Long Overdue

Isn't it wholly natural that the notebook I bought in Scotland specifically not for the purpose of recording to-do lists and important dates and addresses for job interviews ended up collecting dust and crumbs at the bottom of my bag chock-full of to-do lists and important dates and addresses for job interviews?

I finally dug it out today and here are the fruits of my labor, courtesy of the Scottish landscape.


Orphan Bird

Memory prickles,
     swan may outrun
     cross-country trains.

Dreams tickle,
     wing beats jump the track
     at light speed.

Reality pickled.

Only a blood-stained grate
     and the re-occurrence of

     flying or falling?


Stuck in Drumnadrochit

Stuck in
Drumnadrochit,
I would be wiser
to have booked
a return ticket.


Hunt

I saw a Scottish stag along the road to Lochluichart.
Exposed, he was aware the meat wrapped 'round his bones was fresh;
Blue veins beneath his sinew played a pretty poacher's mark.
Each contour carved a target with the bull's eye at his breast;
Velvet eyes sunk deep inside his skull, down to that fleet heart
And amid the muffled drumming of its chambers, came to rest.
Now blind, wild instinct thawed his limbs and lit a whiplashed spark
That dwarfed the sun dipped, dappled 'cross the watercolored west.
For sustenance or sport he was desired in whole and part
But his joints and spirit both were made to fly, pursued and pressed;
Head upraised to greet the twilight, he shot into the dark.
Fingers traced my own throat's outlines, dressed in hairless flesh,
And the same blood tattoo beat there to defy the whistling dart
Of a nameless hunter poised atop these universal crests,
Our golden hills, that in the night, loom vacant, chill, and stark.

Why am I writing this?

I'm not one to pick fights. I don't believe in using Facebook as a platform for political/religious/personal viewpoints and I definitely don't believe in attacking the opinions of others via a social networking site. Or in real life, for that matter. While I wholeheartedly respect everyone's views, I no longer feel comfortable silencing my disagreement with some of the things I've been hearing and reading lately, especially related to the Sandy Hook shootings. I will try to state my viewpoint as clearly and concisely as possible and I mean no offense to anyone in particular.

First, many people seem to believe that God has been pushed out of our culture. I'm the first to acknowledge that religion in society looks different than it did 20 years ago. As immigration increases, we see a pluralization of the American religious landscape; Buddhist and Hindu temples, Muslim mosques, and new brands of Protestantism and Catholicism have sprung up everywhere you turn. New restrictions on what is kosher when expressing religious sentiments in public arenas have been implemented to protect the rights of those without religious affiliations. We hear, "Happy Holidays," instead of plain old, "Merry Christmas" when we shop at Target and Kohl's this time of year. Our culture glorifies consumption, promiscuous sex, selfish, excessive lifestyles, and all manner of things which I believe hinder our right relationship with God. I see all of this.

While religion's role in society may have changed shape since the founding of this country, it has by no means been eliminated. Many fear this constant threat of "secularization" and see myriad evidence to suggest that God and Christian values are losing their social significance in our culture today. On the contrary, many sociologists believe that the secularization theory is partially a myth and cite evidence, including steady church attendance statistics, an actual increase in the amount of money donated to churches, and the growth of stricter churches, to support their point (although I couldn't locate the actual article, this evidence is cited in the 2nd edition of Sociology of Religion: A Reader, edited by Susanne C. Monahan, William A. Mirola, and Michael O. Emerson. I can provide more information on this book to anyone who is interested or wants to check my facts). When compared to many other developed countries like France and Japan, the U.S. is far and away the most religiously-centered nation. Religion, moral values, and spirituality are alive and well in American society.

