"There is only one thing to do with a person as impossible as she...I must throw a party for her. Otherwise, everyone will feel at once how much I dislike her."

workshop

My creative writing class liked my story tonight! I felt great, especially after the others workshopped with a lot of criticism. It makes me more excited for my own book. I've always been intimidated by my desire to write. Who grows up to be an author, really? But now my story is budding and my characters are becoming real to me, and even people who don't like me have told me to keep at it and finish. I love my CW class because my writing has matured, my ambition developed, and when I feel like I'm wasting my afternoon typing away on my ancient laptop, I remind myself that it's homework.

k-mails

Aren't emails the greatest?! They are especially great when they tell you how great you are, how much you mean to the writer and what specifically they love about you. These emails are so great in fact that you forget you're not supposed to smile that way. You forget that he's gone and left you behind of his own volition. You forget all the bad things that went on before. You might even entertain stupid daydreams where he behaves more like you wish, not like his character dictates. You definitely quote and/or read the email to all your roommates. Ah, the power of words!

But I am just speaking hypothetically, of course. I would never act so irrationally over a mere email.

success stories

It is a universal rule that when a girl confesses love to a guy, he shuns her forthwith. Well doesn't it just beat all that Julie receives a date invitation when she makes her confession. How does she do it? Does the awkwardness help, or does he have to have affection for her already when she comes to him? That's been every girl's problem.

But now, ladies and gents, I have a better success story to properly inspire you all. Nora is considering going back to school at BYU. There are many laws upon which this blessing is predicated, so we can't yet count our chickens (I just mixed scripture and chickens!) but the success is that she wants to try. I'm so proud. It just tickles me. It rendered me speechless, quite speechless I tell you, and I have not stopped talking of it since.

Eegads, I'm too hyper to write anything sensible, but when I calm down there will be an entry dedicated to my fantabulous sister.

tombstones

I watched Tombstone yesterday and cried through it. I cried over the friendship between Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. Doc, dying of tuberculosis, never misses a fight along side his friend.

Wyatt: Doc, this isn't your fight.
Doc: You've got a hell of a lot of nerve saying that to me.

Man in Posse: Doc, you should be in bed. Why do you do it?
Doc: Wyatt Earp's my friend.
Man: Hell, I got lots of friends.
Doc: I don't.

Doc passes out in the saddle from exposure and exhurtion. He is left behind when Wyatt goes to do battle one-on-one with Johnny Ringo. Wyatt leaves him out of love, and for the same reason Doc beats Wyatt to the rendezvous and dispatches with Ringo first. The battle costs him and he goes to Colorado to a sanitorium to die. Wyatt comes every day, on the last of which he gives Doc a present before dealing out the cards for poker, but Doc doesn't want to play anymore. Yet, before he dies, he takes care fo his friend.

Doc Holliday: What do you want Wyatt?
Wyatt Earp: Just to live a normal life.
Doc Holliday: There is no normal life, there's just life, ya live it.
Wyatt Earp: I don't know how.
Doc Holliday: Sure ya do, say goodbye to me, go grab that spirited actress and make her your own. Take that and don't look back. Live every second, live right on through the end. Live Wyatt, live for me. Wyatt, if you were ever truly my friend, or if ya ever had just the slightest of feelin' for me, leave now, leave now, please.
Wyatt Earp: Thanks for always being there, Doc.

After Wyatt leaves, Doc sees a pamphlet-style book entitled My Friend Doc Holliday by Wyatt Earp. Doc smiles and dies alone without anyone to hold his hand. I wept watching that, watching how the two men loved each other, and hurt themselves for the other. I watched the last scene and decided that I do not want to die alone. What if my tombstone didn't read "beloved wife and mother"? I can't stand the idea that I'll have no one to hold my hand as I face death. Someone once said that (probably) that it is not the manner in which you die but the manner in whih you live that matters. In that case I want someone to hold my hand as I face life. I want a friend like Doc, who will always be there.

