Circus Elephants and Star Trek

Having just finished reading Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, I must say that apart from this book being rightly named #1 on the New York Times Bestseller list it is a prime example of a well-written, well-researched work of fiction.

When many people pick up a book at their local Barnes and Noble or the library, very few actually ponder the process that occurs to put that book together. I’m not talking about printing and binding and advertising and book deals, I’m talking about the process of forming the story.

When you become a writer, you read things from an entirely different perspective. Every paragraph of every scene must be captivating to the reader and your descriptions must never beat around the bush, but jump headfirst into the shrub.

I recently heard someone tell me that she’d been carrying around a troupe of characters in her mind for years, like lugging family photo albums around in a suitcase wherever she went. She would find herself wondering how her characters would behave in certain situations or “what they were up to these days”. But she added that she never brought her characters to life on paper because she simply couldn’t write fiction. I tended to share a similar feeling towards the genre until I was properly corrected in class one day by Tim Brookes, author and professor at Champlain College.

In the third grade, I vividly remember my teacher telling me that I should not begin writing a story unless I already know what the ending is going to be. This piece of advice couldn’t have been more wrong. Brookes laughed when I told him that I’d been lugging around this philosophy for so many years. He explained that no author knows the ending of the story until she gets there. And still, she reserves the right to change her mind and change the story. Stopping yourself from writing before you’ve started is the worst thing that a writer can do.

Brookes continued to pass on countless bits of knowledge and strategy regarding both fiction and nonfiction writing. One tidbit I found particularly helpful was the idea of writing in scenes. Instead of forcing yourself to write your entire novel from beginning to end (a daunting task), begin writing small, detail-rich scenes. Focus in on the place, the characters, the action, and bring the scene truth and life. Just because it doesn’t fit into a bigger novel-sized picture yet, doesn’t mean it won’t later. I found that once I got going writing small scenes, soon I was able to string them all together to create a larger picture.

My other favorite piece of advice from Brookes was his emphasis on good research. A writer cannot write a probable fictional story without having substantial research to make everything feel real.

This is exactly what Gruen did in writing “Water for Elephants”. Throughout reading the book, I could not only sense the small scenes she may have worked within to create the story, but the intense research she conducted on the subject of train circuses is crystal clear. Anyone could have written a lazy story about some guy working on the circus during the depression, but Gruen made the story feel plausible and substantial by integrating such detailed elements of her research.

What I like even better is that Gruen ended the novel, not with a flowery dedication, but with a note that opened the window to her writing process. She conveys the sheer enthusiasm she had for studying the history of train circuses and the way she came about writing the book. Originally planning to write another novel entirely, she came across the topic while reading the newspaper one day and soon found herself hoarding photography books on circuses and taking an a trip to the Ringling Circus Museum in Sarasota, Florida.

Gruen says, “I spent the next four and half months acquiring the knowledge necessary to do justice on the subject, including three additional research trips…The history of the American circus is so rich that I plucked many of this story’s most outrageous details from fact or anecdote…”

Here in this little town, there is a sizeable young man who works at the local CVS Pharmacy stacking shelves of hair product and Band-Aids, bragging to every passerby who will listen about the sci-fi novel he is writing.

Despite the fact that I simply stopped by to pick up my prescription or buy a birthday card, I always get cornered (I let slip at one point or another that I am a writer) and end up listening to his latest inspiration or appreciation from/for Star Trek.

I will admit science fiction and Trekkies are not my thing, but writing is my thing. I can tell by the years he’s spent bragging about this novel that’s too complicated to explain, that either he hasn’t made a dent in the project or it’s far too complicated for a reader to enjoy.

The trick about writing is, yes, to write about what you love, but you must also write well enough to make others love your story too. Stacking shelves and supposedly dabbling in martial arts “to get ripped for summer” is all well and good, but I would suggest that if science fiction writing is what he wants to do, then he should do it with his whole heart. Every waking moment should involve jotting notes and researching, developing character and practicing the art of making dialogue sound genuine.

I found myself muttering as I walked out of the CVS, “For Christ’s sake, if you’re going to call yourself a writer, at least do the profession some justice.”

To some, writing may seem artsy, inspirational, isolated, and whimsical. But in reality a story only starts with a whimsy. The real work comes soon after, and believe me, the leg work and heartbreak involved in research, editing, and editing some more is not always pretty.

So top hats off to Sara Gruen, who not only wrote a phenomenal story, but insists that other writers honor the process it takes to be good at your craft.

Whether you’re writing about circus elephants, dressing up for Star Trek conventions, or stacking store shelves with speed and precision: do your thing justice and do it with passion.

All This Love and Nowhere to put it.

Last June, I was completely lost. I was suffering random bouts of crying, an inability to hold a stable romantic relationship, low self-esteem, and what seemed to be a constant state of stagnancy and confusion over what I was supposed to be doing with my life.

When I freed myself from an abusive relationship and relocated back to my hometown in Connecticut in September 2009, I thought my family and friends would welcome me home with open arms and warm words. Instead, the reality of it was that everyone was rather distracted; my family and friends had busy, full lives of their own. Still, part of me silently craved the comfort of someone waiting for me to return safely.

