I guess we can dream.

I never had a good answer when someone asks about my choice of movie stars with whom I would consider having sex. Of course, in my dream world, there would be Colin Firth, but that's about it. It's really off-putting when people have *lists*. Once a guy who was nice but not particularly good-looking told me about his list of celebrities and I was suprised to hear he had so many. As he rattled off all the women he would "do," I kept thinking, "There's noooo way that Scarlett Johnansen, Jessica Alba, or Sarah Michelle Gellar would have sex with you." To be fair, Colin Firth isn't going to have some stunning epiphany about me, either.

I have a paper which I am not writing right now. If you could tell.

I brought my wedding dress home today. Right now, I need an opinion.

"I wash the hippos"

Mac-mockery = awesome! The Zoo Employee is my favorite.

strange thought.

At the risk of sounding Jacksonian (I'm referring to Michael, not Andrew), I miss the feeling of a small but significantly heavy child walking on my back.

Fumble

"Fumble"

One evening Cynthia�s boyfriend, Rick, agrees to take her to the carnival. On the way there, she presses her mouth against the window and draws heart-shaped figures in the steam. The heat pushes down on her so hard that when they get out of the car, her exposed skin sticks to the vinyl and feels like she�s pulling apart a just-licked envelope. Cynthia wants to ride the Ferris wheel so Rick hands her enough cash while he buys a pretzel. She loves being lifted into the cool air above the ground, looking at the way the lights necklace around the booths below. The couple above her is rocking their chair back and forth feverishly, moaning and laughing. When she spots Rick in the crowd below, they stare at each other, forcing a smile one thinks the other made first.

Cynthia first met Rick at a literature festival when she was an arts and entertainment reporter for her college newspaper. She was assigned to cover a panel he was moderating about the latest trends in fiction. Cynthia impressed him with her knowledge of the panel guests and talked so long that she missed her bus. He flashed his toothy grin and offered her a ride home, covering the empty groove on his finger where the ring used to be.

It is agreed that they will move out of their tiny one-bedroom apartment into a house with a backyard and garden once Cynthia knows where she will be attending graduate school. Rick looked over her portfolio, praising her use of language and strong thematic ties. This is the one, he said on her story about the jaded lovers, cupping her knee with his open palm. She hasn�t told him about the rejection letters, that the schools of her choice decided her stories were too romantic and unrealistic. Her characters were flat, the story fantastical and the plot quick and undeserved.

Their plans for the wedding have been on hold since Cynthia wanted to attain her �wedding dress body.� Rick bought an elliptical trainer now rusting underneath their bed.

Rick�s old college friends are equally impressed and astonished by Cynthia, who is young enough to be his daughter. �You dog!� they always exclaim when he tells them about the twenty-year-old he�s found and flashes the glamour shot he keeps of her in his wallet. Cynthia�s friends are worried and suspicious. Every conversation about him ends with the question, �Are you okay? Are you sure you�re okay?� She has phone numbers from co-workers and classmates who offer her a place to stay if she needs it.

On the drive home, Cynthia says, �You should have been up there with me. It was really beautiful.�

�It�s just the same view I had, only smaller.�

Cynthia sucks in her breath and sighs hard. �Why are we taking the long way?� Cynthia hates it when he chose the back roads over the freeway. This means they would pass by Rick�s old home, the one his ex-wife got in the divorce. Cynthia is certain he still thinks of the woman who lives there, the one aging spectacularly. She rolls down the window and shuts her eyes, imagining the route she would take.

�This is the only way I know.� He says sheepishly before drowning her voice in sports radio.

Rick focuses on the game. It�s the last one of the playoffs and the score is 67-63 in favor of the visitors. The home team is using their last time out, huddling around the coach famous for final plays that are grand and unsuccessful. Rick thinks of the team�s faces. They are older and exhausted, moving like an uphill train. When they take the field, their fumbled hopes empty into the stands.

cool things that have happened to me

In no particular order:

1. I gave my genius professor a thank-you gift for writing me a recommendation letter and he *loved* it. The gift: a 1978 paperback copy of Hillare Belloc's Selected Cautionary Tales for Children, just like the one the prof. lost last quarter.

