There'll Be No More Living Without You Baby, I'm Counting Each Minute Till I'm Back To You, One Step Closer To Heaven, Baby

--"One Step Closer", S Club 8

I had the idea of work that I'm hoping to implement as the newest trend. A query had arisen which vessel people preferred when imbibing both hot and cold liquids. The choices were glass, mug, or cup. That descended into a conversation about what specifications actually constitute a glass, mug, or cup. For instance, one of my co-workers has a glass mug. Of course, we call it a mug, but it could just as easily be called a glass. It was quite humorous, the diligence we took to what, at first appearance, seemed such an innocuous question. I love when spirited discourse emerges from the simplest of stimuli.

From that discussion, I got to ruminating about why we drink from certain containers for certain liquids at not others. That's where my two ideas had their birth. I want to institute drinking coffee out of sports bottles as the next big thing. I think it'd be hilarious to see someone squirting scalding hot coffee into their mouths. Something about that image amuses me to no end. Yet, for all the potential harm, I still think the idea is viable. It could mean an end to dealing with impractical cups and their less than intuitive lids. It could also mean, rather than sipping coffee and trying in vain to get a quick jolt of caffeine, you could pound them one after the other. Your alertness could be a steady brown (or black) stream away.

My second idea arose as a counterpoint to my first idea. I think it'd be great if people started drinking milkshakes out of spray bottles on the mist setting. Not only would you be cooling your mouth on a tempestuous summer day, but you could cool your whole face at the same time. Think of the possibilities. "Like chocolate shakes? Now you can wear one on your face!" Also, utilizing the stream setting on the spray bottle, you could let your friend taste your shake from across the room. I don't know about you, but I would love to have a friend get my attention and then be rewarded with some vanilla goodness flying my way. The whole concept of milkshakes in spray bottles brings a smile to my face.

----

The one thing that sucks about fighting with Breanne is that she's the only one who would find this kind of idiocy as funny as me. I can't wait until this stupid cold war is over so she too can revel in my "discoveries".

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Don't Know Where I Am But I Know I Don't Like It, I Open My Mouth & Out Pops Something Spiteful, Words Are So Cheap, But They Can Turn Out Expensiv

--"Tenderness", General Public

When any two people fight constantly it becomes necessary to prioritize your values. Nobody wants to be around somebody they disagree with on more than an occasional basis. Nobody wants the aggravation having to defend your point-of-view daily brings with it. It's an unnecessary expenditure while life's already exacting a pretty hefty toll. Yet, for some reason, hundreds, if not thousands, of individuals make the decision to forgo basic instincts and attempt to let another argument slide for the sake of peace. They set aside their personal pride, their opinions, even their common sense to maintain the delicate balance of keeping people that matter in their lives.

I've never been one of those people. Not really.

----

When I was younger and had only recently gotten to know her, it used to be easy to override Breanne's judgment. I just made myself louder and more tenacious when it came to arguing my point than she ever could. That's how I won fights. It wasn't a battle of logic when she and I disagreed. Logic hardly is the arbiter of most fights, I think. Most fights, if they're really broken down, are won by the person who can be the most stubborn. That was me. I didn't care if I was right as long as she was wrong. Like I said, it was easier because she was younger than me and because she was taught that concepts like civility and politeness do you more credit than tenaciousness and conviction. Sometimes in those early days, it was like rolling a bowling ball down bumper lanes. There was no way I could miss, no way I could lose.

But as we got older, I started to notice two things happening. She would start to stand up to me way too often and I started to resent the fact that we weren't having the easy fight/cool down/"I'm sorry" four-hour dramas we used to have. Eventually, the cool down periods started getting longer and longer, where sometimes I wouldn't even hear from her till four or five days letter. I also started to notice that the idea of being friends with her started to appeal to me less and less. I mean--who has the time and the energy to be around somebody that constantly makes you feel wrong and who brings out the meanest and most vile part of your personality? That's what she was doing and I'm sure I was conjuring up the same sort of bitch in her. It wasn't exactly a functional relationship for whole weeks at a time.

Honestly, I don't know why we're still friends sometimes. I've yelled at her stuff that stronger people have practically disowned me for. I've called her alternatively "a useless doll that people will never take seriously" and "a girl only good for two things, fucking and crying." She's told me to my face that I was "a heartless coward who likes to hit girls when he's wrong." There's a whole list of names and accusations that I'll probably never wipe from my memory as long as I live. Even after we've patched things up it's not like we ever attempt to take back the things we said. We know they're true--if not completely, with enough of a kernel of honesty to make it feel like they're true. There's no taking back words that hurt and there's no such thing as words that ever truly heal. There are only words that injure you so deeply that you'll always have that scar to remind you. It's one thing to be demeaned and knocked low by a stranger who only sees one part of you. When the person pulling the trigger is someone who knows every part of you, has heard every story you've ever told, you have no choice but to get shot point blank.

I've never fought so often and so hard with someone as I do with her.

The thing is as we've gotten older, sure, we've slowed down a bit. Gone are the days when we actually had fights over the phone or in person that lasted intermittently for ten plus hours. Gone are the days when I could infuriate her so much she wouldn't talk to me for months. Gone are the days when I actually woke up trying to steel myself to actually end things with her. Yet, even though we don't fight as often, when we do fight (like we have all weekend), it still feels like she ain't pulling punches and she still turns me into someone that would honestly wish harm visited upon her. We're just so fucking stubborn about these things, it makes me sick. You think two people many years out of college whose friendship is nearing two decades would have a more civil tone to each other when they disagree. Nope. We still come at each other with knives bared. That's still our first instinct. I don't know why that is. It's gone on so long with her that I don't even comprehend other options when a fight gets that bad. We're both throwing those knockout punches, trying to knock each other's head off in one blow.

