Dreams of Broadway, Salad Bugs & Yes, We're Special

Ever since I was little, I dreamt big. Not just any big, I mean, playing-dodgeball-on-the-moon-big... or jumping-out-of-an-airplane-with-my-name-painted-on-it-and-landing-in-a-football-field-of-chocolate-marshmallows big. I couldn't help it. Still can't. And I've tried to dissect the whys. It's not that I had some abnormally sugar-coated childhood. I had a worn, purple, oversized coat from Goodwill. My knees and arms were consistently covered in yellowing bruises from careless tree climbing incidents and rollerblade mishaps. In the spirit of the holidays and my fear of heights, I was forced to awkwardly balance atop cement railings and plastic chairs on my father's porch, taping strand after strand of Christmas lights and cling-on Santa faces. It was freezing, my pink fingers exposed and numbing. (Try to successfully use heavy duty packing tape with mittens.) But these were minor life experiences we all had, I'm sure.

From an early age, my goofy charm may have won over a few grown ups, but never my peers. Collectively, none of these people ever made life seem unrealistic. I had a first grade teacher who threatened bad behavior with orange lipstick kisses to the forehead; though, she never actually kissed anyone that I knew of. Instead, she sent me to the principal's office over 20 times that year. And my fourth grade teacher made me cry a lot. She had loud clicky shoes and black eyes that stung like hornets. Once she screamed and embarrassed me in front of the class—all on account of my horrible cursive that didn't live up to her strict slanting standards. If from these instances I hadn't yet lacked faith in the people around me, in fifth grade, I opened my boxed salad and dug in to find that I was munching on tiny bugs that looked like the small, bulbous ends of broccoli. And the lunch people, who had to order me another meal, made me sit alone in the lunchroom at one of those picnic-table-style jobs and wait for a PB & J to arrive from the high school. I sat there like a lonely heifer-in-training, crying into her empty trough. Believe me, I was willing to go without lunch, but they wouldn't let me go back to class. Imagine that as an explanation as to why you missed your Science quiz. The kids really enjoyed that one, too.

I experienced more than my share of life at an early age. These examples are just the beginning. No need to get any deeper. But as you can see, at no time did anyone lead me to believe I was destined for greatness. I had a quirky rebelliousness, a horrible collection of colored stirrup pants, and a limited treasury of common sense that disguised any intelligence I may have owned. I knew how to draw cartoon people and mimic others' handwriting. Not only was I last on the list for any type of fame or recognition, my sweet vulnerable center (much like a Gushers fruit snack) made me a rosy, round target for my peers. Slap on an easy-to-rhyme, silly-sounding last name, a gimpy foot, and freckles, and there I was—in all my plump glory. The only moment of celebrated distinction came in third grade when I was asked to announce the buses as they came in at the end of the day. It was truly an honor! And since I was always in the principal's office anyway, it was more than convenient. But then, about halfway through the year, some sly girl with a bowl cut traded me the privilege for a collection of pretty colored rocks. To this day, I regret it, but that's another story. Even after all this (the fat jokes and the long lectures about "personal responsibility" in the principal's office), I had hopes of being great. I still do, though I'm not so clouded by childish optimism. Or am I?

The saddest of all the dreams—living in New York City and performing on Broadway. To this day, the thought of it makes me want to cry or laugh... laugh and cry and vomit all over my men's flannel from Target. At some point in my curious childhood, I acquired a thick booklet for some prestigious New York college. I took it places with me, glancing through it with a furrowed brow. I slicked down its glossy pages carefully, trying to keep it just as pristine as I had imagined New York to be. Even at 11, I was somewhat proactive at planning my future. I had circled my major about 1900 times with the tips of my fingers: Theater Arts. I blame it on wanting to be loved, loved from everyone and all the time. It wasn't that my parents didn't love me, or my friends, or my brother and sister cats, but even their support (and snuggly purrs) weren't enough. It was more than being loved. I wanted to be needed and there was no where in my tiny world that gave me that.

For this need of neediness, I was good at finding sad people, people who were down on their lives and just wanted a friend (even if it was just the chubby, awkward neighbor girl). Sure, their adult troubles were sometimes over my head, but I listened anyway. I tried to understand. I held their hands and ran to get them tissues. It made me feel alive to be there for them, to be better than that girl everyone knew at school. It was my secret. But the best thing I could do, the only thing I was really good at (in my kid way) was making them laugh. Not only did it make them forget the stupid stuff they had to deal with, but it made me forget all the stupid stuff I faced: the horrible names the boys called me in the halls, the way that thrift store purple coat with the toggle buttons made me smell like someone else, the way my body never moved the way the other girls' did. I meant something in my own world. And that was all that mattered then.