The weeks and months went by quickly as the changing leaves soon made way for snow, and I haphazardly attempted to settle myself into a routine. Go to work, run errands, eat, walk my roommate’s dog, sleep. To the random passerby, I appeared to be a well-adjusted twenty something moving seamlessly through the obstacle course of my 22^nd year, making ends meet and still having a little fun. On the inside, I was screaming.

In late March of 2010 my grandfather fell down. He tumbled to the floor unable to get up, and having lived alone was not discovered for over 26 hours. Suddenly, the one man I always perceived as an invincible genius was now lying in a hospital bed, dehydrated and weak.

Six months before, Grandpa Jim and I had begun writing a book together. An accomplished professor, coach, golfer, and stock market mogul, Jim Williams and I teamed up to write a book about everything he knew. In the months that we worked together, I learned more about him than I did during the entirety of my childhood. I saw him belly laugh for the first time. Not a warm and fuzzy man to say the least, he was strong willed, smart, intuitive, and unrelenting. He didn’t quite know how to connect with his three granddaughters until we were capable of taking notes during a lecture and legally trading on Wall Street. He was intimidating, yet incredibly efficient. He insisted, above all else, on his independence despite having suffered a slow, unnamed degenerative neurological problem. (He’d refused to see a doctor for 15 years) Through the month of April, despite the confines of his hospital bed, he continued to work, shuffling through piles of news articles on his lap, calling his business partners and waving a high fist at CSPAN when the DOW began to dip.

When he passed away in May, it didn’t seem real. The day after my 23^rd birthday I spoke at the memorial service in my finest of black dresses. At the reception, I kept asking everyone if they’d had enough to eat because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I returned to my apartment, where every flat surface was covered in gaudy floral arrangements, and at last I cried.

I think this is when the cork popped off the bottle, so to speak. The pleasant, composed mask I had worn so dutifully over the past half year just wouldn’t hold up anymore.

When I could no longer afford to stay in bed all day, shifting from sad to livid to lonely and back again, I threw on an old sweatshirt and went looking for a solution.

I finally stumbled into the office of a local therapist, Irya, and desperately tried to explain the way things were going, and how I’d come to land exhausted in her office chair. To my dismay she informed me that I was not crazy or beyond help, or even abnormal for that matter. I was simply a confused young woman, with divorced parents and a hiccup in my plan. Simply put, this was no news to me, yet I wanted to know why I’d been (seemingly) fine up until now, then suddenly sideswiped by overwhelming emotions and a strange combination of fatigue and restlessness.

Irya told me that in order to work through my present emotions, it may be helpful to sit down and “talk” to the little girl version of myself: the imaginative four year old, scared of the monsters under the bed and being left behind. She recommended that I address the little girl before the makeup, and the steady job, before boyfriends and bills, before I worried about being responsible and polite.

Though somewhat painful at first (literally, my throat cramped and chest tightened) this strange exercise began to help. This is when I realized that just as my family seemed too busy for that little girl back in 1991 (and the big girl in 2009), I had been too busy to notice her too: too busy to notice that she needed to be recognized as an important part of my personal history and that she still existed very solidly as a part of my present self. I finally allowed myself to mourn. Mourn the loss of my innocence, the loss of love and trust, the loss of my grandfather and colleague. It was never a quick fix, but change and healing began to occur like a slow leak.

One particularly average Thursday morning in September, I awoke having made the first solid decision I’d made in years. I was going to India and I was earning my Master’s degree. My plan was to find some answers, write, unabashedly communicate with God, and study elephants.

Up until now, elephants rarely crossed my mind unless I was eating orange marshmallow circus peanuts or listening to “Baby Mine” sung by Allison Krauss. (I’ll give you a hint: it’s from Dumbo) But the seeds of interest were planted early.

When I was three, my grandmother wrote a series of her own bedtime stories and read them to me, in the same order, night after night until I had each and every one memorized. One particular story that always stuck with me was one that told of a family of elephants.

A baby elephant, her mother, and father would walk every day together through the jungle that was their home, and every day Father would make his daughter practice listening by commanding her to be very still, until he gave the signal that she could move again. She was a rather noisy, restless elephant and never liked this exercise, but she also knew she should obey her father, so she never complained. One day, as the family walked through the thickest part of the jungle, crashing their big feet through the underbrush, Father gave the signal to be still. Mother and child froze behind their leader, barely breathing so as not to make a sound. Just then, a troupe of hunters in search of Ivory could be heard a few feet away, slicing their path through the jungle. The hunters stopped and looked around, but seeing and hearing nothing through the thick greenery, moved on leaving the elephant family unharmed. Father beamed at his daughter, proud that she had obeyed when it had been so important; when it meant life or death.

As a little girl, I always pictured myself as the little elephant, giggling at the thought of my father leading the Dawn Patrol and resembling Colonel Hathi of Disney’s The Jungle Book.

