Cari: "Hey, I can't think of anything to write today."
Beau: "You don't have to write something every day. Are you okay?"
Cari: "Yeah."
Beau: "Are you sure? Promise me you're okay."
Cari: "I'm okay. I just can't think of anything to write about, and it's driving me crazy."
Beau: "What are you drinking?"
Cari: "Beer."
Beau: "You're drinking Coors Light in a fancy glass at 4:33?"
Beau: "Yeah."
(he laughs)
Cari: "What?!"
Beau: "Nothing. It's just funny."
Cari: "I said that I would write something on my blog every day. I can't think of anything. Why can't I think of anything?"
Beau: "I don't know."
Cari: "Well, give me an idea. What do I talk about a lot?"
Beau: "Buttholes."
Cari: "Jesus, Beau. Nice. Thank you for that little bit of inspiration."
Beau: "Why don't you talk about how hard it is to live with me?"
Cari: "Because that would take too long."
Beau: "Jack London said you don't have to wait for inspiration, you have to go after it with a club."
Cari: "See? I'm supposed to write something. I'm supposed to go after inspiration. That's what I was trying to say."
Beau: "But, of course he became a terrible alcoholic and went crazy, and he was reduced to buying plot lines from lesser novelists in an attempt to being an author again. He eventually died alone and penniless. But, they did make a nice monument in a square in San Francisco for him. It's really pretty. I saw it once."
Cari: "Thanks. Think I just got the idea for my next blog...freak."
(The conversation above was had while Beau made the bed. He seems to think that all of life's problems can be removed or made better by hospital corners and regularly changing your sheets. I could not disagree more. I don't think I've ever argued more with one person in my entire life. I know I've never been more in love with another person in my entire life. As I type this, he is purposefully trying to annoy me by wiggling/dancing in front of me, just so you know what I have to put up with. Now, he's narrating what he's doing in the kitchen. "I'm going to have a piece of cheese. No, Sylvester, you can't have any. It's mine. This is my cheese. F-you, Sylvester.")
Maybe he's right. I should make the bed more.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Sweet Potatoes, Pokes and Purge-a-tory
I live in a 1920's, renovated brick apartment building. Sounds nice, huh? That's what I thought. Given the fact that the inside of my apartment is pretty much the most beautiful place EVER, thanks to a certain "God-given decorating ability" God-brother, you would think that every moment spent here would be lovely, wouldn't you?
I have completely interesting neighbors that I rarely see. They are:
The Recluse: I've seen this man one time. Two nights ago, a strange smell was coming from his apartment. It was a mixture of something burning combined with rotten eggs. Of course, being the recluse that he is, I instantly thought that he had died in some breakfast-related fire, but the smell went away. The stench was so bad that it woke me from a deep sleep. I should probably knock on his door to see if he's okay, but I love eggs so much. I don't want eggs to be forever ruined in my mind. You know, just in case he's lying on the floor, dead, with a frying pan full of eggs at his side.
The Admiral: I know that I just said that my apartment is the most beautifully decorated apartment in the entire building, but I lied. The admiral has a doorknocker that is in the shape of an anchor. This has intrigued me since day one of my apartment life. Why? Why does he have an anchor doorknocker? He must have had it specially installed because no one else has a beautiful anchor doorknocker. He is also extremely well-dressed at all times, and he gets the Tulsa World delivered to his doorstep every single day. Yes, the Admiral is well informed on the day's events. Once, the Admiral left his door opened for a short bit. I was happily cruising by with Gus and was promptly stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, I saw a scene straight from Dwell magazine. Architectural Digest has nothing on this man's apartment. Plush linens, hanging plants, streamlined furniture...it was all too much. I wanted to scream, "Admiral! Who knew!?" But, then I thought, "He doesn't know that I call him 'Admiral,' and that would be confusing." As Beau and I were getting into the car one evening, I looked up, and saw the most wonderfully lit apartment. We said in unison, "Oh, my God! Look at that apartment! Who do you think..." we both realized at the same time, and, dejected and shamed at our own question, whispered, "The Admiral...of course." I pumped my fist in the air, as if to say, "One day, Admiral! One of these days!" Beau's favorite joke is to say, "Permission to come aboard, Admiral!" every time we walk by his door. It's funny every single time.
Down the hall a bit is Big Burly. Big Burly is, well, big and burly. He looks like a cross between a sea-faring pirate, Santa Claus, and a Vietnam vet (like one that opposes war, nowadays, seeing what he saw in Nam, and all). Big Burly likes to be "in the know" about everything that's happening in the apartment building. Unfortunately, he's rarely right about anything that's happening in the apartment building because he never leaves his apartment. Once, there was a fire right next door to us. Big Burly took action, immediately. This action included walking around in the smoke-filled halls while asking everyone what was going on. He also ONLY takes the elevator. We live on the 2nd floor. I guess Big Burly has done enough moving about in his lifetime. He now lives on Easy Street.
Then, there's the office, where I like to leave notes that say, "Hey, apartment manager! Maybe you could tell us the next time there's a fire. Maybe I could find out from the apartment manager that turning on the heat could be a hazard instead of hearing it from the firemen at my door. Maybe you could also lock the gates once in a while. We recently had three very expensive bicycles stolen, and it's your fault." He never calls or writes back. What a great guy.
Last, but certainly, certainly not least there is OSU. She's my favorite. She has two dogs and a cat in one, tiny apartment. She lovingly calls the dogs, "Girls." Most of the time, "girls" is said like this, "GIRLS! Stop it! GIRLS, CALM DOWN! GIRLS! GIRLS!" Of course, now whenever Beau and I hear the dogs barking, we have to chime in with, "Girls! GIRLS!"
The reason behind the name, "OSU," is because, well, she loves OSU. Thank God she loves OSU, or else I would have to puke every single day (remember this part because this theme will return). OSU only wears OSU clothing. I'm not kidding. Every, single day, she wears some sort of OSU-themed clothing. If not a hat, then some pants. If not a scarf, then a shirt. You get the point. On game days, you can hear screaming at all of the same times that Beau and I are screaming. This is more than comforting to me. She drapes OSU blankets, of which I have counted three, across her balcony, weekly. I want to go inside of her apartment so badly. I really think that it could be an oasis of OSU memorabilia in there. Now, about the puking...
