You know it tears me up inside
To see the feelings that you hide
Hide inside that empty bottle
I wish you saw how great you were
I wish you saw what life was worth
You wouldn't have to hide your problems
And I don't care what you might think
I think you've had too much to drink
Can't even talk when you're this way
Run away, run away
But that won't make it any better
Run away, run away
And make tomorrow harder to live in than today
There's so much out there you could miss
There's so much life out there to live
If you would just believe in yourself
You know you're better than all of this
You know you've got so much to give
But you're so afraid to give of yourself
And I don't care what you might think
I think you've had too much to drink
Can't even talk when you're this way
Run away, run away
But that won't make it any better
Run away, run away
And make tomorrow harder to live in than today
There's a bright light shining inside you
It shines out through your eyes
Don't drown it away
Don't be afraid
Don't hide
Let it shine
You say you're looking for happiness
But when it comes you run away from it
You tell yourself you don't deserve it
There's not much more that I can do
Yeah, now the rest is up to you
Until you love yourself, you'll never change
Run away, run away
But that won't make it any better
Run away, run away
You'll keep on running until you can deal with today
Click here to listen to Shine, by the Plain White T's
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Raise Your Hand If You're Jewish
I'm Jewish.
And, damn it, I'm proud of it. I've never seen any reason to hide who I am on this front, which is probably why the door to my room is covered in David shield garland with my name in Hebrew and a hamsa as the focal point, which is nicely complimented by the golden mezuzah that is affixed to my door frame.
So I don't quite understand why the following incident upset me so thoroughly.
There is a quote board in our corridor, right next to our RA's resident. Throughout the semester, all of the girls on our floor add to it, scrawling the various funny and, at times, ridiculous/stupid things that come out of our mouths in magic marker on the purple piece of butcher's paper.
Thus far, I have already made the quote board and one morning a few days ago, walking past it on the way to the bathroom, I couldn't help but notice the text written in a couple of places in black ink, darkened out by the same marker, with arrows pointing to my name.
It didn't concern me at first. I just figured one of my friends had written a prophane joke and our RA had scribbled it out for propriety issues, as both are known to do. So, over the course of the next few days, I casually brought it up to all of my friends, asking if they were the culprit. All denied responsibility, and shared my growing curiosity as to what was written there.
Finally, I went to our RA and asked her if she was the one who had "blacked" out the writing. She said she wasn't. That was it. Now painfully curious, my friends and I all decided to pull the paper off of the wall and hold it up to the light to see if we could make out what the person just had to say.
After squinting at the text for a couple of seconds, I was shocked at what I deciphered:
"Fuck Jews." "Dirty Jew. Jew. Jew. Jew."
Who would write this? Was it a visitor to our dorm, or had it been one of the girls on our floor whom I am less acquainted with? All possibilities were equally disturbing.
My friends, who had all gathered in a semicircle around me, each took about two steps back, wide-eyed and gasping. I dismissed the whole thing in the best way I could think of.
"Well, that's petty." I chuckled half-heartedly before retreating to my room where I could sit and think in silent disappointment. I don't think I'll ever be able to understand this kind of hatred; Something tells me it's not something understandable at all.
Every once in a while, I find myself losing faith in humanity, little by little.
And, damn it, I'm proud of it. I've never seen any reason to hide who I am on this front, which is probably why the door to my room is covered in David shield garland with my name in Hebrew and a hamsa as the focal point, which is nicely complimented by the golden mezuzah that is affixed to my door frame.
So I don't quite understand why the following incident upset me so thoroughly.
There is a quote board in our corridor, right next to our RA's resident. Throughout the semester, all of the girls on our floor add to it, scrawling the various funny and, at times, ridiculous/stupid things that come out of our mouths in magic marker on the purple piece of butcher's paper.
Thus far, I have already made the quote board and one morning a few days ago, walking past it on the way to the bathroom, I couldn't help but notice the text written in a couple of places in black ink, darkened out by the same marker, with arrows pointing to my name.
It didn't concern me at first. I just figured one of my friends had written a prophane joke and our RA had scribbled it out for propriety issues, as both are known to do. So, over the course of the next few days, I casually brought it up to all of my friends, asking if they were the culprit. All denied responsibility, and shared my growing curiosity as to what was written there.
Finally, I went to our RA and asked her if she was the one who had "blacked" out the writing. She said she wasn't. That was it. Now painfully curious, my friends and I all decided to pull the paper off of the wall and hold it up to the light to see if we could make out what the person just had to say.
After squinting at the text for a couple of seconds, I was shocked at what I deciphered:
"Fuck Jews." "Dirty Jew. Jew. Jew. Jew."
Who would write this? Was it a visitor to our dorm, or had it been one of the girls on our floor whom I am less acquainted with? All possibilities were equally disturbing.
My friends, who had all gathered in a semicircle around me, each took about two steps back, wide-eyed and gasping. I dismissed the whole thing in the best way I could think of.
"Well, that's petty." I chuckled half-heartedly before retreating to my room where I could sit and think in silent disappointment. I don't think I'll ever be able to understand this kind of hatred; Something tells me it's not something understandable at all.
Every once in a while, I find myself losing faith in humanity, little by little.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
[Late] Teen Angst
Do you ever feel like your parents secretly hate you?
That's the generally vibe that I'm getting from mine, at this juncture. It's unsettling and frustrating but, above all, hurtful, because there is nothing I have done (to the best of my knowledge) that merits such loathing.
Let's get the back story out of the way: I'm ill right now. Not anything serious; Just a not-so-routine visit from my old friend, Influenza. Thus, as you can probably imagine, I'd just about rather throw myself from my third story dorm window than try to do anything crazy like, you know, walk. That being said, I've been doing a lot of thinking over the past couple of days.
Okay, now you get the "current" story: My major is on the fence, meaning that I'm thinking about switching from Pre-Veterinary to something only slightly different--Journalism/Political Science or Archaeology.
