Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

As we parked the car, I could see the monument in the distance, its curved repertoire and lights stretched up into the clouds. It was a fortress wrapped up in brick walls and good, old American ideals. We would have to follow the cement pathway like a yellow brick road leading to the gates of a world far greater than Oz. A land where the sound of metal on cloth made your heart skip a beat and a place where the number 108 means godliness and 162 means a lifetime.

Here we were at a baseball game. I don’t know if you remember it, but I do.

It was an August day as far as I know. Hell, I probably didn't even know what August was at that point. I was doubtlessly no more than five years old. We were in the nosebleeds—where one sneeze and you'd tumble all the way down to your great, green field of demise.

I didn't know much. In fact, I didn't know a damn thing. But I had on my little, black White Sox hat. I had put up an argument before we even left for the game because you had to wear your black White Sox hat too. I knew you liked your tan one and white one better. But today, I wanted you to be like me. 

Upon our arrival you had unloaded Brittney from her car seat.

“Mitts?” You asked me. Check, I replied as I held up my very own left handed baseball mitt.

“Peanuts?” You asked again. Check, I said again. I laughed as I put the peanuts in my mitt and raised those up as well.

“Tickets?”

“I don’t know Daddddddd. You haven’t let me touch them!”

“Oh no, Ash! I think I left them at home!” You said as you checked your pockets with a brief, panicked pat of your hands.

“Dad! Home is far away!” I was petrified. The car ride took long enough without wanting to go back so soon.

“Just kidding! Here they are!” You put them back in your pocket and started leading us to the stadium. Brittney's hand in one hand and mine in the other. Britt had the binoculars around her neck and held her light brown mitt, which was a bit big for her, in her right hand. I had the bag of peanuts and my mitt in my left. You brought your mitt and tucked it under your arm.

The walk to the park seemed to be a hundred miles long. Maybe it was because Brittney was so young and couldn't walk fast, or maybe it was because a child's perspective always seems a bit disproportional in later years. When we park in that same lot now, I know we were just a couple blocks away at most but man did it seem different back then.

We finally entered the stadium and I couldn't hold onto my excitement. I didn't know what baseball really was. I didn't know what all the fuss was about but I was with you, Dad, so I was happy. 

We walked around the concourse as you pointed out all the things a little kid would need to know. The bathrooms were gigantic. The field was bigger than the world and statues were scary. You pointed out Lou, your favorite. Minnie Minoso had a statue as well. I giggled as I thought of Minnie Mouse playing baseball.

The food was everywhere. You told me that you could order burgers or nachos, but what kind of baseball fan would you really be? --You taught me that. Food at the ballpark consisted of only a few things. You needed peanuts to eat during the game. I loved peanuts but as most children did, I would eat the peanut whole (because to be honest, the peanut itself was the boring part of the meal. It wasn’t exciting without the salty goodness of the shell). At some point during the opposing teams at bats throughout the game, we got up to get hotdogs. Hot dogs that to me, tasted no different than the ones you heated up at home in the microwave, but you told me that they were way better. And it wasn’t just because they were roasted. It was because they were at the baseball game, and that, right there, made them better. I believed you. 

That's how it worked. You taught me that whistling at a ball game was normal and kind of cool. That the ground was our personal garbage can. You could throw napkins, empty drinks, and the gross ends of the hot dog bun on the ground. You told me later someone would take a hose and clean it all up. You taught me that the closest to the game I could ever get is if I opened my mitt (that you inevitably made me bring with) and catch a ball coming my way. Then I was the baseball player. You taught me that it’s okay to lie after I get a ball. Even if I did catch a foul ball, I better pretend it was Frank Thomas' homer since that was the part of the game that I would look at when I looked at that ball. 

I didn't get a ball during that game, but if you think I don't at least think of grabbing my mitt every time I look to go to the field, you better start looking for the change-up. 

We probably looked like an odd bunch to most people. Here you were with your olive skin and Italian style mustache with your two blonde daughters at a baseball game. One of them, being no older than two years old, with messy hair and an unbelievably loud mouth. The other, with a head full of ringlets, that was mystified when they turned the lights on and the sound of the bat hitting the ball. 

This was the beginning of years at Comiskey (and eventually U.S. Cellular) Field.

You taught me more than just fly outs and who's on first. You taught me that the manager never went to bat and that the words to the seventh inning stretch are more important than that of the pledge of allegiance.

Every question I asked, you knew the answer.

"Why is that guy standing behind the catcher?"

"He is the umpire or Blue, they call him, he decides what a strike is and what a ball is."

“Why do they call him Blue?”

“Because their uniforms used to be blue.” I asked him why they don’t call him Black now, because I would.

"WHY is there a net around the batter's box and why would you ever want to sit behind it? You couldn't get a ball that way!"