I don't believe that God and religion have been pushed out of our culture. Why? Not only because of the evidence cited above, but because it has merely shifted its appearance to accommodate the individualism we so dearly treasure in American society. Officially at least, religion has become an individual thing. You are free to practice and express your religious beliefs on an individual basis as long as they don't infringe upon the rights of others. Contrary to popular belief, students are allowed to pray in schools as long as the activity "[...] is not coercive and does not substantially disrupt the school's mission and activities" (http://www.adl.org/religion_ps_2004/prayer.asp). Organized, school-sanctioned prayer is outlawed, and rightfully so. Think of it this way: if Christians lived in a predominantly Muslim state, would we want our children to be forced to utter the Muslim Zuhr and Asr prayers every afternoon in their classrooms? Doubtful. But if a child wishes to say a quiet prayer before a meal, he or she is absolutely free to do so. Individualism is both a blessing and a curse in many ways, but in this situation, I believe it to be necessary and beneficial because it preserves the rights of every citizen, not just those who happen to think their beliefs are the only "right and true" way (which is basically everyone, by the way).  

This individualization of religion is not contrary to the ideals and laws on which our country was founded. According to the First Amendment, "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof [...]". The beauty of America is that everyone has the right to practice his/her religion individually without the infringement of government entities. Christians, Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, atheists, agnostics, and everyone in between has the right to exercise these powers of freedom of religion. We do not live in a theocracy and we never did. You can do what you want, with one tiny restriction: your right to practice your religion cannot infringe upon someone else's rights.

In my opinion, people are most concerned about the Christian God being "pushed out of our culture". For those who lament the loss of Christian morals in American society, I have this question: are you advocating for a theocracy dictated by religious law? Because that's exactly what Muslim fundamentalist extremists are fighting for as they shed innocent blood. As for me, I'd rather live in a society which gives me the freedom to practice my religion on an individual basis without restraint. I don't long for the U.S. to be subject to Christian law because I think it is wrong to force my beliefs on others don't share them. Because we live in a diverse society, we cannot constitutionally advocate for a society run by a particular religion.

Second, many arguments are being made to the tune of, "Guns don't kill people. People kill people." While I partially agree with this statement and believe in the constitutional right of citizens to own firearms, I don't understand how harsher gun control laws and restrictions on the most dangerous weapons like assault rifles hurt anything or anyone. If you want a gun so badly, why aren't you willing to submit to stringent laws and processes to ensure that you're mentally sound and are not going to use those weapons to take innocent lives? If it comes down to a "you can't tell me what to do" attitude or a mere annoyance with inconvenience, I don't see either of these as strong arguments against guaranteeing public safety. I'd encourage everyone to take a look at this article about Japan's gun control laws and their results (http://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2012/07/a-land-without-guns-how-japan-has-virtually-eliminated-shooting-deaths/260189/).

Furthermore, in congruence with strict gun control, I strongly believe in increased mental health treatment as a deterrent to these tragedies. Instead of viewing this man (I'll admit, I don't know his name as I've been trying to avoid reading too much about the shooting. I believe the sensationalized media attention only encourages copy-cats trying to be remembered in death as they were not acknowledged in life.) as evil incarnate, we must look at him as Jesus would, as an utterly broken, fallen human in immense pain. I do not believe Jesus would condemn the shooter. Instead, He would look on him with absolute sorrow and pity and would seek to restore him to right relationship. If people who are hurting can receive access to the help, love, support, and treatment they desperately need, I believe these atrocities can be avoided. Call me naive. But by labeling this man as "evil" and "crazy", we are giving ourselves permission to hate and we write him off without attacking the root of the problems in institutions, systems, and culture which pushed him to this extreme act.

Finally, I disagree with the notion that because we have pushed God out of our culture and lives, He abandons us and allows events like the Sandy Hook shooting. I do not believe in this God. I believe in a God who is so utterly pained by our brokenness that He is present and works in all things to further His plan of reconciliation. Just before His ascension into heaven in Matthew 28:20, Jesus declares, "And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." We have not been abandoned by God as some sort of sick punishment for rejecting Him. Instead, God is actively working in the world to restore everything to how He meant it to be at the beginning of creation. We may not understand this plan at times, but we can cling to the knowledge that God is present and active, always. I don't believe God caused this to happen but I do believe He can bring good out of this horrible situation.

I fully acknowledge that my positions are incomplete and imperfect. If anyone has an argument that might sharpen or adjust my thinking on this issue, I'm open to hearing opposing points of view. I suppose I've said my piece. The End.

