Route, escape

As a kid, my biggest fear was being kidnapped- and this was compounded by major anxiety because I felt there was very little I could do to prevent it. (For more on the complexes I suffered from at a young age, see my post on when at age 10 I thought I was going to someday house Baby Jesus Part Deux in my uterus.)

When I was about five, I created an elaborate system that would protect me from the kidnappers who were surely plotting my abduction from an underground lair nearby. Underneath my daybed were several paper boxes that my mom had brought home for storage. I spent a few afternoons rearranging them in different ways, trying to find a spot where I would be best concealed. There were 2 main issues that kept me from pulling this off as spectacularly as I’d hoped:

• The boxes were heavy, and you could always hear me moving them
• No matter how you arranged the boxes, it was always obvious that there was an opening in the corner where I was hiding

After much thought, I eventually combined the contents of two boxes, creating a hollow box that I’d use to move in and out quickly and quietly. I made sure there were no gaps between boxes that would give me away. Next, I stole a bunch of throw blankets, sheets, and bath towels from around the house. I painstakingly folded them so that I could quickly pile them over my body, making it look like the empty space was inexplicably where we kept a hell of a lot of linens.

It looked like this:

Not to scale, except the hair

On days where not much was going on (so, pretty much everyday in the suburbs), I would drill myself at getting into the space quickly. My record was nine seconds. This was pretty respectable, but I was still concerned that the blankets were too conspicuous. Eventually I trusted my best friend and neighbor to check out my plan, and give me tips on how to best arrange the blankets. Her perspective first calmed me down, as she insisted she couldn’t tell I was there. But now there was also the possibility that she’d sell me out if the kidnappers offered her a cut of my ransom.

One day my mom discovered that I had empty space under my bed, and she filled in my crawlspace (while wondering aloud why she would have put our guest towels under a dusty bed) with more storage boxes. This was the same time that it was announced at school that a man was following schoolbuses and trying to coax kids into his car when they exited their stops, so you can imagine what my mental state at the time was like.

R is for route, escape. If I’d been smarter I would have had one that actually got me out of my house. As it was, the best I could come up with as a kindergartener was one that required me to lie in fear as kidnappers searched my house in vain for their precious target. My mom was driving a rusted Chevy Nova at the time so I’m not sure why I was so convinced that I’d be taken for ransom. Unless the demand was gas money or my mom’s silk flower crafts, I’d never have gotten out alive.

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Gerbera Daisies

G is for Gerbera daisies. I don't really like them. The main reason, and I am fully aware of how crotchety this makes me sound, is that they're just a little bit too happy. Gerbera daisies are the Beach Boys of flowers- minus the drug problems and Charles Manson associations, naturally.

Gerbera daisies always remind me of this poster I had in my dorm room:

Freshman year, everyone went to the same 2 poster stores in town. Once inside, you were funneled through the aisles swiftly, leaving only a moment to choose what type of person you were going to become via wall decor. The options were slim, as you can imagine they'd be when 40,000 people are forced to identify themselves in 100 or fewer pop culture, art, and photography prints.

1. Girl's Night! Let's all choose what characters we are from Sex and the City as we mix drinks in our cement-wall 10' x10' caves. Your boyfriend broke your heart? Excellent. Let's trash him while affirming that you are a catch and confirming that his new girlfriend, who is rushing Delta Beta Chi Omega Phi, is not:

2. I represent the counter-culture, and everything mainstream is lame as hell. I think this can best be discussed over a bowl of Madison's finest weed and, if we get crazy, I'll bring my bongo drums:

3. At this moment, I'm unsure where I stand because I was raised in an extremely stifling and sheltered environment. I am hoping to not offend anyone who might want to be my friend:

As you can perhaps guess, I was firmly in the #1 camp, with a healthy sprinkling of #3. My walls did have a slight cool factor due to my Garden State poster, which was my most prized possession at the time.

