Imagine that I'm writing something very witty and clever about politics, or Occupy Wall Street or something. Imagine that I've just blown your mind with my social commentary, my insights on relevant news stories, or some piece of new philosophy about something deeply philosophical. You must imagine these things because I am, as of this moment, 39 weeks and 4.8 days pregnant. There is no insight to be had, no philosophy to be philosophized, nothing. I am a very pregnant person, and that's about it. My brain is 75% water and 25% GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME.
I shouldn't complain. I read a story earlier today about a couple who struggled for years to get pregnant and eventually spent their life's savings on countless rounds of IVF before having their baby. Chris and I are very, very, very lucky. But just for a second, I want to acknowledge that being 5'2" and having what they tell me is a watermelon-sized baby tucked within my abdomen is beginning to get a little bit uncomfortable. And now that the moment of self-pity has passed, let me describe the silver lining(s) to you: I can still sleep. I am still going to work. My doctor says things are progressing nicely. The baby's head was re-measured and is in the 35th percentile--NOT the 91st, as they guesstimated previously. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
The other day, Chris and I decided to get this thing going. We went for a spicy curry lunch and then walked the mall for a couple of hours. Since I am writing this instead of rocking my infant daughter, you can be assured that neither of these things had any positive effect. We stopped by a Brookstone-type store and I sat in one of those big massage chairs. As my hand drifted towards the 'on' button, one of the employees appeared at my side as if summoned by magic. "Since you've got a little something in there," he said, gesturing loosely at my massive belly, "you can't sit in any of the massaging chairs. It's a store policy. Apparently, it can put you into early labor."
This time, it was Chris who jumped to answer. "But she's 39 weeks. It's OK for her to go into labor." I nodded. "Yeah, a little labor induction would be a great thing!" I said. The employee handled our desperation like a retail wizard by informing us the massaging chairs were on sale and we could purchase one to use for that purpose if we'd like. Instead, we left the store to continue our walking.
And still, no baby. I'm drinking some kind of smelly raspberry leaf tea, walking, doing lunges, and everything the books say to help get this thing going. I think she's just going to have to come out on her own time.
But if December third comes and goes uneventfully, I will definitely be returning to the store to buy that chair.
xo
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
Sausage Feet and A Fertilized Egg
Yes, after a short hiatus from writing solely about The Baby, I'm going to write about her. This Saturday marked the beginning of what I'm calling "Any Day Now". Sophie is officially 37 weeks, which is what the medical community considers a full-term baby. My doctor said that after 36 weeks, they won't stop labor if it happens, but 37 weeks is the mark at which they also won't worry too much about the baby's breathing, and everything will probably be just fine without any medical dramatics.
So, we've passed that crucial point. I've been having some aches and pains that let me know that the baby might be here relatively soon. Chris is on high alert. He said that every time I text or call him during the day, he thinks I've gone into labor. Walking is somewhat painful a lot of the time, my pelvis feels like it's being slowly stretched apart, and my feet look like Barney Rubble's. Niiiiiice and puffy.
But those aren't the symptoms I'm paying the most attention to. No, the thing that I can't get off my mind is that I'm just ready to have this baby. Be it by c-section, by induction, by natural birth, I don't care. This pregnancy has gone past the point of cute or interesting, and is bordering on being a little disgusting. No belly skin should have to stretch this far. Twenty minutes of gentle yoga should not exhaust me. Sitting on the couch in a slightly awkward position should not warrant the application of Icy Hot to my lower back. It's been 37 weeks and 3 days. That's enough, I think.
I still love to feel her rolling around in there, still love the fact that she's coming, and still stand in her room, imagining her lying in the crib, or rocking her in the rocking chair, or reading little books to her, or putting her in all those adorable clothes we've been given. But now, the waiting has become irritating, like a sneeze that's been building up for 9 1/2 months but won't come out. People say, "Oh, are you so excited?" And I think, "Excited isn't the right word. I'm just ready." I've started trying to bribe her from the outside. I tell her things like, "Hey, if you come out now, I'll put you in this really cute elephant onesie and we'll listen to this Goldilocks and the 3 Bears record I bought you. It will be really fun..."
Part of this, I'm sure, is that I'm a little anxious about giving birth. From what I've heard, this is normal as I will be passing a small person out of my body and into the world. I think I have mentioned before how lucky I feel to be going through all of this in one of the most medically-advanced countries in the developed world, and I know that if I get too tired to go on during labor, or things aren't going well, there will be options to deliver the baby with little pain or danger to either of us. But it's the uncertainty. When is it going to happen? What will it feel like? Will she have my hair, or Chris's nose? And what if they give me a c-section and they end up cutting the baby, they way they cut fruit when they open a box with a box cutter? I'm just saying. These are the things running through my mind.
And so, in these last few weeks, if I seem distracted, please forgive me. I'm probably paying only half the attention I ought to be at any given moment...except when driving. I'm crazy-attentive while driving.
