To “Tracey’s Busy Life” below?
Yeah. M was gay. Or at least in the process of realizing he was gay.
“And I helped!”
Poor dumb Amish girl. Ah, well. Hope springs eternal even when penises do not.
To “Tracey’s Busy Life” below?
Yeah. M was gay. Or at least in the process of realizing he was gay.
“And I helped!”
Poor dumb Amish girl. Ah, well. Hope springs eternal even when penises do not.
You know, it’s discouraging the incriminating things you find when you’re moving your life from here to there. The objects you unearth that would best be forever buried. The things that remind you what a dillhole you were years ago and how you’re really not all that different now. Like long-lost notebooks from college that are half class notes and half cringe-inducing journal. Discouraging, I say. Demoralizing, even.
What to do with these notebooks? Well, nearly every cell within me screams THROW THEM OUT, YOU DUMBASS! Which seems both self-respecting and reasonable. But, unfortunately, there’s that one rogue cell inside me, that one troublemaker determined to ruin my reputation by seducing me and whispering in my ear, “Ohhh, c’mon, Trace. Share. Shaaaaaaare.”
And Troublemaker wins, so shaaaaaaaare it is. (He must have been a really good kisser. Damn him.)
Context first: This entry is from college. I hate to admit that, but I’ve discussed before how immature and sheltered and Amish I basically was. Am. No, was. Was. Please. I’m a grown-up woman now. (And, look. I’m not far off on that Amish thing. My dad grew up in Amish country, PA and I really think all those buggy riders and barn builders seeped into his psyche and made him — and us, his brood, his chirren — Amish by association.)
Okay. So college. Actually, summer break. I’m home, but pining away for my life and friends in Seattle. How will I ever survive the 10 whole weeks away? It is sheer torture. I feel that I must die, blah blah. It’s so hot, I probably will die and I don’t want to die HERE of all the de classe places to die. Oh God, save me, etc. This is a running theme of the entries in this summer journal. On top of being hot, so hot, it’s so hot and gross in San Diego, I am churning up inside, alternately pining for and hating my latest “love,” M, one the leading men of our drama department.
(A note: I liked adverbs a lot.)
Here we go.
Feeling relatively capable to go out and face the day, although I am relatively tired. (From all the adverbs, you see.) I may or may not get a letter from M today and I may or may not care. Sometimes, as I’ve said before, I feel as though he’s being flushed out of my system. It’s weird but when I get some physical distance from him I can clearly see the things that bother me and be able to decide how to deal with them. His “let’s be mature now” fetish is somewhat amusing. (Those guys with their fetishes! How they amuse me! Somewhat!) I believe he’s shooting for end-of-the-summer maturity. Good grief! He has to allow himself to do some living first and experience some hurting. (This from the sheltered baby.)
He’ll never love me but some day he may regret that. Besides, it doesn’t matter somehow because I’m not “in love” w/ him anyway. I love him but I’m not “in love” with him. (Oh, Tracey. Did your mother tell you to say this?) And if he thinks I’m here hanging on a string waiting for reciprocity — then he’s got a million more “thinks” coming!!
Later that same day …..
Miss Venezuela just now robbed a darling Miss USA of the Miss Universe crown. USA was first runner-up and the only reason she didn’t receive it was ’cause the pageant was in the US.
I wrote about The frickin’ Miss Universe Pageant in my personal journal of torture and upheaval and uncomfortable weather???? Sweet Moses.
Even later that same day …..
I’m going thru these “M is a bozo” sorts of feelings these days. I keep wondering if they are simply done for self-protection or if I’m really treating him fairly and he really IS a bozo. (Hahahahaha.)
Of all the dumb things to be thinking about anyway.
K (a girlfriend) and I discussed this and I have realized since we’ve been apart — M & I — that his strength of character does not equal mine. (Oh I hate myself. With all the strength of my character. LORD.) Somehow I don’t have a whole lot of respect for him. I will say that I respect his abilities immensely. I believe he has a great deal of potential. But he will discover someday when he’s old and gray that I was a wonderful girl and he was an idiot. However I don’t think that I will sit around waiting for this momentous occurrence!