Digress much? Anyway, on Friday as I was leaving work I spotted a vase of daisies in my office that would rot over the weekend. I brought them to my car, and secured them in a cupholder using techniques that would have made McGuyver weep with pride. Then, I had to bring them into 3 different houses that I visited on the way home so they wouldn't spoil in my hot car. The whole time I was thinking, for being so damn cheerful looking, these free flowers are pretty much a huge inconvenience. I much prefer them in poster form.

Then I got home and found they look very cute in my kitchen. So the fact that I had to pull over on the side of the highway to secure them with leftover bungee cords from my move wasn't completely for nothing.

G is for Gerbera daisies, I guess. Mostly it's for Great college flashback.

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Dan

Junior year of high school, on the way to the state soccer tournament downtown, we packed seven of us into a small, 4-person sports car. Two in front, four in the back... and one in the trunk. There was an airway created for the trunk-dweller by pulling open the armrest that led to the back cavity every few minutes (which required much maneuvering of the sardined backseat). Mostly we were laughing so hard that we were crying, howling really, at how funny and clever we were, as our friend intermittently banged on the seats behind our backs from inside his car cave.

All the time, as our driver took turns too quickly and played the out-of-place rap too loudly, he remained equal parts schemer and square. Again and again, we assured him that we were all okay, especially our pal in the trunk. By the time we got to the stadium parking lot, our stomachs hurt from laughing and our driver extended the charade by pretending that the trunk wouldn't open. It was good, clean, high school fun- the kind you leave behind without a thought or care in exchange for parties with alcohol and the possibility of a makeout with the star runningback. This was probably one of my last real moments of innocence, a fleeting opportunity for childhood silliness without worrying that the popular guys and girls were watching. Leading this pack, driving this clown car was, of course, Dan.

D is for Dan. Tomorrow, it will be 2 years since my close lifelong friend passed away, and now much of our talk about him involves the length of time he's been gone, and whether it feels longer or shorter. Not enough talk is of the memories that continue to creep up unexpectedly- long-forgotten and inconsequential moments that remind me how much he meant to me, to all my lifelong friends, how deeply woven he was into our shared history. Then in the wake of these flashbacks comes a harsh, glaring realization- again and again, and never less painful than the time before- that without the ability to keep him close, we are wandering inevitably further from him as we make our reluctant way into adulthood and the real world.

Dan would have been impossibly cavalier in this transition, no doubt snaking his way into a deserved, lucrative career path that he would pull off flawlessly but with great modesty. There would have been a girl, or more likely, a string of them, that we would have met and liked. There would be beer and grilling and now, too much country music played loudly. There would be much razzing of BF and I for finally pulling it together after 16+ years of friendship.

What else would there be? A full life- he was always vibrant, robust, bursting at the seams with new possibilities, new adventures. Two years have passed but the one remaining comfort is that he was a person who never took a moment for granted, who never stopped to breathe, reconsider, or hesitate. It's likely that the rest of us, the ones who forever try to explore all options before making a move, will spend many more years trying to fit in all the life that he fit into his 22 short years.

So D is for Dan- the same as it was in my grade school games of MASH, or when it came time for my friends to find formal dates, or when we left high school behind but clung to one another as we had for so many years. D was always for Dan, and it's still for him now.

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Eleanor Roosevelt played a big role in this story, too

My freshman year of college, I used to pick up my sub-5’ roommate from her job at Walgreen’s 3 nights a week so she didn't have to walk alone. At first I brought along a cute guy who I was mildly interested in (before finding out that he, despite being a left-brain sort of fellow, felt compelled to write love poems to girls he barely knew). One night, Casanova was busy so I ended up walking there with the floor's most popular dude, Joel. We chatted amiably the whole way there, and he soon became my go-to walking partner and college confidant.

If my life were a rom-com, we'd now cue up the montage of 2 kids getting to know one another- studying in coffee shops, snuggling on futons, partying at creepy frats- while green screen seasons pass behind us to signify that the friendship was solidified over several months.

If my life were a rom-com, we'd have broken up somewhere around the 7 month itch and would still secretly pine for one another from afar. But my life isn't as dramatic as I sometimes wish it was, so you should know that Joel and I remain good friends and we never dated at all. Oh, because Joel likes guys.