See what I mean? Not much of a jump, right? (As a side note: if you didn't get the biting sarcasm in the previous statement, you are far beyond any help I could provide) Anyway, because I'm a good daughter (or at least that's how I see it), I make it a point to inform the primary benefactors of my higher education of any academic decisions I might make. So, I called up my mother to run some of these ideas past her.
Let it be known that I don't need affirmation from anyone concerning the decisions I make that will effect the rest of my life. I inform my parents as a common courtesy, as I know that I would have some heavy explaining to do if they announced I was graduating with a Bachelor's degree in Interpretive Dance at my commencement, to the complete ignorance of my parents.
I gently mentioned the prospect of a change to Archaeology to my mother and got a response that I would have never expected: Anger.
Suddenly, I was being interrogated one minute and accused the next. "When [was I] ever interested in archaeology?!" followed by "[I've] never been interested in archaeology!" In retrospect, the look on my face must have been priceless, as I think I sat in my desk chair gaping and stammering for the next two minutes of this diatribe.
After those two minutes had passed, shock was replaced by ire and I snapped back at my mother: "If you had been paying attention at all for the past 19 years of my life, you would know that I've been interested in archaeology since I knew what the hell it was."
Again, they say hindsight is 20/20, and that, clearly, was a poor choice.
Cue another course of steaming-hot guilt, being force-fed to me with a red-hot spoon. Tears started welling in my eyes and my head started to ache. I hadn't argued with my mother this intensely since I was in high school.
Finally, mami decided that I wasn't worth her time (which, at that point, I couldn't have been happier about) and passed the reciever off to my level-headed father, who proceeded to ask me some difficult questions. Why do I want to leave Veterinary Medicine to begin with? What kind of jobs can I get with a degree in Archaeology? Am I just picking Journalism because "numbers scare me?"
By the time I hung up the phone, I was fairly certain that if I spat toward the ground, it would float back up and hit me square in the face. I didn't know anything anymore.
Later that night, I couldn't sleep. I would like to say that I couldn't nod off because of the volume of deep, profound thoughts running through my head, but that would be a bold-face lie. I was coughing. Hackety-hacking the night away (my neighbors almost certainly heard the chorus of "Cough. COUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGH. Owww.." the whole night through).
If it wasn't for the cough, I wouldn't have thought at all, as I am wont to do. However, given the opportunity, I allowed myself to mull over what my father and I had talked about earlier. About three hours later, I had come to a conclusion and formulated another excellent idea: I have no idea what I want to do with my life. Why not take a year off from University and travel the world? That would give me plenty of time to decide. I was so convinced that my parents would applaud my swift thinking and agree that I should take the time to clear my head.
The next morning (or day, considering when I finally got out of bed), before I even got a chance to tell them of my plans, I started chatting with my wonderful sister on MSN:
My brother has Hepatitis C. Paired with several other factors concerning this diagnosis, things don't look too good for him.
This revelation just cinched the saddle on the horse that I had planned to ride out of town. A good sister would want to stay around and be supportive, but now all I want to do is run. Call it weak, but I just can't handle this right now.
I put on my headphones, connected them to my Zen, played the song that has always reminded me of Karoly and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling and falling into such a trance that I was sure my heart had stopped beating. And then I cried.
When that was all over, I went about business as usual. I plastered a smile on my face so that my friends wouldn't suspect anything was wrong (being miserably ill helps with this, since you pretty much always look like crap anyway). I went to dinner, came back and had a movie and hot cocoa night with my mijas, studied a bit (only as much as absolutely necessary; I'm sick, damn it!), and finally picked up my phone.
I started by approaching the subject of why my parents hadn't told me about my brother. I couldn't help but feel betrayed--I tell them everything! When I felt that I had successfully spoon-fed them a sufficient amount of my own special recipe of guilt, I told them about my plans to travel. That, if I was away from all of the pressure of having to declare as soon as possible, I would make a decision that I wouldn't end up regretting later.
The change in the tone of their voices was kind of eerie. It became robotic and monotone. I told them that I had planned to be a counselor at Jewish summer camp to accumulate money for my plane ticket if they wouldn't help me out. This didn't impress them much, so I switched tactics: I made small-talk. Small-talk about how cold it is outside, small-talk about my pets, small-talk about my doctor's appointments and my studies.
Their voices didn't change. By the time I hung up, I felt like I was talking to a machine--like the things that you get on the other end of the line when you call a major bank. They told me they loved me, but they couldn't have sounded any less sincere.
Have I really been that much of a disappointment?
Even more disturbing: have I been lying to myself? Do I, in fact, need affirmation from my parents when it comes to making decisions that will, ultimately, effect the rest of my life?
I do know one thing: I am going to run. I'm going to run as soon as I can and not look back until I have my thoughts in order.
That's the generally vibe that I'm getting from mine, at this juncture. It's unsettling and frustrating but, above all, hurtful, because there is nothing I have done (to the best of my knowledge) that merits such loathing.
Let's get the back story out of the way: I'm ill right now. Not anything serious; Just a not-so-routine visit from my old friend, Influenza. Thus, as you can probably imagine, I'd just about rather throw myself from my third story dorm window than try to do anything crazy like, you know, walk. That being said, I've been doing a lot of thinking over the past couple of days.
Okay, now you get the "current" story: My major is on the fence, meaning that I'm thinking about switching from Pre-Veterinary to something only slightly different--Journalism/Political Science or Archaeology.
See what I mean? Not much of a jump, right? (As a side note: if you didn't get the biting sarcasm in the previous statement, you are far beyond any help I could provide) Anyway, because I'm a good daughter (or at least that's how I see it), I make it a point to inform the primary benefactors of my higher education of any academic decisions I might make. So, I called up my mother to run some of these ideas past her.
Let it be known that I don't need affirmation from anyone concerning the decisions I make that will effect the rest of my life. I inform my parents as a common courtesy, as I know that I would have some heavy explaining to do if they announced I was graduating with a Bachelor's degree in Interpretive Dance at my commencement, to the complete ignorance of my parents.
I gently mentioned the prospect of a change to Archaeology to my mother and got a response that I would have never expected: Anger.
