It's a weird, weird world.

I attended two parties on Saturday night. Not because I am popular, because it's just "that time of year." The first was an anniversary party for my fiance's grandparents. It was bittersweet for us, as we make time in the middle of our busiest time to attend, and they are not planning on attending our wedding, which has been planned for a year and 5 months. Of course my better half is struggling with this, and starting to become really hurt by it, despite his eternal optomism. The second was a birthday party for my little brother's girlfriend. It left me confused. I wonder how it's possible that my brother and I can be so different. He, surrounded by his friends, a myriad of tattooed, pierced, black-wearing boys who, despite their offbeat appearances, are so darn sweet. I sat and talked with one of his friends, a past member of Riders for Christ, who told me about the dissolution of his marriage while he spread the word of God to an alternative crowd. His wife wanted more time with him, didn't see the importance in what he was doing. Behind me, a group of youths passes around an infant, around 6 months old, patting her head and holding her tiny hand. The infant's mother, young and wearing a revealing top, retireves the child and balances her in the crook of her right arm, her left hand free to cradle a glass bottle of beer. Moments later, the baby has her hands on the bottle, her mouth over the opening, as the youths laugh.

Talking to my dad (also at the party) a young man, much older than my brother, probably around 30, approaches us. He is shirtless and covered in tattoos. He moves erradically, popping left and right and figeting with his arms. I have a laughable knowlegde of drugs, but I assume this man was using them. Meth, perhaps? He looks at my dad and says, "I really want to sleep with you." My dad, as cool as he is, had no comment. He sputtered, and then the man said, "okay not really, that's what I keep telling all the girls at this party and they walk away."

Later, a woman, in her late forties I would assume, ambled up to my fiance and I and began to talk to us. I use the word "talk" loosely, because she barely could. Her face had a droppy look to it, her hair was stacked messily on top of her head, and she had the slow, sloppy speech of a person who had been drinking for hours (or days?). She was smoking non-stop, cursing just as much, and using really explicit language with some of my brother's friends (most of them are 20 years old). And by explicit I do not mean a few obscenties, I mean XXX.

She grabbed my arm roughly and said, "who are you?," her breath reeking of cigarrettes and cheap beer. "I'm his sister," I say, gesturing toward my brother. "Well I don't know how you put up with him, he's an A**hole," she drawls, in my face. I cringe slightly from the roughness of her breath and the talon of a hand wrapped around my wrist. It was like my own personal Hell.

How does he put up with these people? I look at him nervously, trying to get him to come and save me from this vile woman. He walks up and tells her to "shut up," looks at me and says, "she's a crazy alcoholic, just ignore her," completely within earshot of my new friend who flicks her cigarette toward him, sloshing beer onto the ground and hot embers onto my shoe, uncomfortably close to my big toe.

I excuse myself from her company, stating a need to use the restroom. As I walk toward the house, someone calls out to me again: "your dress is beautiful" the voice says, I spin around as thin, cold fingers encircle my left wrist. I don't like to be touched. Personal space is a necessity. I try to hold my position so as not to insult this creature, thin and lanky, with hair that ranges from black to platinum blonde. Her eyes were encirled in thick black eyeliner, and they stared right into mine. "You look so beautiful. I wanted to tell you that." I stammered, "thank you, I...I just came from an anniversary party, so I suppose I'm overdressed."
"Oh no" she coos, "you look perfect." I thank her again and slip away, this time to find my mother and push her out of this backyard and into the street, toward her car and home. I will follow her.

At the back gate sits my brother's dog. The dog I held in one hand as a puppy. He is much larger now, but just as sweet. I take his face in both hands and look into his eyes. I feel like I should whisper in his ear, "you don't belong here." He is calm, completely serene in the midst of the chaos. Not unlike the infant with the beer bottle earlier, although I'd already given up on her. She is as good as lost.

Ahh Corporate America

Sometimes I think you own me, you, the company I work for. After all, you tell me where to be, and when, you decide when I work late, and you "highly suggest" things for me to do during certain lunchtimes. Tonight, as I lay in bed, listening to the soft breathing of my sleeping man and soft snores of my sleeping dog, I get that sinking feeling. I am not in control of my life, of my destiny. Sure, I want to be helpful, I want to be a useful employee, but does that mean forgoing any mention of a life outside of the office? Not in my mind, it doesn't. 

I never pictured myself in Corporate America. Of course, I never pictured myself doing anything realistic which I wasn't already doing. I pictured myself as a college student, forever. Or perhaps on tour with my imaginary band. There was a point in my life where I really thought it was reasonable to not be working while I planned my future wedding (to whom, at that point, I had no idea--a Baron, perhaps? A Rockefeller?). I really never pictured myself dressed to impress while impressing no one but the meager reflection on my monitor. 

Before I let myself get carried away in who said what to whom over the cubicle wall, or who wore jeans (jeans! can you believe that?!) to work on not-so-casual Friday, I had to stop my mind from spinning. No matter how much control the corporate world has over me, it can't stop me from sitting on the shower floor at 10 p.m., letting the water rinse away the memories of my day. They can't stop me from sitting, cross legged and in my bathrobe, facing the glow of my monitor, at 11 p.m. while I write about my feelings. And as much as anyone I work with would contradict this, they cannot tell me what I can and cannot do in my unpaid hour lunch. That is my hour. 

Perhaps it's selfish of me, sitting up late and taking this time for myself, and depriving the Corporation of the employee they deserve tomorrow, one operating on  full nine hours. But this is my time, and I'll do as I damn well please.