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Fruit Snacks and Spaghetti

Whether I'm rolling in the dough or counting out quarters from the change compartment in my car, I've realized that these food items remain constants in my kitchen cabinet. When I'm at the store, I automatically pick up a box of noodles and two to three jars of Prego sauce. Then when I'm back at home and putting groceries away, I find that there are still three jars of Prego sauce and at least two boxes of spaghetti still sitting on the shelf, with one of the boxes only half-used. But it doesn't end with Betty Crocker pouches and carbohydrates drenched in sauce - there's yogurt, applesauce, pudding, grapes, cereal, and a freezer filled with pre-made pizzas and Healthy Choice dinners. In a nutshell, my at-home menus consist of really fun side items (at least, the kind I was in love with as a kid) and main courses that are microwave friendly and have little desserts right next to the salisbury steak. The last time I had pot roast was probably at Saint Joe's cafeteria last year. Ribs? Smoky Bones. I can barely motivate myself to open a can of soup because I'm too busy thinking about the dirty pot I'll have to wash afterwards. The only thing I ever make "from scratch" is spinach dip (does that even count?), and even that never turns out quite how I'd like it to (just like Applebee's!). It's really very sad.

I assume that this attitude of mine will change once I'm in a kitchen with glorious counterspace and the world's finest ingredients at my disposal. I'll be eager to devour the secrets hiding out in my Philsbury cookbook and embrace a recipe that takes longer than 15 minutes to prepare. Right now, though, I'll continue to eat spaghetti at least once a week, munch on Fruit Smileys every single day (the fifth grader in me just adores them), and consider pre-cooked chicken nuggets a gourmet treat.

It's a good thing Luke can cook.

I'm In Love With My Dentist

No, not really, but he is pretty great. I had my post-opp (post-operation) check-up yesterday, and he gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and a smile before asking how things have been since my extraction. I have never had a dentist I've felt so comfortable with. If I'd had care this good in Chicago, maybe I wouldn't have taken a three-year break from professional oral hygiene. Anyway, my stitches are out and I'm healing nicely. Next step: my crown from March is still pretty sensitive to hot and cold, which isn't a great sign, so I need to schedule an appointment up north with some kind of -ontologist to see if the nerves need to be killed; then I can stop wincing every time milk hits the left side of my mouth. More dentist adventures for me - woo friggin' hoo.

For the last couple of nights, I've been plagued by dreams that seem pretty damn real while I'm in them. Thursday night, in a dream inspired by watching an episode of VH-1's Driven, Ashton Kutcher called me at home (which happened to be Chicago with my family), and we had a marathon phone conversation that ended with us making plans to get together. (Evidently I have much more sex appeal than Demi.) Last night, I was in my high school auditorium (which, of course, really wasn't my high school auditorium), complete in my old Catholic-school-girl attire, which fit surprisingly well. We were all gathered to hear the news that an old school friend had died (who I don't even think actually existed), and I was crying hysterically. Then suddenly I'm walking down Archer Avenue (still in Chicago) and bump into another friend from Maria High School, still crying. She and her father gave me a ride home, but I think it was in a shopping cart, and then suddenly we were by Lindy's Chili, right across the street from McKinley Park. Then I woke up.

I'm not sure what these dreams mean, but I am sure that I miss Chicago. I miss reading on the train ride to work and getting to the mall in 15 minutes. More importantly, I miss my family. I miss seeing them every day. I miss joking around with my dad and hashing out gossip with my mom before going to bed. I wish I could attend Donna Lyn's assemblies and help Ryan with her college registration without having to take a vacation day. And I miss my friends.

Oh, well. There are certainly many good things about Rensselaer, things that I plan on discussing in a piece for my writers' group meeting this Thursday. But I think I've almost had my fill. Almost.

My Favorite Redhead

Recently, I've rediscovered that famous girl detective Nancy Drew. I'm in the middle of reading the first release of the original hardback series, The Secret Of The Old Clock, and I didn't remember how dated these ones actually were. With the first copyright issued in the 1930's, it's no wonder that Nancy wears gloves, carries a pocketbook, uses a vocabulary that includes "shan't," and solves all her cases in pants suits and dresses. She also seems to rescue every person she comes into contact with, and her departure is always sorely missed. In the revised series issued in the 80's and 90's, she is revamped to fit into that time period, discovering jeans and colloquial language. She's also allowed to have a boyfriend. There was a recent article that announced yet another Nancy Drew unveiling. I wonder what they've done to her this time.

