I hope I’m not the only woman who struggles with her weight…constantly. Women really get the shit end of the stick. We already have to be pretty, proper, wear make-up and such. We’re supposed to be maternal, sweet and polite on top of it. Society has also cast a shadow upon us in the form of “The Skinny Girl.” If we don’t fit in the shadows, we don’t fit in period.
When I’m active, I’m healthy, and it shows, but a little laziness, a little extra food, and any amount of alcohol goes a LONG way for this girl’s body. I had baby fat for as long as I could remember. I was the resident chubby girl, wait…I am the resident chubby girl. Most days I like my curves, but every so often I get to feeling down and out about it all and I want it all to go away. This is a constant thing for me, and for most women. And it's a LOT easier to put on, than to take off.
In grade school I was adorably chunky with my red hair, and overlapping front teeth. They pushed me into braces, got me some acne medicine and a training bra and my body started to take shape. I played basketball and enjoyed being active. There’s something gratifying about working your body so hard you feel like you might pass out. When I hit 8th grade, the baby fat shifted into curves and I started looking feminine. With little outfits and everything, I quickly learned that my fashion sense and my body didn’t quite agree. At 13, my first pair of jeans was the size of a thicker adult, and had to be hemmed because I’m so darn short.
In high school I joined the tennis team and dropped at least 15 pounds unbeknownst to me. I was oblivious to that kind of stuff back in the day. Any excuse for new clothes and I was happy! I was a brace-faced, friendly super-dork. I was a social butterfly and was; well I still am, always talking. Now let’s make something clear: I’m an eater. I can pack away food like nobody’s business. I was raised under the rule that one was to finish their dinner before leaving the table. I was also raised to eat whatever was in front of me, even if it wasn’t my favorite, without complaint. I never had sweets around the house so any kind of junk food was a serious treat, so I ate it…compulsively. As if I may never again have it! I’m sure I do/have/did overeat. I think that’s one of the hardest things in this world: portion control.
During high school, I kind of fell into having a “figure,” and all of the sudden I wasn’t just ordinary. I did the homecoming and football dates thing, and the totally had the crushes but I stayed within the “friends’ zone.” That is, until I moved to south Florida. Going from a Catholic School to public school was something else. I could wear my cute outfits. I had matching accessories and everything. It was in public school that boys actually found me…and that’s when this whole, body type thing really became an obsession.
I lived with my mom, who freaks out if she's not a size 2 and, who doesn’t know how to cook. She could barely restock a kitchen. She mostly fed me by taking me out to eat or purchasing fast food, if not she gave me money to do both myself. I rode my bike to school all the time, staying active enough but I started to realize that certain body types attracted certain types of boys. I scored the drama geeks, and sweet, goofy nerds with no problem, but the surfer boys and jocks weren’t so into me. Sure, personalities clashed and guys can be fickle but I attracted the guys that weren’t obvious heartthrobs and fell fast for anyone who called me “pretty,” “attractive,” “beautiful,” or “hot.” This is what messes us girls up, the desire to fit into those labels.
After family drama ensued and I was literally dragged across the country to live with my dad, he actually fed me well, so I got chunky right away. I never thought about what to have, what not to have, how much I was eating or not eating. I just ate whatever I wanted. I packed on some weight here and there but when I had my appendectomy, I gained ten pounds in two weeks when I was stuck on the couch, in bed, and sucking down otter pops and three square meals prepared by my dad. He got me a membership to the YMCA, I discovered hiking and things weren’t so bad. I found a classic, cute, jock kind of guy and fell hard enough for him to break my heart. I heard once that he called me fat in front of my friend’s brother, so I started working out more and became a vegetarian. I also barely ate when I was around him. Eventually, I was cute enough for him to ask me to prom, even though he dumped me the week before for a tall, curvy, basketball player with big boobs.
Post high school, I was slightly more aware. I loved working out. It was just part of my schedule to go to step class and weights class and such. Then I found punk rock boys. One in particular had me looped. It was love at first sight. He'd been known to have called me fat a few times. After our first encounter, where he was so obviously not interested, I lost some pounds, put on a cute band shirt, of a band I knew he’d like, and put black streaks in my hair, wore full make-up with too much eyeliner and he paid attention to me all day.
Later I ended up dating two of his roommates even though he always had my eye. He constantly made me insecure. It wasn’t really his fault, but I was just so enamored of him, I never thought I could be good enough so it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I yo-yoed from a size 4-8 constantly, with all different shapes and comfort levels. I got new piercings and new hair styles, constantly reinvented my wardrobe and was a total freak about eating around him. It was either too much, or not enough. Needless to say, he didn’t stay around my strange behavior in the end.
My husband is pretty much the only man who doesn’t impose body image issues on me, well, he and my dad. That kind of stuff never registers to my dad. I remember asking him about my weight and he said he never wanted me to feel like he judged me unless I reached unhealthy levels, which, thankfully I did not. My husband is a chef, and he likes being health concious but he also likes being a foodie with me. When we do it, we do it RIGHT! We are amazing eaters, but we've had to learn to curb our appetites and expectations. It's been a long road.
When I studied in London I vowed that I wouldn’t drink, but that didn’t even last a day! Between the potatoes, the amazing Indian cuisine, the cider, wine, and amazing lunches my internship provided, I put on a good 15 pounds just living the good life in Europe. No amount of walking could counterbalance it. When I came home during the holidays it just got worse…I had work to do.
After watching too many seasons of Celebrity Fit Club I caved and bought Dr. Ian Smith’s book about weight loss. I even had the then-boyfriend, now husband’s promise to help me out. We were allowed to have 1-2 splurges per week and he even joined the gym with me. The first week he lost 9lbs and I lost 1.5lbs. We stopped weighing in together after that. So unfair!
I messed around with that diet for three months and lost 5lbs. Then I just didn’t care again and stayed steadily swollen as a chunk of a twenty-something. It was the booze. I loved me some alcohol. And like all young things, I liked the sweet stuff. Cosmopolitans, Disco Lemonades, anything fruity and preferably with vodka, were the ones that kept that tummy protruding from my pants and shirts.
Finally, after I stayed pleasantly plump for a year, drowning my sorrows in margaritas, dinners, desserts, big breakfasts, and snacks, and after watching one of my favorite people lose 40lbs on Weight Watchers, I caved and did the cool thing. I lost 10lbs pretty quick and started fitting into things I hadn’t in a very long time. I liked being healthy. I started carefully constructing my workout schedules and was even allowed to have “cheat” days. I got the man on the plan too and we did pretty well. Then I found spin class, and boy did it change my life for the better. I know it was a crazy kind of fad of a thing but I loved it. It's such an amazing workout.
By the time my man proposed, I was about 12lbs down and rocking it strong. Nothing makes a woman snap to it like an upcoming wedding. I lost another 10lbs and had an amazing friend and fitness fiend whip me into shape. I felt good, I looked good, and I made good choices. It was a great accomplishment, but much like my younger days, I stopped paying attention and here I am: ten pounds (give or take the attack of the holidays) heavier.
Nowadays I’m not so obsessed with how I look, I mean I’m married, so I have no one to impress. Kidding! What has been weighing on me lately, pun intended, is the thought of what the future holds. I’m not classified as obese, although my Wii Fit definitely guilt trips me enough, but I need to get back in shape. If not for vanity reasons and health, for one big reason: babies. NO, I AM NOT HAVING A BABY RIGHT NOW, whew! Take it down a notch people…
But it’s that time. It’s prime baby time. Losing the extra baggage will help us both when the time is really right. Other reasons: I was supposed to do a 5k on Thanksgiving to earn my turkey and people bitched out, now I’ve been challenged to another at the beginning of March and I desperately want to do this. I want to accomplish things! I want to fit into favorite clothes again. I want to feel awesome instead of just okay, and I want to be productive. So even though the holidays kicked my ass and sometimes working out is the last thing I want to do at the end of the day, I ask myself, is it worth the weight?
Is the stress worth the second or the third glass of wine? Was the day worthy of an entire BOX of Raisinettes? Do I really need to eat the whole bag of chips just to get it out of the house? Should I stop when I’m kind of full, or so full it hurts? What’s it all worth? And is the weight worth the wait? The wait for baby, health, LIFE, too much food, or the wait for sanity, is it all worth the extra pounds?
After all those years of physical and mental turmoil, maybe the comfort food is just a means to an end. Yes, all girls, big and small, are beautiful. Yes, all girls have their hang ups. Skinny girls worry about being underweight, and bony, voluptuous girls worry about being seen as fat and stress about what they eat in public, and medium girls just worry about it all, but is all that worry, worth the weight?
It’s important to find your comfort zone and mine isn’t too far down the scale. Own your curves, own your body and whatever you put into it. Ladies, we have everything going against us, but we are powerful beings so at the end of the day, big, small, short and tall, just make sure you believe and accept the weight of your decisions…in all aspects.
As for me, this curvy redhead has a lot of work to do. I gotta earn me some wine and some new clothes! Here I come 2012, and you’ll see me a’ ‘runnin’ full speed ahead. I expect this to be a great year that's been worth the wait during 2011 so I'm going to make it happen! Weight not, want not, eh?
Monday, December 26, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Domestically Challenged
So I’ve been missing from the internet world for two months, where I have been, you ask? Well, we moved and I’ve been trying my hand at the whole domestic, wifely thing. I’m not so sure I’ve got it down, but then again I’m not so sure I’m a complete failure either.
With the husband working towards becoming the next big Chef in Tampa, I took it upon myself to step up and be a super-wife. I packed up almost the entire old apartment and unpacked nearly the entire new apartment without the help of a man. I did it in less than a month’s time. I hammered, I scrubbed, I sewed, and I laundered. I worked my part time job and took care of our toddler-esque, Pug, Brodie. I think I did pretty well. Even the husband himself, thought I did him proud.
I’ll admit I’m in a work out slump. I’ll admit it’s been a rocky road this fall but we have prevailed, and it’s only just begun. I’ve become pretty crafty with the inspiration of a new “canvas,” also known as our grand, new apartment. I made a tablecloth, a coffee table cover, another cover for a toy chest to match and have arranged it all quite nicely.
The deadline was Thanksgiving. We’d invited over some friends with no other plans just to come hang out. The man loves to cook for others and I am always the hostess. We finished the odds and ends of the apartment that very day and pulled together a dinner for 10 guests, which seemed to be a success. We were beyond exhausted on Thanksgiving night and had to peel ourselves out of bed the next morning.
My next foray into the whole domesticity thing was making a Christmas stocking for the puppy, and making some boring, 8$ stocking holders look cool. I puffy-painted them into adorableness and was feeling pretty strong. I had one more, crazy wife thing for the weekend and then I think I would have fulfilled my requirement for at least a handful of years. Two words: Pampered Chef.
Now let me explain something about myself: I’m not a very “girly” girl in many aspects. Aside from my innate ability to match outfits and my Girl-Scout fed ability to hand sew holes and simplicities; I’m not much of a homemaker. I’m the last person you want in a kitchen, unless I’m hyper-organizing and cleaning. I don’t really cook, that’s why I married a chef. I can barely use a knife, let alone do much else than peel, open and reseal.
When a co-worker’s wife asked me to host a Pampered Chef event I thought, “host,” what I do best, but the whole purchasing of kitchen items is completely foreign to me. I’m pretty sure my husband would prefer for me never to purchase kitchen items. He likes to pick those out himself. But, I thought, “Okay, I’m growing up, time to do the normal wife stuff, bring it.”
It went pretty well, and we made her some money but half the things people bought, I didn’t even know the purpose of, let alone how to use them. I’d asked the man but he said, no kitchen things were necessary. I walked away with two cooling racks for cookie-making and such and called it a night. It was definitely an experience. Having people over to let someone else in the kitchen demonstrating the many ways to create culinary masterpieces as I stayed out of the way downing wine wasn’t too far off from my nights at home with my husband in the kitchen. My job has always been to stay out of the way.
Perhaps I’m just domestically challenged, or perhaps I just don’t care, but certain areas of wifehood are beyond me. My house will always be cleaned and organized, but please don’t ask me to make a casserole. I didn’t even learn how to successfully make coffee until I was 20, but I learned how to use a debit card by 17.
It’s true I’ve inherited some scary qualities from my domestically challenged mother, who didn’t even know we had two ovens in the house until 10 years, later and considered making the salad a worthy contribution to the meal, but as my husband always says, “You CAN cook, you just don’t.” I plead the fifth.
I’m still figuring things out. It’s tough to be a domestic goddess, especially when you have to live up to all the other womanly expectations, like dressing well, not looking like a homeless person when you leave the house, and being maternal. For me it’s one step at a time, and if puffy paint, bedazzling, and sewing some patches can be my stepping stones to full on domesticity, it’s just one small step for womankind, and a huge step for me and my freakishly small feet!
With the husband working towards becoming the next big Chef in Tampa, I took it upon myself to step up and be a super-wife. I packed up almost the entire old apartment and unpacked nearly the entire new apartment without the help of a man. I did it in less than a month’s time. I hammered, I scrubbed, I sewed, and I laundered. I worked my part time job and took care of our toddler-esque, Pug, Brodie. I think I did pretty well. Even the husband himself, thought I did him proud.
I’ll admit I’m in a work out slump. I’ll admit it’s been a rocky road this fall but we have prevailed, and it’s only just begun. I’ve become pretty crafty with the inspiration of a new “canvas,” also known as our grand, new apartment. I made a tablecloth, a coffee table cover, another cover for a toy chest to match and have arranged it all quite nicely.
The deadline was Thanksgiving. We’d invited over some friends with no other plans just to come hang out. The man loves to cook for others and I am always the hostess. We finished the odds and ends of the apartment that very day and pulled together a dinner for 10 guests, which seemed to be a success. We were beyond exhausted on Thanksgiving night and had to peel ourselves out of bed the next morning.
My next foray into the whole domesticity thing was making a Christmas stocking for the puppy, and making some boring, 8$ stocking holders look cool. I puffy-painted them into adorableness and was feeling pretty strong. I had one more, crazy wife thing for the weekend and then I think I would have fulfilled my requirement for at least a handful of years. Two words: Pampered Chef.
Now let me explain something about myself: I’m not a very “girly” girl in many aspects. Aside from my innate ability to match outfits and my Girl-Scout fed ability to hand sew holes and simplicities; I’m not much of a homemaker. I’m the last person you want in a kitchen, unless I’m hyper-organizing and cleaning. I don’t really cook, that’s why I married a chef. I can barely use a knife, let alone do much else than peel, open and reseal.
When a co-worker’s wife asked me to host a Pampered Chef event I thought, “host,” what I do best, but the whole purchasing of kitchen items is completely foreign to me. I’m pretty sure my husband would prefer for me never to purchase kitchen items. He likes to pick those out himself. But, I thought, “Okay, I’m growing up, time to do the normal wife stuff, bring it.”
It went pretty well, and we made her some money but half the things people bought, I didn’t even know the purpose of, let alone how to use them. I’d asked the man but he said, no kitchen things were necessary. I walked away with two cooling racks for cookie-making and such and called it a night. It was definitely an experience. Having people over to let someone else in the kitchen demonstrating the many ways to create culinary masterpieces as I stayed out of the way downing wine wasn’t too far off from my nights at home with my husband in the kitchen. My job has always been to stay out of the way.
Perhaps I’m just domestically challenged, or perhaps I just don’t care, but certain areas of wifehood are beyond me. My house will always be cleaned and organized, but please don’t ask me to make a casserole. I didn’t even learn how to successfully make coffee until I was 20, but I learned how to use a debit card by 17.
It’s true I’ve inherited some scary qualities from my domestically challenged mother, who didn’t even know we had two ovens in the house until 10 years, later and considered making the salad a worthy contribution to the meal, but as my husband always says, “You CAN cook, you just don’t.” I plead the fifth.
I’m still figuring things out. It’s tough to be a domestic goddess, especially when you have to live up to all the other womanly expectations, like dressing well, not looking like a homeless person when you leave the house, and being maternal. For me it’s one step at a time, and if puffy paint, bedazzling, and sewing some patches can be my stepping stones to full on domesticity, it’s just one small step for womankind, and a huge step for me and my freakishly small feet!
"Chriss-Mas" Time
“Your excitement for the holidays is creeping me out a little bit,” says my husband the day after Thanksgiving, as I order a Starbucks Christmas Blend and ask which radio station is playing Christmas music for the rest of the year. I looked at him with crazy, childlike Christmas, eyes and whine, “But it’s Christmas, and this year we’re staying home!”
Don’t get me wrong, I love me some big family Christmas celebrations. For the last two years we’ve been lucky enough to fly up north, see snow and our relatives and nestle up by the fire, exchange gifts, laugh, eat too much food, drink too many festive cocktails, and even paint cookies. But this year, we are having our first, married “Chriss-Mas,” at home!
My bestie and her beau are “Grinch's.” They hate Christmas, and that’s okay but for some reason this year I’m on some strange Clark Griswold, circa “Christmas Vacation,” “You-MUST-be-cheery,” tangent. I’m making the puppy a stocking, and even making and filling stockings for the “Grinches” too. I’m trying not to go spend $50 on Christmas movies because I’m sure they’ll all be on TV and Netflix soon enough, and I’m fighting every urge in my body to just keep “Elf” on repeat, 24-7.
Perhaps I caught the Christmas spirit bug, or perhaps I’m just excited to be with the people I love, but we are planning a truly, awesome Chriss-mas. My dad was coming to visit and we were going to get a tree, I’ve been crafting things left and right. I was determined to make this year perfect.
The image was already imprinted in my mind, along with ideas for other projects: Christmas morning with coffee, a grand breakfast with mimosas, lazy in our pajamas opening presents, watching “A Christmas Story” and “Elf,” all day, later having a big dinner with the bestie and her man complete with ham, pie, carbs and everything. It just has to happen this way.
Christmas is one of those holidays that come with mixed memories and drama, but even without my dad staying through the holiday, we’ve managed to keep it pretty relaxed so far. We got the biggest tree we’ve ever had and decorated it while watching, “Christmas Vacation,” and laughing. It was the first time I’d decorated a tree with my dad in over 5 years. Those are the moments that make me want to have an epic Christmas. We made cookies and my cousins bought us Christmassy flowers, someone even bought me a poinsettia, even though I truly hate those things it certainly makes the house have a holiday feel.
I majorly cut back on Christmas shopping this year. I had some strange crisis of conscience where all of the sudden I was guilt ridden for not being able to afford gifts for everyone and their brother, sister and mailman. I had to stop myself: this is exactly how the Grinch came to be. Christmas shouldn’t make you feel bad. It’s harder and harder to get in the spirit each year. Sure when you’re around kids it’s contagious, but why feel bad when you should be concentrating on what it’s all about: the togetherness, tradition and family, not just presents, or lack thereof.
My best friend has three amazing girls all under age 10. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, she’s managed to instill the idea that Santa only brings one gift. Family shares plenty of gifts but Santa only brings one. As you can see, my best friend is a genius. This makes Christmas even more special. I want that feeling; of asking for something that really means something, instead of more crap to call your own, and hoard.
My husband kept asking if I could have anything, what would it do, and I got depressed because all I could come up with was appliances but really, all I wanted is exactly what I was getting: a genuine, “Chriss-mas:” Me, the man and the pup, a tree, food, Christmas movies, a few gifts and bliss. Because as much as we miss everyone we are far away from, it’s really about this little family, and it’s about time we had our first “Married” Christmas!
