Tick Tock

As I held the receiver, I could feel the pain coming through the phone.

I didn’t know him, never met him or seen his face, but I could hear him. And his voice sounded defeated. He tried to gather words, he tried to make me understand. But I couldn’t. No one could, only he could, because only he truly understood. He said he felt sorry for me that I never met his friend. I felt sorry for myself.

It’s funny how I must sound to this guy. I must seem nosy, bothersome. I must seem like a heartless, souless, familyless, friendless bitch on the other end of a phonecall. Little does he know my heart has been breaking for him. And that I’d do anything for him, even though we’ve never met.

I’m so, so sorry.

I’m Weird ’cause I Hate Goodbyes

I asked him if he was scared to go to Afghanistan.

He said no.

I asked him if he was scared to die.

He said no.

I asked him if he was scared at all.

He laughed.

I’m scared enough for the both of us.

It Didn’t Occur To Me To Mind

Eunice.

 

The Eighth Grade is a lot like Hell, I imagine. You’re forced in an old decrepit building where the heating system never seems to work correctly, and you are watched upon by the ultimate principal who lurks at exactly the wrong moments. There are no windows in the hallways, and there is only one window in each class room that I conveniently covered by some cheap Venetian blinds. The brick walls seem to watch you, always, and there is no escaping the eye of the law. The moment you break a rule someone is running around the corner ready to prosecute you like you’ve just assassinated a president.

I also imagine that in Hell you are trotted along to each room each day by a bell that seems to never stop ringing. In each room awaits for you some form of torture, overseen by some overbearing, old, crazy person that seems to love their job a little too much.

One of these gatekeepers to Hell was named Eunice Brady. She taught U.S. History in a two-hour block. We saw her every other day, and then rotating Fridays. We were handed off between her and Mr. Scott, the racist English teacher, but that is a whole other story.

Mrs. Brady, I think, was probably a party girl when she was younger. She was attractive for her age, you could definitely tell that she was one considered a hot commodity, and she had some of the signs of a previous drug abuser. She forgot things a lot, she always was losing something or another, and she often had hallucinations (or so we think, we really can’t prove this ).

I have this theory that all teachers hate their job so much that they will do absolutely anything to inflict revenge on the little bastards that walk into their room everyday. Every time a teacher assigns so much homework your bag feels like a ton of bricks, every time they send you to detention for coughing in class, every time they embarrass you in front of the class; it is their sick and twisted way to see us writhing in our seats. One particular form of this type of torture is making kids dress up for whatever reason.

Whenever we had to dress up for something in my school years, it was always something stupid. Extra credit if you dress up as a colonist! If you don’t dress up like Albert Einstein for your report than no credit for you! We’re dressing up as Nazi Officers to gain a better understanding of what is was really like to be a Gestapo!

Mrs. Brady was no exception to this rule. Eunice shamelessly loved to make us embarrass ourselves for the two hours we were trapped in her claws. It always seemed we were dressing up as some stupid person from history that no one has ever heard of, or if they have heard of them, no one cares what they did. One of her better ideas was to host a “Constitutional Congress Luncheon”, or an excuse for us to bring in food and have a party for no reason. The only catch was, whoever we came as, we had to dress up as them.

For some reason, my parents decided it was a great idea to celebrate their 15th wedding anniversary, which happens in July, in October. We spent our Halloween in Las Vegas and hell, I never complained once. Even at thirteen, Las Vegas was probably the coolest place ever. There were so many lights, so many crazy-ass people walking on the streets being, well, crazy. We saw a drag show (my parents weren’t traditionalist, obviously), went to some shows, saw some live dinner theater. It was absolutely amazing. But I digress. The week that I was gone enjoying myself in Las Vegas, Eunice was back home concocting a plan to ruin the lives of eighth graders.

When I got back from vacation, I arrived to find out that we had already picked people to be for the Constitutional Congress Luncheon. Eunice conveniently forgot to assign me a character.

“Oh, Katie! I’m sorry,” she said with a slight smirk on her face, “I forgot about you.”

