Love Languages

"You know, there's a book about that." She said.

"About what?" He asked, walking faster to catch up with her.

"About why every time we fight, you buy me something." She turned around and stuck out her tongue.

"Oh yeah? Does it say how you like pretty things and I'm the sucker who goes and buys them for you?" He grabbed her hand and pulled her close.

She laughed and tried to pull free, but only half heartedly. He tightened his grip.

"Nooo..." She whined. "It's a book about the different way people show their love. You show it by giving gifts. You know 'cause you're a big brooding meany pants who doesn't like talking about his feelings."

"Hey!"

She laughed. "What?"

"I'm not a 'brooding meany pants,' whatever that means."

"It means that when you're angry with me you get mopey and quiet and then I get all paranoid trying to figure out what I did wrong.

And it'll be something like I DVR'd over one of your shows, or I wouldn't let you order pizza for dinner again, or I forgot to put away my inks and you stained another pair of jeans." She trailed off quietly.

He squeezed her hand. "You know I can't get hot pink and gold ink out of my pants."

"You gotta talk to me babe. You know I hate that cold shoulder shit."

"I know, I know. Look, my family wasn't big on talking things out. I'm not used to it. you know that. We're all repressed. Look at my mom." He pulled her into his arms.

"But I'm getting better aren't I?" He whispered into her ear.

She could feel her face getting hotter.

Public displays of affection both embarrassed and thrilled her, not having been accustomed to them before he stumbled into her life.

She squirmed in his arms trying to break free.

"Remember," he continued, "when I told you you were gross for drinking straight out of the juice carton?" He brushed his lips against her jaw and down to her neck, breathing in deeply.

"I'm not gross." She muttered. She enjoyed the warmth of his breath against her skin.

"You are." He kissed her lightly. "It's cool though. I still like you."

"People are staring."

He looked up and saw a small group of teenage girls giggling in their general direction.

He turned back to her. "Those aren't people." he said as he moved his lips to the other side of her neck. "Those are teenagers." He ran his fingers through her hair and moved his other hand to the small of her back.

"Now what was I saying?"

"You were telling me about how gross I am." She reached for his face and pulled him away from his neck. She looked up at him.

"Tell me I'm not gross." She demanded.

He smirked. "Oh you're so gross. You leave your dirty laundry all over the house. Panties and socks everywhere."

She laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. It's what drew him to her the first day they met.

"Oh yeah? And what else? You have a list?"

He kissed her forehead. "Oh, if I started going over that list we'd end up missing the movie."

"That long, eh?"

"You're a brat and a mess."

"Damn. Should we file for divorce then?"

He sighed. "I think so. Well, we gave it a good run."

"Three months were long enough."

"I'll call the lawyer."

She smacked his arm. "Oh shut up. Let's go in, I wanna sit in the back."

"Ooh it's gonna be one of those movie visits." He pulled her towards the theater door.

She giggled and hurried along. "No! I want to actually see this one. I just hate having people sitting behind me."

"Damn tease."

"Shut up."

He winked at her as he opened the door.

"Hey, so what's your love language?"

She stopped and thought about it a moment. "You know something? I'm not sure. I didn't get very far in the book. Why don't you try and find out?"

Keep. In. Touch.

I remember his mom calling my house looking for him.

We still had a landline at the time. It's been a long time since we've had one of those.

I wonder if she just went through his autograph book.

"Good luck! Have a great summer. K.I.T. love Kastle."

What was his name?

"Bushy" is all that comes to mind. That wasn't his name obviously. But Mrs. Martinez gave us all nicknames. Bushy had really thick eyebrows.

Poor kid.

I think she gave him a complex. At some point during our eighth grade year he got them waxed for the first time. He came in the next day with really sharp eyebrows and really red skin.

I got the name "Kastle," with a K though, to differentiate me from the other Castle in Mrs... (What was her name again? Something with a K I believe now that I think about it. I hadn't thought of these people in 15 years) K's class.

I've been Kastle for nearly 16 years no one ever questions it.

I remember a few other nicknames, "Barbie," "Spikey," "Elfie," "Peanut Butter Girl," it seems odd to grown up me that an adult would give some mildly offensive nicknames based off of physical traits to her young teenage students and get away with it.

But Bushy's mom called me one summer night not long after we graduated. I think his name was Ricardo. Somewhere in the back of my mind that name stands out.

She called the house, my sister was the one who answered the phone. She'd asked for me. My sister handed me the phone.

She told me she was Ricardo's mom and that he hadn't come home and if I'd heard from him or seen him.

We were never that close, but I'd told him to KIT!

I told her I hadn't but that I'd call around.

A few days later he called me. Told me he was home. That he was fine. A misunderstanding.

We were 14.