Don’t get me wrong, I love me some big family Christmas celebrations. For the last two years we’ve been lucky enough to fly up north, see snow and our relatives and nestle up by the fire, exchange gifts, laugh, eat too much food, drink too many festive cocktails, and even paint cookies. But this year, we are having our first, married “Chriss-Mas,” at home!
My bestie and her beau are “Grinch's.” They hate Christmas, and that’s okay but for some reason this year I’m on some strange Clark Griswold, circa “Christmas Vacation,” “You-MUST-be-cheery,” tangent. I’m making the puppy a stocking, and even making and filling stockings for the “Grinches” too. I’m trying not to go spend $50 on Christmas movies because I’m sure they’ll all be on TV and Netflix soon enough, and I’m fighting every urge in my body to just keep “Elf” on repeat, 24-7.
Perhaps I caught the Christmas spirit bug, or perhaps I’m just excited to be with the people I love, but we are planning a truly, awesome Chriss-mas. My dad was coming to visit and we were going to get a tree, I’ve been crafting things left and right. I was determined to make this year perfect.
The image was already imprinted in my mind, along with ideas for other projects: Christmas morning with coffee, a grand breakfast with mimosas, lazy in our pajamas opening presents, watching “A Christmas Story” and “Elf,” all day, later having a big dinner with the bestie and her man complete with ham, pie, carbs and everything. It just has to happen this way.
Christmas is one of those holidays that come with mixed memories and drama, but even without my dad staying through the holiday, we’ve managed to keep it pretty relaxed so far. We got the biggest tree we’ve ever had and decorated it while watching, “Christmas Vacation,” and laughing. It was the first time I’d decorated a tree with my dad in over 5 years. Those are the moments that make me want to have an epic Christmas. We made cookies and my cousins bought us Christmassy flowers, someone even bought me a poinsettia, even though I truly hate those things it certainly makes the house have a holiday feel.
I majorly cut back on Christmas shopping this year. I had some strange crisis of conscience where all of the sudden I was guilt ridden for not being able to afford gifts for everyone and their brother, sister and mailman. I had to stop myself: this is exactly how the Grinch came to be. Christmas shouldn’t make you feel bad. It’s harder and harder to get in the spirit each year. Sure when you’re around kids it’s contagious, but why feel bad when you should be concentrating on what it’s all about: the togetherness, tradition and family, not just presents, or lack thereof.
My best friend has three amazing girls all under age 10. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, she’s managed to instill the idea that Santa only brings one gift. Family shares plenty of gifts but Santa only brings one. As you can see, my best friend is a genius. This makes Christmas even more special. I want that feeling; of asking for something that really means something, instead of more crap to call your own, and hoard.
My husband kept asking if I could have anything, what would it do, and I got depressed because all I could come up with was appliances but really, all I wanted is exactly what I was getting: a genuine, “Chriss-mas:” Me, the man and the pup, a tree, food, Christmas movies, a few gifts and bliss. Because as much as we miss everyone we are far away from, it’s really about this little family, and it’s about time we had our first “Married” Christmas!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Babies on the Brain
I guess I’ve just entered that stage of life, or I’ve hit that definitive age where everyone I know seems to be getting married, having babies, buying houses and in all senses of the phrase “growing up.” Now I’ve written about how I fear that I have missed the boat in some senses. Although mentally I grew up before most, merely out of circumstance, I seem to be regressing from, or at least straddling the lines of grown up-ness.
I have no current desire to own a house. I like apartments. Freedom! Being able to pick up and go or to start something new and exciting are things that I value. I could barely commit to a dog! But now that I have a dog, he’s our whole little world. Imagine how crazy our child would be.
Now, as Destiny’s Child serenaded us in the nineties with, “Bills, Bills, Bills,” it still rings true. We still have credit card debt, we need to save for a new car and we need to be able to afford medical insurance (don’t act surprised!), BC, “Before Child.” I desperately want a new T.V. and computer, and we still haven’t had an actual vacation together. Who needs a mortgage and rugrats running around on top of it all?
I have those hormonal times where I’m desperate to reproduce and I need a baby fix, but then I think about how much I look forward to girls night and trips to visit family, and I’m snapped back into reality. It’s some unspoken law that as soon as you get married you are instantly expected to make a family, if you haven’t already begun one. I feel the question looming every time we hang out with in-laws and sisters and such: “When are you going to have a baby?”
Some of the women I admire most are mothers and friends and family alike all tell me there is no true way to “plan” baby time and you’ll never actually be ready. But lately, it’s not the “money” or the “ready.” It’s the sheer fear and lack of mothering self esteem that stops me in my fantastical tracks every time I think I want to board the baby train.
I can’t say I didn’t have a mom around; she was around but she wasn’t exactly much of a mom for most of my life. Granted, the years she was around I wasn’t very in tune with the world, I was under age 10 for most of her mothering years. My mother uses this idea as an excuse to get angry and claim that I’m accusing her of being a terrible mother but the truth is most of my early childhood memories are either pixilated amalgams of pictures and stories, or jumbled physical things associated with the latter. The one thing I remember is my mother telling me that during one of her momentary lapses in parental judgment she kicked me out of the car for kindergarten and said, “I’m so done! I don’t want to be a mother anymore!” I walked into class, promptly and matter-of-factly announced to my teacher, “My mom doesn’t want to be a mom anymore.” My teacher looked back at me with concern and horror, claiming that she’s sure my mother didn’t really mean it, and that I must have misunderstood. Later, my mother received a phone call from the school making sure she’d actually be there to pick me up that afternoon. That story has become legend. I was 5! What would you expect?
Granted, most people don’t have ideal, amazing mothers but I think those of us who get raised by the real nut-jobs or lose a parent during our early stages of life, really have no idea what a mother is supposed to be. There are so many stereotypes with it all. In essence, my dad ended up being way more of a mom. He did my laundry, hemmed my clothes, sewed patches onto wholes, fed me meals with all of the food groups, forced me to drink my water and my milk, and probably made more trips to the store for tampons than my mother ever did. She took me shopping, kept me current with fashion, and helped keep me loud, grouchy and quick on my toes with the insults and jabs that only a real mother can teach you.
My best friend lost her mother when we were in high school and she may be the greatest mother I’ve ever met. She has three little girls who all adore her. She’s kept true to herself in every sense and has raised an amazing family. So against all the stereotypes, I know that her loss hasn’t converted her into a tequila-drinking mom, who watches television all day, ignoring the screaming children, perhaps throwing them a Pringle or Swedish Fish every 20 minutes or so, while simultaneously chain-smoking Marlboro reds, which leaves me hopeful. But then again, what if I become that mother?
Most days I feel I’d shame the word “Mom.” That’s what I’m afraid of. All women strive to never end up like their mothers but I just don’t want to be one of those moms they put on Jerry Springer specials or that end up on Hoarders and Intervention. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable goal.
I was a nanny for most of my life and I love being around kids. Kids are the best friends you’ll ever find and the only little people who will tell you the unyielding truth, love you for what you are, see through any bullshit you may be bearing, and call you ridiculous names all while making you fall in love with them. Two of my best friends in this life are 9 and 17. Kids just keep it real.
I know my husband will be a great father. I have no doubt whatsoever. Even though he makes fun of the fact that I will be completely psychotic when I’m pregnant, and claims I can barely deal with the dog, I know he has faith in me, and in us. For some reason though, at the end of the day, I’m still scared shitless.
I know we made the conscious choice to move across the country from the majority of our family members, but the idea of having a baby makes me feel even farther away. Granted, people would visit, but we’d have no extra support system like most “settled” people do. Then again, we don’t really have parents who can take the kids for days at a time, or who could stay up all night and help us. I’ve got some amazing friends and sisters who could help here and there, but I would end up with just Eben and baby Chriss. Although the thought of just us three is somewhat frightening, it’s really everything I’ve ever wanted anyway, so comforting in the end.
I’m so used to depending on only a small handful of people. It’s almost liberating to think that when it’s time for an addition to the family, it will be our own creation and our own endeavor. It’s a mixed bag, really. I long for having some people physically closer, and I get bummed out and jealous when I see all these friends and family members with their aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, moms and dads as integral parts of their babies lives, but then again, I’ve never really had that kind of situation as something lasting in my life, so why should I miss something that’s never really been there?
We are lucky enough in this world to have found a grouping of friends and family that truly love being a part of our lives, and I know when the time comes, they’ll step up and make sure I’m not a mommy disaster. But, for now it feels like we’re worlds away from babyhood.
We’ve talked about it, and we talk about it all the time. I feel there’s no rush. Even though “my biological clock is ticking,” there’s always time. I’ve stayed pretty healthy to make sure things are easier when the time comes. I’ve read the literature and statistics. The bottom line is, no matter how afraid I am, or how I feel about my own mom, if I do my best, perhaps I’ll raise a kid who can do the same and surpass all other expectations.
Babies may be on the brain but I’m pretty far away from catching the baby train. Just like everything else in this life, I’ll come into it on my own terms. As crazy as I am and scared as I can be, we tend to get through it all and make it work; we always do. Introducing a ginger baby into the world and raising baby Chriss will just be another chapter in the journey!
I have no current desire to own a house. I like apartments. Freedom! Being able to pick up and go or to start something new and exciting are things that I value. I could barely commit to a dog! But now that I have a dog, he’s our whole little world. Imagine how crazy our child would be.
Now, as Destiny’s Child serenaded us in the nineties with, “Bills, Bills, Bills,” it still rings true. We still have credit card debt, we need to save for a new car and we need to be able to afford medical insurance (don’t act surprised!), BC, “Before Child.” I desperately want a new T.V. and computer, and we still haven’t had an actual vacation together. Who needs a mortgage and rugrats running around on top of it all?
I have those hormonal times where I’m desperate to reproduce and I need a baby fix, but then I think about how much I look forward to girls night and trips to visit family, and I’m snapped back into reality. It’s some unspoken law that as soon as you get married you are instantly expected to make a family, if you haven’t already begun one. I feel the question looming every time we hang out with in-laws and sisters and such: “When are you going to have a baby?”
Some of the women I admire most are mothers and friends and family alike all tell me there is no true way to “plan” baby time and you’ll never actually be ready. But lately, it’s not the “money” or the “ready.” It’s the sheer fear and lack of mothering self esteem that stops me in my fantastical tracks every time I think I want to board the baby train.
I can’t say I didn’t have a mom around; she was around but she wasn’t exactly much of a mom for most of my life. Granted, the years she was around I wasn’t very in tune with the world, I was under age 10 for most of her mothering years. My mother uses this idea as an excuse to get angry and claim that I’m accusing her of being a terrible mother but the truth is most of my early childhood memories are either pixilated amalgams of pictures and stories, or jumbled physical things associated with the latter. The one thing I remember is my mother telling me that during one of her momentary lapses in parental judgment she kicked me out of the car for kindergarten and said, “I’m so done! I don’t want to be a mother anymore!” I walked into class, promptly and matter-of-factly announced to my teacher, “My mom doesn’t want to be a mom anymore.” My teacher looked back at me with concern and horror, claiming that she’s sure my mother didn’t really mean it, and that I must have misunderstood. Later, my mother received a phone call from the school making sure she’d actually be there to pick me up that afternoon. That story has become legend. I was 5! What would you expect?
Granted, most people don’t have ideal, amazing mothers but I think those of us who get raised by the real nut-jobs or lose a parent during our early stages of life, really have no idea what a mother is supposed to be. There are so many stereotypes with it all. In essence, my dad ended up being way more of a mom. He did my laundry, hemmed my clothes, sewed patches onto wholes, fed me meals with all of the food groups, forced me to drink my water and my milk, and probably made more trips to the store for tampons than my mother ever did. She took me shopping, kept me current with fashion, and helped keep me loud, grouchy and quick on my toes with the insults and jabs that only a real mother can teach you.
My best friend lost her mother when we were in high school and she may be the greatest mother I’ve ever met. She has three little girls who all adore her. She’s kept true to herself in every sense and has raised an amazing family. So against all the stereotypes, I know that her loss hasn’t converted her into a tequila-drinking mom, who watches television all day, ignoring the screaming children, perhaps throwing them a Pringle or Swedish Fish every 20 minutes or so, while simultaneously chain-smoking Marlboro reds, which leaves me hopeful. But then again, what if I become that mother?
Most days I feel I’d shame the word “Mom.” That’s what I’m afraid of. All women strive to never end up like their mothers but I just don’t want to be one of those moms they put on Jerry Springer specials or that end up on Hoarders and Intervention. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable goal.
I was a nanny for most of my life and I love being around kids. Kids are the best friends you’ll ever find and the only little people who will tell you the unyielding truth, love you for what you are, see through any bullshit you may be bearing, and call you ridiculous names all while making you fall in love with them. Two of my best friends in this life are 9 and 17. Kids just keep it real.
I know my husband will be a great father. I have no doubt whatsoever. Even though he makes fun of the fact that I will be completely psychotic when I’m pregnant, and claims I can barely deal with the dog, I know he has faith in me, and in us. For some reason though, at the end of the day, I’m still scared shitless.
I know we made the conscious choice to move across the country from the majority of our family members, but the idea of having a baby makes me feel even farther away. Granted, people would visit, but we’d have no extra support system like most “settled” people do. Then again, we don’t really have parents who can take the kids for days at a time, or who could stay up all night and help us. I’ve got some amazing friends and sisters who could help here and there, but I would end up with just Eben and baby Chriss. Although the thought of just us three is somewhat frightening, it’s really everything I’ve ever wanted anyway, so comforting in the end.
I’m so used to depending on only a small handful of people. It’s almost liberating to think that when it’s time for an addition to the family, it will be our own creation and our own endeavor. It’s a mixed bag, really. I long for having some people physically closer, and I get bummed out and jealous when I see all these friends and family members with their aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, moms and dads as integral parts of their babies lives, but then again, I’ve never really had that kind of situation as something lasting in my life, so why should I miss something that’s never really been there?
We are lucky enough in this world to have found a grouping of friends and family that truly love being a part of our lives, and I know when the time comes, they’ll step up and make sure I’m not a mommy disaster. But, for now it feels like we’re worlds away from babyhood.
We’ve talked about it, and we talk about it all the time. I feel there’s no rush. Even though “my biological clock is ticking,” there’s always time. I’ve stayed pretty healthy to make sure things are easier when the time comes. I’ve read the literature and statistics. The bottom line is, no matter how afraid I am, or how I feel about my own mom, if I do my best, perhaps I’ll raise a kid who can do the same and surpass all other expectations.
Babies may be on the brain but I’m pretty far away from catching the baby train. Just like everything else in this life, I’ll come into it on my own terms. As crazy as I am and scared as I can be, we tend to get through it all and make it work; we always do. Introducing a ginger baby into the world and raising baby Chriss will just be another chapter in the journey!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
She Drives Me Crazy
I remember when my dad bought her. I was 16. He described her as having the same features as this new thing called a Prius, but it was more affordable and wasn’t a hybrid car. Of course he made sure she was complete with a CD player and no power windows, in case they could cause you to be trapped inside. She was forest green, which I immediately hated because they had an awesome light teal colored one I thought was way cuter.
She’s the car I learned to drive on. It was in a tiny bank parking lot in our tiny home town which seems like a whole different life ago, lately. She was a 2000 Toyota Echo, which I pronounced “Etch-O,” because I thought I was being cute and quippy. When my parents split up, the Echo accompanied my dad to Oregon. I drove my mom’s Honda or Mazda or whatever. Basic four door sedan thing, easy to drive and fairly ordinary looking. I took my driver’s test much later in a Honda CR-V, but when my dad rescued me from my mother in Florida, “Enid” the Echo as she would later be named, came down from Oregon to scoop me up.
I can’t pretend I was excited to see either one of them, Enid or my dad that is, but they were there, just like they always have been. The Echo towed a trailer with all my furniture in it, 2,500 miles up the mountains to Eugene, Oregon in 5 of the longest and most miserable days ever. Before we even got 4 hours out she took away our air conditioning capabilities because she’d overheat from towing our emotional baggage and the massive trailer. No one could believe we fit an entire bedroom set and all my other crap in just an Echo and a trailer. But we were rock stars.
As soon as we got home to Oregon, my dad and I shared the Echo. Finally he bought a truck to better suit his needs for life in the woods and Enid became my own. I had the newest car of my friends in High School. She was cute. I eventually started adorning her in stickers. If you look at my Echo and then others, you start to see how they actually just look ridiculous without being covered in bumper stickers. I had punk rock bands, offensive political statements about Bush and random other band’s names, plastered all over her. She’s very eclectic.
Her name came to me shortly after meeting some friends that had a band. All of their cars had names, like “The Faded Patch,” and such. During a phase where I was obsessed with the Barenaked Ladies, I heard this song “Enid.” And I thought…”Hmm, Enid the Etch-O. Has quite the ring to it.” And so she has become the greatest car there ever was!
Currently Enid has over 230,000 miles on her. She has been across the country 3 times. She’s been up and down the Oregon Coast, seen Washington, Idaho, and even driven down Lombard Street in San Francisco. She got to ride on a trailer when we moved to Tampa two years ago, because she’s such precious cargo but she’s a BAMF with no doubt.
My father trained me to be meticulous about taking care of her. More than most chicks would ever. So I am: Oil changes regularly, tires, general maintenance and always treating her well. This is a car that has been there for me for a decade. She’s been with me longer than I’ve known my husband!
An ex-boyfriend almost stole her once. It was just her and me on the tearful drive home. She used to help me get my favorite little ones to the park to feed the ducks. Lolly even decorated her in Dora The Explorer stickers, that are still on the rear window. Enid gave me the momentum to get my only speeding tickets. She drove all the people I loved the most around at one time or another. She got my old best friend and his sister’s to their grandparent’s final moments, got countless friends to concerts, and never let any one of us down.
She camped, she was a mountaineer and even hit the gravel roads deep in the Oregon woods to get to my dad’s off the grid cabin. She saved our lives when we spun out on the highway on black ice with barely a scrape or scratch on her. We were going 60miles per hour and easily could have flipped and crashed through the embankment but instead she just bounced and turned, halting us safely.
On our wedding night someone broke Enid’s window and stole some of our stuff before our big move to Florida. She let us patch her up with duct tape and withstood a wicked southern rainstorm until we could get her window fixed. She always takes care of us, and we’ll always take care of her.
Since we’ve been down in Florida, we’ve put a lot of miles on her. We can’t afford a new car any time soon, so we are very attentive to her needs. She’s cost us some bucks over the last two years but she’s getting old so she deserves some TLC. It was on Sunday night recently though, that she was seemingly taking a turn for the worse.
We’d just gotten her oil changed. My husband had recently made the rule that she really needs to run a few minutes after sitting for more than a couple of hours before we just take off, so she gets warmed up before every outing. One rainy morning, she seemed to be choking in some way. I could feel her jerking a bit under me. It wasn’t enough for her to not work, but it was concerning. She quit her jolts a few minutes in and got us to work. Sunday afternoon though, she wasn’t quitting. The entire drive across town, unless I hit 50miles per hour, I could feel her having a tough time.
