Kid's Table

Strange to me how blogging requires a certain glimmer of illusiveness. You never know who's reading... maybe that's part of the baby (meaning small) drama of it all. Nevertheless, I'll write another.

I don't think I've ever written from home. But it's Sunday night, I have a beverage (naturally, as it's part of my blogging ritual) and it's quiet. It's been a quiet weekend.

Thanksgiving was strange. There's no other possible adjective that I can conjure that sounds as "right" as 'strange.'

I'm 24. I still feel like I should be sitting at the kid's table. I'm not living with my parents this year, so I drove to and from their house Thursday. I didn't wake up and eat cinnamon rolls or watch the abhorrently boring parade. I didn't fall asleep on the couch and my mom didn't wake me up and tell me to go to bed.

I helped Rachel Barnard, the bestie, cook from her apartment. I made green been casserole, which is now in my refrigerator and smells like death, and Rachel put together some jello-frozen thing which I really can't live without. It was the first year we've made food together. First year she had a husband in the other room.

Her sister was there. Her sister's boyfriend was there. And by the end of the night, it was firmly decided in my mind that I have never felt so fifth wheel in my entire life.

It was one of the first Thanksgivings where I felt very, very alone.

Probably sounds like I'm whining. I'm not. Those were simply my recollections of the day and further, slap-in-the-face proof of the realities of age, young as they may be.

I'll probably still want to sit at the kid's table when I'm 45.

24

I've spent a week in the land of "24." And sadly, Keifer Sutherland hasn't been here to join me.

Regardless, it's been a touch less wretched then I first thought it was going to be.

To start, my birthday coincided with my one year anniversary of work. Last year, I asked Jesus to give me a job for my birthday. And he sure did. What a year it's been.

Maybe that's the reasons we, be we I mean I, hate milestones so much. Maybe I don't like what the last year represents. Maybe I don't like the memories that accompanied 23. Granted, 23 was much less horrible than the preceding years, but the bitter parts were like drinking peroxide.

I think I'm a born pessimist, so it's a little difficult for me to see the happy factors of the last year, although those were prevalent as well.

But back to birthday weekend... last weekend. Pretty much celebrated the entire time. I took most of Friday off- it was Friday the 13th (my golden birthday was also Friday the 13th. weird), bought a pair of black jeans and had dinner with my family. It was quiet and simple and oddly enjoyable. I didn't feel alone.

Then Saturday, I slept crazy late, watched TV and then went out in a furious snow storm with friends for dinner and drinks. And I had plenty to drink. Ahem. Plenty plenty plenty. I didn't quite make it to church the next day. Uugh. Hangovers might be the worst feeling on the planet. No thank you. I don't plan to do that...oh... EVER AGAIN. I actually woke up Sunday morning and wondered why the top of my forehead, right by my hairline, hurt so badly. My roommate said I'd hit my head on the toilet while I was puking. Honestly, I think that's pretty funny.

I could really go for an Italian Cream Soda right now. That sounds divine. Hmmm...

I have (confession) bought coffee every day this week. I deserve a fat slap in the face for that one. I need to buy Christmas gifts for my family and my close friends. God only knows how that's gonna happen considering my present financial situation. Oh well.

My dad's still healing from the collarbone/ rib/ punctured lung incident. The whole thing just sucks.

I didn't think 24 would look like this. I didn't think 24 would be Colorado Springs, or living in the same town as my parents or passing by my high school every day. I didn't think my dad would be working part time because he got in such a severe accident. Didn't think I'd be so close to my sisters- not that I'm complaining. I thought 24 would be marriage, 2 compact cars, a cat, an apartment and a big city. I thought a lot of things about 24.

I'll be 24 in 2 days.

That. is. insane.

And I'm not sure I like it.

I've decided that these posts shall not always coincide with my latte consumption. But they will always, always coincide with drinking something.

Today it's something from Keva Juice. I can't remember the name, I felt like the cashier was glaring at me, and I picked something incredibly fast in order to, as it were, get him off my back. All I remember is that Raspberry was in the name. It tastes like medicine.

I need to have a sit-down convo with the boss today....... sigh. I don't like being the middle man between my writers and my boss. Guess it's all part of the job.

Today I would like to stay at home (anytime there's any snow whatsoever on the ground, this will be my attitude), eat something Laura Kee made and watch chick flicks until I feel so worthless that I'm bordering explosion.

I get my car back today. YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Although I must say, driving my mom's standard has been rather enjoyable. I'll miss that. But Phin and I are going to be reunited. I'm thinking about throwing a party, but just for the two of us.

Routine

I'm tired of hearing about routine.

We all have routine, in our own little ways. Pretty sure everybody still gets up in the morning; maybe they even shower or brush their teeth (let's hope).

