Confession: I have a vamp-crush

I have grown up in the second millennium, so yes, I am aware of the vampire craze. I have not read Twilight, mostly because I grew up with Harry Potter and it would be a capital sin to convert to a vampire series.
Actually it is quite funny to listen to a group of Harry Potter fans discuss the Twilight series.
It goes something like this:
"Do I read Twilight? Fuck no."
"Really? I thought since you liked Harry Potter, you might like Twilight too,"
"Are you fucking crazy? I have taste. I don't read something about sparkling vampires, that's gay. Plus, do you know what J.K Rowling has done for literacy in the world? Are you even aware of how prolific her writing is? No you don't because you have mentioned Twilight in my presence."
"So I guess you haven't seen the movies."
"Sure I did, but only to make fun of them."

So, as a die hard Harry Potter fan, I have not crossed the line to the teen craze of vampires. That is, until I started watching True Blood. In a nutshell, True Blood is a tv series on HBO that is about Sookie Stackhouse, a waitress from a podunk town in the south, that starts dating a vampire and all this crazy shit happens. Before every episode there is a caption that reads: graphic violence, graphic sex, graphic nudity, and graphic language. This encapsulates why I watch the series.
But there is one other thing that makes me watch True Blood, and that is Eric Northman.

Say hi to Eric Northman.

So this is why I am really lame. I have a celebrity crush on a vampire.
The last time I had a celebrity crush I was in 5th grade, and it was for Orlando Bloom. At that age I would dream that Orlando was looking at me, then he would put his arm around me. My heart would beat like crazy just by his hand on my shoulder. Then he would lean forward, eyes closed and lips puckered comically, and just before he was about to kiss me, I would wake up. For the rest of the day I would walk around in a daze.
Now, since I'm a bit older and the show features at least one pornographic scene of sex a week, my dream of Eric Northman was little different.
This is even more embarrassing, but I had a sex dream with a vampire. So, in the dream, I was having sex with him, but when I looked down he didn't have a penis. It was just skin, like a ken barbie doll. I'm still trying to figure that one out.

One thing that makes me feel a little bit better, is that most of my friends harbor a similar crush on Eric Northman. So, I guess no one is too good for a vamp-crush. At least I hope so.

A kiss remembered

I still think of him.
Yesterday on a walk through my empty neighborhood, near midnight when the summer bugs were filling the dark with noise, I remembered the first time we kissed.
I was at a reunion, and he was there too. I knew what he thought of me, and he knew about my feelings for him. We were trying to act normal, but I was doing a bad job. My heart beat was on the fritz, my stomach was curling and folding, and I couldn't keep a steady conversation with anybody.
I stood up and walked out of the room, towards the bathroom. I needed to clear my head, hear my voice rationalize things. The bathroom was down a few long hallways. I was in a vacated skyscraper, late at night, in a city. How wild, I thought, coming from a girl with cow pastures outside of her high school.
I stepped into the bathroom. A row of ten stall doors stood still and halfway open. I stood at the mirror, and gave myself a hard look. Stop trying to make something happen in your head. I fixed my hair, straightened my shirt, and left the bathroom.
I turned the corner of the hallway, and he was there. He reached for my hand, and told me to follow him. I did, unbelieving.
He opened a door, it was a small empty room with the electric box on the wall. The overhead light was florescent, and it bathed the moment in a blinding glare. I could see everything happening at that moment, but I was only guided by his hand.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," he said back. He leaned forward and gave me my first kiss.

I laughed out loud, in the humid night air, as I passed another mailbox.
That does count as a near perfect first kiss. 
But then my mind fast-forwarded through the rest of the story. When, nine months later, he sat on a park bench and told me, "That was the best kiss I've ever had."
Then he leaned forward, and put his lips on mine. I turned away, with tears in my eyes. I knew it was over, but I couldn't say it out loud. I couldn't even say it to myself.
On my neighborhood street, I felt my throat squeeze with tears, and I said, "I can't do this."
I couldn't reminisce about those beautiful moments, where I felt like my life was taking a spin in a new and irresistible way, because I knew if I thought harder I could track how my life ended up spinning out of control. "I can't do this," I said again.
I heard a movement and a thud. I gasped and froze. I turned and saw a small Asian man, putting his recycling bins onto the curb.
I swallowed my hysterics, and started down the road at a faster pace.

