But there are some born to shine who can't do it alone, so protect them and take special care.

This week. Easily the best one.

Because when you see a long lost human
that brings you so much joy,
your heart will actually yearn
and ache to explode.
That's how happy it makes you.
Even if all you can think
to formally call him is
"a long lost human".
Completely surrounded
with three of your favorite people,
how can anyone say it wasn't the best?

To shop and actually buy new clothes
releases endorphins.
I have missed those feel-good sensations.
This week made me realize
that I haven't been happy.
At least, not like this.
Not to the extent of being
this high-spirited
for five consecutive days.

How can anyone argue that isn't the best?

For you see
To swim with those three people
and laugh like a little girl.
To feel that hot St. George sun
beat down upon your skin
with one hundred and five degrees of power.
To attempt to relearn
how to float on your back,
or even your tummy, for that matter,
and to see everyone {self included}
completely entertained and amused
at the fact that you just can't.
Your body won't.
After giving up,
you smile inside at the thought
of you four brilliant people
simply being. Breathing. Playing. Giggling.

To live through the magic of Aladdin
and to dance
along to the groovy beats of Hairspray.
To feel the rush of butterflies
when my long lost one sweeps me off my feet
more than one time.
And to be completely oblivious
to anything or anyone else in the plaza
for each of those engaging moments.

To know that the three will wait
in awkwardness while I
chat it up with my homeboy.

To eat only curly fries and a chocolate shake
for lunch so the others
can eat something they actually enjoy.
And to think Mother was ok with it.

To do and to see and to feel and to be.
All of this is to have the best week. With ease.

Lessons with Lize: Part III

Daddy's little girl.

Sometimes
you wish you could always stay little.

Because it's okay
for little girls
to climb onto Daddy's lap
and cuddle up nice and close
to his heart.

But when you're eighteen,
you don't fit quite as nicely.

So instead
you cuddle up real close
next to him
and watch Harry Potter 7
part 1.
And you absolutely love
those times with Daddy.
Even though
he's getting a little bit older
and has to ask
"What did they say?"
so many times.

Daddy:
I'll repeat what they said for you.
I love you, Daddy.

Sometimes
you wish you could always stay little.

Because when you're small,
he'll sweep you off your feet
when the tears stream

down your little red face. And with one hug,
he makes it all better.
With one tickle fight,
the sad, wet eyes vanish
and are replaced with
happy, wet eyes.
Or when you'd fall asleep upstairs
because you try to stay up
like a big kid
just so you won't miss anything important.
But your eyes slowly become heavy.
And without complaint, Daddy effortlessly
lifts your frail, tiny body and softly
carries you to bed. Sealed with a kiss on the head.

But when you're eighteen,
you weigh a little too much
for Daddy's tired back to handle.

So instead,
he'll hold you in his big, safe arms
and let you cry.
He'll offer calming words of advice
when you're stressed or anxious.
His jokes still make you laugh
to the point of tears.
He's a good bud to have.
His dance moves are prime
and his stank face is serious competition.
His tears {the happy ones} make your heart sing
and leap for joy
that you did something good enough
to make him proud.

Daddy,
I love being your baby girl
and your "Pumpkin".
I love being your
"Lou Boo" and your
"Daughter of the Year"
(Sorry siblings. I had to.)

Daddy,
I'll miss when you drive me to dance
and tell me to point my feet
and dance pretty, just for you.
When I'm having a bad day,
I'll miss your welcoming hugs,
the safest ones I've ever known.
I'll miss your jokes
that, despite what Mother thinks,
are actually really funny.
Even when I make my mocking laugh at you.
I'll miss sitting by you at church
and resting my head on you
when the meeting goes long
or when I eat wheat and get very sleepy
or when I don't feel well.

But, Daddy, I look forward
to driving with you to college slash work
everyday.
And we'll still be movie buddies.
And you can still come watch me dance.
And I can still hold you and feel you breathe
and hear your heartbeat.
I am a lucky girl, Daddy, because some girls
like me don't have a dad that they can call their own.

But I do.

I love you Father.

We Be... The whitest chicks in all the world.