"The balls that get hit get hit pretty hard and someone could get hurt. And you probably couldn't get a ball sitting there, but do you see how close they are to the players? They can practically touch them!"

"If I was sitting there, I would go up and touch them."

"Who is that little boy on the field? Is that the manager’s son? Dad! You should be a manager! I want to go on the field!"

"That's the batboy. He grabs the bats after the players get on base and gives new baseballs to Blue." I grabbed the binoculars away from Brittney then, making her cry. As  you soothed her, I started on my binocular mission.

"Hey Dad! Where is the batgirl? I don’t see her." I strained with all my might looking through

"Well... there isn't. Not yet. But maybe one day there will be."

I was hooked. Every ball seemed to have a mind of its own and every swing always looked like a strike. It was an intense game. I couldn’t tell you the names of the players now, but I can tell you that I had found my eyes wrapped up in just a few innings. Every runner seemed to make it, every stolen base stole my heart, and every homerun that ignited fireworks jolted an overwhelming excitement.

I remember when the bad guy’s shortstop ran to steal second base and how I was on the edge of my seat, holding my breath, silently praying that our team knew what to do. I remember the way the dirt seemed to rise to the occasion as the mitt hit the bag. Blue called him out.

I remember the way we bunted (a concept that mystified me) to advance the players to help us in a crunch. I remember “boo-ing” the bad guys and getting rowdy for the Sox. The way we stood up every time we hit something that could be a homerun and sunk deeper into our seats every time the bad guys did. The way that our team caught a ball that should have been a homerun and stole it back for an out. Our team. That’s what baseball is; that’s what the White Sox are. They are ours.

Brittney started getting tired and crabby around the sixth inning. You told me we would leave after the seventh inning stretch. That meant this was my chance. I needed to watch a team win before we left and here they were losing. Every time the Sox were up to bat we would put our rally caps on. Rally caps. To this day, I still consider doing that to change our luck around. I might look like a fool with my baseball hat inside out and on my head, but I knew that I couldn't look worse than the losing team you spent money on to watch win.

When the seventh inning stretch happened, I realized how fun baseball games (even the losing kind) were. We got to scream and yell as we make hand movements.

"For its root, root, root for the WHITE SOX!" We screamed this line on the top of our lungs. After all, it was our job to show the other team who was going to win.

"For it's one." And we had to stick our hand out with one finger up.

"Two." We did it again with two fingers. Brittney wasn't good with her numbers yet so you helped her.

"Three strikes, you're out." Three fingers naturally forming the number then brought back into a fist with only your thumb pointing out as you punched the air above your shoulder like Blue does.

"At the old ball game." After the cheering we let people settle back into their seats and we grabbed our mitts and grudgingly dragged our feet out of the game. 

The inning was continuing with the White Sox up to bat; we walked down the winding walkway and continued slowly to the gates. I didn’t have the same bounce in my step that I had upon the arrival. You could say I was tired, but in reality, I was hurt. Our team didn’t win. Our team was bad at beating the bad guys.  

"You know, if the bases get loaded, Frank Thomas will be up." You said when we got to the gates. You handed Brittney your mitt and carried her the rest of the way to the car.  "Wouldn't it be neat if we saw the fireworks again if he hit a grand slam? Maybe the ball would even make its way out to us!"

Never in a million years did I expect it. We had just gotten out of the gates and took twenty of my size steps toward the car when we heard the echoes of cheering. We saw the tips of the fireworks and that was all I needed to see; I was hooked. I ran around uncontrollably, waiting for what I was sure would be the ball falling to the ground. I never heard the thump but I looked under the cars and in between the lanes. I walked around waiting for that ball to find me with my mitt opened up turned toward the sky. 

Frank Thomas did it again, leading the team to victory.

If you said that I was the closest to a hero that I would probably ever be in my entire life, you'd be right. But it wasn't because Frank Thomas knew how to hit a ball. It wasn't because the White Sox would go on to win the game or because they would be my favorite baseball team for the rest of my life. It was, however, because you taught me more than a silly, little baseball game. You taught me a way of life. Dad, you were always the only hero I wanted to be around. That day, we created a bond that couldn’t possibly break because even if the ball didn't land in my mitt that day, my passion did.