2. I got two scholarships. One pays for my next year's tuition in full (the prof. above wrote a letter for it, hence my gratitude). The other one gives me a lot of money for a short-term job which I really loved doing anyway.

3. I chose my wedding dress and my future sister-in-law and father-in-law surprised me by *buying* it as a gift. She explained that it was a tradition in their family that the sisters purchase essential wedding items for one another, and it shouldn't stop with me. Awesome.

4. I had a great conversation with the Chair of the English Department. I had heard some classmates talk about how dull he was, but I thought he was really stimulating. He was really excited to discuss literature and language until his next appointment. I'm supposed to have lunch with him and the scholarship donor (an 84-year-old female political/environmental activist) this summer. I'm thinking of getting orchid leis to give to them; people like orchids, don't they?

Who She Is

Another assignment for class. This is my "collage" piece.

Who She Is

Amniotic fluid During the last trimester, the fetus swallows up to a liter a day of amniotic fluid. The fluid is the fetus� �flavor bridge� to breast milk, which also carries food flavors from the mother�s diet. They say by 13-15 weeks, the fetus� taste buds resemble an adult�s taste buds, and that the amniotic fluid surrounding it smells like whatever the mother eats, in Maria�s case � peppers.

Dearest, Mommie Christina, Joan Crawford�s oldest adopted child, wrote a movie script about her maniacal movie star mother who once taught her not to play with matches by holding her hand over an open flame. In an interview in People magazine, second oldest child Chris called his mother �J.C." or "that bitch,� but said, "I guess I loved her."

Faye Dunaway Before staring in Mommie Dearest, Dunaway grew up in the Florida pan-handle, where her dirt-poor mother drove her to auditions in a beat-up Chevy. During the movie�s roaring success, Dunaway�s mother called her often, always with the same question, �I was never like that, was I?�

Jarvis, Anna The founder of Mother�s Day, Miss Anna Jarvis pushed the holiday in remembrance of her mother, Ann Marie Jarvis. For punishment, Mrs. Jarvis made her daughter kneel before her, with her arms stretched out with a Bible in her hand. She had to recite verses until her mother was satisfied. Mrs. Jarvis told her children daily that there should be a day celebrating the �service mothers render to humanity. She is entitled to it." Miss Jarvis spent the next sixty years and all of her fortune toward the Mother�s Day movement. She died at 84, childless.

Metabolism Maria cannot look at cake without thinking of the way her mother�s French-tipped nails gathered her skin in a caliper-pinch the winter she fattened under puberty. She harbored her blossoming fat and skin under long sleeves and layered clothing she wouldn't hear the tinny-threats of her mother, who punctuated all meals with, "God, who taught you to eat like that?"

Her mother waited outside the bathroom until Maria walked out soaking in a towel. She grabbed Maria�s soft pale waist first. "Stick out your arms,� She instructed. �Jesus, quit moving, would you? I've already seen you naked."

Maria�s father loved thick steaks and cold beer and had a triple-bypass to show for it. His metabolism worked at the speed of an uphill train. Her mother's metabolism, on the other hand, was that of a savannah grassland cheetah. Maria shivered as the towel fell down, exposed as a scab-ripped wound. While measuring her daughter, she said, �I just don�t want you to end up like your father.�

Sirena There is a Pacific folktale about a girl named Sirena who forsook her chores and duties for swimming in the ocean. One day, her mother is so infuriated at her disobedience that she casts a spell on Sirena, turning the child into a large flopping fish. The mother is horrified and calls upon the only person who can reverse the spell � Sirena's godmother. The godmother admits she can only change half of Sirena back into a human. The child spends the rest of her life swimming and splashing at her mother who is stationed on the shore, always in tears.