Why do I love OSU so much? WHY? They aren't good. I'm sorry, but they're just not. I would like to take this moment to blame my grandfather for this unabashed love of a mediocre team. My grandpa coached football for OSU. He was also a strict Catholic, and so, of course, he loved Notre Dame. Once, I asked him, "Grandpa, who do you think would win if Notre Dame and OSU played?" He couldn't answer. His love for both teams wouldn't let him decide. This made my little 7 year-old brain churn. My brain worked like this: If Grandpa loves Notre Dame, and GOD loves Notre Dame the most out of every team, and God loves Grandpa because he prays to him all of the time, and Grandpa can't decide if OSU or Notre Dame would win in a football game against each other, then that means that God loves OSU just as much as Notre Dame.
It was kind of like one of those, "If a+b=c, then b and c..." moments. It was probably the only moment when I actually understood and liked math. (No thanks to YOU, Mr. "Worst Geometry Teacher of All Time" Tipps!) I would like to take this moment to blame Mr. Tipps for ruining all of my chances and dreams of ever becoming an astronomer. Thank you. Now, back to the story.
Anywho, the realization that God loved OSU more than any other team led to countless unanswered prayers, down-trodden thoughts and utter despair when it came to my coveted Cowboys.
But, here's the worst, most psychotic part of it all. I still love and believe in them. It's like I'm a battered wife with horrible self-esteem. I just keep going back. I just keep thinking, "Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe they'll change. They say they're going to change. They even have a nice, new home to play in now. Maybe, just maybe..."
It's engrained in me. They're a part of me.
A couple weeks ago, I got a stomach virus at a pub. I was chomping away on sweet potato fries, and all of a sudden, I knew I was about to vomit. I ran to the bathroom, amidst a large crowd of people and proceeded to make it to the restroom, just in time. The sweet potato fries were orange, of course. They came up orange, as well. As I sat there on the bathroom floor of McNellie's Pub, sweating and nauseous and white as a sheet, with women outside of the door saying, "Are you okay in there? Is everything alright?" I looked down at what was previously in my stomach and whispered, without hesitation...
"Go Pokes."
I have completely interesting neighbors that I rarely see. They are:
The Recluse: I've seen this man one time. Two nights ago, a strange smell was coming from his apartment. It was a mixture of something burning combined with rotten eggs. Of course, being the recluse that he is, I instantly thought that he had died in some breakfast-related fire, but the smell went away. The stench was so bad that it woke me from a deep sleep. I should probably knock on his door to see if he's okay, but I love eggs so much. I don't want eggs to be forever ruined in my mind. You know, just in case he's lying on the floor, dead, with a frying pan full of eggs at his side.
The Admiral: I know that I just said that my apartment is the most beautifully decorated apartment in the entire building, but I lied. The admiral has a doorknocker that is in the shape of an anchor. This has intrigued me since day one of my apartment life. Why? Why does he have an anchor doorknocker? He must have had it specially installed because no one else has a beautiful anchor doorknocker. He is also extremely well-dressed at all times, and he gets the Tulsa World delivered to his doorstep every single day. Yes, the Admiral is well informed on the day's events. Once, the Admiral left his door opened for a short bit. I was happily cruising by with Gus and was promptly stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, I saw a scene straight from Dwell magazine. Architectural Digest has nothing on this man's apartment. Plush linens, hanging plants, streamlined furniture...it was all too much. I wanted to scream, "Admiral! Who knew!?" But, then I thought, "He doesn't know that I call him 'Admiral,' and that would be confusing." As Beau and I were getting into the car one evening, I looked up, and saw the most wonderfully lit apartment. We said in unison, "Oh, my God! Look at that apartment! Who do you think..." we both realized at the same time, and, dejected and shamed at our own question, whispered, "The Admiral...of course." I pumped my fist in the air, as if to say, "One day, Admiral! One of these days!" Beau's favorite joke is to say, "Permission to come aboard, Admiral!" every time we walk by his door. It's funny every single time.
Down the hall a bit is Big Burly. Big Burly is, well, big and burly. He looks like a cross between a sea-faring pirate, Santa Claus, and a Vietnam vet (like one that opposes war, nowadays, seeing what he saw in Nam, and all). Big Burly likes to be "in the know" about everything that's happening in the apartment building. Unfortunately, he's rarely right about anything that's happening in the apartment building because he never leaves his apartment. Once, there was a fire right next door to us. Big Burly took action, immediately. This action included walking around in the smoke-filled halls while asking everyone what was going on. He also ONLY takes the elevator. We live on the 2nd floor. I guess Big Burly has done enough moving about in his lifetime. He now lives on Easy Street.
Then, there's the office, where I like to leave notes that say, "Hey, apartment manager! Maybe you could tell us the next time there's a fire. Maybe I could find out from the apartment manager that turning on the heat could be a hazard instead of hearing it from the firemen at my door. Maybe you could also lock the gates once in a while. We recently had three very expensive bicycles stolen, and it's your fault." He never calls or writes back. What a great guy.
Last, but certainly, certainly not least there is OSU. She's my favorite. She has two dogs and a cat in one, tiny apartment. She lovingly calls the dogs, "Girls." Most of the time, "girls" is said like this, "GIRLS! Stop it! GIRLS, CALM DOWN! GIRLS! GIRLS!" Of course, now whenever Beau and I hear the dogs barking, we have to chime in with, "Girls! GIRLS!"
The reason behind the name, "OSU," is because, well, she loves OSU. Thank God she loves OSU, or else I would have to puke every single day (remember this part because this theme will return). OSU only wears OSU clothing. I'm not kidding. Every, single day, she wears some sort of OSU-themed clothing. If not a hat, then some pants. If not a scarf, then a shirt. You get the point. On game days, you can hear screaming at all of the same times that Beau and I are screaming. This is more than comforting to me. She drapes OSU blankets, of which I have counted three, across her balcony, weekly. I want to go inside of her apartment so badly. I really think that it could be an oasis of OSU memorabilia in there. Now, about the puking...
Why do I love OSU so much? WHY? They aren't good. I'm sorry, but they're just not. I would like to take this moment to blame my grandfather for this unabashed love of a mediocre team. My grandpa coached football for OSU. He was also a strict Catholic, and so, of course, he loved Notre Dame. Once, I asked him, "Grandpa, who do you think would win if Notre Dame and OSU played?" He couldn't answer. His love for both teams wouldn't let him decide. This made my little 7 year-old brain churn. My brain worked like this: If Grandpa loves Notre Dame, and GOD loves Notre Dame the most out of every team, and God loves Grandpa because he prays to him all of the time, and Grandpa can't decide if OSU or Notre Dame would win in a football game against each other, then that means that God loves OSU just as much as Notre Dame.
It was kind of like one of those, "If a+b=c, then b and c..." moments. It was probably the only moment when I actually understood and liked math. (No thanks to YOU, Mr. "Worst Geometry Teacher of All Time" Tipps!) I would like to take this moment to blame Mr. Tipps for ruining all of my chances and dreams of ever becoming an astronomer. Thank you. Now, back to the story.