"KIT! have a good summer! Good luck in high school! I hope you don't run away from your mom's house!"

I don't think I spoke to him again after that.

But for some reason driving down Laramie, I thought of that boy and wondered what ever happened to him.

Sunday Morning

My alarm goes off at 540. I didn't get enough sleep.

I haven't had enough sleep in the past week.

But that's how it goes every time.

This is what it is to be a slave to your art.

I'm dramatic, I know.

I set my alarm for six. Resting my eyes for another 20 minutes, thankful that I'd showered the night before.

And five minutes later my alarm goes off again. My phone says it's six, but my body says I should sleep more.

But it's the Christmas performance. It's the big one. It's the one I tell myself I'm going to start working on in September every year when I'm scrambling to finish choreography in November.

Maybe next year I will.

But for some reason I only know how to work well under pressure.

You want something good from the dancers? Sure how about a five-minute group number for the opening act? Then a duet to follow, which isn't really a duet, but more like two solos brought together with a bonus of three girls doing a part for the bridge.

Make sense?

No? Guess you'd have to see it to understand.

Ok ok, how about a nice solo to finish?

And how about I whip it all together in less than two months?
Ha.

I'm a slave driver and a masochist at the same time.

I spent the last two weeks, scouring the city for the items I needed to build beautiful golden arcs, for the final pieces of their costume, for affordable mini, battery operated lights and  opalescent sequined ribbon.

My fingers are burned from hot glue and my body exhausted from a lack of rest.

But that's over and done with. It's the big day and I'm laying in bed thanking God for dry shampoo and clean tights.

I told the girls they needed to be there by 730. We go on at 930.

Two services. Four dances.

I need to dress them, do their make up and secure the crowns I designed and made for them.

A difficult task since they include a battery pack for the lights.

Yes I made them light up crowns.

Yes, you should want one for yourself.

I wash my face, brush my teeth and dress quickly.

I'm out the door before sunrise and I know that as I watch the dawn break in front of me, everything will be worth it as i watch my girls in full costume, with the music going and the stage lights up, and their hair twinkling, with the crowd enraptured.

These are the fruits of my labor and they are beautiful.

Christmas Musings

All is calm, all is bright.

My family doesn't "holiday" very well.

I do that a lot. Use a noun as a verb. It amuses me.

Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's-- we seem to mess it up each time when left to our own devices.

I wish I was more festive.

Or that I had more money to force us out of the house to a nice place that knows how to holiday better than we do.

It's Christmas.

So I walked my dog. More like let him walk me. At eight years old, my senior citizen dog is still stronger than I'll ever be.

I haven't walked him in a while. I'm a negligent parent.

Sometimes I like to imagine him as a writer. His first book, "my mommy is negligent and other stories."

He's truly my son. Even he enjoys writing short personal essays.

You know, in my fictionalized version of him.

I am not a morning person So I don't walk him then. I'm also tired and weary of the world by the time I get home.

Depression does that to you.

I feel like I talk about depression a lot.

I'm not a Debbie downer by any means. Only few people in real life know about my struggles with depression.

That's how it is.

I use humor and a bubbly nature to hide the demons I deal with when I'm by myself. When I am trying to force myself to do things.

Most of the world's funniest people struggle with depression and addiction. Why do you think we're so funny?

We have to cope.

Making people laugh and making people happy helps-- for a little while.

My friend Steve called me while I was shopping. I told him I finished reading the manuscript he sent me. He told me he was no writer of prose, I told him I was no poet. So we're even.

I told him it was weird but I like weird. I told him it made me uncomfortable, but good art does that sometimes.

His stories are disjointed, but connected. Does that make sense?

We talked a while, or rather I talked. I talked about the church leaders dinner where I almost cried because no one wanted to sit at the table with me and my sister. How people only sat there because they got there late and those were the last seats available. I told him about my love of random decorative wall art, some of the inspirational shit that looked pretty and was supposed to uplift. I rambled about Betsy Johnson and donut purses and how I'd wear it but had to draw the line at a milk carton purse.

I rambled until I realized I was rambling.

And I apologized.

He said it was ok. That's why he called. So I could ramble.

It stung a little.

So I'm walking my dog and it's Christmas, but it doesn't feel like Christmas because my family doesn't do Christmas right.

Are you following?

I get asked directions from strangers. I am non threatening.

In the city of Chicago, the city of big shoulders, the city of gun violence, the windy city, I am a girl in fake uggs and mittens wearing a wonder woman scarf walking her fluffy dog as he wears his Santa sweater.

I am not scary. I am inviting.

Ask me how to get somewhere I know how to go to all the places.

Maybe this new year I can learn how to holiday. Maybe I can be the one to make home feel like home.

The houses I pass are lit up like the Vegas strip and this brings me some comfort.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

A Writer's Q&A

Let’s play a game shall we?