Life After The Drugs

Remember my happy post from Saturday night? Well, today it's Monday, and let me tell you, when you don't have pain killers flowing through your system, it's a very different experience. I feel totally worn out and it's not even 11:00 a.m. yet. I had visions of doing laundry after work, but I'll most likely just load up on drugs again and pass out on the couch.

Any Excuse For A Day Off

Well, folks, it's done. Yesterday morning I lost five of my teeth, and I must say, it really wasn't bad at all.

When I got there, the nice dental assistant gave me some pills for nausea, nerves, and pain. Minutes later, I was in the The Room, where they led me to The Chair and gave me The Mask. My favorite part about the dentist is The Mask, as it allows me to feel comfortable enough to play with my lips and laugh out loud without embarassment or shame. This time, I made it a point to inform my dentist that I had flossed for the big day.

"Thank you!" he said.

What a wonderful man.

It wasn't until the gas was fully in my system that the needles came out and the numbing began. That was actually the worst part, because I could feel the needle going deeper into my skin/gum (hell, I can't remember where) with each shot. Once I was all numbed up, the pushing began. I say pushing because that's what it felt like - like a little group of midget men were heaving and hoing into the side of each tooth. And then... "The first one's out!" he said, and I asked to see it. It was a big tooth. I was impressed.

He kept going, and after about an hour, all five teeth were out. I remember holding ice packs and feeling very shaky. Luke said they were a little worried about me because my face was white and my lips were purple. I slept a lot for the rest of the day, but there wasn't any pain. All in all, it's been a rather pleasant experience. The staff at Hilcrest was great, Luke's been wonderfully patient (his homemade strawberry-banana milkshakes are fantastic), and best of all, I'm enjoying a three-day weekend filled with ice cream, pajama pants, and marathon phone calls with friends. I almost wish things were worse - then I'd have a reason to call in sick on Monday.

Losing All My Wisdom

The title is meant to be read to the tune of REM's "Losing My Religion." Clever, no?

Anyway, here I am, getting ready for the big day, for the moment when five of my teeth (four wisdom teeth plus one seriously decayed molar) will be viciously ripped from my gums. Just kidding - I don't think it will be that bad. The nice doctor will give me gas (get it? tee hee), drugs, and more drugs to get me through, and when it's all over, I get to go home and sleep. If I can manage to stay awake, I'll even be able to catch the Monk marathon on USA. Crazy detective.

A lot of the people I know who've had this done opted for going under, but in my case, I will be conscious throughout the whole thing. Some ideas I'm toying with include:

- staying up until the wee hours of the morning so that by the time I'm in the chair, I'll be so exhausted I'll pass out on my own

- bringing a walkman so that I can jam to some dope tunes while I'm all gassed up (I'm sorry, but it's funny every time I say it)

If you have others worth considering, be sure to share them before 7:30 tomorrow morning.

Allow Me To Go Geek For A Minute...

...because I am sick to death of hearing comments about how Daniel Radcliffe, the actor who plays Harry Potter, is too old for the role. If they would take a few minutes to do the research, they would find out that Radcliffe was 11 when the filming of the first movie began - the same age as Harry in the first book. They would also know that he was 14 during the filming of the fourth movie, the same age that Harry is in the book.

They knock him for showing clear signs of puberty in the movie. He's 13! Voices change! Hair grows in places we don't talk about! What do they expect?! Radcliffe is experiencing the same changes we see Harry grapple with in the books. His portrayal does not take away from Harry's character - if anything, it enhances it. Furthermore, I would be outraged if they ditched the actor for a younger-looking Harry. Our favorite wizard does grow up, people! If you don't believe me, READ THE BOOKS!

And... I'm done.

In other news, I am watching (and thoroughly enjoying) "Sex and the City" on TBS. One of the characters just said "blow job." Our little basic cable station is growing up.

P.S. I never realized how sexy Sarah Jessica Parker is. What a great head of hair. If only she'd ditch the cigarettes....

Speak Up, Already!