My first bar experience

I am 18 years old, and this is my last summer before I start college. In the town I live in there is a famous music festival every summer, and every summer I attend a few outside concerts and I wander throughout the booths. But that is not the true experience of the music festival. The true experience is going to bars, seeing the bands on a little stage, and dancing half-drunk in a haze of cigarette smoke. Every year before I arrived home at 11 pm,  before the pub crawlers came out. I wanted something different this year.

On Saturday afternoon I asked my brother, "So, what are you doing tonight?"
He is 20 years old, and a junior in college. At his age, you might expect him to be guzzling beers and hitting on sorority girls, but he is quite the opposite. He is still dating his high school sweetheart, and his weekends are normally filled with date nights, new movies, and hanging out with his family. He has never recounted a drunk tale to me, except for the time when he admitted "I had been out for awhile" when he verbally harassed the cook at 5 Guys for getting his order wrong. Other than that, I have only seen him awkwardly hold a beer at the dinner table when my dad decides to be father-son like.
Yet when I asked what his plans were, he said, "I'm going to the festival."
"Who are you seeing?" (as in, what bands)
"I don't know, I'm going with a big group of people."
"So,  you are inviting me to come?" I asked with half-sarcastic doleful eyes.
"Absolutely not," said my brother, without looking from the television.
"Aw come on! Don't you want to show off your little sister around your friends?"
"No, I do not."
"So, I will be knocking on your dorm room at 8?"
"No, you won't," said my brother in the same flat voice.

I didn't expect an invite from my brother. He is a secretive person that doesn't like me to know anything about his college life. I remember when I was a freshman in high school, and he was a junior, I begged to go see Pineapple Express with him and his friends. He gave a similar resolute no, but I gave a hysteric performance to my parents, so ten minutes before he was leaving my dad told him that he was taking me because "it's the right thing to do."

After my brother's rejection, I sauntered into my bedroom. I flopped on my bed, and stared at the ceiling. For years now I had received the same rejection from my brother, and it was expected. I was underage, so the bars were closed off to me. But not this year...
I reached for my cell phone and texted my best friend Megan.  We should go out tonight!!!
Megan has been my best friend since 8 years old. We cast spells on each other, went through awkward puberties together, and got through failed crushes together. Now Megan is 19 and living on her own, which means we go through different things together now. Like she held my hair back when I was puking in her bathroom. That was nice. Or, she totals her car and I haul her around town for the next 2 months. And general boyfriend nonsense, except now it's more serious than crushes.
I texted her at 5:30 in the afternoon, but she didn't respond until 9:30 p.m. I expected that, considering that the thrift store she works at treats her like a slave mule. (for instance: 7 1/2 hour shifts with only a 15 minute break. Where she shoves cheetos in her face and calls me to complain about her job)
Anyway, at 9:30 I am in my pjs, no hope of going out, and looking at college courses I could take next semester. I get a phone call that goes like, "Hey Carm! Just got off work, sorry for not texting. I've rounded up some people, and we're going out! Come downtown!"
I got up from my nest of blankets and laptop, and yelled into the hallway "I'm going out!" to my mom.  She gave a sleepy murmur from bed. I slipped on my red dress. The one that fits me perfectly, that has the adorable cutouts on the chest and back. The last time my dad saw me in the dress he said he never wanted to see me in it again, which means it is perfect for going out.
I could feel my heart buzzing. My hands could only fretfully put on makeup, and I had to fix my mascara multiple times. I'm actually going out! I'm actually going out!
On my way out of the door, my mom called for me. I went into my parents bedroom. My dad was brushing his teeth for bed and saw me. He didn't say anything about my dress. He probably understood. I got a short speech on "No drinking, no drugs, tell us where you are!!" I gave lots of positive replies, and headed out to my car. On the drive downtown I listened to blasting techno, for mood's sake.
When I found some parking--sketchy but free!--I called Megan. No answer. I started walking through downtown. On most nights it's a vibrant college town, but tonight it was a crazed college town.  Every bar was packed, the street was filled, and I saw way too many people I knew. Whenever I saw a group of girls with straight hair and booty shorts, I knew about half of them from my senior class. I even saw a few high school teachers of mine, which were nice and said hi. I kept calling Megan every 4 seconds or so, and I never got a reply. I was beginning to feel awkward because I was alone and walking around, especially when it felt like everyone knew who I was. So I creeped around for a solid 10 minutes, until Megan texted me to let me know they were at The Diner, a classic restaurant of downtown that has the best milkshakes in the south. So I made the trek up to The Diner (a good few blocks uphill). When I entered the restaurant I saw Megan, her boyfriend, her friend from work, and a guy who was the friend's boyfriend (which I based off his arm around her).
I will admit that I am awkward when I meet new people. Upon first meeting me, most people think I am a prude of sorts, but it's only the awkwardness. In a booth meant to comfortably sit two, four were crammed, and I was added on. Megan's boyfriend Brandon put his arm around me and made room for me.
"Stop looking at Carmella," Megan said. Brandon turned to Megan and gave her a kiss.

