How Bout Them Bananas?

In the Style of Kelly Oxford

persephonepomegranate — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 03:28:04 +0000

An open letter to my orthodontist:
Dear Orthodontist,
Thank you very much for utterly destroying five years of very fragilely built up self esteem in under one hour. I really appreciate it.
I can’t remember how old I was when I first realized my teeth were crooked. I know it was my aunt who pointed it out (she’s always the one to point out any physical change or defect- when I got acne, when I was very little and got warts which we then spent several painful hours trying different home treatments on over the course of years, how I don’t stand straight up and walk pigeon-toed.) She commented on how crooked my teeth were, and, just like with all of her other comments, I was immediately mortified. I wanted to be perfect, like I always thought she was, and every single one of those comments, no matter how many times they came, hurt so much. Later on I was old enough to understand that she still loved me and didn’t mean to be mean, but in a lot of ways seeing her during those times was as hellish as it was heavenly for me.
Anyway, after she pointed out my teeth I couldn’t stop noticing them all the time. How crooked they were. By this point most people were starting to get braces (many of the ones with rich parents had already had them, though they all ended up wearing them again during middle school), which I was told over and over again that I needed. Friends’ parents, teachers, friends, family. Most of the time that didn’t bother me, as it was never coldhearted and by that time it had been programmed into my head as fact.
I stopped smiling in pictures. I was only in second or third grade, and from then for the next several years you cannot find a single picture where my mouth is open, grinning like a little kid should be. It’s all tight-lipped, held back smiles, no matter how much Mom begged otherwise. I started covering my mouth whenever I laughed, something that I didn’t even knock until I moved to Tennessee.
I had plenty of other problems- my glasses, frizzy hair and acne being the ones I remember most. Teeth, though, were always the thing that I obsessed about. I’ve spent hours running my tongue along their edges, wishing, hoping, praying that they would all magically straighten out. I found spots where they felt even, and imagined that’s what it would be like to have straight teeth. That’s what it would feel like for everything to be in place. To be normal. I CRIED about this and all my other flaws, for years, over and over and over again.
Over time, it got better. The last summer in New Orleans, I was scheduled to get braces. We’d finally gotten to a point where Cathy was able to take me to the dentist (Mom’s never hopped on that job; I didn’t even go until I was 9 or so) and orthodontist, where we had insurance and we could afford it. Cathy and I walked out of her ortho appointment (she got braces after college and medical school, and still wears her retainer) and I paid attention to the way she held her mouth. I mimicked the motion. My chin felt longer, looked prettier. Of course, at the time I thought better, not prettier. That was a word that I would absolutely never associate with myself. At first it was hard, I had to constantly remind myself to force my lower jaw forward and down. Over the course of the next five years it got easier and easier. Today I don’t even think about it, most of the time, though it still hurts to push forward.
Throughout middle school, all the things I hated about myself were disguised or fixed. At the beginning of 6th grade, I got contacts. At the end of seventh, I started wearing makeup. Halfway through eighth, I got an expensive straightener. I certainly never felt pretty or even normal, but it was better. At the end of eighth grade, I finally decided it was time to stop being shy. I ran for student council, went to parties, and generally shoved myself into situations where I was uncomfortable in order to get used to them. Eventually, it worked- on vacation in Destin I began playing volleyball with a group of strangers. One of them turned out to be a senior from my school, three states away. We dominated the other team. I stopped having that feeling of never belonging anywhere. Slowly, throughout that year, I started smiling. No covering my mouth. Even in pictures.
Finally, after so long, I stopped caring. I knew I’d never be ‘pretty’, I’d never be the girl that all the guys wanted to talk to or who every other girl wanted to be. But I was okay with that. After so long, I was okay with who I was. This year, I’ve even come to actually like parts of myself.
The only reason I agreed to go to the orthodontist was that I specifically told the dentist I would do Invisalign or nothing, and she said ‘Oh! We do that here. Let’s see if you’re applicable.’ and set up an appointment. As soon as I got into the chair, I was assured by his assistant that no, he did not even consider Invisalign.
Moving on. Examinations. Poking about. Saying ahhh about 300 times. Then the explanation. All about how much prettier I could be if I got a Herbst plate with braces. How my face is disproportional, but we could fix that and I would look so much better. How I’d be in braces at least for the rest of high school, but I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t do it. How the Herbst plate might not work, but there was surgery for that. You know, the surgery where they literally break your jaw and insert new segments- while your braces are on. Meaning if the plate didn’t work and I got the surgery, I’d be in them for years more. How I’d wear a retainer for the rest of my life.
But mostly, how I’d be pretty.
Isn’t it great, how you can spend years convincing yourself that you’re fine, and a complete stranger can ruin that in minutes?
So thank you, doctor whatever-your-name-is, you-never-introduced-yourself, for making me feel like I’m in middle school again. For making me feel completely inadequate and worthless about myself. You had some lovely choices of words in there.
-Rayne

