NOTE: I took this from Susie then screwed around with it and came up with this post. It isn't exactly following the rules, but come to think of it, neither do I.


I Am


I am beef stew, Budweiser and baseball.

I’m the wrong side of the tracks with the right kind of values.

I am denim and lace, sweat and perfume. Tough as shoe leather, my father would say.

I'm a mix of Irish Catholics and Parisian pragmatists, with a pinch of Algonquin and a dash of Canuck.

I am sentimental and cerebral, hedonistic and hell-raising.

I’m hard-headed, soft-hearted, thick-skinned and even-tempered.

I’m as lazy as an old cat; I’m never bored.

I am from humanists and thinkers, pantheists and philosophers. I was encouraged and hugged but left alone to grow.

I'm a small-town, big-dreamer with a taste for champagne, a love of limos and rose gold. I’ll save for a year for a bottle of Dom Perignon.

My childhood exists in a handful of photos.

I’m that little girl in the picture with blond curls and a sprig of Lilies-of-the-Valley pinned to my hair. I’m the one at the beach with the pail of water, the sandy thighs, the skinned knees, the missing teeth.

In this one, I’m dressed like a bride but only seven years old. Yellow braids can be seen beneath the ludicrous veil. I am so uncomfortable in this garb it leaps off the old, faded photograph.

Even now I squirm.

I want to go back in time and rip off those clothes. Put me in blue jeans and a tee shirt or a thin cotton dress with cherries and checks. Unbraid my hair.

I want to hug the girl in the ugly Confirmation dress; little breast buds, bad hair-do, another religious rite that feels wrong.

I want to play with the girl who seems so confident on her roller skates holding a doll in one hand and chalk in the other.

I want to put these photos away now and create my own.

Here I am in high school. Look at all my friends. This boy here wants to take me to the dance. Look at my stylish clothing; my silky hair. We all have our arms around each other. We are all smiling. After this photo we are going to hang out at my house. Blast the stereo. Be cool.

Then I take that mental picture and rip it up, because it is not true.

There is no attic containing my favorite doll nor a picture I drew nor even a single report card. My parents did not covet things.

They came from nothing. They saved nothing.

They died too young.

Yet still, I am.