Sundays are often my Friday so I met my husband at the bar and he fed me candy-flavored shots and a beer. Finally we left and he drove us home. It was when he felt it that he immediately said, “I’m taking her in first thing in the morning.” I was rolling my eyes about it costing money when a pained look crossed his face. He said, “Oh, no…I hope it’s not the transmission, because that’s like 2,000$ and we’d have to buy a new car.”
My buzzed emotional self lost it. I actually felt the tears running down and sobbed. “No! She’s the best car in the world! It’s not her time to go! She’s been with me forever! She’s the only car I’ve ever had!” Because my husband is a great man, he just holds my hand and says, “Honey, I’m sure she’s fine. She’s great but we need to check it out. And she’s an old girl so we’ll just see.”
At this point all I can think about is how offensive that new car smell would be. How could I be in a car with no dog hair, and without stickers? Then I pictured them smashing her in one of those giant machines and I just bit my lip and felt another tear push my mascara into my eyes. I paused a couple times admitting it was ridiculous that I was crying over a car but Enid wasn’t “a car!” SHE WAS MY CAR!
When I had no one, Enid was there to take me away. When everything in my life sucked, she was still there. She was the only piece of Pennsylvania I truly had left that wasn’t a photograph, family member or friend. She followed me everywhere. She drives me crazy in all the best ways! She’s never stranded me or would ever hurt me. As the great Queen song proclaims, “I’m in love with my car!”
I barely slept that night and as I tossed and turned I just begged the universe for it to not be the transmission or cripplingly expensive. My husband rolled out of bed and took her in. It took an hour just for the diagnostic. I felt like I was waiting for them to say she had car cancer. When he called, he asked what all people ask in those situations: “Good or bad news first?”
“Bad,” I said.
“The cylinders and the spark plugs all have to be replaced and they don’t have the parts. Good news is it’s not the transmission.”
“WHEW!” I thought, as he interjected, “But it’s still going to cost about $500 bucks.”
Ugh! Can’t we catch a break!? But I was quickly calmed at the fact that Enid was going to be okay. They sent my husband home with a newish, bright red Toyota Camry. He looked ridiculous in it. It was huge and so clean and…NEW! It felt weird. I didn’t know how soon we would get the car back and I had a crummy day at work until my co-worker buddies showed up and then one said, “I’ll see if I can see a shiny red car waiting for you.”
“Oh wait,” she said, “He’s got your car! And there’s Brodie!” I was instantly happy to see my car waiting for my with my pug hanging out the window. The family was back together: Eben, Ali, Brodie and Enid the Etch-O. I know I’ll lose it when her time comes, but for now, we have a lot of family events to do together, and even though she can drive us crazy, she can drive us everywhere!
She’s the car I learned to drive on. It was in a tiny bank parking lot in our tiny home town which seems like a whole different life ago, lately. She was a 2000 Toyota Echo, which I pronounced “Etch-O,” because I thought I was being cute and quippy. When my parents split up, the Echo accompanied my dad to Oregon. I drove my mom’s Honda or Mazda or whatever. Basic four door sedan thing, easy to drive and fairly ordinary looking. I took my driver’s test much later in a Honda CR-V, but when my dad rescued me from my mother in Florida, “Enid” the Echo as she would later be named, came down from Oregon to scoop me up.
I can’t pretend I was excited to see either one of them, Enid or my dad that is, but they were there, just like they always have been. The Echo towed a trailer with all my furniture in it, 2,500 miles up the mountains to Eugene, Oregon in 5 of the longest and most miserable days ever. Before we even got 4 hours out she took away our air conditioning capabilities because she’d overheat from towing our emotional baggage and the massive trailer. No one could believe we fit an entire bedroom set and all my other crap in just an Echo and a trailer. But we were rock stars.
As soon as we got home to Oregon, my dad and I shared the Echo. Finally he bought a truck to better suit his needs for life in the woods and Enid became my own. I had the newest car of my friends in High School. She was cute. I eventually started adorning her in stickers. If you look at my Echo and then others, you start to see how they actually just look ridiculous without being covered in bumper stickers. I had punk rock bands, offensive political statements about Bush and random other band’s names, plastered all over her. She’s very eclectic.
Her name came to me shortly after meeting some friends that had a band. All of their cars had names, like “The Faded Patch,” and such. During a phase where I was obsessed with the Barenaked Ladies, I heard this song “Enid.” And I thought…”Hmm, Enid the Etch-O. Has quite the ring to it.” And so she has become the greatest car there ever was!
Currently Enid has over 230,000 miles on her. She has been across the country 3 times. She’s been up and down the Oregon Coast, seen Washington, Idaho, and even driven down Lombard Street in San Francisco. She got to ride on a trailer when we moved to Tampa two years ago, because she’s such precious cargo but she’s a BAMF with no doubt.
My father trained me to be meticulous about taking care of her. More than most chicks would ever. So I am: Oil changes regularly, tires, general maintenance and always treating her well. This is a car that has been there for me for a decade. She’s been with me longer than I’ve known my husband!
An ex-boyfriend almost stole her once. It was just her and me on the tearful drive home. She used to help me get my favorite little ones to the park to feed the ducks. Lolly even decorated her in Dora The Explorer stickers, that are still on the rear window. Enid gave me the momentum to get my only speeding tickets. She drove all the people I loved the most around at one time or another. She got my old best friend and his sister’s to their grandparent’s final moments, got countless friends to concerts, and never let any one of us down.
She camped, she was a mountaineer and even hit the gravel roads deep in the Oregon woods to get to my dad’s off the grid cabin. She saved our lives when we spun out on the highway on black ice with barely a scrape or scratch on her. We were going 60miles per hour and easily could have flipped and crashed through the embankment but instead she just bounced and turned, halting us safely.
On our wedding night someone broke Enid’s window and stole some of our stuff before our big move to Florida. She let us patch her up with duct tape and withstood a wicked southern rainstorm until we could get her window fixed. She always takes care of us, and we’ll always take care of her.
Since we’ve been down in Florida, we’ve put a lot of miles on her. We can’t afford a new car any time soon, so we are very attentive to her needs. She’s cost us some bucks over the last two years but she’s getting old so she deserves some TLC. It was on Sunday night recently though, that she was seemingly taking a turn for the worse.
We’d just gotten her oil changed. My husband had recently made the rule that she really needs to run a few minutes after sitting for more than a couple of hours before we just take off, so she gets warmed up before every outing. One rainy morning, she seemed to be choking in some way. I could feel her jerking a bit under me. It wasn’t enough for her to not work, but it was concerning. She quit her jolts a few minutes in and got us to work. Sunday afternoon though, she wasn’t quitting. The entire drive across town, unless I hit 50miles per hour, I could feel her having a tough time.
Sundays are often my Friday so I met my husband at the bar and he fed me candy-flavored shots and a beer. Finally we left and he drove us home. It was when he felt it that he immediately said, “I’m taking her in first thing in the morning.” I was rolling my eyes about it costing money when a pained look crossed his face. He said, “Oh, no…I hope it’s not the transmission, because that’s like 2,000$ and we’d have to buy a new car.”
My buzzed emotional self lost it. I actually felt the tears running down and sobbed. “No! She’s the best car in the world! It’s not her time to go! She’s been with me forever! She’s the only car I’ve ever had!” Because my husband is a great man, he just holds my hand and says, “Honey, I’m sure she’s fine. She’s great but we need to check it out. And she’s an old girl so we’ll just see.”
At this point all I can think about is how offensive that new car smell would be. How could I be in a car with no dog hair, and without stickers? Then I pictured them smashing her in one of those giant machines and I just bit my lip and felt another tear push my mascara into my eyes. I paused a couple times admitting it was ridiculous that I was crying over a car but Enid wasn’t “a car!” SHE WAS MY CAR!
When I had no one, Enid was there to take me away. When everything in my life sucked, she was still there. She was the only piece of Pennsylvania I truly had left that wasn’t a photograph, family member or friend. She followed me everywhere. She drives me crazy in all the best ways! She’s never stranded me or would ever hurt me. As the great Queen song proclaims, “I’m in love with my car!”
I barely slept that night and as I tossed and turned I just begged the universe for it to not be the transmission or cripplingly expensive. My husband rolled out of bed and took her in. It took an hour just for the diagnostic. I felt like I was waiting for them to say she had car cancer. When he called, he asked what all people ask in those situations: “Good or bad news first?”
“Bad,” I said.
“The cylinders and the spark plugs all have to be replaced and they don’t have the parts. Good news is it’s not the transmission.”
“WHEW!” I thought, as he interjected, “But it’s still going to cost about $500 bucks.”
Ugh! Can’t we catch a break!? But I was quickly calmed at the fact that Enid was going to be okay. They sent my husband home with a newish, bright red Toyota Camry. He looked ridiculous in it. It was huge and so clean and…NEW! It felt weird. I didn’t know how soon we would get the car back and I had a crummy day at work until my co-worker buddies showed up and then one said, “I’ll see if I can see a shiny red car waiting for you.”
“Oh wait,” she said, “He’s got your car! And there’s Brodie!” I was instantly happy to see my car waiting for my with my pug hanging out the window. The family was back together: Eben, Ali, Brodie and Enid the Etch-O. I know I’ll lose it when her time comes, but for now, we have a lot of family events to do together, and even though she can drive us crazy, she can drive us everywhere!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Run, Fat Girl, RUN!
It’s been a rough summer…We started with this awesome vacation to see the family on the West Coast. And vacation, is vacation. There’s no calorie counting and no cares. We hiked, I went to a friend’s step class, we walked a lot but we were there to relax and not care! Drama hit afterward and I was just so exhausted from dealing with it all, working out wasn’t a high priority.
Three years ago before we even got engaged I was pushing maximum density. Between being a food lover, being in love with a chef, and my cocktail enthusiast side, even working out wasn’t really balancing out my intake. A family member joined Weight Watchers and although I’d originally scoffed, she was kicking some major ass, so I fell on that bandwagon. I got back into my workouts. I do love working out. It makes me feel so much better! I got some personal counseling and I made myself lose the weight.
By the time Eben proposed, I was 10lbs down. They say nothing kicks you into gear like an impending wedding. They were so right. I had a gorgeous blonde bombshell of a friend who was also a personal trainer. With Weight Watchers, a strict routine, and the help of Alicia, by the end of it I’d lost 20lbs and fit into a size 4 for the first time since high school. And I didn’t loathe my body much anymore. Success!
For the past two years I’d managed to maintain that figure within about a 5lb range. Ladies, who are we kidding? We can gain 5lbs in a day if the mood is right. Women’s bodies are bitches, just like we end up being because we are trapped into them! I went to spin class a few times a week, hit yoga and body sculpting classes, the elliptical and stair master. I didn’t indulge too hard core and I kept tabs on it all.
In March after a crazy stretch of time where I was working so much that food became a far off dream between naps, and I was lucky if I could grab a granola bar, let alone a fulfilling meal, I’d actually squeezed into the skinny jeans for a week or so but I didn’t feel the need to be skinny really, just healthy.
I come from a long line of petite women who can stay petite but can also balloon up into something of a lumpy pear with compulsive eating habits and alcoholic tendencies. I’ve straddled both the skinny and chunky for most of my life. When I’m active my body shows it, and when I’m inactive, it really shows it.
Before the big vacation this June I cancelled my gym membership because between the puppy, work and everything else, we didn’t need the added expense, and I didn’t have enough time to make it worthwhile. I had a Wii Fit, Wii Active and a decent elliptical at our crummy apartment complex gym to keep me going. I also discovered the dog liked to jog, so I should indulge with him.
I guess six months of “Whatever, I don’t care, I’ll have a gym membership this fall to make up for it,” bit me in my ever expanding ass, after all. When they say it’s easier to put it on than it is to take it off, they aren’t joking! I shouldn’t have justified it when the pants started to get tight. I shouldn’t have spent so much time sucking it in. I should have gotten my ass out of the chair…shoulda, coulda, woulda!
So I made the mistake of getting on the evil square known as the scale, and it may as well have just read “Fat Bitch.” The number amount pretty much said that perfectly! And then the water works started! I, all of the sudden, wished there was some strange way of my being pregnant and the damn baby was making me chunky, but all of the alcohol units wouldn’t have made that possible, so then I stood there getting on and off of the damn scale, sucking it in and willing it to drop down two measly numbers just so I could endure more justifications.
I forced my husband into caring even though he did the obligatory, “You’re beautiful no matter what,” song and dance complete with a “Who cares babe?” and “We’ll do whatever you want to make you feel better about it,” chorus and encore performance. I text my new Bestie feverishly, and she confessed the evil scale had done the same to her! I’d paused thinking there may be some kind of terrible conspiracy and my pants weren’t 6’s and 8’s but really 0’s and 2’s, rebelling against the confines of their size-ist makers, but was shocked back into the reality that I’m just chunky when she told me she’d caved and joined Weight Watchers. We vowed to kick ass together.
Peeling myself out of bed to go to work, where the pretty ones would parade around me all day, I managed to look decent and get my fat ass going. I blamed the dog about my weight and he just whined and snuffed at me as if to say, “Bullshit!” When I got to work my gorgeous and athletic co-worker arrived in a kind of funky mood. I knew she LOVED to talk fitness, so I instantly attacked!
Trying desperately to not just blurt out, “Please inject me with whatever it is you take that makes you perfect and makes you like to run and race and everything in between,” I let her use me as a sponge. I forced my Bestie into the conversation and before you knew it, some strange hope had brewed in me, that maybe one day soon I wouldn’t just be another fat girl that the rail-skinny perfect ones make fun of.
I thought my athletic goddess of a co-worker had pretty much finished her pep talk with me about how we’d train together and help each other out when she emerged with a daring idea: “Let’s work up to the Turkey Trott on Thanksgiving in Clearwater! It’s a 10k!” She felt me wince and responded, “They have a 5k too!”
I pictured running that morning with her and my Bestie, and later to come home to an amazing bath amidst the smells of the feast my husband would be preparing, and how after two months of behaving I’d just pig out on my favorite day and I blurted out, “YES! Let’s do it!” Uh oh, there was no turning back now. I’d put it into the universe. It’d set it in motion. Before I knew it, the Bestie was more excited than I and we’d even recruited another co-worker…this was happening!
I told my husband and he was just like, “That’s great, babe!” I was expecting more of a response. I’d imagined more of a, “Wow babe, you are going to kick that race’s ass! You will be able to go so fast and impress everyone! We should buy you a cute outfit. Of course I’ll cook you a feast and be waiting to massage your feet when you get home,” kind of response but, I’d take what I could get.
This is a big deal! The diet’s on! I’m not a big diet girl most of the time but I do know how to scale things back. I do believe that all women should just be perfect, pretty and comfortable while eating buckets of KFC and out-drinking men in Beer and Liquor contests, without even gaining an ounce, but that is SO not the world we live in. I hate how the weight thing will always haunt me. It will follow me around forever like the sound of my mother sighing when the size 4 jeans she just bought me didn’t quite zip, or when I chose to wear fashionable sweat pants instead of quote, unquote “slacks,” for which I might add are inadequately titled because they NEVER provide any “slack!”
I’ve started on a good note so far. I do enjoy eating healthy but who doesn’t love ice cream, cookies and wine? Especially all in the same day! I do have a fat girl mentality for sure, I just hate when she shows up physically, making a muffin top appear out of my pants that used to be “roomy.” My sister once accused me of being bulimic because I lost weight and toned my body, so I replied “No, I like food too much.” She curtly replied, “Which is why you would be bulimic!” How stupid of me!
I wish I could be bulimic, or anorexic, or just smoke a bunch of cigarettes and crack and become one of those cold women who make it all look so easy but can’t even deal with how many calories are in a Tic Tac! No, if I’m wishing, I wish I were like my goddess coworker who runs 10 miles for a warm up and can bike out of the state and back with only 8 ounces of water! Yes, I’m idolizing her, but why not? We all know and sigh at one of these women every time they burst through the door with perfect sunlight providing them a runway! I’m lucky if I don’t fall on a daily basis!
Sometimes I like being curvy. I own it. Also, I’m married so there’s really no one left to impress, but one of the groomsmen told me I shouldn’t be another fat wife and I totally agree. Even though I desperately want to eat an entire container of cheese balls while watching hours of chick flicks, I know I should go for a run and eat celery instead. At least when I weigh less and I’m still curvy, I can be proud.
Of course once I started figuring out how to enroll in the Turkey Trott, all I could envision was a montage from that movie “Run, Fatboy, Run,” and of me hitting the “Runner’s Wall,” or just tripping less than a mile in and ruining the entire effort. But, regardless, I’m going to do it. I’m not much of a runner or a jogger but this is a commitment to an accomplishment I so desperately want to achieve. I have EVERYTHING to lose. The tummy, the ass, the thighs, and the ambivalence that’s literally been weighing me down!
So this fat chick is going to run! I’m going to run like the wind on Thanksgiving! But if you think about it, it’s really just so I can stuff my face afterwards…so if that’s not motivation enough, what is!? I guess you’ll hear about it all afterwards, and if I could even stomach all the food I’m already fantasizing about. Run, fat girl, run!
Three years ago before we even got engaged I was pushing maximum density. Between being a food lover, being in love with a chef, and my cocktail enthusiast side, even working out wasn’t really balancing out my intake. A family member joined Weight Watchers and although I’d originally scoffed, she was kicking some major ass, so I fell on that bandwagon. I got back into my workouts. I do love working out. It makes me feel so much better! I got some personal counseling and I made myself lose the weight.
By the time Eben proposed, I was 10lbs down. They say nothing kicks you into gear like an impending wedding. They were so right. I had a gorgeous blonde bombshell of a friend who was also a personal trainer. With Weight Watchers, a strict routine, and the help of Alicia, by the end of it I’d lost 20lbs and fit into a size 4 for the first time since high school. And I didn’t loathe my body much anymore. Success!
For the past two years I’d managed to maintain that figure within about a 5lb range. Ladies, who are we kidding? We can gain 5lbs in a day if the mood is right. Women’s bodies are bitches, just like we end up being because we are trapped into them! I went to spin class a few times a week, hit yoga and body sculpting classes, the elliptical and stair master. I didn’t indulge too hard core and I kept tabs on it all.
In March after a crazy stretch of time where I was working so much that food became a far off dream between naps, and I was lucky if I could grab a granola bar, let alone a fulfilling meal, I’d actually squeezed into the skinny jeans for a week or so but I didn’t feel the need to be skinny really, just healthy.
I come from a long line of petite women who can stay petite but can also balloon up into something of a lumpy pear with compulsive eating habits and alcoholic tendencies. I’ve straddled both the skinny and chunky for most of my life. When I’m active my body shows it, and when I’m inactive, it really shows it.
Before the big vacation this June I cancelled my gym membership because between the puppy, work and everything else, we didn’t need the added expense, and I didn’t have enough time to make it worthwhile. I had a Wii Fit, Wii Active and a decent elliptical at our crummy apartment complex gym to keep me going. I also discovered the dog liked to jog, so I should indulge with him.
I guess six months of “Whatever, I don’t care, I’ll have a gym membership this fall to make up for it,” bit me in my ever expanding ass, after all. When they say it’s easier to put it on than it is to take it off, they aren’t joking! I shouldn’t have justified it when the pants started to get tight. I shouldn’t have spent so much time sucking it in. I should have gotten my ass out of the chair…shoulda, coulda, woulda!