How the hell could you forget about me? I was still a foot taller than my peers (all the girls were still catching up to me), I had a bad fashion sense, I wore too much black eyeliner, I was not exactly what you would call skinny, and I had a mouth on me that would put sailors to shame. Forget about me? No, no one can forget about me. I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Mrs. Brady was probably paying me back for the snark remark I had made in the previous week about how history was “gay”. I was such a classy, refined young woman. In my eighth grade mind I was sure this was some lame excuse for Mrs. Brady to be a thorn in my side, just as I was a pain in hers. She probably saw that I was excused for the whole week, and took great pride in picking out exactly who I would be at the Constitution Congress Luncheon. I pictured her leafing through the rubric, looking at the worst possible choices for anyone to choose. Someone that looked or acted so ridiculous that every thirteen-year-old on the planet would never let me live down how stupid I looked.

And Mrs. Brady sure picked a winner.

After she blatantly lied to my face about “forgetting about me” she pretended to look over her list.

“Let’s see,” she said to herself, “Nick is already George Washington….Bobby is already Jefferson…hmmm.” She flipped the list to the back, never a good sign because no one good was ever at the end of the roster. She sighed, running her finger down all of the names and stopping at one. Slowly she lifted her head and gave me a smile like the one of the Mad Hatter when Alice came for tea.

“How do you feel about Betsy Ross?”

First off, I’d like to point out at the actual Constitutional Congress there was no Betsy Ross. Fuck Betsy Ross. Men back then had no respect for women, so why the hell would they invite a woman to their luncheon where they decided the future of their great country? Why in God’s name would they, when drafting the invite list, say, “You know that Betsy Ross girl? Yeah, the one that Washington’s been sleeping around with, yeah, you know I bet she would have some great opinions about what this country could do…”

No, no, no, NO. In reality, she was probably nagging Washington, (as previously stated, I have a theory that her and ol’ Georgie were shacking up), and he probably, after listening to her nag and nag, said “You know what, fine. You can make the flag, how does that sound?” Knowing the role of women back in 1775, she was probably thrilled.

In eighth grade I was not as outspoken as I am now. I mean, I would speak my mind which sometimes got me in a little trouble, but I would never, ever go off on a teacher with my little theories and logic. If I would’ve told her my true opinion about Betsy, I’m sure I would’ve been suspended. So, when Eunice asked me what I thought about Ms. Ross, my eyes grew large and I plastered a smile on my face.

“She is a true American hero,” I muttered. She gave me a little laugh, and I gave her one right back. “Ah-ha-ha, oh, that Betsy.”

I trudged back to my seat, where I woefully sat down and slammed my head on the desk. Betsy Ross? Really?

When the luncheon came, everyone was in blazers and knickers made by taking dress pants and shoving them down tube socks. Some people had managed to get those old colonial hats. One really eccentric kid in our class made a make-shift wig out of cotton balls and a shower cap. How cute.

I strolled into the class. I had a blue dress on, and that was it. I didn’t ever wear dresses, so I figured that that would be enough for Eunice. As I strolled in, Mrs. Brady gave me a disappointing look, sporting a little puppy-dog frown.

“You’re not very…patriotic.” She sighed, all disappointed but at the same time like she was scheming. She took off the American Flag from the wall, draped it around me, and smiled. She was real proud of herself for that one.

Being that I was the only one with a flag wrapped around my body, and that I was probably the most miserable one in the room, everyone slowly looked at me.

Ever been in a room where everyone is looking at you, their eyes searing through your skin, and you can feel your face flush but you know that you cannot run away? Yeah, love that feeling. I walked to my desk and plopped myself in my chair.

“Katie,” Eunice gleefully said, “Where is your dish to pass?”

Oh, wonderful. My dish to pass.

My school was shaped like a big circle. The hallways were designed that there were two long, parallel halls and then two smaller halls to connect the long halls, one of which was merged with an atrium, and hallways to the rest of the school. In the center, between the long halls, there was an office, a conference room and some storage. On the outside edges of the halls there were the classrooms. Everything else was lockers. Eunice was a lucky lady, she had a premo spot. She was smack-dab in the middle of the left hallway, right in front of the room with the copy machine and the employee bathroom. However, for me, this was not the best location, especially now.

The school decided that when assigning lockers that alphabetically was just not good enough. Our school believed that getting the most out of our education meant that we needed to be split into three groups. These three groups determined who our teachers were, so one block of teachers could work within a group of about four teachers total. The idea was that if a teacher could work in a small, concentrated group that the students would benefit from this. So, if you were in A group, you only had A teachers, so on and so forth.

