What's in a name?

I've been toying with the idea of pseudonym. Specifically that I want one for myself but am having trouble coming up with a name. It started last week when I was writing a little opinion piece for the newspaper-- something about certain illegal acts I may have been cited for-- and caught myself censoring, which I hate. At the time I used a mental fix, swearing to leave my identity off the article. Only there are two things wrong with anonymity...
1. It defeats the main purpose of my writing, which is of course to get the much needed attention that a youngest child is accustomed to.
2. It's just no fun.
I've thought about my alias before. Usually the thought occurs at a bar, though, develops into something like "Shamrock" or "Hennessey," and is served with some sort of accent to the creepers-- you know, those ones at the bars that like to pick up girls with such names as "Shamrock" or "Hennessey."
I've also thought about making character names for this blog, a sort of cast list of all my friends and lovers that appear on this page. Then I realized that there are actually very few friends and lovers (make judgments as you will) that come up in my writing. So really, I would only be characterizing myself... which brings me back to this pseudonym.
Once in Italy I sat on a canal-side dock with some Venetian philosophy students, not actually thinking about myself, until one of the guys (in a very chauvinist Italian sort of way) looked at me and said, "You know I've forgotten your name already, but I think you look like a Sarah."
BLAH. I wanted to puke on his greasy, cigarette-dragging smirk. And then I realized, shit, what if he's right? What if I do look like a Sarah?
My friend David swears, on the contrary, I am "such a Josie." And I kind of agree. I feel this way about the names of a lot of people.
My mother, for instance, notoriously answers the telephone with a soprano "He-looo," the rounded vowel carrying out awkwardly for a few seconds as the person on the other end waits for her to breathe. Her name is Melody.
One of my best friends is all of 4 feet 11 inches, a legal midget, but she has the most beautiful long chestnut brown hair and eyes to match. She is a spitfire, Jewish, daughter of a lawyer. Her name is Talia.
And then there's this guy I, suppose, had a fling with a bit back. He is completely New York, Upper West Side, belonging to some obscure eastern religion, sharp model-like features, intent gaze. His name is Julian.
So I'm back to my pseudonym, which is so hard because my parents have given me these three wonderfully out-of-the- ordinary names to play with, shorten, and go by as I choose. And now I want one more. It doesn't have to be perfect, and obviously it won't be "soo me" like my real name. But Sarah? Really? Somehow I'd rather be anonymous.

Question

Does everyone, upon returning from the dry, dizzying, mile-high air of Colorado to the sticky flatness of the Midwest, feel like they've fallen? Like the skyline just doesn't inspire and the boys are all the same?

Creepy

To preface...
This was one of my writing prompts for creative non-fiction class: Write an obituary or eulogy for yourself.
In the interest of not having Oprah hate me, I will gladly say this is not true. Which begs the question... creative nonfiction or just fiction? You decide.

Josie Sexton, 20 years old, beloved daughter, sister, and friend, died yesterday of heart complications tap dancing. Miss Sexton was giving her final recital, a lovely but edgy piece set to the tune of Salt N’ Peppa’s Shoop, when she collapsed to the floor after a series of pirouettes.
“It was her best performance yet,” said roommate and dance partner Hailey Gurvis. “She would have wanted to leave on a high note.”
Miss Sexton, always the performer, had recently taken up tap after trying her hand at couples’ dancing.
“She could tango anyone under the table,” Miss Gurvis said, “waltz, foxtrot, merengue, salsa, you name it.”
According to former coach Steve Yao, the decision to go solo was an important step for Miss Sexton, as a dancer and a young woman. “She always wanted to lead,” Mr. Yao said. “I think she finally realized she was ready to dance on her own.”
Miss Sexton, just two quarters shy of graduating from the Ohio State University, with a double major in International Relations and Spanish and a minor in English, left the school earlier this year to pursue other interests in Spain.
“She was different when she came back to Columbus,” Miss Gurvis said. “She wanted to take tap lessons, writing courses, and work as a waitress. She said she needed to save money to visit Raul.”
Raúl Ramon García Sanchez, Miss Sexton’s Spanish lover, described her as smart and funny, but also the “typical American.”
“She work so hard in Ohio,” Mr. Sanchez said.
Although friends and family attest to Miss Sexton’s relaxed character after returning from Europe, sister Lindsey believes years of stress are hard to undo.
“She used to worry a lot,” Lindsey said, “and I know she was still nervous on that stage, but she truly looked happy.”

