Rain, Rain Go Away... No, Wait, Come Back!

(Marissa)

It is Saturday and I owe you all a post. Whoever "you all" are. I just got on Blogger Stats and saw that we've had fifty-one hits from Denmark. Is this normal? Do they (you) speak English in Denmark? Why is everyone there googling Peter Pan? Excuse the questions, my most up to date knowledge from Denmark comes from Hamlet.

Moving on.

I am a rain glutton. If this seems random that's because it is, but that doesn't make it any less true. I love the rain. When there is no rain I dance for it.

I love the smells, the feel of it and the excuse it gives me to unearth my pajama bottoms, pour myself a cup of herbal tea and watch Pride and Prejudice with the knowledge that there is ice cream in the fridge. Seriously. Take a minute and think. Is there a more peaceful scene?

If you just said no then we are soul siblings. Hi!

Anyway, my island has been in a drought for a while now. I find it depressing. It's been weeks since I've seen the Pride and Prejudice Pemberley lake part

and if you know me then you know that bodes extremely ill for my mental health. So this week when I woke up to a grey sky I was ecstatic. I hummed Singing in the Rain while I walked between classes I listened to the sound and smelled the air. Rain makes me happy inside.

That happiness did dry up somewhat when I had to catch the bus. Because, at least around here, catching the bus entails being at the bus stop for a good forty minutes. I mean "good" in the sense of lengthy or substantial, not pleasant, though the waiting period is not necessarily unpleasant. I've had some very interesting conversations in that rickety structure. One conversation with an older lady started with the book in my hand in led on to different ways of being moral, cultural differences and the path to joy.

I'm not kidding. I felt deep. And then I went home and watched and Asian drama and that feeling evaporated fairly quickly, but we'll go into dramas another day.

Going back to the subject at hand, the bus stop is not a place where you want to spend a lot of time when it is raining. It leaks. Where I live, it floods. It didn't Wednesday, but I didn't find that particularly comforting. I know there are people who would stand in the rain and think, "I'm so glad it's not flooding right now," but I am not at that optimistic. The silver lining doesn't shine that bright for me.

I tried to sit, but water on the back of my thighs is not a feeling that I enjoy a great deal. And I was getting rained on. So I stood up. And I was still getting rained on. I did not lay down, but I suspect that the result would have been similar. So I slung my backpack off with the hope that it was water-proof (it's not) and stood there in the rain, leaning down the left side of the street, waiting for the bus's headlights.

I was cold and wet and wishing that I'd just learned how to drive over the summer like parents kept telling me to. (I hate that feeling, by the way. Why do parents have to be so smart? Don't they get tired of it?... Hi, Mom.)

It's funny because I had been wanting rain forever. I'd been craving it the way I crave ice cream. The bad thing about craving weather is that you can't pick it up at the grocery store's frozen section. But it had finally made it's appearance and here I was moaning, wishing that the sun would shine.

I felt like my cat, who, in the middle of the night, will yowl at my window to be let in and then, twenty minutes later, wants to be let out again and makes this wish known by kneading my pillows with her claws.

Today is hot. I just cleaned. Couldn't it rain again?

Make it rain. No, stop! Bring the sun back... Alright, now the rain.

I love the rain.

Except for when I don't. I'm just fickle that way.

Over.

My Corner of the Universe

(Marissa)

Today I exercised, had sweet potato fries, did my homework, registered for all my college classes and paid for them. My corner of the universe is tidy, how about yours?

I'm just going to give you the list of things I know I should tell you but don't want to spend a blog post on:

1. I took the ACT. I don't want to talk about it.

2. Alright, fine. It was bad. I was sick. I'm taking it again next month. We should send science and math to a never to be found desert island where it can rot until the end of time. Forever and ever, amen.

3. I get nine hours of sleep and I'm still exhausted. Does anyone know why this is? If you're going to tell me it's because I get too much sleep, I have mono or I eat too much ice cream, then don't. I have already explored the first two possibilities, and if it's the last one I have no intention of it exploring it. There is a reason I eat the amount of ice cream I do.

Sometimes sugar and sanity are synonyms.

4. We are still not cooking in culinary. And I found out that there are two culinary classes and I'm not in Jackson's. Cue the tragic music. (Hi Jackson! You found us! Yes, Mark Bittman rocks and I did know that you were married. When are you coming back to school? Can you adopt my culinary class?)

