Ode to Katney: the Odd Couple

For me, friendship has always been an elusive creature. I’m not skilled at making friends, and I’m even less skilled at keeping them. I probably have several social disorders that compound my problem, but to put it most simply, I’m shy, awkward, and self-conscious. Not the best combination when it comes to social situations. 

High school was hell. The phrase “fish out of water” comes to mind, and boy, was I. Flipping and flopping and gulping for breath as I navigated a dry land that was foreign to me and impossible to grasp. Needless to say, I wasn’t popular. 

I had friends, though they could probably be described as acquaintances at best, because I could never quite let them in all the way. Anxieties constantly dictated my every move, and before I knew it, I was pushing someone away for some stupid reason or worry. It was the one thing I could count on. 

I can still count on it. 

But not too long ago, something changed. I made a friend...and have kept her for almost two years. 

As far as longevity goes, I’ve had friendships that have lasted longer, but what sets my relationship with this friend apart is its depth. She knows me, knows the flaws, the quirks. And yet, she still likes me. 

She knows my anxieties, too, can probably list them by name, and instead of judging me for them or cutting ties with me because of them, she accepts them all. Accepts me. 

I can say with certainty that only a few people have accepted me, me and everything about me. I guess it’s hard to love a neurotic, phonophobic, anxiety-filled, obsessive weirdo who loves and feels with her entire heart. But this friend, she loves me. 

We couldn’t be more different. She’s never afraid to share her opinion, never concerned by what someone may think. Our viewpoints and beliefs are as opposite as cats and dogs, and we fight over them like cats and dogs, too. But we’re still friends. 

And she’s taught me what true friendship is. She’s taught me that a missed phone call or a passionate fight are not the ends of a friendship but just the parts that make it real. And when I try to push her away, she pushes right back, unwilling to give up on me or on what makes this friendship the friendship of a lifetime, especially for a social pariah like me.

Author's Note: Whitney's the best buddy a girl could ever ask for. She's honest, insightful, and loyal. We clash on as many things as we agree on, and yet, it works. Much to Whitney's dismay, not too long ago, I even decided that we needed a "friend name" to seal our friendship forever...mwahahahaha! Our "friend name," cleverly, is Katney, and I'm pretty sure Katney will last until the end of time. Love you, friend!


This was written for the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: Exploring Friendship. 


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Telephonophobia

Back in the days before my neuroses.

Brrr-ringg! Brr-ringg!

At the shrilling of my cell phone, my hands begin to shake, palms itching madly. But this is not the typical reaction of a woman in love. My sweating and shaking is more from fear than flirtation.

I’ve been expecting this call, dreading it. I want to answer, but physically, I just can’t. I can do nothing but stare at the phone until it finally beeps, signaling my missed call.

When I log onto my computer hours later, I receive an instant message from him. Safely hidden behind my screen, I’m gutsier than I was earlier. I always am. The computer turns this shy girl into a compelling and confident woman. I wish I could hide behind it in every aspect of my life.

I tried calling earlier. His message carries a hint of his frustration, or maybe I’m just imagining it. I don’t immediately respond.

I should tell him that I’m a neurotic mess. I should tell him that my nerves have gotten the best of me. I should confide that I hate phones, that my social anxieties turn me into a sweaty, blubbering mess. I should reveal that I’ve avoided past relationships because of this anxiety.

And while I’m busy thinking of what I should tell him, my phone rings again.

My pulse quickens. He’s caught me this time, cornered me and removed avoidance from the equation.

Answer.

His instant message pops up on my computer screen as the phone continues to ring, and despite all of my fears, I gather my courage and answer.  

“Hello.”

Our first conversation is awkward. As expected, I sweat a little, but I keep talking anyway...for hours. And when he calls again the next day, I answer without hesitation, knowing that to this guy I’m compelling and confident even offline. 

Author's Note: This memoir post is in response to the Write on Edge Remembered prompt this week:

In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.

Word limit is 300.

I still have a phobia of talking on the phone, but thankfully, my now husband was able to alleviate those fears then long enough to make me fall completely in love with him. Our online relationship evolved to a telephone/long-distance relationship after that fateful phone call. We're celebrating our four-year anniversary on Thursday of this week.

