Walking to Be Grounded

When I came home from work last night, I did this slightly odd thing that I occasionally do when I'm feeling slightly disjointed and untethered from myself. I walked through each of the rooms in my house that had open doors, pausing to touch an item in each room that carries a special memory for me, a moment that holds love and happiness, laughter and warmth. It usually takes only a few minutes to do, this walk-through of my house that grounds me again. The items are sometimes photographs, the tigers, my favorite books, notes, or cards; it's never anything that would have meaning or value to anyone other than myself or those who were involved in the memory. I find that it gives me a sense of calmness.

Last night, as I made it to the final room on this round trip -- the kitchen -- I felt the need to keep walking. I told myself that I was going to walk across the street to the grocery store, that that would be the final destination I needed for the night. I took the long way to the grocery store, bypassing the usual shortcuts to get me through the front door quicker. My earbuds were in as I listened to a mix of different songs on whatever Pandora station seemed to grip me. But I walked beyond the grocery store, farther into the comfort of the busy streets that are crammed with some of my favorite restaurants and bars, the place where I was married. And I just kept walking. It was one of those moments that we all have at some point, the wonder of What if I just keep walking? How far could I get? Who would I meet? How long before I was missed? 

And it made me think about what might be the soundtrack of my life. I love music, but I'm horrible at associating musicians with their songs. I also have a hard time picking just one artist to listen to; I like a wide range of songs and genres. Pop, Oldies, Swing, Jazz, Indie Rock, Rap. I suppose that's why, back in the day when people still purchased cassette tapes and CDs, I found myself always buying the actual movie soundtracks. High Fidelity, You've Got Mail, Swing Kids, Can't Hardly Wait. Even my soundtrack selection had a range that didn't necessarily align quite right.

As I turned back home last night, I found myself searching for a different song to listen to. My walk had started with me listening to the Indie Rock station on Pandora, but I found myself flipping over to listen to Caravan of Thieves. My friend and I had gone to see them perform at The Arc in Ann Arbor a few weeks ago, and they were phenomenal. Their song, Raise the Dead, seemed perfect for the walk home: a slightly cool, slightly foggy November evening. Who would I bring back from the dead if given the opportunity to, and what would I want to tell them? More than likely one of those loved ones in the photos that I often touch as I try to ground myself, my sentimentality outweighing the desire to meet and speak with one of the great thinkers, dreamers, or innovators of all time.

When I finally made it home last night, I'm not sure if I felt as balanced as I hoped I would, but I felt  lighter, almost translucent. As if the walking had brought me back to an understanding that I know I've been hoping to find.

28 and Counting

When I was a kid, I don't think I really had a vision for what I would be like as an adult. I didn't spend much time thinking about my future self. Unlike many of my childhood friends, I didn't imagine my future husband or plan my wedding or think about future children; I didn't think about my career or what I would look like. All I knew was that I wanted to write and to travel, to see London and Ireland and Norway and Scotland. For some reason, I had it stuck in my head that I would die by the age of 28. Maybe 29, definitely by 30. It wasn't because 30 felt like such an old number; I just couldn't see myself evolving and growing to be an adult.

My 28th birthday was one that passed with little fanfare. I really can't remember much about it, other than I kept waiting for a lightening bolt to come out of the sky and take me out. Okay, maybe not a lightening bolt -- that would have been way too dramatic. Definitely not a piano falling from a third-story window either, but not something as mundane as a car accident. When it didn't happen, maybe I was a little disappointed. I really can't remember. But it meant another year, another birthday to look forward to.

And I've always loved my birthdays. The countdown for my birthday starts weeks in advance; I'm super-excited when it gets to be a month out and I can start counting in terms of days. I will randomly (and loudly) remind my husband of how many days until my birthday occurs. On my birthday, I'll go around telling people "It's my birthday!" and am all for going out, celebrating, and eating cake. My mom always made our birthdays special. She taught high school English and then became a high school counselor during my senior year of high school; her school was a 35-mile drive to a neighboring city, so she was always gone by the time my brother and I woke up. But she always managed to put out the birthday breakfast: sometimes doughnuts, sometimes a new box of sugary cereal that normally was off limits, always a favorite candy bar for each of us, and a card and small gift for the birthday person. She decorated the table each year with the same mylar birthday balloons. My mom helped us to start each day feeling special, as if that day was truly intended for only the birthday person. That night, we would have a special dinner and open gifts: the meal was either cooked to our specification or, more often than not, a treat of being taken out to our favorite restaurant. While we usually didn't have massive birthday parties to celebrate, we were always allowed to take a friend with us to dinner, my brother and I each carefully selecting a friend to take with our family.

