A Funny Thing Happened

This popped up over here...

300 Writing Prompts; Take 1

What is your favorite way to spend a lazy day?

Dear Ex Lover,

When the evening sun slants in through the tree outside my kitchen window in that special way it usually reserves for Hollywood cameras; When sad songs full of longing dominate the radio; When there's no nook or cranny left to scour in my tiny home; When my day has not been stressful enough to provide distraction -- It's days like this that I can't help but think of you.

On most of these noiseless evenings, I arm myself with soft sweat pants, a t-shirt worn thin and smooth, and a book that will speak loudly enough to drown out the memory of your voice. It never works. Your words press into the walls I've thrown up around my new life. They threaten to crush all the progress I've made these past two years. "There she is!" you say, after we've been apart so long.  "I promise," you say, as I drift to sleep.  "I need you here," you say, when you ask me to elope.  "I married a smart, independent woman," you say, "and now look at you." "I can't do this anymore," you say, as my resolve crumbles. Round and round and round your words go, until I can't run from them anymore. Until I find myself here.

"A perfect lazy day at home," my Facebook status will read. I am too ashamed to let anyone know that even now I ache for what we were before - young and brave and sure of heart. I mourn the fairy tale we pretended we could be.

Someone Old, Someone New, Shining Penny in My Shoe

I was raised a proper southern lady, but I met Ryan in the midst of personal turmoil.  Consequently, all my grace and poise and good manners had been tossed out the window.  It had been less than a week since I found out my marriage was over.  I'd delivered 20+ resumes, but hadn't received a single call back yet.  I was living couch to couch, toting all my earthly possessions around in the trunk of my car.  I felt like a train wreck, and it showed.

Carrie On? More Like Carrie Off.

I have hardly written at all in the past two years. When I write, I have to be honest, and honestly, I don't want to have to face the things I'm feeling.  I don't want to write about being sad; I've cried too many tears already.  I don't want to write about be angry; I try to rise above that anger.  I don't want to write about being happy; Happiness feels like a betrayal of someone long gone.  But honestly? Honestly I'm feeling all of those things anyway, so what will writing about them hurt?

Backyard Fairy Tales

Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to live in New York City.  She spent her childhood winding pearls around her neck and sneaking her mother's clothes from the closet.  There was a tube of bright red lipstick hidden beneath her socks, and at night she dreamed of high heels clacking against shiny marble floors.  She tried to hide her country accent, polishing away any word that couldn't be found in the Oxford English Dictionary, and spent hours tugging at her naturally curling hair in an attempt to make it hang long as straight like the hair of the glossy girls in magazines.  She wanted the world she saw in books and on television:  glimmering skyscrapers, roaring traffic, foreign foods, never-ending bottles of deep red wine, and, most of all, to be always surrounded by a crowd.

A Morning Out of the Office

I spend the last few hours of darkness dreaming of a different world.  When the sun rises, I dress with care.  I twirl my curls round and round an iron, careful that each one is as tightly wound as the next.  I repair a tiny chip in my nail polish. I count the lights as I switch them off.  I dab a little extra perfume on my wrists.

There are not enough tasks in the quiet hours to make me forget what I'm doing today.  Later, there are not enough busy hours to make me forget what I've said goodbye to.

Story Time on the Teller Line

I've been working in a bank for a little over a year now.  My first position was in the "loan vault;" a dimly lit, dusty room filled to the brim with multicolored folders containing the financial history of our customers.  It was my job to organize and track these files, as well as to help launch an online filing system.  I grew to know our customers from their tax returns and title lien statements.  I spent hours alphabetizing and shredding and stacking and shipping and typing and color coding.

I'm No Good with an Alias

I am no good with an alias.  I am not one to hide.  It made writing here feel unauthentic. The false name chafed at my strict "honesty policy."  So basically, I'm back.

Me.

The me who loves nothing better than a good book, a jar of nutella and a snuggle from my Brinkle. The one who has a habit of traveling without plans, and rearranging her furniture at the drop of a  hat. The one who regards her blog (and readers) as her best friend and confidant.

The Girl Who Broke Her Own Heart

I am not the same girl that started this blog.

It's been a long while.