Netflix

persephonepomegranate — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 19:26:34 +0000

So all three of our Netflix movies have been sealed up, sitting on the round table next to the front door waiting to be put in the mailbox and sent back for a week now.
I finally surrendered to the fact that no one else was going to do the chore and, taking into consideration that I’m the only person who even uses the front door anyway (or Netflix itself for that matter), chances were no one else even knew they were there.
So I walked out into the (what is it now? Upper 30s?) fairly frigid weather barefoot and in my worn-out miss-matched sweatpant and sweatshirt pjs and proceeded to dart to the mailbox as a.) I didn’t feel like going through the trouble of going to find/put on shoes and a coat for a 100 or less foot dash and b.) it was still cold, and I wanted that to be over. I quickly shoved the three large red envelopes into the awaiting mailbox, flipped up its tag (all while hopping from foot to foot) and scurried back indoors.
Or attempted to.
I decided to simply grab the door, push down the toggle on the handle to open it, and keep running, using my momentum to push open the door.
How this plan worked out consisted of me pushing down the toggle not nearly far enough, which ensued in me successfully face-planting into the door.

So now I’m sitting inside, drinking pomegranate green tea and washing kitchen counters with a piece of tissue shoved up my nose to absorb the blood. I definitely consider today a success. What about you?

Short Story

persephonepomegranate — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 05:22:59 +0000

I have all these crazy dreams about silly things I want to do.
And by dreams, I mean daydreams: hopes, desires.
My real dreams tend to be bittersweet; too realistic. They fade, like true memories.
These dreams slip in and out of the conscious mind, leaving little ripple effects. Later I’ll remember something, oh there was something to do, and pull gently then madly at the ripple, but will never be able to grab hold of the center- it will only expand.
The thing about these dreams, though, is that I’ll never do any of them.
One of the more common dreams lately is to make a small journal.
Something fairly tiny, durable, and easy to carry around.
I would write my thoughts as they came to me, my thoughts in my journal made by my hands, and in ten years I would read this journal.
I would think, Wow, this girl is someone. I would appreciatively nod, and conclude, She has it going on.
Whatever ‘it’ is, anyway.
If I wasn’t myself, if I was a well-dressed, smart Parisian woman and I found the real me’s journal sitting on a cafe table, all hand-made and hand-written and hand-embellished, I would pick up that little journal and find an inside cafe, or a small locally owned book store. I would sit in a well stuffed leather armchair in a hazily lit corner and begin to read. First I’d flip to a random page. There would be a narration of the day, this real me’s day. Parisian me would arch her eyebrows at the bitingly satirical and delightfully witty comments, then resume reading from the beginning.
The Parisian would order a cup of coffee. Maybe a croissant too. She’d be careful not to get any crumbs on the journal. The coffee, she wouldn’t be so gentle with. You see, coffee stains have class. Crumbs are simply unacceptable.
The Parisian would sit in that little cafe or bookshop for hours, reading. The stormy sky outside would blacken entirely, and the lights would dim to that red glow, but she would keep reading, until at 11:58 a tired bookkeeper or cafe owner would walk over, intending to ask her to leave.
Of course, this is not the kind of woman who is ever asked to leave. She will set a generous amount of francs down next to the small croissant plate and the cup of coffee, empty but for the grids, and walk out in black heeled boots before the manager can say a word. At home, she will continue reading, until approximately 4 am, at which time she will take a shower and towel dry her long blonde hair. As the sun comes up, dying the purple sky the musky grey it’s been for weeks, she will embark on a walk, hands in the pockets of her stylish black trench coat, journal tucked deep inside. She’ll walk to a publisher’s office.
The publisher will immediately appreciate the raw quality of the words inside the journal. Together, they will have it published.
Real me will be off in Sudan, or perhaps simply in University in Pamplona. She’ll never know, as her once-journal becomes a best seller.

It would all be rather romantic, wouldn’t it be?

Really, I can’t go five days straight remembering to write in my planner. A journal would never work.

A Conversation With God

persephonepomegranate — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 03:42:18 +0000

…Or something of that nature.

“He’s never coming back, is he?”

“My plans are not known.”

“But he’s not.”

*Silence*

Funny of the Day

persephonepomegranate — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 05:56:03 +0000

Rayne: *sitting in Spanish, trying to stick a pretty cardstock flower to her head*
Mrs. Smith: Okay Rayne, read us your work capabilities
Rayne: *in Spanish* uhhh responsible efficient capable and honest. I can swim but don’t like to. I can work with a computer and my hands. I want to travel, work part time and be in a good environment. *Resumes attempting to stick fake flower to forehead*
Mrs. Smith: Class, what should Rayne’s job be?
Hannah: Oh oh I know! PRESIDENT!
Rayne: *is licking the back of the flower*
Everybody: Yeah!
Rayne: Oh God.

Yeah.
The flower stuck, by the way.
I got many complements on it. Before Mrs. Restivo made me take it off… sad day.