 I don't consider myself a pro at hip hop. In fact, I'm not even good at it. I was always the scrawny, self-conscious girl that was being yelled at to "GET LOWER!" {I blame my parents for my height. But I'm over it.} Some days I can semi-fake something groovy enough to pass as this sensation we call "get buck." My only claim to fame in the hip hop genre is I have the stankiest stank face in all the land, which I consider a rare talent. This marvelous facial expression has overtaken my face. I often don't even know when it's coming or sometimes that it has occurred at all! You could call it my DID {the politically correct way to say Multiple Personality Disorder. Meaning my other personality. Somewhat comparable to Nicki Minaj's personality of Roman? Who even knows where this side note is going. End side note.}. Stank face aside, I actually can't do hip hop. And yet they asked me to teach two classes today??

So, naturally, for good luck, I'm reppin' the ballerina necklace. It was a gift to me from the mother last weekend for my very last dance recital. {Stay tuned for a post dedicated to that.} What a living oxymoron I am.

To the students: My sincerest apologies for the psycho white-y white goon who will be teaching you today. She still searching for the meaning of her life, and hopes you will at least think her lame jokes are the slightest bit amusing.

Warning: If you want to be a successful hip hop teacher, no matter how "white girl" you seem, never, I repeat, NEVER use the following phrases--

"Gettin' jiggy with my bad self"
"Reppin'..."

Unfortunately, these words of doom have already crept into my vocabulary. The use of such slang will only result in alienation and stares comparable to the ones pointed at a highly contagious disease.

Welp. Here goes nothing.

{good news. I can paint my fingernails again! What the random, I know...}

Peace and Blessings,

Lize

The Case of the Lost Identity.

I used to be funny. I used to be a little girl. It used to be easy to exist around people. I've changed.

I read the first few blog posts of mine, and I recall writing something along the lines of "This blog isn't about trying to be something slash someone I'm not. This one's for me." I've lost it. I've lost the Eliza touch. One minute I think I wish I had her talent for writing. Next thing I know: Kaboom, Fifi. Just for fun, I try once or twice, and obviously I fail. because that is not me.  They are them, and I am me. I will never be able to write as eloquently as Addy, or as poetically as Laura. I'll never be as mysterious and cryptic as Amy or Morgan, and I won't ever have the simple giddiness of Linsey. Nor the simply profound and heartfelt ways of Jillian. It ain't gon hAppen. But the thing is: it doesn't have to. All it has to be is from MY brain, MY heart, MY fingers. Why am I trying so hard to write something that someone will comment on or strike up a conversation about? Why do I cross my fingers before I check how many followers I have, hoping that one day the number will be anything like Meg's? My thirteen dear followers are enough. I am enough. {I thank my readers from the bottom of my heart for staying with me through this rough patch of my blogging life. The realization is the first step to recovery, right?}

Ohkay, so I'm not totally gone. There are still hints of that "little baby girl" hanging on with all her might. Rather, I feel like I've lost sight of me. Meeting new friends is always nice, and of course, the closer friends become, the more their habits wear off on each other. But stepping away from the situation, I see that they have morphed me. No. I morphed myself into what I thought they would want me to be. I find myself using words I never thought I'd use. {Not bad words, per se... Don't be alarmed. Just... different words.} All of it only led to disappointment when I found out I'll never be enough for some. So I'm officially pulling off this mask. Back to square one. Back to Eliza NoMiddleName Summerhays. Back to the reesty, frumpy "oh my world" bunheaded me. {Not meaning I was ever reesty. It just means I use that word a lot.} I miss my innocent girlish wit. Obviously I can't bring back the naive, young girl view of life because my heart has been tugged too many times and cut and bandaged and stabbed and revived and bruised and hardened around the edges. What was once unconditional forgiveness and letting myself get trampled by everyone and their grandma because everyone, however deep down, had good inside is now a slightly skeptical and sometimes grudging but refined young woman. {Shh. Run-on sentences do, in fact, exist.} So where did I go? When did the frumpqueen step out? 

I have no idea, but I'm going to conduct a search party for her. I'll let you know when she's back.

Mango Slushees and Strawberry Hichew and 1:40 in the am.

