#misadventuresofmiranda

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Sometimes you don't appreciate home until you've been somewhere very different.

Added points if you know the quote.

August 2011.

Seven hours. One bossy GPS nicknamed Sally by yours truly. Two bags of pretzel combos and several brightly colored CDs with an eclectic mix of the Bangles, The Beatles, Dexy Midnight Runners and both Dylans. Perfect weather and two packs of camel lights next to a bright blue lighter. 

I feel as though I must know what Jack Kerouac felt while speeding through the country on various transport devices as this weekend I drove  from Atlanta to Eglin Air Force base. I drove from my blessed city through my college town, through Auburn and turned 90 degrees south in Montgomery, then took US 344 almost to Destin before landing in someone's arms and a hotel called the Cayo Grande.

It was strange to be in Montgomery. It made such an impact on the history of the United States. It was stranger still to compare it to Atlanta. Atlanta is big and loud and full of personality. It's a liberal oasis in an entirely red state. Underground, Little 5, Music Midtown, Freaknik.The large reaching skyscrapers and the clean, open airport. All the colleges that grew together and intertwine for intellectual mecca in a state of pure ignorance. The music venues- The Tabernacle, Variety Playhouse, The Masquerade. I really could not ask more of my city.

But driving through Montgomery semi-unnerved me. No skyscapers or tangled roads. No yelling cab drivers or bitchy office men driving fancy cars on their way to Buckhead. Just a series of lights and strip malls.

I saw the sign for Selma and knew from History class what that means. It was amazing for me to see and slightly unreal. It seemed to me that the whole place was in a time warp. Never have I seen so many clunkers and ghetto rigged cars. I'm only sad that I didn't have time to stop. 

And for all the shit Alabama gets, let me say that it is a beautiful state. I drove nearly the whole length of it. I even saw cars trapped behind a tractor on the highway. I drove through the city of "Opp" and nearly crashed my car when a firework factory had the sign "The best bang you'll get in town" on it and I tried to take a picture. I drove miles and miles without seeing another car. Huge corn fields and hay bales. The sky was huge and full of fluffly clouds. I felt like I'd walked into some other time. 

I wish to Christ that I could have been a truck driver. I have an itch to travel, to this country, this world. But still, Atlanta is always my home.

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Families Can Suck, Complete

July 2011. 

I shove the outrageously overstuffed bookshelf against my wall. It's two weeks until I go back for my senior year of college and I am super stoked and ready to be done forever with school in general. But until then, I've filled my time with redecorating my room at my folk's house. The bookshelf shakes frighteningly, and then settles. 

Whew. 

Then the garage door slams beneath me, and the books fall forward, unsettled by the force of pushing around the shelf. 

Damn it. 

I kneel down to fix the mess. 

Annika, my little sister, runs into my room. 

"Mom and Dad are fighting." She says.

"What? Why?"

"David. He got a job in Pennsylvania." 

[backstory] 

Oh, shit. 

"FUCK. Are you serious???" 

Annika nodded. "Mom said 'fuck' twice."  

My mother does not cuss. I mean ever. She doesn't even like to say poop or suck.

"What the fuck?" 

My parent's yelling grows louder. 

My sister grabs my wrist and we huddle in the stairwell, listening to their fighting. 

I am almost 21 and my sister 17, but still, we huddle like we did when we were little girls, Annika a little closer, a little bolder, and me hiding farther back. 

"Stop lying to me! I'll divorce you first!!" My mom yells. 

"What the fuck do you want me to do???" My dad yells back. 

We listen to their fighting, before it ends with my dad leaving. My sister and I analyze their responses to one another, trying to find out which one is lying and which one is telling the truth. 

We wait until the yelling subsides and my mother comes up the stairs. 

My mom comes up the stairs, like she always did, whenever they fight, in order to asses the damage on her children, even though we are both fully grown.

"Are you okay?" She asks us. Annika retreats to the basement. My mother asks me to go on a walk with her to hear the story fully. 

"Your dad is lying. Your grandparents and he both conspired to get David a job."

My mom is crying.

"When do you think he'll be back?" I ask.

"I don't know if he'll ever move back." She looks at me full on. "I think he's moving there for good." 

