He used a pick-up line and had a crooked nose.

•

“Could you do me a favor?” he asked her as he tapped her pretty little shoulder.

She turned and looked. It was obvious she was sizing him up. She always sized up the ones who were about to use pick-up lines on her. It made them hesitate.

He had hair like molasses. A nice forehead. His nose was crooked, but his smile made up for that. He had amazing teeth. And nice lips. He was a smart dresser when he wanted to be. She could tell, even though he was only in jeans and a tee shirt. And his eyes were to die for. If not for those eyes, she would have blown him off.

He wasn’t shy. He wouldn’t of tapped on her shoulder if he was shy. So he sized her up too.

She was smaller. A bit on the short side. But she had piles of hair. Hair that looked like honey. She loved her hair. He could tell by the way she fingered it. She wore a green dress with lace accents on the sleeves and hem and neckline. It was a pretty neckline, the one with the name ‘Sweetheart’ or something. Her maroon coloured heels didn’t help much with her height. She wore them just because she could. On her little ears dangled little rubies. And around her wrist a maroon ribbon was tied. He wondered about the ribbon. Something from another boy maybe.

“Yes…” she said.

Ribbon or no ribbon, he charged right ahead. “Could you try to be quieter? I keep falling in love with your adorable laugh.”

She blushed. And bit her bottom lip. “How many girls have you used that one on?”

“One.” he said.

And she blushed again. “Those aren’t supposed to work you know.”

“I know,” he told her. “But I just couldn’t help myself.”

She put her hand out. It was the arm with the ribbon tied on it. He shook it. “Lucy.” she introduced herself.

“I’m Leonard.” he replied.

•

Friday Street

My head is dancing with stories lately.

•

They walked side by side. The sun was halfway melting below the hill they were trekking up. The sidewalk burned her bare feet. She wore a little brown dress with eyelets and a big bow tied around her waist. Long silver earrings dangled from her tiny ears. Her butter coloured hair was falling out of the careless bun she had managed to put it in. He didn’t touch her. They were close. But not too close. He had the habit of rubbing the palms of his large hands on the front of his jeans. He continually flipped his head nervously to the side. He never looked her in the eye.

“Do you really know where we’re going?” she said. It was a playful little question. But she was really beginning to doubt if he actually did know how to get back.

“Of course.” he replied. “We’re almost there.”

She only sighed and eyed his shoes with jealousy. He only laughed. They finally made it over the crest of the hill, and to her relief, she could see the street sign. Never had she loved the name on that sign more. He hated it. It meant his time with her was over. He had thought about taking her on a few more wrong turns, but his worry for her poor feet was more than his selfish desire to be with her alone. Their pace quickened. He felt like crying. He wanted to hold her hand. But he wasn’t brave enough. She could only think of how much her feet were killing her.

•

It comes from something I did once with Sammy. Nothing really like that–with exception of the long walk and bare feet. I just couldn’t get those two out of my head. I spotted a couple like them the other day. Just standing there. So adorable together. I love it when I see things like that. Two people that I can throw into a story of mine. Now that is jolly.

Love.from

-Bella

The [sub]keeper who listens to OPERA.

I have a compilation of  random things in my head.

So I’m just going to write them in bursts.

Don’t mind me please.

•

I’m kind of in love with writing on the right → side of my blog right now.

I

think

it’s

cute.

•

I feel really bad because we haven’t sent Miss Kirstie Rae her birthday package yet. Bother. It’s slightly overdue and belated by A WHOLE MONTH. It makes me think that I’m a bad friend. But I will send it off soon. I think. I hope. O dear.

•

BIG BIRD’S FEET ARE ON GOOGLE.

•

Copper pots are lovely.

I want them.

•

My face is still hurting—at least it’s not black&blue. But I still HEART indoor. It’s addicting.

We actually went and kicked milk jugs over in the cul-de-sac for 2 hours yesterday. I wonder what the people driving by thought of the 3 crazy barefoot girls in skirts trying to figure out how to aim a soccer ball at an angle. (I would have thought they were quite odd.)