It's got to stop. Even if it's like nine or ten months between these knockdown drag-out fights, I'm emotionally spent every time. You know what I did this weekend. I texted her hateful, snide comments between basically dropping out of civilization all of Saturday and most of Sunday. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to do anything. And for what? Because she had pissed me off so much I couldn't calm down normally. Not only that, but I was also feeling horrible for the stuff I said. I was a wreck for basically two days. And over what? Something she had decided to tell me that had been over and done with for ten years now. What's the point in fighting over that? Yet we found a way to both get irrationally irate over it to the point where threats were being levied and the memory on my phone is replete with some godawful abuse both coming and going.

----

I remember when Breanne was sixteen and I was twenty. We had gotten into a scrimmage over how seriously we were trying to be there for one another (or some other innocuous topic). It hadn't gotten really bad, but I saw these signs were looming. For once, I had the foresight to simmer down before I said something I regretted. I sent her a small note designed to make her laugh in the hopes some peace could be established:

Patrick and Breanne are too old to be fighting, that's what my mom says at least.

Indeed, we are.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And There Are Things That Follow This Quietly To The Past, We've Seen All Those Faces, We Won't Go Looking For Trouble

--"Just Like We Do", Eisley

I started calling Tara "buttercup" because Reese's Peanut Butter Cups" is pretty much my all-time favorite candy in the world. I believe the exact reasoning I explained to her was that Peanut Butter Cups were my favorite candy bar in the world and she was my favorite person at the time, so it kind of made sense to correlate the two. I don't know what it exactly meant. I didn't find her exactly sweet or chocolatey. She never did remind me of peanut butter exactly. I think the only association I could hang my hat on was the "two favorites" theory. But like all other pet names or nicknames, it stuck. I think the whole eighteen months I was with her I continued to use that nickname exclusively.

I give everyone nicknames--everyone important, that is. I find it's often the only link I have to keeping someone in memory. Whereas sometimes I'll forget a face ten minutes I've seen it, if I stick an individual with a nickname, I'll remember that person for life. It's probably because I endow so few people, considering, with nicknames. I mean--it's the quickest arbiter of how close I feel to a person outside of my family. If I've taken the time to label you some godawful nickanme, then you at least know I enjoy my time talking to you. Some people have known me their entire lives and I've never bothered to dream up a nickname for them. It doesn't mean don't enjoy their company. Far from it. It just means I don't particularly like the ebb and flow of conversation with that person. It just means that on a scale of friendship, they're possibly one level above acquaintances. To earn a nickname, means you'd have to reveal something quite personal about yourself, and the majority of people I have found are loath to do that. They'll talk on the surface, which is all well and dandy, but that's all it is. It doesn't reveal any depth to them. It doesn't fire up my imagination or my brain. It doesn't warrant commemoration with a nickname. It's small talk and I've never been a big fan of small talk.

When Marion was knighted with her name, it wasn't simply because she was a fan of Indiana Jones. It was the fact that she went into such depth about it, to the point where she let me in on the secret of why she did or did not identify with certain characters from the film. It commemorated the dozens of talks we've had regarding film, art, the creative process, as well as the sense of isolation we both have felt at times. Marion just isn't the feisty arm candy to Dr. Jones in the first movie. She's also the gal who was spurned by the first man she ever cared about, the one who had doubts about her self worth after enduring this trauma. She's the one who was ultimately left alone on a mountaintop, afraid she would have to fend for herself for the rest of her life and not entirely sure where to begin that process. That's who Miss Marion is. That's why that's a perfect name for her.

Or when I call Epcot, Epcot, it's not merely because that's where we first met. It's because that's how for the longest time I saw her as. She was the shy, afraid eleven-year-old girl who had lost her family, yet still had enough trust in me to follow me around until we found them. That's who Epcot is. She doesn't say much. She feels a lot. But, in the end, she does what needs doing. That's how she gets by with life. That's how she became a doctor even though, in her own words, there were four or five times I wanted to quit. She still gets shy. She still gets afraid. But she still manages to get where she needs going, whether that be back to her family or back from losing Joshua.

Miss Flibbertigibbet--Miss Flib, for short--is a flibbertigibbet. Yet I saw that with all affection because it takes a confident person to admit her shortcomings. Miss Nancy Drew, Miss Sexy Thang, Miss Canadian Sweetheart--they're all imaginative ways to remember stories each of them have told me that weren't exactly easy to admit.

The way I view things is that a name is just a string of words. A nickname, however, is the face behind the name. A nickname is the real revelation of character; it's the real arbiter of a person's personality; it's a real indication of what a person is rather than who a person is. I mean--a person's name is a tool that distinguishes him or her from any other person, but a person's nickname is what makes them unique.

I myself have had tons of nicknames pasted upon me. Following is a short list starting from grade school and continuing onward:

Tricky
Penguin
E.T.
Eeyore
Fitz
Schlitz
Turok, Dinosaur Hunter
Brillon
mojo shivers

There's a story behind each one of them. Some of them I've liked. Some of them I have disliked, but all of them I've kept for a long time. I wear them proudly because not everyone I know calls me by every single name. It's a way for me to remember what kind of person I was when I first took up the mantle of that particular name. It's a way for me to be that person again. It's a way for me to put on that face again.

And when I choose to employ Breannie instead of Breanne, it's not to be cutesy or coy. I don't always choose to use my special name for her. If I want to be funny I could always use Lucy because even mentioning that name in front of her cracks me up. If I want to be terse or brief with her I could always use B. because it's a form of shorthand that we've adopted (except in my case she calls me E. for Ernest, though I co-opted it to mean Eeyore). No, I only use Breannie when I want her to remember the girl I met and the girl I immediately started to adore. From the first moment I heard her name, Breanne Haley Holins, I thought it was too much name for such a young woman. I told her that she reminded me more of a Breannie than a Breanne. And that's where the name stuck.

Though she's far grown-up now to really fit into her whole name, I still remember when she wasn't. I still remember what made her special to me from day one.

I choose to call her Breannie and I'm the only one who'll ever call her that because she can try to be somebody else, somebody more mature or elegant or experienced. But to me she's still that beautiful, graceful, and intelligent sylph I had no choice to care about.