My heart clenches. My brother and I were far from close. But I always assumed he'd be running towards success like my sister and I. I'm struck with an image of the three of us playing in the living room and listening to my mother's predictions about us. I was supposed to be a pastor, just like her. Annika was going to be a chef or an artist or something creative. David, not even in middle school, had an innate sense of morality. He was going to be in the army one day, he said, to fly planes and protect the good guys. I think about how her children, now, are so different from what she wanted. Her oldest, me, in law school. Annika is already showing an aptitude in mathematics and science, taking college Biology, Chemistry, and Calculus classes before she's even a junior in high school. And poor David, sandwiched between us, a high school dropout working at an iron forgery. 

"And I think this is the straw that's going to break your dad and I. He's lying to me about everything. And I can't take this anymore." 

I look at my mom, eyes wide. I'm almost 20 and now my mom wants a divorce? But I'm not sad or mad and I rush to tell her so.

"Mom! I'm so proud of you!"

She looks at me in utter disbelief. 

"Now you get to start over in your life! You're not even forty yet! You get a second chance!" 

"Miranda!"

"Really, mom!" 

"I don't know where I'd go. I can't support myself..." My mom says, tears starting again. 

"It's not just about the money, Miranda. I love your dad. I really do." She cries hard, stopping to sit on a bench.

"I love him so much. He's my soulmate. I can't even think about...about" 

I watch my mother's heartbreak, over her son, over her husband, and a lot, I imagine, over her own hopeless situation. I don't know how to help her. I know she loves my dad more than life. And this is a fear of something I cannot bring upon myself. 

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

If you found it at the frat house.....don't drink it, Complete

September 2009. 

Shag pulls a handle of whiskey from his tweed jacket. His twelve million rings clang against the glass bottle. 

Chery looks at me and licks the paper on her self rolled cigarette shut.

“Wanna join us tonight?” She asks, looking at Sunshine and I.

I glance at her. I inhale on my cigarette, ignoring the pinch that is ever present when I went from three to fifteen cigarettes a day.

Sunshine shrugs. “I’ll come, I don’t really wanna drink though.”

Chery looks at me. 

I ignore the look, stalling.

“Where’d you even get that?” I asked Shag.

“I found it at the ODP house.” He says, puffing on his cigar. “I was passed out, drunk, in the bushes. I looked up and I saw…” he dramatically shows off the handle, cigar popping out of his mouth. 

I looked at Sunshine. I’ve drank a handful of times in my life before this, mostly at weddings or drinking with my mom. But never at college.

I looked at Chery. She’s older and cute. Shag’s a freshman, like me, but he has connections I don’t. If Sunshine comes with me..

“I’m down.” I say.

Chery lightly pulls on her cigarette. "Awesome, dude."

Later, Chery pours the first shot of whiskey and throws it back like a pro.

My hands start itching and I try to smile. My anxiety is burning.

I wish I could smoke indoors. 

I’m trying to act like I’m cool with this and that I know what’s up. Sunshine sits down on the couch. She’s the only one not drinking but no one seems to begrudge her for it.

Everyone else is taking shots. 

I wish Danny were here. 

I start mechanically gnawing on my lip. 

Stop doing that. 

Kyle, Shag’s roommate, comes around the table. “So I’ve never met you, really.” 

I smile at him. He's got a great Southern Accent.

“I’m Miranda.”

He returns the smile. He’s a drummer studying music at the school. He’s got great gauges. 

Fuck. He’s hot.

“Kyle.” He shakes my hand. 

So cute.

“You’re dating Danny, right?”

Smile gone.

“Yep.” 

“He’s a great guy. Let’s take a shot.”

Okay, Miranda. You got this. 

We pour them into regular 8 oz glasses. Chery doesn’t have shot glasses. So into the green cup goes whiskey.

“Easy now!” He says. 

I hold the glass to my face and discreetly  smell the light brown liquid. It smells like cinnamon and other spices that I can’t place.  

And then I drink a huge gulp. 

Fuck. That fucking burns.

Kyle takes his shot then goes into the living room. 

I glance around. No one is watching. I drink it fast and fill it again. 

But no one notices. And I don’t feel anything. 

Essentially, I shove down eighteen shots of 110 proof whiskey in fifteen minutes before Chery realizes what I’ve done. 