Hope you're well!
xo
So, we've passed that crucial point. I've been having some aches and pains that let me know that the baby might be here relatively soon. Chris is on high alert. He said that every time I text or call him during the day, he thinks I've gone into labor. Walking is somewhat painful a lot of the time, my pelvis feels like it's being slowly stretched apart, and my feet look like Barney Rubble's. Niiiiiice and puffy.
But those aren't the symptoms I'm paying the most attention to. No, the thing that I can't get off my mind is that I'm just ready to have this baby. Be it by c-section, by induction, by natural birth, I don't care. This pregnancy has gone past the point of cute or interesting, and is bordering on being a little disgusting. No belly skin should have to stretch this far. Twenty minutes of gentle yoga should not exhaust me. Sitting on the couch in a slightly awkward position should not warrant the application of Icy Hot to my lower back. It's been 37 weeks and 3 days. That's enough, I think.
I still love to feel her rolling around in there, still love the fact that she's coming, and still stand in her room, imagining her lying in the crib, or rocking her in the rocking chair, or reading little books to her, or putting her in all those adorable clothes we've been given. But now, the waiting has become irritating, like a sneeze that's been building up for 9 1/2 months but won't come out. People say, "Oh, are you so excited?" And I think, "Excited isn't the right word. I'm just ready." I've started trying to bribe her from the outside. I tell her things like, "Hey, if you come out now, I'll put you in this really cute elephant onesie and we'll listen to this Goldilocks and the 3 Bears record I bought you. It will be really fun..."
Part of this, I'm sure, is that I'm a little anxious about giving birth. From what I've heard, this is normal as I will be passing a small person out of my body and into the world. I think I have mentioned before how lucky I feel to be going through all of this in one of the most medically-advanced countries in the developed world, and I know that if I get too tired to go on during labor, or things aren't going well, there will be options to deliver the baby with little pain or danger to either of us. But it's the uncertainty. When is it going to happen? What will it feel like? Will she have my hair, or Chris's nose? And what if they give me a c-section and they end up cutting the baby, they way they cut fruit when they open a box with a box cutter? I'm just saying. These are the things running through my mind.
And so, in these last few weeks, if I seem distracted, please forgive me. I'm probably paying only half the attention I ought to be at any given moment...except when driving. I'm crazy-attentive while driving.
Hope you're well!
xo
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
58% Hippie
There comes a time in every person's life when you have to stop and ask yourself one of the most important questions when it comes to your identity: Am I a hippie?
Actually, scratch that. Not everyone has to ask themselves that. I have an uncle who, despite my familial love for him, drives me crazy with his right-wing politics. He doesn't have to ask himself that question. Neither does Chris's very conservative co-worker, who recently proposed to his girlfriend by hiding the ring a gun case. He is also exempt. And really, maybe this isn't a question most people need to ask themselves.
But I've been thinking about it recently, and have been asking myself that question. First of all, what does it take to consider oneself a hippie? Bare feet and dreadlocks? Hemp clothing? No job with a steady paycheck and/or a European attitude about social justice and hygiene?
We're having a baby soon (in case you didn't know), and I have found myself gravitating towards the most hippie of the baby care choices--cloth diapers, homemade baby food, drug-free labor (a near-impossibility at this point, due to the size of the baby's head), and daycare that serves organic, homemade meals. I even bought one of those cloth baby slings in which to tote the kid around town. I am one or two steps away from getting a henna belly tattoo and planting my placenta in my community garden plot. OK, not that last part.
Chris recently called me a hippie after being quoted in the Star Tribune's article(http://www.startribune.com/politics/statelocal/133406223.html) about Minnesotans' feelings about amending the state constitution to make gay marriage illegal. Guess how I feel about it? That's right, I don't like it! Do you want to know why? Because I think everyone should marry who they love, regardless of gender. Because I think that, if there is a God, he is shaking his head about how silly we're being about love. And because I believe in equality. If this makes me a hippie, well, then, where do I sign up for my standard-issue Birkenstocks?
Since it would be nearly impossible to reach an accurate conclusion on my own, I recently took an "Am I A Hippie?" quiz--feel free to do the same here: www.gotoquiz.com/are_you_a_hippie . Based on the fact that I drink low-fat, store bought milk (instead of raw), am not a vegetarian (anymore), live in an apartment (not a commune), plan to wear my baby (instead of use a stroller all the time), am liberal, and the fact that I sometimes enjoy reading poetry, I am considered 58% hippie.
That's plenty for me, I think. You won't find me dancing naked during a full moon or doing interpretive dances on the street for spare change, but you will find me in the kitchen, blending organic peas into a meal for baby Sophie. And I'll probably be barefoot.
xo
Actually, scratch that. Not everyone has to ask themselves that. I have an uncle who, despite my familial love for him, drives me crazy with his right-wing politics. He doesn't have to ask himself that question. Neither does Chris's very conservative co-worker, who recently proposed to his girlfriend by hiding the ring a gun case. He is also exempt. And really, maybe this isn't a question most people need to ask themselves.
