Author: graciej311

REUNION PLANNER EXTRAORDINAIRE

~ graciej311

Social media is the bane of my existence these days. Along with two other high school class officers, I’m in the process of planning my 20-year reunion. Back in 2005 when we planned our 10-year reunion, social media wasn’t really on the scene yet. We had a couple conference calls with the three of us, decided on a venue, hired an on-site catering company and put together some name badges. A few people used PayPal to purchase their tickets, but most people sent checks (remember those?) via snail mail. We called a lot of last known phone numbers and emailed even more last known email addresses. We tried our best to use the classmates.com website to track people down. We didn’t do too many surveys or ask for too many opinions. We didn’t have much of a forum for such things. We were in charge. We planned the event. Mainly word of mouth gave people knowledge of it. We held the reunion. People seemed happy with it. They moved on with their lives.

For having grown up in a red state, in a predominantly Mormon environment, I think of myself as a pretty open-minded, liberal person. I support gay marriage and a woman’s right to choose. But having to hear the opinions and (often) verbal diarrhea on Facebook of so many former classmates about each and every minute detail of what we have planned for this reunion has been exhausting. I sometimes want to ask people’s opinions, but then I want them to shut up rather spewing them at me or at the very least, give useful input rather than stating the obvious. I realize this is probably too much to ask. We’ve had some comments such as: “I wasn’t planning on coming to the reunion anyway, but here are all the negative things I’m going to tell you about what I don’t like about what you have planned….” You know what? Put a cork in it. Part of the issue may be that I don’t care a lot about what other people think, and some of these people I don’t know very well (and don’t want to) so I find it even more difficult to put their opinions into perspective, and to have a like-mindedness about their commentary. The other thing I wonder is why people care so much. I want to scream, “There are starving children in Africa (AND AMERICA) why do you care so much about whether or not your spouse is invited to the evening event?” People need to learn to focus their energies on things that actually have bearing. When we ask for helpful assistance such as photos for the slideshow, we have three people, out of our 270 classmates, respond. When we don’t ask for opinions or guidance, we get frequently negative, unsolicited spewings by the dozen.

That said, it’s a good thing I’m the only person on the planning committee who gets fired up about anything. I’m not offended by people’s words, disrespect, or ignorance of the planning process; it teeters far more toward…annoyance. I’m always trying to understand why people think the way they do and why so many people fail to be logical. I haven’t learned yet that I should give up, because it’s something I will never “get”. When my daughter is in school and has her various afterschool activities, I have time to watch a stupid TV show in the afternoon. My stupid TV show of choice is “Dr. Phil”. (Try not to judge.) I watch the show with the primary purpose of trying to figure out these people who come on as guests with their wide arrays of issues. (Side note: How does anyone fall for “catfish” scams? It’s unbelievable!) Most people would say they watch those types of programs to feel better about their non-screwed-up lives. That is not why I watch. I watch because I genuinely want to understand people’s behavior. I’ve known my ex-husband for nearly 20 years, and I’m still baffled by nearly everything he says, does, doesn’t do and says he’s going to do. I keep saying I’m going to stop trying to understand, but I don’t think that’s a quest that will ever cease.

The other two class officers involved in our planning talk me off a ledge at least once a week. I’ve threatened several times to fly or drive up to Utah and throat punch some individuals. It’s an action I still may follow through on. I’ve already established that I don’t plan to plan the next reunion. By then, I’ll be almost 50 years old. If I’m unable to tolerate the annoyance of Facebook and I don’t have patience presently for random opinions/rantings, imagine how much of a curmudgeon I’ll be in ten more years. Ultimately, I suppose I’m still trying to figure myself out too. Why did I put myself through this process? There are some people I’m interested in catching up with, but a great majority of people I wouldn’t give two shits if I never saw them again. Perhaps morbid curiosity about how people “turned out” has something to do with it. There are a couple of things I’ve learned: 1. I’ll be quite glad when it’s over. 2. I’m taking an extended hiatus from social media when it is.

REMAIN OBLIVIOUS

~ graciej311

I was genuinely pissed at him
through the majority
of August.
But isn’t that the way
when you have a
burn for someone
and they can’t return it?

My heart jumps
in front of my head.
Just like my fingers
when they type.>>>!#$

If you’re the first one
to make sense of this,
clue me in.
Don’t drop subtle hints.
Make it blatant.
That’s the only way
I can take it.
Raise your hand.
I’ll call on you.
Then you can deliver
the news.