Somehow I end up sitting next to Kyle on the floor.

Chery takes the whiskey from me. 

“Hey Chery, can my boyfriend come over?” Sunshine asks.

“fuck no!” I yell/slur.

Sunshine looks at me, shocked and confused. 

Whiskey has disabled all neurons and it’s only in hindsight that I know I was being a bitch.

“Shut the fuck up.” She says and leaves.

{Here is when Miranda semi blacks out—reports say I made an idiot of myself which I don’t doubt}

I lay on the ground, arching my back and sucking on a cigarette as it rains hot ash on  me. 

“Miranda!” Chery rubs off my shoulder that I just covered in ash. 

“Is she okay?” Someone asks.

“She needs to go home.”

“Lemme take her.” Shag says.

“No.” Kyle says, lemme take her. 

He stands and grasps my hands and I collapse in on myself, giggling.

“Let’s go.”

Kyle somehow gets me to my feet and we walk/stumble to my dorm.

Kyle gets me to my dorm.

“Alright, darlin’.” 

I trip and catch onto him, roping my arms around his neck as he braces himself. Drunk, I am basically dead weight. 

“Help me up!” I yell before releasing him and collapsing to concrete.

“Miranda! Miranda, shhhh….” he says, laughing. He sets me on a bench. 

“I can’t help you up there, darlin’. Guys ain’t allowed up there.” He says, pushing my hair out of my face.

I try to focus on his eyes. He’s blurry and fucked up, too.

“I can’t get up those stairs.” My room is at the fourth floor and to get to the elevator I’ll have to get past my RD’s room.

“Okay, well let’s sober you up.”

He lights a cigarette and hands it to me. I put it into my lips and it sags down. My head falls into my hands.

“Miranda!” He says and comes to stand in front of me.

I don’t respond.

He lifts my head up with his hand. 

“Miranda, come on now.” 

“You’re so hot.” I say, out of nowhere.

He laughs. “You’re drunk, darlin’.”

I love how he says darling. 

“I’ve thought that since I met you.” I say.

He smiles and puts his hands on my legs. He pushes my hair out of my face.

He kisses my neck.

“You’re hot as hell, darlin’. An amazonian princess.”

When he pulls back to look at me, I notice his lips.

Beautiful.

Without hesitation, I kiss him. I’m drunk but I’ve got the basic mechanics down. We’re drunk and horny and going for it. 

“You’re such a good kisser.” He whipers.

“You are too, Kyle Brister.”

He stops kissing me.

“What did you say?” He looks hurt.

I freeze. Brister is Danny’s last name. Danny is my boyfriend.

Fuck.

I am suddenly a lot more sober.

Kyle looks at me for a long time. I try to say something. Anything. But I can't. He gently tugs on one of my curls. 

“Goodnight, Miranda.” He says and kisses me on the forehead.

He turns to walk away.

“Wait!” I say.

But he doesn’t.

Oh my god. What have I done?

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Don't Be Afraid of What You're Not Good At, Complete

February 2011.

I chew my nail and try to ignore Amanda’s chitchatting. She’s annoying, especially since I know she’s doing this to bug me. She keeps talking about her precious boyfriend, Prince of the Kappa Sigs.

Shut. Up.

Art History blows enough dick without Amanda grating my last nerve while chit chatting about herself for twelve hours. Our professor is late as always which gives Amanda time to talk and talk and talk.

Of course I am sitting by myself in the huge lecture hall, exhausted because I worked fifteen hours already this week, not counting regular school and school work. But we get our first art history test back today.

La Professora arrives and takes role. Of course Tyler Arnett arives. Late. Since Mark graduated, Tyler is King Kappa Sig. 

You care way too much about Greek life to pretend not to care.

Amanda laughs at something Tyler says and I ignore it, while chastising myself inwardly. It’s difficult not to be Queen anymore. 

La Professora gives Tyler his test back. “Tyler made the highest grade. 104. Great job.” 

I roll my eyes but my heart clenches. 

I wanted the highest grade.

Fuck you, Tyler. I’m smarter than you anyway.

“Amanda, good job.” La Professora says, breaking me from my inner dialogue about the shittiness of Tyler Arnett and my intellectual superiority. 