If I Had a Shovel

Top 10 things I find myself doing 32 hours into a blizzard...

10. Eating entire Pizza Hut deep dish pizzas and chocolate chip milkshakes
9. Applying the term "stocking up for winter" to rationalize the above
8. Analyzing the later work of M. Night Shyamalan
7. Analyzing a text message
6. Following the weather channel
5. Calling friends with important things to say like "level 3 snow emergency"
4. Listening to cars on High Street spin their wheels
3. Spinning my own
2. Not studying for exams
1. Feeling more claustrophobic than creative
0. Willing someone to call

(I think the snow actually just stopped... but lists are always therapeutic)

Too Late to Apologize?

Dear B,
I just wanted you to know that I did not skip class, wait in the rain, or punch a Republican at the polls today in order to vote for you. And when my dad called me for the second time to go, I did not listen to him. I let you down, sir. But let it be known that I probably won't sleep tonight. And if I do, Hillary's takin' Ohio face will haunt my dreams. And when I wake up tomorrow I pray that my primary sin will be forgiven, that Texas will not have been so unwise.
XoXo,
J

Last Night...

Conversation with the boy.
Him-- at a "dorm party," couldn't hear me over the commotion "Chug it, Jenny.... Who wants to play strip beer pong... Shh I think I hear the R.A.," started to say "I don't know, I'm not sure what I want..."
Me-- in a cab on my way back from Gallery Hop, tingling from the spider roll, twin dragon roll, Lycheelicious martini(s), asked him "Can you go somewhere so I can hear you," heard myself say "We could make an appearance at the dorms," realized what I just said, stopped his rambling with "Call me when you do know..."

A term I learned on "In Treatment" the other night: erotic transference-- common occurrence in psychotherapy in which a patient projects positive feelings and qualities associated with their parents onto the therapist, mistaking the connection for romantic love.

A question for my hypothetical therapist: What exactly am I doing?

On babies

My mom asked me the other day if I was "corrupting" a nineteen-year-old. I didn't know how to respond. Four years ago she was toying with the term to keep me from sleeping over at Randy's. Two years ago she was threatening with it to keep me from dating Revan. And last year she was lamenting it to keep me broken-up with Chris. Is that what it takes? Three relationships to turn me from object to agent in the act of "corruption." Or did something else solidify the end of her last daughter's relative innocence?

Feeling Perezosa

The last time I wrote a tome in Spanish, I was sitting at the bar of the Flying Pig Amsterdam, solo, with my ibook, in the land of bongs, bowls, and blunts. It was Christmas Eve Eve and I had successfully extended the deadline for my art history final paper. In Spain, all I had to do was ask. But then there I was in Amsterdam, on my own for the first time, getting a contact high, writing (appropriately) about Gaudí, wanting just to forget the paper, remembering the last four months. And now here I am, wishing I were maybe a little high, writing a paper (appropriately) about the effect of memory, stopping for a second to focus on my own.

When it Rains it Pours

My last vision of Saturday night is an Irish Car Bomb.
"You were so college last night," Will told me the next day. I was lying in Hailey's bed, going through my phonebook, trying to piece together the events that began with an old coworker at a bar and ended with a fresh pile of vomit at the foot of my bed. I groaned for a glass of water.
"Maybe don't let them buy you so many shots next time?" Hailey offered.

This morning started with a bang. The kind of steady, knock-myself-over-the-head bang of a jackhammer pounding outside my window. Instead, I waited patiently, then ran to the sink to turn on my faucet, thankful to find water finally flowing strong.

And it ended with a bang. Our friendly neighborhood firefighters only seem to know one way to enter the building. There they were, five men in suit, pounding on the door next to ours just as we were debating blue cheeseburgers or jalapeno cheeseburgers for dinner.
"You guys again..." I was ready to get my shoes, maybe my purse, a favorite dress or two, when they informed us it was only a leak. When we informed them there was no one living there to answer the door, they got excited.
"We're gonna have to break down this door then." Of course they were.
So we left for the grocery store as the breaking of the door commenced and the security alarm sounded and the guy downstairs opened his door to reveal a waterfall coming from his hall closet and flowing through his living room.
"What about tacos instead?" Hailey said.