Juvenile visions aside, humans have related to elephants for centuries in ways we couldn’t to other members of the animal kingdom. So it’s no surprise that my grandmother found them to be such a perfect medium for teaching obedience and the value of family.

Cicero wrote in the first century B.C. that “although there is no animal more sagacious than the elephant, there is also none more monstrous in appearance” (book 1, section 97). Despite the elephant’s large size and thick bristly skin, they are incredibly sensitive creatures, which may explain our long-lived fascination with these majestic animals. (Socyberty)

When I first began planning my eight-week trek through India, I was intrigued by the idea of seeing the mountains and coastlines, the Taj Majal and the city of Varanasi. I yearned to meditate in an ashram and eat red lentil Dahl with a dollop of yogurt from a street vendor. But first and foremost, I was struck by a magnetic need to connect with elephants. The way nuns describe a sudden calling to devote themselves wholly to God, I was overcome by the feeling that I have been chosen to reach out to the elephants of India.

Though, not simply any wild elephant would do; I was drawn to interacting specifically with young orphaned elephants. Because baby elephants, much like human babies, are fully emotionally and physically dependent on their mothers in the early years of life, it is especially devastating when this vital connection is lost.

Research and behavioral studies have proven that baby elephants will rarely survive without the love and affection of a family member, especially a mother. In the wild, calves are constantly surrounded by the cows and bulls (adults) of the herd, and females tend to help care for each other’s offspring. Calves will walk between their mothers’ legs, constantly making physical contact with a trunk, foot or tail: constantly reassured of her presence and protection. When a calf is orphaned due to poaching, geographical displacement, conflicts with people, natural disasters, illness, etc., they become especially emotionally vulnerable. Without the aid of an adoptive adult female or attentive human caretakers, orphaned elephants can succumb to grief and anxiety, refuse to eat, and die. (Foreign)

These animals need to be snuggled, played with, bathed, and emotionally nurtured in order to grow into well developed adults. Orphans who do not receive enough emotional and physical support during these vital years, have been known to become extremely aggressive, depressed, unpredictable, and increasingly difficult for helping humans to rehabilitate as they get older. In short, elephant sanctuaries across India are in dire need of volunteers help care for these big babies.

If only to make my calling feel even more genuine, a bit of my research arrived as a somewhat of a sign. Right around the time that my grandfather’s memorial stone was erected in the Glastonbury Cemetery, I stumbled across an interesting fact that I couldn’t ignore. In my reading I discovered that elephants are one of the only species apart from humans that will continue to return to the site of a family member’s death to pay homage to their fallen comrade. Even years after death, herds have been known to remain at the site for days at a time, mourning the loss of their loved one.

According to South African elephant researcher, Andrew Keet, “The elephant’s capacity for sadness and grief is truly unique amongst members of the animal world, as it is particularly complex in terms of emotions. While most animals do not hesitate to leave the weak and young behind to die, elephants are distressed by the situation, and continue to show signs of this grieving for extended periods of time.”

Keet explains further that because elephants live in such close-knit herds and live for about as long as humans do (approximately 70 years), they form strong bonds with those around them. When one passes away, the rest of the herd visibly mourns the death. Mothers and aunts are also prone to mourning a stillborn calf. The herd will take great care in the burial of the dead, walking to and fro in covering the body with leaves and twigs in an act of dignity for the dead. (Keet)

As I watched my mother lay roses on the stone inscribed with his name, I wondered what Grandpa Jim would say if he knew I were headed off to India. In my mind’s eye, I see his face above the wide oak table scattered with charts and magazine clippings, and I vividly remember an inference he made regarding the height of Dubai’s sky scrapers in relation to the city’s overall debt, yet I can’t quite hear the words he would say. Maybe somewhere in the middle of the jungle, or on the beaches of Goa I will finally hear him again.

After spending weeks reading news articles and perusing photo galleries and websites, my purpose only seemed to solidify. It may sound like a far stretch, but my mission to travel to India, to find salvation and stability, and try to find myself, all really comes down to these elephants in need of love. And in turn, these burly animals may teach me a thing or two about forgiveness, faith, and patience.

For years I’ve described this recurring feeling to my closest friends and family: sometimes it feels as though I have so much love filling up my heart that my chest might explode. I’m often overwhelmed by the feeling that I have nowhere to put it all.

The moment I awoke on that average Thursday morning when I decided to go to India was the moment I realized that this love inside me (as if it were tangible matter) knew all along exactly where it needed to go, and that place was nowhere close to the trivial romantic relationships that clogged my past. Loving these elephants without having even arrived yet, makes me feel as if traveling to India will help me find the love (love of self, love from a God I have yet to meet) that I seem to have missed all these years.

Sources:

Keet, Andrew. "Elephant Emotions - Grieving." Andrew's Elephants. Amelia Du Plessis, n.d. Web. 18 Feb 2011. .

"Elephant Emotions - Grieving." Animals: Explore. Discover. Connect. Busch Gardens, 01 Dec 2009. Web. 18 Feb 2011. .

Berman, Abby. "IFAW releases rescued orphan elephants to the wild in India." IFAW: Saving Animals in Crisis Around the World. IFAW, 31 Jan 2011. Web. 18 Feb 2011. .