Amanda squeals. One lackey asks, “What did you make?” 

“101.”

Bitch. 

La Professora calls for me. “Miranda? Miranda Maccabee?”

She scans the huge lecture hall. 

“That’s me.”

She hands me my test.

78.

Oh. Shit.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

My face turns twelve shades of red. My skin is itchy through my jeans. I’ve never made this low in my whole entire life. I’ve always been a smart ass, making grades none of the rest of the kids ever did. I feel heat moving along my scalp and, for once, I am happy about the dim lights of the auditorium. La Professora starts breaking down a Matisse painting. I don’t pay attention.

A fucking C.

I think it’s a C. How do grades work under 80?

Oh, shit. My perfect GPA. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

SHIT!!!

Tyler throws something at Lucy, this terrible bitch who has a thing for Michael. And happens to be real tight with Amanda.

Fuck you. Fuck all of you.

How did I make a C in Art History? This is not possible. This is not possible.

The whole world turns into a patchwork quilt of black and white dots. 

No panic attack. Not here.

What would Tyler and Amanda say if they saw this now?

I breathe carefully, trying to regain control.

It’s okay, it’s okay.

I look around at the other students. Amanda looks at me and looks away, quick. 

Man, fuck this college for art requirements. I’m PRE-LAW!! I couldn’t care less about this bull shit. 

La Professora drops her pen. She starts writing on the white board but I don’t give a shit what it says. 

I have to drop this class and now. My GPA can’t take it.

Amanda and Lucy start talking, whispering. The sound makes my skin crawl worse. Twelve million little bugs named Amanda, Lucy, and Tyler are crawling over every inch of my skin and down my mouth into my lungs.

I know what they will all say about me, but it can’t be worse than the rumors already circulating. 

I grab my bags and sneak out the door. 

Five days later, after all the necessary paper work has been filed, I withdraw from Art History. 

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Be Nice to Canvassers.

May 2011. 

As I drive to midtown Atlanta for my first day of work, I think I am a major bad ass. I got a job, I'm working in the city, my life is basically going to be awesome. My building is right across from the Turner building and overlooks 75. Its a beautiful, overreaching, smog covered city and I adore it. 

Of course, nothing is ever easy when you're Miranda Annabelle Maccabee. 

I discover we're learning canvassing. If you've never desperately needed a job, you probably don't know what that is. This is where someone drops you off in an area you don't know and you walk around with a sixty second pitch in your head and try to get people to give you money.

I happened to be working for the Democratic Party. I hate canvassing, but I was told their were four components to this job and canvassing was only one, right?

Wrong. We are expected to canvass everyday in downtown Atlanta after dark with the 90 degree heat cooking us in our church clothes.

What.

the.

fuck.

But being the desperate and determined and, may I add, attractive girl I am I don't think it will be too much of a worry. I accept the challenge of making 150 dollars the next night. 

The second day of work they stick me in an area where people keep shutting the door in my face. I am wondering what's going on when an Emory professor says, "Darling, you're the fourth person to come through here since January for the Georgia Democratic Party."  

Fuck. I raise 30 bucks in this area thats already been cleaned out. My boss, (incredibly pompous asshole who works in politics for money and not change) Tyler fires me when he picks me up. He tells the big boss how bad I am.

Oh, no honey. Not how it works.

I storm Steffen's office and tell him how he lied to me, how Tyler stuck me in an over-canvassed area (probably to get rid of me. Kid's fucking sexist, most likely because homeboy couldn't get laid even if he was turning tricks in Little 5)  and how the entire office was disorganized bunch of frat boys who deserve to lick the handles in the Marta station for their unabashed asking of money. Sleezy, slimey, dickwads.

After I finish my speech, Steffen looks at me and says, "Would you like to work for phone banks?" 

I look right at Senor Greaseball, and say "I'm out of here."

Tyler catches me in the elevator to fill out paper work, but I make sure to take my sweet time. Tyler taps his pencil and I look at him.

"I'm so sorry if I'm keeping you from your dollar beer."

He just looks at me and tries to stumble an apology.

"No really. I'm sure that's so important to you." 