It's not just a nickname for her. It's who she is to me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

There's A Bad Reason, She Just Can't Stay Home Anymore, Expectations Rising, Life's Too Short, It's Too Cliche

--"The Disco Song", Au Revoir Simone

sketched in the waiting room of my dermatologist many years ago...

She had forgotten her hat. Her messy brown hair could attest to that. She had been so eager to leave her home that morning that she had neglected to bring it along. She had grabbed little Michael and been out the door before she had time to change her mind. No time for hair. No time for breaking down a plan of action. No time to really pack much. All she had with her was five hundred dollars she had kept lying around the house and the clothes with her.

She watched the only other individual in the waiting room with suspicious eyes. Did he know? Would he tell? Those are the questions she asked. She knew she was being ridiculous, but so much of her life had been spent being blind to what was going around her. So much of her life was spent ignoring what everyone had been telling her. Her escape was long overdue. She would say good-bye to her sister, the doctor, and then she would be gone into the wind. She began to bounce little Michael on her knee. She hadn't even bothered calling ahead to warn her sister she was coming. She was afraid if she did that her sister would try talking her out of it. She couldn't have that. She needed to stay sure about her decision.

Michael started fussing with her hair, causing the stranger in the seat opposite her to laugh.

"He sure is a handful," the stranger said.

"Yes," she politely answered.

The less she said the less she'd be remembered. She needed to be a ghost. That way when the police came asking about her, no one could definitively say he had seen her. With her husband beaten to a bloody pulp, there would be questions. She didn't want the answers to lead back to her. She just needed to talk to her sister. Then she needed to be gone.

He had never even seen what had hit him. She had surprised him in his bed as he laid asleep. She should have given some thought to what she was going to use, but she hadn't planned it at all. In the end she had grabbed the first thing that she thought she could handle. The frying pan had been awkward, but effective. The first swing she had taken at his face had completely horrified even her. Yet it had kept him down. She took another couple of swings to make sure the job had been done. She needed him inoperative, but still alive. It wouldn't do to kill him. It also wouldn't do for him to get a clear picture of who had attacked him. That was the reason for drawing the shades. She hoped he would think it had been someone who had planned to rob him while she had been out of the house with little Michael. She hoped by the time he figured it out, they'd have at least a state on him.

It had all happened so fast. She'd run and hadn't stopped running till now.

She heard the receptionist call the stranger into the office. Unfortunately, her sister never came to the door into the waiting room. She watched as the stranger opened the door himself. He walked inside with the receptionist letting him know to just have a seat inside one of the rooms.

"She'll be right with you," the receptionist assured her immediately after. "She's just now finishing up with her previous patient. She should be walking out here any minute."

She nodded her head, her son still bouncing along on her knee. Something is wrong, she thought. She had told her sister explicitly that she needed to see her as soon as possible. It wasn't like her sister to put her off. Not this long, at any rate.

They know, she thought. Somebody tipped her off and told her to keep me here for as long as possible.

She grabbed her son off her lap, gathered her bag, and started to make her way to the waiting room door to exit. The receptionist shot her a perplexed look. The woman could only shrug her shoulders. She pointed to her watch. If anyone asked the receptionist, she would merely say that some woman had wanted to talk to the doctor, but had to be somewhere else. No mention of sisters or what the conversation had been about. Sure, she had seen the woman's face and could see that she had a son, but she figured that this office so many mothers with their sons. That would have to be enough.

She opened the door in one swift motion and exited. Like that she was gone.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Borderline, Feels Like I'm Going To Lose My Mind, You Just Keep On Pushing My Love Over The Borderline

--"Borderline", Madonna

It started off by Miss Marion asking me last week if I ever tried any sports. I told her that when I was younger that I was played AYSO for a year, played some tennis, and played a little basketball. I was never any good at them and I never really went anywhere with them. I've never been any good sports. It's probably why sports have never really been good to me. Sometimes I look at people like Breanne, who has that ethic to run three miles a day for five days a week. I get really down on myself that I never had that resolve to stick to a sport. I mean--I feel better now that I'm going to the gym four days a week, but that isn't a passion for me and that has only been an activity I've engaged in the last three years. If anything, the sport I like the best is bowling, I told her, because it's something that I can pick up any time I please.

That's when she told me that she used to love playing tennis with her sisters. The three of them, sometimes with their mom, used to head down to the local park and just play for hours. She said she used to dream of being a tennis player someday--not with any real authority to make it happen, but the silly dreams of somebody uncovering something that makes them happy.

Then she went into how her sister Nora a few years later started getting really serious about it. She tried out and made her local high school team. She started winning... a lot. She found her passion. Toby couldn't have been happier for her.

But it all came to an end when she fell in love with someone on the boy's tennis team. And when that came to an end, she couldn't stand to be around tennis anymore. She gave it up because "she'd rather lose something once than feel like she was losing him over and over again every day."

"I don't know if I've ever given up something for somebody I loved. Not really," I told her.

"Never?"

"I don't think so. Certainly nothing so tangible as having to quit something."

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized there was a time when I did. While I was dating Tara, it was the first real relationship I had that where I didn't feel like pulling away. Instead, I was almost too clingy. And because of that, I had problems when somebody would speak something bad about her. It wasn't so bad at work because they never said anything too horrible. And it wasn't too bad with Breanne because, well, she's her and she knew how much I liked Tara. Nope, the worst I had it out was with two people. Heidi and Jina's mom.

"I don't even know what they said exactly, Toby. I just remember they were casting dispersions on her character in an attempt to show support for me. However, all I heard was somebody was badmouthing her."

"Then what happened?"

"I cut them off like I always do when I get into a really big fight. I don't want to hear what they have to say and I leave, never to return."

"How horrible."

In truth, I was ill-prepared for having to work so hard for someone. Breasy was easy. She made it easy to go as slow or as fast as we wanted to go. With Tara it was like I smitten and I had to do everything right away. I didn't have a good perspective with her. I thought I was in love. Maybe I was. But nothing was good enough for her. I felt I had to be perfect for her and being perfect meant choosing her over everyone else. She never asked me to. She probably never wanted me to. But I did it any way. I put her before people I've known for longer than her. Heidi was the worst, because she was really likable. I already had fucked up with her by being too clingy with her also. I had barely patched things up with her and then I had to go leave her by the wayside for somebody I had just barely begun to date. The same thing was Jina's mom. I had fucked things up with Jina. I had barely got on speaking terms with her again. Then her mom had to say something unkind of Tara. So I stopped chatting with her, which probably pissed off Jina, and I never heard from either one for ten years.