rain

When it rains I feel a symphony. I love rain because, unlike the soaking from submerging, the sensations come individually, a drop here, a splash there. As each contact with the skin is made, an indistinguishable note comes forth. Disney's Bambi captures the effect. As I walk in the rain I feel the music, as each little piece of the storm joins in with the others. The flute, the violin, the cello, the kettle drum; when it snows, the large soft flakes sound like an oboe. It's a magic thing walking in the rain, hearing the comforting drip of water on the surrounding surfaces, and imagining the echo of the orchestra.

do we have mustard? cuz i've got ham

Yesterday, thanks to the giving nature of God, I had a monumental day at work. I got 1.5 times my record in sales. I happened to set the work record. On my own I made a quarter of the sales made total that day. To think, I was planning to call in sick. I expected a terrible day, but the Lord gave me confidence and opportunity and so I made improvements to my mood and wallet. I earned about $100 in an eight hour shift.

The reason I wanted to skip work was because I had only gotten three-ish hours of sleep the night before. After work I managed to force myself to avoid napping. By seven I was exhausted, but, wanting to avoid getting too much sleep, I kept myself up for nearly three more hours. I was asleep by ten.
I woke feeling magically wonderful this morning.
I went to class and turned in my homework!
I came home from the temple to find Julie watching Follow That Bird.
It's just one of those days.
Thank Goodness.

tough love, baby

Tough love, baby, says Lorelai Gilmore, as she cuts off her beloved daughter.

Tough love.

I have learned many lessons in my life. One of which was about the nature of God. I was walking up a long staircase to campus and ahead of me was a man in his late twenties or early thirties. Next to him was his daughter, of an age where she was just learning to walk. She was climbing each stair on her very own, struggling with intense effort, battling each step and then once having succeeded moving on to the next. Her patient father took each step as she did. When I passed them on the stairs they were perhaps fifty feet above their starting point. As I had traversed that distance the girl had made it up five. I was weighed down with books and fatigue, and I knew that the man could have easily outstripped me even bearing the child in his arms. Why did he sit by and watch her climb on her own, when he was much more capable than she at completing the task? Because someday she needed to be the one standing patiently as her child crept, fell and continued crawling. That is how I learned who God is.

Last night I learned a little more about His relationship with me. That overwhelming feeling of inaptitude and meaninglessness came to a climax. I realized that the time when I had been happiest the last few weeks was during the few seconds between when the phone started ringing and when it was answered. Those were the moments when I had hope. Other pleasant interactions were ways to narcotize myself from feelings of worthlessness.

Last night I prayed, begging to be rid of the feeling, begging for someone I love to love me back. I made myself hot chocolate -the ultimate comfort food- but took only a few unsatisfying sips. what I wanted, inexplicably, was to be found in a little leather cover engraved with a picture of Solomon's temple given to me by my best friend. I opened to the eighth chapter of second Nephi. Now I cannot say that the Lord chose for me to fall behind in my reading, that he planned for me to read only one chapter a night instead of two, but it certainly felt as though on that night I was meant to be reading that chapter.

Please let me be happy.
For the Lord shall comfort Zion, he will comfort all her waste places; and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord. Joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving and the voice of melody.
Please make this end.
Thus saith thy Lord, the Lord and thy God pleadeth the cause of his people; behold, I have taken out of thine hand the cup of trembling, the dregs of the cup of my fury; thou shalt no more drink it again.
Please let me feel like I am somebody of value.
But I will put it into the hand of them that afflict thee; who have said to thy soul: bow down, that we may go over -and thou hast laid thy body as the ground and as the street to them that went over.
Help me face a new day.
Awake, awake, put on thy strength, O Zion; put on thy beautiful garments, O Jerusalem, the holy city.
Please send someone to comfort me.
...
...
...
Nobody came. I waited. I wept. I sobbed my heart out, wringing from it every bad feeling I could conceive. I closed the Book and clutched it like a lifeline. I fell asleep holding it like a teddy bear. The phone never rang, nobody ever came, and I felt abandoned by my Lord, unloved by my Heavenly Father. Yet, even while I hurt I did not turn away hope, but still looked to the verses I had read. I wondered why but did not punish myself in any attempt to punish Him.