I am sure they were all happy to get rid of me. Too bad what they don't realize is that I used to shag Kylie's brother. Kylie's dad is treasurer to the Georgia Democratic Party ad big boss over Steffen and Tyler.

So guess who just lost their jobs?

Really, darling, no one should ever fuck with me. 

Anyway, moral of the story: If a job comes easy it's most likely not going to be a good one. And second, be  nice to canvassers, especially if they're cute as fuck and as genuinely lovely as me. 

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Notes on Going Home, being that anywhere can be home.

May 2011.

If you're an amazing individual and have one of the highest GPAs in the whole junior class, you get to be junior Marshall at my school. This means you get to walk with the seniors at graduation and carry this stupidly obnoxious flag and wear a bright apple robe. Still, it's this great big honor and that so happens to be yours truly.

So today in the thick, heavy heat only Georgia can provide, I practiced with the seniors getting the whole recession deal down. I don't go to a big school but it isn't exactly Princeton, either, which means we ended up practicing the damn thing three times.

But I digress.

As I was lugging the giant Georgia flag around (I wanna know how I got assigned that damn thing. I hate Georgia. I hate the South. I don't like America but I fucking HATE the south. Who decided to give me that flag, hmm?), the brain started wandering to escape the heat and the nasty cicadas...

I have a wonderful job awaiting me in Atlanta, I don't have to pay rent or buy food (ahh, the luxury of moving back in with the folks) and anyone who's read even two or three of my posts knows I hate this town. It's stupidly small and full of idiots. For weeks I've been talking about how ready I am to get out of this town for good--to be away from Lynn and from Mark and all the other fuck-ups who call this hovel home.

But I'm still sad to go. Doesn't that just make it all worse? I hate it here, I don't like the people or the school and I can't wait to graduate and on top of all that unhappiness there's a big, heaping garnish of sadness. Jesus.

Still. Sunshine and I made a home here. Our apartment was small and often I spent more time away then present, but when I was with her it was safety from the stress and the bills and the ten million assignments that waited for me outside the door. The drinking, the weed smoking, the late night cigarettes....all I am going to miss as I sit on the unmade bed with boxes in my peripheral vision.

I have one more night here. And I plan to do it right.

Adios, mis queridos. 

-Miranda

By the way, check out my reblog cuz someone loved me enough to write a story about me! (here) 

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Hang Overs Suck. Bad.

So I am terribly hung over.

Like, Disgustingly so. All because I got the job I applied for. I'm nervous as hell, it's working for the Georgia democrats.

But cross your fingers!

Also, I realized that their are an amazing amount of holes in my lessons. Like why I ended up dating Mark for so long or how I went from Adam back to Mark or why I even met Lynn. This summer will be lots of filling in.

Cuz I have one more final (Monday) and then I have to do the stupid graduation ceremony thing and THEN I have my first day of work.

No bueno.

Adios, mi amigos!

[lessonsfromlayla-blog]

Job Hunting Really Doesn't Suck.

This is to stand as a lesson as well as an apology for my absence these past couple of days. My stories have been queued and I'm sure my presence on tumblr was greatly missed ;)

I got a call on Thursday saying the internship I was to take this summer has fallen through. Boss man says I can have the internship if I agree not to get paid. No can do, captain. So Miranda's off to find another job.

Since I was 15, I've never been jobless. I've bounced around from waitress to housekeeper to receptionist to tutor and never had to worry. I've woven this marvelous web of networking that keeps me from falling on my ass.

But now I've had two days to find another job. And my foolproof plan has been shoved straight on its ass. No amount of begging or whining or email sending has provided the job I need. 

So I've now got to wrestle with the most obnoxious amount of ads on Craig's List while trying to find a job for summer time. I have a fancy resume and cover letter all typed up and I'm searching for a job.

Now let me tell you a secret.

It occurred to me today while I was shaving my legs (I spend a god awful amount of time shaving my legs. Ask my roommate) that I'm not afraid of being unemployed. I excited! The possibility of searching for a job on my own without anyone's assistance. Plus, I get to search for whatever job I want! Maid service? Receptionist? Cocktail waitress? Cleaning up dead bodies? I can do any of it!

Okay, probably not the last one.

Cross your fingers and pray to St. Cajetan. Throw in a few hail Mary's while you're at it.