He said he liked watching me sing.
Told me that I really sparkled when I sang.
“Sing me a song.”
“I don’t take requests.”
I don’t like to be forced. It’s better if he catches me, happily chirping away, forgetting there’s a world that exists beyond the melody, beyond the lyrics.
Just me and my song.
It’s Saturday morning and I sit at my kitchen table eating leftover pizza and leftover Chinese rice.
I wish I had tacos so it could really be balanced.
I hate wasting food.
So I sit here eating reheated shrimp fried rice and pepperoni pizza and I think, in 22 days I’ll be thirty years old.
Do you still get to do this when you’re an official grown up?
I wrote this eight years ago today according to Facebook and reading it made me smile very hard.
1. Taking pictures of friends, family, strangers, things that amuse me.
2. Puppies and doggies.
3. Eating out with a friend.
4. Reading a good book.
5. Rereading a book I love.
6. Summer thunder storms.
7. Dancing like a fool.
8. Watching tv with Andie.
9. Singing along with the radio.
10. Writing.
11. Coffee.
12. People watching.
13. The free day at museums.
14. Museums that are free in general.
15. Plays.
16. Movies.
17. Being on stage.
18. Driving.
19. Going somewhere new.
20. Meeting random people.
21. Seeing old friends.
22. Watching the sunset on the beach.
23. The lake.
24. Being by myself.
25. Being with others.
26. Taking the train to the end of the line.
27. Travel shows.
28. Popping bubble wrap.
29. Daydreaming.
30. Flirting.
31. Kareoke.
32. Riding my bike.
33. Wearing high heels.
34. Wearing pretty dresses.
35. Dressing up.
36. Bringing home gifts from my travels.
37. Texting my friends.
38. Learning something new.
39. Filling out stupid myspace surveys.
40. Getting mail.
41. Listening to people tell me about their day.
42. Solving problems.
43. Making fun of kids.
44. Working with kids.
45. Laughing at people’s reactions when I talk about kids.
46. My friends.
47. People who talk to me even when I’ve been a jerk.
48. People who really mean it when they ask, ” how are you?”
49. People who talk to me not just when they want me to do something for them.
50. Wise people.
51. Music.
52. Cute guys at Kinko’s.
53. That time of the day when you realize you’ve been awake too long and you’re slap happy.
54. Looking at old photo albums.
55. Painting my nails.
56. Chewing on pens.
57. Rain coats.
58. Going bowling.
59. Pretending like I remember how to golf.
60. Telling stories.
61. Receiving flowers.
62. Buying myself flowers.
63. Going for a walk.
64. Nacho Libre.
65. Quoting Nacho Libre with Melissa.
66. Reminiscing.
67. Striking up a conversation with a complete stranger.
68. Making up words.
69. Speaking in Spanish.
70. Blogging.
71. Reading other people’s blogs.
72. Cracking jokes.
73. Making hot chocolate.
74. Ice Cream.
75. Summer nights.
76. Sitting in the park.
77. Drawing in the park.
78. Taking Baloo to the park.
79. Googling things.
80. Snowball fights.
81. Sidewalk chalk art.
82. Paleteros.
83. Corn from the elotero.
84. Going to chinatown.
85. Drinking bubble tea.
86, Humbolt Park adventures.
87. Going to Ethel’s with Sarah.
88. Imitating people.
89. The smell of cut grass.
90. Road trips.
91. Churros.
92. Driving in foreign countries.
93. Being silly.
94. Decorating cakes.
95. Putting my students work up on the wall.
96. Making notes.
99. Sending out cards.
100. Life.
I remember his mom calling my house looking for him.
We still had a landline at the time. It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of those.
I wonder if she just went through his autograph book.
“Good luck! Have a great summer. K.I.T. love, Kastle.”
What was his name?
“Bushy” is all that comes to mind. That wasn’t his name obviously. But Mrs. Martinez gave us all nicknames. Bushy had really thick eyebrows.
Poor kid.
