Do I get a prize for watching my mother-in-law eat like a five year old?

Seriously. It's a real question.

Who eats an ear of corn with half a cup of mayonnaise?

What grown ass woman eats the toppings off a homemade pizza and leaves the crust?

What person over the age of 6 can get away with eating the garlic part of garlic bread, and putting the rest back in the serving basket?

Who declares they're trying to lose weight, only to gum 1000 calories worth of sour cream at dinner?

It may be cute when a baby does it, but not when your mother-in-law does!

What adult holds their plate out for you to serve them, without asking? Just waits for you to serve them with no "please" or "thank you"?

Who hasn't cooked a meal in a month, but complains about having to bring her plate to the kitchen after eating?

My mother-in-law, everyone.

In Armenia there was this concept of a hars.... a daughter in law whose main job in life is to please the new mother in law. One of the patriarchs of a local family I knew there once told me "shat lav hars klines mi or" - you'll make a good hars one day! I laughed in his face at the idea.

I have become a fucking hars, everyone.

My patience is wearing thin.

Let's forget

I don't know how to begin.

I don't know what to say.

I don't want to give false hope. I don't want to give false expectations. I don't want to offend.

But I want to speak.

To write.

To tell the pain and joy and swelling and shrinking of my heart. To share how perfect the little moments are, and how scary and wide other moments become.

I feel as if I am standing on the edge of a wide chasm, with no bottom in sight. I am so high, so very high. One wrong step and I'll be plunging down, down....

I am so happy. So much happier than I've ever been. I feel like half of a whole; that my rough edges have matched up with someone else's, and that together, we form a perfect fit. I can't imagine my life as it was, and I can't imagine my future alone.

I wake up every morning happy, and adventurous, and excited.

Except for those few.

Those few when doubts creep in.

It's hard to tell what will set it off. This time, it was having to lie. "Did you go to church today?"

"Yes."

Little does she know I haven't been to church, out of choice, in over 7 months. That I don't plan to go back. That I need space.

I can't tell if I'm full of courage or full of fear. But it has to be one of the two.

It's funny; at some point, my family stopped being my family. The love is not unconditional; its as conditional a love as I've ever known.

He is my family. He loves me no matter what. He treasures me. He knows me. He has seen my soul, and he loves me for it.

I wish we could run, run and forget. Forget that there was every anything except us.

Bends with the remover to remove?...

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

If you love someone, do you ask them to do things they find impossible?

Do you ask them to stay when everything in them is screaming to leave?

Do you steal the few moments of freedom they have left every day to satisfy someone else?

I guess that just means he loves me less than I love him. 

For 8 months now, I have given and given and given, and I keep asking for the one thing I need:

FREEDOM.

But it's the one thing he can't give me. We talk for hours of our future freedom, of plans and happinesses yet to come. But how much mud and shit do I have to slosh through before we get there? Some dreams may not be worth the years of suffering and work they require. Some dreams may. 

So which are these?

I need a man, someone that can, with me, put our needs, dreams, hopes, and ideas ahead of everyone else's. I need someone that can hear me when I cry for help. I need someone who can understand that I can't be caged in.

Part of me wishes I had never met him. That we had never started dating. I had JUST broken free of all the weights and shackles I've spent my LIFE carrying around, and now? I am burdened with new weights, new shackles, new people to impress.

I wish you would get rid of the instinct to run, he tells me. 

Then give me something to stay for. Come with me somewhere where we don't need to run. Neither of us. 

I know he can deliver on all the plans we've made.

But what if there isn't enough left of me to enjoy it? 

I'm young today. I'm energetic today. I want to be free today. 

My life has been full of laters, and tomorrows, and somedays. I guess I just foolishly thought that my laters were nows, my tomorrows were todays, and my somedays were quickly approaching.

When we met in the Dominican Republic, I thought I had finally found someone who would come on adventures with me. Who would realize that the dream of adults? It's bullshit. Living like your life is a never-ending gap-year is the only way to live. 

The way he spoke of his parents, I pictured the people who expected their children to find their own pathway; the kind of people who don't try to control or make decisions for them. All the things he was allowed to do were so opposite of what I was used to. It turns out they just control in a different way.