When I woke I felt desperate for some time, time to sort out my feelings, time to get work done, time to read the Book that suddenly I craved like air. It was as if I were reassured, though I had asked for the answer to be given me through another, that it was acceptable to take time off to take care of myself. I called in sick, and my boss was lovely about it. Get some sleep, Audrey, I'll see you Friday.

I waited to understand why the Lord had not sent anyone to my rescue, and the understanding came. Tough love, baby. I am he; yea, I am he that comforteth you. Although I trusted in the grace of my God, I did not trust in Him. I waited for help from someone else. I would have given my gratitude to that person. I would have used that person as a prop on which to support myself. Instead, when I awoke, I felt calm and comforted, and slightly rebuked. It was almost as if He had told me to pick myself up and get over it, the way Ted might have. It was almost as if He had pierced me with His gaze, telling me I needed to have more faith in Him, and less in the arm of man. It was completely as if He had taken care of me.

Shake thyself from the dust; arise, sit down, O Jerusalem; loose thyself from the bands of thy neck, O captive daughter of Zion.

girls just wanna have fun

I have come to the important conclusion that my roommates rock my socks off. They are awesome girls, totally laid back, fun and free.

Emilie is the only one who is older than I in the apartment. She is beautiful in the classic sense, with curves and long, thick hair. Her voice is soft without being breathy. She is a music major, completing her charming femininity. Her sister Caitlin is a sweetheart, completely generous and uplifting. The two girls ought to have a competition to see who is the nicest; only, the game would be rigged because one would surely let the other win. Tarythe and I have known each other for a year and a half now. She is such a hug whore, one of the most openly engaging and affectionate people. Julie is totally random, sometimes to the point of being indecorous but usually it is amusing. She's certainly not bland, as I once thought her. Then there is Cassidy, the youngest in our home. She is quirky and energetic, with just enough sarcasm for me to bond with her. All my roommates love to dance, watch movies, eat, talk late into the night, and in short anything else we can do with each other.

Last night we went to FHE together, singing I Believe I Can Fly at the tops of our lungs. We spun in circles across the parking lot on the way. Afterward we embarrassed ourselves by doing Sweatin' to the Oldies, complete with obnoxious sound effects. We're now in love with Richard Simons. What a hunk!

When we picked up T from work we had loaded ourselves into Cassidy's POS so that the six of us could go out to the Pizza Factory. We went for a celebratory ice-cream party, courtesy of Emilie. Yes, she got kissed. Five of us dipped our spoons again and again into the communal Sundae while T sipped gingerly at her smoothie. We laughed and talked and annoyed our waitress. We tried to calm Em's nerves as she insisted she knew that Rob was going to break up with her that night. We spawned many quote-worthy phrases, and developed "the cassidy". Whenever someone spills in an obvious way, such as flinging food, that is pulling a cassidy.

While Emilie played grownup and arranged her insurance, we held a dance party in the living room. The girls were astounded that I would play along. It only lasted for a bit but I proved myself worthy by demonstrating my moves. Cass wants me to promise to go to a dance with her. We'll see. I don't do well in chaotic situations with loud and offensive music and people I dislike for the mere fact of not knowing them. But as for people I do like, Ted and Seth dropped by, so the six of us girls had someone to dote on. Our "Oopa's!" and flamboyant hugs found targets, filling the room with silly energetic affection.

As the night wound down, so did we, ending the evening with apartment scripture study and prayer. We all felt close to one another as we prayed for each other's welfare and happiness. I think Emilie is emerging as our mother figure. That is why we children all waited up for her as she had a talk with Rob out on the balcony at midnight. None of us five admitted to waiting on Em but none of us found our way to our beds, not even I, the sleep-glutton. When Emilie came back in at the end of the night and, crying, told us that Rob loves her, we loved her too. We found that our love was brimming over and spilling into each other's cups. Sitting on the two beds in mine and Cassidy's room we felt close and intimate. It was a scene straight out of Little Women, a perfect ending to a perfect day, one of many yet to come.

cat-scratch fever

I want a cat. I miss waking up in the middle of the night to annoying pawing and drooling. I miss that really obnoxious noise they make when you pick them up when they don't want to be held. I like how their ears go back and they flip their tails. I really love how they purr. I miss my cats. I am probably cursed to end up the crazy old cat lady sitting on her porch in a rocking chair. I can hardly wait.

sounds of silence part two

K emailed me back saying he wants to keep up communication. He said that it did actually take him the eleven days to make up his mind. I don't know what to do with that.

ruby slippers, anyone?