Love Always,
Mandy




 

i do not adore idaho

Wheat Country

The man and his binoculars

Alight,
Perch in a pick-up truck with the
Motor running,

Peer into the heart

Of the wheat field.

Perhaps they hunt

The horizon beyond,

Pinpointing the precise location

Where canary hills brush

Rolling sky.

Aliens

Even in the breeze,
It is
One hundred and six degrees
On asphalt.

Now
There are wind farms
Among the dusty hills and fields
Groomed and whipped
Like earthy cream.

Tall,
White,
Sullen,
Sentinels of modernity,
Machines guarding against
The blaze
Of unseen wildfires.

The Berries Were Sunburnt

Leave red alone.
Let roan bones groan.
It is not the shade for you.
Take blue,
Or puce,
A little chartreuse.
   
Yet even the sea runs red.

Working On It

Yes, "untasted" is a word. It was news to me, too.


I Don't Know What This Poem Is About


a brick wall
made of cardboard cut-outs
painted dusty and clever
illusions
made of little black dresses
     all color
     all texture
     all opera.

daily sexual exploits
made of priestly kissing booths,
these confessionals.
purged until eyes dry
or dry up.
there is no oasis here,

but there is sand

in my underwear.


9 Hours A Day


A greenhouse is an unassuming thing. A Call-It-What-It-Is, that prayer of gratitude offered to guardian angels after slips in the shower or that phlegmy cough refusing to be caged. A greenhouse head for me, and all my thoughts called what they are, forest as my untasted soul, when seeds take hold and

roots sprout wings.

the words came soft, the words came hard, you whisper, "that's what she said."

After the drought, it all spilled out of me today.

lalala

small and salacious
summer adventures
like sea anemone ballets.
rooftops
are often involved
and Emily Dickinson
may or may not
approve
of sentences clipped
short
or
naughtiness in its various, pregnant topographies.

Insert Dreamy Title Here


As I rode my unicorn across the sky, I saw the redheads of the world
     strumming G chords in unison and
     speaking fluent Portuguese.
          Pretty cacophony.
But none of them could cook for their husbands and wives so they settled for laundry days
          instead.
Now to document paisley summer nights that end as
          8 o'clock's
crooked, hazel light rips the earth at its seams.
          Tenderly ravenous.
Then a scientist and a love child walk into a bar but their bodies fuse in watercolor tango while they both
     wait to speak and
     wait for the other to speak first.

How I Feel About Words Sometimes

it was

a swamp

of scraggly words

like weeds

bad poetry

trying to impress

she waded through

waist-deep

and adjectives lodged themselves

between her toes

all filth and phrases

"her forlorn thunder shower eyes"

the other side

a dusky sky

and clouds that spelled

the end

one word

or two

devoid of poignancy

yet oddly

warmly

fitting

Happy Birthday, Jake

HAPPY FREAKIN' BIRTHDAY, JAKE SANDERS!

You've been alive for 22 whole years. Congratulations. I think that's pretty dang awesome.

I know it's not much, but here are a few words in relation to what may appear, on the surface, to be a slightly lame birthday present.

1)   I apologize for the quality. This is what happens when your webcam sucks and your video camera  was made in 1999.

2)   I practiced for a solid two weeks to get these lyrics down cold. Rap is hard.

3)   It may be necessary to imagine the countless times I listened to this song on repeat at work, reciting the lyrics under my breath much to the astonishment and borderline repugnance of my coworkers.

4)   No cue cards or other such nonsense were used in the making of this video. If you doubt me, I’d be happy to give an in-person encore performance. These lyrics may never fully leave my brain.

5)   I had to get creative when it came to the unintelligible bits and the last verse wasn’t even online so that got extra creative. Here’s a link to the original song (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jSzlA8sEHE) so you can check my accuracy or lack thereof.

Lastly, I’ve included my lyrics below in case the video quality is too poor or my rap skills are too off-the-chain for you to fully understand them.

I love you so very much and I hope this silliness adds to what I’m sure will be a birthday to remember. You are wonderful in so many ways, Jake Sanders. Please stay that way. Happy, Happy, Happy Birthday.

Birthday

Flo Rida ft. Rick Ross

CHORUS

You don’t want no cake on your birthday

You want your cake every day, every day, every day, every day

You don’t want no cake on your birthday

You want your cake every day.

