So, as you know, it's taken the little extra oomph to make me really laugh lately. I think God knew that and planned a little something for me this morning to make my day start with a good laugh.
My usual morning routine is to slap on decent clothes (because I don't think my green sleep shirt with white dancing bears that says "Shake It Up" and black shorts really says, "I'm Not Nuts"), run my fingers through my Bed Head, and stretch my eyes open so I can look like I've been awake for a few hours. This look passes off better if I don't have pillow lines all over my face. Once this look is accomplished, I take Logan around the neighborhood for his Morning Pooty. Squats and Leg Lifts, if you will.
This is usually a pretty bland deal. I might see a car drive by. I usually focus on how the weather feels so I can decide what I'm really going to wear for the day, and I take a few deep breaths of the fresh air to wake up. I smile at how Logan walks and how his ears jump with each step. That's usually the extent of the excitement, then we go inside and I seriously do get ready for the day.
But today when Logan made our first Leg Lift at the entrance sign for my parking lot, I sort of noticed a van pass by. It turned into a parking lot about a block away, the passenger stuck his head out his rolled down window and yelled, "HEY!" So I looked at him, still in my sleepy state, but pretending like I knew what was goin' on. He shouted, "Do you remember me??" In my semi-conscious state, I was in no place to speak back, let alone yell, so I shook my head. And he yelled, "I am the guy who just hollahed atcha.... HEY. DO YOU REMEMBER ME!! Bahahahaahahaa!! That's a good one! You're going to remember that one!!!" Then he hopped out of his van and walked into his apartment.
I wanted to tell the guy that that was pretty good, but I wanted more to curl up in bed and dream, so I just smiled, waved and gave him the thumbs up. By the time Logan and I were on our fifth Leg Lift, though, I was awake enough to realize just how funny that was and couldn't stop laughing.
A girl standing alone with her dog, laughing like the dog just told her the funniest thing. Now that's a sight I'm sure the neighbors are scratching their heads over.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Tough Decisions
I've been MIA on blogspot lately, so I decided I better type a little somethin' up to keep this fella rolling.
I think I'm going to bring things down a level and type something more serious than usual, because more serious things have been on my mind... and I guess it's okay to show I have more than one dimension.
How do you make a big decision? Up until this point, I'd say that I've made three big decisions in my life. The first one was when I was a sophomore at a university and decided after my first semester away that I wouldn't be a failure if I moved back home and finished up the school year at a community college, and then moved to a different university when I was a junior. The second one was deciding that I was ready to get married when I was 23-years-old. The third one was when I dried up my tears and decided to have a Vagal Nerve Stimulator (VNS) implanted to try to treat my epilepsy.
The scariest decision of the three was having that surgery. I didn't understand what a VNS was. I didn't know how risky it was, I did know that I hated having epilepsy, had never planned to have such a life-changing medical problem and didn't ever intend to have surgery to fix it because I hate spending any amount of time focusing on this problem. I'd rather ignore it, but epilepsy doesn't like to be ignored. When I realized that the worst that could happen with a VNS implantation was nothing and that it was mostly covered by my insurance, I decided to go for it. The best that could happen was that I would be treated. Maybe with no medicines, maybe with minimal medicines, but I could finally act like I didn't have epilepsy and leave the past in the past. Why would I pass up the opportunity to feel like I did when I was 20 and move on with my life? Pursue my careers and social life and not let this medical problem effect anything?
For a while, things were looking really good. I saw small improvements each month. I even got a part-time job and then something I thought I'd never be able to do... a 40 hour a week career that I'd wanted since I was 12-years-old. But there was still a problem. I was still having weekly seizures, I could only handle the job if I slept 10 hours a night, so my social life was limited to Saturday, and my job changed to odd hours that my health couldn't handle, even with the VNS. I wasn't fixed.
I don't want complain, though I may during my darkest times. I refuse to ask "why me," because, really, why not me? I'm not going to give this health problem to anyone else. But there are so many things that I miss. I do go out with my friends when they are around, because the VNS has gotten me to that point. But when they leave, I'm left feeling sick. I work 3-5 hours 5 days a week, with no added activities, at a job that a high school student could handle, and it leaves me drained and with regular seizures. My husband comes home to find me sleeping because my four medications leave me so weary that when I wake up, I don't even have a story about my day to share with him, I was too exhausted to do anything all day. Sometimes, I forget where I am, sometimes I forget why I'm holding something in my hands, sometimes I forget who I am when I wake up.
I miss having a clear head. I miss having a fun night with friends and feeling well the days that follow. I miss having the energy to do things in my free time, with no seizures, and telling my husband when he comes home because I'm awake when he opens the door.
I have no right to complain, because I'm doing so much better than I was five years ago, when my days were spent clinging to my bed, wishing I could work 3-5 hours at a college kid's job. Wishing I could at least take a walk around my block.
I'm writing this because I have a decision to make and I don't know how to make it. Soon, I will decide if I should pursue the diagnostic tests to see if I'm eligible for brain surgery. This could be my last chance to be that girl I was when I was 20. Or, there is a 20% chance that I will have stroke-like symptoms. At first, this was too upsetting for me to even consider... but then I started to think that maybe I shouldn't pass up on an opportunity to be my better self. That is, it's worth considering if there is a possibility that I can recuperate from the worst case scenario.