Water Water Everywhere

I curse the modest river that runneth down 12th street outside my window and I wish its babble wouldn't put me to sleep at night and if I could I would make a little dam and bathe in it, right there for the United Dairy late-shift boys to see and then I would explain to anyone who should care to stop me that this bum brook, this inner-city stream, this fuckin fountain is for naught. It's a busted pipe spewing my sink's, my toilet's, my washing machine's, my dishwasher's, my shower's, yes my shower's, water straight into the gutter. The dead grass in its path is wet as a whistle, and I'm inside sleeping like a baby, dry as a bone.

Laptop Keys Just Don't Ring Like a Typewriter's

"Just write it all down. Just the truth. No rhymes. No embellishments. No adjectives."
-Atonement

A line not unlike the movie it came from- a little overdone, but really lovely- enough so that I'll buy it.

http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/cinema/2007/12/10/071210crci_cinema_lane
(Great review, better than I could put it)

Wanted.

There's a girl posing as me as someone else....
or something like that.
She was spotted...

One month ago. Running through the streets of Granada, España at 7 a.m., pretending to hotwire motos, one hand nestled in Alejandro's, the other swinging a clutch that held the crumpled notes for my 10:30 a.m. European Union final exam, singing "Alegría..."

Two days ago. Watching inches of my hair fall to the ground as her's took on the form of a choppy bob. Responding elaborately to the awkward repeated questions of a stylist who was too busy to make the drastic change a less-than-traumatic, let alone enjoyable experience. Calling my sister on the drive home to recount the tale. Laughing when she seemed concerned, "I'm not too worried, it's just hair, Lin."

Last night. Back in Ohio. Standing in the rain at the entrance to a campus bar, staring right through a large, burly man, smiling big, lying through my teeth, "5,6... I'm in heels... see? Aren't they cute? No, they're actually brown, but I'm wearing contacts. This is my friend Hailey. Her eyes are really green under those baby blues. Cool, right?"

Earlier today. Snuggling on the couch, still in my pajamas, watching Lucky Number Sleven, and Grandma's Boy, and only getting up to walk down the street and pay my rent.

An hour ago. Lying half-nude on my bed, legs kicking in the air, performing the "Look-how-I-can-no-longer-get-these-pants-zipped dance" for my wildly amused roommate, laughing as she bent way over to reveal my newly-gained version of a love handle, explaining to Hailey, or maybe to me, "I bought these jeans two months and ten pounds ago in Spain, and they're not the only thing that doesn't seem to fit anymore."

Guilty Pleasures

In the words of Miley Cyrus....

The last time I freaked out
I just kept lookin down
I st-st-stuttered when you asked me what I'm thinkin 'bout
Felt like I couldn't breathe
You asked what's wrong with me
My best friend Leslie said "Oh she's just bein Miley"
The next time we hang out
I will redeem myself
My heart can't rest til then
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh
I, I can't wait to see you again.

A Romantic Dinner for Two Roommates

Tilapia and scallops pan-seared in butter, lemon, and olive oil. Sweet potato hash-- shallots, green peppers, sausage, white wine to taste. Sauvignon Blanc.
Cheers.

The Smoke Has Finally Cleared

Or the dust has settled... or the fire has been put out.
All the above literally apply. After one long night of burning, a few days of sitting and wallowing, a week and a half of airing out, painting, and carpeting, and twelve or so hours of cleaning, my apartment almost feels like home again. And if I have to move one more time (that will make eight times in the past six months) I will kill someone. Or maybe start a fire. Sorry, too soon.

The Empty-Nesters

My sister Lindsey was the first to get out. She left for Denver in August, taking the few things from her life in Columbus that would fit in a Toyota Camry-- all her clothes we had shared, various "What Am I Supposed to Do After College" books, and a school backpack I had "borrowed" and then unsuccessfully hidden when she announced the move. I didn't have time to complain. Within weeks I was headed off to Spain for four months. As for my oldest sister, Meghan, she would be the last to leave, but she would leave. According to a signed lease, she would be about 15 minutes away from my parents' house by the third week in September. Not a drive or a flight away, but a step nonetheless.
Dick and Med were ecstatic. Sure they had a 2,000 square-foot house, about 1,500 square-feet full of their daughters' remains. Meghan's old furniture and appliances. Lindsey's unfinished craft projects, cds, photo albums. My clothes, my books, all my papers. And then there were the animals: two cats from Meghan and one dog from Lindsey. None, I'm proud to say, from myself. That left them plus four animals, including the one pet from our childhood, my half-siamese, half-human Phoebe. But after 27 years of doing the parent thing, they were finally minus three daughters.
Lindsey was the first to call, before I left.
"Have Mom send my beads and all my jewelry stuff."
A month later she rang for her three-year-old bitch.
"My roommates ok'd Parker. Have Meghan bring her in the plane when she comes to visit."
Dick and Med said they were ecstatic.
"Finally, we can sleep without a hairball between us!"