But I've been thinking about it recently, and have been asking myself that question. First of all, what does it take to consider oneself a hippie? Bare feet and dreadlocks? Hemp clothing? No job with a steady paycheck and/or a European attitude about social justice and hygiene?
We're having a baby soon (in case you didn't know), and I have found myself gravitating towards the most hippie of the baby care choices--cloth diapers, homemade baby food, drug-free labor (a near-impossibility at this point, due to the size of the baby's head), and daycare that serves organic, homemade meals. I even bought one of those cloth baby slings in which to tote the kid around town. I am one or two steps away from getting a henna belly tattoo and planting my placenta in my community garden plot. OK, not that last part.
Chris recently called me a hippie after being quoted in the Star Tribune's article(http://www.startribune.com/politics/statelocal/133406223.html) about Minnesotans' feelings about amending the state constitution to make gay marriage illegal. Guess how I feel about it? That's right, I don't like it! Do you want to know why? Because I think everyone should marry who they love, regardless of gender. Because I think that, if there is a God, he is shaking his head about how silly we're being about love. And because I believe in equality. If this makes me a hippie, well, then, where do I sign up for my standard-issue Birkenstocks?
Since it would be nearly impossible to reach an accurate conclusion on my own, I recently took an "Am I A Hippie?" quiz--feel free to do the same here: www.gotoquiz.com/are_you_a_hippie . Based on the fact that I drink low-fat, store bought milk (instead of raw), am not a vegetarian (anymore), live in an apartment (not a commune), plan to wear my baby (instead of use a stroller all the time), am liberal, and the fact that I sometimes enjoy reading poetry, I am considered 58% hippie.
That's plenty for me, I think. You won't find me dancing naked during a full moon or doing interpretive dances on the street for spare change, but you will find me in the kitchen, blending organic peas into a meal for baby Sophie. And I'll probably be barefoot.
xo
Monday, November 7, 2011
Like Crazy? You Betcha.
Chris and I decided to spend part of our lazy Sunday at the movies. We had seen a trailer for a movie called 'Like Crazy', which depicts the unfolding of an international, long-distance relationship between a British girl and an American guy.
Admittedly, Chris and I have become long-distance relationship snobs. I don't think either of us would deny that we're proud of the job we did holding this thing together for all this time, despite uncertainty and expensive flights and a 6-hour time difference and well-meaning advice all that. I, at least, went into the movie with the hopes that they'd show a couple like us who had managed to make it work, and that I'd be able to leave feeling warm and fuzzy about my own difficult-to-make-work relationship.
(And just so you know, I'm totally going to ruin this movie for you. So, if you're wanting to see it, stop reading now.)
So, the story goes that the British girl is over on a student visa, and she develops feelings for one of her classmates. They start spending all their time together on awkward-looking, indie-romance dates and basically just looking at each other for ever-increasing periods of time. Then her visa runs out. She's planning on going home for the summer, then returning on a visitor's visa. At the last minute, she decides, "You know what? Actually, I'm just going to overstay my visa for a few months, go home to England for a week for a wedding, and THEN come back on a visitor's visa." Which, don't even get me started on this, is THE dumbest plan ever, immigration-wise. Just like New Yorkers with tiny studio apartments, countries hate when people stay too long without asking first.
So, she goes back to England for a week, then tries to come back to the US, where she is greeted by Homeland Security and sent directly back home. She can't even leave the airport. So, this "couple" gets all mopey and subsequently enter this pathetic, downward relationship spiral in which they each start dating other people (and pretty seriously, might I add), only to text each other when the going gets tough and they "miss" one another. He flies over there after breaking up with his girlfriend, and this "couple" gets married in front of a judge in London. They then need to be apart for 6 months to fulfill some visa requirement. Each of them resumes their relationship with their 'other people'. Their lives go on. They even seem happy-ish without one another. They barely talk. Then, their immigration forms go through, her visa works out and she is able to move from England to America. Before this happens, her 'other boyfriend' proposes. An awkward conversation is depicted, and then a few days later, she flies to America and moves in with her American husband. The viewer is left to assume that they are now together, but sort of miserable. The last shot is of them hugging awkwardly, each of them with a "What the hell did we DO?" look on their face.
Needless to say, Chris and I both became sort of irritated by this movie. What, another cinematic depiction of international love gone wrong? Is that what's needed? We both decided that a story like ours would probably never be turned into a movie because, after a pretty tough start, it ended up with us married and about to have a baby. Moviegoers apparently aren't jonesing for a happy ending. And besides, the story of our relationship, from its quick start to our happy ending is a little unbelievable. Even I'd roll my eyes and say, "Yeah, right!" if I saw the movie version.