I was in C group, which meant that we had block scheduling. This is very confusing, even for the people that are in a block. On Tuesdays and Thursdays and every rotating Friday we would go to two of our core classes, one of which being U.S History; Eunice Brady. And on Mondays, Wednesdays, and the other Fridays I would go to my other two core classes. Because I was in C group, that meant that my locker was positioned in the C clump of lockers. And because my last name is Jacobson, I was smack dab in the middle of the C lockers.

As I have previously mentioned, Mrs. Brady’s classroom was in the left hallway, and the C cluster of lockers was located in the right hallway. This would have not been a big deal, had my last name started with a Z, because I would only have to quickly run by two classrooms to get to my locker and grab my “dish to pass”. But, alas, making the trip to my locker would cause me to pass five classrooms and the main office. Wonderful.

I considered leaving my flag sash behind, but Mrs. Brady was still eyeing me like a hawk and I knew that if I took it off she might dock me points. The whole class had their eyes on me. With a sigh, I stood up from my seat and smiled at Mrs. Brady.

“I’ll be right back,” I sneered.

I flew by the first two classrooms with ease. No one seemed to notice that I was walking by. As I reached the atrium, I flew even faster around the corner. Here would be the most difficult classroom to pass, Mrs. Reynolds room. All her tables were facing to the north wall, exactly in the direction was I heading to. As I walked by the classroom, no doubt would someone see the back of my cape float by and wonder who the hell that was. I was sure that they would ask around, discover it was me, and probably get a really good laugh out of the whole ordeal.

Slowly I walked up to the area of lockers right before her classroom. I planned it out very meticulously; if I was close to the lockers, people could only see me the instant I passed the doorway. This wouldn’t give anyone enough time to even comprehend what I was wearing, or even who I was. Cradling the lockers, I bolted towards the next set of lockers. Perfect. Feeling very accomplished with myself I decided to saunter past the lockers. The next room coming up was Ms. Pal’s.

As I started to reach the door to Ms. Pal’s room I heard some rustling in the room.

“Okay kids!” Pal said, “We’re taking a trip to the library!”

Oh no. The library was in the southern part of the school, right near the atrium. No matter where I went they would all see me, all of them. There was nowhere to hide now, so I kept walking as if nothing was wrong. As everyone funneled out of the room, they all began to stare.

“What the hell are you wearing?” some anonymous person asked. Pal turned around in disgust.

“I’m trying to make a statement.” I replied quickly, rushing to my locker, pulling out my dish to pass and practically running down the hallway as if it were an Olympic race.

To this day, some people still call me Bets.

Without You

I miss you more and more.

Planet Earth Turns Slowly

I found an entry in one of my old blogs about the summer before senior year. It was my first summer at Wares Brothers, when I met the most amazing girls in the whole world, when we all were happy and when things seemed to be easier and yet harder at the same time.

a few things I learned this summer:

1. Don’t depend on people so much. They let you down.
2. Respect yourself more. 
3. Don’t let people manipulate you and push you around.
4. Enjoy the time you have.
5. Tell the truth. Even if it hurts.
6. Let loose at work. Have some fun.
7. Making the first move isnt always awkward.
8. Don’t trust everyone. Some people can’t be trusted.
9. Let go of grudges.
10. Just love.

 

Its funny how three years later I haven’t learned most of these things. That most of these things still do not apply to me. I may have learned these lessons, but I didn’t utilize them. 

Maybe I should just take a piece of my own advice.

So What Did You Think I Would Say?

There’s one thing in life I know for certain.

There is nothing better than a box of wine, good friends, fun conversation, not caring and love.

When things get rough, I think of you guys. Thanks for being there.

Selfless, Cold and Composed

I think about a lot of things when I’m alone.

I think about what makes things the way they are, the science behind all of God’s creatures. I think when the wind rushes past me who else it has touched and I wonder if they were feeling the same way I was at that exact moment. I think about what scares me and what excited me and what makes me feel sad and what makes me happy. I think about all the things I’ve lost and all the things I’ve gained.

Today as I bared the freezing cold, walking all alone in the dark, I thought about just one person. It was weird, because I haven’t thought about him in a long, long time. But I think I was thinking about him because I was feeling alone, and whenever I feel alone I think about him

His name was Trevor. I grew up with him. He was my dad’s best friend’s son. He was two years older than me and one year younger than my older brother Taylor. The three of us, along with my dad’s other best friend’s daughters (Sarah and Samantha) used to spend a lot of time together. We used to run around in the back fields behind Sarah and Samantha’s house as our parents sat around and talked about the good times. All of our dads were friends in their 20’s, and all hung around Traverse City together causing problems for everyone.

