So. I live in Montreat now. I’m kinda glad. It was really, truly, definitely

I sleep there. Just not with that gay-bo girly quilt.

 important that I lived in Asheville with my brother for a year. It provided the solitude and silence necessary to really get my head back on straight.

I know that if I had tried to live in the dorms, or live near campus with friends, there may have been a repeat of the semester-that-must-not-be-named. No. Not happening.
But I love my new house. Sure, there’s alot of crap in it (how many freakin’ cassette tapes about cardiovascular health does one person need?), and we’re still battling with a previously-contracted roommate, but aha! Chelsea and her FAR-too-slick manipulative powers to the rescue! It’s rather unfortunate for my immortal soul that I am SO darned good at getting what I want from people. It’s a very simple concept, and I will share it with you, adoring public. You must make them think one or any combination of three things:

1. it was their idea all along

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2. they are doing something wonderously righteous/selfless in agreeing to your request

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3. you, unlike everyone else involved, are secretly on their side and just want to get this over with and politely defeat those “other people” who are working against them.

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Yes, I know. It sounds bitchy. But it’s simple diplomatic tactics that people have been utilizing for thousands of years, and I’m just admitting (against Sun Tzu’s advice) that I do it. I’ve learned that pretty much NO ONE responds to getting the smack-down laid on them (lolz). Srsly. This chick and her parents were simply getting grouchier and grouchier and more and more recalcitrant as we continued to ask that if she wanted to back out of the school-year lease that she signed, all we wanted was her portion of the first month’s rent until we organized her replacement. Then we could take her off the lease and she could go wherever the hell she wanted.

Whit was pushing (as well as dear little Whit can push), and instead of doing the right thing by us, these people just kept pushing back, and it was starting to make me mad—and it takes alot for me to really get mad. I like to say “I get distressed occasionally, and I get annoyed/uppity occasionally, but I’ve only been mad two or three times in my life.” Mad is a feeling reserved only for people who mess with my loved ones. Long stories there. ANYWAY off topic.

So I just today emailed this chick. OOHHHH and I laid it on so sneaky-like. I threw every angle I had at her–the “see, isn’t getting taken off the lease  what you wanted all along?” angle, the “it would be so wonderful if you could help us out with this” angle, the “I know everything’s getting crazy and complicated and I’m not sure everyone has all the right info, but how about you and I…” angle. And no, I don’t feel like I acted deceitfully. I’m using the powers I have to get these people to do the right thing ethically and legally. You wanna break a contract? Fine, but don’t whine when there are consequences. Just be glad you got off as easy as you did. We could take their asses to court if we wanted to–but I just want it all to go away. But I’ll be damned if they walk away after making Whit out to be the bad guy, and making us shoulder their part in the money due. The funny thing is, back when the lease was signed, the girl and her parents promised us, several times, that if she got engaged and wasn’t going to live with us anymore, they would pay her rent REGARDLESS, for the whole year if necessary (which would have come to about 35 hundred dollars in total. Sheesh). Now we’re fighting to get $385.00 from them.

Whatever. The heat is off Whit’s head, that’s all I care. One day, she’ll smash her dad’s red Ferrari and want to take the heat herself, but til then, I’m the Ferris to her Cameron

Oh! Note more important than all notes ever—this is NOT a list of favorites, or even stuff I particularly enjoyed. They are simply the most influential, usually to me as a writer.

1. A Game of Universe, Eric Nylund (Well, this one IS my absolute favorite book, so…)

2. Son of the Shadows, Juliet Marillier (and second favorite…)

3. Foxmask, Juliet Marillier (and third favorite…)

4. Persuasion, Jane Austen

5. The House of Seven Gables, Nathaniel Hawthorne

6. Eragon, Christopher Paolini

7. The Carpetmakers, Andreas Eschbach, English translation

8. Singularity, William Sleator

9. Cicero, Anthony Everitt

10. A Man for All Seasons, Robert Bolt

11. Jude the Obscure, Thomas Hardy

12. Ender’s Game, Orson Scott Card

13. Give Me a Break, John Stossel

14. Redwall, Brian Jacques

15. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot (if poetry can count–if it can’t count, I’ll say The Winterking, Bernard Cornwell)

Ta.

This is me, if you know what I mean.

Yeah. I’m a dork. And I REALLY don’t love Twilight this much… but I just… can’t help it… I’m sorry…

New Moon. Bella Swoon.