•

I’m wearing a Plaid=Blue+White+Grey—BANANA REPUBLIC scarf.

•

Tea and Miss Tandy are in the kitchen.

•

What if there was a man who adored…potatoes? (No, seriously. I did think this up.) And he was just completely in love with them. His whole life was about them. He loved their colours—he had pictures of them on his walls. He loved to cook with them—mashed potatoes, french fries, scalloped, baked, all the rest of that jazz. He just plain loved them. And his name was Benjamin. And he had hair the colour of Yukon Golds. And eyes like dark coloured Russets. And he was in love with potatoes. And of course there will be a girl…

•

I HEART carpet bags

and

Mary Poppins

today.

•

I really need to practice my keeper skills for indoor. (They want me to be the [sub]keeper.)

And my shooting skills.

And my juggling skills.

And my defensive skills.

And my soccer skills.

But I mostly need to practice the keeper skills.

So I’ll probably be in the cul-de-sac.

But first,

↓

Some Rooibos and OPERA. (I ♥ Rooibos.)

And then the cul-de-sac.

Love.

-Bella.dear

It’s FRIDAY and I have sweeet things in my head.

Dear Yesterday,

You weren’t the best day.

PING-PONG was fun.

Tennis was hard.

And the Dentist was horrid.

But I have to say,

I LOVED THE RUNNING.

…

Dear People who have chosen “Tooth Care” to be their life,

I feel sorry for you.

…

Dear John Keats,

I am in LOVE with you. Really I am. I don’t know how you did it. How you wrote the things you wrote. It is AMAZING. I would go back in time just to marry you. Just to meet you actually. Tomorrow is going to be grand. I will wish you happy birthday. And I will read ENDYMION almost all day. And I will wear your name somehow(I want to do something poetic…).

I HEART YOU.

…

Dear people who have been wanting a sweet tid-bit(If there are any),

•

He was at least 7 feet away from her when he got down on one knee. It was ironic in a way. He was proposing, he wanted to spend the rest of his life close to her, and he was asking her to marry him from 7 feet away. She laughed at how absurd it seemed at the time. She had never expected him to do this. Not here, not in the middle of the street. But as he knelt there, holding out the ring to her, wearing his starched white shirt,

with his hair a mess,

and his italian leather shoes being scuffed on the asphalt because his knees were shaking,

she realized he was doing it.

And she realized no matter how absurd it was, she had wanted him to do it for the past month. No—she had wanted him to do it from the moment she met him. And this was that moment. And she could say yes. So she did. And the young lady in the periwinkle coloured dress,

and the red heels,

with the strawberry coloured hair piled on top of her head,

and the quivering hands,

ran to him.

In the middle of the street.

And then they kissed.

And the cars kept going.

•

I like it. Do you?

…

Dear left leg,

I wish you were less bothersome.

…

Dear sunflower blanket,

you are grand.

…

Dear poofy hair,

You are my favourite.

…

Dear IMC Districts tomorrow,

I will wear my jeans to you. And curl my hair. And take mile splits. And hold my red umbrella. And cheer. And I will be sure to love you.

Because who doesn’t love Districts?

…

Love.

-Bella.dear

loved it.

•10 hours on a bus (in all).

•strawberry pop-tarts from a vending machine.

•falling in LOVE with the beach all over again.

•the taste of salt water is still in my mouth.

•lots of riddles.

•ultimate frisbee.

•a 3THREE-course challenge.

•i got to watch xc in my jeans♥.

•making a pair of snazzy chopsticks to wear in my hair.

•STARBUCKS® (iced coffee, no milk please.)

•Safe-uh-way.

•a mud pit….well, more like a mud pond.

•tapioca.

•waltzing through downtown SeaSide.

•blackberry picking.

•and this lovely little piece dropping into my head as i ran through the waves.

