R. R. W.

Today is my birthday.

I shall celebrate this Glorious Day of Days by… working. Answering phone calls. Typing up paperwork. Walking home, getting sunburned in spite of my SPF 50. The usual.

AND…. by making Edger F. Westrum’s Fibre* Filler, which he describes as a “simple, efficacious high fibre breakfast food”. What he fails to mention is that the stuff tastes good—to a nostalgic Westrum, at any rate. No promises.

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Fibre Filler

1 box bran flakes

1 box highest fibre bran

1 cup sliced almonds

1 cup dried apricots

1 cup seedless dried prunes

1 cup raisins

Mix first three ingredients in a Very Large bowl. Gently chop apricots and prunes in food processor, then add a fistful of first mixture.**

Add everything to raisins and mix with a large spoon.**

Store in Ziploc bags.

Serve in bowls with cold milk.

Garnish with banana slices, berries, etc.

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*This is the spelling Grandpa prefers, so this is the one we’ll use.

** Aren’t these bizarre directions?? As if they were poorly translated from some little-known tongue… Still, everything ends up mixed together, I don’t think it’ll make one bit of difference HOW you assemble ingredients.

“How is your hair?” Amy asked.

Amy always asks that. When we catch up with each other, we ask, “How’s your hair?” reasoning that if the ‘do is good, life can’t be so bad.

Following that logic*, it’s no wonder Americans spend millions of dollars on hair maintenance every year. In a roundabout way, we’re trying to better our lives.

My hair is reddish-brown, fine, with loose, wavy curls… Amber waves of hair?

It took me years to realize I had curly hair; I thought it was just messy. I spent years brushing my hair into a severe ponytail, trying to tug out the waves. It wasn’t until Arthur Day 2002 (VERY humid) that I realized Hey! These are… curls?

Sister Bowman and Hannah asked me, “Is your hair naturally curly, Becky?” It struck me as funny, that they’d known me for years and never seen me with natural curls… but then, neither had I.

When I was a freshman in college, Cindy the Hair Goddess introduced me to Velcro rollers that turned my fine, stringy hair into big, bouncy Hollywood hair. My frizzy ripples and waves were replaced by smoothness and shine. The transformation moved me so deeply, I was happy to spend an hour each morning sitting cross-legged in front of a mirror, carefully spritzing on greenish ‘root lifter’ and winding sections of my hair around curlers the size of soup cans.

Alas! My vanity has limits; I was soon leaving my unruly mop to its own frizzy devices. College was stressful, and sleep became far more seductive than Hollywood hair.

In May 2007, after years of experimentation, I reached the other end of the Vanity Spectrum; a buzz cut. Low maintenance? NO maintenance, my friend! Getting ready in the morning was a snap.

Shaving my head was an adventure; I felt braver, stronger. Fearless. Also, unbearably homely; friends and acquaintances were taken aback, men looked straight through me.

Now, a year later,the adventure has ended. Friends have stopped staring— men have resumed glancing, though rarely actually staring.

My hair (like my life) is trapped in an awkward stage; it’s long enough to flip and wave, yet too short to subdue. Now the waiting begins. Waiting for hair to grow is like watching paint dry; riveting.

This flippy awkward stage bothers me. Greatly. I’ve been combing (ha!) the earth for funky head scarves, hair bands*, ANYTHING to help me through. Suggestions are more than welcome. Photos would be greatly appreciated.

How’s YOUR hair?

*I use the word loosely

** No, not the “monster ballads” kind

Today is Dad’s birthday, y’all!

My Westrum readers might want to give him a call, remembering to call Grandpa’s house, not the Pickerington number.

My non-Westrum readers probably shouldn’t call…. IN LESS they just want to say, “Mr. Westrum, you have amazingly clever children (particularly that cute little Rebekah chick!) and I’m grateful for your generous contribution to society. Happy birthday, sir.”

In THAT case, I’ll be happy to give you his number.

Months ago, I broke one of my earbuds.

You know, earbuds, those tiny little earphones that fit inside your grubby ears? The kind everyone and his mom wear? I had white ones.

Anyway, I broke one, so I’ve been listening to everything in Mono (vs.  Stereo) for ages. It’s pathetic, lemme tell ya— Bohemian Rhapsody sounds the worst, all the vocals that SHOULD be coming through my [dead] left earbud are AWOL.

So! This morning, sick to death of all the mono-monotony (har har!), I decided to wear Ian’s headphones on my morning commute.*

The headphones Ian lent me are roughly the size of California. You know the big ol’ headphones recording studios used in the 70’s? Surely you’ve seen pictures of Carly Simon or Barry Manilow in a soundbooth, eyes soulfully closed as they clutch their massive headphones and croon into a microphone…

No? Alright, then, just picture me wearing enormous, black earmuffs with about 17 feet of black cord trailing out of my shirt. You won’t be far off.

“Boy howdy, Westrum,” I thought as I sauntered down a busy street, “You look like a dork today.”

“Wait,” said my inner critic,  “This surprises you?”

I paused to review the facts:

- I watch VIDEO GAMES on YouTube

- I sometimes look up SHEET MUSIC so I can play video game tunes on the piano

- I spent the entire Summer of 2007 daydreaming about Jemaine Clement. Yes, the whole summer. All day, every day**

- I’ve always wanted to Sweat to the Oldies with a Richard Simmons video. No, I MEAN it

- I actually LOVE going to Wal-Mart. I LOOK FORWARD TO IT

- My ringtones are all Yes songs and Star Wars themes

- I consult Wikipedia daily

- I sing along with muzak, but don’t know a single song in the Top 40

- I know far, far too much about the 1988 movie WIllow

- I know all of the Monkees names, faces, and character traits

- I celebrate Arthur Day, for cryin’ out loud

This, dear readers, is a Dork.

We all know the truth. Since it was too late to turn back, all I could do was embrace my dorkiness… on the way home from work I wore those gargantuan headphones… OVER MY HAT.

Somewhere, James Dean, David Bowie, and all the other Icons of Cool are shuddering at me. Shuddering.

* Can walking to work be considered “commuting”? Discuss.

**I once had a dream in which I was Mrs. Jemaine Clement; it promised to be the best dream of my life, until I was awakened by an early-morning text message from my mother. Thanks, mom.

Two of my [many] Basically Silly Beliefs:

1) When someone gives me money as a gift, I want to spend it on something special. Even if I desperately NEED that money for food, shelter, toilet paper, I WANT to save it for something love-soaked and indulgent. Ooooooh. The very thought makes me happy.

Okay, food can be love-soaked and indulgent— but only GOOD food, something succulent. Fresh fruit or cheese, perhaps. Not oatmeal, which is what I’ve eaten most this semester. Oatmeal SOAP, however, is one of my three favorite smells in the world and therefore an excellent purchase. Mmm.

2) When I’m investing birthday money from someone, I always want to buy something that person would love. It makes me feel like they choose the gift with me, you see?

At the very least, I DON’T want to buy something the gift-giver would hate. Aunt Kris and Uncle Doug are vegetarians, so I couldn’t buy brisket on their dime. Yes? Yes. Or… Gregory disapproves of me wearing skinny jeans,* so I wouldn’t want to use money from Greg on skinny jeans.

“But Westrum!” you cry, “Your friends WANT YOU TO EAT, and oatmeal is cheap! They’d LIKE you to buy something sensible with their money! Furthermore, your friends KNOW that by giving you the money, they’ve relinquished their rights to how the money is spent! Buy the brisket, you nutjob

To which I can only say “How DARE you insult my beliefs on my own blog?! I’ve never been so offended.”

UPDATE: On May 13th, I received a lovely card from Aunt Kris and Uncle Doug with birthday money tucked inside. Attached to the bill was a note that said, “Please spend this on something frivolous or fun. :)” See?

*Don’t worry, I’d never wear skinny jeans anyway. I have a mirror, you know.

