All I want to do is write....

But I have such a hard time getting started. I turned to my new friend, Henry Rollins, for inspiration and he has delivered, boy has he delivered.

"I've always seen it as the role of an artist to drag his inside out, give the audience all you've got. Writers, actors, singers, all good artists do the same. It isn't supposed to be easy."

I am relieved that Henry feels this way, that the art of expressing yourself through word isn't supposed to be easy, because I find it so incredibly difficult. I have at least 6 half-written, somewhat thought-out attempts at blog entries and nothing to show.

The silly Friday's Feast that I've done in the past (OK, once) is easy. I like easy today. And it's almost Thanksgiving, so I am digging in.

Appetizer
What was your first “real” job?
My first job was at the BVM rectory. I answered the door and the phone and helped to cook and clean up dinner with the cook. The cook was very tall, kinda overweight woman named Bernie who told me stories of when she was young and spoke so fast that she almost couldn't breathe. My guess is that she truly enjoyed having someone there, to talk at, to listen to her, and help her. Her knees were bad. I wonder if she is still living. Morbid, I know.
My first "real" job as a college grad was at V-SPAN, Inc., a videoconferencing company based in King of Prussia. I was a Reservationist in a huge call center. It was like college all over again, a very dorm-like environment. It was a great place to be for that year right out of school.

Soup
Where would you go if you wanted to spark your creativity?
I like the beach, because it is quiet and serene. It is hard for me to write on the beach though, because of the elements. Elements like the wind and the sun and the families with kids running back and forth from the waterline to their circle of chairs. My creativity comes at strange times: on the train, in bed right before I drift off, at the doctor's office. Capitalizing on these instances is what I struggle with.

Salad
Complete this sentence: I am embarrassed when…
Recently, I am embarrassed when I go to the rhuemetologist and I have to do any of the following:
-Remove any part of clothing. I just experienced my first Humira injection and my doc had to administer the first shot. (I will do the rest at home, on a bi-weekly basis.) I had to pull down my sweatpants just a teeny bit and I was mortified.
-Answer questions about my personal life. Dr. El Creepo asked me on Wednesday at the aforementioned appointment, "scale of 1-10, how is your libido?" At the time, despite my giggle (sexually, I feel 13 on most days), I didn't think that the question was that absurd. It was not until Jackie pointed out the absolute flagrant inappropriateness of this question that I realized something is definitely off about my doc.
-El Creepo makes jokes, of any kind. They are usually somewhat crass and never funny, not in the least. I have to produce a quasi-laugh and do my best not to roll my eyes or make a disgusted face. Complete embarrassment.

Main Course
What values did your parents instill in you?
Easy. Amazing work ethics. My Mom, to this day, works 3 jobs and she is literally a magician when it comes to money. My Dad made a point to do whatever he did well.

Dessert
Name 3 fads from your teenage years.
*Disclaimer - I was a huge geek in my younger years. Who am I kidding? I still am. Any of all of these "fads" may or may not have been hip, so to speak, I may have been the only weirdo sporting them. I probably thought I was so cool too.*
1.) Sock layering, like one color on top of another, to match your outfit.
2.) Biker shorts. Spandex biker shorts. I had the best pair of black biker shorts with a hot pink stripe down the side of each leg. I wore them with way too much pride.
3.) Colored braces. What a terrible idea.

There, that felt good. Just to get something out. Thanks again Henry - more from you later.

Becoming him?

Saturday night.
9:25 pm.
Lazing on my couch, as I have been doing for the better part of the day.
Crickets chirp outside the window.
Only moving to get more water.
Yawning loudly.

Harry Kalas' voice, smooth and always strangely calming, leaks out of the TV. The Phils are down 7-4 to the Braves in the bottom of the 8th. I flip between the game and Cops, and as I do, I realize I am becoming my Dad.

Summer nights with him were spent laying on the pull out couch in the living room. Huge pink pillows surrounded me. The single room air conditioner blasting, the sheet hung from the doorway to keep it freezing. We watched the Phillies game and listened as Harry narrated the plays and provided endless stats. Next to him, I drifted in an out of sleep, extremely relaxed and feeling the safest I can ever remember feeling.