So I made the mistake of getting on the evil square known as the scale, and it may as well have just read “Fat Bitch.” The number amount pretty much said that perfectly! And then the water works started! I, all of the sudden, wished there was some strange way of my being pregnant and the damn baby was making me chunky, but all of the alcohol units wouldn’t have made that possible, so then I stood there getting on and off of the damn scale, sucking it in and willing it to drop down two measly numbers just so I could endure more justifications.
I forced my husband into caring even though he did the obligatory, “You’re beautiful no matter what,” song and dance complete with a “Who cares babe?” and “We’ll do whatever you want to make you feel better about it,” chorus and encore performance. I text my new Bestie feverishly, and she confessed the evil scale had done the same to her! I’d paused thinking there may be some kind of terrible conspiracy and my pants weren’t 6’s and 8’s but really 0’s and 2’s, rebelling against the confines of their size-ist makers, but was shocked back into the reality that I’m just chunky when she told me she’d caved and joined Weight Watchers. We vowed to kick ass together.
Peeling myself out of bed to go to work, where the pretty ones would parade around me all day, I managed to look decent and get my fat ass going. I blamed the dog about my weight and he just whined and snuffed at me as if to say, “Bullshit!” When I got to work my gorgeous and athletic co-worker arrived in a kind of funky mood. I knew she LOVED to talk fitness, so I instantly attacked!
Trying desperately to not just blurt out, “Please inject me with whatever it is you take that makes you perfect and makes you like to run and race and everything in between,” I let her use me as a sponge. I forced my Bestie into the conversation and before you knew it, some strange hope had brewed in me, that maybe one day soon I wouldn’t just be another fat girl that the rail-skinny perfect ones make fun of.
I thought my athletic goddess of a co-worker had pretty much finished her pep talk with me about how we’d train together and help each other out when she emerged with a daring idea: “Let’s work up to the Turkey Trott on Thanksgiving in Clearwater! It’s a 10k!” She felt me wince and responded, “They have a 5k too!”
I pictured running that morning with her and my Bestie, and later to come home to an amazing bath amidst the smells of the feast my husband would be preparing, and how after two months of behaving I’d just pig out on my favorite day and I blurted out, “YES! Let’s do it!” Uh oh, there was no turning back now. I’d put it into the universe. It’d set it in motion. Before I knew it, the Bestie was more excited than I and we’d even recruited another co-worker…this was happening!
I told my husband and he was just like, “That’s great, babe!” I was expecting more of a response. I’d imagined more of a, “Wow babe, you are going to kick that race’s ass! You will be able to go so fast and impress everyone! We should buy you a cute outfit. Of course I’ll cook you a feast and be waiting to massage your feet when you get home,” kind of response but, I’d take what I could get.
This is a big deal! The diet’s on! I’m not a big diet girl most of the time but I do know how to scale things back. I do believe that all women should just be perfect, pretty and comfortable while eating buckets of KFC and out-drinking men in Beer and Liquor contests, without even gaining an ounce, but that is SO not the world we live in. I hate how the weight thing will always haunt me. It will follow me around forever like the sound of my mother sighing when the size 4 jeans she just bought me didn’t quite zip, or when I chose to wear fashionable sweat pants instead of quote, unquote “slacks,” for which I might add are inadequately titled because they NEVER provide any “slack!”
I’ve started on a good note so far. I do enjoy eating healthy but who doesn’t love ice cream, cookies and wine? Especially all in the same day! I do have a fat girl mentality for sure, I just hate when she shows up physically, making a muffin top appear out of my pants that used to be “roomy.” My sister once accused me of being bulimic because I lost weight and toned my body, so I replied “No, I like food too much.” She curtly replied, “Which is why you would be bulimic!” How stupid of me!
I wish I could be bulimic, or anorexic, or just smoke a bunch of cigarettes and crack and become one of those cold women who make it all look so easy but can’t even deal with how many calories are in a Tic Tac! No, if I’m wishing, I wish I were like my goddess coworker who runs 10 miles for a warm up and can bike out of the state and back with only 8 ounces of water! Yes, I’m idolizing her, but why not? We all know and sigh at one of these women every time they burst through the door with perfect sunlight providing them a runway! I’m lucky if I don’t fall on a daily basis!
Sometimes I like being curvy. I own it. Also, I’m married so there’s really no one left to impress, but one of the groomsmen told me I shouldn’t be another fat wife and I totally agree. Even though I desperately want to eat an entire container of cheese balls while watching hours of chick flicks, I know I should go for a run and eat celery instead. At least when I weigh less and I’m still curvy, I can be proud.
Of course once I started figuring out how to enroll in the Turkey Trott, all I could envision was a montage from that movie “Run, Fatboy, Run,” and of me hitting the “Runner’s Wall,” or just tripping less than a mile in and ruining the entire effort. But, regardless, I’m going to do it. I’m not much of a runner or a jogger but this is a commitment to an accomplishment I so desperately want to achieve. I have EVERYTHING to lose. The tummy, the ass, the thighs, and the ambivalence that’s literally been weighing me down!
So this fat chick is going to run! I’m going to run like the wind on Thanksgiving! But if you think about it, it’s really just so I can stuff my face afterwards…so if that’s not motivation enough, what is!? I guess you’ll hear about it all afterwards, and if I could even stomach all the food I’m already fantasizing about. Run, fat girl, run!
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
ORYGUN - Why we've gone...
We’ve been in Florida for a little over two years. When people here, ask us where we moved from and we answer, “Oregon,” they always reply with, “Why the hell did you move to Florida?” Lately my excuse has been, “Oregon is beautiful, but Eugene is the kind of place where you end up and you stay, and we just weren’t ready to stay anywhere yet.”
S
ometimes it’s hard to find just one reason. Sometimes there really isn’t anything concrete. Every once in awhile my mind starts spinning and we start talking about “The way we were,” to be a complete cliché, and I have to draw myself a mental map of how it all came to be. The idea of moving from Eugene to Florida was originally planted in our minds when we visited my mother in March of 2008, for my birthday. We drove up to Tampa to see Eben’s Aunt Vicki, and my cousins who lived in St. Petersburg.
My cousins had immediately moved to St. Petersburg from Pennsylvania after they had gotten married and the standing joke was that the Tampa Bay/St. Petersburg area was the place you were “supposed” to leave home, and move to after you got married. We then hatched the idea of moving to South Florida to live with my mother, rent free, and help take care of her after some medical issues she suffered during the end of the summer of 2008.
Eben and I had been more or less on our own after age 19, with no choice of living with anyone but roommates. There was no moving “home” for either of us. The idea of living rent free after I graduated, getting Eben into school, and making positive changes was enough to provoke anyone! So, we started actually planning the big escape at the end of the year in 2008. We moved in with a family friend to spend less money and save for the move. We weren’t even engaged at this point but moving across the country together pretty much seals the deal. We were committed!
During the fall of 2008, I’d started some personal and mental rediscovery and measures of improvement. I was feeling really good. It felt like I was working towards something. Graduation was on the horizon and I was trying to make my relationships better. The year of 2008 was pretty much the worst year of my life, or so I considered it to be at that time. We lost my grandma, my mom was sick and had a cancer scare, my boyfriend and I were constantly fighting, I was miserable and taking it out on my friends and loved ones, and life just seemed so shitty. But little did I know what a whirlwind we had waiting in the future.
One cold, January morning in 2009 at 7am, I got a phone call that changed everything. It seems that the very mother with whom I’d had a tumultuous relationship the entirety of my existence, had basically been living a complete lie and tried to take down everyone in her miserable cyclone of destruction. My uncle called to tell me of her indiscretions and problems, and said it was the last straw, she’d no longer be a welcome member of the family. I was left to deal with the remains of whatever was left over.
My mom was alive but up to no good. And now her 23 year old daughter had to fix what she could and say goodbye, again. This news came in the middle of my battle with depression and the constant wrestling match with my mental stability. Things with the boyfriend, Eben, were improving but there was one other person in my life who I’d desperately needed to have a healthy relationship with. We’d abused each other for years: mentally, emotionally, and verbally. He was my best friend. I told him everything and thought we’d always be in each other’s lives, even if it was only to torment each other. It was hard for him to be there for me, but that was okay because he told me he wanted to be there for me.
When all of the bullshit with my mother hit, Eben stepped it up and knew that he just couldn’t understand. My best friend withdrew from it, though. It was too much. I needed him but he couldn’t just do what I needed him to and basically look me, coldly in the eyes, and say, “This is just too much for me. I have my own life to worry about and I can’t help you on this one.” To this day, I wish he’d told me to fuck off, in some way, shape or form.
I’d scraped together my sanity during my last term of college before graduation enough to fly down to Florida, by myself, to clean up the mess my mother had made of her life. All I cared about what putting my deceased grandmother’s things – that my mother had fought with everyone for - and my childhood keepsakes, somewhere safe until we moved to Florida to deal with it. Although my mother’s mistakes had ruined her life, I refused to let her choices hurt any of my plans anymore. She had contributed to the demise of all of my lives great dreams and designs, even helped with the loss of some relationships, and I didn’t want to let it happen ever again. This was the beginning of the end.
I still remember going down there. My mother thought I was there to help her. She wanted me to pay her cell phone bill and help her move out. I told her to give me the title to the car. Her other brother showed up to take away my grandmother’s car, and my mother accused me of being part of some evil plot against her. I remember saying goodbye to her and thinking I may never see her again. I cried the whole plane ride home.
I had to pull myself together. Like always with my mother, I never had a choice but to soldier on. When I came home, all my relationships were put in to perspective. I really valued the people I had left. I harassed my best friend a lot. I was totally guilty of pushing him too hard. But much as he inadvertently got in the way of Eben and my relationship, I got in his way too. It was tough. I should have seen it coming. Definitely an, “If I knew then what I knew now situation…”
One drunken night at a Dropkick Murphy’s show, the stage was set. What better place for two drunk, Irish redheads - myself and Eben - to leave a painstaking mark that has forever defined our Northwestern exit? Terrible things were said on both sides of the table and it ended with the hit heard round the world. Sometimes I wonder if it ever really, could have ended up differently. After 6 years of secrets – the worst part of which, no one will ever really know why and how it all went down, some of the parties involved don’t even know the whole truth, and the ways it all evolved – one bad comment and one flip of the temper changed it all. And we haven’t seen him since.
After that night, we felt Oregon and its residents were helping to give us a violent shove out the door. But with every catastrophe comes an amazing rebound, right? We’d felt like we dug a hole but in that hole we found a whole lot of treasure. Eben and I continued couples counseling and I finished my personal counseling. I’d lost 25lbs by the end of my journey. My mother had exited my life. The people who loved us most rallied around us and showed us that even if we did move 3,000 miles away, they’d be with us, no matter what.
My 24th birthday was around the corner and I was excited. St. Patrick’s Day was first and I knew it would cheer me up! It was that day in 2009, after we’d rearranged our plans to move from West Palm Beach to Tampa, that Eben proposed to me. How could I say no? Plus, we’d already planned the trip, so all we needed to do was figure out the whole wedding thing!
Eben was the only man in my life who accepted me for who and what I was, even with all my flaws and after the evil, hateful moments I’ve had with him, he still wanted to be with me. And I could think of no other person I’d rather be with for the rest of my days on this planet. “All anyone could ever want is a co-pilot, someone to leave this town and help them start a secret…”
We’d literally squeezed the wedding in between everything and got married the day after I graduated, and the day before we started our journey across the country! We had to tell everyone we were actually leaving. Most people were pretty bummed and the wedding was bittersweet, but the people we have kept with us in our hearts, minds, and of course, on Facebook, have confirmed that we made a positive choice.
My sister said that we couldn’t move any further away. We might as well have gone to Tokyo. Our east coast family was ecstatic. In all the years of emotional yo-yoing with my mother, I’d forgotten how amazing your blood relatives can be. I’d tried so hard to push myself into what I thought were these “perfect families” of my friends, that I let my real family slide away. It was nice to be welcomed back to that side of the insanity.
So, in terms of why we actually left? It wasn’t just “the incident.” It was a lot of reasons. Eben’s a born and raised Oregonian. He’d never been anywhere else. It was time for a big change for him. We definitely moved to opposite land, but we love an adventure. Between the mama-drama and the over-dramatic exit of our best friend, we just didn’t feel like Eugene was a home anymore. I’d struggled with the idea of home ever since I was 12, but home became wherever Eben was. I was safe anywhere, if he was by my side.
We love going to visit Oregon. We get to see all our favorite people when we do, but at that time we needed to leave it all behind and just start fresh and new. Eben and I had never really been just “US.” We were always that couple in the middle of the group of friends, that held it all together. We needed to find a place that was our own little oasis. In Tampa we wouldn’t be completely alone. My cousins lived over the bridge and Eben’s Aunt and cousins lived in Tampa as well.
Sometimes you just need to be radical and reckless to change things for the good. It didn’t even occur to us that we could somehow fail. We moved down, got an apartment, got jobs and have been living our lives ever since. Everyone thinks our honeymoon being the move down here, was insane but the standing joke is, we left all the drama and everyone we know, so it’s been a honeymoon ever since!
Sometimes it’s strange that it’s just us, sometimes we look back and wonder if we went back how it could be different. But we were outcasts before the drama. We were restless before we stirred the pot. We weren’t ready to stay and settle down. Every once in awhile when I see the pictures of our friends and family starting their own families and being all happy, my uterus skips a beat, and I want it too. But, then I snuggle up in front of the TV with the dog and we watch a movie in the quiet apartment we’ve turned into a crash-pad for the Chriss’ with a beer in my hand, and I feel okay with what our lives have become.
We are anything but ordinary and conventional. We miss those Oregonians every day, but why we’re gone? That may be a question that could take many more reckless moments, a few more cross-country journeys, and a beer or two for me to answer. You’ll find out when we do, don’t worry.
S
ometimes it’s hard to find just one reason. Sometimes there really isn’t anything concrete. Every once in awhile my mind starts spinning and we start talking about “The way we were,” to be a complete cliché, and I have to draw myself a mental map of how it all came to be. The idea of moving from Eugene to Florida was originally planted in our minds when we visited my mother in March of 2008, for my birthday. We drove up to Tampa to see Eben’s Aunt Vicki, and my cousins who lived in St. Petersburg.
My cousins had immediately moved to St. Petersburg from Pennsylvania after they had gotten married and the standing joke was that the Tampa Bay/St. Petersburg area was the place you were “supposed” to leave home, and move to after you got married. We then hatched the idea of moving to South Florida to live with my mother, rent free, and help take care of her after some medical issues she suffered during the end of the summer of 2008.
Eben and I had been more or less on our own after age 19, with no choice of living with anyone but roommates. There was no moving “home” for either of us. The idea of living rent free after I graduated, getting Eben into school, and making positive changes was enough to provoke anyone! So, we started actually planning the big escape at the end of the year in 2008. We moved in with a family friend to spend less money and save for the move. We weren’t even engaged at this point but moving across the country together pretty much seals the deal. We were committed!
During the fall of 2008, I’d started some personal and mental rediscovery and measures of improvement. I was feeling really good. It felt like I was working towards something. Graduation was on the horizon and I was trying to make my relationships better. The year of 2008 was pretty much the worst year of my life, or so I considered it to be at that time. We lost my grandma, my mom was sick and had a cancer scare, my boyfriend and I were constantly fighting, I was miserable and taking it out on my friends and loved ones, and life just seemed so shitty. But little did I know what a whirlwind we had waiting in the future.
One cold, January morning in 2009 at 7am, I got a phone call that changed everything. It seems that the very mother with whom I’d had a tumultuous relationship the entirety of my existence, had basically been living a complete lie and tried to take down everyone in her miserable cyclone of destruction. My uncle called to tell me of her indiscretions and problems, and said it was the last straw, she’d no longer be a welcome member of the family. I was left to deal with the remains of whatever was left over.
My mom was alive but up to no good. And now her 23 year old daughter had to fix what she could and say goodbye, again. This news came in the middle of my battle with depression and the constant wrestling match with my mental stability. Things with the boyfriend, Eben, were improving but there was one other person in my life who I’d desperately needed to have a healthy relationship with. We’d abused each other for years: mentally, emotionally, and verbally. He was my best friend. I told him everything and thought we’d always be in each other’s lives, even if it was only to torment each other. It was hard for him to be there for me, but that was okay because he told me he wanted to be there for me.
When all of the bullshit with my mother hit, Eben stepped it up and knew that he just couldn’t understand. My best friend withdrew from it, though. It was too much. I needed him but he couldn’t just do what I needed him to and basically look me, coldly in the eyes, and say, “This is just too much for me. I have my own life to worry about and I can’t help you on this one.” To this day, I wish he’d told me to fuck off, in some way, shape or form.
I’d scraped together my sanity during my last term of college before graduation enough to fly down to Florida, by myself, to clean up the mess my mother had made of her life. All I cared about what putting my deceased grandmother’s things – that my mother had fought with everyone for - and my childhood keepsakes, somewhere safe until we moved to Florida to deal with it. Although my mother’s mistakes had ruined her life, I refused to let her choices hurt any of my plans anymore. She had contributed to the demise of all of my lives great dreams and designs, even helped with the loss of some relationships, and I didn’t want to let it happen ever again. This was the beginning of the end.
I still remember going down there. My mother thought I was there to help her. She wanted me to pay her cell phone bill and help her move out. I told her to give me the title to the car. Her other brother showed up to take away my grandmother’s car, and my mother accused me of being part of some evil plot against her. I remember saying goodbye to her and thinking I may never see her again. I cried the whole plane ride home.
I had to pull myself together. Like always with my mother, I never had a choice but to soldier on. When I came home, all my relationships were put in to perspective. I really valued the people I had left. I harassed my best friend a lot. I was totally guilty of pushing him too hard. But much as he inadvertently got in the way of Eben and my relationship, I got in his way too. It was tough. I should have seen it coming. Definitely an, “If I knew then what I knew now situation…”
One drunken night at a Dropkick Murphy’s show, the stage was set. What better place for two drunk, Irish redheads - myself and Eben - to leave a painstaking mark that has forever defined our Northwestern exit? Terrible things were said on both sides of the table and it ended with the hit heard round the world. Sometimes I wonder if it ever really, could have ended up differently. After 6 years of secrets – the worst part of which, no one will ever really know why and how it all went down, some of the parties involved don’t even know the whole truth, and the ways it all evolved – one bad comment and one flip of the temper changed it all. And we haven’t seen him since.
After that night, we felt Oregon and its residents were helping to give us a violent shove out the door. But with every catastrophe comes an amazing rebound, right? We’d felt like we dug a hole but in that hole we found a whole lot of treasure. Eben and I continued couples counseling and I finished my personal counseling. I’d lost 25lbs by the end of my journey. My mother had exited my life. The people who loved us most rallied around us and showed us that even if we did move 3,000 miles away, they’d be with us, no matter what.
My 24th birthday was around the corner and I was excited. St. Patrick’s Day was first and I knew it would cheer me up! It was that day in 2009, after we’d rearranged our plans to move from West Palm Beach to Tampa, that Eben proposed to me. How could I say no? Plus, we’d already planned the trip, so all we needed to do was figure out the whole wedding thing!