When and how did I become the ONLY WOMAN ON THE PLANET WITHOUT BREAST IMPLANTS?

I feel like a repulsive, misshapen mutant… just for being built like a normal, non-enhanced human.

~Westrum sighs heavily~

 I hate life.

Remind me not to read magazines any more. Or watch television. Or movies. Or look at billboards. Or leave the house.

Blanket-y blank blank culture.

When I am flat broke, the world is full of beautiful things; plump, ripe peaches, gorgeous embroidered tunics, funky music that makes me want to dance, down comforters and crisp new sheets… every good thing is calling to my senses, just out of reach.

When I’m in the money, suddenly nothing is worth that money; all the magical books, dresses and foods that were previously out of reach… … … now disappear entirely. Am I choosier now, or is it that I overhyped all those ‘good things’ back when I could never afford them?

A dear friend recently send me birthday money. A week ago, I had a wish list a mile long. Now, I’m at a bit of a loss…

Don’t worry about it too much; I’m extremely resourceful, particularly when it comes to wisely investing birthday money.  

I was 14 years old, lying on my full-sized cast-iron bed in Vincennes, Indiana. It was summertime. The bedroom was comfortably large, blessed with white walls, high ceilings, and two windows. 

I slept between two blankets: one, a silky Dacron comforter, the other a sky blue Vellux. Lying between these blankets was heavenly in itself; the fluffy, cool silkiness of the Dacron against one side of my bare skin, the soft, furry Vellux on the other.

I listened to the Seals and Croft song “Summer Breeze” over and over again as I lay sprawled on the bed, an artificial breeze supplied by my oscillating fan. I read James Herriot’s “All Creatures Great and Small” while absentmindedly nibbling at a fistful of gummi bears.

“This,” I said to myself, “Is as good as my life will ever get.”

I was very nearly right:

My senses were satisfied.

I had a dream— I was going to be a musician. I practiced religiously.

I didn’t need a man to make me feel valuable; I knew what I was worth.

The life, she was good.

Last night, I thought about suicide. Not so much considering suicide as pondering it, looking for the least painful way to do the job.

 I was leaning toward asphyxiation until I realized that I don’t have a car OR a gas stove, and don’t have access to noxious chemicals…  Hanging is popular, but I don’t know what to hang FROM. Or, for you grammar police, I don’t have anything from which to hang.

Or rope, for that matter.

Anyway! As I was lying in bed pondering, I heard a skittering sound coming from my recycling bin… skitter. Skitter skitter. Rustle. Skitter.

I’ll spare you the graphic details; the skittering was caused by a centipede. I killed it, while screaming, shaking, and sobbing “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” all at once.

As I explained in “The Walls Are Alive…” I have a deathly fear of big, ugly bugs. When I realize that there are large crawlies roaming my tiny apartment, I really DO want to hang myself.

Last night I realized that insects/arachnids are the ONLY thing that ever makes me doubt the existence of God. War, famine, disease, hatred… eh, we often bring those things upon ourselves. But a CENTIPEDE? In my HOUSE? Could a loving God do that to His children???!

I spent most of my night sobbing and shaking. I’d PLANNED to write a paper on Vocal Pedagogy, but I hadn’t counted on a MONSTER invading my boudoir.

What a life.  I’m empty, painfully lonely, malnourished, barely scraping by, struggling in school, can’t sleep at night… AND my face is breaking out.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen; lend me your rope.

When I was 15, I got dumped. Ditched, dropped, kicked to the curb. It took me years to recover.

Love, I learned, is dangerous. If you allow yourself to love someone, he or she will bring you untold happiness. You’ll sing together, dance in the rain, laugh until dawn, and the whole world will feel warmer and brighter….

…right up until he/she rips out your heart with a crochet hook, sleeps with your best friend, brazenly insults your favorite bands, and totals your car.

It can’t be helped. They don’t do it to hurt you, it just happens.

It is safer (and therefore better?) to keep your mouth shut, arms folded, and soul padlocked.

That was my theory at 15, anyway. I stopped admitting to feeling love.

Every day as I left the house (usually to walk in the rain and feel sorry for myself), my little sister would chirp “I love you!” as I walked out the door.

I loved her; I knew I loved her. But I could no longer say it, any more than I could smile, dance, or laugh til dawn.

I could stop TALKING about love, but I couldn’t stop being a loving person. As the years creaked by, those Three Little Words snuck back into my vocabulary, acting out at unexpected times.

And, sure enough, my heart got ripped out with a crochet hook, my favorite bands have been brazenly insulted…

What, you expected a happy ending?

It IS happy. I still follow the tight lips/folded arms/locked soul formula most days…

…but I take bigger risks now, sometimes finding greater rewards than my weepy, emo little self could have hoped for at 15. Fortune favors the brave.

Or, to put it in Little House terms— God hates a coward.

Ah, those three little words every woman longs to hear….

“Time to nap!”

“Need a hug?”

“I don’t care what you look like, I care about who you are. I am devoted to you. Sure, you have faults, but I know your heart. I love your goals, dreams, good intentions. I notice how hard you work to take care of me, and I realize what a sacrifice it is. You’re more important to me than any three words could possibly convey, and I’d feel pretty darn lucky to spend the rest of my life with you. Also, I baked cookies; would you like some?”

 Maybe that’s just me? 

My ex was…  not the man for me. Good call, me

Maybe I should… give up blogging and go make something of myself

I love… the smell of honeysuckle. Yea, it is fragrant above all other plants, and great is the sweetness thereof

I don’t understand… much of anything, honestly

I lost… my wallet last summer, and no one ever returned it to me. I’ve found so many lost wallets, and always returned them….

People would say that I DON’T… try hard enough

Love is… understanding that everyone is doing their best, however idiotic and misguided their “best” may look to an outsider

Somewhere, someone is… loving me the way I want to be loved

I will always… be embarrassingly idealistic. It keeps me from hanging myself

 I never want to… get shots, but I know I’ll need to… how else will I ever be allowed to leave the country?

I think the current President is… a dangerous dude

When I woke up in the morning… I was still completely exhausted. I’ve had a hard time even walking today, my body’s so spent; I’ve tripped on three different staircases today. It makes me feel like crying, that I can barely function and I still have a long way to go…

The world is full of… possibilities, and I intend to explore them

My past is full of incredibly… hilarious family stories. “Smooth like a river”, anyone? Or the classic “Always Wear Clean Panties” sacrament speech? Had to be there, I guess

I get annoyed when… someone interrupts me. They might as well just come out and say, “Sorry, chick, you don’t matter to me”

Parties are for… other people

I wish… I had enough money to get through the semester. Summer will take care of itself, but can I eat for the next two weeks AND pay my bills on time?

My dog… does not exist

My cats… are a lot like my dog

Kisses are the worst when… you have a screwed-up neck, causing even a friendly peck to be painful

Tomorrow I’m going to… go to work, get through the Bach concert again, then head back to work. Yippee

I really want… a hug and a reassuring friend

I have low tolerance for people who… try to save my soul. I know they all mean well, but I’m trying to clear my head and learn something. All these unsolicited lectures make me feel more manipulated than loved

If I had a million dollars… I would TOTALLY be able to get through the semester

In the middle of the night… I am still awake. I’ve been having a terrible time sleeping this semester, completely unprecedented

For some reason, I’ve been getting spam about Viagara and counterfeit watches— DAILY— for many moons.

I am not a man, and I don’t wear a watch. Or buy counterfeits, for that matter.

Still, one ad impressed me; the message was entitled “Be Even More Successful in Bed“.

Flattery: always the best marketing tool.

“I had to wear a name tag identifying me as one of the artists, so I also could easily identify some really creepy-feeling guys as being artists of some of the stuff I thought was awful…

“…one of them was yacking about the injustice of ‘obscenity’ standards; he said, ‘It doesn’t make any sense whatsoever that you can show a gunshot wound but you can’t show a vagina’, to which I simply said, ‘Yes, it does. It makes perfect sense.’