Maybe we grow up, we stop needing the things we used to need to fill us up. I remember telling my mom that I didn't understand why everyone didn't want to be famous. The idea of a life otherwise seemed... well, boring. I didn't want to live that, a life that meant only as much as those few you could touch in your small radius. I wanted to touch everyone! While that notion still creeps up on me from time to time (Tasha not understanding my strange disinterest in plays and musicals), I know that life is about more than touching everyone... it's about touching those few in a way that really counts. The larger your radius gets, the more superficial the meaning. See?

It doesn't mean I will stop dreaming or ever give up that secret need (now, not-so-secret). On no day will I ever wake up and not want it; though, now I realize it's more likely that I hit the Powerball three times in a week or invent a way to inject coffee directly into my veins. (Both of these are welcomed happenings.) That's the funny thing about humans... we all want to be special. We believe we are. We all want to be recognized for greatness, somehow. And as depressing as it might sound, only some of us can be on such a large scale. Luck, talent, whatever it is that gets them there. The others, we do our thing. A good day is a compliment from a stranger, sharing a cup of coffee with an old friend, or—capturing a picture of your coworkers pigging out at lunch, Photoshopping them to wear tiny hats, and then taping it on the wall in your office for all to see. The little stuff.

I'm writing this now, sitting alone in the Greensburg Starbucks on a Sunday night thinking about the next step, what it will be to fill me up. There are so many things that I want to be, want to accomplish. Sometimes I don't know where to start. But when it all gets too much, I think about what it took to get here and I know I'll be all right. I mean, I made it this far. I still suck at cursive and fear ladders. But I'm touching... even if it's just the amazing people of my little dot on the map. I appreciate them, more than I ever could from any other angle.

Cheers!

Layers just mean warm.

Here comes the cold weather. Already I have coworkers and friends asking how many layers I'm wearing. Yea, I'm pretty much the coldest person I know, keeping my work office at like 92˚F. It's fine. I may or may not have blood. Anyhow, with the colder weather comes the "homeless" jokes.

Sometimes it isn't a joke, I guess. Once, in Omaha, Nebraska, a woman coming out of the ice cream shop with her little boy thought I was homeless. She took one look at me with my backpack and clothing, eating ice cream on the curb, and grabbed her boy—pulling him far from me.

I'm not homeless, though. I'm very cozy in my home right this second. Believe it or not, I just finished up my Ovaltine and I think I might go to bed. Early.

Am I the only one that bundles up and pays no mind to bulky limbs and mismatched color schemes? Listen, kids. It's Southwestern Pennsylvania. When the wind comes, it feels like it's ripping through your garments ready to knock you on your ass.

Happy week of Halloween, peoples. I will be updating with photos. <3

mpt

PS: The Ovaltine in the orange container is the only good Ovaltine. Peep that.

PSS: If you're looking for a good poem read: How a Poem Happens

New Kensington: The Song that Doesn't End

There are many things in fall that I don't take for granted: pumpkin-flavored lattes; crunchy colored leaves; pumpkin-face carving; marathons of bloody, mini-stroke-inducing movies... the good things in life, of course.

But what I always forget about my favorite season is the lack of sunlight, the roadsides teeming with odorous rotting animals, that forever-grey that seems to paint the sky from horizon to horizon. And we all could really use some sunshine about now in Southwestern, PA.

My hometown of New Kensington has been polluted with all kinds of shootings and tragedies, as of late. And though it's nothing new, it seems to only be getting worse. I can't help but wonder why and re-read the news articles and flashback to those days when I was just a wee one—playing on the porch with my Legos and my Barbies, ducking from every passing car behind the white bricks. Yes, even at eight-years-old I was worried about "drive-bys." I'm not even sure I knew what they were exactly.

While I'm sure paranoia was part of my personality from the beginning (along with guilt, insecurity, and an ever-present sense of doom), I am curious if others have these memories. One instance, in particular: I recall someone had been shot in their bathroom—stray bullet—and my little brains sketched some strange scene. I could see him vividly: the victim, a lumberjack-looking man dressed in flannel, reading a Shop 'N Save flyer on the toilet until suddenly BAM—in mid-bowel-movement—gets knocked from his seat, ass up in the air.

I realize now that—not only did I not witness this (why do I often, in memory, have a hard time deciphering between dreams and reality?), but for months, I had extraordinary difficulties going to the bathroom, myself. I tried to hurry. I tried to avoid it. I had to talk myself into it. I kept my eyes fixed to the once-white tiles in the tub, as if they were about to splinter and swallow me up like some ceramic black hole. But I wasn't sure if this was where the bullet would come from, of course. It just seemed logical—eight-year-old logic. Realistically, a bullet could have come from anywhere. Bathroom or not. These weren't conditions for a pleasant potty experience.