Eben was the only man in my life who accepted me for who and what I was, even with all my flaws and after the evil, hateful moments I’ve had with him, he still wanted to be with me. And I could think of no other person I’d rather be with for the rest of my days on this planet. “All anyone could ever want is a co-pilot, someone to leave this town and help them start a secret…”
We’d literally squeezed the wedding in between everything and got married the day after I graduated, and the day before we started our journey across the country! We had to tell everyone we were actually leaving. Most people were pretty bummed and the wedding was bittersweet, but the people we have kept with us in our hearts, minds, and of course, on Facebook, have confirmed that we made a positive choice.
My sister said that we couldn’t move any further away. We might as well have gone to Tokyo. Our east coast family was ecstatic. In all the years of emotional yo-yoing with my mother, I’d forgotten how amazing your blood relatives can be. I’d tried so hard to push myself into what I thought were these “perfect families” of my friends, that I let my real family slide away. It was nice to be welcomed back to that side of the insanity.
So, in terms of why we actually left? It wasn’t just “the incident.” It was a lot of reasons. Eben’s a born and raised Oregonian. He’d never been anywhere else. It was time for a big change for him. We definitely moved to opposite land, but we love an adventure. Between the mama-drama and the over-dramatic exit of our best friend, we just didn’t feel like Eugene was a home anymore. I’d struggled with the idea of home ever since I was 12, but home became wherever Eben was. I was safe anywhere, if he was by my side.
We love going to visit Oregon. We get to see all our favorite people when we do, but at that time we needed to leave it all behind and just start fresh and new. Eben and I had never really been just “US.” We were always that couple in the middle of the group of friends, that held it all together. We needed to find a place that was our own little oasis. In Tampa we wouldn’t be completely alone. My cousins lived over the bridge and Eben’s Aunt and cousins lived in Tampa as well.
Sometimes you just need to be radical and reckless to change things for the good. It didn’t even occur to us that we could somehow fail. We moved down, got an apartment, got jobs and have been living our lives ever since. Everyone thinks our honeymoon being the move down here, was insane but the standing joke is, we left all the drama and everyone we know, so it’s been a honeymoon ever since!
Sometimes it’s strange that it’s just us, sometimes we look back and wonder if we went back how it could be different. But we were outcasts before the drama. We were restless before we stirred the pot. We weren’t ready to stay and settle down. Every once in awhile when I see the pictures of our friends and family starting their own families and being all happy, my uterus skips a beat, and I want it too. But, then I snuggle up in front of the TV with the dog and we watch a movie in the quiet apartment we’ve turned into a crash-pad for the Chriss’ with a beer in my hand, and I feel okay with what our lives have become.
We are anything but ordinary and conventional. We miss those Oregonians every day, but why we’re gone? That may be a question that could take many more reckless moments, a few more cross-country journeys, and a beer or two for me to answer. You’ll find out when we do, don’t worry.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
My So-Called Strife
I'd recently had a conversation with a friend about going into my blog archive to find an older post, and he opened up quite the collection. He mentioned there was two years of blogging and I thought,"Wow, has it been that long?" Apparently. I told him that that was way too much baggage...I mean bloggage to sort through. It's been quite the journey thus far and, recently, I've certainly attracted more than a few critics.
In May I upset a reader so much that, out of respect, I had to remove the blog...for now! I'd also found myself receiving a wide array of reactions. Most people find me to be generally amusing and even some may say I'm whitty and well-spoken. You're not a true creator unless you warrant the negative attention too, however.
Most of my blogs are personal diatribes about my life conquests, failures and success. Some allow you to see how crazy I am in actuality, and some dare to reveal my vulnerability. My readers who know me best, come to find me more endearing, and those who don't are often stunned by my verbal prowess and less-than-lady-like attitudes.
Some days I feel like I'm so crafty and mysterious but others, I'm pretty blatant and ruthless with my views. I like to think I offer a simple love-hate relationship with my writing and that goes the same with my personality. When growing up in a world where appearance is everything, living up to a desperate need to look civilized and put-together becomes part of the routine quite easily.
I do give off a specific persona of being ordinary, but we all have our secrets, our intrigues, and our insanities hidden behind the exterior; it's what keeps us interesting!
I've found out recently that, rather than offend by what was said, I really offend but what's done. People like to think I'm a certain way, they see me as a polite, amiable litte thing, who's pretty complacent overall. It's a decent act to keep people at bay. From day to day, I am relatively ordinary, but as I get comfortable you'll see the sassy, sarcastic, and loud version that is Alison, and she comes out to take names and kick ass. I feel like the people who meet that Alison should be flattered; you've passed the test. Others shouldn't be offended that she doesn't come out to play, rather, be appreciative that I'm attempting to respect you enough to keep her under wraps. When she comes out, she will offend you, but that's just her.
Wait, I think I just spoke of myself in the third person. How "Me, Myself and Irene" of me! I realize not everyone wants to read my bitching, or listen to it. I realize, for some, it's too much information, but the thing is, if I can get someone to relate and feel better by unleashing and posting these rants, my work is done! What more can a writer ask for?
Some readers may think, "What the hell does this chick have to complain about?" We are all lucky and unfortunate in our own special ways. But remember, as I've made very clear in past posts, what makes my shit more important that everyone else's, is that it's MINE. Really I'm just inviting my readers to bask in and enjoy my complaining and join in. After all, misery loves company.
I have come to a more recent realization, however, that upsetting people with my words is a powerful thing. Some may see me as two-faced, sitting here, hiding behind my shitty, Dell laptop and being pissed off at the world. I get it. I've had to own my anger and that's been quite the battle. I am an angry woman and every once in awhile it rears it's ugly head in some risky situations. I've seriously wrestled with not letting it overtake me. As someone raised by an extremely hateful person, becoming like her is my greatest fear. As annoying as people are, it's a lonely life without people around, even the ones we choose to dislike.
There's nothing in this blog, or any, I wouldn't reveal to someone in person. There's no cryptic or underlying messages that aren't eventually put in plain sight in my pieces. Anyone can whine and moan about life, but I'd like to think that making it fun, poetic, and verbally interesting is a gift I possess. I may be tooting my own horn but, people do read my stuff, even if afterwards they find it to have been a kind of waste of their time!
Mostly I'm just sorting through the crazy workings of my own mind in my free time, with this blog as the victim. Or I'm trying to keep my friends updated on my life, reassuring them I'm still just as off-the-wall as ever. I've tried to be aloof, puzzling and provoke some serious thought into secret messages with my creations before, and usually it's an inevitable fail.
I'm such a musical fiend that one time, I made a genuine "mix cd" for an old friend, complete with songs that meant something real and deep, and I forced him to listen to it in an attempt tho have him to decode the secret message: "You're upsetting me beyond belief, and tearing me apart." At one point he just commented on how random the collection was and then asked if we could listen to something else because, I was well aware he didn't really like all my music. I'd even just put on one specific song from time to time, trying to scream the message out to him, and he'd be oblivious. The problem was, he just didn't care, he didn't want to know even if I was legitimately upset. So now, when you read an Alison Chriss blog, you don't have to read between the lines...just read the actual piece.
People, especially women, really need to find the hidden meanings behind words and actions. It's like a psychological thing. We waste years definining moments, sentences, situations and memories. They have classes in college called "Women's Studies," for Pete's sake! It's all about the context and perception with us; it's exhausting! We are mysterious gender for sure.
We are even worse with each other. If you tell a girl buddy that her boyfriend is "just okay," she may dump him over it. If you tell a girl a dress makes her boobs look big, she'll freak out because that means her boobs are usually seen as small. The drama is ridiculous.
I spent years playing and losing the game. Now I try to play straight, no bluffing. Every once in awhile I run into an angry, bad sportsman and we get into it, but I'd like to think I'm not a completely terrible human. A friend I travelled with in London, once told me that I'm actually pretty easy to read. I carry the weight of the world and it shows. He didn't mean this in a bad way. It was funny, actually, because here I am waltzing around, acting as though I'm such a wiley and wonderfully strange being, only to find that a guy who's a relatively new friend, can tell most of what I'm thinking just by paying attention. There goes my feminine mystique!
Sometimes my lack of subtle-ness gets me into trouble, but it can also help keep me out of the strife that keeps me blogging. If you've become a victim of the tales of the life I call my own, it's not a purposeful occurence. Although I'm easily labelled as a "bitch," my intent is never to hurt or piss off anyone. If I really wanted revenge, I could do it. That's the angry, bitch side of me. If I'm going to attack you, it won't be some shady blog post. I'll say it to your face if I'm seriously upset with you. I'm not saying I've never talked about someone behind their back and never engaged in the ever-prevalent "shit-talking" session but I'll tell it to you straight if there's a true problem.
I'm still a big kid, overall. Becoming an adult blows! Who wants to do that? But I'd like to cast myself as someone grown up enough to at least play the good part. I'm not going to hide from people, situations and things just because I may upset someone. When you're around people, you're bound to clash and turn heads. It's a part of life. Our divine drama and ability to overdramatize is what actually seperates us from the animals...maybe I should stop writing and just start throwing feces.
I've weathered enough storms to keep a raincoat and umbrella handy. Does that say enough? What exactly would qualify me to be acceptable? Or what qualifies as unacceptable, I guess? There are some life questions to answer...
Even if this rambling incites some other reactionary measure causing my mind to spin further, I'll still going to keep on keeping on. I'd felt as though my ability to abuse this blog and create verbal masterpieces was taken away once before, and I won't allow myself to feel that badly ever again. I am who I am, I do what I do, and even when the clusterfuck hits, I will prevail.
I'm an artistic creature by nature and that's something you just can't un-do. It may be a flaw, it may be a quality found less than attractive, but it's me. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I fuck up but I won't wallow in regret. I own my mistakes and my fucked-up-ness. I own the fact I can be an angry, prickly, bitch. I'm not afriad to offend.
Perhaps it's a defense mechanism coming out to claim it's hostages, but I've let a lot of people into my circle of unrelenting truth, only to have them betray my confidence and be forced to kick their asses out of it! I do live and learn so, I'm able to weed out the good and bad better than past situations as each day passes. You have to work to get me to let you in. Perhaps if you break down the wall you'd join the ranks of the friends I amuse the hell out of, instead of those pissed off who add me to their "Shit list." Oh, come on, we all have one!
In the end, my so-called "strife," may be nothing but another day in the life and times of Alison. I may be over-dramatic and whiny but I don't feel like I'm pretending to be otherwise. If after two years of blogging, countless memories made, amazing days and horrific ones, someone is still reading my random musings, I consider myself to be doing okay. Even if this all ends up being nothing but a mental release for a live journal, it's a better way to spend my time than watching hours of Netflix Instant Queue!
Perhaps I'm just one entry away from insanity, but then again maybe one of my readers looked at this, laughed, and continued the day with a smile...I guess we'll see!
In May I upset a reader so much that, out of respect, I had to remove the blog...for now! I'd also found myself receiving a wide array of reactions. Most people find me to be generally amusing and even some may say I'm whitty and well-spoken. You're not a true creator unless you warrant the negative attention too, however.
Most of my blogs are personal diatribes about my life conquests, failures and success. Some allow you to see how crazy I am in actuality, and some dare to reveal my vulnerability. My readers who know me best, come to find me more endearing, and those who don't are often stunned by my verbal prowess and less-than-lady-like attitudes.
Some days I feel like I'm so crafty and mysterious but others, I'm pretty blatant and ruthless with my views. I like to think I offer a simple love-hate relationship with my writing and that goes the same with my personality. When growing up in a world where appearance is everything, living up to a desperate need to look civilized and put-together becomes part of the routine quite easily.
I do give off a specific persona of being ordinary, but we all have our secrets, our intrigues, and our insanities hidden behind the exterior; it's what keeps us interesting!
I've found out recently that, rather than offend by what was said, I really offend but what's done. People like to think I'm a certain way, they see me as a polite, amiable litte thing, who's pretty complacent overall. It's a decent act to keep people at bay. From day to day, I am relatively ordinary, but as I get comfortable you'll see the sassy, sarcastic, and loud version that is Alison, and she comes out to take names and kick ass. I feel like the people who meet that Alison should be flattered; you've passed the test. Others shouldn't be offended that she doesn't come out to play, rather, be appreciative that I'm attempting to respect you enough to keep her under wraps. When she comes out, she will offend you, but that's just her.
Wait, I think I just spoke of myself in the third person. How "Me, Myself and Irene" of me! I realize not everyone wants to read my bitching, or listen to it. I realize, for some, it's too much information, but the thing is, if I can get someone to relate and feel better by unleashing and posting these rants, my work is done! What more can a writer ask for?
Some readers may think, "What the hell does this chick have to complain about?" We are all lucky and unfortunate in our own special ways. But remember, as I've made very clear in past posts, what makes my shit more important that everyone else's, is that it's MINE. Really I'm just inviting my readers to bask in and enjoy my complaining and join in. After all, misery loves company.
I have come to a more recent realization, however, that upsetting people with my words is a powerful thing. Some may see me as two-faced, sitting here, hiding behind my shitty, Dell laptop and being pissed off at the world. I get it. I've had to own my anger and that's been quite the battle. I am an angry woman and every once in awhile it rears it's ugly head in some risky situations. I've seriously wrestled with not letting it overtake me. As someone raised by an extremely hateful person, becoming like her is my greatest fear. As annoying as people are, it's a lonely life without people around, even the ones we choose to dislike.
There's nothing in this blog, or any, I wouldn't reveal to someone in person. There's no cryptic or underlying messages that aren't eventually put in plain sight in my pieces. Anyone can whine and moan about life, but I'd like to think that making it fun, poetic, and verbally interesting is a gift I possess. I may be tooting my own horn but, people do read my stuff, even if afterwards they find it to have been a kind of waste of their time!
Mostly I'm just sorting through the crazy workings of my own mind in my free time, with this blog as the victim. Or I'm trying to keep my friends updated on my life, reassuring them I'm still just as off-the-wall as ever. I've tried to be aloof, puzzling and provoke some serious thought into secret messages with my creations before, and usually it's an inevitable fail.
I'm such a musical fiend that one time, I made a genuine "mix cd" for an old friend, complete with songs that meant something real and deep, and I forced him to listen to it in an attempt tho have him to decode the secret message: "You're upsetting me beyond belief, and tearing me apart." At one point he just commented on how random the collection was and then asked if we could listen to something else because, I was well aware he didn't really like all my music. I'd even just put on one specific song from time to time, trying to scream the message out to him, and he'd be oblivious. The problem was, he just didn't care, he didn't want to know even if I was legitimately upset. So now, when you read an Alison Chriss blog, you don't have to read between the lines...just read the actual piece.
People, especially women, really need to find the hidden meanings behind words and actions. It's like a psychological thing. We waste years definining moments, sentences, situations and memories. They have classes in college called "Women's Studies," for Pete's sake! It's all about the context and perception with us; it's exhausting! We are mysterious gender for sure.
We are even worse with each other. If you tell a girl buddy that her boyfriend is "just okay," she may dump him over it. If you tell a girl a dress makes her boobs look big, she'll freak out because that means her boobs are usually seen as small. The drama is ridiculous.
I spent years playing and losing the game. Now I try to play straight, no bluffing. Every once in awhile I run into an angry, bad sportsman and we get into it, but I'd like to think I'm not a completely terrible human. A friend I travelled with in London, once told me that I'm actually pretty easy to read. I carry the weight of the world and it shows. He didn't mean this in a bad way. It was funny, actually, because here I am waltzing around, acting as though I'm such a wiley and wonderfully strange being, only to find that a guy who's a relatively new friend, can tell most of what I'm thinking just by paying attention. There goes my feminine mystique!
Sometimes my lack of subtle-ness gets me into trouble, but it can also help keep me out of the strife that keeps me blogging. If you've become a victim of the tales of the life I call my own, it's not a purposeful occurence. Although I'm easily labelled as a "bitch," my intent is never to hurt or piss off anyone. If I really wanted revenge, I could do it. That's the angry, bitch side of me. If I'm going to attack you, it won't be some shady blog post. I'll say it to your face if I'm seriously upset with you. I'm not saying I've never talked about someone behind their back and never engaged in the ever-prevalent "shit-talking" session but I'll tell it to you straight if there's a true problem.
I'm still a big kid, overall. Becoming an adult blows! Who wants to do that? But I'd like to cast myself as someone grown up enough to at least play the good part. I'm not going to hide from people, situations and things just because I may upset someone. When you're around people, you're bound to clash and turn heads. It's a part of life. Our divine drama and ability to overdramatize is what actually seperates us from the animals...maybe I should stop writing and just start throwing feces.
I've weathered enough storms to keep a raincoat and umbrella handy. Does that say enough? What exactly would qualify me to be acceptable? Or what qualifies as unacceptable, I guess? There are some life questions to answer...
Even if this rambling incites some other reactionary measure causing my mind to spin further, I'll still going to keep on keeping on. I'd felt as though my ability to abuse this blog and create verbal masterpieces was taken away once before, and I won't allow myself to feel that badly ever again. I am who I am, I do what I do, and even when the clusterfuck hits, I will prevail.
I'm an artistic creature by nature and that's something you just can't un-do. It may be a flaw, it may be a quality found less than attractive, but it's me. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I fuck up but I won't wallow in regret. I own my mistakes and my fucked-up-ness. I own the fact I can be an angry, prickly, bitch. I'm not afriad to offend.
Perhaps it's a defense mechanism coming out to claim it's hostages, but I've let a lot of people into my circle of unrelenting truth, only to have them betray my confidence and be forced to kick their asses out of it! I do live and learn so, I'm able to weed out the good and bad better than past situations as each day passes. You have to work to get me to let you in. Perhaps if you break down the wall you'd join the ranks of the friends I amuse the hell out of, instead of those pissed off who add me to their "Shit list." Oh, come on, we all have one!
In the end, my so-called "strife," may be nothing but another day in the life and times of Alison. I may be over-dramatic and whiny but I don't feel like I'm pretending to be otherwise. If after two years of blogging, countless memories made, amazing days and horrific ones, someone is still reading my random musings, I consider myself to be doing okay. Even if this all ends up being nothing but a mental release for a live journal, it's a better way to spend my time than watching hours of Netflix Instant Queue!
Perhaps I'm just one entry away from insanity, but then again maybe one of my readers looked at this, laughed, and continued the day with a smile...I guess we'll see!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Clusterfucked...
I guess I'll just jump in and say that my husband and I are not the average, American married couple, and I'm anything but an average girl. We don't have an obscene amout of credit card debt- a little under $5,000-ish -we don't own fancy things, we share one car, we still have a tube TV, and my father branded into me the idea of living simply. My husband encourages me to live even simplier...so not a word.
I don't buy new clothes and shoes all the time, and when I do, they are purchased at Target, TJMaxx and Ross. We don't go to fancy restaurants, buy expensive drinks and such. We are pretty chill for the most part. Where does all our money go? Plane tickets, a splurge on concerts, or we turn to the credit cards for the, "Oh, shit" fund.
We rarely ask for help although who doesn't love monetary presents? But June kicked some Chriss' asses and man, today was the day of relief, worry and a damn good cry.
I'm pretty obsessive about budgeting and in turn, I've made Eben the same way. We rarely "overspend." But when it came to vacation this year, we just accepted our defeat. It cost us over $1,000 to fly home to Oregon. Eight hundred round trip for us and $250 to take the the dog with us, which we rationalized because he was little, we could take him as carry on and it was "cheaper than boarding him!" So, the tickets, the bags, the Brodie and everything was put on the credit card.