Buncombe, Andrew. "India's elephants finally given same protection as tigers." The Independent: Nature. The Independent, 03 Sept 2010. Web. 18 Feb 2011. .

Foreign Mail Service. "The unlikely and extraordinary bond between orphaned elephant calves and children." Mail Online: World News 03 May 2010: n. pag. Web. 18 Feb 2011. elephant-calves-children.html>.

"Elephants in Myths, Mythology, and Folklore." Socyberty. Triond, 8 Sept 2008. Web. 18 Feb 2011. .

Bloody Valentine

Before Hallmark and Russell Stover convinced us all that February 14^th would be a great day to hand out sweet sentiments on colorful paper and gorge on chocolate truffles, this holiday had a much darker tone.

Arnie Seipel, a writer for National Public Radio, reported this morning that though the origins of Valentine’s Day are a bit fuzzy, historians have reason to believe this lovey-dovey holiday dates back to Ancient Rome.

Never mind candy and flowers, Roman men knew how to woo a lady.

“From Feb. 13 to 15, the Romans celebrated the feast of Lupercalia. The men sacrificed a goat and a dog, then whipped women with the hides of the animals they had just slain.”

According to Noel Lenski, a historian at the University of Colorado at Boulder, the Roman men were drunk and naked. “ ‘Young women would actually line up for the men to hit them, Lenski says. They believed this would make them fertile.’ ”

Not far off from the scene at a modern nightclub, the festival of Lupercalia also included a type of “matchmaking lottery”.

“…Young men drew the names of women from a jar. The couple would then be, um, coupled up for the duration of the festival – or longer, if the match was right.”

Don’t get me wrong; I can appreciate a good night of involuntary promiscuity and beatings with bloody animal hides just as much as the next girl, but something about the harmlessness of candy hearts that read “Tweet Me” has me loving the modern gentleness of this so-called Hallmark holiday.

Source: http://www.npr.org/2011/02/13/133693152/the-dark-origins-of-valentines-day

Grad School Meets The Old School

She stays up until midnight writing poetry. She wears bright purple eye shadow and Jeggings. She can polish off a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream like a pro. She drives a Yaris and owns a French coffee press. And she's on Medicare.

My grandmother isn't your ordinary grandma, but she's awesome.

She also happens to be my roommate.

The present state of the economy and the lack of job opportunities for recent graduates has forced many post-grad twenty-somethings to move back in with Mom and Dad to save money, not to mention brace themselves for the onset of student loan pay-back. But an even stranger trend is growing in popularity across the country: moving in with our grandparents.

They spoiled us as kids. They taught us life lessons and told us stories about the Jurassic period (circa the 1940s). They fed us too many cookies and took us to sit on Santa’s lap at the mall. They said things like, “when I was your age”, and dragged us along for visits with other white-haired people.

But now some post-grads, having realized that living in peace with newly (happily) empty-nested parents is out of the question, have turned to the loving homes of their grandparents for a reprieve from rent for a while.

But what we got was a whole lot more than we bargained for.

As a child, we get to know our grandparents one way. It turns out that a relationship between a small child and their grandpa is very different from one between a raucous member of generation-Y and a wise, coupon-clipping senior citizen.

Joy Hepp, CNN.com contributor, reported back in April 2008 on this growing trend. Aaron Moncivaiz of Pheonix, Arizona, moved in with his grandmother, Shirley Harkness, with the goal of saving money to move to New York to begin his writing career.

“…She lived nearby and had an extra room for which she wouldn't charge him rent; he could reach the higher shelves in the kitchen for her and program the VCR. They gave it a shot, and so far they've worked out the important things.”

Hepp goes on to report that Moncivaiz isn’t the only one. According to Mario D. Garrett, chair of the Department of Gerontology at San Diego State University and director of the university's Center on Aging, “ ‘Changing demographics are part of it,’ he says, ‘people are living longer, so grandparents are more likely to be around. College students are graduating into a slumping economy. And some of these graduates grew up with their grandparents: More than 6 million grandparents were living with underage grandchildren in 2000, according to the U.S. Census’.”

The picture painted above, VCR and all, is exactly what it’s like. I help do the heavy lifting, I put together furniture from boxes, I clean the snow off her car, and I help with the grocery shopping. In return, I get to save up for grad school. I get a cozy bedroom upstairs, rent free, with a TV (no cable), shag carpet, and an endless supply of peppermint tea and tidbits of wisdom directly below in the kitchen.

We make things work. Obi (her preferred nickname) and I respect each other’s space and habits, and occasionally share a healthy belly laugh over the hilarity of our age differences. From the outside it may seem odd, but there is something to be said for getting back to the Old School.

Living with a grandparent is primarily a learning process. It requires tremendous amounts of patience and strong listening skills. It gives new meaning to the phrase “respecting your elders”. Now, instead of respecting our elders in two hour doses during family visits, it becomes an around-the-clock job that can eventually be incredibly beneficial to our (somewhat delayed) moral development.

