I’d like to think I have a lot to offer – besides looking good on paper [if you will].  But it seems I keep managing to let people in my life that have no concept of acceptable communication patterns.  If I’m just sending you a crap email, that asks about the weather - be my guest to ignore it.  Especially if you plan  on talking to me in the near future – no big deal.  But when time and time again comes up where you’re not talking to me, you’re not responding to my emails – short of the ones where you’ve agitated me to the point of senting pissed off emails, this isn’t effective communication.

I know I have high standards, I know I can expect a lot.  But I didn’t think this time around I was expecting too much, besides open communication.  I know I’m leaving in September, so I know this was a fleeting battle anyway, but if this was something worth saving, then this would be something worth fighting for.

But obviously it’s not.  Obviously I wish I could stop feeling, even though I know the end is inevitable, even though I know his next hand, it hurts like hell.

For Ukrainian Updates: http://ukrainianheiny.wordpress.com

In less than two months, I’ll be on a plane to Ukraine to teach University English.  The whole concept blows my mind.  I’m getting to use my MFA for something – and learn a new language or two [think Ukrainian and Russian].  The whole thing is a fountain of wealth for a memoir.  I feel like I’ll end up following in my mentor’s footsteps.  His first published book a memoir about bicycling the west at 20 and 40.  Hopefully I can tread the line of cultural awareness, personal experience, and life back home.  I know have the talent to tell the story, I just hope the story creates its own narrative for me to follow – like the yellow brick road.

And yet, life has been weird.  When you think you’ll finally stop looking for love, it stumbles into your lap with a few well placed compliments.  And it’s not that it’s love.  But, it’s a boy.  One that I can’t get out of my head, and I like it that way.  Though I’m currently missing him like crazy and pestering everyone about it, and I apologize for that.  But it’s nice to have someone humoring being with you – even when there’s an ocean between you.  Someone humoring traveling to Europe – getting a passport, saving for the trip, just to spend time with you.  Even having someone meet you half way before you go.  Only time will tell if this is destined for greatness.  But for now, he makes me happy.

Mind you, I’ve been a regular, but that was at a restaurant, where I appreciated them knowing my order [Bruegger's Bagels, I still miss you].  A Cellphone company?  That I don’t quite seem to understand.

But, with this town, with this dying fisherman village, comes too many people willing to erode away at you with the unfortunate details of their life.  Like the man, who lost his blackberry, well, it was confiscated by the police for their investigation, because of some questionable texts on his phone from his ex-wife.  Really?  Really, really?  You want to go around announcing this to the world?  *shakes head*

The other day I stood at the register in Walgreens talking to some of my mom’s coworkers.  They ranted and raved that we look so much alike, and really I’ve come to accept it.  Brown hair, eyes, full lips, and a set of black plastic frames and you’re the spitting image of one another.  It turns out one of the girls had told my mom just the very same thing, and my mom goes, “But she’s the pretty one.”  Made my heart melt a little.  These are the things your family doesn’t say to your face.  Not mine at least.

Though my grandma has been going on particular raves that I look so skinny.  I could still stand to lose 20 pounds, and I’m holding on to those dear pounds until I’m in Europe, so I indeed have weight to lose and don’t waste away to nothing.  Though my mom thinks I’ll find something I love just as much – like bread or pastries and I’ll stay the same.  But I swear, without a car, I should be a twig.   Not really a twig, I’d like to plead with my curves to stay, but we know beggers can’t be choosers.

On another surprising note, while having dinner with my mom and grandma, I mentioned I wanted to eventually settle down in California because I want to be closer to family [them].  Without hestitation they said, there was nothing keeping them in California, so say I wanted to settle down in Chicago, they’d be more than happy to move.  Strangely I have the luck of having a mother who has insane job security.  No matter where you go, people will always need medication, and there’s currently a shortage of pharmacists everywhere.  But I never expected my family to to have such willingness to follow me.  It’s strange how important family is becoming to me, how much as I get older, as I get the pangs to want to inevitably settle down, I want to have the close knit family, the family holidays, the family reunions [though I'll have to find that in my partner's family not mine].