VERSE 1

I’m gonna be honest, tomorrow ain’t promised, that’s why I say this

Here today, then you gone, like renting a car from Avis

Hurts, but it’s the truth

You die but not that Mercedes

That’s why you be on point, you never procrastinating

You better be dodging Satan

That pussy n***** be hating

Want his cake and eat it, too, then do you greasy like bacon

Every day money chasing, you’re so in love with the fragrance

So what? You’re a little impatient, but dope man ain’t got no patience

Boy you feel like you’re racing before you become a raisin

Want strippers hotter than Cajun

Your deli be in rotation

Your daily birthday occasion 

You’re rarely off of vacation

You’re barely on in the nation

And Nelly dollars in raking?

to CHORUS

VERSE 2

I ain’t talking next year

I ain’t talking in a month

I ain’t talking in a week

Every day you want a stunt

Every day you want some candles

Every day a million bucks

Every day pull up in lambos, fillet mignon for lunch

Where your birthday?

You got your birthday?

When you’re birthday?

You better say your birthday

You get emotional, that’s what C notes’ll do

Them penny loafer shoes help you cop a Bentley Coup

Now your string of women more hotter than Campbell’s soup

Boy, that cake will make them priests turn to animals

You’re King Kong, and it’s our training day

Denzel with the ice and you’re pushing weight

I ain’t trying to wave ‘em off

I ain’t trying to downplay

But if Biggie got a wife, she ain’t with him, not a day

Ain’t nobody here to stay

You can try to get away

Imma bounce that n***** prey

My advice still the same

to CHORUS

VERSE 3

You’re Mr. Birthday Man

You will milk that, man

Better alert that man

I will hurt that man

Tell ‘em

They don’t want you to go outside

Won't hear your running, no, no, no, no

Home of the birthday episode

Gotta make a wish before your hear them blow

It’s a pretty pic, keeping it G, go

Sitting there just thinking all about that dough

They think they’re bigger than you?

You get Ghost Busters

Suckers, the fuckers, seductors

We squeezing chiggers like mustard all on them, dog

Say something might get ‘em lost

These repercussions don’t talk, boss

to CHORUS

Chicagoan

     It was the weekend of German Fest. More explanation necessary?

     She wore the floral skirt that night. Paired it with a belt that served no purpose. Her satchel matched that belt perfectly. She made sure her hair was messily in order. It was especially voluptuous. She put her cell phone away for the evening. Except to check it every ten minutes or so.

     Their detailed internet directions failed them. They bypassed North Lincoln Avenue and trekked four blocks before turning around. Rachel’s internal compass was selective.

     They arrived with two minutes to spare. Ethan Cox from acting class was locking up his bike outside the door. He was the one who continually scratched his scruff, as if pawing would lengthen and thicken it. Introductions made, hands shaken. The theater was nearly full but they managed to find three seats together. A gay couple in matching plaid shirts cuddled in front of them. The show was all Christian jokes and budget costumes. There was even an intermission.

     Ethan Cox knew the actor who played Awkward Jew. Ethan Cox knew the actor who played Hunky Camp Counselor. Ethan Cox knew the actor who played Shadowy Vixen. When they left the theatre, Ethan Cox invited them to an after-party. They politely declined by nodding, smiling, and walking away.

     “Well, Happy Birthday,” she said.

     Rachel waited for the red line while she plopped down on the platform directly across the tracks. It would take Rachel nearly an hour to reach her apartment downtown. But it wasn’t very late. The drunken group was gone. A boy in short shorts had nearly fallen into the street and his friends dragged him back to ground-level. A chubby man awaited the red line train. He adjusted his backpack. Soon, the train screeched to a stop in front of him. When it pulled away, he was still there, adjusting his backpack. He walked down the steps to the street, the same path the boy and his friends had followed earlier. There was still a faint hint of summer in the air. Now she was alone.

     Another couple in matching plaid shirts, heterosexual this time, sat adjacent to her on the train. Hers, mustard, his, teal. They girl's hair was clipped short, curled on her forehead. Her boyfriend wore thick-rimmed glasses. Sometimes they would lean in to one another, exchanging soft remarks, probably about nothing in particular. Then he put his headphones in and left her to her thoughts.