“He couldn’t argue…he didn’t have either of the aforementioned items. I have had both— and there is all the difference in the world.”

                                                         -my artist mommy, Leslie Rodgers

“So, cosmo says you’re fat? Well, I ain’t down with that!”

                                                                        -Six Mix-a-Lot, Baby Got Back

I know I should have written to you sooner but… Thank you, Sir Mix-a-lot. I appreciate your support. Thank you for voicing your opinion, however unpopular it may be.

 In these times of doubt, you’ve always been my comfort.

Fallen: a word with myriad possilibities.

GOOD WAYS TO FALL:

Off our high horses

In Love

BAD WAYS TO FALL:

Over/Down/Behind

Off the wagon

Into dispair

In Love

Falling for the First Time:

Fall of 2001 (or 2002? Who knows?), I flew to Minnesota to spend a week with my Aunt Kris and Uncle Doug; both are exceptionally cool people, it was an excellent week.

During that magical week of escapism, AK and UD took me ice skating.

I used to rollerblade every day. This skill, somehow, did not transfer to the ice. Not even the tiniest, slightest bit. I was totally helpless, clinging to the walls of the rink.

Having not skated in oh, a decade, I hobbled my way onto the ice. Timid and wobbly as a newborn foal, though not half as pretty.

Gradually, nervously, I worked my way towards the middle of the rink, forcing myself to let go of the wall and stand on my own two feet.

In the hour of skating that followed, I fell down 19 times.

19 times, always coming down hard on my wrists, kneecaps, backside…

It was absolutely magical. The ice wasn’t hard enough to hurt me, and I soon stopped dreading the fall through space…

…Okay, it started hurting eventually.

There is an old Barenaked Ladies song called Falling for the First Time . It’s not about falling in love, as you’d expect, but about failure. It’s about a perfectionist who discovers the rush of joy that can come with loosening up and taking a fall or two.

I am a recovering perfectionist.

Every time I hear that song, I want to be back on the ice in Minnesota, being startled-yet-thrilled as I fall through the air…

Inspired by the recent work of Sheri Weekes Adams

6. When times are hard, I love a good Jim Croce song

7. James Taylor also makes for a good hard-times soundtrack

8. I hate carrying purses. Too girly, too fussy, and always in the way

9. If I DO carry a purse, I insist on calling it a “bag”, as if that changed the reality of the object

10. Cheese and crackers make an excellent meal. This I believe. Cheese, crackers, and a good book

11. Books are extremely important to me

12. Someday, I will own a house. That house will have floor-to-ceiling shelves in the living room to accomodate my carefully selected library

13. If I could trade faces with anyone alive, I would choose Winona Ryder. I don’t imagine she’ll want to swap

14. I love having thick, cushy new socks

16. I love having/touching soft, smooth feet. I call them “honeymoon” feet because I spent so many months trying to pretty up my feet for my honeymoon

17. Never married, never had a honeymoon

18. However, I was once engaged for nearly two whole minutes. No engagement ring, naturally

19. Know what? I don’t like gold. It generally looks cheap and tacky to me, even if it cost hundreds

20. Every time I meet a man, I try on his last name… just in case. Best name so far: DeCoursey. Worst name so far: Maytubby

21. I’m extremely squeamish about preparing meat. MEAT is DEAD BODY PARTS, for crying out loud!!! I can’t touch it, let alone de-bone it

22. And yet… I am not a vegetarian

23. I believe I should become a vegetarian

24. I have four ex-boyfriends. This allows me to calculate statistics easily; 50% of my old boyfriends were six-foot-three, 25% were Hispanic, and so on. I’ll be able to calculate 5 exes too (20%, 60%, etc.), but not more than that

25. Most days, I have a pencil clipped to the front of my shirt

26. I’d like to keep that pencil tucked behind my ear, but my ears won’t cooperate

27. I want to travel. When I fantasize about being rich, it’s only so I can afford to travel

28. Okay, there are lots of reasons I fantasize about being rich

29. I spent most of Summer 2007 being deliriously obsessed with Jemaine Clement. When I’m feeling lonely or neglected, he still makes cameo appearances in my dreams. Thank you, Jemaine

30. I have a terrible time speaking up for myself. Speaking up at all, really

31. I visit icanhascheezburger.com nearly every day. Hopelessly dorky, I know, but cheaper than Prozac

32. I’m better at baking than cooking, which tells you a lot about my body

33. I am in love with any and all babies

34. I used to sew my own jeans. You know, the enormous, JNCO-inspired kind

35. Man oh man oh man do I miss JNCO jeans

36. I think long fingernails are icky. I keep mine quite short; I am a woman who intends to work with her hands

37. I’ve always wanted to learn to dance. I feel like all of my real problems would be solved by being able to dance

38. I have never had a car

39. I didn’t even learn to BIKE until I was 14. After years of trying and failing, my Uncle Richard taught me in under five minutes. MORAL: the right teacher can make all the difference

40. I’ve had a hundred nightmares about being trapped in runaway cars, even though my waking mind knows how to drive— CERTAINLY well enough to stop a car.

41. I’ve had even more nightmares about forgetting French song texts during Singing Juries

42. I have always wanted brown eyes and dark hair

43. And an afro. A BIG, CURLY one. It appears that I was born into the wrong race completely. Curses

44. Speaking of curses, I never swear. Even if I slam my hand in a door, I don’t swear…

45. … because I hate vulgarity and crudeness; even the word “crap” makes me cringe. People will associate you with the words you use; choose them carefully

46. I hope we can still be friends after you read #45 and that you won’t find me unbearably straitlaced

47. I’ve always wanted a good perfume, something that smelled delicious to me. A signature scent, something to make my admirers go weak at the knees

48. I find most perfume noxious and outrageously overpriced. I hate musky things, I don’t like florals… I like clean, crisp, fresh scents, perhaps slightly sweet

49. For now, I just wear some vanilla-scented oil from the healtth-food store. The price was right, but no one’s ever gone weak-kneed over it. Or me, for that matter

50. Boy, is my passport photo hideous

51. I am learning to love hiking

52. I am a feminist. Not anti-man, but certainly pro-woman

53. Still, men often scare me. They’re bigger and stronger than me, plus there’s always the chance one will break my heart. No woman has ever broken my heart.

54. I want to be married and raise a family someday. My inability to trust does not help me achieve this dream

55. I am as incapable of complete cynicism as I am of complete trust… so the dream lives on

56. It’s not that I CAN’T trust men, it’s that being head-over-heels in love is extremely dangerous for a sensitive girl (or boy, no doubt), and I’m trying to keep any man from ever having that kind of power over me. I do this by telling myself that no one is reliable…

57. I won my third grade’s spelling bee. If my life were a movie, I’d have gone on to become a national champ

58. Also in third grade, I had a crush on my best friend Aaron DeMonbraum. DeMonbrum? DiMahnbroom? I’ll never know. Aaron moved to Japan after fourth grade, and I’ve never been able to find him. Curse you, exotic surname!

