Clowns Eat People

Clowns scare me.

When I was a kid, my mom wanted to start a clown collection for me. You know, how little kids get gifts and suddenly it becomes a collection...apparently clowns were the direction my mom was headed toward until she realized how petrified I was of them. Fortunately, she was kind enough to stop and point my collection into the direction of...unicorns.

Regardless, to this day clowns still give me the jeebies. Carnivals, circuses, charity events...I have to head the other way when I see one of them, regardless of how harmless they might appear to be. Because I swear that clown will turn on you and eat you when you least expect it. If I were to trace this clown fear (or bias, perhaps) to certain moments in my life, it would boil down to three events:

1. Clowns say the creepiest things that the average adult could not get away with. I swear, if you took away the face paint and the brightly colored outfits, you'd be left with a creepy, middle-aged man who should be arrested for some of those phrases. I once had a clown approach me at the circus, tell me that my freckles were clown kisses, and then try to give me a kiss. I'm sure it was just a mock kiss, but all my little kid brain could see was the bright red mouth surrounded by a pasty white face and bizarrely painted eyes coming at me. 
   
   
2. I read the Stephen King's book, IT, and watched the movie adaptation of the book shortly after at the age of 10. I'm exactly sure where the parental guidance was at my home at the time. One the surface, maybe the premise of the movie seemed a little bit like Stand By Me with a supernatural twist: a group of kids who experience some bad things in the woods go on to become adults who experience...bad things in the woods. Tim Curry's performance as Pennywise the Clown was terrifying and to this day I struggle with watching him in movies, despite him being an exceptional actor. As I watch him in other performances, my mind will suddenly change the content of the movie and Tim Curry is suddenly pulling little kids wearing yellow slickers into drainpipes and ripping their arms off like flies. It just doesn't end well. Most of my friends and coworkers that I've talked to about the movie IT who saw it at roughly the same age and time have the same visceral reaction when the movie or Tim Curry is mentioned. Just chalk it up to Stephen King successfully tormenting yet another generation of children.
   
   
3. I saw the movie Killer Klowns from Outer Space. I wish I could just leave it at that. But when you read the description of the movie on Wikipedia, it refers to the movie as "...science fiction horror comedy..." Once again, I saw this movie at probably too young of an age -- maybe eight or nine. And I couldn't sleep for weeks. The clowns in the movie were, well, aliens from outer space that had grotesque features and razor sharp teeth. They essentially came to earth to kill humans, using acid-based pies, popcorn laser guns, and cotton candy cocoons to either kill or immobilize the humans that they encountered. Absolutely terrifying. A few weeks ago, I was flipping through the channels on a Saturday morning. One of the local TV stations -- not a cable channel -- was playing the movie at like 9:00 a.m. A prime time for a small child to be flipping through the channels looking for cartoons to land on it. I stopped and watched it for a few minutes, just in time to see a security guard vaporized when the clowns threw the acid pies at him (giving a whole meaning to "a pie in the face"). While the '80s music, clothes, and visual effects and my now adult status should have made the "comedy" portion of the movie be more apparent, I still felt the hair raise on the back of my neck. Later that night, I dreamt that a clown car chased me down; when the clowns popped out of the car, they threw me into a vat to be made as a funnel cake. So...that's probably not normal, right?

Back to Work

The only way an artist can personally fail is to quit work.

--Thomas Hart Benton

Recently I went to see a black-and-white lithograph exhibit of Thomas Hart Benton's work. His work has always impressed me, the way that he could capture history with a tube of paint and a stroke of a paintbrush. Sometimes his paintings are a little over the top for me, maybe a little too cartoonish, but the lithographs in black and white were more subdued, capturing the poignancy of the 1930s and 1940s, sometimes capturing the sadness that surrounded the Depression but also offering humor. Walking through the hallway in the museum lined with his lithographs, I wanted to memorize the details of each one, from the strokes of the paintbrush to the names of the paintings to the details of when, where, and why Benton created those pieces.

Benton's home where he lived with his wife and children isn't far from where I live. Sometimes I'll find myself taking a route that will have me pass by his house...I've been there a few times to take the tour; it's a beautiful limestone house that appears to be a fortress from the outside, but the rooms are much smaller on the inside. His art studio -- a separate limestone building in the back yard -- is bright, open, and wide; more spacious and airy than his own home's living room. The outside is surrounded by large, shady trees, making it seem like a quiet, romantic location...the perfect home for an artist.