Is it totally insane to be homesick without having a home? Homesickness is just a feeling, a combination of loneliness, nostalgia, and directionlessness. Sometimes it is a complicated feeling resulting from failure, or loss, or from transience.

Maybe that is why I am homesick. I am experiencing all of that. I am afraid of failure. I live failure. I suck at my job, I am only attending school part-time, retaking classes that I inarguably failed.

I have lost my home. It was sold on Friday, emptied of all the little keepsakes that transformed it from a house into a place where memories were made, dreams dreamed and identities formed. My mom shipped out old books, paintings, couches and crayon drawings meant for the refrigerator.

I managed to keep from crying until I heard that not only do I not have a home anymore, but I have suffered a loss of limb, literally. My trees that I love so well, loved so well, have been cut down to make room for a pool. My home was not the walls, the carpet, the furniture, or the layout of the house. My home was the view from my bedroom window. The maple trees, the ivy, the niche of green that held promises of fertility and life. It was a shady spot, where the snow stayed the longest even as spring approached. This corner was home. The green-dappled light that flooded my room from the leaf-covered windows.

I am homesick for green light. There's no place like home.

sounds of silence

There are some communications that don't require words. Some answers come without saying anything. It is the pauses in life that are the most articulate.

Never wait around for a phone call. If he wanted to call, he would. Don't check your email every twenty minutes after the first day. When you ask if he wants to continue communicating and he doesn't respond for a week, then that means no. If he wanted to write, he would. Don't fly to him in Manhattan. If he wanted you, he would have made an effort.

I put the last one on the list to remind myself that I am not the only one in the world who holds out, who hopes for the insane, who stands in her own way in regards to happiness.

He's not coming, he's not writing. Go out, have fun, don't think about him. Don't call him. Yeah, I think I'll call him.

heaven is the spanish riviera

I have three rules regarding the behavior of people that I love.
1-they cannot move away, unless I move with them.
2-they cannot die, unless I die too, or first.
3-they cannot get married, unless I get married too, or first.

All in all the rules come down to the same thing. I don't like being left behind. Of course I don't mind leaving everyone else behind, so I suppose my rules aren't fair. But at least I have exceptions to the rules. I'm not going to just deny everyone's right to die. How unfair that would be!

I think I am a very reasonable person. I even came up with a solution to anyone's dilemma. Jocilyn, Julie and I were the only ones in the complex over Christmas break and we came up with...Spain. Bryan inspired it in a way. He had a job in Portland at the end of the summer and he wanted to work for a few years and then transfer internationally. I couldn't let him do it, not without me, so I decided to come too.

I made a list of friends who had to come along, who would marry whom, who would have what profession in the commune I designed, and even who of the six families would have the big screen TV's for watching BYU football via satellite. We'll go skiing in the alps in Germany for Tarythe and have trips to France for me. Our kids will grow up friends and be allowed to play in the street of our private cul-de-sac.

Since the original plotting of this story there have been some adaptations. Jon, no longer invited, for instance. Joe, now definitely invited. Marriages had to be shuffled around, but it all amounts to the same thing. I will live with everyone I love until the fateful day when I administer the special Kool-aid. Then, I will have them forever.