So part of me wishes I had never met him. Because the life that I want today? He cannot come with me. I came with him, I work for him, I sacrifice for him. 

He won't give an inch, and I've given a mile.

I don't want to leave him. But I want to leave. I wish that I finally had someone who loved me enough to make my wishes his wishes, as I have made his mine. 

I guess I always knew that I feel things differently than other people.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints released the following statement today regarding the decisions announced by the United States Supreme Court on cases involving marriage:

"By ruling that supporters of Proposition 8 lacked standing to bring this case to court, the Supreme Court has highlighted troubling questions about how our democratic and judicial system operates. Many Californians will wonder if there is something fundamentally wrong when their government will not defend or protect a popular vote that reflects the views of a majority of their citizens.

"In addition, the effect of the ruling is to raise further complex jurisdictional issues that will need to be resolved.

"Regardless of the court decision, the Church remains irrevocably committed to strengthening traditional marriage between a man and a woman, which for thousands of years has proven to be the best environment for nurturing children. Notably, the court decision does not change the definition of marriage in nearly three-fourths of the states."

I have a problem with this.

A HUGE, HUGE problem.

Not because I believe in marriage equality, even though I do. Not because the church is upholding its support of traditional marriage. Not for any of those reasons.

But because it is petty and immature and feels like someone lashing out in anger rather than responding in a calm, rational way. 

Let me explain.

I have repeatedly been taught by this same church that the men who founded our government were inspired by God to do so to pave the way for religious freedom. These inspired men included a set of checks and balances built into the very fabric of the government - a way to make sure no one's rights are being infringe on, and that the government (and the people) aren't acting in a way that is inappropriate. This judicial check on popular opinion might have had an effect on, I don't know, pre WWII Germany? Where a majority of the people thought Jews were the scourge of society?

It's there so a majority vote that is unconstitutional can be overturned. Such as the majority vote to make a group of people not qualify for a list of civil rights based on sexual orientation.

So I find it troubling that the church is suggesting to its members that the built-in checks and balances we have are the enemy when something doesn't go our way.

I also find it troubling to have a petty little final line about how this MONUMENTAL and HISTORY CHANGING decisions really has done almost nothing to deter OUR goals.

In short, this statement is a perfect example of the reason I can believe that while the men who run the church are good men, they may not be receiving inspiration all the time. The voice behind this statement is not what I know the voice of God to sound like or look like. 

And here are some quotes by those inspired founding fathers:

Short skirts

I have a burning desire to write about today's DOMA ruling in the Supreme Court. (If you want to know the facts, see here.)

I also have a burning desire to write about my church's response, and how much it angered me. (If you would like to see the official statement, see here.)

But my thoughts are jumbled and full of heat of intellectual passion, and I need a few days to process them. Otherwise I'll just look like Miss Utah answering an interview question.

And to be honest, I am hesitant to post about the things I want to post about, because I don't want to offend people with my small liberations I'm taking from the lifestyle I lived when I was 100% in the church. I still take my religion very seriously, and I believe in the pure Gospel of Christ. I can't handle the organization that surrounds it, including the extremely patriarchal nature of the temple. (I believe that there are meant to be ordinances, but that something, somewhere, went wrong there.) I know this may differ from your views. Just know I respect yours. And I'm not trying to flout anyone's beliefs when I have some small celebrations.

It's been about a month since I removed my garments. And I still dress the same - same modesty standards, everything.

Today, however, I bought a skirt that hits about 3-4 inches above my knee.

It was on sale. And it looks DANG GOOD on me.

And that small act is so symbolic for me. There is nothing even remotely inappropriate or suggestive about the skirt. It is modest, and decent, and doesn't expose me. I'm just celebrating my ability to see modesty in a way that wasn't taught to me as a link to my personal relationship with God. I believe he cares more what's on the inside than the outside, and that my new skirt doesn't offend Him.

It's a step into what I believe is the next phase in my relationship with God, with my body, and with myself - where I don't have imposed standards that dictate my relationship with deity.