While other kids prayed, I did different things before bed to occupy myself. I used to play this game. I called it "Three Wishes." And every night, I gave myself three wishes. But it wasn't just three general wishes. Depending on what I wanted or worried about that day, I wished in categories. Sometimes I wished for three things I could change about my physical appearance, or three toys I wished would magically drop from the sky (for some reason, these always came with an unlimited amount of batteries, if required. I was an over-prepared wisher, I suppose.) But on those nights where word of violence came creeping in across my step-mother's scanner in short, static-ed bursts, I wished for no pain. The bottom line: bullets hurt. Even in my youth, I knew this.

"Ways I wish to not die..." I held up three tiny fingers under my worn comforter—dingy white with primary-colored, construction workers and utility vehicles, a dated bargain from Big Lots. "Being shot" was always my first answer, followed by "fire," and then, "car wreck."

These are the type of memories I don't readily think about, but remember well. When people ask where I'm from, I first shoot them a look—chin down, eyes up, head cocked to one side—"New Ken." And then, when they cock their heads in the opposite direction of mine, and we're sort of looking a lot like confused puppies, I correct myself: "New Kensington." Then, they get it.

The responses are unanimous, predictable. I've heard everything from—"Did you wear a bulletproof vest?" to "Oh, wow. You can't tell." And my first reaction is always to defend New Ken, tell them I'm not afraid, and "you know what, it's not that bad." I don't always remember my childhood in the context of those fears. There will always be a soft place in me for my hometown. And since my dad has passed away, New Ken is a different kind of violence for me. Most of my good memories are tied up in things that are no longer there—the drive-in, Sunday breakfasts at the 5th Avenue Deli, shopping at J.C. Penny's for my school clothes, and, of course, my dad.

I admit, maybe I was a little more nervous than kids my age, dancing to the latest Boys II Men song on B94, anticipating Friday Night Skate at Melwood or watching Lamb Chop's Play-Along, but I know I can't be the only one. Old or young. No matter where in the town you lived. How many of us overheard disgruntled grandparents chatting amongst themselves about how New Ken "used to be booming." Apparently it was a brimming with department stores, shady gambling, and paid parking lots. By age 10, we were all trained to say that "New Ken went downhill once the mob left"—as if we knew first-hand, as if we personally watched the caravan of swarthy Italians pack their black Cadillacs and wave goodbye, cigars hanging from their tight-lipped farewells.

But the story is in what is left. And as the violence continues, years after leaving, I can't help but feel sad for the families still there—those raising their own families, growing up, scared to stay, scared to leave. I hope that I'm speaking to a small percent, that most feel safe and untouched by the violence. More than that, I hope for a change: a reconstruction that consists of more than demolishing buildings and planting grass seed. Though it's a start, change comes from within. I've heard people complain and spout off about the local cops and officials, but people need to start taking responsibility for their own actions and inactions. It's a mindset. It's everyone and everything. Is it possible to remain positive and embrace what you do have? I think so. Is it easy? No.

I might seem cloudy-eyed, but I'm not stupid. The darkness that hangs thick over New Ken is something we all experience, but on a smaller, more personal scale. A grief, a sadness, that pervading feeling of never having enough, never being full... but amplified with poverty, desperation, addiction. Can there be good there? Maybe we don't look in the right places. When, even in our own lives, do we fully appreciate what we have? If we don't stop this now, it'll continue—generation to generation. If nothing else, can't those who decide to pick up the gun, instead decide to put it down, give their kids a chance?

Yes, I'm gone now. I don't live in New Ken anymore. I went off to school, found a job, did my thing, and so maybe it isn't my place to say anything. But sometimes I still play the wish game when I can't sleep. I close my eyes... hold out three fingers. And lately I've been wishing for peace. I've been wishing for the madness to stop... for all those kids who nervously flinch at passing cars, find themselves not sleeping, but thinking about grown-up things like bullets and strange men getting shot on the john when they're trying to sleep.

Infected Zombie Blood

It's that time again... preparing for the epic event of the year—the (holy shit!) 6th? Annual Halloween Party. Really creative title, right? Anyhow, Teesh and I are set to go all out, as far as decor goes. Today, we were perusing the Halloween section at Target, getting all giddy (high-pitched squeals, repetitive LOOK AT THIS's, touching/picking up/fondling everything). If you were to walk by while grabbing the obligatory bag of Reese's Cups on special, you might think we were an unfortunate pair of four-year-olds stuck in hoodies.

As an aside, Target and I have issues. It seems I can't walk in there without dropping at least double the amount of money I should be spending. That big red bull's-eye? Yeah, it's the same color of my car. The car they're going to repossess after I spend all of my money at Target.

