obscure than "arisky," you get much more accurate results. The first 10 hits on Google will take you to my Gaia account seven times over and will link me to myanimelist.net, livejournal.com and greed7.proboards57.com (a forum RPG for Fullmetal Alchemist).

I digress. I've used "arisky" for so long because even after all these years, it means something to me. It reminds me of a time when I was more carefree, less jaded and possibly less subconscious about sharing ideas that sound ridiculous. Using it is a constant reminder of what used to be and in a way helps me retain some of the mindset from those years.

What about y'all? Surely you've got a handle (or handles) of your own. What stories are associated with them?

Cheers,
~Katie

Side note: If y'all want to know about my brainstorm ideas, just say so in a comment. I wouldn't have thought of them if I wasn't willing to talk about them.