Anyway. I wanted to celebrate. Quietly, in my own little corner of the internet.

Bitch

So I read this book, once.

It's called "Why men love bitches".

This is the cover. I am ashamed to admit that I read this. Avidly.

And it talks about lots of things. Like why breakups are the worst (because you altered your whole life around this person, and now there's tons of empty stuff in your life when they are gone), and how to get your significant other to do things, and how to get out of doing the laundry and cooking. It's awesome. I bought it in Bangkok International Airport. I wanted it, but was too embarrassed to buy it in front of my extremely educated and literary sister. When her plane took off, that book was MINE.

One thing the author never really does is define, in one sentence, what a bitch really is. She describes this "tongue in cheek" bitch she is meaning to describe.

I am here today to define the word bitch.

Bitch (noun): A woman who does whatever she wants no matter what anyone else wants. No matter what.

Now that that is clear, I need to vent.

Swiss boyfriend's half ghanaian grandma (say that 10 times fast) is in town, and she is, by my definition, a BITCH.

The first 2 days, she was on her best behavior. Now, she has become a raging she-dragon of a woman, who I tiptoe around. Her presence has caused 2 fights in our relationship so far, and she has only been here 5 days.

Let me give you a few examples.

1) We went to a blues festival. She was cold. So she made swiss boyfriend's dad go get her a coat, and made swiss boyfriend's mom switch her seats. Then she got hot, so the whole process was reversed.

2) On the way home in the car, she got hot. SHE WAS WEARING A WOOL SWEATER. but her solution was to make swiss boyfriend's dad turn up the AC until I was shivering. Making me shiver, I might add, is a FEAT. I have a high tolerance for air conditioning, especially on a hot june day.

3) She has corrected my table manners at least once a meal since she has been here. I have a strong desire to eat everything with my hands and lick between my fingers when I am done.

4) 2 months a year, on sunday nights, a show I like comes on TV. I wait for it all week, sing the theme song all the time, and thing about it all the time. So on sunday nights, I'm pretty much uninterested in other people's plans. That's all I ask - 10 sunday nights a year. Last night, she decided that EVERYONE had to watch a movie together. No exceptions. So by the time swiss boyfriend and I got to watch the show, it was past midnight. We were up till 2. We work at 8. Thank you, swiss boyfriend's half ghanaian grandma.

5) She insists on cooking dinner, then complains about how stressful it is and how everyone expects her to cook, and she uses EVERY DAMN DISH IN THE HOUSE. And we clean up after her.

Here's the thing; swiss boyfriend's parents are awesome. And chill. And now, I know why. To survive any sort of relationship with this woman, one has to take an enormous daily chill pill.

Post Mormon? Ex Mormon?

I'm confused what to call myself now.

I don't think I'm a post-mormon, because that means someone who has left and has dealt with the emotional consequences.

I don't think I'm an ex-mormon, because I still believe the pure gospel is true.

I don't know what to call myself.

I feel like the most appropriate title would be a still-believing-church-doubting-heartbroken-former-devout-unquestioning mormon.

But that's just a mouthful.

What I really am doing is discovering where my spirituality truly lies.

When I was younger, I found it in the quiet moments, when I was awake and alone in the middle of the night. I felt a closer connection to deity in those moments than any other. In the moments when the world is dark, it's easy to find the light in your own mind and heart.

I started learning to feel it in nature. In the things that surround me. That my soul craves fresh air and the freedom to breathe it.

Then I started to feel it in Yoga. This intense sensation of balance, that the world is moving around me and I am still, unmoving, just observing.

I still believe in faith. That faith and hope and charity are the most divine qualities a person can have. Basically, that believing in something, hoping for happiness and good things, and being nice to people are the main tenants of being a good person.

It's not a cry for help. It's a cry for recognition

I just looked at the last time I posted on here.

February 6, 2012.

Over a year.

I've been recoiling into myself.

I've been avoiding the topic.

But the readers of this blog are few. And they are all people that I have considered talking to, at one time or another, about this.

But in the end, I'm scared.

Terrified.

And if this post horrifies you, you can turn your back on our friendship. That is ok. I think I'd understand.