After seven and a half months together, the clan left 801 Stanford Lane.  I moved into a small apartment attached to a cottage a few blocks down from the duplex.  Rylie moved into a loft fifteen minutes away.  Tom inherited a farmhouse in the next town over.  And Bryan...Bryan spends a good deal of time at my cottage.

Little Things, Like Snowflakes

This morning I awoke to the palest light floating in through cream curtains.  This is a distinct light, and it only ever means one thing:  snow.  I crack the blinds and I am greeted by a new world.  Everything is pristine, blanketed white.  This is the kind of morning I love best.  Tomorrow, or perhaps even later today, that snow will melt away to unveil an avalanche of mud.  But right now?  Right now the world is clean and shining.  Right now I can curl up in my bed with Pandora and my laptop, and ignore all the problems buried in the snowfall.

Later today I'll be meeting a few members of the clan for our standard coffee date at a locally owned cafe.  We do this every Saturday around 11.  We have a usual order and a usual table, and each week whichever of us are available show up to swap stories and sip on sweet, warm drinks.  We rarely leave our corner before 2.  Today it'll be Tom, Leanne and I.  We'll have enormous white mochas in thick, sturdy mugs, and whatever pastries look delicious, and we'll curl into our seats until we become part of the scenery.  I love this.  I love our group, and our town, our coffee shop.

Dear Ex Lover

Do you think of me?

When you hold her in your arms, do you remember the curve of my waist?  The scent of my hair?  When you kiss her, do you remember the way our lips fit perfectly?  Do you remember the freckles beneath my eyes, and the way you cupped your hands around my ears to warm them one night in the cold autumn rain?  When you come home to her, do you remember coming home to me?  Slipping in behind me while I worried over your cooking dinner, wrapping your arms around me, and pressing your lips to the back of my neck?

Introducing the Clan, Part I: The Story of Carlie and Rylie

It's late fall 2010, and Rylie and I are speeding down the interstate.  The back seat of my Saturn is full of brightly colored bags as we head home from a spontaneous shopping trip.  We've been laughing so long that we can't remember what was funny, and as we near our exit I say, "What if we didn't stop?  What if we just kept driving?"

"Do it!  Can we?  We should do it!"  Rylie is always up for an adventure.

So I floor it.  We pass our exit, and the next one, and dozens more after that.  An hour later my cheeks ache from smiling, and my sides are sore from so much laughter.  We don't stop driving until we cross the Tennessee state line.

The Family We Choose

During my last quarter hour at work, my cell phone buzzes incessantly.  I am positively bombarded by messages from my roommates.  They text to make sure I'll be home on time, to ask if I remembered to put oil in my car, or to make dinner plans. We're always checking in on each other this way.

My shifts usually run latest, so when I arrive home the whole gang is assembled in the living room.

Put it in a Box and Bury It

For the past month, I've woken with a smile on my face.  The nightmares about my husband leaving have finally subsided, and so have the sweet dreams of "before."  I don't scan crowds for his face anymore, and I'm not choking back an "I love you" at the end of our rare, abrupt conversations.  I am gradually removing all traces of my marriage from my life, and in the end I'll be left with a beautifully clean slate.  I can fill my days and my future with whatever I choose, and I adore that freedom.

New Beginnings

My name is Carlie.  I'm not sure how to begin my story, but lately life has been beautifully unpredictable, and I can't let it slip by undocumented.

For the past four years, I lived out the greatest love story I had ever known.  When I was nineteen I married my high school sweetheart, and moved to Germany with him for twenty-seven months.  He was a soldier, and moving away was easy for me, because home was where he was.  We explored castles and roamed the Bavarian Alps.  It felt like a fairy tale, but we missed home.  Then, when we finally came back to the states and my world was on the brink of perfection, my sweet, loving husband left me.  He told me he wanted a divorce while sitting in my car in a WalMart parking lot.  There was no warning and no explanation.  It's been nine weeks.  I still don't understand how he could give up something so precious so easily, and yet I've stopped looking for answers.  Understanding what happened wouldn't change it.  I won't waste even one more second feeling lost or hurt, because for four years I was happy.  I had adventures.  I did nothing I regret.