Cops was a preferred show for him. He was hooked. Prostitution stings, drug busts, high speed chases - whatever the flavor, he was interested. Flashing lights, toothless women reporting domestic abuse, the infamous theme song (you're singing it in your head now), oh Cops was a favorite, a guilty pleasure perhaps. Or maybe, and I feel a little bad for feeling this way, he identified with the people on the show, as unfortunately his criminal record was far from perfect.

Different ball players on a new field...
Fresh episodes of Cops...
My apartment instead of our house in Darby...
Different but the same. He is still here.

The Phils are still losing, but now by 2, Dad. It's the top of the 9th. I'll keep watching. Harry keeps me company.

My First

For a brief period of time in 2nd grade, we (my Mom, Jenna and I) moved out of the house and into an apartment. We lived in the Presidential Square Apartments on South Avenue and I attended Our Lady of Fatima. I was miserable. I was away from my friends and my school and stuffed into a 2 bedroom apartment, forced to share a bedroom with my younger sister. This didn't last long. Once it was decided that we'd move back home with my Dad, my best friend Kellie was ecstatic. She counted the days until I returned to BVM, the school we attended together since Kindergarten. It was the first time in my life that I remember feeling like I had a true friend in Kellie, that our sister-like bond was going to be around forever. Her anticipation was truly flattering.

Now, some 20 odd years later, my anticipation is mounting - anticipation of the arrival of Kellie's baby. In the 26 years of our friendship, we've shared almost every "first". We've done everything together, even down to the day of our own births. Kellie and I were both due on March 17th of 1981, St. Patrick's Day. Kellie was late (March 23rd) and I was even later (April 4th) much to the dismay of my Mom. We went to our first school together, All Saints Nursery School on Main Street in Darby. We were dropped off every morning and instructed to color a picture - a different animal each day. Kel and I made sure to match each other's colors and one day, when I colored an owl using every color of the rainbow, she was not happy. Have you ever seen a multi-colored owl?

The next 7 or so years were chock full of "firsts" as well. Second grade brought to me the predicament of the first boyfriend. A towhead boy named Billy told Kellie that he liked me. One day while walking home, Kel asked me if I liked Billy Scaggs.

"Sure, he's ok."

"No, but do you like him?"

"I don't know, what does that mean?"

And, in front of the gas station on MacDade Blvd., Kellie and I had our first like him conversation, followed by many more, I'm sure.

In 4th grade, Kellie got braces and presented us with our first instance of dealing with vanity and cruel 11 year old kids. She came to school and refused to open her mouth. With the help of a teacher, I convinced her that she'd have to open her mouth sooner or later and she might as well just get it over with. She was still gorgeous, even with the braces. Which were blue, if I remember correctly. In 6th grade, I got glasses and Kellie convinced me that wearing them made me look smart and she wanted a pair of her own.

Summer after 6th grade - my first heartbreak. It was not a boy who broke it, it was surely not Billy Scaggs, it was the news that Kellie's family was moving and she was transferring to a different school for the remaining 2 years. Shocked and extremely sad, I wondered how I was to survive undoubtedly the 2 hardest years of grade school, minus my sidekick. In 7th and 8th grades, you have to change classes! How was I supposed to navigate this daunting task without her!?! We had spent almost every day together since birth and now she was moving a whole mile away from me and attending St. Joe's. Surely, she'd find a new friend, tons of them actually, and forget about me.

Forget about me she didn't and we were reunited in the intimidating halls of high school. Faced with a brand new set of firsts (first locker, first formal dance, first make out session), Kellie and I found formed new bonds with different girls and groups. College brought more of the same. Our lives had taken us on different roads but that didn't change the fact that we started out in the same car. Through the changes, I always had a sense of confidence that she'd always be in my life. Not only in my life, but she'd always have the same familial role, the same deeply rooted connection, the same place in my heart.

Recently I have met the ultimate in firsts - the first realization that I am abruptly an adult. My friends are getting married and having children. Kellie is due on Sunday and very soon, she will be responsible for another life. She is no longer my childhood comrade, but my oldest and dearest friend whose life is about to drastically change. When Kellie broke her ankle in 6th grade, I was there to steady her, to hold her books and her hand. I'll be there this time to steady her, to hold her blankets and her teething rings and her bottles, and anything else that comes along.