Everyone reminds me that this is my decision to make and no one else's. That is true. Only I know what my day-to-day life has been like for the last five years. But if I should choose to have the surgery, it doesn't just effect me. It effects everyone who loves me. I think that's what makes it hard.
Everyone who loves me has felt the effects of my epilepsy in their own way... and now if I make this decision and it doesn't go well, they'll feel those effects, too. But if I have it and it does go well... I can't even describe what that would be like. Elated, ecstatic... those don't even begin to describe how I'd feel if I had my old self back.
I think I'm going to bring things down a level and type something more serious than usual, because more serious things have been on my mind... and I guess it's okay to show I have more than one dimension.
How do you make a big decision? Up until this point, I'd say that I've made three big decisions in my life. The first one was when I was a sophomore at a university and decided after my first semester away that I wouldn't be a failure if I moved back home and finished up the school year at a community college, and then moved to a different university when I was a junior. The second one was deciding that I was ready to get married when I was 23-years-old. The third one was when I dried up my tears and decided to have a Vagal Nerve Stimulator (VNS) implanted to try to treat my epilepsy.
The scariest decision of the three was having that surgery. I didn't understand what a VNS was. I didn't know how risky it was, I did know that I hated having epilepsy, had never planned to have such a life-changing medical problem and didn't ever intend to have surgery to fix it because I hate spending any amount of time focusing on this problem. I'd rather ignore it, but epilepsy doesn't like to be ignored. When I realized that the worst that could happen with a VNS implantation was nothing and that it was mostly covered by my insurance, I decided to go for it. The best that could happen was that I would be treated. Maybe with no medicines, maybe with minimal medicines, but I could finally act like I didn't have epilepsy and leave the past in the past. Why would I pass up the opportunity to feel like I did when I was 20 and move on with my life? Pursue my careers and social life and not let this medical problem effect anything?
For a while, things were looking really good. I saw small improvements each month. I even got a part-time job and then something I thought I'd never be able to do... a 40 hour a week career that I'd wanted since I was 12-years-old. But there was still a problem. I was still having weekly seizures, I could only handle the job if I slept 10 hours a night, so my social life was limited to Saturday, and my job changed to odd hours that my health couldn't handle, even with the VNS. I wasn't fixed.
I don't want complain, though I may during my darkest times. I refuse to ask "why me," because, really, why not me? I'm not going to give this health problem to anyone else. But there are so many things that I miss. I do go out with my friends when they are around, because the VNS has gotten me to that point. But when they leave, I'm left feeling sick. I work 3-5 hours 5 days a week, with no added activities, at a job that a high school student could handle, and it leaves me drained and with regular seizures. My husband comes home to find me sleeping because my four medications leave me so weary that when I wake up, I don't even have a story about my day to share with him, I was too exhausted to do anything all day. Sometimes, I forget where I am, sometimes I forget why I'm holding something in my hands, sometimes I forget who I am when I wake up.
I miss having a clear head. I miss having a fun night with friends and feeling well the days that follow. I miss having the energy to do things in my free time, with no seizures, and telling my husband when he comes home because I'm awake when he opens the door.
I have no right to complain, because I'm doing so much better than I was five years ago, when my days were spent clinging to my bed, wishing I could work 3-5 hours at a college kid's job. Wishing I could at least take a walk around my block.
I'm writing this because I have a decision to make and I don't know how to make it. Soon, I will decide if I should pursue the diagnostic tests to see if I'm eligible for brain surgery. This could be my last chance to be that girl I was when I was 20. Or, there is a 20% chance that I will have stroke-like symptoms. At first, this was too upsetting for me to even consider... but then I started to think that maybe I shouldn't pass up on an opportunity to be my better self. That is, it's worth considering if there is a possibility that I can recuperate from the worst case scenario.
Everyone reminds me that this is my decision to make and no one else's. That is true. Only I know what my day-to-day life has been like for the last five years. But if I should choose to have the surgery, it doesn't just effect me. It effects everyone who loves me. I think that's what makes it hard.
Everyone who loves me has felt the effects of my epilepsy in their own way... and now if I make this decision and it doesn't go well, they'll feel those effects, too. But if I have it and it does go well... I can't even describe what that would be like. Elated, ecstatic... those don't even begin to describe how I'd feel if I had my old self back.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Driver's License Photo
I had to renew my license this month, so I took care of it yesterday. You know how everyone always complains about their license picture looking just awful? Well, I don't want to seem vain, but I always go through great measures to try to prevent a terrible driver's license picture. This is the fourth driver's license that I've had and I wanted it to look good. I don't really remember what my first picture looked like. I do recall leaving the DOT thinking it looked all right, but then I proudly showed it to a lady who was painting our house and her comment was, "Well, they are supposed to be bad photos." My pride was a little hurt, since I don't recall thinking it was that terrible, but then I just looked ahead until I got my next one when I was 21.
Now, that time, I worked hard, but acted like I didn't care, 'cause it just seems silly to get all dolled up for a driver's license. In reality, I spent lots of mousse and time on my long, bluntly cut hair. I carefully applied my make up because it's the small details that count. I found a blue shirt that would go well with the crazy blue backdrop. I casually walked in, did what they asked, and stood in front of the camera. I tried to act like it was no big deal, but I apparently did my signature pose... tilted my head a little to my left, so my good side would show. So the lady barked at me to look straight ahead. I looked straight ahead, thought of something funny and she snapped the shot.