But it obviously can be done, and we're proof. So, I've devised a list of rules to follow if you find yourself in an international, long-distance relationship.
Admittedly, Chris and I have become long-distance relationship snobs. I don't think either of us would deny that we're proud of the job we did holding this thing together for all this time, despite uncertainty and expensive flights and a 6-hour time difference and well-meaning advice all that. I, at least, went into the movie with the hopes that they'd show a couple like us who had managed to make it work, and that I'd be able to leave feeling warm and fuzzy about my own difficult-to-make-work relationship.
(And just so you know, I'm totally going to ruin this movie for you. So, if you're wanting to see it, stop reading now.)
So, the story goes that the British girl is over on a student visa, and she develops feelings for one of her classmates. They start spending all their time together on awkward-looking, indie-romance dates and basically just looking at each other for ever-increasing periods of time. Then her visa runs out. She's planning on going home for the summer, then returning on a visitor's visa. At the last minute, she decides, "You know what? Actually, I'm just going to overstay my visa for a few months, go home to England for a week for a wedding, and THEN come back on a visitor's visa." Which, don't even get me started on this, is THE dumbest plan ever, immigration-wise. Just like New Yorkers with tiny studio apartments, countries hate when people stay too long without asking first.
So, she goes back to England for a week, then tries to come back to the US, where she is greeted by Homeland Security and sent directly back home. She can't even leave the airport. So, this "couple" gets all mopey and subsequently enter this pathetic, downward relationship spiral in which they each start dating other people (and pretty seriously, might I add), only to text each other when the going gets tough and they "miss" one another. He flies over there after breaking up with his girlfriend, and this "couple" gets married in front of a judge in London. They then need to be apart for 6 months to fulfill some visa requirement. Each of them resumes their relationship with their 'other people'. Their lives go on. They even seem happy-ish without one another. They barely talk. Then, their immigration forms go through, her visa works out and she is able to move from England to America. Before this happens, her 'other boyfriend' proposes. An awkward conversation is depicted, and then a few days later, she flies to America and moves in with her American husband. The viewer is left to assume that they are now together, but sort of miserable. The last shot is of them hugging awkwardly, each of them with a "What the hell did we DO?" look on their face.
Needless to say, Chris and I both became sort of irritated by this movie. What, another cinematic depiction of international love gone wrong? Is that what's needed? We both decided that a story like ours would probably never be turned into a movie because, after a pretty tough start, it ended up with us married and about to have a baby. Moviegoers apparently aren't jonesing for a happy ending. And besides, the story of our relationship, from its quick start to our happy ending is a little unbelievable. Even I'd roll my eyes and say, "Yeah, right!" if I saw the movie version.
But it obviously can be done, and we're proof. So, I've devised a list of rules to follow if you find yourself in an international, long-distance relationship.
The Rules
1. DO NOT VIOLATE THE TERMS OF ANY VISA YOU MAY HAVE. Student, travel, work--they're all set in stone, according to your respective countries. You will kick yourself later if you get banned from their country, or they get banned from yours. You really will. Of course, if you do decide to get married on a visitor's visa, there are ways to do it. But, generally speaking, don't violate your visa.
2. Don't date other people. If you're going to do this, really do it. If it's not worth giving up dating, it's not worth it.
3. Evaluate whether or not you're willing to be incredibly uncomfortable for a long time, possible until it works out (which could be months or years), or until the relationship falls apart. This may also take months or years.
4. Talk every day. If you can't talk every day, send messages about why you can't talk, and then make it a top priority to talk the next day. Yes. Every. Single. Day. For months or years. Whatever you've got going on, drop it for 15 minutes or so and call this person. Just do it.
5. Find a way to spend "normal" time with the person. Start a movie at the same time and talk on the phone or even over instant messaging while you watch it. Cook together over the phone, even if you're just pouring a bowl of cereal and the other person is making dinner.
6. Don't watch 'Like Crazy'. You might end up thinking that things like this never work out.
7. Also, don't listen to any naysayers who tell you this can't work out. Either they've seen 'Like Crazy', or they're jealous that you're dating someone with a cool accent and they're not. Or they might just think they're acting in your best interest. Either way, if you think this has got a shot, give it the best shot you've got. If it works out, you've got a great love story. If it doesn't, you've got a great story to tell while drunk, or to get out of a bad date.
Hope you're well!
xo
Friday, October 28, 2011
The Time I Lived In the Hormel Historic Home
The summer after my freshman year of college, I moved back to Austin, Minnesota to work as a waitress at a truck stop like I had the summer before. It was a good job, believe it or not. It was fairly easy, and I could talk to the customers very casually. The tips ranged from bad to poor, but I still managed to fill a plastic lunchbox full of $1s every week, which I brought to the bank with the same joke every week: "No, this is not stripper money."