A few months ago when I was back home, one of the trips back to visit my stepdad as his health was deteriorating, I was in the kitchen trying to get something out of an overhead cupboard. My mother has always kept our home clean and orderly, vacuumed and dusted. My parents' house is comfortable and lovely. However, my mom's deep secret is that she is a closet crammer. I won't go as far to classify her as a hoarder, but some of her closets and cupboards are configured like small booby traps with sentimental trinkets and items that she keeps on hand for "just in case". "Just in case" she has a Mexican-themed party, needs to give someone a gift of a photo album or vase as a thank you, or needs 16 can cozies for her visiting friends. It all gets crammed into a cupboard, drawer, or closet. And as I was reaching into one of those kitchen cupboards to grab some napkins, the "just in case" items came tumbling down on me. In a fit of blind OCD, I hopped on a chair and started to organize the cupboard, pulling things out to send to Goodwill, for recycling, for the trash. I then found the Mylar birthday balloons in the back of the cupboard. Still bright, still inflated, ready for future birthday breakfasts. But my brother and I have long since lived in that house to be home for birthday breakfasts, and I knew that my stepdad would not have any more. So I threw them into the trash.

Now I wish I would have bundled those Mylar birthday balloons into my suitcase and brought them home with me. While I don't have kids of my own, I keep thinking maybe someday I will and those kids could have experienced the birthday breakfasts. Or maybe I could have used them for my husband's birthdays, a special nod to the tradition and special moments that my mom gave my brother and me. But I don't think I could have used them for my own birthdays; I still sometimes have that nagging feeling that I've reached my birthday expiration date. I don't think the young girl I used to be could have ever imagined the adult that I would become, the life that I would lead, the people that I would love. While that element of surprise is a good think, it also makes me apprehensive of what my next birthday will look like.

Pizza and Books...Mmmmm

Pizza Hut's Book-It program turned 30 this year. In celebration of this milestone, they've created an alumni program that allows those adults who feel nostalgic about their youth to sign up, place themselves on the Book-It map, and receive a free personal pan pizza.

I immediately signed up. I loved Book-It as a kid. It combined two of my favorite things in life: reading and pizza.

I really don't remember the details of how the program worked. Something along the lines that you read a book, your teacher signed off that you read the book, and then you took the paper to Pizza Hut, where they gave you a gold star sticker each visit that you brought in a signed sheet of paper. The gold star sticker went on a bluish/purplish hologram button that said "Book-It". I think 5 gold star stickers meant your Book-It button was full, and you received a free personal pan pizza. A small pizza that was all yours for the selection of one-topping (for me, always pepperoni) and consumption. God, I loved that program.

The other added bonus was the button with the gold star stickers. For a dorky little kid like me, I loved those buttons. I totally rocked those buttons on my jean jacket, along with my other buttons. At the height of my jean jacket button craze, I must have had at least 25 buttons on the front of my jacket, at which any given time three of them were Book-It buttons. I was a bright, shiny elementary school kid that jingled, jangled, and clanked as I walked. (And you thought the flare at Chotchikie's in Office Space was excessive.) I'm surprised my mom didn't take a magnet to me just to stop the noise of my jean jacket.

Although Book-It has the alumni program, I wish they would institute a reading program for adults. Once again combining my two favorite things: reading and pizza. I realize that the program was intended to motivate kids to read, but think of the motivation that we sometimes need as adults to read a book for the hell of it. The close of a long work day doesn't always leave one inspired to read. More often than not, I find myself falling asleep while reading when trying to tackle a book at night. And I still love to read.

So in my mind, I'm giving myself a gold star sticker for the next few months with every book I read. And once I hit that magical five golden star sticker mark, I'm taking my adult self to Pizza Hut for a personal pan pizza. With pepperoni. While wearing my adult-sized, Gap jean jacket. And I'll find a few buttons to wear as I take myself to Pizza Hut. Just like I did when I was ten.

All By Myself...

The other night I attended my first concert solo. I didn't intend to go by myself -- I bought two tickets with the plan that my husband and I would go see a band that we both like. But surprises sometimes have a way of backfiring -- he had purchased tickets to Game 4 of the ACLS series of the Royals vs. the Orioles. As someone who sees a concert advertised and thinks it would be fun to attend but rarely actually buys the tickets to any shows, I chalked it up to one of those quirky life moments that often seem to find me. I think my fairy godmother is out for a smoke break most days.