The picture was awesome. And the best part was that I wasn't going to have to renew it for five years. Twenty-six sounded like it was YEARS away. My mom had renewed hers that day, too, and we just couldn't imagine that she and I would ever be 26 and 60. ha.
Welp, then I up and got married two years later and had to get another license with my hyphenated name and new address on it. I went through the whole process again. My hair was still long and blunt, easy to style with mousse and a hair dryer. I did my make up just so. I pulled the front of my hair back into a small clip to give it some "oomph." And I acted like I wasn't doing it for a silly ol' picture that hardly anyone sees, but because I was gracing the world with my presence and didn't want to startle anyone.
I did what they asked, I waited to take my photo, I thought of something funny for a genuine smile when they took the photo and.... ew. My face was super round, my hair was flat, it was a scary picture and I felt shame the rare times that I was asked to present my ID. I was glad that I only had three years to update it. I practically marked it on my calendar.
So yesterday was the big day. I have a nice, but difficult haircut that I don't understand how to style, but I didn't want to let that set me back. I've lived with an embarassing license for three years and I wanted one that I liked. This picture was going to happen. So I got out the big guns to try to make my hair work. I got out the mousse, the leave in conditioner, the pomade, the flat iron spray, the shine spray, the hair dryer, the flat iron, the ginormous round brush and the skinny comb. The troops who show up when I take a seat at the salon were sitting there to be used and make my hair beautiful, shiny, and perfectly straight for this photo. After a successful time with these products and tools, my hair is supposed to be sleek, parted on the side, with bangs that swoosh across my face, and my ends are supposed to be super straight. That's how it works when I bounce out of the salon, so I figure that when I have my troops around my vanity, it ought to work that way.
So I spent a good forty-five minutes on my hair, separating sections, using the various products, ironing it out. Um. In the end, I wouldn't describe it as sleek. Or straight. Or lacking frizz. But in that time of careful grooming, I did accomplish a deep side part with long bangs that swooshed across my face. So I hoped that, given the hard work that I put into it, the rest would just work itself out. So I moved on to make up, because that is something I understand. I don't really fuss with my skin. I just put on some eye stuff, fill in my gappy eyebrows, and wait to color my lips in with lipgloss RIGHT before I enter the DOT.
I chose to wear a red top to go nicely with the crazy blue back drop and, um, to compliment my skin. Not that I care.
So I finally got to the DOT and casually walked in, acting like I hadn't just spent more time than usual on my appearance, just for a photo that is hardly seen. I kept touching my hair, wishing that more people were vain enough to petition for mirrors so they could fluff before the Big Moment. I imagined that maybe, in the 15 minute drive from my apartment to the DOT, my hair had settled into either (a) a more straight, sleek position or (b) a casually wavy situation, opposed to the frizzy mess that I allowed it to be in when I left the apartment. Then I told myself to just accept that I wouldn't know until I saw my picture. Besides, I reasoned, what's another five years with a bad picture... another five years of shame when I'm carded at bar doors... another five years of embarrassment when I have to have my ID copied at new jobs... another five years of... okay, so it was bothering me. Am I really the only one who was this vain? I kept looking at everyone who went to the camera and wondered if they put any time into how they looked that day or if they just happened to need to have their hair placed just so or need to wear so much make up...
My name was finally called for the picture, and I gave an inconspicuous fluff to my hair. I stood in front of the camera, thought of a hilarious memory and hoped for the best.
What resulted was not the worst thing. I think I can live with the photo for five years. Basically, I can live with the eyes, nose and smile and the swoosh of my bangs is all right. Even my face isn't too round... it just sort of looks like I rolled out of bed and forgot to do something with my hair. It took me 45 minutes, tons of products, a brush, a comb, and two tools to get that look that I wasn't going for.
But I don't hate the picture.
Now, that time, I worked hard, but acted like I didn't care, 'cause it just seems silly to get all dolled up for a driver's license. In reality, I spent lots of mousse and time on my long, bluntly cut hair. I carefully applied my make up because it's the small details that count. I found a blue shirt that would go well with the crazy blue backdrop. I casually walked in, did what they asked, and stood in front of the camera. I tried to act like it was no big deal, but I apparently did my signature pose... tilted my head a little to my left, so my good side would show. So the lady barked at me to look straight ahead. I looked straight ahead, thought of something funny and she snapped the shot.
The picture was awesome. And the best part was that I wasn't going to have to renew it for five years. Twenty-six sounded like it was YEARS away. My mom had renewed hers that day, too, and we just couldn't imagine that she and I would ever be 26 and 60. ha.
Welp, then I up and got married two years later and had to get another license with my hyphenated name and new address on it. I went through the whole process again. My hair was still long and blunt, easy to style with mousse and a hair dryer. I did my make up just so. I pulled the front of my hair back into a small clip to give it some "oomph." And I acted like I wasn't doing it for a silly ol' picture that hardly anyone sees, but because I was gracing the world with my presence and didn't want to startle anyone.
I did what they asked, I waited to take my photo, I thought of something funny for a genuine smile when they took the photo and.... ew. My face was super round, my hair was flat, it was a scary picture and I felt shame the rare times that I was asked to present my ID. I was glad that I only had three years to update it. I practically marked it on my calendar.