(Sheesh. I hope not, Trace. Because wouldn’t that mean that you’ve sat there your whole life until you’re also old and gray, waiting for old M to croak to you finally, “You’re a wonderful girl and I am an idiot” and then just who is the idiot in this scenario??)
No, M. If you don’t want me, don’t sweat it, sweetheart, because you ain’t gonna get me. So just go on living and go on pretending. I’m gonna find me someone else who will show his feelings rather than talk about them til I’m bored in the face.
(Trace, hon, you don’t talk this way. You’re not some dance hall hostess circa 1933. Please calm down, Sweet Charity.)
I have to go to sleep. Go to sleep, bozo.
This could be the start of a recurring series. Or it could be something I completely abandon after one measly post. Who knows, really? I’m mercurial that way. One could also use the word lazy if one were the uncharitable type.
When I rediscovered my junior year yearbook last week, of course I started to read the stuff people wrote in it. Stuff I hadn’t read in centuries. Stuff from people I barely — or blatantly don’t — remember. Stuff that boggles the mind and gives you the bends. But, oh, the joys! The mortifying joys! The cringing shivers!
Here’s one to kick off this series. Or non-series. Don’t tie me down, man. This is from a dude I’ll call Roger. He’s a senior; I’m a junior. His father owned a huge local car dealership and other than that, I remembered nothing about him until I read this. Then I remembered that he made me very uncomfy and I generally kept my distance from him. The word “smarmy” comes to mind. I really don’t know how he ended up signing my yearbook.
Anyway, cringe at will. My comments in italics.
I hope you don’t feel bad about Saturday night. (What happened Saturday night?! Nothing, I swear!) I mean, I was perturbed, but not ravaging crazy. You are a very beautiful person in ALL respects. You have a terrific personality and you can look very very good. (Note the word “can.”) I still want your picture, it’s divine! I hope that since I’m leaving I’ll be able to see you over the summer and next year. (I really want to!) I hope you know what you have to offer, cause you have alot of things to offer that many girls don’t. Sweetness, inner beauty, outer beauty, sideways beauty(eww), upside-down beauty, ha (even ewwier). I really appreciate our relationship and I hope we can cultivate our friendship into a closer one. I know I’ll see more of you so I won’t say goodbye. I hope I’ll never have to say goodbye. (Seems he did, tho. Bummer.) Please stay the great person that you are! See ya around and have an excellent summer — jr. hi talk! I know I’ll be around and I hope you call many times: (Slappy’s phone #). I know you’ll be a success in life because of your uniqueness and excellentness.
(This isn’t very well put! I’ll tell ya now it doesn’t express everything I want to express!)
I have to go ponder my uniqueness and excellentness now, pippa.
“C U soon.”
Well, I was going through a bunch of old papers today and I am literally sick with grief and horror over what I’m about to share with you. I need to take a breath. Seriously.
Just moments ago, I found, stuffed randomly in a notebook, a yellow (no, not “yellowed,” but yellow, like a happy sunflower) piece of paper titled ….. “My Wedding.”
I’m not sure I even want to give you a time frame on this because it is so embarrassing to me in a kind of soul-crushing way. All I can say is — look at me defending myself here — my upbringing was very very sheltered and whenever I find these old papers, I think I sound at least five years younger than the age I actually was when I wrote it.
That said, I am 19 in chronological years at the time I wrote this. But I sound about 14.
Okay. Without further ado or excuses, here it is:
*Fall — maroons? dark greys
*Winter — burgundies/ dark greys
*Spring — rose/pink/lighter greys
*Summer — pinks w/blues perhaps, for accents/greys – light
(I am aghast at all these colors. Who is this person and how long did her Grey Period last?
*Time — evening or afternoon
(Okay, so not morning.)
*Music — M on piano
(M was a boyfriend of mine. I guess I thought either we’d get married and he’d be my groom AND my pianist or that he’d be totally fine with being the pianist later — you know, when I married someone else. Um, what, Trace?)
*Singing — S.
(See explanation above, only insert “soloist” for “pianist.”)
*B-maids — S (sister), K. B?
(B was a wild card, I guess.)
*Flowers — roses, perhaps silk
(Oh, okay, my brain just popped. Right now. Poof.)