For the last 5 1/2 years, Joel has unfairly been the standard that no straight guy in my life can live up to. I once told my mom that I just wanted to marry a straight Joel, but she mentioned that then I'd have replaced him. That won't do.

I suppose I just want to marry someone who makes me laugh as much as he does, who will understand that my neuroses are endearing, and who will remind me that I don't look good in wide-legged pants even though I always want to wear them. Also, I want someone who understands that trying to compete with Joel for my affection could be a painful, life-long exercise in futility.

What spurred this out of character blogging love fest? Joel and I had one of those epic chats last night that reminded me for the one thousandth time how lucky I am to have him in my life. From there, we emailed and G-chatted all day, understanding that when the floodgates open you just have to let the love flow through.

I'm counting our emails as my reading for the day because I was too busy to read anything of substance.

____

Also, I've been holding a secret in all day that I just have to get out. Last night I took a sip of water out of my SIGG and guess what was in there? A live spider. I know. I seriously don't know what's come over me but I just felt compelled for everyone else to know. It's like when you see some old neighbor at the gym naked and you have to describe it to someone else so your own personal trauma is lessened. I am seriously going to regret telling everyone this but can you believe that? I had just washed it, and just re-filled it with fresh water. I think it was a ninja spider. Okay I have to stop talking about it.

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I gotta be in love or sumthin like that

I received a flashdrive of music in the mail from an old friend this summer. It had nearly 25 albums on it, and I was extremely grateful that he had put the time and energy into giving me such a wonderful gift.

However, this overload of music also caught me off guard. I'm still only halfway through it because I'm not used to getting so much all at once. Having been born before the digital age, I remember when sharing music was a slow process and the 2nd gen audio-cassette copies you received weren't always the greatest representations of the music you had wanted.

Cue the Wayne's World flashback sound effects...

to the mid-90's, when I first started taking an interest in music. Back then, Amy Grant and Toni Braxton were all I wanted playing on my Fisher Price boombox.

Until, of course, TLC's CrazySexyCool came out. My older brother somehow got the parental advisory past my parents and soon I was stealing the CD every chance I had. Eventually he caught me red-handed and like all brothers do, went ballistic and threatened me bodily harm if I ever touched his stuff again.

He apparently didn't think this tirade was enough. The next day, he scotch-taped a sign on his door advising trespassers to KEEP OUT.

Below the main notice, in ominous red letters, it stated without a hint of irony:

Prosecutors will be violated.

One day, when the jonesing for my daily fix of "Diggin on You" was just too much to handle, I snuck into his room one last time and removed the CD from its case.

I crept (just keep it on tha down low) back up to my room, closed the door, stuffed a towel under the gap between the floor, and found a blank cassette. I put it into my TalkGirl and sat silently for about an hour as the music blasted from my CD player into the girl-version of Macaulay Culkin's device of choice.

I carefully skipped Red Light Special, knowing that if my mom came in while that was playing she would know that I had somehow accessed contraband. The final result was muffled, and included me sneezing over the 2nd track, but it was MY OWN.

I'll never forget my cousin Lauren coming over later that week, the two of us listening to that tape on repeat while we played dress-up. We discussed how dumb people were for only liking "Waterfalls" when there were so many other great songs on the album. (First moment as a music bitch? I think so.)

Later, Lauren and I made her a tape-to-tape copy on her dad's "high-tech" music station in their basement while we babysat her younger brother. This was how music sharing used to be. Time-consuming, emotionally exhausting, and hardly worth it.

Oh, analog technology. I hardly knew you. I love the memories of working the system, but hate that I don't know the full second verse to Creep to this day.

To me, it will always be "the 23rd of loneliness and KERCHEW!"

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Raindrops on roses

I recently read a super corny article interviewing Kate Hudson, who says that she writes down three things she is grateful for every day. She learned of this exercise from (don't kill me) Oprah. Never one to take advice from the O, I nevertheless tried it out. As I lay in bed last night, I began thinking of things that never fail to make me smile. Here are a few newer discoveries, with old favorites thrown in for good measure.