I am losing my religion.

Slowly, painfully, like life-giving blood oozing from my body. And, like a mortal wound, it gushed out at first. Frustration, pain, longing, loneliness, despair. And now, with each pulse of my spirit, my whole soul aches. The last little bit of that part of me is leaving.

Let me explain what I mean.

When I was barely 19, I had my first anxiety attack. It was crippling and horrible; my breath caught in my throat, my fingers and toes began to go numb, and it felt as if someone were constricting my whole body at once. I was in sacrament meeting when it happened.

Over the next 2 years, I phased in and out of activity in the church.

I submitted my mission papers after a period of 8 months where I didn't attend. My bishop approved, because one of my best friends had just attempted suicide, and he thought it would be good for me.

I went on my mission. My soul rejected my actions every day. I love that time for what I learned about myself and my God. I hate that time for what it forced me to become.

Ever since my mission, I've been struggling with the church. Silently, most of the time. It seems to me that mormons are nice to everyone except people who doubt, question, or leave. So I kept it to myself.

And yet, it was still happening. When I talked to people about what I felt, it was as if they were trying to help me solve a different problem. Here is an example of how the conversation seemed from my end:

Me: "All my fishes are dead."

Friend: "It's okay! I'll help you find them."

Me: "No  - I know where they are, they're just not alive anymore."

Friend: "Don't panic - I'm sure we'll find them. Where was the last place you saw them?"

And so you see, I couldn't really talk to anyone about what I was feeling. Partly because I didn't know what I was feeling, but partly because no one seemed to understand what I was saying.

And so, I planned to leave. To leave Utah, to leave everything I knew and loved. To separate myself from the situation, to clear my head. I needed everyone else's voice out of my head, so I could get some quality time with myself and with God.

Last summer, I think I knew it was the end of something. That's why I wanted to relish it. Why I wanted to spend every waking moment with the people I believed would shun me after they realized how I felt. I spent joyful days, hours, and moments with friends who may hate me after they realize who I am.

And then I left.

And I found a world I didn't know existed. A world of people who lived because there was life, and swam because there was water, and breathed because there was air - and never seemed to think twice about being happy!

I was angry and jealous and wanted to blend in. Happiness seemed always, to me, a glimmering prospect just out of reach. Something I had to concentrate on, and focus on, and every 3 months or so, I'd have a moment. But these people - they were happy! Really, really happy! Why? What was I missing?

I started to question everything, piece by piece. I've visited all the anti websites. I've read all the damning articles you could find on the internet. I have considered, and pondered, and prayed.

And here is my conclusion.

I love the gospel. I love my God. He is nice, and he is kind, and he loves everyone. And he doesn't like when we're mean or exclusive or unkind or judgemental. Because he never was. I love Christ. He is strong and gentle and constant. I love the restored gospel. I love that God speaks with men.

I do not love the church.

I can't love the church. It makes me feel wretched and awful about who I am. I can't be a good mormon if that means supporting the idea that people can't choose. Agency is everything in my mind. I can't be a good mormon if that means trying to deify evil things - like witholding the priesthood from black people, or making me swear my sacred oaths to my husband rather than directly to my God. I can't abide an organization that controls young people so rigidly so as to overpass the most rigorous regimes. I can't look back on my mission experience and all the indoctrination that was done there without feeling wretched and bitter.

I feel trapped and suffocated when I attend church, and I feel trapped and tricked and something close to rage when I wear my garments. I feel like the God I know and love wouldn't ask his children to do or support or say the things my church wants me to do and support and say.

I can't do it.

And so here I am, sobbing, as I write this blog. I feel so alone, and so hopeless. and yet so much freer and happier than I have ever felt.

 I will always believe in God.

But I cannot believe in the church

How and why to preserve fingerprints

Despair breeds creativity.

New ideas fester in the filth of depression.

Which explains why I've been so silent.

Because, for the first time in a long time, I was happy.

Happy, because I no longer felt imprisoned in an institution that claims divinity, but fosters judgement and hate. Happy, as I forged a new path into a new life into a glimmering future. Happy, because people love and appreciate me. Happy because I finally remembered who I was before It broke me.