I think I have a preoccupation with my friends. Despite the fact that I dedicate this blog to the discovery of my own life, I recognize that I cling to my friends like to a life preserver. Although a shrink once said my biggest fear is being like my mother, I disagree. It is being unloved. Perhaps that is like her. Or worse, having no one to love. That is hell. Spain is my heaven.

finding harbors

Today was a day to culminate the comings and goings in life. It peaks a week that was the same, of a prime month, etc. Today I took April to the airport to see her off. She went home to Ohio indefinitely. I wept the entire ride home as I listened over and over to a CD she gave me. I saw the looks that passing motorists gave me, watching me as I cried onto my dash and sobbed clinging to my steering wheel. Oh how I will miss her! And yet, I haven't a doubt in my mind that she will stay close to me, that we will keep one another posted on all of our "hands down" events in life. But for now I miss her like I missed the air I couldn't breathe for crying.

On the positive side of the temporary crossings in life, Ted is coming home. That is to say he is coming back to Provo. He's not sure where he'll live or for how long, but the important thing is that he will be back. One can't be without an April and a Ted in this life. That would just be cruel. I half-expected Ted to be at my door when I got back from the airport. Can I call it a fair trade? No, because I want them both! I'd never trade either. But no matter, Ted hasn't come yet. And when he does it will only signify a new medium for hiding myself from the world. As I am Ted's second favorite person in the whole world we will inevitably spend copious amounts of meaningful time together that will signify nothing and succeed only in damaging my potential standing as someone's first favorite person. Ah, how I the ostrich love my sand!

Other passings: Ashley, Elise, Laurie, Jackie, Julie, Jocilyn, Aubri, Joe, Brian, Dane, Troy, Troy, Matt, etc, etc, etc.
Other comings: New Roommates, Tarythe, potential friends? and Kevin.

What? Kevin did I say? Like I would pass over him so easily.
I took the opportunity of his starting work yesterday to email him a note wishing him good luck. It was answered. The determined silence is ended. Shall I let it now slip into accidental silence resulting from lack of maintenance to the relationship? After all, the hurt is gone, so why push it, right? Wrong. I have never been able to just let things go with Kevin. I certainly won't do so at this point, not after he called me a quality girl.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once said, "Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness. So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another. Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence."

I have seen proof enough to believe him, but still I don't. Some day these ships, all these vessels that dot the seas, they will find a harbor in which to moor themselves. Ships are not content with fickle signals cast out across the water. I would abandon whatever course I had set to reach a friendly flicker, even if it meant breaking myself on rocks as I inadvertently chased the glow of a light house. I am not alone in this. You want it too. Someday I will have anchor next to you.

it's alive!

At approximately 12:51 a.m. on August the 18th in the year 2005 I, Audrey Michal Hunter, finished my novel. Right now...Right now it is printing. As yet it is titleless, but shall be given as is to my trusted friend April and to Heather Jenkins who started me on this project. I'll trust their scrutiny of my first draft. Maybe April will even manage to give it a title. I feel like Dr. Frankenstein, and I love it!

thinking versus dying

"Most people would sooner die than think; in fact, they do so."

I used to think too much. Ask anyone who has known me longer than a year. They all told me so. I was christened Thinky, the eighth dwarf, by my sister Joyce. Apparently there was something wrong with this. Too many people gave me the advice to stop thinking about it and just go with the flow. I tried it. I tried listening to myself, feeling my way through life and experiencing the ups and downs. I failed classes by not planning ahead. I wasted credits by not forming my graduation plan. I hurt people's feelings by not evaluating our relationship. I led people on by just going with the flow. I never thought. I experienced a whole lot. I wish I could take it all back, but there I go being cognitive again.

I just want to know, what is wrong with thinking? What? Mankind have some of the most highly developed minds on the planet, third only to mice and dolphins. Why don't we use them? We have made cities, maps, clothes, fire, wheels, airplanes, but now we have decided that thinking is wrong? Most people would cry outrage at that statement, but it is true. We settle for sub par everything, mediocrity is our biggest friend. Ingenuity is punished. Not everywhere, of course, but in general. What is wrong with our culture that we hate anyone more advanced than we? We teach our children to do the same by our example. The smart kids are tormented by their peers whose respect they ought to have secured. To this day, I hate being called smart, even while reveling in the fact that I know I am.