Happy Anniversary to my Once and Future Geek!! I'm glad I answered the phone. :)

Daijio Bu?

via

Daihen!

Daijio bu?

Kiken Na!

Abunai!

They were yelling at me in Japanese. At least I think it was Japanese. I couldn’t swear to it, because I think I probably had a concussion and that may have skewed my perception of things a bit. They gathered around and peered down at me out of concerned eyes, talking quickly and making my already pounding head pound even more.

I was leaning against a shiny, black pick-up truck with a huge dent in the side of it. The golf cart I’d been “driving” only moments before was parked in front of me, looking no worse for wear. Surrounding it were dozens of beer cans, soft drinks, hot dogs, and bags of potato chips. I suppose they’d been scattered everywhere at the moment of impact.

Upon seeing the mess beyond the quartet of concerned Japanese golfers, my first coherent thought was that I would need to restock the cart. Ugh. Stocking the cart was always such a pain.

When stocking, I had to make a million trips from the kitchen to my vehicle; my skinny arms loaded down with twelve packs of Bud Light, MGD, and Heineken, hot dogs and condiments precariously perched atop my load. Everything was destined for its place in the Snack Hut just beyond the curve from the 10^th hole. The actual trip to the 10^th hole was always a pretty big pain itself, full of steep hills and sharp curves.

The funny thing is that I had barely begun that annoying trip when I had the accident. I had just started down a tiny hill that would take me down the path that led to The Hut. The four Japanese men were loading up their own cart with clubs and equipment.

I nodded and smiled as I passed them by and rolled down the hill. The momentum from my descent made the golf cart pick up speed, so I put my foot to what I thought was the break.

Moments later I found myself crushed between my cart and a brand new pickup truck with a brand new dent.

After taking a couple of minutes to “recover” and reassure my foreign friends, I managed to make it to the club house where I promptly quit out of the embarrassment I was pretty sure I’d die from.

For weeks after, I walked around with a black eye and hurt pride, being reminded by countless friends the difference between a brake pedal and gas pedal. Yeah, yeah. I would say. Lesson learned.

Author's Note: This was written for the Red Dress Club's RemembeRED prompt. "Write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned." Word limit: 400 words." 

A Girl on Horseback

A Girl and her Horse

Thubalup, thubalup, thubalup.

I felt slightly out of control as the horse lurched beneath my body. He was a big guy, and I don’t remember him ever moving that fast before. We’d worked with him for months trying to get him to pick up his pace a bit. For Danny, nothing was worth rushing for, unless it was some sweet feed or a Cheeto. But even then a fast walk would do. He never got in a hurry. Except today. For some reason, today was different. Today, he was going, going, gone.

Thubalup, thubalup, thubalup.

Tightening my legs around his huge barrel of a torso, I held on for dear life and said a quick prayer. I loved horses for the sake of horses not for the sake of speed. In the comfort of a round pen, I didn’t mind a canter, but I much preferred a leisurely trot. I guess that’s why Danny and I got along so well. He was lazy, and I was chicken. A match made in heaven. Except today. Today was different. Today, we were going, going, gone.

Thubalup, thubalup, thubalup.

The horses around us matched our pace perfectly. For a brief moment, we were like one huge four-headed, sixteen-legged creature barreling towards the ends of the Earth, eating up that red Georgia clay like it was the turf of Churchill Downs. My fellow riders whooped and hollered. I closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the sensation of the wind on my face, the sense of freedom that can only really be found on the back of a horse. I opened my eyes again and let myself go like I had never done before on any other day. Except today. Today was different. Today, I was going, going, gone.

Thubalup, thubalup, thubalup.

Then the rain started. It poured down in great sheets, stinging our bodies and slickening the horses’ hides. My jeans contracted, my boots filled. Without much urging, Danny picked up his pace, sensing our need to get to shelter and wait out the storm. The thundering of his massive hooves was now a hollow smacking against the quickly forming mud. We pulled ahead from the pack for only a moment, a moment that will be seared into my memory forever because it was just me and him, us and speed and nature. Going, going, gone.

That’s the last ride I can vividly remember with Danny. All of it was so perfect, so unlike me or him. The rushing through a Georgia rain, the speed and loss of control and care, the final moments of a childhood spent with horses that I hardly ever think of now. Except today. Today is different. Today, I am going, going, gone back to a place and time I will never forget. Back to the frenzied music of a girl on horseback, eating up the rain and the wind.