I have often regretted my speech, never my silence. - Xenocrates

This quotation appeared as a tagline on one of my friend's e-mails, and I couldn't disagree with it more. MY biggest regrets all result from keeping my mouth shut.

It's in my nature to please others. The last thing I want to do is to make someone uncomfortable, or angry, or hurt. So instead of getting things off my chest and trying to resolve whatever's bothering me, what do I do? Nothing. Well, my close friends will tell you, not EXACTLY nothing. I may not come right out and say what's wrong, but my body language sure does. I know it does. I get snappy. Crabby. I push people away with sharp words and awkward silence. And all because I'm too afraid to put someone else on edge. Ironic, huh? I'm afraid to tell people what's wrong, so I let my actions do it instead, hoping that my loved ones are mind readers. How screwed up is that?

I'm trying to get better. If someone else is part of the problem, why not share that problem so that we can work towards a solution? Why am I so eager to feel like crap? Even Jesus shared his cross.

On a happier note: I finally received a note from Glamour magazine saying they received my entry for their "Tell Us The Story Of Your Life!" contest. Finalists will be notified at the end of the summer.

The Art of Rediscovery

It's funny how something you've had for a long time, for no apparent reason, suddenly becomes new. I was at work today, muddling through some awful spreadsheets, and I decided I needed some music. One of the few CDs I had to choose from was Tori Amos's Boys For Pele, a CD I'd never listened to very much but recently drew from it to write a short story. So, I popped in the CD, letting it play through in its entirety for the first time since high school. Despite having it for seven years, I've never enjoyed this disc as much as I did today. It was the perfect soundtrack for a rainy afternoon.

With the ending of my spring quarter and the beginning of my newfound freedom, I'm having a hard time adjusting to my new blocks of time. So far, I've placed three orders with Shutterfly, taken a time machine to 1991, and finished the newest issue of Entertainment Weekly (Harry made the cover - Hooray!). My biggest accomplishments include registering for my writers conference (which actually is pretty important, since there are deadlines to meet) and sending in my Visa bill. Oh, well. Tomorrow is another day.

I'll Take A Chance

May 1990 Dedicated to Randy Wooten

I've lost your love, and my heart is filled with pain. But I"ll risk my hopeless heart for you. "It's dangerous," my mind says. "You'll risk his happiness and joy, witch I'm sorry to say is not you."

"I'll take a chance," I said. "I'll do whatever it takes to make him mine. I'll take that chance."

[An earlier stab at dialogue. Spelling errors remain intact.]

A Long Time Ago

May 16, 1991

A long time ago, I was lonely and unhappy in my solitude. But suddenly, a light shone in my darkness. It was you, my darling! You took my hand, and we floated to the clouds, our love lifting us higher and higher.

[This last line was inspired by the scene in Ghostbusters 2, when the Statue of Liberty walked down the streets of New York playing Jackie Wilson.]

Boys

November 19, 1991

Boys.
Some boys are cute
and some boys are bad.
Some boys are mute.
Most of them act sad.

Boys.

Some are in love,
and some are real jerks.
Some are above,
and some are trying
to make a relationship work.

BOYS

The Bon-Bon Club

Clearly I'm enjoying my trip down Memory Lane. Indulge me.

Some of my friends and co-workers may remember me blogging about a little thing call The Chicago Chicks Club (see "My first blog" for details). My next venture? The Bon-Bon Club.

October 11, 1996
Friday night

This is to verify the existence of the Bon-Bon Club. To qualify as a member you must meet the following requirements:

1) Have imaginary guys chasing after you. [His name was Jeremiah. Sigh.]
2) Must be sitting at home every Saturday night.
3) Have an obsession with Meltaways, Twizzlers and other fatty junk foods.
4) Don't get any, at all.

Should a fellow member happen to violate any law (especially #4), Hooray!
Congratulations! For the club to be void, both members must have a steady boyfriend (at the same time) for at least one month. Meetings are at least once a month.

X Jane Doe aka Hubba Bubba!
X Frema aka Chunky Monkey

Secret handshake!

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Dear Diary...

I was speaking to a friend about the idea of diaries today, and it got me thinking about my own. Here's a sneak into my pre-pubescent years (I have no problems sharing them with you, as I was too young to think about anything more interesting than hating my family and having crushes on boys). Additional commentary is provided in brackets, which are not to be confused with parentheses or quotation marks, since I actually knew how to use them. Spelling errors and poor punctuation remain intact.