Cerulean: heaven

Day & Night

          Eight o’clock. It is time for me to go up for bed and I didn’t really want to sleep but that time means bedtime. As I hit the landing of our second floor among the darkness and started turning left toward my room, my mom calls out behind me.
          “Ashley. Can you come here a minute?” I know what this means. This means “bonding time.” I always love talking to mom late at night. It is the exception to the rule for bedtime and I always am able to open up to her more after the world turned into shadows. I think it’s kind of cool because Brittney and Nikki aren't old enough to sit here late at night and talk to Mom. Yet, here I am walking into her room so that I can learn and think about even more. It is cool to be a big kid.
          We talk about a lot of different subject matter. We chat about school and what I like and dislike about it. We gossip about my teachers and if I thought they were good at it and what I will do differently. We chitchat about friends and how they make me feel and what we do when we play. At the end, we always talk about boys. We talked about the boys I liked and the ones that picked on me—mainly Jacob and Andrew.
          "It’s because they like you, Ash." Ew! That might be grosser then the sex talk she had with me last year. I’m in fifth grade after all! Don’t Jacob and Andrew know we are too old for that kind of flirting? We were almost mature adults! These boys just act stupid. Last thing I want to think about is their ugly, little face wanting to hold my hand or take me out on a date! Okay, I better stop thinking about this because I'm grossing myself out. What if they want to kiss me?
          "If they liked me they should be nice to me. I hate Jacob and Andrew." They always gang up on me. If they liked me, why in the world would they be assh—I mean jerks?
          "Well, remember Anthony in kindergarten? He did the same thing. And you said he couldn't like you either. Didn’t he end up buying you flowers for your birthday? Remember? And you guys held hands when you learned how to roller skate."
          "Are you kidding me, Mom? That's so disgusting. Anthony didn't like me. He just got me a present. That's what friends do! And we held hands so we didn't fall on our faces." My mom is completely irrational sometimes.
          "Oh, he liked you, Ash. I could tell. But if you don’t want to believe me…" (I am going to let you in on a secret, but don’t tell Mom. Of course, I don’t believe her! Sure she is my mom, but she couldn't know anything about Anthony! She only met him twice! Two times! That’s it! He was my good friend, I'd know if he liked me when I am the one that played with him all the time!)
          Mom was starting to huddle closer on her massive bed while I decided whether I would (and I didn’t) believe her or not. I always sit on the end of her bed in her black and white room. Her bed was quite possibly the most awesome bed ever! It was a water bed. I know most of your parents probably don’t have water beds so I will tell you how fun they are. It is like bouncing on a trampoline and jiggling like Jell-O at the same time! I know. I would be jealous too if I was you. While I sit on her Jell-O trampoline, I am curled up onto my side laying just like the letter “S.” She was on the right side of the bed, if you were looking at the room from the hallway that is. Their room was the typical suburban room: two dressers, one bed, two nightstands and random potpourri and candles throughout the room to add a sense of cleanliness since their room didn't get as thoroughly cleaned as the rest of the house. We live in the typical suburban neighborhood called Elgin. It has white picket fences and stay at home moms. Even though it looked typical, we have a very diverse area. We had to do a worksheet on our cities demographics a couple months ago and I found out Elgin is half male and half female. We are 46.5% Caucasians, 41.8% Hispanics and 7.1% “African American” families. My friend, Jordan, always tells me not to say “African American” because his parents aren’t from Africa and he is black. I like Jordan; he makes me laugh, so I listen.
          I really like all the new lessons I can learn from the diversity of our city. I love tamales and Black History Month is always fun because we get to study a lot of powerful speeches. But right now, I don’t want to think about learning; I am anxious to know why Mom is leaning in and what she is going to tell me.
          "Wanna know a secret?" Mom said while she yawned.
          “YES!” I said, maybe a little too excitedly. Mom just gave me a look like I was waking up the neighborhood with my shout. I don’t think I can wake up the neighborhood even if I screamed (which you should know, I am an excellent screamer) but I let Mom think I can.
           “When you first brought Anthony up, Dad was very excited about him for you.” What is she talking about? Why did Dad care I talked to Anthony? I asked her.
          “Well, let’s see. I guess it is because Anthony is a very Italian name and Dad wants to teach you all about the heritage, or traditions, you come from. So he thought that it would be a great way to bring you into something that means so much to him.” Mom was confusing me. I know Dad is Italian because of all my aunts and uncles. They all talk about it a lot. So what does Anthony have to do with it?
          “I don’t get it. Anthony is my friend, what does being Italian have to do with it?”
          “Well, that’s the ironic part I guess. As you know, Anthony isn’t Italian at all.” How would I (or her for that matter) know if Anthony is Italian?
          “Didn’t you just say Anthony is an Italian name? What do you mean he isn’t Italian? Did you ask his mom if he is?”
          “Actually, your Dad did ask if Anthony had any Italian in his blood. His mom said he was just African American.”
          “Just black? And… not Italian?” I don’t get how black and Italian make a difference.
          “No… you seem confused?” Oh really? I seem confused? MAYBE IT IS BECAUSE I AM, MOM! I told her I was. (Duh.)
          “Hold on really quick.” Mom was studying my expression and started to get up. That is bizarre; Mom never gets up during “bonding time.” She even left the room, while I am still stumped trying to figure out what Anthony has to do with anything and where the secret in all of this commotion is.
          All of a sudden, Mom walked back into the room and in her hand, she has my yearbook! I ALREADY KNOW WHAT ANTHONY LOOKS LIKE! I am his friend! Geesh, for being my mom, she isn’t always the smartest!
          “Why do you have my yearbook? I know what Anthony looks like.” I was staring at her like she is stupid. I don’t mean to, but like I said, I know what my friend looks like.
           “Can you do me a favor?” Mom said. “Can you point out all the black kids in the class?”
           “Well that’s easy.” I was looking at the page and pointing to Jordan who already told me he was black, Christina Mo who was also Chinese, and Andrew Swanson who was also white. I am not stupid. I know the color black.
           “Ashley, those people have black hair.” Mom said as she held back her laughter.
           “Well, duh! You just told me to point out the black people! I know what I am doing, Mom.”
           “So… Do you think Dad is black?”
           “Mom, you are being irrational here. Dad has black hair, so yes, Dad is black.”
           “Ashley, darling, black doesn’t mean you have black hair. It means your ancestors, like your grandma or her mom or her mom, is from Africa. They are called black because their skin is darker.”