Benton's quote above was amongst the lithographs and placard descriptions. Standing amidst his artwork and the quietness of the museum, I felt inspired. Cliche, I realize, but inspired nonetheless. It reminded me of my love of reading and writing; while I'm not the greatest writer, it's something that I enjoy doing. And the absence of regular writing over an extended period of time has left me uninspired. While still cliche, writing is a little like riding a bicycle. To feel comfortable and to be strong at it, you need to ride regularly. Trying to tackle a 60-mile bike ride without training or any conditioning, while not impossible, doesn't feel good. Getting back to blogging has been slightly disjointed and a little rough; but, at the end of each post, I feel better. More like who I know I am (even if who I am might be a little melodramatic at this point), but more centered. Less like a personal failure. And hopefully over time the writing will get easier, the words and dialog less clunky, and the ideas as to which topics to write on slightly easier to come by. Until then, Benton's words keep running through my head. 

The Media Specialist

Nostalgia. It's funny how it works, how it can twist your insides to feel a vast range of emotions in a simple moment. Happiness, wistfulness, giddiness, longing, regret, joy. Just a few of the emotions that can run through you as you remember a time, a place, a moment, a person.

Nostalgia got me in an unexpected way yesterday. I was sorting through a tub of items I had brought home from my parents' home this past spring. It was a mismatch of items from my youth  inside the tub -- a glass jar with pushpins; old word searches that I loved to the point of obsession; cards and letters from high school friends,  a former Internet pen pal (a fantastic story within itself that I often wonder how my parents let unfold);, and a tender homemade card from my husband when we were dating in college; and other miscellaneous items from my youth.

It was the neon Stuart Hall folder that threw me for a loop. I remember lugging that folder with me during high school -- maybe my junior or senior year. I always loved having the most obnoxious folders to store my course work in: neon colors, wild prints, unicorns, flowers, Wonder Woman, Transformers. If it was a Lisa & Frank folder, I was sold. When I first pulled the folder out of the tub, it was so light and thin that I assumed it was empty. But when I opened it to check, I realized I was wrong: inside was a bright piece of pink paper, double-sided, an outline of the rules of the road and resources available through the high school media center, an outline of the talking points that our media specialist, Mr. Hyler, would use during the first week of school as he introduced each class of students to the media center (aka library).

I remember taking that tour with "Mr. Hyler" -- a small group of my classmates following him around the library as he pointed out the computers, the online media sites (new to many as this was the late 1990s), the layout of the library. I remember listening to him, giggling with my friends and perhaps getting a "Girls..." warning from him, as we were prone to compel him to warn us periodically over the years. Reflecting back on that moment, on that brief tour of the library that could not have lasted more than 30 minutes, I'm filled with a sense of sadness and a longing so deep to go back to that moment in time that it hurts.

I grew up in that high school library. Mr. Hyler was my stepdad, my Jerry. From the time my parents -- my mother and stepdad -- married in 1985 and my mom moved my brother and me to live with my stepdad in his house (formerly a bachelor pad until it was taken over by a five-year-old girl and seven-year-old boy), the library became a second home. When I was in elementary school, my stepdad was the high school speech coach and business teacher. During speech season, my mom would often take him dinner and bring my brother and me along with her. Sometimes we would sit in the back of the library, watching his speech students practice and him give them coaching and tips. Sometimes I would peruse the books in the back end of the library, reading the books on the lower shelf that were aimed for young adults but I loved to read as a second grader because it challenged me. Sometimes my brother and I would disappear into the hallways, running up and down the dimly lit hall, occasionally crashing into lockers and checking to see which classrooms might still be open. Sometimes my brother would bring his Hot Wheels or remote control car with him, and we'd race them up and down the wood floors until my mom came out into the hallway to tell us to be quiet. A former speech and drama coach herself, my mom would sometimes attend the practice sessions to help provide coaching tips that stretched those students in their approach to delivering their pieces.