Megan's friend from work gave me a slight wave, and I remembered her name was Jackie. Her boyfriend reached across the table and introduced himself as Nick. His baseball cap was on backwards and he wore a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, to show off his large build.
"Actually just call him pool boy," Jackie laughed. I figured it was an inside joke.

 The setting was a diner from the 1950s--black and white tiled floor, jukebox, and classic-cut french fries on every plate--but the locale was fast forwarded two generations. A kid in a large panda hat was eating at the table next to us, the waiters were adorned with piercings and tattoos, and the two couples at my table couldn't help groping each other.
They kept making sex jokes that were somewhat serious. I already knew I was acting awkward. I was teetering off the booth, no boyfriend was hanging off my shoulder, and I had no somewhat-serious-sex-joke up my sleeve.
Also, everyone was acting drunk, and I am the most awkward when I am the sober one amongst the intoxicated. After two minutes of giggling that I couldn't find the source of, I asked "Is anyone sober?"
Megan laughed. "I am completely sober."
"Me too," said Jackie.
Nick took a drink from his beer, "Only a light buzz, if that."
Megan pinched Brandon's cheeks. "Now are you drunk? I saw you drinking whiskey earlier."
"Trust me, you would know if I was drunk. I live with an alcoholic."
"Eric?" I asked.
"Yeah. My rent is to supply the alcohol."
"That's it?"
"You would be surprised to see what we go through. You don't know drunk until you keep up with an alcoholic."
I laughed. "Doesn't that make you an alcoholic?"
"No, I just keep up with one," Brandon said.
Megan started laughing.
"Wait, wait. That just sounds bad."
"Yeah, it does!" Jackie snorted into her hand.
"I know you're not an alcoholic honey," Megan said, with laughter in her eyes.
"Because I'm not!" Brandon exclaimed.
"I know baby." Megan then kissed him.
Jakie rolled her eyes. "Let's go."

When we were out in the street--amongst the sorority girls stumbling in heels, and every guy in the same outfit of polo shirt and khakis--we stood around unsure of what to do.
"What do you guys want to do?" asked Brandon.
Everyone shrugged and said something along the lines of "I don't mind, I mean, whatever you guys want to do."
"Well Nick wants to drink," Jackie piped in.
"But we need to get in a bar that lets 18 year olds in." (as in us three girls)
"It's all 21 and up here," said Megan.
"No it's not," I said.
Megan gave me an odd look, considering I've never been in a bar before, and said, "You'd be surprised."
"I'm pretty sure the Reptilia Lounge will let us in," I said.
"Really?" Brandon asked.
"Yeah...someone told me once." Actually, I had done some online research before I left. I could list every bar in the area that was 18+, but I didn't want to sound nerdy or desperate to anyone. I wanted to seem like a natural.
"Alright let's go there!" Megan said.