My parents had moved out of Austin a few weeks after I'd graduated from high school, so I had to find a place to live on my own for the summer. Apartments were out of the question because no one is going to let a 19-year-old with no furniture move in for only 3 months. I can't remember who first suggested this crazy idea, but someone native to Austin suggested I check out the Historic Hormel Home because they sometimes rented out rooms to young women who needed a place to stay for a short time.
Let me interject some history here. Austin is the home of Hormel meat packing, which is where they process bacon, ham, and, most ubiquitously, Spam. The entire town smells like bacon several days a week and there is a 'Spam Jam' every summer, which is just another small-town festival with a funny name. The Hormel family lived in Austin, and one of the Hormel brothers had a big house in the middle of town. That house is still there, and now has a website, should you be so inclined: http://www.hormelhistorichome.org/
So, I checked it out. For $180 a month, I could live in this crazy, furnished house. I signed up and moved in immediately. The rental agreement had its quirks. First of all, the home was subject to tours throughout the day, meaning I had to time my trips to the historic bathroom and leave it spotless after brushing my teeth or showering or whatever. I had to use the servants' staircase at the back of the house. I could only eat at the servants' table in the kitchen, which actually suited me just fine because it was in a little alcove, and I'd always wanted a little breakfast nook-type area to eat my breakfast in.
I could also not have male guests anywhere in the house besides the first floor. I had to refrain from walking through the main part of the house during tours, wedding receptions, and bridge tournaments, which proved to be frequent. I could only use one shelf of the fridge, and one shelf in the pantry. Meals had to be prepared and eaten only when functions were not occurring. As I suggested two sentences ago, this severely limited the amount of time I was able to spend in the kitchen. I wasn't allowed to answer the house phone during business hours, which were 8-5 every day. There was no air conditioning.
The rules weren't the weirdest part of living at the HHH. No, it was the fact that no one else lived there. I was alone in the home after 5PM. Now, you might be thinking, "What's wrong with that? It would be fun to be alone in a big, dark, old house by yourself at night!" Oh, you're not thinking that? Well, neither was I. That house was scary in the dark. There were mannequins and dress forms with historical clothing scattered throughout the house, and a weird, old piano that I was pretty sure was going to start playing itself at any moment. One night after I'd turned out the lights, a bat started flapping around in my room. I debated trying to ignore it or sleeping with the lights on, but eventually I broke the 'no boys on the second floor' rule and called my friend, Mike Porter, who used a tennis racket to scoop it into a Tide box.
The final straw for me was that one morning, after working an overnight shift at the truck stop, I ducked into the bathroom wearing sleep shorts and a tank top to brush my teeth. I was only moments into the process when I heard the clomp-clomping of a tour coming up the stairs towards the bathroom. I froze as the tour guide attempted to open the door, then pounded on it. I sheepishly announced my presence, heard her clumsily explain that people lived in the home, and then waited in silence as they proceeded to the next room. When the chance arose, I dashed into my bedroom and locked the door behind me. As I drifted off to sleep, the tour stopped outside my room. Several of the tour group members attempted to open my bedroom door, which woke me up in a panic. I decided then and there to look at other living arrangements for the rest of the summer.
After about 10 weeks in the HHH, I moved out and ended up moving in with Mary's family. Mary and I had a great time. Apparently, she had thought I was really crazy for living there in the first place. I had just considered myself thrifty and independent.
xo
My parents had moved out of Austin a few weeks after I'd graduated from high school, so I had to find a place to live on my own for the summer. Apartments were out of the question because no one is going to let a 19-year-old with no furniture move in for only 3 months. I can't remember who first suggested this crazy idea, but someone native to Austin suggested I check out the Historic Hormel Home because they sometimes rented out rooms to young women who needed a place to stay for a short time.
Let me interject some history here. Austin is the home of Hormel meat packing, which is where they process bacon, ham, and, most ubiquitously, Spam. The entire town smells like bacon several days a week and there is a 'Spam Jam' every summer, which is just another small-town festival with a funny name. The Hormel family lived in Austin, and one of the Hormel brothers had a big house in the middle of town. That house is still there, and now has a website, should you be so inclined: http://www.hormelhistorichome.org/
So, I checked it out. For $180 a month, I could live in this crazy, furnished house. I signed up and moved in immediately. The rental agreement had its quirks. First of all, the home was subject to tours throughout the day, meaning I had to time my trips to the historic bathroom and leave it spotless after brushing my teeth or showering or whatever. I had to use the servants' staircase at the back of the house. I could only eat at the servants' table in the kitchen, which actually suited me just fine because it was in a little alcove, and I'd always wanted a little breakfast nook-type area to eat my breakfast in.
I could also not have male guests anywhere in the house besides the first floor. I had to refrain from walking through the main part of the house during tours, wedding receptions, and bridge tournaments, which proved to be frequent. I could only use one shelf of the fridge, and one shelf in the pantry. Meals had to be prepared and eaten only when functions were not occurring. As I suggested two sentences ago, this severely limited the amount of time I was able to spend in the kitchen. I wasn't allowed to answer the house phone during business hours, which were 8-5 every day. There was no air conditioning.