59. I love being tidy. I clean out my room and wardrobe once every two months, eliminating as much clutter as humanly possible

60. For this reason, you shouldn’t buy me presents; no matter how much I love you, it’s extremely likely I’ll give away your gift in a cleaning fit

61. I am the third child in my family. In “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe”, Edmund is the third child. It’s a tough position, small wonder he betrayed everyone he loved. ~cough cough~

62. I have rather dry skin

63. I shower every day, which causes my rather dry skin to become Painfully Itchy Skin

64. I love dancing in the rain, stomping and splashing through the deepest puddles

65. I’ve always wanted to have a big drawer full of pretty lingerie, all sorts of silky colors.. this is a fairly expensive dream. Well, not compared to travel. I don’t even have a good DRAWER yet, let alone a wardrobe of lingerie

66. I have remarkably straight teeth. Very lucky

67. I use sleep to run away from reality.I slept through most of my adolescence. I’d dropped out of school, which opened up lots of naptime

68. I sometimes binge, eating as much as I can just for the food-induced coma. It allows me to sleep through even more of reality. I realize this is unhealthy, I’ve taken counseling

69. When I grow up, I am going to visit the Terracotta Warriors of Qin Shi Huang, even if Pravit says they’re overrated

70. I love clothing… but as a poor college student, I’m forced to dress like a flood victim

71. I keep a notebook full of pictures… pictures of beautiful clothes, plus hair and makeup ideas… it’s to remind me how I’ll look when I have a real job

72. I am secretly in love with my boyfriend. Sure, he knows I love him… but he doesn’t know how much. We’re like Vronsky and Karenina… except for the adultery and the suicide…

73. My math skills are negligible (see 24)

74. My biggest turn-on? Warm croissants with honey-butter

75. I’d like to go dog-sledding someday. Sleddog racing, if you prefer

76. I am afraid of big dogs. Only a little, and I can hide it if anyone’s watching

77. I have never broken a bone

78. I’m impressed with Rufus Wainwright. Great showman

79. I love the movie The Trouble with Angels, but it’s fairly obscure…. so I never get to joke about it with my friends

80. I’ve only ever kissed my boyfriends. No grade-school pecking, no New Year’s Eve kisses from acquaintences, no drunken make-out sessions… I keep my lips closely guarded

81. I’ve never been drunk; in fact, I’ve only had alcohol once— and that was only because I grabbed someone else’s glass accidentally, thereby ruining my spotless record

82. I want to take a self-defense class

83. For years, I have hated my nose. It’s still not pretty, but I’m now old enough to care less

84. I like knitting, even if I’m not good at it

85. Likewise, I love air hockey… … even though I’ve only won two, maybe three rounds in my life. This says excellent things about my character AND gives you an idea of my athletic ability

86. When I was teeny tiny, my family called me Cuppycake

87. I like writing songs. I seldom do it these days

88. I am a person who needs (NEEDS) to be held, cuddled, snuggled, adored

89. Need for affection aside, I’m excellent at being single. If I never have a family, I’m going to devote myself heart and soul to music. Songwriting at last!

90. Eleven months ago, I shaved my head. I’m proud of that, it was scary for me

91. I have wavy, curly, messy mop-like hair. It’s taking FOREVER to grow out, makes me feel homely

92. Eh, I felt homely with hair, too. Not the end of the world, it never made my life noticeably harder or stopped anyone from loving me

93. Once I beat my depression, I will be capable of absolutely anything. This I believe

94. I check my mailbox every day. Even on national holidays. I dearly love getting mail

95. I am the subject of sonnets; a suitor wrote a few for me, years ago. It made me feel special

96. I am one of the few women alive who has never been interested in weddings. I don’t care about colors or centerpieces, no WAY I’m spending thousands of dollars on a SINGLE DAY of any kind. Also, I look terrible in white

97. I look as bad in black as I do in white. Green’s a close third

98. I love the color green. Very much

99. One day, I want a yard with raspberry bushes

100. John Lennon was/is my favorite Beatle

I have (mostly) left the religion in which I was raised.

Half of the people who know me say, “You’re throwing your happiness away, you’ve been brainwashed by the world’s liberal thinking!”

The other half say, “Well, it’s about time! That church had you brainwashed, they were teaching you dogmatic nonsense.”

I think both groups are wrong.

Once again, ladies and germs, I’m going to show you what search terms the world has used to discover the Battle of Westrum. Enjoy!

“rebekah westrum I see you how are you doing?”

Creepy, but BRILLIANT! I’m fine, thanks!

“thunder thighs westrum” “rebekah ‘thunder thighs’ westrum”

Yeah, yeah, I see what you did there.

“Pictures of Highly Seducing Moms”

I question your motives… and dislike your grammar.

“Who was brother westrum invisible man?”

I… I don’t know. Did you just answer your own question? It HAS been a long time since I last saw Dad…

“tinkerty tonk and I meant it to sting” 

Ooh, Wodehouse! You know how to talk to a girl.

“How to know when you hurt a mans feelings”

Honestly? You may never know. My boyfriend doesn’t tell me until WEEKS after the fact, which makes it hard to change my ways… but some guys aren’t going to tell you at all, ever. And some will slash your tires. That’s a pretty good indicator, right there.

“Ian Westrum Rebekah Westrum”

Does this look suspicious to anyone but me?

“anvil of a heart”

Wow, does anyone else use that phrase? I’ll do a search… YES! Someone named Adam Crossley named his album “Anvil of a Heart” last fall. This is clearly a sign; I have to marry him. Though… … the marriage of two people who describe their hearts as “anvils” would probably be doomed from the get-go. Whew, that was close.

“Morrissey butt”

Esmerelda! You cut that out! I TOLD you; SAVE IT FOR THE HONEYMOON!!!

“hurting a person is hurting mankind”

Profound! And true! Maybe I should be writing more blogs about social justice and fewer about mushy stuff?

Nah.

I have a friend.* Her name is Kaity.

Kaity and I e-mail each other roughly once every twelve months to catch up, joke about old times, blah and blah.

It’s nice to touch base now and then, to re-connect with someone. And since she only expects to hear from me annually, there’s little pressure to write newsy letters or share never-ending phone conversations. It is an Extremely Low-Maintenance Friendship.

The downside to only speaking annually is that every conversation feels like an awkward High School Reunion— that while I always WANT to impress her with my accomplishments and tremendous progress in life…. every twelve months, I have to confess all the same ol’ failures. It forces me to realize how little headway I’ve made.

        “Hi, Kaity! How ARE you?! Wonderful! What? No, I still haven’t graduated.  I dunno, it’s been… five years, maybe? Nope, still no car! Isn’t that funny? Oh, no… we…. we… didn’t get married, I had to  break things off. Yes, it WAS just like last time, now that you mention it…. In fact, EVERYTHING is just like last time we spoke, you could just read my last e-mail aloud to yourself every April for the rest of our lives….”

It’s nearly time for the 4th Annual Kaity Conversation. Perhaps this deadline will inspire me to greater heights…

… or perhaps I’ll start lying, start fabricating milestones to report…

… or perhaps I’ll play possum and stop writing back.

*Yep, just the one.

In the wake of a recent anniversary, I have spent three days pondering my romantic history.

PAINFUL CONCLUSION: While I am sensible in most ways…. … Where men are concerned, I am an absolute dolt and should be thrust into a convent immediately.*

Don’t get me wrong— it’s not that I’m a floozy. Not a bit. It’s just that I tend to hurt people.

While attending Steven Huber’s senior recital this afternoon (rock on, Steve!), I realized that there are half a dozen men on this planet who have every right to hate my ugly guts.** Six men who dodge me, who avoid making eye contact.. Six men who use ME as their evidence that all women are evil.***

I treated them badly.

Never on purpose, mind you! There are women who toy with hearts deliberately, who regard devastating men as wholesome recreation. “Break him before he can break you” is their motto. 

I am not one of those women.

I am a woman who tries hard (too hard) to keep other people happy. 

Sometimes, I tell men what they need to hear— not what needs to be said.

Sometimes, I need so badly to be held and reassured that nothing else matters.

Sometimes, I give men what I think they want— not what I want, or want to give.

Sometimes, I bite my tongue for weeks, months at a stretch. 

Sometimes, I’m too dense to even REALIZE someone has grown deeply attached to me. 

Sometimes, I am so afraid of hurting a man that I drag matters out… and create deeper wounds. 

Funny that someone so polite and cautious can still hurt people badly. Funny that a shy, scruffy, mousy girl could ever hold any man’s attention in the first place. Funny that even the noblest, purest intentions can’t guarantee intelligent behavior.

I know, I know, this is all part of growing up…

But I’m still sorry. I did the best I could. 

* I pity the poor convent!