Suddenly, I was being interrogated one minute and accused the next. "When [was I] ever interested in archaeology?!" followed by "[I've] never been interested in archaeology!" In retrospect, the look on my face must have been priceless, as I think I sat in my desk chair gaping and stammering for the next two minutes of this diatribe.
After those two minutes had passed, shock was replaced by ire and I snapped back at my mother: "If you had been paying attention at all for the past 19 years of my life, you would know that I've been interested in archaeology since I knew what the hell it was."
Again, they say hindsight is 20/20, and that, clearly, was a poor choice.
Cue another course of steaming-hot guilt, being force-fed to me with a red-hot spoon. Tears started welling in my eyes and my head started to ache. I hadn't argued with my mother this intensely since I was in high school.
Finally, mami decided that I wasn't worth her time (which, at that point, I couldn't have been happier about) and passed the reciever off to my level-headed father, who proceeded to ask me some difficult questions. Why do I want to leave Veterinary Medicine to begin with? What kind of jobs can I get with a degree in Archaeology? Am I just picking Journalism because "numbers scare me?"
By the time I hung up the phone, I was fairly certain that if I spat toward the ground, it would float back up and hit me square in the face. I didn't know anything anymore.
Later that night, I couldn't sleep. I would like to say that I couldn't nod off because of the volume of deep, profound thoughts running through my head, but that would be a bold-face lie. I was coughing. Hackety-hacking the night away (my neighbors almost certainly heard the chorus of "Cough. COUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGH. Owww.." the whole night through).
If it wasn't for the cough, I wouldn't have thought at all, as I am wont to do. However, given the opportunity, I allowed myself to mull over what my father and I had talked about earlier. About three hours later, I had come to a conclusion and formulated another excellent idea: I have no idea what I want to do with my life. Why not take a year off from University and travel the world? That would give me plenty of time to decide. I was so convinced that my parents would applaud my swift thinking and agree that I should take the time to clear my head.
The next morning (or day, considering when I finally got out of bed), before I even got a chance to tell them of my plans, I started chatting with my wonderful sister on MSN:
My brother has Hepatitis C. Paired with several other factors concerning this diagnosis, things don't look too good for him.
This revelation just cinched the saddle on the horse that I had planned to ride out of town. A good sister would want to stay around and be supportive, but now all I want to do is run. Call it weak, but I just can't handle this right now.
I put on my headphones, connected them to my Zen, played the song that has always reminded me of Karoly and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling and falling into such a trance that I was sure my heart had stopped beating. And then I cried.
When that was all over, I went about business as usual. I plastered a smile on my face so that my friends wouldn't suspect anything was wrong (being miserably ill helps with this, since you pretty much always look like crap anyway). I went to dinner, came back and had a movie and hot cocoa night with my mijas, studied a bit (only as much as absolutely necessary; I'm sick, damn it!), and finally picked up my phone.
I started by approaching the subject of why my parents hadn't told me about my brother. I couldn't help but feel betrayed--I tell them everything! When I felt that I had successfully spoon-fed them a sufficient amount of my own special recipe of guilt, I told them about my plans to travel. That, if I was away from all of the pressure of having to declare as soon as possible, I would make a decision that I wouldn't end up regretting later.
The change in the tone of their voices was kind of eerie. It became robotic and monotone. I told them that I had planned to be a counselor at Jewish summer camp to accumulate money for my plane ticket if they wouldn't help me out. This didn't impress them much, so I switched tactics: I made small-talk. Small-talk about how cold it is outside, small-talk about my pets, small-talk about my doctor's appointments and my studies.
Their voices didn't change. By the time I hung up, I felt like I was talking to a machine--like the things that you get on the other end of the line when you call a major bank. They told me they loved me, but they couldn't have sounded any less sincere.
Have I really been that much of a disappointment?
Even more disturbing: have I been lying to myself? Do I, in fact, need affirmation from my parents when it comes to making decisions that will, ultimately, effect the rest of my life?
I do know one thing: I am going to run. I'm going to run as soon as I can and not look back until I have my thoughts in order.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
My life so far:
I wish I could quit you, blogger. Clearly, we've been apart for far too long.
So.. what's new with my life?
I went home for Thanksgiving. I didn't even realize just how much I actually missed it. Even so, once I was there, it felt like I had never left; Every little mundane detail was comforting. It still had that same smell that was so familiar to me, like clean linen strung out on the line to dry (how my mother manages to keep the house smelling like this all year round, especially in rainy Seattle, is simply beyond me) with just a subtle hint of "Goya Adobo," a spice that my mother uses when she cooks. Mis perritos (little dogs) came to greet me at the door and, while they still seemed a little dismayed by the fact that I had been gone for so long, were more than willing to forgive and forget. There were changes, of course: my parents are having the whole interior of the house remodeled so I noticed some new and different lighting fixtures, a few new pieces of expensive china set carefully in the curio cabinet, some carpet removed and replaced with sanded and polished hardwood--but even so, the most important vestiges of my childhood remain. I immediately climbed the stairs to the second floor where my room is located to examine the door frame: my "growth chart" is still there, cataloguing my height every year from ages 3-16. Ay.. When they say "home is where the heart is," they aren't lying.
Thanksgiving dinner was good, but not great. I mean, I loved having both of my siblings there--I hardly ever see them at the same time. It was also a nice change to eat turkey; I had almost forgotten the texture and taste of meat (I enjoyed every bite, but now I'm back to being veggie). Additionally, I found myself being contented by the presence of my ex-boyfriend who, while no longer involved romantically with me, is still considered part of the family. I won't lie: I was not happy for the entire evening, but it was, overall, a pleasant experience.
The journey to get onto my flight back home was interesting, to say the very least. When we left the house, it was snowing, which was bad enough but at this point the roads are still navigable, so we were still going to give it a try. We get about three quarters of the way to the airport when traffic comes to a halt on the expressway. That's when we realize that the road has become an ice skating rink and cars are sliding out of control everywhere. Plenty of cars were just stopped by the side of the road (their operators hoping that the snow would let up soon, I suppose), some had spun completely off the expressway and laid to rest in the ditches by the side of the road, and we even counted a few jackknifed articulated buses and semi trucks.