By the time I reached middle school, Jerry was no longer coaching speech. He had received his masters degree in Librarian Science, and moved into the library (or media center) for both the middle school and high school by the time I was in seventh grade. So I continued to live in the library, often going with Jerry to the high school library in the evenings when he had work he wanted to do. Instead of racing each other down the hallways, my brother and I would play on the computers, read books, or help Jerry out with small items. I loved helping him sort books and put them back on the shelves. I loved seeing the new books, feeling them and smelling their newness, or discovering old books that were dusty and had a slightly musty smell from lack of use. I took it as a challenge to find those books that hadn't been checked out in years, and then take it home to read. Jerry would help me with this challenge; I loved nothing more than checking out and reading a book that was last checked out in 1963. Sometimes they were still good and relevant; other times Jerry would take my advice and remove the book from circulation. While my mom was the one to teach me the love of reading and to love words, my Jerry taught me to love the library and the challenge of finding a good book that stretched your abilities as a reader.

Jerry was the high school media specialist for just under 20 years before he retired, collectively serving more than 35 years as a teacher. During those 20 years as a media specialist, I can't even begin to count how many students he would have distributed a similar piece of pink paper to and then walked them through that media specialist tours -- thousands? I was fortunate to see his range of teaching abilities, his compassion and love for his students and seeing them succeed. His impact on others was incredibly, and I cannot do him justice at this point in time. That blog post would take forever; however, to catch a glimpse of him, you can read this blog by one of his former students who now is a professor at The University of Minnesota. It's beautiful, and makes me wish that I had chosen a profession that would have made the same sort of difference in someone else's life.

Jerry passed away on June 12, 2014, of liver cancer. His death was a journey that stripped him of so much in the slow process that it took his body to fail him. I can't quite bring myself to share in more detail as it was a painstaking experience that is still so overwhelming to discuss that it leaves me lightheaded and breathless, chest constricting, heart racing. And so when I found that piece of paper wedged inside a ridiculous folder, I found myself simultaneously laughing and crying. And all I could think was how much I wished that I could have called my Jerry to share with him this unexpected discovery, to ask him questions around what it was like when he first started and computers were barely hooked to the Internet to the time when he retired and social media was everywhere. He would have entertained me with his stories from those years, of his favorite students and those that challenged him, of the ridiculous events that occurred with both students and teachers alike. And I would have apologized to him -- after reading his media center tour outline, I realized that my friends and I broke pretty much every rule on his list. He booted me from the library only one time that I can recall, and it's hard to believe that it was only one time. I suppose that's where nepotism worked in my favor.

When I return home to my parents' home now, I sometimes drive by the old high school. Shortly after I graduated from high school, they built a new high school. The old one was rumored to have sold for $500 to some guy in town; over the course of the years, what it's used for has changed over the years: a single family home dwelling, apartments, and now part of a church. But when I drive by, I look up at the second floor where a strip of windows mark where the library was. I swear I can see the shadow of the old school logos that used to live on the walls that I would find myself staring at during those late-night speech sessions that I watched my Jerry, and I can hear him laughing and joking with his students, his wife, and his children.

Wonderoos

When I was a little kid -- maybe 3 or 4 -- I had a pair of cowboy boots. And a set of Wonder Woman Underoos. I loved both of those items individually; combined together, I felt unstoppable. My favorite thing to do was to throw on my underoos and cowboy boots, and then play Super Heroes with my brother. Sometimes he would be Superman, other times Batman or Spiderman. (I'm pretty sure he had Underoos sets for all the super heroes.) We knew their superpowers and weaknesses. I pretended to have Wonder Woman's bulletproof bracelets and her golden lasso of truth. We would race around the backyard and through the house, fighting villains and channeling our best super hero dialog. But my favorite was when I would yell "To my invisible jet!" and my brother would run forward, yelling back over his shoulder at me, "Where is it? I don't see --"And thunk. He'd do a spot-on pitch backward, as if he had run headfirst into the Invisible Jet. Every time, I would dissolve into a mess of giggles, dropping to the ground to catch my breath. And he would keep character, looking at me in bewilderment, as if I was at fault for not pointing out the Invisible Jet's location so that he could stop in time to miss it.

I wish I had adult size Wonder Woman underoos today. Exactly like the ones that I had as a kid. I've tried searching for them -- I don't think they make them. You can come close through different websites or by piece mealing together a tanktop and underwear, but nothing brings back the nostalgia of childhood quite like I imagine the official branding of Underoos. If given the choice, I'm pretty sure I would give up standard undergarments to live in a set of Wonder Woman Underoos again. Along with a pair of bright red cowboy boots.