The truth is, I hate romance. I hate the idea of needing only one person. Of abandoning other, fantastic pursuits to achieve the mundane with that person. I have things to do. Places to go. Don't let romance get in my way.

And so, as I stared at the screen, I hated myself for needing that.

He picked a short, flat-faced average woman. Does he look at her the way he looked at me? Those warm, honey eyes almost disappearing in his joy? Does he hold her like he held me. Warm and safe in his strong arms. Does he kiss her forehead when he thinks she's dozed off? Stay awake a bit longer because that means he gets to feel like he's protecting her?

I wish I could hate him. I wish I could think he were terrible. Not worth my time. I wish I could listen to breakup songs and think about all the things I couldn't stand about him. I wish I could forget that he existed.

The problem is, I still love him. Part of me believes I always have. The other part of me knows I always will.

And so, as time has passed, and I've started pushing the limits, I always keep the most significant element of my physicality guarded and untouched. My heart has always and will always only bear the fingerprints of one man.

SO. Here is the month of August. Which is starting soonly. Next week, actually.

Let me tell you about it. For me.

That first wednesday? I fly to Long Beach. Get picked up by some friends I've had for over 10 years now. And spend the night in a hotel room in Anaheim.

That thursday?

DISNEYLAND! The land of my dreams. If I could, I'd have my wedding reception there. I'd just rage around in a white dress and do what I want. And little girls would see me as a princess for a day. Maybe they'll forget about the animated, unrealistic princesses of years past, and dream to be me.

Oh, and club 33. Going there. JOY!

Then, on that friday, one of my best friends is having her rehearsal dinner in Santa Monica. Only 3 of us left standing! Stand strong, ladies!

On the 6th, i go to that wedding.

Then, 3 days later, on the 9th, I fly to portland. YAY! Blackberries, blueberries and huckleberries OH MY!

On the 10th?

I cross my fingers.

I fly back to Utah the 17th, to go back to work.

On the 20th, I'm still crossing my fingers.

And on the 25th?

Oh, the places we'll go.

I'm going CRAZY!

I thought I had gone through most of my life without getting jaded by thing. Without having really "lasting effects" of things. Basically I thought I could go into any situation without worrying about "last time".

I was wrong

I'm trying so hard to convince myself that nothing good can come of this. That there is nothing to hope for. Or look forward to.

I just feel like I'm going crazy. I'm trying so hard to not think about him. But of course, then I do.

Relationships only end in 2 ways.

I'm ready to try method 2.

Things Change

Things Change

Leah Pettit

Period 3

Mr. Ellis

When I was seven years old, a new family moved in around the corner, They had 5 kids, whose names all started with K – Klara, number 3, was just my age. The following Sunday, I met Klara at church, and we were fast friends. We spent tons of time together. After all, it was summer, so every day and most nights we spent in each other’s company. We were exactly the same – rowdy, hyper girlie girls who only talked about the 6 handsome Benson boys who lived down the street.

Klara and I were troublemakers. We’d climb trees in other people’s yards, play in the mud in our new white socks just to make our moms mad, eat disgusting combinations of food such as a cookie, toothpaste, and ketchup sandwich, play in the sprinklers wearing her mom’s high heels and petticoats- you think of something random and crazy and we did it.

Klara and I wrote, directed, and starred in plays. We would come up with silly non-coherent plots and expect our parents and a few select others 75 cents to see them. We would act out ridiculous scenes and expect laughter and applause. We had so much  fun, even my older sister (who was “too cool”) got jealous and insisted on acting with us.

Our families mostly got along as well. All except for Keegan, Klara’s 14 year old brother. We’d lock him out of the house and raid his room, and when he’d finally catch us, he would drag us outside and mercilessly peg us with water balloons. The worst incident by far occurred was when I was about 9 years old. Klara and I locked Keegan out, and he shocked and scared us by gasp flipping us off. We let him back in the house out of terror, and he was so angry he carried us outside, a kicking and screaming 9-year old under each arm, and used cheap yellow rope to tie us to the splintery wooden poles that held the aluminum panel over her patio up. He left us there for 3 hours, until Klara’s sister Kelsey rescued us. Periodically during the 3 hours, he and his doofus friends would walk by, point, and laugh. I had rope burns for 3 days.