By the time we got the airport, it was almost clear that I would not make my scheduled flight time, but we decided that we would try for it anyway. My dad, accompanied by my ex, dropped me off at the departures deck and said they would circle for a while in case I missed my plane. I dashed to queue formed in front of the ticketing counter, dropped my bags, and scooted past several serene-looking people with large, rolling luggage in tow to frantically explain my plight to one of the ticketing agents.
She sympathized with me, told me that my flight had been delayed by thirty minutes, but instructed me to fetch my luggage to have it checked so that I could move on to security where, again, there was a lengthy queue.
I thanked her profusely, did as I was instructed and then sprinted over to the TSA checkpoint. The line moved faster than was expected and, in no time, I was in the terminal heading toward my gate. I pulled my cell phone out of my handbag, slung securely over my shoulder, to check the time: 20 minutes until departure. I would make it in time.
As I approached my gate in the B concourse, I couldn't help but notice the two Seattle Police Department officers steadily gaining on me from behind. I had clearly done nothing wrong but, for whatever, reason felt like it was me they were pursuing. It wasn't long until this assumption was shattered to pieces by the sound of someone screaming: "Oh, GOD. PLEASE. FUCK!" in a squelched and, clearly, distressed tone. And then I noticed the circle of people. It was at this point that the two police officers behind me started to run.
I was worried at first; Worried that someone in medical distress, cardiac arrest perhaps? When I saw the man crouched by the side of the concourse with one other officer clinging to his arm that I realized what was going on; The guy was sloshed! I couldn't help but chuckle a little bit, even though I knew it wasn't much of a laughing matter. Soon after, the officers stood him up and walked him past the onlookers (including myself) that had gathered toward the terminal. In passing, he muttered things like "Don't I look like a terrorist?" and "I'm a terrorist threat," to any bystander he made eye contact with. This was probably the weirdest incident that I've had in an airport thus far.
Anyway, I got on the plane and we took off thirty minutes later than our scheduled departure time. Because of the veritable squall that was occurring on the ground below, about half of the passengers en route to New Jersey didn't show up and, thus, I had three seats all to myself. I made good use of said seats of course, not to mention the extra blankets and pillows. I put up the armrests and sprawled out across all three, which formed a makeshift bed. It was surprisingly comfortable and I slept through most of the flight (which is an accomplishment for me; I can NEVER sleep on planes), only occasionally rousing to request water from a passing flight attendant or to fasten my seat belt when we were experiencing turbulence.
My connection at Newark Liberty Int'l went.. interestingly. Because I've already written a short novel about my departure from Seatac, I'll be brief: I somehow managed to exit the C concourse that I arrived in, went out past security, into another concourse, only to realize that the C concourse was where I had to be to catch my connecting flight anyway. So, I had to go through security again which cut about 15 minutes off of my layover. Still, I was in good enough shape to wait in the ridiculous queue at the "Grab and Go" station to get a bottle of water so that I wouldn't be so parched on the puddle jump to Bradley airport in Hartford.
On my flight to Bradley, the plane was mostly empty but a young man was seated next to me anyway. He asked if I wanted him to move so that I could have my own row and I politely offered the decision up to him. He chose to stay. We chit-chatted for the whole flight; I noticed he would continue to look at me even after I had ended one of our short conversations to read a chapter from my book or stare out the window. When we landed and were waiting at baggage claim, he moved closer to me when he realized I was reaching for the sizable box that I had checked back at Seatac and offered to help me. I politely declined and insisted that I could do it but thanked him for the offer. Once both of my bags were off of the belt and most of the other passengers on our flight had left, he remained sitting nearby, watching me. I went to go get a baggage cart and would look over occasionally to see if he was still there. We would make eye contact and I would blush furiously, quickly averting my gaze. By this point, I was sufficiently creeped out, hoisted my box onto the baggage cart and, wheeling my two suitcases behind me, headed toward another area of the arrivals deck to await my shuttle back to the university. I only glanced behind one to find that he had gotten up and left. Weird.
When I got back to my dormitory, I was pleasantly surprised to see Lia, Liz, Caitlin, and Andie waiting for me on the front steps. As soon as I slid open the shuttle door, they were up and running toward me screaming "Raaaaaaayna!!!" and nearly tackled me with hugs. I tipped my driver and they all offered to take my bags up to my room. I have the best friends in the world--no lie.
Now to completely change the subject: I've been diagnosed with anemia. Not a huge surprise, right? For someone who is a vegetarian, has celiac disease, and is just getting over light chemotherapy, it seems like a given. However, when I was talking to my doctor back home, she mentioned that my iron levels and red blood cell count have always been low and borderline anemic.
Well, thank you very much Dr. Droege. But please, answer me this one question: why on earth was this not mentioned to me YEARS ago? I kind of figure that it would be a good idea to mention this fact, even in passing, so that your patient might actually change their diet and/or what supplements they are taking to accommodate such a condition. Ay dios mio..
Anyway, after we established this fact, she sent me across the street to the lab to have blood taken. I'm pretty much a pro at this now, considering that I go in almost every week for some sort of blood work. However, I still can't shake my fear of needles for whatever reason. When I go in for the lab draw, I'll sit down in the chair, chat jovially with the technician while she carries out her task, and then walk out like the whole thing does phase me.
It's when my foot hits the pavement outside the front door of the lab when my skin starts to crawl and I get jittery. Maybe it's because this when I allow myself to acknowledge the fact I'm needle-phobic, I don't know. What I DO know is that I probably appear as that I'm on all sorts of stimulants for about a half-hour after a lab draw.
I swear they should teach a class on "The Psychology of Rayna B." Can someone figure out what does, in fact, 'make me tick' first, though?