"In the end, when Tara and I broke up, I was sad for that. But I was also sad because I sacrificed on my own two good people that I never really had to. So, no, it wasn't tennis or something I did. When I choose to give up something, it's usually people."

"The things we do for love, right?" Toby said, summing it up perfectly.

"Exactly. Sometimes I don't know if I'm capable of taking love in stride. I always seem to sacrifice more than I get. One of these times I'm going to have to try it in moderation... just to compare."

"Let me know how that goes," I heard her say before moving on in the conversation.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Sorry That I Hurt You, It's Something I Must Live With Everyday, And All The Pain I Put You Through, I Wish That I Could Take It All Away

--"The Reason", Hoobastank

He should have been awake for this conversation was his first thought. That thought hit him like an alarm clock blaring its morning reverie. The state he was in now, he was in no condition to be conversing with anyone, least of all her. The static drips of the telephone extension clued him into the fact that he was, indeed, still on the line with her and, indeed, she was proceeding with the rest of this conversation with or without his consent.

“Tell me one good reason and maybe I would consider it, sugar,” is all she said this time. The other times had been much worse. She hadn’t had time to temper her anger and she’d lashed out like the hellcat she was. Nope, this time her voice held a curious calm about it, almost as eerie as the stillness of winter. She didn’t sound upset at all… which could mean she was boiling over inside for all he knew.

He peered over to the alarm clock on the shelf. It read 11:15. They’d been going to and fro for the last two hours. Neither party was willing to give ground. He knew the ground rules. If you gave an inch, she would utilize the opening to seize a mile. If you allowed yourself to be doubted, she would crumble the very walls of defense you had so carefully erected. This wasn’t a war of attrition. It was the stalemated and calculated give and take of a chess match. No one had the upper hand. No one was on the verge of conceding. The game had only just begun.

He liked her. That much was evident in the fact of the frequency of their phone calls to one another. She was usually effervescent and funny; she was usually the most delightful individual to ever hold in one’s life. That’s probably why he felt so much on the defensive.

“You don’t even care how it affects me. I don’t even matter to you,” he said to her blankly.

“If that were true, would I even be listening?”

“Whatever.”

He liked her so much he didn’t want anyone else to even have the opportunity to like her as well. She couldn’t go out to whatever church social she was telling him about. She just couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it. She just had to accept that. In his mind he was firm on the matter. It would be one thing if it had been something innocuous, something innocent that would ultimately lead to nothing. He himself had been to many a church fair or church carnival. He knew the deal of going with one’s classmates just to make an appearance. Some of them had even been mandatory. He had gone, put his head in, and then left an hour later. No big deal. To him the quicker these things were over, the better. She was different, though. When she consented to going, she stayed for the day. They weren’t something to be avoided. These gatherings for her were a on-the-cheap hobby. Her mother had seen to it that her daughter had been instilled with the sense of duty and reverence. Church functions weren’t something to be dreaded. They were to be celebrated with as many people as you could possibly get to see you celebrating. More than that, her mother had voiced her opinion that the majority of socializing was done in a church capacity. That’s how she’d met her husband, and that’s how she expected her daughter to meet someone special.

That’s exactly what the young man was afraid of. She couldn’t meet anyone new. She’s already met me. Why would she need to meet anyone else?

“It’s probably going to be as boring as a cow on a diet anyhow. I don’t see the big whoop. I really don’t,” she said.

“The big whoop is that the weekends are the only time I get to talk to you as long as I want. And you want to ruin that by staying out all day at some square dance?”

“I told you not to call it that.”

“Excuse me, church fundraiser. Better?”

He heard the confusion in her voice. She probably expected him to be okay with all of this. She probably didn’t have any idea how much ruckus she would raise by telling him of her plans for the weekend. To her it was as natural as going to school every day and coming home every night. You met with your church whenever they wanted to meet. That was as easy as pie to decide or, as she had so delicately put it, “it was as natural as breaking wind.” Even after all this time he knew she could never quite get used to the senseless jealousy she provoked in him.

“I don’t know why you’re getting your britches all in a bunch, darling. I will be back in plenty of time to call you if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want. What I want is for you to keep your promise. You said the weekends are mine and that I got first dibs. I don’t want you to go. Why can’t you just keep your promise, Breannie?”

It was cheap. But aside from guilt-tripping her, he didn’t have many weapons in his arsenal to use against her. He knew he didn’t have any right to say where and when she went out. He knew he didn’t have any say in how she spent her time. The only thing he had was the idea she valued this friendship. That’s the only thing he could hold over her. That’s the only way he knew how to get his way.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Patrick. I want to go, but I want you to be okay with it, you know?”

“That’s not going to happen. How do you expect me to be okay with you abandoning me like that?”

“I’m not abandoning you. I’m not. It’s one day. A couple of hours. I promise I’ll talk to you as long as you want the night before and as soon as I get back. Would that be okay?”

“No, because it’s not what you promised.”

“Hell’s bells to what I promised. Plans change.”

“Not for me they don’t. I would never spring something like this on you and you know it.”

That’s the other thing he could hold over her, that he kept his word. He was resolute in making plans and abiding by them. Whenever he made a promise with her, it might as well have been written in concrete. When he promised her that he’d keep her safe, he kept it. When he promised he would put her first in his life when it came to opening up or sharing secrets, he kept it. When he promised that he would be her friend, it was a promise he took with the utmost seriousness. She wasn’t something he could take lightly. He saw it as his duty to make her his priority. All he wanted was for her to take the same sweet steps to making him feel important.