My friends tell me
I should find a publisher
for this garbage.
If you dig through the
bin long enough,
you’ll find it at the bottom.
It’s possible that it belongs
in the incinerator.
Along with thoughts
I had of anything
ever working out
in my favor.

WHERE IT TAKES US

~ graciej311

For Aethea

When we were 14,
we didn’t think about
cancer…
divorce…
or leaving the religion of our youth.

We wore the flowery dresses,
attended the camp meetings,
and ate the morning donuts.
We crossed the street
for daytime seminary
and let God nibble at our hearts.

The rage of teenagedom welled in me,
and I punched you at the party
after the football game.
We collapsed on the curb and sobbed
and talked.
I’d never seen you cry before.
I’d never felt worse and yet,
never better.

I helped you collect bottle caps
from under couches
after the parties,
and drag the chiming bags
to the trash
so your mom wouldn’t know.

We’d spend all our time with Mike,
trekking to and from the college,
to and from class.
Finance 101 was the worst.
We were 18.
We didn’t want to know
about credit card debt
and what life had in store.

We dove into the mud,
covered head-to-toe
champions of volleyball
during homecoming week.
Sheer elation on our faces
in the newspaper picture.

You were always the strong one.
The one who says it like it is
with a middle finger in the air.
Honesty continuously overflowing.
I liked you being the center of attention,
so I could quietly take up a corner.

You helped me carry boxes,
when I was moving
across the state line,
forced to start a different life.

You came to visit,
and met the Prince impersonator.
We shouted about Julius Caesar
when we ate at the feast
and swam in the backyard pool.
I smiled huge.
Something I didn’t think was possible
anymore.

They say we’ve strayed,
and that we’re lost sheep —
that’s why bad things happen.
They’ll tell us bad things happen
to good people too,
that life is a test,
and something better awaits
in some distant eternity.
We should pray more
and recite scriptures from memory.
Make it all better.

I’m used to having words to say.
Something that makes life seem
less harsh,
less real.
Right now,
all I have are these,
and they seem insufficient.

All our memories;
they’re carrying us.
Pushing us forward.
More adventures
and healing await,
regardless of whether
you set foot in a chapel.

My heart swells.
I will grieve by your side,
and help you lift your burdens.

Thea and me

HOW TO SAY IT

~ graciej311

I’m scraping
burnt crust
off the pizza pan.

Wishing the same
were true
for life’s mediocrity.

Tan walls.
Brown floors.
Feelings neither here
nor there.

The current brings us
in and pushes us out,
but I only recognize
back and forth
or around in needless circles.

Take a rag and polish
the moon and sun
for they’ve been dark so long.

Tan walls.
Brown floors.
Tar on my feet.
Jealously swept up
with the starfish and salt.

Back finally broken
from cracks that were
never sealed.

Healing becomes
a metronome of back
and forth.

This record skips at the scratch.

SOUTHPAW DREAMS

~ graciej311

As a child, I was jealous of kids who were left-handed. They seemed like such an anomaly. They had special scissors to use in the classroom and exceptions were often made for their seating arrangements. I had a couple teachers who talked about how the left-handed kids were more creative, more inclined to be good at the arts, because they used the right side of their brains when performing so many daily tasks.

I never wanted attention called to myself when I was younger; especially negative attention, but I did want to be an artist. I felt that if I were left-handed, I would have a greater chance.

Around the same time, my Granny, with whom I spent quite a large amount of time, broke a bone in her right arm. She ended up having to sign checks and write appointments on her calendar with her left hand for the next several weeks. By the time she was able to use her right hand again, she was already quite adept at using her left hand. I’m not going to say I wished for a broken wrist, but I won’t say I didn’t.

During high school, one of our art teacher’s favorite assignments was to announce that during this class period, we should hold the pencil or charcoal in our non-dominant hand in order to craft a drawing. My pieces always ended up looking like something a four-year-old had hastily sketched.

Despite my current rather portly build, I was lean and muscular for the first 18 years of my life. I loved to play tennis, basketball, volleyball, and softball. One day while I was watching a baseball game with my dad, he mentioned that many famous pitchers were left-handed, and that several prominent baseball players could switch hit, meaning they could bat equally well from the right side or left side of the plate. My envy for those born as southpaws continued to grow when my dad and I were watching a PGA tournament. One of my dad’s only hobbies at the time was golfing. I’m quite certain that had we been in a better financial position during that era, he probably would have been a member of a club where he could golf daily. I noticed that an unusually high number of professional golfers were also left handed, and my heart sank, as I realized that I would probably never be amazing at my dad’s favorite sport.