When I came back from Spain on Christmas Eve, I was fifty dollars short for the taxi-ride from South-West Florida International to my parents' condo.
I toyed with the big "hello" in the cab.
"Surprise, I'm home and I need money," seemed like the wrong way to say I'd grown up in the past few months. Fortunately, I soon discovered I was two weeks early and apparently just in time to salvage the first family reunion in half a year. After the initial excitement wore off, I sat poolside with Meghan, Lindsey, and Edna, one of our many fly-south-for-the-winter neighbors.
"You got here just in time," Lindsey said under her breath.
Edna was straining to listen.
"They've just gotten crazier," Meghan added, then changed the subject as Mom walked through the gate.
"I was just telling Josie how she'll get to see Parker when she gets home."
"Oh yea," Mom was using her annoyed pre-school teacher voice. "Did Lindsey tell you how she brought Parker back home finally. Just couldn't stay away." She smiled. "We missed her, though."
"Who, Lindsey?" I asked.


Three weeks after coming back to Columbus, two weeks after moving into my own apartment, and a week after moving out of my now burned apartment, I'm back at home, a seventh-wheel squatter in the house I once occupied. It's early Saturday morning, and because my bedroom is also the cat's, and my bathroom also Parker's, I am awoken through the open doors to the sound of Dad's hurried voice.
"Med, get the brush."
I hear the persistent jingling of a collar, and the water running in our (Parker's and my) bathtub.
"She got into something down by the creek. I think its burs."
After a few minutes of lying in bed listening, I've discovered that yes, Parker has gotten into some burs, and no, they are not coming out of her frizzy mane with shampoo and water. And that my parents are worried, very worried.
"Call PetSmart, or the vet." My dad is barking orders at my mother, who is running through the house in search of a phonebook.
By this point I'm up, so I venture out to witness the damage.
My bathtub is covered in shit, and Parker has shaken her way over to the the living room, where she's rubbing more shit all over the carpet.
Dad is on the telephone, with Mom standing by eagerly.
"Dick, if they don't answer we can call her doctor."
He shushes her.
"Parker Sexton," he tells the teenager on the other end of the line. "That's right, s-e-x, as in sex, and t-o-n, as in 2,000 pounds. She's a miniature pincher, Shnouzer mix, between three and four years old. She usually goes to another store, but we've tried all of them, they're booked, and we'd like to get her in this morning.
He tells the kid they can be there in twenty minutes, and my mom is out the basement door. "I'll bring the car around, Dick."
He yells to me to clean up the shit on the carpet, and slams the front door. As Parker comes waddling over, confused, as her parents left without her, I tell her to stay strong.
"Don't worry, Parker, even though it may seem dire, you're not going to die."
The front door opens again. "Parker!" Mom yells.

They're back in an hour, but I don't hear the collar or her annoying yelp.
"So did you have to put her to sleep in the end?"
Dad doesn't get the joke.
"You know I think they will, she was just so scared, making all kinds of noise while the other dogs were sitting there patiently."
Mom is worried.
"They won't put her to sleep, will they Dick?"
"They said she'd be ready between two and seven. I bet they do, Med, and they want to give her time to wake up before we come."
"Oh God I hope not."
"I'm heading over to the apartment to clean and do homework. Mom, I was thinking you could come and help me there tomorrow?"
She picks a fight over this request as Dad walks over to the living room, probably to pick up more shit off the carpet. So I'm standing in the bathroom, picking up after Parker, wishing I had just rolled in some burs down by the creek, instead of coming back to the real world, having my apartment building catch on fire, my roommate move out, and my financial situation upheaved by all of the above. Maybe then my parents would call the doctor.