The rules weren't the weirdest part of living at the HHH. No, it was the fact that no one else lived there. I was alone in the home after 5PM. Now, you might be thinking, "What's wrong with that? It would be fun to be alone in a big, dark, old house by yourself at night!" Oh, you're not thinking that? Well, neither was I. That house was scary in the dark. There were mannequins and dress forms with historical clothing scattered throughout the house, and a weird, old piano that I was pretty sure was going to start playing itself at any moment. One night after I'd turned out the lights, a bat started flapping around in my room. I debated trying to ignore it or sleeping with the lights on, but eventually I broke the 'no boys on the second floor' rule and called my friend, Mike Porter, who used a tennis racket to scoop it into a Tide box.
The final straw for me was that one morning, after working an overnight shift at the truck stop, I ducked into the bathroom wearing sleep shorts and a tank top to brush my teeth. I was only moments into the process when I heard the clomp-clomping of a tour coming up the stairs towards the bathroom. I froze as the tour guide attempted to open the door, then pounded on it. I sheepishly announced my presence, heard her clumsily explain that people lived in the home, and then waited in silence as they proceeded to the next room. When the chance arose, I dashed into my bedroom and locked the door behind me. As I drifted off to sleep, the tour stopped outside my room. Several of the tour group members attempted to open my bedroom door, which woke me up in a panic. I decided then and there to look at other living arrangements for the rest of the summer.
After about 10 weeks in the HHH, I moved out and ended up moving in with Mary's family. Mary and I had a great time. Apparently, she had thought I was really crazy for living there in the first place. I had just considered myself thrifty and independent.
xo
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The Time I Used A Glue Stick Like Chapstick
So, when I was in 6th grade, my family learned that my dad's job at IBM was transferred out to their site in San Jose, California. We moved out there and I started a new school for 7th grade (which was sort of traumatic in a "that which doesn't kill you..." kind of way). I was not immediately popular, mostly because I was pasty, freckled, had a crazy Minnesotan accent, and wasn't allowed to wear makeup yet. Meanwhile, the other girls were sort of cool and mature. They'd been wearing makeup for years. Some of them had even been in "serious" relationships. I was way out of my league, to say the least.
Anyway, there were some particularly mean girls I won't name, just in case some day they read this blog and feel guilty...or justified, I guess. I had a few friends, and things definitely got better when I realized that it makes sense to pay a little attention to how I look. Things definitely improved when I started paying attention to trends. One of the most important trends at this school was the accumulation of Sanrio school supplies. Sanrio is the company that makes Hello Kitty things. Hello Kitty and all her chubby little animal friends were extremely popular at my new school in California. The good thing was that I genuinely liked these characters and thought they were cool, so it wasn't exactly selling out. The bad thing is that I was 13, had no money, and had very little idea where to obtain said Sanrio items.
So, fast forward a little bit, and I've got a semi-regular baby-sitting job down the street from my house, and therefore, more money to spend on Sanrio school supplies. My family lived in a really great place in California, just about halfway between the Bay Area and the Monterrey/Carmel/Santa Cruz area. One of the best parts of the whole thing is that people wanted to come visit us, which meant that we basically were forced to explore a lot in order to come up with fun things to do with our guests. One of my favorite things to do was to go to Chinatown in San Francisco. It was this busy, exciting part of a beautiful city, full of little shops and lots of restaurants. There were grocery stores selling whole, sometimes live animals. One time, an eel meant to be sold for food flopped out of a Styrofoam box onto the sidewalk in front of me, which I thought was the coolest thing in the world.
Anyway, one of these shops was a massive, brightly-colored Sanrio store. It was full of school supplies, clothing, makeup, and stuffed animals all bearing the likeness of Hello Kitty and all her anthropomorphic animal friends. I was in adolescent girl heaven. I stocked up on this stuff like I was preparing for some kind of tween girl survival camping trip--I got a pencil case with Keropi the frog, some notebooks, some folders, and some pens. When I lugged this up to the register, I noticed a little display selling some chunky chapsticks, all decorated with the cute characters and Chinese writing. Well, I needed an authentic, straight-from-China Hello Kitty chapstick. There was no question in my teen-girl mind. I bought one.
The first time I used it, I thought it was a little strange. It was vaguely mint-flavored and didn't feel moisturizing, like other chapsticks. I thought to my self, 'Well, this is just the way chapstick is in China.' I literally thought those words. The other girls in my class loved my new Sanrio supplies and oohed and aahhhed appropriately. Finally, I felt like I fit in just a little.