“I can’t stand you sometimes, do you know that?” she asked him rheotorically. Gone was all sweetness in her voice. Gone was the patience that he heard all evening up until that point. In their stead, he was greeted with the sound of grievous indignation. Oh, yes, he could hear that she was about to relent, but it would come at some cost to him.

He could live with that. Let her be mad, he thought. In the end, she’ll see that she can’t just make a promise and break it. Not with me. Not ever.

“It’s like most of the time you’re this person who gets me and who treats me as somebody worthy of respect. And then it’s like you put on this disguise. You turn into somebody who twists my words, who uses them against me, all to just get your way. It’s childish. It’s amateur. Worst of all, it’s something I would never pull on you,” she surly said. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. I did promise you that. But I’m hoping you’ll pickle through this in time and see that you’d be better served if I did go. Trust me on that. I’ll call you on Saturday, like I said, but if my lily-white ass had to stay home because of your insistence, you are not going to like what I have to say to you on that day. Guaranteed.”

Then she hung up the phone without so much as a “think it over” or “good-bye.” She was gone in a hurry, leaving him to parse through what exactly she meant. He’d heard her upset. That was a given dealing with him as often as she did. What he hadn’t heard was the requisite patience that had been present all evening. She hadn’t poised an ultimatum to him. More like a dire warning of his fate come this weekend. He could either take her at her word or relish his hard won, albeit small, victory.

He chose to do the latter.

It wasn’t that he didn’t feel for her. He knew he could be callous and overbearing to her, but, the way he figured it, that was just part of the package. She knew what kind of person he was. He never tried to hide it. He never tried to deny it. If he had a thought to changing that part of his behavior, it would definitely be for her benefit. Yet as hard as he tried to manage it, the fact that she persevered provided him the excuse that he couldn’t have be that bad. No one stays if it’s unbearable, right? Her patience justified his behavior in a sense for as long as she continued to stay he would continue to stay just as he was.

Yet in the same idea he was ashamed to admit lay his weakness as well. For, if she ever truly stopped to analyze the situation, he was afraid she would see the truth. As much as he held their friendship as some carrot above her head, dangling it when he needed something from her or threatening to take it away should she ever decide to do something he disapproved of, she’s the one he was afraid of taking it away from him. For good. That’s all he had was threats. All he could use was the veiled hints that his trust and devotion were temporary. She had to know he could never really pull the trigger. She’s the one with the real authority, he conceded. If she ever decided she had had enough and walked away, it would be him who would be doing all he could to preserve the connection. He was the Wizard behind the curtain—all theatrics and histrionics. She was the real power. She was the real magic, driving forward everything they were or could be. Why he couldn’t ever let her know that was beyond him. He considered it was because he relished the illusory power over her, but, in truth, it was more because he hadn’t ever considered that the dynamics between them could work any other way. He’d always dictated to her how he’d like it to be. She’d always been happy to agree with him. It was only recently, he thought, that she’d began to think she had more influence than he originally given her credit for. It was only recently that she began to realize he needed her more than she needed him.

The phone rang.

It was her.

“I’m going. You can’t change my mind about it. You can hold it against me all you want, but I’m going,” she said clearly upset.

“Why do you have to be such a bitch, Breanne?” he asked her, matching her tone for tone.

“Probably for the same reason you have to be such a baby about everything. I mean—who does this? Over a nothing church get-together. What kind of nonsense is that?”

“It’s not nothing and it’s not about your bake sale of whatever you’re doing. It’s the fact you’re breaking your word. You’re breaking your word to me. That’s why I’m upset.”

He knew this day was coming. She wasn’t the same passive young girl who was just glad somebody was taking her seriously that she was three years ago. That girl had slowly grown up. She had begun to shed some of the reverance she had whenever she talked to him. With everyone else in her life, he knew, she had some stringent boundaries about who she was as a person. She had clearly established that no one was to be the boss of her—not her parents, not her boyfriends, not even her teachers or other mentors. She would gracefully accept any advice they had to give her. She would certainly treat them with the respect and courtesy they deserved. Yet, in the end, she made up she was her own counsel. She was her own boss. He’d like to think he had a hand in her furtive assertiveness coming to fruition. He had told her all along that she had a good head on her shoulders. Now it was finally coming back to bite him in the ass. He couldn’t hold her down with empty notions of loyalty and honor any more. She was finally going to test the strength of his convictions. She was finally going to see how much he could or could not walk away from her.

“The way it’s going to be from now on is going to be different. I don’t have the patience to babysit your infantile ego, Eeyore. You can call my honesty, truth, or what have you, into question all you want. You know what kind of friend I am. You can either believe that or you can shush the fuck up. Either way, I’m done with this feeling like I owe you something. I’m done with it. I know you’ve done a lot for me, but I’ve have to do a lot for you too, you know? You might be smarter than I am. You might be older than I am. But you’re not better than I am. You can’t tell me what to do. You can tell me how it makes you feel. You know I’ll always pay you some mind if you’re honestly feeling hurt. But you’re not the boss of me. I go where I want to go when I want to and with whom I want to go with.”

He tried to say something back. Anything. But he didn’t know how to be upset in this situation. All he could muster was a faint stab at contempt.

“You were helpless when I met you. Just because you’ve gotten older doesn’t mean you’ve got all the answers figured out. Don’t act like you’re a grown-up now because you’re not. You’re still helpless.”

He was met by the silence of the grave. She didn’t cry out. She didn’t respond back. All he heard was the hushed still of someone trying hard not to say something out of turn. Was she still angry? Was she hurt? Was she trying to process it all? He couldn’t get a bearing on where her mind was at. The silence persisted for a short while, the whole time with him questioning if he should say something, before her voice finally came back to the phone.

“I’m not helpless,” she said, sadness in every syllable.

He should have pressed his attack. He should have met such a mild retort with the full force of someone who could recognize an opening when he saw one. She hadn’t met his statement with a brilliant flash of defiance. On the contrary, she sound somewhat unsure. She sounded like someone who still felt helpless and had been once again reminded of how truly ineffectual she seemed to be. He should have taken advantage of this fact. He should have put her out of her listless misery.

Instead, he chose to do the worst thing he could do for his cause.