New Moon. Edward Cullen (I can't think of anything clever)

Yeah, I just realized how I’m pretty excited about this movie, New Moon ya call it. I need to keep my pretty little brain looking towards the future… to a sexy Jacob Black… and Paul. Oh Paul… You… uhhh….Paul… Yeah…MMMMMM.

EDIT: Warning. It is not. It is long and to no point.

My dearest one is in Afghanistan now, for the next year, save for a few weeks in January/February. My mood started high, as it’s quite easy to be brave when you’re prepared for the first moments of hardship, but as the days start to really begin and the consciousness of the months ahead really come creeping into your heart, it’s not so nice. I know it’s only going to get worse. As days turn to weeks, and it gets more and more difficult to conjure up the exact sounds of his laughter, then I’ll steel up again and press forward. But in this middle of the beginning, I’m fading. There are so many things going on in my life–work, school, money, family, friends–and each little thing that would normally not wear on me is grating away because of the tremors of loneliness that scratch away at the pillars.

I’ve never been a lonely person. I’ve never known, until this week, known what it meant to truly long for someone. But I know it now, and like I always do, recluse that I am, I’m drawing into myself, and it’s torture to look outwards. It’s torture to attempt to explain how I feel. It’s torture to even let people know that I’m suffering. Oh, I hate it so much. After all the stuff I’ve dealt with in the past, I’ve learned (however wrongly) that despite the fact that I know that people can actually help me when I let them in, I push them away, because it’s easier just to keep everyone in the dark, and suffer through the pain on my own. If no one knows, then I can pretend it’s not there until the moment comes that it all breaks away and it isn’t there anymore. Stupid, I know, but it’s the way I cope.

Even though I have a fondness for the type of music it spawns, the whole “emo” mentality makes me laugh. I guess I don’t mean “emo” in the sense of the stylistically-defined subculture/subgenre, I mean “emo” in the sense of the postmodern idea that everyone should feel my pain because it gets more important the more people know about it. It’s just funny to me. But what really gets me is the thought processes behind the whole I’m gonna make myself hurt more and more, and I’m gonna make sure everyone knows how much I’m hurting, because the drama of sympathy is just so ossim.

Please. Names unspoken, I’ve heard lately of an acquaintance who wants to think herself bipolar, or to put it slightly less pop-culture/slangily, manic-depressive (isn’t that strange? Ha. You call someone bipolar, it means you’re just commenting on how spazzy and indecisive they are. You call someone manic-depressive, then you’re touching on something “serious”). After a few moments of listening to my friend’s description of how this girl behaves and would like others to treat her during her newfound affliction, it made my heart hurt. People want to think they’re ADD so they can get away with being hyper and unmanagable, and people want to think they’re bipolar so they can demand that everyone tolerate their every mood swing with no consequence.

Maybe I’m being harsh. But I’ve earned the damn right to say these things. Why is being thought to be bipolar so glamorous? Is it the sympathy and understanding garnered during the so-called depressive stages? I can say from countless experiences, when you’re in the middle of those depressive stages, you couldn’t care less about sympathy or understanding. Sometimes you can’t even wish for the depression to end, you hurt so bad. Sometimes you can’t even tell the difference between a kind face and a malevolent face–they all look and feel and terrify the same to you. Honestly, if no human in the world had known I was bipolar, it would have been an answer to prayer. The only thing worse than the torturous lows and the reckless and horrifying highs, was watching helplessly and guiltily and painfully as my friends and family tried to help and understand and placate and care for me.

How’d I get on this topic? Who knows, haha.

I’m still trying to learn to let people help me. But it hurts so much worse to let my pain seep into them. Ha! I’m sounding like Andrew when I first met him. He was so convinced that people shouldn’t get close to him because of how much they’d have to suffer if something happened to him in Afghanistan, or even just how much they’d suffer to be far away and worried about him. It was me and my argument that changed his mind—I told him that it would hurt people (and by people, I mean ME ME ME ME this girl here!!!) more to be deprived of knowing him than than to suffer anything that came with that privilege.

Yeahhh, he’d probably laugh if he read this post. Me and my seclusion. Well, I’ll try to reach out, alright, people? Just don’t hug me too much. Hugs make it too obvious that I need comfort, and then I might cry all over one of you, and then mascara would get alllllll over your brand new blouse, and then you’d drive home proud of yourself for being a good friend, but then still you’d feel really irked that I messed up your pretty new outfit…and then I’d be all alone again, and then you’d feel sheepish, now, wouldn’t you?