Klara and I had officially become one person. That is, until the day that Klara told me that her father, who was a sergeant in the United States Army, was being relocated to Oklahoma. I cried. So did she. Over the next month and a half, we cried alot. But the day finally came that Klara drove away, and her once busy, happy house was empty save for the memories we shared there. I was devastated.

But Klara and I wrote each other every other week. I felt so special, addressing a letter to “Edmond, OK”. In every way except for physical distance, we were closer than ever. But then she started moving on. And I hated her for it.

Four years of bi-weekly letters, and semi-annual phone calls. Then, in the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, I found out she was coming to visit. I was ecstatic. Two whole weeks with Klara – what could be better? At the airport, I was so exited that I told my sister to drop me off at the wrong terminal – I ran halfway across LAX in sandals and a jean skirt.

When she came off the airplane, I looked right past her. She wasn’t the Klara I knew, but I eventually recognized the tan, freckly face, brown eyes and big smile of my best friend. She dropped her bags and hugged. She cried. We were together again.

But Klara was different. Or maybe the problem is that she wasn’t. She was still sloppy, naive, rude, obnoxious, and self-centered, but I had changed. I was hyper, yes, but I was now a neat freak, flirtatious, and entirely focused on school, swimming and my music. She still only talked about the 6 handsome Benson boys, and I had moved on to the high school boys I so eagerly flirted with. By the end of the two weeks, we couldn’t stand the sight of each other.

We drove to the airport, listening to the beatles very loud to avoid conversation, and right before she boarded her plane we hugged – for the last time. We exchanged a few half-hearted “I’ll miss you”s and said we’d write. We never did.

It’s three years later, and thinking about Klara still makes me want to smile and cry. We grew apart. That’s all. And now, the only thing to do is look back and remember picking honeysuckle, writing plays, a tearful goodbye, and a disappointing reunion.

Tease

Tease

Leah Pettit

Period 3

Mr. Ellis

It was a summer night – the kind that are so warm that a single touch can overheat every inch of your body. I was in a park, playing hide and go seek. I was wearing red dickies – the red that you would still be able to see even if you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. I was sweating – my parents though I was at my house in Newbury Park; they told me they trusted me.

The streetlamps were close – close enough to cast strange shadows around the jungle gym, where I was curled up at the top of a tube slide, my head resting on my knees. He hid at the bottom of my slide. We talked, casually, laughed, he told me my face looked orange next to my pants. We were alone. the person who was it was searching 500 yards away. I stood up in the shelter of a plastic tower. I remember how hot my mouth felt and how tight my muscles were. he started climbing up the slide. Seeing his arms flail and his white socks scramble with the effort he put into reaching me made me smile – it still makes me smile. he put so much effort in to getting to where I was.

he emerged from the slide, his knuckles turning white as he lugged his bulk up towards me. he was about 2 feet away. I suddenly had the urge to fan myself, but I stood still.

We stood near each other, talking, for probably 3 minutes, though I don’t remember a word we said. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, all I could feel was my boiling insides. The conversation died. he put his hand on my stomach – I could feel his sweat through the thin layer of white fabric stretched over me. My hands started sweating.

he got closer, closer, and just as I could feel his hot breath on my mouth, I turned my head, winked, smiled, bit my lip, and walked away.

Running out of Gas

Running Out of Gas

Leah Pettit

Period 2

Mr. Ellis

My headlights pierced through the otherwise pitch dark night... it was just my luck to be stranded in a stretch of road that was void of streetlamps. Like a racehorse that had run out of steam from being ridden for too long, my noble steed – my blue 1987 Toyota pickup – was quiet in defeat; it had run out of gas.

After dialing my house, and learning what triple-A was for, I did the only thing I could do: sat back, locked my doors, and turned up my radio. If there was anything threatening outside my car, I didn’t want to know about it. Simply knowing that I was within 15 feet of a ravine shrouded with mystery – or was it bushes?- was enough to keep me rooted to my seat.