So my husband went to see the Royals play with his friends, and I went to the concert alone. I tried to convince my brother and a few friends to attend with me, but a Tuesday night concert for an obscure band none of them had heard of is a tough sell to working adults. (My brother's exact response after he told me couldn't go because my nephew had football practice was "I have no idea who they are...God, I'm old.)

What I discovered is that attending a concert by yourself is similar to going to the movies alone: while it's lovely to have someone with you to share the experience -- someone that you can discuss plot points and share looks with during funny, tense, or scary parts -- it's not absolutely necessary to enjoy a good show.

I've always considered myself an introvert; I love having alone time. It's never bothered me to go to dinner, shop, or find a museum or other activities to do by myself. I've always been that way. Now I can add concerts to that list. Through my solo activities, I've found that most people will open up and include you in their circle of conversation if they see you are alone. Whether it's pity or general interest, compassion, or a combination, most people won't exclude you. I've had strangers try to engage me in conversations at art exhibits or, in one slightly awkward exchange, a woman unknown to me started talking to me about the movie we had just seen -- while we were both peeing in the bathroom post-movie.

The concert experience was no different. A young couple were streaming the Royals game on her phone. When I asked her the score, she tilted her phone toward me so that I could watch with them. She then invited me to move seats to join them so that I could see the phone better. When the second opening act before the main band had a meltdown on the stage, the lead singer storming off stage during the middle of only the second song they had performed that evening, I stared at the stage in disbelief. The guy behind me shared his feeling of disbelief as well, and before long he, his wife, and I were cracking jokes about the craziness of what we had just witnessed. When I moved closer to the stage so that I could perform my freshman shuffle while watching the main act, people around me bobbed their heads in time with me and gave me high fives.

Perhaps because I was alone, I felt more compelled to be more extroverted and make those connections. Or perhaps I've been misleading myself all these years...maybe I'm not quite the introvert I once thought I was. I'm already starting to keep an eye out for my next show...even if it means another solo trip to the music hall. This time I know I can do it.

Mums & Dads

This past weekend I attended the Iowa vs. Indiana football game in Iowa City. It was Iowa's homecoming weekend, so the philosophy and attitude of It's great to be a Hawkeye! was in full force as thousands of alumni returned to campus to attend the football game (or just to attend tailgates with their college friends and family). In addition to the excitement of the football crowd, nostalgia seemed to lay cool, clammy fingers on the back of my neck. A proud Hawkeye myself, my college years are some of my favorite moments of my life. Whenever I return back to Iowa City in the fall, the smell of wet leaves and the changing trees always leave me slightly homesick for a city and campus that was my home for almost five years. My time at Iowa reinforced my love of reading, writing, and learning, and it introduced me to some of my best friends -- the type of friends that, no matter how much time has passed between the last time you saw or spoke with them, you can fall into familiar, easy conversation. It was the Burge Hall cafeteria that allowed me to first cross paths with my husband -- a chance encounter amidst the clanks of dishes and chaotic college kid conversations that brought me to the most important relationship of my adult life.

So while there were plenty of college memories swirling around, it was actually a moment of reflection on my youth that brought tears to my eyes. We tailgated at a friends' house -- a beautiful home just a few blocks away from legendary Kinnick Stadium. My friend grew up in Iowa City, and her parents and some of her siblings still live in the area. At some point throughout these now traditional tailgates at my friend's house, her family members will stop by. With this being homecoming weekend, my friend's dad bought homecoming mums for the women in his life. Big, beautiful yellow mums with black and gold ribbons and a small tigerhawk. During my previous years attending Iowa Hawkeye Homecoming football games, I had never noticed them. However, seeing them at my friend's house brought back a different kind of teary-eyed nostalgia.

Growing up, my stepdad would always buy homecoming mums for my mom and myself. As a member of the high school teaching faculty, my stepdad was always hit up by the high school kids to purchase whatever the kids were selling -- the band selling pizzas, the FFA club selling apples, the Speech & Drama Club selling wrapping paper. At homecoming time, the cheerleaders would sell mums.

My stepdad never failed in buying that homecoming mum -- from the first year my parents were married and I was in kindergarten until the time I graduated high school, I would come home from school on the night of homecoming to find a mum waiting for me in the refrigerator. My mom usually would help me pin it on as my stepdad would have already left to either lead the homecoming parade or to prep for acting as the announcer for the football game. I would wear the mum in the homecoming parade and then to the game. As a little girl, I loved that mum and wore it with pride. Usually none of my friends had a mum to wear, and it made me feel special. Later, like a typical teenage girl, I squirmed to wear the mum when I was 12 and 13 because none of my friends had a mum and it made me stand out. During those two years, I remember protesting when my mom pinned it on me. Both years she leaned in and whispered, "You need to wear it. Jer was so excited to get this for you." By the time I was in high school, I looked forward to wearing my homecoming mum again -- it made me feel special at a time when high school could often make a girl feel overlooked. The homecoming mums of my youth were massive, blooming white flowers; they always smelled slightly of dirt and petals. The center of the mum contained a small gold (or, during my high school years, silver) football, and ribbons the color of my school colors serving as the crowning piece: red and blue ribbons during my elementary years when we were the Eastwood Raiders; red and black ribbons during my junior high and high school years as the school consolidated and became the River Valley Wolverines.