Anywho, the realization that God loved OSU more than any other team led to countless unanswered prayers, down-trodden thoughts and utter despair when it came to my coveted Cowboys.
But, here's the worst, most psychotic part of it all. I still love and believe in them. It's like I'm a battered wife with horrible self-esteem. I just keep going back. I just keep thinking, "Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe they'll change. They say they're going to change. They even have a nice, new home to play in now. Maybe, just maybe..."
It's engrained in me. They're a part of me.
A couple weeks ago, I got a stomach virus at a pub. I was chomping away on sweet potato fries, and all of a sudden, I knew I was about to vomit. I ran to the bathroom, amidst a large crowd of people and proceeded to make it to the restroom, just in time. The sweet potato fries were orange, of course. They came up orange, as well. As I sat there on the bathroom floor of McNellie's Pub, sweating and nauseous and white as a sheet, with women outside of the door saying, "Are you okay in there? Is everything alright?" I looked down at what was previously in my stomach and whispered, without hesitation...
"Go Pokes."
Monday, January 5, 2009
When you have nothing to write...
Ugh. I told myself that I would write every single day. When I have "nothing" to write about, I make thankful lists. Here we go:
1. Thank you cold wind. Thank you for making me stay inside and think of things that inspire me.
2. Thank you, husband, for this:
Cari smashes into the liquor "cabinet" with her hips. (She crams her hips into things, daily.)
Cari screams, "OWWW! Why the hell do I hit my hips on things all over the house!?"
Husband responds, "Because everything loves your hips so much that everything wants to be by them."
3. Gustopher Joe...my dog. Sometimes, when I'm happily napping away, you will jump on the bed and snuggle. I don't really notice until I have a paw (a chocolate chip paw) in my face. The musty, organic smell of your chocolate chip paw makes me so happy. Don't worry, Gustopher Joe...it doesn't smell bad. It smells like a garage full of woodworking men. It smells like a dark wine cellar. Your paw is a concrete slab basement where you had your first kiss. Thank you, Gus paws.
4. Thank you, friends. Dear LORD, what would we all do without friends? Do you want to know what I learned just from friends, today?
a. A new baby girl is coming into the world.
b. A friend is beginning to write.
c. One friend is coming out of a depression, but she's going to go back to school. Everything is going to be alright.
d. One friend is painting away, happily.
e. Another friend is happy that my last name now starts with an "A," which makes my name appear at the top of her "friends" list.
5. Thank you, "Way That Things Ended Up."
Didn't really know that things would end up this way, obviously. Didn't know that I'd live downtown in a large-ish city ever again. Didn't really know that I'd want to share all of myself again. Didn't really know that I'd have THIS thought: "I can do whatever I want and make money doing it," ever again. Didn't know that my heart would grow as big as the Grinch's ever again. Didn't know that I'd appreciate cardigan sweaters ever again. Didn't know that I would ever like Jeeps. Didn't know that someone could love me for exactly who I am. Didn't know that I'd be in love with someone that I have an argument with almost every single day. (Past relationships included quietly disregarding the question/conflict at hand.) Had no idea that life could be so good.
Please hug the ones you love really, really, REALLY hard tonight.
We don't know how long we have here. You never know. Hug them. Then hug yourself.
1. Thank you cold wind. Thank you for making me stay inside and think of things that inspire me.
2. Thank you, husband, for this:
Cari smashes into the liquor "cabinet" with her hips. (She crams her hips into things, daily.)
Cari screams, "OWWW! Why the hell do I hit my hips on things all over the house!?"
Husband responds, "Because everything loves your hips so much that everything wants to be by them."
3. Gustopher Joe...my dog. Sometimes, when I'm happily napping away, you will jump on the bed and snuggle. I don't really notice until I have a paw (a chocolate chip paw) in my face. The musty, organic smell of your chocolate chip paw makes me so happy. Don't worry, Gustopher Joe...it doesn't smell bad. It smells like a garage full of woodworking men. It smells like a dark wine cellar. Your paw is a concrete slab basement where you had your first kiss. Thank you, Gus paws.
4. Thank you, friends. Dear LORD, what would we all do without friends? Do you want to know what I learned just from friends, today?
a. A new baby girl is coming into the world.
b. A friend is beginning to write.
c. One friend is coming out of a depression, but she's going to go back to school. Everything is going to be alright.
d. One friend is painting away, happily.
e. Another friend is happy that my last name now starts with an "A," which makes my name appear at the top of her "friends" list.
5. Thank you, "Way That Things Ended Up."
Didn't really know that things would end up this way, obviously. Didn't know that I'd live downtown in a large-ish city ever again. Didn't really know that I'd want to share all of myself again. Didn't really know that I'd have THIS thought: "I can do whatever I want and make money doing it," ever again. Didn't know that my heart would grow as big as the Grinch's ever again. Didn't know that I'd appreciate cardigan sweaters ever again. Didn't know that I would ever like Jeeps. Didn't know that someone could love me for exactly who I am. Didn't know that I'd be in love with someone that I have an argument with almost every single day. (Past relationships included quietly disregarding the question/conflict at hand.) Had no idea that life could be so good.
Please hug the ones you love really, really, REALLY hard tonight.
We don't know how long we have here. You never know. Hug them. Then hug yourself.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Scratch, Scratch, Scratch
She had a thought. She knew the thought to be false, a new form of self-loathing that etched its way into the strange mass of gray matter inside her skull on a random Saturday night in early August. But, as most of her thoughts were self-diagnosed as possibly being the key to freedom from nostalgia, she allowed it to permeate deep into the boggy swamp she lovingly called her "brain." The thought was this:
Maybe it was because I used the toenail of my right big toe to scratch the polish off of the nail of my left big toe. With my feet propped in his lap while watching television, the scratching would inevitably cause him to twitch every time I scraped. It caused such a horrible clicking noise that it slowly made him go insane, and then he would begin to imagine a more stable life with a woman who got pedicures and took her toenail polish care more seriously. The thought of being with a woman who actually cared about toenail beauty would then lead to the breaking point of his patience, which resulted in his pleading, "Stop it. That is so annoying. What are you even doing?"
Yes. This was it. She had finally figured it out. The reason for the downfall of her marriage was to be blamed on happily watching little paint chips of Cover Girl Boundless Color (black, of course) fall onto her husband’s lap. And this, this is what drove him away.
