Perforation Problems

We have 12 minutes left before Calvin Fletcher's closes, so we're writing as much as we can without editing about a shared topic: Ball State. I didn't want to go to Ball State. I didn't really want to go to college, period, but I especially didn't want to go to Ball State. I had no opposition to higher learning, I just didn't want to leave home. I've always been a slightly anxious homebody. I like what's familiar. I don't like change. I like to hold on to what I have and have always had a heightened (and morbid?) sense of what I could lose, whether it's through death or tragedy or whatever. I had no real desire to be on my own. So I very grudgingly made plans for college, picking out schools that seemed prestigious enough and that weren't too far away from our home in Marietta, GA. But then my parents insisted I apply to Ball State, their alma matter, too. By this point I knew they were moving back to Indiana after my graduation, so I...

We never had a tree house when we were kids, but we had what we called The Fort. It was a standard wooden structure with a ladder, a pointed roof, a slide going down from the top level. It connected to a swing set, where I'd perfected what I saw as the art of graceful swinging, my legs pointed in front of me, my hair swinging and flowing behind. Whenever I swung it's like I thought I was being observed from afar. "How beautiful, how lovely!" My imaginary observers remarked as they looked out their kitchen windows. "Look how her hair trails out behind her! What an elegant and whimsical girl!" As a kid The Fort was magical—a space that was just for us. Sometimes it was for reading, sometimes for talking, sometimes for jumping wildly from the upper level to the swing rope and totally busting your finger. Sometimes my best friend Missy and I played library—this meant we carted all our books out from our bedrooms and heaved them up the ladder, where my brothe...

Late at night I'm poetic I should be sleeping but somehow can't Can't give in, can't shut down, can't let the head settle Instead I write poems like beatniks Except not good I love you isn't roses It's midnight trips to Meijer Where I look for a birthday card for my mom while you grab coffee beans (which let's be honest is the real reason it couldn't wait till morning) You meet me in the card aisle with a basket full of coffee That is love, I think now. Today I changed my profile picture from the one of me and my grandma at my grad school graduation I never liked myself in it, my face is so chubby But she looked beautiful Almost handsome, Katherine Hepburn-ish And it's the only picture I can find of the two of us together Why did I not get more pictures of me with my grandma? At some point I had to take it down No use dragging it out Taking it down doesn't take her out of my heart or my head, or my memories, or ...

It's 4:15am and the alarm clock jolts me awake—do you still call it an alarm clock when it's a phone?—and I'm up and moving before my brain even starts working again. We have a flight to catch. We've gotten in the habit of taking these early morning flights. It's exhausting but it gets you where you're going with the day still ahead of you. Within 15 minutes we're out the door, Clyde fed a super early breakfast and the key left for the dog sitter. We have our system down. Road, economy lot, shuttle, airport security, gate, get Starbucks if there's time. When I was younger I didn't consider traveling to be that important to me—traveling seemed scary. And it is, when you're traveling alone or not used to it. But I'm lucky enough to have found people to travel with, and they've made it a lot easier. Over the last five years, we've been to Hawaii, the Bahamas (twice!), Greece, Belize, New York City, and Jamaica—plus the other places I...

Here's how wine works for me: 1 glass of wine: Maybe some excessive smiling, but for the most part I'm good. 2 glasses of wine: Inarguably tipsy, but still coherent and functional. 3 glasses of wine: Happy drunk. 3.5 glasses of wine: Happy but verging on nauseous drunk. 4 glasses of wine: Nauseous drunk. 5 glasses of wine: Went too far. I went just a little bit too far last night. We were testing out Chuck and Caroline's new gaming table, with its fancy blue felt and built-in drink holders. Caroline had picked up Eli's BBQ for dinner, and I had two hot dogs that were covered in bbq sauce, "pork crispers," and coleslaw—coleslaw that wasn't supposed to be on the hot dogs but that I, surprisingly, was actually fine with. (I maybe even enjoyed it. What a world!) Chuck and Caroline's apartment has evolved into the quintessential hipster city loft—exposed brick, hanging Edison bulbs, turntable & records, trendy art prints, framed picture of mo...

I think in an alternate life I could have maybe been a foodie. Take away my childhood pickiness—okay, the pickiness that lasted until I was like 30—and I think I would have gravitated towards cooking and trying new things. I'm not trying to be a commercial for Blue Apron, but it seriously has changed my life. It's exposed me to not just the meal that's the final product, but the ingredients—and made them familiar. Familiarity leads to a willingness to try things.  It's forced me to try foods and spices I normally wouldn't. When you pay that much money, you can't let it go to waste.  It's made us healthier. We're actually eating vegetables regularly.  Cooking the Blue Apron meals makes me more inclined to cook other meals, too. I actually added vegetables to my morning scrambled eggs. Wtf? Who am I?  So I have a newfound interest in cooking. It really shouldn't be surprising since I love food so much, but the pickiness has always stood in the ...

Michael picks up a catalogue from the stack of mail on the kitchen counter and starts laughing. He turns to show it to me. "I know," I grumble, stepping back to avoid the popping oil from the chicken I'm sauteeing maybe a little too overzealously. It's the fourth or fifth piece of mail we've gotten from Chevy since I bought my car in October. That would be fine, except they're all addressed to Michael, DESPITE the fact that it's MY car, MY name is the first on the lease, and I'M the one paying for it with MY money. Micheal finds it hilarious because he knows it gets my feminist goat (where did that expression come from??) Such a small thing to get irritated about, but seriously. It's like the time I posted a picture from one of our vacations, and a (male) friend commented, "Damn. Making me wish I had married Michael." Excuse me. We go on vacations because of my salary. Not that Michael couldn't manage to go on vacations on his...