So yesterday was the big day. I have a nice, but difficult haircut that I don't understand how to style, but I didn't want to let that set me back. I've lived with an embarassing license for three years and I wanted one that I liked. This picture was going to happen. So I got out the big guns to try to make my hair work. I got out the mousse, the leave in conditioner, the pomade, the flat iron spray, the shine spray, the hair dryer, the flat iron, the ginormous round brush and the skinny comb. The troops who show up when I take a seat at the salon were sitting there to be used and make my hair beautiful, shiny, and perfectly straight for this photo. After a successful time with these products and tools, my hair is supposed to be sleek, parted on the side, with bangs that swoosh across my face, and my ends are supposed to be super straight. That's how it works when I bounce out of the salon, so I figure that when I have my troops around my vanity, it ought to work that way.
So I spent a good forty-five minutes on my hair, separating sections, using the various products, ironing it out. Um. In the end, I wouldn't describe it as sleek. Or straight. Or lacking frizz. But in that time of careful grooming, I did accomplish a deep side part with long bangs that swooshed across my face. So I hoped that, given the hard work that I put into it, the rest would just work itself out. So I moved on to make up, because that is something I understand. I don't really fuss with my skin. I just put on some eye stuff, fill in my gappy eyebrows, and wait to color my lips in with lipgloss RIGHT before I enter the DOT.
I chose to wear a red top to go nicely with the crazy blue back drop and, um, to compliment my skin. Not that I care.
So I finally got to the DOT and casually walked in, acting like I hadn't just spent more time than usual on my appearance, just for a photo that is hardly seen. I kept touching my hair, wishing that more people were vain enough to petition for mirrors so they could fluff before the Big Moment. I imagined that maybe, in the 15 minute drive from my apartment to the DOT, my hair had settled into either (a) a more straight, sleek position or (b) a casually wavy situation, opposed to the frizzy mess that I allowed it to be in when I left the apartment. Then I told myself to just accept that I wouldn't know until I saw my picture. Besides, I reasoned, what's another five years with a bad picture... another five years of shame when I'm carded at bar doors... another five years of embarrassment when I have to have my ID copied at new jobs... another five years of... okay, so it was bothering me. Am I really the only one who was this vain? I kept looking at everyone who went to the camera and wondered if they put any time into how they looked that day or if they just happened to need to have their hair placed just so or need to wear so much make up...
My name was finally called for the picture, and I gave an inconspicuous fluff to my hair. I stood in front of the camera, thought of a hilarious memory and hoped for the best.
What resulted was not the worst thing. I think I can live with the photo for five years. Basically, I can live with the eyes, nose and smile and the swoosh of my bangs is all right. Even my face isn't too round... it just sort of looks like I rolled out of bed and forgot to do something with my hair. It took me 45 minutes, tons of products, a brush, a comb, and two tools to get that look that I wasn't going for.
But I don't hate the picture.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Summertime
I think we all have something that characterizes our summers growing up. Of course, lots of things happen during the summer that we probably always participated in- street festivals, county fairs, Fourth of July parties and parades- but I think everyone has that one special thing that they did every summer when they were kids that really stood out. Some went to summer camp and treasure the memories, as they went from campers to junior counselors to counselors. My mom, for instance, spent time every summer with her twin visiting her grandma. She cherishes those memories so much that I feel like I was right there with her after hearing the precious stories.
The highlight of my summer was getting a visit from my cousin Jessica. Everyone calls us twin cousins. Not because our family has some sort of questionable and illegal morals. But because she was born five days before me and we are really quite alike. The best compliment I get is when I hear that we look like sisters or someone (besides myself) mistakens a picture of her for me.
We got along great as kids. Neither of us was particularly a girly-girl, we both had wild imaginations that took us to the craziest places, and we just got each other in a way that no one else can. We have other best friends who mean the world to us, but we've both got a little bit of "cooky" in us that I think only we can get... and it is probably only brought out by the two of us being together. We'd have inside jokes within minutes and when one of us said one word, the other knew the rest of the thought and we'd burst into giggles that made the rest of the family think we were laughing about nothing. Really at that time, when we were together, we even forgot there was a rest of the family.
To this day, we still say the same absolutely random thing at the same time, one will start a thought and the other will finish it without thinking about it, and we still laugh until we're in pain at the mutter of one word because the other one knows exactly what the other is thinking. It used to make our mothers paranoid that we were laughing at them, but we never were. We just didn't have to complete our thoughts to get the point across.
It's an incredible bond that I imagine sisters have. I feel blessed to share that with her and make sure to make that as clear as possible.
So now that I've done my best to introduce Jessica, I'm trying to narrow this post down to just one of our many, many memories.
So when we were about 11-years-old, Jessica came up with her dad. We felt too cool for school because, even though I lived in the same town as our grandparents, I'd packed my stuff up and stay at their house with her during the visit. That way, I could feel like I was getting a mini-vacation, too. Plus, our grandparents and her dad spent the days golfing meaning the house was all ours. For the sake of our pride, though it is documented on tape, I won't go into much detail about what we did during the day. I'll just be vague and say we made skits. Other than that, I'm going to skip over to the part where I hated that Jessica loved soap operas, but somehow she managed to suggest that we have lunch during Days of Our Lives. This involved the two of us making sandwiches, finding chips and some sort of frozen treat deluxe, then taking it to the living room and eating them on TV trays from, like... 1801. This killed me. I'm still traumatized by this event. I wanted to look through photo albums instead. I think what killed me more was, no matter how many times we unfolded those trays in our lifetimes, we still struggle with putting them back. Totally don't get it.