5. Today in West Wing Danny still wasn't back and they killed my favorite secret service guy. Keep the tragic music rolling, fellas.

6. You can thank Teenager Number One for the beautiful Flickr highlight. She is currently drowning in AP classes (including calculus), so I'm not sure when (if?) we'll be hearing from her. Because calculus is a time, energy and happiness eating monster that only engineers ever use. We can send it to a desert island too.

7. People keep bringing me sugar. I've had three cookies today. And ice cream. And doughnut holes. I'm not complaining, I just don't know what's going on. Either heaven is being particularly attentive or someone is trying to ensure that I won't be running any marathons soon. If you're reading this, person-who-is-trying-to-prevent-me-from-running-marathons, you don't have anything to worry about. But keep the cookies coming.

Alright, my list is complete. I'll get on with my post.

I am now officially signed up for Creative Writing and International(cultural?) Peace Building. My professors did their best to scare me away with multiple textbooks, foreboding syllabuses that start out with quotes from MK Ghandi ("We must be the change we wish to see in the world") and big words I don't know, but I am nothing if not persistent. I am going to soldier through these classes, darn it, even if I have to get eight hours of sleep a night instead of nine.

Actually, everyone was very nice. My professors signed me in with good grace and did not announce to the class that I am still in high school. In fact, Brother Ford was extremely slick about it and (very deliberately) did not look at me when he mentioned my mom. Last week he offered to give me a fake last name too, just so that no one would know who's daughter I was. At the time I just stuttered no, but I went to bed wishing I told him to put me on the roll as "Bond, Marissa Bond," though it doesn't have quite the ring to it that James does.

I am extremely excited about both my classes, though slightly nervous about IPB (peace building) in which Brother Ford took rather too much delight in explaining how he was going to force us out of our comfort zones and 40% of my grade depends on one group project (in... out... in....... out).

My Creative Writing class messes with my breathing too, but in a different way. A class all about creative writing? I can go? Really? Is it Christmas? I've been doing creative writing on my own since fourth grade. I've written poems, essasys, short stories, one full-length story. I've spent hours on the computer or in a notebook and I obsess over nice pens. Please let me write! Please don't completely crush my self-respect. I might be practiced in being humiliated, but it isn't something I excel at. Please...

OK. Whining done. Basically I'm excited about college. No, wait! I have one more complaint. And a teenage girl moment: Why are there no cute guys in my classes? I know, your respect for me has fallen flat on it's face but, really, I'm a hormonally healthy teenage girl, and I would appreciate one or two cute guys. There are plenty up on campus, couldn't just one of them have signed up for creative writing?

No? OK, then. Never mind. I'm going to go eat my cookies now.

Over.

And You Thought Jiminy Cricket Was Making It Up

(Marissa)

A while back we were all lining up in heaven, getting our paperwork straightened out.

"No, I'm being born on the fourteenth. No, the fourteenth. Not in Bolivia! The United States! I'm supposed to live in the United States!" I picture the scene looking a bit like my first day of tenth grade.

Anyway, at some point we bounded over clouds up to a desk with several baskets on it labeled things like, "knowledge," "beauty," and "car fixing abilities (only for those living from the late 1800s up)." Behind the desk was a council of stars.

They said, "We will grant you certain gifts for your time on earth. What is your wish?"

Mei got there early, stepped right up and said, "Give me all the faith you've got." The stars liked her so much, they threw a nice handful of intelligence, kindness, curiosity and a bunch of other stuff into the bargain.

My dad stepped up and surveyed the table, looking over each one. "Hmmm..." he said. "Hmmmm..." He stood there for a while, but finally he picked out analytical thinking, courage, gratitude and mad juggling skills, among others.

My mom chose wisdom, humility, and empathy in great measures and added that to the skills she already gained in pre-earth life.

I'm not sure what I got, but I'll tell you what wasn't in my shopping basket when I walked away: Math skills.

Numbers just don't stick in my head. I quote all of Pride and Prejudice, The Importance of Being Earnest and all three Lord of the Rings, but sine? Cosine? Um... are there x's involved? No? Oh.

Graphs?

Probability?

