lies i told my mother

I am like three years old, and I am hiding in my closet. Naked.

Are you in there, Andrea?

Uh, yeah. I'm in here.

Are you dressed?

Uh, yeah. I'm dressed.

There it is. The first lie I remember telling my mom. At the time, I feel pretty justified in telling it, because I just love changing my clothes, and there are just too many options to select only one outfit. How could I anticipate, how could I possibly know mom would give me a three time limit on clothes changing for the day? I'm four! It's what I do! Besides telling myself stories in the bathroom, changing clothes is the primary joy of my life!

So, I lie to my mom. She opens the closet door.

Oops. Didn't so much think that far.

Then I am seven, and it is the night before my birthday. There is an unwrapped birthday present under the front seat of mom's car, and I sneak out after dinner for a peek. It's a box set of Little House on the Prairie books. A tiny thrill courses through my body when I see them.

I walk back inside.

Where were you?

I freeze. Covert ops have never been my strong suit.

Uh....there was a big star.

Let's go see it, shall we?

Geez.

I am eight years old now, and sitting at the dinner table, but dinner has been over for a long, long time. I stare at my bean burrito. I attempt to vaporize it using the power of my mind. Unsuccessful, I review the blueprint of the kitchen, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to dispose of it.

Andrea, if you don't eat the burrito tonight, you have to eat it for breakfast tomorrow.

So really, all I hear is blah blah blah don't eat the burrito tonight which is exactly what I am going for, so I congratulate myself for being on the same page as mom, and go to the bathroom to tell myself a story about this awesome fluffy pink satin bedspread I saw in the Sears catalog, and then I go to bed.

When I wake up, a dim memory steals across the back corner of my mind and I realize...... I have to eat a bean burrito for breakfast.

Siiiiiick! Oh holy awful disgustingness!! What in the name of all that is pure was I thinking?

I sit at the breakfast table, alone. I stare at the cold burrito. The cold bean burrito. Overnight it has, I believe, become evil. The burrito is definitely giving off a cold, evil, bean-y vibe. As I ponder my predicament, the solution becomes immediately and beautifully clear:

I dump the burrito in the garbage.

A sensation of supreme relief washes over me upon the disappearance of the bean filled villain, and later when mom asks me if I ate my burrito, I say yes, but that I didn't like it. I think that makes my story nice and realistic like.

Only this time mom doesn't know that I lied. I get away with it. I carry the burrito guilt around with me for a while. For years, actually. It's always there, in the back of my mind. In throwing away my burrito and lying to my mom, I have knowingly sinned. And I really, really don't want to be having my card scanned at judgement day and have an outstanding un-repented burrito sin on my record.

So, I tell her.

She's not mad. I don't get in trouble. She laughs. This might have something to do with the fact that I am at the time like twenty seven, and living three thousand miles away, and there's only so much discipline that can be employed at that point, but I still appreciate her forgiving manner.

That was really nice, I think.

Why didn't I try that sooner?

Mom, I am naked in the closet because I wanted to change my clothes six times not the three like you said, and I peeked at my birthday present and threw away the burrito that I was supposed to eat for breakfast because I wouldn't eat it for dinner.

Huh. It kinda sounds worse when you put them all together like that.

But really, why? Mom always knows.

I am like fifteen, and smack in the middle of my angst ridden angry at parental authority figures period. I am lying in bed late at night. I am crying. I am afraid, I am sad. I am lonely and my body is riddled with unfamiliar hormones and I want my mom. I really, really want my mom.

She opens my door. I pretend I am asleep. I don't want to be asleep. I want her to sit down on my bed, and hold me close and tell me the nice things moms say, like those pimples don't look like volcanoes at all, and you can still be a successful adult even though you don't have one of those kilts with the huge safety pins like Tiffany in your English class has.

But I pretend I am asleep. I pretend I don't need her. I lie to my mom.

She still knows. Mom always knows. She walks in. She kisses me on the forehead. She whispers she loves me.

Hey, Mom?

Sorry I lied.

to paul on our anniversary

Dear Paul,

It's been a good eight years. I would even go so far as to say it's been a really, really good eight years. Good just isn't a good enough word, though. And the words that seem right also seem really, really....gooey.

Yesterday I came home from school and you didn't open the door right away. Sometimes that can be a sign that some illegal dealings are afoot (if you watch a lot of Lifetime television for women), but in this case it was just because you were putting the finishing touches on the Cinco De Mayo themed anniversary decorations you were putting up in our apartment.

They're pretty great decorations, too. I especially love the giant guitar holding mariachi guys who are now flanking the pictures on our big wall, and who look strangely like our friend Doug. I love that you stood in a party store and knew that I would love giant mariachi guitar guys who look like our friend Doug.

I don't know how to say all the things I am thinking. I don't know how to put eight years, eight years that have moved and lifted and challenged and blessed into a paragraph. I think when people do it usually ends up in a card that plays music when you push a button, and I'm just not sure that's what I'm going for here.

Maybe it is, though. I mean, if you can't say gooey words and throw pink marshmallow hearts around and stuff on an anniversary, then when can you?