And we started walking. Jackie and Nick led the way, while Megan and Brandon took up the rear. Since I was a lone body, I oscillated between the two groups.
Brandon put his arms around Megan and I. "It feels like I have two dates tonight!"
"Stop touching Carm," Megan said.
I walked up to Jackie and Nick. We gave our little histories. I am off to college, recently single, and writing for a newspaper. Jackie moved recently from Washington, lives with her sisters, and doesn't have clear plans for college. Nick didn't give his history. I don't know if really said anything. He's from Chicago. I remember that.
We arrived at the Reptilia Lounge. My stomach felt uneasy. Their website said 18+, I was 18 years old, there should be no issue, but I was still worried that I would be denied entrance. Maybe because I still felt like a kid. I felt like the bouncer would see beyond my pretty red dress to my child brain, and say "No, little girl, this is not the place for you."
I handed him my i.d. He dropped it, and apologized profusely as he bent over to retrieve it. He gave a glance at it, handed it back to me, and asked me to hold out my hands. He stamped each hand with an orange circle. I was in, albeit branded.
When I suggested the Reptilia Lounge, there was no specific reason, other than their age policy. My lack of knowledge of the bar was made aware to me when I stepped inside.
Everyone wore black, had sloppy hair, and had multiple tattoos. It was mostly guys, who looked unshowered and half-drunk. The few girls I saw looked like they could fuck me up. They were all bone skinny, but had that druggie-strength look to them.
Jackie leaned over to me. "It doesn't look like we belong here."
Although we looked like fairy godmothers compared to the rest of the bar crowd, we arrived fairly unnoticed. Brandon and Nick headed to the bar to get beers, and the rest of us made our way to the live band. It was a hard metal band. The lyrics were unintelligible, but the vocals were a delightful mix of anger and loudness. Yes, I do mostly listen to bitch music (imogen heap, regina spektor, the cranberries, among others), but I do have a soft spot for screaming-sorts of rock.  That is because I have a confession to make. I, myself, enjoy to do the vocals for hard metal. If I feel particularly uninhibited I will channel an alter-ego where I swing my head around and scream out improvised lyrics. One time my french class got me to do it. Bobby, a classmate who only listened to hard metal, sat stunned after my performance and said I was actually quite good.
Yet the only hard metal performance available to me was to join the mosh pit, where everyone's unshowered bodies intertwined with shoves, kicks, and punches.
Oh hell no. 
Don't get me wrong, I love a good musical release, but, as a girl, I want to dance, not get the shit kicked out of me. What I really wanted was to get up on the stage and start sing-screaming. We stood at the periphery of the mosh pit. Occasionally we would shake our hair around, and once I even did the air guitar. After the 3rd track, Megan poked me and pointed to the patio outside. I followed her out.
 We found a corner to stand in. The night air was a mix of humidity and cigarette smoke, which created an odd atmosphere to breath in. At least I could hear my own voice out on the patio. Soon enough the rest of the group found us.
 Nick looked around at the bar crowd, and said to me, "Would you ever get a tattoo? Like down your arm?" He ran one finger down my shoulder to my wrist.
I was beginning to think that an ethic of partying was flirting with the single girl, just to be nice.
"I plan on getting a tattoo someday, probably not down my arm though. I'm very picky."
 Brandon said, "I could see myself getting a huge ass tattoo when I'm 30 or something."
"Like what?" Megan said.
"I don't know, maybe a dragon." He laughed, but Megan looked at him skeptically.
"Are you religious?" Nick asked, facing me.
I always feel uncomfortable when someone asks me about my spirituality preferences, especially upon meeting someone for the first time. One time I lied and said I was Christian, and this old lady bought me a pizza slice from Sam's Club. Another time I was honest and said I wasn't Christian, and my friend had her church try to save me.
"No," I said.
"Awesome!" Nick exclaimed, and reached to high five me. "You know, I thought you were religious."
"Really?"
"Yeah, you seemed all straight-laced and Jesus friendly."
"That was just me being awkward."
"Yeah, Carmella, is definitely not straight-laced," Megan said.
"I think it's because your so well spoken," Jackie said.
Nick nodded. "Yeah, that's it. The only time I hear someone talk as well as you do, they are normally a prude."
I instantly felt more at ease, my awkwardness left me. I saw a glimpse into these new people, and saw that they were genuine.
"So what are you?" Nick asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Like are you Atheist."
"I think Atheism is a bit harsh--"
"So, you're agnostic. Hell yeah!" He gave me another high five.
"I really don't know what I am," I said.
"Or maybe you just don't care," said Jackie, with a smile.
I think when you are at a bar, or any other party atmosphere, the socially-avoided conversations are the first to be brought up. For instance, a few minutes later Jackie asked me, "Are you a virgin?"
"No," I answered.
"See, I thought you were a virgin! How many men have you been with?"
"Just one."
"Yeah you come off all well-spoken and straight-laced, but you're actually a closet whore!" Nick laughed.
"I don't know about a closet whore..." 
"You know what I meant!"
Jackie then followed Nick back to the bar for a beer or two.
I don't remember what Megan was doing, but I turned to Brandon and said, "So, I ended it with him, but you probably knew that."
"I did know."
"You were probably expecting it, especially with, you know.." Last time I was with Brandon, I was drunk and crying into his arms about my boyfriend.
"I didn't expect it to last, but that was long before that."
"Oh, yeah, I guess so." Since my breakup, almost every friend of mine came out of the woodwork to tell me they had their doubts from the onset. "I think he's still in love with me though."
"And it shows how mature you are that you're not in love with him."
"Yeah, I guess. I just really miss the male attention, you know?"
"Trust me, when you start college you won't miss out on attention, but I will warn you now, they will only be interested in everything below your head."
I smiled at him, and then he gave me a very nice hug. "By the way," he said, "you look very pretty tonight."
"Thanks," I said. He felt like a brother at that moment.
Megan came back with Jackie and Nick. "I'm ready to go," she said.
Everyone murmured, "All right." And then we left.
"Hey, can you drop me off at my car?" I asked.
"No shit," Megan said. "I don't want you to get raped."
When I was dropped off at my car, and I was waving goodbye to everyone, I thought about the amount of sex that was about to be had between those two couples.
I got into my car, completely sober and with no male companion. For most, this would be a failed night on the town, but when I was driving down the empty streets at 2:30 a.m. I felt quite happy.