I was using my Hello Kitty chapstick one day, and one of the girls asked to see it. She smelled it, frowned, and said, "This smells weird. Can I use it?" This was at a time that I was more interested in keeping friends than cleanliness, so I agreed. She put some on. "This is weird!" she said. Another girl also tried it. "This isn't chapstick!" she said, laughing hysterically. "It's GLUE!" My cheeks almost burned off from the embarrassment. Within moments, the entire class I'd been working so hard to win over knew that this pale, Norwegian-sounding Minnesotan had been routinely slicking on glue stick instead of chapstick. Eventually, everyone got over it. And by eventually, I mean by the time we all moved on to different high schools.
I wish I could say that I'd learned something profound by going through this experience. Maybe I have. Maybe it turned me into someone who is more friendly to people in tough circumstances, or makes me go out of my way to be welcoming to newcomers in any situation. But the most important lessons I can identify all these years later are A.) Don't buy a beauty product unless you can read the language on its packaging and B.) Don't share your chapstick. If it does happen to actually be a glue stick, you'll be really, really embarrassed.
xo
Anyway, there were some particularly mean girls I won't name, just in case some day they read this blog and feel guilty...or justified, I guess. I had a few friends, and things definitely got better when I realized that it makes sense to pay a little attention to how I look. Things definitely improved when I started paying attention to trends. One of the most important trends at this school was the accumulation of Sanrio school supplies. Sanrio is the company that makes Hello Kitty things. Hello Kitty and all her chubby little animal friends were extremely popular at my new school in California. The good thing was that I genuinely liked these characters and thought they were cool, so it wasn't exactly selling out. The bad thing is that I was 13, had no money, and had very little idea where to obtain said Sanrio items.
So, fast forward a little bit, and I've got a semi-regular baby-sitting job down the street from my house, and therefore, more money to spend on Sanrio school supplies. My family lived in a really great place in California, just about halfway between the Bay Area and the Monterrey/Carmel/Santa Cruz area. One of the best parts of the whole thing is that people wanted to come visit us, which meant that we basically were forced to explore a lot in order to come up with fun things to do with our guests. One of my favorite things to do was to go to Chinatown in San Francisco. It was this busy, exciting part of a beautiful city, full of little shops and lots of restaurants. There were grocery stores selling whole, sometimes live animals. One time, an eel meant to be sold for food flopped out of a Styrofoam box onto the sidewalk in front of me, which I thought was the coolest thing in the world.
Anyway, one of these shops was a massive, brightly-colored Sanrio store. It was full of school supplies, clothing, makeup, and stuffed animals all bearing the likeness of Hello Kitty and all her anthropomorphic animal friends. I was in adolescent girl heaven. I stocked up on this stuff like I was preparing for some kind of tween girl survival camping trip--I got a pencil case with Keropi the frog, some notebooks, some folders, and some pens. When I lugged this up to the register, I noticed a little display selling some chunky chapsticks, all decorated with the cute characters and Chinese writing. Well, I needed an authentic, straight-from-China Hello Kitty chapstick. There was no question in my teen-girl mind. I bought one.
The first time I used it, I thought it was a little strange. It was vaguely mint-flavored and didn't feel moisturizing, like other chapsticks. I thought to my self, 'Well, this is just the way chapstick is in China.' I literally thought those words. The other girls in my class loved my new Sanrio supplies and oohed and aahhhed appropriately. Finally, I felt like I fit in just a little.
I was using my Hello Kitty chapstick one day, and one of the girls asked to see it. She smelled it, frowned, and said, "This smells weird. Can I use it?" This was at a time that I was more interested in keeping friends than cleanliness, so I agreed. She put some on. "This is weird!" she said. Another girl also tried it. "This isn't chapstick!" she said, laughing hysterically. "It's GLUE!" My cheeks almost burned off from the embarrassment. Within moments, the entire class I'd been working so hard to win over knew that this pale, Norwegian-sounding Minnesotan had been routinely slicking on glue stick instead of chapstick. Eventually, everyone got over it. And by eventually, I mean by the time we all moved on to different high schools.
I wish I could say that I'd learned something profound by going through this experience. Maybe I have. Maybe it turned me into someone who is more friendly to people in tough circumstances, or makes me go out of my way to be welcoming to newcomers in any situation. But the most important lessons I can identify all these years later are A.) Don't buy a beauty product unless you can read the language on its packaging and B.) Don't share your chapstick. If it does happen to actually be a glue stick, you'll be really, really embarrassed.
xo
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The Time I Almost Moved In With Those Hippies
One part of this whole pregnancy experience that has been kind of interesting is the time between 3:45AM and 5AM. I inevitably wake up around this time every morning and have a tough time getting back to sleep. My mind leads me around, sometimes into the future, but mostly, it takes me back to seemingly-random points in my life and really lets me take a good look at them. The thoughts are rarely unpleasant, so they're not stressful or anything like that. They're just thoughts about things I've done in my life, free and clear of any judgment.