So, I'm just going to go for broke here. I'm just going to lay my gooey cards out on the table. I think you're awesome. More than that. I think you're awesome times like fifty. I think you are sweet and silly and unexpected in the best possible way and the only person I ever want to throw pink marshmallow hearts at.

Also remember last night when I made you watch Spice World because I just wanted to see if it really was the worst movie ever made (and it was) and you only asked twice if we had to keep watching? Well, I just think that was really decent of you.

It's been a good eight years.

i travel back in time sixty years

Andrea: Hey Paul, would you go downstairs and get the laundry?

Paul: What? No! I'm tired!

Andrea: Me too. So hey, could you go get it?

Paul: But you started the laundry. Shouldn't you finish it?

Andrea: Hey, if you get it, I'll fold it. Collaborative effort. Good for marriage.

Paul: Are you serious? I just worked for thirteen hours! I saved lives! I SAVED LIVES FOR THIRTEEN HOURS! I SAVED LIVES FOR THIRTEEN HOURS SO YOU COULD STAY HOME AND DO LAUNDRY!

Andrea: Let's talk about the last half of that statement. After you get the laundry.

Kittens, inspired by Kittens!

Okay, so I would like to issue an urgent plea to all within the sound of my voice. Or who are posessed of psychic powers and know what I'm thinking just automatically. Or who happen to reading my blog right now. Please, PLEASE watch this. Watch this and then feed your kids a bunch of sugar and see if you can get them to do the same thing. Because that is TOTALLY what I would do if I had a kid. Hey, maybe I'll just feed MYSELF a lot of sugar and see if I do the same thing.

poor crazy dude

So, I'm walking to school today when I see this dude standing sort of close to the curb. He's gesturing to no one in particular, and talking in this kind of high sing-song-y voice, and as I watch him I think,

Awww. Poor crazy dude.

He doesn't look like your average crazy dude. He's wearing skinny jeans, for pete's sake. I don't know what the correlation is with skinny jeans and mental health, but there you go.

As I pity the poor crazy dude and think about how sad it is that no one is actually talking back to him, the crowd ahead of me parts, and I see:

His young daughter.

As I walk past I think how funny, that schizophrenia and attempting to parent a child present in such similar manners.

Poor crazy dude.

melodramatic me

4/14/92, 8:08pm

"Today was awfully sleepy. The old ache is back. I feel kind of empty. What hurts the most, though, is feeling so lonely and not being able to tell anyone. I keep thinking that somewhere there's a friend that I can really talk to . The sky is unhappy, because I am. I can tell. When I am happy the sky is violet, or a deep blue. Tonight, it is a sad blue. I do have friends that nobody knows about. The moon is my friend, and one star that is always above my window. That sounds horribly childish, but it is true."

Geez.

Someone really should have limited my L.M. Montgomery intake.

****Addendum: I was thirteen when I wrote this, so don't worry. While I do have very positive feelings regarding the moon, stars and sky, I no longer consider them to be close personal friends. I feel more than slightly embarrassed that apparently at one time, I did.****

i'm late for my PETA meeting

So, it's been approximately a million years since my last post. Apparently when I get stressed typing is impossible, what with all the curling up in the fetal position and thumb sucking and all.

Well, after some lengthy pep talks from Paul, my mom, and my good friends Ben and Jerry, I have crawled out from under the table, pried my shriveled thumb from my mouth, consumed several pounds of sugar, and, I am pleased to say, feel much better. A month plus of sugar consumption and thumb sucking will do that for you.

So, uh, yeah....

Here I am.

Let's see, what has happened in a month? Well, my brother Walt got married, which came as a huge shock since I thought he was still nine (turns out he's quite a bit older), and I had spring break, during which I watched a lot of Gilmore Girls, shouted "SPRING BREAK!!!" quite loudly at random and talked a lot about running around in a string bikini while holding a red plastic cup filled with root beer because I've heard that's what the kids do during spring break nowadays. Well, maybe not the root beer part.

It was a good week and a half. I ate like a five year old and stayed up until two in the morning a couple of times and once I even forgot to brush my teeth.

It was wild.

Now, I'm back at school and facing something most distressing:

I think maybe my literature teacher doesn't like me.

I've had my fears, but today when I approached her after class to ask for clarification of a word she scribbled at the end of one of my papers and she didn't beam with smiles as she gave her response I thought, hey. Does she not like me?

I thought about it all the way to the subway.

I mean, I'm at every class. I'm punctual. I turn in all of my assignments in a timely fashion, participate in class, come up with some fairly un-stupid ideas. What's not to like?

Am I obnoxious? I mean, I do sit at the front of every class, and maybe I do beam from ear to ear when she walks in, but that's just because I really like her class. Geez. Listen to me. I can't stand me.

Maybe I should sit in the back, and look sort of morose and troubled. Yeah, that's good.

Is it because I wore that bright pink lipstick last week? Dang. I'm too girly. I knew it! Okay, so I'll put on some sort of ripped clothes, and maybe they should be flow-y. Yeah, flow-y is good. I won't wear any makeup, and I'll perhaps neglect to put on a foundation undergarment and buy a pair of thick soled sandals and run them over with my neighbor's stroller a few times to make it look like I wear them to all my PETA meetings.

Yeah, that's good.

I feel better having a plan. Maybe then she'll like me.