Mornings with Anna

One of my closest friends comes in the form of a middle aged, ex-chainsmoker, free spirited woman from Florida with whom I work with.

Her name is 'Anna.'

I lovingly call her 'Duh.'

Long story. I'll get to it later.

Anna is one of those rare types of people whom everyone loves. She can talk to little kids, old people and everyone in between and have their respect and admiration. She's a socialite and absolutely wonderful. I swear on my life we share the same soul. If there is a such thing as reincarnation the same person got transformed into two different bodies in consecutive generations, mine and hers.

The similarities are amazing: we both started working at nursing homes as teenagers. She has a very distant brother that she doesn't know very well, as do I with a brother in So Cal. She recently became an aunt for the first time. Her beautiful nephew is turning a year old soon. My niece was born almost four months ago. We both prefer the road over the air and so on and so forth.

Anna has no kids of her own, well other than the 3-5 of us twentysomethings at work who she works with on a regular basis. After so long she gradually claimed us as her kids the way a teacher might at school. Not that we mind of course.

She tells me regularly that she loves me. And I say it right back.

I love getting to work early and spending a few minutes chatting to her before having to start my shift. Morning shifts are always harder for me because despite the fact that I don't sleep much I don't consider myself a 'morning person.' I deal with the public. Morning person or not, I still have to talk to people.

Anna makes it a bit easier by cheering me up usually with some short, witty remark about my appearance or some crazy story from her childhood. Like my uncle's stories some of hers seem so farfetched that you almost don't believe them, but your inner child wants to.

Which is another thing about Anna . . . her ability to be so childlike. Don't confuse that with being 'childish,' because childish she's not. She has this . . . innocence about her. At first encounter you almost believe she lives in her own world. She has a tendency to romanticize things like I do, which I love because I've never met another person like that. She makes the simplest things seem like the biggest adventures. And she tells me about the places she's been and the road trips she's taken and all the while I'm mesmerized. By the end of the conversation I'm itching to go there and experience it for myself.

Anna just 'gets' me. She's the only one who ever understood why I had to wrap my mother's Christmas present three times last year (don't ask). She feeds me. How can I not love a person who feeds me? And she does it with healthy food: grapes, crackers, small amounts of cookies. She buys me my choice of drugs: Coke {soda, mind you}.

And on a bigger scale she simply takes the time to listen to me. I probably never told her as I've often as I've told another close friend of mine, but she has an elephant's memory, meaning she remembers everything I tell her. She knows about my family, where I've lived, my views on things at work and everything else.

In general she cares about me. And she doesn't have to. Sure, it makes work a LOT easier but we could have been just 'civil' towards one another like we are with other people, but she's not.




I cherish my mornings with her. She's my cup of coffee.


Random thought of the day: No more favors please!

"Quit? I'm trying to start!"

I've come to a conclusion.

I'm going to take up smoking.

And before all you anti-smokers/health nuts jump on my case hear me out first. I am not doing it because of 'peer pressure' or a case of postponed teenage angst.

I'm doing it for superficial reasons.

There, I admit it. I'm vain . . . so what.

I mean, I can SO pull off that 'sexy' image:




I can just imagine myself coming out of work with my bag thrown over on one shoulder on a cold dreary day, hair up in a messy bun and I'm tired and my feet are killing me. Then I suddenly let my long hair down, shake it a bit, pull out a box of Marlboro Menthol Lights (because I'm too much of a wimp and a weenie to handle the real shit), watch my last one wiggle out the box, and light it up all the while walking to the nearest bus stop. And everyone I walk pass watches me and thinks to themselves, "Damn, that girl doesn't seem to have a care in the world.'

Course, let's admit how it would REALLY go: First off I can't walk and drink water at the same time, let alone light a cigarette! Plus I've always had problems with lighters so I'd probably end up using matches instead. And my success rate with matches isn't all that great either. I'm always burning myself. I'm liable to spend much more money on matches than on the cigs themselves!