Braces: vain memoirs of a thirteen year old

Today I was getting braces.
On the ride before my appointment, with my face leaning against the passenger window, my mother told me, "Carmella, everyone gets braces eventually. You will be just as beautiful as you are now, and just think about when you have a beautiful white smile."
I ran my tongue over my teeth, tracing the grooves and dents. I had two "snaggle" teeth that protruded out like a vampire's fangs, and my front teeth looked like two hands shaking, considering one front tooth overlapped the other. My brother told me once that it looked like someone fucked my mouth up with a hammer. I could admit to myself that, yes, my smile could make a British man grimace, but no amount of crooked teeth could prepare me for braces.

The day before, the last day of having the teeth God intended, I went to Chukie-cheese with my friends. The afternoon was spent squeezing through play tubes that were designed for 5 year olds, eating shitty pizza, and posing in the photo booth over and over again.
My friends kept refilling the token slot to try another contorted face, but I kept handing over my tokens to preserve the last moments of my smile. Each time the countdown started I would smile as prettily as I could, trying to consciously hold my face in equal proportions. After the photo was taken, chukie-cheese would appear on the screen before us with a paintbrush. As he waved his furry arm across the screen, our photo would gradually appear. The photo was done in an illustration finish, which blurred out all the details--moles, pimples, stray hairs, and even crooked teeth.

When the photo printed, my friends would grab for it and shriek in laughter over their bulging eyes, double chins, and waggling tongues. Eventually I would take the photograph and stare at my image. My smile was straight and flawless for the first time. I looked like a pretty teenager, instead of the awkward-looking 13 year old I was. I slipped the photo into my pocket. It was like a blurry snap shot of me in a prettier future.
On the drive to the orthodontics office, with my cheek against the passengers window, I thought about that photo. One day I will smile again, I thought, One day I will feel pretty. I know this sounds melodramatic, but even years later, I can distinctly remember the feeling that my life was over.