I know I am smart. At least, I know I was smart. Smart people don't get into stupid personal scrapes. They don't fail classes. They don't go through life trying to ride out the current. Smart people don't act as I have been doing this last year. I stopped reading too. It seemed as my mind liquefied I became more and more satisfied with idleness and interactions with humans whom I couldn't stand on a mental level.

It is time to change. For all that my roommates complain that I don't participate as much as I have, that I read more and write all day, I will continue to do so. I will be anal about where I am going with my college career. Hell, I will make a plan, with the aid of a counselor. I will analyze things until my mind is reeling, until I come to conclusions. It is high time that I think too much.

"I think, therefore I am."

the quill is mightier than the stereo

Today is going to be a day spent in front of my laptop writing the next great American novel. My time will be punctuated with Ace of Base songs, to which I am currently listening and which I have no intention of giving up. Ah the wonders found in my brother's CD case!

I wish I could say that I am proud of my book. I am, but I am so afraid of censure that I rarely talk about it. I am writing three books currently with many others dancing in my head. I love the quote from Little Women: "At night my mind would come alive with voices and stories. I gave myself up to it, longing for transformation."

I have twenty-nine chapters written of the story that needs the least background research. One hundred and seventy pages! I want to finish this summer in order that I may say I have finished something for once in my life. So here goes. I leave to write, to listen to the muse that sits behind me and whispers passages in my ear, when she's not getting The Sign stuck in my head.

my soft spot

Everyone who knows me knows this about me: I love animals. Bryan was the first to notice how my hands would go to my mouth every time I saw something small and fuzzy. April permitted me to feed the stray cat at our door. Jocilyn told me to ask for a kitten instead of a ring when I get engaged. I yelled at an ex-roommate's fiance who kicked a cat. I watch where I walk in case worms or snails might be under my feet. I cried when my dog died. And today I fell in love with a pigeon.

When I got to work he was just lying there on his side under a bush with his feathers askew breathing slowly and barely moving. My heart hurt and I wanted so badly to pick him up and do what I could to make him comfortable before his life expired. As I could not leave work duties to do so I instead offered a prayer in my head. Dear Father, Creator of beast and bird, take him to you swiftly so he is not in pain. I walked past him a couple more times and cried when his head rocked to the side as if he were looking to see who would come to his aid. I just didn't know what to do!

Finally as I left for lunch I decided to call my dad, bird expert, animal lover, a softy to the core. But as I got to the bush under which he had lain I saw nothing but dirt. I cried again, this time in mourning, and tried to push the thought of his body being thrown unceremoniously away far from my mind. May he rest in peace, I thought, naming the pigeon Bert in my head. May Bert rest in peace.

As I turned the corner an exclamation of surprise burst from my lips. There was Bert limping determinedly across the sidewalk. His legs and wings looked bent, and his head was held in such a way that implied he had very little strength or focus left to spare for it. But he was up. Bert is a fighter. I may have said, "I'm so glad" aloud as I walked around him slowly, trying not to startle the convalescent. My prayer changed, hoping for a long and happy life for my darling little bird friend.

pull this thread as i walk away

unravel: to separate; to undo the knitted fabric of; to separate and clarify the elements of

Many things can come unraveled, either on purpose or by accidental miscare. Sometimes the connotation of the word is good. Sometimes it is not.

I remember the Christmas that my mom crocheted the afghan for my dad. It was a great Christmas, the one when Joyce and I got the doll house, complete with Barbie-sized afghan made my Nora. He loved that blanket. He slept under it when he dozed off on his recliner. I wrapped myself in it on cold Saturday mornings. It was the family security blanket, always tossed over the back of my dad's Lazy Boy. I didn't realize it was a symbol, not until I saw it on Friday.

My dad got back from the mental hospital that day and called to see if he could drop by some things. He needed to rid his mind and apartment of things that reminded him of my mom, things that made his heart break over and over again, things that sent him to the hospital. I received a pile of pictures, most of my mom when she was my age; their wedding announcement; a photocopy of her mission call that she had sent him while he was on his mission; a little black box, of what significance I know not; and the afghan. My heart broke when I saw it.