Seeing the Iowa mums this past weekend brought tears to my eyes as a tide of emotions rolled over me; while sadness was a large part -- for time passing, the long-ago days of my youth, the death of my stepdad -- it was mostly happiness and pride that swirled through me. The homecoming mum served as a reminder of how fortunate I was to have a stepdad like Jerry; someone who loved me wholly and who was thoughtful enough to bring a little girl a mum to make her feel special. For me, a homecoming mum will always be tied back to the memories of my Jerry, of high school football days, of my mom pinning the mum to my shirt or jacket (and only occasionally sticking me with the pin).

Today marks the four-month anniversary of my Jerry's passing. I know that eventually those of us who loved Jerry will stop marking the days, weeks, and months that have passed since his death and eventually just mark the time on a yearly basis and with those memories that we hold close. While I have yet to feel closure or that I'm done mourning yet, oddly enough those Iowa homecoming mums yesterday seems to mark that first major step in moving beyond the anguish associated with his death and his absence to a feeling of peace and happiness of those memories that keep him very much alive in spirit. Such as recalling 13 years of homecoming mums and the little girl who appreciated and loved the man who gave them to her.

Just a Wild and Crazy Guy

My stepdad was diagnosed with liver cancer on October 4, 2013. The oncologist told him that he might live 4 to 6 years with treatment. My family was optimistic, and we prayed and hoped for my stepdad as he underwent two surgical radiation procedures and oral chemo.

He was dead eight months later.

-------

I don't remember the details of the first time I met my stepdad. Most of it is an incomplete memory, shadowy with portions of lightness from what my mom and my stepdad told me years later about that day. They met at a park in Storm Lake for us to have a picnic; I was five and my brother was seven. My stepdad would recall how shy I was, staying close behind my mom's legs, my hair likely in pigtails. My mom usually mentions how nervous she was to have him meet my brother and me for the first time. Her nerves were not because she was afraid that he would like us -- she was sure of it -- but that we would like him, our soon-to-be stepfather. They both could recall the feelings of that day and how we looked and acted with each other. All I remember from that day was a piece of playground equipment that was in the shape of Yogi the Bear. I don't remember riding it, just seeing it across the park. To this day, I still think of my stepfather whenever I see Yogi the Bear. The two will forever be linked in my mind: my Jerry...and Yogi the Bear.

-------

My parents almost made it to their 29-year-wedding anniversary; my stepfather passed away just six weeks before they could celebrate together. I had always assumed they would make it to their 30th anniversary; my mom always planned for a huge celebration together. Since their marriage started later in life for them -- a second marriage for both that came to them when they were in their 30s -- my mom seemed to think that they wouldn't celebrate their 50th anniversary together. I think she always assumed that the 30-year-anniversary was a shoo-in, an easy feat to accomplish with both of them being in their 60s and in relatively good health. No one anticipated the cancer.

--------

When my stepdad was diagnosed with cancer, I avoided reading statistics about liver cancer survival rates and life expectancy. It wasn't until after he had had his second surgical radiation treatment that I began to read the statistics, and then I couldn't stop reading. By then it was apparent that the cancer and radiation were affecting more than just his liver. He was still my Jerry, but his memory and sense of humor started to be overshadowed by his liver's inability to process the toxins in his body. During the last few months of his life, it was horrifying to watch his personality and his quick wit fade away and be replaced with confusion and quietness. The weight loss and shutting down of his body seemed less meaningful compared to the loss of his being. During the last few weeks of his life, there would still be moments where my Jerry would glimmer through. A subtle joke or soft chuckle; his toes tapping as we listened to The Beatles. Sometimes I would sit next to him, my fingers laced with his, and think about the times I held his hand when I was a kid. His hands were always large and strong, dark hair on his knuckles. As I got older, I didn't hold his hand as much, but I would lean into him to feel his strength and sturdiness. When I came home from college and later during my adult life, I would wedge myself next to him on the couch. He was always warm and sturdy. Toward the end, during those last few weeks, I had to be careful not to lean on him as he was so frail. I made sure to hold his hand loosely, so as not to bruise or damage his weak hands.