1. John Mayer's new cover of Tom Petty's Free Fallin (not including the video or John's performance face will ruin it for you. Just trust me and download it without the visuals...)

2. My favorite scene from The West Wing. If you don't watch the show, you might not understand why this is so fantastic. Try it anyways.

3. This highlight video of the 2007 Boise State win in the Fiesta Bowl. Trick plays, underdogs, and a last minute comeback? Check, check, check. I'm not saying this to look like I care about sports- I'm the girl who STILL doesn't understand why the runningback always runs directly into the pack of people when there is perfectly good open space all around. My brothers just occasionally clue me in on impressive sports feats, and this is my favorite one. (Taylor and I just watched it though, and he mumbled something about me being a tool for thinking this was more impressive than Vince Young's running touchdown in... yeah, stopped paying attention.)

4. The text message I received from J. Vox on Katie's 23 birthday. It described how she flunked the sobriety test a bouncer gave her and reads, "Katie had to count to four three times using her fingers. She counted in reverse the last time and failed." I love that girl.

4. Ballsy writing on topics that aren't covered by the MSM. This article by Nora Ephron on Huffington Post is my favorite recent example. Work it out girlfriend.

5. Finally, something I appreciate that did not come via technology. The nights have been cooler lately, and there are few things more amazing than falling asleep with crisp Midwestern autumn air blowing through the windows. All you cold weather haters can say what you wish about Minnesota winters. Occasionally, we get the other seasons and they are heavenly.

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And finally... golden slumbers fill my eyes

When I was home a month ago, I tried to pre-emptively clean out my closet in preparation for the big room swap. While struggling to reach even more scrapbooks and clothes on the upper shelves, a dusty old t-shirt fell directly onto my head. I could tell immediately that it was supposed to be black, but it was mostly faded and dingy with bleach stains. Light from both my old window and my lamp shone through the many holes, one of which my fist could easily fit through.

Curiously, I uncrumpled it and realized that it was my favorite "nightgown" from when I was little. In hideous green cursive letters, the shirt says Downtown Girl across the front. My dad brought it home from a store when I was six or so and I wore it to bed for years, somehow thinking it was glamorous or special. As a little girl, I loved going downtown for Twins games or to the hospital to greet a new cousin in my ever-extending Catholic family. I thought this shirt was very representative of my downtown lifestyle.

I remember my mom laughing when it got the huge hole in the back, saying that it was probably time to get rid of "Downtown girl" and get some real pj's. My eight year old butt was flashing through it, no doubt. I kept it defiantly over the years, and when it fell on me something clicked into place that I can't possibly describe. It represents... nothing, really. I didn't do anything important in that shirt, as I thankfully never left the house in it. It's just a shirt that somehow made the cut every time my mom ransacked my drawers for things to give away. It represents nothing more than the blissful oblivion of childhood- the only time in life that you would be truly jazzed about a free sample tee shirt from a crappy drugstore perfume.

Does it go without saying that I am wearing the shirt right now? Well, I am. It is as glamorous as when my dad first bestowed it upon me seventeen years ago. I've decided it's as good a way as any to snap out of the funk that I've been in lately. Since I've returned home, I've been more foggy than anything, trying to figure out once and for all (ha!) what I want to do with this seemingly brand new life. Trying desperately to keep in contact with friends from Madison without holding onto them so tightly that I forget it's time to fully embrace Minnesota. For tonight, then, what better way to get back to my roots than to toss on this absurd t-shirt, the source of the most inextricable comfort I've felt since I came home?

My bedroom door is locked tonight. The "nightgown", while still much too large to ever wear as a regular shirt, is not anywhere near covering my now-adult body. If my mom was embarrassed by my attachment to this shirt fifteen years ago, she'd be horrified to see what sticks out of it now. Somehow, though, I know I'll rest easy tonight.

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