Signs...

(No, not the Mel Gibson movie.)

A friend of mine has said in the past something to the effect of "it's amazing the things people will believe or think, just to comfort themselves." I think he was talking about religion, a topic I (after 20 plus years of friendship) refuse to discuss with him. However, his statement hit a chord and I often return to it. I am a self-proclaimed believer in signs and always have been. In the past 2 years since my Dad's death, signs appear everywhere. Or are they? Am I squinting my eyes and looking too hard into the universe?

Shortly after his death, after the shock, the mourning period, the short work hiatus and the return to normality, I found myself praying one night. I was talking to someone (God, Dad, whomever was listening) and I asked for a sign. I asked for something to tell me that he was ok. That he was safe and I could be sure that he was safe. The next day in work, I read online that Hurricane Dennis had hit Cuba. I took it as my first official sign that he was gone from this life but still with me. Like him, the sign was anything but discreet and I was absolutely sure it was him answering my prayer.

Jump to exactly one year after his death, Father's Day 2006. My Dad's first anniversary was upon me, and I had overwhelmingly mixed emotions. I found myself alone in my house in the morning and I didn't want to be. So I donned my bathing suit and hopped in my Acura and headed to the shore, more specifically to Sea Isle, to see Aunt Jeanne. A day on the beach chatting with my Dad's sister was what I thought I needed.

I drove over the Girard Point Bridge, aka the Double Decker, a bridge that reminds me of him. With the music blaring and tears dripping off my chin, I cruised barefoot over the Walt Whitman and onto the 42 Freeway into Jersey. While going about 80, I was completely lost in thoughts about him and the last year of my life. My car shook a little and my tires felt a bit unsteady, but I kept flying down the left lane. I remember the exact lyric of the Kenny Chesney song that was playing as I started to smell burning rubber. No sooner was I able to process the thought "burning rubber, I hope it's not my car" before I started spinning. The steering wheel was no longer in my control and I just yelled at the top of my lungs. The car and I spun to the left into the grass divider and then back across 3 lanes of southbound traffic. The traffic was not heavy, but certainly steady. Spinning, spinning, yelling, gasping for air. I landed on the right shoulder, facing forward as if I had pulled over normally.

All I could do was cry. I was stopped, safe, alive. Cars raced by me on the left, un-phased and unaware of the bullet I just dodged. As soon as I was able to pull air into my lungs again, I called my Mom in hysterics. She was heading to AC that day with a friend, they hadn't left yet. I tried to tell her what happened and, through my tears, she finally understood what I was saying. We spoke briefly, and then a truck was pulling up behind me. I told her someone was there to help me and I'd call her RIGHT back. We hung up. Shaking from head to toe, I carefully stepped out of my car and around to the passenger side. I looked at the back right tire and saw that it was all torn and separated from the rim. I learned the technical term later, a tire blowout.

A man got out of the NJ DOT truck and rushed up to me. He didn't see what had happened on the road. NJ DOT Emergency Services patrols the Jersey thoroughfares and helps people in need. When he reaches me, he puts his hands on my shoulders and asks if I am ok. A rush of hysteria came over me again as I tried to explain what happened.

"Take a deep breath ma'am; I am here to help you. My name is Dennis."

Dennis was extraordinarily calm and collected as he put a donut on my car. I told him exactly what happened and he was in awe. We agreed that with all of the traffic that was on 42 at the time, this was nothing short of a miracle. No guardrails on either side of the highway, and if there were I would have slammed into not one, but both of them. As Dennis worked on my tire, I told him that he shared my Dad's name and this was the 1 year anniversary of his death. A slow smile spread across his face. "Now that's pretty weird, huh?"

Weird wasn't the word for how I felt about the incident. Amazing was more like it. I was fully confident in my Dad's presence as I evaded a serious accident and a possible tragedy. I drove home on the donut in silence.

After that, the second big sign that came to me and affected (really affected) me, there have been other, smaller ones. Earlier this summer on the 68th street beach in Sea Isle with Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Joe, as we settled into our beach chairs, a plane carrying a banner buzzed across the sky. The words read, "Hi from Dennis at Hair Cuttery." I smiled to myself behind my shades and magazine and felt the warm sun and his presence once again.