Maybe I'm too trusting
or just too open for my own good,
and often times I end up
sticking my foot right down my throat. That's not quite it.
Any help?
Oh yes.
When I have a feeling of
good friendship approaching,
I am quick to feel comfortable.
I share my thoughts, worries, frustrations
and often times, my trusting disposition
that that person actually cares
bites me in the butt. {Not literally. That's gross.}
Once again I've been wrong,
and I guess
I've forgotten how much it actually hurts.
And I come back to earth.
I realize there is no real such thing.
Then new ones come along.
It sounds dumb and cliche
But this time it's a little different.
I just know it.
It just has to be.

Same music taste: Check
Very Accurate Fiend Radar: Check
Easy to talk to: check
Easy to listen to: Check check
Understanding: triple check
Generous & Genuine: Check
Hilarious: Check
As Paranoid as I am: Check that twice.
Simple yet profound: Check
Such a fiend: Check
The verdict: Kindred Spirits.

This is what summer is about.
Staying out late,
doing nothing with someone else
because it's more fun that way.
Occasionally,
there are nights like this one,
when words aren't the most necessary thing.
When song lyrics become significant,
and they remind us of that one person.
It's about being introduced to slushees and hichew
and other such things.
It's about "Listen to this one"
and "what a fiend", "I'm pleased."
Also,
"Wise Ones have something to say,
but Fools have to say something."
Occasionally,
a few head nods,
but mostly just observing.
No analyzing, just listening.
I like to take it all in.

Relish in the fact that I'm spending my "last summer as a child" just the way I had hoped.

When you hear someone say "summer", automatically, there is an aura of nostalgic sensations. {Side note: I'm impressed with myself for forming that sentence without the use of Dictionary.com. Also, I apologize for all the cliche stuff lately. End side note.} I don't know about you, but when I hear that six letter word, often these things come to mind: close friends, laughter, shorts and t-shirts, warm summer nights, guitars and fires, car rides and playlists of music. When frumpiness is more than acceptable. It's about that temporary feeling of liberation and youth. Summer is to celebrate life. To show us how to be grateful for the opportunities we have to be in one place for one final time. Although some have already moved on, they have not truly left. There are still phone calls, and there will be weekend visits, I'm sure. It's about reminiscing, but mostly just living in the moment.

How are you making this summer the one of your dreams? 

p.s. T-Minus twelve days, eleven hours, fifty-four minutes and twenty seconds.

The lazy days we laze away.

Please don't ever let the excitement of summer evenings end. Please oh please let me stay friends with everyone and let there be no drama during our last few months together. Please let the sun shine and the rain pour on occasional days. I love the rain.

Please Bless.

Please bless this feeling will always stay inside of me. Please bless he'll never stop calling me sweetheart. Please bless I'll continue to tan like my Indian Ancestors. Please let me always smile. Please let this sensation of joy and true happiness never cease to exist in my soul. I have never felt so pleased with my life, so please bless I will continue to live this way: carefree and... not necessarily easy... but easiER.

Please bless I will remember every detail of every memory of this, the best summer of my young life.

And so the young girl became a woman: Part II

Morgan slept over. We planned to stay up all night talking about the events that had occurred during the cray cray week. We had barely skimmed the surface when all too soon we were both OUT.

The alarms went off. Apparently I frighten people by the abruptness of my awakening. My bad. We made our reesty, un-showered selves look a bit more presentable. At precisely nine o' clock, we waltzed into Denny's with Chandi by our side. And older woman began counting out eight menus. Then the heavens opened. Aida made eye contact with me, and her face lit up. She quickly shuffled over to a table in her section and set the places for us; She remembered me! What was that you said? Hashies? No... oh Saushas. Aka Sausage :) I love it when she tries to speak our language.

The short one (Sorry, Davis. It's just a fact of life.) and the best frump entered just in time. A free Grand Slam (Double the hashbrowns) and more milkshake that usual later, I was content with my life. Aida even sang to me. Bless her.

Next destination: swings. Carefree and reesty. That's what I always say. We swung so high, I dreamed I could stay up in the air and never come down.  Please let this day last forever.  Laying on the grass and listening to the one and only Hunter Hayes.