Of course, this was just another sick conclusion that she had come to in a laundry list (funny still, because she never did the laundry) of possible reasons for her divorce. Another favorite was telling herself that her self-righteousness concerning justice in the universe was entirely too overwhelming. Could they not just take a Sunday drive without her pointing out various facts about the state of the economy? On movie nights, must she always pick out the documentary on the global effect of the war in Iraq? And, could she just once leave him alone about "opening up" and "wanting to grow together" in their relationship?
Once, he had told her, exhausted, "It’s like you’re in love with your sadness. I feel like you are in a bad mood all of the time. Do you have to be so complicated?" She hadn’t the heart to flat-out tell him why she was so sad, so she let him in on her secret in little increments. On certain days when the secret overwhelmed her, she would say, "I miss you," even if he was sitting right next to her. And, she honestly really did miss him. He could be lying behind her on the couch while stroking her hair, and an overwhelming sense of loneliness would envelop her. He never caught onto her strange remarks. He would just respond, "But, I’m right here." At other times, she would feel as if she was floating away in a world of her own thoughts to the point where an actual separation from her physical body was felt. She would begin to panic, slightly. At this point, he learned that if he lay on top of her for five to ten minutes, she would begin to feel grounded again. It always worked. There was something about the weight of his body on her body that made her not only feel as if she was being held by him, but by everyone in the world. And if she felt any connection, she felt safe.
One of her favorite fantasies involved a morning in which they would both wake up at eight o-clock, read The New York Times together, drink coffee and discuss their favorite articles. They would trade interesting quips, smile at each other over the table and proceed to water the garden in the courtyard of their 50’s Modernist home. But, he didn’t like gardening. He didn’t like getting up early. He didn’t even like coffee.
Mornings were an exceptionally magical time for her. It was a whole new chance at being "okay" with her life and her marriage. There were nights she went to bed at nine-thirty, just so she could make morning appear to arrive more quickly. So, it was with great disappointment that whenever she woke with hope and began to sing her silly morning songs with brilliant lyrics such as, "Hello, toothbrush, here I am. Come clean my teeth that are filled with ham," he would slightly groan and roll over in his cocoon of blankets. She would say, "You would miss my morning insanity if I was gone." He would eventually completely awaken at one in the afternoon, and she would mourn the death of lost, shared sunrises. Little by little, day after day, she dropped hints. Hints of her secret. In the back of her mind, without knowing why, she knew. She knew that he would leave her one day. He would leave her for a woman that got meticulously perfect pedicures on a regular basis...with luminescent pink polish.
It is now 12:44a.m. on yet another night in August. She misses her friends. More now, and harder. The racing thoughts begin and continue in waves. They are loud and annoying like when she was annoyed with the sea on summer vacation. The reason she was annoyed with the sea was because it was interrupting her obsessive thoughts. See the pattern? The real reason she was annoyed with the sea was because she was actually annoyed with her husband. Florida was their chance. (She should have known that Florida is not a place for reconciliation.) It was their last, dying hope of ever making their marriage work. They had made grand plans to renew their vows. They traveled on their wedding anniversary. Four years. They had made it "work" for four years. At the moment they were to renew their vows, they looked at each other, took a sip of wine straight from the bottle and said absolutely nothing. "Aren’t we supposed to be renewing our vows?" she asked, cautiously. "That’s what I thought," he responded. He rose to his feet and started walking down the sparsely populated beach alone. She sat on the dune, watching him walk away. As she squinted to see his body, the body she had loved so deeply, slowly moving down the shoreline, further and further away from her, she thought, "It’s over. I’ve lost him. He’s not coming back. I will never love like this again. Ever."
Fast-forward three, long, excruciatingly painful and heart-wrenching years. She has opened her heart again. She has done a lot of really hard work, for lack of a better term.
She wakes at 8:00a.m in a loft apartment she had visualized months before. She is lying next to a man who makes up songs about cheese enchiladas and family pets. He studies plants for a living. He says, "Sweetie, the coffee’s ready. I’m going to get the paper." She is still unaware of what is happening before her very eyes. He comes back with Sunday’s edition of The New York Times. He tells her that she can have the crossword with an ornery glint in his eyes, and she rolls her own eyes at the thought that she could ever finish it. She relays a story about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in veterans of the Iraq war. He points out dogs he wants and laughs out loud at Dilbert. They sip their coffee. She looks over her section of the paper. They share a glance. They smile at each other in complete silence, and it finally hits her. She doesn’t tell him that it hit her.
Later on in the same week (today), she pulls up a piece of writing from a lonely night in August. She is astounded at what she reads and how it directly correlates to what is happening right now on a daily basis. She decides to finish this little piece of writing. She adds on the part that begins, "Fast-forward three long years . . . " And, then . . . she decides to tell him about her epiphany right this very second.
"Shhh...stop your obsessive thoughts and listen to the ocean. She’s telling us something," the man pleads.
"Okay, I’m listening. What is she saying?" the woman asks.
"She’s saying: You are not you’re past. Trust this love."
The woman says, "I think you used the wrong ’your’ again, but I love and trust you, anyway."
The man says, "Your so weird, but I love and trust you anyway, too."
And, then...love and trust gave them a "Welcome Home" present.
The present is one hand inside of another.
(Scratch, scratch, scratch.)
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Braingelina (Brangelina on the Brain)
Today, as I was driving (yet again) from Tulsa to Stillwater, I began to think about Brangelina. This happens quite often. Actually, it happens so often that on this particular occasion, I stopped myself and said, "Self? About how much of your time do you spend thinking about Brangelina?" Self reluctantly replied, "20%."
Twenty percent of my time is spent thinking about Brangelina.
This is not okay with me.
You may ask, "Why, Cari? Why do you think about them so much?" Well, here's the answer:
When I was about 10 years old, I wanted to be one of three things: an astronaut, a mob wife, or married to a Kennedy. Unfortunately, even an hour-long trip in the backseat of the family Toyota van would make me so carsick that we'd have to pull over. I saved some money for Space Camp, but when the time came to actually go through with it, I imagined myself having to go through various scientific tests that involved gargantuan amounts of whirling and twirling, and I opted out.
So, that left me with two options. I could be a mob wife, or I could marry a Kennedy. I made sure to tell everyone that I wanted to be a mob wife and not a mob girlfriend. I had watched Goodfellas, and I had it in my head that the girlfriends were not as respectable as the wives. Sure, the wives had to suffer through years of pain, not knowing exactly from where the money was coming, or even knowing that their husbands were cheating on them on a nightly basis, but my mother's Catholic side of the family had prepared me well for handling guilt and martyrdom. Unfortunately, I never realized that the likelihood of actually marrying someone in the mob, while I lived in Stillwater, Oklahoma was increasingly slim.