On a different medical-type strain: I've been prescribed antidepressants. A very low dose, just to take the edge off. I confessed to my doctor what had happened a few years back and that I never sought help (counselling) to recover from the experience. She decided that my mood swings and "extreme lows" were probably due, in part, to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is what I originally thought. Thus, she suggested that I find a "safe outlet" to vent my fears to and take the pills for a little while. I'm feeling optimistic.
Keepin' on keepin' on: I'd like to reflect on a couple of important relationships in my life at this juncture. First, my relationship with my roommate: Laurie. As it stands right now, I don't think it could be any better. For a couple of weeks there, there was quite a bit of tension between us for reasons that would take forever to even summarize. Now, all that as been resolved and we get along great. She had mentioned at one point that she wanted to move in with a different girl on our floor (because she thought I hated her) but rescinded that statement a couple of days ago and said she wanted to stay with me (awww).
Secondly, the relationship with Dylan, my ex-boyfriend has become disturbingly conspicuous again. I consider us just friends at this point but I must admit that seeing him again stirred up feelings that I didn't know I had. This was made even worse when, while, we were cruising around in his car, he admitted that he missed me and wanted me back.
And I considered it carefully. The truth is, I know he is capable of cruelty; He's shown me that before and I just don't think I'm prepared to subject myself to that again. He's a wonderful guy almost all of the time, but there will be times, few in far between, that he will take out pent-up anger out on me in a very personal and scathing manner (not physically, mind you). Still, I find myself wondering if I'm still in love with him (yes, it is possible at my age).. It's probably a good thing that there's so much distance between us.
I think it's due time that I wrap up this post because it's wholly boring and clearly hasn't been worth your time. I think I may have just written the next great American Novel, from the looks of it (don't even try to deny it; you and I both know that American classics are capable of producing boredom so acute that it could send you into a forty-year coma).
Hey, at least I actually updated. I'll probably have to do this more often that way I don't have to give the damned post chapters.
So.. what's new with my life?
I went home for Thanksgiving. I didn't even realize just how much I actually missed it. Even so, once I was there, it felt like I had never left; Every little mundane detail was comforting. It still had that same smell that was so familiar to me, like clean linen strung out on the line to dry (how my mother manages to keep the house smelling like this all year round, especially in rainy Seattle, is simply beyond me) with just a subtle hint of "Goya Adobo," a spice that my mother uses when she cooks. Mis perritos (little dogs) came to greet me at the door and, while they still seemed a little dismayed by the fact that I had been gone for so long, were more than willing to forgive and forget. There were changes, of course: my parents are having the whole interior of the house remodeled so I noticed some new and different lighting fixtures, a few new pieces of expensive china set carefully in the curio cabinet, some carpet removed and replaced with sanded and polished hardwood--but even so, the most important vestiges of my childhood remain. I immediately climbed the stairs to the second floor where my room is located to examine the door frame: my "growth chart" is still there, cataloguing my height every year from ages 3-16. Ay.. When they say "home is where the heart is," they aren't lying.
Thanksgiving dinner was good, but not great. I mean, I loved having both of my siblings there--I hardly ever see them at the same time. It was also a nice change to eat turkey; I had almost forgotten the texture and taste of meat (I enjoyed every bite, but now I'm back to being veggie). Additionally, I found myself being contented by the presence of my ex-boyfriend who, while no longer involved romantically with me, is still considered part of the family. I won't lie: I was not happy for the entire evening, but it was, overall, a pleasant experience.
The journey to get onto my flight back home was interesting, to say the very least. When we left the house, it was snowing, which was bad enough but at this point the roads are still navigable, so we were still going to give it a try. We get about three quarters of the way to the airport when traffic comes to a halt on the expressway. That's when we realize that the road has become an ice skating rink and cars are sliding out of control everywhere. Plenty of cars were just stopped by the side of the road (their operators hoping that the snow would let up soon, I suppose), some had spun completely off the expressway and laid to rest in the ditches by the side of the road, and we even counted a few jackknifed articulated buses and semi trucks.
By the time we got the airport, it was almost clear that I would not make my scheduled flight time, but we decided that we would try for it anyway. My dad, accompanied by my ex, dropped me off at the departures deck and said they would circle for a while in case I missed my plane. I dashed to queue formed in front of the ticketing counter, dropped my bags, and scooted past several serene-looking people with large, rolling luggage in tow to frantically explain my plight to one of the ticketing agents.
She sympathized with me, told me that my flight had been delayed by thirty minutes, but instructed me to fetch my luggage to have it checked so that I could move on to security where, again, there was a lengthy queue.
I thanked her profusely, did as I was instructed and then sprinted over to the TSA checkpoint. The line moved faster than was expected and, in no time, I was in the terminal heading toward my gate. I pulled my cell phone out of my handbag, slung securely over my shoulder, to check the time: 20 minutes until departure. I would make it in time.
As I approached my gate in the B concourse, I couldn't help but notice the two Seattle Police Department officers steadily gaining on me from behind. I had clearly done nothing wrong but, for whatever, reason felt like it was me they were pursuing. It wasn't long until this assumption was shattered to pieces by the sound of someone screaming: "Oh, GOD. PLEASE. FUCK!" in a squelched and, clearly, distressed tone. And then I noticed the circle of people. It was at this point that the two police officers behind me started to run.
I was worried at first; Worried that someone in medical distress, cardiac arrest perhaps? When I saw the man crouched by the side of the concourse with one other officer clinging to his arm that I realized what was going on; The guy was sloshed! I couldn't help but chuckle a little bit, even though I knew it wasn't much of a laughing matter. Soon after, the officers stood him up and walked him past the onlookers (including myself) that had gathered toward the terminal. In passing, he muttered things like "Don't I look like a terrorist?" and "I'm a terrorist threat," to any bystander he made eye contact with. This was probably the weirdest incident that I've had in an airport thus far.