Bedwetter

I have a weak bladder. I'm pretty sure I'll be wearing Depends by the time I'm 40. On some days, I think that wouldn't be so bad -- not having to worry about using the bathroom as frequently as I need to.

I wet the bed until I was in fourth grade. Some of my bedwetting stories are epic. For example, while camping in Canada, I peed so much in the tent that my brother and I were sharing that I literally flooded the tent to the point that we had to spend the rest of the night sleeping in the car. Or the time I wet my bed, crawled into my brother's bed, wet his bed, and then wet the bathroom floor.

And it wasn't just overnight that I had to worry about losing control of my bladder. When I was walking home from school (roughly seven blocks), there were a couple occasions where I couldn't make it in time from the bus stop to my house -- I remember standing at the backdoor and just letting go. My bladder control improved slightly so that I no longer wet the bed, but through high school, college, and to this day, I struggle with sometimes peeing myself when I laugh too hard. I'm not sure if I should be proud that it no longer bothers me, but I've discovered worse things can happen.

When talking with my friends one day, we narrowed down my top wetting myself stories to the Top 5. The Top 5 list spans high school, college, and my adult life. We still bust those stories out when we need a good laugh, and I'm not above telling them in any situation -- why not have a little fun at myself while also education others on the importance of properly emptying your bladder? I usually can tell the stories without wetting myself at the same time -- although that would be the ultimate storytelling finale. I feel like my Top 5 stories will become the ultimate story vignette.

My six-year-old niece sometimes struggles with wetting her bed, and my mom has told her that she comes from a long line of bedwetters. Like she has direct lineage from a brave warrior princess...who couldn't control her bladder. To help my niece not feel embarrassed, my mom has shared many of her own bedwetting stories as well as mine. When she gets a little older and has a wider repertoire of four-letter words, my niece can be exposed to Sarah Silverman's own bedwetting stories. And I discovered that there's an entire online store dedicated solely to helping bedwetters protect their beds -- brilliantly named... The Bedwetting Store. I'm eagerly looking forward to ordering my first pair of waterproof underwear -- awesome.

Happy Wednesday

Wednesdays have always been my favorite day of the week. For some reason, they make me inexplicably happy. It doesn't matter how crummy the day might be; at the end of the day, I will still sigh... "Ah, I love Wednesdays."

I've tried to trace back my love of Wednesdays and two reasons come to mind -- both which are slightly embarrassing to admit. In middle school, Wednesdays were considered "church night". School sponsored activities (such as basketball or track practice) could not take place on Wednesday night for middle schoolers so that we had an opportunity to attend confirmation class, etc. I ran track in middle school, although not very well, and the mid-week break from having to run sprints, laps, and "Chase the Bunny" laps were always welcome.

Wednesdays also happened to be the night that The Wonder Years aired (for a majority of the series' run). I loved that show. While the nostalgia of the era and a majority of the mixed emotions of reflecting on youth might have been lost on me at the time, they weren't lost on my parents. We watched The Wonder Years as a family, my parents often turning to each other to reminisce on the events that the show revolved around and wove into its plotlines. My stepdad loved music, and the soundtrack for each episode brought back a wave of memories for both my parents. Listening to them share their own memories from that time period is something that I still recall fondly every time I think about The Wonder Years, catch a portion of an episode, or hear Joe Crocker's rendition of The Beatles "With a Little Help from My Friends".

And...I also had the world's largest crush on Fred Savage, who played Kevin, the main character. Fred Savage, with his large brown eyes, floppy black hair, and cute grin. It was such a huge crush for me -- it's the only time I ever sat down to write a fan letter to a celebrity (although I never actually mailed it). In addition to The Wonder Years, I loved all his movies -- The Princess Bride, Little Monsters, The Boy Who Could Fly. Oh, Fred Savage. I still love the show and those movies, but it's always a little strange to watch as an adult now and see young Fred Savage, my childhood crush. Up until two years ago when my mom remodeled my childhood bedroom, there was still a picture of Fred Savage taped to the bedroom wall -- it was from 1997, ripped out of Entertainment Weekly when Fred Savage returned to TV in the short-lived sitcom, Working. When my mom took the photo off the wall, she was careful not to rip it. It's still in the dresser drawer.

So, as today ends, it doesn't matter what has transpired since the time I woke up until now or I finally climb into bed. Today is Wednesday.

