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sometimes when you’re losing your home ….

…. you find a bandana amongst your belongings and decide that with your blonde hair and blue eyes and paper white skin it is high time, HIGH time, yo, that you become a member of the Crips.

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“I will totally bust a cap in yo ass. Totally.”

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“Okay. Look at me, goobers. I srsly mean it. I have a gun. Well, I mean I own a gun and it’s somewhere around here. Just a sec, mkay?”

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“Oh, whatevs, yo. I am relatively sure that I am relatively tired and cannot find the energy to bust a cap in yo ass. Besides, you seem totally nice. Wanna get a latte? Okay. Cool.”

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“tracey’s busy life”

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.

July 11

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.

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a few local homeless people

~ The young dudes out by Target the other day with a sign that read Hobos Need Cheeseburgers.

You know, I appreciated the honesty. The truth in advertising here. They weren’t trying to pass themselves off as “Veterans” who “Need Help” or who “Will Work For Food.” No. No. They were what they were. Just a couple of grubby slackers who really wanted some cheeseburgers.

~ The man who stands on a particular busy corner every weekend with a sign reading Brunch Hungry.

This guy is a favorite of mine. The specificity of his need is both endearing and maddening to me. He is not hungry for breakfast or lunch or dinner. He does not want tapas or appetizers or hors d’oeuvres. He has no interest in a cuppa joe or high tea or cocktails.

No. He is Brunch Hungry, dammit.

Please deposit 24.95 in my can so that I may shuffle myself and my attendant muck off to the Hotel Del Coronado for champagne mimosas and flaky croissants and repeated trips to the omelette bar.

~ The man we saw many months ago who stood on a corner giddily waving a small sign in one hand, holding out his baseball cap in another. From a distance, we couldn’t see what the sign said, but whatever it was, the man was very happy about waving it. His face seemed like it could literally explode from the blazing joy that sign brought him. As we got closer, we saw it clearly.

The sign he waved with all his might was the front of a box of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran.

It seems that he urgently needed the whole world to know and share in his joy about the existence of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran! So we wondered: Was this an ad, like those dudes who twirl signs for condos that never sell? Did he want us to pour some Kellogg’s Raisin Bran into his outstretched cap? Was he some kind of Raisin Bran evangelist? Was he just high? What??

He waved at us, high on Raisin Bran, I guess, and we waved back. As we rounded the corner, I peeked over my shoulder at him one last time and saw the plain cardboard back of his sign:

“Will Work For Food!”

The sign was backwards and he was completely oblivious about it.

As I told MB what it said and we convulsed into laughter, I realized that I hoped he’d stay that way.

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“so long!!”

Because My Beloved loves this picture of me and the SO BIG! story behind it, because he knows the silly stupid voice that must be used when you tell the SO BIG! story, because he used the SO BIG! voice today when he told me, “We’ve been married ….. SO LONG! Happy Anniversary, baby,” I post this for him.

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SO BIG.

SO LONG.

We’ve been through some serious sh**, haven’t we, babe? But I wouldn’t go through it with anyone else in the world. I’m sitting here, looking at these crookedy piles of boxes and bags even as I write this and it’s all a big fat mess and it just doesn’t matter. For the last week, I’ve been dragging around, crying like a sloppy baby, “I wanna go home, I wanna go home.” But I am home, so I promise to shut up about that now. Home is wherever you are. A place with warped floorboards or one with too damn many stairs. I know that for real now.

And, you know what? The stuff we’ve been through? Well, I think other people would have killed each other by now. If you must kill me at some point, I will understand.

But I love you, MB.

SO BIG.

SO LONG.

(Even with “six more weeks winter” — do the voice. Hahahaha.)

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college students at the bookstore

A group of eight San Diego State University students seated several feet away at three tables they’ve pushed together. They’re doing some kind of group project — the dreaded group project. I eavesdrop, as I am wont to do, and learn it’s some kind of marketing assignment. They’re supposed to be an ad agency, I guess — everyone with his or her jobs and titles within this pretend agency, and it seems they’ve been told the pretend client they’re pitching sells air-freshening type products.

Okay. That’s the basic set-up for all the eavesdropping that follows.

A collection of what I heard:

~ Okay. We need to emphasize that we are innovative and traditional.

~ Am I the Account Executive? I wanna be the Account Executive, okay?

~ Well, maybe we could share that. Can we share?

~ Well …..

(Hahaha. That was the Alpha Male and Alpha Female of the group. Basically, the only ones talking.)

~ We need to acknowledge the challenge of our competitors. Make sure we talk about them.

~ Well, don’t talk about them TOO much!

~ (to a girl who hasn’t spoken) Do you wanna join the group or what?

~ Remember: The brand is the product. The brand is the product!

~ I think we should focus that our experience is that we’re young innovative professionals with fresh ideas.

(Verbatim there.)

~ Okay. I think we should show two guys: One is good-looking but his room stinks. The other is a total dork, but his room smells good. And the dork gets all the girls.

~ Are we gonna do a skit?

~ Yeah! We should do a skit!

~ Our expertise is that we’re professional.

~ Shannon, you’re Media Director.

~ I wanna be AE!

~ Sorry.

~ We need to focus on three things: our experience, that we’re on top of trends, that our competitors do things but we do them better.

~ Oh! And we need to make sure the client knows that WE choose. Our agency picks and chooses. WE choose YOU.

~ For the presentation, let’s wear suits and flip flops!

~ I think we should do it extemporaneously.

~ (to two students not contributing) You guys are copywriters, okay?

~ (shrug) Okay.

~ Sure. The other agencies will show you their stuff, but will they show you everything?

~ Okay. On Tuesday, me and her will write the copy.

~ (as they’re leaving) I really like us.

~ Me too.

~ We rock.

You know, I don’t know why people say SDSU is a laughingstock among colleges.

I am completely baffled.