“So let me get this straight. You think only certain people are black and you can have black hair and not be black?” Mom nodded yes and told me to go to bed now. On my way back towards the stairs and back to my room my brain couldn’t turn off. You know, most people learn colors when they are two years old! I am ten and I still don’t understand! Growing up can be so challenging!

Geesh! Maybe this is why I should go to bed at bedtime. It is tough growing up. I better tell Dad that I know he isn’t black in the morning. I wonder what my version of the demographics of Elgin looks like. There are probably more black (haired) people than any other group in the entire universe! I better make a new graph of my version of Elgin soon.

Works Cited
“Races in Elgin, Illinois (IL) Detailed Stats: Ancestries, Foreign born residents, place of birth.” City-Data. Advameg Inc. 2010. Web. 09 Sept. 2010. http://www.city-data.com/races/races-Elgin-Illinois.html#ixzz0z56scgjG.

Bionic Girl

          The day I became a superhero turned out to be the best day of my life.
But I was petrified at first. In fact, petrified was an understatement. I wished I was just petrified. It seems so easy. Just walk into the third grade class like every other day. Sit down. Pretend nothing is different.

          What if someone notices? What if they start talking? If glasses made you a "geek," what in the world were the other kids going to think of me? They would hate me. I would no longer have friends. I tried so hard to ace that test.

           BEEP.

           Every "BEEP" I would have to raise my hand. Every high pitched scream and I felt like I was part of the machine as my hand shot into the air. I swore I began raising my hand to the bells and whistles that went on in my head after an hour of those awful BEEPs.

                    BEEP.

                               BEEP.

          …Just wait for it. There should be another. What if that is the one I can't hear? It should have happened by now, right? I mean I should hear it now. Oh no! What if I do need them? What will the kids say?

                                           BEEP.

          Phew! At least I heard that one. Maybe the machine just had a problem. After this seemingly forever long screaming test, they better prove I am fine.

                                                         BEEP.

           "Ashley, you can come out. The test is over."

           FINALLY! I hate that stupid headset in that stupid little box they call a room. It is a box. A metal box that I, personally, hate. And that headset! Why do they need different colors? Red and blue, they are always red and blue. I just want to be by my dad.

           "Well," the doctor started. He wasn't exactly the person I wanted to hear anything from. He looked funny with his weird little mustache and quirky, giant black glasses. And, after all, he gave me that stupid test. "Her hearing isn't awful. I am not quite sure what caused her hearing loss but she definitely has an acute one. What you need to know is that there are choices you have. I suggest hearing aids. Her hearing isn't bad enough where there should be a problem and she has long hair so I don't even believe it would be noticeable. I am sure you are going to want to talk it over with your husband but I am afraid it is your best option."

            "I don't know much about this, to be honest. What is causing her hearing loss?" My mom looked a little worried. Maybe she was going to have to take the BEEP test too. She and Dad were holding hands and I was sitting on Dad’s lap.

           “To put it simply, there are three parts to the ear, as you can see on this model.” I knew all about the model, I was playing with it before he got in the room. It was boring. “The inner ear is where a lot of people have severe hearing loss problems. There are a bunch of little hairs in it and sometimes they get bent or are missing and the sound waves are never picked up. The middle ear is where Ashley’s problem is. There are tiny bones that vibrate inside of the middle ear. For some reason, Ashley’s bones aren’t vibrating when they hear low pitches. It is probably a problem with the amount of wax she has in it, but I know you have tried tubes a couple times and that doesn’t seem to be helping. Her hearing problem isn’t severe by any means and it is quite possible that she could live without having hearing aids. However, I recommend them to help her in school. I think they will help her focus her schoolwork better as well as participate in more conversations.”

            Hook, line and sinker.

            The following week, I had to go back to the box and fill my ears with this super cold glue. They said it was to follow the shape of my ears and harden up; I think it was a torture device for being stupid and needing hearing aids.

