All Dressed In White

A long, long time ago there was this boy and this girl. The boy and the girl went to the same school and lived in neighboring towns but knew nothing of each other. Then, one day in the middle of a scorching summer they were introduced. The boy had a shaggy mop of brown hair on his head and wore oversized shorts with an equally oversized t-shirt. The girl wore a tiny pair of jean shorts and green, baby doll top and finished the look off with perfectly groomed locks of black hair.

Ignoring the butterflies that filled their bellies, the boy and the girl went on out for their first night on the town together at the tender age of 17. The boy was a perfect gentleman; he picked the girl up to meet her intimidating and large family, he held open every door she went through, he told her how pretty she looked, and at the end he asked her for a second date. The only sounds that crossed the dinner table that night were the clanking of knives and forks and the occasional sounds of nervous laughter when their eyes would happen to meet. The girl knew not to become attached to this relationship; it couldn’t possibly last longer than two weeks.

Eight years later, the boy and the girl are still together. They went to college together, they moved in with each other, and have started a life together. Four days ago the boy asked the girl to be his wife and the girl said yes. One year from now, this girl and her Bridge Boy will live happily ever after as husband and wife.

School Buses, Betty Boop, Spinning Wheels, & a Coke

As I drive through my neighborhood in the morning all the little kiddies tra-la-la-la-la onto the big yellow school bus. The school bus that I inevitably get stuck behind as it stops at each…and…every…single…house…on the block. What ever happened to a good old-fashioned bus stop? You know, the kind at the end of the street that you walk to. Is this unheard of anymore?

The only year I ever had to take the bus was when I was in the first grade. We lived in Japan at the time so my sister S and I had to commute to an American school on the island. I remember stepping into the bus to find kids swinging like Kerri Strug from the parallel handlebars that spanned the center isle. Our poor, unfortunate school bus driver, who did not speak a lick of English, would get so angry when kids would pull the windows down past the safety line and stick their heads outside the bus. He would yell. We would laugh at the jibberish noises he made. We would eventually calm down long enough to draw butt cheeks on the fogged up windows before resuming our swing-half-turns on the high bar. Eventually the school rallied up some volunteer parents to sit on the bus with us during the morning and afternoon commutes. There weren’t, however, enough parents to ride with us every day. Poor school bus driver, he never knew from one day to the next if it was going to be a good day on the job or a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. (If you got that reference, you’ve earned yourself some pie!)

I got a little off track with that story… my point; I made some absolutely fabulous friends at that bus stop. We would compare what our mom’s made us for lunch. I automatically envied those who got to eat a hot lunch that day while I carried around my Barbie and the Rocker’s lunch box with matching thermos. (Although, I mist admit, my mom made some pretty kick ass cold lunches.) I often traded my oatmeal cream pie for a baggie of apple slices. Cream filling is just not my thing.

These kids that get picked up at the end of their driveways are missing out on an amazing bus stop experience.

My morning commute continues down a major thoroughfare with nothing of interest to speak of until I turn off onto a route that very few know about. I keep this knowledge to myself in order to keep traffic to a minimum. From this point it’s actually a very picturesque drive. I make my way through a very hoity-toity neighborhood that has their very own clubhouse, golf course, and park. During morning drive times, the fuzz will hang out behind large gates and shrubbery in order to catch you going anything over the allotted 25 miles per hour. I’ve got them outwitted though. I know all of their hiding spots. Red Betty (I named my car after Betty Boop) and I are too smart for the likes of them! Ha ha!

Before I make my way into downtown Springfield, the last of the scenery is a park. It’s just like any old park; trails, swing sets, and dog poop. However, this park has one thing that not many others can lay claim to. About once a month there is a group of women that meet in an open area of the park to spin thread on their (a little fanfare, please) spinning wheels! Real life, honest-to-goodness, Sleeping Beauty, 16th birthday, spinning wheels! Is this a common hobby? I never thought of this as something many people do on their own time let alone an entire group of people in the same community who share this bizarre interest. Where do you even go to purchase a spinning wheel? When and how does one become interested in spinning thread on a wheel? This discovery was so mind-blowing to me the first time I caught a glimpse of their unusual get-together. I stared them down in passing until I realized I had switched lanes and was driving down the wrong side of the street. Sometimes, as I am on my way back to work from lunch I will see the small collection of spinning artisans and think to myself, "I would rather be playing on a spinning wheel than going back to work." What would I spin on that wheel? I can do it, how hard could it be?

As I make my way into downtown traffic gets thicker, the red lights get longer, and the homeless people run amuck. Springfield has major issues with the homeless population. Twice I’ve had run-ins with those in need but so far I’m 0 for 2. The first time, I was running an errand for work. I had to walk about two blocks down the street to drop off some proofs and right outside my office building there was a man. He asked me for anything I could offer. I had nothing on me other than the manila envelope containing the samples. I didn’t think sample pieces of a brochure would be of any use to him so I had to tell him that I had nothing to give. He and I walked in opposite directions and I was wracked with guilt. He probably thought I just didn’t want to give him anything. He probably thinks I’m a bitchy, rich person who is not willing to part with a solitary dime.

This directly leads into my second run-in with a woman who was over-heated, parched, and needed a phone number. Because of my last experience, I was more than willing to help. Bridge Man and I were downtown taking in the sights when she came up to us. She began talking about her car that had just run out of gas. Her kids were with the car and she needed the number for a local women’s shelter because she had to get away from her abusive man. I told her that I would buy her a drink from a nearby ice cream shop where we could also ask to use their phone book. She then proceeded to tell me that she wasn’t comfortable going into that shop and that we should follow her to a bar that was just around the corner. We followed. Bridge Man expressed his concerns. He didn’t think following a stranger to an unknown place was a good idea. We went inside the bar with her. She decided instead of water she wanted a coke. We walked outside where we were suddenly surrounded by people. They all knew her name and she started talking to a few of them. One of them came up to Bridge Man and me and asked if we had any money to give him. This is where I began to feel uncomfortable. The woman then asked if I had any money to give her so she could put some gas in her car. Bridge Man intervened. He said that we had no money and that we were leaving. He grabbed my arm and we were outta there.

Once again, I was unable to help. I know that the situation wasn’t the best but what if her kids were really somewhere with her abandoned car? What if her man really was abusive to her and her kids? I did nothing to help. Strike two.

...

Well, I just reread this entire post. Made changes. Then almost deleted the entire thing. I basically just rambled on for days and days, made no point, came to no conclusion. But after all that work and my nagging bloggers block, I couldn't get myself to hit delete. So, here is my conclusion. I think bus stops should be reinvented. I would like to learn to use a spinning wheel. And I don’t have good people skills with the homeless. I’m done.

I. Am. So. Excited.

I absolutly cannot wait!

I can't wait for the shoes, the style, the hair, the glamour, and big city life! My friends Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda are back, ladies and gentlemen and they're ready for action!

My Love

The love of my life is the great state of California. (Bridge Man, of course, is the human love of my life but that’s a separate blog.) From the moment my family moved out of Cali, I’ve longed to go back. That is where my extended family lives, where my memories are, and where my heart belongs.

When I’m talking about California, I don’t necessarily mean, the state itself. What I love about Cali is something that only I know. It’s something that only I’ve experienced. Yes, the weather is nice, the ocean is beautiful, and there is always something to do but these reasons reside at the bottom of my list.

When I was little I belonged to a group of three friends who did everything together, my sister S and my aunt D. My sister is about two and a half years older than me and my aunt is just under two years older than me so I was the baby who shadowed them all day long. I know for a fact that I annoyed them because I was too young to play with the big girls. Regularly they would lock me out of D’s room so I couldn’t play Barbies with them. I would run to my grandma with crocodile tears in my eyes and she would force them to play with me. I was persistent in this way until I was old enough to fit into their little gang.

Not many people were allowed in our clique. A girl named Megan lived down the street from my grandparent’s house and she always wanted to play with us. Megan was an only child and was allowed to do a lot more than we were. The four of us would play together but eventually we would get annoyed with Megan and not want to play with her anymore. We didn’t like that her mom let her do anything; she got to wear acrylic nails, she had a bunk bed in her bedroom, and she could do a front-walk-over better than we could. So what did we do? We created a club for the three of us called “The We Hate Megan Club.” We were totally serious about the club. D was the president, S the VP, and I was the secretary. We would hold meetings once a week to discuss — well, I can’t remember. Though, I’m sure it had something to do with how much we hated poor Megan. We would turn on an Alvin and the Chipmunks tape or a Dr. Demento tape and play in the backyard until the coast was clear.

After an afternoon of ripping the lemons from my grandma’s lemon tree and throwing them in neighboring yards, doing cartwheels on my grandpa’s perfectly preened yard, and riding our bikes around the circle drive, it was time to go inside. My grandma scheduled dinners out for each day of the week; Monday was meatloaf night, Tuesday was Mexican night, Wednesday was chili night, and so on. Friday was my favorite because it was fast food night and I always, always, always got a kids meal for the free toy that usually ended up broken or missing by the end of the night. We would play Super Mario Brothers on the Nintendo with my Uncle K. He would play until he got to the coolest levels in the game and then he would let us play until we killed off Mario and he’d have to start over again. When he got sick of that he would lie on his back and hold us up in the air with his feet until we became green in the face. He was one friggin’ great uncle.

When it was bedtime, we three amigas would crowd over the sink in the bathroom to see who could make the most foam in the sink with the toothpaste while brushing our teeth. D usually won that game. I would then beg and plead with my mom to let me sleep in my Aunt B’s room because she was older and cooler than me and would let me stay up late. B had a trundle bed and I would sleep on the pullout bed from underneath. We would stay up and talk for hours. I always felt so COOL when she would let me hang out with her.

Sometimes she would let me lay out with her. We would just lie there in out teeny-bikinis and fry in the sun. Once we were good and burnt, we would go inside to soothe our burns with vinegar soaked paper towels. It was so, SO stinky but felt so, SO soothing. No one but my family has heard of this sunburn remedy so I can probably predict your reaction. Give it a try before you judge. I promise, you’ll never go back to that green aloe goo.

I've been back to California several times since my family originally moved away and each time I've felt the same excitement that can only come with the memory of playing Marco Polo in a one-foot deep plastic pool in my grandparent's backyard.

A Van Down By The River

For the last two hours of class on Saturday we cosmo girls (and two guys who could probably pass for girls) were lucky enough to sit through the witty repartee of the motivational speaker, Doug Cox. Before the rodeo Santa Clause (no joke) showed up, the girls were thoroughly annoyed that this man would be infringing on the last two hours of an eight-hour makeover. I, on the other hand, was absolutely gleeful that I would get 120 wonderful minutes at the end of the day to sit in the back row and sleep. (65-hour workweeks have helped me to build a staggering amount of sleep debt. I takes it where I gets it, mmmm-k.)

Off the track:
About a year ago, I was waiting for my ride home after a long day of work and class outside the student center and fell asleep on public bench for what had to be about 40 minutes. I woke up to two guys pointing and snickering, most likely at the spot of drool on my chin. Mortifying, yes, but sadly enough it was not the first time.

Back on track:
Unfortunately, I was quickly ushered to a seat in the second row because I showed up late by two lousy minutes. The entire exhibition ended up being very involved. We were standing up, sitting down, hugging, holding hands, and singing “Kum By Ya.” (OK, OK, I made those last few things up.) Nevertheless, audience participation was a requirement and sleep was not an option.

Rodeo Santa talked about how to be successful in your life whether it‘s personally, financially, emotionally, physically, or spiritually. He guaranteed that if we followed his plan, we too would be successful. He did, after all, motivate Donald Trump to be the real estate mogul he is today.

To start off, he made us promise that we would be all ooey-gooey-lovey-dovey toward our selves.
Repeat after me:
I promise myself that I am beautiful. I promise that I will embrace my emotions and I will be an emotional person.

Right about now, I was kind of wishing Chris Farley would bounce into the room and give his rendition of Matt Foley, Motivational Speaker to break up all the unbearable mush.

Next he talked finances and we continued to make promises to ourselves:
Ahem. I promise to make my money work for me. I promise to buy only what I need. And I promise to buy things that accrue value.

The first two promises seem to make sense. The third, however, is not as easy as it may sound. Rodeo Santa used the example of cars, they do not become more valuable, therefore, do not purchase a car.

Do not purchase a car? Do not purchase a car!? Well, my apologies, but a majority of the population does not live in down town NYC and have public transportation available to them round the clock. AND, spending money on public transportation doesn’t do you any good financially either. If you have to take the bus twice a day and bus fare is $2 per trip, that’s $1,460 you could have applied to something else, like – I don’t know – a piece-o-crap car! A car that you would only have to buy once. Taking the bus year after year would be like buying the same $1,460 piece-o-crap every year.

(*Stepping off my soap box*)

More promises:
I promise to use my memories and not be used by them.

This one really resonated for me. My life made a one-eighty almost 3 years ago and I have, and still am letting the events leading up to this turn effect every aspect of my being. Maybe it’s because the ripples from these happenings are still very strong. I often find myself struggling to keep my head above water. I know it is cliché but easier said than done, Mr. Rodeo Santa, easier said than done.

The last promise we made to ourselves:
I promise to be a little better today than I was yesterday.

This is when Rodeo Santa (I don’t know why I keep calling him that, his name is Doug) broke out in a (surprisingly good) rendition of Martin Luther King’s most infamous speech, “I Have A Dream.” He would shout out, “I have a dream!” and the audience of wannabe stylists would repeat the words with enough zeal to mimic that of Dr. King himself. You’d better stand up ladies and gentlemen, because we’re gonna have church in here tonight! I have a dream!

We wrote out our dreams on a 3”x5” note card we creatively titled, “My Dreams.”
- to travel all over the world
- to open my own salon and be successful
- to give back
- to be a good person

We were told that if we hold on to our dream sheet we will be successful. No bones about it, Rodeo Santa promised us success. Let it be known, I still have my dream sheet.

Have I motivated you yet? Can you make these promises to yourself?

Dear Nephew,

In the beginning there was the diaper. There’s nothing like a clean diaper to free up some time in your day to sufficiently eat, sleep, and drool. But there comes a point when you want to rid yourself of the plastic, crinkly sponge on your bottom in lieu of some fancy-pants Underoos.

The idea of being a “big boy” permeates your brain and you find yourself randomly shouting “Poops, Mommy! I poops!” The room fills with excitement as family members cheer you on from the sidelines while you and mommy race toward the potty only to find out that you’ve already soiled your new Elmo Underoos. There are encouraging words from mommy, “It’s ok. You’ll get it next time, sweetie.”

After so many failed attempts, something changes in your head. “Why should I use the big boy potty when Mommy does such a fabulous job changing my dirty diapers for me?”

Unfortunately, mommy doesn’t get this concept. She insists on making you wear your big boy underwear and making you use the big boy potty. Who says you even want to be a big boy?

From then on, the words ‘big-boy,’ ‘potty,’ and ‘Underoos’ make you want to flush those screenprinted Elmo undies down that stinking toilet. Each time mommy makes you use the – the, uh, P-word - you throw a tantrum that supersedes the last. She can’t make you go if you arch your back to make it nearly impossible to pick you up or if you flail your arms and legs to make the most painful and precise contact or if you wail like James Brown in a bear trap. It works every time.

And so, my dear nephew, I write you this letter to simply say, more power to you. Stand your ground! Who needs the potty anyway?

Love,
Aunt Xteener

Blog By Numbers

1. The job hunt has begun in full force this last week. Big Boss Man made sure to reiterate in a particularly nerve-wracking meeting this week that she just can’t muster up the time for me, “If I’m spending my time with you, then my work is not getting done.” (This is where I begin banging my head against the wall and mumbling something about a stapler.) Anyway, I’ve updated my resume, references, and cover letter and the hunt is officially on!

2. Bridge Man and I are going to St. Louis this weekend for a trip to the zoo. I’m excited because it will be the first time I’ve ever been to a zoo, believe it or not. I’m also a little nervous because I tend to get a little PETA around caged animals. By the end of the weekend the Show Me State might be taken over by a literal zoo of newly freed animals.

3. My little brother (who just happens to be 6’4 and over 200lbs) has recently become a quasi celebrity in my little hometown. It’s a little surreal for me. The high school football season has commenced and suddenly everyone knows his name. Old men who’ve followed redbird football since 1776 will stop him at the local grocery store to tell him exactly how to perfect his screen pass. He’s only a freshman, people!


4. My mom finally got a new oncologist. Finally! I haven't taken the time to blog about this in the past because it will take me at least two full weeks and many mojitos to completely detail the saga. Maybe this will come in a future post or maybe I’ll give you bits and pieces here and there. We’ll see. Let’s just say, her first oncologist kept her well in the dark about her treatments and what was going on inside her body. Her new doc took the time to answer all of her questions and, so far, seems very helpful. This, I like.

5. I went to a wedding this last weekend and what do you know...

One of these things is just like everything else. The black and white flowery dresses must have been on sale that week.