But really now-- I've heard more of "I'm tired of this routine" comments in the last two weeks than I have in a long time. And maybe it's because I've said it myself.

I know there are always going to be those little things- our laundry, work, watering the plant- that become routine. So the problem is........................?

I have no excuse for myself when I complain of the boredom of routine. It's my own fault if I can't pick out even small amusements to get me through the day.

I met a homeless man yesterday who asked me for change. I had just finished literally scraping the bottom of my ginormous purse for any sort of change as to avoid a parking ticket to the best of my ability (all I found was a dime which covered me for six minutes).

I got out of my mother's car (using hers because a damn deer hit mine a week ago) and he asked. I honestly told him I was out. I was about halfway into starbucks to get my monday latte when I broke my routine. I asked the gentleman if I could buy him a coffee. He was probably about 78. Turned out he simply wanted one of those .95 bagels. So I bought him a bagel and a gift card. He told me, this elderly white man, that his name was Mike Jackson. I almost laughed out loud, but I handed him that bagel, sadly smiled and watched him walk down the street. It looked like he hadn't eaten in a while.

So my day- my "routine" of work and life, was broken by a choice to buy Mike Jackson a one dollar bagel. Then I got to do Young Life stuff in the evening. There's no such thing as routine when you're chilling with high schoolers. But I chose to go to Young Life.

Seems like there's a pattern of choice here...

Today I chose to wear something that made me happy. I chose to stay home this morning and work on my stories instead of wallowing in my office.

So yes. It's routine. I'm not taking any vacations or making any big immediate plans. But I'm choosing to slip little pieces of crazy, or unexpected, or random into my life. And it's destroying my routine.

Late late late

I saw a movie based on this poem Saturday:

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

Credit of John Keats. Tears credit of me.

It was very sad. Gorgeous, but horribly sad.

Keats died when he was 25- big spoiler, I know. I'll be 24 in about a month. That's strange. And those in their 60's tell me I'm young and have so much life to live. I don't really care. It feels old to me.

I didn't blog last Thursday, if I remember correctly because I was sick out of my mind. It may have been H1N1, but I don't know. I feel better now. And calling it H1N1 is stupid. Call it what it is- SWINE FLU. That's just funny. Pig flu. Ha. haha.

I got baptized yesterday. :)

Saturday and Sunday I had the pleasure of hanging out with the one and only Lissa Halls Johnson. My favorite part of the weekend... rummaging through old, occasionally nasty books at a used book store on the corner of Colorado Springs' strange little downtown. She told me stories about the authors. It makes me smile just to think of it. I have trinkets of information that no one will ever know about the people that actually wrote the books. That's rather priceless. I bought a bunch of books at her wise prompting and can't wait to read them. If days were 30 hours long... I say I'd have so much more time to do the things I need to do. In reality, I'd probably just fill them "accidentally" with other things besides reading. Sigh.

It appears that every time I write a blog I'm drinking a latte. Today it's a pumpkin spice of Starbucks. The Starbucks this morning was utterly, ridiculously freezing. There are two doors at that establishment, so every time someone walked in either of the doors, my body went into shock and shivered. It was unpleasant. Silly corporate latte factories.

I'm still tired, and obviously recovering from last week. But I've completed my regiment of steroids to clear the snot from my lungs, the Tamaflu that cost me $60, the vicadin that really only served to keep me up at night (yeah, figure that one out) and using albuterol to keep my lungs open. Lovely.

I suppose I should get to work. One of my co-workers brought me chicken soup. She's a doll.

I'm having a hard time believing it's already October.

September was actually good this year... for the first time in... 3 years? 4 years?

Septembers in my life have a history of being dismal. I'm so glad this one's over. It's not that I can pinpoint exactly what changed... Maybe it's that I'm back in Colorado, or I have a house, or my friends are lovely, or Young Life, or a solid job, or caramel canons on Thursday mornings or my wonderful black leather driving gloves, or just Jesus in my life changing things, ripping things out of my life and scraping out the junk. And it hurts like hell. And it's freeing.

It's getting colder. Today I'm wearing the scarf my sister bought me while she was in Ireland. I would like to go there with her. I'd like to visit outside the country anyway. Don't know why my mind is other places...

I think Colorado autumns might be perfect if not for the wind.

This weekend is supposed to be cold. I wish it was easy to enjoy Colorado winter stars without being so cold that I almost can't stand it.

Ben's coming this weekend. Not sure what we're gonna do but I hope we'll have a good time.

I want to commemorate this day. I think I shall do that by leaving early and taking a nap. Maybe a pumpkin spice latte and driving downtown and looking at the trees. Maybe a walk through Monument Valley Park.

I can't think of anything funny to say.