     Walking down Lawrence, she started to strut. She never did that. Maybe it was the fact that night had taken a bite out of the neighborhood, lending anonymity. Or maybe it was because her satchel matched her belt so perfectly. Grants some strange confidence. She gazed straight ahead, taking the world in her hands. As she pushed the hair from her eyes, a man barked, “Hola,” in her direction. She didn’t see his face. There were purple flowers planted along the sidewalk.

     It was all very Chicago.  

Manifesto

few new words, here.

just the punk scene-

feral, free.

and the accompanying 

knowledge that

others battle the tide, too,

mouths as salty with sea water.

others

giving to become,

dancing in the trenches,

transported beyond classroom cubicles

by the music of

celestial fabrics,

of me,

of me meeting you,

of whispers from the lips of

God.

we all set up shop there,

use intermittent sunlight

to grow and sell our bluebells,

our quirky flower children.

we all capture

the poetry of moments,

all maroons

in cozy sanctuaries

 rich

with the music of

intuition, of 

loss of pride, and

old book smells.

How Much Time

do i need for me,

really?

i want to sleep nights on Central Park benches.

i want to buy a bookstore.

i want to feel a horse between my thighs.

i want to drape myself in Moroccan silks.

Simple Solutions,

i'd like you to meet

Bureaucratic Barricades.

is there real need

for the two sides

to every coin

buried in bank vaults

and sock drawers?

but vessels to be 

filled.

i want to reform the public education system.

i want to become a nun.

i want to be in the darkness with you.

i want to see unicorns.

just being (t)here,

lost in idealism

and the lines on my palms.

Love Always

Apparently, I laugh like you
and you work too hard. I wish
you would retire to mystery novels
in the patio sun
and aromas of broccoli casserole and
mint chocolate chip dessert.

You told me to consider
popping birth control pills
before college
and scratched my back
before bedtime.

Poolside, you watched me in the water,
never daring to enter the mermaids' domain
but a phone call away when
essays needed red pen
stains.

You told me to consider
marrying a doctor or the like.
Why did I cry in the seventh grade
when M-- H-- insulted Democrats, as if
he spat directly in the face of you,
You
you consummate hostess,
       consummate ear,
       consummate seeker.

Sometimes, I think of you
as in your wedding photo,
that album tucked away in a drawer.
An English major, sociology minor
and her mane of autumn hair,
the half-smile
hiding and bestowing
so much.

Your sociology major, English minor,
autumn-haired
daughter
finds she laughs and smiles
much the same.
Apparently.

Airport Inspiration?

I always tell people that I hate airports. They give me a headache. And everyone is breathing the same air and eating far too much "food" from McDonalds and I always end up running over the toes of some innocent passerby with my overstuffed suitcase. Furthermore, for some inexplicable reason, my stomach always ties itself into knots at those security check points, as if somehow I'll be mistaken for one of the many, many female, college-age, redheaded criminals roaming airports across the country and be hauled away in handcuffs, shamefaced, screaming that they've got the wrong girl. However, I may have to eat my words. Airports are quickly evolving into wells of inspiration for my various scribblings. Here's a taste of what filled my notebook's pages minutes before take-off.

dot dot dot
we worried for You're s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were pissed — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.

"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."

Miss
It is Christmas time and she says my name
because she has to. It is part of her job.
Move the line along, address each passenger
by first name.
All that training
just to utter a name. Simple.
Her turtleneck is tan,
her glasses eat her face.
My name,
exotic,
lush,
on her lips. Half-joking.
I suppose half-joking simplicity is necessary after thousands of days
in the Mecca of transitions,
scanning tickets to destinations not her own.
What is there to say but,
"Safe flight, Miss Miranda"?
The moment of contact. The moment of
names.
All that training
for a moment shared through thick-rimmed glasses
at Christmas time.