----------

One of the last weekends I was home before he passed away, after they had stopped treatment and told him that he had just a few months left to live (and ended up being only seven weeks), I sat inside with him. We watched through the living room window as my mom swept the front porch. Initially it was just me talking to him, rambling on about nothing, trying to fill the air around us with words that might make time stretch longer for him and me. He was easily confused at that point, and his comments often didn't make sense. He had a burst of clarity and suddenly started talking about his mom, who had died shortly after my parents married, and his dad, who died when he was ten. He told me about all the things that he missed and loved about them, the important things that his father had taught him. He paused for a minute, and I thought that he had drifted to sleep. But his grasp tightened on my hand as he asked, "What did I teach you?" Caught off-guard, it took me a minute to respond. How can you summarize in just a few words all that your father has taught you? And I tried. I tried to capture the little moments and the monumental lessons that I carry with me close to the heart. From the proper way to hold a baseball card to riding a bike to the importance of making sure I had enough oil and gas in my car before going on a date, there were the small lessons. But the two that I hold the closest include the emotional lessons that were never said outright: it's important to have silliness and laughter in your life, and that blood doesn't bond a family or make someone a father -- it's love and acceptance.

In the last year, I've forgotten how to be silly.

------

My brother and I took turns accompanying my stepdad and mom to my stepdad's oncologist appointments. During one of his last visits, when he was still slightly mobile and cognizant, he and I slipped into the Two Wild-and-Crazy Guys characters that Steve Martin and Dan Ackroyd made popular while we were walking down the hospital hallway. I always thought my stepdad had originated those characters, he did them with such perfection. Suddenly my stepdad and I were just two wild and crazy guys weaving and gyrating down the hospital hallway, my stepdad throwing "Heeeys" at my mom, who shook her head at us and chastised us for causing a scene. She was scared that my stepdad would fall over and hurt himself, but my Jerry and I just laughed.
------

My mom has always said that my stepdad was her best friend and that she was lucky to spend 29 years with him. I can't imagine how lost and lonely she is without him now. Throughout his last few months of his life, especially during the last few weeks as he lost control of his body, she cared for him. She fed him, bathed him, clothed and changed him. During the last night of his life as he struggled with every breath that came, my mom sat beside his bed and didn't sleep. She held his hand and comforted him the best she could. The last words I heard my stepdad speak was to call out her name the one moment she left him that night.

My husband is my best friend; I don't want to imagine life without him. The entire time I watched my mom take care of my stepdad, I kept thinking how I hope my husband never suffers like that, that he lives until a solid old age, that he passes away gently in his sleep with no pain, that we see our 50th anniversary. And then I would have to leave the room because the guilt and sorrow of such feelings were too much. When I returned home to my husband after spending time with my parents, I carried the shame of my thoughts with me.

-------

My brother and I always called our stepdad by his first name. Over time, we thought less of the term "stepdad" and more of him as just our Jerry, our father. I often called him "Geraldine", a silly take on his formal name. He would call me his "Little Megan", setting it to the tune of the old TV commercial for Beggin' dog treats that rang out as "It's bacon!" I never realized how much I would miss having someone call me Little Megan.

-------

My Jerry liked to laugh. He liked to make others laugh. He loved watching old television shows like The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Andy Griffith Show on Nick-at-Nite. He loved baseball and was a die-hard Chicago Cubs fan who never gave up on the Cubbies, no matter how bad they played. He loved collecting baseball cards and memorabilia, gin and tonics, going to the movies, and the casino. He had a temper and pouted when he didn't get his way, but could make up quickly with you using his humor -- he rarely apologized. He had the utmost patience when it came to meticulous tasks, such as puzzles and sorting baseball cards, but couldn't stand waiting. He loved chips and salty foods and would have ate cereal for every meal if given the choice. His favorite meal to cook was something he called "Bachelor Goulash", which was essentially everything canned and bad for you dumped into one bowl. He loved to travel and came remarkably close to seeing all 50 states with my mom. He could tie a cherry stem into a knot with his tongue and had dozens of different imitations and voices that he could use to entertain you. He hated attending weddings, parties, and any other social event, but once you got him there he usually threw off his grumpiness and quickly became the center of the party. His go-to dance song was Love Shack; I've never seen someone dance with so much joy and zaniness as he did to that B-52s song. He loved our family pet dog, Hali, and was devastated when my parents had to put her down at the age of 15 (or 105, in dog years). He was loyal and had the same core group of friends for a majority of his life. He was a teacher, giving years of education, guidance, and support to his students. He loved his community and was always looking for ways to give back to the town and its residents.

But most of all, we were fortunate that he loved us: his family. And we were fortunate enough to love him.

Third Pint is a Charm

I'm not very good at giving blood. I realize that's not something one is strives to be good at or is rated on but, on a scale of 1 to 10, I'm probably a 3. Maybe a negative 3. Or a negative 33. Either way, not good. I'm slightly embarrassed to admit that I've donated blood only three times in my life. All three times haven't gone smoothly, so I take several years in between each donation before I decide to give it another whirl.

The first time I gave blood I was 18. I was incredibly excited to have a chance to do so. I remember signing up for the community blood drive -- my high school let those of us who had signed up to donate blood leave the school grounds to walk around the block to the community center, where the Blood Bank's mobile transport. I remember leaving my third-period study hall to head toward the Blood Bank truck and being slightly apprehensive as I boarded the truck. I immediately envisioned the truck speeding off with me on it to sell my body parts on the black market -- obviously my 18-year-old kidney was worth a high value to someone in need of one. I don't remember much about actually sitting down and getting prepped, other than the nurse telling me that I had what appeared to be "good-looking veins". (This phrase has been used numerous times when looking at the veins on my arms; however, my veins are misleading and are vicious rolling bitches. I imagine it's probably a good thing that I never ended up addicted to shooting, say, heroin.) My veins rolled and, like 8 minutes later, the nurse finally landed the needle in my vein. By that time, I was in so much pain that I turned to my natural defense -- getting sarcastic and telling dirty jokes. When my blood donation time was over and I departed the Blood Bank truck, the nurses were in tears from laughing at me; one nurse shook her head in what I believe was disbelief and said, "Good luck." I don't think she was wishing me luck with feeling better the rest of the afternoon. I was so sick for the next few days that I missed some beautiful spring days of my senior year of high school; I remember watching a lot of Steve on Blues Clues on Nickelodeon those days.

It took me almost 10 years before I decided to donate blood again. The reminder of the excruciating pain from the nurse trying to nail down my vein to the intense nausea following the actual donation was a large deterrent. However, after seeing several different postings on my work's intranet, I thought that it was time to try to donate again. I signed up to donate in the morning. The day of my blood draw, I ate a good breakfast and showed up early to the donation center, which was essentially a large area of an open floor next to our cafeteria that had been blocked off purely for the blood donations. The cots that were set up for the donation were in a circle; anyone who walked onto the area of the floor had a clear view of anyone and everyone donating blood. I did well right until the end of the donation; when the nurse stuck the needle in my vein, she minimized the rolling of it so I felt only a slight pinch. I squeezed the little stress ball to fill my bag of blood in what appeared to be a normal time as everyone else. I eagerly sat down at the snack table; the free Coke and Oreos that followed the blood donation definitely had an appeal to me. I was doing fine, joking with the nurse who was staffing the snack table. In the midst of a sentence, she interrupted herself and said, "You know, you're starting to look a little pale. I'm going to get George over here, and we're going to have you lay back down for a little bit. George...?!" She motioned for someone, presumably George, and I felt her and George on either side of me, helping me to stand up from the snack table. I took a few shaky steps away from the table. The next thing I knew, I was laying on my back, looking up at the nurse who was standing over me, the fluorescent overhead light casting a halo behind her head as if she was a blood angel. She looked down at me, smirked, and said, "Well, it looks like someone missed the gurney. Let's get George over here and try that again, shall we?" And she motioned for the mysterious George again.

As I was lying there, waiting for George to help lift me again, I realized that I was covered in sweat. Literally drenched in sweat, and so incredibly hot. I mentally did a check from head to toe to make sure that I hadn't done any damage to myself. When I got to my stomach, I realized it felt...drafty. As if I was on a beach and a tropical breeze was blowing over my mid-drift. Which seemed like an odd sensation to have at work. I moved my hands down to my stomach, only to discover that my hands touched skin -- my stomach was indeed bare. I lifted my head and looked down: somehow my shirt had managed to become bunched directly under my neck, leaving everything from the top of my bra to the waistband of my jeans exposed. To this day, I'm still not sure how it happened; perhaps when I fainted it slid up, maybe I was so hot that I pulled it up to get a breeze; maybe George was just giving me a helping hand. Regardless, I could hear people walking and talking around me while I was flashing them. I hurriedly pulled my shirt down, yanking the hem of my shirt just as George and the nurse lifted me up on to the cot. I looked around the room, slightly dazed, and realized that it was packed. Dozens of coworkers, nurses, and lab techs wandering around, occasionally glancing over at me. George mysteriously disappeared again; I never did get to see his face -- he was just floating arms.

The nurse returned and placed cool compresses across my neck, forehead, and arms. I looked like a partially mummified corpse. The nurse and George had placed me on a cot facing the door; I basically greeted everyone who walked in to the room. The compresses screamed, "Rookie blood donor!" As my eyes came into focus, I realized that one of my friends was donating blood on the cot across from mine. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he mouthed, Did you faint? I nodded; he started to laugh once he realized I was okay. Had we not been at work, I would have followed it up by giving him the finger. Instead, I shook my head and focused on the ceiling. The woman on the cot behind me was talking to her neighbor, telling him that she had just received a bumper sticker for her car for donating 800 pints of blood or some ridiculous number over the course of her lifetime. I stayed on the cot, eyes locked on the ceiling, until my friend was done giving blood. He walked me back to the snack table, where my open can of Coke and Oreos still sat waiting for me. My stomach turned looking at them, and placed my head in my hands. My friend patted my back, with a slightly muffled, "Ewww". My shirt was still soaked through with sweat.

It took me several years after that debacle before I could muster the courage to donate again. But last week I marched down to give blood at another work donation. I warned the nurses beforehand of my disposition to faint and get sick, so they hovered. Literally hoovered over me during the time that I donated blood; giving me apple juice and special attention. Once again, my veins rolled and it took a while before the nurse could get the line in. In my nervousness, I found myself making slightly colorful jokes. I regaled them with the story of me fainting and flashing people at work; one of the nurses looked at me skeptically. I had chosen to wear a dress to work that day; I'd forgotten about the blood drive until I was driving in to work. I told the nurse that I was an equal opportunity flasher -- last time it was the top part, so this time I wanted to show off the bottom. We agreed that as long as I was wearing coordinating undergarments, it was all good. They made me lay down for a while, flat on my back on the cot. I found myself counting the spots on the ceiling. Exactly the position I wanted to be in at work -- flat on my back, wearing a skirt, lightheaded, on a grungy cot. It was amazing but, on the bright side, I didn't faint. 

Turtles in a Half Shell, Ninja Power

It's always fascinated me how everything in life is cyclical: fashion, pop culture, events, emotions, life in general. If you wait long enough for most things, it will eventually come back around. It's just a matter of how long you choose to wait.

For example, The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TMNT, to the hard core fans or today's youth) first appeared in a comic book in 1984. Their debut coincided with the Summer Olympics in Los Angeles; Michael Jackson's hair catching on fire while filming a Pepsi commercial; President Reagan calling for a ban on chemical weapons; crack gaining popularity; every girl pining for Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles; and a time when Big Brother should have been everywhere. TMNT: a fictional team of four teenage anthropomorphic turtles, named after Renaissance artists -- Michelangelo, Donatello, Leonardo, and Raphael -- who were trained by their anthropomorphic rat sensei, Splinter, in the art of ninjutsu. From their home in the storm sewers of New York City, they battled petty criminals, evil overlords (Shredder, anyone?), mutated animals, and alien invaders while attempting to remain isolated from society. They also loved pizza. If you can still match the Ninja Turtle name with the color of his mask, you know you were a true fan.

In the late 1980s, my brother had the TMNT action figures. We watched the cartoons and the movies; I envisioned myself as feisty April O'Neil, fighting side-by-side with the turtles while also reporting on (and resolving) the injustices of the world. I personally found myself torn between two of the TMNT heroes: bad boy Casey Jones, who used hockey sticks to conquer unwieldy criminals and wore a hockey mask that made him slightly reminiscent of Jason Voorhees from the Friday the 13th movies, and bad boy Raphael, the misunderstood Ninja Turtle who wore the red mask. That's right: I had a crush on a turtle. (Side note: Elias Koteas, the actor who played Casey Jones in the original TMNT movie, has gone on to star in some great shows, such as The Killing and Chicago P.D. And I still find myself having a slight crush on him...even without the hockey sticks and mask.)

I'm not sure whether my crush on Raphael stemmed from the cartoon or the actual movie (there definitely appeared to be some interesting sexual undertones between April O'Neil and Raphael) but, either way, Raphael was my favorite turtle. As a young girl, I found myself wishing he was my boyfriend. I mean, how great would it be to have a Ninja Turtle boyfriend? Raphael, with his deadpan sense of humor and slight sarcasm in a non-offensive way; athleticism and muscularity; slightly dark with his bad boy attitude; and ability to wield a sai. Throw in a love of pizza and the potential ability to retract into his own shell, and Raphael seemed perfect to an eight-year-old girl. (However, if given the choice, I'd still choose Fred Savage over Raphael. So no need to be jealous, Fred Savage.)

I've shared this childhood crush with numerous people, which most seem to meet it with disbelief and slight revulsion. A crush on a fictitious cartoon character that's...a turtle? I've had to explain before that I didn't mean the Renaissance painter (I mean, how's that not weird to have a crush on him? Raphael the painter has been dead for almost 600 years.) It wasn't until my friend, Erin, and I started discussing it one day...and we both realized that we had had crushes on Raphael, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. I felt vindicated, as Erin is beautiful, smart, witty, and a genuinely nice person. I choose to believe the crush is not weird. It even came up at work one day, where one of my friends then drew Raphael on my dry erase board -- Raphael stayed on my dry erase board for months, until an unfortunate accident with someone's sleeve ended his run on my board. But until that sleeve wiped off the better part of his body, it was a glorious run with Raphael looking over my shoulder each day.

But here it is 30 years after the release of the original cartoon -- 25 years after the release of the original live-action TMNT movie -- and the Ninja Turtles are still popular. A cartoon version of TMNT still airs on network television, and a new live-action movie was released in August 2014 and they've already slated the release of the sequel in 2016. For Halloween this year, my niece and nephew are planning to go as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: my nephew is going as his favorite turtle, Michelangelo, and my niece is debating as to whether she'll go as a princess turtle or one of the original Ninja Turtles. For my nephew's birthday, my niece gave him an 11-inch Michelangelo action figure, and I gave him the corresponding Raphael. Donatello and Leonardo aren't far behind, if I have my way. So...maybe that means my dream of finding Raphael, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, can still happen.

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.

Don't Trip the Alarm...

Recently my husband and I upgraded the security system in our house. It wasn't intentional -- just a knock on the door one evening last week led to an unplanned purchase. Two hours later, we had an upgraded security system for a security system that we never bothered to activate in the first place when we moved into our house six years ago. The sales guy wasn't particularly good at his job -- he just talked and talked and talked and asked random questions. He sat down on the couch and started watching the baseball game that we had on TV. His sales strategy seemed to be just to wear us down so that we were exhausted into compliance. I'm guessing that he'd still be sitting on our couch today, talking about whatever random topics he thought of, if we hadn't said yes. I think it was one of those situations where we were secretly delighted by his presence; a surreal break from what had been an exhausting week, providing an unintended comic relief that allowed us to have something to laugh about and look at each other with eyebrows raised, an implied What the hell is going on? bouncing back and forth between the two of us.

So we now have a security alarm. Originally intended to be a 60-month contract, we were able to get a 42-month contract instead -- only three-and-a-half years committed to. Not bad in the scheme of life, right? By the time the alarm contract is up, I'll be closer to 40 than I am to 30.

Now I have to remember not to trip the alarm. That is, I have to remember to turn it on in the first place when I'm at home or when I leave the house. Then I have to remember to disarm it when I either want to exit the house or I return home. Otherwise, I have less than a minute to enter my password before the bells and sirens go off and I receive a call from either the security company or the police -- I can't remember which. Hopefully I don't have to find that out.

I feel like don't trip the alarm has been a common theme in my life, and I'm trying to sort through all of the internal and external mess I've made that might require me to trip alarms when I need help. I'm currently reading a book, The Gifts of Imperfection, a self-help book that was featured on the Oprah network. (Well, that's what the sticker on the book told me when I was perusing the bookshelves at Target. I bought it on a whim, not intending to walk away from Target with a self-help book mixed in with my toiletries, new garbage can, and GoGurt. Something about the combination of self-help book, Target, and Oprah seem like I should be scoffing at it, but I'm trying to embrace this process I've started.) The book's central focus is on dealing with inner shame and letting go of the need to be perfect for everyone, for identifying your self-worth so that you can love yourself so that you can better love others. The author has a nice voice with her writing, and her concepts make sense to me. While she hasn't revealed anything that makes me weary of whether she totally understands what it's like to have soul-scorching shame that tears away at you until you feel like your innards are trying to eat your outside and you're paralyzed by your inner thoughts, feelings, and dreams (or lack there of). But sometimes it doesn't require an extraordinary event to find yourself crippled with that shame...sometimes it's just life unfolding in ways we couldn't imagine.

So while I'm trying to figure out this alarm thing of when I need to trip the alarm versus shut it off, I might be reading a self-help book or two (or dozen) that I might not have before. But at least I know that I have an upgraded security system at my house thanks to the guy who randomly showed up on my doorstep last week...