This morning, my mind settled in with thoughts of the year before I moved out to Glasgow. It was a weird time--I was in this new-ish relationship with someone I rarely had a chance to spend time with, and was mentally preparing to leave the country, but not for a year. I was working a job at a hospital with weird hours, and had a part-time job as a mental health worker that was quickly becoming like a full-time job. I was living in a little apartment in uptown next to a chronic alcoholic who was both sweet and concerning. It was a kind of stressful time, but I remember also feeling like it was sort of fun to be young and poor and living on my own.
Anyway, I had decided to move out of the apartment and into some kind of other living situation that would allow me to get rid of the majority of my personal possessions so that when the time came for me to make my way across the ocean, I'd be unencumbered. I found an ad on Craigslist for a couple who was looking to rent out one of the bedrooms in their apartment. They lived only blocks away from my old place. The ad said the room would be furnished. It sounded fine. And yes, I understand finding a living arrangement on Craigslist is sketchy. I wouldn't do it now, obviously.
I alerted one of my friends that I was going to look at this place, and told her to call the police if I didn't call back in an hour. When I arrived, I was greeted by what I would now call a 'late 30s hipster couple', but who at the time, I referred to as 'the old hippies'. The woman was wearing some kind of caftan and had disheveled, maroon hair that hadn't seen Pantene or a brush in a long time, and wore manic, red lipstick. The man was equally disheveled with long hair and a longer beard. There was a sweet dog with matted hair who jumped immediately into my lap. The apartment was crammed full of dusty piles of books, mason jars with plants and dirt, and smelled strongly of incense. The part of me raised by my parents felt immediately dubious, but another part of me really liked it. We, the hippies and I, talked for over an hour about politics, community gardens, and people from the suburbs getting mugged in their neighborhood. I ended up going to their neighborhood block party, drinking wine and biking the few blocks home a little tipsy.
The short story is that I was thisclose to moving in with them until my school in Glasgow told me I might be able to enroll a year earlier than I had anticipated (this ultimately fell through). Mary and I ended up moving in together, and it was the best possible way to spend my "last year in America", which turned out not to be my last at all. The hippies ended up keeping my deposit because I bailed on them at the last minute, which sort of irked me at the time, but really, nothing came of it and I never saw them again.
So, this morning, my mind brought me there. I don't know why. Maybe it was saying, "Hey, look again at this odd decision you almost made." Or maybe it was a warning not to lose that open-minded part of myself. Or maybe it was just a random thought my mind was trying to get rid of in order to make space for all the parenting advice I'm about to be given. Who knows?
xo
This morning, my mind settled in with thoughts of the year before I moved out to Glasgow. It was a weird time--I was in this new-ish relationship with someone I rarely had a chance to spend time with, and was mentally preparing to leave the country, but not for a year. I was working a job at a hospital with weird hours, and had a part-time job as a mental health worker that was quickly becoming like a full-time job. I was living in a little apartment in uptown next to a chronic alcoholic who was both sweet and concerning. It was a kind of stressful time, but I remember also feeling like it was sort of fun to be young and poor and living on my own.
Anyway, I had decided to move out of the apartment and into some kind of other living situation that would allow me to get rid of the majority of my personal possessions so that when the time came for me to make my way across the ocean, I'd be unencumbered. I found an ad on Craigslist for a couple who was looking to rent out one of the bedrooms in their apartment. They lived only blocks away from my old place. The ad said the room would be furnished. It sounded fine. And yes, I understand finding a living arrangement on Craigslist is sketchy. I wouldn't do it now, obviously.
I alerted one of my friends that I was going to look at this place, and told her to call the police if I didn't call back in an hour. When I arrived, I was greeted by what I would now call a 'late 30s hipster couple', but who at the time, I referred to as 'the old hippies'. The woman was wearing some kind of caftan and had disheveled, maroon hair that hadn't seen Pantene or a brush in a long time, and wore manic, red lipstick. The man was equally disheveled with long hair and a longer beard. There was a sweet dog with matted hair who jumped immediately into my lap. The apartment was crammed full of dusty piles of books, mason jars with plants and dirt, and smelled strongly of incense. The part of me raised by my parents felt immediately dubious, but another part of me really liked it. We, the hippies and I, talked for over an hour about politics, community gardens, and people from the suburbs getting mugged in their neighborhood. I ended up going to their neighborhood block party, drinking wine and biking the few blocks home a little tipsy.
The short story is that I was thisclose to moving in with them until my school in Glasgow told me I might be able to enroll a year earlier than I had anticipated (this ultimately fell through). Mary and I ended up moving in together, and it was the best possible way to spend my "last year in America", which turned out not to be my last at all. The hippies ended up keeping my deposit because I bailed on them at the last minute, which sort of irked me at the time, but really, nothing came of it and I never saw them again.
So, this morning, my mind brought me there. I don't know why. Maybe it was saying, "Hey, look again at this odd decision you almost made." Or maybe it was a warning not to lose that open-minded part of myself. Or maybe it was just a random thought my mind was trying to get rid of in order to make space for all the parenting advice I'm about to be given. Who knows?
xo
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