That Jitterbug Jive We Do
Waiting for Alaskan wings after
the strangest of mid-morning goodbyes,
the sort that loop a noose around throats
and, snakelike, squeeze the syllables until
they trickle through half-parted lips,
all nonchalance and fingers too afraid
to reach, to trace the lines of faces
and possibilities.
It's silly, playing hard-to-get.
They both know it. But
are they playing the game?

Or are they just hard to get?
 

We Live Together

Lights up on a living room in disarray. Board games, textbooks, dishes, boxes of Christmas decorations, and various snack foods are scattered on coffee tables and the floor. LIZZIE and SAM, both on their laptops, sit on the couch. MOLLY sits on the floor, strumming a guitar softly.

LIZZIE

                                    (offhandedly)

Would you break up with Nate if he chopped off your dog’s head on purpose?

                                                MOLLY

                                    (equally offhandedly)

Probably not.

                                    (pause)

                                                LIZZIE

Would you break up with Nate if he had shoelaces for hair?

                                                MOLLY

Probably.

                                                SAM

Priorities.

                                                LIZZIE

My organic chem professor is the devil.

                                                SAM

Also, Molly, you were talking in your sleep again last night. I couldn’t tell if you were laughing or moaning.

                                                MOLLY

Weird. And that’s a pretty serious accusation, Liz.

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (closing laptop)

Screw this crap. Boggle?

                                                MOLLY

As per usual.

                                                SAM

I’m going grocery shopping within the next 7-9 minutes.

MOLLY

                                    (setting up to play Boggle)

Will you buy more milk?

                                                SAM

Yes. No. I won’t be back until late tonight and I don’t want it to spoil in the car.

                                                LIZZIE

Wow, Sam. So selfish.

                                                SAM

As per usual.

AMELIA enters.

                                                LIZZIE

Speak of the devil. Aside from Professor Matthews.

                                                AMELIA

                                    (smiling, bashful)

Ok, so…

                                                MOLLY

Let us guess the Latin lover of the week.

                                                LIZZIE

Juan!

                                                MOLLY

Alejandro!

                                                LIZZIE

Raul!

                                                MOLLY

Javier!

                                                AMELIA

Marco, actually.

                                                MOLLY

My next guess.

                                                LIZZIE

Is he the one who won’t shut up about his pet chinchilla or the one with the profile picture featuring various cans of beer and scantily clad co-eds?

                                                AMELIA

Neither. He’s Roberto’s roommate. He just walked up to me after class and we started talking about how cold it is and how much we both like doing laundry, and then he asked if I wanted to get “delicious hot beverages” sometime. He speaks English pretty well.

                                                SAM

Phewf. That’s a relief.

                       

                                                LIZZIE

Step up from chinchilla boy.

                                                AMELIA

Then he sort of followed me home.

                                                SAM, MOLLY, LIZZIE

WHAT?

                                                AMELIA

I know he lives in one of the apartments down Caroline Avenue but he said he was going this way and followed me all the way to the front door.

                                                SAM

What an appealing array of suitors you have, Amelia Harrison.

KATE enters from another room in the apartment reading a book.

                                                MOLLY

So when will these “delicious hot beverages” be consumed, pray tell? Provided he doesn’t climb through the window tonight and axe you in your sleep.

                                                KATE

Who’s murdering Amelia?

                       

                                                LIZZIE

One guess.

                                                KATE

Julio?

                                                SAM

So close.

                                                AMELIA

Tomorrow afternoon. But here’s the thing. Molly, you know the tall percussionist in jazz band?

                                                MOLLY

Adam?

                                                AMELIA

He’s caught my fancy lately.

                                                SAM

He does acid.

                                                LIZZIE

Ha!

                                                AMELIA

Never mind, then.

                                                MOLLY

That was last year. You never know. People change.

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (to Amelia)

If you date a boy who does acid, I’ll punch you in the face.

                                                AMELIA

I suppose Marco’s back in the number one slot.

                                                SAM

Ah, young love.

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (excited)

Let’s watch “The Sound of Music” tonight.

                                                SAM

 I refuse.

                                                LIZZIE

Oh right. I forgot about your soulless vendetta against all fun ever.

                                                SAM

I have nothing against fun. I have everything against three hours of “Do, a deer, a female deer.”