Anyway, I got on the plane and we took off thirty minutes later than our scheduled departure time. Because of the veritable squall that was occurring on the ground below, about half of the passengers en route to New Jersey didn't show up and, thus, I had three seats all to myself. I made good use of said seats of course, not to mention the extra blankets and pillows. I put up the armrests and sprawled out across all three, which formed a makeshift bed. It was surprisingly comfortable and I slept through most of the flight (which is an accomplishment for me; I can NEVER sleep on planes), only occasionally rousing to request water from a passing flight attendant or to fasten my seat belt when we were experiencing turbulence.
My connection at Newark Liberty Int'l went.. interestingly. Because I've already written a short novel about my departure from Seatac, I'll be brief: I somehow managed to exit the C concourse that I arrived in, went out past security, into another concourse, only to realize that the C concourse was where I had to be to catch my connecting flight anyway. So, I had to go through security again which cut about 15 minutes off of my layover. Still, I was in good enough shape to wait in the ridiculous queue at the "Grab and Go" station to get a bottle of water so that I wouldn't be so parched on the puddle jump to Bradley airport in Hartford.
On my flight to Bradley, the plane was mostly empty but a young man was seated next to me anyway. He asked if I wanted him to move so that I could have my own row and I politely offered the decision up to him. He chose to stay. We chit-chatted for the whole flight; I noticed he would continue to look at me even after I had ended one of our short conversations to read a chapter from my book or stare out the window. When we landed and were waiting at baggage claim, he moved closer to me when he realized I was reaching for the sizable box that I had checked back at Seatac and offered to help me. I politely declined and insisted that I could do it but thanked him for the offer. Once both of my bags were off of the belt and most of the other passengers on our flight had left, he remained sitting nearby, watching me. I went to go get a baggage cart and would look over occasionally to see if he was still there. We would make eye contact and I would blush furiously, quickly averting my gaze. By this point, I was sufficiently creeped out, hoisted my box onto the baggage cart and, wheeling my two suitcases behind me, headed toward another area of the arrivals deck to await my shuttle back to the university. I only glanced behind one to find that he had gotten up and left. Weird.
When I got back to my dormitory, I was pleasantly surprised to see Lia, Liz, Caitlin, and Andie waiting for me on the front steps. As soon as I slid open the shuttle door, they were up and running toward me screaming "Raaaaaaayna!!!" and nearly tackled me with hugs. I tipped my driver and they all offered to take my bags up to my room. I have the best friends in the world--no lie.
Now to completely change the subject: I've been diagnosed with anemia. Not a huge surprise, right? For someone who is a vegetarian, has celiac disease, and is just getting over light chemotherapy, it seems like a given. However, when I was talking to my doctor back home, she mentioned that my iron levels and red blood cell count have always been low and borderline anemic.
Well, thank you very much Dr. Droege. But please, answer me this one question: why on earth was this not mentioned to me YEARS ago? I kind of figure that it would be a good idea to mention this fact, even in passing, so that your patient might actually change their diet and/or what supplements they are taking to accommodate such a condition. Ay dios mio..
Anyway, after we established this fact, she sent me across the street to the lab to have blood taken. I'm pretty much a pro at this now, considering that I go in almost every week for some sort of blood work. However, I still can't shake my fear of needles for whatever reason. When I go in for the lab draw, I'll sit down in the chair, chat jovially with the technician while she carries out her task, and then walk out like the whole thing does phase me.
It's when my foot hits the pavement outside the front door of the lab when my skin starts to crawl and I get jittery. Maybe it's because this when I allow myself to acknowledge the fact I'm needle-phobic, I don't know. What I DO know is that I probably appear as that I'm on all sorts of stimulants for about a half-hour after a lab draw.
I swear they should teach a class on "The Psychology of Rayna B." Can someone figure out what does, in fact, 'make me tick' first, though?
On a different medical-type strain: I've been prescribed antidepressants. A very low dose, just to take the edge off. I confessed to my doctor what had happened a few years back and that I never sought help (counselling) to recover from the experience. She decided that my mood swings and "extreme lows" were probably due, in part, to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is what I originally thought. Thus, she suggested that I find a "safe outlet" to vent my fears to and take the pills for a little while. I'm feeling optimistic.
Keepin' on keepin' on: I'd like to reflect on a couple of important relationships in my life at this juncture. First, my relationship with my roommate: Laurie. As it stands right now, I don't think it could be any better. For a couple of weeks there, there was quite a bit of tension between us for reasons that would take forever to even summarize. Now, all that as been resolved and we get along great. She had mentioned at one point that she wanted to move in with a different girl on our floor (because she thought I hated her) but rescinded that statement a couple of days ago and said she wanted to stay with me (awww).
Secondly, the relationship with Dylan, my ex-boyfriend has become disturbingly conspicuous again. I consider us just friends at this point but I must admit that seeing him again stirred up feelings that I didn't know I had. This was made even worse when, while, we were cruising around in his car, he admitted that he missed me and wanted me back.
And I considered it carefully. The truth is, I know he is capable of cruelty; He's shown me that before and I just don't think I'm prepared to subject myself to that again. He's a wonderful guy almost all of the time, but there will be times, few in far between, that he will take out pent-up anger out on me in a very personal and scathing manner (not physically, mind you). Still, I find myself wondering if I'm still in love with him (yes, it is possible at my age).. It's probably a good thing that there's so much distance between us.
I think it's due time that I wrap up this post because it's wholly boring and clearly hasn't been worth your time. I think I may have just written the next great American Novel, from the looks of it (don't even try to deny it; you and I both know that American classics are capable of producing boredom so acute that it could send you into a forty-year coma).
Hey, at least I actually updated. I'll probably have to do this more often that way I don't have to give the damned post chapters.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Ramblerambleramble
Good idea: going to bed at a decent hour when you have classes the next morning.
Bad idea: drinking "Tazo: Awake" tea at around 23:30 and not starting your laundry until midnight.
Guess which one Raynita did? :D
Moving on:
I had an interesting experience right after dinner this evening: Kate needed to move her car into lot 26 across campus and asked someone to go with her. I wasn't too enthused about it, but after Hannah and Caitlin both refused I agreed to go because I didn't want Kate walking across campus by herself in the dark.