Saturday, March 3, 1990

Dear Diary,
Hi. I don't think the world of Fred [Savage] anymore. I [heart] Jordan. He's from "New Kids on the Block." Also, when I look at Randy, I feel ... well ... good. I hope his emotions for me (if he has any) are strong, because I have very strong feelings for him.

Things aren't going to good at home. Samantha, Ryan, Mom, Dad, and Geo are sometimes trouble. But I'm used to it. Also, I wish I could see Ricardo more often.

Your writer,
Breain

Sunday, May 27, 1990

Dear Diary,
I hate my mother and Samantha, my sister. They don't care about me. All my mom worries about is if I don't listen to her.

Also, a long time ago, I dumped Jordan for

JOE MCINTYRE!

He is so cute. I want to marry him!

I saw Ricardo today tossing a ball. When I passed, he called me a Brain. If I was such a brain, I wouldn't have all these problems.

Breain

Wednesday, May 30, 1990

Dear Diary,
Today was the Fun in the Sun. There was lots to do, but most of the time, all I did was look, and follow,

Randy Lee Wooten

He's not a new name, Diary. Well, I gotta go. Bye.

Breain

Thursday, May 16, 1991

Dear Diary,
I'm in love with a boy named Scott Ramos. This is what I know.

Name: Scott Ramos
Age: 11-12
Hair: black
Eyes: brown
One word description: babe

This is no mistake!
Number: 247-1140

My only contact is Karen. Wish me luck. This guy is mine...at least, I hope so. Randy and Jason were fantasys. Reality came to me, and it came in the form of Scott Ramos.

[Heart]
Breain

Sunday, June 2, 1991

Dear Diary,
Scott was a mistake. But this guy isn't. (Hopefully.) I dream about him, daydream about him. I can't get him out of my mind. He's called Church Boy (C.B.) because I don't know his name.

I know this is brief, but soon all will be revealed. Soon, I repeat.

Breain

Monday, August 19, 1991

Dear Diary,
Hi. How are you? I'm fine. Well, that's exaggerated. I feel rotten. Probably look rotten, too. Because I didn't wash the table right, Dad (who else?) blows up at me! "The only things you want to remember are from your books. That's gonna change!" So he made me get out my 3 collections, and put them on the kitchen table. Then he put them in a garbage bag. He (Dad) said he could make a bundle giving them to the thrift store, 10 cents a book. I hate my Dad the [insert nasty expletive]. Here's why.

1.) He took my books away.
2.) He's giving them away.
3.) He thinks "SWEET VALLEY HIGH" has sex in it, when he took a magazine and gave a gave a woman a 2 penises.

But 1 of the biggest reasons is that, like tons of other people, he thinks all I care about is reading, when the truth is, I have lots of interests. Here there are: (In no order)

1. Reading
2. Writing
3. Music
4. Singing
5. Baby-sitting
6. Journalism
7. Soccer
8. Volleyball
9. Computers.
10. Running.
11. Styles in hair/fashion
12. art

The other reason is that parents are mad because their kids read too little, but mine are mad because I read too much I'll hate my dad forever. Here my signature for that declaration of independence and to close my entry. Bye!

X [insert handwritten signature, complete with a star to dot my "i"] H.W.
X Frema P.

---

Note: My dad never really gave the books away. He hid them in our basement for two months before giving them back.

The Write Stuff

Ever since last week's fiction class, my brain has been swirling with the possibilities that writers have in this world and the opportunities I have to become a better one. I've just registered for the Midwest Writers Workshop at Ball State University at the end of July and signed up to for a subscription to Poets and Writers magazine. I also plan on joining the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) as soon as the financial burdens of paying for my wisdom teeth and workshop accomodations are done. I'm not saying that these things will guarantee growth, but they'll definitely provide motivation for it. They'll also give me a wider range of choices when I'm ready to look for a new job.