                                                KATE

                                    (singing)

“Ray, a drop of golden sun. 

MOLLY

                                    (singing)

“Me, a name I call myself.”

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (singing)

“Fa, a long, long way to run.”

                                                SAM

This is the opposite of what I wanted to happen.

                                                KATE, MOLLY, LIZZIE, AMELIA

                                    (all singing in SAM’s face)

“Sol, a needle pulling thread. La, a note to follow so. Ti, a drink with jam and bread. That will bring us back to do, do, do, do.”

                                                SAM

We just experienced all “The Sound of Music” magic we need. No call to watch the movie.

                                                KATE, MOLLY, LIZZIE, AMELIA

                                    (continue to hum the song softly, chuckling)

                                                SAM

                                    (closing laptop and gathering her things)

On second thought, pop that sucker in. I’m off to buy a bunch of food that will most likely give me heart disease in the distant future.

                                                AMELIA

Will you buy more milk?

                                                SAM

I’m currently experiencing some sort of déjà vu-esque sensation…

                                                MOLLY

I’ll get milk tomorrow.

                                                SAM

Be back late.

                                                LIZZIE

Wait! 30-second roommate dance party before you go!

(pause, girls look at each other, then in almost perfect unison, break into a rendition of “Livin’ on a Prayer,” dancing around the room)

                                                SAM

Got to go. Bye, all.

                                                AMELIA

All this groovin’ is making me hungry.

AMELIA exits toward the kitchen.

                                                KATE

So I just finished half of my paper—

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (singing)

“Oh, we’re half-way there!”

                                                KATE

—on how children’s advertisements brainwash our youth and serve as the champagne bottle on the bow of the ship sailing into the wretched depths of consumerist culture.

                                                MOLLY

Attacking the nostalgia of our childhoods again, eh, Kate?

                                                LIZZIE

It doesn’t get much better than the 90s.

                                                MOLLY

 “Leggo my eggo!”

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (singing)

“Hungry, hungry hippos!”

                                                MOLLY

                                    (singing)

“Sock-Em Boppers! Sock-Em Boppers!”

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (singing)

“It’s more fun than a pillow fight!”

                                                MOLLY, LIZZIE

                                    (singing)

“Blow ‘em up, put your hand inside! Get ready to have the time of your life!”

                                                KATE

I never noticed how inappropriate that jingle is.

AMELIA’s cell phone rings.

                                                MOLLY

Amelia, someone’s calling you.

                                                LIZZIE

Antonio!

                                                MOLLY

Jorge!

                                                LIZZIE

Miguel!

                                   

AMELIA  jogs in, looking silly and carrying a floppy piece of sandwich meat.

                                                AMELIA

                                    (monotone voice, jokingly panicked)

Ahhhh! Where’s my phone?

                                                KATE

What kind of meat is that?

                                                AMELIA

I don’t know. It came in a variety pack. (Finds phone but missed the call already) Oh well.

AMELIA exits.

                                                LIZZIE

Molly, come here.

                                                MOLLY

That’s sufficiently sinister.

                                                LIZZIE

Just do it.

                                                KATE

Ugh. If you mention any more ad slogans, my brain might explode.

MOLLY crosses to LIZZIE who begins drawing something on her leg with a pen.

                                                MOLLY

We need to decorate soon.

                                                KATE

I can steal some more Christmas-y paraphernalia from my parent’s house.

                                                MOLLY

Just a little spruce.

                                                LIZZIE

Literally.

                                                KATE

Ha. Ha.

                                                MOLLY

We could cut some paper snowflakes, too. Did you ever do that when you were a kid?

                                                KATE

I think everyone did that when they were a kid, dear.

AMELIA enters with a sandwich on a plate, plops down on couch.

                                                MOLLY

                                    (nostalgic)

Traditions are traditions for a reason, Kate. Something about snow. It just isn’t Christmas without snow.

                                                LIZZIE

Especially large representations of snow made of paper.

                                                MOLLY

Are you done yet?

                                                LIZZIE

Just about.

                                                AMELIA

I’m too exhausted to eat this sandwich. (Slumps down and closes her eyes)

                                               

                                                KATE

                                    (whining)

Do I have to go to work?

