Feta Cheese Made You Like Me

I received a surprise visit at the Box Office today. This person, I am in love with. Her name is Jane, she is my mother. Apparently contract negotiations for the state are going on and this brought her to Madison; to me. She handed me a raspberry muffin through the small rectangular opening in the glass, along with some opinions through the circular one. Really though, the window is not made of glass at all. The window is more of a Plexiglass, glass is just easier on the eyes (while reading). She hates my new haircut, which only inspired me to cut it shorter tonight. I adore her, she makes me smile and presumably spiteful.

I have been employed by the University Theatre since October; not once since then has any of my managerial staff shown much interest in getting to know who I am. Not until today. I am not sure if he got to know me because I overheard him tell my manager I was "cute," or because he was bored. More than likely, he was tired of staring at beige and high on paint fumes. The Director of Theatre just moved in the end of last week. Since then he has repainted his new office, removed every filing cabinet in sight, rearranged the carpeting and given me coffee. The last part won me over instantly. He also met my mother. In order to truly understand who I am, you need to know Jane. She might even tell you this.

And so, he sat with me today for what could have been anywhere between twenty minutes and an hour and just talked. He ate a homemade salad as I fumbled with the corner pages of my book. We talked about my years of ballet, Afghan restaurants, New York, having children, timeless literature, Greek heritage, street fashion and of course, theatre. I was almost sad when he had to leave, but not exactly. I was sorry that a man like him never had any children. Hopefully one day, someone feels that way about me. I felt upset for about a minute and then continued to read.

I lied. I probably will have children someday and they will be the ones feeling sorry for me. I like babies too goddamned much not to.

Alison.

Making Change

A tiny white spider is trapped in the far right penny slot of the cash drawer at work. Maybe he's trapped, but maybe he just lives there. I doubt this slot is so much a home as a prison. I feel this way because at the end of everyday I move him from one drawer to another, removing him from his former abode and into one he is forced to become acquainted with, only to move again in the morning. Which in actuality is not at all miserable, but I can not help but feel slightly depressed everyday I look down at him.

I want to help him out, in the literal sense, but I also want him to figure this out on his own. I know he is clever enough but just needs a little encouragement. Maybe tomorrow, if he's still there (which is more than probable), I will create a makeshift bridge for him out of a ticket stub and see if he catches on.

Yeah, that's what I'll do.

It's also very possible this "he" is a "she," but I do not know how to accurately tell the sex of a spider, especially one so tiny.

Alison

Walking Matilda

I want to say so many things that should be left unsaid and cry so many tears that should remain in their respectable ducts. I want to ask questions. I want to scream at an unresponsive audience and beg them for answers that will remain hidden in fists, clenched tight only for their discretion.

I should be steadfast and persistent with my actions, and myself but never before in my life have I doubted myself as much as I am right now. This doubt is pressed tight against the fake smiles I force out everyday. My eyes have never been so honest and telling than right now. If you looked deep enough and long enough, you could feel the sadness piercing into your own.

I want to move backwards to a few weeks ago. Each morning I went for a walk around an unfamiliar block and the cobwebs of the early spiders would dance against my cheeks. I walked past houses with porches filled with propaganda protesting politics. I made up stories about the people who lived inside, but never judgments. Every now and then I would find unacknowledged beauty.

One day I found it in the form of a small child sitting on the trunk of an old car. She was alone, no guardians within sight. She had a dark complexion with long, wavy black hair and could not have been older than five. I did not see her at first, but she had been watching me for a block. At first when I noticed her, I was startled; her silence was her nature. "Hi," I said. "Hi," she replied. "I like your dress," I said. She looked down and then back at me, "Thank you." I started to walk away, turned back and we exchanged smiles. I saw her again at least seven times within the next week and a half. I do not know if in our passing she remembered me or not, but she always managed to make me smile, a genuine smile.

Sunday afternoons I met the faces behind the silent protests. I saw young families sharing breakfast on their porches, old couples carefully watering their unkempt flower and bush arrangements, fathers teaching their children to garden, an elderly woman holding the hand of another as they went for a stroll on the sidewalk parallel to mine. This was perfect. Mondays brought empty porches, growing weeds, elephant shaped watering cans abandoned in hostas and my shadow lining the sidewalks. This was even better. The remnants of the faces left me to make my own assumptions of their whereabouts and convictions.

I would share these moments with myself and then take extended naps, only waking up to feel it all again hours later.

Alison.

This Is More Than Food Poisoning

I only ever burn my tongue on two things: Coffee and Spaghettios. This consistency exposes specific characteristics about my personality by relaying my impatience and my incessant fear of botulism. My tendency to deny the latter refutes my said impatience.

Do you follow? Say no, because the next is unrelated.

My mom is engaged, my dad has a tumor, my best friends are leaving, my friends are pretending and I am flirting with insanity on a daily basis. I need truth in my life and the former statements are laced with lies. I put honesty on a pedestal, nothing else. Not people, not material objects, not interests. I do not care who you are, what you own or what you do, but at least be true. Be a real person. Like what you like and never be ashamed of that because the second you are, you start lying to yourself.

I guess what I am trying to say is, I really like Spaghettios, especially and only the kind with the miniature meatballs.

So back the fuck off.