In the last decade, I’ve met several right-handed people who are excellent artists, and I’ve watched many right-handed golfers win the PGA tournament. My husband recently purchased a set of golf clubs for me. We will see how I fair, given my right-handed proclivity (handicap). Perhaps I can turn southpaw dreams into right-handed reality.

RENAMED GLUTTON

~ graciej311

I don’t know why
I disapprove of this so much.
Out of blackened, seared, ache
come the best words,
tasting like wasabi.
They scorch and will burn,
if I hang onto them too long.
Cry your putrid heart out.
Closed fist
punch the wall.
I’ll smile over this later.
This is a distorted reality,
however.
I’m currently taking self-portraits
red-faced with tears of anger.
I’ve made myself a glutton
and my eating habit
has been thoughts of you
that never materialize
into more than sentences

here

And here

And here.

ADHERENCE

~ graciej311

There are so many rules:
Don’t say you have chubby thighs
in front of your teenager,
Eat your kale and quinoa,
In fact you may as well be vegan,
Put down your smartphone,
but be sure and call your mother daily,
Feign interest in what everyone has to say,
But don’t let all those perfect, blissed-out,
Facebook pictures & vacations impact your mood,
Listen to music,
but not that kind, and not so loud,
it’s bad for your ears and gives you cancer,
A glass or two of red wine
every night is good for your heart,
but then again that makes you an alcoholic,
so don’t drink,
Speaking of drinking,
let’s get together for coffee,
Orangemochafrappuccino,
Mini, non-fat, less than 100 calories,
wait…don’t talk about calories or carbs,
Get to the gym,
but don’t work out too much,
like the 96-pound lady who is there every…single…day,
with the leather-like-too-tan skin,
big hair, and 80s legwarmers,
She’s a weirdo,
looks like she may have an obsession,
with the older gentleman,
Now that you mention it,
date someone who is just the right age,
No one knows what that means,
but it’s part of the rules,
he should be moderately wealthy (at least),
however, if he’s a dick to you,
or if he looks strange when he chews his broccolini,
dump him immediately and date someone else,
It just wasn’t meant to be,
you’ll get over it,
don’t mourn for too long,
nobody likes to be around:

complainers,

downers,

depression,

so happy, happy, happy,
that’s the most important
rule to which you should adhere.

OBSERVATION DECK

~ graciej311

We stopped in Rexburg once,
to get gas
on the drive to Yellowstone.

As we proceeded to the highway,
there were water-skiers
on the pond.

Wyoming was frigid.
We almost lost our way,
the darkness enveloping
with only dim lights
and engine hum to encourage the
press forward.

Pine trees hadn’t regrown
from the burn
years before.
Fires that had turned Utah dusk
into brightness of sunset.

My legs prickled
to the touch
after a morning
around the paint pots.
I had worn shorts in May,
a fool’s mistake.
My skin so cold
it felt hot
and only time blanket-wrapped
was a momentary cure.

I saw a moose
run in the rain.
It trotted along,
soaked fur
and thin body revealed
beneath the majesty
of large antlers.

I wished I could ride Old Faithful
away from existence.

Up
^
Up
^
Up
^
its 130 feet of power
every 94 minutes.
I was stuck as an observer.

THE WANT ADS

~ graciej311

He didn’t like poetry.
“It’s just cat, hat, this and that,”
rhymes — he said.
The crux of the issue though:
he didn’t understand much
about self expression.
His walk seemed laborious,
but he could safely make it
from first to second base.
The color of his eyes
akin to oozy tar
in August.
I used to scan
the wanted section
(back when
people read newspapers).
I figured he might
take out a personal ad.
He wanted a girl who:
didn’t curse,
would watch NFL games,
and who loved to eat
(but never gained weight).
I didn’t tick any of the boxes.
He tore me down a peg
the first time he heard me say,
“Shit!!!”
NFL players are overpaid douches,
and I told him as much.
I gained a “freshman 50”,
just to spite him.
They had 99-cent bottomless fries
at Red Robin,
and I was on a college-girl’s budget.
That situation could never have worked.
Poetry makes more and more sense
all the time.