Second, I get sick pretty badly usually twice, sometimes three times a year. I'm talking losing my voice (and forty pounds), fever, hot flashes/chills, walking pneumonia type sick. My lungs can't handle smog, much less cigarette smoke.

I think the only thing I have going for arguing my case is how 'cool' I'd look.

I've never been 'cool.'

I'm not sure what I was in highschool. I wasn't a 'geek,' per se. I mean, I was and still am pretty smart (at least I like to think so), but I never won the science fair or joined the math club or anything that would have caused me to get a 'whirly.'

I wasn't that hippie chick either, nor a feminist,jock or teacher's pet. I was well rounded I suppose. I hung out with everyone from the football players and band members to the braniacs and students who had remedial lunch.

But I wasn't 'cool.'

So now, at twenty-five years of age I have my chance.

And mind you it took a long time for me to decide on smoking as my 'thing.'

I thought about drinking, but c'mon. I drink vodka. And every once in a while a few margaritas, frozen, with salt. I don't touch beer or Jack or Jim or any of the other Walton boys. I'm a lightweight.

I also thought about drugs, but I'm terrified of needles. I used to be an amateur cutter (I never told anyone that), but that's when I was younger and my skin was 'thick' so to speak. Nowadays it embarrasses me to see a simple scratch anywhere on my body.

And I regularly give blood, but that's it. Hell, I don't even like going to the doctor in fear that he'll tell me I have something contagious and I need a shot.

Not to mention with the rising cost of everything these days, and the local crackheads wanting to take a hit of my load (did I say that right?) I can't afford to do drugs.

Not on what they pay me at my job.

Besides, I was the only girl amongst the five kids in my family. I never learned how to share.

Now I just need to figure out how to start. I mean . . . after a particularly stressful day at work I've always said something along the lines of, "God I need a cigarette," usually followed by my friends laughing, but how do I actually get myself to DO it?

It's times like this I wish one of my friends was a kleptomaniac when we were younger. And another a pyromanic. Imagine the fun. Course with my luck the former would have stolen my smokes from me after a few days and the second would have lit him on fire and then we all would have gotten throw in juvie!

Random though of the day: My boys are going to the World Series!

This thing called 'love'

Love.

Love, how many times have I said that word and the phrase, "I love you?"

Countless times I'm sure.

How many times have I actually meant it?

To this day I'm still not sure.

My parents are, by all means, not perfect. I'm aware of this. And as parental figures they had the responsibility of raising five kids to the age of eighteen. After that it's pretty much whatever we wanted.

But that's not the path I'm trying to take. What I was getting at was how their responsibility for caring for us determined how we perceive love.

Growing up after my parents' divorce we were never really a close family and the word love was a word we never said aloud very much, especially my mom. Quite frankly I began to wonder if she really did love us. And that's not something little kids should be worried about. I knew she didn't hate us or regret having kids. We weren't abused in any kind of way by our parents nor were we deprived of the basic necessities and actually we were a bit spoiled despite the fact we grew up struggling (after the divorce).

But when it came to our parents showing us they loved us they lacked the knowledge of how to do one of the simplest things a human can do.

My father's the type that tends to try and buy us things to make us happy, therefore letting us know he loves us. I can't tell you how many dolls, toys, clothes and money I was given. In fact, of all the childhood things I was given the remaining things I've decided to keep (after donating most of my toys as I got older) are all things my father gave me: a 20 year old caterpillar with eighteen and a half legs, and most recently a very expensive teddy bear he bought me after he saw me admiring it in a store.

My mom's a different story. Like all kids we bugged her for stuff when we were younger. But as we got older and realized our situation we knew not to ask for much. So buying things wasn't her deal. In fact, I'm not sure what her deal was. I mean, we knew she loved us, even though she didn't say it much, but sometimes, usually when an important decision was involved it almost felt like we couldn't get her acceptance on anything.