A few pairs of lonely headlights passed; no one seemed to care much about the blue truck parked with its headlights on. Well, one person: a police officer. Yes, a car pulled up behind me, and when the driver’s side door opened my heart skipped a beat – what was this person planning on doing? It was only when I saw the uniform that I felt, for the first time in the presence of an officer, relief. I rolled down my window, and the kind officer shined a not-so-kind light in my face. After a few questions, a few unwanted tears, and a reassurance, Officer Dean offered to stay with me until either triple-A or my parents showed up. I accepted his offer, and settled in for what I thought was going to be a ten minute wait.

Half an hour later my parents showed up, in all of their pajama’d glory. Officer Dean left, with only one “you should be more careful”. A full hour later, a big greasy man with a big greasy truck pulled up beside my now dwarfish looking pickup. He said he worked for triple-A, so, against my better judgment, I opened my gas tank. Weren’t repair men supposed to be young, attractive, and look nice in white shirts, like in the movies? This man had yellowing fingernails and teeth, bad breath, and enough chest hair to satisfy all the rogaine users in the world. Despite my distrust, he did fill my gas tank with enough gas to get me to the nearest gas station, and with a toothy goodbye and a final glance at the neckline of my shirt, he and his “must-be-compensating-for-something” truck were gone. Following  a quick fuel-up and a lecture from my parents, I felt like I had run out of gas.

Prism

In response to D.H. Lawrence’s “Bavarian Gentians”:

Prism

So distracting

there’s rainbows everywhere

I am in my own palace

crystal floors reflect rainbows onto the crystal chandeliers

Mahogany furniture in a grand, golden hall

everything reflects color onto everything else

my eyes never focus

thousands of colors

blushing reds, sinful crimsons, fabulous fuscias, opulent oranges

yellows that blind me – make me squint

what thoughts those greens inspire!

sexy purples, calming lavenders, blues that bring serenity, peace

A chandelier with candles is the only light

besides the windows

windows of cut let crystal

windows viewing a kingdom unlike any on earth

A banister that is cool to the touch

stairs held up only by rainbows

a floor at the landing made of pure platinum

a bedroom with a glass bed

curtains of sheer, diamond – inlaid netting

blood colored, satin sheets

pure goose down mattress

a sea of pillows

I could suffocate in this bed

A crystal fire place burning logs of scented flowers

overstuffed, golden armchairs with fluffy pillows

like the ones I hug while slumbering at home –

Home?

My dirty, glass windows come into focus

windows that view my neighbors yellow curtains

I see my mahogany furniture

my satin and goose down bed

my sheer mosquito net

my sea of pillows

my scented flowers on my windowsill

            My Prism.

My name

My Name

Leah Pettit

Period 2

02/02/04

I am a mutt. No matter how much I try to be an individual, I will always be a mutt. I am not original, I am just a combination of everyone I’ve met. You see, I don’t really have a set personality. I sort of just snatch the personalities of different people at different times. I can be a nerd, a flirt, a athlete, a Mormon, a dumb blonde – you name it, I can be it. See that’s what happens when you’re the youngest of five children. Nothing really belongs to you- not even your personality. I am my sister Jen’s blondeness, my sister Debby’s musicality, my Brother’s swimming ability, and my sister Rebecca’s stubborness all rolled into one “travel size” package. When you’ve met me, you’ve basically met my entire family. That brings me to my main point; my name.

My name classifies who I am – both in it’s precedent and it’s meaning. My mom wanted four children. I’m number 5. Maybe that’s why she named me Leah, the name of the lesser, unwanted sister in the bible. She claims that’s not true, and I want to believe her, but just hearing and responding to that name my entire life has made me believe that I really am just an accident. I have no talent that an older sibling hasn’t already mastered, and I’ve never done anything that would set me apart from my siblings. I don’t know whether that’s because my name is Leah, or my name is Leah because of that – I haven’t quite figured that out yet.