                                                LIZZIE

Depends on how much you like having money in your pocket.

                                                KATE

I do like that…

                                                MOLLY

Then yes. You should probs go to work.

                                                KATE

Probs?

                                                MOLLY

I like to abbrev whenev pos.

                                                KATE

You disgust me.

                                                MOLLY

Whatevs, bff.

KATE gathers her things and puts on her coat.

                                                LIZZIE

Finished.

                                                MOLLY

                                    (reading LIZZIE’s inscription)

You would write that on my leg.

                                                KATE

What does it say?

                                                MOLLY

“Put your hand inside, get ready to have the time of your life,” with an arrow pointing directly toward my vagina.

                                                LIZZIE

You’re welcome.

                                                KATE

Alright, I’m off. Enjoy not working, everyone.

                                                MOLLY

Wait! 30-second roommate dance party before you go!

                                                KATE

I’m currently experiencing some sort of déjà-vu-esque sensation.

(another pause, the girls look at each other, then break into a somewhat less perfectly unison rendition of “Dancing Queen,” giggling and dancing)

            LIZZIE

(to KATE)

Go to work! Make money!

                                                KATE

Will do. See you later.

KATE exits.

LIZZIE jumps on AMELIA who is still trying to sleep, sprawls out across her.

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (whispering)

Amelia. Are you sleeping?

                                                AMELIA

                                    (groggily)

Yes.

                                                MOLLY

 We could tape the snowflakes to the windows.

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (still whispering)

Are you sleeping now?

                                                AMELIA

Yes.

                                                MOLLY

And maybe some twinkle lights around the doorframes.

                                                AMELIA

You’re crushing the organs I use to breathe, Lizzie.

                                                LIZZIE

                                    (climbing off AMELIA)

Breathing isn’t necessary.

AMELIA reaches for her sandwich.

                                                MOLLY

We should watch a Christmas movie tonight, instead!

                                                LIZZIE

Someone has a hefty dose of holiday cheer.

                                                AMELIA

Guess who called me earlier?

                                                LIZZIE

Fernando!

                                                MOLLY

Enrique!

                                                AMELIA

Chinchilla boy.

                                                LIZZIE

Should have known.

                                                MOLLY

Don’t you have a date with that what’s-his-face cheeseball this weekend?

                                                AMELIA

Technically.

                                                LIZZIE

One time, my brother ate an entire block of cheddar cheese and then diarrhea-ed all night long.

                                                MOLLY

                                    (singing)

“All night long!”

                                                AMELIA

Lizzie, I’m eating.

                                                LIZZIE

And this other time, he and his friends competed to see who could eat the most White Castle sliders in one sitting and when he came home, he stank up our whole house with his putrid farts.

                                                AMELIA

                                    (ignoring LIZZIE)

Ahhhh, I’m so stressed! I have so much to do and no motivation to do it.

                                                LIZZIE

I’m planning on going to the library to study for my organic chem exam. Want to tag along?

                                                AMELIA

If you promise not to talk about your brother’s putrid diarrhea.

                                                LIZZIE

Cross my heart.

                                                AMELIA

Now?

                                                LIZZIE

You got it.

LIZZIE and AMELIA gather their things and coats, almost out the door.

                                                MOLLY

Wait! 30-second roommate dance party before you go!

(pause, the girls look at each other, then break into a perfect rendition of “Don’t Stop Believin’” in 3-part harmony, dancing around the room)

                                                LIZZIE

What would we do without overplayed, classic, karaoke tunes and our bad dance moves?

                                                AMELIA

Something productive?

                                                MOLLY

Productivity is overrated.

                                                LIZZIE

Be back later, Molly.

                                                AMELIA

Bye, friend.

                                                MOLLY

Have fun, ladies.

LIZZIE and AMELIA exit.

                                    (pause)

The room feels strange and empty. MOLLY looks around. She rummages through the Christmas decorations, picks up AMELIA’s plate and half-eaten sandwich, still looking around, somewhat sad and thoughtful now.

                                                MOLLY

Well.

MOLLY exits, humming “Don’t Stop Believin.’”

Lights down.