“No, you’re not helpless. I didn’t mean that.”

This was followed by another interminable silence during which he couldn’t tell whether or not she was crying softly to herself or only ruminating on the situation more. It wasn’t like her to cry, especially not during a fight. She’d cry when she was scared. She’d cry when she was hurt. But when she fought with him, she fought to kill. And killers don’t cry. He had obviously touched on a nerve with his comments of her inability to think or do for herself. He had obviously gone way beyond trying to flatten her arguments about going to the church function. He had obviously gone way too far.


and be the one who catches all your tears

He still wanted her to stay. He still knew that it would drive him mad the whole time she was mucking about with god knows who over there. He still knew he would never feel safe as long as she was out of his influence.

But he also knew what had to be done for her sake.

“I don’t care if you go, B. I don’t want you to, but I can’t stop you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go anymore.”

“No, you should. You’ll have fun. Just try not to have too much fun,” he said.

He took her silence to signify she was sussing out her options. She probably didn’t know whether or not to believe him. She probably was wondering whether this was another one of his ploys to elicit sympathy from her. She probably thought he was trying to trick her again. Except it wasn’t a trick.

Sure, she had grown up a little, gotten a little more confident in the way she dealt with him. Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one. He still feared what her suddenly broadening her horizons meant. He still worried that she was going to be out of his life someday. Yet he began to see a new fear, a new worry—that of her growing up to be someone who never really knew what she was capable of on her own. In short, he didn’t want her to grow up to be someone much resembling him.

She deserved better than that. He could give that to her, if not outright because he was still rather new at this generosity racket, then in whatever portions he could afford to dole out and still manage to hold onto some of his pride.

“Just go to the thing.”

Then it was his turn to hang up the phone and finally get to sleep.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

But If You Only Have Love For Your Own Race, Then You Only Leave Space To Discriminate, And To Discriminate Only Generates Hate

--"Where Is The Love?", Black Eyed Peas

I guess you could say it started in Kindergarten at Bethany. That's where I remember learning that people could be grouped by the differences in the appearance. Before then, I was just acclimated to thinking all of us as one class of people. It was a class revolving around learning a dance. The teacher paired all thirty of us to form the lines. I remember all the pretty girls got partnered up with all the pretty boys, and me, not being so pretty, got anchored to the one girl I didn't think was pretty at all. Yeah, I was that shallow... but it was Kindergarten. I also remember thinking that all the prettiest people in the class just all happened to be white. They were all of the fair complexion, all of the lighter eyes, all of them had just the WASPy image that I suppose prevalent even then. Then, as I scanned down the line, the images got less and less uniform. Skin tones got darker, ethnicities started getting more pronounced, and we appeared to have formed some racial scale that I had never even bothered to look before.

I mean--it could have been me. It could have been the teacher had some other motive to align us as she did. Yet, even though I was Kindergarten, I could see what was going on.

That one incident has always made me wonder if I have always held being white as being beautiful. I'd like to think that that one day was when I was taught that the Caucasian persuasion was more appealing to me because then I could always chalk it up to my teacher assigning her values of beauty and perfection to the class. I could always blame her for skewing my preferences irrevocably. But I also wonder what made me think that she was compiling some line-up from prettiest to ugliest if I didn't already have these notions beforehand. How else I could pick out that that's what was going on if I hadn't already been forming those selfsame ideas on my own?

The idea that groups of people will always be segmented was confirmed again by First Grade. I wrote earlier of the Beavers and Squirrels during my time in First Grade. That whole month or two months when that nonsense was going on still serves as the basis of many of my stories. That division of the class for no other purpose but to divide the class still perplexes me to this day. Rather than split along ideological differences or even racial differences, rather than divide into groups of gender or age or social status, that class choose to divide itself for no rhyme or reason. It's what gave me the first idea that you could put any large group of people together--all races, all ages, all sexes, all spiritual philosophies, all manner of demographic categories--and, given time, they would find a reason to divide up into splinter groups, utilizing the smallest of shared interests to facilitate the division. Even while I was with the Beavers, I was always pressing for answers as to the cause of the rift or some kind of answers as to what all the tension was about. Nobody--and I mean nobody--had any clue as to the impetus or continuing factors to why our class chose to be divided.

Yup, it still bothers me.

As I got older, I started to ruminate more on this human condition of segregation. I think it's what contributed to some of the philosophies I espouse today. I began to abhor any kind of organization that placed themselves above the worth of the individual. Religion, of course, was chief on my list. I still refuse to put any stock into any group of people whose only commonality is a belief in superstition and fantastical storytelling. Race was next on my list. Just because I was born Filipino doesn't mean I instantly adopt all of their cultural norms. I hate Filipino food. I don't much care for Filipino traditions. And I really don't place any reverence for an individual over another just because they happen to belong to the same race as me. This is a tenet that my parents, my cousin, and most of the rest of my family cannot wrap their heads around. Everyone has to earn my respect and admiration. I don't give out free passes just because I'm supposed to feel a certain way towards a certain group. It's the same way with sports. Simply because a team is my local team doesn't mean I have to give two shits about them. And we all know how I feel about having any preconceptions as to age when it comes to befriending someone.

Yet I do have certain instinctual leanings that do fall along some pretty stringent lines. I have only dated young white women. That's the truth. And it's not because I think they're any more worthy than other nationalities or races. It's because I went from Kindergarten through Eighth Grade in private Catholic schools where 75% of the student body was white. That's honestly where I honed the notion that my standard of beauty will always lean in that direction. I feel perfectly justified in adopting that preference because that's personal to me; it didn't arise because my parents told me to (they always wanted me to date Filipino girls, actually), or because my friends were telling me to, or because the media was drilling me into that mindset. It's the same reason why I have weird affections for female drummers, basketball players, redheads, Canadians, and Southerners. Each of those has a personal anecdote or story to originate my leanings. In fact, aside from who I date, I can honestly say I don't see the color of a person's skin as being all that big of a deal.