I carried it all inside, a haphazard heap of reddish yarn. April saw my face and followed me into my room away from listening ears. She has learned to recognize the face that says I need someone. She brought ice cream. I looked through the photos of my mom, so young, so like me, sprawled on a couch with a book in her lap. I spread the afghan on my bed.

At night as I snuggle deep under my covers thoughts of unraveling linger in my head as the maroon fringe tickles my face. It is amazing what things unravel over time, and what things do not.

and they hung out happily every after

All I want, all I've ever wanted, is the perfect guy, a story-book romance and happily ever after. Is that so much to ask?

Instead I have had relationships where either I was ignored or smothered. So far I have had nothing as important to me as my friends. The "perfect guys" have been short or demanding or workaholics or over-enthusiasts. My happily ever after is a series of awkward post-mortem interrogations; why, why, WHY? Because, because, BECAUSE!

I prefer non-relationships, for now I guess. Though, get me smitten and I'll definitely want commitment. I like individual dates, even though I can be really awkward. I think my awkwardness spawns from the fact that I always get distracted riding in cars at night, watching things as they pass, and suddenly conversation lags and everyone is uncomfortable. Yes, I take it back, dates can be foregone.

I guess I prefer hanging out, or double dates. I enjoy finding myself in situations where at least some of the people are predictable and I can be myself. I play well off of others. I have difficulties flirting when I am self-conscious, and I am self-conscious when I am the focus of the interactions.

I guess my perfect scenario would play out like so: Tall, dark and handsome man who loves to read, listen to me babble and drives a truck becomes my friend. He like to hang out. Maybe I am interested in his roommate at first, but one special day he comes up to me, sweeps me into his arms and says, "Audrey, will you hang out with me for no specific reason?" Swoon. One day we'll decide we want to hang out for the rest of time and eternity. Not so romantic? I beg to differ.

The romance comes in the details. What you don't see is me sitting on a couch reading a book when he comes over unannounced. Maybe he has a book with him or maybe he sees another one of mine on the floor and picks it up. We sit on the couch, him facing forward, me facing sideways with my legs over his lap, reading together. When I find something I want to share, I interrupt him and read it aloud. He'll listen with a condescendingly amused expression on his face. When I get to a sad part I will lean in and cry on his chest. Is that not romantic?

Try this one: I am hungry after work and decide to make some food. He drops by and the two of us dance awkwardly around one another as we make spaghetti together. I lift the spoon to his mouth for him to sample it. We fight over who washes the dishes. He wins. Afterward I check me email, not caring that I am ignoring him because he is always over. He is fine entertaining himself, mostly because he knows how obsessed I am with checking my email, voicemail, mail-mail, etc. If I seem subdued when I return to the room he knows it is because I am upset even though I deny it and he says, "come on Audrey. I know you." The only thing better than him knowing me is that I then tell him what's wrong and he doesn't think I'm weak and I don't think I'm weak either. But I do think he's strong. Oh so strong.

That is the relationship most people eventually get to over time. I seem to only get there with my friends. I faked it with K and writhed through it with J, but mostly Bryan and Ted have been that for me. Romantic relationships always start out with too many expectations in place for me to respond naturally. I need to fall in love with a friend. He has to let me be giddy about him before he pursues. Liking a person is never enough. Yeah, I like him, but... No it needs to be total stupid awkward giddiness, but only after the comfort has become routine. If the flare comes first the awkwardness stays even after the unknown passes. All of a sudden it's like, crap, what do I do now? As friends, you already know. You don't do anything. You hang out.

spreckles-ze-Deutsche?

Spreckles: a nickname for my older sister, selected by herself as we drove past a town, Spreckles, CA. Her nickname stuck, probably because she selected it. Hers always stick. She named me Auggie, and Joyce Goik. I refuse to admit that mine was originally Autistic Auggie. It was a Rainman impression!