** I’m only aware of six, anyway. Holy mud, I hope it’s not more.

*** Okay, THIS is probably well over six men. Sigh.

My mother had a fabulous idea for a sociology project; she called it the Plain Dress Project.

She would dress like a nearly-Amish person for a solid year, wearing dresses she made herself. She would learn how it felt to stand out in our beauty-obsessed culture, and monitor people’s reactions to her appearance.

 How did it go, you ask?

Well, she quit after five months.

“Forget this!” I imagine her saying, “I want to wear blue jeans today, gosh darnit,  and no one can stop me.”

Mom packed up her plain dresses, bought some snazzy new threads, and never looked back.

I am my mother’s daughter; about six months into the “Year of Singleness” my year-long “Preparing for Mr. Fabulous” project, I met Ian.

“Forget that!” I thought, “This man is embarrassingly wonderful, and I’m not about to drive him away for the sake of maintaining some arbitrary, self-imposed self-improvement deadline.”

 I hurled myself into Ian’s arms and never looked back.

“Progress is impossible without change; and those who cannot change their minds, cannot change anything.”

-George Bernard Shaw

“I was just listening to the Beatles on the radio and wondering— could any woman possibly resist John Lennon’s heartfelt plea to ‘give me mo’, hey hey hey, give me mo”?

“I think it’s the three ‘hey’s that really sell it for me.”

-My Mommy

Clearly, dear readers. you don’t know enough terrible jokes. Don’t worry; I can help. Please forgive me…

Madness takes its toll.  Please have exact change ready. 

 The chance that you’ll forget something is directly proportional to…to…ah…er… 

Corduroy pillows: They’re making headlines! 

Atheism is a non-prophet organization. 

What if there were no hypothetical questions? 

It’s not hard to meet expenses; they’re everywhere.

If white wine goes with fish, do white grapes go with sushi?

Deja Fu: The feeling that somehow, somewhere, you’ve been kicked in the head like this before.  

Give me ambiguity or give me something else.  

I used to be bad at math, but I turned that around 360 degrees. 

I’d give my right arm to be ambidextrous.  

Is there another word for synonym? 

It hurts to be on the cutting edge. 

I am having an out of money experience. 

I have kleptomania, but when it gets bad, I take something for it.    

PRETTY GOOD: In democracy, it’s your vote that counts. In feudalism, it’s your count that votes.

HANDS DOWN FAVORITE: Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana. 

I am a ”Taurus”.

I’ve always considered astrology utter nonsense…. and not just because my Taurus companions include Karl Marx, Nicolai Lenin, Rudolph Hess, and Jack Nicholson.

 But lately I’ve been curious. What do the stars (allegedly) say about my personality? Let’s ask WIKIPEDIA!!!

 Wiki says…

POSITIVE TRAITS OF TAURUS PEOPLE:

• Disciplined
• Hard-working
• Good sense of humor
• Prudent
• Great work-ethic
• Artistic
• Loving
• Creative
• Romantic
• Sensual
• Very sexual
• Attentive
• Comforting
• Steady
• Introverted
• Organized
• Cautious
• Harmonious
• Trustworthy
• Calm
• Tenacious
• Stable
• Patient
• Resourceful
• Easygoing
• Careful
• Dependable
• Honest
• Conservative
• Determined
• Loyal
• Protective
• Practical

NEGATIVE TRAITS:

• Controlling
• Stubborn
• Gets stuck in ruts
• Resentful
• Possessive
• Overindulgent
• Jealous
• Overly self-conscious

IDEAL CAREERS:

• Banking
• Almost any form of bureaucracy
• Auctioneering
• Managers
• Singers
• Chef
• Acting

 LIKES:

• Stability
• Being attracted
• Things natural
• Time to ponder
• Comfort
• Humor
• Honesty
• Pleasure

DISLIKES:

• Disruption
• Being jealous
• Being pushed too hard
• Synthetic
• Being rushed

FINAL SCORE:  Does that description sound like Westrum to YOU? I agree with 45 of the above 61 points. But really, does anyone NOT like pleasure, comfort and humor? Most of these characteristics seem generic to me, and show up in descriptions of nearly EVERY  astrological sign.

Still, it looks like Wiki/Astrology have me pegged…..

 But let’s see Scorpio’s list of 75 traits… I have 32 of them.

And how about Capricorn? 45 out of 81

Leo, anyone? I scored 40 out of 79.

So, sweet thang, if you’re looking for a sensual, overly self-conscious gal who likes comfort and humor… …. you can just give me a call, big boy. Wink wink.

 Or… you could call any other woman on the planet.

I know how to keep my mouth shut.

In fact, I keep my mouth so tightly shut so much of the time, I’ve developed jaw tension. This is how I keep myself from lashing out; I clench my jaw, literally and figuratively biting my tongue.*

Anger, that I can control. Sadness? Hooooo, nelly. Not a chance.

I’ve been sobbing publicly since… birth.** It happened regularly through elementary school, and grew worse during my hilariously awkward adolescence.

The fact that I’m a blanket-y blank college student now makes no difference. None whatsoever. The waterworks rush onward.

I’ll be sitting in a lecture or rehearsal, minding my own business, fighting to maintain a calm, professional exterior, then WHOOOOOOSH! A tidal wave of tears washes my homework away. All heads spin in my direction as I try to act nonchalant, hoping no one’s noticed my bleary eyes, drippy nose, and puffy red face.

It’s humiliating. It makes witnesses feel fidgety and uncomfortable. It gives me the distinct impression that I’m an enormous loser, that I’ll never be able to handle reality or accomplish anything in life.

But! But but! These days, there is a bright side to the crying; I’m a music major, surrounded by musicians. Musicians understand this sort of thing.

My fellow students have not failed me; in the past week, even near-strangers have noticed my all-around hopelessness and come to the rescue.

I have received encouraging notes from long-lost friends, unsolicited hugs, gentle hair-stroking, and forehead kisses from observant classmates, along with some much-needed high-quality Listening.

For the first time, that thing Mom always said about ’squeaky wheels’ is making sense. If my body didn’t FORCE me to cry, no one would ever know I was hurting, and no one could ever help me. I sure wouldn’t TELL them what was wrong.

Thank you, body, for forcing me to face reality.

And thank you, musicians, for making reality bearable.

*When I was in 5th grade, a boy named Ryan Hopkins would stop me nearly every day in Math to say, “Is your face hurting you, Becky? It’s hurting me!” As I massage my sore jaw, I remember Ryan.

** Ha! It’s true!

For those who don’t know: when a person uses a search engine and finds my blog instead of something useful, WordPress sends me a little note about it. So, I know why people read my blog, what they’re (accidentally) coming here to learn.

Just for fun, let’s look at the phrases that lead readers to the Battle of Westrum, shall we?

(I’m forced to admit that I completely stole this idea from http://daddylikey.blogspot.com/2007/09/inadvertently-ask-daddy-likey.html. The author, Winona, is worlds more fun than I am. Check out her work.)

I’ll enter readers’ search engine terms in bold print, and italicize my thoughts. Get it? Got it? Good! Now, on to the TAGS!

Shaved head model

Shaved head professional look

Head shape shaved head

I get these nearly every day. It pleases me emormously; when I was preparing to shave my dome, there were few stories online about real women doing so. I spent hours searching, to little avail. Now, I’m paving the way for the next generation of bald chicks, and that gives my life a sense of purpose. Such as it is.

Hurting a man 

Ways to hurt a guy’s feelings

How to hurt a man for hurting you 

Apparently I’m an expert on this subject. Yay? It’s hard-won knowledge, folks, let me tell ya.

“Free hugs” I wrote an essay

Did you? I did, too! Thanks for reading! Hugs all around!

Cockroach cootles resume novel

Wait… wait… huh? What are you going on about, and how did THAT lead you to ME?

 My opera jellyman 

Sounds like a winner! Sure, I’ll produce your show, I know a gem when I hear it.

Trophy Brides

That would be me, yes.