            A month after the last BEEPing test, I had to go to class with my hearing aids. I tried to convince Mom and Dad to let me stay home from school. I knew Jon would laugh at me. And Jeremy? Jeremy would definitely make fun of me. How couldn’t they? I am stupid.

            Mom drove me to school. She wanted to talk to Mrs. Funk before school started. We walked in before any of the kids were even there. My mom decided she would talk to Mrs. Funk in the hall, like Mrs. Funk was a bad kid! That would have been funny if I knew it wasn’t because of my hearing aids. I just sat at my desk and looked around.

            I liked Mrs. Funk. She was always a very nice teacher. Probably my favorite teacher EVER! She gave us Beanie Babies as rewards and took us to McDonald’s sometimes if we were really good. Her classroom was fun too. She had everything Snoopy: Snoopy candy glass, Snoopy posters, and Snoopy name tags too. It was fun.

             My favorite part of her room was her reading chair. It looked just like a movie star’s chair and sometimes she would let you read your paragraphs on her chair. Normally though, Mrs. Funk would read our chapter books as she sat on her movie star chair.

            When Mrs. Funk and Mom got back, I could tell that Mrs. Funk looked a bit worried. Mom thanked Mrs. Funk and she hugged me goodbye and left. Mrs. Funk didn’t look like she knew what she was going to do. How could she? The whole class was going to make fun of me. I was a goner.

             She tried to smile and make me stop worrying. Then she told me that she had a super secret plan and that I needed to trust her. She was my favorite teacher; of course I would trust her. She told me to play along and have fun. That seemed like a great idea because, after today, I would probably never play along and have fun again.

             The class started coming into the classroom and talking a lot. I was still super nervous. No one noticed my hearing aids. I felt like they were glowing, like they were a sun peeking through the clouds of my hair on a rainy day. I was sure everyone would notice them instantly. Yet somehow, no one seemed to say anything about them. So if they did detect them, no one said anything. Mrs. Funk started settled them down and had me come up to the front of the classroom. I couldn't believe she made me walk up there! I was shaking and about to cry but I trusted her, as much as a seemingly glowing third grader could.

            The class wanted to know why I was in the room early this morning and why I was coming up to the front of the class now. As I walked up she moved the movie star chair right in the middle of the classroom. I sat right in the reading chair, holding on for dear life.

            “Class, Ashley has very important news she wanted me to tell you. She is a very lucky girl. She just got hearing aids! She basically has bionic ears and she can hear EVERYTHING now. If Samantha and Courtney are whispering, she will know what they said! If you yell her name from three whole miles away, she will hear you!"

            “She has super powers!" I heard Dan say.

            “I can’t believe it!" Brian uttered.

             “I want hearing aids! Don’t you?” Mrs. Funk said joyfully. She made me out to be the coolest person ever! Even I was impressed with my awesome hearing powers.

             Everyone wanted hearing aids. Everyone wanted to be my friend. No one laughed at me. No one even scared me! There was no need to be petrified—or worse—after all!

             She let the kids ask me questions and told them she would obviously leave me in charge when she had to leave the classroom.

            Adam raised his hand to ask a question.

            He whispered something I couldn’t hear and I got a little worried. “What did I say, Ashley? Huh?”

            “Adam,” Mrs. Funk said. “Ashley knows exactly what you said. She has bionic ears! Ashley can’t tell the rest of the class what you whispered because she has super powers and superheroes keep secrets.” Adam couldn’t fight that one; Superheroes are cool!

           Those awful BEEPs and mustached man made me into Bionic Girl! Maybe they weren’t so BEEPing bad after all.

AHHHHHHH

I really should be doing homework. But I think I need to have a thought out there for the rest of the world to read if they (and I know most don't) care to read.

Most of my writing I do on the computer. I do it this way because I can type a HELL of a lot faster than I can write. It is more convinient. In this day and age I can type on my memopad on my phone, on my ipod touch, on my laptop, even on my (new and amazing) nook. the world of paper and pen should be dismissed and I personally wouldn't object entirely.

I am not saying I don't write. God knows I write far too much. But to see it on paper, I don't get as structured as I can on the keyboard. It is really simple. The faster I type, the faster my thoughts get on the paper and the less I freak out.

I have to keep a journal for my writing class. I feel like this is stupid. I have a blog. I would love to just write on here what I would like to write for the class. I can show the world my thought process and figure out myself what the difference between up and down is.
Instead, I will write in a journal and my creativity will be falling down a small hill because I don't have super speed (quite yet).

BEEP?

Bionic Girl


The day I became a superhero might have turned out to be the best day of my life.

But I was petrified at first. In fact, petrified was an understatement. I wished I was just petrified. It seems so easy. Just walk in class. Sit down. Pretend nothing is different.