She lacked the ability to encourage us to try new things, to throw us in the water and say, "Sink or swim kids, sink or swim." When we became interested in sports or the arts she never really pushed us to give it our all. And I'm well aware she was usually so tired from working long hours and supporting us, but I'd have given anything if she would have tried. And after highschool when I started my second year of college in another state or when my brother announced he was joining the Navy she didn't exactly show any enthusiasm in knowing that we were preparing for our futures. Instead, if I remember correctly, her exact words were, "I'll believe it when it happens." Whether she was in denial or because our decisions shocked our entire family I don't know.

(The relationship I had with my father pre-Wyoming was known for being notorious, as was my brother's feelings about NOT joining the military).

Mind you she didn't discourage us (she never has), but these were huge announcements, considering none of us ventured far from home for an extended period of time before.

She almost seems like she doesn't need to say anything until someone is leaving the picture, because when it came time for two of us to leave (a mere five months apart from one departure to the next) she broke down both times. It was hard on all of us, especially after we felt like we would not be missed.


At work, I've been overheard on the phone telling my younger brothers I love them. When I hang up a friend or co-worker will say something along the lines of, "Aww, how sweet for you to tell your boyfriend that."

Upon which I look at them with a bewildered look and say, "Boyfriend? I was talking to my little brother."

And they don't understand this.

And I don't understand how they cannot not say something like that to a sibling (Unless of course they hated one another, which at some point in our lives, don't we all hate our siblings?).

And this isn't the only instance. I can't speak for my older brothers because of the age gap between us older three (five years from one to the other, the oldest being ten years older than me) and they were brought up under different circumstances before me and the younger two came along, but we have a tendency to be starving for this thing called love.

Some would call it a desire to be accepted. But I don't see it that way. For you see, at work I never tried to 'fit in' or gossip along with the majority of women in order to have some sort of 'bond' with them. It was a gradual thing for me and it was mostly my humor which got people to open up and trust and like me.

But that's different. What I'm referring to in my walk down memory lane is the special relationships you have with some people, be it platonic or otherwise; the types of relationships that ultimately change a part of your life because of their significance.

I have this bad habit of hanging on to people who I know I should have left alone a long time ago. Namely because they love me. I know that; it's showed, loud and clear.

Yet the relationship I had with my ex was a mess from the start, and even as we try and salvage some sort of friendship at this point in time we both know we should give up. We'll never be 'just friends.' He'll always be 'my ex.'

A few weeks ago in a moment of what can only be described as complete and utter insanity (spontaneity) he traveled well over 500 miles, from Oklahoma, down I-45 into Texas to Houston to see me.

He decided this at 2:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning. On weekends he's not supposed to travel more than 150 miles from base (at the time he was in the military). And he had to be at work bright and early 8:00 a.m. that Monday.

We saw one another for about four hours. The trip took longer than that one way!

It's sad really, what's left of 'us,' and how we used to show one another we loved the other. With this particular person I would have done anything to have kept him, to have him love me. It's almost pathetic on my part because I was so desperate for this guy to love me and what's even sadder is he didn't exactly want me to do or change anything about myself to make him love me. He already did, as I was, simple as that.

I was just trying to keep that love. And as much as I hate to admit this a small part of me is still fighting to keep it.

I fight myself to keep a few individuals' love. Namely friends.

I am the extreme opposite of my mom. I'm everyone's cheerleader. When my friends decide to change career paths or majors in college I'm right there, pushing them.

And at the same time I'm a little like my father in that I'll give things to people to express my love because half the time I'm never sure how to say it aloud. I don't always know how to say, "Hey, I love you.' Or, 'I appreciate you.'

I'm also a touchy feely type person when it comes to people I trust. I always want a hug or to give one. I tell everyone I love them, often and yet I'm still afraid no one understands how much they mean to me.

I'm paranoid I know. Or perhaps I need them to reciprocate to make up for the lack of hearing it when I was younger.

It's funny how as you grow older your friends suddenly become your family and you depend on them likewise. I'm not sure at what age that starts but I know I spend more time with co-workers and friends than I do any single member of my family, and I live with two immediate family members.

This thing called love.

I wonder if I'll ever know what it really means.



Random thought of the day: They're closing down a landmark!