Blond and Teal

My friend, Cassidy, and I have known each other since we were twelve. We met in seventh grade when our school districts -- Eastwood and Willow -- consolidated together to form River Valley, a new school district that consisted of four small farming communities in northwest Iowa.

Cassidy is one of my friends from high school that I've stayed in close contact with over the years. We graduated high school together, went off to The University of Iowa together, and somehow have managed to find our paths crossing over time. She is beautiful, intelligent, creative, and witty. When I think of our relationship, I find myself humbled and incredibly appreciative of her friendship. I'm baffled by some of our adventures over the years, and a little uncertain as to how we haven't gotten into more trouble than what we have -- with our parents, with each other, with the law.

When we were seniors in high school, Cass and I found ourselves spending a lot of time together. Most of our other friends were dating or just generally unavailable to hang out on Saturday nights due to curfews or family obligations. So there were many Saturday nights during our senior year of high school where I would drive to Cherokee to meet Cass after she ended her shift at the convenience store on Highway 59. We would then drive around, just talking, joking around, and generally killing time.

Cass' mom owns a beauty shop, which we had access to. One Thursday night, Cass, myself, and our friend, Marci, ended up at the beauty shop. I'm not sure we really had any intentions of going there; we just found ourselves there, poking around and exploring what the beauty shop had to offer. And then, before we knew it, Cassidy was applying peroxide to my hair. An hour later, my auburn hair had five or six blond streaks throughout it. You could only see them when my hair was pulled back from my face. I went home to bed, hair down, praying that my mom wouldn't see me. She didn't -- her eyes didn't spot me until the following night, when she saw me running down the basketball court during that week's basketball game. Shortly after the game, my mom found me. She shook her head, touched a blond streak on my head, and said, "Hair grows out." I will always love that moment with her, when she opted not to freak out about something as insignificant as streaked hair. And I think that she secretly loved that I did something slightly daring, despite it's stupidity.

I'm not sure what possessed us to streak my hair that night. Boredom, mostly. Curiosity over what it might look like, I suppose. And also for the slight thrill of doing something...different. Cass and I made a few trips back to the beauty parlor over the next year to refresh my streaks. By the end of my sophomore year of college, we had let my hair grow out. It's been years since I've added permanent color changes to my hair.

Until today. I suppose the same reasons drove my decision today to streak my hair: curiosity, a new thrill, and something different. Instead of blond, this time I selected teal. A bright blue-green that makes me think of dying Easter eggs. Instead of a 17-year-old girl altering the color of my hair, I went to an actual hair stylist that I have been seeing for years. We decided just to place the panels of color on the bottom side of my hair; that way, the top of my hair still looks natural so that I don't run into any issues in the office or in case I need to have a more professional look. It sounds silly, but adding the color to my hair today gave me the same thrill as when Cassidy and I did so when we were teenagers. It gave me a feeling of control, even a slight defiance against those aspects of my everyday adult life that are stifling and feel less creative. It's started as teal, but now I'm envisioning expanding the colors out to a more visible location, and perhaps adding a few additional colors -- pink, blue, orange, yellow. Not red, but maybe purple. A kaleidoscope of color spiraling through my hair.

Aunt Megs...

On Wednesday, my nephew, Ryne, turned eight. I find it difficult to believe that he's already eight-years-old, a second grader, with a full vocabulary and adult teeth coming in. He's tall -- like my brother, his dad -- so tall for his age it's unbelievable; he already stands head level to my chest. The last few times I've tried to pick him up, usually as a piggyback ride or him flying at me to hug me, I've had to take a step or two to maintain my balance. I imagine by the time he's 12, we'll be looking at each other eye-to-eye, if not me staring up at him. He's not quite to the age where he thinks that I'm uncool, but I can see that it won't be long before it's more high-fives than hugs and more eye rolls than him saying, "Cool".

I called him on his birthday to wish him happy birthday, and we chatted for a few minutes just about how his day was. When I went to hang up, I said "I love you." not really expecting a response. But he said sincerely, "I love you too." I'm pretty sure my heart literally swelled when he said that. While we see each other fairly often, we don't always part ways with "I love yous". It's usually a hug and me telling him thank you for letting me hang out with him.  But it's amazing what three short words can do for your heart and spirit.