I was tagged in a little question and answer post by Hyperpandemonium he’s new here, so check him out.

Haven’t done one of these in a while. So sure. Why not?

When did you first start writing? I started writing in the first grade when the teacher in charge of the gifted program at my school encouraged us to enter the young author’s competition. I wrote a story called “A Day Without a Friend,” a semi auto-biographical story about a friend moving away from the neighborhood. I ended up going to the young authors conference in my state. It was pretty cool. And I realized that people liked my stories. *Cue major ego trip*

I got that good English, yo.

Was being a writer something you always aspired to? Well, I am a writer. I think, therefore, I write. I breathe, therefore, I write. I have anxiety attacks inside a Target on the day before a dance performance, because an irresponsible parent tells me last minute her baby daddy didn’t give her money so I need to go out and buy them the shoes and tights that they need, therefore, I write. So I don’t aspire to be something I am.

But damn, if someone could pay me and possibly make some sort of movie blockbuster trilogy out of my stories, that would be real swell.

What genre do you write? Waaaaaaah! I hate this question. Because I’m not really sure what genre I write. I just think of a story and write. *insert embarrassed emoji here* I dunno, read my stories and you tell me.

Can you tell us a little about your current work in progress? Ah yes, my current work in progress… *shifty eyes* I just finished a month and a half of bi-weekly, two-hour, dance rehearsals with bonus Sunday and Saturday rehearsals, and costume making. I am working on nothing at the moment as I was busy with performance art. I do have three things on back burners (if I have three back burners I must have a giant stove).

1. A collection of short stories based on the emotional breakdown of a girl forced into court mandated therapy– a heart warming coming of age story.

2. A novel on being a salon slave. Based on my short lived career as a front desk receptionist at a high end salon.

3. A collection of travel essays based on my road trip across the U.S.

When did you start working on this project? 1. Many years ago… Probably around 5 or 6.

2. Three years ago.

3. A couple of months ago, but then I deleted my start on accident and became really discouraged and then really busy with choreography.

What was your first piece that you can remember writing? A Day Without a Friend. Circa 1993.

What was it about? Wait I went over this already…a childhood without social media. We did not have the power to keep in touch with people like today. Today, the magic of Facebook allows you to keep track of the guy you met outside of a club wearing a sombrero like nine years ago.

What’s the best part about writing? The ability to get the demons out of my head. I mean… What?

What’s the worst part about writing?Not having the energy or desire to do it when your brain is exhausted from a stressful job where you’re squeezed for knowledge all day long.

What’s the name of your favourite character and why? Genesis Varo, she’s funny, she’s vulnerable, she’s not afraid to be herself.

How much time a day/week do you get to write? That’s a thing? Time? Sometimes I write on my lunch break. Sometimes I lay in bed filling out questionnaires no one will read. That counts.

When is the best time for you to write (morning or night)? Whenever my brain feels like spewing forth words. I have no control over the muse.

Did you go to college for writing? I went to college for musical theater before switching to broadcast journalism. I wanted to join the fiction program. But I found the students to be rather pretentious. So, I guess, no?

What bothers you more: speeling errors; punctuation, errors, or errors for grammar? All of them. I tend to write quickly on my phone for blog posts, so I’ll have random auto correct errors, but I hate all errors. Mostly because of my journalism and copy editing background. But I’m not a dick about them. I’ll point them out so you can fix, not because I want to make you feel stupid.

What is the best writing advice that anyone has given you? Write what you know, the rest will come.

What advice would you give to another writer? Don’t compare yourself. I have that issue in writing and in life, and it can be incredibly detrimental.

What are your favourite writing sites or blogs that you turn to for help, tips or encouragement? I am in dire need of that. I used to have xanga. I had it since high school (i.e. I’ve been blogging for a long fucking time) and became very close with a group of writers on there. But it’s gone now. However I’m going to post this in our Friday fiction group and ask them to play.

Besides writing, what else do you enjoy doing? I teach dance. I sing and karaoke. I read… A lot. I love going to the movies and I work like a Hebrew slave in exchange for fantastic health insurance and enough money to kinda keep myself in the lifestyle I’ve grown accustom to.

What are your hobbies? Please see above. They also include breaking piñatas, popping bubble wrap, being fabulous while simultaneously being adorable, and dressing my dog up in children’s clothing.

What’s the best book you’ve read this year? That’s hard. I really enjoyed the Martian.

What’s the best movie you’ve seen this year? Um, my nerd heart is still experiencing the feels from Star Wars, The Force Awakens. So that’s what we’re going with.

What is your favourite book or series of all time? Stop asking me to choose my favorite child!!!! The chronicles of narnia, till we have faces, the big friendly giant, Harry potter, persuasion, pride and prejudice, the lord of the rings, the hobbit…I can keep going. I’ve read these all a million times.