17

persephonepomegranate — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 04:24:00 +0000

So right now there’s this boy, right?
He’s seventeen and he’s lying in a bed in Children’s Hospital in downtown Dallas.
Maybe he’s awake. More likely he’s sleeping or otherwise unconscious.
Probably on a whole lot of morphine.
See, this boy is in renal failure.
Wow, you think, if you know your stuff- that’s pretty bad. But it’s fixable, right?
Oh, yes, you’re very right. It’s risky and renal failure really is bad news.
But there’s dialysis, then kidney transplants.
Granted, it’s hard to get a kidney these days-
they’re a kind of limited commodity.
You only have two, after all. And there are only so many organ donors.
Only so many kidneys useable after death.
Then you have to match blood types, and oh, God forbid if the body rejects this new kidney
but there’s a chance. That’s a good thing, a chance.
But now, take another variable into the equation.
Now, know that this boy,
this seventeen-year-old boy lying in an emergency room bed in renal failure,
imagine he was just, that very same night, diagnosed with leukemia.
Oh.
Well then.
That changes things a great deal.
Now, see, he has leukemia. He has issues outside of, say, a car accident
or complications from the flu.
He has something else terribly wrong with his body.
A kidney can go to a person who will be cured as soon as they have that new kidney-
or it can go to a seventeen-year-old boy with leukemia.
Who’ll die without it, just like that other mysterious man, woman, boy or girl
but may also die with it.
Oh no, that kidney must not even risk being wasted!
The boy will not get one.
So…
Plan B. Dialysis and chemotherapy.
There is still a chance, you think, it’s logical.
But not so fast. Inject poisonous chemicals into the body of a boy,
a boy with renal failure?
How will he filter them out?
He won’t.
He can’t.
Oh.
So right now, there’s this boy, right?
He’s seventeen and he’s lying in a bed in Children’s Hospital in downtown Dallas.
Hanging abouve him is a tag:
a plastic, yellow tag.
It’s probably spinning, so maybe you can’t read what it says.
Take a look at his chart.
Look there, just there- see that note?
The one in the corner?
DNR.
Do Not Resuscitate.
If this boy dies, if his heart stops
if he experiences any type of cardiac arrest, becomes tachycardic-
do not save him.
Do not resuscitate.
Let him die.
He’s seventeen…
But it is his time.
Maybe he was happy all these years, healthy,
normal.
Maybe he was an athlete or a math wiz.
He probably did some things he wasn’t proud of
but some that he was proud of, too.
Maybe tonight he just happened to be in a wreck,
just happened to damage his kidneys,
just happened to be diagnosed.
Or maybe he’s been sick his whole life
and waiting for this moment, for the pain to be relieved.
Is that easier to believe?
Or is it harder?
No one to blame, either way- a freak turn of events,
an endless chain of would haves, could haves, should haves.
Or a life built up to nothing, finally peacefully
(hopefully)
coming to an end.

Perspective.

persephonepomegranate — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 04:30:40 +0000

Today, I came home grumpy after a long, stressful day in which everything went wrong and all I wanted to do was go out and scream obscinities at the sky.
Instead, I ended up talking to my mother on the telephone.
Most doctors children, you’ll notice, become slightly insensitive to pain or injury- when they hear about something like a broken arm, it’s immediatly lessened by the thought of a broken femur. A baby born with leukemia is nothing next to a 30 or 40-year-old with stage 3 pancreatic cancer.
However, certain things you can never get used to.
I sat there for a good half hour and ranted and raved about everything that had gone wrong, minutae to major grades and projects that had been twisted, and she was silent on the other end, letting me run out of steam. Then, when I was finally done, still as angry as before:
‘Today I had to tell a dying 14-year-old boy that the only way we can do anything for him, the only way we can save him, is through a transplant. He doesn’t have insurance. We can’t do anything for him.’
In three sentances, perspective is slammed back down. Proportion returned to normal.
Think about what you say, and what you mean. Put yourself in someone else’s shoes, and not just those of the person standing next to you. Reach out. Imagine, for a moment, what it would be like to be dying because you don’t have enough money to do an almost routine procedure.
Then, then you may complain about how your life is not fair. About how you do not get what you deserve. About how no one appreciates you.
Just imagine.

Inspiration

persephonepomegranate — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 02:57:22 +0000

Little Bribes Music Video
I so want to do this now.

This one is adorable too!

True Love Waits

persephonepomegranate — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 03:11:47 +0000

but my bladder doesn’t. I have to pee like a racehorse o.O

Scent

persephonepomegranate — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 18:44:30 +0000

The smell of hair pomade is the smell of winter 2008. It is the smell of something that you only think makes you happy, of bitter disappointment but stronger hope, of family and long walks, and of late nights at Cafe Rakka.
A cream Aeropostale hoodie smells of a mixture of perfume and make-up, of early freezing moments and equally cold nights, monotony and comfort. Of better, and worse, times.
Isn’t it odd, how many memories can be stored in something that isn’t even tangible?