That’s what I thought. And now a photo that makes me smile, even when I can’t find my batman pants (which usually make me smile the most):

I call it, "Caitlin Can Eat a Whole Watermelon in One Bite"

Item one: a photo, sent to me by cellular telephone, on the Fourth of July.

Anyway. I thought I was being all super clever because I wrote these letters to Andrew, and mailed them all meticulous-like, so that he would get them every couple days, and I would be a special and cool and thoughtful girlfriend. But now, if he ever gets access to his mail, he’ll just have a stupid non-meticulous bundle of non-special, non-cool, non-thoughtful, non-clever letters all at once.

WHAT IF HE DOESNT READ THEM IN ORDER?? GASP. THE INHUMANITY!

Oh well. It’ll probably be the same when he’s deployed. I’ll try to be special/clever/meticulous/cool/thoughtful/etc, and he’ll end up getting nothing for a month, and then like 5 million letters on one idle Tuesday.

It happens.

So. YEAH. I totally accidentally watched the Notebook twice in one day last week, and you know how Ryan Cygnet writes Rachel Adamsapple a letter every day for a year while he’s off gallivanting in the outer rims; that is, France or whatever? I totally want to do that. It would cost me an assload of postage, but wouldn’t that be cool? I would be the coolest ever, if I could do that. Even if it were only a few lines, or even just:

I'll do it.

You don’t mind a phone call waking you up at 4 a.m.

You tell people that ask that he’s ‘only’ been gone a month.

The smallest contact (short email) from your man makes your entire week.

You cry over an email that says nothing more than hi and I miss you.

You email everyone in your address book when you receive a one liner email from your Soldier.

Those recruitment commercials on TV make you cry because you are so proud.

You get super excited just knowing that your Soldier tried to call but wasn’t able to get through.

Your first Military Ball you go to as your Soldier’s girlfriend, your name tag says “Mrs”.
(Is that a self fulfilling prophecy or what?!?)

A 30 second phone call after no calls from him for 3.5 months leaves you full of joy and happiness, and “No news is good news” becomes your motto.

The motto “no shore too distant ” becomes your life.

You feel yourself growing more and more in love with your man even while he’s so far away.

Planning letters and care packages and putting them in the mail is more exciting then going out for a night on the town with the girls.

While enjoying an evening alone together, your boyfriend shows you all the different ways he knows to kill or incapacitate a man, and then you casually continue cooking dinner as though it’s perfectly normal, and you find yourself learning phrases in foreign languages from letters, and aren’t surprised when you realize you know how to say, “Throw down your weapons and lay down on the ground!” in Arabic!

You hold off on seeing certain movies so you can see them with your Soldier when he comes home.

You want to roll your eyes when you hear someone say, “I havent seen my boyfriend in a week!”

You can go from being happy, to sad, to lonely, to angry, to proud, and back to happy in a matter of less than an hour, and you sleep with the phone right next to you, just in case.

If he’s deployed you don’t care how your hair looks nor care about wearing make-up, and the people at your work ask about your boyfriend every day to see if you’ve heard from him.

The sight of any other man in a uniform makes you miss your boyfriend MORE than it makes you drool, and you try to explain to civilians what your boyfriend does for a living, they give you a blank look because they don’t understand a third of what you just said.

You are oceans apart and you dont notice the time difference, and talk until 5 a.m. his time, and 2 a.m. your time on a school night, and phone kisses are just as good as the real ones,well almost as good

You don’t bat an eyelash when he says, “Uh, honey they changed when I’m supposed to return home, yet again for the 18th millionth time”.

*My hair is blonde and I’m adorable lately.

*Bernard and Maisey are going to UNCA in the fall. SUPER.

*I’m discovering more and more how very sneaky God is.

*I’ve fallen in love, quite against my expectations.

Latina girl #1: Oh my god, I was, like, so excited for Christmas, ’cause I thought my cousin was gonna get me that ill jacket I saw at the mall but he got me… (pauses for effect)
Latina girl #2: Oh my god, whaaaat?
Latina girl #1: The Twilight series!
Latina girl #2: Oh my god, are you serious?
Latina girl #1: Yeah! And I was like, “papi, I need a new bookshelf for my Twilight books, you know?
Latina girl #2: Yeahhhhh.
Latina girl #1: Yeah, so then he was like, “aight, I’m gonna get you that bookshelf.” It was sooo exciting.
Latina girl #2: Didn’t you already have the first book?
Latina girl #1: Yeah, I did. But I lent it to Jean Carla, and she gave it back to me last week. Oh man, I’m so protective of it, and it got bent. I was on the train, trying to bend it back, and I was like so upset, and this lady came up to me and was like, “sweetie, you alright?” and I said, “no. I won’t ever be alright.”