But realizing how my ideals in a partner even have changed, the things I find important, that I prioritized, makes me feel like I’m almost husband hunting.  And I’m not.  I don’t want to get married tomorrow, not even in the next few years [but by 30 would be nice].  Sigh.

It’s been so long since I worked in customer service, and I feel so surprised at how little people really listen.  Today at lunch my mom said, “That’s because they don’t want you to fix their problems.  They just want someone to take it out on.”  And it’s like we walk around with giant bull’s eyes on our chests.  And I’m sure I’ve been there, I’m sure I’ve been a bitch and unhappy but I’d like to think I’ve eventually apologized.  At least at work I have empathy – I apologize, I offer tissue to the girl on the verge of tears at losing video footage of her father and her kids.  And I understand we all have bad days, but really, is it always so hard to listen?  And does it really make any difference when what I tell you is supported by those I put you in contact with – my manager, Customer Service – and they tell you the same damn thing.   In one case it passified the problem.  In another it only increased it, to where I was being told, “I’ve never been treated so poorly the whole time I’ve been a customer here.”  And I just stood there dumbfounded.  I wasn’t unhelpful.  I wasn’t rude, I understood the problem, and yet, was considered an enemy.

But forget the crappy customers, forget the tantrums, this is strangely the best work environment I’ve been in.  I like my coworkers, no one drives me batshit.  Yet, at least.  They’re all nice, funny, crud, perverts.  I mean, who expects to hear someone faking an orgasm one day, the next someone else talking about bloody tampons.  It’s all sorts of ridiculous, and yet, it’s kind of comfortable to have some people who are manageably – stranger – more open than I am.  Which makes me all the more sad, that I’ll be ditching out on them in not too many months.  Maybe I just have guilt.  Maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad if they sucked, if leading them on was easy.  If leaving out vital stats in my life was easy.  And I have to catch myself so much.  I have to hold my tongue.

No one makes me feel anything, but lonely.

I just wish “disappearing” wasn’t the grand option of all my possible love interests the last few years.

On Saturday we grabbed Starbucks and headed to MacKerricher State Park to the tide pools.  There were dogs everywhere, and the Park was having a sewage problem – which meant no running water.  We immediately felt bad for the people camping there – no showers, no real toilets.  And the porta-potties had not yet arrived.  But, we headed down to the tide pools, down the long steps made for giants that seem to only appear at State Parks.  And it’s these moments that I wish I was just a little bit taller, maybe even a baller, and had a girl so I could call her.  However, the pools were a bit anticlimactic.  We did discover two anemones – closed and open.  One of which Jen took great pleasure in poking – the closed one of course.  And we had a large man walk over and show us a sun starfish, one he had cradled in his hands.  And I couldn’t help but recall the sign at the top of the stairs – to leave creatures where they lay – undisturbed.  Still, families climbed down those tall stairs, buckets in hand, disturbing any creature left to be discovered.  And it didn’t fail to me amaze me, how reckless people can be with children, ones carried in their arms.  Especially since tide pools aren’t known for their lack of slips.  Even later we would watch a couple climb a cliff side, the father carrying the daughter out-stretched in front of him, no more than two years old, no harness in sight.

And it’s not that I’m going to be a helicopter parent when I eventually have children.  I don’t plan to protect my children from bumps and scratches and broken bones.  That’s apart of growing up.  But it seems kind of ridiculous to set your child up for a great fall – cliffs or tide pools don’t seem like comforting places to fall – at least compared to slides and swing sets.  At least then there’s usually a hospital nearby – and not miles of coast, windy roads, and campers.  But after a near morning of small tide pools, lacking captivating creatures to harass and dismantle and disturb, we headed to Longs to pick up some meds for Jen before leaving her in the room to recover.