Thursday underwear When the school bus pulls up in front of Maria�s house, everything looks normal until she spots her mother standing in the middle of the yard, scattering blue and white rags everywhere. Some hang down from the gutter like mini-flags. Maria realizes what it is. Her underwear. Not only is it her underwear, but it�s the days-of-the-week kind her mother bought on sale. The others on the bus recognize what it is too and enter a barrage of questions, �What is your mother doing with your underwear?� The tears come quick to Maria as she runs up the steps. �Why are you doing this to me?�

Her mother, Miss Hands-On-Hips, says, �What? I told you to clean your room.�

University Maria�s scholarship is actually a loan she secures by forging her mother�s signature. This affords her entrance into a university on the opposite coast. She loses her virginity to Adam, a boy who convinces her to stop saying, �What would my mother say about this?� She dyes her hair jet black, learns dirty words in French and wears perfume and risqu� clothing. She only comes home on holidays, when she has to.

Walking the line During Christmas break, Maria walks into mass alone. She wears the black patent boots her mother says makes her look whorish. Her heels clip-clop into awakened ear drums, lifting her up from the marble tile and announcing her arrival before she appears. The congregation has nothing better to do than to direct their heads toward the approaching echo. Women stick out their feet, hoping she�ll trip and break anything. Husbands divert their attention to fishing lures and hot rods under the hawkeye watch of women who already know what question to ask, �Who the hell does she think she is? This is mass, not Mardi Gras.� Maria winks at the little Catholic girls sneaking glances while their mothers disapprove. When she walks past, they dream of places where they can wear high heels and know exactly who they are before they walk into the room.

sounds mean, no?

I took my midterm today at 8:30. By 10:30, I had written so much that my hand mutated into a claw formation.

my godfather's in the New York Times!

my professor emailed me this: Lobbyist Had Close Contact With Bush Team and In Pacific Islands, Mixed Feelings About a Lobbyist's Work. Froilan Tenorio, my confirmation godfather, is running for governor again... I wonder how that will turn out...

In his email: "next time you see a pothole in the road or a missing school in Saipan, thank Jack Abramoff, friend of House Baron Tom de Lay."

schoolgirlishness

I got a scholarship that pays for my *entire* year of school, which isn't that much money but it's a lot of money that I don't have to worry about.

I thanked the professor who wrote me a reccommendation letter and he kissed me on the cheek. I think I've been blushing ever since...

My 90's

This is an assignment for class.

When I was fifteen, I trusted women. I had three best friends and have never learned or been capable to have more than that.

I attended a Catholic school down the street. My school-issued skirt swung heavily around my legs like movie theater curtains. At lunch, we discussed only two subjects: sex and hatred for the principal, Father Berkey. At night, we met in chatrooms and railed on teachers who assigned us to memorize Bible verses and read books from dead white men. We hypothesized about the clergy�s sex lives, how pathetic and clumsy they would be if given the chance.

My mother bagged up all the thong underwear I had purchased with two month�s of allowance. �You�re going to be cold,� she explained, tossing the bag in the trash before I could reply that I wore more than that.

Peter was my first friend I made on the internet. He was a Danish pianist and movie buff who talked about Kant as if he knew the man personally. I thought it remarkable to finally find someone who shared my passion for philosophy and political science. One day, Peter asked for pictures of me, something more risqu� than the school portraits I had emailed. He wanted to see me getting fisted. Our friendship ended after I did an internet search and found out what he meant.

My search for anonymity and my sister�s expired driver�s license took me to a bar in the Red Light District next to a massage parlor/karaoke club where Filipina women in neon pink spandex outfits stood en masse chanting �Massa-ji� to Japanese tourists.

Mr. Smith, the balding speech and debate teacher, believed that I was preparing for my debate on safe sex education when I was in the teacher�s lounge, inhaling cr�me cookies and watching Larry King Live. Two teens had shot up a high school in Colorado. I returned to class, the first one to report the news.

To keep us away from promiscuity, my school sent our class to AIDS-awareness conferences where we played stupid games like Trust. Simon, the debate champ who only attended these things for the fruit and cheese kebobs and used the condoms to make balloon animals, missed a week of school because a paralyzing case of herpes.