………………………………………………………………………..

she’d never been. to the ocean that is. she was a small-town girl. the epitome of a small-town girl. she had blonde hair that she piled on top of her head carelessly. a few strands spilled out over her brow, brushing her blue eyes. salty air bit at her lips. her cheeks were a flushed pink. she bunched up her white dress and knotted it at her hip. her small hands shook with excitement as she cupped sand and ran it through her fingers. she was nervous.

he laughed at her and rolled his pants up past his ankles. he’d been to the beach hundreds of times. he practically lived there. his house was only three blocks from the pier. he’d grown up with sand in his toes and salt in his hair and oyester shells in his hands. he pushed his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and ran his hands through his curly, maple coloured hair. he laughed at her again. she seemed almost frightened as the waves crashed down again and again. her feet were planted firmly in the sand. 20 yards from the ocean. 20 yards from a 5 year old dream. 20 yards, and she was scared half to death.

he took her small hand in his big one. “do you want to go in?” she looked at him. “yes.” she said. but she said it hesitantly. he swept her up into his arms. she wrapped her arms around his neck. “you’re going to love it.” he whispered in her ear. and she knew she would. she closed her eyes up until the moment she could feel the water snapping at her toes. she looked down. he was in up past his knees. she held him tighter. “don’t put me down.” she said. he laughed for the third time. he was always laughing at her. but he didn’t put her down. he didn’t want to. he’d waited 5 years for this moment too. and then she couldn’t wait any longer. she wasn’t frightened anymore. she slipped out of his arms and into the sea. it was cold. she loved it. just the way he’d told her she would.

she was content just to stand there and hold his hand. but he was jealous. jealous of the way the waves got to kiss her feet. he wanted to kiss her lips. so he did. and she kissed him back. and he laughed at her. and she loved it.

……………………………………………………………

(it’s been a lovely weekend.)

love.

-Bella

xoxox

Martin and Margaret.

today i want cupcakes and a STARBUCKS® Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate.

but i can’t have those.

i can have homemade muffins and tea.

and that makes me happy.

……………………………………………….

red coats and blustery days are a sure recipe for love. at least they were for Margaret. it seemed everytime the wind was eating the sky, and everytime Margaret wore that little red coat, she fell in love. it was simple really. it had happened 8 times. he was the eighth.

his name was Martin. but she didn’t know that. yet. he wore a black coat and sleepy eyes. his hair was a syrupy, maple colour and had a single curl that fell over his brow. his eyes were chocolate.

she knew he was different then the other 7. she’d never talked to the others. but then he walked past her. without a word. and she thought maybe for a moment that she’d just lied to herself and maybe he wasn’t different. but she hadn’t.

her scarf blew off. it was the sort of scarf that one would expect to blow off anyways. not one of those chunky, knitted confections that kept your neck toasty all the way from home to the supermarket and home again. it was a long, creamy rope of silk intertwined with ribbons. and it blew right off. and it landed behind her, wrapping itself around his ankles.

she turned around clutching her neck with a small hand. her turned around clutching her scarf with a big hand.

and he was pleasantly surprised. he had expected a 30 something woman to march up to him and grab the scarf without a word and march away. instead he was greeted by the sight of a lovely young woman who was blushing furiously.

he liked the way her caramel coloured tresses were piled on top of her head without a thought. and he loved her eyes. they were the colour of forget-me-nots. he couldn’t help but feel like quite the lucky guy at that moment. it’s not everyday you catch a gorgeous little lady’s runaway scarf.

…………………………………………

love.

