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.