Mollie sent an email with quotes about friendship the morning she killed herself. After the email was sent out, she locked her autistic brother in the house, climbed up the tree in the yard and jumped with a tire swing rope around her neck. Mollie�s family divided her things and cast lots of her notebooks, boy-band CDs and French books among us. I got the box of sheets where she printed �MOLLIE IS A BITCH,� over and over until the litany filled the page. I have never solved that dark question: what kept her from pressing one finger down, hitting delete.

I lost my virginity to Kim, a boy with a girl�s name. Bob Marley�s �Redemption Song� played in the background and we fumbled and finished before the song did.

My mother drove me once to the local firefighter�s union hall the night before Thanksgiving to attend my only Weight Watchers meeting. The meeting coordinator spoke through clown red lipstick, passed out white paper plates and instructed us to list what we would be eating the next day on the plate. When we were done, she tallied the foods to determine how fat we would become. �Corn bread -- four points. Mashed potatoes -- eight points.� I raised my hand to ask about gravy. �Gravy?� she huffed, �Don�t even think about it.� Before I walked out to my mother waiting in the van, I crushed the plate with a frown I had drawn where food should have been.

We had dry sex in the cemetery under the platform where Father Berkey erected a ten-foot tall crucifix. It was Jonathan, my boyfriend who wore pants so low the crotch chafed against his knees, who discovered a bunker-sized hole large enough to fit two bodies. Once school let out, we created a new classroom there, bringing condoms and sex moves pilfered from late-night cable. In the dark hole, we navigated crisp shirts and blue ties, pleated skirts and blouses to discover the electricity of someone else�s naked skin. No matter how long I was in that black womb, I could count on there being just enough light when I emerged to lead me home.

"You look like you have it together,"

is what my classmate today says to me. She and I were in my genius professor's last quarter and I always thought she looked like an elementary school teacher - straight professional hair and a sweet air about her. So today we were grouped together and I talked about how much I had worked on my seminar paper that I had lost sleep. I told her about my nightmares in which I have not only woken up late for class but I'm on the other side of the country so there's no way I can get to school. She nodded and agreed with me, but added, "You look like you have it together." Not on the days I sleep in increments, I said.

We were both glad that we weren't the only ones figuring out where on campus to take an undisturbed nap. I usually listen to my instrumental iPod playlist and doze off in some undisturbed library corner. When I wake up, my hand's usually numb or there's usually a block of red skin embossed on my face.

I don't usually play up how difficult school can be, but it is sometimes. It's physically exhausting. I have a huge 15-page paper due at the end of the month, not to mention midterms next week, and all of this looming over my head has made me jerk awake during the night. I go to sleep around 8 or 9 and wake up around 2 and start working... But the guilt I guess is just a byproduct of the way I've always been.

My YA Lit professor shares the same name of a Cleveland Browns draft pick. When he walked into class this morning, I said that I didn't know he played football to which he answered, "I didn't know that either."

Why do I feel she'll eventually be on Oprah?

Is anyone else as furious over the runaway bride? Just the language there is apalling. How about the poor-little-rich-girl-spreading-covert-racist-messages-bride? Regardless of her intentions (cold feet or lack of a spine), she cost people money and time. She played the race card with her "hispanic kidnapper." I'm sure she thought everyone would feel sorry for her if she could portray herself as this poor defenseless girl who had been kidnapped by a very bad hispanic man. Give me a break! Aren't people charged for staging a kidnapping? Shouldn't she be charged too?

CNN writes: "Agents and detectives learned that Ms. Wilbanks had become scared and concerned about her pending marriage and decided she needed some time alone." If you need time alone, go to the library.

Over at Althouse, a more articulate statement is delivered. "Blaming a Hispanic man was an important fact that belonged in the report. Leaving it out was -- it seems to me -- an attempt to save Jennifer Wilbanks from additional harm to her reputation."