*Processional — I don’t know
(I don’t know if this means “I don’t know what musical processional to use at this extravaganza featuring all my ex-boyfriends” or “I don’t know if I even want to pro-cess.”)
*No reception line — they are too time-consuming
(I am not retarded. YAY!)
*Have gifts opened in advance and put on display.
(I guess I really wanted to say a heartfelt “Thank You!” to all my guests by putting their gifts up for scrutiny and comparison, like a swimsuit competition for wedding presents.)
*Pictures taken beforehand
*Short train on gown
*No veil, unless he wants one
(Who, Trace? Your pianist or your soloist?)
*Maybe a hat
*Would like to have husband sing to me, if he has that ability
(But please be advised, there will be auditions and callbacks and a rigorous rehearsal schedule with me, Mistress Helga, your future low-maintenance bride)
*Own vows — maybe
That’s the end of the list. But it should be noted that I must have revisited the list at some later date, because across the entire paper, in giant capital letters is an eloquent, underlined:
(Posted in honor of dear Nightfly, who’s tying the knot this weekend! Congratulations to you and your bride, NF!)
Haven’t done one of these installments in a long while. This one is long — for me — and mind-numbingly stupid. Colossally retarded. I am literally agape at the horror of it. The time frame is around the same time as this one. I think I’m about 19, but in stunted, sheltered Baptist years, that’s basically 12 or 13 years old mentally and emotionally.
Oh, and to avoid confusion, S is my sister. SM is my brother. Hey, I didn’t name them.
Last night at Bible study was interesante. (Yes, you took Spanish in high school — muy bien, chica.) Kirk was standing out front with RH (another fellow that I did not happen to be in love with — at the moment) when I arrived and RH extended a “very warm welcome” to me as all good CABC interns do. Kirk simply smiled at me. (And yet somehow as this entry goes along, I seem to be interpreting that smile as a “Hey, baby, let’s get married” kind of smile. You know, those.) Later, they sat 2 rows in front and over to the left of S and me. So I had plenty of opportunities to “check it out” which I of course made good use of.
After the Bible study — which was pretty POOR!! — Kirk BOLTED from his seat and when I finally got far enough out into the mob, I was able to see that he was situated over by the main entrance. Hmm … (Hmm, indeed, Trace.) I went over and talked to SM and Kirk came over and joked around with bozo (SM).
SM asked if he was going to the beach party and he kinda smiled, looked at me, said “yes” and proceeded to mosey off to the left.
(Be prepared. In case you haven’t already noticed, I spend this entire entry basically GPS-ing this guy’s whereabouts. Nothing actually even happens, but I’m still howling over all the niggling stage details of the evening.)
I went over to talk with S and Mark the Sailor which gave me a better vantage point to spy. We were at opposite diagonals in the room (Good. LORD. Tracey.) A few moments later, he moseyed (again??) over in direction and chatted with this girl about 3 ft. away. I was looking right at him because he was being funny, but he wandered off — AGAIN!! By this time frustration is PARAMOUNT! MORE LATER!
(Okay, peeps. I honestly don’t know what the hell this whole thing is about. It would seem, basically, that I am stalking a guy at church, like a good Baptist chippie, having convinced myself that smiles and looks and funny conversation with, uhm, another girl 3 feet away all mean that he loves me, too! Oh, and after the “MORE LATER,” the entry just continues, no space, same pen. I have no idea what the “MORE LATER” was all about then. Golly, my frustration is paramount.)
So anyhow, I went outside and made a phone call to T (friend) at work. Kirk was outside chatting w/ some people so I could spy fairly easily. Later, I went back in to say bye to S and he was sitting there on the DESK! I was then accosted by some guy named Rick w/ whom I really did not wish to speak. (Prime example of good grammar making you sound like a total ASS.) While we were chatting, Kirk walked past to our right, then around the corner and out of view again to our left. I simply assumed he was gone. Anyhow, I moved away from this Rick entity (Yes, please, “entity,” get out of the way of me and my life’s soulmate) and ended up walking out the door at practically the same moment as Kirk! He had a gym bag in hand and I merely assumed he was going to v-ball. He started off in that direction, I toward my car. He stopped and (did he move to the left or to the right or maybe he moseyed, Trace? I cannot WAIT to hear!) it was on the tip of my tongue to say something. Then he started again and I walked to my car — colossally depressed. (And who wouldn’t be? So crushing, you poor baby.)