Third grade addition?

Please! No! Don't make me suffer this way. I'm really a pretty good person. I do my chores. And yes, I'm putting off writing an essay right now. And practicing the piano. And applying for college. And memorizing what cosine and sine are. But I'm fairly responsible. And I made my little sister a tart for her birthday. Surely this counts for something.

....


I can read Shakespeare, the scriptures and Chinese. I really feel like this should be enough.

Over.

Bury Me Next to the Daisies

(Marissa)

I've been dreading this week since May when I signed up to take the ACT on September 4th. The soft footsteps of doom have been heard down my corridor all week until, suddenly, when  I got on to write this post, they stopped. It is in fact next Saturday that I'm signed up to take the ACT. While I am grateful for this extension, it does rather throw a kink into my funeral plans.

I was expecting to die sometime between eight and twelve this Saturday morning.

Now I'm expecting to die sometime between eight and twelve next Saturday morning.

Someone call the church and reschedule, will you?

My funeral service will be held the following Monday at seven o'clock. Please bring flowers and don't wear black.

(lace and likes photo credit) 

Bury me next to the daisies.

(More than usually) Over.

Sunrise... Sunset...

(Marissa)

It's been a long time since I wrote. It's been a long week.

Full of heartbreak and happiness.

Triumph and tragedy.

Conflict and compromise.

You know, pretty much like any other week. Existentialism is depressing and makes my mind hurt, and Flickr likes Katie better than me, but these are things I'm trying to learn to live with. At the moment, they are unimportant.

Andrea is starting college tomorrow.

I think that I'm freaking out way more than she is. I met her a week ago, I swear! It hasn't been that long! It hasn't been years!

My childhood is flashing before my eyes.

Last Sunday we were horsies. Evil men wanted to lock us up in dark, scary cages, when all we wanted out of life was to be able to run freely on the prairy hills and comb our long, beautiful "tickle-me-pink" manes.

That's me.

Monday Andrea was arguing with Kelsey about who got to be the youngest when we played House. And they finally decided that they would be twins, that was fair, but then came the all important question: Which twin was born first?

Tuesday we had a water fight with that-boy-across-the-street-who's-name-no-one-can-remember and his cousin, who's name was Alonzo (maybe), but Andrea called him Lasagna, either because she couldn't pronounce his name or because she liked teasing him. And Mei hit one of them across the back side with an umbrella, which was peculiarly violent for her, but which we felt meant a definitive victory for us.

Wednesday we played mermaids in her pool. Well, Kevin and I were mer-people. Andrea was a dolphin.

Thursday morning was middle school. Around twelve high school made it's appearance.

Friday she graduated and gave her valedictorian speech with the Dr. Sues quote. Katie and I missed it because we were so sure that graduation would last four hours (like it had for the last thirty years) that we walked in an hour late, armed with note passing materials, just in time for the alma mater, closing remarks, and lei giving.

Saturday Katie, Andrea, and I threw a going away party, without once acknowledging it was such. I signed her yearbook and looked over the clothes that she wasn't taking with her in the amazing tent we'd made.

(This picture doesn't even come close to showing how fantastic this tent was. We strung the sheets from the ceiling fan, which made my mom a little nervous because it was tipping significantly to the left. "I hope it doesn't kill you in your sleep," she said. Optimism, Mom. We covered the floor with pillows and quilts and blocked out the night with cloth and clothes pins, just like we used to when we were six. It was genius. Almost cream puff level.)

Yesterday we made crepes together and played Apples to Apples and laughed and told stories about that kid in Utah who smuggled a penguin out of the zoo in his backpack and who's parents found out when he was playing with it in the bath. We turned off the lights at two.

And tomorrow Andrea is going to college.

Can someone get me a wheelchair please?

I feel old.

Over.

(A Very Short Post Concerning) Doubting Peter

(Marissa)

You know that story in the scriptures when Jesus walks on water? His disciples on the ship see him and all of them are scared. Who is that guy? He can't be human. It is a spirit! It's a ghost! Quick! Hide behind the mast!

Jesus calms them down, "Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid."