Kelly Blais of Suffield, Connecticut also just recently moved in with her grandfather, Edmond Krajewski of Windsor. She says that, although life is very different living with her grandfather, it’s nice overall. He faithfully makes dinner every night and requires that she study hard while finishing up her graduate degree. She does the dusting and vacuuming, and even cares for the household cat that she lovingly despises. Getting used to early bedtimes and early mornings was hard at first, she continues, but they make it work.

Too often, the tech-savvy generation Y does not take into consideration the tremendous value that old fashioned etiquette and moral codes have.

In my case, Obi has made it clear that although the dating world is very different now than it was in the late 40s, women should always expect a man to court her. Women deserve nothing less than the utmost respect and good manners when on a date, and a proper gentleman will walk you to the door expecting no more than a kiss, if he’s lucky.

Krajewski shares his lifelong wisdom with Blais in the form of an undying work ethic, and a strong desire to feed his granddaughter. In the Krajewski household, three squares a day feed the mind and body, (plus hearty snacking in between) and an honest day’s work is priceless. Krajewski, at 81, still works full time.

The miraculous teaming-up of Americas seniors and their grown grandkids may be a move in the right direction. As we face an economic recession with American households refocusing on family values, the reconnection of the young and not-so-young may be just what Generation Y needs to stand strong against commercial materialism, debt, and rising addiction and divorce rates. Not that there’s anything wrong with the New School, but let’s face it, the Old School had to be doing something right.

Source: http://articles.cnn.com/2008-04-11/living/lw.grandma.roomie_1_bank-teller-roommate-returns-home?_s=PM:LIVING

Thawing Out the Past?

On January 14, 2011, The Hindu, a respected news publication based in Chennai (Madras), India released an article that may bring you back a few years, or a few thousand.

Apparently, the concept of cloning the long-extinct woolly mammoth is coming back to the forefront, following the topic’s fizzle from public interest in the late 1990s.

In 2008, Teruhiko Wakayama of the Riken Centre for Developmental Biology in Japan was successful in cloning a mouse that had been dead and frozen in a lab for 16 years. This breakthrough suggests that the door has now reopened for the cloning of the woolly mammoth, which previously failed due to cellular damage caused by the extreme cold in the Siberian permafrost where the great beast was found. “Akira Iritani, professor at Kyoto University, is re-activating his campaign to resurrect the woolly mammoth species that died out over 12,000 years ago.”

While I’m sure genetic biologists are jumping for joy in their lab coats, will there ever be a day when we realize that time progresses and causes change for a reason? When will we let sleeping mammoths lie?

When is it time for us to simply let the past be in the past? For most, including myself, it is much easier said than done.

On a more personal note, it seems as though, just as bad things seem come in the threes, the past comes back to visit occasionally, usually by the bus load.

With the recent return of an old arch enemy, my father’s ex-wife, every problem she tightly packed in her suitcase to take away the day she moved out eight years ago followed her right back through my family’s front door when my father unlocked the deadbolt.

Instead of eating cookies and reminiscing by a warm fire this Christmas Eve, I spent it awake until 2:00 am, futilely arguing with my mother about things that happened back in 1999. And as my eye lids drooped despite my efforts to stay awake and defensive, I realized that sometimes hurt feelings, mistakes, and problems will just never get resolved.

Even though the anger and hurt can still burn in my chest for years after, and various regrets might ring in my ears for even longer, sometimes people will simply never change and never apologize.

So, although we are so sad that Mr. W. Mammoth Sr. couldn’t be here to join his African and Asian Elephant ancestors for a stroll and a bite of greenery, shouldn’t we consider that there’s a reason he’s sleeping peacefully in the permafrost of Siberia?

Although we may never understand the motives of the universe in sending that comet Earth’s way 12,000 years ago, there may have been a very good reason for it, or simply a reason, whether good or bad is irrelevant because it exists in the past.

Dredging up the past and attempting to change it, no matter how scientifically or emotionally driven, can sometimes be a bit pointless and, quite frankly, exhausting.

Experiencing the past in it’s future form is another creature entirely. Whether it be running into an old flame from college and pleasantly catching up, or appreciating the beauty of India’s newly named “National Heritage Animal” (you guessed it: Elephants), reliving the past as it's present state can be a beautiful thing.

Let's honor the great grandchildren of this extinct woolly mammoth by protecting and rebuilding the present Elephant population. Let's hug our family members and love them regardless of the hurtful things they may have done or said, whether we've forgiven them or not. Because, reliving the pain and anger of the past is about as productive as beating your head against a glacier, expecting Dumbo's grandpa to wake up refreshed.

Source: http://www.thehindu.com/sci-tech/science/article1092805.ece

Pumpkin Pie Guilt:

Definition:

The variety of guilt, disappointment, or embarrassment one feels in a gurgling stomach; one that makes you want to sit down in a comfy chair with a whole pumpkin pie, a fork, and possibly a can of spray whipped cream, and devour the whole thing simply because, if your mouth is full, you cannot curse.