It’s interesting to think the way we all grew up. I feel bad for my dad’s friends, because Taylor and I grew up the best I think. Samantha started dating her teacher (which was weird), Sarah had a serious rebellious phase where she went buck wild, but she’s calmed down since. Trevor got into drugs and crime and was always getting in trouble doing something.

In my junior year of high school, Trevor died in a car accident. I remember sitting in the church with Sarah next to me, and she held my hand so tightly I can feel the curves of her fingers and the pressure in my palms to this day. We sat there, next to our parents, the four of us that remained, and held hands. My brother Taylor even slipped his hand into mine as we sat there in silence.

My brother carried his casket, along with my dad and Sarah and Samantha’s dad. I remember wondering what it must’ve felt like for my brother to carry his childhood friend in his final resting place. Taylor’s never talked about it and I’ve never really pressured him into telling me.

At that point in my life I had given up on God. Trevor was dead, and so were a few other of my friends that I had lost that year, and it seemed as if he was taking away so many lives. It was at that moment I think my faith was restored, just when I began to doubt him.

When they played his song, a beam of light came through the church windows and fell directly on Trevor’s casket. A shiver went up and down all of our spines and Taylor and Sarah tightened their grips. God was in the room taking  Trevor away from us.

I hadn’t thought about Trevor in a long time. But tonight as I walked alone I did think about him, and about what happens to the people we love sometimes.

I think about a lot of things when I’m alone. I think about how you can love someone and lose them. I think about how people you love leave you sometimes intentionally and unintentionally. I think about the pain that comes with losing them, and how there is always a hand there to hold when things get tough. But mostly, when I’m alone, I think about how lucky I am to be alive.

Chasing Pavements

Last night I had a dream.

I had this dream that my brother Taylor and I were sitting in our basement at home, just talking about life. He was telling me about the Marines and war and things like that, showing me different battle scars. He was happy, light even, as he spoke about some of the things he had seen and heard.

We talked for hours as people kept coming in and out. My oldest brother, Michael, and his wife came in and were doing some stuff around the house. My mom and dad were there too, along with our neighbors the Terbracks. But all the while, Tates and I just sat on the ground talking. It seemed like no one could see us, as all this commotion was happening around us.

Slowly I started to realize what everyone else was doing. They were bringing in flowers and grabbing extra plates from the basement kitchenette. More people filed in, all of Tates friends were there. Everyone looked sad.

Thats when I knew. I was at your funeral that day. I was talking to a ghost.

There are certain things in life that I take for granted. I take for granted that my family has money, I take for granted that I am healthy, I take for granted that despite some of the hard times my life is relatively easy. Plenty of people on the Earth have a worse life than me. I am lucky to have what I have.

Every day Taylor isn’t here is a day I am thankful for these things. I am thankful for family and friends. Before, I used to take him for granted. He was just my brother, someone who got on my nerves that I never could quite understand. Now there is a chance I may never see him again. I highly doubt that will happen, and I pray it doesn’t, but its still a chance.

It’s weird when you realize something that you knew all along, only to see it all a little too late.

Semper fi.

Show Me What I’m Looking For

I was reading over a blog I used  to have in high school. One from sophomore/junior year. The last post was in my senior year, but I only wrote in it so often. Often enough to be able to look back and laugh to myself about some of the things that were happening at that period in my life.

I was reading a post about my first love. Man, was I hung up on him (still kind of am, actually). He was perfect in my eyes, despite the fact that I see now how awful he was and how there was no feasible way we ever would’ve made it work. Although we sure did try.

Anyways, I was reading an entry about him and I mentioned this other boyfriend I had for a while. We weren’t together long but then again, we never refered to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend. We were just friends. His name was Brendan, and I called him B. He broke up with me on my birthday. I will never, ever forget that.

I was thinking about B today, because I was reading my blog, and because I was thinking about what someone at work told me. They told me I’m a lot to handle for some guys. And it got me to thinking, I sure as hell am. I would never say that I am “crazy” or “out of control” or anything like that, and that that is the reason guys can’t handle me. But I am confident and I am very driven. If you’re going to hop aboard my train, hold on tightly, because I make few stops.