So our grandparents and Jessica's dad spent their time during the day golfing for some tournament and at the end of the week, there was a fancy-shmancy dinner. That was our favorite night. We had the house to ourselves until way after dinner was over and that meant making pizza (and cutting it with scissors. Jessica could never get over that), watching our favorite movies (Baby Sitters Club by Disney, anyone? We mostly liked to put it on mute and insert our own words), dancing to whatever music we could find, most often Grease, and doing my big scheme.
I alw
ays thought it was so clever, remember I was only 10, although we did this a couple of times, for us to go curl up in Grampa's humongous bed when we were starting to get sleepy and expected them home. We watched Nick At Night, which had Dick Van Dyke and I Love Lucy and maybe Bewitched on it. We'd get all cozy, and the moment that we heard the door open, we'd shut our eyes and act like we'd been sleeping all night because I just thought that was the most hilarious scheme. I wanted to know what Grampa would do to kick us, his "Little Girls" (that was our official nickname) out. However, it usually ended up backfiring. Gramma would come swaying in, showing some after effects of her wine, and take her jewelry off (I saw this through my squinted eyes) and leave the room. Jessica and I would look at each other and smile, then close our eyes when we heard Grampa's feet heading for the door. It took all I had not to laugh. It was killing me to know what he might do. Turn off the TV? Turn on the alarm? Make Uncle Mel wake us up? Poke us in the faces? Talk loud like we aren't sleeping? Let us have his huge comfy bed?!? The possibilities!!
Well, I heard him stroll into his room. When I thought it was safe, I squinted my eyes and watched him take his cuff links off and noticed his evening jacket was already off. He sat down to take his socks off.... this was definitely not going to plan. He was preparing for bed as if his two Little Girls weren't already settled in it! He didn't bother us or anything!
My memory says that I'd wait until he left the room for something and Jessica and I would realize the jig was up and leave so Grampa could have his bed. We had spent the whole evening expecting something great to happen, all we got was normalcy. However, when her dad realized we were awake, we were treated to 12" golf bags and golf clubs made entirely of chocolate. Now that was a pick-me-up!
The highlight of my summer was getting a visit from my cousin Jessica. Everyone calls us twin cousins. Not because our family has some sort of questionable and illegal morals. But because she was born five days before me and we are really quite alike. The best compliment I get is when I hear that we look like sisters or someone (besides myself) mistakens a picture of her for me.
We got along great as kids. Neither of us was particularly a girly-girl, we both had wild imaginations that took us to the craziest places, and we just got each other in a way that no one else can. We have other best friends who mean the world to us, but we've both got a little bit of "cooky" in us that I think only we can get... and it is probably only brought out by the two of us being together. We'd have inside jokes within minutes and when one of us said one word, the other knew the rest of the thought and we'd burst into giggles that made the rest of the family think we were laughing about nothing. Really at that time, when we were together, we even forgot there was a rest of the family.
To this day, we still say the same absolutely random thing at the same time, one will start a thought and the other will finish it without thinking about it, and we still laugh until we're in pain at the mutter of one word because the other one knows exactly what the other is thinking. It used to make our mothers paranoid that we were laughing at them, but we never were. We just didn't have to complete our thoughts to get the point across.
It's an incredible bond that I imagine sisters have. I feel blessed to share that with her and make sure to make that as clear as possible.
So now that I've done my best to introduce Jessica, I'm trying to narrow this post down to just one of our many, many memories.
So when we were about 11-years-old, Jessica came up with her dad. We felt too cool for school because, even though I lived in the same town as our grandparents, I'd packed my stuff up and stay at their house with her during the visit. That way, I could feel like I was getting a mini-vacation, too. Plus, our grandparents and her dad spent the days golfing meaning the house was all ours. For the sake of our pride, though it is documented on tape, I won't go into much detail about what we did during the day. I'll just be vague and say we made skits. Other than that, I'm going to skip over to the part where I hated that Jessica loved soap operas, but somehow she managed to suggest that we have lunch during Days of Our Lives. This involved the two of us making sandwiches, finding chips and some sort of frozen treat deluxe, then taking it to the living room and eating them on TV trays from, like... 1801. This killed me. I'm still traumatized by this event. I wanted to look through photo albums instead. I think what killed me more was, no matter how many times we unfolded those trays in our lifetimes, we still struggle with putting them back. Totally don't get it.
So our grandparents and Jessica's dad spent their time during the day golfing for some tournament and at the end of the week, there was a fancy-shmancy dinner. That was our favorite night. We had the house to ourselves until way after dinner was over and that meant making pizza (and cutting it with scissors. Jessica could never get over that), watching our favorite movies (Baby Sitters Club by Disney, anyone? We mostly liked to put it on mute and insert our own words), dancing to whatever music we could find, most often Grease, and doing my big scheme.