Then, Lety and I headed to Point Cabrillo Light Station.  I’d vaguely remembered going years before with my parents, when my mom had been looking for a pharmacy job on the coast, but I was apt to take pictures since the Lighthouse seemed aesthetically pleasing – at least on the internet.  While walking down the 1/2 mile path to the lighthouse we discovered a warning sign for Mountain Lions, my favorite part of course: “Keep children close, as mountain lions seem to be especially drawn to them.”  Who knew mountain lions were pedophiles?

We spent sometime take pictures, watching a kid climb down this steep grade hill, to the ocean, his parents staying up at the top, more self-involved with each other, while this maybe 10 year old boy climbed rocks on the edge of the water.  And had Lety and I had more faith in our athletic abilities we may have too headed down the hill, but as you get older – there’s always the fear of getting back up.  Instead we stuck to heavy conversations.  About the necessity of someone – “getting you”.  To the attractive qualities of blue collar men. There just seems something so grounded about them.  They just seem to get the necessity of making a living and earning your keep.  They have the capacity to understand your struggles in ways that sometimes I think academia lacks.  Or people who have spent too much time behind books and not enough time grasping the dirt with their bare hands.  They understand struggle – the raw – the edge – and they seem less likely to runaway – cause they’re rooted, responsible, mature, not stuck drinking seven nights a week [though I know blue collar alcoholics exist].

And as my friends have become very aware – my love life is quick and fast and loose – and it’s hard to keep track.  But the now, is nice.  The having someone get you – is nice.  To have someone to just tell me to stop thinking and talk is so refreshing.  To have someone be fucking honest with me.  And he’s already managed to get under my skin in a week.  Being beautiful doesn’t hurt, but there’s so much more to it.  At first I might have been quick to write him off, since he works with his hands, like for some reason my inner bigot has decided those not “traditionally” educated must be stupid – and obviously I shouldn’t buy into this.  My mom didn’t go to college until her 30s.  And yet, being surrounded by academics – “thinkers” has simply made me that – think too much and make too many snap judgments about people.  Because he’s smart, goofy, and in-tuned.  And who knows how long this will last.  But for now, as always, it’s nice to have someone to think about, and to think, he likes me too.

So eventually after our heart to heart, Lety and I headed back to pick up Jen, and over to some shops we’d seen on the drive.

The first Glass Fire, was open roomed gallery – with vaulted ceilings, big windows, and glass scupltures everywhere.  Jelly fish of glass, oil, acrylic, vases, and chandeliers.  We learned that in the studio, someone was making banana slugs and that we should go watch.  We quickly scurried out and watched as this lanky fellow put together a banana slug, piece of molten glass upon molten glass, with only tweezers, scissors, and paddles at his disposal.  The entire process was mesmerizing.  We stayed for 1 1/2 banana slugs and two starfish, when he told us it was our turn.  Throughout each creature he created he kept telling us to be prepared for our turn, all of us figuring he was joking, but when Lety and Jen turned him down, I jumped at the chance.  “Well, if they’re not going to do it, I will,” I said, springing from my barstool.  And he told me to come around and handed me my tools – scissors and tweezers.

It was from there that I became entralled [not that I didn't always want to do such a thing - the art of glass blowing has always intrigued me].  So he took out this glowing fire orange piece of glass and instructed me to use my tools.  Of course I’m flying blind.  I’m a pretty good mimic on watching alone, but I had no idea what I was making.  Two quick pinches on each side of the glass blob – I decided this glass was to be a fish.  From there I stretched out his body – using the tweezers to pull him toward me.  Occasionally Buster would stop me and place the glass pipe back into the fire.  He warned, “if the glass cooled too quickly it will explode.”  And on most occasions I think such an announcement would scare me.  Send me running back for cover around the counter of his studio.  But instead, I was energized.  I worked quick, making rash and quick decisions.  Declaring that this little fish needed side fins and a tail and eyes.  And piece by piece, my little molten glob became more and more fish like.  By the end – I was sold.  I was suddenly having fantasies of becoming a glass blower.