Of course this glorious summer day had to be interrupted by two and a half hours of sweaty, tiring rehearsal at dance. What a wonder. The plus side: Gluten free versions of homemade toffee & coloring with crayons. Taking up the most room just to write:

TUCO aka Eliza Summerhays

Home. Shower. Waffles & syrup & peach jam. Mother knows me so well. Presents. The white, snap-down high tops. The frumpy sweater vest. Other presents. Gluten free lemon cake and i-c-e-c. A car ride. My Miranda buddy slash twin brother Cody. He has the best music selection. More laying on the grass. A great present from a beautiful best friend. She helps me come in touch with my redneck side.

"I mean. I love the thought of loving tractors."

We snuck up on the fiends because we're secret agents. Reppin' the white high tops (because I'm a gangster and "rep" things these days...), I made a huge miscalculation of timing and our position was compromised.

Fire warming the faces and setting the perfect mood. Con's guitar expertise and lovely voice. His compliment about my voice that reached deeper than he knows. We have the same music taste. I could guess that one within the first two chords. He figured the beginning of that one out, and when he played it, we got equally excited.

We ended the night with the infamous Amanda Show Season 1 episodes 1 & 2. How ridiculously hilarious she was a such a young age. And some of the same facial expressions overtook her face! The lovely Asian was so utterly confused at the American culture of the 90's. Her facial expressions were pretty priceless, too.

"SCHNELL!"

Con drove Grettie and I home. He gives some of the best hugs I've ever experienced.

I entered my room and died of slight heartache as the clock once again struck midnight. My day is over for another year.

When was your favorite birthday?

And so the young girl became a woman.

Today is the day of celebratory excitement toward my life. All my hardships, all my trials, every endeavor that has been confronted. It was all about celebrating me.

Today, my dear ones, is my eighteenth birthday.

When reliving the glory of this day, I make the bold statement that it has been the best birthday so far in my life. My brain panics at that fact and automatically jumps into the contradictory thought, "What about last year?!" Yes, Brain, last year was nice too, but this one far surpasses even that. So breathe. And maybe let Mouth drink some lemonade. Thank you.

In order to cover completely everything, I need to begin with some events from May 31st. Here is the exposition of the best day of my life:

 It all started with a party at my next door neighbor's house. It was her first time grilling. Kudos to her because the hotdog and hamburger patty I had were oh so delectable.
Lots of Country Time Strawberry Lemonade and sunshine and laughs and tweets about #kp later... the excitement lulled. People left and came, some waiting to make the usual attention-getting appearance, others leaving for work and last minute errands. Addyson, Kristen, Morgan, Chandi, and I departed for Orange Leaf. Soon we were rejoined by Benjamin and, a while later, Connor and then Davis. The movie of choice was Dream Girls. I was essited; I had never seen it before and neither had Morgan. I called sitting by Benjamin for the final time. (Let's not dwell on this too much. I already cried about it. Things feel too different now.) He mooched for my  "Divine" gift of arm tickling on last time. This time I didn't mind one sip. My favorite parts of the movie were when Benjamin and Con would start shimmying along to the music or dancing in their chairs.

11:50 pm. The movie nears its end. Benjamin, Kristen, and Addy were gone, Davis and Chandi were out cold, and Morgan came to sit by me. We tried to nonchalantly spy on Connor dancing in the back, but to no avail. He soon joined us under a blankie on the couch.

11:57 pm. I announced the time and T-minus three minutes until the much anticipated moment. Con prepared his hundredth tweet shout out to me, and I finished the movie, glancing down to the phone every point two seconds.

Midnight. June 1, 2012. Movie Credits rolled at the exact stroke of twelve. Phone alarm rang. As I stood up to do my "It's my 18th birthday" jig, my phone sounded a second time. His tweet, closely followed by Addy's, touched  my heart. I have the kindest friends. Chandi awoke with a disoriented start while I continued all kinds of burneys and twirls and prancey dances (making a fool of myself and the like), and she sweetly kicked us out. The four fiends walked toward my driveway.

A bright streak of light shot across the sky. A Falling Star. On my birthday. It had to be extra lucky, considering also that no one but me witnessed its brilliance. Clasping my fingers tight under my chin, I wished extra hard on that marvelous wonder of the night. (I don't mean to ruin the magical moment, but just know the wish didn't come true. It did to a certain extent, but maybe I expected too much from that small cosmic explosion.)

To be continued...