I alw
ays thought it was so clever, remember I was only 10, although we did this a couple of times, for us to go curl up in Grampa's humongous bed when we were starting to get sleepy and expected them home. We watched Nick At Night, which had Dick Van Dyke and I Love Lucy and maybe Bewitched on it. We'd get all cozy, and the moment that we heard the door open, we'd shut our eyes and act like we'd been sleeping all night because I just thought that was the most hilarious scheme. I wanted to know what Grampa would do to kick us, his "Little Girls" (that was our official nickname) out. However, it usually ended up backfiring. Gramma would come swaying in, showing some after effects of her wine, and take her jewelry off (I saw this through my squinted eyes) and leave the room. Jessica and I would look at each other and smile, then close our eyes when we heard Grampa's feet heading for the door. It took all I had not to laugh. It was killing me to know what he might do. Turn off the TV? Turn on the alarm? Make Uncle Mel wake us up? Poke us in the faces? Talk loud like we aren't sleeping? Let us have his huge comfy bed?!? The possibilities!!
Well, I heard him stroll into his room. When I thought it was safe, I squinted my eyes and watched him take his cuff links off and noticed his evening jacket was already off. He sat down to take his socks off.... this was definitely not going to plan. He was preparing for bed as if his two Little Girls weren't already settled in it! He didn't bother us or anything!
My memory says that I'd wait until he left the room for something and Jessica and I would realize the jig was up and leave so Grampa could have his bed. We had spent the whole evening expecting something great to happen, all we got was normalcy. However, when her dad realized we were awake, we were treated to 12" golf bags and golf clubs made entirely of chocolate. Now that was a pick-me-up!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
My First Dance
I couldn't sleep a few nights ago. It was too quiet and I couldn't settle down. When I was young and this problem came about, I'd ask my mom to tell me stories from her childhood. I loved imagining her as a little girl, in the dresses that I saw her wearing in the black and white photos, acting out whatever story she shared.
So on this night, I asked Kevin to tell me a story to help me settle down. He couldn't think of anything to say since I put him on the spot, so I told him to tell me about his first dance and he spent some time reminiscing about all of the dances he went to until his last dance... the prom that I asked him to go to out of desperation... okay, and because I top secretly had a crush on him even though I hardly knew him.
Hearing his stories took me back to my first dance. I don't remember it in full, but I have flashes of memories. I'll get the embarrassing part out of the way right now. I was in sixth grade and had recently turned 11-years-old. I wasn't much for trends... um, or for fashion in general and though I liked boys, I dressed for myself. So my ensemble for the evening included black pinstripe pants, a red t-shirt, and I topped it off with a vest covered with Mickey Mouse's face. That vest was a favorite that year.
My school was just down the block, so I walked to the dance. I met with some friends whom I had known from fifth grade when I got there. We weren't allowed in the building, yet, so we eagerly waited out in the crisp fall air. Finally, they threw the doors open and we piled into the school gym where I'm sure they played 1993's greatest hits, like WHOOMP there it is! and Dreamlover by Mariah Carey and Cryin' by Aerosmith.
I wasn't really sure how the whole dance thing was supposed to go down, so I spent the first half as a wallflower, watching the grown up 8th grade girls towering over the boys who had asked them to dance. Then I saw one of my newer friends rush into the locker room in tears. Three girls followed her and I wanted to know what was wrong. When I got there, she was going on and on about her boyfriend who had just broken up with her and danced with another girl. One of the 7th graders wiped her tears away and sighed, "Well, that's what you can expect from men." And I rolled my eyes and said, "Uh, you mean boys." Meaning that only an immature boy would do something so hurtful. A mature man would know how to treat a lady. However, the 7th grader didn't get what I meant and turned to me and said, "Honey, in middle school, we call them men."
She certainly thought she taught me something. But I knew what I meant.
When our friend collected herself, we went back to the dance. This is when something interesting happened. Some song, we'll say Baby Got Back, started rockin' the gym and the DJ put strobe lights on. First, I thought it was really cool. Who doesn't like strobe lights? Everything looks all silly. But then, I started to feel really weird. Totally disconnected from my body and like I might faint or something. It's really hard to describe and I didn't know what was happening back then. Ten years later, I figured out that it was a seizure.
Because I felt so strange, I stepped out of the gym, grabbed some water and sat down on a chair in the hallway, next to the concession stand. I stayed there for a long time. Long enough to notice that a boy from my class in a polo shirt tucked too tightly in his jeans (like I had room to talk about fashion) kept buying suckers and wandering the hall. I guess he didn't really know what to do at dances, either.
I didn't think I should go back to the dance after the sensations that I felt, so I just stayed in the hall and listened to music when I tiny little girl sat next to me. She was excited because a family friend was going to adopt a baby soon. So we spent the rest of the dance becoming friends while we talked in the hallway. We left the dancing up to the tall 8th grade girls and their tiny 8th grade boy dance partners.
So on this night, I asked Kevin to tell me a story to help me settle down. He couldn't think of anything to say since I put him on the spot, so I told him to tell me about his first dance and he spent some time reminiscing about all of the dances he went to until his last dance... the prom that I asked him to go to out of desperation... okay, and because I top secretly had a crush on him even though I hardly knew him.
Hearing his stories took me back to my first dance. I don't remember it in full, but I have flashes of memories. I'll get the embarrassing part out of the way right now. I was in sixth grade and had recently turned 11-years-old. I wasn't much for trends... um, or for fashion in general and though I liked boys, I dressed for myself. So my ensemble for the evening included black pinstripe pants, a red t-shirt, and I topped it off with a vest covered with Mickey Mouse's face. That vest was a favorite that year.
My school was just down the block, so I walked to the dance. I met with some friends whom I had known from fifth grade when I got there. We weren't allowed in the building, yet, so we eagerly waited out in the crisp fall air. Finally, they threw the doors open and we piled into the school gym where I'm sure they played 1993's greatest hits, like WHOOMP there it is! and Dreamlover by Mariah Carey and Cryin' by Aerosmith.