I think she gave him a complex. At some point during our eighth grade year he got them waxed for the first time. He came in the next day with really sharp eyebrows and really red skin.
I got the name “Kastle,” with a K though, to differentiate me from the other Castle in Mrs… (What was her name again? Something with a K I believe now that I think about it. I hadn’t thought of these people in 15 years) K’s class.
I’ve been Kastle for nearly 16 years no one ever questions it.
I remember a few other nicknames, “Barbie,” “Spikey,” “Elfie,” “Peanut Butter Girl,” it seems odd to grown up me that an adult would give some mildly offensive nicknames based off of physical traits to her young teenage students and get away with it.
But Bushy’s mom called me one summer night not long after we graduated. I think his name was Ricardo. Somewhere in the back of my mind that name stands out.
She called the house, my sister was the one who answered the phone. She’d asked for me. My sister handed me the phone.
She told me she was Ricardo’s mom and that he hadn’t come home and if I’d heard from him or seen him.
We were never that close, but I’d told him to KIT!
I told her I hadn’t but that I’d call around.
A few days later he called me. Told me he was home. That he was fine. A misunderstanding.
We were 14.
“KIT! have a good summer! Good luck in high school! I hope you don’t run away from your mom’s house!”
I don’t think I spoke to him again after that.
But for some reason driving down Laramie, I thought of that boy and wondered what ever happened to him.
All is calm, all is bright.
My family doesn’t “holiday” very well.
I do that a lot. Use a noun as a verb. It amuses me.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s– we seem to mess it up each time when left to our own devices.
I wish I was more festive.
Or that I had more money to force us out of the house to a nice place that knows how to holiday better than we do.
It’s Christmas.
So I walked my dog. More like let him walk me. At eight years old, my senior citizen dog is still stronger than I’ll ever be.
I haven’t walked him in a while. I’m a negligent parent.
Sometimes I like to imagine him as a writer. His first book, “my mommy is negligent and other stories.”
He’s truly my son. Even he enjoys writing short personal essays.
You know, in my fictionalized version of him.
I am not a morning person So I don’t walk him then. I’m also tired and weary of the world by the time I get home.
Depression does that to you.
I feel like I talk about depression a lot.
I’m not a Debbie downer by any means. Only few people in real life know about my struggles with depression.
That’s how it is.
I use humor and a bubbly nature to hide the demons I deal with when I’m by myself. When I am trying to force myself to do things.
Most of the world’s funniest people struggle with depression and addiction. Why do you think we’re so funny?
We have to cope.
Making people laugh and making people happy helps– for a little while.
My friend Steve called me while I was shopping. I told him I finished reading the manuscript he sent me. He told me he was no writer of prose, I told him I was no poet. So we’re even.
I told him it was weird but I like weird. I told him it made me uncomfortable, but good art does that sometimes.
His stories are disjointed, but connected. Does that make sense?
We talked a while, or rather I talked.
I talked about the church leaders dinner where I almost cried because no one wanted to sit at the table with me and my sister. How people only sat there because they got there late and those were the last seats available.
I told him about my love of random decorative wall art, some of the inspirational shit that looked pretty and was supposed to uplift. I rambled about Betsy Johnson and donut purses and how I’d wear it but had to draw the line at a milk carton purse.
I rambled until I realized I was rambling.
And I apologized.
He said it was ok. That’s why he called. So I could ramble.
It stung a little.
So I’m walking my dog and it’s Christmas, but it doesn’t feel like Christmas because my family doesn’t do Christmas right.
Are you following?
I get asked directions from strangers. I am non threatening.
In the city of Chicago, the city of big shoulders, the city of gun violence, the windy city, I am a girl in fake uggs and mittens wearing a wonder woman scarf walking her fluffy dog as he wears his Santa sweater.
I am not scary. I am inviting.
Ask me how to get somewhere I know how to go to all the places.
Maybe this new year I can learn how to holiday. Maybe I can be the one to make home feel like home.
The houses I pass are lit up like the Vegas strip and this brings me some comfort.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
The Secret Life of Pandas 