I sat in the waiting room, lazily flipping through a Seventeen magazine, listening for my name to be called.
"Carmella Mingo?" said an overweight lady in scrubs. I got up and followed her down the hallway.
"This must be a big day for you," the lady said, in a southern-bell accent, "you must be excited about getting braces!"
I looked at her with a perplexed expression, and said nothing.
"It's not going to be that bad, honey!" She tossed her hand, as if getting braces was a trivial phase of life.
I laid down in the dentist chair.
"I will be right back hun, with Dr. Miller," said the lady, as she walked out with a clipboard.
An hour later they returned to me dozing off in the dentist chair.
"Hello," Dr. Miller glanced at the computer screen for my name, "...Carmella Mingo. How are you?"
"um, fine," I muttered.
"Good, good, that's good to hear," said Dr. Miller distractedly, as he glanced through my records. He turned towards the southern lady and said a few things in orthodontic jargon. Then he wheeled towards me with his swivel chair, and the lady situated herself against me so my face was mashed against her soft breasts.
"Now Carmella, I want you to open wide and tilt your mouth back." With a flashlight he prodded around my mouth.
This is it. This is it, I thought. The only view I had was the lady's cleavage and the underside of her double chin. I could also see up Dr. Miller's long nostrils, which were quite sterile looking.
I laid there helplessly as he requested for tools, drilled into my mouth, and made offhand comments about my teeth.
At one point, when he was fastening braces onto my back molar, the drill caught my gum line and I squeezed the hand-rest in pain.
"Does that hurt?"
I nodded my head, and made a strange gurgle sound from the back of my throat.
"I'm sorry dear," he said, and continued drilling. The tear that slid down my cheek went unnoticed.
A few minutes later, Dr. Miller, with his eyes still concentrated on my mouth, said, "So guess what I had for breakfast this morning?"
I raised my eyebrows in confusion.
"I don't know! Tell me!" said the lady in her chipper southern voice.
"I had--can you hand me another wire? thanks dear--I had a chicken biscuit, but with jelly on it."
"Oh, that's odd," the lady gave a laugh, and leaned slightly forward. Her breasts consumed my cheek, and my eyesight was overtaken by the flowery print of her scrubs. "I mean, I've had chicken biscuits before, but never with jelly on it."
"Oh you've got to try it, it's actually quite good." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance across her chest.
"There are so many things I've got to try. You know, so much to experience." She gave a soft laugh.
He looked up from my mouth, and said with a suggestive smile, "Yeah, I will have to get you one of those biscuits."
If one of them bothered to glance into my eyes they would've seen a look that translated to What the fuck? Are you serious? Flirting about chicken biscuits, while you shackle me to years of ugliness!?

Eventually he leaned back, and gave my mouth a final look.
"It looks like we are finished! Yep, they look good." He pulled the latex gloves off his hands, tossed them in the trashcan, and left the room.

Slowly I closed my mouth. I felt like a chimp with protruding overbite.  I ran my tongue over my teeth. The feeling was horrid. My smooth, yet flawed teeth, were now jagged and metallic. It reminded me of the unpleasant sensation when you slide off the concrete ledge of a pool, your wet skin meeting the friction of the rough surface.
The lady shuffled around the office, cleaning tools and setting up for the next patient.
"It's all finished hun, so I can take you back to the lobby now."
I followed her down the hallway. Before we reached the lobby there was a large mirror with sinks underneath, for people to brush their teeth before appointments. I paused, and turned towards the mirrors. With my mouth closed, I still looked like myself--long dark hair, pale face, large green eyes, small nose, and full lips. The words I'm still pretty, I'm still pretty thundered through my head as I slowly stretched my face into a smile. It took only a few seconds for me to start crying. I couldn't tear my eyes from the mirror. I was transfixed by my new, ugly portrait. Now the words thundering through my head were I'm ugly, I'm ugly. And as I stared longer, the uglier I became. My eyes were red and filled with tears, my skin was blotchy, and I had this frozen smile.
"What's wrong?" I felt my mother's hand on my shoulder.
I turned to her. "I'm ugly," I said, "I am so ugly." I fell into her arms and started crying harder.
My mom ran her hands through my hair, and said, "No you aren't, no you aren't."
I heard someone say, "Come here, honey."
I let go of my mother, and before I could orient myself, my face was mashed into the lady's breasts.
"Now baby doll, don't you worry. You are getting pretty, straight smile. Don't you want that?"
I stood there awkwardly wondering when she would let me go.

For the next two years, I never smiled in a photograph. For the next two years, I never flirted with a boy. For the next two years, I lost the confidence it would take years to regain.
I might sound melodramatic or vain, but when I wrote the words 'I'm ugly' I couldn't help crying. I think every woman has a tenderness for the self-consciousness they felt when they were a developing girl. The tenderness resurfaces whenever I feel rejected or vulnerable. Sometimes when I talk to guys, I find myself trying not to smile. Sometimes when I smile before a camera I feel so exposed. Sometimes I still blame things on the words 'I'm ugly.' 

But that blurred Chuckie-Cheese photograph is now a reality. I do have a nice smile, and last night a guy friend of mine told me that I looked the prettiest he ever saw me.

Dad? Brother? What the hell?

I just ate dinner in front of the television with my mother and brother.

My mother walks over to the sink and starts to wash her plate off.

She tells me in an irritated voice, “Carmella, you need to look at the list I made for you. How about you start by cleaning off your desk.”

I am playing Angry Birds on the family Ipad, and I still have two more birds to throw. I make a small groan and launch a bird into a wooden fortress. I kill one pig.

In a similar voice of irritation, but much deeper, I hear, “Carmella, why don’t you get up and do what you are told.”

I look up from the Ipad to the armchair next to me. It’s empty. A few seconds ago my brother was sitting there lazily stretched out, pants unbuttoned, and twirling noodles into his mouth.

I look into the kitchen and my brother is helping my mother load the dishes. That’s odd, I think.  He steps over to the list my mom has written for me.

“Let’s see what you’ve done so far,” he says.

“What the fuck is your deal?” I interject.

My anger is immediate, which is unlike me and especially unlike me if I am directing it towards my brother. In the past, he would still be in the armchair, rubbing his belly, and looking for another Colbert Report on DVR. In the past, we would groan in unison and begrudgingly lift ourselves up from the armchairs.

He scans over the list.

“It looks like you haven’t done much of anything this week.”

“I cleaned out my shower, so you can cross that off,” I respond.

“No, you haven’t.”

“How the fuck would you know?”

“I was just in your shower.”

“Why the hell were you in my shower?”

“I was looking for you. Mom and I had no idea where you were.”

My mom brings a bowl to the sink and starts washing it.

“Yeah, we came downstairs and we had no idea where you were,” she says to me, “your car was still here, so we thought you were abducted by aliens or something.”

“I was walking the fucking dog!” I scream.

I normally don’t swear this often. I haven’t said fuck this much in concentration since my car broke down on the highway because my gas tank was empty.

My brother looks at me with disdain and says, “You are just trying to make an argument so you can avoid getting up.”

“I mean, really, Carmella,” my mother says in a tired voice, “guests will be here in a few days, and I really need your help.

I am fuming now. My brother is standing there, dishrag in hand, smugly looking at me. We are only two years apart but somehow he is acting the part of rational adult and me the screaming teenager.

The longer I sit in the chair, the more selfish I look. I can’t argue myself out of cleaning. I have to help my mom clean to get ready for all my relatives to come to my graduation, but I know if I budge from that chair I will give my brother authority paramount to my father.

I sat there in disbelief and in anger. I know my brother as the one who would risk anything to avoid sweeping the kitchen floor. I know my brother as the one who would dirty every pot and pan in the kitchen to make macroni and cheese, and when asked to clean it, his response would be, “fuck it.”

I point at my brother and say, “I’m not fucking listening to you.” Then I turn to my mom and say, “What do you need help with?”

“Why don’t you start by cleaning you desk, like your brother said.”

“Oh my god,” I groan. I storm off down the hallway. As I do this, I realize I am fulfilling another teenager cliché.

“I’ll be checking your progress in a few minutes,” my brother calls out.

“Fuck you!” I yell over my shoulder.

Now I am at my desk. I have moved some papers around, but other than that I have spent my time writing this.

It’s as if my brother stole my dad’s script for the evening---the tone, the words, the reasoning, everything. Since when does he care what my desk looks like, let alone care where I am? He struts around with the belief that “I’m the adult, so I can tell the kid what to do” just because he is two years older and living on his own.

My whole life my brother and I have been equals—equal in our resistance to chores, and equal in our punishment. Yet today he was handed parent authority, while my mom looked on proudly with a glimmer in her eye that said “you are my favorite child.”

I just keep thinking, I’m his sister after all, he’s supposed to be on my team.

How I became a Feminist: A True Story of Puberty and Intellect

I could equate my body at age 11 to Picasso's artwork. Priceless to it's maker, my mother, and odd to everyone else.