I’ve always had an artistic bent – drawing, music, writing.  But nothing has ever just bubbled out of me so quickly.  With writing – I get the itch, the bug, the middle of the night heaves of words upon the page, though lately these have been lacking.  Instead I get the guilt – the “I should be writing.” The “I should be working on my novel.”  I get that with my art and music too – the – I should be doing this.  But, anymore I feel so uninspired.  But with those tweezers in my hands, those scissors making a mouth for the fish, it was like having a fire lit back inside my heart.  My own little lighthouse, sending signals from my chest to my fingers.  To react, to create.  And while Elmer [my fish] isn’t beautiful, isn’t symmetrical in any way, a part of me, of my spontaneity, my gut reactions, is held in that solid glass paperweight sculpture.

When I finished, Buster told me to come by Sunday and I could take the fish home.  This surprised me most.  Not only had this man let me into his studio, play with his tools, his products, I was walking away with my own little souvenir.  If not even more surprising – if I had let them sell Elmer at the shop – they would have priced him at 50 bucks.  As someone who went into writing because she loved it – not for the money – to see something I created – my first time around capable of having some monetary value in the real world shocked me.  It was completely beyond me, that my little fish, in all his ugliness might be worth something other than the memories that went into his making.  Now Elmer has become my surrogate for the travelocity gnome.  I plan to take him around the world with me, as I embark for the Peace Corps this September.  He’s come to represent the fire in my belly.  When something just leaps out of me, a harness of creativity.  And I’ve been bitten.  I want to work in glass.  I want to take classes and create beautiful things, beautifully ugly, but still beautiful to me.

Afterward we headed across the street to a pottery studio, and talked to the most hilarious woman, as she painted tentacles of clay, and spoke of a skull she’d pull from the spine of a dead seal on the beach, as the vultures circled around.  The skull looked more like a Hawaiian shell – its bone smooth, white so white, a long spine down the front.  It was strangely beautiful, and this woman was indeed a hoot.  Each story she told became more and more ridiculous – from famous actors and their behavior and partying with the locals, to where we should eat dinner.  And of course we listened and packed our bellies full of calamari, crab cakes, and fish and chips in the Noyo Harbor.

That evening we set up our tripods to watch the sunset over some coastal access just north of town.  As seems to be the trend lately – I was ridiculous.  Calling myself a bat, lifting my cardigan around my arms, flying around.  Dancing in the water, making bad jokes, talking about Elmer and my future glass business.  This idealistic front room gallery, back room studio, with a nice little place upstairs.  And someone to share it with of course.

That night we crawled back into bed, and yet I had trouble sleeping, my mind full of so many thoughts from art to love to creation.  By morning we gathered our stuff, and headed to do some last minute photography – this time at Jughandle Reserve.  Climbing rocks and splashing about, the water cold, but our spirits high.  We lunched in Mendocino, and drove back to my car at the Travelodge.  I said goodbye with hugs and promises of future visits.  If anything I promised a San Francisco photo shoot, at Lety’s request I model for her.  And hopefully my narcisism won’t get the best of me.  But, what a perfect weekend.  And it’s nice, to be just so happy again.

Pictures

Today I found out I’m in the clear – as far as my lady parts are concerned which means my medical won’t stand between me and Peace Corps.  One step closer and I’m so excited.

Also, some generally awesome vibes – that make me happy/tingly.  Now to put together my medical record to mail out.  *crosses fingers that everythings there*

Remembering last August is tumultuous.  As soon as I found out I had my first abnormal pap, things went downhill.  Then there was the colposcopy [and no I don't mean colonoscopy - there was nothing near my ass].  Post-colposcopy my nurse looks at me, “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.  It doesn’t look good.”  Then set in the fear of cancer.  At the time I was only 23, and couldn’t even begin to fathom what cancer would mean.

For me, I’ve always had this strange fear that I’d be barren when I eventually wanted to have kids.  And the thought of cancer made this idea – not seem that far of a stretch anymore.

When my results finally came back – I was a level one for precancerous cells.  Now that I’m about to get my first results back since then – my nerves are getting the best of me.  Not only would another abnormal pap signal more pre-cancerous cells, but a possibility of getting deferred for Peace Corps.

But until tomorrow, let’s hope for the best.