-Bella

O Politics…

CUH-RAZY. that’s what the town hall meeting was like. it was like crazy spelled wrong. and i am serious. all those people shoved into one little room…the Fire Marshall showing up….the angry people yelling. just crazy.

i stood outside in my jeans and little black dress, holding my water bottle, and tilting my head inside the door to hear. it’s hard to hear when people are yelling things they shouldn’t be yelling. i thought about the madness. i thought about John Adams. and i thought this up:

———————————————————————-

the town was small. and the town hall was small. far to small for the 400 people trying to shove into it. they had to shut the doors to the foyer because of the riot starting outside. the people who couldn’t get chairs stood along the walls. children played quietly on the floor. angry people locked out screamed and shouted about wanting in. the men inside raised their voices and said what they felt. the women almost cried when they spoke. everyone wanted everyone else to agree with each other’s opinion. and they almost all did agree. except for a few. the man in the green shirt. the older woman on the far left. the college student. and the man at the front of the room. the man they came to hear. he voiced a different opinion. but all those people wanted to make sure that when that man went home that night, he would have 308 voices ringing in his head, telling him he was wrong. they were going to make sure he would hear them. they were the only voice of their little town. it was 308 against one. but that one knew what he wanted. and he didn’t want to hear them.

she was one of the 308. she had made it inside, but just barely. she stood along the back wall. it was hard to hear. looking out the window she could see the men of the riot standing on crates and boxes to be heard. their muffled voices hitting the walls of the town hall and bouncing off. they waved signs painted with red letters. they were having their own meeting. a violent one. she turned back. the man at the front was speaking again. he was telling a mother that she was wrong. he was telling a mother that he was right. next to her a younger man shook his head. he wore a white shirt buttoned up the front. the shirtsleeves were rolled up. it was warm in the town hall. his honey coloured hair had flecks of gold in it. he smelled good. he smelled like soap. his eyes were blue. and they were angry eyes. she could tell from the way he clenched his fists that he wanted to be outside in the middle of that riot. he wanted to be standing on a crate. he wanted to tell that man he was wrong. but he knew that wasn’t the answer. that man up front wouldn’t hear yelling. he had to hear the people inside.

the man up front had just finished with the mother. he’d made her cry. she thought the younger man next to her was going to speak up. he didn’t. so she did. she stepped forward and walked up the tiny aisle of townspeople to the front. they all stared at the young lady in the green dress with the big red bow tied around it. they wondered why she had dressed so brightly. her maple coloured hair was piled high on top of her head. her face burned. the man up front wore a smug smile. he was sweating. she choked on her voice quite suddenly. she couldn’t seem to say what she wanted to. her words tangled up on her tongue. then he was next to her. and she could smell the sweet soap smell again. the townspeople were on the edges of their seats. the riot was screaming even louder. a baby cried. the man up front stopped smiling. the younger man opened his mouth and spoke.

——————————————————————-

O politics. so complicated. so crazy. i kind of liked it. and i kind of hated it. but i like what i wrote. even though our meeting wasn’t even like that. i could still see one like that.

i don’t know what to think about town hall meetings.

love.

-Bella.dear

Happy Anniversary (MOM+DAD forever.)

sometimes, my life is PERFECT. i’m being completely honest here.

it’s perfect when i’m sitting on the kitchen floor and eating Jet Puff while wearing red lipstick. it’s perfect when i figure out exactly what to say next and that little *ding* on my typewriter sounds and i happily re-read my words again. or when i go walking with my marvelous sisters and we’re all spiffied up and have nowhere to go but 7-Eleven. or when my Popi comes home from Jury Duty with a dozen roses in his hands for my Mumsie but he can’t find her and looks in every single room for her (which he just did). it’s perfect when i have an apron on and am making Easter bread when it’s not even Easter. or when i watch Lala mia walking about town with her Mary Poppins purse on her shoulder and her hair all done-up and high heels on.

today feels like a perfect day to me.