What if someone notices? What if they start talking? If glasses made you a "geek", what in the world were the other kids going to think of me? They would hate me. I would no longer have friends. I tried so hard to ace that test.

BEEP.

Every "BEEP" I would have to raise my hand. Every high pitched scream and I felt like I was part of the machine as my hand shot into the air. I swore I began raising my hand to the bells and whistles that went on in my head after an hour of those awful BEEPs.

BEEP.

BEEP.

…Just wait for it. There should be another. What if that is the one I can't hear? It should have happened by now right? I mean I should hear it now. Oh no! What if I do need them? What will the kids say?

BEEP.

Phew! At least I heard that one. Maybe the machine just had a problem. After this seemingly forever long screaming test, they better prove I am fine.

BEEP.

"Ashley, you can come out. The test is over."

FINALLY! I hate that stupid headset in that stupid little box they call a room. It is a box. A metal box that I, personally, hate. And that headset. Why do they need different colors? Red and blue, they are always red and blue. I just want to be by my dad.

"Well," the doctor started. He wasn't exactly the person I wanted to hear anything from. He looked funny with his weird little mustache and he gave me that stupid test. "Her hearing isn't awful. I am not quite sure what caused her hearing loss but she definitely has an acute one. What you need to know is that there are choices you have. I suggest hearing aids. Her hearing isn't bad enough where there should be a problem and she has long hair so I don't even believe it would be noticeable. I am sure you are going to want to talk it over with your husband but I am afraid it is your best option."

"I don't know much about this, to be honest. What is causing her hearing loss?" My mom looked a little worried. Maybe she was going to have to take the BEEP test too. Dad and her were holding hands and I was sitting on Dad’s lap.

“To put it simply, there are three parts to the ear, as you can see on this model.” I knew all about the model, I was playing with it before he got in the room. It was boring. “The inner ear is where a lot of people have severe hearing loss problems. There are a bunch of little hairs in it and sometimes they get bent or are missing and the sound waves are never picked up. The middle ear is where Ashley’s problem is. There are tiny bones that vibrate inside of the middle ear. For some reason, Ashley’s bones aren’t vibrating when they hear low pitches. It is probably a problem with the amount of wax she has in it, but I know you have tried tubes a couple times and that doesn’t seem to be helping. Her hearing problem isn’t severe by any means and it is quite possible that she could live without having hearing aids. However, I recommend them to help her in school. I think they will help her focus her schoolwork better as well as participate in more conversations.”

Hook, line and sinker.

A week later I got my ears fitted with this super cold glue that they put in my ear that was going to follow the shape of my ears and harden up.

It has been a month and now I have to go to class with my hearing aids. I tried to convince Mom and Dad to let me stay home from school. I knew Jon would laugh at me. And Jeremy? Jeremy would make fun of me. How couldn’t they? I am stupid.

My mom drove me to school today. She wanted to talk to Mrs. Funk before school started. We walked in before any of the kids were there. My mom decided she would talk to Mrs. Funk in the hall. I just sat at my desk and looked around.

I liked Mrs. Funk. She was always a very nice teacher. Probably my favorite teacher EVER! She gave us Beanie Babies as rewards and took us to McDonald’s sometimes if we were really good. Her classroom was fun too. She had everything Snoopy: Snoopy candy glass, Snoopy posters, and Snoopy name tags too. It was fun.

My favorite part of her room is her reading chair. It looked just like a movie star’s chair and sometimes she would let you read your paragraphs on her chair. Normally though, Mrs. Funk would read our chapter books as she sat on her movie star chair.

When Mrs. Funk and Mom got back, I found out they devised a plan. Mom thanked Mrs. Funk and she hugged me goodbye and left. Mrs. Funk told me that she had a super secret plan and that I needed to trust her. She was my favorite teacher; of course I would trust her. She told me to play along and have fun.

The class started coming into the classroom and talking a lot. I was still super nervous. No one noticed my hearing aids. I felt like they were glowing and everyone would notice them instantly. If they did, no one said anything. Mrs. Funk started settled them down and had me come up to the front of the classroom.

The class wanted to know why I was in the room early this morning and why I was coming up to the front of the class now. As I walked up she moved the movie star chair right in the middle of the classroom.

“Class, Ashley has very important news she wanted me to tell you. She is a very lucky girl. She just got hearing aids! She basically has bionic ears and she can hear EVERYTHING now. If Samantha and Courtney are whispering, she will know what they said! If you yell her name from three whole miles away, she will hear you!

“She has super powers! I can’t believe it! I want hearing aids! Don’t you?” She made me out to be the coolest person ever. Even I was impressed with my awesome hearing powers.

Everyone wanted hearing aids. Everyone wanted to be my friend. No one laughed at me. No one even scared me! There was no need to be petrified after all.