I work with a multitude of races, shapes, and sizes. I've been friends or am friends with the same. Sure, I'll laugh when somebody cracks a good racist joke (which, I know, is wrong... but funny is funny), but you'll never hear me crack one myself. It's much the same with dumb blonde jokes, women jokes, or any type of joke that pokes fun at people different than I am. I laugh, but I don't advocate spreading them myself. I think that's why I lean towards comedy like Mitch Hedberg. Situational humor that doesn't incite anyone to stare intently at lines of division.

I'm not saying I'm perfect and that I act color-blind in every situation, but the advantage of growing up in a school where I was the odd man out most of the time was that I learned to get along with a lot of different people. I was always the one trying to fit in, to fall in, so it didn't make any sense for me to keep someone else out. If I kept a person out of my life it was because I wasn't taking any applications from anyone, no matter their differences. I was an equal-opportunity isolationist.

I think that's why I like traveling too. I like seeing how other cities live because I never want to say it's better here or there (though Boston will always have my heart). I don't really know that until I've seen each and every place. It's just like I can never believe one group of people is any better or worse than any other. I just don't know until I've seen the best and worst each of them has to offer. That's something I'll never be able to see in one lifetime.

And don't even get me started on sexual preferences. If there is any more insipid reason to hate another person it's because they have a clear sense of who they love. If anything, knowing who you want with no reservations is something to applauded not despised for.

I don't know--I still think it's all a mummer's farce. It's like the whole world is still playing Beavers and Squirrels, and I'm still left scratching my head at the inanity of it all.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Still Standing, Better Than I Ever Did, Looking Like A True Survivor, Feeling Like A Little Kid

--"I'm Still Standing", Elton John

One of my favorite shows of the last few years was Everwood. It ranks right up there with Avonlea or Buffy in terms of devotion and amount of enjoyment derived. That's why when it got canceled it was something of a heartbreak because good shows are hard to come by. There's a certain investment into the characters and stories that's hard to justify doing time and time again. With Everwood that phenomena was even more pronounced. I used to quote that show all the time here. Indeed, a lot of my earlier posts were prompted by something I heard or saw on the show so it was like losing a good deal of my inspiration. It wasn't just losing a show; it was losing a source of knowledge and information. It was losing a good deal of my routine for the week... for life.

I still miss Amy Abbot to this day.

But I'm not here to mourn the loss of a show. I'm here to testify that life does go in small, subtle ways. Greg Berlanti, one of the producers and creator of Everwood, has moved onto a new show, Eli Stone. I've got to say I like it. I like it a lot. It has the same sense of tragedy pulling people closer together. Whereas Everwood had the death of Ephram's mom be the catalyst for Dr. Brown's transformation into the family man he should have always been, so it is with Eli's brain aneurysm becoming the catalyst to his transformation into a more morally centered man. Yet this isn't the same show. Whereas Mr. Berlanti's former show delved into teenage angst and the unsettling feeling of not knowing where you belong, Eli Stone seems to be more concerned about staying who you are while adding new depth. His is journey not of complete transformation, but of awakening to how much more he could be without losing a step. Sure, maybe later on there will have to be sacrifices made, but for now the show seems to have a fine premise in him learning to readjust his life after such horrible news.

That's kind of how I see moving on from the inviting climes of Everwood to the hilly streets of San Francisco where Eli Stone is set. It's not so much trying to completely forget who I was when I watched the former show. It's really me trying to maintain the ideas that show put forth while welcoming any thoughts and ideas this new show has to offer. I used to think that's how all of life should be. That if I was a mean and controlling person before, then by all rights I should try to be a completely different person. That if I was sad or unhappy ten years ago, then by all rights I should strive to shed every trace of that person. I always say things in an either/or type of conflict. The person I was wasn't very successful... so I needed to be a completely new person.

Life does not work that way, though. People are never all bad or all good. I was never all bad or good at any given time.


and did you think this fool could never win
well look at me, I'm coming back again

Just because I like a new show; it does not diminish any affection I had for shows obsessively watched in the past.

And just because I had darker traits to my personality before doesn't mean I didn't have good ones to build on. It's all a process I think. Eli has it right; I still have a lot I can learn from the person I used to be and I still have a lot of facets to me that I have yet to see.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Cross Off All The Ways I Failed You, 'Cause I Failed You, But I'm Still In Your Blood, You're Still In My Blood

--"Bitches in Tokyo", Stars

My mom insisted when I first visited Breanne that I had to take a small gift over for her and her family. Oblivious me, I thought everything was fine with a firm handshake or hug at the door. Sometimes I miss the small niceties that make everything run smoothly. That's why I had to pick out something last minute to serve as a gift for her and her parents. I don't know what some people think of when they think of safe, appropriate gifts for people you're meeting for the first time and who you want to impress. Some people might think of a bottle of wine or perhaps a nice coffee table book. Me? I think of a nice intellectual game because I'm a game geek at heart.

When I first presented Breanne with the Mahjong gift set, she screwed up her face and asked me what it was. Her parents, for the most part, let their daughter satisfy their own curiosity as they politely smiled and thanked me for the gift. I pulled out the tiles for them, showed them the intricate engraving and painting that went into every tile, and I let them know it was a fun, little game that I'd been playing for half of my life up until that point. That's when I let them know that it was my intention to teach them how to play after dinner that first night. I was excited. I don't know how everyone else was feeling since they might have been only polite on my account, but they seemed to be looking forward to learning too.

I went into the trip with a lot of ideas as to what would happen. I had many scenarios playing out in my head about how I would act, how she would act, and what exactly the point was in coming out. I had told myself that it was an opportunity to get to know her better, but that was only the start of it. It was clear I was hoping for more, yet trying to steel myself for a lot of disappointment. I had recently come back from a trip a couple months prior that had gone as expected. It had still been nice, but it left me with the sinking feeling that I set myself up for disappointment every time I envisioned a trip being more than it actually was. I was determined to let go of whatever preconceptions I had about the trip and let it live on its merits. I foresaw a relationship with her that lasted for awhile and I knew the quickest way was to speed things along too quickly. I needed to take things slow. I needed to feel certain things out before I came off as impatient or, worse yet, pushy. I wanted to get to know her and I thought Mahjong was the perfect icebreaker, especially since it got her parents involved as well.