That's when I decided that I must, must, MUST marry John F. Kennedy, Jr. I was in love with him. When he married Carolyn, I didn't even bat an eyelash. I just thought, "That will never last. She's too cold and stylish. He needs someone that likes tag football and can play with the best of them at Hyannis Port. Carolyn might break a nail. I would break someone's face." Of course, those dreams were crushed with a single phone call. (Yes, I was called by family members when the plane went down...that's how much I loved him.)
So, that led me to find a new husband. I don't know why "finding a husband" was such an important thing to me at the time. Seems a bit strange for a 12-13 year-old to want to be "married" as her occupation, but, alas, that's how it was. I searched and searched far and wide. Zach from Saved By the Bell? No. D-Lister. Brendan Fraser? No staying power.
Then, as if sent straight from the hands of God...William Bradley Pitt came into my life by way of A River Runs Through It. "Who is this golden-haired man? Why is his face so square-like? He resembles Robert Redford. I like Robert Redford, but he's too old. This young man is like a young Robert Redford." My mind was racing. I had to know more, but it was before the days of the internet. So, I quickly made my way to Hastings Entertainment Superstore and typed his name into the overly-large computer search kiosk.
"B-R-A-D P-I-T-T," my little chubby fingers plunked away.
"This actor's latest release is Legends of the Fall," said the overly-large computer search kiosk.
"I shall rent this Legends of the Fall," I whispered, magically to myself.
To make an insanely long story short, let's just cut straight to the insanity. The following describes just how much I love(d) Brad Pitt. My mother still likes to make fun of me for this:
Once, I "watched" Legends of the Fall on a scrambled channel. It's 2 1/2 hours long. I just sat there, staring at the jumbled screen. I could still hear all of the lines, so I didn't care. There...I admit it to the world. I basically watched static for 2 1/2 hours because I could still hear Brad Pitt's voice.
Now it's like I can't stop thinking about him. Or her. Or them. Brangelina. I've decided that sitting there for 2 1/2 hours, staring at weird lines and squiggles, somehow programmed my brain to always want to, oh, you know...know how he's doing. It's gotten to the point where I'll be talking with friends about their relationships, and I'll say something ridiculous like, "Oh, I know. That must be just how Jennifer Aniston felt." I know that sounds crazy, but here's something that's even more disturbing. I think that my friends have just come to the conclusion that I will always end up talking about Brangelina at some point, and so they just go along with me. Basically, if any subject is brought up, I can turn it around and make it about Brangelina. It goes a little something like this:
Friend: Hey, Cari! How's it goin?
Cari: Great! How are you?
Friend: Oh, I'm good. Just in school...you know...still studying Spanish as usual.
Cari: Awesome! I really want to know how to speak French.
Friend: Yeah, it's such a beautiful language.
Cari: Yeah, I know. Did you know that Brangelina's son, Maddox, knows French really well? He's basically fluent because they put him in a French school. He gets taught in English and French.
Friend: Huh...I didn't know that. Interesting.
Cari: I know, pretty cool, huh?
I mean, when does it stop, people? When will I stop equating everything in life to f-ing Brangelina? The other day, I actually felt tears rising up because of the photos that Brad took of Ange in W magazine! Then, I'll go back and forth with thoughts like, "I can't like Brangelina so much. He totally cheated on Jen. I mean, yeah, it was emotional cheating, but I think we all know that's just as bad. That's not right. Is Jen okay? Does she really even love John Mayer? Like how she loved Brad? I think it's fine that Jen said that what Angelina did was 'really uncool.' It WAS really uncool. It's uncool to start a relationship with a married man. Why is everyone so hard on Jen? She's a nice girl. But, that Ange is so damn pretty. She's like a black widow just waiting for her next kill. Plus, she's a UN ambassador. And, she's adopts from all over the world. DAMN IT! Who do I side with? Brad's great though. He always will be, no matter how much his acting sucks. I love Brad. I love Brad Pitt. I love William Bradley Pitt." This is how my brain works. This is why 20% of my time is spent thinking about them.
Then, I proceed to write all over my Trapper Keeper:
Cari Elaine Pitt
Cari Elaine Hollrah-Pitt
Cari Elaine Hollrah Pitt
Cari Pitt
Cari Hollrah Pitt
Then I practice kissing on my hand.
Okay, okay...it really doesn't get to that point (anymore), but I think you can all see just how much of my time is spent thinking about them...especially since I just spent the past 48 minutes writing about them.
p.s. If there is a "Brangelina Overload" support group, someone should probably send me the number. I'm getting the shakes just thinking about not thinking about them.
Twenty percent of my time is spent thinking about Brangelina.
This is not okay with me.
You may ask, "Why, Cari? Why do you think about them so much?" Well, here's the answer:
When I was about 10 years old, I wanted to be one of three things: an astronaut, a mob wife, or married to a Kennedy. Unfortunately, even an hour-long trip in the backseat of the family Toyota van would make me so carsick that we'd have to pull over. I saved some money for Space Camp, but when the time came to actually go through with it, I imagined myself having to go through various scientific tests that involved gargantuan amounts of whirling and twirling, and I opted out.
So, that left me with two options. I could be a mob wife, or I could marry a Kennedy. I made sure to tell everyone that I wanted to be a mob wife and not a mob girlfriend. I had watched Goodfellas, and I had it in my head that the girlfriends were not as respectable as the wives. Sure, the wives had to suffer through years of pain, not knowing exactly from where the money was coming, or even knowing that their husbands were cheating on them on a nightly basis, but my mother's Catholic side of the family had prepared me well for handling guilt and martyrdom. Unfortunately, I never realized that the likelihood of actually marrying someone in the mob, while I lived in Stillwater, Oklahoma was increasingly slim.
That's when I decided that I must, must, MUST marry John F. Kennedy, Jr. I was in love with him. When he married Carolyn, I didn't even bat an eyelash. I just thought, "That will never last. She's too cold and stylish. He needs someone that likes tag football and can play with the best of them at Hyannis Port. Carolyn might break a nail. I would break someone's face." Of course, those dreams were crushed with a single phone call. (Yes, I was called by family members when the plane went down...that's how much I loved him.)
So, that led me to find a new husband. I don't know why "finding a husband" was such an important thing to me at the time. Seems a bit strange for a 12-13 year-old to want to be "married" as her occupation, but, alas, that's how it was. I searched and searched far and wide. Zach from Saved By the Bell? No. D-Lister. Brendan Fraser? No staying power.
Then, as if sent straight from the hands of God...William Bradley Pitt came into my life by way of A River Runs Through It. "Who is this golden-haired man? Why is his face so square-like? He resembles Robert Redford. I like Robert Redford, but he's too old. This young man is like a young Robert Redford." My mind was racing. I had to know more, but it was before the days of the internet. So, I quickly made my way to Hastings Entertainment Superstore and typed his name into the overly-large computer search kiosk.
"B-R-A-D P-I-T-T," my little chubby fingers plunked away.
"This actor's latest release is Legends of the Fall," said the overly-large computer search kiosk.
"I shall rent this Legends of the Fall," I whispered, magically to myself.
To make an insanely long story short, let's just cut straight to the insanity. The following describes just how much I love(d) Brad Pitt. My mother still likes to make fun of me for this:
Once, I "watched" Legends of the Fall on a scrambled channel. It's 2 1/2 hours long. I just sat there, staring at the jumbled screen. I could still hear all of the lines, so I didn't care. There...I admit it to the world. I basically watched static for 2 1/2 hours because I could still hear Brad Pitt's voice.
Now it's like I can't stop thinking about him. Or her. Or them. Brangelina. I've decided that sitting there for 2 1/2 hours, staring at weird lines and squiggles, somehow programmed my brain to always want to, oh, you know...know how he's doing. It's gotten to the point where I'll be talking with friends about their relationships, and I'll say something ridiculous like, "Oh, I know. That must be just how Jennifer Aniston felt." I know that sounds crazy, but here's something that's even more disturbing. I think that my friends have just come to the conclusion that I will always end up talking about Brangelina at some point, and so they just go along with me. Basically, if any subject is brought up, I can turn it around and make it about Brangelina. It goes a little something like this:
Friend: Hey, Cari! How's it goin?
Cari: Great! How are you?
Friend: Oh, I'm good. Just in school...you know...still studying Spanish as usual.
Cari: Awesome! I really want to know how to speak French.
Friend: Yeah, it's such a beautiful language.
Cari: Yeah, I know. Did you know that Brangelina's son, Maddox, knows French really well? He's basically fluent because they put him in a French school. He gets taught in English and French.
Friend: Huh...I didn't know that. Interesting.
Cari: I know, pretty cool, huh?
I mean, when does it stop, people? When will I stop equating everything in life to f-ing Brangelina? The other day, I actually felt tears rising up because of the photos that Brad took of Ange in W magazine! Then, I'll go back and forth with thoughts like, "I can't like Brangelina so much. He totally cheated on Jen. I mean, yeah, it was emotional cheating, but I think we all know that's just as bad. That's not right. Is Jen okay? Does she really even love John Mayer? Like how she loved Brad? I think it's fine that Jen said that what Angelina did was 'really uncool.' It WAS really uncool. It's uncool to start a relationship with a married man. Why is everyone so hard on Jen? She's a nice girl. But, that Ange is so damn pretty. She's like a black widow just waiting for her next kill. Plus, she's a UN ambassador. And, she's adopts from all over the world. DAMN IT! Who do I side with? Brad's great though. He always will be, no matter how much his acting sucks. I love Brad. I love Brad Pitt. I love William Bradley Pitt." This is how my brain works. This is why 20% of my time is spent thinking about them.
Then, I proceed to write all over my Trapper Keeper:
Cari Elaine Pitt
Cari Elaine Hollrah-Pitt
Cari Elaine Hollrah Pitt
Cari Pitt
Cari Hollrah Pitt
Then I practice kissing on my hand.
Okay, okay...it really doesn't get to that point (anymore), but I think you can all see just how much of my time is spent thinking about them...especially since I just spent the past 48 minutes writing about them.
p.s. If there is a "Brangelina Overload" support group, someone should probably send me the number. I'm getting the shakes just thinking about not thinking about them.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Eeyore.
Okay, so I rub naked people for money. It's what I do. I am licensed to touch and rub people. In turn, they pay me money for it.
So far, this little arrangement has worked out quite nicely. The smiley clients come in with aches and pains, I jostle their muscles to and fro, and they happily skip away onto rainbow clouds.
Until...Eeyore.
Now, I am an extremely professional individual, so as to not disrupt my strict massage therapist/client confidentiality, I lovingly call this particular client: Eeyore.
Here is a list of dreary things Eeyore has actually said to me:
Me: Hey, Eeyore! Happy New Year!
Eeyore: Yeah, another year down the drain.
Me: Sorry I couldn't massage you last week, Eeyore. I was getting married!
Eeyore: Hopefully it will last more than a week.
Me: Hey, Eeyore! Were you okay using a different therapist last week? My grandfather is deathly ill.
Eeyore: There are no other good massage therapists. Not getting a massage was extremely debilitating (proceeds to limp, pathetically).
Me: Hey, did you have a good day today?
Eeyore: I am being tortured at work.
Me: I have to drive back and forth between Stillwater and Tulsa now that I've moved.
Eeyore: Oh, I'll give you a book on CD.
Me: Hey! That's really nice! Thank you!
Eeyore: It's about the Holocaust.
I've worked on him for 4 years, twice a week for 90 minutes each time. If there is a God, (s)he will realize the extreme amount of patience I have had and give me full access to the open bar in heaven.
I would like 3 dirty martinis, 2 glasses of red wine and 5 dark beers awaiting my arrival. If he doesn't stop saying dreadful things, I may arrive earlier than expected. Or else, I'll just quit my job...one of those two...either kill myself or quit my job. I can't decide.
So far, this little arrangement has worked out quite nicely. The smiley clients come in with aches and pains, I jostle their muscles to and fro, and they happily skip away onto rainbow clouds.
Until...Eeyore.
Now, I am an extremely professional individual, so as to not disrupt my strict massage therapist/client confidentiality, I lovingly call this particular client: Eeyore.
Here is a list of dreary things Eeyore has actually said to me:
Me: Hey, Eeyore! Happy New Year!
Eeyore: Yeah, another year down the drain.
Me: Sorry I couldn't massage you last week, Eeyore. I was getting married!
Eeyore: Hopefully it will last more than a week.
Me: Hey, Eeyore! Were you okay using a different therapist last week? My grandfather is deathly ill.
Eeyore: There are no other good massage therapists. Not getting a massage was extremely debilitating (proceeds to limp, pathetically).
Me: Hey, did you have a good day today?
Eeyore: I am being tortured at work.
Me: I have to drive back and forth between Stillwater and Tulsa now that I've moved.
Eeyore: Oh, I'll give you a book on CD.
Me: Hey! That's really nice! Thank you!
Eeyore: It's about the Holocaust.
I've worked on him for 4 years, twice a week for 90 minutes each time. If there is a God, (s)he will realize the extreme amount of patience I have had and give me full access to the open bar in heaven.