She let the kids ask me questions and told them she would obviously leave me in charge when she had to leave the classroom.

Adam raised his hand to ask a question.

He whispered something I couldn’t hear and I got a little worried. “What did I say, Ashley?”

“Adam,” Mrs. Funk said. “Ashley knows exactly what you said. She has bionic ears! Ashley can’t tell the rest of the class what you whispered because she has super powers and superheroes keep secrets.”

Those awful BEEPs and moustache man made me into Bionic Girl. Maybe they weren’t so BEEPing bad after all.

She is Who She is

y

She always dared to find the impossible:

In a world that was all figured out.

She was up for the risk to be the crazy:

In a world of sanity.

And she challenged herself past her limits:

When everyone said she already had enough.

She laughed:

When you expected her to cry.

She succeeded:

Where you knew she'd fail.

She exhaled:

When you told her to hold her breath.

She is everything you could never dream to be:

Which is exactly why she is she.

PIC and Magic

Don't you understand? You are the half that makes her whole. She took you into the sky on a magic carpet and you showed her a whole new world. You are the partner to her crime and the lemon to her lime. You are the taste to her lips and the power behind her punch. You are the rainbow to her pot of gold and the guitar to her written song. Never in her life did she expect she could find someone that made what she was even better.


This is the real deal; this is the fairytale in everyday life. It doesn't have to involve hocus pocus when every word you utter puts her under your spell. There are no glass slippers but, a love that defies the odds. And no fairies are needed when the awakening kiss will always be remembered. ♥ ::True love is all the magic you will ever need.

Hunger That Can't Be Satisfied

In the heat of deprivation all she wanted was to feel you next to her. She was ready to devour the love you have placed on a plate just for her. Hunger gets what hunger wants and right now she beg for the taste of your lips and yearns for the feel of your body next to hers. Something inside of her is waiting to consume you and once again fuel the fire of your hearts until yet again she is starved for your touch. Begging and needing just another spoonful to hold her over.

Is It A Battle or Just a Little Stronger Than Cats and Dogs

I was told today that something else is stronger than love. That a relationship is only as good as that. Now hold the phone. It's is an action so let's assume he meant lust. Lust is an internal craving for that. You can have loveless lust and lustless love. You can also have lustful love and loveful lust.


There are different kinds of love and lust. There is the intense love at first sight. The gradual adornment that turned into love. There is opposite attract love and long distance love. There is needed love and wanted love. The same can be applied to lust.

"No one dies for lust." True. But when is the last time you heard of someone realllllllllly dying for love?

I guess you could say those old couples died because of their love. But maybe they died because they knew no one would satisfy them again.

"Eventually the thrill of lust--fades. That doesn't happen with love." Says who? I've heard all types of stories where a husband and wife broke up because they fell out of love. Maybeeeeeeee they fell into a problem with their lust life. If you think about it, people wayyyyyyy back in the day got to know each other way before they got close to marriage. Let alone that. Now it's a ritual. God forbid anyone holds out for marriage anymore. If you ask my little sister shed tell you no one even waits until senior year in high school and God forbid, they wait until college. Come on Ash! Be realistic. No one does that. No one.. That's the scary part. (And a whole different conversation that needs to be addressed.)

But what if love and lust are just different expressions of the same emotion. Maybe we try to tear them apart to explain them. Maybe they are the lightning and thunder of emotions. A different medium for the same expression. We tear lightning n thunder apart because they seem different. But in reality they are one in the same. Don't you see? You can't have a thunderstorm and miss either. You can't. Yet, friction can cause lightning and anything that falls can make an equivalent sound to thunder. "But it's not thunder" and love is only true when it's accompanied with a lust so powerful you can't hold back.

You can't feel true love without the lightning connection that you lust for and the love to make the impact all the more powerful with a resounding reassurance of forever.

They only need to be stronger and different than one another to be understood. But they are still one in the same, my dear. And you need both to understand the powerful connection the sky and earth can possess. And what true love really can mean to some couples.

Deep Breath

Breathe.

That's all she needs to tell herself

Just keep breathing.

The world might be completely against her.

Who is she kidding?

Since the very beginning, it has always been against her.

It seems like it's just her

The whole world has tried to keep her down

But it doesn't matter.

All she needs to do is tune the rest out

And focus.

Focus on what could be good in life

instead of what isn't.

        

Show her that the world is a diabolically evil place

She will make it a better one.

She will show you the way the world comes alive

At the touch of her fingertips

And how even the cheesiest smile that she puts on her face

Will make her into a superhero.

She will show you that with the world surrounded with evil,

there is still good to be found.

And it begins with the things most people miss out on constantly

It may only in the tranquility of her own mind.

 But she will guide you to a world you've only dreamed of.

Just by tuning the rest of the world out.

Just by remembering to breathe.