We decided this year, instead of spending a ridiculous amount of cash-money on corny decorations of cartoon ghosts with cut-out eyes and snaggle-toothed witches, we would make our own. Kids, I realize this is September, but one only has so much time to put together the bangin'-est party. Figure in a reasonable amount of time for make-your-own-decor, a suitable sleazy punch recipe, and about nine-to-ten days working on a costume that no one in the world has EVER thought of... and you've got yourself a solid month of planning (or more). Besides, these old, shady bottles we just bought at Goodwill aren't going to fill themselves with questionable nasties.

Which leads me to the point... any ideas for ghoulish decor? Teesh and I decided to start with about $10 worth of glass bottles, in which will contain various liquids and maybe even PEELED GRAPES... I mean, eyes. I think this is classy. Set them up all over the house. Hope nobody tries to drink them. You know... nothing says Halloween like an accidental Windex ingestion!

Well, it's getting late. I just know I'm going to have nightmares after the brainstorm session I had coming up with "labels" for these bottles. Eye of Goat Radish. Scuzzum of Mink Husk. Infected Zombie Blood.

Sweet dreams.

Cherry Pop-Tarts

Here I am again. Back on my porch, streetlight beamed and trying to sort out my insomnia. Sleeplessness isn't as easy as playing cards. I'm trying to decide how much sleep I need to do what, what going to the gym at 5 a.m. actually means to me, and if I'm going to gain 3 pounds from the package of Cherry Pop-Tarts I devoured this afternoon. Heavy stuff for a Thursday night, right?

But on the subject of Cherry Pop-Tarts. They were there. Glistening in their bright blue wrapper, taunting me from the other side of the glass. Before I could know what I was doing, I slipped in the crinkled dollar bill and hit F5. Is it sad that I can recall the actual code? See, at our place of work, Cherry Pop-Tarts are a rarity. Of course, there are always the obligatory Brown Sugar Whatevers and the Strawberry Frosted, but Cherry is like the diamond of the group; alas, it was the last one. Behind it, more Strawberry. This is important, because in that moment, I felt like they were made for me, that there was a reason I even stepped up to the vending machine that I'm pretty good at avoiding.

Now, there is a professor I had once, a poet, and she did a remarkable job portraying the Cherry Pop-Tart—a sort of vulnerability. And overly-romanticized (by me) or not, the treat itself is worthy of an awesome poem.

As it stands, there is more to worry about than Pop-Tarts at this hour, but I'm fixated and that's what I do (instead of analyze Real Issues.)

My first day of teaching is coming up here on Tuesday. I've spent a few hours babbling to myself in the car on various short drives, so I feel like I'm ready for the big leagues. Hahaha... really. I've thought about holding a phone to my ear, but felt that would really taint the whole experience.

Happy Friday (early) and Weekend. I get to see my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew tomorrow. So I'm on top of the world, you know? (:

xx
mpt

Just bee.

Well, if you haven't heard... I'll be Professor Chicken by the end of this month. Ok. I'm teaching one class at the University of Pittsburgh at Greensburg. (From where I graduated about... ugh... 4 years ago.) Wow. Anyhow, it has me working some serious tail feathers, along with my arty art projects and cooking and sweating (the humidity this way has been obnoxious) and and and still trying to keep up any sort of motivation to do normal things like grocery shop, clean Mr. Winston's cage, or sleep. Summer-induced insomnia. Nice.

But fall is coming! Are you pumped? It's my favorite, even if it is cliche. These last few days, the air just feels like fall, you know? To me, it is so much more fresh than spring. Spring is mud and melted snow and rain and mud. And while Tash finds it depressing, the upcoming leaf-falling season gives me this strange feeling in my tummy—like butterflies with dumbbells tied to their wings. And THEN this whole montage of flashbacks (haunted houses, sipping cider, carving pumpkins, etc.) plays in my head with the reflective yet raspy backdrop of "It's a Wonderful World." Ha. It's not that serious, maybe, but it is that corny.

I took this little snap when Tash and I went to visit Amy in Lancaster (Lan-cus-ter: she'll beat you if you don't say it right). We were hiking somewhere crazy (up RT 81, I believe)... and the whole forest floor was covered like this. It was like a dream...

Speaking of dream. That's one huge pumpkin. Note the text on the little white one (and squash). Totally didn't see that.

What's your favorite season? I find Winter-lovers interesting. I like Winter... for like a second. 

Ahhh... I better crash.

mpt

Semicolon update! And a picture of an underwater scary thing.

I totally found a site (Oatmeal.com) that definitely does the semicolon thang in a funnier way. Too bad I didn't see this before... ha. I would've just posted it. Clicky!

Enjoy!