Write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word “rhythm.”

Maybe it’s a time that you danced to a special song. Maybe it’s a period of your life during which the days were marked by a distinct pattern. Or maybe it’s a time that you couldn’t catch your breath because life just kept coming at your randomly.

It’s up to you.

Let’s see if you can convey that rhythm using your writing, and not the word itself. Word limit is 600. Come back here Tuesday and link up!

Fee Fi Fo Fum

The cowboy boots were at least three sizes too big. The Western-style blouse was not quite Western-style enough. The denim skirt was ill-fitting and spun around my eight-year old waist like a hoola-hoop. It was Cowboy Day at Monroe Academy, and I had insisted on dressing up, despite my severe lack of appropriate clothing.

About mid-morning, I found myself in the girls’ bathroom, painfully awkward in my too-big shoes and dumb-looking shirt. I had locked myself in one of the pale yellow stalls. My friend Ashley Gail stood outside the door, calmly trying to reason with me.

“I look dumb!” I managed to choke out between some pretty pitiful sobs.

Ashley Gail, ever the consummate professional even at eight, let out a small sigh and clucked her tongue. “You don’t look dumb. You look beautiful.”

But I knew I looked pretty dumb. I was already the tallest girl in my class, and the too-big boots made me a couple of inches taller still. I felt like a giant among my classmates. As I stomped around the halls before class, I had the nearly undeniable urge to utter, “Fee Fi Fo Fum.”

My petite friend couldn’t possibly understand my embarrassment, the sheer torture of it all. She barely came up to my shoulder and was super girly and nearly elfin in appearance. Her Cowboy Day garb consisted of perfectly-sized boots, a cute little vest, and a bolo tie. She was the epitome of Cowboy Day. I was What-Not-To-Wear, the cautionary tale of a cowgirl gone sour.

Her calm voice called to me from my seat on the toilet. The stiff skirt kept me from sitting properly, so my legs were kicked out in front of me , my toes sticking out from under the stall door. She crouched down next to the stall door and patted my boot-clad foot. “Come on, Katie. Come out, and we’ll see if we can fix it up a little better.”

There wasn’t much use in arguing with Ashley Gail. She was going to be a District Attorney. She practiced cross-examining me all the time. She would win this case like she won all the others. I surrendered easily, reaching forward and unlocking the stall door so she could see me in all of my tortured glory. “There you are!” She said sweetly. “Now come on over here, and let’s stand in front of the mirror.”

Stand in front of the mirror? This was just what I wanted to do, be made to stare into the eyes of my Cowboy Day shame. I straightened up from my seat on the toilet and stood up. The bathroom stall suddenly felt ten times too small.

Fee.

I crossed over to the mirrors with Ashley Gail. She put her tiny arm around my waist with its pinwheel skirt. I had to duck my head to be able to see our reflections in the mirror.

Fi.

After studying us for a moment, she turned towards me, began tugging at my blouse, adjusting my skirt.

Fo.

She stopped fiddling and stood back, as if to judge her handy work. I imagined her taking two Mother-May-I giant steps backward to be able to take in my entire form. “Hmm…” She clucked again, a mother hen trying to decide how to fix her enormously awkward chick. At a risk of mixing metaphors, I was her ugly duckling.

Fum. 

                                    

“I’ve got just the thing!” Her pixie face brightened as she grabbed her denim and tasseled purse from the bathroom floor. Yes, Ashley Gail, the perfect example of a perfect Cowboy Day cowgirl, even had a matching Cowboy Day purse.

Triumphantly, she pulled out a red bandana and waved it like a victory flag. She tied the darn thing around my neck and claimed it “fixed” me.

The rest of the day I stomped around Monroe Academy in my too-big boots, ugly blouse, and ill-fitting denim skirt. But it was okay, because Ashley Gail’s red bandana fixed everything. 

This week's prompt asked us to remember an "embarrassing moment." I had plenty, but this Cowboy Day fail stands out. Keep in mind no one forced me to dress up. Oh, no...I brought the pain and humiliation on my own self. I went 63 words over the limit. I couldn't stop the therapeutic healing right in the middle of everything.