Now according to name books my name means contentment, and if that doesn’t fit me, I don’t know what does. Even in knowing that I am an accident I am content – some accidents turn out for the better. I couldn’t be happier with my situation in life, being the spoiled youngest child and all, and I couldn’t ask for anything more than I have right here, right now.

So the moral of the story? I guess it’s that no matter how you identify yourself, how others identify you, or who you are, life is grand. It’s scary and hard, true, but the experiences I have had have taught me that life is what you make of it; and I choose to be unwanted, unoriginal, and yet be completely content. 

The Dragon

In response to Frank O’Hara’s “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island”:

Why is She Always Right?

She screeched into the driveway

why doesn’t she shift?

That poor car sounds like a dragon –

but only when she drives it.

My eyes closed

the projector in my brain began its nightly duty

bright colors, flashes, then the film caught

the show started on my screeny eyelids.

There she was – sitting on the beach

but she was half – dragon

I looked down – I was still human

I wasn’t relieved

She was green, scaly, but always, always

people saw her as beautiful

She wore a purple corset

that just flaunted her lack of breasts

She flirted with an attractive male dragon

he kind of looked like Ben Stiller

She ran, he chased

she climbed a cliff, bounding from rock to rock

but they were bouncy

like trampolines

I followed – I had to save her

no one followed me

I came around a boulder

she was perched, ankles crossed, back straight

on a freeway sign “Carmen Dr. – 36 miles”

She didn’t even look at me

much less thank me

for what I don’t know

Her fang – filled mouth opened

between puffs of dragon smoke

she said “Is he gone yet?

I mean, he’s good enough for you, but not for me!”

Why is she always right?

The car screeched out – lights on my ceiling

why doesn’t she shift?

it sounds like a dragon

but only when she drives it.

Cashmere

In response to Ezra Pound’s translation of Li Po’s “The river – Merchant’s Wife: A Letter”:

Cashmere

When my hair was short and unstyled

you stopped me

 asked why I was leaving

my cheeks matched your sweater

I said I was fine.

When purple eyeshadow never left my eyelids

you fascinated me

your loud tenor me

you smiled, and seemed to know me

once again, my cheeks matched your sweater

and I said I was just fine

When my hair was growing out

you said goodbye

two years is a long time

but not so long with correspondence

my cheeks no longer matched your sweater

I didn’t even try to say I was fine

Now, my hair is long and light

and you want me to send pictures

you’re coming home

two years was too long

 I’ve learned what you already knew

that when you’re near me, my cheeks will always match your sweater

and that, with you, I will never be just fine.

The day I broke dress code

In response to Gary Snyder’s “Four Poems for Robin”:

The Day I Broke Dress Code

The day I broke dress code

I wore those smelly shorts

the ones that you’re supposed to wash

no one does

My two best friends in the world

connected the dots on my legs

a blue shark

a pink bunny

Sand in my clothes

exfoliating, to put it mildly

tickling, spinning, dizzy, spinning more

climbing like rainforest monkeys in suburban oaks

Eating my body weight in pizza

protesting in Albertsons – “free the lobsters!”

finally returning

to my home away from home

I used to think the clothes made the day

until the day I broke dress code.

I'd do it for free!

In response to Spring Break:

I’d Do it for Free

Lauren got sick

we sat at those tables

the orange ones right by Deja Vu

Grace and Camille had left

Lauren and I had nothing to do

but bake ourselves in the Valencia sun

She reached din her pocket

“two dollars says you won’t”

I thought for a while

“up it to three and I will”

Grace and Camille returned, and we filled them in

after an eternity of contemplation

and a few “whether you think you can or can’t, your right”’s from Grace

I walked into the store

he was cuter from far away

“excuse me? Can I tell you something?”

Then, without waiting for a response

I reached my face up

got him squarely on the lips

turned quickly

and walked away

Grace said “I didn’t see – do it again”

Lauren said she’d pay again – what did I have to lose?

This one’s name was Dylan

he was cute too – from far away

 I used the same line

this one turned though

kind of a half – mouth, half – cheek thing

he turned bright red

his friend was jealous

I collected my money, the gave it back

it was too much fun –

I’d do it for free!