I wasn't really sure how the whole dance thing was supposed to go down, so I spent the first half as a wallflower, watching the grown up 8th grade girls towering over the boys who had asked them to dance. Then I saw one of my newer friends rush into the locker room in tears. Three girls followed her and I wanted to know what was wrong. When I got there, she was going on and on about her boyfriend who had just broken up with her and danced with another girl. One of the 7th graders wiped her tears away and sighed, "Well, that's what you can expect from men." And I rolled my eyes and said, "Uh, you mean boys." Meaning that only an immature boy would do something so hurtful. A mature man would know how to treat a lady. However, the 7th grader didn't get what I meant and turned to me and said, "Honey, in middle school, we call them men."
She certainly thought she taught me something. But I knew what I meant.
When our friend collected herself, we went back to the dance. This is when something interesting happened. Some song, we'll say Baby Got Back, started rockin' the gym and the DJ put strobe lights on. First, I thought it was really cool. Who doesn't like strobe lights? Everything looks all silly. But then, I started to feel really weird. Totally disconnected from my body and like I might faint or something. It's really hard to describe and I didn't know what was happening back then. Ten years later, I figured out that it was a seizure.
Because I felt so strange, I stepped out of the gym, grabbed some water and sat down on a chair in the hallway, next to the concession stand. I stayed there for a long time. Long enough to notice that a boy from my class in a polo shirt tucked too tightly in his jeans (like I had room to talk about fashion) kept buying suckers and wandering the hall. I guess he didn't really know what to do at dances, either.
I didn't think I should go back to the dance after the sensations that I felt, so I just stayed in the hall and listened to music when I tiny little girl sat next to me. She was excited because a family friend was going to adopt a baby soon. So we spent the rest of the dance becoming friends while we talked in the hallway. We left the dancing up to the tall 8th grade girls and their tiny 8th grade boy dance partners.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Me? An adult?
So I'm excited about my evening plans. I will be going out for coffee with a new friend that I made at the television station. She's easy-going, intelligent, and best of all, really funny. I have a great time talking to her.
What I find hard to grasp is that I am her "adult escape" from her three children, ages 1-7. I totally get what she means, because I've heard all moms talk about reaching that point where their social life ranges from their 12-year-old babysitter to any quick conversation they can manage to exchange with other busy moms while sleepy children tug at their shirts when they pick them up from friends' homes.
It's just... me? The adult escape? Would I have been The Chosen One if she knew that my favorite pajamas pants are scattered with Care Bears? Or that I was just cleaning my apartment... while performing Sarah Bareilles to my adoring fans of Logan the dog and framed photographs? That I traveled to St. Louis for my birthday with my husband... and my stuffed rabbit who has gone on every vacation but one since I was 7-years-old?
What, exactly, constitutes an adult, anyway? I did just turn 26, which I'm not very happy about, but at least I have that going for me if I need evidence that I'm an adult. When I think of an adult, I think of Barack Obama, for instance. I just don't think he sleeps in Care Bear pajama pants, performs Stevie Wonder to his photographs, and travels all over the country with his childhood toy. He lets loose, I'm sure, but in an adult-like way. Like, he relaxes in lounge pants, tells witty jokes and bobs his head to good music. That's letting loose like an adult.
Dictionary.com says that an adult is someone who is fully grown (um) or developed or of age. I guess that counts. But as an adjective, it says "having attained full size (um) and strength; grown up; mature." I'm just not so sure I fit the adjective. I guess my friend is willing to settle for the noun.
What I find hard to grasp is that I am her "adult escape" from her three children, ages 1-7. I totally get what she means, because I've heard all moms talk about reaching that point where their social life ranges from their 12-year-old babysitter to any quick conversation they can manage to exchange with other busy moms while sleepy children tug at their shirts when they pick them up from friends' homes.
It's just... me? The adult escape? Would I have been The Chosen One if she knew that my favorite pajamas pants are scattered with Care Bears? Or that I was just cleaning my apartment... while performing Sarah Bareilles to my adoring fans of Logan the dog and framed photographs? That I traveled to St. Louis for my birthday with my husband... and my stuffed rabbit who has gone on every vacation but one since I was 7-years-old?
What, exactly, constitutes an adult, anyway? I did just turn 26, which I'm not very happy about, but at least I have that going for me if I need evidence that I'm an adult. When I think of an adult, I think of Barack Obama, for instance. I just don't think he sleeps in Care Bear pajama pants, performs Stevie Wonder to his photographs, and travels all over the country with his childhood toy. He lets loose, I'm sure, but in an adult-like way. Like, he relaxes in lounge pants, tells witty jokes and bobs his head to good music. That's letting loose like an adult.
Dictionary.com says that an adult is someone who is fully grown (um) or developed or of age. I guess that counts. But as an adjective, it says "having attained full size (um) and strength; grown up; mature." I'm just not so sure I fit the adjective. I guess my friend is willing to settle for the noun.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Why I need a pipe
I want a pipe.