I just got to spend four glorious days with Nora. On the last of which she apologizes for the time we had to waste getting her car fixed. No problem, I was spending time with her. But you had to spend it with the grumpy Nora. Like I hadn't seen that before. Even when she's grumpy I still like her, she still laughs. We explored San Francisco, buying freakishly expensive silk purses. Okay, they were three dollars. I was alas unable to buy the cute shoes in Chinatown because of my massive feet, but hey, we had fun looking.

A lot of our time was spent driving. From the airport. To the city. From the city. To church. From church. To Huntington Lake. From Huntington Lake. To the airport.

Most of the time was to the lake. Ted was there running a boy scout camp. It was absolutely gorgeous! The camp was only accessible by boat, a mile across this simply breathtaking lake. Nora and I felt slightly out of place being females who wandered purposelessly through camp amid a bundle of thrifty and obedient scouts, but I was so glad to see Ted. I think he felt bad that he was often times very preoccupied with his job, and I know that his co-worker wished us miles away. She has a crush on him, which I mocked by hanging all over Ted whenever possible.

Nora and I spent the night, not in the proffered doctor's cabin but instead roughing it with only our sleeping bags rolled out on the ground in the woods. Man, we're tough. The hikes as we explored were as much fun as they were tiring but I was glad to leave and get time to rest, out of the sun and away from watchful eyes.

It was the drive back and the following afternoon that were the greatest, however. To keep ourselves awake, that is to keep Nora who was driving awake, we sang song after song for the entire five hour drive home. This inspired us to buy blank tapes and record a karaoke experience the next afternoon. We were terrible! I like to think this was because our voices were shot from the day before, but I have heard myself sing for years. I just suck. The only decent one we got out was Bye Bye Love and the stupid tape recorded the background music louder than our voices! Oh well. This will be a souvenir to cherish for a long time. Cherish, but not listen to.

harry potter spoilers

I couldn't believe my eyes. It had to be wrong. It HAD to be. I read through the rest of the book sobbing my poor little heart out. At times I had to stop reading because my eyes were blurred by tears. I can't believe I let fiction affect me this much. I guess it's because a good writer lets me know the characters. A book isn't like an old friend, but the people in them are. Thanks to Rowling I have made many friends and enemies over the last few years. And now? I just watched one of them, the most steadfast and wise of them, die at the hands of someone he trusted. Of course I cried. And then I called my mom.

She didn't want to hear about it as she hadn't started the book yet. Oh who was there to save me? I wanted a boy. Boys are always better when I am crying. Not in any romantic sense. Girls exude empathy, while boys give off strength. While girls say they understand and love you, boys can claim that nothing like this will ever happen again. Both are important in life. But just then I wanted to call my dad, tell him what happened and be held. Unfortunately that option was not available. I miss Ted, Bryan and Matt who served in the capacity of friend to me, to whom I could go crying. I wanted to call any guy I knew. And then it occurred to me: Jason, my brother.

Perhaps it is odd that I had forgotten Jason, someone I have known for twenty years. But Jason has never operated in that capacity for me. I don't call him first with news, good or bad, I don't hang out without invitation. It's so odd. Hopefully that is changing. I called him for solace yesterday, but he had two-hundred pages left to read. That wonderful soul quickly did so and called me back and eased my troubled mind. Boys are just great.

totally loopy

They say that an hour of sleep lost, dipping below six hours, is the equivalent of two beers. Is there a maximum? Can you get negative sleep by staying up more than one day? If the minimum sleep is zero hours, then I have had twelve beers. I will never have to drink. I've achieved a natural and disturbing buzz that will get me through life contentedly. I have been awake for twenty-seven hours. Long hours. So tired. Hallucinating. Feeling sick. Staring bleary-eyed at co-workers and freaking them out. It's too bad too. Getting back from my weekend o' fun I was hoping to write something witty and imaginative about Nora, Karaoke and Boys' Scout Camp. Maybe even about something interesting. But I can't. I got home at 12 last night and proceeded to read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. IT'S SO GOOD AND SO WORTH IT! At least I think it will be worth it after I get to bed this afternoon. Right now I'm just waiting to finish it and see if all of my predictions are true. So far so good. Just remind me never to drink.