Loneliness and The Golden Girls

I refused to go to bed. Twelve years old with a stubborn head on my shoulders, I absolutely refused to go to bed. I imagine my cousin was exasperated with me, but I don’t remember that. I don’t remember her arguing or being annoyed. I just remember that she went on to bed herself and that Chris had finally fallen asleep as well and that I was left utterly alone.

Lonely can sneak up on you fast when you’re twelve. Fast and mean, so that you’re surprised and overwhelmed when you find yourself curled up on a couch with no one but lonely and The Golden Girls to keep you company.

I had sat up all night twice before. After my seizure when I was eight, they ran all kinds of neurological tests on me, and two of the tests required me to stay up all night. At the time, I had been excited at the prospect of staying up. I had thought, Finally! I get to see what the grown-ups do after I go to bed. Turns out, the grown-ups didn’t do much of anything but sit there and talk, and after a certain point in the night, even television got boring. I didn’t fare too well those two nights, and my parents fought with me all night to keep me awake.

But tonight was different; I was older, more mature, and falling asleep just wasn’t an option. Falling asleep meant that reality might come a-knockin’ and whatever nightmares awaited me in sleep were nothing compared to the nightmare I would face upon waking. So I just wouldn’t sleep. Simple solution to a complex problem.   

I was a child, yes, but I was a child on the cusp of adolescence, and even my naïve twelve-year old heart knew what lay in wait that night. The adults, my parents and aunts and uncles, had sent all of us kids home to help shelter us, to somehow help us avoid that initial pain, but we still knew. Pawpaw was dying. He’d fought as long and as hard as he could against the ravenous monster eating away at his body, but the fight was all gone out of him now. The kids, we’d said our goodbyes, leaving the adults to stand vigil and wait for the inevitable.

I didn’t want to sleep, because I knew when I woke up Pawpaw would be gone, and I didn’t want to wake up to a world without Pawpaw.

So, I stayed up as long as I possibly could, watching The Golden Girls and thinking of Pawpaw smiling his gap-toothed smile, telling his Pawpaw tales, loving us “chilluns” with all his heart and soul. Loneliness kept me company that night with a laugh-track as our background music; it’s a memory I never want to remember but one that I can never quite forget. 

This memory was written in response to the following prompt: TV is something that people either watch a lot of or have definite feelings about. This week, we want you to think about tv show from your past. Maybe you watched it, maybe you didn't and it was just something that everyone else talked about.

What feelings does the show evoke? What memories does it trigger?

Remembe(RED): What'll Ya Have?

“What’ll ya have? What’ll ya have?”

I stared blankly at the woman. Annoyance was flickering in her eyes, but there was little I could do about it but stare. I could see her lips moving, but she might as well have been speaking another language. I just didn’t understand. My friend Amanda crowded up behind me in line. “Katie,” she said, exasperation and embarrassment ringing in her voice.

I was maybe ten years old. First year at a new school, first field trip at a new school. First trip to Atlanta landmark: The Varsity. The first of what would be many. The sights, sounds, and smells of this famous hot dog joint are old hat to me now, as much a part of who I am and my history as my love for writing.

But this was my first trip ever, and I’ll admit that I was terrified.

To understand a little of what I was going through, you need to first understand The Varsity. Originally opened in 1928 smack dab in the middle of downtown Atlanta, The Varsity is a drive-in of epic proportions. The restaurant itself can accommodate over 800 customers, and on a weekday, right about at lunch time, you can believe that 800 people are crawling inside. Buses full of field-trip kids, executives on their lunch breaks, Atlanta tourists: they’re all packed inside, waiting for their chance to snatch up a chili cheese dog, onion rings, and a Frosted Orange.

And I stood amongst them, overwhelmed and unsure of what to do. The lady behind the counter made a snarling sound. “What’ll ya have, kid?”

Thankfully, Amanda assessed the situation and my blank expression and took charge. “She wants an order of onion rings and a chocolate shake, and I’ll take a hot dog and fries.” The lady took our money, passed us our red trays, and then we turned around to face the lines and lines of people behind us.

I can vividly remember trying to navigate through all of those people, balancing the red tray and looking desperately for a free table to sit at. We ended up sitting in a dining room with school desks set up as tables. At ten, it struck me as incredibly funny to see grown men and women crammed into these desks, eating their greasy lunches. As I said, this was the first of many trips to The Varsity, and I eventually learned the language and attitude of the restaurant.