In the midst of this we are also in an amazing transitional phase where the old will be out and in will come the brand new, so balancing the two became quite the act! So Eben had just been awarded vacation pay, which we knew we'd have to pay rent. We also knew this fall, his pay would change again so we'd figured, we can deal with this later, we can wait! Fun now, pay later!
One glorious day an American Express application came with my name on it and I thought....oooh, now I'm a grown up. So we discussed it and I said, "It might be nice to have this as part of the 'Oh, shit' fund and then on the trip we just don't have to care as much." So I applied and got accepted. I kept my fingers crossed that I would get it in time for vacation so we'd have it for the incidentals and it showed up two days before our flight!
So off we went for the grand Oregon adventure. I swiped that AMEX like nobody's business! Not to mention it saved us in the long run anyway. Half of the crackpot plans we did have in place before we left got changed three days before, anyway so the card just helped us cover the bases no one else could.
We didn't over-spend too much on vacation. It helped us have a lot of fun and do the things we didn't think we could otherwise. I didn't even want to know how much, still don't! When we came home we thought we'd go back to work and be hardworking Americans who slowly pay down their luxuries. But does any story end that way? Of course not.
Eben went back to work for two days before the Clusterfuck cloud rained down on us. On a regular Monday afternoon while watching some comedy special on the Netflix queue and eating a homemade salad things went a bit crazy. I was in my undershirt and underwear getting ready for work when I sat down to eat for a moment and it all took a turn for the scary.
Eben was sitting there staring and looking strange. I joked, "You look disgruntled babe, do you not want to watch this?" All of the sudden his head nodded down low and he went ghost white! He put his salad down and his eyes opened wide and glossy, his body tensed up and he started shaking and having tremors. Every few minutes he would breathe in short, exhaulted breaths, hyperventilating. He couldn't talk. He looked at me like he could hear me but couldn't make out the words. Something was wrong. I panicked.
I fumbled with my phone to call work and say I couldn't come in. I couldn't dial, I could barely think. I called three people in hysterics, probably scaring the shit out of all of them and needed to get Eben some help! Clusterfucked: do we have insurance? NOPE! We're healthy twenty-somethings and it's not in the budget. Off to the walk-in Urgent Care we go!
I shakily get him into the car. He's only half aware of what just happened. I'm crying and swearing. I threw on some crappy, terry-cloth, way-too-short, shorts and a t-shirt and grabbed my flip flops. The poor dog just looked bewildered. We walked into the clinic and I told them he may have had an allergic reaction. They took him back immediately with about 5 other people in there that had been waiting before him just looking annoyed, and I started to fill out paperwork.
The asked me to come back immediately. His eyes were glossy, his memory foggy and when he stuck out his tongue it drooped to the left. They said, "You need to get him to the emergency room right now, it's neurological, and preferably get him there by ambulance." The hospital was across the street. The walk-in clinic didn't even let me finish filling stuff out. They didn't make us pay. I got him to the ER and they took one look at him: "Do you need a doctor?"
Clusterfucked: He was so trembly and trying to piece it together, and the circus began. They asked us what happened in admissions, he gave a full medical history and lack of insurance information. The stress hits me. We move to the emergency room. Who to call, who not to call, what to do? Luckily it was his day off, but it was safe to say he wouldn't be in tomorrow. Thank goodness I had two days off in a row!
The dog! We had to get someone to care for the dog. This is what was racing through my mind. I hate hospitals! Then the waiting game. We had to listen to the amazing bronchitis woman in the next area over, the wheezy lady, Senorita Spanish in pain screaming, "Hay dios mio!," and the gal beside us with a broken bone arguing with everyone. And we just waited for each nurse, doctor, and assistant to come in and let us perform the who-what-when-how ritual. It was 4pm and I was exhausted.
I finally called for back up. The only person who I knew wasn't going to be inconvenienced was my friend from work, whom coincidentally also loved our dog. She came a running. She was amazing and then came the question: "How's Eben?," followed by, "And how are you?" Me, I couldn't even think about me. Me wasn't important...everything else was.
Clusterfucked: They have to test him for everything from epilepsy to stroke. It was likely to be a seizure...then it WAS a seizure. They were keeping him overnight. A ray of hope that Eben saw as a sign because she shared the name of his Grandmother Chriss, came in to give us all the financial help papers. We could deal with all this later. Those bills wouldn't show up any time soon right? I could feel the stress in my ears and toes. This was bad.
Brodie goes with Auntie Em and I come home to pick up the house a bit. It's a scary place without him. Thank goodness for good friends and family checking on us. I'm already calculating the bills in my head and it hurts. I'm ready to put some family members on my speed dial but I'm not ready to fully surrender yet. It's only the first night.
Anti-seizure medicine is on. He's on a liquid diet. MRI at 4am. Neurological tests at 11am day two of the hospital. No food yet. Dinner and no test results. They've taken his blood four times. The IV in his arm is killing him, time to move it. New IV on the hand. The second night I cave and go home with the dog. Our friends visited him in the hospital.
If it weren't for the dog spooning me, I may not have slept. Plus I knew they finally fed Eben. MRI comes back fine, blood work is fine. No word on the neurological results on day three. Ultrasound for the blown out IV. Now he may have cellultitis. The saintly woman comes back to say we qualify for help. We wait. He has a clot in a superficial vein; very painful. We also find out he has sleep apnea and an extremely immense sinus infection. The results are in: small grade seizure, a combination of stress, sinus infection, travelling, and pressure changes gave him a neurological meltdown. No epilepsy. We're hoping for a one time freak accident!
They let us go home. Eben's still shaky and tired but all he wants is to see the dog. We drop off his presciptions at Wal-Mart. Clusterfucked: It's going to be almost 200$! Hello AMEX! We have almost no food. Hello AMEX at Applebees! We're stewing...should we ask for help or wait and see? We waited a lot. Things weren't working. Paychecks were small because of vacation, things were happening late. Bills were wiping us clean and I was desperate for interaction outside of my home. I'd never been so happy to be back at work.
Eben was exhausted and in pain. At home he puttered around the house. He cleaned, cooked, watched TV, played with and walked the dog. He was definitely taken down a few notches but he was stressed about going back to work. He didn't want anyone to fuss about him. It had been an emotionally tumultuous week and I'd had to talk myself into not crying wolf, but finally caved in to asking for help.
Clusterfucked...it was just too much. I started writing these cryptic, angry Facebook statuses and couldn't cry but needed to. Besides Eben, I only had one ally. She told me it was okay to ask for help. It was okay to ask for a lot of help. Eben's Dad was on a military kind of social security budget, my dad just got out of the hospital himself. Eben's mom was great for immediate help but what about next month? We needed to call the wonderful OZ of our family. I was going to shoot high and ask for a lot. Why not? Even if he said no, I'd still taken a leap. I didn't expect the moon but I can hope!
He knew when I called. He's that kind of guy. He asked what he could do to help. I gave him the first offer. It threw him! "What do you need that kind of money for?" To break even I thought! To wipe the slate clean! I immediately became upset and embarrased. I'd gone too far. It was too familiar for him. Like the days when my mom would hit him up for ridiculous amounts. I just estimated the total of those bills and got antsy. Now I felt bad.
I'd asked for a loan. I wanted to pay it back in installments but he said he'd give us a smaller gift instead. Now I just hoped Obama would pay for our entire hospital stay out of his pocket, if I filled out the right paperwork and wrote him a nice note. I found myself searching for one of those posters with the kitty that says, "Hang in there," just to give me some self assurance.
I text my cousin and bore my soul! I told him I shot high and hit rock bottom and felt so terrible for doing that. He told me that's what family is there for, and asking for help is okay, he does it all the time. I felt a bit better.
Clusterfucked: Eben and I feel like failures. We've paid our dues and we don't expect much. That's exactly why I shot so high. We never expected to be given that much -if any- but damn it, if we could just have it to solve our problems and only owe our family we'd do it. I didn't want this to come up at family dinners. I didn't want them to feel like we were broke, lesser beings. But then I started wondering, which let me to start talking to people and I realized, everyone does it!
I think our entire universe is in some kind of debt. Some people don't even care! I bet my entire family has thousands, upon thousands of dollars worth of credit card debt and then some. But we all hide it so well. If we have money to go out, or at least to appear to do so, we're fine. It's all about keeping up appearances. Any sign of weakness is unacceptable!
I'm still stewing a bit, with worry and stress to boot, but we got some help. We really got all we needed. Then I thought about how awesome my bargaining skills were. If I'd shot too low, we may be worse off - haha, kidding - but instead I negotiated myself a payment of rent for August in case it all really went to shit!
I wish we could get past this. I wish Clusterfucked was just a really bad ass word we'd say in jest, instead of the epitome of our situation but it is what it is. Twenty years from now when we get these kinds of phone calls from our neices, nephews, and kids of our own we'll remember that they helped us. So when they ask us for $10,000 to help, because by that time it'll be the equivalent of what $5,000 pays for today, we'll say, "Instead of loaning you that much, I'll just give you $3,000 as a gift and we'll call it even. Take care of yourself and things will get better."
We have to believe that things happen for a reason and this was all a sign. We have to remember that many people have it far worse than we do and that the Clusterfuck is an artful thing, a learning experience really! At the end of the day, we are surrounded by some seriously amazing people and we can still laugh. That's all there is!
I don't buy new clothes and shoes all the time, and when I do, they are purchased at Target, TJMaxx and Ross. We don't go to fancy restaurants, buy expensive drinks and such. We are pretty chill for the most part. Where does all our money go? Plane tickets, a splurge on concerts, or we turn to the credit cards for the, "Oh, shit" fund.
We rarely ask for help although who doesn't love monetary presents? But June kicked some Chriss' asses and man, today was the day of relief, worry and a damn good cry.
I'm pretty obsessive about budgeting and in turn, I've made Eben the same way. We rarely "overspend." But when it came to vacation this year, we just accepted our defeat. It cost us over $1,000 to fly home to Oregon. Eight hundred round trip for us and $250 to take the the dog with us, which we rationalized because he was little, we could take him as carry on and it was "cheaper than boarding him!" So, the tickets, the bags, the Brodie and everything was put on the credit card.
In the midst of this we are also in an amazing transitional phase where the old will be out and in will come the brand new, so balancing the two became quite the act! So Eben had just been awarded vacation pay, which we knew we'd have to pay rent. We also knew this fall, his pay would change again so we'd figured, we can deal with this later, we can wait! Fun now, pay later!
One glorious day an American Express application came with my name on it and I thought....oooh, now I'm a grown up. So we discussed it and I said, "It might be nice to have this as part of the 'Oh, shit' fund and then on the trip we just don't have to care as much." So I applied and got accepted. I kept my fingers crossed that I would get it in time for vacation so we'd have it for the incidentals and it showed up two days before our flight!
So off we went for the grand Oregon adventure. I swiped that AMEX like nobody's business! Not to mention it saved us in the long run anyway. Half of the crackpot plans we did have in place before we left got changed three days before, anyway so the card just helped us cover the bases no one else could.
We didn't over-spend too much on vacation. It helped us have a lot of fun and do the things we didn't think we could otherwise. I didn't even want to know how much, still don't! When we came home we thought we'd go back to work and be hardworking Americans who slowly pay down their luxuries. But does any story end that way? Of course not.
Eben went back to work for two days before the Clusterfuck cloud rained down on us. On a regular Monday afternoon while watching some comedy special on the Netflix queue and eating a homemade salad things went a bit crazy. I was in my undershirt and underwear getting ready for work when I sat down to eat for a moment and it all took a turn for the scary.
Eben was sitting there staring and looking strange. I joked, "You look disgruntled babe, do you not want to watch this?" All of the sudden his head nodded down low and he went ghost white! He put his salad down and his eyes opened wide and glossy, his body tensed up and he started shaking and having tremors. Every few minutes he would breathe in short, exhaulted breaths, hyperventilating. He couldn't talk. He looked at me like he could hear me but couldn't make out the words. Something was wrong. I panicked.
I fumbled with my phone to call work and say I couldn't come in. I couldn't dial, I could barely think. I called three people in hysterics, probably scaring the shit out of all of them and needed to get Eben some help! Clusterfucked: do we have insurance? NOPE! We're healthy twenty-somethings and it's not in the budget. Off to the walk-in Urgent Care we go!
I shakily get him into the car. He's only half aware of what just happened. I'm crying and swearing. I threw on some crappy, terry-cloth, way-too-short, shorts and a t-shirt and grabbed my flip flops. The poor dog just looked bewildered. We walked into the clinic and I told them he may have had an allergic reaction. They took him back immediately with about 5 other people in there that had been waiting before him just looking annoyed, and I started to fill out paperwork.
The asked me to come back immediately. His eyes were glossy, his memory foggy and when he stuck out his tongue it drooped to the left. They said, "You need to get him to the emergency room right now, it's neurological, and preferably get him there by ambulance." The hospital was across the street. The walk-in clinic didn't even let me finish filling stuff out. They didn't make us pay. I got him to the ER and they took one look at him: "Do you need a doctor?"
Clusterfucked: He was so trembly and trying to piece it together, and the circus began. They asked us what happened in admissions, he gave a full medical history and lack of insurance information. The stress hits me. We move to the emergency room. Who to call, who not to call, what to do? Luckily it was his day off, but it was safe to say he wouldn't be in tomorrow. Thank goodness I had two days off in a row!
The dog! We had to get someone to care for the dog. This is what was racing through my mind. I hate hospitals! Then the waiting game. We had to listen to the amazing bronchitis woman in the next area over, the wheezy lady, Senorita Spanish in pain screaming, "Hay dios mio!," and the gal beside us with a broken bone arguing with everyone. And we just waited for each nurse, doctor, and assistant to come in and let us perform the who-what-when-how ritual. It was 4pm and I was exhausted.
I finally called for back up. The only person who I knew wasn't going to be inconvenienced was my friend from work, whom coincidentally also loved our dog. She came a running. She was amazing and then came the question: "How's Eben?," followed by, "And how are you?" Me, I couldn't even think about me. Me wasn't important...everything else was.
Clusterfucked: They have to test him for everything from epilepsy to stroke. It was likely to be a seizure...then it WAS a seizure. They were keeping him overnight. A ray of hope that Eben saw as a sign because she shared the name of his Grandmother Chriss, came in to give us all the financial help papers. We could deal with all this later. Those bills wouldn't show up any time soon right? I could feel the stress in my ears and toes. This was bad.
Brodie goes with Auntie Em and I come home to pick up the house a bit. It's a scary place without him. Thank goodness for good friends and family checking on us. I'm already calculating the bills in my head and it hurts. I'm ready to put some family members on my speed dial but I'm not ready to fully surrender yet. It's only the first night.
Anti-seizure medicine is on. He's on a liquid diet. MRI at 4am. Neurological tests at 11am day two of the hospital. No food yet. Dinner and no test results. They've taken his blood four times. The IV in his arm is killing him, time to move it. New IV on the hand. The second night I cave and go home with the dog. Our friends visited him in the hospital.
If it weren't for the dog spooning me, I may not have slept. Plus I knew they finally fed Eben. MRI comes back fine, blood work is fine. No word on the neurological results on day three. Ultrasound for the blown out IV. Now he may have cellultitis. The saintly woman comes back to say we qualify for help. We wait. He has a clot in a superficial vein; very painful. We also find out he has sleep apnea and an extremely immense sinus infection. The results are in: small grade seizure, a combination of stress, sinus infection, travelling, and pressure changes gave him a neurological meltdown. No epilepsy. We're hoping for a one time freak accident!
They let us go home. Eben's still shaky and tired but all he wants is to see the dog. We drop off his presciptions at Wal-Mart. Clusterfucked: It's going to be almost 200$! Hello AMEX! We have almost no food. Hello AMEX at Applebees! We're stewing...should we ask for help or wait and see? We waited a lot. Things weren't working. Paychecks were small because of vacation, things were happening late. Bills were wiping us clean and I was desperate for interaction outside of my home. I'd never been so happy to be back at work.
Eben was exhausted and in pain. At home he puttered around the house. He cleaned, cooked, watched TV, played with and walked the dog. He was definitely taken down a few notches but he was stressed about going back to work. He didn't want anyone to fuss about him. It had been an emotionally tumultuous week and I'd had to talk myself into not crying wolf, but finally caved in to asking for help.
Clusterfucked...it was just too much. I started writing these cryptic, angry Facebook statuses and couldn't cry but needed to. Besides Eben, I only had one ally. She told me it was okay to ask for help. It was okay to ask for a lot of help. Eben's Dad was on a military kind of social security budget, my dad just got out of the hospital himself. Eben's mom was great for immediate help but what about next month? We needed to call the wonderful OZ of our family. I was going to shoot high and ask for a lot. Why not? Even if he said no, I'd still taken a leap. I didn't expect the moon but I can hope!
He knew when I called. He's that kind of guy. He asked what he could do to help. I gave him the first offer. It threw him! "What do you need that kind of money for?" To break even I thought! To wipe the slate clean! I immediately became upset and embarrased. I'd gone too far. It was too familiar for him. Like the days when my mom would hit him up for ridiculous amounts. I just estimated the total of those bills and got antsy. Now I felt bad.
I'd asked for a loan. I wanted to pay it back in installments but he said he'd give us a smaller gift instead. Now I just hoped Obama would pay for our entire hospital stay out of his pocket, if I filled out the right paperwork and wrote him a nice note. I found myself searching for one of those posters with the kitty that says, "Hang in there," just to give me some self assurance.
I text my cousin and bore my soul! I told him I shot high and hit rock bottom and felt so terrible for doing that. He told me that's what family is there for, and asking for help is okay, he does it all the time. I felt a bit better.
Clusterfucked: Eben and I feel like failures. We've paid our dues and we don't expect much. That's exactly why I shot so high. We never expected to be given that much -if any- but damn it, if we could just have it to solve our problems and only owe our family we'd do it. I didn't want this to come up at family dinners. I didn't want them to feel like we were broke, lesser beings. But then I started wondering, which let me to start talking to people and I realized, everyone does it!
I think our entire universe is in some kind of debt. Some people don't even care! I bet my entire family has thousands, upon thousands of dollars worth of credit card debt and then some. But we all hide it so well. If we have money to go out, or at least to appear to do so, we're fine. It's all about keeping up appearances. Any sign of weakness is unacceptable!
I'm still stewing a bit, with worry and stress to boot, but we got some help. We really got all we needed. Then I thought about how awesome my bargaining skills were. If I'd shot too low, we may be worse off - haha, kidding - but instead I negotiated myself a payment of rent for August in case it all really went to shit!
I wish we could get past this. I wish Clusterfucked was just a really bad ass word we'd say in jest, instead of the epitome of our situation but it is what it is. Twenty years from now when we get these kinds of phone calls from our neices, nephews, and kids of our own we'll remember that they helped us. So when they ask us for $10,000 to help, because by that time it'll be the equivalent of what $5,000 pays for today, we'll say, "Instead of loaning you that much, I'll just give you $3,000 as a gift and we'll call it even. Take care of yourself and things will get better."
We have to believe that things happen for a reason and this was all a sign. We have to remember that many people have it far worse than we do and that the Clusterfuck is an artful thing, a learning experience really! At the end of the day, we are surrounded by some seriously amazing people and we can still laugh. That's all there is!
Friday, May 27, 2011
Songs of Love
So my man Eben and I have quite the relationship! Below are the songs that, together, comprise the love we share and will always share! Laugh and enjoy!
So we didn't have an instant connection but we'd both had those high school heartaches. Even though I had the hots for his roommates, we still asked the same question out of life: "Where Do Broken Hearts Go?"
Then I started dating his roomate, Josh, while Eben worshipped me from afar and I knew that he wished that he had "Josh's Girl." After the big, bad break-up with the roommate I was a little hesitant, but he wooed me and convinced me, "Love lifts us up where we belong."
We had to break the friendship zone because he'd been "My Best Friend," for so long! So we started dating and at first we hid it from people, but eventually everyone could tell that we were in love. It just kind of happened. We didn't know what to expect but all of the sudden we were "Accidentally in Love," and it was a happy accident.
Then of course, we have to have some drama, because that's what life is all about. The best songs to sum this up would have to be a kind of montage of...me having "issues," some "Trust" stuff, and not being able to just be "us." We pulled it together but when hard times hit months and months later we tried to be apart and date other people, which was weird. But at the same time we always kind of ended up back together in one way or another.
Eben hated the guy I was dating, I know he thought, "Is she really going out with him?" Although, I didn't want anyone else getting their hands on him either. He was mine!
So eventually we gave up and gave in and got it back together for real.
On our second Valentine's Day we found our official song, "I Will Follow You Into The Dark." We were inseparable and we even ended up moving in together. That was quite the adjustment but like everything else in this life, we made it work.
I got the opportunity to study abroad. It was tough for me, but it was an opportunity I had to take. I had to suck it up even though I wanted to cry! I knew he hated that I was "So Far Away."
When I came back it was like I'd never been away. We talked all the time when I was gone and picked up right where we left off. We saw the Silver Lining in it all. It wasn't all happyness, champagne and roses though. We still had a lot of drama all around us and I was a mess after being gone. I missed my friends so much.
Things kept on swinging, and life kept on happening. Through it all, we stuck together. When my grandma died, he was there for me. I was the The Luckiest. I still am! When my mom was sick, he was supportive and patient. When life, kicked my ass, he was always there to help me back up. He's definitely a Well-respected man. It became pretty clear, despite any bad times, the fights and the drama that My Life Would Suck Without him.
We lost some great people in the midst of putting ourselves back together, but we all had the Time of Our Life and as sad as it is to say it was Good Riddance. So on St. Patrick's Day in 2009, after nearly 5 years of being together through it all, Eben asked and I said yes! I knew that He and I would be amazing together forever.
We still have times where we drive each other crazy but overall, I think we love each other Faithfully, we keep the Lovin, Touchin and Squeezing, live life Anyway we Want It, and won't Stop Believing in each other and the love we have!
So we didn't have an instant connection but we'd both had those high school heartaches. Even though I had the hots for his roommates, we still asked the same question out of life: "Where Do Broken Hearts Go?"
Then I started dating his roomate, Josh, while Eben worshipped me from afar and I knew that he wished that he had "Josh's Girl." After the big, bad break-up with the roommate I was a little hesitant, but he wooed me and convinced me, "Love lifts us up where we belong."
We had to break the friendship zone because he'd been "My Best Friend," for so long! So we started dating and at first we hid it from people, but eventually everyone could tell that we were in love. It just kind of happened. We didn't know what to expect but all of the sudden we were "Accidentally in Love," and it was a happy accident.
Then of course, we have to have some drama, because that's what life is all about. The best songs to sum this up would have to be a kind of montage of...me having "issues," some "Trust" stuff, and not being able to just be "us." We pulled it together but when hard times hit months and months later we tried to be apart and date other people, which was weird. But at the same time we always kind of ended up back together in one way or another.
Eben hated the guy I was dating, I know he thought, "Is she really going out with him?" Although, I didn't want anyone else getting their hands on him either. He was mine!
So eventually we gave up and gave in and got it back together for real.
On our second Valentine's Day we found our official song, "I Will Follow You Into The Dark." We were inseparable and we even ended up moving in together. That was quite the adjustment but like everything else in this life, we made it work.
I got the opportunity to study abroad. It was tough for me, but it was an opportunity I had to take. I had to suck it up even though I wanted to cry! I knew he hated that I was "So Far Away."
When I came back it was like I'd never been away. We talked all the time when I was gone and picked up right where we left off. We saw the Silver Lining in it all. It wasn't all happyness, champagne and roses though. We still had a lot of drama all around us and I was a mess after being gone. I missed my friends so much.
Things kept on swinging, and life kept on happening. Through it all, we stuck together. When my grandma died, he was there for me. I was the The Luckiest. I still am! When my mom was sick, he was supportive and patient. When life, kicked my ass, he was always there to help me back up. He's definitely a Well-respected man. It became pretty clear, despite any bad times, the fights and the drama that My Life Would Suck Without him.
We lost some great people in the midst of putting ourselves back together, but we all had the Time of Our Life and as sad as it is to say it was Good Riddance. So on St. Patrick's Day in 2009, after nearly 5 years of being together through it all, Eben asked and I said yes! I knew that He and I would be amazing together forever.
We still have times where we drive each other crazy but overall, I think we love each other Faithfully, we keep the Lovin, Touchin and Squeezing, live life Anyway we Want It, and won't Stop Believing in each other and the love we have!
We Live, We Learn, We Create, We Burn
Between waiting for the end of the world, working and being an active participant on the planet, it’s no wonder we often view this life as being a treacherous task. When I was growing up we never talked about the bad things. When life pulled a swift one on you, you would suck it up and swallow that bitter pill with the last drop of water you had. But I always had writing. I always had a journal, a diary or a piece of paper to write down my letters of life.
I have learned a lot in my twenty six years in the universe and I learn more every day but it never ceases to amaze me when the same old dramatic situations rear their ugly heads. When you grow up as a regular, suburban, middle-class family and come home one day when you’re twelve to a completely shattered existence, you grow up and you wake up pretty damn fast. Amidst broken promises and continuous lies, you create your own little world safe from all the wrongs and injustice. You escape by watching movies, and listening to endless hours of music. In my case, you also escaped by writing. You can take away every pain in the world if you write it out.
I’ll admit, on the outside I look completely normal and mostly put together, but there is a darkness inside this vertically challenged figure. I am an angry person. I’ve cried myself to sleep many times fearing that I would grow to be hateful, just like the hateful one who created me. Now I’ve checked and swallowed my anger so many times, so when it escapes, it tears things apart, but as a wonderful lyric by Frou Frou once expressed, “There’s beauty in the breakdown.”
Maybe I should provide some history. Since I was about 13, I’ve become a guarded, jaded, and suspicious being. I’m extremely selective on whom I let in. Every time I’ve let people see my darkness, it has always bitten me on the ass. So I’ve learned that some people can understand the fact that they just can’t understand, and other judge you for believing that fact, seeing you as holding your own life above all other matters of the world. True, darkened people like myself, are often selfish, but some of us are in fact selfless.
I could sit here and tell you my life story. I could tell you the great moments and the horrors, but would that make you accept me? Maybe it would. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it until I die, with me you must understand that there are many things that you just cannot understand. Just like I have no real idea how my two best friends feel, having lost their mothers in their teenage years to tragic circumstance, you all have no idea how I feel having gone through what I have gone though.
What have I gone through? Here’s a taste: absentee parent at age 12, tried to repair the relationship at 15 and moved away from my entire world and the only real parent I’ve ever had. My first boyfriend when I was 16 was four years older than me. The first guy that cared about me had a girlfriend and I helped him cheat on her. I was physically dragged away from my new world into another one 3,000 miles away from everything. I almost didn’t graduate high school. My senior prom date dumped me a month before prom to take a freshman after he’d picked out my dress with me. My boyfriend at 18 was pill-junkie, unbeknownst to me, and he raised his hand to me once and almost hit me, stole $1200 from me, almost stole my car, cheated on me and lied to me throughout our entire relationship. An old family friend preyed on my vulnerability and destroyed my self-esteem to the point where throughout our relationship I was a cutter, hurt the only man that ever truly loved me, lost and gained over twenty pounds and completely lost touch with myself. I stopped my life to take care of a family member thought to have cancer only to later find out she’d lied, stolen and lost everything she had. I single-handedly cleaned up the mess, with no appreciation and in the middle of it all; a life-long friend was lost to drama and bullshit. I destroyed and repaired the 7 year relationship I’ve ha d with my husband to the point where he is just about all I have to depend on in this world.
I have some amazing friends who have fallen in love with my flaws and celebrate them with me. I’ve been through some crazy shit. I could write a novel. But really, in the end, I want to know why people seem to be surprised when I’m callous, abrasive and fly my freak flag? I realize I have a kind of clean image but I was raised to keep up a certain appearance and make nice. That doesn’t mean I can’t turn on something completely different.
This world has kicked my ass time and time again and I’m still standing. However, I still manager to get beat up by anyone I let in. There have only been a handful of people in my life who’ve seen the darkness and jump in there with me. Those are the people who hide the darkness within themselves too. I’m into that whole dark and light thing. I learned it in art, its call chiaroscuro, the distribution of light and shade in a picture. What’s my favorite painting? Van Gogh’s Starry, Starry Night is my favorite and talk about the difference between light and dark! MAN! I embody the distribution of shade and light within my personality.
I can be sweet as pie but don’t cross me. I’m a hard one to understand. Recently my husband was brought to tears explaining that with what I’d been through, he will stay with me through the rest and he knows how I’ve struggled and he refuses to watch anyone hurt me anymore. There are people in my life who love and accept me as the mess that I am. I own my fucked-up-ness and wear it with pride!
People find me fake and two-faced because they catch my “shade” when my light has dimmed. I was raised to be polite and cordial to everyone. I was raised to “get along,” with everyone, even if I don’t like or agree with them. It always carried me through. Don’t get me wrong, like the rest of the world, I can talk some shit. I can talk myself into a frenzy, but I can also talk myself out of one…or write it!
In the moments where the world slaps me in the face and I’m perplexed and upset, I write it out. In the new age, that’s what blogs are for. Sometimes when people read my blog they are touched. They see the darkness and they appreciate my point of view. I often write from a negative arena, but there are some pieces that are balanced and lighter.
I’ve lived and learned. I will still create. I will burn and bury the things that have brought me distress. I think Death Cab For Cutie’s lyrics can put it quite succinctly:
“Will I have learned so very little, when these bones are old and brittle?I wait to talk when I should listen and cloud mistakes with false revisions…and I can feel them pulling away as I'm resigned to stay the same. And you can't even begin to know, how many times I've told myself, ‘I told you so.’ And you can't even begin to believe, there’s so many bridges engulfed in flames behind me…”
I write about the burned bridges but I will admit that the dark side of this redhead thought the flames of those burning bridges to be gorgeous in the destruction. I refuse to live in regret. Sometimes I wish that the scenes had played out differently but I wouldn’t take away any of my dark times and bad days because what doesn’t kill you only makes you more badass.
One of my favorite comedians, Dane Cook, talks about how there are two kinds of connections in this world: when you are with someone and you are having a great time it’s a “good relationship,” but when everything goes wrong and it’s a bad situation it’s called a “relation-shit.” It’s quite brilliant, really and I fully agree with the idea. When you’re in the middle of something great, be it a friendship, a job, a city, whatever, you are so in love. It’s always light, fluffy and sweet. When things get tough, it can get ugly real fast and when that love fades, you’re left with a relation-shit. We’ve all had them. They come and they go. I don’t regret them, I’ve learned from them both, they’d gotten me through a lot but don’t be upset with me because I see “the break-up” or the “breakdown,” as a beautiful disaster while you may see it in a completely different light.
I laugh and poke fun of a lot in this life to battle the inner darkness. In the film “Anger Management,” Jack Nicolson’s character calls sarcasm, anger’s ugly cousin or something like that and he’s right on. My frustration often comes out in sarcastic spurts, but my grandmother always said, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. I guess I thought a little spice makes everything nice…see there it was again!
What can I say? I’m simply a complicated girl; even that statement was a total oxymoron! People hold these expectations upon me and become disappointed when I don’t live up to them but I see at as, if I’m disappointing I’m still getting your attention, right? I can’t say if I see the glass half empty or the glass half full because if I don’t have a full cocktail in front of me, who cares anyway! HA! I don’t like making enemies out of people but if I let you in and you use my darkness against me, I guess we can’t get along after all. I’m not afraid of controversy. I am a controversial being, but it annoys me when perceptions and feelings get rolled into a cluster-fuck.
I’m an expert on the whole feelings versus perceptions thing, people. No joke. I’ve been arguing both sides for years. You feel what you feel, that if a person’s right, but if you perceive a situation to be one way, and I see it the opposite, that’s no one’s fault and you can’t really argue it. Take it for what it is! And yet it’s a constant struggle!
Recently I’d felt personally violated, like I couldn’t think my thoughts, feel my feelings, and write down my story. I’d lashed out, I’d felt upset and then I swallowed my pride and just faced that music. Music is a big part of my life, so I’ll always face it head on, even if they are playing my most hated song. I’d had an awakening though. Whatever happened to sticks and stones can hurt my bones but words can never hurt? I’d been called a lot of terrible things throughout the years and I always managed to stand back up. I’d also seen, first hand, that cordial attitude of getting along, the very thing I’d been chastised for, given right back to me, like a reflex. It’s in our nature.
I’ve created a world for me where I’m comfortable. I’ve selected some amazing people to keep around me. I’ve lived. I’ve learned. I’ve created some questionable objects and situations. I’ve burned things, people and many bridges. I’ve seen the light, I’ve seen the dark. I won’t apologize for being me. If you get hurt on my personal journey of living, learning, creating, and burning, damn straight I owe you an apology, but I won’t stop being me for anyone. If my husband, my family and my closest friends can accept me as the great mess that I am, you should just be able to accept that you don’t “get me.” I’m still meeting great new people every day and finding friends in different places. I may not have been what or who you wanted me to be, but if I’m happy being me, that’s the end of the discussion.
For now, I’ll continue my living, learning, creating and burning, until I’ve lived my last day, learned my last lesson, created my last great achievement and burned everything left in my wake!
I have learned a lot in my twenty six years in the universe and I learn more every day but it never ceases to amaze me when the same old dramatic situations rear their ugly heads. When you grow up as a regular, suburban, middle-class family and come home one day when you’re twelve to a completely shattered existence, you grow up and you wake up pretty damn fast. Amidst broken promises and continuous lies, you create your own little world safe from all the wrongs and injustice. You escape by watching movies, and listening to endless hours of music. In my case, you also escaped by writing. You can take away every pain in the world if you write it out.
I’ll admit, on the outside I look completely normal and mostly put together, but there is a darkness inside this vertically challenged figure. I am an angry person. I’ve cried myself to sleep many times fearing that I would grow to be hateful, just like the hateful one who created me. Now I’ve checked and swallowed my anger so many times, so when it escapes, it tears things apart, but as a wonderful lyric by Frou Frou once expressed, “There’s beauty in the breakdown.”
Maybe I should provide some history. Since I was about 13, I’ve become a guarded, jaded, and suspicious being. I’m extremely selective on whom I let in. Every time I’ve let people see my darkness, it has always bitten me on the ass. So I’ve learned that some people can understand the fact that they just can’t understand, and other judge you for believing that fact, seeing you as holding your own life above all other matters of the world. True, darkened people like myself, are often selfish, but some of us are in fact selfless.
I could sit here and tell you my life story. I could tell you the great moments and the horrors, but would that make you accept me? Maybe it would. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it until I die, with me you must understand that there are many things that you just cannot understand. Just like I have no real idea how my two best friends feel, having lost their mothers in their teenage years to tragic circumstance, you all have no idea how I feel having gone through what I have gone though.
What have I gone through? Here’s a taste: absentee parent at age 12, tried to repair the relationship at 15 and moved away from my entire world and the only real parent I’ve ever had. My first boyfriend when I was 16 was four years older than me. The first guy that cared about me had a girlfriend and I helped him cheat on her. I was physically dragged away from my new world into another one 3,000 miles away from everything. I almost didn’t graduate high school. My senior prom date dumped me a month before prom to take a freshman after he’d picked out my dress with me. My boyfriend at 18 was pill-junkie, unbeknownst to me, and he raised his hand to me once and almost hit me, stole $1200 from me, almost stole my car, cheated on me and lied to me throughout our entire relationship. An old family friend preyed on my vulnerability and destroyed my self-esteem to the point where throughout our relationship I was a cutter, hurt the only man that ever truly loved me, lost and gained over twenty pounds and completely lost touch with myself. I stopped my life to take care of a family member thought to have cancer only to later find out she’d lied, stolen and lost everything she had. I single-handedly cleaned up the mess, with no appreciation and in the middle of it all; a life-long friend was lost to drama and bullshit. I destroyed and repaired the 7 year relationship I’ve ha d with my husband to the point where he is just about all I have to depend on in this world.
I have some amazing friends who have fallen in love with my flaws and celebrate them with me. I’ve been through some crazy shit. I could write a novel. But really, in the end, I want to know why people seem to be surprised when I’m callous, abrasive and fly my freak flag? I realize I have a kind of clean image but I was raised to keep up a certain appearance and make nice. That doesn’t mean I can’t turn on something completely different.
This world has kicked my ass time and time again and I’m still standing. However, I still manager to get beat up by anyone I let in. There have only been a handful of people in my life who’ve seen the darkness and jump in there with me. Those are the people who hide the darkness within themselves too. I’m into that whole dark and light thing. I learned it in art, its call chiaroscuro, the distribution of light and shade in a picture. What’s my favorite painting? Van Gogh’s Starry, Starry Night is my favorite and talk about the difference between light and dark! MAN! I embody the distribution of shade and light within my personality.
I can be sweet as pie but don’t cross me. I’m a hard one to understand. Recently my husband was brought to tears explaining that with what I’d been through, he will stay with me through the rest and he knows how I’ve struggled and he refuses to watch anyone hurt me anymore. There are people in my life who love and accept me as the mess that I am. I own my fucked-up-ness and wear it with pride!
People find me fake and two-faced because they catch my “shade” when my light has dimmed. I was raised to be polite and cordial to everyone. I was raised to “get along,” with everyone, even if I don’t like or agree with them. It always carried me through. Don’t get me wrong, like the rest of the world, I can talk some shit. I can talk myself into a frenzy, but I can also talk myself out of one…or write it!
In the moments where the world slaps me in the face and I’m perplexed and upset, I write it out. In the new age, that’s what blogs are for. Sometimes when people read my blog they are touched. They see the darkness and they appreciate my point of view. I often write from a negative arena, but there are some pieces that are balanced and lighter.
I’ve lived and learned. I will still create. I will burn and bury the things that have brought me distress. I think Death Cab For Cutie’s lyrics can put it quite succinctly:
“Will I have learned so very little, when these bones are old and brittle?I wait to talk when I should listen and cloud mistakes with false revisions…and I can feel them pulling away as I'm resigned to stay the same. And you can't even begin to know, how many times I've told myself, ‘I told you so.’ And you can't even begin to believe, there’s so many bridges engulfed in flames behind me…”
I write about the burned bridges but I will admit that the dark side of this redhead thought the flames of those burning bridges to be gorgeous in the destruction. I refuse to live in regret. Sometimes I wish that the scenes had played out differently but I wouldn’t take away any of my dark times and bad days because what doesn’t kill you only makes you more badass.
One of my favorite comedians, Dane Cook, talks about how there are two kinds of connections in this world: when you are with someone and you are having a great time it’s a “good relationship,” but when everything goes wrong and it’s a bad situation it’s called a “relation-shit.” It’s quite brilliant, really and I fully agree with the idea. When you’re in the middle of something great, be it a friendship, a job, a city, whatever, you are so in love. It’s always light, fluffy and sweet. When things get tough, it can get ugly real fast and when that love fades, you’re left with a relation-shit. We’ve all had them. They come and they go. I don’t regret them, I’ve learned from them both, they’d gotten me through a lot but don’t be upset with me because I see “the break-up” or the “breakdown,” as a beautiful disaster while you may see it in a completely different light.
I laugh and poke fun of a lot in this life to battle the inner darkness. In the film “Anger Management,” Jack Nicolson’s character calls sarcasm, anger’s ugly cousin or something like that and he’s right on. My frustration often comes out in sarcastic spurts, but my grandmother always said, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. I guess I thought a little spice makes everything nice…see there it was again!
What can I say? I’m simply a complicated girl; even that statement was a total oxymoron! People hold these expectations upon me and become disappointed when I don’t live up to them but I see at as, if I’m disappointing I’m still getting your attention, right? I can’t say if I see the glass half empty or the glass half full because if I don’t have a full cocktail in front of me, who cares anyway! HA! I don’t like making enemies out of people but if I let you in and you use my darkness against me, I guess we can’t get along after all. I’m not afraid of controversy. I am a controversial being, but it annoys me when perceptions and feelings get rolled into a cluster-fuck.
I’m an expert on the whole feelings versus perceptions thing, people. No joke. I’ve been arguing both sides for years. You feel what you feel, that if a person’s right, but if you perceive a situation to be one way, and I see it the opposite, that’s no one’s fault and you can’t really argue it. Take it for what it is! And yet it’s a constant struggle!
Recently I’d felt personally violated, like I couldn’t think my thoughts, feel my feelings, and write down my story. I’d lashed out, I’d felt upset and then I swallowed my pride and just faced that music. Music is a big part of my life, so I’ll always face it head on, even if they are playing my most hated song. I’d had an awakening though. Whatever happened to sticks and stones can hurt my bones but words can never hurt? I’d been called a lot of terrible things throughout the years and I always managed to stand back up. I’d also seen, first hand, that cordial attitude of getting along, the very thing I’d been chastised for, given right back to me, like a reflex. It’s in our nature.
I’ve created a world for me where I’m comfortable. I’ve selected some amazing people to keep around me. I’ve lived. I’ve learned. I’ve created some questionable objects and situations. I’ve burned things, people and many bridges. I’ve seen the light, I’ve seen the dark. I won’t apologize for being me. If you get hurt on my personal journey of living, learning, creating, and burning, damn straight I owe you an apology, but I won’t stop being me for anyone. If my husband, my family and my closest friends can accept me as the great mess that I am, you should just be able to accept that you don’t “get me.” I’m still meeting great new people every day and finding friends in different places. I may not have been what or who you wanted me to be, but if I’m happy being me, that’s the end of the discussion.
For now, I’ll continue my living, learning, creating and burning, until I’ve lived my last day, learned my last lesson, created my last great achievement and burned everything left in my wake!
Monday, May 16, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Music In Me
Music is everything to me. I’m not really a musician but I definitely couldn’t live without music. I have a very eclectic taste and it’s even somewhat random. I can remember some of the most pivotal moments in my life surrounding music. It truly is the soundtrack of your life.
My favorite two bands in my toddler years were The Talking Heads and The Monkees; random, right? I used to go crazy in my “Johnny Jumper” listening to them. We had a vinyl player and I loved all those albums.
Throughout grade school I auditioned for solos in the choir. I went to Catholic school so if you’re not in sports, you sing. Even if all the songs were religious, it was better than no singing at all. In fourth grade I won the talent show for singing “Castle on a Cloud” from Les Miserables. My mom took me to Goodwill to get a nasty old nightgown and I sang to an old stuffed animal. It was my shining moment. I got lots of solos here and there and truly loved singing. I took voice lessons and sang my little heart out.
My best friend and I fell in love with “Grease” early on because her mom was in love with John Travolta. I loved musicals, especially, “The Sound of Music.” When I was about 11, mass hysteria hit when I discovered the band that my best friend and I still obsess about to this day: Hanson. Some may be ashamed but we love Hanson and always will. I had posters all over my wall and to this day I still know all the songs by heart.
Although a friend took me to see Billy Joel with her family at a small event at a local University, Hanson was my first official concert at a big ass arena. I even got a band shirt! My obsession with boy bands, radio hits and the Pop that made the 90’s epic was also mixed with my father’s tastes. He helped me fall in love with Dire Straits, The Pointer Sisters, Simon & Garfunkel, Crash Test Dummies and Vonda Shepherd. Those loves are still alive today.
I fell in with all the music fads here and there but then I noticed that I’d started discovering more music just by attempting to share a common interest with others. I tended to listen to the music my crushes liked and ended up liking most of it. The Cranberries, NSYNC, Letters to Cleo, The Queers, Rufio, The Used, Anti-Flag, Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, Bright Eyes, Ja Rule, The White Stripes and NOFX were all bands I’d adopted in order to have a conversation piece with a guy.
I’d discovered that music heals anything. A day, a moment, a second can be so much better with the right song. You can laugh, cry, sing, and become completely happy with the right song to fit your mood. Friendships, some lost and some still strong, also provided a soundtrack for my life. My iPod is like a shrine to my musical idols. Concerts are epic events for me. Music is just in everything for me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
You know those scenes in movies or TV shows that are totally made by the music? I’ve had those moments in my life. I’ve also had those days where I listen to the same song over and over again because it captures exactly how I’m feeling.
I remember when my mom left, my dad bought me Fastball’s debut album because I was obsessed with that song “The Way.” I fell in love with a song called “The Good Old Days.” I must have listened to that song a million times singing to myself “I been thinking about the good old days, decorated in a candy glaze…each photo on the mantle, sweet memories that never will go stale.” I remember long drives with my dad listening to Dire Straits, “Heavy Fuel,” and “Calling Elvis.” I also remember all the words to the Crash Test Dummies album “God Shuffled His Feet.” My dad had a knack for picking out albums with amazing stories, which totally plays into my tastes even now.
After I watched the movie, “Almost Famous,” I became obsessed with 70’s music. My dad had most of these gems on vinyl. Zeppelin was my favorite music to listen to at the end of the day in a nice warm bath. I listened to those songs during breakups too. When my first official boyfriend and I would fight I’d blast The Used, “Buried Myself Alive.” I fell in love with punk rock and all its sub-classes when I was 19. I still listen to it when I get upset. Those lyrics “You almost always pick the best time to drop the worst line, you almost made me cry again this time, another false alarm, with the flashing lights, well this time I’m not going to watch myself die…I buried myself alive on the inside, so I could shut you out, and let you go away for a long time…I guess it’s better you trapped yourself in your own way, and if you want me back, you’re going to have to ask, nicer than that!”
I’ve had those movie scene music moments too. This one I will never forget; my friend Danielle and I were going on one of our afternoon drives in my car and we were seriously rocking some Elton John on a summer day. We had the windows down and were blasting “Tiny Dancer,” when we hit a stop light and some local hippies sunning on the line look over and see us singing and join in: “Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer, count the headlights on the highway!” It was amazing.
My husband and I always hit the karaoke scene as soon as we turned 21. We first sang “Jackson” by Johnny Cash and June Carter. He became somewhat famous for his rendition of Gin and Juice and I rocked Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” more than a few times. Journey is my all time favorite 80’s band. I’ve decided that Journey is the best thing that came from the 80’s besides me and I once serenaded my husband with “Faithfully,” to show some love.
I hit the Indie scene hard right after my punk phase and it’s still a heavy obsession. My friend turned me onto Jenny Lewis, Postal Service, The Faint and Death Cab for Cutie. Jenny Lewis is the lead singer of Rilo Kiley and has a million side projects. She is my idol. She’s a redhead with a wicked voice and I would marry her if I could. Another friend got me hooked on the Decemberists, whom I also passed over to my husband. We’ve seen Death Cab and the Decemberists more than a handful of times and would pay to see them again and again and again. These artists are epic storytellers.
They have written songs that have spoken to my very heart and soul. Somehow I always manage to hear them when I need it most and the perfect song always plays to fit my mood. When my ex-boyfriend just disappeared and dumped me, he wrote an apology letter to everyone, BUT ME. I listened to Death Cab for Cutie’s album Plans a million times and played myself “Someday You Will Be Loved,” over and over, pretending he meant to say goodbye and apologize. I heard them singing the story from him, about me: “I once knew a girl in the years of my youth, with eyes like the summer, all beauty and truth, but in the morning I fled, left a note and it read ‘Someday you will be loved.’”On that very same album my future husband and I found “our song.” Some think it to be somewhat sad and slightly morbid but we find it to be raw, real and true. Our first dance was to “I Will Follow You Into The Dark,” which still makes me cry:
“Love of mine, someday you will die, but I’ll be close behind, I’ll follow you into the dark. No blinding light, or tunnels to gates of white, just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark. If heaven and hell decide, that they both are satisfied, illuminate the “No’s” on their vacancy signs, if there’s no one beside you when your soul embarks, then I’ll follow you into the dark.”
After I saw the film, Garden State, I completely agreed with Natalie Portman’s character, Sam, when said that the Shins would change your life. I became completely obsessed with the song “New Slang.” It became a theme song of sorts and I still feel like it tells the story of my life and it has one of the most poetic lines ever written in it: “I’m looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find.”
I could quote music all day. When I worked at this Mexican Grille it was an iPod playlist shuffling all day and, not only were most of the songs Spanish, but the only songs I could stand over and over were either Jack Johnson or Jason Mraz’s hit “I’m Yours,” because it reminds me of a first dance with a very important friend of mine.
Music has always made me feel better. I will never get sick of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” Whenever I’m down, that song always makes me happy. It’s so true that certain music fits certain moods. I do love crappy Pop music because it’s catchy. I download Billboard’s annoying hits all the time. Even though I truly believe that music has moved in a direction that scares me, and that there are a lot of mainstream, commercial bands out there that are completely talentless and annoying, I still manage to find artists who can reach out to me.
Recently I stumbled upon Florence and the Machine and she is an amazing artist. Some of the bands that I saw years ago that I wasn’t crazy about have grown on me because of a certain song. Other musicians have come to me through movies and television shows or other friends and acquaintances. There is always a song in my head and always a song in my heart. Most of the time they don’t even match!
Everyone has different tastes for music. I used to have fights with an old friend because he would make me listen to bands I just couldn’t connect with but would never give my music a chance.
What is one person’s trash is another’s treasure. Personally, I’m convinced that Fallout Boy and Panic at the Disco are the same terrible band, but kids love them and they’ve obviously touched a lot of people because they have a huge fan base. I’m not one to talk, I love Hanson, who most people cannot stand.
That’s yet another amazing thing about music, there is so much of it out there, there’s always something for someone. Although the future of music scares me because technology has given the upper hand to the lesser talented, there are still stars to be made and epic musicians being born every day. We may have Britney Spears and Creed still in our midst, but we also have Lady Gaga and Mumford and Sons around to keep things interesting.
Just remember that music truly is the soundtrack of your life, so what’s on your playlist?
My favorite two bands in my toddler years were The Talking Heads and The Monkees; random, right? I used to go crazy in my “Johnny Jumper” listening to them. We had a vinyl player and I loved all those albums.
Throughout grade school I auditioned for solos in the choir. I went to Catholic school so if you’re not in sports, you sing. Even if all the songs were religious, it was better than no singing at all. In fourth grade I won the talent show for singing “Castle on a Cloud” from Les Miserables. My mom took me to Goodwill to get a nasty old nightgown and I sang to an old stuffed animal. It was my shining moment. I got lots of solos here and there and truly loved singing. I took voice lessons and sang my little heart out.
My best friend and I fell in love with “Grease” early on because her mom was in love with John Travolta. I loved musicals, especially, “The Sound of Music.” When I was about 11, mass hysteria hit when I discovered the band that my best friend and I still obsess about to this day: Hanson. Some may be ashamed but we love Hanson and always will. I had posters all over my wall and to this day I still know all the songs by heart.
Although a friend took me to see Billy Joel with her family at a small event at a local University, Hanson was my first official concert at a big ass arena. I even got a band shirt! My obsession with boy bands, radio hits and the Pop that made the 90’s epic was also mixed with my father’s tastes. He helped me fall in love with Dire Straits, The Pointer Sisters, Simon & Garfunkel, Crash Test Dummies and Vonda Shepherd. Those loves are still alive today.
I fell in with all the music fads here and there but then I noticed that I’d started discovering more music just by attempting to share a common interest with others. I tended to listen to the music my crushes liked and ended up liking most of it. The Cranberries, NSYNC, Letters to Cleo, The Queers, Rufio, The Used, Anti-Flag, Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, Bright Eyes, Ja Rule, The White Stripes and NOFX were all bands I’d adopted in order to have a conversation piece with a guy.
I’d discovered that music heals anything. A day, a moment, a second can be so much better with the right song. You can laugh, cry, sing, and become completely happy with the right song to fit your mood. Friendships, some lost and some still strong, also provided a soundtrack for my life. My iPod is like a shrine to my musical idols. Concerts are epic events for me. Music is just in everything for me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
You know those scenes in movies or TV shows that are totally made by the music? I’ve had those moments in my life. I’ve also had those days where I listen to the same song over and over again because it captures exactly how I’m feeling.
I remember when my mom left, my dad bought me Fastball’s debut album because I was obsessed with that song “The Way.” I fell in love with a song called “The Good Old Days.” I must have listened to that song a million times singing to myself “I been thinking about the good old days, decorated in a candy glaze…each photo on the mantle, sweet memories that never will go stale.” I remember long drives with my dad listening to Dire Straits, “Heavy Fuel,” and “Calling Elvis.” I also remember all the words to the Crash Test Dummies album “God Shuffled His Feet.” My dad had a knack for picking out albums with amazing stories, which totally plays into my tastes even now.
After I watched the movie, “Almost Famous,” I became obsessed with 70’s music. My dad had most of these gems on vinyl. Zeppelin was my favorite music to listen to at the end of the day in a nice warm bath. I listened to those songs during breakups too. When my first official boyfriend and I would fight I’d blast The Used, “Buried Myself Alive.” I fell in love with punk rock and all its sub-classes when I was 19. I still listen to it when I get upset. Those lyrics “You almost always pick the best time to drop the worst line, you almost made me cry again this time, another false alarm, with the flashing lights, well this time I’m not going to watch myself die…I buried myself alive on the inside, so I could shut you out, and let you go away for a long time…I guess it’s better you trapped yourself in your own way, and if you want me back, you’re going to have to ask, nicer than that!”
I’ve had those movie scene music moments too. This one I will never forget; my friend Danielle and I were going on one of our afternoon drives in my car and we were seriously rocking some Elton John on a summer day. We had the windows down and were blasting “Tiny Dancer,” when we hit a stop light and some local hippies sunning on the line look over and see us singing and join in: “Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer, count the headlights on the highway!” It was amazing.
My husband and I always hit the karaoke scene as soon as we turned 21. We first sang “Jackson” by Johnny Cash and June Carter. He became somewhat famous for his rendition of Gin and Juice and I rocked Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” more than a few times. Journey is my all time favorite 80’s band. I’ve decided that Journey is the best thing that came from the 80’s besides me and I once serenaded my husband with “Faithfully,” to show some love.
I hit the Indie scene hard right after my punk phase and it’s still a heavy obsession. My friend turned me onto Jenny Lewis, Postal Service, The Faint and Death Cab for Cutie. Jenny Lewis is the lead singer of Rilo Kiley and has a million side projects. She is my idol. She’s a redhead with a wicked voice and I would marry her if I could. Another friend got me hooked on the Decemberists, whom I also passed over to my husband. We’ve seen Death Cab and the Decemberists more than a handful of times and would pay to see them again and again and again. These artists are epic storytellers.
They have written songs that have spoken to my very heart and soul. Somehow I always manage to hear them when I need it most and the perfect song always plays to fit my mood. When my ex-boyfriend just disappeared and dumped me, he wrote an apology letter to everyone, BUT ME. I listened to Death Cab for Cutie’s album Plans a million times and played myself “Someday You Will Be Loved,” over and over, pretending he meant to say goodbye and apologize. I heard them singing the story from him, about me: “I once knew a girl in the years of my youth, with eyes like the summer, all beauty and truth, but in the morning I fled, left a note and it read ‘Someday you will be loved.’”On that very same album my future husband and I found “our song.” Some think it to be somewhat sad and slightly morbid but we find it to be raw, real and true. Our first dance was to “I Will Follow You Into The Dark,” which still makes me cry:
“Love of mine, someday you will die, but I’ll be close behind, I’ll follow you into the dark. No blinding light, or tunnels to gates of white, just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark. If heaven and hell decide, that they both are satisfied, illuminate the “No’s” on their vacancy signs, if there’s no one beside you when your soul embarks, then I’ll follow you into the dark.”
After I saw the film, Garden State, I completely agreed with Natalie Portman’s character, Sam, when said that the Shins would change your life. I became completely obsessed with the song “New Slang.” It became a theme song of sorts and I still feel like it tells the story of my life and it has one of the most poetic lines ever written in it: “I’m looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find.”
I could quote music all day. When I worked at this Mexican Grille it was an iPod playlist shuffling all day and, not only were most of the songs Spanish, but the only songs I could stand over and over were either Jack Johnson or Jason Mraz’s hit “I’m Yours,” because it reminds me of a first dance with a very important friend of mine.
Music has always made me feel better. I will never get sick of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” Whenever I’m down, that song always makes me happy. It’s so true that certain music fits certain moods. I do love crappy Pop music because it’s catchy. I download Billboard’s annoying hits all the time. Even though I truly believe that music has moved in a direction that scares me, and that there are a lot of mainstream, commercial bands out there that are completely talentless and annoying, I still manage to find artists who can reach out to me.
Recently I stumbled upon Florence and the Machine and she is an amazing artist. Some of the bands that I saw years ago that I wasn’t crazy about have grown on me because of a certain song. Other musicians have come to me through movies and television shows or other friends and acquaintances. There is always a song in my head and always a song in my heart. Most of the time they don’t even match!
Everyone has different tastes for music. I used to have fights with an old friend because he would make me listen to bands I just couldn’t connect with but would never give my music a chance.
What is one person’s trash is another’s treasure. Personally, I’m convinced that Fallout Boy and Panic at the Disco are the same terrible band, but kids love them and they’ve obviously touched a lot of people because they have a huge fan base. I’m not one to talk, I love Hanson, who most people cannot stand.
That’s yet another amazing thing about music, there is so much of it out there, there’s always something for someone. Although the future of music scares me because technology has given the upper hand to the lesser talented, there are still stars to be made and epic musicians being born every day. We may have Britney Spears and Creed still in our midst, but we also have Lady Gaga and Mumford and Sons around to keep things interesting.
Just remember that music truly is the soundtrack of your life, so what’s on your playlist?
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