Then Peter volunteers to come out onto the water,  he believes that if God tells him to he will be able to walk on the waves. "Come," Jesus bids him. And Peter goes. I imagine the water cupped his feet, that it felt soft, that his steps were tentative, like walking on ice or glass. Slowly his steps strengthen. But it gets windy, the waves' crests bite into his feet and Peter is afraid. He starts sinking.

Jesus immediately reaches and pulls him up. Jesus says, "O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?"

It's a good thing I wasn't Peter. I would have said, "I'm the only one who came out here!"

I like that, though. "Wherefore didst thou doubt?"

Over.

I Don't Want To Grow Up

(Marissa)

I've been sick for four days now. I'd tell you about it, but I love you too much for that. Hey, guess how many West Wing episodes I watched this weekend?

Never mind. You don't want to know. It'd be disturbing. And your opinion of me would drop off a cliff.

You'll have to be patient, you guys. I'm still learning how to blog. I don't want to give you a laundry list of my week. I did this and this and this. I brushed my teeth and then I washed my face and... I was brainwashed out of that by a english teacher, Mrs. Jackson.

(Thanks, Jackson. You're baby is really cute, by the way. I can't wait for you to be my culinary teacher. Right now we're doing worksheets in there. My teacher says we'll be doing worksheets until second quarter. When you get there, will we keep doing those worksheets?)

I hope you stick around while I figure all of this out, but I won't be offended if you don't. Mostly because I won't know. My grandma and my mom (Hi Grandma! Hi Mom!) are the only ones I know are reading this, and I'm pretty sure they'd both keep it up even if I gave you a detailed explanation of flossing.

In other news I had an emotional break down Thursday. I cried and then I went to bed and all of my tears and other bodily fluids that had made their appearance glibly slid down to my throat and chest, rendering me incapable of breathing, singing, speaking or thinking the next morning. This substantially cut down my list of usual activities. I was paralyzed emotionally, physically and intellectually all weekend. Thus the West Wing marathon.

When I can't think about the things that normally occupy my brain like piano scales, the SAT/ACT, essays and quizzes (everyone just take a minute and admire the word "quizzes." Doesn't it look cool? Hiss it under your breath. Doesn't it sound amazing?) my brain finds itself in a yellow wood, forced to take the road less traveled by. I think about what Great Balls of Fire is actually talking about, whether or not there are mermaids on Neptune (they have seas), and why my emotions occasionally make my body deteriorate into a puddle of goo. The answer (to the last question) is Peter Pan. I completely blame Peter Pan.

I have always had a thing for Peter Pan. Always. Even back when this was Peter Pan.

And then this was Peter Pan.

Then I was a believer.

There are a couple of reasons that I find Peter Pan beyond amazing. The first is he can fly. I've had dreams where I can fly. I swim through the sky. I soar across a lake, a perfect, placid lake the reflects the night sky like a mirror and I'm caught between stars. My fingers can touch them. They feel soft and cold. My fingers ripple them. Suffice it to say, if Peter came and asked me if I wanted to fly, I would have no trouble coming up with happy thoughts.

The second reason is that he is cocky. On TV, at least, cockiness is incredibly endearing to me. I think this is a really bad sign for my future relationships, but I have more pressing concerns than my (lack of a) love life right now, so this doesn't bother me a whole lot.

The third reason, and the one that I actually want to talk about today, is that Peter Pan doesn't grow up. Ever. He is forever a happy little boy who can fly around with fairies and sword fight with pirates. He never has to confront hormones--

--well, not often anyway. He never freaks out about grades or scholarships. He knows everything he needs to know. He is content. He has nothing to worry about, except the pirates that want to kill him,

and they're easily handled.

Peter Pan doesn't grow up. I don't want to grow up. I am not sure, but I think that was the core of my emotional break down this week. I am so tired of worrying about things. And it exhausts me to think of worrying for the rest of my life. I don't want to go away to school and have to remember to cook my own food and do my own laundry. I don't want to have to deal with homesickness or bills. I never want to have to think about money. And taxes? What are taxes? I have taken fairly advanced math and no one has ever taught me how to do taxes. Or budgeting. Does that mean I can't go blow it on books and Starbucks and hot chocolate? Why?

I want to go to Never Land and fight pirates and dance with fairies and eat those clouds that look like cotton candy. And Peter Pan tells me that I can.

Peter Pan is a liar. But I love him anyway.

It's the smile.

Over.