There are so many similarities between my nephew and my brother at that age that it's eerie. My nephew and niece are approximately the same age apart as my brother and me; my mom says that she sometimes has flashbacks when she sees the two of them interact -- it's my brother and me in redux. And to a certain degree, they are: Ryne is the sensitive, funny, protective older brother and my niece is the younger sister with the flair for drama, all things pink but always willing to hang with the boys. I marvel that this is how my brother and I used to be as kids, inseparable but ready to fight with each other at the slightest provocation.

My brother is one of my closest friends -- I know I'm fortunate in that regard. Our childhood was a labyrinth of normal adolescent growing pains with complications stemming from our parents' bitter divorce, verbal abuse, and alcoholism, which resulted in emotional damage and perhaps added limitations in our adult personalities more than I think any of us realized it would: his stoicism, my wild mood swings. Our history allows us to put these traits in context within our sibling relationship, although it doesn't provide an excuse to our other external relationships. Despite no longer being kids, we still look out for each other. I hope my nephew and niece are fortunate to have their childhood friendship with each other be the constant support throughout the course of their lives as it has been for my brother and me.

Lace Up Those Skates...

When I was a little girl, I owned a pair of roller skates. They were white with three stripes of purple, pink, and blue on the outside of both skates. The shoelaces and wheels were purple. The skates were a Size 6, so I imagine I only had them for a brief time when I was maybe 8 or 9. It's funny how I can remember the skates, but I can't remember exactly how old I was when I wore them.

And I totally rocked those skates. I remember coming home after school during the week and on Saturday mornings, sitting on the front steps to lace the skates up, and then tentatively pushing myself off the steps in an effort to avoid falling immediately. The sidewalk in front of my parents' house was perfect for skating: smooth, straight, and unobstructed. There were a few minor cracks and bumps in the sidewalk, but nothing a little hop or perfectly timed stride couldn't avoid.

While my mom had taught me how to skate forwards, I used those skates to teach myself how to skate backwards, perfect my limbo crouch (which never worked in the rollerskating rink), and break using the stopper on both my right and left skates. I would drag my boombox out to the front porch, pop in my Tiffany or Paula Abdul cassette tape, and just skate as fast as I could to pop music. I loved the exhilaration that came with hitting maximum speed on my skates, with my hair flying behind me and my arms pumping crazily. It was a harmless activity that no one seemed to mind, except my parents' neighbor across the street who would step out of his garage, wave at me, and yell "Thank you!" the moment after I shut off the boombox.

When girls roller derby became popular and mainstream a few years ago, I secretly wanted to try out for the KC Roller Warriors. I watched the reality show/documentary on A&E around that time, and I learned more about roller derby, jammers, and blockers than I ever thought possible. I impressed my friends when we went to watch a roller derby match with my understanding of the rules and events happening on the slanted derby court -- I can't remember the difference between a safety and a blitz in football, but I can tell you what it means to "pass the star" in roller derby. There was something so cool about those derby girls with their hip names, black fingernail polish, braids, and tattoos that made me want to try. And then I saw the brutal blocking that can happen when the jam gets going -- intense. I'm pretty sure I would have been killed within the first 30 seconds of play.

Earlier this spring, I went rollerskating with my niece and nephew. Originally I was just meeting them there to watch but, after 20 minutes of sitting at a table by the edge of the rink, I felt the nostalgia for those days when I used to skate on my parents' sidewalk and the rush that came with skating fast. I borrowed money from my brother to rent skates, and raced out to the rink to join my niece and nephew. I was one of only a handful of adults on skates that night, everyone else was either under the age of 14 or walking with their young child who was unsteady on their skates. It had been years since I had been on roller skates, but it all came back -- like they say it does with riding a bicycle. It was just as thrilling as when I was a kid, and I showed my six-year-old niece how to skate backwards and the best approach for throwing your head back and outstretching your arms to sing and dance when your favorite song comes on the PA. She quickly learned and applied this technique as we raced around the rink singing along to Let It Go! from Frozen, arms flung haphazardly out and heads tilted back. It was exhilarating.

True Friends

"It is when we are most lost we sometimes find our truest friends."

 -- Snow White, The Brothers Grimm

I wish I could say that I found that quote while actually reading Snow White, but I admit that I found it on my Facebook news feed. It's one of those news feed items that I almost scrolled past, but for some reason decided to pause and read it. And then reread it. As I reread it over and over, I found myself getting still then slightly lightheaded.  It resounded with me.