Thugette: Ohio was mad crazy. Hillbillies be chillin’ on the block. Ain’t no one had teeth! No one! You ever seen one of those movies where some white guy goes f*cking crazy and kills, like, ten people? Like he’s walking down the street and just stabs a cat in the neck? It was like that.

Anyway. I thought that would be an interesting and exciting first paragraph to this post–this post which may be a little sad, and a little dull in spirits.

So. Things are going. I apologize for my dullness. My dullness is so great in fact, this post probably won’t have any pictures. And in the words of Gaston, “How can you REEEAD this? There’s no pictures!”

My granddaddy died Wednesday morning. He’s been pretty bad off for the last few months, and my mum has spent 4-5 days out of every week in Charlotte at the hospital with her sisters and her mom. He kept getting pneumonia, and being an old dude (84, I think?) who had lung cancer over 20 years ago, it was pretty rough. So, he’d get worse, and then better, and I’d always ask about his spirits (because knowing my inimitable grandfather, it didn’t matter what physical state he was in, as long as he was cheery, I didn’t worry about him), and he’d be charming all the nurses one day, and the next he was in the ICU, and I kept telling myself not to “borrow grief from tomorrow,” so, I was calm and I trusted God.

I didn’t get to see him one more time. That breaks my heart. I had planned to go see him on the 20th, when I went to Charlotte to pick up my soldier from the airport.

Damn it, you guys. I wanted my grandfather at my wedding one day. I’ve wanted that since I was a little girl. I’ve never in my life made plans or even had dreams or expectations about my wedding–except for that. I used to think to myself “well, I can’t get married TOO late, cuz I know Granddaddy is kinda old and he won’t last forever, so I’d better get married before I’m 25, at the latest.” Damn it. Now I can’t have that. I wanted him there so badly.

My cousin Terry was the one who first called me on Wednesday morning, about 10ish while I was getting my hair done. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let the call go to voicemail. Terry was vague and weird and talkative as usual, and I had no idea what the crap he was talking about—I figured at first that he was intending to invite us to one of his Asheville gigs—but eventually he said something about “I’m here for you guys if you need anything,” and I looked at my hairdresser Jenn and said “Oh no, I think my grandfather died.” So I texted Bernard, and he said he didn’t know details, but that Granddaddy had passed away that morning.

Eventually, around 1pm, I got through to my mum. I was…terrified of how she would be feeling. She’s such a sensitive, sweet soul, and I anticipated her being absolutely destroyed. But… she sounded happy. Peaceful. Almost joyful. She told me that the nurse had called them around 1am, and the whole immediate family—my grandmother, my mum, Aunt Nancy, Aunt Donna, and Uncle Buddy—all his family, his wife, his children, were with him when he died. My mum said it was peaceful, and easy, and…the right time. Once he was gone, he was gone. He was with his Savior and the earthly being wasn’t him anymore. Mum said they even could make jokes on the drive home from the hospital. My aunt Donna said to my grandmother Mimi, “Alright, Mom, I think us kids should all move in with you.” and Mimi rolled her eyes to heaven and said, “Oh, Lord. Scoot over, Warren, I’m gonna have to come join you.”

Mum told me that Da was driving up to see her. She said that while her mom and her sisters and brother were a comfort to her, the one person she truly needed was her husband, the man she loved and belonged to and who belonged to her. It was almost unlike her–she started to wax eloquent for a moment, about how important Da is, how important that one strong man can be to a woman; it was almost as though she was trying to teach me or remind me of something. She paused and allowed a significant silence, and I cracked and said, “Yes, I know. I’ve already talked to Andrew today,” and I heard the smile in her voice when she said, “Good. I had hoped so.” —another pause—”I wish Andrew could have met him,” she said. “Me, too.” I agreed with a rise in my heart.

I love my granddaddy so much. You have no idea. He was the one person whose love, affection, and faith I never, ever doubted. He thought I was the greatest girl in the world, and no matter what, he approved of me. Every person I know has expressed disapproval of my decisions once or twice in my life, but Granddaddy thought I was marvelous. When I took my random, ill-advised, insane and awesome day trip to San Francisco over spring break, everyone thought I was crazy, and everyone worried a little and had to get used to the idea. But when Granddaddy heard about it, he just laughed and beamed and said “Oh, that’s terrific! What a girl.”