For a writing contest I wrote about what I know best: my body and my mind.
I won the contest, and now everyone knows about my first period. What joy.







Little boys and little girls go to different bathrooms. When I was a kid, I knew my bathroom was the stick figure with the triangular body.  I never noticed the difference between me and little boys, unless our parents wanted us to look nice. For me, stockings were tugged onto my limp legs, and for boys, sweaters were shoved over their heads. I don’t remember the first time I heard the word feminism, but from an early age I associated it with burning your bra, not looking pretty, and not believing in happily ever after. I thought feminism was an over-reaction until I became a woman myself.
I grew up a princess. I was my daddy’s little girl, and I thought my mother was the prettiest woman alive. Often I would send a little prayer thanking God for making me a girl. And why? I could walk in gym class, my brother could never hit me no matter what I said, and in every Disney movie prince charming pursues the girl, not the other way around. I was living a charmed life.
Everything started to make sense when I hit puberty. It began with my first bra. In the dressing room, my mother stood back and told me, “What a pretty young lady you have become!” I felt like an alien. The next day in class, while learning long division, a boy leaned over and snapped my bra strap. He yelled, “Guess who has a bra!” Already, I was willing to torch them.
The next year, I got my first period. I thought I was dying, and when I learned that it happens to every woman every month, I still thought I was going to die. The princess of my fairytales was no longer so pretty when she a dirty little secret to clean up after. Since when are there tampons in Wonderland?
 
​From puberty, I have also learned that natural beauty is a work in progress. While the boys smelled like sweat after recess and mixed their cafeteria food into nauseating concoctions, girls had to learn how to be pretty. No longer was I thanking God for making me a girl, but instead wondering why God didn’t make us hairless except for our precious heads. I, along with every 6th grade girl, was shocked to realize that every 8th grade girl shaved their legs and armpits, plucked their eyebrows, and straightened their hair. Every woman can remember their first shaving experience. It’s catastrophic. A young girl handling a razor to achieve beauty has hazardous results. I remember a girl that shaved her eyebrows off. The same goes for makeup. A girl equipped with eyeliner, powders, and lipstick for the first time can make a sweet-looking girl into a painted lady of the night. On the first day of 7th grade I was determined to be one of those “pretty” girls, especially after my summer crush called me a bookworm. That morning I slathered onto my face whatever I could find in my mother’s bathroom. When I stepped onto the bus the first boy to glance at me shrieked in horror and exclaimed, “My God, what happened to your face?”
​Apart from my rookie mistakes, I came out a better looking person with more self-confidence. While the boy’s voices cracked and awkward dark hairs hung over their lips, I was proud of being a girl again. Yet, it seemed, a girl’s evolution ended at puberty, while chimps grew into men. Escaping puberty with only a bruised ego did not make me a feminist. I’m not in the streets burning my bra nor do I announce makeup is the poison of pop culture. After the emotional and physical overall of puberty, the girls are expected to wait for the boys. The girls with patience laugh at their inane jokes and act like the “ditz” they are called. The impatient girls are the feminists, the ones unable to let a poor joke go without criticism and the ones who can’t act dumb.
​There is an integral shift in females, after the first bra and new curves, which has gone unnoticed. Females either fall back or plough forward. The girls that fall back let their pretty, shaved legs be a product for the boys, while the girls that plough forward let their pretty, shaved legs be a source of self-empowerment. I began to notice the integral shift at the beginning of high school. The boys, or young men, were still scrawny and rude. For them, flirting with a girl meant calling her dumb. I had a choice: I could play the part of dumb and simple and hopefully get a boyfriend, or I could have an opinion and pursue what I loved. After being an ugly duckling with a passion for words, the choice was made for me. I was to be a feminist.
​I have not burned my bra, I try to look pretty, and I still believe in happily ever after. As a little girl I did not know being a princess meant being a feminist. After a childhood, I learned the boys and girls bathroom is just the beginning of differences.
After four years of high school, some guys still call us dumb while other guys enjoy a conversation. As school policy, girls cannot have two male dates to prom yet two girls can accompany a male to the dance. The females at the top are perceived as ruthless over achievers, while the males are perceived as naturally talented. There is still injustice, but at least I can send a prayer to God saying, I love who I am---a girl.

radiation makes you glow