This is a song about Alice.. remember Alice?

We had a conversation the other night about masculine and feminine traits. I told him what I 'like' what I 'look for'. He never really got back to me about his side of things-- but I think he was planning on graphing it. At any rate, at one point I told him it was more important that he is what he is instead of what I 'like' or I 'look for'-- works out fine because he falls primarily in both categories as he is. He asks me what if one day I wake up next to him and he's turned into a turtle, then what would happen? Then he could say "I told you so." Or, he reminds, more like "IIIIII tooooold yoooouuuu soooooooo."

A set of memories, in no particular order:

I am very young, sitting on the right side of the last third of a yellow bus that is waiting to pull away from the school. I am looking out the window, and for some reason I have to constantly remind myself that I am a young girl, sitting on the right side of a school bus, looking out the window. "I am me." I repeat to myself, "I am me."

It is Tuesday. My dad is fixing dinner and I am reading a trashy vampire book. We are listening to Jonatha Brooke Live. We later talk about an old radio drama he has been listening to on the quiet nights in his apartment called Moon Over Morocco. We talk about love, people, relationships, cholesterol, and movies.

My father and I are walking the dog out in the woods near our house has has picked up a branch to use as a walking stick, I am slightly behind them, watching them crest a hill. I don't recall why I wanted to remember this moment, but I do remember telling myself never to forget it- so far I haven't.

I remember this song.

I am looking out the window of what would become my room. The walls are pink and there are taxidermied animal heads on the floor near the wall as you come in. I can hear my mothers voice through the door as she talks to the realtor. She enters and asks me what I think of the place, I point out the window to a tree that sits in the middle of the yard- I indicate to her that I like it. I would later take a year to strip the wallpaper using vinegar and hot water, line the room with blue Christmas lights, and occasionally leave the window open so I could sit in it and watch the snow fall in front of that tree.

My parents used to send my sister and I to bed when they would watch "grown up" movies. I had come downstairs to get a drink of water and seized the opportunity to lurk a tad and possibly catch a glimpse of what the big friggin' deal was. They were watching what I would later learn was Conan the Barbarian, and were at a part that involved a vat of water and some snakes. Forgetting myself I ask, to no one in particular, "Why don't they just step on them?" Cover blown, I am escorted back to bed. My mother related this tale to me not too long ago from her own point of view (seems that it stayed with both of us), explained that what I had read as incandescent rage on their part was actually that I had, unwittingly, scared the ever loving christ out of them. I suppose I can see that, small, groggy, fuzzy-headed-but-practical-girl in nightgown, backlit by dim-kitchen-light asking unexpected questions. Terrifying. Sure.

We are driving around the back roads of Winterport, the three of us, after watching Wayne's World at a friends party, after playing hide and seek until the small hours. The hours are getting slightly larger, I have to get to Bangor to meet my grandparents for breakfast. We are listening to this song, very loud. As much as I like Rage, I think of it ironically at the time. I think they would too.

I have made an elaborate robot out of legos. I bring it upstairs for reasons unknown, I drop it before reaching the top, it flies apart on the way down and I yell "Shit!". Upset not only about my destroyed masterpiece, but also about how angry my mother is about hearing me swear passionately at volume at such a young age, I become inconsolable.

It is springtime and I am sitting on the concrete steps at my grandparents house with my sister. We are playing with a neighbors cat. We have named it 'Tiger'.

I am sitting on a concrete wall under a bus stop on Mass. Ave, waiting for the 77. It is early afternoon and I have a long black bag leaned up against the wall next to me, it is full of weapons I may be tested on later that evening. This is playing in my headphones as I have just arranged all of my 90s Billboard hits into something that qualifies as listenable and nostalgic. One of my managers at the paper store is standing, looking at me, and probably has been for a few minutes-- I had been lost in the light and the music. We exchange greetings, she leaves and I continue to wait for the bus.

End set.

One holiday comes and goes. I wonder if my increased moodiness has to do with the season, or the circumstances. I only hope that something remains stable enough for me to cross it off the list of probable culprits. Maybe by springtime I'll have a clearer picture. Maybe not.

I ask him if he thinks I'm thinking about this too much.. he gives me a hug and tells me she needs someone to think of her.

kung fu is difficult.. but it isn't hard..

Dennis, my old manager, used to ask me what I wanted to do during the day when given a list of things that needed to get done. Sometimes the synapses wouldn't fire correctly and I'd take a little too long to answer her. She would ask me at that point if I wanted an easier question. I miss that.

When I answer the phone at work I usually have to take a few moments to make sure the right thing will come out of my mouth. This is about as close as I can come to describing about how tricky it is to tell exactly what I'm doing these days. Sometimes I'm kind of like that guy in that movie who doesn't have any short term memory.. except I don't have "find him and kill him" tattooed on my chest.

Sometimes I like to think I'm good at things that I'm really not. Mostly I find I'm a pretty honest-with-myself type gal. For example I've never once told myself I'm good at tennis, I cannot, no matter how hard I've tried, learn how to play poker, and I would never subject anyone to really having to listen to me sing. Sometimes I think I'm good at things that I'm not, like picking out movies that my sister likes, grocery shopping, and writing e-mails.

For example I sent out a distress-beacon of a one liner a week or two ago that completely backfired. Backfired, sideways fired, up fired, down fired.. fire all over the place.

And still I charge forward.

Sent out another one the other day, in fact.. not as bad, the results, but still lives as evidence of my foolishness.

Though heres the thing:

The person reading the e-mail can really put whatever spin they want on the thing, depending on the mood they're in, what they expect from the situation, or who they know the person writing it to be.

For example the e-mail in question could read:

"Hello. How are you? I noticed it was raining outside, did you get the umbrella I dropped off yesterday? X Smooches!"

Consider it could be an exchange between people who like each other a lot. People concerned for the others state of dryness and comfort. People who would say things like "smooches" to one another.

Now consider it is an exchange between people who can't stand each other- people who would leave an umbrella covered in dog pooh on the others doorstep after the recent passing of their family dog, Smooches.

I'm bad at e-mail. I get it.

My friend Mr. Toast said that e-mail and other forms of electrical communication were so easy because usually when writing them, you are entirely alone. I can appreciate that, the security that comes with that is appealing, for sure. That and for a long time I was filled with a debilitating anxiety when faced with the task of calling certain someones-- e-mail doesn't usually have that effect. These days I simply find myself in a position where I can't get many words in. It's tricky to interrupt an e-mail. Though it is possible to combat the entire thing and just not read it.

That's just not playing fair, says I.

I think sometimes that I may be witnessing what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. This usually only when things are sensitive, which they have been for a few days (weeks?) now.. one thing after another, and I own it just as much as anyone.

Speaking of things I'm bad at, I went grocery shopping today. I remember once, looking down into the basket some years ago and seeing the following items: carrots, peanut butter, jell-o, frozen peas, seaweed and muffin mix.

... I think I might still have the muffin mix.. somewhere..

I just deleted a big long thing about groceries, what I buy mostly, and what I do or do not do at the grocery store. Possibly that I even deleted that small tirade should tell me I have nothing to say and I should go away.. and I probably will..

I had a conversation the other day that completely blew my mind. Like, blew it. All over the place. Like one of those sneezes that renders the blower temporarily useless 'cause they have to run and find a tissue. Blown.