I would like 3 dirty martinis, 2 glasses of red wine and 5 dark beers awaiting my arrival. If he doesn't stop saying dreadful things, I may arrive earlier than expected. Or else, I'll just quit my job...one of those two...either kill myself or quit my job. I can't decide.
I'll-Write, Already!
Dear Highly-Esteemed Guests and Curious Individuals,
For weeks on end, I have been told by various friends, family members and street urchins, that I should "write" or "blog" or "create squiggles upon paper" more often. Well, alright. I get it. I am now beginning my blog. The strange part is that now that I have a forum to say anything I want...well, I have no idea what to say. Usually I'm full of witty quips and silly sayings. Usually, I can make even mine own self laugh out loud (sorry, that's "LOL" for the computatron users). But, tonight...I ain't got nothin'.
My brother often says that when you have writer's block, you just have to keep writing through it until something of substance comes out. So, now I shall try an experiment. I'm going to write whatever comes out of my mind. I'm going to type it exactly as it comes out, and then I'll do a little self-psych-eval to determine if I'm insane or not. Here we go. Seriously...going to just type what comes into my head. (I promise that all blogs will not be like this. Don't worry.)
Here we go:
Sparcum person of magnificent proportions is relegated to the milk carton. Tree-lined doll of wonder can only be a presium day long table.
Well...that did NOT go as planned. Seeing that "Sparcum" is not even a word, nor "presium" (although it sounds like a pharmaceutical), I doubt I'll have much luck finding inspiration tonight.
I will leave you with a little story. It involves beloved (sarcasm) radio talk show host Delilah. I have claimed her as my archenemy. I truly believe that the world would be a better place if Delilah would stop choosing the wrong songs to dedicate to loving couples around the world.
Example:
Cari (that's me!) is driving home from Stillwater. Cari hears Delilah speaking. Cari kind of pukes, and chunks start to rise. Cari swallows down chunks for fear that she'll crash, and she won't get to hear the next stupid thing out of Delilah's mouth. Cari listens to a lovely young woman tell her story. The young woman was almost 90% deaf in both ears. Her boyfriend stood by her. She finally got cochlear implants, and she can now hear her boyfriend's voice for the first time in 7 years. The story was long and tragic and beautiful. Keep in mind that Cari felt a strange attachment to aforementioned couple.
What song do you think that Delilah chose, my friends? U2's "All I Want Is You"??? No.
"Because You Love Me" by Celine? Not a chance. "Your Song" by Elton John? Oh, no, no, no.
She chose.....drumroll...."Let's Hear It For the Boy." Get it? HEAR IT? Cuz the girl was deaf? Jesus Christ.
Delilah, I will find you in a dark alley someday. And, when I do, I will shine a light in your face while screaming, "LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE BOY?!?!?! REALLY!?!?!" Then, we'll listen to Nina Simone and Arcade Fire for hours and hours on end. Then, I'll tug on your tongue a whole bunch and poke your vocal chords until your voice doesn't annoy me any more.
That is all for now. Thank you. Goodnight.
For weeks on end, I have been told by various friends, family members and street urchins, that I should "write" or "blog" or "create squiggles upon paper" more often. Well, alright. I get it. I am now beginning my blog. The strange part is that now that I have a forum to say anything I want...well, I have no idea what to say. Usually I'm full of witty quips and silly sayings. Usually, I can make even mine own self laugh out loud (sorry, that's "LOL" for the computatron users). But, tonight...I ain't got nothin'.
My brother often says that when you have writer's block, you just have to keep writing through it until something of substance comes out. So, now I shall try an experiment. I'm going to write whatever comes out of my mind. I'm going to type it exactly as it comes out, and then I'll do a little self-psych-eval to determine if I'm insane or not. Here we go. Seriously...going to just type what comes into my head. (I promise that all blogs will not be like this. Don't worry.)
Here we go:
Sparcum person of magnificent proportions is relegated to the milk carton. Tree-lined doll of wonder can only be a presium day long table.
Well...that did NOT go as planned. Seeing that "Sparcum" is not even a word, nor "presium" (although it sounds like a pharmaceutical), I doubt I'll have much luck finding inspiration tonight.
I will leave you with a little story. It involves beloved (sarcasm) radio talk show host Delilah. I have claimed her as my archenemy. I truly believe that the world would be a better place if Delilah would stop choosing the wrong songs to dedicate to loving couples around the world.
Example:
Cari (that's me!) is driving home from Stillwater. Cari hears Delilah speaking. Cari kind of pukes, and chunks start to rise. Cari swallows down chunks for fear that she'll crash, and she won't get to hear the next stupid thing out of Delilah's mouth. Cari listens to a lovely young woman tell her story. The young woman was almost 90% deaf in both ears. Her boyfriend stood by her. She finally got cochlear implants, and she can now hear her boyfriend's voice for the first time in 7 years. The story was long and tragic and beautiful. Keep in mind that Cari felt a strange attachment to aforementioned couple.
What song do you think that Delilah chose, my friends? U2's "All I Want Is You"??? No.
"Because You Love Me" by Celine? Not a chance. "Your Song" by Elton John? Oh, no, no, no.
She chose.....drumroll...."Let's Hear It For the Boy." Get it? HEAR IT? Cuz the girl was deaf? Jesus Christ.
Delilah, I will find you in a dark alley someday. And, when I do, I will shine a light in your face while screaming, "LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE BOY?!?!?! REALLY!?!?!" Then, we'll listen to Nina Simone and Arcade Fire for hours and hours on end. Then, I'll tug on your tongue a whole bunch and poke your vocal chords until your voice doesn't annoy me any more.
That is all for now. Thank you. Goodnight.
Bye, Book. Thanks for the Mems.
This is my "childrens' book for adults." I'm letting it go now. For about two years now, I have thought of different ways to get it published, illustrated 25 pages of it, made multiple press kits, sent it to publishers, etc. I realize now that I don't want it to get published. There are parts of it that don't really feel like "me" anymore. They don't really feel like the places inside of myself that I'd like to continue exploring. I think I'm done with it. So, I just want to share it with everyone (on my friends list) because I think we've all gone through some sort of loss, felt some sort of self-pity, or needed to vent. I don't need to vent anymore, but maybe someone out there in the world still needs to...enjoy. It feels good to get it out of my system and set it free. It feels good to not want to hurt anyone (or myself) anymore.
Goodbye little book. ;)
The Better End
Page 1:
Carly Heartsong married Ned Barley on top of a mountain on a random Wednesday. (Carly kept her name.)
Page 2:
They were so very much in love that no words were spoken, and their vows were understood and accepted by the silence and nature of the Universe.
