A Little Wooden Puppet

What makes a fairy tale a fairy tale? A little winged lady has never whispered a story into my ear, yet I’ve heard many fairy tales. It all seems to revolve around a single setup: tragedy followed by desire and true love or other happy endings. I’ve had my tragedy. I’ve had many tragedies. Where’s my fairytale? Where’s my prince or godmother? How many people go on believing that a Disney movie storyline could be their life, go on waiting for their prince? Maybe I’m just a wooden puppet, dreaming of being real, sitting on my little shelf, watching the puppet next door become a real boy. The worst part?Wooden puppets can’t cry.


At a Glance

Almost everyone is quick to say to not judge a book by its cover, however, does that mean we aren’t judged just because we shouldn’t be? My school has a uniform policy, khakis and collared shirts. I suppose it’s hard to not look remotely professional in that attire, unless of course I’m wearing cargos and a hoodie over my polo. Other students seem more comfortable when I wear that. I blend in and go unnoticed, and sometimes, that’s how I like it. When the hoodie comes off and my shorts, or pants in this case since it’s cold, become less baggy and more fitted, a few people notice, teachers look at me for answers rather than questions. Occasionally when I answer my Girly side and wear a skirt and blouse with flats, maybe a ribbon in my hair, a lot of people look. I’m different from the crowd. When I wear a skirt, I no longer do it for solely my Girly side. Now, a skirt (not a short one, just a skirt) is a “I’m kind of down today and turning a few heads would make it a better day” kind of thing. Today, I’m wearing a blazer. I look professional. I anticipated the more laid back students would feel odd talking to me if they didn’t know me. I look like I have somewhere to be, something to do, and they don’t know how to react. I expect teachers will turn there heads today, grow more fond of me, that never hurts. I’m eager to find out. Everything I wear will result in a different reaction. Before I have a chance to do anything, to say anything, I am judged by my attire. We live in a world of hypocrites, hypocrites and fabrics that define you.

A Little Black Sharpie Heart

In fourth grade on St. Valentines Day I gave a boy I liked a Pirates of the Caribbean valentine. It was the same card I gave everyone else with the exception of one detail. The cards were primarily black and brown, and being both brave and cowardly, I drew a small heart in black sharpie in the corner of
The card, which was also conveniently black. Later he calmly approached me and told me he knew I liked him because of the heart. He didn’t sound pleased with that information so I lied. I told him my sister was drawing hearts in valentines. It was kind of a lame lie.

Four years later that boy became a good friend of mine. He is shy and really creative. He blushes at the simplest things, beet red.

Five years later that boy became one of my best friends. He’s smart. He became friendly competition. When the world beat me up he’d be there to help me up. When various relationships ended he was there to cheer me up.

Six years later that boy put his arm around me after he spent a few hours explaining the chemistry lesson I missed in school. It felt like he was drawing a small heart in sharpie on the black part of a valentine. I’m not sure if I want to see that heart yet and I hate that. It was easy to draw that heart when I had nothing to lose, but now I have a best friend dangling by thread.

Right now, I’m just hoping he doesn’t change his sharpie to a color that stands out on black. I want to figure things out first.

Taking Time to Smell the Roses

As a child, Mother’s Day and my my mom’s birthday were always frustrating. When you’re seven and buying your mom a present  the easiest things, er well cheaper things, come to mind. Chocolates, perfume, and flowers, you know, mom stuff. My mom always got flowers, or at least some variation of a plant with a homemade card. The creative gene in me opts for the homemade gifts. I mean why buy a card and envelope for a few dollars when I can make my own and say exactly what I want to say for the cost of crayons and blank paper. I like to go all out when it comes to birthdays and Christmas (oh yes, I’m thrilled this month) with cards, banners, surprises, scavenger hunts, elaborate schemes and drawn out plans. I hated more than anything buying her flowers every single year. It was so repetitive, so boring.  Until I got older it was always flowers though. She was allergic to chocolate and perfume and the one time I bought her jewelry it was never worn. I moved on to more expensive gifts now, wallets, jackets, an occasionally I still buy her a plant or two, but I have to wonder if she ever tires of the smell of flowers.