Pumpkin Pie Guilt can be caused by a variety of factors including, but not limited to:

• · Lying to one’s grandmother
• · Signing a contract at the gym but never actually going to work out
• · Purposefully using a lie to skip an appointment/ date/ party when you decide your selfish mood is more important than those relying on you
• · Breaking up with, or being dumped by your boyfriend/girlfriend
• · Your credit card gets declined in front of a group
• · The job you “had in the bag” was given to someone else
• · Signing onto your web account and realizing your checking account is uncomfortably low and most of your credit cards are maxed out (not to mention one bill is two days late).

Every month these innocent-looking, seemingly harmless little rectangular envelopes arrive in my mailbox. Sometimes I approach them before tearing them open, taking a deep breath as the acid builds in my lower esophagus. Most of the time, the leaflets inside are encouraging me to charge another pair of fabulous pants or another pedicure on the credit card they represent, insisting that the debt isn’t what’s important, it’s the points, rewards, sky miles, and carefree hours of retail therapy that really matter.

In my three years as an all-American, debt-building, economy-supporting credit card user, I’ve realized that the momentary euphoria induced by that particular pair of Nine West pumps I just bought would never balance out the anxious heartburn that occurs when the bill comes in the mail.

So I signed up for online, paperless billing.

At first, Visa and Victoria’s Secret made me feel better by pointing out that I’m saving trees. There seemed to be something a little less threatening about a simple reminder e-mail to pay a bill, as opposed to an angry-looking, officially solid letter. But just like the thrilling adrenaline rush of purchasing a new purse, this feeling didn’t last long.

As I signed onto the Express website to pay a portion of my credit card bill the other day, I was greeted by a gorgeous model strolling arm in arm with a handsome gentleman while wearing the newest of little black dresses: a Nylon/Rayon/ Spandex V-neck Sleeveless Tube Dress that said sexy/sophisticated, especially with the right clutch purse and metallic bangle bracelet. The marketing director and art editor played this one pretty cool. Priced at $79.50 this is no Marc Jacobs, but let’s face it, I’m no Carrie Bradshaw either. For the price of that dress, I could fill up my gas tank and buy a week’s worth of groceries. Nice try, Svetlana, you’re not pulling a fast one on me: not anymore. So I skip the shopping and click on Pay Your Bill.

There she was again: Svetlana (or whatever he name is) with her frizzy hair and heavy eyeliner trying to seduce me into buying that fabulous silk blazer, but at this particular moment, she seemed to be using her angry eyes as a warning to those who can’t handle their plastic, almost as if to say, “Beware all ye who enter here.”

(Personally, I don’t think she would have actually read Dante’s Inferno, let alone be able to quote it, but assuming this model is an idiot is like assuming that a porn star can’t have a Master’s Degree. No judging.)

I entered my username and password, waiting with bated breathe as the page loaded and the truth came out in the numbers. Svetlana was still staring at me from the top of the page. I’m sure the photographer wanted her to convey a specific message with this picture. He wanted her to say: “Krysta you would look amazing in this jacket, and if you don’t buy it, I’ll eat you.”

But she missed the target on this one. Whether it be her starved, chiseled, demanding face or the fact that my debt was highlighted in bold in the middle of the page, instead of the above message, I heard this:

“Krysta, pay your goddamn credit card bill and get the hell off this website. Beauty is reserved for thin girls with fat wallets. And you, my dear,” as she pauses for effect, looking me up and down, “are neither one of those.”

Pumpkin Pie Guilt. Here we go again. Sometimes it can be so easy to avoid by using back-up excuses: “It could be worse, some people are in a lot more debt than me” or “the credit bureau isn’t actually made up of real people, they’re not as disappointed in me as I think they are.” But this one snuck up on me.

And for those of you out there who are thinking: "Well, I'm exempt from this one. I don't even like pumpkin pie," not so fast. Even if you can't stand any variety of pie, there are plenty of ways you may soothe the painful symptoms; plenty of creamy, cheesy, calorie-packed comfort foods for which to spackle your emotional wounds. One of my friends prefers to stave off stressful exam studying with jars Spaghetti-O's, another prefers an entire jar of peanut butter and a spoon to spooning with yet another inadequate lover. Whether it be marshmallow fluff, onion dip and chips, blue box macaroni and cheese, Ben and Jerry's ice cream (I could go on forever), filling in the chunks of emotional sheetrock missing from your person can be done with any variety of things. Not to mention, it seems the more people I talk to, the more I realize this dark, behind-closed-doors little habit is more common than it seems.

Common or not, I still don't feel much better. Thank goodness for Planet Fitness and Jillian Michaels.

Sometimes I just want a hug and a lottery ticket.

When it all comes down to it, I suppose it’s good that I began cutting those little plastic cards in half and tackling my debt before it got lethal. But it doesn’t make me feel any better about that fact that I relate disturbingly closely with Confessions of a Shopaholic, nor that that folks over at the grocery store bakery recognize me as "the regular".

Arabian Nights and Decision Days

“What do I do now?”