Page 3:
For six years, Carly and Ned shared everything, including, but not limited to,...
Page 4:
recipes, bills, their innermost secrets...
Page 5:
favorite books, arguments, two-stepping in local lakes...
Page 6:
political debates, an innate need to be together forever and a beloved dog.
Page 7:
They even wrote heartbreakingly beautiful love songs for each other. Carly told Ned that he lived inside of her B flats and C sharps, which caused him to weep silently.
Page 8:
For quite some time, Carly and Ned's thoughts, beliefs and voices were perfectly harmonized.
Page 9:
Everyone thought so.
Page 10:
That is, until, they decided to purchase cable television, cell phones and high speed internet access. Ned began to play online games for hours each night that involved guns and killing.
Page 11:
He also purchased new designer colognes without even sniffing them.
Page 12:
Carly became a lonely pacifist. She missed her mountaintop husband who used to smell of campfire. Then...
Page 13:
...the texting began. Carly was annoyed by these new, shortened words and acronyms. "WTF does LOL mean?" she asked herself. She began to get suspicious of all of this technology.
Page 14:
Flowers and leaves, she understood.
Page 15:
Against her own morals (but in tune with the waves of her instincts), she began to check Ned's phone every night while he slept. (This was, of course, at 3:47a.m., after his war game was over.)
Page 16:
She knew snooping was wrong, but ringtones and e-mails and websites had begun replacing trees and books and kissing.
Page 17:
This made her mad.
Page 18:
And, really scared.
Page 19:
Her greatest fear was realized upon finding one particularly eloquent text to another woman. It read, "U R amazing." Apparently, there was no shorthand version of "amazing."
Page 20:
That made sense to Carly.
Page 21:
By the way, the other woman's name was Stormy. Oh, the irony.
Page 22:
Upon this text discovery, Carly began to go deep inside of herself, nightly.
Page 23:
She whispered prayers to the moon and burrowed into the secret spot within her brain, which she used exclusively for her obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
Page 24:
This brain-spot repeated the words, "I can change him. I can help him. I can change him. I can help him," over and over and over again.
Page 25:
Carly went to counseling. She made Ned go to counseling. They both lied to their therapists. Then, they both lied to each other. Things got worse.
Page 26:
Carly started to paint quite prolifically and began to contemplate the meaning and power of the connection of all matter. She lost herself inside of herself daily.
Page 27:
She decided black would be her signature color.
Page 28:
Ned began to excel at web design and question the existence of any meaning or connection in life, whatsoever.
Page 29:
He noticed the black.
Page 30:
They were alone...together.
Page 31:
One evening at precisely 6:43p.m., Carly had an epiphany. She shared it with Ned.
Page 32:
"When I look at you, I see wires and circuits where a hiking trail used to be. There used to be summits in your eyes," she said to Ned, cautiously.
Page 33:
"When I look at you, I see stubborn rain clouds over a dry pasture. There used to be golden wheat fields in your eyes. You used to be harvest time," Ned said to Carly, even more cautiously.
Page 34:
(Ned was secretly scared of Carly's passionate temper. She didn't know this, even though she scared herself at times.)
Page 35:
They both looked past each other and quasi-acknowledged the reflective observation.
Page 36:
For the next two weeks, they both pretended to be wheat fields and hiking trails.
Page 37:
Those two weeks were kind of like an extended dream sequence in a community theater production. The lighting wasn't quite right. The acting, mediocre. And, the music was horrid. There wasn't even a real French horn.
Page 38:
They weren't fooling anyone.
Page 39:
The curtain finally closed on their sad little play when Carly accidentally and haphazardly (it really was an accident) stumbled upon Ned's old cell phone.
Page 40:
"Weird. Why is Ned's old phone sitting out on the table? Why is it even charged?" she asked herself. She pressed a button. Stormy's number appeared. Carly had thought that the Stormy days were over months ago. Again, with the irony.
Page 41:
Carly instantly and desperately wanted to change her last name to Heartsick.
Page 42:
Directly after experiencing the most stark raving mad argument of all-time for seven hours straight, Carly and Ned decided to have one last go at their marriage. They decided to go on a trip.
Page 43:
Carly made a sign and attached it to the dashboard of their car. It read: NO CELL PHONES ALLOWED.
Page 44:
They went to the river's edge. They swam. They looked into each other's eyes.
Page 45:
It was a look of knowing. It was a look shared only by two people who know each other inside and out and, at the exact same time, have no idea who the other person is.
Page 46:
When evening finally fell, the cicadas began their prelude to a nighttime symphony specifically composed to ward off divorce. Ned built a campfire. He told Carly funny stories from his childhood. She had never heard them before.
Page 47:
Carly said, "I love hearing your stories. I think you are handsome and hilarious. I love you."
Ned said, "You do? I thought you were annoyed by me. I had forgotten you even liked the sound of my voice."
Page 48:
Ned said, "I think you are a complicated, intelligent and beautiful woman. You are amazing. I love you."
Carly said, "You do? I thought you believed me to be insane. I had forgotten why you even loved me."
Page 49:
Ned and Carly cried and held each other closer than ever before.
Page 50:
Nature had, once again, shown them their true selves. Ned saw Carly in the water rapids. Carly saw Ned in the rich, red earth.
Page 51:
They sat in silence and let the smoke from the fire caress them.
Page 52:
It blessed them.
Page 53:
It purified them.
Page 54:
It was just like their wedding day. They were new.
Page 55:
A "good" ending would be that they lived happily ever after.
Page 56:
A "good" ending would be that they continued to visit the river and baptize themselves with nature and honesty.
Page 57:
A "good" ending would be that they stayed together, combining art with technology, arguments with understanding, night with day.
Page 58:
But, that didn't happen.
Page 59:
Back in the real world, things turned worse than sour. There was more lying and even more depression. Horrible things were said. Belongings and hearts were divided.
Page 60:
(Ned got the computer. Carly got the dog.)
Page 61:
Not a "good" ending at all, but...
Page 62:
before you give up on love entirely, remember this:
Page 63:
Once there were two people so in love that they married on a mountaintop on a random Wednesday.
Page 64:
They were so very much in love that no words were spoken, and their vows were understood and accepted by the silence and nature of the Universe.
Page 65:
For six years it worked.
Page 66:
For whatever reasons, it stopped working.
Page 67:
The point is that it existed.
Page 68:
And, you can't argue with that.
Page 69:
Would you like to know what's even better than a "good" ending?
Page 70:
Ned found a girl that likes cell phones and designer cologne. And...
Page 71:
Carly decided to build her own campfire and finally found...
Page 72:
herself.
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