Who is your favourite author? *cries in Spanish* so many I love so many. Stephen King, Sandra Cisneros, Jhumpa Lahiri, Sherman Alexie, JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, Roald Dahl, Jane Austen…

What are your plans for the rest of the year in terms of your writing? Try?

Where else can we find you online? Too many places. You can read my tweets *cough* look at my selfies *cough* 

@travelbybubble

Bone Fragments

I was shattered.

Millions of pieces of myself were spread out far and wide-- quirks and habits and ideas now merely flotsam in a sea of self-doubt.

He had taken everything that I was and corrupted it.

He'd made me a weaker version of myself; a distorted version of myself I didn't recognize.

I was never enough.

And then without a word without a warning he was gone. After Manning his way into the far recesses of my fragile heart he disappeared.

He left me. A broken China doll that he was done playing with.

When you don't know who you are, how can you put yourself back together again?

What do you do when there are too many fragments of bone and skin and laughter that don't fit together anymore?

What becomes of a puzzle with too many missing pieces?

I wanted to let myself disappear-- to let myself be absorbed into the atmosphere and become nothing.

I wanted every piece of me that he'd ever touched, every dream I'd ever whispered to him, every emotion he ever elicited, to be destroyed forever.

But matter cannot be created or destroyed.

You can never stop being.

There are traces of you in everything you've touched.

My words were still flying in the wind, the trees are full of, "Remember that one time..." And sassy little quips.

And I remembered that even something beautiful can be created out broken pieces of glass.

And bit by bit I'm piecing myself together again. A colorful mosaic, whose design is ever changing.

I am being made new.

Eulogy for a Pup

Nothing will ever prepare you for death.

 Not time, not the knowledge of its inevitability, not illness--Death just happens.

 And no one's ever really happy about it, but we deal and that's the best we can do.

 It was a Friday evening in December. I was a freshman in highschool. I was standing in the kitchen doing God knows what (probably getting a snack after a long day at my nerd school) when my parents came home from work.

 I asked my mom about the puppy she'd promised us. Her coworker owned a beautiful chocolate brown chow chow and she'd just had puppies. She was going to buy one.

 Mom said they'd gone but he didn't have anymore dogs. She tried to keep a straight face as I groaned in disappointment, but couldn't as the front of her jacket started twitching. I ran to her and she unzipped her coat.

 There he was, this tiny, black, fuzzy, angry, little ball of fur, who smelled like death.

 "Why does he smell like that?"

 I still don't know. Maybe it was the kibble they gave him? Maybe he hadn't had a bath since he came out of the womb. Regardless he smelled pretty gross. There was no new puppy scent.

 One thing was for sure, the jerk hated being held. He was fighting against my mom and when I reached for him, the little brat hissed at me like the very spawn of Satan.

 I spent the whole first week of his life in our house with him. I learned he really liked milky cereal, he hated fuzzy slippers, he liked hiding under beds, and his tiny little teeth were as sharp as needles. But he was the cutest little evil thing.

 After days of trying to think up a name my mom suggested Baloo, like the big black bear from the Jungle Book and it worked.

 Eventually he faced the facts that he was stuck with us and allowed himself to be loved and squeezed and begrudgingly cuddled sometimes.

 He loved long walks, using every opportunity to scare the crap out of strangers. He especially hated men. The only man he liked was my dad, and only after dad established the fact that he was the alpha and Baloo resigned himself with being the beta. But there was no room for anyone else.

 He lived for car rides, sticking his head out of the window, letting the wind flow through his glorious mane. He looked like a mix between a lion and a bear. Cute but terrifying.

 He loved cheese and ice cream and mangoes and pizza and hot dogs straight off the grill and all the food he was probably not supposed to eat. But how can you deny those big puppy dog eyes?

 My mom used to make sure Baloo had an enchilada before making the rest of us one.

 The dog lived like a spoiled king.

 He was a part of our family: the short, furry, angry kid that didn't talk much, unless it was to bark when something annoyed him, or as he got older, when he was hungry.

 A dog's life is over far too quickly. At best you get maybe 10, 15, or if you're really lucky 20 years with them. And what is that compared to a human's lifetime?

 When you're holding a puppy you don't think about the future. You don't think about failing hips. Or diseases. Or muscle loss. You don't think about doggy incontinence. Or about carrying him up and down the stairs to go outside.

 But it's the harsh reality of old age.

 Baloo had a good life. He was strong. He was healthy. He was happy, in a crochety kind of way.

 Age crept up on him and in the end we knew we had to let him go. Even though I'd made him promise me a long time ago that I would be allowed to die first.

 I loved that dog. I love that dog.

 Thank you, Baloo. You were a very good boy.