You hardly even see pipes anymore. In my lifetime, I think I can name two times that I have seen someone with a pipe. One time, someone was driving and he had his pipe. The other time was last month. I was at one of my many favorite ice cream places with two of my many best friends. I was gleefully eating my orange cream ice cream cone, the way I do: *lick* "yum!" *lick* "yum!" *lick* "yum!" *lick* "yum!" For me, it's almost like by the time the ice cream goes down my throat and I prepare for my next lick, I've forgotten what it tastes like. So I take my next taste and am taken so much by surprise by the tastiness that I must exclaim, "Yum!" once again.
My friend, Luke, interrupted my heavenly world about two minutes into my practice by staring at me incredulously and asking, "Really?" Upon this interruption, I looked past Luke's head and saw it. A man looking distinguished with his pipe. That's when I knew that I wanted one. Without his pipe, he was just a man sitting at one of the best ice cream places in Iowa without an ice cream. With it, he was distinguished. I wanted to have educated discussions with him that involved words like, "preposterous" and, "By jove" and, like, "Socrates."
The Husband thinks this is ridiculous. For one, he points out, I don't smoke. Well of course not, and I don't see what having a pipe has to do with that. My pipe is going to be intended as an accessory. A conversation piece. I wear certain types of jewelry because they make me feel a certain way and they sometimes provoke conversation. Same with the pipe. It would make me feel distinguished and I think it might invite conversation. If anything, I've decided I would put coffee beans in it so if I were to suck on the stem of the pipe, I might taste some java. However, tobacco and I are enemies, so it is not involved with my fascination with pipes.
In his quest to prevent me from getting a pipe, my husband says that little girls look up to me. Now, I wouldn't want to encourage them to smoke, would I? Apparently, he hasn't been listening to my first argument. The pipe is not for smoking. Little girls will see me looking all intelligent with my pipe and see how creative I've been by not smoking, but holding it like the piece of art that it is. I've always made wise choices in life with the thought in my mind that a child might be looking up to me. My pipe won't be any different. In fact! In fact, I can even offer the child a swig of my coffee bean filled pipe. Maybe they shouldn't be drinking it, but they walk down the coffee aisle of the store all the time and inhale the fumes, so they can breathe it in from the stem of my pipe, right? I'm not a mom, but I think that's cool.
So, see? I'm still the good role model that I've always tried to be. Don't smoke that addictive tobaccy, kids, it'll hurt you. Instead, purchase this sweet pipe and fill it with coffee or cocoa beans! It'll make you look as cool as a pair of glasses and a scarf! Especially if you pair it with your glasses and scarf!
Kevin's initial reaction to my longing for a pipe was that women never have pipes. I realized that he was right. I've never seen a woman with a pipe. I don't know why that is, but I guess when I get a pipe, it is going to be my little ripple in the women's movement.
You hardly even see pipes anymore. In my lifetime, I think I can name two times that I have seen someone with a pipe. One time, someone was driving and he had his pipe. The other time was last month. I was at one of my many favorite ice cream places with two of my many best friends. I was gleefully eating my orange cream ice cream cone, the way I do: *lick* "yum!" *lick* "yum!" *lick* "yum!" *lick* "yum!" For me, it's almost like by the time the ice cream goes down my throat and I prepare for my next lick, I've forgotten what it tastes like. So I take my next taste and am taken so much by surprise by the tastiness that I must exclaim, "Yum!" once again.
My friend, Luke, interrupted my heavenly world about two minutes into my practice by staring at me incredulously and asking, "Really?" Upon this interruption, I looked past Luke's head and saw it. A man looking distinguished with his pipe. That's when I knew that I wanted one. Without his pipe, he was just a man sitting at one of the best ice cream places in Iowa without an ice cream. With it, he was distinguished. I wanted to have educated discussions with him that involved words like, "preposterous" and, "By jove" and, like, "Socrates."
The Husband thinks this is ridiculous. For one, he points out, I don't smoke. Well of course not, and I don't see what having a pipe has to do with that. My pipe is going to be intended as an accessory. A conversation piece. I wear certain types of jewelry because they make me feel a certain way and they sometimes provoke conversation. Same with the pipe. It would make me feel distinguished and I think it might invite conversation. If anything, I've decided I would put coffee beans in it so if I were to suck on the stem of the pipe, I might taste some java. However, tobacco and I are enemies, so it is not involved with my fascination with pipes.
In his quest to prevent me from getting a pipe, my husband says that little girls look up to me. Now, I wouldn't want to encourage them to smoke, would I? Apparently, he hasn't been listening to my first argument. The pipe is not for smoking. Little girls will see me looking all intelligent with my pipe and see how creative I've been by not smoking, but holding it like the piece of art that it is. I've always made wise choices in life with the thought in my mind that a child might be looking up to me. My pipe won't be any different. In fact! In fact, I can even offer the child a swig of my coffee bean filled pipe. Maybe they shouldn't be drinking it, but they walk down the coffee aisle of the store all the time and inhale the fumes, so they can breathe it in from the stem of my pipe, right? I'm not a mom, but I think that's cool.
So, see? I'm still the good role model that I've always tried to be. Don't smoke that addictive tobaccy, kids, it'll hurt you. Instead, purchase this sweet pipe and fill it with coffee or cocoa beans! It'll make you look as cool as a pair of glasses and a scarf! Especially if you pair it with your glasses and scarf!
Kevin's initial reaction to my longing for a pipe was that women never have pipes. I realized that he was right. I've never seen a woman with a pipe. I don't know why that is, but I guess when I get a pipe, it is going to be my little ripple in the women's movement.
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