This past year -- really, the last year-and-a-half -- have been challenging from both a personal and professional standpoint. As an indirect result of this difficult time -- some within my control and my own doing, some beyond and a chance of fate or dumb luck -- I've found myself getting complacent with life, more inclined to sit and watch TV then to suck the marrow of life (Thoreau would be disappointed). I might have done irreversible damage to some of my favorite relationships during this time, but this quote also reminds me how fortunate I am to have had so many people offer their friendship and support, even as I found myself empty and often unable to return the same kindness and love that they showed me. It's only now, weeks and even months later, that reflection has made me realize how fortunate I am.

When you experience the death of a loved one and are feeling lost, it's surprising whom you hear from and whom you don't. Friends that it's been years since you really talked to reach out to offer their sympathies in unbelievably considerate ways, while friends you consider your closest barely exhale long enough to say "I'm sorry". We all deal with death in different ways, and sometimes the consideration to those suffering the most only extends so far as we wrestle with our own feelings and fears toward mortality and passing time. My mom mentioned that one of the hardest parts is when someone asks "How are you [doing/holding up/getting along]?" but that person doesn't pause long enough to listen to her answer. Social expectations have constrained us to polite answers of "I'm okay." or "Doing as best as can be expected."; rarely does anyone ever respond to that question with "Today's been tough. I sat on the shower floor and cried for 30 minutes, then cried while watching TV and eating peanut butter from the jar using my fingers." And she's found that the people who do stop to ask how she's doing -- and truly want an honest the answer -- are from unlikely sources that have gone on to become true friends.

While Snow White might have meant it literally -- she was lost in the woods and stumbled across the Seven Dwarfs cottage -- it's a reminder that even in the bleakest moments, we are not alone. We just need to remember to open our eyes wide enough to recognize those true friends.

Cooking 101

I had a strange realization today: I think I might like to cook.

Over the years, I've had no patience for it. My husband, T., generally does a majority of the cooking; partly because he is an exceptional cook, partly because his cooking is a necessity for the two of us to be able to eat to survive since I typically don't cook. When I do cook, it's from the same repertoire: some sort of Mexican food (tacos, fajitas, or a random creation called taco pie that my mom makes); some form of pasta with a basic red sauce and garlic toast; or a MorningStar patty with a side. My go-to baking item? Banana bread.

It's a running joke with my family that I can't cook. When I was in sixth grade, I burned cheese that my only task was to stir and watch it -- fail on my part. The few times my childhood friend, Leah, and I made cookies together in junior high school and high school, we always had an epic fail -- notably the runny cookie batter that we had to bake as one large cookie. A series of other incidents have followed me leading to my reputation as a "bad cook". So when it comes time for family dinners and assignments for who's bringing which dish, I inevitably get tasked with "alcohol" (unless they know T. is onboard for bringing it).

My mom thinks she failed me in this capacity. She's an amazing cook, as was her mother. When I was growing up, I just didn't have the patience for learning how to make a pot roast or deviled eggs. I could tolerate baking (such as cookies and muffins), but anything beyond that was beyond my attention capacity. So whenever my limitations as a cook come up in discussion, my mother sighs and said, "I taught her how to read, so she should be able to follow a recipe."

Until the last two weeks, I had no motivation or desire to read a recipe. However, I've started pulling recipes from magazines. Real Simple has been my main source to date. The recipes are simple, contain some ingredients that I admit I have to google (I now know what bulgar is), and are pretty to look at. It's been fun, and a slightly mindless way in which I can pass time. So far, there has been one miss on taste but, on the bright side, neither of us have ended up hospitalized for food poisoning.

I still don't think I could make dinner every night of the week without reaching a breaking point. But I think I like the novelty of looking for a recipe, figuring it out, and then finishing it with finesse. Maybe it's mostly the end process that I find myself enjoying. I like focusing on the presentation -- making sure that the color of plate the food is on makes sense, condiments (like parmesan) are served in little bowls and not directly out of the package, and the table is set. And I'm still a pain in the kitchen -- as I cook, I clean by putting away items after I've used them and constantly wiping down the counters. 

So I'm having fun with cooking. I'm pretty sure my mother will stare at me in disbelief when she hears that, and I'm sure it will be a while before my family allows me to bring any food I've prepared to family events. But I like this little cooking adventure that I'm on...but I'm not on the route to becoming the next Julia Child.