Rape cute young men 

Whoa, now, I don’t like where this is going.

 DOLLAR TREE PREGNANCY TESTS INVALID 

My highly un-scientific study suggests otherwise. Also, no need to shout.

embarrassing zipper moments

…should be the title of my biograghy: Embarrassing Zipper Moments; the True Story of Westrum. Sigh. If only I were joking. Man, now I need a hug.

cowboy rap song 

Highly recommended. You’ll never be the same.

Random affirmations

…are still free to a good home, folks!

 Rebekah Westrum

Awww, someone’s looking for me! An adoring fan, hopefully, not a vengeful figure from my shadowy past…

 they look at danger and the laugh their

…Heads off! Yes, yes I do. And it’s a good thing, now that I know a vengeful figure from my shadowy past is at large.

Terms describing one’s health; thunder thighs 

Yeah. Thanks for thinking of me. Thanks a heap. I will kill you, and I will kill your houseplants.

Seduce mom on sofa story 

Hey, now, I’m not old enough for that one. Keep searchin’, people, this is a Family-Friendly Blog.

Chuck Taylor Arch Support

No such thing, my friends, I warn you now. Save your dollars.

 centipede milkshake

Blink. Blink blink.  

“how to be loved by a man” 

Hmm. It’s harder than it sounds. I’d say,  1) Don’t let your insecurities dictate your decisions and 2) Try to trust this man. I mean, he loves you, and would never hurt you deliberately, yes? Trusting someone with your heart is murderously, miserably, gut-wrenchingly agonizing, not so say ‘risky’, but it may be better than being lonely…

…I mean, look at you, scouring the internet for ‘cockroach cootles resume novel’ and daydreaming about shaving your head. C’mon. Don’t you want more out of life? Free hugs are out there for the taking! Look at danger and laugh your head off!

Get out there and let someone love you, by golly! You deserve the best.

And after all, if you ever need to hurt that man, you know where to turn for help.

You won’t believe this, but back in Indiana I was a Music Theory Tutor; I got paid to explain simple music theory to my fellow college students. Nice work if you can get it.

Every Monday night, I would wait in the little Honors lab for my students. I only had two of them, and they both brought me their troubles during our weekly appointments.

Mark was a tenor. A born singer, he quickly became a favorite with the music students and faculty alike. He was slender, dressed magnificently, tanned twice a week, was blessed with fine features and spent hours artfully sculpting his curly blonde hair. A beautiful man.

Ah, but Mark expected me to do his work; he never so much as glanced at his assignments before foisting them off on me, pleading for explanations. I immediately stopped caring about his fine features and became repulsed by his sloth.

Jake, my other student, was a drummer. A large, large man, about 6′4″ and decidedly stocky.  He moved slowly, spoke slowly…. I assumed he thought slowly, but perhaps not. Joshua wore thick glasses. His skin was strangely lumpy, as if his entire body were covered with tumors. Socially awkward, Joshua was never a hit with the ladies. Or the gentlemen. Anyone, really.

But he did good work. While even the simplest assignments were torture for him, Joshua fought through the problems over and over again, carefully erasing his countless mistakes and quietly asking for my help.

 While I favored Pretty Boy Mark initially, I grew to respect Joshua’s work ethic and looked forward to helping him along. Where Mark and his vanity grew steadily more grating, I came to love Joshua dearly and wanted to teach him. I still worry about him sometimes.

What sort of a student are you? Hmm?

This is a story about inequality in gift-giving, the inevitable lopsided-ness of exchanging presents. 

 Adam Brown and I had been dating for eight months and were bracing for our First Christmas Together. When I say “together“, I of course mean “Several hundred miles apart, as Adam lived in Southern Indiana and I spent Christmas in Michigan… but it was still our First Christmas as a Couple and That Must Count for Something“.

At any rate, Christmas was approaching. Since money was tight, we agreed not to exchange presents.

 That was the plan, anyway, but I while wandering in Michigan I found the perfect gift for Adam. I simply couldn’t help myself;

 I bought him a twenty-five cent plastic cockroach.

Allow me to explain; years before, Adam had written a [seedy, gritty] story about his old basement bedroom and a local cockroach he named Ishmael.

“Score!” I said to myself, “By giving Adam this fake roach, I will establish myself as a Good Girlfriend Who Listens Well and Remembers Stories. Additionally, this cockroach is wholly affordable, even for a Starving Artist! Excellent.”

Such was my thinking.

When Adam and I were reunited after Christmas, we exchanged the gifts we’d agreed not to buy; I ceremoniously presented him with the plastic cockroach, which he graciously accepted…

… and then gave me a pair of beautiful earrings; sapphires set in white gold, framed by little diamond bits.  

Suddenly, I became… … uncomfortable. Those earrings cost Adam 800 times the price of my oh-so-thoughtful Ishmael. How’s THAT for inequality in gift-giving? 800 to 1, and there was nothing I could do, nowhere to hide.

Thankfully, dear readers, you can learn from my follies. This tale of inequality illustrates several valuable Life Lessons:

 MORAL: Christmas is awkward. Buying presents is impossible. Don’t even try.

SECONDARY MORAL: Rebekah shouldn’t have nice things; I lost the earrings about six months later. Years have passed, but Adam has yet to forgive me. 

SLIGHTLY MORE UPLIFTING MORAL: Don’t worry about money, a thoughtful gift is worth more than gold. Hopefully.

One night, months and months ago… I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling particularly empty and lonely.

If only, I caught myself thinking, If only my future husband knew my phone number, and I were allowed fifteen minutes to talk to him…

Even in my hollow condition, the magical idea nudged my face into a crooked grin. What would you say if you had fifteen minutes to talk to the future? Whose voice would cross time and space to speak with yours?

Could a stranger win your heart?

What if, somehow, this Imaginary Husband HAD called, and I RECOGNIZED the voice? Would I be delighted, or petrified?

Maybe he’d spend our fifteen minutes swearing at me. Would I have the guts to slam down the phone, or would I listen in horrified silence? Perhaps he’d have an incoming call and leave me on hold. Would I be wrong to take that as a sign?

Being a romantic, I of course assume that he’d soothe my troubled soul, not rankle it. But what if he called ME for comfort, right when I was incapable of helping anyone? Then it’d be real life, a real marital dilemma. Ha! That’d be great!

Just something to think about.

Drop what you’re doing and ponder this for sixty seconds.

Talk amongst yourselves; whose voice are you hoping to hear these days?

Rebobo is decidedly plain. She loves Jonagold, but knows he’s chasing a prettier girl. Rebobo can’t blame him, but begins avoiding mirrors with almost religious fanaticism.

Jonagold admires Daffodil, always has. Jonagold’s always dreamed of taking her sailing — but whenever he dares to talk to her, his knees buckle, his head swims, his heart fails. Jonagold sails alone, the wind in his hair, her name running through his head for days on end.

 And so it goes.

 Daffodil could never trust a man; not after what happened with Lars. She’s only just beginning to smile again, and even on her best days her eyes seem empty and the smiles  look strained.

 Lars aches for Rebobo, and has tried to show her in a thousand, thousand ways…but she only has eyes for Jonagold.

We fall for the wrong people, risk our sorry, worthless necks trying to win their love, and completely, utterly fail to glance back over our shoulder and realize someone has been adoring us from afar.

And so it goes.

You have noticed me behaving strangely over the past semester. Allow me to explain:

 Rebekah Westrum has now officially disintegrated. Dis-integrated. Gone to pieces.  

At first, I was good as gold. I started counseling for my depression and endless list of irrational fears. I went running every morning. I ate with more caution than most Olympians. I was a friend to those in need, a glorious example of industry and generosity. My professors were pleased with me, my peers laughed at my jokes. All the world was apple pie.

But man oh man oh man, these changes were hard work, and I dread working. Unconsciously, I made a quick U-turn and started sprinting back towards the familiar: depression and lethargy.