So we get to the "splitting point" and Kate and I turn to go down the short flight of stairs into the parking lot while Hannah and C-Crazy continue on to the Knowlton main entrance. I take the first step down the stairs, chit-chatting with Kate all the while and, just as I'm about to plant my sandal on step number two, I can't help but notice what looks like a piece of tree bark sitting there. My foot continues to descend and then I notice something terribly amiss about this piece of bark--it walks.
That's when I realized what it was: a cockroach, and a particularly large one. At that moment, I let out the most pathetic, terrified squeek you've ever heard and launched myself off of step #1 with my left foot and, skipping steps 2-8, hit the landing at the bottom, swinging my arms slightly to regain my balance. Of course, I feel Kate grab the hood of my sweatshirt in a desperate (and perhaps false) attempt to help stabilize me.
She asked if I was alright; If I had just almost stumbled down the stairs or something. I explained to her that, no, I had jumped because there was a cockroach lurking in the shadows, just waiting to crawl on me. She laughed. I turned around to look my harasser in the eyes (how many do they have, anyway?). I got a chill up my spine and started alternately bouncing on each of my feet, trying to shake off my disgust while chanting the obligatory "eww, eww, eww, eww, eww, ewwww!"
Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear: I. hate. cockroaches. If there is one phobia that I've never been able to get over, it's this one. Give me spiders, snakes, vicious dogs, sharks, and I'm fine. But bring roaches into the picture and it's game over.
What does this all mean? Kate has made sure to inform everyone on K:3 that The Unsinkable Raynita is afraid of roaches. I can just see C-Crazy going out and catching some in a jar and putting it somewhere conspicuous just to psych me out. Peachy.
New subject:
Hannah has an Israeli friend that she talks to via skype!! I said hi to him today; He seems like a pretty cool guy (Yaniv, I think his name was). I maintain that my Israeli friends are far cuter, though! ;D
Okay.. It's really late, or early (depending on how you look at it) and I need to be up in a few hours to go to class. So I should really fight my terrible insomnia and get some sleep.
Wait, wait! I just want to say how much the song "Sex Bomb" by Tom Jones amuses me:
Make me explode, although you know
The route to go to sex me slow
And yes I must react to claims of those
Who say that you are not all that
Sex bomb, sex bomb
You're a sex bomb
And you can give it to me
When I need to come alone
Sex bomb, sex bomb
You're my sex bomb
And baby you can turn me on
Liz and I should make this our theme song. :P
Bad idea: drinking "Tazo: Awake" tea at around 23:30 and not starting your laundry until midnight.
Guess which one Raynita did? :D
Moving on:
I had an interesting experience right after dinner this evening: Kate needed to move her car into lot 26 across campus and asked someone to go with her. I wasn't too enthused about it, but after Hannah and Caitlin both refused I agreed to go because I didn't want Kate walking across campus by herself in the dark.
So we get to the "splitting point" and Kate and I turn to go down the short flight of stairs into the parking lot while Hannah and C-Crazy continue on to the Knowlton main entrance. I take the first step down the stairs, chit-chatting with Kate all the while and, just as I'm about to plant my sandal on step number two, I can't help but notice what looks like a piece of tree bark sitting there. My foot continues to descend and then I notice something terribly amiss about this piece of bark--it walks.
That's when I realized what it was: a cockroach, and a particularly large one. At that moment, I let out the most pathetic, terrified squeek you've ever heard and launched myself off of step #1 with my left foot and, skipping steps 2-8, hit the landing at the bottom, swinging my arms slightly to regain my balance. Of course, I feel Kate grab the hood of my sweatshirt in a desperate (and perhaps false) attempt to help stabilize me.
She asked if I was alright; If I had just almost stumbled down the stairs or something. I explained to her that, no, I had jumped because there was a cockroach lurking in the shadows, just waiting to crawl on me. She laughed. I turned around to look my harasser in the eyes (how many do they have, anyway?). I got a chill up my spine and started alternately bouncing on each of my feet, trying to shake off my disgust while chanting the obligatory "eww, eww, eww, eww, eww, ewwww!"
Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear: I. hate. cockroaches. If there is one phobia that I've never been able to get over, it's this one. Give me spiders, snakes, vicious dogs, sharks, and I'm fine. But bring roaches into the picture and it's game over.
What does this all mean? Kate has made sure to inform everyone on K:3 that The Unsinkable Raynita is afraid of roaches. I can just see C-Crazy going out and catching some in a jar and putting it somewhere conspicuous just to psych me out. Peachy.
New subject:
Hannah has an Israeli friend that she talks to via skype!! I said hi to him today; He seems like a pretty cool guy (Yaniv, I think his name was). I maintain that my Israeli friends are far cuter, though! ;D
Okay.. It's really late, or early (depending on how you look at it) and I need to be up in a few hours to go to class. So I should really fight my terrible insomnia and get some sleep.
Wait, wait! I just want to say how much the song "Sex Bomb" by Tom Jones amuses me:
Make me explode, although you know
The route to go to sex me slow
And yes I must react to claims of those
Who say that you are not all that
Sex bomb, sex bomb
You're a sex bomb
And you can give it to me
When I need to come alone
Sex bomb, sex bomb
You're my sex bomb
And baby you can turn me on
Liz and I should make this our theme song. :P
Sunday, October 08, 2006
oh, sad.
I can't sleep, so I decided to watch a movie.
The choice? Titanic. Bad idea, in retrospect of course. Obviously, I cried like an idiot because that's what I do when I watch big-budget girly tearjerkers.
I really, really, really need a snuggle-guy right now. My big, body-length pillow is just not cutting it anymore.
So, because I'm plagued with nightmares, I tend to think of things that are bothering me while I'm awake (in between attempts at sleeping).
One of such things is the investigation into Beverly's murder. They still don't have any leads and it's been some months since her death. I find it hard to believe no one saw anything suspicious that night... I don't want this case to go cold--she deserves justice now. This is sooooooo frustrating; I feel just terrible for her mother and brothers and what they still must be going through with all of this.