It’s the one question that’s been repeating itself over an over in my head like that ridiculous DVD menu screen that stays on all day at the big electronics stores. It flashes on 26 different television screens as you try to figure out what the difference between HD and LCD really is, and how the slight variance in color and picture quality will effect your every day routine, love life, and overall human efficiency.

I’m pretty much standing in life’s overwhelming TV isle, a little confused and dazed by the fluorescent lighting, thinking I only came here to get batteries.

When I graduated from college four months ago, I had a plan. I was that girl who raced through the last semester unaffected by the economy or the dread-virus that crept across campus, infecting one student at a time as the threat of entering the real world loomed over us. Nope: I was all set with an okay boyfriend (6 out of 10 at the time), packing boxes, a new job waiting for me, and a new apartment free for the decorating. And I wasn’t moving back in with my parents, thank God.

So when the ceremony was over, I packed the rest of my boxes, and made the sprawling step of moving in with my boyfriend in a completely unfamiliar area. I had only two small fluttering moths in my belly, as opposed to my friends who were close to pulling the car over to wretch with anxiety-induced nausea.

Although I had received a Bachelor’s in writing, I had gladly accepted a job working with Alzheimer’s patients in an assisted living community. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was pretty sure I knew how to finger paint and play cards, so I wasn’t too worried. At least I had a job. I couldn’t afford to be picky.

Yet, the moment Tom and I (we’ll call him Tom for privacy’s sake, but I’m not sure he deserves the courtesy) stepped through the front door carrying all those U-Haul boxes, something in the air went rotten.

Tom lost his temper for the first time in February, while we were still in Vermont. He wasn’t going to school, but I was, and I regularly studied with the most charming group of sci-fi geeks I’ve ever encountered.

I was out for coffee with the guys, and stayed gone just a tad too long, vigorously typing away, entertaining the idea of writing my first novel. When I returned to my apartment, where Tom had made himself at home maybe a little too quickly, cigarette butts flew in my direction, spit landed on my arm when he screamed, doors slammed and his tires peeled out in a childish, temper-tantrum frenzy. I stood in the middle of it all, confused and numb for a few moments, before my hands began to shake and the tears came.

But in the light of morning I convinced myself, as he begged for forgiveness, that he would never do it again.

That afternoon, I called my best friend Kelly and emptied my bank account registering for a 12-day tour of Egypt taking place at the end of May, which I had no intention on sharing with Tom.

From that point forward, I chose not to go out with my friends simply to avoid conflict. Tom became a vigilant chaperone if I did decide to go anywhere, and I kept silent about it, thankful we weren’t fighting.

The morning Kelly and I left for Egypt, Tom threw yet another temper tantrum, this time looking particularly ridiculous, crying and swearing at me in his penguin-like catering uniform. As his face boiled up red, I wondered if his clip on bow tie was too tight.

When I climbed into the cab headed for the airport, smiling at the rotund Puerto Rican driver, my bracelets jangling, I knew things with Tom were over. Juan and I talked about the quality of fast food in the Dominican, but really I was trying to think of reasons to keep Temporary Tom around.

I cannot begin to rationalize now why I stayed with this man for as long as I did, and that’s not what this story is about anyway. It is about moving into the future.

My future started when we landed in Cairo. Nervous and self-conscious at first, I remained quiet and observant among the fifteen-person tour group, but soon realized that apart from my best friend, none of these people would ever see me again.

This little jewel of a thought has been, over and over again, one of the most powerful inspirations for me. It allows me to let go of my inhibitions and insecurities and just be myself. I’m going to say what I want to say, and do what I want to do, and that’s that. Whether they like me or not is their problem. Yet somehow, this little trick always manages to land me more friends than I could have hoped for.

Twelve days later, I was in love.

This time, with two other people. The first person being the new, more confident me, which could also be referred to as the Krysta before Tom. The second was a painfully handsome man from Manchester, New Hampshire wearing a red Egyptian soccer t-shirt with a big 22 on the back.

22 was like a magnet. Like having a compass needle installed behind my eyes, I inexplicably always new exactly where he was in relation to where I was standing, no matter if we were riding camels in the Sahara or drinking tea on a rooftop, mingling with a group of young Egyptian men performing card tricks.

As we got off the plane in Boston, I watched 22’s fingers as he lightly touched the wall of the concourse, like a child drags a stick along a fence just to make noise. I watched him as he walked ahead of me all the way through the airport, and then as we passed through customs. I didn’t want to say goodbye, to lose sight of him, but I had no right to reveal what I felt about him either. I watched him standing on the sidewalk, waiting for his ride, as Tom drove us away. I wanted to tuck and roll, grab 22 and duck into a passing taxi, headed anywhere but there.

But instead I went home with Tom. When Tom touched me, I thought of 22’s hands and the respectful barrier he drew, knowing I was committed to someone else.

When I was lonely, watching ESPN patiently with Tom, I thought of the time 22 had offered a gentlemanly arm as we walked through the crowded bazaar in Old Islamic Cairo. Men had called after us, “Lucky man! Honeymoon!” Neither of us denied the suggestion that we were together. We just smiled in the heat. As he talked about philosophy and world history, I would fantasize about getting him alone in Amenhotep’s tomb, or pulling him behind the corner of a pyramid where no one would see.