{i’m wearing the traveling dress.} we had a splendid run this morning. i have red lips. there are avocadoes on the kitchen counter. Lala mia is sitting at the table sewing a wedding veil (and no one’s even getting married…). a glass of milk is next to me. and this is in my head…

“”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"

they were laying on the kitchen floor. they had just mopped it. his jeans were rolled up past his ankles. her dress was tucked up past her knees and knotted at her hip. soap was everywhere. they had gotten a little out of hand. he was still breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his heart pounding. she laughed when she looked over at him. he was laying there with his sandy hair a tousled mess falling over his blue eyes. “you need a haircut.” she said. he peered over and took in her own messy appearance. her chocolate tresses were piled on top of her head and covered in soap. “you need a bath.” he retorted. she blushed. “i was under the impression that the soap you poured all over me cleaned me up enough.” her voice had a biting, but playful tone. he only smiled at the ceiling. and his hand slowly made it’s way across the floor and met her’s. he intertwined his fingers in her’s. they held hands. and stared at the ceiling. and layed on the soapy floor.

“”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"

today is a perfect day. i made that little piece up. and it’s my parent’s anniversary. that makes it perfect.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY DADDY AND MOMMY.

i ♥ you like the dickens.

love.

-Bella.dear

The Beach Boys and George+Josephine

{little blue dress and yellow+white striped shirt this day.}

i’ve been typing up a small storm in my bedroom while Lala mia was playing along with the marvelous John Mayer. i’d say that’s pretty darn inspiring. who else has an older sister that can play along with him? it makes me write some lovely stuff. at least i think so. i’ve still been working on that little piece that makes me cry. here’s a bit of it for you.

****************************

they did meet in that little tea shop. it was a blue saturday. George was 23. his wife had died 6 months ago. he wore tired eyes and a pale blue shirt. his shirt was wrinkled and his shoes were scuffed. his chocolate hair was a tousled mess. he was a mess. a handsome mess. a handsome mess that wanted a cup of tea. she was there when he walked in. a cup of raspberry green tea steaming in front of her. her small porcelain hands tapping the table. she wore a cream coloured full skirt and a lemon yellow shirt that had ruffles down the front. pages of music littered the table that she sat at. josephine was 21, a successful piano teacher, and only glanced at the tired young man once. he on the other hand never even looked her way. he ordered a whole pot of chai (he was never a man to drown his sorrows in a bar, but rather over a strong cup of tea) and sat down with his head in hands. half of his chai was gone as she stood up to leave, but as luck would have it, the door of the tea shop opened and the bell jingled and a strong gust of wind blew in as a man walked out. the stack of music josephine had crammed into her arms flew about the room. Mozart smacked george in the face. Beethoven landed at his feet.

****************************

it makes me want to cry everytime. but only one part so far has actually made me cry. i think writing this makes me angry or something. i’m never in a good mood while writing it. and i always have this melancholy taste afterwards. but i still love it. and maybe you will too.

Miss Tandy is making me play The Beach Boys. *smile*.

love.

-Bella.dear

on the bench in my head.

i get to go to a wedding today. weddings are smashing. i cannot wait. i ♥ weddings.

Miss Tandy is throwing a fit about Mother Goose nursery rhymes. she says some of them don’t make sense. i told her they’re not supposed to make sense. they’re rhymes for goodness’ sake. they don’t have to make sense.

sweet tid-bit for today:

……………………………

she sat on the bench. and so did he. she was on the right side. he was sitting halfway off the left side. he was afraid to look at her. she was hesitant. but they did steal glances at one another. she saw his blue eyes and sandy coloured hair. his green scarf and black coat. the way his fingers never stopped moving. he played piano. she could tell. because of his fingers. he was playing Mozart on his lap. he occasionally looked when she didn’t. he made sure not to meet her eyes. grey eyes he saw. grey eyes and brown hair. brown hair like chai tea. she was drinking chai tea. he could smell it. she was wearing a little dress. a dress the colour of burnt oranges. and a brown peacoat with creamy buttons. she looked classy. he looked handsome. and they were made for eachother. but their nerves kept them on their side of the bench. and they didn’t move. except for his piano playing fingers and her occasional sips of chai tea.

……………………………….

i like it. but then again, i usually like what i write. except for the ones i throw away. but then i get them back out. *blush*. because i like them amyway.

i.want.to.go.to.the.wedding. (but it’s at 4 o’clock.) i can be patient. i think.

love.

-Bella.dear