Signs of my Dad are absolutely comforting. And if they are what I need to handle the fact that he is gone, I will keep my eyes (and my heart) open to them forever.

My Next Reads....

Let's hope these haunting, real-life drug tales don't end up to be a farce too. Damn you James Frey, you had me in tears every morning on the train.

Anxiously awaiting purchasing these 2 books: one by a father of a meth addict, and one by said meth addict. I read about them in Oprah's magazine today. I couldn't find an exerpt from both, just the father's.

Tweak: Growing Up on Methamphetamines (Hardcover) by Nic Sheff

Excerpt from 'Beautiful Boy: A Father's Journey Through His Son's Meth Addiction' by David Sheff

It's after eleven and Nic isn't home. I had been so tired, but now I'm wide awake in bed, feeling more and more uneasy. There are a million harmless explanations. Oftentimes, groups of people at AA meetings go out afterward for coffee. Or he could be talking with his new sponsor. I contend with two simultaneous, opposing monologues, one reassuring me that I'm foolish and paranoid, the other certain that something is dreadfully wrong. By now I know that worry is useless, but it shoots in and takes over my body at the touch of a hair trigger. I don't want to assume the worst, but some of the times Nic ignored his curfew, it presaged disaster.
I stare into the dark, my anxiety mounting. It is a pathetically familiar state. I have been waiting for Nic for years. At night, past his curfew, I would wait for the car's grinding engine, when it pulled into the driveway and then went silent. At last — Nic. The shutting car door, footsteps, the front door opening with a click. Despite Nic's attempt at stealth, Brutus, the chocolate Lab, usually yelped a half-hearted bark. Or I would wait for the telephone to ring, never certain if it would be him ("Hey, Pop, how're ya doin'?") or the police ("Mr. Sheff, we have your son"). Whenever he was late or failed to call, I assumed catastrophe. He was dead. Always dead.
But then Nic would arrive home, creeping up the hallway stairs, his hand sliding along the banister. Or the telephone would ring.
"Sorry, Pop, I'm at Richard's house. I fell asleep. I think I'll just crash here rather than drive at this hour. I'll see you in the morning. I love you." I would be furious and relieved, both, because I had already buried him.
Late this night, with no sign of him, I finally fall into a miserable half-sleep. Just after one, Karen wakes me. She hears him sneaking in. A garden light, equipped with a motion detector, flashes on, casting its bright beam across the backyard. Clad in my pajamas, I slip on a pair of shoes and go out the back door to catch him.
The night air is chilly. I hear crunching brush.
I turn the corner and come head-to-head with an enormous startled buck, who quickly lopes away up into the garden, effortlessly leaping over the deer fence.
Back in bed, Karen and I are wide awake.
It's one-thirty. Now two. I double check his room.
It is two-thirty.
Finally, the sound of the car.

"a light, that shines...special for you, and me"

On my keyring, I only have 2 keychains. A Coach butterfly charm, a birthday gift from Courtney that I love, and an Energizer flashlight covered in tan pleather. When you squeeze it, it lights up. A simple little gadget that has prompted Jackie to mock me about, because, apparently, I use it a lot. Not only do I use it a lot, I am very cautious and concerned about its lifespan. I don't like it when people play with it - switching it on and off with a gentle push. I take this little convienence tool very seriously.

My Dad gave me this keychain several years ago. He most likely got it for free when he bought cigarettes or found it in a parking lot somewhere. He was always finding random objects and trying to pawn them off on us. One year, he found a gold Flyers charm and tried to convince me to wear it to school.

"This is nice Kris - look, 14 karat gold!"

I think he ended up sporting it - to support the Flyers? To show off his find? To prove me wrong? Who knows...

Back to the keychain - I am sure when he gave it to me, I mocked him. "Gee, thanks Dad," I probably said. He always took it in stride, my teenage ridicule, laughing right back at me - knowing he was goofy and enjoying it. It's the same way I am now, I am always laughing the hardest at my own jokes.