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to write. My first story in the second grade spun a complex and thought-provoking plot involving two friends and their quest to quench their thirst for...CANDY! During the height of my horror-flick obsession, I penned two scary stories, even casting my friends as the characters for one of them. My fiction "masterpiece" was written when I was a teenager - the ultimate baby's mama drama. I remember coming home and holing up in my room for hours, blasting my cassette tapes while I wrote in the notebooks I was supposed to be using for school. Passion is so easy to sustain when you're a child. You don't know what it means yet to make excuses. What you want to do, you do.

When I think about having children of my own someday, I want most for them to find their own special talent, their own passion, and run with it, whether it's writing, dance, art, stamp collecting, whatever. And I want to help them do that. What good is having higher education and a good-paying job if you can't help your kids make their dreams come true? My parents did that for me - they read my stories, attended my contests, and gave me the confidence to keep pursuing what I loved. It's the least I can do for my own.

Growing Up

Well, it's done. My spring quarter at DePaul is officially over. I have to say, I was a little sad at the end of my Screenwriting class last night. There were a lot of fun people I would've liked to have known better. Maybe our paths will meet up again in future classes, but maybe they won't. So, like I said, I was sad.

Then, on the drive from Chicago back to Rensselaer early this morning, I popped in some of my favorite nineties tunes to keep me awake, which got me thinking about my school years as a child. Instead of my last days, though, I focused on my first.

Every year, going back to school was a big deal. Because my family was a large one, we didn't have a ton of money for brand-name sneakers, jeans, accessories, and the like. I can remember the day before my first day of fifth grade, resorting to my mother's closet to find something hip to wear and feeling sad because I knew she needed new clothes just as badly as me. I ended up donning a hot pink t-shirt and rose-patterned short pants (not fashionable enough to be known as capris) with her best pair of white Keds. As my classmates showed up in Nikes and the latest trend in jeans, I was so embarassed. I shouldn't have been, but I was.

In middle school, it only got worse. Fashions changed almost monthly; my wardrobe did not. At one point in seventh grade, wearing shirts with athletic teams' names on them were all the rage. I couldn't get one until almost three months later, when the hype was long over (Charlotte Hornets - I knew nothing about the team except that I liked their mascot). At that point, I shouldn't have wasted the money, but sometimes having something late is better than never having it at all.

Sometimes I feel sad (apparently my word of the day) about moving into the future and away from my past. But it's those kind of memories that turn my sadness into relief. I was always so eager for approval, so wanting to be liked by others. I suppose there's still some of that in me today. But now I know when to say "Screw you, to hell what you think," and that makes me happy, too.

Summer Fun - Oooh, Yeah

Just moments ago, I put the finishing touches on my Screenwriting portfolio, and having finished my Fiction one this morning before lunch, this might be the first time in my life I'm not pulling a late night to complete a major class project. It feels good. After my classes tomorrow, I'll be school-free (well, except for work, I guess) until September's fall quarter, when I'll be taking The Personal Essay and Writing For Magazines. For the winter and spring, two electives. The end is near.

In the meantime, though, it's time for some SUMMER FUN! With tons of vacation days at my disposal, I have visions of Friends-a-thons experienced with a tub of rainbow sherbet and my new Peace Frog pajama pants, dreams of rushing home after work to begin the Nancy Drew books (original hardcover, no less) I received for my birthday, which I've not yet had the time to touch. Even more exciting is the idea of watching Days of Our Lives and All My Children on their actual times instead of waiting for SoapNet reruns after 5:00. What will I do with my free time once I graduate? It's exciting to think about.

In other news: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban opens this weekend, and I am pumped up, baby! Luke and I have discussed waiting until Sunday to hit the theatre, with the hope that the rush will have slowed down somewhat. I'm also diving into a project for the writer's group I belong to, The Prairie Writers Guild. Because of school, I've only been able to attend one meeting, but we're working on producing an anthology of our work, based on a theme of place. I've got to get cracking.

On a depressing note: I've still not heard back from Glamour regarding their "Tell Us The Story Of Your Life!" contest, for which I submitted an entry back in April. The magazine said to include an SASE so that everyone could receive word that their work had been received. The deadline was April 30th, and still nothing. I'm assuming it's because a publication of that size is still sifting through entries and not that mine was lost in the mail. My fingers are still crossed, though. Are yours?

P.S. for Chicago residents: Be sure to pick up your copy of The Reader on June 4th and read all about my literary experience at DePaul!