One night as we all celebrated life and youth, 22 and I stayed up until the call for morning prayer came from the top of the minarets across the city. He confessed his interest in me while we hung our heads out a window, overlooking the satellite dishes and blue lights of Cairo’s crowded streets. I was ecstatic but I played it cool, saying thank you and modestly casting my eyelashes towards the floor like a lady.

We tried not to show our feelings to the rest of the group. They all knew I had an overgrown-baby for a boyfriend patiently waiting at home. 22 and I were well behaved and painted an outward picture of perfect platonic friendship.

After my return to the states, the days went quickly. Something about me had changed and I liked it, so I began to fight back. I wasn’t playing Tom’s games anymore, nor was I cleaning up his messes, and he did not like it one bit.

He didn’t like that I lost ten pounds and fit into my skinny jeans, or that I was going out with the girls more often. He didn’t like that I was reading and talking about Egyptian history. He didn’t like it when, insisting we were just friends, 22 and I met up at a bookstore and talked for three hours. He didn’t like that I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. So for the first time in his pitiful little life, Tom did something about it.

He found me on a Saturday night, right where I said I would be. Melanie’s friend was having a bonfire and I had tagged along for a girl’s night. We heard his tires squealing before we saw him swerve around the corner. I’m sure if I had been paying close enough attention, I would have smelled the whiskey as I approached the car. I turned around and hugged Melanie and reassured her that I was a big girl and I could handle myself.

I was wrong. The moment I climbed into the passenger seat I knew I had made the wrong decision. He sped off, spitting as he screamed, threatening to kill me.

He slammed on the brakes suddenly in the middle of the road, and began demolishing the inside of the car. I ducked, my arms over my head, praying one of those fist-throws didn’t land on my face. Plastic bits littered the car and his hands bled as he sped off again.

When I tried to escape at a stoplight, he grabbed me by the neck and refused to let me go. I’m not sure why I didn’t call the police right away. Maybe I was scared to reach for my purse. Maybe my phone was dead. I don’t remember. I prayed that blue lights would flash behind us, pulling us over before he purposefully drove us into a tree or a telephone pole. He skipped every red light all the way back to our apartment, talking to himself the whole way. “Look what you make me do.”

Anger is a funny thing. In combination with the alcohol, it made his voice grow thick, when I closed my eyes this skinny white boy sounded like a “gangsta” black man, Ebonics, accent and all. Maybe Tom was possessed.

As he yelled at me, I huddled silently against the car door and thought about Father’s Day. Glancing at the glowing clock on the wrecked dash I saw that it was already technically Father’s Day: 1:20am. I wanted my Dad.

On the day that I defended myself in court, I told the truth. I could have lied and said that he kicked the tar out of me. I could have lied and said he raped me. But instead, I stuck to the truth because I knew Tom wouldn’t. Colorful stars danced before my eyes and I hoped to God he couldn’t see my hands shaking as he stood four feet away, lying to the judge with his pretty blue eyes and spidery lashes.

Apparently no one was fooled. The restraining order was granted and I was home free, and as I my father and I exited the courtroom, I watched my ex-boyfriend try to unsuccessfully pick a fight with the court officer.

I made all the wrong decisions in this situation. Even after I called the police. I didn’t file for a restraining order until after he violated a notice of trespass. Nothing would keep him away. He drove by the house, counting the cars in the driveway. He sent text messages to my friends, threatening suicide if I didn’t take him back.

His controlling, bipolar mother (who also happened to be my new boss) only made things worse. She begged me over and over not to press charges, and cast tiny thoughts into the air like confetti suggestions, making Tom believe he was above the law, and that that night in the car never actually happened.

In one of her frantic phone calls she actually tried to convince me that I was imagining everything. She told me I was crazy. When her talk fell on deaf ears, she resorted to harassing my mother via e-mail. I can just picture her sitting in her oversized, overpriced lazy chair thumb-typing fervently on her Blackberry, pinching her eyes and mouth into a sour-face in concentration.

The only reason I share so much is so that all the women who read this might learn from my mistakes. If you are colorblind to those relationship red flags, suck it up and learn what they look like. There’s no excuse for wasting your time with a controlling, manipulative man-child.

So, my after-college plan melted like Chapstick in your car’s cup holder on a 90-degree day. It was of no use, and left behind a big mess.

So now that I’m standing in this bright life-superstore isle, the orange and yellow signs screaming “Buy! Buy! Buy!” and the giant TV screens filling my vision, I’m not quite sure what to do next.

But, just as I am about to sit on the chilly linoleum floor in exhaustion and cluelessness, my two best friends, closely followed by 22, round the corner and hand me a universal remote, reminding me that I have had the power to change the channel the whole time. I just left it on a shelf in the next isle over, being the blissfully distracted person I am.

They remind me that sometimes we need a little push to get us moving and no matter how stuck you really think you are, there’s always wiggle room for a new, unplanned future.