Later (and this is the big payoff, peeps — get ready for it — please be calm) — I discover that when I had gone to make the call, Kirk came back in and — according to S — was “checking it out” a few feet away from her!
(Do you hear that, people?? He was “checking it out.” Mannn! I shoulda married him! I mean, after all, he was “checking it out” and that is, my friends, evvvverything!!)
Okay. Please excuse me. I must leave you now to nurse my colossal depression over the crushing ramifications of this entire post.
Remember recently I found a bunch of old calendars that I kept as sketchy journals of my life? Well, now I’ve stumbled across some steno pads from the same period that I used as journals too. My choices back then simply oozed elegance: Flimsy spiral calendar stuffed in a Christmas stocking? “This’ll make a cool JOURNAL!” Pocket-sized day planner with dad’s name embossed on it and words to live by for each new day? “JOUR-NALLL!” Steno pads used for notetaking in theatre classes? “MORE awesome journals! And I can write in them when I get bored in class!”
But the steno pads have more detail. I imagine it’s only because the pages were bigger. Page size basically forced me to be a bit more expansive than:
“DF called today to bug me. He succeeded.”
Still, these entries are bare cupboards compared to Sheila’s horns o’ plenty. But, again, with her blessing, we persevere, even in lack.
So where we last left off, I was making an ASS of myself at the big LUAU at church, all for the undying love of some guy named Kirk — of whom I have only the vaguest recollection. He never once appeared to give a rip about me and yet there I was, stubbornly relying on antics with citrus fruits to win his heart.
All right. This steno pad entry is a couple days before the big LUAU debacle. The way I talk here …. my overuse of the word “somewhat.” I was obsessed with adverbs, but I think I just thought I was British.
Aug. 10 ~
Went to Bible study tonight and found it to be somewhat non-stimulating. (Not a word, Trace. Not very British of you.) The speaker was basically no good and S (sister) and I were both somewhat bummed that Kirk and Mark the Sailor weren’t there. (“Mark the Sailor” was a guy my sister was deeply in love with, like me with Kirk.) I don’t know why it should matter, though. I’m here for what? Another 3 weeks? What possible dent could that make in getting to know someone? Especially someone like Kirk C. I mean — and here come all the paranoid fears — he seems to know SO many people already, what difference will one new one make? (I do not even get that.) Plus, he’s so witty, I would probably make a bad impression (this is PRE-lime, now), as I did last week when I did my …. (Okay, I’m sorry to keep interrupting, but the page ends right there and I have no idea WHAT is coming next. Let’s find out together, shall we? British.)
…. dumb Polish accent!!
(AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! Oh, God in Heaven, NOW I remember! Oh, no no no no NO. Okay. Here’s the backstory. A bunch of us in the drama department had been obsessed with Meryl Streep that year. We rented a bunch of her movies — I remember specifically “Plenty,” “The French Lieutenant’s Woman,” and, oh, yes, “Sophie’s Choice.” This was several years after the movie had come out, but still, I decided it would be cool to walk around sounding and acting like Sophie. Oh, sweet Lord. I remember. I did the voice for anyone who asked. I did the voice for anyone who DIDN’T ask. I just … did the voice. And I was brilliant, of course. And people LOVED it, of course. I mean, who doesn’t want to hear some presumptuous little drama major walk about breathless and sighing, “Stingo is a grreat loverr” ALL THE TIME??)
All right. Trying to finish:
Man, I really wanted him to like it and he just walked away. I mean, he commented on it (What? What did he say??) and then he walked away. Then on Sunday, he did not even speak to me — of course, he did not exactly have the chance to. (Yeah, that’s why, Tracey.) And then he’s not even there this evening. I know I should not be banking on something, (Um, ya think?) but for ONCE in my life I would like to know the feeling of having something I want to happen with the opposite sex happen and not let me down ROYALLY. (Nice sentence.)
I also want to return to school being able to know that not all guys are like the MANIACS I’ve known in the DRAMA DEPT.!!
(Um, there’s only one thing to say at this point: Stingo is a grreat loverr.)