Speaking of her mother, maybe I should give Nelly a call, just to say "hi." Or maybe not. UGH. I don't know!!
The choice? Titanic. Bad idea, in retrospect of course. Obviously, I cried like an idiot because that's what I do when I watch big-budget girly tearjerkers.
I really, really, really need a snuggle-guy right now. My big, body-length pillow is just not cutting it anymore.
So, because I'm plagued with nightmares, I tend to think of things that are bothering me while I'm awake (in between attempts at sleeping).
One of such things is the investigation into Beverly's murder. They still don't have any leads and it's been some months since her death. I find it hard to believe no one saw anything suspicious that night... I don't want this case to go cold--she deserves justice now. This is sooooooo frustrating; I feel just terrible for her mother and brothers and what they still must be going through with all of this.
Speaking of her mother, maybe I should give Nelly a call, just to say "hi." Or maybe not. UGH. I don't know!!
Friday, October 06, 2006
Ha!
New blog layout! Fun times!
So what has actually been going on in my life.. hmm..
I got an email from papa telling me that our flight is booked to India. I'm wicked excited. This means that I have to get my passport, though--and soon. So I guess I'll be stopping at the post office tomorrow to get that done since all of my friends are leaving for the weekend anyway. .. I sound so pathetic.
I went to the gym with Lia and Liz today and ran 5 miles. When I work out, I get really energized and happy after I finish. Liz and Lia, umm, don't. After I got off the machine, I skipped over to the two of them and said "I feel like running back to Knowlton. Who's my running buddyyyy?" They looked at me like I had gone mad. I can't imagine not being euphoric after a work-out; I would never want to exercise!
Another thing I love about working out: when you walk up stairs and your quads are like "Ha! yeah, right! I'm done working for today!" That feeling is so.. gratifying. Hopefully I'll wake up sore tomorrow :D :D!! (I was running on an incline today so I used muscles that probably don't get much play otherwise)
Okay.. my attention span is non-existant right now, so I'll post more when I can actually sit still. :)
My theme song right now: http://media.putfile.com/One-Girl-Revolution-61
So what has actually been going on in my life.. hmm..
I got an email from papa telling me that our flight is booked to India. I'm wicked excited. This means that I have to get my passport, though--and soon. So I guess I'll be stopping at the post office tomorrow to get that done since all of my friends are leaving for the weekend anyway. .. I sound so pathetic.
I went to the gym with Lia and Liz today and ran 5 miles. When I work out, I get really energized and happy after I finish. Liz and Lia, umm, don't. After I got off the machine, I skipped over to the two of them and said "I feel like running back to Knowlton. Who's my running buddyyyy?" They looked at me like I had gone mad. I can't imagine not being euphoric after a work-out; I would never want to exercise!
Another thing I love about working out: when you walk up stairs and your quads are like "Ha! yeah, right! I'm done working for today!" That feeling is so.. gratifying. Hopefully I'll wake up sore tomorrow :D :D!! (I was running on an incline today so I used muscles that probably don't get much play otherwise)
Okay.. my attention span is non-existant right now, so I'll post more when I can actually sit still. :)
My theme song right now: http://media.putfile.com/One-Girl-Revolution-61
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Lullaby my mom sang to me..
I was feeling really stressed and dismal today.
So what do I do? Call mi madre and have her sing me a lullaby. Is it juvenille? Probably, but it always makes me feel better. Some of the most soothing memories I have of my childhood involve my mother singing to me.
The song she chose to sing was so fitting, too. I have no idea where it's from, but she also used to sing it to me when I was little. Lyrics time!
Don't lose your way with each passing day
You've come so far, don't throw it away
Live believing dreams are for weaving
Wonders are waiting to start
Live your story: faith, hope, and glory
Hold to the truth in your heart
If we hold on together
I know our dreams will never die
Dreams see us through to forever
Where clouds roll by for you and I
Souls in the wind must learn how to bend
Seek out a star, hold on 'till the end
Valley, mountain.. there is a fountain
That washes our tears all away
Words are swaying, someone is praying
Please let us come home to stay
If we hold on together
I know our dreams will never die
Dreams see us through to forever
Where clouds roll by for you and I
When we are out there in the dark
We'll dream about the sun
In the dark we'll feel the light
Warm our hearts, everyone
If we hold on together
I know our dreams will never die
Dreams see us through to forever..
As high as souls can fly
The clouds roll by
For you and I
Definitely a song that I will remember and sing to my children when they get to feeling like I am right now. Because I'm an emotional girl, I started sniffling and tears started to well in my eyes when she was singing it to me. Not because I was sad, though.. I miss mi mami. :(
So what do I do? Call mi madre and have her sing me a lullaby. Is it juvenille? Probably, but it always makes me feel better. Some of the most soothing memories I have of my childhood involve my mother singing to me.
The song she chose to sing was so fitting, too. I have no idea where it's from, but she also used to sing it to me when I was little. Lyrics time!
Don't lose your way with each passing day
You've come so far, don't throw it away
Live believing dreams are for weaving
Wonders are waiting to start
Live your story: faith, hope, and glory
Hold to the truth in your heart
If we hold on together
I know our dreams will never die
Dreams see us through to forever
Where clouds roll by for you and I
Souls in the wind must learn how to bend
Seek out a star, hold on 'till the end
Valley, mountain.. there is a fountain
That washes our tears all away
Words are swaying, someone is praying
Please let us come home to stay
If we hold on together
I know our dreams will never die
Dreams see us through to forever
Where clouds roll by for you and I
When we are out there in the dark
We'll dream about the sun
In the dark we'll feel the light
Warm our hearts, everyone
If we hold on together
I know our dreams will never die
Dreams see us through to forever..
As high as souls can fly
The clouds roll by
For you and I
Definitely a song that I will remember and sing to my children when they get to feeling like I am right now. Because I'm an emotional girl, I started sniffling and tears started to well in my eyes when she was singing it to me. Not because I was sad, though.. I miss mi mami. :(
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