One time, B and I were sitting on my couch watching a movie. My parents weren’t home, because it was the night of my brothers wedding and they were out getting trashed at the Park Place Hotel. I opted to go home because I was only 16 and couldn’t (and still can’t) drink in public legally. B came over, and as we watched a movie he came in to kiss me. He looked at me holding his face so close to mine I could see all the different colors in his eyes.

He said, “If you go 10, I’ll go 90.” And I laughed at him. “B, you can’t make me work for it.”

We ended up making out, which is beside the point, but I feel like after that point it was obvious to both him and I that we were not compatible. And from that point on out, I truly believe in his mind he desperately wanted me to go 10. And when he started to cool off and lose interest in me, I went well beyond 10, but it was past the point of reviving whatever flame we had left.

It was not funny to me then, but it is now. Poor B, involved with me not knowing that I was on a warpath ready to destroy anything in my way. If he wasn’t down for me working at the paper late, or being busy when he wanted me not to be, then he was going to have to sit on the wayside as I did what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it.

That’s my biggest problem with relationships. Whenever I’m ready for one, no one wants me. Whenever someone wants me, they just get in my way.

B now has a girlfriend, who he has been with for I believe more than a year. Man, I haven’t thought about him in years. Poor B.

Maybe that guy at work was right. It’s hard to love me because I am me. But I think that is also what makes me easy to love as well. I am dedicated, to whoever or whatever it is my heart truly wants.

And right now I just want to keep forging on.

Mr. Brightside

It was Becky’s birthday last night.

I don’t know Becky, in fact I’ve only met her twice. But in those two times I had to spend with her, I found it hard to imagine anyone wanting to spend more than a few moments with her, because she is unbearable. If she happens to read this, I’m glad for that.

Becky had legs up to her eyes, sitting pretty at 5′ 10″ looking like she just came off of a model shoot. She’s thin, no boobs, no butt. She has a toothy grin overshadowed by big blue eyes, and her strawberry blonde hair perfectly curled into light ringlets falling around her face. Becky is perfect.

Have you even seen a communist dictator beckon his subjects? Or a king or queen call their servants? Becky was good at that. She had her crew, her adoring friends, that fell over themselves trying to please her and make her happy. “It’s my birthday,” she would say in a baby-toned high pitched squeal. Everyone would laugh and say that this day was the best of all days because Becky was born. Sigh.

She wanted to write on them. “Look everyone,” she said, drawing something on one of the boys’ arms. “I gave him a birthday tattoo made specially for him!” Everyone’s eyes lit up, like fireworks in a cloud of black. The first girl spoke up, “Oh Becky, can I have one?” Becky smiled with a sheepish grin and looked up from underneath her long eyelashes.

“Of course you can silly! Tattoos for everyone!”

There were rules for Becky’s birthday, too. No one could be mean to Becky, no one would make Becky cry, when Becky asked for something you were obligated to get it for her, and under no circumstances, none whatsoever, were you allowed to steal anything or anyone from Becky.

In her silky black micro mini dress and her 4″ heels, Becky sauntered over to each and every person with a permanent marker still drawing hearts and her name on everyone, including her roommates boyfriend. He opened up his shirt for her and asked her to draw it on his chest. “It’s because you have my heart Becky,” he said. His girlfriend just forcing a smile as Becky stroked her fingernails across his hard chest.

Everyone looked at her with such admiration. Like troops looking to their general for answers and direction, hoping one day to be her. She came up to me with her pen, looking at me with her big blue eyes, testing my sense of loyalty to her. I could tell she felt threatened by me, I can always tell when someone feels threatened by me. The first thing they make fun of is how much my weight is. It’s the easiest thing to make fun of, it’s the most obvious thing.

People who feel threatened aren’t creative enough to think of anything else.

I just smiled and took my bottle into my hand, taking another swig and she cocked her head to the side. Her roommate glared at me, herself being an uglier and skinnier version of Becky. Their other friend, the first girl, who I imagine is just an awkward transplant brought in to make Becky feel good about herself, straighten up on the couch giving me the look.

Becky whipped her head away from my and rolled her eyes. She let out a laugh. I decided to leave.

I hope her birthday went well. I hope all her rules were kept in check and that more people adored her when they saw her fake diamond tiara secured to her head. I hope when she realizes that she is nothing more than good looks that she has no one, and that she was a vapid and shallow creature.

I don’t know Becky, and I know Becky does not know me. unfortunately for her, I’ve played all her games before, and you can’t beat a champion.