I’ve made a deeply horrifying discovery. It feels like death. Like Look-at-the-Ark-of-the-Covenant-and-melt-your-Nazi-face-off SCARY DEATH.
See, when I was in college, I didn’t keep a journal, per se. Oh, no. I was far too consumed with angst to actually write about it. No mere words would have been ANGSTY enough to convey the depth and brilliance of my singular angst, The World’s Greatest Angst Ever. I was Angst Incarnate. A shining star of pain. I was insufferable.
Please get THE HELL out of my way.
Besides all that, I had my burgeoning career as The World’s Most Maudlin Actress to busy my time, my vital volunteer work as a perpetual Parental Disappointment, the occasional book skimming, and the approximately thrice-weekly shames dates with a Hostess Fruit Pie where I’d never even ask how it was doing or what its sign was before I’d scoop its guts out, toss ’em aside, and greedily devour the thick, golden, slightly fruit-sodden crust while dreaming of the latest boy who still didn’t love me.
So, let’s review, shall we, this concise, but apt, description of my collegiate soul:
3) Caring Volunteer
4) Lazy Ass
Do you SEE how consumed and busy and filled to the brim I was!? No time for journalling!! No time at ALL!!!
But then …… there were always these calendars I kept, either an old-fashioned type hanging on my wall or a day planner type hidden in a drawer. And that’s where I’d chronicle my big, busy, bounteous days. In those little calendar spaces. Those one-inch squares. Inch-and-a-half squares, tops. THOSE spaces.
And mostly, I’d just list my days:
“Went to dinner.
I’m so pissed at Dave!”
You know, juicy stuff like that. Because what are you gonna do with an inch-and-a-half tops?? Everything was sketchy, hazy, nothing in depth. I would say the BIGGEST things and then ….. nothing. The WEIRDEST things and then …. no explanation. No detail. Nada. Phfffftttt. Remember, EVERYTHING WAS ALL TOO TOO BIG AND TOO TOO DEEP TO EVEN FIT IN THE WHOLE OF THE WORLD, SO WHY EVEN BOTHER??
Words? Feh. Words were for losers, I guess.
So instead, thought 19-year-old me, while chomping on a Fruit Pie crust, I’ll bet, let’s just write lists, sketches, random sentences. Let’s just keep pages of oddments and crap and rubbish and assume that someday, if I ever come across these imbecilic calendars again, I’ll effortlessly glue my past back together from these hasty, sloppy scraps and — ta da! — suddenly remember what the HELL I was hardly even talking about!!!!
Well, the other day, I found these calendars in a box labeled “Stuff That Should be Burned to Teeny Tiny Blow-Away Ashes” And there they were, with all their pen and paper and calendar molecules still intact, not even singed or charred. We are lazy. We also don’t read labels, I guess.
These, uh, “entries” are basically the polar opposite of these classics, these epics by my blog friend, Sheila. And with her gracious blessing, because she SO appreciates anything absurd, I offer: Tracey’s Busy Calendar.
Big Day 1, (I am 19):
DF called today to bug me.
Um, I think I had a crush on this DF irritant. Obviously, not that deep, since that’s all he’s worth for the day. Oh, and that’s the whole day, people. See the sketchiness? HOW did he bug you, Tracey? WHAT did he do?? Did anything ELSE happen in that entire day, you sad little weirdo??
Big Day 2: (“S” is my sister)
Today was LUAU day.
Kirk took my picture for church records.
(That sounds vaguely creepy and institutional.)
Asked him if his name was “Kirk as in ‘Beam me up, Scotty'”
(I cannot HATE myself more right now.)
At the LUAU, he served steak kabobs.
I joke around with S and try to get her to eat a lime.
(Because limes are hilarious, of course.)
So, wow. Another BUSY day. This was three days later and “Beam me up, Scotty” Kirk was another guy I had a crush on who didn’t, apparently, bug me as much as DF did. Whether I bugged him or not I will leave to your discernment. I have no idea why it was a “LUAU” instead of a “luau.” It just was.
All right. Enough for now. I literally can’t take it anymore. I was so hopelessly immature and sheltered for my age. GOOD LORD!!
That’s what growing up Baptist does, people.
The horror. The HORROR.
Powered by WordPress