I can still hear that deep, charming laugh of his, with his blue eyes full of love and mischief and music. I can still remember the strength and shape and texture of his hands, and the way those hands moved as he opened a bottle or sliced a ham, or as he measured my little wrists with his thumb and middle finger when I was a little girl. I still remember his homey, golf-course, pampered-Charlotte, cocktail napkin, Reader’s Digest, leather recliner, Cadillac, gin-and-tonic smell; the softness of his full head of graying brown hair; the way his wide and welcoming and infinitely pleased smile never faded when I was around, telling him about school or work or my art or my writing.

In my ever-changing list of heroes, he was the one constant. I think of heroes mainly as the person who either I desperately want to be like, or who has influenced me in an incredible way, or who I truly want to please and prove myself to. When I was a kid/middleschooler, it was George Harrison, Scott O’Dell, and my Granddaddy. When I was in high school, the list was George Peabody, Gina Snyder, and my Granddaddy. In the first years of college, it was Dr. King, Jae Carter, and my Granddaddy. In my last year, it is Bernard, Caitlin Foreman, and my Granddaddy.

Granddaddy, you know how much I love you and admire you. Thank you for Christmas presents and birthday letters. Thank you for carving the turkey every year at Thanksgiving. Thank you for all those times tucked up next to you on your big chair. Thank you for rides in your car, and sneaky mints, and all the times I got to play with the air conditioning controls. Thank you for raising my mother so well. Thank you for still adoring and flirting with your wife, and even after six decades of marriage, still believing her to be, and making her feel like, the most beautiful woman on earth. Thank you for showing me that unparalleled example of romance and love. Thank you for your service in the Navy, and for those astounding stories that you could so rarely bear to tell us. Thank you for the way you cried at movies about World War II, because the memories were still too potent. Thank you for instilling in me a love for my country, and a fond eye for men in uniform

Thank you for the blessing you prayed over every meal, the blessing I heard without fail for 22 years, that sweet and so unbelievably and unfailingly sincere blessing I can never forget—”Thank You for the food that Thou has provided. We ask that You would bless it to the strength of our bodies, and our bodies to Thy service. Amen.”

Thank you for your love of the Lord, and your devotion to your church and family. Thank you for serving, nearly every Sunday, those doughnuts and coffee that you always claimed you got up at 2am to bake and brew.

Thank you for the name that I’ve always wanted to give my first son as a middle name—Warren.

Thank you for every day that you loved me with your truest heart.

Thank you for every day you let me love you back.

Thank you for leaving me with absolutely nothing but the best memories of my life.

I’m happy.  I’m weirdly happy. I really don’t want to ramble about stuff, as I am usually wont, because in the six months, I’ve spent at least 4 or 5 posts (which doesn’t seem as bad as I thought, now that I think about it) rambling about some pretty boy that I’ve got a fancy for. Then I go on

God disguised the angels as sexy dudes...

about how he seems really exciting, and oh I don’t know if he likes me, and oh I don’t even care if he does, and then I sorta either get disappointed and then move on, or I just move on. Then my legions of blog-readers don’t hear any more about these pretty boys, because there isn’t any more. I don’t want to be one of those girls, you know? Like, those 8th graders who have a new little crush every few months (or weeks) and get ridiculously excited and annoy their friends and family to no end. But I’m an exuberant person–so I do ramble and annoy everyone, and then everyone thinks I’m shallow and insincere; which I rather am…or I used to be… or maybe it’s just dormant… or I don’t know… point being…

Anyway. So, I’m not going to ramble. Yup. That’s for sure.

But I want everyone to just… praise God on my behalf. I’m not getting swept away, I’m not conjuring up the future, I’m not getting hyper, and most of all—I’m not holding on to that little thought that I always used to cling to when I fancied a boy–”oh well. hopefully it won’t last.”

But out of the freakin’ blue, at a point in my life when I truly absolutely, undoubtedly was happy with being single, and in full honesty, couldn’t care less if I met someone—I did.

Seriously, though. I feel strange even putting my thoughts on this blog. This feels.. too personal and important. And even I, who am so verbose and grandiose and generally keep talking at least an hour past when my listeners have lost interest and ceased to listen, don’t have the words yet.

Oh don’t worry I’ll find the words this astounded, grateful silence will last… maybe a week

Check back here for more! hahahaa…

crappy cellphone pictures! ah!

adorable high-powered camera pictures! yayy!

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[----this space will go away, if I can help it----]