First, I started eating junk food again, my favorite substitute for real love. Next, I started skipping Institute classes. Then, I kept away from home as often as humanly possible, trying desperately to avoid thinking about my future.

Soon, I abandoned exercise entirely. I started sleeping in and staying out all night. I began skipping church nearly every week. I actively avoided my friends, even those I loved most.

I started standing up appointments, dodging phone calls and e-mails. I went into hiding.

By Christmas, I felt completely hollow. My family teased me about my sleeping in so late, not realizing that sleep was my only escape from reality.

 While I felt unrecognizeable, I managed to keep up the One Man Westrum Show pretty well. 

Pretty well… not well enough. I am hardly the same person I was six months ago. I barely know myself, what I will or won’t do next. I don’t know much of anything these days.

And now you know.

Things I’m Betting You Never Knew About Westrum

1. When I’m facing a vending machine, I sometimes shop by chord name, rather than actual product. I gravitate towards D7 and E9, for example. I have to REMIND myself that I’m buying a candy bar, not a chord.

2. I like tracking things. All last year, I charted my toothbrush replacement schedule, frequency of haircuts, and duration of contact lenses. I write dates on deodorant and laundry detergent, trying to determine exactly how long each purchase can be expected to last. Obsessive, you say? Nonsense!

3. I toss my hair. When Sean met my flight to Jacksonville last January, he was able to spot me from a mile away by my characteristic hair-tossing. Even when I had a buzzcut, I still tossed my head out of habit…. but I’m in good company: Rufus Wainwright does the same thing.

 4. When I climb into bed at night… I have to pause and decide which side of my body to lie on. Inevitably, one side will feel different than the other, as if it NEEDED to be lain upon. WHY IS THIS?Occasionally, I choose the wrong side and have to flip over three seconds later.

5. I have a lifelong aversion to plastic. Plastic dishes, plastic hairclips, plastic jewelry… I go out of my way to avoid anything made of plastic. This is sometimes impossible, of course, but I try not to let little things like futility and inevitability get me down.

Alright, gang, how many of these did you know?

  Know what you could do? You could write a note or blog about five of YOUR endearing/maddening quirks, and tell me about it. You have me curious.

I submit three love-saturated analogies, open to your interpretation:

I’ve been struggling with Mahjong lately; not the four-player tile game, but the solo-computer-y version, a glorified version of Memory.

Sometimes there are 90 or 8 tiles left on the board… and I utterly fail to match them up. Every tile HAS a mate in Mahjong, there’s no doubt about that… it’s just that my previous choices have created obstacles for the remaining tiles…

I try to take things one step at a time and calculate the best possible decisions, but I still never win. I never, ever win. 

—————————————————————————-

My mother once gave me the Perfect Ring. It was beautiful; silver, set with a moonstone and carved with intricate, Middle East-inspired filigree.

For hours, I strutted around wearing it, gushing over this Perfect Ring. It fully captured my style and and proclaimed my flawless taste. I spent hours admiring it, talking with my hands and watching my Perfect Ring catch the light.

 Before the day was out, the ring was broken, its band split in half. 

It wasn’t as sturdy as I’d believed, it couldn’t handle the pressures I placed upon it. I ruined the Perfect Ring, and I had no one to blame. And while I tried many times, it could never be repaired.

——————————————————————————–

For days/weeks/centuries, I have been camped out by my mailbox, waiting for a package He promised to send me.

Having waited so long, I fear there was some misunderstanding— that He forgot his promise, forgot He ever loved me, or that the whole conversation (and perhaps His very existence) was a dream… but I keep checking the mail (yes, even on national holidays), holding my breath. 

There are those who cannot hope, and those of us who can do little else.

Recently, a friend asked how I was feeling. “Pretty good!” I answered, flashing my legendary megawatt smile.

“Pretty good” was a lie. Between school, work, social strife, and general depression, I find myself deflating more and hoping less every day. A deadly heaviness has settled upon me, and I don’t feel like fighting back.  

When this friend asked how I felt, I should have answered “I am equal parts scared child and snarling dog. I am going under for the third time. Never ask again. Do not offer help. Above all, do not attempt to come between me and the refrigerator; I will not be held accountable for my actions.”

 Perhaps I should have referred her to these three film clips for an honest depiction of my current mental state:

Buster Keaton Runs Hurdles

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QbEV2Wb6T2Q

Ice Skate to the Face

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXQp59eGo7k&feature=related

Seasick, Yet Still Docked

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zv1zy-7-PgE

I know exactly how to pull myself together, and you have to believe that I truly am trying.

Until my healing is complete, I ask that you 1) Take a deep breath, 2) Say a prayer for me and 3) Beware the snarling dog.

All my life, my father has worn forest green Converse high tops. Chuck Taylors.* 

Every Christmas, when all Westrums involuntarily migrate towards Ann Arbor, Michigan for the holidays, Dad replenishes his Converse supply.

 We buy our Chucks from a small Ann Arbor shop called Sam’s. Sam’s carries Converse sneakers in every color of the rainbow, arranged in Roy G. Biv order at the back of the store. Each Christmas, Dad takes us to Sam’s and offers us a new pair of shoes.  Dad always chooses green, and keeps backups in his closet.** After cycling through several hues in my frivilous, I settled on brown as my Personal Chuck Color of Choice.

Having grown up with this ritual, I’m deeply attached to Converse sneakers.  Dad doesn’t buy them for me any more, I’m considered old enough to fund my own footwear.

But alas! As I become older and wiser, I find myself steadily less impressed by overpriced canvas shoes that rapidly fall to pieces, and my hippie side balks at shelling out $40 for shoes made in China, possibly by some poor kid under duress.

 But… But… they’re just my style! Sniffle! Sob!

 Kelly Siebe offers a practical solution: http://www.nosweatapparel.com/index.html

No Sweat apparel, 100% union-made apparel. It would soothe my hippie side…. but my inner tightwad STILL won’t shell out $40 for canvas shoes, and I’m afraid of ordering the wrong size anyway.

 My solution: Ebay. The shoes I want  at a price that won’t make me violently ill. My hippie side can hush its mouth.

 I recently bought a pair of Dr. Martens on Ebay for about 30% of their going price. If my tightwad side fears Converse, imagine how it feels about Dr. Marten. Thank you, Ebay, for keeping me snazzily shod.

 *Beneath the Chucks, he wears thick hiking socks pulled up over his calves. He ALSO wears cut-off just-past-knee-length shorts. Tragically, I’ve inherited my father’s Highly Questionable fashion sense.

 **Another dubious trait I’ve inherited from Dad; an obsessive longing to keep spares of everything.

Last night, Ian and I lounged on his couch, talking. I leaned against the arm of the sofa, a tired Ian curled up on my lap like a little boy. Watching him rest, I studied his form, his face; I breathed in the scent of his hair. He was still dressed for a big day at school, wearing a deep blue dress shirt and charcoal trousers. Stroking his back, I found myself marvelling at the depth and breadth of my feelings for Ian.

Most days, Ian is strong, able, mature; a pillar of health and manliness. I love that Ian. I want to stay under his protection, to rely on him, to seduce him body and soul, to marry him so hard he’ll never know what hit him.

Some days, Ian is a sweet, sleepy child, and I love him like a baby. I sense his vulnerability, I want to nurture him, to shield him from danger. Never mind the fact that Ian is significantly larger and worlds braver than me— I still start believing I could shelter him from harm.

As we sat, nestled together, I started humming to myself. ‘Unchained Melody’. Ian recognized the tune, and was soon quietly singing, still curled on my lap. He knew every word. As he sang, tears began rolling down my cheeks.

I have never been one to shed tears of joy. The concept is foreign to me.

And yet, and yet… … that night, tangled up on the couch with Ian, hearing his beautiful voice singing to me softly, realizing once again how madly I love him, there was nothing to do but cry.