Yet, when dinner ended, I was left with the skulking suspicion that we wouldn't be playing the game at all. I think it was clear that we both had other ideas how to spend the few days I was there.

It's always bothered me, though, that I never got the chance to teach her the game. I left the set there since it was a gift, but it bothers me that it probably just sits in her parents' home. I mean--what's a game that you don't know the rules too? It's basically a glorified ornamental case with tiles inside. And that's my fault. I didn't follow through with my original idea. I let the moment dictate my actions. I didn't stay true to my beliefs that it was a good idea to keep my visit friendly and without complications. Maybe things would be different if all we did that weekend was play Mahjong and I'd actually been true to my word.

I let myself be talked into coming upstairs. I allowed myself to get distract and to distract what my head was telling me. I think that was the biggest failure of that trip. We moved too fast. We should have taken it slower. I don't know if the whole idea of getting to know each other better would have worked out. I knew Breanne pretty well by that point. But I know there was a lot of wanting that could have been left unfulfilled in the name of preserving the moment. It sounds corny, but I have this overriding belief that if we had left the relationship somewhat chaste a lot of things would have turned out differently. But having a few things revealed (though, not everything) that first weekend, we spoiled some of the innocence of the friendship. We crossed a bridge that we didn't even know we were crossing, and there was not getting back after that.

Maybe failure is too harsh of a word. I don't think we failed by turning the trip into something more. I always knew we were destined for something more. I just know everything didn't have to happen as quickly as it did. We had a lifetime to get closer. There was no impetus to pursue each other with the fervor we did. It was the simple impatience of youth and the recklessness of two people who have always been impulsive by nature.

In a way, I think one can compare to it a game of Mahjong. There's a play where you can steal someone else's discards to put down a pong or another legal play. The trade-off is that you reveal how close you are to winning the round. That's information your opponents can and will use against you. Instead, often the smarter play is to hold your tiles close to your vest. Then when you're ready to go out, it's because you've got all your tiles lined up in a row. Once you're sure, you make your move and let there be no doubt that your plans were well thought-out.

Breanne and I were like the players who put down some of their tiles in the early going. We were so intent on letting everyone know how serious we were about each other, it put everyone else on alert. We revealed our intentions too early on, which called into doubt how serious our planning was. Not only that, but we left the door open to self-doubt. After all, if everything is so easy in the get-go, you can't help but to think that all the harder work later on means that the magic has fizzled. Instead of working on plans and adjusting strategies as you go, we seemed to have gone for broke and then had precious little left in the reserves. That was kind of a mistake.

----

I should have known better. I should have put the brakes on when I had the chance. I should have treated our relationship with a little more respect. I should have treated her with a little more respect. No, nothing happened that wasn't intentional on our parts. But someone should have thought it out. Someone should have seen that we were in danger of burning out too quickly.

We should have seen we had years yet of working on us and that everything didn't need to be accomplished that first night... or even anything at all. We should have just relished in the fact that we were finally together in the same room with one another. That could have been enough to go on for a long while. Certainly, it would have been long enough to sustain me till I saw her again in April.

----

Eh, there's time yet to correct old mistakes and I'm not going anywhere. We're both still in this game to the end.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

One, Two, Three, Four, Tell Me That You Love Me More, Sleepless, Long Nights, That Was What My Youth Was For

--"1234", Feist

I was invited tomorrow to a party where I won't know a single person. It's totally informal and casual. I'm not expected to stay and it won't be rude if I decide to leave early, but I'm still nervous about it. It's been awhile since I went anywhere where I didn't at least know one person pretty well. I'm not a complete wallflower, but I'm not comfortable anywhere unless there is one person I know I can always come back to should everyone else fail to hold my interest. I've never needed a huge group of friends--usually I do fine with a small circle. It's going to be an interesting experience to see if I have the cajones to actually mingle without a net for once.

It's weird. The last time I experienced a situation like this was going to my job at Bally's when I was invited to come hang out with some of co-workers after work. My previous jobs I was never close enough with anyone to be invited past work hours. I pretty much had my work friends and my real world friends. Never did the twain meet. Yet at Bally's, I took an instant liking to all of them so it didn't feel weird after the second day in the specialty group to come hang out with them at the local BJ's. I didn't know what they were all like outside of work... but I was willing to give it a shot. As it turned out, everything went smoothly. I continued to get along with them just as well out-of-work as I did in the office. It's something that still amazes me to this day because I have never found another group of office buddies that the same dynamic holds true with. Even with Crown Books, I only hung out with one guy and one manager, but the dynamic was different in and out of the office.

That has a lot to do with me. I act differently when I'm nervous. And I get nervous when I'm singled out. When everybody is just joking around and I'm just blending into the group, I feel fine. I act fine. But when there's an impetus for me to be charming and graceful on the spot, I tend to lock up. It's a natural reaction. There are some people who can command the party, people like Breanne who naturally get along with everyone. Then there are people like Toby who freeze up in large groups no matter how friendly people are. I fall somewhere in the middle. As long as I have that small group I know... it doesn't matter how large the rest of the group is.

That's why I think this party might be good for me. It's been awhile since I've worked without the net, and I'm eager to see if I've learned a trick or two since I was young. I'm betting on with a little more experience on these bones, I've begun to handle myself with more comportment and grace. Sure, I'm still nervous, but I'd like to think this won't be the debilitating fright that kept me from going to boy-girl parties in junior high. I'd like to think this won't be the self-deprecating humility that caused me to turn down office parties at other office jobs.

While I'm far from the social butterfly that people I know are, I'm not that person that I was in my teens either.

I'm thinking the very fact I'm writing about this here rather than staying up all night fretting about says a lot about how I process concerns here. This site has been a very acute confessor where before I didn't always have one. The fact I can just write something here without having to concern Breannie about it, without having to concern one of my cousins about, without even having to consider canceling, speaks to the effect that getting something off your chest has.



Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers