I’ve always loved my birthday. I realize that might be egocentrical or perhaps just a given but, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed more and more of my friends seem to shun their birthdays or ask that the day go quietly by, unnoticed and uncelebrated. As if by not acknowledging their birthday with fanfare, they aren’t aging.

While the passing of time doesn’t go unnoticed by me and I sometimes am bewildered how I’ve gotten to my current age – my freshman year of high school was 20 years ago – I can’t imagine letting the one day that is all about you – about me – go unnoticed. I am that obnoxious person that has a countdown going two months before my birthday, and I typically remind my family and friends daily as we enter into the 30 day and below mark (“Hey, only 29 days until my birthday.” Or “Just a reminder…only 17 days until my birthday.”) Yesterday six-year-old niece, who turns 7 on March 7, (12 days after my birthday), started talking about her birthday and what she wants for her birthday. And I blurted out, “Yeah…let’s not get in front of yourself. Remember, my birthday comes first.” I said this. To a six-year-old. Then proceeded to ask her what she was getting me for my birthday. When she tried to turn the table on me and ask what I was getting her for her birthday, I immediately brought the conversation back to myself. I obviously am up for the Best Aunt of the Year award. J

I blame my mother, really, for my obsession with my birthday. She always did her best to make the day as special as possible for each of her kids. As a working mom, she always had to leave early in the morning to make the 35-plus mile drive to Sioux City to ensure that she was in her classroom or, later, counselor’s office, well in advance of the first bell of the morning and before her students started arriving. Due to her early schedule, she usually didn’t see us on the morning of our birthday before we left for school. So she would leave out the Birthday Breakfast for us: doughnuts or our favorite sugary cereal (which we normally didn’t get), a favorite candy bar, a card or small birthday gift, and the Birthday Balloons. Two small Mylar balloons that she recycled and saved for years, putting out for my brother, my stepdad, and me on our respective birthdays. When not in use, the Mylar balloons were stored in the cupboard above the refrigerator. She would also leave treats out for us to take to our elementary classmates when we were grade-school age. The birthday kid would then be able to choose what restaurant we ate at for dinner, and my brother and I would each be able to bring a friend with us to have dinner. My mom also made these elaborate birthdays cakes for us. Smurfs, unicorns, Popples, sports – she made the best themed cakes. She’s always laughed off her cake decorated skills, saying that she’s sub par at best, but I always loved her birthday cakes and the decorations – to me, they were perfect. I don’t know where she found the time to make them or to even figure out how to make the icing decorations – it was a time before Pintrest, YouTube, and AllRecipes.com; she had to use whatever  she could find – sometimes a stuffed animal to look at, sometimes a comic book. It was incredible.

One weekend last May, when brother and I and our families were home visiting my mom and stepdad while my stepdad was sick and dying, I opened the cupboard above the refrigerator to promptly have a stack of napkins fall on my head. My mother – who has always kept a well-maintained, clean, beautiful home – has a little bit of a dirty secret: she stuffs things into cupboards and drawers. So while the surface of the house is usually clutter free, sometimes the drawers look like an episode of hoarders. Well organized and clean, but still crowded. She’s sentimental and often struggles to rid items that are associated with positive and loving memories. My parents’ house is also an older home – built in like 1922, so there’s not much in the way of closet space, so every square inch of space is used to the best and maximum capacity.

I dragged a kitchen chair to the cupboard and proceeded to empty the two large shelves. As I went through the shelves, I pulled out napkins and paper plates from every holiday theme that one could possibly imagine; “Happy 60^th Birthday” decorations from years earlier; margarita glasses and cozies and party favors…the list of random items went on and on. Some things I just threw away, while others I knew had to go back in the cupboard. Others were piled into a box to take to Goodwill. When my mother discovered what I was doing, she flipped out. And suddenly I was on an episode of Hoarders. As I threw things into the trash can, she pulled them out and claimed she couldn’t part with them. So we then went into barter mode: out of the 15 can cozies, she could keep 5. She could keep the margarita glasses if she got rid of the mismatched bar glasses. This went on for a while, with my mom referring to me as “heartless” at one point. I prefer not heartless – just practical and a minimalist.

When it got to the Birthday Breakfast Balloons, I hesitated as to whether I should throw them away or keep them. My brother and I were no longer home on our birthdays for the special birthday breakfasts, and my stepdad wasn’t going to live to see his next birthday. At that moment, the Birthday Breakfast Balloons were a sad reminder of what growing up and becoming an adult can mean. So I threw them into the trashcan, where I imagine they ended up in a landfill outside of Correctionville, the Mylar likely having been crushed and the plastic sticks cracked and broken.

A week after cleaning out the cupboard, I woke in a cold sweat from a dream about the Birthday Breakfast Balloons.  I intensely regretted having thrown those damn balloons away.  I felt so guilty. Rather than throwing them away, I wish I would have brought them home with me so that I could have used them with my own husband or future family, sharing that simple but meaningful tradition with my own family. Now, two days before my birthday, I keep thinking back to those Birthday Breakfast Balloons and the family celebrations that we used to have. And I’ll miss being able to talk to my stepdad on my birthday.

But I still look forward to the one day that’s all about me. To telling my friends and co-workers and complete strangers “It’s my birthday!” and then doing one of my silly dances that looks like Elaine from Seinfield. I plan to embrace my day and my age. Because, if you think about it, there’s no real alternate to getting older – you either get older or you’re dead. So why not celebrate and acknowledge the day? My Grandma Bernie recognized that. She survived cancer at the age of 39, during a time when survival rates from cancer were small and unusual. She knew that every birthday after being remission was a gift, and she never shied away from telling someone her age when asked. She was proud of that number, knowing that her number could have ended at 39. She had another 40 years of life, and she was remarkable.

So on Tuesday, you might want to avoid me if you don’t want to hear repeatedly me discuss my birthday or how the day is all about me. I don’t want gifts – I just want to spend time with my family and friends, a reminder how fortunate that we are to have each other. As obnoxious as I might be shouting out, “It’s my birthday, biotches!” and making them give me high fives. Because it’s all about me. Well, and my parents for giving me life. So they get to celebrate and be acknowledged as part of the day that’s honoring my birth. 

I’ve always loved video games. I blame it on having an older brother who is a total geek, who loves all things gamy and electronic and gadgety. The first game I remember ever playing is Frogger, on an old Apple black computer that was hooked up to a small TV screen. We’d have to load the floppy disc into the computer, being careful not to touch the inside circle rim of the floppy disc. The computer base was heavy, and I remember we were always careful not to bump it. There were also joysticks that we could plug in and use to play games…but I don’t remember what games we played. I just remember that the joysticks were often difficult to navigate. I’m not sure what happened to that old Apple computer base – I think my brother had it in his basement for the longest time. It’s still probably there, gathering dust. Or it's since been thrown out by his wife, who doesn't always appreciate his desire to hoard old devices on the thought of "some day" or "what if" thoughts.

When I was in middle school, my parents bought my brother and me a Sega system. Not a Sega Genesis or Nintendo, just a basic Sega system. So we missed out on hours spent playing Super Mario Bros. and The Legend of Zelda – those games were special treats when we visited friends who had the more expensive Nintendo system. But our parents had told us that the Sega had better graphics and images; that the system was higher quality. While I still don’t know a ton about gaming systems today – just that I like to play and the differences between certain platforms and megabits – my brother holds to the statement that this is true: that we were better off having a Sega than the Nintendo. My favorite games to play on the Sega were Safari Hunt, Ghostbusters, Wonder Boy, Double Dragon. Video games appeal to my obsessive side of being able to dive into something, and then just sit and play and think and strategize. With Safari Hunt, I loved the soft “pew, pew, pew” sounds the system made when you shot a panther or how the armadillo rolled into a ball and bounced off screen when you hit it. Ghostbusters had weird driving scenes where you would navigate the Ghostbuster hearse through the streets of New York City, trying to vaporize ghosts that were flying through the air. And I loved Wonder Boy -- navigating through maps, jumping to stab things with Wonder Boy's sword, gathering coins and potions. Double Dragon was a special treat when we went to visit my dad in Michigan. He had purchased a Sega system as well, and we had different games that we played. My brother was always the black-haired guy dressed in red, and I was the blond guy dressed in blue. My brother occasionally would turn on me and beat the shit out of me in Double Dragon, but more often than not we would team up to defeat the bad guys as that was really the only way you could win the game. To this day, whenever I see a Double Dragon video game in an arcade, I stop to play. While my round kick skills aren’t quite what they used to be, I always find myself drawn to that game. When we were in college, my brother lent the Sega to one of his friends, and we never saw it again. I imagine if one of us still had it, we would probably spend hours sitting in the dark, deeply caffeinated on Mountain Dew, smelling slightly like BO and basement, playing Double Dragon and Safari Hunt. Our spouses would love it.

Since then, we’ve graduated to Wiis and X-Boxes and adult-geared video game bars like Dave & Buster’s and Gambols. I try to avoid video games as much as possible as I’m slightly obsessive when it comes to those things. Years after the popularity of it came and went, I still wish I had purchased Guitar Hero, but I’m pretty sure I would never sleep or leave my house if I did own it and as I tried to master the “guitar” riffs of legendary songs by The Beatles, Tom Petty, and Pink Floyd. The only games I have for our XBox are games that need to be played connected to the Kinnex, meaning that it requires moving my heavy ottoman in the living room so that I can stand up to play. It’s too much of an effort, so I can safely say that my time is not spent playing video games.

But my all-time favorite video game is Ms. Pacman. I realize that that probably makes me a typical girl, but I love the power pellets. Inky, Blinky, Pinky, and Sue. The different fruits at the different levels. I am completely obsessed with that game and love to play it whenever and wherever I can. There are a couple bars in my neighborhood that have either the upright video game or the tabletop video game, and I love to play. I’ve started carrying around quarters for that sole purpose, and will randomly pop in places just to take a whirl on Ms. Pacman. While I have yet to be able to get the high score on any of the Pacman machines around town, I take pride that I recently blew the mind of one of my co-workers who had no clue that I could own Ms. Pacman. A self-proclaimed video game nerd, I believe he thought that it would be an easy victory to beat me in high score, at which he failed miserably. Despite multiple attempts, he has yet to outscore me on Ms. Pacman.  

I imagine it’s the escapist element of playing video games that I’ve always enjoyed. In a video game, you can take on a different persona, explore a different world, eat things and blow things up and win things without ever a) having to leave your own home and b) not having to worry about the impact or repercussions (I mean, you play Grand Theft Auto, you don’t have to worry about going to jail, right?). And for a nerdy, tomboy girl like myself, it makes it an easy way to bond with my brother or talk with my guy co-workers or friends. And there’s nothing better than an intense game of Ms. Pacman, eating all those power pellets and avoiding Sue.

This morning my husband made a comment about me having freakishly small ears. Without thinking, I blurted out, "Jerry used to always tease me about my small ears." And then I teared up to the point that they just...leaked out of my eyes. I turned my head and said quietly, "I miss him." while trying to get them to stop, pressing the palms of my hands roughly into my eyeballs. Because pressure seems like a great way to make yourself stop crying, right? My husband sat there, quietly, and finally said, "If you go take a shower, you'll feel better." The shower didn't work -- it just distracted me.

It's always strange how certain things in your life can be going so well, while the most important aspects -- the things you really care about -- go to shit. For the longest time, I felt angst about my job and what I was doing. But then I switched positions at work and now find myself in a position that was literally created just for me -- and I love it. I love the people I work with, I love the activities and projects I get to work on, I'm happy and can see myself doing this job for years to come. The anxiety I've felt in previous years has abated. Even if I were to lose my job, I now feel like I could deal with that -- I'd find something else. My work life and career has had a shift that I find myself incredibly confident and comfortable with. Finally, it feels right.

I finally feel confident in my body and who I am. By the time I was 14, I was 5'11". By the time I graduated from high school, I had willed myself to be 6'0". All awkward, uncoordinated, gangly joints -- with the added complexity of crazy-curly auburn hair, freckles, and acne. When we played the game of "Which celebrity do you like?", I always said that I looked like what Julia Roberts' and Howdy Doody's lovechild would look like. But it's amazing the difference time and age can make...and realizing the impact that hair gel and not brushing curly hair can have. And embracing my height to the point that I'm comfortable rocking a pair of high heels. I'll never be the most beautiful person in a room, but at least I know that I won't cause the room to empty in disgust. My personality is still slightly off, with a love of all things nerdy and quirky, but I don't worry about stifling my lame jokes to make others like me; instead, I look at it's their job to keep up with me. So maybe only 2% of the population finds me funny...that's probably the best percentage to know.

I love my family and friends. I've been blessed to have so many kind, caring, passionate people be a part of my life. My family is crazy and dysfunctional...but it's a good dysfunction that I've finally figured out how to navigate. We often judge each other and make statements that are perhaps not realistic, but we love and support each other. And when a crisis arises, we will fight for each other like no other. This was proven as my stepdad went through his battle with liver cancer, when my biological dad went through his second divorce, and I plowed through the worst four months of my career two years ago.

So while one portion of my life is spinning out of control, I focus on these things above. And it's all compounded because I continue to miss and grieve for my stepdad. I mostly think my feelings of sorrow are under control, and then there's a small incident that happens -- like a comment about my tiny ears -- that makes me think of my stepdad and sucks the air out of me, causing me to tear up and feel a twinge of grief so painful it feels like a hot poker in the stomach. Over the last week, every night I've had a nightmare that involved my stepdad dying. In one dream, my stepdad's death revived my family's pet cocker spaniel, Snickers, who died when she was hit by a car when I was 13. In the dream, Snickers came back to life as she was prior to dying until my brother hugged her, causing her body to squish in half in one long strip...the rest of the dream was so horrible and graphic that I can't write about it without gagging.  It makes me feel guilty when I think of those of my friends who have lost their own parents over the last few years who I didn't reach out to or didn't keep checking back in to see how they were healing. I don't think you can comprehend the swirl of emotions that come with the death of a parent until you have experienced it yourself. The guilt and sorrow and just genuine despair that comes with it. And how all you want is for someone to hug you and ask how you're doing or just to share one of their favorite memories of your parent with you, just to acknowledge the pain that you're feeling and to know that someone else is thinking about this person who had such an impact on your life. Because seven months after Jerry's death, I still grieve for him and my mom and the years of marriage that he and my mom were supposed to have. I still miss him.

I always thought the worst thing to happen on a routine airplane flight - seating wise, that is - is to get stuck sitting next to someone who is an extreme talker. Or perhaps in the middle seat between two "pleasantly plump" passengers, crunched in the middle seat like peanut butter smushed between two slices of bread. Or the guy who sweats and leaves the smell of pickles...whenever I walk onto a flight and smell pickles, I immediately start sniffing the air like a beagle, trying to identify the source so that I can hopefully avoid it. Pickles and airplanes are forever linked in my head.

Recently, when flying from Phoenix to Kansas City, I discovered something far worse than the fate of being subjected to the ramblings of a well-intentioned talker or cozy between two seat-spillers: three people over six foot in a trio of seats. I somehow managed to find myself seated between two Arizona State University basketball players. At six foot, I typically look for the aisle seat or the emergency row exits so I have a seat where my legs have an opportunity to stretch out for even the briefest moments during the flight. While most people will at least use the bathroom during a flight as an excuse to stretch their legs out or take a brief jaunt up and down the plane aisle, I typically find myself glued to my seat unless it's a worse-case, can't-hold-it-anymore scenario. I'm so unsteady on my feet on the actual ground without flying that walking around on an in-flight airplane is the grandest of challenges: the slightest turbulence while I'm walking around will send me flying (no pun intended) into another passenger's lap or my head bouncing off the overhead bins. I'm also deathly afraid of inadvertently bumping into the door and somehow opening the door inflight, causing the passengers all to get sucked out. So I'd rather stay seated.

When the two ASU basketball players saw me headed toward their seat, I think they had the same moment of "Oh shit" panic that I did. The one guy sitting next to the window was easily 6'8, while the guy on the aisle seat was 6'2. When I sat down, I smiled apologetically and said "Sorry, guys, at least it's a short flight." And so on that two-hour long flight, I sat for most of it with the 6'8 basketball player's long legs pressed into my left thigh, and my legs tucking in and out from underneath me. I'd sit on them to get them out of the way, but would have to place them back down again when the blood stopped circulating to my legs and my feet became numb. Had I not been so uncomfortable, I might have enjoyed sitting between two nice-looking young men.  I might be better served to fly in the bathroom instead if I ever encounter that scenario again...

I've always been fascinated at how the body can just turn on itself. Whether through a simple cold or a debilitating disease, the body can sometimes be its worst enemy.

Like so many other people, I'm not good at being sick. I hate spending hours on end not doing anything, just "resting". I get whiny, impatient, and melodramatic. I might as well be one of those Victorian women, swooning and throwing my hand over my forehead, falling back onto a fainting chaise.

When I lived at home with my parents, I found that being sick was easier. Built-in care takers who were there to help you recover by bringing you food and medicine. Now, when I battle a cold or the flu as an adult, I sometimes don't bother to eat. I look at the distance from my couch to the kitchen and weigh the number of steps and effort that it would require to get up, walk to the kitchen, locate something to eat, and then actually make it. The effort suddenly feels like trying to scale Mount Everest, and I find it's easier just to lay back on the couch and imagine eating. Ahhh...

Really, though, there are two things I really miss about being sick as a kid: my parents and the couch. My parents both worked, so my brother and I often ended up home alone when we were sick. But usually one or both of my parents would call during the day to check to make sure that we were okay, and often my stepdad would make a special trip home at lunch to make sure that we were still alive and to see if we needed anything. As soon as they got home from work at the end of the day, they both would immediately head toward the sick kid on the couch, placing a cool hand on my forehead and asked how we were feeling. It was comforting to know how much they cared and they worried. Even now, when my mom finds out that I'm sick, she'll send me text messages throughout the day to check in and see how I'm feeling. I'm completely spoiled by her.

When my brother or I were sick, it also meant that we got a specially made bed for us on the couch in the living room and special treatment from my parents. My mom would take a full sheet and tuck it onto the couch as if she were making an actual bed. She would then have the sick kid crawl onto the couch while holding the sheet up, then proceed to make the bed around the sicko. Tucked in between a fresh, clean sheet and piled high with a comforter or other afghans, it was a cool, snug cocoon at a time when the body was usually burning up. In addition to being able to lounge on the couch, the sick kid typically was plied with other amenities: 7-Up, orange juice, the remote control, a book in case you felt like reading. When I was in sixth grade and had the chicken pox, that couch was my best friend for days. Today when I'm sick, no one makes a couch bed for me or brings me 7-Up; I do my best imitation by wrapping myself in a quilt that my grandma made and then burrowing into my favorite spot on the couch. But it's not quite the same.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.
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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.

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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.

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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.