It probably made him feel good to give it to me, like it was something I'd always have with me. And I am sure he gave me about 14 uses for it at the time. Five or so years later, I think of him everytime I pull it out. When I am rooting through my bag on the train, when I'm trying to fit my key in the door of my apartment, when I am finding my way through a dark area...there it is, to my rescue, so to speak.

My Dad didn't impart volumes of knowledge upon me in the 52 years of his life. He wasn't always around for that, for the advice, the pep talks, the guidance. But he got his snippets in, here and there. There are very poignant nuggets that I've retained - some trivial and some much more significant.

I can still hear his scratchy voice each time I put the cap on a 2 liter bottle of soda. "Twist it tight! I don't want it going flat!" I don't even have 2 liter bottles of soda in my apartment that often, but when I do, you can bet I probably only drink from it once, as after I've put the cap on again - I can't get it reopened for the life of me.

I used to drive an old Chevy Cavalier wagon in college, for freshman and sophomore years at least. It was powder blue. The back door did not close, so in order to keep our belongings in the back during our rides to and from Washington D.C., my friends and I used to have to hold on to a thin rope. One day, in our nation's capital, I ran out of gas. The car just stopped dead somewhere in NE Washington D.C. We trekked to the station and filled up a container, then back to the car to put it in. A conversation with my Dad later that night ensued:

"Yeah, I ran out of gas today, it was so annoying!"

"Is your gas gauge broken?"

"No."

"Then for what good reason did you run out?"

I had no good reason. Maybe laziness, or lack of money, or simply just not paying attention. In any event, I am considerably aware now of the amount of gas in my car at all times.

Growing up, I remember having a lot of "stuff". Whether it was toys, books, electronics, bikes...I always had my share of things to play with. My Dad was a stickler for making sure I took care of everything. When a kid from the neighborhood stole my bike from our driveway, my Dad and I drove around for hours looking for it. He didn't want to retire to the house. He never gave up on finding it, even when I did.

"Take care of your things Kris, you want them to last a long time, right?"

Of course I did. Now I find myself wishing he took his own advice and took better care of himself.

At many times during the day, he enters my head and sets up shop in my thoughts. Like the silly little keychain, he comes into my life in small, but useful and meaningful (to me) ways. I am worried that if the light runs out, I will lose a little part of him, 2 years later. I don't want the light to fade like my memories might.

I need those thin rays of light, leading my way...

Friday's Feast

Appetizer: Name a sound you like to hear.

Absolutely the ocean, especially early in the morning when there is no one on the beach. Waves roll in and out, serene yet powerful.

Soup: What is your favorite kind of cheese?

Cheddar? I am simple when it comes to cheese. Not to say I wouldn't try any exotic brand of fromage.

Salad: Do you sleep late on Saturday mornings? Why or why not?

No, I cannot sleep in on the weekends for either 1 of 2 reasons:

1.) I am severly hungover, so much so that it wakes me up. I need water, air and love. I am like a plant.

2.) I do not like to waste the weekend hours with sleep. I love my apartment so much that anything I am doing in it makes me happy. So I savor the moments, even the ones before 9 am.

Main Course: When was the last time you forgot something? What was it, and how long did it take to remember it?

Hmmmm, does the fact that I cannot immediately remember prove that I'm typically forgetful? I forgot it was a co-worker's birthday this morning. It was not until another co-worker mentioned it that I remembered. How much does this matter though? I would feel much more guilty if it was a non-work related friend.

DessertFill in the blank: I notice ____________ when _____________.

I notice how strong my legs are when I exercise. More recently, when I partake in my new addiction, riding bikes with Lex.

This Was Fun

1) CHOOSE A BAND/ARTIST AND ANSWER ONLY IN TITLES OF THEIR SONGS: gotta go with Rod the Mod

2) ARE YOU MALE OR FEMALE? Maggie May

3) DESCRIBE YOURSELF: Forever Young

4) HOW DO SOME PEOPLE FEEL ABOUT YOU? Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?

5) HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT YOURSELF? You Wear It Well

6) DESCRIBE YOUR MOST RECENT EX: I Don’t Wanna Talk About It

7) DESCRIBE YOUR CURRENT BOYFRIEND/GIRLFRIEND:Infatuation

8) DESCRIBE WHERE YOU WANT TO BE:Sailing

9) DESCRIBE HOW YOU LIVE: Have I Told You Lately (That I Love You)

10) DESCRIBE HOW YOU LOVE: Fooled Around and Fell In Love

11) WHAT WOULD YOU ASK FOR IF YOU HAD ONE WISH?Stay With Me

12) SHARE A FEW WORDS OF WISDOM: The First Cut is The Deepest

13) NOW SAY GOODBYE: Farewell

I Dig Music.

"Baseball is what gets inside you. It's what lights you up, you can't deny that."

A favorite quote from Jimmy Dugan in A League of Their Own, played tremendously by Tom Hanks.

Do you want to know what gets inside me, what lights me up? It is music. Music inspires me and motivates me. I have to be listening to it constantly, some may say to a fault.

"Kris."

"Kris?"

"Kristen!"

"KRISTEN!"

My co-workers repeatedly have to call my name in getting my attention in our quad. I yank the ear buds out of my ears and respond to them. Apologizing profusely but immediately getting back into my zone. I am listening to whatever incredible tune is blaring out of my laptop via a perfect little invention called Yahoo Launchcast Radio.

Nestled in my big tan couch in my vanilla little apartment, I am hysterically crying. No, I am not upset, I did not receive some unfortunate news. No, it's not a tear jerker movie on Lifetime or even Grey's Anatomy. American Idol is on. (Insert Judgement Here) I know how corny this show is, for lack of a better term. I know how much "fluff", product placement and general CRAP is involved. I do not care. I love music and anyone who makes it (or tries to).

My love for music has always existed, but in the past few years it has intensified. The aforementioned Yahoo Launchcast has aided this effort. For just 30 bucks a year, I can listen to unlimited hours of My Station, a radio station customized for me. Much like Tivo (another gem of modern technology), Launchcast recommends to me artists that I might enjoy, based on my current preferences. How much do I love the little man inside my laptop who sees my love for Rod "The Mod" Stewart and introduces me to The Faces, Rod's former band? In minutes, I am rocking out to "Stay With Me" and completely oblivious to the world of work / gossip / negativity around me. I am certain that if, for some reason, the company I work for no longer allows us to listen to music via the Internet, I will metaphorically jump ship.

Along with my profound affection comes the constant need to defend my eclectic taste and the urge to introduce people (my friends) to songs and artists that I have recently fallen in love with. Again, some may say to a fault.

Heated debates about "how much country music sucks" have ultimately ended with me getting up and making a beeline for the restroom. When one of my only male co-workers (ignorantly) proclaimed that "Bruce Springsteen never made a good song, and they all sound the same anyway", I nearly choked on my Diet Coke. How can anyone make such blanket statements? Further, is anyone forcing these people to listen to country music or The Boss? Exactly. Don't knock what I am listening to unless I am blasting it out of a boom box a la Radio Raheem in "Do The Right Thing."

When a song gets inside of me and lights me up, I want everyone in my life to feel the same light.

"No, but listen to the words, they're amazing."

"Wait, gobackgoback, listen to this part."

"Here it comes that line I was telling you about."

"Didja hear it?! I love it."

Sometimes it works! Jackie is musically impressionable and holds no discrimination. Driving in my car, she now requests Kenny (Chesney) and John (Mayer). Man, I love that about her. Justina has much of the same tastes and when I send her an instant message with a line from some obscure indie love song, she eagerly replies with "amazing." These women know good music and are open minded. Donna Summer? Absolutely.

Lately, I've noticed that my passionate affair with music has increasingly begun to infiltrate the rest of my life, namely my relationships. I am never without my iPod (if I am alone) and there are constant lyrics in my head for every situation I encounter. The words "it's just like that song..." are way too often falling out of my mouth. Consequently, I am comparing the lyrics to my current favorite song to the ups and downs of being a 26 year old, single, working woman living alone. Bad idea? I had never really thought about it. Is my life ever going to live up to a romantic rock ballad by The Fray? To use a tired cliche, only time will tell. In the meantime, I'll at the very least enjoy the soundtrack of my world.

BACK

I needed a revival.

Justina has inspired me.

I am back.