Field trips at my school, which was only 45 minutes from Atlanta, were typically made to Atlanta: the High Museum of Art, Six Flags, The Shakespeare Tavern, The Fabulous Fox Theatre, The World of Coke…all trips made with pit stops at The Varsity.

The ride to Atlanta was usually my least favorite part of these trips. When we would first load up on the bus, that unmistakable smell of hot rubber seats coupled with old puke and forgotten sack lunches would nearly overwhelm me. I’d spend the rest of the day trying to ignore that smell and failing miserably. Then there was the whole matter of my tendency of getting car sick, which was only amplified on a hot, smelly school bus. I don’t think I ever went on a field trip when I didn’t come home miserably sick.

And yet, I still look back fondly on those trips to Atlanta and The Varsity. I even smile when I remember that first trip, when I stood wide-eyed and scared to death in the middle of hundreds of hungry Atlantans, wondering what the heck I was supposed to do next, all because someone asked me “What’ll ya have?”


The above post was a response to the following Red Dress Club writing prompt: 


Write a memoir post about a memorable school trip. Word limit is 600.

Remembe(RED): Long Distance

A That '70s Show marathon was on. I was eight or nine episodes in, and Kelso was doing something stupid again. Because Ashton Kutcher is so dang cute, I didn't much care that his character on the show was one dimensional, but tonight I couldn't appreciate Kelso as much as usual. I was just a little distracted.

I was laying on my belly, stretched out on my new bed in my brand-spanking new apartment. It was midnight. Midnight on my very first night out of my parents house and on my own. Midnight on my very first night in my  apartment. Midnight on my very first night meeting the man who would become my husband.

We had met online three months earlier. He lived in California, and I was in Georgia. The distance between us was of little matter. In the three months since we'd started talking, we'd decided we were in love and made plans to move in together. This night was the result of all those plans. Long distance relationships everywhere stood up to salute us.

As I laid on my bed half-watching Ashton Kutcher and half-scared out of my mind, Jeremy was driving toward me. Only an hour or so away. Fate bringing him closer and closer to my doorstep...what was now our doorstep. This would be our first meeting, our first time laying eyes on each other.

My parents didn't know Jeremy had made it so close to Georgia. When they left the apartment earlier that night, they left with the small comfort of knowing that he wouldn't arrive until the next day. Like any parents would be, they were scared for me, nervous and thinking I'm sure that I had definitely lost my mind. I think they imagined being there when Jeremy arrived at the apartment...just in case, they would be there to defend me. After all, he could have been a serial killer or something. My Mama had said on more than one occasion, "You never know what kind of crazies you might meet on the internet."

And she was right. You never do know who's sitting on the other side of the computer screen. Except I did know. I knew that Jeremy was for me...as contrived and tired as it might sound, he was my soul mate. He is my soul mate.

My soul mate called in the middle of the eleventh episode of That '70s Show. When the phone rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I sat up on the bed and tugged at my blue and white sweater. I smoothed my crazy hair, grabbed up my ringing cell phone, and calmly said, "Hello."

Jeremy, on the other end of the line. This time only a few miles away as opposed to thousands. As ridiculous as it may be, I could have sworn his voice sounded closer. "Hey. I'm at the Bremen exit."

The next few moments were a blur. I somehow managed to gather myself and my crazy emotions and drive The Black Bullet, my super cool black Volkswagen Bug, to the Bremen exit, meeting Jeremy, a virtual stranger who had driven across the country for me--for me--at a nearly abandoned gas station. By now, it was 1:00am.

I pulled up in the parking lot, eyes searching wildly for a sign of the man I would marry. I saw his silver car parked under the sickly florescent lights of the gas station. By now, my heart was beating so fast that I thought it might stop altogether. But it didn't.

He wasn't in the car. I let out a sigh and allowed myself a moment to calm down. Amazingly, I managed to put The Black Bullet in park.

It only took a minute. A minute to change my life forever. He came out of the gas station, and I saw him.

It was the first time I laid eyes on the man I would marry after he drove across the country to be with me. It was the first time and the last time I'd ever fallen in love.