The New Age Afterlife

     It’s easily a matter of life or death—
     “Mom!”
     Societal Suicide—
     “Daaaa-ad!”
     Public humiliation on the noblest level—
     “I need to go to the movies NOW!” “I need to get that new shirt NOW!” “I need those new trading cards NOW!”
     One word describes it all: Popularity.
     It is the bane of existence for every teen in part of our realistic society. Isn’t that how adults view it? It becomes politically correct to wear see-through clothing, midriff tops and barely-able-to-cover-their-ass shorts. It’s PC because everyone views popularity as the end all be all.
     If you thought it was okay for Sylvia to be five minutes late to her “friendly” gossip ridden haven, then you are the reason she’d become a living organism inside the much despised high school hell. Hell was a scary place for the preteens and teenagers. For every person inside of it, it was full of ridicule, humiliation and an unfathomable ability to never love oneself.
     Did you really want to be the reason little Jeffery was misplaced and abused throughout the rest of his schooling. That’s sure a lot on your plate, huh? Is it possible for you to even imagine what it must be like for little Brittany to go through such a horrible dilemma because of you?

     To me, it always felt like everyone strived for this inner circle of fake smiles, stupid laughter and plastic cards. My confession time: I was a loser. Though depending on the age, especially those god awful lanky preteen years, I’d never have admitted it.
     But, I, Ashley, was a loser. In fact, I was also a super smart nerd who every bit of information seemed to come easily to. And let’s not even mention the stereotypical suck-up geek. I was part of the incurable and undesirable high school hell. The funny part is that I, personally, loved it. Not in that weird gothic, “I live for negative attention because it is better than no attention”, kind of way. Not in the classic Eeyorean attitude where I have to accept life as I know it because I would never be able to change it if I wanted to try. So what was the point anyway? And not in the lying way that most people right on the edge of the popularity circle pretend they don’t care just so that they don’t feel even worse for themselves on a daily basis.
      In fact, it was easy to love high school hell like I did. All I had to do was find my perfect group of friends. They had to be crazy. They had to look hilarious together. They had to be “out of the box” thinkers and they had to pressure you.
      NOW WAIT ONE SECOND! Did you really just read that right? Isn’t peer pressure bad? Well, if you ask me, no. I don’t think it has to be. It can be. “Take a hit of this.” “Everyone else is doing it.” “Let’s go get DRUNK!” “God! EVERYONE has sex before they finish high school! What were you thinking, Ashley?” Those are some downright awful pressures.
      But I needed pressure. I always had my head buried in a book or my thoughts among the clouds. I had the strictest parents, I think in the entire world. At least, that was always how it seemed until I met Tony. Because of them, I was always on a strict schedule: Dinner by five; after it got dark I had to be inside; and bed time was eight at night, even on those summer nights when it was still light out. I needed to stick my toes on that line that I was also told would make me burst into fire if I ever crossed. Did I cross some and get burned when I shouldn’t have? Well, sure. But I also learned to trust my own judgment and realized to feel the heat of the problem before I spontaneously combusted. How many times was I told not to worry? I couldn’t count the amount of times I was told to stop thinking just for one minute. And I should “just do it”.
     If I ever did stop all my constant thinking, I would feel as free as the “get one” part of the “buy one, get one” deal. That was until I realized I still had to buy something to be free. That was the point where I would worry all over again.
     I was in a certainly crazy crowd. My parents always assumed I was, but they didn’t know half of it. We snuck out, we messed things up in the neighborhood, and we shot paintball guns. We had the cops called on us for walking in someone’s grass, magnetic bumper stickers and curfew. I have been taken home twice in a cop car and watched my friends wriggle around in a bag hoping someone would call the cops on “the infamous bagman”.
      Oh, sure. It sounds stupid as hell if you never tried it. (Even if you did, sometimes it was—no, most of the time it was—pretty stupid. But I was taught and advised more the nights I was with them then I did all my life. I learned the best way to unwind wasn’t to pop open a cold one but to laugh until I was considered insane. They taught me what it felt like to help someone for the first time, when they needed you and I learned to not give a shit about people that don’t give a shit about you.

      I didn’t enjoy high school. Classes were boring. I could sleep through them and get B’s. (Not something I ever truthfully did, which looking back, I cannot even believe). However, if you think I paid attention, you have another thing coming. It was like telling a fifty year old to watch Sesame Street because there were some great life lessons they could learn from. I would seriously hope, even the average fifty year old, knew the life lessons we teach four year olds. But my friends gave me the best advice that I never asked for. They taught me to survive life and how to love myself.
      Sure, I yelled for my mother and my father. I demanded leaving on a moment’s leave for the movies. But it wasn’t because Carrie would downright murder me if I didn’t trash talk by the door for thirty minutes. My reason was because Jackass just came out and we needed new material to work with and laugh at. We needed something new to help us continually enjoy our hellish stature.