“I recently published an anthology of the writings of American humorists, and was glad to do so, for I felt that such publications ought to be encouraged. Publish an anthology of their writings, and you revive the poor drooping souls like watered flowers. The pleasant surprise of finding that somebody loves them makes them feel that it is not such a bad little world after all, and they pour their dose of syrychnine back into the bottle and go out into the sunlit street through the door instead of, as they had planned, the seventh-story window. Being asked for contributions to the book I have mentioned was probably the only nice thing that had happened to these lepers since 1937.”                     

-’America, I Like You’ (1974)

He had the look of one who had drunk the cup of life, and found a dead beetle at the bottom.

There is only one cure for grey hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine

`Very good,” I said coldly. “In that case, tinkerty-tonk.” And I meant it to sting.’                        

-Right Ho, Jeeves (1934)

When you have just been told that the girl you love is definitely betrothed to another, you begin to understand what anarchists feel when the bomb goes off too soon.

“I hate you, I hate you!” cried Madeline, a thing I didn’t know anyone ever said except in the second act of a musical comedy.             

-Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves (1963)

The Right Hon. was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say “When!”                         

-Very Good, Jeeves (1930)

Mr Waddington’s expression was now that of a cowboy who, leaping into bed, discovers too late that a frolicsome friend has placed a cactus between the sheets.

Unseen, in the background, Fate was quietly slipping the lead into the boxing glove.

Freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoy’s Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day’s work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city’s reservoir, he turns to the cupboards, only to find the vodka bottle empty.                       

-Jill the Reckless (1921)

“As for adolescence, I recall nothing except that I had a lot of pimples.  Today I have none. How often that happens! We start out in life with more pimples than we know what to do with and, in the careless arrogance of youth, fancy that they are going to last forever; but one morning we find that we are down to our last half dozen, and then those go. There is a lesson in this for all of us, I think .”        

-America, I Like You (1974)

I recently discovered the book Tangled Hair: Selected Tanka from Midaregami by Akiko Yosano. 

The book features 165 tanka*, some strikingly beautiful, translated into English by Sanford Goldstein and Seishi Shinoda. The authors write a startlingly detailed background of the poet’s life, offering biographical and cultural notes to explain each tanka. Each poem is shown written in characters as well as English.

Behold:

Over the seas

You will go

On your lonely travels

As if expelled,

As if running away.

Whispering goodnight

This spring evening

And leaving the room

I take from the rack

His kimono and try it on

The tears

Of that priest

When he saw me

Were they, I wonder

Bitter or sweet?

May the child

Born this morning

Find in time

A beautiful

Love

I pitied him

Standing by the door

In the evening

Calling the name of my sister

Who died last year

Disregarding right and wrong

The next world,

Fame,

We face each other

Loving and loved.

* Tanka: Short Japanese poems consisting of  31 syllables arranged in a 5-7-5-7-7 pattern. Notice that these translations make no attempt to use the Japanese pattern or syllable count, but rather maintain the story and sensitivity of Yosano’s work. 

Back in June of 2007, my friend Ray and I discussed a singer/songwriter named Jonathan Coulton and how much we admire people who go out on a limb to do what they love. I rediscovered this conversation while cleaning out my files, and thought it worth sharing:

Ray Randall: “I enjoy listening to people who know what they are doing and are
doing what they want to do.”

Rebekah Rose: “Me, too. Brave souls.”

Ray: “You’re in that boat. You looked for a modest dress to wear to the Grammys* and now you are studying music.”

Rebekah: “Yes, but not moving forward very quickly. Would we admire Jonathan Coulton so much if he just wrote songs for himself? Nope, you have to get out there and share something. I never have found that modest Grammys dress, by the way, and eight years have passed.”

Ray: “Sounds like something out of the Book Of Mormon”

Rebekah: “Only… not.”

Ray: “We searched for the modest dress for the Grammies, and lo, our search was in vain, and it came to pass that 8 years passed away and we were still
studying music in the land.”

Rebekah: “Yea, and my heart sorrowed greatly because of the trampiness of my sisters. ** I cried repentance among them, beseeching them to cover themselves, but their hearts were hardened against me.”

Ray: “Their hearts were hardened insomuch that they reviled against me saying,
‘behold, she is attractive yet does not flaunt it, why is she not as us?’
These and other things they said to inspire others of my sisters against
me.”

Rebekah: “And it came to pass that I did attract righteous men, yea, men even as Moroni. And my sisters dwelt with scuzzy man-harlots.”

*When we were 13, my cousin Kayty and I decided we were going to grow up to be musicians and began combing the globe for evening gowns that would meet our Latter-Day Saint dress standards. No luck so far. Ray is alluding to that story.

** ‘Sisters’ here means ‘all of womankind,’ not ‘Madeline and Rachel.’

In February of 2001, Mom adopted a puppy, a lanky Schnoodle* with curly black hair. I didn’t WANT a puppy, certainly not that mangy mutt. But Mom won, and soon Daniel (not Spartacus or Leonardo, you can tell Mom did the naming**) joined the family.

Danny was miserable about being torn from his canine home; at first, he spent hours curled up in his kennel, refusing to make look me in the eye. Having recently been dumped, I was pretty devastated myself and felt an immediate bond to this poor, wretched little puppy huddled in his crate. I would lie on the ground, staring into Danny’s kennel, wondering how one comforts a depressive dog. 

Thankfully, Daniel’s repulsively cheery personality soon revealed itself, and he was all licking and wags henceforth.

Daniel and I became fast friends; we napped, strolled town square, and dined together. So deep was my affection for the li’l guy, I hardly minded his bed-wetting. It was only when the teething started that my love for Danny died; nothing turns me off like a male gnawing through my entire library. Soon, Danny and I were no longer on speaking terms.

Now that years have passed and we live 1800 miles apart, I can appreciate Danny again. He’s family, after all, and we have so much in common; we both adore my mommy, we both have nastily unruly hair, and we both eat food we find in the street.

Our chief difference? I am guarded, cautious, untrusting. Danny’s a friendly soul; he loves strangers, kittens, rats, squirrels… Daniel knows no enemies. Dan could stand to wise up, while I need to loosen up.

If I could do it all over again, I STILL wouldn’t want a puppy. I’m glad Mom adopted Danny against my will, though. He’s been her constant companion for more than five years, and that’s reassuring. That lanky little Schnoodle is protecting my mommy for me.

 It’s a shame she wouldn’t name him Leonardo.

*Schnauzer/Poodle. Hey, I don’t make these things up.

**I can’t tell you how many times she’s said, “This is a matriarchy, not a democracy.” And so the cat I named Lionel became Boo-Boo Head, Oliver was changed to a Stephen, Conan switched to Chevy…. sigh…

When I was but a wee lass, my favorite toy was a He-Man action figure belonging to my brother, James.

It was half of a He-Man figure, more accurately; he’d suffered a tragic lawnmower-related accident and his top half was never seen again. I kept the lower half, with its furry Speedos and ridiculously muscular boot-clad legs.

Mom claims that He-Man Crotch and me were best friends. She couldn’t pry the thing out of my grubby hands long enough to replace it with a more feminine, less objectionable-looking toy.

(Let’s not psychoanalyze this, okay? Okay.)

Decades passed.

After a long, lousy day, I was delighted to receive a message from James, describing my nephew Logan’s recent obsession with my likeness:

“CONGRATULATIONS! You are Logan’s new favorite person!!!
He likes to hold your picture- he makes us take it off the wall.
He likes to smile at it.
He likes to give it kisses.
He likes to sing to it.
He tries to feed it.
In short, I fear that you may have become the new He-Man’s Crotch (as bad as that looks in print).”

Ladies and gentlemen, do you see what this MEANS?
It means that, at long last, I am receiving the reverence and adoration I deserve.

Somewhere, He-Man’s Upper Half is smiling down upon me, grateful to see that I am finally loved as I once loved him.

Er, half of him.

In a recent fit of cleaning, I ran into a list of my Summer Reading 2006